Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

GALADRIEL

The second the cast came off, my parents sat me down and gave me the ultimatum—get my shit together and stop wasting their money on pointless shows, or sell Lórien to someone who actually wanted to achieve something with the mare. But I knew what they really meant. They wanted their money back. They wanted the investment returned, the embarrassment cleaned up, the problem fixed. My well-being had never been part of the equation.

Ever since Fin’s death, they had sold off everything he had worked so hard to build. His business, his horses, his clients—all of it gone without a second thought, as if his entire life could be reduced to assets on a spreadsheet. The only thing they had not been able to touch was Lórien, and that was only because Finrod, in one of his rare moments of foresight, had put the mare in my name.

Not that it had stopped them from trying.

Since my fumble at the national championships—the fall that had shattered my leg and whatever little confidence I had left—they had not stopped pressuring me. Endless phone calls. Endless lectures about wasting both my potential and Lórien’s. Endless guilt trips about how Fin would not have wanted this for me, how he would not have wanted me to give up on my dreams. They were right about that last part—mostly.

I had given up on my dreams after Fin’s accident, but not because I was afraid the same thing would happen to me. Not exactly. It was because I had lost my anchor. My rock. The one steady thing in the roaring, merciless water of performance anxiety.

Finrod had always known how to pull me back from the edge. He always knew what to say before a test, before a show, before I spiraled too far into my own head. Sometimes I hated him for it, for knowing me so well, for saying the hard things when I could barely stomach hearing them. But he had always been right. He had always been there.

And then he wasn’t.

When he died, I lost the only person who had ever truly believed in me.

Our parents had never cared about how we felt. They cared about how well we performed. How polished we looked. How much prestige we brought to the already wealthy Noldor name. Finrod had given them that in spades.

And they got rid of everything he built at the drop of a hat after the funeral.

With my rock gone, my anxiety took hold, and it showed in my riding. At first, people were sympathetic. They gave me soft smiles, gentler comments, quiet encouragement. But sympathy had a shelf life, especially in our world. It started to fade the moment my scores did.

By the time I had a full meltdown at the national championships, whatever patience anyone had left for me was gone.

I had fumbled yet another trophy. Another ribbon. Another gleaming piece of proof that would have made its home on the shelves my parents loved to show off during dinner parties and galas at the estate. That had been the last straw for them.

But I did not want to let Lórien go. I couldn’t. Not after everything. She was my heart horse, the last living piece of Fin I had left, and I would be damned before I let my parents get their hands on her. So I took them up on their pointless offer of going to a professional.

Which was how I ended up on a plane to the States. On a pointless venture.

I sighed when the plane landed and stood to collect my carry-on before turning my phone back on. A flood of messages filled the screen, most of them from the group chat with my friends, but one stood out among the rest.

An unknown number.

Someone will be waiting to pick you up at the airport.

That was all it said. No name. No details. No warmth. I did not bother replying. I deleted the message, shoved my phone into my pocket, and followed the line of passengers off the plane.

The Texas heat hit me almost instantly as I stepped into the terminal. Even inside, the tiny airport did little to mask the sweltering summer air pressing against the windows and doors. It was nothing like home. The heat here felt heavier, drier, as if it had weight. By the time I reached baggage claim, I could already feel sweat gathering beneath the collar of my shirt.

I collected my bags easily enough, then went in search of the ride that was supposedly waiting for me.

“Ms. Noldor?”

The voice carried over the noise of rolling suitcases, idling cars, and people greeting one another in the arrivals line. I turned, scanning the curb until my eyes landed on a woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties. She had dark brown hair twisted into a loose braid and steady eyes the color of strong coffee. She wore faded boot-cut jeans, a tucked-in T-shirt, and a wide leather belt with a modest buckle. Her boots were scuffed but well-kept.

Her smile came too easily, though. Like we had met before and I had simply forgotten.

“Yes?” I replied.

The woman stepped forward and held out her hand. I took it, giving it a loose shake. Her palm was calloused, her grip firm without being overbearing.

“Bronwyn,” she said. “I work for Mr. Kementari. I’ll be taking ya back to the farm.”

I tried not to react to the name. Kementari. Another name my parents had tossed around like it was supposed to mean something to me.

Bronwyn glanced down at the two large suitcases trailing on either side of me and gave a small, amused lift of her brow.

“Let me help you with those bags.”

“I have them,” I said automatically. She did not seem offended. If anything, the corner of her mouth twitched like she had expected that answer.

“I’m sure you do,” she replied. “But it’s a long ride, and those’ll fit better if I load ’em.”

I looked down at the suitcases, then back at her. I had never packed lightly, but then again, I did not have much in the way of normal clothes anymore. Mostly riding clothes, show coats, breeches, boots, and whatever pieces of my life I could fit between them. Everything I had left had been packed into those two suitcases and dragged halfway across the world to whatever program my parents had decided would fix me.

I released one handle. Bronwyn took it without comment, then reached for the other. The heat rolled over us as we stepped outside, thick and unforgiving. Cars crawled past the curb, engines humming, tires hissing against the pavement. Somewhere nearby, someone laughed too loudly. Somewhere else, a child cried. I stood there in the middle of it all, jet-lagged, angry, and far too aware that I had no real say in any of this.

Bronwyn led me toward a dusty dark truck parked a few cars down. “So,” she said as she opened the tailgate and lifted one of my bags with surprising ease, “how was the flight?”

“Long.”

She nodded like that told her more than enough. “Figured as much.”

I watched as she loaded the second suitcase, then shut the tailgate with a solid thud. The sound felt final in a way I did not like. I glanced back toward the airport doors, toward the place I had just come from, though there was nothing there for me now. No Fin. No home that felt like home. No escape waiting on the other side of the glass. Just Texas heat, a strange woman, and a farm I had never wanted to come to.

Bronwyn opened the passenger door and looked back at me. “Come on, Ms. Noldor,” she said, still wearing that easy smile. “Let’s get you out of this heat before it melts you.”

