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Artanis does not think much of Celeborn, not at first. He is a silent shadow at his great-uncle's shoulder, and if shadow is perhaps not the right word for someone so light, silent certainly is. He hardly seems to speak a word. Artanis learns much in her time in Doriath - learns from Melian, from Thingol, from Lúthien - but she does not expect to learn much from Celeborn.

"Does he ever speak?" she asks Lúthien one day. Lúthien may be of her parents' generation, older indeed than both of them, but she does not feel as distant as they. She feels less like an aunt and more like an older sister, or what Artanis has always imagined an older sister to feel like.

"Who, Celeborn?" Lúthien asks. "He does, when he has something to say."

"And how often is that? Once a yén?"

Lúthien laughs, and the sound makes the birds flutter from their branches in delight. "He can be quite wise, you know. He is not as outspoken as many of our kind, but when he speaks, even my father listens."

"I suppose," Artanis allows, because it seems politer than saying, I'll believe it when I see it.

She keeps a closer eye on Celeborn after that, though. She waits, wondering if she will be privileged enough to see one of those apparent pearls of wisdom drop from his lips. She notices, the closer she watches, that Celeborn is gentle and careful and kind. He is good with elflings, and he is loyal to those who follow him, and he never uses his close kinship with the king to place himself above others. It would not be fair to Artanis's family to say that she has been starved of good men in her life, but she does not think any of them have been so good and so quiet about it. It almost makes her laugh, the thought of one of Fëanáro's sons even pretending to be such a nonentity. She is used to great men, and Celeborn does not seem to care much about being great, so long as he can be good.

And then, one day, she hears him speak. It is in some council with the king, and later, she will not even remember the topic, but Thingol says something that Celeborn disagrees with, and Celeborn speaks. His words, like him, are gentle and careful and kind, but they are also lined with steel. Celeborn is gentle, Artanis realizes, but that does not mean he cannot be strong. He is careful, but that care can turn into sharp-eyed precision. And he is kind, but sometimes kindness means that you have to be stern. Celeborn speaks, and everyone listens.

"I told you," Lúthien says to Artanis in a quiet, amused undertone, while Artanis does her best to hide her shock and pick her jaw up from the floor, "he speaks when he has something to say."

He does, and he speaks well. Artanis, despite herself, thinks she would like to hear him speak again.

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Doriath has the most incredible gardens Artanis has ever seen, even more so than Valinor. She takes to walking in them daily, and in practice spends much of her time under their leafy shade. Sometimes, she walks alone, but often, she walks with Lúthien, or sometimes Melian.

As her stay in Doriath lengthens, she begins walking with Celeborn.

He is, she realizes, nothing of the nonentity she'd thought. He is sweet and loving and passionate, only quietly so. He makes a good counterpart to his uncle in that way. He is dedicated, and as they grow closer, Artanis begins to feel the warmth of that dedication being turned on herself. She basks in it. She likes Celeborn very much, and she relishes the indication that he likes her too.

In Celeborn's typical fashion, he is quiet about his devotion. He does not speak much on it, and so Artanis does not know quite how deep it goes until one morning, she finds Celeborn in the garden, and he inclines his head towards her and says in greeting, "Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo."

Her first thought is that his accent is somewhat atrocious, and then her mind catches up and she stares. It is a common Quenya greeting, if a bit of a formal one, but Celeborn is Sindar through and through. She had not thought he spoke a word of Quenya. Few in Doriath do. And yet…

"Suilië," she greets in return, far more casually. "I did not know you spoke Quenya."

Celeborn's cheeks go a bit pink. "I have been trying to learn," he admits. "Daeron has been teaching me, although his Quenya is not perfect, so we have had some… difficulties."

"I would have helped you through them," Artanis offers.

Celeborn's cheeks darken further. "I had hoped for it to be a surprise."

Artanis almost wants to laugh, but poor Celeborn is already so embarrassed. "It was a very good one," she tells him honestly, and almost laughs anyway when the blush spreads to the tips of his ears.

"I wished to learn your native tongue, as you have done mine," Celeborn says earnestly. "And I looked to it for words to express your beauty, in case mine was insufficient. Alatáriel, I would name you, maiden crowned with radiance."

Artanis has never had an epessë before. She finds she rather likes this one.

"What would it be in Sindarin?"

"Galadriel."

