I risk my life to make my name by ohboromir

Long ago, in the kingdom of Tirion, there was a king named Finwë, who was noble and proud. His realm was vast and peaceful, his line secure in the children of his three fair sons, his hall was alive with the sound of singing and laughter.

Many tales of great deeds were told in this hall. There was the tale of the seven bold sons of the Crown Prince and their mighty deeds. There were tales of the heroics of Findecáno the Valiant and Turukáno the Wise. There was Findaráto Felagund, who had hewn a realm of glorious caves and the swift hunter Irissë who roamed wherever she willed.

This is the tale of Ser Galadriel, the Lady of Light, one of the mightiest that dwelt in that great realm, and how she became one of the most fearsome sorceresses known to elvenkind.

Yestarë dawned cool and fresh in the kingdom of Tirion. The sun was high when the court gathered in the great hall, the music loud and joyful, the rafters decorated with branches of green leaves and fragrant flowers. The coming of the new year was always a joyous occasion, where the lords and ladies of the court exchanged gifts and stories, and the children devoured sweets and wore new ribbons in their hair. There was peace and joy. A good omen for the coming year. All had gathered at the high table to feast, when the door of the hall swung open.

A woman stalked in - ah, but was she a woman? No woman, Edain or Elf, could look as she did.

Taller than even the King himself, her skin was as green as the new spring growth, flowers blooming in her long hair that was as black as night, waves of dark silk that reached the floor. Her eyes enchanted the court, glowing as bright as winter stars, shifting shades of green and gold. Her beauty was as cold as steel, beautiful as storms were beautiful, as the deep dark forest was beautiful. Beautiful, and yet distant and dangerous.

No one spoke. They only stared at her, this stranger, struck still and silent by shock - or by her spell, none could be sure.

The Green Woman raised the axe from her belt. “I challenge thee, proud lords of the Noldor! Mighty princes of Tirion! Whosoever brings me down shall be rewarded - after the same I have done to them.”

The silence reigned on. Not one prince, among all the many who were gathered there, spoke. The King looked angered. The Queen looked as though she had seen a ghost, grey with horror, her ringed hand tight on her husband’s arm to prevent him from standing and challenging this woman. A darkness spread over the mood of the hall, insidious thoughts creeping into every mind. Who would challenge her? What would she do if left unchallenged? Was this some trick of the gods, sent to disturb their peace? Was it a punishment, or a test?

Artanis rose. Though she was the daughter of the third son, and young in their years, she was proud, and she would not allow this insult in her grandfather’s great hall.

“Lady! I will challenge thee. If thou will not be gone from our King’s hall, then thy life is the cost.”

The woman made no reply. She only fixed those shifting eyes on Artanis and smiled. Artanis felt a heat in her breast, rage as bright and hot as the sun. As the woman offered the axe, Artanis stepped forward, strong fingers grasping the cold metal of the handle. Still, the woman said nothing.

She raised the axe. The woman did not move. Artanis swung. There was a rush of air and someone screamed - her grandmother, she thought - as the woman’s head fell to the floor at Artanis’ feet. Her blood was thick and dark as sap, spraying on Artanis’ pale blue gown, in her hair, across her face. She did not flinch.

“Artanis, come here, let me -” Irissë stood to help her.

But her cousin’s words faded to silence, as the body of the woman moved. The headless body bent and lifted the hewn head high in the air, eyes still fixed on Artanis. The lips moved, even as blood spilled over them.

“Princess, thou art brave and strong. But if thou hath honour, thou will meet me in a year, in the place where time stands still. Nan Elmoth. Thou will have thy reward. If thou can bear the return of thy blow.” The smile on the bloodied lips was smug. The woman turned and strode from the hall, unhindered.

The silence exploded into chaos. Finwë descended from his high seat and embraced her, heedless of the blood. Fear lined his face, when he pulled back, hands on her shoulders.

“Thou will not go, Artanis.” He insisted, taking her hands in his, “She is but a sorceress, kin of the Necromancer. This is a trap.”

“What of pride, Grandfather?” Artanis wiped the blood from her face on her sleeve. “It will bring dishonour to our house.”

“Thou father would not want thou to go.” Finwë protested. He did not want to bring the news to his gentle son that he had allowed Artanis to go on this death quest. Queen Indis came to join them, still almost ashen with horror. Her hand was warm on Artanis’ cheek, however, tender.

“The King is right,” Indis insisted. “This woman is one of the Ainur, and this is her test. Whether she tests thou or us all, I cannot say. But none shall fault thee if thou dost not go.”

Artanis stepped back, heart still thumping with rage. Her mind was made up already and she would not be dissuaded, not by her grandparents, not by thoughts of her father, not anyone at all.

“Mother would want me to go – it is not just our house I dishonour by going back on my word, but hers. I am a princess twice over. Princesses do not go back on their oaths.”

The truth was that she had longed for adventure. Her mother was the crown princess of the Teleri, a bold sailor and adventurer, from a house of adventurers. The lust for glory and valour was in her blood. Artanis wanted to see the world, to have adventures as her siblings and cousins had, as her mother had. Was that wrong? She steeled herself to defy her king.

Artanis continued. “My brothers have become brave and renowned knights. Was it not my eldest brother that slew the great wolf of the Necromancer? Was it not my second and third brother who faced dragons on a field of flame? Though I am but young, I am no less in spirit or body. I will go.”

Finwë sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Granddaughter, I cannot order thee.” He could. He could give the order for her to stay, and she would be treasonous to defy him. But he would not make his granddaughter a traitor when she inevitably defied him. He knew what his family were like.

“If it is thy wish to go, thou will go. I will give thou all a knight needs – armour, a horse, a spear and sword. No knight of the blood of Finwë Noldóran will go into the world in anything but the finest gear.”

Artanis smiled. She had known he would give in. He still had a warrior’s spirit, even in his great age.

“Peace, Grandfather. I know you would not allow me to be poorly equipped.” Artanis thanked him with a bow of her head. “But we have months until I must leave – it will not take a year to reach Nan Elmoth, even if I must cross the Blue Mountains. I will go and change, and we must continue our celebrations. Let not this Green Woman spoil our new year.”

