Prompt: I thought of this story idea while driving home and listening to “Favorite Crime” by Olivia Rodrigo.
Summary: Galadriel grapples with accepting Halbrand's true identity as Sauron and the fact that everything between them was a lie. Or was it?
Warnings: SPOILERS FOR SEASON 2, betrayal, emotional manipulation, psychological trauma, self-blame, heartbreak, implied violence, fall from height, grief, identity deception, toxic relationships, existential crisis, power dynamics, introspection on trust and betrayal, disillusionment
The storm had not yet passed when Galadriel stood alone on the cliff's edge, her golden hair whipped by the winds that howled like wraiths. Below, the sea churned and frothed, dark and unforgiving as the memories that haunted her. She had once found solace in these waters, but now they only served as a reminder of what had been lost—and what had been betrayed.
Halbrand.
No—Sauron.
The name was a blade that cut deeper than any sword. She had known him under the guise of a king, a broken man seeking redemption, just as she had sought her own. Together, they had formed an unspoken bond, forged in the fires of battle and tempered in shared ambition. They had walked side by side, the weight of destiny heavy on their shoulders, and in those moments, Galadriel had allowed herself to hope—to believe that maybe, just maybe, there could be peace.
She had let herself hope—truly hope—for the first time in an age. He had seemed different, a kindred soul bound by loss and a desire to set the world right. He had been a warrior at her side, the strength she had leaned on when her own faltered. They had stood as equals—or so she had believed.
She remembers the moment after the battle when the dust had yet to settle, and the skies above were still blackened with smoke. Their victory had been hard-fought, their enemies defeated, and for one brief, fragile moment, she had allowed herself to feel something other than her endless drive for vengeance.
Halbrand had looked at her then, his eyes searching hers with a kind of intensity that made her chest tighten. “What we did today,” he had said, his voice rough, ragged with the weariness of battle, but also something more. “Fighting side by side with you... I’ve never felt anything like it. I’ve never felt more alive.”
His words had struck something deep within her, something buried beneath layers of grief and anger. It was the same for her. In that moment, with him, she had felt alive too—more than she had in centuries. She had wanted to tell him then, to put words to the storm of emotions that had swirled between them. And she had. Against all her better judgment, she had whispered, “I felt it too.” And she had felt it too—the connection, the spark, the fire that had burned between them.
But that hope had been a lie. He had been a lie.
A lie he had wrapped around her, like chains forged from her own longing. He had let her believe they were fighting the same battle, for the same cause. He had let her believe that he was someone worth saving, someone who could be redeemed.
But the man she had fought beside wasn’t real. He was a mask, a deception so carefully crafted that even she, with all her wisdom, had been fooled.
She closes her eyes against the stinging wind, but it cannot shield her from the memories. The feel of his hand gripping hers as they sailed to Númenor, the way he had stood at her side in council, his presence a quiet strength she had come to depend on. She had been a willing accomplice, trusted him with parts of herself she had sworn to keep hidden. She had let him into her heart, her mind—had let him believe that he could be something other than what he truly was. She had given him the power to hurt her, and he had done so without hesitation.
It had been foolish, a weakness she could not afford. And now, she paid the price.
Her heart pounds as the memory of their last confrontation resurfaces. The way his true nature had unfurled before her like a storm cloud on the horizon. His face—the last thing she saw before she fell— eyes wide, lips parted in shock. She had thought, for a fleeting moment, that he was reaching for her. But as the bitter truth sank in, she knew better. He wasn’t reaching for her. He was reaching for the ring clutched in her hand.
She remembers falling, the cold air biting at her skin, her body hurtling toward the churning sea below. The storm above her, the chaos in her mind, all of it blurred together as she clung to the one truth that shattered her: Halbrand was an illusion, and Sauron had been there all along.
And yet... she had let him in.
How could I have been so blind?
