"I don't think you'll succeed," Galadriel said coolly, "but if you run into trouble, you can come to me. The elves of Menegroth have never dealt with humans. They won't be as welcoming as those outside."
With her chin lifted, she turned toward the barrier. "Follow me. Melian has granted me temporary authority to open the way."
Rowan nodded and followed as the boundary parted once more.
The Noldor had lived in Valinor. From the Valar themselves, they had learned that humans were Ilúvatar's Secondborn. Once, misled by Morgoth's whispers, they believed the elves had been confined to make room for mankind. When the truth came out, and they later encountered humanity in Middle-earth, fragile and newly born, sympathy came easily. The Noldor protected humans and passed on knowledge freely.
Doriath was different.
Aside from Thingol himself, the Grey Elves had never seen Valinor. They had grown entirely within Middle-earth, sealed behind Melian's protection, cut off from the world. Humans were something they knew only in theory. Short-lived. Weak. Barely worth notice.
That disdain had shaped history. In another age, Thingol would fiercely oppose his daughter Lúthien's love for the mortal Beren, deeming him unworthy. He would set an impossible task not to test Beren's devotion, but to drive him away or send him to his death.
It was the same reason Thingol now refused alliance and exchange. In his eyes, humans had nothing worth learning.
Once past the barrier, Rowan found himself in a forest overflowing with life. Eternal spring reigned here under Melian's power. Small animals leapt through branches and undergrowth, unafraid of strangers.
"I'm speeding up," Galadriel called back. "Try to keep up."
She vaulted onto a tree trunk and began racing through the canopy, her movements fluid and effortless. Even her long dress failed to slow her. Elves surpassed humans physically in almost every way. Their sight was keen, their balance flawless, their bodies built for grace and war alike.
Galadriel, bearing the blood of the Vanyar, the Noldor, and the Teleri, excelled even among her kind. In raw ability, she outmatched her brothers. Her confidence was earned.
After some time, she slowed, glancing back with a faint smirk.
"So that's it? I thought you'd be more impressive. Guess I should—"
"Princess Galadriel," Rowan's voice interrupted calmly from above, "no need to slow down. I'm right here."
She froze and looked up.
Rowan hovered overhead, white wings unfurled, expression relaxed.
"You… you can fly?"
He tilted his head, surprised in turn. "Didn't your brothers mention it? That's how I reached them in time."
"They did," she said quickly, waving it off. "I just… forgot."
A pause. Then she added, "If that's the case, take me with you. I'll guide you. It'll be faster."
At Thingol's feast, she had barely listened while her brothers praised Rowan. She had assumed they exaggerated to sway their grandfather. Curious and unconvinced, she had slipped away instead of hearing the details.
She knew only the outcome. Not how it had been achieved.
"My pleasure," Rowan said.
He descended, wrapped an arm around her waist, and lifted them above the trees. As they flew, Galadriel's initial stiffness melted into excitement. This was her first time in the air. Laughing softly, she pointed out landmarks below, eagerly explaining the hidden paths and living halls of the Grey Elves.
Flight magic was unknown in Middle-earth. Only the Valar, the Maiar, and winged creatures possessed such freedom. If elves could fly, the ancient bloodshed over ships in Valinor would never have happened.
After nearly half an hour, a vast city emerged ahead. It stood at the forest's heart, woven entirely from living trees, roots and branches forming halls and towers. Its scale dwarfed the Elven City Rowan knew.
Menegroth.
Just before reaching it, Galadriel suddenly redirected him.
"Turn there," she said. "I think I saw Lúthien."
She smiled knowingly. "She's Thingol's most beloved. If she speaks for you, troops are unlikely, but sending elves to your academy? That's possible."
Though Lúthien was her aunt by blood, elves rarely bothered with such titles. To Galadriel, Lúthien was closer to a companion than a relative. Among immortals, age meant little.
Rowan adjusted course.
Below, in a sunlit clearing, a lone figure danced.
Her gown was blue as a cloudless sky. Her eyes were gray, like starlight at dusk. Gold flowers were stitched into her cloak, while her hair fell black as deepening night. She moved as if the world itself listened.
Light clung to her like dew on leaves. Her presence rang like clear water, shone like stars above mist.
Rowan's breath caught.
"Such beauty," he whispered. "I didn't know it was possible."
Galadriel was breathtaking. Lúthien was something else entirely.
The title was no exaggeration.
The fairest elf in all of Middle-earth stood before them.