"Galadriel," she repeats. "I think I would like to be known as Galadriel."

Celeborn smiles his beautiful, warm smile at her. "Then shall I be known by your name for me? I have heard you speak it, although neither Daeron nor I knew what it meant."

"And what have you heard me speak?" Galadriel asks.

"I have heard you call me pekkuvo, have I not?"

Galadriel looks at him for a moment in surprise, then feels her own cheeks begin to flush. "That is not, perhaps, quite as flattering a name as you have given me."

"Truly?" Celeborn asks, looking surprised. "And yet you spoke it with such affection. Why is it unflattering? What does it mean?"

Galadriel thinks of when she first coined it, when she was walking in the gardens and found Celeborn in a tree. He'd sprung down to greet her so nimbly that she could think of only one creature, and so she had called him…

"Squirrel," she admits, knowing that she is now likely as red as Celeborn was. "It means squirrel."

To his credit, she can tell that Celeborn tries not to laugh, but he is not as successful as she was.

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While she lived in Valinor, Galadriel had never thought much of her future marriage. Even as her brother and her cousins wedded around her, she did not think of it for herself. She would know when she found the one she loved, but she lived long enough in Aman without finding them that she began to wonder if she ever would. It was not until Middle-earth - until Doriath - that she had to wonder no more.

"What are the wedding customs among your people?" Celeborn asks Galadriel as they sit in the garden. He has woven a crown of flowers for her hair, which he sets lightly on the top of her head. She laughs at the look on his face when it droops slightly, made just the tiniest bit too big.

They have spoken of betrothals already, and Celeborn has gifted her a silver ring. She wears it always, as Celeborn wears the one she gave him. It is not the way of the Sindar to exchange rings, she has discovered, but she could not imagine feeling properly betrothed without them. Hers glitters on her finger now, catching the sunlight in much the same way as Celeborn's silver hair.

"Ñoldorin weddings are… large," Galadriel says. "And loud. And formal, if you are of the House of the High King." She thinks on them a moment longer, then she shakes her head. "I do not want a Ñoldorin wedding. I want to marry into your House, not have you marry into mine. What is a Sindarin wedding like?"

A Sindarin wedding, as it turns out, is just as large and loud as a Ñoldorin wedding, but significantly less formal. They hold the feast outside, of course, under the trees, and Galadriel laughs and dances not only with Celeborn but also with his father Galadhon, and with his brother Galathil, and with her brothers Finrod and Angrod and Aegnor, and with Lúthien and Thingol and even once, memorably, with Melian. They do not exchange golden rings or gems the way the Ñoldor do, but Galadriel does not need another ring, not when she can feel her silver one press against Celeborn's as their hands touch in their dance, not when every glance at it reminds her of him. Celeborn has told her of a smith in Doriath who can add gold inlay to their rings in whatever pattern they wish, and so they have already planned to go to her tomorrow to add a golden chain of leaves to their rings. It would have perhaps been more traditional to do it before, so they could exchange the new rings on their wedding day, but Galadriel had not wanted to give up her engagement ring until the marriage was finalized, and Celeborn had kissed it gently and told her he understood and swore she would never need to take it off again.

Their vows are said in private. Thingol graciously offers to allow Galadriel to say hers in Quenya, despite his ban on the language, but Galadriel has already decided to say them in Sindarin. Her marriage to Celeborn will not make her Sindarin any more than her Telerin mother or Vanyarin grandmother became Ñoldorin upon their marriages, but she does not plan to go back to Valinor - cannot go back to Valinor - and so this is her tongue now. Quenya is the language of her past; Sindarin is the language of her future.

And as she speaks her vows, and as she and Celeborn wed in a bower of flowers and stars, she knows she has a bright future ahead of her.

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"At times," Celeborn remarks one night as they prepare for bed, "I fear I will need to drag you and Celebrimbor apart before someone ends up hurt."

Galadriel laughs. "We are Ñoldor, my love, and he is of the House of Fëanor."

"You say that as if it means something to those who did not witness whatever madness your families got up to in Valinor."

Galadriel laughs again. It has been long enough since the First Age now that she feels she can laugh about it, at least sometimes. "If you fear for our safety now, you would have been frantic in Valinor. My father was generally wise enough to sit things out, but Fëanor and Fingolfin! They could argue all day and night and still have more things to curse each other for. Fingolfin always pretended to be a peacekeeper more than a fighter, but it would only take one remark from Fëanor to get him started, and the fights that Fingolfin himself began were always the worst ones."

