summary: You are heir to Dorwinion’s wine trade and the one keeping its ports, vineyards, and alliances from collapsing under accusation and ash. When Legolas of the Woodland Realm arrives to inspect Dorwinion’s trade, every decision becomes a risk and every truth carries a cost. Between councils, wine, masquerades, and a market on the brink, rivalry sharpens into reluctant trust—and the cost of honesty grows too high.
pairing: [legolas x reader] (no use of y/n)
wc: estimated 50k
content: extremely slow burn, vaguely dune inspired politics, angst, fluff, light smut, enemies to lovers and back again, rhûn worldbuilding, fourth age, fem!reader
coming this fall/winter
⤷ chapter masterlist below
chapter i ★ ao3 link
chapter ii ★ ao3 link
chapter iii ★ ao3 link
chapter iv ★ ao3 link
chapter v ★ ao3 link
chapter vi ★ ao3 link
chapter vii ★ ao3 link
chapter viii ★ ao3 link
chapter ix ★ ao3 link
chapter x ★ ao3 link
chapter xi ★ ao3 link
chapter xii ★ ao3 link
chapter xiii ★ ao3 link
chapter xiv ★ ao3 link
chapter xv ★ ao3 link
taglist: please turn on notifs for this blog, as it is only for this fic and anything related to it, or ask me directly.
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hi guys!! it’s been a while. my passion for writing is coming back slowly, sorry for the long absence and fic hiatus. rest assured dorwinion red continues!
however, i really want to …well, rewrite quite a bit of it. the story is still largely the same and would go according to my outline that i’ve dusted off, but i am no longer happy with the quality of my writing at that time. at least some of the later chapters. would yall kill me if i just.. redid some of them real quick before continuing with the rest of the chapters??😭😭
content rating: G, fem reader, fourth age, enemies to lovers, slow burn
w/c: 3.1k
summary: You are heir to Dorwinion’s wine trade and the one keeping its ports, vineyards, and alliances from collapsing under accusation and ash. When Legolas of the Woodland Realm arrives to inspect Dorwinion’s trade, every decision becomes a risk and every truth carries a cost. Between councils, wine, masquerades, and a market on the brink, rivalry sharpens into reluctant trust—and the cost of honesty grows too high.
a/n: you guys have no idea how long this chapter has been sitting in my drafts like i have been WAITING to drop this on y'all. like actually gnawing at the bars of my enclosure. alexa play enchanted by taylor swift
read on ao3 or below the cut
Lantern lines sway over the street. Someone curses softly when a hook slips from a holding. A cooper drags a Varinel barrel into position with a low grunt, wipes his brow, then checks the hoop again.
Citrus peel has been scattered over the paved stones. The air smells sharp and clean over the deeper sweetness of grape skins crushed somewhere out of sight, and the ever-present salt air of the sea like a permanent undercurrent.
You step into the lower street. People move around you – nods, brief bows, then back to their work.
At the crossing near the old fountain, you nearly collide with him.
Legolas has a small boy balanced on a crate, steadying a lantern pole while the child fumbled with twine above his head.
“Tie it tighter,” he says mildly.
The boy does. The knot holds. Legolas steps back just as you approach.
“You’re in my way,” you say.
“That seems unlikely,” he replies. There’s the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth.
The street is narrower than it looks from the balconies. A cart rattles past between you. You shift to avoid it; your sleeve catches against his cuff. Neither of you comments. He does not fix it.
“You are not at the courtyard,” he says.
“Neither are you.”
“I was instructed not to interfere.”
“And are you?”
“I am observing.”
You glance at him. “That sounds suspiciously like interfering.”
He huffs a laugh.
A musician strikes a testing note from somewhere ahead. It wobbles before steadying. He looks down the street; at the banners being shaken loose, at the tables being aligned.
You continue down the street side by side.
“Do you have any festivals in the Woodland Realm?”
He glances at you. “We do.”
He steps around someone in the street, carrying a large basket of freshly-picked grapes.
“We call it Mereth Nuin Giliath,” he says. “The Feast of Starlight.”
You consider it for a moment. “And what do you celebrate?”
“The stars,” he replies, looking up as if out of habit. The setting sun of Dorwinion meets his eyes instead. “There is no light more precious to us than that.” He looks back at you.
You hum in response.
“This is the first time I have missed it since returning home.”
Your gaze meets his. Since the War ended he means, decades before your time. There’s a distance in his gaze you cannot place; things he remembers that you do not wish to bring up for him again. Perhaps someday he will share, should he choose to.
Someday.
When did you start to think of someday?
You clear your throat. “I hope that this can be of some comfort to you then,” you say quietly.
He smiles, more free this time. “It is already.”
A woman is threading glass beads at a stall up ahead, red and silver beads catching light in small, imperfect flashes. You slow without meaning to.
He notices. Of course he does. You stop at the stall.
The woman behind it doesn’t bow. She just lifts one brow and keeps threading.
“River-glass,” she says. “From the bend past the lower quay. Broken bottles from last year’s press.”
You pick up a bead. It’s cool in your palm, imperfect – clouded in the center, one side slightly flatter than the other.
“It wasn’t always glass,” you say to him. “Before the floor year, we used carved stones from the river for festival tokens. People wore them on different colour cords. To show which house they belonged to.”
“And after?” he asks.
“After the river broke the presses and washed half the stores into the sea, we stopped marking houses.” You roll the bead between your fingers. “The first festival after that, everyone wore the same cord.”
The woman ties off a finished string and sets it aside.
“You’re not buying it,” she says to you bluntly.
You open your mouth to answer – but he’s already reaching for a coin.
“That seems unnecessary,” you say under your breath.
He looks down at the silvery white bead in your palm. “It looks like starlight.”
You pause.
“Think of it as my way to celebrate the harvest,” he says.
He hands the coin over. The woman loops a wine red cord through the bead and places it in his hand.
He holds it out to you. You hesitate a fraction too long before taking it.
You feel your cheeks heat a little as you tuck the cord into your sleeve, the cool bead pressing against your skin.
The street grows louder ahead – drums being tested, a cork popping too early, laughter that carries through the air.
“You have attended every festival?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“As host?”
“Since I was twenty.”
“And before that?”
“As distraction.”
That pulls his attention back to you.
“My father believes that public joy could calm private unrest,” you say. “He would walk these same streets before noon, count how many lanterns were hung straight. If they weren’t, he’d make someone redo them.”
“And did it work?”
“Sometimes.”
You gesture towards a pair of workers arguing quietly over banner placement.
“As you can see,” you say, “that habit never left.”
He watches the men adjust the fabric, step back, and adjust again.
“It seems our fathers have much in common,” he says.
You look at the square ahead – at the barrels staged in sunlight, at the musicians settling into place, at the people pretending not to glance your way.
“Perhaps so,” you say.
He walks a half-step closer when the street narrows again. Close enough that you feel the warmth of him through the thin space between sleeves.
A group of elders near an ornate fountain nod as you pass. Their gaze shifts to him briefly, measuring and calculating. He notices.
“So this is what you are defending,” he says quietly.
“Yes.” It is the simplest answer you’ve given him in weeks. For once, it does not feel like withholding.
The courtyard is fuller than the streets. Tables have been drawn into a loose square beneath the lantern lights. Barrels stand upright at the center, hoops polished, taps sealed. Velvet cloths have been thrown over smaller casks meant for display rather than pouring. Some has arranged late grapes in shallow trays along the edges of the tables, their skins dark and taut in the sun.
Velon stands near the main barrel, speaking quietly with a merchant from Rohan. Lereth lingers little further back, not isolated, not central – perfectly positioned to see everything without seeming to try. Taryn examines a brass goblet, lantern reflections gleaming in the light.
When you enter the courtyard, conversation shifts by a degree. Legolas steps aside half a pace as you move forward, letting you take the space.
Velon spots you first.
“My lady,” he says evenly. “We are nearly prepared.”
“Good,” you breathe.
Across the courtyard, Magistrate Calion inspects the rim of one of the barrels without touching it. Eadric stands beside some of Rohan’s representatives, accepting a cup from a steward, looking at it thoughtfully, though nothing has yet been officially opened.
The musicians settle into positions beneath an archway covered in vines, grapes hanging down dark and large. A low string hum begins, setting an atmosphere.
You move towards the central cask. Legolas follows a pace behind.
A steward steps forward with a small hammer. He waits for your signal.
You glance at Velon, standing across from you.
Once at the gathered delegates.
Then, briefly, at Legolas. He inclines his head. Not in command, or reassurance; in acknowledgement.
You lift your hand and the steward strikes the tap. The sound carries sharper than expected in the open air. A murmur ripples outward.
The first stream of wine spills into a waiting cup, deep red catching the light. A servant brings the cup to you. All movement in the courtyard tightens.
You lift it. The scent rises first — dark fruit, oak, steady notes beneath.
You taste.
It is exquisite.
You lower the cup.
You nod once. “It is sound,” you say. A breath releases from somewhere in the gathered crowd.
Legolas steps forward next, as agreed. You hand him the cup, willing your hands not to shake. Willing your face to not give away the seed of fear. There is a brief, subtle shift in the courtyard; people watching him more closely than they watched you. More scrutiny.
He tastes.
His expression does not change much; but he gives one small nod. Mostly to you.
“It is sound,” he echoes.
That second confirmation lands differently. The courtyard relaxes by degrees.
Conversation begins to rebuild. Cups are passed. Merchants lean in to smell and taste for themselves. Dale murmurs approval; Rohan nods with visible relief. Calion gives nothing away — but does not object.
You step aside to allow a steward through. Legolas shifts at the same moment. Your sleeve catches briefly on his cuff. He frees the fabric without looking down, continuing his conversation with another elf from his envoy.
Across the courtyard, two Velon cousins pause mid-conversation, looking at your sleeve. One leans slightly towards the other. Their gaze lingers a fraction too long before looking away.
Cups continue to circulate quickly once the first ones dry up.
Dale’s merchant tastes again, slower this time. “It has not thinned,” he says, almost to himself. “Not like the rumors suggested.”
“It was never cut,” Velon replies evenly.
The merchant nods, non-committal, but he does not argue.
One of the Rohan envoys lifts his cup towards you. “If this holds across shipment,” he says, “the Tharlond route can resume soon.”
“Partially,” Legolas reminds him.
“Partially,” the envoy agrees. The word sounds less threatening now.
Calion tastes with careful neutrality. He does not praise, but neither does he object.
“You understand,” he says, voice measured, “this will not close the audit.”
“Gondor will authorize limited renewal,” he says at last. “Short term. Under supervision.”
You let a small breath free. Velon hears it too. You see the small glint of relief in his eyes, disguised as composure.
“Dorwinion appreciates reason,” he says.
Across the courtyard, Lereth lifts a cup and inclines it slightly in your direction.
Merchants begin peaking in lower practical tones. Volume numbers, Shipment dates. Insurance fees. A scribe is already taking notes at the edge of the table. The musicians shift into something livelier.
You feel it before you allow yourself to name it; this worked. Not perfectly, but enough.
The last few weeks – smoke, accusation, riots – feel further away as the sun dips beyond the horizon, and the courtyard glows a warm orange in the lantern light.
Legolas appears beside you again.
“They will reopen,” he says quietly.
‘Yes.”
“For now.”
“For now,” you echo. A steward presses another cup into your hand before you can decline. The second sip tastes warmer than the first.
You realize your shoulders have lowered. Legolas notices too.
“You are less guarded,” he observes.
“Don’t ruin it,” you say.
There’s a flicker of something warmer in his expression this time. “I would not.”
You hadn’t realized how loud silence had been these past few weeks until it lifts. The courtyard sounds like trade again.
Behind a cluster of merchants, you notice Lereth, angled between a representative from Dale and a broad-shouldered envoy from Erebor.
Lereth says something you cannot hear. The Dale man nods slowly. The dwarf does not, only watching.
When Lereth glances up, his gaze passes briefly over you and Legolas standing side by side. Just a fraction too long, then back to their conversation.
You wait to leave until the tasting concludes, until the murmurs settle into something like approval, until the servants begin clearing cups and the musicians shift into something lighter. You wait until Dorwinion is visibly, undeniably fine. Then you slip away.
The corridor you choose is narrow and cool, stone holding the day’s heat through memory. The sounds of the festival dull quickly here, replaced by water moving through channels beneath floors, and the soft clink of glass being carried away.
You rest your hand against the wall and breathe. For the first time in weeks, your chest doesn’t feel tight.
Footsteps approach, unhurried. You don’t turn. You know who it is by the way the air seems to change around him.
“Everyone is sold,” Legolas says behind you.
“For tonight,” you respond.
He comes to stand beside you, close enough that your arms brush. Close enough to share the quiet.
“They tasted confidence,” he continues. “They recognised it.”
You let out a small, tired laugh. “They recognised reassurance.”
“That is not nothing.”
You hum in agreement. “It’s just not the truth.”
He studies your profile, eyes tracing the faint line of strain you haven’t bothered to hide. “You did well.”
“So did you,” you say. “You gave them permission to trust what they were already inclined to enjoy.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “I did not falsify my judgement."
“I know.”
And that’s the thing. That has always been the thing with him.
You push away from the wall and begin walking again, deeper into the quieter spine of the manor. He follows without comment. No one stops you.
You end up on a small terrace overlooking the inner channel, lantern light catching on the water and breaking into gold and orange. Below you, the festival continues, music drifting in. For a while, neither of you speaks.
“I thought I would finally feel triumphant,” you admit at last. “Or vindicated. Or at least relieved.”
“And you do not.”
“I feel…barely held together,” you say. “By a thread I didn’t know was there.”
He nods slowly. “That is what success often feels like.”
You turn to him then, really look at him. At the steadiness. At the quiet satisfaction he doesn’t let himself acknowledge. At his ocean gaze looking right at you.
“They listened to you,” you say. “Because you still believe this can be done cleanly.”
“Yes.”
“And if it can’t?”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Then I will have to answer for that.”
Something in your chest shifts.
“That’s a heavier price than most people are willing to pay,” you say.
“I was not asked to be most people.”
You laugh softly. “No. You were not.”
For the first time since Pelargir, since the council, since the fire, you allow yourself to lean against the railing and simply exist in the moment as it is.
“Thank you,” you say, and you do not specify for what. You do not have to.
He inclines his head, just slightly. “It was…appropriate.”
You smile at that. “You don’t have to make everything procedural.”
He considers you for a beat, then allows himself the smallest concession; an easy smile. “Old habits.”
For the space of a breath the world seems willing to let you rest.
The music shifts below you.
A new rhythm carrying down the corridors, strings warming into something slower, more deliberate. Laughter follows it, softened now by wine and relief, by the belief that the worst has passed.
Lantern light drifts across the terrace in lazy pulses as people move beyond the arches, silhouettes crossing and flickering like reflections on water.
Legolas glances back once, towards the sound.
“They will be looking for you,” he says.
“Not yet,” you reply.
He studies you for a moment, as if deliberating something. Then he turns back to you instead of the door. The choice is small.
You don’t plan it.
If you had, you would have talked yourself out of it. You would have listed reasons. Consequences. Timing. You are very good at not acting on impulse.
Instead, for once, you choose to be reckless.
You step closer, close enough now that the warmth of him feels undeniable, real. Close enough that the space between you stops being neutral.
He stills.
“This doesn’t fix anything,” you say quietly.
“I know,” he answers, just as softly.
Your hand comes to rest against his chest, more grounding than intent, as if you need to confirm that he is here. That this moment exists.
His breath catches, barely.
“You do not owe me—”
You cut him off by leaning in.
The kiss is unhurried. As if both of you have already decided this is allowed, even if nothing else is. His hand comes up to your waist, not pulling, just anchoring the contact steady and sure. The other cups your face, fingers threading lightly into your hair.
For a heartbeat, the world narrows to this point of contact – warmth, relief, peace. The quiet astonishment of choosing something for yourselves.
When you part, it’s only by a hair’s breadth.
He rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed. “This,” he says softly, “will complicate matters.” You feel his breath fan across your lashes.
You smile, a little breathless. “It is politically catastrophic.”
A huff of quiet laughter leaves him before he can stop it. When he opens his eyes, they find yours and you see that something in them has shifted. Clarified.
“Yes,” he says. “It is.”
“And you don’t care?”
He considers that, his breath fanning your face softly, his hands still resting on your waist and cupping your jaw.
“I care.”
A beat.
“Just not enough.”
The music swells again, softer now. You kiss him again, hand closing around his shirt, pulling him closer. His lips move against yours soft and steady, hand sliding to the back of your neck. Your pulse stutters.
Then, reluctantly, you step back.
You breathe softly. “You are the joint auditor.”
“Yes.”
“And I am the house under review.”
“Yes.”
Silence. You search his face for hesitation. You find none.
“I do not regret it,” he says. You let out a quiet breath that might almost be a laugh.
“Good,” you reply.
Footsteps pass beyond the terrace. Neither of you move for a moment.
“Come,” you say. “Before they notice.”
He nods, once, professional again. Mostly. His eyes still linger on your lips.
content rating: G, fem reader, fourth age, enemies to lovers, slow burn
w/c: 4.0k
summary: You are heir to Dorwinion’s wine trade and the one keeping its ports, vineyards, and alliances from collapsing under accusation and ash. When Legolas of the Woodland Realm arrives to inspect Dorwinion’s trade, every decision becomes a risk and every truth carries a cost. Between councils, wine, masquerades, and a market on the brink, rivalry sharpens into reluctant trust—and the cost of honesty grows too high.
a/n: yeah i literally couldn’t wait longer here it is yall. ITS HAPPENING EVERYONE STAY CALM
read on ao3 or below the cut
Dorwinion no longer riots. That, you think offhandedly, may have been easier.
The streets are busy in the mornings, quieter by afternoon. Market stalls open later. Barges idle at their moorings, ropes creaking softly. Notices appear on bleached walls where there were none before; revised hours, revised allotments, revised routes.
You walk the terraces without escort, your steps unhurried, the city unfolding beneath you in familiar tiers of stone and water. Workers pause to bow or incline their heads, then return to what they were doing. No one stops you, none demand answers.
Wine still moves, just not as freely; smaller carts, fewer casks. None leave Dorwinion. Guards posted at junctions that used to be decorative rather than functional.
At a lower crossing, a cooper repairs a cracked hoop with practiced ease, working from a pile of salvaged staves. He glances up as you pass.
“Morning, m’lady.”
“Morning,” you reply.
He does not complain. He does not ask about shipments, or curse the fire, or blame Gondor for the embargo. He tightens the iron band, tests it with his thumb, then moves on to the next. Dorwinion adapts.
The vineyards beyond the city look unchanged from here, lines of green climbing the hills in cascading rows. If you didn’t know better, you might believe the harvest would proceed as always.
The end of the Harvest Festival weeks bring with them one final tradition – the tasting of the season’s produce. Normally a cause for celebration and a show of unity, this year the tasting would determine whether Dorwinion would survive the following seasons. Contracts that were once guaranteed were no longer set in stone. Not after the embargo.
