Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The wind had shifted.

It carried the scent of pine now, sharper than before—laced with damp moss and the faintest trace of woodsmoke. It was different from Imladris, different from any place Elrohir had ridden through in the last weeks. Wilder. Older. And ahead, nestled in the green dusk of the world, lay the forest they had never been allowed to enter.

They had stopped at a high ridge, the kind where the land fell away suddenly in long green slopes, giving way to distance. From here, the edge of Mirkwood was visible, dark and immense, its canopy spilling eastward like a great tide of shadowed green. Morning light had only just begun to touch the tops of the trees, catching silver in their upper boughs.

It was still early. Not quite time.

Elrohir stood apart from the others, his gaze fixed on the forest’s distant line. Sixty years, nearly to the hour. He had counted them all, first by season, then by moon, then by breath. He had trained and wandered, fought and written, stood beneath foreign stars with foreign blades in his hands. He had been everywhere but where he longed to be.

And now, almost, he was near.

He had never seen Mirkwood. Neither had Elladan. Not truly. Their people had not walked freely there for ages, not since his father’s silence had hardened into long mistrust and disdain, and Thranduil’s memory had grown roots like thorns. The Greenwood was not closed to all, but it had never truly opened to the Noldor. And not to the house of Elrond.

Old grievances ran deep—long before the war, long before his birth. The prejudice between their kindred had been slow and quiet, shaped by blood and pride, by ancient griefs that refused to fade. Too proud to kneel, too wounded to reach. They had watched one another from afar, forest and valley, each wrapped in the belief that the other could not understand.

Until now.

Elrohir’s fingers curled slightly at his sides—not in tension, but in awareness. The weight of the promise he had made, softly, brokenly, in the courtyard of Imladris with tears unshed, pressed against his heart like a memory with teeth.

He had vowed that he would be there the moment the ban was lifted. Not a day late. Not an hour. That when morning broke over Greenwood’s borders, he would already be waiting at its gates.

And now, the hour crept closer with the rising sun.

Somewhere ahead, past the shadowed vale and the waking birdsong, his heart was waiting.

He wondered if Legolas had already risen. If he stood, even now, by the watchtower’s edge or the forest’s threshold, looking westward for a rider’s silhouette. He wondered if the dagger still rested at his side. If the quiver was still used. If his hair still bore the same braids—the ones Elrohir’s fingers had once undone, reverently.

He wondered if Legolas would still know his song, the rhythm of his voice, the shape of his silence, the breath they once shared in a room gone quiet with longing. If he would remember the hush of closeness between their bodies, the ache and awe of love made wordless beneath the boughs of starlight.

Or if the weight of sixty years had drawn too wide a distance. If time had made them strangers.

He thought then of the letters.

So many, across so many seasons—each one a thread spun between them, binding heart to heart over leagues of silence. They had written with devotion, with ache, with the tenderness of those who could not touch. Ink for breath. Parchment for skin.

Elrohir remembered how he would hold each page for long moments before reading, as though the warmth of Legolas’s hands might still linger in the parchment. His fingers would trace the edges, careful and slow, reverent as prayer. And always, he would bring the corner of the page to his lips—where Legolas had signed his name in that same careful, slanted hand: elegant, poised, like branches drawn under snowlight.

He had kissed each one. Every letter. Every page. As though, if he lingered long enough, the ink might breathe again. As though the words might carry taste and warmth and the memory of skin.

And Legolas—he had written not only with longing, but with laughter tucked between the lines. He had teased Elrohir gently about his Tengwar, mocking the way his hand grew wild and impatient when emotion overtook him. Once, he had said Elrohir’s script looked like the efforts of a raven drunk on miruvor, attempting to woo a hawk.

Elrohir had smiled until his cheeks ached.

He had held that page to his chest and whispered into the fold not words, but breath. Love, unspoken and yet known.

Word by word, letter by letter, they had built a bridge through time.

But there had been more than letters. More than words penned and sent across leagues of distance.

There had been drawings. Sketches that had steadied him when longing clawed too deeply. Countless renderings, some fine and shaded with care, others hastily born in moments of restlessness, on the back of old travel maps, in the margins of ledgers, across the torn edges of forgotten correspondence. Elrohir had drawn Legolas from memory, again and again, until the motion lived in his hand like muscle memory: the elegant slope of his cheek, the way his hair fell like sunlight across one shoulder, the gentle gravity that rested in his brow when he was quiet and still.

There were sketches of his hands—long-fingered, sure, calloused in the places Elrohir knew best. Of his mouth, half-formed into a smile that has always undone him. Of the line of his back, as Elrohir had seen it lit by firelight. The tilt of his chin when he was amused. The bare curve of his hips beneath a sheet, remembered only by moonlight and breath.

And always, his eyes.

Elrohir had tried a hundred times to catch them—those eyes that had silenced storms, that had met his own across a crowded hall and seen through every armor he’d ever worn. The gaze that steadied him. The gaze that had asked nothing of him but truth.

There had been nights when he sketched by firelight until his hands cramped, the ink smudged at the edges by unwashed fingers. The world would fall quiet but for the scrape of charcoal or the whisper of the brush, and still, he would keep drawing—not because he feared forgetting, but because remembering was the only way he had endured.

Each stroke had helped him carry the weight of the years. Each sketch had been a kind of prayer. A promise. A vow not to let time undo what love had made.

And now—now he was close enough that remembering might give way to seeing.

“I know that look.”

The voice came from behind, dry as ever and edged with mischief, weathered by millennia of brotherhood.

Elrohir did not turn. He didn’t need to. “What look?”

“The one you wear when composing poetry in your head,” Elladan said, coming to stand beside him. His boots barely disturbed the grass. “About golden hair and sighing trees and reunions so tragic they require a minstrel.”

Elrohir exhaled through his nose, his gaze never straying from the distant shadow-line of the Greenwood. “Do you want me to push you off this ridge?”

“I’d prefer not,” Elladan replied, entirely unbothered. “Glorfindel would scold you, and then we’d be down one poet and one heir to the House of Elrond.” He folded his arms across his chest, tilting his head in exaggerated thought. “Though I suppose I could still fulfill both roles.”

That made Elrohir turn. He raised a brow, cool and unconvinced. “You cannot draw a straight line, let alone write a verse.”

“True,” Elladan allowed, with the magnanimity of one conceding something unimportant. “But I can read. And I have read—at least one of your letters.”

Elrohir blinked. A flicker of real alarm broke through the practiced calm in his face.

“You what?”

“Oh, calm down, dear brother,” Elladan said, grinning, clearly delighted. “It was unintentional. The wind had caught it—I thought it was one of mine. Until I reached the third line and found mention of—what was it? Your ‘craving ache’? Or was it ‘fevered longing’? Something about the curve of his mouth and how you would happily die there, I believe.”

Elrohir groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “If the Valar have mercy, they will strike me down now.”

“I had to set it down and go for a walk,” Elladan went on, utterly remorseless. “I was scandalized. Nearly wept for our family’s dignity. Considered retreating to the library for a decade to cleanse my mind with Quenya declensions.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“I’m older. That’s my right.” He leaned a little closer, voice low and mock-grave. “Though I must say, I’ve never seen such… florid metaphors. Did you take a blow to the head that day, or were you simply possessed by some lovesick Maia?”

Elrohir made a sound that could have been a laugh, or a curse, and shook his head. “Remind me to never leave my correspondence unattended again.”

“Oh, I’ve learned my lesson,” Elladan said lightly. “Next time, I’ll read all the way to the end.”

“You read one page.”

“Half a page,” Elladan corrected, hand to heart. “I am not so heartless as to have read more.” A pause followed, the mischief dimming slightly, though the warmth remained. “You miss him.”

Elrohir didn’t answer. Not with words. But the look he cast eastward, quiet and unflinching, was answer enough.

Elladan followed his gaze.

The trees of Mirkwood loomed in the distance, vast and unyielding. A land older than memory, closed to them since before their youth. A kingdom their kin had barely touched.

And yet, soon, they would cross into it. Not as envoys. Not as strangers. But as kin bearing hope.

Elladan’s voice came again, softer now. “He’ll be there, waiting.”

Elrohir nodded once, the motion restrained but certain. “I know.”

Elladan’s gaze lingered on his brother, noting the subtle shift in Elrohir’s posture, the stillness that wasn’t ease, the quiet that wasn’t peace. 

“You’re frowning,” he said, lightly.

“I’m thinking.”

“So you say,” Elladan murmured, stepping closer. He reached out and gave a sharp tug to one of Elrohir’s braids, the gesture practiced, almost fond.

Elrohir slapped his hand away with a scowl. “Must you always do that?”

“How else am I to know you’re still breathing?” Elladan gave him a look of mock concern. “You’ve gone so grave, I feared you’d become one of those standing stones the Rohirrim pray to.”

Elrohir didn’t rise to it. His eyes remained fixed on the far shadow-line of the Greenwood, where morning still lingered pale and silver. Most called it Mirkwood now, darkened by sorrow, thickened with shadow, but to him, it would always be Greenwood. The name he knew from Legolas’s voice. The name written in flourished hand across the edges of old letters, where sunlight filtered through leaves, not fear.

Elladan’s tone gentled, just slightly. “What is it?”

A pause.

“My heart aches,” Elrohir said softly, “to see him again.”

Elladan was quiet for a moment, then exhaled. “Of course it does.”

He clapped a hand to Elrohir’s shoulder in a rare moment of unsarcastic affection.

“But,” he added a beat later, the familiar glint of mischief returning to his gaze like sun through mist, “I suspect that is not the only part of you aching.”

Elrohir turned toward him, only to find Elladan already watching him with one brow arched in open mirth, eyes bright with implication.

His sigh was long and pained. “You are incorrigible.”

“I’m observant.” Elladan raised his brows, utterly unrepentant. “Sixty years, and not so much as a wandering eye. Not that I expected otherwise. Anyone with eyes could see you were his, heart and soul, long before the ban began.”

He leaned slightly, voice lowering in mischief. “Still—it's impressive. I do recall a time when your bedroll saw more company than your saddle.”

Elrohir gave him a flat look but said nothing.

Elladan tilted his head, feigning solemnity. “You, who once argued that love and exclusivity made uneasy companions, who swore that fidelity was for statues, not for sons of Elrond, now speak as though there were no one else in Arda.”

“I need no other,” Elrohir said, quiet but firm. “Not since him.”

A rare flicker of something unguarded passed across Elladan’s face—surprise, perhaps, or something softer, shaded with respect.

“Well,” Elladan said at last, voice gentler, but no less amused. “So falls the great heartbreaker of Imladris. The roving eye, the terror of moonlit gardens and wine-soaked feasts, felled not by scandal, nor conquest, but by a single arrow, straight to the heart.”

Elrohir didn’t deny it. He only gave a quiet huff through his nose, a breath that might’ve been amusement, might’ve been exasperation. His fingers brushed the hilt of his dagger at his hip, a touch as instinctive as breath.

“I think,” he said finally, his gaze distant, steady, “my eyes were always searching for him. I just didn’t understand what they were looking for until they found him.”

He stood still, the wind tugging faintly at the ends of his braids. His gaze remained fixed on the distant green veil of Mirkwood, and when he spoke again, his voice was low—measured and unguarded in a way Elladan rarely heard from him.

“He is it for me.”

No drama. No flourish. Just the weight of conviction laid bare.

“I wish to call him my husband,” he went on, softer still. “To speak our vows before both our kindreds, to the valar, with no need for distance or restraint. I want to bind myself to him openly. Fully. As I have already in every other way.”

Elladan looked at him, the mischief tempered now by something steadier. “Then you will,” he said simply. “And when that day comes, I’ll be proud to call him brother.”

He stepped closer and laid both hands on Elrohir’s shoulders, fingers curling lightly over the worn fabric of his travel cloak. His eyes searched his brother’s face—so similar to his, so familiar, and yet changed in ways that had nothing to do with age.

“Imagine it,” he murmured, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “My baby brother, once wild as spring rivers and twice as restless, speaking now of vows and hearths and binding his soul to another’s for all time. Who would have thought?”

Elrohir’s brow arched. “You are older by minutes.”

“A fact of fate,” Elladan said gravely, though his grin betrayed him, “but a fact nonetheless. And with those minutes came the sacred right to be astonished by your maturity.”

He paused, his tone softening. “I may jest, but I see you, Elrohir. I see how you’ve changed. You carry yourself differently now. There’s a steadiness to you that wasn’t there before. And I have no doubt that it is love that made it so.”

He gave his brother’s shoulders a brief, grounding squeeze. “It suits you. Loving him. Letting it show.”

Elrohir said nothing at first. He only looked at Elladan—truly looked at him, with a gaze full of warmth and the quiet knowing that comes from sharing every shadow and light of a life.

Then, wordlessly, he stepped forward and reached up, his hand gentle against the back of Elladan’s neck as he drew their brows together. Their eyes closed, instinctively, as they always had in moments like this, shutting out the world to let only their bond remain.

The touch was familiar. Ancient.

A gesture they had shared since childhood—when words were too slow for what they felt, when only closeness could speak for them.

For a long breath, they stood like that—forehead to forehead, the space between them hushed and still, filled with something older than speech. The bond between them, forged in the womb and tempered in battle and laughter, was something no parting had ever severed. They had walked through millennia side by side, through the ruins of battlefields, the halls of wisdom, the forests of memory, and always, always found their way back to each other.

Few things in the world were as certain as the love between them.

Their eyes opened at last, brows still pressed together, breath shared between them.

“I’m glad you’re with me,” Elrohir said at last, his voice quiet against the wind. “For this.”

Elladan’s hand came up in turn, gripping the back of Elrohir’s neck in a mirror of the gesture.

“There is nowhere else I would be,” he answered, and though his voice held its usual lightness, there was steel beneath it. “Not when my brother rides to claim the hand of a prince.”

Elrohir let out a soft, choked laugh, but he didn’t pull away. Not yet.

Not until the moment had been properly felt.

Not until the ache of sixty years was ready to turn toward hope.

They parted slowly, reluctant but composed, the weight of memory and vow still lingering between them like a warmth not yet spent. Their foreheads drew back, but the closeness remained, etched into the set of their shoulders, the hush of their breath.

It was then that footsteps sounded, light but purposeful, crushing dry grass and scattering the hush.

Glorfindel crested the ridge path with the ease of one long accustomed to such terrain. His golden hair was unbound, wind-tossed and catching the light like a living banner. His face, serene as ever, bore the faintest spark of amusement behind his eyes, as though he’d seen more than he would admit and chosen silence only out of mischief.

“Am I interrupting a heartfelt confession?” he asked, voice dry as old wine. “Shall I return after the tears have been tenderly wiped away?”

Elladan turned without missing a beat, his hand still resting lightly on Elrohir’s shoulder. “Hardly. I left you and Erestor alone for a reason.”

Glorfindel’s expression did not shift, but the gleam in his eye sharpened.

“Then your timing was exquisite,” he said mildly. “We had just reached the part of our morning where words become…entirely unnecessary.”

Elladan snorted. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard Erestor describe a morning that way.”

“My dear husband doesn’t describe such mornings,” Glorfindel replied, gaze flicking westward as if remembering something far more pleasant. “He simply ensures they happen. Regularly. Even while camping. Especially while camping.”

Elrohir groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Please. I am begging you. Do not finish that thought.”

Glorfindel’s smile curved, wicked and serene. “I wasn’t going to. But you must admit—it had promise.”

He stepped beside them with unhurried grace, brushing stray leaves from his cloak. The breeze lifted the edge of his it, the sunlight catching in his hair like fire through silk. Though seasoned by ages of war, council, and duty, his presence still carried a youthful ease, a glint of mischief that had only sharpened with time.

Elladan gave him a sidelong look. “You seem in high spirits.”

“I slept well,” Glorfindel said, folding his hands behind his back. “And woke to excellent company.”

“Valar,” Elrohir muttered, casting a desperate look skyward. “I do not wish to hear how my childhood mentors spend their mornings. Truly.”

Glorfindel glanced at him, a golden brow rising. “Ah, but your memory is convenient. Shall I remind you how many mornings I was forced to cover for you and the Prince of Greenwood, vanishing from guest chambers, slipping out past the stables, conspicuously absent from the feasting halls?”

“That was different,” Elrohir said at once, straightening. “We were—”

“In the woods,” Glorfindel supplied helpfully. “Often. And loudly. I seem to recall a hawk circling overhead once, confused by the noises. I feared you were being attacked.”

Elladan coughed into his fist, shoulders shaking.

“I still don’t know how you convinced the gardeners not to report you,” Glorfindel went on, utterly unbothered. “Or how Erestor managed to look Elrond in the eye after retrieving your garments from the bramble patch.”

Elrohir groaned again. “I am going to walk into Greenwood alone and never return.”

“Good,” Glorfindel said, entirely cheerful. “But do wait until after you’re reunited. We’ve waited sixty years for the conclusion to this tragic romance. It would be rude to leave us hanging now.”

Elrohir turned toward Elladan with the air of one enduring great trials.

“Tell me again,” he said dryly, “why Glorfindel and Erestor had to accompany us—was silence too heavy a burden to bear alone?”

Before Elladan could answer, likely with something outrageous, another voice joined them from the ridge above, calm and precise.

“To ensure the two of you don’t get yourselves killed before reaching the forest,” Erestor said, appearing with the quiet surety of a shadow long kept in step. The morning light caught the lines of his tunic—simple, travel-worn, yet undeniably fine. It was deep blue, belted close, and tailored in a way that drew a flicker of unmistakable appreciation from Glorfindel’s eye.

Erestor’s gaze, however, was all clarity and cool scrutiny as it moved over the three of them. His dark hair was bound back in a single plait, wind-lifted, and his boots showed the dust of many leagues.

“And,” he added, beginning his descent with the same unhurried grace that had carried him through centuries of court and council, “to investigate what remains of Dol Guldur’s reach. The shadow has not slept. Orc numbers rise along the southern borders of Greenwood, and now the northern trails, too, continue to see movement. Tracks. Camps. We do not yet know if they are scouts or something worse.”

The weight of his words settled like mist on the ridge, cool, heavy, undeniable.

Even Elladan, usually the first to deflect solemnity, said nothing for a breath.

But Glorfindel, as ever, was undeterred. He tilted his head and cast Erestor a sidelong glance, golden hair bright against the morning haze, his tone light as wind over water.

“You wound me,” he said. “And here I thought I came only for the pleasure of your company.”

Erestor didn’t look at him, but one dark brow rose with stately precision. The faintest twitch of his mouth gave him away.

“You’ve had more than enough of my company this morning,” he replied, dry as summer dust.

Glorfindel’s answering smile was slow, knowing, and far too pleased. “Never enough.”

Elrohir made a strangled sound beside them, pinching the bridge of his nose like a long-suffering tutor forced to endure a lesson he’d once assigned. “Valar preserve us,” he muttered. “Do you rehearse this?”

Glorfindel looked far too innocent. “We’re only speaking of company, young one.”

“I am older than most mountains,” Elrohir snapped without heat. “I know precisely what you mean.”

“Then perhaps stop asking questions you don’t want answered,” Glorfindel said, brushing a stray leaf from Erestor’s shoulder with insufferable grace.

Erestor cleared his throat.

It was not loud, but it was the kind of sound that had ended council squabbles, silenced restless halls, and made even Glorfindel straighten on occasion.

“If the three of you are quite finished,” he said, with the cool authority of one who had wrangled lords and warriors alike, “we have ground yet to cover, and more days remaining than I would like. Best not to waste them lingering over sentiment.”

He looked to Elrohir, gaze steady, sharp beneath the dark sweep of his brow. “Unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind and no longer wish to reach the Greenwood by week’s end?”

Elrohir blinked once, then shook his head, quiet but resolute. “No. I still wish it.”

“Then come,” Erestor said, already turning with the unhurried ease of someone who would never fall behind. His dark tunic, worn and elegant, caught the morning breeze as he stepped downhill. “There is bread left to be had. And Glorfindel has hidden what remains of the pears. Again.”

“That is slander,” Glorfindel said at once, stepping after him with the graceful indignation of the thoroughly guilty. “I was merely safeguarding them from Elladan, who eats like a warg at a feast when he thinks no one is watching.”

“I have no shame,” Elladan called, already following, “but I do have speed. And if I get there first, you’ll all go hungry.”

Erestor sighed, an ancient, exhausted sound, as the three vanished down the slope, their voices tangling together in well-worn rhythm.

But Elrohir lingered.

He remained at the ridge’s crest, still and upright, the wind brushing lightly over him as if reluctant to disturb his thoughts. His eyes turned east.

He could feel it. The pull of it. The quiet gravity that had drawn him for decades.

His chest ached with it.

Sixty years of longing, of letters passed through borders and trust carried in ink, had not dimmed the memory. If anything, it had sharpened the ache into something crystalline. A tether pulled taut across time and silence.

Somewhere beneath those trees, Legolas walked.

And soon, Elrohir would walk beside him again.

He let himself breathe it in: the weight of waiting, the closeness now. He could almost see the line of Legolas’s mouth, the tilt of his head, the sea-glass eyes full of mischief.

He lingered one moment more. Just one.

Then he turned, quietly, and followed the sound of laughter and footsteps down the path toward the trail, toward the camp, and toward the home his heart had already found.

The wind stirred behind him, rustling the grass where he had stood.

The forest was quiet, but not still.

A hush clung to the Greenwood floor, dense and low as fog. Birds had gone silent. No breeze stirred the ferns. Even the trees, ever-whispering, held their breath.

But silence, here, was no comfort.

It was a warning.

Twelve shadows moved through the canopy with the seamless grace of wind through leaves. They made no sound, save the faint whisper of boots on bark, the creak of a bowstring drawn taut. Cloaked in the hues of their woodland home, they became part of it—root and limb, leaf and bough, unseen until they chose otherwise.

The patrol had tracked the signs since dawn, webbing spread like torn linen across the underbrush, the twisted remains of a wood-rabbit, long legs scuttling just out of reach. The spiders had grown bolder again.

And now, too close to the heartwood for comfort, they had found a nest.

Legolas ran the high limbs ahead of them, swift and sure, never faltering in his steps.

The trees knew him. They bent for him.

His golden hair was bound in braids away from his face, and his cloak snapped lightly behind him with each leap. His bow was already in hand, arrow notched, eyes fixed on the black shimmer of movement below. He did not need to signal. They were ready.

A sudden shriek split the hush as the first spider lunged from the thicket.

Before its legs could fully extend, an arrow struck home, clean through the mouth. It fell back twitching.

Another dropped from above. Legolas turned without pausing. His next shot sliced through its swollen body, anchoring it to the tree trunk like a pinned leaf.

Around him, the patrol of twelve moved as one.

Caleth’s blade sang as it sliced through a web-thickened bough, clearing the way for the others. Thalion, quiet and precise, dropped from a branch with a double shot, felling two spiderlings mid-scuttle.

No one spoke.

This was how the wood-elves hunted. Fast. Clean. Wordless.

Another spider tried to flee, too slow. An arrow took it through the thorax. Another crumpled as Thalion drove his knife beneath its jaw with brutal efficiency.

The fight was brief.

When the last leg ceased twitching, the stillness returned, but not the peace.

Legolas descended from the trees in a crouch, landing soundlessly on moss-strewn ground near the smoldering ruin of the nest. His eyes swept the surrounding woods, watchful, listening.

“All clear,” Caleth murmured behind him, lowering his bow.

Legolas gave a slight nod but did not yet sheathe his weapon.

The darkness was retreating, but not gone.

The air still tasted wrong.

Legolas did not move at once.

Instead, he stepped to the edge of the clearing, where the roots of an old beech curled outward like weathered fingers sunk deep into moss and stone. He pressed one hand to its trunk, fingers splayed, palm bare against the cool bark.

The others waited behind him, silent and still.

The beech tree stood ancient and listening. Its leaves trembled faintly overhead, catching the filtered morning light, and the hush beneath the canopy thickened.

Legolas closed his eyes.

The stillness around him was not empty, it thrummed. Beneath the bark, beneath the earth, a warning stirred like a breath drawn sharp. A tremor in the rootline. A scent of wrongness, old and crawling. The trees did not speak in words, but the meaning rose in him like instinct.

He opened his eyes.

“More,” he said, already turning. His voice was quiet, but it cut through the glade like a drawn blade. “They are coming. From the east. The forest is trying to hold them back.”

He lifted his bow in the same breath.

No sooner had the last word fallen than the bramble wall shattered with sound.

They came pouring through in a surge of dark limbs, larger than before, their eyes glinting with hunger and something worse. Madness. Compulsion. They did not hesitate at firelight or blades. They came because they were driven.

The patrol snapped into motion.

“Form wide,” Legolas commanded. “Intercept and drive them back.”

Caleth surged up a low rise to gain elevation, his bow string already taut. Thalion stepped forward into the breach without pause, blades drawn, his movements swift and brutal as he carved into the foremost spider’s soft eye cluster.

Arrows sliced the air. Webs thickened it.

The forest erupted in screeches, not pain alone, but fury. A tide of chittering rage.

Legolas loosed an arrow that struck a spider mid-lunge, spinning it backwards into the underbrush. He darted forward beneath a low branch, leapt onto a fallen log slick with moss, and fired again, the shaft sinking deep into a mouthful of fangs.

The spiders were fast. Too fast.

And still they came.

Dark limbs scuttled across the forest floor, dislodging leaves and shards of bark. The scent of them was rot and venom, and the trees above quivered, their branches whispering in agitation.

Webbing hissed past Legolas’s ear and caught against the tree behind him. He twisted aside just in time, rolling beneath the thrust of clawed legs and driving a second arrow up into the vulnerable underside of another spider’s thorax.

A shriek tore through the clearing.

Legolas landed lightly and moved on.

The patrol shifted with him, tight, silent, precise. A dance they had learned by necessity. And still the trees whispered above, warning in tones older than language. The forest was not at peace.

It was bracing.

It was trying to hold.

The last spider fell with a twitch of limbs and a low, guttural hiss, its body collapsing in a shuddering heap. The silence that followed was thick, sodden with blood, silk, and the sharp stench of venom. All around them, the glade hung heavy with the aftermath.

Branches sagged beneath the weight of torn webs. Leaves curled and blackened at the tips. Even the light filtering through the canopy seemed dulled, veiled by rot and shadow.

Legolas stood still, breath steady though his chest rose and fell with the exertion of battle. His bow lowered, fingers relaxing from their long tension. Slowly, he turned, his gaze sweeping the patrol with the precision of long-trained eyes.

“Is anyone hurt?” he asked. His voice was quiet—but it carried, low and steady, the kind of voice the forest paused to hear.

One by one, the answers came.

“No, my prince,” said Caleth, already sliding his sword home, brown hair plastered to his brow with sweat and gore.

“Nothing but spider-blood,” Thalion muttered, flicking dark ichor from his blade with a look of grim distaste. “And perhaps my pride.”

A few more murmurs of assent followed, boots shifting among damp roots and crushed brush.

Legolas nodded once, but his eyes had already moved past them.

The glade was wrong.

It pulsed with the memory of the spiders, an aftertaste of fear, of malice woven into root and leaf. The trees stood like wounded sentinels, their bark blistered, the limbs tangled with silk. One great tree to his left trembled faintly, as if recoiling from the very earth it grew in.

Legolas moved toward it without a word.

The others watched in silence. They knew what this meant.

Legolas knelt before the elm whose crown had once filtered sunlight like green glass. Now, it wept amber resin from deep cracks along its trunk. One branch hung broken, draped in silk, half-severed by a spider’s passage. The tree shuddered faintly when his fingers brushed its bark.

“I hear you,” he murmured. “I’m here.”

He laid his palm flat.

A hum stirred beneath his hand, faint, uncertain. Like a song half-remembered. The old power, the one he had carried since childhood, awoke beneath his skin: soft and green and strange. He was not yet his mother, and he knew it, her strength had been a flood; his was a spring just breaking the frost.

But he was her son.

And the woods remembered that.

Legolas closed his eyes.

He breathed in, slow and even, and let the warmth pool in his palm. It pulsed outward in a gentle wave, not brilliant, not blinding, but warm. Steady. Like morning sun breaking through fog.

The resin flow slowed.

The leaves above trembled, and then eased. Just slightly. Just enough to feel the change.

Around him, the webbing slackened. Threads began to loosen where they clung to bark. A single leaf, browned and curled at the edge, straightened toward the light. It was not healing—not truly. But it was the beginning.

A push forward.

A breath of new strength.

When he opened his eyes, the forest around him was no longer silent. A hush still lingered, but it was softer now, watchful. Listening.

Behind him, none in the patrol spoke.

They stood still, as if afraid to disturb what they had just seen.

Thalion was the first to bow his head. Caleth followed, silent in awe. And then the other warriors, still and breath-held, watching the heir of their realm lay a blessing upon wounded earth.

And the trees, once shrouded in grief, stirred ever so faintly, alive to him once more.

Legolas then rose slowly, eyes never leaving the tree. And though his face bore the composure expected of a commander, there was sorrow in his gaze. Not for the battle, nor the dead, but for the forest itself. For every wound that did not bleed, yet suffered.

Legolas stood a moment longer with his hand pressed to the elm’s bark, fingers splayed as if to hold together a wound no salve could reach. The tree’s sorrow pulsed faintly beneath his skin, muffled, muddled, like a song half-drowned in water. He bowed his head as though in apology, his brow brushing the trunk, his breath stirring the moss.

Then he stepped back.

The others waited, still and silent.

His gaze lifted to the canopy, tattered by webs, grimed with rot, and then swept outward, across the bowed trees, the hanging strands, the sickly hush that settled like smoke over the glade. His patrol watched him, not as a prince, but as something elemental, one who walked with the blessing and burden of listening.

“They are crying,” he said at last, his voice low, almost mournful. “The trees. The roots. The leaves are too weary to fall. They cry out—not with fear, but with grief.”

He turned slightly, speaking not only to the warrior but to the forest itself.

“They long to be healed,” he went on. “To remember the touch of unspoiled light, to drink deep of rain untainted by shadow. But the rot spreads faster than they can mend. The darkness leaves no time for rest.”

A breath stirred the air, soft, sap-sweet, laced with bitterness.

“The shadow lays down its roots,” Legolas said, his eyes narrowing faintly. “It sinks low into the soil, and from that poisoned ground crawl its children, fanged and many-legged, ravenous and blind. They devour the light not only with hunger but with hatred. As if it offends them.”

He stepped to a patch of webbing where a young beech stood bent, its bark blistered beneath silk. With a flick of his knife, Legolas sliced the threads away and let them fall. The beech’s leaves fluttered as though in faint relief.

“The woods still fight,” he said, quieter now. “But they are growing tired.”

Behind him, the glade remained still.

Even the wind seemed to hesitate—listening.

“I would give them peace,” Legolas murmured, almost to himself. “But I am only one voice. One seed from the tree that bore me. I can lend them strength, not salvation.”

His fingers curled loosely at his sides, damp with sap.

“But still,” he said, straightening, his gaze sweeping over the trees again, “I will answer when they call.”

And in the hush that followed, it seemed the forest heard him.

Then, a quiet voice broke the silence, reverent and sure.

“Our prince is a blessing upon these woods,” said one of the warriors near the edge of the glade. His tone was not loud, but solemn—spoken as one might speak in the presence of something sacred.

Thalion, voice low, added, “We would not walk this deep into the dark if he did not walk with us.”

Caleth nodded, glancing toward Legolas with quiet pride. “It is his steps that guide us. His voice that steadies. His hands that give the woods their breath again.”

Others murmured assent, the kind that needed no prompting. Some lowered their weapons. Others touched bark in silent thanks, as if the forest itself bore witness.

They looked at him not as royalty, not as something lofty or distant, but as kin, beloved and steadfast. The one they followed into shadow without hesitation, because his heart beat in rhythm with their own.

Legolas turned to face them, his expression steady but touched by something softer—an emotion not worn openly, but felt.

“I am no blessing,” he said gently, his voice carrying through the still-sickened glade. “Not more than any of you. The Greenwood is full of light yet. And it is you, your blades, your watchful eyes, your unyielding steps, who guard it.”

He moved slowly, gaze meeting each of theirs in turn. “You stand when others falter. You listen when others close their ears. You carry the songs of this forest, even when the songs grow quiet. That is no small thing.”

He placed a hand once more on the wounded elm beside him.

“She remembers you,” he said quietly. “You and those who came before you. All who bled to keep her roots strong. I am only one voice among many.”

A long silence held.

Until Caleth gave a dramatic sigh and broke the spell. “You are far too humble, your grace,” he said, half exasperated, half fond. “It’s terribly noble. Very poetic. But it’s doing our reputation no favors.”

Legolas turned, brow lifted in mock offense. “Reputation?”

“Yes,” Caleth said, slinging his bow across his back. “You’ve heard the stories. The Prince of Greenwood walks through moonlight and never stumbles. He speaks to trees, and they answer in song. He once bested three spiders with a glare and a stick.”

Thalion stepped forward, eyes gleaming. “I heard it was five spiders. And he wasn’t even wearing boots.”

Another warrior snorted. “And he leapt from a tree so high, the wind bowed before him!”

Legolas rolled his eyes, but amusement tugged at his mouth. “I’m fairly certain none of those things happened.”

“Ah,” said Caleth, crossing his arms with mock solemnity. “And now he’s modest. You’re making it very difficult to be properly awed.”

Legolas stepped lightly toward him, brushing past with a dry smile. “I’ve spoken with many trees, Caleth. Not one has ever whispered of your legendary modesty.”

“I keep it quiet,” Caleth said, placing a hand over his heart. “Like all great virtues.”

“As quiet as your archery breath control,” Legolas returned without pause. “Which vanishes the moment a butterfly sneezes.”

Laughter rippled through the patrol, low, genuine, welcome.

Even amid silk-strangled branches and soil gone dark with ichor, the sound of it lifted like wind through high leaves.

They did not laugh because there was no danger. They laughed because they had survived it.

And because he was theirs. Their prince. Their kin.

The child of the woods, golden-haired and keen-eyed, who stood among them, not above them.

The laughter lingered like a balm, softening the edges of bloodshed and toil. The warriors spoke among themselves in low voices, of their arrows, of old hunts, of the ridiculous tales Caleth insisted were true.

Legolas smiled faintly, listening. The sound of their joy, brief and real, warmed something in him. These were his people. This was his forest. Even in the wake of death, they could still laugh. Still live .

But then—

A hush.

Not of the glade.

Of him.

It crept in quietly, like breath turning to frost. A sudden cold slid beneath his skin, threading down his spine and coiling in his chest. The mirth of the patrol dimmed in his ears, as though the world had drawn back, leaving only silence and wind.

He stiffened, head lifting slightly.

Something watched.

He could feel it, more certain than if he’d seen it with his eyes. A gaze, distant but piercing. Cold as damp stone. Old. Cruel. It pressed against his senses like a shadow pressing against a door.

The southern air shifted.

A breeze stirred, wrong in its weight, no woodland sigh, but a thread of chill seeping from a place where light dared not dwell. It carried nothing on it. No scent. No birdsong. No echo. But it touched his skin like a whisper, thin and invasive, and the fine hairs along his arms rose in warning.

He turned.

Southward.

Toward Dol Guldur.

The trees there loomed darker, even at a distance. Black-tipped, hunch-shouldered, as if bowing under a weight unseen. The very line of the horizon blurred there, shadows twisting in ways that did not match the sun. The branches seemed to claw at the sky, a silent scream of limbs entangled in their own grief.

And then—

A sound. Or something like it.

Not wind. Not words. A whisper, not through air but within .

Like thoughts not his own slipping through the cracks of his mind—soft, curling, and wrong. Not a voice, and yet— intention . It crept along the bones of his skull, insinuating itself like smoke through hairline fractures in stone.

The language was foreign, indecipherable, harsh and low, but threaded with a rhythm that felt almost musical. Not the Common Tongue. Not Elvish. And yet it carried a kind of dreadful grace. The syllables slithered like oil across water, like mildew weaving through roots, sweet on the surface, then sour beneath.

He did not know what it was.

Only that it was near .

Filtered. Cloaked. Hideous in its softness.

He could not make sense of it. But it reached for something in him with uncanny familiarity, like fingers brushing the edges of a long-buried thought, or a shadow glimpsed once in childhood and never truly forgotten.

His breath caught.

His pulse faltered for the barest instant.

And then, he moved.

One step. Then another. Southward. Toward the edge of the glade. Toward the quiet.

He was not forced.

Not commanded.

But something in him leaned toward it, some uneasy part of his spirit that needed to understand what it was. What had reached for him. What hid behind the cold and the stillness and the wrongness in the wind. The pull came not from without, but within: a tension born of vigilance and fear, the kind that demanded sight, demanded knowing. It was not surrender. It was the first step of a hunter tracking an unseen shape in the dark.

His bow remained at his side, forgotten, not discarded, but momentarily meaningless.

His gaze had narrowed, not widened. Not vacant, but sharp in a different way, focused inward, as if trying to decipher a dream upon waking.

His face, so often lit with quiet joy or set with princely resolve, was unreadable now—held in a kind of stillness that came not from enchantment, but from listening .

Not a spell.

A question.

Unanswered. Unnamed.

And he was walking toward it.

Behind him, the laughter of his patrol carried on, unaware. The scrape of knives on stone. The quiet shift of leather. Caleth’s voice rising in mock outrage, followed by Thalion’s scoff. They spoke of hunts and boasts and the promise of hot broth back at camp.

And the prince walked, quietly, unknowingly, toward the whisper that had no name.

“My prince?”

The voice came from behind—steady, uncertain.

Caleth.

The call anchored him.

Legolas blinked. The shadows pulled away like water draining from stone. The whisper was gone—vanished as if it had never been, leaving no echo but a chill in the hollows of his bones. The warmth of the glade returned around him: birdsong, the rustle of leaves, the quiet hum of living trees.

“Your grace?” Thalion’s voice followed, sharper now, lined with concern. “Are you well?”

He turned at last.

His expression had smoothed by instinct. Calm. Open. Composed. Only the faint tightness around his eyes betrayed anything amiss—something a less seasoned warrior might have missed. But not the two who had ridden at his side for decades.

“I’m fine,” he said, voice easy. “The glade is clear. We should return to camp before the light shifts.”

He turned to lead them, stepping lightly over twisted roots and the broken carcasses of slain spiders. The others followed, though not without glancing at each other.

“You went quiet for a while,” Caleth said lightly, falling into step beside him. “Thought you’d taken root. Or perhaps you were off in some blissful dream of your Noldo.”

A ripple of warm laughter passed through the patrol like a breeze through leaves.

Legolas didn’t turn, but the corner of his mouth curved. “Would that be such a crime?”

“Not a crime,” Thalion said behind them, voice dry. “Just…unexpected. Of all Elves in Arda, our prince chooses a Noldo?”

Caleth snorted. “He always did favor the brooding, poetic sort. Must be the hair. Or the height.”

Laughter rippled through the patrol, warm and familiar, full of long affection. No one spoke with spite. They had long since made peace with this bond, strange though it might have once seemed. They had fought beside Legolas too many times, seen too much of his heart and steel, to question where it had led him.

And they had seen what those letters had done.

Each one arriving after weeks or months, tucked into saddlebags or slipped between rations, softened the prince’s silence. They would find him smiling without reason, humming without thought, staring a little too long at the horizon as if listening for a voice carried on the wind.

“I suppose we must give him credit,” Thalion said. “He found the only Noldo who doesn’t quote poetry before drawing his blade.”

Legolas laughed now, a real sound—low and easy, edged with fond exasperation. “And you are all insufferable.”

“We are,” Caleth agreed with a dramatic bow. “But our hearts are true.”

More chuckles followed, boots crunching over loam and root. For a while, the woods rang only with their voices—ease woven between warriors who had bled together, watched each other grow, mourned and laughed under the same trees.

But Legolas’s gaze wandered once more as they walked.

Southward.

Toward the place where the shadow had touched him.

He said nothing.

Not yet.

Not until he could name what it was.

The forest camp glowed with quiet life.

Night had nearly fallen, but Greenwood’s canopy held the dusk in soft pockets of gold and green. The patrol’s fire burned low and steady in a ring of stone, its flickering light casting long shadows over moss and root. Around it, the warriors gathered close, leathers dusted with web and soil, blades newly cleaned, their laughter worn at the edges but still warm.

Someone passed a ladle from pot to bowl. A murmur of thanks followed. The scent of broth, herbed, rich with forest roots and wild onion—rose into the air, curling through the chill.

They sat easily, sprawled like the brothers-in-arms they were. Caleth leaned back on one hand, gesturing animatedly with the other as he spun some tale about how Thalion had once mistaken a moonlit owl for a spider and nearly shot a hole through his own tent. Thalion, for his part, swore it had hissed .

Legolas sat a little apart.

Not by distance, but by stillness.

The weight of command often set him just slightly outside their circle, though none there would have called him distant. His presence, like the trees themselves, was felt even when silent. His bow lay beside him, limbs stained faintly with spider-blood. He set his bowl down at his side—unspilled, untouched.

And from his tunic, he drew a letter.

The parchment was creased at the folds, the ink just beginning to soften where it had been read too many times. He held it with care, fingertips brushing reverently along the edges as if the parchment itself carried warmth.

He didn’t read the words. He didn’t need to.

He knew every line by heart, the firm, slanted script that never wavered, even when the message within faltered with things too heavy to say plainly. It was Elrohir’s final letter. The one he had written before setting out for Greenwood.

Legolas let his gaze move over the page.

And slowly, softly, he smiled.

Not the kind of smile worn in court or battle. This one was quieter, barely there. A ghost of joy brushing the edges of his mouth, made brighter by the faint color that touched his cheeks. His pulse quickened, not with warning, but with the anticipation of reunion. The knowledge that sixty years of silence, of distance, of aching restraint was nearly at an end.

In his mind’s eye, he could see it: Elrohir in the saddle, eyes fixed eastward, the wind tugging at his cloak as Greenwood’s shadowed trees rose to meet him. His hair, dark as storm-clouds, streamed behind him like a banner. The thought struck something deep, something half longing, half ache, as though the forest itself had begun to stir in answer.

“You’ll wear the ink off that one,” Caleth said lightly from across the fire, his voice a gentle intrusion, rich with amusement.

Legolas blinked, then glanced up. His smile did not fade.

Caleth smirked around a spoonful of broth. “The day of the ban draws close. Soon you’ll have the real thing in front of you.”

Thalion, hunched over his bowl with his usual wolfish appetite, paused to glance over. “Then Lord Elrohir is truly on his way?”

Legolas didn’t answer right away.

He folded the letter carefully, with fingers as practiced as a bowstring pull, and slipped it back into the pocket over his heart.

Then he looked west.

“Yes,” he said simply. “He is.”

The fire crackled.

And for a moment, no one spoke.

The warriors around him had fought beside him, laughed and wept beside him, watched him lead and falter and rise again. They had seen him haunted by silence some nights, restless as a hound, eyes fixed on the trees as though listening for hoofbeats that would not come. They had seen the way his shoulders eased when letters arrived, how his lips would soften, the way he would step out into the glade to read them alone, and return later with a lightness in his tread that no one dared name.

Now, they saw something else.

Hope.

Old, patient, bone-deep hope, rising at last.

No words were needed. The moment held its own reverence.

They looked to their prince—not as a commander now, nor a warrior, but simply as a beloved son of Greenwood. A friend. A brother. One who had waited long and loved well.

The firelight caught on his hair, turning it to molten gold. His face, lit from within by memory and expectation, was soft with something more powerful than longing.

He was not reaching toward the past.

He was waiting for the future to arrive.

Caleth leaned back against a mossy log, cradling his empty bowl with one hand and gesturing loosely with the other, a familiar twinkle in his eyes. The firelight danced across his cheekbones, throwing flickering shadows over his braid as he grinned. The scent of broth and pine smoke mingled in the cool evening air.

“So, my prince,” he said, tone casual but threaded with mischief sharpened by long friendship, “what does Lord Elrohir look like, then? Does he resemble most Noldor, black hair, grey eyes, that usual distant stare like they’re contemplating the music of the stars?”

The warriors chuckled, low and warm. Someone murmured, “Probably writes poetry to the moon,” and another stifled a snort.

Thalion, crouched near the fire with a ladle in hand, looked up from stirring the embers. “He does have the black hair and grey eyes,” he confirmed, voice smooth with certainty. “But taller than most. Broad, too—there’s mortal blood in him. You can see it in the set of his shoulders, the way he carries a blade. No mistaking it.”

He paused, allowing the memory to resurface, then added with dry amusement, “And he scowls. Constantly. Walks about looking like someone’s just stolen his horse.”

A ripple of laughter spread through the patrol.

Legolas gave a sudden, bright laugh, nearly spilling his broth in the process. “Yes. That sounds like him.”

He leaned back slightly, gaze softening with quiet, unmistakable pride. His fingers curled loosely around the rim of his bowl. “But he is beautiful. The light of Maia, Edain, Sindar, and Noldor mingle in him. You see it in his bearing, he was made for light and war both, and he carries both with grace.”

For a moment, silence followed, not awkward, but reverent. The kind of silence that warriors offer each other when they know something is sacred.

Then from the far side of the fire, a voice broke through, familiar, teasing, and entirely unrepentant. “A lord of so many lineages...but is he as gifted in other pursuits, your grace?”

A smothered groan came from one of the older warriors, who jabbed the speaker lightly with an elbow. “You cannot ask that!”

“Why not?” the first replied easily. “The prince smiles at his letters like a maiden in spring. Surely he will forgive us.”

Legolas let out a groan and buried his face in his hands, cheeks blooming red. “Valar help me…”

But before he could mount a protest, Thalion gave a sharp snort of laughter, clearly savoring the moment. “I will say only this. The day we rode back from Imladris, our prince could barely sit straight in the saddle.”

The patrol howled, laughter rising like birds from the underbrush. Several choked on mouthfuls of broth. A few slapped their thighs or leaned against one another for support.

Legolas remained hidden behind his fingers for a long breath, then let out a laugh of his own, helpless and full of exasperated affection. “You are all insufferable,” he muttered, though his voice shook with mirth.

“Aye,” Caleth agreed, raising his bowl with mock solemnity. “But your suffering gives us great joy.”

Even as the teasing rolled on, none of it bit deep. It was all fondness, woven through the years like thread through linen. There was no cruelty in their laughter, only the comfort of kinship born in forest and firelight. And in their eyes as they watched their prince, who smiled at them with love in his face and embarrassment in his cheeks, there was no mockery.

Only fierce loyalty. Only warmth.

Only love.

Caleth’s smile faded, not out of defiance, but memory. He set his half-finished bowl beside him on the log, the firelight glinting off the curve of the tin.

“Even if Lord Elrohir is your beloved, my prince,” he said, voice low but clear, “we have not forgotten. And we have not forgiven him.”

The words fell gently, without malice, yet their weight was unmistakable. Around the campfire, the easy hum of conversation stilled. Some of the younger warriors glanced toward their prince, uncertain. Others looked to Caleth, waiting.

“We heard the stories,” Caleth continued, meeting Legolas’s gaze across the fire. “How he spoke to you. How he wounded you before he ever touched your hand with love.”

The flames cracked softly between them, casting gold and shadow across the prince’s face. Legolas did not flinch. He had already tucked the letter away into the inner fold of his tunic, but his hand lingered there a moment longer, pressed just above his heart, as if steadying something that stirred beneath.

“I have forgiven him,” he said at last, his voice soft but unwavering. “And he has paid the price for what passed between us.”

He looked up, meeting each of their eyes in turn.

“Sixty years of banishment,” he said. “Not just from a realm, but from love. From laughter. From what we built with our own hands. That is no small sentence.”

Around the fire, there was no reply at first, only the sound of wind shifting the leaves overhead, and the long stretch of shared silence that came with listening to something true.

Then Thalion gave a single nod, firm and slow. The fire lit the edge of his jaw.

“And he’ll pay further, if our king has his say,” he said, matter-of-fact. “We’ve heard the shape of the trials. He is to learn our tongue. To dwell as one of us, without lordship. To take up arms by our side. No fanfare. No titles. No silks from Imladris.”

“Imagine a Noldo trying to learn Silvan,” Caleth muttered with a grin that broke the tension. “He’ll tangle himself in his own vowels.”

A few of the others chuckled. One of the archers gave a theatrical sigh, then lapsed into a mockingly grand cadence, an Imladris lilt laid thick over Silvan words. “Your humble and most reverent greetings, O mighty tree of bark and blossom…”

“Stop,” Thalion groaned, throwing a pebble across the fire pit. “You’ll curse the patrol.”

Even Legolas laughed then, soft and unguarded. He shook his head fondly, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear.

“They jest,” Thalion said, glancing at him again, voice lowering. “But not in cruelty.”

“I know,” Legolas replied, the warmth still in his smile. “And you are right to be cautious.”

Thalion’s face turned grave again, shadow shifting over his brow. “We are not cruel, your grace. But our memory is long.”

Legolas inclined his head. “As it should be. Wounds must be remembered, not erased. But they must also be given the chance to heal.”

He looked toward the fire again, but his hand drifted briefly to the place where the letter rested, close to his heart, hidden, but not forgotten. Not now.

“Elrohir comes not as the son of Elrond,” he said. “Not as a lord of Imladris. He comes as a suitor. And a guest. And an elf who means to earn what he once thought was already his.”

A quiet murmur passed through the circle, low and thoughtful, not quite agreement, but acceptance. The sound of warriors turning over old memories and weighing them against the truth laid bare before them.

Caleth exhaled, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “We won’t make it easy for him.”

Legolas’s answering smile was calm and steady. “I did not expect you to,” he said softly. “Nor will the forest.”

That drew a few solemn nods. The trees had long memories, too.

Thalion leaned back against a moss-draped stone, one boot stretched toward the fire, the other planted in the dirt. He arched a brow, the gleam in his eyes unmistakably wicked. “I confess,” he said, “I’m most looking forward to the faces in the court when Lord Elrohir arrives.”

Caleth snorted. “Oh, you mean the Sindar advisors who look like they swallowed thistle whenever someone speaks Silvan?”

Thalion nodded, grinning. “The very same. I’ll never forget the look on their faces when the king informed the court of what transpired in Imladris. That the prince had been slighted, insulted by Elrond’s own house—” he paused, letting the weight of it settle, “and that the son of that house would come to Greenwood, once the ban lifted, to earn not just the king’s leave…but the people’s, for our prince’s hand.”

“It was the first time I ever saw Thalandir drop his quill,” Caleth added, grinning into his bowl. “And he’s the one who drafts the royal edicts.”

A ripple of laughter followed. Thalandir, ever the picture of Sindar formality, had stared slack-jawed for a full breath before the quill slipped from his fingers and blotted ink across a decree meant for the Western Border. He’d tried to recover his dignity, of course, clearing his throat, straightening his collar, but the damage had been done, and none of them had let him forget it since.

Legolas laughed softly, a hand rising to brush hair from his face. “You all gossip worse than the weavers.”

“Gossip?” Thalion echoed. “It’s called firsthand observation, your highness. Some of us were in the hall that day.”

“And some of us,” Caleth said, lifting a finger with mock seriousness, “are merely passing along stories told with great passion at the barracks fire.”

Legolas shook his head, but there was warmth in his gaze. “You’ll get me banished next, for mocking my father’s court.”

Thalion smirked. “If so, you can join your Noldo in exile. It would make for a poetic scandal! Greenwood’s golden prince, fleeing to live off lembas and longing.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Legolas said dryly, lifting his bowl again. “There are worse fates.”

Before Legolas could lift the spoon to his lips, a voice from the other side of the fire rose in song, badly sung and wholly unserious, cracked with laughter even before the first line was through.

“Oh, the Greenwood’s prince with golden hair,
Fell for a Noldo, tall and fair!
He stole his heart with brooding grace—
And kissed him ‘neath the starlit lace…” 

A few of the patrol groaned. Someone choked on their broth. Caleth muttered something about secondhand embarrassment.

Thalion, however, moved with the reflex of a seasoned warrior.

His boot flew through the air in a single, smooth arc and struck the offending singer squarely in the chest with a dull thump, just shy of the bowl he nearly dropped in surprise.

The guard squawked, flailed, and caught the bowl against his stomach with both hands, splashing broth down his tunic.

“Finish that verse,” Thalion said, voice utterly dry, “and I’ll throw the other boot. And then my belt. And then Caleth’s.”

“That last one is a threat to us all,” Caleth muttered, pretending to shield his own belt with a solemn frown, though his shoulders shook with laughter.

A ripple of chuckles went around the fire, some quiet, some doubled over. Someone whistled in mock appreciation of the aim. The balladeer raised his hands in surrender, grinning sheepishly, red in the face but unrepentant.

And then—

Legolas laughed.

Not the reserved, court-polished chuckle of a prince. Not the quiet exhale of amusement he wore among diplomats.

He laughed.

Truly.

Head tilted back, the sound bursting from his chest, unguarded and bright. He leaned back against the log behind him, the spoon forgotten, his fingers loose around his bowl, his eyes gleaming like starlight caught in water.

It hit them all at once.

The patrol quieted, not out of awkwardness, but reverence. That laughter, so rare and unburdened, settled over them like a blessing.

They watched him, this prince of theirs, so often poised, so rarely free of duty’s shadow, and saw joy.

Not a diplomatic smile. Not the distant gentleness he wore like armor in council.

But real, gleaming joy. The kind born not of ceremony or pride, but of love. Of being among kin who knew him not as a symbol or heir, but as the boy who once climbed trees barefoot, who stole pears from the kitchens, who bled beside them on the borders and grieved their dead in silence.

To the outside world, he was the jewel of Greenwood, one of the fairest Elves in all of Middle-earth, praised in halls he’d never walked, longed for by lords and minstrels alike. But to them, he was simply Legolas.

And they smiled too.

They laughed again, louder, some shaking their heads, others clapping the balladeer’s shoulder, all of them caught in the warm pull of shared affection, drawn close by the rare, golden sound of their prince’s delight.

Whatever lay ahead, be it trials, or Noldorin suitors, or the shadows breathing out of the south, they sat beneath Greenwood’s stars with fire in their bellies and a vow settling wordless among them.

They would guard this joy.

They would see to it he never wore grief so long again.

And if it took flinging boots, or mocking courts, or singing bawdy verses of forbidden love until their voices cracked with mirth, then so be it.

He was theirs. And he was smiling.

Beyond the laughter, the stars wheeled overhead, pale and distant and bright.

Somewhere west of them, across leagues of woodland and shadowed vale, a rider crossed under those same stars, heart fixed eastward.

And somewhere ahead waited a clearing where old wounds might close, where the air might taste of cedar and silk again, where two long-parted souls would find each other not in memory, but in truth.

The woods would watch.

The trees would remember.

And when the moment came, when footstep met footstep, and the years fell away like breath—

The Greenwood would bear witness to a promise kept.

A reunion long delayed.

A love, returning home.

Chapter Text

The Elvenking’s Halls were quiet that morning, but not with peace.

It was the kind of silence that hung before a storm—taut and listening. Pale light filtered through the tall carved windows, fractured by ivy shadows and the sway of leaves beyond. Above, the greenfire chandeliers burned low, their glow dappled on stone veined with age and memory.

Thranduil sat upon his throne with the stillness of deep roots. A silver circlet crowned his brow—slender, leaf-forged, gleaming like autumn sunlight caught in frost. It rose in antlered branches, delicate yet commanding, worn as he had worn it for centuries: not as an ornament, but as part of him. Fine rings adorned his fingers—some inherited, others ancient tokens of his own house—each wrought in Greenwood's likeness: oak, ash, silverthorn. His robes were deep green, edged with gold embroidery so fine it seemed grown rather than sewn, heavy with quiet authority.

There was something otherworldly in the way he sat—distant, luminous, beautiful as starlight through mist. Ethereal. As if the forest itself had taken form in flesh and light and crowned him its sovereign. His skin held the pale sheen of birch bark beneath moonlight; his hair, long and silver-gold, shimmered like river-silk as it fell in quiet folds over his shoulders. The light caught at the high planes of his face, at lashes fine as cobweb-thread, at the sharp, immortal symmetry that had never known age nor weathering.

To look at him was to remember things older than memory—halls of stone lost to the sea, white trees blooming in forgotten twilight, stars kindled before fire was ever born.

One hand rested on the carved arm of his throne, fingers curled in measured stillness. The other lay loose upon his knee—not tense, but not at ease. His gaze, clear and unreadable as ice over deep water, gave nothing away. He was the picture of poise—and something far older than poise. Something sovereign. Something fey.

The business of court had been brief—almost perfunctory. A delay in grain along the Forest Road. A dispute over stonework in the western halls. Petitions read, grievances acknowledged. All spoken with the soft civility of routine. None of it voiced with urgency. None of it truly heard.

Thranduil’s gaze moved where it should. His nods came when expected. But his stillness that morning had an edge to it—too composed, too distant. The sort of quiet worn by one holding himself deliberately elsewhere.

Galion, seated a few steps below the dais in his usual place of honor, caught it at once.

He had served the king too long not to know the signs. The faint narrowing of the eyes between missives. The slight delay before replying to a counselor’s query, as though the words had to be called back from another place. The moments Thranduil did not truly see the petitioner before him, though he responded with perfect grace and precision, his voice like water poured into a carved vessel.

Legolas was due to return soon—his patrol expected before the sun reached its height. The hour neared.

And though Thranduil gave no outward sign of unease, Galion knew. He always knew. Knew the way the king’s fingers drummed once—only once—against the carved wood of his throne when no one was watching. Knew the way his posture held not just authority, but anticipation. Waiting. Listening.

He was always like this when his son was beyond the reach of the halls—silent, watchful, and just a little too still, as though attuned to some finer thread than sight or sound. As though listening for footfalls that had not yet come.

A shift in the air broke that quiet expectancy—the faint rustle of silk, the soft scrape of a boot across stone.

An Elf stepped forward and bowed.

Galion’s gaze shifted as Anghiril emerged from the gathered courtiers, moving with the precise grace of one born to long halls and high speech. He was of the Sindar—silver-haired, sharp-featured, and keen-eyed—his bearing carved in the old mold: dignity without warmth, courtesy with edge. A voice honed for court, elegant enough to flatter, and cutting enough to bleed.

Anghiril bowed deeply and deliberately. “My king,” he said, lifting his eyes. “May I presume the realm should soon expect… visitors from the west?” 

Galion’s mouth tightened slightly, though he said nothing. Anghiril did not elaborate. He did not need to. The phrasing was too pointed, the pause too precise. And when he added, with faultless civility, “It is my understanding that the ban you placed upon Imladris lifts by morning,” the disdain was clear—not in what was said, but in the polish of how it was said. 

There was no flicker in Thranduil’s expression. Only the faintest pause of his fingers, as though the quiet around him had drawn closer. 

He met the counselor’s gaze without flinching. “The son of Elrond swore he would be at our borders the morning the ban was lifted,” Thranduil said, voice cool and composed. “He does not strike me as one who forgets an oath. Or the hour.” 

The words rang soft and clear beneath the vaulted roof—unadorned, but heavy with finality.

Anghiril inclined his head, just enough to be courteous—nothing more.

“Indeed,” he said, with a smile as polished as cut glass. “The Noldor are famed for the keeping of oaths.”

He did not look away as he said it. Did not raise his voice. But the words rang clear, laid with all the weight of memory. The kind not written in song, but burned into stone and bone.

There was no need to name whose oaths. Or whose ruin had come of them.

A ripple passed through the court—not loud, but unmistakable. A few of the Sindar seated along the benches exchanged glances, dry amusement curling at the corners of their mouths. One or two let slip a quiet huff of laughter, more exhale than sound. Even among the Silvan, there were flickers of tension, uneasy and subdued. They were not so quick to laugh in court—but they had learned to listen when the old blood stirred.

It was not mockery. Not yet. But it was close.

Galion did not smile.

He sat still and straight, hands folded with habitual grace—but his gaze had sharpened, flint behind calm. Watching Anghiril. Watching the others.

He had never trusted that one.

Too polished, too precise. An elf of masks, well-crafted and well-kept. Anghiril was known to say the right thing, always—but never quite the true thing. Galion had seen too many like him in Oropher’s day: silver-tongued courtiers who spoke of duty while angling for their own ascent.

The air in the hall had shifted—thin and close, like the hush before a string is drawn taut.

Thranduil did not so much as blink.

But the corner of his mouth shifted—only slightly, the barest pull of lip and cheek. It was not a smile. It was something colder. The kind of expression that made seasoned warriors sit straighter and diplomats tread more carefully. A flicker of warning, elegantly sheathed.

Silence settled like a delicate frost across the chamber.

The laughter—such as it was—had long since faded, but its ghost lingered in the air, brittle as glass. No one moved. Even the banners above seemed to hush.

Then, softly—almost idly:

“Yes,” said the king. “The Noldor are known for their oaths.”

He did not look away from Anghiril. His gaze held with quiet intensity, clear and fixed, unblinking as the light that filtered through the high windows. His expression did not shift, but something in the air had.

His voice, when it came again, was calm—measured, low—but there was a weight behind it. Not raised, not forced. The cool, unyielding pressure of a current far beneath the surface.

“In my experience,” he said, tilting his head just so, “such oaths rarely pass without leaving ruin in their wake.”

There was no need to raise his voice. The stillness made space for it.

His gaze drifted—not idly, but with intent—skimming the line of seated counselors, their faces a study in caution and calculation. Then back to Anghiril.

He let the silence stretch, long and deliberate. A king unhurried by discomfort.

“But I have no quarrel with this one,” he said at last, as though brushing dust from an old thought. “He gave his word. I see no reason to doubt he will keep it.”

The words were clean, measured, and cold as polished stone.

It was not praise or trust. But it was something close to acknowledgment.

From the row of seated counselors, Thalandir rose.

He moved with quiet authority, the muted grace of a soldier long accustomed to both battlefield and hall. His braids were modest—unadorned but tightly bound, marked not by vanity but by decades of courtly service. Like Anghiril, he was of the Sindar—older than many in the court, his loyalty forged in Greenwood’s founding years.

He stepped forward to stand beside Anghiril, the hem of his robes brushing the stone with a whisper. Then, with the solemnity of one who knew the weight of the moment, he bowed low—precise, deliberate.

“No one here would question your judgment, Your Majesty,” he said carefully, his voice low but clear, tuned to the gravity of the hall. “Yet I would be remiss if I did not give voice to what already stirs behind closed doors.”

He straightened, his hands folded before him, and lifted his gaze to meet the king’s—steadily, but not without caution.

Thranduil’s expression did not change, but one brow arched—slowly, elegantly. It was not challenge. Not quite invitation. But it was permission, and those who had stood in court long enough knew what it meant.

Thalandir continued, his voice free of malice, but edged with the tension of one walking a blade’s breadth.

“The thought of a Noldorin son courting our prince—of coming to claim his hand—has set many in this realm ill at ease.”

A beat of silence followed. Not shocked silence—but the hush of something long felt and now spoken plainly.

Beside him, Anghiril inclined his head, a gesture that implied solidarity, though it offered no warmth.

“Many of the Sindar followed your father, the late King Oropher, eastward for a reason,” Thalandir said, his voice smooth as carved ice. “They left behind the high towers and proud tongues of Lindon to build something untouched by Noldorin ambition. They sought refuge from wars not of their making, from councils where their voices went unheard.”

His eyes remained fixed on Thranduil—measured, unflinching.

“To see one of that house step across our threshold now—not as guest, but suitor—to one day bear the title Prince Consort of Greenwood…”

A breath passed through the court. Soft. Not startled—but sharpened by centuries.

“…it troubles more hearts than mine alone, my king. Even if no voice dares say it aloud.”

Thalandir’s jaw tightened, just slightly, before he spoke again. The pause was brief, but deliberate—measured not for drama, but for control.

“A son of a Noldor,” he said, voice low and even, “one who was fostered in the house of kinslayers, no less.”

The disdain was not shouted, but woven into the syllables—cool and honed, like a blade slid neatly back into its sheath. 

No names were spoken. None needed to be. Every Elf in the hall knew the tale. Knew the blood spilled at Doriath. Knew the fire and the grief that followed the Havens of Sirion.

Knew the names of Maedhros and Maglor, and the twin sons they took from the ashes.

And they knew, too, that Elrond Half-Elven was one of them.

That Maglor—strange, sorrowful, broken—had grown to love the children he once stole. And that the twins, in time, had loved him in return.

It was a tale too old to be forgotten. And too bitter to be easily forgiven.

Thalandir did not raise his voice, nor seek approval. His gaze remained forward, his tone stripped of bitterness—but not of meaning.

At last, Thranduil rose.

He did not speak as he stood. The motion was slow—unhurried, unforced—but it carried the unmistakable gravity of storm tides pulling back from shore. The train of his robes spilled like shadow down the steps of the throne, and the crown upon his brow caught the morning light, antlered branches flaring with fire.

He stepped down in silence. And the court fell still.

There was no flourish. No raised voice. Only presence—the kind that needed no herald to announce it.

He moved through the space like a blade unsheathed. Not quickly. Not idly. But with the terrible grace of one who had ruled long enough to know that silence cuts sharper than steel.

He passed the benches of his counselors without pause, his gaze unreadable, his face a mask of carved frost. His fingers brushed the edge of a high-backed chair as he passed, but only once—like a hunter marking terrain.

He did not look at Galion.

He did not look at Legolas’s empty seat near his throne.

Instead, he turned toward Anghiril and Thalandir, standing together at the center of the chamber.

“Tell me, then,” Thranduil said at last, his voice low, smooth as riverstone. “What is it you would have me do?”

“I know the shape of whispers in my halls,” he said, his voice smooth as frost, each word precisely measured. “I know them when they rustle like dry leaves behind closed doors… and when they wear the face of counsel, cloaked in courtesy and bowing with careful tongues.”

He moved as he spoke—slow, deliberate steps tracing a circle no one dared interrupt, silence curling in his wake like smoke from an unseen fire. He paused by a great stone pillar, one hand lifting to trace the carved ivy spiraling its length. The gesture was idle, almost absent. But his next words were not.

“If you think me the sort of king who would tear love from his own son’s hands,” Thranduil said, his voice low and unflinching, “then say so. Here. Now.”

It was not a threat. It was not a challenge. It was a simple invitation to error—no less perilous for the stillness with which it was offered.

Anghiril inclined his head, measured and smooth—but there was a tautness beneath the grace now, a flicker of calculation behind his eyes.

“The prince is still young,” he said carefully. “Heartbreak, though grievous, need not undo him. Elves have faded for less, it’s true—but Prince Legolas is strong. Deep-rooted in this forest, in ways few are. He will endure.”

He paused. Let it hang.

“And in time,” he added, with the soft weight of implication, “he may find another—someone more suited to Greenwood’s future.”

He paused just long enough to let the words settle—like ash upon cooling embers.

“Prince Legolas has ever placed the good of his people above his own desires,” Anghiril said, his voice dipped in reverence now, threaded with calculated grace. “He is a prince of rare bearing—ethereal in form, steadfast in heart. His beauty is not merely of the flesh, but of spirit. There is strength in him beyond his years… and wisdom beyond even that.”

A few heads nodded—some in genuine accord, others out of habit or caution. But at the fringes of the court, a faint ripple stirred. Not quite a protest—something quieter. Discomfort. Wariness.

For it was true that Legolas was beloved. Not merely admired or honored, but cherished by Sindar and Silvan alike. In him, the forest saw its future—golden-haired and keen-eyed, a bridge between bloodlines, a prince who walked among his people not with hauteur, but grace. They had watched him grow beneath Greenwood’s boughs. They had followed him into battle. Many had bled beneath his banner.

To speak of parting him from his joy—of setting his path to serve ambition—was no small thing.

Thalandir cleared his throat and stepped forward by half a pace, angled slightly between Anghiril and the throne. His manner was deferential, almost apologetic—as if to smooth the edge of what had been said, or shield it from sharper reply.

“None speak of cruelty, my lord,” he offered, his voice measured. “Only caution. There are many of noble blood still unbound. It may be wiser—safer—for Greenwood to look inward for its future. There are Sindarin houses—old and strong—whose sons, or daughters, would do honor to the throne.”

He paused—briefly, but with intention—before adding, “Any among them would count it the greatest fortune to be bound to Prince Legolas. He is the king’s heir, the forest’s beloved… and a beauty so rare it humbles even those who’ve seen the stars fall over Aman. His presence alone inspires devotion. His hand—” he inclined his head slightly “—would be a gift beyond reckoning.”

He did not glance at the Silvan seated along the lower tiers of the court, but they noticed nonetheless.

A few narrowed their eyes. One tilted his head, jaw set in tight disdain. Another—older, quiet, clad in the earth-tones of a border warden—shifted in his seat with the weight of long memory. They said nothing, but their silence held iron.

There had always been a polite tension between the Silvan and the Sindar—centuries of shared purpose bound them together, but not always warmly. They lived side by side, fought shoulder to shoulder, but the old songs still whispered of difference. The Sindar, heirs of Beleriand’s splendor, bore themselves with a quiet pride that too often glanced downward. And the Silvan, older still and shaped by forest and hardship, had long since grown used to being underestimated. They bore it in silence—but they did not forget.

Thranduil did not speak.  He had stopped walking.

He stood with his back to them now, haloed in the pale cascade of morning light where it spilled through the tall, green-stained windows. One hand rested against a carved pillar, fingers lightly touching the age-cooled stone; the other hung at his side, still as if carved from the throne itself. The antlered crown caught the light like frost on iron.

No one moved.

It was an unspoken thing—almost a taboo—to speak openly of the prince’s hand in court. Those who served long in the Greenwood knew well: the king did not take kindly to such presumptions. Thranduil might be fair and cold as moonlit snow, but when it came to his son, the temper beneath the ice was known to crack mountains. He had rebuked emissaries for less.

And it was whispered—never loudly, never near the throne—that more than one would-be suitor had left the king’s halls pale and wordless, their courage scattered like leaves beneath that frosted gaze.

It was not only fear. It was reverence. The prince was Greenwood’s jewel—and the king, its shield.

And so the silence stretched, taut and heavy.

Then, without turning, Thranduil spoke—his voice dry as bark, cold as the roots of the forest in winter.

“And tell me, counselors—whom, exactly, would you have me wed my son to?”

The question did not rise in volume. But it landed like a falling blade.

There was a pause—just long enough for the court to wonder if either counselor would dare speak again.

But Anghiril stepped forward.

His movements remained composed, every gesture precise—yet there was a flicker beneath the surface, a tightening at the corner of his mouth that might have been calculation poorly concealed. His voice, when it came, was smooth as ever, but a touch too careful. Too rehearsed.

“I remain unbound, my lord,” Anghiril said, his voice smooth as ever, measured with the cadence of someone long rehearsed in diplomacy. “And have long served Greenwood. I stood beneath King Oropher’s banners before the Shadow ever stirred in the south. I have held this realm’s trust for millennia, and I have asked little in return.”

He paused, just long enough to let the reminder of his long service sink in—then lowered his head in a bow that was deep, but deliberate. Respectful, yet careful not to seem abject.

“I do not presume,” he added, with a humility too polished to be pure. “Nor would I press myself forward were there another more fitting. But as no names have yet been spoken, and as Greenwood’s future weighs heavily on all of us, I feel it my duty to offer what I can.”

He lifted his head, and though his eyes dipped for a moment, it was only a flicker—no longer than a breath. Then he met the king’s turned back and spoke again:

“It would be my greatest honor, Your Majesty, if you would allow me the privilege of courting your son. To be bound to one such as Prince Legolas—whose grace, courage, and beauty reflect the very heart of this realm—would be the highest honor of my life.”

The words fell with calculated reverence—softly, but heavy. Not a declaration. A proposition. But the weight of it did not settle. It hung in the air instead, thick and acrid, like the scent of smoke long before the fire breaks through the trees.

A stillness swept the hall.

Not reverent. Not respectful.

Stunned.

Among the higher tiers, there was a ripple of held breath. A few counselors blinked as though they had misheard. One of the Silvan captains straightened sharply in his seat, jaw clenched. Another—an older warden with bark-colored braids and moss-dyed robes—exhaled through his nose like one who had endured a storm and seen it come again. Even the guards along the back wall stilled.

The audacity of it—the gall to speak such words aloud, in court, before the king—was a breach no one had expected, even from Anghiril. And yet he stood calmly, as though he had offered no more than a suggestion of policy, not sought the hand of the Greenwood’s only prince.

Galion did not speak. He did not blink.

But his gaze locked on Anghiril—cold and bright as polished glass, with none of his usual levity to soften it. His hands, still folded in his lap, had gone very still. Not clenched. Not trembling. Just still, like something poised between silence and storm.

He had known Anghiril was up to something. Had seen the rehearsed courtesy, the too-smooth tones, the courtier’s smile just a shade too sharpened. But this—this was beyond ambition. Beyond maneuvering.

It was a line crossed.

A line Galion knew could not be uncrossed.

For all the years he had served this court—for all the masks worn and games endured—he had never once believed Thranduil would trade his son’s hand for alliance or influence. The king might wield politics like a sculptor’s chisel, but not here. Not with this. Not with Legolas.

And certainly not with Anghiril, who cloaked old arrogance in the garb of counsel. Who wore civility like fine oil over rot.

Galion did not speak—because he knew he did not need to. Not yet.

He had seen Thranduil when insulted. He had seen him when threatened.

And he had seen Thranduil when someone reached for his son . And Anghiril, in his silvered pride, had just reached with both hands.

A sound broke the stillness. Low. Breathless. Not quite a laugh. It left Thranduil’s lips like frost cracking on stone—dry and without humor, a sound that did not reach his eyes.

Then, he turned.

There was no haste in it. No raised voice. No visible wrath. Only the fluid, measured grace of a storm that knew it did not need to hurry. Winter descending through the trees. A blade being drawn with ceremony, not rage.

His robes whispered across the stone as he moved, the gold-threaded hem catching the light in flickers—like firelight trapped in ice. His antlered crown caught the sun from the windows above, casting long shadows behind him that shifted like antlers through fog.

And the court—already still—seemed to shrink around him.

It was not silence now. It was dread.

Not fear born of tyranny, but of something older. Deeper. The fear of trespass. Of stepping where no step was meant to fall.

Thranduil’s eyes had found their mark, and the air in the chamber seemed to thin.

He looked at Anghiril, and the space between them tightened, as though the weight of his gaze alone bent the world inward.

That gaze—clear and cold and without mercy—was the one Greenwood feared.

The one whispered of in border camps and watch-posts. The one that had watched Oropher fall, and never softened. The one that had seen truth before it was spoken, betrayal before it was inked.

And though he did not raise his voice, the court leaned to hear him—because the silence he left between words was worse.

“Tell me, Anghiril,” he said at last, and the words landed like falling ash on dry tinder, “what would you do with the honor of my son?”

Anghiril shifted.

Only slightly. Only just.

But in that flicker, the entire court saw it.

“Would you bind him to one six millennia his elder?” Thranduil continued, descending a step with slow precision. “Would you tie his youth to your ambition, shackle his heart to a crown he already bears, and call it duty?”

His voice did not rise, but it carried—clear as winter air and twice as cutting.

“Would you claim love beneath the weight of legacy? Offer him a life of duty-bound silence, bedded in cold halls, his laughter thinned to please your pride? He was born to light, to green boughs and open sky—not to be caged beneath the ambitions of a counselor too long in court and too blind to know when his time has passed.”

He walked forward, not quickly, not menacing—but each step cleared the air around him like a wind through fog.

“Do you think I do not see you, Anghiril?” he said. His voice had dropped lower, and yet it filled the chamber. “I have seen you since you first knelt in this hall—your courtesy like polished glass, your ambition hidden in plain sight, gleaming just beneath the surface like a blade beneath silk.”

Anghiril’s face remained composed, but tension had crept into his shoulders—the stiffness of someone calculating retreat, gauging the distance to the doors he could no longer reach.

Thranduil stopped a short distance away, his gaze never wavering, his presence vast and stifling as a forest before a storm.

“You speak of my son as if he is a prize to be bargained for. As if the love he offers is yours to claim—or to redirect at your leisure. As if I would ever allow his spirit to be bound not to love, but to greed in fine clothing. You mistake his heart for a crown, and my silence for permission.”

His eyes narrowed, not with fury, but with something colder. Older.

“There is no greater offense in my sight.”

There was no rise in his tone, no thundering proclamation—but the court listened with breathless stillness, as if the stone itself might remember the sound of it.

“This was never about the blood of the Noldor,” Thranduil said, colder now. “That is your veil. A convenient shadow to hide what you truly seek.”

A breath passed through the hall—sharp, collective, restrained.

“This is about power. And proximity to it.”

Anghiril straightened.

He did not flinch beneath the king’s gaze—but his spine was too stiff now, too still. The kind of stillness not born of ease, but necessity. One standing firm not out of confidence, but because to retreat would be worse. His breath came a little shallower now, though he hid it well behind a courtier’s facade.

Still, his voice came smooth as ever—cloaked in concern, each word chosen like a stone in a mosaic designed to distract.

“Your Majesty,” he said, with a bow that was just low enough to be safe, “I speak only for the good of the realm.”

But the rhythm of his speech betrayed him. Too careful. Too slow. Like one stepping through snow he suspects might hide a frozen lake.

“For the preservation of its peace,” he went on, hands folding before him in the familiar gesture of humility—well-practiced, often used, and in this moment, transparent. “You know well the unrest that stirs in Greenwood’s halls—quiet, but deep-rooted. The fear that what once was might rise again beneath new banners.”

His eyes flicked, briefly, to those seated along the lower tiers. If he had hoped for support, he found none. Their stares were iron.

“It is not ambition that moves me,” he said, and though his voice did not waver, something had drained from his cheeks—some color, some certainty. “But memory. And caution. Many still remember what it meant to live beneath Noldorin rule. The pride. The cost.”

A pause followed. Just long enough to feel contrived. The weight of the king’s silence pressed on him, and his next words came a shade too fast.

“I would never presume to claim your son,” he added, lowering his gaze—though not for long. “Only to guard him. And the realm he may one day inherit.”

But the words, though smooth, hung brittle in the air—like leaves offered in the path of fire.

Beside him, Thalandir stood motionless—but the silence had changed him. The quiet no longer felt like order, but like the press of something vast and unseen. The resolve that once held his shoulders squared had begun to slacken, as if some inner cord had been loosed. He remained upright—dignified, composed—but a sharp-eyed observer would have noticed the subtle tension in his jaw, the faint tightening around his mouth, the way his hands had drawn closer to his sides, as if to anchor himself against a rising wind.

His eyes flicked once toward the king, then away again—too quickly. As though even that glance had carried danger. He had known Thranduil since his youth, had stood before him in triumph and in grief—but there were moments when the king’s silence became a mirror to one's own fear, and this was such a moment.

Still, Thalandir did not move. He did not speak. But behind his stillness lay caution, and behind caution, dread.

Thranduil, for his part, did not look at either counselor.

He turned slowly—his back to them once more—his silhouette a sculpture of light and shadow. The antlers of his crown arched like branches frozen in winter, catching the sun where it lanced through the tall windows, veined with ivy and green-glass. The pale light crowned him, and yet could not soften the lines of his bearing.

The hush in the chamber deepened—no longer courtly, but reverent. Even the guards along the pillars had ceased to breathe too loudly, and somewhere above, a raven shifted on the beams and stilled.

It felt as though the stone itself strained to hear.

When the king spoke, his voice was not loud. But the words fell like frost.

“I have heard enough.”

The air contracted. There was no breath left for reply.

Then he turned again—slow, deliberate—his steps steady and without sound, as if the weight of his presence alone parted the hush. He moved toward the heart of the hall, where light from above met shadow below, each motion like a stroke in calligraphy—measured, elegant, unyielding.

When he spoke next, the words came quiet as leaf-fall—but they carried, unbroken by echo, unmarred by doubt.

“I understand the wariness. I do not scorn it.”

He stopped—one hand at his side, the other held loosely behind his back. His gaze lifted—not to any one face, but to all.

“I know what was lost. I know what pride cost us. I remember.”

His voice did not tremble. It did not rise. There was no anger now, no scorn.

Only stone. Only memory.

And the deep, grave patience of mountains that have weathered storms too long to fear thunder.

“But let us speak plainly.”

Thranduil turned his head—slowly, deliberately—and let his gaze pass over the gathered court. Not as a reprimand, but as a reckoning. He looked to the Sindar first, seated on their carved benches—dignified, silent, some with crests of ancient houses still gleaming at their throats. Then to the Silvan: rangers in earth-toned garb, border-wardens with sun-browned faces, captains with wind-matted braids and hands roughened by bowstring and blade. The scribes stilled their quills. The guards along the walls stood at attention, though not one dared meet his eyes.

“The son of Elrond,” Thranduil said at last, his voice even, but laced with steel, “is not only of the Noldor.”

He let the words breathe, and then he went on—each name spoken as though it carried not only lineage, but weight beyond the mortal reckoning of time.

“He bears also the blood of Elu Thingol. Of Melian the Maia. Of their daughter, Lúthien.”

The names did not echo. They did not need to. They fell into the hush like stones into still water—heavy, ancient, reverent.

A subtle stir moved through the chamber. A low intake of breath from somewhere near the back. A warden lowered his eyes, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his knife in a gesture of instinctive homage. One of the elder counselors touched the hem of his cloak to his brow in silent acknowledgment. Even those who had stiffened at the name Elrond now seemed to pause.

For these names were not so easily cast aside.

They belonged to a realm that had once lived in the songs of Greenwood—of starlit trees and halls of silver, of oaths kept and kingdoms lost. A realm destroyed not by time, but by greed.

“He is of Doriath,” Thranduil said, quieter now. “He is of the old blood. The same blood many in this hall still honor.”

His gaze had drifted beyond them then—not unfocused, but reaching, as though he were staring through stone and years, into a forest that no longer stood.

“And that,” he said, still soft, “you would do well to remember.”

The silence that followed was not empty. It was full. Full of memory. Full of warning. Full of things that could not be unsaid.

It stretched, and grew heavy, until it settled over the court like mist beneath a canopy—quiet and unmoving.

And then, without raising his voice, without a hint of flourish: “This court is adjourned.”

The words were soft, but they cracked through the chamber like ice breaking beneath the surface of a river. Final. Impeccable. Cold.

There was no rustle of discussion. No lingering protest or question. Only the sounds of chairs drawn back, of silk shifting over carved benches, of footsteps that dared not fall too heavily.

The court dissolved like snow under sunlight—deliberately, carefully, wordlessly.

Even those who had stood in Greenwood’s court for centuries did not speak as they withdrew. The air was too thin. Too sharp. As though the wrong breath might fracture what had just passed.

Galion remained seated at the base of the dais, hands folded neatly in his lap, posture straight as ever. But his eyes followed every movement. Alert. Measuring.

He watched Anghiril incline his head—not quite a bow, not quite defiance—and turn with studied grace. Thalandir hesitated a moment longer before falling into step beside him, eyes lowered, jaw clenched.

They did not speak to each other, but their glance—brief and barbed—was full of unsaid things.

Galion watched them with a stillness that was not idle.

He had never liked either of them. Not when Oropher ruled. Not when Thranduil took the throne. Not through war, or peace, or the slow stretch of years.

Their words were always polished, but their eyes wandered too often toward power. Toward proximity. They bowed well, but they listened poorly—and never to the things that mattered.

They left the hall with the same poise they had entered, robes trailing just so, shoulders squared. But Galion saw the tightness in their spines. The calculation in their silence. The pride bruised, not broken.

He watched them go.

And when the last of their footsteps faded into the stone corridors beyond, he was still watching.

The silence that followed was different now—denser, more honest. No longer heavy with the weight of watching eyes, but with memory, and something older than grief.

Thranduil did not move from where he stood, still half-wrapped in the colored light of the tall windows. His hand rested on the carved edge of the pillar, but loosely now, as if even that contact had begun to slip from his attention.

Behind him, Galion rose.

There was no flourish to the motion, no bow or formal address. Galion crossed the polished floor with the easy, economical grace of someone who had known these halls for nearly as long as their stone had stood. He came to stand just behind and to the side of the king—where he had always stood. Where he belonged.

“Your father never liked him,” Galion said at last, with a tilt of his chin toward the doors Anghiril had vanished behind. “Saw through him straightaway. Called him a climber with clean fingernails. Said he always stood like he was waiting for someone to compliment how quietly he could breathe.”

His voice was quiet, but firm—worn smooth by time and service, sharpened by years of watching others try, and fail, to deceive the throne. Not cruel. Just certain.

Thranduil made a sound in his throat—low and dry. Not quite agreement. Not quite amusement. Something older than both, shaped by memory and the weight of blood.

“Nor did my mother,” he said, and something in his voice loosened—just faintly. As if the name alone brushed the frost from some inward bough.

Galion smiled then—faint and crooked, the sort of smile he never bothered to hide around the king.

“The late Queen Aniriel,” he said, “told me once that Anghiril smelled like damp parchment and ambition. Said he smiled like someone practicing for a portrait.”

That pulled the corner of Thranduil’s mouth upward—a flicker, a ghost, but real all the same. The kind of expression that lived only in Galion’s presence, and vanished before the stone could remember it.

“She was rarely wrong,” Thranduil murmured.

Galion’s hands folded behind his back, posture relaxed but eyes still sharp. “She never was.”

A pause settled between them. Not awkward—never awkward—but steeped in the kind of silence that could only exist between those who had stood through the same storms, watched the same stars fade.

It was the hush of shared memory. Of court mornings when Oropher had paced like a stag too long caged, voice sharp with pride or fury—and Aniriel, ever the quieter flame, had been the only one who could draw him back from the brink. She had never raised her voice, only tilted her head, or spoken a single name, and the wrath of the king would ebb, as rivers did when met by forest-root and stone.

They remembered the sound of her steps in shadowed alcoves. The truths she passed not in counsel, but in glance. The way she could turn a hall with a look, or still an argument with nothing but a breath.

It was the silence of those who had buried the same dead. And still bore them—quietly, daily, in the way they ruled and served and endured.

Thranduil, who had inherited the fire of his father’s pride and the ice of his mother’s restraint, stood as the living proof of what both had left behind. Oropher’s will lived in the way he held the Greenwood together through storm and shadow; Aniriel’s grace lingered in the silence between his words, in the precision of his gaze, in the steel hidden beneath stillness.

And now Legolas—golden-haired, keen-eyed, with a heart too large for the world that shaped him—carried that same blood, that same unrelenting legacy. A prince born of two lines, shaped by sorrow and silence, yet somehow still unbroken by it.

He was the forest’s future. And the memory of all it had lost.

Galion stood in silence for a moment longer. The hall felt larger now. Emptier. The green-stained light from the windows no longer fell on rows of fine robes or gleaming hair—only on stone, dust motes, and shadow.

Then, lightly—too lightly, for it to be anything but deliberate—he said, “I did not expect you to defend him.”

Thranduil did not look over.

Galion continued, voice low and conversational, as if they were discussing wine or rainfall. “Lord Elrohir, I mean.”

A pause. Then, with the mildest lilt: “It almost sounded like you like him.”

The words hovered between them—not truly teasing, not quite serious. Just a gentle prod, set loose like a well-placed arrow to see if it struck.

Thranduil’s answer came at last—cool, measured, and clipped. “I do not.”

He turned then, slowly, the light catching on the fine edge of his cheekbone, the antlers of his crown sharp against the backdrop of ivy-clad glass. His expression was still—aloof, composed—but his eyes were clear, and glinting.

“My son’s heart is precious to me,” he said, each word quiet and exact, like gems placed on a scale. “It has bled more than most realize. And it is not easily given.”

His gaze found Galion’s with the steadiness of a king, but beneath it, something older flickered—something more personal.

“I would see it protected. Even if that protection means allowing Noldor into my halls.”

Galion inclined his head solemnly, no flicker of smirk or scoff on his face. But Thranduil’s eyes narrowed. He knew him too well.

“I see,” Galion said, with just enough mildness to be suspicious.

Thranduil regarded him a beat longer, then exhaled—quietly, but not without weight. He turned away with the faintest breath of irritation, the fabric of his sleeve whispering over stone.

“You do not merely see,” he said. “You observe. And meddle.”

Galion placed a hand to his chest in mock affront. “You wound me, my lord,” he said, tone solemn as a funeral bell. “I meddle only in the service of love, loyalty, and strategic provocation.”

Thranduil did not answer. He only narrowed his eyes in that particular way Galion had known since youth—more resigned than reproachful. The light had shifted on the floor, golden and green across the flagstones, and the stillness in the hall had deepened.

Until a soft creak of hinges disturbed it.

From the far side of the chamber, the tall doors parted with a quiet groan, and footsteps echoed lightly across the stone. A figure stepped into view—swift, composed, and clearly not expecting the sight that met her.

“My lord?” she asked, pausing just inside the threshold, her gaze sweeping the empty benches, the absent courtiers, the two familiar figures left in the echo of court’s wake.

Lindariel.

She was one of the Sindar, though the years had shaped her with Greenwood’s quiet wildness. Pale-haired and fine-boned, she wore no crownwork or gemstone, only robes of woodland green, their edges stitched in silver leaves that shimmered like frost. Her hair, the hue of winter ash, was drawn back into a modest twist fastened with a clasp of antler and river-polished stone—tokens of Silvan craft, worn with Sindarin poise.

The scroll tucked beneath her arm bore ink at its edges; her fingers were lightly stained from hours at a scribe’s table. She did not idle well—nor did she ever linger long in the realm of the unnecessary.

She had walked these halls beside Aniriel, Thranduil’s mother and her dearest friend—long ago, before crowns and grief. That closeness still moved with her now, quiet and unspoken, in the way she met the king’s gaze without fear or flattery.

She was wife to Feren, the Silvan Captain of the Guard—an alliance that had raised more than a few brows among the older Sindar lines. But Lindariel had never cared for the weight of lineage, nor the petty hierarchies of blood. She had chosen him because she loved him—steadfast, quiet, and strong as Greenwood’s roots—and that was reason enough. She was mother to Caleth of the prince’s own company, and respected in her own right. Lindariel was one of the rare few who spoke to Thranduil without ever bowing her will. There was grace in her, yes—but it was not a submissive grace. It was the calm, unshakable poise of someone who had seen kingdoms rise and fall, and still kept her dignity like a blade sheathed in silk.

She looked between the king and Galion, one brow lifting in mild confusion. “Where has everyone gone?”

Galion turned slightly to meet her eyes, folding his hands behind his back with the kind of satisfaction only long service—and deeper amusement—could wear comfortably.

“Anghiril made our king cross,” he said, with the easy lilt of one who had survived centuries of such mornings. “So His Majesty, in his boundless mercy, dismissed court before something was thrown.”

Lindariel arched a brow, brushing an errant wisp of silver hair behind her ear. “Was it going to be the scepter?”

Galion tilted his head, as if consulting memory or weighing options. “That or Anghiril himself.”

A breath slipped from her lips—half a laugh, half a sigh, like leaves shaken loose by wind. She stepped further into the chamber, her footfalls nearly silent on the polished stone, and offered Thranduil the scroll with a short, unhurried bow—one of respect, but never submission.

“I’ve always known,” she murmured, glancing after the trail of silence Anghiril had left behind. “That one’s tongue cuts deeper than wisdom, and always in the wrong direction. I told Feren years ago to keep both eyes on him. And Caleth—well, Caleth knows better than to trust a word from his lips unless it’s been repeated by someone who still remembers the difference between pride and decency.”

Her tone was calm, not caustic, the kind of poised disdain born of long observation—and the quiet fury of someone who had seen the harm that elegant lies could do.

Thranduil, who had remained still since her entrance, stirred at last. He accepted the scroll without ceremony, but with the smallest nod of acknowledgment—an intimacy few ever earned, and fewer still recognized for what it was.

“I trust,” he said, voice dry as leaf-litter under boot, “you have not come to take his side.”

“Hardly,” Lindariel replied, her tone cool but measured, the weight of long memory beneath it. “If Anghiril ever held wisdom, he buried it beneath the sound of his own voice. He speaks now as he did in your father’s court—loudly, and with far too much pleasure in his own opinions. The only thing he’s refined in the centuries since is his condescension.”

Galion exhaled through his nose—soft, aggrieved, and theatrical. “Exile would be merciful,” he declared, arms folding with ceremonial elegance across his chest, the gesture marred only by his obvious disdain. “I say we send him somewhere truly dreadful. The southern border in winter. Or better yet, Lórien. Surrounded by silver leaves and silence. He’d wilt in a week.”

