Songs Unspoken

Celin.

Days were passing slowly, and I found myself unsure of how to measure time without the constant buzz of my phone pulling me into something. I had made continuous attempts to detach myself from social media back in my world, but somehow, an unrelated notification would always manage to snag my attention—and before I knew it, I’d be scrolling again.

Time felt as though it stretched endlessly. I might have even found it bearable—enjoyable, perhaps—if I weren’t under suspicion of being a witch. Thankfully, these men—elves—seemed to be entertaining other possibilities. At times, I caught myself thinking this must be a dream, an incredibly vivid one, and that I’d wake up any moment. But then reality would settle in with a firm, startling clarity: Well, fuck. I’m with elves. Real elves. Regal and majestic.

The thought alone was dizzying, and more than once, I caught myself itching to touch the pointed tips of their ears, just to see if they were real. I didn’t know what I expected from them—how they would act, what they would say—but they struck me as collected, thoughtful creatures. Still, I’ll never forget the look on Gil-galad’s face—the king’s face!—when he first saw my contact lenses. It was almost comical, like the expression my grandfather had when I showed him how to make a video call, equal parts baffled and mildly alarmed.

The difference, of course, was that Gil-galad was far older than my grandfather, yet he seemed only a few years my senior. I hadn’t read much about him —not enough to paint a clear picture of him. Like all Tolkien’s elves, he was probably meant to be noble, fierce, and dripping with glory. Fine. But Elrond? I had read about him. A lot. I’d devoured The Lord of the Rings and watched the movies countless times. Somehow, though, I was expecting him to be something more, I don’t know more of what, but however more.

I wondered if the timeline and events here didn’t align with what I remembered—like Glorfindel being present—then maybe their personalities wouldn’t either. Maybe Elrond wasn’t the warm, wise figure I’d imagined but only as kind as autumn? And maybe Gil-galad was as cold as the longest winter night. But there was nothing to do but wait and see what would unfold.

My mind buzzed with questions: Does time pass the same here as it does in my world? If I go back, will I return to the exact moment I left? Or has time raced ahead without me? And most annoyingly, Where the hell is that fawn? I tried to silence these questions—or, better put, shove them down, deep where I bury everything during a crisis.

Instead, I forced myself to focus on the practical: the parts I could observe, analyze, and maybe understand with logic. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something. I could sense them growing more at ease around me, as though the idea of a seer or a traveler from another world wasn’t as crazy to them as it was to me. Maybe it was because they believed in magic, in gods, in their Valar, and in the supernatural– well they were kinda supernatural themselves.

For them apparently, such things weren’t just plausible—they were part of their reality. For me, though, it was a different story. I had never believed in anything supernatural. I wasn’t a believer in gods or destiny. I’d always chalked up unexplainable phenomena to accidents or chance. But now? Maybe I’d have to reconsider. Maybe there was more to this universe than I’d been willing to admit.

I guess time will tell. For now, I decided, I’d just see how it all played out.

On the evening of the third day, there was a knock on the door. The red-haired elf—the one who had caught me—entered briefly to summon the king. Without a word of explanation, Gil-galad left, leaving me alone with Elrond.

Elrond, composed and unfailingly polite, broke the silence. "The king has gone to greet Lord Círdan," he informed me, his tone neutral but with a hint of deference. Lord Círdan? I asked, the name sparking a faint memory. "The ship guy?"

Elrond’s usually composed face gave way to the faintest flicker of disapproval. "Yes, my lady, but I would strongly advise against referring to him as ‘the ship guy.’"

I nodded. "Noted."

"He is the oldest and the wisest among us," he continued. I already knew that much—or thought I did.

Beneath my unease, I felt a flicker of excitement. The tales I remembered painted him as a figure of gravitas, almost mythical. And wasn’t it said he had a beard? For some reason, that little detail intrigued me. We fell into silence again, the awkward kind where neither of us knew what to say.

Eventually, Elrond broke it with an attempt at small talk, he began detailing Lindon’s surroundings, his descriptions so painfully detailed they bordered on a botanical lecture. He spoke of the garden’s layout, the species of trees and flowers, and the exact way sunlight fell at different times of the year.

I nodded dutifully but wasn’t really listening. I thought he might pity me, but then again, maybe he was just as bored as I was.

Unlike Gil-galad, who I was convinced could stand still and silent for hours like a living–judging statue, Elrond seemed to lack that particular skill.

Finally, the door opened, and the king entered, but it wasn’t his arrival that caught my attention. Trailing behind him was an impossibly tall figure.

