The morning light of Imladris pours through the vaulted windows like poured silver. It runs along the marble, touches the standards of each realm gathered here — the banners of Men and Dwarves, the green of Greenwood, the white tree of Gondor — and comes to rest on parchment before me, where I wait for the council to begin.

The air feels poised on a blade’s edge — all these voices, all these centuries of pride and grief, gathered beneath one roof. I stand beside Lord Elrond’s dais, quill in hand, the quiet scribe of things too heavy for song.

Then the herald’s voice cuts through the stillness.

“Her Elegancy Cynthia Linquëlassë, Sovereign of Taur Im Duinath, Lady of the Living Rivers, and Keeper of the Moonwell.”

The name strikes through the chamber like the first note of a forgotten melody.

For a heartbeat I cannot move. The words vibrate through me before I can form a thought. Cynthia Linquëlassë. I had not heard it aloud in an age, yet I know every curve of it as one knows a refrain sung too often to forget. I brace myself, fingers tightening on the quill until its nib trembles against the parchment. The parchment beneath my hand blurs for a heartbeat as memory overwhelms reason — her voice as a child, her father’s soft laughter, the way she would slip into the Hall of Fire to listen from the doorway.

Footsteps follow—the measured cadence of her retinue. The men of Taur Im Duinath enter first, their armor brushed with silver and the dark green of moss after rain. They walk in perfect silence, the discipline of a realm that listens more than it speaks.

Then she appears.

Her men move as one, disciplined as branches in wind, before parting at the foot of the dais.

Between them, she walks.

Elegancy.

Her gown flows like living water — a cascade of moonlit silver and moss green that deepens with each step. Her hair is drawn up in a regal bun, not a strand out of place save for the delicate tendrils that soften the precision of the crown she wears: a circlet of white birch and silver filigree. No jewels glitter at her throat. Set within the bun, like a signature or a weapon disguised as ornament, rests a single white quill — pale as frost, catching the light as she moves.

I remember her laughter echoing in the Hall of Fire, the ink on her fingers when she tried to copy Quenya script from my notes, the scent of mint that clung to her cloak after rain. I remember all of it—and none of it belongs to the woman who now crosses the floor beneath the watching eyes of lords and kings.

Her eyes — green, sharp, alive — sweep the gathered assembly with the calm discernment of someone who already knows where truth will lie before it’s spoken. They pause briefly on each faction: the Dwarves, the Men, the Elves, and finally, on me. Not recognition, not yet — merely assessment. And yet I feel it like an arrow finding its mark.

“Imladris is eternal in its welcome,” she says, voice measured and fluid. “Taur Im Duinath comes in peace and purpose — that all free peoples might stand as one.” her voice carrying the calm of deep water.

The dwarves still their murmuring. Men exchange glances. Even the air shifts its weight.

Elrond inclines his head, answering with solemn grace.

“Then let peace be the root of this council, and unity its crown. Be seated, my lady.”

She moves to take her place among them, the trailing hem of her gown whispering like leaves across the marble. For an instant, her eyes find mine again — not lingering, but enough. Enough to unmake centuries of practiced composure.

I look down quickly, the quill in my hand trembling once before I still it. The council has only just begun, and already my heart is writing a history it has no right to record. The council has only begun, and already I am lost within it.