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Chapter Text

The Greenwood was far behind them now, and Legolas could feel it in his bones.

With each step westward, the air changed. It no longer carried the rich perfume of moss and loam, of damp bark and flowering undergrowth. Instead, it tasted of stone and sky, sharp, clean, and cold like the waters of a mountain spring. The trees here were older in a different way: tall and stately, but their whispers came in foreign tongues. They were not unkind, but they did not know him, and he did not know them. There was no welcome in their rustling boughs, only polite distance.

He missed the warm cadence of the Mirkwood groves, the rustle of willow leaves like laughter, the soft trill of tree-frogs, the comforting hum of life that never ceased, even in the deepest night. Here, the silence was stale. The stars hung bright above, the air thick with river mist and the sharp tang of pine, but it was too quiet. In Mirkwood, even the darkness breathed. Here, so near to the western borders and the shadow of Imladris, the night held its breath. The trees watched, but did not speak.

They had not crossed into Imladris proper, nor would they. His father had made that command abundantly clear.

Their mission was a simple one: deliver a sealed missive to one of the lesser elven settlements nestled near the Hoarwell, a community Thranduil barely tolerated but grudgingly acknowledged. The border of Imladris lay just beyond, but they would not set foot across it. A cold, brittle peace held between the two realms, long-standing and laced with disdain. The Noldor held no fondness for the Sindar, and even less for the Silvan. In turn, his people had no love for the proud highborn of the West.

“You are to deliver the message to the outpost near the Hoarwell and return. No dalliances. No detours. Keep your head low and your tongue behind your teeth, Legolas. We are not welcome in those lands.”

His father’s words, spoken with steely finality, echoed still. It had been his first sanctioned journey beyond the borders of the Greenwood. In his four hundred years, Thranduil had kept him close, permitting him to ride in the patrols that roamed their own woods, to travel east and south as need demanded, but never west. Never toward Imladris.

Legolas had begged to ride with Feren, captain of the guard, who had been chosen to lead the escort to the settlement and his small patrol. But Thranduil had refused until he agreed, sending more of his most trusted warriors to watch over his son. Loyal, vigilant, and smothering.

They shadowed his every move with quiet precision, too close, too present. Even now, as the stars turned overhead and the campfire burned low, he felt their watchful eyes. The weight of it pressed against his skin like armor.

And so, under the guise of seeking fresh air and solitude, Legolas had slipped away for a walk beneath the moonlit canopy. Just for a while. The guards would not worry yet.

He needed space. The Greenwood was far behind him, and for the first time in his life, he was beyond its sheltering arms.

And it ached.

Legolas slipped quietly from the patrol’s modest camp, his footsteps so light they barely stirred the mossy undergrowth. The others lay in a loose circle, cloaked in sleep, bows at the ready beside them, the soft glow of dying embers painting their faces in flickering orange. No one stirred as he passed.

The night air clung to him like mist, cool and fragrant with river stones and pine resin. The soft hush of flowing water met the whisper of wind against needled boughs. Beyond the outer ring of their warding torches, the world was silvered and shadowed. The Greenwood prince walked beneath the trees, the earth welcoming him like an old friend, though it was not his home.

He hadn’t meant to go far. Just beyond the firelight. Just far enough to breathe.

The moon was full, casting its argent light over the forest and river, turning every branch and ripple to gleaming silver. He moved through it like smoke, barely there, quieter than breath.

He meant no harm. Only curiosity.

That had always been his flaw.

And then he saw them.

Two tall figures at the river’s edge, dark-haired and clad in armor that caught the moonlight with a sharp gleam. They moved like shadows, smooth and certain, refilling their waterskins in silence. Their bows were slung across their backs; short swords and daggers rested against their hips, close to hand.

Twins. Identical. And unmistakably Noldorin.

Elrohir and Elladan, he assumed. The sons of Elrond. All of Mirkwood knew the tales—two grim warriors forged by grief and bloodshed, who rode through darkness and hunted without mercy. The twin sons of Imladris, who no longer sang to the stars but to ghosts. Their names were carried on wind and rumor alike. Cold-eyed. Sharp-tongued. Elves who did not forget.

Legolas crouched low behind the undergrowth, heart hammering with a thrill he refused to name. He was unseen, for now, and his Silvan instincts bade him wait. Watch. Learn.

He crept closer, silent as snowfall.

But then, too late, his heel brushed a dry leaf, and it gave the softest crunch.

The reaction was instant. One of the twins moved like a striking hawk.

A blur of motion, and Legolas was on the ground. The impact knocked the breath from his chest. A gauntleted fist pressed into his sternum, pinning him hard, while his arm was yanked behind him in a brutal twist. Pain flared, hot and bright.

“Who is he?” came a low voice, cool and edged like a blade drawn too slowly.

“Stay down,” the one atop him growled, breath hot against the cool air. “Unknown. Elven. But he was sneaking like a rat.”

The tone was scornful, venom wrapped in steel.

The pressure on his ribs tightened. The twin’s knee ground into his side, unrelenting.

“Search him.”

Rough hands searched him, unkind and without care. His satchel was yanked away, his cloak thrown back. Fingers ran across his belt, over the curve of his quiver. His bow was torn from his back, and his knives were stripped from his body. The air was sharp with steel and scorn.

“A spy,” one of them spat. “Mirkwood scum.”

Legolas opened his mouth to speak, but the weight on his back shifted, his arm twisted again, and a sharp gasp escaped his lips before he could form a word.

“Then he is a scout. Or a fool,” came the cold reply.

“Wait—!” he gasped, turning his head to the side as golden hair fanned across the leaf-strewn ground. “I meant no harm. I swear it wasn’t spying.”

“You crept toward us in the dark like a thief,” one of the twins snapped. “What should we believe? Watching from the shadows, what would you call it, then?”

“You should let me explain,” Legolas said, trying to keep his voice steady despite the ache blossoming in his shoulder. “I saw you by the water. I was curious. I didn’t cross your border.”

“You had no right to come even this close,” the other growled, voice thick with contempt. “Your kind was taught to skulk, then? As you do in your spider-ridden woods?”

The words struck like a slap. Before he could respond, the rope was cinched tighter around his wrists, biting into his skin. The twins stepped back, finally releasing him, but their eyes were sharp with suspicion. They stood above him, grim-faced, pale-eyed, every inch their infamous reputation.

Legolas tried to push himself upright, but the more volatile twin struck him down again, harder this time. Pain flared through his ribs as he was driven to the earth once more.

“You think this is a jest?” the twin hissed, eyes like cold steel. “You think because you're golden-haired and soft-faced that we won’t treat you like a threat? Stand.”

Legolas rose slowly, his back straight despite the searing ache in his shoulder. His pride would not allow him to cower.

“I am no threat,” he said softly. “I carry no blade. I came alone.”

“What is your name?”

He hesitated, gaze dropping. Compared to them, he seemed so slight, slimmer, smaller, younger. A hand fisted in his hair, yanking his head up to meet their eyes.

“Foolish and reckless,” the other sneered. “Just like the rest of your kin. Arrogant. Ignorant. What is your name?”

He drew in a breath. The fingers in his hair pulled again.

“Legolas,” he choked.

“Is it?” The other stepped forward now, inspecting him as though he were some curious beast caught in a trap. “Legolas Thranduilion. The prince of Mirkwood.”

“Yes,” he said stiffly, voice low.

“Then you should know, your name earns you no favor here,” the one holding him growled. “Not in Imladris. And certainly not with us.”

The venom in his voice was not subtle.

“You dare creep this close to our patrol?” The other twin said, his tone like ice. “Your father has kept his woods sealed for centuries. And now he sends his son west? This will not be taken lightly.”

“My father sent me to the settlement by the Hoarwell. We’re camped beyond the ridge. I only wandered. I meant no trespass,” Legolas said, the words spilling out too quickly now, tinged with the edge of fear.

“And we are to believe that the prince of Greenwood walks alone at night for idle curiosity?”

Before he could speak again, the more violent twin seized the rope binding his wrists and gave a sharp jerk. Legolas gasped, the pain white-hot as it tore through his shoulder. He could feel the bruises already blooming beneath his tunic.

One of them laughed, mirthless and cold.

Legolas raised his chin, eyes bright with fury. “Is this how the sons of Elrond treat the innocent?”

One of them snorted. “Look at him, Elladan. Foolish, pretty, arrogant. He has all the marks of Thranduil’s house.”

Elladan.

He turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing as he studied the two figures now standing before him, grim and silent in their matching armor. Until now, they had moved as one, mirror images of each other, swift and brutal, impossible to tell apart. But now he looked closer.

The one who had pinned him, the one who spoke in venom and struck with little thought, still held the rope with a taut grip. His hair was looser, his expression darker, his movements sharp with barely-restrained fury.

The other, Elladan, stood still as carved stone, his eyes colder but less wild. He carried himself with a restraint that spoke of calculation, not impulse.

So this one, the crueler one, the one who bruised, was Elrohir.

Legolas said nothing, but the knowledge settled in his chest like a stone dropped in water. He watched them both with quiet intensity, cataloging every subtle difference now that the illusion of sameness had been broken.

Elladan looked down at him with a cool, appraising gaze.

“Innocence is not ours to judge. Only danger.”

“Why not cut that golden hair while we question him?” Elrohir sneered.

Legolas stiffened, the rope digging deeper into his skin.

“Nay,” Elladan said, calm but not kind. “Let us not be too cruel.”

They moved again, dragging him forward. But now Legolas knew.

Elrohir was fire. Elladan was ice.

And he was caught between them.

The trees stood quiet, offering no comfort.

The night swallowed them, two dark figures dragging a golden captive between them, like a star fallen into shadow.

Elladan glanced sideways, his expression unreadable. “Our father will want to know why Thranduil’s son stalks so near our lands.”

“And you will tell him,” Elrohir said darkly.

Legolas turned his face toward the trees. There would be no aid tonight. No rescue. His wrists burned. His pride burned more.

But he did not speak again.

He would not beg.

Chapter Text

When they reached the edge of the Imladris camp, firelight shimmered in loose circles, casting long shadows against the trees. A handful of elves stood in quiet conversation, but as the group approached, voices stilled mid-sentence. Heads turned. All movement ceased.

The hush fell like a veil.

All eyes drifted to the figure caught between the twin sons of Elrond. Legolas felt the scrutiny pierce him like thorns—curiosity from some, cold disdain from others. The weight of their gazes pressed into his skin, heavy as chainmail. He stood tall despite it, though his shoulders ached and his wrists were raw.

“We found a spy,” Elrohir said flatly.

A ripple of surprise stirred the gathered elves.

“Or perhaps a wayward princeling,” Elladan added, his voice laced with dry amusement.

A nearby guard narrowed his eyes. “Who is he?”

Without ceremony, Elrohir shoved Legolas forward. He stumbled to his knees in the dirt.

“He says his name is Legolas,” Elrohir said coolly. “Son of Thranduil.”

A fresh wave of murmurs rippled through the camp.

“From Mirkwood? Truly?”

“What business would he have here?”

“Thranduil sends spies now?”

“He crept near us in the dark, claimed curiosity.”

Elrohir began to circle him slowly, boots crunching softly over the forest floor.

“Curious little thing,” he drawled. “And so small. I expected more from the son of the mighty King Thranduil.”

He came to a stop behind him and leaned in close.

“What happened, princeling? Did your father keep all the height for himself?” Chuckles were heard around the camp.

Legolas clenched his jaw, forcing his expression to remain neutral. He would not rise to it. He would not give them the satisfaction.

“Or perhaps,” Elrohir continued, voice dripping with mockery, “he keeps you caged away, so no one sees the runt in the golden tower.”

“A very fair runt at that,” one of the guards chided in, chuckling.

More laughter.

A low, humorless chuckle came from Elladan, who folded his arms and added coldly, “He doesn’t look like much of a threat. But neither did the orcs who broke our mother.”

The camp fell deathly silent.

Even the fire seemed to pause.

Legolas flinched, just barely, blinking at the venom suddenly unleashed. It was not aimed at him—not truly. But it scorched all the same.

Elrohir’s gaze remained hard as stone. He turned back to the watching warriors.

“Secure him. We march at dawn. Let our father decide what is to be done with Thranduil’s son.”

There was no discussion. No hesitation.

Two guards stepped forward and dragged Legolas toward a lone post at the edge of camp. They bound him again, this time tying his wrists to a stake hammered deep into the cold earth. The rope bit into torn skin. His knees thudded against the ground.

No one offered him food. No one brought water.

What they gave were stares. Cold smirks. Thin-lipped sneers.

He sat alone beneath the stars, battered and bound, aching in every limb.

Some of the younger elves whispered from across the camp. A few pointed. Not one approached.

He bowed his head, the silver-gold curtain of his hair falling to hide his face. Fury burned beneath his skin, not just from the humiliation, but from the cruel absurdity of it all.

He had only wanted a moment of wonder. To glimpse a world he had never known.

And now he was a prisoner in a land that wanted nothing of him.

He knew, with growing, sickening certainty, that his father would not take this lightly.

Not at all.

—

The night air hung heavy, and the stars wheeled overhead—brilliant, cold, and indifferent to the cruelty unfolding beneath them.

Legolas sat bound at the far edge of the Imladris camp, his wrists raw where they were lashed to a post hammered deep into the earth. He had shifted once or twice in search of comfort, but there was none to be found. The ground was damp with dew, and the cold crept into his bones like water through cracked stone. Every breath misted in the chill. Every movement tugged against the bruises flowering along his ribs and shoulder.

He was shivering.

Not visibly, of course. He would not allow that. But his jaw was tight, clenched against the tremors, and his lips pressed into a hard line. He would not show weakness, even as the night pressed in with sharp teeth.

The fire at the heart of the camp crackled merrily, its light golden and warm, but it might as well have been a thousand leagues away. Around it, the patrol from Imladris lounged in a half-circle, tall and pale-eyed, armored in moonlit silver and an older grief. They looked like carved statues of war, beautiful and grim. Some were ancient; others bore the sheen of youth, but all unmistakably Noldorin.

Their eyes, when they glanced his way, were laced with disdain. Some smirked. Others barely looked at him at all, as if he were beneath notice, an insect, bound and flickering at the edge of their firelight.

He was not of their kind. That had been made abundantly clear.

Laughter broke out among them, sharp and unkind. Elrohir’s voice rang out over the flames.

“Look at him. A prince, they say. Thranduil must be scraping the bottom of the barrel if that’s what passes for royalty in the East.”

“He’s barely taller than a tree stump,” another guard snorted. “Is he full-grown, or did he wander out of his cradle?”

“They say Thranduil is tall as a tree,” Elladan added with a smirk. “Maybe the boy’s mother was a squirrel.”

Laughter again—louder this time.

Legolas did not move.

He stared into the fire, though he could feel none of its warmth. Let them laugh. Let them call him small, soft, spoiled. Let them mistake kindness for weakness. He had grown up under the gaze of nobility, beneath the weight of whispered judgment. Even in his halls, he had never been free of it. Too fair. Too quiet. Too wild. Too Silvan. Too light of foot. Too much.

He had learned long ago that mockery could not break him—only feed the flame that burned silently in his chest.

“How old do you think he is?” someone asked, voice lazy with wine.

“Not old enough to be here alone.”

“A child, perhaps.”

“No child wanders this far,” came another reply.

Elladan leaned back against a fallen log, regarding Legolas with mild interest. “I wager he’s young. Look at the skin—barely a scar on it.”

“Four hundred,” Legolas said softly.

The fire hushed.

All eyes turned to him.

His voice was calm, almost gentle. “I am four hundred years old. I am not a child.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Elrohir muttered.

He rose and approached.

Legolas did not flinch.

Elrohir crouched before him, studying his face as if examining a particularly irritating insect. “And what do you know of war, little prince? Of blood and blade? Have you faced a Warg-pack? Watched your kin torn apart beneath moonlight?”

Legolas met his gaze. “Yes. I have seen death. And grief. But I do not wear it like armor.”

The storm came swiftly and silently. Elrohir’s jaw twitched, something dark flashing behind his eyes. A nerve had been struck.

His hand shot out without warning, fingers digging mercilessly into the bruised hollow of Legolas’s shoulder, right where the earlier blow had landed. Pain tore through him like a blade.

Legolas cried out, sharp and involuntary, his breath catching as he twisted under the pressure.

Elrohir leaned in, voice low, taut with fury. “You think you're better for it? You think softness is strength?”

Legolas trembled, not from fear, but from the searing jolt of pain and the humiliation of being made to cry out. He bit down on a second sound, lips white at the edges, and forced himself still.

Only then did Elrohir release him, standing abruptly, his expression stormy and unreadable.

Elladan stepped forward, his posture tight, but he said nothing, only watched as his twin turned and walked off into the dark, muttering beneath his breath.

Legolas remained where he was, shaking slightly as the throb of the bruise pulsed in time with his heartbeat. But his gaze did not lower.

Elladan stepped nearer, quieter, his expression unreadable. “Why did you come so close to our lands?”

Legolas looked at him. “I wandered. I was curious. I had heard of you both. I only wanted to see.”

“And now you have,” Elladan said, coldly. “Did it meet your expectations?”

Legolas hesitated.

Then, with quiet honesty, he said, “You are as fierce as the stories claim. And colder.”

Silence fell again. It was not the silence of reverence. It was brittle. Tight.

“And we are supposed to believe the prince of the Greenwood strolls the night alone for sport?”

Another voice by the fire laughed. “Perhaps he’s braver than he looks.”

Someone else chuckled. “Or stupider.”

“Do you always treat travelers this way?” Legolas asked, lifting his head.

“Only the ones who slink like spies.”

Legolas gave a faint smile. “Then I am guilty of slinking. It is my way. Light of step is not always meant for stealth.”

That earned a faint scoff from Elladan, but he turned without reply and returned to the fire. The jesting dulled after that. The wine passed more slowly. Conversation quieted. Eventually, the elves curled into their cloaks one by one. But none offered him warmth. None spoke to him again.

He remained at the edge of camp, alone.

As the moon climbed high above, a guard passed by. He paused, blanket folded under his arm, and glanced at the prince with a tight expression. After a moment’s hesitation, he tossed the blanket roughly at Legolas’s feet.

“Not because you deserve it,” the guard muttered. “But because even the prince of spiders doesn’t deserve to freeze.”

“Thank you,” Legolas said softly.

The guard blinked, clearly surprised, then turned away without a word.

Legolas worked the blanket over his shoulders as best he could, fingers clumsy from cold and the ropes still biting his wrists. The warmth was faint, but it helped. He exhaled slowly, watching the stars fade into pale light as dawn approached.

He did not know what awaited him in Imladris, whether his patrol would notice his absence. Whether his father would come. Whether he would be allowed to speak, or be silenced as a trespasser.

But he knew this:

He would endure.

He had spent centuries being overlooked, underestimated, and mocked for what he was and was not.

And still, he chose gentleness.

Still, —he stood.

Chapter Text

Morning came not with warmth, but with cold metal.

Legolas stirred at the rough prod of a boot against his side. The thin blanket that had barely shielded him through the night slipped down, and he blinked up into the hard, impatient face of Elrohir, silhouetted against the gray dawn.

“Wake up, princeling. We ride.”

Legolas sat up slowly, body stiff from the frozen ground and the ache of poorly slept hours. His wrists were still bound, the rope now chafing against raw skin. He didn’t speak, only moved with that quiet composure they so despised, eyes still bright despite the bruises across his ribs and the sharp throb of each breath.

“You slept well enough for a prisoner,” Elrohir muttered. “Too well.”

Legolas lifted an arched brow.

“The stars are kind. Even when their watchers are not.”

That earned him a scoff and another rough nudge of the boot.

“On your feet, then.”

By the time they broke camp, the Imladris patrol had returned to form, silent, sharp-eyed, and precise. The sun had just begun to burn away the clinging mist when they began their westward journey, deeper into the heart of Elrond’s lands.

Legolas was not allowed to walk freely.

Elrohir tied a lead rope from his horse’s reins to the bindings at Legolas’s wrists, forcing him to trail behind on foot while the others rode. The terrain turned harsh, with stone-littered paths, slick slopes, and narrow ledges, and each time he stumbled, the rope jerked him forward. More than once, he was dragged several feet through gravel and brush before regaining his footing. His knees, once smooth as polished birch, were now bloodied and scraped.

The sun never quite touched him. Shadows and chill clung to his skin as though Imladris itself resisted his presence. And the further they rode, the sharper the jests became.

“I thought woodland elves danced through the trees. This one trips over rocks.”

“Does he even wield a blade? Or does he duel with flowers and leaves?”

“Perhaps he mistook us for stags to admire. All those golden locks must’ve gone to his head.”

Legolas bore it all with grace. He did not bow his head. He did not spit venom in return. Once or twice, he even smiled, though the corners of his lips were stiff with pain. When he stumbled over a root and collided gently with Elrohir’s horse, he murmured a soft, “my apologies,” to the beast before continuing.

“He apologizes to horses now,” someone whispered, laughter following like smoke.

“Perhaps they have better manners in Mirkwood than we thought.”

“Or perhaps he just doesn’t know how to speak up.”

The twins themselves said little. Elladan rode near the front, silent and unreadable. Elrohir, ever nearby, would glance back now and again, not with concern, but suspicion. His hand hovered near his weapon, as if the prince of Mirkwood might suddenly flee, bruised, into the wild.

Near midday, as they crossed a narrow ledge scattered with loose stone, Legolas slipped once more. He caught himself, but not before scraping his arm sharply on jagged rock. Blood welled up, bright against pale skin. He hissed softly, staggering.

The rope jerked.

“You move like a newborn fawn,” Elrohir snapped.

Legolas caught his breath and straightened, a sheen of sweat clinging to his temple.

“I move as the path allows,” he murmured, glaring at Elrohir..

“Do the trees in your forest not teach you to watch your footing? Or are you too busy preening to look down?”

“We walk in silence in the Greenwood,” Legolas replied, voice calm. “And the trees do not mock when one stumbles.”

“Shame the same can’t be said of you.”

No one offered him water.

He was parched by midafternoon, lips dry, mouth heavy. The guards drank in front of him deliberately, passing waterskins between them with exaggerated sighs of relief, some smiling when his gaze lingered too long.

It was Elladan who broke the pattern, but not from mercy.

He had been watching, silent atop his horse, gaze like a drawn blade. When Legolas stumbled, subtle, but enough to betray the strain, Elladan dismounted without a word. His steps were crisp, his expression cool.

The guards moved aside as he approached, their mockery silenced for the moment by the shift in air.

Legolas looked up, wary and unyielding.

Elladan said nothing at first. He uncapped a waterskin, then reached down with gloved fingers, grabbing a fistful of golden hair and jerking it back, not violently, but with enough force to make a point.

“You woodland folk pride yourselves on your grace,” he said flatly. “Perhaps next time, your father will send a son who can stay on his feet.”

He tilted Legolas’s head further, forcing eye contact for a breath too long.

“Open your mouth.”

Legolas did not move. The rim was pushed against his lips.

Elladan narrowed his eyes, then let a slow stream of water fall from the skin, enough to wet the prince’s cracked lips and slip past them. Some spilled along his jaw, trailing down his throat like mockery.

“Try not to waste it,” Elladan muttered. “You’ll get no more before nightfall.”

Legolas drank what little he could without flinching, swallowing around the knot in his pride.

From horseback, Elrohir watched in silence, his expression unreadable. But as Elladan poured the water, a sneer touched the younger twin’s mouth. He shook his head slightly, as though disgusted, not just by the sight, but by the prince himself.

His gaze met Legolas’s for the briefest moment, flat, cold, dismissive. You deserve this, it seemed to say.

Then he looked away.

When Elladan was done, he wiped the rim of the waterskin on his cloak, not out of cleanliness, but disdain, and turned away.

“Starving would be too poetic,” he said over his shoulder. “But dehydration? That’s just inconvenient.”

Then he mounted again, reins snapping in his hand, as if the act of helping had left a bad taste in his mouth.

The sun dipped, shadows lengthening, when the first low roar of waterfalls reached their ears. White stone glimmered through the trees, half-shrouded in mist.

Imladris.

The Hidden Valley opened before them like a secret revealed, carved into the bones of the land, ancient, dreamlike, and watching. Towering cliffs framed cascading falls, and bridges arched like ribbons between towers. But even amid such beauty, the air was sharp with judgment.

As they passed beneath carved archways and entered the outpost proper, heads turned. Servants froze mid-step. Warriors halted their drills. Some gaped openly. Others whispered behind gloved hands.

Many stared at Legolas as if he were filth dragged in on the heel of a boot.

Elrohir dismounted and gave the rope a tug, forcing Legolas forward with a stumble.

“Tell Lord Elrond,” Elrohir barked to a nearby guard, “that the sons of the Greenwood skulk too near our borders. We bring one back for questioning.”

The guard gave a sharp nod and vanished.

Legolas stood still. His arms ached. His wrists throbbed. But his chin remained high, and his gaze wandered upward, toward the carved archways, the soft spires of Imladris, the way the light filtered like lace through stone and water.

“It is beautiful,” he said softly, more to himself than anyone.

Elrohir glanced at him with disdain.

“Strange thing to say, bound like a thief.”

Legolas didn’t flinch.

“Truth does not depend on comfort.”

Elladan turned to look at him, his gaze quieter than his brother’s, but no less sharp.

“You are unlike the stories,” he said.

A pause.

Then Elrohir muttered,

“Let’s see what Father says. Perhaps then we’ll see what truths you still have to tell.”

They led him deeper into the valley, the rope still taut, his steps echoing hollow across ancient stone. Elves watched from balconies, from behind curtains, and from pillars. None spoke.

The House of Elrond awaited.

And Legolas walked toward it with his head held high and heart steady, though his limbs ached and the weight of scorn pressed heavy on his back.

—

The House of Elrond stood serene in the twilight, its pale towers kissed by the first glimmer of starlight, framed by flowering trees and veils of trailing ivy. Its beauty was undeniable—ethereal, ageless, touched by the hand of the Valar.

But to Legolas, it felt like the hush before a funeral. Still. Heavy. Watching.

He was marched through its graceful, arching corridors by the sons of Elrond, flanked by silent guards. Everywhere they passed, eyes followed. Nobles in silver-trimmed robes turned their heads with cool disapproval. Warriors halted their drills, brows furrowed at the sight of the bound elf in dirt-smudged woodland garb. No smiles. No greetings. Not a single voice spoke his name.

He had never met Elrond Half-elven, though his name was known even in the farthest groves of Mirkwood. The Lord of Imladris was spoken of in reverent tones, as one who had walked with kings and warriors, who had sat at the feet of the Valar and held council with Maia. He was a lorekeeper, a warrior, and above all, the greatest healer in Middle-earth. It was said he could draw poison from a wound with a whisper, mend bone with a touch, and quiet the minds of the dying with a glance.

But in Thranduil’s court, those stories were always followed by silence. Or bitterness.

For all his wisdom, Elrond had never held love for the Woodland Realm, or its king.

Legolas had overheard the hushed words exchanged among courtiers and captains. Tales of old offenses never quite forgotten. Of cold diplomacy and colder silence. Of how Elrond’s gaze, when turned eastward, carried neither welcome nor warmth.

"A healer he may be," his father had once said, voice sharp as flint, "but not all wounds mend in his house."

And now here he was, dragged like a criminal through Elrond’s marbled halls, a prince bound and bruised in the heart of a realm that had always looked down upon his own.

Legolas lifted his chin.

He would meet this Elrond not as a boy, nor a trespasser, but as the son of a king.

Even if they all wished to see only a wild thing lost in their garden.

The journey through the valley had worn on him, hours on foot, the rope chafing his wrists raw, bruises blooming beneath his tunic, and his knees raw. And yet he walked with quiet grace. He kept his back straight, his chin lifted. He would not be dragged like some feral thing.

They brought him into a grand hall where the floor gleamed like still water, polished stone so pristine it seemed untouched by time. Tapestries hung along the walls, woven in shades of sapphire, silver, and gold, depicting long-past battles and star-crowned kings. At the far end of the room, on a raised dais, sat a great chair of ancient wood, carved with Elvish runes, elegant, solemn, and sharp.

Lord Elrond sat upon the high seat, his bearing calm and inscrutable, as if carved from the very stone that framed the hall. His robes were a deep, starlit blue, fastened at the shoulder with a silver brooch shaped like a seven-pointed star. The weight of ages clung to him, not weariness, but gravity. His eyes, sharp as tempered steel, fixed on Legolas with a gaze that held neither welcome nor malice, only scrutiny, cool and unflinching.

To his right stood a cluster of advisors, draped in robes of mist-grey and dusk-gold, their brows furrowed with concern or disdain. Their faces were unreadable, like statues that had forgotten how to smile.

But it was the tall elf to Elrond’s left that caught Legolas’s eye, a golden-haired figure of rare beauty and poise, clad in robes of silver-threaded white, his gaze less distant, but no less piercing. He stood with the ease of one long used to command, his hands clasped loosely before him. Though younger in appearance than the others, there was power in his stillness.

Glorfindel.

Legolas had heard tales of the Balrog-slayer, the elf who had fallen in the First Age and returned from death itself. Few in Middle-earth were spoken of with such reverence or awe, save perhaps Elrond himself. Glorfindel’s expression betrayed no hostility, only watchfulness. But it was clear even he was unsure what to make of the bound prince brought before their lord.

Legolas felt their gazes like frost against skin, unmoving, impossible to escape.

He stood straighter, though every bruise on his body ached with the effort.

Legolas had only just crossed the threshold when Elrohir shoved him forward with deliberate force.

The momentum sent him stumbling, his boots scraping uselessly on the polished floor, until his knees struck the stone with a jarring thud. The impact sent a spike of pain through already-bruised flesh, and the breath tore from his lungs in a sharp gasp. He bit back any sound beyond that, swallowing the indignity like glass.

The gleaming floor beneath him felt colder than ice.

He remained where he had fallen, kneeling at the foot of the dais like a criminal dragged before a throne. His wrists were still bound, the rope coarse and tight, hands knotted together in his lap like some offering of disgrace. He made no move to rise. His head stayed bowed, golden hair falling forward in a silken veil that barely concealed the flush of his cheek.

Elrohir stepped forward, his voice clipped and biting.

“This is Legolas, son of Thranduil,” he said, as if the name itself were an accusation. “We found him east of the Hoarwell, too close to our patrols. He was skulking in the woods, watching us from cover.”

With a scornful flick, Elrohir tossed the lead rope aside. It slapped the marble like a snake, limp and discarded.

Legolas did not react. He remained still, his breath tight, jaw clenched.

Elladan followed a step behind, his stride smooth and precise. He carried the prince’s weapons, bow, knives, and quiver, and threw them down beside Legolas with a sharp, echoing clatter that cut through the hall like an arrow.

“He was armed,” Elladan said coolly, addressing his father. “Light of foot. Silent. He claimed curiosity, but behaved like a spy.”

A long silence fell, stretching like a drawn bow.

Elrond had not risen from his seat, nor stirred a muscle. His hands rested lightly atop the arms of the great chair, carved from dark, ancient wood. He studied Legolas with an expression so still—like he was peering through him, not at him. The air in the hall turned colder, sharper.

Then he spoke, low, clear, and edged with disdain.

“You bring me the son of Thranduil like a misbehaving child, caught rooting through a neighbor’s garden.”

Elrohir’s eyes flashed. “He was hiding in the brush, observing our patrol. He did not call out. He did not announce himself. His intent cannot be trusted.”

“He wandered alone,” Elladan added, stepping forward with folded arms. “He claims his escort is camped nearby, but offered no proof. He could have easily crossed the border.”

Elrond’s gaze narrowed, his tone like a slow-moving knife. “And the Woodland Realm now sends its prince as an unmarked shadow, without herald or escort? No banner. No sealed token. No message? That is not diplomacy. That is trespass.”

Still on his knees, Legolas lifted his head.

His face was pale but composed, his eyes cool, like starlight reflecting on water. He met Elrond’s stare without defiance—but without submission either. There was only clarity. Measured calm.

When he spoke, his voice was steady. “We did not cross into Imladris. My patrol remains east of the ridge. We were not sent to you. Our mission was to a border settlement near the Hoarwell. I left camp to walk beneath the stars. That is all.”

Elrond’s brow arched, the barest flicker of movement. His voice sharpened.

“You left your camp. Alone. Without escort. In unknown lands. You, the son of a king?”

“I did,” Legolas answered plainly. “It was not the first time I walked alone.”

Another silence, thicker now, coiled with tension.

Elrond’s tone dropped to something colder than ice. “Then you insult not only my border, but your father’s judgment. He sends his heir into lands near Imladris with no guide, no protection, and no courtesy?”

Legolas flinched, barely. A tight pull at the corner of his mouth. The rope at his wrists dug in deeper as he clenched his hands. But he did not look away.

“I was not sent to you,” he repeated. “Nor was my presence intended as slight.”

The words were careful. Measured. A prince’s answer.

From the corner of his eye, Legolas saw Glorfindel shift slightly, his gaze unreadable. One of the counselors murmured something beneath his breath, too soft to catch.

But Elrond heard.

He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers.

“Intent is a slippery thing,” he said. “As is innocence. Especially when it crosses into lands where it knows it is not welcome.”

A pause.

Then Elrond’s gaze sharpened with something colder than irony, older than scorn. His voice, when it came, was soft but barbed.

“I have waited long,” he said, “to see Thranduil on his knees in this hall. And now, it seems, I must settle for his son.”

The words landed like a slap. Not a shout, not a threat, just a measured cruelty honed over centuries. A slight smile ghosted his lips, more shadow than warmth.

A pause. His eyes drifted over Legolas, expression unreadable.

“…A pretty view, at least.”

A ripple of quiet chuckles stirred among the counselors, low and clipped, like the rustle of dead leaves. Some exchanged amused glances, their disdain thinly veiled behind courtly masks.

But Glorfindel did not laugh.

He turned his head toward Elrond, one brow lifting in silent disapproval, his gaze cool and steady. The faintest crease touched his brow, not outrage, but quiet rebuke. He said nothing. He didn’t need to.

The amusement in the room faded almost as quickly as it had come.

Legolas felt the heat rise behind his eyes, not from fear, but fury. His jaw tightened, but still, he did not look away.

He had been dragged, bound, mocked, and cast onto his knees like an animal. But he would not beg. He would not lower his gaze again.

Let them see him as Thranduil’s son.

He would not dishonor the name.

Elrond rose, descending the dais with the deliberate poise of a ruler who did not need to raise his voice to command a room.

“Thranduil has long isolated himself from the world. He spurns diplomacy. He scorns alliances. And now his golden whelp appears at my door like some stray dog in the night.”

“I am not a vagrant,” Legolas said quietly, lifting his chin. His voice was soft, but it carried, clear and measured, shaped by years of court and command. “I am the prince of the Woodland Realm. I may have come unbidden, but I do not come in shame.”

“No,” Elrond murmured, beginning to circle him. “You are something worse. A child with a crown-shaped shadow on his back. A boy who thinks himself untouchable.”

As he passed behind Legolas, he added, almost lazily, “Your father is tall. Towering, by some accounts.” He paused, glancing down at the kneeling form. “I confess I expected his heir to cast a longer shadow.”

Chuckles rippled again through the gathered advisors, quiet, biting, and joyless.

Legolas bowed his head, not in submission, but in restraint. When he answered, his tone held the tempered calm of a diplomat, not the apology of a scolded youth.

“I did not seek your lands. I crossed no border, bore no weapon in threat. I walked beneath the stars, as is my custom in every wood. If my presence caused offense, I regret the consequence, but I will not beg forgiveness for wonder.”

Elrond’s eyes narrowed, his voice cooling further. “Intent does not erase consequence.”

“No,” Legolas agreed, his voice still composed, though his wrists ached and his pride bled. “But neither does suspicion create guilt.”

A silence fell once more, longer this time. Sharper.

He turned to his sons, tone unchanged.

“He is not to walk freely. Take him to the eastern guest wing.”

Elladan hesitated. “That wing is empty. It has not been prepared. No bedding. No fire.”

“Then he will have peace,” Elrond said simply. “And time to reflect. He is not a prisoner, but he is not a guest, either. Let him learn humility in quiet.”

With a flick of his hand, the audience was ended.

Guards stepped forward at once. They seized Legolas by the arms and pulled him roughly to his feet. His legs ached as the strain returned to joints left too long kneeling, and the sudden movement sent a sharp stab of pain through his shoulder. He did not cry out.

As they turned to drag him from the hall, Elrond watched.

His gaze followed the prince with the same expressionless calm he had worn from the start, unmoved, unbending. But beneath it, something colder stirred: not hatred, but judgment honed to surgical precision. He did not speak again. He didn’t have to.

Legolas felt the weight of it like ice across his spine.

Instinctively, he glanced toward the twins, the sons of the lord who had condemned him.

But there was no comfort there.

Elladan’s face remained closed, his mouth set in a line of grim detachment. Elrohir didn’t look at him at all. If there was doubt, it did not show. If there was remorse, it was buried too deep to reach.

Whatever bond might have existed between princes of two realms, warriors alike, sons alike, had been severed in silence.

So Legolas turned his gaze instead.

Not to Elrond, but to Glorfindel.

The golden-haired lord still stood at the base of the dais, unmoved from his place. He had said nothing throughout the audience, but his eyes met Legolas’s now, blue as frost and just as clear. He did not smile. He did not frown. But something in his gaze held, steady , quiet, assessing. Not unkind.

Legolas straightened just slightly between the guards.

He offered no words. Only a silent exchange of looks, wary, searching, and somewhere beneath the pain…seen.

Then the moment passed, and the doors closed behind him.

Behind him, Lord Elrond ascended the dais once more and spoke no further.

They led the prince through a narrow corridor, away from the main halls of music and memory. The eastern wing was quiet, almost forgotten, its stone corridors dim and cold. Wind whispered through open windows, and no fire burned in the grates.

At last, they stopped before a simple wooden door. One of the guards pushed it open to reveal a bare stone chamber, windowed, but sparsely appointed. A cot stood in the corner with a single folded blanket. A pitcher of water and an empty basin rested on a low shelf. There was no candle. No warmth. Only silence.

They untied his wrists with little care, then pushed him gently, but wordlessly, inside. The door shut behind him with a soft thud. The lock clicked.

Guards remained outside.

Legolas stood in the middle of the room, unmoving.

His arms ached where the ropes had bitten deep. His knees throbbed with dull heat. His tunic was stained with dried blood and dust. Yet his expression was calm.

He surveyed the room, took in its starkness, and, quietly, smiled.

“Better than a dungeon,” he whispered to himself.

He folded the blanket neatly upon the cot but did not lie down. Instead, he moved to the narrow window where the cool night breeze brushed his face. He knelt there, folding his legs beneath him, hands resting lightly on the stone.

The stars were visible from here. A scattering of distant light, constant and unjudging.

And that, at least, was familiar.

Even behind closed doors.

Chapter Text

The heavy doors closed behind Legolas with a hollow thud , the sound echoing through the vaulted chamber like the final stroke of a bell. Silence lingered in its wake, uneasy, brittle.

Elrond did not immediately return to his seat. His court reduced to a trusted few.

He remained standing at the edge of the dais, hands clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable. His gaze was fixed on the far doors, as if through stone and shadow he could still see the prince being led away.

At last, he spoke.

“Seal the records of this meeting. What was said today does not leave this hall.”

Glorfindel shifted. The faintest crease formed between his brows. “You mean to hide that you’ve shamed the son of Thranduil before half your court?”

Elrond turned his head slightly. “I mean to prevent whispers from reaching the East before we understand what this truly is.”

“It was no small provocation,” Erestor said crisply. He stood near one of the carved pillars, his robes dark and severe, his tone sharpened by reason. “The son of the Woodland King appears without herald or notice, armed, unescorted, near our border. That is no trivial breach.”

“He was spying,” Elrohir muttered, arms crossed. “He watched from the brush. He tracked us.”

“He saw you,” Glorfindel corrected, voice low and even. “There is a difference.”

Elrohir’s jaw tensed, but he said nothing.

Elladan spoke next, his tone more measured than his brother’s. “He moved like one trained to vanish. That is no fault of his, it’s the way of the Woodland Realm. But he did not behave like a guest, either.”

Erestor remained cool. “Then the issue is not whether he posed a danger, but whether our response was proportionate.”

Elrond said nothing.

Lindir, who had stood quietly near the edge of the dais, finally cleared his throat.  “He was bruised before he knelt. I saw the way he moved. Someone struck him.”

A pause.

Then Glorfindel turned his head slowly, his expression carved from stone, and looked squarely at Elrohir.

The younger twin met his gaze at first, but there was a flicker, a tightening of the eyes, a shift in his jaw, as if he knew what was coming.

“He was watching us like a shadow,” Elrohir said, his voice low, defensive. “We didn’t know who he was.”

Glorfindel took a single step forward, measured and unhurried.

“So let us speak plainly,” he said. “Elrohir, what did you do to him before bringing him here?”

Elrohir’s shoulders stiffened.

“He crept toward our patrol under the cover of night,” he said tightly. “He moved like a shadow. I restrained him. He was made to walk on foot the way here.”

“Restrained? ” Glorfindel’s voice dropped lower, like ice cracking under pressure. “You bound him. Dragged him behind your horse.”

The silence that followed was jagged.

Elrohir’s face hardened. “He would not cooperate.”

Elladan’s eyes shifted sharply toward his twin. He said nothing, but the look in his eyes said enough.

That’s not true.

He had seen it. He had been there. The prince had stilled when caught, offered no resistance, and made no attempt to flee. His expression had been more confused than confrontational. He had spoken clearly. He had not reached for his blades.

Elrohir’s lie hung in the air like a cloud of smoke.

Glorfindel’s tone sharpened.

“You dragged Thranduil’s son through mud and stone,” he said, every word deliberate. “Through brambles and rock, his wrists bound, knees bleeding, as if he were some wild creature. And you did this before you knew who he was.”

“He had a blade!” Elrohir snapped, too quickly. “He could have killed one of us had we hesitated.”

“Yet he did not,” Glorfindel said. “You had him outnumbered. He did not fight. He surrendered. And still you made a spectacle of him.”

Glorfindel’s gaze cut through him like a whetted edge.

“And once you learned his name?” he asked, quieter now, but no less dangerous. “Did that stay your hand, or did it give you more reason to shame him?”

Elrohir looked away.

His eyes were dark, his shoulders taut with silent rage, but not at Glorfindel.

Not entirely.

Something in him seethed, too raw, too knotted to name. His jaw worked once, but no answer came. Whatever war was being fought inside him, it had no words yet.

Elladan finally spoke. His voice was quieter, more composed.

“We should have done more,” he said. “To confirm his story. To weigh the moment before acting.”

He glanced at his father, then back at the others. “We acted...hastily.”

No one corrected him.

But none of them missed the word he had chosen.

We.

Even if the burden did not rest equally on their shoulders.

“Hastily?” Glorfindel echoed, eyes narrowing. “You think this was mere haste?”

“He could have been a threat!” Elrohir shouted, anger flaring. “He could’ve been sent to test our borders, spy on our strength, our weakness. You call it cruelty. I call it caution.”

Glorfindel stepped forward. “Then why, after you knew who he was, did you still parade him before this court—bruised, bound, and stripped of his weapons?”

The silence that followed was damning.

Elrond turned slowly back toward the others, defending his sons’ actions. “He came unbidden. Unannounced. That alone is cause for suspicion.”

“But not for cruelty,” Glorfindel said. “And not for humiliation.”

The words hung heavy in the air.

Lindir glanced between them all, then said gently, “The youngest among us did not flinch under your judgment, my lord. He answered with the bearing of a prince, even as you treated him as less.”

Erestor nodded, though his tone held more caution than warmth. “Although I, too, have my suspicions, there is danger in making an enemy of one who came in peace.”

Elrond’s gaze turned distant. His voice was measured, but not softened. “Thranduil has made himself difficult to trust. For centuries, he has offered no alliance. No aid. No open hand. His son’s presence is suspect, whether he intended it or not.”

“Then perhaps,” Glorfindel said quietly, “you should speak with him. As a lord to another. Not take your vengeance through his child.”

That struck a chord.

Elrond’s eyes narrowed, sharp with old wounds. “I take no vengeance.”

No one replied.

Silence stretched again, long and taut.

Then Erestor stepped forward, folding his arms. “And what now? Do we keep him confined until his father sends word? Do we return him bruised and dishonored? What message do we send?”

“That he walked unannounced into lands still healing from grief,” Elrond said flatly. “And that there are consequences for trespass.”

“And will we punish all who walk in wonder now?” Glorfindel asked, his voice low. “Even those with no sword in hand?”

There was no answer.

At last, Elrond turned from them all and walked slowly back to his seat. He lowered himself with the weight of long thoughts, shadows coiling in the folds of his robe. When he finally spoke, his voice was colder still.

“He may stay in the eastern wing until I decide what is to be done. See that he receives food and water. No more.”

Then he closed his eyes, and said nothing more.