Lindariel’s mouth curved—not quite a smile, but a glint of something finer and sharper. “Aniriel wanted to,” she said, her voice dry as old wine. “Said once that if Anghiril had been born in early Greenwood under her court, she’d have packed him off to Númenor and prayed the sea kept him.”

Galion gave a bark of laughter. “Ah, she was a terror when she set her mind to it.”

“A marvel,” Lindariel corrected, with soft finality. “She had no patience for fools, especially ones who cloaked ambition in flattery.”

Galion grinned at that—truly grinned—and tilted his head toward Thranduil, who remained quiet, inscrutable.

“A wise queen, your mother.”

Thranduil’s hand, still curled loosely around the scroll, gave the faintest twitch—as if amusement stirred beneath the granite stillness but refused to rise. His gaze slid toward the empty benches, then back to the two before him.

“I have considered it,” he said at last, his tone smooth as frost underfoot. “Often.”

The stillness in his bearing made the words feel colder than they were. He did not need to raise his voice. He only needed to speak.

“But the court already hisses with enough noise. To exile one of the noble lines—however pompous—would only give them reason to whimper louder. There are appearances to be kept, after all.” A pause, weighted with dry distaste. Then, faintly, “So I’m told.”

Galion gave a thoughtful nod, lips pursed in feigned solemnity. “A shame. I’ve always found appearances overrated.”

Thranduil ignored that. “Besides,” he added, so mildly it nearly passed as an afterthought, “Anghiril’s suffering is far more complete here. Where he must stand, bow, and smile—without influence. Without power. Watching others hold what he cannot touch.”

Lindariel’s brow lifted, her voice a murmur of approval. “Cruel,” she said. “But efficient.”

Galion hummed, pleased. “Like all the best strategies.”

She tilted her head slightly, the motion trailing a whisper of silk across her shoulder. “What did Anghiril want this time?”

Galion made a sound too delicate to be a groan and too amused to be true grief—something between a sigh and a scoff. “To court the prince.”

There was a beat of silence.

Lindariel blinked. “He what?”

“To court the prince,” Galion repeated, slower now, as though the second telling might somehow make it less ludicrous. “Declared it in the middle of court, bold as a midsummer peacock—like a herald announcing the moon’s arrival, expecting applause.”

Lindariel turned to face him fully then, her expression composed, every inch the court-trained lady—but her eyes betrayed incredulity. “That is—unseemly.”

“Inappropriate was the word I thought of first,” Galion said, folding his hands behind his back in a gesture of long-suffering dignity. “But even that lacks bite. The elf is your age, my lady. Or mine—though I carry it better.”

“He’s older,” Lindariel muttered, half to herself. “By at least a century, if memory serves. There are trees in the heartwood that envy his rigidity.”

“Precisely,” Galion said. “And our prince is not yet five hundred summers. He still has the grace to look surprised by spring.”

A sharp breath of laughter slipped past her lips before she mastered it. “And the king?” she asked, low and careful—but her meaning was unmistakable. What had Thranduil done? She, like the rest of the court, knew how jealously he guarded his son’s hand. Few dared speak of it at all, and fewer still forgot the consequences of overstepping.

Galion gestured lightly toward Thranduil, who had remained still throughout—but whose stillness now held the quiet, electric pressure of distant thunder. “Our lord,” Galion said with grave reverence, “in his boundless mercy, did not strike him down. Though I do believe he considered it.”

“I did,” Thranduil murmured, not glancing up from the parchment in his hand.

Lindariel raised both brows, though her tone remained level. “And what reason did Anghiril give for such boldness?”

“Ah,” Galion sighed, one shoulder tilting in a half-shrug of theatrical disdain, “he cloaked it in patriotism, of course. Said it was his solemn duty to protect the realm’s future. That no drop of Noldorin blood should ever stain the Greenwood throne. That a union with the Peredhel would dishonor the old bloodlines.”

“Of course,” Lindariel said softly. “Always the realm’s best interest. Never his own.”

Galion gave a bark of mirthless laughter. “He dressed it up like a sermon, but it reeked of dust and desperation. You could smell the ambition from the upper tier.”

Lindariel’s smile faded—not vanished, but tempered into something quieter. Her gaze drifted toward the high windows, where morning light spilled like honey through the ivy-laced panes. For a breath, she said nothing—only stood with her hands gently folded at her waist.

Then, quietly, “I know that there are many among the Sindar who grow uneasy.”

She did not look at Galion or the king—but her words, clear and measured, carried with the weight of knowing.

“Whispers rise when the blood of the Noldor crosses our borders—more so when it comes not only as a guest, but as a suitor. They remember the old wounds. The long shadows.”

She did not need to name them. No one did. They lived in the grain of the court’s stone, in the echo of Oropher’s silences.

“But those same voices have eyes. And all who are not blind have seen the change in your son.”

She turned to face Thranduil fully now. Her expression was composed—but not impassive. Something deeper stirred beneath it. Affection. Loyalty. Memory.

“Since the letters began,” she said, “since the messages and drawings from Imladris… there has been light in him again.”

Her voice softened—not as if she feared it might break, but as if the truth required gentler hands.

“Not the brightness of duty, not the practiced poise of the throne. But warmth. Ease. He brings back that quiet, unguarded light we have not seen in these halls since before—” Her words caught for a breath. She did not finish the sentence. She did not need to.

Galion’s head bowed slightly, his arms still folded, but looser now. Less performance. More remembrance.

“Caleth told me,” Lindariel went on, her voice threading lower, “that the prince lingers by the fire longer than he used to. That he rereads the same letter by moonlight, even when the ink has smudged from travel. That when he wakes, his dreams do not press heavy behind his eyes.”

Her eyes drifted to the scroll in Thranduil’s hand, then back to his face.

“And perhaps, this time, it is not danger that seeks him,” she said. “But healing.”

Thranduil stood silent a moment longer, the scroll in his hand curling slightly beneath his fingers. His gaze had not shifted from Lindariel, though something in it had softened—just enough to be seen by those who knew how to look. The crown upon his brow caught the shifting light as clouds passed over the high windows, turning gold to shadow, then gold again.

“I do not doubt,” he said at last, quiet and resolute, “my son’s love for the son of Elrond.”

His voice did not rise, but it deepened—gathered weight, like a stone placed deliberately upon a shrine. The words hung there, crystalline and unshaken.

“Nor do I doubt the Peredhel’s heart in turn,” he continued. “That devotion, I have seen with my own eyes—and I do not mistake it.”

He turned slightly, the light catching at the edge of his profile, antlered crown casting long shadows across the stone. His robe swept the floor in a soundless arc, like the hush before snowfall.

“When he has met the trials I have laid before him—when he has proven himself not only worthy of my son’s love, but of the people who safeguard it—then I will allow a betrothal.”

His words were neither cold nor warm. They were law.

And yet, beneath them, something fierce pulsed—something like love, iron-wrapped and thorn-ringed, but steady all the same. A father’s vow, forged in silence, tempered in fear, and kept in the fire of restraint.

Galion made a low sound in his throat, equal parts amusement and long-suffering affection. He shifted his weight, arms still folded, and gave Thranduil a look that would have drawn exile in any other court.

“You spoil the prince,” he said dryly, “and now you test his suitors like a jealous swan. I daresay the court will begin betting on whether the Peredhel survives the next season.”

Thranduil did not so much as blink. “Let them. I would rather my son mourn for a season than bind his life to one unproven.”

Galion clicked his tongue. “Yes, yes. Terribly noble of you. But let us not pretend the prince is anything but adored.”

Lindariel’s smile returned then—gentler, and touched with something wistful. “Your mother,” she said, folding her hands in front of her, turning her gaze to Thranduil, “she would have spoiled him twice as much. And denied it twice as fiercely.”

Galion exhaled in agreement, his eyes distant with mirth and memory. 

Thranduil’s eyes briefly closed—just for a breath, just long enough to summon the shape of her in his mind: his mother, Aniriel, Queen of Greenwood the Great, with her sharp wit and watchful grace. She had walked the halls with the quiet authority of one who saw everything and said only what was needed. Her laughter had been rare but unforgettable—silver-edged, knowing, never cruel. Long gone now, faded with the sorrow she would never speak aloud, too proud to break in the open, too gentle not to grieve.

She had not endured long after Oropher fell. The wound of his father’s death had not bled out, but turned inward—deep, silent, and final. Her spirit had withered in the long winter that followed, and though she had smiled for her son, he had seen how the light dimmed behind her eyes.

And sometimes—too often—he saw her in Legolas.

Not in face, but in the curve of his stillness. In the way he listened before speaking. In the fierce quiet of his loyalty. The tilt of his head when something troubled him. The way he sometimes carried joy like a secret. It stole Thranduil’s breath, that echo. Made his heart ache in ways he never spoke aloud.

She would have loved him—this son of his. And guarded him as fiercely as he did now. Perhaps more gently. Perhaps more wisely.

But she was gone. And Thranduil remained. The last shield between his son and a world that would gladly claim him piece by piece.

And he would not yield. Not to the court. Not to counsel. Not to time.

Then his eyes opened again—clear, cool, and unreadable as ever. Whatever softness had stirred in him at the memory of his mother was gone, folded back beneath the fine-edged calm of the king.

“Come,” he said at last, the word quiet but edged with purpose. “We have much to prepare before the Noldor arrive.”

There was no flourish to the command, no raised voice—but the weight behind it moved like a current through the air. Final. Inevitable.

He turned, and his robes stirred with him—the long fall of silk whispering across the polished stone, catching the shifting green-gold light. The antlered crown gleamed coldly as it turned with him, the branching shadows it cast stretching like roots across the floor, curling toward the walls as if the forest itself followed at his heels.

Galion moved without needing to be told, his posture easy but deliberate—hands clasped behind his back, every step measured. His expression bore the smooth composure of one who had walked these halls beside two kings, and had no illusions left about what it meant to serve. He did not speak. He did not need to. He had already spoken all that mattered.

Lindariel stood still a moment longer, watching them recede into shadow and light. Her eyes lingered on the path they left behind—not just across the stone, but through the court itself. A path of decisions already made. Of consequences already unfolding.

Then, without a word, she turned—her tread light, near soundless, though her presence carried weight. The great doors creaked open before her, the ironwood groaning as if reluctant to break the hush that remained.

The echoes of court had not yet faded.

And the next movement of Greenwood’s future had already begun.

The great doors of the hall had not finished echoing shut before the silence between them thickened—not companionable, not easy. It settled like dust from a collapsed roof, disturbed only by the hollow cadence of their boots along the corridor’s long stretch of stone.

Light slanted in through narrow windows, casting thin bars across the polished floor. Outside, the forest stirred with the sounds of day beginning again—soft birdsong, the rustle of leaves. But within the stone passage, it was too quiet.

Thalandir walked half a pace ahead, hands folded behind his back, his shoulders held with formal poise. But his gaze was hard beneath the calm, and after several paces, he turned just enough to speak.

“That was not wise.”

His voice was not raised, not chiding—but clipped at the edges. Like a blade turned sideways.

Anghiril did not stop. “I spoke what needed saying.”

Thalandir’s tone sharpened. “You spoke what everyone thinks—but wisely leaves unsaid. There is a difference.”

They continued walking. The corridor curved slightly, drawing them out of the hall’s long shadow. In the pale morning light, Anghiril’s features seemed almost too composed—set in the porcelain stillness of someone who refused to show the cost of a blow.

“You brought his name into it,” Thalandir said after a moment. “Prince Legolas. Not as a diplomat. Not even as a warrior. But as a hand to be claimed.”

That made Anghiril’s mouth tighten, just slightly.

Thalandir stopped walking.

“You know what the king is,” he said quietly. “What he becomes when anyone speaks of his son’s heart.”

Anghiril turned to face him fully now, his face unreadable. “A king must think of succession. Of legacy.”

Thalandir’s brows lifted—only slightly, but enough. “You forget,” he said, voice lower now, more dangerous for it, “that Thranduil is not just a king. He is a father first. And the prince is not a piece on a board. He is his father's last blood. His only light.”

He stepped closer—not confrontational, but steady.

“There have been others before you. Nobles. Captains. All of them clever. All of them courteous.” He paused. “Some never dared speak aloud. Others… never returned to court.”

The words hung there, not as threat, but history.

“You presume too much, Anghiril. You always have. You may be old. You may be clever. But you are not the first to eye the prince and forget whose son he is.”

Anghiril’s jaw tightened. He looked away—not in shame, but in calculation—as if measuring what could still be salvaged from the ruin of court.

“I was not… eyeing the prince,” he said at last, his voice low and clipped. “Not in the way you imply.”

Thalandir said nothing.

They passed beneath the shaded colonnade, their footfalls echoing over stone veined with green. The corridor behind the throne hall had emptied, but the hush of it made every word feel more dangerous.

Anghiril cast a glance behind them—subtle, but not subtle enough. His gaze lingered on the corners where servants might listen unseen, on the long shadows cast by ivy-wrapped pillars. Only when he was certain they were alone did he speak again—lower this time, sharp as a drawn blade kept beneath courtly silk.

“I will not deny he is beautiful,” he said, and though his tone remained smooth, something curdled beneath it. “Even I can see that. He has the face of the Sindar—high-browed, golden, far too graceful for one raised among trees and wolves. Bedding him would hardly be a hardship. But warring bloodlines breed weakness, not legacy.”

He paused. Just long enough to let the admiration turn to disdain.

“But he is not one of us.”

Thalandir’s brow furrowed slightly. His pace slowed. A sliver of discomfort slid through his posture—subtle, but real.

“He plays at princely poise,” Anghiril continued, the contempt beginning to show at the edges of his voice, like tarnish on a blade. “But it is the forest that shaped him—not the court, not the line of Oropher. He may wear the look of a prince, but the blood runs mixed.”

He stepped closer now, voice lowering to a hush as he leaned slightly in—one last glance over his shoulder to ensure they were still alone.

“He may look like a Sindar,” he murmured, “but he is not. His height betrays it. His tongue. His manner. All Silvan.”

Then, more bitterly, with his lips barely moving:

“A mutt with a crown.”

Thalandir stopped walking altogether.

For a breath, he said nothing. The wind stirred faintly through the archways, lifting a lock of his hair. His jaw had gone rigid, but it was the look in his eyes—sharp, startled, almost disbelieving—that gave him away. It was not merely offense. It was shock. That Anghiril would say such a thing aloud. That he had carried the thought long enough to give it voice.

But Anghiril pressed on, as if the silence was assent.

“And now Thranduil opens his halls to Elrond’s son. The Peredhel. With mortal blood, with Noldorin arrogance, with every trace of the past we swore never to kneel to again. Is that what we’ve come to? Mixing the throne with every strain of power until there is nothing left of Greenwood at all?”

He turned now, fully facing Thalandir—shoulders squared, eyes cold.

“I would not see this realm ruled by Noldor. I would not see it passed to half-bloods, to Silvan heirs who speak softly and fight with knives and think that love is enough to steady a kingdom.”

Thalandir’s gaze hardened—slowly, visibly—as if the very shape of his face turned to stone.

“What you have just voiced,” he said, quiet but fierce, “is high treason.”

He did not raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The words landed like a sword unsheathed in a sacred hall—sharp, irrevocable, humming with consequence.

His posture shifted. The composed stance of a court officer fell away, replaced by something older—something honed in war, in oath-bound service. His shoulders squared. His jaw clenched. And behind his stillness: fury. Controlled. Restrained. But fury nonetheless.

“I had not thought,” he continued, voice low and tight as a pulled bowstring, “that you harbored such poison beneath your fine manners and polished bows.”

Anghiril remained upright, chin high, but something subtle recoiled behind his eyes—some flicker of unease, like a torch guttering behind glass. He masked it well. But not well enough.

Thalandir stepped forward, just enough to close the space between words and truth.

“The prince is beloved,” he said, softer now, but no less steady. “By the Silvan who would lay down their lives for him without question. By the Sindar who see his mother’s light in his eyes and his father’s will in his bearing. By warriors who have stood beside him on the battlefield—and seen him shield even those who doubted him.”

He let that truth settle, unflinching.

“I will not speak further of your hatred,” he said then, the words cold as frost beneath bootheel. “Not here. Not ever again.”

Then, without waiting for reply, Thalandir turned.

The motion was clean. Unforgiving. A soldier’s dismissal, shaped by disgust and sharpened by grief. His boots struck stone once—an echo that rang like a closing door.

But before he could take another step, fingers closed around his arm.

Not a yank. Not a threat. But a grip meant to stop movement—meant to hold.

Anghiril’s hand.

Thalandir froze.

His breath caught. Not from fear. But from fury barely kept at bay. He did not look back.

Not yet.

Anghiril’s fingers tightened on Thalandir’s arm—measured, deliberate. Not a grasp of desperation, but of manipulation, meant to halt, to remind, to reclaim control.

“You would let this happen, then?” he said, his voice a low, cutting whisper. “You would see the son of Elrond—spawn of Noldor pride and mortal frailty—take our prince to his bed and crown, and call it unity?”

Thalandir’s shoulders stiffened, but he did not look at him.

Anghiril leaned in, his breath warm and bitter against the cool corridor air. “Do you not see what they are grooming him for? What the king is allowing?” His voice turned darker, more intimate. “Legolas will be no ruler. He’ll be the Noldo’s bed-warmer, his songbird in the halls. He’ll wear a crown while the halfblood steers the realm behind him. That is the path we’re walking.”

Thalandir’s jaw moved—tightly, as though swallowing something jagged.

Still he said nothing.

Anghiril pressed on. “You speak of loyalty. Then be loyal—to the realm. If Greenwood falls under Noldorin rule again, it will not rise a second time.”

Thalandir turned his head slowly.

The look he gave Anghiril then was not fire—but stone. Ancient, heavy, unyielding.

“You twist love into chains,” he said, voice low and cold. “You speak of loyalty while poisoning it at the root.”

He stepped back, breaking Anghiril’s grip with a movement that was neither rough nor gentle—just final.

“I would never wish our prince to be ruled by another,” he said. “And I do not believe he would ever allow it.”

His gaze sharpened. “But I would sooner stand alone than harm him—by blade, or word, or silence.”

Anghiril’s lips parted, but no sound came. His composure frayed—just slightly, just enough to show the crack beneath the marble.

Thalandir’s voice dropped lower still.

“He has been kind to you. Always. Even when you scoffed at his manner. Even when you whispered your disdain behind your bow.”

He took another step back, gaze steady and pained.

“He is kind to all who do not deserve it,” Thalandir said. “That is not weakness. That is legacy. His mother’s, and his own.”

He paused—just long enough to let the weight of it settle between them.

“And you,” he added, quietly, “speak of purity and bloodlines. But all I hear is fear. All I see is smallness.”

Thalandir turned once more, this time with finality.

“I am done here,” he said, voice clipped and cold. A clean cut.

He walked, shoulders squared, jaw set, each step echoing off the stone like a verdict. He did not look back.

Anghiril fell into stride beside him, breath quickening to keep pace.

“Thalandir—” he tried, keeping his voice low but insistent. “You must see that I speak out of reason, not hatred. You know the dangers—of sentiment, of weakness—”

But Thalandir did not slow. He moved like one chasing distance. The words fell behind him, unanswered.

Their boots struck rhythm across the polished floor, passing beneath tall, arching windows rimmed in ivy. The air still held the coolness of morning, and the hush of the emptied court clung to the corridor like breath held too long.

And then—

A soft sound of steps approached from the opposite end.

Both turned.

There, coming into view around the far columned corner, walked the prince.

Legolas.

His braids, half unbound at the temples, clung faintly to his neck with sweat. His tunic, dark green and fitted, bore signs of travel: the collar loose, a small tear near the seam of one sleeve, a trace of dirt at the hem where cloak met boot. A leather strap crossed his chest where his quiver still hung, half-filled. His bow was slung over one shoulder, and he carried his gloves in one hand, fingers still dust-smudged from the ride.

The air around him smelled faintly of pine and horses and sunlit stone—and still, despite the wear of the road, he was beautiful. Not with the still, polished grace of the court, but with something older, quieter. A kind of radiance that seemed to rise from the very woods he walked through. Lithe and golden, with eyes like a shining river after rain.

He paused when he saw them, just a heartbeat—aware of his appearance, perhaps, in the marble hush of the palace—and a faint sheepishness flickered across his face. But he did not shrink from it. His spine remained straight, his gaze steady.

And then he smiled.

It was the kind of smile that disarmed—unguarded, warm, the kind that softened even the lines of fatigue around his eyes.

“Good day, my lords,” he said, inclining his head with effortless grace.

Anghiril bowed—but too quickly, too shallow, his face unreadable.

Thalandir bowed more deeply, something catching in his throat. For a moment, the heat of shame warred with something else—something steadier. Reverence, perhaps. Or regret.

Legolas’s eyes passed between them, open and kind.

“I have just come from the Eastern Watch,” he said, lifting a hand briefly in explanation. “I had hoped to return before court ended. Has my father gone?”

Thalandir straightened.

“Court has ended, my prince,” he said, voice steadier than he expected it to be. Then, after a brief pause, he added with quiet sincerity, “Thank you—for your watch. You bring peace to these woods more than you know. There are places that grow greener where your patrol has passed.”

Legolas blinked—caught off guard, perhaps. But his smile softened, and he bowed his head, humbled. “You are kind, Lord Thalandir. I only serve as I was taught.”

The sincerity in his voice left no room for doubt. No pride. Only truth.

Thalandir inclined his head once more. “Then I believe the king awaits your return.”

Legolas’s smile deepened just slightly. “Then I shall not keep him waiting.”

He dipped his head again—no pomp, only grace—and turned toward the throne hall, his gait light despite the miles behind him.

As he passed, Thalandir’s gaze followed him, expression unreadable.

And Anghiril said nothing at all.

Thalandir lingered—not out of indecision, but because something in Anghiril’s stillness caught his eye. The prince had already vanished into the great hall, the soft fall of his footsteps swallowed by the stone. But Anghiril did not watch him go with the respect owed a sovereign’s heir. No quiet deference. No admiration.

Instead, his gaze remained fixed on Legolas’s retreating back—sharp, narrow, and dark with something colder than disapproval. It was not the scrutiny of a wary counselor, nor the impatience of one who disbelieved a prince’s merit.

It was hatred. Thinly veiled. Undiluted. And utterly vile.

Thalandir’s own gaze hardened in answer, slow and deliberate, and when Anghiril turned at last to meet it, he found no sympathy there—only contempt. Heavy and steady, like a blade leveled across a table.

“You are fortunate,” Thalandir said, voice low but unwavering, “that I do not carry your words to the king.”

He let that settle—let the full weight of what he could do hang between them. For a moment, Anghiril looked as if he might speak, but Thalandir continued before the chance was granted.

“I held you in some regard, once. I thought you wise enough to know the edge between counsel and poison. But now I see the rot has sunk deeper.”

There was no cruelty in his voice—only a quiet, righteous fury, tempered by restraint. His posture had shifted once more, not into the bearing of a soldier now, but something older. The quiet wrath of one who had served too long and seen too much to abide treachery in silk.

Anghiril’s mouth twitched, but whatever he might have said faltered beneath the force of Thalandir’s gaze.

“I won’t speak of this again,” Thalandir said. “Not with you.”

And with that, he turned. Not in haste, but with the quiet decisiveness of one who had made his judgment and found it final. His footfalls echoed against the stone, each step a closing door.

Behind him, Anghiril remained where he stood—alone in the corridor, surrounded by silence and the fading scent of pine and sunlight left in the prince’s wake.

His expression did not change. But his hands curled slowly into fists at his sides.

Not in shame.

But in the slow, simmering calculation of one who had just seen another door close—and begun looking for the next.

The study was quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that invited sleep, but the stillness of deep thought—of words being weighed before they ever reached a page. Afternoon light filtered through the high windows, casting long bands of gold across the dark stone floor. Dust motes drifted in slow spirals, visible only where the sun caught them, suspended like old memories in the hush.

At the center of the room, behind a broad table of carved oak, the King of Greenwood sat bent over parchment. One hand braced the page; the other moved with deliberate grace, the silver tip of his quill scratching faintly across the parchment. The sound was soft but steady—paper rasping beneath ink, the occasional faint breath as he paused in thought.

A nearby brazier smoldered low, releasing a faint scent of cedar and sweet herbs. Scrolls were stacked in careful rows, the wax of their seals catching light, red and gold. A single goblet sat untouched near the inkwell, its rim darkened by time, not drink.

Thranduil wrote without haste.

His script was elegant, practiced—each curve a reflection of centuries spent wielding both word and blade. A letter to the southern watch. A response to Lórien. A quiet rejection of something veiled as a diplomatic request. His thoughts moved as swiftly as his hand, but nothing in his posture showed impatience. He was as he always was in these hours: still, sharp, and alone.

Or so he believed.

From the corridor beyond, no sound stirred. The guards had long since shifted their posts to the eastern wing. The doors to the study stood slightly ajar, enough to let in the breath of the forest—green-scented, sun-warmed. But no footsteps echoed. No voices.

Yet something moved.

Along the stone wall, just past the threshold, a shadow paused.

Then slipped closer. Soundless. Measured.

Concealed behind a thick column and a tall candelabra, Legolas lingered just beyond the edge of his father’s vision. His hair was still wind-swept from the patrol, the faint trail of the woods clinging to his boots. He had wiped the dirt from his hands but left his cloak unfastened, soft leather shifting slightly as he stepped nearer—one careful stride at a time.

He didn’t breathe loudly. He didn’t speak. He only watched.

And crept.

Waiting for the right moment.

But Thranduil, ever composed, ever unhurried, continued writing without pause—his back to the open space, his hand steady as the forest canopy.

Legolas smothered a laugh behind his hand, his breath catching in his throat as he crept closer, careful not to let his boots scuff against the polished stone. The study was still—quiet in the way only old rooms could be, where the walls had learned to hold silence like breath. A breeze stirred one of the high curtains, but otherwise, there was only the soft scratch of quill against parchment.

At the desk, Thranduil sat unmoving, his posture exact, one hand steady as he wrote. The quill’s rhythm never faltered.

Legolas inched forward, holding his breath. He was just within reach—his hand halfway to a shoulder or perhaps an ear, considering his aim—when the king spoke.

“I do hope,” Thranduil said, voice calm as winter over still water, “you are not under the impression that you have been stealthy.”

The quill did not pause. His hand moved with the same even grace, not a stroke lost to amusement or annoyance.

“I smelled you,” he went on, tone dry enough to crack parchment, “the moment you stepped back into my halls. You reek of pine, sweat, and overconfidence.”

Only then did he pause. Still, he did not look over his shoulder.

“You may as well come closer, ion-nín ,” Thranduil murmured, still not lifting his gaze. “Before you startle a servant, and I’m forced to apologize for your behavior.”

His voice was soft, even—but laced with that familiar, bone-dry edge that had once terrified visiting emissaries and now only made his son laugh.

Which Legolas did—muffling the sound behind his wrist, his shoulders shaking faintly. He stepped from behind his father, no longer bothering to tread quietly. His boots scuffed the stone as he moved, and the faint clink of his quiver strap echoed in the hush of the study.

“I was trying to surprise you,” he said, tone mock-wounded, brushing a bit of leaf from his tunic as he drew near the front of the table. “I’ve been planning that entrance since the Eastern Watch.”

At that, Thranduil finally looked up.

His pale eyes swept over his son without urgency, without flourish—just a steady assessment honed by thousands of years of command and the precision of a father who missed nothing. His gaze passed over the windswept hair, half-tamed by sweat; the faint smudge along one cheekbone; the wrinkled hem of a travel-worn tunic still marked by saddle-creases and faint burrs. His brow arched slowly.

“Well,” he said at last, the faintest breath of emphasis curling beneath the word, “I am certainly surprised.”

Legolas blinked, caught briefly off guard. “Oh?”

Thranduil set down his quill with a sound too delicate to be sharp, but final all the same. The parchment before him fluttered slightly as he reached for the ink blotter, dabbing it once—elegantly, precisely—before folding his hands over the desk’s edge.

“By your appearance,” he said. “You look as though you lost a wrestling match with a pine tree. And judging by the state of your cloak, I suspect the tree won.”

Legolas huffed a laugh, brushing a wind-tangled strand of hair from his cheek. “You are the vainest Elf alive, my lord father.”

“Correct,” Thranduil replied smoothly, without the slightest pause or humility. “Someone in this family must be. Our line has a reputation to uphold.”

He reached for the quill again, adding, almost as an afterthought, “Your grandfather would have thrown an absolute fit to see you enter the halls in such a state.”

A pause.

“He was insufferable about presentation. Even on campaign.”

His gaze locked with his son’s, and though his expression was composed, the glint in his eye bordered on indulgent. Not a strand of hair was out of place. His robes lay in perfect folds, unmarred by dust or travel. Even the ink on his fingers was confined to a single knuckle, as though disorder dared not cling to him.

“If you insist on returning from patrol looking like a half-feral warg pup,” he added, coolly, “then I shall have to balance the scales.”

Legolas sighed, long and dramatic, and dropped into the chair across from him with a thump unbecoming of royalty. His gloves landed on the table with a soft slap of leather, flung like the last stand of a defeated soldier.

Thranduil cast him a look then—measured, unmistakable. It was the look of a father long accustomed to princely antics, worn thin by decades of discipline, yet not unmoved by affection. Annoyance flickered at the edges of his gaze, but it was the kind that softened, not sharpened—a glint of dry exasperation shaped by fondness too deep to name.

Legolas only smiled.

It was not flippant. Not truly. The warmth was real, but muted—as if dulled by distance, or by the quiet throb of something still clinging to him from the road.

He leaned back slightly, letting the chair catch his weight, one hand resting loosely on the armrest, the other brushing the table’s edge. His gloves lay where he had flung them, a curl of dust and pine-needle still clinging to the seams.

“I saw something,” he said at last, his voice dipping lower. The humor slipped from it—not vanished, but banked, like embers beneath ash.

Thranduil stilled, his gaze entirely on his son.

“At the Eastern Watch,” Legolas continued. “The nest was there. Deep in the gulley, where the old water-path has dried. Caleth’s report was right—their numbers were heavier than we expected.”

His fingers moved absently over a scratch on the table’s surface, worn smooth by time and use. A curl of hair slipped forward from behind his ear, catching the slant of afternoon light. He did not brush it back.

“After we cleared the nest,” he said more quietly, “I heard something.”

The study seemed to deepen around them. Even the light held still.

Legolas’s hand stilled on the table.

“I felt…” he began, then hesitated, his brow furrowing faintly as if the shape of the memory resisted speech. “I felt as though something was watching.”

He did not look up—his gaze fixed on the worn grain of the desk, fingers brushing over the old scratch as though it might anchor him.

“Not near. Not with eyes I could see,” he said slowly. “But there.”

The word lingered, strangely hollow in the quiet room.

“It wasn’t just a sense,” he went on, voice thinning, “but presence. As if something ancient and vast had turned toward me—briefly, but wholly. Like I’d stumbled into its path. Like it noticed.”

A silence grew around the words, heavy as the hush before snowfall.

“It was cold,” Legolas said, barely above a whisper. “Not wind, not breath, but a chill along the bones—like standing in shadow too long. And the sound—it wasn’t Elvish. Nor beast-song. It scraped against the air, like whispering through stone. Crooked. Wrong. Not words I could understand, but still they hurt.”

Now he looked up, and the flicker in his eyes was raw. “It hurt, Adar. Just to hear it. As if it weren’t meant for ears at all.”

He drew a breath, sharp and shallow. “It felt… old.”

Across the desk, Thranduil had not moved.

But the stillness had changed.

Gone was the effortless composure of a king at work. In its place was a silence that bristled—like antlers in tall grass, waiting. His hand rested atop the parchment, unmoving, but the knuckles had whitened against the wood.

For a breath, two, he said nothing.

Then, without a word, he reached for the sand shaker, dusted the ink with practiced care, and set the letter aside. The movements were smooth—too smooth, like a mask fitted over a crack.

When he finally spoke, his tone was quiet. Measured. But behind it, something coiled.

“I have no doubt it was shadowplay,” he said. “The gully is steep there. Light warps. Sound carries oddly across the roots when the wind stirs wrong.”

His eyes lifted at last. Cool. Controlled.

“You were tired. Tense from the hunt. The spiders leave more than venom behind—they bring unease into the earth. You know this.”

Legolas studied him, unmoving. “I do.”

“And your heart,” Thranduil continued, voice softening just slightly, “was never meant for silence. You feel things others pass over. You always have.”

He paused.

“You are your mother’s son.”

The words landed like a feather over glass—gentle, but precise. Meant to soothe. To distract.

But his eyes betrayed him.

For in them—beneath the calm and the frost—lay something else. Not fear. Thranduil did not fear easily. But knowledge. Heavy, ancient, and grave.

He had felt this before.

And Legolas, though he said nothing more, saw it. The pause before his father spoke. The slight tension at the corner of his mouth, too fleeting for most to catch. The way his eyes did not quite meet his own.

He nodded—slow, thoughtful.

But the reassurance, though finely spoken, did not settle.

Not truly.

He recognized it for what it was: not untruth, but a kindness shaped to sound like certainty.

And he did not quite believe it.

And Thranduil, for all his elegance, did not quite believe his own reassurance either.

He reached for a fresh parchment—without haste, without sighing. Simply the motion of a king reclaiming order. The old sheet was turned aside with quiet precision, and a new one laid in its place. The ink had barely dried on the last sentence, and yet the page already felt distant. Irrelevant.

Legolas hesitated.

His fingers lingered at the edge of the table, idly following the weathered grain with the tip of one nail, as though the familiar grooves might steady the rising swell of his thoughts. The silence pressed close around them—thick with old memory, with battles never fought but endlessly rehearsed. Above, the light had mellowed; it streamed now through the tall windows in rich, slanting bands, gilding the stone floor and tracing long shadows across the wall behind Thranduil’s desk.

Then, with slow purpose, Legolas leaned forward. He folded his arms on the table—graceful, unhurried, as if merely settling to speak. But the gesture was too deliberate to be idle, too still to be truly relaxed. Thranduil, who had calmed his son’s nightmares with a hand to his brow, who could read the shifts of his breath and shoulder before ever hearing a word, saw it at once for what it was: preparation.

“I would ask,” Legolas said at last, his voice quiet but firm, “to ride with the next patrol that skirts the southern border.”

The scratch of quill against parchment ceased.

Thranduil did not speak immediately. The quiet that followed held no heat, no outrage—only gravity. Like a sealed door, like a path walled long ago. The weight of an answer that had already been carved in stone.

“No,” he said at last.

A single word. No ornament. No rise in tone. Just iron beneath silk.

Legolas did not recoil. He remained still, expression unchanging, save for the small crease that formed between his brows—subtle, but unmistakable to one who knew him. “Only to observe,” he said. “A few leagues beyond the Narrows—nothing reckless. If there is unrest stirring beneath the roots of the forest, I would see it with my own eyes.”

“I have given you my answer,” Thranduil replied, sharper now—not in volume, but in the precision of his refusal. A blade honed by repetition.

Legolas drew a slow breath, lifting his gaze more directly. “You know I would not ask lightly. If I believed there was no danger, I would remain. But I have felt—”

“And you know,” Thranduil said, cutting across him, “that I do not forbid without cause.”

His voice was cool, but the flint-edge beneath it had sharpened. “The southern patrols are not for you. I have made that plain.”

Legolas’s voice lowered. “But the dreams—”

“Are dreams,” Thranduil snapped.

The word struck like a snapped bowstring in a silent glade. It startled the quiet into stillness.

Thranduil’s mouth tightened. His gaze flickered—just briefly—before he smoothed it back beneath a practiced calm. He set the quill aside with slow, deliberate care, aligning it beside the new parchment as if to restore order where something had begun to fray.

“You will not step beneath Dol Guldur’s shadow,” he said, voice low and final. “Not while I wear this crown. My word is not subject to dreams, nor desire.”

Across the table, Legolas exhaled—not sharply, but with the quiet weight of something long carried. A breath too shallow to be surrender, too deep to be defiance. He did not protest. Did not lower his eyes.

“I know your word is final,” Legolas said at last, and though his voice was quieter now, it held no less strength. “I know the lines you have drawn.”

Thranduil did not speak. His face remained composed, unmoved—but the stillness of it was the kind that came from effort, not ease.

“But the shadow,” Legolas went on, “has not kept to them. And neither have the dreams.”

His fingers curled against the table’s edge—no longer tracing, no longer still. Bracing, as though the grain of the wood might hold him steady.

“I do not seek battle,” he said, lifting his gaze fully to his father’s. His voice was even, but beneath the calm, it pulsed with rare intensity—the kind that only surfaced when something mattered to the root. “Only answers. If there is nothing, I will return. But if there is—if what I felt in the trees was true—”

“It was,” Thranduil said, the words so low they nearly did not reach the air. “And that is why you will not go.”

Something in his voice—too steady, too composed—betrayed the truth of what lay beneath. Not anger. Not distrust.

“I have felt it, too,” Thranduil continued, softer now, but no less resolute. “Long before your patrol reached the watch. Before the nest was found. I have felt it in the roots, in the winds, in the bones of this forest that no longer sings.”

He looked at his son then—truly looked. And for a moment, the veil of kingship dropped, just enough to show the father beneath.

“That is why I forbid it,” he said. “Not because I doubt your strength, my son. But because I know what lies there hungers. And I will not send you into the mouth of that darkness.”

Their eyes locked. Neither flinched. Neither looked away.

The silence that followed was not hollow. It was full—thick with years unspoken. With the long memory of Dol Guldur’s shadow creeping like rot through green boughs. With the weight of a queen never returned from the woods. With the image of Legolas, fevered and broken by poison in a realm not his own, and a father who had sat at his bedside, listening for breath.

Not as a king.

But as a father who could not bear to lose what remained.

Legolas was the first to look away.

His gaze dropped—not in defeat, but in the quiet restraint of one who knew his plea would not be granted today. He drew a slow breath and rose to his feet, the chair behind him shifting with a soft scrape of wood against stone.

“I am not a child,” he said. His voice remained low, but it carried—measured and clear. “And this is not some flicker of imagination. The dreams have returned. Stronger now. And when I ride the borders, I feel it.”

He turned fully toward his father, hands loose at his sides. But his stance was not idle. It was taut with intention, like a bow drawn and held.

“Something watches. Always from the south. I would know what it is.”

Thranduil studied him in silence for a long breath. And when he finally spoke, it was not with anger, nor with weariness. It was something quieter. Something older.

“I know you are no child, my nettle-sprite,” he said. The words were fond—almost. A note of warmth, tempered by the wear of long years. “Though you play the part well enough, from time to time.”

That earned him a faint twitch at the corner of Legolas’s mouth, but no more.

Thranduil’s gaze turned toward the tall windows, where the light had begun to shift—lengthening the shadows that pooled across the floor.

“But the darkness in the south is older than your dreams. Older than your bow. Older than the stone beneath your feet. And though we no longer speak its name, it is not gone.”

He looked back to Legolas then, eyes cool, voice low and resolute.

“I have spent long years keeping it from our gates—quieting the poison it spills through root and stream, holding its reach at the very line of breath.”

He did not speak of spells. Did not name the enchantments. But Legolas understood.

“Leave it be, for now.”

There was finality in his tone, but it was not harsh. Not prideful. It was protection, worn thin by time and sharpened by unspoken fear.

Thranduil leaned back slightly in his chair, exhaling soundlessly. He reached to the side for a fresh sheet of parchment, fingers unhurried, and took up the quill from the stand beside him.

“We have more immediate concerns.”

Legolas did not sit again. He stood quiet, brows still faintly drawn, the slope of his shoulders resisting the ease of dismissal.

Thranduil dipped the quill into the inkwell and set its tip to parchment with precise control.

“There has been movement near the western borders,” he said as he began to write, his voice smooth but clipped.

Legolas’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Orcs?”

“No,” Thranduil replied. “The scouts returned before dawn. They sighted four travelers just beyond the outer ridge near the falls.”

He lifted his gaze. Not slowly. Not dramatically. Just enough to meet his son’s eyes.

Legolas stilled. His breath caught, barely. A beat passed.

“A certain Peredhel,” Thranduil continued, his voice dry as frost, “appears intent on honoring his word. He will be at our borders—no doubt with the sunrise.”

He set the quill aside for the moment, letting the ink settle. Then, leaning back in his chair, he regarded Legolas with an inscrutable calm.

Legolas stood very still.

No flourish. No exclamation. Just stillness—sharp and sudden—as if the moment had caught him off-guard despite all his hoping.

For a breath, he said nothing.

Then, slowly, a smile began to take shape—not wide, not bright, but deep. The kind that was felt more than seen. The kind that unfurled from the chest outward, quiet and certain, as if something long-held had been proven true at last.

“Elrohir has come,” he said, almost to himself.

The name landed like balm—soft, sure, inevitable. He spoke it with the reverence of something long cherished and long withheld, and his voice, though steady, was threaded with something unguarded. Something relieved.

He turned away from the desk, from his father, from the weight of the hall—and crossed to the tall window set into the stone like a watchful eye.

Sunlight poured in across the floor, golden and green through the high trees beyond. The breeze stirred against his face, and he drew it in deeply, as if he could taste the road Elrohir had taken in the wind.

He braced a hand lightly on the sill, head tilted, his eyes fixed on the distance—not truly seeing, but searching all the same. Somewhere out there, not far now, was a rider keeping a vow made beneath stars.

His smile widened, a breath loosing in his throat, nearly a laugh. Not giddy, but luminous. Overflowing. Quiet joy, rich and unspoken, poured into the spaces where worry had lived too long.

Behind him, Thranduil remained silent, though his gaze did not falter.

He watched his son with an expression that only those who had raised beloved children would know—a gaze that mingled fondness with fatigue, caution with aching love.

It was not the look of a king.

It was the look of a father who had lost too much… and now watched joy return to his son like sunlight on thawed earth.

Thranduil let the quiet linger just a breath longer, as if savoring the flicker of light in his son’s expression. Then he spoke, gaze now fixed on the parchment before him.

“If you intend to greet your Peredhel,” he said, voice composed but unmistakably pointed, “the western patrol departs within the hour.”

Legolas whirled around with such haste that the long ends of his hair caught the breeze from the window.

“What?” he exclaimed, half-breathless, half-laughing. “Now?”

He glanced toward the window again, as if expecting the sun to have lied about the hour. Then to his own hands—still dusty from the road—then down at himself in dismay.

“I’ve nothing prepared—I’ve only just returned from the Eastern Watch,” he said, brushing a pine needle from his sleeve as if the gesture might somehow restore dignity.

His tunic was wrinkled, one sleeve slightly torn near the seam where a bramble had caught him. A faint smudge of ash still darkened the edge of his cloak. One braid had nearly come undone, falling half-loose over his shoulder.

Thranduil looked up at last, one brow arching in regal indifference. “Then I suggest you make haste.”

He returned to his parchment, dipping the quill with deliberate care.

“And bathe,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Unless your aim is to drive the Noldor back across the river with the strength of your stench.”

Legolas let out a bright, helpless laugh, the sound echoing in the high-ceilinged study.

“You’re cruel,” he said through the grin, crossing back to the desk in two swift strides.

He leaned over the desk and pressed a kiss to his father’s cheek—quick, unthinking, the kind of gesture a child gives without hesitation, but a grown son gives only when love overrides pride.

Thranduil exhaled through his nose—less a sigh than a measured breath of reluctant tolerance. His quill stilled mid-air, the tip hovering a hair’s breadth above the parchment as his mouth drew into a thin line that might, to the keen-eyed, resemble a smile.

“I tolerate many things within these halls,” he said, low and dry, “but interruptions during correspondence are not one of them.”

His gaze did not lift.

Legolas was already halfway to the door, dragging his gloves back on with hurried, uneven motions.

“Thank you, Adar,” he called over his shoulder, bright with unguarded joy.

Thranduil gave no reply. But after a moment, he inclined his head by the smallest degree—no gesture wasted, no warmth admitted aloud.

Only once the sound of his son’s footsteps had faded into the corridor did he move again. The quill dipped back into the inkwell with unerring precision—but he did not write. Not yet.

He remained still, the page before him blank but for a single unfinished line, as though the ink were waiting for his thoughts to catch up.

The quill finally touched parchment again, gliding in crisp, precise strokes. But the words that formed were not the ones he had intended to write.

Thranduil’s gaze lingered on the last line for a moment, then drifted toward the open window. Beyond the high arch, the forest shimmered in late sunlight, wind curling softly through the leaves. Somewhere out there, his son was already preparing—rushing, no doubt, with that singular urgency born only of joy.

A joy he had not seen in many years.

His mouth pressed into a finer line.

Noldor.

He had not forgotten the weight of old wounds, nor the arrogance that so often cloaked itself in courtesy. The thought of their presence in his halls set his teeth on edge. But his son had chosen to open his heart to one of them—and for that reason alone, he would endure it.

For now.

Thranduil reached for a fresh sheet of parchment and smoothed it flat.

Let the Peredhel come.

If he was to stand beside the Greenwood’s heir, then he would be tested—by king and court alike. The crown did not bend easily, nor did the people who guarded its line. Let the son of Elrond prove himself worthy. Let the realm see him for what he was.

And let Legolas see, too—whether love could hold its shape beneath the weight of scrutiny.

The quill resumed its work, sharp and sure.

Above, the light turned gold upon the walls.

And the king did not smile.

Chapter Text

The sky had not yet broken with dawn, but its promise hovered just beyond the treetops—a thin silver bruising the eastern edge of the stars. The wind was still, and the air held the hush of expectation, the hush of breath held before a threshold is crossed.

Their horses moved at a careful pace, hooves muffled on the moss-slick path. The forest had begun to change—denser here, the trees drawn closer together as if guarding secrets long untold. Greenwood was near. They could feel it.

Elrohir rode a little apart from the others, shoulders squared despite the long ride, his cloak drawn back from his face. In his gloved hand, he held a narrow piece of parchment, edges worn, the ink smudged in places where fingers had lingered too long. Even by starlight, he studied it, lips parted slightly as his eyes traced the unfamiliar script.

The lines were neither Sindarin nor Quenya—there was no elegance in the lettering, no symmetry or flourish. The hand was rougher, the shapes curved like river-stones or tree-roots, as though they had grown rather than been penned.

Elladan watched in silence for a time, his gaze drifting from the road ahead to the furrowed set of his brother’s brow. A smile curled at his mouth—quiet at first, then unmistakably mischievous.

“What’s this?” he said at last, voice pitched low so as not to disturb the hour’s hush. “A secret treaty? A compendium of Greenwood endearments to charm your prince? Or perhaps some tragic verse you mean to declaim while kneeling in a bed of leaves?”

Elrohir didn’t look up. “Silvan,” he said shortly, tilting the parchment to catch the light. “I’m learning it.”

Elladan blinked at him with exaggerated solemnity. “You’re doing what ?”

“I do read,” Elrohir muttered. “On occasion. And I thought it prudent to arrive speaking something other than Sindarin in its most formal court dress.”

Elladan leaned in, boots creaking faintly in the stirrups, his grin spreading with deliberate mischief. “What then? Hoping to win over Thranduil with a stirring recital of tree-lore? Or merely trying to persuade the oaks not to drop branches on your head?”

“Neither,” Elrohir replied, voice dry as frost on stone. “Though at this rate, I’d take either gladly.”

He sighed and gave the parchment a light shake, as if the words might rearrange themselves out of pity. “There’s no consistency. Half the entries contradict each other, and the rest are… songs. Possibly about mushrooms. Or storms. Or grandmothers. The metaphors are unclear.”

Behind them, Glorfindel gave a low, appreciative chuckle. “Mushrooms,” he echoed. “Ah yes—the cornerstone of Silvan seduction. Beware, Elrohir. A well-sung ode to fungus may earn you a marriage proposal.”

Elrohir shot him a flat, warning look—then, without preamble, let a string of Silvan spill from his tongue. The syllables were round and heavy, the cadence uneven, like stones tumbling through a riverbed. Whatever meaning he intended was lost somewhere in the muddled consonants.

Elladan winced as though struck, shoulders hunching instinctively, while Glorfindel’s mouth twitched in a way that suggested equal parts amusement and pain.

Elladan dragged a hand down his face. “Valar,” he groaned, “that wounds the ear.”

Erestor, who had been riding in quiet reflection, turned his head slightly. The soft gray light caught on the edge of his hood, gilding the scholar’s profile in silver. There was a glint of interest in his eye, the kind that had carried him through a thousand scrolls and twice as many debates.

“Silvan is not a language made for records,” he said, voice calm, rich with thought. “It was never shaped for ink and parchment. It lives in tone and gesture, in birdsong and wind, in the hush between root and river. It has no canon—only memory.”

He spoke like one who had studied many languages—and grown wary of the limits of all of them.

Elrohir looked up, a faint furrow in his brow. “I’ve read that it may predate Doriathrin—the old tongue of Elu Thingol’s realm—that some even claim it is older than the Sindar themselves.”

Erestor inclined his head in agreement, though with nuance. “Not older. But separate. A cousin born beneath different stars. Its roots lie with the Avari—the Unwilling. Those who turned from the summons of the Valar and never crossed the sea. Their tongue was shaped not by the light of Aman, but by forests untouched by memory. It is not a language of law or lineage. It is the language of weather and breath. Of listening.”

He paused, gaze drifting—not unfocused, but distant, as if tracing the lines of an invisible thought.

“It is a language learned in stillness,” he said at last. “By walking without speaking. By knowing the shape of birdsong at dusk. By understanding that the world speaks back, if you are quiet long enough to hear it.”

Elrohir lowered the parchment a fraction, his gaze distant, mouth settling into a line of quiet consideration—not displeasure, but the kind of thought that weighed more than it showed. 

“So… not by books,” he murmured.

Erestor’s lips curved in a small, genuine smile. “Not only.”

Elladan leaned in, his grin brightening with mischief. “Then you’ll be silent by Midsummer—a fate I would have thought impossible until this very moment.”

Glorfindel’s soft laugh followed, warm and low, like sunlight flickering in a shallow cup. “Or better yet—humbled.”

Elrohir’s eyes narrowed. “I am never humbled.”

Erestor’s glance slid toward him, cool and certain. “You are about to be.”

Elrohir exhaled through his nose—long, low, and thinly veiled in frustration. He looked down at the folded parchment in his hand, fingers tightening around it as if debating one last attempt. But then he sighed again, and with a slight shake of his head, tucked the worn page back beneath the fold of his tunic.

“I will ask Legolas to teach me,” he said at last, his voice quieter now—resigned, but not defeated. “It is his first tongue. It lives in his mouth the way breath lives in the forest—shaped by the wind, colored by the leaves. When he speaks it, the words fall soft as rain through the canopy; when he sings, it’s like sunlight spilling over green boughs, warm and unhurried. I could listen for hours, even if I cannot yet grasp a single meaning. With him, I’ll hear it as it’s meant to sound.”

He looked ahead, past the trees crowding the horizon, as though trying to trace the edges of the realm that waited beyond the boughs. There was something almost reverent in his gaze. Almost yearning.

“And he will laugh at you,” Elladan chirped, urging his horse closer until they rode stirrup to stirrup. “But he’ll be gentle about it. Too gentle, perhaps. You’ll forget how maddening the language is and start thinking you’re clever again.”

Elrohir didn’t answer, but the faintest ghost of a smile touched one corner of his mouth.

Elladan leaned in, voice taking on a theatrical lilt. “I’ve always liked how he speaks Sindarin. Proper enough, yes—but there’s something melodic beneath it. A softness. As if every vowel has been dipped in river water and left to catch the sun. I’ve heard bards work twice as hard and charm far less.”

“Hmm,” Elrohir murmured, not disagreeing.

“Teach him Quenya in return,” Elladan went on brightly. “With that Silvan lilt, he could make even your worst grammar sound like poetry. I can almost hear it—each word uncoiling slowly and richly, like silk slipping through the fingers. The consonants softened by that woodland music in his voice, the vowels drawn just enough to make the High Tongue sound… warmer. Less a courtly decree, more a promise spoken at twilight.”

Glorfindel’s low laugh rolled forward from behind them. “You’ll break hearts on both sides of the mountains.”

“I will not tell him you said that,” Elrohir replied, dry as old wine—though his eyes had softened, as if the thought pleased him more than he’d admit.

Erestor’s voice cut through the levity—not loud, not harsh, but measured and unyielding, with a quiet weight that stilled the air between them.

“I would caution you,” he said, “never to speak Quenya in Greenwood.”

They turned toward him.

He rode slightly apart, as he often did, posture unbending, the fall of his cloak precise against the lines of his frame. His hood was drawn low, yet not so far as to hide the clean, unblinking clarity of his gaze. When he spoke, it carried no sharpness, no rebuke—only the cool finality of a scholar’s knowledge, tempered by the long memory of one who had lived through what he described.

“It is not merely frowned upon,” he continued. “It is forbidden. By decree.”

Elladan’s brow furrowed. “Still?”

“Still,” Erestor replied without hesitation. “The tongue of the Exiles has no place in Oropher’s house. It has not been spoken openly in Greenwood since before his coronation.”

There was no rise in his tone, yet the words seemed to carry an echo—distant but unforgotten—of fire and blood, of banners burned and oaths broken. The long shadow of Doriath. The sundered kinships after Alqualondë. The grief of Lenwë’s wandering people before that, swallowed in the silence that followed when the West called, and many chose never to follow.

“Say nothing in it,” he added, “unless you mean to wound old griefs—or test the patience of a king who forgets very little.”

The quiet that followed lay close and weighty, like mist before rain. No one spoke. Only the muffled rhythm of hooves marked the moment’s passing, steady as a heartbeat, carrying them onward.

Above, the sky had begun to pale at the edges, dawn pressing faint fingers across the horizon. The stars held a moment longer, stubborn in their brilliance, before they too would fade.

Elladan’s gaze found them, and for once, no trace of mischief lingered there—only a steady, inward-turning thoughtfulness, edged with something quieter. A shadow of weariness, perhaps. Or the ache of an old longing he had carried too long.

“I hope,” he said at last, his voice low, shaped with the same care one might give a fragile thing, “that we might yet live to see our people as they were meant to be—united not by war’s call or the press of desperation, but by choice. Sindar beside Silvan. Noldor without shame. All our kind walking one path, free of fear, free of bitterness… and glad of each other’s company.”

No one answered at first.

The wish hung there, crystalline and trembling, like a drop of dew at the edge of a leaf—too fragile to disturb.

Glorfindel’s horse gave a slow huff, stirring the cool air. He adjusted his reins absently, but his eyes were distant, fixed not on the road ahead but on something far beyond it.

“Elves have long memories,” he said at last. His voice was low—tempered, but steady. “We do not forget. Not easily. And the oldest wounds bleed slow.”

He did not need to name them.

Alqualondë—the Kinslaying beneath swan-prowed ships, where sea-blood stained the shore and the cries of slain Teleri echoed across the waves. Doriath, whose hidden realm was shattered by the Silmarils, where Thingol fell and Lúthien's line was driven into ruin. Sirion, where children were stolen and hope was drowned beneath Noldorin blades, even as Elwing leapt into the sea. The long march from Lindon, when Oropher turned eastward rather than bow to Noldorin rule, when pride met pride and neither gave way. Oropher’s fall near the Black Gate, thrown into slaughter by the arrogance of those who would not wait for the Silvan host to rally. The pride of the West—cloaked in lineage, in Light, in the name of the lost Trees. The scorn of the East—for those who stayed behind, for those who listened to the wind rather than the Valar.

They were all carried still—some as banners, some as scars.

Not forgotten. Never forgotten.

“It will take time,” Glorfindel went on, “and more than time. Prejudice does not fade with pretty words or royal decrees. It must be broken down, like stone softened by water—slowly, steadily. With kindness. With truth. With endurance.”

He turned his head then, and though the half-light cast his features in shadow, the glint in his eyes was unmistakable.

“And who would have guessed,” he added, dry but not mocking, “that our dear Elrohir, ever the brooding heir of Imladris—sharp of tongue, swift to wrath—would be part of that breaking?”

Elrohir did not answer at once.

The corners of his mouth twitched, but the smile did not come. Instead, his gaze remained fixed ahead, drawn beyond the dark line of trees where the path narrowed and the air began to shift. He could feel it—that faint, living difference. The forest thickened not with threat, but with watchfulness. Greenwood was close now. So close he could almost hear it breathing.

His fingers tightened on the reins, not in fear, but in thought.

He did not like prophecy. Did not like the weight of legacy or the way others tried to shape him into stories before he had chosen his path. But this—this was different.

He had chosen. And he would continue choosing.

If there was to be peace, let it begin with something small. A hand held out. A language learned. A name spoken without scorn.

“I never asked for that,” he said finally, voice low.

“No,” Glorfindel replied. “But perhaps that is what makes it possible.”

And this time, Elrohir did smile—faint, brief, and laced with something deeper than amusement.

Resolve.

The light shifted as they passed beneath the outer eaves.

It was not sudden—no sharp line of demarcation, no border stone or carved sigil—but the change was unmistakable. The air itself grew thicker, cooler, touched with the faint breath of mist that clung to moss and stone like old memory. The trees leaned in overhead, vast and ancient, their trunks furred with lichen, their limbs tangled and high, green shadows woven like a tapestry through the canopy.

It was no longer a road they followed, but a suggestion of one—a path worn not by travelers, but by time.

The horses slowed without command. Ears flicked. Heads tossed. Their bodies shifted beneath the saddle straps, not panicked, but wary. Alert. One gave a low, uneasy nicker; another stumbled slightly, dancing away from a root that hadn’t been there moments before.

Glorfindel brought his mount to a halt with practiced ease. His hand stroked the horse’s neck once, steady and silent. But his eyes scanned the wood, left, right, above. He said nothing for a long moment.

Then, softly, “We continue on foot.”

The others didn’t question it. They knew better.

Elrohir slid from the saddle with a fluid motion, landing softly on the moss-damp ground. His boots sank slightly into the loam. He touched his horse’s flank briefly, murmured something low in Sindarin, and took up the reins loosely in his hand. The horse leaned into him, not afraid, but unsettled.

Elladan dismounted with less grace and more tension. His eyes flicked to the shadows between the trees, where light failed and silence reigned. The hush here was not empty. It was full—crowded with breath unspoken, with unseen eyes, with histories older than spoken tongue.

Erestor moved ahead, already leading his mount with familiar ease. His posture remained relaxed, his hand light on the leather strap, but there was a stillness in his shoulders. The kind that came from knowing one was not alone.

Glorfindel took up the rear. He moved like something made for this—quiet, deliberate, eternal.

They walked.

The silence around them was not empty but layered—dense as fog. No bird called. No insect hummed. Even the wind seemed hesitant, stirring only in the highest boughs, as though uncertain it was welcome here.

Elladan’s brow furrowed. His gaze swept the trees—slow, deliberate, measuring every shadow. His fingers hovered near the hilt at his side, a reflex more than a choice, though he made no move to draw. “This stillness,” he murmured, voice pitched low. “It feels… watched. Not just silence—presence.”

Erestor did not look at him. His reply came quietly, steadily, and without hesitation. “Because you are.”

Elladan blinked. “Wonderful. I do so enjoy being regarded like game.”

“They have been watching since before we entered the forest,” Erestor continued, still not turning his head. “Perhaps since yesterday. Likely the moment we crossed the northern ridge.” His voice held the calm certainty of one who had walked too many borders and learned to read the weight of silence as plainly as ink on parchment.

“The Wood-elves are not like us,” he said. “Not like the Noldor. Not even like the Sindar. They move through the shadow as wind moves through leaves. They speak less than they listen. And they guard what is theirs.”

He reached forward, stroking the velvet muzzle of his horse with absent familiarity, eyes still on the path ahead. “They are here,” he said at last, “I promise you that. But you will not see them.”

Elrohir said nothing. But he looked up—past the shadowed trunks, into the high weave of branches that laced the sky. No movement. No glint of arrowhead. No figure among the leaves.

And yet the feeling persisted. The press of an unseen presence. Not malevolent. But unyielding. Watchful.

The Greenwood was not welcoming them. Not yet. It was waiting. Measuring.

The travelers walked on.

Time unraveled quietly in the Greenwood, losing shape beneath the weight of shadow and scent and silence. No sun broke through the canopy. Only the pale wash of morning light filtered in through the leaves—green-gold and shifting, as if cast from water rather than sky.

Then Elrohir slowed.

Something caught the edge of his vision—a break in the pattern of moss and bark, a curve too smooth to be natural. He turned his head, narrowing his eyes against the thick dapple of shade.

There, half-hidden beneath the arching roots of an old oak, a figure stood in silence.

It was not a traveler. Not one of the watching Wood-elves. It was stone.

Elrohir stepped from the path, his hand tightening slightly on the reins. The horse balked at first, but followed without sound. His boots sank into the moss, soft and yielding beneath his step.

The others paused behind him, but said nothing.

He drew closer.

What at first seemed to be part of the tree revealed itself—a statue, almost entirely swallowed by ivy and time. The stone was pale, streaked with lichen and rain-moss, softened at the edges but still intact. She stood with her head bowed slightly, both hands folded over her heart, her robes falling in carved folds that flowed like river-water to her feet. One braid, long and elegant, had been carved with such skill that it seemed real, despite the veil of moss half-consuming it.

Leaves had collected at her feet. Vines curled over her shoulders like shawls. A bird’s nest, long abandoned, rested in the crook of one arm.

Elrohir approached slowly, something in him stilling.

He lifted a hand, careful, and brushed the ivy from her face.

Dust and time fell away beneath his touch. The curve of her cheek emerged—graceful, solemn. Her eyes were closed, but not in rest. There was no softness in it. It was peace, yes—but also stillness. The kind that came after long sorrow. The kind carved from memory, not marble.

He kept brushing—leaves, grime, old webs—until her face was clear.

And then he stopped.

She was beautiful. The artist’s hand had not flattered her; it had remembered her. The hollow of her throat, the gentle lift of her brow, the faint tension in her mouth—nothing was idealized. Nothing was false. It was not the beauty of an elleth meant to be adored. It was the beauty of someone deeply known.

“She’s beautiful,” Elladan said behind him, his voice hushed.

Elrohir didn’t answer.

Erestor stepped forward, his gaze already fixed on the statue. “She was.”

His voice held that rare weight it sometimes took on when memory breached the surface of his usual composure. His hands, clasped loosely before him, were still.

“That is Queen Merilien,” he said quietly. “The Queen of Greenwood. Thranduil’s wife. The king had statues raised in her memory—dozens of them, hidden throughout the forest. Placed not for display, but for devotion. He did not wish for her to be forgotten.”

His gaze lingered on the folds of her carved robes, the lichen along her sleeve. “She was beloved by the forest.”

Elrohir studied the stone once more. He stepped in closer, eyes tracing every weatherworn line, every softened edge. With careful fingers, he reached up and brushed gently at the arch of her brow, freeing a last curl of vine that had crept across her temple. Bits of lichen fell away under his touch, and he swept them aside as one might straighten a loved one’s hair.

There—there it was.

Not a perfect likeness. Not a mirror. But something echoed in the curve of her mouth, in the poised grace of her cheekbones, in the quiet command that lingered still in carved stillness.

The forest had claimed her, yes—but not before she had left her mark upon her son. It was in the lift of her chin. In the sorrow that did not bow. In the light that did not yield to shadow.

Legolas.

Now, looking at her, he understood. The ethereal beauty that had first caught him unguarded, that still held him—here was its beginning. Thranduil, famed in every court for his own unearthly grace, had wedded a queen who matched him in kind yet tempered it with something softer, something earthbound. And from such a union had come their son—fair as starlight caught in green boughs, yet steadfast as the roots beneath them.

Elrohir’s breath caught, just faintly. He reached out again, slower this time, and brushed the back of his hand along her stone cheek—not to clean it, not to restore, but simply to touch. A reverence moved through him. Not for the queen she had been, but for the memory that clung here still, moss-soft and fiercely present.

In the stillness, he bowed his head and offered a silent prayer—not to the Valar, but to her. A quiet benediction for the son she had left behind, for the light she had given him, for the strength that still lived in him. One by one, the others followed suit, heads lowering in unspoken accord. Even Glorfindel’s bright gaze softened, and Erestor’s stillness deepened into something like mourning.

Then Elrohir stepped back, slow and careful, as if even the air around her belonged to another time.

The others said nothing. Even the horses stood still, ears forward, the forest quiet as breath held.

Only the sound of wind stirred now, soft, weaving through the boughs like fingers through long hair.
A rustle of leaves fell gently across the statue’s feet.

Elrohir glanced once more at her face—at the trace of a son in his mother—and then turned to rejoin the others.

They walked on.

The path seemed to narrow—whether by the press of roots or the slow, deliberate drawing-in of the trees, Elrohir could not tell. The Greenwood breathed around them: slow and deep, green with the weight of centuries. Their steps sank into moss, each footfall muted; even the horses moved in near-silence, hooves cushioned by damp earth and fronds of fern.

The air was cool, thick with the scent of rain-dark bark, of crushed leaves steeped in shadow. Light still filtered through the high canopy, but it had changed—drawn out into long, gold-green shafts that seemed to stretch the spaces between things. Time felt… looser. Less certain.

A flicker at the edge of his vision pulled his gaze aside. A bird, russet-winged and swift, burst from the underbrush. Its wings caught the light for an instant before it vanished into the high boughs, leaving only a cry that rang too loud in the hush.

Elrohir’s eyes followed it upward, tracing the rustle in the leaves—

And when he looked back—

They were gone.

No Elladan. No Glorfindel. No Erestor.

Only trees. Only stillness.

The path he had been certain of now curved in a way he did not recognize—or perhaps it had vanished entirely. He turned, slowly, the leather of the reins creaking under his tightening grip. The trees rose taller than before, their shadows pooling like deep water. The hush was heavier now, almost tangible, as though the forest itself leaned closer.

“Elladan?” he began, but stopped. His voice sounded too sharp, too loud in the green stillness.

He tried again, quieter. “Glorfindel? Erestor?”

Nothing answered. Not even the wind.

No hoofprints marked the moss. No trail of broken branches or crushed leaves. No clue to say they had passed this way at all.

His breath slipped out, slow and tight. His jaw set.

He remembered, now.

Thranduil’s forest did not need spells, nor was it shaped by incantation or bound in song as Lórien was. He wore no Ring of Power—had never needed one. The Greenwood obeyed him not through artifice, but through something older, more instinctive. Its magic did not twist the world itself, but bent the way one perceived it—subtle, shifting, alive.

A step might feel true and still lead nowhere. Sound could vanish between the trees. Familiar paths curved without warning into strange, forgotten spaces. One could walk for hours, never see the same landmark twice, and yet never move forward at all.

The forest did not deceive. It disoriented. And beneath its silence, the will of its king ran deep—woven into root and branch, into the very breath of the wood.

And it did not welcome strangers. It tolerated them. If they remembered whose realm they walked.

Elrohir muttered a quiet curse under his breath, the words old and sharp. He turned once more, slower now, studying the slope, the undergrowth, the reach of light between the branches. He reached, without thinking, for the hilt of his dagger—not to draw it, but to anchor himself. His horse stood still at his side, ears flicking, silent and wary.

He looked ahead. Or what he thought was ahead.

"Forward was this way," he whispered.

But the forest did not answer.

And in truth, he wasn’t sure anymore.

The forest gave no sign that he’d chosen correctly.

No trace of a hoofprint. No whisper of movement ahead. The hush remained, deep and intent, layered like mist over water. Even the light had lost its rhythm—muted now, diffuse and dappled, more memory than morning.

Only stillness. Only the slow, breath-held hush of trees that had seen too much.

Elrohir moved forward a few paces, his horse shadowing his steps. The reins were slack between them, but the tension traveled through the leather like a current. The horse’s movements were careful, hesitant—ears twitching at sounds Elrohir could not yet name.

Another shift—this time behind. A soft crunch of leaf-mould. Too light for danger, too deliberate for chance.

He stopped. So did the horse.

The world narrowed.

He turned slightly, scanning the tangle of undergrowth to the left, then the rise of lichen-streaked bark to the right. Shadows clung thick between the trunks. High above, the canopy arched like a cathedral, the boughs interwoven so tightly the sky was a rumor, not a presence.

The silence pressed in.

It did not feel empty.

It felt watched.

The horse gave a restless huff. Its ears flicked back; the muscles along its shoulder twitched. One hoof struck the moss, not hard—but the sound rang louder than it should have. A warning. A question.

Elrohir reached up, resting his hand lightly against the horse’s flank, fingers splayed to feel its breath.

“Steady,” he murmured, voice low but edged, his breath stirring the fine hair along the horse’s neck. “I’m here.”

His palm stroked down its shoulder in long, measured passes, the rhythm meant to soothe—but his own pulse was climbing. The animal shifted beneath his touch, nostrils flaring, but did not bolt. It trusted him. And that trust, here, felt precarious—like holding water in cupped hands.

A faint rustle stirred above—dry, soft, like fingertips brushing over pine needles. Elrohir’s head snapped up, heart tightening in his chest.

Nothing. Only green. Only gold. Only a thousand leaves trembling where no wind moved.

Another sound—this time to his right. A small crack of twigs. Not near enough to strike, but close enough to be intentional.

He froze. Completely.

His hand slipped from the horse’s flank to the hilt of his dagger—not to draw, but to feel the weight of it settle against his palm. Steel was certain. Steel was real. The familiar shape grounded him, even as the stillness pressed in.

He turned, slow and deliberate, scanning between the pillars of the trees.

Nothing moved.

But the watching did not stop. It grew thicker, closer, wrapping around him like a net drawn in. The Greenwood was aware of him—its people, yes, but also the forest itself. The roots. The high boughs. The very air.

It did not trust him. It did not hate him. It was weighing him.

He exhaled through his nose, the sound controlled but not entirely calm. The patience in him—what patience there was—had teeth now.

“I mean no harm,” he said, low and certain, to the moss, to the leaves, to the unseen eyes that would hear it.

The horse pawed at the ground, restless, as if answering the tension he could no longer hide.

Elrohir closed his eyes for a heartbeat, steadying himself. His thoughts slid—unbidden—to Legolas. To the way he moved through shadow without hesitation. To the way the trees seemed to bend for him, their stillness a kind of greeting. Not hostile. Not wary. Kin.

But this was not his own welcome.

Elrohir’s eyes opened again, sharper now, scanning what might once have been the trail.

Another sound. Behind him.

It was slight—a shift in the air, a whisper of leaves, the faint rasp of weight moving through undergrowth. Too controlled for an animal. Too deliberate to be chance.

He turned instantly, dagger in hand, steel flashing into the open with one fluid motion. Boots slid slightly on the moss, but his stance held—centered, ready, the quiet precision of a trained hunter. His gaze cut into the shadows, breath measured but quickening.

Nothing. No figure. No glint of steel. No eyes staring back.

Only the forest—deep, ancient, unmoved.

His eyes swept the trees, slow and methodical, searching for the twitch of a branch, the draw of breath, the shift of shadow on shadow.

Nothing.

The hush had changed. It was no longer absence. It was pressure—thick, deliberate, aware.

He turned back, jaw tightening—

—and froze.

His horse was gone.

The reins no longer rested in his palm. The space beside him was empty, the earth unbroken. As if the creature had simply dissolved into the green without sound or trace.

A curse slipped from his mouth—low, quiet, but with an edge that cut. His patience was thinning, and with it, the restraint that kept his temper leashed.

The dagger slid back into its sheath with slow precision, every movement taut with control. This was no fear. Not yet. But it was something close to it—born not of danger, but of the wrongness of being toyed with.

He stood very still, listening.

No footfalls. No voices. Not even the beat of wings.

Only the drum of his own pulse. Only the faint, undeniable sense of breath in the air that was not his own.

The world narrowed to that truth.

And then—

A shift behind him. Nearer than before. The soft catch of breath that was not his own.

And hands—warm, certain, gentle —slid over his eyes.

Elrohir inhaled sharply, every trained instinct urging him to turn, to seize, to strike—but he went utterly still.

Because he knew this touch.

His mind lagged half a heartbeat behind his body, but his body already remembered. His fingers curled around the reins of memory and held fast, as if he could stop time by gripping hard enough. Slowly—deliberately—he raised his own hands and laid them over the ones that covered his sight.

The moment held. Breath slowed. The forest, for all its watchfulness, receded into nothing.

He did not pull those hands away. He simply rested his palms against callused knuckles, feeling the life that thrummed beneath skin. His grip was not desperate, but reverent—anchored in recognition too deep for words.

Those hands were smaller than his, slender and lithe, yet strong—sinewed with grace, will, and the memory of battle. Fingers that could string a bow, loose an arrow, wield a blade, or weave his hair with the same quiet precision. They smelled faintly of cedar, rain-soaked moss, and the cold, clean breath of the deep forest. And beneath that—something older, rarer, a scent that had haunted the edge of his dreams for decades.

Sixty years.

Sixty years since those hands had touched his skin. 

Sixty years since banishment had set its seal between them—yet never once had the bond frayed.

Letters had passed between them like whispered prayers—smuggled words inked in haste, folded with care, sealed with longing. He had memorized each turn of script, each awkward blot of ink where emotion had outpaced precision. He had answered with poems he could never send aloud, drawings of faces he dared not describe to others, maps of dreams with no destination.

And now—those dreams had become touch again.

He felt breath against his hair.

A tremble ran through him—not of fear, but of something older. Deeper. Like a river long dammed, now breaking.

His eyes fluttered closed beneath the warm cover of familiar palms. He did not need to see. He knew.

Slowly, Elrohir let his thumbs brush across the wrists that held him blind—not to free himself, but to anchor them there, to remind himself they were real. His throat ached with words he would not speak yet. The moment was not made for speech.

Instead, he let his hands drift back, following the line of forearm to elbow, tracing the shape he knew as well as his own shadow. His touch moved with the memory of battles fought side by side, of nights long past and promises made beneath other skies. He found the curve of a hip and lingered there, fingers molding to the slope as if to relearn it. The narrow plane of a waist fit neatly beneath his palms, familiar and yet almost foreign after so many years. Lower still, his hands met the quiet strength of thighs held in poised stillness, their warmth steady against the cool air. Every inch of the journey was a rediscovery—an unbroken map that had lived in his mind for sixty years and was now, at last, made flesh again.

He returned at last to those hands over his eyes, covering them with his own as if to shield them from being taken away. His fingers moved slowly, cradling them with a reverence that held no urgency—only ache. Then, as if the gesture had lived in him for years, waiting in the marrow of his bones, he slid one hand downward, gently drawing the other with it until he could press it to his lips.

Soft. Lingering. More of a vow than a greeting.

The skin beneath his mouth was warm and familiar, faintly scented with pine and wind. He let his lips linger there, unmoving, tasting the salt of skin, the trace of sun-warmed resin. As though this, too, was a language—one they had both forgotten how to speak aloud.

It was not a dream.

It was not ink or memory.

And still, he did not turn.

The hands remained a moment longer, trembling just slightly beneath his own.

Then the voice came—low, amused, shaded with disbelief and joy.

“Will you not even look at me, my love?”

A beat, then softer—warmed by quiet laughter:

“You do know my lips are not on my hand?”

Elrohir turned, slowly, as if drawing himself from a dream too long held, the weight of sixty years folding behind the motion—years spent carrying a vision that had nearly worn itself thin with longing. He did not rush. It felt as though even a breath too sharp might splinter the shape before him, might break whatever fragile boundary had finally let this moment pass into truth.

And there he was.

Legolas stood in the filtered hush of Greenwood’s heart, bathed in light that danced through the leaves like spun gold, his hair catching every glint of it. His gaze, steady and unflinching, met Elrohir’s with such open joy it hollowed the breath from Elrohir’s lungs. In an instant, the ache he had worn like armor softened, dissolved beneath the flood of presence, of certainty, of love made manifest.

Elrohir’s chest tightened as something old and aching unwound itself inside him—not pain, but relief so deep it bordered on sorrow. His heart rose as if lifted by song, not loud or triumphant, but steady and full, reverberating in his bones. There was no mistaking it now. This was no dream, no letter, no memory blurred by time.

This was Legolas.

Here, real, and smiling.

Alive in the hush between trees. The green light caught in his hair like fire through wheat, gilding the strands that fell loose around his shoulders. His skin was kissed by the sun, his cheeks flushed with the walk, and his mouth—still half-curved in that boyish, unguarded smile—looked as though it had never once forgotten how to love. His eyes, deep and blue and impossibly clear, fixed on Elrohir with something that made the forest itself seem to hold its breath.

He looked more beautiful than Elrohir remembered.

Not because he had changed.

But because he hadn’t.

There was laughter in his face, yes—but no mockery. Love—but no caution. As though the long years had only sharpened his joy instead of softening it.

His smile broke something open.

For a moment, Elrohir could only stare. Breath caught. Time unmade.

And then he moved.

He stepped forward, reached out, and cupped Legolas’s face with both hands. The touch was careful at first, as if half-expecting resistance, half-fearing the image might dissolve beneath his palms.

Then he drew him close, slowly but with certainty—until their brows touched, breath mingling, the space between them narrowed to nothing. His hands slid into Legolas’s hair, holding him there, foreheads pressed together, their gazes locked. Legolas’s eyes searched his—bright with wonder, brimming with something unspoken—and then drifted downward, lingering on Elrohir’s mouth, aching to close the final distance.

The moment held—trembling on the cusp of something longed for, something inevitable.

Legolas leaned in.

And Elrohir kissed him.

Not gently. Not tentatively.

But with a depth that had no place for caution.

The kiss was breath and memory and need—sixty years pressed between closed mouths, broken at last. It stole the world from beneath their feet. A touch deepened by silence, by longing, by every night they had waited with only written words for company.

Legolas inhaled sharply against him—then melted into the embrace, arms sweeping up around Elrohir’s shoulders, locking behind his neck. His fingers twisted into dark hair, pulling him closer, anchoring him.

He kissed back fiercely. Unrestrained.

As though nothing else existed.

His body pressed flush to Elrohir’s, and the space between them—so long held open by time, by banishment, by duty—closed like a wound beginning to mend.

Elrohir held him tightly, one hand firm at the nape of his neck, the other curved around his jaw, steadying him—as much to ground Legolas as to anchor himself. He felt the wild beat of his own heart and, pressed close, the steadier rhythm of Legolas’s breath against his cheek—drawn sharp through the nose, exhaled warm across his skin.

The world was a blur. The forest around them ceased to matter.

There was only this: the mouth he had ached for, the hands that had once trembled beneath his, the weight of love returned without condition.

And in the quiet that followed, he did not speak.

There was nothing to say.

The silence was enough.

The silence, and Legolas—whole, here, real—still holding him.

The kiss slowed—not from lack of desire, but from the weight of feeling too large to carry all at once. It broke, only to return in fragments—breath returning in soft exhales between them, their lips brushing in smaller touches, like the last notes of a song unwilling to end. In small, staccato touches, each one tender and breathless. Elrohir pressed another kiss to Legolas’s mouth, then again—brief and reverent, as though memorizing the shape of what he had nearly forgotten.

Their foreheads remained pressed together, breath mingling. Fingers lingered where they had grasped tightly, now loosening only to draw nearer still.

When at last their eyes opened, the world remained suspended between one heartbeat and the next.

And then Legolas laughed.

It broke from him without restraint—light and joyous, edged with disbelief, as though he had held the sound too long behind his teeth and could no longer bear its silence. He leaned into Elrohir’s touch, hands sliding down to rest against his chest, the weight of them neither hesitant nor rushed, only sure. Grounded.

“I have awaited this day since the moment I left Imladris,” Legolas murmured, his gaze sweeping slowly over Elrohir’s face, as though memorizing each line anew. His voice, like the laughter that had come before it, trembled with too many emotions to name—relief, joy, aching certainty—and something older still, deeper than words. A devotion carved through silence. The echo of all the days he had kept hope alive, even when reason had told him to let it die.

Elrohir’s breath caught. His hands remained cupped around Legolas’s face, thumbs brushing just beneath his cheekbones, unwilling to release the proof that this was real—that the wait was over, that the elf who had haunted his every waking thought and sleeping hour stood before him now, alive in his arms, warm and smiling and true.

“I have dreamt of it,” he said, and his voice was low, roughened not by doubt, but by the sheer weight of having held so much love, so long. “Every night. For sixty years.”

His eyes did not waver, though they burned. “You haunted every dream I dared to have.”

Legolas laughed softly, the sound bright as sunlight through leaves. He leaned in just enough to brush their brows once more, breath fanning gently against Elrohir’s lips.

“Haunted?” he echoed, a smile curving slowly and fondly. His voice shimmered with the warmth of long-held longing, but no mockery. “Then I hope I lingered softly… and made a fair ghost in your dreams.”

Elrohir leaned in, breath warm between them, and kissed him—softly this time. A whisper of lips, light as breath against stillness.

When he drew back, his voice was low, rough with tenderness.

“You were,” he murmured. “The most beautiful ghost my dreams ever conjured. I followed you through every shadow. Willingly. Without end.”

Legolas laughed softly, the sound breathless, edged with disbelief and joy. He tucked his face beneath Elrohir’s chin, nuzzling against the warm skin at his throat, his lips brushing just beneath the jaw. His arms slid around Elrohir’s waist, slow and sure, fingers curling into the folds of his cloak as though to anchor himself there—against him, within him, after so long apart.

Elrohir held him fiercely, possessively, his hands roaming with a reverence that had turned reverie into hunger. One slid down the length of Legolas’s spine, pressing him closer; the other settled at the curve of his hip, fingers flexing, slow and claiming. There was no urgency—only the deep, ache of reunion, of having what had once only lived in dreams now warm and breathing against him.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Legolas tilted his head, lips grazing Elrohir’s jaw as he murmured—low, teasing, intimate, “So… have you come to Greenwood at last to claim my hand, elf-knight?”

Elrohir’s breath shivered out through his nose. He lowered his head, his mouth brushing the shell of Legolas’s ear as he whispered, voice rough and velveted, “Yes. And everything that comes with it.”

Legolas smiled against his throat, then slowly lifted his head—blue eyes rising to meet grey, shining with a warmth too deep for words. His fingers moved almost instinctively, lifting to trace the lines of Elrohir’s face as though to memorize them anew, though he had walked with them in dreams for sixty years.

Elrohir did not flinch from the touch. He had grown used to it—this quiet ritual of fingers brushing brow and cheek, the soft pad of a thumb against the hollow beneath his eye, the way Legolas always, always paused at his mouth.

And when that fingertip reached him now—lightly ghosting over his lower lip—Elrohir caught it with his own, kissing it softly. A vow without words. A promise, renewed. His eyes never left Legolas’s.

Elrohir’s lips curved faintly against the pad of Legolas’s finger before he drew back just enough to speak, voice low and threaded with bemusement.

“It seems,” he murmured, “that I lost my way in your father’s woods.”

Legolas arched an elegant brow, his expression already turning knowing.

Elrohir’s eyes flicked past his shoulder, toward the trees that now seemed far less threatening, and far more amused.

“One moment, we were walking—Glorfindel just ahead, Erestor to his right. Elladan beside me, grumbling about the quiet.” He paused, mouth tugging wryly. “A jay startled near the path—I turned to look, and when I turned back…”

He shook his head once, slow and disbelieving. “They were gone. The path was gone. The trees looked different. The light shifted. Even my horse vanished.”

Legolas laughed—bright and open, the sound ringing soft beneath the trees like birdsong.

“Yes,” he said, with the fond exasperation of long experience, “that sounds very much like my father.”

Elrohir gave him a sidelong glance, half-accusing. “You think he did it on purpose?”

Legolas’s smile turned sly. “He knows who entered the western border this morning.”

“Valar,” Elrohir muttered under his breath.

“And,” Legolas continued, arms slipping more firmly around Elrohir’s waist, “he is not above a little mischief. Especially when it comes to the Noldor.” He drew in close, resting his chin briefly on Elrohir’s shoulder. “I imagine he let the forest shift just enough to make you doubt your steps.”

“Doubt them?” Elrohir said. “I thought I’d walked into a dream. Elladan will be cursing him for hours.”

“Good,” Legolas replied, grinning now. “He deserves to be humbled once in a while.”

Elrohir gave a low laugh, arms tightening around him. “And me?”

Legolas leaned in again, his breath brushing warm at the curve of Elrohir’s ear. “You were never in danger,” he whispered. “You were being brought to me.”

Legolas’s lips brushed the shell of Elrohir’s ear—a barely-there kiss, featherlight and unhurried, more breath than touch. But it lit something in him all the same. Elrohir’s breath caught, then released in a quiet sound that was not quite laughter, not quite a moan—just the low, involuntary exhale of someone remembering what it meant to be touched like this.

He lowered his head into the curve of Legolas’s neck, nuzzling into the golden fall of hair that spilled over his shoulder, letting himself breathe deep. The scent of him was grounding and dizzying all at once—pine and bowstring, moss and wind, and something uniquely Legolas, warm and living. Sixty years, and still it undid him.

“Tell me something,” he murmured, voice husky against soft hair. “Can your father see us?”

Legolas tilted his head lazily against Elrohir’s, their temples brushing. “Possibly.”

Elrohir groaned into his skin, lips brushing just below the edge of his jaw. “You say that far too easily.”

A laugh hummed through Legolas’s chest, low and wickedly pleased. “He does know you're here, and you did wander rather directly into his woods.”

He shifted slightly, arms draped around Elrohir’s neck, fingers playing idly with the ends of his hair.

Elrohir leaned back just enough to take him in—really take him in—as though sixty years apart had left him starving for the sight. His hand rose to cradle Legolas’s jaw, fingers curving with quiet possession, thumb tracing the fine cut of cheekbone as if relearning it by touch.

“If I don’t rein myself in, I’ll forget where we stand.” His voice was lower now, roughened at the edges, like stone under strain.

Legolas’s lashes lowered, a flicker of amusement softening the sharp light in his eyes. The corners of his mouth curved. “Will you?”

“I must,” Elrohir said, the word firm, weighted with intent. His palm slid to the point of Legolas’s chin, tilting it upward with aching care until their gazes locked, their bodies still poised so close that breath mingled. “I’ve grown rather attached to keeping my head upon my shoulders.”

Legolas’s eyes brightened with a spark that was half mischief, half something warmer. “As have I.”

He leaned in with deliberate slowness, pressing a single, chaste kiss to the corner of Elrohir’s mouth—a promise, not a fulfillment. His voice, when it came again, was soft and amused.

“So perhaps,” he murmured, “save your undoing for when the trees no longer report to my father.”

Elrohir exhaled slowly, his thumb drawing a final arc across Legolas’s cheekbone. He closed his eyes, briefly, anchoring himself in the weight of the moment.

In the scent. In the warmth. In the feel of being home.

Legolas’s fingers slipped into Elrohir’s, the gesture so natural it felt inevitable. He twined their hands together with quiet certainty, callused palm to callused palm, and gave a gentle tug—light as a breath, but impossible to resist.

“Come,” he said, voice low and warm, threaded with a smile. “I’ll lead you.”

Elrohir let himself be drawn forward a step, though his brow arched in wary amusement. “And what of my horse?”

Legolas glanced back, golden hair shifting across his shoulder like silk in the breeze, mischief blooming slowly and brightly across his face. “Gone, for now. He’ll find his way. Or rather—he’s already been found.”

Elrohir narrowed his eyes. “And Elladan?”

Legolas’s smile turned sly. “Also found. Rest assured, you’re not the only one who got lost.”

Elrohir made a soft sound in the back of his throat—half a scoff, half a reluctant laugh. “And Glorfindel?”

“Oh, he’s quite occupied,” Legolas said airily. “The western patrol surrounded him within moments, all wide-eyed and reverent. I believe he’s currently regaling them with tales of Balrogs and ancient kings. As far as I could tell, no one dared question the state of his sword—or his legend.”

“And Erestor?”

Legolas gave him a sidelong glance, amusement glinting like starlight in his eyes. “Looking faintly disapproving of everyone. Last I saw, he was rolling his eyes at Glorfindel’s latest boast—something about single-handedly holding a mountain pass. He did not seem impressed by the accompanying gestures.”

But then his voice softened. “They’re nearby. Waiting, not far from the old cedar hollow. You wandered quite close without knowing.”

He paused then, tugging Elrohir just slightly forward as they began to walk—feet quiet over moss and root, the hush of the forest folding around them.

“I was sent to find you,” he said, softer now. “And I did. Or rather, perhaps the forest saw fit to lead you to me.”

Elrohir’s gaze lingered on him, the sharp edges of longing softening into something achingly full. Beneath the deep canopy, with sunlight broken and greened above them, Legolas looked like a dream returned from the deep—something the wood itself might have conjured, were it kind enough to give back what it once took.

But the warmth of his hand was real. The pressure of his fingers, the quiet steps, the way his shoulder brushed Elrohir’s as they walked—it was all real.

And as they moved together beneath the trees, silence blooming between their words like unfurling petals, Elrohir understood again what it meant to be found.

And as they walked, Elrohir began to feel it—the shift.

The Greenwood no longer pressed so tightly at the edges of his awareness. The silence was no longer suffocating but watchful, almost companionable. Where before the path had blurred into shadow, now it unfolded beneath their feet like something remembered, not learned. The trees did not part, exactly—but their limbs hung with less suspicion, their roots curved gently aside. The very air seemed clearer. Cooler. Laden not with confusion, but with the breath of green things growing, of bark and leaf and living sap.

Where Legolas walked, the forest did not resist. It recognized him.

And because Elrohir’s hand was in his, the Greenwood seemed to accept him too—grudgingly, perhaps, but without malice.

It was not magic in the way of spells or sung incantations. This was older. Wilder. It was allegiance earned. Trust, offered. A prince’s bond with his realm.

Elrohir cast a glance to his side. Legolas walked as though he had never once been lost—booted feet silent, sure, his hair bright as gold leaf in the dappled light. He did not hesitate. He did not look around to find his way.

He belonged here.

And beside him, Elrohir could feel himself slowly becoming permitted.

The hush no longer unsettled him. The trees no longer seemed to hide something just out of sight. He could hear water now, somewhere in the distance—a soft stream over stone. Birdsong returned, distant and intermittent. Even the light had shifted—less green, more gold.

A glade opened ahead. Just past a curtain of vine and cedar, sunlight pooled across a circle of moss-warmed earth. And beyond it: the faint gleam of steel, the movement of guards at ease.

Voices. Familiar ones. Elladan’s, rising in laughter. Glorfindel’s, carrying on some half-embellished tale. Erestor’s, unmistakable even in exasperation.

They stepped through the last curtain of underbrush, the trees parting as if at Legolas’s silent command, and it came into view—a quiet ring of green nestled in a shallow glade, dappled with sunlight and shadow. Elrohir had not realized how near he had been; what had felt like endless wandering now resolved into familiar forms and voices.

Elladan was the first to spot them. He straightened from where he stood near a moss-laden boulder and raised a brow, arms folding with dramatic slowness across his chest.

“Well,” he said dryly, “look what the forest dragged in. Tell me—were you lost, or simply delayed?”

Legolas gave him a look of innocent amusement, but Elrohir narrowed his eyes in fond warning, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Speak lightly if you must, brother,” he said, voice soft but edged with affection. “You may find yourself lost next, though not nearly so well found.”

Their hands remained joined.

Around them, the Greenwood warriors turned. Conversation faltered. Bowstrings eased. All eyes went to their prince—and to the tall Noldo at his side, along with the other Noldor who had come with him. The two of them, hand in hand, moved with a closeness that needed no explanation. Curious murmurs rippled softly through the glade, heads tilting, shoulders brushing. A few voices whispered behind half-raised hands, though none too cruelly—just warriors watching something unfamiliar, something bold.

Many among them had never laid eyes on a Noldo before. They had heard the songs, the stories—half praise, half warning—but the truth of it now stood before them, breathing and proud. They watched openly, not hostile, but keen in their study, marking every line of the strangers’ faces, the height and breadth of them, the way they carried themselves. Whispers passed behind half-raised hands—not cruel, but laden with the wonder of seeing something rare, as one might study a bright bird that had strayed into their boughs.

Thalion, already standing near the edge of the glade, offered no words, but his mouth curved with quiet approval. He had seen Elrohir before, decades ago in Imladris—but there was something different now in the way the Peredhel carried himself. In the way he looked at their prince. It was not merely affection. It was devotion, quiet and unflinching.

Beside him, Caleth let out a low whistle, arms crossed, eyes appraising. “Well,” he murmured to Thalion under his breath, “now I see why the prince’s heart is spoken for.” He nudged Thalion slightly with his elbow. “The twin—he wouldn’t happen to be available, would he?”

