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Chapter Text

The crunch of snow under their horses’ hooves was the only sound to be heard on that crisp winter morning. All else was quiet beneath the covering of snow - not even the whisper of wind to be heard.  As if the world was holding its breath.

While she thought the snow beautiful, Galadriel's present appreciation was more strategic - orcs couldn't easily hide amid the blanket of white which made an ambush unlikely. However, that did not mean that vigilance was unnecessary. 

The orcs were an ever-present threat. Had been since Eregion's fall months ago. Raiding parties roamed through Eriador assaulting and harassing its occupants - elves and men alike. While the latter fled to settlements like Pelargir further west, the only sanctuary for the elves here was Imladris.

Thus, they fought a war on two fronts. Elven soldiers sought out the enemy, engaging in skirmishes and clashes throughout Eriador, reducing the orc ranks whenever possible. At the same time, scouts and guards were patrolling the borders of Imladris to protect their new refuge.

Sword and shield. 

With little time for rest between orc raids, even the trained and experienced elves were fighting fatigue. Both of the body and soul. The sack of Eregion and the death of dear Celebrimbor had disheartened survivors and soldiers alike. Sauron's return and his new army of orcs had destroyed any illusion of peace.

If anyone had harbored doubt, or hope, it was now gone. 

The elves were at war.

The fires in the forges roared day and night as the smiths shaped armor and weapons. The sounds of ax and hammer as builders constructed defenses and shelters. The sight of couriers coming and going as the High King gathered allies and shared plans. The clang of steel as scouts and soldiers trained and fought, only resting and eating as duties allowed. 

They were all tired, and it had been mere months since Ost-in-Edhil had been sacked. A blink of an eye for elves. Galadriel already feared the toll of the years ahead. She was not as naive as she once had been when she believed the war with Morgoth would be won quickly. For better or worse, she fully grasped the enormity of the struggle they faced.

Which was why she was too preoccupied to appreciate the beauty around her. Instead, she concentrated on looking for signs that any orcs were lurking nearby. 

As she surveyed the area for any tracks or signs of disturbance, the muffled crack of a branch broke the silence. Galadriel looked to Nessanië and saw that the other scout was already scouring the trees for the source of the noise. Another sound, this time a soft scuffle, confirmed her suspicion that something - or someone - was hiding among the limbs and branches overhead. 

Galadriel examined the snow and saw no prints, thus, precluding the presence of orcs. They typically left a trail even an elfling could track. Galadriel then scrutinized the snow-covered branches above but could see nothing. 

A moment later, Nessanië pointed to a beech tree several meters away. She then reached for an arrow and notched her bow as Galadriel gestured for her to hold. She silently nudged her horse closer as she tried to locate the hidden figure. Finally, the smallest flash of movement focused her eyes and, after a moment, she could discern legs and arms.

Very small legs and arms.

Galadriel motioned for Nessa to keep watch as she dismounted and slowly approached the tree. Once there, she judged the distance to the tree limb in question as not too great. Relieved - as she had scaled few trees since childhood - she climbed to the branch's height and paused - her suspicions confirmed.

It was a child.

Though that was almost all she could distinguish. The hína wore a torn and dirtied tunic and was covered in grime. As well as what looked to be both elven and orc blood. Hair so filthy and tangled that she could not even tell its true color. But what broke her heart were the elfling's eyes.

No fear. No surprise. Resignation. Deadened to whatever future might come.

“Are you hurt, hína?”

The child said nothing, continuing to regard her blankly. Galadriel knew that look. It was that of someone who had witnessed horrors too terrible for their fëa to accept. She had seen it too many times on the battlefield. 

Galadriel inched slowly forward, not wishing to frighten the child. As she drew closer, she could see that the elfling was a small boy. Too small.

“Are you alone, seldo?” She asked, her voice quiet and soothing. “Where is your family?”

When he did not respond to her Sindarin, Galadriel repeated her questions in Quenya. Even in the Common Speech. But he showed no reaction. Not until she reached for him. Then, he flinched away, a panicked look in his eyes.

Unwilling to risk either's fall if she tried to grab him, Galadriel reached into her cloak and brought out a piece of waybread. She slowly offered it to him, breathing a relieved sigh when he took it and immediately ate, stuffing almost the entire piece into his mouth.

“Come down with me, vinimo,” she coaxed. “I have more food. Ci barn.”

This time, he seemed to at least understand her intentions and allowed Galadriel closer. She unclasped her cloak and wrapped the child gently in it before picking him up and climbing back to the ground. 

The child was as light as a bird in her arms. He was also poised to flee like one, and she tightened her hold.

She carried the hína over to Ithildin before setting him on the ground. She then reached for water and more bread from her saddlebag, watching as he consumed these offerings as quickly as he had the first.

Nessanië approached on her horse, and the child quickly hid behind Galadriel's legs.

