kurogiwryyyyy

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To my dearest friends, Qifrey and Olruggio,

My days have fared well, and I am still earning quite enough in my business. There is a new person coming in at least every other week. I am glad to be of help to people. One wouldn’t think you would meet so many kinds of people in this kind of job. Travelers, fellow artisans, mothers, grandmothers, and curious children.

Speaking of children, how are your apprentices? It has been awhile since I’ve asked, and even longer since I have last seen them. I do hope they are well.

I am doing well in my personal life as well. I met a man just the other week. He has brought me small trinkets and flowers every time he has visited me. We have talked about pursuing a serious relationship only yesterday. He’s stoic, but is also very kind and thoughtful.

Sincerely and with love, [Name]

You looked at the parchment as you finished signing it, smiling to yourself. Just as you were about to set the quill down in the pen rest, the overhead bell to your shop rang.

You turn around in your stool, looking up to who just walked in. Seeing the familiar silhouette, your smile widens, placing your cheek to rest on your clasped hands.

“My oh my,” you greet Easthies.

He tilts his head down, almost to hide the small smile he has, at your greeting.

“Hello, to you as well,” he leans down, his hand cups your chin as his thumb brushes over your lower lip, and leaves a light kiss against your cheek.

Your cheeks warm at the display of affection. Even if it’s early, and even if no one else is in your shop, you find yourself almost flustered at the thought of people seeing you two together doing such things.

“Easthies,” you whisper, moving your hands to cover your cheeks, closing your eyes and grinning. “How very bold of you this early morning!”

Easthies says nothing, but reaches out to grab your wrist, moving it away from your face.

You stay silent as well, only peaking open one eye to look at him, the grin still on your face. With your other hand, you reach out to touch his cheek. From cheek to jaw, from jaw to neck, and from there to his nape. A slow trip from start to end. Your nails travel lightly against his skin, leaving goosebumps where they once touched, but he doesn’t shiver from the feeling.

Easthies stays how he was, as if your hand has turned him to a statue. You lean in closer to him the closer your fingers get to his hairline at the back of his neck. Both your eyes becoming half lidded as you feel your breaths joining the other’s.

Your lips are a mere graze against Easthies’ as you speak to him, “Easthies?” Your voice was gentle, and airy. Such a light whisper.

“Hm?” Easthies let out a quiet hum, trying to match your volume.

“You’re so pretty,” your eyes close as you let out.

Easthies only closes the very small space that’s left between you, kissing your lips just as lightly as he did your cheek, making you giggle against him.

As you two broke apart, you looked up at him, smiling, before turning around to your writing area you've set up on your desk.

“I was writing to my friends before you came in,” you said, grabbing the letter and folding it into itself three times, then grabbing the spoon with already melted wax, sealing it closed with a stamp.

-

A knock sounded at the door, a small echo throughout the atelier as everyone was sat down, ready to eat whatever lunch was that day. Letting out a huff and a grumble, Olruggio got to his knees to stand.

“I’ve got it,” he makes his way to the door, a slight drag of his feet against the flooring.

“Hello, good afternoon, sir!” A cheery messenger greeted Olruggio when he opened the door.

Olruggio only stared at the other man, letting out a gruff “afternoon,” himself.

Feeling a bit pesky at the curt greetings, the messenger handed him a letter sealed with a familiar dark purple wax. “Here you are, sir!”

Taking the letter, Olruggio thanked him, making sure he went on his way before closing the door to the atelier.

Olruggio opened the letter, making his way back to the dining area. Only reading the first line, he called out for Qifrey. He only glanced at the other man before heading to the kitchen. Qifrey followed very soon after excusing himself from the table and the girls.

As Qifrey walked into the kitchen, he only saw Olruggio staring very sternly at the piece of parchment like it personally offended him somehow.

“Oh my,” Qifrey could feel an awkward sweat forming on the back of his neck as he smiled without humor. “Is everything alright, Olly?”

Taking his attention off the letter, he looks to Qifrey, “She says she’s met someone.”

Qifrey’s eyes widened, almost in an excited manner, “why, that’s wonderful!” He cheers, bringing his hand together.

-

Just a few days later, as the others were filled with lessons and patrols, certain people decided to pay you a visit.

Down in Kalhn, Easthies was just on his way to your small tailor shop, just as he was the other day. An inconsistent yet familiar routine. He was donned in his Knights of Moralis attire as he walked along the cobblestone streets. It was just as busy as it usually was around this time of day, so he wasn’t surprised when someone, a child no less, bumped into him.

He looked down after hearing the meek voice apologize. Easthies was not surprised that a child bumped into him, no. He, however, was surprised to see that Coco, one of Qifrey’s apprentices, was the one that had bumped into him.

“Coco,” Qifrey called out.

Speak of the devil…

Turning his attention to Easthies as he reached out to pull Coco away from the man. “Easthies,” Qifrey greeted with a terribly forced smile. “I’m surprised to see you here in Kalhn.”

“You as well. I am only doing a simple errand run.” Easthies wanted to keep the encounter short with the other man.

“Is that so?” Qifrey continued, “We are as well. So then, Best we go our own ways now,” he wanted to keep the encounter short as well.

Easthies said nothing, only nodding at the man’s words. He takes off in his original direction, stepping past the other two, and at some time, he passed by Olruggio as well. How rare to see him here, Easthies thought to himself.

-

You’re sat in your stole as you are most days, torn garment in hand and sewing needle in the other. Easthies stands at your back, rubbing at whatever small knot you have in your shoulder. You let out small hums of satisfaction every now and then.

The overhead bell rings, but you don’t look up. Keeping your eyes on the garment in front of you, you greet whoever just walked in, “Welcome.”

Easthies does look up to whoever just entered the shop. Seeing who it was, he stops his movements on your shoulder, pulling his hand away. That absence prompts you to look up as well. To him in question, then to the door in wonder.

Just in front of the door stands a shocked Qifrey, and behind him, an equally shocked Olruggio.

Surprised by their presence, it takes you a bit to speak up again. “Qifrey—and Olruggio?” You stand up and walk towards them. “Where are the girls?” You wonder aloud, peeking around them, seeing the lack of apprentices.

They both continue to look past you towards Easthies, who stares right back at them. They stay silent for what you think is a whole seven minutes, feeling every second pass, before looking at you, then back to Easthies, then back to you again.

They both say nothing for only a little while longer before shouting out in unison, “HIM?!”

You nod, straining your smile, feeling a headache coming on already at the future throw of questions from the two you would call brothers.

//_\\~//_\\~//_\\~//_\\~//_\\~//_\\~//_\\~//_\\~//_\\

sukuna’s tattoos shifted when he moved, those dark lines that crawled up his forearms and disappeared beneath his sleeves. you'd always liked that about sukuna; the way the boy never bothered to hide them even when professors gave him pointed looks on the first day of classes.

he was all sharp edges and hard lines, but then he'd show up at your apartment with a sprig of lavender tucked behind his ear like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"you're not listening," sukuna said, but there was no accusation in it, just a statement of fact, accompanied by the faintest quirk of his lips.

"i am," you lied, sitting up straighter. "you were talking about... flowers saying things."

his eyes narrowed, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

"i was talking about specific meanings. symbolic language. there's a difference."

sukuna set down the orchid and reached for another pot, something small with delicate white blooms that you didn't recognize. his fingers were careful, deliberate, the same way they were when he rolled a cigarette or tied his shoelaces or did anything that required even the slightest bit of precision.

it was hard to reconcile this version of sukuna with the one who'd shoved his way through a crowd last week just to get to the front of the coffee shop line, all elbows and impatience and barely concealed irritation.

"this one," sukuna said, holding the pot up so you could see. "is stephanotis. it means marital happiness, but also a willingness to be led. which is stupid, honestly, because why the hell would anyone want to be led anywhere? but the victorians were weird about a lot of things."

you laughed, and something in his expression softened just enough that you almost missed it.

sukuna had been leaving you flowers for months now.

not in a romantic way, or at least you'd assumed it wasn't romantic because this was sukuna, and sukuna didn't do romance. he did late-night study sessions that turned into ordering pizza at two in the morning. he did stealing your clothes and pretending he hadn't noticed they were yours. he did showing up at your door with a single yellow tulip tucked behind his ear and then plucking it out to hand to you like it was nothing, like he hadn't just walked across campus with a flower in his hair and dared anyone to say something about it.

you'd kept all of them, pressed between the pages of textbooks you never opened anymore, tucked into the frame of your bathroom mirror, dried and hanging from string tacked to your bedroom wall. there was something about the way he gave them to you; casual and offhand, like he'd just happened to find them and thought of you.

but sukuna never said why, he never explained the meaning behind any of them.

well, until now.

"so then you've got your roses, obviously," sukuna continued, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest.

the movement pulled his t-shirt taut across his shoulders, and you looked away before he could catch you staring.

"red for love, white for purity, yellow for friendship. but that's way too simple. anyone knows that. the real interesting stuff is the obscure ones."

the afternoon light filtered through the greenhouse glass, casting everything in a warm, golden, and beautiful haze. dust motes drifted between the two of you, slow and lazy, and a bee hummed somewhere in the corner, drunk on something sweet and pink that you couldn't name.

sukuna's voice washed over you like honey, and you found yourself sinking into it despite your best efforts to stay alert.

"like gardenias," he said, and your heart did something strange in your chest because he'd given you gardenias. three weeks ago, tucked into a mason jar on your desk after a particularly brutal exam week. you'd thought they were just pretty. "they mean secret love. the kind that can't be spoken aloud. which is dramatic as hell, but victorians loved drama almost as much as they loved repressed emotions."

he said it like a joke, like he was mocking the very concept, but his fingers had gone still on the table with no fidgeting, no gesturing; just stillness, and the way his gaze darted away from yours for a fraction of a second before snapping back.

you thought about the gardenias, pressed between pages 87 and 88 of your ancient history textbook, still faintly fragrant when you opened them.

"and peonies," sukuna went on, reaching for the plant he'd been touching earlier. "they've got a few meanings. shame, anger, but also romance and prosperity. it depends on the context, really. the victorians loved context, too."

a little pause.

"mostly, though, they symbolize a happy marriage. or a wish for one, anyway."

sukuna had given you peonies on your birthday. a whole bouquet of them, pink and lush and ridiculous, shoved into your arms with a gruff 'happy birthday, idiot' before he'd disappeared into the kitchen to make you dinner. you'd cried a little, though you'd blamed it on allergies.

your throat felt tight now, but you weren't sure why.

"basil is hatred," sukuna said, ticking off on his fingers now, counting down some internal list. "which is funny because it's also a cooking herb, so who knows what that says about italian grandmothers. ivy means fidelity. rosemary is remembrance. lavender is devotion, but also distrust, because again, context matters."

lavender. he'd left a sprig of lavender on your pillow last month after you'd fallen asleep on his couch.

you'd woken up to the smell of it, and to sukuna making coffee in the kitchen, humming something tuneless under his breath. you'd kept it tucked behind your ear for the rest of the day, and he'd looked at you differently after that; softer, maybe. or maybe you'd imagined it.

"what about camellias?" you asked, and sukuna’s hand paused mid-gesture.

your voice sounded strange to your own ears, thin in a way that had nothing to do with volume and everything to do with the way your heart was suddenly trying to escape your ribcage. because he'd given you camellias too. pink ones, tied with a bit of twine, left in your backpack after a study session two months ago. you'd found them while looking for a pen and spent the rest of the night trying not to overthink it.

sukuna's jaw tightened for just a fraction, just for a second, but you saw it because you were looking, because you were always looking, even when you told yourself not to.

"camellias," sukuna repeated, and the word came out rougher than the others. he cleared his throat. "they mean... longing. desire, mostly. but specifically the kind that's acknowledged and accepted. not secret like gardenias, not hopeful like peonies. just... wanted."

the silence that followed was heavy and thick with something unspoken. a bee buzzed, a leaf drifted down from one of the hanging plants, landing softly on the table between the two of you like a tiny green question mark.

you thought about all of it.

the tulips and the lavender, the gardenias and the peonies, the camellias and the stephanotis sukuna had given you just last week, white and fragile and tucked into your coat pocket. you thought about the way he looked at you when he thought you weren't paying attention, the way his voice softened when he said your name, the way he always, always made sure you ate even when you forgot, even when you were too tired or too stressed or too something to take care of yourself.

you thought about the yellow tulips he'd given you first, and what he'd just said about them meaning friendship, and how maybe that had been the beginning. maybe sukuna had started there on purpose, testing the waters, seeing if you'd accept something small and simple before moving on to gardenias and secrets and things left unsaid.

"why are you telling me this?" you asked, and your voice barely trembled at all.

sukuna's eyes met yours, and for once, there was nothing sharp in them. there was no challenge, no defense, no carefully constructed walls. there was just him, just ryomen sukuna, the biggest flower nerd you'd ever met with his flower meanings and his pressed specimens and his soft spot for things that grew from the dirt.

"because," sukuna said, and his ears were turning pink, actually pink, the color creeping down his neck and disappearing beneath his collar. "i've been leaving you flowers for six months, and you haven't said a single word about it. and i thought maybe you didn't know what they meant, and i couldn't decide if that was better or worse than you knowing and not saying anything anyway."

sukuna's hands were shaking slightly.

you'd never seen sukuna's hands shake before, not once in all the years you'd known him. he was always so steady, so sure, so infuriatingly composed, but now, his fingers were curled into loose fists on the table, and the faint tremor in them made something ache behind your sternum.

"so which is it?" sukuna asked, and his voice cracked on the last word. just a little. just enough. "did you know?"

you thought about the gardenias pressed in your textbook, the lavender behind your ear, the peonies on your birthday, the camellias in your backpack. you thought about the way you'd told yourself it didn't mean anything at all, that sukuna wasn't capable of meaning anything, that this was just something the boy did because he was strange like that and unpredictable and full of contradictions.

you thought about how badly you'd wanted to be wrong.

"i didn't know," you said, and something in sukuna's expression flickered, dimmed.

you reached across the table before he could pull away, before sukuna could retreat back behind whatever wall he was scrambling to rebuild. your fingers brushed his knuckles softly, and he went very, very still.

