Songs Unspoken

Gil_galad.

The days were uneventful, yet the unsettling feeling that had plagued me for months remained, I had been waiting—for what, I did not know. Trouble, perhaps. A danger that would fall upon us from the sky, sudden and unyielding. Few knew of these thoughts, for I kept my face composed, as I had mastered over the millennia.

For now, things seemed to be quiet, running as they should. Meetings were mundane, revolving around travel routes, crop fieds, new trade proposals or occasional unrest here and there—nothing worthy of my immediate concern. I trusted my people, capable advisors to whom I had delegated tasks. My role, more often than not, was to read reports, attend those endless regular meetings and only intervene when I discerned a discrepancy.

The peace we had was long and hard-won, and I intended to preserve it, no matter what was the time offering, war or mundanity, a king needed to alert and constious and nothing eluded my careful watch.

This morning, I remained in my chambers, enjoying the serenity of Lindon. A bird visited my windowsill, keeping me company with its gentle chirping as I meditated and watched the trees sway in the breeze. This view never ceased to amaze me; Lindon’s beauty was timeless, ever-changing and yet constant.

I turned to a familiar book, one I had read countless times. It brought comfort, though such solace was fleeting. My attention was soon drawn to a commotion outside. I heard footsteps—measured but urgent—and saw the guards abandoning their posts below my window. Someone higher in the chain of command must have ordered it.

Trouble, I thought. It always finds its way to my door. I set the book aside, bracing myself for the inevitable knock. When it came, I wasn’t surprised.

Varohil entered, his expression as rigid as ever—a man of composure, even on the lighter days. But today, his bearing alone was enough to tell me the news would be grave. “Gil-galad,” he began. The absence of my title meant urgency, plain and clear. “The situation is serious. I have found a witch within our borders. She carries instruments of the devil.”

He approached my desk, opening his satchel with deliberate precision. From within, he retrieved an object wrapped in fabric, carefully unveiling it before me.

As soon as it touched the desk, it glowed.

I shot to my feet, the light seizing my full attention. The object was unnervingly smooth, crafted with precision far beyond anything I had seen. The light it emitted was no mere reflection—it was as though the thing produced it from within.

My instinct urged me to touch it, but cautious held me back. A piece of metal was attached to the object, etched with intricate carvings finer than any elven craftsmanship I had ever known. The light within moved, and then vanished, leaving the object black and inert once more.

“What kind of sorcery is this?” I uttered, my voice low. Varohil nodded grimly.

“I confiscated it from her myself. The woman is strange—her eyes unsettling, her attire finely made in a strange way, though I saw no staff on her. Perhaps she lost it in the woods. She had companions apparently, somewhere close by.”

My thoughts raced. Among my many worries, the arrival of a sorceress—and her unknown companions—was not one I had expected. I could not afford to let such a threat linger within Lindon’s borders. Witches were a rare menace, their existence little more than whispers from the East. In all my years, I had encountered only one in a long-forgotten battle far from here—not a formidable foe, but dangerous nonetheless. And now, Varohil was showing me evidence of one, in my own realm.

My gaze fixed on the strange object. My voice, when it came, was resolute.“Bring her in,”

Varohil left to fetch her, and in those mere seconds, a thousand thoughts raced through my mind. Suspicion and danger mingled, but strangely, fear was not among them. The device seemed utterly innocent in appearance—but I knew better than to trust appearances. Deception often wore the guise of innocence.

Before I could fully collect my thoughts, the door swung open with force. Varohil strode in, gripping the witch by her arm. She was cloaked and hooded, her form dwarfed by his imposing stature. He propelled her forward harshly, his voice gruff. "You’d best mind your tongue and actions, witch," he growled, pulling back the hood.

And then, my eyes met hers.

The witch looked terrified. Her large eyes brimmed with unshed tears, her cheeks already streaked with the paths of many that had fallen. She was gagged, and Varohil removed it brusquely. She gasped for breath, her gaze darting frantically around the room like a cornered animal. Finally, her eyes landed on me.

She looked me up and down, but I focused on her eyes—windows to the soul, as my mother often said. Those dark orbs held a peculiar glassiness, as if tears clung to their surface, refusing to fall. Her breathing was uneven, and I hesitated, watching her carefully, waiting for a reaction.

