Rivendell opens like a held breath.

White stone and running water, song threaded through the air whether one listens for it or not. The Company slows as we pass beneath living arches, boots echoing softly against paths grown rather than laid. I keep my posture rigid, eyes forward, refusing to be softened by the valley’s welcome.

She walks within the line.

Black armor, worn and practical, stands in stark contrast to Imladris’ pale grace. Her hair—white as moonfall—lies loose down her back, unbound, catching light with every step. It draws the eye despite my refusal to follow it.

Then Lindir steps forward.

He moves with the easy brightness of one who belongs here—laughter close to the surface, hands already lifted in greeting. His gaze sweeps the Company—

And stops.

His face changes instantly.

Recognition blooms, unmistakable and unguarded.

He crosses the space between them without hesitation and draws her into an embrace that is practiced, familiar, and entirely unselfconscious. His laughter rings out, warm and delighted, and he speaks her name as though no years have passed at all.

She does not resist.

She does not stiffen.

She is known.

The sight lands like a blow.

Lindir keeps a hand at her shoulder as he steps back, eyes bright, already speaking of halls and instruments and old melodies remembered and kept alive. He gestures animatedly toward the deeper paths of Rivendell, toward places where music gathers and does not fade.

I hear the word lyre.

My jaw tightens.

The Company murmurs softly—surprise, curiosity, approval. Fíli grins. Kíli looks openly relieved. Even Gandalf watches with that infuriating air of quiet satisfaction.

I stand rooted, fingers flexing at my sides.

This is not the strained politeness of court.

This is ease.

This is history woven through shared sound and memory. This is someone who knows her not as a title, not as a symbol of mourning or endurance—but as a companion in song.

Stone has no answer for this.

Lindir glances my way only briefly, offering a courteous nod before his attention returns to her, his enthusiasm undimmed. He speaks of evenings by water and voices raised together, of harmonies carried forward instead of buried.

I tell myself it should not matter.

But as they walk ahead—already in step, already conversing—I feel something sharp twist in my chest.

I have endured her silence. I have endured her defiance. I have endured the tide pressing endlessly at my restraint.

What I did not expect—

Was to see her welcomed.

To see her at home.

And as Rivendell closes around us in song and memory, I realize with grim certainty that this valley has given her something I have not—

And that knowledge sets my temper burning hotter than any argument ever could.