ninismagicrealm 🍄‍🟫

The corridor you cross with hurried steps that make no sound is cold and eerie. Even deep in the dark maze of these corridors you know by heart, your perfect hearing allows you to distinguish the background noise of the feast coming from behind you. People laugh and chat, they sip on sweet elvish wine that cost a little fortune, blissfully unaware. 

Ignorance is bliss, you are remembered of it every passing second. All those guests seem so carefree, disinhibited by good company, good food and good drinks, they forget to see what’s right in front of their nose. You believe if all those conditions weren’t united to create a perfect haze over the party, things would be far different. Imbeciles would still be blind, but clever ones would quickly spot the inconsistencies in the Ball. Why is the wine in some glasses a slightly different colour? Why do some guests never seem to age? Why is the number of people drastically lower after a few days, and why is it always those which nobody knew that vanish? 

So much questions they do not ask, yet could save their lives. 

However, it is not only the merry cacophony of the feast that you hear. Further away, deeper in the shadows, there is a low strangled sound — like a lamb trying to bleat — and echoing footsteps. The footsteps are heavy, not concealed like yours, though you can tell they try to be discreet. It fails miserably, and you are sure whoever is at the end of the corridor can hear them coming. You hope it is not too late for them to hear, and if so you better hope it is not too later either for you to do something about it. 

Your dress glides upon the floor smoothly, without the smallest noise on the cobblestones, and you pick up the pace when a moan echos distinctly, even for the human ear. In front of you, a feminine silhouette appears. In the dark, your eyes better pick up the wavelengths of light others cannot see, like a bat’s, but you do not need to see her to know it is a woman you’re chasing. Her steps fall with less of a thud than men’s, the heels of her shoes clasp high-pitched, and the air carries the remnant of the perfume she carefully applied hours ago. You often like women’s scent better: it’s less aggressive to your sensible nostrils than men’s. 

When your next step lands loud on purpose, her steps falter and she turns around, unaware she was being followed. It is so easy to get them alone once they’re drunk, in a secluded corner where nobody will come look for them. Obviously, she had a little too much wine. The woman’s cheeks are red with alcohol and effort, while she pants to recover from the small race she just went through. She squints at you in the dark to better see, she does not notice you do not have to do the same to take her in perfectly. 

Short brown hair falling in a somewhat feminine bob cut, a few inches past her ears, tousled from hurrying around like she did; big brown eyes that resembled a lost doe’s; and a smooth, pale neck in which you could see a vein throb; she looked exactly like the type of girl someone you knew very well would wrap around his finger and deceive. Honestly, could you blame him? Probably; but it wasn’t like you didn’t feel the same bloodthirsty want to sink your fangs into that protuberant purple vein and find out what she tasted like. Her dress didn’t help at all: it was clear she was not high society, nobody would even look twice if the suddenly vanished. 

She looked so lost, so panicked, and so tasteful. 

Fear tastes weird on the tongue, like power one does not deserve, and it is why you make a point in keeping all guests at bay from such a feeling. All other vampires do too, it is a pre-established rule your kind works with since a long, long time. It keeps you from growing feelings powerful beings shouldn’t have, feelings rooted deep inside you like instinct but locked away. You ignore it when primal impulses tell you to have your cake and eat it; nobody is here, nobody will know, and you know who sucks on sweet blood too without a shadow of guilt at the corridor’s turn. 

But you can’t. You’re not like him, rules are what they are for a reason and even if everything raw in you screams the opposite, you will not feed on a scared animal. Not a doe, not a lamb, not a bunny. However, the doe is going to walk on a most unfortunate scene if you do not stop her soon, and then you will have no choice. Already, you see her head turn slowly towards the whiny croaks, traits wrinkled in curiosity and nerves though she does not look away from you. She can’t tear her eyes from you as you walk her way. You know it because it’s on purpose. The human mind is easily played with when it is already agitated. Of course, you have no power of your own over her mind, but you do not need it, it’ll always lean towards you first. It is a most human quality to like the uncanny, the odd things that cannot be placed yet are filling the air; it’s exactly what she sees in your eyes when they gleam crimson for a nanosecond she doesn’t catch. 

“Lost your way?“ you smile at her with bright white teeth; casual. 

The woman stares at you as you take your last steps to her, but her bust is still halfway turned to the now dying sounds ahead of you and she doesn’t answer. 

“Those corridors are a bit of a maze when one is not accustomed to them, I confess.“

You try to giggle your way into her trust by being amiable, like you know how to. Those interactions are always rehearsed, it’s like you could’ve pictured them in advance. 

“I should see you back to the ballroom,“ you offer. 

When preparing for the Ball this year, you had had the underlying feeling that things were going to be a bit different. Not necessarily bad, but different; harder to manage. Now you’re starting to see why. The woman has not even fully opened her mouth to speak and finally agree with you, that someone steps behind her from the corridor’s turn, and the scraping of their shoes on the cobblestones takes the words away from her mouth. 

She turns around suddenly, attention having completely departed from you, just to end up face to face with the one man you did not want to see. You had figured already, but Izcasus stands here in front of you two. And his sole presence is not even the worse of it. You can feel the sheer anxiety emanating from the woman’s aura as she takes him in: disheveled like he just went through some kind of effort, red stains of thick fluid still coating the corners of his mouth and pearly teeth. Most of all, you see her eyes slowly lowering to long blond hair pooling on the ground from where he came from. She seems to recognise them, for she instantly gets more agitated. 

Izcasus doesn’t say anything, and it makes it worse. He just looks at her with that carnivorous smile you’ve come to be wary of, and when she turns to you she finds no comfort in your face. This is bad. This is really bad. You’ve tried to keep it from happening, to drive her away from what you knew right away to be sounds of one of your kind feeding: because you felt it in the air, and because you saw Izcasus leave with that blond girl and being followed. You failed. Now this girl knows something is utterly wrong and she is afraid. You smell it in the air, just like you smell Izcasus’ remaining hunger. It only fuels yours: this thirst. But you can’t, the girl is afraid. She smells of fear like a prey you would have toyed with, and it is dangerous. Yet you do not have a choice. Izcasus looks at you with eyes of a predator, fitting for the monster he is. They are full of dark irony, and his lips pull in a smile that showcase his canines. If you do not do it, he’ll have his way with her. Something more dangerous than letting this girl go with what she saw would be to give Izcasus the opportunity to feel powerful. He is already too proud and confident for your own good, what would it be if he was suddenly encouraged to feed from a prey conscious of its fate? Power is already a danger to you when you seek only of the better good, to Izcasus it would turn into dominion. 

He has been staying put thus far, not pushing boundaries, not teetering over the line, you cannot give him a reason to throw it all away. You have to do it, it’s the safest way.

He knows it because he looks at you expectantly, and the look turns into curiosity the moment you reach in front of you to grab the girl’s wrist and pull her towards you. From the corner of your eyes, you see him lean against the wall, watching some kind of twisted entertainment. How you hate him for it. But you hate even more that sinking your canines into her neck is like drinking after days in the desert; like light after a full month night; like being touched after years of solitary existence. You resent the feeling it brings you, the pure joy, yet you lick the wound of your hunger and feed for what feels like an eternity.

Your nose flares against her skin, takes in the scent of her sweat and blood mingling: metallic. It’s not blood that smells akin to metal, it’s the fear that comes from bleeding. Bloodletting when properly done smells like hot food, meat worth drooling on; this smells of carnage.

Your grip on the poor girl’s abused skin tightens, afraid to let go, and the pulsing of your skin quickens. You cannot hear the small squealing sounds she makes as her body stiffens. The more you drink, the more the blood filled a hole you did not know you had in your belly. An hunger you were born with, yet was always ignored; as if you could live an eternity looking past the need for control that was your kind’s. As if you could all. As if the rules made any difference. 

