One. When the news came that Finrod had died, Galadriel's nails bit firmly into her palm, drawing blood. The turmoil of emotions assailed her violently – should she have remained with him? Should she have warned him more than she did? Should she have – so many things and so many regrets, too deep and filled with self-loathing to endure.
She should have killed Celegorm with that knife he wanted so badly to give her, on the spot. She should have twisted that blade into his belly, until his blood filled the carvings on the handle.
To a friend.
Some friend. She hated him, and his false brother, and every single one of their line thereafter. She would never love anyone of Feanor's line again. She would never put stock in that accursed blood.
Not unless it was leaking on the ground and nourishing the earth, at any rate.
Two. On the ship that was bringing Celeborn, herself, and the Galadhrim from Numenor, Galadriel was thoughtful. Her lips were twitching unhappily as she looked at the calmly dancing ocean's surface. Glorfindel came to stand by her, smiling a little, but his smile waned when he saw how thoughtful the one they were starting to call the Lady of Lorien was.
"My Lady, you seem wroth with thought," he said, quietly, respectfully.
Galadriel's eyes were distant and her voice was barely audible, barely earthly as she spoke.
"I fear great ill is upon the men of Numenor," she said, quietly. "Though I cannot tell more."
Glorfindel made a listening sound, but she said nothing more. The feeling was nagging, like an itch begging to be scratched, a feeling of terrible foreboding which she could not explain.
When Numernor was devoured by Eru's watery wrath, when the Undying lands were removed from the earth and Elendil came, when Gil-Galad fell, all was clear, but it was all too late.
Three. The knock on her door was quiet, more reverent than she was used to. Galadriel looked up, and the elf's voice was quiet as she spoke.
"My Lady, My Lord Celebrimbor has come," she was told, very neutrally.
Galadriel sighed, tiredly. "Let him in."
She wished she could do something, but the cogs of fate's wheel were turning, and she could not avert them. The last Feanorian entered the room, looking tired, fear and confusion filling the room with his presence. Galadriel could not repress a shudder of disgust – the son of Curufin, the son of a traitor, the son of the man who had sent her brother to his death. No, there was no love in her heart, though she could not repress the pang of pity for the distress she could feel.
"Galadriel," he said, and his eyes were aghast and full of fear. "There is aught that we must speak of."
Her tone was cautious, she did not cross the distance to speak to him.
"There are no more words, Tyelperinquar," she told him, coolly. "I have told you what I thought of Annatar twice over, and more. I will not admit him to Lorinand."
The response which came startled her. "And well you should," he replied, quietly. "I've come to ask you a boon."
She took as step forward, pity and concern filling her mind and flashing across her even features – there was so much suffering in his heart...
"Speak, then," she said, on the gentlest tone she'd ever used with him.
He gave her the ring and told him of his suspicions. He asked her for secrecy. He begged her to accept the keeping. For once, she felt genuinely compassionate, and acceded to all his requests readily. She almost told him to remain, not to return, but she could not bring herself to it.
What if he were to betray her, as his kin did her brother?
And then his body was paraded like a bloody sigil, and in secret, Galadriel wept.
Four. And then they were in the room, again. So many years had gone by, and Galadriel sighed as she rocked the infant's cradle gently. She had been a long time coming, little Celebrian. She had been a child of solitude and forgotten love. She was all that Galadriel had left of her own blood, and yet, she could not rejoice.
Celeborn entered the room, leaned against the doorway, examining his wife and child.
"You look thoughtful, my lady," he said, as if to announce his presence.
"I am," she replied, quietly, thoughtfully. "The sorrow of years past will not leave my heart."
He sighed, heavily, and took a few steps closer. She looked at him, but her face was expressionless.
"Are you not happy for our child?" he asked, quietly, chagrin filling his even, beautiful features. The question under it was palpable – are you not happy with me?
She smiled, a little, bravely, for the man she'd come to think of as both her shadow and a stranger.
"Of course, my love," she said, lying quietly. He came over to kiss her brow, and she knew there was nothing left for her to cling to, but the baby in the cot. She'd loved him once, madly.
Somehow, it had all gone to shreds.
Five. And then she was gone. As the Elven procession left the Grey Havens, Galadriel sighed privately. Her little girl, born and fed on her flesh, blood and life's milk, was gone. Should she have insisted that she not attempt the journey to Lorien that fateful day? Was there anything she could have done to heal her?
Glumly riding besider her, her son-in-law was silent, calm, peaceful even. Galadriel took comfort from that, and smiled, bravely.
"What will you do, now?" she asked him, quietly, gently.
"My daughters and my sons are here," he replied, calmly. "Though if your heart longs for company, I may send Arwen to Lorien, at your bidding."
Galadriel smiled, a little. She felt something growing within her grand-daughter, something that would be costly to her, though she could not tell what yet.
"I think I should like that very much," she replied, soothed, a little, by the offer.
She smiled, and succeeded at not taking one last look at the ship on which her only child was sailing away.