𖥔 ࣪˖ ⊹₊ ⋆ ➵𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐋 -OIALË
↪︎ legolas thranduillion
❝Yet you offer trust so freely. What makes you think I will not turn this blade on you?❞
❝if you wanted to, you would have done so already.❞
𝗶𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗵 ━Eliamäre daugther...
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━━act one 𖥔 ࣪˖ ⊹₊ nepenthe CHAPTER THREE the balance of leaning ⋆₊⊹˖ ࣪𖥔 THIRD AGE YEARS ━━180
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𖥔 ࣪˖ ⊹₊ ⋆ ↪︎
❝sky above,earth below,and peace within❞
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In the serene halls of Rivendell, the study of Lord Elrond was filled with a soft, warm glow from the late afternoon sun filtering through tall, arched windows. Eliaräme, barely fifty summers old, sat at her father's grand oak desk. Her delicate fingers toyed with a quill as she tried, with little success, to focus on the ancient scrolls laid out before her. Her dark hair fell in loose waves around her shoulders, catching the light and adding to her already ethereal presence.
Her head resting in her hands, fingers idly tapping against the smooth wood as Lindir, the loremaster, paced in front of her. The air was heavy with the scent of parchment and old ink, the warmth of the crackling hearth doing little to alleviate the growing impatience bubbling inside her. Scrolls, old maps, and ancient texts were spread out on the table before her, but the young elf's mind was far from the dusty pages of history.
Lindir stood by a large, ornate map of Middle-earth, his voice carrying the melodic cadence of a practiced storyteller droned on about the history of the kingdom. His voice was soothing—too soothing—and she found herself struggling to keep her eyes open.
The gentle elf had been speaking for what felt like hours, his voice melodic as he recounted the ancient tales of Imladris, but Eliaräme's mind was elsewhere. Her blue eyes kept drifting to the open window, where the sounds of the guards training outside called to her like a distant song. She stifled a yawn and shifted in her chair.
