As for the two side quests the system had hurled at me like a bowling ball into a set of pins, I still didn't have a single damn lead.
Take Arwen, for example. The famous Evening Star.
I didn't even know what she truly felt about me.
Well—okay, maybe a little. Let's just say she didn't hate me. That was already a miracle. But that didn't mean she loved me either. I was a weird guy from another world, with psychic powers no one here understood, a Rohan-accent thick enough to cut with a sword, and a knack for drawing attention everywhere I went.
So yeah, romance… was a subplot I was approaching with extreme caution.
Especially because, even if I did manage to win Arwen's heart, that was just step one. Then came the unscalable wall: Elrond.
The guy had lived through more Ages than I'd seen years. He'd survived wars, watched kingdoms fall, faced darkness I didn't even dare name. He'd seen his wife die, his people flee—and now he protected his daughter like the last jewel of Middle-earth.
Which, to be fair, she pretty much was.
And I, Edward Highland, interdimensional castaway in tattered sneakers and armed with nothing but telekinesis, dared imagine myself as a suitor for her hand.
Yeah. That.
But I was starting to understand why the system had assigned me this quest.
Because at its core, it wasn't just a love story. It was a choice. A fight against fate. Arwen, like Lúthien before her, had within her that soft but unbreakable light.
And to walk beside her, one had to be willing to give up everything—or gain it all.
I remembered what I'd felt at first: fascination, attraction… something normal, human, almost superficial. She was beautiful—no debate there. The kind of beauty that could pale the skies over Imladris, silence poets, and make trees turn to look.
But now…
Now she was more than that.
Her voice, as soft as the rivers of Lórien, could strike like a sword's edge.
Her patience was legendary—but so was her will.
She was an elf, yes. But above all, a vast soul.
I didn't love an ideal anymore—I respected a person.
And I wanted to be worthy of her.
Whether Elrond would ever let me try… that remained to be seen.
And that's where the other side quest came in: the Silmarils.
When I first saw the title, I nearly laughed. It was like someone telling me:
"Here, go fetch the Holy Grail and come back with Excalibur in your teeth."
Even the Valar had given up on reclaiming those jewels. One in the sky, another in the ocean, the last swallowed by the earth.
And the worst part? The system actually expected me to go after one.
Well, unless it handed me a "Teleport to the heart of a volcano" card, I was pretending that quest didn't exist.
---
While I was busy myth-crushing, a soft, clear voice snapped me out of my thoughts.
"Very fine script. So sharp. Edward, what language is that?"
I jumped, nearly dropping the quill from my fingers.
An elf had appeared at the edge of my room—or rather, the non-edge, since most of Imladris's chambers were open, without doors or windows. Everything here bathed in a balance between nature and architecture. Even the walls seemed to sing.
The intruder's face looked familiar.
Elven, of course—so perfect, graceful, a little unreal.
But most of all… he had Elrond's eyes.
Long dark hair. Piercing gaze. A silver star on his brow.
And a calm, almost too-perfect voice.
"Who are you?" I asked, rising more out of reflex than threat.
"Forgive my rudeness," he said with a slight bow. "I am Ellohir Star-shine, son of Elrond, brother to Arwen."
Ah.
The big brother.
I bowed as deeply as my Earth-born joints allowed.
"An honor, Lord Ellohir."
He smiled lightly.
"The pleasure is mine. My sister has spoken of you… in interesting terms."
I couldn't tell if that was good news or the start of a diplomatic interrogation.
"I had hoped to meet you upon arriving in Imladris, but I was told you were away."
"We were on a mission. My brother Elladan and I accompanied Estel to the southern lands."
Estel. Aragorn's Elvish name.
Translation: Hope.
And suddenly, the room felt a little heavier.
Because Aragorn… was the other suitor. The "real" one, as far as the stories went. The one the books had chosen.
And if I'd just been a reader, maybe I would've cheered for their romance.
But now? I was in the story.
And that changed everything.
I thought back to that tragic line Aragorn's mother once said:
> "I gave Hope to the Dúnedain… but kept none for myself."
I didn't know yet who would be Arwen's hope.
But I knew I intended to fight for that title.
—
Ellohir studied me like a scout watching a stranger in his camp. Not with malice—just with the careful precision of a guardian.
Then he spoke:
"I nearly forgot. My father wishes to see you. He… has things to say."
No threat in his tone, but my stomach still clenched.
This was it. The test—or at least the diplomatic declaration of war.
I took a deep breath. Glanced at my table where pages of English letters, parchment, and quill were scattered.
I tidied it up. Because in this world, even handwriting had to be elegant.
Then I looked up at Ellohir.
"Very well. Lead me to him."
I stepped out of my room. And as the midday sun filtered through the columns of Imladris, I knew that my fate—whether I liked it or not—had just entered a new phase.