Oh, Galadriel, you are solemn as you die. You never thought you'd go quietly but as your left lung wheezes with the weight of being pierced by a cracked rib, you find you have no will to fight death. Your once furious eyes flutter with the gentle stillness of eternal rest; and as you go, you release a last breath with one resounding, peaceful hum . . .
But those eyes do not flutter fast enough, no. You catch sight of the glimmering, furious deity just as the last reaches of air exhale out of your mouth--huhhhh, you suck the shakiest breath of this millennia back into your wavering lungs, the adrenaline enough to bring your violet eyes open enough to realize you have done something horribly, horribly wrong.
There is no protestation as the shimmering goddess commands you. You cannot fight her whims just as much as Carcinus (she forces the name of the crustacean to repeat in your mind, to irreversibly implant the damage you have done to her) could not fight yours. You barely register the trail of stardust that appears almost silly compared to the might of monster. You blink slowly. You manage half-breaths. You wonder if this is all death-delusion, some trick of the mind. Or if this is hell, now, and you have infuriated the gods enough to spend all of eternity dying on this beach.
In the half-second span between your breaths, all of this universe changes, again. You are whole, Galadriel. Oh, so completely and gloriously whole--you must celebrate, you must breath in one full breath--
But the deity--"Hera, do not forget it," she whispers as she disappears--has other plans for you. Dread fills your belly on instinct. A boulder builds perilously on the cliff of your stomach. You slow-blink again, but this time as your eyes adjust to the cave's dim light, you realize something is terribly wrong.
Is this how you wish me to die? You cast your eyes to the sky and think Hera, Hera, Hera, do not give me this second chance only to waste it in minutes. But the gods are divine, immortal, and entirely impartial. You mean less than the lowest human to them. Even with your powers--which you are so cruelly stripped of now--they do not value your thick muscle to the sinewy, lean curve of their beloved heroes.
A lesson, Galadriel. Will you learn it?
You chose to ignore the lion, instead wallowing in self-pity and begging a goddess that barely watches this battle she staged herself. A mistake. The maned creature is much larger than the lions of your homeland, sleek and muscular in a way none of Beqanna's shifters could ever dream of achieving. The creature launches toward you, jaws wide open and claws out-stretched; and before you can allow yourself a shriek of fright, you lurch to the right and into a shadowed, tightly-knit copse of trees. You don't stop until you've woven several trees deep. You can see the light of the other side winking through the end of the copse but still, you think, this will save you some time.
For a few moments you listen for the crashing chase of the maned predator, but nothing comes. You think that odd, but you eventually press toward the other side. You know that you cannot hide forever. (Oh, Galadriel, you foolish girl. Do you not question the lack of pursuit from the monster tasked with killing you?)
Through the trees, you finally step onto the dusty ground of the surrounding pit. To your left is a boulder three times your height. A gray stone you did not notice amongst your panic and the shadows. A narrow path lies between the boulder and the raging rapids of an underground river. You do not hear your opponent around the corner, so you consider the path before you: stay here, between the walls of the pit, the frothing water, and the dark trees, or move forward into more open air.
You move forward, Galadriel. That's all you've ever done, isn't it? Move forward so blissfully blind? So caught up in yourself?
As you step delicately close to the boulder, a roar sounds. But you are too late, for the creature leap as it roars and lands atop your shoulders. At first, you writhe and think you can withstand the pain of large claws tearing into your shoulder and withers. You slam your body into the rock with all your might, but that only serves to daze you. It's when the lion bites into your neck that you fall to your side, breath leaving your body with the sudden force of your tumble.
And suddenly, the weight is gone. Your eyes flutter like they did in their death-shudders, and you hear the pitiful squeals as the lion paddles uselessly against the rapids. In and out you breath once again, your back hanging a few inches over the edge.
It was luck, just as it was the two times before. None of this was entirely of your own plan.
And, so, Galadriel, you learn as Hera laughs and applauds at your simplicity: you will only ever be a fickle, sour-faced girl.
