There was some conflict couched in Leliana's thanks and Galadriel's expression, peaceful as it had become as they sang at the fireside, faltered. It was an expression she had not meant to show, it was one she guarded carefully from mortal men, and she curbed it as quickly as it had come. For a brief moment, fleeting as a lick of rising flame, a look of deep, unending pity danced across her face.
Men were proud, a trait Galadriel understood well, and she did not know Leliana's heart with any measure of certainty. She couldn't say how the woman would react to pity, for the proud often rallied against it, and there was no need for their conversation to devolve in such a way.
"You are welcome," Galadriel replied, her tone just slightly too measured. It evened out quickly enough, but the slip had occurred, if damage was done it had already happened.
The bow rested beneath her hands and the fire crackled quietly in the stillness. The prospect of silence, with nothing beyond the old song to occupy her mind, was deeply unappealing. Fortunately, another topic rested just within reach, and Galadriel grasped it without pause.
"My lands are often called the Golden Wood, for there are few Men living who bother with their proper name," Galadriel said and tried to regain her ease. "The trees that grow there are of a kind--Mallorn, they are called. They are echoes of a lost time and a distant land. They grow tall and beautiful, bearing leaves of silver and blossoms of gold; they breathe light into Middle Earth, even as the shadow encroaches.
"To walk below the mellyrn is to walk the ancient world, to linger in what was before darkness first fell." It was a dramatic description, that she would admit, but not incorrect. "If that song conjures the idea Lothlórien, even in one who cannot have seen those trees, nor their like, then I am glad. I can think of no goal I would rather achieve."
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Men were proud, a trait Galadriel understood well, and she did not know Leliana's heart with any measure of certainty. She couldn't say how the woman would react to pity, for the proud often rallied against it, and there was no need for their conversation to devolve in such a way.
"You are welcome," Galadriel replied, her tone just slightly too measured. It evened out quickly enough, but the slip had occurred, if damage was done it had already happened.
The bow rested beneath her hands and the fire crackled quietly in the stillness. The prospect of silence, with nothing beyond the old song to occupy her mind, was deeply unappealing. Fortunately, another topic rested just within reach, and Galadriel grasped it without pause.
"My lands are often called the Golden Wood, for there are few Men living who bother with their proper name," Galadriel said and tried to regain her ease. "The trees that grow there are of a kind--Mallorn, they are called. They are echoes of a lost time and a distant land. They grow tall and beautiful, bearing leaves of silver and blossoms of gold; they breathe light into Middle Earth, even as the shadow encroaches.
"To walk below the mellyrn is to walk the ancient world, to linger in what was before darkness first fell." It was a dramatic description, that she would admit, but not incorrect. "If that song conjures the idea Lothlórien, even in one who cannot have seen those trees, nor their like, then I am glad. I can think of no goal I would rather achieve."