When Celeborn finally retired to their private chambers it was long after midnight, and Galadriel had preceded him only shortly. The tidings the Fellowship had brought were grave, and there were pressing matters to be discussed, strategies to be planned, and orders to be issued. The thought of a balrog awoken, and lurking almost at their doorstep, again sent shudder down Celeborn's spine. He remembered, aye, he remembered all too well.
As he entered, Galadriel was sitting on the bed, undoing her hair: a silhouette behind the drapes, her white and gold gently protruding as her hands slowly moved with the comb. For a moment, he allowed himself the pleasure of the familiar sight, so comforting after a long day. Then, as his eyes caught the ever-present glitter of Nenya, the feeling of serenity disappeared. He took a deep breath.
"Why?" he demanded.
She moved her head in his direction only partly, as if she had expected the question and hoped it would not be raised. "The embers of his desire had already been glowing. I only blew to set them afire."
"And to set things in motion."
Her hands neither paused, nor shivered. "And to set things in motion," she repeated. "He is already doomed, and the sooner the fire consumes him, the better."
Celeborn's own hands itched, like many times before, to have throttled Celebrimbor. She had not been so ice-cold before she donned the power of that accursed jewel. "So. You hope that Boromir will succumb to the lure of the One pre-timely. Before he reaches Minas Tirith, where he can command his men, and his father's heart."
"Especially his father. An unruly Steward plotting against the rightful King, now that the fate stands on the edge - no. That cannot be allowed. A strife like that in Gondor would be the undoing of Gondor, and of the Middle-Earth. I shall not have Aragorn's blood spilt in the courtyard of Kings."
"And so you acted to make sure that the Ring does not go to Minas Tirith. Even at the cost that the blaze you helped to concoct might burn those around. However, Lady, that was not the point of my question. I perceive the risks, and see few other ways, as well. The matter that I find most pressing at the instant is, why did you not tell me?"
Finally, her coldness shattered, and shattered was also her voice when she replied: "I shall not have anyone do the dirty work for me, and you the least of all." And she half-reached her hands to him, with helplessness she only rarely showed. Then, abruptly, she withdrew the hands and hid them in her lap, as if they were already stained with Boromir's blood.
He knelt beside her and kissed the hands he held so dear, concealing the revulsion he always felt at the touch of the metal. "Lady," he said. "Galadriel, vanimelda - so much you know, so much you see, and yet you do not understand that sometimes burdens one cannot carry are the heaviest?" The hands he held shivered. Her eyes would not meet his.
After a moment, he took up the comb where she had left it and started to tend to her hair, taking pleasure from its silken touch that she had never allowed to anyone else, until she raised her eyes and smiled at him. He returned the smile, and forgave her time again, for she was Galadriel, and since he meant to keep his own embers glowing steady, there was no other way.
Besides, he knew that their time was coming to an end, and did not intend to waste a single instant.
Neither did she, pausing only to take off Nenya - a thing so rare that it made well for an apology.