“Alone?” Nessa asked, surveying the boy's frightened and unkempt state before turning her scrutiny to the surrounding trees once again. 

Galadriel nodded her head and kept one hand on the tense boy so he wouldn't flee.

“Do you think he's from the village Lord Elrond spoke of?” Nessa continued. 

Galadriel did not know. The orcs were staging raids throughout the region, and much of the elves’ efforts had focused on protecting its denizens. Only yesterday, word had come of an assault on a settlement of Silvan elves to the east of Imladris. Elrond had taken a company of soldiers to investigate and potentially evacuate the elves there.

Galadriel was uncertain as to how far that village was, but she couldn't discount the possibility. “There, or perhaps he was separated from his family while fleeing. Regardless, we need to hasten him to Imladris. I don't know how long he has been in the cold, but he needs care and attention.”

“Take him,” Nessanië directed. “I'll complete the patrol and sweep for any others.”

Galadriel hesitated, inclined to argue, but the other elleth was correct. The child needed to be taken to safety. And Nessa was more than capable of protecting herself. 

She had been one of the few remaining of Eregion's soldiers that had survived the siege and the battle. Nessanië had been part of the group of refugees that had fled to the sanctuary the elves now called Imladris. Now, she protected the valley and the elves who found shelter there.

Something she could not do for her own family - her parents and brother had perished in the attack. Despite her loss and grief, Nessanië was determined to safeguard what remained with a ferocity that matched Galadriel's own.

She had come to know the other elleth in the months since the elven city had been destroyed as they shared sleeping quarters in the camp. Though several semi permanent structures had been built - and more were under construction - priority had been given to those most vulnerable. 

The elven guards and soldiers - more accustomed to harder conditions - had elected to stay in the tents until all others were housed. Galadriel, despite her rank, had done the same once her wound had sufficiently healed. 

Among other reasons, she preferred the company of soldiers and their utilitarian ways. Duties that left little time for contemplation and manners that left little room for questions. It suited Galadriel and provided a reprieve from her own confused thoughts. 

And though she and Nessa talked, the other elf respected her boundaries and never asked Galadriel to share more than she was willing. A camaraderie suited for sharing quarters and useful for patrols such as this one. 

Thus, with a nod and promise to return, Galadriel reached for the child and lifted him to her mount's back. He no longer seemed frightened, but his expression had again returned to a vacant one. An emptiness that concerned Galadriel even more than fear.

She mounted behind him, wrapping them both in another cloak and nudged Ithildin's flanks. Still wary of the danger of orcs, she kept their pace slow and her senses heightened. 

At some point, the seldo must have fallen asleep beneath the cloak; Galadriel felt his weight shift as he leaned back into her. Her arm tightened gently as she held him close - his form so light that a strong wind could carry him away.

And she worried. 

An orphaned hína was a grievous matter. Unnatural and unhealthy, especially for one as young as this child. She recalled another orphaned boy from long ago, but even Elrond had not been so small and young as this one. He looked as if he had barely seen a few summers.

Elves typically had children in times of peace to prevent circumstances such as this. Yet, the Eriador elves had been at peace and safe - or so they believed - when he had been conceived and born.

No inkling of how swiftly and brutally that peace would be destroyed by the machinations of Sauron. 

Or of the part she, herself, had unwittingly played in them. In the calamity that led to a small hína being left alone in the middle of a war. No better than her Fëanorian cousins, she thought bitterly.

Galadriel was grateful when they reached Imladris without sighting any orcs - a fight would have endangered the boy. She had no wish to add to the horrors that must already live in his memory.

There were times that she wished elven memories were not so sharp. That grief was allowed to soften or fade. Galadriel knew well that even the good memories could haunt. Reminders of what was lost.

Or what could never be.

Galadriel nodded at the perimeter guards as she passed, noting the large number of horse tracks in the snow. Elrond and his party must have just returned from their sortie. 

Indeed, she soon heard the sounds of voices and metal and horses that accompanied the return from a mission. And it appeared that it had been a difficult one, she noted, as they drew closer. The soldiers were bedraggled, coated in earth and blood, and their demeanors were grim. Defeated.

Galadriel easily found Elrond, speaking softly to a soldier with downcast eyes. As quickly as her eyes alighted upon him, Elrond looked up and caught her gaze. Such was their custom - always aware of the other's presence and place, and the distance that separated them.

For better or worse.

Elrond briefly laid his hand on the elf's shoulder before making his way toward her. His gait was heavy, signaling to her that the most recent mission had added to the weight he had carried since Eregion's fall.

He had become such a contradiction in these last months. Galadriel had always taken solace in knowing Elrond. Understanding him, or at least believing she did. But, now, it was as if he had become a different language - one she was not fluent in. 

