Weeks had come and gone since Gandalf left Greenwood to tend to matters beyond Visenya's understanding. Though the old wizard had always been vague about his duties, she could sense that something important had called him away—something more urgent than even her presence in this strange world. In his absence, life in Greenwood had returned to a semblance of routine, but the undercurrent of unease remained.

During that time, Visenya had found herself growing more comfortable among the elves, especially Legolas, who had become a constant companion. He continued to teach her the ways of elvish combat, and she in turn shared the techniques she had learned from years of battle in Westeros. But it wasn't just Legolas who had become a close friend.

One day, a new visitor arrived in Greenwood—one who would stir memories of a distant past in both his heart and hers.

Visenya had been sparring in the training yard when she first saw him. A tall, rugged man with dark hair and piercing grey eyes. His bearing was noble, though his clothes were simple—worn from travel, with the dust of many roads clinging to him. The moment their eyes met, something stirred within Visenya. There was a familiarity in his gaze, a spark of recognition that she couldn't quite place.

The man introduced himself as Aragorn, son of Arathorn, a ranger of the North. Visenya offered him a polite nod, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she had seen him before. Perhaps in her dreams, or in another life entirely... his coloring mirrored that of her husband, but his features were foreign to her.

It wasn't long before they found themselves in conversation, and the more they spoke, the more that strange familiarity deepened. Aragorn listened intently as she shared pieces of her story, her journey from a world beyond, and her struggles to adjust to Middle-earth. But it was when she slipped into the ancient language of Númenor—sometimes unconsciously—that Aragorn's eyes widened in surprise.

"You speak the tongue of Númenor," Aragorn said softly, his voice tinged with both awe and confusion.

Visenya paused, realizing what she had done. "It's a language from my land... we call it High Valyrian... though I don't fully understand its origins here in Arda. I... I slip into it sometimes without meaning to, it's almost second nature."

Aragorn studied her, his brow furrowed as if searching through distant memories. "I know this language. I was taught it as a child, though it has been many years since I've heard it spoken aloud. It's the language of my ancestors... of Númenor."

Visenya's heart quickened. Númenor. She had heard that name before in the histories Legolas had given her, though she hadn't fully grasped its significance. "How... how do you know this language?"

Aragorn smiled faintly, though there was a sadness in his eyes. "Because I am one of the last of its bloodline. The Dúnedain—the descendants of Númenor. My people once ruled a great kingdom, but that kingdom fell long ago. Now we are few, scattered across the lands of Middle-earth."

Visenya's breath caught in her throat. "Then... we are alike."

Aragorn nodded slowly, the weight of his lineage heavy on his shoulders. "In some ways, yes. Though I sense there is more to your story than you have told me. More than just being a traveler from another world."

Visenya looked away, her mind racing. There was so much she still didn't understand about why she had been brought here. But in Aragorn, she saw a kindred spirit—someone who had lived a life burdened by the expectations of his ancestors, just as she had in Westeros. They were both wanderers, bound by duty yet yearning for something more.

Over the next few days, Aragorn and Visenya grew closer, finding in each other a shared sense of purpose. Aragorn, with his quiet strength and deep well of experience, reminded Visenya of the men of the North—the men who had traveled with her late husband, Cregan. His fire and determination were a welcome change from the often stoic and enigmatic elves, and Visenya found herself looking forward to their encounters.

Aragorn, for his part, was intrigued by Visenya in ways he couldn't fully explain. She was unlike any other woman he had ever met—fierce, determined, yet burdened by a past she was still coming to terms with. There was a fire in her that reminded him of his days traveling with the rangers, of the wild freedom that came with life on the road. And though she spoke of dragons and kingdoms from a world beyond his understanding, he believed her.

But even as they grew closer, a new threat loomed on the horizon.

One morning, Aragorn and Thranduil met in the king's private chambers, discussing an issue that had been troubling them both for some time.

"Smeagol has escaped," Thranduil said, his voice low and grim. "The creature was being held in our dungeons, but he managed to slip away just before Visenya arrived in Greenwood."

Aragorn frowned. "Smeagol... the creature Gandalf spoke of?"

Thranduil nodded. "Yes. A vile, twisted thing. He was captured near the Gladden Fields, but he proved more slippery than we anticipated. He escaped into the wild, and we have not been able to track him since."

Aragorn's mind raced. Gandalf had warned him about Smeagol—had told him of the creature's connection to something dark and dangerous. "This is troubling news," Aragorn said. "If Smeagol is loose, he could be a danger to more than just Greenwood."

"I agree," Thranduil said, his voice cold and precise. "But there is more. Visenya's arrival... it was too close to Smeagol's escape. I cannot help but feel there is some connection, though I do not know what it is."

Aragorn shook his head. "Visenya had nothing to do with Smeagol. I've spent time with her—she's not a threat. If anything, she is an ally we should cherish."

Thranduil raised an eyebrow, but before he could respond, a knock came at the door. One of the elven guards entered, holding two letters in his hand.

"Messages, my lord," the guard said, bowing slightly as he handed the letters to Thranduil and Aragorn.

Thranduil broke the seal on his letter and scanned the contents, his eyes narrowing. "It's from Elrond," he said, his voice thoughtful. "He's calling for a council at Rivendell. He wishes for us to bring Visenya with us... he believes she has a role to play in the events to come."

Aragorn opened his own letter, his heart quickening as he read the familiar handwriting. "Elrond has asked me to go to Bree. He says Gandalf is waiting for me there, and that there is something I must do."

Thranduil and Aragorn exchanged a glance. They both knew that Elrond's summons were never trivial. Whatever was happening in Middle-earth, it was growing more dangerous by the day.

"I will go to Bree," Aragorn said, his voice firm. "But I will return to Rivendell as soon as I can. If Visenya is to be part of this council, I want to be there."

Thranduil nodded, his expression grim. "Then we must prepare for the journey. It will take several days to reach Rivendell, and the roads are not as safe as they once were."

Aragorn stood, folding the letter and placing it in his coat. "Whatever is coming, we must be ready."

Thranduil's eyes darkened, and for a moment, the weight of centuries seemed to settle on his shoulders. "We will be. And Visenya... she may be the key to it all."

As Aragorn left the chamber to make preparations for his journey, he couldn't shake the feeling that their fates were intertwined with the mysterious woman who had come to Greenwood. The darkness that was rising in Middle-earth would test them all, but Aragorn knew one thing for certain.

Visenya was not just a visitor from another world. She was part of the fight now, whether she realized it or not.

And soon, they would all be drawn into the battle for the fate of Middle-earth.