Chapter Text
Bronwyn tells Galadriel to go home, so home is where she goes. Her body is on autopilot, her mind somewhere far away and quiet as she enters the westward-bound highway leaving the city. It is only hours later, a little less than halfway to Valinor, that she realizes where she’s going.
(Bronwyn had said go home and the Noldor Estate is home.)
(Was home.)
Galadriel sleeps in her car that first night, shivering violently under her coat, her breath puffing in thick clouds before her face. Her dreams are uneasy, filled with voices she can almost hear, grasping hands that almost hold, faces that melt and blur the harder she tries to see them. She awakes with a start as the first rays of morning light shine through the windshield. She cannot feel her fingers or her toes.
The snow thins considerably as she continues west, melting entirely by the time she passes the sign welcoming her into Valinor, the Land of Winterless Spring.
Galadriel drives slowly through town with a doleful eye. Her parents used to say that Valinor had once felt like the center of the universe. A sparkling jewel of arts and culture, it had been home to the best of all society had to offer; museums and theaters, cafes and restaurants, gardens and parks.
But that had been a long time ago. Now, nostalgia is the only industry of the countryside. Homes that once housed generations of families have been parceled up and packaged away as summer rentals. They seem to stare at Galadriel as she drives through town, silent and empty, forgotten tombs.
Galadriel arrives home well past midday. She sits at the top of the drive and lights a cigarette, studying the sprawling estate below her.
Sitting in the lee of a small valley, the Noldor Estate had always been a peaceful home; a gentle reprieve from the chaos of Beleriand and the churning cacophony of Endor. But back then, the surrounding hills had teemed with life, the driveway had always been heavily-trafficked with cars; friends and neighbors, staff and family, coming and going and filling the silence with joy. Now, the quietness feels velvet smooth and suffocating.
Galadriel lights another cigarette and considers the empty setting of her childhood, the hollow crown from Valinor’s glory days of old. And as the sun begins to set, she finally pulls her car into the garage. She pauses outside the front door and takes a swig from a bottle of vodka she bought on her way into town.
The hinges squeak loudly as she shoulders the door open – and Galadriel is home.
- - -
Inside, the house is dark. It smells of abandonment; mothballs and dust, mold and rot.
“Galadriel, did you pick up some WD-40 at the store?” Father calls from the living room. “Those damn hinges are driving me nuts.”
The light through the closed-up windows turns soft, dreamy.
“You know, normally people say hello to their house guests before sending them off on errands,” Galadriel laughs, setting down her purse.
“Hm, you Endor-folks have strange ways.” Father appears around the corner; his hair is more silver than gold now but the lines around his mouth deepen as he smiles. “Welcome home, Gal, we missed you.” He hugs her tight, kisses her head. “How was the drive?”
“Traffic was a nightmare.” Galadriel pulls a face. “Has Finrod arrived yet?”
“No, no – he had to work late,” Father says. “Come on, everyone else has been waiting for you!” He throws an arm around Galadriel’s shoulder, the movement so natural, so achingly familiar, she feels her eyes well up with tears.
They turn a corner and the soft brightness dies. The weight on her shoulders disappears. Galadriel turns sharply, looking for her father. Dust-clouded photographs refract beams of sunlight into her eyes, making them water.
(Why is she crying?)
Galadriel takes a shuddering breath, her heart pounding. “Don’t do that,” she whispers, pressing a hand to the wall for support; the wallpaper along the wainscoting is curled at the edges, peeling away. “Please, don’t do that.”
The creaking of the floorboards follows her from room to room. She drinks deeply, letting the cheap vodka fill her with a thin thread of warmth. White sheets cover the furniture, turning every familiar landmark of her youth into a ghostlike mockery of itself.
Water damage has warped the terrain of the drawing room; she trips as one of the steps down gives out under her feet. Catching her hip on the edge of the grand piano, the force of her body pulls an off-key TWANG from within the ebony coffin.
“Galadriel, sweetpea, are you alright?”
She looks up. Mother is half-raised from the bench, her face caught between surprise and worry. The sun is setting in the window behind her, framing her in a halo of bloody tendrils and golden wisps.
