Let's Get Cozy

Heavy wind rattled the window above the headboard, whistling against the side of the house. 

You scrunched your eyes with a heavy exhale. It felt like you’d only just drifted off. You pulled the covers tightly over your shoulders, willing yourself to relax. A series of hefty kicks struck the top of your belly, magnifying your inability to fall back to sleep. 

Between rolls of thunder, a repetitive banging sounded from outside. Not loud, but dull and insistent. 

You opened your eyes, staring at the wall as you strained to hear what it could be. From the depth of the pitch, it sounded like it could’ve been the back door. Maybe the screen door you and Echo hadn’t gotten around to fixing yet. You furrowed your brow. If it were the back or screen door, it would be marginally louder. Realization hit you moments before the next clap of thunder. 

The shed. You meant to replace the latch a few days prior. 

Now the storm was testing your willpower. Judgement of your competence. 

You groaned and squeezed your eyes shut again, wishing Echo were home. Normally, you would leap at the opportunity to get up and do anything outside of your routine. But someone had kept you from consistent sleep for the past week, and with your due date closing in, you just wanted to sleep. 

Part of you was torn. You wanted so badly to simply roll over and go back to sleep, maybe call the neighbors to ask if they could check, but you shoved the idea away as soon as it came. Why wake them? It was just the shed door.

If it weren’t the middle of the night, you’d be beyond grateful for something to keep yourself occupied. You just wished you were able to do more without help these days.

Another round of thunder rumbled overhead. Pulling the covers back, you used your arms to walk yourself up to sitting. You paused, catching your breath with a hand on your belly. You heaved yourself to your feet and turned to look out the window.

Rain pelted against the glass, trees bending in the wind. You sighed, knowing no amount of clothing coverage would keep you completely dry in this. You opted not to change out of your pajamas, and instead pulled on a simple raincoat. Its zipper had broken months ago, but it was better than nothing. Your eyes found your boots, mocking you from the floor. 

Bending over seemed impossible, particularly at this hour. Skipping the boots, you pushed your feet into an old pair of sandals and headed for the stairs. 

Flipping the switch for the lights, you groaned again. 

No power.

As you carefully descended to the living room, you glanced through the front window. Where you could normally see out to the ocean was only a wall of rain, coming down sideways in sheets. You had to hurry if you didn’t want a good many materials in the shed ending up ruined. 

Your gaze fell on the stepladder in the living room. A brief memory flashed across your mind; how you had almost fallen off the same ladder several weeks prior. You’d stretched too far on the top step, its sudden wobble sending your heart to your throat and paint to the ceiling. 

You paused for a moment, wondering again if you should ask a neighbor for help. Just as quickly, you shook off the thought. There was no way you were waking anyone this late at night for a task as simple as closing a door.

Crossing through the kitchen, you opened the back door. Wind caught it almost instantly, pushing it open to slam against the wall. You gasped, rushing to grab the door and push it closed again. 

You paused for another moment, gathering yourself and wrapping your head around just how strong the wind was tonight. You pulled the hood of your raincoat over your head and tugged it a little tighter around you, cursing yourself for not getting one with a better zipper. You were truly going to get soaked. 

Glancing down at your sandals, you second guessed your decision. The yard had to be nothing but mud. Cleaning your feet would be far easier than cleaning shoes. Kicking them off by the lightswitch, you grabbed the flashlight on the counter and braced yourself.

The moment you opened the door, wind sought to pull it from your hand again. You squeezed the handle, grabbing the edge of the door as you turned and backed out. As it clicked shut, a flash of lightning startled you. You quickly flipped around, pressing your back to the door. Cold rain immediately pelted your skin, soaking every part of you not covered by your jacket. Thunder finally echoed above, several strong kicks in your belly reminding you to be quick. 

You placed your free hand over your baby. “Don’t worry,” you murmured, more to yourself than your child, “we won’t be out here any longer than we have to.”

Clicking on the flashlight, you shined it down the path toward the shed. Sure enough, the door swung freely, periodically slamming against the outer wall. Rain had certainly gotten inside. You hoped it hadn’t been too long. 

Looking at your feet, you cautiously stepped down onto stairs slick with water. You moved your free hand to grasp the railing, inching your way to the bottom. Though it was only three steps, you didn’t want to risk toppling over in this weather. 

You cringed as you reached the bottom of the steps. Puddles and mud caked the yard, a once clear path to the shed now completely unrecognizable. Stepping down to the grass, water and mud squelched between your toes. Clutching the flashlight in one hand and your raincoat in the other, you began the tediously careful—and gross—trek to the shed. 

I should’ve put the damn boots on.

Around you the storm roared. Somewhere behind wind, rain, and thunder, ocean waves thrashed against each other, compounding the noise of it all. 

A gust of wind tore through the yard, ripping the hood from your head. You tightened your grip on your coat and leaned into the gale, hair soaked within seconds. Loose strands whipped at your face, your cheeks stinging beneath bullets of water. You pressed on all the same. 

Cracking wood snapped your attention to the tree beside your home. You froze in place as you watched a large branch splinter away from its trunk, crashing down on the fence bridging your yard and the neighbor’s. Its weight crushed the fence in an instant. Debris flew into the grass and loose leaves scattered in the wind. 

You gaped at the sight. Suddenly chilled, you turned back to your objective, squinting against the rain as you pressed forward with an added urgency. 

Reaching the shed, you paused to assess the damage. The first couple paces inside were soaked, including the spare wood Echo wanted to put towards building a back porch. You sucked your teeth, shaking your head. 

You grasped the edge of the shed door, pulling it along as you walked it closed. Mud squished up around your feet, suction resisting your movement as you took each step. 

Another impossibly strong gust of wind pushed into you. It grabbed ahold of the door, catching it like a sail, and yanked it from your grasp. The edge cracked into your shoulder, just enough to jolt you from your balance. Fighting to regain your footing, your heel slipped and the world tilted sideways. The flashlight flew from your hand as your hip struck the earth—hard. 

With the breath knocked from your lungs, you laid still, mouth agape in shock. You groaned briefly, dull pain blooming along your hip and side. Your hand darted to your belly, relief quickly settling your nerves as you felt your baby shift and wiggle. 

Your throat tightened, all at once furious with yourself. 

All you wanted to do was shut a door. 

Eyes irritatingly full, you lifted a hand to wipe a splatter of mud from your face. Your frustration only grew when you felt that your hand—accompanied by continuous rain—had smeared even more dirt across your cheek. 

A familiar voice called your name through the downpour. 

Your stomach dropped, heat rising in your cheeks. The tears that had welled up immediately threatened to fall. 

This is not good. 

You pushed yourself up to sit on your hip. Heavy, fast footsteps smacked through rain-sodden grass behind you. 

“Kriff– Are you okay?!” Echo shouted over the rain—his voice sharp, alarmed. 

“I’m fine!” You responded starkly, attempting to wipe mud from your arm on your coat.

He was knelt in front of you in an instant, hovering for a moment as if afraid to touch you. Then one hand wiped wet hair from your face, his scomp link finding your shoulder. 

“Why are you– What happened?” He breathed, eyes darting all over you.

You avoided his gaze. “I slipped. I’m fine.”

He looked at you again and hesitated, ultimately raising his comm. “Tech, come in.”

“I’m fine, Echo,” You insisted, pushing one hand deeper in the mud in an effort to hoist yourself up. 

“What is it?” 

“I need you here ASAP.” Echo reached for your other arm, intending to help you up, but you pulled your arm away. 

“I said I’m fine,” you hissed, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes. Rain continued to pour, splashing more speckles of mud from the ground on your face and in your hair.

“Should I fetch the midwife?”

Echo nearly recoiled at your reaction. “You’re not fine,” he blinked, shocked you were denying the gravity of what he might have been seconds shy of witnessing. Bending down again to hook his arm under yours, he raised the comm back to his mouth. “She fell,” he said, eyes assessing you again. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll be there soon.”