Her appearance was disheveled. Hair tangled, clothing strange and foreign. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it again, her face pale. For a moment, I thought she might faint.

Breaking the silence, I spoke with measured authority. "You are in the presence of the king. Speak truth, and you will find kindness. Speak lies, and you will find regret."

She flinched, visibly shaken. Finally, she nodded. "I demand to know," I continued, "who you are and how you came to possess such devices."

She hesitated, as if struggling to form coherent words. Then, in a voice tinged with disbelief and raw fear, she said, “Hi.”

I blinked. Hi? Really? Of all the responses I expected, that was nowhere on the list. My eyebrows shot up. "Greetings to you, too," I replied dryly, offering her the opportunity to speak. It was a tactic I often employed in debates—when frightened, people tended to reveal more than they intended. Apply pressure, and they would retreat.

She swallowed nervously. “What… what is your name?”

Varohil stiffened, his glare sharp as steel. “You dare to ask questions of the king?” he barked.

She pressed on, her voice trembling. “Am I… am I in Lindon?... Really? I mean, aren’t you all a theater troupe or something?”

The raw fright in her voice gave me pause. She was strange, no doubt about that. “I assure you,” I said, watching her closely, “this is no theater, and I am no actor”

She blurted out, “You mean you’re really a… a fucking elven king?”

Interesting, I’d heard vulgar language before, of course, but never from a woman—least of all one standing in the presence of royalty. Varohil’s patience snapped, and he grabbed her arm roughly, telling her to mind her language.

Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks, and I raised a hand, signaling him to stop. “Do I look like I’m joking to you?” I asked evenly, my tone firm.

She shook her head vehemently. “No! No, I’m sorry, but I… I…” She stammered, words tumbling out before she could catch them. Then, as if finding some measure of composure, she asked hesitantly, “Are you… Gil-galad?”

Varohil’s grip tightened, and his voice rang with disdain. “You are in the presence of the High King of the Noldor, Ereinion Gil-galad, and you will address him properly. Mind your tongue and your behavior, or I will ensure you learn respect.”

She nodded rapidly. “All right, all right! Just—just give me a second.”

She took several deep breaths, visibly trying to calm herself. I studied her in the brief silence, noting her innocent aura. I wondered if witches were capable of such deception. That dark sorcerer I had seen, had looked unmistakably wicked. This girl, by contrast, seemed harmless.

Finally, she spoke again, more coherent. “My name is Celin. And I’m not a witch, you see? I’m human. Perfectly incapable of doing anything… witchy.”

I studied her intently, scrutinizing her every small movement. Was it possible she had been deceived? Could she have obtained these objects unwittingly from a witch? It wasn’t my nature to be naive, but strangely, I sensed no danger from her, and I belived in my scences, however I didn’t act on them alone. She seemed, at most, a mere woman—if an unusual one.

She bit her buttom lip nervously, taking in every detail, as if not yet believing where she stood. “Please, …believe me,” she pleaded. “If I were a witch, wouldn’t I have at least put up a fight against this big guy here?” She gestured vaguely toward Varohil. “Or… I don’t know… cast some kind of spell on you? Isn’t that what witches do?”

Her words were laced with desperation, and while there was little logic in her reasoning, it was clear she was trying to appeal to mine. Unfortunately for her, I had lived far too long to be easily swayed by such attempts. She was young, perhaps in her twenties—still in the spring of her life. Humans grew and withered so quickly, even if they turned to dark arts.

I tilted my head slightly and responded evenly, “You are hiding something. We already have enough evidence to know you are not the simple human you claim to be. Do not waste our time with circles. Tell us your intentions, and do not make it harder for either of us to uncover the truth.”

It took a reaction out from her. Her fear became more pronounced, her voice small, “Are you going to torture me?”

I had never ordered the torture of a woman, and I had no intention of starting now, but she didn’t have to know that. I spoke sharply, “That is up to you. Speak the truth, and you will have no cause for such fears.”

The room fell silent, the weight of my words pressing upon her. Finally, she broke it, her voice hesitant but laced with a new determination. “If I talk… will you take me back to where he captured me?”

