Through This Warm Affinity by sallysavestheday

There is a cardinal perched high in a tree across the river from Celeborn’s camp. It is bright against the snow, cracking seeds from the dry pods on the branches and bobbing up and down in the avian equivalent of a cheerful dance in defiance of the weather. The bird’s insouciance amuses him; it reminds him of Celebrían hopping on her toes in the snowy courtyard of their home in Ost in Edhil, cheeks bright and spirits brighter, untroubled by the cold.

The Sindar in her keeps her outside for much of the winter, while her Noldor blood equips her well for the annual crafting in that same courtyard of an elegant fortress made of blocks of compacted snow. Celebrimbor connives at it with her, and they can be found in it most winter afternoons, lying in wait for unwary passers-by, at whom they launch barrages of perfect snowballs, shaped and balanced for optimal flight and an exquisitely powdery explosion on contact. There are few in the city who have not fallen victim to their attacks, and then returned for more, to hear Celebrían’s pealing laugh again. She is the darling of the Mírdain: his effervescent, cherished child.

He marvels at her lightness of heart, the airy tenderness of her spirit. His own humor is a deeper lode, harder to find, and Galadriel has never, in all the centuries he has known her, demonstrated the sparkling mischief which is so characteristic of their daughter. He loves his Lady for her wry, sharp tongue, for her piercing lens on the world. She is a skeptical soul, as is he. It is Celebrían who has taught them both the simple joys of play.  

Celeborn tosses another log on the fire and reaches for Galadriel’s mind, suddenly craving the fierce, bright brush of her thoughts. He sends a quick breath of cold, of the stillness of the forest, of his own seeking heart, and feels her amusement at his longing across the frozen leagues. Her own returning thoughts are seasoned with the sweetness of cinnamon from her evening tea, of pastries rich with the buttery sharpness of cloves. He senses the snug warmth of their sitting room, her relief at the distraction from the paperwork that had been occupying her, a sly tickle of her silk dressing gown against her skin. The fire will be bright on her hair, he knows, heating her cheeks and adding depth to the glow in her eyes. The snowy forest is beautiful, and he has always preferred the open spaces to the walled constraints of town, but he misses her keenly, wishes he could fold her against him and fall with her into the furs and velvets of their curtained bed, close and dark and soft, tangling in pleasure all through the long, cold night.  

Galadriel’s mind winds with his, her thoughts chasing and echoing his own, binding them across the expanse that separates them: desirous and tender and warm. Warm like the fire, like the soft skin of her belly, like her breath in his ear. Centuries they have loved each other, and he rouses to her still at the slightest brush of her thoughts, at the first imagined drag of her thumb across his wrist. Her hunger draws him in where he had only meant to tease and suddenly he is flaring up, his whole self burning for her, straining to meet her in the heated tunnels of her mind. The world narrows to the two of them, to their fierce connection, and he is lost in her, fallen out of time. The sun slides below the mountain’s ridge as he dreams. Stars pour across the sky above him, deep and deeper into the darkness. He swims with them, towards her, sinking into the night.    

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