But the months of the year passed quickly. In three and a half months, as Spring began to melt into Summer, Artanis made herself ready.

She bound her hair into a long braid and wrapped it around her hair, like a crown of shimmering gold. Her armour was of the finest make as promised, forged by her uncle’s hand, the finest mithril chainmail. Even with his distaste for her father and for her, he was proud of their house.

Her tabard embroidered with the blue and white of her mother’s house, quartered with her father’s gold. Her sword was sharp, her spear tall and bright. Mounted on Larcatal, the bold mare gifted to her by her grandfather, she was the perfect image of a knight.

Her goodbyes were swift and fleeting. She was going to her doom, as many believed, but she did not want them to weep, or for them to move her to tears, either. She focused instead on the adventures that awaited her, full of courage and hope.

If she were to die, she would die a knight.

Artanis’ quest would lead her far from the safety of Tirion, down strange paths, and she would meet strange people. But it began, as most quests did, entirely ordinary. She had crossed the Blue Mountains into Ossiriand, and now she rode along the paved road by a river, humming to herself an old sailor’s song.

“Stop! Stop!”

Her horse reared back as a figure threw itself in front of her, bursting from the undergrowth. It was a woman, in a fine dress torn and muddied, dirt in her hair. When she looked up, breathing heavily, her eyes were wild with fear.

“Ser, are you are knight?” The woman scrambled to her feet, though she was not very tall, and even unmounted, Artanis thought she might only reach her breast.

“I am, maiden.”

The woman inhaled deeply, regaining her senses at the confirmation that Artanis was a knight. She laid her hands on Artanis’ leg, pleading. “I have fled, ser, from the castle of Hírilorn, where my mistress is the Lady. Woe, ser, oh such woe! My Lady wishes to remain unwed, yet a foul knight has come from distant lands, and holds her against her will. He says if she will not wed him, he will take the castle by the sword. But we have no soldiers, ser, only maidens may dwell in the castle. Please, you must help!”

“It is fortunate that thou hast found me. Fate is in thy favour this day.” Artanis offered the woman her hand, and lifted her onto her horse, saddled in front of her. “Direct me to the Castle, and I will deal with this rogue knight.”

The path to castle was clear. There was no sign of the maid’s – Artanis learned, on the ride, that her name was Idhriel – pursuers. Her horse’s hooves clicked against stone, as the ground turned from dirt to paved stone.

The castle of Hírilorn rose ahead of them, rising out of the trees as if it were made of them. The stone was grey and smooth, vines of ivy and breech branches adorning the walls. Flowers bloomed from the windows, sweet purple ones that Artanis had never seen before, and the castle tower rose to the heights of the surrounding trees, singing birds fluttering around the top, nesting in the roof.

A courtyard had been cleared and now it was full of soldiers, who had set up tents and fires and had gather in smaller groups to talk and eat. A silence fell over them as Artanis approached. There was shock in their eyes, and Artanis needed only a moment to see why – they were all Men, every one of them, and few Men had ever seen a elven-knight of the Noldor, let alone one so bold as to ride straight into their camp.

“My lady’s charm has prevented them from entering the castle.” Idhriel whispered in her ear, as Artanis dismounted, and lifted her from the horse. She smoothed her skirts and looked back over her shoulder at the men, frowning. “As long as she holds power, they cannot come inside.”

“And the knight himself?” Artanis could not see anyone among these men who looked like a leader.

“He must have a charm of his own, or some charm or amulet, he is inside. In the tower.”

“Ah.”

Idhriel led her up through the tower. In quiet rooms, Artanis glimpsed many women, young and old, elvish and mortal, gathered watching the soldiers at the windows, or trying to arm themselves, or packing to flee. Most of them did not look at her.

“Wait here.”

At the top of the tower, there was an oaken door. Idhriel let herself in and Artanis heard soft voices, and then a man’s, half-raised. She bristled, hand on the hilt of her sword. Before she could burst in, though, the door opened and she was called in.

Standing in the centre of the lavish room was the most beautiful elf Artanis had ever seen.

Her countenance was bright and fair, silver eyes shining from a face the colour of a spring fawn. She wore a gown of deep blue velvet, a white mantle hemmed with golden thread. A circlet of silver was in her dark, braided hair, and most marvellously at all, she wore a collar of white gems, a silver one in the centre shining like a star. Artanis bowed.

“Lady Tinúviel.” She breathed, as the woman extended her hand to her. She pressed a kiss to her ringed fingers and slowly rose. “I am the knight Ser Artanis of Tirion. Your maid has told me a man seeks to steal your land – how may I aid you?”

“It is not theft. Thy maid speaks falsely, Lady Tinúviel.”

Artanis had not noticed the man when she entered the room, so entranced by the beauty of the lady. She turned to him. He was not as tall as an elf, but he was a knight for certain, broad shouldered and rugged. His hair and short beard were dark, a thick scar across his face like a wolf’s claw, stark against his dark skin. His chainmail was mithril, elven-made and new. Perhaps he had stolen that, as he intended to steal this tower and its lady. His arm rested on his sheathed blade. He has only the one hand. Artanis thought. Was it bravery that had cost him it, or weakness in battle?

“I am Ser Erchamion. The Lady and I have been betrothed since my youth. I come only to claim what is mine.”

“Never have I heard of elf and man being betrothed.”

“Then perhaps thou ought to open thy ears.”

“It is not true,” Tinúviel interrupted, “At least it is only half so. A suggestion was made by my father, but no treaty ever signed. It is Ser Erchamion’s father who believed it to be settled. I shall not relinquish my castle.”

The knight threw up his hand in frustration. “Sorceress and stubborn women thou art! If it were not for thy land, I would leave thee be! What man wishes for a witch for a wife?”

Elves held sorcery in high renown – Artanis’ own father was a sorcerer of a kind, as was her eldest brother – and she raised her voice, addressing the knight directly.

“Choose thy words carefully, ser, or else I shall take thy other hand.”

Tinúviel stepped between them, laying a slender hand on Galadriel’s chest. “Sers, I will have no bloodshed in my chamber. It is impossible to remove from the rug.” She sighed, soft as the breeze, “Here is what I propose: Settle the matter in a match of skill, in view of all my ladies and all thy men. Ser Artanis will be my champion. Should thou win, Ser Erchamion, I shall wed thee. Should Ser Artanis make thee yield, thou wilt leave me.”

