deadlymistletoe

The panicked voice was silenced when you slammed your lips over his. You felt Eddie’s body stiffen - so did you. Why did you feel the need to kiss him when you could have clamped your hand over his mouth? It would have been just as effective.

But in a surprising turn of events, Eddie relaxed and melted into the kiss. The Upside Down lightning cracked across the sky in a blaze of red followed by its booming thunder and you came back to reality. You opened your eyes and pulled away, taking a step back to create some space. You knew that there was an audience a few paces away but you could barely give them a moments thought with the boy before you.

Eddie hummed. You glanced at him. He usually had more words to say. “That bad?” you asked wishing that you hadn't.

Eddie shook his head which was a relief. “I just imagined you doing that under different circumstances.” You blinked at him and he began to elaborate with nervous speed. “Like at a Hellfire campaign. I’d get too intense and you’d- you know, kiss sense into me. Sorry, I don't know why I told you that."

You leaned forward slightly - to tell him that you felt the same or to kiss him again - you weren't entirely sure. But before anything could take flight, there was a light snapping of twigs. Breaking away to look at your friends, you saw Nancy and Robin signaling that they found something while Steve approached.

"You're needed." He said simply. With some reluctance, you walked away from Eddie as Steve took his side, unsure of what he had interrupted.

"Everything okay, man?" Steve asked.

Eddie watched you join the group in front and sighed. "I've been head over heels for so long and I- I think I just confessed my feelings in a literal hellscape." He said. "That's usually a bad omen, right?"

Thunder boomed again and Steve pat his new friend on the back. "I'm sure it's fine. Let's get going."

solace • steve harrington

steve x reader / eddie x reader

around three am on the day of the funeral, you heard your door open. you hadn’t been sleeping. dustin knew you hadn’t slept in days, just like him. ever since it happened, you just lay there. blankly staring at the ceiling, numb, bitter, broken and wishing you would hurry up and wake up from this sick dream.

dustin stood at the end of your bed and you flipped on your lamp. your lost expression was mirrored on his face. you said nothing to each other, just stared, too numb to speak, too exhausted and stretched thin to cry anymore. you pulled the covers back and dustin climbed in bed beside you. this was something he hadn’t done since he was eight— after a nightmare or after watching a scary movie you had warned him not to. and then his arms were around you, curling into you and clinging onto you like he still believed you could make everything better.

the tears started again; which was odd, because you had sworn you ran out days ago. screaming and crying into your pillow until your throat bled and you were gasping for air would do that to you… make you numb. make you break completely… dustin clung to you and you clung to him, as if you were the only things keeping each other from shattering completely.

“i miss him so much…”

“i know.”

god, you knew. eddie had been your best friend long before he was your boyfriend, and now you had lost both. dustin was the only person that loved eddie even a fraction as much as you did and your heart broke even further, for him.

“i don’t want to go. i don’t think i can look at wayne again… i don’t want to think about it. i don’t want to hear any of it… i just– i just want…”

him.

you knew…

“dustin, you have to go. i can’t do it by myself. i can’t… i haven’t seen wayne since— and… fuck, i’m going to take one look at him and i’m going to come apart completely…”

you should have been there. you should have gone over to check on him more than you did… you should all be grieving together…

you shouldn’t be grieving at all.

———

one month had passed and things started to get lighter. not yet bearable. not easier. just lighter. barely. you could take deep breaths without it hurting, you could wake up in the morning without feeling like you were sinking or being pushed down into the earth…

but sometimes it would hit you.

his body had not been brought back to hawkins.

you had seen it.

dustin had seen it…

steve harrington had to pick you up and drag you away from him, while you screamed and cried and likely broke a few of steve’s ribs trying to fight him and begging him to let you go.

steve was at your house again today.

you weren’t sure why…

he had barely left you and dustin’s side. he forced you to eat, he brought things over several times a day. and eventually he was the one dragging you out of bed and making himself the target of your screams and cries and protests and a few decent punches, days you couldn’t even bring yourself to show up for dustin.

dustin was worse.

while you shut down, dustin got angry.

and angrier.

and angrier…

and today, as you stared at the letter in your hand. it was from wayne munson. the name alone had you nearly collapsing to the ground once again.

“shit—“

dustin snatched the letter from you as if that would make it so you didn’t see it.

“what does it say?”

you lay on the couch, dustin holding your hand and looking at steve expectantly.

“he hopes you’re doing okay. he really misses you… he— nothing… he just hopes you’re okay. he would love to see you…”

dustin mumbled something about a stupid question but you narrowed your eyes, “steve… what else does it say?”

steve snatched the letter away from you, “nothing else!”

dustin nearly climbed steve to snatch the letter, holding it open and staring at it with tearful eyes, “son of a bitch…”

you glanced up, stomach dropping.

“he says he has some things for you…”

“i don’t want it.”

you could never step foot in that trailer again. not without the bone crushing greeting hug that almost knocked you off your feet. not without the laughter you could hear from outside. not without the metal album’s playing so loudly that the bass vibrated the entire trailer… not without him.

“don’t say that… you’ll want it. you know you’ll want it…”

“steve, i can’t do this right now.”

“i’m never stepping foot in there again. i can’t… i don’t think i can see wayne, i–“

“i’ll go get it for you. if you want it.”

————

the bad days, you would sit in one of his old t-shirts and listen to corroded coffin and cry. the really bad days, you wouldn’t get out of bed. they would hit dustin too. he would silently come to you and sit with you, sometimes through the night and until morning. “it wouldn’t have hit you so hard,” steve had once said, “if you didn’t know and love eddie as a friend first. that if you had just been dating any guy for six months, it wouldn’t have hurt so much.”

you were starting to hate when steve was right.

———

on the most unbearable day so far, steve sat at the end of your bed, trying to get you to eat. eddie’s birthday.

“he wouldn’t want this for you.”

“steve, please—“

“he would hate this. he would hate what you’re doing to yourself in his absence…”

“go away, steve.”

but he never did.

———

on the year anniversary of when it happened, steve was there at three in the morning. you didn’t know how it happened; when exactly steve became the shoulder you cried on, or when he became the person you ran to on the worst days. you supposed that’s how grief worked, too. sneaking in slowly and taking hold. demanding to be acknowledged and eventually faced.

you couldn’t help dustin, lately. he pushed you away and got angrier, while you finally started to feel the smallest glimmers of peace. some nights still sucked. like tonight.

steve was holding you as you cried, stretched out on your bed, knowing better than to say anything but also knowing you didn’t want him to leave.

“when does it stop? i just want it all to go away…”

“no you don’t.”

“he would hate this… he would hate us. it’s been a year and— some days it feels like yesterday. and then other days… i think i’m doing better and i feel guilty and…”

you couldn’t remember the last time you had even spoken his name. you couldn’t bring yourself to. you felt too guilty, too lost, and sometimes, too okay.

“he would want this. he would want you living. he would want you happy and laughing and probably still making fun of him… he would want you to be you. the only thing he would hate, is how much losing him destroyed you. he would hate how much he meant to you… he would hate that he caused you this much pain and would tell you to—“

“stop.”

he was right.

steve was right and you hated it.

“steve, i don’t even say his name anymore…”

steve just looked at you softly, gentle, pitying eyes locked on your every word, “i know. that doesn’t mean anything—“

“what if it does? what if i’m not…grieving anymore. what if i’m moving on and— what if i forget things about him and–“

“hey. knock that off. you’re never going to forget anything about him. none of us are going to forget anything about him. he was your best friend before he was anything else.”

he was your best friend…

more than anything, eddie was your best friend.

a six month relationship meant nothing in comparison. he was still your best friend. even when he was your boyfriend, the friendship was still the center of all it.

“steve…”

you should have been sleeping… steve should have been at home. this should not have happened. but the way you said his name, the way he was looking at you… it all made you both rather delirious.

steve leaned in slowly, waiting for you to stop him. you waited for your brain to scream at you to stop— alarm bells, a twisting of the stomach, overbearing guilt… none of it came. instead, when you kissed him, you felt your chest swell. your cheeks heated up, his hand gently on your face, other hand’s fingers gently tracing up your arm.

it was soft. it was good. it was desperate…

it was nothing like kissing eddie.

and that may have been why you pulled away. that realization, that weight that settled in your chest.

“what the hell are you doing…”

your head snapped and you hadn’t even noticed your brother standing in your doorway.

“dustin—“

whatever positive feeling you had just experienced shattered with a sickening drop.

