A/N: This is not what I normally would write, both the tense and the writing style. But I honestly couldn't help it, Sphinx's (check her fanfictions out, she's really great) lovely fanfiction was a great source of inspiration; I thought this was very much like hers. Of course, hers is of a much higher standard, but this is just to clear any doubts that you might have after reading it. Many thanks to Sphinx, and hopefully she wouldn't mind! Enjoy and PLEASE DO REVIEW! :D :D

He stares at her, blue eyes steely, the relief that briefly showed in the orbs now gone – hidden, or gone. The silver and gold, finely wrought ring on his finger glints treacherously in the dim light, and she watches as he lowers his gaze and turns away. There is no apology for his silence in the lowering of his gaze, only weariness and wordless, cold anger. Her thumb twists Nenya's mithril band around her finger, the pain as it chafes the tender skin of the underside of her finger ignored. Her shoulders tighten, her knuckles whitening as she grips the banister, struggling to stay upright. It has been many days since she rested even for a brief second, their binding broken, souls sundered – she has had to learn of him from the messengers, something they had never depended on. The fabric of her cloak rustles weakly, but he does not turn as he might have done mere months ago. Instead, the white robes shimmer slightly as he lowers his head and takes a step to the door – she instantly crumbles, only managing to catch his hand in a pathetic gesture of a desperate plea. "I… Please." She has ever been eloquent, but now there are no words that she can say to him.

He turns, his hand both pulling away and lightly gripping hers, and a long, fine-boned finger traces her cheek, tilting her face up. There is guilt in the eyes, and pain, sorrow – as well as despair. His eyes fall shut, but when they open nothing shows in the blue depths. "My Lady," he says simply, a farewell – but there is no apology, no apology to explain away his unwillingness to remain bound to her. The silver hair cascades down his shoulders as he inclines his head to her, the formality heart-rending.

She shudders. "Celeborn."

He reciprocates the gesture, and sharply whirling on her his eyes flash icily. "Please don't," his voice drips with sarcasm, dark blue eyes darkening further to black, the icy fire that flared momentarily gone, and when he speaks again his low baritone is but a hint of the sarcasm just now dripping. There is nothing in his voice, only coolness and beyond that, things she cannot fathom now, because he has closed off his mind to hers. With Nenya she can perhaps hope to learn of his thoughts, but the silver and gold ring on his finger is shining too accusingly now. "I bared my soul to you once, Lady, with the hopes that you might one day do the same. Do not mock me by using the weapons I have surrendered to you on me."

She stares at the floor hard, but when her lips move again they pronounce the same word. "Celeborn."

This time his shoulders stiffen, but he looks down at her, ultramarine eyes piercing into the garland of gold which admirers have countless times praised and desired. There is no appraisal or desire in his eyes. He laughs. "How very like you, Artanis, to not know when to stop." His voice is even and smooth to her, but she does not catch the swift swallow when he pronounces her father-name.

A sharp inhalation passes her lips. "I cannot forego the reason for life, Celeborn." The confession is desperate, and her hand clenches in the folds of her dress.

"And yet you chose him, chose power, chose Nenya (he speaks of the ring as a curse, and they will remember in years to come that apart from this time he would never pronounce the name) above me." He speaks swiftly, tone harsh and raw with pain, with tormented knowledge, eyes now boring into hers. "You cannot always have all you want, Galadriel." But she does. She can, and he knows it, because the single moment she called him "Celeborn" he has lost, and the instant he called her "Galadriel", he has contradicted himself.

That night they lie on the bed, and if Celeborn is an inch closer to the edge of the bed than he usually is, they say nothing of it. It is only when she reaches out to him that it is suddenly unveiled. He flinches when her hand touches his bare shoulder, and in a fluid motion sits up. In the dark she hears his voice, too cool to be emotionless. "Shall my enemy touch me too where my wife's hand might?" She swallows, knowing that the gap cannot be breached, and moves to get off the bed. Once she might have told him to move; once she might have breached it even though it could not be breached, because there was nothing that she could not do, but now she simply leaves. He is faster than she, and within a moment she finds herself staring into those blue orbs, and when his lips press demandingly onto hers she realizes that he still tastes the same – ice, steel and morning… It is she who has changed. She tries to turn away, but his lips are insistent, and she could never do anything but surrender to his kiss. Her heart breaks as she feels the hand pinning her right arm to the side trembling fiercely, but he does not release it, does not allow it to touch him, even as his lips trail down the smooth skin of her throat. Suddenly he stops, and the fire that burns through her body smolders. "Alatariel…" his whisper echoes hauntingly in her ears, and his breath is still hovering over her lips, but he turns back, the fissure still there, between them. They know nothing has changed.

In the morning she watches him, as early as always, pressing a kiss onto her forehead before he dresses swiftly, and exits the room without a word towards her. She speaks, however, and know that he can hear it. "It was never my choice," she says quietly.

He pauses on the threshold, then shrugs. "The Galadriel I know would always have a choice." His voice is so faint she can hardly hear it. "Mayhap you are not her. Mayhap you chose what you thought was more important."

She suddenly hates him with a vengeance, because she cannot hate anything else, and explanations mean nothing to him. "Perhaps you fell in love with another," she hisses venomously, "but I for one know that you, Celeborn the Wise, cannot deal with petty matters such as a piece of metal!"

He does not turn around, but his shoulders quiver, and laughter escapes his lips – free, untamed as he is. No matter his cultivated mind, his eloquent speech, he is at heart a Sindar. "I see. I am pleased to finally know your thoughts, my Lady. A piece of metal would no doubt matter to one of the Noldor more – as would the power that comes with it."

"And how very like a Sindar to twist my words." She returns sharply. "Shall you now say that I willingly chose Nenya over you? To think that you whom I have shared my deepest thoughts would not know my mind, husband."

He lifts a brow. When he speaks, his voice is but a breeze over the silence, calm, serene. "But you are not she, Lady." He leaves then, but only because he cannot stand having to tear his heart into two.

In the evening he finds a note on his desk. Celeborn, walk with me in the gardens. Her calligraphy is an art, and he knows every curve, every stroke of her hand by heart, even though she has never been one to write love letters. Letters have been the only way they could have communicated in the war, however, and every alphabet she writes he studies painstakingly, to know her emotions when once they might have simply spoken in mind. Nenya has forbidden his Lady this ability, however, and there is only one choice: to know thoughts of all, or know none, not even her husband's. He knows what she will choose, and he knows there is nothing to do but to accept it. He has given up many things, but none as bitter as giving up his wife to the work of his rival. But he sees the plea in her calligraphy, and he has never been able to ignore her pleas. He goes, and walks with her.

She is staring into the sky when he comes, and she starts uncharacteristically when she sees him. "I…" She has never been one lost for words, but these times, everything is unpredictable.

He stares, then looks away. "Do not fight to resolve matters, Galadriel."

She sighs, then laughs shakily. "Can I do aught else?" But there is relief in her laughter, and he cannot thank Iluvatar enough for sending the Galadriel he knew back. In a swift movement he has gathered her in his arms, and dropping a kiss onto her shoulder he feels her shudder. For a brief second in eternity she leans back into his chest, trusting him enough to rest at last, and he finds the strong-willed, quick-witted Noldor maiden he fell in love with again.

Again I must thank Sphinx lots! Just do keep in mind it wasn't my original intention for it to be much like her work, thank you! :D I simply couldn't help it. :P

Do review! I would be so gladdened to know someone's reading it!