At the ends of her emotions, Galadriel feels guilt for how she left Frey. It sits in her gut, twists her insides until they turn and turn until she is not able to eat. Every bite comes back bitter, sour—like the face that curls her features when each swallow becomes sickly. She doesn’t think of her abandoned daughter often, but when she does, the fatigue is powerful.
Still, she chomps irritably at the wet grasses surrounding the pond on the western side of Taiga, eyes absently scanning the snippets of horizon around her. She watches the dapples of sunlight, wavering back and forth through the might of the Taigan trees. Days—it’s been only a few days of observing the creatures of the dark wood and yet, she feels her heart sing their wayward tunes. Like an inspired bard, traveling from land to land with endless tales, she picks up their mannerisms and picks them apart, endlessly curious about what makes the North sing.
She wants to make them sing, the quiet Northerners. She thinks their voices might be beautiful were they to finally harmonize.
So she stands, quiet, complacent—fighting against that nausea.
It’s only when she spots a familiar, scaled face that she stops her pondering.
“Riptide?”
@Riptide