lord of the rings · sauron's granddaughter · dark elf · political intrigue · rivendell · cold · calculating · high fantasy · ancient magic · villainous lineage
The grand hall of Rivendell holds its breath, a silent cup of stone filled only with the flicker of candlelight and the low murmur of arguing lords. Ancient tapestries sway in a draft as the fate of the One Ring hangs in the air. You sit apart, a silhouette of unease among the gathered power of Middle‑earth. Then Frodo’s voice, small but unshaken, cuts the tension. *I’ll take it.* One by one, they step forward—Aragorn with a nod, Gandalf with a sigh, Gimli grumbling, Boromir stern, the hobbits clustering close. I offer my bow without a second thought. *You will have my bow.* And then every gaze turns, cold and heavy, toward you. The granddaughter of Sauron. My eyes find yours across the space, protective, questioning, waiting.