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The ancient forests of Ithilien stretched like a verdant tapestry beneath the star-strewn skies of Middle-earth, their leaves whispering secrets carried on the wind from distant realms. Once scarred by the shadows of Mordor, this land had been reclaimed in the wake of the War of the Ring, its rolling hills and crystal-clear streams now a haven for those who sought peace amid the remnants of old battles. The air here was perfumed with the scent of wild herbs—ataraxia blooms that unfurled their petals only at twilight, mingling with the earthy aroma of moss-covered oaks and the faint, salty tang from the Anduin River winding lazily through the valleys below. In the heart of this rejuvenated wilderness stood the elven outpost of Emyn Arnen, a graceful fusion of nature and craftsmanship where stone archways intertwined with living vines, and towers rose like elegant sentinels, their spires catching the first glimmers of dawn.

Your bedchamber, perched high in one such tower, was a sanctuary of serene beauty, designed with the ethereal touch of elven architects. The walls were hewn from pale limestone, veined with subtle flecks of silver that gleamed like captured moonlight, and adorned with intricate tapestries depicting the legends of the Eldar: the Two Trees of Valinor in their eternal glow, the flight of the Noldor across the Helcaraxë, and the heroic deeds of figures like Fingolfin challenging Morgoth himself. Tall, arched windows dominated one side of the room, frameless and open to the elements, allowing the night breezes to dance freely through gossamer curtains woven from spider silk harvested from the ancient woods of Mirkwood. These curtains billowed like ethereal spirits, their translucent fabric embroidered with golden threads that mimicked the constellations above—Eärendil's star shining brightest among them.

The bed itself was a masterpiece of elven artistry, vast and canopied with branches that seemed to grow from the floor, their leaves perpetually green through some subtle enchantment. The mattress was stuffed with down from the great swans of the Anduin and layered with silken sheets imported from the distant havens of Lindon, soft as a lover's sigh. Scattered across the polished wooden floor—crafted from the resilient heartwood of mallorn trees—were rugs dyed in deep indigos and crimsons, remnants of Gondorian trade routes that now flourished in peacetime. A low table beside the bed held a crystal decanter of miruvor, the invigorating cordial of the elves, its faint glow illuminating a cluster of personal treasures: a lock of your husband's silver-gold hair bound with a mithril clasp, a pressed flower from your wedding day in the glades of Lothlórien, and a small dagger forged in the fires of Rivendell, its hilt engraved with runes of protection.

It was in this cocoon of tranquility that you lay, the early morning hours wrapping around you like a gentle embrace. The world outside was still cloaked in the hush of pre-dawn, the stars fading one by one as the eastern horizon hinted at the sun's imminent arrival. A light breeze slipped through the open windows, carrying the crisp chill of night mingled with the promise of warmth, rustling the curtains and sending faint ripples across the sheets that draped your form. You were asleep, lost in the dreamless repose that came from nights spent in quiet longing, your body curled beneath the covers in a white sleep dress of fine linen, its fabric light and flowing, embroidered with delicate vines along the hem—a gift from the weavers of Minas Tirith, symbolizing the union of human resilience and elven grace.

The dress clung softly to your curves, its neckline dipping modestly yet revealing the gentle rise and fall of your chest with each breath. Your hair, unbound and splayed across the pillow like a dark halo, caught the faint starlight, while your face—softened by sleep—bore the subtle marks of your mortal life: faint lines at the corners of your eyes from laughter shared under moonlit skies, and a freckle or two from days spent wandering the sun-dappled paths of Ithilien hand-in-hand with your beloved. As a human wed to an elf, your life was a bridge between two worlds, one fleeting and passionate, the other eternal and serene.

Two weeks had passed since he departed on his scouting trip, venturing north along the borders of the Gladden Fields to monitor the lingering shadows that sometimes stirred in the aftermath of Sauron's fall. Orc remnants, twisted creatures, and uneasy whispers from the Misty Mountains required vigilant eyes, and none were keener than those of the Prince of Mirkwood. You had bid him farewell at the edge of the forest, your hand lingering on his as he mounted his steed, Arod, a descendant of the noble horses of Rohan. "Return to me swiftly, my heart," you had whispered, and he had pressed a kiss to your knuckles, his blue-grey eyes shimmering with unspoken promises. The days without him had been filled with the routines of Ithilien life—tending herb gardens that supplied remedies to nearby settlements, reading ancient scrolls in the outpost's library, and sharing meals with the small community of elves and men who called this place home. Yet the nights were long, the bed vast and empty, your thoughts drifting to him under the vast canopy of stars.

Now, in the velvet hush of your chamber, the door creaked open with the subtlety of a leaf falling in autumn. Legolas entered silently, his elven boots making no sound on the wooden floor. He was clad in his traveling garb: a cloak of grey-green Lorien weave that blended seamlessly with the forest, a tunic of deep emerald stained faintly with the dust of the road, and leggings tucked into boots caked with the mud of distant marshes. His bow, unstrung but ever at the ready, was slung over his shoulder alongside a quiver of fletched arrows, their tips glinting like captured frost. His hair, usually bound in warrior braids, hung loose and slightly tousled, damp from the night's dew, framing a face etched with the faint weariness of travel—yet his eyes, those luminous pools of winter sky, sparkled with the joy of homecoming.

He paused at the threshold, his gaze softening as it fell upon you, asleep and unaware. The sight of you stirred something profound within him, a blend of immortal longing and the tender vulnerability he had learned from loving a mortal. Setting his bow and quiver aside with care, he approached the bed, the breeze from the windows catching his cloak and making it flutter like wings. He sat gently on the edge of the mattress, the bed dipping slightly under his weight, and leaned over you. His hand, cool from the night air and scented with pine resin, reached out to stroke your hair, fingers threading through the strands with infinite gentleness, not to wake you but to reassure himself of your presence. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering as if drawing sustenance from the warmth of your skin.

It was a whisper against your temple, a gentle, repeated stroke that moved from your hairline back into the loose strands splayed across your pillow. The touch was cool, carrying the faint, clean scent of night air, pine resin, and distant, cold starlight. It traced the curve of your ear, a feather-light caress that spoke of infinite patience and a longing held carefully in check.

Your consciousness swam up from the depths, drawn by that persistent, tender contact. A soft sound escaped you, not quite a moan, more a murmur of recognition. Your eyelids fluttered open, adjusting to the dimness. The room was shadowed, but the silhouette seated on the edge of the massive bed was unmistakable. Slender, elegant, his outline a familiar cut against the grey light of the window.

“Legolas,” you breathed, his name a sigh of pure relief, a knot in your chest you hadn’t fully acknowledged loosening all at once.

He didn’t speak, not yet. His palm, cool and slightly calloused from bowstring and reins, cupped your cheek. His thumb swept over the apple of your cheek, a slow, reverent arc. In the gloom, you could see the faint gleam of his eyes, the luminous blue-grey of a winter sky just before snow. They drank you in, tracing the lines of your sleep-softened face as if memorizing them anew.

“I did not mean to wake you,” he whispered, his voice a low, melodic ripple in the quiet. It was husky with weariness, yet softened with an emotion that made your throat tighten. “I only wished to see you. To know you were real, and not a vision my mind conjured from loneliness in the wild.”

You turned your face into his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm. The taste of him—clean skin, a hint of leather, the essence of him—flooded your senses. “You’re home,” you said, the words thick. Two weeks. Fourteen nights of an empty bed that felt cavernous, of listening for a footfall that never came. “You’re really here.”

“I am.” He leaned down, his forehead touching yours. His silver-gold hair, slightly damp from the night’s moisture, fell like a curtain around your faces, closing you in a private world. “Melin le,” he murmured, the Elvish words a warm breath against your lips. “I have carried the thought of you like a star in my hand every league, every hour.”

Your joy bubbled over as you sat up fully in bed, pulling Legolas into a tight embrace, your arms wrapping around his neck as if to anchor him there forever. His body, lean and strong from the journey, molded against yours, and you buried your face in the crook of his shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of forest and freedom. "When did you get back?" you whispered against his skin, your voice muffled but laced with eager curiosity. "The scouts said you might be delayed by the rains in the north."

He chuckled softly, a vibration you felt through his chest, his hands rubbing soothing circles on your back. "Only moments ago, my love. I rode through the night to reach you sooner—Arod sensed my urgency and flew like the wind. The rains were fierce, but they parted before us, as if the Valar themselves willed my return." His words were a balm, but your mind raced to the perils he might have faced, the hidden dangers of the wilds that no elf, even one as skilled as he, could entirely evade.

Pulling back slightly, you cupped his face in your hands, your eyes scanning him intently in the dim light. "Are you injured? Tell me truly—don't spare me the details just to ease my worry." Your fingers trailed down his arms, feeling for any telltale stiffness or warmth that might betray a wound, then to his sides, gently pressing along his ribs. He remained still under your inspection, his gaze warm and indulgent, though a faint wince escaped him when your hand brushed a spot near his shoulder.

"A mere bruise from a low-hanging branch in the misty thickets," he admitted with a wry smile, guiding your hand to the faint discoloration blooming under his tunic. "Nothing that time and your touch won't mend. The true ache was in my heart, far from you." You frowned, your mortal concern sharpening as you lifted the edge of his tunic to examine it closer, your fingertips tracing the purplish mark with feather-light care. "See? No blood, no broken skin. I am whole, thanks to your wards and my kin's vigilance."

You nodded, relieved but not entirely appeased, leaning in to press a soft kiss to the bruise. "Promise me you'll let me tend to it properly later—with salves and rest. You've pushed yourself too hard." Your hands continued their exploration, sliding up to his neck and into his hair, checking for any hidden scrapes, while he watched you with eyes full of adoration, his own hands resting on your hips as if to ground himself in your presence.

The ache of missing him transformed, melting into a liquid warmth that pooled low in your belly. You pushed yourself up on your elbows, the thin sleeping dress of pale linen slipping from one shoulder. “Let me see you,” you whispered. “Let me help.”

He nodded, a small, grateful motion. You moved to sit fully, the blankets pooling at your waist. Your fingers went to the intricate clasps of his travel-worn cloak, the grey-green fabric smelling of forest loam and campfire smoke. He remained still, his gaze never leaving you, his own hands coming up to frame your face again as you worked. Each clasp yielded with a soft snick. You pushed the heavy wool from his shoulders, letting it fall in a heap on the floor beside the bed.

Next was his tunic, a sturdy garment of dark green. You tugged the hem from the waistband of his leggings, your knuckles brushing against the flat, hard plane of his stomach. He sucked in a quiet, sharp breath at the contact. You lifted the tunic up and over his head, and he raised his arms to help, the muscles in his torso and arms flexing, defined even in the low light. He was bare now from the waist up, his skin pale as moonstone, smooth and unmarred save for the faint silvery lines of very old, very minor scars. The scent of him intensified—clean sweat, sun on skin, the pure, masculine musk of him that went straight to your head.

Your hands flattened against his chest, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart under your palm. It was quickening. You leaned in and pressed your lips to the center of his chest, just over that frantic rhythm. His hands came up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair.

“Your turn,” he murmured, his voice now carrying a new, rough edge.

His hands slid from your hair to the thin straps of your sleeping dress. He hooked a finger under each one and drew them down your arms with agonizing slowness. The linen whispered over your skin, catching briefly on the peaks of your nipples before sliding down your torso. A cool draft touched your newly bared skin, but it was chased away instantly by the heat of his gaze. He let the dress fall to your lap, then with a gentle push, urged you to lie back against the pillows.

He looked his fill. In the indigo light, your body was a landscape of soft curves and shadows. Your breasts, full and heavy, rose and fell with your accelerating breath, the nipples tightening into dusky, eager peaks. The dip of your waist, the swell of your hips, the thatch of darker hair at the junction of your thighs—he took it all in, his eyes burning with a devotion that was also fiercely, undeniably hungry.

“So beautiful,” he breathed, not as a bland compliment, but as a awed statement of fact. “My beautiful, wife. The sight of you is a balm that heals all weariness.”

He leaned over you, bracing himself on one arm, and finally, finally brought his mouth to yours.