“I’m fine, Mother, I just tripped.” Galadriel swoops down and kisses her mother’s cheek, breathing in the familiar notes of her perfume; irises and oakmoss – earthy, floral and warm.
“Hold on, hold on, stand right there and let me get a good look at you.” Galadriel demures under her mother’s inspection, grasping her hands tightly. “You’re getting thinner and thinner every time I see you,” Mother says with a disapproving cluck of her tongue. “We need to find you a husband who can cook – a chef, perhaps?”
“Mother, I eat just fine,” Galadriel says, rolling her eyes. “And I don’t need a husband, I have…”
(Her vision flickers. Something is sitting on the tip of her tongue. She has a husband already…doesn’t she?)
(Didn’t she?)
“Oh, Galadriel – you’re home!”
Galadriel opens her eyes. Mother and Father are both sitting on the piano bench, their hands working in tandem as they coax a spirited duet from keys. They turn to her and smile, two flowers unfurling towards the sun.
“Sorry sweetpea, we didn’t even hear you come in,” Mother says, blowing her a kiss.
“Of course, who am I to interrupt Schubert? No, don’t stop playing on my account, please!” Galadriel sighs and leans against the piano. “I’ve missed this.”
“Well, feel free to join in whenever you want,” Father chuckles with a smile. Raising his voice over the piano, he asks, “Did Finrod drive in with you?”
“No, he had to work late.” Galadriel rolls her eyes as her parents exchange looks. “Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”
“Come here and join us, Galadriel,” Mother says, scooting over on the bench to make space for her between them. “We can all play together.
“No, that’s alright,” Galadriel says. “I need to go grab my bags from the car.”
“Sweetpea, your brothers can do that,” Father says, firmly. “Come, sit next to us and play.”
“I don’t know if I remember how.” The admission sticks in her throat, makes her chest constrict horribly.
(Why is she crying?)
“It’s just like riding a bike.” Mother’s laugh is bird-like, sweet and high. “You’ve just got to wake up and stretch your limbs – you’ll be back at it in no time. Come on, now.”
“Maybe later,” Galadriel finally agrees. “Did you say Aegnor and Angrod were here?”
“Oh, they’re around here somewhere.” Father calls to the ceiling, “Boys?”
Footsteps thunder down the stairs. Galadriel turns to greet them, but no one is there. Cobwebs weave around the wooden beams of the bannister, gossamer threads fluttering in a phantom breeze. The music from the piano continues, arpeggios and scales tripping artfully along rusted wires.
Galadriel trembles. The glass lip of the vodka shakes violently between her lips, spilling more down her front than into her mouth.
“Don’t just stand there hogging that whole thing to yourself,” Mother admonishes lightly. “See if your brothers want some.”
“They’re not here, they’re not here, they’re not here.” Galadriel clutches the bottle to her chest, screwing her eyes shut.
“Of course they’re here, sweetpea.” She doesn’t turn around to face her mother, even as she feels her approach, smells her perfume wafting gently through the air. “They’re just upstairs – go on, see for yourself.”
It’s dark upstairs. None of the lights will turn on. Through the windows, Galadriel can see stars shimmering at the zenith of the wine-stained sunset. Her breath is loud in her ears. The door on her left swings open suddenly, spilling laughter-bright joy into the hall.
“And lo, the conquering commander returns!” Angrod laughs, picking her up in a great bear hug and spinning her around. He sniffs her hair loudly, complaining, “Ugh! Returns smelling like an ashtray! Picked up smoking in the big city, Gal? Wait ‘til Mother and Father hear – they’ll be so proud!”
“Don’t you dare!” Galadriel scolds, giggling despite herself. “Or I’ll be forced to tell them exactly who taught me how to roll my own.”
“I would never teach my baby sister how to do something so disgustingly bad for her health,” Angrod replies, clutching his chest in mock horror.
“But I would.” Aegnor appears at his elbow, dark gray eyes full of mischief. He pecks Galadriel on both her cheeks and says, “Angy can’t roll to save his life! Remind me later to show you a picture of a blunt he rolled the night before we deployed – fat as a burrito. Is Fin with you?”
