“POCKETSES”

The moment of the battle was getting closer with each passing hour. The fortress of Helm's Deep was swarming with preparations for the fight, You could hear orders being shouted and swords being sharpened. You, too, were busy with getting ready, but not without problems. Sparring with a sword or a dagger and shooting with a bow weren't skills unknown to you, but participating in actual warfare was new. This led to your current dispute with the fastening of the chain mail you were supposed to be wearing. Was this thing even the right way around? The string of curses you muttered under your breath covered the noise of footsteps entering the room.

"Would you like any assistance with that?"

You flinch in surprise, turning around to see Aragorn leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

You sigh, defeated, and hand him the chain mail, trusting his experienced hands to fix whatever mess you had created with the piece of armor.

While he works on that, you turn your back to him and discard your old shirt, quickly putting on a tunic instead, to better shield your skin from the rough metal rings.

Aragorn averts his gaze, feeling somewhat embarrassed despite having lived similar scenarios before with you throughout all the time you two have traveled together He had never particularly cared before.

You reach behind your back to fasten the laces that would close the back of the tunic. A recent injury to your shoulder made you clench your teeth, the dull pain undermining your mobility. Aragorn notices as he always does, for his eyes having trained themselves to follow your every movement when possible, to assure him you're alright.

He sets the chainmail on a table before stepping closer to you. "Allow me" he says, his voice soft.”

"Thank you. This injury is more annoying than the orc who caused it," you reply, moving your hair away from your back to allow him to work on the fastening of the tunic.

He stands behind you, hesitating.

"Are you certain you don't wish to join the women and children in the caves?"

Your head turns to glance at him. "I'm sure. I want to do what I can to defend this place," you affirm determinately.

He nods, but his heart weeps at the thought of sending you into battle, despite knowing that you can hold your own. The very same determination he admires you for is now troubling him. His fingers start to fasten the lacing of the tunic. The air seems to get heavier with each delicate brush of his fingers against your skin. He slows down, stopping about halfway. His eyes fix on the skin between your neck and shoulder. The warmth of your body tempts him, the smoothness of your skin seems to be awaiting the touch of his lips. Slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away or stop him, should you wish to do so, he leans down. His lips brush tentatively against your shoulder, not heavier than the flutter of a butterfly's wings.

Your breath hitches but you don't move. Instead, your neck cranes slightly, giving him more room. As if in a trance, he trails his lips until they're pressing against the side of your neck, his stubble tickling your skin.

Suddenly, the noises of approaching footsteps reaches his ears: a warning from someone who knows exactly how to walk without making a single noise.

He pulls back as if burned by an incandescent object and goes back to fastening your tunic just in time before Legolas enters the room.

His eyes meet Aragorn's while you put your chainmail on The future King of Gondor can clearly make out an amused glint in his friend's eyes.

"The orcs are quickly approaching," the elf announces.

The three of you leave the room and join Gimli and Theoden's men on the walls that hug Helm's Deep, ready for the battle.

Men and Orcs clash for a long time, each of them fighting strenuously, but in the end humankind is granted victory.

The aftermath of the fight is just as tiring as the fight itself: there is rubble to remove, wounded to tend to, everyone who has fought is hungry (and tired). It's not until late noon that you get a moment to rest. You manage to sleep for a couple of hours before a hand on your shoulder wakes you up. Legolas is asking you to help him look for Aragorn, because the king wants to speak with him. He tells you more details, but you keep dozing off, and he has to wake you up every time. In the end he manages to get you up and asks you to check the upper floors of the building while he searches in the stables.

You're too tired to protest or voice that Aragorn has no reason of being in the stables right now. So you drag yourself up the stairs and begin your search.

It's not long before you find him, asleep, laying on a chaise. You catch yourself staring at his sleeping face, your eyes taking in his peaceful expression, the straight line of his jaw and the curve of his nose. Sitting on the edge of the chaise, you call his name. You wait for a moment, but he doesn't wake up. You guess he must be really tired. You've seen him wake up to the bare rustling of leaves before.

