Chapter 6,
Thranduil.
Her beloved. Her storm and her shelter. She could feel the imprint of his hand against hers from the day they last stood together. Could feel his voice in the marrow of her bones, even though it had been so long since she heard it. What had her death done to him? Had he wept? Had he grown colder, more silent? Or had he kept going, carrying her memory like a wound that never closed?
She longed for him.
With every inch of her soul, she longed to speak his name, to tell him she had not left him willingly, that she had been torn away. That she was trying to come back to him every day, every breath.
And today… Something felt different.
The magic still held her. The spell still hummed beneath her skin. But in the silence between Bilbo's jokes and Gandalf's sighs, she felt a pulse—familiar, radiant, wild, and bright.
Her children.
They were near.
And if she could feel them… then maybe they could feel her.
She would not give up. Not now. Not when they were close enough to call her name.
And when they did—Divines willing—she would answer.
The morning sun spilled across Rivendell's walkways, casting gold along the stone as birds flitted between ivy-covered arches. Hooves echoed lightly beneath the trees as the riders approached, their pace steady but urgent. At the front rode Legolas, upright and composed, his face carved from calm marble and his cloak fluttering like silk in the wind. Aela followed just behind him, her posture far less serene—hands tight on the reins, shoulders coiled like a bowstring. Her hair mainly had escaped its braid, and her eyes were already darting toward the rise ahead, where the familiar spires of Rivendell cut into the sky.
Two elven guards flanked them, maintaining distance more out of respect than necessity. They said nothing, guiding the horses up the gentle slope until the central courtyard opened in a rush of sunlit stone and flower-laced breeze. And there, standing in the shade of a high arch carved with curling leafwork, Elrond and Gandalf were waiting.
Aela didn't wait for a signal. The moment she saw them, she let out a breathless, "Gandalf!" and launched herself from the saddle with all the restraint of a thunderclap.
Legolas barely had time to blink. "Honestly, she never dismounts like a normal person," he muttered to no one in particular. One of the guards coughed into his hand to hide a smile.
She was already halfway across the courtyard, her boots thudding against stone as she ran full-tilt toward the wizard in grey. Gandalf barely had time to brace before she crashed into him, arms wrapping tightly around his middle. He gave a low grunt—whether from the impact or emotion was anyone's guess—and returned the hug without hesitation, his long fingers curling gently over her back.
"You've gotten taller," he muttered with a faint smile into her hair.
"You've gotten slower," she replied, squeezing tighter.
Behind them, Legolas dismounted with infuriating elegance, handed off his reins to a guard with a graceful nod, and walked over like a prince stepping into a library.
"I see we're starting with theatrics," he said as he approached, eyeing his sister, who still refused to let go of Gandalf. "How fortunate I dressed for the occasion."
Aela turned just enough to glare at him over Gandalf's shoulder. "Forgive me for being excited to see someone I don't have to argue with constantly."
"Careful," Gandalf said, glancing toward Legolas with amusement. "Your brother's ego might suffer irreparable injury."
"Unlikely," Elrond murmured dryly, stepping forward, hands clasped behind his back, the corners of his mouth lifting in the barest hint of a smile. "It's very well-armored."
Legolas offered a graceful bow, one brow lifting in mock indignation. "At least someone here appreciates structure."
Aela finally pulled back from Gandalf, eyes bright and face flushed with more than the ride. "Is this about the ring?" she asked. "We heard the summons, of course, but the urgency in your message…"
Gandalf's expression shifted then, some of the warmth in his face cooling as he gently touched her shoulder. "It's not just the ring," he said. "There's something else. Something I need you both to see."
Legolas straightened. "Something?"
"Someone," Elrond corrected quietly, his voice solemn now.
Neither sibling asked further.
The smile slipped from Aela's face like the last leaf in autumn. Legolas's brow furrowed, his sharp eyes watching Gandalf with sudden intensity. And together, without another word, they followed the wizard across the courtyard—unaware of how close they were to the miracle they had long stopped hoping for.
The air was warm and sweet as they made their way through the winding walkways of Rivendell, sunlight catching in the tree branches and scattering dappled light across the stone beneath their feet. Elrond walked at the front, composed and regal as ever, while Gandalf matched his pace, one hand resting on the top of his staff like a man trying not to sigh for the fifth time in five minutes. Behind them, the tranquility of Elvenkind was steadily dismantled by the spirited voices of Aela and Legolas.
"You missed that shot on purpose," Aela accused, gesturing animatedly with one hand while the other adjusted the bow slung across her back. "Don't think I didn't notice you 'accidentally' hitting the wind chime instead of the target."
