Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“A cheese pizza?”

The woman behind the counter raises her voice to be heard above the din of the diner. People elbowing their way in to secure a mere pizza box or a beer, a buzz growing louder with each passing minute, waiting for the screen hanging at the back of the pizza place to announce the starting whistle of a stupid football match. A Tuesday night just like any other, in its messy splendor.

Ten years as a regular at The Pizza Lab, and Halbrand Norsus still hasn’t decided whether he hates the rush hour confusion or football matches more.

Maybe both, with the same passion.

“Yes, please. With double cheese.” 

Halbrand has probably repeated that three times already, but he can’t really blame her for the chaos that literally exploded in there. If she’s to blame for something, that would be sending her resume to a pizza restaurant that broadcasts sports matches. He rubs his temples, a fruitless attempt to soothe his head begging for mercy. All because of Curumo and his unreasonable craving for pizza. Next time Halbrand will ask him to return the favor, he will force his brother to cross that nightmare off his list of places to get food. 

Or at the very least, to avoid Tuesday nights.

“Ready in ten.”

The woman slips him a piece of paper, nodding to the red plastic tables behind him. Ten more minutes in that cacophonous hell, when he could be at home checking his emails. Not that he hasn’t tried already, but of course his phone has no signal in there. Halbrand’s hand automatically runs to his pocket, as if that action alone was enough to revive his smartphone.

Dead silence.

What if they ignored you like last time?

The creak of the bumpy plastic chair where he let himself fall chases away that thought. In the meantime, the annoying chatter of a talk show has turned into a selection of music videos. Probably independent; a detail that is enough to capture his full attention. A girl with thick curly hair and bright red makeup stares at him, the war paint contrasting with the pure white of her raw canvas dress. She takes off running, the shot fading along with the diminuendo of the music. Before he can even take a mental note of the artist, another video fills the screen, a white space replacing the boundless prairies of the previous one.

A girl sits on a pink cube, hands on her knees, gaze seeking the viewer's. Lips moving around a question, music growing as the background behind her fills with light. 

You lost your chance, and what about me?  

Plants everywhere, two windows open to a still, postcard-perfect blue sky. 

Now I wear brighter colors.

Hasn’t he seen her somewhere already?

Two kids scurry toward the counter, scattering wet footprints all over the floor. Someone shouts an order in a harsh voice, it barely registers for him. Suddenly, all that chaos no longer bothers him; it’s as if all that ruckus has disappeared, swallowed up by a dimension in which there’s only room for them. Him, and the girl. Artanis , suggests the writing in the lower left corner. Brighter Colors . Useless to keep looking for a match between that face and a name he might have heard before, given his aversion to groups on social media dedicated to emerging musicians. Still, there is something familiar about a stranger like her. A hidden sense of belonging, an instinctive feeling.

The girl stands up, turning to her left. A new close-up of her eyes – clear blue, a wave sweeping over him, interrupting for a second the smooth flow of his breath – then the camera pans again, to a teeming background of colors in disarray. Artanis . He turns that name in his mind for a long time, undecided whether to type it immediately into his phone’s notepad or hold it in his mind to examine it again later, looking for other correspondences. 

Perhaps…

“Number six!”

The woman’s voice calls him back to order. The spell, against all odds, is not broken; all he has to do is turn around to meet the girl’s gaze. A step out of a doorway and the video ends on a blooming tree, scattering pink petals on the golden waves of her hair. She laughs, her face radiating with pure light. An expression that sparks something in him, a tingle that painfully resembles hope.

The email he’s been waiting for announces itself with a hum. Halbrand smiles, covering the pizza box with a flap of his jacket to venture out into the rain. 

For now, it will have to wait.  

*

“Do you want me to look?”

Elrond reaches for her phone, changing his mind a moment after to brush her hand instead. He was the one who took it upon himself to check her exam grades back in their university days. This is a different sort of test, even though the anxiety is the same. After all, some things never change.

Galadriel lowers her gaze. “Yes, please. If you can.”

“You know you don’t even need to ask.”

His thumb slides across the screen, unlocking it. Those seconds separating her from the truth feel like the longest she ever had to endure; it’s like jumping off a trampoline, filling your lungs with air in anticipation of the impact with the water. Mentally prepare yourself for the consequences of diving. One, two . Elrond frowns, opens the inbox looking for the email. She holds her breath. Reading his expressions has never been easy, but in times like these it becomes a desperate task.

His eyes stop on a spot on the screen. Elrond lifts his gaze, a hint of a smile betrays his attempted seriousness.

Three. 

“Dear Galadriel Noldor, open brackets, Artanis, closed brackets, we inform you that your application to Pelargir’s Halcyon Days has been accepted.”

Restraining herself is impossible, but at least she manages to jump up without bumping into her best friend’s knees. Elrond encourages her with a pat on the shoulder, a gesture that takes away much of the tension that has burdened her for hours. The snow of doubt melted by the sunshine of confirmation. She could almost write it in a song.

“See? I told you it would be okay.”

“Hey, I scored four rejections out of five.” She sighs, rubbing her eyes. “I had every right to worry.”

“Sooner or later the right time comes.” Elrond smiles, offering his comfort with an ease that never ceases to amaze her. “Do you want to start telling people?”

A deliberately vague suggestion, even though they both know very well who he’s alluding to. Another display of thoughtfulness, one she couldn’t be thankful enough for. Galadriel turns her phone in her hands to buy some time, tracing the outline of the flowers printed on the cover. “I’m telling Finrod first,” she finally concedes. Attempting to ignore the inner voice that reiterates how much her parents would love to know; Aegnor and Angrod would surely let something slip. Besides, her mother has such a full schedule she can’t even remember Galadriel saying she wanted to apply for Halcyon Days...

It went well.

Her fingers are quicker than any second thought. She adds a smiling emoji with its tongue sticking out to Aegnor’s message, just to tease him. She will deal with her parents in a minute, Galadriel decides, her attention drawn to Elrond who has just answered a call. Even from that distance, she manages to catch the ringing note of an enthusiastic voice. He mouths the name Disa , then paces to the window, where his conversation won’t be interrupted by the low signal. Leaving Galadriel hovering between the last traces of disbelief and a subtle joy that quietly works its way through her heart.

She made it.

Galadriel sinks her back into the soft couch of Elrond’s office. Beyond her half lidded eyes, the light of the sunset is a golden, calming blanket enveloping her, Elrond’s voice the only grip she has on reality. A laugh, a request followed by an ah, I guess you’re quite busy as answer. The promise to pass a message on. She stretches her legs, sore muscles seeking relief. Somewhere beyond the wall a phone rings, a muffled sound worthy of a hazy dream. Now she’ll have to start worrying about the setlist, planning the trip. Miriel will want to decide on the outfits with her. And, of course, there’s always the not insignificant problem of telling her parents, at least so as not to keep them completely in the dark about everything that concerns her...

You might try enjoying the moment, for once.

Slowly breathing out, she empties her lungs of the last traces of apprehension. Elrond has ended the call. Any worries or destructive thoughts will have to wait until after dinner.

*

Time passes quickly when you’re not busy elaborating plans to make it flow at all costs.

Thirty days that are such only on the calendar, hours chasing each other between setlists to rack one’s brain over and ideas to trash, just like the paper sheets they were jotted down on. Official registrations to the event must be completed at least ten days before the first live show . His mother welcomed the announcement with the brightest of smiles, reaching out to pull him into a hug. I always forget how tall you are , she burst out laughing, catching him off guard. His father just nodded. Halbrand couldn’t tell whether he was pleased, pleasantly surprised, or simply indifferent, and he didn’t even stop to wonder. If he once hung on to his every word, hungry for whatever crumbs of approval he could get, he learned how to feed that hunger by himself long ago.

The highway is a ribbon blurred by speed, gray asphalt separating him from the destination he’s never stopped thinking about. The only memory from the first festival he played at is a faded photo at the bottom of his nightstand; him standing in front of the microphone, guitar on his shoulder, on his head that stupid bandana the organizers had convinced them to wear to advertise some sponsor he’s completely forgotten about. It was Thuri who took it, when their lives still had a meeting point where trouble and happy moments converged. 

I had to rein in your fans, they threatened to take me hostage if I didn’t get them at least ten copies of High and Low.  

Who knows where that CD ended up, the one he had recorded his first single on. He had to send audio files to the Halcyon staff, which obviously Curumo took upon himself to fix and “make acceptable”. The same Curumo who insisted on accompanying him as his assistant, which made Yavanna’s face light up even more.

You never went on a journey together. Just like two brothers.  

The way scattered fragments of conversation and memories ignite and fade in Halbrand’s mind tear a sigh from him. Beside him, his younger brother slows down to turn toward a service station, muttering something about the ridiculous heat and the mosquitoes just waiting for the best opportunity to slip into your car and feast on your flesh. Streetlights begin to flicker on under a sky tinged with pink and orange, strands of dark clouds dissolve like ink drops in the water. 

Curumo casts a distracted glance at the sign hanging next to the diner’s entrance.

“What do you want for dinner?”

“A full menu, if possible. Dessert and side dish included. And don’t cheap out on the wine, we deserve only the best.”

Curumo doesn’t disappoint him, pointedly raising an eyebrow. “If we’re too late for the burger of the day, I’ll get pizza for you too.”

“Fine.” At this point, the script calls for feigned indignation. “You’re seriously obsessed with pizza. Are you turning into a Ninja Turtle?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” his brother counters, closing the car door behind him. Leaving Halbrand time to wonder if the memories of the two of them as children – on the couch watching cartoons while waiting for Dad to get home from work – were real or if it’s just the exhaustion talking. In any case, he managed to get Curumo to talk, even if it was just to rise to his bait.

One point to me.

He rolls the window down, a futile attempt to coax the evening breeze to brush against his face. Curumo will be busy with his mission for a while longer; the coming and going of a service station at dinnertime is one of the ordeals Halbrand really has no intention of facing. He might as well seize the moment.

He slides his phone out of his pocket, quickly searching for the event’s social page. The browser makes his task more difficult by reminding him that it’d be better to log in with the app, but Halbrand chooses to ignore it as usual. He can’t even remember the password of his profile anyway, or if he actually wrote it down somewhere. Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, he waits for the page to load and reveal the list of confirmed participants of Pelargir’s Halcyon Days. Wondering why he’s looking for her, or why it’s so important, is just as pointless.

Af, am, an… 

Artanis. 

He checks twice, but the name is still there. A click opens her social media page; a grid of smiling faces, stacks of papers covered with words written in a messy calligraphy, trees in bloom. The girl whose gaze he now knows by heart smiles at him, her elbows resting on the wooden surface of a table, blond hair loose over her shoulders.

In one video she’s sitting on the floor, her back against a dark couch, a guitar in her arms. Halbrand turns up the volume and her voice envelops the car in an acoustic version of the song he heard at the pizza restaurant a month earlier. Did you really love me, or was it just a pastime? Brighter colors didn't suit me, now I wear them everyday . A short solo, fingers plucking the strings, accompanying both her voice and his musings. “That was a good one,” a male voice off-screen remarks, eliciting a laugh from her.

When the video ends, Halbrand doesn’t even realize he’s playing it again. Half lidded eyes, he lets the caress of the breeze wash over him. Suspending any judgment or intention, simply enjoying the moment for what it is; a beginning. Away from home, in the middle of a welcoming summer reaching out to him to start over.

Curumo opens the door again a handful of minutes later, shattering the perfect calm of the moment. He tosses a paper bag in Halbrand’s lap, moving his long reddish hair from his sweaty forehead.

“You’re lucky, they still had the burger. I hope you like pickles, otherwise you’ll have to go inside and complain.”

*

“I have to say the organization has improved a lot since the first edition. When Disa performed, the accommodation was completely on the participants – too bad all the hotels were fully booked. Luckily, the campsite near the beach was well equipped.”

The image of her, Elrond, Elendil and Miriel crammed into two Canadian tents outside the stage area of the festival is so vivid in her mind, Galadriel can’t help but chuckle. It’s not like her to shy away from an adventure, but with the heat that plagues Pelargir every summer, spending her nights in an air-conditioned room is a more than tempting prospect. Elrond opens the planner he will never replace with a digital calendar, checks the time marked in his tiny handwriting at the top of the page and puts it back in his pocket, preceding her through the entrance to the building a bored-looking security guard pointed them to five minutes earlier.

“Good, the admissions desk should be over there. We're right on time.”

Which is a given, with a manager like him. Manager. It still feels strange to actually have one, even if it’s her best friend. Without Elrond, she’d probably throw herself single-mindedly against every challenge, just to prove to herself she can overcome anything. You're untamable , he used to tell her all the time. Too bad he never meant it as a compliment.

Neon lights dazzle her, chasing away memories she doesn’t want to pay further attention to. Her friend is just a few steps ahead, close to a round desk in the center of the room, next to which there are already four people standing. Apparently, extreme timeliness is not exclusive to her manager.

“Brandyfoot and, uh, Proudfellow. With two L's.” A nod from the taller girl. “Wildflowers.” 

The woman behind the desk carefully spells out each letter, typing them on the keyboard. 

“My colleague is waiting for you in room 5 with your passes and directions to the hotel. Once you’re done with her, you can come back here," she dismisses them, pointing to a room to her left. The two girls don't have to be told twice. “In the meantime, let's try to settle the matter with Mr. Norsus.”

One of the two men, the one leaning with an elbow on the desk, straightens up to give the woman his full attention. A very tall man, Galadriel notices immediately, with a large guitar case slung over one shoulder. 

“Thank you, that would be great. I'm sure I checked those forms at least a dozen times before submitting them…”

“A mistake can always happen, but I'll check right away.”

The woman cuts him off in the dismissive tone of someone who’s had enough of repeating the same things at least ten times a day, prompting an eloquent raise of eyebrows from the man. The fast tapping of keys gives away a quick search, followed by a list of names mouthed silently.

“Halbrand, you said?”

“Halbrand. With an H,” the man points out, as if it wasn’t perfectly obvious. Then he settles back into the same position as before, his long fingers tapping the glass surface of the desk. To her annoyance, Galadriel realizes she can’t stop staring at them.

“Hmm. Wait a second.”

The tall, irritating man waits for the woman to lower her gaze to the screen, then rolls his eyes. His friend lets out a well audible snort. “I see an Allbrand here – with two L's and no H. Perhaps one of my coworkers wrote it down incorrectly. Or maybe it was you who didn't check the form before sending it…”

“Believe me, I read multiple times every...”

“...in any case, we can fix this in no time.”

Nipping sterile arguments in the bud must be that woman’s forte. Galadriel feels a spark of sympathy bloom within her, which replaces the growing sense of annoyance for a moment. Miriel and Elendil are somewhere out there, suffering under the relentless early afternoon sun. Let’s take a look at what’s around here, just to get an idea of where to eat tonight , her stylist and friend dismissed her half an hour earlier, squeezing her shoulder in reassurance. They welcomed the news of the festival by offering their full support – the least Galadriel can do to thank them is to avoid taking advantage of their kindness. 

She clears her throat, to no avail. Totally oblivious to the discomfort he’s helping to fuel, Halbrand Norsus leans toward the computer screen.

“Great. Can you check that the name is spelled correctly on the posters?”

“You do realize it wouldn't be possible to fix any potential typo on those, don't you?”

Galadriel doesn’t miss the smirk Halbrand gives her, turning and slightly tilting his head. Their gazes cross for a moment; the next, he’s back to pester the woman.

“Oh, come on… you’re a professional. You wouldn't want an oversight like that to chisel away at the reputation of the whole organization, would you now? All you have to do is run a check, I don't think it’ll take more than a few minutes.”

The woman opens her mouth to object, but Halbrand's persuasive voice precedes her. Neither high nor deep, soft as the sky at dusk, she finds herself thinking without meaning to. The way he tries to convince the poor woman, his total command over the conversation, has something hypnotic about it. A confidence that strikes deep inside. 

“Please. You’d be doing me a great favor, and I assure you – ”

“Don't you think you've kept us waiting long enough?”

Perhaps it’s the heat that upsets her, or the aftermath of getting up at dawn. Or perhaps it’s a residual nervousness keeping her on edge, the same nervousness that’s accompanied every gig and that occupies her thoughts whenever she lets them run free. Whatever the reason, she’s unwilling to put up with one more minute of the insistence with which Allbrand, Halbrand or whatever the hell his name is, demands to get what he wants. 

She takes a step toward the desk, determined to cut off that conversation. He lifts an eyebrow again, looking her up and down.

“Apologies, princess. Next time I'll be sure to have a couch brought in, to make your wait more comfortable.”

To Galadriel’s utmost horror, her cheeks are on fire. She tries to fix the damage by crossing her arms, head held high, flaunting impatience in an attempt to intimidate him.

“It still doesn't change the fact that you're wasting our time. If it weren’t for you, we would’ve finished with the registration by a long time, if it weren’t for you.”

A crooked smirk curves his lips, igniting the sparks of her annoyance. Halbrand pulls away from the desk, only one step away from invading her personal space. She senses Elrond stiffening beside her; if she needed his help, he wouldn’t hesitate a moment to step in. A realization that reinforces her purpose.

“Easy to say, when you're not the one directly affected.”

“At least I would have the decency to get a move on.”

He’s now in front of her, closer than she expected. Too close for her own comfort. So close that, if she didn’t back away just a little, his breath would brush her face. He stares at her, gaze moving to her lips for a split second, the smirk replaced by an arrogant expression.

“You know what? I'd really like to see you.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Galadriel senses the other man’s imposing figure hovering just an inch or two from them. Listening to her instincts would mean keep going with that argument and answering back rudely, but she’s not at all keen to start off on the wrong foot. For now, it’ll be enough to stare at him with her best death glare.

The man remains silent, his gaze flicking back to her lips, waiting.

“The posts on our social profiles are fine. So, it’s impossible for the posters to have the wrong name printed on them... you don’t have to worry.” 

The woman steps in by raising a hand armed with a pen, in an attempt to restore order. Attempt that is promptly ignored by both. In that ridiculous impasse she finds herself in, Galadriel’s mind spurs her to retort sharply, which would probably enrage him. 

As if it were worth it...

“Very well, that’s all we need then.”

With a nod, the other tall man points to Room 5, from which the two girls have just emerged. Time to cast her another arrogant glance and her bothersome interlocutor turns away to follow his friend, turning his back on Galadriel, tailed by her annoyed gaze. Almost as if her eyes, in spite of themselves, were drawn to his towering silhouette by an inexplicable spell.

*

Pelargir's waterfront is quivering with movement. Bicycles and kids on roller skates whizzing down the bike path, couples strolling along admiring the sunset over the sea. A small group enjoys the serenity the setting sun brings, red folding chairs planted in the grainy sand, front row for a show that requires no ticket. From a spot above their heads, the venue’s stereo system blasts a summer hit everyone is familiar with by now.

The breeze tousling her now disheveled braid gives her exactly the relief she was looking for.

To her right, the sun dips into the water, a gold and orange expanse veined with ripples. Galadriel breathes in the salt-scented air, throwing her head back. If they weren’t waiting for dinner, she wouldn’t hesitate a moment to go down to the beach. She would take off her sandals to sink her feet into the warm sand, perhaps chasing the waves like she did as a child, when her grandparents took her to the sea with them and every day seemed like the best of her life. For someone like her, used to living surrounded by the green hills of Tirion first and Ost-in-Edhil later, it’s impossible to remain indifferent to the blazing vastness of that view.

Elendil is talking on the phone with one of his sons. Fatherly recommendations, then a laugh that warms her heart. Elrond studies the menu with a focused air, probably considering which specialties are absolutely worth trying, comparing them with the mental list he must have drawn up before arriving. Lips tense, brow furrowed, he’s fully immersed in his task. Galadriel gives him a sidelong glance, unable to hold back an amused smirk. She envies his ability to master any situation with the utmost calm. Even if she and Halbrand had come to blows, he wouldn’t have hesitated to separate them, surely without raising her voice...

Interesting that she remembers his name so well. 

Miriel taps a perfectly painted pearly white nail on a dish with a long name, saving Galadriel from an accurate mental replay of the scene from a few hours earlier at the desk.

“I’ll take this one. It was all the rage a few weeks ago... let’s see if that cooking podcast Anarion always listens to is right.”

The mention of his son makes Elendil smile. He takes off his sunglasses, adjusting them atop his long graying hair, reaching out to take one of the menus. “Do they have anything barbecued?”

“I’m pretty sure they do, can’t you smell it?” Elrond wrinkles his nose, flipping through the pages. “I think I'll have the salad of the day. What about you, Galadriel?”

Elrond's voice breaks that moment of reflection, bringing her back to reality. Galadriel blinks. She recalled the image of those hazel eyes without even realizing it. “Huh?”

“What are you ordering?”

Elrond doesn’t seem to have noticed anything. He’s so used to seeing her absorbed in her own thoughts he doesn’t register that distraction as a worrying sign. Luckily, reading her mind is not one of his many skills. What he’d find there, he certainly wouldn't like.

“I don’t know,” she mumbles, trying to regain some ground. The menu is a babel of names, short descriptions and drawings, which only worsen her indecision rather than illustrate the various dishes. Would you rather order the same thing over and over again knowing you can't eat it whenever you want, or change every time and face the possibility that you might not like it? Her brother’s playful question rings in her ears. Another reminder of the happy vacations of her past. “There are too many things I’d like to try.”

“Well, we have time to experience the cuisine of the Southlands. We'll be here for two weeks.”

Elrond handed the menus back to the waiter who came to take their orders. The music has changed from a selection of summer hits to a playlist of famous songs readapted in a jazz key. The mugginess will return; for now, the city breathes a sigh of relief. The waterfront has emptied, the colorful late-afternoon crowd replaced by the night one, moths swarming to the lights of the clubs and bars. Being enveloped by that bright atmosphere is easier than expected. Eating accompanied by the soothing buzz of other patrons blending with the music, enjoying the feeling of being in the right place at the best time, a week before the start of her first musical festival. 

You made it. You're here, you’ve done well. How could anything else matter?

In the placid tranquility of the evening revealing its colors, even the encounter of a few hours earlier slowly loses its importance.

At least until Elrond brings it back to her attention a few hours later, quite casually, watching her fiddle with the pass the attendant in Room 5 entrusted him with. Don’t lose it, he reminds Galadriel solicitously, eliciting an annoyed mumble from her. With all the trouble we went through to get them this afternoon, he adds, bringing that scene back to her mind.

Halbrand Norsus . Arrogant smile, bright eyes. That persuasive voice of his that would sway mountains to bow. Has she ever listened to any of his songs? It must be so, and yet she can't link him to any title or verse, not even by racking her brain. Not that she really cares. Still, she keeps mulling over the irritating expression he glanced at her with, back at the desk, the way his gaze lingered on her lips. Apparently unconcerned, certain to have caught her attention.

The thought of him will go away, she ponders, annoyed, following the others to the hotel entrance. Checking in provides her with an excuse to pause her thoughts, though it’s too short a pause to really help. 

I’ll get used to his presence. I have no obligation to make friends with him; maybe we'll never speak to each other again.  

Still, glimpses of that afternoon return unbidden. A stubborn echo, ambushing her as she observes her reflection in the unnatural light of the bathroom mirror. Even admiring the vast expanse of lights above and below her, in the nighttime solitude of her room’s balcony, is of little to no use. 

His gaze stubbornly clings to the most hidden and vulnerable part of her mind, like a memory she cannot name.

Chapter Text

The spinning of the fan follows a hypnotic path with no destination, a controlled storm that turns the pages of the notebook left open on the desk. Click; the first of many, a beginning that soon promises a full-fledged headache. He could skillfully track its movements with his eyes, just like people do when watching cars come and go, while comfortably sitting at the bus shelter —  if only it’d help him keep far more burdensome thoughts at bay.

Thuri just can't keep her hands out of his hair. She does that all the time when she’s nervous, but Halbrand has quickly learned to keep to himself any display of annoyance toward that gesture of intimacy. He can still afford a sigh, however, especially when it’s weighed down by cigarette smoke. So he slowly breathes out, emptying his lungs before the next drag, the one that’ll bring him back down to earth. So much for Yavanna and her strict rules about places where smoking is forbidden, especially the bedroom. Halbrand’s lips curve in a bitter smile, a prelude to the scolding that will most likely shake up the neighbors’ quiet evening. He calls his mother by her name only when he’s angry. Whether it’s at her, or at himself, makes little difference.

“Why don’t you write and ask if there’s been a mistake? It wouldn’t even be the first time. Maybe…”

Stubborn, hopeful Thuri. She still hasn’t realized certain rejections hurt more because of the expectations they created, rather than the failure itself. He shakes his head. The smoke makes his eyes water; suddenly, he’s once again the sixteen-year-old boy relegated to the last places of the school concert setlist, the ones reserved for losers. When everyone in his life had done nothing but praise him for his worth instead.

“I don’t think so. I’m not even on the provisional artist list.”

“Well, I’d ask anyway. You never know.”

The light touch of her fingers tries to put back together what the day has marred. He hears her sigh a few inches away, her breath melding with the heavy afternoon air. Beyond the scorching slats of the blinds, summer is a seductive expanse of promises that, in his case, won’t be fulfilled. It was easy to convince himself he was entitled to a spot at the festival, just as it will be hard to rebuild the coming days around that shiny wreckage. And it makes no difference if, as Thuri put it, it’s his perfectionism that blows every setback out of proportion, turning it into an insurmountable obstacle; the confidence with which his father offered his prediction the night before continues to haunt him.

Unless he starts lying. A more attractive option than he’s willing to admit.

For a moment, the sunlight dancing beyond his eyelids brings him back to the summer light in Valmar.

If he clung to that memory long enough, the room would take on the same colors as his teenage one. The shadows painted on the wall, the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. The magazines Thuri would spread all over the bed, the music in the background, how he’d always end up being the one choosing the record. The burning anger that sometimes turned to happiness, a violent, all-encompassing joy. The problem is he has long since given up the apparent comfort of those fragments of memory. What's the point of tormenting himself over scenarios that can never change, wondering how things would’ve turned out if his words had been different?

Halbrand opens the window, welcoming the scent of the sea. Eight days before the first live show and he still hasn’t sorted out his feelings. The desire to prove himself, the obsession that has sunk its teeth into his heart for as long as he can remember, is still there; it’s only loosened its grip. He’s learned to live with it, to allay it with carefully chosen words. You’re the best, but that’s enough for now. That’s all I expected from you, next time you’ll go even higher. More than learning to be happy despite everything, it’s a way of scaling back ambitions to reduce collateral damage.

It’s not for them you have to do this, Halbrand.

Memories must be relegated to a specific time frame, he decides. Preferably far from the rehearsal. He spends the whole breakfast filling his stomach and reinforcing that purpose, silently thanking the hectic atmosphere forcing him to empty his mind and stay calm. Curumo chews on his toast with his usual unfathomable air, Halbrand mentally goes over the setlist he’s drafted. He just has to focus all energies toward a precise goal, keep his mind off the minefield that is his past.

He didn’t think anymore of Artanis and her seawater eyes. At least not until he meets them near the secondary stage, the one for rehearsals, when they settle on him with a look that quickly shifts from acknowledgement to a barely concealed annoyance. Sitting on the steps, she chooses not to give him more than a second of her time, lowering her head again to the screen of her phone. 

Turned off. 

His lips curve into an involuntary smile.

Halbrand has just started to read the order of admittance to the rehearsals, when the trill of a ringtone cuts through his thoughts. Behind him, Artanis silences it immediately, answering the call with a resigned sigh.

“Did they give you good news?”

The last thing he wants is to eavesdrop on the conversation of someone he almost argued with only hours earlier. Still, her presence is enough to derail whatever train of thought he’s desperately trying to get on. Another sigh, followed by a snort. Halbrand checks the list from top to bottom for the third time, pretending to be completely absorbed in the task.

“I get it. But of all days – no, wait –   "

His thoughts, as he already guessed, have no intention of coming to his rescue to distract him. Not even the most obsessive ones.

“I was saying, of all days and times available for a video conference, did they really have to choose the one of my first rehearsal?”

Silence. She’s listening, a pause filled by the tapping of her nails against the surface of the step.

“I don’t know what to tell you, El. My rehearsal starts at five, I can’t be there before 6:30. If you can’t bargain, I’ll have to ask them to remove me from today’s roster.” 

Through the resignation, a hint of resentment. 

“The dates were set months ago, they should’ve thought of that earlier. That – yes, I get it. Fine .” Although he can’t see her, Halbrand’s sure she rolled her eyes. She groans, defeated. “I’ll warn someone from the staff. See you later.”

He senses Artanis getting up, muttering a handful of curses under her breath. So real, yet miles away, without a screen separating their worlds anymore. According to the paper, his turn for rehearsal is right before hers, and it seems she’ll have to skip it today. How much would he make a fool of himself if he did exactly what he has in mind?

Before he can ponder on that thought any further, he’s already turned to her.

“You can take my turn.”

“Excuse me?”

She raises an eyebrow. The almost-argument of the night before must have stuck with her, he reflects, but a sudden instinct urges him to keep going.

“At the rehearsal, I mean. If we switch turns, you can avoid putting off whatever it is you have to do.”

A tiny spark of hope lights up in her suspicious gaze, so small he fears he must have imagined it. Instead of telling him off, she seems to be actually considering his proposal.

“Why would you do something like that?”

“Let’s just say I hate to see people in distress and I can’t stand not intervening even more.” 

Halbrand runs a hand through his hair, silently cursing the heat that stuck it to the back of his head. He must look awful, and it’s only ten in the morning. 

“Consider this my way of apologizing for yesterday afternoon.”

The shadow of a smile lingers on her lips. He takes it as a good sign. That possibility hangs between them for a few seconds as she fiddles with the ring on her right middle finger, lost in thought. She meets his gaze only at the end.

“Thank you. Really. If it’s not a problem for you...”

“Don’t worry, you can always repay my generosity later.”

Eyebrows lifted, he winks in her direction. It’s absolutely worth it; her expression after that innuendo is priceless .

Galadriel probably thinks she heard it wrong, judging from the way she’s looking him up and down, her puzzled expression almost comical.

She stutters, clearly caught off guard. “W-what?”

“Wait, what are you thinking?” Halbrand feigns innocence, his smirk only widening. “I meant you can always repay the favor. If I ever need to change my turn, you’ll switch with mine so we’re even.”

She straightens her back, clearing her throat, cheeks slightly flushed. “Oh.”

Their posture mirrors that of the previous day. Although, this time, hers expresses anything but bravado; she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, teeth biting her lower lip, as if she doesn't quite know how to react. From that distance he can even smell her perfume. Flowers. A bold scent, a sweetness hidden in the base note.

She’s the one picking up the conversation again. Fiddling with her hair, almost as if that contact is enough to gain the courage she needs to continue. 

“Well, thanks.” Somehow she managed to avoid stuttering again. “And… I'm sorry too. About yesterday, I mean. I shouldn’t have acted that way. When I’m tired I become too much, I’m aware of that… I always end up taking it out on other people.”

Halbrand can’t help but smile. “Don’t mention it. I took it too far as well. We were lucky your boyfriend was there to stop the situation from getting out of hand.”

He doesn’t even know why he’s rushing to add that remark, almost tripping over his own words. Perhaps to find out the truth right away and put a stop to anything that could even remotely think of happening between them. She shakes her head with an equally bizarre speed, her cheeks tinged with a slight shade of red.

“Elrond? No, he’s my best friend – and my manager, even if sometimes he acts more like a babysitter.” She grumbles. He must be exactly the nitpicking kind of person Halbrand imagined. “Don’t worry, he wouldn’t have stepped in. I think.”

“Glad to hear it. Starting off Halcyon Days with a brawl wasn’t exactly on my bucket list for the year.”

A giggle escapes her lips, immediately covered by her hand. She crosses her arms over her chest, perhaps to protect herself from that sudden display of spontaneity, but before he can find any meaningful way to prolong the moment, a notification draws her attention.

“I have to go. Everyone will want to know the rehearsal and the video conference with the record company are safe.”

She brushes from her face a strand of hair that’s escaped the black headband she’s wearing, then tucks it behind her ear. The phone goes back into her shorts pocket with the speed of a magic trick.

“Thanks again, Halbrand.”

Hearing his name from her lips makes his heart skip a beat. For now, he resolves to ignore that feeling. “Don’t worry. It’s been a pleasure, Miss...”

“Galadriel. My name is Galadriel Noldor.”

Halfway between the point where they just shared that contact and whatever destination is claiming her, she turns around to throw him a smile that immediately reaches her eyes. Halbrand watches her run off, his gaze glued to the cascade of golden hair swaying on her back.

