From Such Great Heights, The Hobbit – All Media Types, Galadriel/Gandalf, guidepenknifeFebruary 2 2014, 19:01:00 UTC
Galadriel's bower spills lamplight through the leaves. There are no walls, though silver curtains fall between the bent branches and billow overhead. Drawn against the rain, they would make of the flet something more like an ordinary tent. Left open, it is as close as one can come to reclining in a garden strewn with pillows while actually high in the branches of a great tree.
Gandalf has no particular fear of heights. Galadriel passes him the cup they have been sharing, and her fingers brush his for the barest moment. He raises the cup to hide his face, dizzied in a way he cannot in honesty blame on either altitude or wine.
She does not look away, and at last he must raise his eyes to hers.
"I know what you want," she says. And she does, of course, whether he wishes it or not. Her eyes are impossibly blue, a drowning depth far beyond his strength.
"Forgive me," he says ruefully, setting down the cup.
A smile touches her lips. "There is nothing to forgive."
He turns over one hand to accept her kindness, and she lays her fingers in his, taking his breath entirely away. He takes a breath, and lets it out, and drops his eyes from hers to clear his head.
"I would hate to offend the Lord Celeborn," he says. "Especially while I am his guest."
"You are my guest as well," she says. "And Celeborn and I have loved each other through long ages of the world. We understand each other well." She turns her hand until it lies in his, and her smile is like the sun breaking through clouds. "Satisfy my curiosity."
She traces the lines of his palm, and he has to swallow before he answers. "And what are you curious about?"
"You are not a mortal man," she says, raising her eyes to his again. "Though you are made much like one."
"That's true," he grants.
She smiles as if considering her next question in a game of riddles. "I knew Melian, in my youth," she says. "You are one of her kind, a Maia come from out of the West."
"I came from the West," he says. He has little memory and less curiosity about anything before that, like a burden deliberately put aside that he is in no hurry to take up again. She twines her fingers around his thoughtfully, her fingertips silken despite her long hours at the loom. His own are rough with calluses and worn with age.
"This is new to you," she says, her fingertips resting where the pulse beats in his wrist. He closes his eyes for a moment, feeling his blood stir at the touch. He has felt desire before, now and again, and considered it an amusing failing of the flesh, no more worthy of his attention than the pricking of thorns or the chill of early morning frost.
He turns over one hand to grant that as well. If he were the man he appears, that would require some explanation at his age, whether vowed celibacy or unrequited love or simple disinclination. None of those is quite right. There is no rule to forbid him, only the knowledge that he has nothing to offer the women whose eyes sometimes follow him. He was not sent to these shores to belong to anyone as husband or father, any more than he has or wants a home.
"I've never had any desire to be the cause of trouble," he says. "Though you're hardly a young maiden to blame me for leading her astray."
She laughs, at that, every bit as merrily as if she were a maiden, but with more warmth. "I think we may grant that I am old enough to know my own mind."
"I expect that you do," he says, as her fingers explore curiously around the curve of his wrist. "But, no, this art is not one that I have practiced."
"It is one well worth learning," she says, and takes his hand in hers to draw him down. "Come, and I will show you a mystery." He bends his head to kiss her, tentatively at first and then with a greater hunger, and her arms encircle him.
Gandalf has no particular fear of heights. Galadriel passes him the cup they have been sharing, and her fingers brush his for the barest moment. He raises the cup to hide his face, dizzied in a way he cannot in honesty blame on either altitude or wine.
She does not look away, and at last he must raise his eyes to hers.
"I know what you want," she says. And she does, of course, whether he wishes it or not. Her eyes are impossibly blue, a drowning depth far beyond his strength.
"Forgive me," he says ruefully, setting down the cup.
A smile touches her lips. "There is nothing to forgive."
He turns over one hand to accept her kindness, and she lays her fingers in his, taking his breath entirely away. He takes a breath, and lets it out, and drops his eyes from hers to clear his head.
"I would hate to offend the Lord Celeborn," he says. "Especially while I am his guest."
"You are my guest as well," she says. "And Celeborn and I have loved each other through long ages of the world. We understand each other well." She turns her hand until it lies in his, and her smile is like the sun breaking through clouds. "Satisfy my curiosity."
She traces the lines of his palm, and he has to swallow before he answers. "And what are you curious about?"
"You are not a mortal man," she says, raising her eyes to his again. "Though you are made much like one."
"That's true," he grants.
She smiles as if considering her next question in a game of riddles. "I knew Melian, in my youth," she says. "You are one of her kind, a Maia come from out of the West."
"I came from the West," he says. He has little memory and less curiosity about anything before that, like a burden deliberately put aside that he is in no hurry to take up again. She twines her fingers around his thoughtfully, her fingertips silken despite her long hours at the loom. His own are rough with calluses and worn with age.
"This is new to you," she says, her fingertips resting where the pulse beats in his wrist. He closes his eyes for a moment, feeling his blood stir at the touch. He has felt desire before, now and again, and considered it an amusing failing of the flesh, no more worthy of his attention than the pricking of thorns or the chill of early morning frost.
He turns over one hand to grant that as well. If he were the man he appears, that would require some explanation at his age, whether vowed celibacy or unrequited love or simple disinclination. None of those is quite right. There is no rule to forbid him, only the knowledge that he has nothing to offer the women whose eyes sometimes follow him. He was not sent to these shores to belong to anyone as husband or father, any more than he has or wants a home.
"I've never had any desire to be the cause of trouble," he says. "Though you're hardly a young maiden to blame me for leading her astray."
She laughs, at that, every bit as merrily as if she were a maiden, but with more warmth. "I think we may grant that I am old enough to know my own mind."
"I expect that you do," he says, as her fingers explore curiously around the curve of his wrist. "But, no, this art is not one that I have practiced."
"It is one well worth learning," she says, and takes his hand in hers to draw him down. "Come, and I will show you a mystery." He bends his head to kiss her, tentatively at first and then with a greater hunger, and her arms encircle him.
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