Third Age 2947, Midsummer's Day.
Peaceful Rivendell was unusually lively.
Three days earlier, a majestic snowy owl had flown into Elrond's study, bearing a formal letter sealed with molten gold.
The sender was none other than Gandalf the Grey, writing on behalf of Lord Sylas of Weathertop to formally request the hand of Elrond's daughter, Arwen Undómiel.
The letter stated that Sylas, accompanied by Gandalf and others, would arrive in Rivendell on Midsummer's Day to discuss the proposal in person.
Although most Elves of Rivendell already knew of the affection between Sylas and Arwen, having seen them strolling together under the starlit terraces, the official news still stirred mixed emotions among them.
Arwen was no ordinary maiden. She was the Evenstar of her people, the only daughter of Lord Elrond of Rivendell and Lady Celebrían of Lothlórien, and the granddaughter of Galadriel, the most powerful Noldorin Lady in Middle-earth.
Her beauty was compared to that of Lúthien Tinúviel, and the light of her jewel, the Evenstar, shone brighter than the morning star itself.
Among those who felt the deepest turmoil were Arwen's elder brothers, Elladan and Elrohir.
Though they had long known this day would come, they had secretly hoped it would be delayed, if not for a century, then perhaps a thousand years.
After all, Elves lived long, and now Sylas, too, was immortal. What was the rush?
"Elladan," said Elrohir, resting his elbow on a marble pillar, "how do you think Sylas and his party will arrive? Through the fireplace?"
Elladan grimaced at the thought. "Hardly. Today is important. He wouldn't risk showing up covered in soot."
"Then maybe he'll ride his dragon?"
"It's not a war or a parade," Elladan replied flatly. "Who rides a dragon to meet his in-laws?"
Before their playful debate could continue, Elrond, seated upon the dais, lifted his gaze toward the open sky beyond the great hall's arching windows. A faint smile crossed his face.
"The guests have arrived," he said calmly to his secretary. "Lindir, prepare to receive them."
At his words, every Elf turned their eyes upward.
At first, they saw only a small white dot glimmering in the far-off clouds. But as it grew larger, gasps rippled through the gathered company.
From the east came a sight so magnificent that even the Elves, who had seen wonders untold, murmured in astonishment.
Twelve white-winged horses, twice the size of any mortal steed, soared through the clouds, drawing behind them a radiant golden carriage that gleamed in the sunlight.
Their coats were pure as snow, their wings silver-bright, and their hooves shone as though made of starlight.
The carriage itself was wrought of gold and mallow-tree wood, its surface engraved with intricate carvings.
As the flying carriage descended, a soft wind swept through Rivendell, stirring the white banners along the bridge.
It touched down upon the wide marble road with grace, the winged horses folding their enormous wings before trotting to a smooth halt before the stone bridge.
Two human coachmen, dressed in crisp blue uniforms trimmed with silver, quickly dismounted. Despite their effort to appear composed, their flushed faces betrayed their excitement.
They were handpicked from Sylas's subjects, skilled fliers trusted to handle the Lord's winged steeds and his enchanted carriage.
Although they had flown it many times above Weathertop, today's thousand-mile journey to Rivendell, bearing their master to the Elven realm itself, filled them with awe and pride.
One coachman stepped forward, bowing deeply toward Elrond in the distance, while the other hurried to place a polished wooden ladder by the carriage door.
He then opened the door respectfully and stepped aside, awaiting the passengers within.
Across the bridge, Lindir stood ready with several Elven attendants.
When the door opened, the Elves' keen eyes glimpsed the enchanted interior of the carriage, far larger than its exterior, glowing faintly with endless depth.
The first to emerge was Gandalf.
But this was not the travel-worn Grey Pilgrim they knew. Today, he wore a long robe of fine spider silk, its soft grey hue threaded with silver that caught the sunlight and shimmered like moonlight on water.
His beard and hair had been neatly groomed, and his dragon-hide boots made no sound as he stepped down onto the path.
He smiled at Lindir, his eyes glinting.
"Long time no see, Lindir," Gandalf greeted warmly. "I trust we're not too late?"
"Mithrandir," Lindir greeted warmly, bowing with Elven grace. "You've arrived just in time. Lord Elrond himself asked me to welcome you."
While the two exchanged pleasantries, Bilbo Baggins stepped out of the carriage.
He was dressed with surprising dignity in a well-tailored brown-and-gold suit that fit his round form perfectly. Though Hobbits seldom wore shoes, Bilbo had made an exception for the occasion, a pair of polished dragon-hide slippers. Unfortunately, their size and stiffness made him look rather like a child trying on his father's boots.
Even so, the dear Hobbit beamed with pride as he took in the familiar beauty of Rivendell, the silver waterfalls, the glimmer of the terraces, the distant singing. Nostalgia softened his face as he followed Gandalf down the steps.
Then came Sylas.
He emerged with quiet composure, a living blaze of light and shadow. Upon his brow rested the Crown of Wisdom, its embedded gems shimmering with faint, intelligent fire. His robes were of fine Elven make, embroidered with moon-silver threads that traced ancient runes of protection. Draped over his shoulders was his starlit magic cloak, whose fabric gleamed as if woven from the night sky itself.
At his chest glowed the Evenstar, the jewel that matched Arwen's own. His boots, made of black dragon-hide, reflected the light of the hall's torches with a subdued luster.
The moment Sylas appeared, a quiet murmur rippled among the gathered Elves. Lindir himself could not help a faint expression of admiration.