“No – should be here soon, though.”
“Good! I have a surprise for you and I don’t want him to get all pissy about it.”
“We have a surprise for you,” Angrod corrects, glowering at Aegnor. “C’mon, Gal – follow us.”
She doesn’t follow immediately; she’s dizzy in the darkness, uncertain. She drinks more vodka and steels her nerves.
There’s a hole in the ceiling; Galadriel has to step around bird droppings as she carefully makes her way down the hall. Mildew has sprouted on water-colored landscapes and acrylic portraits. She’s about to ask her brothers about the decaying art when she’s suddenly outside her own bedroom; the paint is crisp and white, the brass doorknob shines like a new penny.
Angrod and Aegnor are waiting for her inside. The room is a time-capsule to a childhood long gone, perfectly preserved behind glass. The window curtains are wide open, bathing the room in shades of indigo and blue. Her brothers look as if they’re underwater, beckoning her in with their fingers to their lips. She pads in quietly, following them to a bed in the corner.
There is someone in the bed – too old to be a child, too young to be a woman; her gold hair is silver in the darkness. She breathes softly, evenly. Sound asleep, despite being watched.
(She looks familiar.)
The brothers move closer. Angrod touches her head, but the girl doesn’t wake. Aegnor jostles her shoulder, but still, the girl only sleeps.
“We can’t wake her,” Aegnor explains with a shrug.
“We’ve been trying,” Angrod says.
“Let her sleep,” says Galadriel.
Her hands are cold; she cups them in front of her mouth and breathes on them, trying to warm them up. Something slips from her fingers and thuds to the ground; her ankle is suddenly wet. The girl sleeps on, despite the noise.
Aegnor and Angrod both turn to her with a frown.
“No, she needs to wake up,” Aegnor says. “Everyone’s already here – she’s going to be late.”
“It’s very rude of her to sleep when there’s company,” Angrod agrees. “Especially since everyone’s come all this way to see her.”
“Gal, you try to wake her.”
“Yeah, she’ll listen to you.”
“But she’s tired,” Galadriel argues, backing away from the bed.
“Everyone was tired,” Aegnor says, his voice raising. “But we still woke up.”
“She’s just a kid,” Galadriel protests; her cheeks are wet. “Let her sleep.”
(Why is she crying?)
“Kids wake up all the time,” Angrod says, his face twisting, nasty. “Why is she so special? Why does she get to sleep when the rest of us are forced to WAKE – UP!”
Galadriel’s heel catches the wayward vodka bottle and she falls hard onto her back. Alcohol soaks through her skirt as she lays on the bedraggled carpet, gasping for air, the sound of her brother’s shout still ringing in her ears. There’s a pungent smell in the room, beneath the rot and ruin and alcohol – something foul and mechanical; dirty, like a gas station…
“Lose your footing again, Galadriel?” She blinks; the sun is shining in her eyes, lovely and warm. “It was just a little tumble, is all.” Finrod pulls her up and wipes the tears from her eyes, chuckling, “on your feet now.”
(Why is she crying?)
The gardens surrounding the Noldor Estate are in full bloom; as far as the eye can see, the land is a wash of crocuses and hyacinths, primroses and forget-me-nots, irises and hellebores – more flowers than Galadriel could name in a lifetime.
Finrod hands her back her watering can as they meander through the carefully cultivated rows. “Now that it’s just the two of us, why don’t you tell me what’s been troubling you?”
“Nothing – I’m fine.” She keeps her eyes cast downward as she waters the flowers, careful not to drown any of the delicate blooms.
“You don’t seem fine, Gal,” Finrod says. “You know, ever since I moved back home, I’ve been so worried about you – all alone in that big, cold city.”
“Endor’s not so bad,” Galadriel says, moving to water the next row of flowers farther down the hill.
“It’s just so dark there,” Finrod says, following at her heels. “Aren’t you tired of all that darkness, Gal? All that cold?”