“Calm down, nightingale. You’re going to suck the marrow out of her bones at that rate,“ Izcasus’ voice calls you back to reality after a while. 

You open your eyes, still in her neck, and notice the skin here is practically torn apart. Not the quick, clean kills you are used to — no. Something switches inside you, an uncalled satisfaction, but you drown it a second later. Still, it’s a second too much. 

The limp body of your victim falls heavily on the ground as you let go of her, distressed. Izcasus’ gaze lazily goes from her to your bloodied mouth, and a smirk you hate with a passion blooms on his own. 

“Ah, yes, I know that look,“ he taunts. “It is the one that says you thought you were so great you couldn’t fall for the human trap, and now that you did you feel afraid too. Is it not fascinating, what fear does?“

“I am not afraid.“

“Of course you’re not, but it is starting to sprout somewhere behind those eyes.“

You hate that he is trying to decrypt you, but most of all you hate that he is right. You felt it, that ounce of control growing on you like a disease. 

“You are aware you would be more to my taste if only you accepted the true nature of what you are?“

Now his eyes have grown darker, and the comment falls heavy in the space between you. He is not the boy you were once friends with anymore, yet he acts like he’s got you figured. Your true nature is nothing like his. You’ll fight it everyday if you have to. 

In the cleavage of your dress, you reach for a white tissue you wipe your mouth with, before tucking it back in the corset, unbothered by the blood stains. 

“You clean this mess, this is your doing,“ your voice carries a semblance of authority Izcasus does not challenge for once. He only smiles wider. 

“It is your perception of things. I am only doing what my instinct calls for, and it calls for a lot of refreshments.“

You do not let him finish his sentence that you are already spinning on your heels and walking the other way around, away from him and his ideas, hoping they are not becoming common amongst your kind. This time your shoes clasp against the ground the same way your heart would thump in your chest had it not been black and atrophied. You take the long way back to the party, borrowing a little time to breathe; the ecstasy having not fully worn off. 

You wish you could feel regret, but you don’t. It would have been worse if Izcasus had taken your place. You did what needed to be done. 

At the end of the corridor, you see the light of day filtering through the darkness you come from. The sole view of it makes your head hurt and your skin scratch. Your hand fishes for something in the pocket of your dress; you pull it out and uncork the small phial, before bringing it to your mouth and swallowing the greenish mixture in contains. The strong taste of oil and thyme makes you scrunch your nose in a scowl. You cough once at the remedy’s assaulting taste, and finally, the light of day is not a shame anymore when you reach it. 

✧. ┊ 

Outside, it is a gloomy night full of mist blocking the moonlight; it makes the air cooler and humidity stick to the stone walls of the manor. However, none of that can be felt in the warmth of the ballroom. The assembly of people warm it up, makes it merry unlike the weather. You have not met Izcasus since this morning, but the ruthlessness that always seems to hang around him lingers. The guilt has not left you, it had little occasions to do so, for you had been by yourself all day. Guests had been left to the side while you busied yourself with organising tonight’s dinner. 

The first official one since the Ball begun two days ago; guests had been presented buffets to feed in the meantime. The Great Meal, as many liked to call it, was no less of a statement than the lavishness of the Ball itself. It was the moment that sealed the real beginning of the Ball, and also how well it was going to turn out for you. 

Your father always told you dinner was the most important meal of any refined society: it gathered people in a silence they could only fill with small talks, cleared disinhibited minds with food, served to show rank clearly. It was also a risk, if you didn’t set it up right. People are more aware of their surroundings when they eat, a survival instinct against the vulnerability eating puts one through. Things are noticed at dinner, oddities discussed; but it is a risk worth taking if nobody sees anything, because then people feel safe and let all their guards down. 

Your family has become a master at grand dinners going smoothly. Hiding things, concealing them to make it look like everything is normal, has been your kind’s most useful skill for centuries now. You have had many tries at the Great Meal, all ending flawless, tonight was going to be one of them too. 

Wandering through the crowd, you cast the thoughts aside and focused on the moment. Your eyes landed on people chatting, others sending you polite smiles, but never on the one person you wished to see. Two days ago, prince Legolas had left a curious impression on you. One that called to see him again and hear more of that which he had to say, yet he wasn’t anywhere to be seen. You figured the elf stayed in the company of the king of Gondor, but his Highness was absent from your sight too. 

You knew very well where this attraction to the prince came from, and you did not wish for it to go away. You couldn’t do anything about it after all, it was just the way things were between vampires and elves. Although such a strong liking was perhaps a trait you inherited from your mother. You closed your eyes briefly and shook the thought away, still painful. 

Life had a way of toying with you and make you pay for your atrocities, it seemed. 

As you opened them again, your gaze landed on a small group at the other end of the room. Gathered in a half circle, you recognised people you’ve known all your life: families almost as ancient as yours. The looks they sent you from where they stood were not to be considered friendly, they pierced you like cold needles, yet you made your way towards them anyway. Greeting people you despised also was part of your duty as host of the Great Ball, though it was one you were most unwilling to complete. 

The more your steps took you their way, the more their sneers turned into haughty smiles. Pretending is an art it seems they master little; or were you just used to their phoney honey-voiced compliments? 

You ignore their obvious disdain when you speak. “What an evening! Excuse me, I’m running everywhere and had no time to greet you,“ you say. 

“What an evening indeed,“ a redheaded woman speaks and her party hardly stifle their giggles. 

They all look like they did not pass their glowing thirties and never will, dolled up in their most perfect attires. Shades of smooth silk and satin taunt you, make the corset of your dress strangely too tight all of a sudden. You smile at them politely, giggling too to pretend the joke doesn’t affect you. It doesn’t really, but the day has been stressful and it is one to many pair of unsolicited eyes on you. 

“You are too tight on rules, my dear,“ the woman continues. 

“Yes, you would have more fun if you let loose on them once in a while,“ another chimes in. 

“You know what the rules are here for. I do not take them lightly for a reason.“ 

Your come back causes the majority of them to roll their eyes, and the other half to eye each other like you are the worst fun breaker of all time. That is exactly why you despise the lot of them: they sound just like Izcasus. It’s been a few years now that you feel a light tendency grows amongst your peers. A tendency to forget what should not be forgotten, to consider rules can be passed upon because they’ve been ingrained in the system so long some take them for granted. 

It is a tendency that scares you, because you remember what life was like when you did not have those rules. You remember was it took to set them. What it took from you. 

“The Red Days are over, there is nothing wrong with having a little fun. I reckon most of those humans would not even notice it, they are so easily played with,“ a man on your right says. 

“I remember your father had lots a fun back then,“ another one. But this one lands wrong, very wrong. 

It seems they all feel it, because silence washes harshly all of a sudden and the crimson in your eyes gleams harder, less hidden. The practiced smile you wore withers, your brows pull and you feel the blood in your veins loop, gain a newfound vigour. Everyone now looks at the fool who said that. Even if they dislike you, people know some things are not to be mentioned with you. Especially not your father. 

“Then you also remember my father died so you could still have your fun,“ the words fill the quiet, no one snickers anymore. “Enjoy your evening.“ 

You turn around to leave, and the undisturbed noise of the crowd behind you hits back, as if muted before. 

Enough talking, a butler gives you a sign from a corner of the room and you nod once. You make your way to the dinning room and stand alone next to your chair at the far end of the banquet table, waiting for guests to be invited by the butlers to take their seats as well. 

It takes just a few seconds before bewildered men and women enter the dinning room, neck craned to the ceiling where a crystal chandelier hangs. The pressure washes off little by little when you hear amazed gasps all about the room as people find their rightful place around the victuals-filled table. You greet them, thank them when they give you compliments, and respectfully wait for everyone. 

