Eight months.
Sounds like a long time. But when you live in an Elven city where time flows more slowly than honey in a hobbit brewer's mug, trust me — it goes by fast.
Rivendell — or Imladris, if you want to sound fancy — is like a luxury wellness retreat nestled in nature, except the teachers are immortal, the horses look like Elven supermodels, and the local princess was giving me heart-melting glances almost every night.
I'm talking about Arwen, of course. Not Elrond. He mostly looked at me like you'd look at a slightly persistent mosquito.
---
After the White Council disbanded, Galadriel returned to Lothlórien with her guards, as silent as statues on a secret mission. I stayed behind. Because… have you seen Arwen? And also because Rivendell was the perfect starting point to reach the Shire. A strategic choice. Very strategic.
And those eight months? They were a dream.
The Elves gradually accepted me. Not enough to lend me their crowns or sing me lullabies, but enough to stop shooting suspicious looks at me every time I raised my hand. My relationship with Arwen? Let's say it was "semi-official." Elves don't really have tabloids, but rumors here spread faster than a raven from Minas Tirith.
As for Elrond… still frosty. But he said nothing. Which, coming from him, was practically a "fine."
To avoid running into him too often, I spent my days training with his twin sons, Elladan and Elrohir. Two tall Elves with dry wit, razor-sharp weapons, and perpetual smirks. My best enemies… and my best teachers.
Thanks to them — and my telekinetic powers, boosted by that damn crystal I inherited in Chronicle — I was learning at lightning speed. Swordsmanship, archery, Elvish riding, ancient rune reading… I was like a mix between Legolas, Sherlock Holmes, and a Shaolin monk.
In combat, I held my own. One-on-one? Solid. Two-on-one? Now we're talking. I even made a point not to use my psychic powers. Too easy. Too risky. And honestly, nothing beats good old-fashioned sweat.
And between two sparring matches, I read. For hours. I might be the first human in Middle-earth to have read The Book of Lost Tales… in the original Elvish. Even Glorfindel once patted me on the shoulder and said, "You read faster than Galadriel herself." I laughed. So did he. Then I realized he was serious.
---
But it wasn't all peace and romance.
Reports of orc attacks made it to Rivendell. Wargs had been spotted near the High Pass. A scouting patrol never returned. Elrond ordered a clean-up campaign. Translation: time to go monster hunting in the mountains.
For two months, I hiked through snow, fought beasts with jaws bigger than my head, and almost got my throat torn out twice. But I survived. And when we returned, Rivendell had regained its serenity — or as serene as an Elven sanctuary can be.
April 2941 had just begun.
And I knew the time was drawing near.
---
The day before my departure, Arwen came to see me. She wore a white dress, a midnight-blue cloak, and that soft expression she only used for serious moments.
She brought me an outfit: an Elven tunic, flexible pants, reinforced boots, and most of all a green cloak with a leaf-shaped brooch. The iconic Lórien leaf. All sewn by her hands.
"A gift for your journey," she said simply.
I looked at her, then the clothes, then back at her.
"It's too beautiful. You really want me to wear this through mud and dust?"
She laughed — that crystalline laugh that always made me melt.
"You have nothing to give me, Edward. Just come back safe. That's all I want."
I took her hand. I didn't yet know exactly what I felt, but I knew one thing: I didn't want to lose her.
"You can count on me."
---
The next day, I said my goodbyes. Elrond gave me a silent nod. Polite. Distant. Almost diplomatic. Let's just say we weren't going to be clapping each other on the back.
The twins gifted me an Elven sword, forged for me. It didn't have a name yet, but it glowed faintly under the moonlight. I strapped it to my belt.
And Arwen… just hugged me. For a long time.
"You'll come back," she whispered. "I believe in you."
I left without looking back. Because if I had turned around… I might never have left at all.
---
The journey took twenty-five days.
I crossed the Misty Mountains, avoided a band of trolls (they hate jokes), followed the East Road, stopped at Weathertop, slept under the stars, and had some weird conversations with my horse.
When I reached Bree, I went to the Prancing Pony. Human ale? An ordeal. Truly. I took one sip.
"Tastes like… troll hoof steeped in a sock."
The innkeeper didn't appreciate it. Neither did I.
I left at dawn.
Old Forest crossing: check. Met a Hobbit who thought I was a giant: check. Rain-soaked night: check.
And finally… finally…
The green hills of the Shire.
I had never seen anything so peaceful. Winding paths between orchards, flowering fields, Hobbits in vests smoking pipes and smiling. I felt like I had stepped into a fairytale.
Hobbiton was two days away.
The sun was shining, the air smelled of wild mint, and one thought echoed in my head:
The adventure begins.