A language so full of confutations that she no longer trusted herself to interpret it with any accuracy. 

“The village?” She inquired when he stopped a few paces away.

The grim set of his mouth and the haunted look in his eyes as he gazed up at her gave the answer before he spoke. “We were too late to do anything but hunt down the raiders responsible,” he answered, his voice bitter and defeated.

The Shadow had taken so much from Elrond, and now it seemed determined to steal the light from his eyes as well. Galadriel mourned that loss deeply.

“Survivors?”

He shook his head, affirming her fears. Galadriel was distraught for the small child still hidden beneath her cloak. As if sensing her distress, Elrond stepped forward and placed his hand on her leg, looking up at her in concern.

She tensed at the unanticipated touch, and he immediately withdrew. Both reactions far removed from their customary ones, but it was not the time to dwell on the strained awkwardness that had found its way into their recent interactions. The elfling's care was paramount. 

Galadriel pulled the cloak away and revealed the child's presence. “We found him as we were patrolling the western valleys. Hiding and alone. Frightened.”

Elrond's eyes softened at the sight of the young boy, and Galadriel sighed. There you are. 

“His name?”

“He has said nothing,” she replied, shaking her head. “Not his name nor from where he came.” Galadriel looked down and found the child awake, his small face expressionless. As if he had sent his feä away - or it had fled at the violence he must have witnessed. 

“I believe the ordeal has stolen his voice,” she continued.  

For the briefest moment, Elrond's eyes wore the same far-away look as the boy's. Trapped in a memory that would never dim or soften. The expression quickly replaced by a gentle smile and concern.

Elrond cautiously stepped closer and let his hand slowly travel from the horse's neck toward the boy's perch on her saddle. Galadriel felt the child tense, though he made no move to flee. All the while, Elrond murmured words of assurance in at least four different languages. 

Though the elfling still kept silent, the tension eased from his small frame as Elrond continued to quietly speak. The hína watched carefully as Elrond's hand moved closer but did not pull away - even when Elrond patted his foot, surreptitiously squeezing his delicate ankle.

Seeing his worry at the boy's bony fragility, Galadriel offered, “He was starving and quickly consumed the bread and water I offered.”

Elrond's gaze flicked up at her words, and a quiet laugh escaped. “Of course you did,” he wryly remarked, and they shared a look of amused understanding. The sort only attainable after a thousand years of affection and love. 

The sort that exchanged whole conversations in the briefest glance. 

Galadriel clenched her jaw, swallowing back unexpected tears at the spontaneous exchange. She had missed this. The effortless intimacy of her relationship with Elrond had been absent these last months. 

They conferred on Imladris’ defenses and fortifications. They discussed enemy movements, and they argued over strategy. 

But gone was the easy affection of before. No more warm touches or physical closeness. No more shared glances or  meaningful looks. 

Not since Elrond had returned Nenya to her hand.

Galadriel recalled her surprise at hearing Gil-galad's voice as she opened her eyes. She had been so certain she would wake in the Halls of Mandos that it took a moment for her to comprehend that she was still alive and in Middle Earth. When she had, her first thought had been of Elrond. 

And, as always, he had appeared - alive and wearing a gentle smile. He seemed as relieved as she, though his expression held more than mere gratitude. An amalgam of feelings that she could not decipher.

And dared not try.

And then he knelt before her, taking the ring from his own finger. Galadriel had exhaled, relieved, as the power of the elven ring and the return of Elrond's smile made the world right again. The Light had returned and she felt whole once more.

She had much she had wanted to say to Elrond, but, as ever, the world and its troubles had offered no reprieve. The High King had solicited her counsel, and they watched as he held his sword aloft in answer. She saw Elrond smile at her again, the curve of his lips oddly bittersweet, before the cheers of the survivors caught her attention. 

When she had turned back, he was gone. 

Already busy organizing the camp's survivors and supplies. And thus had it been for months.

“Either he had been malnourished before the attack, or he's not from that village,” Elrond continued, scrutinizing the child's appearance. “The raid was too recent for him to be in this state. Perhaps he still has kin who are searching for him.”

Galadriel hoped such was the case. The child was so young to be orphaned and alone. As if hearing her thoughts, Elrond added, “he's terribly small.”

“I was taking him to the healers,” she explained, “so he can be checked more thoroughly for injury. I must return and assist Nessanië in case there are more survivors out there.”

“You go. I'll see that the little one is cared for,” Elrond assured her as he began speaking softly to the boy again. He lifted his arms towards the seldo, waiting to see how he would react. The elfling neither reached out nor shied away.

Sensing no resistance, Elrond carefully lifted the boy down and wrapped him in his cloak. Galadriel breathed easier after seeing no panic or fear in the hína's eyes as he settled into Elrond's arms.