Círdan. That had to be him. His hair was probably the best in the whole world, shimmering silver, and his eyes were a startling ocean blue, so screen, so calm, I could stare at it forever.

And then he smiled at me, I softened immediately and probably smiled at him like a fool, and I found myself wishing he was my father.

I stood up, Gil-galad turned to me. "Lady, this is Lord Círdan. I will have you watch your tongue and be respectful."

I barely heard him. My focus was entirely on Círdan, I nodded absently and managed a simple, "Hi."

Círdan’s smile widened. He approached us, first greeting Elrond with an affectionate, "Lad." Then he turned to me, his ocean-blue eyes meeting my very dull brown eyes. "I hope your time in Lindon hasn’t been too unpleasant,"

I did my best to sound polite. "Not at all," I replied, though the truth was more complicated.

He chuckled, "Be at ease, child. Ereinion won’t do you any harm if you talk freely."

I simply nodded, unsure what else to say. Círdan’s presence was both calming and intimidating, and for the first time since arriving in this strange world, I felt a glimmer of hope. He turned to the elves and, with a calm but firm gesture, dismissed them.

They left without hesitation, the door clicking softly shut behind them.

Now I was alone with what might have been the oldest living creature in existence. He had to be over 7,000 years old—older than the Pyramids of Giza, older than any of the ancient wonders of my world.

There was something about his presence, a pulsing, almost tangible energy, not overwhelming but soft, like the steady heartbeat of someone you love.

I braced myself for what I thought was inevitable: a flood of questions, an interrogation. Instead, his first words were: "How are you, my lady? Have you eaten enough? Are Ereinion and Elrond treating you kindly?"

I blinked and for a moment, I felt like a child under the watchful eye of a benevolent elder. Before I could fully respond, he poured me some wine. I didn’t like wine—not really—but I took it anyway, not daring to refuse.

He moved and spoke as though he were seeing the most normal woman in the world, not someone who had crashed into his reality from another dimension. I began to wonder if the king had even told him everything.

He asked me about my favorite food, his tone conversational. He shared stories of the Grey Havens, painting vivid pictures of its clear skies and seas so calm they resembled silken blue fabric. I thought he might be easing into asking me about my own world, but the question never came. At one point, he stood and stretched, rolling his shoulders with a soft groan.

"They say elven bodies do not age," he said with a wry smile. "But believe me, my bones are not what they used to be. Those young lads don’t quite respect my age as they should."

I shared that my back hurts too, mostly from the stiff chairs, and we complained about their lack of comfort and poor design. Somehow, we ended up talking about everything and nothing. He learned I loved chocolate-Yes, believe me or not, they have chocolates in Lindon!- with strawberries and couldn’t swim, a fact that genuinely offended him.

"You cannot swim?" he repeated, his eyes narrowing as though I had insulted all of Arda’s waterways.

"No," I admitted, feeling a little sheepish. He shook his head in disbelief, muttering something about foresight and water that I didn’t quite catch.

In turn, I learned he had a sweet tooth, was an avid swimmer, and knew more about fish than anyone had a right to. The conversation flowed easily, surprisingly so. After some time, he stood again, the faintest hint of reluctance in his movements.

"Well, my lady, I believe it is getting dark, and you will need your rest. I should take my leave."

"Wait," I said, staring up at him. "Aren’t you supposed to interrogate me or something?"

He chuckled—a soft, very melodic sound and told me he knew everything he needed to know, with a small bow he left the room. 

For the first time in what felt like days, I was alone.

Finally. despite my uneasiness at the abrupt end of our conversation, I let my muscles relax. I was still teetering between confusion and delusion, trying to untangle my thoughts—half wondering if I was slipping into some elaborate dream.

The sound of the door opening snapped me out of my reverie. Elrond stepped in, carrying a neatly folded dress in his hands, with a pair of delicate sandals balanced on top. The colors were soft, and muted. He gestured toward me with the clothes and said, "My lady, please change into these and leave all your jewelry and belongings behind. You will be leaving this room and settling elsewhere."

A change of scenery? That was...progress, I guessed. At least I wouldn’t have to sleep under the constant watch of two men anymore. I was too tired to argue or question him, and I was more than ready to change—I had started worrying that my clothes might develop a smell if I stayed in them any longer. The thought of an elf finding them stinky was mortifying.

I took the clothes and sandals from him without a word, retreating to the bathroom. The dress was simple but well-made, soft against my skin, and—thank god—almost my size. It hung loosely in some places, but it was comfortable enough. I folded my old clothes neatly, rinsed my socks in the basin (no way was I letting anyone here think I was a slob), and pulled on the sandals. I took one last glance at myself in the mirror, straightened my shoulders, and stepped out.

