and you have my bow 🏹

The air felt cool and comfortable, and the sound of mellifluous, layered birdsong carried on the wind as it weaved through the branches of the Mirkwood trees. Small patches of dappled sunlight managed to break past the thick canopy above, illuminating your book as you sat cross-legged atop a monstrously large tree root. The root itself was nearly your twice your height in diameter, and appeared more like a bridge as it stretched across a trickling creek just eight feet below.

You hummed softly to yourself, eyebrows slightly furrowed as you studied the current page of your book. The book itself was written in Sindarin on ancient yellowed paper, though this did not serve as a hinderance to you.

You were a renowned scholar, hailing from the human kingdom of Gondor, with your primary discipline of study being Elven history and culture. As such, you’ve spent the past two years on sabbatical, immersing yourself in the region of Northern Mirkwood.

During your time in the Woodland Realm, you were pleased to have earned the honor to be considered part of the elvellyn, or elf-friends. Nearly more-so, you were pleased to also have formed a strong friendship with the prince of Mirkwood, who sat before you now.

You traced the illustration in your book, following the patterns of braids with your eyes before lifting them to where Legolas had his back to you. He was a perfect example of stillness. Your hands held the strands of his long hair gingerly, and you twisted one of the pieces over the other in the same fashion as your book displayed.

Your hands were slow and methodical, determined to braid his hair as authentically as possible to the source material. After all, different Elven braids held cultural significance, and you wanted to ensure you got your meaning across successfully.

Often, the act of braiding one’s hair was a sign of emotional intimacy—certain braid patterns were used amongst soldiers to garner good luck before a battle, while others were purely reserved for the bond between mother and child. The current pattern you were practicing on Legolas, however, was neither of these. It was a symbol of romantic affection—a confession, so to speak.

When you’d first asked Legolas to let you braid his hair, he gave you little to no reaction. He simply agreed to help you practice, and sat with you now in a companionable silence. Certainly not the reaction you had expected, especially considering the significance of the braid you had selected to do.

Were you doing it wrong? You glanced down at the book again, double checking your work thus far, but as expected, you had weaved the blonde strands in a flawless imitation. You bit the inside of your cheek, and were grateful his back was turned to you so he did not see your confuddled expression.

Meanwhile, Legolas was holding his breath as he sat before you. Your graceful fingers played with his hair with all the tenderness in the world. His skin pebbled as your nails scratched gently along his scalp, and he bit back the pleased sigh threatening to escape his lips.

He remained deathly still, trying with all his might not to overreact to the situation. The braid you’d selected to practice was particularly intimate, reserved for lovers and admirers. But you were a human, simply here to study his culture…there was no way you would have asked to braid his hair in such a manner if you knew what it meant.

And yet, as he told himself this over and over in his mind, he could not deny the contentment he felt as you braided his hair. The privacy of the forest, the morning sunlight kissing the earth where it shined through the leaves…it was all so intimate. He had to remind himself to inhale and exhale normally. You were oblivious to the situation you’d put him in. He would not make a fool of himself by reading into the situation and confronting you about it.

You finished up the last few knots of the braid, tying it off with a small band of woven string. As you gazed at your handiwork, comparing it once more to the reference material, you felt yourself release a satisfied sigh. “There we are,” you breathed. “I reckon it’s a good first attempt, wouldn’t you say?”

Legolas reached a hand up behind his head to trace the braid now cascading down his back, a deep hum reverberating in his throat. “I can not disagree,” he conceded, and turned to face you finally. As always, you felt breathless at the sight of him. He was beautiful even by Elven standards, his cool blue-grey eyes akin to an early morning dew.

You watched with bated breath for his reaction, carefully searching his expression for any trace of understanding. He had agreed that your execution had been well-done, and yet…he did not acknowledge the message that should have been blaringly obvious.

He looked as cool and composed as ever, though his eyebrows furrowed slightly as he seemed to catch something shift in your expression. “Are you displeased?” he asked, and you quickly turned your face from him to your book once more.

“I don’t understand,” you muttered to yourself, flipping back and forth between the pages. “I followed the steps perfectly…did I miss something?”

Legolas watched as you murmured to yourself, mildly concerned by the change. He reached forward and placed his hand atop of yours to still you. Your face immediately lifted to look at him, confusion and misunderstanding swimming in your eyes.

“Why are you disconcerted?” he asked, his eyebrows knitting together. “As far as I can tell, you have managed to execute a perfectly decent Silvan braid. Considering you yourself are not of the race, should this not be pleasing to you?”

Your own expression matched his, the both of you confused by—what you felt—was the other’s lack of an appropriate reaction.

“That’s the thing,” you sighed, closing the book. “It didn’t…work.”

Legolas blinked at your admission, trying to make sense of what you were saying. There was no way you understood the social significance of the braid…did you?

But seeing you now, looking away as if you were self-conscious, he began to second-guess his previously held assumptions. In that moment, he decided to take the risk.

Legolas lifted his slender hand towards your cheek. He curved his thumb around the underside of your chin, raising it so you were looking at him. You felt your breath hitch in your throat, and the feeling of your mortal heartbeat quickened in your chest.

In his steely eyes was an intensity that had not been there before. It was as if the dim embers there had been dowsed in an accelerant, leaving behind a burning inferno of blue flame. A sensation of warmth began to tingle the apples of your cheeks. Legolas’ eyes darted down to your lips briefly, and he swallowed before forcing his them back up to yours.

“Do you know what you do to me, melethel?” his voice came out breathy and strained. “The delicate touch of your hands upon me—nay, the very vision of you threatens to destroy the remaining semblance of my self-control.”

You felt the heat on your cheeks begin to creep lower towards your neck, and his eyes seemed to follow the color down. His voice was husky as he spoke to you in his native tongue, “Le melin, a lín naid nín ú-barthatha. Aníron na dharthol na nin, sui galad vi dû.”

The confession was poetic and only slightly painful in its formality, but it was this noble restraint that drew you even closer to him. You felt your lips twitch upwards in amusement. Full of affection, you exhaled a small, “gi melin.” The informal, intimate ‘gi’ of your response seemed to shatter the last bit of his restraint, and within seconds he had leaned forward, and pressed his lips to yours.

Book long forgotten, your hands released it in favor of fisting the fabric of his shirt, trying to pull him impossibly closer. Your lips broke apart as you felt yourself fall backwards, your back pressing into the firm woody texture of the root you’d been perched on.

Legolas naturally slotted himself above you, and the braid you’d woven draped down over his shoulder and hung between you. You both panted, mere inches separating you as your breath mingled. His pupils were dilated more so than usual, but you didn’t have more than a few seconds to notice before you crashed together in another, searing kiss.

Bodies intertwined, you pulled apart and came together like the natural push and pull of the tide. You melded together in a collision of whispered endearments, scalding touches of skin, and the pure, unadulterated desire for the other.

You spent the remainder of that perfect afternoon upon the tree root, enjoying one another’s company as new lovers are known to do.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾ 

Translation Guide:

Elvellyn – Elf-friends, (plural for elvellon), denotes the upgraded status of honored men who are considered friendly to Elven kind.

Melethel – A pet-name, such as darling or sweetheart

Le melin, a lín naid nín ú-barthatha. Aníron na dharthol na nin, sui galad vi dû. – I love you (formal), and your deeds will not be forgotten by me. I wish for you to stay with me, like light in shadow.