"i didn't know the meanings. but i kept all of them. every single one. they're in my apartment, sukuna. pressed into my textbooks and taped to my walls and stuffed into my jewelry box. i've been sleeping with lavender under my pillow for three weeks because i didn't want to lose the scent."

sukuna's breath caught; you heard it, the tiny hitch that he tried to disguise as a cough.

"that's—" sukuna started, but stopped, and then he swallowed. his throat worked around words that didn't seem to want to come out. "that's really fucking weird, actually. keeping flowers for months."

"you're one to talk," you said, and your lips curved into a smile that felt wobbly and fragile and too big for your face. "you're the one who gave them to me."

"yeah, well." his ears were still pink, spreading now to his cheekbones, and you'd never seen anything more beautiful in your entire life. "i'm in love with you, so it's different."

the words hung in the air between you, simple and devastating. there was no fanfare, and no dramatic pause, simply sukuna being sukuna, saying the thing he'd probably been trying to say for six months through petals and stems and carefully chosen blooms.

"you could have just told me," you said, and your voice was shaking now, but so were your hands, and so was he, so it didn't really matter.

"where's the fun in that?" he asked, but his voice was rough, and his eyes were bright, and when you squeezed his fingers, he squeezed back like he was afraid you'd disappear.

outside the greenhouse windows, the afternoon was fading into evening, gold bleeding into amber bleeding into the soft purple of early dusk. the bee had gone quiet, the leaves had stopped drifting, and the only sound was your breathing and his, mingling in the warm, humid air.

"i'm in love with you too," you said.

because it was true, because it had probably been true for longer than you wanted to admit, because sukuna was a nightmare and a softy and the biggest flower nerd you'd ever met, and you'd spent six months tucking his gifts between the pages of your life like pressed flowers of your own.

sukuna closed his eyes just for a moment, just long enough for you to see the way his shoulders dropped, the tension draining out of him like water from a cracked vase. when he opened them again, sukuna was smiling. a real smile, not the sharp-edged thing he showed the rest of the world, but something small and private and almost shy.

"good," sukuna said, and then, quieter; "i have more at my apartment. flowers, i mean. i was going to give them to you tomorrow, but—" he shrugged, one shoulder lifting and falling. "seems like a waste to wait."

your heart turned over in your chest, sweet like honey.

"show me," you said, and when he stood up and offered you his hand, you took it without hesitation.

sukuna’s palm was warm against yours, calloused from god knows what, steady now that the worst part was over.

he led you out of the greenhouse and into the cooling evening, and neither of you let go, not even when the campus paths grew busy with other students, not even when someone whistled and sukuna flipped them off with his free hand, not even when you reached sukuna’s apartment and he had to fumble for his keys because he simply didn't want to release you long enough to find them.

his apartment smelled like him, like cedar and something floral you couldn't name.

there were flowers everywhere — on the kitchen counter, on the windowsill, in a vase on the coffee table that was definitely too small for the arrangement it held. you spotted roses and tulips and something dark purple you didn't recognize, and sukuna followed your gaze and went pink again.

"i might have gone overboard," sukuma admitted, finally letting go of your hand so he could gesture vaguely at the chaos. "i wasn't sure which ones you'd like best, so i just kind of... got all of them."

you walked over to the windowsill, running your finger along the edge of a potted plant you didn't recognize. it was green and leafy, unassuming, nothing like the showy blooms scattered around the room.

"what's this one?" you asked, turning back to look at him.

sukuna was standing in the middle of his own living room like he'd never seen it before, like he was seeing it through your eyes and finding it lacking. he rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous gesture you'd never seen him make, and when he spoke, his voice was barely above a murmur.

"basil," he said. "it means hatred, remember? i got it as a joke. thought it would be funny to have something that meant the opposite of everything else."

you laughed, and the sound seemed to break something loose in sukuna. he crossed the room in three long strides and stopped in front of you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off his skin, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to look at his face.

"i meant it, you know," sukuna said, and his hands hovered near your waist like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to touch. "every flower. every single one. i meant all of it."

"i know," you said, and you reached up to cup his face in your hands, feeling the slight roughness of his jaw beneath your palms. "i know now."

he kissed you then, soft and careful, like you were something precious he was afraid of breaking. his lips tasted like coffee and something sweet, and his hands finally settled on your hips, and the basil sat on the windowsill behind you, tiny and green and full of meaning.

when you pulled back, sukuna’s eyes were closed, his lashes dark against his flushed cheeks. he looked sweeter like this, softer, like all the sharp edges had been sanded away by the simple fact of being wanted back.

"i'm still mad you didn't look up the meanings," he said without opening his eyes. "six months. i could have just told you in the first week and saved myself a lot of anxiety."

"but then i wouldn't have gotten the flowers," you pointed out, and sukuna snorted, and you felt the vibration of it all the way down to your bones.

"i would have given you the flowers anyway," he said, finally opening his eyes. they were darker than usual, soft with something you were learning to recognize. "i probably would have given you flowers even if you'd laughed in my face. it's a problem, really. my therapist would have a field day."

you laughed again, and sukuna smiled again, and the evening stretched out before you both, full of possibility and pressed flowers and the quiet understanding that some things didn't need to be spoken aloud to be true.

but it didn't hurt, you thought, as sukuna pulled you toward his couch and wrapped his arms around you like he'd been waiting his whole life to do it.

it didn't hurt to say them anyway.

You weren't sure what he meant.

That was until the gifts started pouring in. Cards written in gorgeous script and perfumed, gold, jewels, silks--art pieces from grand names of the culture, from distant lands you'd never heard of--strange 'treats' you'd never seen before, all kinds of novelty items that were delivered to his apartments by the order of the Queen. You didn't know why her majesty would send everything here--but nevertheless, you were handed everything, and you'd realised what he'd meant from the very beginning.

Take care of the mess, indeed.

It was exhausting, and if you were being honest, a tad bit... Difficult, having to sort through everything. For one, his highness hates it when anyone touches his things. Even if you did sort everything, you couldn't tidy everything up until you got exact orders on where, what and how. Moreover, you... Well, you really had hoped to spend the spring event differently. Hoped you'd be able to settle with familiar company and listen to all their stories and the gossip of what they'd heard from the ladies of court. It was one of your most awaited activities today, instead of spending it in silence and solitude.

All alone, after all.

Sorting through his gifts, of all things.

You huff as you sort through the different letters and gifts, throwing aside ones whose scents you knew would irritate his highness. Looking through which gifts you knew he might consider keeping and which he would throw aside. Yes, maybe you were sulking. You didn't know why the queen decided today was the day his highness would have to deal with this.

And he wasn't even here to deal with it!

The day was almost over, and you were finally getting to the bottom of the pile. When you'd found something particularly beautiful. A quill with a grand and soft feather, which tickled your skin when you grazed it. You'd noticed its edges tinged, something you'd found strangely endearing, even if strange to gift to someone such as his highness. You wondered why it was sent if it were damaged. Despite that, it was attached through a ribbon to a ring. The silver was strange too, minimal in comparison to everything else in the palace, and especially in the princes asortment of jewellery. The engraving... Nothing you could read, though the script itself was grand to your eyes. You could read one, though. "....Sol...."

You smiled a little. It was the shortened form of his name you used to call him when you were younger. You didn't know what context it came with, but the pen itself was beautiful, even if sending a ring as an admirer... was rather forward. Your face burned slightly, as you hurried to look for anything that may have accompanied the gift other than the ring, to tell you who had sent it.

You were startled by the door bursting open in the outer chamber. You moved to your feet, setting down the pen gently onto the table, aside from the other gifts of the numerous admirers. You hurried when you'd heard a bump. His highness was sitting down on the floor, resting against the door, ignoring the numerous people outside and their worried calls. You paused, hesitating to approach when you see his eyes closed, his face slightly flushed.

The rest of him wasn't very sightly either. Perhaps it was because you knew him all too well. He did not like to appear anything less than perfection. And here he was, his clothes sitting strange and dishevelled, his posture a mess. "My prince?" You called out, voice quiet, testing the waters. He visibly tensed, his eyes fluttering open and flicking to where you stood, peeking out from the door of the inside of his apartments.

He blinked, his face growing expressionless for a few moments as he silently stared at you. Only for a grin to break out, "Angel." You could hear it the moment he spoke, the slight slur in his words. It wasn't such a surprise, going from event to event. "You're here!"

You curtsy, stepping forward when he pushes himself off the floor and stepping towards you. He wraps his arms around you the minute you rise, pulling you into a bear hug, way too tight. You catch the different scents of perfume lingering around him. "Ahhh... You w--" His words falter, and you feel him go rigid, surely having noticed the piles behind you. He pulls back, and you see the look of surprise, irritation creeping up. "What the fuck?"

"You should not say such things, my prince... It does not suit you," You say, and his eyes glance at you with annoyance. You hear him grumble something under his breath, grabbing your arms and pulling you to the side like a doll.

He steps forward towards the pile, hands pulling at his jabot harshly. You take notice, moving quickly to take his waistcoat off him, "Her majesty, the Queen insisted you see them--"

"I am aware."

"And I did not know what you would like me to do--"

"I am aware."

"So I tried to organise them, ones which you must respond to, one which you may enjoy, and one which irritates your senses and you are not likely to enjoy." You point to each pile as you do, showing just how tediously your day was spent. He sighs, letting you undo his vest, as you speak. You can't help but notice how warm he is... and the things out of place. rouge stains the edge of his collar and his skin, which makes your face burn the more you see.

"My mother said I should see them, did she?" He muttered bitterly. You nod, helping him out of his clothes. You nod, averting your gaze. He sighs, pulling away from you before you could rid him of his shirt completely. He takes a seat on the carpet in front of the piles, gesturing you over. Just as expected, he pulls you as close as possible, your chest pressed against his back, and gestures dismally towards the piles. "Show them, then."

You present him with each, though he seems less than interested in actually reading any of them. Instead resting his jaw over your shoulder, humming absently as you tell him where and who each letter is from. His arm wrapped around your waist loosely, his hand fidgetting with your dress, squeezing your hip, your waist, sometimes making you jump and triggering a chuckle from him. He was less critical than you'd expected, mostly because he was half paying attention, his face pressed into the side of your neck, lazily scanning each item.

You'd been right, most of the perfumed notes were too scented for his liking. Not that anything seemed to impress him, no matter how interesting you thought they were. It was already late, and he was already getting a little braver than usual with his hands, and you were only a little less than half way through the pile.

You were growing flustered. His breath tickles your neck, making you shiver. His hand slides over your uniform, feeling the shape of your thigh, gently squeezing your flesh. "Hey.." You start, though, immediately quiet down, uncertain how to go about this. "My prince, I am trying to..."

"I am listening," He hums, his lips brushing your skin.

No, you're not. You wanted to say, but instead: "It is late, my prince..."

"Hmm."

"And...And you still need to bathe..."

He chuckles, leaning forward and tilting his head, meeting your eyes, "Oh, is that right?"

You purse your lips, raising your hand and swiping your finger over one of the red marks on his neck. "Yes."

His smile turns into a grin, his eyes shining with a mischievous light. "Ah... Feeling left out?"

You did not expect that. "Pardon?"

"I can give you marks too, ones that will not be washed away," He mumurs, nuzzling into your neck. You feel the press of his lips against your skin, making a full shiver run through you. He'd never done such a thing before. You raise your shoulder instinctively, refusing him access and making him laugh at the way you nearly jumped out of his lap.

"My prince!" Your exclamation only amused him even more.

He smiles at you, his arms wrapping around you tighter, pulling you back. "Fine... Fine..." He pouts, but does not try to persuade you anymore. "Continue."

You were much more nervous now, your face burning with embarrassment. You tried to move out of his arms, to redirect his attention. He just pulls you back, "Where are you going?"

"Oh... Just to retrieve another present sent to you, my prince." He gives you a strange look.

"One you kept outside these mountains?"

You nod, and he sighs, his grip on you loosening. He leans back ungracefully, sulking, and tells you to hurry. You do, taking the quill and ring from the table, and hurry towards him. You kneel infront of him instead of sitting back in position, which earns you an annoyed look which you nervously refused to meet. You offer them to him. "I... I thought you may like this one the most, my prince."

He frowns, leaning forward and taking the quill from your hand. The ring follows, held up by the ribbon. He runs the feather between his fingers, seriously, for the first time since he got back, studies the feather, then the ring. You watch him and his strange but amused expression. He laughs, reading the inscription. "You like this one, do you?"

Holding your gaze, he takes the ring and unravels the ribbon, before he slips it onto your ring finger. "If you like it so much, you should have it then, hm?"

"No, no... It's yours, my prince, it was a gift--"

He waves a hand dismissively, smiling down at you. "It fits you the most."

You glance down at the ring, "It's too much..."

"It is not enough." He countered, lifting your hand and with eyes so soft you almost felt the gentle carress, he studies your calloused fingers. "It is a little large, is it not?"

"...Well, it is yours..."

He huffs, twirling the ring around your finger. Your previously rigid posture relaxes a little. The silence wraps around you like a blanket, the crackling hearth casts shadows over the room. The chaste kiss he'd placed beneath your ear still burns like a brand, his eyes follow each curve and crease of your hand. "It fits you the most." He mutters.

"...But... It's meant for you..." You mumble, your eyes catch the engraved 'sol' once more.

A small chuckle comes from him as he takes the ribbon from the carpet beside him and presents you with his hand. "I do not care for these presents. Make me a better one."

You blink at him for a moment, unsure what he means, and he tilts his head, wiggling his ring finger when you take too long. A little smile tugs at your lips, as you take the ribbon and wrap it around his ring finger, tying it into a little bow. There was a change in his eyes as he stared at the ribbon, something you couldn't read. His eyes slowly lift to yours. With his angelic features warmed by the firelight, he seemed so much farther from you than you've ever felt. You feel a warmth spread through your chest, your heart picking up the pace as his eyes bore into you. "Um...What... What does it say...?"

You feel entranced by his eyes, even as his hand slides over your wrist, slowly over your vein and onto your palm, then laces his fingers with yours. His voice is heavy when he says the words, sweet like warm honey. "O sol caeli, despice in me, despera casum meum."

