Talitha Koum

This is dumb. It really is, you don’t even know why you worry about this. You’re not a teenager anymore, an adult woman shouldn’t care about such trifling things. It was just a joke your friends had uttered, something innocent, said on the cusp of drunkenness. Elvish wine frayed the usual composed attitude of its drinkers, allowed them to be less wise, more frivolous. It was something quite common amongst younger elves such as you were; customs did not prevent you from having fun from times to times. 

It was just a joke, yet it lingered in your mind still by morning-come. You groaned in your bed, annoyed, and shut yours lids as tightly as you could, until coloured dots clouded your vision. It was supposed to be a fun night —a girls’ night, as you had learnt it was called in human kingdoms, instead it had left you confused over something you never thought of. 

You liked drinking wine with your friends because it allowed you less reserve on intimate matters, you could laugh more easily, talk about taboo things without it being embarrassing. You hated wine because it twisted words together without link while still managing for your mind to give them a sense. A made up sense, needless to say. 

Tayrn’s room was dimly lit, candles burned in the corners, the wax beginning to reach its end given how long you had spent here. There was an easy atmosphere about the room, filled with laughers and knowing smiles, though the bottles of wine sitting on the bedside table were mainly responsible of it. Their content still burned your throat slightly, a delicious taste of berries and fruits you were growing too fond of tonight. The colour draped the seam of yours lips, a bruising purple that also coated the flat of your tongue. 

On the large bed in the centre of the room, sat down or sprawled across the green silk covers, were a group of five girls; all idly murmuring secrets in the dead of night. 

Lying on your side, your fingers deftly braided in your friend’s hair, although not as efficiently as you normally would. A comfortable haze dizzied your mind a little, made your vision swim each time you turned your head too swiftly. The hem of your gown had raked up until the high of your knees, and the plunge of your cleavage revealed more skin than average. None of you cared about the state you were all in, for all that mattered, you could have been naked in front of each other and it wouldn’t have made a lot of difference. 

Upon looking at you, one would have spotted the pleased twinkle in your eyes in an instant. This distinct glimmer characteristic of the effects of liquor. Now, you had came down from the fit of laughter one of the girls had thrown you in earlier, and you were listening to Neve and Tihala whisper about things you did not quite catch, too busy weaving Alwyn’s hair. However, the subject of their discussion seemed quite entertaining, for they kept on stifling chuckles and swatting each other’s arm. 

A flicker of affection passed in your eyes. Perhaps there was something going on between these two…  

“What are you whispering about? It seems fun,“ Tayrn’s voice rises, an underline of confidence about it and a smirk on her lips. 

Her gaze crosses yours and you smile too, a bit delirious. Neve and Tihala look at each other, it seems the latter bats pleading eyes for her friend not to reveal too much. It is fruitless, Neve had always been one for a little gossip, and even more if it was harmless to divulge it. 

“Tihala was just telling me how her first kiss had been Leigh,“ she says with a devilish smirk. She knows Tihala is such a good sport she won’t hold her too accountable for embarrassing her; it’s just a memory of her youth, after all. 

“This brute of a guard?“ it seems the conversation roused Alwyn from her beauty sleep. 

“We were only three hundred years old!“ the culprit tries to defend herself. In vain, for soon enough you all end up laughing hysterically and she cannot help but join too. 

“Was he as insufferable as a child?“ you manage to ask through deep breaths to calm yourself down. 

Tihala is now as red as the volcano on top of Mount Doom, and she shakes her head frantically as an answer. When she looks away to feign vexation, Neve drapes her arm around her shoulders to bring her into her chest, amused smile on her lips. The two of them jest, but Tayrn keeps sending you knowing looks to which you can only agree. Had it been only the two of them, the two elves would have kissed. 

Alwyn speaks again through the dying laughing fit, lazy grin adorning her face and eyes still closed. You keep on braiding her hair meticulously with patterns of friendship. 

“You are one to laugh Neve, I do remember your first kiss being Olweiin. The elf was so stressed he threw up all his liquor right after.“ 

Another fit of laughter rings against the walls of the room; it is possible you can be heard laughing all the way to the men’s quarters. You have to pause and catch your breath multiple times, given how hilarious the information is to you. The corners of your eyes wrinkle with joy, the alcohol spins in your head and makes everything more merry than it should be. It is good to be here, with this fuzzy warmth that spreads from your chest to your belly. 

Neve’s pale carnation has turned a deep shade of dusty red and she averts her gaze from the four of you as best as she can, arms crossed against her chest like it’s a shield against embarrassment. 

“My first kiss was a girl, but I don’t remember her much, we were only younglings and she went for the Grey Havens when orcs multiplied across the country,“ Alwyn continues. It serves to tame the giggling. 

“Mine was Gwingon, and we are still partners to this day, so I don’t have a lot of fun stories to share, I’m afraid,“ now it’s Tayrn’s turn to share her experience. 

Neve rolls her eyes playfully at the mention of the elf —everybody knows she does not like him much. “A late bloomer you are,“ she teases. 

“Not really, we have been together for centuries now.“ 

The information lands easily about the room and a quiet settles. It’s comfortable at first, while you still busy yourself with your friend’s hair, but then you soon feel it is becoming overwhelming. Someone coughs from the back of her throat, another stifles a giggle, one whistles to fill the quiet. It all makes it worse. The impromptu noises emphasise the silence and the gaps in the atmosphere. The wind outside hitting against the window is more chilling than it should be in the warmth of the interior. 