Thalion gave him a flat look, though his lips twitched. “That one?” he muttered back, nodding toward Elladan. “Available, perhaps. Survive you, unlikely.”

Caleth glanced over then—and just at that moment, Elladan happened to look back. Their gazes caught. Elladan lifted his eyebrows slightly, more in puzzlement than alarm, as if trying to decipher what precisely Caleth was measuring.

Caleth grinned unabashedly. “Worth a scratch or two,” he said, clearly unfazed.

Feren stood nearby with Glorfindel and Erestor, engaged in low conversation that had fallen still at their approach. His eyes flicked to the joined hands, then to Legolas’s face, and though he said nothing, something in his posture eased. A guarded hope. A silent assessment.

Behind them, more of the Greenwood patrol gathered—some leaning casually against trees, others perched atop low rocks or crouched near their packs. But all of them, to a one, watched the two figures who had just emerged from the trees.

Feren stepped forward with the deliberate grace of one who had long worn both blade and duty. The hush of the glade deepened with his approach, the rustle of leaves overhead like the drawing of a curtain.

He bowed—not low, but with purpose. The kind of bow reserved for those who were not strangers, but not yet kin.

“Elrohir of Imladris,” he said, his voice smooth and even, touched with the cadence of the forest—low, grounded, edged with quiet command. “On behalf of the Woodland Realm, I bid you welcome to Greenwood the Great.”

A brief pause.

“Or as outsiders now call it—Mirkwood.”

The formality was not cold. If anything, it held weight—ritual not as wall, but as bridge, as shield. A way of marking space, and of offering it.

Feren straightened, his sharp eyes lingering on Elrohir’s face. He looked not for apology, nor favor, but truth—and something he saw there made his shoulders ease by a fraction. Then, almost imperceptibly, his gaze dropped to their joined hands.

“You are known to these woods,” he continued. “By name. By deed. And now,” his eyes lifted to meet Elrohir’s fully, “you are seen by our trees.”

It was spoken with the quiet finality of those who do not waste words. In Greenwood, it was no small thing.

He turned then, letting his gaze sweep over the others who stood nearby—the twin by the mossed stone, watchful and unreadable; the golden lord whose sword sang of ages past; the quiet shadow of a loremaster beside him. His voice carried just enough to reach them without echo.

“To our guests of the West—Elladan of Imladris. Glorfindel of Gondolin. Erestor, loremaster and steward—I speak the will of our king: you are welcome in these woods… under his leave.”

Elladan stepped forward, boots soft against the moss-carpeted earth, and all his usual levity settled into something finer—princely, measured, deeply rooted in the dignity of old houses. The warriors of Greenwood watched him with careful eyes, but he did not flinch beneath their gaze.

He inclined his head toward Feren first, then to the wider assembly, his voice calm but carrying, clear as water drawn from deep stone.

“I speak on behalf of my father, Elrond of Imladris,” he said. “I thank you for your welcome. We come in peace—and with no banners raised, save those of goodwill. Though the forest’s illusions and unlooked-for turns were not expected, we take them in the spirit of their making—as the ancient ways of Greenwood, not as any measure of distrust or slight.”

He looked to Elrohir then, the moment weighted with quiet understanding. The flicker between them was brief but rich with memory and blood-bound trust.

“My brother, Elrohir, comes before you not only as a guest of the Woods, but with a purpose openly spoken and honestly held. He seeks the hand of your prince.”

There was a shift then—soft but unmistakable. A few glances exchanged. The slight creak of leather, a breath drawn low. Not alarm, but recognition. The forest itself seemed to hold its breath.

“A hand which he seems to be holding already,” Glorfindel cut in brightly, his golden head tilted just so, a gleam of unrepentant amusement in his eyes.

The moment cracked like the sun through leaves. Laughter flickered through the western patrol. Some of the Greenwood archers let slip a grin, glancing sidelong at the still-joined hands between prince and Peredhel.

Elladan turned slightly, as if to protest, but his mouth betrayed him with the barest curve of a smile.

“Your timing is ever impeccable,” he murmured, not quite managing to sound reproachful.

“I strive for excellence in all things,” Glorfindel said smoothly, folding his arms with theatrical grace. “Especially entrances.”

From the side, Erestor sighed. Audible, pointed, long-suffering. His arms were already crossed. His expression hovered between resignation and restrained disdain—the particular face worn by one who had witnessed this dynamic a thousand times, and expected to witness it a thousand more.

His gaze settled on Elrohir with the scrutiny of a scholar cataloguing risks, then passed briefly to Legolas before landing, at last, on Feren.

“Yes,” he said, voice dry as sun-cracked parchment. “Touching. And yet I suspect your king will require more than romantic declarations to be swayed.”

A pause.

“We are aware,” he continued, his tone cool and deliberate, “that trials have been set forth. We trust they are intended not as punishment, but as proof.”

He arched a brow, as if challenging any pretense otherwise. “Our role is clear: ensure that Elrohir meets them with dignity. And, if possible, exits them with all his limbs intact.”

Feren’s gaze shifted to Erestor with the weight of command softened only by curiosity. The stillness of the glade deepened again, as if the forest itself leaned closer.

“And yet,” he said, voice low, “I suspect your presence here is not solely to safeguard Lord Elrohir’s limbs.”

There was no humor in it, but no hostility either. Only the clear-eyed sharpness of a captain who had seen enough to know when something ran deeper than it seemed.

Erestor did not blink. “You suspect rightly.”

The words were plain, offered without fanfare, but they carried weight, like the distant toll of a bell before a storm. From the folds of his dark robes, he drew forth a single letter: sealed in silver wax, the crest of Imladris pressed deep into the parchment.

“We carry a message from Lord Elrond, written in his hand and meant for the eyes of your king alone.”

He held it not out to Feren, but close to his chest—its presence acknowledged, not surrendered.

“It concerns the south.”

The final word fell like a stone in a pool. No explanation. No elaboration. Only that.

For a moment, Feren said nothing.

His eyes flicked to the seal, then back to Erestor’s face. The lines of his posture did not shift, but something in his bearing grew taut—like a bow half-drawn. He did not ask what the message said. Did not reach for it. Whatever stirred in his mind remained behind the careful walls of a soldier trained long in silence.

Then he inclined his head once, deeply, in the manner of one who knows he stands before something larger than himself.

“No more need be said,” he replied. “You will reach the Elvenking’s halls by tomorrow’s first light. He will receive it then.”

A breath passed between them—acknowledgment, agreement.

Then Feren stepped back, not as dismissal, but as a signal. The air of ceremony eased. The gathered patrol loosened subtly at the shoulders, glances shifting, bows slinging once more across backs.

“You are under Greenwood’s protection,” Feren said, his voice calm but clear. “And under Greenwood’s eyes.”

“I will lead you to our camp,” Feren said at last, the words carrying the weight of command without losing their courtesy. He stepped aside, the green-and-brown sweep of his cloak catching faintly in the breeze as he turned toward the deeper trail. Around him, the Greenwood warriors shifted with unstudied precision, forming a loose but unmistakable escort. The sound of their movement was little more than the sigh of leather and the muted brush of boots over moss.

Glorfindel and Erestor fell in behind without hesitation, each leading their mounts by the reins. Glorfindel’s stallion moved with a proud, fluid step, ears flicking at the whisper of bowstrings nearby, while the golden lord himself appeared utterly at ease—gold hair catching stray shafts of sunlight that pierced the canopy. Beside him, Erestor’s dark horse kept perfect pace, its tack polished to an austere gleam; the loremaster’s gaze was as keen and measuring as the forest’s own.

Elladan followed them, walking with his horse at his side, reins held loosely in one gloved hand. His eyes swept the trees, not in mistrust, but in the quiet, assessing manner of one taking the measure of a place long spoken of yet never walked.

Elrohir, who had not once loosened his hold on Legolas’s hand, caught the reins of his own horse with his free hand. The animal, well-trained and steady, pressed close to his side as if mirroring his own reluctance to let the prince stray too far ahead.

Legolas glanced over to him, sunlight through the high leaves striking gold along the line of his cheek and hair. His expression softened—mischief shading into something quieter, more intimate. Without breaking stride, he shifted Elrohir’s hand, guiding it across his own body until the Peredhel’s arm curved naturally around him, palm resting against the far hip. The contact was warm through the supple leather of his belt, Legolas’s own hand lay on top of Elrohir’s, an anchor and a claim both.

Their eyes met in that same moment. Elrohir’s lips curved, slow and subtle, the expression one he might not have allowed anyone else to see. Legolas’s answering smile was like a spark in shadow, and for the space of a breath, the forest seemed to draw back its thousand murmurs to let them walk in the hush of their own closeness.

Behind them, Caleth and Thalion moved at an easy pace, their bows slung, their steps in time with the rest of the column. Caleth’s voice, low but laced with amusement, broke the quiet.

“I’ll tell you,” he murmured, leaning just enough toward his friend to make the words private, “marching straight from the Eastern Watch with barely a breath to spare was worth every blister—if only to see this.”

Thalion’s eyes stayed forward, though there was a flicker at the corner of his mouth that betrayed him. “You’ll have worse than blisters if you let the prince hear you.”

Caleth’s grin was quick and unapologetic. “Still worth it.”

The trail widened into a shallow, sun-dappled hollow, the earth soft beneath their steps and the air rich with the scent of pine resin and woodsmoke. Tents of green and brown cloth blended so seamlessly into the trees that they seemed grown from the forest itself. The glade hummed with quiet activity—archers restringing bows, scouts returning from the perimeter, a smith bending over a small anvil to tighten a rivet in a piece of mail.

As the party stepped into the open, conversation faltered, then resumed in softer tones. A few of the warriors let their gazes linger on the Noldor—subtle, assessing, not unkind. Others’ eyes were drawn inevitably to their prince, and to the tall, dark-haired stranger walking so close at his side that one arm curved firmly around the prince’s far hip, the gesture protective as much as it was claiming.

Two warriors broke from the main circle, striding forward with the fluid precision of those long-trained. Without a word, they took the reins from the four Noldor, their movements efficient but never brusque. The horses were led toward a shaded stand of trees where grain sacks lay open and fresh water stood waiting in carved wooden troughs. Already, a few mounts lifted their heads, ears pricking at the sight, before lowering their muzzles to drink. The quiet clink of tack being loosened and the muffled thud of hooves on earth carried through the camp.

To one side, a fire burned low and steady, its embers banked deep. Over it, spits turned slowly, bearing game dressed and seasoned with wild herbs. The scent of roasting meat mingled with the sharp green fragrance of crushed leaves and the faint sweetness of pine sap. Flatbread warmed on smooth stones, and a heavy iron pot sent up curls of steam that promised something rich and sustaining.

Feren stepped forward, the flicker of firelight along his mail as he turned to face their guests. His presence drew the quiet focus of the camp without a raised voice. “You are welcome here,” he said, his tone even but carrying enough to reach the far edge of the glade. “Eat. Rest. The road from the west is long, and the forest will be no gentler on you for haste.”

Elladan inclined his head in a gesture of respect that was matched by Glorfindel’s easy grace and Erestor’s precise formality. “You honor us,” Elladan said simply, his voice pitched for courtesy rather than display.

Even Elrohir, his arm still looped securely across Legolas’s body, gave Feren a small, earnest nod. “Our thanks.”

From the edges of the gathering, a few Greenwood warriors exchanged sidelong glances. Some looked on with open curiosity, others with the careful neutrality of soldiers trained to guard not just a realm, but a king’s son.

Elladan, Glorfindel, and Erestor turned from Feren to Legolas and Elrohir. Whatever formality the moment before had required slipped away like water from stone.

“Legolas,” Elladan said, stepping forward with the smooth grace of one used to both court and camp. His voice carried genuine warmth now, the guarded politeness of earlier years long since fallen away. There was an almost conspiratorial gleam in his grey eyes. “It has been far too long.”

Glorfindel’s greeting came with none of his companion’s restraint—he closed the distance in three unhurried strides and clasped the prince’s forearm in both hands, his smile bright as sunlight through new leaves. “Greenwood does you credit,” he said warmly, his golden head inclining in easy camaraderie. “Though from the look of it, the forest has been asked to test its patience today.”

Erestor’s bow was shallower, his words precise but warmer than the form alone required. “Your courtesy is well met, penneth,” he said, the familiar address softened by a faint upward turn of his mouth. His gaze lingered on the prince a moment longer than custom demanded, as if quietly measuring the years between meetings.

Legolas’s own smile was genuine, his eyes brightening. “It gladdens me to see you all again,” he said, his voice carrying the unfeigned warmth of one greeting not only guests, but those familiar to him. “Greenwood is made fairer by your presence, though I suspect my father may have his own view on that matter.”

Then Elladan’s eyes—keen and knowing—slid toward his brother. Elrohir, still standing close, allowed his hand to fall from the prince’s hip, though the space between them scarcely widened.

Elladan let out a sigh—audible, theatrical, and pitched so every ear nearby could catch it. “For sixty years,” he began, drawing the words like a blade from its sheath, “I have endured this one’s temper. His ceaseless pacing. His brooding silences. And Valar preserve me—his muttering, relentless as rain—whenever the post from Greenwood dared arrive late.”

The corners of his mouth curved, betraying the affection beneath the complaint. “Do you have any notion, Legolas, how utterly unbearable he has been?”

A few of the Greenwood warriors glanced between the brothers, clearly listening despite themselves. One or two smothered the beginnings of a grin.

Elrohir rolled his eyes with deliberate exaggeration, then fixed his brother with a look equal parts fondness and challenge. “And yet you survived, Elladan. Truly—a feat for the lays, if ever there was one.”

Legolas’s smile deepened, his gaze moving between the two of them with the ease of one well-accustomed to their rhythm. “If my letters truly caused such torment,” he said lightly, “then perhaps I should feel some measure of guilt.” His tone made it clear he did not.

Before Elladan could reply, a sharp, low whistle cut through the air—a sound that turned more than a few heads. Caleth sauntered forward from the shadow of a nearby tent, arms folding loosely across his chest. His bow was slung at his back, the edge of his quiver brushing against the soft fall of his brown hair. His eyes—bright with mischief—flicked from Legolas to Elrohir, and a slow smile curved his mouth.

“Ah,” he drawled, “now I understand why you sighed so much over those letters, my prince. Pages and pages—and still you managed to leave out the best parts.”

Thalion was only a step behind him, moving with the quiet precision of a seasoned scout. He carried himself as one entirely at ease in the glade, his gaze sliding briefly to Elrohir, a glint of recognition in his eyes as he watched the reunion unfold. The corner of his mouth betrayed the faintest hint of amusement. “If he had written what we’re seeing now,” he murmured to Caleth, pitched low but not low enough to avoid carrying to nearby ears, “you might have volunteered to bring him here yourself.”

Legolas’s laugh rang out, bright as the chime of water over stone. “Caleth, Thalion—have you no restraint?”

“None worth keeping,” Caleth said without missing a beat, tilting his head just enough to be roguish about it.

Legolas shook his head, though his eyes were warm. Turning slightly so Elrohir stood within the curve of his arm, he said for the benefit of their guests, “You have met Thalion before—for he was with us in Imladris, those sixty years past. And this is Caleth, son of Feren—both are among my closest friends.”

Caleth stepped forward half a pace, his eyes narrowing playfully as he looked at Legolas, the smile never quite leaving his face.

“Well,” he said, voice low with mock gravity, “Your Grace, you have quite a reputation for keeping secrets… and I see now you’ve an excellent eye for them, too.” His glance slid—deliberately, appraisingly—to Elrohir before returning to the prince, mischief bright in his gaze.

Legolas’s brows lifted, amusement flickering behind his eyes. “I have told you before,” he chided, his voice taking on that effortless blend of prince and comrade, “to call me Legolas.”

Caleth’s grin deepened, quick and wolfish. “The last time I did, I thought your father was going to have me executed. And frankly,” he added, darting a sidelong glance toward where Feren stood nearby, “I’m not convinced he wouldn’t try again.” His eyes lingered for half a heartbeat, as if gauging whether his father had caught the words, before flicking back with feigned innocence.

From the edges of the camp, a few Greenwood warriors tried—and mostly failed—to hide their laughter. One busied himself with tightening a bowstring, while another crouched to adjust the lacing of his boot. But the glances exchanged were knowing, the kind shared among those long accustomed to the easy jests and deep bonds of their patrols.

Caleth shifted his weight forward, closing the distance until he stood well inside Elrohir’s shadow. The movement was unhurried, deliberate, his bow brushing faintly against the line of his shoulder as he came to a halt.

Elrohir’s brows rose—just enough to register the intrusion, though he did not step back. His grey eyes held steady, cool and assessing, as if deciding whether this was a test, a jest, or both.

Caleth only smiled, slow and knowing, and let his gaze roam in open study. He glanced past Elrohir to where Elladan stood a few paces away, then back again, the quick flick of his eyes like a hunter sighting between two near-identical marks.

“The likeness,” he said, his tone pitched for the amused benefit of all within earshot, “is enough to drive one mad. Stand side by side, and it’s a trick of light and breath to know which is which—frankly, it’s terrifying.”

He circled half a step, as though testing whether a different angle would reveal some telling distinction, the faint scent of leather and pine clinging to him. Then, without looking away from Elrohir, he tipped his head toward Legolas.

“Tell me, my prince—how do you tell them apart?”

Legolas’s laugh broke free, bright and ringing, the kind of sound that turned more than one head in the glade. It carried an ease that needed no apology, rich with the familiarity of old friends and the joy of standing unhidden beside the one he loved.

Beside them, Glorfindel’s mouth curved, his eyes glinting with the kind of amusement only ages of watching young lovers could sharpen. Beside him, Erestor—ever the picture of composed detachment—allowed the faintest upward twitch at one corner of his lips. Their gazes met briefly over the rim of the moment, a silent exchange.

Legolas turned toward Elladan first, his head tilting slightly, as though considering him with the measured care of a sculptor studying form. “Elladan,” he said at last, a faint curve of amusement touching his lips, “has the gentler face—open, unguarded. Kind. A countenance that offers itself freely, and tells you more than he means to.”

Then his gaze shifted, and his expression softened—though mischief still flickered beneath it. His eyes lingered on Elrohir, tracing the line of his jaw, the slight furrow that seemed to settle there even in moments of peace. “While my beloved,” he said, voice rich with fond accusation, “wears the face of a warrior even at rest—as if he’s secretly scowling at some unseen foe. I suspect,” he added, the corners of his mouth curling, “that half the forest now thinks they’ve offended him already.”

A ripple of quiet amusement moved through the Greenwood warriors lingering nearby; a few glanced sidelong at Elrohir as if to check the truth of the claim.

Elladan barked a laugh, bright and unrestrained, the sound echoing against the cedar trunks. His grin widened as he clapped his brother on the shoulder with deliberate force, clearly savoring the remark. The look he gave Elrohir promised he would be repeating it for decades, likely in company Elrohir would not appreciate.

Elladan’s laughter lingered—warm, unrepentant—the kind that spilled easily across the firelit glade. “And yet,” he said, angling himself just so the nearby warriors could catch every word, “Legolas chose my brother—when I, the far kinder and infinitely more reasonable brother, was standing right here the whole time.”

The jab rippled through the camp like a dropped pebble in water. A few Greenwood warriors exchanged sidelong glances, lips twitching despite themselves. One bent low over the haft of his spear as if checking the fletching, but the shake of his shoulders betrayed his amusement.

Elrohir’s head turned with deliberate slowness, the line of his jaw tightening. His grey eyes narrowed into a glare sharp enough to slice through the laughter—a look Elladan had known since boyhood, and which had never once deterred him.

When Elrohir spoke, his voice was low but carried cleanly through the air, edged like a drawn blade. “Careful, Elladan,” he said, each word measured. “Speak much longer, and they may start to guess why you’re still unclaimed—whether it’s by choice… or because no one’s been fool enough to try.”

A ripple of amusement ran through the Greenwood ranks—quiet, but unmistakable. A few shoulders shook; one or two warriors tried and failed to mask their grins. Even Glorfindel’s mouth curved, the glint in his eye betraying a delight he did not bother to hide, while Erestor’s brow lifted in the smallest arch of approval, as if Elrohir had just scored a particularly elegant point in a long game. Elladan only smiled wider, but the gleam in his brother’s eyes promised that the next strike would land harder still.

Before Elladan could think of a retort, Caleth’s voice slid into the space between the brothers—smooth as oiled bowstring and every bit as quick. He drifted a step closer, leaning one shoulder against the slanting pole of a nearby tent, the faint tang of pine resin clinging to his leathers. His arms folded loosely across his chest, the motion unhurried, deliberate, as his gaze travelled from Elrohir to Elladan with the ease of someone entirely at home in his own skin.

“I am sure,” he began, the faintest lilt of flirtation curling through his tone, “that someone in Greenwood would choose you, Lord Elladan.” His eyes narrowed just slightly—not in suspicion, but in the slow, deliberate study of a bowyer sighting down a newly-shaped stave. “For Noldor are rare here… exotic, even. And tall. And grim-looking, in that way that makes a Wood-elf wonder what it might take to coax them into laughter… or into other sounds entirely.”

Caleth’s grin sharpened—wolfish and utterly unrepentant—as if he’d loosed an arrow just to see where it might land.

Elladan only arched a brow, the faintest smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. His gaze lingered on Caleth a fraction too long, steady and unreadable, before sliding away with the slow confidence of someone who knew precisely how to answer such a shot—just not with words.

From the far side of the glade, Feren’s voice cut through the low laughter—calm, measured, but edged with the unmistakable cadence of a captain addressing his own. “Caleth.”

The name landed like a dropped stone in a still pool. A few heads turned. Caleth straightened instinctively, the lazy slant of his shoulders tightening as though some invisible bowstring had been drawn. The wolfish grin faltered into something smaller, more controlled, though the spark in his eyes had not entirely dimmed.

“Sir,” he said, the word carrying the careful polish of long habit.

Feren didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. “Your tongue will win you no sparring partners if you spend it all on flattery.”

The words landed with the weight of an old warning—half chiding, half reminder.

Caleth’s grin returned in miniature, tempered now with a hint of contrition. He lifted one hand to rub at the back of his neck, the movement a shade too boyish for a seasoned patrol warrior. “Noted,” he murmured, though his glance slid sidelong toward Elladan, and the slow lift of his brows made it clear the flattery had been entirely intentional.

Thalion, standing just behind him, pressed his lips together and turned his head slightly, feigning interest in the adjustment of his bowstring. His shoulders shook once—just enough to betray the laugh he was trying to swallow.

Legolas had taken to biting lightly at the corner of his lower lip, blue eyes bright with suppressed mirth. The prince’s composure was intact, but the faint dimples threatening at the corners of his mouth gave him away to anyone watching closely.

Elladan, however, made no attempt to hide his reaction. He straightened subtly, the shift in posture more instinct than vanity, shoulders settling into an easy, unspoken pride. His chin lifted by the barest degree, and the faint, satisfied curve at his mouth made it perfectly clear that he took no offense at being called exotic, tall, or grim-looking—so long as the observation came from the right lips.

A flicker of movement at the edge of the glade drew Legolas’s attention. One warrior approached—tall, broad-shouldered, the forest’s green and brown worked into every fold of his tunic. His braids were neat and precise, his boots still damp from a recent patrol. In his hands he carried a wooden plate so laden it looked on the verge of spilling: thick slices of roasted venison, still glistening at the edges; flatbread warm enough for steam to curl faintly into the cool air; a mound of late-autumn berries dusted with crushed mint; and a deep well carved into the plate’s edge filled with herb-rich stew, fragrant with thyme and wild onion.

He bowed lightly, offering it with both hands, eyes lowered in a gesture of deference that spoke more of devotion than mere duty. When he spoke, it was in the lilting cadence of Silvan—soft, fluid, touched with the intimate music of the Greenwood tongue. The words seemed less an announcement than an offering, their rhythm shaped as much by reverence as by habit.

Legolas accepted it with a small smile, his voice soft in Silvan as he gave his thanks. But when the warrior had stepped back, he glanced toward Elrohir, amusement tugging faintly at his mouth. “Will you share this with me?” he asked, his tone pitched for the Peredhel alone. “My people are fond of… overfilling my plate with more than I can possibly eat.”

Elrohir’s lips curved—half fondness, half knowing amusement. Without hesitation, he reached to take the weight from Legolas’s hands. “Then allow me,” he said smoothly, his voice carrying the quiet finality of someone used to such gestures. 

Before turning away, he glanced toward the warrior who had brought the plate. In a show of courtesy, he attempted to thank him in Silvan—shaping the words carefully, his accent heavier than he intended. Whatever he meant to say did not survive the journey from thought to tongue. The warrior froze, eyes flicking up in startled surprise, and then—like a spark catching in dry tinder—laughter rippled through the Greenwood ranks.

Some warriors tried to hide it, shoulders shaking as they ducked their heads. Others snorted outright, a few choking on whatever they had been drinking. Caleth was doubled over, one hand braced on his knee, laughter spilling out in helpless bursts, while Thalion leaned heavily against him, wiping at his eyes as though the sight alone might undo him all over again. Even Feren’s mouth twitched before he smoothed it into something more neutral.

Elrohir stilled, a faint heat rising to his ears. His eyes closed for a breath, jaw tightening in dignified mortification. Beside him, Elladan pressed a hand to his brow, looking pained for his brother’s sake. Glorfindel and Erestor exchanged a glance that was equal parts dread and reluctant amusement—both clearly imagining the diplomatic fallout if this continued.

Legolas, however, did not even try to contain his laughter. It was quiet at first, then brighter, spilling out like sunlight through leaves. “Elrohir,” he said between breaths, leaning closer, “you did not thank him.” His grin widened, wicked with delight. “You told him that his grandmother smells of damp moss.”

That earned another wave of laughter from the nearby warriors, a few clapping each other on the shoulder as if to share the moment.

Legolas was still laughing softly when his gaze met Elrohir’s—mirth dancing in his eyes, the corners crinkled with genuine delight. Elrohir, despite himself, felt the tension in his jaw loosen, the embarrassment edged with reluctant fondness. For a breath, they stood like that—warriors’ amusement ringing faintly around them, the two of them locked in a wordless exchange that was half challenge, half promise.

For a heartbeat, Legolas’s gaze lingered on him, blue eyes glinting in the filtered light. The warmth there was unguarded. Then he inclined his head slightly, as though granting some private accord, and turned to lead him away from the center of the glade.

They slipped between the tents, following the curve of mossy ground toward the quieter shadows at the edge of the camp, where the trees leaned close and the murmur of voices thinned to nothing. The soft give of earth muted their steps; the low green light of the canopy broke over them like water.

At the fire, Glorfindel, Erestor, and Elladan exchanged a brief glance—some wordless understanding passing between them—before they turned toward the smell of roasting meat and the hum of the gathered warriors. They moved with the casual ease of those who knew where they were most welcome, settling into the warm circle of light where bowls were passed and quiet laughter rose like sparks.

Behind them, Caleth and Thalion lingered in the half-light, eyes following the prince and the Peredhel as they disappeared into the green. Caleth’s grin sharpened, wolfish in its delight. “How much do you want to wager,” he murmured, leaning just enough for Thalion to hear, “that they’ll be doing more than eating before the hour is out?”

Thalion’s gaze lingered on the place where the underbrush had just swallowed the pair, his mouth curving faintly as he exhaled a quiet sound that might have been a laugh. “I would not take that bet,” he said, his tone low but certain.

Caleth’s grin widened as he straightened. “Wise of you.”

A few paces away, one of the older warriors glanced their way with a look that was half a warning and half amusement. Caleth only lifted his brows in mock innocence, and Thalion, shaking his head, tightened the strap on his bracer to hide his smile.

Legolas led him along a narrow break in the trees where the forest floor was thick with soft moss, muffling their steps as if the Greenwood itself were intent on keeping this moment for them alone. The air here was cooler, heavy with the scent of cedar and damp earth, and the canopy above was so densely woven that the sunlight fell only in thin, shifting threads of gold.

The sounds of the camp faded with each step—murmured voices, the snap of firewood, the low ring of a whetstone on steel—until only the hush of the high boughs and the distant murmur of a stream remained.

They came to a fallen cedar, its great trunk carpeted in moss and edged with tiny white forest flowers. Legolas set the plate carefully atop the smoothest curve of bark before lowering himself to sit. The green light caught in his hair, scattering glints of gold along the strands as they shifted over his shoulder. Elrohir followed, the leather of his cloak whispering against the moss, and settled beside him—so close their knees brushed in an unspoken claim neither sought to hide.

For a moment, neither spoke. The air between them was warm despite the shade, charged with the quiet weight of sixty years of waiting. Legolas turned then, his eyes tracing over Elrohir’s face as if reacquainting himself with every line and shadow. His hand lifted almost without thought, fingers brushing gently across Elrohir’s brow to wipe away the faint sheen left by the long road.

“You have travelled far,” he said at last, his voice a low thread in the hush, woven through with pride, relief, and something quieter still—an ache he did not name. His fingers lingered against Elrohir’s brow a heartbeat longer than necessary before falling away.

Elrohir’s grey eyes held him, steady and unflinching, their intensity softened only by the tenderness beneath. “I would cross every league of Arda,” he said, his words deliberate as a vow, “if it meant finding you at the journey’s end.”

The space between them seemed to draw in, the filtered light pooling over their shadows on the moss. Legolas’s mouth curved, his composure yielding to something warmer, a flush rising faintly in his cheeks.

“Sixty years,” he murmured, a smile tugging at his lips, “and still your words could shame the bards.”

Elrohir’s answering smile was slow, edged with that familiar glint that lived somewhere between challenge and devotion. He leaned in just enough for his voice to be meant for Legolas alone, the words brushing the air between them like the whisper of a bowstring.

“I do not speak for bards,” he said softly. “I speak for you—and you alone.”

His gaze lingered, holding Legolas in that steady, deliberate way that made the rest of the world fall back into shadow.

Legolas’s smile deepened at his words, the warmth in his eyes shifting—softening, and yet sharpening with intent. He leaned in, closing the last breath of space between them, and kissed him.

The kiss began unhurried, tasting faintly of the long road, cool water, and the quiet relief of arrival. But the years between them pressed in quickly, turning it into something deeper—hungrier. Elrohir’s hand rose to cradle the line of Legolas’s jaw, his thumb brushing the smooth curve of his cheekbone as if reacquainting himself with every familiar plane.

Without breaking the kiss, Elrohir’s other hand slid to Legolas’s waist. His grip was firm but reverent, guiding him forward until the prince shifted easily onto his lap. The movement was fluid, natural, as though their bodies had always known how to close this space.

Legolas straddled him, the grass cool beneath his knees, his fingers sliding into the dark silk of Elrohir’s hair. He tilted his head to deepen the kiss, his mouth moving against Elrohir’s with slow insistence. Elrohir’s arms wrapped around him fully—one hand spanning the small of his back, the other curving to rest at his hip, fingers flexing as though to draw him impossibly closer.

The green-gold light dappled across them, catching fire in Legolas’s hair where it spilled over Elrohir’s shoulder, scattering glints of gold along the strands. The forest seemed to lean closer, the air thickening with the scent of moss and sun-warmed leather.

Legolas broke the kiss just long enough to breathe, his lips still brushing Elrohir’s as he murmured something in Silvan—too soft for any but Elrohir to hear, a private promise wrapped in music.

Elrohir didn’t answer with words. His mouth found the line of Legolas’s jaw, trailing down to the warm column of his throat. His teeth grazed lightly over the pulse there, then soothed the spot with a kiss before moving lower. Legolas’s breath caught sharply, his hands tightening in Elrohir’s hair as his back arched subtly into the touch.

The heat between them swelled, less about hunger for food now than for each other. The plate they had set aside was forgotten entirely.

And then, in the stillness, Elrohir’s stomach gave a loud, unignorable growl.

The sound cut through the charged air like a pebble dropped into a still pool.

Legolas stilled for the barest moment, then laughter broke from him—bright and unrestrained, carrying easily through the hush beneath the boughs. It wasn’t mocking; it was warm, fond, and edged with the quiet joy of having something so simple, so mortal, interrupt what could have been a dream.

He leaned back just enough to meet Elrohir’s eyes, his hands still resting lightly on his shoulders. “My love,” he said between soft chuckles, “you must eat.”

A faint flush touched Elrohir’s cheekbones, his mouth tightening as if to hide his embarrassment. “I had other things in mind,” he muttered, his tone dry but unable to mask the glint of reluctant amusement in his eyes.

Legolas’s smile softened into something quieter, more intimate. Shaking his head, he shifted with feline ease, sliding from Elrohir’s lap to settle beside him once more. The movement was unhurried, the press of his knee still brushing Elrohir’s as he reached for the plate perched on the moss-slick curve of the fallen cedar.

Steam still curled faintly from the venison, the scent of wild thyme and woodsmoke rising into the cool green air. Legolas lifted one thick, glistening slice between his fingers and turned toward him. “Here,” he said, voice low and coaxing, “start with this.”

Instead of taking it with his hand, Elrohir leaned in, closing the scant space between them until the warmth of Legolas’s fingers ghosted against his mouth. He caught the slice between his teeth, never breaking eye contact, the press of his lips grazing the pads of Legolas’s fingers before he bit down. Warm juice spilled over his lip, tracing the line of his mouth before he drew it in with the slow curl of his tongue, chewing in deliberate, measured rhythm—daring him to react.

Legolas’s laugh was low, shaken through with amusement, his head tilting just enough to watch every movement. “Incorrigible,” he murmured, though the gleam in his eyes softened the word. His hand rose, thumb brushing the warm trail at the corner of Elrohir’s mouth, lingering there a fraction longer than necessary. Without breaking their gaze, he brought that thumb to his lips, tasting the mingled salt of skin and sweetness of meat with unhurried precision.

Elrohir’s answering breath was quiet but rich with laughter, his voice dropping as he leaned in so his shoulder brushed along Legolas’s. “And yet you still feed me.”

“Fool that I am,” Legolas replied, already tearing another piece in half with deft, sure fingers. He offered one portion, keeping the other for himself—though the faint curve of his smile promised that this game was far from finished.

They ate like that—sharing, trading small provocations, letting fingers linger just long enough to blur the line between accident and intent. Legolas teased him about his lack of Silvan, about how his attempt at thanks would be repeated in Greenwood for months. Elrohir countered with remarks about Wood-elves and their fondness for overfeeding visiting Noldor, each barb softened by the curl of a smile.

The forest breathed quietly around them, the low murmur of the distant camp fading into the hush beneath the boughs. And there, with moss beneath them and the scent of venison in the air, they lingered—two voices threading together in warmth and mischief—until the long years apart felt like nothing more than a story already fading into memory.

Chapter Text

The path wound upward through the forest, narrowing until even the sure-footed horses had to pick their way with care. Moss slicked the stones, and roots rose like sleeping serpents across the trail, forcing each step to be chosen. The air was cool beneath the canopy, rich with the scent of damp earth and pine, the sound of the river far below softened to a muted rush.

They had rested briefly in the Greenwood camp; most of the western watch had remained behind, their duty not yet at its end. Now, under the escort of Feren, Caleth, Thalion, and a handful of other soldiers, the company moved eastward toward the Elvenking’s halls.

Glorfindel and Erestor walked with their horses at their sides, Elladan and Elrohir doing the same, the reins looped loosely in their hands. The animals’ ears twitched at the unfamiliar forest sounds—distant birdcall, the rustle of unseen movement in the undergrowth.

Legolas kept pace beside Elrohir, close enough that the edges of their sleeves brushed now and again when the path narrowed. A low-hanging branch bent above them, and Elrohir shifted slightly to guide it aside for him; Legolas inclined his head in quiet acknowledgment, the exchange unremarked by the others but carrying its own unspoken ease.

Glancing at the company, Legolas let a faint smile touch his mouth. “We seldom bring our mounts this way,” he said, his voice carrying easily through the hush. “The terrain is hard on them, and there are places ahead where even the surest hoof will falter.” His gaze lingered a moment on Elrohir’s stallion, then flicked to Glorfindel’s tall warhorse. “You will find the pace easier on foot.”

Elladan glanced upward at the towering trunks and the interwoven canopy that swallowed the sky. “I have never seen so many trees,” he admitted, his tone tinged with awe. “Not even in Lórien—my grandparents’ realm. There the woods are fair, but they are not so dense as this.”

Erestor’s voice joined in, quiet yet certain, as if reciting from memory. “Greenwood is one of the oldest and greatest forests still standing in Middle-earth. Its roots run deeper than most realms remember, and its boughs have sheltered more lives than any hall of stone.”

Glorfindel’s mouth curved, and with easy familiarity, he reached to tilt Erestor’s chin toward him. “Ever the loremaster,” he teased, voice rich with affection and just enough mischief to curl the words. “If you keep speaking like that, some in this company will be ready to follow you into the archives for a private lesson.” His fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary, the gesture affectionate, but edged with something softer, more private.

Erestor’s smirk was small, deliberate, and met Glorfindel’s gaze without flinching.

Elrohir groaned, half under his breath. “Must you?” he said, sharp enough to cut but softened by long-suffering familiarity. “I endured this on the road—I will not endure it here as well.”

Elladan laughed aloud, the sound carrying easily through the trees. Legolas’s own laughter followed, lighter, almost musical. Around them, a few of the Greenwood warriors exchanged amused glances, the corners of their mouths twitching at the interplay.

Glorfindel only smiled at Elrohir’s groan, wearing the composed air of one grievously misjudged. “I spoke merely of reading history with him,” he said, his tone all untroubled grace—before allowing it to deepen, the words edged with quiet mischief. “Though, as you well know, we favor… those lessons in history best studied behind closed doors.”

Elrohir’s head turned sharply, grey eyes narrowing. “Many think you the great hero of Gondolin,” he said, voice cool as cut steel. “If only they knew how unspeakably inappropriate you truly are.”

Elladan leaned toward Legolas, his voice pitched low in mock conspiracy. “I endured this every day of the twenty it took us to reach your borders,” he murmured. “It was a very long twenty days.”

Legolas’s smile deepened, a quiet spark of mirth catching in his eyes as he inclined his head toward Elladan. “I imagine the road was far from dull,” he murmured, his tone rich with amusement and just enough warmth to suggest he would not have minded witnessing it himself.

At his side, Elrohir gave no sign he had heard—too occupied in trading sharp-edged remarks with Glorfindel, whose expression was one of infuriating satisfaction. Elrohir’s jaw was set, his tone clipped in that way that meant he was holding back only by choice, and likely not for long. Glorfindel looked as though he might goad him until sunset.

Erestor walked directly beside Glorfindel, leading his horse with one hand, the reins draped loosely over his fingers. His gaze stayed fixed on the path ahead, posture composed, the very picture of dignified detachment. Yet the faint, telltale lift at the corner of his mouth betrayed that he had heard every word—and perhaps enjoyed it far more than he would ever admit.

Ahead of the Imladris party, Feren kept a steady pace along the winding path, his long stride measured and sure. The late-afternoon light dappled across his mail and the deep green of his tunic, every movement quiet but purposeful. Caleth and Thalion flanked him, their own steps easy and practiced, the rest of the Greenwood guard strung out in a loose, watchful line—some farther back to guard the rear, others moving in the shadows to either side where the undergrowth thickened.

Caleth angled a glance over his shoulder, the movement subtle beneath the sway of his bow. Behind them, the Noldor wound their way along the path: Glorfindel’s golden head bent toward Elrohir’s dark one, their words edged with the quick rhythm of sparring; Erestor leading his horse with impeccable calm, though the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed that he was listening to every word. Caleth’s mouth curved in amusement as he leaned toward Thalion, voice pitched low enough not to carry.

“I did not know the Noldor were so… entertaining,” he murmured. “I thought them all carved from ice—tall, grave, full of long silences and longer speeches, with the kind of smiles you have to earn over a century.”

Thalion’s snort was quiet but unmistakable, quickly masked as a cough. His gaze, too, slid back—past the verbal duel to where Legolas walked beside the younger Peredhel. The prince’s shoulder brushed Elrohir’s now and then, his head tipping toward him in shared amusement, the sunlight catching in his hair until it seemed almost to glow. “Our prince seems at ease enough,” Thalion observed, his voice holding a note of quiet surprise.

Caleth’s brow furrowed, though his grin lingered. “Aye… though I cannot guess what he sees in that one. He looks as though he might bite the hand that feeds him.”

Thalion’s smirk sharpened into something sly. “Perhaps he does,” he said, lowering his voice even further, “and perhaps the prince does not mind.”

Caleth’s laughter burst out soundlessly, shoulders shaking as he tried to smother it. Thalion pressed his lips together in mock restraint, eyes glittering with shared mischief.

Feren’s head turned, just enough for the steel in his gaze to cut the moment short. His expression was cool and unamused—the look of a captain who needed only a glance to restore discipline. At once, both younger warriors straightened their spines, arranging their faces into the solemn focus of seasoned guards. The forest’s hush closed back around them, but the glimmer in their eyes betrayed the laughter still waiting to escape.

The path ahead shivered with sudden movement. From the shadow of the trees, a figure stumbled into view—tall, but bent with exhaustion, one hand pressed hard against his side. His braids were half-unravelled, clotted dark with blood, and his tunic hung in tatters, the deep green and brown of it slashed through with fresh rents. A broken bow swung uselessly from his shoulder, the snapped string trailing like a loose snare.

“Thank the Valar…” His voice rasped as if dragged from the bottom of his lungs. “I found you. The trees—” He swallowed, swaying on his feet. “The trees whispered of your company.”

The Greenwood ranks bristled as one. Hands slid to hilts and bowstrings, eyes darting toward the shadowed undergrowth. Even the Imladris company felt it—the air tightening, the forest holding its breath.

Legolas moved before thought could catch him, crossing the space in quick strides. He dropped to one knee as the soldier’s strength failed, catching him by the arm and easing him down to the leaf-littered earth. “Peace,” Legolas murmured, his voice low and steady, though his gaze flicked swiftly over the torn sleeve and the dark stain seeping through it. The soldier clutched at him as if anchoring himself to the very heart of the Greenwood, fingers curling into the fabric at his prince’s shoulder.

Feren was already at his side, his voice clipped but not unkind. “Report.”

The soldier drew in a ragged breath. “My patrol—we were a small watch to the south,” he said hoarsely, “still within the western borders, but further down.” His breath caught. “The spiders came—violent ones. Larger than I’ve seen. They came from nowhere. We could not hold them. We…” His eyes dropped, voice thinning to a whisper. “We scattered. I do not know if the others—”

A ripple of unease moved through the company. Even among the seasoned Greenwood guards, shoulders shifted and jaws set, the unspoken weight of those words settling over them like a shadow.

Feren’s jaw tightened. “We cannot risk our guests in this.” His hand lifted in a sharp gesture, calling forward two of his soldiers. “You will take them directly to the King’s halls. No delays.”

Elladan took a step forward, his voice quick with protest. “You would have us walk away? From this?”

Elrohir’s grey eyes had narrowed, his hand firm on the hilt at his side. “If you think we will leave while others are in danger, you do not know us at all.”

Glorfindel’s gaze lingered on the wounded elf, then lifted to Feren, calm but edged with iron. “We are not here to be sheltered, Captain. If your people bleed, we will stand beside them. No shadow in these woods should be left to thrive.”

Legolas, still kneeling, steadied the soldier with one arm braced at his back, the other pressed lightly against the torn fabric over his ribs. The wounded elf’s fingers clung to him as though he were an anchor in a tide too strong to stand against.

When Legolas lifted his gaze, it swept first to Feren, then to the Imladris company—his voice low, but clear enough to cut through the tense stillness of the path. “If they have come this far north, there must be no delay. We cannot let their venom seep closer to our halls. Every moment we waste, the shadow spreads.”

The certainty in his tone left little room for argument, and for a heartbeat, the only sound was the soldier’s unsteady breath.

Feren held his prince’s eyes, reading the unspoken resolve there, before inclining his head in a single, decisive nod. “Agreed.” His voice sharpened as he turned to the ranks. “Two of you—see him safely back to the halls. Do not stop until you are within the gates. Take the guest-horses with you.”

The appointed guards moved at once. One knelt to ease the injured warrior from Legolas’s hold, though the soldier’s grasp lingered stubbornly at his prince’s arm until the last possible moment. The other took the reins of the Imladris mounts, his expression grim but steady. Before the horses were led away, Glorfindel, Erestor, Elladan, and Elrohir moved with practiced efficiency, unstrapping quivers, travel packs, and what weapons they might need should the path ahead turn hostile.

Only when the wounded elf was supported between his escorts and moving back down the trail did the forest seem to exhale—but the air remained taut, carrying the scent of damp leaves and something darker beneath.

Feren’s gaze swept the company, sharp as a drawn bow. “We move,” he ordered, his voice carrying the clean, hard edge of steel through the murmuring leaves. “South by the western track. Stay close. Keep your eyes on the shadows.”

His hand lifted in a signal, and the Greenwood formation shifted at once, the change rippling through them like a gust through tall grass. Caleth and Thalion slipped forward without a sound, their tread light over moss and root, eyes flicking to every shifting shadow. To either side, pairs of warriors fanned out along the flanks, bows already strung, arrowheads glinting faintly whenever the canopy broke to let in a shard of light.

Legolas rose fluidly from where he had knelt, brushing the leaf-mould from his palms. His gaze lingered once in the direction the wounded elf had gone, the faint furrow at his brow betraying a private worry, before he turned forward again. The resolve that settled over his features was quiet but unyielding—one shaped by long years of standing between danger and his people.

Beside him, Elrohir matched his pace without a word, the brush of his shoulder against Legolas’s a silent pledge. Elladan walked a half-step behind, scanning the trees with a soldier’s unblinking vigilance, every so often resting a hand on the hilt at his hip.

Glorfindel and Erestor brought up the rear, their low voices a muted thread of counsel beneath the steady rhythm of boots on the forest floor. From time to time, Glorfindel’s eyes would lift to the canopy, watching for movement, while Erestor’s gaze swept the undergrowth as though the shadows themselves might try to hide their enemies.

The deeper they went, the more the forest seemed to change. The trunks grew thicker, their bark darkened with damp, and the light filtering through the canopy was a muted green-gold, heavy as still water. The air held the scent of moss, damp leaves—and beneath it, something sour and faintly metallic, a taint that did not belong.

Legolas drifted closer to the great trunks as they walked, letting the path bend around him. The others moved ahead in easy formation, but his steps slowed by half a pace, drawing him toward the forest’s edge where the roots rose high and knotted. His fingertips trailed over the ridged bark—pausing now and again to press flat against it, feeling the cool dampness where moss clung thick, or the faint tremor of wind running deep through the wood. His eyes, usually quick to brightness, had gone distant; there was a listening in them, as if he sought the language of leaves and soil.

Elrohir, keeping pace at his side, caught the shift. He had learned the subtleties in Legolas’s silences—the difference between thought and worry. Leaning closer, his voice brushed the space between them. 

“What is it?”

Legolas did not answer at once. His palm lingered against the rough flank of an oak, fingers spread as though he could read its truth through touch. The wood was cool beneath his skin, but something in it made his shoulders tighten.

“The forest…” he murmured, barely louder than the creak of boughs above. “It has begun to feel different. As if a shadow has brushed through it. Something is wrong—just beyond sight, but there.” His eyes flicked upward, following a rustle high in the canopy, yet whatever he sought was gone.

Elrohir’s brows knit, the line of his mouth tightening. “Do you still dream of Dol Guldur?”

The name seemed to still the air between them. Legolas’s hand dropped from the tree, falling to his side, his step carrying him back toward the path. He hesitated, gaze fixed ahead where the trail wound into darker shade.

“Yes,” he said finally, the word soft but edged. “And they have grown worse. The images linger longer when I wake. The voices… clearer.”

Elrohir studied him sidelong, noting the slight furrow at his brow, the way his touch on the bark lingered as though listening for an answer only the trees could give. His own hand shifted against the hilt at his side—not in readiness for a strike, but with that subtle, habitual awareness born of a warrior sensing a threat he could not yet see.

“I would have you tell me,” he murmured, low enough that even Elladan, only a few paces ahead, could not catch it. “Each time they come—these dreams. Even if they seem small, or distant. You will not keep them from me.”

Legolas’s lips curved, but it was a quiet thing, touched with weariness rather than amusement. “Would you stand guard over my sleep as well?” His tone was almost teasing, but the faint edge beneath it gave the question weight.

“If that is what it takes,” Elrohir said without pause. His voice was steady, stripped of jest, the kind of vow that asked for no witness but the one to whom it was given.

For a heartbeat, Legolas’s gaze caught his fully—blue bright as a winter sky, steady and unreadable. Then he looked away, letting his fingers drift once more along the passing trunks, as though drawing some reassurance from their age and rootedness.

A few paces ahead, Thalion cast a glance over his shoulder at the quiet murmur behind him, curiosity flickering in his eyes. But whatever he guessed, he kept it to himself, turning back to the trail with the unspoken courtesy of one who had served his prince long enough to know when to leave words unasked.

Feren’s hand came up in a silent, cutting command, and the column froze. His voice was low, meant to travel no farther than their own ranks, but it carried the authority of one used to being obeyed.

“Up,” he said. “Into the trees. Now.”

The Greenwood warriors did not hesitate. In the space of a breath, they were scaling trunks with the fluid ease of those born to it—hands and feet finding holds as if the bark itself bent to help them. Leaves stirred in their wake, and the forest seemed to swallow them.

For the Imladris company, the order landed differently. Glorfindel’s jaw tightened in the faintest display of long-suffering composure. Erestor’s brows lifted a fraction, his exhale quiet but telling, before he moved toward the nearest trunk without comment. Elladan tilted his head back to measure the height above and loosed a sigh—soft but full of meaning.

Legolas was already in motion, boots making hardly a whisper as he caught a low branch and pulled himself upward. His climb was effortless, each movement a smooth, certain arc of strength and balance.

Elrohir followed close behind but with less of that unthinking grace. His grip was steady, but his boots slipped once against moss-slick bark, forcing him to shift his weight quickly to recover.

Glancing over his shoulder, Legolas slowed just enough to match his pace, eyes bright with a teasing glint. “Come now,” he said quietly, pitched for Elrohir alone. “These branches will not throw you.”

Elrohir gave him a narrow look—half challenge, half reluctant amusement. “That remains to be seen,” he muttered, hauling himself up to the next bough.

Legolas’s mouth curved faintly, though he did not press the jest. Instead, he angled his body to lead the way, guiding him upward through a lattice of branches until they reached a height where the air thinned and the canopy closed around them. Here, the great limbs stretched wide and interlaced, forming a shelter of living green. From this vantage, the forest floor was a dim mosaic of shadow and leaf far below.

Legolas moved upward without hesitation, his steps as sure as if the branches themselves bent to bear his weight. The Greenwood opened for him—bough to bough, leaf to leaf—until the world below became only a tangle of shadow and muted green. Bark and moss slid cool beneath his hands, the scent of resin and crushed leaves sharp in the air.

He glanced back once, catching Elrohir’s eye, and with the faintest tilt of his head, urged him higher.

The climb grew steeper, the branches narrowing beneath their feet, until the air thinned to something bright and sharp. Sunlight began to pour through the canopy in fractured gold, gilding the edges of leaves that trembled in the high wind. At last, Legolas pushed aside a curtain of sun-warmed foliage and stepped lightly onto a broad, time-polished limb.

Elrohir emerged beside him—and stopped as if struck.

Before them stretched an unbroken sea of green, each treetop a living wave, swaying and whispering beneath the sky. The horizon was nothing but forest—rolling, endless, breathing with the wind. Patches of sunlight drifted over the crowns of ancient oaks and beeches, their leaves shimmering like scales of green-gold. High above, pale butterflies wheeled lazily in the warm currents, wings flashing white in the light.

Legolas stood with one hand resting lightly against the bole of the great tree, his eyes sweeping over the expanse as though he were greeting old friends. The wind caught at his hair, lifting the pale gold in long ribbons that tangled briefly in the leaves before falling free again.

Elrohir’s gaze followed his, and wonder softened the hard lines of his face. “I have seen many fair places,” he murmured, almost to himself, “but never this.”

Legolas’s mouth curved faintly. “This is only the edge of it,” he said, voice low, touched with quiet pride. “Greenwood runs further than the eye can follow—and deeper than most will ever know.”

When Elrohir glanced at him, Legolas’s smile deepened just enough to be felt more than seen. “I see,” he murmured, “that the forest has found a way to impress even you.”

Elrohir huffed a breath, not denying it, his eyes drawn back to the endless green.

A sudden ripple disturbed the harmony below—branches swaying against the wind’s pattern, shadows sliding swift and deliberate along the forest floor. From the south they came, dark masses darting between the tree boles, moving with a predatory purpose that chilled the air.

Elrohir leaned forward, narrowing his gaze. “What is that?”

Legolas’s eyes fixed on the movement, and the quiet wonder that had rested there moments before hardened into something sharp. “Spiders,” he said, the word low but taut with urgency. “The very ones we hunt.”

He turned at once, stepping back beneath the shelter of the leaves. In the same motion his hands swept over his shoulders, fingers closing on the hilts that rose above his back. The familiar weight of his gold-handled knives slid into his grip, their curved steel flashing briefly in the mottled light before settling, ready.

Elrohir followed, heart quickening. He descended in Legolas’s wake, branch to branch, the whisper of leaves brushing his shoulders. His sword rasped free in a clean arc, the steel bright against the dim green.

Below, the Greenwood warriors moved as one. Bows came off shoulders in smooth, unbroken motions; strings were drawn, the faint creak of taut yew underscoring the rising tension. Others mirrored their prince, drawing curved hunting blades from across their backs. The air thickened, the forest itself seeming to hold still—as though even the trees were bracing for the strike to come.

The noises grew nearer—skittering, clicking, the dry scrape of hooked legs dragging over bark. The air itself seemed to tighten around them, heavy with the musk of damp earth and something fouler beneath. Every Greenwood archer stood braced along the high branches, bows drawn or blades poised, eyes sharp on the shifting darkness below.

A little apart from the ranks, Elladan balanced with practiced ease on a wide limb, bow in hand, an arrow drawn halfway but his sword sheathed at his hip within easy reach. Beside him, Glorfindel flexed his grip on the long, elegant curve of his blade, the steel catching flickers of green-gold light through the canopy.

Erestor shifted his stance, testing the familiar weight of the sword at his side. His expression was as composed as if they stood in some quiet library, but his voice—pitched low—betrayed the truth. “I have not held a blade for battle in centuries,” he murmured, steady but faintly wry.

Glorfindel’s mouth curved, quick and utterly unrepentant. “Then make it worth the wait,” he said, his tone a silken thread of mischief even here. His gaze flicked over Erestor with frank pride. “Show them all why I married you.”

Elladan’s snort was muffled but unmistakable, his eyes never leaving the shifting ground below. “If the spiders do not fall,” he said dryly, “they may die of scandal first.” His bowstring creaked as he drew it fully, muscles taut, the sword at his side ready should the fight climb to their height.

The forest held its breath.

Feren’s hand lifted—a single, sharp command.

The forest answered in violence. Greenwood bows thrummed in unison, loosing a volley so swift it seemed the air itself split apart. Shafts plunged into the writhing shapes below, striking eyes and joints with unerring accuracy. The first wave of spiders collapsed mid-lunge, black ichor steaming where it splattered the moss.

Legolas was already moving. His knives flashed silver as he dropped from his perch, twisting through the air to land light as a shadow on a lower branch. Before the spider beneath him could rear back, both blades plunged deep into the cluster of its eyes. The creature shrieked, convulsing, and he kicked free, using its collapsing body as a spring to launch himself higher into the boughs.

The forest seemed to lean toward him, whispering through the leaves, guiding his every step. Branches curved to meet his hands; rough bark gave perfect purchase for his feet. He struck and vanished, struck again from another angle—his movements too swift for the enemy to track. Every arc of his knives was clean, economical, each strike ending in a kill.

Elrohir shadowed him closely, his sword a gleam of steel in the shifting light. A spider lunged from their flank, but Elrohir’s blade was already there, slicing through the joint of its foreleg with brutal precision. Another leapt from below; he pivoted, caught it across the fangs, and sent it tumbling. Their movements meshed without word or glance—Legolas’s knives darting in fluid arcs, Elrohir’s heavier blade cutting down anything that slipped past.

Above them, the Greenwood archers kept the onslaught in check. Caleth’s bow sang in rapid succession, his arrows landing with merciless accuracy. Thalion’s shots were fewer but each was a death sentence, the angle and power leaving no chance of survival.

Feren fought like a war-banner come to life—his great sword cleaving through limbs and bodies with sweeping arcs that left open ground in his wake.

Glorfindel descended from a higher bough like a flash of sunlight on water, landing hard enough to crack the branch beneath his boots. His sword was a golden blur, every strike the perfect marriage of speed and weight, leaving no enemy standing in his path.

Erestor’s blade moved with quieter intent—each cut precise, every parry economical. There was nothing wasted in him; every motion ended in a kill. His expression was calm, almost scholarly, though his edge was no less lethal than Glorfindel’s.

Elladan loosed arrows until the swarm pressed too close. Then his sword sang free of its scabbard, and he waded in with steady, measured power, the weight of his strikes shattering carapace and severing limbs. He fought shoulder to shoulder with a Greenwood warrior, matching his rhythm blow for blow.

The air was thick with the stench of spider-blood, acrid and cloying, rising in waves from the bodies that littered the ground. Leaves shook with every impact, and the forest rang with the hiss of arrows, the screech of dying spiders, the sharp music of steel on chitin.

And through it all, Legolas was the living pulse of the Greenwood—his breath even, his eyes bright, each step and strike attuned to the heartbeat of the forest. The boughs seemed to carry him where he was most needed, and when he moved, it was as though the trees themselves willed him forward.

Erestor’s blade slid free from the last joint of the spider before him, the creature collapsing in a shudder of legs. The air around him was thick with the sharp tang of spider-blood and the loamy scent of torn earth, the canopy above shivering with the chaos of battle. He turned—just in time to catch the dark shape dropping fast from the leaves overhead, fangs spread wide, the hiss like steam from a boiling kettle.

Glorfindel was already there. His sword swept up in a bright, merciless arc, catching the shaft of light that pierced the canopy and turning it briefly to fire. Steel bit deep, splitting the spider cleanly from fangs to abdomen before it could land. The two halves fell away into the undergrowth with a wet thud, ichor hissing where it struck the leaves and burned into the moss.

Erestor’s brows lifted—no fear, but a flicker of surprise breaking his composure for the briefest instant.

Glorfindel stepped in close, the faintest glint in his eye beneath the sweep of golden hair, mouth curving in that maddening blend of amusement and certainty that had followed him through every battlefield. “Do keep your attention forward, meleth-nîn ,” he said smoothly, pivoting on his heel to meet another spider mid-lunge. His sword punched through its mandibles, the force carrying the creature back into the bole of a tree with a crack of chitin. “I’ll see no harm comes to you.”

Erestor’s smirk was small but genuine as he turned back to the fray, his own sword catching the light in a precise, almost disdainful stroke that severed a spider’s foreleg. “I was in no danger,” he replied, voice cool as ever.

“Of course you weren’t,” Glorfindel returned, parrying without so much as looking—his tone rich with that infuriating, undeniable fondness that carried as much pride as it did challenge.

A few paces away, Elladan caught the exchange in the corner of his eye and shook his head, lips twitching into a grin even as his own blade found its mark. Some things, it seemed, never changed—whether in the halls of Imladris or beneath the boughs of Greenwood.

The faint curve of his mouth had not yet faded when the battle’s rhythm shifted. The air grew taut, the forest’s din narrowing to the beat of his pulse and the hiss of steel.

Elladan broke from his stance with a fluid pivot, the hiss of his blade sliding free from chitin matched by the low snarl curling from his throat. A shadow shifted at the edge of his vision—a spider lunging for the unguarded flank of his twin. In three swift strides he was there, his sword ringing against the creature’s fangs with a strike so forceful the impact shuddered up his arm.

Elrohir didn’t so much as glance—he didn’t need to. The trust between them ran deeper than blood. He shifted half a step, giving Elladan the space to drive the spider back, and in the same breath Elrohir’s own sword came up in a brutal, elegant arc to sever another set of legs reaching for them from the opposite side.

They moved in a rhythm older than most songs—two dancers on a field of death, each reading the other’s breath, weight, and angle without a word. Elladan drove forward, striking high to blind, while Elrohir swept low, his blade cutting clean through the underbelly before either foe could recover. One drew attention, the other killed; one feinted, the other finished.

Beneath the boughs of Greenwood, their reputation took form in steel and blood—battle-fury honed to precision, deadly grace sharpened to a single purpose. The clash of their swords was the heartbeat of the fight, their boots striking the branches with the surety of those who feared no fall.

When the last of the creatures in their path tumbled from the boughs, its legs curling in on itself as it vanished into the leaf-shadow below, Elladan stepped in close, his shoulder brushing Elrohir’s in that old, grounding touch. Elrohir’s breath came quick but steady, his answering nod small and sharp—eyes already sweeping the shifting branches for the next threat.

A blur of green and gold dropped into their space from above, as silent as the fall of a leaf. Legolas landed between them in a low, coiled crouch, the branch quivering beneath the sudden weight. His knives—already in hand—flashed like twin strokes of moonlight, one raking across a spider’s cluster of eyes in a blinding stroke, the other burying itself to the hilt in the vulnerable gap beneath its mandibles. Black ichor sprayed across the bark, sizzling faintly where it touched the sap.

Elrohir moved to meet him without thought, stepping into Legolas’s flank until their shoulders nearly brushed. His sword swept out in a gleaming arc to intercept a spider lunging for the prince’s back, the strike clean, decisive, and deep enough to split the creature in two. Elladan mirrored him on the other side, his own blade catching the faint green light as he split open another attacker, his expression grim and sharp as cut stone.

The three of them moved as though they had always fought so—Legolas darting ahead, light and lethal, each strike of his knives measured with predatory precision, weaving silver arcs in the green shadow; the twins shadowing his every step, swords carving out a guard so tight that nothing touched him without meeting steel.

A hiss broke above them—another spider dropping silently from a silken line that quivered in the faint breeze. Legolas spun, slicing through the thread with one knife while the other drove upward into the soft belly of the descending creature. Before it could even fall, Elladan’s boot struck it hard, sending the twitching carcass tumbling through the branches to crash into the undergrowth far below.

Elrohir’s breath brushed Legolas’s temple as he leaned close, voice pitched low between the clash of steel and the high, keening screech of dying things. “You will not run ahead alone.”

Legolas’s mouth curved faintly, though his eyes never left the next movement in the shadows. “Then keep pace,” he answered, and launched himself toward the next threat.

They did—four blades, three heartbeats, moving in perfect accord. Each turn of Legolas’s body found a twin ready at his back. Each sweep of a sword opened a path for his knives to strike deep. It seemed like a dance older than the creatures they fought, woven from trust, speed, and the kind of understanding that left no space for hesitation.

Across the branches, the Greenwood warriors fought with equal ferocity—bows snapping taut and loosing death through the leaves, knives flashing in quick, merciless arcs. Feren’s voice cut through the din, sharp and steady, calling positions and warnings in Silvan. Caleth moved like water, his twin blades spinning in a deadly rhythm that drew the spiders toward him, only for Thalion’s arrow to take them through the eye. Every step, every kill was clean, purposeful, and in tune with the forest’s own pulse.

The air was thick with the smell of sap and venom, the hiss of severed silk, and the unbroken beat of Greenwood’s heart.

The last spider gave a final, shuddering screech before it toppled from the branch, its legs curling inward as it plummeted into the darkness below. For a heartbeat, there was nothing—no rustle of movement, no hiss of venom, only the lingering echo of its fall.

The forest seemed to hold its breath.

One by one, the Greenwood warriors eased their stances, but none fully relaxed. Blades dripped black ichor in slow, heavy drops, each splattering against the moss-dark earth below. The sharp tang of spider blood mingled with the green scent of torn leaves and fresh sap, the air thick with the aftermath of violence.

Legolas’s breathing was steady, the controlled rhythm of a warrior far from spent. He moved through the quiet like a shadow among the boughs, coming to rest beside the broad trunk of an ancient oak. Its bark was ridged and dark with age, the grooves deep enough to swallow his fingers as he laid his palm flat against it.

He closed his eyes, his touch lingering. A faint tilt of his head, as though listening, drew the attention of every elf present.

When he exhaled, the change was subtle but undeniable. A shiver passed through the canopy above, though no wind stirred. Leaves trembled as if answering him, their edges whispering softly. The low creak of the boughs was not the sound of strain, but of release—like a long-held tension uncoiling.

The light filtering through the foliage seemed to shift, brightening in hue. Shadows thinned, their edges softened, as though the forest itself had drawn in the presence of its prince and found comfort there.

The Noldor stood still, silent witnesses. Even Glorfindel’s ever-ready mouth was hushed, his keen eyes following Legolas’s hand on the tree, watching the almost imperceptible easing of its form. Erestor’s gaze swept upward, eyes sharp; he noted the way the leaves reflected more light now, how the oppressive closeness in the air had eased.

“They look…” Elladan began, his voice caught between awe and uncertainty.

“Relieved,” Elrohir finished quietly, his gaze fixed on Legolas—the steady set of his shoulders, the faint softening of his expression. It was as though he alone could speak the language of these woods, and in their silent tongue, they had just answered him.

Legolas’s palm rested flat against the rough, living skin of the oak, fingers splayed to follow the deep grain. His eyes closed, his breath drawn long and slow, and though no voice rose above the soft rustle of the canopy, something passed between prince and tree—a current older than speech, felt in the stillness around them.

The Greenwood warriors did not move. Their weapons hung at their sides, blades dark with spider-blood, yet none thought to clean them just yet. Their gazes fixed on Legolas with the quiet reverence of those who had seen this before and still felt the pull of it. This was their prince as they knew him best—not simply a commander or a warrior, but a part of the forest’s own breath and root.

A faint ripple stirred the high branches, though no wind had come. It ran outward like a sigh of relief, the shiver of leaves sounding almost like words—too old, too quiet, for the unbound ear to hear.

Legolas’s lips moved, the murmur so soft it vanished into the susurration of green overhead. Whatever he said, it belonged to the trees alone.

When at last he stepped back, his fingers sliding from the bark, the leaves seemed to settle—loosened, as though the tension had been drawn out and carried away.

The warriors bowed their heads briefly, a gesture not commanded but given freely, before turning their eyes outward again, watchful once more.

Those who had come from beyond Greenwood’s borders glanced between the trees and the prince, something unspoken dawning in their eyes. Here was not merely a leader of people, but one claimed by the forest itself—rooted as deeply as the oaks that rose around them.

Legolas stepped away from the great oak, the forest’s murmur still thrumming faintly through him. His boots found the moss without sound, and in a few measured strides he was beside Elrohir once more. The Peredhel’s eyes searched his face, but whatever question lingered there was stilled by the quiet resolve he saw.

Feren’s voice broke the hush, low but certain. “These were not part of any nest we have tracked. They’ve come from far deeper in the south—places we do not often tread.”

A few heads turned at that, and even among the seasoned Greenwood warriors, there was a subtle shift—shoulders hardening, gazes sharpening toward the shadowed distance.

He glanced toward the path the wounded soldier had been taken, his jaw tightening. “We must find the rest of his watch. If any live, we bring them home. If not…” His gaze swept the gathered faces, the weight of his meaning sinking into the silence. “We will not leave our own to the dark.”

One by one, the warriors dropped lightly from the boughs, their landings silent against the moss and loam. The creak of leather, the faint jingle of harness rings, and the low thud of boots meeting earth marked their descent. In the span of a breath, the branches stood empty, the company gathered once more in the clearing’s heart, eyes turned toward Feren for the next command.

Orders came swiftly after. Half the company bent to their grisly work, dragging the spider carcasses toward the stony edge of the clearing, where they would be burned before their foul blood could seep too deeply into the roots. Others slipped away in pairs, vanishing between the trees in widening arcs to search for signs of the missing.

Feren turned to Legolas, his tone brisk but edged with trust. “Take your company and sweep east. The ground rises there—you may find tracks the rest of us will miss.”

Legolas inclined his head in assent. Without a word, Elrohir and Elladan moved to his side. The three fell into step as one, the air between them taut with the same purpose, their footfalls already swallowed by the green silence as they melted into the undergrowth.

Glorfindel crossed the trampled clearing, the scent of spider ichor still sharp in the cool air. The carcasses were being hauled toward the fire pit, their slick legs dragging through the leaves with a wet, unpleasant hiss. Erestor walked at his side, the both of them weaving between Greenwood warriors who moved with practiced efficiency.

Feren was overseeing the work when Glorfindel stopped beside him. The captain’s leathers bore a new streak of blood—black, not his own—and his eyes were narrowed, scanning the forest as if he expected the shadows to shift again.

“Tell me,” Glorfindel began, his voice pitched low but carrying a quiet authority, “is it common to find this many of Ungoliant’s brood so far north?”

Feren did not answer at once. His gaze lingered on a heap of twisted spider limbs before he said, flatly, “No. Not common.” He adjusted the strap at his shoulder, as if the motion could steady his thoughts. “In the past few decades, there has been… an increase.” His tone made it clear this was no small rise in numbers, but a steady and troubling encroachment.

Erestor stepped forward, his shadow falling across the churned ground. “And in the south?” he asked, hands clasped loosely behind his back. His voice was quiet, but it cut through the clamor of the clearing. “Any change—any movement worth noting?”

Feren’s eyes flicked sharply toward the trees in the direction Legolas had gone with the sons of Elrond. Only after he was certain the prince was out of sight—and more importantly, out of hearing—did he speak again, voice dropping to a gravelled undertone.

“The King will tell you more when you reach the halls,” he said. Then, after a pause, “But I will say this—the prince’s dreams have worsened. What he sees there…” He drew in a slow breath, as if weighing how much to reveal. “…he has begun to see in the waking world.”

Glorfindel’s golden brows knit, his gaze narrowing with the weight of old instincts. “Has he been to the south?”

Feren’s reply was immediate and absolute. “No. The King has forbidden it. Prince Legolas does not ride with any patrol that nears those borders, nor will he while the King draws breath.” His eyes were flint-hard, but there was a shadow beneath the certainty—an unspoken knowledge that such measures were taken because the danger was both real and near.

At that, Glorfindel and Erestor exchanged a glance—brief, but weighted. No words passed between them, yet the look held the shared language of old campaigns and older wounds: caution born of experience, and the unspoken knowledge that if Thranduil forbade his heir from the southern reaches, it was not without grave cause. Almost as one, their eyes shifted to the south, to where the Greenwood darkened beyond sight, as if the answer lay somewhere beneath those shadowed boughs.

The fire pit crackled in the distance, the scent of burning spider flesh curling into the canopy, carried southward by the wind. The sound of low voices and the rustle of leather faded behind them as they left the clearing.

The forest swallowed them quickly.

Legolas moved ahead, light-footed and certain, weaving through the undergrowth as if the roots themselves bent aside to let him pass. The muted gold of his hair caught and vanished in shifting glimmers through the canopy, his presence as much a part of the Greenwood as the wind or the rain. Behind him, the soft fall of Elrohir’s and Elladan’s boots kept unerring pace, their steps in time without thought or signal—trained by years of battle and blood to move in unison.

Legolas had fought beside them before in Imladris, but what he had seen today still stirred a quiet astonishment in him. Steel and shadow, they had flowed through the chaos like two halves of a single mind—flanking, guarding, striking without hesitation. He slowed just enough to glance back, his gaze keen, assessing.

“You fight as one,” he said at last, the words carrying no embellishment—merely truth. “Many train together for centuries and never find such accord.”

Elrohir’s mouth curved faintly, his eyes still scanning the trail ahead. “We have had long years to learn each other’s measure.”

Elladan’s smile was sharper, a flicker of wryness in it. “And we have been told more than once that it makes us… unnerving.”

“Unnerving to your enemies, I hope,” Legolas returned, though his voice gentled into warmth.

But the momentary spark faded as his gaze drifted upward.

The canopy above them should have been alive with light—emerald leaves shot through with sun-gold, the air dappled and warm. Instead, it lay in shadow, the green dulled, the light strained as though it had passed through smoke. The shadows felt thick, clinging—not the cool shelter of the Greenwood, but something heavier, stiller.

He slowed, falling into step beside Elrohir, his hand rising almost without thought to touch the nearest tree. His palm pressed flat against the mossy bark, feeling the roughness beneath his fingers, searching for something just beneath the surface.

“The spiders are not the only shadow here,” he said quietly, his tone threaded with an unease that felt older than the day’s battle. “The woods feel… wrong. Less than they were. Every season, a little more of the light fades.”

Elladan’s gaze followed his upward. “We heard whispers of the increase before we came—rumors, nothing more. I did not think it reached so near your heartlands.”

“It should not be,” Legolas murmured, thumb tracing the grooves in the bark as though committing them to memory. “Yet it is. The darkness grows bolder, pressing nearer each year. These trees…” His voice faltered for the briefest heartbeat, the weight of it settling in his chest. “They remember brighter days. I feel their sadness as I would my own kin’s.”

For a moment, they walked in silence. The forest’s voice moved around them in low, restless murmurs, leaves shivering in a wind that did not seem to touch the ground. The air held the faint tang of sap and distant decay.

The first sign was the smell. 

It slithered in on the still air—faint at first, then undeniable. The acrid stench of spider silk, musty and cloying, clung like rot in the throat. Beneath it came the sharper copper tang of blood, carried on a draft that felt too cold for the hour.

Elladan’s hand lifted in a silent command to halt. His eyes narrowed, scanning the gloom ahead until they caught on a pale shape half-hidden among the gnarled roots of an ancient oak—unnaturally still, save for the faintest sway.

Webbing clung there in layers, thick as frost in midwinter, stretched between root and earth in grotesque veils. Each strand glistened faintly in the dappled light, taut and sticky, shifting ever so slightly with the weight of what it bound.

Legolas was the first to move. He dropped low, knees silent on the damp leaf-litter, and drew his knives in a single, fluid motion. The blades whispered free from the sheaths at his back, the steel catching a ghost of green light before he set them to work. Each cut was swift and precise, yet the cords clung stubbornly, gummy and resistant, wrapping about the edges as though to hold their prey tighter.

At last, the shape beneath stirred—a small, jerking movement—and a muffled, ragged sound escaped.

“She lives,” Legolas said quickly, the words clipped with urgency. With deft, careful slashes, he peeled the silk away from her face. The young Greenwood huntress blinked up at him, her braids matted with silk and blood, her skin pale as new snow. The shadows beneath her eyes told of venom’s slow crawl through her veins.

Elladan and Elrohir were there in an instant, dropping to their knees with the surety of those who had knelt in such moments countless times. They fell into an unspoken rhythm—Elladan’s fingers finding the fluttering pulse at her throat, Elrohir peeling away her torn vambrace to reveal the puncture wounds, red and raw where fangs had pierced deep.

“Poison,” Elladan murmured, his voice low, his brows drawn tight.

“Not yet beyond our reach,” Elrohir replied, already pressing a clean cloth to the wound. “Keep her still.”

Legolas shifted closer, bracing one knee into the soft, damp earth beside her. He set a steady hand to her shoulder, thumb brushing lightly in a gesture meant to anchor her to the present. His voice softened to a murmur, pitched only for her ears.

“Rest now. You are found. You are safe.”

Her breathing eased; some of the tension bled from her limbs, though her grip on his forearm lingered.

And then—

A change.

It began as a subtle tightening in the air, so slight it might have been imagined. The forest seemed to pause, the wind drawing in and holding its breath. Leaves overhead ceased their shifting; branches stilled as if bound by unseen hands.

A prickle rose along the back of Legolas’s neck. Cold—not the gentle coolness of shade, but something sharper, older—slid into him, winding down his spine like the point of a blade. It carried with it the faint, metallic tang of distant rain and something fouler beneath, a memory of rot and ash.

His breath caught. Slowly, as though pulled by unseen threads, he turned toward the south. The shadows there were deeper than they should have been, the air thicker—weighted—as if somewhere, far away, a gaze had turned toward him and found him, wanting to be seen.

The forest was still—yet for Legolas, it became something else entirely.

Cold stole over him without warning, sharp and unnatural, seeping past leather as though the day’s warmth had been torn away in a single, merciless breath. It sank into his bones, into the hollows between them, until he felt hollowed out by it. He exhaled, and a pale plume bloomed before his lips—ghostlike in the dim light.

Around him, the world slowed. The sway of the branches overhead faltered and stilled; the faint murmur of leaves brushing against one another dragged into an unnatural hush, as if the forest itself had been caught mid-breath. Even Elladan and Elrohir—kneeling only paces away as they worked over the wounded huntress—moved as if through heavy water, their shapes blurred at the edges, their quiet words stretching into muffled, distant echoes.

They did not look at him. They did not notice.

But Legolas felt it.

A weight in the air, pressing down until his shoulders seemed to bow beneath it. It was not the fear of a foe he could see or strike, but something deeper—something older—sliding into him like a shadow in the marrow.

His pulse began to thunder in his ears, unsteady, too fast. Without willing it, he rose, his gaze dragged inexorably southward, toward where the trees knit together into a dark wall of green and shadow.

Then—

A voice.

It began low, almost a vibration rather than a sound, thick with a harsh cadence that clawed at the mind. The syllables were unlike any tongue he had ever heard, each fractured and twisted, scraping together like iron on stone. The sound itself felt wrong, as if the air recoiled from shaping it. It was the same strange speech that had slipped like a poison into his dreams since childhood dreams—but now it pressed against him with crushing weight. Louder. Closer. Deliberate.

Pain lanced through his skull—swift, merciless—until it seemed to split the very seams of thought. His ears burned, and he clapped his hands over them, pressing hard enough to ache, but the voice did not dull. It was inside him, threading through bone and blood, filling every space his mind could hold until there was nothing else.

His breath quickened, shallow and uneven, chest tightening as though the air had thinned. The cold thickened, crawling beneath his skin in slow, merciless tendrils, wrapping around his ribs, creeping into the hollows of his throat.

And then it came—

A cry.

Jagged, inhuman. So sharp it felt as though it pierced through the bone of his skull, reverberating in the deepest places of him. The sound tore the breath from his lungs. He had never heard such a thing, yet every part of him recoiled, instinct clawing to flee. This was no voice that belonged to light or to living earth—it was the herald of something that should not walk beneath the sun or stars.

Screaming followed. Not here. Not near. But clear—carried on no wind, cutting as if from some great and unseen distance. The words within it moved slowly, steeped in venom, each syllable weighted with a loathing that seemed to know him.

Begone, child of the woods.

The force of it struck like a blow to the chest. His knees gave way, the world tilting hard and fast. He stumbled back, his hands slipping from his ears as the ground met him with a jolt.

And then—

The darkness shattered.

Color rushed back into the air, sudden and jarring. The forest stirred and whispered again, the sounds of life flooding in as if nothing had passed. Yet the echo of that voice lingered in the hollow of his ribs, and the fear—sharp and unfamiliar—clung to him still.

For a heartbeat he remained where he had fallen, palms braced against the damp earth, the cry still reverberating through bone. The sounds of the glade returned by slow degrees—the thin rasp of the huntress’s breath, Elladan’s low murmur, the soft shift of Elrohir’s boots—and in that returning life his stillness stood stark. He drew a breath that snagged; his heel slid in the moss as he tried to steady himself.

A flicker of movement caught Elladan’s attention, his eyes narrowing—but Elrohir was already turning, a thread of unease tightening in his chest.

Legolas was no longer standing.

He sat on the forest floor as though the strength had been pulled from his body, braced back on his hands, fingers spread against the damp earth for balance. His legs were bent, one heel dug into the moss as if to keep himself grounded. The sunlight that filtered through the leaves above seemed to have lost its warmth where it touched him.

He stared south. Unblinking. Unmoving.

“Legolas?” Elrohir’s voice was low, the edges drawn taut.

There was no answer. Not so much as the flicker of an eyelid.

In three swift strides, Elrohir was beside him, his shadow falling over the prince. He crouched, one knee sinking into the leaf-litter. Reaching out, he laid a hand on Legolas’s shoulder—only to stiffen at the shock of it. The cold radiating from him was unnatural, biting deep, the sort that did not belong beneath the Greenwood’s summer canopy.

“Valar,” Elrohir breathed under his breath. His gaze flicked over Legolas’s face, searching for injury—but found only that fixed stare and the tightness in his jaw.

He shifted until he was directly before him, the moss damp beneath his knees. “Legolas.”

Still nothing.

Elrohir’s hands came up to cradle his face, thumbs brushing the chill of his cheekbones. His touch was firm, guiding, tilting the prince’s head until those blue eyes finally turned to meet his.

They were wide—too wide—and clouded, the clarity of them veiled beneath the kind of fear Elrohir had rarely seen there. The prince’s pupils were blown wide in the dim light, and his breath came quick and shallow, chest rising and falling in short, uneven bursts.

“Look at me,” Elrohir said again, his voice quieter now, tempered to something steady and grounding.

Legolas blinked once, as though surfacing from some far place, but the tremor in his hands against the ground betrayed him.

“What’s taken hold of you?” Elrohir’s tone was quiet but edged with urgency, his thumbs tracing slow, grounding circles along Legolas’s jaw. “You’re frozen through.”

The warmth of his touch was stark against the chill still locked in Legolas’s skin, a heat that seemed impossibly distant only moments ago. Behind them, Elladan murmured low to the wounded huntress, checking her pulse and tending the venom-darkened wound with steady hands—yet his gaze flicked often toward his brother and the prince, measuring the set of Elrohir’s shoulders and the pallor in Legolas’s face.

The forest had begun to breathe again, but its sounds were muted, as though still wary: the faint creak of branches, the whisper of leaves, the slow rustle of silk being cut away.

Legolas drew in a deep breath—then another—each one shuddering faintly, as though dragged through ice. His gaze flicked once toward the south, a quick, instinctive motion, before locking back on Elrohir’s. The silver-grey of the other’s eyes held him fast, steadying him like a hand at the small of his back in a treacherous current. His lips parted, but no sound came at first—only the faint shake of his head, as if the very shape of the words resisted him.

Legolas’s throat worked once, twice, before the words finally scraped free. “It was… cold,” he began, voice unsteady, as though each syllable had to be dragged from somewhere deep. “Not the kind that comes in winter—sharper. It cut through the bone and would not let go. I could not move for it.”

His gaze flicked past Elrohir for the briefest instant, drawn once more toward the shadowed line of the southern trees, before he willed it back. “And then… a voice. I do not know the tongue—it was harsh, broken, like metal ground against stone, each word twisting in the air. It clawed at me, here—” his hand rose, fingers pressing almost defensively over his chest, “—as if it meant to tear something from within.”

A faint tremor ran through him. “After it came… a cry. I have never heard such a sound.” His voice thinned to a whisper, as if speaking of it too loudly might summon it again. “It was pain, given a voice. And hatred. A sound that should not walk this world. It was… wrong.”

The space between his words hung heavy, like the air before a storm.

Elrohir’s hands stilled against his jaw, their steadying touch still there but taut now, a cord drawn to breaking. His eyes searched Legolas’s, reading the fear beneath the composure. Then, without a word, his gaze cut to Elladan.

Elladan had gone still, though his hand remained steady on the huntress’s arm as he checked her pulse. His dark brows drew low in a look that carried both recognition and a grim weight.

It was a silent exchange, but its meaning was clear between them: they knew the sounds he described. They knew them too well. And whatever it was, it was nothing they would name lightly—certainly not here, and certainly not where the young prince could hear what it truly meant.

Elrohir’s gaze followed the fixed line of Legolas’s stare toward the southern wall of trees. From this distance, the shadows seemed no deeper than the rest of Greenwood—yet something in that quarter of the forest made the breath catch in his throat. It was a stillness too complete, a darkness that seemed to drink the light rather than merely hide it. The longer he looked, the more it seemed the cold there might reach across the distance and seep into his very bones. A faint chill prickled beneath his skin, and he felt the blood drain from his face before he forced himself to look away.

Still crouched before Legolas, Elrohir leaned in, closing the space between them until their knees touched. His hands rose, warm and steady, to cradle the prince’s jaw. “Legolas—look at me,” he said, his tone quiet but underpinned with an unyielding edge. “You are in the heart of your own wood. Nothing here will touch you while I stand with you. Breathe with me.”

Legolas obeyed, drawing in a long, uneven breath, then another. The tremor in his shoulders eased fractionally beneath Elrohir’s touch, but the cold in his skin did not lift. It clung to him as if something had stolen his warmth and left it scattered in those far, watching shadows.

Elladan, still crouched behind them with one hand steadying the wounded huntress, had never truly stopped watching. His gaze shifted between his patient and the prince, noting the drained pallor beneath Legolas’s fair skin and the faint tremor that lingered in his hands. The weight in his expression deepened.

“He’s lost his color,” he said quietly, his voice pitched for them alone. “What did you see?” —and though the question was aimed at Elrohir, his eyes never left Legolas.

Elrohir glanced at his brother, and something unspoken passed between them—mutual recognition, and a silent warning neither dared voice here.

At last, Elrohir shifted back just enough to rise, extending his hand. “Come,” he said, his tone softer but no less insistent. “Let me bring you to your feet.”

Legolas took it, his fingers cold and lacking their usual surety, but the moment he tried to stand, the strength in his legs failed him. A sharp tremor ran through him, and Elrohir caught him instantly, drawing him in against his side, an arm firm around his waist to keep him upright.

“Easy,” Elrohir murmured, adjusting his grip, his eyes searching Legolas’s face for injuries that went deeper than sight allowed.

Elladan moved in without hesitation, taking Legolas’s other arm. “He’s not just cold,” Elladan said, glancing to his twin. “It’s as if something’s stripped the strength from him.”

“Aye,” Elrohir answered, his gaze steady on Legolas’s pale, drawn face. “Whatever reached for him… it touched more than flesh. It’s holding on still.”

Legolas’s breath came uneven, each draw of air shallow and strained. “I… cannot find the warmth,” he murmured, the words barely threading past his lips. “It is in my bones… deeper still.” Another tremor seized him, sharp enough to set his teeth against one another, the shudder running from his shoulders to the very tips of his fingers.

Something in Elrohir’s expression faltered, the guarded steadiness in his eyes breaking as recognition struck. He searched Legolas’s face as if hoping to be wrong, but the truth lay bare in the pallor of his skin, the faraway look in his eyes. The color drained from his own face. “No,” he breathed, the word catching on something tight in his throat before it fell lower, swift and certain. “This is no common chill. You’ve the Black Breath upon you.”

Elladan’s head came up at once, alarm flaring across his features. “The Black Breath?” His voice dropped, pitched for them alone. “But there is no Nazgûl so far up within these borders—” 

“There need not be,” Elrohir broke in, his tone taut as a drawn bowstring. His hand firmed on Legolas’s arm, steady and unyielding, as though he could anchor him by sheer force of will. “Their malice carries far, brother—and there are other ways their shadow may reach. If the will behind it is strong enough, it can cross leagues.”

Elladan’s gaze flicked southward, a frown deepening at his brow. “Then something here is bearing that will.” His eyes returned to Legolas, studying the prince’s pallor. “And it has marked him.”

Legolas’s lips parted as though to speak, but only a thin wisp of breath escaped, chased away by the cold that seemed to hollow him from within. A shiver gripped him—sudden and violent—racking his frame until even the strength to hold himself upright bled away. His shoulders bowed, his head dipping as though the very air had become too heavy to bear.

“Enough,” Elrohir said—quiet but edged with steel, the command born of fear. In the same heartbeat, he slid an arm behind Legolas’s knees, the other firm around his back, and lifted him clear from the damp earth. The prince’s weight was light in his hold—too light—and the chill of him struck through leather and mail as though no barrier existed at all. Elrohir drew him close against his chest, as if his own warmth might be forced into him by will alone.

“We must go back,” he told his brother, the words clipped, leaving no room for argument.

Elladan shifted his grip on the wounded huntress, rising in one smooth motion. “Then we find athelas on the way,” he said, his voice taut but steady, eyes already scanning the path ahead. “It may hold the cold at bay.”

Elrohir’s jaw tightened. His gaze never left the pale face pressed against his shoulder, golden hair spilling cold against his collar. He bent his head, his voice falling to a murmur meant for Legolas alone—low and laden with a grief he could not hide.

“I swore that when long years had run their course, I would stand before you again in joy… not bear you thus, stricken and cold in my arms. This was not the hour I dreamed of, nor the welcome my heart has yearned for.”

His breath caught—only barely—before he went on, softer still. “I would have come to you with light in my hands, not shadow at your back.”

Legolas gave no reply; his only answer was the unceasing tremor running through him, each shudder passing from his body into Elrohir’s arms as though the cold sought to root itself in them both.

They broke from the trees into the broad glade where the remainder of the patrol had gathered. The scene was one of ordered chaos—voices low but urgent, the metallic tang of blood sharp in the air, undercut by the damp, green weight of crushed moss and the rank stench of spider ichor that clung to every breath. Several warriors lay stretched on cloaks spread hastily across the earth, their tunics darkened where crude bindings pressed against wounds. Faces were drained of color, eyes shut in exhaustion or pain.

Others knelt beside them, hands moving with swift efficiency—pressing poultices of crushed herb to venomous bites, rinsing blood from skin with cold water drawn from nearby streams, murmuring quiet reassurances meant to steady the wounded. The earth beneath was churned and scored by the scuffle of many boots, the faint glimmer of broken webbing still caught on roots and stones.

It took no more than a heartbeat for every head to turn. Caleth’s keen gaze was the first to sharpen, catching sight of Elladan striding into the clearing with the limp form of the young huntress cradled against him—her braids tangled, her head lolling weakly upon his shoulder. But then his eyes shifted—and narrowed at once.

From the treeline came Elrohir, his dark hair wind-tossed, his jaw set like stone. In his arms lay their prince, wrapped close against him, golden hair spilling cold and lifeless over the stranger’s shoulder.

The change in the Greenwood warriors was instant and instinctive. Every sinew drew taut as if strung on the same cord. Hands flew to bows where they rested at their sides; quivers shifted, arrows nocked and drawn in a single, practiced motion. Bowstrings thrummed into tension, their soft hum swallowed by the hard silence that fell over the glade. Shafts tipped in bright steel caught what little light filtered through the canopy, and every arrowhead found its aim on the dark-haired Peredhel who carried their prince.

“What have you done to him?” Caleth’s voice cracked across the glade, all warmth stripped from it—quick and sharp as steel rasping from a scabbard.

Thalion’s shout followed, roughened by the weight of old distrust. “Release him—now!” His voice was low, dangerous, carrying the promise that an arrow would fly if Elrohir so much as hesitated.

Elrohir’s jaw tightened, his eyes flint-hard, but his hold on Legolas only grew more unyielding. The prince stirred faintly at the clash of voices, a flicker of awareness passing over his pale features—only for another violent shiver to seize him. Elrohir bent fractionally, curling himself over Legolas’s form as though to shield him from both the cold and the rising threat, his arms a living barrier.

Feren, standing apart with Glorfindel and Erestor, did not yet reach for his own weapon—but every line of his stance was strung with the same coiled tension as the warriors aiming their bows. His eyes swept over Legolas quickly, taking in the unnatural pallor, the tremor that did not cease, before fixing on Elrohir with a look as sharp and measuring as a drawn blade.

Elladan had already lowered the huntress to a waiting blanket, his words calm but clipped as he gave brisk instructions to the soldier now tending her. Rising, he cut across the glade in long, decisive strides, placing himself squarely between the leveled bows and his brother.

“Lower your weapons,” he commanded, his tone edged but unshaken. “We have no time for this. He needs athelas.”

The name struck like a stone dropped into still water—its weight rippling outward, changing the air itself. Glorfindel’s head turned sharply, the gold of his hair catching the dim light as his gaze fixed on Legolas, narrowing with sudden, cutting focus. Beside him, Erestor’s breath stilled; the set of his mouth hardened, and the shadow in his expression deepened into something perilously close to dread.

Both moved forward in unison, the measured precision of their steps betraying the urgency beneath.

Glorfindel’s voice came first, low but carrying through the press of bodies. “What has happened to him?” His eyes, bright as a blade’s edge, swept over the prince—taking in the ashen pallor, the restless tremor, the way his head lay against Elrohir’s shoulder as though the strength to lift it had fled.

Erestor’s gaze was no less piercing. “Tell us,” he demanded, each word crisp with restrained urgency. “What has befallen the prince?”

