Wolf of Númenor

Chapter 72: Blood and Silver

Osgiliath year 3429 of the Second Age of the Sun

Galadriel brushed her hair watching as the sun rose over the eastern mountains and went up as a flame, bathing the City in a golden glow; the sea breeze wafted through the windows, and if she listened, the wailing of gulls could be heard.

After brushing her tresses, Galadriel's gaze fell to a silver ring upon her finger; it glittered like polished gold overlaid with silver light; it was beautiful a gift from her husband, who lay asleep, his bare form exposed to the warm spring air she reddened remembering the night they shared.

Verily the sight of Jon's broad hair covered chest and beard filled her with delight; it made her dearest seem akin to a Barbarian of the North come to claim her. Oh, how she loved to see her beloved as such it was rather queer as she never supposed the thought of hairy men would arouse her, so it was rare for Elven men to be unshorn, and rarer still for one to have hair upon their bodies, only the eldest of their race appeared as such.

Even so, she could not believe how handsome she found her beloved wolf.

"Oh, Jon..." Galadriel whispered, caressing her beloved's broad chest and arm, marvelling at his form honed through years at the anvil and tiltyard.

It had been a half-century since her wolf had been named Prince of Osgiliath; she and Írimë had now long dwelt there alongside their followers, sometimes guiding the Faithful as their kinsmen in Aman had done with the Lords of Andúnië other times partaking happily in the daily lives of the Atani, something that surprisingly they all came to enjoy.

And for their part, she and her aunt had come to love their wolf ever keenly; Jon was lofty, fair of face, and masterful, his eyes piercingly bright alas, her dearest had become quite sullen on many occasions she had found him on the balcony pipe in hand gazing up at the stars little remained of the young adventurer who gladly roamed Middle earth. Before them stood a masterful Lord, holding the rule of all things in his own hand. He said little. He listened to counsel, and then followed his own mind.

Her beloved Wolf had also changed his choice in garments, altogether discarding the doublets worn by the nobles of court rather dawning robes of Elven make, most of those robes being assembled by her, her aunt and her beloved's cousin Sansa.

Galadriel wove robes of purest Noldorian silk, her aunt Írimë on the other hand-fashioned their beloved robes reminiscent of the Vanyar, the silks of gold and blue, while Sansa wove robes in the colours of Stark and Targaryen.

Galadriel had learned from her aunt that Jon had the honour of visiting the Lands of Aman; taking counsel with Manwë t'was a wondrous glory for anyone, particularly one of the Atani indeed Glorfindel spoke how the light of Valinor shone in Jon's eyes, something she discovered with great delight.

In days past, Jon was little more than a child in the eyes of her people and the Dúnedain, yet as her beloved neared his hundred twenty-third birthday, he had reached his full manhood; His speech and bearing were that of the ancient kingdom of Doriath, and even among the Elves he might be taken for one from the great houses of the Noldor.

Indeed, her love had grown mightily in arms hour after hour Jon spent in the tiltyard duelling with the men-at-arms none had claimed victory against her husband, not even herself; she had thought to best her wolf and lost her spear in good order.

Galadriel smiled and stroked her wolf's ebon tresses. "Oh, my dearest wolf, I shall teach you a lesson in humility... you shall regret taking my spear so greedily."

Flashback 1 year before

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It happened on the first day of Spring when the Faithful offered prayer for the coming year. The men of Westernesse had three such prayers the Erukyermë in the first days of spring, praise of Ilúvatar at the Erulaitalë in midsummer, and thanksgiving to him at the Eruhantalë at the end of autumn.