When Elrond saw me in the new dress, he gave me a quick once-over, his gaze lingering just long enough to make me feel slightly self-conscious. Then, with a faint smile, he said, "Now you look almost normal."

I paused, unsure whether I should take offense or let it slide. Was that a compliment? a backhanded one, perhaps? I decided to keep my mouth shut and focus on the task at hand—handing over my jewelry. Upon my hesitation in handing them, he reassured me that they will be examined and will be given back to me, I suspected, but I accepted anyway.

Finally, he strode to the door, opened it with a flourish, and gestured theatrically toward the hall beyond. "After you, my lady," he said, his tone bordering on playful but still formal enough to fit the occasion.

He guided me down a corridor as if leading me through a grand tour rather than a short relocation. As we approached another door, I noticed two familiar figures standing nearby. The guards who had first captured me. The blond one—tall, with sharp features —offered me a small, awkward smile, as though he wasn’t quite sure how to act now that I wasn’t a "witch" under suspicion.

The red-haired one, however, fixed me with a glare. His eyes burned with distrust, and his jaw set. I met his gaze briefly, then looked away, not in submission but because I was simply too sleepy to deal with whatever silent battle he wanted to start.

Elrond, seemingly oblivious—or perhaps choosing to ignore, opened the door to my new quarters. "Here we are," he announced smoothly, stepping aside to let me enter.

The hall was much like the room I had just left—spacious, airy, and an artful blend of stone and wood. Intricate floral patterns adorned the walls and arches, a testament to the elves’ undeniable taste. At least they knew how to make a place look inviting. The room Elrond led me to was no less grand. It was finely decorated, with large, imposing furniture that immediately struck me as excessive. It wasn't my style at all—I’d always preferred minimalist spaces, clean lines, and simplicity. But this wasn’t my room, so my preferences didn’t really matter.

As I surveyed the space, I couldn’t help but ask, "Does this mean you’ve decided I’m not a witch?"

Elrond turned to me with a polite smile. "It means," he said, "we have deemed you harmless enough to sleep unwatched. The King will give his verdict tomorrow."

Before I could respond, he added matter-of-factly, "Should you attempt to escape, there are guards stationed throughout the halls."

With that, he inclined his head slightly and said, "Good night, my lady." Then he turned and left, the soft sound of the door closing behind him echoing in the stillness.

I glanced around and noticed another nightdress folded neatly on the bed. I wasn’t in the mood to change again, I collapsed onto the bed, the plush mattress swallowing me whole, it was so very soft. My eyelids grew heavy, and before I could even process the day’s events, sleep claimed me.

I slept long and well, sinking into a dreamless slumber that I hadn’t had in days. When I finally woke, I found a tray placed neatly on the floor by the door. The scent of fresh bread and something sweet lingered in the air. Before eating, I went to the adjacent bathroom. At least these elves cared about private toilets; I had half-expected a bucket or some medieval arrangement. It was a relief to find something more sophisticated.

After freshening up, I returned to the tray and started eating. The morning passed without visitors, save for the blond guard who brought me lunch. He seemed to have made it his mission to avoid eye contact, speaking only when absolutely necessary. It was almost comical how stiff and awkward he was.

I decided to push my luck and asked him if he could show me how the shower worked. His face turned the color of a ripe apple, and I watched the blush crawl from his neck all the way to the tips of his pointed ears. Was it awkward for them to explain such things to a woman? Still, he complied, mumbling through his explanation while fidgeting with the water mechanisms. His discomfort aside, his instructions were clear enough for me to figure it out.

It turned out a proper shower was out of the question here in Lindon—bathing was apparently the norm—but I made do. Finally, I was clean, had a full stomach, and had slept like a rock. I was as comfortable as one could hope to be in this strange situation.

That left only one thing: thinking. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I let it all sink in. I was really here. Really here, in Middle-earth!

I chuckled aloud at the absurdity of it. But it was my reality now, no matter how bizarre. Why I was here, or how it had happened, remained a mystery, and I doubted I’d find answers anytime soon. For now, I would have to live with the unlikeliness of it all and take things as they came.

My thoughts drifted to the more mundane aspects of my situation. I didn’t have a job here, no money, and—let’s face it—my skills were utterly useless in this world. They didn’t have computers, which, oddly I was relieved about. But then, a troubling question popped up: what if this really turned out to be my only option? What if I had to stay here? The elves clearly didn’t have a clue how I ended up here.