Feren stepped forward then, his face set in grim, unyielding lines. “Is he wounded? Poisoned? Speak, and quickly.”

Elrohir’s reply came without hesitation, his voice pitched low but ringing with steel. “A shadow has touched him,” he said, his hold on Legolas tightening as if to guard him from unseen hands. “I fear he suffers from the Black Breath.”

The words struck harder than any arrow. The air jolted, then fractured into uproar—curses spat under breath, sharp questions hurled like knives, muttered prayers to the Valar falling from lips unused to calling them. Fear coiled through every voice, raw and unhidden.

Feren’s gaze darkened further, but when his hand lifted, it was not for a weapon. His fingers cut a sharp, commanding line through the air. “Hold your tongues,” he said, his voice carrying with the iron weight of command. “We will see to the prince first—then there will be answers.”

Still, the bows did not lower. The taut strings quivered, the Greenwood warriors’ eyes fixed on Elrohir with a suspicion sharpened by dread.

Elrohir pressed forward through the ring of Greenwood warriors, their arrows following his every step. Elladan kept close at his side, his shoulders set in a line that brooked no interference. Without a word, he unclasped his cloak, the heavy fabric sliding from his shoulders to pool in his hands.

He dropped to one knee beside the other wounded, spreading the cloak over the moss in a practiced sweep, smoothing its edges as though that small order might lend steadiness to the moment.

Elrohir knelt and lowered Legolas onto it with the care of one setting down a priceless relic. The prince’s weight seemed too light in his arms, and the shivers that passed through him were sharp enough to pierce both cloak and mail. His eyes remained closed—a sight no Elf took lightly—and the shallow lift and fall of his chest was the only sign of breath.

Elrohir’s movements sharpened with urgency as he reached for the pouch at his belt, fingers closing around the athelas leaves within—only to be stopped by a sudden grip at his wrist.

His gaze snapped down. Despite the tremor in his hand, Legolas held fast, his fingers cold but unyielding. “Do not leave,” he whispered, the words barely spanning the narrow space between them.

Elrohir’s own hand covered his, warmth closing over chill. His voice softened, the words carrying a quiet vow beneath their steadiness. “I am here,” he murmured, leaning closer. “I will not leave you, my heart. Let me tend to you—trust me.”

At that, Legolas’s grip eased, though it did not fall away entirely. Elrohir gave a final, reassuring press to his hand before passing the pouch to Elladan.

Elladan took it without hesitation, stripping the leaves free in one fluid motion. His voice rose above the murmured tension of the glade, crisp and carrying. “I need water—boiled—and a vessel to hold it. Now.”

The command cut through the air like the snap of a bowstring. A few Greenwood warriors faltered, their eyes flicking warily from him to Elrohir, weighing the risk of trust against grievance. Others exchanged quick, uncertain glances before breaking away toward the nearest packs and fires. Even the most reluctant moved to obey, though their movements were tight with unease.

Elladan accepted the supplies without a word, setting the small vessel upon the cloak beside him. Steam rose in thin, ghostlike tendrils as he poured in the boiling water, the sound soft against the stillness. With deft, sure movements, he stripped the athelas leaves, crushing them between his fingers until their living scent unfurled—clean, sharp, and green as rain on young grass. It cut through the air like the first breath of spring, pushing back the lingering heaviness.

Glorfindel stepped forward, his golden hair catching the dim, shifting light. His voice was steady, each syllable weighted with the kind of certainty that could still a battlefield. “Feren,” he said, his tone neither hard nor pleading but shaped with command, “bid your warriors lower their weapons. In all the realms of the Eldar, there are no hands more skilled in the arts of healing—save Elrond himself—than those of his sons. They will see your prince restored.”

Feren’s eyes lingered on him, unreadable in the shadow. The silence between them stretched like a drawn bowstring before he inclined his head. His voice in Silvan was low and even, carrying the clipped precision of one accustomed to obedience given and received. One by one, the bows eased, though the warriors’ hands did not stray far from their strings.

Apart from them, Erestor’s gaze had turned to the south, past the dark lattice of the eaves. His voice, when it came, was quiet but edged with the weight of old knowledge. “The Black Breath,” he said, as though naming a thing best left unspoken. “It is the weapon of the Nazgûl.” His eyes shifted back to Glorfindel, and there was no mistaking the shadow there. “Our fears were not without cause.”

A faint ripple of unease passed through the Greenwood warriors at the word, though none gave voice to it. The name alone was enough to stir memory—of stories whispered by winter fires, of shadows too deep for moonlight to pierce.

Elladan leaned over the steaming vessel, letting the sharp green scent of crushed athelas rise with the heat. His hands moved with calm precision, though his gaze kept straying to his brother. Elrohir supported Legolas against his chest, one arm a steady band around the prince’s waist, the other guiding the fragrant steam toward his face.

“Breathe, Legolas,” Elrohir said softly, the cadence steady, coaxing. “Draw it deep—let it stay.”

The clean scent cut through the damp heaviness in the glade, yet it could not erase the memory of what had come before—nor the questions it had left in its wake.

From the ring of Greenwood warriors, Caleth’s voice broke through, sharp as a drawn arrow. “How came he to stand before a Nazgûl’s malice?” His eyes were bright with anger, the muscles in his jaw tight.

Thalion stepped forward, quieter but no less unyielding. “Was he left alone when it struck?”

Elladan did not look up from the work in his hands. “He was never alone.” His tone was even, without apology. “There were no signs—no shadow, no sound—until it was upon us.”

Elrohir’s gaze remained fixed on Legolas, his voice low yet carrying to the warriors. “One moment he was beside us—kneeling with my brother and I as we tended the wounded huntress—and the next, it was as if the strength had been pulled from him all at once.” His hold on Legolas tightened fractionally, a protective reflex.

His eyes darkened as memory sharpened. “He did not answer when I called,” Elrohir went on, his tone edged with something that was neither anger nor fear, but a grim blend of both. “I took his face in my hands, and his eyes—” he paused, as though the memory itself was unwelcome, “—his eyes were clouded, as if he looked through me. His breath came shallow, his hands shook against the ground, and when at last he spoke, it was to say the cold had cut through his bones.”

Elladan’s voice was quieter now, but it carried the full weight of the truth. “He heard a voice—harsh and broken, a tongue that clawed at the spirit. And then a cry, filled with pain and hatred. We knew it for what it was, though we did not speak it aloud.” His gaze lifted to Feren, then to the rest of the Greenwood warriors. “We would not have had him face it alone. But it struck from a distance where no arrow could fly, and no sword could turn the blow.”

Around them, the warriors were silent. Some exchanged glances; others turned their faces slightly south, toward the unseen line of trees, as if listening for an echo they hoped would not come.

Feren’s voice cut through the stillness, low but unyielding. “Give them space.”

The Greenwood warriors hesitated, their eyes fixed on the pale figure between the sons of Elrond. A few shifted reluctantly, the weight of their worry plain in every backward glance. One by one, they stepped away—some returning to the grim work of hauling carcasses to the pyre, others fading into the tree-shadow to resume their searches. Only Caleth and Thalion remained close, their stances taut with vigilance, joined by Glorfindel and Erestor, who stood apart but attentive. Feren stayed as well, arms folded, though his gaze never wavered from his prince.

Elladan bent over the steaming vessel, crushing the last leaves of athelas between his palms until the sharp, green fragrance broke free into the air. He whispered over them in clear, flowing Sindarin—ancient words shaped to carry will and purpose, each syllable coaxing the herb’s virtue to its fullest. The steam rose warm and clean, curling into the cold air like living breath.

Elrohir steadied Legolas against him, one arm a firm band across the prince’s waist, the other guiding the bowl close. His voice was low, coaxing, threaded with an intimacy meant for Legolas alone. “Breathe, my heart. Deeply now—hold it.”

The steam kissed Legolas’s pale skin, wreathing his face in warmth. His lashes stirred, a faint flicker against his cheek, before his eyes opened—slowly, as though from a long, reluctant sleep. They were the clear, unclouded blue Elrohir knew better than any sky, but now dulled with strain. Even so, when they found his, a faint spark answered there—recognition, trust.

“That’s it,” Elrohir murmured, his thumb brushing a slow circle over Legolas’s sternum, feeling the uneven flutter of his heart. He leaned closer, letting his own steady breathing guide the prince’s—his chest rising and falling against Legolas’s back, a quiet rhythm to follow. “Stay with me. Follow my breath.”

Elladan moved to Legolas’s other side, the bowl still steaming in his hands, and spoke in the clear, measured cadence their father had taught them for such moments—each word a deliberate anchor.

“Legolas. You are in your father’s wood. Feel it—the roots beneath your hands, the wind in the leaves. The song of the trees knows your name and will not forsake you. Hear the river’s voice beyond the boughs. Smell the earth that has known your footsteps since your first hunt. You are not in shadow. Not in dream. Only here.”

He let the steam rise between them, letting its green, clean scent weave through the air, mingling with the forest’s own breath. “Take the warmth into you. Let it drive out the cold. The light here is yours—it has always been yours.”

Elrohir’s fingers found the prince’s pulse, cool but steadier now beneath his touch. He shifted closer, his voice pitched low, meant for Legolas alone. “Look at me,” he murmured. “Your eyes are as they should be—clear, and seeing me. Hold to that. You know my voice; follow it. Every breath brings you further from the shadow. Stay with me.”

The blue of Legolas’s gaze sharpened, clearing by slow degrees, and Elrohir kept speaking to him—quiet, certain—as though weaving a cord of words to draw him the last distance back from the dark.

Legolas’s lashes lowered, then lifted again, slow as the unfurling of a leaf toward light. The flicker of awareness grew with each passing heartbeat, the wild dilation of his gaze giving way to the clear, deep blue. The shudders that had wracked him eased at last, subsiding to faint tremors that rippled only through his hands.

He drew a deeper breath—then another—each one steadier than the last, the sharp green scent of athelas filling his lungs. It was as if the living heart of the forest itself had been steeped into the steam, threading through him in slow, warming currents. The faintest touch of color returned to his cheeks.

Elrohir did not loosen his hold. He kept Legolas close, feeling the slow, stubborn return of strength through the tension of muscle and breath. When the prince’s gaze, still a little glassed with exhaustion, found his own and held it, Elrohir bent and brushed a kiss against the chilled curve of his cheek. It was the lightest of touches, yet it carried the weight of a vow—that he would not let the shadow take him.

Elladan’s hand came to rest on Legolas’s brow in a slow, deliberate sweep, the way their father had done countless times in moments of fever or shock. His palm lingered there, warm and steady, pressing the last anchor into place. “Hold to this,” he murmured, almost under his breath. “To us. To the light in your own wood.”

Around them, the steam curled and wove like pale threads of sunlight caught in water, bright and green in the cold air, as if the Greenwood itself leaned close to guard its prince.

Legolas’s gaze had cleared, the last vestiges of the Black Breath loosening their grip, yet the set of his shoulders was taut with something deeper than lingering cold. He drew in a breath that trembled faintly at the edges, then braced a palm against the moss to push himself upright.

Elrohir moved first, his arm tightening instantly around him, a quiet yet unyielding restraint. Elladan’s hand came to his shoulder—firm, steady, leaving no room for argument.

“Stay,” Elrohir said, his voice low and calm, but beneath it was the steel of a vow—one that had been tested before and would not be broken.

“You are not yet fit to stand,” Elladan added, meeting Legolas’s eye with the quiet authority of one who had tended warriors in worse states and seen what haste could cost.

Legolas’s jaw tightened, his breath flaring through his nose. “You do not understand,” he said, his tone pitched low but thrumming with urgency. “There is something here—close. I saw no shape, but I felt it watching. The cold…” He faltered for a heartbeat, his gaze drifting toward the south as if the shadow itself still clung there. “…it was older than the roots beneath us. It looked to me as though it had always known me.”

Glorfindel stepped nearer, his golden hair catching the dim light like a faint flame. “What did you hear?” he asked, his voice quiet but threaded with an edge that belonged to the battlefields of older ages.

Legolas’s breath shallowed. “A tongue I did not know—harsh, broken… each word scraping inside my skull. And then a cry, jagged and horrid, filled with hatred. The words…” He swallowed, his throat tightening as if repeating them cost something. “‘ Begone, child of the woods .’”

The sound of the clearing shifted—less the rustle of leaves and more the silence between them. The Greenwood warriors who had remained—Feren, Thalion, Caleth—exchanged glances weighted with the instinct to reach for bowstrings. Feren’s mouth pressed into a grim line; Thalion’s gaze flicked southward, hand falling to the hilt at his hip. Even Caleth, who rarely stilled for long, stood unmoving, his bright expression shuttered.

Erestor stepped forward, his cloak whispering over the damp earth. His voice, when it came, was even—too even. “You have encountered a Nazgûl.”

Legolas’s head snapped toward him, blue eyes widening with a flicker of disbelief.

“It was the Black Speech you heard,” Erestor continued, his dark gaze steady, unflinching. “Few of the Firstborn can bear it without wound. Fewer still unshielded. It strikes at the spirit, not the flesh.”

The words seemed to thicken the air, their meaning sinking into the space between heartbeats. Elrohir’s hold around Legolas shifted—closer now, as though he could bar the shadow from him by the strength of his arms alone.

“You are safe now,” Elrohir murmured, his voice roughened at the edges, his breath brushing warm against Legolas’s temple. “It will not reach you here.”

Legolas leaned into him—not out of weakness, but because the nearness was steadying, grounding him where the forest still seemed too still. Elrohir’s heartbeat, firm and certain beneath his hand, was an anchor to the living world.

Glorfindel’s gaze lingered on Legolas, reading the lines of tension still etched along his jaw and the way his breath, though steadier, had yet to find its full ease. Only when he was certain the prince would not falter did he turn his head southward, his profile catching the emberlight.

“Khamûl,” he said at last, and though his voice was calm, the name fell into the clearing like a blade sinking point-first into earth. “The Easterling. Second only to the Witch-king, and long suspected to keep watch over Dol Guldur’s walls. If so…” His eyes narrowed into the distant dark, where the trees grew tight and close. “…then the shadow you felt was not by chance.”

A stillness settled over those gathered—an instinctive quiet, as if the mere speaking of the name might carry beyond their hearing. Caleth’s habitual smirk was nowhere to be found; his fingers flexed against the grip of his bow. Thalion’s stance shifted subtly, his weight settling onto the balls of his feet as if ready for an unseen threat to emerge from the shadows.

It was Erestor who broke the hush, stepping forward until the fire’s glow traced the high line of his cheekbones and the darkness deepened in his eyes.

“Khamûl,” he repeated, his tone deliberate, as though the name were not one to be spoken without care. “He was mortal once—born far to the east, beyond even the curves of the Sea of Rhûn, where the sun climbs over lands that no Elf of the West has seen in an age. He came to Sauron’s hand early, and took the Ring without hesitation. It remade him… as it remade them all. But he was ever a hunter—before and after. And unlike his master’s captain, he does not command great hosts. He hunts alone, or with few at his side.”

Erestor’s gaze dropped briefly to Legolas, the tone of his voice turning colder still. “They say he can feel the heartbeat of those who pass too near his ground—taste their fear before they ever see him. Once he has marked a soul, he follows. Sometimes for days. Sometimes for years. Until he chooses to end the chase.”

The fire hissed as sap burst in one of the logs, and the sound made more than one warrior glance toward the treeline.

“The Black Breath is not always meant to kill,” Erestor went on, his voice low but carrying to every ear in the circle. “Sometimes it is meant only to weaken. To strip courage from the heart. To make the prey falter… until they no longer think to run.”

Caleth’s bow creaked softly beneath his tightening grip. Feren’s mouth was set in a thin, grim line. Thalion’s hand rested on the hilt of his blade, his thumb brushing the edge of the guard in a slow, unconscious rhythm.

Elrohir’s arm tightened around Legolas, his hand splayed protectively at his side. His voice was quiet, but it cut with unyielding steel. “Then he will find no sport here.”

His gaze followed Glorfindel’s into the dark press of trees to the south. The shadows there seemed thicker, heavier, as if the very air bent around something unseen. His arm around Legolas tightened, every line of his body drawn taut, and the anger in him was a living thing—banked but searing.

“I will unmake him,” Elrohir said, his voice low as the deep places of the earth, each word struck with the weight of an oath. “For the trespass of his gaze upon you, I will see his shadow ended.” His fingers curled against Legolas’s side—not from dread, but as if to seal the vow in flesh and bone. The blue of the prince’s eyes caught the answering fire in his own, and Elrohir’s gaze turned southward—not to the trees, but to some distant field already marked in his mind, where his quarry awaited.

Erestor’s voice came like a cooling draught, quiet but with an edge that cut through the heat of Elrohir’s words. “Calm yourself. To storm into Dol Guldur on wrath alone will serve no one—not you, not him, and not the prince.” His eyes, dark and steady, fixed on Elrohir’s face as though anchoring him in place. “That fortress was built to devour the reckless. You would not return.”

Glorfindel’s tone held no mockery, though the steel in it was unmistakable. “You are a strong warrior—nearly a legend in your own right. But Khamûl is no common foe. Alone, you would not match him.” His gaze softened a fraction, the faintest echo of something almost paternal beneath the warning. “Strength is not in rushing headlong to meet the dark—it is in knowing when to strike, and how. Patience is a weapon too, if you have the will to wield it.”

Erestor’s attention shifted, lingering on Legolas as though the prince’s very presence confirmed some private calculation. His voice lowered, words turning almost to a riddle. “We must learn more of the south before we act. The straight path rarely leads to truth… and some doors will open only to those who do not seek them outright. There are other roads. Dreams, too, can be a light—if one knows how to follow them.”

The murmured thought seemed to hang between them, caught in the thin drift of athelas-scented steam still curling in the cool air. Firelight flickered against their faces, throwing their shadows long—pointed southward, toward the very darkness they spoke of.

Feren’s voice cut through the lingering hush like the snap of a bowstring. “Enough. Gather the wounded—we ride for the King’s halls without delay.” The edge in his tone carried more than urgency; it carried the unspoken weight of a captain who had no intention of leaving his prince exposed a heartbeat longer than necessary. His gaze swept the ring of Greenwood warriors, flint-bright and unyielding. “Caleth, Thalion—scout ahead. Ensure the way is clear of further threat. Nothing passes you unseen.”

The two Silvan warriors gave sharp, wordless nods and slipped away, vanishing into the deep green with the uncanny silence of those born to the wild. The whisper of their passing was gone almost before it began.

Turning back, Feren’s attention settled on the Imladris party. His expression was carved into something close to stone. “This is no tale for the open wood, nor for ears that have not the right to bear it. The King will hear it in full—and it will be to him you speak of Nazgûl in his realm.”

Elladan moved first, crouching beside Legolas with the steady efficiency of one who had done so for many wounded on many fields. He extended a hand, his other arm bracing to lift. Elrohir stepped in to mirror him, his fingers brushing the curve of the prince’s arm.

But before they could draw him up, Legolas’s hand came up in quiet refusal—a subtle gesture, but unyielding.

“I am well enough to walk,” he said. His voice was even, its calm underpinned by that unmistakable strand of Thranduil’s steel. The set of his jaw was resolute, his spine straight despite the lingering pallor beneath the faint flush of returning color.

Elrohir hesitated, the pressure of his hand still warm at Legolas’s elbow. His eyes searched the prince’s face, the furrow in his brow betraying his reluctance. But Legolas met his gaze, a faint and fleeting curve touching his lips—something that was neither jest nor formal courtesy, but a quiet reassurance meant for him alone.

And so they moved forward together. Elrohir walked close enough that their shoulders brushed with each step, the subtle contact a silent guard. Legolas’s stride was measured, deliberate—composed as though the shadow had never touched him, though there was a glint in his blue eyes now, colder and sharper than before.

It was the same look his father wore when danger pressed close—an unspoken vow that he would not be found faltering before friend or foe.

And so they went—Greenwood’s captain at their head, the wounded borne swift and silent beneath the trees. Caleth and Thalion slipped away like smoke, already far ahead, their eyes and ears turned to the forest’s every whisper, seeking any trace of threat that might linger on the air.

The path wound between ancient boles, roots coiling like the veins of the earth beneath their boots. High above, the canopy swayed in slow, solemn rhythm, the light falling in fractured beams that moved with them like watchful eyes. The scent of athelas clung faintly still, mingling with the sharper tang of ash and spider-venom burned away in the clearing they had left behind.

Elrohir kept to Legolas’s side, close enough that the brush of his arm was a quiet, constant anchor. The prince’s gaze stayed forward, clear now but unreadable, fixed on some point deep in the Greenwood as though measuring the distance between what was seen and what had just brushed against his soul. His pace unbroken—no trace of weakness in the lift of his head or the long, unhurried steps that carried him.

They passed beneath an arch of living boughs, the late light spilling through in threads of gold that caught and lingered in Legolas’s hair before dissolving into shadow. Yet that gold seemed paler now, the warmth of it thinning at the edges as if the forest itself kept some measure of its light in reserve, wary of the watching dark.

It was a strange convergence, heavy with the weight of unspoken omens—that the day the Noldor came to Thranduil’s halls in peace should be the same day the darkness chose to unveil its hand.

Far to the south, beneath the strangling boughs where no leaf knew the kiss of sun, the air lay stagnant, steeped in the stench of long decay. A fortress loomed from the poisoned earth like a black fang, its towers curling upward as though to claw the very stars from the sky.

In its high, lightless chamber, a figure stood motionless. No wind stirred here, yet the sable folds of his raiment whispered faintly—as though the stone itself exhaled around him. Where his face should have been, there was only darkness beneath a hood, smooth and still, its gaze turned to the north.

He had seen the child of the woods.

The echo of that presence still burned upon him—a trace of green-gold light pressing against the dark with a strength that should not have been. Though far, it gnawed at the borders of his shadow, holding it at bay like a living ward.

From the deeper black behind him, a greater darkness gathered—a will vast and formless, yet coiled with malice. It did not speak aloud; its voice was a current in the mind, slow and terrible, like deep water surging beneath ice.

We know this light… it reeks of her.

The hooded head tilted, not in reverence, but in a contemptuous acknowledgment—as one might name a slain foe with loathing sharpened by memory.

The Silvan Defiant.

Her song had once spilled through the Greenwood like a river in spring flood, binding leaf and stream, wind and stone to her will. A song strong enough to turn aside shadow, to scour the very air of its taint. The greater darkness pulsed with an old memory—of breaking her body to silence her voice. Of watching her blood soak the roots so that her song would be sung no more.

But she had not been alone.

“The son was with her,” the hooded face said softly, the words slipping like a knife between silk folds. “He was to die with her. But the trees—”

A faint tremor of disdain curled the voice.

“—they shielded him, hid him deep in their roots, as if bark and leaf could defy us. The boy lived. And her song lives in him. Her blood runs in his veins, her curse coils within his spirit. The same power that barred us then bars us still.”

From the deeper black came a slow, consuming thought:

The bright one hinders us. While his spirit yet endures, our shadow is stayed. His spirit stands against us, as hers did. The sire’s will binds the border, but the son is the heart. Break it… and all will fall.

The hooded face inclined further, hunger flashing in the darkness.

“Strike there, and the tree will wither from crown to root. Slay him, and the father’s strength will fail. He will fade as the moon fades from a winter sky, and all the Greenwood shall lie in ruin. Command it, and I shall be the hand. I will hunt him as the hawk hunts the fledgling, as frost hunts the bloom. His light shall gutter, his song shall be stilled, and his father shall behold the ruin.”

A pause—sharp as a blade held poised before the kill.

“And he was not alone,” the shadowed face added, voice lowering to a hiss. “The half-elven’s spawns were at his side—grey-eyed carrion bred from that accursed line that has long defied you. I will grind their legacy to dust beside the son of Oropher’s fool, and their bones will mark the path to your gates.”

The greater shadow stirred—soundless, slow, savoring—like a beast scenting blood upon the wind.

Far to the north, in the high halls beneath the Greenwood’s crown, Thranduil stilled. The quill in his hand paused midstroke, a bead of ink gathering at its point until it fell, black upon white. A shadow—no visible thing, yet felt—had brushed against him. It slid cold into his blood, alien to the deep-rooted calm of his realm, and carried with it a faint tang of ash, as though the air itself had soured.

He set the quill aside and rose, each motion deliberate, as though haste might give shape to the dread now coiling in the marrow of his bones. His steps took him to a tall, arched window. Beyond it, the forest rolled away in green-shadowed waves, stretching to the unseen line where light failed and the south began.

The air here was crisp, but it did not settle him. A subtle wrongness pressed upon him, faint yet unrelenting, like the echo of a note struck far below the range of hearing. It threaded through him with the unmistakable weight of a presence he could not name.

And then—a shiver, deep as winter, passed through him. Not his own.

For an instant—no more—he thought of his son.

The unease sharpened, heavy and certain. Somewhere beyond his sight, a shadow had reached toward the heart of his blood.

Thranduil’s fingers curled against the stone sill, his gaze fixed southward. In the silence of his hall, the King of the Greenwood stood unmoving, the gold of his hair catching the dying light—his eyes, bright as cold fire, searching a darkness he could not yet see.

Chapter Text

The muted rhythm of his boots on stone carried down the vaulted hall, the sound low and deliberate. Lanterns in wrought silver brackets burned steady, casting long shadows that moved with his stride. Thranduil’s hands remained clasped loosely behind his back, but the stillness in his bearing was the stillness of a bow held taut—restrained, yet ready to loose. Galion walked a half-step behind, as was his habit, his own tread near soundless. Along their path, guards and servants paused in their duties to bow, lowering their heads with the quiet deference due their king. None dared speak; the sharp line of his gaze discouraged even the mildest of courtesies.

Word had reached the king only moments ago: his son was in the healing chambers. No messenger had spoken of wounds or illness, only that the prince was there. It was enough to sharpen the air in Thranduil’s lungs, to kindle a prickle beneath the calm that never boded well. He was a king, yes, but in such moments that crown sat second to the mantle of father—a father who guarded his only son with the fierce vigilance of one who had lost too much already. The last time such tidings had come, Legolas had been carried back from the northern patrols half-conscious and fevered. For weeks afterward, the king’s temper in court had been iron-bound and unyielding, his patience worn thin, and the prince had not been allowed from his sight.

Without breaking his measured pace, he asked, “What word from Feren? Did he speak of what befell them?”

“Feren’s report placed them in the western woods, some miles south of the great road,” Galion replied. “They were set upon by spiders—more than is usual for that range—and returned with wounded. Lord Glorfindel and Lord Erestor have been shown to their chambers for rest. Lords Elladan and Elrohir remain with the prince.” The butler’s tone was matter-of-fact, yet a flicker of something more stirred in his eyes, as if he had weighed what it might mean for the sons of Elrond to keep vigil there.

A faint curve touched Thranduil’s mouth—humor shaped of steel rather than mirth. “It seems the Noldor are ever eager to test my son’s endurance. The last time he walked in their company, he was poisoned and burning with fever.”

Galion’s eyes glinted, though his voice remained even. “Fate or choice, my lord, I could not say.”

Thranduil’s gaze remained fixed ahead, though his voice thinned with the bite of irony. “And yet, they would have me believe it is wise to bind my son to their house in marriage. If this is how he fares in their company, I should think twice before offering them his hand—or his presence.”

Galion’s mouth twitched, though whether in amusement or agreement was difficult to tell. “Perhaps, my lord, they mean it as proof of their devotion—keeping him near enough to be imperiled at every turn.”

A faint breath escaped the king, more air than sound. “If so, they are reckless suitors.”

As they neared the open arch of the healing chambers, the quiet murmur of voices reached them—low at first, then clearer with each step, each syllable carrying the familiar timbre of his son’s voice.

“I am quite well,” Legolas was saying, the smooth cadence of his speech edged with the faint steel of impatience—a side seldom shown to others, save in rare moments when stubbornness rooted as deep as the ancient oaks. It was a trait his father knew well; a mirror of his own resolve.

“Well enough?” Elladan’s reply held the calm precision of one long practised in the art of reasoning with the unwilling. “You bear the Black Breath, and yet you would have been on your feet before the steam touched you.”

“It has passed,” Legolas countered, the music of his tone sharpening. “The athelas has done its work—”

“It has steadied you,” Elrohir’s voice cut gently across his brother’s, quiet but unyielding. “That is not the same as undone. You would not be sitting here if its shadow had not taken hold.”

The words struck Thranduil like a silent blow, halting his step mid-stride. The Black Breath. In an instant, the air in his lungs turned colder, sharper—like the bite of steel drawn too near the heart. Memory rose unbidden: the pallor of warriors who had carried that shadow back from war, the too-long stillness of those who did not wake. It was an old enemy, and its presence in his halls was a trespass he would not forgive. The measured calm in his stride coiled tighter, urgency threading through it like a bowstring drawn to breaking.

He stilled, listening.

“…then you will not tell him,” Legolas was saying, his voice lowered to a conspirator’s murmur, edged with the stubbornness as old as his bloodline.

“Elbereth forbid,” Elladan replied, equally quiet, “that we should be so foolish. But—”

“It is not your choice,” Elrohir interjected, his tone clipped with unspoken worry. “You ask us to keep from your father what he must know.”

“That is precisely why I ask it,” came Legolas’s answer, steady but soft, as though the very walls might carry his words further than he wished.

Thranduil’s hand flexed once behind his back before falling to his side. Whatever restraint had lingered was gone. He resumed his pace—quicker now, his mantle flaring with the turn—and stepped into the archway.

“The Black Breath,” he said, his voice cutting through the chamber like a sudden frost, cool and crystalline, yet edged with steel. “And my son counsels silence upon it?”

The air seemed to still at his arrival.

The chamber was bright with lamplight, the gold of it glancing off pale stone and polished bronze. The air was thick with the green-sharp fragrance of athelas, rising in curling threads from shallow basins where Greenwood healers bent to their work in the background. One sprinkled fresh leaves into the steaming water, another tested the heat with careful fingers, murmuring to the rest in their Silvan tongue.

Legolas sat upon a narrow bed, his back straight though blankets were drawn about his waist, the poise of his bearing at odds with the pallor that still lingered beneath his skin. Elladan stood near, hands folded behind him, his gaze steady and assessing. Elrohir was seated beside the prince, the closeness between them unfeigned—his knee brushing Legolas’s, his presence less that of a healer than of one who refused to yield his place.

The steam drifted between king and son, pale and curling, as though even the air knew it passed through something unspoken.

Legolas met his father’s eyes without flinching, the pale gold of his hair spilling loose about his shoulders, a few strands clinging damply to his temple from the steam. His voice was even, steeped in the measured cadence of the court—yet beneath the smooth surface ran the quiet current of defiance, a tempered steel his father knew too well.

“It is nothing that should trouble you, Adar. A passing shadow—no more.”

Thranduil’s gaze held him, unblinking, the frost of his eyes glacial in their stillness. “I have never taken you for a liar, Legolas,” he said, the words low and precise, as if weighed before release. “Do not compel me to do so now. Falsehood ill becomes a prince—and still less my son.”

The quiet reprimand carried more weight than any raised voice. Legolas’s shoulders eased by the slightest degree, his eyes lowering just enough to show that the arrow had found its mark.

Elladan’s voice entered the pause, smooth yet unyielding, each syllable shaped with the care of one who spoke both to a king and a father. “With respect, my lord, this was no passing shadow. Your son was struck from afar by the Black Breath—no blade, no shaft, no mortal hand. Only a voice upon the air, speaking in the Black Tongue, and a will that sought to drag him down into darkness. It clung to his spirit with the tenacity of old malice. He resisted—fiercely—but the shadow took hold before we could react.”

At that, Elrohir’s hand moved almost of its own accord, seeking Legolas’s fingers and closing around them with a steady, grounding pressure. He turned the hand palm-up, as though to weigh the fragile warmth of the life it held, and bowed his head. The brush of his lips across the back of Legolas’s hand was brief, yet its meaning lingered like the echo of an oath—an unspoken promise that he would guard what he now touched. Their gazes caught and held in the space between words, grey meeting blue with an unguarded intimacy that spoke more than any vow.

A shadow flickered across Thranduil’s gaze—quick, sharp, and cold as a hawk’s wing cutting across a winter sun. The line of his jaw tightened; the air about him seemed to still, as though the hall itself had taken heed of his displeasure at such a gesture, bold and too public for his liking.

With the unhurried grace of a ruler accustomed to obedience, he stepped forward until the lamplight gilded the edges of his mantle and crown. Long fingers, cool and steady, came to rest beneath his son’s chin, tilting Legolas’s face upward into the full measure of his scrutiny. His eyes moved with quiet precision over every line—the measured breath, the faint hollow beneath the cheekbone, the pallor only partly masked by composure.

At last, Thranduil laid his palm lightly to his son’s brow—not in the manner of comfort, but as one who would take the true measure of his health. His touch lingered, as though he might read in the stillness beneath skin the state of the fëa itself—its strength, its strain, the shadow it had wrestled. His gaze did not waver, even when Legolas’s eyes softened beneath it.

“You are fatigued,” he said at last, voice cool and deliberate, the words carrying both an assessment and a rebuke. “Not only in body—your spirit is wearied. Do not tell me otherwise.”

Thranduil’s hand fell away, though his eyes did not. There was no haste in his regard—only the patient, implacable force of one who had seen centuries turn and knew that silence, more than speech, could strip away the strongest walls.

“The truth, Legolas.”

The words carried the weight of crown and kinship, a summons that was both king’s command and father’s demand. His voice cut through the lamplit chamber like a drawn blade, leaving no room for evasion. “Not the comfort you would give to quiet your healers, nor the tale you would shape to ease my mind. Speak what truly befell you.” His gaze, keen as honed steel, flicked briefly toward the Peredhil. “And tell me why you found yourself within reach of a Nazgûl while no one thought to put themselves between it and my son.”

The question struck with the force of accusation, though his eyes lingered on Elladan and Elrohir only long enough for the unspoken weight of it to settle.

Legolas’s jaw tightened—a flash of that seldom-shown steel that mirrored his father’s own when resolve took root. Yet it eased a breath later, his eyes lowering briefly before lifting again to meet Thranduil’s without flinching. “They did not know,” he said, voice even but edged with quiet defense. “They were tending to one of our warriors—she had been struck hard by the spiders. The attack came swiftly. They had no reason to think such a shadow would be there.”

He drew in a slow, measured breath before continuing, his tone pitched low but carrying clearly to every corner of the chamber. “I heard it before I felt it. A voice—ragged, broken, yet deliberate. It was no hiss of wind nor groan of wood. It spoke in a tongue that clawed at my thoughts, scraping at my spirit as one might worry at a wound. There was hatred in it—deep, ancient hatred—and a will that sought me out across the trees.”

Almost unconsciously, his gaze flicked to Elrohir, as if the nearness of his touch anchored him against the chill memory. “It did not strike as a blade would. It pressed into me, pulling at my fëa, as though to draw me from myself… to fold me into its darkness. I could not tell where breath ended and shadow began. The trees closed in around me, and the scent of athelas was like a rope flung across a chasm. Without them, I would not be here.”

Around them, the quiet work of the healers receded to a muted hum. The clink of bronze, the rustle of leaves in boiling water—all seemed distant, as if the prince’s words had drawn a stillness over the room.

Thranduil’s face, already grave, deepened into something heavier. His mouth set in a line carved of both command and dread, and his gaze shifted, narrowing toward the southern arch as though he might pierce stone and distance to lay eyes upon the source of what had dared to touch his son.

“I felt it also,” Thranduil said at last, the quiet in his tone carrying more weight than raised steel. “Like a breath of ice beneath the roots—an ill wind creeping where none should pass. I thought it a moment’s trespass upon the mind, no more. But I see now it was not mine alone to bear.”

The words fell into the chamber like a muted bell, the reverberation felt more than heard. Elladan’s head turned sharply, his grey eyes narrowing with the swift, assessing focus of one who hears the first footstep of an advancing foe. Elrohir’s hand closed more firmly around Legolas’s, his thumb pressing against the prince’s knuckles as though to ground him—while his other hand shifted subtly to the small of his back, a gesture both steadying and possessive.

“You felt it here?” Elladan asked, the precision of his voice failing to mask the thread of unease beneath.

Thranduil’s gaze cut to them, as keen and unyielding as a drawn bowstring. “Yes,” he said, each syllable falling with measured finality. “Here. In my own halls. And I will see to it that no such shadow passes my borders unchallenged—nor leaves unpunished.”

Thranduil’s gaze lingered on his son a heartbeat longer before he turned toward Galion, who had remained a respectful distance away, granting them the courtesy of privacy.

“Galion,” he said, his voice smooth as polished steel, “see the sons of Elrond to their guest chambers.”

Elrohir’s fingers tightened around Legolas’s, the connection more an anchor than a gesture. His jaw set, the muscles in it flexing as if holding back the full weight of his refusal. “I would remain here,” he said, low but firm, “until I am certain—”

“You are in Greenwood, Elrondion,” Thranduil cut across him, each word measured and cool, like ice laid over a hidden blade. “And here, I am King. My word is not a suggestion, nor a point for debate.” His eyes, pale and unblinking, did not leave Elrohir’s face.

A flicker of heat rose in the Peredhel’s expression, anger flashing and gone in the space of a breath, though it lingered in the tension of his shoulders.

“Tomorrow,” Thranduil continued, his tone sharpening to the clean edge of command, “you and your kin will stand before me and my court. You will make your suit openly—formally—asking for my son’s hand, and thus begin the trials I have set. Do not give me reason to refuse you before you have even spoken the words. Do not test me already, Elrohir, when my son has met with shadow within the first day of your reunion.”

Legolas’s gaze shifted between them, the faint crease between his brows betraying his unease. His hand remained in Elrohir’s, thumb brushing lightly against the back of it in quiet reassurance.

Elladan, who had stood silent until now, let his eyes move between his brother and the Elvenking, reading the currents of pride and defiance that met and clashed in the space between them. At last, he stepped forward, laying a steadying hand upon Elrohir’s shoulder

“Come,” he said, voice even but firm. “We have ridden far, and both of us need rest before tomorrow.”

For a moment, Elrohir did not move, his eyes locked with Legolas’s—something unspoken passing in that long breath before he rose. Only when he had taken two steps toward the arch did his fingers slip from the prince’s.

Thranduil’s gaze did not soften as Elrohir rose. For an instant, he regarded the Peredhel in a silence that felt like the pause before an arrow’s release—measuring, weighing, and finding in him both defiance and devotion. It was not a challenge returned, but neither was it an acquiescence.

Then his eyes shifted to Legolas, and though no warmth overtly touched his features, the cast of his expression changed. It was a look of possession—not of dominance, but of guardianship—rooted in the knowledge of all he had nearly lost before. A father’s gaze, sharpened by the memory of grief.

Galion stepped forward at last, inclining his head with the quiet assurance of one who had served through centuries of tempests, both political and personal. “My lords,” he said, voice smooth and respectful, “if you will follow me, I shall see you to your chambers.”

Elladan inclined his head in return, his manner courteous yet guarded. “Lead on, Master Galion.”

Elrohir lingered a breath longer, his eyes fixed on Legolas as if imprinting the sight of him, before at last turning to join his brother.

As they passed into the corridor, the lanternlight caught in the fine grain of the carved stone and the silver threadwork at the hem of Galion’s tunic. He fell into step beside them, his stride unhurried and measured to their pace. “You will find our guest quarters comfortable,” he remarked, his tone politely conversational yet edged with something subtler. “Not so lavish as those in Imladris, perhaps, but Greenwood is not built for idle display. We prefer strength to ornament. The stone holds the heat well in winter, and the air stays cool in summer. You will sleep soundly… provided the king allows it.”

He glanced sidelong at them, a faint flicker of mirth sparking in his eyes—just enough to blur the line between jest and warning. “Your chambers are not far from the Prince’s,” he said, with deliberate care for the title, “and the Prince’s chambers stand directly beside His Majesty’s own. I imagine you did not know this.” His voice smoothed over the words like silk over steel. “The walls are stout, of course… though not so stout as to still every sound.”

The glance he leveled at Elrohir afterward was perfectly courteous—refined enough to pass unremarked in any hall—yet its weight was unmistakable. It was the look of one who had served the Greenwood’s King long enough to know precisely how far to let a jest run before it became a warning, and who could deliver both in the same breath. Beneath its polished veneer lay the reminder that nothing within these halls escaped the king’s notice.

Elladan’s mouth curved in the ghost of a smile, his eyes alight with private amusement at the implication. Elrohir caught it and, without breaking stride, shot his brother a glare sharp enough to have silenced a lesser elf.

The soft tread of their steps faded beyond the archway, leaving only the muted crackle of the brazier and the faint hiss of steam from the athelas. The quiet settled deep, wrapping the chamber in a stillness that was almost intimate.

When the hush had taken root, Legolas shifted slightly against the pillows, a faint spark of amusement breaking through the lingering pallor in his face. “You need not be so hard upon him, Adar,” he said, his tone light but threaded with quiet reproach. “He has crossed leagues to stand here.”

Rather than take the waiting chair, Thranduil set it aside with a faint turn of his hand and moved to the bed itself, lowering himself to sit beside his son. The mantle pooled in folds of deep green about him, and the faint scent of cedar and cold air clung to its edge. He sat close enough that their knees touched, his presence as deliberate and immovable as the roots of the great beeches above.

“Nettle-sprite,” he said at last, his voice carrying that familiar blend of cool command and understated humor, “if he means to stand before me and claim you, I will test him with all the skill and patience my long years have granted. I will press, and pry, and weigh him until he finds the door himself—or proves too stubborn to take it.”

The corners of Legolas’s mouth curved upward, the warmth of it tempered by his weariness. “And if he does not take it?”

“Then,” Thranduil replied, the dry lift of his brow a subtle challenge, “he will endure the trials I set—and he will do so under my eye until I am convinced he is worthy to stand at your side.”

For a moment, the keen light in his gaze eased, the winter-blue softening to something quieter, more private—a fondness rarely allowed beyond these walls.

Legolas’s smile lingered from the words, warm even against the weariness that still shadowed his face. Thranduil’s gaze caught upon it, and with deliberate grace, he lifted a hand, the cool length of his fingers curving beneath his son’s chin. His thumb traced the curve of that smile as though testing its truth, the touch both gentle and possessive, as if to remind himself that his son still sat before him, whole.

“You will forgive me,” he said, voice low and threaded with dry irony, “if I do not rush to see my only son bound—especially while he is yet so young. And to one far older than himself… and a Noldor besides.”

A quiet laugh slipped from Legolas, his eyes brightening with familiar mischief. “I am not young, Adar. I am hardly a child.”

Thranduil’s brow arched, the faintest glint of amusement catching in the winter-blue of his gaze. “You act as one often enough. To me, ion-nín, you are scarcely more than a blink—one bright moment in an age that began before the mountains wore the shapes you know.”

Legolas tilted his head, feigning gravity, though the spark in his eyes betrayed him. “Then you must be ancient beyond telling.”

The king’s lips curved in the barest suggestion of a smile, cool and knowing. “A truth you would do well to remember.”

Thranduil’s gaze lingered on his son a heartbeat longer, his expression unreadable save for the faint tightening at the corners of his eyes. Then, without looking away, he turned his head slightly toward the healers who had kept discreetly to the edges of the chamber.

“A cloth,” he said, his voice low but carrying the subtle weight of command that made even the softest syllable an order. “And water.”

At once, one of the healers stepped forward, her tread near soundless upon the polished stone. She bore a small basin of steaming water, fragrant with crushed athelas leaves, and a folded cloth of fine linen. Thranduil accepted them with a brief nod—formal, though without coldness—and set the basin upon the nearby table.

He dipped the cloth into the water, the steam curling up around his fingers in pale tendrils. Long hands, steady as they had been on a bowstring for centuries, wrung the linen until it was damp but not dripping. The faint heat and the clean, green-sweet scent rose together between them.

When he turned back to Legolas, his movements were unhurried. He began at the temple, drawing the cloth in slow, measured sweeps across his son’s brow, then down along the fine cut of his cheekbone. The touch was light, careful, as though mapping the familiar lines of a face he had known since its first days in the world. Droplets caught in the pale gold strands of Legolas’s hair, and the king smoothed them back with a flick of his thumb.

“I remember,” Thranduil said at last, the words spoken with the cool cadence of one conjuring a vision as sharp in memory as it had been in life, “as though it were yesterday, when you were scarcely to my knee. You would fly through these halls barefoot, heedless of all dignity, hair tangled by the wind, and laugh as if you could race the birds themselves.”

The faintest curve touched his mouth, but it did not soften the regal line of his face. “You would make me chase you… which was quite unbecoming of a king.” The cloth lingered at his son’s jaw, the king’s fingers resting there an instant longer before he continued, his voice dropping half a tone. “And yet, I ran.”

Legolas’s mouth curved, a soft laugh escaping him despite the weariness in his frame. “And yet you still chase after me, Adar,” he said, the teasing lilt in his tone threading lightness into the air between them.

Thranduil’s brows arched, a faint gleam catching in his winter-blue gaze. “Indeed,” he returned, his voice cool and edged with wryness, “and that, nettle-sprite, is precisely why I still call you a child.”

The cloth moved in another slow sweep, tracing from temple to cheek before gliding down the long line of Legolas’s throat. Thranduil’s touch was unhurried, deliberate—more than the gesture of a king inspecting his heir, it was a father’s quiet reassurance, as if the simple act of wiping away the remnants of fever and shadow could anchor his son more firmly in the present.

From the far side of the chamber, one of the healers approached with a goblet of steaming water steeped in crushed herbs—willowbark, athelasl, and goldenrod. The sharp, astringent scent curled in the air, its bitterness unmistakable. Legolas took one look at it and made a faint, eloquent grimace, his expression alone enough to draw the barest flicker of amusement from the healer.

“I know that brew,” he murmured, his voice flat but with a thread of rueful humor. “It does not improve with time.”

When he tried to sit forward, the movement pulled a faint strain across his features, his muscles tightening with effort. In an instant, Thranduil’s hand was at his back, the other bracing his arm, guiding him upward with unerring steadiness.

“Not so quickly,” the king said, his tone low—gentle in sound, but with the unyielding authority of one accustomed to obedience.

Once Legolas was upright, Thranduil took the goblet himself, the rising steam briefly clouding the space between them, and brought it to his son’s lips.

“Adar—” Legolas began, though his protest lacked conviction, “—I can drink it myself.”

“Indulge me,” Thranduil said, the words carrying the calm certainty of a command disguised as a request.

Legolas yielded, drinking in slow, measured swallows, his face twisting faintly at the bitterness. Thranduil kept the goblet steady until the last drop was gone, then set it aside with quiet finality.

A ripple of unspoken sentiment passed among the healers in the background, subtle as wind through high leaves. No one dared break the quiet, but eyes met over the low tables where herbs lay steeping, and the faintest curve of knowing smiles passed between them. They had seen their king command armies, turn aside threats at the very gates, hold court with the poise of carved stone—but rarely this. Here, the polished mantle of rulership was set aside without ceremony. The light from the high windows caught in the pale sweep of his hair as he steadied the goblet in his son’s hands, the gesture unadorned yet fierce in its intent. In that moment, he was not the untouchable ruler of Greenwood, but a father tending the one life he guarded above all others—a care as constant and unyielding as the deep roots of the forest itself, needing no witnesses, yet witnessed all the same.

Legolas sank back into the pillows, his breath easing though not yet deepening into rest. Weariness clung to him like a shadow, seeping into the lines of his face and the slow rise and fall of his chest. Without a word, Thranduil’s hand came to rest upon his brow—cool, steady, the weight of it at once assessing and protective. His thumb brushed lightly along the temple before stilling, as if anchoring his son to the present.

“Rest now,” he said, the tone quiet but unyielding, the kind that had stilled unrest in council halls and on battlefields alike. “I will guard your dreams.”

For a long moment, Legolas lay still beneath that touch, gaze half-lidded. Yet a faint furrow formed between his brows, and at last he spoke, voice low but edged with something uncharacteristic. “Adar…” The word was almost hesitant. “I am afraid.” His hand curled faintly atop the coverlet. “I have never felt such fear—not in the north, nor the darkest hours of the watch—until I heard its voice. Until I felt it. It shamed me that it should take hold so swiftly.”

Thranduil’s gaze did not waver, though the pale fire in his eyes flared. “You will feel no shame for truth, ion-nín,” he said, his voice smooth but layered with steel. “The Nine are no foes to be met lightly—even the eldest among us would think twice before standing before them. And the one long suspected in Dol Guldur—” His tone shifted, sharpening like a blade drawn slow from its sheath. “—is no lesser wraith to be brushed aside. Khamûl. He hunted long before you first opened your eyes to this world. He has the patience of stone and the malice of deep-rooted rot. His will seeps through wood and earth alike, and his shadow lingers where his feet have not trod in years.”

His hand remained against his son’s brow, the faintest pressure there as though he might press back whatever darkness still lingered. “If you felt his hand upon you, then you stood in the path of a hunter who has claimed kings and captains before you. Do not mistake surviving it for weakness.”

Legolas’s gaze lingered on his father’s, steady despite the heaviness in his features. “Adar…” He paused, as though measuring each word before letting it pass. “The voice I heard first—before Khamûl’s cry—it was not the same.”

Thranduil’s hand, still resting lightly at his brow, stilled entirely. “Not the same?”

Legolas’s eyes shifted, unfocused, following a memory he would rather not chase. “Both spoke in the Black Tongue… yet the first—” His breath caught, and he shook his head faintly. “It was different. It struck at me, yes, and it hurt to hear, but… it was not the harsh, tearing command of a wraith. It was… sweet.” He seemed almost reluctant to speak the word, as if giving it shape made it more dangerous. “Sweet, like honey over steel. Persuasion in place of force. As though it would draw me closer by my own will, if I only listened… and beneath it, something colder than death.”

The brazier’s low flame hissed faintly, the only sound in the pause that followed.

Thranduil’s gaze did not waver from his son’s face, yet the shift in it was sharp and unmistakable—a tightening, like a bowstring drawn and held in silence. The stillness that came over him was heavy, measured, as though each breath was weighed before being taken. In the depth of his winter-blue eyes, something unreadable moved and vanished again, leaving only the calm, unyielding mask of the king.

But within, the shape of a long-held suspicion rose again, sharper now, its shadow stretching toward the truth he had always dreaded might come. He pressed it down, locking it behind the walls he had built over centuries. Legolas needed rest, not the burden of his father’s knowledge.

His hand smoothed once more over his son’s temple, as if grounding him back in the present. “Rest now,” he repeated quietly, his voice even, betraying nothing of the dark turn of his thoughts. “Let the shadow trouble me instead.”

His hand left Legolas’s brow only to take the edge of the coverlet, drawing it higher in a smooth, deliberate motion until it rested close beneath his son’s collarbone. The fabric was tucked with a precision that spoke less of habit and more of an unspoken oath—that while his son lay here, nothing ill would reach him.

Legolas’s gaze tracked the movement, a faint curve touching his mouth despite the lingering weariness in his eyes. “Do you mean to sit here the entire time?” he asked, his voice quiet, yet laced with the mild temerity of one who already knew the answer. “Will you set aside the duties of the throne for me?”

The corner of Thranduil’s mouth lifted—not in mirth, but in something colder, sharper. “The realm has endured without my presence on the field, ion-nín, and it will survive a few hours without me in the court.” His winter-blue eyes met Legolas’s without wavering. “The crown does not keep my vigil. I do.”

The words were not loud, yet they carried the unyielding weight of truth, as though no force in Greenwood could shift him from this place until he chose to rise.

A faint, slow breath escaped Legolas, the barest curve of a smile brushing his lips. “The court will grow restless without someone to frighten them,” he murmured, the lilt of the jest softened by the fraying edges of weariness.

His eyes—half-lidded, the pale gleam dulled by the onset of elven rest, gazed at his father as one hand shifted atop the coverlet, the movement slow and almost drowsy, fingers feeling their way across the folds until they brushed against Thranduil’s. It was a seeking touch, wordless but deliberate, as if in that contact lay the final tether to the waking world.

Thranduil stilled. For the space of a heartbeat, he simply regarded the offered hand, its long, archer’s fingers relaxed now in a way he had seldom seen since his son’s youth. Then he closed his own over them, his grip cool and certain, not possessive but immovable—like a root that would not give way to any storm.

The lines of strain about Legolas’s mouth eased. His breathing slowed, each rise and fall of his chest lengthening into the deep, even rhythm that marked the beginnings of true rest. The half-focus in his eyes faded until only the barest crescent of bright iris showed beneath lowered lids.

Thranduil’s gaze did not wander. He studied his son’s face with the same quiet intensity he might give to the horizon before a battle, searching for any shadow that lingered. When his eyes finally lifted, it was only to sweep the chamber in silence, taking in the steady glow of the lamps, the soft rustle of the healers at their distant work, the muted song of the wind through the high, carved windows.

Even as the minutes stretched, he did not release his hold.

The soft pad of measured footsteps broke the quiet, and Galion slipped into the chamber with the ease of one who had moved through these halls at the king’s side for centuries. He paused just within the archway, taking in the stillness—the lamplight pooling gold over carved wood, the faint wisp of steam curling from the abandoned goblet, the king seated on the bed with his son’s hand clasped lightly in his own.

“I have delivered your… guests to their chambers,” Galion reported, his tone threaded with that wry amusement only he could wield without earning censure. “The younger one scowled the whole way, my lord—so fiercely I half-expected the torches to gutter as we passed.”

Thranduil did not glance away from the figure reclining against the pillows. His thumb shifted slightly against his son’s knuckles, a slow, absent motion. “Let him scowl,” he said, his voice quiet but edged with finality. “The walls will not fall for it. Neither will I.”

Galion’s brow arched, though his mouth betrayed the faintest curve. “Shall I also inform your counselors that you will not be attending their meeting? They are gathered even now, awaiting your arrival—no doubt armed with parchments and speeches.”

“They may continue to await,” Thranduil replied without pause. “It will give them something to discuss. Talking among themselves is what they most enjoy, and it spares me the pretense of listening.”

A dry huff of laughter escaped Galion. “A rare gift from their king, to be certain. Though I cannot recall you ever granting them quite so generous an interval to indulge in their own voices.”

At that, the king’s gaze finally shifted, pale and direct. “Some matters outweigh counsel,” he said, and the weight behind it was not up for debate.

Galion’s eyes softened as they returned to the bed. Legolas lay in the faint half-focus of elven rest, lids lowered but not fully closed, his breathing slow and steady. His fingers were still curled loosely around his father’s hand, the gesture speaking of both weariness and trust. The sight drew something quieter into Galion’s voice as he stepped nearer.

“How fares he?” he asked, and the formal address fell away, replaced by the simple familiarity of one who had watched the prince grow from the cradle.

Thranduil’s gaze lingered on his son, the fierce edges of his expression tempered—though never fully set aside. “He will mend,” he said at last, the words quiet yet carrying the weight of an oath. “But the shadow leaves its mark, even when driven out. That, I will watch for.” The tone was not the idle reassurance of a courtier, but the measured certainty of a king who had survived ages of loss and meant to guard against it here.

With his free hand, he reached to smooth a strand of gold that had slipped loose across Legolas’s cheek, the motion slow and deliberate. The silken hair slid easily beneath his fingers, cool from the lingering damp of the healing chamber, and he brushed it back toward the pillow. His hand lingered a fraction longer than necessary, tracing the faint curve of his son’s temple—a gesture as much to reassure himself as to restore order.

Galion, who had remained respectfully apart until now, allowed a small, knowing smile to touch his mouth. “I knew,” he murmured, his voice pitched low as if unwilling to disturb the quiet, “from the first smile the prince ever gave you that he would spend his life testing your resolve. And that you, my lord, for all your lofty airs, would let him. Indeed, I have seen it—time and again—how a single glance from him can sway what no counsel or plea from your lords could move.”

Thranduil’s mouth curved—not into a smile, but into that faint, inscrutable line Galion had learned to read over the centuries: the mark of a thought withheld, an answer weighed and measured before release. His gaze remained fixed on the sleeping prince, the winter-blue of his eyes softened by lamplight, yet still carrying the steel of one who had never wholly put down the crown.

“Careful, Galion,” he said at last, the words flowing with the quiet elegance of a blade drawn without haste, “or I shall begin to suspect you think me soft.”

Galion’s brows rose, his expression a perfect mask of mock innocence, though the faint glimmer in his eyes betrayed his amusement. “Perish the thought, my lord. I only mean…”—his glance flicked to Legolas, whose hand still rested lightly in Thranduil’s—“…that no fortress, whether of stone, steel, or the will of a king, has ever stood long against the prince’s designs.”

A low sound stirred in Thranduil’s throat—not quite a laugh, but the shadow of one, caught between fondness and wry acknowledgment. “He is my son,” he said simply. “It is his right to test the walls I build… and mine to see that they do not fall.”

Galion inclined his head, the barest ghost of a smile touching his mouth. “Walls, perhaps,” he murmured, “but doors… doors, I think, he will always find open.”

Thranduil said nothing to that, but the stillness that followed held its own truth. His gaze did not stray from his son, watching the faint, even rise of his chest as though the pattern itself were a thing to be guarded. His fingers, still loosely curved around Legolas’s hand, tightened imperceptibly before he spoke—quietly, yet with the kind of weight that could bend lesser wills.

“Send word to Feren,” he said, each syllable deliberate, “that Legolas’s name is to be struck from the patrol lists. Effective at once.”

From his place, Galion’s brows lifted a fraction, the lines at the corner of his eyes deepening. “The prince will not take kindly to that, my lord,” he murmured, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the prince’s rest. “Your son has never suffered stillness gladly—least of all when it is ordered.”

“I care little for what he will bear,” Thranduil returned, his tone even but edged with an unmistakable finality. “I will not have him set foot beyond these walls while the shadow of a Nazgûl lingers near. Not while the echo of its breath has touched him.” His gaze sharpened, fixed on some unseen point beyond the chamber walls. “That darkness will not have him again. Not while I live to bar its path.”

Something in the timbre of the last words stilled the air between them. Galion inclined his head in quiet assent, though the faint crease at his brow betrayed his awareness of the storm that would break when the order reached the prince’s ears.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The muted crackle of the brazier and the slow, steady breath of the sleeping prince were the only sounds. Galion, reading the stillness as his dismissal, inclined his head and withdrew without another word.

When the door closed, Thranduil remained unmoving, the quiet mantle of kingship set aside for the vigil of a father. Outside, the night deepened over Greenwood, but within the chamber, the lamplight held—steady and unyielding, as if it too meant to keep the dark at bay.

Steam still lingered faintly in the chamber, curling from the wet fall of Elrohir’s hair where it clung dark and heavy against his shoulders. The linen robe about his frame was loosely belted, the folds parting just enough to bare the steady rise and fall of his chest. He sat before the fire, the light casting restless gold and shadow across his face, his gaze fixed into the flames with the unwavering stillness that meant his thoughts had gone far from the room. Drops of water slipped from the ends of his hair to darken the robe’s collar, and the faint scent of cedar oil rose from his skin.

The latch turned without warning, and Elladan stepped in—unhurried, his stride carrying the quiet confidence of one who had walked into his twin’s presence for centuries without knocking. He paused just inside the threshold, taking in the sight before him, and one brow arched in unfeigned amusement.

“Valar, brother,” he said, his tone warm with long practice at needling, “have you adopted the Greenwood art of brooding so soon? Wet hair clinging to your shoulders, half-clothed before the fire, staring as though the fate of Arda smoulders in those embers… You look less like a lord of Imladris and more like some river-spirit dragged ashore and left to scandalize the king’s household.”

His gaze swept deliberately over the robe and back to Elrohir’s face, the corner of his mouth curling. “Or is this your attempt to ensure word reaches the prince that you pine away in noble disarray?”

Elrohir’s eyes cut toward him, the firelight catching in the grey like tempered steel. “Must you always speak?” he asked, his voice quiet but edged, though the bite was blunted by the weight of millennia spent in each other’s company. “Or does silence burn your tongue?”

Elladan’s answer was a quiet laugh—low, knowing, and entirely without remorse—as he crossed the chamber with the unhurried confidence of one who had walked into his brother’s space uninvited since before either could remember. On the way, he caught up a folded towel from the arm of a nearby chair, snapping it once between his hands as if to test its weight.

“Come now,” he said, circling behind the chair where Elrohir sat, “if you insist on posing like some tragic figure out of the lays, at least let me spare you the indignity of taking a chill before your grand courtship begins.”

Without waiting for leave, he draped the towel over the crown of Elrohir’s head, the weave drinking greedily at the lingering damp, and began to rub in slow, firm passes. Droplets fell to hiss faintly against the stone of the hearth, the scent of cedar oil rising more sharply with each motion, mingling with the dry heat of the fire.

Elladan’s fingers moved with the practiced ease of one long accustomed to such liberties, combing through the wet strands before wrapping them in the towel and blotting the excess water away. “Besides,” he went on, his tone still threaded with quiet amusement, “if word does reach the prince, best it not be that you look like some half-drowned wraith dragged from the river.”

The corner of Elrohir’s mouth twitched as though he might answer, but he held his tongue—for the moment.

Elladan gave the towel a final, firm pass through his brother’s hair, the linen rasping faintly before he set it aside. He moved without hurry to the low table by the wall, where a carved comb lay among a scattering of toiletries. His fingers closed around it with the familiarity of one who had untangled his brother’s hair a hundred times before.

“Sit forward,” he said, his tone more directive than request, the flat of his palm pressing lightly against Elrohir’s shoulder.

Elrohir leaned toward the fire, the robe parting slightly at the throat, and the flames painted restless gold along his collarbone. The comb began its slow, deliberate work through the heavy, dark strands—each pull measured, easing free the water-weighted tangles. The faint rasp of wood against hair was steady, unhurried, the kind of care given only in quiet moments between those who had weathered centuries together.

When Elrohir spoke, it was almost as though the words had been weighing at the back of his throat since the moment he left the prince’s side. “I cannot set it aside,” he said, eyes fixed into the flames. “The way he looked at me… I have never seen such fear in him. Not once.”

The comb faltered for the briefest beat before resuming its rhythm.

“And his skin—” Elrohir’s jaw tightened, his voice sharpening into something colder. “It was like ice beneath my hands. As though the shadow had seeped into his very blood, trying to hollow him out from within. I will not see that again. Not while I breathe.”

He drew in a slow breath, the firelight catching in the hard line of his eyes. “I will face Khamûl. And I will see him ended—root and shadow, until nothing of him remains to touch what is mine.”

The flames bent in the draft from the chimney, their light throwing Elrohir’s profile into sharp relief—the carved set of his jaw, the resolve etched deep into every line of his face.

Elladan made a low sound in his throat—half sigh, half chuckle—and, without warning, gave the back of Elrohir’s head a light tap with the comb.

“Valiant declarations already?” he murmured, his voice pitched with wry amusement. “Careful, or you will start sounding like Father after his second goblet of wine.”

Elrohir shot him a sidelong glare, but Elladan only met it with infuriating calm, setting the comb to work again. The teeth slid through the dark strands with slow, deliberate care, catching now and again on a tangle that he eased free with patient fingers.

“You will face him,” Elladan said at last, the humor softening into something steadier, “but not in this state—and not alone. You know as well as I that the Nine are no common foe. They are shadow given will, and this one has already marked him once. Charging headlong will do more for its cause than ours.”

The comb paused mid-stroke, resting lightly against Elrohir’s hair. “Bide your time,” Elladan went on, quieter still. “Watch, listen, and wait until the moment is of your choosing, not his.”

Then, as if to blunt the weight of his counsel, he resumed combing and gave a faint, deliberate tug, just enough to draw a muttered protest from his brother. “Besides,” he added with a faint curve of his lips, “if you go hunting spectres now, you will miss the chance to prove to Thranduil that you can stand at his son’s side without giving him cause to bar the gates entirely.”

Elrohir’s gaze stayed on the flames, the gold and shadow playing across his face as if the fire itself tried to read his thoughts. The comb’s steady passage through his hair was a faint, distant thing—secondary to the images still carved sharp in his mind.

“In moments like today,” he began, voice low, “when I saw him pale and unsteady beneath that shadow’s reach—when his hand found mine as though the whole of his strength lay in that grip—I remember just how young he truly is. Not only by the count of years, perhaps… but in the measure of what he has faced.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, the fire catching in their grey depths. “I have seen captains twice his age falter under less. And yet he stood there, though his spirit was close to breaking.” His jaw tightened, the next words drawn out like something half-ashamed to be spoken. “Still… to see that fear in him—to feel it in the cold of his skin—it unsettles me in a way I can neither master nor name.”

Elladan’s hand slowed in its work, the comb resting briefly against the dark fall of his twin’s hair. In the shifting light, his expression was hard to read, but his voice came steady. “Do not forget,” he said, “that he is young—and that this was his first true brush with such darkness. You cannot hold that against him, as if it were a failing to endure the Shadow for the first time.”

He set the comb aside long enough to rest a firm hand on Elrohir’s shoulder, the weight of it both grounding and fraternal. “If you would guard him, then guard him as he is, not as you wish him to be. It is yours to help him bear it… not to burden him with the reckoning of years he does not yet carry.”

Elrohir’s head tipped slightly toward his brother, though his gaze did not shift from the flames. “I do not judge him,” he said at last, each word chosen with care, tempered of heat. “But I fear…” His jaw tightened, the firelight catching on the faint line it carved. “I fear what the shadow might steal from him before he even grasps the full measure of his own strength. And if it takes root too deep—” his voice dropped, roughened by something unspoken “—I may not know the path to bring him back.”

Elladan resumed combing his hair, the strokes slower, more deliberate, as though ordering his own thoughts. “Then you must be more than his betrothed,” he said, his tone quiet but unyielding. “More than the elf who walks at his side in peace. You must be his teacher—patient when the lesson grates, steadfast when he falters, unshaken when the darkness tests him.”

The comb stilled once more, Elladan’s gaze drifting beyond the chamber as if drawn toward some horizon only he could see. When he spoke again, his voice carried the weight of foresight—the cadence of one who does not invite such glimpses, yet cannot deny them. “I cannot tell its shape, but there is purpose in him, Elrohir. Something greater than either of us can yet grasp. It will draw him into the very heart of the age’s turning—and perhaps into the teeth of its darkness.”

His eyes came back to his brother, clear and unwavering. “If you mean to bind your life to his, you must be ready to walk with him into that darkness—and not only to walk, but to see him through it. No matter how far it reaches… or how deep it takes you both.”

For a moment, the weight of the words lingered between them, carried on the faint scent of the oils they had used to smooth Elrohir’s hair. Elladan let the comb’s final stroke fall, then set it aside on the nearby table. As he straightened, his hand caught the fold of the robe that had slipped from Elrohir’s shoulder during the combing. With a practiced, almost absent care, he drew the fabric back into place, fingers brushing lightly against damp skin.

The shadow of solemnity eased from his face, replaced by something altogether more familiar—mischief glinting at the edge of his smile. “I am certain,” he said, his tone turning sly, “that you do not speak so gravely of his youth when you are sharing a bed. In fact—” his grin sharpened, “—I suspect you find his vigor quite beyond reproach.”

Elrohir’s head turned, the look he gave his twin sharp enough to cut. “You have an unmatched gift for speaking where no words are wanted, Elladan.”

That earned a genuine laugh from Elladan, warm and unrestrained, the sound echoing faintly in the quiet chamber. “Ah, there’s the brother I know—ready to skewer me with that sharp tongue the moment I touch a nerve.”

Elladan’s gaze drifted downward, the grin that followed edged with knowing amusement. “You might remember that you are no longer in Imladris. Cover yourself more decently before you send half of Greenwood’s Silvan and Sindarin lords—or their servants—running for the trees. That robe hides nothing, brother. One glimpse, and they would either bolt… or lose their wits entirely.”

Elrohir’s snort was soft, almost lazy in its dismissal. “The thoughts of others matter little to me,” he said, his tone cool and unhurried. “It is only Legolas’s opinion that holds weight—and in any case”—his gaze drifted briefly toward the window as though in idle thought, though the slow curl of his mouth betrayed the edge beneath—“he seems to like my body well enough.”

“Ah, does he?” Elladan drawled, leaning one hip against the carved frame of the chair, eyes narrowing with mock suspicion.

“He has mentioned more than once,” Elrohir said, his voice smooth as still water, “that he finds the heat of my mortal flame… most to his taste.” His gaze lingered, the barest shadow of a smirk touching his mouth. The inflection on taste was subtle yet unmistakable—enough to suggest he spoke not only of temperament, but of the way that fire played out in the quietest and most intimate of hours.

Elladan’s head tipped back with a laugh, bright and unrestrained, echoing faintly against the stone walls. “Aye, that would do it. Nothing drives a pure-blooded elf to distraction quite so quickly.” He gave his brother a look of exaggerated pity. “And you—ever the dutiful one—must endure it for the rest of your days.”

The faintest ghost of a smirk touched Elrohir’s lips, as though he found nothing about the arrangement to endure at all.

Elladan’s laughter lingered, low and amused, before he tipped his head in mock consideration. “Perhaps I shall seek out a wood-elf or two myself—purely for… experience. It would be a shame not to learn firsthand what has my sensible, measured brother so thoroughly undone.”

Elrohir’s snort came sharp through his nose, the sound edged with a half-smile. “Do, and you will find your ‘experience’ short-lived. Once they choose to enchant you, it is over. You will think of no other.”

Elladan arched a brow, the glint in his eyes brightening. “Is that meant as a warning, or an enticing promise?”

“A truth,” Elrohir replied, the weight in his voice undercut by the faint curve of his lips—half challenge, half certainty.

Elladan leaned back a fraction, studying him with exaggerated thoughtfulness, though the smile never left his face. “Mm. Then perhaps I should be cautious… lest I return home with more than just stories of Greenwood.”

They lingered together for some time after, the fire casting its slow, steady light across the chamber. Conversation rose and fell in its easy, familiar rhythm—drifting from pointed jests to quiet recollections of the road, to the small, unspoken assurances only twins could trade without breaking the silence. Elladan stretched out in the chair opposite, one leg hooked lazily over the armrest, nursing a goblet of spiced wine while Elrohir remained by the hearth, his robe hanging loose at the throat.

They spoke of Greenwood in cautious admiration, of its people and their guarded warmth, and of the glances exchanged in the great halls that carried more meaning than words. Elladan teased; Elrohir deflected. Now and then, the laughter between them cut through the slow fall of the evening, settling again into the softer quiet of firelight and the faint hiss of sap burning in the logs.

When the hour grew late and the shadows deepened against the carved walls, Elladan rose, setting aside his empty goblet. He clasped his brother’s shoulder in passing, a brief press of shared understanding before taking his leave. The door closed behind him with a muted click, and the chamber seemed to grow larger in his absence.

Elrohir remained where he was, the linen robe light against his skin, its folds carrying the residual warmth of the fire. He had sent word earlier for a light supper to be brought to his rooms—no feast, no company—only the quiet he craved after the weight of the day. For now, he waited, gaze still fixed on the low, glowing bed of embers, his thoughts wandering far beyond the walls of the king’s halls.

A soft knock broke the quiet. Elrohir rose, the hem of his robe whispering against the floor, and crossed to the door. When he drew it open, a cloaked figure stood there—hood drawn low, face hidden, and hands steady around a covered tray.

Before he could speak, the figure slipped past him without a word.

Elrohir’s brows drew together, surprise breaking his stillness. The robe hung loosely from his shoulders, its folds parting to bare the line of his chest, his hair brushing the fabric. He turned after the intruder, watching as the cloaked servant moved with unhurried purpose to the small table near the hearth.

“I see,” Elrohir said at last, voice cool and deliberate, “that Greenwood has its own customs regarding the privacy of a guest’s chambers.”

No answer. The servant set the tray down, movements precise, still without lifting the hood.

Elrohir’s gaze narrowed. “Bold,” he added, the word clipped, almost measuring. “Most would have the sense to wait at the door until bid to enter a lord’s private chambers—particularly when the guest is… not entirely fit to receive company.” His eyes swept meaningfully over the thin folds of the robe before returning to the hooded figure. “Shall I take your silence as an apology, or merely as further trespass?”

The servant stilled mid-motion, one hand braced on the tray’s edge, fingers curling slightly against the silver. Without turning, a voice—quiet, smooth, and laced with that unmistakable undercurrent of wry amusement—broke the hush between them.

“Tell me, is this how the Lord of Imladris’s sons greet all who come to their door? Standing half-dressed and looking as though you intend to scandalize the entire household?”

The words slid past Elrohir’s guard like an arrow through silk, threading through the warm crackle of the fire. He knew that cadence—the dry, lilting provocation, the precise control beneath it—as intimately as his own name.

“Legolas,” he said, the certainty in his tone leaving no room for doubt.

The figure’s hands rose, slow and deliberate, fingers brushing over the edge of the hood before pushing it back in a single smooth motion. Firelight caught at once in the spill of gold hair, gilding each strand, and settled on the faint, knowing curve of the prince’s mouth. His eyes glimmered with unrepentant mischief, bright as sunlight caught on water.

“I see Greenwood’s hospitality has already improved you,” Legolas said lightly, his gaze sweeping over him with deliberate slowness. “You answer the door now as if expecting an admirer—though I admit, the robe is a bold choice for a first impression.”

Elrohir’s mouth curved—slow, deliberate—but he spared no breath for a retort. The echo of Legolas’s voice, so unmistakably his, still rang in his ears.

He crossed the short space between them in two long strides, the robe whispering open just enough with his movement to catch the firelight. One hand caught at the edge of Legolas’s damp-streaked cloak, still cool from the night air, and the other found the smooth line of his jaw.

The kiss came without warning—firm, unhesitating, and threaded through with something that was not impatience so much as certainty. They had only parted hours ago, yet in that instant Elrohir claimed him as though to erase even that brief span.

The faint scent of rain and green wood clung to Legolas’s cloak, cool against the warmth where their chests pressed. His hair brushed Elrohir’s cheek, silken and still carrying the faint chill of the corridors.

When Elrohir drew back just enough to speak, his voice was low, the warmth of it edged with wryness. “You knocked, and still you think to walk past me without a word?”

Legolas’s smile was close and bright, his breath still mingling with Elrohir’s. “Had I spoken sooner, you would not have looked at me like that. And I was rather enjoying it.”

Elrohir’s grip at the edge of the cloak softened, his hand sliding instead to rest at the warm nape of Legolas’s neck. This time, when he kissed him, it was slower—lingering, almost reverent. The brush of lips was a quiet promise, nothing of urgency, only the steadying reassurance of touch.

When Elrohir began to draw back, Legolas leaned forward, following that retreat by instinct, as if unwilling to let the moment dissolve into air. The faint press of his body spoke more clearly than words. His eyes lingered on Elrohir’s mouth a heartbeat longer before finally meeting his gaze.

“How do you fare?” Elrohir asked at last, the low timbre of his voice edged with something more than idle inquiry. “When I saw you last, you were pale and near to falling asleep on your feet.”

Legolas’s lips curved in a shadowed smile, as though the concern both warmed and amused him. “I slept the whole day away,” he confessed, his tone pitched between honesty and light jest. “Woke only when the sun had already fled. I feel well enough now—better than any prince has the right to after shirking his duties so completely.”

His brows lifted a fraction, that familiar glimmer of play tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Though if word spreads that the Lord of Imladris’s son looks at me so every time I feign weariness, I may make a habit of it.”

Elrohir’s smile was fleeting, more a shadow than a shape, and it never quite reached his eyes. He studied Legolas as though the firelight might reveal what the day’s rest had hidden—his gaze tracing the steady rise of breath, the ease in his shoulders, the color warmed back into his skin. There was no tremor in his stance, no pallor clinging to his cheek, yet Elrohir’s eyes searched still, as though some part of him feared the Black Breath had merely gone to ground, waiting.

The memory was too fresh to set aside: the cold weight of Legolas’s body against him, the dimming of those keen eyes, the unnatural stillness that had stolen his voice. He had felt the shadow’s touch before, but never on someone whose light burned so brightly.

“You seem whole,” Elrohir said at last, though his tone carried the measured cadence of a healer taking stock. “But I know how such poison lingers. It will be some time before I trust the shadow has loosed its hold on you.”

A wry glint touched Legolas’s eyes. “If I am to be shadowed so closely, I should have worn my crown,” he said, voice low and edged with quiet amusement. “To be guarded by my father is one thing—but by you as well? I may yet begin to believe myself immortal.”

Elrohir’s gaze softened, though the scrutiny in it did not ease. “Immortal perhaps,” he murmured, stepping closer, “but not untouchable. And not beyond my care.”

His eyes drifted to the little table where the covered dishes still sent up thin streamers of steam. He looked back, one brow lifting.

“And how did you slip past your father’s healers to bring me my supper?” His tone was mild, but the question carried. “The King’s folk do not strike me as easy gaolers to charm.”

Legolas’s mouth curved. He unhooked his cloak, and let it fall over a chair. “They are healers, not gaolers,” he returned, voice low and pleased with himself. “I promised them I would take more rest if first I took a little air. I assured the kitchens that the Lord Elrohir’s meal must not cool, for diplomacy’s sake.” The glint in his eye turned wicked. “Diplomacy is a key that opens many doors.”

Elrohir folded his arms, pretending severity. “And the doors that do not open?”

“I did not ask them to,” Legolas said, unabashed. “I took the servants’ stair by the western wall, crossed the upper gallery behind the green tapestries, and came down by the stores. Few eyes, fewer questions. I judged my moment.”

Elrohir huffed—half exasperation, half admiration. “All that stealth to arrive at my door,” he murmured. “And then you knocked.”

Legolas tilted his head, lashes lowering in mock innocence. “I wished to be certain the right lord opened it.” A beat; the smile deepened. “Besides… if I mean to scandalize your evening, I prefer to be invited in.”

“Consider yourself invited,” Elrohir said dryly. “But know this—your vaunted secrecy failed the instant you spoke. I would know that voice at the end of the world.”

“Then my path was well chosen,” Legolas replied, stepping close enough that firelight climbed his cheek and set his eyes bright. “I came by quiet roads to a sure destination.”

Legolas’s fingers curled lightly around Elrohir’s wrist, guiding him toward the low table as though leading him into a dance.

“Come,” he murmured, the quiet authority in his voice making refusal unthinkable. “You will eat, before the night steals your strength.”

They settled before the fire—Elrohir in the chair, Legolas lowering himself with feline grace to kneel beside him. The cloak pooled in dark folds around his knees as he uncovered each dish in turn. Steam drifted upward in delicate ribbons—herbed fowl, warm bread with its crust still crisp, and a small bowl of grapes, their skins glistening like polished onyx.

Legolas chose one with care, rolling it between his fingers as though weighing its worth before holding it out. Elrohir leaned forward, his gaze fixed not on the fruit but on the faint curve of Legolas’s mouth. He took the grape slowly, lips brushing over the prince’s fingers, lingering just long enough to feel the warmth of skin and the faint salt of travel still upon it.

A quiet breath escaped Legolas—too controlled to be a sigh, too soft to be laughter. He arched one brow, his voice low enough to be claimed by the fire’s crackle.

“Hopeless,” he said, but the word carried the weight of something far fonder, as if he would not have him any other way.

Elrohir’s smile deepened, slow and knowing, as he bit into the grape, the burst of sweetness chased by the taste of the one who had given it.

Legolas reached for another, the stem snapping softly as he plucked it from the cluster. He rolled it once between his fingers before offering it, but this time Elrohir did not take it as given. His hand rose, closing gently over Legolas’s wrist, guiding it closer until the grape brushed his lips. Then, instead of pulling back, he caught Legolas’s gaze—steady, deliberate—and leaned forward, closing the scant space between them.

Their mouths met with the grape caught between, and Elrohir bit down just as their lips sealed, the warm rush of juice spilling over their tongues. Legolas gave a low, startled hum that broke into a laugh against his mouth, one hand bracing against Elrohir’s knee as though to steady himself. Elrohir’s answering laugh was softer, drawn into the kiss itself, their shared breath warm in the firelit space.

They lingered there a heartbeat longer than needed—slow, tasting, letting the sweetness mingle with the heat of the moment—before parting. A glint of juice still clung to the corner of Legolas’s mouth, and Elrohir’s gaze dipped toward it with a look that promised he would take it later.

“Eat,” Legolas murmured at last, his voice low, the faintest curl of command threading through it—as though the act itself were part of some unspoken bargain. Elrohir’s mouth quirked in answer, but he obeyed, reaching for the plate in front.

While he carved into the herbed fowl, steam curling from the tender meat, and broke a piece of bread still warm from the oven, Legolas moved with unhurried grace. He plucked another grape from the cluster, rolling it between his fingers as if weighing whether to keep it for himself or share it again. In the end, he raised it to his own lips, the skin taut and glistening in the firelight before his teeth broke it with a soft bite. A faint hum of approval escaped him, the sound low in his throat as the juice touched his tongue.

Elrohir’s fork paused midair. He watched the scene with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. “Are you planning to leave me any,” he asked, voice edged with mock accusation, “or must I content myself with the fowl while you devour the fruit like a thief in my own chambers?”

Legolas plucked another grape as if to prove the point, his expression unrepentant. “I have always liked grapes,” he said, turning the fruit lightly between his fingers before eating it, “and berries—especially when they are perfectly ripe.”

“A sweet tooth, then?” Elrohir asked, leaning back in his chair, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His gaze lingered on the faint curve of Legolas’s smile, the way the firelight softened the sharp lines of his face.

“To my father’s lasting dismay,” Legolas replied without hesitation, the words touched with wry amusement. “He claims such indulgences are unworthy of a prince—though I suspect it is less about princely dignity and more about my raiding the kitchens when I was supposed to be attending council.”

Elrohir’s smirk deepened, imagining it all too clearly.

Legolas reached again for the bowl, this time with deliberate slowness, his gaze never straying from Elrohir as he rolled another grape between his fingers. Instead of eating it outright, he brought it halfway to his lips, pausing as though weighing its worth against the effect it was having. A faint, knowing curve touched his mouth before he bit into it—slowly, the sound of skin breaking just audible over the fire’s crackle.

Juice traced the edge of his lower lip, and he caught it with the tip of his tongue, the motion languid, almost careless in its precision. He reached for another grape, repeating the ritual—turning it between his fingers, lifting it to his mouth, savoring it with a quiet hum that did nothing to soften the deliberate pace.

Elrohir’s fork stilled halfway to his mouth. “You know exactly what you are doing,” he said, voice low and edged, “and you are treading a line you will not like the end of.”

Legolas plucked another grape as if the warning were no more than idle conversation. “I am only eating,” he said, the innocence in his tone made false by the glint in his eyes. “If you find fault with my enjoyment, perhaps you should look to your own restraint.”

Elrohir’s mouth curved in something that was not quite a smile. “My restraint,” he murmured, “is the only thing keeping you there and not beneath me on this floor.”

Legolas’s brow arched, the faintest hint of mischief curling his lips. “That does not sound like a fate I would resist,” he said, tone light but carrying enough weight to make the meaning clear. His fingers lingered on the rim of the bowl, idly turning another grape as though the conversation were no more than a passing thought—though the glint in his eyes told another story entirely.

Elrohir held his gaze a moment longer, the silence between them thick with promise, before turning back to his plate. He took one last bite of the fowl, chewing slowly, gaze drifting toward the hearth as if to ground himself. The flames leapt and curled in the grate, their warmth spilling into the chamber in a slow, steady pulse. Setting his plate aside, he rose without a word, the linen robe shifting around him in a loose fall.

Crossing to the fire, he sank onto the thick rug laid before it, turning so that he faced Legolas across the room. As he settled, one knee bent, leaving little to the imagination—clad only in the light robe, the movement bared a length of thigh in the flickering firelight. The fabric shifted of its own accord, slipping from one shoulder to reveal the sharp line of collarbone and the smooth plane beneath.

Legolas’s gaze lingered, unhurried, the flicker of the fire catching in his eyes as he took in the view with a quiet appreciation that needed no words.

Elrohir patted the space beside him, his gaze steady on the prince.

Legolas, still kneeling by the chair where he had remained after the meal, tilted his head slightly, a faint smile touching his lips. “And what, exactly, are you doing?” he asked, his voice carrying no true curiosity—only the deliberate teasing of one who already knew the answer.

Elrohir’s mouth curved, the smirk faint but unmistakable. “Indulging a craving,” he said, his tone low and unhurried, as though the words were meant to curl in the air between them. “One I have not been permitted to sate in sixty years.”

The shadow of understanding flickered in Legolas’s eyes—understanding, and something warmer, edged with anticipation.

Legolas’s smile deepened, that faint, knowing tilt of his mouth edged with mischief. Without rising to his feet, he shifted from his place by the chair and lowered himself to his hands and knees. His progress was unhurried, each step forward deliberate—a slow prowl that belied the quiet laughter glimmering in his eyes.

Elrohir’s gaze followed every movement, the corner of his mouth curving as the firelight gilded the fine lines of the prince’s form. A breath of shared amusement passed between them when Legolas ducked his head in a brief chuckle at the sheer foolishness of it, but even the laughter could not dispel the tension thrumming low in the air; in them, even play was steeped in longing.

Reaching the rug, Legolas did not pause. He came forward in one smooth motion, straddling Elrohir’s hips so that the heat of his body sank fully against him. The robe at Elrohir’s shoulders slipped a little further with the shift, baring more skin to the warm flicker of the fire. Elrohir’s hands rose at once, sliding over the taut strength of his back, tracing the subtle curve of muscle through the light layers before gliding lower. His palms found their mark with deliberate certainty, fingers pressing in a slow, claiming hold over the rounded muscle of his lover’s form. The squeeze drew a breath from Legolas that was not quite a gasp, and it curved into a low, pleased sound.

He leaned forward until the tips of their noses nearly brushed, his voice a velvet murmur in the space between them. “Tell me,” he said, the words shaped around a smile that was all provocation, “is that a dagger you keep hidden beneath your robe… or merely the kind of welcome I have been denied for sixty long years?”

Elrohir’s lips curved slowly, the kind of smile that carried both challenge and promise. “If it were a dagger,” he murmured, his voice pitched low enough that it seemed meant for the space between their mouths alone, “you would already feel the bite of steel, not the thrum of my heart.”

His hands flexed, palms gliding down the firm line of Legolas’s back until they found their place over the taut curve of muscle beneath the prince’s tunic. Even through the fine weave of the fabric, his grip was deliberate, possessive, drawing Legolas closer until the press of his weight filled Elrohir’s lap entirely.

The shift brought them near enough that the heat from the fire seemed to wrap around them both, gilding the edges of hair and cheek in molten light. Elrohir’s robe loosened further with the movement, the fabric slipping against his skin as he leaned in, his mouth brushing close to the curve of Legolas’s jaw.

“And if you doubt which it is…” His breath ghosted upward, warm and steady, until it stirred the fall of golden hair against Legolas’s ear. “…I invite you to stay and be very certain.”

A low sound—half laugh, half breath—escaped Legolas as he shifted, the weight of his hips settling more securely across Elrohir’s thighs. His hands came up between them, fingers brushing lightly over the hollow of Elrohir’s chest before catching the loose fall of the robe where it hung askew.

For a moment, he did not push it away. Instead, his touch lingered at the edge of the fabric, eyes lifting to meet Elrohir’s. The space between them seemed to narrow without either leaning in—heat rising in the pause, firelight painting gold over sharp cheekbones and the unblinking depth of grey that held him fast.

Then, with a slow, unhurried precision, Legolas eased the linen from his shoulders, letting it drag over skin as if memorizing the shape beneath. The robe slipped down in a lazy fold, pooling soundlessly on the rug. Neither looked away, their gazes locked in a wordless exchange that made the air feel heavier, more charged, as though the removal of that single barrier had stripped away something far more than cloth.

For a heartbeat, he did not touch—only let his gaze travel over the breadth of Elrohir’s chest. It was broader than his own, a trait born of the mortal blood that ran in Elrohir’s veins—blood that lent him not only that greater strength of frame, but a heat, a restless drive, that even now smouldered beneath his composure. It was that same mortal fire, Legolas thought with a quickening breath, that had so often driven him to distraction, that left him unmoored in its wake.

At last, his palms found their path, fingers splaying wide to trace the cut of muscle over ribs and sternum, the warmth of skin answering his touch. His thumbs swept upward, following the proud line of collarbone before curling lightly at the nape of Elrohir’s neck.

But Legolas did not stop there. His hands drifted lower again, exploring with unhurried curiosity—the flat plane of the chest, the subtle rise and fall of breath beneath his palms. His fingertips brushed over the center of Elrohir’s stomach, grazing the hollow of the navel in a way that drew a startled twitch and the shadow of a laugh from Elrohir’s lips.

The sound barely had time to fade before Legolas’s hands continued downward, slower now, tracing the lines of muscle that led further still. The shift in touch—teasing, yet with purpose—drew a sharp hitch in Elrohir’s breath. His gaze locked on Legolas’s, and in the firelit quiet, neither looked away.

There was no rush in the moment—only the measured exchange of breath, the steady rise and fall of chests so close they nearly touched. The blue of Legolas’s eyes caught the flicker of flame, deepening to something richer, more molten, as if drawing strength from the heat between them. Elrohir’s own gaze was sharpened by restraint, dark and intent, his pupils blown wide enough to eclipse the silver-grey.

Legolas’s palms pressed lower still, mapping him with deliberate care, and Elrohir’s jaw tightened, a faint tremor of anticipation coiling in the air. The silence between them carried more weight than words, until Legolas broke it at last—

“You train as if for war,” he murmured, voice low and edged with appreciation, “and I reap the spoils.”

The air between them tightened, heavy with more than heat, the mingled scents of cedar oil and woodsmoke steeping the space they shared.

Elrohir’s hands tightened at Legolas’s hips, drawing him forward in one smooth, unyielding motion until the prince was settled astride him once more. The shift brought them flush together, thigh to thigh and chest to chest—and lower still, Legolas felt the hard, insistent proof of Elrohir’s desire pressed against him. The push was deliberate, unhidden, Elrohir making no attempt to disguise the way he anchored Legolas onto himself, as though daring him to move.

The contact stole a quiet breath from Legolas, his pulse quickening at the unspoken promise in the gesture. Their bodies met fully, the press sparking a low, shared sound—half breath, half hunger—that broke into the quiet like the crackle of the fire behind them.

Elrohir sat tall, his posture as unyielding as the hands that held him in place. “You,” he murmured, voice low and edged with intent, “are far too overdressed.”

The words lit a flicker of mischief in Legolas’s eyes, and in the same heartbeat they moved together—quick, certain, as if the long years apart had only honed their ease with one another. Boots found the rug with muted thuds, fabric was swept away in the heat of their hands, each barrier cast aside until nothing stood between them but the rising pull of breath.

When the last of it fell, Elrohir’s gaze swept over him like one reclaiming something long denied, each slow blink seeming to drink him in. His hands slid upward first, tracing the familiar lines of Legolas’s back, the smooth planes leaner than his own, until they pressed him close—so close that the prince’s body fitted to him as if it had always belonged there.

His touch grew less restrained, roaming with deliberate thoroughness over the curve of spine and shoulder, down again to the narrowing of Legolas’s waist. Fingers spread wide over the small of his back before tightening in a firm grip, pulling him down harder, the press between them leaving nothing to the imagination. His palms cupped and held, thumbs pressing into the curve with possessive certainty, as though to remind Legolas exactly whose hands he was in.

Legolas’s palms continued to skim over the hard planes of Elrohir’s chest, relearning the shape of him as if sixty years had only deepened the need. His touch lingered over muscle and sinew before curling at the nape of Elrohir’s neck, drawing their foreheads near. The firelight bathed them in gold and shadow, the air between them taut with a promise neither had any wish to delay.

Their mouths found each other with no hesitation—no gentle prelude, but the fierce, unguarded meeting of two who had endured too many years without it. The kiss was deep and claiming, their breaths mingling in a heat that rivaled the fire’s glow. Elrohir’s hand slid higher for a moment, spanning the small of Legolas’s back, before settling once more at his hips with a hold that was both steadying and urging.

Legolas leaned into him fully, the lines of his body pressed close, answering the kiss with equal hunger. The world beyond the fire’s reach dissolved into shadow; there was only the taste of each other, the quiet sounds caught between their lips, the faint tremor of restrained want in every breath.

When Elrohir broke the kiss, it was only to let his mouth trail lower—tracing the edge of Legolas’s jaw, where the skin was warm beneath the sweep of his lips, then lower still to the strong line of his throat. There he lingered, the press of his mouth alternating between firm, claiming heat and softer, lingering passes that drew a quiet sound from the prince.