In the back of your neck, your skin starts to prickle and burn as if little needles pointed at it. You feel your stomach twitch and twist at the feeling, it tries to warn you of something you are still unaware of. Gingerly, you lift your gaze from the head of hair they are fixed upon, only to be met by four pair of eyes staring at you. The smile on the lips of your friends tells you nothing you like. The four girls watch you attentively, sending knowing glances to each other as you feel yourself grow red. Oh. They are waiting for you to add your share to the stories. The pressing looks try to coax you into talking, but the amused grins they share say they have already made up their minds on your love life. They think you won’t talk because you try to keep it a secret, yet it is evident to them. 

“It’s alright, you don’t have to talk,“ Neve says. “We can guess who was your first kiss.“ 

You frown. How can you tell them they would be wrong no matter the name they utter as their guess? How can you confess you’ve never had your first kiss? It had never crossed your mind, but now you feel the weight of the fact settles unwelcome in your stomach. Everyone had their first kiss but you. Boy or girl, there was someone they could reminisce on in candid moments like this; you had no one. No first kiss to share, no first love, no name to blush about but cast as irrelevant because it had been years. And it had never been a problem to you before. You had never thought about it in this light: that maybe there was a problem with you. After all, who doesn’t know what a kiss feels like after thousands of years on earth? Nobody. You were the only one, the anomaly. A black sheep unworthy of it. 

An elf’s judgment is usually never so harsh and fast, but you cannot help yourself. The composure of your kin frays at the edges under the influence of elvish wine, your mind swims like it hides a tempest as your thoughts rush. You cannot tell them the truth, it would be too embarrassing. Made wary of their judgment by alcohol, you try to think about a safe name to put in your lie. None comes to your mind. If you say someone they know, they will ask questions and probably tease him about it and the truth will be revealed; if you say a name they do not know, they will also ask questions and your drunken mind will lose itself in confusion trying to make up a story. 

Tihala’s soft voice cuts your train of thoughts. She speaks with her usual softness, as if she tries to reassure you of your predicament but only achieve to bury you further in it. 

“Don’t listen to her. I would be careful too if the prince was my first kiss.“

The prince. 

Legolas. 

They think Legolas was your first kiss. The thought claws like a beast at your guts and weights against your ribs life fire catching. You look around you to perhaps find that you heard it wrong, but it’s not the case: your friends nod. 

You try to push the image away, but it proves to be futile. You don’t have to close your eyes for your mind to impose upon you images of your best friend, of all the situations in which he could have kissed you but chose not to. During your endless walks in the forest, or when he helped you study for the guard’s contest for hours without end in your room. You had known each other all your life, so much that he was an inherent part of it. You couldn’t remember a time without the prince by your side, when his smiles didn’t make you dizzy and dumb. For as far as your memory went, he had been here. 

He was your best friend, he had always been, why were you suddenly wondering about how warm could his lips be, or which shade of pink could they turn into once bitten? You shake your head and blame it upon the alcohol, though your heart beats something different. Saying you had never imagined the prince kissing you would be a lie, but it was years ago; you had grown past it. 

“Legolas was not… He is not…“ you trip upon your own words; pathetic. “We never kissed.“

Suddenly, the girls look at you like you are either the best or worse liar they have ever met. But upon seeing the distressed look in your eyes, Alwyn is the first to realise you’re far from lying. 

“But are you two not courting? He follows you everywhere,“ she says. 

“I wouldn’t have guessed the prince was such a prude. He seems like the opposite, being this handsome,“ Neve adds with the delicacy she always has —which is none. 

“If a boy was giving me the eyes he gives you, I would assume he is far too smitten for plain courting!“ Tihala reckons, and the opinions of the girls do not stop flowing until Tayrn saves you. She had always been the most sensible of you all. 

“It does not matter. They are only best friends, that is great too.“

“Who was your first kiss then?“ 

Neve’s question turns the subject away from Legolas, but not from the idea of kissing. You cannot grow redder than you already are, but if you could you would. Not having kissed anybody is not a shame… is it? Patience and soul-consuming love was not frowned upon in your culture, on the contrary, it was expected. Younger elves had their experiences, but was it so bad if you pretended you were only waiting for the right one? Waiting for the right one when you were almost two thousand years old… what an obvious lie. 

“I never had my first kiss…“ you manage to murmur, so low that your friends have to stop their giggling and moving to catch what you are saying. 

The answer hangs in the air for some time. Did Legolas have his first kiss? You imagine he had; Neve was right, he was handsome, and lots of girls had been hovering around him when you were still teenagers. Somehow, you do not recall him courting any of them. Some would say he had eyes for only you, you would simply say his duties as a prince took most of his time and he had no mind to pay to a partner. 

The same awkward quiet as before drags on, punctuated by the disbelieved blinking of your friends. Even Alwyn has opened her eyes from her spot in your laps. Perhaps they heard wrong, is what they all try to convince themselves with before Neve blesses you with her ever-so-gentle remarks. 

“You never kissed? But your two thousandth birthday is in a week?!“ 

You try not to crack up a nervous laugh at her indignation. As if a kiss before being two thousand was a rite of passage. It is not… is it? The way in which Neve reacts sure is funny at first, but it quickly puts you in a far more embarrassing place. So you were weird. 

Neve was not one to hold her tongue, everyone knew it, but she was not one to lie either. She was genuinely surprised by your lack of experience. You twist the fact in your mind, try to find something that would make it make sense. There must be a reason for you never kissing anybody, right? Your own reserve, an unaware purity of your mind, a lack of interest for love. Nothing sounds right, nothing feels right. You thought it was common occurrence for people not to have any experience in the field of love at your age, you were still young, but it seemed tonight you had been mistaken and were the only oddity in these Halls. 

Tayrn notices you’ve turned silent, and you have that far away veil in your eyes that dulls them, the one cast upon you when you are deep in thoughts or overthinking. Clearly, you’re overthinking this; and Neve doesn’t help. 

