Chapter Text
The Average Man Would Wilt Under Her Pressure
It was one thing when he quickly gained the favor and trust of the Númenoreans. They are human, same as he, and easily swayed by things such as title, kinship, and emotion. Nevermind the brawls, brazen appearance, and half-caring attitude Halbrand bore in the halls of Armenelos, he is a human, and a noble one at that, so it bears that Queen Míriel would naturally gravitate towards his authority. Galadriel is an elf, and, at the time, an elf in a city with few of The Faithful. She had known Halbrand would gain favor quickly. She had counted on it, she had used it, and she had never, not once, ever, been taken aback by the fortunes it bestowed upon him.
But that was in Númenor, among the humans. Among his people. Among folk swayed by feelings and titles and fancy words.
It should not have happened the same with the elves.
And, yet.
“One wonders how a human can come to learn so much on smithing in such a short time.” Celebrimbor smiles, his words more in awe than in question, even though they really should be in question. “Pray tell, how old are you, Halbrand?”
“Thirty three, as it happens.” The human sips on his wine, keening over at the elven smith like they share some unbreakable bond. They met only days ago.
“My, thirty three.” Celebrimbor leans back in his chair, sharing a small laugh with Elrond, who seems equally impressed by the human’s youth. “My voice was still cracking when I was thirty three.”
“You are nearly thirty-three hundred years old now.” Elrond toasts his wine in the smith’s direction, who returns the toast with a scathing look.
“It is impressive , I will say.” Celebrimbor says. “The feats humans can set their minds to when faced with the limit on their years. The Gift of Men.”
“‘Tis only a gift if you use it rightly.” Halbrand shoots the smith a poignant look, who nods solemnly in agreement.
Celebrimbor’s trust has been too easily won. Elrond’s, too. Granted, Elrond is young and prone to flights of fancy. From Elrond, Galadriel can accept this oversight. From Elrond, she can accept the eager attention Halbrand is paid, the unyielding faith in his craftsmanship. Elrond is young still, and he has always had a soft spot for creatures not of his own kind. From Elrond, this behavior is almost expected.
But from Celebrimbor? From Gil-Galad? Gil-Galad, who, while cautious and concerned, still takes a keen interest in that human smith? Gil-Galad, who could not be swayed to let Galadriel pursue Sauron further? She is an elf of many years, an elf raised in Valinor, an elf with wisdom, fervor, and vision to see evil driven from the land.
And, yet.
They trust a human over her.
A ripple of laughter at the dinner table severs Galadriel from her thoughts. They act like long lost friends, and she will not torment herself anymore. She excuses herself from the table, but they barely pay her any mind. Had she done as Gil-Galad instructed, she would not have been there in the first place. Neither would Halbrand have been. They should be thanking her, really, if they love their human so much.
She finds herself wandering down to the Glanduin, as she often does when it’s time to reflect. Where better to reflect, anyway, than on the glassy surface of a river?
She should not be so harsh on Halbrand. She had gripped him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him here against his own wishes, and now, at last, he seems to have found a place he feels comfortable in. A place he belongs, at a forge with like minded individuals. Who is she to take that from him, to condemn him for relishing in it, when it was the forges of Númenor he wanted to stay with all along?
It is not Halbrand’s fault the elves treat her this way, anyway.
“Galadriel.” A somber voice cuts through the night. She does not need to turn to know it’s the southlander. “Are you well?”
“Perfectly well, thank you, Halbrand.” She crouches by the river, dragging her fingers along the glassy surface, producing ripples that echo through the still water.
“You don’t seem it.” She can hear his feet shuffling forward.
She has little patience for his games. He can woo and seduce the other elves all he likes, but Galadriel is not cut of the same cloth. She will not let down her guard just because he pretends to care .
“It is none of your concern, Halbrand.”
“It is my concern, whether or not you wish it to be.” He sighs, kneeling down by the river with her. “We’re friends, Galadriel.”
“You’re friends with everyone these days.”
He waggles his eyebrows. It is just like him to use humor to diffuse a situation. “That’s what happens when you show a little concern, you know.”
Galadriel scoffs, looking back out towards the water. “You are not who you say you are, either.”
“I’m not?” Halbrand looks around, as if questioning his entire existence. He presses a hand to his heart. “Am I not Halbrand?”
“You are no King of the Southlands.” Galadriel sneers, standing. She knows she should not treat him like this. He is one of only a few people who can rightly be called her friend, and what does she do? Shower him with accusations. “I found the records. The last of your supposed line died a thousand years ago.”
He stands to match her, and shrugs. Even though he is human, he stands taller than her. Taller than her, when she already stands taller than most elves.