“No,” I replied firmly. “If you answer, I will ensure you have a room to rest, food to eat, and time to recover. Then we will decide what is to be done with you.”

For the first time, a flicker of defiance sparked in her eyes, an ember of rage maybe. “And if I refuse?” she challenged.

I met her gaze unwaveringly. “Then we will wait until you do. Time, as you know, is something we elves have in abundance.”

That famous, simple and efficent line, was often enough to break the resolve of humans. They quickly understood that a decade in a cell was but a blink to us, yet an eternity for them, simple truth. She seemed to grasp this, but her response was unexpected.

“I will talk,” she said, her voice steadying, “but only to Glorfindel.”

Varohil growled, his grip on her arm tightening. “You dare to set conditions for the king? He has been far too kind to you already, witch!”

I raised a hand to silence him, though my patience was wearing thin. She was asking of the Gondolin’d hero, but why, I will find out later. “There is no Glorfindel here in Lindon,” I said curtly.

“You’re lying,” she accused, a note of uncertainty in her voice.

My eyes narrowed. “I have no need to lie to loosen your tongue, girl.” I retorted. My strategy remained patience and observation; I had yet ample time to reach a conclusion.

She hesitated, her defiance faltering. Tears began to gather in her wide eyes as she whispered, her voice trembling, “But… if this is Lindon… and you are the king… shouldn’t he be here?”

Her question was bewildering, unsettling for me and it only served to test my patience further. “He is not,” I replied, my tone growing sharper. “Speak plainly. Whoever you talk to, their words will reach me in the end.” My words seemed to make sense to her, and she paused.

In a softer voice, she said, “Please… don’t be angry.”

I felt a pang of pity for her, but I kept my expression neutral. This was no time for softness. I merely nodded, urging her to continue.

She swallowed, gathering her courage. “Is there… a half-elf named Elrond here?”

Her request unsettled me, again, why was she asking, and why after him. I paused, carefully weighing my options. I trusted Elrond without reservation; he was one of the few in whom I had unwavering faith. The Maia blood in him granted a keen sense for evil, or I believed so,which could prove invaluable now. Even so, I remained reluctant to share unnecessary information with anyone.Still, the urgency of the situation outweighed my hesitations. The device she carried demanded answers. It was too strange to ignore, and deep down, I did not want to resort to torturing this frightened girl—at least, not until I had exhausted other options. I decided to indulge her, for now.

I waved a hand toward Varohil. "Bring Elrond here. Tell him of what has transpired."

Varohil inclined his head and was about to leave when I ordered him to untie her hands and to take back the cloak.

The girl—Celin, I recalled—seemed visibly smaller without the bulk of Varohil’s heavy cloak. Her hands, freed, rubbed at her wrists as though trying to soothe the marks left by the rope. She appeared shocked at my swift acceptance of her request.

I studied her attire, unable to make sense of it. It was uncommon, some might deem it indecent by elven standards, yet the craftsmanship was undeniably refined. Jewelry adorning her were equally intricate—delicate pieces, some embedded with small, shimmering stones that caught the light like tiny stars. It was clear she was not destitute or desperate. Everything about her suggested wealth and precision, though nothing adhered to the fashion or materials of either mortal or elven design.

She carried a small satchel of equally fine craftsmanship. Perhaps Varohil, in his haste, had neglected to take it from her. I gestured toward the satchel. “Place it on the desk.”

She did as I asked, slow and deliberate, but as she placed the object in front of me, she had the audacity to add, "Don't open it, please."

I fixed her with a cold gaze. "You dare give me orders in my own realm, in my own room?"

She bit her lip, a nervous gesture I gather. "No! I mean, you’ll have more questions than answers, but I assure you, everything in it is simple."

I spoke curtly. "I decide what is simple. Not you."

I inspected the strange object before me—a mix of metal and leather. A metallic strip with interlocking teeth caught my eye, its precision baffling and irritating in equal measure. Frustration simmered as I turned it over, my wariness growing.