“Neve, I don’t think kissing Olweiin drunk counts as a first kiss, you should not swagger so much,“ she gently scolds to try and help you out of the situation. Oddly enough, it is not Tayrn who gets you out of it but Tihala. While the two girls bicker over Neve’s own kissing experience, the blonde lets herself fall on her back on the bed after having drowned her umpteenth glass of the night. Her lithe frame bounces on the mattress once; it’s enough to cut the small argument.

“How do you think the prince kisses?“ she asks, twirling a lock of hair around her finger dreamingly. 

The smile that adorns her face while thinking of Legolas clearly does not please Neve, who wrinkles in a dubious frown. 

“What do you mean?“ 

“Do you think him a good kisser?“ 

“I think he kisses like a prince… It would be a royal kiss, probably; perfect like every princely thing he undertakes,“ Alwyn replies before her grumpy friend can send a snarky remark. Her eyes are closed again, you can see her orbs move under the translucent skin of her lids. 

She is right, you know Legolas best and if you reflect upon it —not that it takes much reflection because you had already pictured the event in your head countless times you are too unwilling to confess to, you think his kiss would in fact be the one of a prince. You imagine Legolas kisses like the embodiment of elven nature: calm, reverent, composed, and sure of himself. He would kiss like he knows his way around you already, like he had your every trigger figured in a glance. It would be slow, consuming, and oh-so warm. But you know something some don’t: that Legolas can also be proud and hungry. Hungry for battle, hungry for victory, hungry for recognition. 

You think Legolas can bite too. He can teeth at what he wants and grab flesh until it bruises yet still be asked for more. The prince can be hurried, teasing, but you wonder if he can snap. 

Your eyes fly open to stop the thought from going further. Above you, the roof is still the same and you are still lying down on the same bed, in the same night. It was just a joke. You had all drank too much, the girls had probably already forgotten about all this. But not you. Obviously not you, since it kept you awake at night and tossing in your bed. You kick the sheets off of your body, as if the cold air of your room could do anything against intrusive thoughts, and set on closing your eyes again. 

You were not going to let a matter so trifle as kissing ruin your second millennium’s birthday. Especially since it was already partially ruined by the fact that Legolas couldn’t be here. Princely duties had called him West some weeks ago, and he was not to return until maybe another week or so. You definitely were not going to have your first kiss that day. 

Feasts like this one are not often thrown in the Elvenking’s Halls, but Thranduil likes you especially and it is not everyday you turn two thousand. Earning the good graces of the king is something very few have the privilege of, you owe it to your everlasting friendship with his son. Had he not known you since your tender infancy and had Legolas not always preached in your favour, perhaps the king would have kept his aloof attitude with you. Except he has not, and feels exceptionally tender towards you today. Thranduil still remembers the day Legolas turned two thousand, and how the boy had been glad you were here to share his joy and hang at his arm all night. Today Legolas is not here, and despite your best efforts, your disappointment shows on your face. 

Now that everyone had greeted you and wished you many more happy and healthy years to live, they had all turned to their own party. The centre of the feast was now left to the side like scarps at the market. Your friends were already caught up in a fit of laughter with other guards from the realm, but you had no mind for wine or jokes. The buzzing of voices around you felt dull, meaningless; the lights decorating the Hall without warmth; and the excellent food tasteless. Everyone was gathered for you and still you found the way to be sorrowful. Growing a year older didn’t mean much for elves, but millennia were a landmark. It felt like the world was closing around you, like despite your longevity time was running short. Had you passed the quarter of your life? or maybe half this mark? Were the fields beyond the sea going to call you soon? 

Doubtful, but still enough to lurk in the back of your head. You never brooded with Legolas, you wished he could have been there to cheer you up. His sole presence was relief enough, sometimes you did not need more than sitting beside him in the quiet to feel better. His calm could spread onto you like magic, his beating heart show yours what rhythm was best when he made you feel his pulse on the inside of his wrist. But if wishes were horses, beggars would ride; as far as you know, it is not the case yet.  

An unmistakable presence steps beside you while you observe the Halls. The king’s stature is like no other, you don’t even have to look at him to know he is here and he is royal. You shift your gaze towards him and nod in reverence, though he does not look at you. Thranduil reads the room with a watchful eye, until it lands on you to take you in. He smiles something amused to himself knowingly; you mistake it for his regal aura glowing further. Though it is a dimmed glow the wood-king carries, it holds the strengths of his power and the iron nerves he rules with. Thranduil does not bend, he never has. 

“I see my son influences you even in your choices regarding fashion,“ he notes with the hint of a smirk. Legolas does something quite similar when he means to tease you. Over the years, you have found many resemblance between father and son. 

“He cannot influence me if he is not here, your liege.“

 “You’re a bright girl, you will find he can.” 

Once again, the king is right as you look down at your gown. The dress is not as extravagant as you imagine Thranduil would have given his wife back when she was still here, and it emphasises the differences between the king and his son. If the ellon has pointed it out to you, it’s because it is Legolas’s favourite. He knows it because a father cannot not notice the fondness of his son for something so simple as a garment when he gives you eyes that say he could marry you each time you wear it. Frankly, everyone has noticed. Everyone but you. 

Legolas could defend himself by saying it is the blue velvet of the gown that pleases him, or the silver patterns embroidered along the collar and sleeves which were particularly fine and delicate, but everyone would have known it was a lie. You could have worn a hessian dress and it would have been the same to him. Deep down, in a part of him that was not so hidden as it was in you, he knew perfectly well he liked the dress to a reasonable amount at first, and then worshiped it like it was the most precious of fabrics in all Arda as soon as you wore it. He liked the dress, but he liked you best, so when the two were reunited his instincts screamed only to follow you around, to make you laugh, to admire you, and to comply to everything you would have him do. You did not know it, but you had the prince wrapped so tight around your little finger he could have been the laughing stock of the guard had he not been their superior. 