*

She waited until the end of the video call to breathe a sigh of relief.

All good, green light, approved. Those words – scribbled quickly on a page of the notebook where she jots down sentences destined to be part of her songs – accompanied her for a long time. There was nothing to worry about, but her mind is always so hard to convince.

Her phone didn’t stop ringing for a moment. Her brothers, Elrond complimenting her on not going aggro with the label people. Even her parents. Seeing the screen light up with their messages, after her initial astonishment, filled her heart with a melody she couldn’t stop humming.

Halbrand’s help was providential. Although she’s not sure what to make of the fact her day was saved by the very same person who, only twenty-four hours earlier, she hoped not to see ever again.

One wave beats the others in the rush toward the shore, brushing against her foot. Galadriel almost closes her eyes, surrendering to the caress of the sea. Luckily, the city beach isn’t very crowded at that hour; nothing like sea air to calm one’s nerves. Especially a week away from the start of live shows.

A boy running with a surfboard under his arm raises a cascade of water sprays. Something about him – that insolent smile, or perhaps the nod he just gave the woman at his side – leads her toward a path of thoughts she’s already traveled. The previous day rehearsal went well, at dinner she laughed with Elendil until her ribs hurt. She ran into Halbrand on the lawn in the short minutes between the end of her turn and the beginning of his. The afternoon light reflected in his gaze, along with something indecipherable but warm. She tried very hard to coax her facial muscles to do a better job than the usual tight smile, eagerly hoping to succeed.

Judging from his expression, she probably did.

The wind ruffles the clouds and her thoughts with them, a flock of vapor clustered in a corner of the sky. Perhaps she just made an error in judgement. You don’t have to protect yourself from everything all the time , she scolds herself, her mind immediately putting her consciousness back in line. You can always change your mind, even after starting off on the wrong foot.

And what if you’re letting your guard down without first assessing the situation?

She just can’t win, can she. It’s a battle Galadriel has tried to fight far too many times without ever reaching a truce, so much that sometimes she just wants to give up entirely. She sinks her fingers into the sand, staring at the hypnotic flow of grains on her skin, a dry, sinuous rain. She just knows that inexplicable feeling of familiarity has amplified, like all the things that just happen, without explanation. A tingling in her stomach that’s begun to claim its share whenever she and Halbrand share the same space.

Strange you didn’t murder him with your glare, Elrond commented once they left the stage area. He received a snort in return, the quickest and most painless way to end the conversation. She’s certain he didn’t understand what really happened there, even though she couldn’t say why.

*

It’s raining.

Not the usual summer rain, but a full-blown downpour.

Thunders, flashes lighting up the sky, the rhythmic pitter-patter of raindrops on the roof of the prefab provided by the organization. The soil eagerly drinks up the storm drop by drop, returning that rich, sweet petrichor reminding him of his mother. His grandparents’ garden, a blur of green and brown in the recesses of his mind, caressing his dreams on the rare nights he can sleep more than two hours straight. The mist rising in the distance, among the wood on the hills, a whisper-textured vapor. Only the sea clashes with his memories – a change he’s more than happy to accept.

The two girls he met at the front desk tried their luck by dashing out in the pouring rain, followed swiftly by that guy from Númenor, the one looking straight out of a brit rock band from the nineties. After looking at the mud puddles scattered across the lawn, his decision to wait out the storm did nothing but strengthen. He fishes his phone from his pocket to check the latest message. Curumo left shortly after lunch to go explore Pelargir’s outskirts, but he’s old enough to handle himself. And anyway, a little bit of water won’t hurt him, although the same can’t be said about his guitar. His rationality suggests he should borrow an umbrella from the stand inside and make a run for it, but it’d mean missing an opportunity to let the view inspire him. It must have been years since he devoted a couple of hours to drawing. What’s the point of packing a sketchbook and never using it?

He reaches for a cigarette in the back pocket of his pants, blessing his morning self for remembering the lighter. The orange flame, protected by the hollow of his hand, tints his skin with crimson shadows, making the paper crackle. The first drag is to soothe his nerves, the second should erase the nervousness that’s made the mistakes of the day unbearable. For some reason, he just can’t start Flannel with the correct note. Not that it matters – the first live is five days away, not a few hours – yet part of himself can’t get over those absolutely negligible flaws. Maybe it’s because they remind him of the lump in his throat on that summer morning so many years before, the realization he was still too many mistakes away from anything concrete.

What if I told them I was accepted, and went anyway? They would never find out.

You’d be lying to yourself first, and to them too. Have you thought about that?

A wisp of cigarette smoke hovers in the damp air. He should stop, he knows that. At least he spares them for the most critical moments, and a tour down summer memory lane is definitely one of those. He closes his eyes. The water dripping from the roof brings back the image of his mother, rubber boots on her feet and a straw hat on her head, busy running to the tool shed. The new seedlings had to be brought to safety, or the summer storm would damage the roots. Not too little, not too much water, Halbrand. She would place the watering can in his hand with firm gentleness, watching him carry out that task with the naive pride of a six-year-old. Curumo, protected by the baby carrier, slept placidly against her chest. There, like that, just a little lower...

The memory recedes, chased away by the soft sound of footsteps. Even without turning around, Halbrand already knows who he’s going to find by the door.

Galadriel Noldor says nothing. She just finds a corner on his left, barely leaning out of the canopy to see how the downpour is progressing. She’s probably come to the same conclusion as him, judging by how she wraps her arms around herself, back against the wall.

“Well, better now than during the live shows.”

Something about the way she lets that comment slip out makes him grin, probably the sheer resignation. He takes another drag from the cigarette, breathes out. A drizzle of ash scatters on the concrete at his feet.

“Yeah. Our fans will have no excuse not to pile under the stage and start a mosh pit.”

Thuri mocked him for hating that word for no apparent reason. He must have made a funny face; the same hint of a smile that had struck him two days earlier blooms on her lips.

Protecting his reputation is the last of his concerns.

“It’s still so strange for me – having fans, I mean. Except for my brothers.” Her braid moves to the side, following the movement of her head. “People who are willing to pay to hear your songs live... I don't know, I still have to get used to how that makes me feel.”

“Same here.” Has he ever been this honest with a stranger before? “It probably takes time. I was nineteen when I was accepted to my first festival – the first and only, at least for a while. Maybe the time wasn’t right yet.”

He hesitates. Baring his soul to her is easy. Too easy. Almost as if the words he’s kept inside for years have finally found their destination, without even having to look for it.

“So I threw myself into other types of art.”

The cigarette runs out with a soft hiss. He moves to toss it into the metal ashtray next to the door. His fingers immediately run to his pocket, but his past self clearly wasn’t far-sighted enough in that regard.

“I’d give you a cigarette, but that was the only one I had with me. For emergencies, you know.”

“Don’t worry – I never really learned to smoke.” An embarrassed smile, but her eyes are still bright. “What types of art?”

The speed with which she picked up the topic surprises him. Isn’t it amazing, the two of them being alone and engaged in a conversation light years away from an argument?

“Drawing. I’m an occasional photographer, too. My parents love art, it would have been hard not to take inspiration from them.” His heart clenches, a brief and painful jolt. “Although I eventually focused on music. Sometimes I doodle stuff as a hobby.”

She came closer. Now their shoulders almost brush, in the collected intimacy of that makeshift shelter. Silence envelops them, as light as the watery mist rising through the trees. A silence where he can breathe, putting fears to rest for a providential handful of minutes.

“I’m jealous – I'm terrible at drawing. The best I can do is stick figures, and not even that well.” She wrinkles her nose. “I would have loved to draw the cover of my first EP, but I kept screwing up so many times we eventually settled for a photo.”

“Your manager’s idea?”

“That’s right. You guessed how he is.”

The rain has almost stopped. The earthy petrichor still lingers between them, toned down by a scent of flowers he immediately recognizes. The orange sun begins to make its way through the clouds. This time he doesn’t even need an excuse to keep the conversation going.

“What if we took advantage of this pause to make a run for it?”

“Without an umbrella?”

The rest comes without a plan. The door to the prefab opens with a light push; the umbrella is exactly where he imagined. He goes back to flaunt it like a trophy, enjoying the astonished expression on Galadriel’s face.

Halbrand opens it over their heads, moving to make room for her under that blue canopy.

“Do you mind if I hold it?”

Galadriel gives him a dirty look, betrayed by the amusement in her eyes. He raises his free hand, feigning surrender. “It's just that I don’t want to risk tripping – no offense, but you're way shorter than me.”

“Are you always this charming, or am I particularly lucky?”

“You’re lucky. I only give my best on rainy days.”

This is not how Halbrand would’ve pictured it, such a moment. That is, if he could even come close to imagining something like that; pacing the ground around the stage after a storm, accompanied by Artanis. Noldor. Galadriel. He hasn’t decided yet which name tastes less foreign on his lips. They exchanged just a few words, sharing more than he would’ve expected. 

Maybe it’s a first step. A beginning, something to invest the luxury of hope in.

Windows of dusky sky reflect in the puddles dotting the lawn. Her gentle warmth sticks to his bones like a promise, a desperate desire for something more. A whisper tempting him, egging him on to reach just close enough to make their shoulders brush again.

She doesn’t pull away.

What felt like a great distance is crossed in a handful of steps, as they reach the parking lot. The last, lazy rays of sun brush the waves of her braid, making it glow gold. For a moment, he’s left speechless.

“Elrond’s waiting for me in the car.”

“Best not keep him waiting, then.”

Galadriel fiddles with the ring on her middle finger, the one with the white stone. Who knows who chose it for her. If they imagined her wearing it, as they observed it in the store window. That thought crosses his mind, quick as a heartbeat, until she lifts her impossibly blue gaze to his.

“Can I give you my number?”

The smile he feels spread across his lips is a surprise even to him. Less hesitant than Galadriel’s, but equally warm.

“Only if you take mine in turn.”

*

“You’re different, you know.”

“In a good way?”

Miriel’s tone is casual. Perhaps a little too much; she’s left the realm of small talk, dangerously encroaching on that of curiosity. Next to her, Elendil is focused on the crossword puzzle printed on the restaurant’s paper placemat, still somehow listening to the conversation. Her friends, her support during the most difficult times. If Disa were with them, she’d take the extra singing lessons as an excuse to interrogate her. The fact Galadriel is tragically unable to talk about her feelings wouldn’t discourage her, no, quite the contrary.

“In the best way.” Miriel turns the straw in her margarita, melting the last traces of ice. She just can’t pass up that opportunity. “You usually check your messages with the face of someone witnessing a disaster. Unless they're from Fin and the others.”

Galadriel’s glass of Bellini is pleasantly cold. She traces the wet surface with a fingertip, just to stall. Is she really that different? Last night she looked up Halbrand’s works during dinner, without even asking herself why. Elendil was busy telling Elrond about Isildur’s university mishaps, Miriel had wandered off to phone her suppliers, although she must have been back in time to notice her texting with Halbrand.

I saw your drawings. They have personality , she tried impulsively, immediately making good use of the result of her act of courage, scolding herself a moment later for not coming up with a better compliment. Searching his name, she found the catalog of an exhibition in Valmar; extremely clean sketches, faces in shadow, alone with their mystery. The side view of a silhouette, crimson red, in the middle of a dark room. They pull her in and disturb her, like a familiar voice whispering words only half known, echoing in a space too vast.

The answer came quickly, greeted by a heart thump.

Thank you. You’ll be first on the list when I open my commissions again. I can even get you a discount.

Aren’t you a gentleman?

I’d wait to see the price before complimenting me.

Galadriel had smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Fervently hoping she wasn’t blushing.

You could never charge me four figures.

That’s because you don’t know me, Noldor. I’m a man full of surprises.

She’d love to tell herself it’s nothing, that she’s just overthinking as usual. Perhaps that happiness she can’t really put a name to is just a consequence of being free from the burden of an oppressive relationship. Yet, her heart thinks otherwise. After texting with Halbrand, she stayed up late to write; words wouldn’t leave her alone. They urged her, a river overflowing above rationality, impatient to be written down. Poems, songs. They came back on their own volition, after disappearing for months, to the point she almost had to surrender to the fact they were gone forever.

“You’re happy, it’s written all over your face. And believe me, it’s good to see you like this – you needed it.”

Typical of Miriel, skipping questions to get straight to the point. She was always good at reading her like an open book, offering the right word at the right time. Quite a change, after her fair share of friends that were such in name only, people who apparently needed an instruction manual to understand her moods.

“I think I know who gets the credit for that.”

Miriel finishes drinking her margarita in one sip, teasing her with a knowing look. Galadriel’s lips curve into a half smile. It was supposed to be a carefree expression, but embarrassment must have got the better of her.

“We’re just getting to know each other.”

A pause. 

If she didn’t know her better, Galadriel would think the matter settled, but Miriel’s a tough cookie. Especially when it comes to someone she cares about.

“You can’t fool me, Miss Artanis. When we left you were tired and worried all the time, now you can’t stop smiling. Something’s definitely changed, am I right?”

Galadriel chooses to end that conversation with a longer sip of Bellini. Meanwhile, the evening around them keeps going. The chatter of the crowd drifts toward the promenade, people at the tablet next to them come and go, and she still doesn't know how to answer that question.

The live shows are five days away.

*

Her phone vibrates, the song muffled by the notification. Halbrand.

The stage is clear after the last turn of rehearsals. See you there?

Galadriel’s heart skips a beat. It takes very little; just his name appearing on the screen, if only briefly. She takes off her headphones, slips them into her bag. He could have told her in person, walked by after his turn to whisper away from prying ears, but texting with him has become somewhat of a ritual.

One that, in all probability, she could no longer give up.

Are you sure they’ll let us in?

Yep, there’s never anyone around at that time. The only person who might have something to say is my brother. He hates being late for dinner, but I'll try to bypass him.

Great. Last time the proverbial butterflies fluttered in her stomach, she was still in school. Assuming it’s not some sort of false memory.

See you later.

Don’t be late, Noldor. I'm counting on it.

She stares at that message for a long time, as if trying to decipher its hidden meaning – why does he always call her by her last name? – her heartbeat replacing the song from just before. Frantic, pressing. A triumphant march, vibrating between her ribs and throat. Questioning the nature of that feeling is a constant, but she has too much to do and too little time to carry everything out. The rehearsals are waiting for her. If she hurries, she might get there before Halbrand finishes his turn, to hear what his voice sounds like when he can’t see her.

Now that the live shows are only four days away – where does time go after it brushes past them in its rush? – every moment stolen from the chaos of their days is precious. A breath of fresh air out of a hurricane, a space to enjoy whatever is starting to take root inside them.

*

Making small talk while waiting for the others to pick up their stuff and leave the stage, like the previous day. Sitting on the floor close together, Galadriel with her legs crossed, Halbrand’s stretched and almost invading her space, without being scolded. Looking around waiting for their moment to climb and sit on the stage, their place. Exchanging a quick knowing glance, then putting their plan into action.

Their place. The fact it actually exists almost makes him dizzy.

When no one’s watching, he can prepare himself for what he’s dreamt for years, when he would read artists’ interviews on those crumpled magazines, picturing himself on stages he’d only seen on television. His first festival was held in a parking lot turned into a makeshift arena, an audience of a hundred people at best. His mother had brought along some of her friends, who started yelling like crazy little girls as soon as he appeared on stage. Curumo kept repeating for days he’d never come, but he actually showed up at the last minute, elbowing his way to the front row. Halbrand had kept the sponsor’s bandana hanging from his headboard for years, until the disappointment of his first rejection at Halcyon Days. Then came the dark years, the frustration, the rejections collected as memorabilia. Thuri so distant, him close at first, then unreachable.

Standing center stage, he can almost see the audience below him. Hands outstretched, voices following him in a chorus, eager for whatever revelation he wants to share with them, in the form of music and words. An altar to perform a ritual; an image that sends a chill down his spine. If he were alone with his thoughts, he’d waste precious minutes outlining complicated dreams of glory. But Galadriel is still sitting there, her water eyes silently following him. 

A comforting presence he doesn’t want to ignore.

“They rejected me too, you know. Different festivals. Four times.”

Galadriel absentmindedly twists a lock of hair in her fingers. She looks into his eyes; maybe he’s never noticed how beautiful they actually are.

“If they turned down my application for Halcyon Days I was never going to send it again, I swore it to Elrond. So he started saying things like ‘giving up is for losers’, ‘your worth isn't determined by others’, ‘next time will be the right one’ – and managed to convince me.” She smiles with the air of someone who wants to apologize. “I wanted to tell you, the other day. I couldn’t find the right words.”

“When does hope become obstinacy? I wonder all the time.” Halbrand sits next to her, legs stretched out in front of her. “My reaction was just like yours. When I sent in my application earlier this year, I promised myself that I would finally close this chapter... two failed attempts were more than enough.”

“Luckily, it went well. For both of us.”

Halbrand’s glad she interrupted him. Although she’s probably thinking she overstepped, her gaze lowering to one of her loose shoelaces.

“Maybe hope doesn’t change at all. Why should it become obstinacy? You’re just waiting for your moment to shine. Doesn’t matter if you chase it, or if you walk at the same pace.”

“I guess it’s a matter of perspective, yes.”

Galadriel stretches her legs. From an indefinite point behind them, a muffled melody drifts through the air. Wind instruments. A jazz improvisation, or perhaps a stereo at full volume, turned on solely to convey the joy of being there, on an ordinary and unforgettable summer evening.

“I could use your mindset. I have a short fuse – never been a particularly patient person.” A deep sigh. “Whenever something goes wrong I take it out on myself, when I could just learn something from it and move on instead.”

There’s something tender, something fragile, in this moment they’re sharing. Secrets they might not have confessed to anyone, an equal exchange of weaknesses.

“You should believe in what you do. That’s always the point.”

She sighs. “You make it sound easy.”

“I never said it is, but you should try anyway. Besides, your songs aren’t half bad.”

She looks relieved, eyes brimming with a light warmer than the sun.

“Yours, too. I almost started my rehearsal with Flannel instead of my own song – I haven’t been able to get it out of my head since this morning.”

Halbrand’s heart crashes against his ribs again. Just that one, out of all the songs he’s written and recorded. He secretly hopes what he’s feeling isn’t written on every muscle of his face. But Galadriel doesn’t seem to notice; she suddenly rises to her feet, pushed by some type of momentum unknown to anyone else but her. She’s now standing where he was just a little earlier, her lips tense. Almost as if she were struggling to hold back words too messy to express normally.

“Promise not to laugh.”

Silence breaks around that plea masked as an order. Halbrand turns, his full attention on her.

“Do you really think I could laugh in your face like it’s nothing?”

“Do you promise or not?”

“All right, all right Noldor. Go ahead. I promise nothing will come out of my mouth that you might not like.”

The encouragement seems to work. Galadriel lifts her shoulders, breathes in. She gives him a very quick glance; I’m actually doing this . A moment later, a melodious humming takes him by surprise.

Tell me lover, have you ever dreamed of us? Outside of a coffee shop, rain pouring, no words left?

A perfect start. So different from the one he desperately pursued for days, more intense. Almost forlorn. Galadriel sings as if the world around her doesn’t exist, in a dimension she’s only allowed him access to. Half-lidded eyes, her right hand fingers tracing figures in the air, the gem on her ring catching the rays of a sun now on its way home.

Flannel on your bed, red and blue, memories, I can’t recall anything from you

The chorus comes with more confidence, a caress of words enveloping him. And among the thoughts rushing through his mind – he should have it recorded, it’s perfect, has he ever heard something so spontaneous in his life? – only one stands out, silencing the others; she’s singing for him. Artanis, the girl from the video. That gentle, inscrutable creature is baring part of her soul to him.

When the last verse melts into the faint light of the sunset, she smiles. Shyly, her lips barely curved upward; triumph whispers, it doesn’t shout. She awaits his verdict with bated breath, as Halbrand searches for the best words to express what he’s feeling. If there ever were any, if anyone will ever invent them, words that aren’t clumsy and awkward, unable to match that feeling.

It’s Galadriel who breaks the silence, surprising him once again.

“I've always wanted to do something like this on a whim. You know, a silly and completely senseless act of courage, the kind that lasts a moment and stays with you forever.”

The breeze plays with her hair. She tucks a strand behind her ear, a gesture he’s getting used to.

“I've tried I don’t know how many times, but I’ve never been able to – until today.”

*

“No, wait!” She bursts out laughing. Elendil nods, inviting her to continue. “When Finrod saw him...”

A notification interrupts her story. Three days to the first live show , the calendar on her phone alerts her. She swipes it off right away, without the tension that, only a month earlier, would’ve made the evening insufferable. The Flannel refrain still accompanies her, a background music that lingers even hours after their meeting; each time the music stops, the twinkle in Halbrand’s eyes makes it start again.

Soon after, a text pops up with a trill. It’s him. 

Her fingertip slightly trembles unlocking the screen.

Are you ready for another silly, completely senseless act of courage?

Chapter Text

She said nothing to Miriel. No more than what a short message – I’m going for a little trip, be back later – might give away. Knowing her, though, she must have figured it out, considering the time Galadriel sent it. Early morning, the sacred moment she, come hell or high water, consecrates to the poolside. Watching the clouds, forcing herself to nibble some breakfast on the worst days, and to read in the happier ones.

The texting convo with Halbrand kept going after dinner. I know a place . A secret to share; butterflies in her stomach fluttering against her ribcage, fighting to break free. Her clammy fingers almost let the phone slip on the floor, eyes glued to that small Halbrand is typing ... , for a seemingly endless stretch of time.

I think you might like it .

She got ready in no more than five minutes. Swimsuit, canvas bag she luckily brought with her from Eregion. Her shorts and tank top promised an ordinary day, her long white tiered dress a wholly different thing. She chose the latter. With good peace of her inner voice still pestering her not to get ahead of herself.

Halbrand is waiting by his car, in the hotel parking lot. Sunglasses on his head, a smile just for her; a little boy excited for a school trip.

“Ready? Have you warned your headquarters, sent the coordinates to your manager, reassured everyone I’ll bring you back in one piece?”

Galadriel laughs, immediately warming up inside.

“Yes, no need to, and of course. I just warned Elrond I’ll be away until tonight.”

“And he didn’t try stopping you at all? Who guarantees I don’t want to kidnap famous singer Artanis and ask for a ransom?”

He shortens their distance with a step forward, looking her up and down, the usual smirk curving his lips. Arrogant, she would have deemed him only a few days earlier. Instinctively, she rolls her eyes.

“Halbrand...”

It sounds peculiar, his name on her lips. Foreign no more, still so far from complete familiarity. It makes her want to say it again, explore those syllables until her lips learn them by heart, like a song. That proximity injects an extra dose of courage into her soul, making her dare a smirk. Not brilliant like one of his, but it’s still a start.

“Tough luck. I’d talk so much you’d probably bring me back in no time.”

Another cocky smile, she lost count by now. Halbrand doesn’t take his eyes off of hers, while fishing into his shorts pocket for the keys. His car unlocks with a beep, hardly enough to distract them.

“You see, this is where you’re wrong, Noldor. I believe we’d have quite some topics to focus our conversation on.”

There’s something in him that thoroughly destroys every set limit with a single word, a single smile. A secret magic she’s learning the rules of, even if it’s only the beginning. Only time will tell if he’ll allow her to further her apprenticeship. And Halbrand himself. But from the way he looks at her – she dares to hope for a brief moment – that decision could’ve already been made.

She nods impatiently toward the car. They still have a secret place to explore.

“Elrong gave me the greenlight, but we’d better not be late. You never know… he might always change his mind.”

Halbrand’s laughter pierces through the otherwise still early morning air. He opens the car door for her, then scurries over to his. We’re doing this for real, her brain screams, before the engine starts.

His car, contrary to all expectations, is neat. Clean.

Aegnor and Angrod had her used to a very different type of cabin; crumpled cans, socks escaped from gym bags, the glove compartment either broken or cluttered with stuff. Are you sure you’re not twins? You have the same habits . She’s always loved teasing them, protected by their age difference. Aegnor used to ruffle her hair, Angrod would yank her up to make her laugh. Finrod is the orderly one – always has, always will be. Her rock. The brother in charge of tending to her bruises, and not just the physical ones.

Her ex was an organized person too, but the way he cared about his Audi had everything to do with reputation and nothing with a true passion for motors. Immaculate chassis, perfectly polished seats. Whenever he drove her somewhere, Galadriel would spend the whole route counting trees out the window. Words were few and far between. If he had something to say to her, he would use the same persuading tone he used with his clients.

Wouldn’t you think about it? It’s what they’re expecting from us.

She always changed the subject. Once, twice, rehearsed sentences blurted out on autopilot. No one would reject her application to the Change of Awkward Topics Festival, that much was certain.

I wanted to take you to a fancy place. Do things right...

She opens her eyes wide, blinking to chase away those stubborn fragments of memory. The music started when they left. A discreet background of classical guitars, soft rock from the past taking her back to the road trips with her brother. There’s no way Halbrand could know, and yet he smiles, fingers wrapped around the steering wheel. He hums from time to time, borrowing the words and returning them in his whispered voice.

You ruined everything, you know that, right?

Breaking the tension is the only way to get out of the trap that is her mind alive.

“Where did you say this place is?”

“Just outside Pelargir. It shouldn’t take more than thirty minutes, if the GPS isn’t lying.”

To her right, the sea is a shining blue ribbon winding along the road to their destination. She breathes in the scent around her. Lavender car deodorant and some cleanser, barely tainted by the dark aroma of tobacco. The reason why she still hasn’t consigned the shirt she was wearing on that rainy day to the hotel laundry service. 

“And how, pray tell, do you know about it?”

He shifts to a lower gear, turning to a secondary exit. In the distance, trees and dunes, a gas station surrounded by green leafy giants stretching their arms toward the blue sky. “A good story, for another time.”

The question remains there, on the tip of her tongue. Galadriel chooses to ignore it. The time of truth isn’t here yet, it’s the hesitation in his voice that suggests it. For now, she must be content with that promise. Go back to watch his long fingers accompany the steering wheel, let the hypnotic hum of his voice envelop her.

Enjoy the overcoming of her fears; the silence between them hasn’t stopped being comfortable.

*

The beach is exactly where he remembered it.

Maybe the entrance gate was less rusty, and he’s not sure there really were so many flowers among the shrubs lining the passage to the sea, but it’s the same. The gentle breeze, rippling the blue sea, the murmur of the waves kissing the shore. In the distance, the bridge he ran across on an afternoon now buried in a forsaken corner of his mind, the one where he files away moments to forget. Nails painfully digging into his palms, rage storming inside him, obliterating any concrete thought. He’d have screamed his throat dry, in that lost spot between land and water, if only Thuri hadn’t been with him.

What’s the point of blaming yourself for something you can’t control?

Galadriel has already taken off her sandals, feet sinking into the sand. He mimics her instinctively, kicking away first one sneaker and then the other. The sand is warm, impossibly soft. How long has it been since he felt so alive?  

The sea calls to him, a hypnotic song he can’t escape. One step after another, down to the shoreline, fingertips dipping into the soft foam. He looks around; the surfboard shed is still standing, perfect to use as a shelter from the sun that in a few hours will leave them no escape. His mother’s voice chases him even in his thoughts, reminding him of the sunscreen. Done and done, her lectures about the July sun damages paid off. He looks around, trying to regain the coordinates of that place from his past. Who knows if the beach umbrellas from last time are still there, the ones he and Thuri spent almost a whole hour trying to open...

Halbrand turns to Galadriel just as she’s lifting her dress over her head.

He immediately looks away, feigning a sudden and intense interest in the sandy shore, but the damage is done; her image is burned into his retinas. Her lilac nail polish, slightly chipped on her index fingernail. Her gorgeous blue one-piece swimsuit. A long, thin scar on her chest, just an inch above her heart. Her cheeks flushed, perhaps from the sun, perhaps as red as his, as he desperately hopes he hasn’t been caught staring like a weirdo. The messy braid she’s tied her hair into, following her as she runs...

Without even waiting for him, Galadriel immediately dives into the water. 

“It’s freezing!”

“What did you expect, princess? It’s not a hot tub.”

She sticks her tongue out at him, disappearing under the surface. A pause that puts an end to his short-lived indecision; he still doesn’t know if Galadriel is one for water splashes, but it’s still better to dive in. Slipping backward, he lets himself go to the embrace of the sea without reservation, breaking its crystal surface after taking a deep breath in.

When he catches his breath, closer to Galadriel than he thought, the sun is playing with her hair again. He can see it shimmer even beyond the droplets on his eyelids, a golden halo glistening around her silhouette. Turning her into a creature of pure light, a goddess before whose altar he wouldn’t hesitate to leave an offer.

She spins around, a smile blooming on her salt-kissed lips. That feeling amplifies, grows in his chest almost painfully. The last glimmer of rationality beckons him not to stare at her, not to look for the water pearls sliding down her chest. He struggles to obey.

“It’s beautiful.”

He stays silent. Just like you , would be his impulse answer, the most obvious and simple of all. Yet, words don’t come to his aid. Why does the truth always sound so strange when he’s the one delivering it to the world? But there’s nothing more to add here. This moment is beautiful, what’s happening is beautiful, because it’s happening with you. I’ve spent a life wishing to be anywhere but where I was, except now.

How do you explain that, Galadriel?

He just nods. A moment later, he feels like something is missing.

“I really wanted to show it to you. No one ever comes here… I’ve always considered it some kind of secret beach. Open only to those who can really appreciate it.”

She nods. Filling him with the hope – intoxicating, absurd, real – that she understood everything.

Under the surface, Galadriel’s fingers seek his own. And it’s the most delicate contact of all, a silent request for confirmation that needs no words to be expressed. Answering her is as natural as breathing; he holds her hand, so smaller than his, their fingers intertwining. The first real touch, the sign he unconsciously prayed for. The proof he needed to realize it; he sees in her what he’s always hoped to be.

*

The intense scent of the sun on the sand.

Her skin, salty and slightly aching, making her grimace as she runs toward the sea raising a cloud of water spray, and Halbrand raises his eyebrows. The water is a shelter welcoming her with open arms, as she waits for Halbrand to join her again. Waiting for him, feigning indifference by turning her head left and right, distractedly, pretending to observe her surroundings, and then splashing his face by surprise. Laughing at his deeply outraged expression, loud enough to risk falling back into the water. Waiting again, this time for his revenge, in the form of a splash that soaks her from head to toe.

The water is no longer that cold.

Laughing again, after years of not allowing herself to. There’s a past that hurts, just around the corner, and one shining with hidden joys, bringing her back to her childhood. Angrod slipping her swim ring on from above her head, Finrod lifting her up to dive in. Their mother watching over them from shore, warning them to get out of the water before noon, or she wouldn’t be responsible for their sunburns. Annoyed, but only up to a point. Their father laughing without being seen; he was way more relaxed when they were kids. Family issues always remained hidden behind a curtain of whispers and ambiguous allusions, silenced by an eloquent look from her to him, so that the kids wouldn’t hear. They were good at not getting caught, an art that passed down to Finrod. She wasn’t clearly cut out to inherit it.

Among those pictures, vivid yet blurred by time, Halbrand’s is carving out an ever-larger space.

“Is it warm enough now, Noldor?”

A precise splash hits her right in the face. Her third swim of the day, in three hours. Just like when I was six ; the last thought before disappearing underwater again.

* 

“When I didn’t get into Halcyon Days – the first time I sent in my application, years ago – I acted like everything had gone well. I celebrated with my parents, they even took me out for dinner.” A grimace twists his lips. Regret, and nostalgia too. As absurd as it may sound. “The only ones who knew the truth were my brother and my best friend at the time.”

Her sea blue stare never left him. Galadriel fiddles with the French fries in her plate, bringing one to her mouth to nibble on it. She lets him talk, without stepping in. A sip of water helps him find his words.

“Thuri and Curumo tried their hardest to convince me… but there was no way anyone could have persuaded me to think I wasn’t one hell of a failure for everyone. Especially for Aulë and Yavanna, who had been paying for my guitar lessons for years, surely expecting me to put them to good use.”

Those words leave a sour taste in his mouth.

“So, we left. Thuri and me. The hard part was coming across as convincing – you know, prove that I would actually perform live.”

He takes a long breath. The restaurant – a series of small wooden tables and a whitewashed concrete structure, far enough from downtown Pelargir to avoid prying eyes – is less crowded than he had dared to hope. Maybe we should’ve come in disguise. You know, in case some paparazzi is hiding behind the potted plants. She didn’t mean for it to come across as a joke, but the spontaneity she laid out that concern with was enough to make him smile. The breeze moves the fabric of white umbrellas around them, ballerina skirts caught in an irresistible rhythm.