"It was a warning shot," Legolas said, as calm as ever. "To let the breeze know who was in charge."
Aela scoffed. "Right. Because wind intimidation is an essential battlefield skill."
Gandalf muttered something under his breath about Elven pride and stubborn children, his pace increasing as though distance alone might shield him from the argument. But Aela, never one to let her favorite wizard off the hook, caught up and looped her arm through his.
"Gandalf, you've seen us both shoot," she said sweetly, too sweetly. "If you had to bet your pipe on which one of us could shoot a pinecone off a moving wagon at sixty paces, who would it be?"
"Don't answer that," Legolas warned, glancing over with narrowed eyes.
"Do answer that," Aela insisted, grinning like a cat in the cream pantry.
Gandalf gave them both a long, world-weary look. "I would sooner hand my pipe to a troll than get involved in this again."
Elrond, walking just ahead, smiled faintly. "For what it's worth, my gold is on Aela."
Legolas stopped walking. "You wagered?"
Elrond's expression didn't change. "I've lived a long time. I've learned to invest where the odds favor chaos."
Gandalf snorted, and Aela burst out laughing, her hand still looped through his as they rounded a gentle corner. But as the laughter faded into the birdsong and the whisper of leaves, the pathway before them revealed the soft outline of a house half-hidden in ivy and light.
Aela slowed, her mirth dimming as she took in the familiar structure.
Her steps faltered, the playfulness slipping from her face like the last rays of sunlight over a hill. Her brows drew together as she looked from Gandalf to Elrond, her fingers curling slightly where they rested against the wizard's sleeve. "Why are we going to her house?" she asked, her voice no longer teasing, but quiet. "This place has been closed since she…"
She didn't finish.
Legolas stopped beside her, his gaze narrowing as his sharp senses picked up the shift in the air—magic, memory, something reverent and old. He looked at Gandalf then, truly looked, and found no trace of humor in the old wizard's face now. Just something still, something waiting.
Gandalf stood before the door like a man balancing the weight of years on his shoulders. His posture was still firm, but when they found Aela and Legolas, his eyes carried something older than words, something worn down by grief, hope, and the responsibility of what waited on the other side. For a long moment, he said nothing. The silence pressed in, thick and steady, until he spoke.
"Something has happened," he said, the words low and deliberate, as if each one had to be pulled from the depths of him. "And it's something you must see."
Aela's brow knitted, the edge of confusion sharpening into suspicion. "See what?" she asked, her tone still light but faltering at the edges. "This is our mother's house—what could we possibly need to—" She stopped herself, the rest of the sentence crumbling in her mouth, unwilling to say aloud what they'd all believed for years.
Legolas was silent, but his eyes narrowed just slightly. He turned his gaze between Gandalf and Elrond, and unlike Aela, he caught the subtle tension in their expressions—the lines around Gandalf's mouth. The stiffness in Elrond's movements is usually fluid. Something was off—more than memory, more than reverence. It was as if they were walking toward the edge of a dream that had teeth.
Elrond stepped forward, his hand resting on the doorframe for the briefest moments before he opened the carved wooden door with a slow, careful push. The hinges gave a soft groan, more from time than resistance, and the scent of the house drifted toward them—lavender, pine oil, the faintest whisper of fire-smoke. He didn't speak. He only gestured inside, his hand smooth, steady, beckoning them in like a quiet summons.
Aela hesitated only a second before stepping through the threshold. Her boots clicked gently on the polished wood floor, and the moment she entered the space, her breath caught in her throat. Everything was… as it had always been. The hearth in the corner glowed with a small, flickering flame. The same blanket hung neatly over the arm of the old chair. A teacup was on the shelf, not a speck of dust clinging to it. The flowers in the corner—faded but arranged—stood like a shrine to normalcy.
"It's clean," she whispered. Her eyes swept across the room, wide and shining. "It looks like she just stepped out for a walk. Like she'll be back any minute."
Legolas entered more slowly. His gaze moved not with awe but with calculation, with instinct. He saw the undisturbed folds of cloth, the freshly stacked logs near the hearth, and the way the curtains had been tied back with perfect symmetry. No spiderwebs in the corners. There were no layers of untouched years. Someone had kept this place alive.
But he said nothing.
And that silence said everything.
Gandalf walked past them with slow, steady steps. He crossed the room like a man walking between two lifetimes, his cloak brushing the floor with each movement. He stopped before the bedroom door—the one closed since the day Elena had been taken from them—and rested his hand on the handle.