She called it a “zipper,” I ordered her to sit before she utter another word. I opened the satchel, marveling reluctantly at the mechanism even as I felt the sting of my skepticism. Despite my frustration, I thought, why us elves never made such a thing, surely our artisans can make it, and I wondered on my own lack of sentiment, I was in the middle of a mystery and in the very beginning of a very long interrogation, and here I was wondering in the craftmanship.

Inside were items just as alien: two crinkling rectangles, with words in Western, a smooth, vividly colored flat object, and a small white cylinder. Their simplicity mocked me.

“I can explain,” she said quickly, almost pleading. “They’re not evil. Not at all.”

“Begin,” I said curtly, suspicion lacing my words.

She described the items with a nervous tone: food wrapped for preservation, a key—though nothing I recognized—and a cosmetic she called “lipstick.”, she gestured to me how to open it, a rosy color picked from inside of it as I twisted it. She even went so far as to offer me permission to break or open the items to inspect the truth of her words, as if I needed her consent.

I set the items on my desk, each one a puzzle without a solution. The weight of the mystery pressed on me, my skepticism of a threat battling a reluctant sense of wonder.

She still sitted on the sofa was utterly nervous, playing with her long dark hair, fidgeting constantly. She placed her hands over her eyes and took deep breaths, trying to calm her nerves. Once again, I pitied her.

I wanted to offer her water, but her belongings on the table was too unsettling for me to act kindly toward her. All I could manage was not to be unkind. She didn’t glance at me, and we waited in silence. Maybe half an hour passed. I was perfectly fine watching her, and structuring my thoughts. Finally I heard Elrond’s hurried steps. He entered briskly, his gaze shifting from me to the girl. He greeted me formally. "Your Majesty, you called for me."

I gestured toward the girl. "She is the one who called for you."

She rose from the sofa, her eyes swept over Elrond. She seemed to take him in, scrutinizing him as though measuring his reality. Then, with the same peculiar hesitance as before, she blurted out her line: "Hi."

Elrond’s eyebrows shot up, but he returned her greeting politely and observed her, as I have done.I pointed to the objects on my desk, and we conversed in Sindarin in detail. It was clear she couldn’t understand us, and Elrond’s expression confirmed his suspicion. He shared that, he could sense no malice from her, a reassurance that helped, though didn’t fully calm my own doubts. Despite his insights, we were of one mind—the girl needed to offer us an explanation.

Whatever was happening, we stood on the edge of one of the strangest tales of our times. I turned my attention toward her. “Now that your request is honored, I expect you to speak the truth about who you are and how you came to possession of these instruments.”

Elrond nodded beside me. The girl—Celin—was eying him with curiosity. We waited patiently for her to begin. “Well, I don’t know how to say it. I… ahm, I… well, you see? I am a human. And a woman. Clearly.”

As if we could mistake her for a man. “I mean, I’m not a witch, and those things on your desk—they are not witchcraft, they are all made by humans.”

I frowned, my patience gone. “Your words are not enough.”

“I don’t know how to prove it,” she said hurriedly.

Elrond’s voice broke through “Maybe by simply talking about them”

She looked at him, sighed, and finally said, “I think I’m not dreaming. If you are as real as I am, then I’m in another world entirely… which means you know nothing of my world, and you won’t believe me. And you’ll probably execute me in the end.”

Her reasoning, while fear-laced, was absurdly amusing. Her conclusion, carried an almost childish logic. I had considered the possibility that she was either a witch or a lunatic, and by the look on elrond’s face, he was considering the same.

“From where do you hail?” I asked, taking a direction.

She answered irrelevantly, her tone desperate. “Believe it or not, I’ve read about you. I know I’m in the Second Age, in Middle-earth, in Lindon.”

She looked at us as though expecting shock. But that much was common knowledge among mortals. Her fearfulness still lingered, but she was clearly trying to let it go.

“That much is obvious,” I said curtly.

She nodded, pausing as though to collect herself, her words deliberate: “Well, I know more than that. For example, I know Elrond’s brother, Elros, was the first king of Númenor.”

Her statement, though true, elicited no reaction. Many mortals knew these details. She seemed to understand that her knowledge was insufficient and pressed on, weighing her next words carefully.

“I know Maedhros and Maglor raised you,” she said, turning to Elrond. “They cared for you, taught you how to fight them and how to win them, if that ends to it. And I know you loved them in return, though I doubt you admit it publicly here in Lindon.”

