Caras Galadhon shimmered beneath lantern-light: gold caught in glass, hanging like stars surrendered from the sky. Music wove through the branches, light and ethereal, while dancers moved across the greensward in slow swaying circles.

I stood at my post — polished silver armor, bow in hand, expression calm and unreadable. The marchwardens of Lórien did not falter. We watched. We listened. We endured.

A messenger’s voice rose clear above the music:

“Announcing the arrival of Her Majesty Cynthia Singollo — Queen of Taur Im Duinath, Lady of the Living Rivers, Keeper of the Moonwell.”

The revelry faded. Lantern-flames steadied. Even the wind stilled.

You stepped into the glade like starlight had taken Elven form.

Your hair fell in white curls, moon-pale and shimmering, crowned in living birch. Your gown was silver and deep moss green, embroidered with river patterns and runes older than most in the court. Power — quiet, ancient, and patient — moved with you.

No one breathed.

Taur Im Duinath was a rumor, a whisper — a realm unseen by most, unheard of by many. A refuge of survivors. A river carved into forest, hidden from shadow and sunlight alike.

But its queen?

No one had seen you.

Until now.

And every immortal eye watched.

Even Lady Galadriel straightened in her chair, surprise flickering like candlelight across her perfect composure.

I felt the marchwardens around me shift.

One leaned near, whispering behind his hand:

“The Teleri queen… white-haired and moon-touched.”

Another answered:

“They say her realm turned aside a host of raiders without losing a single life.”

A third, lower still:

“It was her spear. She shattered shields as if they were reeds.”

My breath caught — not for beauty alone, though you were that — but for danger.

Graceful, yes. Radiant, beyond question. But a queen who fights. A spear-maiden, not a songbird.

That struck deeper than any silk or shining crown.

You moved among the gathered lords with quiet sovereignty, as though the night itself parted around your steps. You needed no announcement. No escort. No permission.

And I — guardian of the Golden Wood, loyal to Galadriel for centuries — found my fingers tightening on my bow.

Something unfamiliar, unwelcome, and unreasonably strong coiled in my chest.

I had no right to react. No right to look twice. No right to feel my heartbeat shift simply because you existed.

I was sworn. I was bound.

Yet I watched you take the dance floor — silver gown flowing like water, each step a ripple through the air — and the world tilted.

A marchwarden beside me exhaled:

“She moves like a blade unsheathed.”

I swallowed hard.

I could command soldiers. I could silence enemies. I could face darkness at the borders without tremor.

But watching you dance, knowing you were a queen of a realm allied to ours, knowing you were untouchable—

That nearly drove me to my knees.

I stood motionless, armor gleaming in lanternlight, bow in hand — a perfect statue of Lórien discipline.

Inside my ribs, the truth cut deep:

If my heart has ever belonged to anyone… it belongs to you now.

And you never even turned your head to see me.