The fire in Elladan’s chambers burned low, casting long, restless shadows against the stone walls. The night air that drifted through the open balcony was sharp with the scent of wet leaves and mist. Outside, Imladris slept in silver silence. Inside, the storm had only just begun.

Elrohir stood near the hearth, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the flames. He hadn’t spoken since they left the hall. Not to anyone. Not even to his brother.

Elladan entered quietly behind him, the door clicking shut with a finality that seemed louder than it should have.

“Arwen sent a letter,” Elladan said, setting a small satchel near his desk. “She will be back soon.”

Elrohir nodded. “May her journey be safe.” Their sister, Arwen, has been in Lothlorien with their grandparents for the past year. Their family, or what is left of it, will soon be whole.

Elladan moved to the table and poured a cup of wine, but didn’t drink. The silence stretched.

“You lied,” Elladan said at last, his voice low and steady.

Elrohir didn’t flinch.

“He would not cooperate,” he repeated, as if saying it again might make it true.

Elladan turned, his eyes cool. “He didn’t resist.”

Elrohir finally looked at him. “He was watching us. Tracking us like a hunter. He was armed. That alone—”

“He did not draw those weapons,” Elladan snapped, sharper now. “He did not even reach for them. He stood still when we approached. He answered when we questioned. He spoke .”

“He was in the brush,” Elrohir hissed. “On the edge of our patrol. What would you have had me do, invite him to dinner?”

“I would have had you not drag him behind your horse like some criminal,” Elladan said, stepping forward. “Especially not after you knew who he was.”

Elrohir’s face twisted. “He is Thranduil’s son. That should mean something. You remember the stories. You remember what that realm said of us. Of our kind. ” He paused, voice hardening. “And you didn’t stop it either.”

A beat of silence fell between them, deeper now. Sharper.

Elladan inhaled slowly. “This isn’t about ancient grudges.”

Elrohir let out a dry, bitter laugh. “No? It always is, Elladan. You just wear yours like court manners.”

“He didn’t speak those words. He didn’t make those judgments.”

“No,” Elrohir snapped, “but he was raised in them. Bathed in them. You think Thranduil raised a son who doesn’t believe we’re arrogant and untrustworthy? That we’re all blades and pride and songs of old battles?”

Elladan met his gaze, firm and calm. “He came with no banner. No threat. He came with silence. And we answered with chains.”

Elrohir’s mouth tightened, but he said nothing.

Elladan stepped closer. “Whatever Thranduil has done, or not done, his son has done nothing but endure. With more restraint than either of us showed.”

Elrohir turned away, shoulders tense, voice low. “You didn’t see his eyes. When he looked at us. Like we were proving him right.”

A long silence followed.

Elrohir stayed facing the fire, but his voice had dulled, wary, uncertain.

“And Father,” he said quietly. “Did you see him? When he said it? ‘I have waited long to see Thranduil on his knees.’ And then he looked at Legolas. Like that was justice.”

Elladan’s jaw clenched.

“I saw,” he said. “And I heard.”

“He meant it,” Elrohir added. “He meant to wound him. Not the son, the father. ”

Elladan didn’t speak. The fire crackled between them, casting flickering gold across stone and silence.

Finally, he said, “Elrohir, what you did, it was beneath you.”

Elrohir shifted, his expression tight. “He mocked us.”

“No.” Elladan’s voice was calm but firm. “He endured us.”

Another long silence fell.

“I watched you,” Elladan continued softly. “When you pulled the rope tighter. When you dragged him like a prize.”

Elrohir looked away, jaw clenched, and gave a short exhale.

“I didn’t plan it,” he muttered. “It just...it happened.”

Elladan sat slowly in the chair near the hearth, running a hand over his face.

“You didn’t stop yourself,” he said. “Because you didn’t want to.”

Elrohir’s eyes flashed. “And you did nothing.”

“I gave him water,” Elladan replied. “Not out of kindness. Out of necessity. Because he was parched. Because we had dragged him for leagues in chains. But don’t mistake that for forgiveness.”

Elrohir was silent.

“And now,” Elladan continued, voice quieter, heavier, “we pretend before our father and his court that we acted with reason. That you were cautious. That I agreed. But I didn’t.”

Elrohir let out a shaky breath and ran a hand through his dark hair.

“What would you have me do?” he asked, voice suddenly hoarse. “Apologize to him? To Thranduil’s perfect, golden son?”

“I would have you face what you did,” Elladan said. “To him. And to yourself.”

Elrohir stared into the fire, unmoving.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said, “He looked like he pitied us.”

Elladan blinked. “What?”

“When he stood there,” Elrohir murmured, “in front of Father, in chains, filthy, humiliated. He didn’t curse us. Didn’t demand anything. He just looked like he understood. Like he felt sorry for us.”

Elladan studied him quietly.

“It wasn’t Legolas you were dragging,” he said. “It was every wound this realm never healed. Every slight we never forgave. Every old bitterness we never put down.”

Elrohir closed his eyes.

“He should have cursed me,” he whispered. “I wanted him to. I needed him to.”

“But he didn’t,” Elladan said. “Because he’s stronger than we gave him credit for.”

Silence returned, deep, but less jagged.

Elladan stood and crossed to his brother. He rested a hand on Elrohir’s shoulder, not in absolution, but in quiet solidarity.

“You need to decide who you’ll be when you next face him,” he said. “Because he already knows who he is.”

Then he turned, pausing at the door.

“Elrohir,” he added, voice low but steady, “we will not survive this age if we become the cruelty we remember.”

And then he was gone.

Leaving Elrohir alone, with the fire, the silence, and the weight of what he had done.

Chapter Text

The morning passed slowly.

Sunlight crept across the cold stone floor like a timid guest, casting long beams that caught in drifting motes of dust. The cot remained untouched. Legolas had slept only in snatches, curled in the corner beneath the open window, where a thin breeze carried the scent of pine, damp earth, and the ever-present rush of river water.

Now he sat cross-legged on the floor near the sill, long fingers resting lightly on his injured knees. His tunic was still stained with dust and blood, evidence of the previous day’s treatment, but he held himself with quiet dignity, every inch a prince despite the bruises blooming across his skin.

A small thrush, plump and golden-breasted, had settled on the window’s stone lip, just beyond the narrow iron bars. It tilted its head toward him, feathers ruffling, and chirped a tentative greeting.

Legolas responded with a soft, lilting melody.

His voice wove into the air like sunlight on water, smooth and glimmering. The notes were Silvan, no words, only feeling. A language older than books, older than names. The bird chirped in reply, as though it understood.

He smiled faintly and offered a few final notes before letting the silence return, gentle and unbroken.

That was when the door opened.

The sound was abrupt, jarring. Legolas rose in one fluid motion, turning to face the figures entering one after another.

Elrohir came first, his expression unreadable. Beside him was Elladan, flanked closely by Lord Elrond, whose presence chilled the air. Glorfindel followed, quiet and grave, and behind them stood a Noldor Legolas did not recognize. Guards closed the procession, moving like shadows along the stone.

They filled the chamber like a gathering storm, silent and heavy with intent. The bird startled from the windowsill and fled.

“How charming,” Elrohir said, glancing toward the open window where the breeze still stirred the curtains. “Singing to birds while under guard. Is that how you pass the time?”

There was sharpness in his voice, but beneath it, something else. Something uncertain. Watching too closely.

Legolas did not flinch or lower his gaze. He stood tall, the light catching the edge of his hair like fire in gold.

“My songs harm no one,” he said simply. “The bird came of its own will.”

Their eyes held, just for a breath.

Something in Elrohir's expression shifted. Barely. But it did. Like a crack in stone letting through the smallest sliver of light.

Elrond did not move.

“Everything you do is calculated,” Elrohir said, voice tight. “Your softness is a mask.”

Legolas did not respond, but his gaze lifted, just briefly, meeting Elrohir’s eyes.

It was not defiance in that look. Nor sorrow. Just something quietly searching, like he was trying to understand if Elrohir truly believed what he’d said. If the son of Elrond could see beyond the mask he accused him of wearing.

And then, just as quietly, Legolas looked away.

For a moment, Elrohir faltered.

The certainty in his voice wavered beneath the weight of that look, haunted not by guilt, but by something more dangerous. Doubt.

Elrond took a step forward, his gaze drifting over the bare room before settling with precision on the prince.

“You appear well, despite the circumstances.”

“I am grateful for the quiet,” Legolas said evenly.

Elrohir scoffed.

But in the pause that followed, Legolas’s eyes flicked toward Elrohir again, brief, but not unnoticed. There was something unreadable in the glance. A question, perhaps. A hope. A silent reach for understanding in a room laced with judgment.

And Elrohir, for all his anger, looked back.

Not scornfully. Not cruelly. Just looking.

Elrond caught it.

His expression did not change, but a new tension settled behind his eyes, sharp as flint.

The other Noldor, whom Legolas did not know, folded his arms.

“I am Erestor,” he said, his tone cool and clipped. “Let us be plain, Legolas of the Woodland Realm.”

He did not use Prince , nor did he need to; the absence spoke loudly.

“You left your patrol without sanction, crossed into a realm your father has long chosen to disregard, and observed our movements from concealment.” He paused, letting the weight of each word settle. “That is not innocent wandering. That is incursion.”

“I swear it was not,” Legolas replied calmly. “I wandered. The world beyond Mirkwood is still new to me.”

“At four hundred years old?” Glorfindel raised a brow. “You are no child, but still young to roam beyond your borders alone.”

“I was not sent,” Legolas said calmly. “I requested to join a routine journey to a border settlement. My father permitted it. I left the encampment without leave. That was my own error. I do not excuse it.”

Elrond’s expression did not shift.

“Convenient,” he said, voice flat. “Especially from the heir of a king who has refused alliance, mistrusted my house for centuries, and chosen silence over courtesy.”

Legolas looked up, the calm in his expression now tempered by something colder, something protective.

“My father guards his people,” he said, voice still soft, but edged with steel. “Because the world has not been kind to those who walk his forests. He owes no apology for that.”

Elrond’s eyes narrowed. A small, cold smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Ah,” he said quietly. “There it is.” He tilted his head, gaze sharp. “That same fire. That same pride. Just like your father, draped in silk, but ever ready to bare your teeth.” 

He let his eyes sweep over Legolas, slow and cold. “Though shorter, of course. And slighter in frame. The Silvan blood from your mother runs true there, does it not?” 

A pause, deliberate. 

“But the rest, so very much Thranduil.” 

Legolas held his gaze, unflinching. “If you mean to shame me for my blood,” he said, voice even and low, “you will not succeed.”

His chin lifted, not in arrogance, but in unwavering pride. “I was born of the Greenwood. I was cradled in song and shadow, and I carry my mother’s strength as surely as I do my father’s name.”

A flicker, just a flicker, passed through Elrond’s eyes.

“My people do not wear crowns of gold or rings of power,” Legolas went on, each word shaped with quiet precision. “But we do not bow to shadows. We endure them. We dance beneath them. And we do not forget who we are.”

He let the silence settle then, not awkwardly, but like still water reclaiming a disturbed surface.

“My father once said my mother’s blood made me wild,” Legolas added softly. “But it was her wildness that kept light in our halls.”

His eyes locked with Elrond’s once more, calm as forest dusk.

“So if I am like him and like her, then I am well content.”

From the corner of the room, Elrohir’s breath caught, so quiet it could have been the wind.

And Glorfindel, standing with arms crossed, said nothing. But something in his posture shifted, ike a warrior acknowledging the presence of another.

Elrond’s eyes narrowed, and when he spoke, his voice was soft, but it cut like a blade.

“You speak of shadows and strength with the tongue of a poet,” he said. “But your words reek of the same polished contempt your father cloaked himself in the last time he deigned to stand before me.”

He took a measured step forward. “Do you think yourself wise, child of the woodland? You enter a realm not your own, disrupt its peace, and now lecture its lords as if you have seen more winters than the stones beneath your feet.”

The silence rang sharper than any shout.

Legolas did not look away.

“If respect lies only in silence,” he said quietly, “then forgive me. I was raised to offer truth, not flattery.”

A beat passed. His following words were softer, almost sad. “But perhaps that, too, is an inheritance you do not value.”

Something shifted in the air. Not loud. Not visible. But Elrohir’s jaw tensed.

And Elladan, silent until now, let out a slow breath, his eyes flicking between his father and the prince as though suddenly seeing something different in both.

Legolas stood with open hands, his posture loose, his expression unguarded. He was filthy, his tunic torn and streaked with mud, dried blood crusted over his knees, his lips split from thirst. Sweat and grime clung to his golden hair in damp strands. And still, he met their eyes without fear. Without fire. That, somehow, unsettled them more than open defiance would have. He did not snarl, did not spit, did not plead. He simply stood there, marred, marked, and calm.

Elladan stepped forward, a small ceramic jar and clean bandages in his hands.

“He’s bruised and scraped,” he said in a flat voice, as if noting a flaw in porcelain. “Dragged like a sack of barley through the hills.”

“Then see to it,” Elrond replied coolly.

Elladan moved beside the prince and uncorked the jar. The scent of crushed mint and myrrh filled the air, sharp, clean, medicinal. He dipped a cloth into the salve and reached for Legolas’s wrists.

His touch was precise. Practiced. But not gentle.

The cloth dragged across torn skin, cool and stinging.

“You bruise easily,” Elladan muttered, eyes on the red lines where the ropes had bitten deep.

“Or you throw harder than you mean to,” Legolas replied, his voice light, but not mocking.

Elladan’s brow twitched. He pressed one bruise just a shade harder than necessary. Legolas winced, but did not flinch.

“Strip from the waist up,” Elladan said.

It was a healer’s command, brisk and clinical, but the silence that followed was anything but.

All eyes were on him. The guards. The lords. Lord Elrond and his sons.

The request, or command, hung in the air like a blade. The only sound was the whisper of the salve jar and the quiet rasp of Legolas’s breath.

He did not hesitate. His fingers, stiff from strain, found the frayed hem of his tunic. With one slow motion, he pulled it over his head and let it fall.

The bruises were worse in full light.

Rope burns curved around his ribs. Dark welts stained his back and shoulders. His collarbone was scraped raw. He wore no armor, but his body was a battlefield.

No one spoke. The bruises were ugly. The silence, uglier.

Still, Legolas stood tall. Spine straight. Chin lifted. A prince, bare and bound, but not broken.

Elladan moved again, dipping the cloth in the salve. “Turn your shoulder.”

Legolas did.

The room remained still as Elladan worked with careful hands. The salve cooled the heat of torn skin, but the touch was never kind, only efficient.

Legolas said nothing. He endured each press of cloth in silence.

Eyes lingered on him. Some curious. Some judgmental. And some, like Elrohir’s, were shadowed with something harder to name. Not hatred. But tension. Turmoil. As if he were trying not to feel anything at all.

Elladan’s expression was unreadable. Not cruel. Not soft. He worked like a smith mending something cracked but not yet shattered.

Then Elrohir spoke.

His voice cut through the stillness, sharp, brittle, edged with something he did not name.

“Do you make light of all hardship, Prince of Mirkwood?”

Legolas turned to face him. His expression did not shift. Stillness, not arrogance. Calm, not coldness.

“No,” he said. “But I find it easier to endure than hatred.”

A pause. Elrohir’s gaze flickered, just for a breath. Something in that answer struck true.

His jaw tightened. The fire in his eyes dulled, not extinguished, but smothered by something more conflicted.

Elladan’s eyes, ever sharp, flicked between the two. He saw the tension in his brother’s stance. He saw the way Elrohir lingered on Legolas’s face, too long. And he saw the stillness in Legolas that was not aloofness, but resolve.

Something had passed between them. Not warmth. But recognition. Like two flints sparking in the dark.

Elrond, silent all this while, studied the prince with the focus of a blade drawn but not yet swung. He said nothing, until at last, the silence cracked.

“You will stay confined until proper word is exchanged. Perhaps then your father can explain what lesson you were meant to be learning by wandering beyond your station.”

“I understand,” Legolas said, soft and steady.

“You do not protest?” Elrond asked, brow rising.

“What would that serve?” Legolas replied gently. “You hold the authority here. I will wait. And I will speak the truth.”

There was no pride in his voice. Only clarity.

Erestor’s brow twitched, thoughtful. Glorfindel watched in silence, arms crossed. He said nothing, but he missed nothing.

Elrond turned away.

“Double the guard,” Elrond said, tone glacial. “He is not to leave without direct command. Let him sing, if he finds comfort in it. The stone won’t flatter him, and neither shall I.”

The lords and guards began to file out.

All except Elladan. He lingered at the low table, resealing the jar with practiced care. He stood, brushing his hands clean, first on a cloth, then his tunic, though no stain remained.

His eyes did not meet Legolas’s. Not from shame. But from something quieter. More tangled.

He said nothing. Then turned and left.

Leaving Legolas alone once more.

He moved to the cot for the first time and sat. The blanket, thin and worn, wrapped loosely around his shoulders. One leg curled beneath him, the other drawn to his chest.

The salve dulled the ache in his skin. But comfort still eluded him.

His body hurt less. But his thoughts did not.

He turned his face to the window. Outside, the morning had grown long. Sunlight stretched thin across the floor.

And Legolas watched it, quietly, and let memory carry him away.

The night before he left, Mirkwood had been unseasonably warm, an early gift of spring. The trees whispered above in contentment, their leaves rustling like soft laughter. Lanterns hung high between the great columns of the Woodland Realm, casting golden light on polished stone and walls grown from ancient wood. Shadows swayed gently across the vaulted ceilings.

His chamber had smelled of pine oil and jasmine.

He had just begun to pack when the door opened without warning.

“You will forget your bowstring at this rate,” came the wry voice of his father.

Legolas turned with a grin forming. “I was testing how long I could pack before you interrupted. You lasted longer than I expected.”

Thranduil stood in the doorway, not robed in court finery or crowned in silver, but dressed simply in twilight-blue, his hair pulled into a loose braid over one shoulder. The sharp regality he wore before the court was softened here, though never completely gone.

His expression was unreadable at first, calm, poised, but there was a glint in his eye that gave him away. Something quiet and fond.

“What fool believes I would not interrupt the night before my son vanishes into the world for the first time alone?” he said, stepping inside.

“A confident one,” Legolas replied, reaching for a folded tunic.

Thranduil plucked it from his hands with a graceful flick and dropped it back into the trunk with faint, regal disapproval.

“And one who folds as if trained by birds.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“Obviously,” Thranduil murmured, brushing a wayward strand of hair from Legolas’s face. “If I don’t tease you now, I might be tempted to do something far less dignified. Like weep.”

Legolas laughed. “You already did when I first held a dagger.”

“That was different,” Thranduil said smoothly. “You could barely hold it upright without toppling over.”

“And now I can’t fold tunics. Clearly, I’ve made great strides.”

Thranduil moved behind him without comment, deftly tugging the tie from his hair. Golden strands spilled over Legolas’s shoulders like poured light. He let the silence linger just long enough to be dramatic, then gave a light, deliberate tug to a small braid near the base of his skull.

Legolas yelped softly. “Ow.”

“Ah,” Thranduil said, feigning surprise. “So the wildling does feel pain.”

“That was uncalled for,” Legolas muttered, rubbing the spot.

“So is leaving home with a braid like an unpruned hedge,” his father replied, entirely unrepentant.

“Adar,” Legolas sighed, rubbing the sore spot. “You’re going to redo it, aren’t you?”

Thranduil made a show of examining the unruly strands. “If you insist on looking like you wrestled a briar bush, then yes. Sit—before I start trimming instead of braiding.”

Legolas obeyed with exaggerated dramatics, settling cross-legged before the fire as if no years had passed.

Thranduil knelt behind him. His hands, elegant and precise, began their work, untangling, smoothing, never pulling. Not once.

“You used to do this when I was small,” Legolas said, voice quiet.

“You are still small,” came the unbothered reply. “Especially when you argue.”

Legolas tilted his head, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “I’m nearly your height.”

Thranduil gave a thoughtful hum. “Mmm. If you stand very straight. And the light is behind you. And you're on a slope.”

Legolas rolled his eyes. “Or if you stop wearing those absurdly tall crowns.”

Thranduil arched a brow, deadpan. “Jealousy is unbecoming.”

A soft scoff. “You’re impossible.”

“And you groom yourself like a squirrel after a thunderstorm.” A pause, perfectly timed. “Clearly, I’ve failed you.”

Legolas muttered something in Silvan that sounded suspiciously like “vain oak,” and though Thranduil said nothing, the corner of his mouth twitched—just once. Barely a smile, but close enough to count.

The braid formed slowly beneath his hands. Each motion was careful, elegant, steeped in something older than habit.

As he worked, Thranduil began to hum, quietly, absently. A lullaby born before language. One Legolas hadn’t heard in years.

The world saw his father as distant, aloof, even cruel. But Legolas knew another truth. His father was mischief, and music, and honey-sweet fruit stolen from the kitchens in the middle of the night.

“I will be careful,” Legolas said softly.

The braid paused.

“I expect nothing less,” Thranduil replied.

“You’re worried.”

“I am a father,” he said simply.

Legolas reached up and placed a hand on his wrist, gentle, grounding.

“I’ll come back.”

Thranduil said nothing at first. Then, slowly, he leaned forward and turned his son’s face toward him, thumb brushing lightly along the curve of his cheek.

His gaze lingered, sharp and quiet.

“You wear that smile like a weapon,” he murmured. “The same one your mother used the night she tricked me into dancing beneath moonlight.”

Legolas huffed a laugh, surprised. “She tricked you?”

“She lured me,” he said dryly, eyes narrowing in memory. “With that exact expression. I knew I was being hunted. I let it happen anyway.”

Legolas’s laughter brightened.

Thranduil’s mouth curved, not into a smile, not quite. But there was warmth in his eyes, clear and unmistakable.

“It suits you,” he said at last. “Though I warn you, it’s dangerous.”

“For whom?”

“For any fool who dares look too long.”

He said it lightly. But his fingers lingered a heartbeat longer than necessary.

Then, with no further word, Thranduil leaned in and pressed a kiss to his son’s brow, cool, deliberate, and precise. Not hesitant. Not indulgent. It was the kind of gesture he gave rarely, and never without purpose.

His hand lingered, steady at the side of Legolas’s face, before their foreheads met in silence.

The world beyond the chamber slipped away. For a breath, there was only the hush of firelight and the scent of spring rain waiting at the windows.

“Return to me,” Thranduil whispered, voice barely audible. “Whole.”

His thumb brushed once across Legolas’s temple, not trembling, not faltering, but with a care honed by centuries of loss he would not name aloud.

“I promise,” Legolas breathed.

Thranduil’s eyes closed briefly, and when they opened again, they were sharp once more. Watchful. But not cold.

His forehead remained pressed to his son’s just a moment longer, long enough to hold the vow in place, as if anchoring it to flesh and bone.

And then he straightened, not swiftly, but with the grace of someone who had done this too many times, watching those he loved walk into a world that did not always give them back.

The stone chamber of Imladris returned to him like cold wind through a broken canopy.

Legolas let out a slow breath and pressed his hand lightly to his chest.

He had made a promise.

Now he sat, wounded, watched, and locked behind a door that bore no warmth. Guards stood outside. Within, silence pressed close, heavy with judgment and doubt. They called him spy. Stranger. Threat.

And far to the east, his father would know something had gone wrong.

Not because of insult. Not because of wounded pride.

But because his father had trusted him to return whole.

And he had not.

Not entirely.

He could see it in his mind’s eye: the long, echoing halls of the Woodland Realm lit by flickering torches, and his father, pacing, slow and silent, hands folded behind his back. Each step measured, each breath drawn through clenched teeth.

Or worse—standing at the forest’s edge, still as stone, eyes fixed on the horizon, waiting for word that refused to come.

Legolas missed him.

Not the king. Not the crown. But the father who braided his hair without scolding the tangles. The one who hummed to fill silences that were too long. The one who masked fear in teasing, because he refused to let grief rule him again.

Legolas bowed his head.

“I am trying,” he said softly. “I am still whole.”

His voice did not break. But it wavered.

The chamber offered no reply. Only wind through high windows, cool and distant.

Still, he did not move from the window. He watched the day bleed into night, stars emerging one by one like old friends who had forgotten his name.

They offered no comfort.

But he did not look away.

He would endure. He would return. He had promised.

Chapter Text

The council chamber of Imladris was unusually still.

Sunlight filtered through tall, arched windows in golden beams, catching motes of dust in the air like drifting stardust. The long stone table held no scrolls, no goblets, no maps, only the weight of silence, and the quiet unease that had grown heavier with each passing day.

It had been several days since they had confined the woodland prince.

Lord Elrond stood at the head of the room, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze turned outward to the mist-veiled valley below. His posture was formal as ever, but the furrow in his brow betrayed the unrest within. Stillness did not always mean serenity.

To his right, Glorfindel and Erestor sat in low conversation, their tones hushed, their expressions shadowed by concern. On the opposite side, Elladan leaned against a carved column, arms crossed, a deep frown etched between his brows. Elrohir slouched in a chair further down the table, one boot tapping out a steady, irritable rhythm against the leg. Lindir sat quietly at the far end, his fingers absently tracing looping patterns across an unmarked sheet of parchment.

The silence stretched.

At last, Erestor’s voice broke through.

“He has remained quiet.”

“Too quiet,” Elrohir added. “He doesn’t protest. Doesn’t demand release. Doesn’t even flinch. He just...sits. Like some woodland statue.”

“He sings,” Lindir said softly, still not looking up. “The guards hear it. Silvan melodies. Simple ones. The birds answer him.”

That drew a glance from Glorfindel, contemplative. Elrond turned from the window at last and stepped forward.

“He is young,” Elrond said. “But not a child. Four centuries is no small age.”

“Too young to be sent out alone,” Elladan muttered. “And yet not unskilled. He moved like mist through the trees. We didn’t hear him until he was there.”

“And yet he claims innocence,” Erestor said, voice low. “That he meant no harm. That he was merely walking.”

“He claims a great many things,” Elrohir said flatly, voice dulled by exhaustion and resentment.

Glorfindel’s gaze shifted to him, calm but edged beneath the golden fall of his hair. “You do not believe him?”

Elrohir leaned forward, elbows braced on the table. The tapping of his boot ceased. Stillness settled in its place.

“I believe what I saw,” he said. “He crept up on armed warriors without a sound. No seal. No herald. No banner. Not even a cloak that marked his house. Just him, alone, slipping between branches like a shadow.”

He paused, eyes dark.

“If he’d been anyone else, any man, or elf unknown, we’d have drawn steel first and asked after.”

“But he’s not anyone else,” Glorfindel said quietly, the words gentle, but not without weight. “He’s Thranduil’s son.”

Elrohir’s jaw clenched at the name. His lip curled, not quite in a sneer, but near enough.

“Exactly,” he said. “And how does someone like that come from him ?”

The room stilled. Heads turned. Even Elrond’s gaze sharpened, quiet and unreadable.

Elrohir shifted, visibly agitated. His hands opened in a vague, frustrated gesture. “He is…”

His voice caught, the sentence withering on his tongue.

“Fair,” Lindir offered delicately, though the word hovered like uncertain mist.

Elrohir scoffed, but it lacked venom. “More than fair. He’s...beautiful.”

The moment the word escaped, he winced, as if startled by the sound of it aloud. He dragged a hand through his hair, then rubbed the back of his neck with sharp agitation.

“I mean, it’s not just that,” he muttered. “Hair like burnished gold, eyes clear as the Sea, skin like carved marble. Even when he was bloodied and bruised, he didn’t look broken. Just…”

He hesitated. Shoulders drew taut.

“Untouched. Like the world never dared lay hands on him.”

A beat passed. Too long.

He shifted again, tone hardening. “It’s unsettling.”

“He doesn’t belong to that forest,” he said. “Mirkwood is a tomb, rotting, silent. It should have turned him hard. Cold. Vicious. Like it did Thranduil.”

“But it didn’t,” Glorfindel murmured, gaze distant.

“No,” Elrohir said, too quickly. “He’s soft-spoken. Still. Like he doesn’t know he should be angry.”

“Or he does,” Erestor said quietly, “and he’s learned to carry it with more grace than the rest of us.”

Elrohir looked away.

“Strange,” Glorfindel said. “For a prince raised behind spider-haunted trees and barricaded gates.”

“Or different,” Erestor replied. “And difference unsettles us.”

Elrond stepped forward then, bracing his hands against the edge of the table. His voice came low, deliberate, like frost settling over still water.

“You have always had an eye for what is beautiful, my son,” he said mildly. “And he is...very fair. Even for one of our kind.”

Then, coldly:

“Thranduil is famed across Middle-earth for his beauty, vain and proud as he is. It is the first thing spoken of him in every hall and court. A king carved in moonlight, they say, though I have always thought it a sheen meant to hide the rot beneath.”

He glanced toward the window again, as if the memory of Thranduil soured the air.

“And the Silvan maiden he took to wife. She was no court-trained lady of the West. No Sindarin noble. But she had a wild, haunting grace. Ethereal. Untamed. Something in her that silenced even the boldest tongues.”

He paused.

“It’s no wonder their son inherited such striking features. All golden hair and limpid eyes, delicate as a painting. And he wears that face like a mask. One that invites rescue. One that tempts pity.”

A scoff, faint but sharp. “But masks are made to deceive. And beauty can be sharper than any blade.”

He turned then, gaze falling on Elrohir.

“Even I see it,” he said. “A face sculpted to tempt songs from minstrels and silence from cynics. Too fine-boned for war. Too lovely for his own good. The kind of beauty that makes fools of wiser men.”

His voice fell quieter.

“I wonder, Elrohir. Was it his sorrow that moved you, or the curve of his mouth?”

Elrohir met his father’s gaze for a heartbeat, then looked away. His fingers tapped once against the chair before curling into a fist.

“I wouldn’t touch him with the sole of my boots,” he muttered, brittle as snapped glass.

Elladan raised a brow. “You did,” he said mildly, “when you kicked him awake.”

A beat. Then a soft snort from Lindir. Even Erestor’s mouth twitched.

Elrohir groaned and slumped in his chair, flinging one arm dramatically over the backrest like a shield against the room.

“That was different,” he grumbled.

“Was it?” Elladan asked, voice light, a crooked smirk rising. “Strange way to express indifference, kicking someone awake and then staring at him like he was a fallen star.”

A few stifled chuckles followed. Even Erestor looked as though he was suppressing a smile.

The laughter faded, though a trace of amusement still lingered in the corners of Elladan’s mouth.

“And in the meantime?” Elladan asked, voice quieter now.

“He remains confined,” Elrond replied. “Guarded. Watched. But not harmed.”

Elrohir folded his arms, his voice low. “That chamber has a cot barely wide enough for a healer’s hound. He’s bruised, sore, and cold. Can he not be given at least a proper bed?”

Elrond said nothing.

“He has caused no harm,” Elrohir went on. “No resistance. No lies. Yet we keep him like a prisoner and pretend it’s justice.”

Still, Elrond remained quiet, his eyes fixed on the table.

Elrohir’s voice dropped further. “Unless it’s not about justice. Unless it’s just your pride.”

Elrond did not look at him at first. He studied the grain of the table beneath his fingertips, as though it held more interest than the conversation. But then, slowly, his gaze lifted.

It was sharp. Unreadable.

“If you’re so concerned,” he said, voice cool, “would you prefer he share yours?”

The words struck with precise cruelty.

“I’m sure your bed is very warm. Welcoming, even. No doubt the prince would find it...comforting.”

The room went still again.

Even the air seemed to tighten.

Elladan’s brow furrowed, his half-smile dying on his lips. Lindir looked away, the corners of his mouth flattening. Erestor’s quill stilled mid-motion, though he said nothing.

From near the window, Glorfindel shifted his weight. He had said little throughout, his golden hair catching the light like a banner left to ripple in silence. But now, his gaze flicked toward Elrond, piercing, unreadable.

Elrohir’s expression turned to stone.

“That was not funny,” he said, his voice dark, low.

Elrond’s mouth twitched, something near a smile, but brittle. Humorless.

“No,” he said quietly. “I imagine it wasn’t.”

Elrohir’s jaw tightened. “If this is about who I spend my nights with, then perhaps you should keep to what’s yours. My bed has never been your concern.”

Elrond’s eyes lifted, sharp and gleaming like steel just before the strike. The pause that followed was colder than silence.

“I’ve long ceased counting the names you never bothered to learn,” Elrond said, his voice cold and precise. “You wear desire like armor, collect warmth like trophies, only to cast them aside before morning light. You treat affection as if it were beneath you, and still you think I would not notice.”

His voice curled lower.

“You’ve never been discreet, and I never asked you to be. You and your siblings are free to take whomever you like to your beds.”

A pause. The quiet held.

“But this,” Elrond said, voice dropping like frost, “this is different.”

His gaze sharpened.

“Your interest in him has not escaped me. And it will go no further.”

Elrohir said nothing, stone-faced, eyes dim. But it was Elladan who moved.

He pushed off the column with a soft scoff and crossed the room slowly, arms still folded. His gaze was on the floor at first, but then lifted to meet his father’s with something almost amused, though the edge beneath it was unmistakable.

“Trust you to wield words like a scalpel,” Elladan said dryly.

Elrond didn’t reply.

Elladan stopped beside Elrohir and looked between them, voice quiet. “He’s not taken Legolas to bed. Not even close. And even if he had, that isn’t what this is about. Not really.”

He tilted his head slightly. “You’re angry because Elrohir’s begun to care . That’s the difference, isn’t it?”

Elrond’s jaw tensed.

“We were all harsh with him,” Elladan continued, tone now dry. “At the border, in the clearing. He startled us, and we acted like he was a threat. I told him not to move, even though he was bleeding. Elrohir kicked him awake. I mocked his silence.”

A faint crease touched his brow.

“And still, he hasn’t once raised his voice. Not once accused us. Not once spoken a word of bitterness. And you hate him for that too, don’t you?”

Elrond's eyes narrowed, but Elladan pressed on.

“You hate that he's not what you expected. That he’s not like Thranduil. That he’s kind.”

He looked at his brother now, voice softening.

“And you, you're not very good at being kind, brother. Not when it’s real.”

Elrohir looked away, jaw locked.

Elladan sighed and turned back to their father. “Let him have a better bed, at least. Let him breathe. He’s not our enemy. And he's certainly not yours.”

He hesitated, then added, in that same level tone:

“Unless your quarrel is not with the prince at all, but with the ghost of a king you still haven’t forgiven.”

Elrond’s eyes flicked to his eldest, measured, thoughtful, too perceptive by half.

“You’ve always been the level-headed one,” he said quietly. “Clear-eyed when your brother burns.”

A pause, almost fond.

“But wisdom does not excuse naïveté.”

He straightened, spine taut.

“I have not forgotten what Thranduil has withheld. What he has allowed to fester while others bled. That is not a ghost, Elladan. That is a living king who has made a mockery of alliances and shown disdain at every turn.”

His voice cooled further.

“And I will not bend out of sentiment for the face of his heir.”

He looked between them, gaze sharp.

“My answer remains the same.”

Silence settled like frost.

No one moved.

Across the room, Glorfindel’s gaze drifted once more toward the window. Erestor returned to his ledger without comment, though his pen hovered above the parchment, unmoving. Lindir shifted but said nothing.

Elrohir exhaled through his nose, sharp and quiet, as if to bite back whatever might have followed. Elladan held Elrond’s gaze a moment longer, steady, unreadable, then gave the smallest of nods.

“Then there’s nothing more to say,” he said softly.

Elrond said nothing.

The sunlight had shifted by inches, casting long shadows across the table. Somewhere beyond the stone walls, a bird sang. A Silvan melody, soft and simple.

No one answered it.

One by one, they stood, chairs scraping against marble in quiet surrender. Elrond remained where he was, unmoved, gaze fixed again on the valley below.

And in the silence that followed, the weight of things unsaid hung heavier than any decree.

The halls of Imladris were quiet in the amber hush of evening. Shadows stretched long beneath carved arches, banners stirring in unseen drafts like breath through the lungs of the stone.

Elladan and Elrohir walked in step, boots echoing down the marbled corridor with measured precision. Their robes had been exchanged for lighter tunics, but duty still clung to their shoulders like weight.

It had been days since either of them had seen the prince.

“What do you expect to find?” Elladan asked, his tone unreadable.

Elrohir shrugged, arms folded loosely. “He’s still our guest.”

Elladan raised a brow. “That’s not what Father calls him.”

“No,” Elrohir muttered. “But Father isn’t here.”

A beat.

“Curiosity, then?”

Elrohir didn’t answer at first. His jaw worked silently, eyes fixed ahead.

“Curiosity,” he said finally. “And responsibility.”

Elladan hummed. “How noble. I was beginning to worry.”

Elrohir rolled his eyes. “Save your concern. I’m just checking that he hasn’t starved to death.”

“Compassion from you, dear brother?”

“Don’t mistake irritation for pity.”

They turned down a quieter wing of the house, the light thinner here, filtered through high windows where ivy coiled like delicate fingers across stone. Elladan glanced sidelong, a smile curling.

“Or is it that he’s very fair?”

Elrohir stiffened. “Don’t.”

“Golden hair. Eyes like sunlit water. And that mouth, ”

“Elladan, ”

“Delicate enough to turn heads, regardless of who’s looking,” Elladan finished, thoroughly enjoying himself. “You’ve always had a fondness for the overly lovely.”

“I am not interested in Thranduil’s little spider prince,” Elrohir snapped. The heat in his voice betrayed more than denial.

“No, of course not,” Elladan said blandly. “Just inspecting the furnishings.”

They rounded a corner and stopped short at the sight of a young servant girl bearing a tray. A shallow cup of watered wine. The portions were small, the bread hard at the edges, and the soup little more than cloudy broth with a few stray leaves of bitter greens.

She startled at the sight of the twins and dipped her head quickly, gaze fixed on the floor.

“That’s for the prisoner?” Elrohir asked, gesturing to the tray.

“Y-yes, my lords,” she stammered.

“We’ll take it from here,” he said, already reaching to relieve her of the burden.

“But, I was told, ”

“You were told wrong,” Elladan interrupted with a sharp edge. “Go.”

She bowed quickly and fled down the corridor, the hem of her robes fluttering behind her.

The twins stood in silence, looking down at the tray.

Elrohir sniffed the soup and scowled. “Barely warm.”

Elladan picked up the crust of bread, turning it over between his fingers with mild disdain. “Even the emissaries Father dislikes get better than this. This is punishment food. Something you’d give to a thief in the dungeons, not a prince.”

Elrohir’s expression darkened, but he said nothing.

They remained still for a moment, the tray resting like a quiet indictment between them.

They exchanged a glance.

And then walked toward the chamber.

As they approached the guarded chamber, the scent hit them first, not strong, but unmistakable. Sour. Neglected.

Just beyond the threshold, against the wall beside the prince’s door, lay a pile of crusted bread, spoiled fruit peels turned gray, and a dark, sticky smear of something long rotted. Flies buzzed lazily in the corners.

Elladan’s expression darkened.

“What is that?”

One of the guards straightened.

“Refuse, my lord.”

“Why is it here, outside his door?” Elladan asked, voice low and sharp.

The other guard hesitated.

“The servants were told not to disturb him directly. Some thought it best to leave the food here. We assumed he did not want it.”

“You assumed,” Elrohir said tightly. “So you’ve been letting the prince of Mirkwood starve under your watch?”

“We thought he was refusing it,” the first guard muttered. “He never called out. He never asked for anything.”

“Did anyone bother to check?” Elladan demanded.

Neither guard answered.

Elrohir didn’t wait. He shoved the door open with force, and the stale air of the room swept out to meet them.

Inside, the chamber was dim. The curtains were drawn, and the light from the stars that did filter through was pale and cold. The scent of disuse lingered, dust, sweat, neglect. The blanket on the cot had been kicked aside, twisted beneath a motionless form.

Legolas lay curled on his side, barely more than a silhouette in the gloom. His golden hair spilled over the pillow like spun sunlight, dulled by shadow. His skin was pale, too pale, and his cheekbones sharp beneath hollowed eyes. One arm dangled over the edge of the cot. His breathing was shallow and uneven.

Elrohir stepped forward slowly, setting the tray down on the small side table with a soft clatter. The noise stirred the prince.

Legolas blinked, dazed, and tried to sit up. He failed, collapsing back against the pillow with a soft grunt.

“Easy,” Elladan said, not kindly, but not with cruelty either.

Legolas stared at them in confusion, lips cracked, breath shallow. He said nothing.

Elrohir frowned.

“When was the last time someone fed him?”

“He’s been lying here, starving,” Elladan muttered, approaching with swift steps.

“You could have called for help,” Elrohir said, his tone clipped, almost accusing. “Even wounded birds cry out.”

Legolas's lips were cracked, his throat parched, but he still met Elrohir’s gaze. His voice came low, frayed at the edges, but steady in its restraint.

“I have learned,” he murmured, “that in some forests, making noise only draws predators.”

Elrohir’s brows drew together. “Fool.”

Elladan poured the watered wine into a cup and stepped toward the cot. Legolas’s eyes followed the movement, not desperate, but alert with the quiet hunger of someone long denied. When the cup was offered, he took it with fingers that trembled despite his effort to steady them.

He did not snatch it, nor drink greedily, but raised it with slow reverence, like a rite, not a relief. Only when the rim touched his lips did the restraint falter, and he drank with deep, aching gulps, as though each swallow pulled him back from some unseen edge. The liquid spilled down his chin, unnoticed, soaking the collar of his tunic. But he did not stop.

Only when the cup was near drained did he lower it, breath shuddering, lashes falling heavy over sunken eyes.

“Legolas,” Elrohir said, stepping forward again. He gripped his shoulder and gave a firm shake. “Stay awake.”

“Mmm?” Legolas stirred, eyes fluttering open.

“You truly thought it better to say nothing?” Elladan asked, watching him closely.

“You already think me a nuisance,” Legolas murmured. “More reason to be still.”

Elrohir’s jaw tightened.

“You’re still a fool.”

Legolas gave a faint smile, eyes unfocused.

“Perhaps.”

They stood in silence for a long moment, the room heavy with unspoken things.

Legolas’ eyes were drifting closed again, lashes brushing pale cheeks, his breath soft and fading.

Elladan stepped closer, gave a light, curt tap to his cheek with the back of the spoon. “You must stay awake,” he said sharply. “This isn’t the time for theatrics.”

He stirred the thin soup again, the watery broth sloshing inside the chipped bowl. It smelled of weak herbs and overboiled grains, barely enough to warm a child. He held it out. “Eat. You won’t die in our hall just to prove a point.”

Legolas blinked, groggy, forcing himself upright with visible effort. He reached for the spoon with trembling fingers and managed two unsteady bites. On the third, his grip faltered, metal clattered against ceramic, the broth splashing over the rim and soaking the cuff of his sleeve.

Elladan’s sigh cut the air, sharp and tight. “Valar,” he muttered. He took the spoon from Legolas’s hand, not unkindly, but without ceremony. “Prince of Mirkwood, brought low by soup,” he said, voice cool with something between mockery and disbelief. “How the mighty crawl.”

At the foot of the bed, Elrohir scoffed, arms folded tightly. His tone came quiet, edged. “Do you think your father would approve of this, little prince?” he asked. “Fed like a child by the sons of Elrond? That would make for a fine alliance, humiliation served with broth.”

Elladan dipped the spoon again, holding it out. “Shall we kneel, brother?” he added, voice dry. “Would that make it easier to swallow?”

“Please don’t,” Elrohir replied flatly. “We might give the impression we care.”

Legolas, though pale and sunken-eyed, lifted his chin faintly. His voice, when it came, was hoarse but clear, brushed with dry humor.

“If I had known the sons of Elrond were such attentive healers,” he murmured, “I might have arranged to collapse sooner.”

Elrohir’s brow lifted, a slant of surprise flickering through his guarded expression. “Say another sweet word and I’ll have to start bringing flowers with the broth.”

From beside the cot, Elladan paused.

His gaze shifted, not to the spoon, nor the bowl, but to the way Elrohir leaned in just slightly, how the sharp line of his mouth had softened without him realizing. Then to the prince, whose eyes, despite the weariness, held a quiet flame that refused to dim.

Elladan tilted his head. Just a little.

He said nothing, only watched, the corners of his mouth twitching faintly. Not quite a smile. Not yet.

But he saw it. Whatever it was.

As Elladan turned to set the bowl aside, Legolas shifted slightly on the cot. His voice, though faint, was steadier than before, quiet, sincere.

“Thank you,” he said.

Not with desperation. Not with trembling humility. But with the calm grace of a prince raised behind walls and whispers, who knew the worth of dignity even in the shadow of weakness.

Both twins looked up.

Elrohir’s brow furrowed, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Elladan stilled entirely, the moment hanging like breath between heartbeats.

There was no performance in Legolas’s tone. No clever barb. Just the truth, spoken plainly.

“I will remember this,” he added softly. “Truly.”