I tightened my grip on my bag and climbed into the truck. The interior was somehow worse than the outside. Dog hair clung to the cracked leather seats. Dust coated nearly every surface, settled thick in the seams of the dashboard and along the cup holders. The cab smelled strongly of hay, cattle, old coffee, and worn leather, all of it baked together beneath the Texas sun until the air felt heavy enough to chew. Crumpled receipts and fast-food wrappers littered the floor at my feet, and a dried-out lariat sat coiled across the dashboard beside an empty coffee cup that looked as if it had been abandoned there days ago.

Quite the first impression these people were making.

I said nothing as I buckled my seatbelt and tried to arrange myself without touching more than necessary. My knees bumped the bottom of the dashboard, and I pulled my bag closer to my lap, suddenly missing the cool, polished quiet of home. Even the cars waiting outside the estate had been spotless. Detailed. Silent. Everything tucked away, every imperfection hidden.

This truck made no attempt to hide anything.

Bronwyn noticed me looking around and gave a small chuckle as she slid into the driver’s seat.

“Don’t worry,” she said, shutting her door with a heavy creak. “A little dust never killed anyone.”

“I wasn’t worried,” I replied flatly. Her smile only widened. She turned the key. The engine gave a miserable groan, sputtered once, then died. I looked at the dashboard. Bronwyn patted the steering wheel as if comforting a skittish horse and tried again. This time the engine coughed twice before catching, rattling to life beneath us with a rough, uneven rumble.

“Ain’t much to look at,” she said, giving the dash another affectionate pat, “but she runs. Mostly.”

“Mostly,” I repeated under my breath.

Bronwyn either did not hear me or chose to ignore it. She shifted the truck into gear and pulled away from the curb with a jerk that made my shoulder press against the door. I turned toward the window and clenched my jaw, watching the airport shrink behind us. The building disappeared quickly, swallowed by a flat stretch of sun-bleached pavement, scrubby grass, and endless blue sky. There were no towering trees, no manicured hedges, no stone drive lined with fountains. Just heat wavering over the road and land that seemed to stretch forever in every direction.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I did not need to look to know it was probably my mother. Or my father. Or both of them, waiting for confirmation that I had arrived at their chosen solution. Their last expensive attempt to make me useful again. I ignored it. Bronwyn glanced at me once, then back at the road.

“First time in Texas?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” she said, resting one wrist over the top of the steering wheel, “it grows on ya.”

I looked out at the dry fields flashing past the window and fought the urge to laugh. Somehow, I doubted that.

The truck rattled down the road, carrying me farther from everything familiar and closer to whatever my parents had decided would fix me. My leg ached faintly beneath the old injury, a dull reminder with every bump in the pavement. I tightened my arms around my bag and stared out the window.

This was about to be quite the summer.

The city fell away behind us, and before long the smooth highway gave way to an older road that looked as if it had not seen proper maintenance in years. Every dip and crack in the pavement rattled through the truck’s suspension and sent a dull ache up my leg. I shifted in my seat, trying to find a position that did not make the old injury throb, but it was useless. The truck seemed determined to find every pothole between the airport and wherever the hell my parents had sent me.

The scenery barely changed. Flat, rolling stretches of land spilled out on either side of the road, broken only by scattered cattle, weathered fences, and the occasional cluster of horses grazing beneath the unforgiving sun. It was all so wide open. Too open. There was nowhere to disappear here, nowhere to blend into the press of a city street or vanish beneath the noise of traffic and people.

Bronwyn said little, for which I was grateful. She only tapped her fingers against the steering wheel and sang softly along with the twangy country song drifting through the radio whenever the silence seemed to settle too heavily between us.

I thanked her for that internally. She could clearly tell I did not want to be here, but she seemed content not to pry. At least, for a while. About an hour into the drive, she finally seemed to have had enough of the silence.

“So,” she said, her voice casual, “where in England are ya from?”

I peeled my gaze away from the window and looked over at her.

“Marlborough,” I replied. “It’s just outside London.”

Then I turned back to the endless expanse beyond the glass.

I would not say I missed Marlborough. It was in the country and had its charms, I supposed. Rolling hills, old money, quiet lanes, and the kind of polished beauty people paid far too much to preserve. But I had always preferred London. In London, I could get lost. I could slip beneath my parents’ radar for a few hours, sometimes even a few days, before they inevitably caught up to me. There was no getting lost here.

“That horse of yours is quite fancy,” Bronwyn said after a moment, tapping the steering wheel in time with the song. “Probably the fanciest horse we’ve ever had on the ranch.”

Lórien was quite fancy. That was expected of a Lusitano, especially one of her breeding. She had earned top marks at her inspection and had even been awarded premium mare. She was everything a dressage rider could dream of: powerful, sensitive, elegant, and intelligent enough to make you feel like a fool when you were not riding well.

She had been a dream beneath Finrod. He always made her look better than I ever could. He had denied it every time I said so, always with that warm, knowing smile of his. He would tell me I was the one who understood her best, that Lórien went softer for me, that she listened to me in a way she did not listen to anyone else.

I never knew if he truly believed that or if he had only said it because he knew I needed to hear it. I had never asked.

I closed my eyes and did not respond. I tried to block it all out—the music, the heat, the smell of livestock, dust, and sweat soaked deep into the seats. The tight knot in my stomach twisted again, a familiar mix of exhaustion, nerves, and regret. The memories were still too fresh, even if years had passed. Some things did not dull with time. They only learned to sit quieter until something disturbed them.

Before Bronwyn could say anything else, the sharp click of the turn signal filled the cab. I opened my eyes. We turned onto a dirt road bordered on both sides by wide, rolling pastures. More cattle grazed beneath the sun, tails swishing lazily at flies. A few horses lifted their heads as the truck passed, ears flicking toward us before they returned to the grass. A large wooden sign stood near the entrance, sun-bleached and framed by dark metal.

Utumno Ranch

I stared at the name as we passed beneath it. I had done my research before coming here. There had not been much to find, but enough to make me wary. A working cattle ranch alongside a Quarter Horse breeding operation, run by one man: Halbrand Kementari.

