Chapter Text
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“If it is destroyed, then he will fall; and his fall will be so low that none can foresee his arising ever again. For he will lose the best part of the strength that was native to him in his beginning, and all that was made or begun with that power will crumble, and he will be maimed for ever, becoming a mere spirit of malice that gnaws itself in the shadows, but cannot again grow or take shape. And so a great evil of this world will be removed.”
---Gandalf, The Return of the King
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At last, with the other ring bearers, victorious, Galadriel finally felt that she had earned her right to pass into the West. Her quest was complete. There would be no running away this time, no diving overboard. She had long since learned which lights to follow, so while she may yet dread the light of Valinor, she knew her time in Middle-earth had come to an end.
The smooth wooden deckboards underfoot reminded her of her now, former, home in Caras Galadhon, and of memories distant still.
The last time she found herself on the Belegaer her mind was in a maelstrom and if she had given it free reign she would have drowned. But now, since Sauron was defeated and the siege of the walls of her mind had ended, she had allowed her thoughts a freedom she had not given herself in ages.
For two years this feeling had lingered. At first, she knew not what to make of it. The loss of Nenya, the destruction of the One Ring, she could not decipher the cause and effect of the sensations within her soul. It might be her imagination, it might be the loss of power, or the reintroduction of memories and feelings she had denied for so many years.
She wondered if the stirrings in her heart were the remnants of her bond with Sauron, if it ever really existed. But memory and immortality were strange partners who did not always recognize the other. Had she fabricated it all in the aftermath of his betrayal? One final reason for her to be sundered from her friends, her family, her husband? An excuse to sever any attachment because she knew she did not deserve it? Being linked to Sauron, and thus rejecting him, meant she would be alone—too tainted to harbor any real love or friendship, and too vengeful to consider any pact with her greatest enemy.
But as the days passed and she recalled what it was to be Galadriel again, she felt it with certainty. The powers of Nenya, the ring of water, faded into nothing. Her fire returned, and with it, she could feel its twin flame.
As her thoughts drifted further back, she stepped away from her friends to give herself time to think. She walked towards the mast, running her palm up the smooth wood, tracing the ropes and knots in the rigging. She took off her slippers to feel the smooth wood underneath her toes. She tasted the familiar tang of salt on her tongue.
He lingered in interstices of the thick sea air, his presence easy for her to feel once more. But his powers were diminished, and whether as a result of this, or from some other intent, he did not push into the boundaries of her mind. He did not intrude and she likewise could not feel his thoughts. She could only feel his spirit, and their very palpable bond.
She wondered if he would follow them to Aman, or if he was even able to navigate his own specter.
Still, his presence felt familiar, oddly soothing within this juxtaposition of weathered timber beneath her feet and salt spray on her cheeks. The feeling he had given her on the raft after the storm had abated. The same feeling she had propagated as she used Nenya’s power to place a veil of protection over Lothlórien.
“He is here,” came Mithrandir’s voice. A statement, not a question. She did not turn to him but nodded, still tracing the rigging with her fingertips. “And I was wrong,” he added.
She looked up then.
“I did not believe there would be anything left but an impotent spirit of malice.”
“What are you telling me?” Uncertain, searching her friend’s face for answers.
“There will be a reckoning in Aman. He will be brought before Manwë.”
“He will never submit himself to the judgment of the Valar.” And she could not keep bitterness from her voice. If Sauron had truly wished to repent, the world could have been spared millenia of his bloody and brutal wars.
“He will, and he is.”
She stared at him, hesitant and unconvinced, as if there was some explanation that would assuage her mind. Of course, there was not.
“Why?” She finally asked.
Mithrandir just looked at her with his kindly gaze beneath white bushy eyebrows but said nothing more. A few moments after he left her she saw him whisper something to Elrond who glanced back at her, his eyebrow lifted, then quickly turned away again.
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Predictable.
Námo was waiting for him at the port.
Of course Galadriel couldn’t see what was going on, but this explained the undertone of smugness in Olórin’s expression as they approached Aman. And there wasn’t much he could do about it, at least that was the lie he chose to tell himself.
Taking me back to your place? Or, no, let me guess, straight to the void?
But Námo did not say a word. He just waved a sickly gray hand in the air and tugged on the Maia’s ëala, dragging him away from the sea.
The Máhanaxar. Good. Let them make a spectacle and be done with it.
