The blanket took the edge off of Galadriel's chill, but the process was slow. Ellana's vigil was a quiet one but, as it stretched on, the sense of old stone and spring frost crept back into the tents. The bite of the cold was gone, imagined though it was, and eventually the indistinct aura of forests and stone walls gave way to sound. The rush of leaves, far more than could be found in Skyhold, whispered outside the tents, the patter of light rain masked the incongruous sound of far off songbirds, and eventually Galadriel's own voice cut in.

Galadriel, however, was still very much asleep.

The phantom voice was hushed but not distant. She spoke softly but with some enthusiasm and the very moment she stopped speaking another voice joined hers. The second was masculine and calm, but otherwise very difficult to describe. Dreaming distorted both of them, wrapped them in warm nostalgia as they spoke, but they were beautiful. Their language was lilting, if indecipherable, and there was a certain humor to their exchange. There was an inflection, there, an ease to the conversation that spoke of youth and intimacy.

For a time there was only sound and the pressing sense of Doraith but, drifting in the edges of perception, it was easy to slip closer to dreams. It was easy to see the pair conversing just on the other side of the cot, to catch Galadriel's face alight with laughter or Celeborn's gentle smile, to see just how terribly close they stood, fingers interlaced loosely between them.