There weren’t many horses left when the Fellowship set out from Rivendell, supplies were stretched, and pairs had to share mounts as you traveled across Middle Earth. When Elrond told the Fellowship you’d need to share horses, you didn’t expect to be paired with him.

“You shall ride with Legolas.”

He’d only given you a graceful nod, eyes as cool and unreadable as always, not a single flicker of surprise. Typical.

You, on the other hand, had to turn away before your expression betrayed just how much you didn’t mind being pressed against the impossibly perfect form of the elven prince.

What you didn’t expect was to be riding in front.

It made sense, he could guide the reins, but it meant your back was flush against his chest. It meant your thighs were spread over the saddle with his legs caging yours. It meant every time the horse shifted… you felt everything.

The first few hours, you tried to behave, but it was hard to ignore him. Every movement of the horse made you shift, and every shift brought you closer. His hands were steady on the reins just beside your hips, but you could feel the tension humming through him. His breath was warm against your neck. Controlled. Too controlled.

“Comfortable?” he asked, his voice like velvet sliding over stone.

“Very,” you murmured.

You leaned back slightly. Just a little.

Enough to press your lower back to the front of his thighs.

You felt it, even then, a twitch, a catch in his breath. Barely there, but real.

⸻

The next day, you were bolder.

You stretched in the saddle more often, letting your hips roll a little. Adjusted your seat with unnecessary slowness, and arched your back after long hours of riding, subtly grinding against him.

Each time, he shifted. Just a hair. But never spoke.

Until…

“You move quite a lot,” he said tightly, on the third day.

You turned your head, feigning innocence. “Do I? Sorry. I suppose I’m just sore. Hard to sit still with thighs aching like this.”

You heard it, the inhale through his teeth, Sharp. Strangled.

You smiled. Dangerously.

By the time the sun began to dip behind the hills, the air was hot and thick with tension and sweat. The Fellowship rode in silence, accompanied only by the distant sounds of horses’ hooves and the creak of leather straps. You let your head fall back against his shoulder.

“You smell like forests,” you said softly. “Do all elves smell like this, or just you?”

You felt him tense.

“I do not know,” he said, voice tight. “I have never asked.” somewhat unamused by his predicament.

You smiled again. Then slowly, you let your hips roll with the rhythm of the horse, a deliberate sway that dragged you against him, back to front.

That was when you felt him.

The hard press of him beneath you.

You went still.

So did he. A horrible, agonizing pause.

“…Forgive me,” he said suddenly, his voice raw. “It is not my intention to disrespect you.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to catch his expression, mortified and ashamed.

And that’s when you realised-

He really didn’t think you knew what you were doing. Your heart twisted and your stomach lit up all at once.

“Legolas,” you said softly, shifting to face him slightly, your legs still straddling the saddle, his body warm and trembling behind you.

“I’ve been doing this on purpose.”

His eyes widened.

“I wanted you to feel that way,” you whispered. “I wanted to know if you wanted me, too.”

He stared at you, stunned silent.

And then he growled.

Actually growled.

⸻

As the Fellowship came to a halt, Aragorn suggesting they make camp before nightfall, Legolas announced his intention for the both of you to scout the surroundings for safety. He pulled the reins sharply and veered the horse off the trail, toward a small glade tucked into the trees. The moment the trees covered you, he dismounted and pulled you down into his arms, before your feet even touched the earth.

Your back hit a tree with a thud, his lips already crashing into yours. The tension between you broke like a dam, raw and hungry, his hands roaming your body like he couldn’t believe he’d waited so long.

“You torment me,” he said between kisses. “All day. Every movement. I thought I would go mad.”

“I wanted to torment you,” you gasped, tugging at his belt. “I wanted this.”

He caught your hands, breathless, holding them to his chest.

“Are you certain?” he asked, voice low, shaking.

You nodded. “Yes. I’ve always wanted you.”

Clothes were discarded quickly and clumsily. The earth was soft, moss beneath your back as he settled between your legs, hard and aching, his body shaking with restraint.

“I will go slow,” he whispered. “I must… go slow.”

But when he slid inside you, all control broke.

He gasped matching your own, and the pace became fast, hungry, full of longing. You clung to him, fingers in his hair, moaning into his shoulder as he thrust into you, each stroke deeper, stronger, allowing himself to be consumed with your entire being. He whispered your name like a prayer and a curse all in one.

“You feel- Valar, you feel like fire,” he panted.

And when you came, crying out beneath him, he followed you, his body demanding to be in sync, groaning into your skin as he spilled inside you, hips trembling. He collapsed over you, still inside, both of you shaking, panting.

⸻

Later, as the stars blinked into the sky and your horse grazed nearby, Legolas lay beside you on the moss, his fingers tracing your bare arm.

“They must be worried, we should go back” your voice softly emerging from the silence.

“Yes you’re probably right” everting his eyes from the sky, he gazed upon you, watching your still, fixated form as it studied the sky above you. Before making an attempt to lift himself from your side, an idea, accompanied with a smirk came to mind.

“You’ll ride in front again tomorrow,” he murmured, voice soft and teasing.

You grinned. “I assumed as much”

“But this time,” he said, kissing your shoulder, “if you tease me… you’ll pay for it after nightfall.”

You shivered.

“I’m counting on it.”

⸻

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

….

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

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

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

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

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

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

She frowned, “To not be so, Sire.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

….

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The King’s brows lifted in question.

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

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

“The guards believe him to be an arsehole.”

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

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

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

“One of my sentries. (Y/N).”

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

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

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

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

…..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

….

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

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

Loudly, he cleared his throat.

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

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

He cleared his throat, again, amused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He only nodded as she disappeared behind the closed door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At this point, all the women were leaning in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The three women exchanged knowing looks.

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

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

“Too late?” (Y/N) questioned.

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

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

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

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

Prince Legolas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, this is known,” (Y/N) replied.

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

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

Legolas exhaled slowly. “I do not know.”

…..

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh,” was her soft reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

….

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

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

“Elsbeth!” (Y/N) exclaimed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You followed me?!”

“You lied to me,” he rebutted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course not,” he replied calmly.

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

“Well, no. I left word with Ruthion.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She snorted. “It was deserved.”

Legolas chuckled lightly in reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With that, Murie darted off.

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

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

Aeliana smiled warmly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

….

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

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

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

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

“Mother!” Aeliana gawked at her words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Elsbeth chuckled, “I’m afraid so.”

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

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

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

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

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

….

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

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

She blinked awake, eyes heavy with sleep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But the treaty—”

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

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

His gaze settled firmly on her. “Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right, yes,” Legolas uttered, awkwardly.

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

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

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

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

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

The Prince froze.

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

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

…..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The raiders,” she whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I–I dont understand–” Aeliana began.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right about what?”

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

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

Cheers and clapping erupted from the villagers around them.

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

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

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

….

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

The clearing revealed itself at last, bathed in the fading golden light, the sea of colorful, vivid wildflowers swaying gently as if greeting you both. This perfect, hidden world was yours and Fíli’s alone. A secret space where no royal title, no heavy crowns, and no expectations could reach him. The only one who knew of these secret rendezvous was Kíli, and even he had promised never to intrude nor tell their Uncle Thorin where the older Prince had run off to.

Breathless but grinning, Fíli managed to catch up, pulling you into his arms from behind, causing you to squeak, your hands coming up to cover his around your midsection. 