You put your hand on his shoulder and shake him gently while calling his name again.

He slowly opens his eyes, clearly still exhausted from the battle.

As he comes back to his senses he hears you talking. "Legolas is looking for you. He said something about Theoden, but I'm afraid I wasn't really listening..." the sentence fades out as your gaze meets his. You feel like you're drowning in his irises, the same colour of the sky during a stormy dawn. You can't deny to yourself that it's been long since you stopped seeing Aragorn as a mere friend and, in this moment, the air is so charged that you feel like it might be the same for him, the sheer intensity of his gaze revealing his own feelings.

As if following a silent order from both of your hearts, you slowly lean down over him.Your hand caresses the side of his face while your lips brush against his. You pull back quickly, as if realising your impulsive action.

Aragorn, not giving you a chance to regret what you've done, moved his hand to cup the back of your head and pull you down again.

Surprised, but definitely not about to complain, you follow his lead and your lips meet again in another gentle touch. One of your hands moves to rest on his chest, giving you some stability and allowing you to feel the slightly accelerated beat of his heart under your palm.

His lips chase after yours, one kiss after the other, his hand moving from the back of your head to the side of your face.

When you finally pull back, both of your breaths are heavy, the love that passes through your meeting gazes could warm even Mordor's cold lands and its cruel inhabitants.

For years, it had always been Legolas who stood beside you. It had always been him to show you how to spar, to build fires, to aim your bow just so that the arrows whistled like the wind in the trees. And although he had been — and still was, of course — the king's son, you had never met a person, elf or otherwise, kinder than he.

And then he left. Many moons ago, he had left you with a smile and the brush of a braid behind your ear, telling you that he wouldn't be gone long, just a trip to Imladris, and then heading home. Two years was a long time, though, especially when only the faintest traces of news from the outside world trickled into Mirkwood. Legolas didn't write you nor anyone else in your homeland while he was away, which was unusual, but still within the realm of possibility.

Then, finally, the news came of the destruction of the One Ring, the fall of Sauron, and all the elves of Mirkwood rejoiced, for the evil that lay over that realm would retreat. It was around that time, or about a month afterwards, that finally, after years, you heard news of Legolas; that he was one of the people who'd volunteered to be in the Fellowship of the Ring, that he was one of nine who helped to destroy the One Ring itself, and that, finally, he'd be coming back.

It had always been Legolas who stood beside you, and today, it was you who stood beside him, waiting, watching. Or, more accurately, stood for him. Now, the guards of Mirkwood finally had a purpose that wasn't war; now, you stood in ceremony, waiting for Legolas and the rest of the honor guards to come into view. The formal march upon his arrival would be the first time you had seen him since he left. Would he still recognize you? Would he even remember you? The rational part of you knows that, logically, of course Legolas will remember you. It would be impossible for him not to, after all, not when the two of you had grown up together. But what if you didn't recognize him? That would be even worse than him not recognizing you.

Taking a deep breath, you straightened your posture in front of the stone pillar. Of course he would recognize you, and you would recognize him, and it would all be fine, more than fine. Just nerves. As if on cue, your ears pricked up as the sound of many footsteps came closer. You squinted — yes, that was the procession on the horizon, wasn't it? And even without looking, you knew who it would be. Your heart beat a little faster than normal as you pulled your shoulders back, assuming the official posture he had laughingly instructed you on when you were just children. It had always been Legolas who stood beside you as you practiced being important, patient even for a prince. And soon you would have need of that posture and ceremony, and soon you would see the reason. Just a glimpse, but that would be enough, and you would try to catch him after the march.

The footsteps grew closer, and the shapes of people began to come into view. Rows of two, marching side by side, and at the front, one person. A person who happened to be blond and was wearing green. You could hardly contain the smile on your face as you leaned forward ever so slightly, trying to catch a better view of him. Just a few minutes, and you'd be able to see him, and he'd be able to see you — there! There he was, and now he was walking up the steps, walking towards you.