“How do you like your evening?“ Thranduil asked, though he did not seem genuinely curious but rather inclined to receive praises. 

The king was of such a nature: he liked having his skills praised in laudatory encomiums. He liked it even more when his generosity was bestowed upon a grateful subject such as you were; his son was not an imbecile, he would not have chosen a foolish girl. 

You bow your gratitude once; custom of the elven court. “I am eternally grateful.“

The king dismisses it with a wave of the hand like it’s nothing. “No need child. It is a mere gathering, nothing extravagant.“ 

You hold back a chuckle at his assertion. It is an obvious lie in front of the opulence of the Halls, but you overlook it to please him. There is nothing cheap in the mouldings of the ceiling and stones, in the lavishness of the buffet, or the overall decorum of the room: every guest is wearing their best attire. Such a high assembly of elves would have blinded the human eye, for the glow it radiated of was mystical, almost divine. Were they not used to the legends of the early days of their world, which were full of elves of the fairest kind, they would have mistaken it for halos, for holiness. The atmosphere is easy, coated by songs made slick by the wine. It is said that elves know how to sing and write melodies by their first year. 

When the king pivots to face you, his eyes do not land on your features but behind you, past your shoulder. Whatever he sees there manages to pull the corner of his lips upward, and he smoothly takes his leave from you. You stand staring at his back that draws away in the crowd like his sole aura splits it in half to let him pass, thinking the king had been of good company. 

You are about to further despair in the loss of good society when a hand falls on your shoulder, assured like it belongs here. You turn you head towards it, expecting to find Tayrn or Alwyn, but the moment your gaze lands on the person standing beside you, you have to do a double-take to make sure you’re not dreaming. It’s golden hair that catches your eye first, then the pale complexion of skin and a chiseled jaw. You spin so fast it makes your head reel and you almost trip on your own feet, which makes the boy in front of you huff a laugh. You’re afraid he’d vanish with a single wrong beat of your heart. 

“Legolas!“ 

Here he is in all his glory, with that smile you suspect he reserves you and eyes that shimmer like you bewitch him. Because you do. Legolas takes you in and a spell is cast on him; a spell you are the sole cause and cure of. It’s been weeks he has not seen you and now you show up in that dress he would get on his knees for. The prince would kiss and worship the ground you walk on only to feel the velvet of it between his fingers. It suits you like a dream awakened, like a curse. It’s like there’s too much of you he would like to ingrain in his mind but too little time to do so, and already you smile at him and it tears his attention away from the gown. Have you ever been so beautiful? 

There’s a pinkish hue on your cheeks, testimony of the shock you feel seeing him here, and your eyes are wide open. You want to reach out for him, to fall in his arm because this might be the greatest surprise of the evening, to laugh uncontrollably because you do not feel down anymore. Of course, you do none of it; propriety forbids it. If you want to act friendlier with the prince, you will have to wait for you to be alone. 

“I thought you were not to return before weeks!“ you exclaim, the force of your smile hurting your cheeks.

Legolas smirks something soft, yet teasing. “I could not miss the most important day of the millennium, could I?“ 

“I thought you would. Royals duties matter more than a silly birthday of mine.“ 

“I care not for royal duties,“ when it comes to you, he holds back from saying. “You know it.“ 

You nod once, knowing it would be no use arguing with Legolas once he is set on something. He seems set on the fact that your birthday —that you, are of the utmost importance. 

“Would you like to escape for a bit?“ the prince suggests.

There’s instant relief in your eyes and it makes him chuckle. 

“Please.“

It’s like the wind carries you away, and in an instant you are far from the noise of the party and disappearing deep in the dimly lit corridors. The music reaches your ears muffled, the sole of your shoes on the floor echos gently against the stone walls and you glide your fingertips along the surface of one; it’s cold to the touch and serves to ground you. Following you, you can hear the faint swooshing of your dress sliding on the ground. Legolas guides you through the maze that is his home, his hand has slipped to yours in the process. It’s bigger than your own, his palm covers yours easily and his thumb rests soundly on the back of your hand, radiating a warmth that seems to spread right to your belly. It makes you giddy, sends you heart beat in your temples. Or maybe it’s his scent that does; it wraps around the two of you like the evening’s dew, fresh yet obviously warm with pine-trees and musk. 

The prince lets go of your hand to sneak in the cellar a moment, then comes back with a bottle of wine you should not have hold of. But he is the prince, what can his father do if he discovers his son has stolen a single bottle to share with the star of the evening? Probably not much besides scolding him.

He does not take your hand again and there’s a coldness that remains with the loss. In minutes, you’re slipping inside his room like a secret and already taking your usual seat on the floor of his balcony. This kind of thing is not unusual for you, but this time it feels different. Because he sits down next to you and offers you the first sip of the stolen liquor; because he came back for you; because you snuck away from a party like teenagers. But most likely because his intense blue eyes stare when your lips glisten with the red robe of the wine, and you catch none of it though it hangs in the atmosphere because you are too deep in your mirth to pay such close attention to details. 

Every ounce of sadness you had once felt is gone, now you only laugh and talk without meaning for it to end while the prince listens diligently. The wall dents uncomfortably in your back, you shift to relieve the dull discomfort and it takes you closer to him. As the night unfolds, wine flows and soon clouds your judgment. Everything seems more easy, less important. Your laughter rings sharper, his eyes half-lid and his smile softens. Above you, a starry sky is lit but Legolas pays no mind to it, you shine brighter in his eyes. 

It takes not half the bottle for both of you to feel a little too warmth; as if the air has closed in on you under a hot afternoon sun in the summertime. Legolas’s shirt ends up unbuttoned down his neck, the strap of your dress slips down your shoulder carelessly; you both notice it but say nothing. Legolas’s gaze drifts down the length of your shoulder, yours takes the slope of his neck while you continue to tell a story you have probably told twice at this rate. 