“I win,” He declared triumphantly, spinning you around slightly before setting you down in the soft grass, his bright blue eyes gleaming with mischief.

“You cheated,” You accused, turning around in his arms.

“Me? Cheat?” Fíli feigned innocence, but the smirk tugging at his lips betrayed him. “You wound me.”

Rolling your eyes, you slipped out of his grasp, finding your spot against the large, thick base of a tree, staring up at the sky as it deepened into dusky purples and fiery oranges. Fíli sat beside you, head heading landing on your lap, as usual, only to look at you instead of the sky.

“Tomorrow, I have meetings with Uncle and the council,” He murmured, his hand raising, fingers absentmindedly playing with a strand of your hair. “And after that, I have to oversee the new trade agreements with him as well.”

You hummed in acknowledgment, knowing all too well how his duties often swallowed him whole. That was why this place mattered so much. Why these nights spent among the flowers, under the stars, were so precious. Because here, Fíli was not a Prince. He was simply yours. And you were his.

“We’ll stay here as long as we can, then,” You said softly, your own fingers running through his somewhat unruly golden locks.

A small, grateful smile touched his lips and he sighed. “Aye. As long as we can.”

Silence settled between you, comfortable and warm. The only sounds that filled the space were the gentle whisper of the wind rustling through the trees, the rhythmic chirping of crickets, and the occasional hoot of an owl hidden somewhere in the canopy. The world felt still, untouched, as if time itself had paused to let you both exist in this perfect moment.

Your fingers continued their slow, soothing path through Fíli’s golden locks, absentmindedly twirling a braid or allowing your nails to gently graze along his scalp as your gaze remained fixed on the vast sky above. Stars twinkled like scattered diamonds, distant yet constant, a quiet reminder that some things were eternal. But Fíli wasn’t looking at the stars. He was looking at you. As he usually caught himself doing.

His hand rested over yours, pressing it against his chest, right over his heart. His other hand toyed with the soft blades of grass beneath him. A feeling welled up inside him as he continued to look up at you, something deep and overwhelming, something that warmed him from the inside out. A shaky exhale left his lips.

Slowly, he lifted his hand from the grass, his calloused fingers brushing lightly against the underside of your jaw, a featherlight caress that sent a shiver down your spine. The touch was soft - so unlike the hardened warrior, the noble prince. It was reverent, as though you were something delicate, precious.

Your breath hitched at the contact, your eyes finally breaking away from the stars to meet his. His gaze was steady, unwavering, filled with something unspoken yet impossible to ignore.

“Fíli?” You murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

His thumb traced along your jawline, his lips parting slightly as if he wanted to say something. But instead, he only smiled, small and full of something tender. “I just… I needed to look at you,” He admitted, voice hushed. For a moment, he didn’t speak, just gazing at you with that same deep, earnest expression. And then, his words came, “You are more wondrous than the most radiant of jewels,” Fíli murmured, “I’ve seen beauty in many places, in mountains and forests, in gold and in stone, but none of it holds a candle to you. The light in your eyes, the way you laugh, how you make the world brighter simply by being in it... I…” He hesitated, his breath catching for just a moment. “I do not deserve you, but I love you. More than I know how to say.”

Your heart fluttered at his words, the intensity in his gaze, and the raw honesty in his tone. You bit your bottom lip, looking down at him with a mix of awe and adoration. "Flatterer," You teased lightly, a bit breathless from his confession. “Trying to make me flustered.”

Fíli chuckled softly, the sound like music to your ears, his blue eyes sparkling with affection. And then, as if drawn by some invisible thread, you leaned down, the warmth of his breath mingling with yours as your lips brushed lightly against his.

“I love you too,” You whispered softly, the words flowing from you as naturally as your heartbeat, your nose brushed against his. “And I am the one who does not deserve you, my Prince.”