There was little about him online, which annoyed me more than it should have. A few mentions in training circles. Some old competition results. Several glowing recommendations from people who were frustratingly vague about what, exactly, he did. He was apparently an accomplished trainer with a knack for working with troubled horses. And troubled people, according to one article my mother had sent me with far too much enthusiasm.

“I’ll swing around by the barn first,” Bronwyn said, slowing the truck as the semi-smooth road turned into a crater-filled dirt drive. “Figured you’d wanna see your girl before gettin’ settled.”

I only nodded. If my leg had been aching before, it was throbbing now. Every rut in the driveway jolted through me, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from reacting. The last thing I needed was Bronwyn asking if I was all right.

Thankfully, it was not a long drive.

Soon, the metal roof of a barn appeared on the horizon, gleaming bright beneath the afternoon sun. The larger cattle pastures gave way to smaller paddocks where horses grazed contentedly, tails swishing, heads low, entirely unbothered by the heat. The truck rolled into view of a massive white metal barn, its crisp black-trimmed doors standing open as horses were led in and out. It was nothing like the English barns I had grown up around. There were no old stone walls, no moss-covered roofs, no tidy brick courtyards or climbing ivy softened by years of rain. This barn was unapologetically American. Functional. Industrial. Sun-bleached. Loud with movement.

A row of smaller stables sat off to one side, each with a fenced pen attached so the horses could move in and out freely. Beyond that, a covered riding arena stretched out from the main barn, wide and open on three sides. It was not fully enclosed like the indoor arenas back home, but it was enormous. Bigger than any I had ever seen.

Bronwyn pulled up beside the barn and shut off the engine. I was out of the truck almost before the engine stopped ticking. The fresh air hit me, hot and dry, but it was better than the stale cab. I moved away before Bronwyn could catch up, too eager to see Lórien after two long weeks apart. Two weeks without the only thing in my life that still felt entirely mine.

Inside, the barn was nothing like I expected. It was pristine. White-painted concrete stalls lined the aisle, each fitted with black iron sliding doors. Dark-stained wooden beams stretched overhead, and black iron chandeliers hung from them, giving the space an elegance I had not anticipated from the dusty truck or the industrial exterior. Fans hummed softly above the stalls, stirring the warm air. All fourteen stalls were occupied, some horses poking their heads out curiously while others stood beneath their fans, napping or munching on hay.

I stopped just inside the aisle and drew in a slow breath. The heaviness in my chest eased for the first time since I had boarded the plane. Hay. Shavings. Leather. Horse sweat. Clean concrete. Fly spray.

Home, or the closest thing to it I had left.

A familiar nicker cut through the quiet. My eyes snapped open. Lórien stood in the center of the barn in the grooming stall, cross-tied and gleaming beneath a thin sheen of sweat. Damp marks darkened her face where a bridle had sat, and a saddle I did not recognize still rested on her back.

I raised a brow. I had not expected anyone to take the training schedule I had sent along with her quite so literally. Part of me wanted to be irritated that someone had ridden her before I arrived. Another part of me, the part that had spent the entire flight imagining the worst, was relieved.

At least someone had been taking care of her.

“Hey, girl,” I said softly. I held out my hand, and Lórien stretched her neck toward me, velvet muzzle brushing my palm before she pawed once at the ground. “I missed you too,” I murmured, rubbing the white curve of her face.

For a moment, the world narrowed to her. The warmth of her breath against my hand. The familiar shape of her head. The soft flick of her ear as she listened to me. My throat tightened, and I pressed my palm more firmly to her muzzle, grounding myself in her.

“You have quite the training regimen.” I turned quickly at the voice behind me. A man walked toward us from the tack room, and I knew without anyone introducing him that this had to be Halbrand Kementari.

He was tall. Well over six feet, broad-shouldered and sun-browned, towering over Lórien in a way that made her look almost ordinary. His skin was freckled from too much time in the sun and, apparently, very little concern for sunscreen. He wore a sweat-stained sleeveless shirt tucked into faded jeans, both equally abused by work. His boots were scuffed to hell, and a baseball cap sat low over his face, auburn hair pulled into a loose bun through the snapped opening at the back. A pair of scratched sunglasses rested on the brim of his hat, some brand I did not recognize. Probably something American and cheap.

But what struck me most was not his height, or the state of his clothes, or even the faintly amused smile already tugging at his mouth. It was his accent. Not Texan. Australian.

“When you ride at the level we do, you have to,” I replied, annoyed by the smile playing at his lips. He was already messing with me. I could tell. “I am glad, though, that my instructions are being followed.”

His smile widened into something dangerously close to a grin. He walked past me, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed mine, and as he did, I caught the scent of him—leather soap, hay, horse sweat, and sun-warmed skin. The clean, earthy smell of someone who worked hard for a living. To my deep irritation, my heart gave a foolish little flutter.

“There was a whole binder,” he said, reaching for Lórien’s girth. “How on earth could I mess it up?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “It was organized.”

“It was color-coded.”

“That is called being thorough.”

“Is that what it's called?” he replied, glancing at me over Lórien’s back.

Lórien flicked an ear between us as if already bored by the exchange. I stepped closer, running a hand down her neck, checking the dampness of her coat, the way she held herself, the evenness of her breathing. She looked well. Warm from work, but not overdone. Her eye was soft. Her muscles loose. There was no anxious tension in her jaw, no resentment in the way she shifted beneath the saddle.

Whoever he was, he had not ridden her badly. That irritated me too for some reason.

“What did you do with her?” I asked.

“Exactly what the binder told me to do,” he said, loosening the girth. “Flatwork. Suppling. Nothing dramatic.”

“Lórien does not do dramatic unless someone asks poorly.”

He huffed a laugh. “That right?”

“Yes.”

He slid the saddle from her back with practiced ease and carried it to the rack beside the grooming bay. “Well,” he said, setting it down, “then you’ll be pleased to know she was a lady.”

“She always is.”

His gaze flicked to me, amused. “Mm.”

I did not like the sound.“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That did not sound like nothing.”

