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There were few materials that Halbrand had not worked with in one way or another. As a former Maia of Aulë, the master of craftsmanship, he had studied the elements of the world and learnt how to bend them to his will. During his time in Arda, he had never come across a material that could not be reworked into something more useful, more beautiful, more perfect, until the night Galadriel asked him to braid her hair.
When she had entered the smithy earlier that evening, he had immediately known that something between them was about to change. It was not the stoic Commander of King Gil-galad’s Northern Army that had approached him with her request, nor the insufferably proud Noldo who had somehow convinced him to return to the Southlands—it had been a highly embarrassed little Elf whose confidence level seemed to have dropped all the way from the sky down to the bottom of the ocean. He had never paid much attention to Elven customs, but considering that the poor thing had barely been able to look him in the eye when she eventually managed to get the words out of her mouth, the favor that she had asked of him was clearly a sensitive one.
Halbrand should have said no, but her demeanor alone had been enough for him to lose his grasp on the grudge he was supposed to be holding against her. Even then, his common sense had tried to tell him that the whole thing was a bad idea, but the rest of his mind had been too busy focusing on how badly he wanted to keep the sight of Galadriel’s rare display of vulnerability to himself.
He had followed her to her quarters, watched her take a seat on the stool in front of her vanity mirror, and then his ability of reasonable thinking had caught up with him. His common sense had been right—being alone with Galadriel in a bedchamber truly was a bad idea.
“I am sorry for making such a strange request, but my hair turns into a tangled mess if I do not braid it before going to bed, and…” Her cheeks turned pink. “I always do it myself, but my hand… I cannot hold a comb.”
Her waist-length locks tumbled down her back like a waterfall of silver and gold, glimmering in the flickering light of the lantern on her desk. She kept her gaze firmly fixed on the bandaged hand in her lap. He did not know how her practice session with the young Númenórean recruits had ended with her having to use her hand to block a training sword mid-swing, but he suspected that she had most likely prevented a careless kid from getting seriously injured. Elves were sturdy, but they were evidently not immune to broken fingers.
Halbrand briefly closed his eyes, forcing back a surge of anger. In two days, he would be on a ship full of Númenórean soldiers who had volunteered to go to war on behalf of the long-lost King of the Southlands. Galadriel had destroyed his disguise as an unassuming smith’s aide, and he could not afford to lose another one, no matter how badly he wanted to break the jaw of whoever it was that had harmed his Elf.
He really needed to stop referring to her as that.
“If I am asking too much of you, please say so,” she said, misinterpreting his hesitation as discomfort. “You can leave, and we will never speak—”
“I’ll do it,” he said, picking up her comb from the desk. Hands like his, callused and darkened with soot that not even the luxurious soap of Númenor could wash away, did not belong anywhere near something as beautiful as Galadriel’s hair, but she had granted him a privilege that he simply could not resist.
Halbrand tentatively ran his fingers through the locks, finding no resistance at all. She had spent the entire day on the training grounds, yet her hair was still softer than silk and more pliant than any metal that he had ever brought out of a forge. Galadriel let out a barely audible sigh and closed her eyes, tilting her head back. His impulse control nearly cracked when he gathered her hair in his hand, revealing her slender neck and her delicately pointed ears. There were so many things that he wanted to do to that pale skin, and none of them were even remotely appropriate for a soon-to-be king.
His life had been much simpler when he was still Halbrand of the Southlands; the smith’s aide who occasionally lost his temper after a few pints of ale.
Over and over, he ran the comb through her hair. The tresses were already perfectly smooth, but the satisfied little noises she made each time the comb touched her scalp kept him going. He lost himself in the task, savoring every sigh and hum that escaped her lips. Every now and then, he allowed himself a glance at her reflection in the mirror. Without the scowls and the condescending smiles, her beauty was overwhelming. The Children of Ilúvatar kept writing songs about Elven-maids of old, and when he looked at her, he could understand why.
