You stood in the soft morning light, preparing your horse for the long ride to Rivendell. The silver tack gleamed in the sun, and the quiet rustling of leaves in Lothlórien’s ancient trees was the only sound accompanying you. The journey ahead would take two weeks, but the urgency was clear.

Your mother, Lady Galadriel, had received a vision—Elrond would soon be calling a council of great importance. She believed it to be connected to whispers of the One Ring resurfacing. And so, she was sending you early. You were her only daughter, a fierce warrior, trained by the finest blades of Lórien, and sharpened by Galadriel herself, who once wielded power and grace in equal measure.

You welcomed the task.

With quiet pride and a warrior’s calm, you bid your parents farewell, their expressions solemn beneath the dappled light filtering through the trees. Though you could defend yourself, your mother insisted on sending a small escort—trusted Elves of your realm to ride beside you. Travel through Middle-earth was no longer safe, even for those born of starlight.

The days passed swiftly, your company moving through wood, vale, and river crossing. You rode like wind beneath moonlight, and at last, Rivendell revealed itself—serene and shining like a dream carved into stone and waterfall.

Lord Elrond greeted you at the gates, regal as ever, and beside him stood his daughter, Arwen, her smile warm and knowing. You dismounted with grace, nodding to them both.

“You have arrived in good time,” Elrond said. “Others have come as well—Hobbits, the wizard Gandalf, and Aragorn…”

His eyes flicked briefly to Arwen, whose expression remained composed. You gave her a subtle glance, sharing in her secret. You knew of Aragorn and Arwen’s bond—an eternal love, kept quiet. She had trusted you, and you had kept it safe.

Just as your mother foresaw, Elrond had summoned representatives from across the realms—Elves, Men, Dwarves. The council would convene soon.

As others arrived, you remained near Elrond, speaking quietly about Lothlórien’s latest omens. Then, movement at the far edge of the courtyard caught your eye.

You turned—and your heart skipped a beat.

There, among the Elves of Mirkwood, stood Legolas.

His silver-blond hair shone in the sunlight, his posture proud and regal, yet his eyes—their depth, their warmth—softened the moment they found you.

He smiled, and the years since you’d last seen him melted away.

“{{user}},” he breathed as he approached, joy lighting his features. “It has been too long, my friend.”

He reached for you, pulling you into his arms in a warm, strong embrace. The familiar feel of him—steadfast, comforting—sent a wave of warmth through your chest. You closed your eyes for a moment, resting your head against him, the connection between you as steady as ever.

You pulled back slightly, meeting his gaze with a smile. “Far too long indeed.”

His hand rose, fingertips gently brushing your cheek. His thumb lingered, drawing slow circles against your skin as he looked into your eyes.

“We have much to catch up on,” he said softly.

Then he leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead—a simple gesture, but one that carried the weight of years, of memories, of something more that still lingered quietly between you.