This attire had been chosen carefully by Gandalf, with Bilbo adding his own practical, and occasionally whimsical, suggestions. Their goal had been to make Sylas shine beyond compare, and from the astonished faces around them, they had clearly succeeded.
Gandalf and Bilbo exchanged a satisfied glance.
Sylas, however, felt slightly awkward beneath all the glitter. He smiled wryly as he descended from the carriage and greeted Lindir with familiar warmth.
"Thank you for waiting, Lindir. Where are Lord Elrond and the others?"
Lindir bowed lightly. "They await you in the banquet hall, my lord. Please, follow me."
With that, he turned to lead the way, his silver hair swaying gently as he walked.
Behind them, the two human coachmen remained by the golden carriage, now surrounded by helpful Elves. The majestic winged horses, creatures that Sylas had first gifted to Arwen and Elrond, were being tended to with reverent excitement.
The coachmen hardly needed to lift a hand; the Elves themselves eagerly took over, soothing the steeds with soft songs and leading the men away to be treated as honored guests.
Meanwhile, guided by Lindir, Sylas, Gandalf, and Bilbo made their way through the winding marble corridors to Rivendell's great hall.
The sound of harps and flowing water echoed faintly through the air. When they entered the banquet chamber, the space was filled with the quiet shimmer of golden light and the soft rustle of silken robes.
At the far end of the hall, upon a dais of white stone, sat Lord Elrond, calm and radiant as ever.
Around him stood many Elves of Rivendell, lords and scholars, guards and maidens, all turning their bright eyes toward the newcomers.
Even Sylas, usually unflappable, felt a rare pang of nerves under so many watchful gazes.
Bilbo, meanwhile, was visibly trembling, trying his best to keep his hands and feet from moving in opposite directions.
Only Gandalf appeared perfectly at ease. His steady smile never faltered as he led them to the center of the hall, his staff tapping softly against the floor.
"Lord Elrond," Gandalf said with a courteous bow, "it has been too long."
Sylas and Bilbo followed suit, bowing deeply beside him.
Elrond inclined his head graciously, his eyes glinting with gentle amusement. "Indeed, Mithrandir. You honor us with your presence. Tell me, what brings you here today?"
The question was formal, though both men knew its answer.
Gandalf stepped forward with a radiant smile, his voice echoing through the golden hall.
"I come today with joyful tidings," he declared, his tone bright and commanding. "This matter concerns not only the happiness of two souls, but also the friendship between two races, and the union of two great houses!"
As he spoke, his voice carried, reverberating against the marble pillars so that every Elf in the hall could hear him clearly.
"On behalf of Lord Sylas, Lord of Weathertop and Isengard, Master of Dragons and Keeper of the Flame, I formally come to request your permission, Lord Elrond, for your beloved daughter Arwen Undómiel to be betrothed to him. For long has he cherished her in his heart and honored her in word and deed."
When Gandalf finished, he stepped aside with a respectful bow, leaving the center of the hall open for Sylas.
All eyes turned to him.
For a moment, even Sylas, who had faced dragons, demons, and dark lords, felt the weight of every gaze upon him. He drew in a slow breath, then stepped forward, his cloak whispering softly against the floor.
Bowing deeply before Elrond, he spoke with measured calm and sincerity:
"Respected Lord Elrond," he began, his voice steady though his heart beat fast,
"I hold a profound love for your daughter Arwen. Her beauty moves my soul, her kindness humbles me, and her wisdom inspires me.
I swear by my honor and by the name of my house that I shall protect her with my life, cherish her as my equal, and bring her every happiness within my power.
I ask for your blessing, that she may become my wife. All that I have and all that I am, I lay before her feet, that she may claim them as her own."
The words, carefully practiced yet spoken now with heartfelt emotion, hung in the air like a sacred vow.
For a moment, there was silence. Even the sound of the waterfalls outside seemed to pause, as if the very valley listened.
Then Gandalf, eyes gleaming, lifted his staff and spoke again, his voice ringing proudly:
"To show his sincerity," he announced, "Lord Sylas has brought three treasures as tokens of his betrothal. These gifts shall belong to his bride and to their descendants henceforth, and none but she may claim them!"
A murmur rippled through the assembled Elves. Gandalf himself could not hide a hint of admiration as he drew forth an ornate Mithril box, its surface inlaid with diamonds and shimmering runes.
At the same time, Bilbo and Sylas produced their own small chests, each sealed with intricate sigils.
Bilbo was the first to step forward. Standing on tiptoe, he opened his box with both hands, revealing a radiant golden cup resting upon a bed of white silk.
The cup shone with a soft, holy light, like sunlight distilled into gold.
Gandalf raised his hand slightly and began to explain, his words carrying clearly across the hall.
"This is the Golden Chalice of Replenishment. Whatever liquid is poured within it shall never empty, and any who drink from it will find their strength restored and their weariness gone."
As he spoke, faint waves of magic radiated from the chalice, causing the silver ornaments in the room to hum softly in resonance.
The Elves, who had seen countless relics and ancient artifacts, still could not help but exchange looks of wonder.
They could sense the artifact's purity, its vast enchantment, and the rarity of such craftsmanship.
Even among Elven lords, such a treasure could serve as the heirloom of a noble house.
And this, they realized, was only the first of three gifts.
A ripple of anticipation swept through the hall.
If the first offering was already so extraordinary, what could the remaining two possibly be?