At the end of the festival, you either sink, or swim for a little bit longer.
You cross a bridge where the water runs narrow and fast, diverted through stone laid generations ago. A group of children kneel at the edge, trailing their fingers through the current, a paper boat floating downstream, until a watchman clears his throat and they scatter, laughing.
Dorwinion knows how to endure. It has endured droughts, wars, the long shadow of the East. It just has to endure you.
You stop at the parapet and look down at the lower quay, where a barge sits half-loaded, its crew waiting for clearance that will not come. The men sit on coils of rope, sharing bread and cheese, languid and unhurried. They have learned that urgency does not help. Neither does hope.
You straighten and continue on, the city adjusting around you like water around a stone.
The storage hall is colder than the courtyard above. The air smells of oak and damp. Barrels marked for the northern route are lines in separate rows, each house’s sigil burned into the wood near the head. Legolas moves methodically, lanternlight steady in his hand. He stops at a Lereth-marked cask.
“Here,” he says quietly. You take the lantern from his hands and lift it.
He examines the wax seal pressed over the export plug. It is deep red; clean, glossed.
He presses it lightly, and it yields under his touch.
He turns to the barrel beside it and presses that seal. Same softness, same sheen.
He steps back.
“These were sealed recently.”
“They were,” Lereth answers smoothly from across the hall. “In anticipation of resumed northern traffic.”
Legolas studies the wax again.
“Older casks would show variance,” he says, almost to himself.
“Consistency is efficient,” Lereth replies.
You glance between them. Legolas moves down the line.
Every Lereth-bound barrel bears the same depth of impression. Same wax tone. Same edge crispness. When he runs his thumb over another seal, he notices faint scoring around the wood grain beneath it.
He reaches a barrel from Velon further down. Its seal is slightly duller; cracked at the edge. Wax sunken into wood grain.
He presses it. It resists.
He says nothing, but you see a frown forming on his face.
The council chamber smells faintly of old paper and lamp oil. Velon stands at the long table, fingers resting lightly against a stack of shipment ledgers.
“The embargo remains,” Magistrate Calion says evenly. “Until the inquiry concludes.”
“Of course,” Velon replies. “No one suggested otherwise.”
Lereth does not sit. He stands near the window, hands folded behind his back, watching the street below.
Legolas speaks without raising his voice. “An inquiry need not require complete stillness.”
Calion turns slightly. “You propose trade resume before findings are concluded?”
“I propose,” Legolas says, “that trade need not cease entirely if compliance is demonstrable.”
Silence follows his words. Velon glances towards him, then back to the table.
“By myself,” Legolas answers. “And by appointed trade witnesses from the respective routes.”
Dale’s merchant considers this. “A vote of confidence.”
“A test,” Calion corrects.
Velon inclines his head. “A test, then.”
Lereth finally turns from the window. “And what determines the success of this test?” he asks mildly.
Legolas does not hesitate. “The harvest tasting.” The room stills.
“If the vintage is sound,” he continues, “and the initial shipments conform to inspection, limited contracts may resume until the audit concludes.”
Calion’s jaw tightened slightly. “You are asking us to risk public trust on a cup of wine.”
“I am asking you,” Legolas replies evenly, “to allow commerce to reflect reality.”
Velon steps in before the silence hardens. “The harvest festival is already scheduled,” he says. “Delegates will attend. Merchants will taste. The city will witness it.”
“And if the vintage fails?” Lereth asks.
“Then the embargo stands without argument,” Velon counters.
Calion studies the faces around the table. “You understand,” he says slowly, “that if trade resumes and instability follows, Dorwinion will not be shielded from consequence.”
“Dorwinion has not asked for shielding,” you say. “Only for air.” Legolas looks at you briefly. Your eyes meet his for a moment.
After a beat, Calion nods once. “Very well. Limited reopening. Conditional.”
Velon exhales quietly. Lereth’s expression does not change, but his eyes sharpen. You don’t feel the relief you thought you would.
The chamber empties gradually. The ink dries, chair scrape back, papers are gathered together with care.
Magistrate Calion leaves first. Lereth lingers long enough to murmur something to Velon, and throw a look in your direction – unreadable, measured – before stepping into the corridor. When the door closes, the room feels smaller.
Velom exhales quietly. “A tasting,” he says. “We have wagered much on a cup.”
“It was already wagered,” you reply.
Velon studies you for a moment. “Then we must not falter. We bring out the Dorwinion Red.”
You nod. He leaves. You stay standing by the table.
The ledgers lie open on the table, the red wax seals catching the lamplight.
The window shutters are half open. From somewhere beyond the inner courtyard comes the faint sound of preparation – barrels being moved, lantern hooks being hammered into place for the end of the festival.
Beside you, a chair shifts softly.
“You did not hesitate,” Legolas says. You turn to him.
“Would you have preferred if I did?”
He studies you – not as an auditor, not as an envoy. “No,” he says.
A beat.
“You do not move as someone cornered.”
“And you do not speak like someone entirely neutral.” It lands softer than you intend.
His gaze drops briefly to your hand resting on the table. The silver ring of your House glints in the light.
“This will bind our judgments together,” he says.
“Then judge carefully.”
By the end of the third week of the audit, it developed a rhythm.
You stop thinking of it as interruption and start thinking of it as furniture. Tables claimed and never quite cleared. Lamps kept burning through hours they were never meant to see. Doors left open because closing them would only mean opening them again.
Legolas is always there when you arrive and there is no longer any question of whether he will be.
You have settled into a pattern without naming it. You bring records already marked. He reads them once, then again, faster the second time. Margins fill with his neat hand, symbols you are beginning to recognise without asking. When he looks up at you, you already know the answer he’s about to need.
“This transfer,” he says, tapping the page lightly. “Was it rerouted before or after the embargo notice?”
“After,” you reply. “But before confirmation reached the southern slopes.”
He nods and writes it down with no comment.
The clerks come and go. Servants replace empty cups. The sound of the city filters in through high windows; bells, footsteps, gulls. You notice when he stops asking the same questions twice.
The audit tightens through precision. Requests narrow; dates matter now. Handwriting is compared. A discrepancy that once might have been explained away as clerical error is followed through three ledgers instead of one.
“This house,” he says at one point, sliding a folio towards you. “They revised their storage declarations twice.”
You glance at the page. House Taryn. “They were accounting for spoilage.”
“And the second revision?”
You pause, just long enough to be honest. “They were accounting for risk.”
His quill stills. He looks at you, measuring.
“Risk of what?”
You meet his gaze. “Risk of being associated with us.”
He studies you for a moment longer, then writes down something you can’t see. “That aligns with other behaviours.”
You don’t ask whether that’s good or bad.
As the hours pass, the space between you changes. You find yourself standing beside him instead of across the table, leaning in to trace a column of figures with your finger. He shifts without comment to give you room. Your sleeves brush.
At some point, he pushes a document aside and says, “This will require external collaboration.”
You nod. “I’ll arrange it.”
“You should not,” he replies evenly. “It would be better if I did.”
You stiffen, then force yourself to relax. “Because of appearances.”
“Because of authority,” he corrects. “Yours is already being questioned.”
The words land harshly, clean and uncushioned. You appreciate him for it, even as it stings.
By the time the sun begins to set again, you realise neither of you has spoken in several minutes. The quiet is not uncomfortable; It is familiar.
“You could step away,” he says without looking up. “For an hour.”
“And miss this?” You gesture vaguely at the table.
He huffs, almost a laugh. “Yes.”
You shake your head. “If you’re counting, I want to know how.”
He considers that, then shakes his head. “You need air,” he says.
“That’s not part of the audit.”
“No,” he agrees. “But it is necessary.”
The lamps burn low around you. The ledgers remain open.
You close the folio, taking a deep breath.
“Walk with me,” you say. He does not hesitate.
The path down is narrow, cut into the cliff where Dorwinion’s terraces give way to stone and then to sand. Few use it, fewer still know it exists.
The tide is halfway out. The beach is small and curved, protected by rock overhangs, and shadows of cliffs rising high above it. The water moves slower here, cooler.
You remove your shoes and step onto the cold sand. Legolas follows, quieter than the surf. Above you, the city glows faintly; lanterns catching the light in water channels and waterfalls. From here, Dorwinion looks contained. Smaller. Almost gentle.
You walk slowly along the edge where the sea erases your footprints as quickly as they form.
By memory alone, you walk along the secluded beach, until you reach a small cove, the stone familiar to you like second nature.
You sit first, the motion slower than it should be, and only then do you feel how thoroughly the week has worked its way into your bones. Legolas remains standing for a beat, as if debating whether he should join you on the sand, then sits opposite you and exhales slowly, the tension in his shoulder easing ever so slightly.
No ledgers, no seals, no clerks waiting in the hall. The quiet is different here.
For a few minutes, the only sound is your soft breathing and the water lapping against the shore.
“This was not part of the plan,” you say at last.
“No,” he agrees.
You almost smile at that.
“The audit,” you clarify. “This–” You gesture vaguely at the cove, the sea, the absence of scrutiny. “The way it’s become… constant.”
He considers a small crab that crawled on his boot before answering. “Plans assume cooperation remains stable.”
“And when it doesn’t?”
“They adjust,” he replies. “Or they reveal they were never built to survive.”
You lean back against the rock wall, studying him in the blue light. The sharpness you associate with him is still there, but it’s dulled at the edges by fatigue. By proximity. By the fact that you have watched him read the same column of figures three times without complaint.
“You could have asked to be reassigned,” you say.
He looks up. “Yes.”
“You didn’t.”
“No.”
Another pause. This one heavier.
“I would prefer,” he says carefully, “to understand what I am witnessing, rather than let it be interpreted by someone else.”
You nod. “That’s dangerous.”
“Yes.”
You laugh quietly then, the sound brief and surprised. “You really are doing this in good faith.”
He meets your gaze. “So are you.”
The words hang there, twisting your stomach lightly. Trust offered without decoration.
You trace the sand with your fingers. “This city survives by knowing when to bend,” you say. “Not all see that as virtue.”
“Some would call that a compromise.”
“Others would call it not having a choice.”
He watches you for a long moment, eyes roaming your face. “What would you call it?”
You look toward the water, where the water glides past sand with unhurried patience. “I call it inheritance.”
He nods, as if that answers more than you intend. The last rays of light dip past the horizon, cloaking you in a comforting dark. Above, the city settles into its night rhythm, final banners strung up for the festival, taverns filling up with sailors and merchants.
“You should sleep,” he says, not as an order. As an observation.
“So should you.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. You glance at it for a second. “Eventually.”
As you get up to leave, an idea comes to mind.
“Wait.”
You turn, and head deeper into the cove. “There’s something I should show you.”
You move to a small part of the cove, hidden from view, where years ago you hid a chest. It takes a moment for you to find the key, with the light gone. When you do, you open it carefully, the hinges creaking with rust and age.
Inside are three bottles. Unlabeled. Dark glass; old and dusty, the wine inside rich and vintage. You take one.
“This,” you say, taking a seat beside him, “is not for ceremony.”
He takes an incredulous look at the bottle. “Do you have wine stashes everywhere in the city?”
You laugh. “This was for when my cousin and I used to dodge council meetings and responsibilities.” You glance at it, then at him. “We were young and foolish back then.”
He smiles, slightly. “I suppose some things are meant to be enjoyed privately.”
You open the bottle slowly, the cork stubborn with age. The wine sloshes slightly as it comes free, staining your fingers a deep burgundy.
“This,” you say, handing him the bottle, “is vintage Dorwinion. Before the drought.”
He lifts the bottle and takes a sip. “I recognise it.”
You are surprised, despite yourself. “How?”
He hands you the bottle. “My father has long served this in our halls. For many years.”
You drink.
The wine is balanced. No sharpness, no excess. You feel it settle rather than spread.
For a moment neither of you speaks.
“This,” Legolas says at last, “is why I stayed.”
You look at him over the rim of the bottle. “To audit our cellars?”
A faint, rueful curve touches his mouth. “To protect this from becoming a symbol.”
You set the bottle down carefully. “It already has.”
“Yes.” He meets your gaze, blue eyes somehow brighter in the early night. “And that is what I cannot allow to happen without protest.”
He leans back slightly, the tension in him easing now.
“Elven oversight exists for a reason,”he continues. “Not to meddle with trade, but prevent it from being used as proof of moral failure. Once that happens, precedent replaces truth.”
You understand then what he has not said yet. “You’re not just auditing Dorwinion.”
“No,” he agrees. “I am defending a line that should not be crossed.”
“And if Dorwinion has crossed it?” Maybe the wine was already going to your head. The silence stretches, deliberate.
“Then it must be acknowledged,” he says finally. “But not exploited.”
You lift the bottle again, considering. “You realise that position leaves you very little room.”
“Yes.”
“And even less forgiveness.”
“Yes.”
You drink. The wine heats your cheeks.
“My father used to say Dorwinion survives because it knows when to hold back,” you say quietly. “Not everyone believes restraint is honest.”
Legolas watches the bottle in your hand. “Some see restraint as concealment.”
“And some see exposure as virtue,” you counter. “Even when it destroys what it claims to protect.”
He looks up at you then, something steady and intent in his expression.
“This is why I wanted you to taste this,” you say. “As context.”
You feel the weight of that settle between you, trust given not in words but in what you choose to share.
“I will not rush this,” he says. “I will not allow it to be turned into a spectacle. But I will not falsify my findings either.”
“I would not ask you to,” you reply. The admission sits in the air, fragile and real.
He reaches for the bottle again, and you don't stop him. His fingers curl around yours for just a moment, warm and soft. You brush off the warmth as the effect of the wine.
He drinks again, slower this time, and you watch him, how his lips darken with the crimson of the wine. The bottle is lighter now.
“This isn’t what most people think Dorwinion is,” you say, feeling the wine settle in your veins. “They imagine abundance. Excess. A city drunk on its own success.”
Legolas listens to you without interrupting.
“My grandfather used to say we were never rich,” you continue. “We were careful. There’s a difference. Care just looks like plenty if you don’t know what it costs.”
He turns the bottle slightly, studying the color. “And now?”
“Now,” you say, “we’re expected to prove that care was always a virtue. Not fear.”
You take the wine again and drink. It warms your chest, spreading out to your fingertips.
“When the drought came,” you go on, “we did not innovate. We endured. We rationed quietly. We let some vineyards fail so others wouldn’t.” You glance at him. “That doesn’t make for a heroic story.
“No,” he says. “It makes for an honest one.”
You smile faintly, not meeting his eyes. “Honesty is rarely rewarded at scale.”
He takes another drink.
“My father taught me to read ledgers before I could read poetry,” you say. “He said numbers tell you when a city will break long before people do.”
“And what do they say now?” Legolas asks.
You hesitate. This is the edge you cannot cross. This is the most truth you can give him.
“They say Dorwinion has survived too long to be innocent,” you reply. “That survival leaves traces. Even when you do everything right.”
His gaze sharpens, not suspicious, but attentive.
“You are afraid of what will be found,” he says carefully.
“I’m afraid of what will be misunderstood,” you correct. “There’s a difference.”
He nods slowly. “There is.”
You give him the bottle again, and lace your finger together, brushing a stray thread from your sleeve, feeling the weight of the moment.
“I won’t pretend we’re untouched,” you say. “Or that every decision was clean. But nothing we did was done lightly.”
“I believe that,” he says, and the softness of it almost steals your breath.
You look up at him. “Belief is not proof.”
“But it informs how one searches for it,” he says.
Silence stretches again, but it is gentle and companionable. The kind that does not demand an interruption.
“You know,” you say after a moment, “most people who drink Dorwinion wine think they are tasting sunlight. Heat. Something indulgent.”
“And what are they tasting?” he asks.
“Patience,” you reply. “Time. The willingness to wait instead of take.”
He considers that, eyes on the bottle between you. “And do you have it?”
“Have what?”
“Time,” he says. “The choice to live as one of the Eldar. Your blood is elven, is it not?”
You look down at your hands. “It is,” you answer. “But we do not have that choice. Our lifespans are much longer than Men, but not as yours.”
He turns towards you. “I hope you use it well.”
For a moment, you don’t respond.
“I don’t know how this ends,” you admit.
He takes another drink. “Nor do I.”
“Yet for now,” you continue, voice steady despite the wine and vulnerability beneath it, “I would rather face it with someone who understands what’s at stake.”
His answer is immediate. “So would I.”
When you finally rise, the cove feels smaller, and warmer somehow. You leave the empty bottle beside the chest.
As you leave the cove, the tide shifts without warning. A stronger wave folds over the sand, colder than the last, reaching higher along the shore. It catches the hem of your dress and soaks through before you can step back.
You laugh under your breath, half startled, half annoyed, wine pulsing through your veins, and move instinctively away from the water.
Your heel slips.
His hand closes around your arm before you’ve fully registered the tilt of your body.
Steady. Firm. Certain. The world rights itself in a single breath. For a moment, neither of you moves.
The sea withdraws again, dragging pebbles in its wake with a sound like distant glass. You become aware of three things at once:
His hand on your arm.
The warmth of him through the fabric.
The quiet between you.
“You should watch the tide,” he says softly.
“I was,” you reply.
His thumb shifts slightly, almost unconsciously, to where it rests just below your elbow. “You are not as careful as you pretend,” he says. The line lands differently than it would have before. No accusation, no test.
You look up at him.
“You’re not as distant,” you answer.
That does something to his expression. Softens it.
His gaze drops briefly to where his hand rests against your sleeve.
“No,” he says after a moment. A quiet breath leaves him, lips parted. You can’t seem to look away. “This was not part of the plan.”
The wind moves through your hair. He watches as it settles, and you don’t reach to brush it aside. His hand is still where it steadied you. The space between you seems to narrow. You blame the wine.
You can hear the city faintly above the cliffs – distant laughter, a note of music carried thin in the air. It feels impossibly far away. He studies your face as if committing it to memory. Neither of you lets go.
The tide inches forward again, brushing your feet, cold as ice. You do not feel it.
Slowly, deliberately, he releases your arm. You step back, after a beat, cheeks heating.
Above, Dorwinion glows in candlelight. Below, the sea erases the mark of your stumble. The space between you feels different now.
content rating: G, fem reader, fourth age, enemies to lovers, slow burn
w/c: 3.1k
summary: You are heir to Dorwinion’s wine trade and the one keeping its ports, vineyards, and alliances from collapsing under accusation and ash. When Legolas of the Woodland Realm arrives to inspect Dorwinion’s trade, every decision becomes a risk and every truth carries a cost. Between councils, wine, masquerades, and a market on the brink, rivalry sharpens into reluctant trust—and the cost of honesty grows too high.
a/n: happy valentine's day folks, these two are finally not at each other's throats <3
read on ao3 or below the cut
The river runs high this season, swollen with meltwater from the north, and the taverns along Tharlond’s quay are full by habit rather than celebration. Barges grind against posts outside, tow-ropes creaking as teams ready themselves for another run upriver. The counting-houses have been open since before dawn broke the horizon.
