There is nothing in Middle-earth quite like a proper tavern after surviving battle.

Not the polished halls of kings. Not the careful feasts of Elves.

A low ceiling. A crowded floor. Tankards slamming hard enough to rattle wood beams.

I raise mine high.

“To victory!” I shout.

“To victory!” Merry echoes, already pink-cheeked and grinning.

The room erupts. Laughter ricochets off stone. Boots stomp in rhythm. Someone starts a fiddle that sounds half triumphant, half unhinged.

And I am alive.

“That's my elven lady over there!” I announce for the third—no, fourth—time, pointing dramatically across the room.

Boromir laughs into his ale. “We are aware, Took.”

“She’s magnificent!” I insist. “Tall as a tower and twice as steady!”

More cheering. Someone claps me on the back hard enough to nearly send me forward.

I weave through the crowd on bare Hobbit feet, which are not built for tavern floors slick with spilled ale. I nearly skid once, catching myself against a table leg.

“Careful!” Merry shouts.

“I am perfectly balanced!” I declare, immediately spinning too fast and having to grab a passing soldier to steady myself.

The music grows louder.

The air grows thicker.

The world grows warmer.

I dance. I sing. I shout about victory and fate and how I am the luckiest Hobbit in Middle-earth because that tall, frost-carved marvel by the wall chose me.

Every few minutes I point again.

“That’s my Wife!”

The men cheer.

Someone hands me another drink.

I don’t refuse.

It doesn’t occur to me that I should.

It doesn’t occur to me that the noise presses differently on her.

The stomp of boots. The crash of mugs. The sharp bursts of laughter too close, too sudden.

I don’t see it.

I’m too busy shining.

I spin again, laughing, and gesture grandly toward where she was standing.

“Look at her—”

The words stop in my mouth.

The wall is empty.

I blink.

That’s not right.

I squint through the haze of lantern light and smoke.

She was there.

Tall. Still. White hair bright against dark stone.

I turn slowly.

Perhaps she shifted.

It’s crowded.

Of course she shifted.

I push through the crowd, heart starting to pound in a way that has nothing to do with ale.

“Merry!” I call.

He appears beside me, flushed and delighted. “What?”

“Have you seen—?”

His smile falters.

“Oh.”

We split without another word.

I shove gently but urgently through soldiers and townsfolk.

“Excuse me— pardon— terribly sorry— have you seen a very tall Elven princess?”

They laugh.

I don’t.

The music pounds louder now, discordant.

For the first time tonight, I feel how sharp it is.

How unpredictable.

How the air shifts with every sudden movement.

I scan corners. Doorways. The shadowed edges of the room.

Nothing.

“Sam!” I call, catching sight of him near the hearth. “Did she step outside?”

Sam frowns. “I— I’m not sure, Mr. Pippin.”

My stomach drops.

I spin toward the door and nearly trip over my own cloak.

Bare Hobbit feet against wood as I push through the crowd again.

“Legolas!” I call over the noise.

He stands near the far table, composed as ever, though his eyes flick toward me immediately at the edge in my voice.

“I need you,” I say, slightly breathless. “I— I can’t find Ellariel.”

His expression shifts.

The tavern roars behind us, oblivious.

“You were with her,” he says evenly.

“I was,” I insist. “I was— I thought—”

My words tangle.

For the first time tonight, the warmth of ale feels like a weight rather than a glow.

“I didn’t see her go,” I admit.

Legolas studies me carefully.

“Describe the last place you recall her standing.”

“By the wall,” I say immediately. “Near the lantern. She was— she was steady. She always is.”

The noise crescendos again—someone slams a mug, someone shouts a song off-key.

My head throbs.

“For the first time,” I say quietly, more to myself than to him, “I didn’t see her.”

The words feel wrong the moment they leave my mouth.

Not see, but I didn’t notice.

I didn’t listen.

I was too busy dancing.

Too busy shouting.

Too busy being proud.

And she slipped into silence without me.