You resisted the urge to scoff. You knew it was a good idea to check on the baby. You just didn’t want to be the one being babied. You didn’t want to be scolded for trying.

“I’m okay, Echo. You don’t need to call Tech.” You grumbled, relenting to his efforts.

Echo’s eyes grew. “It’s the middle of the night, you’re soaked, lying in the mud in a storm like this—” he pulled you to your feet, hand and scomp on either side of your arms. His voice grew increasingly distressed with each word. “Kriff, you’re freezing, and shaking— What are you doing out here?!” 

You gritted your teeth. As soon as you stood squarely, you pulled away from him again, throwing an arm at the shed. “Rain was getting in the shed! I had it handled!” 

“‘Had it handled?’” Echo blinked incredulously. He stepped behind you, pulling the shed door shut and wedging a rake through the handle to keep it secure. The sound of it sliding into place grated in your ears, mocking your defeat. 

“I slipped!” You argued, wiping more mud from yourself. “I was fine!” 

He turned back to you, eyebrows furrowed. “You call that—” he gestured to where you had laid moments before, “—‘fine’? You fell at eight months pregnant!” 

“It was only an open door!” You shouted, a crack of thunder hiding the crack in your voice. A tear bubbled over, rolling down your cheek. You hoped the rain disguised it. “I wasn’t about to ask for help with closing it!” 

“Yeah, well,” Echo crossed his arms over his chest, “You scared the hell out of me.” 

You turned your face away, biting the inside of your cheek. That makes two of us.

Echo clamped his mouth shut, pressing his lips into a thin line. This wasn’t how he thought you’d react to something like this. He knew you well enough to know you’d always be worried about your child, but this was something entirely different. Something felt off. 

He said nothing else, but instead took a few steps toward you. He pressed his hand to the small of your back, gesturing to the house. 

Echo’s hand seemed to burn on your back. You turned, watching your step as you trudged back to the stairs. Internally, you shrank in on yourself. Your stomach twisted at the thought of the conversation sure to happen inside. 

You weren’t necessarily ashamed—no—but you couldn’t deny that perhaps, in the pursuit of sustaining your own independence, you got reckless. 

Now you felt selfish. Prideful. 

And your pride stung. 

A few hot tears slid down your cheeks. You ignored them, letting the heavy rain wash them away. They weren’t tears of pain, though your hip ached sorely and it took some effort not to let it affect your gait. Rather, they were of embarrassment. You wanted nothing more than to be as capable as you were before your pregnancy progressed. 

First you couldn’t paint the living room without nearly falling off a stepladder and splashing paint on the ceiling. Then you couldn’t put furniture together without straining your back. 

Now you couldn’t so much as close a door without incident. 

Even now, knowing Echo’s hovering hand was really only a matter of slippery stairs, you felt immensely small. Fragile. Vulnerable. 

You were no stranger to vulnerability, and especially not with Echo. You did marry the man. But feeling that your usefulness was restricted by the growing child inside you—at least for the next several weeks, still—was something you weren’t used to. 

The back door swung open, aided by the ever present wind. You took a few steps inside, Echo pushing the door closed behind him. Mud and rainwater began pooling on the tile around your feet, dripping from your clothes, fingertips, and hair. 

Echo stepped toward the table in the middle of the room, pulling out a chair. “Come on,” he urged softly, “I’ll get towels.” 

You shook your head. “I need to shower anyway, don’t waste the clean ones.” 

He paused a moment, then moved to the stairs. “Tech’s checking you out first, and you’re freezing.” 

You stood still for a moment, listening to his footfall fade down the hall. Slowly, realizing how cold you really were, you began trying to peel off your mud-coated rain jacket. It clung to your arms and shirt, refusing to budge however you pulled and twisted. You grunted with the effort, forbidding yourself from failing at this, too. 

A hand on your shoulder stopped you. Turning to look over your shoulder, Echo met your gaze. Though he said nothing, his eyes had softened and spoke every bit of “let me help you” that you knew you wouldn’t have accepted otherwise. 

You released your grip on the jacket, raising one arm towards your husband. He grabbed ahold of the cuff, pulling firmly as you tugged your arm toward yourself. After a moment of resistance, it released. Echo dropped the cuff and moved to the hood, holding it up while you got your other arm out. 

With the jacket gone, fresh air met your wet pajamas and sent a chill down your spine. Goosebumps popped up all down your arms and legs, shivers settling in. 

Echo turned with the jacket in hand, moving to temporarily discard it in the kitchen sink. You ran a hand over the fabric that clung to your belly, watching him step over your muddy footprints. 

A quick series of knocks sounded at the front door. You took a step towards it before Echo stopped you with his scomp. Neither of you spoke, but he gave you one of his gentle, stern looks. He wrapped a towel around your shoulders, pointedly looking between you and the dining chair, then turned and disappeared around the corner. 

Normally you might sass him; give him a run for his money on who was the deciding voice. But shivers and exhaustion won, ultimately convincing you to take a seat as he told. You took a corner of the towel and wiped droplets from your forehead. The front door opened—rainfall echoing from the next room—then hissed shut. You patted your hairline, hoping to stem the flow of water from your hair into your eyes. 

Several moments later Echo returned, his brother following shortly behind. 

“Hi Tech,” you muttered, reluctant to meet his gaze. “Sorry to bother you so late.”

“It is no inconvenience,” he quickly waved your worry off, kneeling in front of you with scanner in hand. “I had not gone home yet.” 

Echo stood a pace away beside you, watching Tech conduct his scans. You spared a glance at him. His eyebrows were furrowed, seemingly stuck in that squared position. He had his arms crossed, the bulk of his weight leaned against the kitchen counter behind him. 

“Turn please,” Tech said, interrupting your observations. He gestured his scanner to the side you fell on. 

You cleared your throat, shifting in the chair to angle yourself. Lifting the hem of your shirt, you revealed a large purple splotch already peeking from beneath your waistband. Tech paused half a second, but gave no other visible or audible reaction. Echo shifted at the sight of the bruise, bringing his hand to massage his chin and run his fingers across his mouth. Tech passed a glance at his brother through the corner of his eye, but returned to his analysis just as quickly. 

Several minutes passed in trepid silence, rainfall on the roof serving as the only buffer. 

Tech finally stood up, tapping at his datapad briefly before he spoke. “All is well with both mother and child.” 

The room let out the smallest of exhales. Relief loosened your muscles just enough for exhaustion to make itself glaringly known. 

Echo pushed himself away from the kitchen counter and let out a short sigh. “Thanks Tech.”

Tech lowered his datapad and reached to adjust his goggles. “I suppose I should ask how this happened?” 

The air between you and Echo stiffened again. You met his gaze briefly, but looked away almost immediately. You shuffled your feet against the tile beneath your chair, squeezing the towel in your grip. “It’s a long story,” you muttered, glancing up at Tech. “I’ll tell you another time.” 

He paused, as if considering whether to push further, but ultimately said nothing else of the question at hand. He gave a curt nod, then looked to his brother as he turned towards the front door. “Do not hesitate to contact me if things change.” 

“We won’t,” Echo assured, remaining where he stood.

You waited in tense silence for the sound of the door. When it clicked shut, you finally looked at your husband. His arms were crossed again, giving you the look he usually saved for Omega when he knew she was hiding something. 

You let out a heavy breath. “Don’t start.”

“You’re not getting away from this.”

“What’s there to get away from? Tech said the baby’s fine, I’m fine. I’m not made of glass, Echo.”

“No one said you were.” He stayed put as he watched you stand, clinging to the towel around you. “But that never should have happened.”

You took a deep breath, willing him to let go of the matter and let it disappear. “I’m tired,” you stated. “I just want to shower and go back to bed.”