The first kiss was a reunion. Soft, searching, a slow melding of lips that spoke of hello and homecoming. His mouth was cool at first, then warming rapidly against yours. You sighed into him, your hands coming up to slide over the smooth, powerful muscles of his back, feeling them shift and coil under your touch. He tasted of the clear water from his journey and something uniquely, essentially Legolas—an evergreen sweetness, a hint of wild honey.

The kiss deepened. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, and you opened for him willingly. The slide of his tongue against yours was slow, sensuous, a deliberate exploration. There was no hurry, only the profound luxury of rediscovery. One of his hands slid from your cheek down the column of your throat, his thumb stroking the frantic pulse there, then lower. He cupped your breast, his palm covering the full, soft weight, his fingers finding your nipple. He rolled the tight bud between his thumb and forefinger, a gentle, knowing pressure that made your back arch off the bed, a broken sound catching in your throat.

He broke the kiss, his breath coming in warm gusts against your wet lips. He looked down at where his hand worshipped your breast, his eyes dark with intent. “I have dreamed of touching you just like this,” he confessed, his voice a low rumble. “Of feeling this perfect weight in my hand, of watching this pretty nipple harden for me.” He lowered his head and took the peak into his mouth.

The heat and wetness of his mouth was a shock of pure, dazzling pleasure. He suckled slowly, his tongue laving the sensitive tip in firm, circular strokes. His free hand found your other breast, mirroring the attention, pinching and rolling that nipple until the sensations doubled, tripled, a bright, aching need coiling deep in your cunt. You cried out, your fingers clutching at his hair, holding him to you. He groaned against your flesh, the vibration travelling straight to your core.

He kissed a wet, hot trail down the valley between your breasts, over the quivering plane of your stomach. His lips were soft, his tongue occasionally flicking out to taste your skin. You felt the muscles of your abdomen jump under his mouth. He nuzzled the soft curve of your belly, his hands sliding under you to grip your ass, kneading the full, yielding flesh.

“Part your legs for me, my love,” he whispered against your skin, his breath ghosting over the very heart of you.

Trembling, you did. The cool air touched your exposed folds, and you felt incredibly open, incredibly vulnerable. He settled between your thighs, his hands sliding under your ass to tilt you up towards his mouth. For a long moment, he just looked, his gaze hot and unwavering on your exposed pussy.

In the dim light, your cunt was a beautiful, intimate sight. The outer lips were plump and a deep, flushed pink, glistening already with your arousal. He used his thumbs to gently part them further, revealing the darker, delicate inner folds, slick and swollen, and the tight, furled bud of your clit, visibly throbbing. The scent of your desire, musky and sweet, filled the small space between you.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice thick with want. “So wet for me already. This perfect, pretty cunt. I have missed its taste more than sunlight.”

And then he lowered his mouth and licked a long, slow stripe from the very bottom of your entrance all the way up to your clit.

The sensation was electric, a bolt of pure, white-hot pleasure that made your entire body jolt. A sharp, ragged cry tore from your throat. He did it again, and again, broad, flat strokes of his tongue that coated it in your essence. Then he focused, his mouth sealing over your clit, sucking gently as the very tip of his tongue flicked rapidly against the hypersensitive nub.

“Oh, gods… my love… fuck,” you babbled, your hips lifting off the bed, seeking more of that devastating pressure. He held you firm, his hands keeping your ass in his grip, controlling the pace. He alternated between soft, sucking kisses on your clit and deep, probing thrusts of his tongue into your hole, fucking you slowly with it, mimicking the act to come. The wet, obscene sounds of his mouth on your pussy filled the room, a lewd counterpoint to your gasping moans.

The coil inside you wound tighter and tighter, a pressure building at the base of your spine. You were panting, your hands fisted in the sheets. “I’m close… so close…”

He pulled back, leaving you throbbing and empty. A sob of protest escaped you. He surged up your body, his own need evident in the hard, insistent line of his erection straining against the soft leather of his leggings. He kissed you hungrily, letting you taste yourself on his lips and tongue.

“Not yet,” he said, his voice ragged with his own restraint. “I need to be inside you when you come. I need to feel that sweet cunt milking my cock.”

The vulgarity from his normally elegant mouth was wildly arousing. You fumbled for the laces of his leggings, your fingers clumsy with need. He helped you, shoving them down over his hips along with his smallclothes. His cock sprang free, and you gasped.

It was long and slender like the rest of him, but thick where it mattered, crowned with a broad, flushed head. Veins traced its length, and it stood rigid, curving slightly upward, a bead of clear fluid already glistening at the tip. It was beautiful and intimidating, and your cunt clenched in empty, desperate anticipation.

He knelt between your spread thighs, his hands running up your inner legs, pushing them wider. He leaned over you, bracing himself on his arms, the tip of his cock nudging against your soaked entrance. He looked into your eyes, his expression a storm of love and lust.

“I love you,” he said, the words a solemn vow. “Every part of you. Every sigh, every tremble. Mine.”

“Yours,” you echoed, reaching up to touch his face. “Always. Please… I need you.”

He pressed forward.

The head of his cock parted your slick folds, stretching the rim of your hole. He pushed in an inch, just enough to make you both gasp at the exquisite, familiar tightness. He held there, letting your body adjust, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes squeezed shut.

“So good,” he groaned. “So fucking tight and hot. I will never get used to this feeling.”

He sank another inch, then another, in a series of slow, controlled pushes. Each one sent a wave of deep, filling pleasure through you. You could feel every inch of him, the thick stretch, the pulsing heat as he seated himself to the hilt, his hips flush against your ass. You were full, so completely full of him. A deep, satisfied moan rolled from your chest.

He began to move.

There was no frantic pounding, no desperate race. This was a slow, deep, rolling rhythm, a dance of reconnection. He withdrew almost completely, leaving just the tip inside, before sliding back in with a smooth, relentless glide. Each thrust dragged his cock against that perfect, sensitive spot inside you, building a crescendo of pleasure that was both overwhelming and soothing.

The sounds were obscenely beautiful: the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin, his ragged breaths, your high, keening whimpers, the creak of the massive bedframe. You wrapped your legs high around his waist, locking your ankles at the small of his back, pulling him deeper. Your nails scored lightly down his back, and he growled, picking up the pace just a fraction.

“That’s it,” he panted, his hips snapping forward with more force. “Take me. Take all of me. This cunt was made for my cock.” He shifted his angle, and on the next thrust, he hit a spot that made you see stars. A sharp, guttural cry was ripped from you.

“There! Right there, please!”

He obliged, hammering that exact spot with unerring accuracy. The coil, which had never fully unwound, snapped back with vengeance. The orgasm rolled over you in a deep, seismic wave, starting in your cunt and radiating outwards to your toes, your fingertips, the very roots of your hair. Your vision whited out. Your cunt clenched around him in rapid, fluttering pulses, milking his length, and you screamed his name into the crook of his neck, your body bowing off the bed.

Feeling you come around him was his undoing. His rhythm shattered into short, frantic thrusts. “I can feel you… fucking hell, I can feel you coming on my cock,” he grunted, his voice breaking. “I’m going to fill you. I’m going to pump my fucking cum so deep inside you.”

With three more brutal, deep drives, he buried himself to the root and stilled. A raw, elvish cry was torn from his throat, a sound of utter release. You felt the hot, sudden surge of his release as he came, jet after jet of his seed painting the deepest part of your womb. The pulses seemed to go on and on, each one wringing a low groan from his chest. He collapsed onto you, his full weight a welcome anchor, his face buried in your neck, his body shuddering through the last of his climax.

For long minutes, there was only the sound of your shared, labored breathing and the frantic beating of your hearts slowing to a synchronous rhythm. He was still inside you, softening, a warm, spent weight. His arms came around you, holding you so tightly it was as if he wanted to merge your bodies into one.

He finally lifted his head. His eyes were soft, sated, luminous with love. He kissed you, slow and tender, a world away from the frantic passion of moments before.

“I missed you,” he whispered against your lips.

You smiled, your hands stroking through his sweat-damp hair. “I missed you, too. Welcome home, my love.”

He made a contented sound and nuzzled back into your neck. “I am not leaving this bed for a week.”

“Promises, promises,” you teased softly, your own body humming with satisfaction, already feeling the pleasant ache between your legs.

He shifted, his cock slipping from your well-used cunt with a soft, wet sound, followed by a trickle of his release. He paid it no mind, simply gathering you into his side, pulling the heavy blankets over your cooling bodies. You curled into him, your head on his chest, listening to the strong, steady beat of his heart. The first true rays of dawn began to paint the room in pale gold and rose, catching in the dust motes and glinting off the silver threads in the coverlet. Legolas’s fingers resumed their gentle stroking of your hair, and you drifted in a haze of perfect, sated bliss.

As the waves of pleasure subsided, you both lay entangled in the sheets, your bodies slick with sweat and humming with the afterglow of your union. Legolas held you close, his arm draped possessively over your waist, his breath steadying against your hair as the first golden rays of morning filtered through the curtains. You nestled into his side, your head on his chest, listening to the eternal rhythm of his heart—a sound that had become your lullaby in this shared life between worlds.

For hours, neither of you stirred beyond the occasional shift to draw closer, the morning unfolding in lazy contentment. You traced idle patterns on his skin, following the faint scars from battles long past, while he murmured tales from his journey in a low, melodic voice: the sight of a hidden glade alive with fireflies, the call of an eagle soaring over the Anduin, the quiet camaraderie with his fellow scouts around a flickering campfire. "And through it all," he whispered, his fingers weaving through your hair, "I carried you here," tapping his chest gently, "a light that no shadow could dim."

Time seemed to stretch endlessly in that cocoon of warmth, the outside world a distant murmur. You shared soft kisses and whispered dreams—of future adventures together, of planting a garden with seeds from distant lands, of nights under the stars where mortality and immortality blurred into simple, profound love. As the sun climbed higher, bathing the room in full light, Legolas pulled you even tighter, his lips brushing your forehead. "Let the world wait a little longer, meleth nîn. This moment is ours."

You rise from the bed, and although you think you must be within Baizhu’s peripheral vision at least, he doesn’t seem to spot the movement. Your heart aches a little for him. You move slowly and quietly, the chill from the floor seeping into your bare feet. Soon enough, you stand directly behind Baizhu without any sign of him noticing you.

It feels cruel, but you do it regardless. Your hands settle on his shoulders briefly before sliding down to his chest, your body bends closer to him until he’s wrapped in your embrace.

“What are you doing?” he asks, voice soft despite his mood and the startled jump that your sudden presence drew from his body.

“You look exhausted,” you murmur into his ear, only now noticing how dry your throat feels. 

No sooner does the thought register in your head than you have a glass of water pressed against your lips. You take it and soothe the burn, then hand it back to your partner.

“I just thought you could use a little support,” you add, tightening your hug.

“The doctor becomes the patient, hm?” Baizhu smiles, leaning his head against yours, “Thank you. You were absolutely right.”

After a short while of respite, his hands return to work. Your eyes are too tired to decipher what exactly he’s noting down, but judging from the various scrolls and books the pages of which barely hang together by a thread, the new information he found must be important. You don’t move from your position, only close your eyes and listen to the even slide of brush on paper. That sounds much better.

It’s not very comfortable but somehow it still feels more relaxing than lying on the bed. Maybe it’s the clean, soothing scent that wraps around Baizhu, a mix of herbs and flowers with a faint addition of the ink, maybe it’s just the feeling of having him in your arms. He feels a little cold to touch, which is no wonder considering how chilly you are starting to feel. Were you in any state to talk, you’d use it as another reason why he should join you in bed. 

“My my,” he chuckles, the sound vibrates through his chest, through the palms of your hands, “It seems I got too carried away.”

You hum, a little incoherent and unsure of what exactly you want to express. It doesn’t seem to matter as Baizhu turns his head just enough to kiss your cheek. He easily maneuvers your hands to free himself while helping you to not lose balance. 

Maybe it’s just your blurry vision, maybe it’s a trick of the light, but his eyes seem to positively sparkle with mirth as he cups your face and kisses your forehead.