Artanis should have protested, that she had not yet volunteered, but she did not. She would have offered the lady her sword, her aid, in any way she asked.

“Dost? thou agree, Ser Erchamion?”

“Aye.”

“Ser Artanis?”

“Yes, good lady.”

“Then it is settled – call thy most honourable men to thee, and I shall bring my ladies.”

And so it was arranged. In the yard outside, the men had gathered on the far side, taunting and cheering their commander on as he stood opposite Artanis. On her side, the Lady had gathered with her fine ladies around her, serious and sombre faced – all but the Lady herself, who wore a smile sly as a fox.

Ser Erchamion struck first. Though he was approaching the middle age of men (she thought - she would not consider herself an expert), he was fast and he was strong, and she raised her sword to parry him. She felt the blow reverberate through her arm, but she held firm.

Back and forth their bout continued, for they were well matched. Where the man was strong, the elf was fast, where he was cautious, she was bold. Neither knight would give in – any ground one gained the other soon recovered.

But men grew tired and elves did not.

Artanis pressed her advantage as soon as she noticed his blows become weaker. By now the sun was low in the sky. She struck forward with fierce blows, backing Ser Erchamion towards his men. He struggled to parry a blow, then another, too fast, sent his blade clattering to the floor and the man to his knees. Artanis held the point of her blade to his throat.

“I yield, Ser Artanis.” His men had fallen silent. “The castle and the lady are yours.”

For a moment, she held the blade there, judging his honesty. She found no deception in his eyes, and slowly she withdrew, sheathing her sword. She nodded once.

The knight rose to his feet, grim, and turned to his men.

“Prepare to leave. We must be gone before the dawn.”

And there were. Not a word was spoken as they gathered their bows and tents and swords, marching from the castle and in the trees, melting among the trees as though they were part of the forest itself.

Artanis spent that evening in the company of Tinúviel and her ladies. At the high seat of honour she sat, attended by the ladies. Their voices and flutes and harps mingled in the evening air, the sweet song of nightingales returned to the hall, dancing and bright laughter. Flowers they bestowed upon her head, kisses on her cheek, their jewels they clasped around her throat. The halls of Hírilorn rang with joy and song. No fairer or more joyous gathering had there ever been.

Night turned to the bright dawn and into night again, before the ladies grew tired of their dances. One by one they retired to their beds and chambers, until Tinúviel and Artanis remained alone.

Side by side they sat, Tinúviel’s head on her shoulder. Her hand rested on Artanis’ strong thigh. Slow and gentle, her hand moved up to her waist, making Artanis turn to look at her. As she did, Tinúviel kissed her.

Her lips tasted of sweet wine. Artanis lost herself in the softness of them, melting under the lady’s touches. She felt her heart quicken in her breast, a heat flared in her stomach, set alight by the clever touches of the lady’s hand. Sweet kisses the lady rained upon her, until Artanis was breathless and flushed. Only then did Tinúviel draw away, eyes dark with desire.

“Thou lusts for me.”

Artanis could only nod in response – none had ever kissed her before, not like this. She had dallied with knights and courtiers alike in her grandfathers’ courts. She had admired the strong sailors in the court of her mother’s father, observed the broad smiths of Noldor, the clever and gentle lore masters of the Vanyar. All of them she found to her taste – but none she had ever given more than chaste kisses and touches. “I do.”

“I will give thee thy desire, on a condition.”

Artanis inhaled slowly.

“I will make thee my wife, lady of this castle at my side, Artanis Nerwen.” She could not recall ever giving Tinúviel that name. “I will give thee myself, if thou but promises to stay beside me forevermore.”

She could. None in Tirion expected her to return, she believed. The power of Tinuviel could keep the Green Woman away, if she came looking. She could leave in peace and joy and laughter here, in this great castle.

But that was not what Artanis wanted. She wanted honour and glory of her own, land she might govern in her own name. She wanted deeds of valour and renown, that her name might be recorded among the mighty for more than just her birth. She was Artanis of the Noldor, a princess, and a knight. She was not born to be a lady in a castle of stone.

“No.”

Tinúviel drew away, a delicate eyebrow arched. She looked as though no one had ever refused her before. Artanis wondered if all the ladies in this castle had once been bold knights. “If that is thy wish –”

“It is.”

“If that is thy wish, I will grant thee a boon for thy journeys.” From her throat she plucked one of the many small white gems and pressed it into Artanis’ hand.

“Keep this with thee, dear Ser Artanis, and the light will guide thee when doubt threatens thy bold heart.” Tinúviel leaned forward and pressed a single kiss to her forehead. “Go in peace, in the morning. Rest now.”

Artanis smiled sadly at her, watching the lady rise and close the curtains, lingering in the doorway. The light from the hall behind her made her glow, like she had been cast in gold. Artanis wished she could have stayed. But the world called her.

She spent the night on the soft bed in that tower room, all alone, but warm.

The next morning, Artanis mounted Larcatal, and rode back out onto the road, the jewel pinned to her cloak as a star.

Chapter Text

The road continued south. Through dark forests and green hills, over wide plains and deep valleys. Artanis met many further troubles on her journey, as knights are wont to do. Bandits she had slain, errant children she had recovered, lovers she had reunited. It came to be that her reputation preceded her; there on the south-road rides a lady knight, the Lady of Light, with hair of gold and a cloak white, and a jewel at her breast. Wise and strong is she, and the songs they sung of her were glorious and true.

Summer began to fade into cool autumn when she came to the deep forest of Neldoreth. It was a forest of beech trees that grew high and wide, shading the paths with their green canopy. Doriath, a realm she had heard little of, claimed part of the forest as its own, though she saw no banners or settlements of any kind as she drew near it. Some on the road said Doriath was abandoned, others said the boy-king that ruled it had closed its borders. Artanis suspected that it was most likely that it was simply further into the forest than most people ventured. She could not fault them for that; Neldoreth was extremely vast.

But to reach Nan Elmoth, she must pass through it.