The picture they made together almost broke Galadriel's heart. Elrond in his armor - curls disheveled and coated in sweat, blood, dirt, and grief - holding the innocent elfling more gently than he'd ever held a scroll. 

The child in no better shape than the warrior. 

Orphans both.

Was this to be the way of things now?

Galadriel had witnessed destruction and death on an unimaginable scale. The bodies of slain elves stacked in piles higher than hills. Kingdoms thrown into the sea. Continents on fire.

But she was reminded of the devastation of war on individual lives by the scene before her. An ellon and elfling - each having lost so much to wars they were born into. 

Wars that were both inflamed by descendents of the House of Finwë. Her bloodline. 

She remembered standing by her brother's body, bearing witness to the cruelty written upon it, as she accepted his task as her own. Would this tiny hína one day inherit her struggle? Their war? Galadriel refused to allow such a thing to come to pass.

She swallowed her tears and nodded stiffly, reminded once more that it was her duty - her responsibility - to set right what she and her family had begun. To prevent the darkness from ruining more lives and creating more orphans. 

“I shall complete the patrol, then, and assist Nessanië. You'll have my report when we return, my lord,” she replied.

Galadriel instantly regretted the formality of her words and tone - Elrond had done nothing to deserve such harshness. But such were their interactions of late as the chasm between had continued to widen - neither able to find a bridge.

Since Eregion. Since…

Ignoring the consternation so clearly written across Elrond's features, she tapped her horse's flank and turned back the way she had come. Galadriel refused to look back, concerned she would be unable to fulfill her duty if she did so.

And duty must take precedence above all else. Galadriel repeated that mantra to herself each time the image of the small child in Elrond's arms surfaced in her thoughts.

There was simply no room for distractions while Sauron's shadow spread throughout Eriador. His defeat was her priority. Her responsibility. Or there would be more lives lost. More destruction. 

And though she regretted the growing distance between herself and Elrond, perhaps it was for the best. She had hunted and battled the Shadow for too long to allow any deviation from her pursuit of the enemy.

Too much was at stake.

Galadriel had fully understood the weight of taking on her brother's vow as her own. What it meant. She knew that Finrod had chosen not to wed or sire heirs because of his own oath, and she had accepted that as her fate as well. 

For how could one commit wholeheartedly to the enemy's defeat when their heart wasn't their own? When it had been given to a lover or a child?

And, in truth, a soldier's life had suited her well. As Commander of the Northern Armies, her leadership and knowledge were respected. She had the authority she had always craved as the once-coddled daughter of the Golden House. And though there was often friction and disagreement with the High Lords, Galadriel thrived on it.

She was no wilting ellon, and no elf would have ever described Galadriel of the Noldor as accommodating or equable. Not even Elrond.

Elrond.

Galadriel's reaction to Elrond had become as contradictory as the Peredhel himself recently. Love. Always. Affection and admiration. But that love had become clouded, mixed with feelings both unexpected and unwelcome. Feelings that she refused to name.

Except for one. Anger. Galadriel was angry with him. After a thousand years of friendship, of knowing Elrond, he had no right to change. To alter the relationship that she had relied on as her constant.

And it was changed. One moment, he had been her dearest friend, begging forgiveness and saying farewell. The next…

She did not know. 

She did not want to know. Or so she told herself. Over and over.

And they had not spoken of it. Yet nor could Galadriel dismiss it despite her best efforts. Could not suppress the lingering questions - feelings - that had remained. 

And it infuriated her.

How dare he?

Galadriel had long ago accepted her doom as that of her brother. A warrior's fate. Soldiers fought together, but they died alone. A destiny she had embraced - to fall, standing against the darkness.

Not to live a placid life in the perfection that was Valinor. Celebrated for her failures.

And if she was meant to die alone, she must live alone. 

Her friends would grieve - Elrond more than any - but it was not the same as leaving a mate or child to mourn and endure endless years without her.

As she had done without Finrod. It was a wound that never healed, and she would not subject that pain on another. 

Yet now there was a new ache, and it grew deeper each time she recalled Elrond's touch. His hand on her face and his lips on her own. The sadness and adoration in his eyes as he pressed the clasp into her hand.

She would have laughed at the shock on Adar's face had it not mirrored her own. One word surfaced amid her own chaotic thoughts. More.

And a last regret as she stepped off that cliff, wishing for the briefest moment that Sauron's illusion had included Elrond. That his beloved face would have been the last she'd seen - even had it been a lie.

Only to be revived and to see that face again alongside a raised sword and a stark reminder that war had come. Yet she could not stop herself from dwelling on that moment and its repercussions. 

And Galadriel could not afford such distractions - a certainty brought home when she heard Nessanië call out. She glanced up and grimaced, having made her way back almost unaware. Her preoccupation as dangerous for others as for herself. 

“Any sightings?” She asked when Nessa drew closer.