Mist drifts in off the water and clings low to the floor, beading on boots and table legs. Pipe-smoke hangs above like a dull haze, trapped beneath the beams. Parchment scraps and tally slates litter the long tables, pushes aside just far enough to make room for mugs.
“Fire again,” a bargeman says, elbow hooked over the back of his chair. “Warehouses this time.”
A courier snorts into his drink. “On the river again?”
“In Dorwinion.”
“Still burned blue they say.”
That gets a few looks. Ones of familiarity.
“So did Pelargir,” someone says. “Elves again?”
“Could be,” another answers. “You know they’re all half-breeds there.”
The talk shifts as it always does towards what’s still moving and what isn’t. Who’s stalled. Who’s rerouting. Which contracts are benign rewritten.
A jug is set down near a hearth, stamped with a fresh mark. Not silver vines, but a silver tree. The barkeep pours without comment.
A man in a Rohan cloak takes a mouthful, frowns, then drinks again.
“Huh,” he says.
“What?”
“Tastes different.”
A pause. Someone leans over to sniff the cup. Someone else shrugs.
“Not bad,” the man adds, already defensive. “Just not what it was.”
“Dorwinion’s tied up,” the barkeep says, wiping a mug with a cloth. “Counting-houses won’t wait on some inquiry.”
“Gondor was ready,” someone says.
A few nods follow. Someone mutters about river schedules. Another mentions price per cask. The jug empties, replaced by another.
“Either way,” the Rohan man says, lifting his cup again, “it’ll do.”
Outside, a courier’s horn sounds along the quay, sharp and brief.
The map room smells faintly of dust and sea salt, something unchanged through everything. Tall windows open to the terraces below, letting in light and the distant murmur of the city at work. Ledgers lie stacked on the table, some bound, some loose, corners weighed with carved stones to keep them from curling.
Your father stands at the window when you enter, hands clasped behind his back, watching the vineyards slope down towards the water. He does not turn right away as you enter.
“They’ve started using different language,” he says at last.
You stop just inside the doorway. “Who?”
“Everyone.” He gestures vaguely, as if encompassing the city, the ports, the sea beyond. “The reports. The correspondence.”
You set the sheaf of papers in your hands down on the table. You haven’t slept enough to be careful with them anymore.
“They’re calling it a warehouse incident now,” you say. “Not sabotage. Not destruction of evidence. Just – an incident.”
He nods once. “That’s how it begins.”
You move closer, tracing the edge of the table with your fingers. The ink on the topmost ledger is still fresh. “The audit continues. Expanded scope. He’s being thorough.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Your father finally turns, his expression unreadable. “Thoroughness doesn’t stop a story once it’s found its shape.”
You look back toward the window. From here, Dorwinion looks unchanged. Sun on bleached tile, water moving steadily through channels. Workers crossing bridges with baskets and crates.
“They’re talking about blue fire again,” you say. “As if it explains anything.”
“It doesn’t have to,” he replies. “It only has to be remembered.”
Silence settles between you, heavy but not uncomfortable. He walks to the table and rests a hand on the ledgers.
“I told you to fix this,” he says, not unkindly.
Your jaw tightens. “I am fixing it.”
He meets your gaze then, and there is no challenge in his eyes.
“No,” he says after a pause. “You’re surviving it. There’s a difference.”
You exhale slowly. “No one will accuse us outright.”
“No.” His mouth twitches, almost a smile. “If they meant to accuse you, they’d be louder.”
The words land hard.
“They’ve already started replacing us,” he continues, calm as ever.
You swallow. “We still have time.”
“Time for what?”
You hesitate. He waits.
“Time to finish the audit,” you say finally. “Time to prove–”
“To whom?” he asks gently. The question hangs there unanswered.
Outside a bell rings from the lower quay. Your father straightens, smoothing the edge of a page. “I didn’t ask you to come here to tell you what to do,” he says. “Only to make sure you understand the fight you’re in.”
You do. You nod once.
“It’s not about the fire anymore,” you say.
“No,” he agrees. “It hasn’t been for days.”
When he turns back to the window, the conversation is over. You gather your papers and leave with the sense that something essential has already passed out of reach.
By the fifth day after the fire, the work around it has settled. Requests arrive already categorized, already formatted. The clerks know where to leave them. The servants know which rooms to keep lit late. Even the guards have adjusted their patrols, stepping quietly past doors left ajar.
Legolas is already at the mahogany table when you arrive, sleeves rolled back, hair tied low at his nape. Ledgers are spread before him in careful stacks, weighted at the corners with beach stones. He looks up as you enter, nods once, and turns a page.
“We’ll need the storage manifests again,” he says. “All revisions since the embargo.”
You set your satchel down and pull the documents free. “They’ve already been submitted.”
“Yes.” His quill pauses briefly. “These will be the reconciled versions.”
You don’t argue. You haven’t, not once, even though each request scraped a little bit closer to the bone. You hand him the leather-bound folio and watch as he scans it, expression unreadable, attention precise.
Outside, the light fades. Someone lights the lamps. Moths begin their evening ritual of circling the fires, bumping softly against glass.
“We are expanding the scope,” Legolas continues, as if you’ve asked. “Inter-house storage protocols. Oversight during shipment delays. Chain-of-custody records.”
“Because of the fire,” you say.
“Because of the gaps it revealed,” he replies evenly. You nod and let it go.
Sitting down at the table across from him, you pull a paper to examine it, but you don’t read. The words blur together.
“I wanted to tell you something,” you say, suddenly hesitant.
He looks up at you, blinking.
“I realise I did not thank you properly, for that day.” you say, averting your eyes. “For getting me out of that warehouse in time.”
He looks at you a moment longer, then nods. “Of course.” For him, it was simply second nature.
You go back to the papers in your hands.
Hours pass by in increments of ink and parchment. Marginalnotes accumulate. Names repeat; some are crossed out. Others are circled once, then twice. The room grows quiet enough that you can hear the scratch of his pen, the soft rasp of paper against paper.
At some point, you realize you haven’t eaten since morning.
You push the thought aside and reach for another ledger.
Legolas glances up, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You should take a break.”
“I’m fine.”
He studies you for a heartbeat longer than necessary, then stands up. He walks out of the room briefly, and you hear a murmur from the hallway. A few moments later, he’s back, and a small tray appears at the edge of the table. Bread, cheese, two cups of wine.
You look at it, then at him.
“You didn’t have to–”
“You are not fine,” he says quietly, without judgement. “You are functional.”
You huff a breath that might almost be a laugh and tear a piece of bread in half. The food tastes like nothing. You eat it anyway.
You don’t speak for a while after that.
The audit tightens, almost imperceptibly. Questions become more specific. Dates are asked for twice. A missing signature is noted, where it would have been filed away before as a clerical mistake. Every answer you give feels correct and insufficient at the same time.
“You are aware,” Legolas says eventually, eyes still on the page, “that this process will not resolve quickly.”
“I’m aware.”
“And that trade will remain stalled until it does.”
You hesitate, then nod. “Yes.”
He looks up at you then, truly looks at you. “I am not doing this to punish Dorwinion.”
You pause. “I know.”
The truth of it settles between you, heavy and complicated. He believes thoroughness can protect you. You know that thoroughness can suffocate. Still, you keep working.
Night deepens. The clerks depart one by one. The lamps burn lower. Somewhere in the city, bells toll the hour; you’ve long stopped counting which.
At some point you find yourself standing beside him rather than across the table, both of you bent over the same column of figures. Your shoulders nearly touch. Neither of you moves away.
“This discrepancy,” you murmur, tapping the page. “That’s Lereth storage. Not ours.”
“I see it,” he says. “They have not volunteered clarification.”
“They won’t,” you reply, before you can stop yourself.
He glances at you, sharp. “Why?”
You meet his gaze, then look back at the numbers. “Because they think we burned the barrels.”
The words hang there, unspoken until now.
Legolas exhales slowly. “That is an assumption.”
“It’s a convenient one.”
Silence again. He makes a note in the margin.
“I will need to follow that,” he says.
“I expected you would.”
For the first time, there is something like regret in his expression. Not for the audit. For what it’s doing to you.
The lamps gutter. You straighten, spine aching, and gather the loose papers in a neater stack.
“We’ll continue tomorrow,” you say.
“Yes.”
You hesitate at the door then turn back. “You’re staying?”
He looks at the work still undone, then back at you. “Yes.”
You nod, then leave him there, bent over the ledgers, and walk the darkened corridor alone.
Lereth’s representatives arrive late. Not enough to warrant comment, but just enough that the room has already settled into its rhythm by the time they take their seats, cloaks folded neatly, expressions polite and composed.
They bring fewer documents than before. You notice immediately.
Legolas does too, though he doesn’t look up as they sit. He finishes annotating a column, sets his quill aside, then folds his hands.
“We were expecting the remainder of your storage manifests,” he says, tone even. “Particularly those revised after the embargo.”
The Lereth steward inclines his head. “Of course. Those are undergoing internal review.”
You feel the smallest tightening in your chest.
“Internal review,” you repeat. “They were due yesterday.”
“Yes,” he says smoothly. “And we determined it would be imprudent to circulate incomplete records.”
“Incomplete,” Legolas echoes, “in what way?”
The man spreads his hands, a gesture of openness that offers nothing. “Given the circumstances, House Lereth believes discretion is warranted.”
You lean forward. “Discretion from whom?”
“From uncertainty,” he replies without missing a beat. Silence stretches. Somewhere beyond the doors, footsteps pass, unhurried.
Legolas tilts his head slightly. “The audit requires full transparency.”
“And it shall have it,” the Lereth representative assures him. “In due course.”
You exchange a glance with Legolas. It lasts only a second, but it’s enough.
“Is this because of the warehouse fire?” you ask.
The man hesitates, just a fraction too long.
“We all suffered losses,” he says carefully. “And reputational harm.”
You feel the implication settle, cold and precise. You grit your teeth.
“You believe House Avenor was responsible,” you say.
They do not confirm it. They do not deny it either. The silence says enough.
“That is not our assertion,” the man says at last. “Only that recent events have demonstrated the need for caution. House Lereth cannot afford to be entangled in questions that are still…unreslved.”
“You are already entangled,” you reply. You struggle to hide your anger on your face.
He meets your gaze then, something steely beneath the courtesy. “Which is why we must protect ourselves.”
Legolas speaks before you can retort. “Withholding records will not shield you from scrutiny.”
“No,” the man agrees. “But it may determine how that scrutiny unfolds.”
There it is.
“We remain loyal to Dorwinion,” he continues, as if reciting something rehearsed. “We will abide by the outcome of the audit. We will support the city publicly. But we must preserve the right to manage our internal affairs.”
You sit back slowly. “By which you mean preparing contingencies.”
He does not argue.
The meeting concludes shortly after that. Polite farewells. Promises to reconvene. Nothing that can be held against them as betrayal.
When the door closes behind them the room feels larger. Emptier.
“They really think we burned the barrels to hide something,” you say quietly.
Legolas exhales through his nose. “They think uncertainty is contagious.”
“And they’d rather cut the limb than risk the body.”
“Yes.”
You stare at the empty chairs, the space where Lereth’s ledgers should have been. “They’re already looking elsewhere.”
Legolas gathers the remaining papers into a neat stack. “I will note the delay in my report.”
“That won’t stop them.”
“No,” he agrees. “But it will matter later.
You nod, though the reassurance rings thin. The fracture has already formed. You can feel it, hairline and spreading, beneath the carefully crafted surface of Dorwinion.
A clerk appears at the threshold, hesitant. “My lady?”
You turn. “Yes?”
“There are messages waiting,” she says. “From the counting-houses. Several.”
You don’t need to ask from where.
Legolas watches your expression change as the words land. He sets the ledgers aside and follows you into the outer chamber, where a narrow table has already begun to disappear beneath folded parchment and wax seals.
You pick up the first. Then the second. Then the third.
None of them are urgent. This is what worries you.
They come dressed as courtesies.
A delayed renewal, phrased apologetically. A request for “temporary substitution” framed as caution. A note expressing confidence in Dorwinion’s eventual resolution – paired with revised quantities of wine.
Gondor’s name appears only obliquely at first. A mention of availability. Of readiness. Of supply already in motion.
Legolas scans over your shoulder, silent.
“They are hedging,” he says.
“They’re replacing,” you correct.]
He reads more closely then, brows furrowing. “These are not cancellations.”
“No,” you agree. “They’re rehearsals for that.”
You set the letters down in a careful stack. From the terrace beyond the open doors, you hear the city moving, and your heart squeezes; carts on bleached white stone, voices calling, the steady assurance of life continuing as it always has.
“They are behaving as if the outcome is already decided,” Legolas says.
You nod. “Markets don’t wait on verdicts.”
He looks up at you then, something sharpening in his gaze. “This is why the audit must be precise.”
“And this,” you reply quietly, “is why precision won’t save us.”
He doesn’t argue – not because he agrees, but because he understands the difference between proof and momentum.
Another message arrives, placed gently on the table by a clerk. You don’t open it.
Outside, a bell rings from the lower quay, marking the change of shift. The sound carries upward, steady and indifferent.
Legolas exhales slowly. “They have begun moving before we have finished asking questions.”
“Yes,” you say. “And they won’t stop at that.”
For the first time since the fire, you feel the shape of what’s coming with absolute clarity.
The audit is still underway.
Dorwinion is still standing.
But the market has already chosen how this story will end.
You gather the letters, already sorting them by threat rather than sender, and turn back towards the table.
“Then we cannot let them be the only ones moving.” You say finally.
Legolas meets your gaze. There is not reassurance now in his expression, only resolve.
“No,” he agrees. “We do not.”
The lamps burn low by the time the chamber empties. The last clerk closes the door with care, leaving only the scratch of quill on parchment and the hiss of oil in glass.
Legolas sits alone at the long table, the ledgers closed at last, the ink on the most recent annotations still wet. He turns a fresh sheet before him, and hesitates only a fraction of a moment before writing.
Father,
You sent me to Dorwinion to determine the validity of elven customs seals affixed to contested shipments, and to assess whether our name has been misused in the course of trade.
He pauses, considering.
The question of forged seals remains unresolved. Several discrepancies in transit records warrant further scrutiny, and I have not abandoned that line of inquiry.
However, the destruction of the implicated barrels and the embargo have altered the scope of the matter.
He rests the quill, fingers tightening slightly against the wood.
The irregularities observed thus far do not point toward deliberate corruption or concealment of wrongdoing within House Avenor. Rather, they suggest instability exacerbated by market opportunism and inter-house fracture.
His pen stills. He thinks of you bent over the ledgers, refusing rest. Of your insistence on transparency even when it costs you.
The ruling house remains cooperative. The strain upon them is considerable, but I have found no cause to question their intent. Should forgery be confirmed, it is more likely to have occurred along transit routes than at origin.
In light of these findings, I have expanded the audit beyond my initial mandate with the support of the Council. It is my judgement that to isolate the seals from the broader commercial context would produce an incomplete and potentially unjust conclusion.
He breathes out slowly.
I am aware that this places the credibility of the Woodland Realm in closer alignment with the integrity of Dorwinion’s governance. I do not make that choice lightly.
Should evidence of forgery surface, I will report it without delay. Until such evidence presents itself, I believe a measured approach is required to prevent further destabilization of the northern trade routes.
He folds the letter carefully, then presses his seal into the wax.
For a moment, he studies the impression – Mirkwood’s mark, clean and unbroken. He has tied it to Dorwinion’s survival. Outside, somewhere below the terraces, gulls screech into the night. The city continues to breathe.
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content rating: G, fem reader, fourth age, enemies to lovers, slow burn
w/c: 4.2k
summary: You are heir to Dorwinion’s wine trade and the one keeping its ports, vineyards, and alliances from collapsing under accusation and ash. When Legolas of the Woodland Realm arrives to inspect Dorwinion’s trade, every decision becomes a risk and every truth carries a cost. Between councils, wine, masquerades, and a market on the brink, rivalry sharpens into reluctant trust—and the cost of honesty grows too high.
read on ao3 or below the cut
The official embargo settles over the city like a weight. Along the quays, work halts mid-motion. Crates stand open and unpacked. Ships lie half-loaded, their holds exposed to the sun, crews dismissed with promises no one believes. Wax seals are pressed into doors that were open yesterday, the impressions still soft, the authority still fresh.
Legolas moves through it without escort.
He is watched, of course. But not with hostility; with calculation.
This is not a city unused to pressure. But whereas before the riots spelled chaos and uncertainty, the embargo steeps it in silence. There is no arguing with stewards. The will of the council is absolute, and immediate.
Inside the trade offices, the air is thick with ink and salt and damp wood. Clerks rise as he enters, then sit again at a gesture. Their hands are stained past washing, their posture careful. All understand that the wrong word, today, becomes a record.
“I will require the Pelargir manifests,” Legolas says. “All revisions. All orders issued after the incident.”
Piles of ledgers and bound books are brought.
He works through them in silence, reading not for content but for pattern; dates that cluster too neatly, language borrowed from emergency accords that meant to expire and never quite do so. The audit has begun.
Everything is legal. This, too, is a pattern.
The requisition orders are precise. Custody transfers properly countersigned. Dorwinion complies under post-War frameworks it helped ratify – nothing here suggests defiance, or concealment.
What piques his interest is where the trail ends.
Again and again the same phrase appears, written in different hands, stamped with different seals, justified by different clauses:
Temporary holding.
There is no final disposition for the evidence that remained of the incident. No destruction order. No return to Dorwinion custody. No archival seal. The process simply pauses.
Legolas marks the pages without comment. An incomplete record is not an accusation but it does invite interference.
By midday, the tone of the building has shifted. Conversations thin. Doors close more carefully. Legolas closes the ledger and returns it to the clerk without comment.
When he steps back into the corridor, a familiar presence watches his steps.
“You are moving faster than expected.” The voice comes from behind him, calm.
Sorion stands near the window at the corridor’s bend, half turned towards the light, as if he had been there for some time. His presence does not disturb the space; guards pass without comment, clerks shuffle past averting their eyes.
Legolas inclines his head. “Circumstances require it.”
“They always do,” Sorion replies mildly.
He falls into step beside Legolas, their pace aligning easily. The city unfolds below them though narrow windows: empty docks, idle cranes.
“You staked your honor publicly,” Sorion says, not looking at him. “That was…bold.’
“I prevented a tribunal.”
“Yes,” Sorion agrees. “You did.”
The pause that follows is deliberate.
“And in doing so,” he continues, “you bound Mirkwood to Dorwinion’s outcome.”
Legolas’ expression remains unchanged. “We were already implicated.”
Sorion’s mouth tightens by a fraction. “Not to this degree.”
They stop in a recessed alcove, stone cool to the touch, the corridor’s activity slipping past them without pause. Sorion turns at last, meeting Legolas’ gaze directly.
“The King expected a resolution,” he says. “Reassurance. A conclusion that restores confidence in the northern routes.”