“I took videos of my performances. I photographed myself, guitar on my shoulder, on the lawn next to the stage. I recorded audios of me singing the pieces I’d play. I sent messages. Tons of them. Like ‘hey mum, this place is awesome! Miss you, yada yada yada... All so I wouldn’t disappoint them. They deserved to imagine me like that, on a stage where I could prove who I was.”

Another sip of water. Galadriel is still observing him, her judgment bow devoid of arrows to shoot in his direction. A realization that gives him strength.

“I found out I’m pretty good at lying. After the first, after the second, the third lie would come on its own, effortlessly. All I had to do was summon them… until truth and pretense became one.” A bitter laugh, harsh. Perhaps honesty is a muscle; it must be exercised so that it doesn’t hurt. Exercise has never been his forte, but he can always learn.

“By then I was living in a parallel reality. I could never tell my parents, they were proud of a fake me – spinning a narrative that would please them was easier. One in which I played the part of the son I wanted to be for them.”

The water bottle is empty. He would order another one, if memories didn’t get the better of him. Guilt, an oppression that crushes his chest, stealing his breath. Sadness, constantly muted, demands its share; he’s neglected it for too long, burying it under a pile of good intentions and actions that are only half good. Words he could have said, tear from his chest if necessary, instead of letting them fester inside. Nostalgia again, of what he doesn’t quite know, even though it burns in his throat, like acid, like tears forming a knot. If only...

Galadriel’s fingers gently brush his knuckles.

Halbrand almost closes his eyes, aching for that respite she’s so generously providing him. Her fingers are warm, strong in their gentleness, keeping him grounded. 

The only thing he truly needs.

His eyes open to a new landscape. The midday sun heating up the air, a waiter beckoned to the table next to them. Scent of coconut oil, then alcohol; someone must have opened a beer. Galadriel’s dress, an impossible, all-encompassing white, a magnet for his gaze.

Her eyes, searching for his own again, pure as the sea.

Trusting.

Do I really deserve this?

“That’s how I found the secret beach. I was running from myself, needed some air. I drove and drove, when at some point the gate pretty much appeared in front of me. Maybe I was meant to find it – some kind of sign there would always be something good waiting for me. Even when I least expected it.”

Her fingers don’t leave the back of his hand. A reiteration of their first contact, the unfamiliarity of it fading away little by little. Embarrassment makes its appearance for a split second, before disappearing, dispelled by Galadriel’s smile.

“You know… I never understood if my parents are proud of me, or of my music. They never told me directly.”

That confession escapes her lips in a whisper. Halbrand caresses her palm with his fingertips, an invitation to continue.

“From when I was little, I was always told how important our family was. A good position, a good boyfriend, a nice house, a respectable family. That was all they wanted for me.” She chuckles, a curt laugh, all too aware of the meaning of her words. Not far from them, on the road that continues to live a life of its own, a car speeds along the road to the sea, stereo blaring at full volume. 

“They never even wondered if I wanted the same things or not. The important thing was knowing I would achieve everything they had in mind for me.” Galadriel shakes her head, the same bitter expression he had on his face just before. “Music was fine, as long as it remained a hobby. But I wanted something else – a life that was truly mine, and not just settle for the crumbs. I always felt guilty about it.”

She lets go of his hand. Elbows on the table, she fidgets with her fingers, gaze lost in some secret distant thought.

“What you said before… I felt it too. The sole concept of disappointing their expectations, of not being enough for them, no matter what I do.” She shakes her head. “Sometimes I think they’d need another daughter – one ready to embrace the career designed for her, to marry a man they approve of. But I’m sure that if I tried very hard to become that person, I’d never be happy again.”

She stops, one hand brushing away her still damp hair from her forehead. Silence envelops them in its grip, leaving them momentarily alone with their demons. Not all secrets have been revealed, but those they now share have breached the wall between them. Brick by brick, the structure is collapsing, revealing their true selves.

Halbrand looks at himself lifting her chin with the lightest touch of a fingertip, their eyes locking. She’s still here, with him. Galadriel Noldor, so different from the woman she saw for the first time more than a month ago, in that video. Artanis is still there, though. In her strength, in that flame inside her eyes.

“Perhaps it was meant to be, two people like us meeting.”

A confession for a confession. Galadriel doesn’t look away; she returns the smile he’s offering her with a disarming sincerity. A smile bringing him back to another Halbrand, the one who still didn’t feed on lies.

*

The journey back comes in a blur, a sunset bursting with colors. Pink, red, the loveliest blue she’s ever seen, painted on the horizon. A caress gentle like a breeze, the sound of tires on the asphalt, the car cutting through the air of the evening, gradually getting chillier. Sticking her hand out the window to trace waves in the air is a game of the Galadriel from the past; when she turns again, all she sees is Halbrand.

He’s singing. First under his breath, an accompaniment to the quiet roar of the engine, gaining confidence as her voice joins in. They share the choruses, laughing over a wrong verse, switching their songs. Brighter Colors sung with his raspy tone almost sounds completely different. Sensual, she catches herself thinking, a shiver coursing through her body. It makes her want to hear him sing again and again. To extend that car ride as far as possible, stealing minutes from time itself so that they may be more than the measly thirty the road allows them. More time to get to know him, to run in the dazzling light kissing their faces, light like she has never felt before.

Only two days left until the live shows. Elrond will scold her for skipping a rehearsal, she ponders, guilty just like a schoolgirl caught playing hooky. A delicious thrill that shakes her from head to toe, almost making her giggle.

It was worth it. Experiencing a day like that, getting closer to Halbrand.

In that short time, she discovers new details about his life. Her mother Yavanna works at a garden center, his father Aulë is a blacksmith. It was him who passed down the love for art to Halbrand; the love for music was born when he was still in elementary school. His brother Curumo says he only listens to metal, but he once caught him humming one of his songs under the shower. Badly, he’s tone-deaf as hell. Halbrand now only smokes a cigarette from time to time, just to keep the stress in check, but he should stop. Curumo is always threatening to rat him out to their mother, like they were still six and ten years old, everyday business when you’re an older brother...

His warm voice fills the space between them, the music is only a background noise now. The sun has set; dusk colors her skin a soft rosy hue. His is a beauty that arrives quietly and then obliterates everything else, powerfully imposing itself on her senses. She could collect details about him for hours, in her mental album, without getting tired. The fingers gripping the steering wheel with the same confidence of that morning, those fingers catching her eye every single time. Eyes shining with mirth, auburn curls spread across his forehead. Full lips, open in laughter. For a moment, she imagines what it’d feel like to kiss them in the unreal atmosphere of the sunset, fingers buried in his hair, holding him so that he doesn’t disappear. Drunk on that fantasy, she leans her head against the seat, losing herself in the intensity of that thought. So vivid, not yet real. 

Incredibly, for the first time she didn’t fall asleep during a car ride.

*

“Serves you right. What a great idea, going to the beach only two days away from the first live show, huh?”

Halbrand groans. If the pain of the sunburn wasn’t enough, Curumo’s lecture adds another layer of suffering to the whole matter. He couldn’t wait to put him in line; his voice exudes satisfaction. That little shit. Prone on his bed, he sinks his face into the mattress, seeking the scarce coolness provided by the sheet.

“Believe me, I did it for a good cause.”

“Oh yeah? Since when hitting on a girl is considered a good cause?”

“You’re so crude.” A muffled muttered protest, until he decides to try another approach, turning on his side. His skin feels stretched, punishing him with a sharp sting of pain; the back of his knees must be burned too. Great. “You’d rather have me here all day, anxious about the last rehearsal?”

“You’d have spared yourself a sunburn. And I wouldn’t have to assist you. A win-win for both.”

Curumo concludes that thought with a dramatic sigh, then walks away. Halbrand hears him fumbling with the water jug on the table, filling the bowl he showed up in his room with, pouring something else into it, mixing energetically. The scent of olive oil brings him back to his mother again. Whenever a spot forgotten by the sunscreen turned into a sunburn, she would come right away with that mixture in hand. Water and oil patiently mixed together, spread just as patiently on their skin. Nostalgia hits him with a sharp blow to the stomach. He wonders what the look on the girl’s face at the front desk must have been like when Curumo asked if she could fetch some oil for Halbrand, famous singer, screwed over by half a day at the beach for not putting on sunscreen properly.

“Here you go.” His brother comes back to that scenario, the mattress dipping under his weight. His fingers force him to get back in position, probe burned skin with surprising gentleness, dip into the bowl to carefully smear the greasy mixture. Gritting his teeth helps him hold back a groan of pain.

“You could use some aloe vera, but I forgot to bring my aftersun lotion with me. You’ll have to go find a drugstore when you’re feeling better.”

“And here I thought Yavanna had stuffed your backpack with products.”

Curumo grumbles. He can’t stand hearing Halbrand call his precious mum by her name.

“I can pack my own stuff, thank you very much. The only aloe I saw is the plant at the entrance, the one in the flower bed.”

“There, you could have taken that one. I just needed a single lea- ouch .” The worst spot is definitely the one between the shoulder and the neck. Soon he’ll be able to add toothache to that endless list of pains. “A single leaf. The chick at the front desk won’t even notice…”

“Why don’t you try and see what happens?”

“Well, surely she’ll be honored to play her part in the recovery of one of the top singers at the festival. It’s not...”

Halbrand’s phone snaps them back to attention. The notification of a message fills the screen –  Galadriel. Before he knows it, Halbrand’s already reaching out to retrieve it. 

“You never miss a beat, do you?” 

He’s smiling, the little snake; Halbrand can sense it even without looking. Not that it could ever be enough to make him give up, anyway.

“You’re just jealous I have a new friend, while you’re always holed up in your room like the grouch you are.”

He lifts his phone. Do you happen to have an aftersun lotion I can borrow? The smiling emoji sporting a single tear follows suit. He pictures Galadriel sitting on the bed, her back against the wooden headboard, trying to type between pained groans and muffled expletives. Halbrand chuckles; it seems he wasn’t the only one underestimating the sun. He slowly, laboriously gets up trying hard not to rub his sore skin against the sheets, only half succeeding. Making himself presentable for the first live show will be a big problem.

No t-shirt, the oil still needs to dry up. A white button up shirt is a good compromise, although he must leave the first two buttons open so that the collar doesn’t rub against his collarbone. He’ll have to walk all the way to her room, bowl in hand, but he seriously doubts there will be any witness. It’s too hot to loiter in the hallways, especially when the pool is still open.

Coming to save the day , he types with one hand while trying to put his shoes on. Curumo shoots him a knowing glance, with the air of someone who’s watching the exact scene he’s foreseen unfold right in front of him.

“I’ve never seen anyone so keen on getting hurt like you are, big brother.”

Halbrand’s middle finger is the last thing Curumo sees before the door closes.

*

Her room is a silent shelter, bathed in half-light. The sun filtering through the slats of the blinds paints sharp stripes on the wall; an enchantment reserved for that time of day. Downstairs, the pool is bustling with people, children have braved the hottest hours of the day once again. One voice spurs another to dive in, then a thud, a chorus of joyful shouts. Outside her room someone is whistling, the sound receding along with the footsteps. Just another postcard from Pelargir on a July afternoon.

The live shows start tomorrow.

Galadriel lets out a sigh of relief. Elrond appeared to bring her a lemonade, then his phone started ringing. Disa. Extra lesson videocall, this evening , he mouthed before disappearing into the corridor. Tomorrow morning her last rehearsal and soundcheck await her, assuming the sunburn agrees.

She stretches her arms, instantly regretting it; her skin is so tight it feels like it’s about to crack. She huffs. Of course, her first sunburn in years had to happen on the same day she forgot her aftersun cream at home. Her mother was right, even if her angry voice is the last feeling she wishes to recall. She could go seek it in the evening, that drugstore open until midnight in the harbor area, should Halbrand arrive empty-handed.

Maybe they could go together.

The sheets soaked in lavender scented fabric softener smell of summer. Galadriel almost closes her eyes. Summers in Tirion; the ticking of automatic sprinklers in the gardens, puddles of sun reflected on the asphalt. Celeborn always insisted on going out in the afternoons, even when the only sensible thing to do was staying at home and enjoying the air conditioning. And she followed him, mostly because that was what everyone, especially him, expected of her.

Nineteen years old, the white dress she loved so much, which he dismissed with a brief distracted glance. The way she stared at the little lights on the dashboard, her shoes, the ring she had worn just so she could fiddle with it. Wondering what kind of life would await her next to him.

Yes, music is a beautiful hobby. But what would you really like to do?

Be a singer.

She had hesitated, hating that passive version of himself, that only Celeborn and her parents could conjure up. Waiting at a traffic light, he had turned to Galadriel, looking at her with the expression of someone who had no heart to dash the hopes of a five year old girl who’s just declared she wants to be an astronaut.

I mean for a living.

A knock on her door suddenly brings her back to reality.

Shaking those memories away becomes easier with practice. An art she’s learning to master day by day. 

“Come in!” she exclaims, striving to get up, while Halbrand makes his way into the only place where he had not been welcomed in yet. He must have thought the same thing, judging by how slowly he’s proceeding, as if afraid of defiling it, laying a bowl on her table.

“Fear not, Noldor, help is here. Let’s see if you’re worse off than I am.”

“Did you find the aftersun cream?”

“No, but I brought something better. Oil beaten with water. My mother’s remedy, which has a high success rate, if I do say so myself,” he explains, a hint of pride warming his voice. His smug expression doesn’t crack even clashing with hers, positively displeased.

“Don’t look at me like that, it actually works!”

“For cooking, maybe. Has it ever been tested on humans?”

“Of course it’s been tested!” He’s so good at feigning indignation, hand on his chest, eyes dramatically wide. “Honestly, who do you think I am? I wouldn’t suggest it if it didn’t work… but I need a towel, or a sponge. Have you got one in your princess suitcase?”

The huff she lets go of might sound dramatic, but it’s nothing if not dramatically sincere. 

“In the bathroom.” She nods to the door next to the entrance. “The sponge is in the shower.”

The inevitable realization touches her mind only a moment later. She will soon be half-naked again, without even the excuse of the beach; a thought that is way more exciting than scary. It’s a rush of adrenaline, making her fight to pull her t-shirt off almost frantic, while Halbrand turns the light of the bathroom on, committed to his search quest. A feeling of lightness, confusing every action. 

“Wait a minute!” she warns him. Her t-shirt slips to the ground – if he were looking at you, would you have done it more slowly? – Galadriel buries her head in her crossed arms. Halbrand stops, waiting just outside of her field of view.

“Ready!”

He approaches slowly. She breathes his scent in, filling her lungs with his presence. Sitting beside her on the mattress, Halbrand gently caresses her back, making her skin prickle. His fingertips inspect it carefully, trying not to touch the most irritated parts.

“What a nice sunburn,” he declares. “But you’re lucky, Noldor. I told you, it’s a method that works every time – it worked great with yours truly.”

“Let’s give it a try then. Not that I have better options.”

He chuckles. “Difficult customers are the ones I’m most eager to convince.”

Halbrand dips the towel in the water, rinsing the extra liquid out. A dripping, satisfying sound. He leans over her, his cotton shirt caressing her skin in the process.

“May I?”

His voice – featherlight, rich, so mesmerizing in his attempt to soothe her – sends a shiver down her spine. And she finds herself nodding, at a loss for words, stuck somewhere between her chest and throat. She can’t see him, just feel his touch on her; his long, devoted fingers giving the same attention to each part of her sore back, inspecting it carefully, spreading the emulsion on the skin.

Thinking about those fingers elsewhere would be easy for her. Far too easy. On her hips – touching to claim, to mark his territory – or ...

Slender, soft fingers, a touch that would be considerate and hungry, in the same measure. How would he make her feel if…

“Is it okay like this?”

Galadriel breathes in, a desperate attempt to keep those thoughts at bay. The air conditioner, lowly humming above her head, the oil’s intense smell, mixed with a hint of lavender. Tobacco, as always, as sharp as it is comforting. He hums something under his breath, almost absentmindedly, keeping on with his ministrations. She closes her eyes. Trying to make the world disappear, rest in a space where time doesn’t exist, is an enticing fantasy. The best she’s had in a long time.

“Wait, don’t – ah. ”

Too late; she should have told him to leave the hip alone. Did she flinch from the sudden pain, or because he touched her exactly where she wanted him to? Get a grip , she thinks, upset. He’s just taking care of her sunburn, like any good friend would do. It’s not that deep.

Or is it?

She clenches her teeth, stifling a new gasp of pain.

“I don’t think it’s doing anything,” she protests. Again, better to focus on how her body is reacting to the sunburn than on the space they’re sharing. “Do you have some cream instead? So maybe it–” 

“Galadriel.”

Her name reverberates through her, zeroing every concrete thought. It never sounded more beautiful, something to hold on to almost desperately, while she feels Halbrand dip the sponge into the bowl, this time without squeezing it, and trace wet patterns on her shoulder. Galadriel holds her breath.

“You’ll see it works. Do you trust me?”

The quickness with which she nods takes her by surprise. Halbrand’s smile widens.

“Good. You just need to wait for it to soak in. I know you can’t stand to stay still in the same place for more than five minutes, but this time you can do it. Besides, we had our rehearsals this morning – you should be free until dinner. We can kill time in other ways.”

An echo of the thoughts from just before lifts its head again. Luckily, her pink and soon to be red cheeks are buried into the pillow. Halbrand, unaware of her inner turmoil, continues.

“We can chat a little. For example…” – he’s good at distracting her so that she doesn’t complain, Galadriel has to give him some credit – “you could tell me where your stage name comes from.”

A new pause, harder to handle. She’s not sure she’s able to talk about that time of her life, but she doesn’t want to hide it from him either. A sigh makes the pillowcase vibrate. Halbrand pulls his hand away, perhaps to check he hasn’t missed any spot, perhaps to give her some time and space.

Until her voice breaks that still atmosphere.

“There was this videogame, when I was a child. Both my father and Finrod, my older brother, loved it... they would play it every night before dinner, when dad came home from work. I always sneaked into the room to watch them laugh and pretend to get angry together.”

Galadriel lets memories take her by the hand, so they can lead her wherever they want.

“One day Finrod came to me with a magazine, showed me one of the main female characters from the game. She was wearing armor, had a sword at her side. And blond hair, just like me.” She breathes in. Finrod smiling at her, his father’s mouse clicking in the background. The smooth pages of the magazine over which she ran her fingers, back and forth. 

“I was so happy. I looked at dad, waiting for his verdict, and he agreed. ‘You’re our Artanis,’ he said. He didn’t often compliment me like that, but I hung on his every word. Never left his side for a moment.”

There they are, tears. Galadriel feels them pressing at the corners of her eyes, demanding their share. Pushing them back is a duty she’d just want to shirk.

“When the moment to choose my stage name came, I thought about how happy I was that day. In my little corner of the world, protected by two of the most important people in my life. Even if we don’t always get along, me and my parents – I just can’t let it go.”

Fingers resume caressing her back, this time without the sponge. Surrendering to Halbrand’s touch is easy, almost too much so. His breath, so close to her ear, sends her thoughts reeling once again. Fingertips pressing her shoulder blades, untying knots she didn’t even know were hurting, guiding her back to him.

“At least your name has a nice story behind it… I must have changed mine three times.” He smiles, without stopping his ministrations. “My label owner liked Sauron, but the rest of the team didn’t agree. Too death metal-like, it would’ve been confusing. They straight up didn’t let me use Tar-Mairon – don’t laugh Noldor, it was a good name. ‘Stop picking from your D&D characters names, Halbrand’,” he gives his best impression of a voice who, Galadriel’s sure of it, belongs to his brother. Another giggle shakes her lightly, barely muffled by the pillow.

“So I went back to Halbrand. It’s more straightforward, sincere. No expectations I can fail to meet.”

Standing in front of her, beyond the half-open curtains that are her eyelids, he looks like a figure born from a dream. Here now, gone in a heartbeat, like a vision fading at the break of day.

Her instincts prompt her to get up. She obeys without hesitation, except remembering at the very last moment she’s only wearing her bra and shorts. Halbrand gives her a mischievous glance before turning respectfully to the wall, waiting for her to retrieve her shirt and protect her modesty.

Something shifted in the air. Something subtle, something they both are aware of.

“It’s almost time for dinner,” Halbrand begins, after a moment that runs as slow as a century. “I’ll leave you to get ready,” he adds, but still waits for her to join him by the door. 

The room has changed color, bathed in the warm fading sunlight, vivid as the day before. When she lifts her gaze to eyes, the sun makes them sparkle like amber stones.

Halbrand doesn’t ask her to be dismissed. He gently brushes her cheek like the day before, his thumb dangerously close to her lips, tearing a sigh of anticipation from her. And just when her heart takes an impossible leap, crashing into her stomach, he lifts her head with a single finger under her chin, lips softly brushing her forehead.

A kiss that lasts only the blink of an eye. A promise.

“See you tomorrow, princess.”

Chapter Text

“Let’s try with the last one.”

The palm of the hand clutching the microphone will soon be covered in sweat, but for now he can afford to ignore it. Right beneath the stage, Arondir lifts three fingers, then lowers them one at a time. He gives him the green light with a nod, immediately going back to the mixing desk.

Flannel goes better than expected; Halbrand knows who to thank. High & Low is reserved for encores only, in case there are any first hour fans in the audience. The record label chose only four tracks out of seven from his last EP, more than enough for a performance that will barely last an hour. Until the very last moment, he kept hoping they’d let him exclude A Sunset – who’s even going to listen to it? It’s just a nostalgic ballad about adolescence, the people who follow me are out of target by now and other similar excuses, thrown with a nonchalance too stage-managed to really feel authentic – but Mel had been adamant. Who knows if it was just out of spite, or because he actually believes in that song. Since when has his own teenage drama become so interesting?

In any case, it’s not Mel he’s thinking about as he rehearses the song, doing his best to get the initial chords right. Should he feel like it, he might even take it out of the setlist at the last moment. After all, what Melkor doesn’t see can’t hurt him. A thought that widens the smile on his lips.

“This one’s perfect too. You’re officially ready for tonight’s show.”

Arondir is a living image of tranquility. The confident posture, his kind eyes – like water, like Galadriel’s but calmer, more similar to the quiet stillness of a lake. Halbrand slips his guitar off, placing it back in its case. The tension is slowly beginning to dissipate; he just needs to hope the sunburn will follow suit. He manages to reciprocate that trust with a half-smile, gathering all the confidence his mind, worn out by the heat and by the emotions of the last days, grants him.

“Fingers crossed everything goes well, then.”

He watches his sound technician set up the mixing desk for the next rehearsal, talking to a guy he’s seen more than once. Theo, Bronwyn’s son, who runs the pharmacy and makes the rounds everyday to check the water bottles supply and help the performers keep the heatstrokes away. Theo throws him a quick glance, immediately acting like he didn’t. But no matter how aloof he may act, the rapt expression he looks at Halbrand with when he sings betrays him every time.

“Halbrand,” Theo approaches, a box full of cables in his arms. He’s keeping busy tidying up the stage area, checking that nothing is missing. A squire and his knight. His shyness always stopped him from meeting Halbrand’s gaze, at least until that day.

“Good luck tonight. Hope I can find a spot under the stage.”

He doesn’t brag about the privilege of having a parent – make that two, Bronwyn and Arondir look pretty close – directly involved in the show. In his place, Halbrand wouldn’t shut up about it for a second. Having an advantage over his classmates, savoring a revenge as dazzling as it is useless, would have done nothing but inflate his ego. Maybe he’s still more tied to A Sunset than he’s willing to admit.

Don’t know if I really dreamed of being that someone, maybe it was just another reflection of my bored ego

“You’ll play Flannel too, right? It’s my favorite. I heard it for the first time on a video one of my friends made, she’s the one who introduced me to your music.”

Theo manages to maintain eye contact just for a few moments, before going back to the safety of his activities with a mixture of excitement and embarrassment. He’s striving to play it cool until the end, but soon he runs out of objects to sort out.

“Of course. It’s a must, sometimes the audience starts singing it even before I step on the stage.”

Halbrand picks up the guitar. The thought of Theo’s friend choosing that specific song for a video reassures him. Whether it’s a crochet tutorial, an endless round up of photos without any apparent logical sense, or maybe a fancam he’s always ignored the existence of, since his presence on social media equals zero. His label never insisted in that regard; it’s a quirk they have every interest to encourage, at least for the moment.

Wondering what face they’d make if he created one just like that, out of thin air, posting a picture with Artanis as the first post, is an idle but delightfully tempting thought.

Theo keeps watching him while he works, apparently striving against himself. In the end, it’s boldness that prevails. He approaches nonchalantly, holding out his arm in a rush of sheer bravery.

“Can you sign my arm? I couldn’t find a single piece of paper in here.”

The laugh Halbrand tries to suppress vibrates inside him for a moment, before breaking free. While busy looking for a pen in his backpack pocket, he spots a blond head out of the corner of his eye.

*

She hinted at the harbor, and he immediately accepted the invitation. The stage is taken all morning long, and the comings and goings of technicians and artists make it impossible to find a private corner; the wooden benches on the promenade will do just fine.

“How did your parents react to the news?”

Sharing space has become a ritual, as important as their message exchange. Galadriel should find it strange, accustomed as she is to always keep some distance from everyone – physical first, then mental soon after – but everything is easier with Halbrand. Like not sitting with the usual perfect posture – back straight and hands in her lap, learned through reproachful glances – and choosing to sit on the ground instead. Talking about whatever she wants, whenever she feels like it. Her back against Halbrand’s legs, her head turned upward to look at him and enjoy every detail of his expression. The corners of his mouth curving up, eyes glistening with something she’d never seen before. The sparkle in his eyes when he realizes he’s caught her attention. His relaxed posture.

Because he really wants to be here with me and no one else.

“Very well, actually. I haven’t seen my mother so happy in a long time.” The crow’s feet around his eyes are adorable , she finds herself thinking. “I suspect my father was very much relieved to get rid of two sons at once, but I want to be hopeful that maybe he was happy too.”

Aulë Norsus. Who knows what he’s like, this man she only knows through Halbrand’s words. What voice does he apologize with, how does he show affection to his son? Halbrand talks more about his mother, yet life continues to teach her that what’s left unsaid means more than a thousand words.

“They can’t leave the garden center and the workshop to come see me perform, but at least I brought Curumo with me. And they spam me with messages all day, anyway.”

Surprisingly enough, hearing about loving and warm families doesn’t make her reflection on her own family more painful, quite the opposite. Probably because it’s about Halbrand. The image of his parents catches the attention of her mind’s eye for a moment; I’d really like to meet them.

It makes answering the next question easier.

“Have you told your parents?”

Her instinct commands her to end the conversation right there, to find an excuse to talk about the weather or the flower crown Miriel is having prepared for her live show, even though that wouldn’t be honest. She can’t avoid the subject forever; running away would only reinforce it. 

So she just nods.

“No way they could make it, they’re too busy. But they sent me their best wishes.”

She puts on her best convincing smile. He knows better than to fall for it.

“Are they really as awful as I imagine?”

“No. They’re…”

Words fail her. How could she describe her parents without wronging them or herself? All I know about them is the mask they wear for me. They’ve been wearing it for so long it’s left a mark on them. I wish I met them when they didn’t feel the need to keep it on. “Formal,” she forces herself to summarize, feeling she’s failed miserably. “They’re convinced that following the rules by the book is enough for everything to go as it should. That means not straying from the path laid out by those who came before you, not embarrassing them. Respectability above all else.”

Galadriel shakes her head. Pandora’s box has been opened, her life is slowly dripping out of it. Old photos, smiles too few and far between to truly become a habit. If she could be honest with her parents, she’d ask them to be honest with her first.

Is it alright anyway? What I’m building. Even if it’s not what you wanted?

“To them, I’ve always been the little girl of the family, and not just because I’m the youngest of four siblings. They simply see everything I do as a whim. When I dumped my ex, for example.” A small, guilty smile curves her lips. “They loved him. A good family, a promising career as a lawyer... too bad we had nothing in common.” 

“Let me guess, he hates music?”

“More or less.” It would be impossible to hide the hint of amusement in her voice. Not that she wants to, anyway. “He certainly wouldn’t devote his life to it. I love my parents, I know it doesn’t seem like it... but what was the point of staying with someone like that? Just to make everyone happy except me?”

Galadriel sighs. Halbrand’s fingers brush her hair, a hint of a caress that lingers for a moment. It reminds her of the kiss from the night before, still seared into her skin. He’s too close to her ear, to her neckline, but that’s fine. She can enjoy it for what it is, without forcing herself to think about what might come next .

“It’s like I told you yesterday... too many expectations, too many rules to follow. That’s why we all left.” Her smile turns bitter. “Finrod lives with his girlfriend, Aegnor and Angrod on their own... I moved to Eregion. I have a roommate, who’s pretty much away all the time, but still. At least no one has to put up with me during my creative blocks.”

“I think Curumo would agree with you, you know? About how creative people should live alone. He keeps repeating that every time I can’t write a song and I infect everyone in the house with my bad mood.”

His hand rests on Galadriel’s head, ruffling her hair. She’s certain he did that on purpose; when she looks up to glare at him, his mischievous smile is brighter than ever. The wind imitates him, gently shaking the tree tops along the promenade, blowing a white flower petal into her hair. Halbrand picks it up between two fingers, with the gentleness of someone afraid of destroying something precious.

“But I have no intention of leaving, thank you very much. Not for the moment, and certainly not to do him a favor.” He gives her a lopsided grin. “I’ve grown fond of my father’s workshop. And besides, the garden center is on the same street as home.”

The deafening symphony of cicadas has followed them there. 

If she takes a deep breath, filling her lungs with the sea air, her worries about the live show seem to vanish, caught by the breeze. Along with all the others. Thoughts about Finrod and Amarië – who both promised to phone her in the early afternoon so as not to disturb her in the pre-show chaos – about her mother, who might forget about her and stop texting her. The fear – subtle but pressing, tiny needles of insecurity biting into her skin – that the concert might be a disappointment to those who are looking forward to enjoying it. She can only close her eyes to tune out the noise in her head, surrendering to the patient touch of Halbrand’s fingers. Hoping he’s not already fed up with her.

Galadriel can only offer him a wish, the first that comes to her mind.

“I’d love to see it, you know. Your mother’s garden center.”

Halbrand’s fingertips brush her hair again. Another petal must have fallen on her head.

“I think she’d be happy to show you, Noldor.”

*

As soon as the sun begins to set on the horizon, the live show comes to life.

The gates open, the lawn fills up with people; the buzz of the staff is joined by that of the crowd. In the rush to reach the backstage, it’s the vitality around him that strikes Halbrand the most. Young people drawing signs and posters, groups of friends hugging each other. People wearing the same band t-shirt, most likely members of a fanclub. He thinks he can read the name Kingsmen in large letters in that terrible homemade t-shirt font, the kind with pictures printed on transfer paper. Despite his nerves, Halbrand finds himself chuckling. Well, Kemen and the others aren’t so bad after all. Or maybe it’s just Galadriel’s influence, making him see everything in a kinder light.

Near the prefab built for rainy days, Wildflowers are surrounded by a small group of fans. Brandyfoot is playing the guitar, the other girl – Proudfellow, the perfect candidate for name misspelling – sings one of their songs, clapping her hands and engaging the small audience. A curly haired boy – her boyfriend? – dances along, arm around her shoulders. One of the girls from their entourage is weaving a flower necklace. Halbrand would like to stop and watch them some more – Mel’s voice flashes through his mind, with all his talk about how important it is to keep some distance from fans – but there’s something more important at stake. Or rather, someone who’s about to perform.

According to that feeling of euphoria mingled with nervousness bubbling up inside him, he can’t wait to see her. Noldor will appreciate his support. Or maybe she’ll tell him to fuck off, who can really say. In any case, he’ll be able to say he listened to his heart. That’s funny. Has he ever done that before?

No, but one can always learn, right?

The amount of people in the backstage is pretty much the same as that on the lawn, except for some small groups of fans. The last hectic rehearsals, some emergency touch ups in the dressing rooms. He catches a glimpse of Elrond, the infamous manager, busy talking on the phone, just like Galadriel predicted. Halbrand smirks, stepping forward; she can’t be too far. If he focused, he’s sure he could even smell her floral scent, with that hint of sweetness he can’t get out of his mind.

Halbrand places his guitar on the bench with his name on it. Curumo is probably out and about again, on his own, safe in the knowledge that his beloved older brother will be performing the next day. Perhaps it’s better that way, at least he won’t have to put up with his excellent advice – unsolicited, needless to say – which would surely go against what Halbrand is about to do.