“None. And no signs either,” she replied. “Not even a broken twig or trampled leaf. The seldo?”

“With Elrond.” 

Her friend's assessing look told Galadriel that her tone had revealed more than intended. Grateful that Nessa said no more, she turned Ithildin away, and they continued scouting.

The sun had set when they finally returned to the encampment. Both weary, Nessa offered to see to Galadriel's mount, knowing that she wished to learn of the child's welfare.

Though assured by the lack of orc signs, they had found no more survivors. Thus, the hína's orphaned status was more than likely assured. It weighed heavily on Galadriel's fëa as she made her way through the darkening camp.

The forges still burned, and the clang of steel sounded in the night. The machine of war did not sleep. Yet there were also murmured conversations and laughter amid the campfires. Soft songs and the smell of cooking.

But the sounds of elflings were absent - most of the surviving children having been taken to Lindon or the Havens. They were too precious to remain at risk here. 

Another reminder that war and family were incompatible. 

Galadriel entered the Healing Rooms - out of necessity, one of the first structures built in Imladris - and searched the area for the hína. Her heart fell when she could not find him among the elves being treated. Surely, he had not been so ill, she thought, fearing the worst.

“Do you need assistance, Commander?”

Galadriel turned to find one of the healers regarding her with a politely inquisitive smile.

“Lord Elrond brought you a small elfling earlier. Is he-” She stopped, unable to finish, fearing that she had failed yet another elf.

“The boy was fine,” the healer assured her. “Apart from hunger, fatigue, and exposure, we found no severe or lasting injury.”

At the healer’s news, Galadriel released the breath she had been holding. She could not have borne the grief had that small life been stolen. Another light extinguished. 

“Is he resting?” She inquired. “I would like to satisfy my own eyes that he is well.”

Galadriel was herself uncertain why she felt compelled to see the child again. She told herself it was only natural to feel protective of the life she had saved. Yet, it did not wholly explain the yearning to feel that small weight again.

A desire she tried to stifle. Something she had become proficient at over thousands of years of fighting. Until recently. Until soft lips made her wonder about…many things. 

As did the small weight of a helpless hína. 

“No, Commander. The child is with Lord Elrond.” The attendant's reply brought her from her thoughts, and though she was grateful for the interruption, Galadriel was also perplexed. Elrond had taken the boy with him?

Seeing her confusion, the healer elaborated,  “The seldo was calm and allowed our attentions while my lord held him but panicked and grew quite distraught when Elrond made move to leave him in our care.”

Galadriel did not pretend surprise. Elrond's gentle ways were a balm to souls troubled with fear and worry. His attention had a way of making one feel safe. Cherished. 

“Did he speak?” Galadriel asked.

The healer shook her head. “No, it was clear he had endured a traumatic incident. But his spirit will heal with time and patience and the work of the artificers.”

“Thank you,” she responded as she turned to leave. Galadriel understood the healing power of beauty, but questioned whether it could reach such a young elfling. The child needed love and affection more than art and music.

It was unthinkable for such a young elf to lose his parents. A vital connection that, if lost, could significantly affect a hína's emotional development. She thought of Fëanor losing his own mother as a babe.

In some instances, the child failed to thrive, and both their feä and hröa suffered irreversible harm.

Elrond and Elros had been older than this child, and they had each other as well as a number of guardians who cared for them. Thus, Elrond's willingness to do the same for this boy was not at all shocking to Galadriel. 

Nor was the fact that she found herself standing outside the pavilion that was Elrond's quarters. Her feet had brought her there without conscious thought or intent.

A desire to see Elrond and the elfling guiding her steps. Yet, once there, she hesitated, afraid to satisfy that longing. Reluctant to face another uncomfortable interaction with Elrond. 

As she stood outside, dithering over whether she should enter, Galadriel heard a voice singing. She recognized the melody as a song Elrond and his brother used to sing to each other. One taught to them by their mother.

Galadriel smiled - though Elrond had a beautiful voice, he rarely sang in others’ presence. Her mind made up, she moved the covering aside and stepped inside.

And stopped.

Chapter Text

It took her a moment to take in the image before her.

Elrond sat next to a brazier - his shirt and curls dripping with water - with the child, bright and clean, in his lap. The nearby tub provided explanation for both. Yet, this was not the sight that halted her.

The boy was beautiful. 

The bath had washed away the grime, revealing pale skin and delicate features that reminded her of her brother. Clean, white hair that curled softly in the warm air. And, somehow, he looked even smaller and younger wearing the over-large shirt that had replaced the filthy clothes she had found him in.

Her heart squeezed as she watched Elrond, head bent toward the child, singing a lullaby.

Reluctantly - for she hated to interrupt the tranquil scene - she quietly called his name, “Elrond?”