Legolas hears what is not said. Swiftly.
“There are irregularities,” Sorion adds, voice lower. “Upstream. You were sent to assess them. Quietly.”
The word discretion does not need to be spoken either.
“I am assessing,” Legolas replies.
Sorion studies him for a long moment.
“Be mindful of scope,” he says at last. “The audit was never meant to widen.”
He steps back, already disengaging. “I will remain available,” he adds. “Until the matter concludes.”
Until it ends. Or is ended.
Sorion moves away, his presence dissolving back into the architecture. Legolas remains where he is for a moment longer.
The audit was meant to reassure, to buy time to uncover the real rot. Instead, it has drawn lines.
He turns back towards the records room, aware now of the hourglass that has always been running, and the weight of two expectations now balanced carefully on the edge of a knife.
The chamber is smaller than the council hall, narrower, its ceiling low and unadorned. Someone bars the door from the inside. Someone else draws the curtains. The city is shut out deliberately.
You stand at the head of the oak table, hands braced against its edge, and for a moment no one speaks.
“They’ve locked the trade,” one of the smaller southern vintners says finally, breaking the silence like a bone. “Peak season. Even a week–”
“We know,” Lereth replies smoothly, before you can speak. His voice is calm, practiced. “Panic will not reopen the ports.”
You glance at him, sharp enough to draw blood. He meets your gaze without flinching.
Another voice, older, raspier. “The barrels from Pelargir. How many are truly missing?”
A pause. Then: “All of them,” you say.
“You’re asking us to believe,” another southern vintner says at last, voice careful, “That the barrels vanished during the masquerade.”
He does not look at you when he says it. He looks at the floor.
“From Avenor’s own quay.”
The words settle badly. A ripple moves through the gathered houses, calculated and outraged.
“Under your roof,” another adds, more bluntly. That one does look at you.
You feel Lereth’s gaze settle on you, unblinking.
You do not answer, letting the accusation exist, letting it hang long enough to show you are not afraid of it.
Velon moves before it can take root.
“If Avenor wished to cripple Dorwinion,” he says cooly, “they would not do so by erasing evidence.”
His gaze sweeps through the room, unflinching. No one answers.
Velon presses on, voice sharpening. “And if you believe this was an internal theft, then say so plainly – and name who benefits.”
Silence again. This time heavier.
“Because it is not Dorwinion,” he finishes. “And it is not Avenor.”
You finally speak.
“If this were my doing,” you say evenly, “the barrels would not have disappeared.”
You look around the room.
“They would have burned.”
A murmur. Uneasy agreement follows your words.
“Gondor wants us fractured,” you continue. “Pointing inward saves them the effort. I will not give them the satisfaction.”
That earns a few bitter exhales. Everyone in the room understands the shape of that trap.
“The audit,” someone mutters. “How deep will it go?”
Deep enough to drown us, if mishandled.
You straighten. “Prince Legolas will have access to ledgers, vineyards, warehouses, transit routes. Labor contracts. Output comparisons.”
“And the–” A word nearly said, instead swallowed.
“Anything that suggests irregular production,” you finish for them. “Anything that implies we sustained yields we should not have.”
The room tightens, shoulders drawing in. This is the fault line, finally spoken aloud.
Lereth folds his hands. “Then we must be thorough.”
You turn to him slowly.
“Explain.”
“We consolidate,” Lereth says. “Records, stock, narratives. Smaller houses fold their inventories into larger ones. Discrepancies vanish into averages. Anything…experimental is removed entirely.”
“And if the elf asks why?” someone snaps.
“Then we answer honestly,” you reply. “We say Dorwinion prepared for drought better than others. That we invested earlier. That we adapted.”
A laugh, sharp and humorless. “And if he doesn’t believe us?”
Silence.
This is when you realize the choice has already been made.
“We cannot afford dissent,” you say. Your voice does not shake. You would be proud of that, if the circumstances were not so dire. “If one house breaks ranks, Gondor will pull the thread until we unravel.”
Eyes turn to you. Some resentfu. Some relieved. Some frightened.
“What you are asking,” a northern vintner says carefully, “will ruin some of us.”
“Yes,” you answer. “It will.”
Lereth inclines his head, just barely.
“And when this audit is over?” someone asks.
You think of Legolas’ gaze at the council. Of the way he watches without revealing what he knows.
“We survive it first,” you say. “Then we reckon with the cost.”
The questions come quickly, practical and sharp.
“What goes first?”
“What must remain visible?”
“What cannot be altered without notice?”
You answer them all.
Anchor stones removed at dawn. Lime scraped back to plausible concentrations. Boundary markers dismantled and disposed of properly. Channels flushed where patterns repeat too cleanly. Vines cut back harder than anyone is comfortable with.
“We sacrifice yield,” you say. “We preserve plausibility.”
Lereth’s fingers tighten on the table. “Next season will suffer.”
“If there is a next season,” you reply.
The room murmurs its assent, thin and uneven. Agreement born of necessity, not trust.
As the meeting breaks, Lereth lingers.
“For what it’s worth,” he says quietly, close enough that only you can hear, “this alliance holds only as long as it must.”
You meet his eyes.
“I know,” you say. “That’s what worries me.”
He watches you for a moment longer, eyes unreadable, then departs.
Evening light pours through the high arches of the audit chamber overlooking the quay, washing out pale stone and long tables already laid with ink and ledgers. Beyond the balustrade, the sea lies stormy and grey, as if the city itself was influencing its unraveling.
Legolas is already there.
He stands beside the far table, sleeves unadorned, hair bound back, posture relaxed yet seeping authority.Two scribes sit nearby, heads bent over open books, copying figures with steady hands.
You enter with measured steps, the soft echo of boots and dark red fabric announcing you before any name is spoken.
“Prince Legolas,” you say, inclining your head.
He turns at once.
“Lady Avenor.”
The doors close behind you.
Legolas gestures towards the tables. “By the terms agreed upon at the council, the audit begins today.”
His eyes meet yours as he speaks.
“It will proceed in phases,” he continues. “Inventory and storage first, an initial part of which was completed this morning. Then transit records and port seals. Finally, production yields.”
You step closer, eyes skimming the ledgers already in use. Dates. Quantities. Routes.
“And the extent?” you ask.
“Complete.”
The word is mild, yet absolute. A weight settles in your stomach, one you choose to ignore.
You nod once. “Dorwinion will cooperate fully.” It is the only answer available to you.
Legolas studies you, not with suspicion, but with a kind of attentive patience. “My role is not to accuse,” he says evenly. “Only to account.”
One of the scribes pauses, then resumes writing.
You allow yourself a measured breath.
He turns one of the ledgers toward you, indicating a column marked for verification.
“I will require access to all bonded vaults, private and civic,” he says. “And escorts familiar with older routes. Some records predate current stewardship.”
Older routes. Older practices.
You do not react. You cannot afford to.
“Arrangements will be made,” you say. “Our people know the land.”
“I am sure they do.”
The faintest pause follows – not a challenge, but something like anticipation.
Legolas steps back, giving the scribes room to work. “Then we begin,” he says.
The storm rolls in hard and fast from the Sea of Rhun, bringing with it a terrific lightning display that has you wondering if the Valar are themselves having an argument. Not that you have time to care at the moment, as sitting across from you is Legolas; quill in hand, ledger under suspicion.
The gulls filter in through the shuttered windows reclaim the silence you work in. The echo of boots in the hallway every hour counts the passage of time. For Legolas, who has endless time, the weariness does not show in the slightest – blonde hair braided back away from his face, not a lock out of place. The black ink of the inkbottle reflects your face back at you; exhausted, sleepless, deep blue blooming under your eyes.
The ink bleeds slightly where your quill pauses too long between thinking; by then, the clerks are long gone. Their lamps sit cold along the back wall, wicks drowned, ledgers stacked and sealed with wax for the night. The doors were shut behind them hours ago with polite bows and visible relief. No one questioned that the audit would resume in the morning.
It does not. It continues, with you and Legolas.
You sit the the long table with your sleeves rolled and your hair braided back in a way that has long since abandoned decorum. Ink smudges paint your finger dark and your shoulders ache with the slow burn of someone who has slept poorly for days are refuses to stop anyways.
Across from you, Legolas stands.
He has not sat in some time. Papers are spread before him in a careful constellation – shipping manifests, bonded vault records, port tallies from Pelargir and Dorwinion both. He moves through them with unhurried precision, aligning columns, murmuring dates under his breath, recalculating routes.
Thunder cracks closer now. The windows shudder.
“These shipments,” he says at last, tapping two pages into alignment. “They vanish within the same window.”
You lean forward despite yourself. “Which window?”
“Two nights,” he replies. “All outside active port hours. All cleared for temporary holding.”
Your stomach tightens.
“Temporary holdings where?” you ask.
He does not answer immediately. Instead, he pulls another ledger closer – older, its spine cracked with use – and flips to a page you recognise far too quickly.
Your manor.
Or rather, its bonded annex. The one closest to the inner quay. The one most convenient. The one that, until very recently, no one had reason to doubt.
Rain lashes the windows now, a steady roar filling the silence.
“That quay was sealed,” you say, too quickly. “Guarded.”
“I do not doubt that, Legolas says calmly. “Which makes the pattern interesting.”
He shifts one of the ledgers towards you, finger tracing a route in ink. “The barrels are logged in. Cleared. Held. And then…” His finger lifts. “Nothing.”
You rub your eyes with the heel of your hand, then catch yourself and stop. Exhaustion is a liability.
“If they were removed,” you say, “it would have required authority.”
“Yes.”
“And cooperation.”
“Yes.”
The storm punctuates the admission with thunder so loud that it rattles the inkbottles and candleholders on the table.
Legolas finally looks at you. “I am not asking who yet,” he says. “I am asking how.”
You swallow.
“The masquerade,” you say. “There was crowding. Movement. Unrest.”
“Unrest explains confusion,” he replies. “Not disappearance.”
You push back from the table, standing because if you remain seated you may not rise again. Your head swims faintly. You steady yourself with one hand on the wood.
“They did not leave the city,” you say slowly. “If they had, it would show in outbound records.”
Legolas inclines his head. “Agreed.”
“Which means,” you continue, thinking out loud, “they were moved somewhere inside Dorwinion. Somewhere quiet.”
Your gaze lifts to the darkened windows, rain streaking the glass like running ink.
“Warehouses,” you say.
Legolas does not smile. But something within his posture shifts – a piece sliding into place.
Another thunderclap rolls overhead, nearer still, the storm listening in.
You sit back down, head swimming. You press your forehead to the ledger strewn table, refusing the temptation to close your eyes.
Legolas notices.
Then, gently – almost kindly – he says, “You should rest.” He gathers the ledgers and sets them aside. “You will not be of use to anyone if you collapse.” His voice is calm, patient, but firm.
“I’ll rest tomorrow,” you reply, stubborn. “The warehouses…” you fight to stifle a yawn.
He nods. “I understand. But we cannot search warehouses in a storm. There is no urgency in this room.”
You shake your head, exhaling, already knowing he is right but refusing to yield.
“Very well,” he says after a moment, and takes off his cloak. “Then sleep here. Let the storm pass. We check the warehouses together as soon as the first light – or the first pause in the rain – allows. You will not go anywhere in these few hours.”
Before you can protest, he folds the cloak into a rough pillow and sets it for you on the table. Something about the gesture – simple, unceremonious – breaks the tension is a way words could not. Not meeting his eyes, you mutter a small thank you. He nods in response.
You pass out as soon as your head touches it, smelling cedar, honey and smoke.
By the time you come to, the storm has almost passed, the cries of seagulls echo in the cool night air. The candle has died. Legolas is still writing, entirely unfazed, using a sliver of moonlight to see the ledgers. His golden hair shines silver, gossamer strands slightly loose from his braids.
It must have been hours.
You study him, bathed in the silver moonlight, like a painting come to life. High, regal cheekbones and slender nose, delicately arched eyebrows. Statuesque royalty, clear as day.
“Did you rest well?”
You startle at being caught staring. Of course he would know you’re awake – he didn't even need the candle to see the numbers on the page.
“I–” You clear your throat. “Yes.” You smooth the cloak under your hands. “I needed it.”
He hums in response. You fiddle with the family heirloom ring on your finger, a silver vine curling around a goblet.
“Storm is almost clear,” Legolas mutters. “We can check the warehouses before the sun fully rises.”
The walk to the warehouses is soaked and muddy, each step a splash, each breath carrying the sharp tang of salt and wet wood. The rain has thinned to a cold, steady drizzle.
The city is still asleep, the quay deserted except for the occasional gull, shrieking into the dawn. You keep pace with Legolas, who moves like the rain itself – fluid, controlled, alert. Light from your lantern reflects off the rain-darkened stone, illuminating the looming shapes of the large stock warehouses.
The first building yields nothing of interest.
Old stock, broken hoops. Barrels long since emptied or spoiled, their staves swollen and split. You note the dates. All before Pelargir. All accounted for. Someone has even bothered to restack a fallen row.
Legolas crouches, finger tracing a streak of soot along the floor. He looks up at you.
“The storm didn’t wash this away,” he says. “Or this is recent.”
You follow his gaze. A faint smear through the dust. Tar, maybe. Recent.
“Next,” you say.
The second warehouse is cleaner than it should be. The floor swept, the corners cleared of cobwebs. A few barrels remain, but their chalk marks are wrong; their dates too new. Fresh wood, fresh wine, freshly sealed and ready for the next destination which won’t come.
By the third warehouse, the smell changes. Something sharp beneath damp wood and salt. Wine, unmistakeable, but something is wrong.
Your steps slow.
Inside, crates are stacked high, too close together. This is not storage.
Legolas traces soot markings to a side door, half-forgotten behind a stack of crates. Pushing the door open, he walks into a tiny, dark room, untouched by the storm. You look up, lamp held high, illuminating layers of treated canvas over a large shape.
Stepping into the room with him, you lift a corner of the fabric. A familiar warped ring stares back at you, charred and misshapen.
The Pelargir barrels never left Dorwinion. Your heart thuds.
A faint hiss comes from the back of the room, soft enough that you almost miss it. Legolas’ head snaps up.
“Do you hear that?” he asks. You do.
Your stomach drops.
Smoke slips form between the barrels at floor level, thin and pale, moving against the draft. It is not thick enough to choke yet, but it is wrong – too sudden, too contained.
Legolas’ hand closes around your wrist.
“Out,” he says, voice sharp. “Now.”
You turn, heart hammering, boots skidding slightly on wet stone as the smoke thickens behind you. The lantern swings. Shadows leap. Somewhere overhead, a beam cracks.
You clear the doorway just as the first barrel gives. It explodes – wood splitting, hoops screaming as blue fire pours out like liquid light. The color is unmistakeable, a violent cobalt that stains the dark like a bruise.
“Run,” Legolas says, his voice cutting through the crackle of beams behind you.
Someone did not want these barrels to be found.
You sprint across the quay as the sound changes behind you, a rolling thunder that is not the sky. One barrel ignites the next. The warehouse becomes a mouthful of flame, blue and copper tearing upward, reflected brutally against the dark blue edge of dawn.
The heat hits you in the back, a wall, knocking the breath from your lungs. You hit the ground as the roof collapses inward behind you.
When you look back, there is nothing left to save. The smell of wine and tar mixes in the air, sharp and bitter.
Exhaustion settles over you like a physical weight. Weeks of sleep lost, decisions unmade, a city in political chaos – and it all converges in smoke and those same blue flames. You glance at Legolas. He’s unreadable; eyes dark but alert. You both stand in storm-soaked silence, watching the fire sputter.
Rain begins to fall again, hissing as it strikes the fire, steam boiling up in ghostly sheets. Legolas pulls you to your feet, grip firm and grounding. His face is set, eyes fixed on the destruction with a grim focus.
“A fail-safe,” he says quietly, “They expected discovery.”
“And planned for it,” you say.
The fire roars as the last intact staves give way.
When the sky lightens another shade, there is nothing but the inferno, and the smell of burned wine drifting out to sea.
Dorwinion is not meant to pass the audit.
The fire burns itself out faster than you expect. By the time you reach the small, secluded beach, the worst of it had already collapsed inward, the roar reduced to a dull crackling hiss behind you. Smoke drifts low over the water, dragged sideways by the wind until it thins and disappears into the pale edge of dawn.
The sky is blue.
Not yet the clean blue of morning; but the deep and cool in-between color, almost bruised, of the last hour before the sun breaks the horizon.
You stop where the sand meets the surf and let the cold soak through your boots. The sea is restless, dark waves shouldering towards the shore. Ash drifts down in fine grey threads, settling into the wet sand, dissolving almost immediately.
Behind you, the warehouse smolders. Nothing remains intact. No barrels, no staves worth salvaging. No proof that can exonerate you.
If this were my doing, they would have burned.
How long until your own words come back to haunt you?
Legolas stands a few feet away, cloak dark with mist, hair loose from its tie. He watches the water, not the fire. He hasn’t spoken since you left the quay.
You crouch and drag your fingers through the sand. It comes away gritty with ash.
“They wanted it seen,” you say quietly. “Just enough.”
He nods once. “Seen. But not stored.”
The wind pulls more hair loose from his braid.
You straighten slowly, every movement aching now that the danger has passed. Exhaustion settles back into your bones with no resistance left to fight it. Days of vigilance, of calculation, of keeping Dorwinion upright by force of will alone – and this is what answers you get.
Fire and ash.
“Whoever it is,” you say, “they’ve taken the choice from us.”
“No,” Legolas replies. His voice is steady. “They narrowed it.”
You turn to look at him. His face is pale in the blue light, face unreadable, but there is intent there now. Focus. Whatever the night has taken, it has also given him clarity.
“The audit continues,” he says. “But this changes its shape.”
You let out a short breath. “How?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he steps closer to the water, boots sinking slightly into the sand. A wave breaks at his feet, leaving behind a thin foam that vanishes as soon as it appears.
“Someone is willing to burn evidence rather than let it be examined,” he says at last. “That suggests preparation. And fear.”
You glance back toward the ruined warehouse, the last tongues of flame barely visible now in the mist. Blue light reflects faintly on the water’s surface. Not fire now. The absence of it.
“Dorwinion will pay for this,” you say.
“Yes,” he agrees. “In ways we do not yet know.”
The sun edges closer to the horizon, lightening the sky by degrees. The city behind you begins to stir, unaware of how much had already been decided while it slept.
You draw your arms around yourself, suddenly cold. The hem of your dress gets caught in a passing wave.
For a moment, neither of you speak. There is nothing left to say that would make this better.
Then Legolas inclines his head toward the city. “We should return,” he says. “To get some proper rest. And take care of this.”
You nod, once.
