He stood tall at the railing as the ship approached the quay, calm and proud. Weary he may be, full of grief for both beloved kin and land, but he would not have his first appearance before the people of Valinor — his Lady’s own family — be that of a ragged beggar. Lord of Lórien had he been, kin of Elu Thingol, scion of long-ago Doriath. Across the ages he had battled the minions of Morgoth, and of Sauron, and of Saruman. Wise, he had been called — and though he doubted his own wisdom often enough, he well understood now that such names and deeds would not avail him here. The Noldor, the Vanyar, perhaps even the Teleri his kin — the Calaquendi (he snorted softly) — would see him as little more than the husband of his Lady, favored beyond understanding (both theirs and his) by her condescension in becoming his wife.

Proud he was to be her husband, but he would not be her appendage.

His grandsons, before their departure — and his granddaughter, before her own infinitely more permanent leave taking — had expressed doubt and even amusement at such musings. So many from Middle-Earth had sailed West. Things would be different now.

Perhaps. Perhaps … yet he could not entirely trust such assurances. They had not known the Noldor who had come into Beleriand from across the sea. They had not known the Elves of the three kindreds who had come to battle the hordes of Morgoth in the War of Wrath. 

They had not known their own grandmother, for many long years of her life. Great was the love between him and his Lady, yet even so her Noldor pride had nearly driven them apart many times. Had driven them apart, sometimes for centuries.

His own pride, of course, had nothing to do with it.

They had grown along the way in spite of themselves. Children and grandchildren had anchored them, humbled them — taught them to consider others before themselves. The long defeat, as his wife so aptly named it, had forced upon them patience and bitter reality. Their years in Ring-protected Lórien, without the entirety of Middle-Earth open as a buffer should contention spring between them, had smoothed sharp edges and sweetened sharp tongues.

His pride at her refusal of the One Ring was not only fierce and passionate and relieved, but full of hope. His Lady had indeed passed her test.

Perhaps he might also pass his own, whatever it may be.

Perhaps, indeed, this was it — arrival unto a land and a people not his own, to stand before them with naught but empty hands and weary heart.

Voices rose around him, calling, singing, sobbing, laughing. The ship settled, the mooring ropes caught and tied. He sought her and found her easily, tall and golden amidst the waiting throng. None of the others resembled her — all could easily be counted as relatives and friends of his shipmates, mostly Thranduil’s people who had been sailing in ever greater numbers over the past decade. It mattered not. His eyes drank in his Lady, and her own met his, and the world about him faded.

Her lips upon his own roused him. He did not stop to wonder where his attention had fled, only met her embrace with equal fervor. Let the others watch, if they cared to do so. What did it matter to him?

“Galadriel,” he murmured against her lips, then pulled back. His heart twisted within him. No longer were they in Middle-Earth … “Or do you prefer some other name here, my Lady?”

She captured his lips again. “None other, my Lord. Ever.” Then his wife took his face gently into her hands, and the affection and love and shared purpose shining from her was a balm to his aching fëa. “I have prepared a place for you. Will you come?”

“Gladly.” He placed his hand within hers and himself in her keeping, as he had done so many times throughout their long years. Her smile was as the sun, and as a secret promise. Turning, she led the way across the crowded deck. He looked out upon the crowd, noting again the lack of familiar faces — not even his daughter and her family, not even those of his wife’s kin he had known before. “Did no others come?”

Her long, cool fingers tightened upon his. “I have known enough of my husband and of refugees both to think better of an overwhelming public welcome. Our daughter and her family are in the city. They await you most eagerly, and we shall overnight with them ere we depart.”

“So soon?”

“For a time, yes.”

He had given himself over to her, and it would not do to question her plans now. Indeed, he had no wish to do so.

“And your own family? Often you have warned me they would be quite anxious to meet the Elf brave enough to wed you.” His attempt at a teasing tone was perhaps lacking, but the gaze she turned on him held humor nevertheless.

“Indeed they are. Quite anxious. Do you think me so heartless, however, as to deliver you up to them before you have regained yourself and your strength?” One glorious golden eyebrow rose. “You are my partner, my Lord, not they.”

Relief flooded him, and weariness, and a heartfelt joy in her presence. He stopped, and pulled her to him, and simply held her, golden hair mingling with silver in the salty wind, there upon the gangplank among the moving bodies and luggage and unfamiliar scents of Valinor.

“I have very greatly missed you, my Lady.”

“And I you, my husband.”

His own test, it seemed, was put off for another day. He could wait.