Was there a way back? Would it happen as unexpectedly as it had before? My logical side screamed at me: Go to the place where they found you and try to get back. But how exactly does one “try” to return to another world? Jump up and down? Chant something? Cry?

The uncertainty was maddening. At least the food and guest room were free for now. I sighed, resolving to distract myself.

I began examining the room, taking in its details. It was simple but beautifully arranged, a blend of elegance and functionality. Some books lined a shelf, and there were paintings on the walls, each depicting serene landscapes or ethereal figures. I studied them, appreciating the craftsmanship.

The books were more intriguing. Most were written in what I assumed was Sindarin or Quenya—languages I had no chance of understanding—but one was in English, or Western, as they likely called it here. It was a straightforward text about flowers, their names, and shapes. A surprisingly pleasant pastime, even if I wasn’t much of a flower enthusiast.

Still, no matter how hard I tried, my mind circled back to the inevitable: the king’s verdict.

Gil-galad seemed like a reasonable person—collected and thoughtful. But who really knew? I once thought my old boss was reasonable, and I remember where that got me.

I traced the edge of a page in the flower book absently, trying to push away the unease. Time would bring answers, one way or another. Until then, I could only wait.

There was a knock on the door. "Come in," I called, trying to sound composed.

The door opened, revealing Gil-galad and Círdan. The king’s face was unreadable, a perfect poker face, while Círdan wore the same calm, almost fatherly serenity he had displayed the day before. I stood up quickly and said, “Hi.”

Gil-galad’s gaze didn’t soften, but his tone was courteous as he asked, “I hope you have rested well?”

“Yes, thank you,” I replied.

Círdan smiled gently and gestured for me to sit. I obeyed, as did they, settling into the chairs around a small coffee table. The atmosphere was tense—or maybe that was just me. I could feel Gil-galad’s assessing eyes locked onto me. Círdan must have noticed my nervousness. “Easy, child,” he said, his voice soft and reassuring. “Nothing to worry.”

The king nodded slightly, though his stare remained unrelenting. He cleared his throat and spoke. “Lady Celin,” he began, “we have deemed you harmless. Your situation is peculiar and unheard of, and while it presents a challenge, we are not without compassion. As long as you refrain from anything—even the slightest thing—that appears malicious or threatening, you may stay here.” He paused, letting the words sink in.

My fidgeting increased, and I clasped my hands together to stop it.

“You will be watched,” he continued after a beat, his voice dropping slightly, “and also cared for. You have no reason to fear us, but,” his gaze sharpened, “remember always: my generosity has its limits.”

The room was silent for a moment, the words lingering in the air like a warning bell. I nodded slowly, unsure of what to say. My mind raced, cataloging his words, weighing their implications.

“Understood,” I said finally.

Círdan offered another reassuring smile, but even that couldn’t fully ease the tension coiling in my chest. I stared at the king, he arched an eyebrow, as though daring me to speak. "Are you finished?" I asked, breaking the quiet.

He leaned back in his chair, a faint flicker of amusement playing at the corner of his lips. From beside him, Círdan chuckled softly. "Yes," Gil-galad replied.

"So," I began, cautiously, "this means you don’t think I’m a witch?"

“Obviously,” he said with a slight wave of his hand, as though the notion had always been ridiculous.

"You believe I’m from another world?" I pressed.

He paused, his jaw tightening slightly before he said grudgingly, “It is the best senseless conclusion in all its absurdity.”

I nodded slowly. “This also means you’re going to let me go to where those guards found me?”

"Not yet," he replied, his voice firm. “What force brought you here is not in my control, and such things cannot be commanded. You will return there—in time.”

A spark of frustration flared within me. “Your time and my time are different,” I retorted. “As you mentioned some days ago when you threatened to keep me locked up for a decade until I talked.”

He seemed completely unfazed by my words. “Less than ten years, I mean,” he replied matter-of-factly, as though it was the most reasonable thing in the world.

“You can’t do that,” I shot back. “That’s imprisonment.”

“I will do what I see fit,” he said, his tone final. “And you have no choice but to obey.”

Círdan turned to Gil-galad, sending him a look of quiet disapproval. The king didn’t flinch, his gaze remaining fixed on me.

“No, child,” Círdan interjected. “You will go out—sooner. Ereinion has sent patrols to the site where you were found. If nothing unusual is seen there, you will be allowed to return.”