He leans in close, his free hand cupping your face. You tense suddenly, freezing in spot, held captive by his eyes. "My prince, you didn't..." But your words falter, as his breath ghosts your lips. You find it hard to find a thing to say, instead focusing on swallowing the sudden lump in your throat. You were sure that even if he did explain, you'd barely hear it over the thunder beat of your heart in your ears. His eyes flicker down for a second.

His brows twitch into a frown for a moment.

With a heavy sigh, his head drops, hanging between you for a moment, before he drop completely agaisnt you, his forehead pressed agsint your shoulder, his hand drops from your face, curling into a fist in your dress. His voice is exhausted and strangely strained as he mumbles against your dress.

.

.

.

.

To my dearest friends, Qifrey and Olruggio,

My days have fared well, and I am still earning quite enough in my business. There is a new person coming in at least every other week. I am glad to be of help to people. One wouldn’t think you would meet so many kinds of people in this kind of job. Travelers, fellow artisans, mothers, grandmothers, and curious children.

Speaking of children, how are your apprentices? It has been awhile since I’ve asked, and even longer since I have last seen them. I do hope they are well.

I am doing well in my personal life as well. I met a man just the other week. He has brought me small trinkets and flowers every time he has visited me. We have talked about pursuing a serious relationship only yesterday. He’s stoic, but is also very kind and thoughtful.

Sincerely and with love, [Name]

You looked at the parchment as you finished signing it, smiling to yourself. Just as you were about to set the quill down in the pen rest, the overhead bell to your shop rang.

You turn around in your stool, looking up to who just walked in. Seeing the familiar silhouette, your smile widens, placing your cheek to rest on your clasped hands.

“My oh my,” you greet Easthies.

He tilts his head down, almost to hide the small smile he has, at your greeting.

“Hello, to you as well,” he leans down, his hand cups your chin as his thumb brushes over your lower lip, and leaves a light kiss against your cheek.

Your cheeks warm at the display of affection. Even if it’s early, and even if no one else is in your shop, you find yourself almost flustered at the thought of people seeing you two together doing such things.

“Easthies,” you whisper, moving your hands to cover your cheeks, closing your eyes and grinning. “How very bold of you this early morning!”

Easthies says nothing, but reaches out to grab your wrist, moving it away from your face.

You stay silent as well, only peaking open one eye to look at him, the grin still on your face. With your other hand, you reach out to touch his cheek. From cheek to jaw, from jaw to neck, and from there to his nape. A slow trip from start to end. Your nails travel lightly against his skin, leaving goosebumps where they once touched, but he doesn’t shiver from the feeling.

Easthies stays how he was, as if your hand has turned him to a statue. You lean in closer to him the closer your fingers get to his hairline at the back of his neck. Both your eyes becoming half lidded as you feel your breaths joining the other’s.

Your lips are a mere graze against Easthies’ as you speak to him, “Easthies?” Your voice was gentle, and airy. Such a light whisper.

“Hm?” Easthies let out a quiet hum, trying to match your volume.

“You’re so pretty,” your eyes close as you let out.

Easthies only closes the very small space that’s left between you, kissing your lips just as lightly as he did your cheek, making you giggle against him.

As you two broke apart, you looked up at him, smiling, before turning around to your writing area you've set up on your desk.

“I was writing to my friends before you came in,” you said, grabbing the letter and folding it into itself three times, then grabbing the spoon with already melted wax, sealing it closed with a stamp.

-

A knock sounded at the door, a small echo throughout the atelier as everyone was sat down, ready to eat whatever lunch was that day. Letting out a huff and a grumble, Olruggio got to his knees to stand.

“I’ve got it,” he makes his way to the door, a slight drag of his feet against the flooring.

“Hello, good afternoon, sir!” A cheery messenger greeted Olruggio when he opened the door.

Olruggio only stared at the other man, letting out a gruff “afternoon,” himself.

Feeling a bit pesky at the curt greetings, the messenger handed him a letter sealed with a familiar dark purple wax. “Here you are, sir!”

Taking the letter, Olruggio thanked him, making sure he went on his way before closing the door to the atelier.

Olruggio opened the letter, making his way back to the dining area. Only reading the first line, he called out for Qifrey. He only glanced at the other man before heading to the kitchen. Qifrey followed very soon after excusing himself from the table and the girls.

As Qifrey walked into the kitchen, he only saw Olruggio staring very sternly at the piece of parchment like it personally offended him somehow.

“Oh my,” Qifrey could feel an awkward sweat forming on the back of his neck as he smiled without humor. “Is everything alright, Olly?”

Taking his attention off the letter, he looks to Qifrey, “She says she’s met someone.”

Qifrey’s eyes widened, almost in an excited manner, “why, that’s wonderful!” He cheers, bringing his hand together.

-

Just a few days later, as the others were filled with lessons and patrols, certain people decided to pay you a visit.

Down in Kalhn, Easthies was just on his way to your small tailor shop, just as he was the other day. An inconsistent yet familiar routine. He was donned in his Knights of Moralis attire as he walked along the cobblestone streets. It was just as busy as it usually was around this time of day, so he wasn’t surprised when someone, a child no less, bumped into him.

He looked down after hearing the meek voice apologize. Easthies was not surprised that a child bumped into him, no. He, however, was surprised to see that Coco, one of Qifrey’s apprentices, was the one that had bumped into him.

“Coco,” Qifrey called out.

Speak of the devil…

Turning his attention to Easthies as he reached out to pull Coco away from the man. “Easthies,” Qifrey greeted with a terribly forced smile. “I’m surprised to see you here in Kalhn.”

“You as well. I am only doing a simple errand run.” Easthies wanted to keep the encounter short with the other man.

“Is that so?” Qifrey continued, “We are as well. So then, Best we go our own ways now,” he wanted to keep the encounter short as well.

Easthies said nothing, only nodding at the man’s words. He takes off in his original direction, stepping past the other two, and at some time, he passed by Olruggio as well. How rare to see him here, Easthies thought to himself.

-

You’re sat in your stole as you are most days, torn garment in hand and sewing needle in the other. Easthies stands at your back, rubbing at whatever small knot you have in your shoulder. You let out small hums of satisfaction every now and then.

The overhead bell rings, but you don’t look up. Keeping your eyes on the garment in front of you, you greet whoever just walked in, “Welcome.”

Easthies does look up to whoever just entered the shop. Seeing who it was, he stops his movements on your shoulder, pulling his hand away. That absence prompts you to look up as well. To him in question, then to the door in wonder.

Just in front of the door stands a shocked Qifrey, and behind him, an equally shocked Olruggio.

Surprised by their presence, it takes you a bit to speak up again. “Qifrey—and Olruggio?” You stand up and walk towards them. “Where are the girls?” You wonder aloud, peeking around them, seeing the lack of apprentices.

They both continue to look past you towards Easthies, who stares right back at them. They stay silent for what you think is a whole seven minutes, feeling every second pass, before looking at you, then back to Easthies, then back to you again.

They both say nothing for only a little while longer before shouting out in unison, “HIM?!”

You nod, straining your smile, feeling a headache coming on already at the future throw of questions from the two you would call brothers.

//_\\~//_\\~//_\\~//_\\~//_\\~//_\\~//_\\~//_\\~//_\\

“that was just a nutritional baseline!” yuji defended instantly, sitting up with a look of pure, desperate longing in his eyes. “a person needs a balanced breakfast! that doesn’t mean she wants to hold my hand during a movie! i’m practically invisible to her, man. i’m just the guy who hangs around and breathes her oxygen. if i asked her out, she’d probably laugh and think i was pulling a prank. my heart would literally disintegrate into ash. like a cursed spirit, fushiguro. gone.”

megumi finally closed his book with a soft, ominous thud. he stared at his friend, trying to calculate how much brain damage yuji had sustained in his life to arrive at this specific level of dense. “yesterday, she said she was slightly warm, and you constructed a makeshift fan out of cardboard within four seconds. you didn’t even use cursed energy. you just moved your hands really fast.”

“that’s just basic manners!”

“you carried her up three flights of stairs because her shoelaces were untied and you didn’t want her to trip,” megumi countered, his voice dangerously level.

“the stairs were slippery!” yuji wailed, burying his face in his hands. “you don’t get it. she’s like... a masterpiece. and i’m just a guy who knows how to do a kickflip. i have no chance. zero. negative numbers.”

before megumi could commit a felony, the sliding door opened, and you walked in alongside nobara. the second your shoes crossed the threshold, yuji’s entire posture changed. it was an instantaneous shift; his spine straightened, his ears practically perked up, and his eyes locked onto you with a degree of focus usually reserved for high-stakes exorcisms.

“hey,” you said, offering a small, tired smile as you dropped into the empty chair next to yuji. “the training grounds are freezing today. i think the wind is coming straight from the mountains.”

yuji didn’t say a word. he didn’t even look at his own hands as they moved with the practiced efficiency of a surgeon. within three seconds, he had took off his oversized, fleece-lined red hoodie, shrugged it off himself, and gently helped you put it on. he tucked the soft fabric around you, his fingers lingering for just a fraction of a second against your collarbone to make sure the chill was sealed out, before pulling his hands back and shoving them into his uniform pockets.

“thanks,” you mumbled, instantly buried in his warmth and the faint, comforting scent of laundry detergent and whatever body wash he used. you pulled the sleeves over your hands, sinking into the collar.

“yeah, of course,” yuji said, his voice dropping into a soft, casual register that completely contradicted the fact that his internal organs were currently performing backflips. “can’t have you catching a cold. you’ve got that exam tomorrow, right? need your brain working at a hundred percent.”

nobara paused, her hand hovering over the back of a chair as she watched this sequence of events play out. she looked at yuji, then at you buried in his giant hoodie, then over at megumi, whose jaw was clenched so tightly he looked like a gargoyle.

“hey, yuji,” you said, reaching into your pocket and pulling out a slightly bruised mandarin orange you’d grabbed from the cafeteria. “do you have a knife? the skin on this one is really thick.”

“i got it,” he said immediately.

he took the orange from your hand. yuji didn’t use a knife. he used his thumbs, peeling the rind away in one seamless, removing the little white strings so you wouldn’t have to deal with the mess. his fingers were steady, careful, and incredibly gentle as he split the fruit into perfect, individual segments. he laid them out neatly on a clean napkin he’d pulled from literally nowhere, pushing the finished product toward you with a small, encouraging nod.

“there you go. the sweet ones are usually the smaller pieces,” he murmured, his eyes tracking your expression to ensure you were satisfied.

“you’re a lifesaver,” you said, popping a segment into your mouth.

yuji’s face remained entirely neutral, but megumi could see the way the boy’s legs were practically vibrating under the table from the sheer rush of being praised. it was pathetic. it was magnificent. it was driving megumi to the brink of insanity.

“so,” nobara started, leaning against the counter and crossing her arms. her eyes narrowed as she watched yuji reach over, pick up your heavy leather canvas bag from the floor, and settle it comfortably over his own knee so it wouldn’t get dirty. “itadori. can i ask you a question?”

“hmm?” yuji looked up, his hand still resting protectively near your side of the table. “what’s up, kugisaki?”

“what did you do an hour ago?”

“i went to the convenience store down the street,” he said, blinking innocently.

“and what did you buy?”

“oh! i got that specific chocolate drink with the milk and two pumps of vanilla. the one with the extra meringue sprinkled on top.” yuji reached down into his bag and pulled out the plastic cup, which was perfectly chilled, sweating slightly against his palm. he placed it right next to your napkin of oranges, straw already unwrapped and inserted. “here. they finally had the good meringue back in stock.”

you blinked, looking up from your fruit. “wait, really? they told me yesterday they were out until next week.”

“i asked the guy to check the back crates,” yuji said, giving you a bright, close-eyed grin that could have easily powered a small metropolitan area. “told him it was an emergency. he found a whole tin of it.”

megumi made a sound in the back of his throat that sounded like a dying bird.

nobara stared. she stared at the chocolate drink, then at the peeled oranges, then at the enormous red hoodie currently engulfing your torso. she looked at yuji’s face, which was full of nothing but pure, unadulterated, desperate desire to please you, completely devoid of any realization that he was acting like a husband of ten years.

slowly, with the deliberate precision of a predator stalking its prey, nobara walked around the table. she didn’t say a word until she was standing directly behind yuji. then, with a sudden, violent burst of movement, she reached down, grabbed a fistful of his inner uniform collar, and yanked him backward out of his chair.

“woah! kugisaki—choking! choking!” yuji gasped, his hands flying to his throat as she dragged him a few feet away from the table.

“shut up,” nobara hissed, her voice a terrifying whisper as she pointed a manicured finger directly at you, who was currently taking a sip of the perfectly customized latte. “look at that. look at her.”

“i’m looking!” yuji squeaked, his cheeks flushing a violent, immediate pink. “she looks great! the hoodie suits her, right? do you think i should buy them one for her birthday? or is that too forward? maybe a scarf? a scarf is safer—”

“yuji,” nobara interrupted, her voice dropping into a range that promised physical violence. “what the hell? i thought you guys were dating?”

yuji froze. his entire body went rigid, his eyes widening to the size of dinner plates as his brain completely stalled out, the gears grinding to a screeching halt. “w-what?” he whispered, the syllable popping out of him like a deflating balloon. “dating? us? no! no way! we’re not—i mean, i wish, but no! why would you say that? don’t say that out loud, she’ll hear you and get weirded out and then i’ll have to move to a different country!”

“are you sharing a single brain cell with the curses you fight?” nobara demanded, shaking him by his collar until his pink hair flew in every direction. “you peeled her fruit! you gave her your clothes! you went into the back storage room of a convenience store for a specific topping because she mentioned it once days ago!”

“that’s just being neighborly!” yuji yelled back in a panicked whisper, his hands flailing. “if fushiguro wanted an orange, i’d peel it for him too!”

“if you touch my food, i will sever your fingers,” megumi said from the table, not looking up.

