It was a beautiful day, even by the standards of the Undying Lands. There was a small crowd in the great square of Tirion, which was to be expected. The elves near the gate of Finwë's house were predominantly male, which was also to be expected.
The gate opened and Finrod walked out. "Lady Nerwendë is going for a ride. She does not wish to ride through a crowd. Would you gentlemen please move?" The crowd started to back off, very slowly. "Father would be interested in this. He likes to keep track of unsuitable suitors."
By the time Galadriel emerged, they were all gone.
"I can take care of myself, you know."
"Of course. I see you brought your bow."
"Ingoldo! The very notion is..."
"Undignified?"
Galadriel grinned and rode away.
As she rode through the town, she was approached by an elf carrying a bouquet of flowers. He insisted on giving her the flowers and reciting a love poem.
"I'd rate you about eight out of twelve."
"What do you mean, my lady?"
"You come from a good family. Your looks are good, but not spectacular. You obviously put a lot of effort into writing that poem. On the other hand, a generic gift such as flowers is a sure sign you didn't do your research and your poetry lacks originality; everyone compares my hair to the light of the Trees and my eyes to stars. Don't worry. Most girls don't mark down for long strings of superlatives. Anyone who get an eight out of me is doing fine. That's why so many men use me for practice."
"Practice?"
"What else? Everyone knows I'm not interested in a boyfriend."
It was the piece and quiet of the countryside more than the chance to practice her horseback archery that drew Galadriel from Tirion. She had timed her practice to finish in time to watch the Mingling of the Lights.
"Your hair looks beautiful in the light." Only then did Galadriel notice Fëanor.
"Spare me the clichés, Uncle."
"It's true all the same. The way the silver strands blend with the gold... I see you've been practicing your archery."
"How else am I going to beat Tyelcormo?"
"What ambition! I hope it doesn't turn to smithcraft, linguistics, or gemstones."
"I have more sense than to compete with you. What are you up to these days?"
"Researching a new kind of crystal. One that can hold a lot of light."
Fëanor began to describe what he had in mind; impossibly hard gemstones that shone with the light of the Two Trees, with strands of Galadriel's hair at the center.
"Why my hair?"
"It was the source of the idea and studying it may give me insight into..."
"I don't give away my hair."
"It would be an honor to have your hair set in such a jewel."
"I suppose it would be."
"Are you interested?"
"Every lovesick fool in Tirion has requested a lock of my hair at one time or another."
"How dare you suggest such a thing! I'm your uncle. You've always been my favorite among Indis's grandchildren."
"I know. I'm sure your motives are completely scientific. That doesn't change the basic fact that I don't give away my hair."
Galadriel started to walk away, but Fëanor grabbed her wrist. "Prideful fool!"
"You, of all people, dare to call me a prideful fool? I might have chosen to give you some of my hair, had you asked properly. For the third and final time, no. I never did like you. If you thought otherwise, it was because I wanted you to think so. Now let me go."
Finrod watched his sister from the window as she returned her horse to the stables and climbed the apple tree, to their secret hiding place. He opened the window and made the easy jump from the window seat to the nearest tree-branch.
--Did you have a good ride?--
--Yes.--
--What's wrong?--
--I don't want to talk about it right now.--
They had a strong mental bond and were able to communicate over distances. They had always shared everything, until now.