"Who's that?" she asked her maid, who was sitting next to her on the wooden stand that overlooked the tournament grounds.
"Oh, that..." her maid paused for a moment, almost hesitant, and looked up at her. "That's the Black Knight."
"The black night?" Lady Galadriel turned her head towards her, as if she could hear better that way, "I can see that he wears black armour, but who is he... where is he from, where are his lands?"
"My lady," Mirdania said, stuttering, "that's all I know... I think that's all anyone knows. He's just the Black Knight."
"Is he?" Galadriel raised her eyebrows and turned her head back to the tournament. She would have to ask the king later how he could allow someone who did not reveal his true identity to take part in such a joyous occasion. It was her birthday, after all. But before she could think about it, or even anticipate it, her eyes remained on him for a while longer. The armour made it almost impossible to recognise any of his features, but his demeanour was enough to make the people around him cheer whenever he mounted his horse, and his habit of always winning did the rest to give him a lasting impression. Galadriel felt a slight smile escape her lips, for she did understand it, in a way. His stature seemed to tower over the others by just a little, but enough to make him stand out, and his dark armour made him seem even more striking.
For a moment she thought he was looking at her. She quickly looked away but immediately returned her gaze towards him as soon as he left the tournament place. She followed every step of his tall, sheltered figure flashed between the colourful tents, clinging to the sight, unable to look away from the shadows until they grew longer, for the sun slowly began to set. It was like a blemish on an otherwise unspoiled, solemn scene. A disturbance, yes, but also a pull, like a dark cave drawing her in. What was it that kept her eyes to his movements? There was a mystery that dared to be discovered, something like a secret hidden underneath the all embracing mask.
Yet after the tournament, she occupied herself with other things for a while, and when she sat next to Gil-galad in the great hall to greet the winners, she did not ask him who he was.
The great hall was the most festive room in the entire castle of Lindon, and it was now being used to celebrate her birthday, to welcome their guest, to honour the beloved daughter the King never had and who was most dear to him. Galadriel smiled all day, not necessarily because she was happy, but because she knew the occasion demanded it. She did enjoy the celebration, of course, but after a while it became repetitive and tiring.
The procedure was always the same. One of the knights who had taken part in the tournament stepped forward, bowed to the king, knelt to pay his respects and pledge his allegiance, before turning to her, still on his knees. She sat on a slightly smaller throne to the king's left, wearing a gleaming white dress and a shimmering coronet on her brow. Most of the time, the knights bowed their heads before looking up at her in awe, extolling her beauty, perhaps praising the glow of her golden hair, the fact that her grace was sung of by troubadours, and then, of course, congratulating her and giving her a gift. It was usually the same. Jewellery, dresses, those kinds of blinding things.
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