She shrugs, tips the watering can over further, making sure each flower is properly doused. “Sure, but I mean, what’s the alternative – move back here?”
“Would that be so terrible?” Finrod asks, gently. “I mean, this is where your family is. And look at this place,” he spreads his arms, framing the picturesque summer landscape between his hands, “could you really ask for anything more?”
Galadriel feels dizzy; her eyes won’t focus on Finrod’s hands. There’s a new watering can in her grasp – she moves down the hill, flinging the contents haphazardly on the ground as she goes.
“Galadriel, are you even seeing what I’m trying to show you?” Finrod sounds hurt. “Turn around and look.”
(“Don’t look, Galadriel. Face forward, whatever you do – don’t look.”)
“Galadriel.” Thunder rolls down the hills as the sun flashes briefly in her eyes; Finrod’s voice slams into her like a car door. “Galadriel, turn around and look at me.”
She can’t stop crying; her hands are shaking. Her vision flickers. She’s outside in the sun with Finrod; she’s in the drawing room with her parents – the lights are dim and there’s laughter all around; she’s in the husk of her home, surrounded by shadows and the smell of gasoline.
“N-no,” she gasps, “no, I-I don’t think I should…”
“Galadriel – look at me!”
(Galadriel, Galadriel, Galadriel – her name seems to echo on the wind.)
Finrod scoffs. “You won’t even look at me, but you’ll smoke in Mother’s garden? Real classy, Gal. Why are you always so much goddamned trouble?”
There’s a cigarette between her lips, a lighter in her hand. Yes – yes, this is what she needs, this will calm her down. Her head’s a mess, the dizziness morphing into a pounding…it’s nicotine withdrawal. Of course, she hasn’t smoked since she left the city.
Galadriel holds up the lighter and strikes the wheel with her thumb once, twice, three times. A small fire flares to life in her hand.
- - -
The flame gutters out immediately as the lighter goes flying from her grip. An arm wraps around her waist, yanking her back against a warm body. She smells sandalwood and amber, cigarette smoke and sweat.
Her family is calling for her, their voices hissing like a boiling kettle. Someone is yelling her name next to her ear. Galadriel struggles against it, fighting to get back to her parents, to Aegnor and Angrod, to Finrod –
“ – Look at me!”
Hands grasp her face, rough and calloused. Tears are blurring her vision, but she can just make out the hazel of his eyes, the scruff of his beard, the onyx flashing from his ear.
Halbrand.
The scent of gasoline and lighter fluid makes her head spin. She looks down and sees the watering cans at her feet – red and yellow; hazardous. Flammable. The lighter has skidded along the floor and lies innocently in an oily puddle.
The betrayal hits her all at once, the hidden daggers revealing themselves behind this illusion of familial love.
The kettle is boiling louder, the steam rising into a piercing whistle, into a scream – terrible, unending, unbroken, and Galadriel realizes the sound is coming from her; she can’t stop screaming. Her heart is shattering, wave after wave, upon her tongue. She clings to Halbrand as he sweeps her into his arms, shrieking as he grabs her purse and rushes with her from the house. Misery and fear rip at her throat, making her choke, making her gag.
“Galadriel – Galadriel stop it – hold still – Would you just – ouch – watch it! – Stop fucking fighting me – ”
She’s sitting in the bed of a truck, the night sky wide open overhead. Halbrand stands between her legs, one hand gripping her hip tight enough to bruise, the other cupping her face. She’s gasping for air, trying to silence the screams that still ripple in her chest, threatening to unmoor her and send her careening into the night.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, stroking her hair, “deep breaths…it’s alright, it’s alright… shh – ”
“They won’t let me go.” She’s rambling, clenching Halbrand’s shirt in her sweat-soaked palms. “They won’t let me go, they won’t let me go, they won’t let me go – ”
“Galadriel, it’s over – it’s over …there you go, darling…I’ve got you…I’m here, you’re safe – you’re safe, I’ve got you – ”
“Y-you’ve got me?” The sudden realization casts a light through the fog of hysteria clouding her thoughts, sharp and bright. “You…you pulled me back. How did you…?”