Elrohir shifted, uncomfortable beneath the weight of the words. His jaw worked once, then twice, as if he might say nothing.

Then, too sharp: “Save your breath. No one asked you to.”

The words fell like a stone between them, too harsh, too quick.

Elladan shot him a look, more startled than angry, but Legolas merely blinked, gaze unreadable. If he took offense, he did not show it.

And that, somehow, made it worse.

Elrohir looked away. He did not speak again.

Chapter Text

The chamber was still again.

The door had closed behind them with a soft click, and quiet rushed in to fill its place. Legolas lay on his side, the thin blanket pulled halfway up his chest, the empty bowl resting near the edge of the small table they had dragged closer. His body was sore, too sore for someone his age, and the weight of warmth in his stomach felt foreign, unsettling. A strange kind of ache. A reminder that he had gone too long without.

The cot creaked beneath him as he shifted, one hand curling loosely under his cheek. He blinked slowly, gaze resting on the distant corner of the room where morning light filtered through high, barred windows. Thin and pale. Like everything else here.

He had stopped counting the days. The passage of time had blurred into routine: wake, sing, wait, silence. The guards had not spoken. The food had stopped. He had thought perhaps that was his punishment, not pain, but neglect. A slow forgetting.

He had not expected them to come.

Not Elrohir, with his hard stare and clipped words. Not Elladan, sharp-tongued but watchful. They had mocked him, yes, but they had stayed. And Elrohir had steadied the bowl.

He exhaled through his nose. A quiet sound.

Their presence lingered in the room like a warmth that refused to leave. The scent of broth. The press of the spoon against his lips. Elrohir’s fingers brushing the side of the bowl with just a breath too much care. The flicker in his expression, irritation, confusion, something else.

He had seen it before.

That flicker of guilt that came when kindness followed cruelty.

He did not want it.

And yet…

A part of him, starved in more ways than one, clung to it.

Legolas shifted again, turning slowly onto his back, the cot narrow and uneven beneath him. His wrists ached. His shoulder throbbed. But worse than the pain was the silence that had followed after they left. The quiet was colder now.

He tilted his head, gazing toward the door as if expecting them to return.

But of course, they wouldn’t.

He was not their equal. Not truly. Not here.

Still, he had not cried. Not when the food stopped. Not when he woke shivering with hunger. Not even when he sang to no one but birds who could not answer.

He would not weep now.

But his hand, resting across his stomach, curled slightly.

And though his eyes remained dry, the breath he drew was slow. Measured. As if he were bracing against something larger than pain.

The door remained closed.

But the bowl was empty. The cot still warm.

The silence pressed in again.

Legolas's eyes grew heavy, lashes fluttering against pale cheeks. The warmth from the food, meager though it was, settled low in his stomach like a hearth fire just barely lit. His limbs ached, his thoughts were slow, and sleep, long denied, slipped in like mist curling beneath the door.

He did not fight it.

His breath steadied. The cot groaned faintly as he turned his face toward the wall.

And the cold stone faded.

Rain tapped gently against the tall windows, softened by the branches outside. The room smelled of pine, damp moss, and the herbal salve the healers always insisted on. Golden light slanted across the carved beams above, his ceiling. His room.

Legolas stirred, breath catching on the ache in his ribs. His bandaged arm felt stiff. His head throbbed with dull pressure. But the fever was lower now, and the haze had begun to lift.

He blinked, then blinked again.

His father sat beside the bed.

Still in formal robes, though his crown had been set aside. His long mantle had slipped off one shoulder, the fabric wrinkled from sleep. One hand rested lightly on the edge of the mattress, the other folded in his lap. He had dozed, though his posture remained impossibly straight, even in rest. The faintest crease lingered between his brows.

Legolas watched him for a moment. Then, quietly, slowly, he lifted his unbandaged hand and traced a line down his father’s face.

Thranduil’s eyes opened at once.

There was no alarm in them, only a calm awareness, sharp and immediate. His gaze flicked to Legolas, scanning him, taking in the color in his cheeks, the lucidity in his eyes. Then he spoke, voice soft but dry:

“That is not how one wakes a king.”

Legolas gave a faint smile. “It worked, didn’t it?”

A pause. Then, delicately: “You have creases.”

Thranduil arched a brow. “Do you think you’re old enough to mock me?”

“I’ve earned the right,” Legolas murmured, settling back into the pillows. “Three arrow wounds and a blade to the ribs buys me at least one jest.”

A flicker passed across Thranduil’s face, too fast for most to catch. But Legolas knew him well. The silence that followed was heavier than it should’ve been.

“You heard?” Legolas asked, quieter now.

“I did,” Thranduil said softly. “Feren’s hawk reached me before you’d even finished bleeding.”

Legolas shifted slightly. “And you…?”

“I left council mid-sentence,” Thranduil replied. “They’re still probably arguing over the same line of trade agreements. Tragic, really.”

Despite himself, Legolas huffed a weak breath of amusement.

Thranduil’s tone turned drier. “I was in your chambers before the healers even had time to misalign your bandages.”

Legolas glanced at him, faintly smiling. “I’m all right.”

“You say that,” Thranduil said evenly, “as if that’s ever stopped me from worrying. Or from lecturing you. Both of which, I’m afraid, you’ve earned.”

Thranduil’s eyes lingered on him a beat longer before he finally spoke, voice low and measured.

“You were reckless.”

Legolas closed his eyes briefly. “I made the call I thought best.”

“A poor call,” Thranduil said flatly. “You charged ahead, separated from your patrol, pursued an enemy across uncertain terrain, alone.”

“I had the higher ground,” Legolas offered, not quite contrite.

“You had a blade through your side.”

Legolas exhaled through his nose, wincing faintly as he shifted. “I didn’t plan to be skewered, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“No one ever does,” Thranduil replied. “That is why they listen to orders. To caution. To their commanders. You are not invincible, Legolas.”

The use of his name, not a nickname, not ‘ion-nín’, was quiet, but carried weight.

A pause stretched. Then Legolas opened one eye, voice laced with dry amusement. “Your bedside manner is terrible.”

Thranduil looked at him sidelong. “You’re welcome to write your grievances in a letter. I’m sure your next impalement will give you the time.”

Legolas smirked faintly. “Tell me, do your lovers stay for your face, or endure your lectures out of pity?”

Thranduil gave a long-suffering sigh. “They come for the face, stay for the wine, and flee once I start quoting treaties.”

Legolas chuckled, winced, and let his head sink deeper into the pillow. “And yet here I am, no wine, no treaties, and still listening.”

Thranduil leaned back with dry elegance. “You, my nettle-sprite, are the only one foolish enough to think you have a choice.”

Legolas closed his eyes, lips tugging into a tired grin. “Which explains why I’m concussed.”

Thranduil gave him a long look, dry, regal, and unamused. “There was a time my life was quiet,” he said at last. “Before you learned to walk.”

Legolas gave a soft, sleepy laugh, more breath than sound. “Should’ve left me in the trees.”

“I considered it,” Thranduil replied dryly. “But your mother was rather attached.”

Legolas hummed faintly, eyes drifting closed again, a small smile still curling his lips.

The silence that followed was softer this time. The tension in Thranduil’s shoulders had eased, though his fingers still rested near Legolas’s arm, as if ensuring he remained real, tangible, present.

“You terrify me when you forget your own limits,” Thranduil said softly, less a rebuke, more a quiet truth.

Legolas turned toward him, his expression gentler now. “I didn’t mean to.”

“You are not just a prince,” Thranduil continued, his gaze unwavering. “You are my son. And one day, you will carry what I now bear. I will not see that light extinguished because you mistook recklessness for courage.”

A hush settled between them, not cold, but heavy with meaning.

Legolas exhaled, his voice softer still. “I wasn’t trying to prove anything.”

“Then remember that,” Thranduil said. “Not all strength lies in the charge. Sometimes it lies in the pause.”

There was no sharpness in his tone, only the worn edge of fear, and the unmistakable weight of love.

Legolas’s eyes drifted closed again, the warmth of the fire and his father’s presence lulling him back toward sleep.

“You’ll stay?” Legolas murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, already thick with sleep.

Thranduil leaned back slightly, arms folding across his chest. “I always do.”

A pause. Then, dryly:

“And someone must be here to correct your poor judgment.”

Legolas gave a faint huff of laughter, the sound threading into a sigh. Slowly, without opening his eyes, his hand reached across the blanket, fingers brushing until they found Thranduil’s.

He laced their hands together, his grip feather-light.

Thranduil didn’t move. But his fingers curled gently around his son’s, steady and sure.

A moment later, Legolas felt the brush of cool, callused fingers at his brow, a touch that steadied more than fever.

The fire crackled low. Rain tapped gently at the windowpanes.

And Thranduil remained, silent and still, a sentinel by his son’s side, offering no promise aloud, but making it all the same.

He woke with a breath caught in his throat.

The light in the chamber was different, cooler, dimmer, and there was no sound of rain. Only the hush of stone, the faint stir of a distant breeze through narrow windows.

Legolas blinked slowly. The ache in his ribs had not left him, nor the stiffness in his limbs. But it was the emptiness beside him that struck harder.

His hand, half-curled against the cot’s edge, found only linen. No steady presence. No familiar weight. No scent of pine and old velvet, of parchment and leather and forest wind.

He stared at the ceiling, vision blurred by sleep and something else he would not name. The carvings were foreign. The wood was not his.

It had only been a dream.

He drew in a breath, quiet and unsteady. His chest rose, then fell, too shallow to soothe the ache.

He had not seen his father in weeks. He had not heard his voice since that parting at the gates. And now, in this cold room, his body sore and his dignity worn thin, he felt, just for a moment, like a child again.

Like the boy who once reached for his father’s hand beneath council tables. Who had run through the Greenwood laughing, sure that no danger would touch him so long as his father was near.

Now he was far from home. From the forest. From the hands that steadied and the voice that rarely softened, but when it did, quieted all else.

Legolas turned his head toward the small window, eyes searching the sliver of sky beyond.

“I know,” he whispered to the dark. “I know I am not a child.”

But even knowing that, he still missed him.

He missed the lecture behind the concern. The dry humor hiding fierce love. The hands that never trembled, not even when brushing hair from a fevered brow.

He missed being seen.

And here, in these cold halls that had once promised sanctuary, he felt smaller than he ever had on the battlefield.

He closed his eyes again and let himself pretend, just for a moment longer, that when he opened them next, he would wake to his father seated beside him.

Watching. Waiting. Ready to scold.

And to stay.

The chamber was dim, lit only by the flicker of a hearth and the soft gleam of moonlight spilling through the tall windows. Shadows stretched long across the carved floor, brushing the feet of the three elves seated in silence.

Elrond had not moved from his place near the fire for some time. A ledger lay open on the table before him, but the ink had long since dried on his quill. His gaze had drifted, far beyond the page, beyond the firelight, as if searching through memory itself.

Erestor poured another cup of tea, but did not drink it.

“It is late,” Glorfindel said softly, his voice cutting gently into the quiet. “You should rest.”

Elrond’s lips curved faintly, though it was not a smile. “Should I? I cannot seem to find peace in it lately.”

Erestor watched him for a long moment. “There’s little peace left in this house at all, it seems.”

Elrond’s eyes lifted. “Say what you mean, Erestor.”

The advisor met his gaze without flinching. “You and Elrohir are at odds. And have been for years now.”

Elrond looked back at the fire.

Erestor continued, his tone even. “Even when he returns, there’s tension. Cold words. Distance. Elladan stays grounded, but Elrohir burns.”

“He does,” Elrond murmured.

Glorfindel leaned forward, his expression measured. “You once said he reminded you of yourself.”

Elrond gave a bitter laugh, brief and quiet. “In youth, perhaps. But not now.”

He fell silent again, the firelight tracing hard lines across his face. Then, as if pulled from within him:

“There are moments I look at him, and I do not know what I’m seeing.”

The words hung heavy in the chamber.

Erestor’s voice was softer now. “He grieves his mother still.”

“I know,” Elrond said. “But so do I. And yet, I do not try to drown it in orc blood and fury. I do not vanish into the wilds for weeks at a time, dragging his brother with him.”

“You lead differently,” Glorfindel said. “But you both carry pain.”

Elrond turned his face slightly, shadows sharpening at his jaw. “He has grown hard. Cynical. He’s no longer the son who used to sit in the gardens asking me the names of every star. He speaks to me now as if I am some distant magistrate, something to be endured, not loved.”

“He is still your son,” Erestor said.

“I know.” A pause. Then Elrond’s voice dropped, strained. “And that is what frightens me most.”

He looked toward the window, where moonlight silvered the glass.

“Lately,” Elrond said quietly, “I have seen something in him, something that burns through his restraint. That pride. That refusal to yield. That hunger to forge a path, no matter the cost.”

He paused. His gaze had drifted, unfocused, toward the flames.

Then, softer, like a truth he had not wanted to name:

“That…that is Elros.”

His voice caught slightly at the name, as though speaking it disturbed some wound that had never truly closed.

“Not in face. Not in voice. But in the way he defies the weight of blood and legacy, as if both are shackles to be broken.”

Another breath, heavier this time.

“And I watched Elros break them. I stood by as he chose a mortal crown and vanished into history. I knew his mind, once it was set, there was no turning him.”

His jaw clenched faintly.

“I see that now in Elrohir. And it frightens me.”

Neither Glorfindel nor Erestor interrupted. They sat still, listening, as Elrond continued, quietly, and for once without armor.

“I see it when Elrohir argues with me, furious, sharp-tongued, unafraid to wound. I see it when he looks at the world as if it has wronged him. When he speaks of fate as if it were a chain he must break. I see it when he rides into danger without telling anyone, without a thought for return. And I, ” Elrond faltered, voice roughening, “, I remember watching Elros stand like that. Speak like that. Love like that. Recklessly. Entirely.”

He bowed his head.

“And then he was gone.”

Glorfindel rose quietly and crossed to stand near the fire, his tone low. “Elros chose his path. And so too must your children when the time comes.”

“I know,” Elrond said again. “But with Elrohir,  it feels like I am already losing him. Slowly. And I, ” He stopped himself. Then, softer: “There is little of me he listens to now.”

Erestor’s voice was gentler than usual. “You still shape him, even if you do not see it.”

Elrond gave no reply.

The silence that followed was deep, but not empty. It was filled with the weight of old wounds, unspoken fears, and the quiet ache of a father mourning what was slipping away.

And then, footsteps.

Two pairs, fast, firm, unmistakable.

The council doors opened without ceremony.

Elladan stepped in first, jaw set, eyes blazing. “Father.”

Behind him, Elrohir followed, and there was fury in every line of his face.

Elrond looked up slowly from his seat, composure already sliding into place like armor. Glorfindel turned from the fire. Erestor remained seated, but his eyes sharpened with quiet concern.

Elrohir entered behind his brother, his steps brisk, his jaw tight. He didn’t bow. Didn’t greet them. His gaze locked on Elrond’s, and did not waver.

“There has been mistreatment,” he said, voice taut with fury.

Glorfindel straightened. “Of whom?”

“The prince,” Elladan answered. “Legolas.”

Erestor’s brow furrowed. Elrond’s expression barely shifted, but the silence that followed was stiff.

Elrohir stepped forward. “Your guest, your prisoner, has been left to starve.”

Glorfindel’s mouth thinned. “Explain.”

“The food left for him is barely more than scraps,” Elladan said sharply. “A cracked bowl of water, hardened bread, spoiled fruit. We found mold in the corridor. No one knocked. No one checked if he ate.”

“He’s been sick,” Elrohir added, his voice rising. “Weak. Barely able to sit up. He was lying on a cot with no sheets, no fire lit, trembling from hunger, and too damned polite to complain.”

Elrond’s eyes narrowed. “Why did he not say anything?”

“Because he’s not a fool,” Elrohir snapped. “Because he’s surrounded by people who glare at him like he’s some kind of curse. Because he knows no one here wants him.”

Erestor looked toward Elrond. “Is this true?”

“I had him confined for questioning,” Elrond said, tone even. “But I gave no order for him to be mistreated.”

“You gave no order to protect him either,” Elrohir bit out. “And your words, those cruel things you said, don’t think the servants didn’t hear them.”

“Watch your tone,” Elrond said coldly.

Elrohir stepped closer, voice low and shaking. “You called him a seducer. A threat. You accused him of using me.”

“I spoke from caution,” Elrond said. “He arrived with secrets and full of falsehoods.”

Elladan broke in, quieter but no less firm. “Be that as it may, what’s happening to him now is not caution. It’s cruelty. He didn’t eat for days. I had to feed him myself.”

A long silence stretched between them.

Erestor folded his arms. “What would you have us do?”

Elrohir answered, unflinching. “Start by treating him like a living being. A guest, an elf, not a ghost. Give him a proper bed. Food.”

Glorfindel added, “And guards who will not ‘forget’ to knock.”

Elrond looked at each of them, his jaw locked. He turned his gaze to Elrohir last, and lingered.

The room had stilled, but the tension did not ease.

Elrohir stood rooted, hands curled into fists at his sides, the firelight casting sharp shadows across his face. His gaze remained fixed on Elrond, unblinking, unmoved. Not a son before his father, but a challenger before his accuser.

Elrond’s eyes narrowed as he returned the stare. No words passed between them, yet something deeper, older, cracked along that silent line.

Elladan looked between them, the furrow in his brow deepening. “Elrohir,” he said softly, warning or plea, it was unclear.

But his twin didn’t move.

Elrond’s mouth tightened.

“Do what pleases you,” he said coldly, the edge of exhaustion undercutting his tone. “It seems you will anyway.”

He turned his gaze to Elladan instead.

“He will remain in the eastern chamber for now. However, I will ensure it is cleaned properly. Fresh linens, new bedding. A proper meal, brought by guards, not servants.”

Elladan gave a curt nod. “And clothing?”

Elrond’s eyes flared slightly, then cooled. “From the servants’ stores. He is not a guest. Not yet.”

He paused, voice flattening further. “And he may use the bathing chambers in the servants’ wing. Not the guest baths. Let him be clean, but not comfortable.”

Elrohir’s expression turned to ice.

But Elrond didn’t flinch. His tone was final. Cold. Measured.

“To the rest of this house, he is still Thranduil’s son. And I will not invite further resentment with indulgence.”

He looked up again, and this time his voice had a brittle quiet.

“Do not ask me to undo millennia of resentment in a night.”

Elrohir broke his silence at last, tone low and cutting. “No one asked you to undo the past. Only to not repeat it.”

Elrond’s jaw clenched.

Elladan exhaled. “We’ll see to him.”

And without waiting for dismissal, he turned and left.

Elrohir lingered a heartbeat longer, eyes still locked with his father’s.

Then, wordless, grim, he followed.

Behind them, the council chamber fell to stillness once more. And Elrond, Lord of Imladris, stood motionless before the hearth, shadows flickering across his face, trapped between the ghosts of kings and the fury of his son.

Chapter Text

The halls of the eastern wing were dim in the early light, the stone still holding the chill of night. Morning filtered in through narrow windows, thin shafts of gold casting long shadows across the flagged floors. Somewhere below, kitchen fires crackled to life. A distant door closed softly. The keep was waking, slow and silent.

And then, from the far end of the hall, came the sound of humming.

Soft. Low. Almost tentative. It rose and fell with no words, just melody, like a stream running over stone. It wasn’t joyous. It wasn’t mournful. It was haunting. Beautiful.

The twins paused.

Elrohir’s brow furrowed. “Is that...?”

“Legolas,” Elladan finished quietly.

The guard straightened as they approached.

“He’s awake,” the ellon offered. “But he hasn’t said much.”

Elrohir didn’t answer, only gestured for the door to be opened.

Inside, the air was still musty. The cot had a cleaner blanket now, and the water pitcher had been replaced, but the space remained sparse and cold. Legolas sat against the wall, knees loosely drawn to his chest. He was eating a peach, slowly, as if uncertain whether it was allowed.

He looked up when they entered. His face was pale and drawn, eyes rimmed in shadow, but his gaze was steady. Alert.

“You need a bath,” Elladan said.

Legolas blinked once, slow and unbothered. “Is that an order, my lord?”

“No,” Elrohir said. “It’s a fact. And a mercy.”

Elladan huffed. “We’ve had one drawn. Servants’ quarters.”

“You’re not permitted elsewhere,” Elrohir added. “You’ll wear this after.” He set the folded robe down, underdyed wool, coarse and simple.

Legolas regarded the robe with a calm expression, unreadable. “I see.”

There was no sarcasm. No outrage. Just a quiet resignation, so measured it unsettled.

They did not bind him.

Legolas stood without help, moving carefully. His balance was still not fully recovered, but he made no complaint. The robe he carried was tucked under one arm, and his feet made no sound against the stone.

They took the back way, narrower halls meant for servants, with low ceilings and worn floors, places that smelled faintly of coal smoke and damp linen. The walls were close here, and the air held the scent of old stone and morning.

As they passed, a pair of maids paused at the far end of the corridor, whispering too low to be clear, but the tone carried. One laughed behind her hand. Another group passed them near the kitchen alcoves, eyes lingering too long on Legolas’s tangled hair, his plain clothes, the bruises visible at his collar.

“Is that him?” someone murmured. “That’s Thranduil’s son?”

“Looks more like a stable boy.”

“Or a stray.”

Legolas did not look at them.

But Elrohir did. His head turned, sharp and cold, eyes narrowing just enough to silence the whispers behind them. The servants faltered and stepped away.

Elladan, walking just behind, saw the flicker in his brother’s expression and marked it with a glance of his own. But he said nothing.

Legolas noticed them both. He said nothing at first. Then, quietly, just enough to be heard:

“If I’d known I was to parade through Imladris dressed like a ghost and followed by royalty, I might have brushed my hair.”

His voice was dry. Not biting. A shade of humor, tightly coiled but real.

Elladan gave a huff, almost a laugh.

Elrohir said nothing.

But he did not look away.

The corridors grew narrower the farther they went, the stone older and the light thinner. The scent of damp limestone mixed now with steam, warm air drifting from beneath the door ahead.

The servants’ washroom.

Two guards stood nearby, leaning against the wall where the corridor turned. They straightened lazily as the trio approached, eyes sweeping over Legolas with thinly veiled amusement.

“Well, look at that,” one of them said under his breath, not low enough. “Didn’t know we were escorting a bathing sylph.”

The other smirked. “Careful now. Don’t meet his eyes. They say the Wood-elves can charm one senseless with a glance.”

Legolas turned his head, slow, precise, and met their gaze directly.

He said nothing. But he did not look away.

For a heartbeat, neither did they. Then one let out a short, nervous laugh.

Elrohir stopped.

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t even turn fully toward them. But his words cut clean.

“If you’ve grown so bored at your post,” he said coolly, “I can recommend a reassignment.”

The smirk dropped from the guard’s face.

“Perhaps the stables,” Elrohir continued. “Or the latrines. They’re always short on hands willing to shovel filth.”

A tense silence followed. Then Elladan, still walking forward, added without turning, “You might be surprised what stains are harder to clean.”

The guards went still, chastened.

Legolas glanced at Elrohir, faint surprise in his expression. Then, just as faintly, he looked ahead again and murmured:

“I must be slipping. That one nearly laughed.”

Legolas shifted his gaze forward again, posture composed, tangles of hair clinging to his neck.

Elladan glanced sideways, catching the faint curve at the corner of his mouth. A soft snort escaped him.

“Careful,” he murmured. “They’ll claim you enchanted them, just enough to almost smile.”

Legolas’s lips curved, just barely. “A terrible fate.”

“That might explain their sudden lapse in vigilance,” Elladan said with a dry grin. “They don’t usually blunder like that, unless bewitched.”

Elrohir, walking a pace ahead, didn’t smile. But he glanced sideways at Legolas, gaze unreadable.

“If that’s enchantment,” he said flatly, “it’s wasted on fools.”

The words were sharp, but something else threaded beneath them, resentment, perhaps, but not directed at Legolas. Not entirely.

Legolas glanced at him, measured and still, but said nothing.

They walked the final stretch in silence. The air grew warmer. Steam ghosted through the cracked door ahead. The stone beneath their feet was worn smooth from years of water and bare soles.

The bathhouse waited.

It was dim inside, lit only by a handful of oil lamps affixed to the stone walls. Steam hung in low, lazy ribbons, curling in the golden light. The air was thick with warmth and the faint scent of lavender, faded and ghostlike, clinging to old stone and older habits.

The pool itself was shallow, carved from the natural basin of the rock, its edges worn smooth by years of bare feet. This was no guest chamber. No marble, no polished copper. Just water and warmth and silence.

Legolas stepped inside first, his feet skimming damp stone. He paused near the threshold, gaze scanning the space as if weighing its intent. The robe in his arms was heavier now, damp from his grasp.

Elrohir did not move to leave.

Elladan leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, casual but clearly settled.

Legolas turned slightly, just enough to see them both.

“I take it privacy is not included in your hospitality.”

Elladan raised a brow. “Only the dignified guests get that.”

Legolas made a soft sound, not quite a scoff, not quite agreement. Then he set the robe aside and began to undress.

He did not rush. His movements were deliberate, careful, not with vanity, but with the restraint of someone too used to being watched. The bruises were darker now, pooled under his skin in blue-violet patches. Scabbed welts marked his sides and wrists. The twins said nothing.

When he stepped into the water, the heat drew a soft breath from him. Not a wince. Not a moan. Just a quiet exhale, like something inside him had finally thawed. He moved to the deeper end, where the water lapped at his ribs, and stood still a moment, letting it settle.

Then, slowly, he dipped his head beneath the surface.

His hair fanned out in golden strands, catching the light. When he rose again, water trailed down his jaw and shoulders. His face was calmer now, smoothed of sharp lines, but his eyes remained wary.

He looked toward the twins. “You intend to observe the entire process, then?”

Elladan shrugged. “We’ve got nothing better to do.”

“I suppose I should be flattered.”

“Don’t be,” Elrohir said, arms still folded. “It’s not admiration. It’s supervision.”

Legolas reached for the cloth left on the stone edge and began to wash, slow and methodical. “Ah. Of course. Can’t have me plotting the fall of Imladris through soap and steam.”

There was the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. Dry. Almost imperceptible.

Elladan’s lips twitched in return.

Elrohir did not respond. But his gaze, once detached, lingered now, drawn in ways he didn’t want to name.

The silence stretched, broken only by the gentle ripple of water as Legolas dipped the cloth again and worked it carefully over his arm. Steam rose around him, veiling bruises and pale skin in soft haze.

Then, softly, barely more than breath, he began to hum.

It wasn’t the same as before. No words. Just sound. A slow rise and fall, winding like riverlight through mist. Ancient, maybe. Or improvised. It was hard to tell.

Elrohir’s eyes narrowed.

“You’re always humming,” he said. “Even this morning. Is it some sort of spell?”

Legolas didn’t look at him.

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

The hum drifted off into quiet. Legolas dipped his hands in the water and began to run them through his hair, working through the knots gently. His voice, when it came, was calm.

“It’s the way of my people,” he said. “We sing to the trees. To the water. To the air. It reminds them we are still here.”

Elladan tilted his head, intrigued despite himself.

“And what do you think this stone remembers?” he asked.

Legolas gave a small shrug. “That it is tired.”

There was no jest in it. But something in his tone was light, subtle, like the ghost of a smile left behind by the thought.

Elrohir frowned slightly, but said nothing more.

He watched as Legolas rinsed his hair once more, the gold strands darkened with water, clinging like riverweed to his back. His hands moved with care, not indulgent, but reverent. As though he honored the body others had sought to shame.

The last of the humming faded into steam as Legolas rinsed the cloth and set it aside.

Elrohir shifted near the door, the line of his shoulders taut. “Enough,” he said. “We have things to do today. You’re not here to soak like a guest.”

Legolas did not argue.

He moved to the edge of the pool and stepped out carefully, water tracing lines down his legs. The air was cool against his skin. 

Elladan watched quietly from where he stood, his gaze shifting, first to Legolas, then to his brother. Elrohir’s eyes had followed every movement, lingered a moment too long on bare skin and unguarded grace.

Elladan arched a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching downward.

Legolas dried off quickly, without flinching, then reached for the robe left folded atop the stone bench. The fabric was coarse and brown-grey, threadbare in places. It hung unevenly on him, sleeves bunching awkwardly at the wrists, the hem pooling around his ankles. He laced the belt with quiet efficiency, then leaned against the wall to pull on a pair of servant’s boots, stiff and slightly too large.

Elladan, watching, let out a low breath through his nose.

“You’ll trip over that hem before noon,” he said. “Didn’t know woodland princes came in miniature.”

Legolas straightened, smoothing the robe with both hands.

“We grow better in forest light,” he said mildly. “Stone seems to stunt us.”

Elladan gave a short huff, amused, despite himself.

Elrohir’s tone was more pointed. “Strange. Your father is very tall.”

Legolas met his eyes for a moment, cool and unreadable. “Perhaps he was given more sun.”

He bent to adjust the boot ties, movements smooth, careful. He didn’t hurry, but he didn’t stall either.

When he stood, the robe still hung awkwardly from his frame. He adjusted the belt once more.

“It will serve.”

They walked him back the way they came, through quiet halls where warmth hadn’t yet reached, where stone still clung to the cold of night.

Servants passed them in twos and threes. Some slowed. Some whispered. Some stared outright.

Legolas didn’t falter.

He kept his head high, his steps steady despite the oversized robe brushing the floor and boots thudding slightly with every step. The looks slid off him like water off bark. His chin was high, his eyes forward. There was no defiance in his posture, only composure, the kind that refused to be made smaller.

When they reached the chamber, the guard stepped aside and opened the door without a word.

The first thing Legolas saw was the bird.

It was perched on the edge of the windowsill, small and grey, feathers fluffed from the morning chill. Its dark eyes blinked once, and it chirped, once, then again, as if announcing itself.

Elladan made a sound in his throat, halfway to a laugh. “He has a subject. A loyal one.”

“Careful,” Elrohir said dryly. “That might be a Mirkwood spy.”

Legolas stepped forward slowly. The bird fluttered its wings, then launched from the sill, circling once before landing lightly on his outstretched hand.

The prince's shoulders eased, just slightly.

He looked down at the little creature, his lips curving, not the dry twist of earlier sarcasm, but something softer. Genuine. A small, real smile.

“She’s my friend,” Legolas said quietly, stroking the bird’s back with one careful finger.

Elladan tilted his head, bemused. “Charming.”

But his attention wasn’t on the bird.

It was on his brother.

Elrohir stood still, one hand resting loosely at his side, the other curled near the seam of his tunic. His expression hadn’t changed, not outwardly. But his gaze was fixed on Legolas, unwavering. There was no trace of mockery now. Only stillness. A quiet focus that lingered a beat too long.

It wasn’t just the bird.

It was the smile.

The first real one they’d seen on Legolas’s face, small, fleeting, but warm. Soft in a way that didn’t seem forced. It caught the light and changed him.

And Elrohir was looking at him like he didn’t know what to make of it.

Elladan saw it.

Saw the way his brother’s jaw shifted, how his breath caught just enough to mark the difference.

His own mouth curved, not unkindly, but sharp at the corners, tinged with something between amusement and warning.

He said nothing.

Not yet.

But he would remember.

Chapter Text

Early afternoon light filtered through the tall window of the eastern chamber.

Though the room remained stark, stripped of comfort, with no mark of its inhabitant, it was no longer cold. The walls, once smudged with dust, had been cleaned. The linens on the cot were fresh, their pale folds catching light like bleached bark. The scent of cedar lingered faintly, woven with the crisp breath of mountain spring. It was not welcoming, but it was no longer cruel.

Legolas sat cross-legged beneath the window, robed in plain linen, the fabric pooling gently around him. The garment bore no mark of rank, no embroidery or trim, but he wore it with unassuming grace, as though he had always belonged to the quiet spaces of the world. His hair was loosely gathered over one shoulder, golden strands twisted simply, the sunlight catching in it like fire through wheat.

His eyes were half-lidded, not vacant but distant. His lips moved in slow rhythm, forming melody without words, soft, ancient, drifting like mist among trees. A thrush sat on the outer sill, feathers puffed in the cool light. It listened, then answered in short trills, tilting its head with bright-eyed curiosity.

The song was Silvan, older than speech, remembered in wind and river, sung not to perform but to remain. A song for the undergrowth. For the shy buds in shadow. For those who must endure quietly, without being seen.

In that moment, Legolas was not in Imladris.

He was home.

He smiled faintly, and the tension in his shoulders softened, the ache in his bruised limbs easing as if the light itself were balm.

But the peace was fractured at the sound of footsteps.

He turned his head just enough to see the shape forming in the doorway, a guard, tall and narrow-eyed, unfamiliar. There was no cruelty in his face, but no warmth either. He moved with the detachment of someone tasked, not someone present.

A tray rested in his hands. A covered bowl. Bread. A small cup of wine.

Legolas rose without haste. His movements were smooth, though stiffness lingered in his limbs. He brushed a hand lightly over his robe, not from vanity, but from habit. From dignity.

The thrush chirped once and took flight, a quick flicker of gold and brown vanishing into light.

The guard entered without greeting.

His eyes passed over Legolas as though he were furniture. A thing to tolerate. An inconvenience in the shape of an elf.

Legolas inclined his head in faint politeness. “Good afternoon.”

There was no reply.

Instead, with a sharp flick, the tray was dropped.

It hit the floor with a metallic crack, bread scattering, broth spilling, the wine cup rolling across stone before tipping in a lazy arc. The sound echoed too loudly in the stillness.

Legolas didn’t move for a breath.

The guard turned and left. He didn’t slam the door, but closed it softly. Deliberately. Like punctuation.

Silence returned.

Legolas stood where he was, hands at his sides, his eyes fixed not on the door but on the food spilled at his feet. He took one quiet breath, then moved.

The bread had fallen mostly clean. He knelt and brushed it off with the edge of his sleeve. The bowl had landed intact; the broth still steamed faintly. The wine cup was half-spilled, but salvageable.

There was no sound of anger.

No sharp inhale. No broken cry.

He cleaned the mess with the edge of his blanket, each motion precise. Not because he had given up, but because he would not offer a reaction as a reward. Rage would be a gift. And he had no intention of giving gifts today.

When the tray had been restored to some semblance of order, Legolas sat once more by the window.

He tore the bread gently, dipped it into the broth, and ate in measured, unhurried motions. As if he were still in the Greenwood, in silence, in peace.

The thrush returned a few minutes later, alighting once again on the sill. It chirped softly, as if inquiring.

Legolas broke off a piece of bread and held it out on his open palm. The bird fluttered forward and accepted the offering, retreating only slightly to eat.

Legolas smiled again, smaller, more private.

"You remain braver than most," he murmured.

The bird chirped in reply.

And after a moment, Legolas hummed once more. The melody had shifted, lower now, slower. A song of deep root and cold stone. The kind of song sung in shadowed places, where light could not reach. A song not to defy grief, but to outlast it.

It was not loud.

It was not defiant.

But it endured.

And so did he.

The shadows had lengthened slightly in the eastern halls, the warmth of late morning fading to a cooler afternoon hush. Imladris was not a loud place, but in this part of the house, it was quieter still. The stone was cool underfoot, and the light slanted through the high windows in narrow, golden beams.

Elrohir stood near one of them, half in shadow, half in light.

He wasn’t watching anything in particular, just the wall opposite, the faint dust drifting in the sun. His arms were folded, his jaw tense, as if locked in thought he wasn’t ready to name.

Elladan found him there, silent and still.

“Thought I’d find you brooding,” he said casually, not announcing his presence so much as letting it bleed into the air. “You always come here when you’re avoiding something.”

Elrohir didn’t look at him. “I’m not avoiding anything.”

Elladan leaned beside the archway, arms loosely folded. “No? Because you vanished after we left the prince. Left me to endure the midday dullness alone.”

“I needed time to think.”

Elladan tilted his head. “About him?”

Elrohir’s jaw flexed.

Elladan waited, not pressing. Then: “You keep seeing it, don’t you? That smile.”

Elrohir didn’t deny it.

“It surprised you,” Elladan continued. “The way he held it. Not like a weapon. Not like a shield. Just...like something still his.”

Elrohir’s voice came quiet. “It didn’t belong here.”

“No. But it was real.” Elladan pushed off the wall, stepping beside his brother now. “And it unsettled you.”

“I don’t know what it did,” Elrohir muttered.

“But it did something.”

Elrohir looked away, jaw tight. “He’s a prisoner. And a prince. And a mystery. And none of those things explain why I can’t seem to forget the way he looked at that bird.”

Elladan studied him a moment.

Then his voice turned light, careful, but not cruel.

“Well,” he said, “if the valley starts whispering that Elrohir of Imladris is falling for a songbird in servants’ robes, I shall have to clarify the details.”

Elrohir shot him a look. “Don’t.”

Elladan smirked. “I’ll be kind. I’ll leave out the part about you blushing.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were.”

They stood in silence for another beat.

Then Elladan's tone softened. “You see him, don’t you? Not what Father sees. Not what the court sees. You see him. ”

Elrohir didn’t speak. But the silence was answer enough.

Elladan clapped a hand lightly to his shoulder.

“Well. That’s going to be complicated.”

Elrohir’s jaw tightened.

“It’s not that,” he said sharply. “You think I’m what? Enchanted by him? Don’t be ridiculous.”

Elladan said nothing, waiting.

Elrohir pushed off the wall, pacing a few steps toward the archway, then back again. His voice came low, clipped. “He’s strange. Raised in shadow and superstition. I don’t understand half of what he says. Singing to birds. Whispering to stone. The way he acts like he belongs in a palace even when he’s dressed in rags—”

“And yet,” Elladan murmured, “he remains polite, smiling. Even after all this.”

Elrohir turned, frustration flashing in his eyes. “That’s not nobility. That’s manipulation. That’s what they’re good at in Mirkwood, isn’t it? Smiling while hiding blades behind their backs.”

Elladan didn’t flinch. “Is that what you think he’s doing?”

Elrohir’s lips parted, but no answer came.

The silence hung for a long moment between them.

Then Elladan spoke, quieter now.

“You’re angry because he didn’t break. You expected defiance or tears. Something you could label and dismiss. Instead, he sits with a bird and hums a lullaby from a forest you’ve never walked through.”

Elrohir looked away.

Elladan stepped forward, gentling his tone without losing his clarity. “You can keep calling it enchantment if it makes it easier. Say it’s a Mirkwood trick. Say it’s too strange to trust. Say he’s beneath us.”

He paused.

“But you’ve seen what happens when he’s treated like nothing. And you didn’t like it.”

Elrohir’s shoulders were tense, breath tight.

Finally, he muttered, “He is nothing to me.”

Elladan arched a brow. “Mm. You say that like you’re hoping it’ll become true.”

That struck. Elrohir went still.

But Elladan didn’t press further. He only stepped back toward the corridor, letting the words settle.

“You keep staring like that, brother,” Elladan said lightly, “and soon it won’t be denial you’re choking on.”

He walked away then, boots echoing softly against the stone.

Elrohir remained where he was, staring out the narrow window, at nothing.

And still, somewhere in his mind, he saw the prince’s hands open for the bird.

And the way he smiled, like it had cost him nothing.

And everything.

Evening light filtered through the tall, arched window, casting a warm amber glow across the stone floor of the eastern chamber. The hush of supper hour had settled over Imladris, quiet voices in distant halls, the soft clink of dishes from the kitchens, the rustle of wind through the pines beyond the open casement.

Legolas sat beneath the window, his back to the wall, robe gathered like mist around his legs. The simple fabric caught the fading light, softening the sharpness of his form. His fingers moved with slow precision through his hair, weaving the long golden strands into a loose braid over his left shoulder.

It was not a gesture of vanity, nor formality.

It was ritual. Memory. Control.

Each twist an act of presence. Each fold of hair a reclamation of self.

On the windowsill, the small thrush had returned. It chirped quietly, wings fluttering once before settling. Legolas did not speak to it this time. He only smiled faintly, continuing his braid, the light gilding his cheek like gold leaf on parchment.

Then came the knock.

Sharp. Uncourteous. Intentional.

The door creaked open without pause.

Legolas’s hands stilled mid-braid. He turned his head slightly, though his posture remained relaxed. The warmth in his eyes dimmed, but did not vanish.

The same guard stepped through, the tall one, with silent steps and an emptiness behind the eyes. This time, he did not come alone.

A second elf followed, broader, heavier in step, with a smirk already curving his lips. He held a tray in both hands, but not with care. His eyes swept the chamber as if offended by its quiet.

Legolas remained seated, the braid hanging unfinished across his chest. His face held no surprise. No fear. Only stillness.

“Well, look at that,” the second guard sneered. “Our little songbird does his hair. Shall we bring a mirror next time? Or would you prefer a ribbon?”

The first guard said nothing. But the cold in his stare had sharpened. It no longer held indifference, it held disdain.

The second one stepped forward.

He offered the tray, then let it drop.

The crash echoed off stone. The bowl bounced, sloshing thick stew across the floor. The cup toppled, wine spilling in thin, trembling streams. The bread rolled near Legolas’s feet, landing on its side like a fallen coin.

“Oh my,” the guard said flatly. “Clumsy hands.”

The first guard finally spoke, voice like frost.

“You wear a servant’s robe,” he said. “So eat like one. Off the floor. Seems fitting.”

Legolas’s gaze dropped to the mess, then lifted back to theirs.

No fury. No trembling. No retort.

Only calm. Controlled, unnerving calm.

And then, he resumed his braid.

One, two, three weaves more. He tied it off with a narrow leather cord drawn from his sleeve. The motion was precise. Measured. He did not look at them again.

He didn’t need to.

The silence pressed inward. Thick.

The second guard’s smirk faltered.

“What, nothing to say?” he scoffed. “Not even a glare? Too good to fight back, woodland princeling? Or too soft to know how?”

The first one narrowed his eyes. “Maybe he enjoys it. Maybe crawling is all he's ever been good for.”

Still, Legolas did not answer.

Instead, his gaze shifted beyond them, to the window, to the bird still waiting. As if they had already passed from his mind like shadows across a wall.

The second guard sneered, uncertain now. “Pathetic.”

“Let’s go,” the first muttered.

The door closed behind them, not slammed, but heavy, final.

Silence returned.

The scent of stew lingered, warm and bitter, on the stone.

Legolas remained seated a moment longer.

Then, unhurried, he rose and stepped forward. His robe whispered faintly with each movement. He crouched and began gathering the spilled contents, righting the bowl, lifting the bread, collecting the cup. There was a reverence in the motion, not submission but purpose. A quiet defiance that required no voice.

He returned to the window and sat cross-legged once more, placing the salvaged tray before him. He ate slowly, deliberately, with an elegance that made even humility look like sovereignty.

The thrush chirped.

Legolas glanced up, tore a piece of clean bread, and held it out in his palm.

The bird took it gently.

He smiled, small, weary, but true.

“They will tire of cruelty,” he whispered. “But I will not tire of peace.”

The bird chirped again and remained.

Legolas turned back to his tray, eating in silence.

And outside, the wind sang through the trees, carrying the Greenwood with it, if only for a while.

Chapter Text

The lamps in Erestor’s study burned low, casting golden pools across ledgers and scrolls, their warm glow softening the austere lines of stone and parchment. Outside, stars gleamed beyond the high, narrow windows, silver fire on velvet black.

Glorfindel stood near the hearth, one hand resting on the mantle, gaze lost in the play of flame and shadow. He did not move. Not even when the silence had stretched well past comfort.

Erestor set his quill down. “You have been quiet.”

Glorfindel didn’t turn. “I do not like what I’m seeing, Erestor.”

A pause. Then, quietly: “You mean the prince.”

“I mean the boy,” Glorfindel replied, eyes still on the fire. “Who walks these halls in servant robes. Who is watched as though he has already committed treason. Who is spoken of with ridicule, even by those meant to protect this realm.”

Erestor’s brow furrowed, though he didn’t look up from the parchment in his hand. “He is not without fault. He came unannounced, and under strange circumstances. You know how Elrond must weigh such things.”

“I know how he used to weigh such things,” Glorfindel said, finally turning. “But something has shifted, and I see it clearest in his sons.”

Erestor looked at him now.

“Elrohir,” Glorfindel continued, voice low. “I asked him plainly, earlier. Asked him what it is about the prince that’s stirred him so, and Elrond was furious I’d even dared.”

“You challenged him in council.”

“I didn’t accuse. I asked. But he heard threat in every word.” Glorfindel crossed the room now, slow and deliberate. “And I saw something else too. Not just anger. Fear. And I cannot say whether it was fear for his son…or fear of Thranduil’s .”

Erestor’s expression flickered, not with surprise, but with weariness. “The house is strained, Glorfindel. Thranduil’s son brings more than just himself. Old wounds are bleeding again.”

“And what has he done to provoke it?” Glorfindel asked, genuinely. “Sung a few songs? Breathed without permission?”

Erestor didn’t answer. His silence said enough.

Glorfindel studied him, softer now. “He is not a boy in years. But he is one in our eyes. Because he is not us . Because he is wild where we are still. And gentle where we are cruel.”

