[He speaks of his people, of their plight, and Galadriel listens. Her expression falls slowly, wearing down like limestone assailed by a strong current--it is so similar a fate to the one she fears. The elves here...they have fallen all the way, as far as they can, but his people, the Aen Seidhe are still waning. There is still enough of the light in them that she can see a reflection of the elves that dwell within Lorien.]

Of course. I would tell you anything you wish to know; I cannot tell you of the first days of the Eldar, but I can get nearer to them than any who yet live.

[She cannot restrain herself from asking, even though it was not the point of their conversation. Even though he had spoken about the phylacteries and the templars and, oh, how she could speak about the templars and their hubris--she cannot resist:]

If I may ask, how old are you?