Oh sweet lullaby

“But in truth,” he says, stepping closer, “the surprise was not merely to startle you.”

“Oh?” you ask, wary but curious. “Then what was it for?”

He reaches behind his back. You brace yourself for anything—from a snowball to a mischievous grin.

Instead, he holds out…

a small wreath.

Not large, not extravagant—just a simple ring of winter-green sprigs tied with a leather cord. Your breath catches.

“I made it,” Éomer says, suddenly more sheepish than a warrior of the Mark should be. “Or tried to. I’m no artisan, but I thought—well, I thought you might like something to brighten your chamber.”

You stare at it, touched. “Éomer… it’s beautiful.”

His shoulders loosen, relief flickering across his face. “Good. Because I feared it looked more like a tangled bush than a wreath.”

You laugh—soft, affectionate—and take it from him.

“It’s lovely,” you say, meaning it.

He steps closer, close enough that his breath warms the winter air between you.

“I wanted to give you something,” he admits, voice deepening with quiet sincerity. “A reminder that you are welcome here. That you are—” He hesitates, searching. “—a bright presence in the Golden Hall.”

Your heart stirs. “You didn’t need to surprise me to do that.”

“Ah,” he says, grin returning, “but then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of seeing your expression.”

“And what expression was that?”

He leans in, teasing warmth in his eyes.

“The one you’re wearing now.”

Before you can retort, Éomer gently adjusts the wreath in your hands, fingers brushing yours—steady, warm, lingering just a moment too long.

“Surprise,” he murmurs, softer this time. “For you. Only you.”

Your cheeks warm despite the cold.

“‘A little cold,’ she says,” he mutters, and then his gloved hand closes around your wrist, guiding you into the nearest alcove where the wind cannot reach.

The moment you’re out of the gale, he removes one glove with his teeth, tosses it aside, and takes your hands between his bare ones.

Warmth. Blessed, overwhelming warmth.

You gasp softly at the contrast; Boromir’s grip tightens.

“Don’t fight the pain,” he says gently. “It means the blood is returning.”

His thumbs rub slow circles into your chilled skin—firm, careful, grounding. You stare at him, at the fierce concentration on his face, as though warming your hands is a task of military importance.

“You act as if I’ve lost a limb,” you murmur.

His gaze snaps up to yours, and the intensity there steals your breath.

“You could have,” he says. “Frostbite is no trivial matter. Many soldiers have lost fingers for less.”

Your voice softens. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“You did,” he says simply. “Terribly.”

His hands enclose yours fully now, enveloping them in heat. When you try to pull away—more out of embarrassment than anything—his grip tightens.

“Leave them there,” he orders softly. “Until they are warm.”

You fall silent, heart thudding.

Snow drifts past the archway, pale and cold, but in the dim sheltered corner, Boromir stands close—so close you feel the heat of him even through layers of winter clothes.

“Next time,” he says, voice lowering, “you ask for help.”

“That seems unfair,” you tease weakly. “You never ask anyone for help.”

A slow grin tugs at one corner of his mouth.

“That is because I am Boromir.”

“Then what am I?”

His expression shifts—soft, open, unguarded in a way he rarely allows.

“You,” he says, “are someone I’d rather not find frozen solid in the courtyard.”

Your cheeks warm. He senses it—of course he does—and his smile deepens, proud of the effect he’s having.

Finally, when your fingers stop aching, Boromir lifts your hands to his lips, brushing warmth across your knuckles.

“There,” he murmurs. “Better.”

You lift a brow. “Are you implying it’s too strong for me?”

A soft huff leaves him—almost a laugh, but refined into something dry and elegant.

“I am stating,” he says, “that it is strong enough for Elves.”

He reaches for the ladle in the bowl and pours the drink into his own crystal cup. The movement is graceful, deliberate, and annoyingly mesmerizing. When he takes a sip, his eyes never leave yours.

“You see?” you tease lightly. “You’re drinking it. I’ll be fine.”

“Hmm.” His gaze lowers to your cup again, the faintest glint of amusement in his eyes. “I would not place such confidence in your ability to remain upright if you drink more than one.”

“You think I can’t handle a holiday drink?”

He steps closer—so close you can feel the faint scent of winter spice and cedar clinging to him.

“I think,” he says softly, “that your kind is… delightfully fragile when indulging.”

Your cheeks warm. “And why does that ‘delight’ you, Your Majesty?”

His lips curve in a small, knowing smile.

“Because,” he murmurs, “it gives me reason to intervene.”

You blink. “Intervene how?”

He leans in slightly, voice a low whisper meant only for you.

“To keep you from tripping over your own feet in front of my court.”

Your breath catches. “I don’t do that.”

“Not yet.”

You scoff, lifting your cup in defiance—and take a bold sip.

Warmth floods instantly through your chest, spreading quickly, surprisingly potent. You exhale, eyes widening.