He reached for a towel and began wiping down the sweat marks along Lórien’s neck. “Just wondering if the mare’s as opinionated as her owner.”

Heat rose in my face before I could stop it. Bronwyn, who had appeared at the end of the aisle, made a poorly hidden sound that might have been a cough or a laugh. I ignored her.

“I prefer precise,” I said.

Halbrand’s grin returned. “Course you do.”

I stared at him for a moment, trying to decide whether I disliked him.

I did. Probably. He was too casual. Too amused. Too comfortable in his own skin and in this barn and around my horse. He looked at Lórien like he had already learned something about her, and he looked at me like he expected me to prove something.

I hated that most of all. Because some small, buried part of me already wanted to.

Lórien nudged my shoulder, demanding my attention again, and I turned back to her at once. I pressed my hand to her cheek and let out a slow breath. At least she was here. At least she was safe. Whatever this summer became, whatever my parents thought this place would fix, whatever Halbrand thought he knew about troubled horses and troubled people, I still had Lórien.

For now, that had to be enough.

“I’ll leave her in your capable hands then, Ms. Noldor.”

Halbrand slung the towel over his shoulder and moved back to grab his saddle from the rack. The casual way he said my name grated against something already raw in me. It sounded too formal and too mocking all at once, as if he had already decided exactly what kind of person I was.

“Galadriel, please,” I corrected.

He paused, one hand resting on the saddle, then glanced back at me.

For a moment, his expression shifted. Not much. Barely enough to notice. But the amusement at the corner of his mouth softened into something more considering, as if he had not expected me to offer him anything less formal.

Then he gave me a slight incline of his head.

“Galadriel,” he repeated. My name sounded different in his accent. Rougher at the edges. Less polished. And my traitrous heart fluttered at the sound. “Well,” he continued, lifting the saddle with easy strength, “Bronwyn will take you to the guest house when you’re finished with your mare.” He turned away, but kept speaking over his shoulder as he started down the aisle. “I suggest you get some rest. We tend to be early birds around here.”

I raised a brow at his back. “How early?”

He stopped near one of the stalls and looked back just enough for me to catch the curve of his smile beneath the brim of his cap. “Early enough that you’ll regret asking.”

Bronwyn made another poorly concealed sound from behind me, and I shot her a look. She only shrugged, entirely unapologetic. Halbrand disappeared into the tack room before I could think of a suitable response, leaving behind the faint scent of leather soap, sun, and horse sweat. I hated that I noticed it. Hated even more that some part of me listened for his footsteps after he was gone. I turned back to Lórien instead.

“Well,” I murmured, smoothing my hand down her neck, “he’s charming.”

Lórien flicked one ear toward me, unimpressed.

“Yes, I know,” I said. “That was sarcasm.”

She nudged her muzzle against my shoulder, and the tightness in my chest eased a fraction. I leaned into her for a moment, pressing my forehead against the warm plane of her face. She smelled like sweat, hay, and the faint trace of whatever shampoo they had used on her before shipping her here. Familiar enough to make my throat ache.

Two weeks.

Two weeks away from her had felt like a punishment.

Lórien breathed against my sleeve, soft and warm. I stayed like that for a few seconds longer before making myself move. If Halbrand had ridden her, she needed to be untacked properly, cooled out, brushed down, and checked over. I did not care if he claimed he had followed my binder to the letter. Lórien was mine. I needed to see for myself.

I ran my hands down each of her legs, checking for heat or swelling. Nothing. I pressed my fingers along her back where the saddle had rested. No flinch. No soreness. Her breathing had settled, and her eye remained soft as she watched the barn aisle. Annoyingly, she looked perfectly well cared for.

“He’s not terrible, then,” I admitted under my breath. Lórien snorted. “I said not terrible. Don’t get excited.”

Behind me, Bronwyn chuckled. I had nearly forgotten she was there. “Most horses like him,” she said, leaning casually against the stall front. “Even the ones that don’t like anyone.”

I reached for a brush from the grooming tote nearby. “Good for him.”

Bronwyn’s smile widened, but she wisely said nothing more and moved off towards the tack room where Halbrand had gone. I focused on Lórien, drawing the brush over her damp coat in long, practiced strokes. The repetitive motion steadied me. Brush, breathe, brush, breathe. The barn hummed around us with quiet life: the lazy swish of tails, the low rustle of hay, the soft clink of a water bucket, the distant thud of a hoof against rubber matting.

For the first time since stepping off the plane, I felt like I could breathe without forcing myself to.

I did not belong here.

I did not want to belong here.

But Lórien lowered her head beneath my hand, her eyes half-lidded, and for a few stolen minutes, that was enough to keep me from unraveling.

For Fin. Always.

Chapter Text

GALADRIEL

After snapping a few photos of Lórien for my Instagram, I put her back in her stall and slid the halter from her head. She wasted no time. The moment she was loose, Lórien dropped to her knees, folded herself down into the fresh shavings, and rolled with a deep, satisfied groan. I leaned against the stall front and watched with a smile despite myself as she kicked one leg into the air, thoroughly coating her carefully groomed coat in sawdust.

“Of course,” I murmured. “I just brushed you.”

Lórien rolled to her other side, then pushed herself back up and shook hard enough to send shavings flying from her mane. She looked pleased with herself, bright-eyed and utterly unconcerned with the fact that she had undone most of my work in less than a minute. But she seemed settled and that was what mattered. She looked at home here, or at least as close to it as she could after being hauled across an ocean and dropped into a place neither of us knew. The sight eased something in me I had not realized was still clenched so tightly. I was still angry. Still exhausted. Still bitter that my entire summer had been uprooted and handed over to strangers because my parents had decided I was another failing investment in need of correction.

But seeing Lórien happy made me happy in a way I had not been in a long time. A small, reluctant part of me hated that this place had managed that so quickly. My phone buzzed again, pulling my attention from the rolling mare. I glanced down and saw my mother’s name lighting up the screen.

Of course.