She hits the ground harder than she expected, her body shuddering on impact, but it’s the pain in her heart that sears the most. When her eyes flutter open, the storm still rages above, the wind howling, and yet, there is a moment of quiet within her—a cold, sinking realization. Sauron hadn’t been reaching for her. He was reaching for the power she held, the power that could tip the balance of Middle-earth into darkness. He had used her as he had used everyone.
She sits up, her fingers still gripping the ring, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The ache inside her chest is heavy, and yet, the betrayal has sharpened her, hardened her. She had fallen for his lies, for his false promises, for the man she thought he could be.
But now, all she feels is a hollow emptiness where hope once resided.
The sea roars beneath her, and she rises on trembling legs, her gaze locking on the horizon. She wonders, not for the first time if he had ever truly cared. If the betrayal was hers alone to bear. Did he regret it? Did he feel anything for her at all?
The answer comes to her with a cold clarity. No. Sauron felt nothing but the insatiable hunger for power, and she had been a pawn in his game. Her loyalty, her trust—he had used them against her, twisted them to his will, until she had crossed lines she swore she never would. She had defended him when she should have walked away, stood by his side when others saw the truth she had refused to see.
Her loyalty had been unwavering. And for what?
For this moment—standing at the edge of the world, the taste of betrayal bitter on her tongue and the knowledge that she had loved the lie he had spun so masterfully.
Even now, as the storm echoes around her, she cannot fully shake the connection they had shared. It lingers, like a shadow, whispering in the back of her mind—a bond built on lies, but real enough to hurt, real enough to scar. Despite everything, despite the betrayal that had cut so deep, she had loved him—loved the man she thought he was. And worse, part of her still does.
“How foolish I have been,” she thinks, the wind tugging at her as if it wants to pull her into the sea. But she will not let it claim her. No, not yet. Sauron may have left her broken, but she would not remain that way.
She had fought for him once, fought for the man he had pretended to be. Now, she would fight against him. Because despite everything, despite the lies, she would undo the darkness he had left in his wake.
The storm rages on, and so does she.
But even now, as she walks away from the cliff’s edge, there’s a part of her that knows the truth—the cruelest truth of all.
Painted in Photoshop.
My plan is to do at least each week one Lotr artwork, maybe until October. I usually never have the time for inktober, so that would be a nice idea to keep on practicing painting :)
La figura de Sauron se encuentra envuelta en una paradoja que trasciende lo meramente literario para inscribirse en el ámbito de lo filosófico: pese a su innegable dominio de la fuerza bruta, su verdadera hegemonía no descansa en la violencia sino en el arte del engaño. A diferencia de Morgoth, su predecesor y maestro en la malevolencia primordial, Sauron no se regodea en la destrucción caótica, sino que opera con la sutil delicadeza del arquitecto que dispone las piezas de un juego cuyo final ha sido decidido de antemano. Su poder no es el de la imposición directa, sino el de la corrupción progresiva, el de la seducción insidiosa que ofrece no la esclavitud inmediata, sino la ilusión de la voluntad propia.
El error más frecuente al analizar a Sauron es reducirlo a un típico tirano dictatorial cuya fuerza se impone por medio de la brutalidad. Sin embargo, Tolkien, con su aguda comprensión de la historia humana y su sensibilidad mitológica, construye un antagonista cuya mayor arma no es la espada, sino la lógica perversa de la dominación. No es casual que su mayor creación, el Anillo Único, no funcione como un arma convencional, sino como un dispositivo de voluntad, una extensión de su propia esencia cuyo fin no es aniquilar a sus enemigos sino someterlos sin que ellos siquiera lo adviertan.
La estrategia de Sauron no es la de un guerrero que embiste, sino la de un jugador de ajedrez que mueve sus piezas con paciente deliberación. La caída de Númenor no se debió a una guerra abierta, sino a la instigación, al susurro calculado en los oídos del orgulloso Ar-Pharazôn, quien creyó que su conquista era suya, cuando en realidad ya había sido derrotado mucho antes de zarpar. Del mismo modo, su estrategia en la Tercera Edad no consistió en aplastar inmediatamente a sus enemigos, sino en desangrarlos con el tiempo, en debilitar sus alianzas, en hacer que los pueblos libres cayeran no por la fuerza de sus ejércitos, sino por la podredumbre de sus propias decisiones.
