Chapter Text
But the wind has picked us up now, we're hanging in the air.
And as you grip me like an animal that you're about to spear,
"Be good to me," I whisper,
and you say, "What?" and I say, "Nothing, dear."
- Unwanted Animal, The Amazing Devil
- - -
Before Celeborn died, Galadriel had not been afraid of the dark.
No, no, not died; died is the wrong word. Died implies finality. Died means a body, one you can touch – feel how cold it has grown, press your ear against and hear the absence of a heartbeat. Hold against your chest one last time before locking it away in the ground, forever.
She wishes Celeborn had died. It would be kinder if he had, and Celeborn had always been kind. How appropriate that his one cruelty will be the thing to haunt her, forever.
Celeborn had not died. Instead, he had kissed her forehead – her nose, her lips – and smiled, his blue eyes crinkling in the mid-morning light, and said, I love you, I’ll call when I’m on base, and promised to be safe. Celeborn had not died; instead, he had called her – hundreds of times, in fact. I love you, I miss you, I’ll be home soon.
Except one day, the calls stop – abruptly. And then, Galadriel receives a knock on her front door instead of a ring on her phone. She receives two, formally dressed officials in her doorway instead of a husband. She receives a, Mrs. Noldor, may we come in? and a, we’re so sorry, and a, is there someone we can call?
But she never receives a body. Celeborn had not died – he had vanished in a cloud of fire and smoke.
("Then how can you be sure he’s gone?" She had screamed. “How can you be so sure? How can you be so sure?”)
Everyone talks about the cruelty of war; the death and destruction, the mindless loss. No one mentions its greed. How it will take – and take, and take, and take – and give back nothing. Not certainty, not finality. Not even a body bury.
She buries an empty casket instead. It feels absurd, a pantomimed ritual. She stands above a mound of tilled earth, planting a hollow seed in the ground, while those around her water it with salted tears. Ancient armies used to consecrate victories by salting their enemies’ lands, ruining any hope of recovery.
Nothing can grow here now, she realizes. It was not enough to simply kill; battle demands scars, mockeries left for future generations so that they may never forget their reasons to mourn.
The sun is warm and the sky is blue. Death should be made of grayer weather. She can barely hear herself think over the sound of sniffling tears. Someone reaches for her hand and the moisture of their flesh against her cold skin is an insult.
She walks away before the graveside service is complete. If there are those in attendance hoping for a scene, they get their wish – if they were smart enough to recognize it. For when Galadriel Noldor falls apart, she does not scream and wail, beat her breast and curse the sky.
No, when Galadriel falls apart, she implodes.
- - -
Before Celeborn died, Galadriel had not been afraid of the dark. But then she buries an empty casket, and suddenly, for the first time in ages, ghosts seem very real again.
The first time she dreams of Celeborn, she nearly burns the apartment down. Summers are hot and power grids are fragile – blackouts blanketing the city are a common enough nuisance. But that night, Galadriel awakes to the sound of her husband’s voice, so close to her ear she can still feel its reverberations against her cheek.
She lights every candle she has – tapers, votives, birthday candles, scented three-wicks, Halloween candelabras, decorative wax figurines – searching the dark corners of their home for him. And when he does not appear, she lights the gas burners on the stove as well.
(“It was an accident,” Elrond later explains to the fire marshal; he was the only one who picked up her call at four in the morning. “She’s not normally like this – her husband just died.”)
(It seems even would-be arsonists get a pass for grief.)
She avoids the dark corners of her home after that. If Celeborn’s ghost is lingering, hiding in the shadows instead of moving on, she does not want to know – she will not survive burying him twice.
Everyone expects her to sell their city apartment in Endor and move back home to the country. The idea makes her want to shriek – as if Valinor isn’t filled with as many ghosts as the city. As if Mother and Father – and Finrod, and Angrod, and Aegnor – aren’t slowly decomposing in the family plot at the edge of the estate, frozen in time in the many photographs and portraits that line the halls.
(As if she hasn’t seen them through fluttering lace curtains and half-fogged mirrors – silent, sad and watching, disappearing the moment she turns around.)