Proper decorum and etiquette dictated that, of course, neither of you should acknowledge the other, at least not during an official celebration such as this. You'd planned on trying to see him afterwards, maybe catch him in a few hours, but still, even though you didn't exchange words with him, you gave him a small smile. Suppressing yourself from smiling even wider was a difficult challenge indeed.

He looked different now, not the elf you remembered. His hair was still the same color of moonlight as it had always been, woven into intricate braids so different to the simple ones of the warrior that you were used to. Even his blue eyes, the azure of a deep lake, were brighter now. And yet it was the same smile that he returned unto you as he walked past. Wide, sweet, something uniquely him.

You smiled back. Even broader.

Finally, hours later, the celebrations of his return were finished, the warriors, guards, innumerable other elves gradually dispersed to their other positions throughout Mirkwood. The sudden silence was at odds with the jubilation of the morning, but that was fine. Surely Legolas couldn't have changed that much after such along time; surely he would still walk among the trees. You knew that, if you were him, you would, anyway.

You couldn't help giving a small chuckle as you approached him beneath the treetops, the soft call of birds and the rustle of branches almost the only sound. Except the sudden crunch of leaves as he whirled around.

"Hello, Legolas," you said, and you hadn't said his name for what feels like an age, and it was his name, and he was here.

His lips quirked upwards. "You've changed," he answered, and despite the fact that it's not the same as yours, it was a welcome greeting nonetheless.

"So have you." You shook your head slightly, drinking in the sight of him. He was different, hair longer and jaw more chiseled, but beneath it all, was it the same person you always knew? "At least a year has passed, and yet you are finally here."

"Destroying evil is a time-consuming task," he responded, breaking into a smile. Yes, it was the same teasing Legolas you used to know, and still, you couldn't quite wrap your head around the fact that he was finally here. "It has been too long."

"Far too long," you agreed. "I have thought of you often."

"And I you. But you are not as I remembered."

"How so?"

"Something in your eyes."

"You, too, have changed."

"And how have I?"

"You never used to remark upon my eyes," you said, grinning, but he stayed serious.

"There are many things I had not remarked on before."

And those blue eyes met your own, holding your gaze for a second too long. The air, now so mild in the evening, felt suddenly charged. It felt different, and not only because of the way the both of you had changed separately. No, because of the way you had both changed with each other.

The heavy oak deadbolt slides into place with a metallic thud, locking the roaring chaos of the Midsummer Feast on the other side. In the echoing quiet of Legolas’ private chambers, the air is already thick with the humid steam of the sunken marble bath – drawn hours ago by the palace staff and kept scalding by the hearth hidden beneath the carved floor. 

You do not lose a second. You turn to the attendants adjusting the linen towels by the basin. 

“Leave us,” you command, your voice carrying the crisp  authority of a lieutenant. “The Prince requires no further assistance tonight. Clear the chambers by the rear stairwell.” 

The servants bow quickly, keeping their eyes lowered. They slip out through the side corridor before they could look too closely at the heir of their realm, who leans his shoulder heavily against a carved stone pillar, his eyes glassy and dark. 

Once the tapestry settles behind them, you stride to the edge of the steaming bath, grab a handful of dried, crushed mint and winter-bark from a silver vanity and toss it into the water. The water hisses, the sharp scent of the woods blooming in the air, cutting through the cloyingly sweet stench of Dorwinion grapes clinging to his skin.

A frustrated grunt echoes from the stone pillar. 

You look back. Legolas curses under his breath in fragmented Sindarin, his usually lithe fingers tugging blindly at the reinforced bracer on his left forearm. He succeeds in only tightening the knot, his jaw clenching in irritation at his own sluggish movements. He yanks at it again, his heavy riding boots dragging on the rug as he sways. He glares down at them, and kicks them off his feet, swaying backwards dangerously. 

“Legolas, stop,” you murmur, stepping away from the bath and crossing the stone floor into his space. “You are only making it worse. Let me.”

“The laces are… knotted,” he rasps. He does not yield the arm immediately, stubbornly trying to force the leather over his hand. “The eyelets will not align. The room keeps shifting.”