Both pairs of eyes looked up at the sound - one a gentle gray and the other blue as a summer sky. Wariness had replaced the deadened look the boy had previously worn, and she could just make out a dusting of freckles on his pinkened cheeks. 

“He battles sleep - as if afraid of what he will see when he closes his eyes,” Elrond said, noting her scrutiny. 

Indeed, she saw the child's eyes close only to have them snap open and sweep the area before they drooped again. A behavior she had seen on countless soldiers before. 

“He remains silent?” she asked, seeking confirmation of the healer's observation. 

“I believe he cannot find the words to understand what he has seen, and the weight of those words is holding down the rest.”

Galadriel did not question Elrond - he would understand the child's trauma better than most. And she knew well how grief could swallow one's own voice, and that words were often insufficient. 

How the elves’ own language had been required to evolve as evil grew in the world. Words like ‘death’ and ‘war’ and ‘darkness’ now weighed it down - heavy with the grief and memories they carried.

Wishing to lighten the worry in Elrond's eyes, she allowed a teasing note of incredulity in her tone when she noted, “You bathed him.”

A sardonic smile graced his face and his eyes brightened. “Apparently, there was an elfling beneath all that grime, though it required a great deal of water and soap to find him,” Elrond said as he stood and approached her, the boy in his arms.

Before she could react, he thrust the seldo into her own. “Take him, won't you? I seem to be wearing most of the bath.”

She accepted the boy's weight, feeling once again the rightness of it in her arms. Clean, he seemed even lighter if that were possible. She looked down to find large blue eyes silently regarding her and wondered at them. 

These were not the carefree, innocent eyes of a young one. They carried a haunted solemnity, and it outraged Galadriel. 

This was Sauron's version of ‘healing’ Middle Earth. 

The hína tensed in reaction to her unspoken anger, and she forced herself to relax. They regarded each other while Elrond continued speaking as he rummaged through a nearby chest.

“I asked Camnir to spread word - to see whether any other survivors know the child or his family.”

“And if they do not?” Galadriel asked. She glanced toward Elrond and stopped, staring at the unexpected sight.

He was facing away from her, pulling the soaked shirt over his head and revealing a back toned from fighting and riding. Elves were modest creatures, and though she had known Elrond for over a thousand years, she had rarely seen him in any state of undress.

Galadriel was dismayed by the obvious evidence that he was no longer the younger, inexperienced elf that had first come to Lindon. His was not the soft form of a politician or herald but that of a seasoned warrior.

Bruises and scrapes littered his skin - some from that day's skirmish and some older. Galadriel would have offered Nenya's healing power had she thought he'd agree. But it was more likely that he'd insist it wasn’t needed.

Oblivious to her regard, he continued speaking as he ran a hand through his damp curls before turning to her, new shirt in hand.

“Have you eaten?” He inquired, nodding toward the food on the table near her. “The healers recommended only a little at a time for him.”

It was only then that he seemed conscious of her eyes watching him. Elrond's own widened before he quickly slipped the shirt over his now disheveled curls. 

“Did you-”

“Have you-”

Both stopped and waited for the other to speak again - the awkwardness once again returned. 

Elrond, a flustered expression on his face, moved to the desk and began straightening the scrolls and maps atop it. Galadriel, too, sat down with the child at the table and offered him small bites of bread and cheese.

The sizable pavilion, which served as the High King's accommodations and meeting area when he was in Imladris, felt uncomfortably small as the silence grew. Even the elfling's eyes darted back and forth from Galadriel to Elrond as he chewed the bread she provided.

She hated this. She and Elrond had always been able to sit in contented silence with one another. To find peace in each other's presence. This awareness had ruined that, and she worried it would never return.

One more thing to mourn. 

Finally, Elrond cleared his throat and asked for her report, reverting to a safe topic. “You found no trace of other survivors or refugees?”

“None,” she affirmed with a grimace. “Either his people are gone or they have no wish to be found. At least not by us."

There was a pause as Elrond approached the table, a considering look in his eyes. “That may be our answer,” he said, scrutinizing the seldo.

It took a moment for Galadriel to understand his implication, but it was certainly a possibility. 

“Evair?” She clarified. 

The Avari were the elves who had refused to accept Oromë's invitation to go West in the Great Journey. Known as ‘the Unwilling,’ they had remained in Middle Earth, splitting into six tribes. Though some Avari later established relations with the Eldar, many remained isolated and secretive.

Little was known of their ways as they lived deep in the forests and in caves in hidden communities.

Only a few had ever been accepted into Sindarin society in the old days of Beleriand. And she knew of none in Noldorin communities. 

Elrond crouched down to the boy's level and began speaking. Galadriel did not understand the words herself - few knew the various Avari languages - but she could see a spark of recognition in the elfling's eyes at some of the words.

Noting the same, Elrond explained, “I know only a few words in some of the dialects, but he seems to understand Kindi.”

