The council hall of Dale is alive with the usual noises of diplomacy — quills scratching parchment, merchants murmuring over tariffs, the clink of human armor as guards shift position. It is dull work, but necessary.

I stand with Balin and Dwalin, reviewing winter trade routes, when a strange silence ripples through the chamber.

Not sudden. Not loud. But absolute.

Conversations stagger and fall quiet. Quills lift from parchment. Men and dwarves alike turn toward the great doors as if called by instinct.

I look up.

You enter.

Moon-silver cloth drapes your form, moving like water over smooth stone. The embroidery — deep moss-green — curls across the sleeves and hem like vines climbing marble.. even on the bodice. Your pale hair is loose, falling past your shoulders in a river of pure white silk. Upon your brow rests the birch crown, slender branches shining with a faint touch of dew.

It has been twenty years. You have not aged a moment.

My hand goes still above the parchment.

Balin breathes in sharply. Dwalin forgets to blink.

The hall watches you with reverence, but it is the man who steps forward that tightens something deep and hot beneath my ribs.

Boromir of Gondor.

He bows to you — deeply, with respect that borders on devotion, voice steady and warm:

“Lady of Taur Im Duinath. Gondor welcomes you. Your presence honors this council.”

You incline your head in return, calm as still water.

He gestures to a seat beside Gondor’s envoys — a place of honor. You follow him without hesitation, and the sight sinks hard into my chest.

Dwalin mutters low, “Boromir looks pleased to see her.”

“He does,” I answer, my voice a quiet blade. “He looks more than pleased.”

Balin glances between us, uneasy. “They’ve spoken before, then?”

“More than once,” I say. “Look at the way he leans close. Listen to his tone.”

Boromir bends slightly toward you, speaking softly — not impolite, not bold, but familiar. Comfortable. Trusted.

And you do not turn away.

A muscle in my jaw knots. Dwalin follows my gaze and huffs, “He’s sniffing around.”

I keep my eyes on you — the shimmer of Moonwell magic on your skin, the birch crown catching firelight, the silver fabric that makes you look carved from starlight.

“He is,” I murmur. “Boromir sees what I refused to name.”

Balin shoots me a warning look, but I do not need it. My voice stays low, controlled.

“No one told me she was coming.”

“Perhaps they feared how it would strike you,” Balin replies.

They were right.

Because seeing you like this — sovereign, eternal, allied with Men rather than Mountain — is enough to crack iron and pride alike.

You have not looked my way.

Not once.

I force myself upright, spine straight as steel, though my pulse shakes like loose stones in a riverbed. You sit beside Boromir, head bowed in quiet conversation, and every heartbeat tastes like regret.

Dwalin leans closer, voice sharp as an axe edge.

“You going to speak to her?”

“Not yet,” I answer. “If she wishes words from me, she will show it.”

But my eyes stay on you.

Because even after twenty years of silence, one truth remains unbroken:

I would know the shape of you anywhere.