“see? fushiguro’s just picky!” yuji argued, turning back to nobara with a look of absolute, soul-crushing earnestness. “i’m not dating her, kugisaki. i’m just... trying really hard to be a good friend so she keeps letting me sit next to her. if i told her how i actually feel, she’d realize i’m just a big dummy who follows her around like a stray dog.”

nobara let go of his collar so abruptly that yuji stumbled backward, hitting the wall with a soft *thud*. she stared at him, her expression a mix of profound disgust and deep, spiritual exhaustion. “you.. are a medical marvel,” she muttered, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “i genuinely don’t know how you survive on a daily basis.”

“hey, yuji?” your voice cut through the tension, clear and soft from across the room.

yuji was back at the table before nobara could even blink, his entire demeanor resetting into that attentive, hovering stance. “yeah! what’s up? is the drink bad? is it too sweet? i can go back—”

“no, it’s perfect,” you said, looking up at him through your eyelashes, your fingers curling around the warm ceramic of your hands inside his large sleeves. a very real, very noticeable shy smile had crept it’s way to your pretty face. “i was just wondering... if you weren’t busy tonight, maybe you could help me study? and... i don’t know. we could get dinner after? just the two of us?”

yuji stopped. the entire world seemed to drop away around him. his heart gave a massive, violent thud against his ribs, his chest tightening in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with training or stamina. he looked at the shy smile on your face, the way your fingers were twisting the hem of his hoodie, and something in his chest completely melted into puddle of warm, gooey mush. he knew damn well he didn’t know shit about math.

“yeah,” yuji said, his voice softer than usual, a genuine, completely unforced smile breaking across his face as he leaned down slightly, bringing himself to your eye level. “i’d love to. i’ll make sure you pass that test, okay? whatever you want to eat, it’s on me.”

from the corner of the room, nobara let out a loud, dramatic groan, throwing her hands in the air as she turned toward the exit. “i can’t do this anymore. fushiguro, we’re leaving before the sheer density of his skull creates a black hole and swallows the school.”

“agreed,” megumi said, already standing up and slipping his book into his pocket, passing yuji with a look that said you owe me your life.

as the door slid shut behind them, yuji didn’t even notice. he was already pulling up another chair, drawing himself right next to you, his shoulder brushing against yours as he reached out to slide the rest of the oranges closer to your hand.

‘ perm. taglist , @sh0dor1

The old cabin creaked awake around dawn. Wood settling, pipes groaning, and the soft rain tapping lazily against the greenhouse glass. Somewhere downstairs, the kettle had begun its soft pre-whistle murmur.

And beneath three quilts, cozied up in a ball of warmth, you attempted to move your arm. A low sound immediately emerged from the bundle attached to your chest.

“No.”

You blinked blearily toward the ceiling. “...No?”

“No,” he repeated, firmer this time, though still muffled against your collarbone. One pale hand tightened around your waist possessively.

You stared down at the dark head currently buried against you. His wings were cocooned around both of you in a heavy curtain, thoroughly trapping your legs beneath them.

“You’re awake,” you informed him.

“A tragedy.”

“You’ve been conscious this whole time?”

“I sensed betrayal in your muscles.”

You laughed softly, at this, he finally lifted his head just enough to peer at you with narrowed crimson eyes and thoroughly disheveled hair. He looked deeply offended by the concept of morning itself.

“You were trying to leave,” he accused quietly.

“I was trying to make breakfast.”

“We have bread.”

“That’s not breakfast.”

“It is if you love despair.”

You snorted at the quick remark, and immediately his expression softened into something helplessly fond.

There it was again—that look. The one that always made him seem centuries younger and impossibly older all at once. Like loving you had worn him smooth in places time never could.

“You’re staring,” you murmured.

“You’re warm,” he countered, as though this explained everything. “And soft.”

“You say that like it’s surprising every time.”

“It is surprising every time,” he said earnestly. “You are like being embraced by sunlight. I continue to find it unfair.”

Before you could answer, he abruptly tucked his face back into your neck and pulled you closer with a satisfied sigh. The poor man practically melted.

For someone so elegant and haunting in appearance, he became devastatingly clingy when comfortable. All long limbs and sleepy affection. An ancient predator transformed into something dangerously close to a spoiled housecat.

“You cuddle so aggressively,” you half joked, there was hardly any rush he had when it came to you.

“I am loving you.”

“There’s a difference.”

“Not to me.” His wings shifted then, dragging slowly over the blankets to curl more securely around you both. One hooked lazily over your ankle beneath the quilts as though physically anchoring you there.

You could practically hear the old joints creak. “There it is,” you teased gently. “The haunted floorboard noises.”

He gasped softly against your throat. “Cruel.”

“You sounded like the staircase.”

“I am ancient, darling. My body predicts rain.”

“You basically live in the rain.”

“And yet I continue predicting it flawlessly.” He tilted his head up once again to gaze at you, visibly delighted despite the lighthearted taunting.

You watched it happen in real time—the way his eyes softened, the faint curl of his mouth, the almost dreamy look that crossed his face like he’d just witnessed something holy.

Then came the kissing, because of course it did. One kiss to your jaw, another beneath your ear. Then your cheek. Your forehead. The corner of your mouth.

“You’re in a very affectionate mood,” you mumbled.

He froze. “My beloved,” he said with quiet scandal, “I have been courting you with unwavering devotion for quite some time now.”

“Are you sure? You must be pulling my leg.”

“I most certainly am not.”

“You absolutely are.” You grinned, reaching up to smooth a hand through his hair.

That did him in completely.

His eyes fluttered shut instantly, expression softening into pure, shameless bliss. A low hum rumbled from his chest as he leaned heavily into the touch.

“There he is,” you whispered fondly. “My poor fossil.”

He opened one eye slowly. “You mock me,” he murmured.

“…A little.”

Then, a bit quieter, he lets out a small sigh, “You touch me like you aren’t afraid I’ll disappear. It's awfully endearing. ”

The humor faded gently from your smile.

His gaze had gone distant, vulnerable, honest. Perhaps you just make his heart grow fonder, bringing that more sentimental side out.

You cupped his face carefully. “You’re not disappearing anywhere.”

Something fragile crossed his expression then, and suddenly he was holding you tighter. Like affection itself overwhelmed him sometimes.

“I spent so long untouched,” he admitted softly into your shoulder. “Centuries, perhaps. And now you drape yourself over me like this is the most natural thing in the world.”

“It is natural.”

“To you, maybe.” His thumb stroked your waist slowly beneath the blankets. “To me, it feels miraculous.”

In that moment, you couldn't really find the words to return to him, suddenly growing shy in the heat of the moment. So you answered the only way you could, by pulling him down fully into your arms.

The poor vampire made the softest, most scandalized noise imaginable. “My stars—” he whispered, utterly undone. “You’re cuddling me back.”

..

"You are no elf." For a moment you can feel yourself tense, gripping onto your knife again, before he simply continues, "Why do you hunt in Mirkwood if it is not your birthplace, and is miles away from the nearest human settlements?"

You wonder for a moment how few humans enter Mirkwood, if he can still mistake you for one. Or perhaps you underestimate your ability to stay hidden. The truth isn't exactly an answer you can give, but the words are not complete lies, "I grew up in Laketown, but I have no wish to live there any longer. Mirkwood has been a good home for me."

There's some surprise on his face at the last part of your statement, but pride creeps into his face as well. "I am glad you appreciate it, few mortals can."

At his choice of words you can't help but laugh a little, "Few mortals indeed."

The silence becomes more awkward, and your eyes flicker to the corpse next to you. "I hope I haven't broken any rules in hunting here?"

"No." His fingers tap against the bow, but you realise it's more out of shame than a threat. "I should not have drawn on you. Do you need help in taking the deer back to your home?"

His question makes you curse internally. Normally you would simply drain the creature dry and leave it with a wound where the puncture marks were, hoping that it either wouldn't be discovered or wouldn't be seen as suspicious. The elf noticing your presence certainly hasn't helped. And yet you keep your tone neutral yet polite, "No, but thank you."

"If you are certain. Safe travels." He turns to leave, before looking briefly over his shoulder again. "My name is Legolas - it was good to meet you."

Before you can give him your own name he's fully left, walking among the trees with such speed only an elf can perform. Or a feat that you could attempt, should you be at your full power; not that living off animal blood in Mirkwood has given you anything close to that. But what could your other option for blood be? There is an irony in being a vampire who refuses to kill thinking creatures like men and elves, and you can feel the toll it takes on your body to not be at full strength. But you can still survive.

Awkwardly, you look at the deer again and contemplate how best to drag this on your own - and where to drag it too. Something deep inside you urges you to simply feed on it now, to forget about the elf and feast, before you take a breath and begin to move. Even though you rarely spill blood any more there’s still a risk of it, and you’ll have to drag it someplace anyway (it wouldn’t exactly help you if you left a bloodless corpse where Legolas had seen you last).

Thankfully, it’s not too arduous to move to a second location that you’re fairly sure is undisturbed. It’s far enough away from the elven kingdom that patrols don’t bother here, and creatures that live in Mirkwood give it a good berth. Perhaps because they know what lurks here in the dark.

Feeding is not always satisfying, but it’s worse now. The paranoia that someone is watching you, inquisitive eyes of blue appearing whenever you shut your own. But Legolas can’t be watching you from here. Surely you would be aware of him?

For the next week, the elf sticks in your mind. You’re unsure what it is about him that stays with you. It must be because he saw you. That you’re simply on edge because the elves of Mirkwood came so close to discovering that a vampire lives in their woods. Except when your mind drifts to him it’s not all fear. There is some, of course, but the little bit of you that’s anxious is equally curious about him.

What he’s like aside from the few words you’ve exchanged. If he’s the type of person that, before all of this, you would sit with in the sunlight and laugh and joke and talk about nothing in particular with. Should it matter if he is when you cannot do that now? Other details stick with you that make no sense to keep. How his voice sounds, the way his eyes had shone when he talked about Mirkwood, the slight tilt of his head both when he had been threatening you and when he had been merely curious. Your mind won’t give you an explanation for why it wants to remember those facts about Legolas.

With little else to do it is a subject that you eventually ponder, beginning to spend the time that you’re not hunting or sleeping thinking as to why the elf could be in your thoughts. It’s harder to realise when your body doesn’t function as it once did, has no blood to send to your face in order to make it warm and to make you feel flush. Instead you have to go through the process of picking up and untangling your feelings.

That perhaps the reason your mind has focused so much on Legolas is because you like him.

Is because, in the short time of him threatening and then questioning you, your mind has decided that he must simply be the perfect person for you to try and bond with.

It has to be because you’ve talked to no-one else for so long and you’re lonely. You can’t remember being this desperate while you were a human. Although did anyone in Laketown come particularly close to Legolas? Is he not, from your memories that are starting to fade, similar to the types of men that you’d occasionally stare at when you had nothing better to do. The one trace of mortality still remaining in you is that you’ll still fall for the same type of person. Except as your humanities left you, seemingly so has your taste for them.

When you’re not hunting, your path begins to stray closer to the elves' territories again. Or at least the last (the only, you remind yourself) place that you saw Legolas. Perhaps this time you can have a proper conversation without the two of you being on guard for most of it. To your surprise, it doesn’t take you long to bump into Legolas again. You’ve been in the place for a little while, taking a moment to rest before thinking about walking, when a voice breaks the silence.

“You’re back.” The voice sounds a mixture of surprise and pleasure. You think. You hope. (You need to stop speculating in your head and talk to him.)

“I-” Now that there’s no immediate tension, no goal of talking to him to try and save your life, there’s an awkwardness you can’t get rid of. “Yes, I am. Not that I exactly left in the first place, just-”

“The world kept trying to make us just miss each other?” He suggests, and this time you can see a small smile on his face. “It was rather cruel of it to have us see each other once then not for so long.”

“Cruel?” You repeat, “You missed me that much after just one meeting?”

You’re not sure what possesses you to tease Legolas, but to your relief he doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, you can see a tiny bit of colour come into his cheeks. Blood rushing closer to the surface. Blood-

“Perhaps I did.” His smile becomes a little more impish, and he takes another few steps closer. “I must confess I was - and still am - curious as to how a mortal was living in Mirkwood without its prince knowing.”

“You’ve been asking people about me?” You’re not entirely sure how your voice still manages to keep a jesting tone when for a moment it feels like it’s going to close. It still feels dry. The fact Legolas is a prince? The fact he has asked over you - that more elves will know who you are and your existence here is starting to be threatened?

“Only a little. I was simply curious.” Legolas must have picked up on some of the anxiousness in your voice, but he looks more sheepish than anything because of it. “To have a mortal live within our borders, for me not to know of it. For my father not to know. I was… intrigued.”

"I have not hidden myself from you deliberately," you say, lying before changing the subject, "I did not know you were a prince."

"It is not obvious." Legolas looks to the empty space around the two of you, "Long ago, I was supposed to have guards with me. Decades of proving myself has finally paid off; and I see no need for my status to be announced to everyone I meet."

"Do you not like people drawing attention to your status, your royal highness?" Laketown has never had a king, but you can still bow well enough. At least well enough for teasing.

Whatever emotion was going to go into his eyes melts away into something that might be fondness. You have not seen emotions directed at you for a long time, and even longer since they were something positive and with warmth. "I find most people who over use them to be poor company."

"Is his majesty calling me bad company, then?" You wonder how often he's teased like this in Mirkwood, if at all.

A laugh escapes from him, and he shakes his head, "Not at all. I find you rather fascinating."

"Fascinating?" Most people would ask how, but you're suddenly hyper aware of how you've smiled at him. How his eyes have looked into yours, "I suppose living in Mirkwood is unusual."

"A shame to this forest." Legolas's eyes go from yours and sweep around the glade, focusing on the shadows, "There was a time this place was filled with sunlight instead, and it would have been a gift to live here not just for the presence of elves."

"Mirkwood is still a good place to live. I imagine some will enjoy the shade."

"The spiders and new evils, perhaps," Legolas's tone turns uncharacteristically bitter, and you cannot prevent yourself from tensing a little. He notices the little movements, "Have you truly encountered nothing in your part of the forest? It is part of the reason I have been searching for you, to make sure you can survive here."

"I've been surviving here for- a long enough time now." The slip can be forgiven hopefully, "But I thank you for your concern."

