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The Battle of all Battles had come at last.
Dagor Dagorath
The enemy are many, made up of orcs, uruks, spiders, dragons, trolls and all manner of other dark and evil creatures that have crawled out of the blackest shadows and struggled out of the most long forgotten corners of the world to once again take up arms and help free their master from the Void.
The spells and enhancements used to keep Morgoth locked away in the Void had unwittingly weakened as the remaining Ages of the world passed, allowing whispers and curses of the fallen Valar to escape and seep out into the songs and undertones of the world once again. As the poison spread, Morgoth’s former allies and beasts awoke and began to gather en masse at the edges of Arda, ready for the final fight as their master fought to release himself from his prison.
But the army they are fighting is also many. Elves, dwarves and men, alongside the Ents and the Great Eagles, have all answered the call of Eru Ilúvatar and gathered arms and armour to meet the forces of darkness in this last, greatest of battles.
The plain on which this mightiest of clashes is taking place is now devastated and choked with smoke and fire, the air heavy with the smell of blood and soot. The sound of metal clashing on metal is loud, reverberating up into the angry crimson sky, mixing with the cries, screams and shrieks of the armies to create a deafening cacophony, the likes of which has never been heard before.
*****
And somewhere, in the midst of all this fighting, is Galadriel, once the Commander of the Northern Armies and the Lady of Lórien.
The warrior in her was ready to answer Manwë’s call and now she stands tall and proud, once again in her silver armour, the breastplate adorned with a golden 8-pointed star, the symbol of the House of Finarfin.
She could not remember where this armour came from, it had simply been waiting for her in her room after she had been called to fight, but she knew from its perfect fit that it must have been made for her by someone of great skill and precision, someone who took such care and attention when crafting the pieces.
Her long golden hair is braided down her back, but short wisps and curls have escaped, sticking to her forehead and neck which are slick with sweat. Her face is flushed and her limbs ache from the hours of combat, but she raises her sword once again, ready to take on the pack of orcs that approaches her, cackling with glee when they realise who she is.
The orc at the front of the pack has small, wicked eyes and grey sallow skin. He licks the wet, shining red blood from his knife as he cackles mockingly at her.
“My lady.”
But these are his last words, for her sword is swinging through the air, slicing the orc’s head from his neck in a bloody spray. A similar fate befalls the rest of the group, Galadriel’s blade cutting easily through their leather armour, spitting their chests and necks open, severing limbs and soaking the ground around them in their foul-smelling black blood.
She wipes the sweat from her brow, glaring at the bodies before her and in a condescending tone remarks, “I am not your lady.”
As she moves back into the fray around her, a man in the midst of another nearby fight catches her eye. His sword flashes and dances through the air, cutting down the uruks that throw themselves at him with ease.
He is tall, broad shouldered, clad in scaled bronze armour and dark maroon tunic.
She knows that armour.
His head turns and she can finally see his face. He is handsome, with a short scruffy auburn beard, and hair of the same colour curling around his chin.
She knows that face.
The form of the lost King of the Southlands stands proudly in his Númenórean armour, surrounded by the bloodied corpses of the uruks and he looks directly at her with a sharp green gaze.
She knows those eyes.
Knows how they could be as soft and as green as a forest bathed in dappled sunlight in the summer, but also knows how they could be cold and expressionless, dark as an endless cavern that swallows all light and gives nothing away.
Recognition and remembrance crash through her mind and Galadriel staggers as she realises that she is wearing the armour that he made for her. She remembers wearing the armour as she rode into battle on horseback beside him, to defend the villagers of the Southlands from Adar and his orcs.
Halbrand.
No, Sauron.
But he is here, now, at the end of all things and fighting on their side. He is cutting down the creatures and servants of his old master, rather than aiding them. She is not used to him on this side of the battlefield. She spent far too long facing him and his armies as they attempted to wipe the elves from Middle Earth.
All she can do is stare at him, as he takes a tentative step towards her, her breath catching in her chest as she takes in every line of that face, the face that she loved, the face that she had tried to commit to memory so many times whilst laying in his arms in the dark and the quiet of Eregion, before it all went wrong.