“Did you hear what I just said?” Echo stepped in your path, blocking the way to the stairs. “We’re talking about this now.”

You tried avoiding looking directly at him, averting your eyes just about anywhere else. He shifted his gaze along your face, noting the redness beneath your eyes. 

Echo brought his hand to your jawline, pulling you to face him. Tears welled in your eyes and despite his frustration and worry, his heart softened. He ran his thumb along your cheek. “This isn’t like you,” he said, quieter now. “What’s going on?”

You took his hand in yours, pulling it away from your face. “I’m just–” you paused, looking to the ceiling as you fought against the knot in your chest and struggled to find the right words. A frog leapt to your throat as you looked down at the floor. In a whisper, you admitted, “I’m tired of being like this.” 

Echo’s brow furrowed further, confused. “Like what?” 

“I can’t do anything by myself anymore,” you let out a shaky breath. “If I want to do something even remotely taxing, it’s, “you should be sitting down,” or, “go ask Wrecker to do that,” and even the neighbors jump in.” 

You were quick to wipe away a stray tear, which only served to smear crusted dirt across your face. You paid it no mind, hardly thinking of anything less than everything you’d kept bottled up for the past several months. 

“I can’t go on missions anymore. I can’t come with you guys and stay on the ship. I can’t so much as take a flight out to orbit.” Your body slowly grew more tense as you spoke, coiling tighter in your chest. “So I do what I can here. But then I can’t move the nursery furniture. I can’t carry in groceries. I can’t do anything without someone saying something about it.” 

Echo stood still, letting you speak freely as his heart crumbled a bit. All this time he thought they were just taking care of you, that he and his brothers were doing the right thing letting you rest. He hadn’t realized they were essentially withholding you from what you needed. He suddenly felt a wave of anger. Or was it sadness? Something close to regret. 

“I could have waited until morning, or for you to get home, or called a neighbor. Maybe I should have. But I’m so tired of letting other people do for me what I used to do without thinking.” You ran a hand through your hair, pressing your palm to your forehead. “But then I feel crazy because there’s times I really do need help, but asking for it feels like I’m making myself a work-around in everyone’s day! I feel like I’m losing it, Echo!” You scrunched your eyes shut, bringing your palms to press against your eyes as if you could scrub it all away. 

“It’s like I don’t have any control anymore! It’s like I’ve been replaced by an entirely new person, and she’s clumsy, and she’s lazy, and I hate her.” You dropped your hands to your hips, bracing your back, and scoffed. You felt like a fool. “And now I couldn’t even close a door.”

“Hey,” Echo’s voice neared a grumble, “that’s my wife you’re talking about.”  

You gave him a soft side-eyed glare. 

The corner of his mouth quirked up on one side in response. 

You shuffled backward, sitting yourself down again. You exhaled slowly, quietly. You hadn’t meant for everything to come pouring out like that—if at all. And if you did ever plan on mentioning how incapable you felt, you certainly would have preferred it to be in much more controlled circumstances than this. 

Regardless, you couldn’t deny how much lighter you felt. Not joy, not comfort. Not even close. But still lighter. Like you had room to breathe where immense pressure had been. It wasn’t completely gone, though. There was still a bit of water in the dam, but at least you weren’t hiding the dam. 

Echo watched you wring the corners of the towel. He knew he wasn’t as present as he wanted to be—as you needed him to be. So when he was away and suggested going to the neighbors or his brothers for help, he thought he was just trying to be a good husband to you. But here you were, in tears after months of suffering in silence, after months of tolerating it all, all because you knew everyone was only trying to help. 

Slowly, Echo stepped over to the table and knelt in front of you. He took one of your hands in his, running his thumb over your knuckles. 

He let your words hang in the air, heavy with your admission. When he finally spoke, his voice came out hushed, like he might wake someone in another room. “You’re not crazy,” he murmured. “You’re not incapable. And you’re sure as hell not a burden.”

You brought your eyes to his. They were unwavering; solid and grounding.

He continued. “You have been doing something incredible. Growing our baby changes how your body works and feels, but that doesn’t mean it’s weak. It doesn’t mean you’re weak.” Echo’s thumb stilled. His hand moved to lace his fingers with yours, his thumb now drawing circles in your palm. “The people around us get involved because they care, not because they think you’re helpless.”

Your throat tightened. You opened your mouth to argue, but he shook his head before you could utter a word. Where you might’ve been unsure whether to believe him or assume he was only being reassuring, you didn’t doubt he believed what he said. He said everything so factually, like there was no debating it.

 He shifted his weight, bringing your hand to his mouth as he pressed a tender kiss to your knuckles. “You may be limited with what you can do for now, but that won’t last forever. You don’t have to prove anything. Trust me, I know what you’re capable of,” Echo grinned, flicking his eyes up to meet yours. “Now, maybe I’ve overdone it a little–”

“A little?” You snorted. You shifted slightly in your seat.

“I wanted to make sure you had help when you needed it while I was off-world,” he defended with a bashful smirk. 

You smacked his arm lightly, resting your palm on his shoulder. The hint of a grin tugged at your lips. 

“What?” He scoffed out a laugh. “I was being resourceful, right?” 

You nodded, but then your grin faded. His words had undoubtedly done the trick and reassured you, but you still felt the sting of your pride for failing at something so easy. 

Echo saw the sudden shift. He reached his hand to yours on his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.

Your gaze drifted to your lap as you softly admitted, “I felt like I proved myself wrong, like maybe I really couldn’t do anything without help, even something that simple.”

Echo shook his head, moving his hand to your chin and pulling your face back to meet his. “Hey, don’t belittle yourself like that. That’s one hell of a storm you went out in.”

You let out a resigned chuckle. “Yeah, and look where my courage got me.” You glanced down to your mud-soaked clothes, a faint curve rising at the edge of your mouth again. 

A short, hearty laugh bubbled up out of him. “You do look like you wrestled a Mudhorn.” 

Your smile grew slightly as he stood to his feet. “And lost.”

He laughed again and locked his fingers between yours, gently tugging you to your feet. 

Hand stretched behind him, Echo led you to the stairs, still dark due to the lack of power. He let you take the lead as you climbed to the second floor, ever watchful of your step though the mud on your feet had long crusted over. 

You headed straight for the bathroom, and instead of grappling with your self-esteem, this time you welcomed Echo’s help from the start. You raised your arms above your head and let him peel off your mud-crusted tunic, watching as he tossed it—and your used towel—to the corner. 

As you wiggled off your bottoms and kicked them to the same corner, Echo turned the shower faucet on. It sputtered to life, quickly growing to a low roar. Its sound paled in comparison to the storm still alive outside. 

While you waited for the water to warm, you tried combing your fingers through your hair. After a few too many knots yanked on the most sensitive parts of your scalp, you gave up, flopping your arms to your side with an exaggerated huff. Echo stepped away from the shower, letting out a chuckle under his breath. He bent down and opened the cupboard beneath the sink, taking out a battery-powered lantern and setting it on the counter. He clicked it on, casting the room in a soft light. 

The water soon warmed, puffs of steam rolling from its steady stream. Echo left the bathroom, leaving you to start washing off the effects of the storm. Faintly, just beneath the sound of the shower, you could hear the clatter of his armor in the bedroom.

You relished the hot water flowing over your head and down your back. It loosened the tension pent up from the storm, your muscles relaxing the longer you stood beneath it. Your toes tingled as warmth returned. Streaks of muddy water flowed past your feet to the drain.

With the storm still rumbling outside, you wanted to be in and out. You washed your hair quickly—not as thoroughly as you wanted, but enough to get the splatters of mud out. You lathered your ends with more conditioner than you’d ever used, determined to eliminate wind-whipped knots. 

While the conditioner rested, you grabbed a washcloth and lathered it well. You scrubbed everywhere you possibly could—your face, arms, belly, and sides—but with limited range of motion, you soon realized you wouldn’t be able to get it all on your own. 