He didn't turn it.
Not yet.
Instead, he looked back over his shoulder, meeting their eyes individually. His voice was softer now, but it carried more weight than anything he'd said.
"Whatever you believe you'll find on the other side of this door," he said, "let it go. The truth waiting there does not belong to the past."
Aela's breath shuddered in her chest. Her throat tightened. She could feel the tears begin to rise behind her eyes, unbidden, before she even knew why.
"Why did you bring us here?" she asked, her voice breaking into something hoarse. "Why now?"
Elrond stepped beside Gandalf, his voice quiet and steady like rain tapping stone. "Because it's time you saw what remains… and what still might return." Gandalf's hand turned the knob. The door opened like the air had been holding its breath behind it.
Light spilled into the room, warm and golden, but it did nothing to soften what lay within. The fire was low, casting long shadows across the walls. The curtains stirred faintly in the breeze, and the soft scent of herbs lingered in the corners—lavender and wild mint, a memory of something once peaceful. But the peace had been hollowed out, carved into something that looked like comfort and felt like mourning.
Galadriel sat beside the bed, a book folded closed on her lap, her expression solemn. She looked up as they entered, her silver gaze meeting Gandalf's first, then drifting to the two who followed behind him. There was no surprise on her face. Only that quiet sorrow of someone who had waited long for this moment and dreaded it all the same.
Aela stepped through the threshold first. Her breath hitched the moment her eyes fell on the bed and the figure sitting upright within it. She froze, mid-step, the air leaving her lungs like a blow had landed square in her chest. The woman she had buried, the mother she had mourned for years, sat in front of her. And yet… she wasn't there.
Elena's body was whole. Her posture was straight, hands folded gently in her lap, hair dark as midnight and silvered where time and magic had marked her. Her eyes were open, one silver like moonlight, the other burning red like a dragon's flame. But they were vacant. They stared not at her daughter or the doorway or anything at all. They were locked on the quilt over her knees as if the fabric held the world's weight. There was no recognition. No light. Only absence wrapped in the shape of someone they loved.
Legolas appeared beside Aela, his silence louder than her trembling breath. His expression was calm, but not untouched. His jaw was tight, his shoulders stiff. It was the stillness of someone breaking from the inside out and trying not to show it. He had seen death. He had seen ghosts. But nothing had prepared him for this.
Aela's steps faltered forward. She dropped to her knees at the edge of the bed with the reverence of someone kneeling before a goddess and the fragility of a child kneeling before a grave. Her voice came out cracked, thin, and aching. "Mama…?"
Elena didn't blink.
Didn't move.
Didn't breathe any differently at all.
Aela's lips trembled as she reached forward, fingers brushing lightly over her mother's sleeve—warm, soft, alive. "Mama, please," she whispered. "It's me. It's Aela. Your daughter. Look at me… look at me."
No response. Not even the twitch of a brow. The silence was so complete, so perfect, it felt cruel.
Legolas remained standing, but his voice was low when it came. "She's breathing. Her skin has color. She… she's not gone." But the words sounded like a question, even to him.
Galadriel answered, her voice barely above a breath. "No. She is not gone. But she is not whole, either. She was brought back through magic, which was not meant for such things. And the part of her that is still here… is fighting. But it is buried."
Gandalf stepped inside now, his face drawn and tired. "She does not sleep unless told. She does not move without command. Saruman's will dragged her from death—but he left her bound, even after he fell."
Aela's tears fell then, silent and hot, tracing her cheeks as she stared into the eyes that once saw through every lie, every fear, every doubt. "You always said you'd come home," she whispered, trembling. "You promised."
And Elena's eyes flickered.
Just for a second. A tiny pulse of light behind the silver and the red. So faint it might've been imagined.
But it was enough to break something in Aela.
She folded forward, resting her forehead on her mother's lap, fingers fisting in the fabric of the quilt. Her sobs were quiet but deep, shaking her shoulders, drawn from the deepest hollow of her grief. "You're here but not here," she wept. "You came back, but I can't reach you. Please, Mama. Please fight. Please remember us."
Legolas turned his face slightly, looking away—not in shame, but to keep his control. His throat worked as he swallowed, eyes shining. "She would never stop fighting," he said hoarsely. "Not unless something bound her too tight to move."
"She is trying," Galadriel murmured. "You saw her eyes. She heard you."
Gandalf stepped forward, gently touching Aela's back, his voice whispering. "She's not gone. But she's lost in a storm. And now… she needs your voices to be her stars."