The corners of Halbrand’s mouth twitch upwards in a proud, mischievous smirk as he sees her and recognises her armour, a roguish comment forming on his tongue when he suddenly shouts in alarm, “Behind you!”
She whirls, braid flying, to face the mountain troll bearing down on her with a large, spiked iron club. Galadriel throws herself sideways as the club crashes to the ground in the exact spot where she was just standing.
Halbrand lunges forward, attacking the troll with his sword, raining down powerful blows onto its side and legs, but all this seems to do is irritate the creature. It roars indignantly, and as it rears upwards to strike again with the club, Galadriel jumps up onto its shoulders. She pulls at the chain secured around the troll’s neck, trying to force its head back and expose its neck for Halbrand. The troll’s arms are flailing in the air, unable to reach Galadriel perched high up between its shoulder blades, but the constant movement threatens to unsettle her. She digs in her heels, refusing to be unseated and manages to yank the chain back with all her might, forcing the troll to look to the sky and expose the underside of its neck. Halbrand is ready and plunges his sword into the soft skin of its jaw, slicing through the veins and sinew found there. The troll lets out one last low groan before pitching forward. Halbrand spins easily to the side as the body lands face down in the dirt with a heavy thud, but Galadriel is thrown forward by the momentum of the fall. She lands hard on the ground, all the air knocked from her lungs, and she gasps, unable to fully breathe in.
But Halbrand is there, his hand extended out to her to help her to her feet.
The gesture reminds her of the way she held her arm out to him as she boarded the Númenórean ship in Armenelos, newly formed allies ready to head back across the Sundering Sea to the Southlands and restore his lost crown.
She gratefully grasps his forearm, and he pulls her not only to her feet, but into a close embrace, their faces inches apart.
She can’t quite believe what she is seeing. There’s so much emotion associated with him and what he has done, to her, to her family, to Middle Earth, but all that emerges from her mouth is a small, tentative question.
“You’re really here?”
Halbrand smiles softly down at her, unsure if such close proximity to him would be welcomed by her, but he realises she is not raging against him, nor fighting the embrace, but instead is remaining in his arms.
“Yes I am.”
“What about-”
But the end of Galadriel’s next question is lost as a huge, forked tongue of bright purple lighting splits across the crimson sky above the battlefield, accompanied by a deafening rumble of thunder that sounds like a mountain is breaking apart.
From the gaping hole that the lightning leaves behind, dense black smoke begins to pour out, like a raging river unleashed, and with it comes the armoured form of Morgoth.
Taller than any man, Morgoth is a towering, monstrous figure in his black spiked armour, wearing terrible clawed gauntlets and a twisted cruel smile. The crown upon his head has three spaces where the glimmering Silmarils once sat, the very same crown that had stabbed both Halbrand and Galadriel in their former lives.
He descends onto the battlefield, bringing the dense black smoke and endless shadows with him. In his right hand he wields a spear, with a sharp pointed blade at the end of the long iron shaft and with his left hand he conjures bright blue burning fire balls, so hot that they are able to incinerate anything they touch to ashes in seconds.
Morgoth’s time in the Void has done nothing but harden his edges and increase his bloodlust, and he attacks without mercy, not caring who he cuts down. He is here to bring about the end of the world in a final act of despair and darkness and he will destroy everything in his way to do it.
Halbrand looks down at Galadriel and he sees the fear rising in her wide blue eyes. It was never a common look, even when they faced each other as leaders of opposing armies and his heart sinks to see it on her face now.
“Do you still have your ring?”
“My ring?”
But then she remembers, for the last few ages of the world spent in Valinor, she has worn a chain around her neck from which hangs a silver ring with a white stone of adamant.
She did not know why, only that it was important and that one day she might need it.
She tugs the chain free from beneath her armour and cradles the ring in her palm.
It hums and vibrates slightly at her touch, as if it has somehow been reactivated, and a name fills her mind in a calming rush, like a wave gently breaking upon the shore.