He scans his surroundings. Weird, her bench is empty. Knowing Galadriel, she won’t have been able to sit still even after her make-up session. She’s probably using the little time left for an impromptu rehearsal, just to make sure she hasn’t completely forgotten her songs. Maybe he knows where to go looking for her, and if he hurries, he’ll find her in time.

Until...

“Are you sure I won’t trip on the stairs dressed like this?”

Flowers. In her perfume, more intense, almost intoxicating. In the small pearl embroidery blooming on her long white shawl, in the flower crown pressed on her golden waves. White corollas, spaced out by a ribbon the same color as her eyes. The blue dress hugs Galadriel up to her neck, enveloping her in the waves of a stormy sea, leaving only her ankle boots uncovered. Standing out in front of him, she’s a vision the light of the sunset paints with golden brushstrokes; a new version of the sacred image from two days earlier. A nymph born of the same substance of water, a warrior queen in an armor of petals.

Galadriel turns to him, almost as if she’s sensed his presence, and runs toward him.

She doesn’t wait for the answer from the woman in white who wanted to reassure her about the practicality of her dress, and completely ignores the concerned look from the manager who’s just joined them. Her eyes shine as brightly as her smile. And he must look like a complete idiot, staring at her without speaking – luckily not with his mouth open – his mind scolding him for his inability to come up with any witty remark or sensible compliment, while the most beautiful apparition life has graced him with the privilege of admiring is there, right in front of him. 

“You really went all out tonight, huh?”

Well, that could’ve been worse. Great job Halbrand, you deserve a medal.

She scoffs, like he knew she would, but her nose and cheeks immediately flush pink. “It’s my first performance... I wanted to make a good impression.”

“And you will. You’re gorgeous.”

The words escaped him before he could stop them, and that’s fine. The woman in white discreetly beats a retreat, taking the manager with her. The chatter subsided, Kemen’s voice fading into a diminuendo. Even the din of the crowd seems far away. Galadriel reaches to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, but remembers about her hairstyle at the last moment. Overcoming the urge to take her hand and bring it to his lips has never been more difficult.

“Are you here to wish me good luck, then?”

“And for a third degree on your songs. You know, just to be sure you don’t forget the lyrics.”

He can at least make her laugh.

“I keep collecting favors to repay. Hope you’re keeping track.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I definitely am.”

That sentence comes out in such a low whisper he’s surprised she heard it at all. Galadriel moves closer, her dress lightly brushing against his thigh, her breath caressing his face. So close he can feel the warmth of her cheeks, her heady scent. She looks up for a moment, freezing him in place.

“What if I really forget everything once I’m on the stage? It never happened before, but... it wasn’t Halcyon Days. What if I make the biggest fool of myself in my entire career right here ? And what if...”

“Hey, hey. Everything will be just fine.”

His forefinger on Galadriel’s lips silences her. Her water eyes peer deeply inside of him. They make him want to jump in, lose himself in her thoughts, take a part of them to ease the weight that sometimes clouds her gaze. To give himself to Galadriel without thinking twice, asking for a part of her in return, even a tiny one, holding his breath as he waits for an answer.

“You love your fans, and they love you. That’s all you need, believe me.”

Silence. Time stands still. And it seems endless, that moment, but it’s really nothing more than a handful of minutes, because the show is about to start and soon they’ll have to part again, each to defeat their own demons on stage. But no matter how much he wants to say something more, his mind is elsewhere. Perhaps on Galadriel’s dress, perhaps still in her eyes. He won’t leave her a moment, not even when she’s going up on the stage. And what if...

Then, Galadriel kisses him.

At first, it’s awkward just like a first kiss should be; a quick peck before she can reconsider, eyes shut, lips almost clashing against his in the heat of the moment. Until Galadriel pulls away, breathless, her eyes shining with an almost wild light. I’m sorry , she seems to be saying, but also I was waiting for this moment , and what do we do now? And Halbrand can’t do anything but hold her close, afraid she might change her mind. Hands on her face, thumbs softly brushing her flushed cheeks, lips searching for hers. To deepen the kiss, making it real.

And for a moment – a painfully perfect moment, which Halbrand had experienced the day before, although on a smaller scale – nothing else exists in the world but her mouth.

Soft lips, glossy with makeup, Galadriel’s fingers fumbling with his shirt, desperately trying to anchor herself to that fragment of time. Her soft skin beneath his fingertips, so easy to memorize, the warmth of her body, so close it overwhelms him. The terrible realization that he’s finally close to her, in the best possible sense, that she fills his thoughts completely, even if only for a moment.

Not even the noise in his head – you’re kissing Artanis! It’s actually her! The girl from the video! – can distract him from that instant. Galadriel barely parts her lips with the softest moan, letting the tip of his tongue on her upper lip first, then inside her mouth. Her warmth will drive him crazy, Halbrand knows that, but he can’t help himself. She’s so fragile in his hands. A gust of wind would be enough to blow her away. Yet she returns the kiss with the same intensity, her nails digging into the fabric of his shirt, holding him close with an almost fierce urgency. As if she was afraid of seeing him disappear the moment someone came looking for her and found her kissing Halbrand Norsus, the very same Halbrand she’s been seen almost fighting with less than two weeks earlier...

It's the return of the noise from the crowd that interrupts the moment.

Applauses, voices cheering louder and louder, the final notes of a song. Thoughts as fast as runaway trains, between Kingsmen have just finished their performance and w hat if Galadriel was right and there’s a horde of paparazzi hiding right behind the room dividers in the artist area? Still, her breath lingers on his lips, her forehead pressed against his. So tender, so innocent. Her lips stretch in a tiny smile, fingers gently trailing down his waist, along the fabric of his shirt, now drenched in sweat. 

A new silent request – will you keep me with you?

“That was...”

Halbrand’s voice is hoarse, caught by the moment.

“Yeah. I know.”

Can there be anything more awkward and perfect than that answer? he wonders, high on her perfume, the most stupid of smirks plastered on his face. He watches her pull away from him, disheveled, breathless, a flower from her crown doomed to slip off at the first movement. No one will know it’s because of him. A side of Artanis he gets to keep all to himself, like a secret.

They’re looking for you , her costume designer’s head peeps out from beyond the three panel display board, beckoning Galadriel to join her. She whips around, not before sending him a knowing glance. That lively gleam in her eyes, the promise of a continuation trembling between them, in the lilac air that accompanies the sun’s goodbye. Artanis slips away like water, brushing him with the rustle of her skirt. Leaving him with the warmth of her presence and a promise between his fingers.

Later .

*

Stage fright is nothing new.

Her first gig, ten minutes squeezed into the high school festival lineup, began with her stomach in knots at the thought of making a complete fool of herself, so much that all the school would gossip about it. The audience consisted of ten people, mainly her classmates. After all, it wasn’t that different from performing for her brothers on a rainy Sunday afternoon, or for their friends, when she felt braver. Small spaces that welcomed fear until music made it disappear. One note was enough to make everything right again, at least for five minutes, until the verdict.

But now that her biggest dream is close at hand, the stakes are definitely higher.

Her hands are sweaty. Her mind conjures up a particularly realistic image of the guitar slipping from her hands, followed by the flower crown the moment she bends down to pick it up, but she manages to shake it off. Her name is shouted from a speaker somewhere, greeted by joyful cheers. One step, two, three. The stage that hosted her and Halbrand’s first steps, lit only by her imagination, awaits her.

Whether to crush her between its jaws or to grant her wishes, the next step will decide.

Breathe in, breathe out. The truth is that there’s no time to think rationally, to convince herself that nothing irreparable is going to happen; she just needs to follow her instinct. The euphoria of finally being there, in the place where only those who made it have performed. The desire to share her music, to give it to all the people who welcomed it into their lives, some for one reason, some for another. The thrill of thinking she truly deserves what she’s achieved. No half measures, no second thoughts.

Galadriel climbs the first step. Then the second.

Then the third.

The stage seems immense, a vast expanse that holds none of the stolen moments with Halbrand. She squints, blinded by the spotlights. Her fingers on the guitar are so wet Galadriel can’t help but silently thank the microphone stand for existing. She’s just a girl on a stage that’s too big, with her flower crown and a story to tell. Many stories.

Will it be enough?

“Artanis!” yells a female voice from the audience, two arms rising in the rush of a jump. A swarm of phones point their camera at her, pulling her into the heart of the show. She needs to play her part, otherwise why would they have paid her to be there? Brighter Colors , her inner voice orders, sounding very much like Elrond’s. She just has to look at the audience, start with the song. The rest will come later. She can’t let that impasse get the better of her.

Galadriel senses it as she looks up – all the eyes on her, more phones, voices rising like the merry chirping of a flock of birds. Suddenly, without explanation, like a sign of destiny. The scent of tobacco, earthy and comforting, the slightest hint of lavender. Mingled with the sea air, the salt of his sunburned skin, the same scent he’s left on her ten or two hundreds minutes earlier, enveloping her and giving her courage. 

Galadriel clears her throat; she knows where to look. Even if she can’t see him, she knows he’s there. His scent doesn’t lie.

“Hello, Halcyon Days! It’s great to be here!”

She hugs her guitar, doing a little twirl. The audience cheers on her again, calling her name. A small group of girls under the stage reach out their hands trying to get Galadriel’s attention, and flashes go off in her direction. But her gaze always returns to where she’s sure she caught a glimpse of him.

Her voice comes out on its own. She approaches the microphone, tackling the first notes.

Hey, do you remember me? Same girl, different story

Halbrand is looking at her; that certainty is enough to keep her going. Halbrand, who makes her feel like herself. No masks, no filters, no urgent need to tidy up her soul before presenting it to others –  just Galadriel. He looks at her as if every word she says makes perfect sense, as if hearing her speak about anything is inherently beautiful. His glances warm her, the touch of his fingers in her hair reaches out to her, saving her from the precipice her thoughts are pushing her toward.

When she’s with him, Galadriel feels she’s in the right place at the right time.

A chorus of voices accompanies her through the refrain.

Now I wear brighter colors.

*

“She’s good,” Curumo conceded, nodding. In the excitement following his act of courage, he didn’t even register that absolute record; his brother just agreed with him. Halbrand simply nodded. Without ever taking his eyes off Galadriel, caught in a spell he would never have allowed anyone to break.

It’s light, pure light, what binds him to her.

How can you not see it, Galadriel? The warmth you radiate, the beauty you carry along, that you spread around without even realizing?

One song after another. Brighter Colors to start, Runaway Train for longtime fans. Another song he’s never heard before, about old memories coming back to knock on our mind. She was almost moved to tears with Rain ; they didn’t fall, but every single gesture spoke of her true feelings. Her fingers caressing the guitar, the blue wave of her dress swaying around her as she moved, the flower petals that seemed to bloom directly from her golden hair. She literally appeared on stage, a creature shaped by the hopes of the crowd. Hello Halcyon Days! It’s great to be here! The joy barely contained in those syllables is a balm for his soul. It makes him think that, somehow, everything will work out.

It’s so intense it blinds me, and yet I can’t help but desire it, this light. I want it to comfort me, I want it to hurt me. Drink it drop by drop, until it quenches my thirst from centuries I didn’t even exist, absorb it so it becomes part of me, leaving intact what makes you yourself.

Allow me to keep some of it.

And then, and then? His mind pressed him, only to be silenced. One more song. Enjoying her presence on stage, the warmth of her audience, the spontaneous choir of her fans at every refrain, the phones following her to steal a shot. Noticing her smiles, hoping to be the recipient of her glances and of the subsequent relief whenever she catches a glimpse of him. Singing along with the others, first in a low voice, then with increasing enthusiasm, words torn from his chest in a burst of euphoria that finally makes him feel light, weightless.

Halbrand waits until the end of the concert to rush backstage, making his way through her team, the jostling crowd, the fans who managed to sneak in and those who attempt to exploit some contest they won or special privilege they’re flaunting for the occasion. But before he can carry out his plan – hold Galadriel in his arms again, kiss her to congratulate her – she throws her arms around his neck with such force he almost falls to the ground.

Again, that deafening noise, the uproar of a crowd that has no intention of letting the night end so soon. But her lips are close to his ear, her voice a sweet whisper that brings his thoughts back into line, pushing them in one direction; they still have a few hours to spend together.

“Let’s get out of here,” she breathes. Halbrand nods. 

Chapter Text

The path to the parking lot is strangely clear.

Another artist is onstage; remembering their name is impossible. Music envelops their bodies, dilates time and space and runs through their veins, with that intoxicating feeling making her feel light as a feather. 

Halbrand laughs once, twice, then urges her on – quick, before one of your fans finds us! He drags her by the hand as they dart away, and only stops to catch his breath at the last moment, one hand on his knee, bent forward. There’s no point in teasing him about old age approaching and cigarettes making the situation worse: she’s out of breath too. Deliciously out of breath. Almost gasping for it, disheveled, a petal from her crown falling at her feet.

She's jittery with anticipation for whatever's next.

Halbrand opens the car door for her. Inside is a safe haven against that storm of voices. Nothing, compared to the hurricane shaking them inside. His hands on the steering wheel glow pale under the merciless light of the streetlamp. The music from outside is muffled now, the whisper of a worn out beast.

“Shall we go?” Halbrand asks. For the first time, he seems to hesitate. It lasts only a moment; when he covers her hand with his, the ring taking its place in the spotlight, the insecurity disappears all at once.

This time, it’s Galadriel’s turn to nod.

Let’s go.

The secret beach is too far, but Pelargir’s main one is dotted with secluded corners, waiting for those who know where to find them. She stumbled into one by chance during a lonely afternoon, and immediately considered that Celeborn would never like it. Too wild, no lifeguard to help with your umbrella, no amenities in sight. Who’d ever want to waste their time in a place like this?

All features that, in her eyes, make it perfect.

Galadriel can’t help but giggle as she confesses the destination she has in mind. The roar of the engine answers her, the car stretching its muscles and setting off toward their destination. And the road is once again a ribbon of asphalt that winds endlessly, confusing her thoughts in the glitter of the city lights. Turning them into blurred dreams.

If I closed my eyes, would you disappear? Like those images sticking to your eyelids when you wake up, concrete enough to seem real, too perfect to be true?

Neon constellations blend with the dark blue sky, whizzing past the car and accompanying them on their journey. Motels, nightclubs, restaurants. Other cars and their headlights, wandering stars en route to the first gas station, even brighter islands. Sticking her arm out of the window is an irresistible impulse; this time it’s the moonlight welcoming her hand, a silvery caress on her still sunkissed skin. The moon is following us, Angrod used to point at it for her with his finger when she was a child, a classic older brother prank. And she always fell for it, perhaps because deep down it was comforting to think that such an apparently motionless and distant celestial body would spend a few minutes of its endless time playing with her.

It made her feel part of something bigger.

The kiss from earlier is still seared on Galadriel’s skin, suddenly making her aware of the glances she’s giving him. Looking at Halbrand is not enough. She didn’t drink a drop of alcohol, yet she feels like she’s happily drunk. An irrational, unbridled joy, made to enjoy the moment. A temporary rush of adrenaline intensifying every sensation. Making it even more worth experiencing.

We still have three days. 

The beach is closer than she remembered. The car pulls into another quiet parking lot, and Halbrand opens the door for her again, waiting as she gathers the fabric of her skirt around her legs so as not to trip over her dress. He immediately reaches for her hand, fingers lacing with hers.  A familiar weight, the north her body unconsciously turns to.

At night, the sound of the waves becomes mellow. A siren song guiding their steps, the embrace of a living, pulsating darkness. Galadriel lets herself be carried away to the place they both know they want to reach. Laughing at anything, answering his sharp jokes, teasing him just to hear his teasing, lively laugh once more.

We’re almost there.

A shiver down her spine, as sweet as a promise about to be kept.

*

He led her past a group of dunes, among dry shrubs and the footsteps of those who appreciate the solitude of that place. A flattened pizza box, shards of charred wood arranged in a circle. Halbrand dismissed those contemporary archaeological finds with a shrug, giving her a cheeky grin. Well, someone else has good taste in terms of secret hideaways. The water murmurs its cryptic song, but they’re too distracted to hear it. Apart from that, there’s no other sound. Not far from the shore, a log ruined by the elements gazes at the moon; Halbrand nods at it, then goes up to it and sits on the rough surface. Laughing at the clumsy way Galadriel lets herself fall on the sand, at the muffled complaint that follows when she finds her hands covered in grains.

“First the water was too cold, now it’s the sand. Next time we’ll book a motel room, prin–”

In a moment, she’s on him, kissing him again, lips chasing his, the silky armor of her dress against his chest. Savouring the gasp of surprise she elicits as she pulls away, a victory that remains such until Halbrand pulls her close.

By now, she’s learned that the only way to silence Halbrand Norsus is to catch him off guard.

She presses her ear against her chest. For a moment, his heartbeat merges with the song of the sea, the chaotic countermelody of a storm approaching. Until it turns to a steady melody echoed by the frantic pounding of her own heart, which has never stopped crashing against her ribs. Forcing it to calm down is impossible, and it’s the last thing Galadriel wants. She can only breathe in that scent of tobacco she can no longer do without, the rough linen against her cheek her only grip on reality.

The night won’t last forever; a realization she must come to terms with. Just like summer, like the Halcyon Days, like those feelings she still dares not name.

Because of that, Galadriel seeks a new connection. Cautious, almost scared, driven by the fear of seeing him disappear. Her fingertips brush his nose, their featherlight touch lightly caresses the stubble on his cheeks, on his chin. They wander down to his full lips she’s admired so many times without being seen; they linger on his soft curls, tousled by the sea breeze. With eyes half-closed, Halbrand follows her movements without stopping them, letting Galadriel finish what the concert has interrupted. Offering his vulnerability as a gift, without reservation.

And then, all of a sudden, his lips are on hers, and the world starts spinning under her feet.

They’re warm, just like the tip of his tongue gently caressing her lower lip, inviting her to part them. His fingers cup her cheeks, and her petite frame is trapped between his legs, what else could he possibly want? She welcomes him like a relief for the fever making her restless, the only medicine capable of restoring her health. Galadriel closes her eyes, surrendering to the kiss devouring her, focusing only on the ragged, erratic breaths they steal from each other, in a war without winners or losers. On his hands, large but tender, now caressing her back, making her feel small in the most ecstatic, perfect way. To what she’s finally allowed herself, without wondering even once if she really deserves it.

I’m with Halbrand, she texted Miriel before ditching her after the concert, while waiting for him to start the car. A quick message, almost typed without looking, a silly smile plastered on her face. 

Don’t have too much fun, she’d replied, adding a winking emoji a moment later. She clearly understood everything from the get-go.

Galadriel breaks off the kiss only to struggle with the shawl, unceremoniously pulling it off, letting it fall on the sand. Halbrand’s ever-present smirk follows her closely, making her heart skip yet another beat.

It looks like an invitation, did that occur to you? Galadriel’s mind scolds her. Relentless, unable to let her enjoy a single moment. 

And so what if it does?

It all feels like a vivid dream—the beach, the silver reflection of the moon on the water. Everything is perfect. Being with him in that temple of silence, secretly hoping that moment won’t come apart like foam when the next wave arrives. Halbrand, making her feel more alive than ever, inviting her to kiss him again, to laugh against his mouth, to attack her neck with more small messy pecks, then her shoulders, her breasts squeezed by the second skin that is her dress.

Halbrand stops once more just to catch his breath, his forehead resting against hers, his arms around her waist. Taking off her dress would be difficult, he would end up soiling it, but lifting it up from her legs is a valid alternative. Laying her down on the cold sand, her hair now loose, the petals of her flower crown scattered around them like an offering. A profane image, a deeply sacred one. 

Miriel will have to order another one.

When Galadriel lifts her head slightly to meet Halbrand’s gaze, a mischievous glint brightens his dark eyes. He wants more. So does she. He’s asking for her permission by lightly raising an eyebrow, lips curving into a knowing smile. The gasp she answers with is so honest, so unworthy of her, it makes her dizzy.

“Please...”

He slides down. Slowly, breathing her scent in, eyes half-lidded. Halbrand’s lips are warm even through her lace blue panties, on the tender skin between her thigh and groin. They take all the time they need to explore her, his breath on her skin leaving goosebumps wherever it passes, igniting a fire in her bones. Her lower belly, the line above her navel, her hips. Halbrand uses the same devotion for each place he touches, glancing at her from time to time to gauge her reactions, to avoid any mistake that would shatter that trust as fragile as a crystal. He towers over her, a dominance that is in no way threatening, despite the hunger shining in his eyes. 

It’s still Halbrand. The infuriating, stubborn, witty, charming Halbrand. The man who’s occupied her thoughts since that afternoon at the help desk, even if in a completely unexpected way. The only one she’d like to see descend upon her, placing light kisses between her thighs, whispering her name with the fervor of a prayer. And when his lips hover just above the heat of her core, pulsing under the thin, damp fabric, all she can think about is the intensity of that moment, the luck of being there.

“You want me so bad, Noldor?” 

Is he really mocking her? With that rough, sexy voice he has no right to use? 

“Oh, d-do shut up. What do you think?”

He grins against her skin. Galadriel’s fingers sink into his curls, holding him close, praying this isn’t just another delusional fantasy. But it’s real, too real. Halbrand’s warmth, his solid frame bathed in moonlight. His voice murmuring sweet nothings against her skin, what is about to happen in a moment, to her, only to her. It makes her want to laugh like she’s never laughed before, to cry without stopping. To be one with him, in every way possible. To be his, desperately, deeply his.

“Halbrand…” she whispers, surprised she’s managed to find her voice. And he obeys, lowering the elastic band of her panties, his lips dutifully following his fingers...

A car horn brings her back to herself, shattering that moment.

She jumps up suddenly, gazing around. A car has just parked not too far from them, the door slamming shut. Just some tourists who stopped to set the GPS. Or maybe a couple who’ve had the same idea, confident that the secret of that beach is perfectly kept.

In any case, Galadriel immediately lowers the skirt of her dress, silently thanking the half-darkness hiding her expression.

“What the...?”

Halbrand’s husky voice sends an almost painful shiver down her spine. A wave of liquid heat spreads through her lower belly; the absolute traitor that is her body will have to calm down. A confused chatter makes its way through the silence. The screech of four more tires on the dirt road, another door open. Laughs. Someone enjoying the evening, just like them, unaware they’re not alone.

Halbrand helps her up. Surrendering to his touch is easy, letting him pull her close in reassurance. But no matter how much he tries to draw her into another kiss, the idea that their refuge has been discovered is becoming more and more real.

“We’re not doing this here.”

“Why not?”

Halbrand whispers that question slowly and deliberately against her lips. A huff escapes her mouth, swiftly silenced by another kiss. Galadriel lets him, until her body starts acting up again, like a moth drawn to the heat of his flame.

“Well, let me think.” Galadriel crosses her arms over her chest. She pulls away, glaring at him with the irritation of someone who can’t make themselves understood. “It’s not exactly the most comfortable place in the world, there’s always the chance Elrond or Miriel might walk around the beach looking for me...” – she counts those scenarios on her fingers, encouraged by his condescending expression – “and the people from those cars could be headed right here. Maybe they’re paparazzi, or journalists coming straight from the concert, looking for a scoop.”

Halbrand shakes his head. He circles around her, without waiting for her gaze to rest on him; he knows it will.

“A very accurate description,” he murmurs in a smooth voice. Behind her, his fingers press lightly on her shoulders. “It almost makes me think the famous Artanis has a thing for public sex.”

That low, dark whisper against her ear should be illegal. Definitely so. It’d bring her to her knees, make her throw everything away with no hesitation. How wonderfully irresponsible it’d be to get caught up in the excitement of the moment and forget about everything except the two of them there, together?

Instead, she scoffs. Not here, not now. “In your dreams, maybe.”

He chuckles; another raspy sound making her imagine things – soft moans, finally free to see the light, long fingers pressing into her skin, their bodies locked in something more than an embrace – that not even a cold shower could dispel.

“Then we’ll have to move this to a more appropriate place, what do you say?”

Her sigh says it all about what she thinks of that interruption.

*

The drive back is an interlude, a parenthesis between a moment suspended in time and everything that will come after. The desire from a moment before hasn’t faded yet; it only changed form. It lights up her eyes when she turns to look at him. It makes the feeling of her hand enveloping his, resting on the steering wheel at the first red light, unbearably intense. We’re only postponing the inevitable. Every silence is full of that awareness.

But until when?

The car pulls gently into the first available parking space. The noise from the festival has died down, and the spectators are enjoying their free evening elsewhere. Putting a stop to his excitement has become impossible; he still feels the euphoria from moments earlier, with his heart getting its revenge from having been ignored a moment earlier. It pounds violently, stuck between his throat and stomach, all thoughts hazy and distant, head empty. There’s only room for Galadriel, for those instinctive gestures that are now part of their language. 

Opening the car door for her, sliding his fingers between hers, remembering to lock the car at the last moment, if he actually wants to find it again the next day. Pointing out that little oversight, just to be blessed by her contagious laugh. It’s all so simple when they’re together. Keeping control over every single aspect of his life is no longer a pressing necessity.

Asking where they’re going would be redundant; all he needs to do is follow her. Their shoulders brushing, walking beyond the parking lot, along the hotel walkway, to the entrance. So focused on her light footsteps on the gravel he doesn’t notice the small group of people near the entrance, their eyes fixed on them, waiting.

The woman dressed in white. A long-haired man he’s never seen before, who must be her partner, judging by the arm wrapped around her waist. The manager. A real welcome committee, looking more worried than menacing. 

His mind immediately takes him back to the past. To the days he was taking his first steps with the label, and every progress felt like conquering a mountain peak. To Melkor driving him home after meetings that lasted for hours, with Thuri perched in the backseat to keep an eye on them both, and him enjoying every single moment of that hard-won notoriety. What his boss really felt for him was secondary; Halbrand felt powerful. Finally listened to, perhaps even understood. And his mother would wait for him at the end of every single day, her silhouette against the bright frame of the front door, partly enthusiastic about his success, partly worried he’d turned those late night returns into a habit...

“There you are! You weren’t answering your phone... we were about to come looking for you.”

Elrond the manager seems to have fully reclaimed his role as babysitter, judging by the speed he approaches them with, once again interrupting that memory and their blissful peace. For a moment, an overwhelming desire to kiss Galadriel right there, in front of Elrond, putting the guy in his place, burns inside him. His fingers instinctively curl into fists. But Galadriel looks up, a doubtful expression crossing her features.

“There was no signal,” she explains in a final tone. The voice of someone who doesn’t regret having disappeared in the slightest, and would even do it again, a stubbornness that makes Halbrand proud of her. Elrond shakes his head, lips tight, finally letting out a sigh.

“Aegnor is in the hospital. Finrod called me... the doctor couldn’t get in touch with your parents, so he contacted your brother.” Galadriel holds her breath. Halbrand feels her stiffening beside him, suddenly dragged back to reality. “It’s nothing serious,” Elrond adds a moment later, as if to make up for that moment of sheer terror he unintentionally caused her. “I think he broke his foot.”

Galadriel lets free the breath she was holding, shoulders sagging.

“How is he?”

“I’m sure his pride has suffered the worst injury.” The smile he tries very hard to suppress shows how well he knows her brother. How well he knows them both. A painful sting hits him right between the ribs; irrefutable proof of a shared past Halbrand has no access to.

For now?

Hope allows itself to raise its head against jealousy, the most difficult emotion to appease.

“According to Andreth there’s no need for surgery, but he has to stay for observation. At least until tomorrow... you know how it is. They probably want to stop him from escaping and breaking the other foot too.”

Halbrand watches her bite her lip, lost in thoughts, two fingers tormenting the neck of her shirt. Her right hand moves restlessly on the blue fabric of her skirt; the way he takes her hand in his is a simple, undemanding offer of comfort. If Galadriel wants to reject it, he will accept it.

Much to his surprise, Galadriel reciprocates immediately.

“I need to talk to my parents, then. Just to figure out the situation.”

Elrond nods. At this point, stepping forward is an impulse no rational thought could hold back. Elrond might put a hand on Galadriel’s shoulder and take her to the hotel lobby to check on her during the phone call. Or he could offer to go up to her room with her. In any case, it’d steal precious moments from an evening that is rightfully theirs, which he has no intention of letting him take away.

“Let me walk you upstairs, then.”

Galadriel smiles. Two stars shine in those water eyes, so pure they take his breath away for a moment. As they pass the welcoming committee, Halbrand doesn’t miss the knowing glance from the costume designer. She places a hand on the manager’s arm, nipping any protest in the bud. He must remember to thank her for that thoughtfulness if and when he gets a chance for introductions.

If?

No, when. That’s more like it.

The hall is half-empty. At the bar counter, a woman wearing a dress that looks straight out of a TV series from the seventies is telling the bartender the story of a date where she was stood up, topping off every sentence with eloquent gestures. The only sound accompanying their footsteps is a nostalgic bossa nova, lounge music that doesn’t stop even when they get into the elevator. Good, it’ll help him not to think. Not to imagine her against the cold, metallic surface of the cabin, trapped by his body, her warm breath against his skin again, hungrily consuming every single moment the day can grant him. 

The doors close, a melodious ding announces the start of the ascent. Two, three floors. Who knows if Curumo went back to his room, or if he’s decided to lose himself in the city lights instead. You can’t think about your brother right now, the need for a distraction can only go so far. Yet there’s something deeply amusing about picturing his tall, frowning silhouette surrounded by the carefree joy of a summer evening...

On the sixth floor, the elevator stops with a slight jolt. 

The doors open to a hallway as empty as the hall. Canned laughter breaks the silence, the muffled jingle of a commercial echoes from behind one of the closed doors. No one will see them, he tells himself, no accidental witness. Still, he can’t help but dwell on the mental image – quick and precise, and incredibly detailed – one of the doors suddenly swinging open, revealing to some hotel guest a secret meeting not even the tabloids could catch a glimpse of yet... 

Maybe what he said about having a thing for public sex wasn’t exactly about her.

The carpeting muffles the sound of their footsteps. They blend into the surreal atmosphere of a hotel corridor in the late evening, when everything that’s meant to be happens behind locked doors or in the middle of vast, splendid rooms, where stories wait for someone to narrate them. 

Galadriel’s breathing has evened out, her scent caressing his senses. She stops in front of a door that looks just the same as his, with a golden number above the peephole. For some strange reason, he expected it to be completely different. Her name in cursive on a plaque, traces of her invincible light. An entrance that everyone, even the most clueless of guests, would recognize as Galadriel’s room. Bizarre, how the mind works when left to its own devices. 

He could share that thought, try to keep her close by drawing another smile from her. Or maybe ask her to come inside; his first impulse, the most irresistible one, barely restrained by reason. Not in the hope of getting something more, he makes that very clear to himself, but just to stay close to Galadriel.

She will need her space. Don’t disrespect her boundaries.

What if it all ends before it begins? What if I don’t have the luxury of time on my side?

Galadriel rummages for a long while into the inner pocket of her dress, making him wonder how it’s possible for a dress like that to even have pockets. She finally finds what she was looking for – the magnetic key – but doesn’t slide it over the lock sensor. Instead, she turns it over in her fingers as if she’s never seen one before, her eyes following its movements.

She takes a deep breath.

“I need to talk to my parents,” she repeats. It’s like she’s picking up where she left off, unable to find any new words to use. Halbrand nods. At this point, it would be easy to leave. Break the spell, postpone this game until the next day, cooling their jets or whatever they say. But Galadriel turns the tables, raising her gaze. Fixing those pure eyes on him, sea water sparkling now in the midday sun. Making him feel naked, vulnerable as he’s never been before, in the most glorious of ways.

He greets that stare with a low chuckle. Breaking the tension has always been his forte.

“If you keep looking at me like that, Noldor, I’m going to do something we’ll probably both regret.”

“I wouldn’t.”

Barely whispered, probably in hope he misses it. But Halbrand lifts her chin with a finger, eyes piercing her. Another moment lingering between them, another fragment of time he will quickly have to decide how to handle, so as not to waste it. Another kiss, hungry, almost desperate. So unworthy of him, so uncontrollable, it forces a groan out of him and against Galadriel’s mouth.

If at first – a few weeks, or maybe years – he knew what was worthy of Halbrand Norsus, now he has no idea anymore.

He lets her go, gently nibbling her lower lip, a tiny whine of protest coming from her. Halbrand can’t hold back a cocky smile, but it’s light years away from the smile of the first day.

“I’ll leave you to your privacy, princess. Text me when you’re done.”

“Alright. And, Halbrand...”

A pause. The television keeps murmuring behind one of the doors, the jingle replaced by a frantic dialogue.

Don’t get your hopes up.