One way or another, the wall feels too hard against your back, and your sense of manners is not so distinguished anymore as to prevent you from choosing the comfortable shoulder of your best friend as a better rest place. Your head falls on it softly as you pass him back the bottle, and his fingers that carelessly brush yours make your heart jolt. Sure, alcohol sets a daze upon you, but those unnecessary touches were definitely intended. 

Slowly, the conversation hushes until it dies in the back of a throat; yours or his, none of you can say. The silence washes over you, comfortable, different. Legolas feels warm under you, your knees brush, the tip of his ears is red. The bottle is set aside, almost finished, and you find that dwelling here is the best birthday party you could have asked for. Everything is so easy around the prince, like the world favours him so it refuses to put any hardship on his path. You know it is false, but it feels like it. And you feel favoured too to be the one sharing moments like this with him. 

But then, breaking the magic like a curse, something that had settled in the back of your mind crawls back upfront. You’re two thousand, the night will soon end, and you still have not had your first kiss. 

You feel your stomach lurch at the thought. Helped by the wine, it’s like you will have wasted your life if you do not kiss someone by morning-come. Your heart starts to spiral out of control, you feel like you are doomed to an eternity without love, but then the breeze rises and brings back to you that specific scent. Him. Pinewood and musk, lilies of the valley and clean sheets, crisp smell of water in the shade on an afternoon in the spring. 

If he kissed you, how would it feel? How does he kiss? Is it reverent, is it hurried, is it shy? Is he a fast learner? 

“Legolas?“ you ask. He hums and glances at you. 

You straighten from his shoulder, where the subtle weight of you still lingers in the wrinkles of his clothes. 

“Do you know humans have a custom where they offer gifts during birthdays?“ Legolas hums again in reply. “Have you ever kissed someone?“ 

Now the correlation between the two sentences is null. The prince frowns, a small wrinkle between his brows. He turns to look at you fully, takes his time to analyse the blush on your cheeks, the pout on your lips and how crimson they look after all this wine. His own mind swims a little, with you and with the alcohol. 

“Yes, I have,“ he replies, voice low because he does not feel like bringing it to an upper tone. 

Of course he has. You bet she was as pretty as him and kissing like a goddess. You bet he thinks about her sometimes. 

“Would you be my first kiss?“ 

Astonished silence. 

It wasn’t supposed to come out that way. You had prepared it in your mind, it was supposed to be more subtle, maybe even alluring. Now he knows you never kissed someone and you look desperate. Heat rushes in the back of your neck, your skin prickles and you want to slap yourself. Stupid elf. Stupid self-control that doesn’t work with him. Stupid handsome prince. 

Legolas looks at you with eyes wide open, it’s like the blue in them means to swallow you whole. His lips part, they close again as he thinks, a hundred thoughts a second crossing his mind. You’re here, dashing in that dress, flushed and growing shy, and you ask him to kiss you. The only problem is you’re drunk. He is too, but much less than you are. Legolas still has some sense, which you seem to have lost altogether. Damn all propriety, he would smash his lips to yours right this moment and show you how good he can be for you if only you were sober. If only it would not ruin your friendship. You do not know what you’re asking, he thinks you will regret it by dawn. 

It takes a few seconds for you to start panicking when he doesn’t answer. Clearly, the dumbfounded look on his face says it all, and you’re afraid soon enough it will turn into disgust. You can already picture him excusing himself to leave, and then avoiding your path until you’re eventually nothing more than strangers to each other. Strangers with an old, crooked from of affection, but strangers nonetheless. So you take the matter into your own hands and raise to your feet first. 

The motion makes your head spin and your legs wobble dangerously; Legolas reaches a hand to your waist in case you would fall. 

“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what has taken me, it’s just- it’s the wine… Forget about it,“ the words come out in a confused blurb, but if Legolas understands something as clear as day, it’s your next sentence. “I’ll just ask someone else, I’m sorry.“ 

I’ll just ask someone else. 

His blood loops in his veins, the words rush in his mind like they are the only ones he knows, and it’s only his body reacting by instinct when he shoots a hand to wrap around your wrist the second you move away. You turn to him, gaze lowering to where your bodies connect, and he tugs gently at your arm to invite you down to his level again. Wind blows around you, dried leaves on the balcony’s ground from the canopy above swirl at your feet.

“I’ll be your first kiss,“ he says. “You should not kiss someone you do not know.“

You should not kiss someone who’s not me. 

You follow his tugs and sit back on your knees in front of him, heart hammering in your chest. You grow even redder if possible, and you feel your heart everywhere in your body, like it has swelled to take up all the space and never give you a second of break. 

But as soon as you lock eyes with the prince, his blue gaze sucks you in like a tunnel, and it’s like the world around vanishes in pitch black so you only see him. You bite your lips frantically, look at every inch of his face because you do not know where to set your eyes, and he reaches a hand to your cheek to pull your lips from between your teeth with his thumb. The movement freezes you, you try to calm yourself, in vain. Your fists bunch the fabric of your dress in your laps. This is happening. This is actually happening to you. There’s a fire in your stomach that builds with anticipation. 

“How- what should I do? How is it supposed to go? Do I close my eyes?“ you ask a ton of questions to ease your stress, but it does the opposite and Legolas holds back a chuckle. You see it in the way his cheeks hollow when he bites them and his smile widens. 

“Don’t think about it too much. Just let me take care of it,“ he charms. 

He is already taking care of it. You see him lean in slowly, until you can feel his breath crash over your lips, and he scrutinises you attentively as he does so in case you wish to back down. Next to his ear, there is a wild strand of hair that sticks out from his flawless look. It makes him look the tiniest bit disheveled; you tuck it back in place to give yourself courage. Your fingers linger on the shell of his ear, it makes Legolas hold back a shiver.