“Tatyar.”

The Tatyarin Avari, once part of the same clan as the Noldor, were especially distrustful of their distant kin. Bitter, they viewed the Noldor as deserters and were overtly hostile to the Calaquendi that had returned to Middle Earth in the Exile.

“Possibly,” Elrond acknowledged. “Though even the lore masters know little of the Avarin languages and their origins.”

Elrond spoke more Kindi to the boy, and he seemed to understand, though he still said nothing. However, upon hearing the familiar words, his small shoulders relaxed, and he leaned back against Galadriel.

Of its own volition, her hand began to run through his curls in a soothing motion, and she was pleased that he finally closed his eyes. When his weight finally slumped into her lap, Elrond gently lifted him and carried him to the camp bed in the corner.

Galadriel waited as he tucked the tiny body under several blankets. She watched as he smoothed the boy's hair from his face, rubbing his thumb along the delicate temple and cheeks. 

When he finally returned, she quietly warned him, “It may complicate the circumstances.”

“How so?”

“You know well the mistrust - the antagonism - between the Tatyar and the Noldor,” she replied, somewhat incredulous at Elrond's naivety on the topic. “Between the Avari and the Eldar.”

“I do not see the relevance,” he argued. 

There were times that Elrond's idealistic nature - his insistence on believing others saw the world as he did - frustrated her greatly. She had, in the past, criticized him for it. In truth, though, Galadriel admired how he stubbornly clung to his belief that others shared his own goodness. 

Even when it meant he was lying to himself.

Because those lies allowed him to keep moving forward. To continue believing that his actions mattered and that the Light would prevail. 

And she listened to those lies for the same reasons. Yet she also understood that certain realities could not be ignored.

“Many believe his kin colluded with Morgoth and hold them responsible for the orcs,” she reminded him.

Galadriel had done so herself, as she had told Adar when he was captured. The harsher tellings of elven lore held that the Moriondor had been Avari and had conspired with Morgoth. Even the kinder versions regarded the Avari as savage and primitive. 

And while her interactions with Adar had subtly shifted her own views, many elves, especially Noldorin, still held those views and looked on the Avari with contempt.

The Eldar had not forgotten that the Avari refused to fight with them in the War of Wrath and had accused the Avari of treachery throughout the ages.

“You would reject this child because of a heritage not of his making?” Elrond demanded angrily - his voice uncharacteristically close to yelling.

A small whimper from the bed caught their attention, but the child remained asleep. Elrond turned back, chagrined at his own reaction and disappointed in hers.

“Not I, mellon,” she assured, hating to see that look in his eyes. “But others might.”

“No.”

“Elrond-”

“I said no,” he interrupted, his voice a strained whisper. “I will not allow it.”

Galadriel said nothing. She could see that the hína's story affected him. Intimately. And she understood and despised the reasons for it. Enough Eldar were prejudiced against Elrond's own peredhel lineage and viewed him as apart or other.

It had become a cornerstone of the early years of their friendship. Though for different reasons, neither of them had ever fit the traditional image of an elf in their society.

Nerwen and Peredhel.

“He shall remain under my protection and privilege,” Elrond declared gravely - his face stern and his jaw set in the manner it did when he chose to be intractable.

Galadriel knew he understood the gravity of his decision - Elrond had been fostered by numerous guardians himself. It was a sacred responsibility and not to be entered into lightly.

Especially in wartime.

“No one would harm the child, Elrond.”

“There are many types of harm, Galadriel.”

She sighed, knowing that he spoke from his own experiences. Her heart always broke when she considered his own turbulent childhood. It still amazed her that Elrond and his brother had become such exemplars of Eldar and Edain ideals after what they had endured so young.

Elves cherished their offspring, and her own childhood in Eldamar had been idyllic. As it should be for all chîn. It was why so many elflings had been taken west to safety.

And so that the soldiers could place all their efforts into fighting the enemy rather than protecting the helpless.

“We are at war, Elrond, and winning it must be our sole ambition,” she argued, attempting to persuade him to reconsider. “This is why we do not have children at such times.”

“You speak harshly, but I know that is not you. You would not abandon a child,” he insisted. 

“I speak as a soldier, which is what I am, Elrond,” she argued. “And soldiers cannot afford to have children.”

Galadriel was growing increasingly frustrated with him. He had to understand. The only way they would win this war was if they were willing to sacrifice everything. Even dreams like family.

“Then perhaps I am the mere politician you accused me of being,” he retorted, his anger clear in the strained whisper. “Not the dedicated soldier who sees no further than the tip of her sword.”

“That sword has saved countless lives,” she replied heatedly, stepping toward him. Her own anger had surfaced at his accusation. 

How could he? Elrond knew better than anyone what she had sacrificed to defeat the darkness. What she had given up so that countless elves would not have to experience pain like hers.

