Then the news came. They were in the Havens of Sirion, by then, and the news came to her by Elwing herself.
Galadriel listened to the tale with growing grief and anger. Dior's stubbornness (and ho, how little she could blame him), his death and the sack of Doriath itself, how the girl had fled with the Silmaril, escaping in extremis both captivity and death.
There was unrest, now, in the Havens, and she stood out on the peer, looking at the Teleri fleet with tearful eyes. Elwing had asked her to look into the mirror to determine the fates of her little brothers, but nothing had been less certain. A lone road lay ahead of them, but she could not tell if life or death was laying in wait.
She had spoken to Tuor and Idril. She had warned them both that the Sons of Feänor may come lurking. Even if Celegorm, Curufin and Caranthir were dead, three were still alive, and it was enough to feel concern.
Celeborn came forth, lay a hand on her shoulder, soothingly. "Alatariel, you can do nothing more than you have already done," he said, quietly.
"It is not enough," she whispered, and the threatening tears fell on her face. Was she crying for Dior, Turco, the little lost princes? Was she crying for all the lost ones that were slowly disapearing like a long and painful rosary of loss? Most likely.
"We will leave," she heard Celeborn say, and she knew she could not deny him. "The Isle of Balar awaits, and Cirdan will receive us well."
She turned, then, and buried her face in her husband's shoulder, crying still, so very quietly.
She wanted to say, he promised me.
She wanted to say, once, he was my friend.
She wanted to say, too many people are dead, why can't I follow after them?
But instead she only cried, disconsolate and quiet, dignified and steady. If she could do nothing to stop this, at least she would live. Perhaps later, her time of absolution would come.