The evening breeze in Rivendell blew softly, carrying the scent of summer flowers blooming in the high gardens. In one of the marble pavilions, lit by lantern light and moonlight, three figures from three different races gathered: Gandalf the Grey, Thorin Oakenshield, heir of Erebor, and Elrond, Lord of Imladris.
Thorin stood stiffly, as if his mere presence in that place made him uncomfortable enough. He clutched a rolled map tightly, his eyes full of suspicion towards the calm Elrond.
"What we carry is no concern of the Elves," Thorin grumbled, his voice heavy, as if trying to suppress the embers of an old anger.
Gandalf sighed. "For your own good, Thorin. Give him the map."
Thorin turned quickly to Gandalf. "This is the heritage of my people. Its contents are secrets I must protect."
"Ah, the stubbornness of Dwarves," Gandalf retorted, shaking his head slowly. "You could lose everything just because of your pride. Elrond is one of the few beings in Middle-earth who can still read the ancient script of the Dwarves. Hand it over to him. You need him."
There was a long silence before Thorin finally conceded. With a heavy heart, he handed over the scroll. Elrond received the map gracefully, nodding slowly before saying, "Erebor… What is your purpose with this map?"
Gandalf replied, concealing his true motives, "Academic interest. Sometimes... ancient artifacts like this hold invisible writings. You can still read ancient Dwarvish script, can't you?"
Without much talk, Elrond took the map to the outer terrace overlooking the valley. The moon that night hung low and brilliant—and just as he raised the parchment beneath its glow, lines of script began to appear, gleaming like silver ink hidden by time.
"Moon-runes," Elrond murmured. "Of course. Not easily seen."
Gandalf chimed in, "In this case, true. These writings can only be read under moonlight of the exact same shape and season as the night they were written."
Thorin stepped forward, his eyes fixed on the map that now revealed its secrets. "Can you read it?"
Elrond nodded, his eyes scanning the formed sentences. "This script was written on a midsummer night, two centuries ago, when the crescent moon hung just as it does tonight. It seems... fate has indeed brought you to Rivendell, Thorin Oakenshield. Tonight is the very same night."
All was silent. Only the rustle of the wind and the sound of the river flowing in the distance.
"'Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks, and the setting sun with the last light of Durin's Day will shine upon the key-hole,'" Elrond recited the runes.
Bilbo, standing slightly behind, whispered softly, "Durin's Day?"
Gandalf turned to the Hobbit. "That is the Dwarves' New Year. When the last moon of autumn and the first sun of winter appear in the sky together."
Thorin frowned. "Bad news. Summer is almost over. Durin's Day will come soon."
Balin tried to reassure him, "There's still time."
"For what?" Bilbo asked, confused.
"To find the door," Balin replied. "We must be in the right place, at the right time. Only then can the door be opened."
From a distance, a young man leaned against a stone pillar not far from the pavilion, watching the conversation from behind the garden's shadows. This was Thalion—a young man unlike the others.
He already knew everything.
In his mind, he felt as if he were watching a scene from a movie he had seen many times. He knew there would be a map, knew about the moon, knew that a secret door awaited them on the mountain side.
But that night, his feelings were a little different. Seeing them so genuinely believe that what they found was a great secret… made him wonder.
"If I know what's going to happen… am I really part of this story?" he whispered to himself.
Above, the moon continued to shine—just as it had two centuries ago. And perhaps, like that night, fate was playing its hand behind the scenes.
The wind still blew gently, carrying the scent of sylvan flowers and the sound of water falling from the high cliffs. In the silent, shaded stone garden, Thalion stood still under the full moonlight. His eyes never left the balcony where Gandalf and the Dwarves were gathered, but his thoughts had long surpassed what they were discussing.
Light footsteps sounded behind him, as soft as falling leaves.
"Thalion," the voice called, gentle and calm, like the sound of water from the earth's first spring.
He turned. There stood an Elven woman, graceful and ageless, her dark hair flowing over her shoulders like a soft night shadow. Arwen Undómiel—the Evenstar among the Eldar.