“dustin…”

he was looking at you like he had no idea who you were. like you were a stranger to him— a traitor.

“how long.”

you were moving to your feet, stumbling slightly as your hands started to shake, “no— it’s not… we never—“

dustin was shaking his head, “how could you do this… to him?”

“dustin, i’m not—“

“dustin, it wasn’t like that—“

dustin’s eyes moved to steve and for a moment you thought there would be a physical fight.

“you! i don’t want to hear any of this from you! you’ve waited for this to happen! you’ve been here almost every day just waiting! you were waiting for her to come to you and take her away from him!”

the words hit you like a slap. you physically stepped back like he had hit you. you felt tears in your eyes and now the guilt came rushing over you like it wanted you to drown.

“you don’t even say his name anymore! did you forget about him that quickly?! you found good old steve and now everything is just wonderful again for you!”

“hey—“

“how could you even say that to me?”

“how could you do this!?”

you opened your mouth to argue, to cry, to scream back but dustin was already gone. you heard angry footsteps on the stairs and the front door slam. steve was going after him. you just sat on your bed, numb, guilty, knees too weak to hold you up anymore. you collapsed forward on your bed in a fit of tears. you cried until you couldn’t breathe, until the tears were dry and all you felt was the dry stutter in your chest that longed to cry more. you heard the front door open and you sat up, wiping at your eyes and sniffling.

you nearly tripped going down the stairs, catching yourself on the banister, “dustin, i—“

you froze. it wasn’t dustin at all. it was steve… and he was alone. “steve? where is he?”

“wheeler’s.” he stepped towards you and you gasped, “what—“ this time you almost did collapse. steve had his cheek busted open and nose dripping blood, an old t-shirt shoved against it to try and stop the bleeding.

“steve—“ you rushed forward, numbness returning.

“what happe–“

“he hit me.”

your heart stopped for a moment, “what!? no— dustin, he—“

“i let him.”

your head was starting to spin. you grabbed an ice pack and held it against steve’s cheek, chewing the inside of your cheek, jaw clenching and unclenching, now feeling nothing but rage. steve’s nose stopped bleeding and you were confident the swelling wouldn’t be too permanent. “take me to mike’s.”

“um… i don’t think he wants to see—“

“steve… please… i can’t deal with this. please.”

you knocked on the door furiously, so they likely would know exactly who it was. mike opened the door a few seconds later, wide eyed, “hey,” he was still pleasant with you, at least.

“where is he?”

“dustin? he’s um…”

from behind the door, you heard a second voice, “tell her to fuck off.”

damn.

“he’s….”

“mike.” you crossed your arms, “you have always been my favorite of my brother’s friends. let me in or i’ll kick your ass.”

mike stepped aside, eyeing you like he knew you weren’t lying about either one.

“oh, you son of a—“ dustin was already turning, heading for the basement without a word or acknowledgment to you.

you grabbed the back of his shirt.

“let go of me right goddamn now—“

“don’t you fucking talk to me like that—“

“i don’t want to see you right now!”

“i don’t really want to see you either, but that’s too damn bad for both of us.”

dustin glared at you, and for a moment you believed he might actually truly hate you. “i’m not going with you.”

“okay. then i’m not leaving.”

“shouldn’t you be at home, in bed with steve?”

mike coughed, his awkward stance now almost laughable as he glanced between you two and then very quickly looked away. he muttered something before disappearing around the corner.

“oh, grow up, dustin! leave steve out of this. you have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

“grow up? you’ve forgotten all about him!”

“i could never forget about him!”

you dragged dustin outside, worried you had just woken up the entire wheeler house.

“then say his name! say his goddamn name, like you haven’t done in three months!”

you stepped back, momentarily stunned.

had it been that long? had he been keeping track?

“eddie.” and it stung.

“i will never forget about eddie. he was my best friend.”

“he was your boyfriend!”

“and i loved him. more than i’ve ever loved anyone. but—“

“no. no don’t you dare say but.”

“but— it hurts too much. living with it. going on without him… letting my every thought be of him and how much i miss him and how he isn’t here.”

“but we are.”

“yes. we are…”

“and do you have any idea how much he would hate this?”

dustin fell silent, realization almost crossing his face.

“he always said we were the best siblings he ever met… we never fought and we acted more like best friends than brother and sister. and now we don’t… everything is different between us and look what’s happened.”

“you stopped grieving.”

it was like another slap.

“i will never stop grieving.”

“you kissed steve!”

“yes! i did! and you know what, i’m not sorry about that. steve is… steve is—“

“i’m not listening to this.”

“hey! eddie told me once that if he was ever…gone… that he didn’t want me to mourn him for even a second.”

dustin just shook his head.

“it’s been a year. and it doesn’t hurt any less… he would hate this. for both of us.”

dustin just looked at you.

“you attacked steve, dustin… steve. the only person in the world that you like more than me.”

guilt crossed his face briefly.

“eddie probably would have found that funny…”

you snorted. laughing, despite yourself, “yeah, he probably would— but…”

you realized dustin was crying and whatever you had been about to say vanished. “hey…” you wanted to reach out but you didn’t want to set him off. but dustin stumbled forward, collapsing into you with his arms around you. you held him, tightly, as close as you could, while he sobbed.

he finally spoke and you choked on a sob.

King Thranduil was in the midst of negotiating a trading contract with a smaller Elvish kingdom near the Forodwaith. The emissaries hailed from a relatively obscure realm beyond those northern lines, called Nimvael, often referred to as ‘The Pale Vale,’ for it had begun to fade into subtle desolation as its resources ran dry with cold. It’s a kingdom that time and progress had seemingly left behind as Rivendell, Lothlórien, and Greenwood rose to prominence. The elves of Nimvael were outliers, if one were inclined to be polite; yet still, they were pretentious and insistent upon respect, perhaps even more so than their larger counterparts.

Their king, Lord Falivirn, sat at the long rectangular table alongside his representatives. He was facing King Thranduil, Prince Legolas, and several advisors of the Woodland Realm. Sharp, coarse voices filled the chamber as negotiations dragged on—altogether rather dull, if you asked (Y/N). Of course, no one had asked her. It was not her place to weigh in on matters of trade or diplomacy.

Her duty today was far simpler: she was one of two sentries assigned to Prince Legolas, tasked with remaining at his side like sap clinging to a wounded pine. In recent weeks, veiled threats against the Greenwood royal line had reached Thranduil’s ears, prompting the king to order constant protection for his son. It was not known if these threats came from Lord Falivirn and his men, but the Woodland King was not willing to take any chances—especially while the northerners were staying in his halls. (Y/N) had been chosen for the next rotation, and today marked her first day in the role.

The negotiations dragged on for hours, forcing (Y/N) to expend every bit of energy maintaining focus on the subtle movements of each individual and tracking anything directed toward Prince Legolas. It was not entirely difficult; she had been trained as a warrior since she was a young ellethling, and her charge was, by her own admission, easy on the eyes. Yet still, when the conversation wrapped up, at least for this meeting, (Y/N) felt a distinct sense of relief, for her eyes were burning from staring at the same surroundings for so long.

She and the other sentry, Ruthion, moved to Legolas’ side as he stood. They followed him through the vast doors, finally exiting the chamber. (Y/N) inhaled subtly, taking in the fresh air from the hall and letting her form adjust to the regular bustling of the Greenwood. Maids and servants moved quickly, weaving in and out of each other’s ways as they went upon their daily tasks, giving the Prince nods of respect as he passed by them.

Ruthion and (Y/N) continued trailing Legolas through the stone walls, and when the congestion of people lightened, Legolas spoke—the pace of his steps steady. “Ruthion, you have been by my side for the past couple of weeks. What is your opinion of Lord Falivirn?”

The sentry cleared his throat before speaking, his tone firm and stern. “He is a strong leader and a worthy ruler with whom your father may form a treaty. I believe he will bring prosperity to our kingdom through the trade of coal and other minerals that the Forodwaith holds.”

Legolas glanced over his shoulder, just for a moment, at the new elleth, before facing forward and addressing her. “And you? What are your thoughts on Lord Falivirn.”

(Y/N)’s expression held no emotion as she replied, “I believe him to be something of an arsehole, sire.”

Legolas turned his head to look at her again, his brows lifting as the faintest hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

This seemed to cause her to realize the reality of the words she had just spoken, clearly not thinking of the company she held, for her lips parted and her eyes widened.