“I apologize, my heart,” he murmurs into your hair, carefully guiding you backwards until you feel the bed press against the back of your knees and sit down.

Baizhu helps you lie down first before snuffing out the lanterns and joining you, tucking the blanket around you both once you snuggle against his body. Usually he might comment about how your arms feel not unlike Changsheng wrapping around him, but tonight he simply makes a small pleased noise and holds you just as tightly. 

“I promise I won’t put you through waking up without me twice today,” he whispers, barely heard above the wind rattling the window, “So sleep as much as you need, hm?” 

➽──────────────────────────────❥

Sunlight filtered through the towering canopy above, scattering gold across the winding halls of the woodland realm.

The forest seemed almost alive around you—lush ivy curling around ancient stone, soft streams weaving beneath elegant bridges, the air rich with the scent of moss, earth, and blooming flowers hidden deep within the greenery. It was beautiful in a way that felt unreal, almost dreamlike.

And yet, despite the beauty surrounding you, your situation was far from ideal. Your dwarf companions had long since been taken away under heavy guard, much to their loud displeasure. Kíli, especially, had not stopped complaining the entire journey.

"Elves are insufferable," he had muttered earlier under his breath while being marched away, earning himself a sharp glare from one of the guards. "Too tall, too perfect, too much hair."

You nearly laughed at the memory now. Unlike the dwarves, however, you seemed to have somehow landed yourself in the captain's favor—or at the very least, enough goodwill to avoid chains and rough handling.

The elves regarded you with far less hostility, also probably because you were half elven, though their curious stares followed your every step as if trying to unravel some mystery they could not place between you and their captain.

Hours had passed since your arrival, and the anticipation in your chest only grew heavier. Soon, you would stand before the King of Mirkwood himself.

You had heard enough stories from the dwarves during the journey to form some image in your mind—cold, prideful, impossible to reason with. According to the dwarves, the elvenking was everything insufferable about royalty wrapped into one immortal being.

It sure did made you wonder. What kind of person was capable of inspiring such irritation and bitterness from them?

Your eyes wandered endlessly through the woodland realm, unable to settle on one thing for too long. Everywhere you looked, there was something beautiful enough to steal your attention—glimmering lanterns hanging from twisting branches, silver streams weaving beneath carved stone pathways, towering pillars wrapped in ivy so green it almost glowed beneath the sunlight filtering through the canopy above.

The entire place felt alive, breathing softly around you like an ancient creature slumbering beneath the forest.

And the elves. Honestly, it was becoming increasingly difficult not to stare.

Everywhere you looked, there was another absurdly beautiful face gliding past like they had all collectively stepped out of some ancient painting.

Long silver hair, sharp features, elegant armor fitted far too well for your sanity, and posture so perfect it made you painfully aware of the way you were slouching half the time. Even the guards standing still somehow looked majestic. It was deeply unfair.

Your gaze caught on one specifically then. A male elf moving gracefully along one of the upper walkways carved into the glowing halls of Mirkwood. Tall, well ridiculously tall—with silver hair braided neatly down his back, dark green and gold fabrics draped elegantly over broad shoulders as he walked with effortless poise.

Your eyes followed him absentmindedly as he passed overhead, your head tilting slightly without even realizing it.

The elf then turned faintly then while speaking to another guard nearby, and your gaze instinctively drifted lower. Your brows slowly lifted higher the longer you stared, genuine disbelief spreading openly across your face.

"…Ooo." The sound escaped before you could stop it. Your eyes narrowed slightly in pure analysis as the elf continued walking completely unaware of the scandalous evaluation currently taking place beneath him.

"And they got nice ass too, what the hell…" you muttered under your breath, deeply offended by the consistency.

Your expression remained entirely serious. Almost scholarly, even. Like you were conducting some sort of research.

A light tap landed softly against your shoulder then, the sudden contact nearly made you jump out of your skin. Your entire body jerked slightly as you spun around far too quickly, eyes widening on instinct, only to immediately come face to face with Legolas standing beside you.

Golden lanternlight filtered gently through the carved woodland halls behind him, catching against strands of his hair until they almost seemed to glow.

Up close, he looked unfairly composed compared to the complete disaster currently unfolding inside your head. One of his brows was faintly drawn, concern softening the otherwise elegant sharpness of his features as he tilted his head slightly toward you, studying your face with quiet attentiveness.

"Are you well?" he asked gently, his eyes moving carefully across your expression, lingering just slightly as though trying to determine whether something had startled or upset you. "You seemed troubled in a way."

And that was unfortunately the exact moment your brain decided to betray you further. Because now, instead of the elf from earlier, you were suddenly painfully aware of him.

The way he stood close enough for you to catch the faint scent of cedarwood lingering around him. The way his armor fit neatly across his frame, and the way his eyes remained entirely focused on you with such calm sincerity that it almost made your chest tighten unexpectedly.

Your posture immediately straightened so abruptly it looked unnatural. "Yeah!" you answered far too quickly, the word cracking slightly halfway through before your hand flew upward into the most aggressively confident thumbs-up imaginable. "Completely fine. Never better."

Legolas blinked slowly in return, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary, suspicion faintly flickering beneath his expression.

Even without words, you could practically feel him trying to piece together whatever strange behavior you had just displayed. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly before drifting toward the upper walkways where your attention had been moments earlier, following the exact direction of your previous staring crimes.

Your soul nearly left your body right there and then. The last thing you wanted was to be locked up for staring at someone' ass. Right before he could ask another question—and potentially uncover the deeply embarrassing truth behind your sudden panic, you immediately turned on your heel and hurried ahead to catch up with the others ahead.

"Anyway!" you blurted out far too loudly, walking faster than necessary. "Beautiful kingdom. Very normal amount of trees."

Behind you now, Legolas remained standing there for only a second longer, confusion still faintly written across his features as he watched your retreating figure with narrowed eyes.

You could almost feel his suspicion growing. Yet eventually, he said nothing, merely following after you in quiet silence, though the faint crease between his brows never fully disappeared.

The deeper you traveled into the halls of Mirkwood, the quieter everything became. The soft sounds of water and distant voices faded beneath the weight of something heavier. Even the air itself seemed different here, cooler somehow, carrying the subtle scent of earth, moss, and old wood polished by centuries of care.

One by one, the dwarves were repositioned beneath the sharp watch of elven guards stationed throughout the hall. Chains rattled softly with every irritated movement from your companions, metal scraping faintly against stone as the guards guided them forward.

Bombur muttered complaints under his breath loud enough for half the hall to hear while Bofur attempted to calm him with little success. Dwalin, meanwhile, looked one inconvenience away from committing several crimes simultaneously, his broad shoulders tense beneath the grip of two guards escorting him forward.

Kíli, somehow, still found enough energy to smirk openly toward Tauriel despite the circumstances. "You know," he said casually while walking beside her, "for prisoners, we're getting a remarkably personal escort."

Tauriel didn't even look at him when she spoke. "Speak less."

"That sounded almost affectionate."

One nearby guard visibly sighed, even Fili looked tired of him the moment those words left him.

You, however, gradually found yourself guided elsewhere alongside Thorin. At first, you barely noticed the shift. One guard moved slightly to your side. Another adjusted course gently, steering you away from the others without outright separating you.

Your brows furrowed faintly as you slowed a little, glancing around in confusion while the others continued further down the hall. "Uh…" you looked back over your shoulder briefly. "I think I'm going the wrong way?"

No one answered immediately, the elven guards merely continued guiding you forward with calm silence, though none of them appeared hostile. If anything, they looked strangely cautious around you—as though uncertain what exactly they were supposed to do.

And by the time you fully realized what was happening, you stood at the center of the grand hall itself.

Thorin stood to your left, rigid as stone, broad shoulders drawn tight beneath layers of worn fur and leather as though sheer stubbornness alone held him upright.

Every line of his posture radiated restrained fury. His jaw remained clenched so tightly it almost looked painful, dark beard shifting faintly each time he exhaled through his nose in slow, controlled breaths that clearly weren't calming him in the slightest.

Even the chains around his wrists rattled softly whenever his fingers flexed at his sides, the sound sharp against the otherwise silent hall.

His blue eyes burned ahead with barely concealed contempt, fixed entirely upon the throne before him with the kind of hatred that felt...personal.

You honestly couldn't tell whether he was angry, offended, or merely seconds away from starting a full-scale war directly inside the throne room. Possibly all three.

Meanwhile, to your right stood Legolas, calm and poised as ever beneath the glow of the hall. Yet despite his composed exterior, you could feel his attention subtly lingering on you, as though making sure you were still there beside him.

While there was Tauriel, who stood slightly behind Thorin, silent and observant, her sharp eyes moving carefully between everyone in the room.

The throne room of Mirkwood stretched endlessly ahead, enormous roots twisting around ancient stone walls like living veins. Water shimmered beneath narrow bridges carved elegantly into the earth, reflecting silver light across the chamber.

High above, sunlight spilled through openings in the cavern ceiling, cascading downward in glowing streams that illuminated the throne at the far end of the hall.

It was beautiful. Terrifyingly beautiful.

Against the blinding silver-gold light pouring down from above, you found yourself squinting slightly, your brows knitting together as you tried to force your eyes to adjust.

The glow behind the throne was almost unbearable at first, washing everything in a hazy brilliance that made it difficult to focus on anything properly.

But slowly, the figure seated upon the throne came into view.

There he was, The King of Mirkwood. The infamous elven ruler the dwarves had spent days complaining about throughout the journey. The cruel king. The arrogant king. The king who apparently 'looked down his nose at everyone beneath him,' according to Thorin.

…Yet none of them had properly prepared you for this.

Your eyes widened slightly despite yourself, gaze dragging slowly over the elegant lines of his face, the sharpness of his features, the effortless grace in the way he sat upon the throne as though he had been carved there by the forest itself.

Even his expression—cold, unreadable, untouched by emotion, somehow only made him look more ethereal in its own way.

"Damn…" you breathed quietly beneath your breath, completely unable to stop yourself. Your eyes remained fixed upon the figure seated upon the throne, brows slowly drawing together further in genuine disbelief as the full image of the Elvenking finally settled properly into view.

A faint look of awe crossed your face despite yourself as you stared upward, momentarily forgetting entirely where you were supposed to be standing or the fact that this was technically an incredibly tense political situation. "Of course he's beautiful." you muttered quietly.

Beside you, Legolas' attention shifted almost immediately. He stared at you for a brief moment, clearly caught off guard by your reaction, as though whatever response he had expected upon seeing the Elvenking… it had certainly not been that.

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, sharp yet quiet, trying to decipher the look of absolute disbelief written all over your face. "Is something amiss?" he asked softly at last.

The question came low enough for only you to hear as he leaned slightly closer toward you, graceful and effortless in a way that should honestly be illegal. One subtle movement—that was all it took, and suddenly his presence surrounded you completely.

His voice was smooth, calm, carrying that familiar elven gentleness that always seemed to catch you off guard no matter how many times he spoke.

But this time, he leaned too close. You felt the warmth of his breath near the shell of your ear, felt the slight brush of movement as he dipped his head toward you, and suddenly every single thought inside your head vanished completely.

Your entire body stiffened instantly, eyes widening as your pulse skipped violently against your chest the moment his voice brushed so close against your ear.

Panic shot through you for absolutely no reasonable reason whatsoever, heat rushing straight into your face so quickly it almost made your face entirely red.

Every coherent thought scattered immediately, leaving your mind completely blank except for the horrifying awareness of how close he suddenly was. And before your brain could even begin functioning properly again—your body reacted first.

You jumped abruptly, scooting several frantic steps sideways like a startled animal escaping danger, only to move far too quickly without looking where you were going.

A second later, you'd collided directly into something solid beside you. "-Ow!" The sound escaped before you could stop it, your face scrunching immediately from the impact as pain shot lightly through your shoulder.

Meanwhile, Thorin barely moved an inch from the impact. If anything, the dwarf only shifted slightly beneath the collision, broad frame remaining planted firmly in place like a wall of stone while you recoiled backward from him in horror.

Honestly, you were fairly certain you took more damage than he did.

Your eyes widened the second realization struck. Slowly, very slowly—you lifted your head to look at the person you had just rammed into.

