The cool trickle of water between her breasts came as a soothing contrast to the slight roughness of the sponge. The fingers wielding the washcloth were not long, but delicate, feminine. Neither swiftly nor slowly they moved, carefully cleansing every inch of Galadriel's body. She watched the motions of the hands but they did not stir her. Long past were the days when she could afford to take delight in any pleasure the bathing attendants offered other than simple assistance. She lay quietly, listening to the musical notes of laughter in her ears as hands smoothed back her hair and lips caressed her neck. Fleetingly her mind recalled the jewel-decked baths in Tirion and the ghostly caresses of the ladies who had attended her therein. She pictured the languidly reclining forms of her brothers as they had laughed and spoken idle words with her, they too occupied with the pleasures of the baths and the attendants. Her mind strayed from these barely recalled persons to Aredhel: the dark beauty and wild lady who was the daughter of Fingolfin. Tall, lithe, both headstrong and strong in body, Aredhel had allied herself oftenest with the sons of Feanor; yet she had tempted Galadriel to dance beneath the moonlight on the summer nights in Aman...

Warm was the first night of many interludes they shared thereafter. Varda's night tapestry rich in its midnight hues of purple, marine and dark-sapphire. The river was dark as wine, its surface reflecting Ithil's bright light like a mirror. The air was heavy with heat and suspense, like the nights that prelude the thunderstorms of Middle-earth. They had met, quite by chance, at the baths earlier that day. Aredhel came striding in from a hectic chase with Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin, Amrod and Amras. Where Maglor and Maedhros had been, Galadriel had neither known nor cared to ask. Aredhel's dark hair hung down her back, spilling over her shoulders in thick loops, her forehead shimmering with sweat from her exertions, her features suffused with the flush and thrill of the ride. She was dressed in riding leathers, breeches and tunic as the brothers had been, her boots discarded at the door. She threw aside her belt as she entered, pausing only a moment as she caught sight of Galadriel.

Galadriel reclined lazily upon the edge of the pool, revelling in the sensations that tingled through her scalp as one of the young bathing attendants braided the long golden locks of her hair. She lifted her eyebrows at the sight of Aredhel.

"So, you have come to intrude into my bathing time, my lady," she languidly observed. "Or would you prefer me to call you, my *lord*?"

Casual acquaintances that they were, Galadriel looked with dubious eye upon the dealings of Aredhel; the woman behaved more like a man than a woman, to an extent far greater than even Galadriel herself. Aredhel's answer surprised her.

"And what, Galadriel, does the terminology matter?" Aredhel countered. "Think you that it requires a man to hunt in the forests and ride the wild steeds because the ladies of our father's court prefer to sew and sing and entertain? Come now, you are as much the 'male' as I am, if *duty* dictates our gender! But whenever did you see that to be so? You are caught in the intrigues of court and the politics and the power, I seek to be freed by the wilderness and ride as the huntress in the wild woods. I can shoot and wield a sword; your weapon is your words. We are both as our fathers in our hearts as we are as our mothers in body."

She peeled off her tunic during her speech and now cast it aside upon the floor, stretching her arms up to the skies and wiping the sweat from beneath her breasts with long fingers. Galadriel, barely conscious of the questing fingers of the attendants that roamed her stomach rubbing scented oils into her skin, said thoughtfully:

"I can think of no other way that I am like my mother; her time is spent with the court ladies and she passes judgements upon the servants when discord arises or less well occupies her time with music and sewing. And your mother is another of the same."

"They married young, did they not?" Aredhel shrugged. "Growing up ensnared a great deal of their time I should imagine. They did not think upon the pursuits they might choose for themselves before they were married."

"The men of my fathers court do not look upon me as a potential mate, for I am as one with them," Galadriel remarked.

Aredhel kicked off her breeches and lowered herself into the water.
"They do not look to me either, for I run with the sons of Feanor and they assume that I will marry one among their number – or that I am bedding them already!" She laughed, a careless sound, and leaned over backwards to submerge herself in the water. She rose again, her hair streaming liquid jewels, and grinned at Galadriel. "I am not, if you care to know. They are as brothers to me." She stretched out upon one of the benches that sat under water, leaning an elbow on the edge of the baths. "And you cannot tell me that you are overlooked because you walk among the politicians of our society. Why surely half of them are bedding the rest, even if they speak not of it. Take Fingon and Maedhros as your examples." She waved a casual hand.

Galadriel shrugged gracefully. "Indeed, that is true. Fingon would wed only to bring him heirs, of that I am sure: duty over love."

"Marriage seems to be that way, does it not?" Aredhel remarked. "Come, Galadriel, I know you see it so too. I have heard the rumours of the court - that is how I know what is said of me. Tell me truly, how many hands have you refused in marriage? I hear your poor father is quite in despair."

"You have heard the rumours; oh, why then it must be true," Galadriel sarcastically returned.