Thranduil’s smile deepens—not mocking, but rich with satisfaction.

“Ah,” he says, tone silky, “there it is.”

“Okay,” you admit, “it’s strong.”

“You have no idea.” His voice dips. “One more cup, and you will be reciting poetry to the chandeliers.”

You snort a laugh. “You’re exaggerating.”

“I am not.”

He takes your cup gently from your hand—fingers brushing yours, warm and deliberate—and sets it on the table.

“Thranduil—”

“You will thank me later,” he says.

“And if I want another?”

His head tilts, eyes gleaming like polished ice.

“Then I will simply have to stop you.”

A beat.

“By whatever means necessary.”

Your pulse jumps.

“Is that a threat?”

“It is a promise,” he answers, voice velvet-dark.

“What blend is this?” he asks, curiosity warm in his tone.

“Mint and wildflower,” you say. “It’s calming.”

Faramir’s eyes soften. “My mother favored the same combination. She said it soothed the soul.”

His voice lowers slightly. “I find she was often right.”

He sits, finally, fingers brushing the ceramic as he lifts his own cup. The warmth seems to settle into him—his shoulders easing, the tension of the day slipping away. You watch him for a moment, struck by how different he is from the other captains, the other lords—less guarded, more quietly aware of the world around him.

He takes a small sip, sighs softly, and then meets your gaze.

“You have a gift,” he says gently.

“For what?” you laugh softly. “Making tea?”

“For creating peace,” he answers without hesitation. “Even in the smallest of moments.”

He pauses, thoughtful. “Especially in the smallest ones.”

Your breath catches. “I didn’t know you needed peace tonight.”

“I often do,” he admits, eyes flicking toward the fire. “But it is rare to find it.”

The room rests in a comfortable hush as the two of you sip your tea. Faramir watches the steam rise from his cup, contemplative.

“You know,” he says quietly, “tea is… more than a drink to my people. It is a way of slowing time. Of choosing stillness.” His lips curve faintly. “We often forget to choose it.”

You smile. “Then I’m glad you chose it with me.”

His eyes lift to yours—so sincere they make your chest ache.

“I always would.”

The words land between you like something fragile and precious.

Before you can respond, Faramir gently nudges the teapot toward you.

“Pour me another?” he asks softly.

Although his voice is calm, steady, polite— you can see something glimmering behind it. Something warm, something hopeful.

“That sounds impossible.”

A small smile touches his lips.

“In Lindon, many things that seem impossible are merely… tradition.”

Another breeze sweeps through, and the bells above sing their crystalline song. You close your eyes for a moment, letting the sound settle into you, warm and bright even in the cold.

When you open them again, Elrond is watching you.

Not with curiosity.

Not with politeness.

But with something quieter, deeper.

“You like the sound,” he observes gently.

“I do,” you say. “It reminds me of snow falling at night. Peaceful. Soft. Like everything’s clean for just a moment.”

Elrond seems to consider this, gaze drifting upward to the bells as if seeing them anew through your eyes.

“Peaceful,” he echoes softly. “Yes… that is a rare thing. Even here.”

His voice carries a weight—duty, memory, longing—and before you can think of a response, a stronger wind arrives. The bells chime brighter, louder, almost swirling around you.

Without thinking, you step back from the breeze—

—and Elrond steps with you.

A hand, warm and steady, comes to rest just above your elbow. Not gripping. Simply there. An anchor in the flurry of sound.

The bells fade. The wind calms.

But Elrond does not move his hand.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs, though his thumb unconsciously grazes the fabric of your sleeve. “The ground can be uneven here.”

You glance at his hand, then up at him. “Elrond… I’m not going to be swept away by bells.”

His cheeks—only barely—color.

“No,” he admits. “But the wind is unpredictable, and I would prefer you not fall.”

“Is that your diplomatic way of saying you were worried?”

A breath leaves him—half a laugh, half surrender.

“If I must be honest,” he says gently, “yes.”

The bells chime again—softer this time, like they approve.

Elrond’s eyes lift toward them, thoughtful.

“If they bring you joy,” he says, turning back to you, “then perhaps… a smaller set could be crafted for your quarters. Something that will sing when you open the window.”

You blink, startled. “Elrond, you don’t need to do that.”

“No,” he agrees softly. “But I wish to.”

Thorin’s brow furrows, thoughtful. He turns his face toward the wind, letting it lift the dark strands from his cheek. For a moment, he looks younger—less burdened, less kingly, almost… peaceful.

“I forget,” he says after a long silence, “that you are not made of stone and fire as we are.” His voice lowers. “That you need the sky.”

You blink, surprised by the softness—by the understanding.

Then the breeze picks up, colder this time, tugging at your cloak. Before you can react, Thorin shifts closer. Not touching. Not yet. But close enough that his body blocks the wind from hitting you fully.

“You should stand on the other side of me,” he says quietly. “The wind will not bite so sharply.”

