For Bejai, whose Deific Flame spawned this. It has been far too long.   

~*~

It is unfortunate, Elrond thinks dispassionately, that there are so many silver-haired elves at the harbour to greet the Grey Ship. Silver hair, for Elrond – long, water-bright, shining – was only for a singular bloodline, a family trait, unheard-of otherwise.

He holds the lady a little tighter, she of the silver hair who sought his arms before he could even step off the ship completely, yet the newness and the familiarity strike discordant notes somewhere in his being. She tilts her chin up to meet his lidded eyes, her hand resting on his chest saying I know, I know.   

He watches, indeed all eyes assembled watch Galadriel alight, and another slender, silver-haired lady calls Galadriel Nerwen, quietly, as if on the exhalation of a long-held breath. He realizes that Galadriel has lost much of her inscrutability along with Nenya, that she no longer knew nor cared that her soul lay bare for any person to see. He does not know why, but it hurts, immeasurably, to see Eärwen look upon her daughter for the first time in three Ages, only to see lost magnificence.      

Olwë clears his throat and blinks away some tears, and does not interrupt the embrace between mother and daughter. He does not notice that Galadriel bows to him, respectfully, and allows him to kiss her forehead, but avoids looking at him.

Elrond sees Galadriel’s eyes shut, as if she wishes to see no more. He wonders how Celebrían will ever forgive Celeborn for that.

*

They just keep coming, these silver-haired elves. They are not of Olwë’s house or family, but Alqualondë seems to be full of them. There is one in every corner, Galadriel tells Elrond, her voice, her heart, too blank to be unaffected.  

Celebrían worries in private, and wonders why Elrond sees things she does not. Even at night, walking along the sea, stepping on pearls and shells and sand, Elrond does not have the words to tell her why, although he suspects she knows.

He cannot bring himself to watch when Celebrían, a little hurt and a little puzzled, confronts her mother that night. He does not see Galadriel raise a white, long-fingered hand and run it through Celebrían’s hair, but he hears her whisper I am sorry.  

Olwë cannot understand, Eärwen does but cannot comfort this strange person, this Galadriel, and Celebrían has only wept once for the loss of her daughter and her sons and her father. The only solace Elrond can offer is that her sons and father are not lost, not yet.  

Finarfin, blessedly yellow-haired, rescues his daughter and takes her to Tirion. Her shoulders shiver a little under his touch, and he thinks it may be the cold.

*

Some time later, Galadriel sends Elrond a letter, in her clear, structured hand: Would you like to meet Elu? I must, I fear. It will be taken amiss if I delay too long. I would be grateful for your company.

Celebrían slips her arms around him, places her cheek against his back, and says quietly, “I would go.”

Elrond places his hands over hers. “And I would not have it otherwise.”

“My mother--”

“Requires our assistance.” He turns and presses a brief kiss to her lips. “I would not meet Elu without Celeborn’s daughter next to me.”

*

Galadriel rides with a single escort, and Elrond suspects that that was the only allowance she made for Finarfin’s concerns. Elu does not reside far away, Elrond is informed, in a forest with a cave enough like Menegroth of old. Galadriel is quiet most of the time, unusually so, or encourages the young guard to talk incessantly.

Inside the forest, inside the cave, surrounded by curious onlookers and knowing looks and rising whispers, Elrond first sees Elu, and words nearly fail him.

His eyes wide, with surprise and wonder and sudden tears, Elu lifts the kneeling Elrond, presses a kiss to his forehead and holds him so tight that Elrond can barely exhale. He is surrounded by silver, is Elrond, with hair, light and soul, so terribly familiar, yet not the same. Behind him, he hears Celebrían swallow.

When let go of, Elrond steps back, and Elu turns to Galadriel.

She kneels, dropping to her knees, and Elrond cannot recall her doing this with anyone, not even her own father. Behind Elu, Melian rises, and it feels like the room bursts with the first bloom of jasmine.

But Galadriel, Galadriel stares at Elu, into Elu, drinking the sight of him in with fey, overbright, terrified eyes. Elrond wonders if she can breathe. Melian steps forward, Galadriel steps back. He has never seen Galadriel like this, so helpless in the face of onslaught, so unprepared, so willing to continue doing this to herself.

Elu is unable to help the compassion dawning on his face. “Lady Galadriel--”

She puts a hand up, a little wildly, looking from him to Melian and then back to him. “I…apologise.”

Melian takes her in her arms, and at the Maia’s touch, Galadriel breaks, surrendering, drawing deeper breaths of air, refusing, refusing to let tears fall.

*

Galadriel leaves that night itself, alone, with no explanation and no escort, leaving Elu momentarily furious. Elrond can imagine her, riding as fast as her horse can carry her, perhaps allowing herself the sorrow, the longing, running away, back to Tirion, where there were fewer silver-haired elves to confront.

*~*