-General-
At his summons, a group of Elves emerged from the shadows. Their steps were silent; had it not been for his keen senses, Ilarion would not have perceived them. Under the silver light of the moon, their faces were revealed, and the surprise was a pleasant one, for they seemed very familiar to him.
"Teleri?" he whispered. "No... they are the Eglath, 'the Forsaken,' whom my grandfather once mentioned."
His deduction caused the Elves to furrow their brows. They did not care to be called "the Forsaken," when it had been they themselves who decided not to depart for Valinor, remaining in Middle-earth in search of their lord, Elwë.
"We are not 'the Forsaken,'" said one of the Elves, stepping forward. "Unlike those who departed, we did not tire of searching for our lord."
Ilarion reacted, realizing that he had been most disrespectful; thus, he bowed his head slightly in apology.
"It was not my intention to offend," he replied calmly. "That is how the chronicles of my people name you, but I understand now that such a name can be an offense."
The Elf studied him in silence for a moment, before giving a barely perceptible nod.
For a few moments, an awkward silence settled between them, until a soft voice, akin to the lull of waves breaking against the shore, dissipated the tension that was beginning to boil.
"Sindar," said Galadriel, embracing Ilarion from behind.
She rested her chin on his shoulder while a slight smile drew upon her lips; however, a glint of caution shone in her eyes. She knew of those who had decided to stay in Middle-earth rather than depart for Aman, but despite sharing an origin, they were complete strangers. She did not know if they would be hostile... or if they had fallen under the service of Morgoth.
"Golden hair?" said one of the Elves with visible surprise.
He overlooked Galadriel's caution, for he was immersed in his memories. As far as his memory reached, only the Vanyar—of whom it was said were the fairest of all—possessed such a feature.
Seeking to clear his doubts, he decided to ask:
"Are you perchance one of the Vanyar?"
"She cannot be," added another. "Silver motes dance in her golden curls... a mixture, perhaps?"
It is worth noting that, for them, Galadriel's beauty was striking. Perhaps she did not approach the majesty of their King Thingol's daughter, the fairest of Middle-earth, the Lady Lúthien, with whom many had been in love; even so, her presence was impossible to ignore.
Shaking his head, Ilarion was about to interrupt them, for the conversation was beginning to stray from its purpose. His objective was to find them and, if possible, establish cordial relations so that his uncle Fingolfin could obtain an audience with whoever governed them. However, noting their great resemblance to the Teleri, a worry seized him: if his assumptions were correct, he who governed these Elves was none other than Elwë, the Elf whose whereabouts had been unknown for so long, brother of the King of the Teleri, Olwë.
So the "Forsaken" were a subgroup of the Teleri, he reasoned. Fortunately, I have not murdered any Teleri; my hands are not stained with their blood. Although he could not say the same for others. At least, of Galadriel he was certain she had killed none, but his brothers Amrod and Amras were another matter: they did carry the weight of Teleri lives upon their hands.
It would be best for them to keep their distance from this group, he thought.
"If my lineage puzzles you so, know that I am of mixed blood. My father is Finarfin, a Noldor prince, son of Finwë, and my mother is Eärwen, princess of the Teleri, daughter of Olwë," said Galadriel with grandeur.
It must be remembered that the noble and wise lady was still young in Elven years; she still lacked the wisdom and grace of the future. Although she was refined in these moments, there was still immaturity in her eyes; she had not yet experienced all that which would lead her to be known as the wisest Elf of Middle-earth.
"Olwë..." whispered one of the Elves in consternation.
In an instant, they all bowed in deep reverence.
"My apologies, my lady. We were ignorant and did not know that you were the grand-niece of our King."
Ilarion smiled wryly. The inevitable headache was already looming. Just as he had imagined, the ruler of those Elves was none other than Elwë, the lost Teleri King.
It was not only the Elves who showed consternation, but Galadriel as well, who unconsciously clung even tighter to Ilarion. The warmth of his body, pressed against hers, became evident; however, neither of them had time to reflect upon that closeness, for the Elves straightened up and fixed their gazes upon her with open devotion.
"I hope I may be permitted to know your name, my Lady..." asked one of them.
"Galadriel. That is my name," she replied after recovering from her surprise.
Her gaze was serene and indifferent; only her brothers and Ilarion knew her more tender and protective side. At least, for now, it was so. With the passage of time and maturity, she would come to radiate kindness toward almost every living being... well, with the exception of Orcs, Goblins, Trolls, and, of course, Sauron.
"Lady Galadriel, a beautiful name for a beauty such as yours, my Lady," said the Elf who appeared to be the leader, offering her a charming smile in an evident attempt to win her favor. "Permit me to extend to you an invitation to visit the kingdom of your great-uncle."
Galadriel raised a brow and turned toward Ilarion, who nodded discreetly. That was the opportunity they were seeking. To have the aid of the local inhabitants would be of great use; they could learn more about the lay of these lands and, if fortune favored them, request their support to subdue Morgoth.
With a slight smile, Galadriel nodded.
"I accept your invitation with pleasure. However, I must first return to my uncle, who acts as our representative. Will there be any issue?"
"None at all," replied the Elf promptly. "On the contrary, I am sure our King will receive you with open arms."
...
Amidst dark mist and solid stone, Morgoth sat upon his throne. His servants—cowardly scum before his presence—tremblingly reported the gathering of Elves on the shores.
At that news, the Dark Lord's voice resounded like thunder preceding a storm; in his tone, malice and mockery drifted like mist in the high mountains.
"So they have come..."
A low, yet powerful laugh made the dark hall tremble. Resting a hand on his chin, Morgoth allowed himself to contemplate how to eradicate those pests, whom he surmised were Noldor. As a great strategist, he knew he must lure Fëanor into a trap; that Elf was dangerous, extremely dangerous. If captivity after his defeat had taught him anything, it was not to be entirely arrogant.
Then, a malevolent smile took shape beneath his helm. From his hand, a small serpent slithered in fear, in a futile attempt to flee.
"We must give them time..." he thought, bringing the small reptile closer to his deep, dark eyes. "Once they feel confident, that is when we shall strike."
"And when they least expect it... I will give them a surprise... one with the name of a Dragon."