La concepción del mal en Tolkien se aleja del maniqueísmo superficial. Sauron no es simplemente una figura demoníaca, sino la expresión de un mal que seduce, que persuade, que ofrece poder con una mano mientras oculta las cadenas con la otra. No es casualidad que su caída final no ocurra en el campo de batalla, sino en la destrucción de su gran herramienta de control. Sin el Anillo, Sauron deja de ser el gran arquitecto de la voluntad y se convierte en un espectro impotente, un eco de su propia ambición.
Si algo nos revela el destino de Sauron es la fragilidad de su dominio: su poder, inmenso en apariencia, descansaba enteramente sobre una estructura de dependencia. La grandeza de su imperio no radicaba en la solidez de sus ejércitos, sino en la centralización de su esencia en un objeto singular, lo que lo convierte en un tirano de su propia creación. Es en esa contradicción, en la ilusión de una fuerza absoluta que se desmorona por su propia rigidez, donde se manifiesta la verdadera naturaleza de su derrota.
"For at that time the realm of Angmar arose in the North beyond the Ettenmoors. Its lands lay on both sides of the Mountains, and there were gathered many evil men, and Orcs, and other fell creatures. [The lord of that land was known as the Witch-king, but it was not known until later that he was indeed the chief of the Ringwraiths, who came north with the purpose of destroying the Dúnedain in Arnor, seeing hope in their disunion, while Gondor was strong.]"
Winter in Angmar... I think the Witch-king was already a wraith at this time, but I wanted to draw him as his human form is wasting away and he grows into his power. Loosely inspired by Jon Snow, with the bleak wintry landscape and red leaves ❄️🍂
The ages have come and gone and strange they have been for Nessa, a daughter of the ancient and perilous Kingdom of Nargothrond. Many battles passed as Arda was reshaped and reforged anew.
Now at the spring of theThird Age of that what Elves and Men and all other folk called Middle Earth, the elleth dwellt in the realm of Lothlórien, for in a way it had been in some ways familiar. In her heart it reminded her of Doriath, and its secluded woods. Dominion of Galadriel it was, and Nessa had fierce respect for the Noldorin Lady. She served in the personal guard of the Lady of the Light, as second in command, it gave her purpose in this new age.
Armed lightly, with merely a set of knives she patrolled the western border on the realm. Years of peace these were, yet Nessa had lived for long enough to know that in Arda peace was utterly fleeting.
Her feet ran up along the river bank, soft grass barely bending under her swift steps. No indications were there that the day would be anything but peaceful. Following the direction of the light breeze, the elleth ran and jumped up to a low branch of a mallorn tree. Closing her eyes she took her serene surroundings in. Throughout the long ages of wars and devastation she frequently forgot to appreciate simple beauty of nature, the peaceful sounds of birds chirping, and of water running underneath, the wind brushing through the golden leaves.
However, as she well knew, peaceful times never seemed to last longer than a fleeing moment. A strangely loud thud broke through the gentle hums of the nature, followed by a loud gasp of pain. Nessa shifted promptly observing the ground in which the sound came from. There was an intruder.. elf no doubt about it, though he scarcely resembled one given his strange clothing slowly rose to his feet looking around, assessing his environment. She frowned- strange sight this had been to her- for in all her long years upon Arda never had she seen someone appear out of thin air in such a manner. It awoke a strange curiosity in her. But, be that as it may she had a duty to uphold and so she lept from the branch as quietly as her elven feet could manage. He seemed at a loss of direction what so ever, so sneaking up proved to be easier than anticipated Drawing her dagger she pressed it lightly near the elf’s neck, she spoke in authoritative tone.
“What might you be seeking here, stranger?” The words rang out in clear Sindarin.
She did not opt for calling him an intruder quite yet, until she established his purpose.