All the while, his grip at Legolas’s hips was unrelenting, guiding him in slow, deliberate movement against him. The rhythm was measured, as if Elrohir meant to draw every ounce of sensation from the contact, yet it held an edge of urgency beneath the control.

Legolas’s breath caught, his hands bracing at Elrohir’s shoulders, fingers curling in the loose fall of dark hair. The firelight painted his skin in shifting gold, and his eyes, half-lidded, gleamed with something perilously close to abandon. Elrohir’s own gaze lifted briefly, catching his expression before bending again to the hollow of his throat, his mouth shaping to the beat of Legolas’s pulse.

Legolas drew back, breath still unsteady, and leaned toward the small heap of his discarded tunic. Firelight slid along the pale line of his arm as his hand slipped into the folds of cloth, fingers searching until they closed around something cool and smooth. When he straightened, a small glass vial rested in his palm, its pale gold contents glinting in the shifting glow.

Elrohir’s brows arched, his gaze flicking from the vial to the prince’s face. A slow, wolfish smile curved his mouth. “And here I thought you mocked me for carrying such things,” he said, his tone pitched low, each word drawn out like a gentle drag of a blade. “If I recall, you called it the mark of an overprepared lover—one with far too much confidence in his own fortunes.”

Legolas’s eyes sparked with quiet amusement, a glint of triumph lurking behind the innocence he made a show of wearing. “I did,” he allowed, his voice smooth as polished oak. “And yet… I also recall you offering quite the spirited defense of the habit.”

Elrohir’s laugh was soft and warm, the sound curling between them like smoke in still air. “Spirited enough, it seems, to turn the Greenwood’s prince into a convert.” His gaze dipped meaningfully to the vial. “Or perhaps only a hypocrite with better excuses.”

Legolas tilted his head, the faintest smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Call it what you will,” he said, holding the vial aloft between them as if weighing the moment. “But I am here, and so is this—and I suspect you have no real objection.”

Elrohir took the vial from him slowly, his fingers brushing deliberately over Legolas’s, as if testing the intent behind the gesture. The glass was warm from the prince’s touch, carrying the faintest trace of his scent—pine, wind, and something warmer beneath. He turned it once in his palm, letting the firelight catch along its curve.

Legolas did not look away. His eyes held steady on Elrohir’s, and in their depth there was no coyness—only the quiet confidence of one who knew exactly the effect his words would have.

“Pour it onto my fingers,” he said, his tone velvet-soft but threaded with unmistakable purpose. He extended his fingers between them, palm open in invitation. “I would… ready myself for you.”

The air seemed to shift with the words, pulling tighter between them.

For the briefest beat, Elrohir simply stared, as though weighing whether he had heard rightly. A sound escaped him—low, almost a laugh, yet colored with hunger. His thumb traced lightly across the lines of Legolas’s palm, lingering there, and when he spoke, his voice had dropped to a near-growl.

“You mean to unmake me tonight, my heart.”

Still holding his gaze, he tilted the vial. A slow ribbon of oil slipped free, pooling into Legolas’s waiting hand. The scent rose at once, sharpened by the warmth of skin—and Legolas’s lips curved just enough to be dangerous.

Elrohir watched, unblinking, as the golden sheen gathered in the prince’s fingers, firelight glancing along the sheen. The linen of Elrohir’s discarded robe whispered faintly as he shifted, and his breath shortened, drawn irresistibly to what would follow.

Legolas shifted closer, knees pressing into the thick rug, their chests almost touching. One of his hands braced lightly on Elrohir’s shoulder, the other—hidden behind him—moved with slow, deliberate intent. There was no mistaking the truth of it: he was preparing himself, fingers working with practiced care, coaxing readiness for what they both knew would follow. Each measured motion sent a faint tremor through him that Elrohir could feel in the tightening of his thighs and the faint roll of his hips.

Legolas leaned in until their noses brushed, the tips of golden hair falling forward to graze Elrohir’s cheek. His breath spilled warm across Elrohir’s lips, carrying a subtle hitch whenever his fingers pressed deeper, mingling with the faint, slick sound of oil worked within. The intimate, rhythmic cadence of it made Elrohir’s grip on his waist tighten in answer, his fingertips digging in as though to anchor himself.

“You will undo me before I touch you,” Elrohir murmured, his voice low, hoarse with the effort of restraint.

Legolas’s mouth curved in a slow, knowing smile. “Then endure,” he breathed, each word a heated caress. “I would have you last long enough to make the wait worthwhile.”

Another subtle shift of his hips drew a quiet, helpless sound from Elrohir, his head tipping back as if the force of his control threatened to break. Every nerve in him pulled taut under the torment—the rhythm of Legolas’s movements leaving no doubt what he was doing, and no mercy in how he drew it out.

Legolas’s breathing had deepened, each rise and fall of his chest edged with the faintest tremor in his thighs. Elrohir reached for the small vial, intending to take control, but the prince’s fingers caught his wrist—not forceful, yet leaving no doubt of his intent.

Legolas eased the vial from his hand, the exchange unhurried, as if taking possession of something far more intimate. He worked the stopper free with a slow twist, never breaking eye contact, as though the simple act were part of some unspoken challenge. Then, without a word, he offered it back—letting his fingers brush deliberately over Elrohir’s as he placed it in his palm, the weight of it carrying both permission and command. Extending his other hand—already slickened with oil, palm open, the faint curl of his fingers carrying more command than request—he murmured, “Pour.”

Elrohir tilted the vial, watching the oil slip in a golden ribbon into Legolas’s waiting palm. Firelight caught the glisten before the prince’s fingers closed over it, smoothing the sheen over his skin in slow, deliberate strokes.

Then, with a steadying breath, Legolas let his oiled palm settle against him, the heat beneath his touch answering instantly. The first stroke was slow—measuring, mapping every contour as though committing it to memory. Oil spread in a thin, gleaming sheen, catching the firelight in a way that made every movement deliberate and unhurried. His fingers worked with unerring precision, drawing the slickness along every inch until there was nowhere the glide did not reach.

Each pass drew a deeper breath from Elrohir, the muscles in his thigh tightening beneath the strain, until his grip on Legolas’s hip hardened in silent answer. 

“I would have you meet me as I meet you,” Legolas murmured, his voice a low current of possession, “so there is no part of me that does not know you—and no part of you that I cannot claim.”

The words struck deep, catching in Elrohir’s chest. Legolas’s mouth curved—not in mischief, but with the satisfaction of one who knew the power of his own hands. He adjusted his hold, coaxing him upright with a firm, smooth motion, the oil-slick heat making it impossible to mistake his intent. Elrohir’s breath stuttered, but his gaze held fast to Legolas’s, as if anchored there.

Legolas moved slowly—agonizingly so—lowering himself with a precision born of both pride and restraint. The first inch drew the faintest hitch in his breath, a tightening at the edges of his mouth, but he did not pause. Elrohir’s hands, already firm at his waist, tightened further, nails grazing the fine skin there in an unconscious plea for patience and possession both.

Another breath, and Legolas sank deeper. A sound broke from Elrohir—low, ragged, and unguarded, as though the control he had fought to keep had splintered in that instant. It was not pain, but the release of something long-starved, his shoulders curving forward as though to close the scant space between them.

The firelight caught on the sheen of Legolas’s skin, on the faint flush rising high along his cheekbones. His jaw set against the brief, necessary burn of stretching, yet his eyes—bright and unyielding—never left Elrohir’s. In them was a quiet defiance, a vow unspoken: that this closeness, this claiming, would be met without hesitation.

The flicker of flame gilded the fine fall of golden hair spilling over his shoulders, and the air between them felt taut, heavy with the mingled cadence of their breaths—his deepening, Elrohir’s breaking.

Legolas stilled once he had taken him nearly to the hilt, drawing in slow, measured breaths as his body adjusted to the unyielding stretch. He willed himself to relax, to open, the strain easing by degrees as muscle and will bent to fit him fully. His hands braced against Elrohir’s shoulders, fingers curling into the firm muscle there, and a faint shiver rippled down his spine before he found his center again.

Elrohir could not wait. The need in him was a living thing. One hand rose to cradle the back of Legolas’s head, fingers threading into the silken fall of hair, while the other remained at his waist, holding him as though he might vanish if he let go. He drew him into a kiss—fierce, consuming, meant to anchor them both in the same heartbeat. Their mouths met with heat and urgency, lips parting to deepen the press, breath mingling in short, uneven bursts. 

When the kiss broke, Elrohir’s forehead rested against Legolas’s, their breaths mingling in slow, uneven pulls. For a heartbeat, neither moved—drawn taut in that fragile, golden balance where longing met restraint. The fire’s glow flickered over them, gilding every line of bare skin, catching in the pale sweep of Legolas’s hair as it brushed over Elrohir’s chest.

Elrohir’s thumb stroked idly along the hollow of Legolas’s hip, the touch gentle but restless, betraying the strain of stillness. His other hand curved at the small of Legolas’s back, holding him close enough that the warmth of him was a steady, undeniable burn.

“Let me,” Legolas murmured, the words low and even, as much a command to himself as to Elrohir. His gaze, bright as the sea, held fast to grey—unflinching, grounding. He shifted the smallest fraction, testing the deep, full press of him, and a breath escaped—part sigh, part quiet sound—that had Elrohir’s grip firming instinctively.

“You undo me,” Elrohir said, voice hushed but threaded with a rawness that left no doubt of truth.

A faint smile ghosted over Legolas’s lips—no jest, only the weight of knowing—and his palms slid from shoulder to chest, fingers spreading against the breadth of muscle, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath. 

He lifted himself by a breath’s height, the slow draw a coil of sensation, before easing back down with deliberate care. His lashes lowered against the pull of it, the motion so unhurried it felt like the stretch of a bowstring drawn to its fullest.

Elrohir’s nails grazed faintly into the narrow span of Legolas’s waist—not urging, but holding, as if the contact itself kept him anchored to the moment. The rhythm began as little more than a sway, their bodies rocking in time with the fire’s pulse, heat gathering between them with each pass.

“Legolas…” Elrohir breathed, the word spilling like a reverent oath when Legolas settled fully once more, hips flush, the press complete.

Leaning in, Legolas brushed his lips to the shell of Elrohir’s ear. “Sixty years, my love… and still you fit as though you were made for me.” The warm thread of his breath sent a shiver down Elrohir’s spine, and Legolas felt it in the subtle tightening of the arms that held him.

The rhythm deepened almost imperceptibly, their joined movements finding a quiet, building cadence. Blue met grey in unbroken gaze, their eyes locked as though neither would dare look away—until the rest of the world simply ceased to matter.

The slow rock of Legolas’s hips began to gather momentum, each rise and fall carrying a little more force, a little less of the careful restraint that had marked the first moments. His breath, once measured, came in quickened pulls now—each one catching at the peak of movement and spilling out in a soft gasp when he sank down again.

Elrohir felt every shift, every tremor in the long muscles beneath his hands. His grip at Legolas’s waist tightened, fingers splaying as though to steady him, though his touch carried a quiet insistence—subtle at first, then guiding, coaxing the rhythm deeper, surer.

A sheen of sweat began to gather along their skin, catching the flicker of firelight and tracing bright lines down the curve of Legolas’s back. Strands of hair clung where it brushed against Elrohir’s chest, the faint dampness an anchor of heat between them.

The sounds in the room shifted—the low, drawn breaths giving way to sharper, less controlled notes. Each downward motion was met with the muted, rhythmic sound of skin finding skin, soft at first, then quickening as their bodies moved in unison. The fire snapped in the grate, punctuating the growing tempo, but neither heard it over the mingled cadence of breath and the steady, building beat of contact.

Elrohir’s thumbs stroked along the sharp planes of Legolas’s hips before his hands slid inward, framing him with a sure, anchoring hold. “That’s it, my heart,” he murmured, his voice low, thickened by the pull of want. His gaze never left Legolas’s face—drawn to the flicker of parted lips, the narrowing of eyes in pleasure, the faint tremor of jaw that betrayed just how close he was pressing toward the edge.

Legolas’s head tipped back with a sound that was neither word nor note, his throat bared to the glow of the firelight, the curve of it gleaming with a thin sheen of sweat. The muscles in his thighs flexed with each drive downward, the motion fluid yet edged with urgency. Elrohir’s hands had found their claim low at his hips, fingers spreading to cup the full curve of him. With each meeting of their bodies, his grip tightened, dragging Legolas down with unrelenting force until they were joined to the hilt.

His nails grazed and pressed into yielding flesh, a half-mark of possession, half-plea for more. The sting only drove Legolas higher; his own hands slid back, seeking Elrohir’s wrists and curling over them. With deliberate insistence, he pressed those strong hands more firmly into his skin, a silent command to hold him there, to keep him where the pleasure burned hottest.

The air between them was thick with heat and breath, the rhythm of their bodies matched to the raw pull of wanting—neither willing to grant the other release from the closeness they had claimed.

The sound of their bodies meeting grew louder, more insistent, until it filled the room in a rhythm all its own—steady, then quicker still, as though the sixty years apart had been compressed into this single, urgent span of heartbeats.

Legolas’s rhythm faltered—not in weakness, but in surrender to the urgency that had begun to consume him. The measured control of earlier dissolved into something raw, each movement less deliberate, more driven by the pull of need. His breath came in quick, uneven bursts, and then—

“Elrohir—”

The name left him in a voice that burned and ached at once—wanting, desperate, alive with the weight of sixty years denied. It was not merely spoken but breathed like a vow, carrying heat enough to undo every shred of Elrohir’s restraint.

Something inside him gave way.

In one swift, fluid motion, Elrohir’s hands slid from Legolas’s hips up the strong line of his back, guiding him down. They never broke their joining; every inch of the movement was a slow fall into the rug’s deep weave. The fire’s glow kissed skin and hair alike, gilding the damp curve of Elrohir’s temple, the faint sheen gathering along Legolas’s throat.

Elrohir came over him in a single, powerful surge, bracing on one arm as the other caught Legolas’s thigh. His grip was sure, steady, lifting until the prince’s calf rested over his shoulder. The change opened him completely, his body drawn taut beneath the press of Elrohir’s own.

With one deliberate thrust, Elrohir sank into him—deep, unyielding—until there was no space left between them.

Legolas’s head tipped back into the rug, a sound spilling from him that was half gasp, half low cry, fingers clutching hard enough at Elrohir’s arm to leave crescents behind. His chest rose sharply against Elrohir’s, heat rolling between them in waves.

Elrohir’s own breath left him ragged, his jaw tightening as he held there for a heartbeat, feeling the pulse of Legolas’s body around him, the tremor that spoke of pleasure edged with the sweet ache of fullness.

Then he drew back and drove forward again, the new angle sending them deeper still. His pace was measured at first, each stroke deliberate, a claiming in its own right—before the pull of need began to erode the control in his hips, bringing each thrust sharper, more certain, until the sound of skin meeting skin filled the room.

Legolas was unraveling beneath him—every taut line of muscle giving way, every breath trembling out of him as though he could no longer contain the force of it. His hands moved without aim or reason, clawing into the hard planes of Elrohir’s arms, dragging down the breadth of his back in desperate, claiming passes that left fleeting red marks in their wake.

Elrohir’s pace was relentless but not careless, every movement deep and certain, the sound of their joining sharp and steady in the firelit quiet. Heat built between them until the air itself seemed heavy, their sweat-slick skin sliding with each hard thrust, every contact sending a shiver through them both.

When Legolas’s head tipped back, lashes lowering in something like surrender, Elrohir caught his chin in a firm, unyielding grip, forcing his gaze upward. His own eyes burned—dark, intent, fierce as if willing the world itself to disappear until only this remained.

“Do not look away,” he said, voice low and roughened by the force of his breath. The words carried the weight of an oath, not a plea. “Look at me, Legolas. Feel me. Every moment I have been without you—every night I have wanted you—it is here, now.”

Legolas’s lips parted, a sound breaking loose that was closer to a gasp than speech. His eyes—bright and dazed, heavy with heat—locked to Elrohir’s as if held by something more binding than touch.

Elrohir’s hand slid from his chin to cradle his jaw, thumb brushing along the flushed curve of his cheek in a rare, tender stroke. The next thrust was slower, deeper, meant to anchor the words in more than flesh. “Sixty years,” he murmured, the breath catching on the syllables, “and I will have every heartbeat of them back from you tonight.”

A shudder passed visibly through Legolas, his fingers clutching tighter at Elrohir’s back as if to pull him wholly inside himself. His mouth shaped Elrohir’s name—not just in lust, but in something fierce and aching, as though it were the only word that mattered.

Elrohir’s rhythm quickened, the steady, deliberate force giving way to something sharper—need cresting close enough to taste. Every thrust drove deeper, the heat of him searing between them, and the sound of their bodies meeting grew louder, punctuating each breath.

The hand that gripped Legolas’s raised leg shifted, sliding over the curve of his thigh, tracing the long line up toward the back of his knee before following the strong arch of muscle down again. His fingers flexed possessively, drawing the limb tighter over his shoulder, the shift granting him an angle that pulled another choked sound from Legolas’s throat.

Legolas’s hands found his face then—firm, unyielding—as though he could no longer bear the space between them. He dragged Elrohir down until their mouths collided, the kiss hard and consuming, tasting of fire and breathlessness. The press of lips broke only for the briefest, ragged inhalations before crashing together again.

When Elrohir’s tongue swept in, slow at first then deepening with intent, Legolas’s answering sound came low and wanton—and then sharp. His teeth closed on Elrohir’s lower lip in a sudden bite, not cruel, but enough to draw a gasp into the heat of the kiss. It was a habit Elrohir knew well—an unspoken claim, a flash of wildness beneath the prince’s composed veneer. The sting bled into pleasure, and Elrohir answered with a deeper roll of his hips, his own low growl spilling between their joined mouths.

Each movement between them carried into the kiss—the faint hitch of breath, the low sounds swallowed whole, the muffled groan when Elrohir drove forward with particular force. Legolas’s leg tightened across his shoulder, his hands curling hard at the nape of Elrohir’s neck, holding him fast. The firelight danced over sweat-slick skin, their foreheads brushing, lips still moving in fierce, hungry tandem.

Elrohir’s breath was coming hard now, the strain written in every taut line of his body, his rhythm driving deep and unrelenting. His grip on Legolas’s thigh tightened, fingers pressing into firm muscle as though to hold him here—this close, this bound—forever.

“Legolas—” The name tore from him on a gasp, raw and heavy with the weight of all the years he had been denied this.

Beneath him, the prince’s composure broke entirely. His back arched in a sharp, helpless curve, a cry spilling from his lips—wanting, desperate, wholly undone. The tremor that seized him ran hot between them, the proof of his pleasure caught in the press of their joined bodies. His hands raked over Elrohir’s arms and back, nails scoring over sweat-slick skin as though he could draw him deeper still.

The sight, the sound, the feel of him in that moment wrenched the last threads of control from Elrohir. A guttural sound left his throat as he drove forward again, again, until the force of his release broke through him. He spilled into him with a shudder that seemed to reach his very bones, hips still moving in deep, instinctive thrusts, unwilling to let go.

Even as the heated height faded, his movements slowed only gradually, easing into something deliberate, almost reverent, each final push a wordless vow. Firelight gilded the flushed planes of skin, breath mingling in the narrow space between them, the heat of their joining still pulsing where they remained bound.

Elrohir stayed within him, chest heaving, forehead lowering to rest against Legolas’s temple. Neither spoke in that first, trembling quiet, the bond between them deeper than the silence could hold.

They lay in the glow of the fire, the heat between them slowly giving way to the steady rhythm of breath. Both were sheened with sweat, hair clinging in damp strands to temples and napes, their bodies still flush with the warmth of what had passed. The faint crackle from the hearth seemed far away, muted beneath the slowing pound of Elrohir’s heartbeat in his ears.

When at last he moved, it was with unhurried care—slipping from Legolas in one slow, measured withdrawal. Legolas drew in a sharp, caught breath, the sudden emptiness making his body clench reflexively. Sensitivity still thrummed through him, and the sound that escaped was half gasp, half sigh. A shiver coursed down his spine, his body trembling in the aftershock.

Elrohir eased the leg from his shoulder with deliberate gentleness, his hand sliding down its length, palm warm against skin still twitching with the echo of pleasure. His thumb lingered in a slow sweep along the inside of the thigh before he let it rest against the rug. That tremor beneath his touch drew a faint, almost possessive curve to his mouth.

Reaching for the discarded linen robe beside them, he gathered it loosely in one hand, its folds cool against his fingers. A few quick swipes cleared the mingled dampness from their stomachs before he tossed it aside without care. Then he lowered himself once more over Legolas, settling his weight against him in a way that pressed every warm, familiar line of their bodies together.

The kiss he gave then was unhurried and tender, a stark contrast to the fierce hunger from before. It lingered, his mouth brushing against Legolas’s as though reluctant to leave the taste of him.

“You tremble,” Elrohir murmured against his lips, the observation wrapped in quiet satisfaction. His voice was lower now, the edge of restraint softened by the intimacy of the moment.

A faint, breathless laugh rose from Legolas. “Do not flatter yourself overmuch,” he returned, though the words wavered with the unevenness of his breath. “It is the rug—it offers little stability.”

Elrohir’s smirk deepened. “Mm. Then I suppose I must hold you here, in case you lose your footing again.”

His hands framed the sides of Legolas’s head, thumbs brushing through golden strands that still clung to damp skin. And though the jest hung between them, Legolas made no move to push him away. Instead, his fingers trailed slow patterns down Elrohir’s back, nails grazing in lazy arcs before catching in the damp hair at his nape.

He tugged him closer—until there was no space between them—kissing him once more, slow and lingering. The fire painted shifting gold over their skin, and for a moment neither spoke, letting the warmth of the other become the only thing they knew.

Elrohir’s lips lingered above Legolas’s, close enough that the warmth of his breath brushed across them with every slow inhale. His voice came low, edged with velvet and amusement. “Do you expect me to believe these tremors are not because of me?”

Legolas’s mouth curved faintly, though the rise and fall of his chest betrayed the lingering quickness of his breath. His thighs, still loosely braced around Elrohir’s hips, gave an involuntary quiver. “Perhaps I tremble,” he said lightly, the words carrying an airy coolness that did not quite mask the heat in his eyes, “from disappointment. You had six decades to prepare, and yet…” He let it trail, the final note a spark of provocation.

A low sound escaped Elrohir—half laugh, half growl—as he pressed his forehead against Legolas’s, the contact almost a nudge. “Dangerous words, my love,” he murmured, his hands sliding down the strong line of Legolas’s still-unsteady thighs. The pads of his thumbs brushed the faint tremor in them, and he felt the truth of what the prince tried to hide. “Especially when I am in a position to prove you wrong again.”

The subtle increase in his grip drew another shiver from Legolas, who only arched a brow in return. “You may try,” he said, tone deliberately measured, “but I fear you will find I am a far more patient opponent than you remember.”

Elrohir’s answer was to claim his mouth again—less the fierce hunger from before, more the slow, thorough possession of one who intended to make good on a promise. Their lips moved with a heat that seemed to pull the air from the narrow space between them, tongues brushing in a rhythm unhurried but certain, tasting the remnants of their breathless laughter.

When they parted just enough for their noses to graze, Elrohir searched his face in the flickering firelight. “You could have just told me you missed me,” he murmured.

Legolas’s fingers ghosted up the back of his neck, the gentle pull keeping him close. His smile was barely there, yet unmistakable in the curve of his voice. “And you would have been insufferable for the rest of the night,” he returned quietly. “Better to let you prove it.”

Elrohir’s answering smile was small, sharp, and brimming with intent. His hands did not leave Legolas’s thighs. 

His smile deepened, that mix of tenderness and quiet challenge he knew would keep Legolas’ pulse quick. “Careful, meleth-nín…” His voice was low, still edged with the roughness of breath not yet fully caught. “I could spend the whole night proving you wrong—and I would, gladly.”

His hands traced the curve of Legolas’s thighs, fingers smoothing over the faint tremors still running through the muscle. He lingered there deliberately, kneading lightly, as though memorizing the shiver. “But tomorrow…” The pause was deliberate; he leaned closer, letting the warmth of his words spill against Legolas’s ear. “Tomorrow, you will sit in court when I formally ask your father—and all of Greenwood—for your hand.”

The weight of it settled between them for a heartbeat—serious, certain—before that glint of wicked humor sparked in Elrohir’s eyes. “And I am generous enough,” he murmured, letting his thumbs stroke slow arcs over skin flushed with heat, “to ensure you will not be struggling to remain in your seat while I do it.”

Legolas’s laugh was quiet but rich, the sound threading warm through the space between them. “Considerate of you,” he said, tilting his head so that his hair slid forward, catching faintly on Elrohir’s cheek. His gaze caught and held, bright with mischief. “Though it might give them something to talk about, should I fail to sit still.”

The image—wicked, wholly intentional—made Elrohir’s mouth twitch into something halfway between a grin and a warning. He bent in, lips grazing the corner of Legolas’s mouth without fully claiming it. “They will talk enough,” he breathed, voice curling like smoke in the narrow space between them, “without me giving them more scandal to feast on.”

Legolas’s fingers, resting idly at the small of his back, curled just slightly. “And yet,” he said, his tone soft but edged with that dangerous playfulness Elrohir had missed for sixty long years, “I cannot promise I will not tempt you to it.”

Elrohir lowered himself once more, the steady weight of him pressing Legolas into the thick rug in a way that felt less like restraint and more like shelter. The heat of the fire curled around them, glinting along the planes of Elrohir’s shoulders, gilding the faint sheen that still clung to his skin.

Legolas’s thighs framed him easily, though the faint tremor there betrayed the lingering aftershocks. His hands slid into Elrohir’s hair, fingers combing idly through the dark silk, tracing the damp edges at his temples where exertion had left its mark.

For a moment, they simply breathed together—slow, measured, their heartbeats beginning to find the same unhurried rhythm.

When Elrohir bent to kiss him, it was nothing like the fierce claiming from before. This was slower, the press of lips lingering, shaping to one another in a silent litany of things they had no need to speak. His mouth traced the familiar curve of Legolas’s lower lip, tasting the breath that slipped between them, and he lingered there, unwilling to pull away.

When at last he did, his voice came low, threaded with something softer than desire. “I would keep you here until morning—and guard your dreams until the sun wakes you.”

Legolas’s eyes softened, though his smile curved with quiet mischief. “A noble offer,” he murmured, his thumb brushing Elrohir’s jaw, “but you would do better to guard your own. I am told I can be… distracting.”

Elrohir’s answering smirk was faint but certain. “Then I will take the distraction and call it a victory.”

The fire gave a muted pop, sending a brief shower of sparks upward. Outside the chamber, the Greenwood lay deep in quiet, but here, in the small world bound by the rug, the hearth, and the curve of each other’s bodies, there was no shadow, no cold.

Elrohir settled fully against him, head resting in the hollow of Legolas’s shoulder, his breath warm where it brushed bare skin. One of Legolas’s hands found its way into his hair again, idly stroking as the heat and the nearness began to lull them both.

“Sleep,” Elrohir murmured, the words barely more than a breath. “You are safe. I will not let the night touch you.”

And for the first time in many long years, Legolas let his eyes close in Elven sleep without the weight of dreams pressing in, the steady rise and fall of Elrohir’s chest the only rhythm he knew.

Chapter Text

The chamber was steeped in the hush before dawn, that hour when the air itself seemed to pause. Beyond the carved lattice of the windows, the world lay in a muted wash of silver-blue, moonlight stretched thin over the high terraces and the frost-dusted stone of the mountain halls. No warmth yet stirred in the sky; the first touch of the sun was still far off.

Elrohir woke to the quiet, feeling it settle into his bones. The weight of the night before lingered in him—not as exhaustion, but as a slow, deep ache that he welcomed. It was a reminder of every touch, every shiver drawn from him, every moment in which they had been so wholly joined that the hours had blurred into one. He let himself savor it, the way one might savor the faint burn of wine after it has gone down.

Sometime in those long hours, they had moved from the tangle of rugs before the hearth to the wide, low bed. The blankets still held the faint scent of woodsmoke, warmed skin, and the memory of shared breath.

Legolas lay close, their bodies curved toward each other, knees brushing beneath the coverlet. His hair spilled in a pale river across the pillow and Elrohir’s own arm, some strands drawn forward by the slow tide of his breathing. Their faces were so near that their brows might have touched had either leaned the smallest fraction closer. Legolas’s eyes held a faint gleam—half-lidded—as if reflecting a light from somewhere deeper than the room.

Elrohir’s gaze lingered, caught first by the sheer otherworldliness of him. The pale fall of his hair against the pillow seemed almost luminous in the cool light, each strand fine as spun glass; the high planes of his face were carved with that flawless symmetry that belonged to no mortal being. There was an air to him—stillness and light together—that made the chamber feel less a room of stone and more some hidden glade where the dawn would never quite break.

Yet the beauty here was not only of skin, though the smooth line of his cheek and the faint hollow beneath his throat would have been enough to hold any eye. It was in the quiet that lived beneath that beauty, in the strength shaped by long years and trials survived. In the way the forest seemed to breathe through him even now, in this still chamber far from the green boughs.

One fine strand of hair had drifted across his mouth, catching gently at the curve of his lip with each breath. Elrohir reached up, his touch slow, careful, the back of his fingers brushing cool skin as he eased it away. The gold slid free of its anchor, and in its place there was nothing between them but the faint warmth of their mingled breath.

A quiet laugh escaped him, low and softened before it could disturb the moment, not for humor, but for the fragile sweetness of it, something too rare to meet with anything louder.

His gaze traced the quiet curve of Legolas’s mouth, the faint parting of his lips as he breathed, the soft shadows the moonlight laid across his cheekbones. Every breath seemed to move through them both, slow and even, as if the space between them were no more than an extension of the same body.

A thought wound through him, warm and steady, anchoring itself deep: one day, this would be his every morning. Not stolen hours in a guest chamber, nor nights carved out of journeys and partings, but the quiet rhythm of a shared life. When vows were spoken and their souls bound, there would be no counting of days between. He would open his eyes to find this face beside him, the same pale fall of hair spilling across his arm, the same nearness that needed no words.

The idea settled into him with the surety of something already promised. He imagined the first pale light of each day glancing off that hair, the weight of the covers holding the warmth between them, the ease of reaching out without hesitation or farewell. 

The ache in his chest deepened—not pain, but a fullness that pressed against his ribs, made more intense by the memory of the night before. It was the weight of longing sharpened into certainty, of knowing this future was theirs to claim if they could weather the trials still ahead. In that stillness, beneath the hush of the halls and the last watch of the moon, he felt that promise as surely as if it were already written into the pattern of his life.

His gaze lingered, and the years between their first meeting and this quiet dawn unspooled in his mind with unwelcome clarity. He remembered the cold bite of the wind in those western woods, the sharp scent of pine crushed beneath boots. He had struck Legolas then—not a glancing blow in sparring, but a deliberate, driving cut meant to unseat and humiliate. The clash had jarred through his arms; he could still recall the faint catch of breath it had torn from the prince.

And as if that had not been enough, he had followed it with words crafted to wound more deeply than steel—naming him Thranduil’s son as though it were a stain, spitting old grievances in place of greeting, mocking the worth of Mirkwood skill and blood. He had wanted the distance, wanted to see hurt in those clear eyes before they could ever turn it back on him.

And yet here he was now—close enough to see the faint curl at the tips of those lashes, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath on his own mouth. That first meeting felt like the shadow of another life, one he would spend the rest of his days undoing, not out of guilt alone but because the thought of losing this, of losing him , had long since become unbearable.

Leaning in, Elrohir brushed his lips to Legolas’s with the lightest pressure—a kiss without urgency, meant only to honor the stillness. The touch drew the faintest shift in Legolas’s breathing, the slow curve of a smile forming before his eyes fully opened.

Legolas stretched beneath the coverlet, the movement unhurried and almost feline, the long lines of him flexing with an ease born of deep rest. His toes pressed into the mattress, his arms extending before relaxing back into the warm cradle of blankets. A quiet hum threaded through his voice as he spoke, low and edged with the roughness of waking.

“Mmm,” he murmured, lids lifting just enough to meet Elrohir’s gaze. “Are you attempting to waylay me at first light…or is this merely the opening move in some more elaborate campaign for the day?”

Elrohir’s mouth curved, the expression slow and deliberate—the kind of smile that promised far more than it gave away. “If it were a campaign,” he murmured, his voice a deep thread against the narrow space between them, “you would have yielded long before dawn.”

Legolas’s brows lifted, though the faint spark in his eyes betrayed amusement more than offense. “And yet,” he said, voice low with the husk of waking, “here I remain undefeated.”

Elrohir’s answer was not in words. He slid an arm around Legolas’s waist and drew him flush against him, the shift of the coverlet releasing a whisper of cool air before their bodies closed the gap in a warm, unbroken line. The heat of their skin met in a shock of familiarity—chest to chest, thigh to thigh—and the quiet mingling of their breaths blurred into one.

For a long heartbeat, they simply looked at one another. Legolas’s eyes caught the faint blue light that filtered into the chamber, their depths shifting between mischief and something quieter. Elrohir’s gaze traced over the fine lines of his face as though relearning every detail—the faint tilt of his smile, the glint at the corner of his eye, the way his hair spilled forward like a curtain of light.

Then he kissed him. At first, it was a whisper of contact—lips brushing with a deliberate slowness, the barest pressure, as if mapping the familiar terrain anew. But restraint frayed quickly. The kiss deepened, lips parting with the ease of habit, breath warming between them. Elrohir’s mouth moved against his with a slow, claiming rhythm, drawing a faint hum from Legolas’s throat—low and unhurried, the sound vibrating into him.

Their tongues met, sliding into a measured push and yield, a deliberate battle neither seemed willing to end. The faint wet sound of it mingled with the soft catch of breath, the muted sighs drawn out between each pull and press. Legolas’s fingers curled lightly at Elrohir’s hip, answering the kiss with the same growing hunger, until the line between teasing and taking blurred entirely.

Elrohir’s hand slid from the warm expanse of Legolas’s spine, tracing the shallow groove downward until it curved beneath the small of his back. His palm settled over the firm shape there, fingers splaying as though to claim the moment in his grasp. He squeezed—firm, deliberate—and felt the subtle shift in Legolas’s breath. A quiet gasp escaped him, softened but not hidden, as the ache of the night before stirred sharply to life. The sound melted into a low chuckle against Elrohir’s mouth, their lips still moving in unbroken rhythm.

“Insatiable,” Legolas murmured into the kiss, the word drawn between them like a secret, half-rebuke, half-indulgence.

Elrohir’s smile curved against his lips, his breath warm as he murmured back. “And you’ve always known the reason. It’s in my blood—the same fire that unravels you, every time you let me close.” His thumb stroked slowly over the hollow of Legolas’s back, a movement both soothing and possessive.

Legolas’s laugh was low and warm, a sound that stirred along Elrohir’s skin as much as it met his ears. He drew back just far enough for their eyes to meet, light and shadow caught between them. “Perhaps,” he allowed, the single word carrying both amusement and something deeper. He kissed him again, slower this time—lips lingering, unhurried—a promise without a single syllable, one that told Elrohir the morning was far from over.

Their kisses slowed, the fervor melting into something quieter, more deliberate. Lips met and parted in languid passes, each one less about taking and more about staying. The hush of the chamber seemed to gather around them, the faint creak of the mattress beneath them the only other sound.

Legolas’s fingers skimmed along Elrohir’s cheek, brushing the curve of his jaw before settling lightly there, his thumb tracing the smooth line of skin. He drew back just far enough to truly look at him—and he looked for some time, as though committing every detail of this nearness to memory. His gaze roamed unhurried to the dark sweep of Elrohir’s lashes, the faint warmth of color along his cheekbones, the way his hair had fallen loosely across his temple in the night.

Elrohir’s brows rose a fraction, one corner of his mouth tugging in a faint, knowing curve—an expression balanced between playful puzzlement and quiet curiosity. His hand lifted to trace the fine line of Legolas’s cheekbone with the back of his fingers, the touch slow and unhurried, before letting his palm rest against that smooth skin.

“What is it?” he murmured, his voice low, still carrying the warmth and softness of their last kiss.

Legolas’s lips curved, the smile soft but tinged with wonder. “I never imagined love could feel like this,” he said, his voice almost reverent, as though speaking too loudly might break the spell. “I find myself wanting to spend every moment at your side—waking, sleeping, in battle, in peace. Every moment.”

Elrohir’s gaze didn’t waver. “Nor did I,” he said, the words rich and certain. The palm against Legolas’s cheek warmed with the faintest pressure, his thumb beginning a slow path along the smooth skin there. “In all my years, I have not felt a love that settled so deeply, nor one I would guard so fiercely. And this—” his thumb brushed lightly over the line of Legolas’s lower lip, lingering as though to feel the words there before they formed “—I welcome with everything I am.”

Legolas’s eyes searched his, and when he spoke, it was with a note that was half-teasing, half-shadowed by a sliver of uncertainty. “You are older than I, far older. Am I to believe you have never given your heart to another?” The curve of his mouth hinted at play, but his gaze held steady, as if braced for an answer that might cut.

A breath of a smile ghosted over Elrohir’s lips, but his eyes remained unflinching. “I have known passing fancies,” he said, his voice even and sure, softened by the hand he now slid into Legolas’s hair, letting the fine strands slip between his fingers. “Affections that faded like summer rain, as soon as the season changed. But you…” He shook his head faintly, the smallest exhale carrying the weight of what words could not capture. “You are not fleeting. I want every dawn of my life to begin like this—to open my eyes and find yours the first face I see.”

Legolas’s breath caught, the words sinking deep. For a moment, he only looked at him—the truth shining clear in the grey depths, the unguarded devotion written without need of ornament. Then he closed the space between them, pressing his face into Elrohir’s throat, his head tucking beneath the strong line of his jaw. The steady rise and fall of Elrohir’s breath moved against his cheek, grounding him in that closeness.

“Then let us stay in bed forever,” Legolas murmured against his skin, the timbre low and warm, “worshipping each other every moment until the end of days.” The words were steeped in play, but edged with an invitation that was far from idle.

Elrohir’s lips curved, the smile darkening into something slower, more deliberate. His breath warmed the shell of Legolas’s ear as he spoke, each word a low, lingering promise. “I would worship you every day,” he murmured, his voice thick with intent, “in every way you would allow and in some you’ve yet to even imagine.”

Legolas’s laugh was soft, breath fanning against Elrohir’s throat, but it carried the edge of a shiver. “A bold claim,” he said, lifting his head just enough for their eyes to meet, his gaze both amused and molten. “But I suspect you’d see it kept.”

“I would,” Elrohir answered without hesitation, the certainty in his tone leaving no room for jest. His palm slid slowly down the length of Legolas’s back, savoring the smooth planes beneath his hand before settling at the small of his spine. A steady pull brought Legolas more firmly against him, closing the last inch between them until their hips met beneath the coverlet. The shift left nothing hidden—the warm, insistent beginnings of Elrohir’s arousal nudged unmistakably against Legolas’s hip, a quiet promise rather than its full force.

A slow, knowing smile touched Legolas’s mouth as his thigh pressed lightly, deliberately, in response. “Careful,” he murmured, voice pitched low, “or you’ll end me before the day even begins.”

Elrohir’s laugh was quiet and dark, rumbling low in his chest. His fingers flexed against the small of Legolas’s back, holding him close as though the thought of letting go was unthinkable. “If that is to be your end, my heart,” he said, brushing his lips in the lightest of passes over Legolas’s mouth, “it will be a very long one…and I will take my time with it.”

Legolas’s eyes glinted, the look equal parts challenge and invitation. “Dangerous words,” he murmured, tilting his head just enough for their noses to brush, “from someone who underestimates my endurance—” his tone slowed, the next words drawn out with deliberate weight “—and who, this very afternoon, will stand before my father and Greenwood’s court to ask for my hand.” The faintest curve touched his mouth, part amusement, part warning. “You may wish to consider whether tempting fate before such an occasion is wise.”

Elrohir’s answering smile was slow, predatory, the kind that made Legolas’s breath catch despite himself. “Then all the more reason to test it now,” he murmured, his voice low and edged with amusement. “If I am to face your father today, I would prefer to do so knowing I have already survived the greater trial.” His thumb stroked along the line of Legolas’s hip as he drew him closer, until breath and heartbeat were tangled in the same narrow space.

Legolas’s mouth curved, the spark in his eyes brightening with mischief. “Greater trial?” he echoed, his voice silken with mock offense, a faint lilt of amusement curling around the words. “You flatter yourself, my lord.”

Before Elrohir could answer, Legolas shifted beneath the coverlet in a slow, unhurried motion, rolling onto his side so his back pressed against the solid warmth of Elrohir’s chest. The movement drew the coverlet down to his waist, baring the smooth expanse of his back—the pale skin marked by the faint shadow of bruises and the crescent impressions of nails from the night before. He stretched like a cat, long and deliberate, the motion drawing out the elegant curve of his spine until it fit neatly into the shape of Elrohir’s body.

Glancing over his shoulder, the fall of his pale hair slipped forward to half-hide his face, though not enough to conceal the glint in his eye. “Perhaps,” he murmured, voice dipping into that low, unhurried register that always seemed to catch at Elrohir’s restraint, “I should make you work for your victory.” His tone lingered on the words, deliberate as a drawn bow. Then, with the languid grace of someone entirely unbothered, he let his head sink back against the pillow, eyes drifting half-shut. A faint, almost drowsy smile curved his lips as he shifted just enough to settle more comfortably against him. “I am still rather sleepy, after all. I think I might just let the morning pass and make you wait until afternoon.”

Elrohir’s low chuckle rumbled against Legolas’s back, warm and edged with something darker. “Sleep, is it?” he murmured, his breath brushing the delicate curve of Legolas’s ear. His arm tightened around Legolas’s waist, drawing him in until there was no space left between them, the line of his chest molding to the length of Legolas’s spine. One leg slid forward to tangle with his, anchoring him in place.

Before he could answer, Elrohir rolled his hips forward in a slow, deliberate press, the full heat and firmness of his arousal unmistakable against the curve of Legolas’s lower back and the swell just above his hips. The movement was measured—enough to remind, to promise—and it drew a quiet, involuntary breath from Legolas, the sound hovering between a sigh and a low hum.

Elrohir’s head dipped, his mouth finding the bare skin of Legolas’s shoulder. He kissed him there, lips lingering before moving in a slow drag over the faint bruises he had marked the night before. The warmth of his mouth and the gentleness of the pressure stood in contrast to the slow grind of his hips, each roll unhurried but insistent.

Legolas’s hand reached back, fingers curling firmly around Elrohir’s hip, holding him there for a heartbeat before urging him on. The subtle press of his hand only encouraged Elrohir’s movement, and he continued the slow, steady rhythm—hips rocking forward so that each breath they took seemed to fall into the same measured cadence. Soft sounds escaped Legolas with each motion, a mingling of breath and quiet hums, unbidden yet betraying the pull of pleasure beneath his teasing words.

Elrohir’s breath came low and full of want by Legolas’s ear, roughened by the effort it took not to simply give in. Each exhale washed warm over the sensitive curve there, carrying with it the faint scent of his hair. One hand left its place at Legolas’s hip to slip between them; a single finger trailing down the line of the prince’s lower spine before pressing inside him, meeting no resistance—already slick from the remnants of the night before. The faint glide of oil, the lingering trace of his own spend, and the loosened ease in Legolas’s body made the touch melt through him. Elrohir kept the steady rock of his hips as his hand shifted, guiding himself with unhurried precision. He pressed forward, the head of him parting that familiar heat, and sank into him inch by inch—effortless, seamless, until there was nothing left between them but breath and the slow thrum of shared heartbeat.

Legolas’s breath hitched sharply, his spine arching as his nails dug deep into the lean muscle of Elrohir’s hips. The bite of them drew a faint hiss through Elrohir’s teeth, but it only spurred him on, the sting mingling with the ache in a way that made him press further, until he was seated fully within him.

Elrohir lingered there, chest pressed to Legolas’s back, feeling the strong, steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath the layers of skin and muscle. His lips brushed the shell of Legolas’s ear as he spoke, his voice low, velvet over steel.

“I told you last night,” he murmured, the words riding the edge of his breath, “I would take back every heartbeat from the sixty years we were apart.” His hips rolled forward again, slower this time, as though carving the promise into muscle and memory. “And I will…every single one.”

Legolas’s answering breath trembled—not from weakness, but from the weight of knowing he was believed, wanted, and claimed in equal measure.

Elrohir moved with deliberate care, his hips rolling in a slow, deep rhythm that kept them pressed close with every thrust. Each motion drew a faint gasp from Legolas, the sound warm and breathy, the edges softened by the pleasure of the pace. Their breaths mingled in the small space between ear and mouth, catching and lengthening until they matched the rhythm of Elrohir’s body—inhale as he pulled back, exhale as he pushed forward, filling him again.

Legolas’s gasps broke now and then into quiet moans, low and almost reluctant in their escape, as though he wished to hold them back but could not. The sound of them sent a shiver down Elrohir’s spine. He pressed a kiss to the juncture of neck and shoulder, lips lingering there before dragging lightly across skin still faintly marked from the night before.

Elrohir’s own breathing was steady but deep, each exhale heavier than the last, carrying the sound of want held in check. A quiet hum left him when Legolas’s inner muscles tightened around him, a subtle, instinctive pull that made him sink in a little deeper, stay there a little longer.

This was different from the fevered hunger of the night before. There was no rush in their movements now, no frantic need to take; it was the slow claiming of what was already theirs. Fingers mapped skin not to mark, but to memorize. Their bodies swayed together, the creak of the bed and the low sounds from their throats the only testament to the depth of their connection.

Elrohir’s hand smoothed down the length of Legolas’s side, fingers tracing the subtle lines of muscle before pausing to splay across the flat plane of his stomach. His palm settled there in a firm, anchoring hold, keeping Legolas close as he moved within him. The slow drive and retreat of his hips drew their breaths into the same rhythm—inhale, exhale—until even the soft moans and low gasps seemed to fall into that shared cadence, a quiet, steady song meant for no ears but theirs.

Legolas began to meet him, the gentle sway of his hips pressing back into each deep stroke, matching Elrohir with unthinking precision. Every time their bodies joined, his weight shifted just enough to draw Elrohir further in, the movement speaking as much as any words could. The sound that slipped from him each time—half-gasp, half-breathless hum—threaded through Elrohir’s restraint, pulling it tighter with every repetition. The awareness of Legolas’s body seeking him, urging him on, set a slow-burning ache low in his belly.

With a low, almost possessive sound in his throat, Elrohir’s palm traced the steady path down the ridges of Legolas’s spine, lingering at the small of his back. His fingers spread there, holding him in place for a heartbeat, the warmth of his hand sinking into skin before applying the faint, steady pressure that urged him forward. The movement was deliberate, each inch of the shift guided by Elrohir’s control, until Legolas eased down onto his front. The coverlet gave beneath his weight, folding and bunching under his chest and hips, the subtle shift in fabric baring more of the pale sweep of his waist and the elegant curve of his hips to the open air.

Legolas turned his face on the pillow, its cool linen brushing his cheek as the spill of his hair tumbled forward, pooling in molten strands across the white. His lips parted on a breath that caught midway—uneven, almost anticipating—and the soft drag of air seemed louder in the hush between them. Half-lidded eyes turned slightly in Elrohir’s direction, catching only the dark silhouette above him, while behind, the steady sound of Elrohir’s breathing drew closer, heavier, until it hovered just over the bare expanse of his back. The position bared the long line of Legolas’s throat, the fine tremor of his pulse fluttering just above the curve of his shoulder where skin waited, unguarded.

Elrohir followed, lowering himself until his chest pressed flush to the warm, smooth expanse of Legolas’s back. He did not let his full weight bear down; instead, his forearms folded to either side of Legolas, bracing against the mattress so that the heat of his body enveloped without crushing. His legs straddled the length of Legolas’s, caging him in with a quiet, possessive certainty, the press of his thighs guiding the angle of every movement. The steady, grounding presence of him seeped through skin, his breath ghosting along the sensitive shell of Legolas’s ear. With the new angle, he sank into him deeper, the tight, silken heat drawing a quiet, guttural sound from his throat. He stayed there for a long moment, buried to the hilt, feeling the subtle expansion and fall of Legolas’s ribs beneath him, the strong thrum of his heart beating into the mattress between them.

When he began to move again, his thrusts were slow but sure, deliberate in their depth, each one driving them closer until there was no space left to claim. His lips found the curve where neck met shoulder, brushing over the faint sheen of sweat before trailing lower, tasting the salt of skin and the faint traces of last night still clinging between them. Every shift drew a low, breathy sound from Legolas’s throat—small, helpless notes that sank into Elrohir’s bones like a claim.

Elrohir’s mouth hovered at the delicate curve of Legolas’s ear, his breath hot and uneven as it spilled across that sensitive point. The fine hairs there stirred with each exhale, every pass pulling a shiver from deep within him. His voice was low, ragged with restraint, the words dragged from somewhere between control and surrender. “You feel—” The sentence caught, breaking into a quiet, shuddering exhale as he pressed deeper, the fullness of him driving heat through both their bodies. “—Valar, you feel…” The rest dissolved into a low, involuntary sound that vibrated against Legolas’s skin, more confession than speech.

His hips began to move with a new urgency—still controlled, still deliberate in their depth and angle, but carrying a rising hunger that tightened every line of his body. Each drive forward sent a faint shiver through the mattress, the force of it absorbed in the tense, braced strength of Elrohir’s arms and thighs. The steady drag and push of his movements drew a muffled gasp from Legolas, his voice lost into the pillow where he half-buried his face. His teeth caught the linen, holding it between them, though the sound that escaped—low, raw, and unrestrained—broke through all the same, curling back into Elrohir’s ears like the sweetest provocation.

The coverlet bunched in Legolas’s fists, the fabric twisted tight enough to pull at the seams. The tendons in his forearms stood out pale against skin already touched with the faint marks of hands from the night before. His shoulders shifted beneath the solid press of Elrohir’s chest, the subtle flex betraying the effort to hold himself steady—but his grip on the linen did not loosen.

Elrohir’s gaze fell to those clenched hands, to the strain and tension coiled into every line of them. Without breaking rhythm, he reached forward, his own hands sliding over the backs of Legolas’s until his palms covered them completely. The heat of his skin seeped into the prince’s knuckles as his fingers threaded through, locking them together. He pressed them more firmly into the mattress—not with force, but with the kind of grounding certainty that felt like an unspoken vow, anchoring them both to this moment and to each other.

He lay fully over him now, legs bracketing Legolas’s thighs, chest pressed to his back so completely that not even air seemed to pass between them. His weight was a steady, encompassing heat, a pressure that carried both possession and protection. Each deep thrust sent the slow roll of muscle through his body, the movement sinking all the way into Legolas’s spine. He could feel every breath Elrohir drew—the broad rise and fall against him, each exhale spilling warm over the curve of his ear or ghosting down into the line of his neck, stirring the fine strands of hair that clung there with sweat.

Legolas’s breathing quickened, not in panic but in a mounting pull he could not—and would not—resist. Every inhalation came deeper, drawing in the mingled heat of their bodies, every exhale leaving him softer, looser beneath Elrohir’s weight.

Elrohir’s voice came again, pitched low enough to be felt as much as heard—half-growl, half-vow, the sound roughened by restraint. “Let me have you,” he murmured, the words fraying at the edges with want, “every breath, every heartbeat.”

The sound seemed to sink into Legolas’s skin, shivering down the length of his spine until it drew a subtle, involuntary arch of his back beneath Elrohir’s chest. The movement changed the angle, drawing him more fully into each measured thrust. The rhythm did not falter; the bed creaked softly beneath the joined weight, wood answering wood, while the air between them thickened with heat and the lingering scent of last night’s closeness—oil, sweat, and something uniquely theirs.

Elrohir’s breath quickened by Legolas’s ear, the sound no longer steady but fractured, pulled from him in low, uneven surges that betrayed the strain riding just beneath his control. Each exhale fanned hot over the delicate point where neck met shoulder, dampening it further with the faint sheen of sweat gathering there.

His pace shifted—not hurried, but purposeful, as if chasing the edge that hovered just out of reach. Each thrust struck that precise place deep within Legolas that sent a jolt of molten pleasure through his frame, tearing quiet, breathless gasps from him—sounds he could not contain even when he bit down hard on the pillow. The muffled cries still escaped, raw and unguarded, threading through the air between them like a song meant only for Elrohir’s ears.

With a sound deep in his chest, Elrohir rose, shifting his weight back until he was on his knees, never breaking the heated connection between them. His palms framed the narrow span of Legolas’s hips, holding him firm as he drew him upward, coaxing him onto his knees while the rest of his body remained pressed to the bed. The movement pulled a long, graceful arch from Legolas’s spine, the new angle opening him to each deeper thrust, each one driving them together until the air seemed to hum with it. The frame beneath them groaned softly in counterpoint to their rhythm, a low, steady accompaniment to the sounds between them.

Elrohir’s grip tightened, fingers flexing possessively as though to keep Legolas exactly where he wanted him. Then one hand slipped forward, gliding over the taut plane of his stomach, feeling the fine tremor in the muscles there before wrapping around the hard, heated length straining against his palm.

His strokes began slow, deliberate, each glide measured to match the press of his hips until the movements aligned—thrust and touch weaving into a relentless, coaxing rhythm. Soft, fractured sounds escaped Legolas with every pass, his voice thinning and catching as sensation layered over sensation. His hands knotted in the coverlet, the cords in his forearms standing out as his body strained forward into both pleasures at once.

His head tipped back despite the pull of pleasure, pale hair spilling over his shoulders in loose, silken waves. The line of his throat bared in unthinking surrender, and when his voice came, it was low and unguarded—threaded with urgency.

“Elrohir—” His name broke from him like a plea and a warning in the same breath, drawn out into a trembling moan as Elrohir’s hand tightened. The rhythm between them sharpened, the pace of both touch and thrust perfectly in time, leaving no space for thought—only the narrowing, shattering focus of him.

A low sound escaped Elrohir, rough and edged with strain, his breathing breaking into short, uneven bursts as he quickened his pace. His hips drove forward with greater urgency, each stroke deep and unyielding, chasing the crest that threatened to overtake him. The heat of him poured into every movement, his breath spilling in warm, fractured exhales, the sound of it matching the growing insistence of his body.

Legolas’s undoing came in a rush he could not hold back. His breath stuttered into a gasp, breaking once more on Elrohir’s name as his body bowed beneath the weight of pleasure. His grip on the coverlet tightened to the point of strain, knuckles pale, nails catching in the weave. The tremor ran through him from head to heel, every muscle drawn taut before release claimed him in shuddering waves.

Elrohir felt it in an instant—the sharp, rhythmic tightening around him, the way Legolas pressed desperately back into his hand, and then the sudden, hot spill against his palm. Warmth spread over his fingers and down the inside of Legolas’s thigh, undeniable proof of his surrender. The sensation raced through him like a spark set to tinder; the sight was its own undoing—the unguarded arch of Legolas’s back, the fall of pale hair in disarray over his temple, the flushed curve of his cheek pressed into the pillow.

It tore through Elrohir’s control like a blade through silk. His hips rolled deeper, slower for only a heartbeat, as if to memorize the way Legolas’s body gripped him in that moment—then faster, unable to resist chasing the echo of that pulse. His breath came sharp before he dragged him back with one firm hand braced on his hip, the other sliding up along his side to grip the narrow span of his waist, holding him there.

“Valar… look at you,” he murmured, voice thick, almost reverent, though his pace betrayed how close he was to unraveling himself. The clenching heat around him, the flushed, lax sprawl of Legolas’s body, the broken cadence of his breathing—it was all too much.

He sat back just enough to lift Legolas’s hips higher, leaving the rest of him stretched long across the bed. The change let him drive in at a new angle, hitting that place that drew a breathless, involuntary moan from deep in Legolas’s throat. Elrohir’s grip on him tightened with every thrust, pulling him back into each one until Legolas’s voice blurred into soft, unguarded sounds—no longer words, only the aftershocks of pleasure drawn out by the unyielding rhythm. The heat of him, the way his body yielded and clenched around him, was a siren call Elrohir could no longer resist.

Something inside him gave way. His hips surged forward, seeking more of that grip, more of that impossible heat. He bent low over Legolas, breath hot by his ear, his voice roughened into a growl. “Legolas—” The name broke into a ragged exhale as his teeth caught the rim of Legolas’s ear, drawing a faint gasp in answer.

His fingers tightened over bone and muscle, pushing Legolas deeper into him with every unrelenting thrust. The measured rhythm of moments before was gone, broken into hard, driving movements, each one landing deep enough to draw another low sound from Legolas. The bed shifted beneath them with every roll of his hips, the slick slide within pulling him faster, harder, until his vision narrowed to nothing but the shiver of Legolas’s body beneath him and the fierce, tight clasp that refused to let him go.

His breath broke into sharp gasps against the crown of Legolas’s head, the burn coiling deep in his belly until it snapped. He buried himself to the hilt, holding Legolas flush against him as his release tore through him in a blinding rush. His grip over Legolas’s hips locked hard, keeping him still for every pulse, every spill of heat, until the aftershocks left Elrohir shivering against the curve of his back.

Elrohir stayed where he was for a breath—then another—his chest rising and falling against the smooth line of Legolas’s back, the echo of their release still thrumming faintly through him. Beneath his hands, he felt the fine, involuntary tremors still running through Legolas’s muscles, the subtle shiver that no willpower could hide. It stirred something deep and primal in him—possessive and quietly exultant—knowing he had left his mark not only on Legolas’s skin but in the way his body responded even now.

He lowered his mouth to Legolas’s shoulder, the kiss unhurried, lips parting just enough for the warmth of his breath to fan over the faint sheen there. His heartbeat still thundered in his ears, but slowly—reluctantly—it began to steady. The taste of salt clung faintly to his lips, and the lingering trace of the oils from the night before still perfumed the air between them.

When he eased back, it was with deliberate care, as if separating them too quickly might break something fragile. Legolas made a quiet, involuntary sound at the loss—low in his throat, breath catching as Elrohir withdrew—an echo of the closeness that had just bound them. The coverlet slipped in loose folds under their bodies, dragging across skin still warm from their shared heat.

Elrohir’s palms, broad and sure, slid up from Legolas’s hips to his waist, lingering there as though reluctant to let go, before guiding him gently onto his side. Legolas went without protest, eyes half-lidded beneath the pale spill of hair that fell across his cheek. The faint flush along his skin caught the pale morning light, gilding the sharp line of his jaw and the curve of his throat. His breath was still uneven, but the small, almost secretive smile tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed something softer—deep contentment, tempered by the quiet weight of intimacy.

Elrohir settled beside him, closing the space between them with a slow, measured shift until their knees brushed. He slid one arm beneath Legolas’s neck, cradling him there, and let the other drape over his waist, pulling him close until their bodies aligned once more—his front to Legolas’s back, fitting together in the ease of long familiarity.

Legolas exhaled, the sound low and warm, his hand finding Elrohir’s and resting over it where it curved along his side. For a moment, neither spoke—content to let the silence draw around them like a second coverlet. The only movement came in the faint press of Elrohir’s thumb stroking idly along the ridge of Legolas’s hip.

When Elrohir finally broke the quiet, his voice was softer than the light filtering through the gauze of the curtains. “I could keep you here all day,” he murmured, breath grazing the curve of Legolas’s temple, “and still it would not be enough.”

A faint laugh stirred in Legolas’s throat, edged with the languor of release. “You could try,” he said, slow and amused, the corners of his mouth lifting. Then he turned his head just enough to catch Elrohir’s gaze over his shoulder, a glimmer there both teasing and knowing. “Tell me, my love—how will you look my father in the eye in court…after you have so thoroughly unraveled his son, left him breathless and marked in ways only you will know?”

Elrohir’s answering smile curved slow and wicked, the kind that drew a low heat deep in Legolas’s belly. His thumb pressed a fraction deeper into the hollow of Legolas’s hip, a subtle claim, as he leaned forward—his chest brushing the faint sheen still warming Legolas’s back. “Easily,” he murmured, the words a breath against the shell of his ear. “For I will only be thinking of you—of the way you looked beneath me… and how you trembled when I made you mine.”

Legolas’s laugh came softer this time—warmer, wrapped in wry affection and something quieter beneath. He shifted faintly in Elrohir’s arms, enough for the crown of his head to rest against the hollow of Elrohir’s throat, his words spilling into the closeness between them. “And is this,” he asked, his voice low and even, carrying a note meant for no one else, “what our days will be when we are bound?”

“Yes,” Elrohir answered without the space of a breath—certain, unflinching. His arm tightened gently where it curved around Legolas’s waist, thumb brushing a slow, claiming stroke across his skin. “Exactly this—only more of it. I will show you the measure of my love each day…thus. I will steal you from Greenwood for a time, and carry you to the most wondrous corners of Middle-earth. I will show you how the same stars keep their watch over every land, no matter how far our road may lead.”

Legolas was silent for a breath, his face turned into the curve of Elrohir’s arm. When he spoke, his voice held the hush of something long dreamt but never claimed. “I would cherish that above all. Since my youth, I have wished to see the wide world beyond the green eaves—to tread its distant shores, and stand beneath skies my eyes have never known.”

“Then so it shall be,” Elrohir vowed, his breath warm against his hair. “I will show you the breadth of the world. We will stand shoulder to shoulder in battle, and I will take you—body and soul—in places where only the Valar may bear witness.”

A low, warm laugh escaped him, threaded with mirth and a touch of fond reproach. “Insatiable creature,” he murmured, the words draped in both amusement and disbelief.

For a while, there was nothing more—only the sound of their breathing, slow and in unison, the rhythm of heartbeats felt through skin and bone. Elrohir’s chest rose and fell against Legolas’s back, each breath a warm tide over his shoulder, each heartbeat drumming steady through the press of their bodies. Legolas’s fingers tightened faintly over Elrohir’s hand, holding it where it curved around his waist, as though to keep him there by touch alone.

The faint stir of air from the curtains moved across them, cool against skin still marked by the heat they had shared. Beneath it, the memory lingered in every place they touched—the quiet thrum of life beneath Elrohir’s palm, the answering pulse in his own chest. Neither moved, unwilling to break the stillness, letting the moment sink into them like breath, like promise.

The pale wash of early light still clung to the halls when Legolas stepped from Elrohir’s guest chambers. The air held the lingering cool of dawn, brushing against skin still warm from the quick bath he had taken in the Noldo’s private rooms. The faint scent of cedar and the oils from the night before lingered beneath the cleaner notes of water and fresh air, subtle enough to pass unnoticed.

He had dressed with quiet efficiency—yesterday’s tunic drawn close beneath his cloak, the folds smoothed into place with the precision of habit. His hair, still damp, had been gathered into a swift, neat braid that gave no hint of haste, though he had woven it more quickly than he would admit. Every line of him was arranged to speak of nothing but composure; the ease of one who rose early by choice, not from another’s bed.

The corridors stirred with life as the household woke to the day. Servants moved briskly with trays, linens, and baskets of fresh bread, their paths crossing his without pause. Each smile or bow met him with the quiet warmth reserved for a beloved prince, and though he returned them with measured ease, he felt the eyes that followed him—fond, trusting, expectant. The faint murmur of voices faded as he passed, replaced by the soft scuff of his boots on stone and the muted rustle of his cloak.

Guards at the far arch straightened subtly at his approach, their gazes flicking toward him in silent acknowledgment before resuming their watch. The high windows spilled early gold across the floor, catching the pale braid that rested against his head, gleaming like a thread of sunlight in motion. With each step, the mask of calm familiarity settled more firmly in place, so natural that even he could almost believe it had been there all morning.

He turned sharply at the corridor’s bend and nearly collided with a figure stepping from the deep shadow of an arched recess. The movement stirred the faint scent of amber root and some darker, resinous note—recognizable even before Legolas’s gaze found the tall form before him.

“My lord Anghiril,” he said, inclining his head in swift apology, one hand lifting briefly to rest over his chest in a gesture both courteous and instinctive. “Forgive me.”

Anghiril’s hands spread a fraction in an almost theatrical gesture of deference. “It is I who should be sorry, Prince Legolas,” he answered smoothly, his voice low and silken, honed by years of courtly performance. His head inclined just enough to match the gesture, but his eyes did not waver from Legolas’s face.

The faintest quirk of a smile curved his mouth—perfect in its shape, yet curiously bloodless. His gaze swept over Legolas once, deliberate in its pace, lingering for a heartbeat upon the damp gloss of hair at his temple and the faint flush still high along his cheekbones.

“You look…radiant this morning, my prince. Positively aglow,” Anghiril murmured, as if tasting each syllable before letting it fall. “And beautiful—as ever—that I think even the stars must weep to see themselves outshone.”

Legolas blinked once at the words, the compliment striking like a stone dropped into still water—surface courtesy rippling over something deeper, more deliberate. The pause was brief, but enough to mark that he had heard what lay beneath the gilded phrasing and understood it for what it was.

Anghiril’s eyes flicked—casually, almost lazily—down the corridor behind him, as though in idle thought. “And coming from the direction of the guest chambers, no less.” The words bore the shape of admiration, yet each syllable landed with the measured weight of a stone placed upon a scale. “Such a fortunate guest, to be graced by your company at so early an hour.”

The politeness was flawless, the smile almost warm. But beneath its varnish lay something colder—the quiet satisfaction of one who believed he had glimpsed the edge of a scandal, and meant to keep it tucked away like a blade hidden in the folds of a sleeve.

Legolas returned the smile with one of his own, tempered yet warm, the kind given out of long practice in his father’s court. “You are gracious to say so, my lord,” he replied, his voice smooth with the unhurried courtesy of the morning. The faint inclination of his head was all etiquette required, but his gaze did not waver; he heard the words for what they were—less a compliment than a deliberate nudge toward an implication best left unspoken.

Rather than give it ground, he let the moment pass as though it carried no more weight than any other exchange of courtesies. “I trust the day begins well for you,” he said, neither guarded nor overly familiar, his tone the even register of one accustomed to such pleasantries before moving on. He shifted to continue down the corridor, the cadence of his words marking the natural close of the exchange—only for Anghiril to step smoothly into his path.

The movement was slight, yet unmistakable: an obstacle placed with calculated ease. For one of the court to so waylay a prince in the open hall was a liberty that brushed the edge of impropriety, a gesture bold enough to draw comment had there been any witness.

“Indeed, my prince,” Anghiril replied at once, the words polished to a gleam. “How could it not, when the first sight to greet me is yours—fresh from such early company?” The courtesy was flawless, but the measured cadence lent it the air of a prelude, the faintest echo of the earlier barb, as if he enjoyed testing whether Legolas would allow the insinuation to pass unanswered.

“And Lord Elrohir,” he continued smoothly, “is most valiant—traveling so far to our halls, and shown to his chambers only yesterday. Yet already, it seems, your welcome has been… most warm.” His smile was all gracious admiration, though the words carried the silken sting of one who savors an unspoken insinuation. “To think—so swift a bond, and so constant, that even the night could not keep you apart. Such gallantry, such devotion—it would soften the hardest heart.”

His smile lingered, deepening without warmth. “And yet,” he went on, as though musing aloud, “we are ever called to mind the balance between the bonds we choose and the heritage we are bound to keep. Such ties can be intricate.” The words flowed easily, but each was placed with the care of one who measures their weight. “There are some among our kin—of the oldest lines—who observe such matters with the patience of long years…and the caution such years often bring.”

Legolas met the older Elf’s gaze without faltering, though his jaw tightened by a fraction—an instinctive check against the impropriety of such remarks. For one to speak so to a prince, to imply where he had spent the night, was a breach wrapped too neatly in courtesy to be called out in the open. Still, he let the moment pass with only the faintest crease touching his brow before smoothing away. His stance remained composed, one hand resting lightly at the fall of his cloak, as if the exchange were no more than a comment on the weather.

Anghiril inclined his head, the gesture shaped in deference yet honed to a point. “Forgive me, my prince,” he said, each syllable placed with the precision of a jeweler setting stones. “I speak only as one who has watched the tides of alliances rise and fall over long years. To pledge oneself is no small thing—least of all when that bond reaches beyond Greenwood’s borders.” His gaze lingered a heartbeat too long before it slid away, as if the thought required restraint to release.

“You speak of binding yourself to one of the Noldor,” he continued, the words wrapped in the mild reflection of an elder yet edged with the weight of warning. “And yet there are those among our kin who would not greet such a union with joy. Not for want of devotion to you, my prince—never that—but from a wariness bred by memory older than you or I. Deep roots hold fast, and there are some who would see them remain… untouched.”

Legolas inclined his head slightly, the gesture polite but cool enough to draw a subtle line between civility and concession. “I have never known roots to thrive without wind and weather to test them,” he replied evenly, his voice low but carrying the quiet resonance of conviction. “And the Greenwood has withstood far greater storms than the joining of two hearts.”

A faint curve touched Anghiril’s mouth, though the weight behind it made it a thing of calculation rather than warmth. His eyes did not stray from the prince’s face, as if measuring the effect of each word he had set in motion. “Perhaps,” he allowed after a breath’s pause, “yet even the oldest trees have been felled by storms they did not foresee.” The phrasing was mild, almost reflective, but the undertone clung like a burr—too deliberate to be a simple observation.

“Then,” Legolas said, allowing the smallest thread of steel to lace through his tone, “it is well that I keep my eyes open.” The words were not sharp, but they fell with the weight of something final. His expression smoothed once more into the untroubled courtesy expected of a prince in his father’s halls, offering no further opening. “If you will excuse me, my lord—the day’s duties will not wait.”

Legolas shifted, a half-step already taken toward the corridor’s end, when Anghiril’s voice caught him—not raised, yet pitched with the precision of one who knows how to halt another without touch.

“How curious the weaving of bloodlines,” he said, each syllable unhurried, almost reflective. “That Lord Elrohir should chase after one of Oropher’s house, when his own uncle once sought your father with equal zeal.”

The step Legolas had been about to take stilled. He turned his head just enough to fix the older Elf with a steady look. “What?” The word was quiet, stripped of ornament, but the sharpened edge beneath it betrayed that it was no casual question.

A slow, knowing smile curved Anghiril’s mouth—more shadow than warmth. “Ah,” he murmured, as though the thought had only just occurred to him, “so you were never told.”

He stepped nearer, not so close as to trespass upon decorum, yet enough that his voice could fall to a murmur meant for no other ears. “It seems, my prince, that the blood of the Peredhil has ever been drawn to the line of Oropher—like moths to a flame they cannot master. In the elder age, your father’s beauty caught the heart of the elder twin, Elros, who, for all his longing, chose the Doom of Men and was lost to our kindred forever. And now, in our own time…” His gaze traveled, unhurried, over the sweep of Legolas’s profile, the faint gleam of gold catching at his temple. “…it is the younger son of that house who drifts, unresisting, into your light.”

Legolas’s jaw tightened, though the rest of his stance remained composed. His fingers shifted once at the fall of his cloak, the smallest movement, yet enough to betray the undercurrent the words had stirred.

The pause that followed was deliberate, allowing the words to settle like fine ash. His eyes lingered a moment longer before sliding away, as though the thought itself were an indulgence best not spoken too loudly. “Perhaps it is something in the blood,” he said at last, the tone softened to a near-caress that only sharpened the malice beneath. “A yearning for what they may desire, yet can never truly claim.”

Legolas’s gaze held steady, the cool gleam of it a shield against the barb. “You mistake my heart for the echo of another’s tale, my lord,” he said, each word measured, unhurried. “What binds me is no passing hunger, nor some fate written in another’s blood, but of my own choosing—and it will not be swayed by such comparisons.”

The faintest curve touched his mouth—not warmth, but the poised composure of a prince unwilling to grant his adversary a hold. “Now, if you will excuse me, my duties await.” The words were faultless in form, yet carried the quiet weight of something meant to close a door.

With a measured inclination of his head, he stepped past, the fall of his cloak cutting clean through the shadow Anghiril cast in the corridor, leaving the older Elf with nothing but the echo of his own words.

Anghiril remained in the corridor, standing in the dappled spill of morning light through the high windows, his gaze following the prince’s retreat. The smile on his lips lingered—not with warmth, but with the shadow of a thought that did not fade.

Anghiril’s steps carried him unhurried down the corridor, each measured stride echoing faintly off stone softened by the filtered spill of morning light. Beyond the main halls, the passage narrowed into the quieter wing reserved for the elder houses—private quarters granted by the crown to those of ancient service and standing. His own lay at the far end: a suite of high-ceilinged rooms joined by arched doorways and dressed in the deep greens and golds favored by his line.

He pushed open the carved door to the central chamber, the air inside still touched with the coolness of the night. Sunlight slanted through narrow, high windows, striking motes of dust into gold and pooling across a low table of dark-polished oak.

There, seated with one leg folded beneath her on a cushioned bench, was his sister. Lathwen’s hair, pale as birch-bark and plaited with threads of green silk, caught the light as she turned toward him. Her eyes—clear and bright as burnished hazel—were sharp, missing nothing as they swept over his face. Beauty rested in her features, but it was a beauty honed, every angle set with deliberate precision.

“Anghiril,” she said, her voice smooth and unhurried, a tone shaped by millennia of navigating court halls. The fine point of her chin tilted slightly, a gesture as much assessment as greeting. “What shadows follow you, brother?”

She set aside the embroidery frame in her hands, the half-finished motif of oak leaves and stag antlers lying pale against the table’s dark grain. The question was not tender; it was measured, an invitation to speak only when it served him.

Anghiril’s mouth curved faintly, but the smile held no warmth. “Only the kind that walk in daylight,” he replied.

He crossed to the sideboard and poured himself a glass, the wine’s deep red catching the light like blood caught in a jewel. Taking the stem between his fingers, he moved to the high-backed chair near the sideboard and settled into it with unhurried grace. He lifted the glass with deliberate ease, turning the stem once before he drank. The deep red clung to the crystal like a slow-falling curtain before he lowered it again.

“This morning,” he began, almost idly, “I met our prince in the corridor—coming from the direction of the guest wing.” His brow arched the slightest degree, a gleam of amusement flickering beneath the smooth civility of his tone. “Hair still damp, yesterday’s tunic beneath his cloak, and a certain…lightness in his step.” He swirled the wine once, watching it coil against the glass. “One needn’t be a hunter to see where the trail begins—or whose bed it ended in.”

A shadow of a smile crossed Lathwen’s face, subtle but knowing.

Anghiril’s own smile deepened, carrying the faintest edge of mockery. “The Noldor wear pride like a mantle—loud, gleaming, impossible to miss. I have no doubt he left the sheets warm behind him this morning, and no doubt who kept them so.” He took another slow sip. “It seems our prince has chosen his company boldly…or foolishly. Perhaps both.”

He set the glass down with a quiet click, glancing toward his sister with a look that carried no need for explanation. “You and I know how many in these halls will not look kindly upon such… indulgence with a Noldo, least of all one with Imladris blood. But then,” he added, voice dipping into dry amusement, “the boy has always had a fondness for testing how far the wind will bend the branches.”

Lathwen’s fingers resumed their idle play along the silken threads of her embroidery, though her eyes never left him. “You speak of him often these days, brother,” she said, the words light but pointed. “One might almost think you had grown…fascinated. I had believed you disliked him.”

Anghiril gave a short, quiet laugh—more a breath through his nose than true mirth. “I do,” he said simply, the edge in his tone making the truth of it unmistakable. He leaned back in the high-backed chair near the sideboard, the stem of the wineglass now again resting between long fingers. “He is nothing more than a half-blood stray with a crown—one foot in the forest hovels of the Silvan, the other clinging to the refinements of the Sindar. Half his worth lies in his father’s pride, the rest in the gilding the court drapes over him to make the mix seem noble.”

Lathwen’s mouth curved, the expression carrying a faint spark of amusement. She tilted her head, pale braids slipping over her shoulder. “Careful,” she murmured, her voice dipping into the kind of silken chiding one might use in a dance. “Such words, spoken in the wrong ear, sound very much like treason. Were Thranduil himself to hear them…” Her smile sharpened, showing the edge beneath the silk. “You might find yourself parted from that handsome head you’re so fond of keeping.”

Anghiril’s lips quirked, unbothered. He raised the glass once more, the wine’s deep hue catching the morning light. “Then let us hope, dear sister, that the king never hears them from you.”

His lips quirked, unbothered. He raised the glass in an idle salute before drinking, letting the wine’s deep red glint in the morning light. “When I saw them cross our threshold yesterday—the famed twins of Imladris, with Glorfindel and Erestor in tow—it was as if a shadow had come in at their backs. Their presence sits on the air like the faint reek of steel after rain…and yet, it seems they made themselves quite at home already.”

He swirled the wine slowly, watching the crimson cling to the crystal as his smile deepened without warmth. “Why, I am told one of our noble guests was not left to pass the night in solitude,” he continued, voice honeyed and unhurried. “The prince himself saw to his comfort, in the privacy of his chambers. Such attentiveness is rare—though the Noldor have ever been adept at drawing what they desire into their arms before the dew has dried.”

He leaned back in his chair, gaze fixed on some point beyond her shoulder, as if picturing it. “It is not enough that they walk here as if the stones were theirs to tread—they seek to bind themselves to our line. A half-Silvan prince wed to a half-elven son of Imladris…” His lip curled faintly, the disdain clear in the shadow of the words. “A fine jest, if one were inclined to laugh.”

Lathwen’s needle stilled again, and a ghost of a smile touched her mouth. “Then perhaps the jest is on them, brother,” she murmured. “For the Greenwood does not bend easily, even for its own.”

Anghiril gave a low, derisive breath, the sound almost a scoff. “Thranduil will see it bent,” he said, voice flat with certainty. “The king is a fool where that boy is concerned—would drape him in the sun if it pleased him, crown a Noldorin consort without a thought for the insult. All to keep his precious son smiling.” He lifted the glass in a slow, sardonic toast before draining the last swallow. “And the rest of us will be made to bow to it.”

He set the empty glass aside with a muted click, leaning back once more. “It would hardly be the first time,” he went on, the words gathering a sharper edge. “Thranduil wed his Silvan Queen without the leave of anyone, least of all the Sindar who followed Oropher east. He cared nothing for our counsel, nor for the whispers that followed. He took what he wanted, and the court learned to bite its tongue.”

Anghiril’s gaze darkened, the faint smile twisting into something nearer a sneer. “Some say she was a beauty without equal; I say she was a Silvan witch who wove her charms well enough to snare a king. And from that union—” he gave a quiet, contemptuous breath “—was begotten the sad, diluted addition to Oropher’s proud line.”

Lathwen’s needle moved once more through the silk, slow and deliberate, though her mouth curved in a manner that was anything but warm. “I remember her,” she said lightly, as if remarking on a long-faded tapestry. “She walked our halls with the quiet arrogance of one who knew she had bested us all—and the king saw only what she wished him to see. I do not doubt her skill.” Her gaze lifted, cool and sharp as the point of her needle. “And now her son takes after her in that regard.”

He leaned back in his chair, one arm draped along its carved edge. “Perhaps Thranduil thinks his son should have the same liberty—though it will cost the Greenwood more dearly this time.”

A flicker of something more personal crept into his tone as he added, “I even tried to spare him such folly. Went to the king myself before the court—offered to bind his son to our own line, to keep the blood of Oropher’s house unbroken and the crown where it belongs.” His mouth curved in a humorless smile. “A match that would have secured the Greenwood for another age.”

He gave a low, amused chuckle, the sound edged with something darker. “Of course, I would have taken control soon enough. Legolas is no ruler—he was never made for the weight of a crown. But he would have made a fine bed-warmer while I wore it.” The glint in his eye was cold, calculated. “The realm would have prospered, and he would have served his purpose.”

Lathwen’s laughter rang soft but rich, the sound curling around the room like silk drawn over steel. “I heard of it,” she said, eyes alight with a gleam both amused and knowing. “Bold, brother. Very bold. To walk into the Elvenking’s presence and name yourself a suitor for his only son. You must have thought yourself charmed by fortune.”

He gave a low scoff, the shadow of a smirk playing at his lips. “I thought myself practical. It would have been the wisest course for all. But Thranduil…” His eyes hardened. “Thranduil is a fool who dotes on his son as if he were the crown itself—too blinded by sentiment to see what is best for his realm.”

Lathwen’s needle dipped once more through the silk, her gaze never wavering from him. The smile she wore was slow, deliberate—like a cat idly watching a bird that had flown too close. “Mm,” she murmured, the sound threaded with mock thoughtfulness. “Lust for the crown I expected. But perhaps also for the prince? One wonders which you covet more.”

Her tone was light, but the glimmer in her eyes was sharp enough to draw blood. “Or perhaps, dear brother, you imagined it would be no great trouble to keep both. Rule the Greenwood by day…and rule its prince by night.”

Anghiril did not bristle—if anything, the comment seemed to amuse him. A faint, knowing smile played at his lips as he eased further back into the chair, the polished wood creaking softly beneath the shift of his weight. His gaze lingered on her, steady and unhurried, as though weighing whether she was truly ready to hear the truth.

“He is beautiful,” he said at last, the words low, deliberate—less a confession than a fact laid bare for inspection. “Too beautiful for his own good. Any who claim otherwise are liars…or blind.” The faint curl at the corner of his mouth deepened, touched with something that was not quite warmth. “It would not be difficult to think of him so.”

The smile sharpened. “But beauty does not make a ruler—it adorns one. The Greenwood’s crown deserves a bearer of full Sindarin blood, untainted by the rougher stock of the Silvan. A king who could carry Oropher’s legacy unbroken, without compromise or apology.” His voice dipped, the edge of it cool and certain. “That is what I would have given it. That is what it deserves.”

He let the words settle, the firelight catching on the fine line of his profile. Then, almost idly, he added, “In my hands, the Greenwood would have remained as it was meant to be—its throne strong, its bloodline pure…and its prince put to better use than squandering himself on Noldorin company.”

Lathwen drew the final stitch with a slow, practiced pull, the silken thread gliding through the fabric without a snag. She tied it off neatly, smoothing the work with her fingertips before folding it into her lap. Only then did she lift her gaze to him, eyes bright with a calculating gleam.

“It seems,” she said lightly, as though remarking on some harmless court gossip, “that the cause of both the Greenwood’s yielding to the Noldor, and my dear brother’s lingering vexation, may be traced to a single source.”

Her fingers brushed a stray thread from her skirt, the motion unhurried. “And if,” she went on, her voice like silk drawn over steel, “that source were to…vanish from the board?”

She did not elaborate. She didn’t need to. The faint curve of her mouth and the stillness that followed carried the suggestion well enough.

Anghiril’s gaze narrowed, and the wine halted just short of his lips. “And what,” he asked slowly, voice as smooth as polished steel, “does my clever sister mean by that?”

Lathwen’s eyes did not waver. She set her embroidery aside, folding the silken work with care before laying it on the low table. “I have heard things, brother. From servants who linger where they ought not… from healers who speak too freely.” She rose with unhurried grace, the fall of her pale braids catching the light as she moved to pour herself wine.

“They say our prince’s dreams call him southward—again and again—to that poisoned keep. Dol Guldur.” Her tone softened to something almost musing. “And that just yesterday, he lay stricken beneath the Black Breath. Even now, a shadow clings to him—unseen, but not unfelt.”

She lifted the goblet, swirling the dark red within. “If one were to…encourage him,” she went on, each word placed with delicate care, “to follow where those dreams lead—south, into that blight—well,” Her gaze found his over the rim of her cup, cool and steady. “I doubt he would return. The Nazgûl who haunts those walls would see to that.”

The faintest curve touched her lips—too slight to be called a smile. “The Greenwood would weep, of course. But grief fades. And without its cherished heir…” She let the words dissolve into silence, the unspoken end settling between them like a drawn blade.

Anghiril’s mouth curved, but the expression held no warmth, leaning forward until the light caught in his eyes.

“Thranduil,” he said, the name edged with dry contempt, “would never allow it. Not while breath is in his body. He would sooner see the forest itself uprooted than his son set foot in that accursed place.” His fingers drummed once against the arm of the chair, measured and deliberate.

“And if—” his voice thinned to a blade’s edge “—somehow the prince were lost there, by ill chance or darker design, the king would not simply grieve. He would hunt. He would burn every root and stone between here and the Mountains, and those responsible would not live long enough to beg for mercy.”

He sat back again, the steel in his tone cooling to a quiet, lethal certainty. “No, dear sister. If the prince falls, it will not be by a hand the king can trace.”

Lathwen’s gaze lingered on her brother, the faintest spark of intrigue lighting in the pale depths of her eyes. When she spoke, her voice was quiet, measured—like a weaver considering which thread to cut.

“Perhaps,” she said, as though voicing a thought long held close, “the king’s grief need not be…endless. Thranduil has ever been an elf of pride and legacy. He may mourn his son, but he is still capable of siring another. And if such a thing were to come to pass…” Her head tilted, feline and deliberate, “…it could be arranged so that no trail ever leads back to us.”

Anghiril’s brow lifted, the barest sign of interest. “Another?”

Her smile curved slowly and deliberately. “Why not? Once, before the Silvan witch turned his head, he looked upon me with favor—back in Lindon, before Oropher wore a crown, when the Greenwood was yet unnamed by his rule. In those days, even as that half-elven fool Elros was panting after him like a hound in heat, Thranduil’s eyes would find mine. A maiden does not soon forget such things.”

Her fingers toyed idly with the edge of her gown, the motion as calculated as the words that followed. “Were the prince gone, it would not be so great a leap to remind him of what he once admired. I could give him what she gave him—only better. A child of full Sindarin blood. A true heir, worthy of Oropher’s line.”

She let the next words fall like a quiet drop of poison into still water. “And through that child, brother, you could have the crown in all but name—and the power to shape the Greenwood as you see fit, with no prince or Noldorin consort to stand in your way.”

For a moment, Anghiril was silent. Then his mouth curved—slow, deliberate, and without mirth. The gleam in his eyes was half-shadow, half-hunger, a flicker of something long restrained now given shape.

He rose from the chair with unhurried grace, setting the empty glass back on the sideboard. “You weave dangerous patterns, sister,” he said, his voice low and measured. “But perhaps they are patterns worth weaving. Valar forgive us for even giving such thoughts breath.”

Without another glance, he turned toward the archway, his steps soundless on the polished floor. Lathwen’s gaze followed him, the faintest trace of a smile still lingering as the door closed softly behind him, leaving the room steeped in the quiet scent of wine and silk—and a plan not yet spoken aloud, but already taking root.

Steam still clung faintly to the air, curling in the cool shafts of light that fell across the chamber floor. Legolas sat before the broad mirror of his vanity, a comb moving slowly through the damp gold of his hair. The thin fall of his robe clung where the linen had darkened against his skin, the cool touch of the fabric at odds with the lingering heat from the bath.

He had bathed again—less to erase Elrohir’s nearness than to school his own composure—letting the water ease the restless energy left in the wake of the morning. Yet the memory of Anghiril’s words lingered still, clinging closer than steam to stone.

His hand stilled mid-stroke. In the mirror’s reflection, his own face looked back at him—serene, but for the faint furrow between his brows. Anghiril’s insinuations had been wrapped in silk, yet they carried the weight of something more than idle court mischief. The names spoken, the history hinted at—these were not matters one offered lightly.

The comb resumed its slow course, each stroke deliberate. He could not tell if the unease came from the suggestion itself or from the shadow of knowing there were truths in his father’s past that had never found their way to him. 

And beneath it all, like the faint hum of a bowstring drawn taut, there was the thought of Elrohir—steadfast, unflinching—and the knowledge that others would not see him so. To them, their bond would always be caught in the web of history, an echo of old allegiances and older wounds: the Sindar and the Noldor, forever measured against the shadow of what had been lost between their peoples. 

And now, with Anghiril’s words still sharp in his mind, there was the knowledge that Elros, Elrohir’s own uncle, had once pursued his father. That truth clung with the strange weight of something personal, though it had passed long before his birth. To some, this would be a tale too ready for comparison, as if love itself could be reduced to the patterns of bloodlines and the ghosts of old desires.

But Legolas knew better. Elrohir was more than his lineage, more than the long memory of ancient grievances. He was one who met the world with an unguarded heart, who could be fierce and unyielding in battle yet steady as stone when Legolas faltered. And in the quiet moments—in the hours between moonset and dawn—there was a hunger in him that burned with mortal fire, a restless desire that stirred with a glance or a touch.

Elves did not rouse so easily, not in the way of Men. Their longing was deep and deliberate, a slow tide that gathered and broke with purpose. But Elrohir could be set alight with little more than the graze of fingers or the meeting of eyes, and Legolas had found himself with no wish to quench that flame. If anything, he cherished it—the unrelenting vigor that could drive him to breathless distraction, the way Elrohir’s hands, his mouth, and the fierce rhythm of his body could shatter restraint and carry him to heights he had never before known. It was a fire that left no part of him untouched, a passion that burned through every barrier with a swiftness foreign to the Eldar.

It was a reminder of life lived without the measured patience of his own kind, of a desire untempered by centuries. And he would not trade it, not for the ease of silence, nor for the approval of any court. What they had was not born of duty, nor bound by the patterns Anghiril so slyly wove in his words, but of choice freely made, again and again.

Legolas exhaled, the breath edged with something near frustration, and set the comb down with a sharper click than he intended—wood meeting polished surface in a sound just shy of a slam.

“You groom your hair as if to strangle it,” came his father’s voice from behind, silken in tone, yet threaded with the cool precision of gentle rebuke.

Legolas turned at once, the faintest start betraying him. “I did not hear you enter, Adar.”

Thranduil had stepped soundlessly into the chamber, the light from the high windows catching in the pale fall of his hair and the silver tracery at his collar. One brow lifted in mild censure. “That is because your thoughts were leagues away, wandering where they should not, so near to the hour of court.” His gaze swept the room before returning to his son, lingering a heartbeat on the damp spill of hair and the robe clinging close before meeting Legolas’s eyes. “The realm waits for neither brooding princes nor absent kings.”

Thranduil stepped further into the chamber, and only then did Legolas notice the garment draped over his father’s arm—a long, flowing robe of white so light it seemed almost woven from morning mist, the fabric catching each movement as though it breathed.

A quiet laugh escaped Legolas despite himself. “Do you mean to dress me for court forever, Adar? The last time you put me in white was before my majority.”

One corner of Thranduil’s mouth curved, a flicker of dry amusement beneath the weight of his gaze. “And yet you wore it well then, as you will now. When you no longer give me cause to guard appearances, perhaps I shall leave you to your own devices. Until that day, I will see that my son stands before the court as befits the heir of the Greenwood.”

Thranduil extended the robe with the same unhurried precision he brought to court, the pale fabric spilling like captured light between them. “Change,” he said, the single word leaving little room for debate.

Legolas let out a quiet breath—half sigh, half resignation—and rose to take it, the cool whisper of the cloth sliding into his hands. Without further protest, he moved to the far side of the chamber, far enough to slip from his father’s immediate sight.

Thranduil’s gaze shifted to the small alcove along the inner wall where his son’s private collections were displayed with careful intention. A dagger rested in a place of honor, its silvered hilt and fine Imladris etching catching the muted late morning light—a parting gift from the children of Elrond, set upon a dark wooden stand as though it were a relic. Beside it stood a finely wrought portrait of Elrohir, the detail so precise it seemed the drawn eyes might turn to meet the viewer’s. A neat stack of folded letters lay close by, edges worn from decades of careful handling, their ribbon ties faintly frayed with time.

Beyond these tokens of the present, there were smaller treasures of an older life: a handful of carved wooden animals no longer than a palm, their edges smoothed by years of play; river stones polished to a satin sheen, each chosen for the way it had caught a child’s eye; pressed forest flowers, their fragile forms suspended in glass like the memory of a single summer’s day.

Thranduil’s hand moved almost of its own accord, his fingers tracing lightly over the worn curve of a wooden fawn, pausing as if to test its weight. For the briefest moment, something in his gaze softened, and the years fell away. He remembered the small, eager hands that had once reached for such trinkets, the delighted cry when a stone was found gleaming in a brook, the scent of crushed grass clinging to hair after a day of chasing fireflies beneath the eaves. He could still feel the lightness of that child’s body asleep against his shoulder after some grand adventure, the steady breath against his neck, the warmth of trust absolute and unthinking.

The memory settled in him like a quiet ache, an old, unspent tenderness that time could neither blunt nor claim. Then his hand fell back to his side, the expression in his eyes shuttering once more—unreadable as frost on still water.

