#vayawrites

King Thranduil was in the midst of negotiating a trading contract with a smaller Elvish kingdom near the Forodwaith. The emissaries hailed from a relatively obscure realm beyond those northern lines, called Nimvael, often referred to as ‘The Pale Vale,’ for it had begun to fade into subtle desolation as its resources ran dry with cold. It’s a kingdom that time and progress had seemingly left behind as Rivendell, Lothlórien, and Greenwood rose to prominence. The elves of Nimvael were outliers, if one were inclined to be polite; yet still, they were pretentious and insistent upon respect, perhaps even more so than their larger counterparts.

Their king, Lord Falivirn, sat at the long rectangular table alongside his representatives. He was facing King Thranduil, Prince Legolas, and several advisors of the Woodland Realm. Sharp, coarse voices filled the chamber as negotiations dragged on—altogether rather dull, if you asked (Y/N). Of course, no one had asked her. It was not her place to weigh in on matters of trade or diplomacy.

Her duty today was far simpler: she was one of two sentries assigned to Prince Legolas, tasked with remaining at his side like sap clinging to a wounded pine. In recent weeks, veiled threats against the Greenwood royal line had reached Thranduil’s ears, prompting the king to order constant protection for his son. It was not known if these threats came from Lord Falivirn and his men, but the Woodland King was not willing to take any chances—especially while the northerners were staying in his halls. (Y/N) had been chosen for the next rotation, and today marked her first day in the role.

The negotiations dragged on for hours, forcing (Y/N) to expend every bit of energy maintaining focus on the subtle movements of each individual and tracking anything directed toward Prince Legolas. It was not entirely difficult; she had been trained as a warrior since she was a young ellethling, and her charge was, by her own admission, easy on the eyes. Yet still, when the conversation wrapped up, at least for this meeting, (Y/N) felt a distinct sense of relief, for her eyes were burning from staring at the same surroundings for so long.

She and the other sentry, Ruthion, moved to Legolas’ side as he stood. They followed him through the vast doors, finally exiting the chamber. (Y/N) inhaled subtly, taking in the fresh air from the hall and letting her form adjust to the regular bustling of the Greenwood. Maids and servants moved quickly, weaving in and out of each other’s ways as they went upon their daily tasks, giving the Prince nods of respect as he passed by them.

Ruthion and (Y/N) continued trailing Legolas through the stone walls, and when the congestion of people lightened, Legolas spoke—the pace of his steps steady. “Ruthion, you have been by my side for the past couple of weeks. What is your opinion of Lord Falivirn?”

The sentry cleared his throat before speaking, his tone firm and stern. “He is a strong leader and a worthy ruler with whom your father may form a treaty. I believe he will bring prosperity to our kingdom through the trade of coal and other minerals that the Forodwaith holds.”

Legolas glanced over his shoulder, just for a moment, at the new elleth, before facing forward and addressing her. “And you? What are your thoughts on Lord Falivirn.”

(Y/N)’s expression held no emotion as she replied, “I believe him to be something of an arsehole, sire.”

Legolas turned his head to look at her again, his brows lifting as the faintest hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

This seemed to cause her to realize the reality of the words she had just spoken, clearly not thinking of the company she held, for her lips parted and her eyes widened.

He, however, just faced forward once more, the smirk softened into a subtle grin, not that she could see. “And your name?”

“(Y/N),” she answered with a nervous swallow.

“Your candor is noted, (Y/N). Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he replied, his tone steady despite that faint curl lingering upon his lips.

….

As the weeks passed, (Y/N) continued her role as one of the Prince’s sentries, occasionally taking on extra shifts of routine guard duty, such as watching the throne room or guarding the entryway—dispite the exhaustion the additional work caused. This evening, she was assigned the night watch over Legolas, a duty typically reserved for a single guard outside his door.

As she and Legolas approached his chambers, their arms full with scrolls, maps, and books that he had selected from the archive, he said, “Come in and place them on the table there. I wish to review them before I rest.”

(Y/N) did as he asked, setting the scrolls and maps down before moving to stand against the wall near the closed chamber door. She would remain there, silent and watchful, until the Prince dismissed her to the hall and retired for the night.

Legolas sat at the table and began to sort through the various parchments. His blue eyes briefly drifted up towards the elleth on duty. “(Y/N), you need not be so formal with me.” He nodded to the chair beside him, “Sit. Help me with these.”

Hesitantly, the sentry obeyed, a hint of nervousness in her step. She pulled the chair out beside him and began sifting through the materials. “And what shall I be looking for, My Lord?”

“(Y/N), what did I say about formality?”

She frowned, “To not be so, Sire.”

He raised his brows at her as she referred to him with a title.

She blinked before correcting herself with uncertainty. “...Legolas.”

Seemingly satisfied, he continued their previous conversation. “Look for anything concerning the lands of the Forodwaith. I have a feeling there is more to Nimvael’s pursuit of this alliance, and I question Falivirn’s motives.”

(Y/N) frowned again, “You feel as if Nimvael will not uphold their end of the bargain?”

He shook his head, “I feel as if there is more to the bargain that we do not know of.”

With that, the two elves bent over the piles of scrolls and maps before them.

….

The following morning, (Y/N) stood as still as a forest deer, blending into her surroundings. Stationed outside the throne room doors, she tracked every passerby, taking careful mental note of those requesting an audience with the king. Even so, she could not deny the weariness clinging to her mind like a heavy fog, making the task more difficult than it should have been.

She had been awake all night, poring over texts with the Prince until he finally bid her farewell, and she took up her post outside his chamber. Working today, her designated day off, would only deepen her exhaustion, especially now that she was regularly assigned as one of Legolas’ sentries. Yet, she needed the extra coin. They needed the extra coin.

And so she stood, fatigue settled deep in her bones, for those she cared for.

As she held her current post, Legolas approached, two sentries trailing in his wake—as expected. She watched him advance toward the towering doors, determination and authority evident in every step. His expression was stoic and assured—each movement measured, as though he was sure of every motion. Oh, how (Y/N) wished she possessed even a fraction of that certainty herself. With things as complicated as they were in her life, she felt as if every decision was the wrong one. Just once, she wished it could be simple, easy.

That is when Legolas’ expression shifted, ever so slightly. It was not any movement of his face, but rather his eyes. They focused on her and instantly became clouded with subtle confusion. It was as though he questioned her presence before the throne room doors, and little did she know that very thought was indeed the one claiming the corners of his mind.

Legolas knew he let his gaze linger on (Y/N) just a moment too long as she pulled open the door to the throne room for him. She had been stationed outside his chambers all night—she was not meant to be on duty today. The Greenwood Guard’s schedules were fair, carefully balanced to ensure no one was overworked, and yet he could see it: the subtle weight of exhaustion in her bearing.

Yet, before his thoughts could follow that line of questioning any further, his father’s voice echoed across the stone hall. “Ah, Legolas, what is it?”

Legolas met his father’s gaze, the blue of Thranduil’s eyes not so different from his own. “Do you have a moment of privacy, Ada (father)?”

Thranduil lifted his eyes from the scroll in his hand and studied his son. A brief, unspoken exchange passed between them before the King inclined his head and gestured to the guards, dismissing them from the room.

When the heavy doors closed once more, the soft thud of wood against stone carried an air of unease. Thranduil rose from his adorned throne and approached Legolas, concern threading his voice. “We did not lose another on patrol, did we?”

Legolas shook his head. “No, Ada (father). This concerns Lord Falivirn.”

The King’s brows lifted in question.

“I cannot say why, but something about him, and this treaty, troubles me. I fear there may be ulterior motives at play.”

Thranduil exhaled, his tone tinged with mild dismissal. “There are always ulterior motives in negotiations, Legolas.”

“The guards believe him to be an arsehole.”

The King snorted at the vulgar language before replying. “All of the guards?”

Legolas shifted his weight. “Well… no. Just one.”

Thranduil’s brows remained raised as he spoke. “Just one? A single guard with an uncourtly tongue?” He paused. “And why should this concern me? Is he a sector leader? Second in command of the greater host? Aredhel, perhaps—or Belthon?”

“One of my sentries. (Y/N).”

“Legolas, the thoughts of one female sentry hardly warrant reconsideration of my stance in matters of diplomacy—”

The Prince cut him off. “I am inclined to agree with her, Ada (father).” He hesitated, then continued, “I do not trust the people of Nimvael. My instincts tell me something is amiss.”

The King inhaled deeply before shaking his head, yielding to his son’s unspoken request. “You are free to examine it, if you must. Only do so with discretion, and do not disturb the course of the negotiations.”

“Yes, Ada (father),” Legolas stated, bowing his head.

…..

By day, the treaty negotiations dragged on. They were heated and tense, swinging between sharp disagreement and brief hard-won decisions, only to tumble back into argument again. And night after night, whenever (Y/N) was assigned to watch over the Prince, the two of them returned to their quiet ritual, heads bent over literature, studying the history of Forodwaith in a deep, focused silence.

It was one of those nights, with the moon high in the sky and the stars shimmering in its light, when (Y/N) came across something peculiar. Her soft voice broke the quiet, “I’ve found something, though I’m not quite sure what it means.”

Legolas set aside the scroll he had been poring over and leaned closer, his shoulder brushing against hers as he examined the ancient text. If anyone asked him, he would deny that that touch of skin was anything but accidental. Luckily for him, no one was asking.

(Y/N) swallowed, feeling the heat of his presence, but of course said nothing of it. “Here,” she murmured, tracing a passage with her finger. “The author warns against the depths of Forodwaith, near The Pale Vale. Nothing more than mentions of the First Age. I do not know what it signifies.”

His warm breath whispered against her neck as he spoke again. “Strange…Keep looking into it. I am rather curious.”

As the night continued, the candles dwindled, and (Y/N)’s eyes began to get heavy. She held her chin up with her hand as she continued to scan the passages; but, before long, the Sindarin and Quenya words of Greenwood’s great scholars began to blur together, slipping past her comprehension as fatigue settled over her mind. She didn’t notice as her head got lower and lower to the table. And, soon enough, she slipped into the land of dreams.

Before long, Legolas’s gaze drifted to the sentry at his side. Her head rested on her bent arm atop the table, her weary face turned toward him, and a page from the book pressed against her cheek. Her eyes were closed, lips parting just barely, and her breathing flowed in a calm, even rhythm. The light from the dimming candles reflected on her skin, accentuating the natural curves of her face and jaw. She looked so peaceful, yet so worn down.

“(Y/N),” he said, softly. Yet, she did not stir.

Legolas sighed as he reached towards her, wiping a loose strand of hair from her face. In a subtle murmur, he spoke, moreso to himself than to her. “What happens to the time when you are supposed to be resting, my tired sentry?”

With that, he rose from his chair, careful not to disturb the quiet of the room. He approached his bed and drew back the covers before turning his attention back to (Y/N).

Gently, he gathered her into his arms, her legs draped lightly over his forearm, her head resting against his chest. She did not move, not even a murmur. Her breathing was soft and steady—she was fast asleep, completely unaware of his careful embrace.

With quiet reverence, he laid her gently upon the mattress. He eased the sword and weapons belt from her waist, placing them with care on the bedside table, then he slid her boots off and set them neatly on the floor. Drawing the comforter and sheets around her, he wrapped her in a soft, protective cocoon. With this motion, a quiet, unconscious breath escaped her lips, and she sank further into the warmth and safety of his bed—utterly unaware of the careful devotion that surrounded her.

A soft smile lingered on Legolas’ lips as he looked down at her. He then moved to an armchair in the corner of the room, settling into it comfortably. His gaze fell on the woman in his bed, and he could not suppress the prideful smirk tugging at his lips. He could not explain it, but something about seeing her resting there filled him with a quiet, cheeky pride. And, with that, he let his eyelids close as he too drifted into slumber.

….

The first rays of the morning sun had begun to spill over Greenwood’s lands the next day, and Legolas rose quickly from the armchair to attend to his morning routine, occasionally glancing at the sentry sound asleep among his sheets.

When he was ready to begin his day, he walked toward the bedside, a soft, playful energy in his movements. He paused a few feet away, watching (Y/N) sleep with quiet amusement and something like fond admiration in his gaze.

Loudly, he cleared his throat.

Immediately, (Y/N)’s eyes flew open, landing on his face. It took only a moment for her to recognize him, and she scrambled from the sheets, but her escape was anything but graceful. She fumbled in the tangled bedding and tumbled onto the stone floor with a loud thud.

Her eyes focused on his sturdy leather shoes. “M—my lord! What—what are you doing in my chambers? Am I…am I late? I—I swear, it won’t happen again—”

He cleared his throat, again, amused.

Slowly, she lifted her eyes to meet his, and the reality of her surroundings finally registered. “This…this is not my room,” she stammered. “This is your room.”

He clenched his jaw; however, the corners of his mouth betrayed a faint, restrained grin. “I have many tasks to attend to today. We must make haste.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” she stammered, not picking up on his humor. She sprang to her feet and fumbled with her boots and weapons as she trailed him toward the wooden door. “I—I, um…could we…perhaps stop by my chambers for a moment? I–I’d like to make myself a bit more presentable instead of wearing…you know…yesterday’s clothing, Sire.”

He inclined his head, a hint of amusement still present in his eyes. “So long as you are swift about it.” With that, he turned the doorknob and departed, still grinning, while she hurried after him, cheeks warm and heart racing.

Luckily for her, it was still early, and the halls lay quiet, ensuring that no one was there to witness her rather unkempt appearance as she followed the Prince. Oh Valar, if anyone had seen her like this—with him—what scandalous thoughts might they entertain?!

As they entered (Y/N)’s room, she quickly pulled fresh clothing from her closet and drawers. She was rather surprised that the Prince had followed her inside, but she chose not to comment on it. Making her way to the adjoining bathing chamber, she spoke to Legolas, who was quietly examining her room, clearly trying to get a deeper sense of who she was outside of her role as a sentry.

“Feel free to sit. I’ll only be a moment.”

He only nodded as she disappeared behind the closed door.

Legolas continued to let his vision wander over the room, taking in the vast forest tapestry on the wall, the various notebooks strewn about, and the burnt-down candles that were in desperate need of replacement. Finally, his gaze fell upon the small table and chairs beside him. A pile of unopened letters lay on the smooth surface. He frowned as his eyes settled on the pale blue envelope on top. The writing was in the common tongue, and the address to (Y/N) was drawn out and scrawled, slightly crude but legible—a style uncommon in Greenwood. Curiosity begged him to reach for it, but before temptation could claim him, the door to the bathing chamber creaked open. (Y/N) emerged, dressed and refreshed, sleep gone from her eyes, and her hair neatly arranged.

“So,” she said brightly, “Where to first?”

“The Sentinel’s Hall. I have some paperwork I must review for the patrols,” he lied.

She nodded in reply, and the pair exited her room, making their way through the halls. As they neared their destination, Ruthion joined them, falling in step with (Y/N) behind Legolas.

“My apologies, my lord,” he stated. “You were not in your chambers when I arrived this morning, and it took me some time to find you.”

Legolas did not turn. “I woke early,” he replied simply.

Ruthion shot (Y/N) a brief glare, clearly annoyed that she had beaten him to their station for the day and avoided the embarrassment of being late. Little did he know of the embarrassment (Y/N) had just endured.

As they arrived at Sentinel’s Hall, (Y/N) and Ruthion took position just inside the doors, and Legolas approached the main podium.

“Bring me the records of recent patrols, guard schedules, and all recent guard requests, going back a month, both approved and denied, as well as any new ones, please,” Legolas commanded to the archivist.

The archivist nodded, gathered the material requested, and placed it in front of Legolas. The Prince began leafing through the rather large pile of papers, searching for one name, and one name only: (Y/N).

It did not take long for him to find her file, crudely clipped together. Four duty requests for additional hours of basic door duty lay at the top, each stamped with a large, scrawled “Approved,” while three additional requests for extra shifts remained unmarked, waiting for approval. Legolas’ eyes lingered on them for a moment before glancing up at the woman herself. Her eyes were trained on the exits of the Sentinel’s Hall, examining intently for any threat, clearly unaware of Legolas’ subtle observation.