At least here, darkness never truly settles; streetlights and neon signs, flashing billboards and headlights. Here, she can watch the night sky through open blinds as she staves off sleep; watch it fade through countless shades of bruised purple before softening to dove gray with the rising sun.
(Endor is the city that never sleeps, which means the ghosts never wake.)
Everyone expects her to handle her grief with the poise and grace of a woman of Valinor. But Galadriel soon learns this is an expectation she will always fail to meet. They want her to talk about her feelings, but not with them; to grieve, but not too much; to move on, but not too soon or too easily. No matter which road she takes, her grief makes everyone uncomfortable. She is a living ghost, the flesh-and-blood specter who walks among the living. Her very presence reminds them to hold tight to their loved ones because Death could snatch them away at any moment.
And through it all, life moves on.
(Unwillingly.)
Galadriel buries an empty casket, but she begins to wonder whether it would have been better to lay herself to rest in that mahogany shell instead. She sometimes forgets that she is not the one who died; some days, she wakes up and is surprised to discover that the body her mind inhabits hasn’t faded away. She is so cold all the time now. Her body barely feels real. She is a woman frozen in time; grief becomes a solid chunk of ice beneath her chest, icy branches wrapping around her sternum, her throat.
She tries – she really tries. She smiles when she ought to and tries to cry when she feels others are expecting it. But it’s as if she no longer fits with her friends, as if her carefully concealed edges are too jagged for their comfort. Interactions feel pained, forced. Her face begins to ache from the tightness of her fake smile.
She throws herself into work instead. She washes her face and brushes her hair, slips on sensible heels and rides the subway to the office. She neither arrives too early nor stays too late; she signs birthday cards passed by her desk and chips in for the holiday party.
And every night, Galadriel walks into her empty apartment, carefully slips off her sensible heels and turns on every light from the doorway to the bedroom. She sits atop her perfectly made bed, holds a pillow to her mouth, and screams. She screams and screams and screams until her lungs beg for air, until her throat burns. She screams until she can feel the fissures begin to crack within her frozen chest.
(She barely feels it. But it’s better than nothing.)
There comes a day when the devil’s arithmetic catches Galadriel by surprise. She is riding the subway on her way home, thumbing through the calendar on her phone, when the date catches her eye. She is so focused on doing the math she misses her stop. She walks the extra blocks home instead of doubling back for the correct station, needing the feel of the wind on her face to clear her muddled head.
Celeborn has been gone for two years – she’d commemorated his death date only a few weeks before. But their wedding anniversary had come and gone with no such fanfare, nothing special to mark the day.
(Nothing to note the day she’d officially been a widow longer than she ever was a wife).
Galadriel flicks on the light in her apartment and leans against the closed door. Darkness presses in beyond the cocoon cast by the single fluorescent buzzing above her head. She is tired – body, mind and soul. That’s what she tells herself when she senses the shadows flutter, senses them raise their head in recognition, hears her name like a hum of electricity through the air.
She does not turn on the rest of the lights in her apartment; she does not want to be proven wrong. Instead, she fishes her wallet and her keys out of her work bag, grabs her purse from the coat rack by the door, turns and heads back out into the night.
- - -
Galadriel awakes disoriented in the glaring mid-morning sunlight, dry-mouthed and wretched. It takes her a moment to realize her discomfort is in large part due to the number of blankets piled on top of her. She tries to kick them off and gasps as pain lances down her ankle. She takes more care, unfolding herself from blankets and the linens, until she is propped against the headboard, panting.
There is a jacket draped over her shoulders, dwarfing her frame like a child playing dress-up. It smells of man – she’s forgotten how much she missed the scent. The realization jars through her, suddenly. Celeborn had always smelled like vetiver and clean water, not like this jacket; sandalwood and amber, cigarette smoke and sweat.
(She does not deny herself this one comfort, almost dreamlike. She buries her nose into the collar and breathes deeply.)
She runs her fingers along the finely woven charcoal sleeves, the lining – silk, expensive – toys with the black buttons, shiny and hard as scarab shells. She tries to piece together the memories of last night into the image of the jacket’s owner. But her memories are hazy; flashing lights, pulsing music, the comforting burn of whiskey, the sensation of falling.