Thorin stared back down at you in complete silence, one thick brow already raised while his jaw tightened faintly beneath his beard.

The expression on his face somehow managed to hold irritation, exhaustion, confusion, and concern simultaneously, like he genuinely could not comprehend how someone could survive this long while behaving the way you did.

You recoiled instantly, eyes widening in horror as you turned toward him. "Sorry- sorry!" you whispered frantically, your hands lifting defensively in front of you as if trying to physically shield yourself from his disappointment. "I didn't mean to- I just- he-"

You stopped immediately, because the second you actually tried to think of an explanation, you realized there was absolutely no way to describe why you had launched yourself sideways after Legolas simply leaned closer to whisper near your ear without sounding completely insane.

Your mouth snapped shut again almost instantly, no explanation was better than that explanation.

Heat still burned across your face as you awkwardly lowered your head slightly, lips pressing into a thin line while you slowly shuffled back into your original spot beside them, movements stiff with embarrassment.

You suddenly found the polished stone floor incredibly interesting to look at. Anywhere was better than meeting someone's eyes right now.

Unfortunately, the universe clearly hated you, as the moment you turned ever so slightly, you'd caught Legolas still watching you.

His expression remained composed, well mostly, but there was the faintest flicker of bewilderment lingering in his eyes now, as though he genuinely could not understand what had just happened.

"…I merely asked if you were well," he said after a brief pause, voice low and calm beneath the silence of the hall.

Yet underneath that usual smooth composure lingered the slightest trace of confusion, as though he were sincerely trying to figure out how his question had somehow resulted in you throwing yourself bodily into Thorin Oakenshield.

Your face somehow grew even hotter.

"I am well," you muttered quickly, far too fast to sound convincing while continuing to avoid eye contact with absolutely everyone in that enclosed space. "Too well, actually."

The second the words left your mouth, regret hit instantly. In fact, that did not help, quite literally at all.

Thorin let out a low, exhausted exhale beside you, the sound heavy with long-suffering resignation as he pinched the bridge of his nose for a brief moment, eyes squeezing shut as though he were physically trying to will patience into existence

The lines of his face deepened with irritation, his jaw tightening again before he dropped his hand with a muted grunt, looking every bit like a man who had begun questioning not just his choices, but the very concept of destiny itself.

Ahead of you, the great throne loomed larger with every passing second. The soft, ever-present sound of flowing water echoed through the chamber from unseen channels beneath the floor, weaving together with the distant rustle of leaves far above in the living canopy of the palace.

And unfortunately for you, you had a terrible feeling he had heard you. Very slowly, carefully, you leaned toward your right, lowering your voice into a cautious whisper as though the entire room might punish you for speaking too loudly. "That's the king right?"

Your eyes remained fixed ahead, completely unable to pull away from the figure seated upon the throne. Even from this distance, Thranduil's presence seemed to consume the entire hall without effort.

He sat with effortless authority, posture relaxed yet impossibly regal, one arm resting lazily against the carved throne as though the entire realm itself bowed naturally beneath him.

Silver light cascaded behind him in long streams, framing him almost ethereally, and for a fleeting moment, he looked less like a king and more like some ancient being pulled straight from myth.

Beside you, Legolas followed your gaze briefly before looking back at you. The faintest flicker of amusement touched his features as his gaze briefly swept over your openly astonished expression.

It vanished almost immediately, hidden once more beneath his usual composure, though not before you caught it. "That," he answered quietly, inclining his head ever so slightly toward the throne, "is the Elvenking."

The way he said it carried no exaggeration, just quiet certainty. Yet somehow, hearing the title spoken aloud sent a strange chill through you anyway.

You swallowed slowly, eyes drifting back toward Thranduil just as he finally moved.

The motion itself was subtle—merely the shift of his hand against the throne, the slow rise of his figure from his seat, yet the entire room seemed to still around it.

Every elf standing guard straightened almost imperceptibly. Even the sound of rushing water beneath the bridges seemed quieter somehow beneath the weight of his presence.

Your chest tightened slightly without reason, as Thranduil descended the steps of his throne with measured grace, robes trailing behind him like flowing moonlight. His expression remained unreadable, pale eyes sharp as they settled upon Thorin beside you.

"Some may imagine that a noble quest is at hand," he began smoothly, his voice echoing throughout the chamber like silk dragged over steel. "A quest to reclaim a homeland and slay a dragon."

You glanced sideways the instant those words left his lips. Thorin had gone completely rigid beside you, every muscle in his body locking into place beneath layers of controlled fury barely held in check.

His hands curled at his sides, knuckles tightening until they blanched, and his jaw clenched so hard it looked as though it might crack under the pressure.

Still, he did not speak—only stared forward with burning restraint, blue eyes fixed upon the Elvenking with a stare sharp enough to wound.

"I, myself," he continued, the faintest edge of amusement threading through his tone, "suspect a more prosaic motive… attempted burglary, or something of that ilk." His gaze never left Thorin as he spoke, pale eyes narrowing slightly as though he were reading something beneath the dwarf's silence, something unspoken but deeply familiar.

Every word was measured, deliberate, and cutting in its restraint, as if he had no need to raise his voice to make it land.

The Elvenking moved slowly now through the throne room, circling almost lazily, though there was something unnerving about the way he carried himself, as though entirely aware that every eye followed him, every breath shifted around him.

"You have found a way in." He said, each step he took echoed softly through the throne room. "You seek that which would bestow upon you the right to rule." His voice lowered slightly then, almost deliberate. "The King's Jewel. The Arkenstone."

At the mention of it, something dark flickered across Thorin's face. His shoulders stiffened further, fingers curling tightly at his sides. Beside him, you could almost feel the anger radiating from him in waves.

"It is precious to you and your people beyond measure," Thranduil said calmly. "I understand that."

His pacing then slowed, seemed to be taking in a moment before he continued. "There are gems within the mountain that I too desire," His voice softened faintly, his gaze distant for only a brief moment. "White gems of pure starlight."

For the first time since entering the throne room, something shifted in his expression—not emotion exactly, but memory. Something old. Something bitter.

The atmosphere changed alongside with it, even Legolas beside you seemed quieter now, his posture subtly straighter as silence settled heavily through the hall.

Thranduil then looked back toward Thorin, his attention fully back at him once more. "I offer you my help."

The declaration was simple, almost gentle in tone, yet it carried weight enough to silence even the faintest rustle in the hall.

It did not sound like generosity, it sounded like control wrapped in courtesy. The words lingered in the space between them, suspended in the air, as though waiting to see who would dare challenge their meaning.

Thorin's eyes narrowed slightly at it. He did not move, though suspicion was written plainly across his features now. "I'm listening," he answered carefully, voice low and guarded.

A faint smile touched the Elvenking's lips then—not warm, not kind, but full with quiet amusement. It was the kind of smile that belonged to someone who already understood the outcome of the conversation, and was merely deciding how much truth to reveal at once.

"I will let you go… if you but return what is mine."

As he spoke, Thranduil resumed pacing leisurely across the throne room, the sound of his robes brushing softly against stone the only thing breaking the silence. Yet halfway through his movement—

He paused.

It was small, almost nothing. But in a room like this, where every breath felt accounted for, even the slightest hesitation felt like a fracture in reality.

His pale eyes shifted first, breaking away from Thorin mid-thought as though something had quietly redirected his attention without warning. And then they landed directly on you.

Your entire body stiffened beneath his sudden attention, shoulders locking instinctively as though your instincts had decided to react before your mind could even begin to understand why.

The moment Thranduil's gaze fully settled upon you, everything changed.

You saw it immediately. The cold, distant indifference that had coated his expression just moments ago faltered so suddenly it was almost jarring, like something carefully controlled had slipped for the briefest fraction of a second.

His steps stopped completely, the faint, cutting amusement that had lingered in his eyes vanishing without warning, leaving something far more exposed in its place.

And then came something you never would have expected to see on the face of the Elvenking.

Shock. Pure, devastating shock.

His pale eyes widened, searching your face with alarming intensity, as though trying to make sense of something impossible standing before him.

The color seemed to drain from his expression bit by bit, his posture stiffening in a way that made the entire throne room fall eerily silent.

A faint crease formed between your brows beneath the intensity of his gaze then, unease slowly coiling in your chest the longer he continued staring. Because whatever was reflected in the Elvenking's eyes now—it went far beyond mere surprise.

There was sorrow there, deep and unmistakable, tangled together with something dangerously close to panic and a disbelief so nakedly exposed it almost hurt to witness.

It looked less like recognition and more like someone confronting a wound they had once buried, only for it to suddenly stand breathing before them again.

Your chest tightened uneasily at the sudden shift. The room itself even seemed to still around him in response. Even the guards along the walls stood more rigid, uncertain whether to move or remain frozen in place.

Thorin noticed it too, his brows furrowed slowly as his sharp gaze shifted between you and the Elvenking with growing suspicion, the earlier fury in his posture momentarily replaced by wary calculation.

He did not speak, but the way his stance subtly adjusted made it clear he no longer viewed this as a simple exchange of threats and bargaining.

Legolas, who stood beside you had gone noticeably still, confusion flashing clearly across his features for the first time since entering the hall, whilst Tauriel's eyes narrowed slightly, her attention sharpening immediately.

But the Elvenking just seemed to look like he had seen a ghost.

His lips parted faintly, though whatever words had risen there seemed to die before they could escape. His eyes roamed across your face with unsettling intensity, searching every feature with near-desperate focus, as though comparing you against a memory he had carried for far too long.

There was nothing regal in the look anymore, nothing distant or untouchable. Only someone trying, and failing to convince himself that what stood before him could not possibly be real.

Like he was looking at the past itself, and there it was, staring right back at him.

Then, barely above a whisper, "…Lumena?" The name slipped from his lips so faintly you almost believed you had imagined it, carried into the silence like something forbidden dragged unwillingly from the depths of memory.

Yet despite how softly it was spoken, the effect was immediate. The air itself seemed to tighten around the word, tension rippling outward so suddenly it felt as though the entire hall had drawn breath at once.

Your own brows pulled together completely, the name repeating itself in your head in loops.

Lumena?

Ahead of you, the Elvenking looked as though he regretted speaking at all. The instant the name left his lips, something shuttered violently behind his eyes, his expression tightening with sudden awareness, as though he had revealed far more than intended.

Despite himself, he could not seem to look away from you.

No—Not you.

His gaze had shifted lower now, fixed intently upon the pendant resting against your chest. And the moment he truly saw it, whatever fragile composure he had left seemed to fracture completely.

Before you could even begin to make sense of the name lingering in the air, Thranduil moved. One heartbeat he stood near the foot of the throne, distant beneath silver-green light and shadowed branches overhead—then suddenly he was before you, crossing the hall with such unnatural swiftness it hardly looked like movement at all.

The sharp sweep of his robes cut across the stone floor as he closed the distance in an instant, the suddenness of it forcing you to stumble backward in alarm.

Your breath caught hard in your throat, eyes widening as instinct immediately screamed at you to move, though your body barely had time to react.

"Wha-?" The sound barely escaped you before his hand moved.

Long pale fingers caught suddenly against the pendant hidden beneath your collar, gripping the chain with startling force before dragging it free into the open.

The motion snapped the pendant forward sharply, the chain biting briefly against your skin as you were pulled off balance with it.

A startled gasp left you immediately, your entire body lurching toward him from the force as your hands flew upward on instinct, grabbing tightly around his wrist without even thinking.

The pendant swayed faintly between the two of you now, glinting beneath the pale light filtering through the halls. And the moment he had saw it clearly, something inside him broke.

The throne room erupted into motion around you.

Several guards shifted forward instantly, startled by the abruptness of the Elvenking's actions, hands instinctively moving toward their weapons despite their hesitation, while Thorin took a sharp step ahead with visible alarm flashing across his face.

Beside you, Legolas stiffened completely. "My Elven-lord-" The word came sharper than before, edged with alarm as he took a quick step forward, clearly unsettled by the sight unfolding before him.

Yet Thranduil did not acknowledge him. In truth, he seemed entirely unaware of anyone else remaining in the room.