He, however, just faced forward once more, the smirk softened into a subtle grin, not that she could see. “And your name?”

“(Y/N),” she answered with a nervous swallow.

“Your candor is noted, (Y/N). Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he replied, his tone steady despite that faint curl lingering upon his lips.

….

As the weeks passed, (Y/N) continued her role as one of the Prince’s sentries, occasionally taking on extra shifts of routine guard duty, such as watching the throne room or guarding the entryway—dispite the exhaustion the additional work caused. This evening, she was assigned the night watch over Legolas, a duty typically reserved for a single guard outside his door.

As she and Legolas approached his chambers, their arms full with scrolls, maps, and books that he had selected from the archive, he said, “Come in and place them on the table there. I wish to review them before I rest.”

(Y/N) did as he asked, setting the scrolls and maps down before moving to stand against the wall near the closed chamber door. She would remain there, silent and watchful, until the Prince dismissed her to the hall and retired for the night.

Legolas sat at the table and began to sort through the various parchments. His blue eyes briefly drifted up towards the elleth on duty. “(Y/N), you need not be so formal with me.” He nodded to the chair beside him, “Sit. Help me with these.”

Hesitantly, the sentry obeyed, a hint of nervousness in her step. She pulled the chair out beside him and began sifting through the materials. “And what shall I be looking for, My Lord?”

“(Y/N), what did I say about formality?”

She frowned, “To not be so, Sire.”

He raised his brows at her as she referred to him with a title.

She blinked before correcting herself with uncertainty. “...Legolas.”

Seemingly satisfied, he continued their previous conversation. “Look for anything concerning the lands of the Forodwaith. I have a feeling there is more to Nimvael’s pursuit of this alliance, and I question Falivirn’s motives.”

(Y/N) frowned again, “You feel as if Nimvael will not uphold their end of the bargain?”

He shook his head, “I feel as if there is more to the bargain that we do not know of.”

With that, the two elves bent over the piles of scrolls and maps before them.

….

The following morning, (Y/N) stood as still as a forest deer, blending into her surroundings. Stationed outside the throne room doors, she tracked every passerby, taking careful mental note of those requesting an audience with the king. Even so, she could not deny the weariness clinging to her mind like a heavy fog, making the task more difficult than it should have been.

She had been awake all night, poring over texts with the Prince until he finally bid her farewell, and she took up her post outside his chamber. Working today, her designated day off, would only deepen her exhaustion, especially now that she was regularly assigned as one of Legolas’ sentries. Yet, she needed the extra coin. They needed the extra coin.

And so she stood, fatigue settled deep in her bones, for those she cared for.

As she held her current post, Legolas approached, two sentries trailing in his wake—as expected. She watched him advance toward the towering doors, determination and authority evident in every step. His expression was stoic and assured—each movement measured, as though he was sure of every motion. Oh, how (Y/N) wished she possessed even a fraction of that certainty herself. With things as complicated as they were in her life, she felt as if every decision was the wrong one. Just once, she wished it could be simple, easy.

That is when Legolas’ expression shifted, ever so slightly. It was not any movement of his face, but rather his eyes. They focused on her and instantly became clouded with subtle confusion. It was as though he questioned her presence before the throne room doors, and little did she know that very thought was indeed the one claiming the corners of his mind.

Legolas knew he let his gaze linger on (Y/N) just a moment too long as she pulled open the door to the throne room for him. She had been stationed outside his chambers all night—she was not meant to be on duty today. The Greenwood Guard’s schedules were fair, carefully balanced to ensure no one was overworked, and yet he could see it: the subtle weight of exhaustion in her bearing.

Yet, before his thoughts could follow that line of questioning any further, his father’s voice echoed across the stone hall. “Ah, Legolas, what is it?”

Legolas met his father’s gaze, the blue of Thranduil’s eyes not so different from his own. “Do you have a moment of privacy, Ada (father)?”

Thranduil lifted his eyes from the scroll in his hand and studied his son. A brief, unspoken exchange passed between them before the King inclined his head and gestured to the guards, dismissing them from the room.

When the heavy doors closed once more, the soft thud of wood against stone carried an air of unease. Thranduil rose from his adorned throne and approached Legolas, concern threading his voice. “We did not lose another on patrol, did we?”

Legolas shook his head. “No, Ada (father). This concerns Lord Falivirn.”

The King’s brows lifted in question.

“I cannot say why, but something about him, and this treaty, troubles me. I fear there may be ulterior motives at play.”

Thranduil exhaled, his tone tinged with mild dismissal. “There are always ulterior motives in negotiations, Legolas.”

“The guards believe him to be an arsehole.”

The King snorted at the vulgar language before replying. “All of the guards?”

Legolas shifted his weight. “Well… no. Just one.”

Thranduil’s brows remained raised as he spoke. “Just one? A single guard with an uncourtly tongue?” He paused. “And why should this concern me? Is he a sector leader? Second in command of the greater host? Aredhel, perhaps—or Belthon?”

“One of my sentries. (Y/N).”

“Legolas, the thoughts of one female sentry hardly warrant reconsideration of my stance in matters of diplomacy—”

The Prince cut him off. “I am inclined to agree with her, Ada (father).” He hesitated, then continued, “I do not trust the people of Nimvael. My instincts tell me something is amiss.”

The King inhaled deeply before shaking his head, yielding to his son’s unspoken request. “You are free to examine it, if you must. Only do so with discretion, and do not disturb the course of the negotiations.”

“Yes, Ada (father),” Legolas stated, bowing his head.

…..

By day, the treaty negotiations dragged on. They were heated and tense, swinging between sharp disagreement and brief hard-won decisions, only to tumble back into argument again. And night after night, whenever (Y/N) was assigned to watch over the Prince, the two of them returned to their quiet ritual, heads bent over literature, studying the history of Forodwaith in a deep, focused silence.

It was one of those nights, with the moon high in the sky and the stars shimmering in its light, when (Y/N) came across something peculiar. Her soft voice broke the quiet, “I’ve found something, though I’m not quite sure what it means.”

Legolas set aside the scroll he had been poring over and leaned closer, his shoulder brushing against hers as he examined the ancient text. If anyone asked him, he would deny that that touch of skin was anything but accidental. Luckily for him, no one was asking.

(Y/N) swallowed, feeling the heat of his presence, but of course said nothing of it. “Here,” she murmured, tracing a passage with her finger. “The author warns against the depths of Forodwaith, near The Pale Vale. Nothing more than mentions of the First Age. I do not know what it signifies.”

His warm breath whispered against her neck as he spoke again. “Strange…Keep looking into it. I am rather curious.”

As the night continued, the candles dwindled, and (Y/N)’s eyes began to get heavy. She held her chin up with her hand as she continued to scan the passages; but, before long, the Sindarin and Quenya words of Greenwood’s great scholars began to blur together, slipping past her comprehension as fatigue settled over her mind. She didn’t notice as her head got lower and lower to the table. And, soon enough, she slipped into the land of dreams.

Before long, Legolas’s gaze drifted to the sentry at his side. Her head rested on her bent arm atop the table, her weary face turned toward him, and a page from the book pressed against her cheek. Her eyes were closed, lips parting just barely, and her breathing flowed in a calm, even rhythm. The light from the dimming candles reflected on her skin, accentuating the natural curves of her face and jaw. She looked so peaceful, yet so worn down.

“(Y/N),” he said, softly. Yet, she did not stir.

Legolas sighed as he reached towards her, wiping a loose strand of hair from her face. In a subtle murmur, he spoke, moreso to himself than to her. “What happens to the time when you are supposed to be resting, my tired sentry?”

With that, he rose from his chair, careful not to disturb the quiet of the room. He approached his bed and drew back the covers before turning his attention back to (Y/N).

Gently, he gathered her into his arms, her legs draped lightly over his forearm, her head resting against his chest. She did not move, not even a murmur. Her breathing was soft and steady—she was fast asleep, completely unaware of his careful embrace.

With quiet reverence, he laid her gently upon the mattress. He eased the sword and weapons belt from her waist, placing them with care on the bedside table, then he slid her boots off and set them neatly on the floor. Drawing the comforter and sheets around her, he wrapped her in a soft, protective cocoon. With this motion, a quiet, unconscious breath escaped her lips, and she sank further into the warmth and safety of his bed—utterly unaware of the careful devotion that surrounded her.

