Galadriel watched as he withdrew the box from his pocket, her curiosity piqued in the strangest way. He had been given these things, all of them wrought by her hand, borne of Lorien, and seeing each of them revealed without memory of giving them? It was not unlike staring into the Mirror, watching the threads of fate as they drew upon the unfamiliar. She knew what she saw was a reflection of herself, but she did not recognize it.
He held out the grey box, pristine and cared for, and Galadriel's smile fell away in shock.
On the lid it still bore the mithril rune for her name.
"I gave you this?" Galadriel asked distantly and reached forward. Her fingers lighted on the box delicately and, without thought for propriety nor asking for his permission, she lifted it from his hand and drew it closer.
The box was old, by any measure it was a relic, but it had little power beyond that which had crept into it over thousands of years. It was a sentimental thing; the container of a far more precious gift, and Galadriel's attention was consumed by it as she opened the lid.
What she found, she did not expect.
She stared a moment, caught in silence and confusion, and the nature of her gift, of what she held, gradually became apparent. This gift was not so great in magnitude as she had expected; it was a practical thing, something fond and, daresay, optimistic. Why she had chosen to give him this, in this container, was baffling but she did not question it. She had not gifted him the Elessar but, looking upon the contents of the box, she found them far more precious than even the clear green light of that brooch.
"It is from my garden," she said, her voice quiet and distant with thought. Her fingers grazed the soil and, without her leave, a great, longing sorrow welled up within her. By the grace of the Valar, or perhaps the gods of Thedas, her composure was steady as she closed the lid again. She did not weep, but the tears that found their way down her pale cheeks were not thin.
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He held out the grey box, pristine and cared for, and Galadriel's smile fell away in shock.
On the lid it still bore the mithril rune for her name.
"I gave you this?" Galadriel asked distantly and reached forward. Her fingers lighted on the box delicately and, without thought for propriety nor asking for his permission, she lifted it from his hand and drew it closer.
The box was old, by any measure it was a relic, but it had little power beyond that which had crept into it over thousands of years. It was a sentimental thing; the container of a far more precious gift, and Galadriel's attention was consumed by it as she opened the lid.
What she found, she did not expect.
She stared a moment, caught in silence and confusion, and the nature of her gift, of what she held, gradually became apparent. This gift was not so great in magnitude as she had expected; it was a practical thing, something fond and, daresay, optimistic. Why she had chosen to give him this, in this container, was baffling but she did not question it. She had not gifted him the Elessar but, looking upon the contents of the box, she found them far more precious than even the clear green light of that brooch.
"It is from my garden," she said, her voice quiet and distant with thought. Her fingers grazed the soil and, without her leave, a great, longing sorrow welled up within her. By the grace of the Valar, or perhaps the gods of Thedas, her composure was steady as she closed the lid again. She did not weep, but the tears that found their way down her pale cheeks were not thin.