His entire focus had narrowed onto the pendant now trembling between his fingers. His breathing had changed—barely, but enough to notice, as though the sight of it had struck something deep enough to shake even him.

His eyes moved across every detail of the necklace with near-desperate intensity, disbelief warring openly across features that moments ago had been carved entirely from control.

His breathing faltered visibly, eyes widened further in horror and recognition crashing across his face with devastating force. Even his hand tightened unconsciously around the pendant, fingers curling against the silver chain like he could not convince himself the object before him truly existed.

"Where did you get this?" He gritted his teeth, the words weren't spoken calmly a single bit. It was rough, demanding, almost desperate beneath the anger, loud enough that the sound rebounded sharply against stone and carved pillars alike.

His voice rose sharply, raw and demanding in a way that made everyone in the hall freeze instantly. The sheer force behind it startled you badly enough that your heart nearly stopped.

You had never imagined the Elvenking capable of sounding so… shaken.

Panic surged through you immediately, fast and overwhelming beneath the weight of his stare. "I-!" The sound caught uselessly in your throat as your fingers instinctively tightened around his wrist, your mind scrambling desperately to answer while confusion and fear tangled together inside your chest.

"It's-it's my mother's!" you blurted out hurriedly, the words stumbling over each other in your panic. "I've had it ever since I was little-!"

The moment the truth left your lips—

Everything changed.

The tension in his grip loosened ever so slightly around the pendant as your words settled between you, and for one fractured moment, the grief hidden beneath his composure became impossible to conceal.

His stare turned distant, unfocused, as though your answer had dragged him somewhere far beyond the throne room entirely.

A thousand emotions flickered through his expression too quickly to fully grasp—shock, sorrow, regret, yearning, it'd all come crashing together beneath the fragile remains of restraint.

His jaw tightened sharply afterward, like he was trying to force himself back into control, but it was already too late.

His eyes searched yours again—desperately this time, as though trying to piece together every impossible detail standing before him.

"Your… mother?" he repeated quietly. Now they sounded almost fragile, like something spoken more to himself than to you. The Elvenking standing before you no longer resembled the composed ruler who had towered above everyone moments ago.

The distance in him had vanished, leaving behind someone visibly shaken by memories he had not been prepared to face again, caught between memory and grief, struggling to separate one from the other.

His eyes lowered once more toward the pendant still caught loosely within his grasp. For a brief moment, his thumb brushed across its surface with unmistakable familiarity, the movement slow and almost absent-minded, like tracing over something precious long believed lost.

When his gaze lifted back toward your face again, something inside his expression gave way completely.

Because you looked so much like her.

Not enough to mistake you for the woman he had once known—not truly. Time had changed too much for that illusion to survive.

Yet there were fragments. Small, unbearable pieces of her reflected back at him through you. The shape of your eyes. The way your expression shifted when confused. Even the stubbornness flickering beneath your fear reminded him too much of someone he had once known too well.

And it was enough.

For one terrible instant, it was written plainly across his face—that centuries-old grief had surged back into him all at once, tearing through wounds time had never truly healed.

His breathing steadied gradually, though the faint unsteadiness beneath it remained impossible to hide completely. Even now, his fingers lingered against the necklace as though letting go of it meant accepting something he was not ready to face.

The anger that had exploded from him moments earlier faded almost instantly, replaced instead by something quieter, something infinitely more dangerous.

Pain.

"Hah…" He laughed breathless. It escaped him quietly, but it sounded wrong coming from someone like him. Not amused nor cruel, it sounded like grief given sound after centuries of silence.

His eyes lowered briefly, lashes casting faint shadows across features no longer guarded carefully enough to hide the sorrow carved into them.

There was exhaustion there too, ancient and heavy, like he had spent centuries outrunning memories only for them to suddenly stand breathing before him once again.

Then slowly, almost hesitantly, he looked back at you.

"…So you did return," he murmured at last, voice scarcely louder than the whisper of leaves beyond the halls. The words drifted from him quietly, unfocused, as though spoken to someone far away rather than the person standing before him now. "Even after all this time…"

A faint bitterness touched his expression then—not anger, but the ache of someone who had once hoped for something impossible.

His gaze lingered on your face with unsettling intensity, searching through you and beyond you all at once, as though caught between present and memory.

"You said you would find your way back to me," he continued softly, almost breathless beneath the weight of remembrance. "And now… even in death, you still refuse to leave me be."

Your brows immediately drew together in confusion. What?

Your fingers instinctively curled tighter around the pendant now resting once more against your chest, grounding yourself against the growing unease twisting inside you. Returned? What was he talking about?

You opened your mouth slightly, wanting to ask, but before a single word could leave you, Thorin's voice shattered violently through the throne room.

"Oi!" The sheer force behind it made several elves tensed on reflex, armor shifting sharply as hands moved instinctively toward sword hilts and spear shafts.

Thorin stepped forward abruptly, boots striking hard against the stone floor as he planted himself partly between you and Thranduil.

The fury radiating from him now was impossible to ignore. His jaw was clenched so tightly the muscles visibly twitched beneath his beard, blue eyes blazing with restrained hatred as he glared up at the Elvenking.

To him, none of this mattered beyond one thing—

you looked frightened, and that alone was enough.

"Don't hurt her!" Thorin barked harshly, the insult ringing sharply through the hall with unmistakable venom. Somewhere behind you, you heard one of the guards shift immediately, hands tightening around their weapon.

But Thorin did not back down. If anything, he stepped closer still, planting himself more firmly before you as though daring anyone to try removing him.

His expression had darkened completely now, years of bitterness and distrust toward the Elvenking surfacing plainly across his face.

"Unhand her." Thorin snapped sharply, protective irritation flashing across his face.

Meanwhile, you stared at Thorin in complete horror. Did he seriously just say that to the King of Mirkwood? In his territory?

Thorin however, either didn't notice your panic—or simply did not care at all. His attention remained locked entirely on Thranduil as he continued forward another step, voice rough and edged with warning. "Back to business," he growled. "A favor for a favor."

For a fleeting second, Thorin glanced sideways toward you. The rage in his expression softened only barely, concern flickering across his features before it vanished beneath stone once more.

Then he turned back toward Thranduil, lifting his chin slightly despite the guards already bristling around the room.

It was your first time seeing him look at you that way, but you brushed it off, currently your main focus had to be on the Elvenking before you. If not, who knows? You'll be thrown into prison like the rest.

For several long seconds, Thranduil said nothing. Then slowly, almost like he was forcing himself awake from some distant memory, his eyes blinked once.

The movement looked strangely delayed, his composure pieced together too carefully now to appear natural. At last, his fingers loosened completely from the necklace.

The pendant slipped from his hand and fell softly back against your chest. Even then, his gaze followed it downward, lingering upon the silver as though part of him still could not bring himself to release it fully.

The moment his hold disappeared, you instinctively stumbled backward half a step, your hand immediately flying toward the pendant protectively.

Fingers curled tightly around it against your chest as though shielding it from him now, your pulse hammering so violently beneath your ribs it almost hurt.

The throne room remained deathly silent. No one moved, no one understood what had just happened.

Except perhaps Legolas. Because beside you, his expression had gone strangely pale as realization slowly began dawning across his features too.

"You have my word then," Thranduil said firmly, his tone slightly steadier now . "One king to another."

Thorin then laughed after hearing those words. A sharp, disbelieving exhale escaped him as he slowly straightened, the fragile crack in his composure showing through.

"Ah…" he murmured softly, eyes filled with mockery narrowing faintly upon Thranduil. "Right. A king's word." He spat, bitterness laced beneath his voice, as his expression twisted immediately.

"I would not trust Thranduil, the great king, to honor his word should the ending of days itself be upon us!"

The fury he had been suppressing finally surged free now, raw and burning. His voice thundered throughout the chamber, echoing violently against stone and water alike.

You flinched slightly at the sudden raise in his tone, this was no longer negotiation, but rather this was years of hatred finally clawing its way to the surface.

Thorin stepped forward again, pointing directly toward Thranduil with enough force that several guards immediately tensed. "You lack all honor!" he roared. "I have seen how you treat your friends!"

"We came to you once!" Thorin continued, voice cracking beneath the force of his rage. "Starving! Homeless! Seeking your aid!"

Every word dripped with old pain, "But you turned your back!" His voice echoed violently through the throne room now. "You turned away from the suffering of my people and the inferno that destroyed us!"

"Die a death of flames." Thorin then spewed in dwarvish.

The moment the words left him, everything was bound to be changed. Thranduil moved so quickly the motion barely registered. One second he stood still—the next he was directly before Thorin once more, eyes blazing furious.

The entire hall seemed to recoil beneath the force of his anger. "Do not speak to me of dragon fire." His voice dropped low, deadly. He leaned forward until he and Thorin stood nearly nose to nose, pale eyes burning with restrained wrath.

"I know its wrath." He spoke, as something twisted suddenly across his features.

And before your eyes, it seemed like a illusion shattered. You gasped softly at it. Burns spread violently across one side of Thranduil's face, blackened scars crawling beneath his skin like remnants of living flame.

The perfection of the Elvenking vanished instantly beneath the ruin hidden underneath, jagged and horrifying.

Thorin looked caught off guard as well.

"I know its ruin," Thranduil continued quietly, his voice no longer sounded merely angry now. Instead, it sounded haunted.

For one terrible moment, you swore you saw it reflected in his eyes—the memory of fire, destruction and loss, before he slowly straightened once more.

The burns vanished instantly beneath the glamour returning across his features, leaving only the cold, flawless face of the Elvenking once again. "I have faced the great serpents of the North," he said calmly.

The room remained deathly silent, taking in every word Thranduil had to say. "I warned your grandfather of what his greed would summon." His gaze hardened upon Thorin. "But he would not listen."

"You are just like him." he said, clearly mocking the son of it.

Thorin's jaw tightened violently, but before he could answer, Thranduil turned away sharply, lifting one elegant hand toward the guards.

The command needed no words. Immediately, the elven guards surged forward. Chains rattled loudly as they seized Thorin by the arms. The dwarf struggled instantly, fury flashing across his face as he attempted to wrench himself free. "Unhand me!"

The guards dragged him backward regardless, boots scraping harshly against stone.

Thranduil could care less, he'd already begun ascending the steps toward his throne once more, every trace of earlier vulnerability buried once again beneath layers of regal indifference.

He sat slowly, as though none of it had affected him at all, lowering his cold gaze toward Thorin. "Stay here, if you will," he said smoothly. "And rot."

The faintest tilt of amusement touched his lips once more. "A hundred years is a mere blink in the life of an elf."

His eyes darkened slightly. "I am patient."

The throne room fell silent again. Yet even as Thorin was dragged away shouting curses beneath his breath—You noticed something. Thranduil's gaze drifted back toward you once more, and the grief in his eyes had not fully disappeared.

You.

More specifically—the pendant trembling faintly against your chest as your uneven breathing caused it to shift. The same necklace he had once seen resting against another person entirely. Against her.

Something dark flickered across his expression then, so quick you nearly missed it. Pain. Fear. Guilt. Perhaps all three tangled together so tightly even he could no longer separate them.

Then he spoke, "Throw her in as well." The command sliced through the throne room in an instant, cold and absolute despite the faint strain hidden beneath it.

For a second, you genuinely thought you had misheard him. Your brows pulled together slowly, confusion washing across your face before disbelief followed right after it.

A small breath escaped your lips, shaky and stunned, as though your mind refused to fully comprehend what had just happened. You genuinely thought you'd misheard him.

"…What?" The word barely came out properly, but the guards had already begun moving.

Armor shifted sharply as several elves stepped forward at once, boots striking against stone in practiced unison. The sound alone made your stomach tighten painfully.

You instinctively took a slow step backward, then another, eyes darting quickly between each approaching guard as panic slowly began creeping its way into your chest.

No one hesitated now, not after the king had spoken.

Your pulse pounded violently in your ears with every step they took closer. The throne room suddenly felt enormous and suffocating all at once, the glowing halls seeming to close around you despite their size. There was nowhere to go.

Even if you ran, you already knew how useless it would be. These were elves. You would barely make it past the pillars before they caught you.