“And taken them.”

“As has your own,” she countered hotly. “Or wasn't that orc blood on your armor earlier?”

“The difference is that I know what I fight for. I fight for the living, Galadriel, not the dead.”

Galadriel felt as if she had been struck. His words wielded like a weapon that stabbed, and the pain no less.

She had no idea how they had come to this. Though she and Elrond often disagreed, they rarely argued. Not like this. Not with words aimed like arrows. And they never yelled - even in hushed whispers. 

It felt as if they were not having the argument, but that the argument was having them. An inevitable confrontation that they could not have avoided. Not since…

“Elrond-”

“Life, Galadriel, and all its small beauties,” he interrupted yet again - his expression vehement, though his tone softer. “Family and children and everyday joys. Even its sorrows. I have no appetite for defeating Sauron if the price is this boy's life and future. I told you once - there can be too high a cost.”

“And what cost is too high?” She demanded. 

“You,” he answered simply before nodding at the sleeping hína. “Him.”

Galadriel's eyes filled with tears as they stood there, catching their breaths. No more was said because enough had been said. Too much. As if they both knew that one more word would take them across a line, and there would be no return.

A risk she could not take.

“Peace,” he finally said, regret clear in his eyes. “Goheno nin.”

Galadriel tensed, recalling the last time he had said those words. And what happened after. She did not trust herself. If he kissed her again…

“I bid you goodnight,” she said hurriedly before walking over to the child. Reaching down, she smoothed his curls away from his face. “Losto vae, vinimo.”

She then steeled herself and walked out, not allowing herself to look back at Elrond. Even soldiers know when a retreat is warranted. 

She returned to her tent, grateful that the encampment was quiet and dark - only a handful of souls tending to the fires and keeping watch. The forges banked and weapons stowed for a precious few hours.

How could Elrond not understand? They were responsible for the safety and survival of all of the elves here in Imladris. In Middle Earth. It was dangerous - not simply selfish - for either of them to allow distractions.

Unfair perhaps. But so much in this world was so. The child's life was better served - and saved - by her sword than her embrace.

When she reached her tent, she found Nessa sleeping, her shrewd eyes closed. Tired from her duties and the argument, Galadriel merely shrugged off her tunic and boots before slipping beneath the bedding.

Yet as fatigued as her body was, it took hours for her to find sleep. Images cycled through her mind - hard steel and warm blood mingled with soft touches and gentle kisses. A pattern of sleeplessness that had repeated these last months.

Finally, exhausted, she drifted off. 

Only to wake suddenly with the knowledge that something was amiss. Her hand instinctively reached beneath her blanket for her brother's dagger but found nothing.

Yet she was grateful for its absence a moment later when she realized what woke her. Or who.

To her astonishment, the child was lying next to her, snuggled against her warmth and watching her. Galadriel had no clue as to how he had done so without waking her or, as confirmed by a glance, Nessa.

The Avari were said to be extremely skilled at stealth, disappearing effortlessly into the forest and caves they inhabited. It would seem this seldo had already mastered those abilities. 

She found herself impressed by the young one's accomplishment. It was no mean feat to make his way unnoticed through the camp and into the tent of two seasoned warriors. 

“How did you find me?” She asked, not truly expecting an answer. And he simply continued watching her, not giving one. Galadriel surprised herself with a soft laugh before saying, “Elrond will be worried. Come.”

She stood and picked up the boy - finding comfort in his weight in her arms again - before setting off back through the camp. As she walked, Galadriel realized that he must have tracked her steps - there was no other way that he could have found her in the large encampment. 

Even more impressed by the little one's abilities, she carried him back to the pavilion and was unsurprised when she found Elrond still sleeping and unaware of the boy's absence. 

Quietly, she set the boy down next to the sleeping elf - the High King's quarters having a relatively large bed - and made to leave.

As she did, the elfling reached out and grabbed her hand, refusing to let go. His watchful eyes seemed to be insisting she stay, and she worried that, if she left, he would simply follow or find his way again. 

Both an inconvenience for them and a danger for the little one. 

And she was so tired.

So Galadriel acquiesced, carefully laying down - the child between her and Elrond. She promised herself she would stay only until the seldo fell asleep. Again, he burrowed into her, his tiny body relaxing.

Thankfully, Elrond did not wake, and Galadriel was reminded that his duties as Lord of Imladris were exhausting too. He seemed determined to take on every responsibility and duty himself. 

As if he heard her thoughts, Elrond mumbled in his sleep, and Galadriel was almost certain that she heard her name. He then reached over the small child until his hand settled on her, and there it stayed.

Unwilling to risk waking him, she allowed it to remain, attempting to ignore the same sense of rightness she felt holding the boy.

Galadriel closed her eyes and, within moments, was fast asleep.