"What were you watching from a distance just now?" she asked, looking into Thalion's eyes with deep tranquility.
Thalion did not answer immediately. He only smiled faintly, gazing at Arwen's face as if recalling something that could not be explained with words.
"I saw…" he took a slow breath, "…a story repeating itself. But tonight—" He stopped, then bowed his head slightly, looking at Arwen's face in the moonlight.
"What caught my attention the most… is how beautiful you look in this moonlight."
Arwen paused for a moment, her eyes widening slightly, then her smile slowly bloomed. The moonlight made her cheeks appear warmer, a soft blush appearing on her usually serene face.
"You know… not many dare to say such a thing to me," she whispered almost inaudibly, "especially a mortal man."
Thalion grinned faintly. "Perhaps because they are too afraid of legends. But I've seen more than just legends tonight."
Arwen smiled—not just a polite smile, but a genuine and slightly shy one. She looked down for a moment, then turned back to Thalion.
"Come," she said, extending her hand. "There is someone I want to introduce you to. Lady Galadriel is also here tonight."
Thalion looked at her hand for a moment, then took it. His fingers touched Arwen's hand gently, like someone who had just touched the first leaf of spring after a long winter.
"I guess this night will be longer than I thought."
They walked side by side along the stone path lit by crystal lanterns. Among the tall trees and the soft singing of Elves in ancient tongue, Thalion walked towards an encounter he had never expected—with one of the most mysterious figures from the undying lands.
They walked in silence, only the sound of their footsteps and the night wind accompanying them. Thalion began to feel something different as they passed beneath an arch of vines hanging between two white stone pillars. The air became calmer, and around them, it was as if they were enveloped in a silence that was not just soundless—but timeless.
Arwen stopped before an inner garden, where moonlight fell directly into a clear pool reflecting the stars. At the edge of the pool stood a woman in a gown as white as morning light. Her hair flowed like a silver river, and eyes that held millennia of age now gazed calmly in their direction.
"Lady Galadriel," Arwen said softly, bowing slightly in respect.
Thalion also bowed, but before he could say anything, Galadriel's voice was heard—though her lips barely moved.
"Welcome, child of unwritten time. You have come from afar, further than it appears."
Thalion slowly raised his head. That voice... it was not only heard in his ears, but also in his mind, as if an echo from the deepest inner space.
"I... I am Thalion," he said softly, a little uneasy. "But I suppose you already know that."
Galadriel stepped forward. Her every movement was like flowing water, calm yet certain. She approached, then stood directly in front of Thalion. Her gaze seemed to pierce through flesh and bone, straight into his heart.
"Your name has long been written in the shadows of the old trees of Lothlórien. But your origin... is not from the same world as ours. You carry memories that do not belong here. As if you have read the end of the story before it even began."
Thalion swallowed, his chest tight. He felt naked—not physically, but spiritually. As if no secret within him could be hidden from this woman.
"I... I don't know why I am here," he finally murmured. "Sometimes I feel like I'm just an observer. But sometimes... I feel like I'm part of a script that hasn't been written yet."
Galadriel smiled, but her smile was not one that brought comfort. It was the smile of one who knew too much, about time, about choices, and about branching possibilities.
"You are not an observer. You are the seed of a deeper will. Something is shifting in this world, Thalion. You were not sent to witness—you were sent to choose."
"Choose what?"
"Between the truth that is known... and the truth that is forgotten. Between destiny... and the courage to refuse it."
Galadriel raised her hand, and the water in the pool began to ripple. She gazed at the now luminous surface, and in the shimmering water, Thalion caught glimpses of shadows: a fire-winged dragon screaming in the sky, darkness creeping from the east, and himself—standing between two paths, alone.
"You will see more than others see. And that is both a gift... and a curse. But remember this: even the smallest of choices can change the course of the world."
Suddenly all was quiet. The water was still again, the sounds of the night returned.
Galadriel turned to Arwen. "Bring him back. He has seen enough for tonight."