“You speak of him like you know him.”

“I don’t,” Glorfindel admitted. “But I know Elrohir. I’ve known that boy since his first cry. And what I saw in his eyes today wasn’t enchantment. It was guilt. And the beginning of something else.”

Erestor rose slowly, crossing to him. He placed a steady hand against Glorfindel’s chest.

“You have always loved fiercely,” he said. “And rightly so. But not all are ready to follow your heart.”

Glorfindel covered Erestor’s hand with his own. “And you have always loved reason above comfort.”

Erestor’s voice dropped. “I have comfort. In you.”

They stood in the golden hush, shadows moving around them like memory.

“But,” Erestor continued, quieter, “you tread dangerous ground. Elrond will not be questioned twice without answer.”

“Then he can answer me,” Glorfindel murmured. 

Erestor leaned into him briefly, forehead to his shoulder. “Then speak as you always have. But tread softly. We are standing over old graves.”

Glorfindel pressed a kiss to his temple. “Then let the living speak louder.”

Erestor’s boots whispered against the smooth stone as he moved through the long corridor leading toward the eastern wing. The air was cooler here, thin with shadow and silence, and scented faintly with cedar wax and dust. He carried no lantern. The torches lit themselves in this part of the house, reacting to presence, to rank, to thought.

He was alone.

Until he wasn’t.

Just ahead, a low laugh echoed from an alcove beyond the inner arch. Another followed, sharper. Words, not meant for ears with sense, drifted into the hall like smoke.

“—heard he needed help with his bath.”

“Both of Lord Elrond’s sons, no less. Generous, aren’t they?”

A snicker. “Woodland tradition, perhaps. Maybe they groom their royalty like prized animals.”

“I’d wager Lord Elrohir and Lord Elladan didn’t mind. Can’t say I blame them. That hair, those lips…wouldn’t you want to see him dripping wet and grateful?”

More laughter, leering now.

“Delicate little princeling. Pretty enough to hang on a mural. Or press into sheets.”

The words weren’t shouted. That would have taken courage. No, they slithered, wrapped in cowardice, dressed as humor.

Erestor stepped into view.

No sound of approach. No warning.

Just the echo of his name settling into the space like frost.

The guards snapped to attention, too late.

“My lord—” one stammered.

Erestor didn’t speak.

He simply regarded them. Still. Composed. His expression unreadable, but his silence cut deeper than any shouted rebuke. The flickering torchlight cast his features into high relief, sharp eyes, shadowed mouth. One might have thought him carved from winter itself.

“You are entrusted with this house’s protection,” he said at last, voice soft. “Not with its disgrace.”

No one answered.

“You wear Imladris’s crest on your cloaks. And yet you stain it. Not with blade. Not with blood. But with smallness .”

“My lord, it was only—”

“Only words?” Erestor’s voice remained quiet. But the edge beneath it gleamed like drawn steel. “So you mock a guest. A prince. One you outmatch in age, number, and power, and you do so in the dark, where you think no one hears.”

He looked at each of them, one by one.

“And this makes you proud?”

One flinched.

The other two held their silence, but not their shame.

Erestor let the silence linger, cruel in its precision.

“I will not hear your apology,” he said. “I will watch it. And if I so much as sense another whisper, if I hear even a breath of this again, I will have you reassigned to the outer borders. There are watchtowers that do not care for banter. There is winter that does not forgive weakness.”

He turned, cloak whispering behind him.

But just before he vanished into the dark, he paused.

“Understand this,” he said, without looking back. “That boy may not be your kin. But he is under Lord Elrond’s roof. And I will not have it said that Imladris forgot decency before war.”

He walked on, boots silent once more.

But the laughter did not return.

Only the hush of something broken.

And the low hum of torches, burning quietly in shame.

Evening had deepened by the time Elrohir found himself lingering near the kitchens. He hadn’t meant to end up there, his feet had simply taken him. The scent of roasted nuts and warm honey drifted from within, and when one of the servants passed with a tray of fresh pastries, something in him stirred.

He hesitated.

Then, with a muttered sigh, he reached for a cloth and carefully selected a few of his favorites, flaky, golden, filled with spiced fruit and dusted with cinnamon. He poured a small carafe of tea, still warm, and gathered two cups. His hands moved as if on their own.

When he approached the chamber in the eastern wing, the guards stationed at the door raised their brows.

“Something to report, my lord?” one asked carefully.

Elrohir’s eyes snapped toward him, sharp and cold.

“Stand straight,” he said curtly. “And say nothing.”

Both guards stiffened at once. Neither dared another word.

He pushed open the door without ceremony.

Inside, the light was dim. The remnants of supper still sat on the tray by the window, bread crusts and an emptied bowl. The room smelled faintly of cedar, mountain air, and something else. Something quieter. Almost like—

Elrohir paused.

Legolas sat on the cot, legs drawn up beneath him, one hand resting on his knee. He was speaking softly, his voice low and musical, shaped in the lilting cadence of Silvan tongues.

Perched on the windowsill, the same small thrush chirped once in reply. It cocked its head, seemingly listening with rapt attention.

Elrohir blinked.

“…conversing with birds again?” he said dryly.

Legolas turned his head, but did not flinch. His gaze remained steady, his voice unhurried.

“Her listening is gentler than most, Lord Elrohir.”

Elrohir stepped further in, setting the tray down on the small table without flourish.

“I brought these,” he said shortly. “Do not ask why.”

He gestured to the pastries and the tea, but his expression remained tight, guarded.

Legolas regarded the offering, then the one who had brought it. His face remained unreadable, but his eyes softened slightly.

“Thank you,” he said simply.

Elrohir folded his arms. “They’re mine, you know. I only ever let Elladan or Arwen steal them. Consider it a rare mercy.”

The corner of Legolas’s mouth curved, just faintly.

“Then I am honored to be placed so near to your siblings.”

Elrohir scowled, though not convincingly. “Do not push it.”

Legolas inclined his head, but something almost mischievous flickered in his gaze.

Elrohir narrowed his eyes. “How did you know it was me and not Elladan?”

Legolas didn’t hesitate. “Your brother does not scowl quite so much.”

A beat of silence.

Elrohir blinked, then looked vaguely offended. “I do not scowl.”

Legolas tilted his head, expression serene. “If you say so, Lord Elrohir.”

Elrohir exhaled sharply through his nose, something dangerously close to a laugh threatening to escape.

The thrush hopped closer on the sill. Legolas reached up and tore a corner of the bread crust from earlier, offering it in his palm. The bird took it gently, then chirped again and flitted back to its perch.

“You do realize,” Elrohir said, tone dry, “that’s not normal behavior. Birds are not meant to take commands from princes.”

“I don’t command her,” Legolas replied. “She simply chooses to return.”

He glanced at Elrohir then. Quiet. Gentle.

“But I suppose that is strange to some.”

Elrohir stared at him for a beat too long.

Then, as if shaking off a fog, he reached for a pastry, biting into it with deliberate apathy.

Legolas took one as well, carefully, with the same reverence he applied to most things. He ate without haste, then poured the tea into both cups and held one out.

Elrohir hesitated.

Then took it.

Their fingers brushed, barely.

“Do you fear I might enchant you, my lord?” Legolas asked softly, gaze lowered over his cup, his words a quiet echo of the whispers that clung to wood-elves in the halls of Imladris.

Elrohir’s jaw tensed. “No,” he said again. Then, after a pause, quieter: “I don’t know.”

The thrush chirped once.

Legolas tilted his head slightly. “She says you’re not as terrible as you pretend.”

Elrohir snorted. “Then she’s clearly never seen me before breakfast.”

Legolas huffed again, quiet, almost a laugh. “I’ll warn her.”

He lifted his cup once more, taking a slow sip, then turned slightly to watch the thrush at the window. The last light of the day gilded his cheekbones.

Elrohir didn’t speak.

His gaze lingered, not on the bird, but on the prince. On the small, unguarded smile that had surfaced without calculation. Brief. Real.

It unsettled him more than any defiance might have.

He looked away with a short breath, tone dry as he muttered, “You’re more dangerous with tea than with a blade.”

Legolas didn’t reply, but his smile deepened by a fraction, just enough to make Elrohir regret saying anything at all.

Elrohir shifted, clearing his throat as he stood. His movements were brisk, too brisk, perhaps, for someone simply delivering tea.

“I should go,” he said, brushing nonexistent dust from his tunic. “There are other matters.”

Legolas looked up, the cup still cradled in both hands. The light was fading fast now, and shadows stretched long across the floor.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For the company. And the sweets.”

Elrohir paused at the door.

There was no sarcasm in the prince’s tone. No mockery. Just sincerity, gentle, and rare in these halls.

He didn’t look back. “You’re welcome.”

Then he was gone, the door clicking softly behind him.

Inside, the thrush gave a low trill, as if echoing the sentiment. Legolas exhaled slowly, gaze returning to the window, and took one last sip of tea before setting the empty cup down beside him.

Dawn had long passed, and yet dusk settled over Imladris with the hush of reverence, soft streaks of rose and lavender melting into shadow through the tall eastern window. The light that fell across the stone was quiet, golden, and slow. A stillness lingered in the chamber, neither prison nor home, but something made gentle by patience.

The room bore faint marks of its occupant. A folded blanket, neatly draped. A small bundle of crushed herbs nestled near the sill. The faint smell of cedar and something more fleeting, tea, perhaps. The air was still, but not lifeless. It felt like listening.

Legolas knelt near the window, robes of plain linen pooling about him in graceful folds, like wings drawn close. His braid trailed down his shoulder, loose now in places, catching the fading light in threads of gold and rust. He looked more spirit than prince, less captive than quiet remnant of something more profound.

A squirrel perched just beyond the carved ledge, fat and ruddy-furred, its black eyes bright. It chirped at him boldly, and he tilted his head, amusement lighting his face.

“That is not fair,” Legolas murmured, mock-reproachful. “I hardly think I resemble a bird.”

The squirrel chattered in reply, and Legolas’s laughter came low and warm, softening the air.

“Very well,” he conceded. “You may call me what you like. In return, I shall name you Friend. It suits you better than thief.”

Another chirp. A flick of the tail.

“You remind me of one back home,” Legolas said, his voice drifting. “He once broke into the wine cellar and forgot how to climb trees for a week. My father was furious. He had the cask moved. But I suspect the squirrel still dreams of it.”

The squirrel shuffled forward, bold as a courtier.

Legolas leaned in, lowering his voice. “No. I will not share wine with you. Mischief lives in your eyes. One taste, and you'd attempt to commandeer the whole vineyard.”

His eyes shone as he spoke, not with mischief, but memory. The ache of it lingered behind the laughter, like moss beneath running water.

And behind it, something else: Elrohir.

The thought came unbidden, rising like steam from still coals. The scent of tea still lingered faintly from the evening before, and with it the memory of a dry voice, a sharp wit, the shape of kindness hidden behind scowls and sarcasm.

He had brought pastries, his own favorites, if Legolas wasn’t mistaken. He had lingered, even after the jokes. Even after the stumbles.

And he had listened.

Legolas didn’t know what to make of it yet. Only that, for the first time since arriving in Imladris, his chamber had felt less like a cage. And more like a threshold.

The squirrel chirped again, abrupt, sharp.

Legolas looked up just as the door opened.

The laughter in his eyes vanished.

The same guards. Again.

The tall one with the cold gaze. And the broader one with a smirk already curling, as if his cruelty had been waiting since sunrise.

The squirrel vanished into the ivy, its claws clicking in retreat.

Legolas rose slowly, drawing dignity around himself like armor. He dipped his head in silent greeting. Nothing more.

“Well,” the broader guard said, strolling forward. “Didn’t know squirrel-tongue was part of a prince’s schooling. Do hedgehogs get sonnets, or is that only for elk?”

The tall one said nothing, but his stare stripped the room of warmth.

“Maybe he thinks beasts are better company than Noldor,” the first went on. “Not surprising. Doubt Mirkwood’s ‘prince’ knows how to hold a conversation with anything that doesn’t chirp.”

Legolas said nothing. His face remained composed. Untouched.

“No reply?” the guard sneered. “Not even a blink of those pretty lashes? You’re like a doll carved for a king’s shelf. Shame your kingdom is made of mud and spiders.”

He simply looked at them.

And kept looking.

His gaze was still, unblinking, unwavering, bright as starlight over water. He said nothing. He made no move.

But he did not look away.

The broader guard slowed his steps, smirk flickering for just a breath. “Well now,” he muttered, shifting the tray from one hand to the other. “Is this what they mean when they talk about wood-elves and their witch-eyes?”

His companion didn’t speak, but his gaze flicked, once, to Legolas’s face, and then away again.

“I heard the others whispering,” the first guard went on. “Said the princeling stares right through you. Makes your tongue trip. Makes you dream of forests you’ve never seen. That true?”

He stepped forward, grin sharp now, brittle.

“Trying to enchant me, little songbird? That’s what this is?”

Still Legolas said nothing. He didn’t smile. He didn’t blink.

He just stared.

The guard laughed, forced, too loud.

“Valar, no wonder Lord Elrohir keeps coming back.”

He dropped the tray with a flourish.

The clatter rang like thunder in the small room, metal against stone, soup sloshing thick and ruddy, wine bleeding like a wound. The bread landed last, rolling to rest against Legolas’s foot.

Silence fell. Cold. Heavy.

The guard took a step closer.

“Too good to crawl, are you?” the guard snapped. “Think you’re some spirit, all silence and starlight? You’re not. You’re just an elf in a borrowed robe who doesn’t know when to stop looking.”

Then, without warning, the guard seized his arm, fingers pressing into already bruised flesh.

Fingers crushed into old bruises, freshly healing skin.

Legolas did not cry out.

But he flinched.

And in that flinch, the guard found his victory.

“There it is,” he said, voice low. “Thought so.”

He shoved Legolas back a half-step and let him go, wiping his hand on his tunic as if dirtied.

And then they left.

The door shut behind them like a blade.

Legolas stood still for a breath. Then two. His eyes dropped to his arm, red marks blooming. Faint tremble. Quiet pain.

Then, with grace born of older things than pride, he knelt.

Gathered what had fallen.

Cleaned what could be saved.

And sat. And ate.

Not because he must.

But because they wanted him broken.

And he would not give them the sound.

His eyes, once again, turned to the window, but the squirrel had not returned.

Chapter Text

The throne room of the Woodland Realm shimmered in golden twilight, filtered through the shifting canopy above. Sunlight pierced the high lattice of woven branches, casting dappled shadows on the marble floor. The air was warm with the scent of moss and myrrh, and the low murmur of courtiers echoed like wind through leaves.

King Thranduil sat atop his carved seat, draped in flowing robes the color of deep pine and starlight. His crown of antlered silver gleamed faintly beneath the canopy. But his eyes, usually clear and unblinking, were distant, unfocused.

“…and so, my king,” droned a noble from the outer reaches of the eastern border, “if we redirect the path through the glade beyond the Emyn Fuin, the merchants will—”

Thranduil stood.

The voice stopped immediately. A stunned hush fell.

“Your majesty?” the noble asked, blinking in surprise.

Thranduil raised a pale hand. “Enough. Court is ended.”

The silence deepened.

“But, we were—”

“I said enough,” the Elvenking said softly, though his voice cut like frost. He was already descending the steps of the dais, his mantle trailing behind him like a storm cloud. The courtiers stepped back, puzzled but not bold enough to question him further.

He walked swiftly, purpose driving his boots down familiar paths, though his brow remained drawn.

Through winding halls of stone and root, he moved, past guards who bowed low, past Galion who watched with narrowed eyes but said nothing.

At last, Thranduil entered a chamber not visited in days.

It was quieter here. Calmer.

Legolas’ chambers.

Thranduil stepped into the chamber, his movements fluid but shadowed with tension. The room was quiet, filled only with the lingering scent of pine oils and the soft rustle of leaves beyond the open balcony. No fire had been lit, but the late sun spilled gold over the polished wood, casting long lines across the stone.

He stood there for a long moment, saying nothing. His gaze swept across the chamber, neatly kept, as ever. The bed made. The writing desk in order. A folded cloak rested over the back of a chair, untouched since the day his son had departed.

Stillness.

But something gnawed.

Thranduil did not sigh, he did not allow himself such indulgences, but he moved deeper into the room, fingers brushing the edge of the desk as though the grain might speak. His hand stilled over the sealed inkpot, the quill beside it exactly as it had been left. He frowned.

Behind him, the door opened with a soft creak.

“My lord,” came Galion’s voice, smooth but alert.

Thranduil did not turn.

“Is it the courier?” he asked. “A message from the southern glade?”

“No, my lord,” Galion said. There was a pause, slight, but enough to catch the Elvenking’s ear. “I only saw the door ajar. I thought perhaps…”

“Three weeks,” Thranduil murmured, still not turning. “And not a single message.”

“It is still within the expected span, my lord. The journey was to last the passing of two moons.”

“Yes.” Thranduil’s fingers left the desk. He turned at last, his expression smooth but his eyes far away. “Yes, I know.”

Galion tilted his head slightly, assessing. “Shall I send word to the outpost near Eryn Vorn? Merely to check that all is proceeding as planned?”

The Elvenking was quiet for a breath.

Then, a faint shake of his head. “Not yet. I will not appear the anxious father before half the court. Let the moon run its course.”

Galion gave a short bow. “Of course, my lord.”

Thranduil looked once more around the chamber.

“It is too quiet,” he said, almost to himself. “When he is away, the trees forget to sing.”

He left the room without another word, his robes brushing the stone like a whispered warning.

Galion remained behind a moment longer, his gaze drifting to the folded cloak on the chair.

Then he followed.

The halls of the Woodland Realm had settled into silence.

The rustle of courtiers, the hush of whispered politics, the quiet rhythm of torchlight along the stone, all had faded into stillness. Moonlight poured through the latticework of ancient trees, casting shifting silver patterns across the marble and root. The forest slept.

But in the King’s chambers, Thranduil did not.

He stood before the tall mirror beside the hearth, his robes loosened at the collar, silver circlet already resting on the low table nearby. The breeze that crept through the open balcony doors stirred the curtains, bringing with it the sharp scent of pine and the distant cry of some night-creature flying unseen.

Thranduil did not shiver. But still, he felt it, that thread of unease. Thin. Persistent. It had followed him for days now, curling low behind his ribs, not with panic, but with the familiar, quiet ache of something out of place. Something missing. It had clung to him all week, like a shadow that would not lift.

He turned from the mirror without a word.

The fire crackled softly behind him, but its warmth barely touched the room. Or perhaps it was he who had grown cold.

Crossing to the carved settee against the far wall, he sank into it with a stillness that belied the tension in his shoulders. His hand reached for the crystal decanter at his side, poured a measured goblet of deep red wine, but he did not drink. He set it down without so much as a glance.

His gaze drifted instead to the alcove beyond the hearth, where a tapestry hung in solemn dignity between twin sconces. Gold thread caught the firelight, glinting like sun on steel.

Oropher.

Stern of mouth. Proud of brow. His eyes, even in thread, bore down with judgment, or was it warning?

Thranduil’s own face remained unreadable. But something behind his eyes shifted, small, private, unspoken.

He leaned back slowly, long fingers steepled beneath his chin.

Three weeks.

His son should have written.

The thought came without sound, but lingered, heavy and unwelcome. He had not realized how often he had looked for a messenger or glanced at the path below the bridge when no horns had sounded. He had not spoken of it aloud. Not even to Galion.

Because there was nothing to speak of. The journey was not yet due to end.

And yet.

His eyes remained on the tapestry, unmoving. And within, the memory stirred, quiet as a breath, sharp as a blade.

It had only been a few years ago.

They had walked the upper galleries together, father and son, beneath the bloom of early spring.

The light had been soft that day, filtered through new leaves and drifting petals. The wood was rich with birdsong and the distant laughter of fountains. In the garden, Legolas had sent a stone skipping across the stillness of the reflecting pool, then darted off in pursuit of a golden-winged butterfly, hair bright as sunlit flax, feet silent as wind on moss.

Thranduil had caught his arm as he passed, not ungently.

“Must you dash like a startled fawn through every corridor?” he intoned, voice dry. “You nearly struck your king with that stone.”

Legolas laughed, that clear bell-tone of youth and mischief. “I was only aiming near you, my lord father. I am perfecting my control.”

“Then I fear for Mirkwood’s enemies, if your precision lies in near-misses.”

“My aim improves daily.”

Thranduil gave him a long-suffering look, then with a faint tug, drew him in beside him. “Walk,” he said. “Like someone raised in a palace and not by squirrels, my shadow dancer.”

Legolas grinned. “No promise.”

But he fell into step, their hands remaining joined, an indulgence neither commented on. He was no longer a child, but some things defied age. Theirs was a bond carved in shadow and song, sharpened by grief, softened by time.

They spoke as they strolled, their banter skipping from bowcraft to the failures of the last feast’s mushroom stew, to the latest antics of the steward’s deerhound. Thranduil let himself be drawn in, the corners of his mouth twitching now and again with something suspiciously like amusement.

Until they rounded a quiet bend, and came upon a tapestry.

It hung between sconces, high and proud: Oropher, King of Greenwood the Great, rendered in golden thread and storm-dark silk.

Legolas slowed, then stopped. He let go of his father’s hand, stepping forward without a word.

Thranduil did not follow immediately.

The boy— no, the young prince, stood in profile, the firelight limning his hair with silver. He lifted a hand, hesitated, then let his fingers drift across the woven brow, the strong jaw. It was a reverent gesture, not quite a touch, more remembrance than inquiry.

“Do you think,” Legolas said softly, “he would have liked me?”

The question was simple. Unadorned. And it stilled Thranduil like a sudden wind in the trees.

“Liked you?” he repeated.

Legolas didn’t look away. “I wonder if he would have thought me worthy. Strong enough. Or too quiet. Too…” He hesitated. “Too wild.”

Thranduil stepped forward, hands loosely clasped behind his back. His voice, when it came, was smooth. Mild.

“Your grandfather would not have known what to do with you.”

That earned him a glance, half-wounded, half-intrigued.

He allowed the faintest curve of his lips. “You are far too clever. Far too curious. And far too quick to question rules designed for your own good.”

Legolas huffed a breath of laughter. “So, no, then.”

“So—” Thranduil continued, tone gentling, “he would have tried to train you into something fiercer. He would have failed. And then spoiled you shamefully to compensate.”

Legolas tilted his head. “Truly?”

Thranduil nodded once, slowly. “He would have called you reckless, and then told all of court you reminded him of himself. Loudly. Twice a week. And he would have sung you every ridiculous battle-song known to our line, off-key.”

A long silence passed between them.

“You have his fire,” Thranduil said, more quietly. “But not his fury. That comes from me.”

A breath passed. He looked away, just for a moment.

“And from your mother,” he added, softer still, “you have something rarer.”

Legolas’s voice was quiet. “What?”

“Kindness.”

He let the word stand. Then, after a long moment, as though the memory had chosen to rise:

“Your grandmother was the same. Gentle hands. A voice like rain. She could even calm your grandfather when the storm took him.”

Thranduil’s gaze returned to his son.

“You would have reminded her of herself.”

His tone did not tremble. But something in his face did, not grief, not pride. Something older.

“Your grandparents would have loved you, Legolas.”

A silence settled between them. Not heavy. Just full.

Then, more quietly still:

“That is not a small inheritance.”

Legolas finally looked at him, fully, steadily. His eyes were open in that way Thranduil both feared and cherished. He had always had too much light in him.

“I’m glad they had you by their side,” Legolas said, voice quiet.

Thranduil’s gaze shifted, distant for a breath, as if looking beyond the walls of the present.

“They gave me more than they knew,” he said at last. “But it was never easy.”

He looked back at his son, his expression steady but softened at the edges.

“He gave me the strength to endure. And she…” His voice gentled. “She gave me the will to remain kind.”

A pause. Then, lower:

“But you…”

Thranduil’s throat moved as he spoke. “You gave me the reason to.”

Silence again. But not empty.

Then, almost as an afterthought, Thranduil said, “This realm will be yours, one day.”

Legolas’s expression changed.

He looked down. “I hope not,” he said, low.

Thranduil turned toward him, brow faintly furrowed. “Why?”

Legolas looked up. “Because it would mean you are no longer here.”

There it was again, that quiet blade of honesty. So simple it ached.

Thranduil’s breath caught, barely.

He reached out, cupped his son’s face with a touch that belied his usual restraint, fingers cool, palm firm, gaze unwavering.

“I will always be here,” he said. “In the roots. In the stone. In the wind that guides your arrow.”

Legolas leaned into the touch for a moment. A brief, instinctive surrender.

And then, quietly: “Even so, I would rather wear no crown, if it meant you would stay.”

Thranduil did not answer at once.

But when he did, it was with a hand that lingered, and a voice that almost broke:

“Foolish child,” he said softly. “You are what keeps me here.”

Legolas stepped forward without another word, arms wrapping around his father with quiet conviction. It was not a child’s desperate embrace, nor a gesture of show, it was something older. Simpler. One soul seeking warmth from another.

For a moment, Thranduil did not move.

The Elvenking was not an elf known for open affection. The court would never have believed it—Thranduil Oropherion, the Ice of Greenwood, caught in an embrace not born of ceremony or necessity.

But after a breath, his arms came around his son, slow but sure. One hand settled at Legolas’s back, the other resting lightly against his golden hair. He pressed a kiss to the crown of his son’s head, quiet, instinctive, and let his chin rest there, as though anchoring them both.

He said nothing.

There was no need.

Outside, the wind stirred the leaves like murmured lullabies, and the forest held its breath. Inside, for that suspended heartbeat of time, the king did not carry a crown, nor a kingdom.

Only the weight of the boy he had raised. The only thing that had ever made him forget the war still burning quietly beneath his skin.

When at last they parted, Thranduil let his fingers linger a moment longer on Legolas’s shoulder, as though anchoring him to the earth.

“You are too tall to cling to me,” Thranduil said lightly, his voice returning to its familiar dry edge. “Though not quite tall enough for it to be dignified.”

Legolas smiled, unashamed. “And yet you did not push me away.”

Thranduil’s eyes softened, only just. “No,” he said. “I did not.” A pause. “Consider it an act of mercy for your height.”

Legolas laughed, and then, without warning, sprang up onto the low stone railing beside the walkway, balancing with arms outstretched like a tightrope walker.

“Legolas,” Thranduil said flatly, not turning his head. “Get down.”

“I’m perfectly balanced,” Legolas called, grinning as he spun once on the balls of his feet.

“You are a prince,” Thranduil replied, voice cool as mountain frost. “And yet you behave like a feral child raised by bears in the eastern hills.”

Legolas laughed louder, hopping down beside him without grace, his braids askew and his tunic smudged with garden dust. “But I am your feral child.”

Thranduil cast him a glance of regal exasperation. “I am told I have the most beautiful son in all Middle-earth,” he said coolly. “Pity no one would guess it, judging by how you choose to present yourself.”

Legolas raised a brow, unfazed. “And yet I seem to resemble you.”

Thranduil sniffed. “Fortunately for you. Imagine the scandal if you looked like a dwarf on parade.”

Legolas only grinned wider. “Then I suppose it's a mercy I inherited your cheekbones and not your humility.”

Thranduil gave him a sideways look, unimpressed. “That is hardly praise. You resemble me only in the way a sapling resembles the forest that bore it.”

Legolas’s smile didn’t fade. “Then I’ll take root and try to grow taller.”

Thranduil hummed. “Try harder.”

But his gaze lingered on his son a moment longer than necessary, and though his tone remained dry, there was something unmistakably fond beneath it.

Now, in the present, Thranduil stood alone before the tapestry.

The chamber had fallen quiet, lit only by the pale shimmer of starlight bleeding in through the balcony doors. The wine remained untouched on the nearby table, forgotten.

He lifted a hand to the carved wood beside the hanging, fingers resting just near the image of his father, but his gaze did not linger on Oropher’s woven likeness.

It was not the former king he saw.

It was Legolas.

Golden-haired and sharp-eyed, too quick with laughter, too bold in spirit. Always moving, always asking, always dancing at the edge of what was permitted and what simply was . A prince who sang to trees and offered berries to squirrels before council. A son who had somehow, impossibly, softened his father’s edges without ever asking permission.

Thranduil’s mouth drew into a line.

He turned from the tapestry and crossed to the tall windows, pushing aside the sheer curtain with a flick of his fingers. The forest stretched before him, vast and shadowed. Above it, the stars glinted, hard and clear and unyielding.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then, low and even, as though speaking to no one in particular:

“You have been gone too long, little shadow. And I find I am not fond of the silence you’ve left behind.”

The wind stirred in the trees, soft, restless, and unhelpful.

But the unease in him did not stir and pass. It remained. It had lodged itself somewhere quiet and deep, and no hour of council or flicker of sunlight through the boughs had managed to dislodge it. 

His fingers curled against the windowsill.

He did not close his eyes. He did not lower his head.

But still, he stood there.

Waiting. Listening.

And the forest, though ancient and alive, had no answer to give.

Chapter Text

The morning table was set for three.

Steam curled from the teapot, delicate as breath in winter. Fresh bread, sliced fruit, and preserved jams filled the spread with quiet abundance. A basket of warmed rolls sat untouched. Butter softened in the dish. All things in their place.

And yet, something was missing.

Elrond sat at the head, posture composed, hands resting lightly on the rim of his cup. He did not drink. His eyes lingered on the rising steam as if seeking answers in the curl of it.

Elladan was the first to speak.

“Apricots,” he noted, reaching for one with a small, deliberate smile. “A rare pleasure. Someone’s been to the southern orchards.”

Elrond did not smile. “I thought a familiar sweetness might ease the morning.”

Elladan glanced across the table.

Elrohir sat silent, a single hand curled loosely around his cup, though it had long gone cold. He hadn’t touched the plate before him. His gaze stayed low, on the table, on the grains in the wood, never quite on anyone else.

Elladan cleared his throat. “The stables are restless. Something’s startled the horses again. I heard one of the younger colts kicked through the gate.”

“I’ll have the northern fences inspected,” Elrond replied evenly. “It could be foxes.”

“Or wolves.”

Another silence fell.

Elrond then turned to Elrohir. “You favored the pastries yesterday.”

Elrohir’s fingers stilled around his cup.

“I saw you leave the kitchens with a cloth full of them,” Elrond continued, gaze steady. “I assumed they were not for yourself.”

Elrohir glanced up, expression unreadable. “You assume much.”

“And yet,” Elrond said, his tone deceptively mild, “I am rarely wrong.”

Elladan studied his brother across the table. “He brought tea, too,” he said with a faint smirk. “The good kind. That’s nearly an apology in Elrohir’s tongue.”

“Was it received?” Elrond asked, quiet but pointed.

Elrohir did not answer.

The silence swelled, gentle, but tight at the seams.

He rose, his chair scraping only faintly as he stood. “If you mean to say something,” he said, voice low, “then say it plainly.”

Elrond met his eyes. “I only ask that you tread carefully. There are consequences you cannot yet see.”

Elrohir’s mouth curved, not into a smile, but something close to it. “And if I already see them? And go anyway?”

The silence that followed was thick enough to touch.

Elladan exhaled softly, setting his half-eaten fruit down with care. “Then perhaps sit a moment longer before you do,” he said, his voice even. “Not every answer needs to be given on your feet.”

Elrohir didn’t look at him. Not at first.

But his jaw shifted, tension, flickering. Then a small nod, stiff, and he sank back down, the movement taut with restraint.

Elrond watched them both, his face unreadable. “I do not speak to forbid you,” he said finally. “Only to remind you. Affection does not erase what surrounds it. Or what it costs.”

Elrohir gave a faint huff. “You make it sound like a confession. There’s nothing to name.”

Elrond’s gaze did not waver. “Then you should have no trouble turning away.”

A flicker passed through Elrohir’s expression, too brief to catch, unless one knew him well. He set the cup down harder than necessary.

“I don’t need to turn from anything,” he said. “There’s nothing there.”

Elladan glanced between them, his voice dry. “You sound very sure for someone speaking in circles.”

Elrohir scowled. “I’m not interested in him. He’s a curiosity. A disruption.”

“Mm,” Elladan murmured. “A disruption you fed pastries and guarded like a storm lantern.”

Elrohir opened his mouth, then shut it again. His fingers curled loosely around the cup.

Elladan reached for the teapot and refilled Elrohir’s cup without asking. “Drink,” he muttered. “You’re less dramatic with something warm in your hands.”

That earned the ghost of a smirk from his twin.

“Do you remember when we were small,” Elladan went on, “and I convinced you that Naneth’s hawk could smell guilt?”

Elrohir’s brow quirked. “She could. She stared too long.”

“She stared because you always broke things.”

“I never did.”

“You broke the harp.”

Elrohir lifted the cup to hide his reluctant grin.

Elladan softened. “You were always the one who cared too deeply. That’s not a flaw.”

Elrohir didn’t reply right away. But he held the cup more gently now.

And Elrond, though he said nothing further, let the silence remain, less like a warning this time, and more like permission.

The hallways of the eastern wing were quiet again.

Too quiet.

Elrohir’s boots made little sound against the stone, but each step still felt like an announcement, unwelcome, intrusive. The kind of silence that settled after something wrong had occurred. Not dramatic, not loud. Just…wrong.

He didn’t know why he was here again.

That wasn’t true.

He just didn’t want to name it.

As he reached the familiar door, the air shifted, something delicate lingering on the other side. He paused, hand hovering just short of the handle.

Then he heard it.

A voice, soft, fluid, threaded with lilt and breeze. It was not a melody meant for performance. It had no start or finish, no call for attention. It simply existed. Like a breeze through leaves or water over stone.

Silvan.

Elrohir leaned slightly closer.

A bird chirped in answer. Not in mimicry, but rhythm. Conversational.

He furrowed his brow.

Two guards stood at attention outside the chamber. One glanced his way, confused. The other opened his mouth, perhaps to ask, but Elrohir cut him off with a sharp look and a clipped command.

“Say nothing. And keep your eyes forward.”

They stiffened immediately, silent under his glare.

He pushed open the door.

The scent of cedar hung in the air. Morning light spilled in through the window, falling in soft bars across the cot and the small table beside it. And there, in the same place as before, knelt the woodland prince, robes pooled neatly, braid half-undone, lips parting as his voice carried out toward the windowsill.

The thrush tilted its head, responding in a quick trill.

Elrohir didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

Not yet.

Legolas tilted his head slightly, gaze still turned toward the bird. “You return often for one so skeptical, my lord,” he said gently, without looking.

Elrohir blinked. “You heard me?”

Now Legolas looked over his shoulder, eyes glinting like water beneath sunlight. There was no startlement, only mild amusement, as though he’d known all along.

“I smelled the tea,” he said. “The same spiced leaf as before. And your steps are more hesitant than the guards’.”

Elrohir exhaled, half a laugh, half a scoff. “I’ll remember to tread like a feather next time.”

“I doubt that suits you,” Legolas replied, his voice warm with playfulness. “You strike me more as a storm than a breeze.”

He shifted slightly, resting a hand on the sill.

Elrohir crossed the threshold, hesitating a moment. “You’re not surprised to see me?”

“I am,” Legolas said honestly, watching him now. 

His gaze lingered. Not challenging. Not distant. Simply present.

“But I’ve learned Imladris is full of surprises, my lord,” he added, with a faint dip of his head.

Elrohir stopped. The title was expected, yet this time it sat awkwardly in the space between them.

“…Don’t call me that,” he said suddenly.

Legolas arched a brow. “No?”

“No.” Elrohir looked away, then back again. “Just—Elrohir.”

A pause.

Then, a slow, surprised smile touched Legolas’s lips. It was faint. Brief. But real.

“Then call me Legolas,” he said. “If we are discarding ceremony.”

The thrush chirped in approval.

The thrush fluttered down, delicate wings brushing the air in a hush of movement. It landed without hesitation on Legolas’s outstretched hand, claws curling gently into his fingers. He welcomed it with an ease that made it seem less like a creature and more like a memory returned.

Legolas murmured something in Silvan, gentle and low, fondness wrapped in song. His other hand came up slowly, fingertips brushing the bird’s feathers with reverent care. The thrush chirped once and leaned into the touch.

Elrohir watched, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“Do all your friends have feathers?” he asked, voice dry, but not cruel.

It surprised them both.

Legolas blinked.

Then, he laughed.

It was not loud. Not performative. Just warm, sudden, and real.

The thrush trilled in response, as if amused itself.

Legolas glanced over his shoulder, the faintest smile still touching his lips. “Would you like to pet her, Elrohir?”

Elrohir froze, eyes flicking to the bird, then back to Legolas. He had said his name. Quietly. Naturally. As though it had always belonged there.

His mouth opened, closed, then settled into something caught between suspicion and wonder.

“…She won’t bite me?”

Legolas tilted his head. “Not unless you insult her plumage.”

The corners of Elrohir’s mouth twitched, a breath of a smile escaping before he could stop it.

He stepped forward slowly, like one approaching something sacred. His hand hovered above the small thrush, unsure.

“She won’t bite,” Legolas said again, voice low as wind through leaves. “Not unless your touch lacks grace.”

Elrohir snorted, but his hand moved closer, hesitantly brushing against the bird’s wing. The thrush tilted its head, allowing the touch with unexpected grace.

“She likes you,” Legolas murmured. “You must have a gentle soul.”

Elrohir scoffed. “That, or she’s blind.”

Legolas laughed again, softer this time, the sound more breath than voice.

Elrohir looked at him then.

Really looked.

The sunlight caught the curve of his cheek, the graceful line of his nose, the faint gleam of amusement in eyes too bright for any shadowed hall. There was no artifice in that face, no pretense, no seduction. Only a smile.

And still—

Elrohir’s voice came low, quiet as a held breath. “Don’t lie to me.”

Legolas stilled, just slightly, at the shift in tone.

Elrohir’s gaze did not falter. “You Silvan folk,” he said. “You charm birds and beasts. You sing life into trees. You look someone in the eye and make them forget what they meant to say.”

A pause.

“Surely that’s enchantment.”

A beat.

Then Legolas smiled wider, tilting his head with a gleam of mock offense. “Is that what you think of us? That we bewitch with glances and spells?”

“I think,” Elrohir said, quietly, “that you’re dangerous in ways no blade could match.”

Legolas hummed, the sound almost thoughtful, almost. A glint of mischief flickered in his eyes. “Then for your safety, my lord, you’d best keep your distance.” He let the title linger, just enough to make it clear he meant to tease.

He lifted his hand, and the thrush fluttered to the sill once more.

“But you keep coming back,” he added, not unkindly.

Elrohir lingered longer than he meant to, watching the bird hop along the sill before taking flight. The sudden quiet left the space feeling smaller, closer.

He cleared his throat. “And how have things been?” His voice was slightly strained, but earnest. “Since the guards have been assigned to your care.”

A pause.

Legolas looked at him, eyes unreadable for a beat too long. Then, gently, he smiled. “As well as one could hope, given the…hospitality.”

Elrohir frowned faintly. “You mean the guards?”

Legolas’s smile didn’t falter, but something behind it dimmed. He turned his gaze out the window again, soft and distant. “They are no worse than the walls. Or the waiting.”

“You did not answer the question,” Elrohir said.

“I answered what mattered,” Legolas replied.

Elrohir opened his mouth, then closed it again. His jaw tensed.

Legolas added, quieter now, “I did not come to Imladris to begin conflict.”

A beat of silence stretched between them.

Elrohir looked at him sharply. “So you’ll bear it all for peace?”

“I will bear what I must,” Legolas said, meeting his eyes again. “But do not mistake silence for weakness, Elrohir.”

Elrohir was quiet for a long moment. Then, more softly than usual, he asked, “Is there anything you need?”

Legolas turned his gaze to him, slow and steady. He studied Elrohir’s face, then shook his head gently. “No. Your company has been enough.”

A faint smile touched his lips, warm as early dawn. “You are a gentle soul, Elrohir. Though you wear your sharpness like a blade, it is not your truest weapon.”

Elrohir froze.

Something in him reared up, raw, wild, ashamed. The words struck somewhere he didn’t expect, somewhere too soft. He didn’t want them. Didn’t want to be seen so clearly.

His voice came colder than he intended. “You know nothing of me.”

The silence that followed was swift, and deeper than the others before it.

Legolas didn’t flinch. But the brightness in his eyes dimmed, retreating behind something calm and quiet and unspoken.

“I suppose not,” he said simply.

Elrohir stood. Too quickly.

He didn’t look back as he crossed to the door, his breath tight in his throat. The click of it closing behind him echoed louder than it should have.

Legolas remained seated by the window, his hand resting lightly on the sill where the bird had perched. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Only his silence remained.

And the ache it left behind.

The sun hung high beyond the narrow window, a pale disc veiled in thin clouds. Its light slanted into the chamber, filtered to dull grey by stone and dust. The quiet here was not peaceful, but thick, waiting.

Legolas sat with his back to the wall, the fold of his robe pooling around him like fallen leaves. He had not moved much since morning. There was nowhere to go. The cot remained untouched, though its blanket was neatly arranged. A sparrow had sung near the sill once. It had not returned.

He was humming softly, barely audible. Not for the guards. Not for the walls. Just for himself. 

Then—

The door opened.

No knock. No greeting. Just the scrape of hinges and the thud of boots.

Legolas lifted his eyes slowly.

The two guards entered.

The tall one, silent as ever, shut the door behind him. The broader one carried a tray, though he did not hold it with care. The soup sloshed with each swaggering step.

“Well, well,” the broader one said, his grin already twisted. “Still singing to shadows, are we?”

He walked forward and nudged the tray with the edge of his palm. “Hope you left room for lunch. Would be a shame to waste Lord Elrohir’s favorite bread on you.”

The tall one made a noise, almost a scoff.

“Funny, isn’t it?” the broader one continued. “How often he turns up. Lord Elrohir. Like a moth to a flame.”

He tilted his head. “Or a dog to a scent.”

The broader one didn’t stop smiling.

“Tell me, princeling,” he said, voice mock-gentle, “did your little heart flutter when the door opened? Did you hope it was your lord again?”

He stepped closer, crouching just out of reach, his grin sharp as a knife. “Did you think Lord Elrohir brought more sweets? Or maybe just came to stare at you again like you were some forest nymph caught in silk?”

The tall one let out a low laugh, short, mirthless.

“Careful,” he said under his breath. “If he stares too long, he might start thinking he’s special.”

The broader guard turned back to Legolas, voice lowering with false concern. “Oh, wait. You already do, don’t you?”

He leaned in just a little more. “Tell me. Does it make you feel powerful? Having a son of Elrond kneel to you with his eyes?”

Legolas didn’t flinch.

He stood still, hands folded neatly before him, gaze fixed just above the guard’s shoulder. Not submissive, never that, but composed. The prince of Mirkwood had long since learned how to wield silence like a blade.

“I did not realize,” he said at last, voice quiet but edged, “that the guards of Imladris made a habit of speaking ill of their lords.”

The broader guard’s smile faltered, but only for a breath. “Is that what’s rattled you?” he said, voice tightening. “Oh, little bird, we’re just calling it like we see it.”

He stepped forward, too close. “You’ve bewitched him, haven’t you? All that starlight and song, he probably thinks you’re poetry in the flesh.”

The tall one let out a low chuckle.

“Wouldn’t be the first time a pretty face got a lord to fall on his sword,” he said. “Though in your case, I’m sure you’d prefer to fall on his.”

The implication hung in the air, thick, lewd.

Legolas didn’t blink. But the corners of his mouth curved. Not in a smile.

In disappointment.

“If your pride depends on filth,” he said, voice still even, “then I understand why you wear another man’s crest to feel powerful.”

The silence that followed cracked like frost underfoot.

Then came the blow.

The tall guard didn’t shout. Didn’t lunge. He simply stepped forward and drove the edge of the tray into Legolas’s face, fast, brutal, aimed with the practiced ease of someone who had done such things before.

Metal met bone with a sickening crack.

The force split the skin just beneath his eye, snapping his head sideways. His temple struck the stone wall, the sound sharp and final. The tray clattered to the floor in the wake of the strike, soup splashing in wide arcs across the stone.

Legolas staggered. His legs buckled, and he went down on one knee, catching himself with a trembling hand. Blood poured freely now, crimson trailing down his cheek and temple, over his jaw, soaking into the collar of his robe.

He didn’t cry out.

But his breathing hitched, sharp and ragged. His fingers curled against the floor as he willed his vision to steady.

The broader guard chuckled low. “Didn’t mean to mar your face, princeling. But then again…” He stepped closer, looming over him. “Maybe that’ll remind Lord Elrohir not to touch what doesn’t belong in Imladris.”

Still, Legolas said nothing.

He knelt in silence, the blood dripping onto the floor between them.

The tall one sneered. “No clever words now?”

Legolas slowly lifted his head. Cheek already swelling, blood running freely. But the look he gave them, steady, unblinking, was not broken.

It was colder than winter.

“Leave,” he said softly.

And for a moment, just one, neither guard moved.