Gaze fixed to the entrance, there is one particular guest you wait for. You know he will sit too far away from you for your liking, but already you’re planning on changing that. If someone can make this evening take a better turn, it is undoubtedly the handsome elf you fail to get out of your mind. And it seems your wish are heard, because the moment those blue eyes walk in the room, they catch yours like he knew you would be here. 

Legolas stills for a second, only waiting for Aragorn who takes in the luxury of it all and the amount of delicious looking food on the table, before heading your way. The two men walk together up to a certain point where they part; Aragorn being king of Gondor has the right to sit closer to you, but Legolas is only a prince and there are people with higher of a rank whom are granted the seats near you. 

The Dunedain nods to his friend and pats his shoulder affectionally before coming to sit right in front of you. You smile at him something that does not resemble the fake ones you give others. 

“King Aragorn,“ he nods in greeting. “Why don’t you ask the prince to come sit closer to us? I would hate to have you eat away from your own party,“ you suggest. 

The king opens surprised eyes and shakes his head, dismissing the offer with a wave of the hand. 

“I do not wish to confuse the order of the table, my Lady. Legolas and I are capable of socialising with people we do not know, though I have to admit it is a skill wood-elves do not master as well as their archery,“ he jests, and you cannot help but chuckle back. 

“Nonsense!“ you can already tell it would be a much merrier evening with Legolas by your side. At least he does not irritate you, quite the opposite. You wonder if it is elven magic that soothes you so every time he is around or simply your own fondness of him. 

“Prince Legolas,“ you call. “Come sit closer to us, I beg you. To me.“

Legolas would have politely refused if you did not specify it was a wish of your own, but now he feels it is impossible for him to not give you anything you would ask for. Some people look at him, confused, but he ignores them as you gesture towards the sit next to Aragorn’s. Not right next to you because it would be improper, but close enough to satisfy you. 

A few seats away, you do not notice the suspicious look Izcasus gives to the interaction, nor the whispering he hushes to the woman next to him. Whatever it is, it makes her stifle a mocking laugh that dies instantly when Legolas’s ice cold eyes catch hers. Like a child caught red-handed, she looks away at once and Legolas take his sit where you instructed him to. 

Now that the movement of people has stopped, Legolas takes a time to observe his surroundings. Everything is so nice, to the point where it feels odd. The prince knows it, lavishness often hides secrets: his father is a fond user of this technique. The food looks great, the bottles of wine are the same he can find in his Halls’ cellar, but the lights are too low to enable perfect view of the elements about the room. 

When you stand up, the chatters lower to a hum before dying, and Legolas is left to watch you like everyone else; like a fool. There is still about you that same youth that he noticed two days ago, almost surreal. Out of time. 

“Dear guests,“ you begin with practiced ease, like talking to a hundred people is a casualty. “Once again, I am delighted to be your host this year. It is a pleasure to have you all here, gathered in, dare I say, the most pleasant society of all Middle-Earth. Every four years the Great Ball is held, every four years it is a success; let us hope this year will live up to the tradition,“ people nod, they hum in agreement. “No more boring speeches from my part, you must all be very hungry and I am keeping you from this delectable food!“ laughters in the assembly, your smile brightens with confidence. “I wish you a pleasant Great Meal, and the very best Great Ball.“

You lift your cup in the air, full of wine, and people follow. Except theirs are empty. So is Legolas’s. 

The prince looks around at the people toasting, all holding empty glasses, with a few exceptions. He does not know why this strikes him, or why does this particular quirk seems odd, but the only people who hold up a full glass strangely resemble you. Not in looks, but in attitude. They all radiate of something the elf-prince cannot place, yet stands out. They are all young, and if there wasn’t so many people in the room, Legolas would have felt there was a kind of ambiguous power around them. Something heavy, something between night and day: eerie but not to him. A danger he was not subject to. 

When he puts down his cup and guests begin to pour wine into their own empty ones, it seems the colour is slightly different for yours. Not from a whole shade, neither from a tone, more like shadows swimming in your cup. And a thickness that coats the crystalline borders and lingers; unlike the kind of elvish wine he tasted all his life. 

In the same fashion, your plate is also full before his. The meat there resembles any other kind of meat, and it is elvish instinct only that tells him it would taste different if he was to eat it. 

Legolas looks up at you, and you are already observing him. There is a small smirk at the corner of your lips, as if you know what he is looking for and it doesn’t scare you. Deep down, Legolas knows he should fear this secrecy. It should scare him that something is happening behind closed doors, that you are almost daring him to find out. Yet it does not. The very real intuition that what you are is unlike anything he can think about only fuels his curiosity. 

The prince has eyes everywhere you should not want them, and it amuses you. It should not, because Legolas is not bound to the same deal his father is. Thranduil vowed that if the elves had nothing to fear from you, then you had nothing to fear from them; but the character of his son you do not know and it might reveal to be very different. To let Legolas get away with noticing so much about your schemes was reckless, yet all your opinions on secrecy ended with the face of a beautiful elf. You almost wanted him to uncover your truth, to see the ugliness naked for what it really was just so you could see if it repelled him, or if the prince was as twisted as you are. 

He smiles at you above the rim of his glass he brings to his mouth, and you think you already know the answer. You really were just like your mother. 

You break the intimacy of the moment when you address Aragorn. 

“It saddens me the queen could not come, I would have loved to meet her.“ 

“Yes,“ the king gives you an apologising look. “She sends her regards and humbly asks that you forgive her. You see, I wanted to stay with her too, but she practically pushed me out of Minas Tirith. The elves stubbornness…“

You chuckle at his feigned annoyance; Aragorn could never really dislike any part of Arwen’s character. The comment on elves makes you look back to Legolas, who doesn’t seem to have averted his gaze from you since the beginning. 

“Really? Is your kind of a stubborn nature, prince Legolas?“ 

“I wouldn’t know, I… I believe so, yes, for my part.“

You smile at that. An elf with a flaw, have you ever heard of such a thing? And yet it is one Legolas confesses to have; one you cannot blame him for, for you are probably as equally stubborn. The fact increases your interest. You catch yourself wanting to know all the ways in which his stubbornness shows, the bad and the ugly you cannot quite discern yet but long for —to which extent is he like you? his light-driven nature corrupt by whatever unguarded pride the gods allowed the elves to have —. 

“Wood-elves are known to be less wise than their peers, my friend,“ Aragorn adds. 

“My father would be an example, yes.“ 

“Either way, trust me madam, it is worse when said elf is with child! I cannot force upon Arwen a single thing that she does not want to do, even when it regards her health or the baby’s.“

Again, you laugh at his obvious nervousness. “Women are often more skilled than men at finding out the needs of the life that grows in their belly, king Aragorn,“ and the king huffs a laugh.

“Elves especially,“ a small silence where you turn your attention to the prince sets. “My mother used to tell me she knew at what age I was going to sing my first songs and exactly which tree was to be my favourite before I was even out of the womb.“ 

Legolas’s eyes have grown distant, reminiscing an old past that stings a bittersweet pain. You know exactly the feelings, as well as you know the extent of the small smile pulling at his lips. You wonder if your mother knew such things about you as her belly swelled with growing life. Did she envision the kind of monster you were already? Did she hope you would escape the fate she foresaw? You never asked, she never told. 

“Did she got it right?“ your own voice comes out softer, with a tender smile on your lips that turns something new in the prince’s stomach. It makes the grief more bearable. 

“All of it.“ 

If you were to have a child, would you know its softness or its malevolence beforehand? You imagine what it would feel like to have life grow in your belly, to see it swell with it. It is a known fact that vampires’ pregnancies are harder than humans’, or elves’. Elves need more time to fully create such beings of lightness, and it makes sense, for infants of their race usually grow faster than human babies. In their first years, you can hardly distinguish them from a human, but time passes inevitably and it is painfully obvious that a six year-old elf is much more independent and skilled than its human peer. It is the case until early adulthood, then the similarities linger again: only their aura, beauty and ears give away an elf on the outside. And eventually time catches up again and as humans wither and grow old, elves stay beautiful and timeless. 