While Galadriel has been certain this whole time that Halbrand has been hiding things in his past, she has never cared to probe. Humans have too short a lifespan to hide much. It’s not the secrecy that makes Galadriel suspicious, anyway.
It’s his attitude towards her. An average human would wilt under her pressure. An average human would fawn at her feet, watch her in awe, acquiesce to her every demand. Halbrand has never been an average human, not in height or attitude or anything else. She had always assumed this meant he came from some nobler line, but recent findings have her questioning this even.
“Your records are incomplete.” He says simply, gazing out over the Glanduin.
“How do you know?”
“Because our records are incomplete. How can the elves in Eregion know who southlander kings are if even most southlanders don’t know who their kings are?”
“So, when you said you were a southlander king,” Galadriel looks at him sidelong. “You meant you are descended from a southlander king? But you have not practiced rule?”
“I have not practiced rule, no.” He purses his lips, as if this were something he considered. Something he desired. Galadriel had not anticipated that in Halbrand. She always assumed his reluctance to return to Middle Earth was because he did not desire to rule the Southlands, that he had fled his birthright.
“And, besides.” Halbrand smiles at her, his hazel eyes flicking from her lashes to her lips. “I never told you I was a king.”
“Your amulet--”
“I told you, I found it on a dead man.”
Galadriel scoffs.
“You made me a southlander king, because it suited your own purposes.” The human crosses his arms. Gesturing at the elven city sculpted along the river, he adds, “But it’s brought me here. I’m not complaining.”
“You and the smith certainly have become friendly.”
“Is that a note of jealousy I detect in there?” He glances at her from the corner of his eye, and nudges her gently with his elbow.
“They treat you with much respect. You should be honored.”
“I am.” He nods. The two look out over the river for several minutes before he adds, “But they should treat you with respect, too.”
“They treat me with plenty of respect!”
Halbrand looks at her for a quiet, potent moment.
“Do they?”
Galadriel clenches and unclenches her fists a good few times before whispering, “No.”
“A woman with your skill and wisdom would never go unappreciated in any kingdom of mine.”
“Halbrand, you have no--” Galadriel cuts herself short as she remembers his recent acquisition of land. She amends her stance. “I’m not going to live in the southlands.”
He smiles. “‘Course not.”
She replays his declaration in her head once more. A sincerity, a promise. It is the sort of thing you might say to flatter, but she does not suspect Halbrand means to flatter her. He is smart enough to know that wouldn’t work. So he must mean it in kindness, or in earnest. It’s the sort of statement that pulls from the heart.
“Were you propositioning me?” She nearly laughs. The beginnings of a smile tease at the corner of her mouth. Why is it Halbrand seems like the only one these days who can make her smile? Since the death of her husband, few things have brought mirth to her eyes, and yet, this human can do so without trouble. It is another reason to be suspicious of him, for certain, but when she’s smiling she finds this difficult.
“Of course.” He laughs to himself. He says it with such brevity, she is unsure if he’s serious. She’s almost never sure when he’s serious. “What man doesn’t dream of having an elven wife at his side when he rules?”
Galadriel glances at him, discerning. She does not believe he dreams of this. Galadriel has been the subject of many human desires, and, with certainty, she can say that Halbrand acts like none of the humans who have ever held desire for her. She is no fool. She knows how men act when they are besotted, when their lips speak of nothing but your virtues, when their fingers yearn for touch at every turn. Halbrand does not act like this. He is far too restrained.
“You may wish to refine your seduction schemes, Habrand, for when you do find a woman you wish to marry.” She says, finally. The southlander has undeniable charm, that is for certain, but it is of the disarming, boyish type. It is the type meant for gaining trust and friendship, not for romancing. Not that Galadriel is particularly learned in the ways of romance (she has not practiced in a very long time), but she knows enough to know that what he does cannot rightly be called flirting.
“Seduction schemes?” He looks at her quizzically.
“Yes, seduction. Yours was nothing spectacular. A king ought to be better at it.”
He only smiles, turning his body towards her slightly and reaching out to tuck a stray golden curl behind her tipped ear. “I haven’t been seducing you.”
Time slows. Galadriel can only watch as his hand comes to her cheek, his knuckle tracing a line along her jaw, down the tendons of her throat, over the bone that runs along her collar. His lidded hazel eyes sweep over her skin with something akin to promise. Her breathing stills.
In a voice that can just barely be heard above the water lapping at the river’s edge, he says, “You would know if I had.”
Her breath hitches, and she feels herself swallow as Halbrand smiles at her, keen as a fox, before stepping back, and sauntering off into the night.
A human should not have such charisma. It makes her suspicious. It makes her heart beat and blood pump, it courses adrenaline in her veins. He is not who he says he is, and Galadriel knows it. She is suspicious. That is this feeling, surely. Suspicion.
Suspicion has never made her blush.