Imladris is a place where all are welcome, even those most outcast. There are Avari, wild and wary in the woods of the Valley, distrustful of the visitors of other races who come traipsing through, Green Elves and Silvan from drowned Ossiriand, singing silly songs and laughing at everything and everyone, and Sindar who remember Doriath, old and dangerous. But most of the guard and the craftsmen are fire-eyed Noldor, both the kinslaying veterans from the very earliest wars of Beleriand and survivors of Eregion who were born in Middle-earth.

And amogst those fire-eyed Noldor is one who seems ignored by almost everyone, sitting in a quiet corner of the House, drawing tunes from his harp that might make stone weep or the birds sing. He lifts his head as Boromir walks into the room and blinks at him.

"Are you looking for something, my lord?"