"Looking after the people who are under the crown's protection is one of the few things of royal duties I embrace." Legolas's gaze shifts upwards again, "You have found an oddly lucky patch of the forest, for it to be so far away from the palace and yet not corrupted."

There are plenty of signs for corruption, you are sure, if he tried to look for them. The pale animals, stiff and left uneaten. The occasional droplets of blood that stain grass, without enough rain coming to wash it away for days on end. It is a shame the rest of Mirkwood has fallen far enough that these flaws can escape notice. "Are the grounds around your home still as beautiful as legend?"

"Not quite." Then Legolas steps forward, "But I could show them to you, if you'd like."

To go so near an elven settlement? But to go with their prince. Legolas waits for you, his gaze not obtrusive but still noticeable. "I cannot go today, but perhaps another occasion?"

"Of course." He agrees so quickly, before stepping back, "I hope our next meeting will be soon, then."

You avoid the places that you've seen Legolas in for the next few days. Wish that you could see yourself again in something, even the quick reflection of a stream or in some animal's eyes. How much of a vampire do you look? Can he... can he truly not know? Or is he simply so disconnected from humans that one whose eyes have a red tint and sticks in shadows is viewed as normal? The final option is that he knows, and somehow does not care.

The third to sixth time you meet, you initiate the conversation. Asking Legolas about himself, or bringing up small enough things that you do not have to lie about who you are. He never pushes for you to accompany him anywhere, nor to answer any personal questions. When he does want to know something, it is either not a personal fact, or it is asked by him tilting his head instead of asking a question. Just enough for you to ignore it, and for the conversation to still go on smoothly. There are times he comes closer to following the truth, when you disappear for a longer period of time before awkwardly coming back, but Legolas never seems to mind. Keeps waiting for you.

When the two of you do meet again, it is an accident on your part rather than a want to stumble into him. You had been negligent in going out to hunt - spending your time doing far more useful things like worrying over elven princes - and as a result have almost no blood left to sustain you. Well, enough to find another piece of prey. Not enough to be considered doing well. Your hunting is clumsy as well, enough so that when you sense something so alive and with a hint of blood on it then you go in that direction almost immediately. Only to walk out to find Legolas waiting for you, frowning at a slight cut on his hand. As soon as you enter the clearing he looks up with a smile, rubbing the blood away and waving a hand at you, "It seems I have found the evils that stay where you live: the thorns."

Even though it's not there any more, the whisper of blood draws your attention for too long before you drag your gaze away from it and to him, "Are you attempting to say my thorn bush - that you must have walked into - are worse than the spiders you tell me about?"

"At least I can have my vengeance on the spiders." He glances at the bramble patch, "It does not seem a fair fight between me and a plant."

"Ah, but did the thorn not start this fight?" Normally, you would have walked over by now. Instead you wait it out a little longer, hoping that the smell of blood will become a little less prominent.

"You are correct," Legolas says, and then he looks at you more closely, "I wondered if I could show you the glades around my home today?"

There is still no pressure for you to say yes. You should be saying no. But something in you, the sweet smell of blood quite possibly, makes you want to stay close to him, and so you walk forward. "I would be honoured."

The walk is not as long as you expected, or perhaps it simply flies as it normally does when you talk to Legolas. More creatures are around you the closer you get to the palace, although they are still too shy to do anything but make the quietest of noises and dart around the corner of your vision for just a moment. It is still dark enough for you to be able to move around freely. The closer you get to the glades, the more your mind drifts to the possibility that there are still pockets of sunlight in Mirkwood. That Legolas is taking you to one of those few, magical places - and then how will you hide?

If he notices you growing quieter he says nothing, instead pointing out some of the things that you never thought you would be able to see. Walking on paths that at first seem almost invisible, before melting into something well-used but somehow still natural. The gift of the elves - the gift of all creatures that were created with the intent to fit into Middle Earth, rather than whatever you are. Whatever it is vampires are supposed to bring to the world.

Abruptly stopping, Legolas turns to you with a smile, "We have arrived, come in."

Had Legolas not told you there was a glade in front of you, you would not have noticed it. But you follow him through the sudden dark knot of trees regardless, and when you exit it is beautiful. The glade may not be one, in the strictest sense of the word. Far up above it there are still trees and it is not an entirely open space, but comparative to the rest of Mirkwood it is. The few trees up above block the sunlight in an unusual way, instead of dappling it the glade looks more as though it has been covered in twilight. The occasional shimmers that come through dancing more like stars than anything else. "It is beautiful."

Legolas has been looking at you the whole time, you realise; it seems he didn't quite notice you had finished admiring the place, as this time it is him that looks away. "Thank you. I had hoped you would enjoy it."

He takes the first proper steps into the glade, sitting down near the centre before motioning for you to join him. "There are a few closer to you, or closer to my home, but this one felt most fitting. It... it felt most like you, if that makes sense?"

"I-" You want to say thank you, to somehow express the gratitude for a deed he has not fully acknowledged. That you did not think an elf could associate any other kind with such wonder, or be willing to treat them to it. "It makes sense, I think."

"Good." A shine comes into his eye that is not just a speck of light catching them, "And there are no bramble bushes for adversaries this time."

The remark gets a short laugh out of you, followed by the same one from him. The conversation turns to how it normally does, about things of almost no particular importance, except within the walls of the glade he seems to be getting closer to you. You let him as well, making no attempt to move even when you realise exactly what he's doing. Content to spend the day with him like this, and content to be far closer to him. Absently, his fingers circle one of the flowers in the glen, "Did they ever make flower crowns in Laketown?"

Casting your mind back, you try to think if you had ever made one with friends or with family. "Not often, but sometimes when we went out. Flowers were used more for bouquets than for children's games."

"I do not think it is childish to wish to see you in a flower crown." Legolas leans back slightly, his eyes skimming up and down all of you, "I think you would look quite beautiful in one."

The twilight emboldens you, and the proximity as well. Instead of drawing away, you lean closer, "I have not made flower crowns for far too long. I am afraid you would have to make one for me."

"Would you let me crown you?" Legolas asks, his hand reaching for you. It is slow, almost as if he's afraid you will start, but instead you lean into him. There's a moment as his hand simply rests before it goes up, tangling a little in your hair and pulling him closer to you.

"I would."

The distance is so small now, he is already so close to you, and it is you that closes the gap. Your eyes close briefly as you kiss him, but you can still feel his lips part for you and how he tries to hold you even closer. When you kiss him you're still careful, acting gently to not scrape his lips with your fangs before you eventually withdraw. Legolas follows you in the kiss for a moment, before realising what you're doing and pulling back himself.

It is then that your fang catches slightly on his lip, only enough to make the smallest tear. As the two of you sit back he hardly notices it, only pausing to briefly try and dab it away. An action that does not work quite as planned; blood smearing further on his lips instead of only being a small dot. Another droplet welling up.

You see his eyes widen for a moment, his mouth part slightly as if to say something, before he closes it and gazes into your eyes. The eye-contact is almost hard to notice - fresh blood is so close to you - before you realise why he's staring into your eyes. A vampire's eyes will always go vividly red when there is blood nearby, especially when they need to feed. He knows.

Frozen in his arms, you feel a chill come over you before you try to pull away in self-preservation. The hand still wrapped into your hair stops you, and Legolas keeps you as close as ever. You still shift for a moment, before stopping to look at him, "Do you not... do you not know?"

"I know," the response is quick, but certain. Steady somehow. "Your eyes were red when we first met, but I- I was still curious."

"And you said nothing?" This time he lets you leave his grasp, move away from him slightly.

"I was not sure what to say, I thought... I thought your kind was a myth, until you." Legolas stops, and you suddenly see his face turn pink, "And so I continue to meet you. And then..."

"And then? You decided I wasn't a threat?"

"And then I fell in love." His hand moves closer to you, trying to bridge the gap again, "And then I knew you were not a threat, because if you were you would have already done something. If not in the past, then certainly while we were kissing."

Your hand finds his again, and you can't help laughing a little, "While we were kissing? What do you think I would have done?"

"Well, it is-" Legolas stops and tilts his head, "It is close to my neck, is it not?"

The skin there is smooth, smooth enough that you can see there is no scar. And he keeps it there for a moment, even in view of you. Trusts you to not do anything when some part of you urges to reach out for it, to give it scars and feed. Then Legolas moves closer again, "Does feeding hurt?"

"Does it-" You stop, both to consider it and to see how much his face flushes as he asks the question. "A little, but I... I can be gentle with you."

Another drop of blood comes to his lip, and you can see him resist the urge to lick it away. To keep it there. Legolas closes the distance between the two of you again, and you still wait for him. And then the whisper in your ear "Elves do not break so easily."

A/N: I'm trying to get better at writing kissing scenes. I... do not know if it's working. Also this is mildly inspired by @lady-legolas-greenleaf. My second vampire work, although my first one with Legolas (the other is Aramir).

He knew what the feeling was. A most certain, heavy burden of love was blossoming within him, and some days he didn't know how to deal with it, let alone express it. He wondered if it was even appropriate for him to do. And even so, would you want it? Would you take him as he is? Split between the two worlds of Isildur's heir and Strider the Ranger, which one did you see when you looked at him, he wondered, or did you just simply see him?

But little did he know of your growing affection for the particular Dúnedain man. His gentleness, devotion and tenderness were something that had charmed you from the first day you had met him in Rivendell at the council of Elrond. It was during your time with the fellowship that you had come to know him better as the kingly, humble and beautiful man that he is. How could you not have held some sort of weakness towards him?

But even so, with the closer you two grew, the further apart you felt from him. How far must this go before one of you confesses? As time dragged on, both of you felt as if nothing would ever be said. And this possibility hung above both of you like a sad, dark cloud.

But for now, you couldn't address it. You both had a job to do, a mission to complete, some hobbits to save and people to protect.

"You know... I'm sure Merry and Pippin will be just fine," you stated confidently, flicking Aragorn a glance. He looked at you with a raised eyebrow. "How can you be so sure?"

"They have the infamous Strider tracking them down. I doubt they have any fears in their hearts when they know they have you coming to save them." You said. "They always told me how safe they felt having you around, especially during your time when walking to Rivendell. They hold you in very high regard, Aragorn."

Aragorn let out a gentle laugh. The noise made your heart skip a little beat.

"I'm glad they feel safe with me," he said while looking at the floor out of bashfulness. “I only hope the rest of you feel the same.”

You thought for a second before speaking. "I certainly do," you start a bit hesitantly, "You're a good man, Aragorn, and I feel very lucky to be able to be so close to you."

A short, tense silence was brought over you two before Aragorn looked at you with a grin. “Dangerous words, coming from you. I might believe them,” he said playfully while pushing his head onto your shoulder in a moment of boldness. You lay your head on top of his, trying to subtly breathe in the scent of his hair as it tickles your cheek in the wind.

"Forgive me if I fall asleep here," you said through a yawn. "This night is pulling me towards slumber."

"If so, you can lie on my lap. I’d gather it’s softer than that, sorry excuse for a bedroll.”

You nodded at his words, trying to act nonchalant when really your heart was screaming a little.

You both sat there on watch, feeling the cold air of the night tickle your skin to no effect, as the warmth of your bodies so close to each other was enough to keep you both buzzing with strong yearning for the other.

And still, nothing was said of it.

*Minas Tirith, approximately 2 months later*

The coronation had been a success. The amazing day had been followed by weeks of celebrations, discussions and hopes for the future with Isildur's heir returning to rule over Gondor and reforge the land of Arnor.

Aragorn was conflicted no more, and with the War of the Ring against Sauron having been won, the lands could look towards a new dawn of a king who fought bravely for the lives of his people whilst remaining the humble, loving man that everyone so adored.

You, of course, having been by his side ever since the council of Elrond in Rivendell, were ecstatic for him. You'd never doubted for a second that he'd make a great leader, as much as he showed it whilst leading the fellowship and the defence of Helm's Deep. A natural-born leader with the blood of kings, you thought of him.

Due to having travelled far and wide with you, and also due to his still lingering affection for you that he still doesn't dare speak out on, Aragorn insisted that you stay in Minas Tirith and make a home of the White City. You agreed with this notion, expressing how happy you would be living under such royalty, especially one you knew so personally.

You were named Keeper of the King's Records and were in charge of ensuring that lore and political happenings were reported, collected and written correctly. This left you spending most of your days in the archives and libraries in the Citadel, working tirelessly.

But with everything seeming perfect and peaceful, you often wondered if this meant anything for you and Aragorn now. Now, with his kingly title of King Elessar and many lands to oversee, you often found yourself questioning whether the rugged, heroic man you had come to know over the past few months was craving the small moments you two had shared together. But who's to know, with all that he has going on?

*Citadel, 7:00AM*

The city stirred quietly in the early hours. You rushed up the stairs of the Tower of Ecthelion with a few opened scrolls in your arms that you had received that morning from the leader of the Harad people to the south of Gondor. With their interests in conducting peaceful diplomatic relations with the High King Elessar, you had been keeping record of their communications.

You were going to the Throne Room to warn Aragorn of their arrival within the next few days, as per the letter. The king of the Haradrim had sent his son, a young prince, along with some noblemen to discuss the possible future reunion of the lands and where their relations lie after the War of the Ring.

You approached the grand doors of the throne room and were about to push inside when one of the guards stopped you with a raised hand.

"Apologies, my lady, but his majesty is in the middle of an important meeting as of now. Would you be so kind as to wait a few moments before walking in?"

You frowned. You still weren't used to it, the whole 'his majesty, my lord, his highness' thing. But what really threw you off was the fact that you were being stopped at the door of the throne room.

"Excuse me?"

"Oh my lady! Yes! Please excuse him!" Another guard pipes up behind you with a stressed expression on his face. "Apologies on his behalf. He's only just begun being stationed in the Citadel. Please go right in. His highness is expecting you."

You smile and nod in a friendly manner. That was more like it.

Without any further discussion, you pushed the large white door open to enter the throne room, still juggling the scrolls in your arms.

Aragorn was perched on his throne whilst speaking to a familiar ginger-haired man, Faramir, who stood not far in front of him. The king glanced up at the sound of the throne doors loudly dragging along the floor as they opened.