For vampires, on the other hand, the differences are not so visible. They stay akin to elves all their life, but more discreet. It is only in the womb that a mother can know whether she is nurturing light or shadows — an in-between. You are well aware of it: a vampiric pregnancy is painful, lethal almost. It prefigures the kind of creature it will birth, for the foetus in the womb is like a wild animal already. It tries to suck the life out of its mother: ungrateful unborn child. It kicks and tears at the flesh to escape, or at least that is what your mother told you; you were never fit for a cage. 

You think about growing a monster of your own, sentencing it with unescapable hell only because it is your belly it grew in. A vampire’s womb is like the source of a disease: keeping it here constantly, infectious. 

Unconsciously, your hand comes to rest on your lower stomach. The pressure is warm, it’s like you’re waiting to feel kicking beneath. You know there is no way for you to escape what you are with a baby, to mirror what you would want to be onto someone else at your image, only tinier. 

Vampirism grows in the mother’s womb. 

In blood it lives, and by blood it spreads. Nature has it that all female vampires experiment the same condition during pregnancy: a leak of their own blood from the placenta to the fluid the foetus floats in. Being a vampire is a curse, inherited while the foetus grows in contact with its mother’s blood. It is bloodborne, and never by blood undone. 

Your baby would be like you, by your fault, and it is probably why the Valar made you yearn for the only race you cannot mate with. Perhaps it is a scheme to ensure you will ultimately disappear, perhaps it is only to make you suffer your sins. 

You do not know, and you abandon the fantasy of a baby as well as the hand on your belly. You do not need the burden of a life that is not fully one filling the rot inside your stomach; because it’ll come out undead yet stillborn, with a heart atrophied and black like yours, and a thirst it will not control. 

✧. ┊ 

Legolas is used to waiting. When one lives two thousand years in a world that turns to fit dying things better, waiting can be a curse. It is one especially when surrounded by mortals, when they all fall in deep slumber at night and he cannot. Legolas knows that if he was tired enough he would collapse in sleep’s embrace too, but it is not the case. He has been good with alcohol so far, and no tremendous physical effort has been imposed upon him, so wariness keeps far from him still. 

And to make time pass by faster, what is best than contemplating? This too, is something elves are used to. They have been contemplating the world around them for millennia now, watching it wilt, change against their will. If Legolas could, he would like to keep things as they ever were, to stop change and growth and still time to a stolen moment. Maybe then could his mother still be with him. 

Such a desire is fruitless, so the prince does not dwell on it further. Instead, he busies himself with walking around the manor’s domain. The night has engulfed it, everybody sleeps except for a few people he felt wandering in the corridors, but didn’t see. As always, it is nature that calls to him best, and Legolas finds himself strolling around the greenhouse on his own. 

Illuminated by the moonlight shining above, the elf-prince scrutinises his surroundings: a glasshouse that opens on the scary shadows outside, yet protects him in a confined place where life thrives. There are many plants and flowers paving the way he takes, all of them he recognises. They are not exotic by any means — sage, rosemary, lavender, thyme, roses and lilies — but they do not all usually live in the same environment, and to Legolas who knows so much about nature, it is a small miracle that they can be all found here together. 

He pauses in his tracks, inspects the flowers closer and wonders at how you keep them alive. Again, his thoughts do not go to the moulded ceilings or the magnificent buffet, no, instead they go to you. 

“So it is true that elves do not sleep.“

Your voice startles him, and Legolas turns around like he would on an enemy, only to fall face to face with your grinning features. Once again, it is a mystery to him the way you keep your footing so light that he does not hear it. Normally, nobody can sneak up on him, he always catches the intruding presence minutes before it reveals itself, but he did not catch yours. Startling an elf: here is something Legolas never heard of! Yet here you are with your teasing grin and a different gown than the ones you’ve worn up until then. 

Legolas cannot help but dote on it for a second. The black fabric of the gown is less heavy, allows more liberty of movement, and its long sleeves cover your hands until your fingers. You look less intimidating, less of a host he should impress. Your gaze follows the visible tension that leaves his shoulders, and the pink of his lips when he speaks. 

“If I may be so bold, I would easily mistake you for one,“ he says it knowing you are aware of the features that make you stand out. 

You smile and take a step closer, allowing yourself to enter his space. 

“Believe me, it is too great of a compliment for me to deserve. I have trouble sleeping,“ you justify. Legolas frowns, and you cannot tell if he trusts you. If he doesn’t, he lets nothing be known of it and resumes his walk around the greenhouse, with you by his side. 

“Are you enjoying the Ball?“ you ask. 

“I am. Thank you for inviting me to sit with your party at dinner. I am not used to conversing outside of my own group, and the meal would have surely felt much longer without your and Aragorn’s company.“

“There is no need, I wanted you to sit closer. My enjoyment of the evening would have been different too, had you not both been here.“

Legolas does not pick up the conversation, and it falls in an awkward silence you had not prefigured. The kind of quiet you are usually not used to with people; heavy with something that resembles shyness. You keep on walking without a word, holding onto the fact that Legolas admitted he liked your company, and you recognised you seeked his too. You pass another patch of flowers and let your fingers reach to feel the petals. The prince watches the movement attentively, like he discovers you. 

“Why do you keep so many plants growing? How do you do it?“

Your smile grows again, but your eyes stay focused on the flowers. “It is an old family secret.“

The prince’s eyes stay sharp and scrutinising, but he does not speak another word, does not push. He lets himself be guided amongst the plants, soothed by the sweet scent of herbs, until you start the conversation again when you deem it best. 

Long minutes pass where you find yourself talking with the elf-prince of all things insignificant, and some others more important. You ask about what he likes best in his realm, and he has no time to ask something back that already you have another question for him. At length, the conversation drifts far away from the Great Ball, on purpose though Legolas is oblivious to it. He ends up wondering about your taste in mead or flower baths, and asking for the answers he wants. You give them to him as long as they are harmless: now he knows that you do not share his soft spot for honey, and would beg for a chamomile scented donkey milk bath. He can see you wallow in it, and there is a twisted thing in his stomach that tells him you would taste so, so sweet. 

The more he knows about you, the more mysterious you grow, with questions you refuse to answer yet matter to him the most. But spending time with you also awakens an unrestrained kind of hunger he has, almost invisible at first; so much that he isn’t even aware himself he is imagining bitting the bridge between your shoulder and neck and soothing the pain with a lick that will taste of the chamomile he will have you bathing in.

No, Legolas does not know the sort of needy monster you will turn him into if he keeps on getting curious. And oh, how curious can the elf-prince be. 

As surface level as the discussion is, none of you notice how fast time flies by, and for the first time Legolas forgets about waiting. Minutes slip through his fingers like grains of sand on the beach, and they only stop when you hear the first chirping of a bird outside. In a few hours, the sun will be up and you’ll have to handle yet another day of ball. Even if you do not need as much sleep as humans, you need rest, and the prince gives you the opposite: he keeps you on the edge of your seat. 

“Do you often walk at night with your guests?“ the question is bolder than the ones before. You eye him to discern any kind of trick behind it, but can find none, only the raw blue of his eyes that searches for yours. 

“Only those who interest me.“

A small silence lingers, it announces your departure before you can even voice it. Legolas feels the urge to beg you to stay, to borrow a little more time with you; as if it was ever going to run thin, yet he does nothing. His kin rarely acts on impulses, and no matter how different Legolas can be from his peers, this is something elven court has rooted in him. He wields his countenance like a weapon until it bends and breaks. 

“I should go back,“ you say, stepping forward to break the proximity. “You should see yourself back to your room too, prince Legolas. The manor can be quite eerie at night.“

He looks at you and nods, but does not move to do as he is told. 

