She is a lovely thing, pale in color and graceful in stature; but she doesn’t look lovely now, not with her features ravaged by magic and chaos. Galadriel’s eyes gleam with the wild nightmares she experienced, the rage of childbirth, the sudden surge of power.
She feels so terribly, wholly powerful.
“You would be a fool to truly think I’d regret knowing every sharp edge and shadowed corner of you,” Galadriel whispers, lifting her mouth close to his ear so as to be heard over the sea and the storm. “But I know you are no fool, Reave.” And with that she lets her mouth drift back down to the bone she once delicately explored, except this time the touch is hungry and too swift. Rel rears her head up and steps backward into the surf.
“What is it you wanted to show me?” she asks suddenly, eyes narrowing. Rel remembers the invitation, the hint of a surprise. She wants to see whatever it is he wishes to divulge, to know him piece by wretched piece.
Wondering if asking such a question might ruin or strengthen the intensity of the moment, Galadriel does what she has only ever done for him: concedes. She bows her head as if bearing the weight of the world and sighs.
It’s as close to a please that will ever touch her lips.
@Reave