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“I did not know you are Artanis’ daughter.”
Celebrían nearly jumped out of her skin. Not at the words, although they were startling enough, but at the way he’d managed to materialize beside her without a sound.
“I—uh. Yes. I am.”
“Huh,” said Elrond, tilting his head. His earrings jangled. “Did you know that we are cousins?”
“Barely!” she squeaked.
“We are related,” Elrond continued serenely, oblivious to her rising panic. “Less related than I am to Celebrimbor, perhaps. Or maybe more than Erenion is to Celebrimbor… though certainly less, I suppose, than Celeborn and Galadriel are to each other.”
She made a strangled sound, half laugh, half horror. “Elrond, please—”
“Isn’t it interesting?” he asked, genuinely delighted.
“Elrond,” she said.
He blinked.
“Please stop saying the word ‘cousin.’”
This blink was different. Slightly more concerned. “Is there another word you’d prefer? I know Telerin. Or Westron. Or-“
“Not cousin,” she said. “Not in any language, Elrond, please.”
He considered her. Deeply. “Is this like how I do not mention fathers in front of Tyelpe?”
“No,” said Celebrían. “It is because when I kiss you, I would prefer to think of you as Elrond, not as my cousin.”
“You are going to kiss me?”
Celebrían stared at him.
His expression was open, bewildered, not fearful, not evasive, just… earnestly stunned, like she’d announced the moon was hers now and he’d need to submit a request to look at it.
“I thought you were courting me,” she said carefully.
“I was sending letters,” Elrond said, blinking rapidly. “About sparrows.”
“Romantically,” she clarified.
“They were seasonally relevant,” he said, slightly defensive.
She stepped forward. He didn’t move, but his shoulders straightened automatically, like someone bracing for either a battle or a new theorem.
“Elrond.”
“Yes?”
“I want to kiss you.”
“I… see.”
“You can say no.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said immediately. Then, after a beat, “Should I—should I say yes?”
Celebrían’s lips twitched. “That would be helpful.”
“Then yes,” Elrond said, very seriously. “Please proceed.”
She laughed, bright and sudden and real. “Elrond,” she said again, softer now, and reached up to touch his cheek. He didn’t flinch. Just leaned, barely, into her palm, like he was orienting to warmth.
“I’m going to kiss you,” she whispered.
He nodded. “Understood.”
So she did.
He tasted like winter tea and ink. His hands stayed awkwardly at his sides until she nudged closer, and then, tentatively, with all the hesitation of a man translating a dialect he’d only seen footnoted, he rested his fingers against her waist.
The bells in his hair jingled softly.
When she pulled back, just slightly, he whispered, “You smell like violets.”
“You mentioned them in a letter.”
“I thought you liked them.”
“I do,” she said.
“I planted more.”
Her heart lurched.
She leaned in again.
And this time, when she kissed him, he kissed her back like he meant it.
Celebrían swung through the door into the High King’s office and closed it behind her with a snap. She leaned back against the door and let out a very sharp gasp. Then her face broke into a smile.
Gil-Galad glanced up, raising an eyebrow.
“I don’t know if you’re aware,” she appeared to be almost laughing, her silver eyes gleaming. “But I have been invited to, ah- accompany you and Elrond.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Sexually.”
Gil-Galad’s brain simply stopped working. It had been years since Elrond had truly caught him off guard, but it seemed he’d been lulled into a false sense of security. “What?”
“He said-“ she was laughing so hard she could barely stand up, leaning heavily on the door for support. “That I might enjoy joining you both. As a shared experience. Because you’re very experienced.”
“Please tell me there was some… some transition into that suggestion.”
Celebrían slid down the door frame like her legs had forgotten how to function. She was laughing in that high, wheezing way that suggested emotional damage. “No. No transition. I believe the preceding topic was urban planning.”
Gil-Galad dragged both hands down his face. “Of course it was.”
“He said,” she gasped between laughs, “‘Erenion has quite a skilled tongue.’” She tilted her head, wiping tears from her eyes. “He meant it so sincerely, too. Like he was offering me a cup of tea.”
Gil-Galad sank back in his chair, eyes unfocused. “I— Lady Celebrían, I need you to understand something.”
She made a heroic attempt to stifle her mirth. “Yes, your Majesty?”
“I have spent the last two thousand years trying to teach that man diplomacy.” His hand lifted, gesturing vaguely toward the east wing. “We’ve covered politics. Marriage alliances. Public messaging. And at no point did I ever say: ‘Elrond, if you fall in love, immediately propose a three-way.’”
Celebrían snorted. “That’s a shame. It would have been excellent advice.”
He groaned and leaned forward, resting his head in his hands. “He doesn’t even know he’s in love.”
“Oh, I gathered that,” she said cheerfully, still struggling to breathe. “Though I’m not sure what he thinks is happening. Possibly a spiritual bonding ritual involving seasonal nesting patterns.”
Gil-Galad rubbed his face. “I beg of you,” he said, “please do not tell your mother.”
Celebrían, perhaps the one person in Arda who had never felt a drop of fear in front of Galadriel, was still giggling as she asked, “Why? Do you think she’ll object to my participation?”
“I think,” said Gil-Galad, “that she would be incensed that I did not immediately tell you ‘no.’”
Celebrían let out another helpless laugh, folding over at the waist like it had physically hit her.
Gil-Galad crossed his arms and glared at her like it might help restore order to the universe. “She would not take it as a charming anecdote. She would take it as evidence that I’ve corrupted her only daughter.”
“She already thinks you’re a corrupting influence,” Celebrían said through her laughter, struggling to her feet. “That’s why she left Lindon.”
Gil-Galad glared at her. It was undercut by the lack of actual intent.
Celebrían slid bonelessly into one of the chairs across from the desk, still glowing with laughter. “Do you think,” she asked lightly, “that she’d be angrier about the suggestion itself, or the metaphors?”
Gil-Galad did not justify that with a response.
“You should also know,” said Celebrían, “That he informed me that he and I; and also you and I; and also you and he are all less related than my parents.”
Gil-Galad froze, visibly recalculating the course of his entire existence.
Celebrían wheezed.
Gil-Galad closed his eyes. “He brought up your parents.”
“He ranked us, Erenion,” she said, voice pitched like she was offering him a lovely little pastry. “By degrees of consanguinity.”
“That sounds like Elrond,” Gil-Galad muttered into his palms.
Celebrían sighed, fond and exasperated. “He’s very sweet.”
A beat passed. Then: “So,” said Gil-Galad, lifting his head just enough to squint at her. “Did you say yes?”
“To the threesome?” She sniggered again.
“Yes.”
She gave him a deeply considering look. “I haven’t decided.”
Gil-Galad stared at her.
“I’m weighing the pros and cons,” she added helpfully.
“Elbereth above,” he muttered. “You’re both insane.”
“Well,” she said, rising from the chair and dusting herself off, “you are very experienced.”
He pointed a finger at her, expression caught between admiration and despair. “If you ever repeat that to anyone—”
“He said that you were ‘generous’ and ‘rhythmically aware.’”
Gil-Galad looked to the heavens for help. Or, since he was inside, the ceiling.
“At least he finally asked you,” said Gil-Galad, after a very long pause.
“Finally,” she agreed. “I just wasn’t expecting the invitation to include you.”
Gil-Galad gave a long-suffering sigh. “Neither was I.”
A pause.
Celebrían eyed him. “…but?”
Gil-Galad rolled his eyes. “Let me get through one diplomatic summit without being propositioned by my herald by proxy, and we’ll talk.”