And then, without another word, your lips met his in a kiss. At first, it was soft, a gentle meeting of lips that lingered, savoring the closeness. His lips were warm, and tender, and you felt a spark of something deep within you - an electricity that sent a shiver through your spine. Carefully, Fíli sits up, not once breaking the kiss as he cups the back of your neck, deepening it. Your hand dug deeper into his hair, tugging lightly, earning you a groan that rumbled deep in his throat. Slowly, your back met with the soft ground, Fíli hovering above you. The world around you faded, the moonlight casting you both in its silver glow as Fíli’s lips trailed lower, whispering promises against your skin. 

~~~

More than a fortnight had passed since that night. In the time since, you hadn't seen Fíli as often as you wished. His princely duties had kept him occupied, and though you understood, a part of you still longed for the quiet moments you had shared. Instead, you found yourself spending more time with Kíli when you weren’t tending to the wounded or ill in the infirmary. It had been King Thorin himself who had offered Erebor as your home after you aided him and the Company in reclaiming the mountain. You had fought beside them, risked your life alongside theirs, and in return, you had been granted a place within their kingdom. That was how you met Fíli. What began as camaraderie had blossomed into something deeper, something neither of you had expected but couldn’t deny. Now, Kíli's lighthearted nature was a welcome distraction, his jokes and playful antics easing the ache of Fíli’s absence, but it wasn’t the same. Still, you told yourself Fíli would come to you when he could. He always did.

But for the past few days, something had felt... Off.

You had slept in - something you never did. And when you did wake, it was as if your body refused to cooperate, leaving you sluggish and unwilling to leave the warmth of your bed. Weakness clung to your limbs, irritation simmered just beneath your skin, and even the simplest of tasks became difficult to focus on. Were you coming down with something? Falling ill? That was the only explanation, wasn’t it? Maybe you were overworking yourself. There had been many instances where Fíli - and Kíli - would have to pull you away from your work after you revealed that you hadn't had a break, and you hadn’t been sleeping well.

Deep in thought, you paused mid-step as you walked down one of the many halls in Erebor. Your brows furrowed, mind racing as the pieces slowly began to fall into place. And then - your breath caught. Frozen in place, you realized something.

You had missed your week. You didn't think anything of it at first, however... Heart pounding, your gaze dropped, your hand instinctively pressing against your stomach. 

A rush of emotions surged through you. Disbelief, uncertainty, and something else, something deeper. Slowly, you took a step back, your back meeting the cool stone wall as you pressed a trembling hand to your warm cheek. A light-headed feeling washed over you as you struggled to process the truth now settling in your chest.

Were you with child?

Your breath hitched as your mind drifted back to that night in the woods with Fíli. The warmth of his touch, the way he held you, the whispered words between kisses beneath the stars. Your cheeks burned at the memory, heat flooding your face. And then, like a whirlwind, a storm of emotions crashed over you - fear, worry… But above all else, happiness. Joy.

A baby.

Tears welled in your eyes, blurring your vision as the weight of the realization settled in. You couldn’t stop them, nor did you want to. They spilled over, trailing down your cheeks as a soft, disbelieving laugh escaped your lips.

“Are you alright?”

The familiar voice made you jump slightly, and you turned to see Kíli standing a few feet away, his brows drawn together in concern. His usual playful demeanor had shifted into something softer, worry evident in his gaze as he took a step closer. You quickly wiped at your eyes, nodding as you let out a shaky breath. “I- yes. I’m alright.” You sniffled, another laugh bubbling past your lips as you smiled, eyes still shining with tears. “I’m just… Happy.”

Kíli’s concern didn’t fade entirely, but at your words, his expression softened, his lips quirking up into a small smile. “Well, that is good, then.” He eyed you for a moment before nudging your arm. “Still, I do not think I have ever seen someone cry because they were happy.”

You only laughed again, shaking your head, your heart still racing with the joy of your secret.

Kíli tilted his head, mischief dancing in his eyes. “Does this happiness have anything to do with a certain blonde Prince?”

Your breath caught in your throat, your eyes widening as you gasped. Fíli. You had to tell him. Quickly, you wiped the tears from your face, steadying yourself before breaking into a run down the halls, Kíli following close behind. Your feet carried you toward the throne room - the very place you had originally been heading before your realization had struck. Fíli would be there, as he always was at this time. You had to tell him.

But as you reached the massive doors, you froze. Thorin’s deep voice echoed from within. You hesitated, the weight of his tone holding you in place. Kíli came up beside you, confusion flickering across his face as you both instinctively pressed yourselves against the cold stone wall, peeking through the slightly open door.

“I have arranged for you to wed, Fíli,” Thorin’s voice was firm, unwavering. “A high-born dwarven maiden from the Iron Hills. The union will strengthen our alliance and secure Erebor’s future.”

The words hit you like a blow to the chest. The warmth that had filled you only moments ago was gone, replaced by an icy numbness that spread through your limbs. The world around you blurred, and all you could hear was a ringing in your ears. Kíli turned to you, saying something, but his voice was distant, muffled. Like you were underwater... Drowning.

Fíli was to be married. To someone else.

The thought barely had time to settle before your body reacted on its own. You turned and ran, blinded by the tears welling in your eyes. The halls of Erebor passed in a blur, your heartbeat thundering in your ears, drowning out Kíli’s voice as he called after you. Reaching your room, you threw open the door and stumbled inside, slamming it shut behind you. Your legs gave out beneath you, and you collapsed onto your bed, grabbing the nearest pillow and clutching it to your chest. The soft furs brushed against your skin as you curled in on yourself, but they offered no comfort.

Sobs wracked your body, the pain in your chest tightening like a vice. You had been so happy only moments ago - so ready to share your joy with Fíli. And now… Now, it felt like that happiness had been ripped away before you even had the chance to hold it. You were so lost in your grief that you didn’t hear the knock at your door. Didn’t hear it creak open, nor the soft footsteps approaching. Only when you felt a gentle touch on your arm did you stir.

Kíli sat beside you on the bed, his expression filled with quiet concern as he rubbed slow, soothing circles against your arm. “You know Fíli would never allow this,” He murmured. “He will find a way. He’ll convince Uncle to put an end to this arrangement.”

His voice was steady, filled with certainty. But you could only stare ahead, fresh tears slipping silently down your cheeks. Because, no matter how much you wanted to believe him, a terrible doubt had already crept into your heart.

Slowly, reluctantly, you sat up, tucking your legs against your chest and wrapping your arms around them. Your voice was quiet, strained, as you finally spoke. “I don’t think Thorin will change his mind, Kí… He’s doing what he thinks is best for his kingdom.” You sniffled, brushing the dampness from your cheeks. “He’s a wise king. He knows what is best.”

Kíli stared at you as if you had gone mad. His brows furrowed, his jaw tightening. “Are you mad?” He asked, disbelief coloring his tone. “Are you just going to give up?” You looked away, unable to meet his gaze. But Kíli wasn’t done. “Fíli would not give up on you,” He said firmly. “Not for anything. He will fight. So why are you giving up on him?”

You finally looked at him, your eyes filled with sorrow but also with a quiet resolve. “I’m not giving up on him, Kíli,” You whispered. “But this… This decision will be best for him.”

Kíli’s brows furrowed deeper, frustration flashing in his dark eyes. “Best for Fíli?” He repeated incredulously. “You honestly believe that? That losing you - losing the love of his life - is what’s best for him?”

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around your arms. “He is the heir to Erebor,” You said, your voice barely above a whisper. “His duty will always come before his heart.”

Kíli let out a frustrated sigh, shaking his head. "That may be true for Uncle," He said, his voice heavy with the weight of his own thoughts. "But Fíli... Fíli is not Uncle. He would never choose duty over you, not if it means losing what he truly wants." You felt a pang in your chest at his words, and despite the doubt that had clouded your mind, a flicker of hope ignited. But, you couldn’t bring yourself to fully embrace that hope. Kíli gave you one last, lingering look, his eyes filled with worry but also a sense of determination. "I'll go now," He said quietly, his tone softening as he stood. "You need rest, and I’ll speak to Fíli first thing in the morning."

You nodded absently, still too lost in thought to fully focus on his words. "Thank you, Kí."

With a final glance, Kíli left, closing the door gently behind him. As the sound of his footsteps faded down the hall, you sank back into the bed, your eyes tracing the patterns on the ceiling above.

But what Kíli didn’t know - what no one knew - was that you had already made your decision. Deep down, you knew that no matter how much you wanted to fight for what you and Fíli shared, the truth was unavoidable. Fíli’s future was not something he could escape. His duty would always be his first priority, and the life he had planned before you entered it would take precedence over the love he had for you. And the addition that you were with child - his child - that would only complicate everything for him.

You wiped away the remaining tears on your cheeks and exhaled, your chest heavy. The heartache was unbearable, but you had no choice. No matter how much it hurt, you couldn’t stand in the way of his destiny. He deserved to be happy.

In your heart, you knew what needed to be done. You only hoped Fíli would forgive you for it.

~~~

As the sun crept up above the treeline, Fíli made his way to your room, fiddling with one of his mustache braids, nervous, anxious, and all in-between. News of his arrangement had shocked him. He was not expecting it. Not so soon, anyway. He thought he had more time to figure out a way to tell his uncle about his and your courtship, but it seemed that he ran out of time.

Fíli’s heart thudded heavily in his chest as he walked nervously toward your room, twisting one of the braids in his mustache. He had spent the night tossing and turning, struggling to find the right words to tell you. The news of the arrangement had hit him like a storm - unexpected and all-consuming. He had always known his duty as heir to Erebor would come with sacrifices, but never did he imagine that one of those sacrifices would be you. He had wanted more time. More time to prepare, more time to speak to his Uncle, and more time to tell you everything. The truth of his heart. But it seemed time had already run out.

When he reached your door, he knocked softly, calling your name with a mix of hope and uncertainty. "Amrâlimê?" He called again, his voice tight. When no answer came, worry began to curl in his chest, and he hesitantly pushed the door open.

The room was quiet. Too quiet.

His eyes scanned the familiar surroundings - everything looked as it should. The warm sunlight filtered through the windows, the soft pillows still in place on the bed - but something was missing. Something vital.

Your presence.

He walked in, calling your name one more time, but his heart dropped as he saw that your traveling bag was gone. A chill swept over him, and he quickly scanned the room again, his gaze frantic. Most of your clothes were gone too. Panic surged through his veins, his mind racing with questions.

Where were you?

Why had you left?

Had you overheard the conversation yesterday? Did the news of the arranged marriage drive you away?

He rushed around the room, calling your name in a panic, as though you might suddenly materialize out of thin air. But the room remained still, empty, and cold.