“Thank you. For not leaving me alone.”

He lifts an eyebrow, as if he can’t believe how obvious that should be.

“Ah, don’t even mention it, Noldor.” He takes her hand, brushing a small goodbye kiss on her knuckles. “You have my number. If you need me, I’ll be outside your door in no time.”

It’s okay. Wanting too much, too suddenly, would ruin everything. 

The smile Galadriel dismisses him with would put the sun to shame. He doesn’t realize he’s staring at the door that’s just closed in front of him until the ding of the elevator brings him back to the present. To a certainty burning like liquid fire in his veins; the moment isn’t gone. It’s there, suspended between them, between the silences and glances that need no interpretation.

Ready for the next time they’ll find themselves alone.

*

Everything’s fine, my brother’s okay, Galadriel types as soon as she settles on the bed, the towel wrapped tightly around her soaking wet hair. The phone call with her parents was short; in the end, the stubbornness of her almost-sister-in-law paid off. It was Andreth who kept bombarding them with phone calls until one of them interrupted their unmissable formal dinner to answer. A sarcastic laugh curls her lips. A crack in the immaculate porcelain of appearances they based their entire existence on, caused by a son who broke his foot trying to skateboard again in his thirties. They must have gone from concern to indignation in less than five minutes.

Does your brother’s pride really hurt like the manager said?

No emoji, but she can perfectly imagine the expression on Halbrand’s face. A raised eyebrow, or maybe a flick of tongue between his teeth. Mischievous, waiting for her answer, ready to show he really paid attention.

Knowing him, yes. He’s probably plotting his revenge on the skateboard.

Galadriel stares at the background she chose for their chat; a photo of the stage area. Lit by the sunrise, completely clear, grass beaded with translucent dew. She took it on her first morning at Halcyon Days, when insomnia convinced her to take a walk around the venue where the live shows would take place, just to get her bearings. Before everything else happened. Including that Halbrand is typing…, so new, so reassuring.

By unscrewing the wheels?

A sudden laugh shakes her, causing her towel to fall down, freeing her wet hair. With a snort, she gets up from the bed to take it back to the bathroom. She barely has time to hang it back on the towel rack, when the cheerful ringtone of her phone forces her to rush back to the bed, her damp feet almost slipping on the floor. It must be mom wanting to complain about Andreth, she thinks quickly before pressing on the green icon.  

“I thought you might like hearing my voice before going to sleep.”

A whisper catching Galadriel off guard, stopping the breath in her throat. 

“Very much so,” she manages to reply, though in a less confident tone than she’d like. It’s as if he was there, brushing against her hair, reassuring her that everything will be fine, even though there’s really no need to. “Luckily, they’ve got everything under control.”

They do. It’s her, the one who can’t control herself.

“Good. Are you sure you can do it? Fall asleep, I mean.”

Galadriel takes a deep breath. Those words conceal an offer she can’t afford to consider. She can’t tell Halbrand that, in the time between the end of the phone call with her parents and the first message she sent him, she was touching herself under the shower. Retracing his touch on her body, imagining the way he would have worshipped her if things had gone differently, down at the secret beach. Hugged by the water running through her hair, on her stomach, her chest, where Halbrand’s lips have left a hidden trace. Deliciously devious, hungry for a touch she could only try to recreate. Chasing away any sense of guilt, stroking a nipple while slowly, excruciatingly circling her clit, eliciting a strangled moan from her wet lips.

“I think so.”

She straightens her shoulders, trying to banish that memory, certain she won’t succeed. Once again, she feels relieved no one can read her mind.

“I can go over the songs, or maybe read until I fall asleep. It usually does the trick.”

Her fingertips, steadily building a rhythm. Halbrand’s voice, so low in her imagination, so inviting against the shell of her ear. Come for me, princess. Only her fingertips, smaller and softer than his, teasing and stroking her core. The insinuating rush of water over her, drops sliding between her breasts, her wrist bone rubbing against her lower belly. A broken melody of moans, interspersed with little sobs. And when pleasure crushed through her like a wave, emptying her mind, she caught herself calling his name. Begging him, blessing and cursing the way he came into her life, turning it upside down.

Hers. Only hers, and he wasn’t even there.

Another shaky breath. Not betraying herself has never been that difficult, especially with his voice on the other end of the line, dangerously identical to the Halbrand of her fantasies.

“Then good night, princess. Try to get some rest.”

“Goodnight. You too,” Galadriel whispers. “Don’t forget to rehearse the songs,” she quickly adds; a casual recommendation, just to avoid saying something she might be the only one thinking, rewarded with a hearty laugh.

“It’ll be tough if I keep thinking about the beach.”

One tap and the call ends. Kneeling on the bed, shoulders bare and bathrobe now rolled up around her hips, Galadriel keeps staring at the screen until it turns off, consigning the room to the soft darkness enveloping it from outside the window. Offering her imagination the ideal stage to move a new version of Halbrand, born from her mind.

Sitting at the table next to her, at her parents’ house, under the crystal chandelier her mother is so fond of, a family heirloom passed down from son to son. Halbrand nodding as he listens to Finrod’s stories, laughing at Aegnor’s jokes, teasing Angrod about his questionable taste in clothing. In a kitchen different from the one of the apartment she shares with Melian, in the warm light of a Sunday morning that has yet to reveal its wonders, Halbrand busy making her breakfast. 

She would walk up to him, wearing one of his t-shirts, and he would greet her with his usual smirk. Chin resting on her head, arms wrapped around her waist, his steady heartbeat reverberating through her ribcage. She’d listen to his laughter for hours, his scent would become a constant, mingling with the smell of the kitchen in a perfect harmony. She would tease him just to hear his jokes, a witty remark for each one of her actions. Both their appointments would be marked on the calendar, they would stick postcards of places they visited together on the fridge, along with pictures taken just to save the memory of a certain day. He would be hers, only hers, in a comforting daily routine she’s never yearned for with anyone else.

Her mother wouldn’t understand, her father wouldn’t approve; she fell in love with the version of herself Halbrand has managed to evoke. So unapologetically herself, so free. Laughter breaking the stillness of the air, held back for too many years in the fog of self-doubt, too oppressed by what ifs to step forward. Until she met Halbrand.

That hypothesis of life remains with her as she watches the city below, thinking about how much everything can change in such a short time. It creates the wildest scenarios between a mouthful of mouthwash and a brush stroke on her hair. It continues to accompany her even as she succumbs to sleep, Halbrand’s low chuckle lulling her like the sound of the sea on their secret beach.

Chapter Text

“You’re acting strange, you know? More than usual, I mean.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Halbrand raises his hands in a gesture of surrender, but he already knows it won’t be enough for Curumo. His watchful eye scrutinizes every detail, analyzes and compares them before drawing his conclusions. Irritatingly correct conclusions, most of the time.

“You’ve been in the bathroom for an hour, when it usually takes you no more than fifteen minutes to get ready. You’ve already tried on three whole outfits, and,” his brother lifts his head, flaring his nostrils in a perfect imitation of a detection dog, “the last time I smelled this much perfume was in a perfume shop, when I was choosing a birthday present for mom. You do realize she probably won’t even be under the stage, right?

“Lots of assumptions and no evidence, Mister Detective.”

He runs a hand through his hair, disheveling that train of thought. His brother’s voice fades under the roar of the crowd. Are you guys ready? yells the frontman of the first band to take the stage, sparking a new wave of ecstatic screams. Halbrand grins. It makes him think of Ilmarë, of the delight she found in screaming from the top of her lungs before every single gig.

Oh, don’t be so boring, Hal! We’re warming the audience up! They love a bit of noise?, don’t they? 

He used to shut her up with a kiss. Ilmarë had been the one and only for a few months, then she’d become one of the many. Another relationship thrown away, abandoned before it could reveal its true colors, courtesy of his stupid fear that feelings might have an expiration date.

It’s different, with her. Somehow, he’s sure of it. 

Enough to make you change?

He looks down. Gray jeans, black combat boots, even though the heat will only loosen its grip long after sunset. His favorite tank top, with the print of a rock band he listened to all the time as a teenager, a caress of soft cotton, worn-out by the years and washings. He always liked wearing obscure references to music completely foreign to his style, and his audience seems to appreciate that choice, too. Who knows if it was his idea, tacitly accepted by his manager. Or maybe it was Melkor who passed it on to him, after years of both veiled and pushy suggestions. There’s no point in wondering anymore; now it’s become an integral part of who he is. Just like his complete rejection of any social media.

He reaches into his pocket. The petal of Galadriel’s crown he found on himself the day before is still there. A lucky charm, he’ll tell her when they meet at the after show party. Anticipating her smile, the starlight reflected in the sea of her eyes. He touches it one last time before climbing the first step, waiting for the moment Arondir will remind him it’s his turn. As if he could forget...

And Galadriel? 

His insecurity teases him, delighted by the great return of his teenage self. Maybe she’s busy. Princesses like her don’t go to parties of that kind, smelling of alcohol and too many hopes crammed into the same space. They keep to themselves, observing the movements of a world so foreign to theirs, without getting involved. They evaluate with their distant smiles, beautiful as apparitions and just as intangible. Perhaps they don’t hang out with people like him, not really, or at least not beyond the lifespan of a summer gig... 

She’s different , his mind reminds him again. You’re turning her into something she’s not, in hope your feelings will fade.

His fingers go back to the petal. They brush against it, memorizing its shape. Enjoying the moment. He’s done a good job so far, during the few hours miraculously snatched from their relentless schedules. In the dim lit intimacy of her room. The night before, at the secret beach, her broken breath beneath his lips, so gloriously surrendered to him, ready for what was about to happen.

It must mean something. It has to mean something.

The singer’s voice roars out the first verse of a chorus. The audience answers with a booming scream, a wave crashing against the rocks. Halbrand picks up his guitar. Another encore, according to the setlist, and it’ll be his turn. A rush of adrenaline runs down his spine, his fingers cling to the guitar strings, his temporary lifeline.

Thuri would make fun of him, only to hug him right after. She’d immediately ask about Galadriel, filling his silences with playful nudges in the ribs and knowing glances. Thuri, his only confidant throughout the storm of conflicting emotions that’s been his life, but who isn’t part of it anymore. For years now. Thuri, a hard, icy stare he’d never seen before on her face, eyes that froze him on the spot one late autumn afternoon. A single parting sentence, oozing pure disappointment.

All these lies will end up ruining your life.

It takes superhuman willpower to climb the second step, straighten his back, and place one foot on the third. Where’s the Halbrand who’d have done anything to fulfill his desire, climb onto the stage and dazzle everyone with his charm?

He’s grown up, and has to deal with different things now.

A megaphone announces his name, greeted by a new chorus of cheers. He adjusts the strap of his guitar, one hand caressing the fretboard with the reverence of a knight holding his weapon. Wielded with wisdom, entrusted to him with the certainty of victory. Ready to follow him into battle.

The stage is completely different from its dream version, but somehow the audience’s reaction is the same: an expectant pause, immediately turning into shouts, exclamations of surprise, his name evoked like a sacred chant. Someone reaches out with their arms, a clumsy attempt at taking a piece of him — the scent, the essence of his smile, a little of the (conjured up) confidence with which he walks across the space to the microphone stand. Anything to nurture the illusion of keeping him with them.

The look he scans that adoring crowd with, waiting for the notes that will officially start that ritual, is that of a religious minister perfectly aware of the power he wields.

“Hello, Halcyon Days. Were you all waiting for me?”

A deafening roar rises from the crowd in response. A small group of people in the second row start to jump, lips moving to words the general din deprives of sound. Several phones are raised up toward him, cameras on and ready to capture his image in the form of videos that he might never see. His body offered in sacrifice to the god of technology, so that everyone can feed on it the same way. Oddly enough, the idea of not being able to completely control his image doesn’t bother him.

All these people here, just for you, whispers an old voice, awakening memories of arguments, dark days locked away in corners of the mind that are supposed to be well guarded. Doesn’t it make you feel special? One of a kind, chosen by something greater than yourself?

You deserve this, the Thuri in his mind immediately barges in, as if she couldn’t bear to be upstaged by his musings. Direct, gently merciless. You better do your best.

Halbrand smiles. Mostly to himself, but the crowd will welcome it as a gift.

 “I’ve been thinking a lot about my opening piece. I guess you were all expecting High & Low , right?”

He graces them with a knowing glance, waiting for the audience’s cry of approval, united in a single yes . Exactly as he expected.

“But why stick to the usual setlist when you can offer something different?”

He improvises two notes. Mr. Brightside. The crowd’s enthusiasm barely cracks; just a few doubtful murmurs. What the fuck? a loud voice shouts just to be immediately silenced. Halbrand stands still, his fingers on the guitar and a sly smile on his face; he knows the spell will only retain its power if he never takes his eyes off the crowd.

“Just kidding,” he reassures them a moment later, playing a different chord. The eyes closer to the stage widen, captivated by a sound they know well. “It’s not High & Low , but I’m sure you recognized it already. This is Flannel , ladies and gentlemen, and your host is Halbrand.”

He takes his time to observe them, extending the intro, giving each note the space it deserves. Shouts of joy, his name thrown into the still warm air of the approaching evening. At the same time, the crowd parts slightly, welcoming a figure that’s making their way to the stage. At first, Halbrand doesn’t even notice. Like all counterspells, this one also requires the sorcerer’s distraction to take effect.

Until she appears, right in front of him. 

Artanis! exclaims a voice, but it’s immediately lost in the general clamor. Some people turn to Galadriel, while the rest of the audience simply ignores the interruption, too busy enjoying Halbrand’s performance. Galadriel shakes her head, her blond braid now hanging over one shoulder, golden hair catching the dying sunlight. Grabbing his attention, almost distracting him from everything else. Her eyes intense, fixed into his, almost mesmerizing.

I’m here. Did you have any doubts?

“This time, it’s dedicated to someone. A special person.”

A moment later, the microphone comes to life. She’s too far away, he can’t really read the effect of his words on her face, if they’ve left a mark or not. He just needs to wait. Entrust that moment to time, enclose in those verses what he doesn’t know how to express — yet. 

Tell me, lover, have you ever dreamed of us? Outside of a coffee shop, rain pouring, no words left?

The crowd seems to hold its breath as one. Phone flashlights, torches lighting up, voices shyly singing along.  

I was looking for someone to hold my fears, and you came around

Halbrand sings for her as if they were alone, in a provincial bar known only to a few. Many empty tables, a handful of uninterested patrons, a string of LED lights hanging behind the counter to make it look classy. He sings only for Galadriel, who stares at him, standing in the middle of a crowd that doesn’t know a thing about them. They’ll probably start making assumptions, but it doesn’t matter. He’s on the stage he’s dreamed of for years, surrounded by an audience in raptures about his songs. And she’s there, for him.

It’s an all-consuming thought, the first breath of air after diving into the darkest of oceans. Light shining on his face, oxygen filling his lungs, stunning him with the simple certainty that he can finally breathe again.

Her, only her.

The mere thought makes his head spin, fingers threatening to lose their grip on the fretboard.

Flannel on your bed, red and blue 

He’s so absorbed in the music he only realizes it during the chorus; that you instead of she in the second line was completely unintentional.

*

“You were amazing.”

It’s so natural, the way her lips found his, after the hug that almost knocked him to the ground. Halbrand brushes a stray curl from her face, a spontaneous smile sending her heart racing somewhere between her throat and her stomach.

“You’re biased. Flannel is your favorite.”

An infinitesimal pause, ending with a laugh.

“Then you did well to add it to the setlist,” Galadriel concedes, even though she knows full well it’s only partly because of him. Another kiss. She hardly recognizes herself, and it will never be enough.

The second live show came and went, a promise kept that left a sense of nostalgia in its wake. Once again, the audience moves on to enjoy the evening elsewhere. Improvised bonfires on the beach, noisy bars to while away the hours until dawn.

The festival organizers threw a party for the artists and their staff in the stage area; some people swarmed to the refreshments, others settled down on the lawn or on chairs and cushions scattered everywhere. The benches she led Halbrand to – their fingers laced, cheeks flushing pink – are miraculously free, placed in a spot from which they can observe the situation while staying away from the crowd.

The speakers are playing some soft summer pop music and recordings of the songs from the show. She smiled recognizing Runaway Train , even more so when Halbrand gifted her his own interpretation of it. Night slowly creeps in, a velvety sheet draped on their shoulders. Galadriel breathes its scent in, warm summer air and the salty breeze coming from the sea, the sense of calm stillness it brings. The fairy lights around the dance floor are like fireflies miraculously drawn to a single place, straight out of a dream.

Halbrand is there, beside her. An arm around her waist, fingers playing with the fabric of her white blouse, leaving his warmth on her skin.

“Thank you for coming.”

“It’s nothing.” His disarming tone caught her off guard; it almost sounded just like he didn’t expect her to actually be there. “I would have missed Flannel . When would I ever get another chance to hear it live?”

“You only need to ask. I could even set up a whole unplugged private session for you.”

His voice is little more than a whisper, dangerously close to her ear. A secret just for her, an intimacy that leaves her exposed, encouraging to indulge into that feeling. Finally, a total abandonment of reason.

“You did the same for me. Even though...” she pauses. Even though I’m nothing to you, even though I’m not your girlfriend, even though you weren’t sure you’d get anything in return and countless other ideas her mind suggests to finish that sentence. Halbrand’s long fingers are tracing the path of her veins on the wrist, blue and green lines disappearing under his thumb.

“Even though you could have spent your time doing anything else,” she concludes weakly. Her voice sounds awkward, wrong. It makes her wince. But he smiles, apparently delighted, his hand still holding hers.

“You’re not the kind of person anyone could remain indifferent to, princess.”

The confession hangs between them, settling into the warmth of the night which still smells of the wonders of the day that’s just ended. Halbrand, unaware of the cataclysm he’s just unleashed in her — or perhaps he’s perfectly aware of it and is just watching it from afar — searches in his pants' pocket and pulls out his lighter. A black cat glares at her from the smooth surface, all orange irises and scruffy black fur, so carefully painted it seems alive. One click, two, a snap breaking that impasse. 

She only has time to wonder what that cat means to him, when a sudden idea wipes the slate of her thoughts clean.

Her fingers reach for the packet before he can pull out a cigarette. They’re not the usual ones he smokes – those smell of tobacco dust and paper, he rolls them patiently each time, carefully licking the paper, forcing her to look away so he doesn’t notice the effect that gesture has on her – but they’ll do anyway, she thinks, while fumbling with the packet. Halbrand lets her do it. He raises an eyebrow, a hint of a smile playing on his lips, watching her. He hands her the lighter, their fingers meeting for another fraction of a second; without taking her eyes off his hazel stare, Galadriel holds one of the cigarettes between her fingers.

“Neither are you,” she answers, just to buy some time, her mind and actions disconnected, but still somehow able to coordinate their work to accomplish what she has in mind. Halbrand’s smile reaches his eyes, the crow's feet around them more pronounced now. If he doesn’t love them, I will, she thinks, bringing the cigarette to her lips.

Her fingertip stumbles over the lighter wheel, clumsily triggering it only at the last moment. The disaster of her first cigarette is a recent memory; Melian bursting out laughing, her friend’s boyfriend patting her on the shoulder to help her stop coughing. A table covered in papers, the ashtray full of filters, a TV series no one was paying attention to. It vanishes with the first wisp of smoke, the crackling paper, small red sparks lighting up that corner of the night.

As Galadriel inhales, her eyes start to water. Fighting against the urge to cough after the first drag, she manages to breathe out the smoke. Slowly, deliberately, looking straight at his mouth. Perfectly in control. And when she shakes it – flickers of ash falling at their feet, lighter than summer rain, dotting the decorative pebbles under the bench – Halbrand lets her place the filter between his parted lips. 

A familiar spark of desire starts pooling in her lower belly. His fingers close around her hand as he accepts the cigarette, savoring the lingering scent of her lipstick, kissing her trace on the paper cylinder. A long drag and another, shorter, a smoky sigh rising into the air. 

“Didn’t you say you never learned to smoke?”

“And that was true. There’s a first time for everything.” 

She smirks; only a pale imitation of his trademark smile, but it will do. 

“The important thing is that Disa doesn’t see me. My singing teacher,” she adds.

Galadriel imagines her standing there in front of them, her piercing gaze pinning them on the spot. She would shake her thick dark curls, like she always does when she knows she’s right. People really do like poisoning their lungs, huh? And yet, one look at Halbrand would be enough to change the whole course of the conversation. She’d burst out laughing, filling the room with her contagious cheerfulness. 

I can’t believe Miriel didn’t tell me anything! Our Artanis is happy and I’m the last to know?

“Speaking of first times...”

Halbrand moves closer, knees barely touching hers, his breath lightly caressing her cheek. He’s too close, and that mention of first times only worsens the heat burning inside her.

You’re impossible, you know that?

“Have you ever played with anyone? At a live show, I mean.”

That whispered voice again, promising to get her involved in something only the two of them will know about. His magnetic eyes, green as a promise, dark as the quietest hours of the night, keeps her from looking away. She finds herself nodding, mesmerized by his spell. 

“More or less. It was an impromptu duet, we were at a high school festival.” Not that it counts at all, she’s about to add, but holds back. Somehow, she feels that answer means everything to him.

“You’ve learned my songs. I know yours. How about we play together at the next gigs?”

A tap on the cigarette, a new sprinkle of ash. Halbrand breathes in the smoke, exhales it, hands the cigarette to her, drawing out that indirect kiss. The last drag is an honor that belongs to her. Disa is going to kill her, but this is the second and last cigarette of her life, Galadriel swears, pressing her lips together in the exact spot where his had been a moment before.

She breathes out a puff of smoke that tinges the darkness a milky white, waiting for Halbrand to get up and hand her the plastic ashtray resting on the small table between the benches.

“How much trouble will this get us into?”

“Depends. How would your manager react?”

The image of an extremely annoyed Elrond armed with a phone to call the label immediately – or, alternatively, about to run on stage to drag her away during Halbrand’s concert – makes her smile. She has no idea, and maybe it’s the inability to picture that future scenario that fuels her enthusiasm.

“I guess we’ll find out tomorrow.”

Halbrand’s fingers trace short lines on her wrist again, small circles with his featherlight touch, the same he used on his guitar strings. They stop time, leaving her only a moment to marvel at how big his hand is compared to hers, at the way it completely envelops it. A feeling seeping through her skin, sending a sweet shiver down her spine.

“I like the way you think, Noldor. Do you need extra rehearsals?”

“I don’t think there’s time to rehearse during the day... or at night.” Galadriel smiles, sinking her back into the plush seat of the bench. “Unless you want to keep your roommates awake.”

“Oh, I know other ways to keep them awake.”

That devious smile of his. Lips curling in a secret invitation, eyes sparkling with mischief. It makes her heart clash against her ribs, desperately searching for any comfort he could give her. And while Galadriel fervently hopes she hasn’t blushed to the tips of her hair, even though she can clearly feel her cheeks burning, the reality of the situation hits her hard; what do you call that middle ground where you’re more than just friends, but less than lovers?

The door is open. Slowly, inexorably, something has shifted.

It’s impossible to deny it now.

The evening comes alive: electronic music booming from the speakers, people coming and going, busy drinking or attempting a few steps on the dance floor – yet Galadriel doesn’t feel out of place or lost in the confusion swirling around her. How long has it been since they sat on that bench? Maybe just a couple of hours, but it feels like centuries, geological eras passed in the blink of an eye.

Halbrand’s arm around her brings down the last of her useless defences; she can rest her head on his shoulder, breathe in the bliss of the air, finally cooler.

Pelargir on summer nights is an experience, Amarië told her before leaving. And even though every detail takes her back to the past, to parties in her early years at university, with overflowing plastic red cups, classmates whose names she barely remembers, and songs she tried hard to dance to just to fit in, she can’t disagree.

Celeborn appears only once, his white shirt perfectly ironed, his black jacket more suited to a conference than a party of that kind. I saw you dancing earlier . He smiles at her, but when she emerges from that memory, his face has become Halbrand’s.

An experience she’s grateful to share with him.

Choosing the song was easy. She lost count of how many things come naturally when they’re together, as if they’d thought of the same outcome at the same time. So, Flannel it is. I gathered it’s your favorite, Halbrand teased her. Galadriel couldn’t tell him she’s done nothing but listen to it since their first, almost belligerent encounter. Imagining him writing the lyrics, creating other scenarios in which he could sing it to her, against her skin. She nodded, a failed attempt to save a shred of dignity. They’ll have to wait until the end of the setlist to hear it, but it’ll be worth it...

A rustling sound, someone retrieves a bag from the bench to their left. We’re out of beer! shouts a voice from the refreshments area; the night muffles the ensuing outcry. Confused colors, sounds the mind doesn’t grasp. And from mine, what about Runaway Train?  she whispers, certain he’s listening.

Not Brighter Colors?

Celeborn is there again, in a corner of her mind. He shakes his head, lips pressed into a thin line. The ring is back in the box, a silent surrender lined with velvet. No, it’s tied to an ending , she explains, barely so, hoping it’ll be enough.

There will come a time she can tell him the whole story; the few hours the night allows her are not enough. And then, I’d like this to be a beginning, she blurts out, falling silent a moment after. She dared too much, but it’s worth it.

Why not start letting go, right here, right now?

An instrumental piece marks the end of the electronic playlist. Galadriel gets a new idea. A wild one, at first gently creeping into her thoughts and then screaming, knocking the breath out of her lungs, turning reality upside down. It makes her stand up, searching for his hand again, a liberating, wild laugh, identical to the ones from the night before at the beach.

Halbrand already figured it out. He lets her drag him to the dance floor, without complaining. I trust you, it’s all in their fingers laced together, in her eyes thanking him with their glimmer; words would only needlessly fill the silence. And the next move is to find a space between all the bodies moving to the same rhythm, place her hands on his shoulders, enveloped by the music. To surrender to the firm grip of his hands on her waist.

A slow dance. 

It’s been years since she last tried, but neither of them cares about making a good impression.

Time has passed and delivered its verdict, adding up the moments she will never forget, subtracting the diffidence of their first meeting. When she’s with Halbrand, she feels different. As if the feverish energy that’s always stirred her has finally found a guide, skillfully shaped by his hands, transformed from raw material into the most majestic of armors. A sharp blade, not to cut aimlessly, but to shine with the mastery it was forged with.

It makes her want to follow him everywhere, to ride freely by his side, the wind ruffling her hair and filling her lungs. To take him by the hand and accept any proposal without a second thought, laughing in the face of what the world has decided for her, at that golden legacy she never even considered embracing.

Her mind wanders, but Halbrand’s scent keeps her grounded. Earthy tones, the usual smell of tobacco mixed with something new, unfamiliar to her senses. It seeps into every fiber of her tank top, and his skin is just as fragrant, making her think of darkness and warmth. Black sand scattered on the slopes of a volcano, a quiet fire burning in the heat of a stony fireplace, ready to burst, to envelop her bones, igniting the spark hidden in her soul. If she lifts her cheeks from the fabric, Halbrand is right there; his solid presence contrasts with the gentle way he’s holding her waist, yet, somehow, it perfectly matches it.

The future she was certain she didn’t deserve.

A shiver runs down her spine, shaking her like a flower bud under the first spring rains. But everything is so uncertain. Maybe she’s the only one feeling this way, maybe she’s betting on a feeling still too weak to stand on its own. Desire scorches her lips, holding back the words she desperately wants to release. A part of her, the one she’s chosen as guardian of her true self, urges her to continue; uttering that confession will set her free.

You can’t keep him in the dark forever.

The words get stuck inside her. They seem to pluck up courage after a sudden momentum, only to lose it right after. A quick change of heart. Like when, as a child, she would sit on the swing for hours and, just when she decided to get off, a new push always made her lose the desire to jump on the ground again. Gently putting her feet down to stop would have been easier, but she never took the easy road.

And when Halbrand lifts her chin with two fingers – without taking his eyes off hers, those cursed eyes of leaves and darkness envelop her, preventing her from escaping, even if it’s the last thing she wants – and their lips meet again, even the most fearless words become tangled, then dissolve completely. There’s only room for his hands, for the music that’s changed again without anyone noticing, for that slow dance that is far from perfect, and that’ll be remembered precisely for that reason.

The scent of summer, the timeless beauty of Pelargir on summer evenings. 

He takes her hand, gives her some space and spins her around, then pulls her back to him, into the safe space of his arms, between a laugh and an half-hearted I’m sorry, I’m a terrible dancer .

There’s time, there’s still time.

*

The veranda has been renovated recently; an expensive affair that, luckily, has caused no headaches, as Mrs. Greenwood likes to say. Their summer shoes won’t risk scratching it, the money spent on it took care of that too. Top quality wood from the forests near where Oropher grew up, one of their new favorite conversation topics. Along with the terrible ordeal that is organizing a wedding these days, between the demands of the caterers and the shortage of Peach Fuzz flowers to decorate the house and church. Thranduil’s parents have redefined the very concept of small talk. Why fill your time with chatter about bills to pay and garbage to take out when there’s always someone to carry out these tasks for you?

Under the wrought iron gazebo, the orchestra starts playing a new piece, one of the many gems from a classical repertoire lavishly transported into the modern age by an innovative arrangement. Glowing in their white uniforms with golden buttons, the musicians are the very image of a perfectly planned party. The May evening is pleasantly warm, offering a taste of summer without rushing things too much.

When Galadriel looks up, Eärien has raised her glass of wine. The bubbles slowly rise to the surface, stars temporarily plucked from the evening sky, imprisoned by a thin layer of glass. Her voice weaves its way between the melancholic song of the violin and the sweet notes of the harp, bringing stories of art exhibitions and exclusive parties with it, accessible only to the brightest students, or simply those in the good graces of the right professors. Objectivity has never been one of her qualities. But Valandil nods, and she rewards him with a pat on the arm, a token of understanding. Elrond clears his throat, his new loafers heading to the right, maybe towards the bar table.

Studying the floor is more interesting than anything else happening around her.

She dreads the moment all that chatter will start to shift in her direction, with that tendency to move from one person to another clockwise, like the ruthless hands of a surgically precise clock. When Elrond returns, they’ll ask him about his job, taking in his smiles as if they were owed, exchanging them for a few polite compliments, without exaggerating. The music will spark the next topic of conversation, and all eyes will inevitably turn to her. Judging her, pitying her. Wondering why she’s there staring at the Greenwoods’ hardwood floor, as expensive a month’s tuition at the least prestigious private universities in Eregion, wearing a cornflower blue dress with a Bardot neckline and a wide skirt, too shabby for a soirée.

She bought it in the spring, hoping there would be a place for her at an event for aspiring musicians in Ost-in-Edhil. Life, of course, had different plans. 

Mirdania joins the conversation with a comment Galadriel only catches the last word of, skillfully shifting it toward her own territory. Gold bracelets jingle on her wrists, her voice rising above the distant hum with remarks about faculties Galadriel has only heard about. The orchestra has changed its repertoire, embracing a selection of movie soundtracks rearranged with a decadent mood.

“Professor Námo? Wasn’t he Celeborn’s thesis supervisor?”

They got to her sooner than expected. The city isn’t that big, people talk, as her mother always says, knowing she’s right.

Galadriel looks up again. Putting on the mask of the good girl again – serious, level-headed, perfectly aware of what she represents and what she wants – isn’t easy, but she’s still a beginner. Mastering that skill will require time and perseverance; her parents are ample evidence of that.

She nods. “Yes, even though I don’t think he teaches anymore. He probably retired a few years ago.”

Conversations like exchanges of canned banter and harmless information, just to satisfy some momentary curiosity. A continuous back-and-forth between a yes, the firm is doing well, a there aren’t many clients yet but it’s been establishing itself in the field, and a I can give you his number, it’s always handy to have a lawyer friend. A polite chuckle. Empty chatter, increasing her sense of safety; maybe the worst is really over.

Until the gibe arrives with the waiter, the tray laden with glasses and leaning towards Valandil, who called for it by raising his arm. Mirdania wastes no time. Two fingers wrapped tightly around the thin glass stem, as fragile as a flower stalk. 

“Oh, and what about the proposal?”

Even if the floor opened up beneath her feet and swallowed her whole, it wouldn’t be enough to make Mirdania drop the subject. Three pairs of eyes turn toward her, questioning looks, waiting for new material to fuel the gossip fire. Even stalling wouldn’t help. Galadriel clears her throat, which is as dry as her lips, regretting not having stopped the waiter for a glass of champagne. She fidgets with the ring on her middle finger, its translucent white stone catching the light from the lanterns spread across the garden. For a moment, she regrets that action; it takes her back to when Celeborn picked it up from its blue velvet box, making her head spin, but in the worst way possible.

