Galadriel did as Ellana bade but, as she reclined on the cold cot, a strange surge of emotion welled in her. Within moments, surrounded by other beds and quiet patients, she found herself feeling miserable and alone. Misery and loneliness were hardly new sensations, but she was exhausted, and they stung more sharply than they otherwise might have. Fortunately, Galadriel had learned, long ago, how to avoid sinking into such thoughts. She cast them aside on reflex but, as she ignored her heard and passed into sleep, she reached for a hand that wasn't there.

It was a silly thing, seeking out her husband's hand when she knew full-well that he was not present in these lands, but she was feverish and apart from herself. Her hand found nothing as she reached out, but the lack of a grip to steady hers was not as jarring as it might've been. She was so weary that, as the pang of longing entered her mind, the whole of her tumbled into dreams.

When Ellana returned, her seat on the edge of the cot was occupied. In her stead there sat a tall elf with broad shoulders and straight silver hair. His clothing was alike to Galadriel's but it was hazy along the edges, ill-defined where it fell into shadow. His expression was soft but unreadable; his features were clear but, in the end, he was little more than a phantom.

At the very least, he was holding her hand.