Halbrand reached the crown of her head, and then reluctantly put the comb back down on her desk. Her eyes fluttered open, and her face regained some of its harsh edges. She may have been an Elven-maid once, but he and his former master had destroyed her innocence when they turned her into the last living member of the Golden House of Finarfin in Middle-earth.
His apology for the death of her brother had been genuine.
He ran his fingers through her hair again, searching for a word in any language, spoken or forgotten, that could describe its color, but came up with nothing. The fire in the lantern brought out the golden undertones, and the moonlight trickling in from the window brought out the hints of silver. For the first time since he descended into the new world, he had come across a material that he did not know how to improve.
“A simple braid is fine,” she said. “You just part the hair into three—"
“I know how to braid,” he interrupted, pulling back two strands of hair from her forehead. Aulë had taught him how to twist cords of leather into rope and entwine strips of metal into jewelry long before Galadriel was even born. In a different lifetime and a different raiment, he had even braided his own hair to keep it out of the way in the smithy. The braiding itself was not an issue. It was the design.
He had never been good at keeping things simple.
In the end, he decided to let his hands do the thinking for him. His physical form may have changed, but the muscle memory was still there. He did know how to braid.
The locks that she often used to cover her ears were the first ones to disappear into his creation. The Númenóreans tended to scowl whenever they were reminded of her race, but he had never liked the idea of her having to hide that part of herself. Elves had caused him nothing but grief during his time in Arda, but he had grown rather fond of this particular one.
“You are surprisingly good at this,” she said, raising an eyebrow. His vague response about the correlation between smithing and braiding was complete nonsense, but thankfully, she did not question it. He had reached a point where there was barely any hair left to cover the skin of her neck and collarbones, and his attention kept drifting. He took a deep breath, pushing back the urge to press his lips against that pale skin; to sink his teeth into that vulnerable flesh; to leave enough marks on her that everyone in Númenor would know that she was his.
He slowly exhaled. If he did not stop referring to her as that, he would never be able to let her go.
“Halbrand, I think you are overcomplicating–”
“Hush.” He dropped to his knees to finish his work, ignoring the flash of outrage in her eyes. A smirk tugged at his lips. To even entertain the idea of hushing a High Elf while wearing the raiment of a Man was to play with fire, but after seeing the incredulous look on her face, he decided that it had been a risk worth taking.
After a few minutes of silence, Galadriel spoke up again.
“Do you know the tale of the Two Trees of Valinor?” she asked.
Halbrand hesitated, not entirely certain whether or not a Man from the Southlands should know the history of Telperion and Laurelin, but eventually answered, “I do.”
“In Valinor, I was told that my hair shined like the light of the Two Trees combined. My uncle—half-uncle—Fëanor asked me several times to gift him a strand, but I always turned him down. I sensed greed and ill intent in him, and when he later created the Silmarils, I knew I had been wise to keep my hair to myself. Ever since then, I have been reluctant to let anyone near it. I have not allowed anyone to touch it like this since before the war.” She swallowed hard, once again lowering her gaze to the bandaged hand in her lap. “This request… it was not made lightly.”
Halbrand took another deep breath. The vulnerability that she had shown in the smithy was nothing compared to this, and the confirmation that he had been the only one to witness it for centuries sent a dangerous surge of heat through his body.
“I could tell,” he said, keeping his voice as level as possible. He finished his creation with a thin leather strap and then leaned back to evaluate his work. The braid was simple, but it would have to do. Adding pearls, gems, or maybe flowers to his design would have to wait until a later opportunity.
There would be a later opportunity.
Despite the simplicity of his creation, he was rather satisfied with the way the front section encircled the top of her head; a golden circlet, bringing out the regal features of her face that she usually kept hidden. She did not look like a Lady of the High Elves. She looked like a queen.
Halbrand tilted his head slightly to the side, making some quick adjustments to his plans regarding the future of Middle-earth.
“Why me?” he asked, genuinely curious. “You’ve known me for less than a fortnight, and we’ve been at odds with each other for most of that time. Why ask me?”