Fíli sank onto the edge of the bed, his breath shaky. He buried his face in his hands, torn between dread and confusion. His heart twisted, wondering if he had already lost you. If you had left because of the arrangement. Because of the future he could not escape. No, he was going to escape this fate. As he sat there, a glimmer of something caught his eye. A small piece of parchment lay on the edge of the bedside table. With trembling hands, Fíli reached for it, his breath catching in his throat as he saw your handwriting scrawled across the page. His heart pounded as he read, the words on the page sinking into his chest like a dagger. You were leaving.

The letter was short, but the message was clear - you believed your presence would only be a hindrance to his happiness, that his new path was the one he had to follow. He couldn’t breathe. Fíli’s gaze swam with disbelief, the words blurring before his eyes. No. No, this wasn’t how it was supposed to be. You couldn’t just leave like this. He couldn’t let you go. With the letter still clenched tightly in his hand, he stood, determination lighting his eyes. He wasn’t going to lose you like this - not without a fight. 

~~~

Three months had passed since you left Erebor. The trip to Rivendell had taken much longer than you had originally hoped. Each day seemed to stretch on endlessly, as your fatigue deepened with every mile. At first, you had tried to push through it, thinking that it would pass, that it was simply the result of the emotional toll you’d carried with you when you left Fíli behind. But as the days and weeks stretched into months, it became clear that being with child while traveling long distances was overwhelming. Your body felt weaker, slower. Your energy was spent by midday, and you found it harder and harder to focus on the road ahead. The cold seemed to settle into your bones, and the exhaustion clung to you like a shroud. But, you pushed through. You had done this all before when you traveled with the Company, you could do it again.

There were also some minor setbacks - things you hadn’t accounted for when you’d decided to flee. One of the worst occurred when you found yourself trapped in a cave for three days, the weather worsening outside as relentless rain poured down, turning the paths into streams and making travel impossible. You hadn’t minded, as the cave offered warmth and shelter.

The rain didn’t let up, and you had no choice but to wait it out. Your mare, though brilliant and strong, was becoming restless in the confined space, and you feared continuing the journey in the worsening weather would only lead to more problems. You couldn’t risk getting sick - especially not with how weak you had already felt. You didn't want to possibly endanger your baby. So, you waited. You rested. The storm raged outside while you tried to find comfort in the silence; speaking to your pretty mare for company. She was a great listener. But all you could think about was Fíli. His face, his smile, his touch… All of it haunted you, pulling at your heart with a force you couldn’t ignore. 

Finally, when the rain cleared, you managed to resume your journey, though it felt as though the weight of the world pressed down on your shoulders. You were getting closer to Rivendell, but it didn’t bring you the peace you had hoped for. Instead, a quiet, lingering dread had settled in your chest. Would you ever truly be able to escape your heart's desire? Would you ever be able to stop longing for Fíli’s presence, for the warmth and love you had left behind?

You didn't know.

Rivendell was a breathtaking kingdom. The beauty of it all struck you as soon as you entered its gates - lush greenery, delicate waterfalls, and buildings that seemed to glow softly with an ethereal light. The air felt fresher, and crisper, and for the first time in months, you allowed yourself to breathe deeply, though the ache in your chest remained. As you dismounted your mare, weary from the journey, Elrond, the Lord of Rivendell, greeted you. His eyes softened when he saw you, a small, sad, but knowing smile touching his lips. It made something inside you twist. He had always been wise, and there was an understanding in his gaze that seemed to reach beyond words.

"Welcome back," He greeted you, his voice calm and warm. "We have been expecting you."

You couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. "Expecting me?" You asked, your voice soft with a hint of curiosity. "How did you know I was coming?"

Elrond’s smile grew faint but not unkind. "I had a vision," He replied simply, his tone suggesting that it was not the first time such things had happened to him. His knowing gaze lingered for a moment longer before he gestured for you to follow him. "Come, I have a room prepared for your arrival."

As he led you through the halls of Rivendell, Elrond asked about your life so far to ease the obvious tension that weighed heavily in your chest. You told him about your time since the reclaiming of Erebor - how you had helped the dwarves rebuild, how the land was slowly healing, about Fíli... Elrond listened intently, his quiet presence somehow soothing despite the unease that clung to you. When you arrived at your chambers, the sight of the warm light spilling from the room’s entrance seemed inviting, almost comforting.

He opened the door for you, and you stepped inside, noticing immediately how the room was well-appointed, its beauty matched only by the peace it seemed to offer. The scent of lavender and soft herbs filled the air, and you realized that it was the same room that you stayed in all those many months ago.

"You must be exhausted," Elrond said as he glanced around. "I will have someone help you with your things. A warm bath has already been drawn for you. I imagine it will do wonders after such a long journey." You nodded gratefully, a small, appreciative smile tugging at your lips. You had not realized how much you needed rest until now, the weight of the past months settling in on your shoulders. "If you need anything else, please do not hesitate to ask," Elrond continued, his voice full of kindness. "Rivendell is very much your home as it is mine."

You turned to him, meeting his eyes with gratitude. "Thank you, Lord Elrond," You whispered, the first words of real relief escaping your lips. As he left the room, you sat down on the bed, letting the reality of being here, in Rivendell, wash over you. 

~~~

As the weeks flew by, you slipped into life in Rivendell surprisingly easily, though it wasn’t without its differences. Rivendell was not like Erebor. It lacked the warmth of the mountain’s hearth, the familiar scent of stone and iron that you had grown so accustomed to. The sound of the wind whistling through the halls of Erebor, the echoing calls of the dwarves working together in their forges, was a rhythm that had been with you for so long. And, despite the serenity of Rivendell, you would always miss that comforting closeness. The hustle and bustle, the sense of purpose that Erebor had given you... Here, it was peaceful, almost too quiet at times.

But, amidst the new routine, life had a way of continuing, whether you were ready for it or not. Slowly, your body began to change. Your stomach began to grow noticeable. It wasn’t drastic, but it was enough that even the maids who had tended to you since your arrival noticed. And you soon realized that Lord Elrond had known about the child, perhaps when you had first arrived.

He had been quietly supportive, and over the weeks, you found yourself with at least two maids - Imra and Anarzee - with you at all times, almost. They helped with dressing, ensuring your comfort, bringing you food when you couldn’t bring yourself to get out of bed, helping with your morning sickness, helping you with whatever random food craving you had, and bathing you when you felt too exhausted to do it yourself. It was, in a strange way, relaxing. You had been pampered more in the past handful of weeks than you ever had been before, but it was something you never truly allowed yourself to enjoy before.

Yet, in the quiet of the night, the peace that Rivendell offered often became too much for you to bear. You would find yourself lying awake, staring at the ceiling, your mind racing with thoughts of Fíli, of the life you had left behind. The joy of being with child should have been enough to quiet the storm inside you, but it wasn’t. It only intensified the ache in your chest, the emptiness of missing him, of missing your old life. And on those countless nights, tears would slip from your eyes, soft and silent, as you cried for the future that could never be.

Leaving Fíli had been the hardest thing you had ever done. Every step away from Erebor, every mile that put more distance between you and him, felt like your heart was being left behind. But despite the agony it caused you, you knew deep down that it was for the best - for him. He was going to marry someone else, someone his uncle had arranged for him. He was the heir to Erebor, and his duty had always been greater than anything personal.