What drove her to take on so much additional duty when she clearly was exhausted?

The Prince turned back to the documents before him, flipping to the final sheet in her requests. It was a request for a full week off next month—unmarked, awaiting approval.

Legolas looked up at her once again, a mixture of curiosity and puzzlement weaving through his body.

He turned back to the vast pile of papers, paging through the various patrol rosters with deliberate care, masking his true focus on (Y/N)’s assignments behind the pretense of routine work. His eyes drifted over the other names, but his thoughts remained fixed on her.

…..

That evening, (Y/N) took her place in the Greenwood dining hall, which brimmed with the liveliness of the castle’s residents—guards, servants, maids, wards, and the visiting representatives from Nimvael. The hall stretched long and lofty, its vaulted ceiling upheld by carved pillars that seemed to reach for the sky itself. Moonlight spilled softly through the tall, arched windows, bathing the floor and the long tables in a warm glow. Banners of emerald and silver, embroidered with the sigils of Greenwood, swayed faintly in the whispering draft. At the far end, the high table rose upon a raised platform, where the King, the Prince, their advisors, and distinguished guests—Lord Falivirn among them—were already seated. Their presence was both commanding and graceful, drawing the eye even amid the hum of attendants and sentries moving through the hall like a river.

(Y/N) was dining with some of her closest friends, Nessa, Anari, and Faelwyn.

“And you, (Y/N),” Nessa began, a dark-haired elleth with skin the rich hue of polished mahogany, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. “How fares life as the Prince’s sentry? I still cannot believe you were given that posting.”

(Y/N)’s cheeks warmed at once, the memories of the morning flashing far too vividly in her mind. “It was uneventful,” she said, far too quickly.

Anari’s green eyes narrowed, sharp and knowing. “Then why are your cheeks the color of winter berries?”

(Y/N) groaned, dropping her head briefly into her hands. “It truly was nothing.”

Anari leaned closer, a mischievous grin spreading across her face as she wiggled her brows. “Did things grow warm between you and the Prince?” she teased.

“No! Absolutely not,” (Y/N) blurted, her voice rising before she caught herself. She glanced about the hall, ensuring no curious ears lingered nearby, then leaned in and lowered her voice. “I just, well, I might have woken up in his bed.”

Faelwyn sputtered, nearly choking as she spat her red wine back into her cup, the ends of her long golden hair catching a splash. “You what?!” she exclaimed.

“Shhh!” (Y/N) hissed, glancing about the hall once again. “I—I do not quite know how it happened.”

At this point, all the women were leaning in.

“What do you mean you do not know how it happened?” Nessa pressed, eyes wide. “Did you—”

“No!” (Y/N) cut in quickly. “He had me assisting with research concerning the treaty. I suppose I fell asleep at the table in his chambers, and when morning came, I woke to find him standing over me… while I was tucked into his bed.”

Anari’s voice dropped to a whisper, sharp with curiosity. “Did he sleep beside you?”

“Well—no. At least, I do not think so,” (Y/N) said, her voice faltering. “That side of the bed was still made—”

Faelwyn leaned in even closer, her eyes shining with wicked delight as she interrupted, “(Y/N), you do realize what that means, don’t you? He carried you. He picked you up and placed you in his bed.”

(Y/N)’s face burned. “That does not mean anything,” she whispered fiercely. “He was only being…kind.”

“Kind?” Anari echoed, one brow arching. “Most princes do not carry their sentries to bed.”

The sentry groaned. “I really believe you are over exaggerating the meaning behind this.”

Nessa then spoke, “Well, then tell me, did he look displeased the following morning?”

All eyes focused on (Y/N). “…no,” she admitted, hesitantly.

The three women exchanged knowing looks.

“What?!” (Y/N) hissed. “Why are you all looking at me like that?”

Anari leaned back, grinning, folding her arms. “Then I fear it is already too late for you.”

“Too late?” (Y/N) questioned.

Faelwyn raised her cup in a silent toast, her eyes shimmering with glee. “Congratulations, my dear. You have been noticed.”

(Y/N) snorted, “I am not toasting to that.”

A sudden voice, low and unmistakably confident, spoke from behind her. “You're not toasting to what?”

The blood drained from (Y/N)’s face, leaving her cold all at once. Her eyes snapped to Faelwyn and Nessa across the table, both frozen mid-breath; while, beside her, Anari’s body went taut—every trace of mischief vanishing in an instant.

Prince Legolas.

(Y/N) turned her head slowly, silently praying to the valar that he had not overheard their conversation. “My lord,” she began carefully, “Is there a reason for your presence here?” She gestured toward the high table. “Shouldn’t you be seated there?”

“(Y/N),” he said mildly, “must you still insist on the formality?”

“Right, my apologies,” she hesitated, “…Legolas.”

He placed a hand upon her shoulder, and her stomach dropped at the contact.

“May I have a moment to speak with you in the hall?” he asked quietly.

She nodded at once. “Yes, of course.” She rose from the dining table and followed him, casting one last brief glance back at her friends—who, of course, were sending her unabashedly mischievous looks.

The heavy wooden doors closed behind them, and the chill of the hall rushed in, the sudden silence striking her to the bone. Anxiety continued to bubble in the sentry’s veins, claiming all of her attention. “May I ask what this is about?

Legolas lowered his voice. “Before dinner, after you were dismissed from your shift, I continued research into the Forodwaith—and I believe I uncovered something of importance. In the First Age, Forodwaith was a place where Morgoth claimed many of his servants, corrupting them.”

“Yes, this is known,” (Y/N) replied.

Legolas shook his head, indicating there was more. “I believe Nimvael was where he dwelt before claiming Mordor—where he first experimented upon Elves. The texts speak of a curse upon all who dared to dwell there, a binding evil of corruption and manipulation. It is as if the shadows of his experiments still linger.”

(Y/N) swallowed dryly. “Do you think this curse is real?”

Legolas exhaled slowly. “I do not know.”

…..

As the final treaty meeting dragged on a month later, the signings at last began. Legolas’s gaze drifted to his sentry, curious as to her thoughts on this concluding act, given their shared wariness of Nimvael. She stood motionless at her post by the door, yet upon closer inspection, that stillness was not born of discipline. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her lids fluttered, wavering between wakefulness and sleep. She was on the brink of exhaustion, weighed down by utter fatigue.

Immediately, unease settled deep in Legolas’s chest. Still, she got no rest. Whatever compelled her to forgo sleep and take on extra hours had clearly gone too far.

After the final signature was etched onto the page, Legolas stood, along with every other representative in the room. Celebratory words were exchanged among them all, yet Legolas did not revel in it. Instead, he moved towards his two sentries. As he passed by (Y/N), he subtly reached for her wrist. As he found the warmth of her skin in his own, he gave it a firm squeeze in an effort to wake her without anyone noticing she had not been fully conscious. And, it appeared to have worked, for her eyes flung open, meeting Legolas’ for just a moment. No words needed to be spoken, (Y/N) just followed him and Ruthion through the vast doors.

The day seemed to drag endlessly, much to (Y/N)’s displeasure; however, the moment the moon rose in the sky and the Prince dismissed both her and Ruthion, she headed straight for her chambers. There, she hurriedly packed a bag, stuffing it with spare clothing, her weapons, money, and whatever food she had managed to snatch from the kitchens over the past three days. She was quick to begin decorating her form with the Greenwood Guard armor and strap her various weapons to her body.

It was then that the sound of creaking wood struck her ears. Instantly, her head snapped in the direction of the door, only for her gaze to fall upon the blonde Prince.

Upon seeing her shocked expression, Legolas spoke softly, “It was not latched. I did not intend to frighten you.”

“Oh,” was her soft reply.

He stepped into the small room as he spoke again, “You're leaving.”

She did not dare look at him, focusing intently on strapping her weapons belt around her hips. “I will be back.”

“You asked for a week away,” he said. “After driving yourself past exhaustion. That concerns me.”

She frowned, briefly glancing up at him as she fumbled with the clasp. “How do you know of that, Sire?”

“You are one of my sentries, and I am the Prince. Of course, I know your schedule,” he said. “Besides, your fatigue has not escaped my attention.”

(Y/N) sighed, now working on fastening her vanbrace onto her forearm. “If you must know, I’m traveling to the market to pick up some silks for Nessa.”

Legolas lifted a brow. “Strange. Earlier, I overheard you telling her that you were scouting for rare herbs—under my orders.”

A soft curse slipped from (Y/N)’s lips as her fingers fumbled with the leather. Legolas could not tell whether the language was prompted by being caught in a lie or by the stubborn strap itself.

He stepped closer, gently taking the fastening from her hands and began securing it for her. “With armor like this,” he started quietly, “you would be traveling through the forest, where it has been struck by sickness. So tell me, what is the true reason for your leave?”

Her heart raced as she glanced up at him, aware of the warmth of his breath against her face. She forced her expression into practiced neutrality. “My business is my own.”

“(Y/N),” Legolas murmured, lifting her chin with his fingers, forcing her gaze upon his own. “Are you in trouble?”

She pulled away from him, averting her eyes. “No, of course not, my lord.”

“(Y/N),” he repeated, barely above a whisper.

She brushed past him, seizing her bag from where it rested upon the bed. “I have to go,” she said quickly. “I’m sorry.”

With that, she slipped from the room, leaving him alone amid the quiet shadows of unsurness and defeat.

….

It was just before midnight, the following day, when (Y/N) dismounted her steed in the quiet village of Ealdor. Through the gentle fall of snow, her eyes focused on the stone house on the far eastern end of the settlement, the one that she knew well. Twas simple in structure, yet it exuded a warm, inviting air. The thatched roof lent the home a snug, comforting atmosphere—one of homeliness and hospitality. A lantern glowed in the window, welcoming her arrival, and the gentle scent of chamomile tea drifted on the night air, promising the comfort she knew was there.

She approached rather quickly, eager with excitement, and tied the reins of her steed to the wooden fence post. As she raised her fist to the door, it not yet making contact, it flung open. There stood an old woman with silvery-white hair and a comforting grin upon her face.

“Elsbeth!” (Y/N) exclaimed.

“Oh, sweet, sweet (Y/N)! Come, hug your old niece! It has been far too long.”

(Y/N) wasted no time wrapping Elsbeth in her arms. “Oh, how I have missed you dearly.”

Elsbeth laughed softly. “Come, come, I have a cup of hot tea waiting for you. Aeliana and the children are asleep—let’s not wake them.”

(Y/N) and Elsbeth sat at the kitchen table, sipping the hot tea, letting its warmth chase away the chill of the winter air. They whiled away the hour in quiet conversation, speaking of the days that had passed, of small joys and burdens alike, and letting their words drift back to memories from their family line.

However, the gentle atmosphere, a hidden moment in time, was interrupted. (Y/N) turned her head as a frown crossed her face.

“What is it?” Elsbeth asked, concern sharpening her tone. “What do you hear?”

The sentry’s eyes drifted to the window, the curtains drawn, blocking her view. “Hooves. Someone is entering the village.”

Elsbeth stood, making her way to the window. “At this hour—besides you?” She pulled the curtain back, just enough to peer outside, before turning to the elleth. “It’s an elf. One of your people, I presume.”

(Y/N)’s frown deepened as she too stood. “I was followed?” She moved to the window and glanced out into the moonlight. And there he was—Prince Legolas, upon his steed and decorated in armor and weaponry.

(Y/N) rolled her eyes, and a curse slipped from her lips.

Elsbeth arched a brow, a knowing note entering her voice. “I take it you know this fellow, then—hmm?”

She only nodded in reply, watching as he dismounted and tied his steed to the post beside her own, giving her horse a gentle pat as he did so. He then made his way towards the door, and a soft, gentle knock sounded.

The old woman was quick to make her way to the door, muttering softly, “Well, seeing as he is already here…”

“Wait—“ (Y/N) protested, but it was too late.

Elsbeth pulled the door open, and before she could greet the elf upon the threshold, (Y/N) appeared at her side.

“What are you doing here?” (Y/N) demanded, her tone sharp.

The Prince’s gaze softened the moment he saw her, snowflakes clinging to the pale crown of his hair. “I was concerned about you.”

“Legolas,” she hissed, casting a quick glance toward the neighboring houses, suddenly aware of how easily the village might stir. She seized his muscled bicep and pulled him inside, Elsbeth closing the door behind them. “I told you there was no need to worry and that my business is my own.”

“You were traveling through the sick forest at night. The spiders tend to stir when they are disturbed by sound,” he replied.

“I know,” she said curtly. “I can take care of myself.”

“I know that you can.” Legolas answered evenly, “I saw the trail of corpses you left behind as I tracked you.”

“You followed me?!”

“You lied to me,” he rebutted.

“I am entitled to the privacy of my own affairs—“

Elsbeth interrupted, her tone brisk but amused. “Are the two of you going to continue to bicker in my home or, (Y/N), are you going to introduce me to this fine fellow?”

The sentry huffed, then drew a steadying breath. “Elsbeth, this is Legolas. He is—“

“I serve in the Greenwood Guard alongside (Y/N),” the Prince interjected.

The sentry shot him a sharp look, displeased both by the interruption and by the half-truth he had offered in place of his full title. He tended not to like his titles, she had observed.

“It is my pleasure to meet you,” Legolas stated, placing his hand upon his heart and extending it towards the older woman.

“Humans do not greet one another like that,” (Y/N) interjected, leaning closer to murmur the correction. “They shake hands.”

“Ahh, right,” he replied, extending his hand again, this time with casual uncertainty.

“Nonsense,” Elsbeth fussed. “Any friend of (Y/N)’s is a friend of mine.” With that, she pulled Legolas into a warm embrace, much to his surprise, his armor clanking.

“Elsbeth!” (Y/N) chided, which of course was ignored.

“Now,” the older woman said as she released him, “Would you like a cup of hot tea? It is rather cold out there with that snow falling.

Legolas smiled warmly, “That would be lovely, Elsbeth. I would gladly accept.”

As the older woman disappeared into the kitchen, (Y/N) quickly drew Legolas aside. Lowering her voice, she hissed, “Sire—the Greenwood Guard isn’t going to descend on this place searching for you, are they?”

“Of course not,” he replied calmly.

She crossed her arms, jaw tightening. “You told your father, then?”

“Well, no. I left word with Ruthion.”

“This is serious. These people—these people could get hurt if your father learns you are here.”

“(Y/N),” he began gently, glancing toward the kitchen where Elsbeth moved about. “Who are these people?”

“I—“ she began, but her words were cut short.

Elsbeth’s voice rang out from the other room, sharp and amused. “Enough of your bickering, you two. You sound like my late husband and I. Come drink your tea while it’s still hot.”

Legolas and (Y/N) exchanged a look, silently agreeing to let the disagreement settle where it was…for now.

They moved towards the table, taking seats, as Elsbeth placed two hot cups in front of them.

“Now,” Elsbeth said, “It is late and I fear I need more rest than I used to. I shall take my leave.” She placed a hand upon Legolas' shoulder. “Stay the night, deary. It is too cold out there to travel.” She motioned to the sentry. “Don’t let her force you out either. I expect to see you here in the morning.”

He smiled warmly at her, “Thank you, ma’am.”

With that, Elsbeth retired for the night, leaving the two elves alone. They sat in uneasy silence, cradling their cups as though the warmth might soothe the tension lingering between them.

It felt like an age had passed before Legolas spoke again. “(Y/N), why are you here?”

She sighed, glancing at him once before letting her gaze settle on the pale gold of the tea in her mug. “That woman….Elsbeth. I was there when she was born. She is my niece.”

She looked up then, meeting his eyes. His expression held confusion and surprise, but no hint of judgment.