“The room is perfectly still,” you say, catching his wrists to force his fumbling hands away from the leather. “It is your head that is spinning. Stand straight.” 

The moment your fingers clamp onto his wrist, the radiating heat of his body hits you like a wall. Legolas stops fighting the leather. His hands go slack, and his dark, dilated gaze snaps down to focus on your face. 

You drop your eyes to his forearm, deliberately avoiding his stare. Your fingers work the stubborn leather laces of his bracers, untangling the knot with the practiced efficiency of seventy years of duty. 

“You drank half the private stores of Dorwinion,” you mutter, your voice hushed but frantic as you strip away the first leather guard, letting it fall to the floor. “If your father had looked to the right during the toast — if he had seen the way you were holding your chalice—”

“He was looking at the lords of Mithlond,” Legolas interrupts softly. He did not sound like a prince right now, but as someone dazed and dangerously unbothered. “He did not see me. No one saw me.”

“I saw you,” you snap, your fingers moving to the silver buckles of his doublet, your knuckles inadvertently brushing against the linen of his shirt underneath. “The entire vanguard line saw you. You were staring across the hall like a madman.”

“I was looking at my shadow,” he murmurs. 

Your fingers falter on the second buckle. You keep your eyes trained rigidly on his collar, your heart hitting a sudden and erratic thud against your ribs. “Do not talk nonsense, Commander. Undo your shoulder guards.”

“I cannot,” he whispers, and there is a strange trace of a laugh in his chest. He does not lift his arms to help. Instead, before you can step back, his large hands come down, his palms anchoring firmly onto the sides of your waist. “I told you. The floor is moving like river-boats. If I let go of you, I will fall.”

Your breath hitches, your spine freezing as his thumbs press through the stiff fabric of your uniform, holding you flush in his space. 

“Legolas, remove your hands,” you whisper, the strict military mask faltering, revealing the desperate panic underneath. “We are in your chambers, but I am still on duty. Let go.”

He leans down, his face dropping into the crook of your neck, his wine-sweet breath fanning across your collarbone as he lets out a heavy sigh. 

“The deadbolt is thick,” he slurs against your skin, his grip tightening on your waist until it is almost bruising. “The uniform is off…the court is gone. Let me hold you until the room stops spinning.”

The warmth of his breath against your neck sends a traitorous shiver straight down your spine. For a second, your hands hover uselessly over the remaining silver buckles of his doublet, your knuckles trembling against his chest. The scent of the mint and winter-bark steam envelops you both like a shroud, your skin tingling in the mist. You tug at the buckles once more, and the shoulder guards and doublet tumble onto the floor, forgotten. 

You have to get him in the water. You have to sober him up before your own resolve disintegrates entirely.

“Legolas, lean back. Walk with me,” you say, your voice clipped. You wrap your arms around his torso, trying to bear his dead weight as you force your feet to take slow, dragging steps backwards toward the edge of the sunken bath. “Three steps. Just three steps and you can sit.” 

“Too many steps,” he mutters against your skin, his voice a mere lazy vibration. He barely lifts his feet, simply letting you drag him, his fingers tightly hooked into the leather at your waist, entirely refusing to yield an inch of the proximity. “Why are we…why are we walking?”

“Because you are going to ruin us both if you collapse on the stone,” you breathe, your heel finally finding the smooth lip of the marble. “Sit down, Legolas. Let go of my waist and sit—”

He did not let go.

Instead of releasing you, his grip tightens. His boot catches on the raised trim of the marble basin, his already compromised balance giving way as his larger frame tilts forward into the steam. 

You don’t even have time to gasp. With his hands clasped firmly around your hips, he pulls you straight down with him. The world inverts in a deafening explosion of white foam and scalding water. 

The pool swallows you both whole. For a suffocating, disorienting moment, you are submerged in churning heat, the dark grape of the wine and sharp sting of the crushed mint flooding your senses. The heavy wool of your lieutenant’s uniform and thick leather of your boots instantly turn to lead, holding you down. 

