Chapter Text
In my house on the hill,
There is room for you still.
I'll be everywhere you go.
You go.
You go.
- - -
They had been riding west for only a handful of hours when it dawned on Galadriel that Elvish medicines would only do Halbrand any good if he survived the journey to reach them.
While he had left the camp of Númenor by her side, mile by mile, his pace slowly dragged. As she crested a hill to survey the passage that would lead them over the Anduin and along the Great West Road, she turned to speak with him, only to find him trailing far behind – slouched low in his saddle, grasping his reins in a white-knuckled grip.
“There’s no need for us to press on anymore today,” Galadriel said when he finally halted beside her. She slid down from her horse and led it off-road to a patch of low trees and shrubs, the curved branches and low-hanging eaves fine enough protection for the evening. “For I would not have us boxed in by the river, the Grey Marshes and the Drúadan Forest at night. We can cross the Anduin at first light and hopefully make it through the Drúadan before nightfall.”
“If that’s what you’d like.”
Galadriel, laying out a bedroll under the bowers, turned. Halbrand’s horse remained on the road; he had made no move to dismount, but rather eyed the distance from his saddle to the ground tiredly. She tracked his gaze, a fissure of worry needling through her chest.
Biting her tongue against the sensation, Galadriel approached and took the reins from his hands, leading horse and rider both to the small grove. Gingerly, she helped him dismount, sliding his feet from the stirrups and supporting his leg as he threw it over the horse’s withers – a jerky movement that elicited a pained gasp.
The process was slow. Galadriel was strong, her body honed like a weapon and reinforced in her magnificent plate mail, but Halbrand was tall and ungainly in his discomfort. He all but collapsed into her as she guided him down from the saddle, biting back a groan as he jolted the wound in his chest.
“I’ve got you,” Galadriel murmured. Repeating in Quenya, she added, “I will not let you fall.”
Halbrand slung his arm about her shoulder, the movement natural and devoid of self-consciousness. The effort to settle him atop the bedroll left him winded.
Quickly, Galadriel finished preparing their small camp. As she tethered Halbrand’s horse next to her own, she noticed streaks of blood along the left side of the saddle and foreleg. She looked down; fresh blood was smeared on her armor and palms.
Schooling her face, Galadriel began preparing to boil water for his wounds. “How are you feeling?” she asked. When she received no response, she called, “Halbrand?”
“Like death would be a kinder path than whatever this is you’re dragging me through,” Halbrand panted. He met her startled glance over the fire. “This is useless, Elf. I will never be able to make it to Lindon in this state; I’ll only slow you down. You need to leave me here.”
“I will do no such thing,” Galadriel said, abandoning the small flame and kneeling at his side.
“Your High King needs to know what happened to the Southlands.” Halbrand’s throat bobbed, swallowing thickly against the hoarseness that colored his voice. “You need to muster aid with all haste. Every moment you delay because of me is a moment the enemy grows stronger.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Galadriel hissed. “You do not need to remind me how dire our situation is.”
“Then you must go.”
“I have never left a soldier behind. I will not start with you.”
“I am no soldier.”
“And yet, you fight like one,” she shot back, pointedly adding, “My lord.”
Halbrand glared, his mouth thinning, but refused her a rejoinder.
He was, Galadriel thought as she matched his glare, unfairly handsome for a Man. Ahead of them, the sun was just beginning its nightly descent, casting their unfolding drama in brilliant shades of vermillion and saffron. Golden light softened the brutality of war stained across his face, illuminating his autumnal coloring; the amber of his hair, the hazel of his eyes. Even the stubborn set of his jaw and the unnatural paleness of his skin were renewed in the light, his countenance transformed into something both romantic and brave.
Galadriel allowed the tides of time to draw her back and into herself. She imagined the sad jolt of recognition she’d feel centuries from now, stumbling across his name in a historical ledger, or worse yet, his rendering in ink and paint across a sheet of vellum.
I knew him, she’d say; to a companion if she were lucky enough to have one by her side, to the air if she had none. You would not believe me if I told you the improbable chance of our meeting; he seemed to live his life by the grace of the impossible. He was a Man of pure obstinance and cheek, and yet, strangely, a blade of pure sunlight against the darkness of our enemies. He was a great king and an even greater friend.
Sadness lay across her shoulders in a gossamer-threaded cloak, the insubstantial weight growing unbearable as the years foreshortened in her vision. How much more loss would she endure before the sun finally set upon her lonely pilgrimage across this Middle-earth? She was a being made from the light of the Valar; it was against her nature to harden her heart to love. But, oh, how she wished it were, for she bore no protection against the oncoming grief – it was an assassin’s arrow aimed at her chest and she, unending but not unfeeling, could do nothing but stand and present a clear mark.
Galadriel could feel the shuddering of her heart many centuries from now rippling back upon her present self. On her tongue – sweet as a late summer fruit and salted over with tears – she tasted the longing of nostalgia for even the most inconsequential of moments; for laughter and loss, for fellowship and love. For moments of rest atop a westward-facing hill at sunset spent bickering with a friend.