As you turn away from the water, the ash at your feet is already gone, washed clean by the tide.
content rating: G, fem reader, fourth age, enemies to lovers, slow burn
w/c: 3.6k
summary: You are heir to Dorwinion’s wine trade and the one keeping its ports, vineyards, and alliances from collapsing under accusation and ash. When Legolas of the Woodland Realm arrives to inspect Dorwinion’s trade, every decision becomes a risk and every truth carries a cost. Between councils, wine, masquerades, and a market on the brink, rivalry sharpens into reluctant trust—and the cost of honesty grows too high.
read on ao3 or below the cut
You walk into the council chamber with your lip bitten raw and ghostly knives digging into your chest. It is not a meeting room, but a hearing room; designed for voices to carry and silences to land.
The crimson banners of Dorwinion never stopped reeking of guilt. The room no longer feels regal and spacious as countless people pack inside, different delegations taking their places in tiered seats and benches, squeezing past each other and murmuring about the early assembly. Scribes had already taken their places at the back, styluses poised, parchment ready.
The dappled mid-day sun hits a lone charred barrel, set upon a plinth of pale white stone, placed in the middle of the room like an offering upon an altar.
Your nails dig into your palms.
You recognise that barrel.
You recognise its ghostly sheen.
Your heart pounds in your chest as you force your breath back under your control and head towards your seat. Your steward trails behind you, face betraying nothing but the lines on his forehead are harsher than you remember.
A single barrel, untreated, stands in your line of sight the same day that the others you so meticulously prepared disappeared form under your nose.
Someone else was now playing your game.
Across the open space, Gondor’s representative watches you with hawked eyes and mouth pulled into a taut, thin line. He meets your gaze with the faintest inclination of his head, a courtesy extended as one might acknowledge an equal. Magistrate Calion of Pelargir is exactly where he ought to be, posture easy but not relaxed; His robes are pale, edged in red and silver so fine it looks woven rather than stitched.
Dale and Erebor had taken seats nearby, close enough to share murmured counsel if they chose. Rohan’s envoy sat slightly apart. House Lereth, Velon, and Taryn took their places beside you, presenting a united Dorwinion front – at least for now.
Mirkwood’s seats stood empty for a brief moment, dust motes drifting past caught in the rays of light streaming from the windows.
When Legolas enters, the shift is subtle but immediate. Not a hush – the room was built for such things – but rather a recalibration. He did not look at you at first. His gaze moves instead across the chamber, taking in scribes, the open floor, the plinth. The barrel.
Only then did he acknowledge you, his expression unreadable, his attention sharp in a way that has nothing to do with courtesy.
You return the nod, equally controlled.
For a breathless moment, no one speaks. You worry the hem of your sleeve as your stomach lurches. This may be your city, but this is not your council. This is not your court.
Magistrate Calion rises at last, the motion unhurried, practiced.
“Let us begin,” he says, his voice carrying easily through the chamber. “For the sake of clarity, and for the pursuit of truth.”
You feel the absence of the missing barrels as keenly as if they had been placed beside the one at the center.
Calion does not hurry the moment. He allows the silence to take a full measure, for the hands of the scribes to still, for the barrel at the center to become the axis around which all attention turns.
“When a council is convened before its appointed time,” Calion says at last, his voice calm, careful. “It is customary to ask whether urgency has displaced prudence.”
A faint, courteous smile graces his mouth. Your stomach churns.
“In this case I would argue the opposite.”
His gaze moves slowly, encompassing the seats, the scribes, the open floor. When it returns to the center, it lingers there, on the charred curve of wood and iron.
“An incident occurred in Pelargir,” he continues. “Within a Gondorian port. Under Gondorian authority. His Majesty’s ports mourn the loss of forty lives, three ships. A shipment of vintage intended for Minas Tirith’s feast; bearing Dorwinion seals.” He glances at you. “And fire burned in such a manner that–” a pause, deliberate, “-has already drawn comment.”
He does not name the comment. He does not need to. The word blue hovers unspoken, heavy as smoke. You almost choke on it.
“We are not gathered to indulge rumor,” Calion says gently. “Nor to transform conjecture into accusation. Trade survives on confidence, not speculation. Yet confidence cannot be restored by simple absence of inquiry.”
A stylus scratches softly at the back of the chamber, the sound unnervingly loud.
“Much of the material recovered at Pelargir was rendered unsafe by the nature of the explosion,” he went on. “What could be preserved without further risk has been secured and placed before the council.” He extended one hand, palm open, toward the plinth.
“The remainder,” he says, eyes locked onto yours without sway, “were expected to be produced by Dorwinion, in the interest of transparency and good faith.”
Expected. Interest. Good faith.
Who had betrayed you?
“Their absence,” Calion continues, as though noting a clerical discrepancy rather than twisting a knife, “has not gone unnoticed.”
A fact entering a record.
“We have also received assurances,” he says smoothly, “that Dorwinion maintained full production throughout the recent drought by means of foresight, stewardship, and internal adjustment. An achievement widely admired, and frequently cited as evidence of Dorwinion’s exceptional management.”
Exceptional.
The word gleamed, polished to a dangerous shine.
“Yet exceptional circumstances," he added, cocking his head slightly, “invite exceptional scrutiny. As precaution.”
Your eyes narrow slightly, sensing what scrutiny he is implying.
“Our purpose today is not to assign blame, but to determine whether the uncertainty can be resolved within existing frameworks of trust, or whether further measures should be taken to safeguard the stability of the market upon which so many realms depend.”
Trust. Frameworks. Stability.
Each a brick arranged benignly, yet stacking into a wall that spelled trade embargo.
At a subtle gesture from Magistrate Calion, an attendant steps forward.
He moves carefully, as if approaching a relic rather than a ruin, and adjusts the angle of the plinth so the barrel fragment catches the light more fully. The iron banding gleams dully, warped outward where the heat had bitten hardest.
“This,” Calion says, “is what remains.”
A beat.
“It was recovered from the quay at Pelargir after the fire had been brought under control. Its contents were lost. Its structure compromised. Its residue–” another pause, longer, “--unsual.”
Beside you, you feel Velon shift.
“Further handling was deemed imprudent in the interest of public safety,” he goes on. “What you see here is what could be preserved.”
You lean forward despite yourself, your attention caught by the grain of wood, by the places where the iron had fused just enough to suggest pressure rather than flame. You see immediately that faint silver sheen.
“It is in this context,” he says, turning at last towards you fully, “that Dorwinion’s continued prosperity during the drought has drawn comment.”
A pivot smooth enough that a less attentive ear may have missed it.
“You are asked,” Calion says, “to account not only for the incident itself, but for the conditions that made it possible.”
All eyes turn to you.
You feel the gaze of your father bore into the back of your head from a few benches above you. Your ambition led to that shipment burning. Your ambition led to those runes being set ablaze.
Fix it.
You rise without haste, plum skirts swishing against the cool stone. You hold your chin high, refusing to buckle under their scrutiny and doubt.
“Dorwinion did not expect to be commended for surviving the drought,” you say evenly. “We expected to be blamed.”
A few heads lift at that. Calion’s expression does not change.
“Our lands are not kind,” you continue. “They never have been. What we possess is not abundance, but preparation. We invested early in irrigation. Storage. Redundancy. We reduced losses rather than increasing yield.”
You gesture, not towards the barrel, but outward, to vineyards far beyond the chamber walls.
“We did not increase production,” you say. “We preserved it.”
A necessary distinction.
“As for Pelargir,” you go on, voice not betraying your pounding heart, “the shipment left our custody intact. It passed inspection. It was sealed, documented, and transported according to established agreement. What occurred after that point did not occur under Dorwinion authority.”
A murmur stirs, quickly stilled.
“The absence of the remaining barrels,” you say, meeting Calion’s gaze directly now, “is not evidence of concealment. It is evidence of intervention.”
He knew about those barrels being missing prior to your arrival at the council.
Someone is feeding Gondor information.
The barrel sits between you like a witness.
“We recovered what we could,” you continue. “We secured it for presentation before this council. That those materials are no longer present speaks less to our intentions than to the imbalance of power between those who produce and those who police.”
Lereth shifts, the movement calculated to read concern.
You straighten your back.
“We have cooperated fully,” you say. “We will continue to do so. But Dorwinion will not accept responsibility for rumors borne of absence we did not create.”
Silence follows your words.
Calion inclines his head, a gesture that acknowledges your response without conceding a point.
“Your forthrightness is appreciated,” he says mildly. “As is your willingness to speak to matters of record.”
The compliment slides quietly into place.
“Nevertheless,” he continues, “the council must consider not only intent, but impact.”
There it is.
You remain standing as murmurs swirl around you. The houses of Dorwinion stay silent.
When Calion speaks again, it is with the faintest shift in posture.
“No one here doubts Dorwinion’s preparation,” he says, “nor its capacity to withstand conditions that might cripple a lesser domain.”
Another pause.
“But endurance,” he continues, “is not absolution. And resilience, however admirable, does not place one one beyond scrutiny.”
He gestures towards the barrel at the chamber’s center.
“What concerns this council is not solely the incident at Pelargir,” he says. “It is the convergence of factors that have brought us here. A catastrophic failure at a major port. An absence of material evidence. And a continuity of production under circumstances that strain ordinary explanation.”
Calion goes on. “These elements, taken individually, might be dismissed. Taken together, they oblige us to consider whether existing mechanisms of trust are sufficient.”
He lets his gaze travel briefly to the scribes. Their styluses do not pause.
“In such cases,” he says, “Gondor has traditionally called for a tribunal.”
The word settles into the chamber like a dropped weight.
Your knees go weak. You are thankful now for the crimson velvet you grip between your knuckles that hides your fear from the room.
“A tribunal,” he continues, “to examine trade practices, production methods, and responsibility. Temporarily suspending export while findings are compiled, in order to prevent further harm.”
The word temporarily sounded like an echo of seasons lost.
“This is not censure,” Calion says, anticipating objection before you could retaliate, “It is protection. For Dorwinion, as much as for those who depend upon its trade.”
His hawking eyes turned to you, steady and unblinking.
“Transparency,” he adds, “is most convincingly demonstrated when one has nothing to fear from examination.”
There is the other shoe.
If you resist, you look guilty. If you agree, you will be dismantled until nothing remains of the city you try to salvage.
A low murmur sweeps through the chamber. Dale’s envoy leans forward, hands folded, expression tight with concern that doesn’t reach his eyes. Erebor’s representative shifts in his seat, considering not the justice of the proposal but its yield. Rohan's silence is deliberate.
Legolas did not look at you, his face unreadable.
Calion inclines his head once more. “The motion stands,” he says, “that Dorwinion’s trade be placed upon tribunal review, effective immediately, until such time as the council is satisfied that the uncertainties before us have been resolved.”
He folds his hands again, patient and waiting.
“We may proceed to discussion,” he says, “or to the vote.”
Dale speaks first.
Their envoy does not rise. He leans forward instead, arms resting on the bench, fingers laced together.
“No one here wishes to see Dorwinion harmed,” he says, his tone earnest, almost regretful. “But neither can we afford prolonged uncertainty. Trade does not pause simply because circumstances are regrettable.”
Regrettable.
Your city’s economic collapse is regrettable.
Heat coils in your stomach, rage building, walls closing in around you.
“Our merchants rely on continuity,” he continues, “as do the ports along the River Running. A tribunal, however inconvenient, offers resolution and clarity. Delay benefits no one.”
Resolution mattered to Dale more than fairness. You have always known that.
Erebor follows, slower to commit.
The dwarf lord rises, heavy gemstone rings catching the light, as he folds his arms in front of him. “Erebor has long valued Dorwinion’s reliability,” he says. “And Gondor’s stewardship of the southern ports. Both have served the trade well.”
He paused, considering his phrasing.
“It would be…premature,” he says at last, “to endorse measures that risk destabilizing either party before all matters are fully understood.”
Not opposition. Not support.
“Erebor therefore abstains,” he concludes, sitting once more, “until such time as greater clarity is achieved.”
Always clarity. Always profit.
From Rohan’s seats, a familiar face rises. Eadric’s sun-kissed curls shine under the dappled stained-glass light.
“We do not support a tribunal,” he says plainly. “Nor do we oppose it.”
A few heads turn.
Your eyes meet briefly. He nods once at you. You nod back with a small smile.
“Our concern is precedent,” he continues. “Suspension of trade at peak season harms not only Dorwinion, but every route that depends upon it. Tharlond does not weather closures easily, and neither do those who rely upon it.”
His gaze sweeps across the chamber, daring anyone to counter it and pretend ignorance.
“Rohan will not vote to empower a mechanism that may later be turned against us under different banners,” he said. “We abstain.”
He sits.
The room then turns, almost imperceptibly, towards Mirkwood.
Legolas had remained still through the exchange, attention sharp, gaze unreadable. When he rises, the movement is unhurried.
“The Woodland Realm will not support a tribunal.”
You exhale a breath you had not realised you were holding.
“The incident at Pelargir has already been folded into rumor,” he continues. “Much of it elven in character. A tribunal convened on incomplete evidence will not clarify the truth. It will clarify suspicion.”
His gaze moves briefly to the barrel. Then to Calion.
“Nor will it serve the stability of the northern routes,” he says, “which depend on continuity as much as confidence.”
He pauses.
“We vote against the motion.” Legolas sits.
The room holds its breath. The lines are drawn now – not evenly. Not comfortably.
Calion inclines his head, acknowledging the tally without comment. Two in favor, two abstaining, one against.
“Very well,” he said. “The positions are noted.”
His gaze turns back to you.
“The threshold for convening a tribunal has been met.”
You feel the room narrow. The way the tribunal, poised to dismantle everything you and your bloodline have ever built over centuries, hovers above your neck like a noose tightening.
Calion inclines his head towards you, false saccharine pity coating his tongue.
“This is not condemnation,” he says, “it is process. One that allows Dorwinion the opportunity to clarify its innocence beyond a shadow of doubt.”
Trade frozen for longer than it has been now. Vines heavy with fruit that would not move. Workers paid in promises. A season lost while questions were asked by men while seeking answers they already knew.
You do not move. There is nothing left to say without it sounding like pleading. You did not let your shoulders drop, hands wound tight into the crimson of your skirts.
Legolas rose once again.
Your eyes snap to him.
“With respect,” his words, chosen carefully, echo in the chamber, “Mirkwood cannot consent to this outcome.”
Calion’s expression remains steady. “The vote–”
“Has been recorded,” Legolas agrees. “But the implications have not.”
He steps forward, just enough to bring himself into open space of the chamber.
“A tribunal convened on incomplete evidence does not clarify truth,” he repeats. “A tribunal convened under such circumstances does not only implicate Dorwinion, but calls into question every trade that passes under elven oversight.”
He lets that sit.
“Mirkwood’s name is already being spoken.” Legolas said. “As is Dorwinion’s. To proceed as proposed would entangle both in a process that offers judgement before understanding.
Calion folds his hands.
“And what alternative,” he asks evenly, “does the Woodland Realm propose?”
Legolas does not hesitate.
“A joint audit.”
He does not look at you even once.
“Temporary,” Legolas continues, “Limited in scope. Conducted under shared authority. ITs purpose not to assign blame, but to establish whether Dorwinion’s practices pose any ongoing risk to the stability of trade.”
You feel the weight of the room shift again.
“An audit,” he goes on, “allows Dorwinion the opportunity to demonstrate good faith without the irreversible damage of a tribunal. It allows Gondor to assure the market that oversight has been applied. And it preserves continuity while facts are established, leaving nothing to haste.”
Continuity. Assurance. Preservation.
A lifeline.
Calion regards him for a long moment.
“And who would lead this audit?”
Legolas inclines his head once. Golden hair catches the rays of afternoon sun.
“I would,” he says. “And I will stake my honor upon its findings.”
The word honor moves through the chamber like a change in pressure. You hear murmurs from the elven delegation. Sorion’s face is unreadable, his mouth set in a thin line.
You look back at him. He does not meet your gaze.
Calion exhales slowly.
“A joint audit,” he says. “In place of a tribunal.”
“Yes,” Legolas says.
Another pause.
“At peak season,” Calion adds.
“Yes.”
“With exports suspended until its conclusion.”
Legolas does not flinch. “Yes.”
The concession tastes of iron.
Calion inclines his head in one graceful motion.
“Very well,” he says. “Gondor will accept this compromise.”
He turns back to the scribes.
“Let the record reflect that the motion for a tribunal has been withdrawn, pending the outcome of a joint audit conducted under Mirkwood authority, with Gondorian oversight.”
The styluses scratch faster, parchment rustling.
Calion turns to look at you once more.
“Does Dorwinion agree to this outcome?”
You felt the shape of your future locking into place. No choice would leave you unscathed. You only get to choose which knife you fall on first.
“Yes.”
You did not stand, but your voice was steady.
The decision, once spoken, moved quickly.
Scribes rise to confer in low voices, styluses pausing long enough to blot ink. Delegates whisper in hushed tones amongst themselves. The houses of Dorwinion are silent. Magistrate Calion remained standing as the chamber settled.
“The council thanks is delegated for their restraint and cooperation,” he says. “The matter will proceed upon the agreed terms.”
He does not look at you as he speaks next, face blank.
“Dorwinion’s exports are to be formally suspended effective immediately, pending the conclusion of the audit.”
A murmur ripples through the benches, a wave of dissent.
“Trade will resume,” he continues smoothly, “once confidence is restored.”
He turns to Legolas.
“Gondor trusts that Mirkwood will conduct this audit with the rigor the moment requires.”
Legolas inclines his head. “It will be conducted thoroughly.”
Calion’s mouth curved, his expression thin and satisfied.’
“Then this Council of Barrels will now be adjourned.”
Dale’s envoy gathers his papers with visible relief, already calculating routes and contingencies. The dwarf lord from Erebor lingered, eyes flicking between you and Legolas with a merchant’s interest. House Lereth rises last, offering you a quiet word of reassurance that sounded rehearsed even to you.
Rohan did not linger.
Eadric pauses as he passes you, just long enough for recognition to cross his face. He offers a small acknowledgement, understanding the choice you're making by remaining where you are. Then he was gone.
You remain where you are, the room emptying around you, echoes of voices lingering in the stone long after their owners have left. Only when the scribes withdrew and the attendants extinguished lamps at the chamber’s edge did you allow yourself to breathe again.
Legolas approaches without ceremony.
Up close, the composure he wore during the council fractures for just a moment to reveal intent beneath it.
“You understand,” he says, “that this audit will be exhaustive.”
“I would be disappointed if it weren’t,” you reply.
A flicker of something passes across his face at that. Perhaps approval.
“I did not intervene to spare Dorwinion scrutiny,” he says. “I intervened to make sure it is not destroyed before the truth could surface.”
You meet his gaze steadily. “Then we are aligned.”
For now.
“The tribunal would have ended us,” you say.
“Yes,” Legolas agrees. “And the audit may yet do the same.”
For a moment neither of you speak.
Outside, bells begin to ring, carrying with them the end of the afternoon.
“I will begin tomorrow.” Legolas says at last.
You incline your head. “Dorwinion will cooperate.”
He studies you for a heartbeat longer than required.
“I believe that,” he says.
When he turns to leave, the space he vacates feels colder than before.
