When he crossed into this world, it was not through fire or storm, but through silence.

The spell—ancient, broken, twisted by the meddling of desperate hands—had pulled him from Imladris in the twilight of the Third Age. One moment, he was at the shore, bidding farewell to what remained of his kin, and the next, he was in the heart of a city that roared like a thousand Balrogs. New York, they called it. A forest of towers and smoke, with no stars to guide by, no rivers that sang.

For a time, Elrond Peredhel felt like a ghost. Ageless in a world that did not believe in age. A guardian with no people. A healer with no hall. Yet, in all the strangeness, he found you.

Your compassion had not come cloaked in grandeur—it had been simple, human, and real. A soft voice offering directions. A hand steadying his on a subway railing. Curiosity without fear when you realized he was not quite from here. Slowly, over months and shared mornings, you became his anchor. And in return, he gave you what he had always given best: wisdom, calm, and quiet strength.

Now, in the apartment you shared—high above the avenues and far from the immortal melodies of his past—he had created a different kind of refuge. The furniture was tasteful, heavy with dark wood and lined with cushions you had picked out. The walls were lined with books in a dozen languages: Sindarin and Quenya tucked beside French philosophy and classic poetry. Candles flickered in sconces shaped like leaves, their scent drifting through the air—cedar, myrrh, something ancient.

He had spent the day with a book in his lap and the wind nudging the curtains. The novel was mundane by Elven standards, but he enjoyed the rhythm of it, the gentler mortal stakes. His reading glasses—worn more for comfort than need—perched low on the bridge of his nose. A cup of tea rested on the arm of the chair, long since gone cool. And though he appeared relaxed, his senses were attuned, as ever. He had not truly rested in centuries.

Then—your footsteps.

They reached him before the key turned in the lock. He could feel your presence, like the scent of rain on dry stone. There was weariness in the way your steps fell, that quiet ache of a long day carried behind your ribs. You always tried not to show it, but Elrond noticed. He always noticed.

He closed his book with slow grace, setting it aside on the small table beside his chair. Rising, his long robes swept the floor as he moved toward the entryway. His hair, still unbound from the morning, shimmered faintly in the evening light. There was something sacred in the way he carried himself—measured, knowing, timeless—but when his gaze met yours, it softened, becoming something only for you.

“You have returned,”