By now, Rowan Mercer occupied a rare place in King Thingol's esteem.
Strength, wisdom, restraint. Rowan possessed all three. If he had been an elf, Thingol would not have hesitated to name him heir by marriage, to place Lúthien's hand in his and bind the future of Doriath to him.
That thought ended where it began.
Rowan was human.
No matter how brilliant, a human life burned quickly. In a few short decades, even the finest would return to dust. That alone made the path impossible. Thingol found himself quietly regretting it, mourning a possibility that could never be.
That night, a grand banquet was held in the Thousand-Cavern Palace to formally welcome Rowan to the Grey Elven realm.
He was no longer regarded as a mere human guest. He was honored as a wizard of rare power and insight, one who had offered Doriath a path forward. In that moment, his presence carried echoes of what the Grey Pilgrim would one day represent to Middle-earth.
The banquet hall glittered with gems set into living stone. Noble elves filled the space, graceful and radiant, every movement a reminder that beauty among elves was not rare, but expected. The food was abundant: strange fruits, delicate sweets, and expertly prepared meats.
Yes, meat.
Rowan had once believed elves lived on fruit and bread alone. He now knew better. Elves hunted, cooked, and ate animals without contradiction. To them, beasts and trees were both living things. There was no hierarchy of life, only balance.
Among the dishes were elven specialties he recognized. Lembas, sustaining far beyond its size. Miruvor, a clear drink that chased away fatigue and sharpened the spirit.
The atmosphere was warm and unguarded. No noble challenged him. No thinly veiled hostility surfaced. After what Rowan had demonstrated, no one was foolish enough to provoke him.
Music filled the hall.
When Lúthien sang, the air itself seemed to listen.
Her voice carried something beyond sound. It wrapped around the heart, softened the mind, and left the soul trembling. Rowan had to admit that resisting the urge to abandon all restraint and simply stay there, forever, was no small feat.
He liked her. Too much.
And that was exactly why he remained careful.
Power and attachment were a dangerous combination. Rowan had seen too many paths where love became leverage, where bonds turned into vulnerabilities. In his own strange existence, spread across multiple worlds, detachment was not cruelty but survival.
If he ever chose a partner, it would be when he could move freely between worlds, when no single loss could become an irreplaceable wound.
"Rowan," Lúthien said, appearing beside him as the banquet reached its height, "come dance with me."
"I'm not very good at dancing," he replied honestly.
She laughed and took his hand anyway, pulling him into the open space. "That's fine. I am."
She was not exaggerating.
Under her guidance, Rowan found the rhythm, awkwardness fading into motion. From the throne, Thingol watched, tension tightening his shoulders, until Melian gently pressed him back into his seat.
"There's no need to intervene," she said softly. "Some things unfold whether we wish them to or not."
Melian had noticed it too. Rowan's vitality ran far deeper than any ordinary human's. Too deep. She could not shake the suspicion that something more walked behind his shadow.
Later, as the dance slowed, Rowan spoke quietly to Lúthien. "I'd like to ask your mother about magic. Would that be improper?"
"Not at all," she replied easily. "She's very kind. I can take you to her after the banquet."
"Tomorrow," Rowan said after a moment's thought. "That would be better."
Lúthien nodded without question.
The next morning, she and Galadriel led Rowan through the forest to Melian's garden.
Unlike the stone halls of the palace, this place was hidden beneath leaves and light. A living sanctuary modeled after the gardens Melian once tended in the West. Few were permitted to enter freely.
Here, among flowers that did not exist anywhere else in Middle-earth, Rowan prepared for a different kind of lesson.