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Elrond finds Galadriel walking by the river, her hands twisted in a tight knot before her. She is home but as ever does not quite seem to be fully here. It's the same for them all now, one way or the other; Middle-earth is slipping away from the elves, fading and darkening, and their kingdoms will be lost. The future lies beyond the sea. But here of course is Galadriel, coming back, finding the shores of Middle-earth once again when everyone else's eyes are looking west.
At least she is here, not hovering at the sickbed of the man - the king, apparently - she brought to Eregion. She's seen enough soldiers injured and dying, he knows, but in all these centuries it has never got easier. "How is your friend?" he asks.
She smiles a little but there's no warmth in it. "They say a little better this afternoon."
"Good, that's good."
"I think they are humouring me because I want him to live." She turns a half-step away from him, staring out at the river. In the distance a small boat turns aimlessly on the dark water. "I do want him to live. I have grown to like him, in a way."
"He's certainly fond of you from what I hear."
She flushes slightly at that. "He was delirious with fever when he said that."
"No, well," Elrond says, "of course."
A slight wind ruffles the edge of the river and sends the water-grasses bobbing in the wake of tiny waves. Galadriel looks down, her expression drawn and thin. "Не wanted to stay in Númenor and I would not allow it. To fall in the course of one's duty is an honourable thing, but I..." She takes in a long, staggered breath, as if she is parrying back tears. It's awful that she should be grieving like this - for her Southlander, for his people, for the fate of the elves, for Middle-earth, for all of it.
When Elrond folds her into a hug she rests her head against his shoulder and sobs. He regrets ever putting her on that boat. He wishes so much she had stayed on it.
But she is still Galadriel, and so before too long she is forcing herself back into composure, blotting the tears with her sleeve. "I'm sorry," she says.
"Oh, don't be sorry."
That does coax a smile from her. "I find it strange to think I have known Halbrand for as little time as I have." Another long, careful breath, and this time it's not just grief, he doesn't think it's grief, and something inside him lurches.
"Please," she goes on. "Don't speak of this to anyone, I only tell you as my dearest friend."
"Tell me what?"
Beyond them the little boat appears to be in some sort of difficulty, lurching too far over as the wind catches its sail askance, and her attention is caught for a moment by the sounds of laughing argument that drift back to them over the water. It's a cold day for the time of year and he hopes whoever's sailing it can resolve their disagreement before one of them ends up in the water.
"Galadriel," he presses.
"He is dear to me, more than I had thought. We became - close. And I. We." She cannot quite look at him. "We lay together, once."
"No." It's unthinkable, really it is, and some part of him is still desperately hoping this is some strange sort of joke.
"The night before the battle. We went out together to talk, and." There are no more tears but she runs her hands over her face as though she is trying to catch all those left unshed.
"Galadriel, you are my dear, dear friend and I have certainly heard of strange things in times of war, but this - a mortal - and you're -"
"Foolish and ill-judged and whatever else you might wish to call me but I will not be ashamed. I have felt so lost for so long. I only tell you this so that you might better understand, and that if he should die..." She seems to run out of breath, then, and he's frozen, not knowing what he can possibly, possibly do. And then she gathers herself. "Look," she says, pointing out across the water, "they have righted that boat."
They have, indeed.
Words fail him, but friendship does not. He puts his arm around her again and she leans into him knowing he would never let her fall.
(Halbrand, or the ancient being presently calling itself Halbrand, does not die. It will be some years before they speak of this conversation again.)