Elrond x Reader

The Third Age seemed to be drawing ever so near, 3019 of all great things in this time, after a duration of relentless darkness. What felt like an eternity of shadow, and malice; a deserving peace swept over. Illuminating every crevice of land.

[Y/N] had lost her home during the War of the Ring. Where the shapeless Necromancer, Sauron, called upon his dark legions. Leaving burnt, and broken towns in their path. The smell of death over the dim, gloom; former majestic mountains. That had now towered in a fierce shape of black, obstructing the moonlight, swallowing the land in all direction.

[Y/N] had found herself at the Imladris, Rivendell. Accompanied by her companion: Glóin, named after the Dwarf lord, Thorin I, son. He, himself, was a lively Dwarf. Cautious, hot-tempered. Perhaps he was the reason they were fortunate on their travels. Any bit of the word: fortunate, at least. Having lost everything but their lives, or their friendship. His large, brown beard often hid the corners of his smile, but he too was grateful. Indeed the tint of his cheeks was rose soft when all the small things were a joy to have. Even the fish, still fighting the withering streams up North. Small hope in his eyes.

It was dusk when [Y/N] crossed the angelic realm of Rivendell, home of the Elves. Much to Glóin's suggestion on turning back elsewhere. [Y/N] had heard many tales of the former stronghold. Now a glimmering city at the edge of a narrow gorge of the river, Bruinen. An astonishing sight, as the sun crept through the golden, scarlet coloured leaves of the tall oak. The pale pink sky, a backdrop to the valley along the mountain. The archways of homes, open, alive and breathing the sacred air. It would seem she was altogether charmed.

A few years of Rivendell hospitality wasn't terrible at all. The Ñoldorin never turned away those seeking shelter at the grand white gates, across the stone bridge; where Bruinen gleamed like a string of pearls. [Y/N] was promptly at home; peace and meditation. Away from the ash, and the harrowing screams of war. She was attuned to life, nature, everything with a kindness in its spirit. It was no wonder she felt the pulse of harmony there. The moment her feet touched the smooth pathways, twisting into the tranquil assembly.

Legolas, son of the Elvenking: Thranduil of Mirkwood, Prince of the Woodland Realm, had come to visit often. Always by commerce or for councils, and debate. There were whispers that [Y/N] smiled more in his presence. Perhaps they were good whispers, perhaps not. The Prince of the Woodland Realm, and a woman from the ruined human towns of old North. Surely an unacceptable thought. Thranduil would have a fit, a fabulous one at that. Filled with gestures, and pomp; a handsome face, turned up high and squawking. [Y/N] laughed at the imagination of it. Legolas was a free-spirit, instinctual, a bit wild. Good with a bow, like [Y/N]'s father taught her to be as well. He was more a brother, an understanding soul. Part of the Fellowship, when others denied it out of fear. The duty to protect those they love, all that they love with a high sense of honour. Was as common in both of them, as breathing. If [Y/N] had feelings for this Prince Elf, it was not the kind the whispers of town foretold.

Glóin decorated himself a lifelong companion of [Y/N]. As many times as he had tried to leave, the sweet eyes of his friend had called him back. How did one end paths with a comrade who had seen the black of death, and scorch of fire all while remaining at his side? The day that they met, a pact was made. One of blood, and promise. The times had bound them in kindred form.

On late nights [Y/N] would slip away from the festivities within the Hall of Fire. The hall had a fire in it all year round, with carved pillars on either side of the hearth. It was used for singing and storytelling on high days but stood empty the rest of the time so people could go there to quietly think. The times called for cheers and a soothing music that flowed across the way. It poured in, like a divine chanting. Sindarin in tongue, and broken to her knowledge of the language. She had much of it to still learn.