A soft smile lingered on Legolas’ lips as he looked down at her. He then moved to an armchair in the corner of the room, settling into it comfortably. His gaze fell on the woman in his bed, and he could not suppress the prideful smirk tugging at his lips. He could not explain it, but something about seeing her resting there filled him with a quiet, cheeky pride. And, with that, he let his eyelids close as he too drifted into slumber.

….

The first rays of the morning sun had begun to spill over Greenwood’s lands the next day, and Legolas rose quickly from the armchair to attend to his morning routine, occasionally glancing at the sentry sound asleep among his sheets.

When he was ready to begin his day, he walked toward the bedside, a soft, playful energy in his movements. He paused a few feet away, watching (Y/N) sleep with quiet amusement and something like fond admiration in his gaze.

Loudly, he cleared his throat.

Immediately, (Y/N)’s eyes flew open, landing on his face. It took only a moment for her to recognize him, and she scrambled from the sheets, but her escape was anything but graceful. She fumbled in the tangled bedding and tumbled onto the stone floor with a loud thud.

Her eyes focused on his sturdy leather shoes. “M—my lord! What—what are you doing in my chambers? Am I…am I late? I—I swear, it won’t happen again—”

He cleared his throat, again, amused.

Slowly, she lifted her eyes to meet his, and the reality of her surroundings finally registered. “This…this is not my room,” she stammered. “This is your room.”

He clenched his jaw; however, the corners of his mouth betrayed a faint, restrained grin. “I have many tasks to attend to today. We must make haste.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” she stammered, not picking up on his humor. She sprang to her feet and fumbled with her boots and weapons as she trailed him toward the wooden door. “I—I, um…could we…perhaps stop by my chambers for a moment? I–I’d like to make myself a bit more presentable instead of wearing…you know…yesterday’s clothing, Sire.”

He inclined his head, a hint of amusement still present in his eyes. “So long as you are swift about it.” With that, he turned the doorknob and departed, still grinning, while she hurried after him, cheeks warm and heart racing.

Luckily for her, it was still early, and the halls lay quiet, ensuring that no one was there to witness her rather unkempt appearance as she followed the Prince. Oh Valar, if anyone had seen her like this—with him—what scandalous thoughts might they entertain?!

As they entered (Y/N)’s room, she quickly pulled fresh clothing from her closet and drawers. She was rather surprised that the Prince had followed her inside, but she chose not to comment on it. Making her way to the adjoining bathing chamber, she spoke to Legolas, who was quietly examining her room, clearly trying to get a deeper sense of who she was outside of her role as a sentry.

“Feel free to sit. I’ll only be a moment.”

He only nodded as she disappeared behind the closed door.

Legolas continued to let his vision wander over the room, taking in the vast forest tapestry on the wall, the various notebooks strewn about, and the burnt-down candles that were in desperate need of replacement. Finally, his gaze fell upon the small table and chairs beside him. A pile of unopened letters lay on the smooth surface. He frowned as his eyes settled on the pale blue envelope on top. The writing was in the common tongue, and the address to (Y/N) was drawn out and scrawled, slightly crude but legible—a style uncommon in Greenwood. Curiosity begged him to reach for it, but before temptation could claim him, the door to the bathing chamber creaked open. (Y/N) emerged, dressed and refreshed, sleep gone from her eyes, and her hair neatly arranged.

“So,” she said brightly, “Where to first?”

“The Sentinel’s Hall. I have some paperwork I must review for the patrols,” he lied.

She nodded in reply, and the pair exited her room, making their way through the halls. As they neared their destination, Ruthion joined them, falling in step with (Y/N) behind Legolas.

“My apologies, my lord,” he stated. “You were not in your chambers when I arrived this morning, and it took me some time to find you.”

Legolas did not turn. “I woke early,” he replied simply.

Ruthion shot (Y/N) a brief glare, clearly annoyed that she had beaten him to their station for the day and avoided the embarrassment of being late. Little did he know of the embarrassment (Y/N) had just endured.

As they arrived at Sentinel’s Hall, (Y/N) and Ruthion took position just inside the doors, and Legolas approached the main podium.

“Bring me the records of recent patrols, guard schedules, and all recent guard requests, going back a month, both approved and denied, as well as any new ones, please,” Legolas commanded to the archivist.

The archivist nodded, gathered the material requested, and placed it in front of Legolas. The Prince began leafing through the rather large pile of papers, searching for one name, and one name only: (Y/N).

It did not take long for him to find her file, crudely clipped together. Four duty requests for additional hours of basic door duty lay at the top, each stamped with a large, scrawled “Approved,” while three additional requests for extra shifts remained unmarked, waiting for approval. Legolas’ eyes lingered on them for a moment before glancing up at the woman herself. Her eyes were trained on the exits of the Sentinel’s Hall, examining intently for any threat, clearly unaware of Legolas’ subtle observation.

What drove her to take on so much additional duty when she clearly was exhausted?

The Prince turned back to the documents before him, flipping to the final sheet in her requests. It was a request for a full week off next month—unmarked, awaiting approval.

Legolas looked up at her once again, a mixture of curiosity and puzzlement weaving through his body.

He turned back to the vast pile of papers, paging through the various patrol rosters with deliberate care, masking his true focus on (Y/N)’s assignments behind the pretense of routine work. His eyes drifted over the other names, but his thoughts remained fixed on her.

…..

That evening, (Y/N) took her place in the Greenwood dining hall, which brimmed with the liveliness of the castle’s residents—guards, servants, maids, wards, and the visiting representatives from Nimvael. The hall stretched long and lofty, its vaulted ceiling upheld by carved pillars that seemed to reach for the sky itself. Moonlight spilled softly through the tall, arched windows, bathing the floor and the long tables in a warm glow. Banners of emerald and silver, embroidered with the sigils of Greenwood, swayed faintly in the whispering draft. At the far end, the high table rose upon a raised platform, where the King, the Prince, their advisors, and distinguished guests—Lord Falivirn among them—were already seated. Their presence was both commanding and graceful, drawing the eye even amid the hum of attendants and sentries moving through the hall like a river.

(Y/N) was dining with some of her closest friends, Nessa, Anari, and Faelwyn.

“And you, (Y/N),” Nessa began, a dark-haired elleth with skin the rich hue of polished mahogany, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. “How fares life as the Prince’s sentry? I still cannot believe you were given that posting.”

(Y/N)’s cheeks warmed at once, the memories of the morning flashing far too vividly in her mind. “It was uneventful,” she said, far too quickly.

Anari’s green eyes narrowed, sharp and knowing. “Then why are your cheeks the color of winter berries?”

(Y/N) groaned, dropping her head briefly into her hands. “It truly was nothing.”

Anari leaned closer, a mischievous grin spreading across her face as she wiggled her brows. “Did things grow warm between you and the Prince?” she teased.

“No! Absolutely not,” (Y/N) blurted, her voice rising before she caught herself. She glanced about the hall, ensuring no curious ears lingered nearby, then leaned in and lowered her voice. “I just, well, I might have woken up in his bed.”

Faelwyn sputtered, nearly choking as she spat her red wine back into her cup, the ends of her long golden hair catching a splash. “You what?!” she exclaimed.

“Shhh!” (Y/N) hissed, glancing about the hall once again. “I—I do not quite know how it happened.”

At this point, all the women were leaning in.

“What do you mean you do not know how it happened?” Nessa pressed, eyes wide. “Did you—”

“No!” (Y/N) cut in quickly. “He had me assisting with research concerning the treaty. I suppose I fell asleep at the table in his chambers, and when morning came, I woke to find him standing over me… while I was tucked into his bed.”

Anari’s voice dropped to a whisper, sharp with curiosity. “Did he sleep beside you?”

“Well—no. At least, I do not think so,” (Y/N) said, her voice faltering. “That side of the bed was still made—”

Faelwyn leaned in even closer, her eyes shining with wicked delight as she interrupted, “(Y/N), you do realize what that means, don’t you? He carried you. He picked you up and placed you in his bed.”

(Y/N)’s face burned. “That does not mean anything,” she whispered fiercely. “He was only being…kind.”

“Kind?” Anari echoed, one brow arching. “Most princes do not carry their sentries to bed.”

The sentry groaned. “I really believe you are over exaggerating the meaning behind this.”

Nessa then spoke, “Well, then tell me, did he look displeased the following morning?”

All eyes focused on (Y/N). “…no,” she admitted, hesitantly.

The three women exchanged knowing looks.