“Goodnight,“ he whispers like a secret for you only, and it is enough to make you walk back to your quarters with the hope that it will push him to do so too. 

Cold and lingering like ghost-touch, the weight of your father’s hand and the distant ring of his voice days ago accompany you as you enter the ballroom. The Elvenking’s Halls are packed for the occasion, a sea of people lying before you. None pays you any attention for now, you hope it’ll stay that way. From the vault of the ceiling hang many lights hidden as decorations. Their steady glow warms up the atmosphere and magnify the flowing fabric of all the high-end apparels in the room. 

The overall decorum is allowed to slip a little from its usual tightness, though it is still evident the gathering calls for high society. People laugh and chat merrily, their laughters can be heard at every corner of the room. Upon taking your first step in the splendid Hall, you feel your heart squeeze. It is not the exuberant number of people which makes you nervous, it is the reason of their coming. It all makes you uneasy: the luxury of the decors, the lavishness of the buffet, the price of the wine. Such a feast must have costed a small fortune, but you know it is not one your father and king Thranduil are above spending for such an occasion. 

Words about the Feast of Starlight have been spreading for as long as you can remember, both in elven and human realms. Those who cannot attend it like to dote and make assumptions on its greatness; those who have the chance to be counted as guests of the feast revel in generous descriptions of it to whoever cares to hear it. 

This year, there is no doubt the descriptions will double in length. 

Unfortunately, the decorations are no sweet enjoyment to you; on the contrary. They poke at your ribs uncomfortably. If today the care put in the Feast of Starlight is twice what it usually is to be, it is because it’s a very particular feast. One that requires your presence, one that will seal your fate. 

In reality, you are already tethered right where everyone wants you by invisible bounds. The fabric of your dress at your collarbones scratches uncomfortably, you pull on it to ease the feeling. You hope it will not feel like bugs crawling on your skin or hundreds of all seeing eyes when they will announce the beauty you are sentenced with: young like you are, fair, golden haired. Immortal. 

You gulp thickly. Back to the moment, you can’t drown right now. Your gaze skims over the assembly, a few guests have turned to you and send you warm smiles. You reply to them equally with practiced ease. Just like you rehearsed in front of the mirror. Your steps slowly take you across the room, into the crowd and eventually in front of your host. Slightly towering above the party on his pedestal, the king of the Woodland realm feels you coming his way before he sees it. When he appears in your line of sight, you notice he wears the finest robe you have ever seen: embroidered with gold patterns, so obviously above any of the guests’ attire. 

You bow to him respectfully, then to your father who stands next to him. The traitor. Both of them. They look right, next to each other, two kings who betrayed their only child for lineage. A daughter’s life one parts with over politics; a son’s heart one compromises for greed. Some elves are greedy, it seems Thranduil may have started the tendency. 

“Mesmerising, as always,“ the Elvenking compliments you without thinking too much about it. It is hard to tell if he even means it. 

The smile you give him is pursed, he does not notice it. Already, his attention has departed from you. He searches something in the crowd behind you with a frown for a second, but settles for you again when he does not find it. You can easily guess what he was looking for. You have not seen Legolas anywhere. 

“How do you like the Feast of Starlight, this year?“ Thranduil asks like you are a recurrent member of the party, but it is your first time participating. 

“As much as I should, thank you.“

A polite answer, not a lie. You are enjoying this as mush as you should, which means not at all. 

Thranduil sees right through your attitude. He does not mention it. The woodland king likes clever little things like you, he hopes you keep his son clever too. 

A whirl of the crowd behind you catches the kings’ attention and cuts the discussion. On an upper loggia carved in the giant trunk of the tree that acts as the eastern wall of the room, an orchestra you had not noticed before begins to play. The music stops the Hall quiet for a short instant, before it rouses cheerful squeals from the people who order their scattering in rows and pairs for a dance. 

In the rushed movement of it all, someone calls for the king’s attention and another presents you a plate full of wine glasses. You stare at the offer for a moment, watch your distorted reflection staring back at you in the red robe of the wine, before picking up a glass with a mouthed ‘thank you‘.

Around you, the room awakens as you step away from the royal throne and to a secluded border. One of the highest assembly in the world, elves of the finest kind, rouses in elegant dances and songs before you; yet you do not pay them the attention they deserve. To the human eye the sight would be heavenly, divine, almost too much to bear; to the trained, elvish one it is impressive and gleeful; to yours, however, it is nearly plain. 

You have half a mind for festivities, and even if you keep on a princess’ facade, there is one fool you cannot play and it is you. The wine taunts you with affluxes of its scent: rich, supple, notes of vanilla and sweet spices you can pinpoint, the finish almost erotic when you taste it. Everyone around has a glass too, it is one of the only times in the year they are allowed to be careless. 

You should not take this freedom for yourself too, but wine is too easy of a drink to abuse and the evening too stressful. It would not do you any harm if you took another glass. Once. Or twice. Or more than you ought to. You forget elvish wine hits harder than regular one, you forget it lets a funny feeling in your chest afterwards, like a flower blooming. The lavishness of the party can do nothing against your irrepressible want to escape the boredom, to distract yourself to minimise the chance of any thought occurring. It works for a little while. Your mind swims a little in a haze every other guest shares, you feel more inclined to appreciate the joys of the feast. Alcohol is treacherous, and you are also more prone to emotions. 

Your skin heats up as time goes on, your cheeks too though it is visible only to those who wish to scrutinise you. 

Swiftly, the atmosphere changes and the noise mellows. The orchestra reverts to background music, people wander without rush, made slow and content by the liquor and food filling their belly. You notice the shift unlike everyone else; for them it is only the natural motion of the feast, to you it is the bell tolling. 

Aimed at you like a spear slicing through the crowd is your father’s gaze catching yours. Your eyes advert as quickly as you can, your hands grow fidgety at the long sleeve of your dress. You step back, then aside when he still stares at you. Hurried, yet lacking their usual confidence, your steps take you right into the crowd where you can escape it. 

You hide like a little girl in her mother’s closet. You hide like you did that same day with blood on your hands, and the violins of the orchestra grow louder. 

Too loud. 

Persistent. Like a warning, like a proof. You step away from the crowd and towards the nearest exit the moment your elbow hits a woman in the ribs and she grumbles, making you apologise profusely. When you finally reach it, you do not make motion to leave. Instead, you stay here, straight as ever, eyes wandering in the far, far away distance. 

It’s like you want to know what will happen if you stay. If you whip yourself enough, will it make it more bearable? Can you tolerate to be stripped out of your life because someone decided your purpose was a prince? Immortal pain, immortal yet slain. If you bite, if you beg, if you howl, if you stab and strangle and hit–

A shoulder brushes yours, someone stops right next to you and it pulls you back to the glinting lights of the Hall. 

When you pivot to turn to the trespassing presence, your head swims a little and it takes a second before you see clearly. In front of you, every gleam tangles in Legolas’s golden hair. They weave like jewels between his braids, emphasise the slope of his nose with curled shadows. Your fingers twitch at your side; his tunic matches yours. 

Legolas needs a moment before he remembers to nod gracefully your way. You do not bow to each other anymore, a simple nod is enough: you know each other too well, share too intertwined of a fate for formalities. 

You look at one another for longer than required, especially you. His own gaze lingers different than usual, more wandering. Less appropriate. It curls in the plush of your hips the dress marks, rakes up your belly until the plunging collar of your dress, studies the slope of your shoulders. The blue dress from the Farewell Feast was something, but now you are dressed in the colour of his realm and there is in Legolas an irrepressible urge to see you out of it. Because it is dangerous. He wishes you wouldn’t wear it so good.

A pale red dusts his cheeks, there is a glass of wine in each of his hands. He hands you one. Your fingers wrap around it too quickly to be casual, they brush his in the process and the feeling stays for a short while. 

“You are the last person I wanted to see tonight,“ you try a snarky comment but it falls the wrong way, with more angst to its edge. 