Aela remained where she was, still kneeling, holding onto her mother's unmoving form as though enough closeness might reignite recognition. Her hand had found Elena's, cradling it gently between hers, brushing her thumb over the knuckles with the care of someone memorizing each line. Her breath came in broken waves, her voice quieter now, more pleading than before. "Do you remember when you taught me to string my first bow? You laughed when it snapped and hit me in the face, and then you kissed the bruise and said I'd still end up better than Legolas." Her laugh came wet and shaking. "You were right."
Still, Elena stared forward, her eyes fixed on the same point on the blanket, and the slightest twitch vanished. But Aela kept speaking, undeterred. "I brought you tea when you were sick. I stayed up in the woods when you needed silence. I remember every lesson. Every story. Please, Mama, come back."
Aela had gone quiet again, her voice spent and trembling, her cheek resting lightly against her mother's hand. Her fingers still cradled Elena's with a tenderness that bordered on desperation, as though if she held tight enough, it might keep her mother from slipping further into whatever void still had her. The room felt colder now, despite the sunlight warming the windows and the hearth's soft glow. Aela could feel her mother's warmth, her chest's gentle rise and fall—but there was no recognition, no spark of life behind those silver and red eyes.
Legolas stood motionless beside Gandalf, the storm inside him brewing with a slow, quiet fury. He had faced death. He had faced darkness. But nothing had prepared him for this—his mother sitting upright, breathing, whole… yet not herself. It was like seeing her through a pane of glass, fogged and cold, just out of reach. Her body was here, her presence a whisper, but her soul… her soul felt caged.
He turned toward Gandalf, his voice tight but controlled. "Tell me what happened. All of it."
Gandalf did not speak at first. His gaze was heavy, ancient, fixed on Elena like the answer was etched into the stillness of her body. His voice was softer than before when he finally spoke, tinged with guilt. "We thought she was at peace," he said. "Your father and I went to her grave months ago. We meant to lay flowers… to remember her. But when we arrived, the glade was desecrated and torn apart. The tree felled. The marker shattered. And her grave… empty."
Legolas inhaled sharply, the sound soft but sharp as flint striking steel. "And he didn't tell me?"
"He feared what you would do," Gandalf said quietly. "Your rage. Your grief. He knew it would drive you straight into danger. And perhaps he feared what you would find."
The silence between them was long, save for the quiet rattle of Aela's breath and the faint hiss of the hearth. Gandalf looked away from Legolas now, his voice growing lower still. "I went to Isengard to seek counsel. I still believed Saruman had wisdom left in him. I hoped he might guide me… and mourn with me." His hand clenched on his staff. "Instead, he welcomed me into his tower like an old friend and showed me what he had done."
Aela lifted her head, her tear-streaked face rigid with stillness. She did not speak, but her eyes were fixed on Gandalf, wide and glimmering.
"He had stolen her body," Gandalf continued. "Claimed her soul as a weapon—something too powerful to be left in peace. He said she was meant to reign beside the dark. To lead armies in flame and terror." His voice broke then, just slightly, before he gathered himself. "And he completed the binding spell before I could stop him."
Galadriel's head bowed slightly. Even Elrond's face had shifted, his jaw set tight with the quiet grief of a man witnessing a wound that could not be healed with time.
Gandalf pulled a cloth from his robes and unwrapped it slowly.
Inside was a crystal, black as pitch and pulsing faintly with an unnatural light. It was small, but its weight filled the room like poison. Its glow was steady and rhythmic—alive in the worst way.
"This," Gandalf said, holding it for them to see, "is what controls her."
Legolas stared at it, his expression unreadable, but his hands clenched at his sides. "That little thing holds her?" he asked, his voice like stone breaking. "After everything she was—is—this is all it takes to chain her?"
"It is not the size that matters," Gandalf said, his voice rough. "This was crafted from her blood, her magic, twisted and turned back against her. It leashes her will. Her movements. Her sleep. She cannot act unless given leave. And though her soul fights, it is buried under the weight of command."
Aela's breath hitched. "Then we destroy it."
Gandalf turned toward her slowly, his eyes filled with a deeper pain than she had ever seen in him. "No," he said. "Not yet. If we destroy it now, with the bond still intact, we may shatter her soul instead of freeing it. This magic is layered, knotted like a thread soaked in pitch. It must be unraveled gently, or she will be lost."
Aela's tears fell freely now, but she nodded, her hand tightening around her mother's. She looked down and gasped.
Elena's fingers had moved.
Ever so slightly, they curled tighter around her daughter's hand.
It was the smallest motion, but it was hers.