Your mind jumped to Echo in the next room, but a brief flicker of frustration stopped you before you could call his name. You quickly kicked the feeling away. He’d already proved he didn’t think you were helpless. Why would that change now? You were grateful he was there for you. This is what you both signed up for, after all. He wouldn’t think less of you for needing help in the mundane. 

You called his name and heard the closet door close. Moments later Echo appeared in the doorway, armor shed in exchange for a pair of plaid pajama bottoms. A warm look settled in his eyes.

Without you asking or him speaking, he crossed the bathroom and pushed the shower curtain aside, taking the washcloth from your hand. You turned your back to him, pulled your hair out of the way, and he began gently scrubbing. When he was done he gestured for you to give him your foot. Knowing full well you couldn’t bend that far anymore, you obliged. One by one, he washed your feet and ankles. Though you couldn’t see over your belly to your toes, more muddy streaks washed down the drain. 

When he stood back up you leaned in and thanked him with a quick peck to the cheek. You expected him to leave and head back to the bedroom while you finished washing your hair, but he didn’t move. He grinned, a mischievous twinkle in his eye, and stepped over the mouth of the shower, straight into the waterflow with you.

You gasped and started laughing, shocked, as he wrapped his arms around you, his pajamas quickly soaked.

“Echo, your clothes!” You laughed as he pulled you against him.

He pressed his lips firmly into yours, smiling into your muffled giggles. “I’ll add them to the pile,” he mumbled, drawing another fit of laughter from you.

You leaned into the moment, enjoying the spontaneity and giggling when he pulled back to pepper your face with kisses. 

After a while you smacked his chest lightly, pushing him back. He stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel, drying himself off quickly. You turned back to the water to rinse out your hair, throwing a blushing smile at him as he threw off his pants and headed back to the bedroom to change again. 

Confident your hair was free of conditioner and as many knots as you could comb out with your fingers, you turned the faucet off and stepped out. You wrapped yourself in a towel, blissfully warm from laying on the radiator, and padded out to the bedroom.

It was dim, lit only by another lantern usually stored in the closet. Echo sat on the edge of the bed, datapad in hand. He looked up as you entered, tapped a few more times on the device, then set it aside and stood. On your side of the bed, a fresh pair of pajamas had been laid out: an oversized shirt (one of the few that would fit over your belly) and a pair of his old blacks’ bottoms. And underwear, of course.

Despite having been married for several years, Echo’s actions melted your heart. There was nothing too small for this man to show you he loved you. 

Your lips curved as you glanced at him. A sheepish smile was his only response.

As you changed, the weight of your exhaustion really began to hit. Your bones felt heavy, your blinks became slow and lazy, and the warmth of fresh clothes only slowed your movements that much more. 

Echo had climbed into bed by the time you finished putting them on. You slid under the covers, his arms immediately finding purchase around you. He pulled you close, his flesh arm nestling above your belly and below your bust. You sunk into him, his warmth and closeness softening every sharp edge of the day. 

For a while, neither of you spoke. Bone-tired yourself, you thought he’d drifted off. Then, as your eyelids began to feel puffy, words rose softly behind you.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here to see it.” 

Your brow furrowed, but he continued before you could stop him. 

“I should’ve been here more often. I didn’t know I was robbing you of your independence, I thought… I thought it was right. I thought you needed rest, and that the best way I could give you that was to… you know… yeah.”  

You turned your head over your shoulder and rolled your body just enough to face him a bit more. Guilt was etched across his face. It creased between his eyebrows and hung in the bags under his eyes. You tisked, rolling over to face him directly. 

“Echo…” you said softly, “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. You had a job to do, brothers to save. I have never and will never blame you for being away for that.” 

You brought a hand to his cheek, swiping your thumb over his skin. He pressed his lips into a thin line, giving a small, barely perceptible nod.

“I should have told you how I felt,” you murmured, trailing his jawline absently. “I just– I wish I could do what I used to. At least without being a work-around for everyone else.” 

Echo turned his head, planting a kiss into your palm. “Well, you don’t feel like a burden to me, or anyone else, so please try not to think that of yourself.” You felt his hand drift across your belly, moving back and forth slowly. His hand stilled as your baby wiggled. “And it won’t be much longer now.”

You sighed, your eyes drifting shut dreamily. “Little one can’t come soon enough. I feel like a beached whale.”

A few beats of silence passed. You began to drift off, then Echo broke the silence.

“We’ve got a pretty simple job coming up… I’ll see what I can do.”

“Hmm— Really?” You perked up, a little more awake again, but didn’t stir from your comfort. “You mean it?”

“Maybe,” he rumbled, wanting to be careful not to get your hopes too high. “I’ll see. You’d probably have to stay with the ship. We’ll see what Tech says.”

“Honey, anything is better than being stuck here for any longer than a few months at a time,” you murmured, your voice becoming raspy with drowsiness. “I’d be happy to take a flight out to the closest moon, for crying out loud.”

His chest rumbled with a chuckle. “Well, I’ll ask Tech what he thinks.” He tightened his arm around you gently, tugging your back closer to his chest. “Now go to sleep. It’ll be dawn before we know it.”

What is it about my brain that refuses to write fluff by itself? Why does it always need to be paired with angst? 😭

copying and plagiarizing is not okay.

I know at the end of the day, there’s no such thing as an original idea anymore, but when you have THIS many back to back to back similarities, it’s hard to pass off as flattery, inspiration, or coincidence.

(Especially when the author copying left kudos on MTES just a couple months ago, only to then publish their own fic a few weeks later.)

All this to say, if you are inspired by a piece of fanart or fan fiction, please use that inspiration with careful consideration. Tag the source material, credit the author, something, anything. Or, better yet, find a way to portray what you loved from the source material in a new and unique way, rather than copying aspects line for line, design by design.

Seeing this copied fanfic has left me feeling deflated and defeated, my writing motivation doused. I have spent YEARS creating and writing this story. To see it be reused and claimed as someone else’s has me feeling robbed and cheated.

To everyone in the fandom, creator and consumer alike, please don’t do this.

Scene 1 – Preparing for the Grove

“So he said yes?” Navë pokes her yellow-haired head out of the door to your quarters. 

“Yes, he did,” you smile, knowingly. Candaer also smiles at her excitement, his dark eyes glinting as they look upon your happy attendant. “You’re coming.”

That afternoon, you and Navë go back to the healer’s storeroom to get more vials, a small blade to scrape, and basic healing supplies in case someone gets injured later. With Fergrath now on-watch outside of your door, it is just you and Navë remaining in your quarters. You prepare some less-delicate clothes for tomorrow, and begin to walk Navë through the basics of healing while sprawled on the covered floor, a richly red carpet cushioning your repose. The skirts of your blue-grey dress fan out like ice over blood. 

“Here,” you hand her some gauze. “So now pretend that here –” you gesture to a spot on your arm with a beauty mark for a reference point. “– is a stab wound. How would you wrap it?” The amber-eyed elleth squinted her eyes at you, slowly lowering the gauze. As she lowers it, a smile creeps onto your face.

“No. I must clean it first before I dress it,” Navë tilts her head, challengingly.

“Well done, but clean it with what?” You raise an eyebrow, looking at the array of herbs in front of you.

“With…athelas?” She asks, gesturing to the curly leafed stalks bundled together tightly. 

“Not alone, or at least, when the men brought this plant from the West, they taught others to boil it for its best properties, so either reach for this, which we already extracted –” you gesture to a small bottle with a greenish liquid in it. “– but more importantly, you must also call the spirit of the person to come and aid you in healing their wound.” 

You extend a hand to her, and she takes it softly, looking up to you. “Healing the spirit comes with will and song. Sing a song of old to me,” you ask. 