Shifting the blankets further down her legs, she sees bruises darkening her bare knees, feels a twinge of soreness in her knuckles. Her ankle has been wrapped with care – moves, stiffly and not without complaint. Twisted then, likely a victim to high heels and spilled drinks.
She pauses, her fingers brushing up against something in the jacket’s pockets. A business card, unremarkable – cream-colored cardstock, lightly embossed with black ink. Strange – it does not have a name. Just a peculiar symbol Galadriel could swear she’s seen before.
Turning the card over, her stomach drops as she reads the words inscribed on the back: Mordor.
- - -
Somewhere between tipsy and black-out drunk, Galadriel finds her bliss.
She had to travel to the other side of the city to find a bar like this; a bar that promised bad choices and even worse liquor.
(Not her normal scene, but then again, tonight, Galadriel is not her normal self.)
The air in the club is close and hot, smelling of sweat and the tight press of bodies. The music thrums through her body like a second heartbeat. Lights – multi-colored and bright white – shoot through the darkness at odd intervals, pulsing in beat with the sound.
She has no thoughts amid the crowd, no buried past nor listless future; she is just a body, one of hundreds. It is a sea she could happily lose herself in. And with a whiskey in her hand and a spirited concoction flowing through her veins, she tips her head back and welcomes the drowning.
“Hey ! Watch it!”
Tipped too far – straight into a stranger behind her. In the flashing darkness of the club, accidents are too easy to misread as deliberate acts. Before she can move, hands pull her in, hauling her against a liquor-softened chest, grabbing at her waist.
“‘S’ok, sweetheart.” The crooning voice smells so strongly it's nearly flammable. “If you wanna dance, all y’had to do was ask.”
She’s not in an asking mood. Instead, Galadriel wraps her arms around the man’s neck, lets him pull her through the swelling, dipping tides of dance. His cologne is abrasive, his voice near her ear buzzing – she forgets his name almost immediately, content to nod along with whatever he says, so long as he keeps her head above water as she drifts in the currents.
Her silence makes him bold and his hands begin to wander. She squirms uncomfortably, bats his arms – “Stop - stop - stop.”
His mouth is on her jaw, rum-wet and cloying. She pushes at his chest, pulls against his hold, but he mutters something soothingly, grabs a handful of her ass and squeezes. Galadriel lets his crassness infect her like a wolf bite, lets it raise her hackles and loosen her claws. She may be smaller, but she has a sharper right hook.
(And sharper nails.)
The man howls in pain, doubling over as she breaks free. She has just enough wherewithal to stumble to the side as the man drunkenly advances on her – hollering, “Come back here y’stupid bitch!” – before she trips and goes sprawling to the ground.
Lights burst in front of her eyes as her head collides with the floor. Like coming up from underwater, Galadriel blinks up at the darkness and the flashing lights, her head swimming violently as she tries to orient herself. Something cold and wet seeps through her side while her leg tingles painfully. Her mouth tastes of blood.
Someone – a bouncer, perhaps – is shaking her shoulder, pulling at her arms, trying to get her to stand. She tries to tell them about her leg but her voice is carried away in the din of the club. It’s only when uncaring feet trip over her sprawled form that her voice pitches high enough to be heard, a shriek tearing from her throat.
Suddenly, there are hands under her, sweeping her into the air. A voice, warm and soft, so at odds with the rough way it rounds the vowels, murmurs in her ear, “Hold on, darling, I’ve got you.”
She is weightless as the world spins around her. “There you go, easy does it, easy – I’ve got you – don’t worry, I won’t let you fall.” A gentle laugh as she’s set on the ground. “Now, what seems to be the problem here, my friends?”
The drunken man sways to a stop. “N-no problem,” he says; in the flashing lights above them, Galadriel watches his face pale. “Just a dis’greement, is all – sir.”
“I think it best you go get some air, then.” The man continues to hold her steady; she can feel his voice rumble through her back. “Clear your head. Wouldn’t want to cause a scene over a… disagreement.”
The man nods and Galadriel watches as two men from the crowd of club-goers peel off to escort him towards the door. She is happy to slink away from the scene, lose herself again in the crush of bodies, but the hand on her shoulder drops to her wrist.