I didn’t answer. I clenched my hands tightly in my lap, biting the inside of my cheek to hold back the tears threatening to spill. I am not going to cry in front of him—not again.

The king’s expression remained stoic as he continued, “For the meantime, we need to forge a story for you.”

He explained the story they had concocted for me in great detail. Apparently, I was to be introduced as a ward of Elrond, connected to him through his human lineage. According to the fabricated tale, I was a descendant of Elrond’s brother’s bloodline, one whose family had come from Númenor centuries ago to Middle-earth, and had chosen to live a life of solitude.

They assured me that this story made sense because, the Númenóreans didn’t communicate much with the elves these days, making me a plausible long-lost relative seeking Elrond out. I didn’t argue or intervene. It was their world, their rules; they knew better than I did which stories would be accepted.

The king made it exceedingly clear that my true origins were to remain an absolute secret. Only he, Elrond, Círdan, and the two guards—Varohil and Thalion—knew the truth. No one else. He mentioned, not very delicately, that my manners lack the proper decorum of one with true Numenorian blood and I need some preparation before I show up my face in public.

“For that,” he continued, “and to educate you on the ways of the Númenóreans, Elrond will oversee your preparation.”

I couldn’t help it. The words slipped out before I could stop them. “Good luck with that.”

Círdan, ever serene, winked at me and said, “The lad deserves it.”

That earned him a sharp look from the king, but I could tell Círdan was enjoying himself. I realized with some amusement that this was probably a man who had practically raised both Elrond and Gil-galad. Perhaps he found some satisfaction in the thought of watching Elrond struggle to discipline me.

Gil-galad’s lecture continued. He reiterated the importance of secrecy, warning me not to forget where I was and the gravity of the situation. Before leaving the room he also promised there would be more “serious talks” in the future. That last part didn’t exactly fill me with joy.

There was something about Gil-galad that deeply intimidated me, and it wasn’t his title or his power—it was the way he commanded respect without ever raising his voice or using harsh words. He didn’t need to.

There was simply the unwavering confidence of someone who was accustomed to being obeyed. I realized then that I probably wouldn’t ever have the courage to openly defy a direct order from him.

I had settled somehow into a semblance of routine. I was confined to my room, though I could at least see a garden—a breathtaking one—through the windows. My days began with reading texts about the Númenóreans, and my main companions were Elrond and Thalion. The king, too, would visit from time to time, though never for long.

Elrond was the most patient tutor I had ever encountered. He was meticulous, detailed, and above all, he enjoyed teaching. I was a good student when it came to reading and memorizing. I always had been—boringly so. He also asked a lot about my world as expected.

The most fascinating thing for him was how doctors in my time could see a fetus inside the womb. He called it nothing short of a miracle—to witness "life igniting into existence". He had a knack for poetic statements.

Once Gil-galad entered while we were talking about medicine in my world-again, I was telling them about dental care, and it turned out the king’s interest was root canal treatment, the man liked labor, detail, and challenging work. The childlike expression on his face was so at odds with his composed self. I remembered again, his fascination upon seeing my lenses, and I would bet anything he had stored them away somewhere in his undoubtedly very large and very secure vault.

Still, I was bored to my core. It wasn’t in me to stay confined in a closed space for so long, I have complained about it constantly, but an order was an order. Elrond emphasized that this was for the best, that I should be prepared for what lay ahead.

I learned how to call others, how to greet people properly, and, most importantly, how to avoid conversations that could lead to revealing dangerous information. Elrond tried to appear cheerful, but I could see the exhaustion behind his patience.

Most of the time, he was dealing with a restless, caged student on the edge of breaking. I tried to control myself, to be mindful of my moods, andto  act as an adult, but I wasn’t always successful. Once, after another long day of lessons, I snapped. It was something small, a minor correction in my pronunciation of a common phrase in Numenor culture—barely worth mentioning.

“For the love of everything, Elrond, do you really think that’s going to be the reason people find me suspicious? That I mispronounce one bloody word?”

Hi blinked, opened his mouth to reply, then sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “No,” he admitted, “but it is my task to prepare you as best I can.”

I knew I was being unfair. He was trying. I exhaled sharply, looking away. “I’m sorry,” I muttered. He nodded.

From that day on, he was a little gentler with me.

Most nights, I cried myself to sleep. Eventually, Elrond prepared a potion to help. It dulled the edge of my grief and let me rest better. He made small, futile attempts to lift my spirits, but nothing lasted more than a few minutes.

And before I knew it, 10 days had passed. 10 days, locked inside this room. 10 days without seeing anything remotely familiar to me.