A moment later, your head breaks the surface. You gasp for air, coughing as you push your soaked bangs out of your eyes. The silver steam of the bath rises in thick clouds from the disturbance. You jam your toe against your heel, aggressively kicking the heavy leather off your feet and letting the boots sink into the shadow of the basin. 

Legolas rises beside you, the water cascading off his broad shoulders in a torrential sheet. His intricate warrior braids completely unravel, the long blonde silk of his hair plastered against his chest and neck. He looks beautifully unhinged, water dripping from his jaw as he blinks through the fog, a slow, dazed smile spreading across his face. 

“What did you do?” you hiss, panic finally breaking through your defenses like a flash of ice water. You lunge forward, your soaked leather gloves slapping against his slick shoulders as you try to push away from him. “Legolas! Look at my gear. Look at what you’ve done!” 

“The uniform…” he slurs, a laugh bubbling in his chest as he sways in the water. He does not move back. “It is too stiff anyway. Always…always so stiff.”

“This is not a joke,” you rasp, your chest heaving as you fight the dragging weight of your wet tunic, eyes darting frantically towards the bolted door. You unbuckle your own shoulder guards and doublet, squirming against his grip. You toss the waterlogged leather out of the bath, peeling your gloves off along with it. The linen of your undershirt clings to your upper body like a second skin, and you don’t miss how his half-moon eyes wander down, pupils blown wide as he meets your gaze again. “If the guards heard that splash—if anyone comes through that door, it is my sword they will take. It is my name they will ruin. I will be stripped of my rank and exiled before the sun hits the gates.”

The word exile did not sober him. It seemed to strike his dizzy brain like a physical blow, turning his lazy drunken smile into a look of frantic terror. 

He shakes his head, his wet hair spraying droplets across your face. His grip on your waist tightens, with a force which surely leaves bruises blooming in its wake. His large palms drag you through the water until your chest slams against his. He stumbles and wades forward, his feet slipping on the marble before he pins your shoulder blades flat against the slick wall of the bath. 

“No,” he whispers, voice cracking, thick with wine and desperation. He leans down, forehead pressing to yours, his breath hot and rapid against your lips. “No, no. No one… no one can take you. I will not let them.” His lips are but a hair’s breadth away, flushed and stained with wine. “I will throw the swords into the river. I will lock the gates.” 

“Legolas, you are out of your mind,” you whisper, hands pressing flat against his chest to try and put some space between your faces. “You are entirely drunk. Look at me, you don’t even know what you are saying. Tomorrow you will—”

“I know what I am saying,” he interrupts, voice ragged. His hands slide up from your waist, fumbling blindly until they cup your jaw, fingers threading into the hair at the back of your head. You hiss slightly from the tension at the roots. His breath is heavy, his eyes — once a reflective, royal blue — stare into yours, dark and dilated, with an intensity you do not recognise.

"I know your steps. Seventy winters... seventy winters I have been counting them." He lets out a low, miserable sound, half a laugh and half a sob, letting his head drop to rest in the crook of your neck. 

“Three paces,” he mumbles against your skin, shaking his head slightly as if trying to clear a fog. “Every morning on the terrace. Every patrol. You walk behind me. Always…always behind me. Never beside me. I have spent a lifetime staring at the slant of your shoulder, wondering…absolute madness…wondering why I was not allowed to turn around.”

“Commander, please—”

“Do not,” he chokes out, his thumb dragging clumsily along your wet cheekbone, a burning trail left in its wake. He lifts his head to look at you again. “Do not call me that. Not here.” He swallows hard. “The water is… it is too hot. You are burning up. Or am I?”

He blinks heavily, his hands tremblings where they hold your face. The heat of the water and the swirling steam seems to blur his mind entirely. 

“It is like the cave,” he slurs, his voice softer and far away. "The northern pass... the ice cavern. We sat in the dark for three days. It was so cold, the air was turning to frost. My skin was freezing. But here... right here..." He drags his hand down from your face, grabbing your palm, pressing it against his chest. His heartbeat gallops; an erratic thud threatening to escape from his chest. Your own matches his. "I was on fire because your head was against my chest. I had to turn myself to stone. I had to freeze my own blood so I would not…not turn around and ruin us both in the dark." 