It was a journey of several days. Artanis hunted – her spear was keen and swift, and she brought down a deer with ease. Nor was she squeamish, and she gathered the animal onto the back of her horse to find a suitable place to prepare it.

In the deep forest clearing, there was a house. A shack. Moss and ivy had claimed it, but the roof still stood, the door open, but the draft would be lessened. To a broken fence post, she tied her horse, and carried her catch inside.

It must once have belonged to a woodsman’s family, for there was a ruined kitchen and a large wooden table. Firewood logs sat rotting by the hearth. Artanis prepared her deer.

Outside, the sky darkened. Cloud gathered. Artanis was wise enough to gather her firewood before the rain came, and by the time she had sat down to enjoy her roasted venison, a little fire was smoking in the hearth for the first time in many years, and the wind was lashing against the walls.

He came suddenly.

She heard a great howl of wind, a crack of lightening, and then the door swung open. Her fire frizzled and died. Standing in the door, illuminated by the embers of the fire, was the most horrific creature she had ever seen.

He was shaped like an elf, but he was withered like a dying tree. His hair had fallen out in clumps, and what remained was grey and mossy, eyes milky white as death. His skin was stretched thin and taut, translucent in places. She could see the bone beneath. He raised a skeletal hand and pointed at her. Transfixed, Artanis did not move.

Wicked laughter shook the hall.

“Elf! You have come to my hall! Ungracious guest!”

Artanis rose to her feet. “This house is no hall; it is hardly a shed. It was abandoned when I came here seeking shelter. That is not a crime.”

The creature advanced on her. He smelt of acrid woodsmoke and wet earth. His thin lip drew back in a scowl, exposing sharp teeth. “You speak sharply. You are dressed finely – you are no woodsman.”

“My name is Nerwen and I am a knight.” She was no fool. It was unwise to give one’s truest name to strange creatures.

“A knight! Well then, bold knight, give me your meat.”

Artanis stared. He wanted the venison? “I will prepare thou a plate.”

“No. Give it all to me.”

Artanis hesitated. But she had eaten her fill, and if his words were true, she was a guest in his house. So she gathered the uncooked venison for him on the table, and laid her knife by his seat for him. “I must light a fire to –”

But there was no need. The creature’s jaw unhinged like a snake, and Artanis stared in horror, and he swallowed down the venison raw and whole, leaving not a crumb behind. What manner of cursed creature was he? In all the stories she had heard of dark creatures, none had been like this. Was he a phantom?

“Why do you stare, Knight Nerwen?” The creature dabbed the corners of his mouth with a tattered sleeve. It looked like it had once been made of fine linen, but now it was worn and riddled with moth holes.

Artanis remembered her manners. It was not a good idea to irritate him – perhaps he was cursed, perhaps he had once been a rude guest himself. She had heard of similar curses. “I was only lost in thought.”

The creature laughed his sharp laughter again and leaned back in his creaky chair, rotting feet on the table. Artanis discreetly shuffled back.

“I am tired, Knight Nerwen. I have been wandering far. Make a bed for me.”

“A bed for thee?”

“Aye.”

She glanced around the room. For herself, she had been planning to sleep in a dry corner under her cloak. Not a comfortable night, but dry and not too cold, and she was used to it. There was no bed in the single room of the house. There was straw in the stable.

“If you will excuse me a moment, good ser.” She urged, as she headed out the door. The creature did not stop her. It would be easy now, to mount her horse and ride into the night. Perhaps she should, Artanis thought, as she filled her arms with straw and hay. Leave, run, ride, never come back.

But what would be the wise thing to do? This was a creature she did not know. He might be a powerful wizard. He might curse her. He might do nothing. Her curiosity was not sated. She was the knight of the Light. She would not flee from one little ghost.

Back inside the shack, she made a bed of straw by the fire, comfortable and big enough for two, though she had no plans to sleep in the presence of the creature. As she stepped back and looked at it, the creature spoke again.

“Delightful, knight.” He yawned and stretched and settled on the straw. “We will make a grateful guest of you yet.”

Artanis sat down on the rickety chair. The creature had made himself comfortable, stoked the ashes of the fire until they glowed again, and laid down. She watched him, now that he had his back to her.

He had been an elf once, she was almost certain – it was a deep instinct in her, something she just knew, undeniable, unexplainable, obvious. Perhaps he had even been handsome she mused, perhaps some maiden or youth had loved him. Did they miss him? How long had he been thus changed? Or perhaps he had died, and some wicked spell had raised his corpse?

His voice broke her thoughts; his demands were not done.

“Lie down with me, ser knight, by my side.”

Artanis balked. “Does thou know what thou asks?”

The creature’s face seemed almost soft. “You have a warm cloak, ser, and a fine blanket it would make for us both. That is what I ask.”

She did not answer. Fear grew in her. She did not know the intentions of this creature; she had watched him eat half a carcass whole. If she laid down beside him, she might be his next meal. Or even simpler, he might be armed, and cut her throat, and then he would have her horse and armour and cloak all to himself. Fey creatures like this could not be trusted.

“No. But I will give thee my cloak.”

He looked at her, tilting his head though he did not understand her answer.

Artanis brought her hand to Tinúviel’s jewel at the clasp of her cloak. The light will guide thee when doubt threatens thy bold heart.

Visions had long been a gift of her line. One came to her now, like a dream behind her eyes. The laughing face of a girl dressed in green, who looked up at the faceless woman behind her and called her Ammë. Artanis clasped her hand around the jewel. A second vision – a lord of silver and a lady of gold ruling a court from a realm of gold-leafed trees. Lay down with him, instinct told her, show him this kindness.

Artanis unpinned her cloak. She removed her mail, laying it neatly on the table, and her boots by the end of the straw bed. In her tunic and trousers, she laid herself down beside the creature and spread the cloak over them both.

“Goodnight, stranger.” She said to him, turning her back to him, Tinúviel’s jewel still clutched to her breast. It was not until she heard the breathing of the creature beside her settle into a slow, even pattern that she let sleep claim her.

Daylight trickled in the window, the sun banishing the storm. The fresh smell of morning dew filled the forest. Artanis rolled over and then blinked the sleep from her eyes.

And found herself staring at a stranger.