I did not open the message. I did not need to. I could already imagine the words waiting there, clipped and polished and edged with disapproval. Had I arrived? Had I met Mr. Kementari? Had I thanked him properly? Had I considered how fortunate I was that they were still willing to support me after everything? I rolled my eyes, shoved the phone into my back pocket, and slid Lórien’s stall door closed.

“Enjoy your hay,” I told her.

She had already buried her nose in it. I left her to it and turned back toward the entrance of the barn, where Bronwyn stood talking to someone near the open doors. He was taller than her, lean and straight-backed, with a darker complexion and closely shaved hair while an earring glinted from his ear. There was a quiet steadiness to him that made him seem instantly more composed than anyone else I had met so far. When he turned and saw me approaching, a polite smile lifted at the corner of his mouth.

“Hello, Ms. Noldor.”

“Galadriel, please,” I said, holding out my hand. He took it with a firm, careful shake. His hands, like everyone else’s here, were calloused from work.

“Arondir,” he said. “Mr. Kementari’s barn manager slash groom.” The title earned a faint smile from Bronwyn, like it was an old joke between them. I glanced back toward Lórien’s stall as she poked her head through the opening in the bars, a few pieces of hay already sticking out of her mouth.

“I assume I have you to thank for her immaculate care?” I asked.

Arondir looked toward Lórien as well, and his expression softened. “It’s been a combined effort,” he said with a modest shrug. “But she’s been a joy to have in the stable.”

I studied him for a second, searching for exaggeration or empty politeness. I found neither.

“I’m glad,” I replied, quieter than I intended.

Lórien stretched her neck farther into the aisle, ears flicking toward us as if she understood she was being discussed. Arondir gave her a knowing look.

“She has opinions,” he added.

Despite myself, I smiled. “Many.”

“She’s made that clear.”

Bronwyn smiled up at him, warm and easy, and he squeezed her shoulder before stepping away to return to whatever task we had interrupted. The gesture was brief, familiar, and affectionate enough that I glanced between them before I could stop myself. Neither of them seemed embarrassed by it.

Arondir had only made it a few steps down the aisle before he called over his shoulder, “Have fun tomorrow.”

I turned toward Bronwyn with a confused look. “What’s tomorrow?”

Bronwyn’s smile turned far too innocent. “We’re moving the cattle to the summer pastures,” she said. “All hands on deck, which means you’ll be ridin’ with us as well.”

For a moment, I only stared at her. Then I swallowed. “I hardly know the first thing about moving cattle,” I said. “And I have never ridden in a western saddle.”

Arondir and Bronwyn both chuckled softly, which did very little to soothe me. “You’ll do just fine,” Arondir reassured from farther down the aisle. “It’s not so different from the riding you already do.”

I looked at him as if he had lost his mind. Dressage and cattle work were not the same thing. They could not possibly be the same thing. One required precision, collection, balance, refinement. The other, from what little I knew, involved dust, shouting, livestock with questionable decision-making skills, and horses that were apparently expected to know what to do before their riders did. I opened my mouth to say as much, then thought better of it. Bronwyn must have seen the argument forming on my face because her expression softened.

“We won’t throw you into the deep end,” she said. “You’ll be with me. And we’ve got horses who’ve done this a hundred times.”

“I have my own horse,” I said automatically, glancing back toward Lórien.

Bronwyn followed my gaze.

“I know,” she replied gently. “But tomorrow probably ain’t the day to ask your fancy mare to figure out cattle, Texas heat, and western tack all at once.”

I hated that she had a point. Lórien was talented, brave when she trusted the rider, but sensitive. Throwing her into something entirely unfamiliar on my first proper day here would be unfair, and I knew it. The thought of riding someone else’s horse still made my stomach tighten. My leg gave a faint ache, as if adding its own opinion. Bronwyn noticed. Of course she did. She seemed to notice everything without making a spectacle of it.

“I’ve got some clothes and boots you can borrow,” she said. “Something that won’t make you melt out there.”

I looked down at myself, at the travel clothes already sticking uncomfortably to my skin, and gave a small, reluctant nod.

“I’d appreciate that.”

Bronwyn’s smile returned, but softer this time. Less teasing. “Come on,” she said, waving me toward the barn doors. “Let’s get ya settled before Halbrand decides to put you to work today too.”

I glanced once more toward Lórien. She lifted her head, ears pricked in my direction. “I’ll be back later,” I promised her. She blinked, unconcerned, then returned to eating. So much for a heartfelt goodbye.

I followed Bronwyn out of the barn and back into the heat. The sun had shifted lower, turning the white metal walls of the barn almost blinding. Somewhere beyond the covered arena, a horse called from one of the paddocks. Farther out, cattle lowed across the pasture, a deep, rolling sound that seemed to come from the land itself.

The drive to the guest house was quiet, save for the rhythmic crunch of gravel beneath the tires. I sat with my arms folded, my forehead nearly against the window, watching the pastures roll by like soft waves of gold and green. I wondered if they all held horses like the ones we had passed earlier—heads low, tails flicking, bodies loose and slow in the sun.

It should have comforted me. Instead, something tightened in my chest. Maybe it was because they looked settled. Content. As if the heat, the dust, the distance from everything familiar meant nothing to them. As if this place had already accepted them without question. I could not imagine feeling that way.

“How big is this place?” I asked, breaking the silence. My voice came out dry and rough from road dust, fatigue, and the strange pressure sitting at the base of my throat. Bronwyn glanced over, her smile lazy but not unkind.

“’Bout three hundred acres,” she said. “I reckon that’s... a hundred twenty-one hectares? Somewhere around there.” She paused, clearly trying to decide if she had converted it properly, then gave a small shrug. “Most of it ain’t pasture, though. It’s trails, training space. Riding land. We used to run guided rides, but when—”

Her voice trailed off. Not dramatically. Not enough for most people to notice, perhaps. But I noticed. Something had caught in her words, snagged on a memory she had chosen not to say aloud. Her fingers tightened briefly on the steering wheel before she loosened them again, and the smile she offered me afterward was smaller. More practiced.

“Doesn’t matter now,” she said.

