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The younger elf has fallen asleep with her head on Galadriel's shoulder. Her hair is a cascade of autumn leaves against the pale glow of their skin. It speaks to her of endings, but also of the deep peace that comes with the dark of winter, a resting time for all things, to be fresh and born again in spring.Galadriel presses a kiss, light as the touch of a butterfly's wing, on Tauriel's forehead. Her face is relaxed now, not hardened against the day and its trials. This peace is yet a fleeting thing for her, gone before it truly can be enjoyed, but it will become more commonplace, with the passing of seasons.Tauriel had come here so lost, seeking for answers that no one could give, not on these mortal lands at least. She had begged the Lady of the Wood for sanctuary, for healing, for a promise that all would be well once again. Galadriel had granted the first with sorrow and the second with a growing gladness, but the third she had refused. It was true that she could see some things and guess at others yet, but nothing was certain before it was in the past. Empty words, however kindly meant, could bring comfort only for a while. She chose another path.As Galadriel lightly strokes the copper strands, she muses on the nature of time. How it can feel raw even to an immortal, at the first touch of grief and death. How it will smooth down the edges of that pain, over the centuries, and leave something crystalline and pure in its place. Tauriel will grow, so much, if she only allows it to herself. This is only a winter, it will pass, and Galadriel will keep her warm until it does.