“Not you. Let’s you and I have a little talk first, yeah?”
Galadriel turns and blinks heavily up at the man, trying to center herself on what she sees before her; a plain gold chain against a crisp black shirt, the buttons undone at the throat, sweat glistening in the hollow there. His face is shadowed, but she can just make out the shine of his eyes.
“Think you can walk?”
“‘M fine.”
She tries to disentangle herself, back away, but she wobbles on her loose ankle, dangerously far. The hands are there again – hot through the flimsy silk of her work blouse, steady as an anchor in a storm.
Instantly, she is back in the air. Were she in her right mind, Galadriel would’ve had a thing or two to say about being so manhandled. But she’s not in her mind tonight, she’s only in her body; a body that is warm, for once, from the combination of rail liquor and the thrill of a fight; from the stranger holding her to his chest, from the shivery jolts of pain shooting up from her ankle.
(And from the prickling embarrassment of being bridal carried through a club.)
She clings to the lapels of his jacket and buries her face between her fists, praying to any god who gives a damn to not get sick.
- - -
“The Southlands!?”
“Míriel, please keep your voice down.” Galadriel hunches over her mug of black coffee, glaring balefully at her friend.
“Sorry, I am just having trouble processing the depths of your absolute lunacy.” To her credit, Míriel spares a passing glance to the patrons of the coffee shop around them before pitching her voice lower. “I mean, my god, Galadriel, there are bars in Lindon – hell, there are clubs here in Númenor – if you were looking to get fucked up. What could have possibly possessed you to go to the Southlands by yourself?"
The thought had passed Galadriel’s mind last night as she had stepped out of her building into the early-evening foot traffic. The borough of Lindon was home to some of the best and most exclusive clubs in the city – she could gain easy access to each and every one of them through a single utterance of Noldor. Even Míriel’s neighborhood of Númenor was rising in popularity again with trendy, eclectic establishments that were almost always featured on page-three news.
But she hadn’t wanted perfectly chilled high balls and sazeracs served in crystal cups; no, Galadriel had wanted rail bourbon and cheap beer – alcohol so coarse it burned going down and coming up. She had wanted smoke in her hair and sweat stains on her blouse – and most importantly, she had wanted it where no one would know her name. And the Southlands was the only borough in this whole city that could offer that.
But she can’t tell that to Míriel. Sensible, level-headed Míriel, who unironically uses phrases about, “leaning in,” and “all work and no play.” Míriel, who clawed her way through the glass ceiling and would be damned if anyone ever forgot it.
(Míriel, who has only ever wanted to be seen, would know nothing about Galadriel’s desperation to disappear.)
So Galadriel only shrugs and sips at her overpriced coffee, muttering something noncommittally about not being in her right mind.
“And of all the clubs–! I mean, Mordor, Galadriel, of all places!” Míriel hisses, far from finished. “If Finrod were here right now–!”
“Don’t.”
Galadriel stares into her coffee, watching a dust mote float along the surface. “He never proved the connection between the warehouse and the mob, anyways,” she mumbles. “Who’s to say this club’s the same place?”
“Galadriel.” Exasperated, chiding.
“Fine! But for all we know, it was just another business that was forced to pay tribute to Morgoth – same as half the southside.”
(In the darkened corner, the spectral head looks on, mournfully. If Galadriel raises her eyes, she would behold its sad disappointment.)
“At least you made it out in one piece,” Míriel says, brusquely. “And you’re not going back.”
Galadriel sips her coffee.
“Right?”
“What am I supposed to do about the jacket, then?”
“Burn it,” Míriel says, immediately. “No, I’m serious – get rid of that damn thing. Nothing good has ever come from messing with the Southlands. There’s more than just skeletons buried in those closets."
(Galadriel has no skeletons in her closets, but she does have ghosts. She wonders if it’s easier to keep skeletons buried.)
“Galadriel, for once in your life, do the smart thing and leave well enough alone.”
(She doesn’t say this to Míriel, though.)
(Míriel wouldn’t understand.)
- - -
Galadriel does not hear the words the man says as he carries her away from the crowd, nor who he says them to, but suddenly they pass through a door and the noise of the club deafens to a low buzz.