“What?!” (Y/N) hissed. “Why are you all looking at me like that?”

Anari leaned back, grinning, folding her arms. “Then I fear it is already too late for you.”

“Too late?” (Y/N) questioned.

Faelwyn raised her cup in a silent toast, her eyes shimmering with glee. “Congratulations, my dear. You have been noticed.”

(Y/N) snorted, “I am not toasting to that.”

A sudden voice, low and unmistakably confident, spoke from behind her. “You're not toasting to what?”

The blood drained from (Y/N)’s face, leaving her cold all at once. Her eyes snapped to Faelwyn and Nessa across the table, both frozen mid-breath; while, beside her, Anari’s body went taut—every trace of mischief vanishing in an instant.

Prince Legolas.

(Y/N) turned her head slowly, silently praying to the valar that he had not overheard their conversation. “My lord,” she began carefully, “Is there a reason for your presence here?” She gestured toward the high table. “Shouldn’t you be seated there?”

“(Y/N),” he said mildly, “must you still insist on the formality?”

“Right, my apologies,” she hesitated, “…Legolas.”

He placed a hand upon her shoulder, and her stomach dropped at the contact.

“May I have a moment to speak with you in the hall?” he asked quietly.

She nodded at once. “Yes, of course.” She rose from the dining table and followed him, casting one last brief glance back at her friends—who, of course, were sending her unabashedly mischievous looks.

The heavy wooden doors closed behind them, and the chill of the hall rushed in, the sudden silence striking her to the bone. Anxiety continued to bubble in the sentry’s veins, claiming all of her attention. “May I ask what this is about?

Legolas lowered his voice. “Before dinner, after you were dismissed from your shift, I continued research into the Forodwaith—and I believe I uncovered something of importance. In the First Age, Forodwaith was a place where Morgoth claimed many of his servants, corrupting them.”

“Yes, this is known,” (Y/N) replied.

Legolas shook his head, indicating there was more. “I believe Nimvael was where he dwelt before claiming Mordor—where he first experimented upon Elves. The texts speak of a curse upon all who dared to dwell there, a binding evil of corruption and manipulation. It is as if the shadows of his experiments still linger.”

(Y/N) swallowed dryly. “Do you think this curse is real?”

Legolas exhaled slowly. “I do not know.”

…..

As the final treaty meeting dragged on a month later, the signings at last began. Legolas’s gaze drifted to his sentry, curious as to her thoughts on this concluding act, given their shared wariness of Nimvael. She stood motionless at her post by the door, yet upon closer inspection, that stillness was not born of discipline. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her lids fluttered, wavering between wakefulness and sleep. She was on the brink of exhaustion, weighed down by utter fatigue.

Immediately, unease settled deep in Legolas’s chest. Still, she got no rest. Whatever compelled her to forgo sleep and take on extra hours had clearly gone too far.

After the final signature was etched onto the page, Legolas stood, along with every other representative in the room. Celebratory words were exchanged among them all, yet Legolas did not revel in it. Instead, he moved towards his two sentries. As he passed by (Y/N), he subtly reached for her wrist. As he found the warmth of her skin in his own, he gave it a firm squeeze in an effort to wake her without anyone noticing she had not been fully conscious. And, it appeared to have worked, for her eyes flung open, meeting Legolas’ for just a moment. No words needed to be spoken, (Y/N) just followed him and Ruthion through the vast doors.

The day seemed to drag endlessly, much to (Y/N)’s displeasure; however, the moment the moon rose in the sky and the Prince dismissed both her and Ruthion, she headed straight for her chambers. There, she hurriedly packed a bag, stuffing it with spare clothing, her weapons, money, and whatever food she had managed to snatch from the kitchens over the past three days. She was quick to begin decorating her form with the Greenwood Guard armor and strap her various weapons to her body.

It was then that the sound of creaking wood struck her ears. Instantly, her head snapped in the direction of the door, only for her gaze to fall upon the blonde Prince.

Upon seeing her shocked expression, Legolas spoke softly, “It was not latched. I did not intend to frighten you.”

“Oh,” was her soft reply.

He stepped into the small room as he spoke again, “You're leaving.”

She did not dare look at him, focusing intently on strapping her weapons belt around her hips. “I will be back.”

“You asked for a week away,” he said. “After driving yourself past exhaustion. That concerns me.”

She frowned, briefly glancing up at him as she fumbled with the clasp. “How do you know of that, Sire?”

“You are one of my sentries, and I am the Prince. Of course, I know your schedule,” he said. “Besides, your fatigue has not escaped my attention.”

(Y/N) sighed, now working on fastening her vanbrace onto her forearm. “If you must know, I’m traveling to the market to pick up some silks for Nessa.”

Legolas lifted a brow. “Strange. Earlier, I overheard you telling her that you were scouting for rare herbs—under my orders.”

A soft curse slipped from (Y/N)’s lips as her fingers fumbled with the leather. Legolas could not tell whether the language was prompted by being caught in a lie or by the stubborn strap itself.

He stepped closer, gently taking the fastening from her hands and began securing it for her. “With armor like this,” he started quietly, “you would be traveling through the forest, where it has been struck by sickness. So tell me, what is the true reason for your leave?”

Her heart raced as she glanced up at him, aware of the warmth of his breath against her face. She forced her expression into practiced neutrality. “My business is my own.”

“(Y/N),” Legolas murmured, lifting her chin with his fingers, forcing her gaze upon his own. “Are you in trouble?”

She pulled away from him, averting her eyes. “No, of course not, my lord.”

“(Y/N),” he repeated, barely above a whisper.

She brushed past him, seizing her bag from where it rested upon the bed. “I have to go,” she said quickly. “I’m sorry.”

With that, she slipped from the room, leaving him alone amid the quiet shadows of unsurness and defeat.

….

It was just before midnight, the following day, when (Y/N) dismounted her steed in the quiet village of Ealdor. Through the gentle fall of snow, her eyes focused on the stone house on the far eastern end of the settlement, the one that she knew well. Twas simple in structure, yet it exuded a warm, inviting air. The thatched roof lent the home a snug, comforting atmosphere—one of homeliness and hospitality. A lantern glowed in the window, welcoming her arrival, and the gentle scent of chamomile tea drifted on the night air, promising the comfort she knew was there.

She approached rather quickly, eager with excitement, and tied the reins of her steed to the wooden fence post. As she raised her fist to the door, it not yet making contact, it flung open. There stood an old woman with silvery-white hair and a comforting grin upon her face.

“Elsbeth!” (Y/N) exclaimed.

“Oh, sweet, sweet (Y/N)! Come, hug your old niece! It has been far too long.”

(Y/N) wasted no time wrapping Elsbeth in her arms. “Oh, how I have missed you dearly.”

Elsbeth laughed softly. “Come, come, I have a cup of hot tea waiting for you. Aeliana and the children are asleep—let’s not wake them.”

(Y/N) and Elsbeth sat at the kitchen table, sipping the hot tea, letting its warmth chase away the chill of the winter air. They whiled away the hour in quiet conversation, speaking of the days that had passed, of small joys and burdens alike, and letting their words drift back to memories from their family line.

However, the gentle atmosphere, a hidden moment in time, was interrupted. (Y/N) turned her head as a frown crossed her face.

“What is it?” Elsbeth asked, concern sharpening her tone. “What do you hear?”

The sentry’s eyes drifted to the window, the curtains drawn, blocking her view. “Hooves. Someone is entering the village.”

Elsbeth stood, making her way to the window. “At this hour—besides you?” She pulled the curtain back, just enough to peer outside, before turning to the elleth. “It’s an elf. One of your people, I presume.”

(Y/N)’s frown deepened as she too stood. “I was followed?” She moved to the window and glanced out into the moonlight. And there he was—Prince Legolas, upon his steed and decorated in armor and weaponry.

(Y/N) rolled her eyes, and a curse slipped from her lips.

Elsbeth arched a brow, a knowing note entering her voice. “I take it you know this fellow, then—hmm?”

She only nodded in reply, watching as he dismounted and tied his steed to the post beside her own, giving her horse a gentle pat as he did so. He then made his way towards the door, and a soft, gentle knock sounded.

The old woman was quick to make her way to the door, muttering softly, “Well, seeing as he is already here…”

“Wait—“ (Y/N) protested, but it was too late.

Elsbeth pulled the door open, and before she could greet the elf upon the threshold, (Y/N) appeared at her side.