From the alcove, he heard the faint rustle of cloth, the whisper of movement. When Legolas stepped back into view, the pale robe flowed around him like captured moonlight, its sheer folds catching the air with each unhurried step. Damp strands of gold spilled over the white, the faint sheen along his skin lending him an unearthly radiance. In the clarity of that light, Thranduil saw not only his son, but the faint, unbroken lines of those long gone—his mother’s gentle cast of brow, his father’s keen eyes, the quiet grace of his wife’s smile—woven into the living image before him.

Thranduil’s breath caught—so slight a sound it might have gone unheard—and his gaze, still softened by the touch of memory, grew bright. Many centuries past, this same child would reach for his hand without thought: in joy, in fear, in wonder. Whether clutching at his sleeve in a crowd or pressing small fingers into his palm beneath the shadow of a storm, Legolas had always sought him, certain he would be there. Now, before him, stood the prince in the full measure of his grace. And today, Thranduil would allow another to prove themselves worthy of taking that very same hand. 

Pride swelled in him, but it did not come unaccompanied; beneath it lay a quiet ache, like the low note of a harp that hums long after the string has been plucked. Soon, sooner than seemed possible, his son would be wedded and bound, and Thranduil would no longer be the sole keeper of his heart, nor the first counsel to whom he turned. It was no less a joy for the sorrow twined within it, for such is the nature of love—that it must one day loosen its hold, even as it never lets go.

Thranduil let the quiet stretch between them, his gaze steady, as though committing the sight before him to memory. When he spoke, his voice held the same deliberate care as a craftsman laying gold leaf.

“I have walked this world through more ages than I care to name, nettle-sprite, and in all that time I have not beheld any being—Elf, Man, or otherwise—whose beauty could rival my own son’s. The Peredhel should count himself not merely fortunate, but thrice-honored, that such one as you has granted him so much as a glance, let alone your regard.”

A startled laugh broke from Legolas, warm and unguarded. He stepped forward, closing the space between them, and rose onto the balls of his feet so his arms could slip easily about his father’s shoulders. The robe’s pale folds whispered against Thranduil’s robe, the faint scent of fresh water and soap rising from his son’s still-damp hair.

Thranduil, who was not known to yield to open embraces, wrapped his arms about Legolas without hesitation, the strength of it belying the quietness of the gesture. For an instant, he let the weight and warmth of his son’s presence settle against him, as if to hold back the march of years. He moved his head and pressed a lingering kiss to the crown of bright gold, closing his eyes to breathe in the scent that was his child’s alone.

As they drew apart, Legolas’s hands lingered a moment upon his father’s shoulders, his gaze searching. “Adar…” The word was measured, but there was an undercurrent of hesitation rare between them. “Tell me—was it so, that Elros once sought you?”

Thranduil’s stillness deepened, the light in his eyes altering as though a shadow had crossed a bright stream. “And who,” he asked, each syllable deliberate, “saw fit to speak such a thing to you?”

“This morning, I crossed paths with Lord Anghiril,” Legolas said. “He made mention of it.”

The name settled into the space between them like a drop of ink into still water, its darkness slowly unfurling. Thranduil’s gaze cooled, the faintest tightening at the corner of his mouth a subtle fracture in his composure.

“You will not speak with that elf alone,” he said at last, the command quiet but absolute. “If you must endure his company, you will do so with another present—a guard, a companion, anyone whose loyalty I do not doubt.”

Legolas’s brows drew together, his voice carrying both puzzlement and a faint challenge. “He is of an ancient and noble house. What peril lies in mere conversation?”

Thranduil’s expression did not shift, yet tension wound through him like a bowstring drawn taut. “Anghiril’s tongue is skilled in the art of turning words to his profit, and truth to his will. He hunts in matters that neither belong to him nor serve the realm. I will not have him fishing in your thoughts, nor sowing seeds I would sooner see die before they sprout.”

His gaze held his son’s, cool and unyielding, until the weight of his meaning was felt as keenly as it was spoken.

Legolas did not drop his gaze. “But tell me plainly, Adar—was it true?” His voice was quieter now, yet steady as drawn steel. “And is that why some would set my tale beside yours?”

Thranduil did not speak at once. The silence between them thickened, as if the chamber itself were holding its breath. His eyes shifted, not to avoid his son’s, but to some point beyond, as though he looked across ages to a place only he could see. The stillness was long enough for the faint sigh of wind through the high windows to thread between them.

At last, he said, each word as deliberate as if weighed before release, “Yes. In another age, in the long shadow after Beleriand fell, Elrond’s twin brother sought me.” There was no flourish in his tone, only the clean, cutting truth.

Legolas’s brow furrowed, his voice low but carrying the quiet demand of one who would not be turned aside. “Why did you never speak of it?”

Thranduil’s gaze returned to him then, steady and unflinching. “Because it is a tale that shames me—one I have not wished to see you measure me against. Some wounds, Legolas, are best left to lie beneath the moss, lest the air rouse them to rot again.”

Legolas’s brows knit. “Why does it shame you, Adar? Was it something Elros did?”

Thranduil turned from him, the movement deliberate, as though the space might shield him from the question. He crossed to the tall windows, where the light pooled pale across the floor, his profile caught in its edge—still, severe, and guarded.

“No,” he said at last, and the single syllable was quiet but unyielding. “It is my own words and my actions that shame me.”

Legolas followed a step, unwilling to let the silence stand. “Adar, you told me only yesterday that truth is owed, even when it is unpleasant. Will you keep from me now what you demanded of me then?”

Something flickered in Thranduil’s stance, a shift too slight for most to read, but Legolas knew his father well enough to see the weight of memory gathering. He stood long without speaking, as though sifting through centuries for words that would not tarnish the telling.

“I knew,” he began, voice low and measured, “of Elros’s heart toward me. It was plain enough, though he strove to guard it, as one might guard a wound from the air. And I allowed it. Not to answer it, for there was nothing in me to give him, but to see how far he would go. I let him follow where I knew no road would lead.”

Legolas said nothing, the stillness between them demanding more.

“When at last he spoke,” Thranduil continued, “he told me he had long resented the grasping nature of our kind—the way the Eldar hoard both love and life. He had been ready, even then, to take the Gift of Men, to follow the path. But for me, he said, he would turn from that choice—he would bind himself to the long years, endure the slow weight of eternity, if only it might be spent at my side.”

Thranduil’s eyes closed briefly, and when they opened again, there was a glint in them not of light, but of something harder. “And I laughed.”

The word hung, stark as a blow.

“I named him the son of kinslayers—reminded him of Maedhros and Maglor, in whose keeping he and Elrond had been raised. I scorned his father’s blood, his mother’s grief. I told him his choice would mean nothing to me, for I would not stand beside him even if the Valar themselves decreed it. I turned his confession into his humiliation.”

Legolas stood very still, as though the telling had struck him into silence. His eyes, bright a moment before, now clouded—not with judgment, but with the heavy ache of imagining the hurt Elros must have borne. To bare one’s heart and be met not with kindness, but with mockery—he could not fathom such cruelty. He could not imagine letting such words pass his own lips to Elrohir, not even in the fiercest quarrel. The thought of it made his chest tighten, as if some unseen hand had pressed against his heart.

Thranduil turned fully toward him then, the quiet between them stretching. He heard only silence, yet in it he could read the weight of his son’s thoughts. His gaze did not waver, though his face was as still as the winter moon. 

“I had no wish to stir such waters,” he said at last, his voice even but edged with something that might have been regret. “I would not have you look upon me and see only the shadow of my failings. I was young then, proud to the point of arrogance, and far less wise than I believed myself to be. It is a memory I carry as one carries a wound that never truly closes.”

Legolas’s lips parted, hesitation flickering in his eyes. “Does it shame you because you felt something for him?”

“No.” The answer came without the space of a breath. His tone was steady, but it left no room for doubt. “Your mother has ever been my one and only love, from the first moment to this very day. But I should never have played so carelessly with the heart of another. I knew there was no hope for him, yet I let him walk that path, knowing it would lead only to pain. That is my guilt, and it will follow me until the world’s ending.”

Legolas’s brow furrowed, the sorrow in his eyes touched now by understanding. “And Lord Elrond, he knows of this?”

Thranduil’s gaze drifted past his son, though it did not lose its focus, as if he were looking at some far shore. “He does. Elros told him before the choice was made. I imagine the words were bitter on his tongue, yet he spoke them, and the telling has colored every glance Elrond has cast my way since.” A faint, humorless curve touched his mouth. “To him, I am the one who mocked the last hope his brother held, the one who made light of a heart willing to surrender eternity. He sees in you not only my blood, but the echo of what his brother was denied.”

The silence that followed was taut, filled with the weight of things long buried.

“So his bitterness toward you—toward me—”

“—is an old wound, and not without cause,” Thranduil finished, his tone low but unflinching. “I will not pretend otherwise. But I will not see you measured against my sins, Legolas. Your bond with the Peredhel is not mine with his uncle. It is born of choice freely made, not of pride or cruelty. And it will stand or fall on its own strength—not under the shadow of my past.”

He paused, his eyes holding his son’s with a rare openness. “Do you understand, Legolas?”

Legolas was quiet for a long moment, his breath slow, as though weighing the measure of what had been laid before him. His father had ever been a figure of unshaken composure, his past worn like a cloak whose folds revealed only what he chose. To see him now—not unguarded, but willing to draw back the edge of that cloak—spoke to a trust that was not given lightly.

His eyes lingered on Thranduil, reading in the stillness the effort it must have taken to speak these words aloud. He thought of all the years they had stood side by side, his father’s counsel firm and certain, never faltering. Yet here was proof that even such a presence carried burdens that were not easily set down.

Inevitably, his thoughts strayed to Elros—of what his last moments might have held before he turned to meet the Doom of Men. Had his mind lingered on the one who had scorned him, or on the twin he left behind, bound forever to another fate? The thought was a stone in Legolas’s chest, a quiet ache for a sorrow he had not lived yet could still feel. 

His mind leapt to Elrohir and Elladan, two halves of a bond forged from the first breath, unbroken through millennia. To imagine such a tie torn apart, one choosing a mortal end while the other endured—it was unthinkable. He had seen the depth of that bond; to sever it was to rend something far deeper than flesh.

When at last he spoke, his voice was quiet, deliberate. “You are not,” he said, “only the shadow of your failings, Adar.”

Legolas stepped closer, the soft fall of his robe brushing against his father’s. He reached out, taking Thranduil’s hands in his own, his grip steady despite the weight of what they had just spoken.

“No one is perfect,” he said, his tone gentle but certain. “And I have never expected you to be so.”

Thranduil’s eyes closed for a moment, as though the words pressed against something too near to the surface. His breath was controlled, but there was the faintest shift in his shoulders, a quiet effort to draw his composure back around him like a mantle. “You ask much of my heart, nettle-sprite,” he murmured at last, the words low, not quite steady.

A faint smile touched Legolas’s lips. “Perhaps,” he allowed. Then, with the lift of a brow, he added in a tone threaded with dry humor, “You can be arrogant. Cold. Overly proud, and a possessive father besides—though I have heard far worse said of you by others.”

Thranduil’s eyes opened, narrowing just enough to convey a warning without true heat.

“But,” Legolas went on before his father could interject, “you are also loving and steadfast. A king who would turn the very course of the world to shield his people. And a father who has guarded and guided me with a devotion I could never hope to repay, though you hide it well beneath all that frost and command.” His smile deepened, soft as sunlight through leaves. “You even take pleasure in indulging me, though you would never confess it before another soul.”

Thranduil’s mouth curved—too slight to be called a smile, but enough to catch the light in his eyes. “None of that,” he said, his tone smooth as polished stone, “leaves this room, Legolas. I have a kingdom to rule, and it would not do for my court to believe their king spends his days in such sentiment.” A faint lift of his brow gave the word a hint of mockery, though the gleam in his eyes betrayed the warmth beneath it.

Legolas’s laugh broke free at that, bright and warm, its echo softening the air between them. He tipped his head in mock solemnity, though the mirth in his gaze betrayed him.

Thranduil turned without further word, his steps carrying him to the wardrobe’s side, where a low chest lay half-hidden in shadow. Few save him knew what it held—the circlets his son disliked wearing, set aside unless duty demanded otherwise. Lifting the lid, he drew forth one of the more modest pieces: dark gold, the slender band shaped in a subtle, twisting pattern, a single white jewel set to rest at the brow. He studied it briefly in the late morning light, as though weighing not its worth, but the worthiness of the moment, before returning to his son.

“No braids,” he said, the decision final in the way only a king’s word could be. “The robe alone speaks enough. More would be excess—and you need no excess to outshine this hall.”

He lifted the circlet, the dim light glancing off the metal as it caught in the pale fall of Legolas’s hair. With a touch both sure and unhurried, he settled it upon him, the jewel finding its mark at the center of his son’s brow. His hands lingered just long enough to smooth the band into the bright spill of hair, fingertips tracing lightly along the line of it, before his palm came to rest at the crown—a faint, grounding press, as though to set the adornment not only upon his head, but into the moment itself.

Thranduil’s hand then came to rest beneath his son’s chin, tilting it upward until their gazes met. For a long moment, he simply looked—truly looked—as though the years between had been drawn away like mist. In the depths of those clear blue eyes, he saw not only the prince before him, but the small, swaddled bundle he had once cradled against his chest. He remembered the warm, slight weight of him, no more than a babe, gurgling in contentment, his small mouth shaping sounds and movements as if marvelling at the discovery of his own tongue, tiny fingers tangling in his hair with the stubborn insistence of one who already knew his claim upon his father’s heart. He had looked down then with the same quiet wonder he felt now, marveling at a life wholly his to guard.

A faint curve touched Legolas’s mouth. “Careful, Adar,” he said lightly, “or you will make us late.”

Thranduil’s gaze did not falter, though the shadow of a smile brushed his features. “Let the Peredhel wait,” he replied, the words steeped in the quiet authority of one for whom time was no master.

Legolas stepped closer and, without haste, pressed a kiss to his father’s cheek—a slow, deliberate gesture, the kind that lingered just long enough to speak affection without a word.

Thranduil’s brow lifted, the faintest flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. “I am left to wonder,” he said, voice as smooth as still water, “whether those lips were so innocent when the moon was high or when the sun rose this morning.”

A wash of color rose to Legolas’s cheeks. “Adar—”

“I am no fool, Legolas,” Thranduil continued, the curve of his mouth never quite becoming a smile, though the glint in his eyes gave him away. “I know well whose company kept you—and I have no need to be told where. I gave you clear instructions to rest, yet I doubt you heeded a word of it.”

The flush already high on Legolas’s cheeks deepened until it touched the tips of his ears. He averted his gaze, as if the inlay of the floor had suddenly become worth studying, and drew a measured breath that did nothing to steady him. A flicker of a smile threatened at his mouth, but he mastered it, unwilling to grant his father the satisfaction. The warmth in his face, however, refused to yield, lingering as though the very air sought to prolong his discomfort.

Thranduil let the moment hang only a breath longer before he extended his hand, the gesture as imperious as it was unspokenly fond. “Come,” he said, his voice returning to the smooth authority that could fill a hall or draw a hush from a court.

Legolas hesitated, the warmth in his cheeks still betraying him, but at last he sighed—a quiet surrender—and set his hand in his father’s. Thranduil’s fingers closed around it with the surety of one who had guided that same hand since its earliest reach.

Side by side, they stepped from the chamber, the door closing behind them with a muted finality. The soft fall of their steps was the only sound in the corridor, the light from the high windows burnishing gold along the edge of Thranduil’s mantle. Ahead lay the long walk to the great doors, beyond which waited the assembled court—watching, weighing—and the one who sought the prince’s hand.

Thranduil’s bearing was unshaken, his stride measured and regal, as though each step were part of a ceremony older than the stones beneath them. Yet there was a subtle tightening to his jaw, the smallest hardening at the line of his eyes, that promised the path before the Peredhel would not be a gentle one. Whatever welcome awaited, it would be earned, not granted.

Chapter Text

The mirror caught a figure he scarcely recognized.

For once, no dust of road lingered on his boots, no shadow of restless journey marked his cloak. The robe was cut in the fashion of Imladris, deep blue like the midnight sky after rain, threaded with silver that caught the faintest light. At his shoulders the mantle lay heavy, fastened with a clasp wrought in the likeness of a star. A sword hung at his hip, its hilt bound in dark leather, polished until it gleamed; though he had worn it often, never had it felt so much like an emblem of lineage rather than of war. His hair, usually braided carelessly to the wind, had been braided with care, bound in a style his mother might have chosen, set with a slender circlet of silver that rested cool against his brow.

This was no warrior at dawn, nor son returning from exile. This was a lord of Imladris, one come to stand before a king.

A sharp whistle split the stillness.

Elladan leaned against the doorframe with arms crossed, his smile spreading bright and sure, grey eyes alight with fond mischief.

“Well,” he said, “if Arwen could see you now, she would be gushing to no end about how handsome her brother looks. You might even have put half the minstrels of Imladris to shame.”

Elrohir’s brow arched, the faintest glint of exasperation in his grey eyes. “Then it is fortunate I do not dress to impress minstrels. I have weightier trials ahead than enduring our sister’s sighs.”

Elladan pushed off the doorframe, his grin undimmed as he crossed the chamber with unhurried ease. “Weightier, yes, but never let it be said that looking the part does not help. Admit it, you cut a figure to make even Greenwood’s sternest guards blink twice. If you walk into that hall like this, Thranduil himself may forget for a heartbeat how much he dislikes you.”

“I would rather he not forget,” Elrohir replied dryly, tugging once at the fall of his mantle as though testing its weight. “I would have him judge me with eyes unclouded. Better he remember precisely why he would deny me and see whether I withstand him all the same.”

Elladan shook his head, amusement softening into something quieter as he reached to straighten the clasp at his brother’s shoulder. “Always so grim, little brother. One would think you rode into battle rather than into a hall of Elves who already know your name.”

His grin widened as his hands lingered from fastening the clasp at Elrohir’s shoulder. Instead of stepping back, he slid them upward with practiced mischief, cupping his brother’s jaw. With exaggerated care, he tilted Elrohir’s chin toward the light and pressed his thumbs against the corners of his mouth, forcing them upward into a crooked parody of cheer.

“There now,” he said, smirking at his handiwork. “A smile to match the finery. Otherwise, you’ll march in draped like a funeral bier dressed in velvet.”

Elrohir jerked his head free and slapped Elladan’s hands aside, the ghost of a real scowl replacing the false grin. “Enough. Do you mean to attend me like a nursemaid? Or will you at least come as a brother?”

“Of course,” Elladan said at once, laughter bright in his voice. He leaned back with a flourish, savoring the moment. “Do you think I’d miss watching you squirm before a king? I’d follow just for that pleasure alone.”

Elrohir gave him a long, withering look, the corners of his mouth tightening once more into their natural severity. “Then may the pleasure sustain you, for I will give you no other.”

Elladan laughed outright, the sound warm and unrepentant. “Ah, that tone—unchanged since you were an elfling. Do you remember the summer you swore never to speak to me again? You were so furious, you stomped your foot and declared you would hold your tongue for the rest of your immortal life.”

A rueful smile tugged at his lips as the memory surfaced. “And yet within minutes you broke your vow because you could not abide to let me have the last word.”

Elrohir’s gaze narrowed, though the severity of it could not quite hide the flicker of amusement that stirred beneath. “If memory serves, it was because you hid my bow in the stables and swore to me—straight-faced—that it had sprouted legs and galloped off to join the herds. You had half the household repeating the tale before I even realized you’d done it. I searched the fields until dusk, cursing you with every step.”

He shook his head, adjusting the fall of his mantle with studied calm, though his mouth betrayed the faintest twitch toward a smile. “That was the vow you drove me to.”

Elladan pressed a hand to his chest in a show of wounded dignity. “Galloped off on its own? What a marvel. You give me far too much credit if you think I had a hand in such sorcery.”

His grin betrayed him, sharp and boyish as ever. “Besides, if the household took up the tale, perhaps it was because you made such a convincing picture storming through the fields, shouting at an imaginary bow. I hardly needed to add anything.”

Elrohir arched a brow, unimpressed. “Your innocence is as false now as it was then. You could not keep a straight face for more than a heartbeat once I found the bow behind the hay.”

For a moment, his stern composure faltered, the memory tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It seems some pranks echo longer than others.”

Elladan’s laughter rang bright and unrepentant. “Ah, well remembered. Come then, little brother, before you scowl us both into tardiness. If we keep a king waiting, even your finery will not save you.”

He clapped Elrohir once on the shoulder and swept toward the door, boots striking a brisk rhythm against the stone. Elrohir followed, mantle whispering in his wake, the weight of silk and silver a reminder with every step that this was no ordinary summons. The air in the passage was cool, lanterns throwing amber light along the carved walls, their flames wavering with the draft as the brothers passed.

Just beyond the archway, two figures awaited them. Erestor stood straight-backed, hands folded neatly before him, his expression composed but his keen eyes missing nothing. At his side, Glorfindel leaned with one shoulder against a pillar, every line of him unstudied ease, golden hair spilling like flame in the lantern-light.

Glorfindel’s smile curved the instant his gaze lit upon Elrohir. He let it travel slowly—from the silver-bound braids to the fall of the mantle, to the sword at his hip, polished to a lord’s sheen. His eyes glinted with mirth as he straightened.

“Well, well,” he drawled. “If this is what Imladris produces when it polishes its sons, no wonder Greenwood grows anxious. Careful, Elrohir, you may outshine even the prince you’ve come to claim.”

Erestor’s brow arched ever so slightly, though the gleam in his dark eyes betrayed him. “Or perhaps the prince will be grateful that his suitor has finally discovered a comb. I had begun to think such a thing beneath you.”

Elladan’s mouth twitched, then betrayed him outright; a laugh burst through before he could rein it back. He smothered it behind his hand, shoulders shaking, though the sparkle in his eyes gave him away at once.

Elrohir turned his head with the slow inevitability of a drawn blade, grey gaze narrowing until it fixed upon his twin. The weight of it would have felled a lesser Elf. Elladan, of course, only bit down on his grin, the picture of innocence gone hopelessly astray.

Erestor’s voice slipped in, smooth and cool as ever. “We should not linger. The court will already be waiting, and I do not think the Sindar will take kindly to being kept idle by Noldor—however handsome the cause.”

A faint glimmer touched his eyes, the closest he came to open humor.

Erestor was already gliding ahead, each step measured, his back straight as a drawn bow. Glorfindel fell in beside him but lingered half a pace, glancing over his shoulder at the twins. His smile curved, bright as mischief and twice as dangerous.

“I do adore it when Erestor takes command,” he said, tone rich with innuendo. “There is a certain artistry to it. One must experience it to truly appreciate the skill.”

Elrohir’s eyes narrowed, his reply clipped. “Spare us the details, Glorfindel.”

Elladan’s bark of laughter broke the solemn hush of the corridor, irrepressible and delighted.

Erestor did not falter, his stride as composed and steady as if the corridor itself bent to his will. Yet with the smallest turn of his head, a glance flicked sidelong, he delivered a rebuke sharper than any word. It was the kind of look that had silenced council halls and sent apprentices fleeing—quiet, cold, and perfectly precise.

Glorfindel, of course, met it with the ease of one long immune. His smile only deepened, bright as sunlight over snow, and he bent in an elegant bow as he walked, golden hair tumbling forward like a spill of fire. The gesture was exaggerated, mocking the gravity of the look, but the gleam in his eyes was softer, betraying how he cherished the very restraint meant to chastise him.

He straightened again with unstudied grace, falling back into stride as though the entire exchange had been no more than a dance step shared between them.

Their footsteps carried them deeper into the palace, the hush of stone corridors broken only by the whisper of silk and the muted ring of bootheels. The air shifted as they neared the heart of the royal wing—cooler, heavier, as though the weight of countless councils lingered in the carved vaults. Laughter faded, replaced by the gravity of what lay ahead.

At the mouth of a wide archway, two figures waited in silence. They stood immovable as statues, clad in the Greenwood’s ceremonial armor: bronze-green plates worked like overlapping leaves, pauldrons flaring like the curve of oak boughs. Veils of dark mesh descended from their helms, veiling the lower half of their faces so that only the pale gleam of their eyes could be seen beneath the shadow of the crest.

As the four approached, both guards drew their spears upright with a sound like struck flint, the butts of the weapons meeting stone in perfect unison. They bowed their helmed heads with a precision that spoke more of discipline than deference.

“My lords,” one intoned, his voice steady but muffled slightly by the veil, “the King commands that we escort you to the throne hall. All is prepared.”

The words seemed to hang in the air, the ritual of them carrying both welcome and warning.

Without a word, the guards turned in perfect accord, spears angled in measured grace as they led the way. The company followed, their footsteps softened against stone, though each seemed to echo in Elrohir’s chest. Passage after passage opened into grander halls, the carvings deepening, lantern-light falling like molten gold across pillars wrought with leaves and stags and the curling lines of ancient runes.

At last, they came to the tall doors of the throne hall—massive works of oak bound with silver, their surfaces carved with branches that twined upward into the suggestion of a living forest. The Greenwood guards halted before them, turning with the precision of the drill-ground, their veiled faces unreadable.

For a heartbeat, the Noldor paused. Together they stood in the shadow of the doors, and in the silence between the striking of spears and the lifting of the latch, the weight of Greenwood’s eyes seemed to gather, though none were present. Too many whispers had followed their arrival, too much stir had their presence caused. Elrohir felt it coil about them now, a hush before judgment.

One of the veiled guards raised his spear and struck the butt hard upon the stone. The doors opened in a slow, deliberate sweep, the sound of wood and metal deep as a tolling bell.

In a clear voice, the guard intoned: “Lords of Imladris, presented before the King of Greenwood.”

At Glorfindel’s subtle nod, he and Erestor stepped forward first, the long fall of their robes brushing the stone with practiced ease, dignity wrought into every motion. Elladan and Elrohir followed close behind, the twins framed by the golden lord and the dark counsellor, as though the strength of Imladris itself escorted them into Greenwood’s heart.

The throne hall unfurled vast before them, lit by high windows where pale daylight streamed like silver lances. Pillars carved as living trunks soared upward, their crowns lost in shadow, and upon the broad floor a host of Sindar and Silvan courtiers stood arrayed in subtle ranks. Murmurs stirred at the Noldor’s entrance, low as wind in leaves—curiosity, caution, no few threads of disdain.

Elrohir felt the weight of eyes upon him, a hundred glances gauging, measuring, whispering behind hands. Some turned faces aside with studied coldness; others let their gazes linger too long, appraising. And among them were those who did not bother to hide their contempt—their narrowed eyes sharp as flint, their whispers carrying venom even if words did not reach him.

One gaze caught him more sharply than the rest. Across the throng, a tall Sindar stood rigid, his eyes fixed on Elrohir with a fury barely leashed. It was not the cool disdain of others, but raw, burning enmity, as though Elrohir’s very presence had trespassed upon sacred ground.

Elrohir’s steps did not falter. He met that look without blinking, grey eyes hardening, his chin lifting by an inch. For a heartbeat, it was as though the hall itself narrowed to the silent clash of those two gazes. If the Sindar glared with fire, Elrohir answered with steel, the cold glint of defiance that would not bend nor yield.

Elladan, walking a half-step closer, caught the tension in his brother’s jaw and the fixed steel of his gaze. He followed it swiftly to its mark—the Sindar standing rigid among the courtiers, eyes dark with a fury that burned too openly to be mistaken.

Elladan’s brow tightened, but he kept his expression otherwise smooth, his voice pitched low enough for only Elrohir to hear. “Do not let him draw your ire,” he murmured, a note of warning beneath the quiet. “Greenwood watches every breath you take. Best not to give them cause to whisper more.”

Elrohir did not look away. His lips pressed into a thin line, but after a beat, he answered under his breath, “He looked first.”

Elladan’s mouth curved in a rueful shadow of a smile. “Aye, but you glare harder. And if I know you, brother, you will win the battle of stares. Try not to let it become war.”

Elrohir forced himself to break from the hostile stare of the Sindar, his breath measured as his gaze at last climbed to the dais.

There, upon the high seat of Greenwood, Thranduil sat as though the throne had been carved for no other. His long frame was angled in languid poise, one leg crossed over the other, his hand resting lightly on the arm of the chair. The crown of Spring boughs, burnished green and oak leaves interwoven, gleamed upon his brow, and in his other hand, he held the long scepter of his realm with the ease of one who needed no ornament to prove his power.

But it was not the king who caught and held Elrohir’s breath.

Just a step below, to the right, Legolas sat upon the seat carved for him alone—a low, graceful curve of polished beechwood smoothed by years of presence, its surface softened by a dark green velvet cushion embroidered with stars. The shape echoed the bow of a leaf, simple yet deliberate, neither throne nor nothing.

And upon it now, Legolas gleamed. His robe, flowing white, seemed almost to gather the pale shafts of window-light into itself, its folds drifting like river foam. The dark gold circlet with its single white gem lay against his brow, lending him a solemn dignity, though his eyes—clear, bright, unflinching—were the same that had met Elrohir’s that very morning in quiet devotion.

Yet here, beneath the vaulted hush of the court, that gaze was different. No longer their private solace, but a bond laid bare before all of Greenwood.

And in that instant, the murmurs of courtiers seemed to dim. Elrohir’s breath hitched, his heart stumbling in its rhythm, and yet his stride did not falter as he walked beneath the weight of a hundred watching eyes—bound by the single look that held him fast.

By the steps of the dais, where the shadows of the carved pillars pooled, Galion stood with hands neatly clasped behind his back. At his side, Lindariel’s slender form was poised in composure, her pale hair braided with silver thread, gleaming faintly in the lantern-light. Neither missed the tension thrumming through the hall, though their eyes—keen and wry—were sharper than most.

Galion leaned the barest fraction toward her, his voice low, meant for no ears but hers. “Even now, he scowls,” he murmured, lips barely moving. “One would think the son of Elrond had ridden from battle straight into court.”

A glimmer of amusement touched Lindariel’s mouth, though she did not lift her gaze from the procession. “And yet our prince does not seem troubled by it,” she returned softly. “Perhaps he finds such storm clouds to his liking.”

Galion’s brows rose, his glance flicking briefly toward her. “Fond of thunder, is he?”

Her answering smile was quiet, elusive, but it lingered as her gaze slipped back to Legolas in his seat.

The four lords of Imladris came to a halt before the dais, their steps falling silent on the stone. The hall seemed to hold its breath. Above them, Thranduil regarded the company with a stillness that was weight in itself. His blue eyes, cool as winter glass, swept over each in turn: the twin sons of Elrond, the golden lord of Gondolin, and the ever-composed counselor who bore no less authority for his quiet bearing.

When he spoke, his voice carried easily through the hall, smooth as riverstone, yet edged with the glint of steel beneath.

“So,” Thranduil said at last, his pale gaze sweeping over them. The faint curve of his mouth held no warmth, only the shadow of something sharper. “The lords of Imladris stand in Greenwood’s hall. A rare sight indeed. Your valley keeps much within—its secrets, its pride, its half-hidden griefs. And yet you have crossed the mountains at last.”

His eyes lingered on Elrohir, cool and unflinching. “Perhaps it is true, then, that even the Noldor remember old kinship when it suits them.”

The words fell like courtesy shaped from stone, neither open insult nor welcome, but the reminder of a gulf that had not closed.

Erestor inclined his head, a gesture measured and deliberate, but he did not bow.

“My lord,” he said, voice even and composed, each word honed with care. “We come not in presumption, but in acknowledgment—that Greenwood’s strength has endured where others faltered, and that your realm stands proud against shadow and time alike. Imladris holds no secrets from those who seek its friendship, nor pride that would blind us to kinship hard-won. We are honored to stand in your hall, though the road has been long in more ways than one.”

When he straightened again, his gaze met the king’s unflinching, the courtesy of his words balanced by the quiet steel beneath them.

Thranduil’s head tilted a fraction, the faintest glimmer of irony lighting his gaze.

“Well wrought,” he said, his voice calm and measured. “Imladris has ever been rich in words—stone enough, perhaps, to raise a fortress if one were to stack them high.” His tone was smooth, neither smile nor scorn, but edged with something keen. “Let us hope they hold as firm as you claim, for words alone seldom turn aside the shadow.”

His gaze lingered a heartbeat longer on Erestor before it shifted, slow and deliberate, to the figures at his side, before it settled—sharp as glass—upon Elrohir.

“My son was not offered guest-right beneath your roof,” he said, his voice carrying, measured, but each syllable honed with restraint. “He was taken into Imladris by force, his body broken with hands that should have known better, his spirit cut by words I do not forget. Poison was given to him there—poison wrought to sunder will from flesh. When at last he was returned to me, it was not whole, but marred with shadow.”

The hall seemed to hush tighter about him, though his tone remained almost conversational, dry as old wine. “For such a welcome, I laid a ban upon your house: sixty years, neither more nor less. A mercy, some thought, though I called it justice enough. And now”—his hand shifted upon the scepter, long fingers tapping once against the wood—“when the count is ended, here you stand. Not a year before. Not a day after. Just so.”

The faintest flicker curved his lips, humor without warmth. “If nothing else, the sons of Elrond are precise.”

Thranduil’s gaze swept over the four before him—Erestor, Glorfindel, and the sons of Elrond—his expression a mask of cool, deliberate appraisal, as though he weighed them one by one and found none beyond his judgment.

“The hidden valley,” he said, his voice carrying through the hush like the ring of steel on stone, “sends not only sons, but counselor and champion. You come in full strength, it seems. Tell me, then, what calls you so far from your sheltered vale to the halls of Greenwood. Though…” The faintest curve touched his mouth, more blade than smile. “I think I have some inkling.”

For a heartbeat, the silence held taut, the air itself seeming to wait. Then Glorfindel stepped forward, unhurried. Even here, where every Sindar and Silvan eye was sharpened with suspicion, he carried himself with that golden ease that could not be ignored. His very presence bore the weight of song and legend—Balrog-slayer, reborn of Valinor, a warrior whose courage had not dimmed through the ages. Courtiers shifted in their seats as though his nearness pressed upon them. He inclined his head with measured grace.

“My lord,” he began, his voice warm, resonant, impossible to mistake. “Imladris comes not to rekindle old quarrels, nor to cloak them beneath empty courtesy. We seek something stronger between our houses—an alliance not of ink and seal alone, but of kinship, bound by blood and by oath.”

A murmur stirred at once through the gathered Greenwood court. Some bent close, whispering sharp and quick; others turned openly toward the dais, frowns deepening. The rustle of robes and the hiss of voices spread like a rising wind.

Glorfindel, unshaken, let the moment swell before he spoke again. His gaze lingered then upon Legolas—where he sat beneath his father’s shadow, radiant in his white raiment—and the faintest spark of mischief lit his eyes. He gave a slow, deliberate wink, as though to fold the prince himself into his boldness.

“In Imladris,” he said, voice steady as a flame that will not be quenched, “your son and Elrohir, son of Elrond, forged a bond not of treaty nor command, but of choice. It is a bond tempered as steel is tempered—by fire and trial, by patience and long waiting. Through exile, through silence, through shadow, it endured. And now it stands, unbroken.”

The hush that followed was heavy as stone, whispers crackling still at the edges, yet none dared to speak above the silence.

Glorfindel inclined his head once more, sunlight catching in the bright fall of his hair. “This, my lord, is what Imladris offers. Not words, not parchment. But loyalty, steadfast and proven, sealed in the love of your son, and ours.”

The silence held, stretched taut as a bowstring. Then Thranduil’s gaze, cool and unblinking, fixed once more upon the sons of Elrond.

“Fine words,” he said at last, his voice smooth as ice over stone. “But Greenwood has seen what comes of Imladris’s bonds before. Sixty years I have set between your house and mine, that my son might heal where your care could not reach. And now you would have me trust again.”

His eyes lingered, cutting, on Elrohir. “Let us hear, then, not only from golden legend and silver counsel, but from the one whose claim is set at the heart of all this.”

The hall seemed to draw breath as Thranduil’s words fell. Then his hand shifted on the arm of the throne, fingers tapping once against the carved wood, a command more than an invitation.

“Elrondion,” he said, cold authority threading his tone. “Come forward.”

A tremor rippled through the gathered court, whispers cresting again like wind through branches. At Elrohir’s side, Elladan’s hand found his brother’s, squeezing once, steady and firm, before he let go.

Elrohir drew breath. For a moment, he turned his gaze, seeking the one constant in the sea of eyes upon him. There was Legolas, seated in white and gold beneath his father’s shadow, unflinching, his clear gaze holding fast to his. Strength steadied in Elrohir’s chest; then he looked away, lifted his chin, and set his eyes upon the king. His mantle whispered at his heels as he stepped forward beneath the weight of Thranduil’s gaze.

Elrohir halted at the foot of the dais, the silence of Greenwood’s court pressing close about him. He did not bow his head, nor falter, but let his voice carry steady and clear.

“My lord,” he began, and his eyes sought Legolas before they dared the throne again. “Your son is spoken of in song as fair, and so he is—ethereal, as if light itself had chosen him as its vessel. But I tell you, it is not for his beauty that my heart is bound. It is for the soul he carries—steadfast as the roots of Greenwood, unyielding in shadow, unwearied in grace. In him is a gentleness that heals, a strength that does not boast, and a spirit that will not bend to darkness.”

A faint stir rippled through the Greenwood lords, but Elrohir did not waver. His voice gained firmness, ringing against the carved stone.

“I do not ask for him because he is a prince, nor because our houses might be joined by his hand. I ask because my heart has chosen him, as surely as his has chosen me. It was tried by trial, tested in silence, and held through the ban. It stands, unshaken.”

Here, his gaze turned fully to Legolas, and the tumult of whispers hushed at the force of it. “Legolas,” he said, and though his voice softened, it carried with unflinching clarity. “If you will it, I would walk beside you through whatever days remain to us. I would take your burdens as my own, guard your light against shadow, and count it the only joy I could ever desire. No crown, no title, no bond of power weighs beside the truth that my heart is yours.”

A hush drew deeper still, as though the very stones strained to catch the vow.

Legolas’s breath caught, though his composure did not falter. Yet the light in his eyes—clear, bright as the morning sky—flared with a depth that words could not hide. A faint tremor passed through his hands, quickly mastered, but his gaze upon Elrohir was steady, fierce, and unguarded, a gift laid bare before all. For an instant, the white gem upon his brow gleamed like living starlight, answering as if in witness to the truth that bound them.

The hush was shattered. Low voices stirred at first, then swelled like a rising gale until the hall thrummed with disquiet.

“It is madness,” one Sindar lord muttered, loud enough to be heard. “To bind our royal line to Elrond’s house is to open the door to every doom of the Noldor.”

“An ill omen,” another said, voice curling in disdain. “Their pride runs before them like fire. They brought ruin to Beleriand, blood to every land they touched. Shall Greenwood now drink from the same cup?”

A ripple of assent followed, sharper than the rustle of leaves in a storm.

Then Thalandir’s voice, steady and fierce, cut through. “Our prince is the crown’s dearest jewel, beloved of Silvan and Sindar alike. Must we stand by and see him—see all Greenwood—fall to a Noldo’s hand?”

The words rang, and with them came a darker chorus. Sindar lords voiced their bitterness; Silvan lords murmured unease, not as many but enough to thicken the air with doubt. Whispers rose, the scrape of discontent echoing beneath the carved vaults of the hall, every word turned like a blade toward the lone figure at the dais’s foot.

At the base of the dais, Galion and Lindariel stood watchful. Their eyes met, a swift exchange heavy with understanding. This was no rebellion against their lord’s son—never that—but fear and prejudice laid bare, and spoken now with a boldness that unsettled even those most used to the hall’s politics.

Elrohir bore it in silence, but his gaze cut back at them—grey and flint-hard, his glare a weapon unsheathed. One by one, he met the eyes that condemned him, unflinching, until the fire of his defiance seemed to strike sparks in the murmuring dark.

Behind him, Elladan’s hand twitched, fury flashing in his face. He half-stepped forward, breath drawn for words—but Glorfindel’s hand closed firm around his arm.

“Not now,” the golden lord murmured, voice low but edged with command. His eyes, bright as tempered flame, did not leave the court even as he held Elladan fast.

Elladan swallowed his anger but could not still it; it burned in the rigid line of his shoulders, in the taut set of his jaw.

Erestor alone moved with quiet control, though even he drew a breath as though bracing against a storm long foreseen. His eyes shuttered, his expression smooth, but the stillness he held was heavy with calculation.

And still the voices rose, like the creak and groan of branches pressed too far by the wind. The unrest pressed like a storm against the silence Legolas strove to hold.

His hands, resting lightly in his lap, did not tremble, but the clear light in his eyes dimmed, shadowed with something he would not let show. He looked once toward his father, but Thranduil gave nothing—still as carved oak upon his throne, crown gleaming, face unreadable. The king’s silence was its own judgment.

A sudden scrape rang out—chair legs against stone.

Anghiril stood, his dark cloak falling sharply about him, his face set in disdain. His voice cut through the noise, loud and unyielding.

“Are we to play at blindness?” he demanded, his words like flung steel. “You speak of bonds and honor, lies wrapped in honey. The truth is plain enough: the son of Elrond comes not as ally but as thief, seeking to bed our prince and bind him beneath Noldorin chains. Shall Greenwood whore its heir to a half-blood wolf, that he may drag our line into ruin as his kind have ever done?”

The words cracked like a whip across the chamber. Gasps followed, whispers flared, and some voices rose in grim assent. Anghiril’s contempt lay naked, unsoftened by courtesy—an echo of every ancient wound between their peoples.

Thalandir’s eyes blazed, his glare searing toward Anghiril, for though he shared the Sindarin lords’ doubts, this slander cut too deep. At the foot of the dais, Galion stiffened, his jaw tightening, while Lindariel’s eyes narrowed to shards of glass, her hand flexing against her gown as though to master her temper.

Above them all, Thranduil sat rigid as oak, but his fury was writ plain in the sudden chill that fell over the hall. His crown gleamed like winter ice, and the silence that followed seemed to gather in the hollow of his wrath. For Anghiril had done more than voice dissent—he had dared to foul the king’s son with words no father could endure.

Legolas’s composure faltered at last, a flash of hurt breaking through before he could school his features again. Elrohir felt the sight of it like a blade drawn across his chest. His fists clenched at his sides, and his glare found Anghiril with all the wrath of fire smothered too long.

Elladan wrenched free of Glorfindel’s hold, his boots striking sharply against the stone as he closed the space to his brother’s side. Elrohir’s shoulders were taut as a drawn bow, his breath ragged, every line of him ready to ignite at Anghiril’s slur. Elladan’s hand seized his arm, a silent anchor against the storm.

But before Elrohir could speak—before wrath could spill and ruin the hall—Legolas rose.

The sound of it was nothing more than silk against stone, yet it stilled the hall as though a sword had been unsheathed. His white raiment fell in quiet folds, his crown gleamed pale in the torchlight—but it was his eyes, steady and bright, that held every gaze.

“Enough.”

The word rang, clean and cutting, and the murmurs faltered into silence. He stood tall upon the step below the throne, no shadow of doubt in the set of his shoulders.

“You speak of lust, of barter, of weakness,” Legolas said, his voice clear, cold as river-ice and no less relentless. “As though I were some prize to be claimed, or some child to be fooled. Do you take me for so little?” His gaze swept them all, lingering at last on Anghiril. “No hand forced me. No word deceived me. I am the son of Thranduil, and heir of Greenwood. I know my heart, and I have given it where I will.”

He drew breath, and when he spoke again, there was no mistaking the steel in his tone.

“Elrohir, son of Elrond, is no usurper, no wolf at our gate. He is my bond, chosen in fire and trial, tested by silence, tempered by years. You see only his blood; I see the soul that bears it. And it is that soul my heart sings for.”

A murmur stirred again, but this time softer, uncertain. Legolas did not waver. He lifted his chin, the white gem in his circlet catching the light like a star.

“If Greenwood would call such love a weakness, then it knows me not. For it is my strength. And I will not stand silent while those who call themselves lords of this realm slander what I hold truest.”

At last, his gaze cut back to Anghiril, bright and cold as a drawn blade. “And if you think to speak of me so again—speak as though I were some trinket for trade, or some shame to be hidden—then you will remember, Lord Anghiril, that it is not your place to name the worth of your prince.”

The words landed like a blow, final and irrefutable. And in that moment, those gathered felt the ghost of another presence—Oropher himself, fierce and unyielding, as though the blood of the first king had risen in his grandson. For Legolas, ever kind, ever gentle, seldom revealed this side of himself. Yet here it stood unveiled, sharp as the winter sun through bare boughs, and none who beheld it would forget.

For a moment, no voice dared answer. Then, above the silence, Thranduil stirred—only a breath, only the faint narrowing of his eyes—but pride gleamed there, sharp and unmistakable. He looked upon his son as one might behold a flame long-guarded, now blazing in its full strength. The stern planes of his face did not soften, yet in the tilt of his head, in the unblinking fix of his gaze, there lay a father’s fierce exultation. He had watched his child grow gentle and steadfast, but now he saw the steel beneath revealed, and it shone brighter to him than any crown.

Silence still held after Legolas’s words, sharp as frost, when Thranduil’s voice cut through, low and deliberate.

“How curious,” he said, his tone smooth as velvet drawn over steel. His gaze fixed upon Anghiril, unblinking, and the faintest curl of disdain touched his mouth. “You speak with such fire of Noldorin hands unworthy to touch Greenwood’s line. And yet…” His pause lingered, cruel in its savoring. “Was it not only days past that you came before me, asking for that same honor yourself?”

A hiss of breath swept the hall, swift as wind through leaves.

Elrohir’s glare flared hotter, his grey eyes like storm-lit steel, and Anghiril met it, his own face darkening, knowing well the truth laid bare. Elladan’s hand caught his brother’s arm at once, a steadying grip—he knew too well the blaze of Elrohir’s temper. On the dais, Legolas’s composure cracked; his eyes widened, a fleeting shock breaking through the calm he fought to hold.

Thranduil’s voice did not relent. “You spoke then of lineage, of purity, of duty,” he said, each word a lash of contempt. “A fine speech, polished to gleam. Yet today your tongue twists to another song entirely.” His tone dropped, colder still, carrying to every corner of the chamber. “So tell us, Anghiril, what stirs you now? Is it love for Greenwood’s crown, or the bitterness of a suitor spurned?”

The cruelty of it struck like frostbite, deliberate and merciless. The air thickened with unease, and many eyes turned upon Anghiril—not with assent now, but with sharp curiosity, and a glint of disdain.

Leaning back with languid grace, Thranduil let his scepter rest against the carved arm of the throne, his expression unreadable. “Choose your next words with care,” he said, his voice quiet as the fall of snow. “For some wounds you bare not against Imladris, but against your king.”

Anghiril’s face flushed dark, his composure fracturing beneath the weight of so many eyes. He took a sharp step forward, cloak snapping at his heels, his voice pitched high with fervor.

“I cannot sit silent,” he declared, “while the prince I have long admired—aye, cherished as Greenwood’s brightest hope—is bartered to one such as he!” His hand cut the air toward Elrohir, the gesture sharp as accusation. “I have watched him all my years, the jewel of our people, and I will not see him cast into the hands of a Noldo whose blood runs half-mortal, whose house has ever looked down upon ours. Call it presumption if you will, my king, but I call it loyalty.”

The words rang loud, defiant, yet beneath them, the edge of desperation showed, too naked to be masked.

Elrohir’s eyes blazed, the glare in them molten with barely checked wrath. His fists had curled white at his sides, his jaw locked as though to hold back words that would set the hall aflame. Elladan’s grip on his arm tightened, iron-strong, holding him fast.

Across the chamber, Legolas’s gaze fixed upon Anghiril—steady, unflinching, no longer shocked, but sharpened now to something colder, clearer.

Legolas drew breath to speak, but Elrohir’s voice cut across the swell of whispers, firm and unshaken.

“I do not fault you for your doubts,” he said, his gaze sweeping the chamber. “I know well what shadows lie between our houses, and why you guard your prince so fiercely. But understand this: I do not stand here for Greenwood’s crown, nor for its throne, nor any gain. I stand here because I love him. If Legolas were no prince at all—if he were a forester, a soldier, a nameless wanderer—it would be no different. My heart would still be his. My vow would still be the same.”

His words struck clean into the hush, and for a moment even the most restless voices faltered.

Thranduil’s hand shifted upon the carved arm of his throne, long fingers curling once against the wood. His eyes, pale as moonlight, fixed Elrohir with a gaze that admitted no escape.

“But he is not a nameless wanderer,” the king said at last, his tone edged with frost. “He is my son—the heir of this realm. His hand is not his alone to give, nor his heart his alone to risk. Whoever takes him takes Greenwood also, with all its weight and peril. Do you understand that, son of Elrond?”

Elrohir held his gaze, though the hall seemed to close about him, every eye upon his answer.

Thranduil’s voice pressed on, quiet as a knife sliding home. “To wed him is to be bound not only to his life, but to his house and his crown. You would not merely be Legolas’s beloved. You would be Prince Consort of Greenwood.”

The words fell heavy as stone, and the chamber shuddered with their echo. Murmurs broke sharp and astonished through the gathered lords; some voices hissed in disbelief, others rose half in protest.

And Elrohir—who had spoken with such steady fire—felt the ground shift beneath him. For all his resolve, he had not reckoned with this: not only to win Legolas’s love, but to shoulder a kingdom with him. The realization flickered across his face, swift and raw, before he steadied, drawing breath as though bracing himself beneath a new and terrible weight.

The weight of Thranduil’s words pressed against him like stone, but Elrohir did not look away. He drew himself tall, the set of his jaw resolute, and when he spoke, his voice carried, unflinching.

“You speak truth, my lord. To claim Legolas is to claim more than his hand. It is to stand beside Greenwood’s heir, to be bound not only to him but to the fate of his people. A crown’s weight lies hidden in the vow I make.”

He paused, letting the truth of it settle, before his gaze turned—unshaken—to Legolas. For a heartbeat, the hall fell away; it was only him, and the one he had waited for through shadow and silence.

“And still,” he said, his voice low but fierce, “there is no burden heavy enough to turn me aside. It is him I love—his spirit, his light, his strength. That he is your son, that he is Greenwood’s heir, does not daunt me. It only binds me more surely. If it must be as consort, then I accept it. Gladly. For there is no title, no throne, that weighs greater than the truth of my love for him.”

The words rang like tempered steel. A hush rippled across the chamber, the whispers faltering. Some among the Silvan inclined their heads as though something within them recognized the ring of truth; the Sindar shifted, their disquiet unsettled by his plain, unwavering candor.

And Legolas—sitting poised in white and gold beneath the gleam of his father’s crown—let a quiet light kindle in his gaze, the pride and tenderness there breaking through his composure, unhidden.

For a long moment, Thranduil did not stir. Then he rose, tall and unhurried, the carved arms of the throne falling away as he stepped forward. His mantle swept behind him in a long spill of shadowed silk, catching threads of firelight as he descended the dais. The hall fell into silence so deep that the soft fall of his boots on stone seemed loud as thunder.

Legolas stood yet where he had spoken, shoulders squared, chin lifted, though the weight of countless eyes still pressed upon him. Thranduil came to stand before him, his height casting a long shadow, and for an instant he seemed less king than father—stern, proud, and unyielding.

“My son,” he said, and the words cut through the stillness with a quiet authority that no ear could turn from. “You are my most precious thing. No crown, no realm, no hoarded jewel could weigh beside you.” His voice lowered, tempered steel wrapped in velvet, and in it rang memory. “It feels to me as though it were but yesterday I lifted you from your cradle. I remember your hair, pale as first sunlight over snow, and the way your small hand fastened around my finger, unwilling to let go, as though you already knew the world might try to take you from me.”

His gaze softened, though the strength in it did not falter. “I remember, too, the first time you loosed an arrow in the training yard—so small your bow seemed near to dwarf you, and yet you drew it stubbornly, teeth set, refusing aid. The arrow flew scarcely farther than a stone’s throw, but the pride in your face was as if you had felled a dragon. That pride lit my heart brighter than any victory of my own.”

The words lingered like smoke in the rafters. A murmur shivered faintly through the gathered lords, for this was a side of their king few had heard aloud.

Thranduil lifted a hand, long fingers steady as they caught beneath his son’s chin, tilting his face upward until the blue of Legolas’s eyes met his own. The gesture was deceptively gentle, yet there was no mistaking the command in it.

Legolas’s gaze held fast to his father’s—clear, unwavering, filled with love so deep and unguarded it seemed to hush even the restless murmurs of the court. For in that gaze lay not only a son’s devotion, but the echo of every moment Thranduil had lifted him, shielded him, taught him—love forged through years of silence and sacrifice

“Years have passed, and now they sing of you,” Thranduil went on, voice carrying easily through the chamber. “Of your beauty, your grace, the light that clings to you as dawn clings to the edge of sky. Many have come before me—lords of Greenwood, lords of other courts—each with their polished words and polished faces, each eager to bind you to their house. They spoke of lineage, of alliances, of duty. Always the same song.”

A flicker of dry amusement touched his mouth, sharp as a blade’s reflection. “They saw only what was fair. Few thought to look deeper. Few asked what fire lay behind the brightness, what steel tempered your will. Fewer still loved you for yourself.”

He released his son’s chin slowly, but his gaze did not waver—bright, cutting, as though daring anyone in the hall to deny the truth of his words. 

For a breathless span, the chamber held still, as though even stone and timber leaned in to hear. Thranduil’s hand lowered, but his gaze did not waver—bright as a drawn blade, and yet beneath it glimmered something older, quieter: a father’s fierce love, unsoftened by crown or throne.

“Tell me, Legolas,” he said at last, the words low but carrying, velvet wound about steel. “Will you have him? Do you take Elrohir of Imladris as suitor true, the one to whom your heart would bind itself, above all others?”

The question rang through the hush, stark and irrevocable, and it seemed to press upon every lord and guard alike, until not a whisper stirred.

Legolas did not falter. Though his breath caught, he stood tall, the pale fall of his hair gleaming beneath the firelight, the white stone at his brow catching like a star. Slowly, he turned toward Elrohir, and the air between them seemed to draw taut, heavy with the unspoken. In his gaze, there was no doubt, no fear—only a depth of devotion that struck like sunlight through storm.

“Yes,” he said, and his voice was clear, resonant, unshaken. “For my heart would know no other, and no other would I choose.”

The hush that followed was vast and unbroken, as though the very hall had been sealed in silence. And in that stillness, Elrohir’s eyes flared—grey like steel lit with fire—as if the words had struck him at his very core, shattering every wall he had ever set against hope.

At those words, Thranduil’s gaze, keen as a hawk’s, shifted at last to Elrohir. The firelight caught in his eyes, turning their pale clarity to ice and flame both.

“So be it,” he said, voice steady, deliberate, and carrying to every corner of the hall. “My son has spoken, and I will not gainsay him. If he names you his chosen, then you stand before me not as an interloper but as a suitor. And as such, you have my recognition.”

He let the words hang, sharp as the drawing of a blade, before the weight of his pause pressed deeper.

“But,” Thranduil continued, and the word rang like iron striking stone, “as I declared in Imladris sixty years past, so I declare again. Love alone is not enough to claim the heir of Greenwood. If you would bind yourself to my son, you must first prove yourself worthy—not only to me, but to his people, to this realm. There will be trials laid before you. You will meet them, or you will fail. Only thus shall you win the right to stand at his side.”

The silence that followed was taut as a bowstring. Some lords stirred, satisfaction glinting in their eyes at the king’s decree, while others watched Elrohir with cautious weight, as though measuring whether he could rise to such a command.

Elrohir did not waver. He stood as though rooted, the pale gleam of torchlight catching at the line of his jaw, and when he spoke, his voice rang steady through the vaulted hall.

“I accept,” he said. “Set what price you will, lay before me whatever trials you deem just. I will not falter. Whether it be one year or a hundred, I will endure them all—so long as at the end I may stand beside Legolas. There is nothing I would not face for him. No crown, no legacy, no fate of mine weighs half so dear as his heart.”

A stir ran through the lords, half disbelief, half uneasy awe, for there was no mistaking the iron in his vow.

Thranduil regarded him for a long moment, and then a flicker touched his mouth—not kindness, but the sharp curl of dry amusement, cold as moonlight on steel. “Ah,” he said softly. “Spoken like Beren son of Barahir. Bold, unyielding, and blind to consequence.”

The name struck the chamber like a stone in still water. The murmurs faltered, and all eyes turned toward the Elvenking.

“Do you remember, son of Elrond,” Thranduil went on, voice deliberate, measured as the tread of fate, “what Beren faced for the hand he sought? Wolves, dungeons, and Morgoth’s dread halls themselves—trials set not to be endured by any mortal or immortal flesh, and yet he bore them. And do you remember, too, what it cost? The Silmaril he wrested burned kingdoms to ash, set kindred against kindred, and hastened the ruin of Elven realms. For love of Lúthien, Beren staked not only his life, but the doom of many. His victory was sung in wonder and his legacy in sorrow.”

The silence that followed seemed to deepen, vast and heavy. Thranduil’s eyes, bright and unyielding as cut ice, fixed upon Elrohir. “You speak bravely now, and well. But understand this—to bind yourself to my son is no light vow. If you would echo Beren, then you must also bear the weight of what such love demands.”

Elrohir did not flinch beneath the Elvenking’s gaze, nor let the silence settle into doubt. His answer came swiftly, sure as the strike of a blade.

“Then so be it,” he said. “If Beren bore wolves and darkness and the wrath of Morgoth for love, then I will bear what you set before me. Whatever the cost, I will pay it. Whatever the weight, I will carry it. For there is no trial greater than to live parted from Legolas—and that I will never endure.”

The words rang with the fervor of an oath, sharp enough that even the most scornful lords held their tongues.

For an instant, Thranduil’s face gave nothing, as unreadable as stone. Yet in the pale fire of his eyes, something stirred—pride, perhaps, or the faintest echo of sorrow long remembered.

His gaze, cold fire in the hush, held Elrohir fast. “I will bind you to this vow as surely as fate bound him. Think well before you boast of trials, for what you have asked is no small thing.”

Thranduil let silence coil around them, his gaze fixed and unblinking, as though he would measure the very marrow of the one who stood before him. When he spoke, his voice carried not as a king’s command alone, but as something older—unyielding as stone, deliberate as falling snow.

“You will face trials, son of Elrond. Not of swordplay alone, but of heart and soul. You will live among my people until they look on you not as a stranger, but as kin. You will learn their ways—their silences, their songs, the shape of their grief and their laughter. You will stand beside them in battle and feast, walk their woods until the roots themselves remember your tread. And when the day comes that Greenwood calls you one of her own, then shall you be betrothed. The binding will not be by your word, nor mine, but by the voice of the trees themselves, who will tell us when the hour is come.”

The hall stirred, uneasy as wind in high branches. All knew the weight of what he demanded, for Greenwood’s trust was slow to kindle and slower still to burn steady.

Thranduil’s gaze lingered, cold fire bright in his eyes. “It will be no easy thing. You are of the House most mistrusted here, and mistrust does not fade with seasons, nor even with years. You must earn what cannot be demanded.”

His eyes narrowed a fraction, and when he spoke again, the edge of wryness curved like frost along steel. “And you will learn the tongue of this realm—the tongue of the Silvan folk, whose blood sings in my son’s veins. It will not come easily. I am told,” and here the faintest glint of sardonic amusement crossed his mouth, “that your first attempt at thanks to one of my guards was less than gracious. So mangled, in fact, that what was meant as gratitude sounded perilously close to a marriage vow. Or perhaps an offense. Opinions differ.”

A ripple of laughter broke, quick and nervous, darting along the edges of the chamber before vanishing like sparks in dark air. Legolas’s eyes lowered, his composure steady save for the betraying curve that tugged at the corner of his mouth. He remembered the moment too well—the startled guard, Elrohir’s scowl, his own effort not to laugh aloud. He pressed his lips together now, hiding the smile that threatened, though his eyes gleamed with it still.

Thranduil’s gaze did not shift, fixed on Elrohir as though he were weighing him against the memory of ages. At length, he spoke, his voice unhurried, each syllable crisp as frost falling into silence.

“Kneel.”

The command struck like a bell in the vaulted hush.

Elrohir stilled. The breath caught in his chest, his hands curling once before he forced them flat against his thighs. Pride warred with restraint in the hard set of his jaw, and for a heartbeat it seemed he might refuse. At his side, Elladan’s lips pressed thin, displeasure flickering sharp as drawn steel. Glorfindel’s golden head tilted, his bright eyes narrowing, while Erestor’s mouth curved in the barest grimace, as if he, too, measured the insult against its necessity. Even among the Greenwood lords, a murmur trembled—half shock, half grim approval—as they leaned forward to see whether Elrond’s son would bend or break.

The weight of the hall pressed close, every breath held, until the silence itself seemed ready to splinter.

Then slowly, with no bow of head nor falter of gaze, Elrohir bent to one knee before the throne. His eyes—grey, unyielding—never left Thranduil’s, a vow unspoken in their steady defiance.

“Adar—” Legolas’s voice broke softly through the silence. He had taken a step forward, the white gem in his circlet catching the light as his composure wavered. His eyes shone with protest, his voice urgent but low. “This is not—”

Thranduil lifted a hand, silencing him with a gesture as sharp as the cut of a blade. He did not look away from Elrohir, but his voice, pitched for his son alone, carried with quiet finality.

“Let me have this, Legolas.”

Then, rising in tone for the hall to hear, his words fell heavy as stone, edged with scorn.

“My son was forced to kneel before Elrond Half-elven,” he said, his gaze sweeping the chamber, daring denial. “So too shall Elrond’s son kneel before me. It is fitting—fitting that Greenwood remembers such a wound, and that Imladris tastes what once it demanded. Let none here forget who bowed first, and who bows now. Let none forget which house bore the slight, and which repays it this day.”

The silence in the hall thickened, like snow-laden branches bent beneath their own weight. All eyes were fixed on the lone figure kneeling before the throne.

Thranduil’s gaze bore down, sharp as a blade honed on old grievances. His voice dropped, deliberate and cold as winter water. “Do you accept this charge, son of Elrond—the price I have named, the trials you must endure, for the hand of my son?”

For a moment, Elrohir’s jaw tightened, pride drawn taut as a bowstring, his breath held hard in his chest. The sting of command was sharp, yet his resolve did not falter. He had long since counted the cost. When he spoke, his voice rang clear, resolute, and without a shadow of doubt.

“Yes.”

The single word struck the silence like iron on stone.

Legolas’s breath caught. His hand curled at his side, white-knuckled against the surge that rose in him. To see Elrohir kneel—proud and unyielding as mountain rock—was a wound and a wonder both. His heart ached at the sight, pierced with shame that such a thing was asked, yet beneath the ache stirred awe, fierce and bright, for the strength it took to bow without breaking. His eyes burned, though he forced them steady, the light within them fixed upon the elf who had chosen him above pride, above lineage, above all else.

In that instant, for all the hall that watched, Legolas knew this vow was not only to his father’s judgment, nor Greenwood’s wary gaze—it was to him.

Elrohir did not rise. He stayed kneeling, gaze lifted unflinching to Thranduil, grey eyes steady as if he would carve his vow into stone itself.

For a long breath, the king’s gaze held him, pale and cutting, until at last Thranduil inclined his head a fraction. His voice came, low and final, carrying like iron through still air. “Then it is so.”

The words fell like a seal pressed into wax, binding what had been spoken.

Yet before the weight of silence could settle again, Legolas broke it. He moved swiftly down from the dais, heedless of watching eyes, heedless of the gasps that followed. The long spill of his robe swept the steps as he went, and he came to stand before the one who still bent the knee.

“Elrohir,” he whispered, and without waiting for leave, he reached down, hands sure and unshaking. With a firm pull, he drew him up, rising tall before him.

Elrohir came to his feet, but even standing, his height still shadowed Legolas's, his shoulders broad against the gleam of the Sindarin prince’s slender form. Yet it was Legolas who commanded the moment. He closed the space between them without hesitation, his arms circling fiercely around Elrohir’s waist, head pressing hard against him as though to bar the world from touching him.

Elrohir’s breath shuddered out, his composure breaking only in the tightening of his arms. He tilted his head, burying his face in the pale sweep of Legolas’s hair, and held him with equal strength, as if the vow were already fulfilled, as if nothing could sever them now.

A stir rippled through the chamber—some scandalized at the breach of ceremony, some hushed in awe, and others unable to look away from the sheer force of it. Above them, Thranduil did not move to stop it. His face remained inscrutable, save for the faint gleam in his eyes, sharp as pride, quiet as sorrow.

From the gathered Noldor, Elladan’s expression shifted first. His lips, taut a moment ago with displeasure, eased as his eyes glimmered—shadows of pride, sorrow, and fierce joy mingling all at once. He had known his brother’s long hunger for this hour, and now, seeing it, he let the breath he’d been holding leave him slow.

Beside him, Glorfindel’s mouth curved in a smile that gleamed like sunlight striking gold. He folded his arms loosely, the light in his eyes betraying no surprise—only a satisfaction as though he had always known it would come to this. At his side, Erestor too allowed a rare smile, small but genuine, his sharp gaze softening as it lingered on Legolas’s unguarded embrace.

At the base of the dais, Galion and Lindariel stood close, and their eyes met. For all the tumult of voices and doubts that had filled the chamber moments before, neither wavered now. Their faces, creased by years of service and care, warmed with quiet joy. Galion’s lips twitched, uncharacteristically soft, while Lindariel’s smile carried something almost maternal, as though she saw not only a prince but a son—one who had found at last a bond that answered his heart.

Around them, the Greenwood lords held their silence, some grim-faced, some uncertain, but none able to deny the force of what they had witnessed.

At last, they drew apart, though reluctantly, as though neither wished to lose the other. Legolas’s hand lingered on Elrohir’s arm, and Elrohir’s gaze did not waver from his, both smiling with a quiet brightness that needed no words. For an instant, it seemed the chamber itself breathed with them, lightened by a joy rare in those vaulted halls.

The stillness fractured when Erestor’s voice, measured and deliberate, rose into the air. “There yet remains another matter.”

He stepped forward from the line of Imladris’s company, the black fall of his robes whispering over stone. From within his sleeve, he drew forth a sealed letter, wax-pressed with Elrond’s sigil. Holding it aloft with both hands, not to Thranduil directly, but to Galion, who waited at the foot of the dais.

“It comes from my Lord Elrond,” Erestor said, his tone carrying evenly through the hush. “It concerns the South. And it is for the Elvenking’s eyes alone.”

A murmur rippled faintly as stirred leaves. The South —the word carried weight enough to silence many tongues, for even those who had not spoken it in years felt its shadow coil through memory.

Galion accepted the missive with grave care, turning to ascend the steps. He bore it with both hands to his king, bowing deeply as he set it upon Thranduil’s waiting palm.

The Elvenking inclined his head, pale fire glinting along the edge of his crown as he drew the letter within the folds of his mantle. His face did not shift, but the hall felt heavier for it, as though a shadow had entered with the seal itself.

Legolas’s eyes flickered toward his father, keen and searching. To any other gaze, Thranduil seemed unchanged, all marble poise and stillness, yet Legolas saw the shadow cross him—the faint tightening at the corner of his mouth, the distant cast to his eyes, as though memory’s chill had stolen briefly into his veins.

“We will speak of it in private,” Thranduil said at last, his voice low, deliberate, carrying to every ear. “When the hour allows.”

The matter was ended, yet the weight of it lingered, heavy as the hush before a storm.

The silence still clung to the chamber when Thranduil’s voice carried out, deep and unyielding. Yet this time, there was a glint of steel-edged humor in it.

“Tonight, Greenwood shall hold a feast. We will mark this day, and honor the courage of Elrohir, son of Elrond, who has shown himself bold enough to kneel before our throne.” The faint curve of his mouth betrayed the dry bite of the jest, though no one mistook it for cruelty.

A stir ran through the court, surprise chasing away the last shadows of tension. The shift was palpable, like frost breaking beneath sudden sun.

Glorfindel tilted his head, golden brows rising. “A feast? Tonight? Can all be prepared in so little time?”

Thranduil’s smile sharpened. “This is Greenwood, Lord of the Golden Flower. We do not require long councils and half a season’s planning to lay our tables. My people are ever ready. The forest gives in plenty, and our halls are never unstocked for cheer. When Greenwood chooses to celebrate, we need only the word.”

Laughter rippled among the gathered lords, some startled, others proud. Galion’s lips curved, already weighing what casks to bring forth, while Lindariel’s eyes warmed with quiet approval. The guards exchanged knowing grins, their earlier solemnity giving way to anticipation.

At the dais’s foot, Legolas’s smile deepened, his gaze fixed on Elrohir. The light that kindled there needed no words, and in the answering look of Elrond’s son, there was wonder—and the first shadow of belonging.

As the court began to break apart in a rustle of silks and muted voices, Legolas moved swiftly and, without ceremony, caught Elrohir’s hand, fingers closing firmly, the gesture both intimate and defiant.

“Come,” he murmured, pitched low so only Elrohir could hear. “I would not share you with them a moment longer.”

Elrohir’s eyes flicked instinctively toward his brother and his mentors. Elladan met his gaze, lips curving in the faintest of smiles, and inclined his head with quiet approval. Beside him, Erestor gave a grave nod, permission in his steady poise, while Glorfindel’s bright grin broke through the solemn air as he offered a conspiratorial wink.

At Legolas’s tug, Elrohir allowed himself to be drawn from in front of the dais, down the long stone aisle. They passed through the ebbing tide of lords and captains, and with each step, eyes followed. The Sindar’s gazes were sharp, measuring, their silence heavy with unspoken judgment. Among the Silvan, curiosity shone more openly—murmured questions and sidelong glances trailing after the pair. Yet woven through it all lay a darker undercurrent: mistrust, suspicion, disdain that clung to Elrohir like a shadow.

Still, Legolas’s stride did not falter. His head was high, the white gem at his brow catching the torchlight like a star. The clasp of his hand on Elrohir’s was no tentative touch but a claim, a declaration before all Greenwood that whatever trials lay ahead, he would not be parted.

And so the prince of the Woodland Realm led the son of Elrond from the throne room, through its towering doors of carved oak. The heavy panels swung shut behind them, sealing the murmurs within. In their wake remained only whispers, like the restless sighing of leaves in a forest stirred by wind—doubtful, curious, unwilling. But beyond the threshold, there was only the fierce bond of their joined hands, and the promise of time stolen from the world.

They had barely passed the high doors when Legolas slowed, drawing Elrohir with him into a shadowed recess where the torchlight thinned and the murmurs of the hall dulled to a distant hum. Before Elrohir could speak, Legolas pressed him back against the carved stone, his grip fierce at his shoulder, his mouth claiming his in a kiss that burned with long-denied hunger.

Elrohir answered in kind, no less fierce, one hand gripping hard at Legolas’s waist as though to anchor him, the other rising to tangle in gold hair that gleamed even in the dim. The kiss was long and unyielding, a clash of breath and hunger that left no space for restraint.

When Legolas broke away at last, his lips lingered close, his words roughened with desire.
“I have wanted to do that since the moment you walked into my father’s hall.”

Elrohir’s laugh came low, half-breathless, grey eyes bright as stormlight. His thumb traced the edge of Legolas’s jaw, reverent even amid the heat. “And I, since I saw you there, crowned in white. You looked ethereal, like something wrought of starlight and snow. Untouchable. I thought it would undo me, to stand so near and not reach for you.”

Color rose along Legolas’s cheek, though his eyes burned with answering fire. His mouth curved in a fierce smile as he leaned back into him.

“Then let it undo you,” he whispered, and kissed him again—harder, surer, as though to banish the very thought of distance.

They kissed as though the hall itself had fallen away, fierce and consuming, a clash of longing and fire barely held in check. Elrohir answered each press of Legolas’s mouth with equal hunger, their breaths mingling, their hands hard against one another as if they had been waiting years instead of hours.

A voice, sharp with disdain, cut through the air.

“Highly inappropriate, for a prince to debase himself so in shadowed halls. Such conduct is unbecoming of Greenwood’s heir, though hardly surprising in a Noldo, where excess and wantonness are bred as freely as arrogance.”

They tore apart as if stung, turning sharply. In the gloom of the corner stood Anghiril, arms folded, disdain carved into every line of his face.

Elrohir’s glare cut like a drawn blade, his body half-turned as though ready to strike. “Careful, Lord Anghiril,” he said, his voice low, thrumming with leashed fury. “You forget to whom you speak—and how easily I could remind you.”

Anghiril’s lip curled, unmoved. “Do you think your threats carry weight here, half-blood? You may win the prince’s lips, but never Greenwood’s respect.”

Legolas’s hand tightened on Elrohir’s arm, steadying him, before he stepped forward. His voice rang, colder than steel, with a command that silenced every lingering murmur of the corridor.

“You presume much, my lord. I am no child to be lectured, nor some trinket for your envy. Speak thus again, and it will not be Elrohir who answers you—it will be me. And I promise you, you will not like the reply.”

The air between them tightened, Anghiril’s eyes narrowing, though his feet did not move. The defiance in him lingered, bitter as wormwood, but so too did the weight of his prince’s warning—clear, sharp, and dangerous as Thranduil’s own.

Anghiril’s voice dripped with scorn, each word like poison. “Never has the prince spoken with such unkindness. He was ever gentle, until now. A Noldo’s touch, no doubt. Tainted words for a tainted heart.”

Legolas’s breath caught, outrage sparking in his eyes, but Anghiril pressed on, his contempt sharpened to cruelty. “It is plain enough what he has taught you, my lord. The ways of his blood—base and rutting, as wolves in heat. That is the great bond you defend? To lie with Elrond’s son, to whore the crown of Greenwood to a half-breed’s bed?”

The words cracked like a lash. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to still—until Elrohir moved.

In an instant, he was upon Anghiril, his hand fisting in the lord’s collar, dragging him forward so violently that the elf stumbled against him. Elrohir’s face was carved in fury, eyes lit like stormfire, grey gone near-black with rage. His voice was low, but it carried the weight of iron striking an anvil.

“You dare.” His breath was hot against Anghiril’s cheek, each word measured as though wrestled out from violence. “You dare speak of him with such filth?”

His grip tightened, the fabric at Anghiril’s throat straining, a sound dangerously close to choking. “If his name ever passes your lips again in such vile fashion, it will be the last time you speak. Do you understand me? I will rip the breath from you before I let you defile him.”

Anghiril’s composure cracked, the sneer faltered, though his eyes still flickered with pale defiance. But the chamber around them seemed to hold its breath, the very shadows bending back from Elrohir’s wrath.

At his side, Legolas stood silent, his fury no less keen, but beneath it lay a flicker of awe. He had seen Elrohir angry before—but never like this. Here was no courtly restraint, no half-played threat. This was devotion made dangerous, a vow as sharp and unyielding as steel.

Boots struck stone, quick and purposeful. Two guards rounded the corner, hands at their hilts, only to stop short at the sight before them—Lord Anghiril half-lifted against the wall in Elrohir’s grip.

“Prince Legolas,” one asked, voice taut with alarm, “what transpires here?”

Elrohir did not release him. His jaw was tight, eyes grey with storm, a blade drawn but not yet swung. For a heartbeat, silence held, heavy and dangerous. Then Legolas stepped forward, his tone calm as still water, smooth enough to mask the tension that burned in the air.

“Nothing of note,” he said, each word precise. “Lord Anghiril appears to have lost his way to his private suite. See that he is escorted there without further delay.”

The guards exchanged uncertain glances, but at the faint incline of their prince’s head, they bowed in assent. Legolas laid a hand on Elrohir’s arm—light, steadying. The tension in his beloved’s grip held for a moment longer, then, with deliberate restraint, Elrohir released Anghiril.

Anghiril staggered back, dragging his cloak into order, color high in his face. He gave a derisive snort, his voice pitched to echo in the passage. “Typical of the Noldor. When words fail, they bare their teeth and strike. Violence where wit should rule—so it ever was, so it ever shall be.”

Elrohir’s glare could have scorched the stone, and his hands flexed as though they still ached to close around the lord’s throat. But he held silent, his fury leashed by the slender touch still on his arm.

The guards moved in, each clasping Anghiril firmly by the elbow. He jerked once, then composed himself, his sneer twisting one last time between Legolas and Elrohir before he let himself be led away, pride stiff in every step.

The passage quieted. Shadows deepened. The air still thrummed with the echo of unloosed anger, sharp and raw as steel fresh from the forge.

Legolas’s hand lingered on Elrohir’s arm, a cool weight against the heat that trembled there. He leaned closer, his voice pitched for no ears but his beloved’s.

“Peace,” he murmured, steady as leaf-fall. “Do not let his poison take root in you. He is not worth the fire you would spend.”

Elrohir’s chest rose and fell sharply, the storm still dark in his eyes, but at the sound of Legolas’s voice, the tautness eased, if only a fraction. He turned, and in the white glow of the prince’s raiment—fair as starlight in shadow—the fury in him found anchor.

Legolas’s gaze held his, clear and unyielding. “He struck to wound us both, yet it is only the truth that matters. And the truth is mine, Elrohir—I have chosen you. Nothing he says can unmake that.”

A breath shuddered from Elrohir, half a growl, half a release. He covered Legolas’s hand with his own, gripping it as though to ground himself. “If he dares again—”

Legolas shook his head once, gently, and the faintest ghost of a smile touched his mouth. “Then he will find that the wrath of Greenwood is sharper than even yours.”

He let the silence linger for a heartbeat, then his gaze softened, and his fingers tightened at Elrohir’s wrist. “Come,” he murmured, a quiet summons threaded with promise. “There is something I would show you.”

Legolas’s hand lingered at Elrohir’s wrist as he drew him through winding corridors and down into the hush of the night gardens. The air cooled as they went, the murmurs of the hall fading until only the sound of their steps and the faint stir of leaves remained. Lanterns glimmered in the boughs, their flames caught in glass so that they seemed like fragments of stars set among the branches. The air was rich with green scents, deep and old, as though the very earth breathed in quiet contentment here.

They came at last to a glade enclosed by white birches, their trunks gleaming silver in the dusk, each one slender as a spear, each one leaning slightly inward as though keeping watch. At the glade’s heart stood a statue wrought of pale stone—a queen’s likeness, fair and still, her gaze lifted as though seeking the light of a vanished dawn. The carver’s hand had caught something both regal and tender in her features, a stillness that seemed to quiet the very air. Around her feet, the grass bloomed ever in white blossoms, their fragrance delicate as a memory half-remembered, their petals like fallen stars upon the earth.

Legolas slowed, his hand slipping from Elrohir’s to brush the carved hem of the stone mantle. His voice, when it came, was hushed, as though he feared to break the sanctity of the place. “This is where my mother rests. When her fëa passed to the Halls, my father laid her body here, beneath Greenwood’s roots. My people believe the earth remembers, that it keeps safe what we entrust to it, until the end of days. These flowers bloom only here. They say they are her gift, though I think it is the forest itself keeping vigil.”

He drew a long breath, his eyes distant, as though seeing not the stone but the memory of her face. His voice trembled faintly at the edge of restraint. “Here I come when the world grows too heavy, when shadows press too close. Here, I remember light unshadowed and the sound of her voice. And I wished to bring you—because if I bind myself to you, you must know not only my strength, but also the heart of my grief and my joy.”

Legolas’s hand lingered upon the cold stone, his thumb tracing the folds of the carved mantle as though it might yet yield warmth. His gaze softened, shadowed by something older than the brightness of his years.

“As the centuries pass,” he murmured, “the sound of her voice drifts further from me. At times I reach for it, in dreams or stillness, but it slips away, like water through the hand. I was only a child when she died. Small enough that the world was still a mystery, yet old enough to know when light was stolen from it.”

His breath caught faintly, and he lowered his hand from the stone, letting it fall back to his side. “What I recall is not her words, but the cadence of them—the rise and fall, the way her laughter seemed to cling in the air, bright as song. Sometimes I fear even that will fade, and then she will be lost to me more than she already is.”

He turned slightly then, his gaze searching Elrohir’s face, as though weighing whether to bare this grief further. “It is a strange thing to outlast memory. To know that what was once the whole of your world becomes only a shadow you chase across the long years.”

Elrohir’s chest tightened at the quiet ache in Legolas’s voice. For a moment, he only watched him, the way the lamplight brushed gold along his hair, the way sorrow gentled his proud face into something unbearably fragile. Then, slowly, he reached out, his fingers brushing over Legolas’s hand where it rested at his side.

“Memory may dim,” he said softly, “but it is never wholly lost. Not while you speak of her. Not while you carry her light in you. I did not know your mother, but I see her in you—in your kindness, in the way you look to the smallest joys as though they were treasure. The forest remembers her, yes, but so do you. And that is no small thing.”

Legolas’s lips parted, as though to answer, but no words came. His eyes glimmered, caught between sorrow and gratitude, and for a heartbeat he looked younger—like the child he had spoken of, reaching across centuries for the sound of a mother’s voice.

Elrohir’s hand tightened, firm and steady. “Let me remember her with you,” he murmured. “So that even if the years try to steal her voice from you, there will still be someone who can say her name and know it is sacred.”

Legolas’s throat worked, but for a time no sound came. He let Elrohir’s hand anchor him, steadying the ache that rose sharp as a thorn. At last, he drew a breath, low and unsteady, and turned his gaze from the statue to the one beside him.

“You speak as though you had walked these woods all your life,” he said, his voice quiet, shaped with wonder rather than reproach. “Few would dare such words; fewer still would I let them linger. Yet with you…” His breath caught again, and this time he did not fight it.

He leaned, just enough for his brow to rest against Elrohir’s shoulder, the gesture small but fierce in its trust. “With you, I would share even what I thought too fragile to name. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps she is not wholly lost, if you will remember her with me.”

The lantern light brushed against them, gilding the curve of his cheek where it pressed close, and though his composure held, his eyes were bright with unshed tears.

Elrohir’s hold tightened, drawing Legolas fully against him, as though by strength alone he might bear away a portion of the grief that pressed upon him. For a while, he only held him, silent in the hush of the garden where the birches leaned like pale sentinels and the blossoms lay bright as stars at the queen’s feet.

At last his voice came, low and steady, though it trembled with the depth of what he promised. “One day, we shall see them again—your mother, and mine. Beyond these shores, beyond the grasp of shadow. In the Undying Lands, where no sorrow may follow.” His hand moved in a slow, grounding line along Legolas’s back, anchoring him. “And until that day, I will entreat even Námo himself, that when her time in the Halls is ended, your mother may walk once more in light, and you may hear her voice again.”

He drew back just enough to look upon Legolas, the light catching in his eyes so that they shone clear and unwavering. “If such mercy tarries,” he went on, softer still, “then let me be her echo beside you. I will speak her name, I will remember her with you, until the end of all things—so that she is never lost, not from you, not from the world.”

Legolas’s breath caught at the vow, the ache in him shifting as though Elrohir’s words had placed light where only shadow had lingered. For a moment, he was still, and then his lips curved faintly, tremulous yet true.

“My heart sings at such a promise,” he murmured, voice unsteady but rich with wonder. “To think that I might one day hear her voice again, see her face unmarred by sorrow…” He drew a long breath, his brow resting against Elrohir’s for an instant. “It is a balm I had not dared to hope for.”

Yet even as he said it, the brightness in his gaze wavered, and grief bled soft and quiet into his tone. “And yet, it grieves me also, for it means that I must go hence, far from these woods that cradled my first breath. To leave behind the rivers and trees that shaped me, the roots that hold all I am.” His eyes turned toward the white birches, their silver trunks gleaming like pale spears beneath the lantern light. “I cannot think of that sundering without sorrow, for these lands are bound to me as surely as flesh to bone.”

Elrohir tightened his hold, his hand rising to cradle the back of Legolas’s neck, anchoring him as though to the very earth he mourned. His voice was low, shaped with quiet certainty. “Then you shall not leave them alone,” he said. “If the day comes when you must part from these woods, I will walk beside you. The trees that raised you, the rivers that know your name—they will not be left unremembered. I will carry them with you, as surely as I carry you.”

His gaze lingered on the statue, then returned to Legolas, steady and unwavering. “The Undying Lands may be beyond the circles of this world, but love is not sundered by sea or stone. Your mother waits, and so will I. And when you go, it will not be in grief, but in the knowledge that Greenwood’s light will endure in you, and in all who have loved you.”

For a heartbeat, silence held them—thick with all that had been spoken, and all that trembled unsaid. The birches stirred faintly overhead, as if bearing witness, and Legolas’s breath caught on the fragile weight of the moment.

He pressed a lingering kiss to Elrohir’s lips, light as a sigh, before turning his gaze once more to the stone queen at the glade’s heart. The lantern glow trembled across her features, and something in Legolas’s face mirrored that same mingling of sorrow and reverence.

“I come here often,” he said softly. “I sing to her—the lullabies she once gave me, and other songs I have gathered through the years. It is my way of keeping her close, of reminding the earth that it has not forgotten her. Will you sing with me, Elrohir?”

For a moment, silence lay between them, save for the whisper of leaves in the early night air. Elrohir’s jaw tightened, and he looked away, his throat working against words he had long held back. At last, his voice came, low and unsteady.

“I…I have not sung in many years. Not since my mother departed these shores. Song feels as though it belonged to her alone, and when she left, it left with her. My voice has not known it since.”

Elrohir’s eyes lingered on the statue, his silence heavy with the weight of years unsung. His lips parted once, then closed again, as though the very thought of giving voice to music pressed against an old wound.

Legolas did not press further. Instead, he drew a breath and let song rise from him—quiet at first, a thread of melody that seemed woven of moonlight and memory. His voice was clear and unhurried, rich with a purity that carried both joy and sorrow, as though the forest itself hushed to listen. The notes curled like silver mist among the birches, filling the glade with a gentleness no words could shape.

Elrohir’s heart clenched. Each rise and fall of Legolas’s voice was like water over stone, like a stream’s song remembered from childhood, both familiar and achingly foreign. It stirred something long-buried in him—yearning, grief, and the faint tremor of a hope he had not dared to touch.

He closed his eyes briefly, letting the sound wash over him, and when Legolas’s gaze flicked toward him—soft, beckoning—he felt his breath catch, caught between the ache of silence and the call to answer. His throat ached with the weight of silence he had carried for so long. For Elves, to sing was as natural as breathing, a wellspring of memory and joy that bound them to one another and to the world they cherished. To live without song was to live in shadow, to deny a part of the fëa itself.

For years, he had locked his voice away, fearing it would break beneath grief. Yet now, with Legolas’s song shimmering in the night air, he felt the barrier strain, trembling like ice at the first thaw.

When Legolas’s eyes found his again, steady and luminous, Elrohir’s breath shuddered free. He drew it in once more, and at last, a low note escaped him—rough-edged, uncertain, but true.

Legolas’s voice softened, tilting toward his, leaving space in the melody as though guiding him gently into the current. Elrohir followed, halting at first, his tones unpolished against the prince’s clarity, yet as he sang, the ache in his chest eased, each note unraveling the silence he had borne.

Two voices twined then, one clear as starlight, the other dark and deep as the forest floor. The birches seemed to lean closer, and the blossoms stirred at their feet as though stirred by the harmony.

For the first time since his mother’s departure, Elrohir felt not absence but presence—of her, of this place, of the bond that now tied him to the son of Greenwood.

They sang on, voices twining more surely with each breath, until it seemed the garden itself was caught in their harmony. The birches swayed faintly as though in time, the blossoms at their feet stirring in a soundless rhythm, and even the air felt richer, fuller, alive with their mingled song.

Close to the end, when their voices had settled into something almost seamless, a small flutter disturbed the stillness. A night-bird, bold and unbothered, swooped down from the branches and alighted squarely upon Elrohir’s dark hair. The note caught in his throat, breaking into a startled sound. 

Legolas’s eyes widened—then the laughter burst from him, bright and unrestrained, shattering the solemn hush like sunlight through storm-clouds. He clutched his side, the sound spilling over him in helpless waves.

Elrohir froze beneath the bird’s delicate claws, his expression caught between affront and disbelief. The sight of Legolas doubled over in mirth, golden head bent and shoulders shaking, only deepened the absurdity of it until he felt his own lips twitch against his will.

The bird, unconcerned with the gravity it had disturbed, ruffled its feathers once and gave a contented chirrup, as though pleased with itself for finding such a perch.

Elrohir exhaled through his nose, long-suffering, and cast a sideways glance at Legolas, who was still half doubled over, laughter spilling bright and unchecked. “Is Greenwood’s hospitality so poor,” Elrohir muttered, his voice dry as old parchment, “that even its birds mistake me for a roost?”

Legolas only laughed harder, nearly breathless now, the sound gilding the garden brighter than lantern-light. He tried to speak but could only manage a wordless wave of his hand toward Elrohir’s head before dissolving again, tears glinting at the corners of his eyes.

At last, Elrohir reached up with great dignity and closed his hand carefully around the small creature. He hesitated, eyeing its sharp beak. “Do not bite me,” he warned in a low voice, as though the bird might understand.

The little thing only tilted its head and gave a piping note in reply, untroubled by his scowl. It made no move to flee, instead settling easily in his palm, feathers soft against his skin.

“Traitorous,” Elrohir grumbled, brushing at his hair with his free hand as though the weight still lingered. But when he glanced back at Legolas, the sight of him—eyes alight like stars caught in a storm—softened the edge of his voice. “I am glad my humiliation amuses you so.”

“It does,” Legolas gasped at last, still struggling for breath through his grin. “Ai, Elrohir—your face—” He pressed a hand over his mouth to stifle another burst of laughter, though his shoulders still shook.

Elrohir arched a brow, feigning affront. “You wound me, Prince of Greenwood. Shall I seek vengeance in kind, or will you compose yourself?”

Legolas lowered his hand, the laughter subsiding into a smile that lingered, gentle now, fond. He reached to brush his fingers lightly over the bird where it perched in Elrohir’s hand, stroking the small crown of feathers with a touch that made it trill softly.

“It only wished to sing with us,” he said, voice warm as starlight. “Perhaps it thought your silence too long kept.”

The bird gave another piping note, bright and insistent. Legolas tilted his head and echoed the sound, clear and teasing, his voice shaping the note as though he truly meant to join its song. The little creature trilled back at once, delighted, and for a heartbeat, bird and prince seemed to speak the same language.

Elrohir huffed, though his mouth curved despite himself. “So this is my fate,” he said dryly, though affection threaded the words, “to wed a prince who converses with sparrows as though they were courtiers.”

“Better than wed an elf who glowers at them as though they were orc-kind,” Legolas returned smoothly, laughter dancing again in his eyes. He leaned closer, his shoulder brushing Elrohir’s, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “Besides, I think it approves of you. Else it would not have chosen you for its perch.”

The bird gave another piping note, quick and insistent. Legolas tilted his head toward Elrohir, his smile sly. “Go on. Do as I did—answer it.”

Elrohir exhaled a long-suffering sigh, though his lips curved in spite of himself. “I am an heir of Imladris, a son of Elrond Half-elven, not a minstrel in some woodland menagerie,” he muttered. Yet he bent his head slightly, shaped a note low in his throat, and released it in answer. It was rough, uncertain, but true.

The bird chirruped back at once, fluttering its wings as though delighted, and Legolas’s laughter rang out, bright and unrestrained. “See?” he said, eyes alight. “Even Greenwood’s smallest heralds find music in you.”

The bird trilled again, and for a moment all three seemed woven into the same small harmony. Then Legolas’s gaze softened, lingering on Elrohir with quiet wonder. “And I, too, approve,” he added, the playfulness yielding to something deeper, steadier, as the lantern-light gilded his face.

The bird lingered on Elrohir’s hand, trilling a final flourish, and Legolas joined it with a note light and playful, his laughter mingling with the music. Elrohir followed, grudging at first, but the sound came freer with each breath, until their voices and the bird’s call wove together in a small, unlooked-for harmony.

Their laughter broke through the garden as the song faltered, bright and unguarded, echoing among the silver birches. Legolas’s head tipped back, golden hair catching the lantern-light, and Elrohir’s gaze softened at the sight, his own laughter rising to meet it. For a moment, sorrow and shadow seemed far away, and the glade belonged only to their voices.

At the edge of the birch-ringed clearing, Greenwood guards stood watch. They did not speak, but their eyes lingered on the scene—on their prince laughing, unburdened, in the company of the Noldo once thought an enemy. One exchanged a glance with the other, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. Not approval, not yet, but something nearer acceptance than disdain.