“Careful now – there you go.” She jostles her ankle as he sets her on the couch as she groans in pain. “Let’s get some ice for this, alright? Stay awake for me, darling – eyes open, pet – there you go. Let’s focus on one problem at a time.”
It’s cold back here compared to the hot humidity of the dance floor. Her white blouse is soaked through; she shivers violently under the crisp, cold air vents.
The man curses softly and shucks off his suit jacket. “Here, put this on – go on take it, it won’t bite. There, that’s better, isn’t it?”
Someone enters, bringing in a bucket of ice and a towel. When they leave, the light from the hallway is cut off and the room fades just on the edge of too dark. Seated on an ottoman at her feet, the stranger is still tall, his shoulders broad. Galadriel grips the jacket around her tightly and keeps her sight trained on him, afraid to let her eyes wander to the darkened corners of the room and spot the ghosts that may be hiding there.
“Now, why don’t you tell me what happened?” The man gingerly sets her foot on his lap, gently sliding off her heel. He runs a calloused finger along the swelling tendon of her ankle, soft as snow.
Galadriel shrugs, the movement nearly upsetting her carefully balanced equilibrium. “I was just having a good time. You should be interrogating that bastard – he’s the one who got handsy.”
“Having a good time,” the man repeats. “Well, Miss…?
“Noldor – Galadriel Noldor.”
“Miss Noldor.” His hands still, but the smile he gives her is charming, crinkling crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. “While I appreciate that in your line of business, negotiations can become quite…heated…I must apologize; we don’t normally allow things to get that far here. You can rest assured there will be consequences for that bastard – as you put it – for his actions tonight.”
She hisses as he presses the towel-wrapped ice against her skin.
“However, I will have to insist you find another venue to, er, have a good time at this week.” He stands and walks to his desk, unearthing a first aid kit from the bottom drawer. “We already have a few girls on contract, and I’m afraid we don’t usually bring on newbies without vetting them first.”
Galadriel watches him fish out a cigarette from a pack on the desk and light it. She hasn’t smoked in over a decade, not since she met Celeborn.
(“Who wants to taste like ash and smoke?” Celeborn had laughed, so obviously disgusted. And Galadriel had been besotted, too embarrassed to admit how her body craved the burn of fire in her throat.)
(She keeps her eyes forward, away from the ghosts sitting in judgment.)
Now, her mouth waters from the smell and it takes her a moment longer to process what he is saying. “Hang on.”
“I can cover a night’s losses.” The cigarette bobs in his mouth as he pulls a wad of cash from his back pocket – more money than she’s ever seen one person keep on them. The bills he places on the desk before him are crisp, hardly bent. “That should be enough, I think.”
“I am not a whore.”
He pauses and meets her gaze, amused. “No?” His eyes – hazel in the dim lights – grow dark. “Would you like to be?”
The humiliation crashes through her, chasing away some of the softer edges of the liquor. She pulls herself to stand sharply, only for her ankle to roll under her once more.
“Easy now, easy. Sit on back – there you go, good girl – no need to get upset; it was a fair question.”
“Do I look like a woman who sells herself for money?”
“You don’t have the look of someone to whom things happen by accident.” His hand is on her leg again, guiding it back to his lap; gold rings shimmer on his fingers as he unwinds a length of gauze and gently begins to wrap her ankle. “Beautiful girl like you – tailored suit, expensive earrings – on the wrong side of town, ordering top-shelf whiskey and dancing all alone…” Cigarette smoke wafts in tendrils between them. “It’s one of the oldest tricks in the book, isn’t it? Getting your boss on her knees, giving an overbearing office bitch what she deserves – is that the fantasy you’re trying to sell here, Miss Noldor?”
“That’s so…” Galadriel struggles to find the words. “Cruel.”
He shrugs. “Life is cruel, and that makes men scared.” She watches him finish with the wrappings, his movements quick, precise – practiced; no stranger to injuries, then. “And men who are ruled by fear can do terribly cruel things – unless you give them a means of mastering it; an illusion. A fantasy.”
Galadriel scoffs; he chuckles.