Next thing you know, there is two different kind of warmth upon you: his hands that cover your own in your laps, and his lips delicately pressed to yours. The former grounds you, the latter drive you insane in the softest of ways. It’s like there’s fireworks in your belly, or dozens of butterflies emerging from their cocoon. You see him close his eyes in the kiss so you mimic it and plunge yourself in darkness too. You can feel his eyelashes brush your cheeks, his hair tingle in your neck. 

It’s the softest thing you’ve ever felt, like you’re in another dimension. Part of you thinks that’s what a kiss feels like, the other knows it’s what a kiss with Legolas feels like. He doesn’t move and neither do you, you just stay pressed to each other like that for a while, both trying to calm the twisting of your guts. 

Legolas is the first to part. He does it gently, slowly moving back though his lips still graze yours so you know it’s ending. You keep your eyes closed all the way until his warmth properly leaves, and then you allow yourself to open your eyes. When you do, he is the first thing you see, and it doesn’t help you stay composed. His cheeks are dusted with pink, his lips pout with the remnant of the kiss —even if it was more of a lingering peck. It’s like his pupil tries to swallow the iris, and the small edge of his eye that is still blue has turned a significantly darker colour. 

Blessed with elven hearing, you can hear the way his breathing frays just like yours, or the loud thumping of his heart. Such a loud noise could even be spotted by dwarves, you think. In front of you, Legolas observes you like a relic, searches for any frown on your face, a single trace of regret, of disgust. None comes, you feel all but disgusted. In fact, it’s the opposite. You feel delirious with joy, with the feeling of him and the need to have it again like a drug, like a praise of the Dark Lord. 

“Can you do it again?“ you murmur before you can double-think what you’re asking. But you don’t have time to take it back or apologise, already Legolas is leaning back your way and sliding a hand to your cheek to keep you in place. He hovers over your lips and stares at them so blatantly it’s almost amusing how much he yearns for it. Legolas covets so visibly it makes you less timid about your own bluntness. 

“I’ll give you a proper kiss, this time,“ he breathes against you. 

You don’t know what is a ‘proper kiss‘ before he captures your mouth and the gentle force of it makes you part your lips just a little. Your jaw relaxes of its own will, your hand reaches for his sleeve to hold on to and he tastes so clearly of berries and the sweet remnant of wine coating his tongue. It’s less hesitant now, more open-mouthed and eager to consume. You don’t even brood about what to do, the right gaps to turn your lips into just come naturally, without any effort. You think it cannot get better. Except it does when he wraps his arm around you to bring you closer and you stumble over him in the mess. It tears a chuckles out of you in the kiss, which gives the prince liberty enough to hook your lower lip in between his teeth.

When you part, he is leaned back with his hand supporting behind him, and your own hand supports your weight with a grip on his leg, while you hold on to his shoulder with the other. It’s a glorious disarray of limbs and of laughters as you chuckle when you chase back for his lips, earning yourself a dodge from the elf-prince who buries his nose in your hair.  

“Don’t be greedy,“ he lightly scolds, callused fingers grazing up and down your back in a tender motion. 

You groan. “Can I not be greedy on my birthday?“

“I think it’s already midnight past that day.“

You smile at his stubbornness. You were right, Legolas could be as eager as he could make you beg. You were both a king’s jester for each other, sport to your hearts’ content. 

“At least I had my first kiss before fully turning two thousand.“

“I would have given it to you sooner, had you told me,“ his voice rasps, while he presses his fingertips on your thigh to feel the velvet fabric of your dress. It’s like he maps it, creates a mental pattern of its cut to remember it at night when he’ll bury his face in his pillow, plagued by images of you. 

“It was uh… a recent concern of mine.“ 

Your eyes avert when he straightens up and tries to catch them, and it’s like he reads your mind. 

“I believe I have some girls to thank for this…“ Legolas teases and your roll your eyes, pushing yourself further into his chest. 

“Focus on me first,“ you plead, fingers grazing his jaw to hold it delicately. 

The touch rewires him, the tone of your voice makes him lose his mind way more than he ought to. There’s a grasp on him you don’t know, yet have in your bare hands. 

 “Anything you want…“

The day began softly.

You woke to warmth—steady, familiar, grounding. Itu’s arm was draped over your waist, his breath slow against the back of your neck. The light filtering through the woven walls of your alcove painted everything in gentle gold. For a moment, you didn’t move. You just listened—to him, to the distant hum of Hometree waking, to the quiet rhythm of a life that felt safe.

“You are awake,” Itu murmured, voice still heavy with sleep.

“I have been,” you teased softly, turning slightly in his hold. “You were holding me captive.”

A quiet huff of amusement left him, his fingers brushing along your arm in a lazy, absent motion. “Ah. Then I will not apologize.”

You smiled, leaning into him before finally pulling away to begin the day.

It was easy—being with him. The soft laughter as you both dressed, the gentle bump of shoulders as you moved around each other, the shared meal where your knees brushed beneath you. You spoke in low voices about the day ahead—his plans to hunt, yours to remain with Nefika and continue weaving.

“And later?” you asked, tilting your head.

Itu’s eyes softened instantly. “We fly.”

A grin spread across your face. “The floating mountains?”

He nodded. “Zomey has been restless. She will like it.”

“And my bonded will race her,” you added playfully.

“They will lose.”

You laughed, nudging him. “We will see.”

It was simple. It was certain. You would meet again before the eclipse of the day and fly together as you always did.

—

Hometree settled into its rhythm as the morning passed.

You sat beside Nefika, fingers working through fibers with practiced ease. The motions were familiar, soothing—pull, twist, weave. Nefika spoke occasionally, correcting or guiding, though her tone carried quiet approval.