And worst of all, Thranduil looked away, though not out of indifference. No… somehow that would have hurt less. He looked away like he could not bear to watch it happen, and that hurt far more than the order itself.

A faint huff escaped you then, almost laugh-like in its disbelief as you continued backing away slowly. Your fingers tightened instinctively around the pendant resting against your chest, knuckles paling beneath the pressure.

"Wait-" Your voice wavered despite your attempt to steady it. "I didn't even do anything-"

But the guards did not stop. One elf stepped forward first, arm extending toward you with clear intent to seize you before the situation worsened further.

Right as his hands reached, someone had moved in front of you, fast enough that you nearly gasped aloud in shock.

Legolas.

One moment he stood at your side, silent beneath the chaos unraveling around him—and the next he had stepped directly in front of you without hesitation, forcing the guards to halt immediately.

There he stood directly before you now, tall and rigid, placing himself between you and every drawn weapon in the room without a second of hesitation.

One arm extended instinctively across your front protectively, not quite touching you yet shielding you all the same, as though his body had reacted long before thought ever could.

The movement had been immediate, natural, effortless in the most dangerous way possible, like protecting you had never once been something he needed to think about.

And in his other hand, a dagger gleamed beneath the dim light of the throne hall.

You had not even seen the moment he drew it. One heartbeat his hands had been empty, the next silver flashed sharply before you as the blade settled with quiet precision at his side.

Legolas held it low, not carelessly brandished nor wildly threatening, yet the meaning behind it remained unmistakable. If anyone moved toward you again, he would not hesitate.

His grip remained steady despite the storm visibly brewing behind his eyes now. The Legolas standing before you now looked dangerous—tense in a way that made the entire hall freeze around him.

"Do not touch her." His voice came low and sharp, cutting cleanly through the suffocating silence.

It was not a plea. Not even a warning. It was a command.

Every guard stopped instantly. Not because they feared the dagger in his hand. Elves of Mirkwood did not frighten easily, least of all by steel. No—what unsettled them was the sight before them.

Their prince stood armed against his own kin, against his father's order.

The prince of Mirkwood stood armed before them now, openly shielding someone his father had just ordered imprisoned.

The realization spread visibly through the chamber in ripples of tension. Several guards exchanged brief uncertain glances, clearly caught between duty to their king and loyalty toward the heir standing before them now.

One shifted his footing uneasily, while another lowered his spear ever so slightly without realizing it. None of them seemed entirely certain how to proceed anymore.

Because this was no ordinary act of defiance.

A flicker of disbelief spread visibly through the throne room. Tauriel straightened instantly where she stood nearby, eyes widening slightly though not entirely in surprise, as though some part of her had always known this moment would come eventually ever since witnessing your interaction not too long ago.

Meanwhile, you could only stare silently at Legolas' back from behind, your thoughts momentarily falling into complete disarray.

You seemed to notice everything suddenly—the tension pulled tightly through his shoulders, the subtle rise and fall of heavier breathing he was trying desperately to control, the way his stance never once wavered despite the dozens of eyes now fixed upon him.

The realization settled strangely in your chest, because Legolas knew exactly what he was doing.

This was not some reckless impulse born from emotion alone. He understood the consequences standing before his father armed like this.

He understood every watching guard now waited for a single wrong movement to turn the throne room into chaos. And yet even knowing all that—he still refused to step aside.

Your fingers tightened unconsciously around the pendant resting against your chest.

One of the guards finally attempted another careful step forward anyway, perhaps hoping the prince's restraint would outweigh his resolve. The movement was slow, cautious, barely more than a shift against the stone floor.

Legolas reacted instantly, as the dagger lifted slightly in warning, while his gaze snapped toward the approaching elf with enough icy intensity to halt him mid-step. "I said," Legolas repeated slowly, each word edged with restrained anger, "do not touch her."

Silence crashed over the room once more before that same old cold voice pierced through it.

"Legolas." Thranduil's voice echoed sharply throughout the hall, the warning beneath that single word was unmistakable. Yet Legolas did not move, he did not even bother to lower his blade, nor did he step aside.

Slowly, Thranduil descended another step from the throne platform, his pale gaze fixed entirely upon his son now. The grief and confusion from earlier had vanished beneath something colder, something far more dangerous.

"You forget yourself," Thranduil said quietly, though the calmness in his voice somehow made it worse.

Legolas' jaw tightened visibly. For a brief moment, you saw conflict flicker across his expression—old loyalty clashing violently against something stronger now.

Still, he never lowered the dagger. "No," he answered firmly at last, his voice steady despite the tension pulling through him. "I remember precisely who I am."

A sharp tension swept across the throne room instantly at his choice of response. Several guards exchanged uneasy glances while Tauriel's attention sharpened further, clearly preparing herself should the situation collapse entirely.

Thranduil stopped only a few steps away, expression unreadable once more. "Stand aside." The command came calm.

And for the first time since you had met Legolas, there was something openly defiant burning within his eyes.

"She has harmed no one," Legolas said, "She's the daughter of Lumena. And if word were to spread that she was cast into the cells unjustly…" His eyes sharpened faintly. "There are many within this realm who would not remain silent"

His grip around the dagger tightened faintly then before continuing. "She is not our enemy."

Thranduil's expression darkened the moment those words reached his ears. "And yet," he replied smoothly, each word measured with dangerous precision, "you would raise a blade against your own king for her?" The question hung heavily between them.

Legolas hesitated, only for the briefest second. But in a throne room this silent, even the smallest uncertainty became impossible to miss.

You saw it flicker through him immediately, the conflict tearing beneath his composure as duty warred violently against something stronger now. Loyalty to his father, loyalty to his kingdom. And then… you.

His eyes shifted toward you at last, just one glance.

Yet somehow it felt heavier than everything spoken between them so far. His gaze caught the sight of your trembling hands curled tightly around the necklace against your chest, the fear you were trying desperately not to show.

And whatever answer he found there seemed to settle something inside him completely. When he looked back at Thranduil again, the hesitation was all gone. "If I must."

The entire throne room seemed to inhale sharply all at once.

Even you froze behind him, eyes widening in complete disbelief as your breath caught somewhere painfully in your chest. Because Legolas had just openly defied the Elvenking before the entirety of his court.

And judging by the slow, unreadable look now settling across Thranduil's face—This was no longer merely about prisoners. This had become deeply, dangerously personal.

Your eyes remained fixed on Legolas' back, your thoughts struggling to catch up with everything unfolding before you.

The way the guards had immediately halted the moment he stepped between you and them, the tension now crackling through the entire throne room because of a single movement from him alone—it was enough to tell you that Legolas held far more authority here than you had first assumed.

At first, you thought perhaps it was because he was captain of the guard, someone respected enough that others naturally followed his lead.

But that thought shattered almost instantly the moment one of the guards finally spoke, his voice strained with visible uncertainty as his eyes flickered nervously between Legolas and the Elvenking.

"My lord…"The elf hesitated, clearly choosing his words with care now, his grip tightening faintly around his spear.

"It is your king's command." His brows furrowed deeper, desperation slipping into his tone as though he genuinely wished not to stand against either side. "Even if he is your father… neither you nor I may openly defy him."

The words struck you so suddenly your mind blanked for half a heartbeat.

"…What?" Your head snapped up toward Legolas so quickly it almost hurt, eyes widening in complete disbelief as the realization came crashing down all at once.

"The Elvenking is your father?" you blurted, your voice echoing far louder than intended through the silent halls.

Several heads turned toward you instantly, though you barely noticed beneath the sheer disbelief crashing through your thoughts.

Your eyes widened further the longer you stared at Legolas' back, bafflement written plainly across your face. "You're a prince?!"

Of all the impossible things this day had thrown at you, imprisonment, emotionally unstable elf kings—somehow that had caught you most off guard.

Your brows pulled together harder in bewilderment, gaze flickering rapidly between Legolas and Thranduil as your mind desperately attempted to rearrange every interaction you had ever had with him into this entirely new context.

Suddenly everything made far too much sense.

The guards listening to him immediately. The way the elves moved around him with instinctive respect.

The hair.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," you muttered beneath your breath in complete disbelief before looking back at him again. "You're literally a prince, and you never told me!"

For the briefest second, something softened across Legolas' otherwise tense expression. It was small—so fleeting most would have missed it entirely, but you caught it nonetheless.

The slightest twitch near the corner of his mouth, subtle enough to vanish almost immediately, as though the absurdity of your outrage had momentarily slipped past his restraint and nearly pulled a smile from him despite himself.

Yet his posture never relaxed, his dagger still angled protectively before him as his sharp gaze remained fixed on the guards ahead, every muscle in his body coiled tight with restraint.

"You never asked," he answered simply.

You stared at him in genuine disbelief. "That is not something people usually have to ask!" you whisper-hissed back immediately, scandalized despite the danger around you. "Who walks around assuming they need to ask if someone's secretly royalty?!"

"Mm." For the briefest moment, Legolas' attention shifted toward you again, only slightly, though it was enough for you to catch the subtle change in his expression beneath all the tension surrounding him.

His gaze swept over you quickly, checking you over almost instinctively as though reassuring himself you were still unharmed amidst the chaos unfolding around you.

Then, quieter this time—low enough that the words brushed only against your ears, he spoke again. "Stay behind me alright?"

The calmness in his voice should not have affected you as much as it did, yet somehow it did.

Your breath caught faintly at the words, despite the guards surrounding you, despite the king standing only a few steps away watching everything unfold with unreadable eyes, Legolas still sounded far more concerned about you than himself.

And across the hall, Thranduil noticed it too. The Elvenking's pale gaze lingered upon his son carefully now, upon the protective angle of his body, the dagger still raised toward his own people, the quiet way he positioned himself between you and every possible threat without hesitation.

Something shifted across Thranduil's expression then, subtle enough that most would not notice.

"Legolas," Thranduil spoke at last, his voice quieter now. The disappointment woven through the single word settled coldly across the hall. "You place yourself in dangerous waters."

The warning lingered between them, not spoken as a king to a disobedient prince.

But almost… as a father watching his son walk toward the very same ruin he once could not escape himself.

"If protecting her places me there," he answered steadily, his grip tightening faintly around the dagger, "then so be it."

Silence followed immediately after, it was heavy and suffocating. And standing behind him, staring at the unwavering figure shielding you without hesitation, you realized something terrifying all at once.

He meant it. This was not reckless bravado nor some desperate attempt to frighten the guards into retreat. Legolas was not bluffing.

If this throne room turned against you now—if his father commanded these elves forward despite everything, he truly would stand against them for your sake.

"You act as though you know her well." Thranduil spoke back then. His pale eyes remained fixed upon Legolas with growing intensity, the faint sneer curling along his lips doing little to hide the tension tightening beneath his composure.

This conversation was no longer unfolding the way he'd wished.

Legolas however, had not lower his dagger despite such warnings. If anything, his posture only straightened further, shoulders squaring instinctively as he stood firmly between you and the guards.

"I do know her," he answered without hesitation.

His gaze then finally lifted fully toward his father, something almost challenging flickering through his eyes now. "She is the girl I told you about. The one I have been meeting when I was a child.”

Legolas tilted his head just slightly then, though the movement held no humor. "It seems," he continued quietly, "I was not lying after all."

As he finished, genuine disbelief crossed Thranduil's face. Just stunned disbelief, as though he could scarcely comprehend the words spoken before him.

"Hah…" A hollow sound escaped him, somewhere between disbelief and bitter amusement as he descended another slow step.

"And now you choose to utter nonsense before your king?" His voice hardened instantly afterward, centuries of authority crashing back into place. "I said stand aside, Legolas." He commanded, the words echoing harshly through the halls.

Legolas did not move though. He'd just planted himself more firmly before you, the dagger remaining steady within his grasp as his expression hardened with quiet resolve. No fear crossed his face now. No hesitation. Only stubborn certainty.

And the sight struck Thranduil harder than he could've ever expected. He was no longer looking at his son.

For the briefest, most painful moment, he saw himself instead. Younger. Reckless. Standing before another throne long ago with that same defiant fire burning in his eyes for someone he should never have loved so deeply.