But Manwë was the only one waiting for him when Námo deposited him into the ring.
'To what do I owe the pleasure?' He asked Manwë in thought.
“Many of the Valar wish to see you cast through the Doors of Night, Mairon. This you know.”
'Look at me Manwë, look at what’s left and tell me if you think that is wise.' And with effort, he brought his oath to Melkor to the forefront of his mind.
Manwë looked saddened. And not because Sauron asked it, but rather on the decree of another, he pushed in through the edges of Sauron’s mind to inspect what was left of the Maia he had once known as Mairon.
The defenseless spirit strove in thought to force all other emotions and intent aside, to limit the scope of Manwë’s perusal, proudly broadcasting his oath in what he would never admit was a desperate attempt to avoid joining his former master. But he was weak, self-awareness not the least of his powers that suffered.
Manwë did perceive the ancient oath to Melkor.
And much, much more.
The two Gods united in thought, communicating silently for several minutes. Then Námo tugged on his ëala once more and dragged him out from the Ring of Doom.
'Where are you taking me?' It was foolish to ask. He tried to keep any trace of dread from his thoughts, not wishing to betray his very real fear of an eternity with Morgoth. It was a truly pathetic strategy, threatening an alliance with the Shadow of Evil itself in order to avoid that exact circumstance (although slavery was more apt to describe what his concord would be if he was cast out).
But Námo said no word and headed west towards the Doors of Night.
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The God of Death always did like playing games. His reputation as an indiscriminate adjudicator of fate was altogether false. Perhaps he got his flare for eliciting nightmares from his brother.
The Vala followed the main road west, but instead of taking the first northward route to pass by the Mansions of Aulë, he kept his westward route, turning north just shy of the shoreline. Námo, of course, waited until the last possible moment to turn, letting his charge fester in anxiety before heading north at last, passing the House of Nienna and the Pavilion of Nessa before reaching their intended destination, the Halls of Awaiting. One might call it a scenic route but really it was a cruel feint to make him reconsider penitence.
It had the intended effect.
In truth, his mind had not much to consider except his own failed enterprise. If bringing Arda to perfect order to fully realize the beauty of the Music was his goal, then Sauron’s dominion was an utter failure, and all the waste and ruin conducted by his hand, was all for naught. He tried, and failed, to fight off a rising tide of anguish. For he had accomplished nothing and was further away from his desires than he had ever been, and had nothing to show for his endless endeavor but a wake of devastation.
Chaos, death, destruction, they were tools to achieve what he had been created to desire. Not for the first time did he despise his maker. And the complete wrongness of the path that had been laid before his feet for him to follow, by design, haunted him. For he could not be other than he was, he could not stem his desires or the will to pursue them. And over 50,000 years of the curse of his existence left him with less than he had when he first entered Arda.
The Maia did not know when he would receive his doom. Yet it was clear he was afforded some measure of time before he was cast out, if such was to be his fate. A pang of regret reverberated through his incorporeal spirit at the thought of such imminent expulsion, and that he had not even passed by Aulë’s Halls on his way to Mandos. He wondered if the Smith God had followed all of Mairon’s exploits in Middle-earth (Manwë’s ridiculous maxim ‘the Valar are always watching’ echoed in his head). What kind of disappointment would the closest thing he had to kin feel for the endless ways his first, his best, Maia had failed. Would he even acknowledge that he had once associated with whatever it was Mairon had become?
As Námo cast him into a cell a fana locked into place over his spirit, imprisoning him within a body, and imprisoning the body within a very real cage.
There was no marble statue of Uinen to keep him company. No Elf two cells over. No one that he could see or hear. And what grand irony that he now resided behind the bars and walls that he helped build? When the Ainur retreated to Aman after the Lamps fell, he had earnestly worked to build Valinor into a paragon of their divine gifts. He and Aulë devised a composite of marble and quartzite, imbued with traces of steel that made it unbreakable. As were the cold silver bars separating him from the hall. But those were for show, really, Manwë and Námo colluded on this to produce an impenetrable barrier of ether, thin as a molecule, and none but Námo could determine who might enter or exit. The cage itself was but a gleaming symbol of incarceration, and a visual aid to visitors, as if anyone would come to visit him here.
His mind wandered.
Last time he had been imprisoned was on Númenor and like the first time, it had not taken long to persuade Pharazôn to let him out. But his latter days on the island were hollow without his Elf. He was almost disappointed, really, with how easy it was to direct the kingdom into ruin, getting them to do all manner of atrocities and he wondered if the Valar would even notice, or care if they did.