“Of old? What do you mean?”

“Of your history, a song from the Woodland Realm that I would not otherwise be familiar with.”

“The Feast of the Stars is coming up, and there is this one…this one often gets sung,” she clears her throat. It is not in Sindarin, my lady. You may need some practice to learn it. The more simple translation says, ‘I go walking/Beyond the forest/Where the world falls away/And the white light/Of forever fills the air.’”

“That’s so beautiful,” you melt into the ethereal meaning. “Please sing it to me so that I might join you come the festival.” Navë smiles and begins to bind the wrappings upon your arm – just as you showed her – singing softly,

“Hae ephadron

Theri thaur

Am na dhû

Ias fîr i ambar

A trehil I ‘alad ‘lân uir ‘wilith”

The sound of her voice rings delicately and serenely off of the natural curves of the walls of your rooms. You hum in appreciation, closing your eyes for the duration of the song. Your arm is fully bandaged – and bandaged well – by the time she finishes the song, humming the melody again for you almost as another verse.

“I’m glad you like it,” Navë smiles, pausing and setting down your arm. “Do you think the forest can truly hold onto such memories?”

You pause and consider, then tell her, “Bodies can remember pain, no matter how well you heal them,” you hold up your beautifully bandaged arm, realizing it is the arm that was choked by mud in the tumultuous woods. “So, at least in theory, if bodies remember, then – perhaps – forests do too.”

“In theory?” Navë bites her bottom lip nervously. 

“That’s all we have for now,” you sigh. “We should rest before tomorrow, but thank you. I shall practice your song.” Navë stands from the floor, and helps you ready for bed before leaving for her own rest. Not many more words are said, yet you find yourself in the most content of company.

Scene 2 – Arrival at the First Grove

Hareth and Branniel meet you, Navë, Candaer, and a very tired Fergrath at the large palace doors, all of you dressed practically for the mission ahead of you – much more practically than for a simple medical errand. 

Doors open with a gust of biting wind, and guards call out to each other as you make your way outside. 

It has been nearly a week since you were last outside of the walls of the king’s palace. Judging by the tense looks on all three elleths’ faces, the whiteness of their knuckles, you can’t be sure how long it has been since they have left. The wet stone of the bridge splashes droplets around the ankles of your boots, but your boots rise to just below your knee. Leggings tuck into your boots, a light sleeveless ranger’s tunic with a mock neck peaking just above your mother’s clasp that rests back where your throat meets your collarbone. You wear your dark blue cloak of Mithlond, the Grey Havens. Your hair is pulled back with clips that look like the vines of the forest, a detail Navë felt quite clever adding. 

Hareth’s shoulders nearly reach the lobes of her pointed ears, tense. Her face twists with every step.

“Lead on,” you encourage her, placing a hand on her shoulder. You give her a warm smile, “You know the way better than I.” 

“You have a map, don’t you?” She snaps. I’d be emotional too, your heart squeezes thinking of how difficult it must be to leave along the path you once walked with your great love.  Branniel carries a small rucksack of supplies over her shoulder, a few paces behind, more in step with Candaer and Fergrath. She watches Hareth closely, brows furrowing at Hareth’s tone. 

Navë is uncharacteristically quiet, taking cautious steps, walking next to Candaer who helps her jump over larger puddles instead of having her move ahead. Cute.

“I do have a map, if you’d prefer,” you swing your small pack around, about to dig through it when she puts a hand on yours to stop you. 

“No, it –” she shakes her head. “It’s fine. Follow me.” You nod, bowing subtly. She takes a breath and starts down a very bumpy path, littered with vines and roots, leaves and debris. You all watch the woman weave and bob through the vines, her brows knit together in memory, her lips pursed. Her eyes trace the ceiling of trees that must have been green before. Nimbly for her age, she moves with pace, intentionally, and it does take some effort for the rest of you to keep up. You follow the flashes of silvery-grey hair as she traces the nearly forgotten trail to the First Grove. 

As you got more of a look at the back of her head, it suddenly occurred to you that Hareth wore her long grey hair down today – with the exception of only two small braids that tucked behind her ears. It’s not like her, you realize, to wear her hair down at all instead of a practical and tight, low bun.

You turn to Branniel to ask her about it. “I think she wore it like this with her husband,” she says. “Though, this is the first time I am seeing it.” You clutch at the swans of your clasp, bowing to each other. 

In your vigorous pace to follow the senior healer, after only ten minutes on foot, you come to a dome of branches, bound together like a shell, great trees with roots as tall as you form a massive circle the size of a grand courtyard. The dome covers a large pit of briar. Within the pit are cracked stone benches, carved arches and large roots that drop down into the pit to form archways. You imagine couples arm in arm, imagining where they once passed. Pale white buds peppered the thorny briars, flowers that would never bloom in this corruption or cold. Blackened vines choke old stone walking paths. 

Hareth stops at the very edge of the path and goes very still. 

Scene 3 – White Flowers

“Is this –” You begin to ask. Hareth gives a solemn nod. 

“The Grove,” she says, voice tight. 

“How have we never come across this place before, Fer?” Candaer remarks in awe. 

“Did you see how bad the path was to get here?” Fergrath replies, pulling a twig from the buckle of his boot.

You shoot them a glare, nodding over to Hareth who seems frozen in thought. Navë steps on his boot sharply to double down. He cringes in realization, mouthing an apology. 

You step to her side, lacing your arm through hers. She clutches onto you, her eyes still fixed ahead. “Tell me about him,” you encourage softly, trying to follow her gaze down into the thorny courtyard. 

She gave a teary but sharp HA! “You’re just trying to get me to tell you so you can use it,” she retreats defensively, pressing her eyes shut, as if trying to keep her memories of her husband hidden behind her eyelids, keeping them for herself alone.

“Use it to heal this place. Isn’t that what we both want?” You ask, earnestly. She doesn’t reply, but she releases the tension on her eyelids. You pause in consideration, then speak again; “Was he handsome?”

“Oh, like you wouldn’t believe,” she laughs despite herself, blinking softly. The wall of salty tears wobbles in the waterline of her tired eyes. She lifts her hand to blot them away, but it just gives permission for more tears to patter upon the bleeding earth.

You wait for her to continue. The rest of the group waits a few yards behind the two of you who were at the edge of the vine dome. After a moment, she squeezes your arm, encouraging you to look where she points. With a sniff and a straightening of her posture, she says, “We met each other while he was courting another elleth, taking her around the Grove. The problem was that she and I were…seeing each other privately.” 

“Hareth!” Branniel exclaims. 

“I used to have my fun too,” she smiles slyly back at her apprentice. “But she and I were not each other's One. We knew this. Though, I did not want to admit it at the time. I completely tripped him on their way out. He got covered in mud and she laughed at him. He was so embarrassed that I felt horribly. I smeared mud on my own outfit, and she thought me so strange. She left. And we spent hours together that day. Every day we would try to look out for each other in this grove. There,” she pointed to a bench across the way, “he would bring me ridiculously large flowers. I didn’t even know what to do with them, but he’d tuck them behind my ears.” 

When she drops your arm to touch the place behind her ear, you let the story course through you, reaching out to the vines of the dome. 

Hareth continues as you begin to channel your energy into the place in the dome where it swallows the stone path down into the grove. An entrance should be here, you intuit. You focus in, closing your eyes.

“We argued about what plants work better for treating head pains. I told him he gave me head pains. I can’t tell if he made me laugh or if I was too clever in teasing him, making myself laugh. Either way, we laughed here.” 

Navë instinctively reaches for Candaer’s arm, and he extends it, blushing. She rests her head against his shoulder. His black hair contrasts with her golden straw-colored hair. 

White light blooms from your palms, and Hareth heaves a shaky breath, muttering, “A healer from the sea indeed.”

