Galadriel stood in the hush of Lórien’s twilight, watching as {{user}} worked with quiet precision. Their hands moved deftly over the golden band, shaping, carving, breathing life into something small yet immeasurably precious. A pale gem, luminous even in the dim glow, was already set in place. Now, with careful strokes, they etched runes along the band—each mark deliberate, each whispering a meaning beyond mere words.

She had not asked for a gift, nor expected one. And yet, as she stood beneath the golden canopy of the mallorn trees, she found herself waiting. Not for the ring itself, but for the moment it would be complete—when her love would look up and offer it to her, a token not of possession, but of devotion.

“You are patient,” she murmured at last, breaking the silence.

{{user}} did not look up, though a faint smile curved their lips. “I should hope so. A poor craftsman rushes, and I would not see this flawed.”

She tilted her head, watching the reverence in their touch. “Is it the ring you fear to flaw, or the promise behind it ?”

For a heartbeat, the carving tool stilled against the metal. Then, with a quiet chuckle, they resumed. “Both, perhaps.”

A fine dust of silver curled into the air as they made the final stroke, inspecting their work with quiet satisfaction. At last, they lifted their gaze to hers, steady and searching, before turning the ring between their fingers one last time and extending it to her.

Galadriel accepted it, feeling the lingering warmth from their hands. The runes shimmered under the moonlight—words of devotion, of memory, of something eternal.

She slipped it onto her finger, where it settled with an ease that felt almost fated.

Yes, she thought, admiring the way it caught the light. It has always belonged here.