❝ I’m afraid our people have forgotten their history. It was your brother who led us as our first king into an age of prosperity, yet many have turned so harshly against elven influence. ❞ (@rosecrowned)
The Half-Elf stood by the arched balcony, the weight of millennia pressed into his calm but steady bearing. Margaery Tyrell's words, spoken with the grace of her station, echoed in the air between them. Her gaze was bright, her tone bold, and yet her words carried the melancholy of someone who understood the fleeting nature of memory among mortals.
For a long moment, Elrond did not answer. His gaze traveled over the city, the shimmering cascades and the busy streets where the people lingered still. Finally, he turned to her, his gray eyes deep and thoughtful, as if he held within them the entire weight of history. "History," he began, his voice measured, "is a fragile thread, Lady Tyrell. Men weave it to suit their needs, often forgetting the loom upon which it was spun." His expression softened, though it was touched by sorrow. "What you say is true. The memory of the First Age wanes as the light of the Eldar dims in Middle-earth."
Elrond moved closer to her, his hands clasped before him in a gesture of thoughtfulness. "It is not bitterness that compels me to speak thus, but understanding. Mortals, with their brief lives, look forward, seeking new hope. The Eldar, who bear both the grief and beauty of eternity, cannot so easily sever themselves from the past. And so, a gulf forms, one that cannot be bridged by words alone."
He inclined his head slightly, his gaze resting on her with quiet respect. "That you remember, and speak so boldly of it, honors your lineage and your wisdom, Lady Tyrell. I would not ask that men or women forsake their path, only that they do not forget how it began. You offer me hope that my brother's dream and people survive beyond his years."