“My father,” she continued softly, her voice carrying the weight of centuries, “had an affair with a human woman. They had a child—my half-sister. She chose the life of humans, remained in this village, met a man, and fell in love. Together, they had Elsbeth. Elsbeth, in turn, had a daughter of her own, and now her grandchildren walk the earth, carrying only a trace of Elvish blood. That blood is thin now—longer lives than most humans, yes, but only by a decade or so. Soon, even that gift will fade from their line.” She paused, clearing her throat. “They are the only family I have left.”

The Prince's expression softened. “And the rest of your family?” he asked gently. “What became of them?”

Her eyes darkened slightly with memory. “My father and mother were taken from me not long after my half-sister was born. Orcs.” She swallowed. “Your father… well, Greenwood, took me in, and I was brought up among the guards, learning my place, learning duty, learning our culture. And though the years have been long, I have kept watch over what little family remains to me.”

Legolas exhaled slowly, nodding. “That is why you lied. That is why you have been requesting extra shifts. For them.”

“Yes,” she replied. After a moment’s hesitation, she continued. “They need the help. The harvest this year was poor, and raiders have been taking what little they have left. The least I can do is offer a bit of extra coin when I can.”

“Why didn’t you come to me for help?” he asked, with a tone full of genuine concern.

The sentry sighed, letting her eyes settle on him. “I couldn’t have. You—you are a Prince and I am just your sentry. Besides,” she added quietly, “I know how our people speak of unions with humans—of blood that thins with time. It is not kindness that follows such whispers. I could not risk harm coming to them because of me.”

“(Y/N),” he stated softly, gently placing his hand upon her arm. “Rank does not outweigh loyalty. I would never let harm come to your family.”

She stilled at his touch, the weight of centuries of discipline warring with something far more raw, before she replied. “Thank you.”

Silence entered the conversation, just for a moment, before the Prince’s voice rang out again—this time with a hint of humor. “Well, now that I have knowledge of the humanity in your family, at least I can properly understand why you try so hard to lean into formalities and regularly fail.”

Offended, (Y/N) gasped. “I do not regularly fail!”

He grinned. “The first time we spoke you used the term ‘arsehole’ to refer to an elvish lord.”

She snorted. “It was deserved.”

Legolas chuckled lightly in reply.

They spoke until the night thinned around them, Legolas having discarded his armor from his form—placing it next to (Y/N)’s—as he settled into the homeliness of the cottage. They conversed of patrols and careful research, of tales they had never told, and of family gone and those held dear. The tension between them did not fade, but it softened, settling into something unspoken yet steady. And when the first pale light of dawn crept through the drawn curtains, it found them still awake, cups long since gone cold, the world outside unchanged—yet something between them undeniably shifted.

The household slowly began to stir. First came Aeliana, then Elsbeth, then Aeliana’s husband, Samuel, and finally the children—each bounding about with barely contained excitement at the sight of (Y/N).

The seven-year-old, Murie, was the first to reach the table, chatter spilling from her lips as fast as her little feet could carry her.

“Aunt (Y/N)!” She exclaimed, flinging herself into the sentry’s arms.

(Y/N) laughed, quickly hoisting the child into her lap. Murie immediately continued her chatter while eating the berries off (Y/N)’s plate—berries clearly from the Greenwood kitchens.

It took nearly five minutes for Murie to notice the stranger sitting at the table. Her eyes went wide. “Who are you?” she asked, barely giving him a moment to respond. “(Y/N), who is he? Is he your—your betrothed?!”

“No—no,” (Y/N) stammered, her cheeks flushing as she shot a glance at Legolas, who raised his brows smugly. “This is Legolas. A…a friend.”

Murie turned to look at the elf. “How did you get your hair like that? Did you do those braids yourself, or did your mother do them for you?”

A low chuckle left Legolas' lips. He leaned forward slightly. “I did them myself, if you must know.”

“That’s cool!” Murie replied. “Have you ever had (Y/N) do your hair? She’s really good. She did mine last year and they lasted for a week!”

Legolas raised a brow. “I have not had that honor.”

“Murie!” Aeliana called out, a hint of embarrassment on her face as she noticed the flicker of discomfort across (Y/N)’s expression. “Enough pestering our guests. Go wake your sisters and your brother.”

With that, Murie darted off.

Aeliana came to collect the now-empty plates from the table. “I apologize, Sir Legolas. She does not know much of the elvish customs.”

Legolas shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “No apology is necessary. I am rather glad to meet (Y/N)’s family.”

Aeliana smiled warmly.

“Miss Aeliana,” Legolas began again, lowering his voice slightly, “I hope I do not intrude, but (Y/N) mentioned you have had troubles with raiders.”

She shook her head. “Unfortunately, yes, we have. A man named Falivirn has been coming to confiscate the town's harvest. It has been a great strain.”

“Pardon,” (Y/N) interjected. “Did you say Falivirn?”

“Yes,” Aeliana replied. “He comes every few months with his men, all clad in heavy armor, helmets drawn low, threatening our children if we do not give him what he demands. We are few and they are strong—we have no choice but to comply.” She looked down, and her voice became low and fearful. “If they stick to their regular schedule, they should be coming any day now.”

Instantly, the Prince and Sentry exchanged a look—Lord Falivirn of Nimvael.

However, before the conversation could continue, more small feet came skittering into the room, voices chanting, “Aunt (Y/N)!”

….

As the sun drew higher, the children went out to play in the snow, leaving the adults inside the cozy cottage. Legolas watched as his sentry interacted with her family. He saw the light breathed back into her—the joy, the peace, and the freedom of strict custom. Yet still, the dark circles under her eyes grew more prominent with every moment.

“(Y/N),” Legolas began softly. “When was the last time you slept?”

It was then that all eyes drifted to her face—examining her.

“Deary me,” Elsbeth stated. “By the gods, he’s right. You look terrible.”

“Mother!” Aeliana gawked at her words.

(Y/N) only laughed, shaking her head. “I suppose it has been a couple days…”

“That will not do,” the old woman replied. “Go rest by the fire. There are warm blankets over there. We will keep the children from waking you for some time.

The sentry glanced at Legolas, uncertain, but his stern expression left no room for argument. With a resigned sigh, she made her way to the flickering flames. A large fur rug lay spread before the hearth, and she tugged a nearby blanket from a chair, wrapping it around herself as she settled on her side, facing the fire. Her heavy eyes soon closed, and within moments, she was fast asleep.

Elsbeth busied herself with the household, sending Samuel to chop more wood for the fire and Aeliana to keep an eye on the carefree children. The older woman turned her attention to supper, gathering potatoes, carrots, and onions from baskets on the counter and beginning to prepare a meal.

“Elsbeth, may I be of some use to you?” he asked. “I fear I do not do well with idle time.”

“Well, I never turn down a helping hand.” She gestured to the vegetables. “Chop those for the stew while I prepare the rabbit hide.”

The Prince nodded, taking the knife in hand and beginning to follow her instructions. Even as he worked, his gaze continued to drift to the sleeping elleth, quietly ensuring she was safe and could obtain the rest she so desperately needed.

“Ahh,” Elsbeth stated, observing this. “That is a look I recognize all too well.”

Legolas turned his attention to her, slightly startled. “Pardon?”

“The way you look at her,” she replied casually while rubbing herbs upon the meat. “Tis’ the way Samuel looks at Aeliana and the way my husband had looked at me.”

The elf’s cheeks flushed slightly, “I–I fear I do not know of what you speak–”

She rolled her eyes. “I may be younger than you, dear elf, but I am not an idiot. By the gods—you followed her here!”

Legolas blinked at her unflinching directness, reminding him of that boldness (Y/N) carried on her tongue. His blue eyes flicked to the woman curled up in the soft furs, then back to the root vegetables he was slicing. He let out a slow, measured breath. “Is it that obvious?” he questioned, almost sheepishly.

Elsbeth chuckled, “I’m afraid so.”

Legolas’ hand paused mid-chop, the knife hovering over the root vegetables. “I…did not intend for it to be noticed by any,” he admitted quietly, his voice low.

She rolled her eyes with humor hinting in her tone. “You elven warrior types—always thinking your thoughts are as hidden as the stars at noon.” Her tone then shifted, falling back into a gentle, serious manner. “Intentions often matter little when hearts are involved, Sir Legolas. But worry not—she is cleverer than most, yet even cleverness does not mask what burns so plainly in your eyes…and hers.”

Legolas felt heat rise to his cheeks, and for a moment, the weight of the world—the coming battles, the brewing evils, the political schemes—seemed to slip away. His eyes moved toward the hearth once more, where (Y/N) slept, the soft rise and fall of her chest tugging at something deep inside him.

“Take care of her, boy,” Elsbeth said, her voice gentle. “She is more precious than you know. She’s watched over us all these years, and I do what I can to aid her—giving her some comfort in this lonely world. But, I will not be here forever.” She paused, meeting eyes with Legolas. ”Guard her well. Do not be afraid to let her see you, fully. That look in your eyes—it will not remain hidden forever, if a part of her doesn't already see it.”

“I will protect her with my life,” he replied, sternly and full of commitment.

….

The night had settled in the sky, like a dark blanket of wood. Moonlight reflected off the snow, casting a cool, lantern-like glow across the land. Peace filled the cottage as the stew, slow-simmered for hours, was ladled out and served to each of them. It was peaceful and comforting.

Legolas carried a bowl to (Y/N) and set it on the small side table near the hearth. He crouched beside her, resting a careful hand on her shoulder, and spoke her name softly, his thumb tracing slow, reassuring circles.

She blinked awake, eyes heavy with sleep.

“You must eat,” he murmured. “It will help restore your strength.”

She pushed herself upright, rolling her eyes faintly. “I am not ill. I have not lost my strength.”

He placed the bowl and spoon into her hands anyway. “Exhaustion can rob even the strongest of us,” he said gently. “And you are exhausted.”

She huffed but did not argue further, lifting a spoonful and savoring the warmth of the stew.

As the night deepened, so too did the stillness of the room; the group gathered close around the fire. The elves shared tales of their travels and their people—of high mountains and winding rivers, of the golden light of Lothlórien, the quiet grace of Rivendell, of the plains of Rohan, and the white stone of Gondor. The children listened with wide eyes and hushed breaths, brimming with awe and gratitude for every word.

Before long, the humans retired for the night, leaving the hearth to (Y/N) and Legolas. Blankets were laid out in abundance, and the fire burned low and warm—the coals brimming with a deep orange color. The pair remained seated beside one another, shoulder to shoulder, the blankets drawn loosely around them as the flames flickered on in comfortable silence.

“Legolas,” (Y/N) began. “What are we going to do about Lord Falivirn.”

The Prince shrugged. “Intimidate him, turn him away, send him running with his tail between his legs.”

The sentry frowned. “How? It’s just the two of us.”

“He does not yet know we are here,” Legolas replied evenly. “Nor will he expect resistance. I can threaten him with the Greenwood Guard—let him believe my father’s forces are already moving.”

“But the treaty—”

Legolas shook his head. “It is null and void. This village lies within my father’s lands. Falivirn has been pillaging Greenwood and threatening its people. By his own actions, he has broken it.”

“Even though they are human?” (Y/N) asked.

His gaze settled firmly on her. “Yes.”

She drew her knees to her chest, eye gaze focused on the fire before her. “I still do not fully understand. How did elves become this harsh? We are above this—above raiding and terrorizing human villages.”

Legolas sighed. “I believe it began with the poisoning of Forodwaith. If that was where Morgoth committed his greatest acts of desecration, then the corruption and the curse make sense. The land itself was twisted with poison and all who draw their lives from it suffer the stain.”

“I suppose that makes sense. It is rather unnerving to see how his power still funnels through the lands of Arda.”

Legolas turned his head towards her. “Shadow does not mean the absence of light,” he said softly.

Her eyes met his, and their faces were close—lips only inches away from each other. (Y/N) could feel his breath extending towards her own as if the air itself was begging her to come closer—to intertwine with her own.

(Y/N) abruptly pulled away, clearing her throat. “We–we should rest. We do not know when the kin of the Pale Vale may arrive.”

“Right, yes,” Legolas uttered, awkwardly.

The two then began pulling at the blankets, desperately trying to place a level of distance between them. They set up makeshift beds one right beside the other and lay down upon them, their backs turned to each other, yet their hearts pounding. The fire crackled softly behind them, embers shifting and sighing as though the hearth itself were unwilling to rest due to the elves’ tension. Still, the cottage settled into its nighttime sounds—the wind brushing against the walls, the distant creak of timber, the faint breath of those sleeping beyond the room.

Soon enough, (Y/N)’s breathing evened, slow and steady, and the tension in her shoulders eased as sleep finally took her. Legolas, however, lay rigid upon the furs. He was unable to get comfortable, finally resorting to lying on his back and studying the darkened wood of the rafters above. He could feel (Y/N)’s presence beside him. He could hear each soft exhale, and it unsettled him far more than any battlefield ever had, for it felt incomplete and alone.

He turned his head slightly, just enough to confirm what he already knew—that she slept facing away from him. Her form was curled inward as though she was guarding herself and begging for warmth.

The sight tugged at something deep within his chest. The very thing that had held his heart in a cage for months now—the careful restraint demanded of a prince. He had followed her here under the guise of duty, yet the truth lay bare in the quiet of stillness of his mind: duty had merely given his heart permission to act, and now he just needed to do that very thing—act.

Legolas was unsure how long he spent in the corners of his mind, debating and unsure, but long enough it seemed for (Y/N) to stir ever so slightly. A small sound escaped her lips, a deep breath and exhale. She then shifted—closer to him. Clearly, she was unaware that the space between them had narrowed to almost nothing.

The Prince froze.

She shifted again, this time turning onto her other side. However, due to their proximity, she rolled toward him—and straight into his side—her face settling into the crook of his neck. In her unconscious state, she inhaled deeply before snuggling in. Content.

He could not help himself—not now, not with her already there. Legolas drew his arms around her, careful and reverent. Though he knew he ought not to, he could not resist leaning closer and pressing a quiet, tender kiss to her forehead. He then allowed himself to savor that simple closeness—the quiet comfort of another body, of the one who had claimed his curiosity for oh so long.

…..

The two elves, still loosely entwined in sleep, were startled awake by a small hand shaking (Y/N) desperately.

“Aunt (Y/N)!” Murie cried, tears running down her cheeks.

(Y/N) sat upright at once, Legolas’ arms falling away from her body as she turned fully to the child. “Murie? What is it? What is wrong?”

Legolas rose as well, concern knitting in his brows as he watched the girl tremble.

“I know I shouldn’t have—I know I’m not supposed to,” Murie sobbed, her words tumbling over one another. “But I wanted to see the snow at sunrise.”

“Sweetheart, what do you mean?” (Y/N) questioned softly, rubbing Murie’s back.

“I–I went outside…in the forest a–and I saw them.”

“Who did you see, Murie?” Legolas asked, leaning forward, his chest pressing firmly against (Y/N)’s back.

“The raiders,” she whispered.

(Y/N)’s heart dropped hard in her chest, but she forced her expression to remain calm for the child’s sake. She cupped Murie’s face gently. “You did the right thing by telling us. Now go—wake your parents and your grandmother.”

She nodded and rushed off, tears still streaming down her face.

Without a word exchanged, both the Prince and the sentry sprang from the bedding and moved toward where their armor lay discarded from the night before. With practiced precision, muscle memory guiding each motion, they began to clad themselves in the finely worked metals of Greenwood. Breastplates were secured, pauldrons set into place, and vambraces tightened around forearms. Weapons were strapped on last, each familiar weight settling against their bodies.

As they prepared, the rest of (Y/N)’s family emerged, their faces etched with fear and unease at the news—and at the sight of the two warriors clad in gleaming battle gear.

“You all will stay back,” (Y/N) instructed firmly, “while we handle this.”

“Aunt (Y/N),” Aeliana said, concern lacing her voice, “I know you two are elves, but there are so many of them, and they are so strong.”

“We are their match,” Legolas replied steadily. “Falivirn and his men are elven, but corrupted by Morgoth’s curse. Their strength is twisted, not true.”