"And yet you speak of this with such delight," Celeborn says dryly. "We have been married so many years, and yet sometimes I still feel I shall never understand the Ñoldor."

"We are not so complicated a people, I don't think. But we are passionate, and it is not uncommon for us to fight each other, even family. And Celebrimbor is stubborn and foolish, like his father and grandfather before him. Sometimes, when I think of the three of them, I wonder if the name Kurufinwë is cursed, and that is why they all are as they are."

"And that is why you argue with Celebrimbor?" Celeborn asks, sounding somewhat lost. "Because he is stubborn and foolish and his name is Kurufinwë?"

"I would not say I argue with him because his name is Kurufinwë, but I am certain it does not help."

Celeborn looks at her and shakes his head. "How will you two ever manage to rule a kingdom together?"

"Oh, once we finish ironing out the plans for it, we will be past the worst of the arguing, and I daresay things will be easy from there," Galadriel dismisses. "And besides, we shall have you to temper us. You must always call us out for our Ñoldorin foolishness, my pekkuvo. You may be the only one among us with any common sense."

Celeborn sighs. "Will our daughter be like this? Will I have to worry about our Celebrían inheriting your Ñoldorin foolishness, as you call it?"

"Our daughter," Galadriel says fondly, "is all the best of both of us. She has too much of your common sense to ever be called foolish, and I would fight anyone who calls her such. But if you cannot see that she does have Ñoldorin stubbornness, my love, then you are blind."

Celeborn laughs, and he takes the hairbrush that Galadriel has just picked up and begins carefully to run it through her hair. "My common sense and your stubbornness," he says with a sigh. "Our daughter could take all of Arda by storm if she wishes, won't she?"

"Ah, but that," Galadriel corrects, "would be my Ñoldorin foolishness, and luckily, she has been spared that."

Celeborn kisses the top of her head. "I suppose this means you and Celebrimbor will keep arguing until Eregion is finished, then?"

Galadriel tips her head back and flashes her husband her most winning, dazzling, and innocent smile, making him let out an undignified snort of laughter.

"Oh, most certainly, my love, and beyond."

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"I will come back to you," Celeborn says quietly as Galadriel fixes the last strap of his armor.

It has been a long time since he has had to wear it. It fits the same as ever, of course, but it still looks somehow ill-fitting. Celeborn was not made for thick silver armor and sharp steel swords. He is a master with both, of course, but he was made for quiet afternoons in the shade and lazy mornings still in bed and starlit nights at the tops of the tallest trees. He is gentle and careful and kind, and he is not made for war.

And yet, war does not care and comes for him anyway.

"I will, Galadriel," Celeborn repeats. His eyes are fixed on hers. "I swear it."

"You cannot swear such things," Galadriel replies. She finishes with the last strap, takes a step back, and then steps forward again to recheck every place of potential weakness.

"I can," Celeborn says, taking her hands in his and squeezing them lightly. "Do you know why?"

"Because you are being an overconfident fool, which does not suit you," Galadriel says, trying to tug her hands away. "You are going to war, Celeborn, you can promise nothing-"

"I will come back to you," Celeborn interrupts, not letting her go, "because either I will survive the war and nothing will stop me from making my way back to you, even if I must crawl every league, or I will fall" - and here, he leans forward to kiss away a tear that Galadriel could not help but let fall - "and I will go to the Halls, and I will stay with Mandos until he releases me in a new body, and I will wait for you in Valinor until you join me."

"I cannot go to Valinor," Galadriel says, the pain of the exile sharp again after so many years of dullness. "I am not allowed."

"Then I will go to the Máhanaxar, and I will kneel before the Valar, and I will beg for your exile to be lifted. I will tell them every wonderful thing you have done in Middle-earth. And if they still refuse to allow you home, I will find a ship, and I will sail back to you if I must fight Ulmo himself to allow it."

"Defying the Valar?" Galadriel asks. "Fighting them, even? That does not sound like your usual common sense."

"We have been married so long," Celeborn replies. "Is it a surprise that some of your Ñoldorin stubbornness would have rubbed off on me eventually?"

Galadriel manages a feeble little laugh, then she throws her arms around her husband. He holds her, and even with the hard plates of his armor uncomfortable against her dress, she would stay right there with him forever if she could.