Beneath her cloak, beside her, lay an elf so fair she thought she was still dreaming. His sleeping face was light and clear, his hair the silver-white of stars, his form lithe and lean, like the young trees of the forest. Her heart fluttered in her chest; where the beauty of Tinúviel had been ethereal and otherworldly, this elf was of the world, of nature, a part of the forest made flesh.

“You are staring, ser knight.” His voice was strong and rich.

“What art thou?”

He smiled at her and Artanis felt her face warm.

“I am Lord Celeborn of Doriath.” He sat up a little, picking straw from his hair, still with that radiant smile as he looked at her. “I was cursed by a sorceress, but your kindness has broken her spell, Ser Nerwen.”

Bold, she took his hand. “For this truth thou hath given me, I will give thee one of my own. I am Artanis, Princess of the Noldor.”

Celeborn’s eyes widened. “I did not know I had a princess by my side. I would have been a better host, had I known.”

Artanis only laughed, amused by his shock. Did they not have princesses in this Doriath? She held his hand, and brought it to her lips, kissing the back of his hand as delicately as if they had met at court.

He blushed. She laughed again and rose to her feet.

“Thou hast a house in such disarray. I will help thee repair it, Celeborn of Doriath. I cannot leave a man so fair to live in such dreary condition.”

And so she did.

Day once again turned to night, and again, and again. The last of autumn and early winter she passed in that little house, mending walls and crafting new furniture, hunting and dancing with Celeborn in the fair woods and glades.

A great love and devotion grew between them. They lived as husband and wife, as though they were not the scions of great realms, but simply a woodsman and a knight. Celeborn gave her a new name then, when she promised to wed him if she returned from her quest. Galadriel, for the radiance of her hair. She wore it more joyfully than any title.

But as winter began to fade the new year drew closer, her heart became uneasy. She could not remain here. The Green Woman was waiting for her in Nan Elmoth.

Their farewell was not tearful. She would not cry even as her heart broke. Celeborn had faith she would survive her quest. I will be waiting for you in Doriath.

Galadriel of the Noldor donned her armour and sharpened her sword, and rode off on her quest once more.

Chapter End Notes

This one was loosely inspired by both the meeting of Gawain and Dame Ragnelle and the King Henry Child Ballad. Sorry Celeborn, haha.

Spring had come again as she emerged from the forests of Neldoreth. The new year was now only a few short days away and Galadriel – for that was how she now wished to think of herself, finding the name the fairest of all she had – still did not know if she was drawing close to Nan Elmoth.

As she sat in the shade of an oak, taking a mid-afternoon rest, the sound of a hunting horn broke the stillness of the air. Galadriel leapt to her feet to calm her horse, who had startled, and the sound of hooves pounding hard against the earth came closer.

“Who is it, my lord?” A man’s voice called. Over the horizon three horses appeared, pausing to observe her. Galadriel frowned, laying a hand on her sword. Something about them made her heart uneasy.

The riders slowed to a halt as they reached her. The two dark horses were ridden by elven knights, both tall and strong. One, dark-haired, carried a great bow. The second was fair-haired, a hand grasped around a sharp spear. Both wore the same grey and pale blue that decorated their saddles. The leader was astride a pale steed; he was as tall as the oak behind her, dressed in grey and silver, with a circlet of fine white gems on his brow. He smiled at her.

“Good afternoon, fair stranger! What brings thee to my forest? I am Lord Thingol.”

“My lord,” Galadriel bowed once, and then straightened proudly. “I am Ser Galadriel. I am on a quest. By the new year, I must meet a stranger in the forest of Nan Elmoth. Since this is thy land, perhaps thou might direct me?”

“Ser Galadriel,” his smile widened, though depending his knights looked grave. “I have heard of thee! Come, bring thy horse, and stay as a guest in my hall. It is only three days until the dawning of the year, and from my hall only an hour’s ride to the deep centre of Nan Elmoth. Thou may as well spend these days in good company.”

Galadriel could find no reason to disagree. She mounted her horse and rode beside the Lord, who happily gave her a history of his lands as they rode, and told of her the great deeds that had happened here – he and his knights had slain a fierce werewolf by this river, she would hear the full story at dinner, he was sure. And his daughter – oh, she was grown and wed now, in lands of her own – but she had loved to dance on that hill as a girl.

“I met my lady wife in Nan Elmoth, many years ago.”

“Oh?”

“Aye, I was wandering as I wont to do, and there she was, walking among the flowers. Such a beauty! We were wed the next day, and happy we have been ever since.”

“I should like to meet her, my lord.”

“Thou will.”

His hall was named Menegroth and it was a very handsome hall, very grand. The squires took their horses as they arrived and Galadriel followed the Lord up the steps to his guest hall. A lady was waiting there for them.

Something about her struck Galadriel as familiar. She had hair like the night and eyes as green as fresh spring leaves. Her gown was velvet, a deep, dark blue. Her radiant smile made Galadriel’s heart grow warm.

Ah, I cannot desire after a man’s wife.

“Ser Galadriel, this is my wife, Lady Melyanna.”

“It is an honour to be meet thee, my lady.” She kissed her offered hand, lips lingering half a second longer than usual.

Thingol quickly filled his wife in on the situation, and she laughed in delight when he said she had agreed to stay.

“I will be delighted to have thy company, Ser Galadriel.” Melyanna beamed, “For my lord husband and his knights go out riding every day of spring, and the days are lonely now my daughter is gone. Thou will be fair company.”

Thingol laughed. “Aye, that is true, though I wish my love would ride with me sometimes. A game we might make of it; I shall give thee, Ser Galadriel, a share of all I hunt each day. In return, I ask only that thou give me a share of what thou has learned at my lady wife’s side. She is a veritable fountain of knowledge.”

A strange game, Galadriel thought, but to be polite, she agreed. It would not be a hardship to recount a little of her conversations with the lady each evening. It was only three days.

Galadriel ate with the lord and lady that evening, exchanging tales of their lands and their adventures. Her heart was light and her stomach full as she went to bed that evening.

She woke late in the morning, just as the sun was reaching its peak. A bath had been drawn for her and she disrobed, sinking into the water with a sigh. Not since she had left Neldoreth had she had a proper bath. She sunk her head under the water to soak her hair.