Nenya.
“What will the ring do?” she asks. “I thought it had no power anymore.”
“It will now. I can use it to channel your power from the Unseen world and amplify it against him. He will not last against your light if I can strengthen it with my own power.”
“But what power have they given you?”
“Enough.”
The maelstrom of chaos and confusion around them is getting louder as Morgoth gets closer, as if he senses his old servant here on the battlefield, but not on his side.
Halbrand pauses, his hand hovering over hers.
“Is she safe?” he asks, quietly, unexpectedly.
Galadriel’s sea blue eyes flick upwards to meet his forest green ones and she knows instantly who he is talking about.
“Yes, she is. I would not let her come here today.”
He swallows, his voice even quieter than before. “Does-does she know?”
Again, she immediately understands the question without needing any more information.
“Yes, she does.”
Halbrand lets out the breath he had not been aware he had been holding. The relief flooding his body is too much and he has to look away for a moment, his eyes closing briefly to try and hide the tears welling there.
“Tell her-”
She cannot let him finish and jumps in to cut his sentence off, taking Halbrand’s face in both her hands, “She knows, but I will tell her anyway.”
He tries again, this time to speak a different sentence but one with a similar sentiment, “And I-”
But Galadriel interrupts him for a second time because she cannot let him say it, she cannot bear to hear it.
“I know,” she says with emphasis.
The world is ending around them, and he is about to do something extremely foolhardy and extremely dangerous, but she just can’t find the words to say it herself, and equally will not let him say it to her.
It’s too much.
She leans forward to rest her forehead against his, in the familiar gesture of the Elves to show respect and affection, and sometimes, love.
“Before this all ends, would you call me Mairon, Galadriel?”
She gasps at the sound of his old name, the one from the very beginning when he was simply a Maia of Aulë, working in a forge creating beautiful things and had no thought of darkness, Morgoth and Sauron the Abhorred.
Halbrand, no Mairon, takes her hands away from his face, holding the left one carefully and removing the ring from the chain, which falls into the dust at their feet.
He holds Nenya delicately between his fingers and it glows briefly in response to his touch. Halbrand murmurs something, possibly in Valarin, before handing the ring back to her and instructing, “Put it on and then take my hand.”
She does so and the moment she takes his hand, a strange sense of calm passes over her and the sounds of the battle have been deadened.
Halbrand starts to sing, his voice low to start with but gradually rising in volume as the power starts to flow from the Unseen. He sings a song of healing, of regret, of redemption. Of new beginnings, grief and hope.
As the song soars upwards to the sky, Galadriel can feel the ring fully ignite, acting as a conduit, channelling her power and the power from the Unseen into Halbrand. Bright white light wraps around them, soft and warm, and she can see the way his skin and eyes glow as he absorbs it all.
But the blinding light has caught the attention of Morgoth and he surges through the fighting, easily sweeping aside everyone in his path to reach them.
His voice rings out, harsh and grating and Galadriel flinches at the sound.
“What have you become, my most faithful lieutenant?”
Halbrand squeezes her hand in a reassuring way that she does not fully believe. The odds seem too against them here, there are too many evil creatures and now Morgoth has entered the fray, with his own renewed and destructive power, all seems lost.
But Halbrand seems to sense this too and draws her close within their bubble of light.
“Trust me.”
The words catch her off guard, but as her eyes meet his, Galadriel knows that she does. Whatever has happened between them in the past, it does not matter now, for he is here and fighting against Morgoth.
“I do.”
His smile at her answer is so wide and hopeful, and so out of place in the middle of a battle, but it warms her heart to see it.
Then they have no more time for Morgoth is bearing down on them, brandishing his spear and aiming a deadly firestorm in their direction.
Halbrand is able to throw up a shield of light just in time to protect them and both attacks are easily evaded. His whole body is crackling with light, thrumming with Unseen power and able to take on his former master.
Galadriel wants to help him but no sooner has the light died away around her, then a giant purple bellied spider attacks her, and all her focus is suddenly on escaping its snapping pincers and pointed stinger.