“Because you are the only one I trust on this island. You always have been, even during our disagreements.” Her cheeks flushed. “I came to you, because you do not care about my race, my titles, or my ancestry. You do not care about the darkness in my heart that caused my own kin to cast me out. When you look at me, you…”
She paused, hesitating. Halbrand waited for her to continue, but after several seconds of silence, his patience ran out. The wooden floor squeaked when he grabbed the stool and swiftly turned it around, possibly using a bit more strength than a Man was supposed to possess. She let out a small yelp when she suddenly found herself face to face with him. With him on his knees, their eyes were almost at the same level.
“I, what?” he said, clinging to the last shreds of his self-control. “Be very careful with how you finish that sentence, Elf.”
“You see me.” She glanced down at his lips, mere inches away from hers, before meeting his gaze. “You want me.”
Halbrand set his common sense on fire.
He placed a firm hand on the back of her neck and eliminated the distance between them, his lips colliding with hers. The raw cravings that he had been trying to repress ever since he saw her in her soaking wet underdress on the raft rushed to the surface. Perhaps Galadriel had been right about their meeting being a part of something greater, because kissing her felt like giving in to something inevitable.
He should have done it sooner.
Galadriel let out a soft moan that rushed straight to his crotch. She buried her unbroken fingers in his tunic and pulled him closer, clinging to him with a feverish desperation that he would never have expected from an Elf. Her kiss was hungry and relentless, and so was his. He grabbed her braid and gave it a hard tug, tilting her head back so could finally taste the skin of her neck; a gift that he had practically unwrapped himself. She drew a sharp breath, a sound of pain intermingled with pleasure, but she did not ease her grip on his tunic.
As he traced her racing pulse with his lips, he used his free hand to undo the cotton bodice that he had come to despise during his stay in Númenor. The dress that had been donated to her was modest, but with that cursed piece of fabric wrapped around her torso, he had been able to picture every curve beneath it—and so had his fellow craftsmen in the smithy.
He tightened his grip on her braid and latched on to a spot right above her collarbone, using lips, teeth, and tongue to leave a mark that neither her dress nor her hair would cover.
“Halbrand,” she hissed, giving him a light shove. He did not budge, though he probably should have.
“Hush.” He pressed a soft kiss on the bruise; a halfhearted apology for an act that he did not regret at all. Her bodice finally fell to the floor, and without the support, the rest of the dress slowly slid down her shoulders. He released his grip on her braid, leaning back for a moment to take her in. She was a disheveled mess, but her heated eyes glimmered with renewed confidence. Her dress continued to slide down her body, revealing those slender curves that he had tried so hard to forget. She winced slightly when she pulled her arms out of the sleeves, but she eventually managed to give him a full display of her naked torso. A smug little smirk played on her lips as she studied his reaction. He was supposed to be a master of disguises, but considering the satisfied look on her face, there were clearly things that not even he could hide.
He cupped her breast in his hand, forcing back a groan when he felt her tremble under his touch. Her body was starving for attention; soft, pliant, and perfect. He kissed her again, swallowing her moans as his thumb played with her nipple. A weak voice in the back of his mind urged him to slow down, to savor every pitiful little noise that left her mouth, but there were still parts of her that he wished to explore and his trousers were growing uncomfortably tight.
He raised the hem of her dress and pushed it up her slender legs, reducing the garment to a pile of fabric gathered around her hips. Her thighs were just as slim as the rest of her body, but when he cupped them in his hands, all he could feel was soft skin and hard muscle. She let out another yelp when he spread her legs and threw them over his shoulders, forcing her to hold on to the desk with her uninjured hand to keep her balance. He tilted her hips up, and then had to pause for a moment to gather his bearings. His Elf was already glistening for him.
He was done correcting himself.
Her muscles twitched as he pressed featherlight kisses to the inside of her thigh. She locked her ankles behind his neck and tried to pull him closer. Once again, he should probably have budged, but he did not.
“Greedy little thing,” he murmured before allowing her to guide him right where she wanted him to be.
