The Divinity Braid by Gabriel

Chapter 1

King Arafinwe is surprised by an unexpected visitor to his pavilion

A cool wind rushed into the King’s pavilion, rustling papers and bringing with it the scent of salt and sea as the flaps were lifted by a guard and a figure entered. A woman stepped forward to stand before a very ordinary desk. Her simple gown of soft velvet blue with gold trim offset the blue of her eyes and undulated about her form as the wind blew in through the opening of the tent.

Her eyes widened at the image of the elf, who was far from ordinary, seated behind the desk before her, poring over letters and manifests, busily scribbling, quickly folding the parchment then dribbling a quantity of candle wax and stamping a seal into it. Her eyes brimmed with tears at the sight.

“Just a moment.” Arafinwë held up a hand. His voice was commanding, deep, and resonant, just as she remembered.

Two Kings of the Noldor were in residence here; Gil-galad’s pavilion was situated not far away, sporting the blue and silver pennons of the House of Fingolfin. They had not met quite yet, that much she knew. How could they have, she thought in retrospect, with all the preparations taking up precious time, before the great host of Ainur, elves and Men, moved north.

She watched her father patiently and shifted slightly as she waited. It was surprisingly quiet in the pavilion. There was no noise that she could fathom from the chaos ensuing outside. The only sound to be heard was the scratching of the quill flying over the parchment beneath the king’s hand.

She took the opportunity to glance about the room. It was minimally furnished with beautifully woven rugs, several comfortable looking chairs, and a small table with a jug of iced water and several goblets upon it. Her father had always detested the excessive trappings of wealth. Always he took only what he and his family needed; the rest he had gifted to servants and their families.

Her eyes trailed over his face. It was still how she remembered it—young and handsome, with that trademark golden tan of the Vanyar, but now a bit worn, with a few new lines and one or two scars for good measure. His hair was still the mane of gold it had always been, now held back by a gold circlet gracing his brow. As a child, she had loved to braid the wealth of his hair. She had to bite back a smile at the images of her father being summoned to council by her grandfather, with his hair sporting iridescent feathers and tiny jeweled trinkets that she had placed in it. She would have loved to have seen her grandfather’s face.

“Atar?” Her tone was gentle, almost a whisper, as she was hesitant to disturb him.

The quill stalled on the parchment and Arafinwë slowly lifted his face to her. His eyes widened as realisation set in. “Artanis?” He slowly stood up, still staring at her with a look of utter disbelief. He dropped the quill and skirted the desk without taking his eyes from her, his steps faltering as he drew closer. “Is it really you?” His voice was barely audible and his sky blue eyes flickered over her face. Galadriel smiled back at him in answer, her own eyes beginning to brim with tears, once again, as hundreds of years of pent up emotion began to trickle forth.

She rushed forward into her father’s arms, unable to contain how it felt to see him again for the first time in so long. “Atar,” she whispered against his chest, closing her eyes as silent tears trailed down her cheeks.

“Artanis,” Arafinwë murmured into her hair, “I cannot believe you are here!” She coughed a sob in reply. “I have missed you.” His voice faltered as he squeezed her tighter. “How I have longed for this day.”

He drew away, holding her at arm’s length, his brows drawn together. “How have you been?” His eyes ran over her, noting that she was no longer the young wilful girl that marched alongside her brothers and cousins, as Fingolfin’s host left Tirion. But a woman, all grace and strength.

“Come.” He took her hand and steered her toward the two chairs arranged around a small wooden table in one corner of the pavilion. “Join me,” he urged. He moved to the little cabinet with the water jug and produced two goblets and a decanter of wine.

“Humor an old Elf, who has not set eyes on his daughter for almost an age,” Arafinwë explained. “I have received only snippets of news here and there.The Valar refused to tell me much.” Hurt flickered across her father’s features at this admission.

He handed her a cup, taking a sip from his own as he seated himself opposite her.

“Kingship suits you, atar,” Galadriel observed, wiping the tears away. She tilted her head to one-side and regarded him thoughtfully.

“I have spent much of my time making up for my brother’s mistakes.” He did not say how he had proffered himself before the Valar, or had to regain his law-father’s love and trust or his people's favor, what was left of his people; a mere hundred or so.

Galadriel leaned forward placing her hand over her father’s looking at him pointedly, “It is not the crown nor blood that makes a king, but what is truly in one's heart.”

He looked into her eyes, which were so much like Olwë’s, “I know this, Artanis.” He responded, giving her a ghost of a smile, and then glancing away into the contents of his goblet, the smile fading.

“Atar, there is something you need to know,” Galadriel began, her eyes avoiding her father’s, her fingers fiddling with a strand of cotton that had come loose from the tablecloth. Her father had the most piercing gaze, which could reduce even the most stalwart to tears.

“My lord King!” A very official looking elf stepped into the pavilion, scrolls tucked under one arm. His demeanour was that of an advisor. Arafinwë’s gaze left his daughter and shifted to the herald standing tall and regal at the tent’s entrance..

“Yes?”

“My lord, lord Manwë requests your presence in the main pavilion.” The herald bowed respectfully.

“Thank you, Aradur.” The king turned to his daughter, “I’m afraid duty calls,” he said regretfully.

“Of course, Atar,” Galadriel stood, smoothing her gown.

“What were you about to say?” Her father asked, curiously.

“Oh nothing.” She smiled anxiously and leaned forward planting a kiss on his cheek and squeezed his hand reassuringly. “It can wait.”

“Very well.” the king replied, lifting his scabbard from where it was leaning against the desk, and securing it about his hips. “Maybe we should organise another more suitable time so your mother can be here, too,” he proposed. “She has been so worried about you.”

Her smile faded as she contemplated with no small amount of dread the thought of adding her mother to the already complicated situation. “Of course,” she grimaced, wondering how she was going to break the news to them both.

Her father strode towards Aradur who was waiting patiently, scrolls tucked under one arm. He glanced back at her with a ghost of a smile and then disappeared through the flaps.

Galadriel stared after him, then turned away, sighing heavily, her heart pounding in her chest. She just hoped that her parents wouldn’t run into Celeborn before she had a chance to tell them about him.