Elrond’s jaw tightened, his composure shifting almost imperceptibly. Few indeed knew such personal truths about him.

“And you,” she said, turning to me now, her eyes full with fear. “Your father also took part in the kinslaying. He didn’t know the cause, but he still had blood of his kin on his hands.”

Her words struck a nerve deep within me. My father was a great man—a fair ruler, a wise king. He had carried the weight of his deeds with dignity and regret. Yet, those who knew of such things were few, and no one spoke of them openly. How had this strange girl come to possess such intimate knowledge? She must have seen the fury rise in my eyes, for she quickly added, “Oh, I think he was a great person.”

I could feel my anger surging. How could she know such things? as I struggled to contain the storm inside me, I realized that her fear was just as real as my own confusion. Elrond interrupted my thoughts, his voice sharp and demanding. “Who told you this?”

“No one,” she said, fear lacing every word. “From where I come, there was a man who wrote these things down—as tales. Maybe he was a seer and looked into your stories. I don’t know. I’m as lost as you are. I was walking in another place, chasing a fawn, and then your guards took me.”

A seer? The idea was not unheard of, but her belongings on my desk remained an unsettling enigma. I leaned back, considering her words. I asked pointedly, “Answer me, from exactly where do you hail?”

She hesitated, her eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape. “Ahm,..this is the most… strange part. The part where you may decide I’m crazy or—something.”

She swallowed, fidgeting with her hands. “Well… I come from another place. You know—actually, you don’t know.”

I narrowed my eyes, my patience fraying. “Spit it out.”

She said. “I think somehow I have crossed into your world, you see, it means I am from another world entirely, maybe another time.”

This witch was either mad or assumed us to be utter fools. My gaze flickered to Elrond, half-expecting him to share in my state, but to my surprise, he was thoughtful. He tilted his head, his eyes studying her carefully. “Another world, you say?” he asked.

Elrond, of all people, entertaining such nonsense?

“Yes! Yes!” she nodded, her voice laced with desperation. “You see, these things—these objects—are from that world! They’re common there. We don’t have witches or Morgoth or anything like this!” She paused, searching our faces for any trace of understanding. “Please… believe me.”

She had no idea how to convince us—her words clumsy and wild. A poor liar.I could not decide if she was insane or something unprecedented.

I asked her sharply, “Who were your foes, then?” I expected names—perhaps those of the Enemy’s servants, or some half-formed lie that would betray her ignorance. Instead, she paused, thinking hard and for the first time, there was no clumsy nervousness.

“That is not the case,” she said quietly, her tone far too steady. “But do you know your own foe? I am not sure where in the timeline we are... but you should be prepared for Sauron.”

The name only was enough to quicken my pulse. Sauron. The name was poison—a shadow that should have been banished with Morgoth, a threat defeated, scattered, and forgotten- not for me. She has echod my own troubling thoughts, and has put a name on them.

I took long breathes, Elrond was silent, she was frightened but she was the one who broke the silence “ I… have read these things, I am not certain, but if this place is true and you are a real person, then what I say might have some kinda meaning.”

She spoke coherently, and while her words sounded improbable, they were not entirely impossible. I took deep breaths to steady the troubling thoughts stirred by hearing the Deceiver’s name. I had never encountered tales of other worlds, nor devices like hers, nor anyone quite like her. There was an undeniable strangeness about her—unfamiliar, certainly, but not overtly malicious.

Elrond’s voice broke the silence. “You claim to know of our past and present,” he said, his tone measured, “so you claim to know our future?”

She nodded slowly, before she could say anything, I raised a hand. “No. Foreknowledge is dangerous, even when it comes from an untrusted stranger.”

She inclined her head toward me. “I wish you never ask me for that.” she murmured.

I acknowledged her words with a nod and motioned for her to sit. I could not lash at her for mentioning our foe, my mind needed clarity, and for that, I required counsel.

Moving to my desk, I penned a letter, sealing it with urgency. Handing it to Elrond, I instructed him to send it by our fastest rider to the Grey Havens then to dispatch Varohil and a squad of guards to scout the area where she had been found, hoping their search would yield something of value to be used as a lead.

