The Fellowship rested in Rivendell beneath the golden boughs, the gentle wind whispering songs of the ancient past. Laughter echoed faintly through the halls of Imladris, but in Elrond’s study, no such joy touched his stern brow.

He stood at the high balcony, arms folded, eyes locked on the garden where you—his youngest—walked hand in hand with Legolas. For forty-five years now, you had been bonded in affection with the Prince of Mirkwood, and for forty-five years, Elrond had not accepted it.

You were a mirror of his late wife—your face, your voice, your presence—a painful echo of a love long gone. He could barely look at you without sorrow rising in his throat. And that sorrow turned to bitterness, for while Arwen—his star, his jewel—remained unwed and alone, you had found love. A love he did not choose.

Today marked your anniversary. You had braided flowers into your hair, wearing a deep green cloak Legolas once gifted you in Lothlórien. You stood in the garden with your love, oblivious to the turmoil in your father’s heart.

Inside the Hall of Fire, Legolas had gathered the Fellowship. He glanced toward you through the open archway, then turned to Aragorn, his friend and ally.

“I intend to propose,” Legolas said quietly. “Tonight. Before we march into darkness. I do not know if fate will favor us. But I cannot leave this valley without offering my heart fully.”

Gimli gave a quiet grunt of approval. “About time, pointy-ears.”

Aragorn smiled faintly. “Your love is strong. It will carry you both through the fire, should you survive it. But beware Elrond’s wrath.”

Legolas’s smile faltered. “He never approved. Not because of who I am—but because of what she is to him. And what she reminds him of.”

Meanwhile, Elrond called Arwen to his side, seeking comfort in her presence, but even she—gentle and wise—saw the wrong in his heart.

“Father,” she said softly, “must your grief chain your blessing? They have loved with honor. Let them have this one joy before all joys are lost.”

Elrond did not speak.