“I–I dont understand–” Aeliana began.

The sentry interrupted her. “You don’t need to understand. We will make sure you stay safe.”

The sound of hooves thundered through the village as the two elves moved swiftly from the cottage into the courtyard at its center, their boots sinking slightly into the snow but standing firm.

(Y/N) felt the village stir in panic—doors creaked open and villagers peered out, uncertain and frightened at the sight of two Greenwood elves standing ready to defend them. Her own family stood at the doorway of their home, eyes wide, their attention fixed entirely on her.

(Y/N) drew her bow, notching an arrow as the raiders halted at the sight of Greenwood’s warriors.

“Well, well,” Lord Falivirn said, removing his helmet to reveal pointed ears and a sharp, cruel face—one that spent the last couple of months in their halls. “What do we have here? Prince Legolas and one of his guards?”

Whispers rippled through the gathered townsfolk, hushed murmurs carrying from door to door. The sentry felt her stomach tighten—she knew her family had not missed the title spoken before Legolas’ name. Prince. There would be questions later…many of them.

Legolas remained perfectly still, his expression looked as if it was carved from ice. “One wrong move,” he said evenly, “and my so-called ‘guard’ will put an arrow straight between your eyes.”

Falivirn laughed, low and mocking, as he dismounted his steed and stood before them. “I doubt it would ever meet its mark.”

“She’s a good shot,” Legolas replied without hesitation, his voice calm but unyielding. “She does not miss.”

(Y/N)’s grip tightened on the bowstring, the tension building beneath her fingers. The arrow remained trained on Falivirn’s face, unwavering and steady. Around them, the village held its breath, caught between fear and the fragile hope that Greenwood now stood at their doorstep.

“There are only a few ways this ends, Falivirn,” Legolas began, his tone almost casual yet brimming with authority. “You and your men may choose to fight us, and you will lose several of them in the attempt. If I die here, the full weight of Greenwood’s army will descend upon you. If I live—” He tilted his head slightly. “—the full weight of Greenwood’s army will descend upon you all the same. Either way, your forces would be eradicated, and your stronghold in Nimvael reduced to ash.”

He paused, letting the threat settle into the cold air.

“Or,” Legolas continued, “You turn away now. You return to the Forodwaith and remain there in exile—no trade, no passage, no claim south of the border. Our treaty is null and void by your own violations. This village lies within Greenwood’s lands, and it is under our protection.”

A hush fell over the square, the only sound the faint creak of armor and the restless snort of horses.

Falivirn’s smile thinned. His gaze flicked to the arrow aimed squarely at his brow, then to the elves standing unyieldingly before him. “Bold words,” he scoffed. “For two.”

Legolas did not move. “You mistake boldness for certainty.”

(Y/N) then spoke, “You know who we are. You know what Greenwood will do if you test us.”

Falivirn’s eyes narrowed. He glanced behind him, to his men—raiders hardened by cruelty and fear, yet now shifting uneasily beneath the weight of an unseen army promising their demise. They had expected frightened villagers. Not a prince. Not Greenwood.

“So what will it be, Falivirn? Will you risk your people for a few extra bags of grain?”

Falivirn’s jaw clenched. For a moment, it seemed he might give the order anyway—out of spite and anger alone. But then his gaze returned to (Y/N) and to the arrow still trained unwaveringly on him, and something flickered in his eyes: self-doubt.

Slowly, deliberately, he lifted one hand. “Stand down,” he barked to his men.

A murmur rippled through the raiders, but another sharp gesture silenced them. Falivirn replaced his helmet, his movements stiff with restrained fury. “This is not finished,” he warned. “The Forodwaith does not forget. You may win this one, Prince. Yet this is not over. I will separate your head from your shoulders if we ever meet on the battlefield.”

Legolas smirked, “You are welcome to try, but I fear it would mean your end. I have been trained to kill since birth.”

The Lord of Nimvael glared at the Prince of the Woodland Realm. He then tugged on the reins of his steed and wheeled around. One by one, his men followed, hooves churning up snow as they retreated from the village—their reign of terror leaving with them.

Around them, the village stirred—whispers swelling into cautious relief. Doors opened wider. People stepped forward, eyes fixed on the two elves who had stood between them and ruin.

(Y/N) lowered her arrow, placing it back in her quiver, as she took a couple of steps forward, closer to Legolas.

“You were right,” Legolas said, his eyes still following the raiders as they retreated.

“Right about what?”

He turned to her, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips. “He is something of an arsehole.”

(Y/N) laughed aloud, the sound bright and freeing, like sunlight cutting through shadow. Seeing her like this, Legolas stepped closer. Now or never. He reached for her waist, drawing her flush against him, and pressed his lips to hers—letting their breath finally become one.

Cheers and clapping erupted from the villagers around them.

(Y/N) responded without hesitation, dropping her bow and letting her hands trace up his muscled biceps and slide around his neck until her fingers tangled in his hair.

From somewhere nearby, Murie’s small, excited voice rang out: “Mama! Does this mean we’re now Greenwood Royalty?”

Legolas and (Y/N) broke for just a moment, grinning into each other’s eyes before their laughter melted back into another tender kiss, letting their mouths move together once again in hope.

….

Taglist in the comments because there are too many of you <3

Rulthion and (Y/N) exchanged a worrisome look.

The pair of elves let their gaze follow the Prince as he aimlessly wandered and stumbled into the hall, approximately ten feet in front of them. His blonde hair was pulled into a low, messy bun, small strands falling in front of his face, and a red tint clung to his eyes and his cheeks as he moved. His pale blue tunic was partially unclasped by the chest, revealing a bit more skin than the elven folk were accustomed to. However, that was not the most shocking thing about the situation. It was the dark green wine bottle held in his hand that was brought up to his lips more times than it should have been in the span of the forty-five seconds that he had been out here.

He moved to descend the nearby stone staircase, his form too unsteady for (Y/N)’s liking. She watched as he just barely made it down one step, heavily leaning onto the wall for support. He moved to make the second step, and his body nearly plummeted. He would have been sprawled out at the bottom if it weren't for (Y/N)’s firm grasp upon the back collar of his tunic. She was quick to yank him back up into the hallway.

He turned around lazily to see his rescuer, only to smash his chest up against her own due to his inebriated state, which was making him entirely unaware of depth perception.

She froze, and he did not move away.

Legolas looked down at her, the smell of wine strong upon his breath as it fanned out upon her face. A little smirk formed upon his expression before he spoke to her, a tad bit of sultry upon his tone. “Mae govannen, pîn cugu (Well met, little dove).”

(Y/N) blinked at him, entirely unsure how to respond to such a nickname that was apparently bestowed upon her by his drunken state.

“I fear I do not know your name. I have not seen you around these halls, and what a misfortune that has been for my gaze. I do wish to know what it is they call you, pîn cugu (little dove).

(Y/N) frowned. “My lord, I fear you have had too much wine, for you know my name. I am often by your side on patrols.” She inclined her head slightly at his responding empty gaze. “It is (Y/N), My Prince.”

He blinked at her, then lifted a hand to her cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over her lower lip. “Ah, (Y/N), yes,” he murmured. “The pretty one who seems to send my guards’ arrows astray.”

Her frown deepened at his words. She had never heard such a thing before, and the thought that the guards might gossip about her appearance left her quietly unsettled—yet not as unsettled as the Prince’s hand upon her face. Gently, she took hold of his wrist and guided his hand away. “’Tis not my doing that their arrows fail to meet their mark.”

“I tell them as much,” he replied softly, his blue eyes intently scouring her own. “I do not care to see them staring at you, pîn cugu (little dove). I have little patience for it.”

(Y/N) cleared her throat awkwardly, drawing her eyes away from the Prince as she took a step backwards, creating a subtle distance between them. “My lord, you are rather intoxicated. Perhaps it is time you retired to your chambers? Or, at the very least, obtain a glass of water.”

Legolas rolled his eyes, tipping his head back with a soft, unprincely groan. When his gaze returned to her, it lingered—too focused, too steady. His hand lifted again, this time catching a few strands of her hair between his fingers, twisting them absently as though they were something he had every right to hold.

(Y/N) stilled. After a brief moment, she gently reached up and guided his hand away from her hair, lowering it back to his side with careful control. “You are not yourself tonight, my prince,” she said quietly, her voice even despite the tension in her chest.

Legolas blinked at her, as though considering this for the first time. “I am myself,” he said at last, quieter now. “Just…less restrained than usual.”

The moment stretched—quiet, taut, unsettled by the distant spill of music behind the ballroom doors. Legolas remained where he stood. His gaze stayed on (Y/N) longer than it should have, unblinking, in a way the wine could not fully account for.

That moment did not last long, for it was interrupted by the creaking of the large wooden doors and subtle footsteps, measured and purposeful.

“Prince Legolas,” a guard called out. “Your father requests your presence.”

Legolas did not answer immediately. His attention remained on (Y/N), as though he did not hear the voice at all.

The guard cleared his throat softly, a hint of unease in his posture. “It is…urgent.”

Legolas exhaled through his nose, the faintest hint of frustration slipping through his composure. He straightened, pulling himself from the closeness of (Y/N).

“So it would seem,” he murmured. With that, he took steps back towards the ballroom doors, giving (Y/N) a slight inclination of his head. “May your watch be without incident, pîn cugu (little dove).”

The doors closed behind the Prince and the guard, the music lingering in the stillness.

(Y/N) slowly returned to her post on the opposite side of the double doors, taking up her position across from Rulthion. They stood in mirrored silence—each stationed on either side of the grand entrance. After a moment, Rulthion spoke quietly with a faint smirk. “Without incident,” he echoed. “I fear he was the incident.”

“Do not breathe a word of this to anyone,” she replied, her cheeks red.

…..

Unfortunately—mostly for the Prince—the night did indeed bring another disruption…and it was him…again.

A couple of hours had passed, the doors opening and closing as guests came and went. This time, however, the disturbance came in the form of Legolas being escorted out of the ballroom by his father.

The King held his son firmly by the bicep, guiding him through the doorway and out into the corridor. The Prince looked even more disheveled than he had the first time he exited the room. His sloppy, low bun was coming undone, and his footing was worse—if that was even possible.

Once Thranduil and Legolas stood away from the door, the King released his grasp. “Legolas,” he hissed, not caring that the two sentries were about to witness this reprimand. “By the valar—what were you thinking? Drinking this much during a formal occasion?!”

Legolas huffed, rolling his eyes. “Adar (father), you drink just as much.”

The king let out a sharp, humorless snort. “And yet I do not make a spectacle of myself,” he snapped.

“I did no such thing!” he rebutted.

Thranduil’s gaze flicked over him, unimpressed. “Walking directly into a servant carrying a tray of wine is, in fact, ‘such a thing,’ Legolas.”

That was when (Y/N) noticed the dark splashes of deep purple staining on the prince’s tunic.

“It is not my fault, Adar (father)!” Legolas insisted, gesturing sharply as if the evidence might vanish if he ignored it.

The King raised his brows, and his tone filled with dry amusement, “Oh? So I suppose it was a wizard who cast a spell upon your legs and made you wobble straight into the servant?”

Legolas sighed heavily. “No, no—it was that guard.” He paused, then added, as though correcting something obvious, “The pretty one.” He rubbed at his temple as if the thought itself were a nuisance. “I cannot seem to stop thinking of her.”

(Y/N) felt her blood run cold. He couldn't be referring to her…to their recent conversation, could he?

At Legolas’s words, Thranduil’s expression shifted—less severe now, more observant, as though a separate thread had suddenly become more interesting than the reprimand itself. “If you are referring to a member of the Greenwood Guard, she likely has a name.”

“Yes, yes,” Legolas replied, mildly impatient now. “I know she does. I am asking what it is.”

Thranduil let out a soft breath through his nose, almost a laugh—if one squinted. The severity had eased, replaced with amusement for something far more entertaining. “You mean to tell me,” he said, “that your disgrace this evening was not caused by wine, nor by poor footing…but by a guard you cannot even name?”

The Prince huffed, irritation at his father and himself, rather obvious. “The little dove,” he pressed, as though that should clarify everything. “You must know…the one I told them to stop staring at.”

“I fear I do not know, ion nin (my son),” Thranduil replied smoothly.

Legolas exhaled sharply through his nose. “She–she is beautiful, Adar (father), and I just–I just…”

“And you cannot stop thinking of her,” the King finished, clearly enjoying this far more than he should.

“Yes,” Legolas admitted, as if it were an inconvenience rather than a confession. “It is rather distracting.”

Silence settled between them.

Then the King let out a quiet laugh. “I would very much like to meet this guard,” he said, “who has managed to render my son so distractible without even trying.”

Legolas, now realizing that Thranduil was making a jest of him, frowned. “Ada (father)!”

At that, something in Thranduil’s expression shifted; the teasing had clearly passed and the reprimand settled back into place, firm and complete.

“Enough,” the King said. “You are unfit to remain in the company of the court,” Thranduil continued coolly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

His gaze then shifted to (Y/N).

“You,” he said.

(Y/N) straightened immediately, stepping forward. “My king.”

Thranduil’s expression remained composed. “Take him to his chambers,” he ordered.

“Yes, my Lord—” she began; however, she was interrupted.

“I can walk on my own,” Legolas stated, crossing his arms, clearly irritated.

“I do not recall asking,” Thranduil replied evenly.

“Adar (father)!” Legolas nearly whined.

The King cast him a sharp, disapproving look before turning fully to his son with a quiet snort. “Can you truly navigate these halls without incident? Pray tell—what color are this guard’s eyes?” he challenged.

The Prince frowned as he squinted, trying to get his blurry vision to settle. “I…uh…they are..”

“Exactly my point.” He paused. “You will retire. Quietly.”

Legolas looked between them once, still half-protesting, but the argument never formed. Instead, he exhaled, defeated.

“This is unnecessary,” he muttered, beginning to walk with (Y/N).

He then spoke to her, his steps swaying into an unsteady stagger. “Do you know her—the guard, the little dove?”

She grabbed onto his arm to stabilize him. With a subtle smirk, (Y/N) replied. “My lord, I know many members of the Greenwood Guard. You will need to be more specific than bird-related nicknames.”

…

At one of the tables sat what remained of the fellowship, along Éowyn and Éomer, enjoying the festivities.

(Y/N) sat beside Legolas with her posture half-slouched against him in a way that he was beginning to understand meant she had consumed far too much mead. Apparently, the Rámaite Mahtar (winged warriors) did not have the alcohol tolerance of the elves.

One wing rested loosely behind Legolas’s back, occasionally twitching whenever the hall erupted too loudly. The other hung on the opposite side. Her cheeks were faintly flushed from the ale, and her hair had loosened from its braid. She was several cups beyond sober and looking entirely too pleased about it.

Legolas had already removed three drinks from her hands.

She had somehow acquired a fourth—likely from Gimli, much to Legolas’s dismay.

Down the long table where the group was seated, a handful of Rohirrim soldiers spoke in hushed tones. Unfortunately for them, Legolas’s keen elven hearing caught every word—not that they knew.

“…I’m telling you,” one of them, with deep auburn hair, whispered as he nudged his companion. “There is no way that that elf is just guarding her out of duty.”

“I mean, think about it,” another man, with dark eyes, said. “If I had a woman like that sitting beside me, I would not be sharing a single breath of air with the rest of you.”

“That elf already does not share air with the rest of us,” a third pointed out. “He glares at anyone who gets within three paces of her.”

The Rohan soldiers let their eyes drift back to Legolas and (Y/N).

The man with auburn hair spoke again, muttering into his cup. “I am simply saying…if they are not sharing a bed already, then the elf has the restraint of Eru himself.”

A snort nearly escaped the dark-eyed man. “No man looks that possessive over a woman he hasn’t fucked.”

“That is exactly my point.”

Across the table and a little ways up, Legolas sat beside (Y/N) in rigid silence, very clearly pretending not to hear a single word. Which would have been more convincing had the tips of his ears not gone noticeably pink. (Y/N), meanwhile, was drunk enough to be entirely unbothered by the world around her.

