Rivendell always knows before I do.

The valley shifts when travelers arrive—water leaning closer to stone, light gathering itself with quiet intent. I am standing near the lower arch when Gandalf’s staff sounds against the path, the Company emerging from the green folds of the world like a breath held too long.

Dwarves, travel-worn. Purpose clenched tight in their shoulders. Exile made visible.

And then—

I see her.

For a heartbeat, everything else falls away.

White hair, bright as moonfall against black armor worn not for ceremony but endurance. Taller than I remember, or perhaps the years have simply taught me how to see her more clearly. The Black Swan of Alqualondë, not returned in pearls or silk, but standing whole, unbowed, alive.

The valley seems to recognize her.

I do not consider propriety. I do not weigh the moment.

“Cyn!”

The name escapes me, familiar and unguarded, and I cross the space between us without hesitation, gathering her into my arms as though time itself has been mistaken. She is solid beneath my hands, real in a way memory alone never is, and I laugh softly—relief and wonder braided together.

“You found your way back,” I murmur, hands warm at her shoulders as I pull back just enough to look at her properly. “Rivendell has missed its echo.”

I feel it then—the shift behind her.

Stone tightening.

Thorin Oakenshield stands among his kin like a mountain braced against tide, posture rigid, gaze sharp and unyielding. The jealousy rolls off him in waves, heavy and unmistakable even to one who has spent his life listening rather than measuring.

I turn toward him, my expression settling into courtesy.

“Thorin Oakenshield,” I say evenly. “You are welcome in Imladris.”

His reply is immediate, clipped, iron-bound.

“I hold no song,” he says. “But you are Rivendell’s minstrel. Its Keeper of Song. I trust you will remember what is appropriate.”

The words hang between us—measured, guarded, unmistakably a boundary.

I incline my head in acknowledgment, my tone cooling without turning unkind.

“I hold song,” I answer calmly. “And memory. Both are safe here.”

My gaze returns to her at once, warmth rising again like a familiar refrain.

“There are paths the valley has kept for you,” I say gently. “Halls where sound lingers. Waters that remember your voice even if you have not used it in years.”

I gesture toward the deeper arches, toward the places where Rivendell keeps what the world would rather forget.

“You were young when you first stood here,” I add softly. “But you listened as though you already understood what music is meant to carry.”

The Company murmurs behind us. Gandalf watches with that quiet, knowing stillness of his. Thorin does not move, his presence a hard line in the air I choose not to acknowledge further.

“There is time,” I continue, unhurried. “Time to rest. Time to breathe. Time to let the valley remember you properly.”

I step aside then, offering the path without pressure, without claim—only invitation.

Rivendell opens around us, water threading song through stone, and I feel it with certainty:

Whatever she believed buried by loss has never been lost.

It has only been waiting—for harmony, for recognition, for a place where it is allowed to sound again.

And though stone may resist the tide—

Song, once remembered, does not ask permission to return.