The Lord of the Rings : The Journey of a Transmigrator

Good news: no one got impaled along the way.

Bad news: I was about to face the father of the most beautiful girl in Middle-earth. And that guy was Elrond. Yes, that Elrond.

For ten days, our convoy had crossed plains, skirted the edge of Mirkwood, avoided Dol Guldur, and passed through the High Pass. No orcs in sight. No Nazgûl. Just silence and horses.

No one spoke of our enemies, but everyone kept a hand on their sword hilts. Me included. My power was ready to trigger at the first sign of trouble. My body... a bit less. Three ribs still aching, though I pretended to be fine in front of Arwen.

But when you've got Galadriel leading the procession, even Sauron would think twice before making a move.

And finally, on the morning of the tenth day, we arrived.

Rivendell.

The waterfall poured from the sky like someone up there had tipped over a river. Mist spread like a silver veil across the valley. And there, perched on the mountainside like a giant chess piece, stood the white palace of the Elves.

It was like stepping into a 4D postcard. Except it was all real. Too real.

We crossed a bridge with no railing over a frozen torrent. My horse hesitated. So did I. I tried not to look down. Survival tip: never look down. Especially when trying to impress a princess.

And then he was there.

Elrond.

The father. The lord. The Elf who judges you in three seconds and categorizes your soul as "dangerous, suspicious, or useless."

He wore a silver circlet, a midnight-blue robe, and a gaze that could freeze lava.

"Galadriel, it has been long. You are as radiant as ever."

Translation: I'm glad to see you, but I have questions that'll ruin your day.

Galadriel replied with a smile that could melt a troll. Then Elrond turned to her.

"My daughter, I've been waiting for you. I sent messengers all the way to the old harbor. Where have you been?"

She lowered her eyes. "Forgive me, Father. We were delayed by a skirmish with orcs."

Ah. The official version. No mention of the psychic-powered Ranger. Fair enough.

Elrond stared at her for a long time. Then sighed. "It matters not, so long as you're safe."

And then... his gaze slid to me.

I felt my muscles tense.

"And this man?"

Okay. That tone said it all. Not even "your companion" or "this noble warrior." Just... this man.

I took a deep breath and stepped forward.

"Lord Elrond, I am Edward Highland, Ranger of Rohan."

He observed me. Slowly. Like a university professor grading a suspicious essay.

"You are welcome, Edward Highland. Galadriel has spoken of you."

Nothing more.

No smile. No "thank you for protecting my daughter." Just that neutral tone that really meant: I'm watching you, Earthling.

Thankfully, Galadriel stepped in. She said something in Elvish that I translated as: Relax, he's a good guy.

Elrond nodded. Just slightly. But that was something.

I met Arwen's eyes. She gave me a tiny, crooked smile. The kind that says you survived round one. I smiled back. Mental alliance: activated.

At last, we entered Rivendell. And... wow.

Carved balconies, hanging gardens, floral scents I'd never smelled before. And soft music, as if the wind itself was singing.

A feast awaited us.

Arwen sat between her father and grandmother. I was placed a little further off. Like at the kids' table. Or the intruders' table.

I focused on the fruity wine and elven rolls that melted in my mouth. And on the musicians playing in the background with instruments even my system couldn't identify.

Galadriel and Elrond spoke. About Dol Guldur. About shadows. About Galadriel's eternal beauty. (Okay, mostly Elrond trying out his best poetic lines.)

When the feast ended, I was led to a room. Not a bed — a piece of art. Sheer curtains. Sculptures on the walls. Even the pillows looked like they'd been woven by angels on psychedelics.

But I didn't sleep.

I trained. Again. Harder than ever.

Until I emptied my mental gauge. Until my head screamed to stop. Because I could feel it: something was coming.

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the house...

Elrond and Galadriel were still talking.

And as she rose to leave, Arwen entered. She wore a simple white dress. Her black hair shimmered in the twilight. She was calm, but I could sense a storm brewing.

"Good evening, Father."

He looked up. He knew her by heart. He knew she hadn't come to talk about flowers.

They walked toward a pavilion.

"You spoke of Dol Guldur?" she asked.

Elrond nodded. "An ancient power is awakening. Galadriel believes the Nazgûl have returned. And not just any... the Witch-king."

Arwen shivered. She had seen them. She knew what that meant.

Elrond stared at her. "How do you know?"

She hesitated.

"Edward told me... well, part of it. He never described exactly what he saw."

A silence. Heavy. Sharp.

Elrond had understood. And he didn't like it.

"You came here for an important reason," he said at last. "Tell me."

And there, Arwen lowered her eyes.

But I know what she was going to say.

Me.