Aredhel cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. "Well, it is none of *my* business, I am sure…"

Galadriel felt a flush rise to her cheeks. "Three, you wood sprite! There, a goodly number, if not quite the five that rumour would have it."

Aredhel laughed, a rich warm sound that flowed like fine wine. "You will scandalise people if you tell them so; worry not, I shall hold my tongue."

Galadriel touched the back of her hand to her pinked cheeks and smiled in spite of herself.

"Dare I ask you why?" Aredhel pressed, her dark eyes holding something more than curiosity, a nameless form of promise, though of what Galadriel could not comprehend.

"I need no man at my side," Galadriel haughtily answered. "I do not need their money, their support, or their influence to become respected among them."

"Nay, because of who your parents are," Aredhel correctly surmised.

Galadriel glared at her. "Is there something inappropriate about using what advantages one has to achieve? Do you say that it makes someone a lesser being if their father a descendant of the king?"

"Arien and Ithil, Galadriel! I said not that! I mean simply that you have, as you say, these advantages and they will carry you far without needing the support of a husband, but some poor man may need yours!"

"I will not marry for duty," Galadriel said icily.

Aredhel watched her for a moment and then a smirk crept across her features. "Well now, here's a fine thing – glacial Galadriel is a romantic!"

Galadriel's head whipped up and she coloured hotly. "I am!" she indignantly retorted, and then clapped a hand over her mouth. "I mean I am *not*!"

Aredhel laughed heartily at her flushing companion. "The truth, my dear lady, is quite out. Nay, be not angry with me – yes, you are, your eyes have gone quite cold and narrow – it is not shameful to be a romantic. Any more, I think, than it is shameful for me not to be one. I will marry when I marry; if I find love, so be it. If I find a convenient husband before then, so be it also."

"Marriage is a prison," Galadriel said with a shudder. "If one marries for duty then all influence and honour is lost; but if one marries for love, then one is blinded to the flaws of one's partner and the same may come of it. I would rather marry for love, because if the same is to become of me then I would enjoy it first."

"And I would marry for the convenience and stability of the partnership. I would rather not be blind, I think, however pleasant it might be; I want freedom within it or at least that it be a prison of my choice."

"Then clearly we shall not agree," Galadriel observed in amusement. "Save on one thing, that we consider marriage to be a cage as metal bars would be to a bird."

"All the same," Aredhel said slowly and now her eyes were narrowed, the promising darkness in them darker still, "There is need for companionship and many are the partnerships that do not entail marriage."

"You mean that love which is not spoken of?" Galadriel asked.

"Love between women and love between men, yes," Aredhel said bluntly.

Galadriel was slightly startled. Those were the words that described that which was quietly acknowledged and not seen as the true love, but as the love to be freely shared before marriage.

"Does your heart yearn for that?" Galadriel asked cautiously.

"Galadriel, I am not asking you to bond with me as do those who feel that love is true but cannot marry. I am asking you to meet me at the river tonight."

Something in the other woman's tone brooked no refusal, yet she was well used to the defiance of commands; it was the thrill of excitement that chased uncertainty down her spine that directed her course to the river that night. In that night saturated with heat and pollen, with the sap of the trees dripping overhead to stick upon their skin, they cast off their clothing beneath the moonlight. In the consecrating beams they touched: the first electric tingles making her skin too sensitive to bear even the leaves beneath her back as she arched and cried out beneath Aredhel's hands. Then, as the first almost unendurable caresses brought a surging climax upon her, she found instead the fluttering tenderness that fresh touches brought, fingers as delicate as a moth's wings brushing against her skin. She reciprocated in turn, the lithe body beneath her unexpectedly pliant and controllable for all Aredhel's wildness. The power Galadriel felt in those moments equalled the first inhibition-eclipsing rush of being released from her own inflexible self-control by Aredhel's hands.

Aredhel had whirled her down the paths of passionate partnership; not the decorative motions of pleasure-bringing the attendants showily produced but the wildness of freedom shared beneath the stars, never meaning less, never meaning more than the night itself, from one month to the next. Always they had parted with the same words and she could hear them whispered now; feel again the brush of Aredhel's hand against hers as the other woman wheeled away; see the laughter reflected in the sienna-dark eyes: "Same time, next month."

But those days were gone.

Aredhel had been wedded and for a time tamed by a man who called her his wife; brought to hand by her own reckless courage that had led her astray and into his Eol's institute.

And she…well, she too had been undone by her pride. Banned from Valinor and she had fallen in love in Middle-earth. Wielder of the great ring Nenya that she was, Galadriel had never foreseen a future in which she depended so greatly upon a man.