The blossoms stirred in the night breeze, the bird nestled against Elrohir’s hand, and song and laughter lingered in the air as the lanterns swayed like slow-moving stars. Thus, the garden kept its vigil, holding light against the dark.

Chapter Text

The letter crackled softly as Thranduil let it fall to the desk, its seal broken, its courtesy spent. For a long breath, he regarded it as one might a dead branch—once bearing promise of leaf, now only a token of what had already withered. His expression remained composed, yet the faint narrowing of his eyes and the sardonic twist at one corner of his mouth betrayed his disdain. The chamber waited, hushed beneath the glow of tall lamps, every eye upon him.

“At last,” he said, his voice smooth as still water, laced with chill beneath, “Elrond Half-elven finds use for Greenwood’s counsel. How many centuries has he contrived to forget that we stand upon the same soil? Yet when Galadriel lifts her hand, suddenly he remembers I exist.”

Galion’s brows twitched upward, though he held his tongue. Lindariel’s eyes softened with rue, while across from the king, Elladan’s mouth pressed thin, the likeness of his father in the set of his jaw.

Glorfindel inclined his head, golden hair catching the lamplight. “It is the Lady of Lórien who calls, Thranduil, not Elrond alone.”

“A subtlety I am certain Elrond would be pleased you note,” Thranduil replied dryly, flicking his fingers toward the parchment as though brushing dust from his hands. “Yet his hand carried the words, and his seal pressed the wax. Never is he more diligent than when Galadriel whispers her will.”

The corners of his mouth curved in a smile without warmth. “Mithrandir, Curunír, Círdan, and now, those of you who sit even in this chamber, gathered neatly into a circle. A tidy fellowship indeed. And only now do they extend the courtesy of a summons to me, as though my years of vigilance at Dol Guldur’s shadow were some quaint provincial pastime.”

Erestor’s eyes did not waver. His voice, though quiet, carried a measured steadiness. “It was no summons, Thranduil, but an entreaty. Elrond wrote with deference—more than many would have offered.”

Thranduil gave a low, amused breath, not quite a laugh. “Deference. A rare word from Imladris when it touches Greenwood. Perhaps he meant it. Or perhaps he tires of bearing the shadow alone and seeks another shoulder for the weight. Either way, he dresses need in silken courtesy, as ever. It is his gift.”

He let the words settle, gaze cutting briefly to Elladan, measuring the son for the father. The letter lay open still, its words whispering of a council, of Dol Guldur, of shadows stirring. Thranduil’s fingers tapped once against the desk, the only sound in the long silence that followed.

Elladan broke the silence first, his voice steady though the set of his jaw betrayed strain. “My father’s wish is plain—he would see the realms of the Eldar united in counsel. Greenwood’s voice is no less needed than Imladris or Lórien, and he would have it heard.”

Thranduil’s eyes narrowed, pale and cool as winter light. “How noble. For centuries, he finds little use for my counsel, and now suddenly he would have my voice beside his? Curious how swiftly his vision broadens when it is not only the shadow that presses close, but his own son’s heart running headlong into mine.”

The words dropped smooth as silk, yet barbed enough to catch blood. A flicker stirred at the edges of the room—Galion’s mouth tightening, Lindariel’s gaze darting quick and warning—but Thranduil did not relent.

Elladan’s shoulders drew taut. “My brother is not some careless boy chasing fancy. His heart is not to be diminished for your amusement, nor spoken of as though it were a pawn upon a board. He loves, and that is no small thing.”

For a moment, Thranduil only regarded him, long and level, his face unreadable but for the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. The silence stretched, weighted with the sense that both fathers were present in that chamber—Elrond through the son who bore his defiance.

He let the silence stretch until it pressed like frost against the chamber walls, and then he broke it with words smooth as a drawn blade. “Devotion, yes. Your brother wears it as others wear mail—layer upon layer, heavy, unyielding. Admirable, I suppose. And yet one may suffocate beneath such weight, if he is not careful.”

Elladan’s jaw tightened. “You granted him leave to stand as suitor. It was your word that opened that path. Do not diminish what you yourself allowed.”

A glimmer passed through Thranduil’s eyes—whether mirth or warning, it was hard to say. He inclined his head a fraction, his voice low and deliberate. “I did. A king’s word does not falter, nor does a father’s bond yield to whim. But do not mistake permission for affection, nor allowance for approval. I gave him the chance to prove himself; I did not vow to love him for it.”

The corner of his mouth curved, though the smile held no warmth, only a sliver of dry amusement. “Affection is a rarer gift than consent, Elladan. And I am far more sparing with the former.”

The words hung in the stillness, edged with the faintest irony, sharp enough to cut yet restrained enough to seem almost courtly. Across the chamber, Glorfindel’s golden brow lifted, the lamplight gleaming off his hair, while beside him Erestor allowed the smallest shift of his gaze toward the Balrog-slayer. Their silence was eloquent: they had heard the barb, but they had also heard the dry wit beneath it.

Elladan did not yield. He leaned forward slightly, grey eyes bright with steel. “You speak as though my brother’s devotion were some burden to be endured, some weight to be cast aside. But to me, it is no jest. Elrohir is as dear to me as your son is to you. You guard Legolas as though the world itself plots to steal him from your side. Think, then, how I must feel, seeing my brother’s heart bound elsewhere—fearing it will be broken or dismissed. If you would name Legolas precious, then know Elrohir is no less to me.”

Thranduil’s lips curved—not into warmth, but into something colder, edged like ice beneath starlight. “And so the sons of Elrond and I find ourselves alike, though I doubt either of us takes comfort in the mirror. You fear for your brother; I guard my son. We stand, then, not opposed but upon the same ground—though I will not pretend to welcome the tread of Imladris upon it.”

The silence stretched, brittle, until Glorfindel shifted, his voice cutting through with measured calm, rich as struck gold. “Enough.” He did not raise his tone, but the weight of centuries rode in it, the easy authority of one who had stood in Gondolin before its fall. “This is not the hour to set Greenwood and Imladris at each other’s throats over love’s claim. The matter before us is graver still—the White Council, and what may yet stir in Dol Guldur. Let us not lose sight of it.”

His gaze swept the chamber, lingering on both king and Elrond’s son alike, until the tension eased, if only a fraction. The letter still lay open upon the desk, its words whispering of shadow and summons, waiting to be answered.

Thranduil’s hand stilled upon the desk. Then, with deliberate calm, he straightened, the sweep of his mantle falling about him like shadow drawn close.

“I will waste no pretense,” he said, his voice low, threaded with chill. “I have no interest in joining any council. Greenwood has stood sentinel while others whispered in halls far from Dol Guldur’s reach. We kept the shadow from spilling north when none else would lift their hand. I will not now be summoned like a tardy guest to a feast already long in progress.”

Erestor’s gaze was unflinching, though his tone remained measured. “And if the shadow swells? If it spills beyond your borders, as shadows ever do? Do you not care for the peoples of Middle-earth, who may be swallowed if left unopposed?”

Thranduil’s mouth curved, but there was no warmth in it. “I care for Greenwood,” he said, each word deliberate, cold as carved stone. “For the lives entrusted to my rule, for the roots that drink from our soil. Should others falter, they may call it fate or folly, but it is no burden of mine to bleed for them. My people are not pawns to be cast upon some greater board for the vanity of lords who have never spared Greenwood thought until it suited them.”

The chamber held its breath. Even Elladan, who had bristled moments before, found his jaw tight around unspoken words.

Glorfindel’s voice broke the stillness, calm but edged with steel. “And yet, Thranduil, you know as well as I that shadow does not heed the lines you draw upon a map. Dol Guldur festers at your border now. But when darkness rises, it rises for all. To stand apart is to stand alone and unguarded.”

Thranduil’s eyes turned to him, bright as frostlit flame, unblinking. He did not answer at once, but the silence itself seemed a kind of defiance, as though even acknowledgment might be a concession.

Elladan’s voice cut through the quiet, weighted with urgency. “Legolas is dear to me,” he said, measured but fierce. “He holds my brother’s heart, and thus he holds mine. Do not mistake this for my father’s will—this is my own. Legolas dreams of Dol Guldur, and worse, he has been touched by it. The Black Breath marked him, sought to claim him, and I cannot believe it chance. He was the last elf born before this darkness swelled to its strength. Do you not see? This Shadow reaches for him because it must.”

Thranduil’s eyes narrowed, cold fire flashing there. “No,” he said at length, his voice quiet, honed to steel. “It is no coincidence.”

Erestor inclined his head, his tone even, grave. “The Shadow strikes where light would hinder it. Legolas bears a gift rare among our kind, a gift his mother carried before him. Such light would indeed provoke the darkness to act against him.”

The stillness in Thranduil’s frame betrayed nothing, yet a shadow crossed his gaze, sharp with old pain. His hand, resting against the desk, curled once against the wood before falling still again. “You speak true,” he murmured, though his voice carried no softness. “It is the same reason she was slain. Merilien held the darkness at bay—quietly, steadfastly—and the Shadow knew it. The night she fell was no accident.”

His glance shifted, not to those before him, but beyond—to some memory none could share. “She was not spared their aim, nor was he. Both bore what the Shadow feared. It struck to end them together: the mother who warded against it, and our child who inherited her gift. It was never one alone they sought, but both, for only in their ruin could its hand press deeper into Greenwood.”

The words settled heavy, like stones into deep water, sending unseen ripples outward. Even the air seemed to draw still, as though listening.

Elladan’s jaw tightened, his knuckles whitening where his hand gripped the chair’s arm. He looked at Thranduil as though seeing him anew, but his eyes strayed—unbidden—to the thought of Legolas, and a flicker of unease shadowed his face.

Erestor’s gaze narrowed, sharp and measuring. “If that is true,” he said at last, his voice low, “then the threat is not only Greenwood’s to bear. The Shadow marks its enemies carefully, and it does not waste its hand. It has not forgotten him.”

Glorfindel inclined his head slightly, golden hair gleaming in the lamplight. His tone was calm, yet it rang with unspoken warning. “And if the Shadow still seeks him, then all of us—whether Greenwood, Imladris, or Lórien—have a stake in what comes. It will not confine its malice to one realm alone.”

Thranduil’s gaze cut toward him, bright and cold. “Do you think I have forgotten this? It was Dol Guldur’s shadow that poisoned my son, that drew near enough to scar his spirit. Do not lecture me on the stakes, Glorfindel. I have counted them in blood.”

A silence followed, taut as a bowstring, until Lindariel stirred at last, her voice softer but clear. “Then the question is not whether he is sought, but how he is to be shielded. You speak of ruin, my king—but ruin need not be foregone.”

Thranduil’s hand pressed flat to the desk, a quiet command to stillness. His eyes swept the room with the gleam of steel.

“Shielded, yes,” he said, his tone clipped, leaving no room for doubt. “And it will be by Greenwood’s hand. Not Elrond’s council, not Galadriel’s will, not the meddling of wizards who fancy themselves wise. My son’s fate is not theirs to weigh.”

Elladan bristled, half-rising before catching himself. “And yet his danger is not yours alone to bear. You cannot lock him behind your borders as though the world beyond them does not exist. Legolas walks in it, and he is bound to it now more than you wish to admit.”

The flash of something dangerous lit Thranduil’s gaze, but he did not raise his voice. “Do not presume to tell me what my son is bound to, Peredhel. You know nothing of the price already paid.”

Glorfindel’s eyes flicked to Erestor, then back again, the faintest crease marring his brow. Erestor, for his part, folded his hands before him, his silence carrying the weight of judgment unspoken.

Galion shifted beside the king, drawing a slow breath through his nose, while Lindariel’s hand tightened in the folds of her gown, though she said nothing.

Erestor’s voice slipped into the silence, calm but unyielding, like the edge of a drawn blade. “All the more reason, then, that Greenwood not turn aside. Legolas has become dear to Imladris—not for Elrohir’s heart alone, but for his own. If the Shadow strikes at him, it strikes at us all. To face such darkness divided is to invite ruin.”

Thranduil’s eyes narrowed, pale and cutting, though his smile did not reach them. “Dear, is he? How swiftly hearts soften. I remember well the cruelty that greeted him when first he came to your valley—the scorn, the whispers, the name he bore like a brand. Coldness would have been kinder than what Imladris gave him.” His gaze flicked, hard and fleeting, toward Elladan before returning to the parchment on his desk. “Forgive me if I question the sudden breadth of your affections.”

Elladan’s jaw tightened, but before a reply could spark, Galion stirred at Thranduil’s side. His voice was quiet, deferential in form, but it carried the weight of one who had stood too long at his king’s shoulder to fear speaking plain. “My lord, perhaps this summons is not a thing to be answered with one breath. Even the deepest roots shift when the earth demands it. Greenwood may gain more than it yields, if you will give it thought.”

For a heartbeat, Thranduil did not move, his stillness like glass poised to shatter. Then, at last, he loosed a faint exhale, flicking his hand as though to brush the letter and all its names into the shadows. Yet the hardness in his jaw and the chill in his gaze betrayed that Galion’s words had found soil in which to settle.

Galion, ever unruffled, cleared his throat lightly. “If nothing else, my king, the matter has a certain symmetry to it. A marriage to bind hearts, and a council to bind hands. One cannot say the Valar lack a sense of irony.”

Thranduil’s eyes narrowed, but Galion went on, his voice smooth as if remarking on wine at the table. “Your son’s bond with the Half-elven has already done what years of diplomacy could not; it has tied Greenwood and Imladris together, whether either court likes it. To take this seat at their circle would only give shape to what is already plain as sunlight. And,” he added with a glance toward the shadow of memory lingering over the room, “it might soften the ears of our own people. Even the loudest of the Sindar at court may find their tongues less sharp if their king is seen to treat with the Noldor as equals.”

He spread his hands with a touch of mock gravity. “Of course, if you would prefer to endure their caterwauling about Noldor taint until the end of Arda, I shall content myself to refill your cup in the meantime.”

A faint twitch of Lindariel’s lips betrayed her amusement, though her eyes remained solemn.

Thranduil’s gaze cut toward Galion, cold fire glinting beneath the calm surface. “You grow bold in your age, old friend. Shall I take counsel now from the clamor of Sindar gossips, or from the wine-keeper who humors them?”

Galion bowed with a flourish that was half mockery, half devotion. “If the crown commands, I shall fetch wine instead of wisdom. But you know as well as I, my lord, that even gossips shape the air in your halls. Better to still their tongues with action than let them wag until they curdle the ears of your court.”

The king’s lips curved, not in warmth but in a smile edged keen as a blade. “If silence is what I desire, I could as easily banish them.”

“Ah,” Galion returned smoothly, “but banished tongues wag louder still. And I have yet to meet the king who finds peace in ruling an empty hall.”

Erestor’s lips curved faintly, the suggestion of a smile, while Glorfindel allowed a quiet huff of laughter, golden brows lifting at Galion’s familiar irreverence. They had long learned the measure of Greenwood’s steward—that his barbs cut close only because his loyalty was sharper still.

Elladan, though, leaned forward, drawn by the strange current between them. There was awe in his gaze, and no small measure of wariness, as though he watched a dance whose steps he could scarcely follow.

Galion folded his hands neatly, eyes bright with mischief. “Of course, my lord might take the quieter road and banish the louder Sindar—the ones who think themselves clever, speaking ill of the prince behind your back. They believe the king does not hear what he hears, though he always does.” His tone was light, but the words hung with weight.

Elladan stiffened, confusion sparking in his eyes. “What do you mean?”

Galion’s gaze slid toward Thranduil, unhurried, the silence itself an answer.

Thranduil’s eyes, when they lifted, were cool as still water. “It is no concern of the Noldor.” The words were not raised, yet they carried the finality of stone.

But Elladan did not yield. His jaw set, voice firm though carefully measured. “It becomes my concern if my brother is to bind his heart here. If unrest festers in this realm—if whispers cling even to Legolas’s name—I would know it. I would not have him stumble into shadows unguarded.”

Lindariel’s voice came soft as falling rain, yet it carried with it a note of quiet command. “Lord Elladan speaks wisely. If bonds are to be forged, truth must walk beside them—truth, even when it wounds.”

A silence followed, long and taut. Thranduil’s hand, still upon the desk, curled once against the wood as though to steady something unspoken. For a time, it seemed he would let the moment pass, but at last his voice broke the hush—measured, deliberate, edged with iron.

“You think the Noldor alone have cast scorn upon my son?” His gaze swept the chamber, cool and cutting. “You are mistaken. The disdain does not lie solely in Imladris. There are voices among my own halls—few, but shrill—who deem the Silvan blood unworthy of crown or lineage.”

Glorfindel’s golden head inclined, his expression sharpened. “What do you mean?”

The king’s mouth curved, not in mirth, but in something darker, a smile without warmth. “They whisper where they think I cannot hear. They call him half-blood, neither truly Sindar nor wholly Silvan, as though the mingling of his lines were a stain to be borne. When he speaks the tongue of his mother, they grimace, as if the Silvan speech were fit only for foresters and not a prince’s lips. They mistake his patience for weakness, his gentleness for frailty. And when he passes them in the court, they look away, as though his very presence unsettled their pride.”

The words fell into the silence like stones cast into deep water—sending unseen ripples that touched each face in the chamber.

Elladan’s hands clenched at his sides, his composure tested. “Legolas is dear to my brother,” he reminded, voice low but firm. “That alone binds him to me. And I will not sit silent while others scorn him, be they Sindar in your court or lords in mine. If they sneer at his Silvan blood, then let them sneer also at me—for Elrohir’s heart is wholly his, and I will defend what my brother loves as fiercely as you guard your son.”

For a moment, Thranduil regarded him with that unblinking stillness of his, the silence stretching taut. Then, with the faintest lift of his brow, he answered, “A noble declaration. Yet do not think yourself unique in such defense, son of Elrond. Legolas has faced scorn all his life. Even in your father’s house, not so long ago, courtesy gave way to cruelty. Do you forget?”

The words struck the air like a drawn blade, sharp and cutting. Elladan stiffened, but his eyes did not waver. “I do not forget,” he returned, fervor breaking through restraint. “But I ask you to see that we strive to change. Do not judge us by what was, but by what we are choosing now. We would push aside that prejudice, not feed it. And I beg you, do not condemn all of Imladris for the failings of some.”

Erestor’s words came with that familiar, unyielding calm. “Elladan speaks rightly. You and I have seldom agreed, Thranduil, yet even you must see that contempt among kin corrodes more surely than any enemy’s blow.”

Thranduil’s eyes narrowed faintly, the barest curve of his lips betraying a dry amusement. “How generous, Erestor, that you should school me in the nature of contempt. Have you so soon forgotten the root of your own?”

Erestor’s expression did not shift, though the stillness in him was telling.

Elladan looked between them, unsettled. “What root? What is this you speak of?”

Thranduil let his gaze rest upon him, cool and unblinking. “You are your father’s son, Elladan. Did he never tell you? Once, long ago, your uncle cast his eye upon me—chased what could not be caught. When he turned at last to the Gift of Men, Elrond laid his brother’s choice at my feet, as though my disdain had driven Elros to mortality. He has hated me for it ever since.”

The words landed like a stone dropped into deep water—rippling outward, unsettling, inescapable. Elladan stared, struck to silence, while Erestor remained rigid as marble, his refusal to speak louder than any denial.

Elladan’s breath caught, the words striking him harder than he expected. He turned at once to Erestor, grey eyes searching. “Is it true?” 

Erestor’s face remained composed, though the faintest shift betrayed him—the narrowing of his gaze, the brief tightening at the corner of his mouth. He did not answer, but looked away, as though the question itself were a blade drawn too close.

The silence lengthened until Glorfindel broke it, his voice even, though quiet with gravity. “It is true.”

In that moment, Elladan felt his father’s grief as if it had been laid upon his own shoulders.

The admission hung in the air, stark and unornamented, leaving Elladan reeling. His jaw clenched as he shut his eyes, the image unbidden and cruel—his father young, wounded, betrayed, watching his twin turn away from immortality with Thranduil’s scorn echoing in his ears. He breathed deeply, as if the chamber itself had grown thinner of air.

When at last he opened his eyes, they were shadowed with a mix of hurt and resolve. His shoulders drew taut, as though he bore his father’s grief for a heartbeat, and then steadied himself with the thought of his brother—of Elrohir, and of Legolas, whose bond had already weathered so much.

Behind the hush, Thranduil shifted the letter where it lay, long fingers brushing its edge. He regarded it as one might an old jest grown bitter in the retelling. “Curious, isn’t it?” he murmured, the dryness in his tone cutting deeper than mockery. “History repeats itself. Yet this time—” his gaze slid toward Elladan, cool and unflinching, though with a glint that was not without recognition, “—the hearts in question are true.”

The words settled with a weight that none could easily cast aside, lingering like the echo of a bell long after its toll had faded.

Elladan’s breath came unsteady, but he did not look away. The truth had struck deep, yet he would not let it master him.

“Then let it not repeat,” he said at last, voice low but steady. “If once scorn poisoned choice, let it not poison love now. My brother’s heart is not my father’s wound, nor is Legolas to be cast in your old quarrels. Whatever lies between you and my father, it is not theirs to bear.”

Glorfindel stirred, golden head inclining as though to seal the words. “Well spoken,” he said, his voice rich and level, the weight of ages behind it. “Let this not be the hour when past bitterness blinds us to what is needful now. The grief of brothers long sundered cannot be undone, but neither must it bind the sons who walk after them. What Elros chose, he chose with his own heart. What Elrond carries, he has carried for ages. Do not now lay that burden upon Legolas and Elrohir, who were not yet born when such wounds were made.”

His gaze swept the chamber, calm but unyielding, and it lingered on Thranduil until even the king’s stillness seemed sharpened by it.

Erestor’s voice followed, quieter, precise as the drawing of a quill across parchment. “It is true that Elrond’s bitterness has long roots. But it is also true that he would see Greenwood’s prince safe, no less than his own son. To bind the present to the sins of the past is folly. If this Shadow marks Legolas, then it is not the quarrels of Doriath and Lindon that matter, but what we choose to do here, in this hour.”

The words hung, iron beneath their calm, and the chamber seemed to breathe again after long stillness.

Thranduil’s gaze held on them both, pale as frostlit flame. For a long moment, he did not speak, and the chamber seemed to wait with bated breath. At last, he inclined his head a fraction, the gesture spare but deliberate.

“You speak wisely,” he said, his voice low, the chill in it tempered though not dispelled. “The past is a chain, and I will not see it fastened to my son’s feet. Nor will I mistake old grief for present counsel.”

He let the words settle, his eyes sweeping once more over the letter where it lay upon the desk. “As for this Council—” his tone sharpened, yet carried none of the mockery from before, “—I will give it thought. But thought only. You will have no answer tonight.”

With that, he rose, robe sweeping in a slow arc, his bearing tall and unbending as a beech in winter. Without another word, he turned and left the chamber, the door closing behind him with a hush that seemed heavier than any slam.

For a time, silence lingered in his absence. Then Lindariel turned to them with quiet grace, her hands folded before her. Her gaze rested on the Noldor with a gentleness that eased what tension still hung in the air.

“You must forgive him,” she said softly, though her voice held the quiet firmness of one accustomed to being heeded. “The wounds of Greenwood’s King run deep, and the love he bears his son deeper still. Give him time, and he will see what must be done.”

Galion inclined his head, his smile faint but wry. “Aye. Our lord is not easily swayed in the moment, but neither is he blind to reason. Let him walk beneath the quiet of the trees, and perhaps they will tell him what even he does not wish to hear. We will speak with him, and when next you meet, I think you will find him less immovable.”

His glance flicked to Elladan, the glimmer in his eyes betraying both sympathy and dry humor. “If naught else, his love for the prince is a tide few walls can resist. And tides, as we all know, have a way of shaping even the hardest stone.”

Lindariel’s lips curved faintly, though her eyes remained solemn as they swept the chamber. “Rest easy. Greenwood has long borne shadows. We will not turn aside from what lies before us now.”

Erestor inclined his head to Lindariel, the smallest bend, yet solemn as a vow. “Your words do honor to him,” he said, his tone steady, the edge of earlier iron tempered. “And to us also. I thank you.”

Lindariel’s gaze softened, a quiet smile curving her lips though her eyes remained grave. “The thanks is not mine to bear, but his, when he is ready to give it.”

Glorfindel let out a quiet breath, golden brows lifting. “Ever does your king leave a chamber as though he has triumphed, even when he has merely chosen silence. Few can make absence feel so commanding.”

Galion’s eyes gleamed, his mouth twitching into mischief. “Ah, you have learned quickly. Our lord does not retreat—he simply selects ground more dramatic on which to stand. It is an art, and one he has honed longer than most realms have drawn breath.”

A laugh, low and unforced, stirred from Glorfindel, and the air in the chamber lightened.

Elladan, who had remained taut with all the weight of revelation, drew a breath and inclined his head first to Lindariel, then to Galion. “My thanks. To both of you. You speak with his heart when he cannot—or will not—and for that I am in your debt.”

Galion waved a hand, all mock solemnity. “No debt, son of Elrond. Enduring our king’s tempers is burden enough. But I will tell you this—” his gaze swept Elladan with a sly glimmer, “—you are far more your father’s son than you know. That spine of yours, that fire flashing in the eyes whenever you are contradicted, it is as though Lord Elrond himself stood before me. Save that you scowl less often.”

Elladan stiffened, color rising faintly in his face despite his effort at composure. Glorfindel’s laughter deepened, bright as sunlight through leaves, while Lindariel’s smile lingered, gentle and rueful, as though she, too, saw truth in the jest.

Elladan drew a steadier breath, the corner of his mouth curving despite himself. “Then I will leave the scowling to Elrohir. He has ever been more diligent at it than I.”

Galion gave a short laugh, eyes glinting. “Aye, that he has. Your brother wears a scowl as though it were a badge of honor. It is almost endearing, if one grows accustomed.” He sighed, turning his glance toward Lindariel with an air of theatrical weariness. “Though between us, my lady, I confess that when first I set eyes upon the Evenstar of the Noldor, I prayed our prince might choose her instead. She seemed far gentler company than the storm-browed son of Elrond.”

Elladan let out a startled snort of laughter, unable to contain it. Glorfindel’s lips curved into a knowing smirk, while even Erestor allowed a flicker of amusement to soften his features.

Galion, unabashed, pressed on, his voice warm with memory. “She was all grace and light, that one. So beautiful that the hall itself seemed dimmed about her, yet soft of word, with a kindness in her gaze that lingered long after she had gone. A jewel of her house indeed.”

He spread his hands as though helpless before fate. “Had our prince chosen her, perhaps Imladris and Greenwood would have been bound by ribbons of song and silk, instead of braced for the storms that follow Lord Elrohir’s tread.”

Elladan shook his head, though his smile lingered. “You wrong him, Galion. My brother is not all scowls and storms. Beneath the steel, he is steadfast—more loyal than any I have known. If Legolas has bound his heart there, it is not to folly, but to strength.”

Galion tilted his head, lips curving in wry concession. “A fair defense, and nobly spoken. Yet I cannot help but think—” his eyes slid toward Lindariel, mischief glinting in their depths, “—that had the prince chosen the Evenstar, their beauty together would have silenced even the sharpest tongues in our court. Imagine it—her light and his grace entwined. Their children would have been otherworldly.”

Elladan let out a startled laugh, lifting a hand as though to ward the thought away. “By the Valar, never let my brother hear such words, Master Galion! Elrohir would never forgive you. He is jealous enough without you weaving fancies of what might have been.”

Glorfindel’s lips curved into a smirk, golden eyes bright with amusement. “And rightly so. I would not wish to contend with the Peredhil in a matter of the heart. Elrohir’s devotion is fierce—perhaps too fierce—but it leaves no room for doubt.”

Erestor inclined his head slightly, his expression smoothing into wry composure. “Jealousy is a perilous fire, but so long as it guards rather than consumes, it is proof of love’s strength. In this, Elrohir is guilty only of being too honest.”

Galion gave a theatrical sigh, though his eyes gleamed. “Then I shall keep my fancies to myself, lest your brother storm the halls and accuse me of treason. A pity, though…I still say the Evenstar and our prince would have been a vision to humble the Valar themselves.”

Elladan’s laughter deepened, though his face colored faintly. “I will hold you to your word, Galion. For my brother’s sake, let no whisper of it reach his ears, or we shall both suffer for it.”

The chamber eased with shared mirth, the last of its sharpness giving way to a warmer glow, like embers banked after a long fire.

At length, Lindariel rose, her gown whispering softly as she inclined her head to the guests. “You have borne enough for one night. Rest before the feast, and let us take what words we may to our lord. He will hear them—if not now, then in time.”

Galion lingered a heartbeat longer, his eyes bright with mischief. “Between her wisdom and my persistence, he will hear what must be heard, though you may wish the Shadow itself upon you ere you endure his temper in the meantime.” His glance slid to Elladan with sly amusement. “Until then, guard your brother from jealous fancies, lest he think I have designs on his heart.”

Elladan huffed a laugh despite himself, while Glorfindel shook his head, golden eyes glinting. Lindariel touched Galion’s sleeve, and with a final graceful bow, they withdrew. The door closed softly behind them, and the chamber seemed to deepen into stillness, as though their absence had drawn away the last of the firelight.

For a moment, none spoke. Then Erestor broke the hush, his voice low, precise. “It will be no easy task. Thranduil yields to no hand but his own, and even then only after long counsel with silence. To draw him into the White Council will be no gentler than bending the wind to one’s will.”

Glorfindel inclined his head, the lamplight gleaming in his hair. “True. Yet even the wind can be steered by the shape of the mountain. He may not bend to Elrond’s summons, but he will bend to his love for his son. That, at least, is plain.”

Elladan’s hands tightened faintly at his sides, but his voice came steady. “Then, for Elrohir’s sake, and for Legolas, we must see it done. If the Shadow marks them both, Greenwood cannot stand apart. My father may call it duty, but for me, it is family. I will not see my brother lost to bitterness or to Dol Guldur alike.”

The words fell quiet into the chamber, their weight lingering in the still air like the promise of a storm yet to break.

Glorfindel stepped closer, his golden presence a steadying warmth. “You will not stand alone in that, Elladan. I have seen shadows rise before, and I have seen them fall. This one will fall also, though not without trial. Until then, your brother has more than his own strength to keep him. He has you, and he has Legolas. That bond will shield him longer than any wall of stone.”

Erestor inclined his head slightly, his gaze measured but not unkind. “And should it falter, know that others stand ready to hold the line. Shadows may spread, but so too does loyalty.”

The silence that followed was no longer taut with strain, but deep with unspoken accord. The letter still lay upon the desk where Thranduil had left it, a silent reminder of what must yet be decided. But for the moment, the chamber breathed easier, the sharpness of the night softened into resolve.

The air beyond the council chamber was cool and still, touched faintly with the resin scent of pinewood torches. Yet beneath that calm, Greenwood stirred with urgency. Servants hurried through the passages, bearing garlands of green and gold, pitchers of spiced wine, and trays of polished silver. The murmur of voices rose and fell in the distance, a quiet thunder of a realm swiftly preparing for the feast their king had announced earlier in court.

Elladan moved among them in silence, his steps carrying him down long corridors as he searched for his brother. He knew Elrohir would not be alone, but Elladan’s heart pressed to see him for himself.

The weight of Thranduil’s words lingered still, heavy as frost upon the bough. Elrohir’s name had been spoken too often in tones of warning, of danger, of doom to come. And though Elladan had stood steady in answer, unease gnawed at him, urging him onward. He longed for the reassurance of his brother’s living presence—whole, unbroken, still his.

Yet another thought pressed upon him, newly sown and bitter in its bloom. Elros. Until this night, Elladan had never known the true shape of his uncle’s story, nor the depth of his father’s wound. Now he saw it with painful clarity—his father’s twin brother turning away, death chosen where life might have been, scorn heaped upon his love until it broke. Elladan’s throat tightened at the thought. He could not imagine such a thing, could not conceive of Elrohir’s steps falling silent, of a world emptied of his echo. The thought alone was enough to unmake him.

As he walked, memory rose unbidden—a gentler time, when shadows had not yet stretched so long. He saw himself and Elrohir not as warriors grown, but as children in their father’s house, no taller than the balustrades of Imladris. The valley had rung then with their laughter, twin voices echoing against the stone, racing down colonnades with hair streaming behind them like banners in the wind.

Elladan smiled faintly at the thought. Elrohir had ever been the swifter, darting ahead like a hawk on the wing, while he himself had trailed half a step behind—half a step, yet never apart. And when Elrohir stumbled, as all children do, it had always been Elladan’s hand that caught him, fierce in its grip though small in size, refusing to let him fall.

The memory unfurled in colors softened by time. He saw the sunlit colonnades of Imladris as they had been in their earliest years, when their mother still graced Middle-earth with her gentle presence, and the valley itself seemed brighter for her laughter. The gardens were wilder then, the air sweet with lilac and young grass, the sound of the river threading through every stone hall like a lullaby. It was long before Arwen’s birth, when the world was small enough to be measured in steps across the courtyards of their home.

He and Elrohir had been playing some childish chase, darting between pillars and leaping over the low walls that lined the paths. Their laughter rang bright and unrestrained, echoing off the stone as they raced through the sunlit colonnades. Elladan darted forward with a triumphant shout, only for Elrohir to skid sideways at the last moment, pulling a face and sticking out his tongue before darting off again.

Elladan barked a laugh and returned the gesture when he managed to cut across his brother’s path, arms outstretched as though to catch him. Elrohir twisted free, giggling, tongue poked out once more in gleeful defiance as he scrambled over a low wall and sprinted down the next stretch of path.

They careened around corners, doubling back on each other, pausing only long enough to throw silly faces before the chase resumed. Their small feet slapped against sun-warmed stone, hair streaming behind them like banners in the wind, shadows of the pillars strobing across their laughing faces.

Elrohir had been ahead, darting around a corner with reckless speed, his laughter still pealing through the hall.

Then came the sharp cry, the stumble, the fall.

Elladan skidded to a halt, the laughter dying sharp in his throat. His breath caught as he saw his brother sprawled across the flagstones, one knee bloodied where it had struck the stone. Elrohir pushed himself upright at once, jaw tight, his lip caught between his teeth as if sheer will might smother the pain. Grey eyes glimmered, hot with the effort of holding back tears.

Elladan crept closer, his own small hands hovering uncertainly before daring to touch the torn skin. “Does it hurt?” he whispered, voice hushed, as though speaking too loud might make the wound worse.

Elrohir shook his head too quickly, his chin jerking with pride. “No. It is nothing.” But Elladan saw the tremor in his breath, the glisten at the corner of his eyes, the faint shiver in his shoulders as he tried to master himself. Even as a child, something fierce rooted itself in Elladan’s heart—that unshakable vow to be the hand that caught his twin, the shield against all falls, the one who would never let him break.

He crouched at once, his own knees scraping the stone as he leaned in close. The sight of blood made his stomach twist, yet the thought of his brother hurting made it twist harder. He reached out with tentative fingers, brushing gently around the scrape.

Elrohir hissed, jerking his leg back, his pride as raw as the wound itself.

“You should let me see,” Elladan said softly, earnest as only a child could be.

Elrohir’s chin lifted, his small frame rigid with defiance. “It is nothing,” he repeated, though his breath wavered, betraying him. His lips pressed tight, fighting the sting in his eyes.

Elladan frowned, refusing to be put off. “It bleeds,” he said, his voice steady with a gravity far beyond his years. “That is not nothing.” Tearing a corner of his own tunic, he pressed it clumsily but carefully to the scrape. “Hold still.”

Elrohir flinched at the touch, a sharp hiss breaking free before he bit it back. His cheeks flushed, not with pain but with shame. “Do not tell Ada,” he muttered, the words low, almost a plea.

“Ada will not be angry,” Elladan murmured quickly, eager to soothe, his small hands careful as they steadied the cloth against the wound.

But Elrohir’s jaw clenched, stubborn as stone. “He told us not to run,” he whispered, guilt threading through his voice.

Elladan’s heart twisted. He lifted his gaze to his twin’s face—so familiar, so fierce in its pride even now—and shook his head. “I will not tell. But you cannot hide it from me.” His voice gentled as he pressed the torn cloth more softly to the scrape. “It is only a little hurt, Elrohir. You are brave. Braver than I would be.”

Something shifted then, loosening the hard line of his brother’s face. Elrohir’s breath shivered, the fight in him wavering. At last his shoulders eased, tilting ever so slightly toward Elladan, leaning into his steadiness as if it were the one place he could set down his pride.

Elrohir sniffed, his chin dipping as he muttered, “I am always the clumsy one. Ada says so.” His fingers worried at the edge of his tunic, shame pricking sharper than the scrape itself.

Elladan’s frown deepened. “Then Ada is wrong,” he said fiercely, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “You are not clumsy—you are quick. You are braver than I am. You always run ahead, and I only follow.”

Elrohir glanced at him sidelong, eyes shining though he tried to hide it. “And stumble.”

“Then I will catch you,” Elladan said at once, his faint smile brimming with fierce loyalty. He reached to steady his brother’s arm, his voice dropping into a whisper weighted like a vow older than memory. “I will always catch you.”

Elrohir’s grey eyes, luminous with unshed tears, searched his twin’s face. “Do you promise?” His voice was hushed, trembling with the gravity of a child’s trust.

Elladan nodded without hesitation, his small jaw firm. “I promise. We are not only brothers—we are twins. Nothing will ever part us.”

Elrohir’s breath caught, his stubborn pride softening into something tender. “So you’ll always be my brother,” he murmured, as though naming a treasure too precious to risk.

Elladan’s heart swelled until it ached. He mirrored his brother’s seriousness, his voice quiet but sure. “Always yours,” he said.

With that, Elrohir exhaled, the sting in his knee forgotten. He leaned into Elladan’s steady presence, comforted by a bond that was older and truer than any pain—a bond that Elladan, even then, would have given the world to protect.

Elrohir shifted closer at last, the fight draining from him. Wordless, he pressed his small head beneath Elladan’s chin, as though the place had always been meant for him.

Elladan stilled, then wrapped his arms around him, holding him firm and gentle all at once. Even now, he could remember the weight of that moment—the way his twin, so proud in all things, had sought refuge in silence rather than speech. Elrohir had ever hidden his gentler heart behind scowls and sharp retorts, as if a frown might shield what was most fragile.

But Elladan had always known better. He knew it in the way his brother leaned against him now, trusting him with the side he never showed the world. Elladan bent his cheek against the dark crown of Elrohir’s hair, his vow burning steady as a flame.

It was then that soft footsteps stirred the air—the whisper of silk brushing stone, and the faint fragrance of lavender borne with them. A shadow fell across the boys, and when Elladan lifted his gaze, their mother stood above them—radiant in the morning light, her silver-grey gown cascading like water, her hair a fall of shimmering silver touched by the sun.

Celebrían knelt swiftly, gathering her skirts with a grace that seemed woven of habit and love. Her eyes, clear as the Bruinen in spring, softened at the sight before her: one son kneeling solemn and protective, arms wrapped about his twin, the other pressed close, trembling still, his pride smoldering brighter than the scrape upon his knee.

“My little hawk,” she cooed, brushing Elrohir’s dark hair back from his brow with cool fingers, “always flying too fast for your own wings.” Her voice was warm, lilting, threaded with laughter, yet underlain with the deep gentleness of one who had eased countless small hurts and fears into silence.

Elrohir drew himself up at once, his chin lifting, his jaw set in a mirror of his father’s even at that tender age. “It is nothing, nana,” he declared quickly, fierce in his defiance, though his lip betrayed him with a betraying quiver.

Celebrían’s smile deepened, touched with mirth and boundless tenderness. “Nothing?” she echoed softly, leaning close to study the bloodied scrape. “You bleed like a warrior fresh from battle and call it nothing? Then you would make a poor healer indeed, little one.”

Her hands moved deftly, smoothing Elladan’s crumpled, torn tunic where he had pressed it against the wound, her touch neither hurried nor sharp. She pressed a kiss to Elrohir’s brow, then turned her gaze to Elladan, who still hovered close, small hands folded with the gravity of his vigil.

“And what would I do without my faithful healer?” she said, her voice rich with warmth. “You take such good care of your brother.”

Elladan straightened at once, pride stirring beneath the weight of her gaze. “I promised,” he answered, his voice steady though his heart swelled.

Celebrían’s smile softened, her eyes shining with quiet knowing. “Then it is a promise I believe,” she said, her hand lingering at the crown of Elladan’s dark head in a caress of blessing.

With practiced ease, she slipped her arms beneath Elrohir and lifted him, ignoring his muffled protest. He was light yet, all long limbs and sharp pride, and he flushed with embarrassment at being carried.

“Ada will be cross,” he muttered, eyes darting away, though he did not resist the circle of her arms.

Celebrían only laughed softly, pressing her cheek to his dark hair. “Your father will say nothing when he sees how bravely you bore it. My little hawk does not weep, though the stones strike him, but he will let his mother tend him all the same.”

Elladan scrambled to his feet and fell in at her side at once, one hand brushing her skirts, the other hovering near his brother as if to assure himself Elrohir was truly there, safe within her hold.

“Come now,” Celebrían said gently, her voice lilting as birdsong as she turned toward the arched ways of the valley. “The healing halls wait, and we will see this mended before the sun climbs higher.” Her steps were unhurried, the fall of her gown whispering across the stone as she bore Elrohir effortlessly, Elladan trotting close, solemn as a guard though still a child.

The light of Imladris spilled about them—warm stone, green vines trailing from balconies, the soft rush of the river threading through every hall. In that moment, with his brother in their mother’s arms and his own promise still warm upon his lips, Elladan had believed the world unshakable.

They passed beneath the carved arch of the healing halls, where sunlight fell soft through latticed windows and the air smelled faintly of athelas and lavender. Celebrían swept across the chamber with unhurried grace and set Elrohir carefully upon one of the narrow beds, her skirts whispering as she moved to gather clean cloths and a small basin of water.

Elrohir sat stiffly, lips pressed tight, as though sheer will alone might turn a scraped knee into nothing at all. Elladan hovered close, eyes darting between his brother and mother, ready to help though uncertain how.

It was then that another presence stirred the quiet—Elrond himself, who had been bent over a table of scrolls at the far end of the healing halls. He turned at the sound of the door and came toward them, his long robes trailing like shadow across the stone. His keen grey eyes swept the scene—the blood, the clumsy patch of Elladan’s tunic, Celebrían’s preparations—and his brows drew together.

“What has happened here?” he asked, his voice low but edged with sternness. The question carried the weight of command, though not unkind, and the air seemed to still around it.

Elrohir stiffened further, his chin rising with defiance even as his fingers curled tight upon the edge of the bed. “Nothing,” he declared quickly, a familiar refrain, though his voice wavered against the calm authority of their father’s gaze.

Elladan’s heart beat faster. He glanced from his brother to their father, torn between his vow of secrecy and the stern expectation in Elrond’s eyes.

Elrond’s gaze settled on his younger son. “I told you not to run in the courtyards,” he said, his voice calm but carrying the weight of rebuke. “How many times must you be warned before you heed it, Elrohir?”

Elrohir’s jaw tightened, his grey eyes burning with pride as he held his father’s stare. “I did not mean—” he began, but the words faltered, caught between guilt and defiance.

Elladan, standing close, straightened at once. “It was not his fault, Ada,” he said quickly, stepping forward as though to shield his brother with words if not with flesh. “We were both running. I should have stopped him, but I did not. The blame is mine also.”

For a heartbeat, Elrond’s stern gaze shifted to Elladan, weighing him in silence. His lips pressed thin, but before he could speak, Celebrían returned with a basin of water balanced in her hands and a cloth draped over her arm.

“That is quite enough, my love,” she said softly, but with quiet authority that even her husband could not ignore. She set the basin down and knelt once more at Elrohir’s side, her hands already deftly cleaning the scrape. “What is done is done, and no scolding will mend a knee. He has learned his lesson and more besides. Do you not see how bravely he bears it?”

Her touch was gentle as she spoke, and her eyes lifted to her husband’s, the warmth in them smoothing the steel from his expression.

Elrond drew a slow breath, and though his face did not soften entirely, his silence yielded to hers.

His gaze lingered on the scrape as Celebrían worked, his mouth set in its familiar line of disapproval. “Still,” he said at last, his voice clipped but not unkind, “I have told them often enough to behave. The courtyards are no place for reckless games.”

Celebrían’s lips curved faintly as she wrung out the cloth and dabbed carefully at Elrohir’s knee. “Ah, my lord,” she murmured, her voice lilting with amusement, “you speak as though you yourself have always been the soul of obedience. Tell me, did you never run wild in Sirion’s halls, or in Lindon when you should have been at study?”

Elrond’s brow arched, his stern mask faltering at the teasing note in her voice. “That was different,” he said, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him, threatening to soften.

“Different?” Celebrían’s eyes sparkled as she glanced up at him. “So says the elf who climbed the tower walls when his tutors looked away, and returned with robes torn to ribbons. Shall I tell our sons who it was that taught me that tale?”

For the first time, the shadow of a smile touched Elrond’s lips. “You are merciless, my lady,” he said, a quiet warmth slipping into his tone despite himself.

Elladan watched, wide-eyed, as his mother’s gentle teasing smoothed the sternness from their father’s face. Beside him, Elrohir sat straighter, pride stilled by the tender ease that filled the chamber.

Celebrían’s laughter shimmered in the quiet hall, soft as water over stone. Elrond’s sternness could not withstand it; the corners of his mouth curved, reluctant but real. He shook his head once, as though conceding defeat to her memory.

“You wound me with my own past,” he murmured, and the words, though chiding, carried the warmth of mirth rarely seen.

Celebrían leaned close, pressing a kiss to Elrohir’s dark hair as she finished binding the knee. “Then wound you I must, my lord, if only to remind you our sons are children still. Let them fall, let them run; there will be time enough for stillness when they are grown.”

Elrond regarded her for a moment, then sighed, the last of his sternness loosening from his frame. He reached out, resting a hand gently on Elrohir’s small shoulder, then letting it drift to Elladan’s as well. His touch was steady, quiet strength tempered by rare tenderness.

“You frighten me,” he admitted softly, more to them than to her. “Both of you. You must learn caution. But I am glad you have each other, for one catches where the other falls.” His gaze lingered on them, bright with unspoken pride. “And that is no small gift.”

Elladan felt his chest swell at the words, and Elrohir leaned almost imperceptibly into their father’s hand. For a moment, the family was bound closely in a circle of warmth and light: a time more gentle, when their father carried fewer burdens, when their mother’s laughter still brightened the halls, and no grief or shadow had yet divided them.

The memory blurred, softening like sunlight through water, and Elladan’s steps carried him back into Greenwood’s lamplit halls. The fragrance of pine and resin returned, the murmur of voices preparing for the feast pressing faintly at the edges of his hearing. Yet in his heart lingered the echo of that day—the scrape of stone, his brother’s trembling pride, his own fierce vow.

Even now, Elladan felt the ache of his mother’s voice, the gentleness of her touch lingering like sunlight long set. He missed it with a depth that never lessened—the cool brush of her fingers across a brow, the way her laughter could soften the sternest rebuke. In those younger years, their father’s smile had been easier to find, his temper gentled beneath her presence. But once she was gone, Elrond’s laughter grew rare, and too often his words with Elrohir struck sparks, sharp and unyielding, as though each carried a wound the other could not soothe.

So much had shifted since that scrape on the flagstones: their mother sailed beyond their reach, their father’s warmth dimmed by sorrow, and shadow had threaded itself through their days in ways no child could have foreseen. Yet one thing had not changed. Elladan had sworn it then, with the fierce gravity only a child could muster—that he would catch his brother whenever he stumbled.

And now, as Elrohir’s heart lay bound to Legolas, that vow pressed deeper still. Whatever storms threatened them—be it Thranduil’s frost, their father’s grief, or the shadow rising from Dol Guldur—Elladan would not see his brother’s love undone. He had sworn once to catch him; he would not fail now, when the fall would be so much greater.

A sound tugged him from his thoughts—light, unguarded, bright as water over stone. Laughter. Not just any laughter, but Legolas’s, clear and unrestrained, the kind that carried warmth even into Greenwood’s shadowed halls.

Elladan slowed, the corner of his mouth curving despite himself. He followed the sound through a side passage, the torchlight giving way to dappled green where the stone opened into one of the small gardens.

There he found them: Elrohir standing stiffly, every line of his body taut with exasperated dignity, while upon his dark head perched a small sparrow, feathers puffed as though his brother’s crown were its rightful throne. Legolas was doubled over with laughter, one hand pressed to his side, golden hair falling forward as his shoulders shook.

Elladan paused at the threshold, unseen, his eyes softening. The sight struck him with an ache of recognition—it echoed so perfectly the boy he remembered: Elrohir’s pride pitted against some harmless tumble of fate, steadied always by laughter and love beside him. The memory of scraped knees and childhood promises lingered, and here, before him, was proof of it still—his brother, whole, unbroken, alive in joy.

Amusement stirred in his chest, warming the cold weight left from the council chamber. For the moment, at least, the world was lightened by a bird’s folly and a prince’s laughter, and Elladan let himself smile.

He lingered in the shadows of the courtyard’s arch, unseen as the moment played out before him. He caught enough to piece it together—Elrohir plucking the little bird from his head with grave dignity, warning it not to bite as though it might understand, while Legolas all but collapsed with laughter at his side. The sparrow had not flown; it had nestled easily into Elrohir’s palm, trilling as if delighted with its unlikely perch.

Elladan watched the exchange unfold—the indignation that softened into reluctant amusement, the bird’s bright call answered by Legolas’s playful echo, the warmth in Elrohir’s gaze as his brother’s sternness unraveled into something lighter. Even from a distance, Elladan could see it: the way Legolas leaned close, his laughter bright as starlight, his voice coaxing joy where Elrohir had meant only scowls.

And then, impossibly, his brother yielded. Elrohir bent his head, gave back a rough, uncertain note, and the bird answered at once, fluttering in delight. Legolas’s laughter rang out again, but softer this time, fondness threading through the mirth. For a breath, bird and prince and twin were woven into one small harmony, music and laughter mingling in the green-lit air.

Elladan’s lips curved. In another time, another place, he might have teased his brother mercilessly for such foolishness. But here, now, he only felt the ache of tenderness—relief and joy knotted together. His vow from childhood returned to him with fierce clarity. And in Legolas, he saw another who would do the same—one who could draw music even from silence, and laughter even from scowls.

For the moment, it was enough.

Elladan’s lips curved, the smile tugging wider as he stepped from the shadows into the gardens. His boots made little sound on the flagstones, but his voice carried, smooth and amused.

“Well, well,” he drawled, arms folding across his chest. “A son of Imladris, reduced at last to serenading sparrows. I confess, brother, I did not know your talents stretched so far.”

Elrohir whirled at once, scowl settling like armor, though the color in his cheeks betrayed him more than the tiny bird still perched in his palm. “It was nothing of the sort,” he snapped, dignity fraying. “The creature would not leave.”

Legolas’s laughter redoubled, bright as silver bells, his hand pressed to his side. “Ai, Elladan—your timing is cruel. I cannot bear more.”

Elladan’s grin widened, eyes bright with mischief. “Truly, a picture for the ages. Perhaps I shall commission a song. The Sparrow’s Choice, An Heir of Imladris Crowned at Last.”

Elrohir groaned, rolling his eyes skyward. “Valar preserve me,” he muttered, though his lips twitched despite himself.

Legolas straightened, laughter softening into a smile, his hand brushing lightly over Elrohir’s as the bird trilled once more. “Nay, do not torment him too much,” he said, voice warm with fond amusement. “If even Greenwood’s smallest heralds approve of him, perhaps you should take heed.”

Elladan chuckled, shaking his head. “Oh, I take heed. I only wonder if the sparrows will demand he lead them at the feast as well.”

Elrohir groaned, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him, twitching upward despite his best effort. “If either of you breathes a word of this, you will regret it,” he warned, dignity undone by the sparrow chirping merrily in his hand.

“Breathe a word?” Elladan echoed, brows lifting in mock innocence. “Nay, brother, I shall sing it. All Greenwood ought to know its guest of honor is chosen by their sparrows. A sign, perhaps—your fate written in feathers and birdsong.”

Legolas’s laughter spilled out again, bright as the bird’s own trill. “A fair omen indeed, for one who at last has learned to answer when the forest calls.” His eyes gleamed slyly as he added, “Will you keep this gift hidden from my father, Elrohir—or perform for him at the high table?”

Elrohir fixed them both with his fiercest scowl, though the flush in his cheeks betrayed him. “I am an heir of Imladris, son of Elrond Half-elven—not a wandering piper to charm kings and woodland creatures.”

Elladan stepped closer, grinning wide. “And yet here you stand—piper to sparrows, jester to Greenwood, and newly crowned minstrel. Your renown grows faster than I can count it.”

Legolas leaned against him lightly, his voice soft but wickedly amused. “And I, for one, will not let him forget it.”

The bird gave a piping note as if to seal the jest, wings fluttering, and Elladan’s laughter joined Legolas’s bright mirth and Elrohir’s indignant huff, until the courtyard itself rang with their voices.

At last, Elrohir shook his head, exhaling through his nose as though surrendering. He glanced at his twin, still flushed but regaining his composure. “Well, Elladan, what did you come seeking? Surely not only to mock me.”

Elladan pressed a hand to his chest in mock injury. “Mock you? I am wounded, brother. I sought only your company, as any loyal twin would.” His smile curved, sly but fond. “Though I confess, finding Legolas at your side is an added grace—beauty and laughter enough to sweeten even your scowl.”

Legolas’s brows lifted, a flush of color blooming faintly at his cheekbones. His laughter softened into a smile, bright still but touched with warmth. Elrohir rolled his eyes skyward, though a reluctant quirk tugged at his lips.

“Added grace, is it?” he said, voice dry as old parchment, though his gaze was keen. “Take care, Elladan. His company is mine to keep, not yours.”

Elladan gave a low laugh, shaking his head. “Ever jealous, brother. Even sparrows prove more generous than you.”

The bird trilled merrily in Elrohir’s hand, as though siding with Elladan, and Legolas’s soft laughter followed, quick and warm. He glanced between them, eyes alight with fond mischief. “Peace—do not quarrel over me. If I can make even sparrows sing, surely there is enough laughter for you both.”

Elrohir huffed, but his fingers curled more securely around Legolas’s hand where it brushed his own. Elladan only smiled, the ache from the council fading for a moment in the light of their mirth.

His smile lingered, but it dimmed as his gaze flicked past them toward the edge of the courtyard. A handful of Greenwood guards stood within sight, their attention politely averted but their presence unmistakable. The weight of what had passed in the council chamber pressed heavily on his tongue, too heavy for careless ears.

The sparrow, as though sensing the change in the air, gave a last bright trill and fluttered from Elrohir’s palm, vanishing into the branches overhead.

Elladan stepped closer, lowering his voice. “This is not for open gardens. We need a quieter place to speak.”

Elrohir straightened at once, catching the shift in his twin’s tone. “What has happened?” 

Before Elladan could answer, Legolas straightened before the statue of his mother. The flowers at its base stirred faintly in the night air, their fragrance stilling his laughter as he touched the statue’s hem with reverent fingers. The gesture was brief, instinctive, yet it carried the weight of quiet devotion.

Then he turned to them, golden hair catching the lamplight, his face composed once more. “Come. The woods will hold our words better than stone.”

He led them from the garden into the green shadows, the statue’s calm gaze watching after them as they slipped beneath the trees.

They walked until the torchlight of the palace faded behind them, the night deepening into the hush of Greenwood’s woods. Branches wove overhead like vaulted stone, moonlight filtering pale and silver through the leaves. At last, they came to a small hollow ringed by beeches, the air still and close, the ground carpeted in moss.

Elladan paused there, scanning the shadows. When no guard followed, he turned back to them, his face grave. “This will serve.”

Elrohir’s hand lingered against Legolas’s arm, but his eyes were fixed on his twin. “Now speak,” he said lowly. “What passed in the chamber?”

Elladan drew a long breath, the weight of it pressing in his chest. “A summons was read—a call for the White Council to gather. Our father’s hand carried it. He asks Greenwood’s voice to stand with Lórien and Imladris against the shadow of Dol Guldur.” His mouth tightened. “But Thranduil…he does not wish it. He scorns councils, scorns their circles of speech. He says Greenwood has borne the shadow alone all these years, and will not be summoned now as though a tardy guest.”

The words fell heavy between them.

Legolas’s gaze dropped to the earth, his jaw tightening, but he spoke no word. Elrohir’s frown deepened, his grip flexing against Legolas’s arm.

“He would stand apart,” Elladan finished, voice low. “Even with the darkness stirring, even knowing what danger presses nearest his borders, he would have Greenwood alone.”

For a long moment, Legolas did not lift his gaze. The shadows of the beeches fell across his face, lending him a stillness that might have been mistaken for calm, were it not for the faint tightening at his mouth.

“My father has guarded Greenwood since before I drew breath,” he said at last, voice low and deliberate. “He has seen too many councils waste words while we bore the cost in blood. He trusts the strength of his own realm, not the promises of others.”

His hand drifted down to the moss at his side, fingers brushing through it absently, as though the living earth might steady him. “And yet…” His voice faltered, softening with unease. “If the White Council gathers to strike at Dol Guldur—if they mean to stand against what festers there—can Greenwood truly remain apart?”

Silence hung in the clearing, broken only by the whisper of leaves above.

Elladan watched him, seeing the conflict plain in the shadow of his expression. Beside him, Elrohir’s jaw tightened, but he held his tongue, waiting.

Legolas let his hand fall still against the moss. “I cannot fault him for mistrust,” he said quietly. “But I cannot claim it does not trouble me.”

Elrohir let out a sharp breath, no longer able to keep silent. “It should trouble you,” he said, grey eyes flashing in the half-light. “Dol Guldur festers at your very borders. To turn aside from those who would stand against it is folly—dangerous folly.”

He took a step nearer, his voice low but fierce. “Your father speaks as though Greenwood alone can hold back that tide. But shadows do not honor borders. They will spill beyond your woods as they have before, and if he waits until it is upon you, what then?”

Legolas’s mouth tightened, his shoulders taut. “And yet it is Greenwood that has kept the shadow at bay while others spoke in circles. For centuries upon centuries, my father has guarded these borders with no council at his back. Can you fault him, then, for mistrust?” His voice was calm, but an edge of steel lay beneath it, honed by long loyalty.

The air between them grew taut, like a bowstring drawn too far. Elladan raised a hand, his tone firm but steady. “Peace, both of you. This quarrel is not between lovers, nor should it be. Elrohir, your fear is plain, but it springs from care, not disdain. And you, Legolas…” He turned to him gently. “Your father’s strength is without question. But strength does not make him invulnerable. If he stands apart, he stands alone—and that serves the Shadow best of all.”

The clearing stilled, the night sounds of Greenwood filling the silence left in their wake.

The silence stretched, heavy as the canopy above, until Elrohir exhaled sharply and let his shoulders ease. He turned toward Legolas, his voice lower now, the edge of anger tempered by something more fragile.

“Forgive me,” he said, the words rough but earnest. “It is not mistrust of you, nor even of your father’s strength. It is the thought of you hurt that drives me so. The memory of you beneath the Black Breath—of your skin cold, your spirit fading—” His throat tightened, and he broke off, shaking his head as though to cast off the image. “I cannot bear it, Legolas. Even the shadow of that fear makes me strike too hard with my words.”

Legolas’s expression softened, the steel in him giving way to something gentler. He reached to rest a hand lightly on Elrohir’s arm, the gesture quiet but steady. “You need not ask pardon for fear born of love,” he said softly. “I, too, remember that darkness, though I would sooner forget it. We both carry its mark.”

For a moment they stood so, the woods around them hushed, their closeness unspoken but sure.

Elladan watched, a faint ache in his chest—part memory of vows made in childhood, part relief that those vows no longer fell to him alone. The hush lingered, the night air thick with what had been spoken. Elladan let it stand a moment, then turned his gaze to Legolas, his voice quieter, measured.

“Tell me truly,” he said. “Have you had further dreams? Any sign—any clue—that might guide us?”

Legolas’s hand slipped from Elrohir’s arm, his eyes lowering to the leaves at his feet. When he spoke, his voice was steady, though shadowed. “They have not ceased. Only grown darker. I walk beneath boughs I do not know, and the air there chokes of ash. I hear the trees whisper, but not as they do in waking life. Their voices are strained, burdened, as if they speak from roots sunk deep in poisoned soil.”

He paused, breath thin, before lifting his gaze again. “They say only this: that there is something in Dol Guldur not as it seems. That what we believe is but a veil, and behind it stands another will—older, more terrible. I do not know its name, but the trees tremble when they speak of it.”

The words fell into the silence, and for a moment even the living woods around them seemed to hush, as if listening.

Elrohir’s hand closed more firmly around his, grey eyes stormed with unease. Elladan felt the chill creep along his own spine.

Elrohir’s hand tightened around Legolas’s, his breath catching before he could hold his silence. “You should not bear this alone,” he said, voice low but fervent. “These dreams are no idle fancies—they wound you as surely as any blade. If the trees whisper of some hidden will, then it is a power that marks you, hunts you.”

His jaw set, anger warring with fear. “I will not stand by and let you walk each night into such a shadow unguarded. If you wake in darkness, let me wake with you. If you must endure these visions, then let me endure them at your side.”

Legolas turned to him, the pale gleam of moonlight softening his features. For an instant, his composure wavered, and the quiet gratitude in his eyes spoke more than words.

Elladan stood a pace apart, his heart tightening at the sight. 

Legolas’s gaze softened, his hand tightening faintly in Elrohir’s. “Yet I did not dream darkly last night,” he said quietly. “Not when I slept beside you. The shadows did not come.”

Elladan’s brows lifted, a slow grin curving his mouth. “I should think not,” he said smoothly. “From what I heard, there was precious little sleeping done.”

Both Legolas and Elrohir turned toward him at once, twin flushes rising, their poise undone in a single stroke.

“Elladan—” Elrohir snapped, mortified indignation burning in his voice. “Valar, must you eavesdrop like some skulking thief?”

Elladan only folded his arms, grin widening. “If you would rattle the very stones of Greenwood, brother, do not feign outrage when they carry the tale to my ears. After all,” his eyes glinted with mischief, “my guest chamber lies just beside yours.”

Elrohir groaned, but his glare sharpened, cutting for a retort. “And how fares your own bed, then? Silent as a tomb, I suspect. Best beware, lest moss take root where warmth does not.”

Elladan barked a laugh, caught off guard despite himself.

Legolas, cheeks still flushed, found his composure again. “Gentlemen,” he interjected lightly, mischief glinting in his eyes. “If either of you grows weary of sparrows, I am sure the owls will be glad of your noise instead. They are less delicate.”

Elladan pressed a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter, while Elrohir muttered darkly under his breath. The tension of the woods eased, laughter weaving through it like birdsong until all three found themselves smiling, however grudgingly.

At length, Elladan lifted his gaze, following the spill of moonlight through the leaves. “The hour grows late,” he said quietly. “Already the halls will be stirring. The feast cannot be far.”

Elrohir turned, a fraction too quickly. “Then you should go, brother. Ready yourself. We will come after.”

Elladan stilled, his brows rising, amusement glinting in his eyes. “Should I?” he asked, drawing the words out. “It seems plain enough I am being sent away.”

A faint flush touched Elrohir’s cheekbones, though his expression held firm. “Go,” he said again, more evenly. “We will follow.”

Elladan pressed a hand to his chest in exaggerated injury. “Dismissed from my own brother’s company…how cruel.” His mouth curved into a grin. “Very well. I will leave where I am not wanted.”

He stepped back a pace, then paused, turning to catch Legolas’s eye. Mischief lit his expression as he added, “But take care. Greenwood’s trees are eager gossips. Try not to give them cause to chatter overmuch.” He gave a sly wink for emphasis.

Legolas’s lips parted, color rising swiftly to his face, though laughter tugged at the corners. Elrohir groaned, dragging a hand over his brow in exasperation. Elladan’s chuckle lingered like a warm echo as he vanished into the trees, leaving them at last alone in the hush of the wood. The woods seemed to draw closer in his absence, their hush wrapping about the two who remained.

Elrohir exhaled slowly, tension easing from his frame now that they were alone. He turned, his hand still twined with Legolas’s, grey eyes searching the prince’s face in the dim silver light. A mutter slipped from him, low and heartfelt. “Curse him. He will not rest until he has made me mad.”

Legolas’s lips curved, the last traces of color still warming his cheeks. “Elladan loves you,” he said gently, amusement glinting in his eyes. “It is plain to see. He guards you with words as sharp as any blade.”

Elrohir snorted. “Then may he sheath that blade more often.”

A quiet laugh escaped Legolas, bright as falling water. “I think he wields it only because he cannot help it. You are dear to him—so dear, in truth, that he would rather endure your wrath than leave you unguarded.”

Elrohir’s sternness softened at that, though he shook his head with a faint groan. “Valar save me from brothers who think themselves wise.”

“And from princes who laugh at them,” Legolas teased lightly, though his thumb brushed a tender line across the back of Elrohir’s hand.

The mirth ebbed, the hush of the wood pressing close once more. Elrohir’s expression shifted, more searching now, as he drew a breath. “Tell me truly,” he said at last, his voice low, stripped of jest. “Do you think your father will yield? Will Thranduil join the White Council, or will he turn from it as he has so many times before?”

The question lingered in the still air, heavy with more than politics—for beneath it lay fear, love, and the shadow of all Legolas had confessed of his dreams.

Legolas’s gaze drifted upward, following the weave of branches where moonlight spilled in broken silver. For a long while he did not answer, and when at last he spoke, his voice was low, threaded with conflict.

“I do not know,” he admitted. “My father’s pride is deep-rooted. He has borne Greenwood’s burdens alone too long to easily share them now. He mistrusts councils, mistrusts promises made beyond our borders. And yet…” His breath caught, his hand tightening faintly in Elrohir’s. “I cannot help but fear what may come if he turns away.”

He paused, his eyes lowering, shadowed with unease. “I love him, and I honor him. But I know he is not perfect. His pride blinds him at times, even as his love makes him fierce. He is both my greatest shield and my strongest chain.”

His words faded, leaving only the hush of the wood around them. Elrohir’s grip firmed in quiet answer, as though to anchor him against the weight of such truth.

His jaw tightened, but not with anger—with a steadiness that seemed to root him to the earth itself. He lifted his hand, fingers brushing beneath Legolas’s chin, coaxing his gaze upward until their eyes met in the pale wash of moonlight.

“Let your father’s pride stand as it will,” he said, his voice low, unyielding. “If he turns from council, if shadow presses closer, know this— I will not turn from you. Whatever comes, I will be at your side. No darkness, no will of any king, will part me from you.”

The woods hushed around them, the leaves overhead sighing as if to bear witness. Legolas’s breath stilled in his chest, his composure trembling at the force of the words. For a heartbeat he seemed caught between doubt and wonder, then Elrohir bent, sealing the vow with a kiss—gentle as a benediction, yet certain as an oath sworn in steel.

Legolas yielded into it, the lingering press of lips carrying more weight than words. For that moment, the world held still: no shadow stirred, no fear intruded, only the vow between them, lit bright as starlight in the green hush of Greenwood.

They parted, though only by the span of a breath. Their foreheads lingered close, their breaths mingling, warm against the cool hush of the wood. Legolas lifted a hand, his fingers sweeping gently across Elrohir’s brow, brushing a stray lock of dark hair aside with quiet reverence.

A smile curved his lips, tender yet edged with mischief. “So solemn with your vows,” he murmured, voice low as starlight through leaves. “My own Elf-knight—sworn to guard me as though I were some fragile treasure.”

Elrohir let out a breath, part sigh, part laugh, though his cheeks flushed warm beneath the moonlight. “Do not make light of it,” he said, his tone fierce despite its softness. “I would stand against all of Arda for you.”

Legolas’s hand lingered against his temple, thumb brushing lightly across his skin. His eyes gleamed, laughter and wonder woven together. “I know,” he answered, voice a whisper of certainty. “That is why I tease you, for it pleases me to be so guarded, though I need no knight at all.”

Elrohir leaned closer still, the space between them narrowing until his words brushed warm against Legolas’s lips. “Don’t you?” he murmured, grey eyes intent, searching.

Legolas’s smile deepened, sly and fond all at once. His hand slipped from Elrohir’s brow to rest lightly against his cheek, thumb tracing the faintest line there. “Careful,” he whispered, voice threaded with laughter. “If you keep on, you will make us late for the feast—and your brother will never let us hear the end of it.”

Elrohir huffed, though he did not move back, his breath still mingling with Legolas’s. “Let him wait,” he said, stubborn as ever.

Legolas’s soft laugh broke the hush, bright as a birdcall in the night. “Ever my knight, and ever unruly,” he teased, though his gaze lingered, luminous with quiet affection.

Elrohir tilted closer still, his voice dropping to a roughened whisper. “And how am I to be patient, when even your white robes undo me?”

Legolas’s laugh rang soft and bright, slipping through the hush of the trees like silver water over stone. Color touched his cheeks, though his eyes glimmered with mirth. “Hush,” he murmured, though laughter still curved his lips. “If you speak so, we shall never see the feast at all.”

Yet his hand lingered against Elrohir’s cheek, thumb tracing lightly along his skin, unwilling to break the nearness between them.

Legolas’s smile lingered, then softened into a kiss, light as a promise. Elrohir answered at once, deepening it, his breath catching as his hands slid down the length of Legolas’s back, firm and unhurried, until they settled over the curve of him. He drew him closer still, as though nothing less than closeness would suffice.

The movement startled a laugh from Legolas, muffled against his mouth, bright and unrestrained. It rippled through the kiss, breaking its solemnity yet making it all the more alive. He tipped his head, laughter spilling between their joined lips, even as his fingers tangled in Elrohir’s hair to steady himself.

Elrohir only tightened his hold, answering laughter with a hungry insistence, pulling him nearer until no space remained between them. The forest seemed to draw still around their mingled voices—breath, laughter, and the low hum of desire twined together beneath the canopy of stars.

Legolas’s breath spilled bright against Elrohir’s mouth, breaking the kiss for a heartbeat. He tilted his head back just enough to catch breath, eyes gleaming with mirth even as Elrohir held him fast.

“So , ” he murmured between laughter, voice low and teasing, “is this how a Noldo keeps his vows? By conquering me in my own woods?”

The growl in Elrohir’s throat deepened, low and fervent, before he moved. In a single motion, he pressed Legolas back against the smooth trunk of a beech, strong hands seizing his waist as he lifted him, guiding his legs to lock around his hips.

Legolas’s breath hitched, laughter shivering into a gasp as his back met the tree. His golden hair spilled over his shoulders, catching the silver of the moonlight, while mirth still flickered in his eyes even as desire flushed his cheeks. “Mmm,” he murmured against Elrohir’s mouth, his voice breaking with half-laugh, half-breath, “ever impatient.”

Elrohir silenced him with a kiss that was no longer gentle, but hungry—vows turned to fire, devotion to need. His hands anchored firmly at the small of Legolas’s back, drawing him closer, until there was nothing left between them but heat and breath.

Legolas let his laughter ripple through the kiss, bright and breathless, his fingers clutching at Elrohir’s dark hair as though to steady himself. He yielded, yet even in surrender, his joy glimmered, teasing him between gasps, a prince who could still laugh in the grip of passion.

Around them, the forest hushed, branches leaning close as though bearing witness, the air heavy with the mingled sounds of laughter, breath, and promise.

Elrohir’s kiss grew fiercer, his hands gripping with near-desperation as he held Legolas pinned against the beech, their bodies pressed close, heat thrumming between them. Legolas clung to him, laughter breaking now and again into gasps as his lips were claimed, his breath stolen.

“Valar,” Elrohir murmured against his mouth, voice roughened with hunger, “you undo me—” His words dissolved into another kiss, deeper still, as though he could not bear to part from him even for breath.

Legolas let himself be gathered in, his legs firm around Elrohir’s waist, his fingers tangled in his hair. Yet, even in the midst of fire, mirth flickered; he pulled back just enough to laugh softly against Elrohir’s lips. “Careful, my knight,” he teased, breathless but sly. “If you keep on so, our robes will be in tatters before the feast—and I will not walk into my father’s hall with grass in my braids.”

Elrohir groaned low in his throat, half in frustration, half in delight, pressing his forehead to Legolas’s as though to steady the storm inside him. “You think I care for feasts?” he muttered, voice unsteady.

Legolas laughed again, the sound bright and wicked in the hush of Greenwood, and kissed him once more, deeper, while the trees seemed to lean closer around them.

The world had just narrowed to breath and laughter when a voice, far too close, broke through the hush of the trees.

“Prince Legolas?”

Legolas froze, his back pressed against the beech, the heat in his cheeks flaring hotter than fire. Elrohir stilled as well, jaw tightening before he hastily set Legolas back on his feet. They turned, hearts still racing, to see Caleth and Thalion slipping from the shadows between the trees. Both wore the kind of smiles soldiers learned in long service—polite, deferent, and yet sharp with unspoken mirth.

Caleth bent in a shallow bow, though his eyes sparkled. “Forgive the intrusion. Lord Elladan suggested we take this path—that the Prince of Greenwood might require an escort to the feast.”

Thalion’s mouth curved faintly, his tone gentler but no less pointed. “We thought to find you already en route.” His gaze lingered on the flushed faces before him, then dipped—pointedly—to where Legolas fussed with the folds of his white robes, smoothing them as though they might erase all trace of what had just passed.

For a heartbeat, silence hung between them, thick as smoke. The sparrow that had once perched on Elrohir’s head chirruped faintly from a nearby branch, as though mocking the scene.

Elrohir swore softly, the sound low and venomous. His grey eyes burned with dark promise. “Elladan,” he muttered, every syllable a curse. “I will have his head for this.”

Legolas pressed his lips together, fighting between laughter and mortification, the color in his cheeks deepening. Caleth’s grin only widened, sharp as a fox’s, while Thalion’s composure betrayed the faint twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth.

Caleth, ever reckless, let his grin widen. “Peace,” he said with airy courtesy, tilting his head in mock solemnity. “If more time was what you wished, you might have chosen a tree further from the path. This one hears too much.”

Legolas’s head bowed briefly, mortification threatening to undo him. Elrohir, however, turned a glare on Caleth sharp enough to fell lesser men.

Yet Caleth only swept into a shallow bow, unruffled, his eyes glinting. “Forgive me, Lord of Imladris. I meant no insult. I merely thought to offer…strategic advice. Discretion is its own kind of armor, after all.”

At that, Thalion gave the faintest snort, quickly smothered, though his mouth twitched as if against laughter. “Enough,” he said smoothly, his voice the measured balance to Caleth’s mischief. “The feast waits, and the king’s patience is not endless. Best we see the prince there before he sends the rest of the guard to fetch him.”

Legolas drew a long breath, steadying himself, though the brightness in his eyes betrayed the laughter he held back. Elrohir muttered another curse beneath his breath before his hand sought Legolas’s, gripping firmly as if to anchor him against both mirth and mortification.

Elrohir’s glare lingered, and this time he spoke, his voice low and cutting. “Strategic advice, is it? Then hear mine, Caleth: mock me again, and you will find yourself wishing for orc patrols instead of my company. They would show more mercy.”

Caleth’s grin faltered for a heartbeat, though the spark in his eyes did not wholly dim. He inclined his head with exaggerated deference. “As you say, my lord. Mercy is rare these days.”

Thalion’s brow arched, his tone dry as winter frost. “Rare—and wasted on fools who do not know when to hold their tongue.”

Caleth pressed his lips together, wisely falling silent, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed the mischief still simmering there.

Legolas drew a slow breath, his composure settling like moonlight over water. “Peace,” he said at last, though his voice carried a note of fond exasperation. His gaze flicked to Caleth, one brow lifting. “You push your luck, mellon nín. It is well you are dear to me, or my knight here would have your hide.”

Caleth ducked his head in mock contrition, though his grin lingered. “Then I am thrice blessed—by your pardon, your friendship, and perhaps your knight’s restraint.”

Thalion shook his head, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “You tempt fate too freely,” he said dryly. “One day it will answer.”

Legolas laughed softly, the sound easing the sting of Elrohir’s glare. “Come,” he said, guiding them toward the path. “The feast waits, and I would rather face a hundred whispers in the hall than my father’s displeasure for tardiness.”

Elrohir muttered under his breath, but he let Legolas draw him on. Caleth and Thalion fell in behind, still grinning, their easy camaraderie weaving through the shadows like an old, well-loved song.

As they trailed a few paces behind, Caleth leaned toward Thalion, voice pitched low but bright with mischief.

“Did you catch that lift?” he whispered. “Swung him up like he was no heavier than a cloak. Valar help me, I see now why our prince is half-mad for him. With thighs like that—” his grin spread, wicked and knowing, “—I’d wager the rhythm is enough to make even the drums of the feast fall silent.”

Thalion snorted so abruptly it turned into a cough, earning him a quick glance over the shoulder from Legolas. The prince’s eyes flickered with barely suppressed amusement before he turned away again. Thalion straightened at once, schooling his face into composure as he shot Caleth a look of grim reproach. “Keep your tongue still, fool, or the Noldo will have you flat on your back before the night is done—and not in the way you’re imagining.”

Caleth’s grin only widened, utterly unrepentant. “Worth it. If he fights with half the rhythm I’m picturing, I may even learn something.” He tilted his head, speculative, eyes gleaming. “Though it makes me wonder…if the brothers are so alike in face and form, perhaps Lord Elladan isn’t far behind his twin in other talents. A shame he doesn’t smile on me.”

Thalion shot him a flat look, but Caleth only went on, lowering his voice in a conspiratorial murmur. “I’ve tried, you know—dropped hints, lingered in his path, even offered him wine. Not so much as a second glance. The stone walls of Greenwood are warmer.”

Thalion snorted, unable to help himself. “Perhaps that is because you leer at him as though he were venison at the spit. Elrond’s son is not a tavern maid to be caught with winks and ale.”

Caleth’s smirk deepened, eyes dancing. “Then perhaps I should try poetry. Or would Lord Elladan swoon if I promised him a bow strung with moonlight?”

Thalion pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling through it like an elf long accustomed to such trials. “One day, Caleth, I’ll let you dig your own grave with that tongue of yours.”

Caleth chuckled, utterly unrepentant. “At least it will be a lively funeral.”

Legolas’s shoulders shook with the effort of containing his laughter, though the faint flush lingered on his cheeks. Elrohir, still muttering dark oaths under his breath about his brother, seemed blissfully unaware of the whispers at their backs.

The four of them walked on through the deepening wood, moonlight dappling the path. The distant sounds of Greenwood’s feast drifted faintly toward them—music rising, voices swelling in celebration, the promise of firelight and wine awaiting. Yet beneath it all, the forest held its own silence, as though watching, listening, guarding its prince.

Legolas tightened his fingers in Elrohir’s hand, a quiet tether, and when Elrohir glanced at him, the prince’s smile was calm, untroubled—though his eyes still glimmered with the echo of laughter.

Whatever shadows the council might stir, whatever dreams might yet return, for this one night there was light enough: the laughter of friends, the vow of a lover, and the strength of Greenwood’s trees standing watch around them.

And so they stepped together toward the feast, where both joy and judgment waited.

Chapter Text

The music reached them first—bright and unrestrained, spilling through the halls in a cascade of harp and pipe, drum and voice. By the time Elladan, Glorfindel, and Erestor passed beneath the archway into the great hall, the sound had already wrapped itself around them, warm as firelight.

The sight that met them was unlike any feast of Imladris. Though long tables lined the hall, few kept their seats. Elves moved easily between them, goblets raised, laughter spilling as freely as the wine. Some leaned against the carved pillars with food in hand; others clustered near the musicians, stamping their heels to the rhythm, their braids flying loose as they spun. A feast without formality, it seemed—everywhere voices, songs, the clatter of plates, the scent of venison and honey-cakes heavy on the air.

Elladan slowed, his gaze sweeping the hall in wonder. “It is…” He breathed out a laugh, shaking his head. “It reminds me of the Shire. Elrohir and I once shared in a harvest feast there—open tables, music in every corner, laughter with no thought for rank or seat. This is near to it, though I daresay the Hobbits ate twice as much.”

Glorfindel’s golden head inclined, his lips curving in amusement. “So Greenwood keeps pace with Halflings, does it? A formidable comparison. I almost pity the venison.”

Elladan grinned, warmth touching his voice. “In Imladris, our feasts are ordered, measured into speeches and courses. Here, joy runs untamed.”

Erestor’s brow lifted, his voice cool and precise. “Untamed is one word. Disorder is another. I see no place left for a guest to sit without risking a goblet spilled into his lap.”

As if to prove him right, two elves stumbled past, flushed and laughing, their goblets sloshing wildly. One clipped Elladan’s shoulder in his merriment and nearly tipped red Dorwinion down Glorfindel’s sleeve before a companion hauled him upright with a roar of laughter.

Glorfindel’s chuckle was low and rich as he leaned slightly toward his husband, eyes bright. “Careful, beloved. Keep watching too long and you will be swept into their dance, lap or no.”

Elladan glanced between them, a mischievous glint in his eye. “I’ll wager you both will be drawn in before the night is ended. The only question is who leads.”

Glorfindel laughed softly, like sunlight catching on steel. Beside him, Erestor allowed only the faintest curl at the corner of his mouth, his silence answer enough.

A hush did not fall when the Noldor entered, yet Elladan felt the shift all the same—the flicker of eyes turned their way, a pause in the lift of a goblet, the subtle dip of voices before laughter rose again. The Greenwood elves did not stare openly, but their glances were keen, weighing the newcomers as though the feast itself measured them against memory. Curiosity mingled with reserve, sharpened by long years of distance.

Elladan bore their attention with composure, though the marvel of the hall still stirred within him. Greenwood’s mirth did not falter, yet beneath it ran an undercurrent he could not mistake—watchfulness, quiet as a blade sheathed but never set aside.

As he passed, though, a ripple of softer laughter rose—three Silvan maidens half-hidden near a pillar, their cheeks flushed from wine, their eyes bright as they watched him with poorly concealed delight. When Elladan’s gaze met theirs, their giggling redoubled, one hiding her smile behind her goblet while another ducked her head, braids spilling forward like a curtain.

Glorfindel’s golden laugh sounded at once, warm and amused. “It seems Greenwood is already taken with you, Elladan. Best be wary—Silvan hearts are swift, and you walk far from home.”

Erestor’s lips curved in a dry, elegant line. “If he is wise, he will keep his distance. Elrond will not thank us if his other son returns from Greenwood with entanglements.”

Elladan only grinned, unbothered, the gleam in his eye sharper than mischief. “Then let us hope Greenwood’s daughters and sons are not as quick with their hands as their laughter,” he said lightly, “else I might find myself hopelessly ensnared before the night is done.”

Glorfindel chuckled low, his golden head tilting with amusement. “Ai, but if you are caught, Elladan, at least you will not go down without admirers to soften the fall.”

Erestor, however, did not share his husband’s humor. His dark eyes narrowed the faintest fraction, his voice dry as frost on steel. “One day, Elladan, that tongue will land you in a tangle even Glorfindel’s charm cannot rescue you from. And when it does, I will be the first to remind you that you were warned.”

Elladan only laughed, unrepentant, the sound carrying warmly as the maidens’ giggles followed in his wake.

His gaze climbed to the high table. There sat Thranduil, a goblet held with effortless grace. The king’s expression was composed, his words few but precise as he inclined his head toward those gathered close—Galion, ever at his right hand; Lindariel, serene and measured beside her husband; and Feren, her steadfast counterpart, martial in bearing where she was poised.

Thranduil did not laugh, yet the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth and the bright, cool glimmer of his eyes made plain that nothing within the hall escaped him. He was at once part of the feast and set apart from it, a figure whose presence steadied the revelry into order.

Thranduil’s gaze lifted from the company at his table, pale and keen as moonlight. Though the hall did not still, Elladan felt the weight of it as though the king had turned a blade upon them. For a heartbeat, Thranduil regarded them in silence, his expression unreadable, the goblet poised in his hand.

Then he inclined his head, a gesture at once gracious and commanding. His voice, cool and steady, carried easily above the hum of the feast.

“Lords of Imladris,” he said, each word measured, “you will join us.”

The invitation was no less binding for the courtesy of its tone. Galion had already risen half a step, clearing a place at the high table with smooth efficiency, while Lindariel’s eyes softened in quiet welcome. Feren sat straighter, his gaze flicking over the newcomers with the careful appraisal of a soldier.

Glorfindel turned first, untroubled, his golden head inclined with easy grace. He extended a hand toward his husband, the gesture courtly yet intimate, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Erestor accepted without hesitation, eyes glinting faintly as their fingers twined, his composure unshaken even in so public a moment.

Elladan felt the shift beside him as Glorfindel guided Erestor forward, poised and assured, their unity plain in the simple touch. Drawing a steady breath, Elladan followed after them, aware of many eyes upon their backs as they crossed the length of the hall toward the Greenwood king.

They mounted the dais and came before the high table. Thranduil did not rise, but his presence was commanding enough. His blue eyes, keen as winter light, fixed upon them with unblinking clarity.

“Again you stand,” he said at last, his tone smooth but edged with chill, “in Greenwood’s hall. I had thought the council chamber sufficient for discourse, but perhaps feasts are better suited to Noldorin tongues.”

Glorfindel’s lips curved, his golden head inclining with untroubled grace. “If so, Thranduil, then I would say Greenwood has chosen the better setting. Words are always less bitter when chased with wine.”

The faintest curve touched Thranduil’s mouth—not warmth, but something drier, sharpened by irony. “Very well. If it is food and song that draw words more freely than parchment, you shall have them.”

Galion inclined his head, the glimmer in his eye betraying amusement at his king’s barb. Lindariel inclined her head in soft courtesy, her presence tempering the steel. Beside her, Feren’s gaze lingered a moment longer on the three Noldor, soldier’s eyes measuring what courtesy did not voice.

“Lords,” he said at last, his voice steady, unadorned. “You are welcome at Greenwood’s board. May the feast prove less taxing than council.”

Elladan’s mouth curved, quick with humor. “If the wine is as strong as the words we traded there, Captain, I daresay it will be a lively evening indeed.”

“Sit,” Thranduil said simply, his long fingers resting against the stem of his goblet. “It would ill become Greenwood to leave her guests standing in the sight of her people. And perhaps”—his gaze swept briefly to Elladan, cool and cutting—“you will find your appetites steadier than your arguments.”

Before Elladan could take his seat, a servant passed too quickly at his side, merry with the hum of the feast. The young elf stumbled as a fellow brushed past, colliding lightly against Elladan’s arm with a muffled apology. His cheeks flushed, but his smile was bright as sunlight.

“Forgive me, my lord,” he said, hastily righting the tray he carried. Upon it stood a carafe of deep-hued wine, rich as garnet. He bowed and poured without further falter, offering the first cup to Elladan with all the eagerness of one swept up in the revel.

Elladan accepted, settling at last upon the bench. He raised the cup politely to his lips—and nearly choked as the fire of it ran sharp and heady down his throat. He caught his breath with a gasp, blinking in surprise at the potency.

From the head of the table, Thranduil’s eyes glimmered, cool and knowing. “Dorwinion,” he said, his tone smooth as steel. “A vintage worth respect. Unlike your miruvor, it does not strengthen the heart only to guard against cold and weariness. It unbinds. Potent, perilous, and prized by every court that can coax a cask past the River Running. Few can withstand more than a cup without losing their dignity.”

The servant, still grinning, turned to Glorfindel and poured. Glorfindel lifted his cup, savoring the fragrance before sipping. His golden laugh rang out, warm and amused. “Then it is no mystery why Greenwood is so merry tonight. If half the hall drinks this, I begin to fear for the tables.”

Galion, already filling Thranduil’s goblet anew, allowed himself a sidelong glance at the Balrog-slayer. “Fear not, my lord. Our tables are stout, built to endure feasts, tempests, and even the weight of Dorwinion. It is the guests who may not prove so steady.”

A ripple of laughter stirred near the high table, quickly swallowed again, though the glimmer in Galion’s eye betrayed no remorse.

Last of all, the servant poured for Erestor. He accepted without change of expression, lifted it, and sipped. He set it down again with measured calm, though the faintest lift of his brow betrayed acknowledgment of its strength.

Galion’s remark drew a glimmer of amusement from more than one listener, but it was Lindariel who leaned forward, her hand brushing lightly against her husband’s arm where he sat beside her. “You see, Feren? Even our steward wagers more faith in timber than in warriors.”

Feren’s lips pressed into the shadow of a smile, his soldier’s bearing unshaken. “Timber does not sway under wine,” he said evenly, though the faint warmth in his eyes betrayed that her touch softened the edge of his words.

Lindariel’s laughter was quiet, like water over stone, and she let her hand linger against his for a moment longer before returning her gaze to the hall. “Still, I would not trade such merriment for all the ordered feasts in the West. What is spilled wine against the joy of a full hall?”

Thranduil’s pale eyes flicked toward them, cool but faintly sharpened with wryness, as though her words had brushed closer to truth than jest.

Elladan listened, watching the ease between them—the way Lindariel’s hand lingered upon her husband’s, how Feren’s sternness bent almost imperceptibly beneath her touch. It struck him then how rarely such tenderness showed itself at Imladris’s high table, where formality cloaked even the smallest affections. Here, the bonds were plainer, woven into the feast as openly as song and wine.

He drew a quiet breath, feeling again the gulf between the worlds of Greenwood and his own.

The great doors opened, and the hall stirred at once. Legolas entered with Elrohir beside him, their hands joined openly. Torchlight caught the fall of the prince’s bright hair and the gleam of his white robes, striking as moonlight against stone. At his side Elrohir kept step with quiet strength, his dark presence a foil to Legolas’s brightness—though the familiar cast of his scowl lingered at his brow. Neither seemed to heed the glances that followed them; their ease was plain in the way they leaned close, content in one another’s company, untouched by the weight of watching eyes.

Galion leaned close as he refilled the king’s goblet, his voice pitched for the high table but not beyond. “Striking, are they not? Even with the Peredhel’s thundercloud face, the pair could make the minstrels weep.”

The faintest twitch touched the corner of Thranduil’s mouth, though his eyes never left the pair.

Behind them came Thalion and Caleth, keeping a respectful pace, the easy vigilance of guards content to follow their prince.

Lindariel’s gaze softened at the sight of her son, her lips curving with quiet fondness. “There he is at last,” she said, her tone light but threaded with warmth. “I had begun to think the feast would pass without our son’s presence.”

Feren’s mouth tugged faintly as he replied, his tone even but edged with dry humor. “The hall might be better without his tongue once it finds its way to speech.”

Lindariel laughed, brushing her hand against his arm in gentle chiding. “Peace, husband. You would silence him before he has even sat.”

The royal couple advanced through the press of the hall, their joined hands drawing more eyes than either seemed to notice. When they reached the dais, Legolas released Elrohir only to step forward and bow low before his father. Straightening, he inclined his head toward the gathered company with quiet grace, his voice carrying clear but unforced.

“My lord father,” he said first, a note of reverence threading the words. “My lords. Greenwood is honored by your presence this night, and I am glad to see the feast begun in such warmth.”

Thranduil’s pale eyes rested on his son, the torchlight catching in them like frost touched by flame. The fondness there was unmistakable, though it was veiled behind the composure of a king. For an instant, the hall itself seemed to pause, as if holding that look between father and son.

It was Elladan who broke the moment, his grin widening as his gaze flicked past Legolas and Elrohir to the two guards who trailed dutifully behind. “Ah, so Caleth and Thalion did manage to find you after all. For a moment, I feared they had been waylaid, or that my errand had gone astray.”

Legolas’s brows lifted, amusement glinting in his eyes, but it was Elrohir who snapped first, his scowl darkening. “Valar curse you, Elladan,” he muttered, mortification sharp in every syllable.

The retort sent Elladan into laughter, rich and unrestrained, the sound carrying through the hum of the feast until even nearby Greenwood elves turned their heads, startled at the ease of the brothers’ sparring.

Elrohir groaned, dragging a hand down his face, which only set Elladan laughing harder. “Your expression alone could slay an orc-host, brother,” he managed between breaths. “I meant no wound, only to see if you would rise to it.”

“And rise I did,” Elrohir shot back, though his indignation was betrayed by the flush warming his cheekbones.