Arwen nodded, then looked at Thalion with a look of concern. But Thalion remained silent, his eyes still fixed on the pool. In his heart, there was a great swell he had not yet understood.
As they walked back along the path, the moonlight still shone on their backs. But that night was no longer the same for Thalion.
He was no longer just a person who knew the end of a story.
He was now part of that story—and his story had only just begun.
The river flowed gently from the mountain slopes, descending over moss-covered rocks and falling from cliffs into the sparkling pool below. The roar of the waterfall created a tranquil rhythm, like an eternal whisper singing the song of the earth.
Thalion and Arwen sat on a large rock not far from the gentle spray of rebounding water. They did not speak for a moment, letting the sounds of nature speak first. Above them, moonlight slipped through the leaves, creating a painting of light on the water's surface.
"I often come here when the world feels too noisy," Arwen said softly. "This waterfall... it seems to remind me that time keeps flowing. No matter who we are, or what we fear."
Thalion looked at the flowing water in front of them, then sighed. "A place like this doesn't exist in Rohan," he finally said. "My land is drier, harsher. The wind blows mercilessly, and the ground trembles when the horses gallop."
Arwen tilted her head, looking at Thalion gently. "But there's beauty there too, isn't there?"
Thalion nodded slowly. "A wild, unpolished beauty. Vast grasslands as far as the eye can see. The wind carrying the scent of horses and hay. And when the sun sets... everything turns gold. Not from gold stored underground, but from the light falling upon an honest world."
"Rohan is known as the land of riders," Arwen smiled. "But I think... its people are also riders of time. They live fast, love fiercely, and fight to the end."
Thalion chuckled softly. "Yes. Perhaps because life there is never truly peaceful. But beneath that harsh life... there's something warm. I once saw a father in Rohan who had nothing but a horse and a pair of rough hands... but he braided his daughter's hair every night. Patiently. With love. Few words. But it was enough."
Arwen was silent, then said, "Rohan sounds like an honest place. Not many honest places left in this world."
Thalion looked at her. "Rivendell feels like a dream too beautiful to be real. But Rohan... though harsh and cold, that's where I feel alive."
The wind carried a fine mist of water towards them, and Arwen closed her eyes for a moment, enjoying its gentle touch.
"Thalion," she said then, her voice almost inaudible, "have you ever wished you could stay in one place... and forget everything?"
Thalion gazed at the waterfall for a long time, then said, "I used to. But now I know... some people aren't born to stay, but to journey. To see. And to carry stories from one world to another."
Arwen looked down, her fingers touching the stone surface beside her. "Then, if you must leave here... will you remember this night?"
Thalion turned to her. "I will remember the moonlight in your eyes. And the sound of falling water as you spoke of stillness."
He smiled, gently yet surely. Arwen looked at him in silence, then finally stood up slowly.
"Come," she said. "It's late. But our time isn't over yet."
They walked slowly away from the waterfall, side by side in comfortable silence. And in the sky, the full moon watched them—two souls from different worlds, meeting amidst light and water, carrying a story that would continue to echo through time.
In the Solitude of Rivendell's Chamber
Night deepened as Thalion returned to his room. The sky was still lit by the full moon, but its light couldn't penetrate the misted windowpane. The Elven lamps in the room glowed softly, as if guarding the silence. Thalion placed his sword scabbard on the table, then sat cross-legged on the cold floor, closing his eyes.
His hands formed a triangle, his fingers touching in a pattern unfamiliar to anyone not versed in the art of alchemy.
"Truth… open your gate for the child who still seeks," he whispered in an ancient tongue.
The world trembled. A wind not from the window swept through the room. The walls seemed to melt, and alchemical symbols ignited on the floor around him.
Suddenly, in the center of the circle, a rift opened. A rift that didn't pierce the floor, but pierced reality itself.
The Gate of Truth.
As before, Thalion stood before a gigantic white door, adorned with constantly shifting carvings—sometimes an eye, sometimes a hand, sometimes a winged wheel. A white figure—the entity called Truth—appeared, faceless, voiceless, yet always knowing.