When she emerged, she yelped.

Standing behind her, reflected in the mirror opposite, was the Lady Melyanna.

“Good morning, Ser Galadriel.” Her laughter made Galadriel’s heart flutter. Melyanna sank down to her knees, her hands on the edge of the metal tub. Galadriel could feel her breath against her cheek. Warmth spread across her cheeks. She was so close.

“Good morning, my lady. I did not hear thee enter.”

Melyanna only laughed sweetly. “Thou must have been worn from thy journey, my friend. I missed thy company at breakfast. I thought thou was here to save me from my loneliness.”

The final word was softer than the rest, breathed against her cheek as one of the lady’s hands slipped into the water, snaking down Galadriel’s chest to cup one small, firm breast and caress the smooth skin there.

Galadriel’s blood was racing – her face was hot and reddened, desire ignited, warring with honour. Lord Thingol was her host and had asked almost nothing of her. Celeborn’s words rang in her ears: Ungracious guest!

She would not dishonour herself and this fair lady. She gently pried the lady’s hand from her and pressed a single kiss to her cheek.

“Dear lady, thou art a woman wed, and thou I am not wed, my heart is held by another. I cannot offer thee the company thou seeks this day.”

Melyanna sighed, but dried her hand on the towel. “An honourable lady thou art, Ser Galadriel. That I can respect; please forgive my indiscretion. If it would please thou to join my ladies and I in the courtyard for afternoon tea, thou would still be welcome.”

Galadriel did join them that afternoon, finding joy in the company of so many educated and intelligent ladies. They spoke of history and philosophy, politics and strategy, law and religion. She had forgotten her promise to share with the lord.

Until the sound of hunting horns rang out over the hall and the ladies rushed to greet him.

“Ser Galadriel, here this thy share of the hunt! A fine meal it will make us this evening! Tell me, what have thou learned?”

Galadriel took his hand and kissed his palm. Thingol seemed surprised by the gesture, but he did not comment on it, as Galadriel launched into a continuation of the philosophical theory she had been discussing outside.

The next day Galadriel rose and bathed much earlier. A gown had been found for her, creamy pink silk, from one of the ladies of a similar build, though it was a little tight. She wore her hair in loose curls, but the only jewellery she wore was Tinúviel’s jewel.

She had been invited to join the lady in the great hall that afternoon, to listen to the lord’s minstrel perform for them. She met Melyanna in the hall, which was decorated with flowered garlands in preparation for the coming of the new year. On a stand beside the lady, a nightingale perched and ate crumbs from her hand.

“Ser Galadriel, thou art a beautiful sight this afternoon. Come and sit beside me – Daeron is about to sing a ballad for us. He has the finest voice in all the world, I dare say.”

Daeron sat on a stool in the centre of the hall, a harp on his lap, and he bowed his head humbly at the lady’s praise. Once Galadriel was seated and her goblet filled with sweet, watered wine, he began to sing.

As promised, his voice was melodic and smooth, as he sang a story of doomed lovers, a proud knight who had loved a queen, and how their love had brought down a mighty kingdom.

As he sang, Galadriel could not help but lean closer to the lady beside her, her eyes always drifting to admire her. She could not help but imagine what might have happened, if she had allowed the lady to continue her touches the day before. How sweet would her kisses have tasted? How skilled were those slender fingers? Would her moans have been as melodic as the birds she kept beside her? The thoughts were all the more arousing for their forbidden nature, and Galadriel felt herself growing heated. She would have to take care of this matter alone tonight, alas, unless she could invite one of the lady’s maids to join her bed for the night. One last adventure before she went to her doomed quest.

As Daeron’s voice faded, everyone in the hall rose to their feet to applaud him. Galadriel joined in. There was then a great deal of mingling and talking, so she took her opportunity to step aside to calm herself.

Unfortunately for Galadriel, Melyanna found her.

“Ser Galadriel, did thou enjoy the performance?” Her hand took Galadriel’s tenderly. Galadriel’s blush had not yet faded, and now it only grew deeper.

“I did, my lady.”

Melyanna smiled. Something sparkled in her brown eyes – had they not been green yesterday, or was the light simply poor in here? She leaned in and kissed Galadriel on the lips, lingering and soft. She tasted of sweet berries. Galadriel could not stop the moan that escaped her throat.

Melyanna pulled away. “I am glad thee enjoyed thyself, Ser Galadriel.”

Before Galadriel had recovered the power of speech, she had left the hall.

Thingol’s hunters found her sitting on the steps of the manor, a book in her lap. He greeted her cheerfully.

“I have brought thou some fine furs to take with thou on thy adventures, Ser Galadriel, what have thou brought me?”

She closed her book and stood, standing on her toes in her soft shoes to kiss him on the lips. Behind him, his dark-haired knight whooped and laughed, only to be silenced with a sharp look and shove from his fellow knight.

“Ser Galadriel, what do –”

“‘I kiss thee in the fashion of kingly thanks, my lord. My grandfathers are both kings and manners I have learnt from them. Forgive me if it is not the fashion here.” A lie that came as easily as breath.

Thingol seemed to swallow it, as his face brightened again and he clapped her on the shoulder. “Thou didst not tell us thou art a princess, Ser Galadriel. I should like to hear more of thy grandfathers this evening! Come, let us go to dinner.”

Melyanna was indisposed that evening.

Galadriel did not see her again until the next day, her final at the manor of Menegroth.

Melyanna summoned her to her study very early. It turned out the lady had a vast library for a manor so small, crammed wall to wall with books and artefacts of kinds Galadriel had never seen. She could feel the magic radiating off them, though, and she was wise enough not to touch any of them.

Melian wore only a thin robe tied at the waist, barefoot and bare-armed as she sat in the centre of the study, before a large stone basin that was filled with water. Her eyes were closed, her face serene, and Galadriel did not wish to interrupt her meditations. Perhaps she should leave.

But as the thought crossed her mind, Melyanna opened her eyes, and gestured for Galadriel to sit opposite her.

“Look into the water, Ser Galadriel. What does thou see?”

“My reflection.”

Melyanna shook her head. “Open thine eyes, open thy mind. Look closer. Concentrate.”

