The Unforgiven { Legolas x OC - LotR Fanfiction}

4. The Council of Elrond

3018, October 25

The following morning, the golden sun rose over Rivendell like a slow exhalation from the breath of the earth itself. The deep-black sky gave way to a majestic royal blue, as if the heavens had been dipped in ink and painted anew. Silken clouds—soft and pale as milk—drifted across the firmament, awakening from their slumber and meandering like dreamers through the morning air.

Ethir stirred as the sunlight tapped against her face, warm and insistent. A faint frown crossed her brow before her mind caught up with her body. Where was she? For a moment, she forgot. Then her eyes opened, searching for a fragment of recognition.

The world outside the balcony was a wash of impossible color. The field below shimmered with hues she had never truly seen in such harmony—green grass spearing up through a misty veil of blue morning light. The trees—no, not mere trees but regal towers of oak and poplar stood in dignified silence, their limbs arching skyward like the spires of temples. They did not grow—they floated, as if untethered by earth or gravity, vanishing into the horizon.

Ethir squeezed her eyes shut again. The colors were too much. She was not used to waking in the midst of beauty.

When she finally blinked back into consciousness, the world remained blindingly bright, its warmth unfamiliar. The stillness unnerved her most of all. There was no distant echo of forges, no groaning of metal, no marching of orc boots or murmuring of goblin tongues. The silence was almost... hostile in its serenity.

And the smells—Elbereth, the smells were everywhere. Earthy leaves, fresh moss, overripe apples, and the distant, clinging trace of cinnamon wove together like a potion meant to lull one into a dream. For someone used to stone, ash, and steel, it was overwhelming.

Autumn leaves danced outside her window, swirling and spinning like performers in some silent, sacred ballet. They moved in a rhythm that seemed almost choreographed by the wind itself. Ethir groaned softly, rubbing her eyes as the memories of the previous days assembled themselves piece by piece in her mind.

She yawned, pushing the covers off with a grunt and rolling onto the floor in one smooth, irritated motion. "I'm losing my mind," she muttered, shaking her head as she stood. The view. The sounds. The smells. They were conspiring to distract her.

Determined to keep her focus, she stepped onto the balcony and retrieved her clothes—dry now, warmed by the air, and still carrying the clean scent of Rivendell's streams. She returned inside, quickly dressing: her underclothes, then a black shirt of thick fabric to guard against the autumn chill. Her corset followed—black leather, perfectly contoured to emphasize her lithe, dangerous frame. Then came her fitted black pants, snug and utilitarian.

She paused at the mirror-like basin near the table, splashing cold water over her face, then ran her fingers through her dark, drying hair. The robe from last night now hung over the chair, replaced by her usual armor. She took up her sword, sliding it into the sheath strapped to her back, and with one last glance toward the valley of sunlight and birdsong, she bit into one of the apples Arwen had left.

Then she stepped out.

She walked quickly, her boots silent on the stone paths. Her eyes stayed low, not from submission, but practicality—Elven eyes lingered when she passed. Best not to tempt them to comment. Not because she cared, she reminded herself. But she had no interest in needless attention.

At the Council of Elrond, the chamber was already beginning to fill. Gandalf stood near the western side of the circle, speaking quietly with a small figure—Frodo Baggins, bearer of the Ring. Ethir paused at the threshold. Her arrival did not go unnoticed.