I looked at her for a moment. There it was again—that quiet sense that everyone here was carrying something they had learned not to name. Halbrand with his amused eyes and rough edges. Arondir with his careful steadiness. Bronwyn with that softened grief she tucked away before it could fully show. I thought about pushing. Part of me wanted to, if only to anchor myself in someone else’s sorrow for a moment. To prove I was not the only person hollowed out by something I could not outrun. But I swallowed the question before it reached my tongue and turned back toward the window. I was too tired to carry anyone else’s grief. My own still pressed hard against my ribs, sharp-edged and unresolved.

The truck veered off the main drive, gravel crackling louder beneath the tires as we followed a narrower lane. The barn disappeared behind us, replaced by a line of scrubby trees and a stretch of open land that sloped gently toward a small, modern guest house. It was plain, but not unpleasant. White siding. Clean, dark wood accents. A wide awning that wrapped around two sides, casting deep shade over the porch. A pair of rocking chairs sat beneath it, facing the pasture beyond, and several potted plants struggled valiantly against the heat near the front steps.

The kind of place built for shade and silence. For healing, maybe. Or hiding.

Bronwyn parked beside the porch and unbuckled. I grabbed my handbag from the floor of the truck and stepped out, my shoes crunching softly against the gravel.

For a moment, I just stood there. I inhaled deeply, expecting dust, diesel, and cattle, but the air here was cleaner than I expected. Dry, yes, but not unpleasant. It carried the faint scent of cedar, sun-warmed hay, and something softer I could not name. Wildflowers, maybe. Or the ghost of rain that had not fallen in days. The land stretched out around the little house in every direction, wide and quiet beneath the late afternoon sun. No iron gates. No long stone drive. No manicured gardens arranged for guests to admire. No house staff waiting just out of sight.

Just space. Too much of it.

Bronwyn came around the back of the truck and lowered the tailgate. “Home sweet home,” she said, reaching for one of my suitcases.

I looked at the guest house again.

Home. The word sat badly with me. “It’s temporary,” I said, more to myself than to her.

Bronwyn paused for half a second, then nodded as if she understood exactly why I needed to say it. “Course it is.”

She did not argue. Did not tell me I would like it here. Did not insist that the place would grow on me or that I only needed to give it time. I was grateful for that. Together, we carried my bags up onto the porch. The boards creaked faintly beneath our feet, and somewhere in the distance a horse called across the pasture. Another answered from farther off, the sound carrying through the thick heat as it belonged to the land itself. I paused for half a second at the sound, my grip tightening around the handle of my suitcase before I forced myself to keep moving.

Bronwyn produced a small ring of keys from her pocket and unlocked the door. It was heavier than I expected, a dark metal door that opened with a quiet groan of its hinges before giving way to cool air spilling out. She stepped in first and held it open for me, letting me drag one suitcase over the threshold before she followed with the other. The guest house was simple, but not in the way I had expected. I had imagined something rustic. Old wood. Worn furniture. Maybe faded quilts and mismatched dishes and the faint smell of dust lingering in the corners. Something that matched the truck and the long, cratered road leading in. Instead, the space was clean, modern, and almost startlingly bright. It was open-concept, with everything a person would need arranged neatly within it: a modest living area, a television mounted on one wall, a small dining table, and a compact kitchen fitted with a refrigerator, stove, and white cabinets with black hardware. The furniture was simple but expensive-looking, all clean lines and pale fabric, softened by dark wood accents and a few carefully placed rugs. The island in the center of the kitchen was topped with white marble, or something close enough, and three black stools were tucked beneath it with unnecessary precision.

I looked around despite myself. This was not what I had expected from a working cattle ranch. Then my gaze caught on the back wall. It was nearly all glass. Beyond it, the land opened into one of the horse pastures, golden-green beneath the late afternoon sun. A few horses grazed in the distance, their tails flicking lazily at flies. Closer to the house, a small fire pit sat on a circular patch of gravel with several chairs arranged around it, facing the pasture as if whoever stayed here was meant to sit and watch the world go still.

The whole place felt too quiet. Too intentional. Built for shade and silence, I had thought outside. Inside, it felt even more true.

Bronwyn watched me take it in but did not comment. Instead, she waved me after her and guided me down a short hallway. There was only one bedroom, tucked behind a sliding barn door painted the same dark color as the front door. The bed was neatly made with white sheets and a folded blanket at its foot. A dresser stood against one wall, and a small desk had been placed beneath the window.

“This is you,” Bronwyn said.

I stepped inside, my suitcase bumping softly against the doorframe. The attached bathroom was just as clean and modern as the rest of the house, with black fixtures, a glass shower, and a wide sink beneath a rectangular mirror. Across the hall was a small laundry room, complete with a washer and dryer and shelves stocked with folded towels and basic supplies.

It was more than I had expected. That somehow made me feel worse. I did not want to be impressed by this place. I did not want to feel the smallest flicker of relief at the idea of having somewhere private to collapse, somewhere my parents could not hover, somewhere no one could see me come undone unless I let them in. Bronwyn seemed to sense that too, because she did not make a fuss over any of it.

“I can take ya into town over the weekend,” she said as we moved back into the open living space. “Let ya get anything else you need. Groceries, clothes, whatever you didn’t bring.”

She set the keys on the marble island and slid them gently toward me. I looked down at them for a moment before picking them up.

“Thank you,” I said softly. The words felt inadequate, but they were all I had. Bronwyn nodded once.

“Fridge has some basics in it. Water, eggs, fruit, sandwich stuff. Coffee’s in the cabinet over there, and there’s a list on the counter with the Wi-Fi, important numbers, and the barn schedule.”

Of course there was a schedule. My eyes flicked to the paper beside the stove, but I did not move toward it yet.

“And tomorrow?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

Bronwyn’s mouth curved slightly. “I’ll come get ya before sunrise.”

I stared at her. “Before.”

“Before,” she confirmed, entirely too cheerful about it.

I exhaled through my nose. “Right.”

“You’ll live,” she said. “Probably.”