"You have come again, world-crosser…" the voice penetrated his consciousness directly, unspoken, yet felt in his soul.
Thalion nodded slowly. "I seek knowledge of wing structure. Not ordinary bird wings, but like an eagle's—strong, stable... yet foldable. It must integrate into a saddle form. For the griffon that will accompany me later."
Truth did not answer directly, but the gate opened. A blinding burst of light momentarily enveloped him, and Thalion found himself surrounded by layer upon layer of mechanical and energetic schematics: eagle wings, arrangements of lightweight bones, metallic muscles, wind-damping networks, and hundreds of secret symbols from transmutation he had never studied before.
Thalion could only absorb—storing it all in his mind. His head throbbed, but he did not recoil.
"Knowledge always comes at a price," Truth whispered, "and you know that."
"If these wings can carry me further on this journey... then I am ready to pay."
In an instant, he felt as if his body split in two. Part of him remained inside the gate, while the other part returned to the real world.
Back to the World
Thalion gasped, collapsing onto his chamber floor. Cold sweat beaded on his face. In his palm, a faint glow—a transmutation seal in the shape of a circle with a pattern of wings and a wind wheel.
He slowly rose, then went to his workbench. He sketched rapidly. A lightweight steel saddle, designed to integrate with the griffon's back. From this saddle, two panels could open and extend into symmetrical metal wings, each with an automatic folding frame—like an eagle's wings sculpted by a god's hand.
His hands moved quickly, his eyes sharp. There was no hesitation. Now he was not just a rider, but also a creator.
"This journey isn't just about the truth out there," he murmured to himself, "but about the truth I must forge... with these hands."
And outside the window, the night wind of Rivendell blew softly, as if welcoming the dawn of a new creation—one that would change not only a journey, but history itself.
Thalion stood still in the long stone corridor overlooking the council chamber. Across from him, he could faintly hear voices that were far from ordinary. The voices came from four figures whose power was undeniable: Gandalf, Saruman, Elrond, and Lady Galadriel.
He had no intention of eavesdropping, but the room was not built to conceal voices from those destined to hear.
"—We cannot rely on the dwarves! They are obsessed with their own gold," Saruman's voice was clear, flat yet full of pressure.
"It's not just gold, Saruman," Gandalf retorted, his tone sharp but controlled. "Beneath Erebor... there is something far greater."
Thalion narrowed his eyes, holding his breath.
"What do you suspect?" Elrond asked, calm but attentive.
"Something stirring in the shadows. Something older than Smaug. A darkness from the East," Gandalf said heavily.
"And what is your proof?" Saruman interjected, cynical. "Rumors from border guards? Whispers carried on the wind from old tombs? You are too quick to suspicion, Gandalf."
The atmosphere grew tense; Thalion could feel it in his bones.
"A Necromancer has risen in Dol Guldur," Gandalf continued. "His name has not been spoken aloud... but I believe it is Sauron."
Silence fell for a moment, before Lady Galadriel's soft but firm voice finally sounded:
"The spirit of the enemy endured..."
The sentence was so quiet yet heart-shaking.
"He survived the destruction of Mordor. He has taken a new form. And now he rises again."
Saruman snorted softly. "There is no proof. Dol Guldur has been empty for centuries."
"I went there," Gandalf said, softer but full of conviction. "I saw dark powers at work. Black magic, twisted beasts, and the Witch-king's tomb—empty."
Lady Galadriel looked deeply at Gandalf. There was worry in her eyes, but also understanding.
"Darkness cannot simply be left alone," she said. "If it rises, then this world will burn faster than we imagine."
Saruman stood, as if to end it all.
"You see what you wish to see, Gandalf. Your fears give form to what is not there. There is no Sauron. There will be no war. Not as long as I watch over this world."
Thalion clenched his fists in the hallway. He knew Saruman's words might sound rational... but his heart knew—Gandalf was right.
Lady Galadriel seemed to turn her gaze into the distance for a moment, and her whisper was heard... or perhaps Thalion only read it from the movement of her lips.
"Even the smallest among us can change the course of the future..."