Well he had had his answer and his corporeal abilities had suffered ever since. But in this cell, he had returned to a fair form, although not one of his choosing.
He was in Mairon’s fana, the first body he ever conceived to cover his spirit. And it had been like second nature, a thing he knew without knowing how he knew to do it.
His hair was long and silky, burnished ochre as the tips of flame before they flickered into smoke. He still had a tall, broad smith’s build (it was what he was made for after all), but his face was uncomfortably smooth. It had taken him only a few years to realize a beard was an advantageous commodity in a forge and he had always worn one in Aman. But when visiting Melkor in Middle-earth, he would revert to this form; the one Melkor claimed he admired.
He reached up to touch the planes of his face: angular jaw, inset eyes, and perfect parallel lines marking the slant of his nose and the tip of his brow. He knew his irises would be a familiar ring of gold, surrounded by a ring of deep green – the one element of his visage that paid homage to Yavanna. What must she think of him now?
He sat down on the stone floor and seemed to realize only then that he was naked, the cold seeping into his skin, it was not a pleasant kind of starkness. He pushed around inside the cage of flesh to test his abilities in this old form. Yes, he could warm himself, but his discomfort did not abate.
For the first time in ages he was vulnerable. He had no mountain fortress, no helm of iron, and no mental fortitude. Not in this body, it had eroded until it was nothing but a shell.
Lying down on the floor he closed his eyes and brought his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms over his shins. He slid back against the far wall, leaving as much distance between himself and the silver barricade as possible. This body made him feel exposed, millenia of memories availing themselves of the opportunity to trespass. Melkor’s lover, Melkor’s lieutenant, Melkor’s servant, Melkor’s…
Hot tears spilled out from beneath his bronze eyelashes. His will faltered, he had no energy to resist the cascades of thought spiraling down through eddies into the most shameful moments of his life. Defilement. Violation. Humiliation. He sobbed and shivered on the floor. His legs shook themselves out from his grasp so he gathered his arms around his waist and squeezed, trying to stop his violent tremors. Sleep would not have relieved him were it a state he could achieve; he was already reliving the worst nightmares of his long and worthless life.
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Galadriel inhaled a quick, sharp breath and hiccuped over her dinner plate. She grabbed the table and her mother’s chair next to her, steadying her movement before looking up, eyes wide with horror.
She hastily excused herself and left the manor house. As soon as she stepped outside she sprinted towards the stables, hardly thinking more than two seconds ahead as she grabbed a bridle and led her mother’s mare, Airëlin, out of the stall. Scanning the tack wall she tried to take a moment to consider her next moves but disturbing images kept flashing through her head.
*
Mairon, hanging by chains at his wrists, shoulders dislocated, and someone carving runes into his lower ribs causing him to jerk violently. He gritted his teeth and tried to resist the reflex as each spasm pulled at his shoulders, already unnaturally contorted and straining to support his thrashing body below.
*
She seized a canteen from the shelf, looped the strap over her head, mounted Airëlin and took off at a gallop. At one time, she had been a close enough acquaintance to call on Aulë – always on some matter of business but still, she had to do something.
*
Mairon, curled up naked in a large bed holding his hands over his head, utterly still. His glassy eyes stared straight ahead, empty. He had no visible restraints or wounds but splotches of blood and colorless fluid stained the sheets where he lay.
*
Bile rose up in Galadriel’s throat. No one should have to experience such a violation once, let alone relive it unbidden in thought. No one. Not even her greatest enemy.
She sped up the road north of Tirion skirting the western foothills of the Pelóri.
*
Mairon, lashing prisoners in a hall before a dark figure high on a throne. Firelight flickered through the chamber and with each crack of the whip the muscles on his arms rippled and flexed, exposing flesh otherwise hidden beneath his garments. He was covered in long thin scars. The room was stiflingly hot, but his eyes were cold as ice.
*
She could not think straight, ages of carefully curated regulation evaporated from her being. Aulë’s halls were nearly a full day’s ride north. She couldn’t bear to witness, for him to experience, the horrors flashing through her mind. Tears streaked across her face in the wind. She shut her eyelids tight trying to pull herself together.