The third soldier leaned closer. “So you think they’ve—”

“Yes,” the first man interrupted immediately. “Without question.”

A pause.

“…go on then,” the other pressed, lowering his voice. “If you’re so certain, describe it properly. In detail.”

“You are asking me,” he replied carefully, “to narrate what the elf bedding his woman looks like…in detail? Absolutely not. I am not speaking those thoughts–not in detail, not in an outline, not even in a metaphor. I prefer to keep my tongue where it is.”

“Oh come on,” he insisted, wiggling his eyebrows.

“You did not see him at Isengard. He threatened to decorate the tower with Saruman’s entrails just for the few comments the wizard made.”

The dark-eyed soldier snorted, “I pity the man who tries tonight.”

The third Rohirim sighed dramatically. “Still. Lucky bastard.”

That finally earned a reaction. Legolas’s eyes lifted slowly from his drink and rested on the group of men.

The entire cluster of Rohirrim immediately straightened like boys caught stealing from the royal kitchens. The elf had heard them.

“What,” Legolas asked from his place at the table with a terrifyingly calm tone, “exactly makes me fortunate?”

Silence. Absolute silence from the soldiers. Yet, confused glances and eyebrow raises from Aragorn, Gimli, Éomer, and Éowyn, for they had not heard the conversation unfold between the men.

Then, one of them actually answered. “My lord, respectfully…” He gestured vaguely toward (Y/N), currently half-asleep against Legolas’s shoulder with her one wing draped lazily behind him. “Look at her.”

And, because drunken men clearly lack survival instincts, another tacked onto his friend’s sentence. “I mean, you survive Helm’s Deep, get carried through it by legends, and walk away with that sitting beside you like she belongs there. It’s not fair.”

Aragorn slowly pressed his fingers against his temple, already tired and wary of where this was going.

Gimli, on the other hand, looked delighted. “Fair?” the dwarf echoed. “Life is not fair. The elf just learned it comes with rewards.”

Legolas stared at the soldiers. Then slowly looked down at (Y/N). For a long moment, he said nothing at all. Then, almost idly, he reached up and adjusted the edge of her wing where it was flush against him, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Fortune implies chance,” he said. He paused, gently cupping (Y/N)’s jaw in his hand and guiding her to look up at him, his thumb brushing gently across her flushed lips—likely more to make his point than out of necessity. That possessive elven streak taking hold. “This was not chance.” Legolas finally looked back at the soldiers. “You may call it fortunate,” he added evenly, “if it helps you sleep.” He let (Y/N)’s face fall from his careful grasp. Then, with absolute finality, he finished his words: “I do not.”

Across the table, Aragorn exhaled slowly, recognizing the tone well enough to know the conversation was over—without Legolas enforcing his point with action.

As the discussion disbanded with unease, (Y/N) blinked up at him, a frown crossing her face—clearly too drunk to understand the meaning behind the events and conversation that just transpired.

Unfortunately, this was not the only incident as the night dragged on—each passing moment seemed to invite yet another lapse in judgment of Rohirrim men, as if the evening itself had grown determined to test Legolas’s patience.

Behind Legolas and (Y/N), a young Rohirrim soldier stared at the woman openly.

Not subtle. Not even remotely.

He stood with his back against the wall with his friends surrounding him. His eyes were fixated on (Y/N) like poisoned sap to a tree. The pint of ale within his grasp was sloshing slightly.

Young. Drunk. Overconfident—A fatal combination.

Aragorn watched him from his place across from the elf and Rámaite Mahtar. He was well aware of what a man with desires looked like and that….well, that was one of them. The Ranger knew that Legolas was cognizant of him too, for the elf’s jaw was tight and his form stiff. He had been tracking the man, with every one of his senses, with the same focus he usually reserved for battlefield targets—despite his back being to him.

The Rohan man’s companions only seemed to be encouraging the soldier, for they elbowed him and muttered support and reassurance between suppressed laughter.

Legolas’s ear twitched, catching the words they echoed.

To most, the elf appeared calm, but Aragorn knew better.

It wasn't long before the soldier, bolstered by entirely too much ale and the misplaced confidence of a man not fearing for his life nearly enough, approached them and leaned on the table beside (Y/N)—the opposite side of where Legolas was beside her.

“So…” he began, grinning crookedly at (Y/N). “Has anyone told you that you are the most beautiful woman in this hall, my lady?”

Legolas’s grip on his cup tightened. The nearby Rohirrim who had previously made their comments immediately went silent—their gaze fastened to the situation that was about to unfold as if it was a saddle to a horse.

Across the table, Aragorn physically closed his eyes and clenched his jaw for just a moment. This was not going to go well.

Gimli, on the other hand, grinned into his drink.

(Y/N), with a frown, blinked slowly at the man—not sure of how to respond.

The man continued, his grin and tone growing bolder. “I saw many of my comrades staring at you, and I couldn't allow them to approach you first. But can you blame them? Beautiful women are rare enough after war.” His gaze flicked briefly toward her wings. “Beautiful winged women, even more so.” His eyes then drifted to her shoulder and the sleeve that had long since slipped from its place, exposing the smallest bit of cleavage.

The air beside her began to heat in rage.

Legolas lifted his cup and took a rather large sip. He did not even turn to look at the man. “You are staring,” he said calmly, “rather disrespectfully.”

The soldier, somehow still determined to march willingly toward his own funeral, laughed. “No offense meant, elf. I was only admiring her.”

Legolas’s gaze shifted toward him.

“And I am deciding,” he replied calmly, “how much admiration I am willing to tolerate before I remove your teeth from your mouth.”

A choking sound escaped Aragorn somewhere into his cup of ale, and Gimli outright barked out a gleeful laugh. Éomer only raised his brows, and Éowyn covered her mouth with wide, shocked eyes.

Meanwhile, the Rohirrim soldier’s smile faded slightly as he attempted to recover, now realizing that he was walking on tricky ground. “Sir elf, truly, I only wished to say your female comrade is—”

“She is not my comrade.” The correction came far too quickly.

A low chuckle rumbled from Éomer as he lifted his drink. “Bold man,” he mused dryly, “trying to court an elf’s wife.”

Hearing this, what remained of the man’s grin dropped instantly.

Legolas did not correct Éomer; instead, he stood up from his place upon the bench and turned fully towards the soldier. He did not move with haste or anger. If anything, the calmness of his actions made the moment worse. Light flickered across the sharp curves of his face and the long strands of his blonde hair as he stepped toward the man with controlled precision, each movement measured.

The soldier swallowed hard.

From across the table, Aragorn exhaled hot air through his nose. This was escalating—exactly as he expected.

Legolas stopped directly before the Rohirrim, leaving only about two feet of space. Close enough to intimidate.

“You have spent the better part of this evening staring at her,” the elf said evenly.

The man opened his mouth, likely to deny it, but Legolas continued before he could speak.

“You approached her.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “And then you spoke to her as though she were eager for the attention of drunken men. She is not.”

The soldier visibly paled. “My lord elf, I meant only respect—”

“No,” Legolas interrupted. “You meant desire.” The bluntness of the statement struck the table like stone falling upon rock.

Even the nearby Rohirrim had stopped pretending not to listen now—their mouths gaping and eyes wide, anticipation of how this was to unfold burning brightly in their gazes.

Legolas’s expression remained perfectly composed, but beneath that composure simmered something sharp enough to draw blood. “You looked upon her as though you were entitled to her attention merely because you survived a battle.” His gaze swept once over the man. “You are not.”

Behind Legolas, Gimli looked moments from collapsing with delight while Éomer drank openly through a grin.

“And yet,” Legolas continued, his voice steady, “You persisted.”

The soldier straightened nervously. “I did not realize—”

“That much is obvious.”

A painful silence followed.

Then, Legolas leaned slightly closer. The soldier could feel the elf’s hot breath against his face—almost as if Legolas was daring him to try. “She is under my protection,” he stated quietly. “And if you approach her again with intentions so transparent, you will discover precisely how little patience I possess tonight.”

The soldier nodded immediately. “Yes, my lord.”

Only then did Legolas step back.

The Rohirrim man retreated almost instantly into the crowd, eager to escape with his dignity still partially intact—if you could even call it that.

A low chuckle escaped Éomer as he watched the man flee. “Gods,” he muttered into his drink, “you court like a territorial wolf.”

Legolas ignored him completely and resumed his seat beside (Y/N).

Gimli snorted into his ale. “Careful, horse-lord. That sounds like poetry coming on. I don’t have enough ale in me to tolerate that.”

Éomer only grinned.

Across the table, Aragorn gave him a tired, warning look—practically begging him not to test the elf.

Éomer shrugged, entirely unbothered by Aragorn’s subtle gesture. “Wolf is wrong anyway,” Éomer said lightly, eyes still on Legolas. “Too crude.” Amused, he spoke again with a faint shake of his head. “I have been watching this elf for an hour. Dignity left the moment that girl leaned against him, and he forgot how to sit like a man instead of a drawn bowstring.”

Gimli released a deep laugh immediately.

Aragorn exhaled through his nose—half resignation, half amusement.

Éomer leaned back, thoroughly entertained now.

“And yet,” he added, grin widening as he took a sip, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so carefully lose their composure in my life.” His eyes flicked once more to Legolas. “It’s impressive.”

Legolas only glared at him.

Beside him, Gimli, openly enjoying himself, spoke. “I like this game we have played tonight,” the dwarf muttered. “We should name it: Guess When the Elf Snaps.”

The blonde elf’s sharp look transferred to his dwarven friend, his blood boiling.

Gimli only laughed, raising his cup, calling for another pint. “Ay! Get me another!”

At this (Y/N) blinked, the sleepiness drifting a bit from her demeanor. A lazy grin stretched across her face. “Me as well!”

Legolas looked at her with a frown, “(Y/N), you are drunk. You do not need another pint.”

Her brows furrowed as she looked at her empty tankard. “But it is empty. That means I need another.”

Once again, Gimli’s roaring blitheness echoed upon the hall. “Ay! She needs another pint, lad!”

Much to Legolas’s disapproval, a barmaid came to their table with multiple pints, placing one in front of (Y/N).

It was at that moment that large, hairy feet thundered down the top of the table….yes, the top of the table. Merry and Pippin stood upon the wood and began a lively tavern song.

“Hey! Ho! To the bottle I go.

To heal my heart and drown my woe!”

(Y/N) grinned up at them, clearly excited and enthralled by the chaotic cheer.

“Rain may fall and wind may blow,

But there still be many miles to go.”

It was at that moment that Pippin saw her dazzling eyes and released a gleeful cheer. He extended his hand to her and was quick to accept it. He and Merry yanked her up onto the table, looping their arms with hers. She tucked her wings back into her form. With that, the three’s arms were locked as they swung around and around, the song continuing—(Y/N) going right along with them.

“Sweet is the sound of the pouring rain,

And the stream that falls from hill to plain.”

Merry’s foot swung slightly, accidentally kicking the bowl of half-eaten peanuts. They, unfortunately, went sprawling across the table—some even clattered against Legolas's chest.

The elf sighed, but opted not to ruin their fun.

“Better than rain or rippling brook...

Is a mug of beer inside this Took!”

With that, Merry and Pippin took to chugging their drinks, prompting the Rámaite Mahtar (winged warrior) to bend down and grab hers. With that, she too tilted the tankard back and downed the whole thing.

Only moments later, a second song started, and the three continued their dancing, hoots and cheers following. That is how the next hour passed, drink after drink, and dance after dance.

It only came to an end when (Y/N) lost her footing. Her perception distorted and twirled as her body fell forward, right into the arms of her lover—who luckily had noticed her body begin to tip and stood upright to catch her.

The smell of pine and honey filled her nostrils as her dizzy gaze finally settled onto Legolas’s face. “Legolas!” she started with a breathy giggle. “Will you join us?”

“I am afraid not, my starlight,” he replied gently. “I fear it may be time for you to retire.”

“Retire?” she questioned, not fully understanding.

“To sleep,” he clarified.

(Y/N) frowned, “But I want to dance again!”

“There will be more occasions for dancing, my starlight. I fear that if I do not get you to rest, you will wake up with a rather regrettable headache.”

“What is this h-headache you speak of?” she asked, her words slurring.

The elf sighed, "Unfortunately, I believe you will find out in the morrow.” With that, he placed her down, careful to steady her on her own two feet.

He then began to guide her from the hall. As the large, wooden doors closed behind them, a silence—almost eerie—settled, for the distant spill of music and laughter behind the doors was now quieted and muffled. The temperature of the air itself appeared to have dropped, for some of the windows were open and cool night air drifted in. Now that they were no longer side-by-side with drunken soldiers, the chaos faded.

(Y/N) took a deep breath in, her form drifting toward one of the windows. “It smells like…flowers. You know, the little purple ones we saw with Frodo.” She sighed, her tone somber. “I miss Frodo. And Sam.” Her gaze settled onto the elf beside her. “Do you think they are alright?” she whispered anxiously.

The elf exhaled slowly, not wanting to let his mind drift to such dark corners tonight. “I hope so, but I fear I cannot give you an answer.”

She sighed softly. She allowed her forearms to rest upon the stone of the windowsill, and her eyes settled on the night sky. After a long couple of moments, she spoke again. “This world is pretty.”

Legolas, standing beside her, smiled softly. “That it is.”

“When I was with him….with Morgoth and his servants, there was no such thing as ‘pretty.’”

Legolas glanced at her, but her attention was focused out far, as if her mind was away with the painful memories.

“Sometimes, when I think about it, it feels like…” (Y/N) paused. “Those—those images when you sleep?”

“Dreams,” he provided.

“Yes, dreams.”

Legolas turned to face her, gently stroking her cheek. “You do not ever have to return there. You can stay here.”

She looked up at him, her eyes dewy and soft. “In this pretty world?”

The concern of his lip twitched into a soft grin at her intoxicated words. “Yes, in this pretty world.”

Abruptly, a light, airy giggle left her lips—sounding like tower bells ringing in celebration. “Y-you,” she began drunkenly, “You are also pretty.”

A soft chuckle left his mouth. “You are intoxicated. Let’s get you to sleep.”

She only hummed in reply as Legolas began leading her to one of the designated rooms, lined with beds, for the guests and soldiers.

Swaying and being supported by Legolas’s arm wrapped around her waist, she spoke with a frown. “We are not going to the room I stayed in last time? Éowyn will not like that.”

Legolas raised his brow in question.

“Apparently,” she began, “women cannot share rooms with men in this town unless they are….Ah, what–what is that word? Wed! Yes, Éowyn said, unless they a-are wed.”

The elf only sighed, “I fear I do not feel comfortable leaving you in an unguarded room tonight.”

“Explain?” she inquired simply.

Legolas sucked in a deep breath, feeling unsure how to proceed with these details. She held the right to know of the violations that could come upon women by dishonorable men. “Well,” he began with uncertainty. He knew he would have to be blunt and direct, given her understanding of this world. “There are some people in this world who will intentionally harm women to settle their own desires. Some of them will try to force sex upon a woman without her consent.”

Her brows furrowed. “I do not want sex with men that are not you.”

“I know this, (Y/N), which is why I would not want to put you in a position where you are unsafe.”

“I would just kill them if they tried,” she quipped back. With that, (Y/N) stumbled over her own feet, her balance giving way beneath her from the effects of the mead. Legolas guided her upright with practiced ease, as though he had been expecting it all along—and he had.

The Prince raised his brows. “Unfortunately, I fear you are too drunk to be able to kill someone with ease.”

She snorted. “I can.”

Legolas, not wishing to even try to win this argument, did not push back. “Regardless, with the amount of eyes that were on you this evening, I would prefer you to be with me.”

She only shrugged in reply.

What Legolas did not tell her was that he had deliberately chosen not to remain in her room with her. Valar forbid, should some drunken man mistake the locked door to (Y/N)’s room for an invitation, Legolas suspected that, without Aragorn or Gimli nearby to restrain him, the encounter would end with a body.