Days turned into weeks, and still, there was no sign of Fíli coming after you. At first, you tried to convince yourself that he would find you - that he would search for you, desperate to bring you back. But reality was cruel. Yes, it had been a stretch to think he might come after you when you hadn’t even told him where you were going. 

You brushed your fingers gently along your bump, a soft smile tugging at your lips as you felt a little kick. You didn’t blame your child. You couldn’t. This little one, growing within you, had already captured your heart in a way nothing else could. The bond you shared with them, the tiny life that would soon be part of you, filled you with love so deep it was almost overwhelming. You promised them that you would love them with everything you had, no matter what.

And soon, the day arrived.

It was a grueling and painful few hours, each contraction feeling like an eternity. You gripped Imra's hand tightly, the pressure in your chest and lower abdomen growing with every wave of pain. Sweat beaded on your brow, trickling down your face as you fought to keep your breathing steady, remembering everything the healers had told you in preparation. The herbs they had given you helped, but no amount of preparation could truly alleviate the sheer intensity of what you were going through.

Anarzee, ever calm and steady, stood at your other side, offering soft words of encouragement. She wiped your forehead with a cool cloth, her voice a quiet anchor in the storm of pain that raged through you. 

Lord Elrond’s healer, Caerthynna, was guiding the process with quiet professionalism, her steady hands assisting in ways that left you thankful for her expertise. Her words were soft, assuring you through every push. "You're doing well," She murmured, her voice like a balm to your nerves. "Two more pushes, just two more, and you’ll have your baby in your arms."

With your next push, the pain surged again, sharper this time. You could feel your body straining, your muscles aching as you did your best to breathe through the agony, your mind focusing solely on the task at hand. "Breathe, slowly, breathe," Imra coaxed, her face etched with both concern and admiration.

Then, with one final, overwhelming push, the pressure eased, and the room fell into a heavy silence. The sound of a baby’s cry pierced the air, a beautiful, life-affirming noise that brought tears to your eyes. Exhausted, drenched in sweat, you collapsed back against the pillows, gasping for air as the weight of the moment settled around you.

"A beautiful girl." Imra spoke with a smile as Caerthynna cleaned your newborn in a soft cloth, before placing her gently in your arms as Anarzee grabbed a small blanket to place over your babe, over your arms. The world outside seemed to blur as you gazed down at your little one. Feeling her tiny hands pressed against your chest, and for a brief, precious moment, you forgot all the pain, all the heartache. All that mattered was the life you had brought into the world.