“I don’t think I’m ready yet.”

We don’t have enough in common, she’d like to add. A poor excuse; it sounds awkward even as a half-formed thought. Why should I be looking forward to a proposal from someone who considers me a child, with too many dreams and not enough means to make them come true?

Still, words don’t come out easily. They stay put, devoid of any real strength. That single sentence would do, she thinks, while still fidgeting with the ring. The floor’s comforting uniformity attracts her eyes, stronger than any magnet. 

Somehow, she manages to resist the temptation.

“It’s not something you can decide on a whim.”

Elrond is back, the deus ex machina she needed. He changes seats to sit next to her, gently brushing her bare shoulder with his warm fingers. 

“When you get married everything changes, right? New habits, a new home…” her friend comes to the rescue.

“I won’t have any time for my music,” she manages to say. Maybe it was her stubbornness, finally finding its own voice. “Once I’m married, I mean.”

Galadriel would like to add something else, but her throat remains dry, words twisted together into inextricable knots. She doesn’t expect them to understand. Elrond does, he’s the only one she can really trust. But the others? Too focused on their perfectly orderly lives; tennis lessons and exclusive parties, new clothes bought for no real reason, if not the mere satisfaction of swiping their credit cards. They get close to her just enough to amicably share the space, without actually finding a common ground. Strangers by nature, planets following different, if not opposite, orbits.

“The life of an artist isn’t for everyone,” Valandil counters. Eärien nods, introducing the story of an old-time friend who tried to make it big as a cellist. Without success, of course.

They begin to list every possible flaw, counting on their fingers to make them more concrete. Constant sacrifices, endless stress, always hopping from place to place. Financial instability. What if you realized it wasn’t for you and decided to give it all up? What kind of job would you find – a real one – what future would await you, what would your parents think...

They wouldn’t understand. They can’t.

“You could still focus on doing music in your free time.” 

Mirdania interrupts that string of threats to Galadriel’s peace of mind with a delicate gesture of her hand, fingers closing around her champagne glass again. 

“Haven’t you studied literature? You could become a teacher.”

The beautiful, brilliant Mirdania, who plays the flute and wants to become a vocal coach. She’s exactly what Galadriel could become, if she just behaved. Same hair, same height. Nothing of her stubbornness, of her obstinate bravado. Galadriel stays quiet, her mind stuck in a chess match between what she should say and what she shouldn’t, but desperately wants to.

Sure, she can leave music to the weekends, or to moments of conviviality, and accept a life where it’s not the center of everything. Sitting in front of the Doriaths’ lacquered wooden piano on Sunday afternoons – shiny as a mirror, blindingly white, so expensive she’s afraid to even touch it – , turning their guests’ heads as she recounts that yes, she used to be a musician, but that was all in the past. Or turn it into a passion completely devoid of any meaning, the whim of a wealthy wife who has to spend the free time she’s painstakingly earned through marriage in some way. Sheet music instead of card games at the ladies’ club. Concerts with real musicians disguised as charity events, the perfect place to hide her burning discomfort under a pair of sunglasses. 

A bird in a cage of gold and fine marbles, singing only on command.

Galadriel is not like them. The only rebellion Eärien allowed herself was getting engaged to Valandil, a troublemaker who failed high school, but that is son to an industrialist in the nautical sector, nonetheless. Sirwen is naturally cut out for her new role; French chansonniers records, design magazines, high-waisted white trousers, perfectly cut and hand sewn by some renowned designer. Always the right word at the right time, ready for her dream wedding she’s dutifully rehearsed for.

Thranduil wraps his arm around her waist, welcoming her laugh with sparkling eyes. They already look like a bride and groom figurine to put on a cake, little lookalikes of perfection painted by the same hand. Mr. and Mrs. Greenwood adore her, they’ve passed the role of party planner on to her without even passing a test period.

“I still have time to think about it.”

Mirdania would accept. The marriage proposal, the prospect of a life in which music is just a tasteless side-dish of a sumptuous life. She’d do it with grace, with the same natural elegance that’s part of her every action, capable of perfectly concealing that touch of naiveté that’s never truly left her. She doesn’t have to strive to tame the fire burning inside her, the inability to accept what she doesn’t instinctively feel as right for her.

Mirdania would choose only what’s best for her, without looking back.

But she’s not Mirdania. She’s herself. Painfully herself, in her choices, in what keeps her up late at night, what wakes her at dawn with her mind full of words. A life without music would be nothing but an empty existence; even trying to contemplate it is out of question.

No man could change her mind.

Galadriel stands up, suddenly feeling dizzy. There isn’t a single drop of alcohol in her veins, yet her head spins, screaming at her to do something. Sirwen’s laugh is carried by the evening breeze, vibrating through the warm air. Shall we open another bottle, darling?

She’s had enough of unsolicited advice.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” she mumbles, only waiting for Elrond to acknowledge her retreat. She walks away, skirt rustling around her legs as she heads toward the main building of the house. The others probably won’t even notice her absence, until they run out of topics to gossip about, that is.

Wrought iron lamps scattered along the perfectly mowed lawn. Three couples slow dancing near the orchestra’s gazebo, time standing still between a whisper and the next. More waiters pass among the guests, champagne glasses filled in a continuous cycle.

What is she doing there?

She finds the bathroom where it’s always been, in the part of the house her childhood memories have led her to. The door closes behind her with a small click, the key turning just as gracefully in the golden lock. The light from the crystal lampshade bathes the surfaces around her in gold. White, black, a mirror taller than her, in which her reflection is lost.

After all, she’s just a little girl with dreams that are too big.

She’s doing nothing but check the list of accomplishments that will turn her into the perfect fiancée. Going to one of her and Celeborn oldest friends’ engagement party, fill the night with polite smiles and empty, courteous conversations. Trying to wear the skin they have offered her, a white silk tunic for a new self, covering any attempt at rebellion. Trying, desperately trying, standing on the bow of the ship leading to her destiny, the sun of a new life stretching its rays toward her. Only to turn around at the last moment, doubt like a dagger in her side, the destiny she’s like for herself behind her.

The ring feels uncomfortable, marking her finger. Now it’s a cumbersome presence, an oath she should keep, no matter the cost.

“You’re not marriage material,” she whispers, staring at the girl in the mirror. A thousand-mile stare, dark circles barely covered by the concealer. Sometimes she isn’t even sure she knows herself. She chews on her lip, lost in her head, removing what little pink lipstick remains.

“You’ll never be. But you can try. Smoothing your edges, until they’re perfect. What have you got to lose, after all?”

 Everything, she reminds herself, turning the golden tap on. Her favorite white noise, reserved for when the world outside becomes unbearably loud. Carrara marble; she feels it under her palms pressing against the cold, comforting surface.

Only the best for Mr. and Mrs. Greenwood. 

She breathes in, slowly, counting each second separating her from breathing out again. 

The mirror glass is just as cold. It’s a temporary consolation, a distracted caress to cling to for another few minutes, forehead resting on the glass, her breath fogging its perfectly polished surface. Until the storm carries her far away, beyond the waves tossing her around mercilessly, far from a landing place that is anything but safe, yet still better than what she’s left behind.

*

Someone once told her that feelings can take many forms. She doesn’t remember the time or the occasion, only the voice, the calmness of an afternoon enveloping them in its orange light. Words are not the only way to express them but, sometimes, some words can take the place of others but, sometimes, they can help the people using them to express what they’d have never been able to make real. It’s all about finding the right ones for the right moment, breaking the stillness of a moment that appears perfect but is nothing more than a fragment of a perpetual stasis.

Things must change, one way or another.

Everything is so uncertain, but time has passed, and now has an answer between its fingers; it must mean something. Halbrand’s chat in front of her, the confession still burning behind her lips, struggling to come out. Dawn paints the sky pink and pale gold, and the hallways begin to fill with the sound of footsteps and voices.

A fingertip hovers above the send button.

I care about you. 

Four words. A pale imitation of what is suspended between them, of that abstract body that grows every time their fingers touch, taking on a new meaning. Galadriel could send that message and wait with her heart racing for a reply that has the power to condemn or save her, depending underb what light she considers that possibility.

Or she could just delete it, and rely on something that goes beyond words.

No, she decides, as a ray of sunlight caresses her hair, painting a streak of gold dust in the air. She closes her eyes, then slowly erases that message. 

Her actions will speak for her. 

At least until she finds the courage to confess her feelings, with the right words.

Chapter Text

The lowered blinds distort the perception of time. Morning is the same as late afternoon, which is the same as evening, even if the sun has already set by that time, its golden halo replaced by a melancholy inducing pastel purple. They even said it on television, keeping your rooms in the dark makes the heat less unbearable. Yavanna acted on that advice quite literally and all throughout the house, forcing her husband to spend his days in the workshop, where it’s hot all day long. When she suggested that remedy to her eldest son, he didn’t bat an eyelid.

The sun never did much to improve his mood.

“Can I come in?” His mother waits three seconds, then pushes the door open. Over the years, their shared language has become richer and more complex, while remaining mutually understandable. The door left ajar means things aren’t going well, but also that he’ll need outside help to get out of it. Faced with a closed door, however, Yavanna has learned to draw back. If there’s one thing she’s always respected, it’s his personal space.

“I haven’t seen Thuri in a while.”

The question, only apparently random, accompanies the rustle of her wide skirt. She sits down on the bed, patiently waiting for the hearing to begin. She’ll probably give vent to her professional deformation as a mother by fixing up the bedspread or dusting the nightstand, regardless of the many times Halbrand told her he’s perfectly capable of tidying his room by himself.

At least she won’t interrogate him.

“We don’t talk anymore.” Halbrand lets those words go, pretending there’s no weight to them, the pencil attacking the paper. Under the graphite tip, a pair of eyes stare wide into the void, next to the hint of a side profile. Wavy hair, a short, straight nose, the determined expression of someone who no longer wants to submit to other people’s demands. That blonde figure has appeared in his dreams several times. Or maybe he saw her in a music video, on the few occasions he turned on the television in an attempt to distract his thoughts with trivial background noise. The eraser removes what his hand wasn’t quick enough to add, reddish dust sticking to the fibers of the paper.

His drawing will never match how she looks in his mind, and that’s the problem.

His mother is still waiting. Her silence blends with the immutable suburban soundtrack outside the window, the chirping of shy crickets and cars slowly driving down the road in the sweetness of the advancing evening. If his mind were less noisy, he might also hear the sounds coming from the smithy; the rhythmic beating of the hammer against iron, the dull roar of the fire dancing in the furnace. The droning of his father’s radio, tuned to the usual alternative rock station, which has inspired his creations since what feels like the beginning of time.

Every now and then, he imagines the life of a Halbrand busy with that work of heat, sweat and melted iron, alongside Aulë. Welcoming the gift of transformation by whistling his father’s favorite songs, metal clamped in pincers, baptised in quenching water. Observing their creations with pride, warmed by the certainty of having given life to something unique. Like music, but perhaps with great concreteness.

How long could he last before all the lies caught up with him even there? Before his relentless hunger for glory ruined everything good?

“Something broke,” Halbrand adds.

He doesn’t specify why. He doesn’t explain he’s the main responsible of that falling out, along with Thuri’s stubbornness and their equally wounded pride. What’s done is done, or maybe not. He didn’t seek a different outcome.

Behind him, he hears Yavanna sigh.

“If there’s anything I can do…”

“There’s not.”

The reply is sharper than he intended it. It reaches its target, wounding his tongue, precise as a throwing knife; now he can no longer take it back. He tries to stem that slip with a clean stroke of the eraser, instantly met with a rustle of complaint from the paper. It must be strange for Yavanna, going from having her son’s best friend always around, laughter on her lips, her arms full of leftover pastries from the bakery where she works, to total radio silence. It was never as painful for her as it was for him, but Yavanna must have figured it out for herself; her glances are not difficult to understand.

A tear opens under the angry scraping of the eraser. A cruel smile, mocking him, reminding him once again how pathetic and incompetent he is, so obsessed with perfection he ends up condemning himself to a life of utter failure. Halbrand the little musical genius, so talented he always played last at school concerts. So promising he was rejected at Halcyon Days, where pretty much everyone else played at least once...

A wave of anger overwhelms him, clouding his vision. He wants to give in to that merciless impulse, throw away that collection of clumsy mistakes so he never has to lay eyes on it again. He grits his teeth, getting rid of the rubber powder with a sharp flick. Disappear, perhaps. Into thin air, with a snap of his fingers, to start over and erase the last six months of his life, like a drawing turned out poorly.

The bed behind him creaks.

His mother gets up, in a swirl of cotton and viscose. She wraps him in an embrace from which Halbrand can’t escape, her nose sinking into his auburn curls, so similar to her own, only lighter. He feels her breathing against his back, the way she holds him cancelling out any thought with disarming simplicity. 

Luckily she can’t see him fighting back tears.

“When you were a child, everyone scolded me. You’re overstepping, Yavanna, let him live…”

Her voice fills the silence. Halbrand feels her smile, warm against his worn out t-shirt.

“My sister, my friends. They were all there lecturing me about how you should have learned to fall on your own. Look at him, your father used to say, he has the eyes of someone who already knows what they want. He’s curious, he’s smart, there’s no need to hold his hand so tightly, don’t you think? The important thing is that you’re there when he gets back up on his feet.”

A short, embarrassed laugh, so pure in its sincerity.

“But I couldn’t back away, no matter what. You were my first child, and I was afraid of messing everything up. Of not giving you everything you needed… of not being the mother you needed, not yet at least.”

The following silence perfectly fits between them, a puzzle piece gently pushed into place. The temptation to turn around and hug her is overwhelming. He must resist.

“When Curumo was born, I stopped worrying for a while. You were so happy to have a little brother, so proud… you wanted to be his role model, even though we didn’t ask you to. My little man. At that point, I started blaming myself for being so apprehensive. I hated to admit it, but they were right.”

His mother pulls away, not before carefully smoothing out the invisible creases on his shirt. Halbrand detects a hint of relief in her voice, perhaps because she’s finally confessed something she’d been keeping inside for a long time.

She wouldn’t be the only one, he thinks, without interrupting her.

“So I started telling myself that you would make it. Every time I looked into your eyes, every time you told me about school or your guitar lessons, I thought I shouldn’t have had to worry about you anymore. If you could sense my serenity, you would have more confidence too…”

It’s almost like the chair turns around by itself, obeying a command he can’t defy. One moment Halbrand has the sheet of paper in front of him, his mistakes and angry pencil strokes; the next, his mother's shawl is around his head, eliciting a gasp of surprise out of him. Her favorite perfume fills his nostrils: petrichor, patchouli, the rich, ancient scent of the soil warmed by the first spring sun. Both sweet and earthy, in a reassuring way. It clings to his hair, conveys a sense of belonging, and suddenly he’s a kid again, but with the painful awareness of today.

“I can tell you don’t feel like talking. Something is bothering you, something you can’t express. It’s just that… I’m here for you, Hal. When you’re ready, when you can, you’ll tell me everything.”

Yavanna caresses the back of his head, reminiscent of the way she used to smooth his hair when he was a child.

“I trust your judgment. And I want to see you happy. You know that, right?”

Halbrand nods, unable to think of anything else to do at that moment. 

There are still words he can’t put into shape. They’re graceless, and don’t even have the decency to follow his thoughts; even if he tried putting them on paper, to make one rough draft after another, they’d remain the same. It’s easy to keep making mistakes, to keep lying: all he has to do is convince himself there’s no other solution. Allow guilt to sink its teeth in only occasionally, on weekends or lonely evenings, then shake it off with a ready-made smile and start again.

No giving in, no second thoughts. 

Hiding his rejection at Halcyon Days from Yavanna was difficult. Even more so was convincing Curumo to cover for him. The mere fact his brother agreed speaks volumes about how desperate he must have looked. It’s a secret that still hurts him, a wound that bleeds every time his thoughts return to those feverish, senseless days. Halbrand would’ve kept it inside forever, that’s what he had promised himself, losing Thuri. But the perspective of being honest with his mother – at least with her, at least for now – is liberating. He just has to choose and surrender to a truth that would make him feel better.

Because it would, right?

Yavanna has no idea what thoughts are tormenting him. She probably blames his mood on the mysterious furious argument that erased Thuringwethil’s presence from that house, turning it into a series of set phrases and shrugs every time her name is mentioned. 

It’s not yet time for that confession. First, he must decide to take the fateful step towards the abyss; to tell Yavanna of how he travelled wide to pretend he was participating in a festival he had been rejected from, and everything that followed. Eyes closed, mind clear, what’s the big deal? Why does he feel the need to keep up this deception, even though there’s no one else to impress, even though his mother has just emphasized that she loves him for who he is?

To walk a new road, you must first unlearn the old one, someone once told him. And resist the temptation to choose it again.

His mother pulls back the curtains she sewed herself, looking out at the garden out of his room. The small greenhouse that is always full of life and greenery in winter, the rows of flowers that have found a home in the soil, one by one, cared for by the songs she sings from them every time she waters them. The vegetable garden they set up together, when Curumo was just a kicking newborn wrapped in a canvas baby carrier and he was a five-year-old kid, strutting proudly with the watering can too heavy in his little hands soaked with water...

“You were so small,” Yavanna whispers, as if she was looking at the past in the window’s reflection, her child who was the bearer of so many expectations. She could have spoken clearly, about how she would’ve loved him anyway, or maybe it’s him who misread something completely obvious...

Then, she lifts her shoulders, and it’s as if something shifts in the atmosphere.

Yavanna rolls up the thread of her thoughts, while patting her skirt down.

“You’re not planning on going out tonight, are you? I made mushroom risotto. Your brother already reserved two portions for himself.”

Halbrand pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers, sighing. Some say the first step, whether small or huge, is the hardest to take. Planning it should be half the battle, or so he hopes.

“I’m not hungry,” he tries to make up an excuse, though he lacks the conviction to give it any weight. Halbrand stretches his arms above his head. “Maybe I’ll grab some leftovers from the fridge lat…”

“Halbrand Mairon Norsus.”

His mother never changes. Arms crossed over her chest, the same gesture Curumo uses to express his annoyance at something. The mass of reddish-brown hair, the hazel eyes he inherited from her, lit up with playful indignation. First, a finger pointed at him, then a hand plunged into his hair to ruffle it, snatching a groan out of him.

“Would you dare turn down an invitation to the dinner I made?”

*

Hal’s arm wraps around her waist. The weight of his fingers is warm on the tight-fitting bodice of Miriel’s last masterpiece, all juniper green, puffy sleeves and long gown.

My Artanis deserves only the best, she had declared, handing her the sketch in her atelier.

So much love, so freely given. Just for her.

A joyous uproar greeted her second appearance on stage, with the same warmth of the first day. Once again, phones were raised with flashlights on, and even a few lighters – tradition is hard to give up. She reached out to them, touched their outstretched hands, pacing around in that dream of a dress. Now that she truly feels in her element, stage fright is only a distant bad dream. Something belonging to another person, a chrysalis she shed in just a few weeks, in what felt like the shortest and most intense metamorphosis in the world.

When Halbrand appeared on stage, the roar turned into a deafening din.

How many of her fans will appreciate him too? Galadriel wonders, her eyes scanning the sea of adoring faces. It’s their surprise, more than anything else, that makes this moment incredible. Along with Halbrand’s hand on her hip. And the smile he gave her after coming out from behind the scenes, the way he pressed his lips to the back of her hand, a gesture that sent the audience into raptures.

Standing at the center of the stage, at her side, her fingers brushing with devotion the sword lilies embroidered on the bodice in thin golden threads. As if he could make them real with a single touch and offer them to her; a tribute to her inner strength.

“Hello again, Halcyon Days! Are you ready for a duet I’m sure you weren’t expecting?”

Next to her there’s simply a happy young man. Not the artist, not the sarcastic, sharp-tongued Halbrand of that now memorable first afternoon. His eyes shine with amber speckles, fragments of sunlight captured in his irises, and his smile captures them, making them, if possible, even more beautiful. The white button-up shirt for special occasions, perfectly matched to her dress, the top buttons undone. A thin line of sweat on his brow, the soft curls framing his face, laughter rising in the air at the loud response from the audience.

The perfect sum of his parts. Perhaps he proposed that duet to show her who he really is, beyond the mask of fame, beyond the idea of him she may already have put together in her mind.

Tell me lover, have you ever dreamed of us?

Halbrand is the first to sing, as they have agreed. But the whisper with which he asks her that question is completely unexpected, a fruit of the moment. His voice is a caress descending on her hair, a pang in her heart that destroys the concreteness of reason, makes it yield. There, in front of everyone, on that stage that has seen her triumph and will also witness her defeat, deliciously perfect in an ecstasy of lights, colors and shouts that reach the sky.

Outside of a coffee shop, rain pouring, no words left?

Halbrand takes a few steps away from her, momentarily abandoning the microphone on its stand. His intention is clear; he wants to leave the stage to her until the chorus, when they will come back together to sing it. And even if part of her is almost annoyed – was it really necessary to improvise a choreography without warning her? – the other is beaming. Halbrand doesn’t take his eyes off her as he keeps the audience entranced like the day before, warming it up for her by playing his part. It’s a well-rehearsed spell no one can escape.

Not that she had any intention to.

I was looking for someone to hold my fears, and you came around

And I scribbled sentences I couldn’t sing out loud

Galadriel’s voice doesn’t waver, not even once. She changes the lyrics, like he did the day before.

He won’t mind, she’s sure of it.

Do you think we’re still the same?

She opens her eyes again; Halbrand is just a breath away. His gaze fixed on her, his warmth enveloping her once more, as if he had never left. Galadriel leans against him, as they both prepare for the chorus. An offer to whoever made all of this possible, directed at the blue, orange, and dazzling gold of the sunset sky.

Flannel on your bed, red and blue, memories, I can’t recall anything from you

A tool in his hands. That’s how she feels right now. His will plucks the strings of her soul, turning her strength into sound, making her fully aware of what lies beneath the surface. All the songs she never had the courage to sing, all the decisions she put off indefinitely; they are here, in front of her, incredibly real. Raw material to be shaped, rebellious energy to be set free, her heart a drum gone mad, beating to a rhythm close to explosion.

Everything for him, together with him.

He’s offering her his song to turn it into a shared memory, to present it to the audience in a new guise, one that speaks of them.

They’re so close that their breaths mingle, their voices becoming one.

Life is simple, we used to tell ourselves, but what’s the price? Tell me, what’s the price?

It’s exhilarating, beautiful, the way Halbrand’s husky and melancholic voice blends with her brighter one. The duet is a dance they didn’t have to memorize the steps for, a race in the same direction, at breakneck speed, with the certainty of having the other by their side. Shoulder to shoulder, fabric against fabric, her golden locks escaped from her braid caressing his arm, blown by a breeze that heralds another evening milder than the day just passed. Singing of a love that unravels, reverting the meaning of the song; from its foundations swept away by the storm, a new feeling is born, fragile only in appearance, its slender branches reaching towards the sun. Bringing beauty where, until not so long ago, only the desolation of loneliness reigned supreme.

The last notes fade into the warm scent of the air, laden with saltiness. He searches for her hand, fingers lacing with hers. Galadriel joins him at the edge of the stage, bowing to receive the applause as if that was an opening night at the theater, enveloped by something inexplicable, greater and more magnificent than any feeling she’s ever experienced before.

A profound sense of belonging.

*

He watches Galadriel run her fingers over the guitar strings with confidence, as if she were born to be on that stage. Sitting cross-legged, she plays a completely acoustic version of Midnight Rebels, so unusual it’s absolutely brilliant. Elrond remembers it well, the anger that accompanied those chords the first time, her fingers trembling and messing things up, her teeth clenched to hold back tears that would only fall later, when rehearsals were over.

Do you want to stop? he had asked, without approaching her. A hand on her shoulder at the wrong time would have made her unreachable. Galadriel shook her head, then breathed in. Another attempt, a better result than the previous one, though still far from anything she would consider acceptable.

She was an unhappy silhouette, wrapped in an oversized brown cardigan. Wallowing in sadness, sullen in her impenetrable solitude. Light years away from the Galadriel of today, with that serene smile curling her lips, who remains silent to allow the audience to join in the chorus.

It’s been a long time since he’s seen her so happy. Miriel was right, something changed, and she was the first to notice. Whether it was the proverbial woman’s intuition or just because she wasn’t busy obsessively keeping an eye on everything else... but now that Galadriel is there, in front of him, for the rest of the world to see, denying it would be impossible.

And yet, his rationality demands its due, insisting on being heard.

There may not be any official cameras at Halcyon Days, but there are spectators, eager to record every single event they might witness. News of that impromptu duet is bound to reach the record companies. And the gossip magazines, after years of failed scoops, will surely pounce on those juicy rumors.

Elrond finds himself gritting his teeth. He feels like he can almost see them, hear them: the voices of the paparazzi are like nails on the blackboard of his mind. Who would have thought that Artanis, the irreproachable Artanis, with her closely guarded private life, would reveal her affair with an Angband Records singer on stage at one of the region’s most important summer festivals?

He’s probably worrying more than he needs to. Galadriel’s relaxed smile seems to confirm this. Too serious, always working, never taking a moment to enjoy life. Since their careers took off, the situation has gotten worse, if that’s possible.

At this rate, what will you be like at fifty?

The breeze rising in the coming evening carries her voice to him, with that touch of irony that leaves him no escape. Galadriel, the only friend he’s had for a long time, when the only opportunity to interact with his classmates was answering to their bullying. Galadriel, unpredictable and radiant, bitter only in appearance, a storm in a glass. So full of ideas, so independent. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate her as she is, but sometimes he feels he’s the only person capable of pulling her life back on track.

Or at least to try, before her stubbornness leads Galadriel to her downfall.

Elrond runs a hand over his face, wiping away the last traces of sweat from the day. It’ll be a long night, just another interlude in two equally long weeks. 

His distressed aura must have drawn attention, because Miriel approaches with a rustle of soft silk.

“You’ve done it now, haven’t you?”

A nod of her head toward the stage, a relaxed smile contradicting the apparent reproach hidden in her question. Galadriel will come down from the stage after the next song. He’ll barely manage to say goodbye before watching her disappear again, her blonde braid like a comet’s tail, shining under the blue silk canopy of the night sky. Heading who knows where; his questions about her evening adventures always met with brief shrugs and evasive answers. 

What does he have left, if even his best friend doesn’t feel the desire to be honest with him?

Elrond finds himself nodding without much conviction, his gaze fixed on the stage.

“Could I have stopped it?”

“Clearly not.” A laugh lights up Miriel’s voice. “When she sets her mind on something, no one can stop her, you know that better than I do.”

The sentence has been passed, and will take effect in a few hours. He might as well take a look at the entertainment news websites, waiting for the first articles full of speculations to come out. If he manages to keep the situation under control, he could post a photo or announcement on social media that will force the public to talk about something else, at least for a couple of weeks...

“So, I should do something.”

The tone with which Miriel resumes the conversation borders on indifferent.

“Something drastic, perhaps. To prevent the label from swooping in here tomorrow at the crack of dawn and lecturing her, right?”

Elrond is about to nod mindlessly as he did a moment ago, when something stops him. He shifts his gaze to Miriel, noticing only at the last moment the way she’s curling her lips and the pleased look on her face. She knows something he doesn’t, has come to a conclusion that will change the course of the days ahead, or maybe it’s both.

Elrond doesn’t know which of the two possibilities concerns him more.

“Unless we accept the situation for what it is, and step aside. Whether it’s a summer fling or something more... she’ll handle it her own way. However she feels it’s right.”

The tension that tightens his shoulders takes the form of a snort. The simplest solution and, ironically, the most impossible one. Keep it vague. Dodge any uncomfortable questions with a skill he’s not sure he possesses — not without strenuous practice. He’s a bookworm, someone who works from the sidelines. He has none of Miriel’s dazzling confidence. Who knows, if he handed the reins over to her, perhaps they’d end up with a collaboration proposal from Angband Records in less than three hours...

“Let her have this moment of peace, Elrond. She deserves it.”

On stage, Galadriel is busy with her encore. Who knows if she will miss Halcyon Days, or if the novelty of that liaison has already eclipsed the joy of the admission. Elrond watches her stride across the stage, glorious in that dream of a green dress. She bows, takes something a fan offers her, and holds it to her chest. A piece of paper. A drawing, or a poem. Galadriel lifts it towards the audience, her smile spreading to her eyes. 

If she’s truly happy as Miriel thinks, what’s the point of obsessing over what complete strangers might think of it?

“You know, I’m sure her fans won’t mind,” Miriel continues. A simple observation, but it’s enough to clear the fog surrounding his thoughts. “I don’t know if Halbrand’s fans will feel the same way, but I guess we’ll find out.”

“I guess so,” Elrond sighs, resigned. Perhaps it’s a good sign. Perhaps he should listen to Galadriel’s advice for once, he ponders, as the crowd bids its goodbye to Artanis, waiting with bated breath to see who will replace her on stage.

Even when his career is at stake.

*

Halbrand pointed to the destination he had in mind with a nod. A simple gesture – subtle, easy to miss – but it was enough for Galadriel to understand everything.

Shouldn’t it scare him, the way they’ve become so skilled at reading each other’s intentions?

Further on, beyond the chaotic swirl of the crowd, beyond the speakers blaring music at full volume and the noise of craft stalls and stands smelling of caramel, candy floss, and the last traces of a great collective euphoria, night embraces the trees. The building reserved for the rehearsals during rainy days carves out its own space in the distance, the last stronghold of human presence; beyond it, a small wood stretches undisturbed. It was the first detail Halbrand noticed when exploring the area. His mother’s blood, like sap from a trunk to its branches, passed onto him a love for all things green, and the desire to share it with someone.

The perfect person to do it with is behind him; she’s now caught up with him.

He turns around to check if she’s following, first once, then twice, hoping it’s not just a dream. Had he been Orpheus, his Eurydice would have disappeared immediately; perhaps all the self-control he’s always boasted about is just a myth. Maybe. But now that she’s there, that the peace they need is finally within reach, every thought seems to vanish into the silence surrounding them. The sounds of the afterparty slowly fade away, merging into a distant hum. They become one with the noise of cars speeding somewhere beyond the trees, on the road leading back to Pelargir. Different bodies with similar intentions, united by the desire to preserve a trace of the time just passed.

Halbrand holds his breath.

He thinks he can hear the river flowing behind him, a soft, inviting, gurgling sound. One more step. Galadriel clears her throat, whispers a question. A soft sound, as gentle as the song of the water.

He heard her, but he wasn't paying attention. By the time he realizes she was actually asking something, the question has disappeared in the silence between them.

The destination he has in mind is only a few steps away from the beginning of the wooded area. A clearing from which they’ll be able to see the meadow of their third encounter, the one from the walk in the rain, sharing an umbrella, their shoulders lightly brushing. It’s a tree the elements have knocked over, now covered in a thin layer of moss that blurs the rings of age. It could have always existed like that or fallen a week earlier, in that dimension just for them. A refuge from the post-show chaos, a safe place Halbrand can contemplate his life from, wondering whether to take a step forward or go back.

Take the risk or throw it all away.

Because now he can no longer hide, he realizes, as he sits next to Galadriel on the log, cool with the dampness of the evening. That predictable life of his, made up of routines set in stone and strict rules, is slowly, inexorably shifting. He doesn’t quite feel like himself, but maybe that’s not so bad.  Exerting control over everything else no longer has the same flavor; now every detail of his existence seems to revolve around a completely different axis, in disarray. It takes what it wants, disrupts everything, leaves him there with thousands of questions.

Apparently, only Galadriel has the answers.

She twists her fingers in her lap, fiddling with her ring. It’s such a familiar gesture Halbrand could draw it from memory alone. Her breath anchors the chaos of his thoughts to a fixed point, lungs expanding and contracting like his. He wonders if her heart’s beating in its bone cage. Erratic, traitorous. Like his.

But before he can prepare for what comes next – new excuses, or perhaps the truth, at long last – Galadriel’s voice breaks the silence at will, filling the space between the trees.

“I’ll remember this moment,” she whispers. The last syllable is uncertain, lost somewhere. She finds her strength again a moment later, clearing her throat. “Whatever happens when the festival’s over. What we’ve had these past few days...”

Halbrand watches the way her lips move around that hint of a confession, her eyes unfocused. Her braid is now undone, golden hair kissed by the fleeting moonlight. Time seems to expand and then stop every time they are together, as if a pebble had managed to block its gears. A seemingly insignificant event altering its course forever. Like replying to an email admitting you to a music festival, on a spring evening that’s just left a downpour behind...