Legolas looks at you from where he stands, not with pity but with something far more devastating because it comes from him. He understands. You are both afflicted by the same grief, and it is so inconvenient that Legolas should be the one to understand your pain best. You have made it a point to keep him away from you or your good opinion for months now, yet for once this side of the story is not only yours. 

You do not have the willpower to keep the face of your resentment on, it slips like your barriers under the spell of wine. It wouldn’t hurt if you let loose just this once, would it? It would not change the way of things, nor the dreaded passage of time. If anything, you think it would allow you less reserve to speak with Legolas truly, without filters of etiquette. He seems as tipsy as you: just a little bit, just enough to be true. 

“And yet here we are.“

No, you really can’t hate him as much as usual when he takes all your mean remarks and never mentions them. He even smiles at you, the distinct upward twitch of his lips. Why are you looking at his lips? 

“Join me?“ he points towards the exit behind you with his chin. “I don’t imagine you want to hear what they are about to say.“

You glance at the other end of the room where the kings stand, view partially obstructed by the head of people from the crowd, then at the exit behind you. Nobody looks at you, Legolas’s appearance did not shift everyone’s atmosphere, just yours. He came so furtively it is possible even his father does not know he is here, yet you doubt anything can go past Thranduil’s watchful eyes. 

Legolas is right, you do not want to be here to hear people rejoice at the outcome of your destiny. One does not have to be very observant to know those things distress you: after all, you threw up after your first meeting with the prince when nothing had even been voice out loud yet. Of course, he does not know about this, but Legolas is far for a simpleton and he has seen the tension in your shoulders in each of these situations, how you lose yourself in a far away point in the void. 

With a single movement of the head, you give him the answer he was hoping for. 

“After you.“ 

His lips stretch without as much reserve when you accept his offer, and he steps beside you to lead the way towards the exit. On the way, you see him grab another cup full of wine; greedy, but tonight you have every right to be amongst sinners. You mirror the action, hoping salvation is a frayed mind. You know the thought foolish, but you are already imprudent following the despised prince down empty corridors. 

In the back of your mind, the reminder that even your trusted ones like him awakens. You hope he won’t worsen the constant twist in your guts, that he stays as disagreeable as you think him to be. 

The noises from the Hall become muffled enough not to be made out anymore just at the right time. You can swear you were beginning to hear Thranduil speak, and violins were no longer playing. You try not to imagine all that is being said right this moment, but it is hard to ignore it. It’s like you feel in your guts the moment it is said out loud, even though you cannot hear it. 

You are now officially to be married with the prince.  

You collar itches again, you pull on it and it’s like Legolas feels your anxiety. His steps suddenly stop at a turn, you take three more before remembering to stop too. He does not let you the time to question him. Instead, he gestures to his right to let you walk in before him. Under a partly hidden archway, a more luminous space expends, akin to a garden. You think you see a flowerbed thriving under a pool of clear starlight. 

When you step in, Legolas’s hand comes to rest between your shoulder blades to guide you like the touch is natural. You do not mention it; the feeling is grounding despite your will. It coaxes you in until you are fully able to take in the place. Around you, all the riches of a luxuriant interior garden display. Ivy climbs to the stone walls, forget-me-nots pool on the green grass patches, the moonlight evens your traits. 

You want to say something but all the words of every language feel wrong. Speaking of it would diminish the beauty of the place, without a doubt. It reminds you of the forest back home for the instant sense of relief it sets upon you. No longer do the stakes of the evening weight on your heart, you finally have a moment of peace. You crane your neck back to let your gaze wander above your head, where you expect to find a sky full of stars, but what you see exceeds everything the realm of your imagination could have thought about. 

Right above you, falling in a canopy of the most beautiful kind, white wisterias hang. They rustle delicately with the low breeze, filter moonlight through sheer petals. The sight alone makes your heart swell, empties your head of remaining anger or stress. You see only the magnificent shrubs.

At your side, Legolas’s smile softens as your traits relax so visibly and your eyes go wide. He keeps for himself a chuckle when your jaw hangs slack, and turns his gaze to the sky. There is a newfound sense of pride in his chest upon seeing you so bewildered by something he showed you. You are not tense and on the edge like he has found you in the ballroom anymore, and he is the one who gets to see this side of you. 

Legolas imagines the wine plays a part in this, and that your dominant loathing of him will soon return, but for the time being it is enough. 

“It’s not much,“ he undermines, as if prefiguring you will find an excuse to hate this.

You do not. 

“Wisterias…“ you whisper in a breath. Not for anyone in particular, but Legolas picks it up. 

“Yes. You seemed rather fond of them.“

Your eyes meet for a moment, you try to decipher any trace of mockery in his tone but can find none. The elf-prince only looks true and ethereal, basket in the night. He looks unlike the boy you remember, less rough at the edges, more sweet on the tongue. Even his name has a different ring in your mind; one that does not induce hatred. 

Legolas, Legolas, Legolas, Legolas. 

Legolas in his fancy tunic that doesn’t even make him look phoney. Legolas with that small smile upon his face. Legolas through the crack of the curtain while you hid in his room. Legolas unkempt under you as you fought. Legolas blurry from a memory where he saves your life without ever asking for a favour in return. 

Legolas that senses your anguish in a glance and takes you out of the Hall to the prettiest wisterias growing in his realm. Legolas that shares your torment and to whom you have been especially mean. 

You lower your head to drink from your cup when he speaks again. 

“My father never comes here, he avoids the garden.“

“How come?“ 

“It is too close to his heart, I suppose.“

You don’t understand what he means by that right away, until your gaze stops on a statue adorning the top of a small fountain. Ivy climbs to it, you make your way to the sculpture and push back the plants from its eyes like one would a stray lock of hair. As you stand in front of it, you have the underlying feeling of stepping in intimacy; like you are maybe not supposed to be the one observing the traits of a woman etched in stone and feel sorrow fill your heart. 

Her features are fine, delicate like those of someone truly pure of heart. It’s like the passage of time does nothing to her. You imagine it was also the case in flesh and bones, because you begin to understand who she is. You recognise the cupid bow of her lips, the soft air about her. 

Legolas joined your side quietly during your observation. He said nothing, but you know his eyes are fixated right where yours are. A weird feeling tugs at his chest, something he usually likes to avoid. The slight haze upon his mind makes it hard to do so, his heart opens to every emotion a little more. 

The stone is cold and rough under your fingertips when you raise a gentle hand to trace the slopes of the woman’s face. They glide under your touch, you stare attentively as you try to ingrain them into your mind like they are worth remembering.

You wish you could remember his features as vividly before he died, not the grim, greenish complexion of his murdered skin. Maybe then he could visit you alive in your nightmares. 

“My mother,“ Legolas introduces like it is not evident. 

The prince has something of her very striking yet nameless. Something she grew in her belly just like him. Your forefinger falls from the tip of her nose.

“She was very pretty,“ you note.

“Yes, she was. It is a faithful rendition.“ 

“You look like her.“

“No, I don’t…“ his sentence trails, the rest comes after a sight. Legolas dislikes admitting it. “I look like my father,“ he says.  

“Yes,“ you agree. “But she looks like she was a fair woman, and gentle.“ 

“She could be strict.“

The prince has a far away look in his eyes you have never seen before. It is a look you know far too well, and it pains you he should suffer it. Your eyes fall to his lips for a second, they glisten when he licks them wet. 

“I was unfair to you,“ his eyes turn to you, not expecting it. 

“So was I,“ is his only reply. 

Short, hitting right where it is dangerous; coaxing compassion out of you. Compassion for the man whose sole existence binds you, is there a bigger joke on earth? Yet compassion nonetheless, and you do not push it away. How could you when he looks as equally lost as you? Tonight, you share something that goes beyond your instinctive resentment and all your mechanisms. Legolas allows you to see the cracks in his composure, a glimpse at what flesh strained by grief lies underneath. 