A droplet of water slides down his cheek, catching the dim candle glow of the room. He leans in closer, until his lips brush the shell of your ear as he whispers, composure undone by the decades of silent pining. 

“Look at the water now,” he says, each word fueling a glowing, consuming heat in your bones. “We are not freezing anymore. Let me burn. Let me burn alive…just do not make me go back to the ice. Do not go three paces away from me again.”

His lips find yours, blazing and urgent, and the hand that cupped your jaw slides to the back of your neck, angling your face, breaking down every barrier you built up, every military protocol that you seared into your mind for decades. 

He pulls back, breathless and desperate, panting against your mouth. “I will not let them take you from me,” he says, voice husky and raw. 

Damn the military protocols. 

Damn the rules of the court. 

Damn the fabric that separates you. 

You pull him back in, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, and kiss him back, feverish and hungry. He groans against your lips as his arms wrap around you under the water, forearms locking around your back and pulling your chest flush with his. You melt into the kiss, the ghost of Dorwinion grapes dancing on your tongue, the heat of his body blazing against you in the water. 

He trails open-mouthed kisses along your jaw as a hand slides under your shirt and along your ribs, cupping your chest. You gasp as he continues down your neck, tongue languid and warm, kissing and nipping at the sensitive area above your collarbone, peppering marks that scatter across your skin like a constellation only he could bear witness to. 

“I need you closer,” he breathes into your neck, gossamer strands of his wet hair falling across your shoulder . 

The hot water made the fabric of your shirts entirely translucent, clinging to his broad chest and your skin like a futile attempt at modesty. His large hands hook onto the open collar of your wet shirt, his fingers clumsily tugging it up. You lift your arms to help him slide it off, baring your skin to the humid air. You reach for the hem of his sodden shirt, bundling the translucent linen and pulling it over his head, letting the wet cloth drift away into the dark water of the pool. 

When he straightens back up, you are both bare from the waist up, his torso radiating an unnatural, consuming heat that you wanted, needed, to feel against you. 

But the waterlogged wool of your trousers remains a frustrating barrier between your hips, blocking the very warmth you are starving for. Legolas feels it too; a low, frustrated groan leaves his lips as his hands dive beneath the churning surface, his thumbs dragging against your hip bones as he tries to pull the heavy fabric. His unsteady balance sways, his bare feet slipping slightly on the smooth floor of the pool. 

"Help me," he mumbles against your jaw, his grip uncoordinated but fiercely possessive as he clings to you. 

You catch his bare shoulders to steady him, guiding his warrior’s frame backward a half step as he sinks heavily onto the submerged marble bench behind him. Standing right between his knees, you lean down into the swirling mint-scented water, fingers finding his belt. There is no neat protocol to it — just a breathless urgency as you unbuckle the leather and peel the heavy wool down his muscular thighs. The water’s buoyancy carries the dead weight away effortlessly, and he kicks the trousers into the dark depths of the pool before his hands find your waist again. His touch is an impatient and demanding weight as you undo your own fastenings, sliding the last of the lieutenant’s uniform down your legs and letting it float away. 

When you slide back towards him, there is nothing left between you.

Legolas lets out a low sigh of relief, his bare thighs instantly locking around your hips beneath the surface, hauling you flush onto his lap. He is a furnace, his large hands cup the back of your thighs, anchoring you securely against him, pulling you impossibly closer. You run your hands up his smooth chest to his shoulders, rising and falling with heavy breaths. 

He does not move yet; he just holds you there, his chest heaving against yours, midnight-dark eyes blinking through the silver steam as if trying to memorize the feeling of your bare skin under the water. 

“Tell me I am not dreaming this,” he rasps, his voice wine-sweet against your lips. “Tell me I will not wake up on the terrace tomorrow with three paces between us.” He gazes up at you through thick lashes, droplets glistening on them as if on a silken web. The glow from the candles dances across his porcelain face, his cheeks flushed and lips swollen, and even now you think that he looks as if carved from pure starlight. 