When he saw you, his expression softened, and his shoulders relaxed. It was strange. Every time he laid eyes on you, even in the polished marbled walls of the Citadel, he was brought back to the long days and nights he spent with you in the wilderness of Middle-earth, making him feel like his old ranger self again. But of course, without the responsibilities he has now.

Faramir was dismissed, with their discussion having ended. The young Steward gave you a knowing look as he passed you, but you caught him saying something under his breath.

"He clearly has favourites."

You huff out a small laugh that only Faramir would notice, but inside, you felt a warmth crawl over your heart at the thought. Oh, how you wish you were Aragorn's favourite. But the king's lack of connection to you recently had begun making you believe very much the opposite.

With the heavy duties of kingship and many lands to rule over, Aragorn at times found it difficult to make time for the ones he treasured so deeply. You were a part of this, unfortunately, and the past few weeks, the only times you had seen each other face to face were at councils in which you were present to record the political discussions. Only it wasn't Aragorn you saw at these councils, it was King Elessar, who was someone that you haven't gotten to know so well as you haven't had the chance.

You enjoyed times like this, where you had an excuse to burst into the throne room. But little did you know, Aragorn didn't need an excuse from you to gladly accept a visit from you, as it allowed him to bask once again in his affection that filled his heart so achingly and desperately.

"Hello, my lady," he started with a welcoming grin on his face as he approached you.

You put your palm up towards him. "Don't even start with the formalities, your majesty~. They make me feel too high and mighty for my liking."

"It does feel strange coming from you, love. But don't let anyone else hear you call me Aragorn, it might just start some gossip."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it." You accepted a strong embrace from him. He tucked his head onto your shoulder and held your waist against him. His royal garments carried the strong scent of warmed cotton and musk. Very different in contrast to the earthy, rich soil smell that still ever so slightly lingered in his dark curls.

"Even though I once witnessed his majesty get so drunk at a tavern that he threw up in an alley while I held his hair back."

You felt his chest vibrate has he laughed against you. "Oh how I've missed you."

You hummed at his words, leaving his embrace. You'd be lying if you didn't miss him too. His booming laughter, the glow of his deep voice, the gentleness he'd have even when sparring, and even the smell of his pipe when he'd smoke. It was memories of him that you held onto very fondly.

"So what can I do for an old friend?"

Friend.

"The King of Harad is sending his son to discuss possible peace treaties with you," you stated after being knocked out of your daze from his question. You passed him the few parchments in your hand, riddled with calligraphy. His hand brushed yours as he took them. "He is expected to arrive in the next few days."

He read over the papers with care as you waited. "His son? The prince of Harad?" he affirmed with interest.

You nod. "I believe so. He is bringing noblemen with him, perhaps around twenty or so."

"That doesn't give us much time to prepare," he half groaned out while rubbing his eyes. "I guess we can sort something out. I'll get a courier to send a letter out saying that we'll await his arrival, and I'll have the kitchen stewards prepare a banquet for when he gets here."

You nod approvingly. "I will be happy to help in welcoming the guests at the state banquet for that night."

"Great!" he exclaimed. He gives you a friendly tap on the shoulder. "Then all is well. If we're lucky, we can have this done quickly, and they'll be on their way back to Harad in no time."

He returns the scrolls to your hands. "These can be archived, if you will."

You grab them slowly from him, your hands brushing once more, but neither of you pulling away.

An all too familiar silence hung over you two, one that had made itself more known every time you two were alone. Aragorn searched for something to say while aching with the dread of having to part once again. If only he could say something to have you remain a little longer.

But he didn't.

"I have other matters to attend to this morning," he bluntly informed while turning from you.

You clutched the scrolls to your chest while looking down sheepishly. His gaze had made you flustered, and you gave out a relieved breath from being broken from that tension. "Yes... of course. I'll get these archived right away."

You turned to walk through the large doors of the throne room once again. In the back of your mind, you wished desperately for him to call out.

"Oh! Hey Y/N?"

You quickly turned just as your hand had lifted to push the door.

"I received a gift from Rohan. An old piece of lore that is written in a tongue that I haven't read in years. Perhaps tonight you can lend me your knowledge and eyes?"

You felt yourself hesitate at his request. It had been weeks since you'd been alone with him, not in the context of reporting necessities. What if it was awkward?

"I will make sure there's wine too, if that's of interest," he offered a faint smile.

You nod. Well, at least a few glasses of wine would ease the air a bit.

"I'll be there after the council tonight, in the west wing of the library."

"Of course, Ara- my Lord. I look forward to it." You gave him a knowing smile as you pushed open the large white door.

*The Council Room, 6:57PM*

Aragorn had finished his kingly duties for the day.

The Council Room hung quiet as he packed away the few parchments used for discussing strategy in how this diplomatic meeting would go with the noble people of Harad.

With a light skip in his heart, feeling like his old young self again with this excitement growing, he grabbed the bottle of vintage wine that he had placed to the side long before the council, having collected it from the royal cellars beforehand in preparation to meet you.

The thought of you waiting for him in the library made him slightly anxious. Will it be like before he was king? Before he was all high and mighty and saw himself as just a lonely Ranger of the North? Oh, how he missed the soothing comfort you brought to his hardy personality and robust but gentle soul. He only wished the spark between you two could last.

A rushed man bursting through the door ripped him from his thoughts as he stopped in his tracks.

"My Lord!" the man cried. "Riders have crossed into our lands in the east, from Mordor. They hold a flag that we do not recognise. Your Steward, Sir Faramir, advises you to come see for yourself, quickly."

Aragorn's face hardened. 'Perfect timing'. He sarcastically thought to himself.

"Tell Faramir I will be there at once," he responded while shifting the bottle of wine behind his back to conceal it.

The messenger nodded and bowed to him before rushing out the door through which he came.

He knew he didn't have time to come and confide with you about the situation, but everything in his heart so wished to. Of course something had to come between the two of you.

He placed down the wine bottle on a table towards the corner of the room before adjusting his sword attached to the belt. A familiar dread filled his heart as he walked away from the direction of the library to the Citadel stairs.

Damned kingly duties.

*West Wing of the Citadel Library, 10:49pm*

You stood suddenly from the small table. Your legs felt numb, and your eyes were beginning to droop.

"Who am I fucking kidding. Look at me, waiting here for a king that's never going to come," you huffed out to no one in particular. You hastily gathered all of the scrolls in front of you, all branded with the familiar crest of Rohan. You'd even gone to the effort to place them all out and begin to decipher the foreign language for him, just so you had some achievement to offer your friend when he eventually arrived.

But he never did. And as the minutes turned into hours and each of the candles around you spilled more wax onto the table, you'd had enough of waiting.

You packed up your things quickly and rushed out of the silent and huge library, feeling smaller than ever.

*Citadel, 11:59PM*

Aragorn rushed up the stairs towards the Citadel. The moon was bright and the streets were quiet. Most of Minas Tirith had retired, retreating to its desolate emptiness that it held so strongly at night.

But the king of this great city was not yet done. He slowed in his steps as he approached the door of the west wing entrance of the grand library. With a gentle push, he stepped inside.

"Y/N?"

He called out in a gentle voice, but to no answer. As he traversed the great shelves of books and records he was so familiar with, he finally came across the large study area that he had noticed you tended to favour.

The table was empty. Only the dim light of dying candles and a neatly stacked pile of the Rohan lore he had promised to join you to go over remained. But you had left.

He thought of himself as an idiot. Of course, you weren't going to wait around for him, at least not into the hours of the night that he was only just arriving at now. Was he stupid to still have had a little hope of you being here?

He licked his forefinger and thumb before extinguishing the candles on the table. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of your handwriting, which he so easily recognised from all the records you had handwritten for him. He saw your translation of the strange tongue that the lore was written in.

He felt guilt fill his chest. You'd even started without him and had gotten quite a way through by the looks of it. You must have been here for hours... just waiting... just for him.

"Forgive me, Y/N," he said with a tone full of regret to no one. "I've let you down again."

No wonder you'd be growing apart. He can't even spare one night for you, how could he ever expect something to grow again between the two of you with this schedule and duty?

There were times when he regretted the choice of chasing the throne of Gondor, times when he believed he had made the wrong decision and longed to return to the wilds, to the lowly tavern inns, to the carefree feeling of waking up and having no responsibility but the clothes on his back. But most of you, he longed to return to you.

With a melancholy sigh, the king turned and slumped out of the library.

*The Courtyard of the White Tree, a few days later*

You stood on the grand balcony of the library on the very upper floor that looked over the courtyard of the Citadel. With anticipation, you waited for the prince of Harad to make himself known, having just arrived as announced by the gate guards. They were climbing the many levels of Minas Tirith, leaving you anxiously waiting.

A glint of sun reflecting off of Aragorn's crown brought your attention to him as he emerged from the grand archway of the Tower of Ecthelion. He stood at the edge of the courtyard to ready himself for the arrival of the foreign prince.

You took in his appearance. He wore royal, leather slacks, a charcoal long robe embroidered with the white tree of Gondor in the centre of his torso and a green mantle that seemed to glisten in the sun. It draped across his broad shoulders and was clasped on by a silver, star-shaped brooch. The Crown of Elessar sat upon his midnight hair, and Andúril was sheathed in his sword belt, as always.

'He's far from Strider the Ranger now,' you thought to yourself as you examined him from afar. You frowned in thought as you leant on the carved stone railing, resting your chin on your hand. 'I wonder if he ever misses it when he's all prettied up like this.'

A quick glance from the king in your direction snapped you out of your thoughts. He held his strong gaze at you for what felt like forever, before he looked away.

It had been awkward the last few days, ever since he missed your planned meeting in the library. After that night, you had grown a little resentful, not liking to be messed around with. But in reality, you were embarrassed by your actions to wait so late for him, especially since he had done this a few times before with you, ever since he had gained his title as King Elessar.

You had avoided him, kind of accidentally and kind of on purpose. The demand for your services had increased threefold with the imminent arrival of the noblemen of Harad. You had been reviewing historical treaties and conflicts, summarising the basic culture of the peoples of Harad and producing briefing documents for his highness. By sending a messenger to Aragorn, he was able to receive these documents while you worked, but you weren't aware of the disappointment the king felt when yet another courier delivered his council briefings, and not you.

Aragorn was aware of his mistake. He had kept himself awake about it, wondering what could have been if he hadn't gotten ripped from his opportunity to see his old friend again. He had imagined the night over and over, discussing with you, laughs becoming louder and looser as the wine bottle emptied, and him shifting from King Elessar to Aragorn once again with you. He'd even thought, just maybe, it could have felt like before, with lingering touches that held much more meaning behind them that neither of you was aware of.

The entrance of the prince of Harad could not be missed.

He and his people emerged from the stairs of the Citadel, leading into the courtyard with the shining of golden deserts and shimmering jewels. Their robes flickered a dazzling array of deep reds, blinding golds, and emerald greens and a few bannermen carried impressive flags that bore a large, green serpent spread across a yellow sun with a crimson background. Drums tore through the ground as they approached the King and his people surrounding him.

The Prince himself, Qadiran al-Ruhan, as you had learned his name was, was an absolutely striking individual. He had a tall, heroic and muscular stature, and his dark olive skin shone in the sunlight. His well-combed obsidian hair hung just above his shoulders, which matched the stubble coating his lower face, and he wore the colours of his people in silk robes. But the sage green crown jewel that lay in the middle of his forehead on a golden band indicated his status among the noblemen around him.

Aragorn stepped forward as their march halted in front of him, and the drums were silenced. They gave each other a respectful bow and initiated conversation between them. You were too far away to hear what they were saying.

They seemed like an interesting bunch, much different from the quite bland culture that coated Minas Tirith. It was like the life of the party had just arrived.

But you'd have to admit, the prince had a face that could allow him to escape even the most devilish of deeds. His strong, masculine features caught your attention, and you thought to yourself, what a popular prince he must be back at home in Harad with that gorgeous face.

"Gentlemen," you heard Aragorn pipe up after his quiet, welcoming conversation with the young prince. "Make our guests feel at home. We will begin our state banquet at sundown."

You pushed off the rails of the library and wandered back inside, hoping to finish some work before the banquet.

You looked forward to getting to know the handsome prince and his noblemen. However, it still dawned on your mind that you now had to face King Elessar once again, and there was no escaping his lingering gaze now.

*The Great Hall of the King, 5:30PM*

The banquet was beginning to bustle with excitement. Noblemen of both Gondor and Harad had begun to mingle and intertwine. Colours of blacks and reds and goldens all mixed together into one pool, all hoping to once again build friendly relations. It was a sight to see, especially for you, due to your mastery of lore.

You had arrived wearing your best gown with a thin, expensive coat, wanting to give a good impression for the foreign guests of the Keeper of the King's Records. Your hair was tied back into a simple but neat style with slim, silver chains tucked into it, and your finest jewellery littered your wrists and neck. You were a sight enough to turn the head of any man or woman.

You were placed at one of the long tables in the great hall, which was filled to the nine with delicious food that was fit to feed many kings. The people around you were friendly, rowdy and included you in their conversations, asking many questions about your role in the Citadel. You happen to be a great conversation holder, because everyone loved to talk politics there, which you knew a lot about.

Only, you weren't so interested in talking about your job much when you had the sight of the great Prince Qadiran to adore your gaze. He sat at the King's table, with King Elessar and his guards surrounding them. Only Aragorn and Qadiran's highest men in the Citadel sat there among them.

You swore you had caught his eye a few times, making you turn your head in embarrassment and pretend to be focused on the people around you. At some point, you had turned back to see if he had looked away, only to find that he hadn't. His dark eyes watched you, curious and interested, and he cocked his head to the side in thought.

You glanced away once again, feeling small under the great prince's searing gaze. Was he watching you? Or had he noticed you staring?

'Of course he did, idiot,' you thought to yourself. 'You've been gaping like a fish at him all night.' It was true, though. He would have to be blind to not have noticed you gawking at him.

But while this silent exchange was occurring, a certain someone else was also watching.

Aragorn sat on his large chair, having barely touched the divine food in front of him due to the slight sickness he felt in his stomach. His red wine glass was completely empty as he had stressed-drunk, draining it quicker than he had intended. His servants behind him kept topping it up.

