silverdefender | Open RP Post

He had suspected, not having her Foresight. But they know each other too well for doubt to be between them.

"And I will wait still longer," he affirms, leaning just a little to return and answer the sweet kiss.

"Our home survives," he offers assurance here, too. "Battle rages for a time, but ends in our favor."

He doesn't fight his answering smile and he tightens his hold, lifting a little to spin her around once, twice, before letting her feet touch the ground.

"I landed on my feet, though the creatures who fell with me did their best to alter that fact."

She laughs as he lifts her and draws her close, spinning her twice round before her feet so much as graze the floor. She rests her head against the side of his, cheek to cheek, and the edge of her smile presses against his. She has not been so enthralled, so utterly delighted by simple touch, since they were first wed. His words hold infinitely more weight than Thranduil's or Legolas's.

To hear him declare the end of the war was to know it ended thus.

"They can be vicious, can they not? They nearly slew me when last I arrived here. It was a near thing but, fortunately, Haldir was by my side."

It was an admission of some great weight. It had been a very long time since anything had come close to taking her life, or at least as close as those demons had, and to keep it from him would be a terrible thing.

"I do not wear a scar and even I am startled by that."

Her laugh is music that never fails to lift his spirits. He's missed simply holding her more than he'd been letting himself think on, and he'll continue to hold on for as long as she feels they can get away with.

She knows this world while he does not. Yet.

Knowing the Marchwarden is here and has been protecting Galadriel helps, a little. But Celeborn still pulls back with a frown, searching for any lingering sign of injury despite her saying there is none.

"I should have done more to them." Even though the demons he's fought aren't the same who attacked his wife. "Who else is here?" A quick glance around, taking in a few more details, has him turn back to her. Certain details had been noticed but dismissed, but now are obvious.

"Thranduil?" Another ally, but is he still here?

"Yes, he has inserted himself into a position of power, to no one's surprise," she says and moves back. Her hand lingers on his arm, though, because still she cannot abide fully breaking contact with him.

"For a time, his son was with us, and of late several of my cousins have appeared in this land, as well as Elros. Death, it seems, plays no part in deciding those who arrive."

She takes the time to look him over, at last, and finds him in good order. She would expect little else, but given that she had nearly been cleft in twain, she felt compelled to make certain.

"We came to a conclusion, Thranduil and I...that we were meant to be in this place. We are needed, melda, or I was, and you shall be as well. The state of our kin here is...all I have ever feared."

"No," he agrees, letting a hand rest at the small of her back for the same reason. "It will be good to see him. I can speak of what news I have of Legolas."

Knowing her family as he does...And if Mandos's Halls can be snatched from... "Which cousins?"

His attention is fixed on her every word and nuance. Only she holds him still despite the sinking of spirits with the state of things here. "Then it is good that we are here."

She pauses, for she knows his temper, but she also knows she cannot keep it from him. His agreement, tacit though it is, to assist gives her joy but not enough that it eases the information she must give him.

"Maedhros, Maglor, and Fingon," she says without flourish or fanfare. "Though Maglor did not suffer Mandos ere he came here. The other two are...so very young, it is almost jarring."

It is jarring, in some cases, but she cannot fault them their youth.

His temper immediately flares with a low hiss of breath. He takes no comfort knowing Maglor hadn't died, has lived in secret through the Ages.

"Have they been locked away?" Will he have to rescue those he holds anger toward for his wife's sake? He thinks not, for they would likely already be working toward such a thing.

But he knows her affection for them. As well as the affection Elrond and Elros hold for the two Feanorians.

His temper shows across his face, his frustration in the question that he already knows the answer to. They have not been locked away because, truly, what prison could equate what they had done and the suffering they had generated. What prison but Mandos?

"I do not ask that you forgive them, for even I am uncertain if I can, but do them no harm," she says and steps closer, settling her free hand on his shoulder. "Please."

It is much to request, given all that they have done, to Celeborn and his kin above all others, but she asks it all the same.

