PART ONE:

THE DECEIT

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She had managed to hold herself together until she was back in the sanctuary of her room. But the moment she locked the door behind herself, the moment she allowed herself to think that finally she was safe, Galadriel turned to face the furniture and all of her pride crumbled. The once-indomitable Commander of the Northern Armies took one look at her bed and slapped a hand so hard over her mouth that it made her teeth click. She wasn't sure if her shaking palm was meant to hold back a sob or a rise of bile - perhaps both. She tried to tear her eyes away from the still-rumpled sheets, but couldn't. Her nose, as sharp and perceptive as her eyes, unwillingly picked up the lingering memory of what she had done, of what she had allowed. Memory plagued her as she slid down to the floor, her back pressed against the locked door, the details of the room distorting beneath the tears she tried not to shed. She pressed her other hand to her stomach and did her best not to be sick.

She had, quite literally, lain in bed with her enemy. No protestation of innocence could absolve her of the taint that now resided within her. It didn't matter that at the time, she hadn't at all suspected that he was anything more than an infuriating human man - a human man who woke things up inside of her that she had never, ever known existed. Things like passion, submission, and carnal, animal lust. She had spread her legs willingly and had allowed the Dark Lord himself to spill his seed within her. She had opened her mouth to his tongue, to his fingers, to his manhood, and she now knew why he had tasted like smoke and ash. She should have known that the scent that lingered around him from the day they met wasn't that of the forge, but of death. She should have known that the darkness in his eyes wasn't because of darkness in his soul, but because there was a total absence of a soul.

She should have known.

He'd spoken the truth to her at every turn, but only half of one at a time. He had spun his hints across the months she'd come to know him, but the spaces in between had been so long that she hadn't put the pieces together until the damage had been done. Not until he'd filled her with a self-loathing so deep that no light in either Arda or Valinor could ever seer away the memory of his calloused hands stroking her inner thighs, his broad palms holding her down, his roughened fingers slipping into her to breach with calculated thrusts each and every wall she'd ever built around her heart.

Galadriel sat on the floor in front of the altar of her darkest shame and slowly, silently, unraveled.

Seven nights earlier...

For all of her many centuries alive in Middle Earth, Galadriel had never had the opportunity to or interest in studying a half-dressed Man. But now that she sat vigil at Halbrand's side, she found ample invitation to indulge in both. At first, her gaze lingered only on the bandages wrapped around his ribs, but as the hours crept by and the room emptied of the healers, she found herself contemplating the differences in Halbrand's physiology versus...well, the only male she'd ever seen truly naked, her late husband.

There weren't that many differences, at least not to the eye. Elves and humans were, after all, fully capable of joining together and creating children. In the ways of blood and flesh, Elves and Men weren't that different at all. It was more in the...details, she supposed, that the separation between Halbrand's body and that of, say Celeborn's, became quite clear.

For starters, Halbrand had more hair. Like most adult Men, he had a beard, though it was trimmed close to the skin and not grown to its full potential. Elven men only grew hair on their heads, never on their faces or on the rest of their bodies. The hair on his arms was certainly not the thickest she'd ever seen on a Man, but it wasn't hard to miss. Then there was his chest, where short, wiry hair sprawled across the muscular expanse. It grew thickest in the center, then meandered down his sternum and stomach in a surprisingly neat line that drew her curious gaze toward his waist. She would not allow herself to contemplate where that trail of hair led, though she was glad no one was around to notice the faint heat that brightened her cheeks.

The second most obvious difference was in the Man's musculature. Halbrand had prominent biceps, broad shoulders, and firm pectorals. Elven men were certainly strong, but they didn't build bulky muscle like Men and Dwarves. Elven men were sinewy and sleek. Halbrand had the hardened body of a smith, not unlike, she imagined, those of many Dwarven men. Though, any direct comparison of him to a Dwarf was certainly unfair. He was not as hairy nor as compactly built as the children of Aulë.

Men, she mused, seemed to straddle that line between Elves and Dwarves. They could possess the height of the Elves and the strength of the Dwarves simultaneously. And when those were combined in a Man such as Halbrand, the result was strangely alluring.