It was not long before they arrived at the designated chamber. Some spots were already filled with snoring men, the alcohol lying claim to their night.

Legolas was quick to lay out a bedroll along the wall before settling himself against the wooden panels. (Y/N) lowered herself onto the mat beside him, resting her head in his lap. The Prince began gently stroking his fingers up and down her back in a soft rhythmic movement, and it was not long before (Y/N) was fast asleep.

As the night stretched on, drunken men of Rohan began to filter in. They were quick to select a bedroll and sleep, weary from the battle and ale.

Aragorn came in, his eyes landed on (Y/N) and Legolas. He knew the reasoning behind this. He did not have to inquire. The uncrowned king approached them and laid a mat down near them, finding comfort in the companions that he had known and traveled with for so long.

The door creaked open once more, and this time it was Gandalf who stepped through.

The sound echoed briefly through the quiet chamber before the door opened once more. Two Rohirrim soldiers entered, struggling under the weight of a dwarf they knew all too well. Gimli was thoroughly unconscious, snoring loudly enough to shake the rafters.

Not long after came Merry and Pippin, their faces flushed with drink and mischief as they stumbled into the chambers rather ungracefully.

Legolas took note of each person who entered the chamber. His watchful gaze remained calm until the Rohirrim soldier, who had approached (Y/N) earlier, stumbled through the doorway—still far too drunk for his own good.

Immediately, the elf’s expression hardened into something far less welcoming.

The soldier noticed.

The Rohirrim man’s eyes flicked first to (Y/N), sound asleep with her head resting in Legolas’s lap, then to the elf himself. The murderous glare waiting for him left little room for misunderstanding. Whatever courage the man had possessed earlier in the evening was not present now. Without a word, he moved to the farthest corner of the room, laid out his bedroll, and promptly turned his back to them before curling up for the night.

It wasn't long before Legolas too allowed his eyes to close softly, letting himself get some rest.

That quiet rest hung in the room for hours. Until a rather vast disruption—full of fear and doom.

Many gazes were snapped open as Pippin’s gurgling shrieks echoed upon the walls. His hands were wrapped around the plantir, and his entire body shook and writhed. Aragorn was quick to grab the sphere from his grasp, which only sent the Ranger into a similar state. (Y/N) was the next to do so—snatching it in an attempt to aid him.

Immediately, she too entered a trance-like state.

The voice of Sauron crept into the corners of her mind. “(Y/N), (Y/N), (Y/N),” he hissed. “Now what are you doing here—out from the Hollow of Chains and the Iron Pits of Wings?”

A deep, flaming darkness swallowed her. It encased her and seeped deep into her core. Flashes of memories struck her mind. Memories filled with the smell of iron, the taste of blood, and the sound of her and her kins’ screams.

It felt like she was there again, back in the clutches of Morgoth. Broken, beaten, bloody.

She could feel the pressure of the chains that had dug into her wrists and ankles for thousands of years. She could feel the slices of blades and whips that had broken her skin. She could feel the deep fear that had encased her heart.

Then came laughter—cold, cruel, and familiar.

The image of Sauron emerged from the corners of her mind, clad in armor and flames—an image of a man she had known before, yet she had not had a name attached to it. Not until now.

“You escaped,” he mused, circling her slowly. “A remarkable feat. Morgoth himself would have found amusement in that. He probably has.” He paused. “To think that he and I spent centuries breaking your kind and yet, here you are.”

His form moved closer to her, and the image shifted again. Helms Deep. Legolas. Rohan. The Hobbits. Lothlorien. Aragorn. Gandalf. Boromir. Gimli……Again, Legolas.

Sauron’s face appeared once more, contorting with amusement. “Ah. The elf. The prince who guards you as though he can shield you from what is coming. He cannot.”

The vision twisted, showing Legolas. Legolas beaten. Legolas bloody. Legolas’s body broken and bruised. Legolas tortured. Legolas dead.

(Y/N) tried to scream and run towards him, but she was locked in those chains, and her voice was stolen. She could feel hot tears and snot running down her face, and she pulled and pulled against the iron.

“Oh, a weakness!” Sauron’s voice slithered. “We had not thought that your kind had had any at all—even with all our experimentation. If only we had known it would take merely an elf.”

The vision shifted again—Legolas hung chained from the ceiling, shirtless and covered in wounds. Sauron appeared before him with unnerving calm, and without haste drew a blade across his chest. A raw cry of pain escaped Legolas as it cut through his skin.

With that, those iron chains that held (Y/N) shattered, and she lunged forward.

“There she is—our most brutal little warrior.”

Then back in darkness she was. Spinning around, looking for him—desperately, angrily, fearfully.

"The creature Morgoth could never quite extinguish,” Sauron’s voice echoed without form. “Perhaps, I should return you to him?”

It was then that the illusion faded, for a light burst through the darkness and the vision cracked like glass.

She was back—back in Rohan, back in the sleeping chambers, back with her friends.

“(Y/N)!” Legolas called out.

She looked down at the glass ball that had rolled upon the floor, away from her.

Gandalf was quick to cover it.

She could feel the elf’s arms upon her, pulling her close to him, but her eyes were focused on Pippin.

Gandalf’s furious voice echoed through the room. “Fool of a Took!”

He rushed to the catatonic hobbit’s side and pressed a hand against his forehead. Murmuring words under his breath—likely some form of magic. Pippin jolted awake with a gasp.

The wizard immediately began questioning him with urgent intensity, receiving in return a breathless, desperate account of what he had seen.

Legolas turned (Y/N) to face him, her form flushed against his own. He grasped her face between his palms. “Are you alright, my starlight?”

She only nodded, her hands resting flat upon his chest—where the wound in the vision had been.

….

Taglist in the comments because there are too many of you (said with much love) <3

The battle was a blur—a wash of deep anxiety and fear. It only worsened when (Y/N) took to the air, leaving Legolas’s side. He did his best to keep her in sight without losing his own life, but each time he risked a glance skyward, dread tightened in his chest.

She would dive from above, cutting through the ranks in swift, deadly passes, felling dozens with each strike before soaring back into the sky. It wasn’t long before the orc generals noticed the damage she was inflicting. Soon, their trebuchets and mangonels turned toward her, hurling massive boulders into her path.

She dodged each one with breathtaking precision but Legolas feared she wouldn’t be able to evade them all.

The first boulder tore through the air with a thunderous force, its full weight coming at the Rámaite Mahtar. She saw it coming, her body perfectly in tune with the battle surrounding her. Therefore, she twisted aside, the wind of the stone passing snapping her hair and garments violently in its wake. Another followed, and another—the dark shapes blotting out the sky as they hurtled toward her. She wove between them with precision, each movement a narrow escape and each turn sharper than the last.

Below, Legolas fought on, his blades and bow moving with instinctive grace, but his focus was fractured. Every creak and groan of the catapults pulled his gaze upwards to (Y/N).

What if she could not dodge them all?

The thought lodged itself deep in Legolas’ bones and it would not leave. It buried itself into every crevice of his being and made a home, like a parasite of horror. And, as more stones were loosed into the sky, Legolas felt something colder than fear take hold—helplessness, sharp and unfamiliar, as he watched the skies turn against her.

The battle raged on, fear and dread consuming every soul upon the field, broken only by a flicker of hope when Gandalf arrived at daybreak with the Rohirrim. It was fierce—bloody and unrelenting. Yet, by some grace, perhaps a blessing of the Valar, it came to an end, and Rohan endured to see another dawn. As the remainder of the orcs scurried into the forest and the ents began to rip them apart and finish them off, (Y/N) came down from the sky, landing in front of Legolas.

“(Y/N)!” Legolas called out, rushing towards her. He was quick to slam his body into hers, wrapping her in a tight embrace, which she gladly returned.

“Legolas,” she stated bluntly, pulling away with a frown. “What is it? What is wrong?”

The Elven Prince cupped her cheeks between his two palms, cradling her face. “Oh (Y/N), I do not like watching them try to strike you down. I feared for your life.”

Her brows furrowed deeper. “I am fast. I am Rámaite Mahtar (Winged Warrior).”

He chuckled lightly, for he knew she did not doubt her own skill. She was made for war. She was used to this. But, he? He was not used to the one who claimed his soul and held his heart being seconds from death and a direct target of Sauron.

Therefore, he pulled her close to him once more, pressing his lips to her own in a soft, yet firm, kiss. When he pulled away, he spoke softly, “I love you, my starlight.”

She smiled up at him. “I love you too.”

……

A company set out for Isengard, led by Gandalf and joined by Aragorn, Gimli, Legolas, (Y/N), Théoden, Éomer, and a small escort of Rohirrim soldiers. They rode beneath the leaves of the forest and out across the broken lands, the air still heavy with the memories of war as the tower of Orthanc rose into view. But before they could come to its base, they moved through the devastation of the ents.

Most of Isengard was in tatters, its furnaces and shattered machinery drowned beneath dark, murky water that funneled into the deep shafts and forge pits below. Yet, that destruction was not as heart-wrenching as one may think, for it felt like a reclamation by the trees.

The Ents themselves stood proud and strong among the ruin, tall and watchful as they waded through the water and stood guard over what they had seized from the clutches of Saruman.

(Y/N), sitting in front of Legolas, turned her head towards him. “The tree people…” she began.

Legolas nodded, “Yes, the Ents.”

“I know them,” she whispered.

Yet, before he could respond and inquire what she meant, a loud quip of laughter, followed by carefree voices, called out to them.

(Y/N)’s gaze snapped in the direction and, immediately, a large smile stretched across her face. “Merry! Pippin!” she cried out.

She leapt from the horse her and Legolas rode upon, her wings springing from her back. She flew up on the ruins where they sat. She was quick to wrap her arms around them and pull them into a deep embrace.

“When Gandalf told us you were not dead, I was very happy.” She stated.

The two hobbits stared up at her, returning much of the same sentiment. “I am also glad you are not dead!” Merry stated.

“Yes, the last time we saw you, your wings were filled with arrows!” Pippin added.

“They no longer are,” she replied.

“Do you want some salted pork?” Merry began, “It tastes similar to Sam’s sausages!”

The chatter between the three continued until the rest of the company from Rohan caught up with (Y/N). Pleasantries soon followed, along with light scolding over weed and salted pork, before the group finally turned their attention toward the tower.

As they approached Treebeard at the base, he was quick to greet Gandalf. “Wood and water, stock and stone, I can master. But there is a wizard to manage here, locked in his tower.” His eyes then shifted to the winged being sitting in front of Legolas. “Ah, yes…a Sky Reaper. I remember your folk. Very swift. Very fast. The sky did grow dark when you wandered the winds.”

(Y/N) looked up at him, but did not reply. Their eyes locked and, to Legolas, it felt as if Treebeard knew of each crime she had committed in her previous life—and he was right.

Yet the interaction was not paid attention to by many others, for Gandalf called up to Saruman.

As they waited, a short debate started: whether or not to kill the turned wizard. Yet, the discussion did not last long for Saruman appeared above them.

Silence struck as eyes shifted—each person waiting for the other to begin the dreaded conversation. Yet, it was the corrupted wizard who spoke first, for his gaze on (Y/N). “Where did you get that—that Rámaite Mahtar (winged warrior)? I did not see such a creature in any of my visions.”

Legolas reacted instantly. His bow was drawn and an arrow notched within the span of a heartbeat, the sharpened tip aimed directly toward the wizard. “She is not yours to claim, Saruman.” The elf’s voice cut through the silence with dangerous precision. Beneath the calm of his expression simmered something far less restrained—protectiveness sharpened into a simple, direct fury.

A faint smile curled upon Saruman’s lips.

“How fascinating,” the wizard murmured, leaning slightly against his staff. “Such hostility. As though I have spoken of a person and not a weapon.”

At that, the muscle in Legolas’s jaw twitched, his aim staying taught and trained upon the old man.

“I have searched long for whispers of the winged killers,” Saruman continued. “Ancient things. Violent things. Creatures bred for war long before the kingdoms of men learned how to sharpen steel.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “And yet, here one is beside you, leashed by sentiment. Where ever did you find it?”

Legolas’s eyes narrowed.

“Legolas,” Aragorn spoke softly. He reached out and laid a steadying hand on the elf’s arm, guiding the bow down with careful pressure. “We need him alive,” he murmured quietly.

Legolas held Aragorn’s gaze for only a moment longer. Then, at last, he yielded.

The hand that had held the arrow shifted to (Y/N), settling at her womb and curling there, mindful not to let the arrow harm her—subtle, instinctive, possessive.

It was then when Saruman’s lips curled back into that smug, vile expression. It was sharp with amusement, with discovery—as though he had stumbled upon a weakness ripe for exploitation. “How protective you are,” he mused, eyes sliding lazily toward Legolas before returning to (Y/N). “One would think she belonged to you.”

Legolas’s reaction was immediate. Every line of his body pulled taut, sharp and dangerous. Though his bow had lowered, his hand shifted, still gripping the arrow tightly enough that his knuckles paled.

Saruman noticed—of course, he noticed.

“Ah,” he hummed with amusement. “There it is.” He paused before continuing. “She must be very dear to you indeed. Tell me, elf…do you guard her so fiercely because she is dangerous?” His eyes gleamed. “Or because you cannot bear the thought of another laying claim to what warms your bed?”

At his words, everyone froze. The air was full of anxious heat as their eyes shifted to the Elven Prince.

And the sound that exited Legolas’s lips could not be described by anything but a growl—angry and primal. In one swift movement, his bow was raised once more, the arrow aimed directly between Saruman’s eyes. The killing intent behind it was unmistakable, stripped raw and ugly for all to see.

“Speak of her again,” Legolas said sternly, “and I will decorate the stones beneath your tower with what remains of your entrails.”

Several of the Rohirim shifted. Even Gimli looked prepared to intervene if needed. Aragorn too, for a flicker of concern crossed his expression.

“Legolas,” he said quietly—not a reprimand, but a grounding. A reminder.

It did little.

The elf did not shift. He did not soften. If anything, the tension in him sharpened further, as though Saruman’s words had only driven the instinct deeper.

Yet Saruman only seemed more intrigued. “There,” the wizard murmured, almost delighted. “Not merely protective. Possessive.” His gaze drifted toward (Y/N) again. “How very mortal of you, elf.”

Aragorn moved his steed forward, blocking Legolas’s arrows’ path to Saruman. “Enough,” he said, voice steady, carrying the quiet authority of someone used to commanding men who would die for less. “You will not speak to us as though you sit above consequence.”

King Theoden was the next to speak, addressing Saruman. “You stand above the ruins you made,” Théoden said coldly, “and yet you still speak as though you govern what remains.”

Cautiously, Legolas’s bow lowered—for the third time.

The conversation then shifted back to the various debates with Saruman. Gandalf inquiring for information, Sauman promising none but dread. His hand reached into his robes and he pulled out a large murky orb—the plantir.

“Something festers in the heart of middle-earth.” Saruman stated, “Something that you have failed to see. But the great eye has seen it. Even now he presses his advantage. His attack will soon come. You are all going to die.”

It all happened too fast—Saruman’s staff breaking, Gríma Wormtongue striking him down, his body falling upon the spike of the great wheel before slipping into the murky waters of Isengard, and the palantír coming into the possession of Gandalf.

Silence then followed—heavy, final, and almost disbelieving. Then, as if the weight of what had passed finally settled upon them all, Théoden spoke. “We have seen enough of this ruin. We return to Rohan—to our dead, our wounded, and what remains of our strength.”

……

Taglist in the comments because there are too many of you (said with much love) <3

Behind them, a long line of travelers followed. It was the first time (Y/N) had seen so many gathered in one place since her last visit to this realm. The sight stirred memories that filled her with guilt, for there was a time when she had slaughtered all people alike, and so she chose silence and observation over conversation.

Yet it was then that the silence of the early morning was sharply altered, with shrieks of fear. Instantly, (Y/N) was alert, looking to her surroundings as Legolas dismounted, drew his bow, and ran towards the commotion.