Then the broad one snorted, suddenly uncertain. “We’ll be back tomorrow.”

The door slammed shut behind them.

The silence that followed was total.

Legolas remained there, kneeling amid spilled soup and blood, his breath shallow but measured. He did not weep. He did not curse.

He reached slowly for the edge of the cot and pulled himself upright with quiet grace.

Then he sat.

Composed himself.

And wiped the blood from his face with the sleeve of his robe.

He did not hum this time.

He only listened, to the stillness, to the ache, to the memory of a kind voice and a silver gaze that, just for a moment, had not looked at him with scorn.

And when his breath evened, he whispered, not to be heard, not even to be believed.

“Not broken. Not yet.”

Chapter Text

The ring of steel echoed through the yard.

Blades clashed, smooth and sure, measured more for rhythm than for victory. Elrohir spun, parried, and struck again, his twin matching each movement with effortless synchronicity. The training yard was quiet but for the occasional grunt, the hiss of footwork on sand, and the breath that passed between them in beat.

Their tunics clung with sweat, their brows damp beneath the noon sun. A spar meant to clear the mind, nothing more.

At least, it had started that way.

Elrohir’s strikes had begun to grow sharper. His parries quicker, less controlled. Elladan noticed, of course. His blade slowed by a fraction, his gaze narrowing in brief concern.

“Elrohir—”

But before he could finish, voices drifted in from across the stone wall.

Low. Coarse. Laughing.

“…pretty little thing, isn’t he?”

“Did you see the way he looked at Lord Elrohir? Like he was ready to drop to his knees right there.”

“Elrohir doesn’t even need to speak, just show up, and that forest harlot starts wagging his tail.”

Elrohir stopped moving.

The tip of his blade lowered.

Elladan followed the sound, his expression hardening.

Another voice snorted. “What do you think he sings about? All those Silvan lullabies, bet they sound real nice in bed.”

The laughter that followed was loud. Cruel. The kind of laughter that grew bold with impunity.

Elrohir turned, sharp, sudden. The training blade still gripped in his hand, but forgotten.

Elladan’s voice was a warning. “Brother.”

But Elrohir was already walking.

The guards were just beyond the arch, three of them, gathered around the edge of the practice courtyard, tossing jests like dice. Their uniforms were clean. Their mouths were not.

“You find something amusing?” Elrohir’s voice cut across the space like a drawn blade.

They turned.

One of them, older, broad-shouldered, straightened too slowly. The others froze in place.

“My lord,” the guard said, attempting a smile. “Didn’t know you were—”

“Didn’t know I was what?” Elrohir stepped closer. The fury in him simmered just beneath the surface, not loud, not theatrical. Cold. Deadly. “Listening? Thinking? Capable of hearing filth in my own halls?”

The broad-shouldered guard faltered, glance darting to his fellows. “We meant no harm. Just talk.”

“Talk?” Elrohir echoed, his voice low. “You speak of a guest, of a prince, with words I would not use for a traitor. And you laugh.”

He took another step. The guard stepped back.

Elladan appeared beside his brother, his tone clipped. “Your tongues betray not only your lack of discipline, but your shame. Would you speak so if your mothers stood beside you? Or your commander?”

One of the younger guards looked away, color rising in his cheeks.

The older one bristled. “It was jest.”

“You mistake cruelty for humor,” Elladan snapped, no longer calm. “And I’ll not have it here. Not in this house. Not about him.”

Elrohir’s hand flexed around the hilt of the training sword.

“Leave,” he said.

The guards hesitated.

“Now,” Elladan added. “Before my brother forgets he holds only a practice blade.”

They scattered.

Elrohir stood in silence for a long moment after they were gone, his shoulders tense, breath shallow. The sword dangled loosely at his side.

Elladan watched him carefully.

“You knew,” Elrohir said at last, voice tight.

“Knew what?”

“That they spoke of him like that. That others do.”

Elladan didn’t answer right away.

Then, quietly: “I knew. But not that it reached you like this.”

Elrohir’s jaw clenched.

He did not say what burned on his tongue.

He only turned, and walked off the field.

“Elrohir—”

He didn’t stop.

“Elrohir!”

The second call had weight behind it, older brother to younger, not as command but as anchor. Elladan caught up in three long strides, his hand catching Elrohir’s arm just as he reached the corridor arch.

“Let go,” Elrohir bit out, spinning toward him. His eyes burned. “They speak of him like he’s—like he’s—”

“I heard them.”

“You heard them ,” Elrohir hissed. “And you’ve heard them before. Haven’t you?”

Elladan didn’t deny it.

Elrohir’s voice rose, sharp with heat. “You knew they were speaking of him that way and you did nothing?”

“I knew they whispered,” Elladan said evenly. “I did not know it had turned to rot.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“No,” Elladan agreed. “It isn’t.”

Elrohir tried to pull free again, but Elladan held firm, not hard, not forceful, but steady. Like always.

“Let me go,” Elrohir said, his voice cracking at the edges. “I need to see him. I need to know—”

Elladan’s voice was quiet, but absolute. “Not like this.”

Elrohir’s jaw clenched. His shoulders were rigid, fury vibrating just beneath the skin. “He’s being mocked. Humiliated. In our halls. And for what? For breathing too beautifully? For being kind?”

“For being different,” Elladan said softly. “And for being seen.”

Elrohir stilled.

Elladan didn’t let go. “Do you think no one has noticed your glances? Your visits? The way you look at him?”

Elrohir turned his face away, but Elladan continued. “They see it. The ones who fear him. The ones who resent what he is. And they strike where they think he’s weakest.”

“I won’t let them.”

“You already didn’t,” Elladan said. “You stopped them. You spoke. And now you breathe. ” He stepped closer. “You storm into that room with anger bleeding off your skin, and he will see that fury. And he will think it’s his fault.”

Elrohir froze.

“He doesn’t need fire,” Elladan said. “He needs stillness. He needs to be seen, not defended like a wounded thing.”

The silence between them held.

Elrohir’s chest rose and fell, sharp and quick, but slower now. His hands slowly unclenched.

“I hate them,” he said quietly. “All of them. For what they say. For what they think.”

“I know.”

A beat passed. Then Elladan gave a small nudge with his shoulder. “Come. The archery lanes are quiet this time of day. Let me lose to you again. It’ll soothe your wounded pride.”

Elrohir let out a breath, half a huff, half a reluctant laugh. “You never win.”

“Today might be the day.”

“It won’t.”

Still, he followed.

And for the rest of that afternoon, they stayed beneath the pines, letting arrows fly into silence. Elrohir’s aim was true, but his heart felt steadier. Elladan’s presence had always been a balm, not to banish the fire, but to keep it from devouring him whole.

The room was dimmer than usual.

Clouds had thickened outside the narrow window, casting a dull pall over the stone walls. The scent of dried herbs still clung faintly to the corners, but it did little to lift the mood. Legolas sat on the edge of the cot, spine straight, hands folded loosely in his lap. He had not moved much today.

The bruise from the earlier assault had deepened. It spread like ink beneath his pale skin, purpling just beneath the eye where the edge of the tray had struck him. A cut traced beneath it, thin but sharp, now scabbed at the edge.

Footsteps came again.

He did not need to look up to know who it was.

The guards entered without knocking, just like yesterday. And the day before. The same two.

“Look at that face,” said the broader one, his voice curling with mockery. “Did we go too hard on the poor little prince? He’s gone all quiet.”

“A shame,” added the tall one. “You were prettier when you glared. Now you look like a kicked fawn.”

They moved forward with the confidence of those who feared no consequence. The tray, again balanced carelessly, tilted in the taller elf’s hands. Legolas finally looked up, just briefly.

That was enough.

“There it is,” the taller one said. “That bruise is coming along nicely. What do you think? Purple suits him, doesn’t it?”

Then, without ceremony, the tray was dropped.

Not flung, but released. Intentionally just high enough to make the impact harsh.

The metal clanged against the stone, the noise loud and jarring in the stillness. Legolas flinched at the sound despite himself.

Bread rolled beneath the cot. The bowl of soup wobbled violently and tipped, but did not spill completely. The glass cup, however, hit the ground hard, spun once, and shattered.

Glass exploded outward, shards scattering across the floor in a jagged constellation of pale green and clear slivers. One piece bounced against the wall, another skidded beneath the bed.

“Oops,” said the tall one, voice dry with mockery. “You should really be more careful, princeling.”

The broader elf chuckled cruelly. “Go on. Clean it up. That’s your supper.”

Legolas didn’t move.

The broader guard's smile faded. “What, nothing today?” he asked, mock offense in his voice. “No clever little quip? No lecture about honor from the woods?”

The tall one snorted. “Maybe we knocked the poetry out of him.”

They moved in closer, the air in the room changing. Not loud. Not fast. Just colder.

A small tap at the window interrupted them.

Three soft raps, delicate and precise.

All three looked up.

Perched on the outer ledge was the small grey bird, wings folded neatly, head cocked. The same bird that had visited before, the one that always seemed to return. It chirped once, quiet and clear, like a question.

Legolas’s posture changed. Barely, but it changed.

A breath. A softening.

The faintest upward twitch of his fingers, as if to beckon the bird to go.

It hopped closer, peering through the glass.

The taller guard's expression twisted. “Oh, look,” he drawled.

The broader one turned. “That’s the bird he sings to, isn’t it?”

Legolas stood. Slowly. Still silent.

“Stay away from it, it has done nothing to you,” he said softly.

They ignored him.

The tall one crossed to the window, unlatching it with one hand. “You know, I’ve never liked birds. Filthy little things. Always watching. Always twitching.”

The thrush chirped once, sharp, almost a warning.

Legolas took a step forward. “Please—”

But it was too late.

With a swift motion, the tall guard slammed the window inward.

There was a sharp, sickening crunch.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Feathers drifted gently to the floor.

For the first time since his arrival, Legolas broke.

His breath hitched, not like a sob, but something quieter. Guttural. Like a sound swallowed before it could fully form. His eyes did not shine with tears. But they went glassy, unfocused, stunned.

He took another step forward, then stopped, hands clenched, trembling.

The tall guard let the crumpled body fall from the sill. It hit the stone with a soft, indecent thud.

“No more singing,” the guard said, brushing his hands off. “No more friends.”

The bird did not move.

Neither did Legolas.

The guards laughed, their mirth like grit between the teeth.

Legolas knelt, slowly, gaze fixed on the small, still form beside the shattered glass. One hand hovered above the limp bird, fingers curling in grief that had no sound.

But as he reached forward—

A boot came down.

Hard.

The broad guard slammed his foot atop Legolas’s hand, grinding it mercilessly into the shards.

There was a sickening crunch, glass and bone together.

Legolas cried out, sharp, involuntary, ripped from his throat like breath stolen by flame.

Blood bloomed instantly across the floor, vivid against the grey stone. His palm had split open on a jagged shard, a long, deep gash slicing through flesh.

The taller guard knelt beside him, sneering. “Still think you’re above us?” he whispered, low and cruel. “Still think singing makes you special?”

Legolas gritted his teeth, eyes clenched shut. He did not speak.

The broad guard twisted his boot once more for good measure before stepping back, leaving behind blood, glass, and silence.

Legolas collapsed forward slightly, cradling his mangled hand to his chest. Blood dripped freely, pattering onto the floor, staining his robe. His breath came ragged and short, but his face remained unreadable.

“I wonder,” the tall one murmured as he stood, “how long before there’s nothing left of you to shatter.”

And with that, they left. The door slammed behind them.

He did not move for a long time.

The blood pooled beneath him, the little bird resting beside the red. Only then did his shoulders shake, not from pain. But from the effort of holding himself still.

His breath hitched, soft, shallow. A sound barely audible, as if his ribs had learned to weep before his eyes did.

He reached for the bird with fingers that trembled, stained crimson and lined with glass. The feathers were still warm. Still soft. He cupped the small body in both hands, drawing it close to his chest like something sacred. As if he could will life back into it through reverence alone.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

The words cracked, too dry to carry weight. His voice had not been used in hours.

“Forgive me.”

He curled forward, slowly, like a tree folding over a buried root. His forehead touched the bird’s still wings.

“I was careful. I tried.”

A single tear slipped past his lashes. Then another. Not loud. Not gasping. Just silent grief, raw and real and heartbreakingly small.

For all the wounds they gave him, this one had pierced deepest.

The little bird had asked for nothing.

And still, it had stayed.

Now it never would again.

Chapter Text

The corridors were dim with morning haze.

Elrohir moved swiftly, cloak half-fastened, boots nearly silent on the stone. His hair was still damp from a too-hasty wash, his belt askew. He walked with purpose, but his expression gave him away, something tense around the mouth. Restless.

He didn’t make it to the next turn.

“Going somewhere?” came a voice behind him, dry, amused, and unmistakably familiar.

Elrohir halted with a sigh, closing his eyes for a breath before turning. “You’re up early.”

Elladan leaned against the corridor wall, arms crossed over his chest. He looked too composed for the hour, which meant he had either not slept or had risen on purpose. Probably the latter.

“Only because someone stomped down the stairs like a stormcloud,” Elladan said, pushing off the wall. He fell into step beside him easily. “You do realize subtlety involves not waking half the floor.”

“I didn’t wake anyone.”

“You woke me. ”

“That’s hardly difficult,” Elrohir muttered.

Elladan raised a brow. “Rude.”

Elrohir sighed, tugging his cloak tighter. “I didn’t mean to wake you. You don’t have to come.”

Elladan ignored that entirely. “So. The princeling?”

Elrohir gave him a look. “Do not call him that.”

“Fair. He’s not very princely. Too quiet. Too sharp.” He paused, then added, “Too pretty.”

Elrohir’s ears turned slightly pink.

Elladan grinned but kept his tone gentle. “Are you sure you want to go now? You’re still storming a bit.”

“I’m not storming.”

“You’re brooding, then. Slightly better, but still dangerous around him.”

“I just want to check on him.”

Elladan nodded once, letting the teasing ease. “Then I’ll come too.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

Elrohir hesitated.

But he didn’t argue.

They turned down the corridor together, footsteps soft in tandem, bound for the lower wing, toward the door Elrohir now knew better than he ever thought he would.

They reached Legolas’s chamber almost in silence. The corridor beyond the door was unexpectedly guarded; two sentries stood at attention, startled by the unexpected arrival of Elladan and Elrohir. Their eyes widened, and voices hushed as the brothers stepped forward.

“Good morning,” Elladan said coolly, though his tone bore an undercurrent of concern. The guards exchanged nervous glances, their composure faltering.

One guard, older, with darting eyes, opened the door cautiously.

Inside, the chamber’s dim light cast long shadows over the floor. Legolas sat on the edge of a low cot, his back turned from them. His robes, once neat, were now marred by dark splashes of blood. The unmistakable scent of crushed porridge and bitter iron hung in the air. He clutched something close to his chest, a limp, fallen form with soft, downy feathers scattered around.

A deathly silence reigned. Elrohir’s heart pounded as the guards stepped aside.

“Legolas?” Elrohir softly called out.

At the sound, Legolas slowly turned. His face, once so composed and distant, was now a mask of deep, raw grief. A harsh bruise on his cheek marred his features, and his hand, bearing fresh cuts and jagged shards of glass. In his arms lay the tiny, lifeless form of his bird companion, its delicate body a silent testament to the cruelty inflicted upon her.

For a long, aching moment, neither twin spoke. Elladan’s eyes filled with a tender sorrow as he took in the sight, while Elrohir’s anger, confusion, and regret mingled in a storm behind his gaze.

“Legolas,” Elrohir said softly, stepping forward. His voice cracked, uncharacteristically unsure. “What happened?”

At the sound, Legolas shifted slightly but did not rise. His arms remained curled protectively around the small, feathered body at his chest. His bloodied hand trembled faintly where it cradled the bird, but he made no move to hide it.

“I asked it to go,” Legolas murmured, barely audible. “I thought if it left, they would leave it be.”

Elrohir stopped in his tracks, eyes drawn to the red that stained Legolas’s robe, the smudged dark purple bruise on his cheek, the swollen hand wrapped around the limp bird. His fury returned, but Elladan’s hand on his shoulder kept him still.

Legolas lifted his gaze slowly. His eyes were glassy but dry, the edges ringed with exhaustion. “It stayed. Even when I told it not to. And they…” His voice faltered. “They made sure it wouldn’t sing again.”

Elladan approached quietly, crouching down a short distance away. “You’re hurt,” he said gently. “Your hand, your face…”

Legolas looked down at the blood, as though just now remembering it. “I did not cry out,” he said. “Not until—” He stopped. “It was just an innocent creature.”

Legolas looked up at him then, not with anger, but with something far quieter, far older. A sorrow that did not rage, only settled like fog.

“I do not understand,” he said softly. “How one who walks beneath starlight could be so cruel to a child of the earth.”

Elrohir did not speak.

Legolas looked down again, cradling the broken body of the bird in his hands.

“She asked for nothing,” he murmured. “Not song. Not food. Only to exist.”

His thumb brushed gently over a smudged feather. “And still, they saw her as nothing.”

There was no accusation in his voice. Only a kind of ache Elrohir could not name, and the faint, bitter note of disbelief that such things were done in a house meant to be safe.

“We should tend your wounds,” Elladan said at last, gently. “Let us help.”

Legolas did not respond at first.

His fingers curled more tightly around the small body in his lap, as though fearing they might take it from him under the guise of aid.

Elrohir stepped forward, slowly, cautiously kneeling beside him. “We won’t take her,” he said, voice lower now. “Not unless you ask us to.”

Only then did Legolas shift, loosening his grip enough to show the bird’s form more clearly, but he did not release it.

“I do not wish to part with her,” he said quietly. “Not yet.”

Elladan exchanged a glance with Elrohir, nodding faintly before standing again.

Elrohir stayed close.

“I’ll call for healers,” Elladan murmured, already turning toward the door.

But Elrohir stood first, storm rising in his chest.

He flung open the door and barked to the guards stationed there, his voice sharp enough to draw startled attention from nearby servants. “Water. Salves. Clean bandages. Now.”

He didn’t wait for them to respond before adding, cold and clear: “And find Glorfindel. Tell him to come.”

The guards didn’t hesitate this time. They scrambled.

When Elrohir turned back, Elladan was crouched again, slowly peeling back the stained fabric from Legolas’s injured hand. Blood clung to the sleeve. The worst shard, embedded along the lifeline of the palm, glimmered faintly, rimmed in red.

“We should have come sooner,” Elladan murmured. His hands were steady despite the weight of his words. “We should have seen it.”

Legolas flinched when the shard came free, the muscles in his jaw tightening, but he made no sound.

When the door reopened, two young servants entered at a brisk pace, carrying bowls, linen, and satchels of salve. Behind them came Glorfindel.

He stopped dead in the doorway.

His eyes swept the room in a single, blistering pass. The blood. The bruises. The broken prince.

And the bird.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty, it was sharp .

Glorfindel’s gaze found Elrohir’s first. It did not soften. Then Elladan’s. A storm brewed behind his stillness.

He stepped fully into the room, jaw tight, voice quiet but full of command. “Lord Elrond. Now.”

One of the healers looked up, startled. “My lord?”

“You heard me,” Glorfindel said, not raising his voice, but making no room for misunderstanding. “I want Lord Elrond in this room. Immediately.”

Legolas still did not look up.

He sat still, the bird pressed to his chest, his injured hand trembling faintly beneath the weight of the care it now received.

And in that stillness, not even the boldest among them dared to speak out of turn.

The silence broke only with shallow breaths and the soft clink of glass on porcelain as Elladan gently placed another shard into the basin.

Elrohir sat close, his fingers steady despite the blood smearing his hands. He held Legolas’s wrist just firm enough to keep it still, the touch reverent, the fury in his veins caged only by the fragility of the hand he tended.

“You should have called for someone,” he murmured, not expecting an answer.

Legolas said nothing. His eyes remained downcast, focused on the little bird in his arms, his thumb brushing gently over a folded wing as though the creature still breathed.

Another shard. Another thread of blood.

From the corridor came the rustle of purposeful steps.

The door opened.

Elrond entered without a word, the edge of his robes still stirred from the wind outside, his gaze sweeping the room with practiced, clinical precision. A breath behind him came Erestor, composed, but far from calm. His expression was a mask, unreadable, yet his silence carried weight like a drawn cord. He glanced toward Glorfindel, and in that brief exchange, something passed between them.

Elrond’s gaze swept over the basin of blood, the crushed cup, the faintly smeared bootprint on the floor. And then it settled on Legolas, his bruised face, the glass-laced hand, and the small, broken body he cradled with such aching care.

Still, Legolas did not look up.

Neither twin spoke. Elladan continued his work with careful hands. Elrohir’s jaw was tight, but his focus did not waver from the torn flesh beneath his fingers.

Elrond’s voice, when it came, was low. “Who did this?”

Elrohir stood.

The basin clattered as he moved, water sloshing against its rim. His hands were still red, his hands trembling, not from fear, but the sheer force of restraint breaking loose.

“You dare ask that now?” he snapped, voice sharp as a drawn blade. “When this happened under your roof? Under your watch?”

Elrond’s gaze did not waver. “I am asking who.”

“You want names?” Elrohir’s voice rose. “You want the names of the guards that bring him his food, who walk in and mock him, who dropped his tray and crushed his hand into shards and killed the only creature that showed him kindness?”

Elladan looked up, but said nothing. He knew better than to interrupt his brother now.

“Your silence let this happen,” Elrohir hissed. “And you will not keep him here like this a moment longer. He is to be moved. Now. To a proper guest chamber. One befitting his station.”

Elrond’s eyes narrowed. “He is not a guest.”

Glorfindel’s voice cut across the room like a sudden wind.

“I will deal with the guards,” he said, low and cold. “That is not in question.”

The silence that followed was brittle, like thin ice.

But Erestor stepped forward then, quiet, deliberate, his tone even and crisp. “Then let us end this argument with reason,” he said, gaze flicking between father and son. “Legolas is injured. The healers require light, space, and peace. Move him to a guest wing. Post your most trusted guards if you must. But do not keep him in this empty room.”

His words hung with sharp diplomacy. Not quite a reprimand, not quite a plea. But it worked.

Elrond’s jaw tightened. He turned his gaze once more toward the figure hunched on the cot, bruised, bloodied, cradling a bird as if it were the last thing in the world that belonged to him.

“He may have a guest room,” he said at last.

He turned to one of the attending servants. “The western wing. Third floor. The chamber near the archives.”

Elrohir stiffened. That room was sparse. Barely furnished. Cold.

“A room unfit —”

“It is not a cell,” Elrond interrupted, voice like stone. “That will have to suffice.”

Elrohir opened his mouth again, but Elladan’s hand on his arm held him still.

Legolas had not looked up.

But his thumb still brushed the feathers of the bird in his arms, slow, gentle, as though in apology.

Glorfindel had not spoken again. Not since promising justice.

But his eyes had drifted, past the blood, past the broken glass, to the soft, broken form in Legolas’s arms.

A bird. No larger than a closed fist. Grey-feathered and delicate.

And yet Legolas held it as though it were a jewel.

Glorfindel’s breath caught.

Not at the brutality, he had seen that before. But at the tenderness. The grief.

He watched as Legolas’s thumb moved across a bent wing with reverent care, even through pain. As though mourning something sacred, not small. As though his silence was an offering.

He bowed his head for a moment, brief, but real. A warrior’s respect for another warrior’s sorrow.

Elladan’s voice came next, soft as breath. “Prince Legolas,” he said gently, the use of his title not missed by everyone in the room. He crouched again by the cot, “we need to move you now. The healers will be waiting. Somewhere quieter.”

The prince did not respond at first.

Then slowly, achingly, he nodded.

But his arms did not loosen from the bird.

Elladan reached out. “Let me,” he murmured.

Legolas’s gaze lifted, not pleading, not resisting. Just hesitant.

Elladan cupped his hands around the small creature, lifting it with care as though it were still warm. A bloodstained feather clung to his sleeve. From his pocket, he drew a clean cloth, silken and soft, and wrapped the body gently within it.

“We’ll bury it,” he promised, voice low, close to the prince’s ear. “Somewhere quiet. With songs, if you wish.”

Legolas gave no answer. But his shoulders trembled faintly. That was enough.

Elladan passed the cloth bundle to Glorfindel, who took it in silence with a warrior’s honor.

“Come,” Elladan said softly, reaching again.

This time, Legolas let him.

Elrohir stepped forward immediately, offering his other side. Together, the twins lifted him, gingerly, careful of his hand. No ceremony. Just quiet care.

Legolas leaned into their hold, too weary to feign strength.

They turned for the door.

Behind them, Elrond still stood, silent as a statue.

He did not speak. He did not follow.

Only watched.

And when the door closed behind them, the room felt colder than before.

The hall was quiet, but not empty.

As Elladan and Elrohir guided Legolas through the long corridor, whispers stirred like dry leaves behind them. Healers and aides paused where they stood, heads turning. A few guards straightened, others lowered their eyes too late.

The prince’s bloodied robes drew the first glance.

The bruises on his face, the linen-wrapped hand, the way he leaned, slowly, carefully, into the support of Elrohir’s arm drew the second.

Legolas did not meet any gaze.

His head was bowed, golden hair falling forward like a curtain, shielding his expression. He walked with careful steps, not quite limping, but close. His breath was shallow and uneven. But he kept walking.

Elrohir remained close at his side, his hand a steady anchor at the prince’s back, guiding, not pushing. His movements were uncharacteristically gentle, as though afraid to jar something already cracked. Now and then, he murmured something low, meaningless things. Reassurance. Direction. Quiet threads of steadiness, offered with care.

Elladan walked on Legolas’s other side, silent, but alert. His eyes swept the corridor, noting every glance. Every whisper. Every elf who looked and then looked away.

He saw Elrohir’s hand hover briefly when Legolas stumbled. Saw the way his brother leaned just slightly closer, eyes fixed on Legolas’s face instead of the passage ahead. Protective. Focused.

Too focused.

Elladan said nothing, but his gaze lingered.

At the end of the corridor, an open door waited, a guest chamber not grand, but warm enough, tucked away from the busiest halls. Clean linens, new robes, a small hearth already lit. It was not fit for a prince of Mirkwood. But it was not a prison.

They stepped inside together.

Elrohir helped Legolas to the edge of the bed, easing him down slowly. His hand remained at the prince’s back a moment longer than necessary. When he pulled away, it was with a reluctance that did not go unnoticed.

Elladan shut the door behind them with a soft click.

For now, the whispers were shut out. But the weight they carried lingered in the silence between them.

Legolas sat on the edge of the bed, his posture rigid despite the tremble in his limbs. His head remained bowed, pale hair curtaining his face. One arm rested in his lap, cradling his injured hand. 

He said nothing.

The fire in the hearth crackled quietly, casting warm light that could not reach him.

Elrohir lowered himself to one knee before him, his movement slow, deliberate. He didn’t speak at first. Just watched him, watched the way Legolas’s shoulders were drawn tight, how he refused to look up, how the grief hung over him like frost.

Then, quietly, “Legolas.”

No response.

Elrohir’s brow furrowed. “You’re safe here.”

Still, Legolas did not look at him.

A long moment passed. Then, so softly it was nearly lost to the fire’s hiss:

“It did nothing wrong.”

The words cracked in his throat, brittle with disbelief.

Elladan stood nearby, silent. His arms were folded loosely, his gaze resting not on the fire, nor on the injured hand or bruises, but on Elrohir, on the gentleness in his brother’s voice, the way his anger had quieted into something deeper. And as he watched, something softened in his own expression.

Legolas’s voice came again, barely a whisper. “It sang. It listened. It never harmed a soul. It was kind. And they—”

His breath hitched. A tear slipped free, trailing down his bruised cheek. He did not wipe it away.

“I don’t understand,” he whispered. “Why they would…why something so small must suffer for their cruelty.”

Elrohir’s breath caught.

Something in that moment, quiet, trembling, unbearably pure, shook the anger from him. He didn’t know what moved him to do it, only that the ache in his chest demanded it.

Without thinking, he reached forward.

His hands, so often steady in battle, in healing, closed gently around Legolas’. One atop the linen-wrapped wound, the other cupping the smaller hand beneath it.

Warm. Anchoring.

Legolas flinched at first, but didn’t pull away.

His fingers slowly curled beneath Elrohir’s palms, barely there.

Another tear fell.

“I am tired,” he said softly. “And I do not know how to be angry.”

Elrohir bowed his head, eyes fixed on the hands between them. “Then let me be angry for you.”

Across the room, Elladan said nothing.

But the weight in his eyes spoke volumes.

Not pity. Not surprise. But recognition.

He had always known his brother’s heart, long before Elrohir had dared to understand it himself.

And now, seeing it laid bare in the quiet way Elrohir knelt, hands steady, voice soft, Elladan finally let out a slow breath.

It had begun.

Chapter Text

The chamber was warm, but Legolas still shivered.

Not from cold, but from the residue of pain, the strain of holding himself upright, the silence that clung to him like wet ash.

He sat with care on the edge of the bed, his posture straight from habit rather than strength. The fire crackled softly in the hearth. A tray of supplies had been laid on the nearby table, clean linens, salves, water, a basin of polished brass. Everything prepared.

There was a knock at the door, soft, respectful.

Elrohir glanced at Legolas, who gave no reaction, and moved to open it.

Two healers entered, one older, one barely more than an apprentice. Both wore the muted robes of their order, with sleeves rolled and hair tied back. They paused at the threshold, bowing slightly when they saw the prince, then exchanged a brief glance at the sight of the bandaged hand, the bruises, the hollow quiet that filled the room.

Elrohir said nothing, but nodded once. They understood.

The older healer stepped forward first, moving with a careful grace. “If we may, my lord,” he said quietly, his voice gentle, directed to Legolas alone.

Legolas did not answer. But he did not protest either.

Elrohir returned to his side, kneeling once more before him. “Let me unwrap it,” he said, already reaching for the makeshift linen. “They’ll be quick.”

His voice was lower now, soothing, steady, with none of the fury that had laced it earlier. His hands were deft but careful, peeling the wrappings free with a reverence that was not lost on either healer.

The older healer knelt beside him and examined the hand. “Deeper than I expected,” he murmured, reaching for a vial of antiseptic balm. “Some of these should have been stitched.”

“They weren’t given the chance,” Elrohir said, voice tight.

Behind them, Elladan leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, one ankle hooked over the other. His eyes did not leave the scene before him.

He watched Elrohir work, not only with skill, but with tenderness born of long practice. Both he and his brother had been trained by their father in the healing arts, and it showed. Elrohir’s fingers moved with precision, tilting Legolas’s hand just so, shielding the worst of the pressure with his own touch. He murmured something again, so quiet Elladan could not hear it, but whatever it was made Legolas blink slowly, the sharp line of his shoulders easing just a little.

The apprentice healer moved to the basin and soaked a cloth, handing it to Elrohir without a word. He pressed it to the bruises on Legolas’s face, brushing the cloth with the barest pressure across the swelling cheekbone and the cut above his eye.

Legolas didn’t flinch.

But he didn’t look up, either.

Elladan’s gaze narrowed faintly, not in judgment, but in awareness. This was not the first time Elrohir had tended wounds. But it was the first time he had done so while forgetting to breathe.

The older healer extracted a thin silver needle and glanced to Elrohir. “A few of these should be closed. You may wish to—”

“I’ll do it,” Elrohir said.

His voice was calm. Unmoving.

The healer hesitated, then nodded, passing him the thread and disinfected hook.

As Elrohir threaded the first stitch, Elladan finally spoke, quietly, just loud enough to reach his brother.

“You’ve steadied your hands.”

Elrohir didn’t look up. “They had to be.”

The thread pulled clean through torn skin, neat and fast. Legolas exhaled slowly but said nothing.

Elladan remained where he was. Still and silent.

The stitches were clean and tight.

Elrohir trimmed the thread with a small blade, then gently pressed a cooling salve over the raw, swollen edges of the cut. He worked in silence, his hands steady despite the gnawing unease in his chest. Beside him, the elder healer murmured quiet instructions to the apprentice, who had begun binding Legolas’s wrist in soft linen, layering gauze over the deeper bruises with practiced care.

“There will be stiffness,” the elder said gently, addressing Legolas at last. “Use it sparingly, if at all, for at least three days. The bruises may worsen before they ease. Ice, when you wake. Warm cloths before you sleep. And rest, my lord.”

His tone was kind, measured, as if speaking to a wounded fawn.

Legolas dipped his head faintly. “Thank you,” he said, voice quiet but clear. “You have been very gentle.”

The apprentice flushed at the words, bowing his head.

“We are honored to serve,” the elder said, then stood with a quiet rustle of robes. “If there is pain, or if the bandages need changing, send word.”

Elrohir rose alongside him and stepped back. The fire still crackled. Legolas’s breathing had grown more even, though his posture remained upright, formal, despite everything. Despite the pain.

The door opened softly.

A servant entered, young, carrying a neatly folded stack of tunics and robes. His eyes flicked once to Legolas’s face and then quickly down.

“My lords,” he said, bowing. “These were brought from the lower wing. Sleeping clothes and fresh linens.” He laid the bundle carefully on the chest at the foot of the bed. 

The robes were plain, woven from undyed wool and linen, without embroidery or sigil. The sort given to house servants or the youngest scribes.

Legolas’s gaze lingered on them for a moment.

He did not speak of them.

“Leave us,” Elrohir said, voice polite but short.

The servant bowed again and disappeared.

A silence followed.

Then, with quiet formality, Legolas turned his gaze to the twins. His voice was low, but not strained.

“If it is alright with you, my lords,” he said, “I’d like to rest.”

Elladan moved first. “Of course.”

Elrohir nodded and stepped forward, retrieving one of the simple sleeping tunics. “Do you want help changing?”

Legolas hesitated.

Then, with a faint shake of his head, he murmured, “No, I can manage.”

His voice was steady, but something about it rang hollow. His fingers moved to the clasps of his robe, but they fumbled. He winced as fabric brushed his wounded palm, and the stiffness of his bruised ribs made it difficult to lift his arms. Still, he pressed on, trying to peel the bloodied garment from his shoulders with slow, aching movements.

Elladan remained silent, but his eyes followed every motion.

Legolas tried again, tugging the fabric free, but the sleeve caught on the bandaged hand, and he bit back a breath as pain flared down his arm.

That was enough.

Elrohir stepped forward and gently caught the edge of the robe, voice soft but firm. “Let us help.”

“I said—” Legolas began, but his protest broke on a breath. He didn’t argue again.

Between them, the twins eased the soiled robe from his frame. They worked with quiet care, Elrohir lifting the fabric over his arms, Elladan folding it swiftly and setting it aside as if it were not stained with dried blood and soot.

Elrohir helped slip the clean tunic over his head, careful of the bruises across his back and the dressing on his hand. It was too large and plain, but the fabric was clean, and Legolas did not complain.

When it was done, Elladan guided him gently toward the bed.

Legolas sat with deliberate care, breathing shallowly as he adjusted his weight. His shoulders remained tense, and one hand clutched the edge of the blanket to steady himself.

Then the door opened.

Four guards entered, two stepping just inside, two remaining at the threshold.

One bowed stiffly. “By Lord Elrond’s order,” he announced. “Two will remain posted inside at all times. The others at the door.”

Elrohir’s eyes narrowed. “This chamber is guarded enough.”

“Orders, my lord,” the guard said, gaze unmoving. “We are to remain until further notice.”

Legolas said nothing.

But he turned, slowly, and looked at them.

Not frightened. Not pleading.

Only quiet. And cold.

His stare held the stillness of deep winter, the kind that silences forests and stills breath, eerily like the ones King Thranduil was infamous for. The guards shifted beneath it.

Then, without a word, he turned his gaze to the fire. And then to the floor.

He did not lie back. He did not complain.

But his fingers curled around the blanket, slow and precise, the motion calm as ice cracking beneath weight.

Elladan turned slightly, shielding him from view with his shoulder. “He’s trying to rest.”

“We won’t interfere.”

“You already are,” Elrohir snapped, his voice low but edged like a blade.

The guards said nothing more. They moved to take their positions, silent and watchful, the door swinging shut behind them.

And still, Legolas did not lie down.

He sat stiff-backed on the bed, shoulders rigid, the flicker of the firelight casting long shadows on the wall behind him.

Only when Elrohir sat beside him again, and gently touched his uninjured arm, did he shift.

Only then did he let himself ease down into the sheets.

The silence held for a few breaths more, quiet, but not heavy.

Then Legolas murmured, “Thank you. Both of you.”

Elrohir glanced down, his expression unreadable, before reaching once more for Legolas’s uninjured hand. He cupped it gently between both of his own, thumb brushing lightly over the back of it.

“I’ll return later,” he said, voice low. “With dinner. Something warm. And sweet, if they’ve anything left from the kitchens.”

Legolas shook his head faintly. “You need not trouble yourself—”

“I will,” Elrohir interrupted, the words soft but firm. “You’ve had enough cold for one day.”

From where he stood near the hearth, Elladan gave a soft snort. “Don’t bother arguing,” he said lightly. “Once his mind’s set, the Valar themselves would have better luck changing the wind.”

Legolas’s lips curved, just barely, but it was a smile nonetheless. Small. Real.  “I see,” he said softly, voice edged with faint mirth. “Then I suppose I must accept my fate.”

Elrohir’s fingers curled a little more securely around his. “Only if it means a full stomach.”

“Stubborn Noldor,” Legolas whispered, and this time the smile lingered just a little longer.

Elladan looked away, but the corners of his mouth lifted. Just slightly.

The door closed behind them with a soft click, and the quiet of the corridor pressed in around them. Elrohir stood still for a breath, shoulders tight, jaw clenched.

Then he moved.

Not with grace. Not with poise. But with cold, sharp purpose.

Elladan’s eyes narrowed. He recognized the shift, felt it in his bones. Elrohir’s back had straightened, but not in calm. His steps, though swift, were not driven by concern. They were driven by wrath barely leashed.

“Elrohir,” Elladan said quickly, stepping in beside him, trying to match his pace. “Where are you—?”

His brother didn’t answer.

“Elrohir.” A hand reached out, catching his arm. “You need to stop. Not like this.”

But Elrohir shook him off without a word, cloak flaring behind him like stormclouds gathered at his heels.

Only the echo of footfalls as they turned down a corridor and into the eastern courtyard, where stone met sunlight and wind stirred the trees beyond the colonnade.

The guards were there.

Not all. Just two.

The two .

The ones who had stood inside the chamber. The ones who had spilled the food. The ones who had laughed. And worse,  worse , the ones who had—

Elrohir’s chest burned as he closed the distance.

One looked up at the sound of boots. Saw his face. Straightened too late.

“You,” Elrohir snapped.

They froze.

“You murdered it.”

The older of the two blinked slowly. “My lord?”

“The bird,” Elrohir said, voice like frostbite. “The thrush that came to his window. That trusted him.”

He stepped forward.

“You shattered the glass. You spilled his blood. And then you crushed his hand beneath your heel like refuse.”

The younger guard flinched, color draining from his face. But the elder one held his ground, mouth twitching with something near disdain.

“It was a bird,” he said flatly. “Not worth these dramatics, my lord.”

Elrohir’s stare turned to steel.

“It was a living thing,” he said, voice low. “The only comfort in that room. You saw him tend to it. Feed it. Let it land on his hand.” His eyes burned. “You saw it choose him. And still, you killed it.”

The elder guard shrugged, slow and unapologetic. “He’s not a child. And perhaps if he hadn’t made such a show of talking to birds, we wouldn’t have mistaken it for…something unnatural.”

The younger guard shifted, nervous. “We thought maybe it was a message-bird. A trick. Some Silvan spell—”

Elrohir turned on him. “And that justifies smashing it to pulp?”

The elder scoffed, then raised his voice, taunting. “He’s Thranduil’s whelp. Perhaps the bird was trained to spy, wood-elves don’t need blades when they have their tricks. We’ve all heard their songs to trees, seen the way their eyes glow like foxfire. They don’t speak, they weave . Lies, enchantments…whatever gets them what they want.”

His smile twisted, mean and deliberate. “Or whoever. Wouldn’t be the first time one of their kind bewitched his way into a noble’s bed.”

Elrohir stopped a breath away.

“Say that again,” he said.

The guard’s mouth twitched, mocking. “I said perhaps—”

He didn’t finish.

Elrohir’s fist slammed into his jaw.

The sound was sharp, bone against bone, a crack of fury restrained too long. The guard reeled back, crashing into the wall, clutching his face with a choked grunt.

The younger one flinched, instinctively reaching for his sword, but Elrohir was already on him, not with steel, but with a stare like ice drawn from a blade’s edge.

“You’ve bruised him. Humiliated him. Killed what little joy was left to him.” His voice dropped, low, deathly calm. “And you speak to me of glowing eyes and forest spells?”

The older guard groaned from the floor, blood trickling from his lip, but Elrohir didn’t spare him a glance.

He stepped closer again, slow and cold, staring both of them down.

“You enjoyed it. Every moment.”

Neither answered.

“If I see either of you near his door again,” Elrohir said softly, “you’ll answer to me. Not my father. Not Glorfindel. Me.”

A long pause.

“And I,” he finished, voice like steel through velvet, “am not as merciful.”

The elder guard spat blood and let out a low, breathless laugh, mocking even through the pain.

“Well struck, Lord Elrohir,” he sneered, lip curled. “No wonder he pines for you. All those bruises…perhaps he likes it rough. Or do you?”

Elrohir didn’t hesitate.

His fist struck again, harder this time. The crack echoed off the stone, knuckles splitting open against the guard’s cheekbone.

The guard crumpled, groaning, but Elrohir was already pulling back for a third blow, eyes burning with something dark and livid—

“Elrohir!”

A hand caught his wrist, tight, firm, unyielding.

Elladan.

He had come at a run, breath sharp in his throat, and now stood between his brother and the broken guard, holding him back by the arm.

“Elrohir,” Elladan said again, voice low but commanding. “Enough.”

For a moment, Elrohir did not move.

His chest heaved, hand still balled into a fist, blood slicking his knuckles. The fury on his face was near feral, protective, righteous, wounded.

Then he exhaled through his teeth and stepped back, trembling with the effort.

The guard groaned again, slumped against the wall, eye swelling shut.

Elladan released his brother’s arm slowly, but kept himself between them, watching, steady, unreadable.

“I’m fine,” Elrohir muttered, shaking off the blood from his hand.

Elladan didn’t answer. But the look he gave the guard was as cold as steel drawn beneath starlight.

“Calm yourself,” he said to Elrohir, voice quiet, but edged like a honed blade. “Vermin like this do not deserve your fury. Or your attention.”

The guard growled low, wiping blood from his mouth.

But Elladan’s eyes turned on him, flat, glacial, and contemptuous.

“You think yourselves bold,” he said. “But I see only cowards. Two gutter-bred blades hiding behind orders they twist into cruelty.”

His voice dropped lower.

“You are fortunate he struck only twice.”

He took a step closer, unblinking.

“Had it been me,” Elladan murmured, “you’d be eating through broken teeth.”

The younger guard flinched. The elder looked away.

Elladan's lip curled slightly.

The elder guard’s mouth twisted. “Careful, my lords. Anyone would think you’ve grown fond of your little prisoner. Unless, that’s the game, is it? Sweet words, soft eyes, a bit of forest enchantment—”

“You will not finish that sentence.”

The voice cut through the courtyard like a drawn blade.

All heads turned.

Glorfindel stood beneath the archway, still and bright as flame in gold-trimmed robes, his hair stirred faintly by the breeze. But there was no warmth in him. No serenity.

Only fire, controlled, but lethal.

His gaze fell on the guards, and though he did not raise his voice, it filled the space like thunder waiting to break.

“You were summoned to the Hall of Fire half an hour past. And now I find you here, bleeding, smirking, and speaking of princes as though they are yours to soil with rumor and insult.”

The elder guard paled, color draining as Glorfindel advanced.

“Lord Glorfindel—”

“Silence.” The word was sharp. Absolute.

He turned to Elladan, and then to Elrohir.

“You should not have had to intervene,” he said evenly, though a muscle ticked in his jaw. “This, this rot, should have been excised before it ever reached him.”

Elrohir stood silent, his chest still heaving, blood on his knuckles. He gave a slight nod, gratitude held in restraint.

Then he looked back at the guards, and his expression turned glacial.

“Strip off your crests. Now.”

They hesitated.

“That was not a request.”

With shaking fingers, they obeyed, unfastening the silver clasps that marked their rank, their shamefully worn honors.

Glorfindel accepted them without ceremony.

“You will report to the southern stables,” he said. “From this moment on, you are stable-hands. No rank. No weapons. No guard duty. You may muck stalls until you remember what decency looks like.”

The elder guard’s eyes narrowed. “Lord Glorfindel, with respect—”

“Speak again,” Glorfindel said, voice deathly soft, “and you’ll be walking to Mithlond in exile with only your tongue to keep you company.”

Silence.

He looked between them once more, then turned to Elladan and Elrohir.