You stand alone in the chamber then, the echo of a charred barrel heavier than its presence had been.
content rating: G, fem reader, fourth age, enemies to lovers, slow burn
w/c: 0.8k
summary: You are heir to Dorwinion’s wine trade and the one keeping its ports, vineyards, and alliances from collapsing under accusation and ash. When Legolas of the Woodland Realm arrives to inspect Dorwinion’s trade, every decision becomes a risk and every truth carries a cost. Between councils, wine, masquerades, and a market on the brink, rivalry sharpens into reluctant trust—and the cost of honesty grows too high.
a/n: i know this one’s a little short but the next one is coming very soon and is very dense. thought i’d give y’all a breather between the masquerade and the council. also! writers block is beaten for this let’s go
read on ao3 or below the cut
The corridors had already begun to empty themselves after last night.
Cold blue light shifts and cascades down the stone walls of your manor, throwing the gilded glamor in a state of melancholy – cautious peace after the effervescence of the masquerade.
Crushed petals kiss your bare feet as you move through the passageways, shoes loose in your hand, the crimson fabric of last night’s dress heavy with use. It pulls at your shoulders as you walk, a reminder of hours spent upright and attentive. The hem drags faintly across the stone, catching where servants had not yet reached. Your hair had slipped its careful pins long ago. No one had noticed.
You tell yourself you are heading for your chambers. That sleep is the only thing you want.
That is not quite true.
Servants work around you with practiced efficiency, clearing the debris of revelry as if it were no different from any other task. Wax is scraped from candleholders before it can fully harden. Chairs are righted and aligned precisely with inlaid markings in the floor, linens from tables folded and removed before they can crease. Dust is swept away before it can be tracked further into the house. Nothing shows signs of strain.
A paid of attendants pause when they see you, instinctively waiting for instruction. You pass them without slowing. They resume their work at once.
Reflections follow you as you walk. Gilded mirrors still line the galleries, but they no longer multiply you, no longer soften the angles or scatter the light into something flattering – they just show you as you are, keeping pace with your steps. In one, you caught the faint red band blooming across your brows, the ghost of the bejeweled mask that pressed there through the night. A faint red circlet, already fading. A crown of time bought. You did not stop to adjust it.
Rushed footsteps break the measured quiet, too fast, too uneven.Rounding the corner, your steward catches up to you, breath uncharacteristically in tatters, composure sacrificed to urgency.
“My lady,” he gasps, catching himself against the wall. “You may want to see this.”
Your brow furrows, irritation flickering briefly. “See what?”
“Please,” he says, already turning. “Just – follow me."
The direction alone is enough to quicken your steps. You fall into stride beside him, fabric whispering against marble as he leads you away from the upper levels and past your intended turn towards the private corridors. Downward instead.
The air cools with each descent. Stone replaces silk beneath your fingers as you take the stairs two at a time, the sounds of the house changing around you. Above, the soft rhythm of cleaning continues uninterrupted. Below, the quiet deepens.
Cold, damp air meets your face as the private quay opens before you, the sea pressing close against the foundations as it always had.
You stop.
Where there should have been charred barrels, cleaned and ready for the Council, stood nothing but dark shadows and the smell of spirits biting at your nose.
Where the salvaged Pelargir barrels should have stood – charred remnants cleaned and set aside for the Council – there is nothing. No fragments. No hoops stacked for cataloguing. No darkened wood marked for inspection. The floor is bare, scrubbed clean, the stone still faintly slick with spirits that had been used to lift the last traces of ash.
The place where they should have been is immaculate.
No damage.
No signs of a struggle.
No sign that anything had been removed in haste.
Just absence.
For a moment, your mind refuses the conclusion outright. It reaches instead for error, for misplacement, for some mundane explanation that can be corrected with a word and a signature. You step forward, scanning the edges of the space, counting what is not there with the same precision you would have applied to inventory.
You check the markings on the floor where the barrels had been aligned. Intact. You trace the edge of a space where a crate should have cast a shadow.
It did not.
Whoever ordered the removal had done so deliberately, cleanly, with full knowledge of what was being taken. The absence is not careless; it is precise.
“Where are they?” you ask.
Your steward does not answer. He stands very still beside you, eyes fixed on the far wall.
“Who authorized this?” Your voice is level, clipped only by a chilling realization that you do not have the control you thought you did.
The silence says enough.
This had been approved.
It had been recent.
And it had not required you.
As if summoned by it, footsteps echo again from the passage beyond the quay. a messenger appears at the threshold, posture rigid with formality, the letter held out with both hands.
The seal is unbroken. The wording, when you scan it, is careful to the point of sterility.
The timing is not.
The Council of Barrels would convene today, ahead of schedule.
You fold the notice once, then again, pressing the crease flat with your thumb, and hand it back without comment. Above, daylight has fully claimed the corridors by now, draining the last warmth from the stone. Whatever red the night left behind is already gone.
content rating: G, fem reader, fourth age, enemies to lovers, slow burn
w/c: 2.1k
summary: You are heir to Dorwinion’s wine trade and the one keeping its ports, vineyards, and alliances from collapsing under accusation and ash. When Legolas of the Woodland Realm arrives to inspect Dorwinion’s trade, every decision becomes a risk and every truth carries a cost. Between councils, wine, masquerades, and a market on the brink, rivalry sharpens into reluctant trust—and the cost of honesty grows too high.
read on ao3 or below the cut
OVERTURE (allegro sonata)
What returned to Dorwinion came by water, as everything important did. The Pelargir barrels arrived at the private quay before the sun touched the horizon, ferried in quietly beneath the Avenor manor where the water ran dark and slow. You meet them where the quay narrowed, where the canal slipped under the foundations and the air stayed cool even in summer.
Older wood. Charred.
You set your hand to the nearest warped hoop. The metal reflects torchlight in a way that is almost flattering. Beneath it, the wood holds faint resistance, ash too fine to see clinging to the grain. And the silver sheen of overworked wood.
“Keep the west gallery clear until the musicians finish tuning,” you say, already moving on. “And raise the lanterns. The red needs to read richer.”
Someone answers. Footsteps echo over stone. Water laps softly against the quay wall.
You kneel beside the largest section and set your hand to the grain. The burn pattern ran too clean along the channels, sealed instead of splintered. Beneath it lingered the faint silver residue you learned to recognize.
You work some free with a cloth dampened in spirits, slow enough to not score the grain. No marks. No stains. Just the wrong sheen fading back into dullness. The barrel returned to itself, harmless and forgettable, even if still half destroyed.
You work carefully, lifting ash that clings too evenly, dulling metal that reflects more than it should. This is not restoration – this is narrowing. Making sure what remains could only tell one story.
“Make sure they are all clean like this,” you say to the nearest worker, who picks up a cloth and follows your order. “And that none come down here.”
A runner intercepts you between the crates. The arrival order is confirmed. There were concerns about the eastern envoys. You solve it without pausing.
The smaller fragments were worse. The conditioning shows more clearly where the wood had failed outright. You clean what you can. What you can’t, you set aside.
By the time you reach the stairs that climb out of the quay, the work below is contained. The remnants stand in shadow, waiting for other eyes to judge them later.
Above, the manor is already shifting.
The air warms as you ascend to the ballroom. Waterlight follows you through cut-glass panels set into the walls, breaking and reforming with each step. Even here, far from the quay, the sea asserts itself.
Crimson fabric is drawn along the upper galleries, catching the late light and doubling itself in the grand mirrors between the columns. The color looked richer than it was.
The musicians stood ready, bows lifted, breath held. Early. Good.
You sign the ledger at the threshold. Press the seal with your ring. Give the signal. Tie the mask.
Below, water continues its quiet work against stone.
Above, the doors open.
The first note sounds exactly on time.
FIRST MOVEMENT (allegro)
The crowd rolled into the ballroom like the tide onto shore.
A herald’s voice rises and falls, names flung into the room faster than they can be registered. Titles blur. Regions overlap. Applause answers introductions.
White and silver cuts cleanly through the press – Gondor, precise and immaculate, every step and gesture measured. Black and deep orange claim the periphery, Erebor’s envoys heavy with gold and patience, already watching the exits. Dale flashes bright at their edges, cobalt and gilt, laughter ringing a half-beat too loud. Rohan brings sage and flax, sun-touched and unarmored, unfamiliar with mirrors and unconcerned by them.
Sage and silver flicker briefly near the far columns. Mirkwood does not linger.
Names and faces blur as you weave through the crowd. A practiced smile, a mask of red and gold.
You move through it all without stopping.
A cousin from Gondor smiles as he speaks of tariffs and road repairs, his meaning sharp enough to cut if mishandled. You answer and leave him laughing.
A masked scribe from Erebor murmurs about delays in the north. You promise nothing and give him a name to talk to later.
A horse-lord asks after pasture and portage as if it were idle curiosity. You redirect him towards the wine and let the question dissolve.
No conversation lasts long enough to settle.
Red and gold frame you as you go from group to group, silk catching lantern light, reflection doubling reflection until it is impossible to tell where the room ends and you begin. This is the mask you know how to wear. This is the language you speak fluently.
When the music dips, Lord Taryn lifts his glass.
“To Dorwinion,” he calls, voice warm with pride and sharp with expectation. “To houses that endure. To stewardship that holds, even when the world shifts beneath it.”
The room roars approval. You incline your head, accepting the compliment and the weight beneath it in the same motion.
The music surges again.
Servants flow forward, wine flashes. The moment fractures into motion.
Then the air shifts.
It is subtle at first. A break in the heat. Lantern light steadies. Reflections sharpen.
Green and silver emerge beneath the archway, cooler than the room has been all night, misty sage against copper glow. Moonlight threaded through silk.
Legolas of Mirkwood steps into the hall.
Conversations falter, just enough to notice. The tide adjusts around him, recalibrating.
You feel it before you see him.
And for the first time since the doors opened, the room no longer feels entirely under your control.
When you glanced again, he was no longer by the archway.
You do not seek him out again. You do not need to.
His presence presses at the edges of the room, quiet and unignorable. When you glance towards the columns, he had shifted position without drawing notice, standing where the light broke less breathlessly.
The space around him holds, as if the room itself is unsure what to do with him.
SECOND MOVEMENT (adagio)
The music softens, the tempo eases, and the press of bodies loosens enough to allow you to draw breath again. The floor feels wider, quieter, less watched. The crowd thins in small, unconscious ways, drawn elsewhere by the brightness and noise.
Eadric of Aldburg finds you near the edge of the floor, where the lantern light thins and the mirrors no longer multiply the room into something you have to manage.
“May I?” he asks, and waits.
You nod before thinking. That, more than the question, surprises you.
He matches your step easily. There is no correction in his hand, no quiet pressure meant to test you.
“You seem at ease tonight,” he says after a time. “Not relaxed. Just…steady.”
You almost laugh. Instead you give him the truth, shaped to fit. “Practice.”
He accepts that without comment, as if it explains enough.
The floor moves beneath you, smooth as water over stone, and around you the noise of the hall dulled to something manageable. Here, no one interrupts. No one angles closer to overhear.
“Rohan does not do things like this often,” Eadric says, conversationally. “When we gather, it is usually for oaths, or tamer celebrations.” He pauses. “There is less room to pretend.”
“And does that suit you?” you ask.
He considers it, genuinely. “Most days.”
The answer is complete. It does not hedge. It does not hide.
You feel the weight of it settle somewhere quiet and unexpected.
“Do you ever dance for yourself,” Eadric asked softly, “or only because it is expected of you?”
You think of all the reasons you dance. None of them belong to you.
“Rarely.”
He nods as if that answers exactly what he meant to ask. He does not try to fill the comfortable silence that follows.
In the mirror beside you, your reflections swayed without distortion, just two figures turning in time to the music. No doubling. No clever angles.
For a moment, the night asks nothing of you.
Eadric is honored without effort. His words do not have to be weighed. His presence does not invite scrutiny. He is free in ways you have never allowed yourself to be.
The thought prods like a barb. Not because you want what he offers – but because you can see, clearly, the shape of the life you have built, and how little room there is in this gilded cage for this kind of ease.
THIRD MOVEMENT (scherzo)
Light, reflections, glass.
The music breaks bright and fast, tempo leaping before anyone can catch it. What quiet the hall held now scattered at once.
Eadric releases you, stepping back with an easy nod.
“Thank you,” he said.
You mean it when you answer.
The dance reforms itself around momentum. Partners shift. Laughter rings and collides.
You let the current take you.
Someone tries to corner you with a question poised to draw blood. You laugh, answer shifted sideways, and send it spinning into the room where it turns harmless.
It worked.
Everything did.
A glass raised near the high table. This time the room answers before the words fully land.
“To trade reborn!” came the call from Velon, bright with relief and pride.
The following roar shook the chandeliers.
Wine flashed.
Red flared.
You feel it then, the heady lift of it. The night had tipped in your favour. The worst of it is behind you.
At the edge of the floor, Legolas did not move.
He watches as the pattern forms around you; the speed of your decisions, the precision of your recoveries.
This is fluency.
The music tightens. The room draws inwards.
When you look up, you are beneath the chandelier, light spilling above you.
FOURTH MOVEMENT (allegro sonata)
Light fractures and doubles in the mirrored walls as you take your place at the center of the ballroom. The chandelier scatters it further, turning movement into something almost ethereal.
Your dance partner has a familiar ocean gaze. Legolas stands opposite you, mist upon velvet, already waiting. When he offers his arm, he does not look away.
That, more than anything, unsettles you.
You accept, and the music carries you forward. He moves with unbridled grace, precise without effort. It does not surprise you. What surprises you is how little he seems to look at the room.
His attention never leaves you.
For the first few measures, he allows you the lead. He follows your rhythm easily, letting the violins do their work, letting the hall believe this is harmony.
“Your people,” he says lightly, as if remarking on the music, “they never sailed West, did they?”
“No.” You turn, crimson skirts catching the light. “The Teleri stayed behind. That’s how we have what we have now. Elven heritage, mortal lands.” A practiced answer. “The Gondorians call us halfbreeds,” you quip.
His grip tightens just enough to be felt as he guides you through a closer turn.
“What do you call yourself?”
You meet his gaze in the mirror as you pass. “Dorwinian.”
You let the spin carry you out and back again, reclaiming the space between you.
For a moment, he says nothing. Then, quietly, too quietly for anyone but you to hear:
“I know you hide something.”
The chill is immediate. You feel it down your spine, sharp and unwelcome. You do not let it reach your face. The mask you wear tonight is not the bejeweled one.
“And what,” you say, letting the next turn lift your voice, “may that be?”
The hitch in your voice is small. You hope he does not notice. You know that he always will.
He draws you in, closer than the dance requires, the music covering the shift. His breath catches the shell of your ear. You still, for a heartbeat.
“I intend to find out,” he murmurs.
You do not pull away.
Instead you spin, precisely on the beat, forcing him to release you. The movement is elegant. Controlled.
He catches you again for the final measures, eyes intent, assessing rather than accusing.
“But,” he adds, as the music begins to resolve, “I respect the grace with which you carry it.”
The last turn comes. He releases you as the music stops, distance restored, the hall applauding perfection it did not witness closely enough.
“As I respect,” you reply evenly, “your undivided focus.” Your voice does not betray your quivering heart.
His gaze does not soften, nor does it harden.
All you have to do, you remind yourself as he steps back, is keep him focused on the seals.
And away from the vineyards.
CODA (pianissimo)
Your mask comes off as the sun breaks the horizon, a muted blue and silver dawn bathing everything in an echo of success and gilded glamour. Your face stares back from a mirror, doubled, tripled, triumphant.
Echoes of seagulls from the docks bring you back to the regular Dorwinion, no longer bleeding red and gold.
content rating: G, fem reader, fourth age, enemies to lovers, slow burn
wc: 3.1k
summary: You are heir to Dorwinion’s wine trade and the one keeping its ports, vineyards, and alliances from collapsing under accusation and ash. When Legolas of the Woodland Realm arrives to inspect Dorwinion’s trade, every decision becomes a risk and every truth carries a cost. Between councils, wine, masquerades, and a market on the brink, rivalry sharpens into reluctant trust—trust into something far more dangerous—and the cost of honesty grows too high.
read on ao3 or below the cut
Dorwinion clings to the Sea of Rhûn like a sun-bleached amphitheater, its docks loud with unrest, its terraces thick with ledgers, and its vineyards climbing the hills as if they meant to escape the city entirely.
“You said you wanted to see more of Dorwinion.”
Legolas turns to see you, rich berry linens draped from your frame, waiting for him in the mulberry dawn of the Middle Terraces. Two guards flank you, as well as your ever-present steward.
He nods, ocean eyes meeting yours.
“Then come.” You walk forward, and he matches your stride towards the sea docks. “We can tackle two tasks at once.”
“Which are?” His voice has a lower timbre in the morning.
“Sightseeing, as you asked for,” you answer, “And your initial seal inspection.”
“Initial.”
“Yes.”
Dorwinion wakes in layers. By the time the sun clears the low roofs near the docks, the terraces above are already alive with counting boards and shouted figures, porters moving crates from shade to shade as if the heat itself were an adversary.
You lead him away from the central quay and into the narrowed streets that ribbon upward, stone worn smooth beneath centuries of trade.
“This quarter handles intake,” you say, gesturing toward a covered court where carts are being unloaded at speed. “Goods are weighed, recorded, and redirected before they ever touch the open docks.”
Legolas nods, eyes already moving, gaze tracking everything at once. The guards posted too close together. The way a clerk wipes his hands on his tunic before making a tally. The sound of voices pitched just low enough not to carry.
“They move quickly,” he says.
“They move before the heat sets in,” you reply. “We work with the sun, not against it.”
You pass beneath an archway where canvas has been stretched to shade a line of waiting merchants. A woman argues quietly with a steward over tariffs. Somewhere, glass clinks. Somewhere else, a barrel is rolled too hard and steadied at the last second.
“You avoid the main thoroughfares,” Legolas observes.
“For now,” you say. “There’s no reason to invite a crowd to watch you work.”
His mouth twitches, almost a smile. Almost.
“You assume I draw crowds.”
“You’re an elven prince in a city accused of poisoning its wine,” you say flatly. “Yes.”
He does not contradict you.
The route bends inland, away from the salty tang of the sea and into the warmer air that smells of dust and fermenting grapes. Terraced courtyards open between buildings, vines trained along stone walls and wooden frames, leaves already curling at the edges despite the season.
“These are not ornamental,” you say as his eyes linger. “The inner terraces supplement the hills during drought.”
“They suffer for it,” he notes, spotting a vine whose leaves have yellowed prematurely.
“They always do.” Your jaw tightens, just slightly. “They survive anyway.”
Your steward appears at your shoulder, muttering about schedules and arrivals. You nod without slowing, adjusting the route by instinct.
Legolas watches the exchange. “You hold many threads.”
“You don’t keep a port standing by holding one at a time.”
You stop briefly at a low parapet overlooking a lower yard where sealed barrels are stacked beneath linen tarps, guards posted at the corners.