She let the longing pull her back into her body, let it prise open her vision to meet Halbrand’s glare with steady eyes.
“You are right, Lindon is too far,” Galadriel conceded. “We make for the great city of Ost-in-Edhil, the capital of Eregion. They will have healers there to treat you and messengers who can reach Gil-galad far faster than I.”
“Eregion?” Halbrand repeated. “We’re nearly two hundred leagues from there.”
“A fast horse can cover that distance in five days.”
“Maybe as the elf rides.” Halbrand scowled. “Galadriel – ”
“Please, Halbrand.” Cutting him off sharply, she sighed, scrubbing a hand over her face. “You are not the only one who is weary. I have not stopped moving in three days. Allow me one night’s rest, I beg of you, and we can continue this incessant argument tomorrow.”
Halbrand’s glare softened, his face awash with shame and guilt. “I will be no better in the morning,” he cautioned finally.
“But I might be.” She made her way back to the pot of water, now boiling merrily. “And who knows,” she added, wryly. “After a good night’s sleep, I may be more inclined to offer you a sharp blade and a quick end to your agony.”
Halbrand’s resounding laugh carried only a hint of pain. “Just be sure I have a burial befitting my station,” he groaned, tucking an arm beneath his head and staring at the sky beyond the eaves of their shelter in a facsimile of casual indifference. “‘Here lies Halbrand the Great, last King of the Southlands.’”
“A fine promotion from smith’s aide,” Galadriel mused. From the provisions Bronwyn had prepared, she grabbed a roll of linens cut into strips and tossed it into the boiling pot. “‘Halbrand the Great,’ indeed.”
“You have a better suggestion?” He asked. “‘Halbrand the Brave,’ perhaps? Or – ” he grinned at her, his eyes sparkling with a dare, “ – would you prefer ‘Halbrand the Handsome?’”
She scoffed and he laughed again, low and warm. It bloomed in her stomach like a summer’s dawn and she could not help the smile that pulled at her lips as she began muddling herbs into a poultice.
“Though I suppose if I were an Elven ruler you’d be lamenting for ‘Halbrand the Fair,’” he continued, gamely. “Or ‘Halbrand the Insufferably Long-Winded.’”
“Epithets containing ‘brave’ usually suggest feeble-minded rulers,” Galadriel said, fishing the clean linens from the small pot carefully. “And those of ‘handsomeness’ are merely courteous covers for men more concerned with siring children than statecraft. Help me with your shirt, I want to redress your wound before we lose the light.”
What little cheer had been dancing in Halbrand’s eyes faded. He held his breath as she lifted up the hem of his soiled tunic, his face contorting in discomfort as he strained to keep his torso from the ground while she pushed the fabric away.
The span of his chest was strong beneath Galadriel’s fingers; sinews and muscles built by labor, not vanity, were firm beneath her touch. And yet, the leanness of his frame belied months, if not years, of hunger and want. The expanse of smooth skin and tawny hairs was interrupted at odd intervals with scars, silvered with age. The sight, unfairly pleasant as it was to her, was ruined by the rupture just under his heart, where the wrappings of his wound lay rusted red.
The linens were dark and wet to the touch, smelling of iron and rot. Underneath, the skin had been flayed down his ribs by a single cut; too shallow to be instantly fatal, but infection was a patient killer. Already, the flesh surrounding the injury was inflamed.
“It doesn’t matter what I am called,” Halbrand said quietly, watching the shifting landscape of Galadriel’s face. “I will be dead soon. Along with anyone who would’ve cared about my name.”
“Do you plan on taking me with you when you go?” She asked, forcing lightness into her tone. “I, for one, plan on finding a bard the first chance I get in Ost-in-Edhil and telling them your tale. If I have it my way, children will be singing your name all across this land by the dawning of the next age.”
The smile she’d been trying to coax from him soured into a grimace as she began cleaning his wound. Galadriel kept her hands as gentle as possible, but she could feel the shout contained in his lungs while his body bowed and bent as she pressed against tender flesh, wiping away the blood that bubbled up. She warned him before she applied the poultice and murmured soothing phrases of Quenya to him as he hissed and whimpered under her ministrations.
“‘Halbrand the Iron-willed.’” The name sprung into Galadriel’s mind like the first green leaf of spring and she offered it to him softly. “An honorable title befitting a War King and a stubborn smith’s aide both, I think.”
“Good name,” Halbrand wheezed, eyes closed and brows drawn. “Strong name. Easy to remember.”
His heartbeat was a galloping thunder to Galadriel’s ears as she leaned in close to wrap clean linens around him, the heat of his body warming her cheeks. She helped him roll his shirt down and he sagged against the bedroll, sweat shining in the hollow of his throat.
Night had begun to spill upon the sky like ink on parchment, draining the warm hues of the evening into shades of cool, grey-blue. Adrenaline had been keeping Galadriel upright for hours on end, but now it fled her body, leaving her bone-weary and dizzy. Dreamlike, she doused the fire and unfurled another bedroll next to Halbrand’s, both of them silently agreeing to forgo food in favor of rest.