As Halbrand fights Morgoth, parrying blows from the spear, and deflecting blasts of the blue fire, Galadriel can see his fána starting to split apart, white light seeping out from the small hairline fractures spreading across his body. The light is lending him strength, so he is able to withstand or deflect the blows raining down upon him and help give his own strikes enough power to damage and weaken Morgoth.
She tries to keep her eyes on Halbrand, but more orcs and spiders keep coming and she finds herself once again having to defend herself. At one point she loses sight of him completely and panics, becoming distracted enough to take a stunning blow to the head. It isn’t enough to knock her to the ground, but the world spins and her sight blurs. She blindly lashes out, catching one arc in the stomach with her sword as she does so.
Halbrand’s fána is stretching more and more, the cracks widening, as he is unable to contain the power coursing through him. More light bursts out and his body becomes distorted, larger, growing in size to match that of Morgoth’s.
And it hurts.
Halbrand is in pain and it is only getting worse, but he grits his teeth and digs deep because he knows that he is the only one who can bring down Morgoth. He needs to do this. For Middle Earth, for himself, but for mostly Galadriel and Celebrian.
He’s burning through the power he’s taken from the Unseen and Galadriel at a relentless rate, and he knows that it can’t last much longer. He needs to end it.
But Morgoth is quick and cunning, his prowess not dulled after millennia of imprisonment and soon Halbrand is on his knees in the dirt before him, panting, his sword raised in a defensive position trying to stop the tip of the spear reaching his neck.
Halbrand’s hands shake with the effort of holding the spear back and the light flowing through his body flickers ominously, as it is about to go out.
But a volley of arrows, fired from a nearby group of elves hit Morgoth, several piercing his back, and the momentary diversion is enough for Halbrand to wrench his sword sideways, knocking Morgoth’s arm away from him and breaking the tip of the spear away from the shaft. This sudden movement causes the Dark Valar to stagger, and without one of his main weapons, Halbrand seizes his chance.
With a great roar, Halbrand launches himself forward, slipping under Morgoth’s arm brandishing the broken spear and strikes upwards with his sword. He puts all his force and power behind the blow, with more light splintering from his own weakening form, and his sword pierces through Morgoth’s armour and enters his heart.
There is a fraction of a second, in which the whole battlefield seems to pause, waiting in the stillness as the last great foe freezes and realises what has happened.
Then Morgoth screams.
It is a hideous twisted sound of anger, pain and defeat.
But Halbrand doesn’t stop. He pushes the sword in further, cracking Morgoth’s breast plate into two, forcing the blade completely through his former master’s body, before withdrawing it in one smooth movement.
As the scream dies away on Morgoth’s lips, his body begins to convulse and tremble, as the dark magic from the Void is unable to hold him together.
Then there is a sudden explosion of power outwards, and Morgoth’s body is destroyed from the inside out as the remaining power bursts free, no longer contained or controlled. It spreads outwards in a sonic wave that knocks orcs and men alike from their feet.
But Halbrand, standing the closest to the epicentre, is thrown backwards by the force of the blast and his body lands heavily some way away. No longer needing to stretch to contain the light within him, his form begins to shrink back down, but he is utterly spent and he can feel his fëa starting to slip away. He feels dizzy and his vision blurs, as if he is viewing everything underwater.
Word of the victory is beginning to spread to the edges of the battlefield and the remainder of Morgoth’s army are either cut down or are attempting to flee, but Galadriel is scrambling along the ground to get to where Halbrand has fallen.
The last uruk she had fought had struck a damaging blow to her thigh, she can feel the blood leaking out of the wound as she crawls in the mud and the dirt to reach Halbrand but she doesn’t care. She will seek a medic later, she has to get to him now.
She fearfully calls his name, like she had done so long ago after the volcano called Orodruin erupted in the Southlands and she had been unable to find him in the aftermath.
“Halbrand!”