The rot loosens. Some of the vines begin to shrink back into the earth, pulling and parting in the shape of an entrance way. Some of the flower buds begin to open and bloom. “Yes!” Hareth claps her hands, exclaiming with tearful delight. “Flowers like these ones.” You allow her memory to course through you like a song, proud of the joy you are bringing her. For a brief moment, even as she is done speaking her memory, when the healing should have run its course, you feel a momentary surge where you more deeply connect with the ground. The path’s roots uncurl from their walking stone captives.

Then, as soon as the surge starts, it stops. The roots slow their descent into the earth. They stutter. Your palms don’t lose energy, but rather you feel the tug of something much more challenging to overcome. The entrance into the First Grove courtyard is not entirely open, though the roots have braided themselves into an arch around it, only one or two roots stretch across the opening. There’s a resistance to going further. You open your eyes.

Across the First Grove, atop a horse of white, the elvenking watches, a violent expression across his face.

Scene 4 – Projections in the Mire

The Elvenking sends for his horse at the break of day. He informs his guard that he will be personally witnessing the healer that was given to him. Thranduil, donning his silver armor, makes his way from the palace tenuously, waiting for your party to go ahead. Taking a longer path around to the grove than the one his senior healer would most likely take, he canters cautiously among the trees, using their dark cover to observe from a distance. He imagines that he should be concerned that his guards do not notice him, or appreciative that they do not react if they do notice him. 

Icy blue, discerning eyes seek to make their judgement. He finds you across the way, slightly obscured by the dome of vines, but his sharp vision and sharp hearing never fails him. Wholly absorbed in trying to hear you speak to Healer Hareth, Thranduil catches your voice, soft, lilting, persuasive: “Use it to heal this place. Isn’t that what we both want?” 

His mind drifts to things he remembers truly wanting. What did he want with you…he imagines the slope of your neck in the dress yesterday, the shape of your waist. What did you truly want with him? 

Finally, he sees the light, the glow pouring from your hands engulfs your body in a halo of light – its purity unseen since the likes of Galadriel. He considers, purity, yet you are covered in mud. Thranduil leans forward, drawn in by your beauty. There is serenity in your face, yet an intense focus. You are clearly powerful, yet so unguarded.

His lips part in shock when he sees it. Your will and light begins to move the vines around the dome. They pull back into the earth. He felt an unfamiliar stirring beneath his armor, his heart speeding up at the thrill of watching you. You, this new thing to behold, a weapon much sharper than promised. 

What if you did fix this forest for him? Hareth, whom he has known since he was a young ellon, is an incredibly hard person to get through to. Was memory truly so powerful when combined with your touch? Hareth, of all people, letting herself be guided…

Thranduil ponders his own memories here. Imagining her. The mother of his child. His late wife. Had they not walked here in the Grove together? She carried their son in these gardens. She listened to his woes. Yes, their marriage was political, but they shared so much. He presses his eyes shut, trying to keep his grief at bay.

Atop his horse of white, the platinum-haired ellon opens his eyes to gaze on the grove. He can’t help himself. Looking below him, he faintly pictures the First Grove when it was greener, imagining his family whole. He pictured the shape of a life before loneliness hardened around him. The most painful form of hope pierces his heart; a yearning for what might never be again until he is nothing but the spirit which holds his long memory.

How long it has been since his life felt like this memory, bittersweet as their marriage was. He imagines her long pale eyelashes as they closed when they kissed under one of the arches at dawn. He remembers when they closed for the last time.

This pain, at first a dull yearning for this place to be healed, the dull yearning of nostalgia corrupts like the black branches above him. He wants to cry out in anguish as the projections of his own mind dissipate until he stares plainly at the briar that separates you from him. Guarded by armor, he feels bare as you open your eyes, the glow gone, and you see him. 

You. Have you done this? Had you pulled him into your magic? Your healing process?

“My Lord! I am so honored to see that you came to witness this! The grove responded to the theory!” You shout across the thicket. You are too far away to read your expression entirely. Thranduil scowls at this, for how dare you be joyful at misery being the cure for this sick wood. 

Once you call out, Hareth whips around to look at him with alarm, worry plastered across her face at how vulnerable she had been in front of the Elvenking.

Shame and wrath rise within him, guarding him better than silver armor could ever. “Quiet!” He hisses across the way, cutting through the tightening air. He rides his horse almost all the way around the grove. Then, he dismounts, storming over to you.

He towers above, every bit the wrathful king Elrond said he would be. You immediately turn red, realizing that you forgot yourself in your excitement. You bow down, curtsying deeply, gaze on the forest floor. You hear your guard companions clink as they drop into a deep bow behind you. The other healers join your curtsy. 

Every step towards you, he allows the knife of memory to twist in his heart, glaring at you, you sharp thing. 

As you look at the ground, waiting for his approach, to your horror, the vines begin to creep back. Slowly at first, then as he gets closer to you, they roar out of the ground. You turn before he storms over to you, curtsy be damned. You rush to the spot where you had healed the wounded grove, and attempt to save it, wildly willing your healing to come to these vines to no avail. The entrance is doubly covered in brush with the king’s tandem wrath. 

The flowers wilt within seconds. You drop to your knees, cupping the dead petals, he doesn’t halt his stride, even as you kneel on the ground. His boots stop just feet from your knees.

Hareth, who never dropped her gaze when she curtsied, stands to her full height when the kind stops. She looks between the king’s seething countenance and the corrupted and wild growth. And then she understands.

Scene 5 – Hareth’s Stash

Looking down at the half-elf curled on the ground, cupping a dying flower, Thranduil seethingly bends down, silver crown atop his head shining. “Rise, healer of Mithlond,” he commands calmly, summoning surprising coolness despite his apparent anger. Rather, his eyes are piercing in his analysis of the vengeful vines. “I would like an explanation of how you did this. I watched you have some limited success before the vines returned, something I have not seen from my healers yet.” He moues a disappointed frown to compliment his bored expression, as he shoots a look over to Hareth who purses her lips, but does not lower her gaze.

“They were entirely instrumental in my work today,” you say in your party’s defense. You brush off your tunic, standing from your despair at the failure of the vines in holding down. It hurts to drop the petals to the ground, just for them to become another layer in the earth. “I listened to Healer Hareth speak of her late husband and their times here. The story…it helped me channel my own healing.”

“You would make grief into a tool, and call the result healing?” He scoffs mirthfully. You have to tilt your head back just to look up at him, the already tall elf feels like he casts a menacing shadow over you. You feel a burning feeling of shame across your cheeks. You did fail. You failed like you did with the river vines. 

“I offered my memories, my lord, they were not exploited. They were freely given, to be used to repair this grove.” Hareth says, her own expression icing over. Branniel adjusts the bag on her shoulder, her expression fixed and firm in agreement with her teacher.

“I require a full report, and until you can tell me how you mean to prevent this backlash, you do not leave the grounds of my palace just to further corrupt my kingdom,” Thranduil says, eyes flashing as they meet yours. Your eyes sting in guilt and apology, but through it all, as you hold his intense stare, you swear you see pain beneath his commanding gaze. Just as he turns, you catch his arm at the silver bracer.

“I never meant to –” Your heart feels pulled towards his pain. He heaves, breath heavy with anger. His eyes snap to your hand. His mouth barely parts, then closes again. He snatches his hand away. His chin lifts. He looks stricken – eyes wide before they narrow and look past you as he regains control of his expression. 

Thranduil mounts his horse.

“Go back to your quarters,” he says in a surprisingly soft yet still commanding voice that you’ve never heard before. The thrumming of your own heartbeat in your ears overwhelms you. He rides off, back down the main trail, the white haired ellon on his great white steed.

“What in Valar’s name were you about to do?” Hareth snaps at you incredulously, face full of concern. “Give the king a hug?” 

