"I will come back to you," Celeborn says quietly as Galadriel fixes the last strap of his armor.
It has been a long time since he has had to wear it. It fits the same as ever, of course, but it still looks somehow ill-fitting. Celeborn was not made for thick silver armor and sharp steel swords. He is a master with both, of course, but he was made for quiet afternoons in the shade and lazy mornings still in bed and starlit nights at the tops of the tallest trees. He is gentle and careful and kind, and he is not made for war.
And yet, war does not care and comes for him anyway.
"I will, Galadriel," Celeborn repeats. His eyes are fixed on hers. "I swear it."
"You cannot swear such things," Galadriel replies. She finishes with the last strap, takes a step back, and then steps forward again to recheck every place of potential weakness.
"I can," Celeborn says, taking her hands in his and squeezing them lightly. "Do you know why?"
"Because you are being an overconfident fool, which does not suit you," Galadriel says, trying to tug her hands away. "You are going to war, Celeborn, you can promise nothing-"
"I will come back to you," Celeborn interrupts, not letting her go, "because either I will survive the war and nothing will stop me from making my way back to you, even if I must crawl every league, or I will fall" - and here, he leans forward to kiss away a tear that Galadriel could not help but let fall - "and I will go to the Halls, and I will stay with Mandos until he releases me in a new body, and I will wait for you in Valinor until you join me."
"I cannot go to Valinor," Galadriel says, the pain of the exile sharp again after so many years of dullness. "I am not allowed."
"Then I will go to the Máhanaxar, and I will kneel before the Valar, and I will beg for your exile to be lifted. I will tell them every wonderful thing you have done in Middle-earth. And if they still refuse to allow you home, I will find a ship, and I will sail back to you if I must fight Ulmo himself to allow it."
"Defying the Valar?" Galadriel asks. "Fighting them, even? That does not sound like your usual common sense."
"We have been married so long," Celeborn replies. "Is it a surprise that some of your Ñoldorin stubbornness would have rubbed off on me eventually?"
Galadriel manages a feeble little laugh, then she throws her arms around her husband. He holds her, and even with the hard plates of his armor uncomfortable against her dress, she would stay right there with him forever if she could.
But she cannot. Middle-earth is under threat, and they both must do their part. Her cousin is in danger, is likely dead or near to it, and they must do what they can to save him or, at least, his works.
The new ring on her finger burns, while her silver and gold ring is a balm of love at its side.
"I love you," she tells her husband. "I love you, and whether I see you again here or in Valinor or only in my dreams, I will always love you just as I love you now."
Celeborn leans forward and kisses her. "I will come back to you," he promises, and this time, Galadriel lets herself hope he can keep it.