The words are there, waiting to be unleashed. It’s hesitation making them unsteady. He’s used them to transform reality, weave deceit, appear better than he was; why was it always so easy to use them, back then?

“It’ll stay with me,” Galadriel continues, as if gathering her courage. Unaware of what is going on in his head. “I don’t want to...”

“Galadriel.”

It’s still so new, the sound of her name on his lips, but he already masters it perfectly. As if he were born to pronounce it over and over again, on festive evenings or in the morning languor. Between kisses, to ask for forgiveness. To call her out in the crowd and wait for her to answer back, the bright gaze of who knows they’re being sought by someone important to them. A custom drawing strength from everyday life, the most beautiful of habits.

Halbrand would like to make her understand that what they have is not just a summer fling, a temporary love bound to end up as a forgotten photograph in a drawer. It’s much more than that; it takes his breath away, confuses his thoughts, escapes his desire for order and regularity. It’s something he’d love to jump headfirst into, until he loses himself. A vivid feeling that bites and kicks, that comforts and silences fears with the simplicity of a word.

“Being with you... you know, if I could just hold onto this feeling, keep it with me always...”

He feels Galadriel moving beside him, the air vibrating slightly, as if shifting an entire continent. Soon she’ll turn in his direction, fix her gaze on him, a death sentence on his courage. Or maybe not.

The right moment, he’s learned over time, doesn’t always exist. Most of the time, it’s already there.

 “Then maybe, I…”

“Maybe” what? Maybe I could confess how I feel right away, as if it were the easiest thing in the world? But that wouldn’t be me, it wouldn’t be us. Maybe you wouldn’t like it. You’d think I was forcing you to face a feeling you don’t fully understand yet, to reciprocate when you were expecting something else. You’d think I wanted something right away, something you don’t know if you want to give me yet. You’d say no right away.

I couldn’t bear it.

The few clues about her expression he manages to piece together doesn’t help; lips pressed into a thin line, eyes that still don’t dare to lift his face. The statue of a nymph caught in a moment of weakness, a pensive creature in a long forgotten forest. When Galadriel turns toward him, her lips barely part.

Let it be a question and not an answer, he finds himself praying, without even knowing who to.

Halbrand jumps up, almost risking losing his balance, at the same moment as Galadriel. Facing her, he can finally read her expression; surprise, confusion, but something else too. Something dark, intricate, a drop of ink spreading its smoky tendrils in the water. A torment he can only try to imagine, if it’s even remotely similar to his own.

“Hal…”

She clears her throat, like she’s unsure of what to say, but it seems words forsake her, too. She presses her lips together again, defeated. His hand reaching out for her cheek has never seemed so clumsy, so out of place.

If he kissed her here, now, they would get lost into each other. Until they forgot the passing of time, until they became part of nature itself. Two monuments to a story blessed by summer, and the trees would cast their shadows over them for millennia to come. Small creatures would crawl over their bodies, the sun’s fingers touching them would alternate with the moon’s; guarding the forest, like humans transformed into trees by the judgment of a mercurial deity, they would create shadows for the lovers to lie down and rest under.

If he listened to the way his heart pounds against his ribs, Halbrand would pull her close immediately. He would take her right there, on the meadow soaked with the dampness of the night. Without a second thought, letting his body take control over reason. If he didn’t know, in his heart, that Galadriel deserves infinitely more than a quick one with an almost certain risk of being interrupted.

“I…”

Halbrand slowly raises his hand to caress her face. Galadriel’s cheek is hot. So warm, so soft. His fingers cup it completely. For a second, a moment that is both brief and infinitely long, Halbrand considers giving in. What would be wrong with letting what must happen now happen, without looking back? As he gently lifts her chin and Galadriel tilts her head up, finally meeting his lips, a sigh escaping them...

“Oh, sorry! We didn’t think anyone was here!”

A giggle, someone clearing their throat, uncertain. Footsteps muffled by the clearing, their place desecrated by two unknown presences. Galadriel quickly breaks away from him, both turning toward the trees. At first, he thinks he recognizes a familiar voice, but as the two figures approach, all doubt is dispelled; the dark skinned boy with curly hair and the girl from Wildflowers, the taller one. Both are flushed and disheveled, like they ran across the meadow to get there, to a place they thought was secret.

It must be written somewhere, that their moments of privacy in nature will always be ruined by some intruder. In the cards, or in the horoscope, Halbrand thinks, barely holding back an exasperated snort.

Galadriel, on the other hand, is feigning ignorance. She shrugs, saying, don’t worry, we were leaving, lacing her fingers with his. She pulls him closer, glancing back just once to make sure he’s really following her, both with his mind and his steps.

Halbrand can’t read her expression. He decides not to think about it too much.

At night, the pool seems to belong to another universe. Silent, motionless, a replica of a starry sky made of water and neon lights, set in a blue ceramic tiled wall. The children yelling, and their mothers idly chattering on their beach chairs are just memories, confined to a dimension rising and setting with the sun.

It’s an anticipated ending, the one they’re walking towards. They have something in mind, a ninety-nine percent chance it’s the same thing; to wait until they’re completely alone. Kick common sense and watch it tumble down the stairs, a frill they’re both happy to get rid of. Her nails tapping on the side of the cot produce a gentle metallic clinking sound. 

Shouldn’t she be thrilled by the fact they’ve become so skilled at reading each other’s desires?

Galadriel stretches her bare foot toward the surface of the water. Her gaze is lost, staring at the concentric circles created by her fingers caressing the water; a precise, hypnotic pattern. It absorbs her attention as if it were the only thing left on earth, besides the pool and Hal’s breath, who’s sitting on the same cot, a low chuckle lost in the cool air. It’s almost midnight, the bar must be about to close. The couple from the second floor, the one with the brown poodle, walks past the glass doors of the hotel. From inside, the clinking of glasses confirms her prediction. Soon the bartender will say goodbye to head home, and the gate will close for the night. Night owl guests will have to phone the front desk to get in. Or find another place to sleep.

One point in their favor.

Galadriel’s attention is drawn to the glass window behind them. A few people are still in the lobby, busy with the last tasks of the day. She could observe them as she’s done many times, just to kill time, to extinguish the fire that threatens to devour her from within. Imagining their stories, written in their expressions or in the gestures they present themselves to the world with. It was her favorite game as a child, when she would sit for hours on the balcony of her grandparents’ house, hands tucked between the cast iron bars despite her mother’s scolding, Galadriel would lose herself watching people stroll through the streets of that corner of the city, the cars at her feet as small as miniatures.

The woman with the chignon has a sister who plays the harp in a musical collective and got here after missing a plane and two buses. The bald man with the red and blue floral shirt worked for years as a professional tailor and now enjoys his retirement with his six-year-old granddaughter and cat (which looks just like the one painted on Halbrand’s lighter). And the girl with the red hair has a girlfriend waiting for her upstairs, channel surfing through late-night programs on channels forgotten by the universe, while she tries to remember where she can find a grocery store open at night, just to buy a bottle of prosecco...

Halbrand touches her shoulder, interrupting those stories. The only light left in the hall comes from the lamp at the entrance, the one that never goes out. The bartender walks away down the path with a rustle of footsteps.

“Are we alone?”

He nods, answering with a whisper, immediately muffled by the violent beating of her heart. He stands up, a metallic creak piercing the glassy air of the night. Even though the evening air in July is anything but cold, it feels that way.

Resisting her first impulse – to jump up and run to him so as not to break that spell – is a challenge Galadriel is not ready for. But Halbrand takes three more steps away, then four, the soles of his shoes squeaking on the pool floor, despite the sign that explicitly forbids wearing anything other than slippers by the poolside.

He walks closer and closer to the side where the water is shallow, then turns to give her a mischievous glance that promises something very nice.

Then he starts to unbutton his shirt.

Chapter Text

He fumbles with the buttons, without taking his eyes off Galadriel’s. The first three are the easiest to remove from the eyelets, the last require more effort. A challenge that ends with a rustle, the shirt thrown on the first available sunbed, followed by his trousers and shoes. 

Without further ado, Halbrand lowers himself into the pool.

It’s not as cold as he imagined, but the goosebumps covering his arms suggest otherwise. He proceeds slowly, face twisted in grimace, trying his best not to show his discomfort. 

Slowly, the water envelops him completely, distorting the proportions of his legs and arms, the neon lights set like jewels on the walls paint them intermittently. Purple, pink, yellow, then purple again.

As soon as his body finally starts getting used to the temperature, he raises an arm in Galadriel’s direction.

“All clear, Noldor!”

Halbrand’s lopsided grin exudes confidence as he swims in her direction with a couple lazy strokes. Instead of following him, she gives him a puzzle look. 

“What if we get caught?”

“We’ll hold our breath and hide underwater until they leave.”

Galadriel rolls her eyes, then begins to undress. The green dress she didn’t have time to change slips down in slow motion, like in a dream, as if it belonged there. 

His heart skips a beat. 

She is left wearing only her blue panties and pearl gray bra, perfectly mismatched. As she realizes he’s staring at her, Galadriel sighs; clearly, she’s completely misunderstood his smug expression.

If I had known what was going to happen, I would have put on something more appropriate, her glance seems to suggest. If only words would stop tangling on the tip of his tongue, he would reply she’s perfect just as she is, that she would be in any case.

The next moment, the surface of the water breaks into a crown of spray. Galadriel jumps into the pool without thinking, her expression one of bitter regret at her own impulsiveness; the water, freezing cold at first and then more bearable, is merciless.

“It’s freezing,” she whispers, through chattering teeth. 

She tries to warm herself by moving arms and legs, helplessly kicking the water, her trembling lips uttering curses frayed by shivers. She looks so much like a baby turtle that’s just learned to use its flippers, with those arms flailing to stay afloat, that it’s impossible to keep from laughing.

This time he will be kind enough not to splash her, Halbrand promises himself. But something in his gaze must have betrayed him, because Galadriel gives him an eloquent icy glare.

“Come here, Noldor,” he calls to her, opening his arms wide, his most dazzling smile on his lips.

She sighs, shaken by a new shiver, then  moves a few strokes closer to him. The neon lights tint her glass skin too, painting it with iridescent mermaid scales, hypnotic shapes that stretch and fade with movement, enchanting him. 

Until they’re close again, him and that creature shaped by water. In the safe space offered by his arms, where she can lean on him, waiting for the bite of the cold to subside.

The entire celestial vault shines in the eyes observing him, along with something dark and velvety, an innuendo of sorts. Desire, longing, something ineffable and precious. Something urging him to thank anyone listening, and bless his dumb luck.

Maybe even start crying.

Halbrand fills his lungs with the night air. The windows overlooking the pool are closed, the lights beyond the glass turned off. There may still be someone behind the reception desk, but it seems unlikely. 

Perhaps the clerk took a look around and decided to call it a day; the guests have her number, so calling her should they come back late at night won’t be a problem. The pool is officially closed to the public.

Who would think of taking a midnight swim?

His fingers linger on the delicate shell of her ear to tuck a strand of hair behind it. Galadriel’s gaze never left him, the sky at dawn in her irises disturbed by the first signs of a storm that, he’s sure, will take hold of them. An expectation that stirs something powerful inside him, a force awakening in the deepest recesses of his heart.

Galadriel moves her legs to keep afloat, clutching his right forearm more tightly.

Then she shakes her head.

“Hide underwater until they leave? Really?”

“It was just a suggestion, princess. What would you do, tell them what we’re really planning to do in the pool?”

“Why not?”

She grins: the most mischievous smile she’s ever bestowed him with. And if everything inside him is screaming to pick up where they were interrupted before, then it really is the best time to put all other thoughts aside and listen to it.

When he lifts Galadriel’s chin with two fingers, it is to seek her lips. To enclose them in a kiss that tasted of half-finished conversations, or unspeakable expectations finally fulfilled. It’s slow at first, then more intense, almost hastily, as time passes without waiting for them. 

And even if she allows him to take control for a moment – lips that bite, savour, cherish that instant – it’s just a temporary illusion; the next moment, she deepens the kiss, her fingers sinking into the tousled, damp curls on his nape. She pulls him to her, and her scent is everywhere, filling his senses.

All-consuming, almost intoxicating.

The moan Halbrand tears from her in retaliation is a sip of water after the desert heat. It quenches his thirst for a moment, leaving him wanting more.

When he pulls away to catch his breath, he doesn’t forget to caress her face. That’s the main problem with beauty: the world tends to take it for granted. But there’s nothing taken for granted in Galadriel’s gaze, in the complete trust it conveys. Trust in him, in that moment, in the embrace of the night. It’s a gift, something stretching its fragile fingers toward them, begging to be welcomed.

No matter what the night brings, and the dawn that follows.

Putting aside his obsession with perfection – there are better places, better moments, instants to seize, not this one – and just let go. He can, he must. Hold Galadriel in his arms, mouth drawing back to hers, a twin storm now shaking him, destroying any semblance of rationality. So that he can feel free, shamelessly happy. Proudly so.

Galadriel’s back hits the stone edge of the pool; he feels her laugh under his kiss, a laugh so spontaneous that it makes him laugh too, without even wondering what is so funny. This time she’s the one pausing the kiss, resting her forehead against his, letting out a sigh.

If not now, when?

The crickets in the hedges along the driveway have stopped chirping. It must be very late in that world where customs such as time still make sense. Galadriel pulls away, and a few stray stars still shine in her irises.

“Are you sure no one...”

“Hush.”

The finger Halbrand places on her mouth doesn’t feel like his own. It’s a slow, measured gesture, the confidence of someone who he was and feared he would no longer be. A Halbrand in control of his actions, drawing Galadriel back into the shelter of his arms, asking for another kiss, slow and languid, more tongue than lips. 

He takes all the time he needs, craving the soft moans she’s so eager to give up, survivors of the laugh from earlier, the breaths trembling in her chest. 

His mouth traces the path of her neck, descending to her collarbones, grazing the skin where the chemical smell of chlorine mixes with the sweet scent of her perfume. He slides his fingers under the damp fabric of her bra, closing around the soft flesh of her breast, caressing it slowly. A fingertip brushing over a nipple perking up in the cool air of the night elicits a moan that breaks the silence.

Halbrand silences it with another kiss.

“Now, Noldor,”

He chooses his tone carefully: an instruction she must listen to. Words murmured against the soft curve of her neck, only a whisper, enough to make her shiver.

“You’ll be quiet and –“

His thumb and index finger circle the other nipple, lightly pinching it, tearing another moan from her parted lips. Galadriel lifts one leg, a desperate attempt to increase the friction, closing the distance between their bodies. 

Halbrand’s free hand moves underwater, under her thigh. This way, that creature of foam trembling with desire will not vanish, this way, she’ll stay with him; concrete matter, not a hazy fragment of a dream. Cold flesh, those warm, broken breaths mingling with his own, turning into a symphony, just like they did a moment before.

He smirks.

“ – show me how good of a girl you can be.”

His hand leaves her breast, moving down her waist, to her hip, beyond the waistband of her panties. When he catches her lips one more time, stealing another frantic kiss, Galadriel doesn’t fight back; she lets his tongue slip into her mouth, sucking on it, crescents blooming on his shoulders under the grip of her nails.

It’s about to happen, they both know it. And they won’t do anything to stop it.

Her body is so soft, so inviting against his. Quivering, trembling with the first waves of pleasure. As he tentatively rubs a fingertip against her core, Galadriel’s breath hitches in her throat, only to be released with his name, like a prayer.

“Hal…”

“Hush,” he repeats against Galadriel’s neck, her skin damp and incredibly warm. 

Her wetness mingles with that of the water, the same water guiding his hand, dilating the movement, increasing its excruciating slowness. Small circles, regular movements, small pecks on her cheeks, on her jaw, frantic kisses getting more scattered moans in exchange. 

He devotes himself to her, to her tense and shivering body, ignoring the scorching heat in his lower belly waiting for the slightest concession to devour him, the tension between his legs urging him to take his pleasure in that moment, there, immediately.

No, it’s her night. Whatever direction their path will take at the end of the festival, he wants it to remain Galadriel’s fondest memory.

So he keeps circling her clit. Again and again and again, soothing her breathless gasps, shaping her pleasure from the water itself. The water from which life springs, the water that quenches and destroys. 

The water from which they’re being reborn in a new form, baptized into an existence that trembles around him, like a mirage.

“You’re so close.”

A statement of fact, and an invitation to let go: he’s there for her. For her body, both refuge and shrine. One hand still holding her close, two fingers of the other clasped between her thighs.

“You’re so perfect, Galadriel. Don’t hold back. No one will hear us.”

She’s trembling. Caught in the moment, on the verge of losing herself to his touch. Her throbbing clit under his fingers, another place he’d like to kiss, until he’s lost in that sensation. A crescendo of moans stifles behind her lips, let out just enough so they don’t die inside her. 

Yes, he told her she can scream as much as she wants, but what if someone really came by? What if they interrupted that perfect moment, snatching it away without any right, erasing that version of them like a wave washing away a drawing in the sand?

Even if someone saw them, Halbrand thinks with unexpected clarity, they wouldn’t understand what was happening. They would see their heads, the hint of two bodies, not what they have shared.

That is just for them to cherish.

“You’re so perfect,” he repeats, intoxicated. Sure that even he won’t be able to resist for long. 

Galadriel’s climax overwhelms her and her body tenses in a spasm, her walls clenching around his fingers. Her lips cover his messily, biting, begging him to silence that moan shaking her from deep within, impossible to hold back. He strokes her core one last time, gently, just to prolong that moan, to feel its echo inside him, while Galadriel rides that wave until its end, enveloped by his embrace. Held gently, comforted, as if he could protect her from the world outside those walls of water and stone.

As if that was really necessary.

A moment later, she melts into his arms, her wonderfully breathless sigh trapped somewhere between his neck and shoulder. The water cradles them both, accompanying the broken rhythm of her chest against his. 

Still dazed by the pleasure he’s absorbed from her, Halbrand can only enjoy that moment while it lasts. Brush her through the veil of the water, first her hair, then her back. Slowly, with trembling devotion, his hand only slightly shaking with adrenaline.

Until he finds himself thanking whatever deity for those feverish days. For those crazy nights, for that summer that’s giving him everything he would have never dared to ask for in his life.

*

Galadriel still can’t understand how they managed to get out of the pool, between the trembling, slippery legs threatening to make them slip several times, and her post-bliss dizziness. They reached the rickety ladder together, laughter shaking them like earthquakes. Halbrand helped her up (don’t worry princess, I won’t touch your butt without your explicit permission: she elbowed him, once they were out), and she returned the favor by reaching her hand out to him. A few minutes to dry as a precaution against the mess they would’ve left on the floor inside, with the unattractive prospect of having to call the reception to get in.

I’ll handle this. You’re still a little breathless.

How many smirks can he pull out of his collection in a single day? And how is it possible that every single one of them manages to strike her dumb? 

Pleasure is still fresh between her thighs, just like the yearning for more. She wants more, wants him again. Wants all of him now, without restraint. The way he rolls his shoulders, complaining about the chlorine making his skin tight, head down looking for his shoes, the laugh she tears from him as she asks how long is it going to take before he decides to call, so maybe they can finally get the code to open the door before the receptionist decides to come out and check what’s going on. All of this, and everything she’s yet to discover.

It’d be enough to fall head over heels for him, if it wasn’t already too late.

So, Galadriel waits for the phone call. Could you give me the code to open the door? Thanks, and then straight to enter it on the keypad, barefoot to avoid putting on soggy shoes, his arm around her shoulders, dragging her along with him, chuckling like a child caught doing something naughty. Another run, as silent as their clumsy footsteps allow, down the empty hotel corridor. No night owls around. The dark silhouettes of armchairs and plants are just vague outlines. The elevator is a star shining at the end of the dark hall, a promise of freedom even more tempting than the pool.

She reaches out her hand to push the button, a hurried gesture attempting to steal more time from the night. The cabin descends with a metallic hiss, Halbrand places his lips on the crown of her head.

It’d be easy to forget they both deserve the comfort of a quiet room and just let go in there, with the recklessness of someone sure of remaining unseen. But the journey is short, her heart has stopped beating wildly in her throat and ears; when Halbrand is close to her, it takes on a comforting rhythm.

Almost familiar.

Ding.

Beyond the metal doors, the corridor is shrouded in darkness. Footsteps muffled by the carpet make no sound. The moon and streetlights cast shadows behind the white cotton curtain hanging from the window at the end of the hall. They’re walking in a mysterious dream, its outlines blurred by anticipation, its meaning yet to be interpreted.

If she opened the book of dreams in search of a clue about their futures, what would she find?

Halbrand breathes in as she slides the magnetic key into the lock. The door closes behind them with a soft click, shutting out the world outside. The Galadriel of the past would’ve been concerned, but the one of the present is ecstatic. Almost euphoric. Blood like sparkling wine, the desire to take everything, without stopping to wonder if she really deserves it. She knows, with the same certainty a new tide will follow the previous one: what is happening is right, it’s as it should be. Each piece into place, Galadriel thinks, as she pulls Halbrand toward her, fingers once again tangled in the messy curls on his nape. His head immediately finds the hollow between her neck and shoulder, a space that seems carved into her bones just for him.

Every sensation is amplified within those four impersonal walls that now know everything about her.

The smooth white wall behind her shoulder blades, the rough carpet beneath her bare feet. The lazy hum of the air conditioner, starting up as they entered the room. The scent of freshly changed sheets and floor cleaner, pine perhaps, with traces of artificial flowers. Tobacco, on his lips, on his tongue. On his stubble, grazing softly against her skin, asking permission for another kiss.

No one can hear us here.

Galadriel’s fingers fumble with her dress, no longer as clumsily as before; they let it fall in a pool of fabric at her feet, then deal with her bra with the same bravado, until she’s standing in her panties only. Until Halbrand imitates her, his button up already open, his pants a minor obstacle.

He’s so gorgeous, bathed in the silver moonlight.

Ruffled curls, full lips. Broad shoulders, still marked with her passion. A trail of dark hair from his stomach to the waistband of his black boxers. She drinks in every detail with wide eyes, new eyes, one hand rising to brush his chest. His warm skin, his breath caressing her hair. His erection, she feels it against her thigh as Halbrand stops time once more with the contact of their bodies, holding her tighter. His calloused fingertips and his gentle hands, caressing her back first, then her hips. A careful touch, almost as if he’s sculpting her body from raw materials, modelling it into his final masterpiece.

A single ring, a gold band on the index of his right hand, cold against her hip. Just like the lighter, wondering where it came from and what it means is a game she will have to save for another time.

His hand wanders over her core. It’s almost a phantom pain, the sensation his fingers leave on her, the hunger for something she experienced for too short a time. An urgent, raw need. It grips her heart in a vice with sharp teeth, demanding to be heard, satisfied.

When Halbrand kneels – without taking his eyes off hers, and it’s like watching a wave break on the beach, the sun setting behind a mountain – that tightness in her heart threatens to fill her eyes with tears. His long eyelashes, his lips stretched into an expression so sweet it almost convinces those mischievous drops to fall.

Is this how a deity feels? she wonders, dazed by the moment. Enclosed in a stone simulacrum, in the presence of their most devoted follower? Made immortal by the words, by the gazes offered as a gift?

Halbrand’s lips on her thigh immediately bring her back to the present.

His featherlight touch traces a path of small pecks slowly turning into real kisses, torturously tracing the shape of her knee, breath hot against the soft fabric of her skin. And she can only sink her fingers in his hair, with the intensity of a silent request that is lost in the space between her skin and his mouth. 

Until he lifts his head, meeting her eyes.

“Galadriel... are you sure?”

“You touched me before.”

The hesitation in his voice is sweet, a bud frightened by the prospect of blooming. She’s not sure if her cheeks are behaving, if she’s blushing or not; she will flaunt confidence anyway. A trait they share.

“Not like this.”

She’s impatient, Halbrand shakes his head. He wants to be sure; if she really wants to reject him, she must have the courage to do it while looking him in the face.

Oh, Halbrand.

“If you want me to leave…”

An infinitesimal pause that encapsulates all the fear of a negative response. Galadriel waits for him to get up and return to tower over her, stealing another kiss.

Deep, passionate. Everything she has always dreamed of, even when she had no idea yet.

“I want to be yours, Hal.”

It’s a plea, but also an order, concealed in a whisper, brushing against the tender skin of his throat.

“Don’t make me wait.”

There’s something wrapped in his smile that’s impossible to put into words. Halbrand scoops her up, receiving in return a cry halfway between surprise and amusement, and gently lays her down on the bed behind them. The green bedspread feels rough against the tender skin of her back, and they both struggle to move it, uncovering the cool, white sheets it hides. Another kiss, his nose bumping against her forehead, muffled apologies and her hand on his waist, helping him to undress. Arms now wrapping around his back, arms that demand, that ask not to be left.

When he returns the favor with her panties, they’re both finally naked.

Skin on skin, cold breasts against his warm chest, her body encaged by his reassuring frame. And he’s smiling: a wolfish smile, all teeth and intention to keep her awake for a long while. His long, tapered fingers brush that sweet spot again, blissfully throbbing with pleasure. It needs nothing more than a stroke to prove his point.

Her throat lets out a ragged moan.

“You’re so wet, princess. Just for me.”

It’s silk, his voice. Pure silk enveloping her, a caress pushing her on the edge of the abyss, only to reach out a hand and save her at the last moment. A sweet torture, two fingertips toying with her core while his mouth takes care of her breast, tongue flicking against a nipple, stealing another whimper. She has no control over her swollen flesh; her walls clench again, inviting his finger in, asking for more. She has no control over her mind either, her thoughts chaotic, desire already promising to whisk it away.

If she stretched her fingers out further, she could touch him. Welcome him into her hand, watch him experience her own languid pleasure, share the moment in its entirety. But Halbrand nips at the nipple he’s tormenting, reading her thoughts with his usual ruthless precision.

“No, princess.” He smiles against her chest. “You asked, and your wish is my command.”

Another flash of his sharp smile. Then, he lowers himself between her thighs, his breath so close to her core.

Galadriel holds her breath.

The first caress of his tongue between her folds is electricity. A white shock, erasing the outlines of the room, redrawing them in the darkness a moment later. Pure pleasure radiating in circles, the ones his tongues patiently traces, reverently kissing her core, lapping at her swollen clit. A small thrust, ripping a trembling gasp out of her. But not yet, not yet. Halbrand takes all the time he needs to devour her, with his lips and tongue, his fingers leaving a mark of their presence on her hipbones, on her trembling, sweating flesh.

He murmurs something against her wetness, but Galadriel is too caught up in the moment to hear it, ecstasy already threatening to seize her again. 

She’d want it to last longer, perhaps it’d be best to let him know. Gathering her voice in her dry throat, she forces her moans into meaningful words, while Halbrand continues his work, tongue and lips and tongue again.

Tiny, pathetic whimpers escape her flushed lips.

“Hal... I’m...”

Halbrand shakes his head, smiling against her. “Not yet.”

His lips are wet. He kisses her, letting her taste herself in his mouth. And at that very moment, as she’s suspended between bliss and discomfort, he gets down from the bed.

Still stunned by that sudden separation, Galadriel leans on her elbow to watch him rummage through the clothes on the floor. After a few aggravated snorts, his prize comes into view: the wallet in the pocket of his pants. He opens it, pulls something out, and she can’t help but stare at him, his long fingers now on his throbbing length, pearls of pre-cum on the tip, glistening in the low light.

The same fingers now opening the condom, stretching it down.

The pulse between her legs is unbearable.

Galadriel’s mind wanders, talks nonsense. Random, senseless thoughts roll off the tip of her tongue, like how is it possible to keep everything in a wallet, money, cards, condoms and who knows what. Just like Elrond, who always refuses to carry a purse, only to fill his wallet in every way possible... undecided whether to break the silence with that question or with a giggle, she hesitates a moment too long: Halbrand erases her intention with another kiss.

Patient, long. All-consuming.

Slow, labored breaths buried in the crook of her neck. Smiling above her, you’re still in time to leave, the new impish grin he gives her seems to suggest, and also, but how will you manage without me? A fingertip under her chin. Eyes piercing hers, golden speckles dancing in his irises.

She whispers. Another request, breaking the silver air of the night.

“Halbrand... please...”

He smiles. Brushing her knee so she opens her legs for him, sliding between her thighs. And when he finally takes her, another white flash explodes behind her eyelids, her breath catching, dying and being reborn in a gasp that rises from deep within her chest.

This is how my first time should have been, the thought strikes her like lightning. 

No awkwardness or nagging thoughts of perfection, just the gentleness of their reality. Tender strokes on every inch of skin, mouths taking and giving, Halbrand above her, inside her, every moan a gift to cherish, without examining it in search of flaws. Her legs wrapped around his waist to increase friction, hips lifted to meet his thrusts, each more frantic than the last.

Taking heat, giving back moans. She feels it, that hunger stirring beneath his skin, a living, ferocious creature that still doesn’t prevent him from being gentle, from offering her all the tenderness he’s capable of. The steady, hypnotic rhythm of their bodies. What is she, if not an instrument in his hands? Living flesh, strings waiting to be played by the right hand, the only capable of understanding the secret of her chords?

Celeborn asked her if everything was alright, if she had enjoyed it (and she must not think of him, not now.) Halbrand is so good at finding her sweet spots. The one he hit before, revered once again, his mouth on her neck and then on her breast. The way he’s moaning her name in that hoarse voice, singing it like a verse of the song he loves performing the most.

“Galadriel...”

He’s close, she can feel it. She’s close too, even though she’d like to hold on to that moment forever. Hold it between her fingers and lock it in her heart, to recall it whenever she needs to. To stop time, if possible. But time doesn’t listen to their prayers, in its race without destination. It merely scatters fragments, which become memories, which become stories. Even if Halbrand is just looking for one night and nothing more, this moment will leave a mark inside them.

She seeks his lips yet again, finding them half-open, parted around a breath that shatters.

“Come for me, princess.”

It’s exactly as she imagined it in her wild, wet, desire-induced dreams. But, at the same time, it’s better than that. Reality can’t match fantasy, isn’t that what they say?

She could slip up, say exactly what her mind is screaming at her to confess. Three words, the most difficult ones, her heart threatening to escape from its bone cage like a bird intoxicated with freedom. It wouldn’t be less true, despite her slurred, inconsistent words, but she can’t give in like that. Not when the decision was unanimous and any attempt to revert it would mean imposing her will on him.

I love you sounds so scary. More definitive than a simple I care about you. Better to hide its syllables between more moans, confuse its meaning into sweet nothingness.

Please don’t ruin everything.

“Hal!”

The last thrust is the sweetest, the last thrust is the most painful. Halbrand reaches his climax with a low groan, then collapses sideways on the mattress, holding Galadriel to his chest so as not to weigh on her. His fingers tease what the body has already pushed to the limit, insisting on giving her that moment of bliss too. And when Galadriel finally comes, she rides that glorious wave again, her vision blurred, filled with bright little lights.

She pants against his chest, melting in his embrace. Her sacred place, her safe haven.

The world around the bed slows down. Their limbs are still intertwined in a lovely, sweaty mess, tired muscles and worn out sheets. All she can think about while lying there, face buried against his chest, thighs smeared with her wetness and his saliva, is that lump in her throat. Those three words, which she thought vanished in the heat of the orgasm, are still there, cutting like shards of glass, demanding an act of courage.

What if she decided to...

“You’re so beautiful.”

Halbrand caresses her cheek. The touch of his hand is so light. So careful not to break that moment. If she hadn’t mastered self-control to the point of making it part of her very soul, she would cry.

“You too,” Galadriel whispers.

She brushes a stray curl from his eyes, the only movement her numb fingers are still capable of. She can only watch him, share his breathing as it calms down, until sleep kisses her eyelids. It lifts her conscience like a wave, leaving her to sail on the calm sea of Halbrand’s breath, on the sturdy raft that is that little bed with its wooden headboard.

Naked, and wrapped in his arms.

* 

“I like it. Have you ever worn it before?”

“I wear it everyday, princess. You haven’t seen it only because I don’t usually keep my shirt unbuttoned, and because I don’t want the water to ruin it.”

Halbrand kisses her golden hair. When he rolled out of bed to go to the bathroom a few hours earlier, shrouded by the unfamiliar darkness of the room, he almost tripped over his wallet, abandoned on the floor. The necklace was fished out of the pocket for loose change: he wore it to avoid losing it. Maybe he should stop keeping everything in there, he thought, biting back a groan. Galadriel muttered a few incoherent words, turning under the sheets. 

The warmth of her body helped him drift back to sleep.

“I don’t understand the figure.”

She lifts the small metal plate with two fingers, as if to examine it from up close in the dim light struggling to make its way into the room.