Tears, silent but flowing, gathered in your eyes as you whispered softly, your voice trembling. "You’re here." You brought your hand up to brush the little golden tufts of soft hair on her head, "My little Áine."

~~~

You held your precious Áine in your arms, the soft creak of the rocking chair blending with the gentle rhythm of your humming. The melody was one that had been passed down from your mother, a soothing lullaby that you had always found comfort in as a child. It seemed only right that you would now pass it on to your daughter. As you rocked slowly, you brushed her tiny, golden tufts of hair with your fingers, the softness almost too delicate to believe.

It had been a couple of weeks since Áine's arrival, and each day felt like a gift. Her presence was a quiet, constant joy in your days. Ever since she had come into the world, Lord Elrond had been kind, bringing gifts for her - a beautiful cradle carved with intricate designs, soft blankets that smelled faintly of herbs, vanilla, and lavender, clothing in gentle colors, and toys that would bring her delight as she grew. He had been a gracious host, and his kindness had not gone unnoticed. You didn't know how to repay him.

But as you sat in the quiet of the room, humming to your daughter, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of her resemblance to Fíli. The soft curve of her face, the delicate features, the tiny hands that were so much like his. And those eyes - those bright, sapphire-blue eyes - every time she blinked, you were reminded of him. 

"You're perfect, Áine," You whispered softly, your voice barely above a breath. Her tiny fingers curled around yours as she settled against you, her little body nestled against yours. The peacefulness of the moment filled you with a quiet sense of fulfillment. Your little Áine, whose quiet gurgles would be your new song, the melody that kept you grounded, no matter the storm of emotions that sometimes threatened to overwhelm you. With a soft sigh, you continued to hum, the soothing rhythm of the lullaby settling over both you and Áine as your exhaustion began to take hold. The gentle rise and fall of her chest, her tiny breaths, became your anchor. Slowly, her eyelids fluttered closed, and her little fingers loosened their grip on your hand. The peaceful silence filled the room, and you knew it was time.

Carefully, you shifted her into her cradle, laying her down on the soft blankets. Your heart tightened as you gazed at her, her sweet face peaceful in slumber. It was hard to leave her, but you knew that she was safe. Imra was there, her presence a quiet reassurance.

Imra smiled at you as you turned toward the door, a silent acknowledgment of your departure. “Go, my lady,” She said gently, “I will watch over her.”

You smiled back, a bittersweet expression crossing your face as you gave one last glance at your daughter. Then, with a soft breath, you stepped out of the room. It was hard, the thought of leaving Áine behind, but you needed a moment, just a moment to breathe, to clear your head. 

As you made your way through the halls of Rivendell, your fingers subconsciously pressed against your stomach, the same gesture you’d made countless times before. It was a habit, the comforting gesture that you had grown accustomed to. The fountain was in sight. It was a place you had frequented when you needed solitude. The sound of the water trickling into the basins was soothing. A soft smile crept onto your lips as memories of your time with the Company surfaced. The first time you had visited Rivendell, the dwarves had been so out of place, their grumbles about the food and the constant complaints about eating greens. You couldn’t help but laugh softly to yourself. They had been so serious, so earnest in their disdain for the elven cuisine - and music - and yet there had been a charm in it, a warmth that had made those days unforgettable.

But now, the memories felt distant, almost like another lifetime. Things had changed, and you had changed. And yet, despite it all, the feeling of longing remained. You sighed softly, fiddling with your courtship bead Fíli had gifted to you so long ago. The past would always be a part of you, but the present was something you had to face, with or without Fíli. With or without the life you thought you'd have. And in that fleeting moment, at least, you could allow yourself to smile and remember the laughter, the joy of days gone by. Especially when they decided to swim in Lord Elrond's fountain; that memory always made you chuckle.

As you began to head back, the familiar, comforting space of Rivendell wrapped around you once more. The gentle curve of the hallway walls brushed against your fingertips as your other hand fidgeted with the soft purple silk of your dress, the fabric a soothing texture beneath your fingers. Perhaps, when you returned to your chambers, you would have enough time to have a nap yourself before Áine awoke. 

"Amrâlimê." You froze, hearing Fíli's voice, for a split moment, you thought that you were dreaming, hearing things.  

Your breath hitched, your heart hammering in your chest as you slowly turned around. And there he was.

Fíli stood at the end of the hallway, his golden hair slightly disheveled from travel, his bright blue eyes locked onto you with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine, and exhaustion written in every line of his face, but none of that mattered. Not when his gaze was filled with something you hadn't seen in so long - relief, longing, and something dangerously close to heartbreak.

Your lips parted, but no words came. You could only stare, frozen in place as emotions warred within you. 

Fíli took a hesitant step forward, "I have been searching for you."

Your lips trembled as you finally found your voice, barely more than a whisper. "Fíli..?" Your heart clenched, your fingers tightening in the silk of your dress. "What are you doing here?"

Fíli moved closer still, his expression unwavering, full of quiet determination. "I have come for you," He said firmly. "To bring you home." Your breath caught, but he continued before you could respond. "Ever since I found your letter, I have not stopped searching. I wrote to every nearby kingdom, inquiring if you had been seen - King Thranduil in Mirkwood, Bilbo in the Shire, and ever the Iron Hills." You swallowed hard, emotions surging within you as he took another step forward. "Then I sent one to Lord Elrond," Fíli continued, his voice softer now. "Weeks passed before I received a response. And when I did, I left Erebor without hesitation. I had to find you."

Your throat tightened as he drew closer, stopping just a few feet away. His presence was overwhelming, the warmth of him, the reality of him standing right there. You had spent months convincing yourself he would never come. That he had chosen another. And yet - here he was.

Your fingers twitched at your sides where they gripped at your dress, you desperate to reach out, to touch him, to reassure yourself that he was real. Your heart ached with the longing to close the space between you, to feel the warmth of his embrace once more.

"Fíli-"

"Why did you leave?" His voice was strained, a mixture of hurt and frustration woven through his words.

You swallowed hard, your gaze dropping as you worried your bottom lip between your teeth. The weight of your decision, the pain of that night, came rushing back with full force. Slowly, you lifted your eyes to meet his, the sorrow in them clear. "The night before I left Erebor," You began, "I overheard you and Thorin speaking. I heard Thorin arranging a marriage for you." You exhaled shakily, blinking against the sting of unshed tears. "I thought… It was best. For you. To leave. To give you a chance to be the heir you were meant to be, without me complicating things."

Fíli’s brows furrowed, confusion flashing across his features before something like realization settled in. His jaw tightened, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "You believed leaving me was best?" His voice was barely above a whisper, but the raw emotion in it was unmistakable. Fíli took another step closer, his expression torn between disbelief and heartbreak. "Would you not think that I would know what is best for myself?" His voice was stronger now, edged with frustration, yet still laced with that unmistakable tenderness he had always reserved for you. You opened your mouth to speak, but he didn’t let you. "I was going to handle it," He continued, "I was going to tell Uncle that I was already in courtship with another, that I loved you, and that there was nothing he - or anyone else - could do to change that." 

Your heart clenched painfully in your chest. You had left, believing you were sparing him from a burden he hadn’t chosen. But here he was, telling you that you had always been his choice. Why had you been so stubborn? Why had you convinced yourself that leaving was the only option? That he wouldn't fight for you?

Your gaze dropped to the floor, shame creeping in as you muttered, “I… I thought I was doing what was right. I thought-” You swallowed hard, hands trembling at your sides. “I thought it would be easier for you if I wasn’t in the way.”

Fíli let out a sharp breath, his frustration evident, but he didn’t move away. Instead, he reached for you, his fingers brushing over your hand before he caught it completely, holding you firm. “Easier?” He repeated, his voice thick with emotion. “Amrâlimê, losing you nearly destroyed me.” His fingers tangled with yours as he looked up at you, so vulnerable, "Come home," He pleaded to you.

You parted your lips to speak, to say something - anything - but before you could, a soft cry pierced the air.

Áine.

Your eyes widened, and you instantly pulled away from Fíli's grasp, moving swiftly toward your chambers. Behind you, Fíli hesitated only a moment before following.

Stepping inside, you found Imra gently bouncing Áine in her arms, her expression apologetic as she looked up at you. “Apologies, my Lady. She has become restless but she does not seem to be hungry.”

Fíli’s breath caught as he took in the scene before him, his brow furrowing in confusion. But you barely noticed as you reached for your daughter, gathering her into your arms with practiced ease. The moment Áine was in your embrace, she quieted, her tiny fingers curling into the fabric of your dress, her cheek pressed against your chest. You pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, your heart full. And then, as if sensing the weight of the moment, you looked up - meeting Fíli’s stunned, wide-eyed gaze.

Imra, ever perceptive, cast you a quick glance before swiftly exiting the room, shutting the doors behind her, leaving you and Fíli alone. Silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken words, with emotions too tangled to unravel in mere moments.

Fíli swallowed hard, wetting his lips as he struggled to find his voice. “You-” He started, then faltered. He exhaled sharply, his voice quieter when he tried again, hesitant, unsure. “You have moved on?”

Your heart clenched at the thought, at the hurt in his voice. You shook your head immediately, frantic to reassure him. “No, Fi. No.” You breathed out, “I have not moved on. I have not loved another.” You hesitated, words catching in your throat as you glanced down at the baby nestled against your chest. “Just-” You paused, sighing softly as Áine’s tiny blue eyes blinked up at you, her lips parting in a small gurgle of contentment. Fíli was silent, unmoving, as if afraid to breathe. You shifted, moving to the rocking chair by the window, settling in carefully with your daughter in your arms. Rocking gently, you finally looked back up at him, your voice softer this time. “Come see her.”

Fíli hesitated for only a moment before stepping forward, his boots barely making a sound against the floor. Slowly, cautiously, he came to stand beside you, peering down at the tiny bundle cradled in your arms. She was wrapped snugly in fine satin, deep purple and soft blue, fabrics gifted by Lord Elrond himself. But it wasn’t the elegant cloth that caught Fíli’s attention - it was her. Her golden hair shimmered in the sunlight filtering through the window, wisps of it glowing like spun gold. And her eyes - bright, strikingly blue - mirrored his own, sparkling with curiosity as she let out another soft gurgle. And then, realization struck him like a hammer to the chest.

He sucked in a sharp breath, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Is she mine?”

You smiled wistfully, your gaze dropping to Áine as you gently stroked her soft cheek. Was it fear that kept you from looking at him? Or was it the overwhelming urge to burst into happy tears now that he was here - that he had found you, that he had found her?

Your throat felt tight as you nodded, doing the best you could to steady your voice. “Her name is Áine.”

Fíli let out a shaky breath, “That night, in the clearing…” He murmured, almost as if he was still trying to grasp the reality before him.

You nodded again, your voice barely above a whisper. “Yes… That night.” A silence stretched between you before you found the strength to continue. “I found out I was with child the night I overheard Thorin,” You admitted, your fingers absentmindedly running over Áine’s tiny hand. “And I left… Thinking it would be easier for you. I thought if I were gone, you could be the heir without this - without me - being a burden to you.” You swallowed hard, guilt pressing down on you like a weight. “But now I know… Leaving was a mistake.” Your voice cracked as you met his gaze, tears slipping freely down your cheeks. “These past months without you have been unbearable. But having her… Having Áine, it felt as if I could breathe again.” Fíli’s expression was unreadable - his blue eyes glistening with emotions too vast to name. A choked sob left you as you shook your head, voice thick with regret. “I am so sorry, Fíli. I did not think my poor decisions would lead us here. I thought I was sparing you, but all I did was hurt us both. I hurt her...”

Fíli gently grasped your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. “No, amrâlimê,” His knuckles brushed against your cheek, a featherlight touch before he wiped away your tear with a calloused thumb. “I understand,” He said softly. “I do not blame you for leaving out of fear.” He let out a shaky breath, his thumb lingering against your skin as if reassuring himself that you were real. “I only wish you had told me. That you had trusted me enough to face this together.” His voice wavered slightly, but he held steady. “But the past is in the past. We are together again. We should not worry about the past any longer." Fíli exhaled softly, his gaze never leaving yours. “I will write to Uncle, tell him I have arrived in Rivendell and that you, Áine, and I will return home.” His voice was steady, but there was something unshakably determined in his tone - a promise, a vow.

Your breath hitched, a teary, joyous smile breaking across your lips as you nodded. "Alright." Your voice was but a mutter. 

“I have already spoken to Lord Elrond when I arrived." He continued, "I had been confused as to why he mentioned sending a carriage and a few of his finest warriors for whenever we decided it best to leave, but I understand now.” His eyes dropped to Áine, his expression softening, and slowly, he reached out. The tip of his fingers brushed along her chubby cheek, and Áine responded instantly, letting out a mix of a giggle and a gurgle, as if she knew. Tiny fingers reached out, grasping his much larger one, holding on tight. Fíli sucked in a breath, his lips parting slightly as wonder flickered across his face. “She’s strong,” He whispered, “Just like her mother.” Fíli’s gentle smile shifted into something more playful, mischief dancing in his bright blue eyes. “And clearly, she has my good looks."

A laugh bubbled past your lips, the weight in your chest easing for the first time in months. “Oh, is that so?” You mused, reaching up to tug playfully on one of his mustache braids.

His grin widened, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he let you guide him closer, his forehead nearly touching yours. “Absolutely,” He murmured.

“Come here,” You whispered, and Fíli didn't hesitate.

He leaned in, closing the distance, capturing your lips in a tender, lingering kiss - one that spoke of everything left unspoken. Of love lost and found again. Of home.

