[Galadriel, who is thumbing through a book at her arm, shifts her hand and slams it closed. She does not rise to meet him, not yet, but she does look up. Nothing about her expression or the set of her shoulders is welcoming.]

How convenient also the sudden urge to speak of the past. Will you ever be free of it, you wondered so desperately, and yet here you are...reveling in it in an attempt to what? Sway me?

[Her expression is dark as she pushes her chair back and draws herself to standing. She does so gradually, deliberately, and her fingers press hard against the tabletop.]

You are not my cousin; I do not see him in you any more than I see the sun in the scones along the wall. You are a whisper who wears his face, a face too youthful and deceptive for the curses you carry. You are an echo of the words you used to shatter our final ties, and I have no desire to entertain your half-hearted apologizing further.

Begone thought, and trouble me no more.