“At first I thought it was a rune, but now I think I see wings, and... is that a beak?”

She’s so focused on her little investigation he can’t help but smile. For once, his mind is silent; it’s too busy enjoying the moment to bring him back into line or suggest strategies for perfection.

“A bird?”

Halbrand nods, his fingers play idly with a strand of her hair.

“A kingfisher. I found it a few years ago, in a junk shop Thuri and I discovered,” he explains. His friend’s name doesn’t bring the usual grip around his heart with it. It’s a fond memory, one that’s left a bright trace inside him.

“Try to imagine this huge space becoming extremely small because of all the objects and shelves it contains. Old furniture, piles and piles of books and all those dusty trinkets any grandmother’s basement is full of. Table lamps, bread machines gifted by some third cousin, soup tureens... and a table covered with small wooden chests. Full of jewelry.”

Old Diarmid, with his toothless smile only a few customers must have seen and even fewer returned. His wrinkled eyes had watched him browse around the shop, cataloging his surroundings with the attention of someone visiting a museum. The old man probably didn’t really believe anyone could be interested in that stuff. And neither did he, until Thuri had coaxed him to come in. She had then settled into a corner to examine a folder full of vintage postcards, while he looked around. The whole history of the shop was there, in the puffs of dust his fingers stirred up, everything all those objects had seen and experienced.

For some strange reason, he felt at peace.

“But don’t go imagining something out of a fairytale. They were mostly silver pendants and cheap necklaces.”

Halbrand skillfully picks up the story where he left off. Galadriel’s eyes are once again on him.

“I don’t know why, but it seemed like a great idea to rifle through the chests closest to me... and that’s where this little guy comes from.”

It was the first year he had tried his luck with Halcyon Days. The application had been sent two weeks earlier: he still didn’t know he would be rejected. And when Diarmid approved his purchase with a solemn nod and told him about the kingfisher’s second name and the legend of Alcyone, he took it as a sign of fate.

Not immediate; destiny, his own, more specifically, liked to take things slowly. But, if anything, it seemed to promise something good would come along, sooner or later.

This guy brought it to me, along with other old stuff… “The King of the Southlands,” they called him.
I’ve no clue whether it was a joke or if he really was of noble birth. Anyway, it’ll suit you… you have a certain regal air about you, son. 

A spark of understanding lights up in Galadriel’s eyes.

“Alcyone... like the legend, and Halcyon Days,” she whispers.

“Yep. I see you’re a Greek mythology enthusiast, Noldor. Do you see now why I bought it without a second thought?”

Beyond the half-closed shutters, morning is a triumph of gold and pale blue. Strands of white clouds chase each other in the distance, towards the sea. The only sound breaking the stillness of the corridors is a few doors opening and closing; breakfast is already being served downstairs.

“Days of perfect peace,” Galadriel continues, as if giving a voice to a thought she can no longer keep to herself. With her fingertip, she first touches the figure on the necklace, then Halbrand’s chest, tracing abstract patterns on his skin. “When the two birds Alcyone and Ceyx had been transformed into were able to nest, sheltered from the storm.”

The wrath of the gods, the shadow of the king appearing to his beloved. And she preferred throwing herself into the waves rather than living a life that lost all meaning. The sea divided them, just like it brought him and Galadriel together.

“When the sea calms down, and it’s like everything will be alright.”

But is that really the truth?

Her voice distracts him from those lazy thoughts dulling his senses and softening his mind. He would gladly forget everything and fall asleep, if he wasn’t sure Curumo would wake him up by banging his fist on the door.

“I wonder if they thought about that when they named the festival.”

Silence stretches between their bodies, enveloping them in its peace. And Halbrand can’t help but hold Galadriel close, as he’s never done before, because tomorrow the live shows will end and the raft of their lives could take them to a safe harbor, or adrift. Her skin is the only certainty: first her cheek, then her lips, his thumb brushing her jaw as it moves to her chin.

Her seawater eyes close at the touch, and she sighs peacefully.

“Who knows? Maybe somehow it was all connected. Our attempts, the antique shop. Halcyon Days.”

A horn sounds from the square in front of the hotel entrance, perhaps a delivery truck. His phone is off. No one knows about them, not yet. Still, the words remain, with their impossible implications, with their piercing silences. If he confessed everything, he would lose her. And he’d never be able to forgive himself. But what if he remained silent, and she didn’t understand the true nature of that silence? What if she mistook it for indifference?

“And what about your ring?” he asks before he can stop himself, just to silence those nagging thoughts.

“What is this, jewelry confession day?”

Halbrand would burst out laughing at her inquisitive tone, but he can’t let her win so easily. He rolls his eyes, trying hard to look annoyed.

“Simple curiosity, Noldor. Is there a peculiar story behind it?”

“Not as peculiar as yours, I’m afraid.”

He watches her rise from his chest and stretch languidly, hands grasping the air above her head, her small, pink nipples bathed in the golden light. The rays now making their way through the half-open shutters make her shine with a second skin of precious stones. Oh, how he would love to paint her like that, still bearing traces of the pleasure from the night before. Amazon on one side, Renaissance Madonna on the other.

“My ex gave it to me. It was my promise ring. For our wedding.”

Ah, yes, the fiancé. The boring lawyer who doesn’t like music. What was his name? He can’t remember anymore, or maybe Galadriel never told him. For a moment, that desire to remain vague seems like a good sign. A past that is dead and buried, never to be brought up again, except to breathe a sigh of relief at how far it is.

“I’ll take it off only when I’ll find someone who makes me forget who gave it to me. At least that’s what I kept repeating to myself. We haven’t been together for three years, but in the end I grew fond of it...”

She sighs again.

“It doesn’t make sense, does it?”

Halbrand smiles. “Why wouldn’t it? After all, it’s part of what you’ve been through.”

He watches her retrieve it from the nightstand, turn it over in her hands before slipping it on her middle finger, lost in thought.

“It looks good on you. And I certainly can’t ignore the fact –” a whisper on her neck, just to make her shiver, as he moves closer and his fingers slide around one breast, “– that it’s all you’re wearing right now, princess.”

Galadriel sighs, but lets herself be carried back to the rumpled sheets. Wrapped in his arms, the gentle weight of her back against his chest. Her marble skin, crossed by the thin paths of blue veins. He would trace them with his lips, up to her heart, those roads of blood and life, to take everything his yearning urges him to grasp, devour, assimilate. He would let himself be transformed by that feeling. He would even kneel, begging for a shred of light, and once he got it, he’d let himself be consumed from within, a bright fire turning every glimmer of resistance to ash.

Fighting it would be pointless. Her sorceress magic has already charmed its way into him.

Galadriel is so warm and fragile in his arms, yet so strong. He kisses her neck urgently, time is running out, what if she starts crumbling away within his fingers? What if that day ends in the blink of an eye, without giving him the chance to live it to the fullest? She responds to his urgency with hungry kisses, her fingers sliding toward the waistband of his boxers. Her warm hand wraps around his erection, eliciting a hoarse groan from him. It takes so little to stop time. He hears her moan, once again, like...

From somewhere to their right, a phone starts ringing.

He opens his eyes wide. They’ve caught us, his guilty mind speaks for a split second, but Galadriel’s annoyed murmur speaks of a very different feeling. The alarm clock. The alarm clock that means rehearsals, that means schedules to follow to the letter, that means his last concert...

The one where she will be his guest, as they agreed.

Galadriel snorts again; a sound halfway between a grunt and a whimper, pure annoyance, the most sincere demonstration of her desire to continue what she was about to do. She struggles to turn off the screaming contraption, then jumps out of bed to look for her underwear scattered around, quickly putting on her panties and bra.

“Shitshitshit,” she curses under her breath, giving Halbrand the delightfully unexpected show of Artanis rummaging through the closet looking for clothes that are as casual as possible, that look like they were picked randomly, but not so much that they look suspicious. She picks up a t-shirt and a pair of dark pants, lays them on the bed, then stares at them, as if they held the answer to all the questions in the universe.

“We really have to go, don’t we?”

“I’m afraid so, Noldor.” Getting out of bed is easy, shaking off the feeling of her hand, decidedly less so. “We need to eat something. You know, we have a schedule to keep.”

Throwing a smirk in her direction, he looks for his shirt on the chair where he tried to fold it neatly, only a few hours earlier.

“And then I should go change in my room before it becomes obvious who I spent the night with.”

Galadriel snorts. Nothing more than a little huff, so cute in her fake annoyance it earns her a kiss on the crown of her head.

“We still have tonight,” he reminds her. And even though a part of him fears those hours for their unpredictability, for the night that awaits at the end of the day and shuffles the cards and confuses thoughts and hopes – the end of the festival, the end of it all – the other part wants to know what will happen. Desperately, with every part of his soul. Sharing the stage space like the day before, along with a feeling that could take root or disappear. 

Like summer heat at the first signs of fall.

Galadriel nods. “We still have tonight.”

She looks for her bag, throwing her phone in it. In a moment she’s back beside him, and Halbrand brushes her cheek like he did that afternoon, when he treated her sunburn: the spot in the room is the same, the position of the sun in the sky completely different. He elicits yet another sigh of relief from her, and as the beating of her heart is reflected in the slight blush spreading across her cheeks, he lowers his head, lips softly brushing hers.

Just another variation on the theme of how quickly things can change in less than a month. And yet, he can’t help but be amazed every time. 

Chapter Text

Fall has arrived, shyly at first, then in an explosion of colors.

Shorter days, hoodies worn over summer t-shirts. Melian has finally quit smoking, and now has made a habit of going out on the balcony just to watch the cars go by, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She chats on the phone, perhaps with her mother, perhaps with Thingol, and every now and then a word slips through the small gap in the open window. The Mallorn trees on the boulevard, her favorite ones, are dressed in a gold even more intense than their usual yellow.

Everything around her speaks of transformation.

The landlord still hasn’t turned on the heaters. Not that she minds; the sweatshirts she inherited from Finrod are still among her favorite fall clothes. The cotton fibers, faded by time and too many washes, still retain traces of his cologne, the one her brother wore back in college. Galadriel inhales deeply, pulling the collar up to her nose, the elastic cuffs covering her cold fingers.

Someone once said spring and fall are states of mind, rather than seasons; fleeting sensations, as brief as the peak of a flower’s splendor, as light as falling leaves. Feelings falling dormant or waiting for a new awakening, so different from summer, with its shining days. She stares at the notebook resting on the coffee table, its pages miserably blank. Perhaps she should focus on the song, instead of turning those thoughts over and over in her mind, with the slow skill of a spoon failing to dissolve the sugar in a cup of tea.

Maybe she should stop staring at her phone, waiting for something that may never come.

A ray of sunshine peeking through the clouds casts some light over her guitar. She’s neglected it for too long. Words and drafts of music chase each other, taking shape only for a moment; she doesn’t even have the time to write them down before they disappear. 

Her teeth worry at her lower lip.

At least try, pleads a part of her, the one that sounds like Elrond. Just write down the verse that keeps haunting you, give it a chance to come to life. She uncaps the pen, the tip scratching on the paper. A couple of scribbles in the margin to check that it’s still working, then the syllables begin to flow, in her small, messy handwriting.

Don’t look at me like that, you weren’t there yesterday, and the day before  

I’m about to scream the truth

Galadriel snorts, putting down her pen and notebook and picking up her guitar. Her fingers hesitate a moment too long; she would scold them, but perhaps it’s not their day either. If strictness has never worked, why not try with kindness instead? Amarië and her aphorisms, ready for any occasion. She sighs: let’s try this again. First chord progression, and something feels off already. Too low, too high, too sad, too careless. Let’s say too confused as well, but apparently her inspiration has no intention of gracing her with one more verse.

Galadriel sighs. It has to be enough for now. At least until the next spark of brilliance.

She presses her fingertips against her eyes, until her vision fills with golden sparks. The record label will want to receive news about the new single first, and then about the whole album. She can’t leave them on hold forever; sooner or later, they’ll realize there’s something serious behind her requests to postpone all the meetings and photoshoots. Something that has little to do with simple performance anxiety and everything to do with a genuine, terrible creative crisis.

She stands up, leaving her guitar to its resigned solitude. Her phone remains silent. There’s no point in staring at it, it won’t light up. No notification, no vibration. And trying to forget it there, on the coffee table, losing herself in the pages of a recipe she has no intention of learning, is just as useless. Ten minutes at most and she’ll unlock the screen again, ready to torment herself with the thousand possible explanations behind Halbrand’s silence. Melian said she’d be back later, she has to cover a coworker’s shift at the bookstore. It’s better that way. If she were there, her friend would sit down in the armchair, hands wrapped around a cup of tea, gaze fixed on Galadriel. She’d make unbearable, point blank observations, asking to fill her in on the parts of the story she misses, complete with every detail. Ready to give her one of her usual pieces of advice, absolutely logical, completely impossible to put into practice.

For Galadriel, at least.

Call him.

What if he doesn’t want to talk to me?

How can you say that? It wasn’t a bad breakup, was it? 

It wasn’t a breakup at all, she replies sharply to the Melian in her mind. It was a goodbye, but it felt like a farewell. A series of events swirling like a blurred photo, as beautiful as the sunsets of Pelargir. As sharp as regret. Their last live, Halbrand appearing from the back of the stage, the audience’s cry of surprised joy. His arm around her waist, his lips on her head, Runaway Train sang in a whisper, like a confession. So intimate even those who had suspected nothing before must have understood what was going on.

Galadriel doesn’t even realize she’s reached the fridge. Water or fruit juice? The bottles change, but not the taste in her mouth. And the images keep coming back, along with the sensations. His reddish stubble grazing her skin. The night after their first time, the confidence of their movements, even in their hungry haste. Halbrand lying beneath her, his eyes shining with that mischievous light she has learned to love. He had let her take her pleasure, straddling him, her head shaking back the hair that escaped from the braid he had undone, lost in a pleasure so new it destroyed and rebuilt her anew. His hoarse moans, her voice broken by his thrusts. Calling his name over and over again, until her throat felt dry, until she lost her breath, until dawn began to paint the walls of the room in gold.

The feeling of being exactly where she was meant to be.

In Halbrand’s sweaty arms, against his chest that rose and fell, chasing the breathlessness of a new orgasm.

Finally herself.

The festival ended the next day. He had kissed her on the mouth. Like someone would kiss their summer fling on the day they were leaving, at the end of a month to remember forever. She had run her fingers through his hair, praying that no one would see her, secretly hoping for a crowd of reporters lying in wait, just to be sure she hadn’t imagined it all.

Because in the end, wasn’t that all it was? The water flowing down her throat is an imperative stop to that wild flash of memories. What they had was a romance novel story. Exciting, perfectly built, but destined to end with the last page. No rewrites, no bonus epilogues added before the acknowledgments just not to disappoint anyone.

But what if the angst novel in her head is missing a chapter? The most important one, the one containing the plot twist that will leave readers speechless?

Galadriel finishes her drink in one gulp. Her mind is setting far more traps for her than she expected. It must be the writer’s block. Yes, that must be the problem. Once the lyrics and music for the first single are ready, everything will seem easier. She will be able to leave the past behind, along with those images constantly interrupting her days, the sadness gripping her stomach, tearing her away from her usual daily routine. And all those vague and inconclusive possibilities that keep tormenting her.

Like the thought she could be the first to write, and get that weight off her chest once and for all.

*

Two years ago

The courtyard of the building is empty. Only a gust of icy wind animates it, sending leaves fluttering between the flower beds and the windows on the first floor, like chorus girls diligently following the choreographer’s orders. November brings along a natural withdrawal, a desire to hide from the eyes of the world and choose the path of hibernation, as wiser creatures have always done. Galadriel wraps her scarf tightly around her neck, glancing at the expanse of concrete and manicured flower beds around her. Luckily, Disa has chosen that time for her classes, and not the morning. 

The risk of running into enthusiastic fans is dangerously high now.

That’s the price of fame, baby, Andreth would say, with that mischievous smile that won Aegnor over on their first date. If you want your music to reach someone, you have to bear the weight of their reaction. Whether positive or negative.

The voice of her almost certain future sister-in-law accompanies Galadriel as she rings the doorbell. An hour when the world will seem further away, in Disa and Durin’s living room, scented with incense and echoing with cartoon theme songs. The door opens a fraction of a second later to reveal a smile framed by a red beard.

“Disa! Your golden girl is here!”

Their apartment is the perfect blend of family life and career aspirations. A poster from the latest sacred music festival Disa’s trio opened for, hangs above a wicker basket full of toys. A gold record stands out among the framed family photos. Gerda runs out of the kitchen, followed by her mother. Galadriel’s vocal coach welcomes her, taking off her apron, nodding toward the usual study door and promising to be there in a moment.

That house is proof that, after all, the figure of the artist can perfectly coexist with that of a wife. With the right people, though.

Disa’s studio has become Galadriel’s refuge. It was there that she wrote the music for Brighter Colors, her creation, the source of the scandal. Her parents offered only a few tepid words of appreciation: they were never particularly enthusiastic about her music. Those who truly make art are always other people, mythical creatures invited to television shows or printed in magazines, the distance between the real world and the screen making them even more unreal. At her parents’ formal dinners, the stage on which they showcase their children’s talents, hers is just a quirk that can be glossed over.

Galadriel shakes her head, taking the notebook out of her bag. She can’t bring disappointment into that space. It’s a place of respite, where only the most beautiful things her music has given her have the right to remain. Finrod’s encouragement, Angrod humming the songs she sent in their chat. Not the distracted looks of her family, patiently waiting for the subject to change. Perhaps they would have appreciated something less rebellious, a hymn to the beautiful family she could have created with that darling boy you just don’t want to give a second chance to? Breaking off your engagement like that, after all the years you’ve known each other…

Do you think that is appropriate, Galadriel?

She only has to close her eyes for a moment to relive it all over again. The line of her mother’s tense lips, her father’s defeated sigh. The television in the background, as she was twisting her fingers in her laps, unsure on what words to choose to limit the disaster. The white stone on her ring, cold against her sweaty palm. She had prepared the velvet box to return it to Celeborn, but he had shook his head. Perhaps he was too rich to worry about that kind of loss, or maybe he didn’t care much about her, as Galadriel had always suspected…

“Here I am, golden girl. Sorry I’m late, but when Gamli and his sister decide to wreak havoc in the kitchen, no one can stop them.”

Galadriel opens her hand, gaze fixed on the four red crescents on her skin. She has gripped the strap of her bag so tightly, she can no longer feel her fingers. She clings to Disa’s voice to go back to the familiar warmth of the studio, the bag landing on the sofa behind her with a muffled thud. 

“Make yourself comfortable. I have to look for the authorization form one of my students sent me… she finally managed to get her parents to sign it.” 

Galadriel watches her vocal coach snort, her fingers laden with gold rings busily rummaging through the pile of papers cluttering the desk. Files, notebooks, a crumpled drawing stained with chocolate, whose author must just have been given a good scolding for other reasons, judging by the commotion beyond the door. 

“It took ages. I had to insist so much for them to agree to let her perform at the next Ost-in-Edhil Christmas concert…”

Disa opens a ring binder, leafing through one transparent sleeve after another while singing softly to herself. It’s Prayer to the Stone, one of her early hits. A peaceful humming, breaking the rustling of paper.

“Goodness gracious, I can’t find it anymore. But Daisy told me she put it in an envelope…”

“Is everything alright?”

“Oh yes, dear, don’t worry. It’s just that I hate it when talent isn’t accompanied by the support it deserves.” When Disa looks up at her, the lost envelope is in her hands. “What you would like for yourself too, I imagine… and what you deserve.”

Galadriel sighs. She has never met two people as perceptive as Disa and Miriel. She’s lucky to have them on her team, even though she never knows how to reply when they peer into her soul like that, laying bare her wounds only to cover them immediately with soothing words like a balm. She could steer the conversation toward Elrond and the message she received on her way there, announcing with feigned cheerfulness that their record company has finally reached an agreement with the film crew to shoot a video for Brighter Colors. Anything to avoid talking about her feelings, at least not right away...

“What about you? How are you feeling?”

Galadriel still hasn’t learned that escaping Disa and her desire to send her out on her way in a better mood than what she came in with is simply impossible. She sighs again.

“Could be better, but it could be worse too.”

She runs a hand through her hair, a nervous reflex.

“I’m still dealing with my parents. They didn’t take the broken engagement well, and they don’t seem particularly enthusiastic about music.”

“I understand you, child, believe me. Durin has been through the same situation several times… except for the broken engagement.”

Disa tries to make her chuckle with a funny face, even though it’s a far cry from the warm smiles she always gave her teacher. “His father never approved his choices. Opening a shop, taking a path so different from his own…”

She sits down on the small sofa next to the desk, motioning for Galadriel to sit next to her. The blue plush fabric welcomes her, eliciting a sigh of relief. 

“It’s just that some parents can’t accept that their children have a different outlook on life than they do.”

She finds herself fiddling with the fringes of her scarf, still wrapped around her neck despite the warmth pervading the room. The idea of a life different from the glittering one they have so carefully laid out for her has never even crossed her parents’ mind. It was their scepticism that created fertile ground for resentment: what girl genuinely concerned about her future would throw away a life like hers? A very ungrateful one, hungry for dreams as immense as they are uncertain, practically unattainable. Sirwen and Eärien would have thought twice before leaving Celeborn...

He asked her if she had ever tried to change. When she made the mistake of opening her heart to him about the distance she felt growing between her and her parents, the last thing she needed was a reprimand. Galadriel had tried to give him the benefit of the doubt: maybe he was frustrated after a long day at work, or maybe even someone like him wasn’t immune to the weight of his family’s expectations. In other circumstances, she would have stared at him, heart pounding with indignation, asking him how exactly he expected her to change. And for what reason, anyway? To become a good wife, a person with an ordinary job? A girl with no desires or ambitions, molded by other people’s ideas of what would be perfect for her?

So, Galadriel bit her tongue. She opened her notebook and started writing. That’s how Brighter colors came about: all her feelings repressed by habit, everything courage couldn’t put into words, became music. She wasn’t really convinced her venting could turn into something serious, and yet the record company liked  what she wrote. They convinced her to strip it of its most melancholic parts and released it as a single to test the waters, as Elrond said. And, against all odds, indie music radio stations began to play it more and more frequently.

It still felt odd, reading enthusiastic comments under her posts or receiving messages from fans hoping for a concert near them. But somehow it was comforting: someone who understood her, somewhere, really did exist.

Her hands automatically move to her bag, taking out her folder of sheet music. Disa watches her rummage through the sheets, taking her time, her space. Her vocal coach is always patient; there is no need to earn any prestige points to get her support in return. 

“I know it’s not easy, Galadriel… but you have to believe in yourself and in the choices you’ve made. You’re on the right track.” 

Disa reaches out to her and meets her gaze, nodding slightly to convince her. 

“Empty days exist, you know that as well as I do. Days when everything seems to go wrong, the ones no positive review or reassurance from me can fix… but they’re only part of the whole. Ugly parts, but just a tiny percentage of a larger total. You see what I mean?”

A hollow feeling in her stomach. The loneliness brushing her hair as she sits at the table, between talks about lives completely opposite to hers and tales of sparkling careers she will never be able to match. But also the satisfaction of having found the right word at the right time. The warmth in her chest, the message from a fan thanking her for a verse that represents him. All this, and the love that overwhelms her, fills her completely every time she picks up her pen or guitar. Music is all she has. Music is all she wants for herself.

An all-consuming love that takes her soul and gives her back a life she never dared dreaming of. 

But doubt is always there. Gnawing at her throat, destroying any shred of self-confidence she ever had.

“What if I got where I am now just by blind chance?”

Galadriel lowers her gaze: she doesn’t want Disa to see the despair in her eyes. It’s a feeling she prefers to keep to herself, letting it take what it wants until it’s had enough. But her teacher’s golden irises scrutinize her with a kindness she’s learned to accept, urging her to get rid of that burden.

“What if this isn’t really my path, but I’m just convincing myself at all costs? Out of stubbornness, because the ship has sailed and now I’m on it, and…” she runs a hand over her face, fingers pressing against her forehead. There are days when she feels like she’s just a huge mass of exhaustion. 

“Maybe music isn’t really my path. I should stop rebelling and settle down, like my parents told me…” 

“If you did, how would you feel?”

Disa’s hand is on her shoulder, her ring-covered fingers weigh down on the fabric of the knitted pullover. The seriousness her friend is looking at her with is new, it pins Galadriel to the spot, setting the concrete possibility of that reality before her.

Galadriel takes a deep breath, eyes closed, her mind remembering the past.

“I wouldn’t be myself anymore. I’d get by as best I could, but I wouldn’t be happy. Not truly.”

That’s what she told herself time before, on that spring evening when they were celebrating Thranduil’s engagement, yet another sparkling life her parents admired so much. She had made a promise to herself, with all her doubts, her forehead resting against the mirror of a bathroom so perfect it seemed unreal, straight out of a movie set; she would go on, because turning back would mean losing herself forever.

The problem is remaining convinced of this, day after day. Even when the shock of the realization has passed and reality begins to take a toll, forcing her to carefully ponder every choice, especially the most reckless ones.

Galadriel breathes out. When she opens her eyes again, Disa smiles at her once more.

“Then this is your path. If you feel it inside, if every attempt to take another path makes you feel less confident than before, it means you’re in the right place. Believe me, child… you’re not the first artist insecure about their talent, and you won’t be the last. But you have a light inside that nothing can extinguish, I promise you. Protect it in every way you can.”

All of a sudden, the weight that had been oppressing her seems to lift, as if an invisible force had made it disappear with a snap of its fingers. 

She finds herself smiling back spontaneously, overcome by a sudden wave of happiness. Because Disa understands her, because she’s with her teacher, in her studio, about to devote herself to what she loves most in the world. Because the worries that grip her heart are outside the door and will stay there, perhaps even longer than the usual two hours they spend together.

If the right place really exists, Disa’s home is part of it.

“You have to follow what you feel deep inside. In your heart, in your soul, whatever it is. It may sound like advice from a cheap mindfulness blog, but I assure you it works.” 

Disa shakes her head, then stands up to look for who knows what on the desk she hasn’t tidied up yet. 

“Now, how about we start with some warm up?” 

Galadriel straightens her back.

*

“ARTANIS DISCLOSED

Everything about the latest behind-the-scenes from last summer and the reasons why the new album’s release continues to get delayed”

“It’s not time yet”: words her manager utters in a hurry before ending the phone call, thickening the veil of mystery that surrounds the singer-songwriter. After her performances that warmed up the audience during last July’s Halcyon Days, Artanis (aka Galadriel Noldor) seems to have dropped off the radar. The announcement of a new album, still untitled, stands out as an enticing promise in her Instagram bio and among other posts on her record label’s account. However, interviewing her has proven impossible, surrounded as she is by a wall of secrecy created by her staff. Perhaps to avoid further information leaks after her two-person performance with Halbrand (a talent from Angband Records) and their rather intimate behavior, right on the stage of Pelargir’s festival?”

[continues on page 15]

“Here’s your double cheese toast. Do you want me to bring your coffee later?”

“Yes, thank you.”

The waitress’ arrival forces Halbrand to look up, if only to be polite. Being mistaken for an obsessive fan is the last thing he wants. He clears his throat, perhaps trying for more nonchalance than necessary, and closes the magazine.

Food first, thoughts later. And a cigarette, his mind begs, but gets silenced immediately: if he really wants to quit, he must get used to abandoning the false sense of security offered by those crispy paper cylinders. He sighs, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. The place is a quiet bistro his mother loves, with wooden-framed blackboards displaying the menu written in colored chalk, glossy green plants in ceramic pots, and woven wicker placemats. It’s not very busy at this hour, despite the rain tapping on the windows, sliding in disorderly rivulets on the glass.

Luckily, there is no television screen around; if fate had any sense of humor, it would have broadcasted one of Galadriel’s videos as soon as he crossed the threshold.

He gazes at the cover of the music magazine. It was Curumo who brought it for him, or rather, slipped it on the table while he was eating breakfast. Who knows where he found it and what thoughts crossed his mind when he bought it, he muses, touching the cover page. Galadriel is portrayed sitting on stage, guitar in her arms and wearing that spectacular green dress, the same one he felt rustling as it slipped to the floor of her room. He closes his eyes and almost feels its silky texture beneath his fingers. A snapshot taken shortly before that first night, when nothing was written yet and everything could take an unexpected turn.

Maybe he was the one hoping for something unlikely to happen, or maybe it wasn’t the right time yet?

But that night was followed by another. Galadriel’s lips seeking his, the scent of her body lotion, that fragrance of flowers with a darker undertone he would always recognize immediately. Her laugh in the dark, the outline of her body trembling above him, her head thrown back, her limbs overcome with pleasure. Her image fills his eyes, taking space without asking for permission, leaving everything else out. Filling his heart too, with a nostalgia that has the bitter taste of regret.

Halbrand starts eating to keep himself busy, buying time before continuing to read. 

The food is nothing groundbreaking, but at least it’s not the chewy pizza Curumo loves. He’ll bring him a box as a thank you gift for finding the magazine. Even if his brother would never admit it, that’s his personal way of encouraging him to make a decision.

Right, but which one? To come back in her life like that, barging in without an invitation? To force her to choose between a life together and a second chance at a friendly but distant relationship?

His phone is still silent after three months.

Don’t be a stranger, she’d told him as she said goodbye. He had kissed her on the mouth, arms wrapped around her, trying to keep a trace of her presence with him. He had waited for Galadriel to break the silence: because she would, surely, wouldn’t she? To reiterate how important what they had shared during those weeks was, how much she wanted to see him again. It wasn’t just a summer fling, I always wanted something more. 

Just like you do.

Halbrand finishes his toast, one bite at a time, working his way through his memories. He imagined that message to the finest detail, every sound even remotely similar to his ring tone had him jump. And yet, it never occurred to him to write first. And why? So as not to appear weak, for fear of having imagined it all, because rejection would have been tangible proof of a mistake, and he didn’t want to, couldn’t afford to make mistakes?

It’s always perfection turning his existence upside down. That hunger for glory no achievement seemed to satisfy, the search for a title to recognize himself in. Artist, musician, the admirable, the very best, protected by his armor of gold and diamonds, finely forged to convince others of his worth. Show yourself to be honest, strong, powerful: only then will you be worthy of their attention. A rule he had breathed like oxygen, day after day.

Time had shown him the truth. That his quest for perfection was fictitious, a mask artfully constructed to hide his desire to belong. But now that he had found his place in another person, what was the point of continuing to nurture that fleeting illusion, useful only to appease his ambitions for a few hours?

A crumpled paper napkin covers the empty plate. He will ask for his coffee to go, to sip on his way home. He picks up the magazine and puts it in the bag slung over his shoulder, careful not to crease the cover. A flash of Galadriel’s smile reaches him from a central page, wearing a pink dress he’s never seen her in, sitting on the grass of a soft green meadow.

I’ve always wanted to do something on a whim. You know, a silly and completely senseless act of courage, one of those that only last a moment but stay with you forever...

The bell tinkling above the door dissipates his train of thought.

Outside, on the sidewalk dampened by the previous night’s rain, a carpet of golden and orange leaves muffles his footsteps. The fresh air stings his lungs, so different from the warm summer breeze he has tied to the happiest moments of his life. Because Galadriel was his place, now he’s certain of that. The end of summer hasn’t dimmed the intensity of their laughter, or of the nights they watched while away: if anything, it’s stronger now. That loneliness crushes him under a weight of broken promises, screaming at him about the futility of his constant obsession. It’s the shock he needed to free himself from his old fears and finally live for who he really is, without changing his mask according to necessity.

Who knows, maybe it was those weeks in July to teach him that. The days of Alcyone, the perfect calm herald of a different future.

Luckily, the benches in the park are dry enough for him to sit down.

Halbrand takes the phone out of his pocket, turns on the screen, thumb hovering over the contact list. Pride can’t always win, after all. But to say goodbye to his old self, to take that last step that separates him from what he was until last June, he needs help. That too is a sign of change.

His mother deserves the truth. He wants her to know where he really was the summer Halcyon Days rejected him. Wants to trust her, hoping she can do the same in return. And Thuri deserves a real apology, not a series of cowardly messages that don’t even bother to replace them.

Thuringwhetil. Her full name saved in his contacts brings an involuntary smile to his face: how angry she would always get when he used it. My mother took it from a vampire novel she was obsessed with as a teenager. You wouldn’t want to be the living proof of something like that either...

Halbrand opens the chat. He’ll start with her, hoping for a bit of luck. And even if she decides to ignore him, or tell him to get lost, he’ll accept it: at least he would have behaved like a friend, this time.

As he should have long ago.