The chamber hums with quiet unease. The Council of Elrond—Elves, Dwarves, and Men gathered beneath the carved arches of Imladris—has fallen to a low murmur of tension and expectation. Sunlight pools upon the marble floor, fractured through the high windows like shards of gold and glass.

Then I hear it—soft whispers passing like a current between those seated near me.

“She has come.” "Late King Olwë's pride and joy" “The Queen of the misted realm…” “Ulmo’s chosen.”

Even Elrond’s expression alters, subtle but certain, as a herald steps forward and lifts his voice.

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

A stillness claims the chamber.

And then she enters.

At first it seems as though the light itself bends before her—ribbons of silver and white spilling across the floor. Her guards precede her in perfect formation: six in number, each clad in moon-silver armor engraved with faint runes that gleam and fade like breath upon a mirror. Their steps are soundless, their motion fluid, as though they are not walking but flowing.

And behind them, she.

Her gown is a sweep of moon-silver veined in deep moss-green embroidery—leaves so finely stitched they seem to move when she does. A circlet of white birch and riverstone crowns her pale hair, braided high in a style of ancient statecraft, and when the light touches it, the air itself seems to shimmer. Her eyes—stars reflected in glacier water—catch mine for the briefest instant. The world tilts.

I have seen beauty in every age of Middle-earth, yet this strikes deeper. There is no artifice in it. She moves as the rivers must move—quietly, unhurried, yet with strength that nothing can defy.

A single breath escapes me. Gandalf’s voice breaks through my trance, low and edged with amusement.

“Careful, Master Greenleaf. Some lights burn too bright to stare at directly.”

I blink, the spell fracturing, though the ache remains. My fingers curl against my knee to still their tremor. I try to listen as Elrond rises to greet her, yet his words blur against the sound of her gown brushing stone, the hush that follows every motion she makes.

They call her Lady of the Living Rivers, but I think the name falls short. There is something in her presence that feels older than titles—like the first dawn on still water.

Something inside me shifts, sudden and sure.

Meleth nîn.

The thought is reckless, impossible, but certain. I know it as I know the pull of a bowstring or the scent of rain on oak.

Elrond gestures for her to take her seat, the council resuming its gravity, but I am no longer the same. The course of my life has been quietly, irrevocably altered—and I can do nothing but breathe in the sound of her name as though it has become the air itself.