(Y/N) was quick to follow his actions. She ran behind him, watching as Legolas let an arrow loose. Swift it was, impaling a large beast—that (Y/N) did not know the name of—in a matter of seconds. However, Legolas did not stop there. He continued forward to slice the neck of the orc rider upon it. 

“A scout!” he shouted, wiping the blood from his long knife against his thigh. “The rest will not be far behind.”

The people of Rohan began to scatter—grabbing weapons, clutching their children, and snatching up baskets of provisions.

Eowyn was quick to gather the women and children, following the command of King Theoden, to lead them onwards to Helm’s Deep. 

(Y/N) started forward in the direction the warg and its rider had come from. Legolas, however, caught her arm, pulling her to a halt.

“(Y/N), go with the women and children,” he ordered.

“But I can fight!” she protested. “I am worth more than a hundred men in battle.”

“That is exactly why you must go,” he insisted, his hands coming up to cup her cheeks as he leaned close. “If they run into danger along the road, they will need someone to protect them.”

(Y/N)’s brows furrowed.

Legolas pressed a firm kiss to her forehead, lingering for a long moment, for a part of him did not want to let her form slip away from his own. “Go,” he said, pulling back and drawing another arrow. “Go.”

With that (Y/N) ran towards Eowyn, looking back only once, before grasping onto the woman’s arm and giving it a quick squeeze, letting her know that she was coming with them. Eowyn gave a curt nod in understanding before continuing to gather the fearful group, ushering them to lower ground in the direction of refuge.

The people of Rohan moved fast, the sounds of battle becoming quieter and quieter as the distance grew between them and their fighters. 

(Y/N)’s eyes were sharp and wide as she and Éowyn guided the crowd, but her thoughts lingered with the men. She had never been separated from her companions like this, and a cold dread pooled in her chest at the thought. She did not know how they would fare in battle and the uncertainty gnawed at her. The weight of not being present for this fight pressed heavily on her shoulders. If one of them were to be killed…the thought made her stomach twist with fear.

Just as they reached the crest of a hill that opened into a small clearing, the danger they had hoped to avoid stood waiting before them.

Éowyn’s breath hitched as the people behind them stumbled in fear, freezing where they stood.

“What do we have here?” hissed the orc astride a warg, grinning toward its companion, of whom was just as ugly, mounted beside him. “A group of women and children—unattended!”

The other let out a gleeful, malicious laugh, full of menace and cruelty.

(Y/N) stepped forward, her stance firm and unshaken.

“Oh, a brave soul,” the second orc sneered. “You won’t last long, dear lady.”

Éowyn moved to stand beside the Rámaite Mahtar, her hand gripping the hilt of the sword she normally kept hidden beneath her skirts.

(Y/N) didn’t need to glance toward the maiden of Rohan; she knew her presence by the scent of sandalwood and eucalyptus that drifted through the air, and by the flicker of golden hair that billowed softly in the wind.

Éowyn drew her sword.

With that, (Y/N) surged forward. Her great wings—now fully healed from breakage and infection—burst free from their confinement beneath her skin. Éowyn was not far behind.

(Y/N)’s wing lashed out at an angle—a white blade of demise. It swept clean across one of the warg’s neck, severing it in an instant. Blood splattered across (Y/N) as the beast collapsed, its momentum flinging the orc from its saddle toward the shieldmaiden of Rohan. (Y/N) did not turn; she trusted Eowyn to finish it off. Instead, her gaze was locked onto the second warg and orc, whose grimy face twisted in surprise as it continued to charge toward her.

She wasted no time. With a sharp flick, her wings sliced open the underbelly of the beast as it leapt. Its intestines and internal organs spilled onto the ground in a grisly, squelching mess, a clear sign that the beast had been well fed. The orc, however, tumbled free from its fallen mount, snarling, fury and hatred burning in its eyes.

(Y/N) lunged, seizing the creature by the neck. With a powerful thrust of her wings, she lifted off the ground, soaring thirty feet into the air. There she hovered, her grip tightening as the orc choked and gurgled, its struggles growing weak.

“W–what a-are you?” it rasped.

(Y/N)’s eyes burned with power as she spoke the last words the orc would ever hear. “Rámaite Mahtar.”

With that, she released her hold. The orc plummeted like a stone, its fall ending with a sharp, echoing crack that pierced the silence. Its neck had snapped—the life snuffed from it instantly.

Descending from the sky, (Y/N) found the other orc already dead, a deep wound through its heart and dark blood slick on Éowyn’s blade.

The women and children stared at (Y/N) in stunned awe. Éowyn regarded her the same way—but with a quiet understanding. For a brief moment, a swell of pride washed over her. Perhaps she could make amends for the innocents she had killed? Perhaps it was not too late for redemption?

(Y/N) approached the lady of Rohan, a quiet recognition passing between them. “Which way?” (Y/N) asked calmly.

Éowyn’s lips curved into a faint smile, the innocence of the question softening the lingering fear in her chest. She nodded to the left. “That way,” she said.

The people of Rohan followed the two women—their warriors, their protectors. Their weary feet dragged with exhaustion, but their pace quickened as the stone walls of Helm’s Deep came into view. Cries of joy and relief rose from the crowd, echoing across the hills as they rushed toward safety and hope.

……..

(Y/N) and Éowyn worked alongside the people of Rohan, helping them unpack and take stock of what little they had left. They lifted sacks and baskets filled with heavy potatoes and carrots, stacking them high to be carried down into the caves. They moved jugs of fresh water, making them easily accessible to all. And, they handed out fur blankets to the children, hoping to warm their small bodies with a touch of kindness. Yet still, worry weighed heavily in their hearts as they awaited the men’s return. 

“Éowyn,” (Y/N) stated as they stood side by side working.

The Lady of Rohan looked up.

“I have a question.”

“Well, I will try my best to answer it.”

(Y/N)’s brows knitted tightly as she lowered her voice to a whisper, as if speaking softly could make the question less frightening. “What if they don’t come back?”

A heavy breath left Éowyn’s lips, yet no words followed, for she had none to put together in an answer.

But, it was then when the commotion began. The two women exchanged a glance before sprinting toward the entrance. (Y/N), her wings still unfurled, accidentally knocked a few people—and a basket of potatoes—to the ground in her haste. Her feet pounded up the steps as the potatoes tumbled down them.

“Legolas?” (Y/N) called, her eyes scanning the weary men passing through the gates. Fear gripped her chest, tightening her throat. “Legolas?!”

Then she saw him—tall and unmistakable among the men of Rohan, his elven grace shining even in weariness.

She dashed forward, people leaping aside as she collided with him, her arms wrapping tightly around his form. His arms closed around her in return, her wings curling protectively around them both. He seemed to lean heavily on her, as if the sorrow in his bones needed support. He drew in a deep breath, taking in her scent of ethereal light and otherworldly grace, as though it could stave off the grief clinging to him.

“(Y/N),” he murmured softly, pulling away gently. A frown was upon his face as he spoke, “There is blood on your wings.” His voice held concern. “Were you attacked?”

“Yes,” she replied. “But we killed them—Éowyn and I. Two creatures with their…um…strange horses.” The last words fell uncertainly from her lips, unsure what else to call them.

“Wargs,” he said simply, his thumb tracing gentle circles along her cheek.

A gruff voice sounded beside them, interrupting the intimate moment, followed by a firm pat on (Y/N)’s arm. “Good to see ye, lassie,” Gimli rumbled.

She turned toward him, a bright smile spreading across her face. “Gimli!”

Her head then turned again, scanning the crowd. Her smile slowly faded. She looked up at Legolas, her heart growing heavy. “Strider?” she asked, her voice trembling. “W–where is he?”

Legolas exhaled, the sound deep with sorrow.

(Y/N)’s eyes brimmed with tears. “No,” she whispered. Her voice then cracked. “No, not again.”

“He fell,” Gimli said solemnly. “Off the cliff.”

She shook her head, her expression hardening. Without another word, she turned and sprinted up the stairs.

“(Y/N)!” Legolas called, taking a few hurried steps after her.

But Gimli caught his arm. “Wait,” he said quietly.

Moments later, they saw her silhouette leap from the high wall—her wings unfurling as she soared into the open sky. The light reflected upon her feathers, casting gentle rainbows downward. If the actions weren’t filled with such pain, those below would have deemed it beautiful.

“W–where is she going?” Eowyn uttered, her voice small.

Gimli exhaled, his tone low and grave. “To look for his body.”

…..

Legolas stood atop one of the high walls of Helm’s Deep—the same one (Y/N) had leaped from—his eyes fixed on the horizon, searching for any glimmer of movement that may be the Rámaite Mahtar. The sun was just beginning to sink past the midpoint, the afternoon settling in quickly. Yet still, the clouds hung low and heavy, as if a storm was brewing, blocking firm rays and creating just a simple warm haze. Perhaps the sky mirrored his own mood, aware of the grief he carried with him. It surprised Legolas how all the day’s events had unfolded within a single rise and set of the sun—it felt as though years had passed. And still, it felt as if the events of the day were not yet over as he waited for his lover’s return.

“She’ll come back, laddie,” Gimli said gruffly.

The elf drew in a slow breath. He had not noticed his dwarven friend coming up beside him. “I know,” he replied quietly. “But I do not know what I fear more—if she returns with a body, or with none at all.” He paused, his gaze distant. “Aragorn deserves a proper burial, yet I do not wish to see his corpse. We have lost too many friends already. And I fear these losses are far from over.” 

The dwarf huffed in reply, staring up at the sky. It felt so…empty. Void of any hope, just like Legolas’ words.

The Elven Prince let his eyes fall to the necklace in his hand, for Aragorn, a symbol of love. It felt wrong, somehow, to be the one holding it.

Gimli squinted. “What’s that out there?”

The elf looked up, his eyes quickly finding the movement within the sky that his friend spoke of. 

“It’s (Y/N),” he whispered.

“Is she coming empty-handed?” Gimli asked, almost fearful of the answer.

“Yes,” was Legolas’ simple reply.

Moments later, she stood on the wall before them, her hair tangled and her cheeks flushed from the wind. Legolas reached up, his hands finding her hips, and in a swift motion, he lifted her off the wall and onto the stone where he and Gimli stood.

“I found nothing,” She whispered. With that, she rested her head upon Legolas’ chest and cried. 

Hours crept by slowly, the air thick with hopelessness as everyone worked to prepare for the battle they knew was coming.

But when whispers spread once more through the crowd and heads began to turn, that hopelessness began to lift.

It was Gimli’s booming voice she heard first—loud, rough, and full of disbelief. The words didn’t register until the name of a dear friend fell from his lips.

“Aragorn!”

(Y/N)’s head whipped around, her body moving before her mind could catch up.

And there he was.

She rushed forward. “Strider!” she cried, joy breaking through her exhaustion. She threw her arms around him, holding him tightly before pulling back with a frown. Then she punched him squarely in the shoulder. “I was out looking for your dead body!”

Aragorn winced, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I apologize, my friend. I did not mean to cause such worry or despair.” He pressed a quick, fatherly kiss to her temple. “Where is the King?” he asked, urgency returning to his tone.

Gimli nodded in the direction of the keep, and Aragorn started off at once, (Y/N) and Gimli hurrying after him.

It was there that they crossed paths with Legolas.

The dúnadan and the elf exchanged a few quick words in the elvish tongue, and (Y/N) frowned at her lack of understanding. She caught a glimpse of something shimmering—a small piece of jewelry—as it passed between them in a quiet gesture of care, before they returned to the common tongue.

“You look terrible,” Legolas remarked dryly.

A deep chuckle bellowed from Aragorn, his tone full of teasing. “It appears you are taking on the bluntness of your woman.”

Legolas only smirked in reply.

What remained of the Fellowship followed Aragorn into the great hall, where the air was thick with tension. King Théoden stood, his voice low and steady as plans for battle began. Around them, fear and determination mixed—war was no longer a distant threat, but a reality they could no longer escape.

Taglist in the comments because there are too many of you <3

(Y/N) summoned the little energy she had through a deep inhale, praying to the Valar that these spiders wouldn't be in such a frenzied state. Because, if so, fuck that. For at the present moment in time, she really didn't have the capacity to deal with that absolute, motherfucking horseshit.

Because, truly, getting killed due to slowness from fatigue and cramps from one’s bloodmoon cycle would be rather unfortunate and deeply regrettable. However, facing expulsion from the guard and losing her reputation as one of the hand-picked defenders of the royal line because of it would be even worse.

(Y/N)’s gaze narrowed as Prince Legolas, leader of the Greenwood Guard, raised a closed fist.

Nêl (Three).

Tâd (Two).

Mîn (One).

He opened his palm, signaling the command: Kill them. Kill them all.

With a firm thud, (Y/N)'s boots landed on the soft soil as she sprung from the trees. She was quick with her blade, hunting the spiders as if they were meaningless prey. Her weapon was an extension of her form. Every movement was fluid and graceful, a testament to her mastery of combat. Despite her pain, she spun and twisted with ease, severing the arachnids' limbs effortlessly.

As she fought, she made sure to keep an eye on the Prince, knowing that if anything were to happen to Legolas under her watch, the king would surely banish her. Besides, she harbored no desire for him to meet his demise. She found him rather…admirable. Nothing more than that—of course not.

As (Y/N) advanced upon one of the vile beasts, her senses tingled with warning. Abruptly, she halted in her tracks, narrowly dodging an arrow that whizzed past her stomach. Her eyes narrowed as she wiped her head to see just who fired that arrow. A scoff escaped her lips as she locked eyes with him: Rekón.

When the battle came to an end, (Y/N) strutted towards Rekón, who was wiping the edge of his blade upon his thigh.

“What the hell was that out there?!” She snapped at him.

“What is it you speak of?”

“You nearly put an arrow in me!”

He shrugged. “Perhaps, you should have been faster, Shadowfoot.”

She scoffed at Greenwood’s nickname for her. “You're lucky I am fast. I can assume you don’t want elven blood on your hands—especially my blood.

He sheathed his blade and crossed his arms. “Don’t exaggerate, (Y/N). It’s unbecoming. Besides,” he leaned in and his voice lowered, taking on a snarky tone, “I don't care if you're handpicked by the King to be the Prince’s shadow, you're a pain in the ass.”

“Really, Otuuk Fe`Saign (warg kisser)?! I could have you and your ass in the mud faster than you could say—”

The rather tense interaction was interrupted by Legolas clearing his throat beside the pair. “What is going on over here?” he demanded.

(Y/N) huffed, not taking her eyes off the man before her. “Rekón here nearly redecorated my abdomen with a fucking arrow!”

The Prince sighed. “You know we can’t always calculate every motion on the battlefield, (Y/N). I am sure Rekón meant no harm.” He paused, turning his attention to the ellon. “Rekón, in the future, mind your arrows.”

“That’s the reprimand he gets?! Are you fu—“

Legolas looked at the elleth. “Watch your language, Shadowfoot. I expect this attitude to be gone by the time we enter my father’s halls.”

With that, Legolas walked away, calling out orders to burn the spider carcasses and move out.

As he disappeared into the mess of elves, (Y/N)’s brows pulled downward in a grumpy frown. “Princeling Ass,” she murmured to herself.

Unbeknownst to her, as she turned away, Legolas' gaze followed her, seeking out her form and lingering as she walked away.

….

The sun had not yet risen when the Prince’s sector of the Greenwood Guard arrived back in the Palace. The warriors dispersed into the armory, diligently stowing their weapons and armor in their designated places. (Y/N), however, did no such thing. Instead, with a persistent scowl etched on her face, she marched through the room and passed through the arched exit of the armory—presumably heading towards her chambers. Legolas's gaze tracked her suspiciously as she departed.

As the day progressed, the members of the Prince’s sector resumed their usual routines. Because it was their first day back from patrol, they were exempt from basic guard duties and standard positions. Instead, they utilized the early hours of the morning to bathe and rejuvenate themselves before gathering in the dining hall for breakfast. The remainder of the day was theirs to unwind and compile their patrol reports—the King sought to stay informed about all occurrences and perspectives during patrols, for a darkness seemed to be spreading among his trees.