“Don’t believe me?” There’s honey in his voice and embers in his eyes; Galadriel feels something riotous within her stir under his assessment. “What do you fear, Miss Noldor?”
She cannot look away from the shifting hazel of his eyes – dares not look to see what ghostly images watch her from beyond the shadows.
(“Galadriel, Galadriel, Galadriel.” Whispers in the dark, half-seen movements out of the corner of her eye. The dead plucking at her from beyond the veil, strumming her lifeline with incorporeal fingers, entreating her to follow them, at last.)
“Just as I thought.” His fingers trace the skin of her calf, just above the wrappings, his smirk too-knowing, as if he can see the panic rearing inside her head. “I wouldn’t be so quick to sit in judgment; not all of us can simply drink our cares away.”
“But evidently you can fuck them away.” The words slip out unintended. But once said, Galadriel makes no effort to retract them.
“Never know until you try.” The man’s face is intent, inscrutable.
Galadriel’s breath catches in her frozen chest – catches as something begins to shiver with the promise of thaw. “Are we done here? I’d like to go.” She jerks her leg from his grasp, takes off her other shoe and stands too fast, swaying ever so slightly.
“Yes – I think that’s for the best.”
“To the bar,” she clarifies.
“Out of the question; I’m afraid you’ve overstayed your welcome here. Now, if you’d like me to call you a ride home – ”
(She thinks of home, of the big, empty apartment with not enough light and too many darkened nooks and crannies. She thinks of her husband’s shirts still neatly hung up in the closet, the fabric cold to the touch but still carrying the faint whiff of his cologne. She thinks of her bed, how cold it is now with one side permanently tucked in.)
“Fine, not the bar, then. I could stay here.”
(And she is so tired of being so very, very cold).
The man appraises her, mouth drawn. “You’re drunk.”
“What does it matter?”
His mouth twists, more sneer than smile. “And here I thought you weren’t a whore.”
“If you call me that one more time , I’ll–”
“What, hit me too?” He stands abruptly, and without her heels, he looms over her; she has to crane her neck up to meet his eyes. “How many enemies do you plan on making tonight, Miss Noldor?”
“Depends – are you going to let me stay?”
The hands that had been so gentle on her ankle are now hard as iron on her arms. “Let me spell it out for you, since you insist on maintaining this beguiling ignorance,” he snarls. “This is not Lindon, this is not Eregion – this is not a neighborhood for the spoiled and the soft. You were lucky tonight, but that is because I saw fit to keep it that way. If I catch you in the Southlands again, you will find how quickly that luck can run out. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
“Fuck you.”
His face is thunder-dark as he shoves her back onto the couch, as he leans over, bracketing her head with his hands against the seatback. “I am going to call for a car now – which you will take home. And after that, I sincerely hope we never run into each other again – for your sake.”
She is stunned into silence, her heartbeat fluttering wildly under her tongue.
He stands, smooths back his hair, and just before he reaches the door, he bows low, mockingly. “And one last thing, Miss Noldor – do try not to make any new enemies.”
- - -
Before Celeborn died, Galadriel had not been afraid of the dark.
Before Celeborn died, Galadriel had not been so fucking cold all the time.
Before Celeborn died, Galadriel had not been a lot of things.
Galadriel brushes her hair and washes her face. She buys an ankle brace from the drugstore and a pack of nightlights for good measure. She wears sensible flats to work and meets Míriel for a midweek lunch. And every night, she walks into her empty apartment, carefully slips off her sensible flats and turns on every light from the doorway to the bedroom.
What she doesn’t do is this:
She doesn’t pad around her empty apartment wearing the Southlands jacket over a sports bra like a robe, reveling in the soft slide of silk against her bare arms. She doesn’t close her eyes and press her face into the cuffs, breathing in the fading scent of smoke. She doesn’t allow idle hands to trace from ankle to thigh, imagining larger hands that soothed and sparked, a rolling accent that teased and taunted.
(What she does do is lie to herself – she does it very well.)
