“You are chosen in every age"

That gives him pause.

He steps closer, long fingers reaching out to touch the carved antlers. The elk shifts slightly beneath his hand. He watches it move, expression unreadable.

“You made this,” he says.

“Yes.”

“For children not of your blood,” he adds.

“Yes.”

A long silence stretches between you—heavy, thoughtful.

“You humans,” Thranduil murmurs, “have an odd habit of leaving pieces of yourselves behind.”

He straightens, withdrawing his hand.

“Joy. Comfort. Noise.”

You smile faintly. “Someone has to.”

His eyes lift to meet yours—cool, piercing, searching.

“Do you know what happens when such things take root?” he asks.

“They grow,” you say simply.

Another pause.

Then—unexpectedly—he turns and gestures toward the table.

“Leave it,” he says.

A beat.

“And… bring more.”

Your eyes widen. “More?”

“For the children,” he says crisply, already turning away. “If winter insists on staying, then it will not find them wanting.”

He stops at the doorway, voice lower, almost reluctant.

“…See that they are well made.”

You smile, heart warming.

“They will be.”

Thranduil does not look back.

“Kiss,” he finishes, far too easily.

You stare. “You know about it?”

He shrugs, suddenly sheepish in a way that does not suit a Captain of Gondor at all. “I have sisters. They enjoy traditions that cause discomfort.”

Silence stretches between you. The mistletoe sways gently above, utterly pleased with itself.

“Well,” you say, stepping back, “I can just—”

Boromir moves at the same moment, blocking your retreat without quite meaning to. He stops, startled by his own instinct, then clears his throat.

“You don’t have to,” he says quickly. “I mean—I would never presume—”

You smile despite yourself. “Boromir, it’s only a custom.”

He studies your face, searching for hesitation. Finding none—only warmth.

“Only,” he repeats softly. Then, quieter, “Unless you wish it to be more.”

Your heart stumbles.

The mistletoe rustles.

Boromir exhales, steadying himself like a man facing battle—not with bravado, but honesty.

“If you would rather walk away,” he says, “I will respect it. Truly.”

You don’t move.

Instead, you tilt your head slightly upward.

“Well,” you say, “it would be a shame to waste tradition.”

For a moment, Boromir looks stunned.

Then he smiles—slow, bright, unguarded.

“Then,” he murmurs, stepping closer, “allow me.”

His hands come up gently—carefully—as if afraid to startle you. He leans in, forehead brushing yours first, giving you every chance to pull away.

You don’t.

The kiss is warm and brief and unmistakably Boromir—earnest, sincere, full of a feeling he never hides well. When he pulls back, his cheeks are flushed deeper than the cold could manage.

“Well,” he says, grinning like a victorious fool, “I see why this tradition endures.”

You laugh softly. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

He straightens, all mock-serious again. “I endured great peril for Gondor. I believe I have earned one kiss.”

He tilts his head. “It is a truth.”

Your heart stirs, unsure whether he meant the moon or you.

Legolas moves until he stands beside you beneath the bare branches. The light catches the fine angles of his face, making him look almost too ethereal to be real. You watch the soft silver glow curve along his cheekbone, the faint shimmer where frost dusts the ends of his hair.

The moment feels suspended—quiet, endless, fragile.

“You humans,” Legolas says softly, “feel moonlight more deeply than Elves do.”

You glance at him. “Is that a bad thing?”

He shakes his head. “No. It is… curious.”

He pauses, searching for the right words.

“You cherish what is fleeting. It makes every winter night precious.”

His eyes drift back to you, lingering.

“I find myself cherishing it as well,” he adds quietly.

Your breath catches. “Because of the moonlight?”

“Because of the person standing within it.”

The forest seems to hold its breath. Even the wind stops its wandering to listen.

Legolas steps a fraction closer. Not quite touching, but close enough that you feel the warmth radiating from him despite the cold. The moonlight spills across both of you, and for a moment, it feels like the world has shrunk to this—silver light, quiet breath, and the soft steadiness in his gaze.

“You shine beneath the moon,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Did you know?”

“I don’t,” you murmur, “but you do.”

A subtle smile touches his lips—rare, sincere.

“Come,” he says, offering his hand in that gentle, courtly way. “Walk with me. The forest is peaceful tonight.”

You place your hand in his.

His fingers curl around yours—light, sure, reverent.