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“You look angry, at least,” Galadriel said.
Turgon disliked her. He always had. When they were children, he had disliked her because she would never stay in her place, with the youngests—the Ambarussa, that was, and of course, his littlest brother. In adolescence, he had disliked her because she mocked him as sharply as Aredhel did, without half a sister’s right.
Now, he could not bear her cunning bids at forming some cousinly alliance. At the edge of this thrice-cursed lake, she was ready to wage war.
In this way, she had not changed. She hated the Feanorians because she thought herself their superior.
Turgon hated the Feanorians because their arrogant faces—real or imagined—showed him his wife and daughter, left long ago in hiding. Because they showed him his mother and brother, dead and gone.
Galadriel—Artanis—could not share that hate.
“Go away, Galadriel.”
“Pointy-tongued, are we?”
In truth, he had the knot of a sob choking in his throat. He wanted to slip away somewhere to weep, and once his rage had been poured out, he suspected he would find, as he had before, something buried beneath the rage.
Fingon—God, Fingon, why—
I think it was the last time I was fully happy.
“Please,” Turgon said, as civilly as he could. “Leave me alone.”
To his surprise, she acquiesced. She was gone when he opened his eyes again.
It was a cruel thing, Galadriel reflected, to be alone and friendless, in a crowded camp. She did not really know if she thought this of herself, or of Turgon.
Perhaps both.
She tucked the thought away beneath her rage, where it would be safe.