You meet his eyes, rich and intense.

“Are you shielding me from the breeze, Thorin Oakenshield?”

He grunts, chin lifting.

“I am shielding you from the cold.”

It isn’t the same thing, but you let him keep his dignity.

The wind sweeps through again, tugging more insistently this time. Thorin exhales, frustrated with the elements themselves, and suddenly he’s shrugging off his heavy fur-lined cloak.

You raise your hands in protest. “Thorin, no—”

But you gave in soon enough and lowered yourself where he was able to drape it over your shoulders, the weight swallowing you in warmth and the scent of leather, steel, and something profoundly him.

“You feel the chill more deeply than you admit,” he says, tone gruff but eyes gentle. “Let the mountain winds bother me, not you.”

Your breath catches, but he pretends not to notice.

Together, you stand at the archway as the breeze stirs the valley, carrying distant echoes and the promise of winter.

After a long, quiet moment, Thorin speaks again—low enough that the wind nearly steals it.

“One day,” he says, “I hope you will let me show you the places where the breeze sings through the stone. Where the mountain breathes. I think… you would find it beautiful.”

Your heart thuds hard enough to feel in your throat.

“When you invite me,” you whisper, “I’ll go.”

Thorin’s jaw tightens, a flicker of something unguarded crossing his face.

“Then I invite you,” he says.

And though the mountain wind still bites at him, he doesn’t move—

“I doubt that,” he replies. “Your spirit is more resilient than you believe.”

Your cheeks warm at the unexpected praise. You clear your throat and nod toward the pine.

“This one reminds me of home.”

Haldir steps closer—one soundless stride, then another—until he stands beside you beneath the wide boughs. The air shifts subtly with his presence, cool and steady as a winter current.

“You miss the place of your youth,” he observes.

You nod. “The forests were nothing like Lothlórien, but the pines… they always smelled like this. Crisp. Comforting.”

Haldir considers your words in that quiet, measured way of his.

“Elves do not often associate pine with comfort,” he admits. “Its presence signals the edge of winter, of long marches, of battles fought in the cold.”

He pauses, tilting his head faintly toward you.

“But for you, it holds gentler memories.”

Your breath escapes softly.

“Yes,” you say. “It does.”

The breeze whispers through the needles overhead, sending a cascade of soft, fragrant scent around you. Haldir inhales, and for once he does not hide the way he slows to savor it.

“I see why you favor this tree,” he murmurs. “It stands alone from its kin. Strong, steadfast—even in seasons that would weaken others.”

You blink, turning toward him. “Are you… comparing the tree to me?”

His gaze flicks to yours—sharp, striking—as if weighing whether to confirm it.

Finally, he speaks.

“I am.”

The word hangs between you like a held breath.

Before you can respond, he lifts a hand—not touching you, but close enough that the gesture carries warmth.

“If the scent brings you solace,” he says, voice a quiet vow, “then I will see that your quarters are lined with pine boughs through winter’s end.”

You stare at him, stunned. “Haldir… you don’t have to do that.”

His expression softens by a fraction—an elf’s version of a confession.

“I know.”

A pause.

“I wish to.”

The wind moves again—cool, fragrant, and gentle—and you find yourself leaning ever so slightly toward him, your shoulder brushing the edge of his cloak.

Haldir does not move away.

His eyes narrow the slightest fraction—not irritated, but something like… amused. Subtly. Barely there. The kind of reaction he’d deny if you ever brought it up again.

The snow begins to fall thicker. You tip your head back to watch it, but the shift in air tells you Thranduil finally turns toward the forest, gaze lifting to the sky.

For a moment, he is still—carved marble and quiet reverence.

“It is beautiful,” you whisper.

He answers without looking away.

“It reminds me of things long past.”

There is a softness in the words, not sadness exactly, but memory. Echoes of winters older than your bloodline. A weight you can feel but cannot name.

Another gust of wind curls around you, colder this time. Instinctively, you wrap your arms around yourself. It’s only then that Thranduil moves.

A sweep of his cloak, subtle but precise, drapes over your shoulders. Warm, heavy, smelling faintly of cedar and kingsfoil. You glance up at him, surprised.

“You’ll freeze,” you murmur.

He arches a perfect brow.

“Hardly.”

The snow thickens, and for several quiet moments, the two of you stand together beneath the falling white.

You watch the flakes cling to the ends of his hair; you watch the way the winter light reflects in his pale blue eyes. He notices your gaze but says nothing, choosing instead to let the silence linger, comfortable and strangely intimate.

Finally, he speaks again, voice low.

“If you insist on greeting the snow, then at least allow me to join you.”

“Is that an order, Your Majesty?”

For the first time, unmistakably, he lets a faint smile touch the corner of his mouth.

“A suggestion,” he corrects gently. “One I find myself… inclined to make.”

Your cheeks warm far more than the cloak can account for.