Galadriel tried to focus. Her reflection swirled and shifted in front of her. A scene emerged. A knight with billowing golden curls knelt before the same Green Woman she had met almost exactly a year ago. The Green Woman was lifting her axe.

“I see myself, facing my promised foe. She raises her axe to remove my head. My lady, what does this mean?”

Melyanna was quiet for a long moment. “Thou will face a test. Whether thou will pass, I cannot say.” She answered, gesturing back to the water. Galadriel saw the scene shift again, this time to herself wandering the woods of Nan Elmoth. But she did not look lost; she was singing, and flowers were blooming around her. Was this hope?

“Does thy water show the future?”

“Sometimes.” Melyanna admitted, “Sometimes it shows only one future, sometimes many. Not all things come to pass.”

Galadriel pondered it for a few more moments. “It is a useful skill to have, all the same. One I wish I had the time to cultivate.”

“Yes.”

Melyanna was leaning in again, over the basin. Tomorrow, I am to die. Galadriel leaned in and met her. They kissed, a melding of soft and eager lips, soft breathy sighs. Melyanna pulled her closer by the front of her dress, her kisses growing more fervent and demanding.

“Come to bed with me, Ser Galadriel. Thou will please me well.”

Galadriel silenced her with a kiss, delaying her need to answer. She was a maiden no longer. In Neldoreth she had discovered the pleasure of the flesh quite thoroughly. Yes, she thought smugly, I could please this lady well.

Yet…

She was a guest of Thingol. To sleep with his wife was a grave insult. He may never find out – but Galadriel would always feel the guilt of the betrayal and the dishonour she had done him.

“My lady,” Galadriel sighed as they parted, “I do not wish for thou to think I do not find thee fair. But I cannot go with thee – it is too grave a dishonour, to thee, to thy husband, to my house and my name.”

Melyanna sighed. Her face was flushed like a robin’s breast.

“I understand, Ser Galadriel.” A pause, heavy as lead. “I have a gift for thee.”

Gracefully she rose and padded across the room. From one of her shelves, she withdrew a box and carried it back to Galadriel. It was not locked. Inside lay a fine golden belt, shimmering with sapphire jewels.

“This is the Girdle of Melian, for whom I named.” Melyanna said, with a smile, “It will protect the wearer from dark spells wherever she may go – take it, so that it might aid thee on thy journey.”

Galadriel bowed deeply before she took the belt. “My lady, thou hast my thanks, for this is a gift worthy of kings.”

“Thou hast an honourable heart, Ser Galadriel. Thou wouldst make a fine king.”

Galadriel flushed with pride.

That final evening brought growing storm clouds. The new year, it seemed, would dawn wet once again. How fitting, Galadriel thought, as she waited in the hall for Thingol’s return, that the weather should match that fateful day.

Thingol was once again in good cheer upon his return. Galadriel moved swifter than he this time and kissed him full upon the lips, with the same passion that she had kissed Melyanna with earlier that day.

Thingol’s knights snickered, the lord himself mute with shock. “Good Ser Galadriel, thou art very lovely, but I am a man wedded, and thou art not the kind I seek to –”

“Fear not, my lord,” Melyanna, standing with them, laughed. “It was only a dare from thy wife, for I wished to see the shock upon thy face. Thou art not the only one who enjoys games, and Ser Galadriel has played most excellently.”

His shock faded to amusement, eyes twinkling.

“In that case, I shall consider myself bested.”

The next morning was Yestarë again.

Galadriel had not slept peacefully. Doubt had grown in her heart, and still it lingered there, as she dressed once more in her armour, the golden belt beneath her mithril mail. She did not yet know if she believed it was powerful enough to save her – but it would be foolish to turn aside help when it was given so freely.

“Farewell, Lord Thingol, most gracious of hosts.” She stood on the steps of his manor, stern and stiff as still. “Farwell, Lady Melyanna, fairest of ladies. Thou have been most kind to me – I ask now one final kindness.”

“What might be that be, Ser Galadriel?” Thingol stood with his knights, the same ever-present pair. Melyanna leaned on his arm, a shadow under her eyes.

“If my quest should end in my death, I ask that thou send my remains to Tirion across the Mountains. My parents should have me to bury.”

“This is grim talk, Ser, but I will do as thou asks.” Thingol agreed, bidding her a final goodbye. His cheerful demeanour was soured by the occasion.

Thingol had given her directions to the centre of Nan Elmoth, though he warned her it had been some time since he had last ventured so far. The paved road soon turned to packed earth, and then the path was lost entirely, but Galadriel continued, whispering a song under her breath to steel her heart.

Nan Elmoth was a forest dark and twisted by power. The branches blocked out the sun, the trees were as thick as three men. Galadriel drew her sword to hack her way through the brambles and thorns, but her cloak did not tear even when it caught. The nettles did not sting her, perhaps proof that the belt was indeed powerful.

Galadriel walked onwards.

It seemed like it had been hours, but she was sure that it had not.

She had come to the right place; she knew it by the aura of power that radiating off this small glade. The trees twisted into a canopy above a bare patch of grass, sunlight trickling through to warm the purple and blue flowers that Galadriel did not know the name of. They bent towards the largest tree, penitents before an altar.

From the tree, the Green Woman emerged. She was as Galadriel had seen her – not headless, but living tree herself, a familiarity in those shifting eyes. Galadriel frowned. Those eyes were so familiar.

Galadriel knelt. This was her death. Ainur could survive beheadings, but elves could not. She would die with honour; she hoped this ainu would have the heart to return her body to her family, so she might be buried at sea in the fashion of her mother’s people.

“I am here to fulfil my bargain. Be swift, Lady, and let thy aim be true.”

She bowed her head.

The woman laughed, high, sharp. There was a rush of air. The axe fell.

Galadriel felt a sharp scratch at the base of her neck. Nothing more. The forest was silent. Even the ever-present nightingales did not sing. Had Melyanna’s belt saved her?

She raised her head.

The Green Woman was not standing in front of her. Melyanna was, though several feet taller, in a gown as green as the woman’s skin had been. She was smiling.

“Rise, Ser Galadriel.”