You should too: let the naked truth replace hubris. As ugly as it is, as sickening. 

Not just yet. The night has only begun. 

“Come this way, we’re almost there.“

Just like that, Legolas steps away and you follow; closer than required, but the Halls would be a maze without him to guide you through them. He takes you up multiple flights of a spiral staircase, through a single gothic arched door, and your shoes clasp against the stone ground all the way. When you’re finally in front of an archway leading outside, the cool air wraps around your ankles again and seems to drag you where Legolas leads you. 

Outside, it is more beautiful than in a dream awakened. The archway opens on a balcony, hanging right above the canopy so beneath you is a sea of white petals and above the night sky full of stars. For a moment, the view steals your breath and freezes you on the spot. Your eyes find the stars which shine brighter than usual, Legolas’s are already back on you, observing your reaction. 

It warms something fuzzy in his chest when you cannot help a smile, illuminated by the cold light he likes most in the world. You step to lean against the railing, the soft wind ruffling in your hair all the beauty of the place. You don’t know what to say. Is there even something to say? 

You believe there isn’t, and once you come down from your awe you let yourself turn to the prince and follow when he motions to sit down on the ground, shoulder against the wall to get more comfortable. Your dress pools around you a little, the stones feel cool against your legs. It anchors you when you look at the elf-prince, his hair going about with the wind. It’s strange seeing him in this light: untamed, made vulnerable by the alcohol. Already, you’ve learnt more in minutes with him now than you had in the past months. 

You knew the look on his mother’s face, the traits he shared with her, the place he went for comfort. There’s a halo around his head made by the stars behind, and when you speak you do not think about what rolls off your tongue anymore. 

“What was the quest of Erebor like?“ you forefinger runs along the rim of your cup, Legolas follows it attentively like it does something to him physically. 

“Like running after dwarves: oddly hard to catch,“ you huff at this, almost a chuckle but not really. 

“You were suspicious of me when they escaped.“ 

“I was.“

The silence does not have the time to settle, ruffling wisterias act as the only background noise. There is nothing bitter in the exchange, no blame you would cast on the prince or he on you. 

“But you were the one hiding things.“

“We never really were in a partnership, you and I… You were the one advocating for their release only days before, you admit it was rather queer for them to break free like that all of a sudden.“ 

You nod. “Hm,“ Legolas is right. If it was him you wouldn’t have gave him the benefit of the doubt like he had given you. “And the battle?“

This time, Legolas thinks before speaking. You think you’ve already said something wrong when the words take their time to come out. 

“Like death is supposed to feel. Wretched, a haze when you fight that never lifts off your eyes until it is too late.“

You know just the feeling. For once, the fact that he shares it with you makes you like him a little bit more. Or is it the look that he gives you, so deep and yet reassuring. Whatever you say, he will try to understand, and it’s the first time it happens to you. Your father never listened, never seeked to understand. He drew conclusions too hastily, just like you do. 

“It was not lifted off my eyes yet when we met,“ he continues. You know what he means: his mother. “She... she died not two hundred years ago. Things have not been the same without her. The king– My father never talks of it. We never talked about mother, not before his whole folly about taking back the jewels. And I… saying I shrunk back would be a euphemism. But it is not the only reason I was deceitful with you. I had never been as ill-tempered as I was before coming to your realm. I believe you heard it time and again and understood it long before this, but the forest holds a malicious grip on us wood-elves. It does not excuse the way I acted, or my defensiveness, but I hope it can explain it enough.“

Your breath has slowed; you did not expect such a confession. It is not this you were looking to get out of him, far from it. But Legolas talked of the things that hurt naturally now, his glass long abandoned and empty on the floor beside him. He tells you what is inside his heart like you deserve to know. You can see the vulnerability in his eyes, the one one always has when talking of a long gone parent. 

“The forest plagued my mind with anger, it would only rest when I walked through it. As if I was a part of it. But away from its magic, in your realm, there was such calm, something I had not felt in a really long time. I think, mostly, I was jealous of the serenity of your country. It allowed me to rest for a while, and it had been so long I had not rested. It scared me, irrationally. It felt so weird, all that peace around, like a con. I was unfair to you because I wished to avoid the possibility of finding solace away from my home; if you can find the heart to understand this.“

Unconsciously, you shifted on your spot, leaning in closer to better drink his words. In front of you, Legolas’s eyes seemed more alert to your every reaction, a small frown on his face. You knew all that, Gandalf had told you, but for him to tell you directly roused something else in your foggy brain. A confusion, because your heart should not flip inside your ribcage like that. Your eyes should not scan him so attentively that you could distinguish the grain of his skin, or the small cut on his upper lip.

Imperfect, for once. Unprincely with his hair disheveled and the very aware look in his eyes, like a deer who put himself in danger willingly and dares not move away from it. Legolas feels like he tests the limits of your calmness. How much can he say before you hate him, how many minutes before the atmosphere gets cold again? But you’re beginning to think maybe just like cold is only the absence of heat, hatred does not exist and is merely the absence of love. 

Perhaps you did not hate him, but faced the impossibility to love him. To love him would have been against reason and everything you swore to protect. You search for something to say, maybe talk about your mother too, but it is not the same kind of grief. There is another thing. Something you tried to keep hidden but surfaced back with its own will like a monster because looking at Legolas sent alarms into your brain.

He was the face of your doom, always had been. Beautiful yet cursed to deceive you. Even right now, as he was pouring his heart out in hopes of gaining your good graces, he was bound to deceive you in the end. 

“I was quick to resent you too,“ you say.

“You were quick to see what was going to happen to us. I think I was less perceptive.“

“I recognise patterns, that is all.“

“What do you mean?“

“I mean it is not the first time a wedding is forced upon me.“

The words fall heavy in the space between you. They extend it, Legolas leans back just enough for you to see. It almost makes you curl a bitter smile. Ah, the grieved widow archetype, he probably thinks. You wish it was this type of pain you suffered. Of course, Legolas does not know about it, the marriage’s echos were muffled by your family just after. To save you from disgrace and to avoid a conflict far greater than you. That’s why you can’t go about the world whenever you want anymore, there is always a risk that Arthedain still seeks for revenge. You could be followed, you could be ambushed, and so you had to be locked up in your ivory tower by the sea.  

When your father had forced you to accept an engagement to the heir to Arthedain’s throne, you remember your world shattering like glass and slipping under your feet. You recall seeing your freedom torn away from you, and the underlying feeling that you were going to die in this marriage. It did not fail; but you died another way. 

“You hope he died on the field, right? You hope I’m only a poor widow grieving, that would explain my behaviour towards you,“ you say, tone more aggressive than before.

Here it is, the hatred that comes back like second nature. Like a shadow following you around —and what an heavy shadow. But it keeps you going, this rage. 

“I am not. I killed him for chaining me in silence.“

Quiet. 

The aftermath of a bomb that dropped. Blurry, skin burning like you just slapped Legolas across the face. You murdered your late husband. 

Perhaps the prince is a fool, downright deranged for not running away right this instant, but he does not. He stays here, sat next to you, and instead of backing away from the murderer before him, he leans in. Curiosity is a vice Legolas cannot escape when it comes to you. He feels no animosity towards you, no disgust. The elf-prince does not open his mouth to yell you’re mad, nor does he threaten you with the dagger he always has. He only does that weird, inconceivable thing: leaning in. 

“I lay awake on our nuptial bad the first night. It had not been a full day we were husband and wife yet I felt… I felt myself drowning, suffocated. And it didn’t take more than a look at him for me to decide I was going to kill him.“

You want to scream, to yell at him to understand, to push you away, to burst into the ballroom and tell everyone you’re a monster. You want to limp behind him as he does so, to feel like your dress is soaked by blood again. You wish Legolas could know, could see the memory just like it plays in your mind: just like it happened. With you slipping the hunting knife you had stolen from under your pillow, crawling on top of your husband like you meant to swallow him. You remember the drag of your dress, hiking to your thighs as you straddled him, and the never ending wish that you would turn back. 

