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.