Her wedding band is tucked safely away in an antique jewelry box at the back of her closet. It takes her two glasses of red wine – and a third in hand, just for good measure – to pluck up the courage to bring it out for the first time in two years. She tries to slide it back into its rightful place, but it sticks around her knuckle. How quickly the flesh of her finger has filled in the divots left behind by marriage vows, expanding so they no longer fit. She marvels at this as she stains her lips a bloody merlot before tucking the ring away once more.
The next morning, the wedding band is sitting next to her alarm clock. Its platinum band is as shiny and perfect as the day Celeborn first slipped it onto her finger.
And that night, Galadriel is back at Mordor.
(She buried an empty casket, but she will not allow the emptiness to bury her.)
- - -
Galadriel is not adrift the second time she walks into Mordor; she is keenly aware of her heading.
She weaves in and out of the crowd, sipping a vodka-and-soda, never staying in one place for too long. She changes dance partners frequently, twirling out of loosened arms the moment they begin to tighten. Wearing the borrowed suit jacket over a shimmery silver cocktail number that’s more slip than dress, she’s just another party girl in the crowd; unremarkable, forgettable – a baited hook, daring her prey to come take a bite.
It doesn’t take long.
An arm snakes around her waist; a large hand, flat on her stomach, drawing her back against a warm body. She smells sandalwood and amber, cigarette smoke and sweat.
“Miss Noldor.” His mouth against her ear sends a fluttery shiver down the back of her neck. “Working tonight, are we? Ah, ah, ah – I don’t think so.” He tightens his hold as she tries to shift from his grasp, pulling her flush.
“Now – ” he sways ever so slightly to the tempo of the music, keeping up appearances, though she can feel the rigidity of his body pressed against her back, “ – I thought I had made it very clear what would happen – no, no – no need to cause a scene, darling, we’re just having a dance…yes, good girl, just like that – what would happen if I saw you in this neighborhood again.”
“What can I say, this place is just so charming, I couldn’t stay away.”
“As much as I admire you charging into danger like a colt in full gallop, I have to wonder if this is merely naivety or something decidedly more troublesome.”
“Such as?”
He takes the watery drink from her hand and downs it, smacking his lips as he hands the empty glass to a passing bottle girl.
“A death wish, perhaps.” Tangling his fingers in hers, he drapes himself further against her back as he curves her arm around his neck. “You wouldn’t be the first to walk in here looking to touch the darkness.” His palm glides across her elbow, the taut line of her torso, just skimming her breast. “My, what a lovely jacket you have on.” His breath warms her cheeks. “It suits you.”
Her mouth is dry and her legs are water, and he uses the cover of their feigned dance to steer them towards a quieter corner. But Galadriel has no intention of relinquishing control so easily. She swivels her hips to offset him, leans against his arms to pull them further into the mass of dancers. Their battle of wills grinds in time with the pulsing waves of music, their bodies rising and cresting together.
“I don’t care much for darkness,” she says, eventually.
“Odd choice, then – coming to a club like Mordor in search of light.” Mocking, patronizing.
She twists in his arms, finally face-to-face. “Wasn’t looking for that, either.”
Without her resistance, he easily leads them along the eddying stream of dancers, carrying them along the outer edges of the floor. He draws her behind one of the many support columns bracketing the dance floor, pressing her back against it, hidden from curious eyes.
“You don’t seem to appreciate the knife’s edge you’re walking here, Miss Noldor,” he hisses, “and my patience is quickly running thin.”
“I only came to return your jacket.” A red EXIT sign shines just beyond his shoulder – ironic since she has no desire to be anywhere but right here. “I don’t usually accept hand-outs from men before they’ve introduced themselves.”
“It was a gift.” His eyes flash and onyx twinkles from a stud in one of his ears; she catches herself wondering how it would feel if she captured it between her teeth.
She lifts her chin, her spine, elongating her body, daring him. “As much as I appreciate the thoughtful gesture, it was unnecessary. Take your jacket back and I’ll be on my way.”
“Careful, darling.” He toys with the shiny, black buttons on the cuffs. “You’re playing with fire.”
She wraps her fingers around his wrist, presses his palm between her hands, letting him feel the bone-deep chill of her skin.
(Galadriel could do with some fire.)
“Tell me your name.”
“Halbrand,” he offers after a moment’s pause. “Call me Halbrand.”