"Come, let us not speak of such things now; you have traveled farther than we know and while this place is not full of luxury, what little there is I can guide you to. Eat, bathe, and rest, and we shall think on darker things a little later."

Even Mandos is too good for them, he feels. But her hand on his shoulder and her request to not harm them stay his anger. She knows better than to ask him to forgive them, because he cannot. Not even for her.

Still, even not attacking them is much to ask. Celeborn takes in a deep breath, closing his eyes, then lets it back out in a sigh. "For so long as they do not harm you, I will not raise blade against them."

He slips both arms around her again at the suggestion, then he unbends enough to softly kiss her before moving to sweep her off her feet. "Tell me where we might do these lighter things?" He trusts her to guide him when he knows not where to go.

The sound she lets out as he sweeps her up is one that only he has ever heard, it is a delighted sound, laced with surprise and a note of weak admonishment all at once. It is a wordless exaltation and it is always chased with a blush and a beaming grin. She drapes her arms round his neck and ducks her head to hide her smile before she gestures with one hand toward the door.

"That depends upon which you would do first," Galadriel answers him fondly. "All of them lie beyond, but in very different directions."

In all of which someone is certain to see them and, despite her fear of notice and her worry over templars, she cannot bring herself to be even slightly concerned. It is perhaps unwise to be so complicit when in the presence of her husband but, as long as he is by her side, she finds it so much harder to hold on to fear.

"There are heated baths to the left, as well as the kitchens, and a comfortable bed is to the right. I shall direct you gladly to whatever you seek, melda."

It's a sound that he treasures and earns a soft chuckle and warm smile. He kisses her temple before considering where to go first on the way to the door.

He doesn't know yet who to worry about, but for this moment he just concentrates on having his wife in his arms and a peaceful night just for them. He'll fight to make it happen, if necessary.

"The order in which you mention them suits me well." So he turns left past the door, looking forward to washing the grime of battle off, though it isn't all that much. He was one of the luckier Rifters.

She directs him with a series of gestures and a few soft words while he walks the halls of the Gallows. The halls themselves are not overly welcoming, bare stone and the remnants of the previous owners linger, but they are not so unwelcoming that they could impose. The baths are at the base of the tower and they reach them in reasonable time. It is she who pushes the door open when they arrive and, thankfully (a thought that occurs to her only after she has opened the door in), they are empty of other people.

The water in the center of the room steams invitingly and Galadriel indulges herself, for a moment, running her fingers through his hair. He will have to put her down to indulge in the water and, honestly, she cannot fault him. It looks comfortable beyond reason and she is still terribly sore from her manic exercising.

"I can restore your clothing for you, melda, but it will have to wait until morning. I have spent more of myself today than I should."

He won't claim to like their location, but he can see strength in the simplicity of the design. Each direction is followed without question or hesitation beyond ensuring they won't be interrupted or run into along the way.

Celeborn leans his forehead against Galadriel's as she plays with his hair, content to just stand still while she does so despite the promise of the baths. Eventually he gently sets her back on her feet and closes the door.

"The morning will come soon enough for such." He's not all that worried about what he wears right now so long as they are serviceable. Later, yes, clean clothing that is well made and undamaged- not that just a few tears matter much- would be appreciated. "How likely are we to be disturbed in this room?"

"At this hour? Not very," Galadriel answers and regards the pool before her. "It is heated at all times and people come as they will, but few have used it today."

~~Because reasons.~~

"Do you wish for privacy, my dear? I can leave you if you suddenly feel shy?" Galadriel teases but lightly and she makes no move to leave the room. Twenty years would have felt terribly long, or so she imagines, given how long two has felt, but it is hardly any time at all to the two of them. He could no more be shy in her presence than she could be cryptic in his.

"Else I had planned on joining you?" This question has a bit more actual question to it. If he does not intend to soak or, for some unfathomable reason decides he would prefer to bathe alone, she will allow him time and space. She doubts he will, but her certainty and confidence have been shaken by Thedas and they are ever recovering.