His tongue spread her open, drawing a low-pitched moan from her lips; a sound so indecent that it made him question everything he had thought he knew about Elves. He worked his way up until he reached the spot that made her thighs clench around his head, licking and sucking until her moans turned into desperate, barely coherent pleas in Quenya.
“That’s it, princess,” he said, hopefully using a language spoken by Men. “Let it all out. Let go.”
Her entire body jerked backward when she finally reached her peak, her back slamming into the desk with enough force to leave a crack in the solid wood. The sight of Galadriel, the proud Daughter of the House of Finarfin, come undone under his tongue made his own desire pulse through his body like liquid fire.
He removed his tunic before gathering her in his arms, lifting her trembling, limbless body with ease. She was a powerful warrior, but physically, she was probably the smallest soldier in the entire army of Númenor. Carrying her without pretending to be bothered by her weight should be reasonable for a human smith.
He needed to look that up.
He dropped her on the bed and then pulled the bundle of fabric that was once her dress down her legs, throwing it on the floor next to his tunic. As he peered down at her, taking in her flushed cheeks, her disheveled hair, and darkening brand above her collarbone, he knew for certain that his plans for the future of Middle-earth were going to have to be revised. Healing the continent and ridding it from its chaos was still his main priority, but he would not be doing it alone.
“I hope you understand that this is not going to be a one-time thing,” he said hoarsely as he joined her on the bed, putting most of his weight on his forearm as he hovered over her. “I will braid your hair again. I will watch you come on my tongue again. I will,” he pressed his leg against the apex of her thighs, “be inside you tonight, and every other night from now on. I will make sure that every Man in Númenor knows that the stubborn little Elf who convinced the Queen Regent to go to war in Middle-earth belongs to the King of the Southlands.”
Her eyes widened. “You cannot tell anyone about this. It is... wrong.”
“Because I’m a Man?”
“No, because I…” She lowered her gaze. “I am already spoken for.”
The unexpected confession sent another surge of heat through his body; a darker, more possessive kind that brought his true self dangerously close to the surface.
“By who?” he asked, even though it would probably be better for everyone involved if the identity of that Elf remained unknown. There were many crimes that a soon-to-be king could get away with, but murder was not one of them.
Accidents did happen, though.
“His name was Celeborn,” she said quietly. “I lost him in the war.”
Halbrand frowned as he tried to decide whether the added information made the situation better or worse. A spirit in the Halls of Mandos was untouchable, which meant that the issue could not be solved by a convenient accident. It also meant that the only thing holding her back was an Elven custom, and customs could be broken.
“Not spoken for, then,” he said. “A widow.”
“Death does not undo an Elven marriage.” She swallowed hard. “I may be a widow, but I am still his.”
“You thought have thought of that before you finished that sentence.” He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. “Sorry, princess, but I don’t share.”
He kissed her, swallowing her objections as he claimed her with his lips. She had sealed her own fate when she broke the dam between them; permanently altering the course of both of their futures. He knew what his looked like now. She had yet to find out.
Her feeble protests came to an abrupt stop when he slid a finger inside her, finding no resistance whatsoever. After hearing her confession, he had expected her to be tight and unaccommodating, but her body greedily welcomed him as he pressed his finger into her to the hilt. When he added a second finger, she tilted her hips up, inviting him to go even deeper. A smirk tugged at his lips. His poor little Elf had been left starving for centuries, and her body cared just as little about Elven customs as he did.
“Do you want me to stop?” He slowly pumped his fingers in and out of her, curling them slightly upwards. “I could always stop.”
To prove his point, he paused his ministrations. Another spark of Noldorin outrage flashed in her eyes, followed by shame, followed by a wide range of emotions that he did not even know the name of. He watched as she struggled against her own need, knowing that eventually, she would reach the same conclusion as he had.
This had always been inevitable.
She cursed under her breath. “The Valar will punish me for this.”
He leaned down and nipped her ear, grinning as he felt her tighten around his fingers. “I’ll make it worth it.”