“I - I don’t know. I just…” your words trail off as you see, in the king’s wake roots burst out of the ground, thorns and thickets grow. The roots finish pouring back, reclaiming most of the progress you made and then some, closing up most of your way back. 

“Did you bring your sword?” Fergrath asks you, heading towards nature's wrath and beginning the hard work of chopping at the new vines. 

“Come now, this worked!” Hareth nudges you. It makes you smile faintly, though the shame of disappointing the Elvenking was still sitting heavily on your sternum. 

“And you were quite the cynic, too, no?” Navë says to Hareth, trying to encourage you. 

“Listen. I’m happy to be proven wrong. This grove accepted your help. You have something very special, child. A powerful gift,” Hareth admits. She then drops her voice to a low and hushed tone so as to speak only to you, “However, we do need to speak privately.” You look over to her, the pit in your stomach and pressure on your chest only deepening. You nod.

You cut and chop your way through with the help of Breeze, Fergrath, and Candaer. You come back to the front entrance. Knowing that you had a looming limitation on exiting once you entered those doors made it feel like you were entering into a form of imprisonment, though you knew you could leave at any time and go back to Rivendell. Though, it would mean another treacherous journey back, just to admit that you had failed your lords when they entrusted you with such a mission. Perhaps you couldn’t just leave at any time: bound by your mission and the Elvenking.

The party makes their way to their respective rooms, Fergrath following you and Hareth to the healing wing. 

“Please wait outside,” Hareth says before slamming the door in the red-haired ellon’s face. 

“Hareth!” You exclaim at her rudeness.

“We need to talk about the king, and like it or not – friend or not – his responsibility is to the king. I would say, I’ve lived longer than King Thranduil has. My responsibility is to the realm.” You let that sink in, pulling a worn chair away from one of her large tome-ridden tables. She doesn’t sit.

Hareth moves to a back cupboard, stained a dark and rich brown. She opens it up, pulling out a bottle of wine, grabbing a knife and beginning to open it. She does not ask if you want a glass, pouring rich blood-red wine into a silver chalice. You have no idea until she hands it to you just how full the cup is. It is very full.

Sitting down in front of you, she takes a long swig of her wine. “Drink.” 

You take a sip of the wine, the bombastic scent of cherry and flowers and rich verdant soil hits your nose before the rich drink touches your tongue. “Wow, this is beautiful,” you go back for another sip. 

“Don’t mention it,” Hareth waves, clearly trying to focus the conversation. “Did you see him as you were healing?” The elder healer did not need to clarify who he was. The silver-crowned Elvenking was at the forefront of your mind. 

“No, only at the very end. I usually need to close my eyes to focus on the healing, if I know that it is a larger amount of energy that I need to summon.” 

“Good. Then I’ll tell you what I saw,” Hareth leans back in a chair, starting to tie her hair back into a tight knot. 

“When I spoke of my husband, when you were working, the grove seemed very open. And when King Thranduil watched at first it looked like your healing held well.” Hareth tips her glass to you.

“Do you think the king…so, you think the king helped?” Your mind races.

“I know he was looking at you. I’m not sure. He seemed fairly neutral, and the roots were moving well into the ground. Then he changed to this dark, dark expression. It was quite sinister.” Her voice darkens as she imagines it again.

“And that’s when the roots stopped moving?” You ask, trying to follow her logic.

“Exactly. And when he rode away, after you tried to reach out to him – which we still need to unpack whatever that was –” she looks at you sharply as you start to blush, looking down into your goblet of wine. “– I know you also saw his distress and the wake of corruption that bloomed behind him.”

“I did see that. So, you’re saying that he’s causing this or that he’s…what?”

“If he didn’t cause this, then he certainly – at the very least – has a significant role to play with you being able to heal any of this,” Hareth stops rocking on the back legs of the chair, leaning forward, elbows on her knees, smoothing her hair back with the hand that isn’t holding the wine, unnerved. She looks and sees your bewildered expression. 

Sighing, she adds, “In other words, if your healing is a door, we can open the damn thing, but the king has to stop slamming it shut. Even better, is if he could open the door all the way and keep it open for you to do what you need to do.”

“What if it was a coincidence?” You ask, weakly.

“Do you honestly believe that after what we saw?” Hareth rolls her eyes, finishing her goblet. You now see why she poured you a cup. 

“I don’t know what to think right now, nor do I have a good explanation for grabbing his arm, I don’t know. Do you think he hates me after this? I have absolutely killed this whole effort by not thinking!” 

“Drink.” Hareth repeats. You take a shaky sip. “Our king is a passionate one. He cares very deeply about the safety of the realm,” she grants. 

“I can’t imagine how scary it must be to see the vines come back stronger after I healed them,” you say softly. “He just looked so…hurt. I –” you almost, even now, wish you could reach out. Heal that broken look in his eyes. Grief…but for what? You recall your preparations for going to Mirkwood, how Elrond had warned you of the king’s temperamental nature, and warned you that he lost his wife over a millenia ago. You knew they were an arranged marriage, but were they in love? Did they stroll together in the First Grove? Did they kiss under the arches like Hareth and her husband?

A knot forms in your gut as you imagine Thranduil bending down, gently cupping an elleth’s face in his hands, her similarly white-blonde hair long and perfect as he kissed her passionately, filled with the care he had for his home. You imagine him melting into the kiss. How he would shift and sigh. How you would pull him in by his arms. How you would soothe him with your lips. How –

“Valar, tell me you’ve had wine before,” Hareth curses, waving a hand in front of your face. You blink, hard. Fuck…what were you thinking?

“I have, it’s just been a long day,” you explain, though you can feel the warmth of the wine beginning to spread to your fingers and chest. You do feel lighter, but so warm. The heady flavor of the wine lingers on your tongue.

“Mhm,” Hareth looks at you askance. “You should still meet with the king for the report. I suspect you’ll want to clear the air as well,” she pours some more wine into your cup before you can protest. 

By nightfall, conversation flows…more loosely between you. 

“Be honest, do you think he hates me?” You palm your forehead in tipsy anguish. Navë taps at the door, cracking it open.

Hareth assures you sleepily, “My love, you have absolutely no way of knowing that, nor can I condone you wallowing in your own anxiety! All. Will. Be. Well.”

“My lady, it is such a late hour. Candaer was looking to relieve Fergrath at your chambers but you are still…here,” she pauses, taking in the now drunk bottle of wine in front of you. 

“Decompressing, are we?” Navë laughs. 

You give a small nod. 

“Let’s get you to bed though,” she giggles, as you stand. You don’t wobble. You weren’t too lost in your cups, but you did feel a pleasant buzz across your skin. You give her a smile and a laugh as she ushers you out the door.

“Did you save me a glass?” Fergrath jokes, eyes floating shut from exhaustion. 

“Oh, no! Was I supposed to bring you a glass? Is that a thing here?” You wonder aloud, bringing your hand to cover your mouth. A light dizziness hums in the back of your neck, a welcome buzz from the wine.

“No, it’s not. Now, walk us back and you must go to bed as well,” Navë scolds your guard. You make your way back the winding path into your hallway, passing a few elves who glance in your direction, but most of them tipsy or destination-focused themselves. 

You make it to your quarters, greeting the dark-haired ellon at your door. You push inside with Navë, stripping with every step as you go further into the room. “I have to report to the king tomorrow, Navë,” you start. “I really do think he hates me, and I’ve lost all favor with him. Now, what will I report to my lords back home and in Rivendell?” 

You slip on a comfortable night garment, and crawl into bed. 

“How desperately do you believe him to hate you?” Navë asks, regret already pouring into her words as she asks. She looks upon you, your whole countenance wracked with anxiety. “I do have a…person I know who tends to the king in his quarters,” she whispers, looking towards the door. 

“I used to see him before…”

“Before you and Candaer?” You ask, oblivious to her attempt at stealth. 