“This is real,” you breathe, gently brushing his sharp jaw with your thumb. He shivers at your caress, eyes fluttering shut. “I am here, Legolas.” 

You lean down and his mouth finds yours again — no longer just a clumsy, drunken spill of words; it is a burning surrender to the fire you had both been running from for seventy years. Your hands slide up to lock behind his neck, your fingers tangling in the damp silk of his unraveled braids, as you sink onto his length, your mind going blank to all else but the feeling of him inside you. Legolas lets out a fractured groan, a sound that sends heat right to your core as it echoes off the damp tiled walls. 

The hot water laps at your chest as you move, the friction of your bare skin meeting under the water electrifying you, sending waves of pleasure coiling in your abdomen. You welcome the searing stretch as you take him, all of him; you welcome the burning of your thighs as you ride him in the churning water. 

Legolas shivers against you, moaning under his breath, a full-body tremor that has nothing to do with the temperature of the room. He slumps forward slightly, his forehead dropping against your shoulder as his breathing goes ragged and fast. His lithe hands slide up from your thighs to your waist under the water, his thumbs pressing hard into your hipbones, fingernails leaving crescent imprints into your flushed skin. He anchors you to his lap so tightly that every frantic thud of his heart beats against your own ribs, every movement of his hips meets yours. 

“Mine,” he murmurs into the crook of your neck, lips brushing your hot skin, sending a jolt of raging fire down your spine. He lets out a desperate groan, a broken mutter of hushed Sindarin, an unraveled confession he would never dare utter in the light. “My lieutenant, my shadow, my…you are mine. I will not let you go.”

"Yours," you promise him, tilting your head to give him better access, your own restraint completely melting into the steam. "Always yours." 

“They think I am a prince…” His grip tightens on your waist, the pace of his hips bruising and possessive, chasing his high. “But I am a beggar.” He bites your neck, teeth dragging along your skin, a moan escaping your mouth as you arch into him without thought. “I have been begging for…for a single glance from you for seventy winters. I have been starved of you.”

White hot pleasure rolls through your veins as you find your release, your arms going weak around his shoulders. His arms tighten around you, drawing you in flush against him, his own hips stuttering against yours as you feel his abdomen tighten. With a final groan you feel him tense against you, head buried in the crook of your neck, blonde hair draped over your shoulders like a gossamer curtain. 

After a long moment, Legolas tilts his head back against the marble rim of the pool, eyes fluttering shut. The frantic storm of his desperation has finally quieted, leaving only the gentle rise and fall of his bare chest against yours. Around you, the steam has begun to thin, and the amber glow of the candles on the vanity flicker out one by one, leaving the chamber bathed in the velvet dark of the moon and stars. 

The scalding water lost its edge long ago, turning soothing and cooling against your ribs, but Legolas does not budge beneath you. His hands are still hooked securely around your waist, his grip looser, softened by the deep pull of sleep, but no less unyielding. Every time you try to shift, to ease the weight on his thighs, his fingers tighten and pull you back flush against his sternum. 

“Legolas,” you whisper into the quiet room. “The fire in the hearth has died out. The water is getting cold. We have to get out.”

A hum reverberates deep in his chest. He does not open his eyes, but his head slides down to tuck over the crown of your head. 

“Stay,” he murmurs, his voice honeyed and sweet. “The water does not matter. I am warm. I have you.”

He lets out a sigh, his thumb moving in slow, rhythmic circles against your hip underwater, a tactile promise that he is not letting the distance return. 

“No more three paces,” he whispers into the dark, his voice growing closer to the hazy edge of dreams. “Tomorrow…you walk beside me. I am so tired of looking for you behind me. Walk beside me.”

He presses his lips to your temple, a soft and sacred vow. In the silver dark of the chamber you close your eyes, resting your forehead against his collarbone and listening to the steady beat of his heart. No longer erratic, no longer cold, but entirely and forevermore yours.