“I’ll see to them,” he said. “Go.”

Elladan nodded, placing a firm hand on Elrohir’s shoulder. “Come,” he murmured. “Walk with me.”

Elrohir hesitated, glanced back once at the guards, then at Glorfindel, and nodded.

They turned together, their cloaks stirring the quiet air.

Behind them, Glorfindel remained still, tall, cold, and unwavering.

And the guards, for the first time, looked afraid.

The air shifted as they stepped beneath the arch that led to the enclosed garden, soft with shade and scented with memory. The trees here were older than most in Imladris, planted by Elrond’s own hand, nurtured by Celebrían’s touch. Roses climbed the pale stone walls, and vines curled around the carved columns. It was quiet, almost sacred.

Elrohir strode ahead, breath still sharp in his throat.

Elladan followed at a measured pace.

“You can’t keep doing this,” he said calmly.

Elrohir whirled. “Doing what?”

“Letting your fists speak for you.”

“They deserved worse,” Elrohir snapped. “Did you hear what they said? What they did? They crushed his hand. They laughed while he bled. They—”

“I know,” Elladan said, quiet but firm. “I was there. I saw your face.”

“Then why are you lecturing me?” Elrohir’s eyes blazed. “Why are you speaking to me like I’m the one who needs correcting?”

“Because you’re a lord,” Elladan said simply. “Because we both are.”

That made Elrohir pause.

Elladan stepped closer, gaze steady. “You are right to be furious. What they did was cruel, and I would have drawn steel if you hadn’t used your fists first. But Elrohir, what you feel does not give you leave to lose yourself in it. That is not strength. That is fire without control.”

Elrohir turned away again, pacing beneath a flowering tree. “You sound like father.”

Elladan’s mouth tightened. “I sound like someone who loves you.”

A beat.

“You are not wrong,” he said again. “You are valid, brother. Your fury is earned. But we are Elrond’s sons. That means something, even when it shouldn’t. The court is already watching you. Him. Legolas.”

“I don’t care what they watch,” Elrohir muttered.

“You should,” Elladan said sharply. “Because he’s watching you.”

Elrohir stilled.

Elladan's voice softened. “That prince with the bruised cheek and shattered bird? He looks at you like you're something bright. Something safe. You cannot afford to be reckless with that.”

Elrohir slowly sank down onto the stone bench beside the lilies, hands trembling faintly in his lap.

The garden was quiet again.

And for a long moment, so were they.

Elladan lowered himself beside his brother, one hand resting casually on his knee, the other brushing a fallen petal from the bench.

“You know,” he said after a pause, tone light, “that prince is rather lucky.”

Elrohir glanced at him, brow furrowed. “Lucky?”

Elladan nodded, eyes fixed on the garden ahead. “To have such a fierce warrior rise like a storm every time someone looks at him wrong.”

Elrohir stared.

Elladan tilted his head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Or perhaps it’s more than that. Perhaps he’s captured the attention of someone rather...intense. Someone who throws punches over birds and bruises, and storms through corridors like a wrathful shadow.”

“Elladan.”

“Oh, I’m not judging,” Elladan said, voice dancing with amusement now. “Only observing.”

Elrohir’s eyes narrowed. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re transparent,” Elladan said, grinning. “At least to me.”

Elrohir scoffed and looked away, jaw tight. “You’re imagining things.”

“I don’t think so,” Elladan said mildly. “You don’t pace outside my door with food and fury. Or get in fights over my bruises.”

Elrohir shook his head, visibly irritated. “You’re reading too much into it.”

Elladan leaned back against the bench, arms crossed. “Right. Because you bring lunch and almost perform another kinslaying for any guest we keep locked in stone rooms.”

“He’s a guest now?” Elrohir muttered.

“A guest,” Elladan repeated. “A prisoner. A prince. Whichever suits your mood today.”

Elrohir said nothing. The silence stretched.

Then, low and sharp: “I feel nothing.”

Elladan arched a brow. “You punched a guard hard enough to split your knuckles.”

Elrohir turned to him, eyes burning. “Because they humiliated him.”

“Exactly,” Elladan said, not missing a beat. “You feel nothing.”

Their eyes locked.

Elrohir didn’t respond. He only sat there, silent, furious, and afraid to name the thing already written across his face.

Elrohir’s glare could have withered stone. “You think you’re clever.”

Elladan only smiled, and reached over to pinch his nose, just like he had when they were children and Elrohir was being particularly dramatic.

Elrohir jerked back with an irritated huff. “I hate when you do that.”

“I know,” Elladan said, smug.

Elrohir shoved him, not hard, more exasperated than anything, but the gesture lacked venom. It was almost affectionate.

They sat in silence for a moment longer, the garden quiet around them.

Then, quietly, Elrohir asked, “How do you always do that?”

Elladan glanced at him, brows raised.

“Calm me down,” Elrohir clarified. “Even when I don’t want to be calmed.”

Elladan’s smile softened. “Because I’m your elder brother.”

Elrohir rolled his eyes. “By minutes.”

“Which still counts,” Elladan said, entirely unbothered.

Elrohir huffed again, but the edge had bled from his anger. His fists had loosened. His shoulders no longer braced like drawn bows.

The garden air stirred softly around them, petals dancing like quiet laughter on the breeze.

Elrohir’s gaze drifted across the garden, over the soft bloom of roses their mother once tended, the carved bench where she used to sit with a book in her lap, the tree she had planted with her own hands.

“I miss her,” he said quietly.

The words didn’t need explanation.

Elladan’s smile faded, but not the warmth in his eyes. He reached out and rested a hand on his brother’s shoulder, steady, anchoring.

“I do too,” he murmured.

They sat in silence as the wind stirred the leaves overhead, sunlight dappling the path at their feet. Not speaking. Not needing to.

Just two sons, sitting where their mother once stood, letting the ache of absence be shared between them.

And for a moment, the stillness felt like her presence.

Chapter Text

He was small again.

No bruises marked his skin, and no cuts, no grief. The world was warm. Whole. Alive with the hush of waterfalls and the scent of cedar carried through the stone corridors of the Woodland Realm.

But Legolas was not in the halls.

He was under a bed.

His father’s bed.

The great frame stood tall above him, carved from ancient beech with sweeping lines like bow limbs and canopy curtains stitched with silvered leaves. Beneath it, the little prince, no older than a mortal child of six, lay flat on his belly, elbows tucked, face smudged with dust and delight. He grinned in silence, eyes bright with conspiratorial mischief.

He had prepared carefully for this moment.

Galion had tried to dissuade him, whispering, “Your father does not appreciate surprises, my prince. He’s just come from court.”

But Legolas only gave a small, impish smile and crawled beneath the bed anyway. “I will make him laugh.”

And now—

The door opened.

Bootsteps crossed the threshold, measured and even, followed by the rustle of a mantle being drawn off and hung. Thranduil’s voice, low and composed, carried through the chamber. “Thank you, Galion. That will be all.”

The steward offered a quiet reply, and then the door closed.

Silence.

Thranduil crossed the room. He said nothing at first, no muttering, no sigh. Only the soft pull of leather as he removed his gloves. He moved with the same quiet precision he used in court: nothing wasted, nothing careless.

He approached the bed.

Stopped.

Then, after a long moment, he said calmly:

“Whatever manner of creature you are, I suggest you come out before I call the guard.”

Legolas stifled a giggle.

A slow pause. Then a boot gently nudged the hem of the bed curtain.

“I hear it breathing,” Thranduil mused aloud. “It may be a beast from the southern borders. Possibly venomous.”

Another stifled giggle escaped, and that was all it took.

Thranduil bent, swift and certain, and in a single motion, one arm swept under the bed and hooked around the child’s middle.

Legolas yelped as he was lifted clean off the ground.

“Ah,” Thranduil said dryly, lifting him high. “A rare specimen indeed. Golden hair, dusty face, mischief in the eyes. Known to nest beneath royal furniture.”

Legolas burst into laughter. “I almost had you, Ada!”

“You nearly startled me into drawing steel,” Thranduil replied, but there was a faint curve to his mouth, and his voice, though still composed, had gentled. “Galion will be beside himself.”

“You were supposed to sit,” Legolas said as Thranduil carried him to the bed. “Then I’d grab your ankles like a spider.”

“Mm.” Thranduil lowered them both onto the mattress, settling the boy on his lap. “I would have tripped. And the Realm would be without a king. All because my son thinks himself a spider.”

“I am a spider,” Legolas said proudly. “But one that hugs.”

“Terrifying,” Thranduil murmured, brushing a stray strand of hair from his son’s cheek. “Truly, Mirkwood quakes in fear.”

Legolas leaned in, wrapping his arms around his father’s chest. “I’m your spider.”

There was a beat of silence.

Thranduil’s arms folded around him, lightly at first, then firmly.

“My spider, is it?” he said softly. “Then I’ll have to post a guard under every bed in the palace.”

“No,” Legolas laughed. “Then I can’t hide!”

“Good.” His voice was amused, but low, threading into something deeper. “You are not to vanish without telling someone, Legolas. Ever. Am I understood?”

Legolas nodded into his chest.

Thranduil stilled. Then he gently cupped his son's chin and tilted it upward.

“Look at me,” he said softly.

Legolas blinked and met his gaze, small and solemn.

“Am I understood?”

“Yes, Ada,” Legolas whispered.

The tension eased from Thranduil’s face, though his mouth remained firm.

“I was told you escaped your caretaker. Galion said you ran like a leaf on wind—” his voice dropped, stern but not unkind, “and that you laughed while doing it.”

A pause. Then, softer still:

“You are too much like her when you smile. And far too much like her when you plot mischief.”

Legolas blinked sleepily. “But you found me.”

Thranduil’s hand moved gently over his back. “For a moment, I wondered if the trees had stolen you back.”

“But you knew where I was,” Legolas murmured, voice trailing toward drowsiness.

Thranduil did not answer at once. Then, quietly:

“I would have found you. No matter where you were.”

He bent and kissed his son’s brow, fingers still steady at his back. “And I always will.”

The fire crackled. The curtains stirred faintly with breeze.

Thranduil leaned back against the carved headboard, his robes settling like a cloak around them both. He reached for a folded blanket at the bed’s edge and drew it over his son with efficient care.

Then, quietly, as if it were nothing at all, he began to hum.

It was not a song sung in court. It was older. Slower. A low melody carried from the forests of his childhood, when the world had been green and the stars closer. He did not sing the words. There was no need. His voice moved like river water beneath stone.

Legolas stilled. His breathing softened. His fingers curled gently into the front of Thranduil’s tunic.

The melody continued, steady and deep, wrapping the child in something stronger than silk or stone.

And in the quiet that followed, Legolas drifted to sleep in the arms of the one person he trusted most to keep the shadows at bay.

And as Legolas drifted in that memory, half-asleep, wrapped in warmth and song, he felt again what it was to be protected, to be held in the arms of the one who had always known how to banish fear.

Even now, in dreams and waking ache, the memory remained.

The song never left him.

For a little while, in sleep, he was only a child again, wrapped in his father's arms, loved beyond measure.

He had never doubted that love. 

But as the years passed and his father’s burdens grew heavier, such moments became rare. Touch had turned to distance, laughter to formality. Thranduil still watched him, still protected him, but not often did he hold him.

Not like that.

Not as if Legolas were still small enough to gather into his lap and hush with a song.

And so the memory lingered, not because it was extraordinary, but because it had once been ordinary. And then, quietly, it had stopped.

In Imladris, the chamber was cold and still. The guards at the door murmured distantly.

And on his face, cool against his skin, were tears he did not remember shedding.

The chamber was gray with morning.

Legolas lay still for a long while, letting the silence settle against his skin. His body ached, but not as it had before. His stitched hand still throbbed beneath its linen wrappings, each heartbeat a dull echo in the healing cuts and bruised joints. And his face, his left cheek, ached with a sharper edge, the skin tight and swollen, violet with the mark left by a metal tray.

The pain was not unbearable.

But it was visible.

And he knew they had meant it to be.

He sat up carefully. The motion was stiff, but no longer agonizing.

The plain tunic waited, folded neatly at the foot of the bed.

It was unadorned, undyed wool, modest in cut and without crest or embroidery. Functional. Clean. The sort of garment given to young attendants or kitchen hands. He reached for it with his uninjured hand, lifting it by the collar, letting the fabric unfold in the quiet.

He stood, slowly, and turned toward the door.

Two guards stood just inside the chamber.

They were not the ones from before, but they might as well have been, same stillness, same dispassion. Neither acknowledged his movement.

Legolas held the tunic loosely in one hand, his posture unhurried, gaze cool.

“I would like a moment alone. To change.”

The guard nearest to him did not shift. “We are under instruction.”

The second, equally rigid, added, “Lord Elrond has ordered constant observation. No exceptions.”

Legolas studied them, silent, unmoving. His eyes, so often gentle, had cooled to something still and distant, like frost beneath moonlight.

“If you cannot leave,” he said at last, voice smooth as drawn silk, “then turn your backs. I am not in the habit of dressing before an audience.”

A pause.

“Or shall I inform Lord Elrond his guards require instruction in decency?”

A pause followed.

Then a scoff. Not loud, but unmistakable.

Boots shifted against stone, reluctant, resentful. One of the guards turned with an exaggerated motion, shoulders stiff and posture loose with disrespect. The other followed more slowly, muttering under his breath, “Ridiculous.”

They faced the wall, but not properly. One leaned against it lazily, arms crossed. The other glanced sideways more than once, making no attempt to hide his irritation.

The message was clear: they obeyed only in form, not in spirit.

Legolas’s expression did not shift. He neither nodded nor frowned. Only his eyes stilled, somewhere deeper, somewhere quiet.

He inclined his head, a gesture of acknowledgment without agreement, and turned away.

There was nothing more to say.

He set the tunic down on the edge of the bed and began to untie the ties of his sleeping shirt with one hand.

His injured hand, bruised, bandaged, stiff, was near useless, and every attempt to flex his fingers sent a dull, pulsing ache through his palm.. But he made no sound. He kept his movements steady, careful, unwilling to give the watching eyes, even turned away, anything more than necessity demanded.

He slipped the tunic over his head with slow precision, careful not to jostle his cheek against the fabric. Even that simple contact sent a flare of pain through the dark bruise there, deep purple now, edged with yellow. It pulled faintly when he moved his jaw.

He said nothing.

But he felt their contempt behind him.

He pulled the tunic into place, letting the coarse fabric settle over his shoulders. It hung loose, plain, shapeless.

He had worn the garb of warriors and princes, the robes of court, the leathers of the wild hunt. This was none of those.

And though it cost him more than he let show, he lifted his chin and adjusted the collar with precise care, like it was silk, not rough-spun linen.

Because they were still watching.

Or had been.

The guards had turned their backs, yes, but with all the grace of elves asked to turn from a storm. He could feel the tension in their posture even now, the disdain like heat rising from stone.

He found the comb placed neatly beside the folded linens. Simple wood, finely carved, unadorned. He took it in hand and returned to the bed, easing down onto the edge.

He brought the comb through his hair in slow, even strokes, working patiently from the ends upward. His grip was awkward with the wrappings, but he was careful. He did not tug. He did not wince.

A few minutes passed. Then one of the guards spoke, voice flat with disinterest.

"Shall we resume our post?"

Legolas did not answer. He simply set the comb down and stood.

They turned back around.

Their expressions were unreadable. But their eyes passed over him quickly, taking in the fresh tunic, the way he stood straighter than before. Not defiant. Just composed.

Too composed.

One of them muttered something under his breath. The other smirked faintly, like the moment had been offered to mock, and passed unused.

Legolas did not react.

He moved toward the table, silent and self-possessed.

Let them look. Let them turn. He would not bend for their comfort. Not today.

Elrohir approached the door to Legolas’s chamber, balancing two sturdy wooden trays, one for himself, one for the prince. Each tray was arranged with care: honeyed oatcakes, ripe figs, soft cheese, and a small plate of fruit. The morning light filtered softly through the high window, casting gentle warmth into the room.

He paused just outside the chamber, where two guards stood stiffly at attention, stationed by Elrond’s decree. Another pair stood just inside, visible through the half-cracked doorway, their armor catching the muted morning light.

Their presence was a silent wall, one of watchfulness, not welcome.

Elrohir shifted the two trays in his arms and drew a steadying breath. He stepped forward, nodding briefly to the outer guards.

They straightened at once. “My lord,” one murmured, bowing his head.

Inside, the soft rustle of armor followed his entrance. The two inner guards turned as he crossed the threshold, just enough to acknowledge him with a low, “Lord Elrohir,” spoken in practiced unison, before returning to their vigil.

Elrohir’s gaze swept the room, settling on the seated figure of the prince.

Legolas’s wound-shadowed gaze turned toward him.

“Elrohir,” Legolas said, his voice still gracious despite the raw exposure of his bruises and bandages. He looked surprised and glad.

Elrohir set the trays down more assuredly. “I brought breakfast.” His tone invited company. “I will join you.”

Legolas’s expression lit up. “Thank you.” He moved slightly to make room. “It is very thoughtful of you.”

Elrohir turned to the guards. His voice was clipped, devoid of warmth.

“Out. You’ll return when I call for you.”

They hesitated, just long enough to test his patience. One of them cast a fleeting glance toward Legolas, resentment thinly veiled.

Elrohir’s gaze sharpened. “Is that unclear?”

The guards stiffened, then withdrew without a word. The door shut behind them with a weighted finality. Their footsteps receded down the corridor, leaving behind silence, and something that, for once, felt close to peace.

Legolas’s shoulders relaxed slightly, and he perched on the edge of the bed. Elrohir set one tray down on the floor and sat cross-legged nearby without ceremony. Legolas followed suit, settling opposite him on the rug with practiced ease.

“You always share meals like this?” Legolas asked quietly, glancing at the matching trays.

Elrohir’s expression stayed guarded, voice flat. “No. I don’t.”

He reached for his tea, then paused. “How do you fare?”

Legolas looked up, surprised by the question. But he answered without hesitation. “Better. The bruises are quieter today.”

Elrohir gave a small nod, eyes flicking briefly toward the bandaged hand, then away.

They ate in silence for a time. The food was plain but good, and the hush between them was not uneasy, only careful.

Legolas reached for the small bowl of figs, but his grip faltered, fingers stiff beneath the wrappings. One slipped from his grasp, rolling across the tray with a soft thud.

Before he could try again, Elrohir reached forward, wordless. He took one of the figs and placed it gently in Legolas’s uninjured hand.

Legolas looked up.

Their eyes met.

And for a breath, something passed between them, not spoken, not named.

Then Legolas smiled, small, unguarded, quiet.

Elrohir didn’t smile back. But he looked at him. Longer than he meant to.

Elrohir looked away first, reaching for his tea.

After a moment, his voice came low, careful, like stepping into water he wasn’t sure of.

“I came by last night,” he said. “To bring you dinner. You were asleep.”

Legolas’s expression shifted, surprised, then softened. “Thank you,” he said gently. “That was kind of you.”

Elrohir nodded once, as if brushing the gesture aside.

There was a beat of silence.

Then, almost reluctantly: “The bird, the little one that came to your window.”

Legolas’s hand stilled. He lowered his gaze. His voice, when it came, was quiet. “I never saw where she came from. Only that she returned.”

Elrohir didn’t speak.

“She was not afraid of me,” Legolas added softly. “And she stayed.”

His fingers curled slightly over his knee.

“I wish I could have protected her.”

A pause.

“I grieve for her more than I should, perhaps. But there are few here who stayed by choice.”

Elrohir cleared his throat, eyes still fixed somewhere beyond the tray between them.

“My brother and I will bury her,” he said quietly. “Later today. Like I said we would.”

Legolas turned to him fully.

There was no smile this time, just that quiet, open expression that made his bruises seem like shadows painted on light.

“Thank you,” he said again, his voice sincere. “You are very kind, Elrohir.”

That made Elrohir go still.

His eyes flicked to Legolas, then away almost immediately. He shifted, suddenly uneasy, as though the rug beneath him had tilted slightly.

“I’m not,” he said, too quickly. “Kind.”

Legolas tilted his head. “You are to me.”

Elrohir exhaled through his nose, the sound faintly sharp. “That’s because you’re not…,” he stopped. His jaw tensed. “You’re injured. I’m doing what anyone decent would do.”

Legolas studied him for a long moment but didn’t press.

Instead, he took another quiet bite of a honeyed oatcake, leaving Elrohir alone with his silence, and whatever it was that now stirred uneasily behind his ribs.

After a moment, Legolas said softly, almost to himself, “I do not understand how elves can be cruel to something smaller than themselves. To creatures who only mean to live.”

Elrohir looked up, startled, not by the words, but by the calm with which they were spoken.

Legolas didn’t meet his gaze. He was watching the fruit on the tray, the curve of a fig he hadn’t touched.

“I have never left the Woodland Realm before,” he said. “Not until now. I was told the Noldor were proud, distant. My father—” he paused, then added with no malice, only thought, “he said they were cruel.”

Elrohir’s jaw tightened slightly.

“I never believed him,” Legolas continued gently. “I thought he must have seen only the worst of them. But…” he shook his head faintly. “Now, I am not so sure.”

He looked up then, not accusing, not angry. Just quiet. A mirror held up, not as judgment, but as observation.

“But you,” he said after a breath, “you are not what I was told to expect.”

And for the first time, Elrohir had no ready defense. Only silence. And a heartbeat he could not ignore.

His jaw shifted again.

“Then your father’s opinion of us must be worse than I imagined,” he said, voice clipped. “To call me kind is a low bar, if cruelty is all he’s known.”

Legolas did not flinch. “He has known war. Loss. Betrayal.” 

A pause. “I imagine yours has, too.”

Elrohir looked away sharply, breath thin. “That’s not the same.”

“No,” Legolas said quietly. “But neither is it so different.”

There was no bite in his words, no need to wound. But the calm of them, worse, the honesty, stung all the same.

Elrohir stood suddenly, rising as if from heat too close to the skin. “You don’t know us,” he snapped, though his voice was not raised. “You don’t know me.”

Legolas’s eyes followed him, steady. “I know what you’ve done. That counts for something.”

Elrohir’s hands flexed at his sides. He turned away, half to leave, then froze, caught between motion and indecision.

“I’m not here to be judged,” he muttered.

“I didn’t say you were.”

Elrohir exhaled sharply, eyes closing for half a second as if to force something down. Then he turned toward the door.

“I need air.”

He left without another word.

And inside, Legolas sat still, the fig untouched beside him. The room felt quieter now, but not empty.

Something had shifted. He did not know what.

Only that it would not shift back.

Chapter Text

The midday sun shone clear through the high lattice windows of the private solar. A modest table was laid for three, simple fare, carefully arranged: Baked root vegetables, warm bread, a soft cheese from the valley’s lower farms, and a lightly spiced roast of river fowl, tender and brushed with a glaze of mountain herbs. Silver gleamed against polished wood. Everything was in order.

Elrond entered last.

Elladan offered a small, wordless nod before resuming his meal. Elrohir was already seated, unusually still, arms folded across his chest, his untouched plate a quiet declaration.

Elrond sat with his usual quiet precision, the fabric of his robes settling like drawn parchment. For a time, no one spoke. Only the clink of cutlery and the muted pour of wine broke the hush.

Elladan made the first attempt.

“The kitchen seems to have rediscovered parsnips,” he said lightly, cutting into one. “That’s three days in a row.”

Elrohir didn’t look up. “They travel well.”

Elladan hummed. “So does dry bark. Yet here we are.”

Elrond reached for the bread, tearing it neatly, his gaze directed at Elrohir. “I understand you brought breakfast to the guest chambers this morning.”

Elrohir’s jaw moved slightly. “I did.”

“For the prince,” Elrond said, though it was not a question.

Elrohir inclined his head once. “Yes.”

Elrond did not look up from his plate. “You carried two trays.”

This time, Elrohir said nothing.

Elladan glanced at him, then back at their father. “Is that uncommon now? Sharing meals?”

“It is when it’s done unasked, and without informing me,” Elrond replied, his tone even. “And when it involves dismissing the guards I personally assigned.”

Elrohir finally spoke. “If you wish to reprimand me, then do so. But I will not stand by while a guest of this house is treated like a caged beast. Prince or not, he deserves better.”

Elrond looked up at that, not sharply, but with the slow precision of a scholar turning a page. “He is not imprisoned. He is under scrutiny.”

“He is being humiliated.”

“That is not my intention.”

“But it is the result.”

A long silence passed.

Elrohir’s voice, when it came again, was low and tight. “He has done nothing to warrant such treatment.”

“He is Thranduil’s son,” Elrond said quietly.

Elladan closed his eyes briefly.

“He didn’t ask to be brought here,” Elrohir said sharply. “We captured him.”

“And I allowed it,” he added, setting his fork down. “But that does not make him innocent. It makes him dangerous in ways you have not yet considered.”

Elrohir leaned forward slightly, his voice low. “You treat him like a trap set in flesh. You’ve barely spoken to him.”

“I do not need to speak to him,” Elrond replied, “to know what house he serves. I know Thranduil. I know his grievances. His pride. His silence when we bled and he turned his gaze away.”

Elladan stirred. “We all remember, Adar. But this is not—”

“This is because of that and much more,” Elrond said. “That boy carries more than messages. He carries memory. Intention. Thranduil has waited centuries to remind us we are not beyond his reach.”

Elrohir’s jaw tightened. “You think an elf barely four hundred years old carries the weight of his father’s vengeance?”

“I think he carries his father’s eyes.”

“And that’s enough to let him be beaten?”

Elrond’s eyes flashed.

“No,” he said. “That was not my order.”

“But it was your silence.”

Another pause.

Elrohir’s voice lowered further. “If he were not Thranduil’s son, if he were any other emissary, any other elf, would we treat him like this?”

“He is not any other elf,” Elrond said. “He is a political statement. He stepped into this valley without invitation, without explanation. And he has yet to answer for it.”

“He’s barely standing.”

“Then he will sit and answer.”

Elrohir stood.

Elladan did not stop him this time. Only watched as his brother turned away, silent fury writ in his shoulders.

At the door, Elrohir paused.

“He’s not the one hiding behind silence,” he said.

And then he was gone.

The chamber fell still.

Elrond picked up his fork again. But he did not eat.

Across the table, Elladan reached for the wine. He poured quietly, the sound soft against the silence, then leaned back in his chair, studying his father with a gaze too old for his face.

“You and Elrohir,” he said at last, “can’t seem to speak to one another without drawing swords these days.”

Elrond did not look up. “That’s not true.”

“It feels true,” Elladan said gently. “At least from this seat.”

Elrond’s hands were steady as he cut the bread on his plate, though he made no move to bring it to his mouth.

“I do not quarrel with your brother,” he said. “He quarrels with me.”

Elladan smiled faintly. “That’s one way to tell it.”

Elrond looked up at that, but Elladan’s gaze was not mocking. Only thoughtful. Measured.

“He’s angry,” Elladan said. “And not just about Legolas.”

Elrond was quiet for a moment. Then, with a soft exhale, he set the knife aside. “He was always the more sensitive of you both. Not weaker, just…more open to grief.” A pause, then quietly: “In some ways, he reminds me of Elros. The same fire. The same impossible tenderness beneath it.”

Elladan’s gaze shifted, surprised. “You’ve never said that before.”

Elrond didn’t meet his eyes. “I try not to.”

He fell silent, his eyes lingering on the blade beside the bread. “Elros carried the weight of others too easily. He would let suffering in like a guest, treat it with courtesy, even as it hollowed him. There were days I wished he had been more guarded. Days I envied him for not being.”

Elladan said nothing. The only sound was the wind stirring the leaves just beyond the open stone archway.

“I see that same fire in Elrohir,” Elrond went on, softer now. “He burns so brightly when he cares. And when he is wounded, he doesn’t bleed quietly.”

Elladan murmured, “And you were always more patient with me. Perhaps because I didn’t shout.”

Elrond gave a soft, dry smile. “No. You were more patient with me. That’s why.” He paused. “Do you believe I’ve been unfair to him?”

“I believe,” Elladan said carefully, “that he thinks you see through him. But not into him.”

There was no heat in his voice. No judgment.

Only the weight of long years watching them both.

And Elrond, at last, leaned back in his chair.

“He is my son,” he said.

“I know,” Elladan replied quietly. “So does he.”

Elrond’s gaze drifted to the window, the light spilling through the lattice, the slow movement of the leaves beyond.

“Your sister is due to arrive by tomorrow,” he said.

Elladan’s head lifted slightly. “Truly?”

“A message came this morning.”

A breath passed, soft and unexpected, and then Elladan smiled, quiet and genuine.

“It will be good to see her,” he said. “It’s been too long. I’ve missed her.”

Elrond did not smile, but the faintest flicker of something, relief, perhaps, passed through his expression.

“She may bring some light back into this house,” he said. “And perhaps, speak to your brother, where I cannot.”

“She’s always had that gift,” Elladan murmured. “Even when we deserved far less of it.”

Elrond reached for his cup but did not drink. “She is your mother’s daughter.”

No one spoke for a long while.

The gardens beyond the western colonnade were seldom visited, too wild for most guests, too quiet for company. Vines crept along the stone paths in careless loops, and the scent of crushed thyme clung to the air. It was not a place for display, but for solitude.

Elladan found his brother seated on the low stone wall that bordered the outer edge. One leg drawn up, the other hanging loosely over the side. Elrohir did not look up as he approached.

“I knew you’d be here,” Elladan said mildly.

“I didn’t want to be found,” Elrohir replied, though without heat.

“You’ve never chosen well, then.” Elladan stepped forward and sat beside him. “You always go where you can see the sky.”

Elrohir gave a small exhale through his nose, almost a laugh, but not quite. “So do you.”

They sat in silence for a few moments. A bird sang from somewhere in the brush, sharp and solitary.

Elladan finally said, “You and father need to stop trying to win arguments neither of you enjoy having.”

Elrohir’s jaw tightened. “It isn’t about winning.”

“No,” Elladan agreed. “It’s about never yielding. Which may as well be the same thing.”

Elrohir didn’t respond.

Elladan glanced at him sideways. “You could make it easier. For both of you.”

“I’m not the one who gave the order to starve and shame a guest.”

“Guest?” Elladan echoed softly. “He was brought here bound, Elrohir.”

“And now he’s here still,” Elrohir said, voice low. “Bleeding and watched like a traitor.”

Elladan was quiet.

Then, changing tone, he said, “Arwen arrives tomorrow.”

That made Elrohir look up.

“She does?”

Elladan nodded. “Father received word. She crossed the outer border this morning. She’ll be here by morning tomorrow.”

A flicker of light crossed Elrohir’s face, something warm and unguarded. “Good. I’ve missed her.”

“I think she’s missed you, too.” Elladan nudged his shoulder lightly. “Perhaps she’ll be able to talk sense into you.”

Elrohir gave a faint smile, the barest lift at one corner of his mouth. “She’s better at that than you.”

“I let you be difficult,” Elladan said. “She reminds you not to be.”

They sat in silence a little longer, the breeze stirring through the tall grass, brushing past their shoulders like a whisper of something yet to come.

Elrohir leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “He’ll likely want a bath soon,” he said quietly. “His hair’s tangled, and the bandages will need changing. He can’t do it one-handed.”

Elladan glanced sideways at him. “Are we speaking of the prince? And you plan to help him?”

Elrohir didn’t answer at first. His gaze remained fixed on a patch of sunlight where bees hovered lazily above the lavender.

Elladan hummed. “You do realize we have attendants for that sort of thing.”

“He’s been watched like a prisoner,” Elrohir said, tone clipped. “He deserves privacy. Someone he can trust.”

“Ah,” Elladan said mildly. “And that someone just happens to be you.”

Elrohir turned, sharp-eyed. “I’m trying to make amends.”

“With pastries, food. And now a bath.” Elladan’s smile was far too knowing. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were courting him.”

Elrohir scoffed, but too quickly. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Elladan raised both brows. “I’ve seen you ridiculous, brother. This isn’t far off.”

“It’s not like that,” Elrohir scowled. “He’s injured. He needs help. That’s all.”

Elladan shrugged, plucking a bit of grass and twirling it between his fingers. “Well, I’m certainly not joining you for the bath.”

Elrohir’s glare sharpened.

Elladan grinned. “He might not appreciate an audience. And I’d hate to rob you of a private moment.”

“That is not what this is.”

Elladan stood, brushing off his tunic. “Of course not. It’s noble. Practical. Entirely without sentiment.”

“Valar,” Elrohir muttered, turning away.

“You’ll need towels,” Elladan called lightly after him. “And maybe a comb. And, Valar help us, a second towel in case the first one mysteriously slips.”

“Elladan.”

“Yes?”

“I will throw you in the river.” 

“You’ll have to catch me first.”

Chapter Text

​​

Elrohir returned to the corridor with measured steps, his expression schooled to neutrality. The guards at the chamber door straightened as he approached, but said nothing.

He noted them, two outside, and, when the door opened at his knock, the two he’d dismissed earlier had returned to their posts just inside. Their faces were blank, but he caught the faintest flicker of disdain before it was masked again.

He did not speak to them.

Instead, his gaze swept past them and found Legolas by the window.

The prince stood bathed in late morning light, its silver-gold touch catching in his hair like spun sunfire. His posture was straight but not stiff, shoulders drawn with a quiet grace, hands folded before him.

He was singing.

Softly.

The melody was low, barely more than breath against stone. Not Sindarin, but something older, rooted in moss and rainfall, in tree roots deep and undisturbed. A mourning song.

Elrohir stilled.

He did not move, did not speak. The guards, to their credit, held their silence as well, though he sensed their discomfort at witnessing a moment not meant for them.

The words were quiet and strange to his ear, Silvan, perhaps, or something even older, passed down from the folk of the forest rather than from royal lips. But he understood enough.

The song was for the bird.

It told of a small soul who had flown each day to the same branch. Who had watched, and waited, and sung in the hush of morning. It told of a heart that was not large, but open. Of a trust given freely.

And of the wrongness of silence, now that the song was gone.

Legolas’s voice did not tremble. It flowed gently, low and unornamented. Not for performance. Not for attention. A song sung because the heart could not hold the ache any longer in silence.

Elrohir remained near the door, listening, silent.

Something in the music pulled at a part of him he did not often name. Something softer than anger, more enduring than shame.

He had not thought this morning would bring him here again.

And yet he could not leave.

Not now.

Not mid-song.

Not when the quiet grief in the prince’s voice filled the chamber like sunlight filtered through old glass.

The last note faded like mist, soft and unfinished, as though it might return again at dusk.

Legolas did not move at first. He stood with his head slightly bowed, fingers still lightly clasped. Then, slowly, he turned.

His gaze found Elrohir at the door, and softened.

“Elrohir,” he said, warmth touching his voice despite the strain beneath it. 

Elrohir stepped forward, nodding briefly to the guards inside. He did not dismiss them, not yet, but walked toward the center of the room, his posture steady but unreadable.

“I heard you singing,” he said quietly.

Legolas inclined his head. “It was not meant for ears, but I do not mind.”

There was a faint weariness around his eyes, grief gentled by acceptance, but not yet gone. It lingered behind his composure, behind the steadiness of his voice. A shadow at the edges of light.

“What was it?” Elrohir asked. “The song.”

Legolas looked back toward the window. “A mourning song,” he said simply. “For a small companion.”

He did not name the bird again, but he did not need to. The meaning was clear.

Elrohir said nothing for a moment. Then: “I am sorry.”

Legolas offered him a gentle smile. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

But Elrohir didn’t answer that. He turned slightly, glancing toward the door. “You’ll want a bath,” he said. “They’ve prepared one.”

Legolas blinked, genuine surprise flickering across his face, followed quickly by gratitude. “I would,” he said. “Very much.”

“I’ve come to assist,” Elrohir said, his voice even, but not indifferent. There was a clipped edge to it, as if he’d rehearsed the words and still wasn’t sure why they felt so strange in his mouth.

“You came to assist?” A flicker of amusement warmed Legolas’ voice. “Should I be honored, or merely wary?”

Elrohir nodded once, his tone slipping back into something more practical, measured, almost brisk. “Your hand can’t get wet for long, and your cheek won’t tolerate much pressure. It’ll need to be careful.” A brief pause. “You’ll need help.”

Legolas tilted his head, still faintly amused. “You need not trouble yourself,” he said gently. “I can always ask—”

“I said I’ll do it,” Elrohir cut in, too quickly. Too sharp.

The words hung between them.

Legolas studied him then, quiet and unreadable. But he didn’t push, didn’t press. Instead, with that same soft dignity he always seemed to carry, he inclined his head. “Then I am in your care.”

Elrohir said nothing more. He turned toward the door, motioning to the guards without looking at them.

“We’ll return shortly,” he said curtly. “No need to follow.”

One of the guards shifted, as if preparing to argue. Elrohir’s gaze cut sharply back.

They remained still.

Legolas followed without protest, his steps light despite the stiffness in his limbs. The hallway was hushed, cool stone beneath their feet, warm shafts of afternoon light spilling in through arched windows. Elrohir walked just ahead, his posture straight, shoulders set. He did not speak.

They descended a quieter wing, deeper into the western wing of the house, one not reserved for guests or servants. The air smelled faintly of cypress and lavender.

When they reached the bath chamber, Legolas paused.

It was nothing like the one he’d been forced to use before.

Here, light filtered gently through high windows veiled in thin linen. The bathing pool was long and inlaid with smooth stone, fed by a slow stream of warm water from a copper spout. Towels were folded neatly on a bench. The scent of clean linen and crushed herbs lingered in the air.

Legolas looked around quietly.

“This is not where the others bathe,” he said softly.

Elrohir’s jaw flexed. He moved to the basin and tested the water temperature without looking at him.

“No,” he said. “It isn’t.”

Elrohir stepped back from the water, steam curling gently from the surface. He turned to Legolas, gaze flicking to the stiff way he held his arm, the still-angry bruise coloring one cheek.

“Do you need help with your tunic?” he asked, voice quiet, deliberately neutral. “Your hand, your cheek…”

Legolas lifted his chin slightly. “No. I can manage.”

Elrohir didn’t move.

Legolas brought his hand up to the collar, awkward with the wrappings, careful not to brush the bruised side of his face. The tunic caught at his shoulder. He tugged, and it resisted. His jaw tensed.

The second attempt fared no better.

Then, wordless, Elrohir stepped forward.

He reached out slowly, his hands finding the fabric, waiting for any sign of protest. 

None came.

Noldorin grey met the blue of deep forest skies just before dawn, quiet, watchful, unclouded.

With quiet precision, Elrohir eased the tunic down over Legolas’s uninjured shoulder, then the other, his touch light, practiced, never hurried. The wool slipped free at last, dragging faintly against healing skin.

Still, neither of them looked away.

The tunic dropped soundlessly to the floor.

Their eyes held.

There was no challenge, no coyness in Legolas’s gaze. Only openness, steady, watchful, a stillness like held breath. And Elrohir stared back. He didn’t mean to. But something in him refused to shift, to break the line between them.

His fingers moved again, this time to the ties at Legolas’s waist.

He hesitated.

Legolas didn’t.

He unknotted the sash one-handed with quiet efficiency, though his movements slowed as the cloth caught at his hips. He made no sound, no complaint, but Elrohir saw the struggle.

And still, their eyes didn’t part.

When Elrohir stepped closer, Legolas didn’t stop him.

Together, silently, they guided the fabric down.

As the leggings slid to the floor, the space between them filled with steam, with quiet, with something neither of them named, but both felt. Neither moved to cover it. Neither dropped their gaze.

For a long moment, all they saw was each other.

Then, finally, Elrohir blinked. He turned, just enough to reach for the towel he’d placed nearby, breath slow.

“The water’s ready,” he said.

And Legolas, still watching him, stepped forward, bare, bruised, unflinching.

He stepped into the bath without a sound.

The water lapped gently at his legs, swirling with steam. He moved with practiced grace despite the stiffness in his body, careful not to submerge his wrapped hand. He held it slightly aloft, cradled near his chest, as he eased himself down, slowly, deliberately, until the warmth cradled him. His breath hitched, once, as heat touched bruised skin, but he made no complaint.

Elrohir stood nearby, towel still in hand, gaze averted but not distant.

After a long silence, Legolas spoke, softly, eyes still turned toward the water.

“You speak of mercy as though it weakens you,” he said. “But I have seen no greater kindness than yours, Elrohir. Whether you believe it or not, it is there.”

Elrohir’s jaw tightened. He folded the towel with slow precision, setting it aside before he spoke.

“You think you know me,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on the stone. “But you don’t. A few words, a tray of food, that’s not knowing someone. That’s circumstance.”

Legolas turned his head toward him slowly.

His gaze met Elrohir’s, and held.

Not questioning. Not soft.

Piercing.

It wasn’t the look of a sheltered young prince, nor of someone easily swayed by momentary kindness. It was steady, unsettling in its clarity. An old soul’s gaze, honed by stillness and observation, by trees that whispered since the beginning of time.

“I do not need a lifetime to recognize the shape of someone’s spirit,” he said simply.

Elrohir said nothing.

Because under that gaze, clear, unwavering, he felt seen in a way that made something in him flinch. Not from shame. But from truth.

The silence that followed was not hollow.

It thrummed with something unspoken.

And Legolas, still watching him, slowly turned back to the water, his golden hair damp at the ends, the steam catching the curve of his cheek.

Legolas lowered himself into the water, careful not to jostle his injured hand. The warmth lapped gently against his ribs as he leaned back with a faint breath, eyes drifting closed for a moment.

When he opened them again, Elrohir was still watching, quiet, unmoving, gaze unreadable.

Their eyes met.

Silver-grey and summer sky. Light and shadow caught between them, flickering unspoken.

Then, quietly, with a flicker of dry humor, Elrohir said, “Is this the part where the enchantment begins?”

Legolas blinked. “Enchantment?”

Elrohir raised a brow. “The one the Noldor whisper about. Wood-elves and their eyes.” A pause, pointed. “You’ve heard it before.”

His tone was dry, amused. But his gaze didn’t waver.

Legolas tilted his head slightly, water glinting along the line of his cheek. “And do you often fall under enchantments, Elrohir, or only mine?”

It wasn’t flirtation, not exactly. Just calm curiosity, threaded with that unshakable stillness he carried like a mantle, and something playful beneath.

He went on, voice light with the barest trace of mischief. “Should I be flattered you believe the tales?”

Elrohir said nothing.

Legolas’s smile curved further, quiet, sly. “Or are you simply hoping they’re true?”

Elrohir huffed softly, folding his arms across his chest. “I’ve yet to decide.”

His gaze lingered a moment too long, sharp and unreadable. Then it flicked away, as if he meant to guard something. But it returned, slow and deliberate.

“If it is yours…” His voice lowered, quiet, dry, edged with something warmer. “You’re very skilled.”

Legolas’s lips curved, slow and deliberate, the barest hint of mischief behind the calm. “Then perhaps you should look away, for your own safety, my lord.”

Elrohir did not.

Their eyes held.

And for a long, fragile moment, there was no sound but the ripple of water and the quiet echo of something just beginning to unravel.

Elrohir turned away as Legolas stepped from the basin, reaching for a towel. Steam curled from his skin, catching the golden strands of his hair as they clung to his shoulders and back. Wordless, Elrohir held out the towel as Legolas approached, and the prince took it with his uninjured hand.

He dried himself slowly, careful around the bruises, wrapping the cloth loosely at his waist.

Elrohir reached for the fresh tunic he had brought, soft linen, simple but well-made, and offered it without speaking.

Legolas tilted his head slightly. “Are all Noldor born with eyes like yours?” he asked, tone mild but curious as their fingers brushed in the exchange.

Elrohir’s brow twitched. “Grey?”

Legolas nodded, gaze lingering. “Sharp as flint. Stormlight in clouded silver.”

Their eyes held, again. That familiar tension returned, quiet but undeniable. The linen remained between their hands, neither pulling away.

Elrohir swallowed. “Most, yes.”

“Strange,” Legolas murmured, not looking away. “I used to wonder what it would be like, to see through stone instead of leaves and water.”

A beat passed between them.

Then, carefully, Elrohir shifted forward, hands lifting to help guide the tunic over Legolas’s shoulders. His touch was gentler this time. Deliberate. Reverent, even.

Legolas did not stop him.

And again, neither of them broke the gaze.

Elrohir reached for the folded leggings draped across the bench. He held them out, but Legolas did not move to take them, not right away. His bandaged hand was slow, and the bruising along his side made even simple movements more effort than they should be.

Without a word, Elrohir crouched and began to help.

He knelt, steady hands gathering the fabric, guiding it carefully over Legolas’s foot, then the other. The cloth slid upward over lean calves, then thighs, brushing close.

Legolas placed a hand on Elrohir’s shoulder to steady himself, not out of frailty, but out of quiet necessity. The contact was light. Measured.

Elrohir didn’t look up at first. His jaw was tight, expression schooled. But when he rose, fingers fastening the ties at Legolas’s hips, their eyes met again.