Realization unfurled slowly within her during those night hours spent at Halbrand's bedside: she found him attractive. She was attracted to him in spirit - this she had known since that moment they'd shared, bloody and weary, on that fallen log back in the now-vanquished Southlands. But she hadn't realized she was attracted to him in a far more physical way until now, as he lay still and partially bare beneath her gaze.

A shift in those broad shoulders, and a weak tremor in his hand, drew her attention out of dangerous waters. The Elven woman quickly pulled her gaze up toward Halbrand's face, just in time to see his eyes flicker open.

"Galadriel?" he whispered, his voice hoarse.

"Be still, my friend," she reached out and grabbed his closest hand in both of hers. "The healers tell me that your wound is closing quickly and you no longer have the taint of infection in your blood. But, you should still rest, until all is completely healed."

"I rest as easily as you do," Halbrand snorted and his words hit a chord deep within Galadriel.

She let go of his hand and drew away slowly, her eyes riveted to his. How was it possible for this Man to have so much in common with her, with an Elf? There was darkness within them both, along with a deep desire for redemption, for freedom from the shackles of their past. The spirit within him was - as he'd so plainly, so easily, said - just as restless as her own. They were both pushed by fate, which in turn pulled them far from the peace each of them so strongly desired.

Halbrand was, if anything, a perceptive man. He sensed that what he'd said had done something to her, and he blinked the bleariness out of his eyes. His gaze searched her face for several long, aching heartbeats, but then the sharpness in it softened and he turned his eyes toward the gilded ceiling above them.

"Thank you," he again surprised her.

Confusion pulled her golden eyebrows together. "For what?" she asked.

"For saving me," his answer was simple.

Galadriel was quiet for a moment. "I share the same debt with you. There is no need to thank a friend for being just that - a friend."

"Then I thank you for sitting with me," Halbrand insisted, stubborn Man that he was.

The thought pulled a small smile onto her lips. That was yet another quality they shared - sheer, defiant stubbornness. And it was, as always, on full display in the way that they spoke to each other, even now.

"Again, there is no need to thank a friend."

"Indulge me. At the very least, even friends should be polite to one another."

She couldn't help a soft chuckle at his insistence. "Very well then."

Motion in the periphery of her sight made her look down toward his hands. His left was closest to her, and it was now extended past the edge of the bed, lifted up toward her in silent request. Galadriel hesitated, then slowly, uncertainly, slipped her palm against his. Halbrand curled his fingers and the stroke of his rough fingertips against the sensitive skin on the top of her hand gave her the near-instinctive desire to shudder. Her breath hitched and she tried to act like nothing was happening; one look at Halbrand's intense eyes told her that she might as well try to hide the color of her hair, for all that she was successful in hiding herself from him.

As if to provoke her further, he pulled her hand toward his mouth. Galadriel's spine stiffened in shock when his lips brushed against her skin. A kiss from an Elven man, even on the hand, was smooth and soft. Halbrand's chapped, rough lips felt like they had branded her, and the fleeting scrape of his beard left behind a smoldering memory.

"Why do I always feel such peace when I am with you?" he murmured against her hand, his breath as hot as the billowing volcanic ash that had tried to consume her in the Southlands.

"I...I am not so certain that it is peace I feel when I am with you." The words, the confession, slipped between her traitorous lips and so help her, a maidenly blush crept across her cheeks.

The smile Halbrand gave her was positively wolfish. "And what it is that you do feel?"

There was another difference, she decided, between Elven and human men. She had never heard a voice like Halbrand's issue from the throat of another Elf. It was deep and echoed within the hollowed-out parts of her heart. It was as rough as his beard, and notes of a passion she couldn't understand caressed each vowel, each consonant, that he uttered.

"I mean simply that you all too often vex me," she tried to pull her hand back, but Halbrand's grip tightened in a brief flash of dominance.

"I think, Galadriel, that we are past lying to each other." Something sparked deep within the Man's eyes and the Elven woman felt, for the first time in her life, like she was trapped.

But not against her will, oh no. She was trapped because she allowed it, because she recognized an echo of herself, of all of her longings, within Halbrand. He pulled at her - pulled her from the raging waters of her vengeance, pulled her from the fires of her defiance, pulled her from the icy hubris of her heart. He pulled her towards him now, in ways that far exceeded the touch of his hand around hers.