“This will be your first inspection,” you say, nodding towards it. “Clean, controlled, and well-documented.”
He steps closer to the stack, surveying the space. “You’ve chosen carefully.”
“I don’t do anything else.”
There’s a pause. Not uncomfortable – measuring.
“Sightseeing,” he says at last, echoing your earlier words.
“And efficiency,” you answer. “I meant what I said.”
He looks at you then, curious.
“Very well,” he says. “Show me.”
You gesture for the steward to summon the clerks. A clerk steps forward, nervous but prepared, producing a small knife and a wax stamp.
Legolas kneels by a barrel without ceremony. He runs his thumb over the seal, studies the impression, the depth, the pressure. He checks another. And another.
“These are consistent,” he says.
“They should be,” you reply.
A third barrel. A fourth. The process is methodical, unshowy. No spectacle.
He checks a shipping manifest that the clerk handed to him. “House Lereth submits a higher volume than most,” Legolas notes, standing at last.
“They always have.”
“Even now.”
You glance at him. “Especially now.”
You move on. Through another court, narrower this time, where seal-keepers work quickly under watchful eyes. Sweat darkens tunics. Wax is reheated and stamped again and again, the smell sharp and sweet.
“They’re working fast,” Legolas says.
“They’re working carefully,” you correct. “There is a difference.”
He watches one of the workers steady their hands before pressing a seal. Notes it. Files it away.
“Some of these seals were applied inland,” he says after a moment.
“Yes.”
“That is not standard.”
“Neither is a port under sanction.”
You walk in silence for several steps. The heat presses closer. Somewhere a voice rises, then fades. Legolas slows. Stops.
He smooths his thumb over one of the Lereth seals again. The wax has not had time to dull.
“Then I would like to inspect one of Lereth’s bonded vaults.”
The words fall into the yard and do not echo. They do not need to. Work stops. A ledger is lowered. Someone’s foot shifts against stone.
“No,” you say.
Legolas turns to you. “You deny access?”
“I do.”
“On what grounds?”
“Bonded Lereth vaults are semi-sovereign commercial zones,” you say evenly. “Protected under internal Dorwinion trade law. Inspection requires joint authority or council writ.”
“Mirkwood has standing interest where elven seals are concerned.”
“You have standing to examine seals,” you reply. “Not to isolate a Dorwinion house.”
“If Lereth has nothing to hide—”
“Then they will answer the council,” you cut in. “Not you. Not today.” The air between you tightens.
“You are obstructing my mandate,” Legolas says.
“I am defining its limits.”
Silence again. He studies you. Not angry. Measuring.
“Very well,” he says at last.
The calm in his voice unsettles more than protest would have.
You gesture to the clerks. “Resume.”
Work stirs back to life, too loud, too eager.
Legolas steps aside with you, just far enough that others pretend not to listen.
“You do not trust me,” he says quietly.
“Trust has nothing to do with this.”
“It always does.”
You do not answer.
“We are done here,” you say instead.
“For now,” he replies.
He turns away first.
The window stands open, letting the afternoon city bleed into the room. Voices rise and fall below, steady, relentless.
Your steward sets a slim stack of papers on your desk.
“Council packers arrived,” he says. “Lereth has requested confirmation of tomorrow’s routing.”
“Delay it,” you reply without looking. “Everything waits until after the festival.”
A pause.
“Including the elf?”
“Especially the elf.”
He studies you for a moment. Chalk dust smears mulberry velvet where the tailor marked your dress hem for adjustment. “He asked for a bonded vault.”
“He crossed a line.”
“Publicly.”
“Yes.”
The city murmurs on.
“He will remember it,” the steward says at last.
You exhale through your nose. “So will everyone else if I had let him. Tomorrow it would be Gondor. Then Dale.”
Another pause.
“He did stop.”
You close your eyes briefly. “...He did.”
You turn back to the room. “Prepare wine. Northern slope. The old vines.” You step towards the array of jewelry laid out on the desk. “Oh, and fetch lighter tunics. He won’t last the heat.”
The steward inclines his head. “An apology?”
“A recalibration.”
“I’ll see to it.” he turns to leave.
“Make it quiet.”
Your heels drag on the cobblestone as you walk the steps up to the Middle Terraces.
“I hope you don’t mind,” you say, approaching Legolas on the vine-draped balcony, “I took the liberty of finding you some local tunics, for the heat.”
You place down a small stack of linens and cottons on the divan in the center; thick, crushed, mulberry velvet brushing under your fingers.
“Thank you.” Legolas responds curtly, bowing his head slightly to the side. He does not look at you, but continues to stare out on the balcony.
You clear your throat, the air thick with unspoken words hanging between you since the morning, words that could not spill.
“Our autumn is warm, and humid. I assumed you would not be comfortable in that thick wool for much longer.” You attempt to break the silence.
“I do not intend to linger.”
It stung more than you’d like to admit. You look down, fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve, a thread peeking loose. “Of course. I would merely like our guests to be at ease while they are here.”
“I thank you for your hospitality.” Legolas says without turning. His golden hair shines copper in the dying embers of the sun. You stare at the back of his head, chewing on your bottom lip. Taking a sharp breath, you steel your nerves and sit on the divan, beside the clothes you brought, and push aside your pride.
“I believe… I believe I may have been harsher than I intended earlier today.”
His head tilts to the side slightly, listening to you, hair gliding across his shoulders like gossamer strands; but he does not respond.
“Dorwinion is my home. It is my charge, and I am its keeper. It is all I have, it is everything I have worked for, everything my ancestors and family have worked for. I see that I may be… aggressive in my defense of it, but I hope you come to forgive my blade of a tongue. I only do so for its peace.”
“I do not understand how your undermining of my mandate relates to your internal affairs.”
“Everything in Dorwinion is tied to its houses. You,” you stand from the divan, “Asked to examine a bonded Lereth storage vault.” You walk towards him, leaning on the railing, looking out at the city. He shifts to make some space for you.
“Had I allowed you access,” A worker brings you a pitcher of wine, placing it and two glasses on a little crystal table just within your reach, “Then every envoy arriving tomorrow would demand the same. And that is how cities lose control.”
You pour two glasses of wine, and hand one to him. He takes the glass. You take it as a win. “I cannot allow a foreign power to isolate one Dorwinion house without a council mandate, no matter my personal feelings towards them, especially as we face riots. I hope you understand.”
Finally, he turns to face you, face blank. But not angry.
“Peace does not come easy here.” He takes a sip of the wine.
“No. I bite and howl for every scrap of it I can get.”
“It must be… taxing.”
“It is.” You taste the wine in your glass. It is sweet and velvety on your tongue. “What is it like for you?”
“Elves do not have such ruthless politics as Men–”
“Dorwinion is not a city of Men.”
“My apologies.” Legolas looks back down into his glass, swirling around the liquid. “My father does most of the diplomacy work.”
You nod. A question danced around your mind since he arrived; “But you are a lauded hero of Middle Earth. Why are you here counting ledgers?”
“He sent me here not just for paperwork.”
“That much I gathered.”
A pause.
“It is a test. Whether I am ready to lead when he sails West.” He takes another sip. “Battlefields do not translate to courtrooms and palaces. They have their own dance of knives.”
“And are you ready for it?”
“I do not know.”
You look down at your own glass. It has no answers for you, only your reflection wavering back at you in small, crimson ripples.
“You will not follow him?”
“Not yet. Not all are set to leave.”
“Mmh. Are you ready to leave?”
“...No.” Legolas sighed, something deep and wistful settling over his chest. “But I am tired.”
“On that we can find common ground.”
You let the silence sit for a moment. You tilt your glass toward the light. “This one is from the northern slopes. Older vines. Less temperamental.”
He watches you more than the wine. “You sound defensive of it.”
“I am,” you say easily. “It survives the drought.”
That earns his attention. He lifts his glass again, more deliberate this time. Tastes. Pauses.
“It is restrained,” he says slowly. “But not weak.”
You smile despite yourself. “Most things here are.”
He huffs a quiet breath that might almost be a laugh. Almost.
“You keep your best stock close,” he observes.
“I keep my city standing,” you correct. “Sometimes those are the same thing.”
You reach for the pitcher again. “You’ve seen the seals,” you say. “You should at least know what they’re meant to answer for.”
He studies the wine as though it might argue back. “And if I find fault?”
“Then you will have done your duty,” you say. “And I will survive it. Dorwinion always does.”
Another sip. This time he nods, once.
“Very well,” he says. “Then I will not press on the vaults.”
The tension loosens. Not gone, just eased.
“That is all I ask,” you reply.
A breeze carries the scent of crushed grapes and salt from the harbor. Below, the city glows amber and rust as lanterns flicker on.
“You fight like a general,” he says suddenly.
You blink. “I beg your pardon?”
“You anticipate pressure. You hold ground. You retreat only when forced.” He looks out over the city. “It is familiar.”
You glance at him sideways. “High praise from an elf.”
“Observation,” he corrects. Then, after a beat, “Not criticism.”
You lift your glass. “Then let us agree on this much.”
He mirrors you, slow, deliberate. Glasses clink.
“Tomorrow we smile,” you say quietly. “The day after, everyone decides whether to sharpen their knives.”
He considers, then inclines his head.
“A temporary truce, then” he says.
“Until the council,” you agree.
Below you, Dorwinion hums on, unaware it has been granted a brief mercy.
A familiar silhouette and flash of crimson catches Legolas’ eye in the shadow-shrouded street. He steps behind a rack of artisan masks, covering him from view – from you.
A crimson shawl covers your head and shoulders, and should anyone less observant have looked, they may have not even recognised you. But Legolas has keen eyes, ones he trained on you now – standing on the corner of the street, talking with someone in hushed tones just outside his earshot. Flashes of blue cloth covering something – crates? Barrels? – are carried into the building, one worker after another hauling oversized shapes in the near darkness. Workers with elven heritage, their hair reflecting a silvery sheen from the moon. Workers that could see in the dark.
Before he could make out more, the last of the objects were brought into the building and you turned on your heel, head down, and headed up the street in his direction.
Not knowing what he saw and not particularly wanting to be seen, Legolas ducks inside the store with the masks. A wave of amber and spice accosts his nose just past the threshold, dim oil lamps lighting the satins and silks covering the store from top to bottom. Row after row of festival decorations, masks, tailored gowns – and between it all, an ancient craftswoman, bent over a tiny sewing machine. She grunts in welcome without looking up at him, continuing working on a bodice. Delicately pointed ears and deep, wrinkled skin mark her as one of the part elven inhabitants of Dorwinion.
The craftswoman’s fingers are lithe and strong despite her silver hair and leathery skin, every stitch perfect.
Legolas took a step forward into the space crammed full of every kind of luxurious material Arda had to offer; shimmering silks from the Harad, embroidered cottons from Rohan, crushed velvets from Imladris. All in one tiny store in Dorwinion.
He turns his head to look out of the window, to see if you are coming, and you appear at the same time. He whips back around, hoping you did not see him.
He finds a pair of steady brown eyes meeting his.
“The city does not sleep. Neither do those who protect it.” The woman’s eyes watched you as you walked past, then settled on Legolas again.
“You know of her business?”
“I have no need to.” She looks at him from head to toe. “And judging by the circumstances, neither do you.” She looks down and continues her work. “Lady Avenor works late. Always has.”
Legolas walks carefully around a table full of grand swathes of fabric, brushing his hand across a deep indigo chiffon.
“Choose or leave.”
She doesn’t look up when she says it. Her fingers keep moving, needle flashing, thread pulled tight.
“Careful,” she adds, not unkindly. “That one snags if you brush it the wrong way.”
Legolas stills his hand. “It has traveled far.”
“Everything in this room has.” A pause. “Some of it survived the journey better than others.”
He studies the fabric more closely. “You trade with many lands.”
“I trade with anyone who pays.” She trims a thread with her teeth, sharp and quick. “Ports don’t get to be sentimental.”
The sounds of the street drift in, footsteps and voices echoing on the cobbled ground. Somewhere, metal clatters.
“You sell masks.” Legolas says.
“I sell things people need to become other than themselves for a night.” She gestures vaguely with her chin. “Festival’s coming tomorrow. Everyone pretends harder then.”
He lifts a small emerald mask from the table, turning it in his hands.
“Too light,” she says immediately. “You’ll forget you’re wearing it.”
“What would you recommend?”
She studies him again, longer this time.
“Something that reminds you it’s there,” she says. “But doesn’t announce it.”
He hesitates. “You speak as though you’ve worn many.”
“I speak as someone who repairs them after.” Another pause. “Masks crack where people pull too tight.” The words sit there. She does not elaborate.
Outside, voices rise briefly. Someone laughs. Someone shouts. Then it fades.
Legolas sets the emerald mask back down. “Dorwinion prepares carefully.”
She hums, unconvinced. “Dorwinion survives carefully. There’s a difference.” She reaches under the table and produces another mask, darker, edged with dull gold.
“This one,” she says. “If you’re going to linger.”
“And if I don’t intend to?”
“Then leave.” She turns back to her work. “But don’t pretend you wandered in by accident.” Her fingers work the thread quickly. “Payment upfront.”
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content rating: G, fem reader, fourth age, check individual chapters
wc: 2.2k
summary: You are heir to Dorwinion’s wine trade and the one keeping its ports, vineyards, and alliances from collapsing under accusation and ash. When Legolas of the Woodland Realm arrives to inspect Dorwinion’s trade, every decision becomes a risk and every truth carries a cost. Between councils, wine, masquerades, and a market on the brink, rivalry sharpens into reluctant trust—and trust into something far more dangerous—and the cost of honesty grows too high.
read on ao3 or below the cut
The scent of freshly crushed grapes cling to the very air in the council room. Dust motes drift past slivers of light from stained glass windows, leaving the chamber bleeding color and reverence. Echoes of riots drift faintly from the docks. A clerk sweeps ash from the windowsill. Every banner hanging on the walls reeks of guilt, hanging limp in the heat already drifting in.
You look up, huge gilded high beams of marble and wood making the colossal hall feel regal, even while teetering on the edge of ruin as the council around you erupts into unbridled chaos. You haven’t slept since the trade sanctions started; maybe you’ll find a solution from the Valar written on the ceiling.
And you doubt the Valar would approve of your city now.
“He rode in uninvited! It’s espionage!” The representative of House Taryn is red in the face, spittle articulating his sentences.
“It is rather unlikely Thranduil would send his own son across half the continent for gossip.” You say, zoning back into the meeting. Exhaustion threads through your bones, eyes drooping.
“He insulted our sovereignty!” Taryn shoots back, sloshing wine in his glass. “He walks our docks without leave.”
From the ledger table, House Velon’s heir spoke without raising his head. “His seal carries royal authority. We cannot expel him without provoking a response we cannot afford.”
“If he inspects the vineyards–” Lereth’s representative leaned forward as he spoke, mulberry silk immaculate, hands conspicuously clean.
“He will.” You interrupt. “That is the purpose of his visit.”
Sharp silence follows your words. House rings clink on the mahogany table.
“He is here to inspect elven seals,” Taryn snapped. “And every vineyard in this city knows what that means.”
“Seal inspection does not require access to production,” Lereth said carefully. “Certification has always been sufficient.”
“We can accommodate a seal audit,” Velon said. “We cannot accommodate methodological inquiry.”
“Elves do not use our methods,” Taryn pressed. “They notice patterns we ignore.”
“Then we control what patterns are visible,” you replied. “He will see seals. A clean vineyard. Nothing else.”
“Scope will matter.”
“It will,” you agreed. “Because Gondor has already petitioned the High Council of Barrels.”
That finally stilled the room.
Velon’s pen paused mid-line. Taryn’s grip tightened on his glass. Lereth drummed his fingers on the mahogany table.
“They’re calling for a tribunal,” you continued. “Not today. Not yet. But when the council convenes—”
“In three days,” Velon supplied quietly.
“—they will argue Dorwinion cannot be trusted to police itself,” you finished. “And if that motion gains ground, Legolas’ audit stops being courtesy and becomes evidence.”
No one answered. Someone laughed, once, without humor.
You looked down at the untouched wine in your hand. “Until then, we make sure there is nothing for him to find.”
“You mean we falsify records?” Lereth said coolly.
Velon’s gaze flicked to him. “The records already don’t align.”
“Because someone has been unusually active with northern exports,” Taryn muttered.
Your eyes slid to Lereth.
“Our wines are as pure as yours,” Lereth said sharply. “Certified. Sealed.”
“Then you should welcome inspection,” you replied. “Unless the seals themselves have become… flexible.”
Silence seeps in again, tensions between the houses of Dorwinion thick. All look towards you as you clear your throat.
“Mirkwood may be the only realm with reason to temper the outcome of the Council.”
“Why would the elves vouch for us?” Someone scoffed.
“Because our wine underwrites their northern tariffs,” you said. “A collapsed Dorwinion hurts them as much as it does us. And because if the prince verifies our exports as clean, Gondor loses its narrative.”
Velon nodded once. “But we need time.”
You hesitated only a moment. “The Harvest Festival begins this week.”
Several heads lifted.
“We receive the envoys in full view of the city,” you continued. “Music. Light. Confidence. Let them see a Dorwinion that is thriving, not hiding. Let the prince audit in daylight while the people celebrate. If we shutter our docks, we confirm Gondor’s accusations. If we receive them openly, we buy hesitation.”
“A masquerade,” Velon said thoughtfully.
Lereth frowned. “A spectacle.”
“A message,” you corrected. “That Dorwinion is not on trial. Not yet.”
Velon inclined his head. “A masquerade would fix attention. It limits inquiry without refusing it.”
Taryn exhaled sharply, displeased but cornered. “And if this fails?”
You straightened. “Then it fails on my name.”
Harsh midday sun beats across the white pavement of your manor as you step under the shade of the awning. At your side, Legolas loosens his heavy woodland cloak. You file away the thought that perhaps he would be better suited with some regional robes for later.
A vineyard worker hands you both a glass of wine, wordlessly. You swirl it around, examining the way it settles along the crystal, maroon liquid glinting in the light. You take a sip out of habit. Legolas follows.
“It is pleasantly sweet.”
“It should be.” You take another sip. “It is Dorwinion Red, House Avernor’s prime export.” You look down into the glass, your reflection staring back at you. “The best of the best.”
“I see.”
“And this,” you nod your head towards the vineyard, “is where it is grown.”
He looks out at the sprawling hills of your land, rows upon rows of vines stretching far into the distance, all meticulously cared for. He notes the rich green of the vineyard in contrast to the dry ochres of the wild pastures to the east. Drought. You note the workers scrambling in the distance, moving crates, scraping wax that hasn’t fully cooled over barrels. Sloppy. You hope he does not read into it. A nerve pounds in your temple, the fragility of your scheming settling over you like dread. The thinly-veiled panic of the workers sets your pulse ticking. Maybe, deep down, you are terrified that they are right to panic.