There was no coyness in it, no pretense. Only a quiet current pulling taut between them, unspoken but present, like a string drawn and waiting.

“You do not avert your gaze,” Legolas said softly, not accusing. Just noting.

Elrohir’s hands stilled. “Nor do you,” he returned, voice low.

Legolas tilted his head slightly, the faintest lift at one corner of his mouth. “Perhaps that is the enchantment.”

This time, Elrohir didn’t look away.

Not even once.

As Elrohir straightened the folds of the tunic at Legolas’s shoulder, the prince gave a small breath, half amusement, half observation.

“Do all prisoners receive such careful treatment?” he asked, voice soft, but edged with that unmistakable woodland sharpness. “Or is this particular kindness reserved only for those from Mirkwood?”

Elrohir’s hands paused.

A flicker passed through his gaze, something between irritation and awareness. He stepped back, putting a measured distance between them.

“You’re not a prisoner,” he said. “Not officially.”

Legolas lifted a brow, gaze steady. “And unofficially?”

Elrohir didn’t answer right away.

Then, with that same dry sharpness that always crept in when he was uncertain, when he was feeling too much, he said, “Unofficially, you’re someone who looks at me like that and asks dangerous questions.”

Their eyes locked again.

And again, the silence between them held more than any answer could.

They left the warmth of the bathing chamber in silence.

The corridor beyond was cool, the hush of afternoon filtering through open archways and long shadows. Their footsteps echoed softly on the polished stone as they moved side by side, not speaking.

Halfway down the hall, Legolas slowed.

His gaze had turned outward, drawn to the slender trees swaying just beyond the high windows. Ash and birch, their green silvered by windlight. The woods here were gentler than Mirkwood, yet something in them called to him still. A breath of home. A fragment of silence that did not ache.

Elrohir followed his gaze. Watched the stillness settle on the prince’s face.

“Would you like to walk?” he asked.

Legolas blinked, startled, pulled from reverie. He turned to Elrohir, something unreadable passing through his eyes. “Outside?”

Elrohir nodded once.

Legolas’s brow knitted faintly. “Is that allowed?”

Elrohir gave a slight shrug. “It is if I say it is.”

A beat passed.

Then, quietly, cautiously, Legolas smiled. It was not mocking. Not mischievous. Just a slow softening of his features, like sunlight spilling through leaves.

“And here I thought you followed orders.”

Elrohir’s lips twitched. “On occasion.”

Their gazes met again, different now. No longer in firelight or steam, but shaded in green and filtered sun.

“Come,” Elrohir said, turning toward the garden path.

And this time, Legolas followed without hesitation.

The path curved gently beneath their feet, the stones worn smooth by centuries of quiet passage. The wind moved through the trees with a soft rustle, elm and ash whispering above, ivy clinging to ancient stone walls in loose braids.

Elrohir said little as they walked, letting silence settle between them like an old companion. But his eyes remained drawn, again and again, to Legolas.

There was something different in him now.

Not the bruised figure in a guarded chamber. Not the wary guest under scrutiny. But something older, quieter. The way he moved through the garden was unlike that of a visitor. It was like the land recognized him, like it bent a little nearer as he passed.

They reached a bend in the path where a low patch of wildflowers grew, small, pale blossoms nestled against a mossy ledge. One had been trodden down, its stalk bent, its petals torn.

Legolas paused.

Without a word, he knelt, careful with his injured hand, bracing himself with the other. He touched the flower gently. Just the tips of his fingers.

Elrohir stopped beside him, frowning slightly as he watched.

A breath passed.

Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, the flower began to right itself. The stem unbent. The petals, though still delicate, lifted toward the light. No chant, no glow. Only stillness, and touch, and a silence filled with listening.

Elrohir stared.

“What was that?” he asked, his voice quieter than he meant it to be.

Legolas rose, brushing his fingers lightly on his tunic.

“A kindness,” he said. Then, glancing sideways, he added, “Silvan magic, perhaps, as you Noldor would say. Though we do not name it so.”

Elrohir’s gaze lingered on the flower, now swaying gently in the breeze. “You didn’t speak. You didn’t summon anything.”

Legolas gave a faint smile. “Not all kindness is spoken aloud.”

Elrohir looked at him, brows drawn slightly. “What is it, then?”

Legolas met his eyes, calm, steady. “We are nearer to the trees than many of our kin. We listen. And sometimes, they listen back.”

Elrohir didn’t answer.

He only looked at Legolas, standing among leaf and light, with damp hair still clinging to his jaw, and the smudge of violet still beneath one eye.

And felt something stir again.

Not fear. Not mistrust.

Just the quiet ache of something being undone, slowly, without his permission.

They continued walking.

The trees above cast long fingers of shade across the path, dappling their tunics in shifting light. Legolas walked just ahead now, slower than before, his gaze drifting upward, where birds called faintly from unseen branches. His posture had eased. There was lightness in it. Like breath returning to a body after too long held.

Elrohir followed, watching him.

Not just his step, not just the way he moved, though he did, but the way the world moved around him. How leaves tilted toward him slightly, how the breeze seemed to soften when it passed. It should have been nothing. Coincidence. Wind and light and shadow.

But it wasn’t.

Not to him.

Not anymore.

He hated that it unsettled him.

Elrohir stopped walking.

Legolas slowed as well and turned, his face open, calm. Still faintly flushed from the bath, hair drying slowly along his shoulders.

“What is it?” Legolas asked softly.

And Elrohir, without meaning to, without planning it, stepped forward.

His hand rose halfway before stopping in the air between them.

“I don’t understand you,” he said, the words taut like drawn string. “You move like none of this touches you. Like this place isn’t a cage. Like you don’t even hate me.”

Legolas blinked, caught off guard, not by the words, but by the vehemence beneath them.

“I do not,” he said quietly.

“You should,” Elrohir snapped. “You have every reason to.”

Legolas looked at him for a long moment, and then, with the faintest tilt of his head, said, “Would that make you feel better?”

Elrohir’s jaw clenched.

“Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“That,” he said, stepping closer. “Looking at me like you see something I don’t. Speaking like you know me.”

Legolas didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. 

The air between them shifted. Thickened.

Elrohir’s eyes flicked downward, just for a breath, to the line of Legolas’s mouth. His bruised cheek. His throat.

Then back up.

They were too close.

And it was too much.

Elrohir turned sharply away, voice clipped. “We should go back.”

“Of course,” Legolas said gently.

But even then, Elrohir could feel the weight of Legolas’s gaze on his back.

Steady. Quiet.

Unmoved.

Like the forest in deep winter, when everything sleeps, but nothing forgets.

They walked in silence, steps slow but unstrained. The air between them was still thick with whatever had passed in the garden, not quite broken, not quite spoken.

They turned the corner toward the guest wing.

And heard it.

“…Bet he sings prettier when he moans.”

A low chuckle followed. Then, “Careful, might charm you into begging.”

The words were not shouted, but they didn’t need to be.

Elrohir stopped mid-step.

For half a breath, he said nothing.

Then he turned, swift, deliberate, furious.

The two guards were lounging just down the hall, close enough to see, too far to feign ignorance. When they saw him coming, they straightened fast.

“My lord—”

“What did you say?” Elrohir’s voice was low and dangerous, nothing of courtly grace in it.

The taller one opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“Repeat it.” Elrohir’s eyes narrowed. “Go on. I’d like to hear it properly.”

They said nothing.

Elrohir took another step forward, but a light touch landed on his arm.

“Don’t,” said Legolas.

Elrohir looked back, sharp.

Legolas met his gaze evenly. “It is not worth your anger.”

“They were speaking of you,” Elrohir snapped.

“I know.”

“They meant to shame you.”

“I know,” Legolas said again, quieter now. “And if you rise to them, they will know they succeeded.”

The silence between them was taut.

Elrohir’s jaw worked, his hand flexing once at his side, then again.

But slowly, he drew a breath. Shallow. Controlled.

The guards stood still, paling slightly under his gaze, unsure whether to brace or run.

Elrohir turned from them without a word.

Legolas followed, his expression unreadable.

Only when they’d passed out of earshot did Elrohir speak again, his voice rough, low, meant only for Legolas.

“I hate them for thinking they’re brave.”

Legolas gave a faint nod. “Cruelty often wears that mask.”

Elrohir didn’t answer.

But his stride slowed to match Legolas’s, and for a moment, their shoulders nearly brushed.

Not touching.

But close.

They reached the guest chamber in silence.

The two guards at the door straightened as they approached, their faces neutral, but not unaware. Inside, through the slightly parted door, the other two already stood in place. The room beyond was quiet, washed in afternoon light.

Elrohir stopped just short of the threshold.

Legolas turned to him.

The prince looked tired, but not diminished. His hair was still slightly damp, his cheek shadowed with the bruise. But his posture was straight, his gaze calm.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

Elrohir inclined his head. “You needed the bath.”

“That is not what I meant.”

Legolas stepped forward, light, deliberate, and, before Elrohir could retreat or mask himself again, he reached out.

His uninjured hand found Elrohir’s, fingers light against the wrist, then palm to palm. The touch was not possessive. Not asking.

Just... present .

The guards inside glanced over, but did not move, though one stiffened.

Elrohir didn’t look at them.

His eyes were on Legolas.

The prince’s fingers were warm against his. His hand was slightly smaller, callused in places from bowwork, yet still graceful in every motion.

“You have shown me kindness,” Legolas said, voice low. “In this place, where there has been so little of it. That is not forgotten.”

Elrohir swallowed once. His throat was dry.

“You shouldn’t thank me for what should never have been withheld.”

“But it was,” Legolas replied simply. “And you offered it anyway.”

Their hands remained clasped for one more breath, two, then Legolas gently released him.

The door creaked wider as Elrohir stepped back, the guards inside now standing stiffly at attention.

Elrohir gave them a single look.

Not a threat.

A warning.

Then his gaze returned once more to Legolas, who had already stepped into the light of the chamber.

Elrohir said nothing.

But he stood there for a moment longer, long enough to watch the prince walk to the window again, light catching in his hair like gold against green glass.

Then, finally, he turned and left.

The door shut quietly behind him.

Chapter Text

He did not sleep.

The bed was softer than stone, but unfamiliar. Too still. Too clean. The sheets held no scent of home, no trace of pine, or damp moss, or the ever-shifting breath of the forest. Only linen, air, and cold.

He turned onto his side, one arm curled beneath his head.

And thought of Elrohir.

He had studied him before, out of necessity, out of caution. But now, he found himself recalling details that had nothing to do with threat or strategy. The way his brow creased when confused. How he stood when uncertain, weight on one heel, hand twitching near the hilt of a blade he did not carry in his halls. The flicker of conflict in his voice, too fast to be rehearsed.

It was strange.

There was cruelty in him, yes. Legolas had felt it, worn it, bled for it. But underneath, no, behind, it, there had been something else. A question, maybe. A crack.

Not kindness. Not yet. But something that might one day remember how.

He let the thought linger longer than he should have. And then, softly, he smiled.

A real one, if only faint.

It was the smile of a prince remembering a foolish rumor, one whispered with laughter among Silvan children. That the Noldor feared them for their "wild blood." That they believed Wood-elves could cast enchantments with a glance, charm a soldier to silence with a song, or unravel a prince’s will beneath the stars.

He had thought it nonsense.

But here, in Imladris, he had seen how the guards looked at him. How their voices lowered when he passed. How they watched too long, or looked away too quickly. As though unsure if they feared him or wanted him, or both.

“The Noldor shine,” his father had once said, seated beside the fire, a goblet in hand, gaze fixed on the flame. “They shine so brightly they forget others may burn.” 

He had spoken without bitterness, only a cold, distant clarity. “They are proud. Gifted. Drenched in old glories and older griefs. But do not mistake eloquence for empathy, or their beauty for benevolence.”

And then there was Elrohir.

He thought of the way Elrohir’s gaze had caught on him, not with derision, not in that last hour. But with something tangled. A look that lingered longer than it should have. That softened when Legolas had spoken plainly. That drifted, once, lower than it meant to.

And Legolas had felt it.

The stir beneath his skin. That unfamiliar warmth blooming in the silence between them. That… pull.

He had not expected it. Had not wanted to expect it.

But it had been there.

And now, in the stillness, it returned to him, unbidden, but not unwelcome.

He lay on his side and drew the blanket closer. Not to ward off cold, but to hold something in. The memory of a look. The thought of a voice, low and uncertain. The quiet wish that the cruel mask might fall again, and reveal the elf behind it.

There was danger in it. But also something else.

Something that made his breath catch, just once, before settling again.

He closed his eyes, but the image remained.

Elrohir, standing in the pale light of morning, hair pulled back hastily, shadows beneath his eyes, lips pressed thin in some internal war he had not named. And yet, he had been striking.

There was no use denying it, not here, not in the silence of his own mind.

He was beautiful in a way that was unintentional. Rough around the edges, all angles and tension, and yet, those eyes. The grace of Lúthien ran deep in the Peredhel line, Legolas thought, not just in form, but in something quieter. Something that burned low and fierce. Elrohir had that beauty, though he wore it like a blade half-sheathed, sharp and unbending.

He could be cold. Distant. His words were often edged with dry wit, his presence guarded as if he had spent a lifetime learning how not to be touched. But when his anger faded, when his walls lowered… 

His eyes softened.

They were the color of winter sky just before snowfall. Not silver. Not steel. Something deeper. The kind of grey that held storms in it, and sorrow, and stories untold.

He was not so foolish as to mistake a glance for safety, or a softened word for promise. But still, he had looked into those eyes and felt something move. Something quiet. Something that might become.

And though he told himself not to linger there too long, still—

He did.

He exhaled through his nose, quiet as a sigh. The guards posted inside his chamber remained still, impassive as statues. Two more stood just outside the door. He could feel their presence, always, like a net drawn tight around him, woven of breath and suspicion.

But they could not see into his thoughts.

And that, at least, was his own.

That night, Legolas dreamt of firelight and winter stone, of his father’s private chambers, where the wind clawed at the shutters and the hearth burned low.

He had been young then. Still not of age. Still soft-spoken and bright-eyed, his mind eager to understand what the court only whispered.

“Why do you mistrust the Noldor?” he had asked, sitting cross-legged on the fur carpet, his chin tilted with curiosity. “Why do you speak so coldly of Lord Elrond?”

Thranduil had looked up from his writing, one brow arched in that familiar, amused way. The quill hovered in his fingers, ink still wet on the page.

“You ask many questions tonight,” he said.

There had been no sharpness in it, only that cool dryness he wore like armor. A veil between the king and the father.

Legolas had flushed slightly, but held his gaze. “I only wish to understand. The scribes speak well of him. And Galion says he fought alongside our kin.”

The fire cracked, sending a slow wave of warmth across the room. The shadows on the walls stirred like memories.

Thranduil did not answer at once. His gaze drifted to the flames, and for a long moment, Legolas thought he might say nothing at all.

Then, in a voice quieter than the wind at the window, his father replied, “Because I remember who they were when they had power.”

It was not bitterness that colored his tone. Nor fear.

It was memory. The kind carved deep and old.

“I do not hate Elrond,” Thranduil said at last, fingers turning the quill in his hand. “I simply see him clearly. That is not a gift they often welcome.”

Legolas had not understood then. Not truly. But he had heard the weariness beneath the words. The sorrow no song had ever sung.

The dream softened, the stone walls fading, the warmth of the fire unraveling into mist.

And in that mist, for just a moment, he thought he saw grey eyes watching him.

Not his father’s.

Elrohir’s.

Sleep did not come.

Elrohir lay motionless beneath his coverlet, eyes fixed on the carved beams above his chamber, their edges faint in the silver glow of moonlight. Outside, the wind stirred the trees, soft, constant, but within the walls, all was still.

Except for his thoughts.

Legolas’s eyes would not leave him.

He had seen them in torchlight and in morning haze, in bath steam and garden shade. Eyes too young and too old at once, blue like glacial rivers, like a dawn not yet sung. They unsettled him. Not because they sought to control or flatter, but because they simply saw . As though the prince looked straight through veneer, through duty and armor, and into the marrow of things.

Eyes of a four-hundred-year-old elf, yes. But also eyes that had watched trees grow and die, that had listened to wind long before words shaped it. There was no posturing in them. No courtly gleam. Only stillness.

He closed his own eyes now, but it did not help. That gaze followed. Not haunting, no. It was too gentle for that. But it lingered, quiet and insistent.

He should not be thinking of Legolas this way.

Not as beautiful , though he was. Even Elrohir could not deny that. The prince was made of light and shadow both: golden hair still damp from the bath, his cheek marked by a fading bruise, his mouth soft with a kind of untaught elegance. But it was more than that. More than form or face.

It was the way he sang to a dead bird like it mattered.

The way he healed a crushed flower without fanfare or pride.

The way he spoke, low, even, measured, with dignity not drawn from titles, but from something much older, deeper. The kind of grace that could not be taught.

Elrohir shifted onto his side with a frustrated breath.

It was ridiculous. He should not be thinking this way. Not of a guest. A prisoner , even. The son of Thranduil,  the bitter name on old lips in every council in Imladris. The elf who had entered Imladris in chains.

And yet…

When he had looked into those eyes, Elrohir had felt something in him steady and fray all at once.

He did not trust easily. He did not yield . And yet with Legolas, he was always off-balance. Always questioning. And that left him angry.

Not at Legolas.

At himself.

He is beautiful, Elrohir admitted, silently, to the rafters and the dark.

And not because of what he looked like. But because of what he carried.

Because of what he endured.

Because he looked at Elrohir not with fear, or worship, or contempt, but as if he knew him.

As if he saw him.

And that was far more dangerous.

The morning sun fell gently on the eastern courtyard, casting soft gold across the pale stone. Birds called from the high arches above, and the breeze carried the scent of pine and mountain thyme down through the valley.

The gathered lords and counselors of Imladris stood in quiet rows, ceremonial yet eager, lining the broad steps that led to the gates. Banners stirred in the breeze, blue and silver, the stars of Varda sewn across silk.

Elrond stood at the fore, flanked by his sons, Glorfindel to his right and Erestor to his left. Lindir stood just behind, quiet and poised, his hands folded before him. The tension of the past weeks seemed, for a moment, held at bay.

And then, from beyond the gates, came the sound of hoofbeats.

Not hurried. Not forced. Steady and light.

The procession emerged from the trees in silver and green: a company of Galadhrim, cloaked and straight-backed, their bows glinting in the morning light. At their head rode Haldir, his gaze sharp, his bearing unmistakable.

But it was the rider behind him who drew every gaze.

Arwen.

Her hair fell unbound down her back, dark as a river under starlight. She wore a riding cloak of pale grey, clasped with a brooch of leaf and moonstone. Her face was calm, radiant, untouched by weariness despite the long journey. She did not smile yet, but the light in her eyes grew warmer as she passed through the gates and saw the faces before her.

Elrohir and Elladan moved forward first, swift and graceful, and each took one of her hands as she reined in her horse.

“Sister,” Elladan murmured, his voice catching on the word.

Elrohir said nothing, but the way he looked at her held a quiet, aching joy.

She smiled then, softly, fully, and reached for them both, letting them steady her as she dismounted.

Elrond came to her last. His arms went around her, and for a moment, he was not the Lord of Imladris, nor the bearer of Vilya, nor the judge of kings and spies.

He was only her father.

“Welcome home, my daughter,” he said.

She smiled then, softly, fully.

“I am glad to see my home again,” she said, brushing a hand down her riding cloak as her feet touched the stone. “And my father. And my brothers, though I half expected you would have found a way to misplace yourselves by now.”

Elladan gave an exaggerated bow. “We waited to disgrace ourselves until after your return, dear sister. It would be rude to do so in your absence.”

“We thought to spare the courtyards the echo of your disappointment,” Elrohir added, lifting an eyebrow with mock solemnity.

Arwen laughed, a low, bright sound. “How generous of you both. I shall be sure to tell Grandmother of your restraint, she worries, you know.”

“That we lack discipline or that we lack sense?” Elladan asked.

“That you lack both,” she said sweetly, and turned to press a hand to Elrohir’s cheek, her eyes softening. “You look tired.”

“And you look as though Lórien agreed with you,” Elrohir replied, covering her hand briefly with his. “Did you walk among the mallorn trees every morning, or only enough to torment Haldir with questions?”

A faint smile tugged at Haldir’s mouth behind them, but he said nothing.

“I did not torment him,” Arwen said serenely. “I merely asked how many ways one might politely silence a boastful marchwarden. I believe he is still considering his answer.”

Arwen turned from her brothers, her gaze settling next on the golden figure beside her father.

“Glorfindel,” she said with warmth, stepping forward. “Still standing guard over Imladris as if we were all made of glass.”

Glorfindel inclined his head, eyes alight. “Someone must. The last time I turned away, your brothers attempted to ride a stallion backwards into the Hall of Fire.”

“That was Elladan,” Elrohir interjected behind her. “I had sense enough to be the audience, not the fool.”

“I recall it differently,” Glorfindel said dryly.

Arwen’s smile turned toward the dark-haired figure beside him. “Erestor. I am glad to see you well.”

“And I, you,” Erestor said, offering the smallest of bows. “The halls have grown too quiet in your absence. Though peace, I admit, has had its own advantages.”

“I shall endeavor not to undo it entirely,” she said with a graceful nod, before looking past them to where Lindir stood a step behind, as always poised but watching.

“Lindir,” she said softly. “Have you kept the Hall of Fire well?”

“As well as it allows itself to be kept, my lady,” Lindir replied with a gentle smile. “We’ve missed your voice beneath the stars.”

Her expression warmed at that, touched without being overcome. “And I yours.”

Beside them, Elrond turned to face the Galadhrim, his composure smooth, his bearing once more that of a Lord of old.

“Haldir,” he said, voice firm but warm, “and all of Lórien’s company, you honor us with your presence. You are welcome to rest within our halls for as long as you wish.”

Haldir bowed his head. “We thank you, Lord Elrond. Lórien is always glad to see Imladris well and guarded.”

“You will find no shortage of good wine and quiet glades,” Elrond added. “Though perhaps not quite as golden.”

“The quiet alone will be reward enough,” Haldir replied.

Elrond turned back to the gathered company, his voice rising just enough to carry across the courtyard.

“This evening, we shall hold a feast under the starlight,” he announced, his gaze resting briefly on Arwen. “In honor of my daughter’s return to us. Let song and table remind us of joy, and let the shadows fall away, if only for a night.”

A murmur of approval stirred the assembly, and even the more stoic lords nodded their assent. The mood had shifted, subtly, if not to full warmth, then at least toward welcome. Imladris breathed more easily.

Arwen inclined her head to her father, her hand over her heart. “Thank you,” she said simply.

Elladan and Elrohir stepped beside her once more, and together, the three of them turned from the courtyard. As they passed beneath the archway toward the inner halls, the light fell soft upon them, and their laughter drifted faintly behind.

They spoke little on the way to her chambers, just enough to tease, to point out some small change in the tapestries or a flower bed she’d left blooming. But Arwen had grown up alongside these two. She knew when their silences carried weight.

When they reached her door, Elladan slowed, then reached forward to open it for her. He glanced down the hallway, not out of paranoia, but with the sharp awareness of someone who had lived too long with unspoken things.

“You’ve come home under strange tidings,” he said, voice low enough that no ears but theirs could hear. “The halls look the same, but they do not feel it.”

Arwen paused at the threshold, turning slightly toward him. “What kind of tidings?”

He shook his head once. “Nothing you must carry the moment you set foot over the threshold.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’ll give,” he said gently. “Not until you’ve washed off the road and rest at least a few hours without Galadhrim boots in your spine.”

She arched a brow. “You assume I let them ride close enough to jostle me.”

“I assume you outpaced them until they begged to stop,” he said with a smile. “Even so, rest. Let the valley welcome you before the weight returns.”

Arwen studied his face. There was no fear in it, but there was something tired. Something quietly guarded, like a wall rebuilt too many times.

“All right,” she said softly. “But you’ll speak to me before the feast.”

“We will,” he promised. “Together.”

She looked between them then, at Elladan and Elrohir both. The silence between them was not sharp, but it was deep.

And something in her heart stirred.

The halls of Imladris were quieter now, emptied of their morning ceremony. Arwen had bathed and changed, wrapped her damp hair in a loose braid, and exchanged her travel-worn cloak for a gown of soft indigo that brushed the floor as she walked. She had not intended to wander. Not far. Only enough to feel the stones beneath her feet and remind herself she was home.

But the stillness drew her further.

It was near the western wing that she noticed them, two guards standing stiff at either side of a closed door. Not ceremonial, but purposeful. Armed. Watchful. Their faces tensed ever so slightly when they caught sight of her.

She slowed.

“I did not know we had guests housed in this wing,” she said mildly.

The guards glanced at one another. One shifted his stance. The other cleared his throat.

“He is not a guest, my lady,” said the first. “He is here under supervision.”

Arwen’s brow lifted. “Who?”

The guard hesitated, then spoke with cool precision. “Prince Legolas of the Woodland Realm.”

The name sat in the air between them like a stone dropped into still water. Arwen tilted her head, eyes narrowing.

“A prince, held behind guarded doors in Imladris?” she asked, her voice quiet. “That is a strange thing indeed.”

The guards said nothing. Their silence answered more than they meant it to.

Arwen stepped forward.

“I would like to speak with him.”

“My lady, that may not be—”

She turned her head. The look she gave was calm, but absolute. “He is not a prisoner of war. And I am no stranger to thrones or to truth. I will not ask again.”

The second guard, reluctantly, opened the door.

Inside, the light was soft and cool. The windows had been left unshuttered, and a breeze stirred the curtains gently. The room was quiet, but not empty.

He stood near the far arch, tall, straight-backed, his silhouette framed by the open window.

Legolas.

He did not turn at the sound of the door.

He must have heard the door open, but he gave no sign until he turned. Slowly. Deliberately.

His hair, pale gold and half-loosened from its ties, caught the light like threads of morning. His features were fine, too fine for the cold suspicion she had heard in the guards' voices. There was strength in his bearing, yes, but also quiet sorrow. Stillness, not of submission, but of endurance.

And his eyes—

Arwen faltered, just for a moment.

They were blue. Clear and striking, like deep water beneath ice, unmoving, watchful, far too knowing for someone so young. He looked younger than she had imagined, and older too, like one who had walked far and often without a guide.

He inclined his head.

“My lady,” he said, voice low but composed.

No fear. No arrogance. Just the calm deference of a prince well-accustomed to eyes that judged before they listened.

Arwen found herself standing straighter.

“You are Legolas,” she said, as though naming him might explain what she felt. “Thranduilion.”

A flicker passed across his face, recognition, perhaps, or memory.

“I am,” he said. “Though I did not expect visitors.”

Her gaze did not leave him.

“I was not told we held a son of the Woodland Realm behind guarded doors,” she said. “And I wonder what Imladris fears so greatly that it must place spears both outside and within your chamber.”

He said nothing at first. But his eyes flicked briefly past her to where the guards stood inside, near the wall, silent, unmoving.

“I fear it is not me they guard,” he said softly. “But the idea of me.”

Arwen stepped into the room fully, and the guards behind her did not move to stop her. She let the door fall softly shut behind her and stood with her hands loosely clasped.

“I am Arwen,” she said, her voice quiet but sure. “Daughter of Elrond.”

Legolas inclined his head again, this time more deeply.

“Then I am doubly honored,” he said. “That the Evenstar of Imladris would grace a guarded chamber with her presence.”

Arwen’s mouth curved faintly. “You’re far too polite for someone supposedly dangerous.”

Legolas turned his head slightly, one brow lifting with delicate irony. “Would you prefer I glared at you, my lady?”

She gave a soft hum, as though considering it. “No. I think I prefer the current version. It’s far more unsettling.”

A breath of something like amusement passed through him.

“Then I shall endeavor to remain civil,” he said, the corners of his mouth lifting just slightly. “For your comfort, of course.”

Her smile faded gently as she stepped closer. Her eyes were sharp, now, her gaze drifting, not rudely, but with quiet scrutiny, to the shadow blooming along his cheekbone. A bruise, dark and violent beneath the fair skin. Not fresh, but still cruel.

Her attention shifted again, to his hand, where pale bandages bound the skin. Carefully wrapped, but stitched, she could tell. The injury was not shallow.

She said nothing for a moment. Then her eyes dropped to the simple garments he wore, plain linen, practical and loose, stripped of any symbol or sigil. They hung lightly on his frame, but did nothing to disguise the state he was in.

“These clothes,” she said softly, “are not befitting a prince.”

Legolas followed her gaze, then lifted one shoulder in a quiet, graceful shrug.

“They serve,” he said. “I ask for little. I am not here in celebration, my lady.”

Arwen studied him for a moment longer, her expression unreadable.

“Even so,” she said softly, “I will see that robes and tunics befitting a beautiful prince are brought to you by tomorrow.”

Legolas blinked, caught off-guard, not by the promise, but by the word beautiful spoken without hesitation or mockery.

“My lady,” he said, his voice low, “I am not certain that would be wise.”

She stepped once more toward the window, her tone light but unwavering. “No,” she said. “But it would be right.”

She stepped closer, the soft rustle of her gown the only sound between them. Legolas did not move, only watched her with steady, uncertain eyes.

Then gently, she reached for his hands.

He tensed, just slightly, whether from surprise or pain, she could not tell. Her fingers brushed the bandages and lingered lightly over the stitched skin.

“If you need anything,” she said, her voice quiet but unwavering, “you need only send word.”

Legolas looked down at their joined hands, then back at her face.

“I would like to be your friend,” Arwen continued, grey eyes meeting blue without flinching. “If you will allow it.”

There was no pity in her voice. No hesitation. Only a calm sincerity that sat between them like light.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. But something softened in his face, some guarded part of him loosening, just enough to be seen.

“My lady, I do not think your father would approve of such generosity.”

She smiled, a little sharper now, though no less kind.

“I am not afraid of my father’s disapproval,” she said. “And I’ve never needed his permission to do what is right.”

Legolas dipped his head slightly. “Then I thank you. For your kindness, and for your courage.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “And I for your beauty,” she added lightly, her voice threaded with mischief. “Though I imagine you’re rather used to hearing that by now.”

Legolas blinked, then gave a faint, dry huff. “I could never compete with the Evenstar of Imladris. The world has already chosen its fairest.”

Arwen’s smile deepened, not proud, but warm. “There is no competition. If there were, I would have lost the moment you walked into this house.”

Legolas flushed, just faintly. He looked away, then back again, the faintest ghost of a smile touching his lips. “You are more disarming than I expected.”

Arwen's eyes gleamed with quiet humor. “Only to those who deserve it.”

His gaze held hers, steady now. “Then I shall count myself fortunate.”

Her smile softened, and she gave his fingers one final, gentle press before releasing them.

“Good,” she said, voice like twilight. 

“I will return tomorrow,” she said after a pause. “With something finer than linen.”

She turned without flourish, leaving the chamber as quietly as she had entered. The guards inside shifted but did not speak as she passed. The door closed behind her with a soft click, leaving Legolas once more in silence.

He stood still for a long time, the breeze from the open window tugging lightly at his sleeve.

Then, almost absently, he looked down at his hands, where her warmth had lingered.

And for the first time that day, he let himself exhale.

Chapter Text

The corridors of Imladris were quieter now, touched with the golden hush of late afternoon. Arwen moved with familiar ease through the stone halls, her steps measured, her expression unreadable. Her thoughts flickered back to the pale figure behind a guarded door, but she said nothing. 

A few servants passed her in silence, offering quick bows, but she acknowledged none of them, her thoughts elsewhere.

When she reached her chambers, the heavy wooden door was already ajar.

She pushed it open to find both her brothers inside.

Elladan stood near the window, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the gardens below. Elrohir sat on the arm of the chair beside the hearth, one foot braced against the floor, his fingers drumming lightly against his knee.

They both looked up as she entered.

“There you are,” Elladan said, his voice even, but not relaxed. “We’ve been waiting.”

“You should have been resting,” Elrohir added, more softly but with a distinct note of reproach.

Arwen arched a brow as she closed the door behind her. “Is this an ambush or a family reunion?”

Elladan pushed off the windowsill and gave her a dramatic once-over. “She returns to us after years away, refuses her rest, and now walks in like a wandering spirit. Clearly, Lórien has made her insufferable.”

Elrohir’s eyes narrowed slightly, less amused, more focused. “Where did you go, Arwen?”

She stepped past them with the slow grace of a cat well aware she was being watched.

“I wandered,” she said lightly. “I wanted to remind my feet how it feels to be home.”

Elladan exchanged a look with Elrohir, then lifted his brows. “And in your wanderings, did you stumble upon a patch of wild mushrooms? Because you look dazed, dear sister.”

Arwen turned toward them with a wistful sigh, her hand pressing to her chest with mock reverence.

“I have,” she said dreamily, “just met the most beautiful elf in all of Arda.”

That stopped them both. A breath hung in the air, unspoken and taut.

Elladan blinked. “What—who—”

“Surely not Glorfindel again,” Elrohir cut in, recovering faster, voice laced with dry suspicion. “You’re too old for that crush now.”

Arwen only smiled.

Arwen moved to the dressing table, unpinning her braid with slow, deliberate fingers. Her smile lingered, elusive and unreadable.

“It was like stepping into a dream,” she said, voice low and faraway. “I half expected the air to shimmer around him.”

Elladan made a sound somewhere between a scoff and a groan. “You are quoting Glorfindel. He’s gotten to you.”

She didn’t answer. Only looked down at her brush, running it once through her hair.

“I’m serious,” she said. “He was—” her brow furrowed faintly, eyes distant, “ethereal.”

Elrohir shifted in his chair, a muscle in his jaw tightening. “Ethereal,” he echoed, the word tasting wrong in his mouth. “Right.”

She turned then, slowly, and tilted her head at them.

“Have you never seen someone who made the rest of the world feel suddenly…dull?”

Elladan gave a dramatic sigh. “I am surrounded by dramatists.”

Elrohir said nothing. But his gaze, sharper now, lingered on Arwen with a quiet intensity, like he was searching her face for something she hadn’t said.

Arwen only smiled again, this time without a word.

Elrohir leaned forward slightly, his tone no longer teasing.

“Where did you go, Arwen?”

She met his eyes, unhurried. “To the western wing.”

Elrohir’s expression barely changed, but Elladan turned his head sharply.

“There’s no reason for you to be—”

“I had no intention of going there,” Arwen said smoothly, interrupting. “Until I found two guards stationed outside a chamber. Naturally, I was curious.”

She paused. Just long enough.

“And so I met him.”

Elladan frowned. “Him?”

Arwen’s smile returned, soft and unmistakably pleased. “Prince Legolas Thranduilion.”

The room stilled.

Elrohir’s mouth parted slightly, as though to speak, but no sound came. His brow furrowed just faintly, something flickering behind his eyes too quickly to catch. His fingers, still resting on his knee, curled into a loose fist.

But Arwen caught it.

So did Elladan.

“You’ve seen him, then?” Her tone was almost casual, but only almost.

“I’ve escorted him,” Elrohir said, a touch too sharply. “Once or twice. Nothing more.”

“Nothing more,” Elladan echoed, drawing the words out like wine over his tongue.

Elrohir’s jaw clenched. He didn’t look at either of them.

There was a pause. Not long. But long enough for Arwen to hear what he didn’t say.

A slow, amused smirk curved across Elladan’s face. “Well, well,” he said, glancing between them. “Is that a shadow of envy, dear brother?”

“I’m not envious,” Elrohir said, too fast, too firm. The words landed like a blade meant to end a duel.

Arwen’s eyes glinted.

“No,” she murmured. “Of course not.”

Elrohir’s gaze flicked to the fire, where shadows leapt against the stone. He said nothing.

Elladan let out a low whistle, leaning one shoulder against the wall with exaggerated ease.

“A prince of the Woodland Realm,” he said. “Noble, mysterious, and apparently ethereal. Truly, Arwen, you’ve set your sights well above the average.”

“I only speak the truth,” she replied, still smoothing her hair with that same maddening calm. “He was very graceful. Polite. Far more so than some of the company I’ve returned to.”

Elrohir gave a short, humorless laugh. “Charm can be deceiving.”

Elladan chuckled. “You know, Father will have a fit if you court the son of Thranduil.”

“Would he?” Arwen mused, tilting her head. “How dreadful.”

Elrohir caught Arwen’s glance and held it for a heartbeat, then looked away.

She turned toward the hearth, her tone still light and dreamy. “Still, perhaps it is fate. A Silvan prince for Elrond’s daughter. Imagine the songs.”

Elladan gave a bark of laughter. “I can already hear them. The Evenstar and the Forest Moon.” He glanced sidelong at his brother. “Tell me you wouldn’t weep.”

Elrohir had gone still. His jaw clenched, his fingers curling slowly on the arm of the chair, knuckles whitening. He did not answer.

Arwen approached, hands clasped before her like a maiden at a midsummer betrothal. “I think I should marry him,” she said softly, her voice bright with mischief. “It would be good for diplomacy. And he has such beautiful eyes.”

Elrohir stood abruptly, too fast, the chair rocking slightly behind him. “You’re being ridiculous,” he muttered, the words a blade sharpened by something far less rational.

Arwen tilted her head, all sweet inquiry. “Oh? I thought you weren’t envious.”

“I’m not,” he snapped, too sharp, too quick, and far too loud for an elf not rattled.

She moved to stand beside Elladan then, forming a perfectly timed phalanx of amused opposition.

Their eyes met, and in that unspoken bond between long-practiced conspirators, the assault doubled in strength.

“Imagine our children,” Arwen sighed, casting her gaze upward as though weaving a tapestry of futures. “They would be impossibly beautiful. A blend of Noldorin grace, Sindarin elegance, Silvan wildness…and perhaps, a hint of mortal fire. Golden-haired, or silver-eyed, like legends made flesh.”

Elladan gave a low, appreciative hum. “Unfair to the rest of us, really. The household would be undone.”

Arwen placed a thoughtful finger to her chin. “Do you think they’d climb trees or compose ballads first?”

Elrohir’s fingers twitched at his side, as if resisting the urge to pace.

“You’re both insufferable,” he muttered again, but the words lacked heat, only tension.

His eyes flicked briefly to Arwen, then away.

“You don’t know him.”

A pause. Small. Heavy.

Arwen tilted her head. “I think you know him better than I do.” Her voice was calm. Almost kind.

She turned, as if considering something anew. Her expression grew pensive, hands folded behind her back like a court poet delivering prophecy.

“Truly, if I didn’t know we were descended from her ourselves…” She looked toward the window, lashes lowered in mock reverence. “I would have thought him Lúthien reborn.”

Elladan choked on a laugh. “Golden-haired Lúthien!” he exclaimed. “What a tale that would be. The ballads would never end.”

“His presence is rather luminous,” Arwen added dreamily. “Do you think he sings to the stars when no one is listening?”

Elladan leaned toward her, conspiratorial. “He must. Probably barefoot. Surrounded by nightingales.”

Elrohir’s jaw flexed. His mouth opened, then closed again. A muscle ticked in his cheek, and he turned sharply toward the fire.

Elladan’s grin widened. He leaned an elbow on the mantel, watching his brother with theatrical interest.

“Though perhaps,” he mused, “we’ve gotten it all wrong.”

Elrohir didn’t answer.

“Maybe it’s not Arwen who’s fated for a prince of Mirkwood.” He paused, just long enough for Elrohir to bristle. “Maybe it’s you.”

Elrohir slowly turned his head, his eyes narrowing.

“Don’t.”

But Elladan only smiled wider, undeterred.

“Think of it, brother. The stoic son of Elrond and the golden heir of the Greenwood.” He gestured vaguely toward the ceiling, as if imagining a tapestry. “Beren and Lúthien, reborn. Tragic beauty, forbidden longing, endless brooding…”

“I will throw you into the fountain,” Elrohir said coldly.

“Ah, but what a romantic gesture that would be,” Arwen sighed, her voice shimmering with false wonder. “A midnight duel. Flowers crushed beneath your feet. A single, lingering glance as you—”

“Enough.”

Elrohir’s voice was low. Dangerous.

But the color in his cheeks betrayed him.

The laughter faded, not all at once, but gradually, like a candle guttering in wind.

Arwen’s smile dimmed, her gaze drifting toward the firelight.

“I do not like what I have seen,” she said quietly.

Elladan straightened. Elrohir turned from the window, the tension still in his shoulders.

“He was courteous,” she continued, “but I could see the pain. Not just in his body, though he is injured, his hand has been stitched, his cheek bruised, and yet…”

She looked between them now, her voice sharpening.

“There was kindness in his eyes. Dignity. He did not ask for pity. He did not even tell me what had happened.”

Her jaw tightened just slightly.

“I cannot believe our father would allow this. That he would permit a guest, yes, a guest, whatever he claims, to be watched by armed guards, bandaged, dressed like a servant, and left in silence.”

Elladan’s smile had vanished. He was no longer leaning, no longer amused.

Elrohir’s mouth pressed into a line. He said nothing.

“I know our father,” Arwen said. “And I know what he fears. But fear is not justice.”

Elrohir stood still for a moment, eyes fixed on the far wall. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, tight, as if weighed down by something he had not yet named.

“You don’t understand.”

Arwen turned toward him slowly. “Then help me.”

Something flickered in his eyes, anger, perhaps, or shame. He shook his head.

“He’s not just a guest, Arwen. He came without warning. No escort, no message from Thranduil. No explanation.”

“He must have come with guards,” she said. “And diplomacy does not always wait for ceremony.”

Elrohir’s jaw tightened. “You weren’t here. You didn’t see him when he arrived. You didn’t hear how Father spoke of him, how he looks at him. As though every shadow in the forest wears Thranduil’s face.”

He stepped closer, but did not meet her eyes.

“We were told to watch him. To question him. To keep distance.” His voice caught slightly. “I—I did what was expected.”

Elladan’s gaze sharpened, but he remained silent.

Arwen's voice was softer now. “But what do you believe, Elrohir?”

That stopped him. Just for a breath. He hesitated. Just for a breath. His hand brushed the side of the chair he had stood from, as if anchoring himself.

He looked at her then. Truly looked.

“I don’t know,” he said.

And for the first time, it sounded honest.

Arwen stepped forward without hesitation.

Before he could turn away again, she reached up and took his face in her hands.

Her touch was not rough, but firm, anchoring him in place, forcing him to look at her.

She cupped his face gently, her voice a hush of wind through leaves.

“Elrohir,” she said, “why do your eyes carry the sorrow of a soul that cannot speak its grief?”

He didn’t answer.

His eyes, those same steady grey eyes she had known since childhood, were full now of something raw. Guilt. Anger. Longing. Fear. All tangled into a silence that hurt more than words ever could.

“Elrohir,” she whispered again.

His breath caught, just slightly. But he didn’t pull away.

And in that silence, even Elladan stayed quiet.

Elrohir’s breath hitched.

He did not look away, but he could not hold her gaze for long. His eyes flicked down, then back again, and something in his throat tightened as if the truth itself were a blade lodged there.

“I—” he began, then stopped.

Arwen said nothing. She didn’t press. Her hands remained steady at his cheeks, thumbs brushing lightly against his skin.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said at last, his voice hoarse. “Everything about this is wrong. It’s not how it should be.”

“And yet something in it feels…right,” she murmured.

He swallowed hard, his brow creasing. “I’ve been with others,” he admitted, voice low. “Lovers. Passing desires. I’ve known beauty, and I’ve wanted it for what it was.”

Arwen said nothing, letting him find the shape of his truth.

“And when I first saw him,” Elrohir continued, “I thought it was the same. He was breathtaking. And I—”

He broke off, jaw tense. “I thought it was only that.”

He breathed in like it hurt.

“But now I don’t know what it is.”

Arwen’s hands slipped away, not in dismissal, but in quiet grace. She watched him closely, her voice barely a whisper.

“You don’t have to name it,” she said. “But you must not run from it either.”

He turned then, as though her gaze could see through him, down to what even he hadn’t yet dared to face.

He didn’t face her when he spoke again, voice low and almost reverent.

“When he smiles at me…” There was something fragile in his voice then, like glass left too long in the sun. “It feels like the world is holding its breath.”

He exhaled slowly.

“There’s an old saying among the Noldor,  ‘the stars bowed lower the day beauty first learned to laugh.’ ”

A faint, dry sound escaped him, half a laugh, half a breath. “I used to think it was only poetry.”

It was Elladan who spoke then, his voice softer than usual, stripped of teasing.

“Poetry becomes truth when it finds the right heart to echo in.”

Elrohir turned to look at him, half startled, half grateful.

Elladan gave a faint smile, nothing showy, just steady. “You’re not the only one who sees it, brother. We all see what he stirs in you. Even Father, though he’d rather not.”

He let the words settle, then added with a quiet nod. “Just be certain you’re ready to fight for what you feel.”

Elrohir didn’t respond at first. The silence stretched, thick, aching. Then he moved. His expression shifted, uncertain, clouded again. The warmth in his eyes flickered, replaced by something sharper, tighter.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he muttered, stepping back. “This—this wasn’t supposed to matter.”