For her. Lumena.

The memories came uninvited, vicious in their clarity. Soft laughter echoing through moonlit halls, gentle hands reaching for his, silver tears, blood and loss.

It had taken centuries to bury those memories deep enough to survive them. Centuries spent forcing himself not to remember her voice, her smile, the way she had once looked at him as though he alone existed beneath the stars.

He had wanted it all gone. Every trace of her erased from his mind because remembering had become torture.

Yet now you stood before him wearing her eyes, her necklace, her kindness. And his son looked at you the exact same way he once looked at her.

The realization twisted painfully through his chest. Something in Thranduil softened then despite himself, faint enough most would never notice it.

His expression faltered for only half a second, grief slipping through the cracks before his jaw twitched sharply once more, forcing the emotion back down where it belonged.

"…Very well." The words came quieter than before, though the sternness remained. Yet beneath it, there was the faintest tremble hidden within his voice now, almost swallowed entirely by pride.

Your eyes widened at the sudden shift in his expression, confusion written plainly across your face as you stared at him.

Around the hall, even the guards looked uncertain now, glancing uneasily toward one another as though unsure whether they had heard correctly.

Thranduil's gaze shifted toward you slowly then. For a moment, he simply looked at you, really looked at you. His eyes traced the bruises scattered across your hands, the exhaustion lingering beneath your expression, the thin weird clothing still clinging damply against your skin from the cold outside.

Something unreadable flickered across his face again before he spoke at last.

"You," he began carefully, though his tone remained controlled, "will remain under Legolas' supervision." His eyes flickered briefly toward his son afterward.

"Should anything occur…" he paused, before continuing, "It shall fall upon you."

Legolas inclined his head slightly without argument, though relief visibly loosened some of the tension held within his posture. The dagger lowered at last, though he still did not fully step away from you yet.

Thranduil's eyes then seemed to find itself drifting back toward you once more. He paused, his gaze lingered noticeably longer than necessary before he cleared his throat quietly, almost as though irritated with himself.

"And…" His voice faltered briefly before smoothing itself out again. "See that she is given proper garments to change into."

The room seemed to blink collectively in confusion. Thranduil immediately looked away afterward, pretending sudden interest elsewhere as though he had not just spoken.

"It is cold beyond these halls during this season," he added stiffly, the explanation sounding almost forced.

You could only stand there staring at Thranduil in complete confusion as he turned sharply, silver robes sweeping behind him while he ascended the throne steps once more.

Nothing about this situation made sense anymore. Not the way he looked at you. Not the grief hidden behind his anger. And certainly not the strange softness that kept slipping through despite how desperately he tried to bury it.

➽──────────────────────────────❥

The room they had brought you to was far quieter than the throne hall below. Soft lanternlight flickered gently against carved stone walls woven with twisting vines and roots, while silver curtains shifted faintly whenever the breeze slipped through the open archway nearby.

Compared to the chaos from earlier, the silence almost felt nice.

You sat near the edge of the large wooden bed awkwardly, your legs crossed beneath you as you absentmindedly tugged at the sleeves of your old hoodie.

Honestly, the thing had seen better days several disasters ago. It was stained with dirt, dried blood, ash, and whatever else this adventure had decided to throw at you. At this point, even you were beginning to question how you were still surviving inside it.

"…I smell terrible," you muttered quietly to yourself, lifting the collar slightly before immediately recoiling with a disgusted grimace. "Oh my god."

You had barely drawn breath to continue your complaints when a soft knock sounded against the wooden doorway, light and careful against the quietness of the room. Before you could even answer, the door slowly slid open, pulling your attention away immediately.

Legolas stepped inside soon after, though noticeably slower than before, as though he was still uncertain how to approach you after everything that had happened.

The light spilling into the room caught against his pale hair beautifully, softening the sharpness he'd carried within the throne halls.

Folded neatly within his arms rested a set of dark green and silver clothes, layered fabrics embroidered delicately along the sleeves in patterns you vaguely recognized from the female guards wandering the palace earlier.

The material looked so soft, and warm. Significantly cleaner than whatever remained of the clothes currently hanging off your body.

His gaze lifted the moment he stepped fully inside the room, immediately finding yours. And just like before, something in his expression softened almost at once.

"I brought these for you," he said quietly while approaching, his voice gentler now that the chaos from earlier had finally faded. He held the clothes out carefully toward you, fingers lingering slightly against the folded fabric as though unsure whether you would accept them immediately.

"They should fit… adequately enough." His eyes dipped briefly toward your current state then—the worn fabric, the dirt smeared faintly along your sleeves, the damp edges still clinging from the cold outside, before lifting back toward your face again.

A faint pause followed. Then the smallest trace of amusement tugged subtly at the corner of his mouth, softening his features in a way that almost distracted you entirely.

"Though," he added lightly, gaze flickering once more toward your rather questionable attire, "I fear nothing within Mirkwood was designed with your… unusual attire in mind.."

Your gaze immediately dropped toward yourself afterward, lips pressing into a small line as you looked down at the state of your current clothes.

Dirt stained the sleeves, the fabric slightly damp at the edges from the cold outside, and honestly? You were beginning to understand why every elf in this palace kept staring at your hoodie like it was some strange woodland creature.

"…That was mildly offensive," you muttered beneath your breath, though the lack of actual irritation in your voice made the complaint entirely useless.

The faintest flicker of amusement touched Legolas' features at that, subtle enough it almost disappeared before you fully caught it.

Though, It wasn't long before your attention snapped right back toward the folded clothes resting within his hands. The moment your fingers touched the fabric, your eyes widened almost instantly.

"Wait-" You took the clothes from him quickly, genuine surprise lighting across your features as your hands brushed carefully over the smooth embroidery woven into the sleeves.

The material was softer than you expected, cool beneath your fingertips yet rich and beautifully crafted in a way that made your own clothing suddenly feel even more tragic by comparison.

"These are actually beautiful." you breathed, the awe in your voice came entirely unfiltered as you lifted part of the fabric slightly to inspect it better beneath the lanternlight.

Silver stitching glimmered softly across the dark green layers like moonlight caught within woven leaves, elegant without seeming excessive.

Your brows lifted higher the longer you stared. "You all dress like this every single day?" you asked incredulously before looking back up at him, eyes bright with disbelief. "No wonder every person here looks like they walked straight out of some fantasy film."

Legolas frowned faintly in confusion upon your words. "…A fantasy film?" he repeated carefully, the unfamiliar words sounding oddly formal within his accent.

The question made you pause immediately. Your mouth opened halfway on instinct, fully prepared to explain—before the realization hit you all at once that trying to explain modern cinema to an elven prince from Middle-earth would probably create far more problems than solutions.

"…You know what," you said quickly instead, waving one hand dismissively through the air, "never mind."

Even with your reassurance, Legolas continued watching you with clear suspicion now, though thankfully he did not press further.

You grinned faintly afterward, standing up from the bed without another thought, still clutching the clothes carefully against yourself.

"Seriously though," you said while glancing down at your current hoodie with visible judgment, "thank you. I've been wearing this thing for so many days I'm very certain it's evolved into its own living organism by now."

Legolas' brows lifted faintly at your strange wording, confusion flickering briefly across his features as though he was genuinely trying to understand how clothing could possibly become 'biologically dangerous.'

But before he could question it further—You had already grabbed the hem of your shirt and pulled it straight over your head without a second thought.

Legolas froze instantly, well completely.

His eyes widened then, before he turned away with such alarming speed it would have been impressive under literally any other circumstance.

blonde hair shifted sharply across his shoulders with the sudden movement as he redirected his attention very intensely toward the farthest wall in the room like it had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in Middle-earth.

"My apologies-!" he blurted instantly, his voice noticeably tighter than before. One hand lifted halfway instinctively, almost like he did not know what to do with himself anymore.

"I did not realize you intended to-" He stopped abruptly, jaw tightening as the faintest flush began creeping across the tips of his ears. "Why," he asked carefully after a strained pause, still refusing to look anywhere near you, "are you removing your garments while I am still present?"

You blinked at him mid-motion. Your old hoodie now hung loosely from one hand while you stood there in the singlet underneath, looking significantly less scandalous than whatever horrifying conclusion Legolas had apparently jumped to in his head.

"…Huh?"

Your confusion only seemed to make him tense further somehow.

Legolas remained rigidly turned toward the opposite wall, posture impossibly straight now as though sheer discipline alone was keeping him from spontaneously combusting out of embarrassment.

"You could have warned me," he muttered quietly, sounding deeply distressed by the entire situation.

You stared at him for another second before slowly looking down at yourself, then back at him again.

Legolas still refused to turn back toward you, shoulders stiff as a board, posture rigid with obvious discomfort. "That is not appropriate." His voice lowered slightly, sounding both flustered and horrified all at once. "Particularly not before an unmarried person."

You paused, staring at the back of his head for a long moment as if you were genuinely trying to figure out where exactly the misunderstanding had begun. Then, almost cautiously, you looked back down at yourself again.

"…But I’m wearing a singlet underneath," you said, like that should have logically resolved everything.

Silence was all that was given back instead. From where you couldn't see, Legolas blinked once, slowly.

Then, as if against his better judgment, he turned just slightly over his shoulder.

And the moment his eyes registered that you were, in fact, somewhat covered, the faint flush that had been threatening his composure deepened instantly, creeping further up his ears in a way he clearly wished was not happening. He snapped his gaze forward again just as quickly.

You frowned now, genuinely even more confused. "What? It's basically the same as a sleeveless shirt."

"It is not the same thing," he answered immediately, far too quickly, as though the argument itself was something he needed to win for survival purposes.

His head turned away again with visible stubbornness, though the tension in his voice had softened into something slightly flustered. "No respectable maiden simply begins changing garments while a man remains in the room."

That made you pause for a second, before realization came kicking in. It was the medieval times you were currently residing in.

Your expression shifted instantly, lips parting before a quiet laugh slipped out without permission, the realization settling in so suddenly it almost embarrassed you on its own. You lifted a hand briefly to your face, half-covering it as you shook your head.

"…Oh my god," you muttered under your breath, still smiling despite yourself. "Right. Different era."

Legolas, still very much turned away from you, tilted his head slightly at the unfamiliar phrase. "…Era?" he repeated carefully, clearly not satisfied with how many unknown words you were introducing into his life today.

"Nothing," you said quickly, letting out another small laugh as you lowered your hand again. "Forget it. I'm sorry. Where I'm from, this isn't really… an issue."

That finally earned a faint shift in his expression. Not quite a turn, but enough that you could see the furrow forming in his brows. "Your world sounds," he began after a pause, choosing his words with visible caution, "deeply concerning."

And that did it for you, as you laughed harder. The sound filled the room warmly, lighter than before, softer too—and Legolas found himself relaxing slightly the longer he heard it.

Because after everything that had happened today, after the fear and tension and tears… hearing you laugh again felt strangely relieving, a little less suffocating.

"…You can turn around now," you said at last, amusement still lingering in your tone as you pulled the new attire properly into place over your shoulders.

Legolas hesitated for a moment. You could practically feel the pause stretch in the air before he slowly turned back toward you, as if cautiously testing whether it was truly safe to look.

And then he did, almost promptly forgetting how to breathe for a fraction of a second as well.

The Mirkwood attire fit you far better than anything he had expected—dark green layers falling neatly against your frame, traced with fine silver detailing that caught softly in the lanternlight with every small movement you made.

The fabric looked almost like it belonged to you already, blending oddly well with your presence despite how out of place you still technically were.

Your hair was slightly tousled from changing, your expression still carrying traces of exhaustion around the eyes, yet there was something about the way you stood there now—clothed in elven garments, light shifting across the fabric—that made you look unsettlingly at home in these halls.

Legolas stared a moment too long. It wasn't dramatic in any outward sense—no sudden movement, no change in stance, no visible reaction that would betray him easily

And yet the stillness that followed felt different. Not empty, but suspended, as though time itself had slowed just enough to make the silence noticeable.

A quiet pause stretched between you both where his usual composure seemed to falter in the smallest, most subtle way—like a thought had surfaced too quickly for him to properly contain it, leaving him briefly caught between instinct and awareness.