“Lady Melyanna? I do not –”

Melyanna smiled. “Melian the Maia am I, and sorceress I am. Melyanna does not exist; it was but a test devised by my husband and I.”

Galadriel rose. Her frown deepened as she replayed the events in her mind. Not once had Melyanna – Melian – seemed afraid that her husband would discover them. The entire game had been Thingol’s device, and it had been so strange. Melian had been eager to give her attention and this girdle… was it magic at all?

“But why? Why come to my grandfather’s hall at all?”

“I desired an apprentice. I knew it would be thee that chose to come. Thou art like thy mother.”

Galadriel blinked. “You knew my mother?”

“From thy father. A fellow student he was once, in the land of Irmo.”

This was a great deal of information. Galadriel frowned. She trusted Melian, she trusted that this was not a trick, it was not another test. An apprentice of a sorceress. Was that what she wanted for herself?

Look at the power Melian wields. To have just a taste of that…

“Why did you test me?”

“A student of mine must be brave. She must challenge the strange ainu that threatens her grandfather’s hall. She must show strength – my daughter I sent into thy path, so that her husband might challenge thy strength of arm.”

Tinúviel. Ser Erchamion. No one wonder the situation had seemed so strange. So calm, despite how the knight had threatened. He had given in upon his defeat in an instant, disappeared into the forest so swiftly and easily. A spell, she did not doubt it.

“Was Lady Tinúviel’s flirting a test?”

“No,” Melian laughed, “My daughter has always desired beautiful things, and thou art most beautiful, Ser Galadriel.”

She felt her face warm, to have her beauty praised by one of the Ainur.

“My apprentice must know when to show kindness; kindness broke the spell I laid on dear Celeborn.”

“It was you?” Galadriel reached for her blade, to avenge her dear Celeborn, but Melian raised a slender hand and stopped her in his tracks.

“Fear not, Celeborn agreed to play his part in my test, though he will only remember it now. I did not wish for him to spill the secret too soon.”

She relaxed, though only a little.

“Thou showed honour when thou refused my advances – I confess it was the plan for my husband to play the seductor, but thy beauty I wished to taste for myself.” Melian said, “And finally thou have shown thy faithfulness in coming here, though thou believed thou was coming to thy death.”

Galadriel swallowed. What now? She had passed this test that she had not even known were being laid out for her. She wished… she wished to be her apprentice. She wished to become more powerful, to wield a spell as well as her sword, to make a name for herself as Galadriel.

“Will thou study under me?”

“I will.” Galadriel answered, certain. A smile cracked on her lips, followed by laughter, at the absurdity of it all. To think she had been so afraid, when in face the Green Woman had desired not her death, but her beauty and her wisdom! “But my lady, I was offered a reward. Agreeing to serve you is an honour in itself, but is there naught else I might be reward with, for my faithfulness?”

Melian’s eyes darkened with desire, and she smiled, bidding Galadriel to come closer. Her kiss was as sweet as before, but more demanding, taking control of Galadriel as she grasped her by the hips. Her strength was undeniable. Galadriel felt heated already.

As Galadriel drew away, gasping, Melian did not even seem breathless. She unclasped Galadriel’s cloak and then swiftly unbuckled her armour, and Galadriel made no protest, letting Melian undress her until she was bare. The forest breeze was cool against her skin, making her shiver, Melian’s intense gaze on her,

Melian kissed her again, tangling her fingers in her hair, tugging until the golden braid came loose and her hair shrouded them in golden waves. Melian pushed her back against the tree. Galadriel moaned, as those clever hands caressed her breast again, rolling a thumb over her nipple until it was pebbled and hard.

“Lay down, sweet Galadriel.” Galadriel sank down onto the soft mossy ground, and Melian knelt between her legs. Her kisses and touches traced every inch of Galadriel’s skin.

“My lady, please…” Galadriel whined, as Melian laughed again, swallowing her moan with a kiss as she finally slipped her fingers between her legs, teasing her slick folds. Galadriel threw her head back as Melian’s fingers sank into her, two of them, curling and rubbing against the inside of her.

She felt as though her body had been set aflame, her chest tight, her chest heaving. Melian was skilled in this indeed. Her grin had turned almost wicked as she rubbed circles over Galadriel’s clit with her thumb.

“So beautiful, sweet Galadriel, so radiant, I see why dear Celeborn has fallen for thee.” She crooned, urging her towards the edge, “Perhaps we shall invite him to join us sometime, hm? Would thou like that?”

The image of Celeborn beneath her and her lady above her set a fresh fire in Galadriel’s gut, lust so all consuming she thought she might die if she did not have it fulfil, and yet Melian continued to tease her, sinking another finger inside her and bending to mouth at her breast with biting kisses, leaving reddened marks. Her ends of her soft dark hair brushed against her skin, taunting her.

“Or perhaps thou would like my lord Thingol to join us. I shall tell thee, he is quite talented, never once has he left me unsatisfied.” Melian increased the pressure of her thumb, and Galadriel keened. “Or perhaps them both, for why should we restrain ourselves? There is power in pleasure.”

“My lady, please…” Galadriel repeated desperately, rolling her hips into Melian’s fingers, wanting more. Melian crooked her fingers, and that was enough: light burst in front of Galadriel’s eyes, as she arched and wailed, taut as a bowstring. The moment dragged on, pure blinding pleasure.

Melian teased her through her climax and only withdrew her fingers as Galadriel went limp against the moss.

She licked her fingers clean daintily, and then unlaced the front of her gown, her bosom spilling out of the velvet.

“I hope thou recovers thy senses swiftly, Ser Galadriel, for it is ill manners to leave one’s lady unsatisfied.”

In later years, she would have greater adventures; a realm of her own she would forge with Celeborn by her side, a daughter she would raise and lose. Her strength and wisdom would flourish under Melian’s tutelage, and one day, a great and terrible power would be entrusted to her. A beacon in the darkness she would be and in the end, she would return home in glory.

But for now, she would remain simply Ser Galadriel.

Chapter End Notes

This was so fun to write prompt OP, your prompt lived in my head for weeks and I finally had time to write something for it! I hope you enjoy it! There should be more Arthuriana inspired Silm fic haha.

Title is a line from Gawain by The Trials of Cato