The Lord of the Rings : The Journey of a Transmigrator

If someone had told me that one day I'd be sitting down for a motivational interview with Elrond, the semi-elf-in-chief himself, I would've at least prepared mentally. I don't know… some mind-training, a stress sandwich, maybe a flashcard summary of The Silmarillion.

But no.

All I got was:

"My father wishes to see you."

Signed: Ellohir, Arwen's big brother—calm, classy, smiling… and apparently faster than gossip in this valley.

"So, you're leaving with the Dwarves?" he asked casually, like he was commenting on the weather.

I raised an eyebrow.

"That's fresh news from this morning—how do you already know?"

He shrugged modestly.

"This is Imladris. Secrets travel faster than horses here."

I couldn't help but smile. I liked the guy. Sure, he was the brother of the girl I loved, but he had that "big brother who lends you his cloak instead of judging you" vibe.

"Still," he added, "I envy you. I'd pay good coin for a good old-fashioned adventure. But today, our greatest mission is drilling Elvish grammar into young Dúnedain."

"Trust me," I replied, "facing off against Smaug isn't as glamorous as it sounds."

"Oh, I don't doubt it."

We arrived at a large hall, dominated by a massive mural depicting—of course—the Last Alliance.

Elves, men, battle cries, blades… and in the center, Isildur on his knees, raising the broken blade Narsil to sever the Ring from Sauron's hand.

Yeah. No pressure.

Elrond stood there, straight as a column, arms crossed, staring at the mural like he was still in it.

Ellohir bowed, turned around, and left me alone with… my potential future father-in-law.

Perfect.

"This mural is… striking," I offered carefully. "You can feel the gravity of the moment."

Elrond didn't even glance at me.

"It was not a victory."

Boom. Atmosphere.

"The Ring was never destroyed. Sauron may return. And if that day comes… this painting will only serve to remind us of our failure."

Right. Serious talk it is.

"Lord Elrond, your son said you wished to speak with me."

He finally turned to face me. Slowly. Too slowly to be casual.

His grey eyes pierced me. He wasn't just looking—he was scanning me. Like some ultra-precise Elven MRI.

"Edward Highland. You are neither Elf nor Maia. Merely a Man. And yet… you possess a power that surpasses that of many sages. That can only be cause for concern."

Okay, so we weren't pulling punches here.

"Can you tell me where this force you used against Saruman comes from?"

I tensed. That wasn't a question—it was a test. Maybe even a veiled accusation.

"No one gave me this power," I said. "It comes from within."

He raised an eyebrow, skeptical. Then his hand drifted slowly toward the hilt of his sword.

"Not given, then… received through an object?"

And there it was.

He thought I had found the Ring.

I raised my hands gently. Not to defend myself—but to act. Without a word, I levitated a shard of the broken blade Narsil from where it rested in a corner of the hall.

The piece of steel floated between us, suspended like a silent judgment.

"This strength… comes from my soul.

I wear no Ring.

I cast no spells.

I need nothing, Lord Elrond—

Nothing but my will."

The walls trembled. The air vibrated around us.

My thoughts became reality—not because of some artifact, but because I willed it.

"This is my will."

I slowly placed the shard of Narsil in his hand. And waited.

Silence.

Long. Heavy. Almost sacred.

At last, Elrond sat. He had stopped judging me. Maybe. A little.

"Do you know the tale of Beren and Lúthien?"

I nodded. Of course. Legendary love. Stolen Silmaril. The original interspecies melodrama.

He continued:

"My brother Elros and I descend from them. After the War of Wrath, the Valar offered us a choice. Elros chose to be a man. I, an Elf."

His gaze drifted back to the mural.

"Arwen… inherited that choice. She was never meant to be forced to make it.

But your presence… compels her."

Translation: You're a problem, kid.

I didn't answer. He had every right to worry. He'd seen the world break.

I'd barely stepped into it.

"Was it Lady Galadriel who spoke on your behalf?" I asked.

Elrond shook his head.

"She holds a grudge, for I broke her daughter's heart.

But Arwen is my daughter. And I read her like an open book.

The day you arrived, I knew. I saw what existed between you."

A pause.

Then:

"So, Edward Highland. You love my daughter.

But do you love her enough to… deserve her choice?"

And that's when I understood: this wasn't a "no."

It was a trial.

And if I survived it… maybe the father of the most beautiful woman in Middle-earth would come to respect me.

Maybe.

But something told me this wasn't going to be a simple essay exam.