She is shaking like a leaf, so cold it hurts. The edges of her body begin to crumble, fading into the night as darkness bleeds across her vision.
“Galadriel? Galadriel!” Halbrand threads his fingers through her hair and tugs sharply; the sudden snap of pain helps ground her in her body, keeps her from flying away.
“I told you, darling,” he pants; his eyes are round and wild, the whites shining in the moonlight. “I don’t share.”
The shock of his crassness sends her rearing back from his arms, the fear crystallizing into something harder, something sharper. “You – fucking – prick!” She snarls, her palms smacking against his chest. “You absolute asshole!”
Halbrand grunts as she slaps him, his smile is a twisted sickle as he encourages her outrage. “That’s it – oof – good girl – there you go – mhm – that’s my girl, let it all out – ”
She is being flayed alive by the electricity crackling under her skin, mercury and malice sputtering through her teeth. “I fucking hate you.” Her fingers wrap around the chain on his throat as she pulls him sharply against her, gasping into his mouth, “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.”
“Of course you do.” Halbrand’s laughter fractures into a moan against her tongue, a hand tightening on the back of her neck to disguise the way it trembles. He sighs against her lips, “of course you do, darling; just as I hate you.”
They break against each other like rocks through glass, claiming each other roughly, desperately. He brands himself into her skin, his teeth sinking into the softest parts of her, his fingers weaving the fraying ends of her back together.
She grinds against him, whimpering at the feel of his hard cock straining through his pants. His body is iron and oak and she tethers herself to him greedily; wraps her legs around his hips like a vine, plants her hands beneath his shirt, waters the ache in her chest with the breath from his lips.
His voice chokes as he slips his hand between her thighs, finding her wet, finding her hot, finding her achingly empty.
“Halbrand.” She tears at his shirt, plucks at his belt. “I need – I need – ”
“Don’t worry, Galadriel,” he growls, pressing her down, pushing her deeper into the bed of the truck. “I know exactly what you need.”
The neckline of her dress rips through his fist and she whimpers his name as the heat of his mouth envelopes the pebbled flesh of her breast. He worries the rosy peak between his teeth, his tongue curling wickedly. She thrashes beneath him when he switches to her other breast, her hands buried in his hair and gripping tight.
Her chest is heaving, flushed and wet, by the time he pulls down her underwear in one swift tug. He holds her gaze as he brings the wet fabric to his face, breathing in her scent like an animal.
“Mine.” It is a threat; she can feel it sizzling through her core as he stuffs the ruined underwear into his pockets.
“Mine.” It is a promise, soft as the click of his belt as he frees himself.
“Mine.” It is a reward as he thrusts into her, one she echoes as the weight of his body sends the air from her lungs in a strangled gasp.
Galadriel anchors herself against Halbrand as he fucks her with a single-minded intensity. Her teeth latching to his neck, nails scraping his back raw, she paints her possession of him in a landscape of bruises and broken skin, making him hiss and groan.
“Say it,” he urges, the hard snap of his hips dragging mindless whimpers from her throat.
But she can’t speak; her lips close around his ear instead, the onyx gem clattering against her teeth as she bites. The sound he makes is loud as a roar, needy as a moan.
“Galadriel,” he whines; the heel of his palm presses under her belly, fingers stroking her clit. “Say it.”
“Yours – hn – Halbrand, yours, fuck all – yours–oh – ”
She comes like a wave, pleasure slamming through her and dragging air from her lungs in pleas that taste like his name. She is flooded, floating, drifting away on the raging currents of his body as he presses a final, pained cry into her mouth, his release pulsing inside of her like a heartbeat.
Galadriel holds him tight against her as they shiver together in aftershocks, her lips tracing the salt on his brow, the flush on his cheeks. There are tears dotting her eyelashes as she whispers, “stay with me?”
“As if I could keep you away if I tried.” Halbrand presses the promise against her jaw. “Yes, Galadriel, I’ll stay."