Not only was he not used to having these kinds of banquets yet, due to not having conducted many peace treaties or diplomatic meetings since he had become king, but he also had his most royal guest eyeing you up. The pressure was too much for his gentle soul, and he could feel himself starting to become a little overwhelmed with everything going on.

"So, your majesty,' Qadiran spoke up as he turned to him. Aragorn's stare snapped off of you and faced him. "I must say, I am very impressed with the city and community that you have built for yourself here. I praise you for your efforts. You are so new to royalty, being raised by those elvish folk and all, but you embrace it so naturally."

Aragorn chuckled at the prince's praises. "It is without doubt that I would not have been able to accomplish all that I have without the support of my people."

Qadiran gave him a strange look. "Hm. So humble," he almost muttered as he took a sip from his goblet. "So... who is she?"

Aragorn saw the prince motion his goblet towards you. "The young lady down there, with the silver chains tangled in her hair. What is she to you?"

The King swallowed thickly. What were you to him? How he could put that simply, he did not know. But he answered in the most appropriate response he could without sounding like a lovesick idiot.

"The Keeper of my Records, or my Royal Archivist, as you may call her."

"Ah~ I see," he sighed out. "She has quite a staring problem, I will say."

Aragorn glanced at the prince's face, but his expression seemed far from annoyed about your little interest in him. His tongue crawled against his bottom lip, and his fingers caressed his chalice as he watched you laughing with your table friends.

When Aragorn accepted his title as King Elessar, he did not think of this situation as one he would have to keep his composure. Watching a foreign prince, as handsome as Qadarin was, basically drool and undress you with his stare made him slightly sweaty in the hands.

"I apologise for her curiosity. She means no harm. She is a lore keeper and does it for a job for me, that is why she is staring. Watching two royals of different realms converse would mean a lot for her work." Aragorn did not mean for it to come out as dismissive, but the slight annoyance and flat tone in his voice gave away his discomfort.

He almost said it in a way to convince himself as well. He did not want to even think about you fawning over this prince. Especially when you had him to look at as an option, but chose the latter.

"Hm, is that so?" Qadiran mumbled out while seeming to barely listen to the King, as he was so focused on you and the way you smiled as you spoke, and the shining look in your eyes. "So she is quite intelligent, then? Do you know her very personally?" His eyes did not leave you.

Aragorn's jealous heart vibrated inside his chest. "Yes. She is my bookkeeper," he said, words dripping with sass. "I know her very personally."

The emphasis on the 'very' made him feel slightly guilty, as he thought the prince might get the wrong idea and maybe think that you two had an intimate relationship. But he thought to himself that that wouldn't be the worst thing.

But unfortunately, the young prince and his naivety did not catch the protectiveness that laced Aragorn's words. In fact, for the remaining banquet, he did not pay much mind towards the King beside him at all. He was plotting, planning and scheming. How and when would it be a good time to ask for your hand?

You had allowed yourself to step outside for a short moment. You exited the Great Hall of the King through a small side door so you could leave quietly without anyone being too curious about your escape.

It was proving to be an amazing night. All the noblemen of Harad were incredibly charming, with many having already attempted to sweep you off your feet. You were flattered by the attention, but did not entertain much of it, even with the four glasses of drink that sat in your stomach, which poisoned your body with a careless, warm embrace.

You took a seat on a stone bench that was laden with soft, embroidered pillows. With swiftness, you removed the small pipe that was tucked in the inner pockets of your coat, Longbottom Leaf having already been pressed into the funnel.

Even with your now elevated position, the smell of the pipeweed brought you back to your times with the Fellowship. Back then, when you'd all gather around the fire telling stories of each other's adventures in life, smoke cascaded through the air and filled your heart and lungs with a warm, relaxing feeling. You, more than often, shared Aragorn's pipe with him as he lay his head on your lap, pressed against your thigh. As the redness in both your eyes would grow, you would braid his hair and run your fingers along the stubble of his beard. Merry and Pippin, the devilish hobbit cousins, would tease you two endlessly.

"Excuse me, young lady?"

Your eyes snapped open from your nostalgic daydream at the sound of a strong, low voice. It was him. The prince of Harad, Qadiran al-Ruhan, himself.

"Oh-! My lord! Please forgive me!" You dropped your pipe out of shock, and it clinked on the stone tiles. You stood and bowed low towards him to show your respect, feeling quite embarrassed.

"Oh, please, my lady," he laughed at your shock. "I am not bothered at all."

The handsome young man leant down to pick up your pipe and you panicked slightly at his kindness. "Please, sire, I can grab that. Do not waste your brea-"

"Allow me."

He picks up your pipe and walks towards you to hand it back. You took it and noticed his hands slightly brush yours, much like the other day in the Throne Room with Aragorn.

"Thank you, my Lord," you breathed out and bowed your head in gratefulness. He laughed at your formalness.

"Oh, the formalities~. Please don't be so strained to treat me with such respect, you might pop a blood vessel."

You awkwardly smiled at his request, feeling taken aback. Why is the foreign prince acting so kind to you?

"Um..." you choked out as a silence grew between you. "I think I must re-"

"You're King Elessar's record keeper, are you not? He was telling me about you earlier."

The sudden question threw you off. Aragorn was talking about you? To a prince? Surely, there were more dire things to discuss than his quiet, unimportant bookkeeper.

"Is that so?" You asked with a raised eyebrow. You felt so small under his gaze, especially with a man as handsome as this. You had prayed to the Valar that he hadn't remembered you gawking at him earlier in the Great Hall.

"Yes, he talks highly of you, I must say. You must be an impressive archivist to earn the respect the great High King."

You let out a huffed laugh and dropped your gaze out of abashment. "I would not say so. His majesty speaks too kindly of me."

"I don't believe so. But I must also say, forgive me, you are a beautiful woman. No wonder he keeps you around."

Your eyes flicked to his out of shock of his words. Was he... flirting?

"If you would have me, my lady, would you mind if I spend time with you for a bit? I have many questions."

You didn't know what to say. You felt as if you'd completely sobered up from this shocking scene. The prince had just walked out to you smoking pipeweed, and then acting like an idiot when finally noticing him. But of course, how could anyone refuse a charming prince from a foreign land?

"Of course, my Lord. I'd be honoured to be blessed by your presence."

With his request accepted, the prince offered his hand, and you took it carefully.

You two walked the halls of the Citadel, and you gave him a tour of the grand rooms that occupy it. As the night shuffled along and the moon grew higher, the two of you grew closer. And soon enough, your nerves had subsided, and this prince was treating you more casually without all the formalities. You, however, kept them, not wanting to be disrespectful to a foreign prince here for diplomatic and peace treaty reasons.

You presented the Grand Citadel Library to him and your workspace, and he took great interest in your knowledge of Middle-Earth, primarily the land of Gondor lore. He listened carefully, patiently and asked many questions. He was amazed by your knowledge and intelligence. But something he just couldn't get out of you, no matter how hard he tried, was your relationship with the King Elessar himself.

You were very dismissive of any questions of your bond, not wanting to expose Aragorn of his past life as a Ranger. It was hard enough having to constantly refer to him as 'His Highness', or 'His Majesty', and not allowing an 'Aragorn' to slip when in the presence of the prince. Eventually, the prince seemed to wear off his curiosity, allowing you to take a breath.

The night came to an end when you both had wandered back towards the Great Hall of the King. With a gentle kiss on your hands from the prince, you said your goodbyes.

"Thank you, Y/N, for your time. I hope to see you once again before I depart for home."

"I'm sure you will, my Lord. It is my job to keep a note of all diplomatic events. We will be seeing a lot more of each other in the next few coming days."

Qadiran offered a smile. "Perfect. I look forward to it."

He lifted his hand slowly to your face, making you freeze slightly. He tucked a piece of loose hair behind your ear delicately, his fingers lingering on the skin of your soft face. After a second of him admiring you and you staring at him, not knowing how to react to his advances, he pulled away and walked off, making his way to his room, most likely.

When he was out of sight, you nearly doubled over. When did it suddenly become your job to entertain the most royal guest for the night? And a very pretty one at that.

You began to slowly wander back in the direction of your quarters.

Little did you know about the stress that your King was under.

Aragorn, having departed the feast a few moments prior, was searching endlessly for you. He had received any questioning looks, many 'Can I do something for you, my majesty?', all answered with a shake of his head as he continued walking.

He had noticed you disappear from the banquet hours ago, but what was worse was that Qadiran was gone too. He only thought of the worst, especially with the way that prince had been eyeing you up earlier; tongue flicking, eyes looking you up and down and mind wandering, god knows where. Aragorn didn't even want to think of it. You wouldn't possibly be interested in a young prince like him, would you? Even so, Aragorn barely knew you these days, much to his dislike, so you could let the prince court you, perhaps even into his bed for the night, and he would never have known. But the thought made him sick to his stomach.

Why did he care so much? You had never wanted him anyway, so would it be so impossible for you to accept the advances of a different suitor, especially one as charming and rich as Prince Qadiran?

He missed you. Oh, how this sad, sappy king missed you. Like a dog to its master, like a soldier to his home, like a moth to the last light of a dying lantern. He was something within him that craved everything that you offered; your mind, body and soul. How could he ever watch idly by as someone else had all of that?

He continued searching the halls for you, even as the moon reached its peak in the sky.

*Your chambers, 7:00AM*

A loud banging on the wooden door to your chambers woke you up with a start. "Yes?!" you angrily yelled, being annoyed to be ripped from your sleep-in.

"I hate to disturb you, my lady, but King Elessar requests your presence at some point today." You heard a voice ring out.

You let out a loud yawn, still waking up. "Did he give a reason? The diplomatic meeting is not scheduled until tomorrow at noon."

"I'm afraid not. He simply requested that you make your way to the Throne Room when you got the chance."

You nearly rolled your eyes. What did Aragorn need so desperately from his Archivist? Surely if it was about the meeting briefings for tomorrow, it could wait until the city was more awake.

"I will be right there," you tell the messenger. Silence followed, indicating he had left to return the message to the King.

*Throne Room, 7:30AM*

"It was nothing short of a beautiful feast last night, my Lord," Prince Qadiran expressed with gratitude as he stood before Aragorn. "I greatly appreciate the effort you have put in place for my arrival."

"It was my pleasure," Aragorn said in a flat tone from his throne.

Everything the prince was doing was putting him on edge. Why did he seem so happy this morning? Was it because of you? Did you two meet up last night?

"If it would interest you, I can have an escort give you a tour of the city today. Diplomatic meetings are not scheduled until tomorrow, so I am happy to organise some activities for you and your men today."

"No need for a tour, your majesty. I already received a grand tour last night from one of your beautiful maidens."

Aragorn frowned. "Maidens?"

Qadiran placed his palm on his face. "Ah! My mistake, she was not a mere maiden. Y/N... one of your bookkeepers, I believe."

Aragorn's heart dropped at the sound of your name pouring from his lips. You had spent the night with him, perhaps not in his bed, thank god, but taking him on a private little tour of your own around the Citadel, which would have been romantic in itself.

"She is not a bookkeeper." Aragorn began coldly. "She is the Keeper of the King's Records, the Royal Archivist. There is a difference. Do not downgrade her position in front of me."

Qadiran was stunned by the sudden harshness from the usually so humble, friendly king. "I do apologise, your grace." he bowed low.

Aragorn nodded at his apology in recognition.

"In fact, my Lord, if you will allow me, I was hoping to discuss your Keeper of King's Records."

Aragorn swallowed thickly. "Yes?"

"I understand this would be a great inconvenience to you and your people, but your Royal Archivist has immensely caught my eye," he began slowly, with a drip behind his words to slightly antagonise the way Aragorn spoke of you. The King felt his heart in his throat as he anticipated where this was going. "I spent a lovely time with her last night during the banquet, and I had hoped, with your permission, I could ask for her hand in marriage? And for her to travel back to Harad with me as my fiancée?"

Silence filled the chamber, making the air thick and hard to breathe. The King was unable to speak, not knowing at first how to react to this news, out of shock.

"I understand that this may have come as a shock to you, but I believe we really connected last night, and I would be honoured to have her as my wife, my princes-"

"Forgive me for my bluntness, your majesty, but you couldn't even remember the proper name of her role in my Citadel."

There was a strong tension building between the two royals. Aragorn held his hard gaze, one elbow resting on his throne's armrest to try and appear serious and yet unscathed by the prince's request.

"My lord-"

"I do not give you permission, I'm afraid. She is my Archivist, and I am very much in need of her services."

It was proven very difficult to hide the possessiveness behind his words whilst trying to remain calm and collected, but Qadiran was not stupid.

The prince gave a slight smirk.

"I see, my Lord. You had only had to mention your affections for her, then I would have realised my mistake earlier."

Aragorn was taken aback at being read like a book.

"Don't act so shocked, my majesty. I just find it interesting to have someone of such status be so dismissive of his feelings towards someone who works under him. You could have anything you want, including her, so why don't you take it? Before someone else does?"

"She is not something to take. She comes to me on her own accord."

"Which will be when?"

Heavy stares were shared between them as each of them waited for the other to speak. Aragorn felt like his whole world was getting turned upside down. Is it that obvious?

But in a way, the young prince was right. Aragorn had waited and waited and WAITED for you to come to him, which had never happened. Why did he still believe that there was something between you two? It was a pathetic, desperate and downright embarrassing behaviour that he just couldn't shake off. It seemed no matter what, he would always desire you in some way.

"She'll find someone else, Elessar. She will not wait around for a man who can't admit to his own feelings."

The large stone doors of the Throne Room suddenly shifted, making the two men turn to see who was disturbing them.

It was you. 'Oh, of course,' Aragorn thought to himself. His luck could not have been better if he'd tried.

You closed the door and turned, freezing in your path when you felt the tension in the room.

"Excuse me... my lords. Am I interrupting something?"

Qadiran gave out a charming laugh as he approached you with his arms outstretched. "No, my petal. We were just finishing up."

You awkwardly accepted his embrace, not really being used to being hugged by royals, other than Aragorn, of course.

"I was just telling your wonderful king about our adventures last night," he started as he removed himself from you, taking your face gently in his palms.