For centuries she had honed control of her thoughts and emotions. When the war was over and Nenya’s powers receded, her self management felt like a permanent part of herself. But now, back in Aman, it was all slipping away.
Mithrandir. She searched for him in her mind. Mithrandir they are torturing him. I need your help.
Galadriel. He was quick to respond. Perhaps he surmised she would reach out, after his revelations on their voyage home.
Mithrandir, where are you? I’m trying to get to Aulë but I’m half a day’s ride at least.
I am with Nienna. Let me see what I can do. And he broke the connection.
Galadriel kept riding north for several more minutes but her composure faltered and her horse, sensing her distress, slowed to a trot, then finally halted. She rolled off the mare’s back and curled up under a tree by the road. Lying on her side she ground her back against the trunk and gathered her knees to her chest. Tears still fell at intervals down her nose and the side of her face before their terminus on the packed dirt below.
*
Mairon, on his knees before the dark throne. Orc guards lining the perimeter of the great hall, staring straight ahead, heeding not the events within. The dark figure on the throne had his fingers twisted in Mairon’s long, silky strands, forcibly keeping his head down to his lap, allowing only inches of movement but never enough to pull away. Every few seconds she heard a gagging cough and choking sounds while the man in the throne let out a long, low moan of pleasure.
*
She rolled onto her hands and knees and heaved hot bile onto the earth, the acid burning her throat.
Why are you doing this?! She howled to anyone that might hear her thoughts.
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He did not know how long he had been lying in his cell.
At some point his body stopped convulsing and his tears dried up. But his mind gave him no mercy. He stared blankly at the shining silver confines before him. His body in complete variance to the tumult within, pulled under a riptide of grisly ruminations.
Hours passed, maybe days. Then he heard footsteps down the corridor, growing louder, coming nearer, until Vairë stood before him, a shallow copper basin holding a bundle of cloth in one arm and a pewter pitcher in the other. She went to pass these through the bars but as her hands drew near, the illusion vanished and she set down the items inside Mairon’s cell. As soon as her hands passed back behind the transparent barrier, the cage returned.
Mairon turned his face to follow her movements and she held his gaze for several moments. He could not quite judge the expression in her eyes, eyes that had witnessed the whole history of Arda. And at that thought another pang of guilt, before defiance took over and roiled beneath the surface–he was not here to cower before the Valar for his crimes. But as soon as that thought flared up, it died, for he thought he saw sadness in her eyes. Then she turned and left without saying a word.
Strange, he thought, recollecting himself. Naked he might be before her but he did not feel exposed. After all, what else was there for her to observe that she did not already know? He shuddered at the idea, discomfiture tugging at his insides.
He looked down to inspect the items in the basin. The Valier left him undyed linen trousers with a simple drawstring waist, a matching linen tunic void of any embroidery along the hem, a gray knit hand towel, and in the very bottom, a dozen thin silk ties. He gaped, dumbfounded for a few moments then hurried to pull his clothes on, eager for some aid to resist the ghosts of his past hovering around the perimeter, waiting to pull him back under.
Counting each breath, and keen to control the direction of his thought, he took the pitcher and poured some water into the empty basin, dipping a corner of the towel to wet it. He cleaned the dried trails of salt from his face and hummed to himself. Dried, salt encrusted skin – it hadn’t felt very comfortable at the time, but the memory acted as a salve to his present state of unease.
Feeling as refreshed as he might, he repositioned himself to sit with his legs crossed in the center of the floor. He laid the silk ties before him and combed his fingers through his hair, then gathered three strands above his left ear and began to braid them together into a long, thin plait. His dark thoughts retreated further into the recesses of his mind and were replaced by a rarely-used feeling that took him a while to place. Then he recognized it as gratitude. Vairë did not place a single thread without intent. He was thankful for this small mercy by the Valar of something to do. And an ache of hope welled in him that it would not be their last.
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Galadriel came-to with one cheek pressed into the dirt and slowly lifted herself to stand. Her throat burned and she grappled the nozzle of the canteen at her waist to wash out the filth still sticky in her mouth. She winced as she remembered the terrible visions inundating her mind from her bond with Sauron, or Mairon, or whoever he was now. But her mind was her own again and she breathed a deep sigh of relief.
Thank you Mithrandir.
Thank Nienna, she had a word with Mandos. Came the old man’s reply.
So he is in the Halls of Awaiting?
Aye, for now.
For now…
And she mounted the mare again and set a steady canter north.
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