Galadriel glanced up and nodded once to the attendant. The elven maiden bore a little resemblance to Aredhel, the thick fall of dark hair and the same expressive dark eyes; but her mouth was not so wide, nor her smile so open. Her politely attractive air lacked the enticing mischievousness of the wild lady. Easily Galadriel allowed her head to fall back as the girl began to work a carved comb through her wet hair. Unspoken were these liaisons, whether innocent or not so. It was expected that one received pleasure from the attendants of whatever nature, yet the pleasures of union were not spoken of publicly. But it was almost unthinkable to decline the offer of a bathing attendant upon visit to another's kingdom.

Galadriel thought of the only one in her acquaintance who would not endure their presence. Elrond Peredhel, her son in law to be: a man she loved and hated in equal measure. Many a pretty pout his unconditional refusals had brooked in Lothlorien's serving quarters. Yet soul-deep hurt flashed into his eyes at the merest suggestion of a comfort so lightly offered, in which he would find so much cause for grief. For the barest moment Galadriel tried to entertain the loss of her beloved, Celeborn; yet she could not fully realise it. Without him her soul would be torn in two and she would be lost like a wraith into the forests; if she could cling to her duty when her life had failed. She sank deeper into the waters and banished her thoughts. Without Celeborn she would have no heart for the touches of attendants hands and their false affections, their clinical precision in the act of copulation.

And with her husband alive and well… Galadriel smiled to herself as she pictured his kind and noble visage, the fine fall of his moonlight coloured hair and the sense of completeness she felt inside by his very existence as part of her life, part of her heart and soul.

What is this love? Only twice could she recall being asked that question and both times in recent years. Before then she had never thought to question it. Her liaisons with Aredhel had been wild and intense, but she had never truly loved the lady. Affections freely given and freely taken, with no lingering commitment, just those words: "Same time, next month." Then had come the crossing of the helcaraxe and, in the new world, Celeborn. With Celeborn she had no cause to question that binding connection that years served only to strengthen. It was love, a lifeline thrown and caught. But now, she found herself asking that question again.

The first time had been at a banquet some two score years ago, entertaining the high king and the lords of the elven realms of Middle-earth. Celebrian posed the question as they sat, toying with their vintage while the minstrels played to the twilight. The soft notes of the Lay of Luthien and Beren danced with the fireflies as the evening crept in, and around the wood the glow-worms began to light the glade. Around the table intrigued faces had exchanged glances.

"Love?" Celeborn slowly said, his gaze falling upon Galadriel like the beams of the sunlight, warming and caressing her skin. "It is the wind beneath the wings upon which we fly, the currents that lift us high and sink us low, and cause us to rise again." With a smile he sipped at his wine and gestured to the gathering. "Please, my lords and ladies, how feel each of you?"

Linariel, wife of Thranduil, smoothed her husband's arm affectionately as she took the cue. "It is the spell that bewitches us and brings forth our own magic."

Celebrian seemed entranced and her features were radiant beneath the moon as she smiled, her sparkling eyes lighting upon each face in turn. She turned to Elrond who sat close by her. Of late they had grown closely acquainted and, had not his heart been given to another, Galadriel knew she would have urged her husband to ask Elrond for a proposal. Celebrian asked softly, "What say you, my good lord?"

Elrond met her gaze but briefly, seeming preoccupied with the last crystal clear drops of the wine in his glass. Long moments passed before he spoke, but his voice was calm when he thoughtfully said, "It is that which words cannot and dare not describe."

Tilting her head, Celebrian had eyed him with interest. "A thoughtful answer, my lord," she observed. Then, registering the high king's silence and feeling moved to include him from politeness, turned to Gil-galad. "My lord?"

Gil-galad lifted his head, for he had been staring at the table. "I fear, my lady, that I am ill-qualified to speak; perhaps you should ask my queen." He gestured with to the womanless space beside him with a smile that did not reach his eyes.

Rich laughter, so hearty it was no doubt a product of the alcohol consumed, greeted his response. But when it died, Celebrian persisted. "My lord, you must know a little of the subject, even if it be an opinion gleaned only from legend. What is your opinion of love?"

A frown passed like a shadow across the king's countenance and he softly replied, "That it is forever."

Celeborn raised his glass and to that they drank. But as Galadriel lifted the glass to her lips and felt the sparkling touch of the bubbles upon her tongue, she saw Gil-galad's eyes meet Elrond's for the briefest of moments in their solemn toast.

Remembering that now, she sighed. The gentle touches upon her hair stirred faint sensations in her scalp and she rested her head upon the knees of her attendant behind her. She sighed again, for Elrond and for the lost king who held his heart, whose presence no other could ever replace, even for a moment. She sighed for her daughter, would have to do just that.

It was that very travesty, which would too soon come to pass, that had prompted Celebrian once more to ask that question of her mother, yet rhetorically she had spoken with a nonchalant lift of her shoulders.