“You are distracted,” she noted at one point, not unkindly.

You exhaled softly. “Only thinking.”

“Of him.”

It wasn’t a question.

A small smile tugged at your lips. “We are to fly later.”

Nefika hummed. “Then your hands should focus now, so your mind may be free then.”

You nodded, trying to ground yourself in the task again.

But something felt… off.

It wasn’t anything you could name. Just a subtle unease beneath your ribs, like a thread pulled too tight. You shifted slightly, glancing toward the open spaces of Hometree, listening beyond the usual sounds.

Then—footsteps. Fast. Uneven. You turned just as one of the Sarentu approached—Tamtey. They weren't supposed to be here. Your hands stilled. They looked at you like they didn’t know how to speak.

“What is it?” you asked immediately, rising to your feet.

Tamtey swallowed. “Itu—” Your heart lurched.

“What about him?”

“There was an RDA patrol,” they said quickly, voice strained. “Near the hunting grounds. He—he was not alone—Zomey—” The world narrowed.

“No,” you breathed.

“They attacked,” Tamtey continued, the words rushing now. “We found him—but—” You didn’t wait for the rest. The weaving fell from your hands as you turned, already moving, already running.

“—Zomey is dead—” The words chased you, but you were gone.

The air rushed past you as you leapt, your bonded answering your call instantly. The connection snapped into place—fear, urgency, your racing pulse all spilling into them.

Go.

They launched without hesitation. The world blurred beneath you—trees, cliffs, rivers—none of it mattered. You pushed faster, harder, ignoring the strain, ignoring everything except the direction Tamtey had given. 

Please. Your thoughts weren’t even words anymore—just raw, desperate feeling. Please let him be alive. Please let him be—

You felt it before you saw it.

A disturbance. A silence where there shouldn’t be.

Smoke lingered faintly in the air.

And then—you saw him.

Itu was kneeling. Still. Too still.

Your bonded landed before you fully registered it, your body moving before thought could catch up. You stumbled forward, breath catching as the scene came into focus.

Zomey lay crumpled nearby. Her form—still, unmoving—wrong in a way that made your chest seize.

“No…” Your voice broke. Itu didn’t respond. You rushed to him, dropping to your knees at his side. “Itu—”

His hands were still resting against Zomey, trembling faintly. His head was bowed, braids falling forward, shoulders rigid like stone.

“Itu,” you tried again, softer this time. Slowly—too slowly—he looked up. And your heart shattered. There was something hollow in his eyes. Not empty—worse than that. Filled with something too heavy to hold.

“They came from the sky,” he said, voice rough, distant. “I did not hear them soon enough.”

Your hand reached for him, gripping his arm. “You are alive.”

“She protected me.” The words hit like a blade. “I should have—”

“No.” Your voice was firm, shaking but unyielding. “Do not say that.”

His gaze flickered to you, then back to Zomey. “I felt her fear,” he whispered. “And then… nothing.” 

You swallowed hard, your own vision blurring as you looked at her. At the stillness. At the bond that had been severed so violently. Gently, you moved closer, pressing yourself against him, your arms wrapping around his shoulders. For a moment, he didn’t react.

Then—he broke.

His head dropped against you, breath hitching as his body finally gave in to the grief he had been holding back. You held him tighter, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading through his braids.

“I am here, ma yawntu” you murmured, over and over. “I am here.” The wind whispered through the trees, carrying the scent of smoke away. You stayed like that for a long time—kneeling beside loss, holding what remained.

Together.

The world did not move.

It felt as though Eywa herself had stilled everything around you—no wind, no distant calls, no rustling leaves—only the sound of Itu’s uneven breathing against you and the faint, fading warmth of a bond that had been torn away.

You did not rush him. Grief had its own rhythm. You would not break it.

Your hand continued its slow, grounding motion along his back, the other still cradling his head where it rested against your shoulder. His fingers remained curled against Zomey’s side, as if letting go would make this final in a way he could not yet face.

“She was afraid,” he said hoarsely after a long silence. You closed your eyes briefly.

“I felt it,” he continued, voice cracking. “Through tsaheylu. It was so sudden… confusion… pain…” His breath hitched sharply. “And I could not reach her.”

Your grip tightened slightly. “You were there.”

“It was not enough.”

“Itu—”

“I am her rider,” he snapped suddenly, pulling back just enough to look at you. The anguish in his eyes burned. “I am meant to protect her. She trusted me, and I—”

“You loved her,” you said firmly, cutting through the spiral before it could drag him under. “She knew that.” His jaw clenched, but he didn’t look away. “You think she chose to protect you because you failed her?” you continued, softer now but no less steady. “No. She chose because you are hers. Because your lives were one.” His expression faltered. Slowly, your hand moved from his hair to his cheek, grounding him, forcing him to stay with you. “She did not die alone,” you whispered. “She died with you. With your bond. With your love.”

The words seemed to crack something open in him—something quieter, deeper than the sharp edge of guilt. His shoulders sagged slightly, breath shuddering as he looked back at Zomey. For a while, neither of you spoke. Then, carefully, you shifted. “We should not leave her here.”

Itu’s eyes flickered. “No…”

“She deserves to return to Eywa properly,” you continued. “Not like this. Not after what they did.” At that, something steadied in him. A purpose.

He nodded once, slowly, “Yes.”

It took time.

You stayed beside him as he worked, never leaving his side. Together, you prepared Zomey with the care she deserved—removing what should not remain, arranging her with reverence, hands gentle despite the weight of what you were doing. Every movement was heavy with meaning. Every touch, a farewell. When it was done, you both sat back, the light beginning to shift toward evening.

“We will take her to the roots,” Itu said quietly. “To a place she can be heard.”

You nodded. “I will fly with you.”

His gaze softened slightly at that. “You do not have to—”

“I know,” you said. “I want to.”