“What are you doing here?” (Y/N) demanded, her tone sharp.

The Prince’s gaze softened the moment he saw her, snowflakes clinging to the pale crown of his hair. “I was concerned about you.”

“Legolas,” she hissed, casting a quick glance toward the neighboring houses, suddenly aware of how easily the village might stir. She seized his muscled bicep and pulled him inside, Elsbeth closing the door behind them. “I told you there was no need to worry and that my business is my own.”

“You were traveling through the sick forest at night. The spiders tend to stir when they are disturbed by sound,” he replied.

“I know,” she said curtly. “I can take care of myself.”

“I know that you can.” Legolas answered evenly, “I saw the trail of corpses you left behind as I tracked you.”

“You followed me?!”

“You lied to me,” he rebutted.

“I am entitled to the privacy of my own affairs—“

Elsbeth interrupted, her tone brisk but amused. “Are the two of you going to continue to bicker in my home or, (Y/N), are you going to introduce me to this fine fellow?”

The sentry huffed, then drew a steadying breath. “Elsbeth, this is Legolas. He is—“

“I serve in the Greenwood Guard alongside (Y/N),” the Prince interjected.

The sentry shot him a sharp look, displeased both by the interruption and by the half-truth he had offered in place of his full title. He tended not to like his titles, she had observed.

“It is my pleasure to meet you,” Legolas stated, placing his hand upon his heart and extending it towards the older woman.

“Humans do not greet one another like that,” (Y/N) interjected, leaning closer to murmur the correction. “They shake hands.”

“Ahh, right,” he replied, extending his hand again, this time with casual uncertainty.

“Nonsense,” Elsbeth fussed. “Any friend of (Y/N)’s is a friend of mine.” With that, she pulled Legolas into a warm embrace, much to his surprise, his armor clanking.

“Elsbeth!” (Y/N) chided, which of course was ignored.

“Now,” the older woman said as she released him, “Would you like a cup of hot tea? It is rather cold out there with that snow falling.

Legolas smiled warmly, “That would be lovely, Elsbeth. I would gladly accept.”

As the older woman disappeared into the kitchen, (Y/N) quickly drew Legolas aside. Lowering her voice, she hissed, “Sire—the Greenwood Guard isn’t going to descend on this place searching for you, are they?”

“Of course not,” he replied calmly.

She crossed her arms, jaw tightening. “You told your father, then?”

“Well, no. I left word with Ruthion.”

“This is serious. These people—these people could get hurt if your father learns you are here.”

“(Y/N),” he began gently, glancing toward the kitchen where Elsbeth moved about. “Who are these people?”

“I—“ she began, but her words were cut short.

Elsbeth’s voice rang out from the other room, sharp and amused. “Enough of your bickering, you two. You sound like my late husband and I. Come drink your tea while it’s still hot.”

Legolas and (Y/N) exchanged a look, silently agreeing to let the disagreement settle where it was…for now.

They moved towards the table, taking seats, as Elsbeth placed two hot cups in front of them.

“Now,” Elsbeth said, “It is late and I fear I need more rest than I used to. I shall take my leave.” She placed a hand upon Legolas' shoulder. “Stay the night, deary. It is too cold out there to travel.” She motioned to the sentry. “Don’t let her force you out either. I expect to see you here in the morning.”

He smiled warmly at her, “Thank you, ma’am.”

With that, Elsbeth retired for the night, leaving the two elves alone. They sat in uneasy silence, cradling their cups as though the warmth might soothe the tension lingering between them.

It felt like an age had passed before Legolas spoke again. “(Y/N), why are you here?”

She sighed, glancing at him once before letting her gaze settle on the pale gold of the tea in her mug. “That woman….Elsbeth. I was there when she was born. She is my niece.”

She looked up then, meeting his eyes. His expression held confusion and surprise, but no hint of judgment.

“My father,” she continued softly, her voice carrying the weight of centuries, “had an affair with a human woman. They had a child—my half-sister. She chose the life of humans, remained in this village, met a man, and fell in love. Together, they had Elsbeth. Elsbeth, in turn, had a daughter of her own, and now her grandchildren walk the earth, carrying only a trace of Elvish blood. That blood is thin now—longer lives than most humans, yes, but only by a decade or so. Soon, even that gift will fade from their line.” She paused, clearing her throat. “They are the only family I have left.”

The Prince's expression softened. “And the rest of your family?” he asked gently. “What became of them?”

Her eyes darkened slightly with memory. “My father and mother were taken from me not long after my half-sister was born. Orcs.” She swallowed. “Your father… well, Greenwood, took me in, and I was brought up among the guards, learning my place, learning duty, learning our culture. And though the years have been long, I have kept watch over what little family remains to me.”

Legolas exhaled slowly, nodding. “That is why you lied. That is why you have been requesting extra shifts. For them.”

“Yes,” she replied. After a moment’s hesitation, she continued. “They need the help. The harvest this year was poor, and raiders have been taking what little they have left. The least I can do is offer a bit of extra coin when I can.”

“Why didn’t you come to me for help?” he asked, with a tone full of genuine concern.

The sentry sighed, letting her eyes settle on him. “I couldn’t have. You—you are a Prince and I am just your sentry. Besides,” she added quietly, “I know how our people speak of unions with humans—of blood that thins with time. It is not kindness that follows such whispers. I could not risk harm coming to them because of me.”

“(Y/N),” he stated softly, gently placing his hand upon her arm. “Rank does not outweigh loyalty. I would never let harm come to your family.”

She stilled at his touch, the weight of centuries of discipline warring with something far more raw, before she replied. “Thank you.”

Silence entered the conversation, just for a moment, before the Prince’s voice rang out again—this time with a hint of humor. “Well, now that I have knowledge of the humanity in your family, at least I can properly understand why you try so hard to lean into formalities and regularly fail.”

Offended, (Y/N) gasped. “I do not regularly fail!”

He grinned. “The first time we spoke you used the term ‘arsehole’ to refer to an elvish lord.”

She snorted. “It was deserved.”

Legolas chuckled lightly in reply.

They spoke until the night thinned around them, Legolas having discarded his armor from his form—placing it next to (Y/N)’s—as he settled into the homeliness of the cottage. They conversed of patrols and careful research, of tales they had never told, and of family gone and those held dear. The tension between them did not fade, but it softened, settling into something unspoken yet steady. And when the first pale light of dawn crept through the drawn curtains, it found them still awake, cups long since gone cold, the world outside unchanged—yet something between them undeniably shifted.

The household slowly began to stir. First came Aeliana, then Elsbeth, then Aeliana’s husband, Samuel, and finally the children—each bounding about with barely contained excitement at the sight of (Y/N).

The seven-year-old, Murie, was the first to reach the table, chatter spilling from her lips as fast as her little feet could carry her.

“Aunt (Y/N)!” She exclaimed, flinging herself into the sentry’s arms.

(Y/N) laughed, quickly hoisting the child into her lap. Murie immediately continued her chatter while eating the berries off (Y/N)’s plate—berries clearly from the Greenwood kitchens.

It took nearly five minutes for Murie to notice the stranger sitting at the table. Her eyes went wide. “Who are you?” she asked, barely giving him a moment to respond. “(Y/N), who is he? Is he your—your betrothed?!”

“No—no,” (Y/N) stammered, her cheeks flushing as she shot a glance at Legolas, who raised his brows smugly. “This is Legolas. A…a friend.”

Murie turned to look at the elf. “How did you get your hair like that? Did you do those braids yourself, or did your mother do them for you?”

A low chuckle left Legolas' lips. He leaned forward slightly. “I did them myself, if you must know.”

“That’s cool!” Murie replied. “Have you ever had (Y/N) do your hair? She’s really good. She did mine last year and they lasted for a week!”

Legolas raised a brow. “I have not had that honor.”

“Murie!” Aeliana called out, a hint of embarrassment on her face as she noticed the flicker of discomfort across (Y/N)’s expression. “Enough pestering our guests. Go wake your sisters and your brother.”

With that, Murie darted off.

Aeliana came to collect the now-empty plates from the table. “I apologize, Sir Legolas. She does not know much of the elvish customs.”

Legolas shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “No apology is necessary. I am rather glad to meet (Y/N)’s family.”

Aeliana smiled warmly.

“Miss Aeliana,” Legolas began again, lowering his voice slightly, “I hope I do not intrude, but (Y/N) mentioned you have had troubles with raiders.”