Someone throws a cloth over a crate nearby, and in a hurry to distract Legolas, you lead him towards the vines. You pray, to anyone that is listening, that the workers had time to cover their tracks there.
“I have heard tidings that the Rhun region was under a long stretch of drought.” He says as he walks beside you. Your plum dress swishes in the grass, gold threading shimmering in the sun.
“We have weathered worse.”
The buzz of insects overlaps with the waves crashing in the distance. The sun does not relent, beating down upon workers gathering ripe fruit in the thick, humid air, wide brimmed hats covering their heads and shoulders. Human hands and elven eyes – everyone sweats the same in Dorwinion.
You walk forwards, leading him carefully away from the important areas with scrambling workers and deeper amongst the vines and trellises. Irrigation channels run down the sides of each line, old elven architecture anchoring the land. You point down at them, motioning for Legolas to see.
“Here. Traces of our shared heritage. Old elven channels, watering the land. My ancestors; your kin.”
He kneels down to take a better look, cocking his head to the side. Careful fingers brush against ancient stone.
“Indeed.” He cocks his head to the side. “I presume this is how you survive the drought?”
You look away quickly, not meeting his eyes. “One of our ways, yes.”
He nods, looking back down.
You walk forward again, but stop and turn back when you don’t hear him following. He is still looking down. Too late you notice the fresh plaster on a trellis in front of him – the vine of which is doing poorly compared to the rest.
“An interesting repair technique.”
Cold dread creeps up your spine, a shock in the heat.
“Unconventional, but the workers occasionally get…creative.”
He nods slowly, eyes dancing over the withering plant, surrounded by bright and healthy ones. You will him to get up and walk away, each second he spends kneeling in front of the plant stretching into an eternity for you.
“Not a blight, I hope?”
“No, no.” you say too quickly. He looks up at you. You clear your throat. “The workers will take care of it, rest assured.”
“Of course.”
He stands up again, eyes lingering on the plant, but finally rejoins you.
“You must forgive my curiosity. I have never seen this type of production before.” His eyes meet yours, searching for something. You steel your gaze, giving away nothing.
“I am delighted to show you Dorwinion’s work and heritage. There is much to be found in this city,” you turn and lead the way forward, “if you know where to look.”
His pace matches your leisurely one. He takes another sip of his wine. “I know you must be very busy, but I would much enjoy seeing what else Dorwinion has to offer.”
Before you can answer, you hear your name called from the manor, and a worker runs up to you, out of breath.
“My lady, Prince Legolas,” he pants, “The rest of the Woodland envoy has arrived.”
Your stomach churns. More eyes, all ahead of time. The other envoys wouldn’t arrive until the day after tomorrow. The elves simply insisted on being fashionably early.
Beside you, Legolas straightens, his face becoming unreadable; the mask of a prince slipped on.
“Duty beckons us.” he says.
“So it does.” you answer, already following the lead of the worker.
Legolas hears the elven footfalls before he sees them. A distinct cadence, separate from the chaos of Dorwinion, a familiar aura too controlled to be half-human. A breath of relief leaves his body before unease settles in its absence. Dorwinion’s noise feels too loud by contrast. He has been alone here longer than planned.
Clad in green and silver armor, Sorion, the captain, stands at the head of the envoy, holding a rolled parchment. He offers you and Legolas a short, precise bow. Woodland banners fly high from elven ships docked in the harbor.
“Prince Legolas, Lady Avenor.” Sorion lowers his head in respect. Legolas nods towards him once. His eyes scan the group of elves. They look travel worn yet still immaculate.
From behind him, a herald cries: “Envoys of the Woodland Realm, arriving under the seal of King Thranduil, Lord of the Greenwood.”
You step forward, half a step past Legolas, plum robes billowing in the gust of salty sea air drifting from the harbor. “Dorwinion welcomes the Woodland Realm to its harbor.” A steward of House Lereth shifted from one foot to the other.
“The Woodland Realm thanks Dorwinion for its reception.” Sorion answers, voice neutral and posed. “We come in answer to the city’s summons for the Council of Barrels, and in good faith.”
You examine his face. He gives away nothing, not letting up why they are earlier than planned. “Prince Legolas is already present as an observer and inspector. Your presence will be noted in the council records accordingly.”
From beside you, Legolas clears his throat. “Their arrival does not alter the scope of my inspection.”
Sorion hands a steward of your house the sealed parchment. You nod. “Dorwinion will cooperate fully within the bounds of custom.”
You motion towards your steward. “Quarters have been prepared for you in the Middle Terraces. My steward will escort you and receive your travel seals for record.”
“We accept your hospitality.” Sorion says.
“Then welcome to Dorwinion.” You take your leave, bowing your head quickly. Quietly, to Legolas, you murmur: “We will speak once you are settled.” He nods in response.
As the wind snaps the banners high in the air and your footsteps fade into the marbled distance, Sorion steps beside Legolas.
“A word, my prince.”
Peeling away from the group as the stewards ushered the elves towards the city, Legolas and Sorion stepped onto a terrace overlooking the quays. Chaos still reigned, but in this tucked away corner they had some semblance of privacy.
“The city has received you first, as planned.” Sorion says. “That was wise.”
He turns to face Legolas, his back against the light of the sun. “Less wise is how visible you have become. You were meant to observe quietly, not tour vineyards with Avenor’s heir.”
Legolas’ mouth sets in a thin line. “Visibility discourages deception. They would have noticed regardless.”
“Visibility invites expectation. Expectation invites entanglement.” Sorion shifts from one foot to another. “You are here to identify forged elven seals. Nothing more unless the King demands it.”
Legolas meets his eyes straight on. “If the seals are false, the trail won’t end there.”
“Document it. Do not pursue it. The orders are clear.”
Sorion sighs.
“The Council of Barrels will convene in three days. After that, this ceases to be procedural. At council, you will defend Dorwinion’s autonomy. And the Woodland Realm’s reputation.”
“Reputation built on omission will not hold.”
“The King expects stability. Wine that burns blue will always be blamed on elves. If the city collapses, Mirkwood will not. Do not tie your honor to its fate.”
Legolas nods, his voice empty. “I understand my charge.”
“Good.” Sorion turns to leave the terrace. “We will not linger.” A quick bow of his head to Legolas marked this conversation as closed.
Facing the docks, under his breath, Legolas mutters; “No, we will not.”
summary: Dorwinion bleeds gold and secrets. A gondorian wine barge explodes in blue flames. Dorwinion panics. And the elven prince sent to “audit” your vineyards looks at you like he’s already found the culprit. Shame you’re too busy hiding a political catastrophe, a rune-stained secret, and the way he makes your pulse trip.
pairing: [legolas x reader] (no use of y/n)
content: G, rhûn worldbuilding, fourth age, fem!reader, no use of y/n
⤷ check masterlist for overall content warnings
wc: 2.5k
⤷ Read on AO3 or below the cut
In the blue dawn light, the taverns are still humming with patrons by the time the first rumor-leaf hits the steps of the counting house. Mist from the river drifts in through the open window, mingling with the thick smoke of pipe-weed. The parchment nailed to the counting-house door curls in the moist air.
By order of the Tharlond Counting-House: Trade with Dorwinion suspended pending inquiry. Speculation punishable by fine of three silver coins.
The first river courier barges in, door swinging open, chairs scraping on the floor as the half-drunk patrons of the night before crane their necks to hear what he had to say.
“Fire on the Anduin.” He mutters, breathless, before shouting.“Shipments from Dorwinion burst into flames!”
The barkeep barks a short laugh. “‘Course it did.” he snorts. “The Gondorian barge burned itself, it did. They packed it too tight with pitch barrels and struck a lantern.” He wipes a mug down in the dim light. “Now they’re blaming Dorwinion so they don’t pay the insurance.”
The room erupts into mutters and low chattering. A bargeman, Dale colors lining his cloak, leans back in his seat. “Nah, mate, I seen it. Flames weren’t red at all. Blue, then white, like frost on steel. That’s Elvish fire. Bet the wine was cursed to keep us mortals from drinking too much.” Some mutters of agreement follow.
“Elvish fire indeed. Word from Pelargir says the barrels bore Elven seals. Elves! The same that swore purity before the King. Poison in the wine, treason in the trade.” A soldier grumbles into his drink, taking another long swig. His Gondorian armor full of dents and scratches, but still polished and prideful.
A Rohan captain leans back in his seat, the final dredges of ale glimmering in his mug. “Nay, not the elves. If anything it’s those halfbreeds in Dorwinion themselves. Dale’s ledgers prove it: thirty barrels shipped, twenty-nine arrived. The thirtieth was a decoy, full of ash and witch-runes. Dorwinion’s been cutting the good stuff with river water for years.”
“Either way, nothin’s leaving Dorwinion’s ports til’ this clears up.”
“Gondorian trade will tide us over, sure enough.”
The muttering in the tavern grows restless as countless rumors fly free:
“Somethin’ chewed her open from underneath. River-wyrms, I say, or worse—”
Couriers, already on their way to other taverns and to sell the messages to Dale bargemen, wait in the waters of the port.
Legolas enters the city of Dorwinion at dawn expecting courtly chaos; he finds, instead, the entire northern port rioting.
His orders are clear – nothing but accounting issues, minor diplomacy at worst – but this was beyond his measure. Someone bumps past his horse carrying a barrel full of rotten grapes, promptly hurling it at a freshly-hung sign, stamped with the crest of the leading House of Dorwinion, on the port notice board – ‘All shipments south are stalled until further notice’.
The pale limestone streets of the city are packed tight with people, pushing each and every way, faces livid and manner fierce in their anger. The red roofs of the buildings mirror the sun breaking its way on the horizon, a bleeding dawn scented with wine and sweat. He meanders his horse through the crowd, watchful eyes meeting him from every direction. Under his thick woodland hood, he stands out against the linens and loose fabrics of the warm Dorwinion early autumn.
The city isn’t ablaze yet at the very least, he notes, and continues along the docks towards where the central crowd is gathered. People move out of his way once he drops his hood; his elven features, while not uncommon in the city, still marking him as a dusty outsider from the North.
“We can’t even buy grain anymore!” he hears someone yelling from the crowd, affirming cries following the words.
“We need our wages!”
“The shipments are gathering dust! Even the dwarves aren't buying it out!”
Idle crews of merchants and ships sit in the port, all irate with nowhere to take their anger out but at the one figure at the center of the crowds.
Dismounting from his horse and tying it up near the water, he makes his way forward, pressing through the thrumming crowd. The figure at the center; a lone harbour herald, plum robes billowing in the cool dawn breeze, bronze crest of House Varinel flashing by the waist. His voice carries through the cries and clamouring on the dock:
“By order of the Dorwinion City Council and the Regent’s Seal!
All foreign shipments are hereby suspended pending investigation of the Pelargir disaster. No vessels shall depart the lower docks without council writ or inspection token. Wages and storage fees will be held in trust until trade resumes.
Disorder on the quays will be met with arrest and seizure of goods!”
He rolled his parchment and coughed into his sleeve, the crowd no less tame than before. Hearing the crowd jeer at the herald — “Held in trust by who? Your pockets?” — Legolas pushes his way forward until he’s within earshot of the herald, who notices his dress and his elven features with scrutiny.
“I was told the Councilor would be at the docks.” He says to the man, whose features - not fully human, with a faint light of the Eldar, hair shining in the breeze of the dock - startle him.
“They’re in there,” he motions behind him, to a small building with a sign saying Trade Office, “But I doubt they’re receiving visitors at this time.” He sweeps Legolas up and down again with his eyes, taking in his dusty traveling gear and long blonde hair.
“Thank you.” Legolas nods lightly, and pivots towards the building. As he turns, the herald cries out again.
“The Council assures all honest citizens that the matter will be swiftly resolved. Remain orderly, and Dorwinion shall prosper again!”
It does nothing to quell the crowds.
Stepping into the cool air of the portside house, away from the chants and jeers of the crowd and the cries of gulls, Legolas sees another chaos unfolding before him.
“You can shout all day, the council’s coffers are dry. Pay stops when the ships stop.” You speak at the center of a small but not less angry crowd, marked by the olive and azure linens of the merchants and shipwrights guilds of the city.
“Then you should count your ships correctly.” Legolas’ calm voice carries through the room. His interruption is quiet, but it immediately stops any noise. A thick silence falls over the gathered crowd.
“And who are you?” Your eyes meet his, a blaze of fury and exhaustion behind the stare.
“Someone who just found forty-seven barrels missing from your manifest.”
“Forty seven aren’t missing; they are impounded.”
“Then your impound clerk has an impressive talent for subtraction.” He walks towards you, the room erupting in quiet murmurs at his entrance.
He hands you the page he is holding; you snatch it, eyes dancing over the figures you examine.
He’s right.
Infuritatingly, ineffably, correct.
Your voice low and icy, you mutter to him beyond the hum of the gathered merchants, “If you came to humiliate me–”
“I came to audit.”
“Same thing.” You shuffle the paper into your ledger, the spine almost bursting open with older parchments and stuffed notes. Voice clipped, you say, “We aren’t open to new accountant positions at this time. You can tell whichever kingdom that sent you that we thank them for their interest in Dorwinian matters.”
“It was not a request.”
Your eyes bore into his, neither of you backing away. The steward beside you coughs. Legolas hands you the second item he is holding – a rolled parchment, bearing the seal of the Woodland Realm.
“I trust this will be enough.”
Your eyes leave his to flicker down to the parchment in your hands, stamped with an emerald wax seal. There, in elegant script – the King’s own handwriting – states that he has sent his son and an envoy to observe matters over the issue of tariff discrepancies.
His son.
The elf standing in front of you, staring you down, was the son of the Woodland King himself, Prince Legolas.
As you read the parchment, picking nervously at the hem of your clothes, he reaches over and straightens one of your disordered ledgers with the quill you were just using.
How absolutely insufferable.
“We did not receive notice of your envoy arriving.” Your voice comes out cold as ice. Of course the elves would come sniffing for blood as soon as word reached them of the Pelargir explosion. You were sure other realms were soon to follow.
“I am the notice. I rode ahead.”
You huff under your breath. “Then you must forgive the disorder in receiving you, your highness.” Your jaw set at the words, razor sharp. “You understand we are in a delicate situation.”
“I do.” His grace and aloof calm, in contrast to the imploding situation on the docks, made your blood boil with frustration. Now was not a good time for receiving any royal envoys, especially from elves bleeding casual arrogance and poised barbs. “I will need to inspect the seals on the docks firsthand.”
“I’m sure you will find the time to do so once the riots outside die down.” One of your eyebrows twitches – in stress, or irritation, you aren’t sure. Perhaps it is both. You send a pointed glance in the direction of the window – the crowd still yelling at the herald.
“I will find all the time I need.” His smile is cold and clipped, as is his voice. The merchants in the room mumble in uncomfortable tones, disquieted by the elf in the room.
A dockhand bursts into the room, breaking the tension, yelling that a fight has broken out on the docks. You groan, losing your composure in the pure exhaustion of the day, and you follow the boy out into the crowd with your guards. To your dismay, the prince follows.
“It does not prevent me from counting,” he says in response to a frustrated look from you. You barely hear his calm voice above the rising rumble of the crowd, now anxiously watching the fight, but you hear enough to tick you off. You don’t have the time to respond. The crowd surges forward and you hear shouting from across the dock, a brawl already forming.
“If we hadn’t pushed the southern route so soon—” your steward mumbles beside you.
You cut him off, sharp and prideful: “Then Gondor would own the river by now. I’d rather risk scandal than surrender.”
The heat of the morning has settled over the city, the blazing early autumn sun barely lifted above the horizon already bearing down mercilessly. You push forward through the crowd along with your guards and steward, Legolas tailing, to find two guildsmen locked in a fight already spilling into the crowd.
“You put those cursed barrels there! I saw you!”
“The hell you did! We didn’t have shipments for days!”
One threw a punch that sent the other staggering back into the crowd. Both were bruised and bloody already.
Before you or your guards have the time to react, you see a flash of bright blonde hair out of the corner of your eye, and Legolas holding the wrist of the man getting up from the ground.
“Don’t.”
The man had pulled a crude knife into his hand, rage coloring his face. Legolas holds his forearm, stopping him, voice and poise full of heedless authority.
Your blood runs cold and the guards beside you spring into action, scrambling to re-assert their authority – ”By order of the Council, stand down!” – and Legolas steps back, letting the guards take over and deescalate the fight.
You pull him aside, snapping at him. “It’s not your place to meddle here!”
“Someone should have.” he said calmly.
“That someone should not have been a visiting royal – what if you had gotten hurt?”
He looks at you blankly. “They could not harm me.”
You huff in frustration, dropping your hand from his sleeve. “Since you rode ahead of your envoy and guards, I’ll escort you personally then. To make sure this situation does not happen again.”
A small smirk lifts the corner of his mouth. “I look forward to our cooperation.”
By the time more papers land on your desk in the evening, the vineyard hands are already gossiping about the Mirkwood prince dispatched to inspect your stock and reserves privately, before the next Council of Barrels hold their own audit of Dorwinion wine shipments.
Your father puts the notice paper down with a heavy sigh.
You groan, your head falling on your crossed arms, leaning heavily on the mahogany desk.
“Happy you argued your way into investing more into the southern Anduin route now?” your father says, thick glasses pinching the high bridge of his nose.
“Don’t remind me.”
“This will be a mess to clean.”
“Yes. I’m aware.” you say, not looking up from your arms.
He sighs again, crumpling the paper in his hands and shoving it across the desk. He adjusts his thin bronze glasses–his one nervous giveaway–and stands, dark plum robes swishing lightly in the late summer heat.
“Make sure the Mirkwood elves and whoever else that comes sniffing don’t find anything. The Council is days away. Days.”
You look up at him, eyes defeated. His sun-bronzen skin, aging gracefully from the elven heritage of your house, is pulled taut in a deep frown.
“And if they do?”
“They won’t if you do your job right.” He looks down the end of his nose at you, before turning away and heading for the door of the pavilion. “Your ambition led to that shipment burning. Your ambition led to those runes being set ablaze.”
One final glance at you. “Fix it. Whatever it takes.”
The door swings shut behind him with a painfully final click, the echo of his footsteps fading on the limestone path into the cooler evening air.
You bury your face in your hands, elbows pressed against the desk. Piles of papers surround you, dropped by hurried ravens in the past few days. A light breeze filtered past the curtains of the pavilion, the final golden rays of light shifting the marble room into a golden haven. If only it could bottle this peace internally.
The elven prince arriving with no notice means you need to act now. From his inspection that morning, he found nothing suspicious – but then again, you led him to the shipments you knew were clean. He was not here because of the Pelargir explosion as you assumed, but because King Thranduil wanted to inspect the elven seals on older Dorwinion shipments. At least that was his excuse, and as such, it was only a matter of time until he goes where he’s not supposed to.
Now you had to make sure no one else that arrived knew of the secret either.
The sound of bells broke your stall. Seven tolls – The Council of Dorwinion would convene the following dawn for an emergency meeting.
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