Vaguely, Galadriel considered offering to keep watch through the night, or at least stripping off some pieces of her own plate mail. But with no movement to propel her body forward, she began to sink, shark-like, into the beckoning embrace of sleep.
Just before drifting off, she turned towards Halbrand, needing to reassure herself that he was still with her. He was staring at the sky overhead, his face solemn. Noticing her movement, he held her gaze openly, the sheen of the stars overhead making his eyes seem depthless.
“Just make sure your bard enunciates properly,” he whispered, the shadow of a smirk ghosting his lips. “It would be mortifying to be remembered as ‘Halberd the Iron-wheeled.’”
I promise, Galadriel wanted to say. I promise you will be there to correct them yourself. I swear you will live. You will live. You will live.
But she was asleep before she got the chance, the words wilting on her tongue.
- - -
As planned, Galadriel and Halbrand crossed the Anduin at first light. Their horses, seemingly revitalized after a night’s rest away from the smoking ruins of the Southlands, picked their way over sandbanks and moss-drenched stones with something of a spring in their step. When Galadriel pointed this out to Halbrand, he scowled at his horse as if its enthusiasm for the road ahead was a personal betrayal.
True to his word, Halbrand had picked up his argument with Galadriel almost immediately upon waking, still insisting she leave him behind. While he made grand overtures about his martyrdom, Galadriel got him to take a little food and water, which seemed to settle him.
“Elven children also grow peevish when they’re hungry,” she teased, helping him mount his horse. Halbrand did not return her smile.
He was quiet as they journeyed west, drawn about the mouth; the vibrancy of the rolling green hills surrounding them only accentuated how wan he’d grown. The day was bright with a cold whisper on the breeze – as pleasant and mild as a spring day could be. But Halbrand only squinted balefully at the light, complaining of an ache in his head, shivering with each gust of wind.
They passed through the Drúadan Forest at midday, the sun directly overhead casting their road in a kaleidoscope of dappled shadows and light. Their pace slowed as they wended their way carefully through the close trees, slowing even further as Halbrand’s riding capabilities deteriorated with every hour.
On the other side of the wood, Galadriel called for a halt, urging Halbrand to get some rest. He did not fight her on it, for he did not seem to have the breath to do so. She helped him from his mount and he sprawled gracelessly on the ground, propped against a tree, his chest heaving.
Halbrand did not sleep but seemed to hover just beyond consciousness. Galadriel watched him, the cold pit in her stomach spreading up her throat.
She considered the fragility of Men’s bodies, the tenuous claim even the hale ones had on life. How frightfully close they existed to the steep cliffs of their own demise. Children of Men were born with mouths crafted to shape the words of ‘sickness’ and ‘death’ as plainly as their own names. By their standards, Galadriel had been a woman grown many times over before she’d first uttered those words. But there had been no sunset to ease her into understanding, no slow lowering of the veil; her world had simply plunged into darkness, as though light had never existed.
She would not let Halbrand pass the same way – there one moment and gone the next. Even if they both were predestined for death, she would give him the chance to face it head-on, rather than waste away without a fight.
Halbrand was groggy when Galadriel woke him, confused for a moment too long about their surroundings. Heat radiated through this tunic and cloak against her palms as she helped him back onto his horse. He would not take any food and only a few sips of water.
Galadriel quickened their pace as much as she dared throughout the afternoon, murmuring encouragements to Halbrand’s horse in Quenya for a smoother ride. The hours dragged on, their path growing steeper, the wind growing stronger with every peak they surmounted. They paused once more as they exited the Firien Wood, the sky ahead yellowed with the haze of oncoming clouds.
“A few more leagues,” Galadriel muttered, the wind whipping her words away. “Then we can stop for the night. But we may find better protection from the wind once we’re within the hills, or at least, better sight for our way forward.”
Halbrand merely nodded, his jaw set and eyes glassy.
Galadriel’s thoughts were a buzz of anxious chatter, the clarity and warrior’s stillness she often clung to now far beyond her reach. But it was nothing compared to the droning nest of apprehension in her chest, which tightened as she thought of the precious ground they were failing to cover.
The moon was at her zenith, cloaked in the scuttling of clouds, when Halbrand nearly fell off his horse in exhaustion. He caught himself with a pained cry, and the sound alarmed Galadriel enough to finally call for them to stop for the night.
The deep crevasses of the hills offered some protection from the strong wind, but not enough. The night was not so cold, even by the standards of Men, and Galadriel dared not light a fire so far up.
But a chill had caught Halbrand around the throat; even wrapped in both their cloaks, he shivered incessantly. Galadriel listened to his teeth clacking together violently throughout the night, his agonized whimpers as he tossed and turned.
Tomorrow, Galadriel told herself, willing away the press of fear against her chest. All troubles seem darker at night. The day will dawn bright, and all that seems ill will be fairer come morning.
She was wrong.