Rivendell is already too beautiful.

Too many waterfalls. Too much polished stone. Too many Elves moving like music instead of people. I’m trying very hard not to look like a Hobbit who has never left the Shire.

Then Legolas steps aside.

“I would have you meet my sister, Ellariel Thranduilion” he says.

Sister?

I turn, expecting someone delicate. Someone jeweled. Someone distant.

She steps forward.

White hair — not silver, not gold — but near winter-white, falling loose over dark woodland leathers. Twin daggers rest at her hips like they belong there.

Then I see her face.

The marks are unmistakable skin stretching from temple to cheekbone on both sides. No brows. No lashes.

And her eyes—

Completely white.

Clouded.

Unfocused.

She does not look at us.

She cannot. She's blind.

There is a moment — brief, honest — where my breath leaves me.

Not in discomfort.

Not in pity.

Just—

Oh.

She is the most striking person I have ever seen.

Merry leans closer to me. “Pip.”

I don’t answer.

Because I’m staring.

Openly.

Utterly.

Legolas continues, calm and proud, “Princess of the Woodland Realm.”

Not hidden. Not hushed. Not softened.

Proud.

That does something in my chest.

She stands straight, shoulders square. Taller than me by a good few inches, I’d wager. Taller than most of us, honestly. She holds herself like someone who knows exactly where she stands, even if she cannot see the floor beneath her.

I am absolutely staring.

Merry elbows me sharply in the ribs.

“Ow.”

“Close your mouth,” he mutters.

I blink.

I had not realized it was open.

Legolas’ eyes narrow slightly at me. “Is there something amusing, Peregrin Took?”

“No,” I say immediately.

Then, because I cannot seem to stop myself—

“She’s beautiful.”

Silence.

Aragorn coughs.

Gimli makes a choking sound.

Merry presses his palm to his face. “You cannot just say that.”

“Why not?” I whisper back, not whispering nearly enough.

“Because that is his sister.”

I glance at Legolas.

He is staring at me now.

Not impressed.

But I cannot help it.

“I meant it respectfully,” I add quickly. “Very respectfully.”

Merry hisses, “There is no respectful way you are currently looking at her.”

I try to stop staring.

I fail.

She doesn’t react to any of it.

Not the whispering. Not the awkwardness. Not the chaos I am apparently generating.

Her head tilts slightly.

Not toward me exactly—but close.

As if she’s listening.

Oh.

Right.

She cannot see me staring.

Which means if she knows I’m staring, it’s because I’m breathing too loudly or shifting my feet like a fool.

Merry leans in again. “You are doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“The smitten thing.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

Legolas’ voice cuts through us. “Mister Brandybuck.”

“Yes?” Merry answers instantly, far too innocent.

“Control him.”

“I am trying.”

I clear my throat and attempt dignity.

“I only meant,” I say, carefully this time, “that it is an honor to meet you.”

Better.

Still true.

Because it is.

There is something about the way she stands that makes everything else in the courtyard feel… less steady. Not fragile. Not wounded.

Strong.

Like frost that refuses to melt just because the sun rises.

I find myself stepping half a pace closer before I realize I’ve moved.

Merry grabs the back of my collar and yanks me subtly into place.

“Do not advance,” he mutters.

“I wasn’t advancing.”

“You were absolutely advancing.”

Gimli chuckles under his breath. “Lad’s gone already.”

“I have not,” I protest.

I absolutely have.

Because all I can think is—

She’s been through something terrible.

And she stands anyway.

She doesn’t hide her scars, doesn’t cover her face.

There is no shrinking in her posture.

No apology.

Just presence.

And I am, apparently, defenseless against that.

Legolas studies me with thinly veiled suspicion. “You are staring.”

“Yes,” I say, because lying feels impossible.

Merry groans softly.

“And why,” Legolas continues, “are you staring?”

“Because,” I answer honestly, “I’ve never met anyone quite like her, she looks like winter and steel.”