#moicamaqua

Elrohir had noticed Legolas’s “discreet” attempts at decking nearly every doorway with mistletoe. Legolas and Tauriel had come to Elrond’s house for Christmas lunch, and they would go home to Thranduil’s that night. Legolas had come prepared with several stalks of the plant, which he had taped up haphazardly with scotch tape. Elrohir knew exactly what Legolas was trying to do, but he’d just rolled his eyes and resolved not to go through a door at the same time as Tauriel.

Yet she foiled that plan, for apparently she hadn’t noticed and she stepped beside him as he went through to the living room. Legolas immediately appeared in front of them, grinning ear-to-ear.

“Look,” he said, pointing above them, and Elrohir winced. “Mistletoe!”

His face was burning and he did not meet Tauriel’s eyes.

“D-do you want to?”

“If- if you want to.”  

Tauriel blushed, shooting Legolas a look out of the corner of her eye when she finally noticed the mistletoe.  She should have been ready, really, after seeing him grab so much before they left-- she’d just teased him about it and didn’t ask questions.  

That was poor judgement on her part.  

The familiar senses of Imladris often swarmed over Aragorn. For him it was more than simply the last homely home, it was refuge, it was the resting place of countless memories. The rustle of many-colored leaves. The sound of soft fingers on harp strings. The warm breeze that swept over the mountain mists. Oft it would overwhelm him, leaving him in a nostalgic trance of quiet hums and heavy eyes.

Even with his awareness dulled, the ranger’s sharp ears caught the sound of near silent footsteps behind him. A turn of his chest and neck gave him sight of his new companion. Most would be gripped by uncertainty, but not this particular man. The twins sons of Elrond were all but identical. They were old already when Aragorn was young, but he had grown among them and as such had come to see the subtle differences. This was Elrohir.

Not a day would pass when her sons’ presence couldn’t draw a smile on her face. Her light and her star, and of course her beautiful flower, Arwen. There had never been a greater blessing than her children, both her and Elrond had come to the conclusion the very second they laid eyes on them.

Freshly picked flowers in her hand, a hum escaping her lips, Celebrían almost missed Elrohir’s presence --- a thought she wasn’t too fond of.  ❝ I have not seen you since dawn, tinwe. ❞  Reaching out to take one of his hands, the lady mentions for him to join her on her walk.  ❝ The garden is flourishing beautifully on this day. ❞

He rarely goes without a shirt, and he supposes that the reason will be obvious to her now that she sees him.

It is hot, and being half-elven as he is he cannot easily withstand extreme temperatures; though he is glad for the heat, he has resigned himself to wearing only loose pants in bed, for anything else will make him feel too overheated to sleep. He is not expecting any visitors, and as he hears her knock and the sound of her voice he immediately gets up from his chair and goes to the table where his robe is. He hears her come in, and he is not quite fast enough in putting the robe about his shoulders to stop her from seeing the scar on his back, just below his left shoulder blade.

Once the robe is around his shoulders he turns with a soft sigh. Only a moment passes before her hands are on him, one on his shoulder, gently protective, and the other hovering above the wound on his chest, the mirror of its partner on the other side. Together, they are clear signs of a blade that went all the way through his body, now many years ago.

“It was a long time ago,” he assures her, though his gut coils with worry at the possibility of her being revolted by the sight of him. He would much rather have kept this to himself, but he has no choice in the matter now. “It’s all right.”

“Alright...”  

Such scars rarely plague full-blooded Elves, so when Tauriel sees the gash across his back all the way through to his front, she cannot help but to rush over to him.  For a moment, she thinks his wounds to be fresh-- who wouldn’t have?  

He can feel the blood pouring out of him.

It is an odd feeling, and an uncomfortable one, and the shock is so great that all he feels is that strangeness, and not the pain. He has already put his hands haphazardly over the wound at his side, pressing as hard as his growing weakness will allow. It’s not enough, and now his fingers are sticky and warm.

“Pressure. Pressure.” It is an instinct that draws the word from him, a half-formed thought in his mind, for he knows that he needs the bleeding to stop, he needs stitches, he needs something before he loses too much, loses his life. He’s scrambling until he grasps her hands and he pulls them to his side, though if he were in his right mind he would know that she was likely about to do that already. His breathing is shaky and strained, whistling through clenched teeth. His eyes are squeezed shut.

“I’ll be f-fine. I’ll be fine.”

“Iston.  Iston.”  He will be fine, he will be fine, of course he will.  Tauriel dares not let herself think of the alternative, for the Valar would never put her through such pain.  Not him.  

“Elrohir, tiro enni,” she whispers, leaning over to briefly kiss his forehead, though she keeps her hands pressed tightly against the wound.  The rest of the patrol is near, she knows, they must be close yet-- and the sounds of the ambush were difficult to miss.  Twelve orcs against two.  How had she let this happen?  

“I don’t like holding them this way,” he said. The knives were small and did not have the heft of a sword in his hands, and he felt distinctly uncomfortable, like he might drop them or not grip their thin hilts tightly enough. She had shown him how to grasp them backwards, so that when he put out his fists, the blades pointed downwards. It made him feel vulnerable, for he had to lift his hand high to protect his chest.

“I feel like I’m going to cut myself. I don’t think I’m holding them right.”

“I won’t let you hurt yourself, hír nín.”  

It was still a bit of a habit for her, to call him as such.  Elrohir and Tauriel had grown closer as of late, spending more time together-- and her trips to Imladris had increased in number, as well.  She found herself looking forward to seeing him.  

“Hold them however it feels most natural,” she said, arms crossed in front of her-- despite his position, she found herself reverting back to being a teacher, as she did often in Mirkwood.  

WEAPON BASED SENTENCE PROMPTS .

“Nothing, hír nín.  I am simply admiring the craftsmanship of it.”  

Tauriel smiles, a mischievous glint in her eye as she glances up at the Lord’s son, his weapon in hand.  It is a longbow, a weapon she has some experience with; yet her own is a recurve, and Elrohir’s bow remains unfamiliar in her hands.  

“It is rather large,” she mumbles, absentmindedly, tracing along the designs in the woodwork.  The elleth smirks, daring to look up at him again before she draws back the string of the bow, miming shooting it.  

“I don’t suppose you are compensating for something?”

⨳ — TYPES OF HUGS;

“I’ll come to bed soon, love.”  

It is so quiet around them that Tauriel feels the need to whisper, so as not to break the silence in their chambers.  She has been at her desk for nigh on six hours now, reading through reports, trying to catch up on everything missed while they were living in Imladris.  Such has become routine, since they were married; moving from Greenwood to Rivendell, and back after a few years.  There is so much left still to read; it is not required of her, but she is anxious for any news of her people’s fight.