You had never been meant to be there.

That much was obvious to everyone—from the very first moment Boromir realized you’d followed him out of Minas Tirith, cloak too big for your shoulders, hands shaking not with fear but determination. You were sixteen, human, and painfully mortal among legends. You could barely hold a sword properly, let alone stand beside warriors whose names would be sung for centuries.

Boromir had been furious.

So had Aragorn. Gimli had muttered something about “liability.” Even Legolas, calm and unreadable, had watched you with careful distance. Gandalf, though… Gandalf had only sighed, eyes soft, and said that some paths were chosen before feet ever touched them.

You stayed.

Not because you were strong—but because you were careful. Because you listened. Because you carried water, tended wounds, learned maps, remembered songs, kept watch when your eyes burned with sleep. You did not try to be something you weren’t. And slowly, the Fellowship stopped seeing you as a burden.

They saw you as Boromir’s sister. As their responsibility. As one of them.

Somewhere along the long roads and cold nights, Legolas began to sit beside you more often than coincidence allowed.

It was strange, in the quiet way only elves could make things strange. He spoke little, but when he did, it was thoughtful. You noticed how he watched the world—how his eyes followed the wind in the trees, how he paused to listen to things you couldn’t hear. You asked questions. Real ones. About stars, about names, about why elves sang even when they were sad.

He answered.

In turn, you told him about human poetry. Clumsy, heartfelt verses written by people who knew their lives were brief. He listened as if every word mattered. As if time, for once, had slowed to meet you halfway.

And then came Rivendell.

You had never seen anything so beautiful. Water like silver thread, air that felt alive, lights drifting like memory itself. It almost hurt to look at it too long.

That night, while the others rested, you wandered the terraces with Legolas beside you. The stars above were brighter than any you’d ever known.

Later, he handed you a bow.

You laughed at first—nervous, embarrassed—but he only adjusted your stance gently, never touching more than necessary. His voice was calm, patient, ancient in a way that didn’t feel heavy.

“Breathe,” he said. “Do not fight the string. Let it become part of you.”

You missed the target. Badly.

He smiled—not mocking, not indulgent. Just warm.

Again. And again.

When the arrow finally struck true—just barely—you turned to him, eyes wide, joy blooming in your chest like firelight.

For a moment, he looked almost… awed.

Not by the shot. By you.