His gaze remained fixed, unblinking, as if he had forgotten to redirect it elsewhere.

You noticed immediately, one brow lifting as your head tilted slightly to the side. "…What? Do I look bad?" you asked, narrowing your eyes with sudden suspicion as you studied his face more closely, as though trying to catch him in the act of something unspeakable.

Legolas blinked, straightening so quickly it almost looked like a reflex rather than a choice. His posture reset itself into perfect composure, shoulders squared, chin lifted slightly, as if he could physically force the moment to reset. "No… it is nothing."

"…You hesitated," you replied at once, eyes narrowing further as you stepped half a pace closer, clearly unconvinced.

"I did not," he answered immediately, too quickly, his gaze flicking away for a fraction of a second before returning forward as though anchoring himself.

"You literally did," you pressed, leaning in just slightly now, arms loosely crossed as your expression sharpened in challenge.

"I was merely ensuring the garments fit correctly,"

A slow, mischievous grin spread across your face at that, the kind that spelled immediate trouble. You rocked back on your heels slightly, eyes glinting with amusement. "Ohhh," you drawled, dragging the word out as if you had just uncovered something scandalous. "So you were looking."

Legolas nearly choked on air. His eyes widened a fraction before he quickly recovered, lifting a hand slightly as if to dismiss the accusation entirely. "I most certainly was not-, but you did... well.. ask me to look-"

"You totally were," you cut in smoothly, stepping forward again with growing confidence, grin widening. "Because if you weren't, that means I look bad, doesn't it?"

"I was not," he insisted again, voice a touch sharper now, though still noticeably flustered. "And no- that is not what I meant-"

You stared at him flatly for a second, letting the silence stretch just long enough for the moment to settle, before tilting your head ever so slightly. "…Legolas," you said slowly, pointing at him with quiet satisfaction. "Your ears are red."

He immediately turned away again.

Legolas had turned away so quickly after your teasing that you nearly laughed again right then and there. There was something oddly adorable about seeing the usually composed prince of Mirkwood suddenly lose every fragment of dignity over a simple comment.

Meanwhile, he stood near the carved archway pretending to admire the architecture with far too much intensity for it to be believable.

You sat cross-legged upon the edge of the bed, sleeves slightly too long over your hands as you adjusted it properly. "You know," you said casually, watching him with obvious amusement, "for someone so calm during sword fights and giant spider attacks… you panic very easily."

You tilted your head slightly, watching the way his shoulders subtly tightened at your words. "Reminds me of the days back then."

Legolas let out a quiet breath through his nose, the closest thing to a sigh he seemed willing to allow himself, his gaze still firmly fixed on the carved archway as though refusing to give your teasing the satisfaction of his attention.

Yet even from where you sat, you caught it—the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, "I do not panic."

"Mhm." You leaned back slightly on your hands, tilting your head with an amused, almost knowing look as your eyes narrowed in playful skepticism.

"I merely prefer proper manners," he added after a brief pause, his posture straightening again as if the correction itself required physical reinforcement.

"That sounds suspiciously like panic." You grinned immediately, pointing at him lightly as if presenting evidence in a case he was clearly losing.

His shoulders shifted subtly at that, a small adjustment like he was physically resisting the urge to turn back around and defend himself properly.

His jaw tightened for a second before he spoke again, voice still controlled but edged with quiet frustration. "Where you come from lacks concerning amounts of decorum."

You snorted softly at that, the sound breaking out before you could stop it as you shook your head slightly, clearly entertained. "You have no idea," you replied, lips curling into an easy grin as you watched him from where you sat, still clearly far too pleased with yourself.

At that, Legolas finally turned his head back toward you, and immediately stopped mid-motion.

His gaze landed on you properly this time, but instead of snapping away like before, it lingered. Just a second too long, then another, as though something had quietly caught his attention without him fully deciding to acknowledge it.

You noticed instantly. "…Why are you staring at me like that again?" you asked, narrowing your eyes slightly as you tilted your head, suspicious all over again.

The question seemed to pull him out of whatever thought he had drifted into. He blinked once, straightening as his composure tried to return.

Before you could continue, something in his expression shifted faintly. The teasing air seemed to fade from him as his attention sharpened instead, eyes narrowing just slightly as he focused past your words and onto something near your face.

"…Hold still," he said suddenly, voice quieter now.

You blinked in confusion, your expression slipping from playful to uncertain in an instant. "What?" you asked, sitting up a little straighter on the bed, hands pausing where they were resting against the fabric of your attire.

But before you could react properly, Legolas had already stepped closer. Far too close.

You barely even registered the movement. One moment he was still near the archway, half-lit by the lantern glow, and the next he was directly in front of you, his presence filling your space without warning.

Close enough now that the details you usually only caught from afar became impossible to ignore—the faint shift of colour within his eyes, the quiet steadiness of his breathing that never quite matched how fast your own had just become.

Up close, everything about him felt unfairly beautiful, from the pale glow of his skin beneath the silver-green light, the faint scent of cedar and rain lingering around him, to the quiet warmth hidden beneath his usually composed demeanor.

And then his hand lifted toward your face.

The motion was slow, deliberate, careful rather than sudden, but in your current state it might as well have been in slow motion. Your brain simply… stalled.

All coherent thought evaporated at once, leaving nothing but static as you tried to process what was happening and failed immediately.

Your expression froze mid-reaction, eyes widening slightly as your lips parted just a fraction.

Wait. What?

Your gaze flickered rapidly between his face and his approaching hand, panic and confusion tangling together so quickly you couldn't separate them into anything useful.

The rational part of your mind tried to speak, tried to insist there was a perfectly normal explanation for this, but it arrived far too late to matter.

No. Surely not.

That couldn't be what it looked like. Not with how close he was, not with the way he was looking at you right now—focused, unreadable, entirely too calm for whatever situation your imagination had already decided this was becoming.

Your breath hitched slightly, shoulders tensing as your body reacted before your thoughts could catch up, uncertainty written all over your face in the smallest details.

Without thinking, you instinctively leaned back slightly against the edge of the bed, your eyes squeezing shut in sheer panic.

Silence followed. Nothing happened. Slowly, you peeked one eye open.

Legolas was still standing right in front of you, hand paused mid-air as if he had simply stopped halfway through whatever he was doing.

His expression had shifted into open confusion now, brows drawing together slightly as he studied your face like you had just done something deeply unpredictable. "…What are you doing?" he asked carefully.

Heat surged into your face so fast it felt immediate and violent. Your eyes snapped fully open now, and you leaned forward slightly in sheer indignation and embarrassment.

"What are you doing?!" you whispered back at him immediately, voice hushed but frantic, horrified.

For a brief moment, Legolas just looked at you in silence, before understanding slowly flickered across his face. And to your utter devastation, amusement followed right after it. Very faint, very subtle, but definitely there.

"There was a strand of hair upon your face," he explained calmly, lowering his hand at last as if this was the most reasonable explanation in the world, his tone steady in a way that only made it worse. "I was helping you with removing it."

You stared at him, completely frozen in place, as the meaning finally settled properly in your mind. The tension in your shoulders dropped all at once, replaced instantly by a wave of embarrassment so intense it nearly made you physically recoil.

"Oh." The sound came out small, flat, and tragically late. Your gaze flickered away immediately as you lifted a hand to your face, half covering it as if that could somehow undo what had already happened. You wanted the floor to open up and take you with it. Preferably immediately.

A brief pause hung between you both, before Legolas' lips curved ever so slightly, so faintly it might have been mistaken for nothing at all if you weren't already hyper-aware of his every expression.

His head tilted a fraction as he studied you with quiet curiosity. "You believed I intended something else?" he asked, voice calm but with the smallest thread of amusement now woven through it.

His brows lifted just slightly as he waited for your answer, posture still relaxed in contrast to your complete internal collapse.

"No," you answered far too quickly, shaking your head once as your eyes darted away again, refusing to meet his gaze.

"…You closed your eyes," he continued after a beat.

"Well," you muttered, gesturing vaguely as if that explained everything, your ears visibly warm as you shifted your weight awkwardly on the bed, "with how you were acting, I panicked."

"That does not answer my question," he said immediately, entirely too composed for someone currently dismantling your dignity piece by piece.

You made a strangled sound of frustration before immediately covering your face with both hands, fingers pressing against your flushed cheeks, "Please stop speaking," you groaned into your palms, shoulders curling inward as you attempted, and failed—to disappear into yourself entirely.

A soft laugh escaped him then, quiet and warm and entirely too fond for your already struggling heart to handle properly.

Before you could recover, his hand lifted again—this time slower, gentler, giving you enough warning not to completely short-circuit again.

His fingers approached your face with careful restraint, brushing against your cheek so lightly it felt more like a suggestion than a touch. The contact was feather-soft, precise, as he gently swept the stray strand of hair away from your skin.

Your breath hitched at the sensation despite yourself, as his thumb grazed lightly along your skin before tucking the strand carefully behind your ear.

"There," he murmured softly, voice lower now, almost absent-minded in its gentleness.

The touch lingered only for a moment, yet somehow it felt unbearably intimate.

Your entire face burned immediately afterward, and judging by the faint shift in Legolas' expression, he noticed. His gaze softened visibly as he looked at you, something warm flickering behind his eyes before a quiet smile finally appeared fully across his face.

It was quiet, genuine, and dangerously fond in a way that made the air between you feel even harder to breathe in.

"You are very expressive," he said quietly, his voice calm and even, though the faint curve at the corner of his mouth betrayed that he was not entirely neutral about the observation.

His gaze lingered on you with quiet attentiveness, as if confirming his own statement in real time.

You frowned instantly despite still feeling the lingering heat in your face, brows knitting together as you looked up at him in disbelief. "…What is that supposed to mean?" you asked, tilting your head slightly, lips parting in offended confusion.

"It means," he replied after a brief pause, tone still composed but now carrying a trace of amusement he made no effort to hide anymore, "your thoughts are remarkably easy to read." His eyes flickered briefly over your expression as he spoke, as though demonstrating his point without needing further explanation.

Your jaw dropped a fraction, eyes widening in pure indignation as you leaned back slightly. "Excuse you?" you shot back immediately, personally insulted by the accusation.

Legolas tilted his head just a little then, hair shifting softly over his shoulder with the movement. The faint smile returned properly now, subtle but unmistakably entertained, as though he had found something unexpectedly enjoyable in the exchange.

"You wear every emotion plainly upon your face," he added simply, watching you with unbothered ease.

"Oh, and you don’t?" you countered at once, leaning forward slightly now, eyes narrowing as you tried to regain some ground in the conversation, your earlier embarrassment temporarily forgotten in favour of outrage.

"I do not," he answered without hesitation, posture straightening a touch as if the claim itself was a matter of fact rather than opinion.

You squinted at him immediately, suspicion written all over your face as you leaned in just a little more, studying him like you were attempting to catch him in a lie. "...Mhm. Sure."

His composure almost cracked again. Almost.

A faint shift passed through his expression, the smallest tightening at the corner of his mouth, the briefest hesitation in his eyes, like something inside him had nearly slipped before he quickly reined it back in.

For a brief moment afterward, neither of you moved away. The silence settled differently now—no longer awkward or tense in the same way as before, but heavier in a quieter, more uncertain manner.

Lanternlight trembled gently across the carved wooden walls, casting soft shifting shadows that made the entire room feel more enclosed, more intimate than it had any right to be.

Somewhere far beyond the windows, the sounds of Mirkwood continued on, distant and muffled, as though the world outside had decided not to interrupt whatever this was.

Legolas remained close, closer than necessary. Close enough that the warmth from where he had touched you still lingered faintly against your skin, faint but noticeable in the lingering space between you.

His posture was still upright, controlled, but not quite as effortless as before. There was a subtle stiffness now though, as if he had become suddenly aware of exactly how little distance remained.

His gaze, which had been steady moments ago, flickered again—quick, unintentional. It dropped downward for the briefest second before snapping away almost immediately afterward, as though he had caught himself too late.

It was a new emotion for him, or was it? Maybe he knew, understood what it had meant and felt, after all, this wasn't the first time it had happened.