Please don’t do that. Please go back to sleep. Close your eyes and pretend this never happened. 

You could do that, you could sleep for the remainder of your life. You could turn into a quiet ghost, disappear because you were not needed. 

Until his rough hands griped at your hips and you couldn’t anymore. 

You felt he was going to be mean with it, whenever he asked for you. And your mind suddenly flooded with all that you could not take: being the queen everyone knows her husband cheats on with servant girls, watching people suffer and die because of his cruelty and not doing anything about it, observing life pass by in a black and white lens until it is too late. Letting go of Valinor. Never meeting your mother again. 

It felt smooth like butter when the blade sunk in his chest, maybe a bit obstructed by the muscles and bones here. You only registered it had when you shoved it out of the cavity and held it up higher for another blow: harder, with more purpose to it. You felt your heart beat in your eardrums, and your breath turn ragged with every wound you created. One was not enough, neither was two, it had to be dozens until you could rest. The sound of flesh tearing beneath you in the dark would follow you every night from now on. It is a well deserved curse, for killing a man. 

And so will the groans from the back of his throat. Monstrous, a breathy thing, bubbling with the blood he was coughing. It came from his parted lips, frothing with saliva, and in carmine bubbles from the stab wound perforating his lungs. The blood was hot, burning when it splattered on your face in small geysers each time you removed the blade. Then it stopped erupting when you stabbed again. And again, and again, and again, until what was left of him was his fingers twitching at his side, limp on the soaked mattress. You stabbed until your mind stopped racing and the anger in your chest loosened. 

When it did and the world around you didn’t whirl anymore, you leaned forward, using your bloodied hand as leverage against his chest to reach for the oil lamp and open it. The skin beneath your palm squished, your hand made slippery by the amount of blood. When light filled the room, the sight was pure horror. 

Face contorted underneath you, Arthedain’s heir laid dead in his own blood. The white linens of the bed where no longer pristine but reeked the atrocious odour of the fluid coating them: turning a rusty brown in the places where there was still not enough of it for the blood to stop being able to be sucked by the fabric. You tried a single glance at yourself, enough to mistake you for the corpse. 

Your nightgown was equally soaked, and blood even clogged in your hair, on the tip of your eyelashes and in your brows. On your cheeks, it was still hot enough that you could feel it by the warmth, but soon it was going to dry and flake on the skin. 

You climbed off of him, sat on the opposite edge of the bed and waited here until morning. When your father found you and you saw the look of sheer horror on his face despite his little girl looking dead inside in front of him, that’s when you understood you killed a man. And not any man. 

A life for a life had never been so vivid of an imagery: it was him or you, one way or another. 

“Is that what you’re planning with me?“ 

Legolas’s voice startles you, you forgot you were at the Starlight Feast and not back in that bloodbath. His tone is low, a genuine question judging by the way he looks at you. How is he not horrified? How can he ask so simple a question like you didn’t tell him you killed the last man who tried to marry you? It’s like he lets you be mean and show the ugliest side of yourself just so you won’t have anything else to scare him with in the end. And it’s you it scares. It’s frightening, actually, to have someone who knows your ugliest sides yet still decides they can work with them; accept the rot and cradle it until it smells sweet again. 

Your lips purse in a thin line, you catch his gaze to see anything that would make sense in it. 

“You’d kill me before my stroke fell. That’s why it frightens me so. I could never escape from our marriage once they trap me in it.“ 

The prince must be crazy, or terribly unaware, to not see what is utterly wrong with you. Your knees brush with how much he leant in, pulled by the vicious orbit of your crime. It’s uncanny and it is wrong how much more he want to know about you after this, but it is the emotions which his heart is submitted to. 

It’s the wine. It probably is the wine, but the thing is Legolas starts to yearn for the part of you he does not know. Deep inside, he thinks of all that you have not said, of all the repressed emotions you have yet to let out and of how he could soothe them down if you let him. 

“I never intended to trap you,“ he says. Alcohol made people delirious, it makes Legolas considerate.

“Not you,“ you sigh. “I didn’t see the situation you were in, I only saw you as an enemy. 

“I am one to your liberty.“

“Yes. Yes you are.“

It hurts to say, but it is the truth. He doesn’t back down either way, just stays here in the silence with his knee grazing yours, his untamed golden hair and the light flush on his cheeks. You both take the other in in utter silence, as if to let the weight of your confession wash away. His eyes rake the hills of your figure without shame, uncaring of whether you see him or not. You do. 

Legolas doesn’t mind. He is too preoccupied by the green mush of your dress, how it hugs your form just the way that makes him lose all bits of sense he has. It happened once at the Farewell Feast, it was worse last time when he stumbled upon you in the forest. The scene still plays in his mind, how could it not? You in that sheer white gown, soaked to the bone and looking at him with relief like you didn’t just tell him you were praying for him to be safe. 

The prince doesn’t know if he ever felt so transfixed by someone in his whole life. Not in an improper way, no; he felt starstruck, blessed by all gods, but not hungry. The hunger would come next, when he laid down alone in his room and kept drifting to the indecent amount of skin he had seen. Showing through your gown, you weren’t even aware of the situation and yet Legolas felt mortified, like he would combust the next second if he kept on trying not to drift away from your eyes. He failed, of course he did, and guilt is not even the right word to describe how bad he felt the moment he glanced down at your chest. Your chest peaking under transparent fabric that came back to torture him every time he thought about you too much. 

Lord, did he think about you. 

Now the feeling is different, but it doesn’t make less of a mess of him. The Woodland prince feels his insides rearrange the longer he stares at you, because he knows what the fabric hides. He wants it bare, he wants it unabashed and his; he wants to take the time to learn every slope and hill, to map it with his eyes closed by the tip of his fingers only, to watch the flesh bounce if he presses his palm into it. 

It’s bad. It’s the alcohol. You hate him, but wine knows nothing of hate, it understands only truth. And the truth is you are promised to one another so you cannot give this union reason and appreciate each other; even if both of you feel you would have, had the circumstances been different. Legolas feels it stronger than you, perhaps. 

The heavy silence is broken by the prince, but as soon as he speaks you wish he could have kept the thought for himself. 

“I like this dress on you.“

Is it just you or does his voice seem more syrupy? 

For a second, your mind goes blank. You are left to blink at him in confusion, wondering if you heard wrong. When it is clear you have not, because he looks at you funny like he expects an answer, you manage one, beginning cracked as you swallow. 

“Oh…,“ you clear your throat. “Uh… Yes, it was chosen most carefully.“ 

In front of you, Legolas holds back a chuckle. His lips curl only cause he cannot help it, and his eyes drift to the floor you are seated on. You follow his gaze, heart squeezing in an odd, foreign way. His hands reaches your way but your mind is too foggy to push it away, you can only watch it get dangerously close. 

His fingertips find the soft flesh on the inside of your wrist, you stare at it dumbly as it trails on the tender skin. The touch is cold, sends small electric shocks up your arm and a warmth in your belly, similar to the wine’s. Delicately, he slips down to the base of your hand, flat against the ground to support your weight, and you look at him trace the bracelet that rests here. Thin, linking you to another kingdom. This is bad, Legolas is too perceptive for your own good. 

The wind blows a gush harder than the others, and you snatch your hand away from him suddenly, breaking the magic. In an instant, you are up on your feet and panting like you just fought with the prince; your disheveled look reinforces that impression. Or the impression that you just made out, which could be true too given the tipsy heat of your cheeks matching his. 

“I should go.“

“You can stay,“ he offers, though he is not motioning to stand.  

“I’d prefer not to.“