When she finally reaches where his body is laying, she heaves herself up to lean over his chest and she’s horrified at how he looks. Halbrand’s skin is ashen and grey, the light slowly dimming in his green eyes as the power he had channelled dies away, taking all his energy and life force with it.
Galadriel strokes several lose strands of auburn hair from his forehead and her voice shakes as she says, “Halbrand, please don’t go.”
He gives a quiet, pained laugh, “Call me Mairon, melmenya.”
“Mairon, please-”
At her use of the name he so greatly wants to be called, Mairon smiles, and his tone is soft and soothing, even as his voice is getting weaker.
“It’s alright Galadriel, órenya.”
At the use of a second Quenyan endearment, the tears start to fall down her cheeks, spilling onto his chest. She’s rambling in her sorrow now, clinging to his shoulders, watching as his body begins to fade beneath her. The light and power that had blazed out of him can no longer hold him together.
“Please don’t go, I could not bear it, I cannot lose you again, we cannot lose you again.”
Her hands clasp his face, cupping his cheeks, and her lips touch his again and again in soft desperate kisses.
Mairon reaches up to stroke her jaw and wipe the tears away, but as he does so, his right hand starts to break apart and she feels the lightest feather touch upon her skin before his fingers disappear.
Galadriel cradles him to her chest, rocking him gently the way she had done with Celebrian when she was a tiny baby and couldn’t sleep.
“Mairon, please you cannot go, not now.”
Galadriel is begging every Valar who has ever existed to do something, anything. She once told him that no penance could ever erase the evil he had done, but now she wants to bury those words for he has done enough now. What he has done here on this battlefield must be enough to be redeemed.
Please let him stay by my side a little longer she pleads inside her own mind, but Mairon is fading faster and faster, his body dissipating, becoming nothing more than wisps of smoke upon the air that coil and slowly vanish into nothingness.
“Melintyë tarinya.”
She hears the last words slip from his mouth and then she’s looking at his face, as it too fades, until it’s just those lovely green eyes left and then, he is completely gone.
The sound of Galadriel screaming in anguish is snatched by the wind as the Second coming of the world dawns, the oldest adversary of Arda is finally defeated, but Mairon, her enemy, her lover, the counterpart to her soul in every possible way is gone too and she cannot bear it.
*****
The world is mended and time passes.
But Galadriel feels so lost, despite the restoration of everything in Valinor after the Battle of all Battles. Even the healing of her daughter and reunions with her parents and brothers cannot shift the overwhelming feelings of hopelessness and lethargy that have filled her mind ever since the loss of Mairon.
The only place she finds any solace is by the sea.
Whilst she had been the ruler of a woodland realm back in Middle Earth and had loved the peace and quiet that could be found beneath the cool canopy of the trees, she finds she now craves the openness of the sky above the ocean, the salt on her tongue and the feel of the current around her feet as she stands in the shallows. She breathes in and out to the constant ebb and flow of the waves, and somehow this seems to anchor her soul and prevent her from spiralling downwards in despair altogether. Perhaps, finally, the Teleri nature from her mother’s kin is letting its influence known.
Galadriel spends her days by the water, sometimes standing waist deep for hours gazing out upon the horizon, lost in a trance. On the days she feels particularly restless she walks up and down along the shore, feet in the surf, fiddling with the silver ring on her finger that has once again fallen silent. The days when it's all too much she simply sits in the sand and weeps.
More time passes.
Until one day, someone comes to join her on the shore.
She is sitting on the sand, her hem of her silvery dress damp from the ocean, when that person comes to stand behind her.
She stiffens, sighing, feeling the sharp retort forming on her tongue to tell them to go away, to leave her alone, when they say her name.
“Hello, Galadriel.”
She turns to look around and finds a man standing there, dressed in a fine navy tunic and trousers, edged with gold and brown leather boots. He is tall and broad shouldered, and as her eyes travel upwards and reach his face, she is startled to find she recognises the shape of the jaw, the short auburn beard and curling hair, and the very familiar forest green eyes.
“Mairon,” she breathes and the smile that he gives her at the sound of his name feels like coming home.