But she cannot. Middle-earth is under threat, and they both must do their part. Her cousin is in danger, is likely dead or near to it, and they must do what they can to save him or, at least, his works.

The new ring on her finger burns, while her silver and gold ring is a balm of love at its side.

"I love you," she tells her husband. "I love you, and whether I see you again here or in Valinor or only in my dreams, I will always love you just as I love you now."

Celeborn leans forward and kisses her. "I will come back to you," he promises, and this time, Galadriel lets herself hope he can keep it.

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"My pekkuvo," Galadriel says, "I believe another squirrel has mistaken you for a tree."

Arwen, perched on Celeborn's shoulders, giggles madly.

"It is an easy mistake to make," Celeborn says placidly, not reacting even when Arwen grabs fistfuls of his hair. "I am very tall."

"You are," Galadriel agrees, "and as silvery as a mallorn tree in spring."

"While you are as golden as one in autumn, and even taller than I," Celeborn replies. "I wonder if you will have squirrels of your own."

"No," Arwen giggles, "no, only Daerada!"

"It seems your squirrel will accept no other tree," Galadriel says. "I cannot disagree with her when she has chosen the best one."

"Naneth, Ada," Celebrían calls, walking up to them, "have you seen- Ah, I see you have. Arwen, what are you doing up there?"

"I'm a squirrel!" Arwen cries gleefully. "Daeremil says so!"

"Are you indeed?" Celebrían asks with a laugh. "But I believe it is time for you to go to bed, is it not?"

"Squirrels do not have bedtimes," Arwen says, sounding very lofty for such a small elfling. "And I am a squirrel, and Daerada is my tree."

"Is he?" Celebrían says, turning to her father.

"We have agreed that I am as tall and silvery as a mallorn tree in spring," Celeborn says. "But Arwen does not accept that her grandmother is as tall and golden as one in autumn."

"Children have always preferred your father to climb on," Galadriel tells Celebrían. "Including you, if I recall."

Celebrían laughs. "I suppose Ada does make a better tree. It must come from being Sindarin."

"It does," Celeborn agrees gravely. "If you are born under the trees, you are half a tree yourself."

"Was I born under the trees, Naneth?" Arwen asks Celebrían eagerly.

"You were born at home in Imladris," Celebrían says apologetically. "But would you rather be a tree or a squirrel?"

"A squirrel," Arwen says firmly. "And Daerada is my tree."

"Then I suppose there is nothing more to say about it," Celebrían says, and she sighs. "Although it is sad, for squirrels do not have bedtime stories."

"Yes they do!" Arwen protests.

"No, I'm afraid squirrels do not have bedtimes, so they cannot have bedtime stories," Celebrían explains. "Isn't that right, Naneth?"

"Certainly," Galadriel agrees. "I have lived with many squirrels in Doriath and Lothlórien, and I have never heard of one having a bedtime story."

Arwen looks down at her mother in consideration. "What story would I have tonight if I were not a squirrel?"

"I believe your grandparents were going to tell stories of Doriath and Lúthien Tinuviel."

Arwen wrinkles her nose. "I don't like the story of Lúthien. It's silly. How does Beren get captured by cats? Cats are very small and fluffy. They could not capture a Man."

"Would you like a different story, then?" Celeborn asks, looking up at Arwen. "One of tree-people in a forest to the south?"

"Tree-people?" Arwen repeats, her eyes wide.

"They are called Ents, and they were made by Yavanna," Celeborn says. "But this is not a story that squirrels are told."

"I am not a squirrel!" Arwen cries immediately, clambering down from her perch. "Please, Daerada, will you tell me about the tree-people?"

"I will," Celeborn agrees, swinging a delighted Arwen up into his arms and starting towards her room.

"She will demand stories of Ada all night," Celebrían says with a smile.

"And he will give them," Galadriel agrees, smiling fondly at her husband's departing silhouette, their granddaughter once again perched on his shoulders. "We shall not see them until morning."

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Galadriel had not thought she would be nervous while waiting for Celeborn's ship to arrive.

Perhaps nervous is not quite the right word. It is not nerves that are plaguing her. She knows that Celeborn will be on the ship; he told her so, and she trusts him. She does not doubt him for a second.

And yet, as she stands at the dock and watches the tiny ship grow bigger and bigger, there is something sour and almost frightened mixing with the anticipation in her chest.