"Sit with me," he asked softly.

Galadriel gave him a dry look. "I am already sitting next to you."

He let silence linger, just long enough for it to make an impact. "Closer", he then breathed, in a tone of voice that revealed his power as a king.

Galadriel obeyed him like she had never obeyed her own High King. She hesitated, true, but when he didn't let go of her gaze or her hand, she rose ever so slowly from her chair and turned so she could perch on the edge of his narrow bed. The look she gave him said what she could not - "What is happening?" Halbrand huffed softly in something that wasn't quite amusement as he let go of her hand and reached for her face. Galadriel's breath left her entirely when those forge-roughened fingers slid along her jaw.

"I would be dead without you." His full lips twisted briefly in a wry smile.

"I thought perhaps you would die, in the course of our ride," she admitted - why was there a tremor in her voice as if she were winded?

Halbrand's lips curled more fully into a genuine smile. "Elves have their immortality. The Dwarves have their strength. But Men have their will," his thumb brushed a corner of her mouth as he added softly, "Never underestimate the power and persistence of a Man's will."

She watched in a mixture of amazement and alarm as his gaze fluttered downward to consider her lips. His touch left her skin hot and desiring more. In a moment of panic, Galadriel blurted -

"What are you doing, Halbrand?"

His palm cupped her cheek and the heat of it spread across her entire face. "I'm doing my best to seduce a woman," his voice lowered into a wanton purr, "Whom I very much desire."

"Seduce?" Galadriel frowned and pulled back from him.

Halbrand was, as he had already established in both word and deed, persistent. He offered her a small smile of apology and let his hand fall away from her face. But instead of ceasing to touch her altogether, he merely shifted the focus of his fingers. The brush of his skin against the column of her throat brought that burning heat down from her face and into the very core of her being.

"Tempt, then," he amended, though his voice sounded anything but contrite.

"Tempt" wasn't an improvement from "seduce", she thought. She eyed him suspiciously...but made no further attempt to move away from him, or to stop the curl of his fingers around the back of her neck.

"Tempt me with what, exactly?" she arched a defiant eyebrow at him.

"Tempt you to, actually," Halbrand's eyes sparkled mischievously. "I don't have much to tempt you with."

"Men usually don't," she countered back, her tone lofty and proud.

"No, they don't," he didn't argue and that took Galadriel off guard. "But this Man does have common ground with you. Surely that should be sufficient."

"Sufficient for...what?" Galadriel wished he'd stop rubbing circles into the nape of her neck.

It was distracting, in a way that she hadn't ever experienced with her husband. She still made no move, however, to stop him.

"A kiss."

He may as well have declared he was Morgoth himself, for as deeply as those two words shook her. A fire burst to life within her and Galadriel was at a loss to understand why. Elves were not given to passion and she had never known it - not with Celeborn, not with anyone. She knew nothing of it and was unable to even name it. Yet, unknown, unnamed things could still burn brightly - perhaps even more so than that which was familiar. And while she could not name passion, she could certainly name want.

Galadriel considered Halbrand's own declaration of desire and he did not push her. He did not withdraw his palm from against the delicate skin of her neck, but he did stop the questing curiosity of his fingers. He allowed her time to think through the ramifications of the next few moments; she could look into his eyes and see what his control cost him. He wanted her, and that had never been more clear than now. He had shown his hand, had lowered a wall within himself, and had risked the wounding blow of rejection, in just two simple words. But he did not argue his case; he did nothing, in fact, to sway her decision. It was that show of respect that finally crumbled one of her own walls.

"A kiss," she said slowly, still weighing the cost and consequence. "Would lead to more between us."

"Would it now?" Something predatory glinted in Halbrand's eyes, but Galadriel did not fear it.

"I believe you said we were past the point of lying to each other," she murmured. "Perhaps we are also past the point of lying to ourselves."

Halbrand's chest heaved in a chuckle and he grimaced in regret of it, no doubt because of the pain of his still-healing wound. "Well said, Galadriel," he conceded. "But tonight would not be the night to go any further beyond a kiss. Elvish healing works wonders, and quickly, but even so, I'm not quite up to that task." He brushed his left hand meaningfully against the bandages that wrapped around his torso.