He ran a hand through his hair, eyes darting away from both of them. “I need to get ready for the feast.”

“Elrohir—” Arwen began, reaching for him gently.

But he was already moving toward the door, his voice clipped. “I’ll see you both there.”

And then he was gone, the weight of his footsteps fading into the corridors.

Arwen stood still for a moment, her hand half-raised.

Elladan watched the door, his jaw set, but his eyes full of quiet understanding.

Arwen turned slowly to face Elladan, her expression thoughtful, gaze lingering on the door Elrohir had just passed through.

“I know love when I see it,” she said softly. “Even if he’s still afraid to name it.”

Elladan exhaled through his nose, folding his arms as he leaned slightly against the carved post beside him. “He’s fancied others before,” he said. “Briefly. Carelessly. But never like this.”

He shook his head. “Never with this weight in his chest. Never with fire in his voice when someone else speaks ill of them.”

Arwen’s smile was faint but sure. “Then it is love.”

Elladan didn’t answer, but the look in his eyes agreed.

Elladan’s smile faded, the weight returning to his features.

“But you know how this ends,” he said quietly. “Father will never allow it. Not with him. ”

Arwen’s brow furrowed, but she didn’t speak.

Elladan looked out toward the lantern-lit night, voice low. “And Thranduil, he may be even worse. I’ve heard the way he speaks of us, of the Noldor.”

He paused, the words catching slightly. “They’re both sons of kings. And neither father will take kindly to what’s blooming between them.”

Arwen’s gaze lingered on the stars above, their light pale and constant.

“Then perhaps,” she said gently, “what blooms between them will be the thing that heals what our fathers could not.”

She looked to her brother, her voice soft but certain.

“What is meant to be will find its way. Even through old wounds, and old kings.” Her hand lifted once more, as if to reach for something beyond the stars, then stilled at her side.

The feast was held beneath the open sky, where lanterns hung like captured stars and silver light spilled through the trees. Long tables, set with crystal and polished wood, curved along the terrace. Music drifted through the night, soft strings and golden voices, blending with the wind.

Elves from all across Imladris had gathered, their finest robes gleaming in the starlight. The Galadhrim sat among them, pale and poised in green and silver, with Haldir at their center, silent, observant. Erestor and Lindir moved quietly among the gathered guests, their voices low and measured. Glorfindel stood near the far edge of the pavilion, wine in hand, watching the night with a half-smile.

At the high table, Lord Elrond sat with his children on either side, Arwen to his right, Elrohir and Elladan to his left.

Candles flickered between goblets and crystal bowls, and laughter wove softly through the air.

Elrond raised his cup.

“My heart,” he said, voice clear and warm, “sings to have all my children beside me tonight. Imladris is more whole for your presence, and I, less weary.”

There was a murmur of approval. Elrohir inclined his head politely. Elladan smiled. Arwen’s gaze had drifted, beyond the table, beyond the music, to where torchlight failed to reach.

She turned back to her father, her smile graceful, but faint.

“Then I grieve for the father who cannot say the same,” she said softly, “because his only son is kept behind guarded doors in this very house.”

The words settled like frost on the edge of the table.

The music did not stop, but it faltered.

And Elrond’s expression did not change, but his hand, resting on the table, had gone still.

The silence that followed Arwen’s words was deep, uneasy.

Glorfindel's hand paused on his goblet. Lindir glanced toward Erestor, who said nothing, his eyes sharp and unreadable.

Elrond turned to his daughter, his gaze steady, his voice quiet.

“Now is not the time.”

Arwen’s chin lifted slightly, the candlelight catching in her dark hair. “Then when, Father?”

Before Elrond could answer, another voice broke the hush, lower, edged.

Elrohir.

He didn’t raise his voice, but something in it cut clean through the silence.

“Perhaps the moment passed the day we dragged him here in chains.”

A few of the Galadhrim turned, watching with sharpened attention. Haldir’s gaze flicked toward Elrohir, unreadable.

Elrond’s face remained composed, but the air had shifted, tighter now, threaded with tension. His fingers brushed the rim of his goblet, once, then withdrew.

Haldir’s voice broke through the brittle quiet, measured, but firm.

“Forgive me,” he said, eyes on Arwen first, then Elrohir. “Of whom do you speak?”

Arwen turned her gaze fully toward him now. Her voice was level, clear enough to carry across the table.

“Prince Legolas of the Woodland Realm.”

A murmur rippled down the table, soft, uncertain. And far off, at the edge of the terrace, the wind stirred through the lanterns, silent, watching.

Elrohir spoke next, his voice sharper than hers, more bitter. “Held under guard. Questioned like a criminal. Shamed in the house he entered in peace.”

“Elrohir,” Elladan murmured, fingers tightening just slightly around Elrohir’s forearm. “Not here. Not like this.”

But Elrohir didn’t look at him.

He was still staring at their father.

The Galadhrim shifted in their seats.

Though Legolas was not their prince, his name carried weight among them. He was Silvan-born, as most of them were, of the same woodland blood that had long dwelt beneath leaf and starlight. Their kindred had once wandered the same ancient forests before the sunderings of realm and rule, and though Lothlórien was now ruled by Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn, the hearts of its people remained rooted in the language, songs, and wild grace of the Wood.

Some among them still remembered whispers of Legolas’ mother, a Silvan maiden so beloved by the living things of the forest that a few had wondered, in hushed tones, if Yavanna herself had once walked in disguise.

Rúmil leaned toward Haldir, voice low but cutting. “Is this true? That Prince Legolas is imprisoned?”

Orophin frowned. “By what right?”

No one answered immediately.

Elrohir remained silent, jaw tight.

It was Haldir who spoke again, this time more clearly. His tone was still respectful, but edged.

“Whatever grievance there may be,” he said, “he is still the son of a king. And a guest in your house, Lord Elrond.”

The quiet that followed was no longer awkward, it was charged.

Erestor’s voice slid into the space like a blade sheathed in silk.

“My lords,” he said mildly, glancing down the table, “surely this is not the night for politics or grievance. We gather beneath the stars to honor Lady Arwen’s return. Let us not let shadows steal what light has only just been restored.”

His words were graceful, calm, but calculated. A gentle rebuke, wrapped in courtesy.

The tension eased slightly, enough for a breath.

But Elrohir did not look away from his father. Arwen’s gaze lingered on Erestor a moment, cool, unreadable. Then she lifted her goblet, but did not drink.

Elrond’s hand moved at last, lifting his goblet with deliberate grace.

“Imladris,” he said, voice smooth as glass, “does not forget its courtesies.”

He did not look at his children. His gaze swept past them, to the Galadhrim, to the watching guests. “Let the music play. Let the feast endure.”

The signal was subtle, a small gesture from one of the stewards, and the musicians, though visibly shaken, began to play again. Soft strings hesitated before falling into rhythm. Servants moved once more through the crowd, refilling goblets, offering bread and honeyed fruits with mechanical grace.

Laughter rose again, carefully measured. But the heart of the celebration had shifted. Whatever warmth had once filled the terrace now hung thin, like music fading into memory.

Elrohir’s eyes did not leave his father. Arwen and Elladan exchanged a glance, quiet, knowing.

And the candles on the long table flickered in the wind.

Chapter Text

The feast had stretched into late evening, the sky above deepening into velvet, scattered with stars. Music still drifted through the trees, though quieter now, and many of the guests had retreated to the garden edges or begun to rise from their places.

The tension lingered, unspoken, but heavy. It hung in the spaces between conversation, in the careful tones of the Galadhrim, in the Imladris lords who now laughed too easily or not at all.

At the high table, Elladan sat slouched back in his chair, watching the crowd with the languid interest of a wolf choosing not to hunt. Arwen sipped quietly from her goblet, her expression unreadable.

And then her eyes caught a movement beside her.

She turned her head, just slightly, and watched as Elrohir, with a too-casual reach, slipped two sugared plums and a honeyed fig from the silver tray near the wine.

Not onto his plate.

Into the folds of his sleeve.

Elladan raised a brow. “Stealing from your own table now?”

Elrohir froze, then cast him a sideways glance. “I’m not stealing.”

“You’re absolutely stealing,” Arwen said lightly. “And from the dessert tray no less. Have you no shame?”

“They were going to be cleared away.”

“Yes,” Elladan said, “because the feast is ending. Not because the sweets require rescue.”

Elrohir said nothing, but carefully adjusted his sleeve.

Arwen leaned in, her voice soft and mischievous. “Are you planning to bribe someone, or is this your new courting strategy?”

Elrohir gave her a warning glare.

Elladan looked delighted. “I suppose it would work. Feed him enough candied fruit and he might forget everything else.”

Elrohir stood abruptly, though not ungracefully.

“I’m going for a walk,” he said.

“With your dessert sleeve?” Arwen called after him.

But he was already striding away, too quickly for casual.

Just as Elrohir reached the steps leading from the high table, a familiar voice stopped him.

“A moment, Elrohir.”

His spine stiffened.

Elrond had not risen, but his gaze was fixed on his son, calm, sharp, and unyielding.

“Is this what diplomacy looks like now?” he asked softly. “Public scenes. Personal defiance. And now midnight wanderings with stolen fruit?”

Elrohir turned slowly, his expression unreadable. “Perhaps,” he said, voice dry as winter, “it looks like a son remembering what mercy is.”

Elrond’s eyes narrowed, though his face did not change.

“You tread dangerously close to defiance.”

Elrohir tilted his head, just slightly.

“Then perhaps you should ask why it no longer feels dangerous.”

A beat passed.

Then he inclined his head, curt, coldly respectful. “My lord.” And he turned away again, this time with deliberate calm.

Arwen watched him go, the mischief gone from her eyes, replaced by something quieter. Weightier.

Elladan didn’t speak. But as Elrohir vanished into the shadows between the columns, he reached out and plucked a single candied plum from the tray.

“He didn’t take enough,” he muttered.

Arwen let out a breath, almost a sigh.

But neither of them smiled.

Elrohir moved swiftly through the halls, the sweets tucked securely into the wide sleeve of his robe. The music from the feast trailed behind him, muted now by stone and silence.

The outer guards straightened at his approach but said nothing.

Inside, the chamber was dim, the light low and cool with a breeze drifting through the open window. Two guards stood within, posted at either wall like statues.

Elrohir’s gaze flicked to them.

“You may go,” he said, low and firm.

One of them shifted. “My lord, we were instructed—”

“I will take responsibility.” His voice was quiet, but the edge in it left no room for debate.

A breath of hesitation. Then they bowed stiffly and withdrew.

Only once the door had clicked shut behind them did Elrohir let out a slow breath, controlled, but not quite steady.

Legolas sat on the low bench beneath the window, legs folded beneath him, his posture elegant even in stillness. He did not turn immediately, but Elrohir could see the slow rise and fall of his breath, the way his hair stirred gently in the breeze. Starlight spilled across his face, softening the edge of the bruise along his cheekbone.

When he did look up, it was with quiet curiosity.

And then, he smiled.

It was unguarded. Unhurried. Like light brushing over still water.

“You’re here,” Legolas said softly, surprise flickering in his eyes. “I thought you’d be at the feast.”

Elrohir stepped further into the room, his gaze steady. “I was. For a time.”

Legolas tilted his head. “And something pulled you away?”

Elrohir hesitated, just long enough for the pause to matter. Then, a ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Something or someone.”

Elrohir shifted, then drew a folded napkin from his sleeve, two sugared plums and a honeyed fig tucked neatly inside.

Legolas blinked, brows lifting. “You stole from the feast.”

Elrohir gave a faint, almost wounded huff. “I liberated them.”

That earned a soft laugh from Legolas, clear, genuine, and fleeting. “Is that the word the Noldor use for petty theft?”

“If you breathe a word, I’ll swear it was Elladan.”

Legolas accepted the offering with careful hands, as though the fruit were some rare treasure rather than simple sweets. “I would never betray a rescuer of plums,” he murmured. “Your secret is safe.”

Elrohir glanced at him then, catching the ghost of a smile still lingering on Legolas’s lips, and felt, somehow, as though he’d been entrusted with something rare.

Legolas set the napkin and sweets beside him on the bench, then shifted slightly to make room.

“You’ve come far tonight,” he said, voice quiet, threaded with a hint of mirth. “Will you sit a while, beneath the stars?”

Elrohir hesitated, not from reluctance, but something else. As though the distance between them were no longer made of stone and air, but of things unspoken.

Then, after a breath, he moved forward and took the offered space. Not too close, but close enough to feel the breeze stirring between them.

They sat in silence for a time, the hush filled only by the distant lilt of music and the soft rustle of leaves through the window.

“Thank you,” Legolas said at last, glancing at him. “Not just for the sweets.”

Elrohir looked down at his hands. “I thought you might still be hungry.”

“I am,” Legolas replied. “But that wasn’t what I meant.”

Elrohir looked up. Met his eyes. And this time, he did not look away.

Legolas didn’t press, didn’t prod, he simply looked at him with that same open, steady expression. The kind that made silence bearable. The kind that made Elrohir feel seen.

Elrohir exhaled through his nose, then leaned back slightly, resting one hand on the windowsill behind them. He looked out into the night.

“They say the stars shine brighter over Lothlórien,” he murmured.

Legolas followed his gaze. “Perhaps. But they’re the same stars.”

Elrohir glanced at him sidelong. “Do you always speak like that?”

“Only when someone brings me stolen desserts,” Legolas said mildly, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.

Elrohir huffed, somewhere between a breath and a laugh. “You’re strange.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

There was a pause.

Then Elrohir asked, quietly, “Does it help? Looking at the stars?”

Legolas was silent for a long moment before answering. “It reminds me that I am not as small as they would make me feel.”

Elrohir looked at him again, and for the first time that night, his smile faded entirely. 

He didn’t speak.

But Legolas’s gaze returned to the sky.

And somehow, the silence that followed did not ache.

Elrohir’s eyes remained on the stars, but his voice, when it came, was lower. Strained.

“My father raised a cup tonight,” he said, “and spoke of how his heart sings to have all his children beside him.”

Legolas didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Elrohir went on. “And all I could think about was your father. Wondering where you are. If you’re alive. If you were lost on the road, or detained. Or—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. “Or worse.”

A moment passed.

Then: “And there you are, sitting behind a locked door while the rest of us drink and play at being honorable.”

Legolas’s eyes shifted toward him, gentle, but clear.

Elrohir glanced down at the hand still resting near the folded napkin. His fingers curled, then released. “It made me angry,” he said.

Legolas tilted his head, quiet curiosity in his voice. “At whom?”

Elrohir’s reply was barely above a whisper. “Everyone. But mostly…myself.”

Legolas was silent for a long moment, the starlight caught in his eyes.

Then he spoke, softly.

“I do miss him,” he said. “More than I expected to.”

Elrohir looked at him, closely, but held his silence.

Legolas went on, voice even. Unhurried. “I know what others think of him. That he is proud. Harsh. A king of stone halls and older grudges. I’ve heard it whispered even here, beneath these gentle trees.”

There was no edge in his words, only that quiet clarity he carried like breath. “But to me, he is warm. Affectionate, though he wears it like armor and pretends otherwise. He hums when he thinks no one hears. He scoffs at poetry, yet remembers every line my mother ever recited.”

He paused, a faint curve of memory softening his mouth. “And he is terribly mischievous. Once, at midsummer, he replaced the ceremonial wine with berry cordial. The court was scandalized for weeks.”

A small smile crept across his lips. “I used to think him invincible,” he said softly. “As though nothing could deceive him. As if every threat would falter before his gaze.”

His voice drifted, and something in it pulled, the thread of a younger self, of a boy still clinging to the safety of that illusion.

“I know he is not perfect,” he added quietly. “He can be proud. Sharp-tongued. Unforgiving when wounded.”

Elrohir watched him, the softness in Legolas’s voice drawing him in with the quiet gravity of something sacred.

“But even so…” His eyes flicked upward. “I wonder if he sits alone in that great hall, wondering where I’ve gone. If he’s pacing. If he is afraid, and hiding it, as he always does, behind pride and silence.”

The silence that followed was like breath held too long.

“He would never speak it aloud,” Legolas murmured, gaze distant. “But he would be grieving.”

He turned his face slightly, gaze lifting back to the stars.

The starlight caught the wetness in his eyes, glinting like dew, though no tears fell.

“I know I’m still young,” he said. “At least by our people’s measure. But I am grown. I sit in council, lead patrols, speak for my people.”

His voice was steady, but thin at the edges. The words were shaped by discipline, not fragility.

“And yet lately,” he whispered, “I feel like a child again. A boy who wandered too far from home, wondering whether he’ll be scolded or embraced when he returns.”

The silence that followed was heavy with meaning.

Elrohir did not speak. He only reached out, slowly, and took one of Legolas’s uninjured hands in his own.

No flourish. No dramatics. Just a quiet touch, his fingers curling gently around Legolas’s, anchoring him.

Legolas did not pull away.

He looked down at their joined hands, then back at the stars, his thumb brushing faintly across Elrohir’s knuckles.

The stars above shimmered on, indifferent and eternal.

But here, beneath them, something had shifted.

Elrohir’s thumb brushed once more over the back of Legolas’s hand before he shifted closer on the bench. Not abruptly. Not enough to startle.

But deliberately, closing the space between them until their knees nearly touched, and the starlight bathed them both in silver.

“You will return home safely,” Elrohir said, voice low but certain. “I will make sure of it.”

Legolas turned his head slowly. His blue eyes met grey, and held.

Something in his gaze faltered. Softened. Not from doubt, but from the ache of wanting to believe.

Elrohir did not look away. Neither of them did.

The sounds of the feast had faded now. The stars arched overhead, silent, distant, and bright.

And in the stillness between breath and silence, something settled between them. Unspoken. But undeniable.

Legolas did not look away.

His gaze lingered on Elrohir’s face, searching, steady. Not just seeing him as he was now, but through a lens of memory and meaning. The same gaze he had given once in the quiet of the bathing chamber, when the walls had begun to fall, and the distance between cruelty and care had started to blur.

There was no fear in it.

Only depth.

And something else. Something warmer. Something more dangerous.

His eyes wandered, slowly, over Elrohir’s face. Pausing at the curve of his brow, the quiet tension in his mouth, the line of his jaw now gentled by stillness and starlight.

“You are very kind,” Legolas said at last, voice no louder than a breath. “And noble. Though you wear both like burdens.”

Elrohir’s breath caught, just slightly. He didn’t move. But Legolas felt the stillness shift in him. Not with resistance. With anticipation.

“Even when you try to hide them,” Legolas murmured, gentler now, “you carry them like a blade at your side. As if you must defend them.”

Elrohir’s eyes searched Legolas’s face, as if seeking hesitation. Or permission.

He found none. Only that same quiet strength. That same stillness that steadied rather than pushed away.

He didn’t move at first. He only watched, waited, for some shift, some signal. But Legolas’s hand remained in his. Warm. Unwavering.

So he leaned in.

Slowly.

Legolas didn’t move, not back, not forward. But his breath came softer now, touched with something deeper. Something shared.

They were close enough that their foreheads nearly brushed. Their mouths, just a breath apart.

Elrohir’s lips parted slightly, uncertain. He could feel Legolas’s breath on his skin, warm, sweet with sugared fruit, uneven in a way that told him he wasn’t alone.

Still, he hesitated.

Neither of them spoke.

They simply stayed there, caught in a moment that might break either way.

And still, Legolas didn’t pull away.

It was Elrohir who moved first. Just slightly. His hand tightened around Legolas’s, grounding himself.

Then, inch by inch, he leaned in.

Their lips met, lightly, uncertainly. Not like a vow. Like a question.

Legolas’s eyes fluttered closed. He breathed out softly against Elrohir’s mouth, and the hand not being held rose, slow, deliberate, to rest against Elrohir’s chest. His fingers brushed the fabric there, barely touching, but steady.

Elrohir didn’t pull him closer. Not yet.

He was still for a moment more, breathing, barely.

Then he stood. Too quickly.

As if the air had grown too tight. As if the weight of what had just passed between them had finally caught up to him.

Legolas blinked, startled by the sudden distance.

Elrohir turned sharply, as if struck. His breath hitched, and he raked a hand through his hair, eyes dark and unreadable.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. No words came. Only the clench of his jaw. The stiff set of his shoulders.

He crossed to the door in three steps.

His hand reached for it.

He opened it.

The hallway lay quiet beyond. The guards stood nearby, turning at the sound, watching him, silent.

Elrohir stood in the doorway. Frozen.

A breath passed. Then another.

And he didn’t leave.

He turned.

Slowly at first, then all at once.

He shut the door with a firm, deliberate motion. The sound of it echoed softly behind him.

Three strides carried him back across the room, no longer hesitant, no longer afraid.

He reached for Legolas, both hands rising to cradle his face like something real , something certain .

And then he kissed him.

No apology. No question. Just a collision of breath and feeling and everything he could no longer carry in silence.

It was fierce with emotion. Desperate with restraint. Less a confession than a surrender.

Elrohir kissed him like someone unraveling. Like someone who had tried to walk away, and found the parting unbearable.

Legolas inhaled sharply, caught by surprise. But he did not pull back. One hand gripped Elrohir’s sleeve, anchoring himself to the sudden heat between them.

When they parted, breathless, still close, Elrohir didn’t move far. His hands remained, steady at Legolas’s jaw. His forehead came to rest gently against golden hair, as if the distance they had just crossed might close again if he let go too soon.

No words yet. Just breath. The kind that trembled, barely, between them. He did not turn away. Did not try the door again. And Legolas didn’t speak either, not at first.

Their foreheads touched still, breath mingled. As if even silence now bore too much meaning to disturb.

Then, softly, dryly, Legolas murmured, “So. Was that the moment you finally surrendered to woodland sorcery?”

Elrohir huffed against his skin, half-scoff, half-laugh. His eyes closed briefly. “You think highly of your enchantments,” he muttered.

“I’ve been told they’re subtle,” Legolas said, voice light, a thread of amusement running through it. “Takes time. Wears down even the most stubborn Noldorin pride.”

Elrohir drew back just enough to meet his eyes.

The silver in his gaze had steadied, but not softened. Not quite. He was still caught in something, still braced, like an elf standing on the edge of what he could admit aloud.

“It wasn’t magic,” he said, voice low.

Legolas tilted his head, still close, still watching him. “No?”

Elrohir shook his head once, barely.

“It was you.”

Legolas held his gaze for a long, quiet moment. And for once, had nothing clever to say.

Then Legolas lifted one hand, fingers light as wind, brushing the curve of Elrohir’s cheek.

He didn’t rush. He traced the line of his jaw slowly, almost as if memorizing it, and paused, his touch lingering at the corner of Elrohir’s mouth.

“So fair,” he murmured, barely audible, as if the words had slipped free before he could weigh them. “The sharpness of the Noldor in your brow. The strength of Men in your jaw.”

His thumb ghosted over Elrohir’s lower lip, reverent and slow.

“But it’s your eyes that give you away.”

Elrohir’s breath hitched, too softly for anyone else to notice, but not lost on Legolas. He didn’t smile this time. But the look he gave Elrohir was no less intimate.

“There is fire in them,” he said, voice low now. “And sorrow, too. Great sorrow.”

Something flickered in Elrohir’s gaze, too swift to name, but too sharp to miss.

Legolas began to draw his hand back.

But Elrohir caught it, gently, not with force, but with intention. He held it between both of his own, his thumbs brushing over Legolas’s knuckles.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he lifted Legolas’s fingers to his lips and pressed a kiss to their tips.

Not rushed. Not teasing. A vow dressed in silence.

Legolas stilled and his lashes lowered, not in modesty, but in surrender to the moment.

Elrohir’s eyes remained on the hand he’d kissed, as if reluctant to lift them. But when he did, they found Legolas’s gaze and held it fast.

“I never understood Beren,” Elrohir said softly, almost to himself, his thoughts drifting back to the teasing words shared with his siblings. “The songs speak of Lúthien’s beauty, her voice, her grace, but never of what passed between the lines. Never what made a man risk everything, for a single breath beside her.”

He paused, gaze searching, as though the answer had been in front of him for some time, and only now did he dare see it.

“I understand now.”

Legolas’s breath caught, but he did not look away.

Elrohir leaned forward slightly, and his voice dropped to barely more than a breath.

“And still,” he whispered, “I do not think even she could have stolen breath the way you do now.”

The silence that followed was not empty.

It was full.

Pressed tight with everything they weren’t ready to say, but could no longer deny.

But then Legolas exhaled, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“Is this,” he asked lightly, “how the Noldor flirt?”

His voice was gentle, teasing, yes, but not mocking. It was a thread of warmth, drawn to soothe the weight of Elrohir’s words without discarding them.

Elrohir blinked, caught off guard.

Legolas tilted his head, feigning solemnity. “Because if so, I must ask, is this how ancient elves charm their younger beloveds?”

Elrohir let out a breath, half a laugh, half something else, and shook his head. “Careful. I’ve walked these lands five times longer than you’ve drawn breath.”

Legolas’s smile deepened. “Ah. So you admit it, there’s wisdom behind the words.”

“I was being serious,” Elrohir said.

“I know,” Legolas said softly. “That’s what makes it dangerous.”

The smile faded from his lips, leaving something softer in its place. He studied Elrohir for a long breath, then leaned forward, his hand still resting in Elrohir’s, fingers lightly tangled.

The kiss he gave was hesitant, but not unsure. A brush of lips, gentle, steady, anchored in trust. A choice, not an impulse.

Elrohir responded almost instantly, one arm sliding around Legolas’s waist, the other rising to cradle the back of his neck, fingers threading into soft golden hair. In a single, fluid motion, he drew him closer, pulling him gently into his lap.

Legolas inhaled sharply against his mouth, a surprised breath of laughter slipping between them as the kiss broke by a hair’s breadth.

“Well,” he murmured, breathless, eyes alight, “now I must ask, was that Noldorin restraint or Mannish impatience?”

Elrohir’s gaze darkened with something quiet and wild. “Does it matter?”

Legolas’s lips curved, mischief gleaming like starlight in his eyes. “Spoken like someone who knows the rules only to break them.”

Elrohir’s lips quirked, wry, unrepentant.

“I was raised to follow every rule,” he said softly, his voice like low wind through leaves. “But you…”

His fingers brushed once through Legolas’s hair, slow and reverent.

“You make me want to rewrite them.”

Legolas stilled, not in fear, but in something quieter. Something that trembled just beneath the surface.Then, without a word, but with a smile,  the one his father once said mirrored his mother’s, rare and disarming , he leaned in again, slow and certain, and kissed him.

It was not the kiss of laughter or lightness. It was deeper. Anchored. The kind that asked for nothing but gave everything in return.

Elrohir’s hand curled instinctively at the back of his neck, holding him there, not to possess, but to stay tethered.

When they parted, slower this time, Elrohir didn’t let go. His arm stayed wrapped around Legolas, hand resting at his side, thumb brushing the fabric of his tunic as though anchoring them both in the moment.

“That smile,” Elrohir murmured, voice roughened and low, “will be my undoing.”

Legolas tilted his head, the corners of his mouth lifting again. “Then I shall wield it carefully.”

Elrohir exhaled a soft breath, half laugh, half surrender.

“I don’t know what this is,” Elrohir said, his voice lower now, almost reverent. “I’ve no name for it yet. Only that I don’t want it to end here.”

Legolas’s breath eased, his gaze steady, quiet and open.

“I want to see where it leads,” Elrohir continued, the words coming slowly, as though each had been carried a long distance to reach his lips. “If you’ll have it. If you’ll have me.”

There was no flourish in the words. No practiced charm.

Just quiet honesty, raw and brave, despite everything.

Elrohir’s brows drew together faintly, his hand still resting at Legolas’s side.

“I was cruel,” he said softly. “Blind. I let fear shape my words, and I—” He stopped, swallowing hard as his jaw tensed. “I will spend my whole life asking your forgiveness, if that is what it takes.”

But before he could say more, Legolas shook his head. “Don’t,” he murmured, reaching up to touch Elrohir’s face, his thumb brushing gently beneath his eye. “There is nothing to forgive.”

Elrohir stilled beneath his touch.

“You were uncertain. And I…I understand that. I know what it is to doubt. To fear. To armor yourself in silence.” A faint smile touched his lips, tender, but sad.

“You came back,” he said. “You saw me.”

A beat passed.

“That is more than I ever expected.”

His hand lingered on Elrohir’s cheek, feather-light. He didn’t speak again right away, his gaze simply roamed the planes of Elrohir’s face, as if trying to memorize the moment before it slipped away.

Then, barely louder than breath, Legolas said, “I would choose you.”

A pause. A held breath.

“Truly, I would.”

And then, so softly it barely broke the stillness—

“But I am afraid.”

Elrohir’s brow furrowed. His mouth opened, closed again.

He didn’t speak.

He waited.

Legolas’s gaze dropped, his fingers drifting lightly over Elrohir’s hand where it rested at his thigh, gentle, grounding.

“Our fathers would never abide this,” he said, quieter still. “Yours has made his disdain clear. And mine…”

He hesitated, just a breath, and something flickered across his face: pain, old and freshly stirred.

“…Mine would sooner bare steel than give his blessing to a Noldor, much less a son of Elrond.”

Elrohir’s jaw clenched at that, but before protest could rise, Legolas looked up again, his gaze steady, sorrowed, but unflinching.

“I do not question what I feel,” he said. His voice was stronger now, like wind stirring leaves. “But I have lived long enough to know love alone is not always enough. That the heart,” he added, more quietly, “is not the only thing that bleeds.”

Elrohir said nothing. Not yet.

But his hand closed more firmly around Legolas’s, not to bind, but to hold. To remain.

“I know what the price of love can be,” Elrohir said at last, his voice low, roughened not by anger, but something older, deeper. “I know the songs. I know what Beren endured for Lúthien, for the brush of her hand, he faced the gates of Angband.”

His thumb traced a gentle line along Legolas’s knuckles.

“And still, he said it was worth it.”

He leaned in, only slightly, his gaze unflinching.

“I am no Beren,” he murmured. “And you are no prize to be won. But if I must face fathers, kingdoms, and war itself, I will. Because you are not a passing fancy. Not something I can forget. Not something I want to.”

His eyes shone, not with defiance, but clarity. A fierce tenderness, raw and sure.

“You said hearts are not the only thing that bleeds,” he said. “I say, let them bleed. I have bled before. But this, what I feel for you, this is the first thing that has ever made me wish to live differently.”

Legolas’s breath hitched. He did not look away, but his composure shifted, and in its place rose something unguarded. Sincere. “I have only known you a little over a month,” he said quietly. “But I am not so young that I do not know my own heart.” 

His gaze fell to their hands, still joined, Elrohir’s fingers curled around his own. “When I look at you, when you speak like this, it isn’t confusion I feel. And it is not passing.”

He drew a breath, then lifted his eyes once more, steady now, though a smile ghosted at the corner of his mouth. 

“You make bold declarations, Elrohir of Imladris. Perhaps you are Beren reborn, daring the wrath of kings for a kiss beneath the stars.”

A beat passed, light as wind.

“Though if that is so,” he added, head tilting just slightly, “I hope I’m not expected to sing and dance like Lúthien.”

Elrohir huffed, something between a breath and a laugh, low and astonished. “No,” he said, his voice gentling. “You don’t need to sing, Legolas. Or dance. But if you ever did, I would listen. And watch. Gladly.”

Legolas blinked, caught by surprise, but warmth flickered in his eyes, and the soft amusement that followed curled at the edge of his lips.

His hand, the one still healing, wrapped in light linen, moved, hesitant. Elrohir reached without thinking, guiding it gently to his chest, just above his heart.

Then, with a touch light as breath, he brushed a lock of gold behind Legolas’s ear, fingers lingering there with reverence. “You only need to keep looking at me like that,” he whispered.

And for a breath, they simply did, no distance between them, no titles, no shadows.

Then Elrohir pulled him close again, wrapping both arms around him and drawing him in fully, firm, but never forceful.

Legolas did not resist.

He folded into the embrace, pressing his cheek to the hollow of Elrohir’s shoulder. His eyes slipped closed, his breath slowing. One hand rested lightly at Elrohir’s side. The other, still tender, curled at the edge of his collar, like it had always belonged there.

They stayed like that for a long while, no words, no pretense. Just two souls drawn close beneath the stars.

The music from the feast had long since faded. Only the wind moved now, brushing through the open window, stirring golden hair and loose robes. Somewhere beyond the walls of Imladris, the night stretched vast and eternal. But here, in this quiet chamber, the world felt smaller. Softer. Held.

Elrohir’s hand traced slow, absent circles at Legolas’s back, a rhythm without thought. Legolas’s breath moved steady against his collarbone, and neither seemed willing to shift, to speak, to disturb the fragile stillness they had carved out from the noise of the world.

Young love, perhaps. But not foolish.

It did not need to shout to be heard.

Elrohir pressed a kiss to Legolas’s temple, light, reverent. “Rest,” he whispered, though sleep was far from either of them. “Just for now.”

Legolas didn’t answer, but his hand tightened slightly at Elrohir’s side in reply.

And outside, the stars spun on in silence.

Not for them.

But it felt, for this one moment, as if they might have paused anyway.

Chapter Text

Elrohir slipped into his chambers with the quiet tread of someone accustomed to shadows.

But Elladan was already there.

He sat in one of the carved chairs near the hearth, legs stretched out, arms folded loosely across his chest, looking for all the world as though he had simply wandered in for a cup of tea, despite the lateness of the hour.

“Took your time,” Elladan said, not bothering to look up.

Elrohir blinked, then sighed. “You’re in my room.”

“You’re late,” Elladan countered. He turned his head then, eyes narrowing as they landed on his twin. “And Father has been asking where you went.”

Elrohir opened his mouth to respond, but Elladan tilted his head, gaze sharpening.

“You’ve been kissing someone.”

Elrohir stilled. “I—what?”

Elladan stood and crossed the room, examining him like a particularly obvious clue.

“The flushed cheeks. That ridiculous glow.” He gestured vaguely at Elrohir’s mouth. “And your lips, either you’ve been fighting a rosebush or—”

“Stop,” Elrohir muttered, already regretting every step that had brought him back to this room.

A grin spread across Elladan’s face, equal parts smug and amused.

“So?” he drawled. “Who was it, then? One of the Galadhrim? That pretty minstrel from the eastern quarter?” His eyes gleamed. “Or, could it be the Silvan prince with starlight in his hair?”

Elrohir turned sharply, unclasping his cloak with a jerk. “You see ghosts in shadows.”

Elladan raised a brow, utterly unfazed. “Strange. Because the only ghost I see is the one that’s been haunting your expression for days.”

Elrohir shot him a look, dark, warning, but said nothing.

Elladan only grinned, tilting his head. “Though I must say, it’s rather endearing. You wear infatuation poorly, brother. Like armor a size too small.”

Elrohir didn’t answer.

Elladan leaned back against the desk, arms folded, eyes gleaming with mischief. “He’s barely four hundred, you know.”

Elrohir shot him a warning glare.

Unbothered, Elladan carried on, adopting a tone of mock solemnity. “It’s practically scandalous. I mean, really, Elrohir—he’s what, just finished shedding his fawn spots? Should we be consulting Glorfindel about the ethical implications of ancient Noldor courting wide-eyed woodland youths?” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Or better still, file a formal petition with Thranduil. I hear he’s very open to negotiations.”

“If you value your life,” Elrohir said darkly, “you’ll stop talking.”

Elladan only laughed, a low, delighted sound.

But the laughter didn’t linger. It faded, not abruptly, but like the last shimmer of sunlight slipping past the trees. His expression shifted. Softer now. Less amused.

He pushed off from the desk and crossed the space between them.

“I’ll support you,” he said quietly. “Whatever this is, whatever it becomes. You know that.”

Elrohir glanced at him, a flicker of surprise in his eyes.

Elladan held his gaze. “But,” he added, voice lower, more serious now, “you know Father won’t.”

Silence settled between them again, this time heavier, more certain.

“And Thranduil?” Elladan added after a beat, his tone turning wry. “You do recall his reputation, don’t you? The one where even looking too long at his son might get you exiled to the roots of the forest?” He gave Elrohir a meaningful glance. “There are stories, you know. Whispers. Elves who vanished for less than a kiss.”

Elrohir exhaled, sharp but dry. “Stories,” he said. “Told by elves with too much wine and too little courage. No one actually vanishes.”

Elladan arched a brow. “And yet you’re still here defending your neck.”

“I’m not afraid of Thranduil.”

“No?”

“…Not entirely afraid,” Elrohir allowed.

Elladan gave a short, grim laugh. “Well, you should be. He’s not some brooding recluse with a crown and temper. He’s a king with sharp eyes and a longer memory than most of us have lived. He took down hundreds of enemies before you learned to hold a sword. His wrath is the kind that bends forests. Even Glorfindel calls him ‘King Thranduil’ without a trace of irony.”

Elrohir didn’t flinch, but he didn’t smile either.

“He would march through flame for his son,” Elladan added more quietly. “And I don’t think even father could stop him if he believed you’d caused harm.”

There was a pause. Then Elrohir said, simply:

“Then I will face him.”

Elladan looked at him, long and searching.

“You’re serious.”

Elrohir nodded once. “If it comes to that. I won’t run. I won’t hide behind lineage or duty. I’ll stand before him and say it plain: I care for his son. And I’ll protect him. Even if Thranduil meets me with steel.”

Elladan studied him for a moment longer. Then, quietly:

“You’ve changed.”

Elrohir gave a faint, tired smile. “No. I think I’ve just stopped pretending.”

Elladan’s eyes lingered on him, his teasing long faded. “You and Father,” he said slowly, “have always been complicated.”

Elrohir arched a brow. “That’s one word for it.”

Elladan didn’t laugh. He tilted his head, thoughtful. “He told me once, you remind him of Elros.”

Elrohir blinked. That stilled him more than any scolding could.

“He said you carry the same defiance,” Elladan went on. “The same intensity. The same way of holding your grief in your mouth like it’s a blade you’ve learned to live with.”

A pause.

“He misses him,” Elladan said simply. “Still. I don’t think he’s ever stopped. And I think...I think he fears losing you, too.”

Elrohir looked away, his jaw tightening. “He has a strange way of showing it.”

“So do you.” That struck deeper than he meant it to, but Elladan didn’t flinch.

“You don’t have to forgive him,” Elladan added gently. “But understand him, maybe. He’s known so much loss, Elrohir. And I think he’s afraid of losing what’s left.”

Elrohir didn’t answer.

“He’s changed since she left,” Elladan added, softer now. “We all have. But you and he, you clash because you’re both carrying too much, and neither of you knows where to set it down.”

Instead, his voice dropped low, rough-edged: “All I’ve known is fury. Rage. The kind that claws at your ribs and leaves you hollow. It’s been with me since she left.”

He didn’t need to say her name. They both felt it, like a silence that never eased.

“Since Mother sailed, I’ve carried nothing but the ache she left behind. The anger. The helplessness. And now…” His hands curled into the blankets. “This, whatever this is with Legolas, it’s soft. It’s terrifying.”

Elladan moved to his side, wordless at first. Then, gently, he sat beside him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

“I know,” he said.

Elrohir let his head fall forward, pressing his palms to his brow, but he didn’t pull away. Not from Elladan’s touch. Not from the moment.

His brother held him close, like they had when they were young, when bruises were simpler and grief didn’t weigh like stone.

“You’re not alone,” Elladan murmured.

For a moment longer, Elrohir didn’t move. Then he turned wordlessly and embraced his brother fully, arms wrapping around him like a lifeline, like an anchor.

It was something they had not done in years.

Elladan held him without jest, without pride. Just a brother holding his twin in the hush of a night that felt suddenly too wide.

The wind whispered past the windows. Distantly, the sounds of revelry still lingered in the valley.

But in that quiet room, there was only the hush between brothers, woven with grief, with memory, and a fragile kind of hope that maybe, just maybe, something new could grow from all they had lost.

The torches lining the eastern colonnade burned low, their flames casting long, uncertain shadows across the carved stone.

Thranduil stood at the edge of the great balcony, still as the statues that guarded the halls, his gaze turned toward the blackened forest canopy. His hands were folded behind his back, calm, poised, but the stillness was brittle.

The journey was not yet over. By court reckoning, his son and the accompanying guard company should have been deep in the assigned territories, visiting outposts, meeting with envoys, mediating disputes. The dates had been set. The route had been reviewed, approved, and revised again. There had been no cause for alarm.

And yet—

He had heard nothing.

No raven. No missive from Feren. Not even idle gossip from traveling merchants or scouts. Just silence.

The kind that thickened instead of eased.

Thranduil did not fret as other elves did. He did not pace or sigh. He did not call for minstrels or company to distract him from thoughts he did not voice. He did not rouse the guards with questions that had no answers. But he had not slept. Not well. Not since the forest had gone strange.

He had not attended the feast table in two nights. His robes were plain tonight, his crown left untouched on its carved stand.

Because something in the trees, something in the deep-rooted song of the Greenwood, had shifted.

It was not fear. Not yet. But it was no longer peace either.

A knock sounded at the edge of the open archway, soft, but not uncertain.

Thranduil did not turn.
“Come.”

Galion stepped into the lamplight, his brow drawn tight, hands clasped in the formal way he only used when the news he carried was unwelcome.

“My lord,” he said, bowing.

“Speak.”

“A scout has returned from the southern border,” Galion began, carefully measured. “He reports that Lord Feren and the guard company are returning. They were sighted at dusk, riding north, closer than they should be. Nearly two weeks early.”

Thranduil’s gaze did not shift. “Were they pursued?”

“No, my lord. The scout saw no sign of it.”

“They turned back,” Thranduil murmured, more to the trees than the steward.

Galion hesitated.

The king’s voice cut through the air like drawn glass. “Speak plainly. You are keeping something from me.”

Galion bowed again, longer this time, lower. A gesture that said more than words.

“The prince,” he said quietly. “The scout saw no sign of him among them.”

Silence.

The torches guttered in the wind.

Thranduil did not move. His posture did not shift. But the shadows seemed to deepen around him.

The forest outside whispered its secrets. And Thranduil, who had ruled it for an age, heard one truth loudest among them: His son was not among the returning.

And that meant something had gone terribly wrong.

Galion continued, more carefully now, “Feren and the guard ride with haste, my lord. Too quickly for a completed mission. The formation is tight. Their faces, grim.”

Now Thranduil turned, slowly.

His expression did not shift, but the silence in the room thickened like mist on a frozen lake.

“Ready the throne hall,” he said, his voice low. “When Feren arrives, he is to come directly to me. No delay. No rest.”

Galion bowed again, deeper this time. “Yes, my lord.”

Thranduil’s gaze returned to the trees, though his eyes no longer seemed to see them.

“And Galion,” he said, just as the steward turned to leave.

“My king?”

The king’s voice was cool as winter breath. “This does not leave the room. No whispers. No speculation. I will be the one to speak of it, when I choose to.”

A breath of silence passed between them.

“As you will, sire.”

Galion bowed once more and withdrew, his footfalls muffled, quiet as snowfall over stone.

The doors closed behind him with a soft, weighty thud.

A curtain before the storm.

Thranduil did not move.

The chamber stilled, save for the faint rustle of wind through the high-carved lattice. Outside, the trees whispered among themselves, indifferent.

Inside, the king stood at the rail, hands resting on the carved wood. He did not pace. He did not call for counsel or pour wine or curse aloud. He simply stood, posture faultless, crownless, motionless, save for the subtle strain across his shoulders, the taut line of his jaw.

Too early. No message. No son.

He closed his eyes.

The last time Legolas had returned from a circuit, he’d arrived late for supper, dust in his hair, his bowstring half-frayed, grinning like some wind-spun fool. He’d lingered in the stables, charmed the youngest guards, teased Galion about the soup, kissed his father’s cheek before stealing fruit from the tray.

This was not that.

This was silence.

Thranduil drew a long breath. Then another. Not to soothe himself, he was far beyond such illusions, but to still the tremor at the edge of the mask. The court would not see him fray.

And yet—

His hands, pale and fine and forged from old battles, curled around the carved rail until the wood groaned under his grip.

His gaze swept the horizon again, tracing the treetops for answers they could not give.

And then, so low the wind itself might have missed it, the king whispered into the hush:

“Where are you, my nettle-sprite?”

The sound of hooves, many hooves, reached the gates before the scouts had finished calling their approach.

By the time Feren and the riders passed beneath the stone arch of the palace courtyard, the king was already there.

He had not waited for the throne hall. Had not summoned his court.

Thranduil stood at the top of the steps, tall, motionless, his cloak unfastened, his crown catching the last of the fading light like a sliver of moonlight caught in gold.

His eyes, pale and unblinking, fixed on the returning company as they drew rein.

There was no mistaking the tension in his stance. Not fury, yet. But something colder.

Something sharpened by silence.

Only once the horses had stilled did Thranduil begin his descent.

His gaze swept the riders, counting without speaking.

Then it landed on Feren.

Feren dismounted with precision, expression grave but unwavering as he stepped forward.