He sang as if the stars themselves were listening.

The melody was low, intimate. Meant only for her ears, though they sat in the open courtyard, where the trees leaned gently toward the sound and the soft light of early evening brushed the stone paths in gold. The Rivendell air, always sweet and green, held still for the song—no wind dared interrupt. She sat across from him, legs curled beneath her on a cushion he’d placed there himself, a cup of honeyed tea in her hands.

And she was smiling.

That smile—it undid him every time.

Lindir kept his gaze steady, his harp cradled lightly, fingers moving with practiced grace. The song was old, very old, though she would not know that. A courtship song. A final one. The last verse in a tradition that ended not with a kiss, nor a vow, but a shared note. She had listened to him sing so many times—little songs, playful songs, quiet melodies he wrote just for her—but this was different.

This one meant something.

She didn’t know that. Not yet. He hadn’t told her. He didn’t want to scare her. Everything had to feel… natural. Gentle. Like falling into a dream you didn’t want to wake from.

Because that was what he’d done with her.

When she’d arrived—this strange, radiant girl from a world beyond comprehension—it had taken every ounce of self-control not to fall at her feet. She had walked into his world with laughter in her mouth and wonder in her eyes, completely unaware of how every Elf in the valley turned to watch her pass. They noticed her. Spoke to her. Smiled at her.

He hadn’t liked that.

Of course, none of them could match his devotion. None of them sat with her in the gardens, showed her how to pronounce old songs, laughed at her mortal jokes. None of them brought her rose-dipped pastries in the morning or translated stories just so she could understand them better. He was her friend. Closest. First. Always near.

The others? They’d been gently redirected. Sometimes not so gently.

One had fallen mysteriously ill. Another had been called to Lothlórien for urgent business—odd, since Galadriel hadn’t sent word. And one particularly bold young guard who'd tried to offer her a braid had been reassigned to border duty, far from the main halls. Rivendell could be quite… flexible… when the steward of music whispered to the right people.

He only did it to protect her.

She didn’t need the attention. She didn’t need them. She needed someone who understood her, someone who saw her not as a mystery to be solved, but a song waiting to be sung back.

And tonight, he was offering her the final verse.

The last step. The moment when all she had to do was sing anything in return—a hum, a whisper, even just the smallest tune—and that would be it.

Tradition would seal it. Their hearts, in the eyes of Elves, would be bound. She wouldn’t even know what she’d done. Not until later.

He smiled, eyes soft, voice trailing off into silence as the last note hovered between them.

“I wrote that one for you,” he said, voice warm. “Do you like it?”

She looked a little shy, her fingers brushing the rim of her cup. She always looked like that after he sang. It made his pulse stutter.

“I thought,” he continued, still smiling, still gentle, “perhaps you might sing something in return.”