"I could be gentle," Galadriel surprised herself by the eagerness of her offer.

Did she truly want him so much that she would press the possibility that they were discussing?

"I could not." That dark, hot growl that spoke of fire and forge returned to his voice and Galadriel thought she might burn on the spot.

His words twisted inside of her, and stoked the flames of desire like only a man who knew how to shape fire to his will ever could. Galadriel clasped her hands in her lap, afraid of touching him, afraid of showing him how much her fingers trembled at the thought of letting him into her - into her bed, into her body, into her heart.

"What will it be, Galadriel?" his words jolted her out of her thoughts. "Temptation? Or denial?"

She found the courage to lift her trembling hand and place it against his. She pressed the warmth of his palm against her neck in wordless encouragement and slowly bent over in search of his lips.

"Temptation," she breathed against him.

Halbrand didn't move immediately. He looked up at her and searched her eyes; she could feel him judging the honesty of her words. Galadriel paused herself as she sifted through her jumble of complex and contradicting emotions. She thought of the peace she felt fighting beside him, of the hope he lit inside of her - a hope that maybe she could fight the darkness within her and triumph over the unforgiven blemishes of her past. She thought of how he had drawn her to him at the top of the Númenórean court steps, of the effortless strength he had possessed to move her as he willed. She thought of his confession as they sat on that log, and of the haunted look in his eyes as he bared a secret part of himself. She thought of him bent over the neck of his horse, delirious with pain, and yet unwilling to slow the pace she had set.

Halbrand was, in the end, irresistible to her. Like called unto like, as her father would say. So, she closed the distance between their lips and sought an answer to a question she hadn't even realized she'd had - of what it would be like to give into the pull of this Man, to taste the passion he offered, to leave the memories of her dead husband behind once and for all, and embrace the feel of another body against hers.

Halbrand was, as he had promised, not gentle. The moment their lips touched, he plunged his hand into her thick hair and gripped her firmly at the nape of her neck. He opened his mouth to her almost immediately and ran his tongue boldly against her bottom lip. Galadriel opened her own mouth to him out of surprise and instinct, and that questing tongue tangled against hers. She had to brace herself above him with a hand splayed across his pillow, and her own fingers itched to weave their way into his hair. He pulled her further down with each passionate sweep of his tongue and Galadriel was unable, and unwilling, to stop the press of her chest against his.

The warmth of his body seeped into her as Halbrand threw his other arm around her waist and held her close to him. He devoured her - sucked on her bottom lip and made her shiver at the sharp, sudden bite of his teeth as she pulled that lip out of his mouth. They both paused, breath hard and hot and mingled between them, before crashing back together for another kiss.

The Valar save her, but she wanted this Man. Her hand moved from the pillow to his chest and the firm swell of his pectorals, to the unyielding expanse of his muscle, to the unexpected softness of his scattered hair. She gave into the fire between them and joined him there, reveling in the unfettered abandon of the moment.

He tasted faintly of wine, and more strongly of herbs - no doubt from tonics given to him to dull the pain of his wound. It was not unpleasant, the taste of his tongue; in fact, Galadriel found it rather addicting. She knew in her very soul, that while Halbrand would grow old and die, she would live for centuries more with the memory of his taste, his feel, his desire. This Man would bind her to him, in ways they were both just beginning to acknowledge, much less understand.

"Halbrand," she moaned as he finally pulled away - though, not without dragging her bottom lip between his teeth one last time.

"Stay with me tonight," he pleaded and Galadriel couldn't help but think that there was no need for him to do so, no need for him to try and convince her to do what she was willing to do whether he asked or not.

She smoothed stray strands of hair out of his face as he traced the line of her jaw in one last, lingering touch. That touch and the smolder in his eyes promised her passion and pleasure once he felt well enough to act on it. And she welcomed it, that promise, with a pureness of heart that she hadn't felt in over an Age.

She sat with him through what was left of the night, keeping watch while he slept. And this time, she considered his near-naked form with a curiosity born of desire, so that the next time he reached for her, she would not pause. Halbrand had no need to steal her heart - Galadriel would give it to him, and gladly.

For, after all, like called unto like, and there was no shame in answering.