She shook her head. “Unfortunately, yes, we have. A man named Falivirn has been coming to confiscate the town's harvest. It has been a great strain.”

“Pardon,” (Y/N) interjected. “Did you say Falivirn?”

“Yes,” Aeliana replied. “He comes every few months with his men, all clad in heavy armor, helmets drawn low, threatening our children if we do not give him what he demands. We are few and they are strong—we have no choice but to comply.” She looked down, and her voice became low and fearful. “If they stick to their regular schedule, they should be coming any day now.”

Instantly, the Prince and Sentry exchanged a look—Lord Falivirn of Nimvael.

However, before the conversation could continue, more small feet came skittering into the room, voices chanting, “Aunt (Y/N)!”

….

As the sun drew higher, the children went out to play in the snow, leaving the adults inside the cozy cottage. Legolas watched as his sentry interacted with her family. He saw the light breathed back into her—the joy, the peace, and the freedom of strict custom. Yet still, the dark circles under her eyes grew more prominent with every moment.

“(Y/N),” Legolas began softly. “When was the last time you slept?”

It was then that all eyes drifted to her face—examining her.

“Deary me,” Elsbeth stated. “By the gods, he’s right. You look terrible.”

“Mother!” Aeliana gawked at her words.

(Y/N) only laughed, shaking her head. “I suppose it has been a couple days…”

“That will not do,” the old woman replied. “Go rest by the fire. There are warm blankets over there. We will keep the children from waking you for some time.

The sentry glanced at Legolas, uncertain, but his stern expression left no room for argument. With a resigned sigh, she made her way to the flickering flames. A large fur rug lay spread before the hearth, and she tugged a nearby blanket from a chair, wrapping it around herself as she settled on her side, facing the fire. Her heavy eyes soon closed, and within moments, she was fast asleep.

Elsbeth busied herself with the household, sending Samuel to chop more wood for the fire and Aeliana to keep an eye on the carefree children. The older woman turned her attention to supper, gathering potatoes, carrots, and onions from baskets on the counter and beginning to prepare a meal.

“Elsbeth, may I be of some use to you?” he asked. “I fear I do not do well with idle time.”

“Well, I never turn down a helping hand.” She gestured to the vegetables. “Chop those for the stew while I prepare the rabbit hide.”

The Prince nodded, taking the knife in hand and beginning to follow her instructions. Even as he worked, his gaze continued to drift to the sleeping elleth, quietly ensuring she was safe and could obtain the rest she so desperately needed.

“Ahh,” Elsbeth stated, observing this. “That is a look I recognize all too well.”

Legolas turned his attention to her, slightly startled. “Pardon?”

“The way you look at her,” she replied casually while rubbing herbs upon the meat. “Tis’ the way Samuel looks at Aeliana and the way my husband had looked at me.”

The elf’s cheeks flushed slightly, “I–I fear I do not know of what you speak–”

She rolled her eyes. “I may be younger than you, dear elf, but I am not an idiot. By the gods—you followed her here!”

Legolas blinked at her unflinching directness, reminding him of that boldness (Y/N) carried on her tongue. His blue eyes flicked to the woman curled up in the soft furs, then back to the root vegetables he was slicing. He let out a slow, measured breath. “Is it that obvious?” he questioned, almost sheepishly.

Elsbeth chuckled, “I’m afraid so.”

Legolas’ hand paused mid-chop, the knife hovering over the root vegetables. “I…did not intend for it to be noticed by any,” he admitted quietly, his voice low.

She rolled her eyes with humor hinting in her tone. “You elven warrior types—always thinking your thoughts are as hidden as the stars at noon.” Her tone then shifted, falling back into a gentle, serious manner. “Intentions often matter little when hearts are involved, Sir Legolas. But worry not—she is cleverer than most, yet even cleverness does not mask what burns so plainly in your eyes…and hers.”

Legolas felt heat rise to his cheeks, and for a moment, the weight of the world—the coming battles, the brewing evils, the political schemes—seemed to slip away. His eyes moved toward the hearth once more, where (Y/N) slept, the soft rise and fall of her chest tugging at something deep inside him.

“Take care of her, boy,” Elsbeth said, her voice gentle. “She is more precious than you know. She’s watched over us all these years, and I do what I can to aid her—giving her some comfort in this lonely world. But, I will not be here forever.” She paused, meeting eyes with Legolas. ”Guard her well. Do not be afraid to let her see you, fully. That look in your eyes—it will not remain hidden forever, if a part of her doesn't already see it.”

“I will protect her with my life,” he replied, sternly and full of commitment.

….

The night had settled in the sky, like a dark blanket of wood. Moonlight reflected off the snow, casting a cool, lantern-like glow across the land. Peace filled the cottage as the stew, slow-simmered for hours, was ladled out and served to each of them. It was peaceful and comforting.

Legolas carried a bowl to (Y/N) and set it on the small side table near the hearth. He crouched beside her, resting a careful hand on her shoulder, and spoke her name softly, his thumb tracing slow, reassuring circles.

She blinked awake, eyes heavy with sleep.

“You must eat,” he murmured. “It will help restore your strength.”

She pushed herself upright, rolling her eyes faintly. “I am not ill. I have not lost my strength.”

He placed the bowl and spoon into her hands anyway. “Exhaustion can rob even the strongest of us,” he said gently. “And you are exhausted.”

She huffed but did not argue further, lifting a spoonful and savoring the warmth of the stew.

As the night deepened, so too did the stillness of the room; the group gathered close around the fire. The elves shared tales of their travels and their people—of high mountains and winding rivers, of the golden light of Lothlórien, the quiet grace of Rivendell, of the plains of Rohan, and the white stone of Gondor. The children listened with wide eyes and hushed breaths, brimming with awe and gratitude for every word.

Before long, the humans retired for the night, leaving the hearth to (Y/N) and Legolas. Blankets were laid out in abundance, and the fire burned low and warm—the coals brimming with a deep orange color. The pair remained seated beside one another, shoulder to shoulder, the blankets drawn loosely around them as the flames flickered on in comfortable silence.

“Legolas,” (Y/N) began. “What are we going to do about Lord Falivirn.”

The Prince shrugged. “Intimidate him, turn him away, send him running with his tail between his legs.”

The sentry frowned. “How? It’s just the two of us.”

“He does not yet know we are here,” Legolas replied evenly. “Nor will he expect resistance. I can threaten him with the Greenwood Guard—let him believe my father’s forces are already moving.”

“But the treaty—”

Legolas shook his head. “It is null and void. This village lies within my father’s lands. Falivirn has been pillaging Greenwood and threatening its people. By his own actions, he has broken it.”

“Even though they are human?” (Y/N) asked.

His gaze settled firmly on her. “Yes.”

She drew her knees to her chest, eye gaze focused on the fire before her. “I still do not fully understand. How did elves become this harsh? We are above this—above raiding and terrorizing human villages.”

Legolas sighed. “I believe it began with the poisoning of Forodwaith. If that was where Morgoth committed his greatest acts of desecration, then the corruption and the curse make sense. The land itself was twisted with poison and all who draw their lives from it suffer the stain.”

“I suppose that makes sense. It is rather unnerving to see how his power still funnels through the lands of Arda.”

Legolas turned his head towards her. “Shadow does not mean the absence of light,” he said softly.

Her eyes met his, and their faces were close—lips only inches away from each other. (Y/N) could feel his breath extending towards her own as if the air itself was begging her to come closer—to intertwine with her own.

(Y/N) abruptly pulled away, clearing her throat. “We–we should rest. We do not know when the kin of the Pale Vale may arrive.”

“Right, yes,” Legolas uttered, awkwardly.

The two then began pulling at the blankets, desperately trying to place a level of distance between them. They set up makeshift beds one right beside the other and lay down upon them, their backs turned to each other, yet their hearts pounding. The fire crackled softly behind them, embers shifting and sighing as though the hearth itself were unwilling to rest due to the elves’ tension. Still, the cottage settled into its nighttime sounds—the wind brushing against the walls, the distant creak of timber, the faint breath of those sleeping beyond the room.

Soon enough, (Y/N)’s breathing evened, slow and steady, and the tension in her shoulders eased as sleep finally took her. Legolas, however, lay rigid upon the furs. He was unable to get comfortable, finally resorting to lying on his back and studying the darkened wood of the rafters above. He could feel (Y/N)’s presence beside him. He could hear each soft exhale, and it unsettled him far more than any battlefield ever had, for it felt incomplete and alone.