She was nervous, trying hard not to cry, maybe she was not a complete lunatic, she lacked the deliberate guile of a seasoned liar. If she were a spy, she was a poor one—a curious choice to manipulate the lords of the Eldar.

And yet, an unwelcome thought crept into my mind: What if she is telling the truth? If she truly had stumbled here, a stranger from another world, then she was in a pitiable state—alone, stranded far from everything familiar, and cast into a world that offered her neither welcome nor solace.

During my long reign, I had given refuge to many in need. I had sheltered the oppressed, extended aid to the exiled, and forged bonds of trust and friendship in the process. If her claims were genuine, I would extend the same generosity to her—but not yet.

For now, I would rather endure her tears than risk the cries of a woman becoming the cause of my failure to protect my people.

She asked for water, and I obliged. As she drank, a troubling sound came from her stomach. Poor mortals. Embarrassed, she placed a hand over her abdomen, as if that could silence her hunger. I ordered food for her. She thanked me quietly and ate without a word.

Mortals often delight in elven fare, savoring the delicate flavors as if they’d never tasted anything so fine. But she didn’t seem surprised or impressed. She ate as if such quality was commonplace to her. That realization gnawed at my curiosity. It wasn’t just the food—she hadn’t shown the faintest awe at my room, its craftsmanship, or my various instruments. Despite my efforts to conceal it, I had displayed far more wonder at her strange possessions than she had at anything in my world.

Later, she hesitantly asked about a bathroom or lavatory. Humans and their frequent needs. I led her to my restroom, explaining the use of the running taps and water system. To my astonishment, she seemed entirely unimpressed, as though such conveniences were mundane.

She stayed there for an unsettlingly long time. When she emerged, her face was damp, her eyes still rimmed red. We sat in silence for a time. She was less nervous now but restless, her hands fidgeting or her gaze flitting around the room landing on the paintings hanging from the wall. Sitting still seemed impossible for her, unlike for me.

The strange quality of her eyes drew my attention again. There was a peculiar reflection on the surface, almost like polished glass. Without much thought, I said, “Your eyes are strange.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Oh? What do you mean?”

I leaned forward slightly. “As if there is glass in them.”

To my surprise, she smiled—which turned into a grin and I noticed then, and only then that she was beautiful and that smile made it undeniable to ignore. “Ah,” she said, “That’s because there is something in them.”

She raised a hand and placed her index finger directly against her eye. Horror froze me as I watched her drag it aside, pulling something small and delicate from its surface. She stood and approached me, holding it on her fingertip.

“This,” she said, holding it closer to me, “is what you think is glass. It’s called a lens, made from a material I don’t fully understand. It helps me see better.”

I blinked, utterly flabbergasted. She offered the tiny, transparent object to me. Hesitant, I took it between my fingers. It was delicate, almost weightless. “This helps you see?” I managed hardly, still reeling from the absurdity of what I was holding.

“Yes,” she replied matter-of-factly. “My eyes are a bit weak. I have trouble seeing things that are far away. And as I said before, in my world, we have other technologies, it is one of them.”

Before I could respond, she did the same to her other eye, removing another of those things. She held it up and began to explain. “These are soft and shaped to fit the surface of my eye. They bend light in just the right way so that things that would otherwise appear blurry to me come into focus.”

I stared at the second thing in her hand, my mind struggling to reconcile the simplicity of her explanation with the marvel of the object itself. This fragile thing, so small and unassuming, was capable of something so extraordinary, witchcraft or not, if her claim was true, they were marvels.

As I turned the first transparent thing_lens she called, over between my fingers, I realized I was probably holding proof of a civilization both alien and astonishingly advanced. For the first time, I felt the enormity of what her presence can mean.

She smiled, evidently amused by my reaction. I realized my composure had slipped and quickly gathered myself. Still smiling, she said, “You can keep them if you want. I can’t use them anymore, anyway.”

I frowned. “Why not?”

“They need to be stored in a special liquid overnight to stay clean and safe for use. I don’t have that liquid here, obviously.” She shrugged and sat back, her casual tone at odds with the novelty of what she had just handed me.