"I had the time of my life, my love. I just hope we can continue our endeavours to this day. You are, after all, an incredibly fascinating woman that I would love to spoil."

You blushed at his words, not knowing what to make out of them, plus the brushing of his thumbs against your cheek was not helping with the fluttering in your stomach.

Aragorn, watching this whole ordeal from his throne, was absolutely fuming. His hand had curled into a fist at the sight of the prince touching your face, something he hadn't done in months. He wasn't only just jealous, he was almost dripping out of his ears with pure envy.

He held his gaze on you two.

"What do you say? Want to meet in the courtyard later today? You can show me some of the other levels of your beautiful Minas Tirith, only if you'd have me."

Only if you'd have me. Those words drove Aragorn up the wall with the strong romantic connotations behind them.

You nodded shyly at the prince's request, and he smiled happily. "Amazing! Will see you at noon, my lady."

A quick kiss on the cheek made your eyes widen as he walked around you to the door. He left without another word and without saying goodbye or thank you to Aragorn.

You chuckled to yourself on the spot. "Hm, friendly prince," you say out loud, so dumbfounded by being courted by a gorgeous, Haradrim prince.

"Yes," Aragorn stood from his throne to release some of the tension he was feeling.

"So, Aragorn, you summoned me?"

The King took a moment to think. Why had he summoned you? He wasn't exactly thinking when he sent the messenger. He was so bothered by the idea that you had been given all the extra attention by this newcomer that he didn't even think of what he'd say to you when you arrived.

But still, anger still boiled in his blood, and he remained cold.

"I have these parchments that need deciphering," he eventually spat out as he collected some papers from the small table next to his throne. "They are in Sindarin, and I need you to translate them."

You frowned and took the parchments as he handed them to you. This was the urgent matter?

You shuffled through the papers, thinking maybe he had made some kind of mistake.

"My Lord... you can speak Sindarin."

Aragorn ran a palm over his face before grabbing the papers back from you. "Right. Sorry about that."

"...Aragorn. What's going on? You're acting weird."

He started to panic a little. His palms start to sweat, and his heart started to skip beats.

"I'm just tired, Y/N, that is all. I did not sleep well."

"Are you sure? I mean I'm happy to talk if you nee-"

"I said I'm fine! Give it a rest!"

You were taken aback by the snap of his words. Aragorn was too, not knowing where it came from. You felt yourself grow upset as his anger, wanting to escape the thick, breathless air of the throne room.

"Okay, sorry, Aragorn. I'll leave you be."

And with that, you left the room quickly, leaving the High King Elessar to bask in the silence with his own confusing feelings.

Aragorn watched from his balcony as you took the hand of Prince Qadiran softly. You laughed at something he said, and Aragorn's heart fluttered at the sound of it. The prince allowed you to guide him, beginning down the stairs of the Citadel, and eventually you two disappeared out of sight, starting your romantic afternoon together.

Aragorn felt like he was being eaten alive. The dread, the regret, the jealousy, the possessiveness, it was all coming to take him out one by one. He was literally the king; he's got everything he's ever wanted, but no, he wanted you.

He wanted you so damn bad it hurt. It ached and battered and mauled and aggrieved him how badly he hungered for you. He wanted you in his arms, on his lips, in his dreams, in his heart, in his bed. He lived and breathed with the desire for you, and there was nothing in this world that would ever shake it from him, and it drove him insane.

He was not going to let this happen. He was not going to let another royal suitor sweep you off your feet so suddenly, so effortlessly, when he had been trying too long to win your affections.

Tonight, he would tell you. And whether you accepted or denied his confession was completely up to you, but at least he would know if his desires were worth the ache in his chest that hurt and bled like a stab wound that never truly healed.

*The West Wing of the Great Library, 11:35PM*

The night crept away so delicately as you shuffled through your last few bits of paperwork for the evening. You had begun gathering the massive books that you had removed from the shelves to study once again, to place them back in their rightful places on the giant shelves.

After the afternoon with Prince Qadiran, the daring prince had asked for your hand in marriage. You had been so stunned by his question that you choked on the words in your throat when you went to answer, making the prince laugh and call you cute.

You'd have accepted. This seemed to be the best option. There was not much left for you in Minas Tirith anyway, with Aragorn being so busy with kingly duties and your close friends from the Fellowship now all having either returned home or left for other reasons. You were the only one to have stayed with King Elessar to serve him, and you can't help but feel a little bit of regret for your decision.

You feel upset, knowing you will leave him. And breaking the news to him will be hard, but you looked forward to your new life as a princess in Harad, and eventually, a Queen of the Haradrim.

A Queen. You could not even imagine yourself as such.

The sound of feet shuffling echoing throughout the library chamber made you stop your running thoughts and listen. It was incredibly late and the library shut hours ago, making you suspicious.

"Hello?" You called out, not hearing a response. "The library is closed for the night! How did you get in?"

You rounded a corner and were met with none other than King Elessar Telcontar himself. He wore a loose, comfortable robe, black with some dark pants and leather boots. He had no cloak and no emblem of Gondor's white tree anywhere on himself. His head did not adorn the crown, and he held something behind his back, it seemed.

For a split second, in your head, he was Strider again.

"Oh, sorry, my Lord. I did not realise it was you," you said, slightly shocked to see him. "Were you looking for something in particular? I was just about to leave for the night, but I'm happy to quickly help you find a book."

Aragorn's heart stung at the use of the formal title for him. "Um, no Y/N. But thank you. I... was actually just looking for you." He was awkward, not meeting your gaze and feeling heat wash over him in uneasiness.

You raised your eyebrows. "Me? Okay, what can I do for you, your majesty?"

"Y/N. Stop that."

You blinked. "Stop what?"

"My name is Aragorn."

"You're the king. I'll address you as such."

"I'm more than just the king to you and you know that."

That silenced you for playing dumb. You didn't mean to purposely make him mad, but it felt wrong to call him by his first name when things had taken such a turn over the past day. It now felt... too affectionate, as much as you hated to say it.

"What can I do for you?"

"I brought wine," he revealed what he was holding behind his back. A large bottle of red, unopened and new. "I grabbed it from the cellars just now."

"Aragorn, I'm tired-"

"Please, Y/N. Just stay for a bit longer, for me."

The silence was tense before you sighed and grabbed the bottle off of him. "Come on."

You walked over to your large main desk that still had papers stacked across it that you had not gotten the chance to put away yet. You pulled up a chair for yourself and offered Aragorn your larger, comfier one. He insisted he'd use the smaller one.

"I'll get that lore from Rohan," you stated blandly as you disappeared between the shelves, leaving Aragorn at the table.

He felt so tense. Was this a mistake? You clearly did not seem in the mood for him.

He examined your desk, pushing some things to the side so you had room to place the new lore when you got back. He looked over your work, but also noticed a page that a page was open on a particular book.

'Haradrim Marriage Customs'

His heart leapt to his throat. There's no way. Not only would that prince have gone against Aragorn's word and blessing, but you would've also said yes. Was this happening? Were you leaving him?

The questions flew around his head, hitting each other and causing a small headache. Maybe it was a mistake to come. You had clearly already moved on.

He shook his thoughts when he saw you round the corner and return.

"What's the holdup? Poor that wine won't you?"

Aragorn tried to act natural despite him freaking out on the inside. He grabbed two wooden mugs that sat on the table and opened the bottle to pour into them. He made sure to add a little extra in his.

You placed the lore that Rohan had gifted the king onto the table, shuffling through the pieces that you had already interpreted. Aragorn recognised them from the night he showed up late to find you gone, but your work remained.

"Okay! Should we go from the top and see what I figured out? Or do you want to just continue trying to translate together?"

He wanted to drag out this time with you as much as possible if he wanted to try and grow the courage to say anything, especially after suspecting that you'd been asked for your hand today. "Let's go over what you discovered first."

You nod, sit down in your chair and pull yourself close to the desk. You lift the parchment with your handwriting and give it to Aragorn. By leaning forward and using your finger to point to the paper and explain your work, Aragorn could feel your closeness to him. He felt the light warmth of your breath against his face, your knees brushing against his a few times, and his eyes caught the shining glow that your skin gave off in the subtle flickering candlelight. He felt dirty thinking it, but he wanted so bad to press his lips tight against your skin and taste it.

As the night moved on and the bottle emptied, just like Aragorn had imagined the night a few days ago would've gone, you both grew drunker. You both became barrels of laughter, trying to stay serious about the lore, but eventually it became forgotten, some parchments even hitting the floor without you guys noticing while you were deep in conversation.

You reminisced, talking about the days with the Fellowship, Aragorn's days as Strider and your life before being sent on the quest with him. You brought back funny moments and laughs you spent together, the lightheartedness and friendship you felt during that time.

All was going well, and you felt happy. You had Aragorn back, even if it was just for that night.

When Aragorn ran to another room of the library and brought back another bottle of wine, you cackled.

"Are you sure that's a good idea, Mr King of Gondor?" you chuckled as he almost tripped over his own feet when running back to you. His face was flushed with a wine blush, and you felt warmth overcome your body with your drunkenness.

You watched as he stumbled back. His hair was loose and had it's natural curls. His robe was slightly unbuttoned, revealing a bit of his chest and his shoes were now off, him having removed them before.

He looked so... domestic. Not being clad up in shiny garments with a crown... it was comforting to you. You felt more at home with this kind of man.

"I'm sure we're fine~," he slurred his words as he held the bottle up proudly. "This one is good! I promise you~".

You giggled at him. "Okay, but not too much."

That didn't last long. When only a mouthful was left in the bottle, you two had crashed onto the lounge area in the corner of the room. It was a comfy reading nook that adorned pillows and blankets of all colours and embroideries, basically like a big bed.

You watched as Aragorn smoked his pipe while leaning against the wall with his back. You sat in front of him, cross-legged, and basically seeing double.

'Oh~ Two Striders? Doesn't sound too bad.' you thought to yourself drunkenly, making you chuckle out loud.

"Haha. Maybe then one can be king and one could be with me~." This time, you had said it out loud while rubbing your eyes.

Aragorn chuckled with his pipe still between his lips. "What are you on about?"

"I don't know."

He handed you his pipe, and you accepted, taking in a deep breath of it and feeling the immediate relaxation hit you.

"What happened today? With that prince?" Aragorn asked curiously. In a moment of boldness (or drunkenness, he could not tell), Aragorn crawled closer to you and turned around, placing himself so your chest was against his back and he looked up at you.

You almost couldn't answer him with those big, grey eyes staring up at you.

"He's asked me to marry him."

Aragorn felt time freeze. He continued to stare up at you as you took another hit from his pipe. You said it, like it was nothing.

He sat up and turned to face you. "He what?"

"I know, right!? Can you believe it?! It happened so fast," you exclaimed as smoke poured from your mouth.

Aragorn had such a stricken look on his face, like a kicked puppy. "What did you say?"

"I said yes. Harad seems like a beautiful place with a culture so rich, and the people so nice. I reckon I could be really happy there."

Oh.

Oh.

You said yes.

This is something you wanted. You have chosen this.

You had chosen to leave him. Not only to leave him as his Royal Archivist, but also as his friend, his companion.

His longing desire.

You'd had enough. And that was that.

"Aragorn?" you asked with concern.

You wanted to marry another man. You had moved on, found someone actually willing to give himself to you so easily, and to ask for you back. And you said yes.

"Aragorn? Love?"

He escaped his thoughts and looked at you. You were blurry.

"Aragorn, why are you crying?"

The king blinked and felt hot tears fall down his flushed cheeks. "Um," he choked out, quickly wiping his eyes with his robe sleeves. "Sorry, Y/N."

"Hey," you softly spoke out. You grabbed his face and forced him to look at you. His face felt so delicate in your hands, like he was trembling, desperate, hungry.

"What's going on? Is there something you should tell me?"

How could he? Oh, how ever could he? Does he just do it?

"I think I'm in love with you, Y/N," he blurted out.

Tears continued piling down his cheeks, only he saw your face through them, and saw some cascading down your soft skin as well.

"What?"

"I'm... in love with you. Holy fuck Y/N, I am so fucking in love with you."

"Aragorn, stop it. You're drunk."

"No! I'm not! I know what I'm saying! Please believe me." He had a grasp of your shoulders in his strong hands. You felt his grip tighten on you, like he was terrified you were going to run away.

"Please, for the love of the Valar Y/N, please believe me. I have been so in love with you for so long, and I desire every part of you with every inch of my being. It scares me how much I want you."

Aragorn pushed himself towards you, hands going to your waist and face forcing itself into your neck. He sobbed, and you felt the wetness of his tears coat your skin.

He smelled so strongly of wine, pipeweed and the overwhelming desire to hold you close so you'd never leave, like you were forged just for none but him to claim.

He was in love with you. Aragorn loved you. And he always had. This stupid idiot of a king had always loved you and never said anything. That dumb bastard.

You returned his tender and fragile embrace, nuzzling your face as close as you could into his ebony hair and your hands clasping desperately at his broad back. Your legs were a tangled mess on the carpeted floor.

"You're so stupid," you sobbed out. "You should've told me, you dumb idiot."

Aragorn laughed through tears into your neck.

You pulled back from his embrace, and so did he. He put a hand to your cheek to wipe away the wetness with his thumb.

Your face was flushed with tears. Your lips were red, swollen, and panting. Your eyes glistened and were bordered by wet eyelashes.

You had never looked more perfect in his eyes.

He leant forward, waiting for you to do the same.

And when you did, you crashed your lips onto each other's. A mix of tears, saliva and a hunger sharpened so strongly by restraint, dragging claws on the inside of your hearts.

Nothing in that moment mattered except for each other. You had gotten your Aragorn, the one you so desperately wanted all these years. And nothing could have made you happier in that moment.

You both remained in the library until the sun started peaking out from its grave behind the mountains. You didn't sleep at all. You became tangled in each other's limbs, sharing longing, desired kisses and running your hands along each other, like you had so desperately begged for between each other for so long.

Tomorrow would come, and some discussions would need to be had. He would return as King Elessar and you as the Royal Archivist, but between you, the silence would be comfortable and steeped in the echo of a long awaited confession.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Translation Guide:

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

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

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