A pause.

Then, finally—he leaned forward, resting his forehead briefly against yours. A quiet, wordless thank you.

The flight back was slower.

Different.

Zomey’s absence was a silence that echoed between you both. Where there should have been another presence in the sky, there was only open air. Your bonded felt it too—you sensed their unease, their confusion—but they stayed steady beneath you, strong and sure. When you reached the sacred place, the world felt… listening. The roots of the great trees curled deep into the earth, glowing faintly with life. The air was thick with something ancient, something knowing.

Together, you carried her.

Together, you laid her to rest. Itu hesitated before making the final connection—his hand hovering, trembling slightly.

“I do not know if she will hear me,” he admitted quietly.

You stepped closer, placing your hand over his, “Eywa will.”

That was enough.

He closed his eyes, making the connection. The moment it happened, his breath caught sharply. You felt it too—not directly, but through him. A shift. A presence. Something vast and gentle and sorrowful all at once.

His shoulders shook. “She is there,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I can feel… echoes… memories…” Tears slipped freely down his face now, but there was something else beneath them. Not just grief.

Connection.

You stayed with him the entire time, your presence steady, unwavering. When he finally pulled away, he didn’t collapse this time. He leaned into you. And you held him.

Night had begun to fall by the time you left. The stars emerged slowly above, quiet and distant. Itu walked beside you in silence for a while before speaking.

“I do not know how to do this again,” he admitted. “To bond… to fly… without her.”

“You do not have to know now,” you replied gently. He glanced at you. “You only have to take the next step.”

A pause.

Then, quietly: “With you?”

You reached for his hand, intertwining your fingers with his. “With me. We will honour her last flight together when the grief is not as sharp.” For the first time since you had found him, his grip tightened in return. And though the loss remained—sharp, aching, undeniable—you felt it then:

He was still here. And you would not let him face it alone.

The night wrapped around you both like a quiet witness.

By the time you returned to Hometree, the world had dimmed into soft blues and deep shadows. The usual warmth of home felt… different. Muted. As if it, too, understood what had been lost. Word had already spread.

You felt it in the way voices hushed as you passed, in the glances—soft, sorrowful, respectful. No one stopped you. No one spoke. They didn’t need to. Grief was understood here.

Your hand never left Itu’s.

Your alcove felt smaller somehow. Or perhaps it was the absence that made it feel that way.

You paused at the entrance, turning slightly toward him. “You should rest.”

Itu didn’t answer at first. His gaze drifted across the space—lingering on the woven blankets, the small things you had both left behind that morning, untouched. Unchanged. Like the day had not shattered in between.

“I left this morning,” he said quietly. “And she was alive.” Your chest tightened. “I thought about the hunt,” he continued. “About returning to you. About flying later.” His jaw clenched faintly. “I did not think it would be the last time I would feel her.”

You stepped closer, “You did not know,” you said gently.

“I should have,” he whispered.

You didn’t argue this time. Instead, you reached up, resting your forehead against his—just like he had done before. “You came back,” you murmured. “You are here. With me.”

A long pause.

Then, slowly, his hands came up—hesitant at first, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to hold onto anything anymore. But when they settled at your waist, they tightened. Not desperate. But grounding.

“I do not feel her,” he admitted, voice barely above a breath. “It is… quiet.”

You swallowed, heart aching at the emptiness behind those words. “I know,” you said softly. “I have heard others speak of it. When a bond is broken…” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “It leaves an echo. A silence where something once was.”

His grip tightened slightly, “It hurts.”

“I know.”

You guided him down to sit, pulling him gently with you. The two of you settled together, the familiar closeness returning in a quieter, more fragile way. For a while, you simply stayed like that. Then, after a long silence, Itu spoke again. “I do not think I can fly,” he said. The words were steady. Certain. Not a question. Your chest ached—but you nodded.

“Then you will not.” His eyes flickered to yours, searching—almost bracing, as if expecting disappointment. But there was none. “You will when you are ready,” you added. “Or you will not. Either way… you are still you.” Something in his expression softened—just a little.

“You make it sound simple.”

“It is not,” you said honestly. “But you do not have to decide everything tonight.”

A faint exhale left him—almost a broken laugh, “You always say that.”

“And you never listen.” That earned the smallest ghost of a smile. It didn’t last long. But it was there.

Later, when the night deepened and exhaustion finally began to settle into his bones, you lay back together—just as you had that morning. But everything had changed. Itu hesitated before pulling you close again, as if unsure whether he could reach for comfort after what had happened. You didn’t give him time to doubt. You shifted into him, tucking yourself against his chest, your arm draping across him as you had done countless times before.

“I am here,” you murmured again, softer now. “Ma yawntu.” His arms wrapped around you more firmly this time. Not loose. Not uncertain. Holding. As if he needed to remind himself you were real.

“I was afraid,” he admitted into your hair.

Your heart skipped. “Of what?”

“That I would not come back.” A pause. “Or that I would… and there would be nothing left of me to give you.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hand coming up to his cheek again. “You are still here,” you said, steady and sure. “All of you. Even the parts that hurt.”

His gaze searched yours, “And if they are broken?”

“Then I will sit with you while they mend.”

Silence. Then—he leaned into your touch.

Sleep did not come easily. Not for him. You felt it in the way he stirred, in the tension that would creep back into his body, in the quiet moments where his breath would hitch as memory returned unbidden. Each time, you held him. Each time, you grounded him back into the present—into you. At some point, in the deepest part of the night, his grip loosened just slightly. His breathing evened out, not peaceful—but resting. You stayed awake a little longer, listening.

To him.

To Hometree.

To the distant, ever-present hum of Eywa. And silently, you made a promise. To Zomey. To him. You would help him find the sky again.

Even if it took time.

Even if it hurt.