Celebrían, ever sharp-eyed, notices her mother's preoccupation and slips a hand into hers. "Ada will be here soon."

"As will Elladan and Elrohir," Galadriel agrees, giving her daughter's hand a squeeze. The arrival of her sons will not fix the hole in Celebrían's heart left by Arwen's death, but maybe it will begin to fill it.

"Elrond has been preparing for them all month," Celebrían says fondly. Her husband is standing at the very end of the pier, eyes fixed on the approaching ship. He has been practically vibrating since they got the news that Elladan and Elrohir would be on the next ship. Galadriel has no idea how her daughter has managed it without strangling him, but Celebrían has always had Celeborn's patience. "And all four of his parents have been dragged into it. Maglor is the only one who has met the boys before, so I believe the other three are taking him as some sort of authority, as much as he protests."

It was for Elrond's sake originally that Galadriel made her peace with Maglor and, slowly, the other Fëanorians. Now, she remembers why they were always the most fun cousins to spend time with, especially for the younger set that Galadriel belonged to. They are not quite as fun as they used to be - there is too much tension now, too much lingering guilt and anger - but Galadriel is no longer worried that a family reunion may come to blows, or at least not serious ones, and that is enough for all of them at the moment.

"Ada will love Valinor, you know," Celebrían says to her mother quietly. "He will make a home of it quickly."

And that, perhaps, is where Galadriel's sour note comes from. Celeborn is not from Valinor. Galadriel was born here, with the light of the Two Trees reflected in her eyes, and part of her has always longed to return; Celeborn was born in Doriath, under the leafy boughs of its girdled trees, and he has never shown much interest in Valinor at all. He is sailing for her, Galadriel knows, and the thought of being the thing drawing Celeborn all the way across the sea is a very large one.

"He loves you, Naneth," Celebrían says, "and he loves our family, and he will love Valinor. He will love its trees and its rivers and its people. You know he can make a home anywhere."

"He has always been able to," Galadriel agrees, because her Celeborn is gentle and careful and kind, and he draws people to him like a moth to the flame. "And you are right, he will turn Valinor into a home. But when did you grow so wise, my little one?"

Celebrían laughs, and her silver hair sparkles in the sun as she tosses her head. "I have always taken after my father, and it was you who named him 'the Wise.'"

That was always at least halfway a joke, as Celebrían knows well. Galadriel may have inadvertently popularized the epithet, but she was not the first one to use it. It was used fondly in Doriath, and then reverently in Lindon and Eregion, and Galadriel had watched how her husband hated it, how the near-worship in the eyes of other elves sat awkwardly on his shoulders like an ill-fitting raiment. But she could not stop the epithet after it had begun, and so instead, she had begun to use it in her own way. The elves of Lindon would call Celeborn wise when he offered input on their plans for expansion on the other side of the mountains; Galadriel would say it with equally exaggerated reverence when he burnt their dinner because he had been trying something new and not paying enough attention to it. The elves of Eregion would call Celeborn wise as they pressed him into a place on their council; Galadriel would praise him equally grandly when, not yet fully awake, he almost tripped over a chair on his way out of bed. It was a familiar tease and, at times, a gentle reminder that he was being foolish, and the lightheartedness of it meant that the times it was said in earnest weighed on Celeborn less.

Celebrían knows all of this perfectly well, so Galadriel raises an amused eyebrow at her daughter and asks, "Shall I call you Celebrían the Wise, then? Next time you mix up two figures from First Age history and nearly send Fëanor into a fit?"

Celebrían rolls her eyes. "There are far too many Finwës to keep it all straight, and you know I've never been good with remembering names anyway."

"I can see them!" Elrond calls from the end of the pier. "Elladan and Elrohir are waving, and so is Celeborn!"

Celebrían takes her mother's hand and drags her forward. "Then we must wave back, surely."

The ship grows closer and closer, and as the figures on it become clearer and clearer, Galadriel can see the smile on her husband's face. Celeborn has never been particularly demonstrative in his emotions, at least not openly so, but he is beaming so widely that every elf in Valinor can likely see it.

And when the ship docks, when Elladan and Elrohir leap off and into their mother's waiting arms, Celeborn is close behind, and he lifts Galadriel and spins her before drawing her in for a lingering kiss, and for the first time in Ages, Valinor feels like home.