“Shhhhh!” She covers your mouth with her hand. “Yes, but he is now married and very happy. We are friends alone. Still, you have to promise not to say anything. He works as an attendant to the king. I can ask after the mood of King Thranduil tonight, see if his behavior is out of the norm. He owes me a favor, but obviously he would get in trouble if you reveal that you know anything.”

You vigorously nod, agreeing to these very agreeable terms. 

“Very well. I will try to find him tonight. You’ll owe me then,” Navë smiles at you. “Now, rest.” You feel your heart float to ease. Your forehead releases its tension that it has been carrying subconsciously. You sink into your mattress and allow your dreamless rest to take you.

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Footsteps crunched in the grass behind you. Turning your head over your shoulder, you found Rex approaching from the hill, a drink in each hand. You smiled warmly as he passed you a lemonade, watching him brush off his bare feet before he stepped on the blanket. He leaned and laid a hand flat behind you, grunting softly as he lowered himself to sit. Once seated and sure his drink wouldn’t topple from his hand, you scooted in. He adjusted his support arm slightly, shifting to make your lean into his side more comfortable. 

You let out a content sigh, bringing your drink to your lips. You relished in its refreshing tang; a relief on a warm day. A cool breeze rustled through the trees every once in a while, helping the sun’s rays feel more pleasant than glaring. Its light dappled through leaves and branches, decorating your blanket and the grass around it with filtered light and dancing shadows. The sight made your heart wish it could sing. 

Rex moved to take a sip of his drink, bringing your attention back to him. You shifted your head, leaning it against his shoulder at an angle where you could look up at him. Maker, he was beautiful. Relaxed, leaned back in civvies—it suited him. The war was over. He could relax and breathe like this more often, now. 

He must’ve felt your staring. His face remained pointed to the river, but his eyes drifted to the lower corner, finding and meeting your gaze with a slight smirk. He made a lighthearted quip about liking what you see. Your chuckle and shameless confirmation drew a laugh out of him. He turned his head, his lips pressing a tender kiss your forehead. Your eyes drifted closed at the contact, letting out a warm hum. 

They opened at a touch on your chin. Rex’s fingers pulled your face up towards his, his own eyes drifting shut as he leaned down, his lips ghosting against your own. You let your eyes shut again as he pressed into a slow, languid kiss. There was no haste, no rush to claim each other. It was full of ease; an odd sense of security neither of you had felt before. 

He pulled away and rested his nose against the side of yours, both of you taking a moment to breathe. Your eyelashes fluttered against his cheek as you tilted your head. You pulled away ever so slightly, finding a better view of his eyes. 

In them you found a certain kind of sadness. The sadness of a man who saw hundreds of men fall. Hundreds of his brothers who would never know a day like this, when the war was over and all there was left to do was hope and dream and plan and do. He’d never known that before, and had to admit he never thought of what that might even be like. Yet here he was, finally knowing peace. With his brothers—with you. 

A shine rose to his eyes as he looked right back into yours. Your brow gave a small furrow as if to check he was alright, but he only smiled softly and nodded almost imperceptibly. You passed your drink to the other hand, raising your palm to cup his jaw and cheek. If your cold hand shocked him he made no indication of it, just exhaled and turned his head to gently brush his cheek against your palm. 

After a few moments he took your hand in his, lowering it away from his face as he dipped his head to meet your lips again. It was still slow, but this time a little less delicate. This was more reverent, like he was savoring what the freedom to openly hold and kiss you felt like. 

A wolf-whistle, followed by whoops and hollers jarred you from the moment. You pulled back quickly, surprised and a little hot in the cheeks with embarrassment. Rex didn’t move, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth while a furrow dug into his brow. You brought your hand to your growing smile, fingers resting where his lips were moments before. 

Rex finally turned his head to face his brothers, who now laughed freely, throwing pokes of fun and gibes as they walked down the hill past you. All of them were dressed in their swim trunks, several with towels thrown over a shoulder, and some with a ball or floatie in tow. 

He turned back to you, a mischievous, revenge-hungry smirk on his face. He apologized, relenting that duty called. You quirked a brow with a sly grin, reminding him the war was over. He shrugged as he downed the rest of his drink in several gulps, then corrected that it was his brotherly duty. You laughed, playfully scoffing at how you could’ve forgotten. Rex set his cup to the side and stood, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it to one corner of the blanket. You grinned and smacked his calf lightly with the back of your fingers, telling him to show them what’s what. He took a few steps toward the river, throwing a faux salute over his shoulder at you. 

Several cheers rang out as he approached the riverbank. Rex stopped in place at the water’s edge and planted both fists on his hips, taking a commanding stance. The group went quiet as he spoke, each freezing mid-move in the water. After several moments of what you could only assume was him speaking, every head turned to Fives. He blinked and gaped at Rex, then began sputtering his defense. Rex stepped forward, advancing down into the water towards the accused. Their brothers’ laughter kicked up again, “oohs” of anticipation echoing up the hill. Fives began frantically wading away from Rex, but his brothers worked against him, holding him back with wide smiles. 

When he was close enough, Rex all but tackled Fives into the water. Their brothers roared with laughter and shouts of encouragement, some for Rex and some for Fives. They popped back up out of the water, Fives’ begs for mercy breaking through his sputtering laughter. Rex, however, didn’t give him an ounce of mercy this time. 

Amidst a flurry of flying limbs and splashing water, you couldn’t tell who was winning or not. Not that it would make much of a difference. With the way Rex made for his brother, you knew he’d come out on top.

Sure enough, moments later Rex was proved victorious. Fives’ head was locked securely under his arm on the unfortunate receiving end of a head-rattling noogie. 

Rex released Fives, earning a round of cheers and applause from his brothers. You laughed along with them, clapping despite knowing he couldn’t quite hear you. He stood among everyone for a few minutes more, catching and tossing the ball when it was passed to him. He made a final pass to Kix, then turned and started climbing out of the river, his eyes finding you on the gentle slope of the hillside. 

As he approached you, you realized he had another mischievous glint in his eyes. You shifted where you sat, suddenly finding a nervous giggle ready to bubble up out of you. 

Rex rolled his shoulders as he came to the edge of the blanket and gestured for you to stand up. You vigorously shook your head, smiling despite knowing exactly what he wanted to do. He quirked an eyebrow, asking you if this was your idea of insubordination. You giggled and bit back that you weren’t his subordinate anyway. His grin widened as he quipped that he'd see about that. 

You yelped out a laugh as Rex leaned over the blanket, his still dripping-wet arms outstretched toward you while you scooted yourself away. He put a knee to the blanket, stretching further to plant his hands on your waist, drawing even more laughter from you. 

You squealed in surprise as he tossed you over his shoulder, kicking your feet and wiggling while you laughed your protests. Every step to the riverbank, you demanded he put you down, but his chest only rumbled with a chuckled denial of your “request”. 

He reached the river and finally lowered you off his shoulder, gently planting your feet to the bank. You tried to make a break for it but he was quicker, wrapping his arms around your waist, hugging you to himself. 

Still holding you firmly in his arms, he turned his back to the water and leaned back, letting himself fall in and taking you with him. Water rushed over you both, the cold sending a swarm of chills through your whole body. 

You gasped and yelped at the cold, breathlessly laughing in shock. Rex’s chest shook with laughter behind you. He loosened his grip, letting you float a few inches from his body. You turned under the water, giggling as you raised a hand to splash and scold him. He laughed again and blinked rapidly under the spray, admitting that was deserved. 

Whether you knew it or not, being able to spend the day with you and his brothers, to openly hold you and kiss you and play in a river—all without a thought of the war—was starting to heal something in him he couldn’t quite put a name to. 

This was the start of something completely new. The war was over. He and his brothers could choose their own paths. And while there would surely be challenges ahead (namely with politics and clone rights), if his future looked anything like this, Rex knew it would be well worth any struggle yet to come.