She is comfortably pliant as Halbrand adjusts them, laying out on his back and gathering her against him. The feeling of him, so very much alive in her arms – his body warm to the touch, his chest rising and falling with each breath – shields her from the night. And with his heart thumping steadily beneath her ear, Galadriel closes her eyes, allowing herself to trust that she is safe from the ghosts waiting just beyond the low walls of the truck bed.
(For the moment, that is.)
- - -
There are faces pressed into the windows of the house. In the predawn darkness, they could almost be mistaken for frost, but Galadriel knows better.
Halbrand finds her standing just beyond the reaches of her home, smoking a cigarette as she contemplates the memories of her family trapped inside. The front door remains open, a gaping hole that beckons her in. If she squints, she can just make out the shimmering edges of Finrod leaning against the shadowy walls, watching. Waiting.
“You stole my jacket. Again.”
Galadriel shivers as Halbrand wraps his arms around her and presses his cold nose into her neck.
“And you ripped my dress,” she says, “so let’s call it square.”
He huffs a laugh and accepts the cigarette she offers. The sky is just beginning to turn gray, giving the shadows on the lawn a strange, surreal dimension as the wind lifts around them.
Propping his head on her shoulder, Halbrand follows Galadriel’s gaze to the house as he smokes.
“What do you see?” She asks, gripping the arms around her waist. “In the windows – in the doorway. Do you see anything?”
“Just darkness.” He passes back the cigarette. “Are they in there?”
She points to the windows, naming each family member in turn, “My mother, my father, my brother Angrod, my brother Aegnor, and…” Finrod glares from just beyond the door.
“Do you think it would make much of a difference if I said I was sorry for it all?” Halbrand asks after a moment. “For my part in it?”
“No, I don’t think it would.” Galadriel unwinds herself from Halbrand’s arms, hands him the cigarette and takes a step closer to her home. The door creaks open as Finrod pulls it wide, inviting her in.
Galadriel turns when she hears the sharp intake of Halbrand’s breath; his eyes are wide, locked on the door. He looks between her and the darkness within the home, unsettled.
“Galadriel…?”
“It’s in the past, Halbrand.”
She digs a new cigarette and the lighter from Halbrand’s jacket as takes another step forward, frosted dew crunching beneath her feet. Her brother’s mouth twists in disapproval as she lights it.
“And our pasts mean nothing when weighed against our future,” she says, taking a deep drag.
The nicotine is a balm in her lungs as she holds Finrod’s glare, oozing sweetly through her body as she flicks the lit cigarette through the open door. The burning ember soars through the air and lands at his feet in the oily puddle of gasoline that trails further inside.
Finrod disappears in a burst of light as flames roar to life.
Fire spreads quickly along the innards of the house, greedily devouring everything in its path; the tiles, the carpets, the piano. Galadriel imagines the walls lined with photographs, imagines the glass exploding, their paper edges curling and blackening in the heat. She thinks of the rotted art, melting in their rusted frames; the furniture beneath the white sheets warping and shattering as they burn.
The thoughts fill her with joy – a sort of golden-hour euphoria.
Halbrand pulls her back a safe distance as dawn breaks violently over the Noldor Estate. Galadriel grabs his hand and grips it tight as the flames reach the windows. The faces there do not scream, do not cry – show no twitch of anger or sadness. She makes herself meet their eyes, one by one, as they are consumed in light; her mother, her father, Angrod and Aegnor.
As the sun begins to rise, the memories of the late, great Noldor family burn away into nothing, their legacy little more than a great, black blanket of smoke, the ashy tendrils unweaving as they stretch into the sky. Galadriel smiles as something frozen inside of her shivers and thaws, crumbling to ash and spreading itself away on the wind as the fire rages on.
Halbrand kisses her temple when she finally suggests they should get going. “We shouldn’t be here when the cops arrive,” she says with a shrug. “I do have a rap sheet now, thanks to you.”
“Darling, you were always going to end up on the wrong side of the law, sooner or later.” He catches her by the wrist as she turns to leave, the gold of his eyes molten as they reflect the flames. “Because you, Galadriel Noldor, have always been – and will always be – trouble.” He whispers the last word against her lips in wonder, in fascination, in awe. “Wonderful, beautiful trouble.”