For a fleeting moment, the thought of commissioning a pair of spectacles for her crossed my mind. But I quickly chastised myself—she had yet to prove she wasn’t a spy or a witch, or any sort of threat to Lindon. Until her intentions were clear, I would do nothing to ease her situation.

We waited in silence_ not a peaceful one, for me at least, my thought flying in every direction_ until Elrond returned. I shared the lenses with him, the small collection of her strange belongings steadily growing on my desk. We conversed in Sindarin. Elrond, ever the healer and scholar, was captivated. His curiosity quickly turned to questions.

He began asking her about her claimed world’s medicine and healers. She seemed to welcome the questions. Elrond, for all his wisdom, listened with wide-eyed fascination, like a child marveling at a new discovery. She described vaccines—how they prevented illnesses, saving countless lives alongside other things, all strange and unbelievable to us.

We questioned her thoroughly, I will admit, first to quell our own curiosity, second for finding any discrepancies in her words, seeking cracks in her story. If she was weaving a tale, it was an intricate and remarkably coherent one, and I had to remind myself over and over not to be carried away, the strange air of innocence around her was distracting us.

Night fell, and a decision had to be made. She could not yet leave my presence, nor did I trust even my most loyal attendants to interact with her. Reluctantly, I concluded she would sleep in my room—in my bed.

I explained the sleeping arrangement to her, and she approached the bed hesitantly, her fingers brushing the fine elven fabric as though testing its quality. Then, to my astonishment, she leaned in and smelled the sheets. Elrond and I exchanged a quick glance, both suppressing a chuckle.

She seemed to deem the bed acceptable but hesitated again, her voice cautious: “Where will you two sleep?”

I replied, “We elves don’t need much of it.”

“So… you’re going to stay here?”

“Yes.”

Her expression shifted, fear flickering across her face as though wrestling with an unspoken concern. Then she blurted out, “So… you’ll stay exactly there?”

It dawned on me then—she was afraid we might harm her while she slept. As though her waking state offered her any advantage against us, should we wish her ill. The very notion was absurd. Among elves, such mistrust was unheard of, and I found myself pitying her. Witch or not, she was just a lone maiden, surrounded by two hardy elves.

Elrond, ever cheerful, chimed in, “I might get up from the sofa and do some stretches.”

He hadn’t yet caught on to her meaning, and she grimaced in response.

“No one will disturb you during your sleep,” I assured her firmly.

Her gaze hardened. “You promise?”

“Yes.”

From Elrond’s slight change in expression, I could tell he had finally understood her worry, though he said nothing further. Instead, he offered her a warm, encouraging smile.

She slipped off her strange shoes and socks before climbing into the enormous bed, pulling the blanket completely over her head. For a moment, it seemed as though she’d disappeared entirely beneath its vast expanse.

Elrond raised an eyebrow and quipped, “Will she even be able to breathe under there?”

I smirked faintly. “I suppose so.”

The night passed in uneventful quiet, though she occasionally shifted beneath the blankets. Elrond and I spent the hours speaking in hushed tones, recounting every human settlement we knew and revisiting every tale of witchcraft or sorcery we had ever encountered. We searched for threads of sense, yet none presented themselves.

When morning came, she rose slowly from under the heavy blankets, her movements sluggish, her hair disheveled. For a fleeting moment, she looked almost like a child, rubbing sleep from her eyes. When she caught sight of us, her gaze widened with alarm. Clutching the blanket to her chin, she murmured, “What...” as if momentarily forgetting where she was.

Elrond, ever the healer, spoke gently, his tone kind and soothing. “Easy, child. You are in Lindon, in King Gil-galad’s chambers.”

She blinked at him, her expression slowly shifting from startled confusion to weary acceptance. After a pause, she nodded and muttered, “Apparently, it wasn’t a dream.”

“Good morning,” I offered simply.

She echoed the sentiment faintly before disappearing into the bathroom. Her absence stretched longer than I found comfortable, but when she returned, her face was freshly washed, and her hair showed a slight improvement.

Breakfast was quiet. She ate without complaint, though her appetite seemed subdued. Her earlier nervousness had faded into something calmer, yet heavier—an air of quiet resignation that saddened me more than her previous fear.