Despite myself, the corner of my mouth almost moved. Almost. Bronwyn headed for the door, then paused with her hand on the knob and looked back at me. For a moment, the teasing softened from her face. “Get some rest, Galadriel. First days are always the hardest.”

I did not know whether she meant the first days at the ranch, the first days after being uprooted, or the first days after admitting you were not as fine as everyone expected you to be. Maybe all of it.

I nodded. “I will.”

“Alright, then. Holler if you need anything.”

She stepped out into the heat, and I watched through the front window as she crossed the porch, climbed into the truck, and backed down the gravel drive. The sound of the engine slowly faded, swallowed by distance and open land, until there was nothing left but the hum of the air conditioning and the quiet of the house around me.

For the first time all day, I was alone. Truly alone. I stood in the middle of the living room for several seconds, the keys still pressed into my palm hard enough to leave marks. My phone buzzed again in my back pocket, but I ignored it. I already knew who it was. I grabbed both suitcases and rolled them into the bedroom, the wheels thudding softly over the threshold. I meant to unpack. Or shower. Or at least look over the schedule Bronwyn had mentioned so I could prepare myself for whatever fresh humiliation awaited me in the morning.

Instead, I sat on the edge of the bed. Then I fell back against the mattress with a long, exhausted sigh. The bed was softer than I expected. Cool sheets. Quiet room. Ceiling fan turning lazily overhead. My leg throbbed. My head ached. My chest felt hollow in that particular way it always did after too much travel, too many memories, and too much time pretending I was unaffected by either.

I closed my eyes.

For a few breaths, I let myself hear only the distant call of horses through the glass, the low whisper of the air conditioning, and my own uneven breathing. Lórien was safe. That was the only thing I could hold onto. Everything else could wait until morning.

When I finally forced myself up from the bed, I showered. The water pressure was better than I expected, hot enough to loosen some of the stiffness in my shoulders and wash the airport, the truck, and the barn dust from my skin. For a few minutes, I let myself stand beneath the spray with my hands braced against the tile, eyes closed, trying not to think about tomorrow morning. Trying not to think about cattle, borrowed boots, a borrowed horse, or Halbrand's infuriating smile if I somehow made a mistake.

By the time I stepped out and wrapped myself in a towel, the guest house had gone quiet around me again. Too quiet. I changed into a loose shirt and a pair of sleep shorts before dragging one suitcase onto the bed and beginning the tedious process of unpacking. Riding clothes first. Breeches, sun shirts, socks, sports bras, gloves. Then boots lined neatly against the wall because I could not stand the thought of them being tossed carelessly into a closet. Normal clothes came after, what little I had brought of them.

I had just folded one of my shirts into a drawer when my phone rang again. This time, it was not a text. It was FaceTime. I looked over at the screen and felt the first real flicker of relief I had felt all day.

The girls. Moríel and Sabina.

I grabbed the phone and accepted the call, balancing it against a pillow propped up at the head of the bed. Moríel appeared first, her dark hair falling loose around her face, sapphire-blue eyes bright with immediate amusement.

“Well,” she said, smiling through the screen, “she’s alive.”

“Ha ha,” I mocked, dropping onto the edge of the mattress. “Unfortunately for you, you’re still stuck with me.”

“Unfortunately?” Moríel repeated. “Please. You’d be unbearable without us.”

Before I could reply, Sabina finally connected to the call. Her white hair was braided neatly over one shoulder, and she was still in riding clothes, cheeks slightly flushed like she had just finished schooling.

“There she is,” Sabina said. “Our tragic exile.”

I rolled my eyes. “I hate you both.”

“No, you don’t,” Moríel replied easily.

I did not.

Moríel was older than both of us, more settled in a way I had never quite understood. She was married to one of my cousins, Celebrimbor. Already had a pair of twins, and somehow had another baby on the way while still managing to look annoyingly composed at all times. Sabina was the youngest of the three of us, and the least interested in anything resembling settling down. She loved riding, traveling, and disappearing into whatever country had caught her attention that month. In another life, I might have been more like her. Maybe I still wanted to be. But I had never met anyone who had caught my eye long enough to warrant that kind of thinking. The three of us had bonded years ago through horses, back when we had ridden on the U25 team together. Back before everything had changed. Before Fin died. Before riding became something sharp and tangled instead of the thing that had always held me together.

“So,” Sabina said, leaning closer to her camera, “how is it?”

I glanced toward the bedroom window. The pasture beyond the glass was dimming into evening, the last of the sun staining the grass gold. Somewhere out there, Lórien was tucked into her stall, probably covered in shavings again and perfectly content.

“It’s fine,” I said. Both of them stared at me. I sighed. “Lórien’s settled in nicely.”

Moríel’s expression softened at once. “That’s good.”

"And you?" Sabina began. "Are you settled?"

"Hardly," I stated softly. "We'll see after tomorrow."

Neither of them teased me or questioned what was happening tomorrow, knowing this was already so difficult for me. But before I could speak again, my phone buzzed with another notification, the banner sliding down at the top of the screen.

My mother. Again. Whatever softness had begun to settle in me vanished. I swiped the notification away without opening it.

“Let me guess,” Moríel said. “Your mother?”

“Who else?”

“Are you surprised?”

“Not in the slightest.” I leaned back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling. “Though I think she’s just trying to make sure her investment was worth it.”

Moríel’s mouth tightened. Sabina’s expression lost its usual brightness for a moment. Neither of them liked when I spoke about myself that way. I knew that. But it was difficult not to when my parents had spent years making it clear that my worth was measured in scores, ribbons, and how well I reflected on the family name.

“She’s checking because she wants control,” Moríel said gently, her motherly tone coming through. “That’s not the same thing as caring.”

I swallowed and looked away from the screen. “I know.”

There was a pause, heavy but familiar. The kind of silence only close friends could leave alone without trying to fill it too quickly. Then Sabina, clearly deciding we had lingered there long enough, leaned forward with a sly look.

“So,” she said, drawing out the word, “what’s he like?”

I frowned. “Who?”

“Oh, don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend you don’t know exactly who I mean.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Halbrand Kementari.”

I stared at her.