"I hear a story behind your words, my love," he teases in return, but doesn't actually ask for the story. But he hears her uncertainty and it wrings his heart. He reaches to gently cradle her face in his hands, thumbs rubbing fond circles as he gazes into her eyes.

"I have no desire to send you away." Join me. His mind asks hers, filled with love and fierce loyalty. He will build her confidence and certainty back up.

"Shall we?"

The sense of love and loyalty over their bond is more than enough to settle her heart and she is so thankful for him that she is certain he must feel it as well. If nothing else it shows clearly upon her face.

"Of course," she says and just stands for a moment, looking back at him, before she moves to undo the strange Orlesian stays that hold this dress in place. She steps back as she steps out of the silk and folds the garment as it is placed aside. It is hers only until she has no need of it, and she shall not return it sullied.

It does not occur to her, as she undresses, that she is also removing the Elessar that had been pinned to her breast. In Arda it had been a toy, something symbolic that stayed winter for her before she was able to do it herself. In Thedas it is what keeps her restored to her fullest grace. Once it is removed the light she exudes dims considerably, almost alarmingly, until it is a dull halo.

Unfortunately, the ease of her limbs goes with the Elessar. Without it granting her reprieve the full brunt of her soreness takes hold. She wears no mark from when the demon clawed her, but without the Elessar to restore her, her pallor gives way to a wide array of bruises in many shades of healing.

He sees and feels it and is glad to be able to settle her, just as she soothes and tempers him.

Celeborn undresses as she does, folding his robes to set them neatly aside. The glow that he has known for as long as he's known her fades, and he watches with alarm and deep concern.

He steps close when the bruises appear, heedless of his own minor bruises and the handful of small gashes from the day. A quick glance tells him what the likely aide to restore her is, but he doesn't comment. Only reaches for her hand to tug her to the baths, to help her into the steaming water.

"Is there anything resembling athelas here?"

She takes his hand gladly and lets out a long, satisfied sigh as they wade into the hot water. The pool deepens considerably past the bench that rings the exterior and soaks up to her hip as she steps down into it.

He is so terribly handsome, lovely in ways that she cannot forget and is always somehow surprised to see every time. His hair falls past his shoulders, arrow straight and silver as the stars. His face is regal and his eyes bright and deep. He is broader than she and wears his strength so very well...but he is not entirely unscathed.

He is injured in the same way that she is, bruised and a bit battered, though he wears cuts while she does not. She thinks upon his question as she urges him to sit and then takes a seat alongside him, close enough that she still holds his hand and braces her bare shoulder against his.

"I do not know. I think perhaps elfroot is similar. It sooths as athelas does."

She makes his knees weak just by being near. Long years at her side haven't changed, and he knows it never will.

She is beautiful and graceful, delicate and powerful. Fierce and kind. She sees into hearts, knows them, and takes joy in much. He basks in her light and relies on her to temper him where he would otherwise fly into a rage unchecked.

Celeborn sits and gladly remains close enough for their shoulders to touch and hands to remain entwined.

"Is it easy to acquire?" He wants to get some to put on her bruises, to lessen the strain on her power.

"Easy enough; I shall acquire some when we are through, while you take a meal ere we retire," Galadriel says. It is not hard to guess why he wants it but it would do much good for him as well. She can find enough to calm both their minds...but not yet. The water is so wonderfully warm, as is he.

It is a strange feeling, this, and it takes a moment for Galadriel to reconcile what it is. Ease. She is at ease at long last; it is why the time here has felt so very long, she expects, that she has been in a constant state of alert and wariness without respite. She lays her head against his shoulder and closes her eyes, savoring the warmth and the calm.

It does not occur to her that this level of comfort and relaxation might be a poor idea while bathing because, at the same time, it does not occur to her that experiencing this would translate well into sleep. With her head upon his shoulder and the whole of her leaned against him, she drifts into the grey area before dreaming. It pulls her down and, for once, she does not fight it--it has never been this easy, so it is easily mistaken.

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