At supper, Legolas moved among the tables in the dining hall, gathering last-minute reports from the warriors in his sector. As he did so, he scanned the long wooden benches, searching for the scowling gaze that had accompanied the last couple of days of patrol; however, there was no such gaze and no such person that it belonged to. Simply put, there was no sign of (Y/N).

She had missed all three meals and had failed to submit her patrol report.

Legolas cleared his throat before he addressed the elves from whom he was collecting papers. “Have you seen Shadowfoot? I need her report,” he inquired.

They shook their heads, more interested in their food than one missing shadow.

Legolas sighed, but refrained from pressing further. If anyone knew her whereabouts, they would have mentioned it.

Therefore, he made his way to her quarters.

When he arrived, he knocked softly on the door, but was met with silence.

"(Y/N)," he called out, his voice carrying through the wooden barrier.

Still, there was no response.

After a moment’s hesitation, Legolas reached for the door knob and twisted it slowly. The wood swung open quietly under his touch, exposing the darkness of the room beyond. Moonlight filtered in through the opened window, casting shadows that danced across the floor, the curtains billowing gently in the cold night air.

Legolas carefully stepped through the threshold and closed the door behind him. As he took in his surroundings further, surprise crossed his features. He didn't know what he had been expecting since he hadn't been in (Y/N)’s quarters, but it most certainly was not this.

The room was a complete mess. Clothing lay strewn about, along with various trinkets—small hand-carved boxes, beautiful natural rocks, and melted candles absent of flame. Several stacks of books were piled beside the bed, a few of them open and their pages still. Her weapons were scattered haphazardly, some resting on the floor, others on the table or atop the dresser. Legolas even noticed a few knives embedded into the wooden door—a sight that would surely displease Ada.

It was chaotic but calm in a sort of strange way. Typical for (Y/N), he supposed.

The Prince moved to walk further into the room, but was quickly halted against his will. His foot had gotten caught and, if it wasn't for his swift reflexes, he would have face-planted upon the stone flooring.

Legolas sucked in a sharp breath as he stabilized his form. Glancing down, he discovered the culprit—a crumpled tunic tangled around his boot, its fabric caught between the lacings.

He immediately sighed in dismay.

The blond-haired Prince reached down to untangle the stubborn garment. It proved to be a more challenging task than he had anticipated, requiring a few moments of quiet curses and annoyed grunts before he managed to free himself. Carefully, he folded the fabric and placed it upon a nearby chair.

Cautiously, he advanced to the large bed. At first, he could not spot the warrior within, given that the fluffy comforter and mountain of pillows were blocking his view. However, when he pulled back the blankets slightly, sure enough, she was buried deep within. The pillows were arranged around her like a protective nest and she was laying on her side. Her hair was splattered across the cushioned fabric and her expression was…one of pain. Her brows were pulled tight, her nose crinkled, and lips slightly parted.

At this, Legolas frowned, for he was now troubled deeply.

Diligently, the Prince reached out to brush some hair from her face, but just as his fingers made contact with her cheek, his action was interrupted.

(Y/N) suddenly sat up, a knife in hand. With wild eyes, she tried to slam it into his carotid artery.

He reacted quickly, Legolas intercepted her arm, preventing the blade from reaching its target. For a moment, they both froze in that tense position, the gravity of the situation sinking in as they processed what was happening.

(Y/N) was breathing quickly and she appeared very disheveled and confused. It seemed to take her a moment longer to grasp the situation fully.

"Jukkete (fuck)," she breathed out, trying to catch her breath before snapping at him. "Legolas, I almost killed you!"

The Prince still held her wrist. “(Y/N),” he began, “Are you alright?”

She huffed. "You know better than to sneak up on me like that, Princeling!" With a sharp twist, she pulled away from his grasp and settled back into the blankets. “What are you doing here?”

He raised his brows. “Princeling?” he questioned, a hint of amusement in his tone.

(Y/N) only grunted in response.

He sighed. “No one has seen you all day and—“ his sentence abruptly halted as he noticed a red stain upon the comforter. “(Y/N), you are bleeding!” He exclaimed. Without hesitation, he grasped at the blankets, in an attempt to detangle her form from them, as he continued his babbling of concern. “Why didn’t you tell me you were injured on patrol?!”

“Legolas,” she interrupted, her voice firm.

“Is it from Rekón’s arrow?! I thought you said he ‘nearly’ hit you?”

“Legolas,” she tried again.

He yanked the blanket further.” Because I swear to the Valar if it was from him, I will—“

“Legolas! Stop!” She snapped, her patience wearing thin. “I’m not injured.”

His jaw clenched in frustration. “(Y/N), I have been a warrior for all my life, I know the site of blood. That is blood. You cannot lie to me. I am your sector leader, your Prince—“

“Legolas! It’s my bloodmoon cycle!” she interrupted, sitting up to glare at him once more.

An awkward silence settled into the dark room.

“You are in pain,” he stated.

“I’m fine.”

His brows raised again. “Now, why don’t I believe you?”

“Because you're a princeling ass,” she retorted.

“No. Because for the last three days of patrol, your demeanor has been notably irritable, as you are now. You've been favoring your left side, your jaw has remained tightly clenched, and your skin a shade too pale. Not to mention, you've consistently had your hand on your hip, I'm assuming in an attempt to try and alleviate discomfort, and you even vomited behind a tree on two occasions. And, here you are, Shadowfoot, in bed, sleeping the day away in dirty clothes and not caring that you lay in blood.” He paused before finalizing his evidence. “You are in pain.”

“You have been spying on me?! I am supposed to be your shadow.”

“I have been keeping an eye on you,” he clarified.

“Why?!”

The muscle in his jaw twitched. “Because you are a member of my sector. You are my responsibility.”

“You are my responsibility,” she corrected.

He released hot air from his nose. “I am required to keep an eye on all of my warriors, whether they were hand-picked to guard me or not.”

(Y/N) huffed, shaking her head. “Did you know Sethna took a pretty nasty hit to her leg?”

“Don’t try to change the subject,” he gruffed.

“Legolas, did you know about it or not?”

A rather long moment of silence extended into the night before the Prince reluctantly responded in a low tone. “No.”

“Then you don't watch every warrior like you watch me.”

He inhaled slowly, trying to steer the conversation away from what (Y/N) was insinuating. “Is Sethna alright?”

“Yeah, she’s fine.”

Legolas nodded slowly, before returning to the main topic. “Why didn't you tell me you were in pain while on patrol?”

She rolled her eyes before muttering his name. “Legolas.”

“Why haven't you seen a healer?” he persisted.

She exhaled slowly, knowing Legolas wasn't going to let this go. “Because the healers document everything, and those records get attached to evaluations.”

“So?”

“So, I would be dismissed from the guard and relieved of my position!” she snapped.

He snorted lightly. “You would not be dismissed from the guard nor relieved of your position.”

“Others have gotten so for far less!”

Surprising her, his normally collected tone turned into a rough reply. “That doesn't mean that you would have!”

She frowned, her once loud voice now subdued. “What's that supposed to mean?”

He sent her a warning look, his eyes cautioning her against probing further.

Silence reigned for a third time that night before Legolas spoke softly. “Rest. I will draw you a bath.”

“Princeling, I do not need you to draw me a bath. I do not need a bath at all. Like I said, I am fine.”

He shook his head. “You are in pain. Let me help you.”

“Legolas–”

He cut her off. “(Y/N), do not try to argue with me on this. That is an order. Shadow or not, I am your superior and you will listen.”

With that, he stood and made his way into the bathing chambers, leaving the elleth alone with her thoughts.

She let out a slow, contemplative exhale before sinking back into the embrace of the bed once more. Lost in a haze of exhaustion, she must have drifted into a brief slumber, for it was only moments later that Legolas returned, his thumb brushing against her cheek. His voice, barely above a whisper, reached her ears. “(Y/N),” he urged softly. “Come. The water is hot. It will alleviate your pain.”

Groggily, she opened her eyes, confusion evident in the furrow of her brow.

“Come,” he repeated.

Gradually, she sat upwards, letting her legs dangle off the edge of the mattress. She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her teeth, praying to the Valar for the pain to settle.

“If the pain is too much, I can carry you,” Legolas offered in a gentle tone.

She scoffed, her eyes opening to glare at him. “I can manage on my own.”

With that declaration, (Y/N) stood up and took a few cautious steps forward. But before she could proceed further, a sharp gasp escaped her lips as the agony surged through her body, causing her to double over.

A comforting warmth enveloped her lower back as Legolas placed a reassuring hand there. He remained silent, respecting her pace and refraining from pressing his earlier offer.

A small whimper escaped her lips, tears threatening to escape from her eyes.

Legolas’ hand began to move in soft circles. “It will pass, Shadowfoot. I am here,” he whispered.

Slowly, she resumed her movement, inching her way towards the bathroom. Upon reaching the basin's edge, she gripped onto the sides tightly. She squeezed her lids shut once more, focusing on her breath.

Standing only inches behind her, Legolas spoke softly. “(Y/N), please, will you let me assist you? I hate to see you suffer.”

She exhaled through her nose, seemingly debating his offer. After a moment of contemplation, she relented. “Fine,” she stated, “but if you breathe a word of this—”

“I will not say a thing. I swear it,” he assured.

She nodded, accepting his promise.

“Let's get you undressed and in the bath then.”

With caution, his nimble fingers found the hem of her tunic and began to lift it over her head. Ensuring her stability by placing one hand gently on her hip, he then carefully guided her trousers downward, assisting her as she stepped out of them. Shaking slightly, she lifted each foot into the tub, one at a time, as the Prince's firm hand remained securely on her waist. Slowly, she lowered herself into the water, his touch barely trailing up her back as she descended. Her eyes closed and a sigh of relief escaped her lips, settling into the soothing heat of the water.

Legolas cleared his throat awkwardly. “I will just be in the other room. Call out if you need me.”

She simply hummed in response.

The Prince swiftly left the bathing room, making his way to the door leading to the hallway. Peering out, he caught sight of a maid. He called out to her and motioned for her to approach.

“Yes, my lord?” she inquired politely.

“I need you to fetch a new set of bedding and obtain the following herbs: valerian, boswellia, and athelas,” he instructed.

She nodded in understanding.

“And please, keep it discreet. I have an injured warrior in here who wishes for the injury to remain quiet.”

The maid nodded once more before hurrying off to fulfill his requests.

Legolas returned to the room, feeling the cool breeze from the open window once more. With determined strides, he crossed the space and closed it firmly, halting the chill from entering any longer. He then took to light some of the candles, casting a warm glow within the room before moving to the empty fireplace. He quickly grabbed kindling and wood from the basket beside the silent hearth, setting to task. Before long, the flames crackled loudly among the stone, radiating a comforting warmth that dispelled the lingering chill.

It was then when the maid entered, a large basket brimming with fluffy fabric in her arms. Placing it beside the bed, she then retrieved a pouch from the top. Approaching the Prince, she bowed her head. “The herbs you asked for, my lord.”

“Thank you,” he replied, accepting them graciously.

The maid took to changing the sheets, making no mention of the blood. Legolas cleared a space upon the table in (Y/N)’s room. Placing a cast iron pot—one of which was kept in each room—over the now vibrant flames, he filled it with water from a pitcher. As the water began to boil, he used a small bowl to grind the fresh herbs into a paste with a pestle. Once sufficiently smashed, he ladled some of the boiling water over it and allowed the mixture of herbs to steep, filling the air with its earthy aroma.

The maid, having finished her task of making the bed and straightening up, bid an awkward farewell to the Prince before exiting the room.

Legolas sighed, taking a seat in the chair beside the table, his ears attuned to any sounds from (Y/N)'s direction—just in case.

Nearly 45 minutes passed before she emerged from the bathroom. She was clothed in soft trousers and a loose top that hung off her shoulder, her hand pressed lightly against her abdomen.

“How do you feel?” he inquired, breaking the quietness of the night.

She turned her head towards him. “You are still here?” Her gaze swept across the room, trailing off as she took in the sight of the lit candles, crackling fire, and fresh bedding.

Abandoning the chair, he approached her and gently put his hand upon her bicep. “How is the pain, (Y/N)?”

As if suddenly drawn from her thoughts, she registered that he was indeed beside her. “I, uh, it has lessened a bit.”

He nodded, guiding her to the bed. Pulling back the clean sheets, he motioned for her to get in. Surprisingly, she complied, settling into the comfort of the fresh lavender scent emanating from the blankets and pillows.

Legolas briefly left her side before returning with a cup of tea, mixed from the healing herbs. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, he lifted the cup to her lips, encouraging her to take a sip. “Drink this. It will help.”

The steam kissed her face as she took the cup from him. As she drank, the warm liquid flowed down her throat and into her stomach, providing instant comfort. When she finished, she passed the cup back to him. “How do you know how to make such a tonic?”

The Prince placed the cup upon the side table. “My father used to care for my mother during her bloodmoon cycle, before she passed from this world. She too had excruciating pain. He taught me the right herbs to mix, the benefits of heat, and—” he paused, his hand moving to her lower back, where he began to massage lightly. “—what points to press to alleviate pain.”

She exhaled slowly, letting her eyes flutter closed.

“He had said, ‘One day, you will have a wife who too suffers such pain. This you must learn for her.’ And I listened.”

(Y/N) did not open her eyes. “I am not your wife.”

Before he could stop himself, his lips betrayed his secrets. “You could be.”

At this, she opened one eye, as if she was trying to subtly evaluate what his words meant based on his body language. Sensing the sincerity upon his expression, her other eye opened too. She put her full attention on him. “What?”

His cheeks flushed, the tips of his elvish ears reddening, though the warm glow of the fire hid his embarrassment. He turned his head away. “Forgive me, (Y/N). I—I didn't mean to be so…so forward.” He hesitated, then looked back at her, seeing her flabbergasted expression. “I–I suppose there is no hiding it now. The reason I keep such close watch over you is because my heart won't let me do otherwise. I fear, well, I fear that you are not just a shadow following my path.” He exhaled softly. “(Y/N), you haunt me in the most beautiful way.”

She shifted from the pillows, drawing closer until her face was mere inches from Legolas’. “You–you care for me?” she whispered.

His hand tenderly cupped her cheek, his thumb moving in a soft motion. “More than I could ever put into words.”

“Legolas,” she whispered. “Your father did not assign me to your sector. I was supposed to be appointed to protect him. I—I requested to be assigned to you.”

The Prince’s gaze met hers. “Why, (Y/N)?”

“Because you too have been haunting me.”

Legolas wasted no time. He pressed his lips to (Y/N)’s in a gentle kiss and she responded eagerly. She tasted of herbal tea and hope, while he tasted of honey and peace. His hands gently cradled her face, while hers found their way to the back of his neck, fingers entwining in his hair. The scent of fresh lavender surrounded her, mingling with the aroma of pine that clung to him. In their embrace, their minds intertwined, both haunted by the other's presence—in the most beautiful way.

Slowly, they parted. Legolas pressed a kiss to (Y/N)'s forehead before speaking softly. "Lay down. Rest. I will watch over you."

She looked up at him. “Won't you lay with me? I am cold.”

He snorted, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips like the stem of a flower being plucked from a spring meadow. “You only want me to alleviate your pain, don't you?”

She grinned back at him. “Perhaps, Princeling. Though, I did not lie, I am cold.”

With a playful roll of his eyes, Legolas kicked off his boots and drew back the covers. He allowed his body to melt against (Y/N)’s, providing warmth as he gently began to massage away her tension.

A content sigh escaped the woman’s lips as she snuggled further into him, eagerly stealing his warmth and accepting the pain relief he offered.

“Princeling,” she murmured, “You better not breathe a word of this either.”

He chuckled lightly, “I will not say a thing, Shadowfoot. I swear it.”

…

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