We resumed questioning her, starting with why she had called for Glorfindel.

She explained simply, “I had read he would be here, and I thought he’d be my best chance at believing my story—and maybe even helping me return.” She added that she’d read of his unparalleled wisdom.

“And what about Elrond?” I asked.

She sighed, shrugging lightly. “I remembered reading about him being as kind as summer.”

Her expression betrayed a flicker of disappointment, and Elrond, to my astonishment, suddenly threw his head back and laughed. I raised an eyebrow at him.

“Your reputation precedes you, it seems. Even across worlds.”

When he finally collected himself, he replied with a grin, “But apparently, I’ve fallen short of the lady’s expectations.” Then, to my utter surprise, he winked at her, clearly far too pleased with himself.

Glorfindel was wise, Elrond was kind, and I—the High King—was apparently just there. A king of nothing noteworthy. Perhaps I should’ve asked her if I have been mentioned anywhere to be mildly impressive.

Once we regained some semblance of composure, we pressed on with our questions. She answered with brevity, offering factual responses that revealed little. Any inquiries into her personal life were met with evasion. From what little she shared, it was clear she had no family and lived alone. We pressed no further, though it left us both wary. She could still be lying, or worse, an unwitting pawn in a greater scheme.

We passed the day cautiously, indulging her occasional questions about maps and the history of humans, though we withheld anything we deemed sensitive. I noticed she mirrored this guarded approach, choosing her words carefully and offering only what she deemed necessary.

When night fell again, her reluctance to sleep under our watchful eyes resurfaced. She murmured her discomfort, but Elrond and I met her objections with unwavering stares. There was no room for debate. Resigned, she slipped back into the bed, cocooned herself in the blankets, and drifted into slumber. Elrond and I resumed our low conversation, but our voices must have carried enough to disturb her.

In the middle of the night, she awoke, glaring. Without hesitation, she scolded us: “If you're not leaving, at least have some manners and stay quiet.” Then, with an air of finality, she retreated beneath the blankets once more.

Living a long life does not mean experiencing everything, and I had certainly never been chastised by a young mortal woman for poor manners while she lay in my bed, in my chambers. It brought a faint smile to my face, and when I glanced at Elrond, I saw a similar expression.

“My king,” he murmured amused, “I believe we have been thoroughly reprimanded. And the worst part is, she’s right.”

Neither of us spoke again until morning.

She woke up and promptly disappeared into the bathroom, staying there for what felt like an eternity, again. When she emerged briefly, it was only to ask for a toothbrush and toothpaste, insisting she couldn’t live with herself without properly cleaning her mouth. I sighed, resigned to her demands, and asked a maid to bring them, along with a hairbrush.

She eyed the items with suspicion. “Are they new?”

Elrond, ever polite, reassured her, “Yes, my lady. We understand such things should be personal.”

She touched the toothbrush as though it might bite her, then retreated back into the bathroom without a word.

When she finally emerged, Elrond couldn’t resist asking, “Did they meet your standards?”

She grimaced faintly. “It did the job. Adequate.”

Adequate. The craftsmanship of elven-made items was adequate to her.

The day passed much like the one before, with little variation. However, the strange device she called a “watch” no longer emitted its curious glow. When I inquired, she merely shrugged.

“The battery’s empty,” she said, proceeding to describe a battery as if it were the most mundane thing in the world and not some arcane contraption. Her explanation felt almost dismissive, as though she no longer cared whether we believed her. Her tone was quiet, her demeanor nonchalant—resigned, even. The weight of her sadness hung in the air, making it impossible to ignore.

Elrond tried subtly, and not so subtly, to lift her spirits with humor, but his efforts bore no fruit. I couldn’t help but notice how far we had strayed from our initial purpose. Our scrutiny of a threat had subtly transformed into a quiet concern for her.

But who can say what new forms deceit might take? Caution must be my guide, though cruelty is not my way, I will tread carefully—whether her presence and possessions are proof of a far-advanced civilization or the product of dark sorcery. The truth will reveal itself, hopefully soon.

To my great relief, Varohil knocked on the door in the evening, announcing Lord Cirdan's arrival at last.