Galadhad walked along the cloistered columns on the far side of the large house, deep in thought. Even if the meeting with his child had gone without incident, it would have been a difficult thing. and things had gone anything but smoothly.
It was not two days since the grey-haired man of Gondor had ridden into Arrowhaven on an exhausted and foam flecked horse, bearing the fragile and wounded Fairlain in front of him. She was badly battered from a great fall, and bore a wound above her heart that was an abomination. Galadhad had used all his skill to soothe his daughter's hurts, as had the Iaurmenel. But there was a wound in her spirit that would not be healed. The man who had been so badly burned in the fire had healed quickly. The salves and potions which Galadhad had made worked well for him, but there is no balm greater than the care of a gentle and loving wife; Wulfthred, son of Wulfert, was so blessed. Galadhad's daughter, however, still lay insensible in one of the airy rooms of the large manor house, and nothing he had done had succeeded in bringing her back to the Light.
Galadhad sighed and continued to walk with slow, measured paces. He weighed his thoughts and his choices.
He had sent word to his mother via the elves of Meluinen when he had first heard from Hiril Alkawen, and it had been many days since that time. He cringed as he remembered the moment he told his parents of Elaeyne and the child. They had not been pleased. His mother would meet with FaerLhain, he had no doubt, but his father would not. His words had been harsh....half-blood...mongrel...no, his father would not see her.
Stopping at the far end of the colonnade, He saw three figures standing at the gateway. They were elves, and made no show of hiding the fact....an unusual thing in this place of men. Two were armed and stood in bright armour, the third carried no weapon, but stood in the afternoon light, the sun glinting off her silver hair. His mother had come.