“Well, Halbrand.” She guides his hand to the buttons down the center. “Take your jacket back.”
He rubs a hand along the scruff of his jaw, weighing his obvious want against better sense. But he glances to either side, leans in close, and slowly, methodically, begins unbuttoning her. There are only three and he makes quick work of them; her breath is high and tight by the time the last button is slid from the eyelet. Her skin prickles as he tracks the way her dress shimmers with each quivering breath, feels the weight of his stare on her bare legs, her flushed chest.
“But you are beautiful.” His hand is almost reverent as it slides along the curve of her waist – not to hold her in place, but rather to test her resolve. “Too beautiful for a place like this.” She shivers as his thumb brushes under her breast.
He tips her face towards his, gently trailing his fingers down her waist, her hip, her thigh. “I don’t think you’re here to touch the darkness, Miss Noldor,” he breathes against her mouth. “I think you’re here to have the darkness touch you.” He skims the short hemline of her dress. “Now, not a sound out of you…can you do that for me, darling? – Yes? – Good girl.”
Her eyes flutter shut at the first pass of his hand against her, unable to bear the wicked intensity of his gaze. She can feel him watching every twitch of her face as his fingers push aside the thin fabric under her skirt, as his calloused fingers stroke the slick heat he finds there. He groans.
He is suddenly surrounding her, sinking through the brittle ice of her body, eliciting a rippling thaw. Heat in her belly – familiar and strange after so much time – winds like a ribbon through her core; tightening, burning brighter and brighter with every teasing caress. She bites her lips to cage in her whimpers.
He is everywhere, blocking out the club still churning around them – filling her mind, her cunt, drawing expert patterns through her tender flesh. The breath in her lungs begins to burn as she swallows her moans, rocking against him. She scratches her nails up his shoulders, pulling him into her deeper, harder.
A laugh rumbles through his chest; his mouth grazes her lips, her cheek. “God damn, you’re tight.” His teeth close about the delicate cartilage of her ear. “Northsiders don’t know what to do with a cunt like this, do they? How long has it been? – Shh, shh – quiet darling, quiet – remember? I know it feels good – yes , darling, so, so good – but we can’t let anyone see, alright? Or they’ll all want a bite – yes they will, darling, they’ll all want a piece of this pretty, wet cunt – but I don’t share.”
She shudders, igniting further by the flint in his voice. She can feel the ribbon begin to unravel, her body beginning to flutter with the tell-tale signs of her orgasm.
“That’s right, that’s right – fuck – you can come for me, Miss Noldor, can’t you? Yes, yes, you’re so close, darling – so fucking close – come for me – come – ”
“Sir?”
Instantly, Halbrand’s hand slams against her mouth as his fingers still, her body quivering on the edges of release. The breadth of Halbrand’s shoulders blocks her from seeing just who has the audacity to disturb them, but the frenzied pulse of her denial inspires madness; she wants to launch herself at the man, tear him to shreds with her nails. But she is transfixed on Halbrand’s fingers, unable to move; when she meets his gaze, she sees her own fire and fury mirrored in his blow-out pupils.
“This had better be very fucking important,” Halbrand snarls.
“Sir, I am so-sorry to interrupt, but it couldn’t wait.” The man stumbles over his words, embarrassed. “W-we found him trying to sneak in again, and, uh, you said if we didn’t tell you the moment we saw him again it’d be our heads so…”
“Where?”
“In the alley, sir.”
Galadriel whimpers as Halbrand roughly pulls his fingers from her cunt. He grasps her face between his hands, a tremble wracking his body. “Don’t you fucking move,” he growls, softly. “I will be back soon and I expect to find you right here, is that understood?”
She nods numbly, her mind still thoughtless and shivering with the dying embers of her orgasm. He presses a final “good girl” into her hairline before drawing away, following the other man into the shadows and out the exit door.
Galadriel grips the wooden column at her back with tight fists, her heartbeat threatening to send her careening to the floor.
(The exit door closes, shadows descending. She feels the weight of stares on her from the inky blackness – disapproval, disappointment.)
Galadriel closes her eyes and looses a shaky breath. “Fuck off,” she whispers between her teeth.