He turned his head slightly, just enough to confirm what he already knew—that she slept facing away from him. Her form was curled inward as though she was guarding herself and begging for warmth.

The sight tugged at something deep within his chest. The very thing that had held his heart in a cage for months now—the careful restraint demanded of a prince. He had followed her here under the guise of duty, yet the truth lay bare in the quiet of stillness of his mind: duty had merely given his heart permission to act, and now he just needed to do that very thing—act.

Legolas was unsure how long he spent in the corners of his mind, debating and unsure, but long enough it seemed for (Y/N) to stir ever so slightly. A small sound escaped her lips, a deep breath and exhale. She then shifted—closer to him. Clearly, she was unaware that the space between them had narrowed to almost nothing.

The Prince froze.

She shifted again, this time turning onto her other side. However, due to their proximity, she rolled toward him—and straight into his side—her face settling into the crook of his neck. In her unconscious state, she inhaled deeply before snuggling in. Content.

He could not help himself—not now, not with her already there. Legolas drew his arms around her, careful and reverent. Though he knew he ought not to, he could not resist leaning closer and pressing a quiet, tender kiss to her forehead. He then allowed himself to savor that simple closeness—the quiet comfort of another body, of the one who had claimed his curiosity for oh so long.

…..

The two elves, still loosely entwined in sleep, were startled awake by a small hand shaking (Y/N) desperately.

“Aunt (Y/N)!” Murie cried, tears running down her cheeks.

(Y/N) sat upright at once, Legolas’ arms falling away from her body as she turned fully to the child. “Murie? What is it? What is wrong?”

Legolas rose as well, concern knitting in his brows as he watched the girl tremble.

“I know I shouldn’t have—I know I’m not supposed to,” Murie sobbed, her words tumbling over one another. “But I wanted to see the snow at sunrise.”

“Sweetheart, what do you mean?” (Y/N) questioned softly, rubbing Murie’s back.

“I–I went outside…in the forest a–and I saw them.”

“Who did you see, Murie?” Legolas asked, leaning forward, his chest pressing firmly against (Y/N)’s back.

“The raiders,” she whispered.

(Y/N)’s heart dropped hard in her chest, but she forced her expression to remain calm for the child’s sake. She cupped Murie’s face gently. “You did the right thing by telling us. Now go—wake your parents and your grandmother.”

She nodded and rushed off, tears still streaming down her face.

Without a word exchanged, both the Prince and the sentry sprang from the bedding and moved toward where their armor lay discarded from the night before. With practiced precision, muscle memory guiding each motion, they began to clad themselves in the finely worked metals of Greenwood. Breastplates were secured, pauldrons set into place, and vambraces tightened around forearms. Weapons were strapped on last, each familiar weight settling against their bodies.

As they prepared, the rest of (Y/N)’s family emerged, their faces etched with fear and unease at the news—and at the sight of the two warriors clad in gleaming battle gear.

“You all will stay back,” (Y/N) instructed firmly, “while we handle this.”

“Aunt (Y/N),” Aeliana said, concern lacing her voice, “I know you two are elves, but there are so many of them, and they are so strong.”

“We are their match,” Legolas replied steadily. “Falivirn and his men are elven, but corrupted by Morgoth’s curse. Their strength is twisted, not true.”

“I–I dont understand–” Aeliana began.

The sentry interrupted her. “You don’t need to understand. We will make sure you stay safe.”

The sound of hooves thundered through the village as the two elves moved swiftly from the cottage into the courtyard at its center, their boots sinking slightly into the snow but standing firm.

(Y/N) felt the village stir in panic—doors creaked open and villagers peered out, uncertain and frightened at the sight of two Greenwood elves standing ready to defend them. Her own family stood at the doorway of their home, eyes wide, their attention fixed entirely on her.

(Y/N) drew her bow, notching an arrow as the raiders halted at the sight of Greenwood’s warriors.

“Well, well,” Lord Falivirn said, removing his helmet to reveal pointed ears and a sharp, cruel face—one that spent the last couple of months in their halls. “What do we have here? Prince Legolas and one of his guards?”

Whispers rippled through the gathered townsfolk, hushed murmurs carrying from door to door. The sentry felt her stomach tighten—she knew her family had not missed the title spoken before Legolas’ name. Prince. There would be questions later…many of them.

Legolas remained perfectly still, his expression looked as if it was carved from ice. “One wrong move,” he said evenly, “and my so-called ‘guard’ will put an arrow straight between your eyes.”

Falivirn laughed, low and mocking, as he dismounted his steed and stood before them. “I doubt it would ever meet its mark.”

“She’s a good shot,” Legolas replied without hesitation, his voice calm but unyielding. “She does not miss.”

(Y/N)’s grip tightened on the bowstring, the tension building beneath her fingers. The arrow remained trained on Falivirn’s face, unwavering and steady. Around them, the village held its breath, caught between fear and the fragile hope that Greenwood now stood at their doorstep.

“There are only a few ways this ends, Falivirn,” Legolas began, his tone almost casual yet brimming with authority. “You and your men may choose to fight us, and you will lose several of them in the attempt. If I die here, the full weight of Greenwood’s army will descend upon you. If I live—” He tilted his head slightly. “—the full weight of Greenwood’s army will descend upon you all the same. Either way, your forces would be eradicated, and your stronghold in Nimvael reduced to ash.”

He paused, letting the threat settle into the cold air.

“Or,” Legolas continued, “You turn away now. You return to the Forodwaith and remain there in exile—no trade, no passage, no claim south of the border. Our treaty is null and void by your own violations. This village lies within Greenwood’s lands, and it is under our protection.”

A hush fell over the square, the only sound the faint creak of armor and the restless snort of horses.

Falivirn’s smile thinned. His gaze flicked to the arrow aimed squarely at his brow, then to the elves standing unyieldingly before him. “Bold words,” he scoffed. “For two.”

Legolas did not move. “You mistake boldness for certainty.”

(Y/N) then spoke, “You know who we are. You know what Greenwood will do if you test us.”

Falivirn’s eyes narrowed. He glanced behind him, to his men—raiders hardened by cruelty and fear, yet now shifting uneasily beneath the weight of an unseen army promising their demise. They had expected frightened villagers. Not a prince. Not Greenwood.

“So what will it be, Falivirn? Will you risk your people for a few extra bags of grain?”

Falivirn’s jaw clenched. For a moment, it seemed he might give the order anyway—out of spite and anger alone. But then his gaze returned to (Y/N) and to the arrow still trained unwaveringly on him, and something flickered in his eyes: self-doubt.

Slowly, deliberately, he lifted one hand. “Stand down,” he barked to his men.

A murmur rippled through the raiders, but another sharp gesture silenced them. Falivirn replaced his helmet, his movements stiff with restrained fury. “This is not finished,” he warned. “The Forodwaith does not forget. You may win this one, Prince. Yet this is not over. I will separate your head from your shoulders if we ever meet on the battlefield.”

Legolas smirked, “You are welcome to try, but I fear it would mean your end. I have been trained to kill since birth.”

The Lord of Nimvael glared at the Prince of the Woodland Realm. He then tugged on the reins of his steed and wheeled around. One by one, his men followed, hooves churning up snow as they retreated from the village—their reign of terror leaving with them.

Around them, the village stirred—whispers swelling into cautious relief. Doors opened wider. People stepped forward, eyes fixed on the two elves who had stood between them and ruin.

(Y/N) lowered her arrow, placing it back in her quiver, as she took a couple of steps forward, closer to Legolas.

“You were right,” Legolas said, his eyes still following the raiders as they retreated.

“Right about what?”

He turned to her, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips. “He is something of an arsehole.”

(Y/N) laughed aloud, the sound bright and freeing, like sunlight cutting through shadow. Seeing her like this, Legolas stepped closer. Now or never. He reached for her waist, drawing her flush against him, and pressed his lips to hers—letting their breath finally become one.

Cheers and clapping erupted from the villagers around them.

(Y/N) responded without hesitation, dropping her bow and letting her hands trace up his muscled biceps and slide around his neck until her fingers tangled in his hair.

From somewhere nearby, Murie’s small, excited voice rang out: “Mama! Does this mean we’re now Greenwood Royalty?”

Legolas and (Y/N) broke for just a moment, grinning into each other’s eyes before their laughter melted back into another tender kiss, letting their mouths move together once again in hope.

….

Taglist in the comments because there are too many of you <3