"What is love, mama? You have never answered me that, and the lyrical dedications to love I have heard from the tongues of others make it a thing to be valued. Yet does not the love of a man who is good and kind, and for whom so many have such great respect, have equal value? My heart is not stolen by another's hand and this goodly affection I feel for Elrond may come to mean more between us."

Her duty she accepted. This mockery of marriage was not an affair of love, but one of procreation, alliance: a binding tie. The sort of marriage Aredhel had long ago proposed, and Galadriel so wholeheartedly rejected for herself. This was when love was secondary, to be hoped for and not expected. Aredhel had not found it. She had escaped her cage and not married again. Galadriel realised, with a slight start, that her own description of love, spoken so long ago, was untrue. Galadriel half-straightened in the water, the cool air a shock to her bared shoulders. She had thought of love as a prison, into which one willingly stepped and locked closed the door behind in marriage. The wild freedom of her times with Aredhel had convinced her so, yet if Celeborn was a gaoler, then she was too. It was not love that chained the heart, but duty that bound the mind. Duty was the mistress to which one was enslaved, willing or unwilling; love, true love, was the sanctuary: a refuge in hell's despair and a haven in hell's despite. Yet so often the two were intertwined and simplicity seemed elusive to both.

Her hand strayed upward, but the half-hearted thought did not permit her to capture and draw to her lips the hand of the maiden whose fingers wove intricate braids into her hair. Such simple, meaningless pleasure-taking had no part in her life, nor had she inclination for it now. Instead she took the comb and rose from the baths to finish the task herself.

"You seem weary, my lady, do you wish to rest?" Elemmire softly asked, rising to her feet to ready a dressing robe.

Galadriel considered her, her gaze tracing the long sleek curtain of mahogany dark hair, so like Aredhel's in hue… But those days were gone. She was no longer just the daughter of Tirion's youngest son, but the lady of Lothlorien. Life was not so simple as she had once believed. Her hands, straying over the slender figure before her, stilled upon the slight waist and she sighed, taking the robe and wrapping it about herself.

"I will retire, yes, Elemmire," she said softly. "Thank you."

For a heartbeat the girl's eyes held hers and then, with a single nod, the girl accepted her dismissal. Alone Galadriel negotiated the private walkways to her suite.

Celeborn stood within and she walked to the window at which he stood. Placing her arms about his waist, she rested her chin upon his shoulder, and his hands folded atop hers, his cheek pressing against her crown.

"Well, my lady," he gently said, "Do you feel rested and rejuvenated? This day you indulged in all means necessary. You have bathed and walked and read. I have instructed a servant to send to us a platter of the finest fruits of the harvest so you may thus complete your day, and I shall leave you alone to enjoy them in the solitude you requested this morn."

Galadriel slipped her hand up to cup his cheek, pressing his head a little closer to hers and closed her eyes as he capitulated. "Stay," she whispered. "Do not leave me alone, my lord, my love."

His arms tightened around her. "You are not alone," he murmured.

"This day of solitude that I so eagerly sought has proved not to my liking," she softly confessed. "I take no delight in the distractions that in my youth could provide me with a sanctuary from my concerns. I think upon the loneliness of others instead."

He sighed, his breath warm against her neck. "You speak of what I cannot bear to think upon."

"I do, my lord," she whispered.

He held her close. "Elrond is a good man. He is haunted by his grief, but he is not without care. He will give all that he can to our daughter, my love. We can ask no more than that."

"We ask no more, but what of our kindred, who will see…"

"Exactly what they wish to see: the lord of Imladris finally spared from the confines of duty long enough to seek a beautiful mate and raise beautiful children. Should they suspect aught, they will think only that the choice of the lady was dictated by the need for an alliance."

"And never will they know of the love he has known and lost," Galadriel whispered, her eyes filling with tears.

"That is as it must be," Celeborn replied sternly. "You know this, my lady."

She exhaled sharply. "I know. As I know our daughter will take the hand of a man who captured her affections, if not her heart, because duty so commanded her. And she will never know that love that so ensnares the hearts of our kind when two souls are lovingly joined, because we – nay I – commanded her so."

"We," Celeborn corrected her once again. "We, my love."

"How can we do this to them?" Galadriel whispered. "We who share love as it is meant to be."

Celeborn's exhale was heavy against her neck. "Because it is our duty," he bitterly said.

Galadriel swallowed tightly, her tears spilling over at the love she felt for this kind man who was her supporter and her shield. How much he hated what would too soon come to pass: the marriage between their only daughter, Celebrian, and the lonely lord of Imladris. And hating it as he did, he had stood by her; though he did not understand what she saw in her mirror, he trusted in her and he did as she asked. And so much more besides. Even now he gently turned her and with the sleeve of his robe he tenderly wiped away her tears, though his own silently fell. As she raised her hand to gently brush away his, she knew it was not so shameful as once she had thought to love and depend upon someone, who loved and depended upon her.

[End]