“Why would you care?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, far too innocently. “I might have done my research.”

“Of course you did.”

“And I might want to know if he’s as attractive as he looks in the photos on Insta.” I snorted and rolled my eyes, though an image of him flashed annoyingly quickly through my mind. Tall. Broad. Sun-browned skin. Auburn hair pulled through the back of his cap. That infuriating smile. The scent of leather soap, hay, and horses when he had brushed past me. I hated that I remembered it so clearly.

“He’s a prick,” I said.

Both women laughed.

“Of course he is,” Sabina said, sounding a little defeated.

Moríel tilted her head, studying me through the screen in that sharp way of hers. “That was very quick.”

“What was?”

“That answer.”

“Because it was true.”

“Mm-hmm.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Don't start.”

“I haven’t started anything.”

“You’re about to.”

Sabina grinned. “So he is attractive.”

“I did not say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“He is arrogant,” I said, sitting up straighter. “And smug. And he made comments about my training binder.”

Moríel blinked. “You sent a binder?”

“Obviously.” Sabina burst out laughing. “It was necessary,” I snapped, though there was no real heat in it. “Lórien has a detailed program. I wasn’t going to send her halfway across the world without instructions.”

“How detailed?” Moríel asked.

I hesitated, feeling the teasing was about to start again. Sabina’s eyes widened. “Galadriel.”

“It was color-coded.” Both of them dissolved into laughter. I grabbed a pillow and pressed it into my lap. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Moríel said again, still smiling.

Sabina wiped beneath one eye. “Please tell me he said something about it.”

“He called it terrifying.”

That only made them laugh harder. I tried to look offended, but despite myself, a reluctant smile tugged at my mouth. It felt strange on my face after the day I had had. Strange, but not unwelcome. Moríel noticed. Her expression softened again.

“I’m glad you called,” she said.

“You called me.”

“You answered,” she corrected. I looked down at the screen, at the two faces that had known me before the fall, before the funeral, before the meltdown at nationals, before everyone began speaking about me in careful tones like I was something fragile and inconvenient. For the first time since landing, my throat tightened for a reason that did not feel entirely awful.

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “I did.”

Sabina leaned closer to her camera. “And tomorrow?”

I groaned and fell back against the bed.

“Tomorrow, apparently, I’m helping move cattle.” There was half a second of stunned silence. Then both of them started laughing again. I covered my face with the pillow. “This is going to be the worst summer of my life.”

“I’m going to need all the pictures,” Sabina said, still trying to get her laughter under control. “Especially with the hat.”

“I would rather die than send you that,” I replied. Because I knew her. The second I sent it, it would end up somewhere it absolutely should not be. Her story. The group chat. Some ridiculous collage made to humiliate me. I could already imagine the caption.

Our fallen dressage princess goes full cowgirl.

No. Absolutely not.

Sabina only grinned, which told me she had probably been thinking exactly the same thing. Moríel cleared her throat, clearly trying to regain her usual calm composure, though amusement still lingered in her eyes. “Call us when you’re done tomorrow,” she said. “I know this isn’t what you wanted, but it may be good for you to get some fresh air.”

“I have had plenty of fresh air,” I said. “Too much, actually. It is everywhere here.”

Moríel ignored that. “You know what I mean.”

Unfortunately, I did.

“And maybe get laid too,” Sabina added. Both Moríel and I turned our glares on her at the same time. “What?” Sabina said, entirely unrepentant. “I’m just saying. Fresh air. New experiences. Tall, attractive trainer with an accent—”

“He is not attractive,” I cut in. Moríel gave me a look. I hated that look. “He is irritating,” I corrected.

“That was not a denial,” Sabina said.

“It was absolutely a denial.”

“It really wasn’t.”

I dragged a hand down my face. “I am hanging up now.”

“No, you’re not,” Moríel said, far too calmly. “You love us.”

“I tolerate you both at great personal cost.” Sabina laughed again, and despite myself, I felt some of the tightness in my chest loosen. It was ridiculous, really, how quickly they could make me feel like myself again. Or at least like some version of myself that still existed beneath all the grief and resentment and exhaustion. “I’ll keep you both updated,” I said.

“Good,” Moríel replied. She shifted against her headboard, and then a soft cry sounded in the background. Her expression changed at once, that effortless shift into motherhood I had watched so many times before. The teasing faded, replaced by a tired tenderness that made something ache quietly inside me. “Well,” she sighed, glancing off-screen, “I must bid you both adieu. Motherly duties call.”

“Go rescue the baby,” Sabina said.

“I always do.”

“Have a nice morning,” I said softly. “I’ll catch up with you both tomorrow.”

“You’d better,” Moríel said.

“And remember,” Sabina added, pointing at the camera, “pictures.”

“Goodbye, Sabina.”

She blew me a kiss. Then the call ended, and I was left in the quiet room again.

For a moment, I stayed where I was, phone still in my hand, staring at my reflection in the darkened screen. The silence of the guest house slowly settled around me, pressing into the spaces their voices had filled. Outside the window, the pasture had dimmed to a deep blue-green, the last of the light slipping away behind the open land. I set the phone down beside me and lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. It felt good to still have a piece of my life back in England with me. Moríel and Sabina were familiar in a way very little else felt anymore. They knew who I had been before everything went wrong. They remembered me before Finrod’s accident, before the fall, before my parents began looking at me like a problem they were tired of paying for.

But at the same time, it was strange how relieved I felt to be far away from all of it. No estate walls. No dinner parties. No trophies gleaming from shelves like silent accusations. No mother hovering over my shoulder with carefully sharpened concern. No father speaking in that clipped, disappointed tone that made every word sound like a business decision. Here, no one knew what I had been.

Not really.

They knew about the fall, probably. About Lórien. About whatever my parents had told Halbrand when they arranged this whole thing. But they had not watched me unravel in real time. They had not seen Fin’s empty office, the empty stalls, or the way my hands shook before I entered at nationals. They had not stood in the aftermath of everything and decided I was wasting potential.

Here, I could breathe.

Only a little.

Only for tonight.

But maybe that was what I needed most.