~~~

✧ Then you don’t reciprocate, at all. But Thorin just thinks he wasn’t quite obvious enough.

✧ His next gesture is grander, although he presents it slightly more gruffly. Again you can see the care and love that’s gone into it, but you don’t just want to assume it’s romantic.

✧ Everything’s accepted. And then nothing happens. And still nothing happens.

✧ You notice Thorin becoming slightly more withdrawn and decide to complain to Bilbo, muttering about how confusion these dwarves can sometimes be.

✧ ‘These dwarves?’

✧ It’s then Thorin realises that, perhaps, you aren’t a dwarf at all.

✧ Finally, he decides to use his words. Coming up to you, and asking if you’d realise what he was doing.

✧ Both of your cheeks are hot as he explains his intentions to you, and you realise all the things you’ve missed.

✧ As his explanation comes to an end, and you explain you’d truly like to court him - he steps slightly closer.

✧ “I know that all people kiss.”

𝐅𝐢𝐥𝐢

✧ He never thought he’d be one for traditional romance, the pain-staking time courting takes. To get all the details just perfect for the beloved he’d end up falling for.

✧ Fíli had always assumed he’d have a whirlwind romance, and the details wouldn’t matter.

✧ It was true, in a way; you could have done anything for him and he’d beam and blush as if you’d hung the stars for him.

✧ But Fíli is determined to make it perfect for you. Because you deserve nothing less.

✧ So he begins to ask some of the older dwarves on what to do, how to make sure it all goes well.

✧ Fíli‘s getting quite far along, gift almost made for you, when he decides maybe he should ask the hobbit as well.

✧ “You- you thought they were a dwarf?” The incredulous tone of Bilbo makes poor Fíli rethink quite a lot of choices. If he didn’t notice that is he good enough to love you?

✧ Taking pity on the lad, Bilbo offers him a smile. “But anyone, dwarf or not, can see the love you have for them. Do it anyway, you just- might have to explain some of the finer details.”

✧ It’s that advice Fíli ends up taking, asking if he can speak to you in private.

✧ He still does things the dwarven way, at the very start. Waiting until he’s finished - and you’re looking at him with a mixture of hope and confusion.

✧ Then he explains things the best he can, what each gestures means, why he chose each gesture. How specifically he’s decided to show his love for you.

✧ Because you’re absolutely worthy of confession twice.

𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐢

✧ The first to start showing his affections, of course. And he decides the best way to do it is semi-casually.

✧ After all, he can always say he was joking if you don’t reciprocate the feelings. Hope you didn’t notice how pink his cheeks were, along with his smile and the shine in his eyes when he looked at you.

✧ “How are you, amrâl?”

✧ Does it get him some stares from the other dwarves? Yes. Is it worth it when you look at him and then quietly respond? He’s certain it is.

✧ Slowly he gets bolder. Jokingly calling you his betrothed, his star, his sun and moon. Each time you seem slightly less surprised, and slightly more comfortable.

✧ Eventually, he decides that he doesn’t just want to joke around. He wants to properly ask you, to be able to properly court you.

✧ “Amrâl astî.”

✧ There’s a moment where he looks in your face for recognition, and then sees blankness.

✧ Something must be obvious in his expression, because you suddenly seems to understand. And then, almost shyly, ask if he’s just confessed.

✧ It’s then that Kíli suddenly realises you’ve never talked back to him in Khuzdul. That, in some respects, you never quite seemed dwarven.

✧ With you still looking at him, he tries again. The confession is longer this time, if slightly quieter - with a few times he’s not as confident - but there’s still just as much love in it.

✧ Once Kíli finally begins to court you, he also begins to teach you what all his nicknames mean.

𝐃𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐧

✧ Like Thorin, he’s much more comfortable in sticking with the dwarven traditions as well.

✧ To be able to confess how much you mean to him without having to put it truly into words. To share something intimate, instead of court with a grand, romantic gesture.

✧ Still, Dwalin spends a lot of time perfecting everything. Making sure that this confession will be right for you, right for him. Right for (what he hopes) can become the two of you, together.

✧ Dwalin doesn’t have a lot of small gestures, but rather one bigger one.

✧ One where - even though you’re not a dwarf - you can so easily feel the love through. His devotion is evident in every part, the love he has for you obvious.

✧ You’re silent until he finishes, and then you ask, “This is the confession I’d been hoping for, right?”

✧ There’s some confusion but he confirms it is instantly. And you meet him in an embrace, a gentle kiss.

✧ He’s incredibly soft with you - but there’s still hints of Dwalin as your lips connect. As he smiles when the two of you pull away.

𝐁𝐨𝐟𝐮𝐫

✧ When he first gives you a carving, he doesn’t expect you to see a grand romantic gesture in it - because it isn’t to him, but more of a subtle way. The polite way of informing you ‘my heart might be beating for you, I hope you don’t mind’

✧ Yet it isn’t as grandiose as so many stories he’s heard. And it isn’t a proper courtship gesture. So he doesn’t expect too much.

✧ But, when he places the carving in your hands, you’re in awe. So thankful. So enamoured by the object he’s left a blushing mess.

✧ As you give him a hug he wonders how you can’t feel his heart, hammering away.

✧ Emboldened by this he tries again, putting more effort in this time. And again you seem to appreciate it like no-one has before.

✧ But you still don’t initiate anything romantic.

✧ Perhaps you want to take it slow? So Bofur waits two, three more carvings before deciding to talk to you.

✧ “I… know you haven’t seen my courting gifts as exactly what you wanted. How- how do you want me to say I love you?”

✧ The way your eyes go wide clue him into the fact, perhaps, you didn’t know originally.

✧ Repeating his words back to him, you can feel your mortification as you explain you didn’t know they were courting gifts. How you’d gladly accept them.

✧ That you’d be honoured to court him.

A/N : As you can see by the vagueness, I definitely have a great grasp on dwarven courting techniques. (and would welcome anyone who'd be willing to explain them to me <3)

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