With her conflicting emotions out of the way, she lost all restraint. She laced her fingers in his hair and kissed him hard, moving her hips to take care of his lack of action on her own. This time, it was her turn to taste his skin, to sink her teeth into his flesh, to mark him as hers, but his lenience ran out when she tried to switch their positions. She blinked in surprise when he pushed her back down on the mattress; a slip that he would address once he regained the ability to care. He pulled out his fingers and freed himself from his painfully tight trousers. The voice in the back of his head that kept insisting that he should take it slow was completely overpowered by the sight of her lying spread out beneath him, looking at him like she needed him more than air.
With one push, he sheathed himself inside her, groaning when her body instantly adjusted itself for his girth. No one had been inside her for centuries, yet she still fit him like a glove. She was hot and tight and perfect.
Galadriel, who seemed to be even more impatient than he was, gave his hair a rough tug. “If you truly consider me yours, then take me.”
“You should be more careful with your requests,” he said, pulling himself almost all the way out before slamming into her again, drawing a loud gasp from her lips. “Remember that you asked for it.”
He closed one hand around her uninjured wrist, pinning it to the bed. Her eyes widened slightly when he cupped the other around her neck, but then gave him a small nod. Holding her firmly in place, he finally began to move, pounding into her with enough force to make the headboard creak. If she wanted to be taken, then he would take her. Her moans turned into cries that could probably be heard all across the street, but she seemed to be too far gone to care.
Before the night was over, all of Númenor would know who Galadriel of the Noldor belonged to.
He continued to thrust into her, using every ounce of restraint left within him to hold back his own release. Seeing her come under his tongue had nearly broken his mind. He could not even imagine what feeling her come around him would do to his sanity, but he intended to find out. She had switched from Westron to Quenya again, crying out his name with the sharp consonants of her native tongue. His choice of language was more consistent than hers, but he seemed to be incapable of deciding whether to stick with princess, go back to Elf, or simply settle with Galadriel.
“Is this what you wanted?” he murmured in her ear. “To be used? To be claimed?”
A long string words in Quenya spilled out of her mouth; not necessarily coherent but definitely affirmative.
“Come for me, Galadriel,” he said, pronouncing her name with a crispness that clashed with his Southlander accent. If she noticed the slip, she did not show it. He released her wrist, sliding his hand between their bodies. “Come for me again.”
He managed to outlast her with less than a second to spare, spending himself inside her as she spasmed around him. The bed slammed into the wall, but unlike the desk, it stayed intact. He collapsed on the mattress, wrapping his arms around his trembling little Elf and pulling her on top of him.
He was never correcting himself again.
“You are stronger than you appear,” she said, breathing heavily.
“Smith,” he said with a shrug, hoping that she knew as little about the average strength of a low Man as he did. “Lots of manual labor.”
“I suppose.” She hesitated for a moment. “Did you mean what you said about… us?”
“I did.”
“It is going to get us both into a lot of trouble.”
“You always get us into trouble anyway.”
She slapped his shoulder. “A different kind of trouble.”
“I don’t care. I meant what I said. We will do this again.” He let out an amused snort. “You already need a new braid.”
He ran his fingers over his meticulous work. The braid was completely ruined, and he was going to have to comb through her entire hair again if he were to make a new one.
The thought did not bother him at all.
He closed his eyes, sinking deep into the mattress. Galadriel found a crook between his neck and his shoulder to rest her head and then relaxed, her body draped over his. The only word he could think of was perfect.
When he chose his human raiment, he had considered it a temporary one; an unassuming disguise that he would drop once he regained his strength. Galadriel had ruined that plan, and she was now causing him to make adjustments to his new plans as well. Becoming Mairon again was going to have to wait. He was not done being Halbrand of the Southlands yet.
“Why ‘princess’?” Galadriel suddenly asked. “I am a descendant of Finwë, but I am not royalty.”
“Really? You sure act like you are,” he drawled. She let out a dignified huff but did not push the topic any further, letting his half-answer slide. The true reason, just like his true identity, would have to remain hidden for a little while longer.
He would call her princess until he could call her queen.