Legolas’s lips curved faintly as he reclaimed his hand in Elrohir’s, steady as ever. “Peace,” he murmured, though laughter still glimmered in his eyes.

Thranduil’s gaze lingered on the pair, and though the faintest gleam of mirth touched his eyes at Elrohir’s scowl, his voice was smooth as still water when he spoke.

“Peace, indeed,” he said, his tone edged with dry irony. “Else the hall will think the sons of Elrond come to quarrel rather than feast.” His eyes flicked briefly to Elrohir, pale and keen. “You may spare us your curses, Peredhel. Greenwood has endured darker shadows than your temper.”

The hall rippled with a quiet stir of amusement at the king’s words, but when his gaze returned to his son, it softened, a rare warmth breaking through the chill.

“Yet brighter it is,” Thranduil continued, lifting his goblet, “for the prince of this realm graces it. With his beauty and with his presence, Greenwood stands adorned more finely than by crown or torchlight.”

A hush answered him, brief but palpable, before the feast’s noise swelled again around the dais. 

Legolas bowed his head, a faint color still upon his cheeks. “My lord father flatters me,” he said lightly, though affection threaded the words.

Thranduil’s gaze did not waver. “I do not flatter,” he replied, his tone smooth and certain. The quiet weight of it drew a soft laugh from Legolas, his smile brightening the high table as surely as torchlight.

With a graceful motion, Thranduil indicated the empty seat beside him. “Sit, nettle-sprite. The feast waits, and Greenwood waits with it.”

Legolas inclined his head and took the place at his father’s right hand. Elrohir followed, settling close beside him, their shoulders brushing for a heartbeat before he leaned back with measured composure.

At the foot of the dais, Thalion made to step away, bowing as courtesy demanded, for only Caleth, whose parents held seats among the lords, had place at the king’s table. But Legolas’s voice stopped him, warm and certain.

“Stay, mellon nín. My dear friends are ever welcome at my table, and Greenwood’s hall has room enough for those who have long guarded it.”

Thalion hesitated, surprise flickering in his eyes before he bowed his head deeply. “My thanks, my prince,” he said quietly, his voice touched with true gratitude. He moved to sit at the far end, taking the place left open beside Caleth.

Caleth, unruffled and grinning, claimed the seat beside Elladan as though it had been waiting for him all along. He leaned back easily, shooting Thalion a conspiratorial wink as if to say his position was most enviable—sharing a board with Imladris’s son.

Thalion’s sigh was audible even above the hum of the feast, though the corner of his mouth threatened treachery with the faintest quirk.

Servants swept in with practiced grace with Silver carafes, the deep-hued Dorwinion glimmering like garnets in the torchlight as goblets were filled for the new arrivals at the king’s table.

Elrohir accepted his with unhurried composure, but the first taste broke his calm. The wine seared down his throat like fire, heady and unyielding, leaving him blinking against the sudden burn. He stifled a cough, muttering low, “By the Valar…”

At his side, Legolas’s lips curved, mischief lighting his fair face. “What is this? The son of Elrond undone by a single sip?” he teased, lifting his own goblet in deliberate contrast. He took a deep, untroubled draught and set it down with the poise of one entirely unaffected. 

Elrohir turned toward him, the sting of the wine fading into something warmer as his gaze lingered on the prince’s flushed cheeks and bright eyes. He leaned close, voice low enough that it brushed like heat against Legolas’s ear. “Careful, my heart. That sounds very much like a challenge.”

Legolas’s breath caught, though his smile only deepened, sly and luminous.

Before he could reply, Caleth leaned forward with a grin, unable to keep silent. “Best not tempt him, Peredhel,” he said brightly, his words carrying down the table. “Our prince could drink the cellars dry and still walk a straight line. Save the king, none can match him—not even the boldest of Greenwood’s guard.”

The boast drew a ripple of amusement, but it also earned Caleth a sharp look from his father. Feren’s eyes, stern as a drawn blade, cut toward his son with silent rebuke. Caleth only grinned wider, ducking his head a fraction but showing no true remorse.

Lindariel’s laughter softened the moment, her hand brushing Feren’s arm as her voice lifted warmly. “Peace, husband. He speaks nothing but truth, and no harm is done. Will you glare a hole through him at his own prince’s table?”

Feren’s mouth tightened, though he said nothing. Caleth smirked unabashedly at his plate, while Thalion pressed a hand to his brow with the air of one resigned to endure.

Legolas’s eyes flicked instinctively toward the head of the table. Thranduil was turned slightly, his pale profile composed as he listened to Galion’s low-voiced remark, Glorfindel’s golden head inclined, and Erestor’s still form lending gravity to the exchange. For the moment, his father’s gaze was elsewhere.

Seizing it, Legolas leaned closer, his shoulder brushing Elrohir’s as he bent to his ear. His breath stirred dark hair, his voice a whisper meant for no one else.

“If you call it a challenge,” he murmured, lips curving sly, “then beware. For you will lose—whether to Dorwinion’s fire, or to me.”

The warmth of his tone laced the words with more than jest, threading promise into provocation.

Elrohir’s answering smile was slow, almost dangerous, his eyes glinting as he turned slightly to meet him. “Then let me lose gladly,” he breathed back, his hand shifting beneath the table to brush briefly against Legolas’s.

The hall roared with laughter at some jest further down the board, but for that heartbeat, the feast seemed to fade around them.

Elladan caught the lean of heads, the glimmer of whispered words, and the faint flush lingering on his brother’s face. His grin spread slow and wicked. “Whispering already? Careful—keep at it and the whole hall will think you’re plotting scandal.”

Elrohir jerked upright, his scowl immediate. “It is none of your concern,” he said too quickly, the betraying edge of color climbing higher on his cheek.

Elladan chuckled, leaning his elbow on the table. “Then it is scandal. I thought as much.”

Before either prince could answer, Caleth leaned forward with all the boldness of wine and youth. “If scandal’s afoot, best share it. Secrets spoil too quickly, and I’d hate to be left hungry at a feast.” His grin flashed as he angled himself a little toward Elladan, adding with shameless cheek, “Besides, I wouldn’t mind if the whisper was about me.”

Elladan arched a brow, the grin on his mouth turning sly. “Keep angling for whispers like that, Caleth, and you may just find your name the talk of Greenwood before the night is done.” His tone was smooth, teasing, but not unkind—just enough to spark laughter at Caleth’s expense without wounding him.

Caleth’s eyes lit with delighted triumph, as if he had won some small victory merely by drawing the Noldo into play. He threw a glance toward Thalion, smug as a cat in cream.

Thalion groaned under his breath, dragging a hand over his face. “One day your tongue will hang you, Caleth,” he muttered.

Across the table, Legolas shook his head, golden hair falling forward with the motion, a smile tugging at his lips despite himself. The fondness in his expression was plain, though it carried the exasperation of one long accustomed to Caleth’s antics.

The hall filled with the clatter of dishes as servants moved swiftly, setting bowls of steaming roots, platters of venison rich with herbs, and baskets of crisp greens along the table. When the first course was laid, Elrohir reached automatically for knife and fork—only to falter.

Around him, Greenwood’s folk ate without such ceremony. He watched as nobles and guards alike layered slices of venison with sprigs of thyme and sweet leaves of parsley, folding it all into broad lettuce leaves before lifting it easily by hand. The custom carried no hint of disorder—rather, it felt communal, unbound, laughter and music woven straight into the act of eating.

Across the table, he noticed Glorfindel and Erestor already partaking with practiced ease, clearly no strangers to Greenwood’s ways. Across from him, Elladan caught his hesitation, lifted a brow, and with an amused shrug set to copying the Greenwood custom without a second thought.

Still, Elrohir hesitated until the brush of Legolas’s shoulder reminded him he was not alone. The prince’s hands moved deftly, folding venison and herbs into a neat wrap of green. With a small, knowing smile, he offered it across the narrow space between them.

“Here,” Legolas said softly.

Elrohir accepted, their fingers brushing as he did. The warmth of that touch lingered longer than the food in his hand. He raised it to his mouth and bit down, the rich, smoky flavor blooming unexpected and bold against the freshness of the herbs. His stern composure slipped, the corners of his mouth curving despite him.

Legolas’s gaze lingered, luminous with fond amusement, and Elrohir’s grey eyes met his in quiet gratitude. Words were unnecessary; the glance they shared was feast enough.

Then Caleth’s voice cut in, bright with mischief. “Careful, my lord. Eat too much of our fare and you’ll not wish to go back to those dainty courses of Imladris. Greenwood’s food has a way of spoiling guests for lesser tables.”

Elladan laughed, lifting his own makeshift bundle in salute. “On that point, I cannot disagree.”

Thalion groaned beside him, muttering into his cup, “Valar save me from your tongue, Caleth.”

But Caleth only grinned wider, unrepentant. His eye caught on a nearby table where a Sindar maiden and a Silvan maiden sat together, their laughter spilling low between them as they stole glances at Elladan. When he glanced their way, they giggled all the harder, one biting her lip while the other ducked behind her braid, cheeks flushed pink.

Caleth leaned in, voice sly with amusement. “It seems you’ve caught more than venison tonight, my lord. Tell me—do your tastes run toward maidens…or do you hunt elsewhere?”

Elladan followed his glance, caught the maidens’ bright eyes, and let a slow smirk curve his mouth. Their laughter redoubled, soft and breathless, as though the smile itself had undone them. Turning back to Caleth, his tone was smooth, edged with mischief. “I have never been one to limit myself. Adaptability, after all, is a virtue.”

Caleth’s grin flashed, quick and triumphant, his dark eyes glinting as though Elladan had confirmed something he had long suspected. “A virtue indeed,” he said, voice pitched low, almost purring with amusement. “Greenwood has ever prized versatility.” His goblet lifted in mock salute, though the spark in his gaze lingered on Elladan rather than the wine.

Thalion muttered something dark into his cup, clearly unwilling to witness whatever mischief his friend was weaving. The hall around them rang on with laughter and clatter, voices rising with the Dorwinion’s fire.

Elrohir reached for his goblet, the deep-hued Dorwinion gleaming in the lamplight. He took a measured sip—yet even so, the fire of it surged hot down his throat, rich and unrelenting, leaving him blinking against its strength. He drew a slow breath, as though steadying himself, the faintest crease at his brow betraying the force of it.

Beside him, Legolas had just finished the last bite of venison and herbs, wiping his fingers with practiced ease before lifting his own goblet. His mouth curved faintly as he drank—not a cautious sip, but a long, unhurried draught, lowering the cup at last with composure utterly untouched. He turned his head slightly, blue eyes glinting with mirth as he caught Elrohir’s gaze—and winked.

The gesture, subtle as it was, struck harder than the wine itself. Elrohir’s mouth curved, slow and reluctant, into a smirk that betrayed both amusement and the tug of something warmer, deeper.

Elrohir did not look away. Instead, he lifted his own goblet once more, grey eyes locked on Legolas as he tipped it back. The Dorwinion burned fierce and heady, yet he drank long and steady, refusing to yield even as the fire curled hot in his chest.

When at last he lowered the cup, a flush warmed his cheekbones not wholly from the wine. His smirk lingered, slow and deliberate, his gaze still fixed on the prince beside him.

Legolas’s laughter stirred, soft and bright, slipping out despite himself. He reached for another bite of herbs and venison, though his eyes did not leave Elrohir’s, their mirth and fondness a quiet answer to the challenge returned.

Galion, never one to let such silences pass unpierced, leaned back from the king’s shoulder with a glimmer in his eye. His voice slid across the table, pitched for amusement but sharp enough to cut. “Careful, my prince. If you and the Peredhel drink and gaze much longer, the hall will think it is a wedding feast.”

A ripple of laughter stirred along the table, though it faltered quickly when eyes turned back to the king. Thranduil’s face was composed, but his pale gaze cooled like moonlight on ice. The faint tightening of his jaw was answer enough: fondness for his son did not extend to Galion’s jest.

Glorfindel, golden head inclining, let a low laugh escape, smooth as sunlight through steel. “Come now, Thranduil—do not begrudge them. You forget, the Half-elven have always loved too fiercely to be discreet. It is their gift, or their curse.”

Elladan choked on a mouthful of wine, laughing helplessly, while Elrohir muttered darkly into his goblet. Beside him, Legolas’s lips curved, the mirth in his eyes belying his outward composure. He turned slightly toward the high seat, his voice even but edged with warmth that cut through the jest.

“Do not begrudge me this, Adar,” he said softly, though the hall around them still hummed with laughter. “I have not had his company these sixty years. A few glances at the table are little enough when so much time has already been lost.”

Thranduil’s pale eyes lingered on his son, cool and sharp, though the faintest curve touched his mouth. “Sixty years,” he mused, his voice smooth as glass. “One would think such absence might have taught restraint, not kindled impatience. Yet here you sit, dazzling half the hall with your glances before the feast is even half done.”

A ripple of restrained laughter stirred at the king’s barb, though his eyes softened almost imperceptibly when they returned to Legolas.

Elrohir reached across with unthinking ease, folding venison and herbs into a crisp green leaf before setting it before Legolas. The prince accepted it with a smile that lit his face more brightly than torch or jewel.

He bit into it, slow and unhurried, though the juices ran rich down the corner of his mouth. Elrohir’s hand moved at once, thumb brushing along the line of his jaw before the spill could touch the white silk of his robes. The touch lingered, his fingers curving lightly against the curve of his chin, his gaze fixed on the mouth he had saved.

“Best behave,” Elrohir murmured, low enough for no one else to hear. His smile edged wry, though his eyes glinted with heat. “I rather like my head where it sits. Your father would see it parted from me if we tempt him further.”

Legolas’s laugh slipped free, bright and low, though he bent his head as if to hide it. He leaned closer, blue eyes glinting as his voice brushed soft against Elrohir’s ear.

“Then you must be very careful, my love,” he murmured, sly and fond all at once. “For I would not see you headless, and my father has little mercy when it comes to those who tempt me.”

His smile lingered, playful, yet there was a gleam beneath it that belied the jest—a warmth that turned warning into vow.

Elrohir’s breath caught, though he masked it with a crooked smile of his own. “Then we are doomed both,” he whispered back, thumb brushing once more across his lip before drawing away.

Elrohir lifted his goblet again, the Dorwinion’s fire burning fierce as it slid down his throat. As he lowered it, his gaze strayed past the high table—drawn to a cluster of Greenwood lords seated not far below. Most were deep in their cups, laughter spilling freely. But one sat rigid, his face sharp as carved stone, eyes fixed on Elrohir with a glare that cut colder than the wine.

Elrohir’s brows knit faintly, the corner of his mouth tightening.

Elladan noticed at once, following his brother’s line of sight. He turned in his seat, lips curling with disdain the moment he caught the stare. “And who is that horrid lord,” he asked, voice pitched louder than courtesy required, “who glowers at guests as though the feast were a funeral?”

The words drew a murmur along the nearest tables, though Elladan’s expression remained unbothered, his gaze bold in its challenge.

Galion, never ruffled, leaned slightly from his place near the king, voice smooth and unhurried. “Pay him no mind, my lords. That is Lord Anghiril, and he has long mistaken his sourness for dignity.” His eyes glimmered with quiet irony as he added, “He glares at most things, in truth. Wine, laughter, joy. You may take it as a sign you are in excellent company.”

Legolas, who had been quiet until now, lifted his goblet with a measured grace, though his eyes shone with sly amusement. “If Lord Anghiril looks so sour,” he said, his tone light but edged with mirth, “perhaps it is because Elrohir threatened him earlier, when Anghiril thought to test his tongue against mine after court.”

Elladan’s head turned sharply, his grin flashing wide. “Did he? Valar, that explains it. He glowers like a hound nursing its bite.”

The laughter at the high table stirred again—but it broke off when Thranduil shifted. Slowly, he turned his gaze upon Anghiril, the storm blue of his eyes cutting like a winter sun through ice.

The hall stilled, sensing it. Thranduil’s stare did not waver, nor did his face betray more than a cool, deadly calm. But the weight of it was enough.

Anghiril faltered. His shoulders stiffened, his jaw worked once as though to summon defiance, but under the king’s unblinking regard his eyes fell. He bowed his head toward his goblet, hands tightening on the stem as though to busy them. Whatever scorn he held, it shrank quickly beneath Thranduil’s gaze.

The king turned back to his wine without a word, but the message had been plain: Greenwood’s hall was his, and no lord within it would insult his son without cost.

Elrohir’s hand curled faintly against the table, his grey eyes still fixed on the lord who had wilted under Thranduil’s stare. He leaned toward Legolas, his voice pitched low but edged with steel.
“If he ever speaks to you so again,” he murmured, “tell me—and I will end him.”

Legolas’s lips curved, laughter slipping bright and easy. “I am no helpless fledgling in need of guard. I can defend myself well enough.”

Still, Elrohir’s hand brushed against his beneath the table, silent promise unbroken.

Further down the high table, Glorfindel turned to his husband with a sigh so dramatic it carried over the music. “Ah, Erestor, do you remember when we were so young in our love? All fire and vows, as though love must always come with a threat of bloodshed.”

Erestor’s eyes glinted, his voice cool but edged with fondness. “Indeed. You were forever promising to duel anyone who so much as looked my way. In truth, it was more exhausting than endearing.”

Glorfindel’s laugh rang golden. “And yet you married me.”

Elrohir groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Valar, not here ,” he muttered darkly.

Elladan laughed so hard his cup nearly tipped, his mirth spilling across the table.

A sudden crash rang out from one of the lower tables—followed by a roar of laughter. Two young warriors, flushed deep with Dorwinion, had tipped half a platter onto the floor in their contest to see who could drink faster. One of them was attempting to rise with all the dignity of a king, only to stumble into the arms of his comrades, who cheered him as though he had slain a dragon.

The hall rippled with laughter, voices rising over the music. Even Thranduil’s lips pressed thin, though whether in disapproval or weary tolerance, none could say.

Beside Elrohir, Legolas’s shoulders shook with mirth, his bright eyes turning toward him. “Do you see?” he said through his laughter. “Remember what I told you of Greenwood feasts in Imladris? That they are nothing like your father’s—more wine than wisdom, and more laughter than law?”

Elrohir, wide-eyed at the unrestrained revelry, could only shake his head, though the corner of his mouth betrayed a reluctant smile. He stared a moment longer at the chaos below, where one of the warriors was now trying to balance the fallen platter on his head to the roar of his friends. He turned back to Legolas, grey eyes incredulous.

“I thought you exaggerated,” he said flatly, though the faint tug at his lips betrayed him. “But no—if anything, you understated it.”

Legolas laughed all the harder, leaning into his shoulder, the sound bright as birdsong above the din.

The commotion swelled as one of the warriors lurched upright, goblet sloshing in his hand. His cheeks were flushed scarlet, his voice booming above the laughter and music.

“A toast!” he cried, swaying only slightly as he lifted his cup high. “A toast to our prince—our Greenwood’s heart! Beloved not only by the wood itself, but by every soul who dwells within it!”

A cheer rose around him, half sincere, half urging him to sit back down. But the warrior pressed on, his voice growing more impassioned with each word. “For there walks no fairer sight under moon or sun! Beautiful, ethereal—our prince is a star come to Arda, and we are but poor moths circling his light!”

Legolas flushed crimson, laughter bubbling helplessly from his lips as he shook his head, one hand lifting in a futile gesture for silence. “Enough, enough,” he tried, though his smile betrayed his fondness for the drunk’s unguarded devotion.

Elrohir, however, sat stiff at his side, grey eyes narrowing like a blade unsheathed. His hand curled around his goblet, and the warrior—oblivious—only raised his voice louder still.

The hall rippled with laughter, groans, and shouted pleas for him to sit down, some pounding their cups on the table to drown him out. A few of his comrades tugged at his sleeves, half-dragging him back down to his bench.

Still, his slurred praise lingered in the air, leaving Legolas red-cheeked and Elrohir glowering darkly at the elf as though he’d committed treason.

Before the warrior could be properly hushed, two more cups lifted high at the high table.

“To our prince!” Caleth crowed, rising half to his feet with a grin wide enough to shame the moon. His goblet tipped dangerously as he added, “Fairer than any star, brighter than any jewel, and far better company besides!”

Beside him, Thalion rose more steadily, his voice carrying clear over the laughter. “To our prince,” he echoed, though with a soldier’s calm, his dark eyes fond despite the formality. “The wood is stronger for him, and so are we.”

Their voices carried across the hall, and at once others took it up—goblets raised, wine spilling, the hall thundering with the cheer.

Legolas’s blush deepened, though his smile warmed, helpless against the tide of devotion. He lifted his own goblet in acknowledgment, bowing his head lightly as laughter rang on every side.

At his elbow, Elrohir muttered into his cup, grey eyes flashing as they strayed toward the drunken warrior.

The hall had barely settled from the raucous cheer when Caleth’s grin sharpened, mischief gleaming in his eyes. He sprang half to his feet again, goblet raised high.

“And let us not forget,” he declared with feigned solemnity, though the laughter beneath it betrayed him, “our prince’s suitor —Lord Elrohir of Imladris! Handsome as the dawn, fierce as a storm, and with a scowl mighty enough to cow even the boldest sparrow.”

A roar of laughter followed, spilling up from the lower tables. Elrohir blinked, startled, the Dorwinion halfway to his lips. His mouth opened as if to retort, but no words came—bewilderment had robbed him of his sharp tongue.

Caleth pressed on, utterly unrepentant. “Yes! Let us drink to him, for if our prince is the light of Greenwood, then surely his chosen is the steel at his side. May his arm ever be strong, and his gaze ever terrifying to those who would harm our prince!”

This time, the answering toasts came slower, tinged with hesitation—but they came. One by one, goblets lifted, voices rang, some with uncertainty, others with growing conviction.

Elrohir sat rigid, his ears burning crimson, while Legolas only laughed, eyes alight with fond amusement as he touched his goblet softly to his beloved’s.

At the high table, Elladan raised his cup at once, grin wide and unrestrained. “To my brother,” he added, voice ringing.

Glorfindel’s golden head inclined, his goblet lifted with easy warmth. Erestor, ever composed, raised his as well, his expression unreadable save for the faintest glimmer in his eyes.

The hall thundered again, Greenwood voices joined with Imladris in the strange, unexpected toast—laughter mingling with something truer, something that settled like a vow between them.

The thunder of voices still echoed when Thranduil stirred at last. Slowly, he set his goblet down, the quiet click against the table cutting sharper than any shout. The hall fell still, laughter ebbing into uneasy silence as every eye turned to the king.

His gaze swept the room—cold, glacial, unblinking. Then, at last, he spoke, his voice smooth as silk drawn over steel.

“A curious night indeed,” he said, every word measured, carrying easily to the furthest corners of the hall. “First, my son is hailed as a star among trees, and now his suitor is crowned with toasts before ever a bond is sealed.” He lifted his goblet once more, eyes glinting like frost beneath moonlight. “I wonder what songs will be sung when vows are truly spoken.”

The words rippled through the hall, neither approval nor condemnation, but something in between—an edge sharp enough to remind them all that the king’s hand, not theirs, would decide the fate of his son.

Legolas inclined his head, composed, though faint color lingered on his cheeks. Elrohir sat taut beside him, bewilderment giving way to wariness as he felt the weight of the hall’s eyes still lingering.

Only Galion, ever fearless, allowed himself the ghost of a smirk as he refilled the king’s goblet, as if to say that Greenwood’s feasts were never without their barbs.

The weight of Thranduil’s words lingered, heavy as frost over still water. The hall shifted uneasily, goblets hovering half-raised, unsure whether to drink or fall silent.

Then Legolas’s voice broke through, warm and steady. He inclined his head toward his father, the faintest smile curving his lips. “Ever you flatter me, my king, though you would not name it so. If such songs are to be sung, let us hope they carry laughter, not quarrel, through Greenwood’s halls.”

A ripple of chuckles stirred at the gentle jest, easing the tension like sunlight melting ice.

Thranduil’s gaze lingered on his son, cool still, yet the faintest shift touched his mouth—an almost-smile, gone as soon as it was glimpsed.

Around them, voices lifted once more, the hall’s mirth cautiously restored, wine flowing again as though nothing had been broken. Elrohir’s hand brushed against Legolas’s beneath the table, quiet gratitude passing between them.

At last the meal drew to its end, the clatter of dishes fading into the hum of voices and the swell of music from beyond the hall. One by one, elves rose from the tables, many carrying their goblets with them as they drifted toward the open doors. Outside, lanterns already glimmered in the trees, their light spilling across the wide greensward where dancing and song awaited.

Legolas caught a passing servant, refilling both his goblet and Elrohir’s with an easy smile. He handed the darker cup to his beloved, his fingers brushing lightly against Elrohir’s as he did. 

“Come,” he said, his voice warm, threaded with the brightness of anticipation “The feast is not finished within these walls. I would have you see Greenwood in her joy—dancing, laughter, and stars above the trees.”

Elrohir arched a brow, the faintest scowl tugging at his mouth. “You forget yourself. I do not dance.”

Legolas’s smile only deepened, sly and knowing. “Ah, but I remember differently. You do know how, you only claim otherwise when it pleases you.”

The prince’s hand remained extended, blue eyes gleaming in challenge and fondness both.

Elrohir’s brow lingered arched, his scowl as practiced as any shield. Yet before he could summon another protest, Legolas’s hand closed around his with sudden, unyielding strength.

In one smooth motion the prince pulled him to his feet, wine sloshing dangerously in Elrohir’s goblet. Surprise flickered across his face, swiftly followed by reluctant amusement.

“You see?” Legolas said, eyes alight, his voice low enough for Elrohir alone. “You rise well enough. The first step is taken.”

Elrohir shook his head, half a sigh, half a laugh, though his fingers tightened around the hand that held him. “Valar save me from Silvan stubbornness,” he muttered. “It will be the death of me.”

Legolas only smiled wider, tugging him toward the open doors where music spilled like starlight into the night. His grip on Elrohir’s hand did not loosen; with the other he raised his goblet, drinking deep even as he walked. The Dorwinion caught the lamplight, glinting like molten ruby before vanishing down his throat in a single, unhesitating draught. He set the cup aside in passing, exhaling with satisfaction, eyes alight with mischief.

Elrohir let out a low whistle, half incredulous, half admiring. “I have lost count of how many that makes,” he said, his tone dry but fond. “If I must carry you before the night is ended, I will demand proper thanks.”

Legolas’s laugh rang light as birdsong. “Worry not,” he returned, tugging him through the wide doors and into the night. “It is Greenwood’s wine that staggers most, never Greenwood’s prince.”

The greensward opened before them, lanterns swaying in the boughs, their light spilling across the grass like molten gold. Music swept through the air, harp and pipe and drum weaving together, while elves spun in quick circles beneath the stars, their laughter rising like fireflies caught in song.

Elrohir slowed at the sight, his scowl fading as awe pressed at the corners of his mouth. But Legolas’s hand remained firm, drawing him into Greenwood’s revelry with the same ease he had drawn him from his seat.

The greensward was alive with motion. Many had long since abandoned restraint; goblets sloshed in their hands as they reeled to the rhythm, hair and braids flying loose as though the forest itself danced with them.

A servant passed with a laden tray, and without breaking stride, Legolas caught up another goblet. He lifted it at once, drinking deeply as he wove through the merriment with Elrohir in tow.

Elrohir, not to be outdone, tipped back his own cup, the Dorwinion burning hot as it slid down. Yet when he lowered it, Legolas was already finishing the last of his new goblet, the wine flashing dark against the lantern light before he set it aside with a careless ease.

Elrohir stared, incredulous. “By the Valar,” he muttered under his breath, unable to mask his astonishment. “Do you mean to drink every cask in Greenwood yourself?”

Legolas only smiled, the faintest gleam of challenge in his eyes as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and reached again for Elrohir’s.

Elrohir stared, still half in disbelief, when Legolas caught his hand once more, fingers warm and insistent. A sly curve touched the prince’s lips, his blue eyes glinting like starlight.

“Keep up, Peredhel,” he said, voice low but laced with laughter. “If you would walk in Greenwood, you must learn to match her sons cup for cup.”

Elrohir gave a short, incredulous laugh, shaking his head. “Valar, you mean to kill me before the night is done.”

“Only with joy,” Legolas returned, his tone bright, tugging him closer to the swirl of dancers. “Come—you will find the wine steadies better when your feet move with the music.”

Elrohir drained the last of his goblet in defiance, setting it firmly onto the tray of a passing servant. The fire of the Dorwinion still burned in his chest as he turned back to find Legolas waiting, cheeks faintly flushed, eyes alight. Not drunk—no, the prince carried his wine too well for that—but softened, brightened, as though the Dorwinion had set a glow beneath his skin.

Without hesitation, Legolas tugged him forward, drawing him into the circle of dancers. The music swelled around them—pipes lilting, drums urging quick steps as elves spun with laughter and flying hair.

Legolas’s hand did not leave his, even as he turned into the rhythm, pulling Elrohir into the whirl of motion with a boldness that brooked no refusal.

For a moment, Elrohir dug in his heels, jaw set, but the sight of Legolas—cheeks pink with wine, eyes shining with joy—was undoing enough. With a low, resigned laugh, he let himself be drawn in, the music catching at his steps, the warmth of his beloved steady in his grasp.

Elrohir, however, found his feet less obliging. His first steps stumbled, too heavy, and he narrowly missed colliding with a laughing maiden who spun past. He muttered under his breath, jaw tightening, but Legolas only laughed, his voice clear and teasing.

“Do not scowl so,” he said, drawing him back into step. “The music will carry you, if you let it.”

“I know the steps of courtly dances,” Elrohir grumbled, though the faintest curve touched his mouth. “This chaos is another matter.”

Legolas’s laughter rang bright, his hand tightening warmly in his.

Elrohir exhaled, resigned, though the corners of his mouth twitched despite himself. With Legolas’s hand steady in his own, he tried again, his steps slowly finding the rhythm as the prince guided him through the whirl of Greenwood’s joy.

Elrohir’s first stumble had barely righted itself when a familiar voice cut across the music.

“Valar, brother,” Elladan called from the edge of the greensward, his grin wicked in the lantern-light. “If that is your dancing, it’s no wonder you swore you had none.”

Laughter rippled from a few nearby, quickened when Glorfindel’s golden head tilted, his own voice carrying easily. “I have seen orcs with better footwork,” he declared cheerfully, though the warmth in his eyes belied the barb. “At least they fall with conviction.”

Erestor, ever composed at Glorfindel’s side, lifted his cup with the faintest arch of a brow. “Cruel,” he murmured, though the edge of dry amusement laced his tone. “The prince seems content enough. Perhaps the rhythm lies not in his feet, but in their joining.”

Elladan barked out a laugh, nearly spilling his wine, while Elrohir flushed scarlet to the ears. Legolas only tightened his grip, spinning him once more into the circle, laughter bright on his lips.

Legolas laughed aloud as Elrohir nearly tripped over a leg and pulled him half sideways into another pair of dancers. They collided lightly, to the merriment of those nearby, and soon the circle itself seemed to chuckle at their attempts—elves clapping in rhythm, stamping their feet, calling encouragement as though they cheered a pair of reckless youths rather than a prince and his suitor.

“Steady, Peredhel!” someone shouted.

Elrohir muttered something dark under his breath, his scowl only deepening, which drew louder laughter from the circle. Legolas could barely breathe for laughing, his bright hair flying as he spun Elrohir back to him, steps tangling again. Elrohir caught him at the waist in mock retaliation, whirling him too quickly, and they both staggered into another knot of dancers before recovering with a flourish that earned cheers.

A pair of revelers, flushed and heavy with wine, stumbled too close in their own spinning and bumped into them. The press of bodies drove Legolas and Elrohir closer together, their steps forced into a narrow space until their noses nearly brushed. Breath mingled—wine-sweet, heady Dorwinion clinging to Legolas’s lips—and Elrohir inhaled sharply, the scent dizzying.

His grip tightened at Legolas’s waist, possessive, drawing him flush against his chest as though daring the crowd to pull them apart again. Their gazes locked, unbroken even as the music thundered around them, each beat driving them closer into the same orbit.

Legolas’s mouth curved in a faint, taunting smile. “You see?” he murmured above the din. “Greenwood conspires to give me your attention.”

Elrohir’s lips twitched against his scowl, though his voice came rough and low. “As if you needed the help.”

Legolas’s mouth hovered near his, laughter softening into something brighter, more daring. His breath brushed across Elrohir’s cheek as he whispered, “Will you kiss me?”

Elrohir’s eyes flicked instinctively toward the edge of the greensward, where he knew Thranduil stood with Feren, Galion, and Lindariel, pale and watchful beneath the lantern light. His voice came low, rough with restraint. “Is your father watching?”

A spark lit in Legolas’s eyes, fierce and unrepentant. “Who cares?” he breathed.

The Dorwinion burned hot in Elrohir’s veins, loosening the tether of caution he might have clung to. That, and the sight of Legolas—flushed, radiant, so close his breath was already on Elrohir’s lips—was enough to break what restraint remained. With sudden resolve, he leaned in and kissed him.

The kiss was gentle, yet deep, Legolas’s arms winding around his neck as if to hold him captive, pulling Elrohir’s face closer with wine-soft boldness. Buzzed and unguarded, he pressed hungrily into Elrohir’s lips, laughter still trembling faint between them. The taste of Dorwinion lingered, sweet and heady, mingling with the heat of their breath.

The circle erupted around them, voices rising in cheer, feet stamping the grass in rhythm. Greenwood’s folk clapped and whooped, calling blessing and laughter in equal measure as their prince and his suitor kissed beneath the lanterns.

Legolas drew back only far enough for breath, his cheeks flushed, his smile luminous. He tightened his grip on Elrohir’s hand, spinning him once more into the whirl of the dance as though nothing in Arda could part them.

Not all eyes gleamed with mirth. At the edge of the revel, beneath the lantern glow, Anghiril stood with his sister and a knot of Sindar lords, their faces carved in cool disdain as they watched the prince and his chosen.

As the circle erupted in cheers at the kiss, Anghiril leaned toward his company, his voice pitched low but sharp enough to cut through the music. “And this is Greenwood’s honored suitor?” he sneered, lips curling. “The Half-elven flaunts himself before the court like some tavern boy, dragging our prince into spectacle. Valar help us if such shamelessness is to stand at his side in war or in council. Perhaps he means to win Greenwood not with honor, but by turning its heir into a show for drunken rabble.”

A ripple of uneasy laughter passed through a few of his companions, though most glanced warily toward where the king stood apart with Galion, Feren, Lindariel, and a few other lords of Silvan and Sindar blood.

Thalandir, who stood not far off, caught the words. His gaze sharpened, and he spoke just loudly enough for Anghiril and his company to hear.

“Curious,” he said, voice quiet but cutting, “that one so quick to mock another’s shamelessness has courted disgrace far darker himself. Some indulgences, my lord, leave shadows that do not fade.”

Anghiril stiffened, color rising to his face. His sister’s hand twitched at his sleeve, as if to still him, while a murmur passed through those nearby—those who remembered, or who had long guessed, what Thalandir now alluded to.

Anghiril’s sneer returned, bitter as old wine turned sour. He thrust a hand toward the dancers, where Legolas and Elrohir moved in laughter and light.

“And you, Thalandir,” he pressed, voice rising enough to prick the air, “you would guard the prince only to see him hand Greenwood to a Noldo? Have you forgotten what it is to bow beneath their kind? Will you stomach a Half-elven ruling over us?”

The lords nearest drew sharp breaths, unease rippling like a chill through their company.

Thalandir’s gaze hardened, his tone quiet but cutting as a blade drawn in the dark. “You speak as though this is about the Noldor. But we both remember, Anghiril. Your quarrel has never been only with them.” His voice lowered further, weight settling in every word. “It is our prince you scorn—you said as much yourself not long past. That his Silvan blood is unworthy of the crown, that his mother’s tongue shamed the throne.”

The uneasy silence of the Sindar lords shattered as Thranduil stepped among them, his approach as fluid as shadow slipping between trees. He moved with deliberate leisure, mantle trailing behind him, a goblet poised elegantly in one hand.

“Lords of the old houses,” he said, his tone smooth yet edged with unmistakable bite, “I trust Greenwood’s feast does not disappoint. Wine enough to loosen even the proudest tongues and music enough to drown whatever else they might spill.”

He paused, sipping from his goblet as his eyes strayed to the dancers beyond. The circle still roared in cheer, Legolas and Elrohir locked in a kiss beneath the lanterns, their joy bright as firelight against the night. For a heartbeat, Thranduil’s gaze lingered there, eyes softened by fondness—at once proud and wistful—as he watched his son radiant in happiness.

Then he turned back, and the warmth was gone. His stare fell on the cluster of lords, cool and cutting as the edge of drawn steel.

“Strange, then,” he murmured, his voice carrying just enough for those nearest to hear, “that some seem determined to find bitterness even in joy.”

Lathwen dipped into a graceful curtsy, her composure smooth as polished glass. “My king,” she said evenly, her voice carrying the practiced lilt of courtesy, “forgive my brother. The Dorwinion has been too free this night, and his tongue follows where the cup leads. He means no more by it than laughter.”

Thranduil’s goblet stilled mid-turn between his fingers. His gaze slid to her, cold and unyielding, the faintest curve of his mouth betraying nothing of warmth.

“Too much wine, you say?” he murmured, the words silken but edged like frost. “I have ever found that wine does not conjure falsehoods, Lady Lathwen. It does not give birth to malice that was not already seeded. It merely loosens what one would otherwise bind behind their teeth.”

He let the silence stretch, eyes glinting like stars caught in frozen water. Then he turned them upon Anghiril, each syllable sharp as steel drawn slow from its sheath.

“And when those truths touch my son,” he said softly, “they cease to be harmless trifles spilled in mirth. They become an insult to Greenwood’s crown itself. That, Lady, no goblet excuses.”

The circle of lords stirred uneasily, but no one spoke. Even the music seemed to dim against the weight of his words.

Thranduil moved closer, each step unhurried, the goblet steady in his hand. The circle of lords parted instinctively before him, as though the air itself shifted to make way for his presence. When he came to stand before Anghiril, his height and stillness loomed like a shadow drawn in flesh.

“It is courtesy alone,” the king said, his voice smooth but honed like a drawn blade, “for the age of your house that I do not strip it of honor this very night. Courtesy—nothing more—that I do not cast you from Greenwood for the filth you dare loose against my son.”

Anghiril’s jaw worked soundlessly, his face pale in the lantern light, but Thranduil did not relent. He stepped closer, mantle whispering over the grass, every movement precise, deliberate, and terrible in its restraint.

“One more word,” he said, each syllable like ice cracking beneath weight, “one more breath uttered against Legolas, and I will see your head struck from your shoulders where you stand. Bloodline will not save you. Age will not shield you. I will grind your name into ash and leave your house to crumble in silence.”

The air in the circle froze to silence, the only sound the faint lilt of music from beyond, distant and oblivious. Even the wine-heavy lords shifted back, unwilling to stand too near the line of ice that had fallen between king and vassal.

Anghiril found his voice at last, though it faltered beneath the weight of the king’s stare. He bowed stiffly, words spilling in haste.

“My king mistakes me. I have ever loved your son. It was for love’s sake that I wished him bound to me. Surely you know this. I sought only to keep him safe within Greenwood’s halls.”

Thranduil’s eyes narrowed, the ice in them hardening to unbreakable glass. He took a step closer, his voice low, deliberate, and merciless.

“Do you think me a fool, Anghiril? That I do not know what coils behind your honeyed tongue?” His goblet tilted slightly in his hand, the dark wine catching the lamplight like blood. “You would not have him as husband. You would have him as possession. To silence his voice, to smother his light, to use his body while denying him his crown. I have heard your words. I know what place you meant for him—a Prince of Greenwood made into no more than a bed-warmer, so that you might take the crown for yourself.”

A collective hiss broke from the surrounding lords, scandal and fury mingling in the air.

Anghiril’s face blanched, yet he forced words past his lips, brittle and uneven. “My lord—untrue! I would never—your tongue twists what was said. Surely you cannot think—”

Thranduil’s pale eyes flashed, the edge of steel behind glass. He cut across him, voice sharp as the crack of a frozen branch. “Do you mean to call me liar, Anghiril?”

The lord faltered, jaw clenching, but Thranduil pressed on, his tone low and deadly. “You forget who I am. Who the trees themselves crowned when my father fell. Whose blood first bound this realm together. Whose people chose to follow, and still follow, though your house mutters in the dark.” He stepped nearer still, so close that Anghiril shrank back against his sister’s arm. “I am your King. The forest moves at my word, and it will bury you if I will it. Do not test me.”

The air quivered with silence, heavy as a drawn bowstring, before Thranduil’s gaze slid at last to Lathwen.

Lathwen dipped her head once more, her composure unshaken though her brother reeled beside her. “My lord,” she said smoothly, “you mistake idle words for malice. My brother is proud, yes, but his devotion to Greenwood and her prince is true. You would not condemn him for a poor jest loosed under wine.”

Thranduil’s gaze swept her with such disdain that the air itself seemed to chill. He straightened, mantle shifting like shadow as he turned from them. “I have endured your brother’s face long enough for one night,” he said, his voice ringing with finality. “Let him hold his tongue—or it will be stilled for him.”

Without another glance, he strode from the circle, Galion and Feren falling smoothly into step behind him, Lindariel casting Lathwen a look of quiet reproach before following her lord.

The Sindar lords left behind stood in uneasy silence, their gazes falling hard upon Anghiril. Murmurs rose, sharper now, some voices low with condemnation.

It was Thalandir who spoke with the soldier’s weight that brooked no dispute. “Your pride has carried you too far, Anghiril,” he said, his tone like iron drawn cold. “If you do not master your tongue, the king will cut it from you himself—head and all. He will not hesitate. Nor will any here lift a hand to stop him.”

The warning landed heavy, and not a voice rose in Anghiril’s defense. Even his sister’s poise faltered at last, her eyes lowered as whispers spread like smoke through the gathered lords. One by one the Sindar nobles drew back, their scowls sharp as they turned from Anghiril and Lathwen, leaving the pair isolated beneath the lantern glow, the weight of disgrace pressing down like a pall.

Anghiril’s breath came harsh, his face flushed dark with fury as his gaze strayed back to the dancers. There, at the heart of the circle, Legolas laughed against Elrohir’s shoulder, their arms entwined as they moved in radiant defiance. Hatred twisted his features, his voice low and venomous. “I will destroy them both,” he hissed.

Lathwen’s hand closed tight around his arm, her own eyes cutting like flint. “Be silent. Do nothing rash,” she warned, her words sharp as a lash. “The king’s gaze is on you still, and his shadow at your heels. Bide your time, or you will not live to see it.”

Anghiril swallowed his fury, though the venom in his eyes did not fade.

The revel roared on, oblivious to the storm at its edge.

Elladan lingered at the edge of the green, savoring the fire of Dorwinion as the music and laughter swelled around him. He lifted his goblet again, letting its burn settle warmly in his chest. All about him, Greenwood spun and shouted with untroubled joy—goblets sloshed, dancers stumbled and laughed, voices lifted into song. It was wild and unmeasured, a far cry from the polished order of Imladris, and for a moment Elladan simply drank it in, half in wonder, half in disbelief.

“Enjoying yourself, my lord?”

Caleth slid in beside him, grin as quick as ever, his dark hair falling loose about his shoulders. He leaned against the same post with a slouch of practiced ease, raising his cup in half-mock salute. “The wine suits you,” he declared boldly, eyes running over Elladan without a trace of shame. “Though truth be told, you’d look well even without it. Dorwinion only makes you easier to stare at.”

Elladan’s brows lifted, his grin curving slow. “Is that so? Speak so plainly and I might begin to think you serious.”

Caleth’s answering smile was wicked. “Ai, but I am serious. I could make a list of your virtues, if you like—strong jaw, finer hair than your brother, and a grin that could shame even Thalion if you tried.”

Elladan barked a laugh into his goblet. “A bold tongue you have. Does it ever earn you peace?”

“Never,” Caleth said cheerfully, tipping back the rest of his drink. “But it keeps me entertained. And now, perhaps, you too.”

Elladan shook his head, still grinning. “You are dangerous company, Caleth. Wine and words both go to your head too quickly.”

“Then let me keep drinking,” Caleth teased, leaning closer. “I’d see how far both can carry me with you.”

Elladan chuckled, shaking his head as he tipped his goblet. “Your tongue, Caleth, is sharper than half the blades in this hall. One day it will land you in trouble you cannot laugh your way out of.”

Caleth only grinned, utterly unrepentant. “Then I shall count it worth the price, so long as I’ve had a bit of fun before it does.”

Elladan huffed a laugh into his cup, but his gaze drifted past, drawn to the dancers. Legolas and Elrohir moved easily in the circle, laughter chasing their steps, the prince’s hand twined with his brother’s as if no shadow in the world could come between them.

Caleth followed his eyes. For once, his grin faded, replaced by something quieter, almost wistful. “I have never seen the prince so happy,” he said softly, the words carrying more weight than his usual teasing. “Not in all the years I have known him.”

Elladan’s mouth curved, though the smile held a gravity of its own. “Nor have I seen my brother so alive,” he answered. “It seems each has found his equal in the other. A rare gift.”

Caleth nodded, his mischief returning only at the edges. “Rare indeed. And well worth the wine spilled tonight to see it.”

His gaze lingered on the dancers, his usual grin easing into something more thoughtful. “He never had playmates, you know,” he said, nodding faintly toward the prince. “Legolas was the youngest of us all, the last elf born under Greenwood’s boughs. No one near his age to chase or quarrel with, no children’s company to share.”

He swirled the wine in his cup, voice quieter than before. “Thalion and I…we were older, aye, but he clung to us all the same. I remember him as a child, darting after us in the gardens, hair flying, demanding we play when we were meant to be standing guard. He would not be sent away. We were his protectors by duty, yet more often than not, we found ourselves playing chase around the pillars or tossing pinecones like javelins, just to hear him laugh.”

Caleth’s mouth curved, fond despite himself. “Even as lads grown, we ended up his playfellows, for he would not let us stand too tall above him. Bright, eager, stubborn as any boy twice his years, he made us his companions—and from there, his friends. The difference in years mattered little once he set his will to it.”

His grin returned, softer this time. “That’s Legolas for you. Even as a boy, he’d not let the world keep him apart.”

Elladan’s smile softened, the weight of it more thoughtful than mirthful. “A lonely beginning,” he said quietly. “It explains the brightness in him now—why he holds to joy so fiercely. Such light is born of one who has had to fight to keep it.”

Then his lips curved wryly, the fondness brightening into jest. “Though perhaps it also explains why he still endures your company, Caleth. Old habits die hard.”

Caleth gave a bark of laughter, his grin returning full force. “Endures? Nay, my lord. He treasures it. He would be lost without me.”

He tipped his goblet, watching the dancers with a rare seriousness before his grin returned. “He is much loved, you know. Our prince. The Silvan and Sindar alike would spill their blood for him. That is why, when he first said his heart sang for a son of Imladris, many fretted. Whispers spread, questions hung in the air. But now—” he lifted his chin toward Elrohir, whose hand was still firmly twined with Legolas’s, “—I see well enough why he chose him. There is strength in that one, and fire enough to match the prince.”

Elladan inclined his head, thoughtful—but before he could reply, Caleth leaned in, grin turning wicked. “And besides, rumor says your brother keeps him well-pleasured. Drives him half-mad, they say. Enough to silence even the sharpest tongues in court.”

Elladan nearly sputtered into his cup, laughter breaking out in startled disbelief. “By the Valar—Caleth! Bedgossip? About my brother ? How in Arda does such filth even take root?”

Caleth only spread his hands wide, entirely unrepentant, his grin gleaming. “Greenwood has ears in her walls and memory in her trees. The Prince sighs too loud, and half the realm hears it.”

Elladan shook his head, still laughing, though his cheeks warmed with mortified amusement. “You wood-elves are shameless.”

“Aye,” Caleth said brightly, lifting his cup again. “But at least we are honest.”

His grin sharpened, slyness flickering back into his eyes. “And since you and he are twins…” he drawled, lifting his goblet with mock solemnity, “ought I believe the same whispers apply to you as well?”

Elladan barked a laugh, shaking his head. “By the Valar, you are relentless.” He leaned in just enough, his grey eyes glinting with mischief, voice pitched low so it curled like smoke between them. “Careful, Caleth. You keep on like this, and people will start whispering that you want to find out for yourself.”

“Careful yourself, my lord,” Caleth said, voice sly though not without heat. “The Noldor have long whispered that wood-elves are enchanters. Best mind your step, lest you prove them right.”

Elladan’s answering smile curved slow and dangerous. He lifted his goblet in mock salute, grey eyes never leaving Caleth’s. “Is that a warning,” he murmured, “or a promise?”

Caleth laughed, low and unrepentant, though the flush lingered still. “Whichever you prefer.”

Elladan’s grin lingered, but his eyes sharpened with a glint that was anything but brotherly. He let his gaze travel slowly, deliberately, over Caleth—taking his measure with unhurried ease before meeting his eyes again.

“You tread a dangerous path, wood-elf,” he said, voice pitched low, each word smooth as poured wine. “One might almost think you were eager to test those whispers yourself.”

For a heartbeat, Caleth froze, his goblet stalled halfway to his lips. Then he recovered with a laugh, though the flush creeping up his neck betrayed him. “And if I were?” he countered, boldness pushing past his surprise. “Perhaps then the Noldor would learn our enchantments are more than rumor.”

Elladan’s mouth curved, slow and knowing, as he lifted his cup in salute. “I’ve never feared enchantments. But break them? That, I’ve done before.”

Caleth barked another laugh, half-flustered, half-delighted, and tipped his goblet back as if the wine might hide the color still burning at his ears.

He lowered his goblet at last, his grin returning, though the brightness of it carried a thread of something steadier beneath the bravado. “Then perhaps I should be wary, my lord. I’ve no wish to be broken—only tested.” His eyes glinted, dark and keen as the wine caught the lamplight. “And if it is the Noldor who test us, well…we do not yield so easily.”

Elladan tilted his head, studying him as though the younger elf were some puzzle half-solved. “A test, then?” His voice curved sly, but there was weight beneath the mirth. “You play a dangerous game, Caleth, and with dangerous company. I was raised among loremasters, warriors, wizards. I learned long ago how to spot when a jest ceases to be jest.”

Caleth’s grin only widened, reckless as ever. “And yet you’ve not walked away.” He leaned closer, his shoulder brushing Elladan’s with deliberate ease. “Perhaps that says more than either of us will admit.”

Elladan barked a soft laugh into his cup, shaking his head. “Valar help me. You are shameless.” But his eyes gleamed, silver-bright and sharp, as though the shamelessness amused him more than it offended.

Before Caleth could retort, a burst of laughter swelled from the dancers—a pair had spun too wide and tumbled into the grass, limbs tangled, their companions cheering them on. The music rose with the merriment, drums urging the circle faster, wilder.

Elladan lifted his goblet once more, watching the chaos unfold with wry amusement. “It seems,” he mused, “that Greenwood takes her pleasures without half-measures.” His gaze slid back to Caleth, lingering. “And perhaps her sons do the same.”

Caleth clinked his cup lightly against Elladan’s, his grin sharpened to something almost challenging. “You’ll learn that soon enough, my lord. If you dare.”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping just enough to thread between the music. “Come—dance with me. Unless, of course, the sons of Imladris only shine in tales.”

Elladan’s answering smirk was swift, proud, and unrepentant. “Tales?” he scoffed lightly. “I am the finest dancer in all of Imladris, and I need no bard to prove it.”

Without hesitation, both tipped back the last of their goblets, the fire of Dorwinion sliding hot down their throats. They set the emptied cups onto a passing tray in the hands of a startled servant, who hurried on as they stepped forward together, laughter glinting between them.

Caleth’s grin flashed as he gestured toward the whirling circle. “Then show me, Noldo.”

Elladan’s eyes narrowed with playful challenge as he allowed himself to be drawn toward the throng. “Gladly.”

The drums quickened, pipes trilling above them as the circle shifted to make space for new dancers. Elladan rolled his shoulders once, loosening into the rhythm with the easy confidence of one certain of his skill.

At his side, Caleth’s grin turned sly. As the crowd clapped and spun, he caught sight of Thalion standing watch near the edge of the green. With a flash of mischief, Caleth shot him a quick thumbs-up, the gesture hidden well enough behind the swirl of bodies that Elladan, focused on the circle, did not see. Thalion’s answering look was a mixture of long-suffering exasperation and inevitable resignation.

Then the music surged, and Caleth seized his chance. With a laugh bright as the lanterns, he caught Elladan’s hand and pulled him into the ring.

Elladan let himself be swept in, silver eyes gleaming as his steps fell sharp and precise, a dancer trained in courtly halls. Caleth matched him with Silvan ease, movements loose, wild, and unrestrained, circling Elladan with a grin that promised trouble.

The crowd whooped, stamping in time, eager to see how the Noldo’s polished grace would fare against Greenwood’s reckless joy.

Near them, Legolas and Elrohir still moved together in the circle, their steps slower now, close enough that Legolas’s hair brushed against Elrohir’s cheek when he leaned in. His blue eyes flicked toward the other pair, amusement glimmering as he murmured, “Look at Caleth—he seems determined to prove something tonight.”

Elrohir snorted, his arm tightening subtly at Legolas’s waist as he cast a sidelong glance at his brother. “Aye—and so does Elladan. That grin of his is never innocent. Trust me, he is no stranger to…casual pursuits.”

Legolas’s smile curved slyly, his voice low against Elrohir’s ear. “Like you once were?” he teased, the words edged with warmth rather than reproach.

Elrohir’s gaze darkened, his steps drawing them closer still. “Not with you,” he said quietly, steady as iron beneath the revel. “You are nothing casual, Legolas. I intend to make you my husband.”

Color touched the prince’s cheeks, though his grin turned wicked as he leaned closer, letting the word roll sensually from his lips. “Husband,” he echoed, a tease and a promise both.

Elrohir’s breath caught, and his hand pressed firmer at Legolas’s waist. “Behave,” he muttered, though the roughness in his tone betrayed how little he wished him to.

Legolas’s laughter shimmered, soft and unrestrained, his cheeks still warm from wine and dance. The merriment about them seemed to flow straight into his blood, loosening the prince’s usual composure. He tipped his head so his lips brushed just at Elrohir’s ear, his voice low and lilting.

“Husband,” he murmured again, savoring the word as though it were a taste of the Dorwinion itself. His hand slid up Elrohir’s chest, fingers curling lightly at the fabric near his shoulder. “So stern when you say it—yet so sweet when I do.”

The circle cheered as another pair spun past, but Elrohir barely noticed. His jaw tightened, eyes burning down into Legolas’s flushed, mischievous face.

“Legolas,” he warned under his breath, but the sound held more hunger than censure.

Legolas only smiled wider, the Dorwinion and the nearness of Elrohir stoking his boldness. His eyes gleamed as he tilted his head, lips brushing Elrohir’s jaw.

“Yes, husband?” He breathed, the word curling with both mischief and promise, meant to test the steel in Elrohir’s restraint.

Elrohir’s breath caught, his grip tightening at Legolas’s waist as though he might still hold him steady against the tide of wine and laughter. But the fire in his eyes betrayed how the word had struck—no longer jest, but temptation sharpened to a blade’s edge.

His hand then shot up to cradle the back of Legolas’s head, pulling him close, and he kissed him—fierce and claiming, the clash of heat and longing unhidden beneath the lanterns.

The circle erupted, cheers and laughter ringing louder than the pipes, feet stamping the grass in thunderous rhythm. Greenwood’s voices rose in delight, their shouts weaving into the music as if the forest itself exulted in the sight of its prince and his suitor bound in fire and joy.

Legolas melted against him, answering without hesitation, his arms twining tight around Elrohir’s neck as though he would never let him go. His laughter slipped through the kiss, wine-sweet and radiant, even as the crowd whooped and whirled around them.

The revel swelled on, wild and unrestrained, dancers spinning past in a blur of lantern-light and song. Not far off, another cheer rose—this time for Elladan and Caleth, laughter chasing their steps as boldly as any challenge.

Glorfindel’s eyes lingered on Elladan a moment longer, following the easy line of his grin as he danced with Caleth. He let out a low hum, velvet with amusement. “Your lord’s son,” he murmured, voice dropping until it brushed warm against Erestor’s ear, “is dangerously charming tonight. Reckless with his words, yet all the more enticing for it. No wonder the wood-elf circles him like a moth to fire.”

Erestor’s gaze flicked once toward Elladan, unreadable, before returning to the rim of his goblet. “He toys with hearts because he does not think what it costs,” he said quietly. “Elladan has ever been reckless with his brightness.”

Glorfindel chuckled, the sound low, golden, tinged with heat. He leaned closer still, his breath grazing the dark fall of Erestor’s hair. “Reckless, yes. But there is something in it that stirs even me—something of youth’s wildness, wine-sweet and headlong. Watching him, I ache for it again.” His hand brushed lightly over his husband’s, fingers lingering, coaxing. His voice husked, intimate as a caress. “A moonlit tryst, meleth nín—here, beneath Greenwood’s boughs. Say the word, and I will have you as gladly as I once did when our love was new.”

Erestor turned his head at last, his eyes catching Glorfindel’s with a cool gleam. One brow arched, elegant and unyielding, though the faintest warmth edged his composure. “Behave, Glorfindel,” he said, voice dry but softer than before. “The night is young, and you are already dangerous with your tongue.”

Glorfindel laughed again, low and golden, bending nearer as though savoring the scent of his husband’s hair above the wine. “Ah, but I am behaving,” he murmured, bright mischief softened by devotion. “Only in my fashion.”

His hand shifted, slipping to rest lightly against Erestor’s back. His thumb traced an idle circle, his voice dropping husky and low.

“Come, meleth nín. One hour stolen from this revel—no one would mark our absence. The lanterns are bright, the grass soft, and I would have you beneath the stars.”

Erestor’s breath stilled, though his face remained composed. Only the faintest flicker of his brow betrayed him. “You are insatiable,” he murmured, quiet as glass striking glass.

Glorfindel smiled, golden and unrepentant. His fingers pressed more firmly against Erestor’s back. “Only for you. Always for you.”

Erestor exhaled slowly, setting his goblet aside with careful precision. He turned just enough that the lantern-light caught the faint curve of his mouth. “Then you will wait until the feast is ended,” he said, voice dry, edged with promise despite the restraint. He leaned close, his lips brushing Glorfindel’s ear as he whispered, soft as falling leaves, “ And when it is, you will remember that even the brightest fire bows before the night .”

Glorfindel’s breath caught, laughter husky and low, threaded with hunger and delight. He tipped his goblet to his lips too quickly, masking the gleam in his eyes, but Erestor saw it—the rare slip, the brief unraveling his words had drawn forth.

The music swelled, the circle of dancers spinning faster beneath the lanterns. Laughter and song rippled like firelight through the greensward, and at its heart Legolas still moved with Elrohir in his grasp. Neither stumbled now; though wine flushed their cheeks and heat brightened their eyes, their steps were steady, drawn more by each other than by the rhythm.

Legolas leaned close as they turned, his breath brushing Elrohir’s ear, his smile curved slyly. “And I thought you did not wish to dance,” he teased, voice low, bright with mirth.

Elrohir’s mouth tugged into a scowl that faltered against the warmth in his eyes. “I do not,” he retorted, though his hand tightened at Legolas’s waist, holding him nearer. “Yet here I am, dragged like a prisoner to the gallows.”

Legolas laughed, the sound light and breathless as the spin of their steps. His lips hovered close enough that Elrohir felt the warmth of the words. “Then you wear your chains very poorly, my love. You move as though you would not be free of them at all.”

Elrohir’s mouth curved into a reluctant smile, his voice low, roughened by the heat in his chest. “If this be bondage, then I am well content with my captor.”

Legolas’s eyes gleamed, sly beneath the lantern light as he drew him nearer in the turn. “Take care, Peredhel. If you speak so, I may see you locked in my father’s dungeons—and keep the only key.”

Elrohir’s laugh escaped him then, husky and unwilling, though his grip at Legolas’s waist betrayed no thought of escape. “Dangerous words,” he murmured, leaning close enough to taste the prince’s breath. “You tempt me to ask which I would fear more—your father’s chains, or yours.”

Legolas’s steps slowed just enough to draw them closer, their bodies brushing in the turn. His smile lingered, sly and luminous, though his voice had dropped to a hushed thread meant only for Elrohir. “Mine,” he whispered, eyes bright as starlight in the lantern-glow. “For he would release you in time…but I never shall.”

The words coiled between them, warm as the wine, fierce as the press of Elrohir’s hand at his waist. Their laughter had gentled into something deeper, each glance and breath carrying weight enough to silence the noise.

Their steps carried them in widening arcs, laughter and music rushing around them until at last the circle loosed its hold. With a deft tug, Legolas spun Elrohir outward, their joined hands a brief tether before he drew him back in, breath warm and quick between them.

Then, with a sudden flare of mischief, Legolas slipped free. He turned alone into the lantern-light, white silk swirling about him, golden hair flying as he spun with the rhythm.

As he twirled past a servant balancing a tray, his hand darted out with practiced ease. He caught up a fresh goblet, lifting it high in mock salute before tipping it back in one long draught. The Dorwinion burned bright in his cheeks as he flung the empty cup back onto the tray without breaking stride.

Elrohir, watching from the edge, arched his brows in disbelief, half a groan caught in his throat. The sight only made the prince’s flush and laughter all the more intoxicating.

He could only watch—how Legolas’s body moved with the music as though born of it, each turn fluid as water, each step bright as fire in the dark. Flushed, radiant, Legolas seemed a thing untouchable, laughter spilling from his lips as the circle opened to make way for his joy.

Legolas slowed at last, the spin breaking into a poised stillness at the edge of the dancers. His chest rose quick with breath, cheeks flushed, eyes glinting in the lantern light. He caught Elrohir’s gaze and let a slow smirk curve his lips—mischief and challenge bound in the same expression.

Then, without a word, he turned and darted past the last ring of lanterns, slipping into the shadowed woods beyond. His laughter carried faintly behind him, bright as starlight against the dark.

Elrohir groaned low in his throat, though the corner of his mouth tugged upward despite himself. “Valar help me,” he muttered, already striding after him, “he lives only to make me chase.”

The shadows of the trees swallowed the last gleam of white silk as Elrohir followed, the hum of music fading behind them into the night.

The music faded with each step, replaced by the thrum of Elrohir’s pulse as he plunged into the lantern-dappled dark. Ahead, the white gleam of Legolas’s robes flickered between the trees, swift but not so swift as he might have been. His breath came quicker, laughter spilling bright into the night air, betraying the flush still warm in his cheeks.

Elrohir gained on him easily, the distance narrowing with every stride. Legolas glanced back once, his smirk wicked despite the heat rising in his face. “Ah, so the Peredhel does know how to move his feet after all,” he called, voice lilting with mirth. “Was it the wine that freed them, or my hand?”

Elrohir growled under his breath, though his mouth curved despite himself. “You will be the death of me, Legolas.”

“Then what a beautiful death it will be,” the prince answered, breathless with laughter as he darted sideways, just far enough to keep the chase alive.

Legolas slipped deeper between the trees, his laughter fading into softer breaths as the revel’s noise dwindled behind them. The lantern-glow of the greensward was long lost; only the faint silver of moonlight followed, breaking in shards through the high canopy. Each gleam caught for an instant on his hair, on the white silk of his robes, before vanishing again into shadow.

Elrohir pushed harder, his breath quick in his chest. Yet even flushed, even with wine warming his veins, Legolas moved like the forest itself—fleet, lithe, always just ahead, close enough to taunt but never close enough to seize.

A rush stirred hot in Elrohir’s blood—not only the burn of Dorwinion, not only the strain of pursuit, but something fiercer. It was the thrill of hunting, the wild beat of the chase, sharpened now by the sight of the one he chased: white silk flashing like a phantom between the trees, golden hair scattering the moonlight, laughter darting always just out of reach.

Each step brought him closer, and yet the distance seemed endless. Legolas glancing back once, eyes bright as stars, his lips curved in a smirk that dared Elrohir to claim what he pursued.

Elrohir’s stride lengthened, driven not only by the need to catch but by the fever building in his chest. He wanted him—caught, stilled, pressed against the dark heart of the wood until the laughter broke into something else.

Elrohir’s voice carried low, roughened by the chase. “Run while you can, Legolas. For when I catch you—” His words cut off in a sharp breath as the prince vanished between two silvered trunks, the hunt pulling him deeper into shadow.

The distance vanished in a heartbeat. Elrohir lunged, his hand catching the curve of Legolas’s waist, and together they went down hard into the moss. The world spun; the thud of bodies, the rush of breath, the soft give of earth beneath them, before it stilled with Elrohir braced above him, hair fallen loose across his flushed face.

Legolas’s laughter spilled bright despite the weight of him, chest rising quick beneath white silk now smudged with shadowed earth. His lips curved, sly even in breathlessness. “My love,” he teased, voice low and shimmering with mirth. “You’ll ruin my robes—rolling me into grass and soil as though you meant to wrestle instead of dance.”

Elrohir’s breath came ragged, his grey eyes dark with something deeper than the chase. He pressed closer, one hand splayed against silk that threatened already to stain, the other tangled in golden hair strewn across the forest floor. “Then let them be ruined,” he murmured, voice rough with heat. “I care nothing for robes if it means I have you beneath me.”

Legolas’s flush deepened, laughter softening into a sound more unsteady, caught between mirth and the answering rise of desire. His hand slid up Elrohir’s chest, fingers curling slow against him, blue eyes luminous in the scattered moonlight. “So fierce a hunter,” he whispered, lips brushing the edge of a smile. “And yet, still mine to tame.”

Elrohir’s mouth curved, breath still quick from the chase. “Tame me?” he murmured, his tone edged with a husky laugh. “Strange words, when it is you beneath me. No hunter would call that a victory.”

Legolas only laughed all the brighter, the sound warm and unrestrained, his flush high with wine and mirth. He arched slightly against him, golden hair spilled like fire across the grass, eyes alight with mischief. “Then perhaps I am no hunter at all,” he teased, voice shimmering with laughter, “but a snare, and you have walked willingly into it.”

Elrohir’s retort caught in his throat, undone by that smile: radiant, reckless, softened by Dorwinion’s warmth yet sharpened with joy. It struck him deeper than any touch—the unguarded brightness, the way Legolas glowed as though the moon itself lingered in his veins.

Desire tangled with awe, his voice dropping rough as his hand traced the line of silk clinging to Legolas’s ribs. “Valar, but you undo me like this,” he whispered. “Flushed and laughing—you are more perilous than any blade I have faced.”

Legolas’s laughter softened, though the gleam in his eyes did not fade. With sudden boldness he slid a hand behind Elrohir’s neck, pulling him down too hard in his eagerness—their teeth clashed before their mouths found one another. The kiss was unsteady at first, tasting of heat and wine, but it deepened at once into something fierce and claiming—his lips parting, tongue pushing past with the same unrelenting will that had led Elrohir through the chase.

Elrohir groaned low in his throat, caught between surprise and the flood of heat that surged through him. His hands pressed hard into the moss on either side of Legolas, steadying them both as he yielded to the prince’s reckless fervor, answering it with his own.

Legolas’s body arched beneath him, laughter trembling faint against Elrohir’s mouth even as the kiss deepened, breathless and wild. The taste of wine clung to him—sweet, heady, intoxicating—and Elrohir thought, dizzy with the force of it, that he could drown on this alone and count it bliss.

Elrohir broke the kiss only for breath, his forehead resting against Legolas’s, chest heaving with the remnants of the chase and the fire that followed. A crooked smile touched his lips, roughened with wonder. “So bold,” he murmured, his voice husky, “you would think it was I who had been caught.”

Legolas’s answering smile was radiant, softened by flush and wine, laughter trembling still on his lips. He brushed them against Elrohir’s in a fleeting tease before whispering, low and unrepentant, “And if it was? Would you struggle, Elrohir—or would you yield?”

The words struck through him like flame through tinder. Elrohir’s breath caught, his grey eyes darkening as he looked down at the prince sprawled beneath him in silk and moonlight, flushed and laughing and unafraid. A laugh broke from him, low and breathless, laced with desire. “Yield?” he said, his hand sliding over the curve of Legolas’s hip. “Valar help me—I think I would.”

Elrohir’s lips trailed down the line of Legolas’s throat, slow and heated, his breath stirring against flushed skin. He rolled his hips, the press of his arousal unmistakable, drawing a soft gasp from the prince beneath him.

Legolas’s fingers twisted in his hair, his voice low and trembling with laughter and need. “Then take me,” he whispered, reckless with wine and desire. “Here, beneath the trees—beneath the moon’s light.”

Elrohir stilled, lifting his head just enough to meet the brilliance of Legolas’s gaze. His own was dark, fierce, torn between hunger and restraint. For a long heartbeat, he only looked at him—the wild flush of his cheeks, the radiant mirth still clinging to his lips, the unguarded joy that made him all the more perilous.

“Not tonight,” Elrohir murmured at last, his voice rough but steady. His hand rose to cup Legolas’s jaw, thumb brushing tenderly over his cheek. “You are flushed with Dorwinion, and the woods are no shield. I would not have our joining stolen in haste, where any might stumble upon us.” He leaned closer, his lips ghosting over Legolas’s ear as his voice dropped lower, huskier. “But do not think I will leave you wanting. I will worship you, here, now—” his breath caught as though the words themselves burned—“in a way that will leave you undone beneath this moon, until you forget the chase, the wine, even your own name.”

The promise in his tone was unmistakable, though unspoken, and the weight of it made the air between them tremble.

Elrohir’s hand slid down, gathering the edge of white silk between his fingers. Slowly, with the same steady patience that marked his every touch, he parted the folds of the robe. Moonlight slipped inside, brushing over flushed skin as though the night itself longed to see what he revealed.

Legolas’s breath caught, laughter trembling at the edge of a sigh as Elrohir’s hands moved lower. He shifted his own legs to aid him, and Elrohir bent, easing him upright just enough to tug at the boots. One slid free with a soft pull—and before the second could follow, Legolas mischievously pressed the sole of the freed foot against Elrohir’s chest, smirking down at him with flushed lips and glinting eyes. The contact was light, playful, yet the sight of him sprawled in white silk, laughing low as he teased, made it burn with something far more intimate.

Elrohir huffed, half a laugh, half a growl, steadying the ankle in his grip. “You are impossible,” he murmured, though the gleam in his eyes betrayed how much he relished the torment. With care he slipped the second boot free, setting it aside as though it were some sacred object rather than a scuffed piece of leather.

The prince reclined back into the moss once more, golden hair scattered wild about him, blue eyes bright in the silver light. Elrohir’s fingers lingered next at his waist, sliding beneath the band of soft fabric. With reverence, he pushed the garments down, over hip and thigh, drawing them away until there was nothing left between Legolas and the cool kiss of night air. Every movement was deliberate, measured, as though he meant to unmake him slowly, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but breath and starlight.

The Peredhel’s gaze lifted once more, drinking him in beneath the trees. His voice was hushed, roughened by awe. “So beautiful…it humbles me to touch you.”

Elrohir shrugged his robe from his shoulders, letting it fall into the moss, though his boots and leggings remained. The pale gleam of his skin caught in the broken shafts of moonlight as he bent low again.

Legolas’s eyes flicked over him, still flushed and laughing, his smile curving wickedly. “So that is all, my love?” he teased, voice a husky whisper. “Will you not bare yourself further—be as bold as I?”

Elrohir’s mouth curved, but his gaze burned steady, grey eyes shadowed with heat. “No,” he murmured, lowering himself until his breath mingled with Legolas’s. “This night is not for me. It is for you.”

And with that, he pressed down, his body covering the prince’s, the warmth of him pinning Legolas into the ground. His mouth found Legolas’s again, fierce and unrelenting, the kiss a claiming as bold as the chase had been—tongue and teeth, devotion and desire mingled, until there was no breath between them but what they stole from each other.

Elrohir drew back, breath ragged, and rose to his knees above the prince. Moonlight spilled over him in fractured silver, catching in the dark fall of his hair, in the sharp line of his jaw, in the fever-bright gleam of his eyes. He looked down at Legolas—flushed, golden, spread open against the moss like some vision spun of starlight and dream—and his voice came low, husky with vow.

“I will worship you,” he murmured, steady as oath, “from your toes to your brow—every inch, until you believe what you are: my light, my joy, my undoing.”

Legolas’s chest rose quick, his lips curving, though his voice trembled with breathlessness. “Then you are the most devoted worshiper the Valar ever wrought,” he whispered, laughter shimmering faintly through the heat. His eyes gleamed, unguarded, radiant. “And I, your willing shrine.”

Elrohir’s gaze never wavered. He bent and caught one long leg in his hands, the strength of his grip softened by care, reverence in every motion. He drew it up, resting the slender ankle across his palm. For a moment he only looked—at the pale skin gilded by moonlight, at the fine strength that carried his prince through chase and battle alike—before bowing low.

His lips pressed to the inside of Legolas’s ankle, soft, lingering, reverent as prayer.

Legolas let out a startled laugh, his toes curling as he wriggled them against Elrohir’s cheek. “That tickles,” he breathed, voice half-mirth, half-broken sigh.

Elrohir lifted his head just enough to meet his eyes, the corner of his mouth tugging into something dark and amused. “Does it?” he murmured, his voice low, threaded with mock patience. He held the ankle steady in his hand, stroking once along the curve of it with his thumb as if weighing mercy—then bent again and let his teeth close lightly over the bone.

The prince’s laughter broke into a gasp, sharp and helpless, heat chasing the sound as quickly as it came.

His breath caught, blue eyes fluttering shut before he forced them open again, unwilling to miss even a heartbeat of what unfolded. Elrohir’s mouth traveled upward, slow and sure, lips brushing in a steady cadence across the line of the calf. Each kiss burned hotter, his tongue flickering once against the delicate skin just above the ankle, his teeth grazing the firm muscle of his leg.

Legolas’s hands curled helplessly into the grass, his laughter broken now into gasps. “Elrohir…” he breathed, voice unsteady, need trembling through the syllables.

Still, Elrohir climbed higher, unhurried, each press of his mouth a deliberate act of worship. He paused at the knee, lips dragging slow across the sharp ridge of bone, before moving inward, toward the soft, vulnerable flesh of the thigh. His teeth scraped lightly, wickedly, against tender skin, and Legolas cried out, hips jerking as though fire itself had touched him.

The sound pierced the hush of the forest, bright and raw, before dissolving into laughter trembling with desire. His head tipped back, hair scattering golden over the dark earth as he gasped for breath, his body arching helplessly beneath the heat of Elrohir’s devotion.

Elrohir lingered at the tender hollow of Legolas’s thigh, lips tracing slow, reverent paths over skin so sensitive it trembled beneath his mouth. He alternated kisses with the faintest scrape of teeth, never enough to soothe the ache building higher, but always enough to leave the prince shuddering.

Legolas gasped, his body arching helplessly. The Dorwinion still pulsed warmly in his veins, making every touch feel sharper, deeper, as though Elrohir’s mouth were aflame against him. The forest seemed to tilt around him—the grass soft beneath his back, the stars wheeling overhead, the prince’s own laughter caught now between pleasure and breathless disbelief.

“Elrohir…” His voice cracked, a soft cry tugged from him as lips closed just above the bend of his thigh, as teeth grazed that sensitive flesh again. His hand flew to Elrohir’s hair, fingers tangling desperately in the dark strands, not knowing whether to pull him closer or still him before he unraveled completely.

Elrohir glanced up through the shadow of his lashes, his grey eyes dark and glinting, never breaking their gaze. His mouth curved faintly against Legolas’s skin, and he pressed another kiss, slow and deliberate, higher still, without yet granting what Legolas craved.

The prince’s breath came ragged, his chest heaving, dizziness rushing through him like another chug of wine. 

“Cruel…” Legolas managed between gasps, though the word broke into laughter, wild and unsteady. “You will undo me before you ever reach my heart.”

Elrohir’s mouth lingered at the tender inside of Legolas’s thigh, lips brushing dangerously close—close enough to make the prince’s breath falter, close enough to spark heat that begged for more. But then, with a sly glint in his grey eyes, he shifted.

He did not touch where Legolas ached for it most. Instead, his mouth moved higher, sliding over the flat plane of his stomach. His lips pressed to the soft skin just above the hip, a kiss slow and heated, followed by the scrape of teeth that made the prince’s body jolt.

Legolas cried out, the sound half laughter, half helpless need, his fingers curling tighter in Elrohir’s hair. “You are wicked,” he gasped, head falling back into the grass as his chest rose and fell with quick breaths.

Elrohir only smiled against his skin, unrepentant. He trailed kisses along the ridge of bone, across the hollow of the navel, his tongue flicking teasingly before he set his teeth there in a playful nip.

Legolas’s hips arched in response, another sound breaking free of him—soft, breathless, dizzy with the Dorwinion still humming through his blood. The world spun delightfully, his laughter trembling at the edges of every gasp.

Elrohir steadied him with both hands braced against his sides, his gaze never lifting from the prince sprawled wild beneath the trees. “I told you,” he murmured huskily against his skin, “I would worship you as you deserve—slowly, utterly, until you are undone.”

His mouth lingered at Legolas’s navel, tongue circling lazily before he bit again, just enough to make the prince jolt and gasp. Then, deliberately, he began his ascent.

His lips traced a path over the lean plane of Legolas’s stomach, each kiss unhurried, each scrape of teeth deliberate. He paused to mouth at the hollow just beneath the ribcage, his breath warm against flushed skin, before moving higher still.

Legolas’s laughter faltered into ragged gasps, his head tossing against the grass. “Elrohir—” he whispered, a plea threaded through his voice, though he could not bring himself to beg aloud. His fingers tugged at Elrohir’s dark hair, urging, desperate, though the Peredhel remained steady, teasingly restrained.

Elrohir kissed higher, along the sharp ridge of collarbone, then let his teeth graze the delicate skin where neck met shoulder. He savored the way Legolas shivered beneath him, the arch of his back, the helpless sound that slipped past his lips.

Only then did he lift his head, hovering just above, his grey eyes locking with Legolas’s bright, unfocused blue. His voice was husky, reverent. “Every part of you is mine to worship. And I will not be rushed.”

Legolas’s lips parted on a shaky laugh, his chest rising quick beneath the scatter of moonlight. Dizzy with wine, with heat, with Elrohir’s relentless restraint, he whispered back, “Then I am lost already.”

At last, Elrohir claimed his mouth again, fierce and unrelenting, the kiss burning with everything he had restrained. Their tongues met, clashed, tangled—neither yielding, each press sharper, hungrier than the last.

Legolas’s laughter quivered faintly against the heat of it, wine-sweet and breathless, until with sudden boldness he caught Elrohir’s tongue lightly between his teeth and bit.

The Peredhel groaned, the sound low and raw, vibrating in his chest as his hips pressed harder, grinding into the prince beneath him. The force of it made the leaves shift under their bodies, the night itself seeming to tilt with the rhythm of their struggle.

Legolas arched against him, flushed and radiant, his hands tightening in Elrohir’s hair as if to claim him utterly. Their kiss turned feral—tongue and teeth, heat and breath, wild as the chase that had driven them here, yet laced through with devotion as consuming as fire.

The kiss broke only when Elrohir tore his mouth away, breath ragged, chest heaving as though he had run the chase anew. He did not retreat far—his lips found the sharp curve of Legolas’s ear, closing over the tender edge, breath spilling fast and heated against the shell.

Legolas shivered beneath him, the sound that left his throat caught between laughter and a gasp, his back arching hard into Elrohir’s body. Fingers tangled tighter in dark hair, urging him closer, as if the press of their bodies could never be close enough.

Elrohir’s mouth moved with unrestrained hunger, teeth grazing the delicate skin before his tongue soothed it, each exhale hot and unsteady. His hands roamed at last, sliding boldly over silk and skin, mapping every rise and hollow with a touch that was half worship, half possession.

The forest around them blurred into shadow and silver—the world narrowed to breath, to heat, to the fierce rhythm of bodies tangling on the ground as though they might consume one another whole.

Elrohir’s mouth left the curve of Legolas’s ear only to trail downward, hungry and unrestrained. He kissed the sharp line of collarbone, lingered in the hollow between, then moved lower still, his breath hot against flushed skin. Each press of his lips was deliberate, claiming—tongue circling, teeth grazing just enough to make the prince’s body jolt beneath him.

Elrohir did not rush. He lingered at the chest, at the rise of each rib, at the hollow of the stomach where he bit sharply once, drawing a cry from Legolas’s lips, before soothing the mark with a slow, wet sweep of his tongue.

Then he shifted lower still, following the line of hipbone, the taut muscle of thigh. His hands pressed firm at either side, steadying the prince’s squirming body as his mouth inched deliberately downward, each kiss hotter, wetter, hungrier—teasing closer and closer to the place he had denied.

At last, Elrohir yielded. His mouth trailed past hip and thigh and closed over Legolas’s length, slow and deliberate, drawing him in with a heat that was both worship and hunger. His tongue swept along the underside in one steady stroke, tasting him fully before circling the tip with a teasing flick that made the prince gasp aloud.

Legolas’s cry rang through the hush of the trees, sharp and unguarded, his body bowing against the grass. His hands tangled deep in Elrohir’s hair, clutching hard, trembling between the urge to pull him closer and the shock of sensation that threatened to unravel him too quickly.

Elrohir’s pace was measured at first, deliberate—sucking deep, then pulling back to trace him again with his tongue, refusing to rush, making each motion linger. The taste, the heat, the soft tremor of Legolas’s thighs under his grip—it was intoxicating. He hollowed his cheeks, drew him deeper, and the sound that broke from Legolas was half-gasp, half-moan, helpless and wild.

The prince writhed beneath him, his golden hair scattered over the dark grass, his lips parted around gasps that spilled into the night air. “Elrohir—” his voice cracked on the name, hands twisting tight in dark strands as Elrohir worshiped him without pause, every stroke and pull drawing him closer to the edge.

Elrohir did not hasten. He set his pace with deliberate care, mouth sliding deep before easing back, tongue tracing slow circles that made Legolas shudder with every pass. Each movement was unhurried, drawn out, meant to savor rather than conquer.

Legolas gasped with every stroke, his voice breaking into helpless sounds he could no longer temper. His fingers knotted desperately in Elrohir’s hair, tugging hard as if he might force him faster, harder—yet the Peredhel resisted, holding him pinned with strong hands at his hips, dictating the rhythm.

It was worship, not frenzy. Elrohir’s mouth moved with a devotion that made the world spin, as though the prince were something sacred and he its only acolyte. He drew him in slow, sucked deep with aching care, then pulled back to lave the length with his tongue, never allowing release, only tightening the coil within him.

Legolas moaned, head thrown back against the moss, the moonlight catching on the sweat at his temple. He was dizzy—wine, desire, and Elrohir’s merciless restraint tangling until he no longer knew where one ended and the other began. His body trembled, hips straining against the grip that held him in place, his laughter broken now into ragged pleas that caught half-formed in his throat.

Elrohir groaned low in answer, the vibration sending a shudder through him, before he sank down again with the same steady, devastating pace.

The slow, consuming rhythm stretched on until it was too much. Legolas’s hips strained against the hands pinning him down, his thighs trembling as though the earth itself quaked beneath him. His breath came ragged, broken into gasps that rose helplessly into the dark.

At last, the words slipped free, torn from him despite pride. “Elrohir—please…” His voice fractured, flushed with laughter and desperation both. “Do not…do not torment me so.”

Elrohir only groaned in answer, deep and low, the sound vibrating around him as his tongue traced another long, devastating stroke. He refused to yield the pace, his grip tightening on the prince’s hips when Legolas tried to buck upward.

The plea returned, rougher this time, edged with a sob. “Elrohir—please, I beg you…” His hands clutched at dark hair, trembling and tugging. The moonlight painted every shiver of his body as he arched helplessly beneath his lover’s mouth.

And still Elrohir worshiped him slow, unyielding, every movement a vow: that Legolas would come apart only when he chose to grant it.

Elrohir lifted his head just enough for his breath to burn hot against damp skin. His grey eyes flicked up, dark and fevered, taking in the sight of Legolas, undone, flushed, trembling, andlips parted around desperate pleas. For a heartbeat, he held him there, savoring the helpless beauty of it.

Then, with a low groan, he yielded. His mouth closed over Legolas’s length again, no longer holding back, sucking deep and hard. His tongue pressed in steady rhythm, faster now, drawing him in with an urgency that broke every careful restraint.

Legolas cried out, his body arching so sharply the grass shifted beneath him. His hands fisted hard in Elrohir’s hair, gasps spilling into the night as pleasure crashed over him, raw and untempered. His hips jerked despite Elrohir’s steadying grip, helpless against the flood building too swiftly to contain.

The Peredhel held him firm, taking him in fully, worshiping without pause until Legolas shattered beneath him. His cry rang through the trees, wild and unguarded, his body convulsing in release as Elrohir drank him down with reverent hunger.

Legolas then collapsed back into the moss, chest heaving, golden hair tangled and damp against his flushed skin. His hands slipped from Elrohir’s hair at last, trembling, as he lay utterly spent beneath the silver wash of moonlight.

Elrohir let his mouth slip free, chest heaving as he drew a ragged breath. His hands moved quickly to his own leggings, shoving them down just far enough. He was already trembling with need, the fire wound so tight it burned from having given everything to Legolas’s pleasure.

A few strokes and his head fell back with a groan torn from deep in his chest. His pace was rough, desperate, every movement driven by the sight of Legolas still sprawled before him: flushed, hair tangled in the leaves, chest rising quick in the silver wash of moonlight.

It was too much. Within moments he shuddered, his release spilling hot across Legolas’s stomach, streaking pale skin already marked with sweat and moonlight. Elrohir’s breath broke into gasps, hips jerking as he spilled the last of himself, until finally he sagged forward, braced on his arms, utterly spent.

Legolas watched him, blue eyes bright even through the haze of exhaustion, lips curving faintly though his chest still rose unsteadily. He made no move to wipe the mess away, only lay there beneath him, content to let Elrohir’s weight and warmth settle near, as though his very ruin were another form of devotion.

Spent and shaking, Elrohir collapsed onto Legolas, uncaring of the mess that streaked between them. His weight pressed the prince deeper into the moss, chest to chest, heat and breath and sweat mingling as though they had burned together in a single flame.

His mouth found Legolas’s without hesitation—hungry still, though softened now by exhaustion. The kiss was deep and unrestrained, tasting of wine and salt, of devotion and desire, of everything he had poured into his lover moments before.

Legolas groaned into it, clutching at Elrohir’s shoulders, pulling him closer still. He yielded without hesitation, meeting him shamelessly, drinking the kiss as if it were lifeblood, as if he could never be sated.

For a long moment they lay tangled, lips fused, the world narrowed to the thrum of blood and breath. Moonlight spilled in fractured silver through the canopy, catching on the sheen of their skin, as though the stars themselves bore witness to their ruin and their joy.

The fervor of their mouths ebbed at last, the clash of tongues and teeth breaking into softer brushes, then into brief, breathless pecks that left them both trembling with laughter between gasps.

Legolas tipped his head back against the grass, lips still grazing Elrohir’s with every breath. His eyes shone bright in the broken moonlight, his smile curved and wicked despite the flush still staining his cheeks.

“Utterly filthy,” he murmured, teasing, the words laced with laughter as he nipped lightly at Elrohir’s lower lip. “And I adore you for it.”

Legolas’s laughter trembled against Elrohir’s lips, the teasing words still warm in the air between them. Elrohir answered with a breathless chuckle of his own, brushing another kiss over his mouth—soft now, but edged with mischief.

“Filthy?” he murmured, voice low, roughened from breath and heat. “Then what does that make you—dragging me into shadow, throwing me down in the grass, kissing me like a conqueror?” His smirk curved slow, wicked and fond all at once.

He pressed another kiss, lingering, before drawing back just enough for his thumb to trail along Legolas’s flushed cheek. “If I am filthy, then you, my prince, are my willing accomplice.”

Legolas laughed again, breathless and radiant, tightening his arms around him as though he would never let him go.

Their laughter faded into the hush of the wood, soft as the breath of leaves overhead. The wildness of the feast, the chase, the fire of their joining—all of it slipped into stillness, leaving only the sound of their hearts and the slow rhythm of their breaths.

At last Elrohir shifted, drawing back enough to glance down between them. His mouth curved into a grimace half-wry, half-amused as he took in the mess smeared across Legolas’s stomach—his own doing, made no cleaner by the way he had collapsed over him.

“Valar,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face with theatrical dismay before leaning close to steal another kiss from the corner of Legolas’s mouth. “What have I done to you?”

Legolas only smirked, unrepentant, still flushed with wine and laughter. But when Elrohir reached for the edge of his discarded white robe and began to blot at the mess, his brows shot upward.

“Truly?” he asked, incredulous amusement flickering across his face.

Elrohir’s eyes glinted, utterly unashamed. “White hides it better,” he said smoothly, and pressed the fabric more firmly against his skin.

Legolas laughed, shaking his head, but made no move to stop him.

Elrohir huffed a low laugh of his own, shaking his head as he continued with surprising care, his touch lingering longer than need demanded. He helped ease the silken fabric back over his shoulders, fastening it with hands steady now where they had burned moments before. One boot he slid back on with patience, the other he tugged into place despite Legolas’s teasing wriggle.

When it was done, he sat back on his heels, gaze roaming over the prince as though to make certain no disarray remained. His smirk softened into something quieter, reverent. “There,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Fit to walk back into starlight.”

He smoothed a stray lock of hair from his brow and pressed one final kiss to Legolas’s temple. “I will walk you back to your chambers,” he murmured, his voice low, steady despite the fire that had only just ebbed.

Legolas’s steps faltered, his cheeks still faintly flushed from wine and touch. His blue eyes lifted, bright with lingering boldness. “And will you stay the night?” he asked, the words soft but edged with mischief, as though daring him to refuse.

Elrohir answered with a kiss, brief and lingering, before drawing back with a quiet smile. “Not this time,” he said. “I have an early summons come morning—a patrol your father assigned awaits me.”

Legolas’s brows arched, his laughter warm but wry. “Then we are alike. I too ride at dawn.”

“All the more reason,” Elrohir replied, his hand brushing down the prince’s arm as though to steady them both, “for us to behave—at least for tonight.”

Legolas’s laughter lingered, soft and breathless, as he let Elrohir guide him back toward the lantern-lit paths of the stronghold. The revel still roared faintly in the distance—music, song, the echo of Greenwood’s joy. Yet beyond those sounds lay silence, heavy and waiting, as though the forest itself remembered that dawn would bring more than feasting.

For while torches burned bright in Thranduil’s halls, darkness gathered far to the south.

Beneath the tangled boughs near Dol Guldur, the mirth of Greenwood was a thing unheard. There, shadows swarmed and skittered. A patrol had passed into that blackness —brave sons and daughters of the Wood, steel and bow against fang and venom. Now the ground lay thick with silence and stillness where they had fallen, their bodies already claimed by spider silk.

Only one remained.

A lone figure staggered through the undergrowth, blood dark on his side, his breath ragged. He limped, half-crawling, tearing himself free from strands that clung like iron cords. Each step seemed to drag the weight of the dead behind him. He fixed his gaze north, toward the promise of starlight through the trees, whispering half-broken prayers under his breath.

Then the night split apart.

A cry rang out—high and piercing, a sound that was not born of throat or horn but of shadow itself. It cut through the forest like a blade, searing bone and thought alike. The elf staggered, a shudder wracking him as icy dread sank its claws into his chest. The air curdled to frost around him, each breath spilling in white clouds, his heartbeat stammering as though it would freeze where it thrashed.

He dared a step, another, then the cold deepened, thick as water, pressing down until his limbs felt carved of stone. Behind him, something stirred.

Slowly, unwilling, he turned.

Eyes, faint and pale as burning coals, flared in the dark. The weight of them crushed him where he stood, stripping breath and will alike.

His scream tore free, high and ragged, carrying no strength but terror. It echoed once, twice through the trees, then was smothered as the dark closed in, swallowing him whole.

Far to the north, laughter rang bright beneath Greenwood’s lanterns. Yet even there, where music soared and wine flowed, the shadow’s echo brushed faint against one heart.

Legolas’s mirth stilled, his steps faltering as though the ground itself had shifted. The flush of wine and mirth dimmed from his face as he stilled, his gaze sliding southward into the black tangle of trees. His chest rose once, sharply, as though the night air itself had turned cold.

Elrohir’s hand tightened at his waist, brows knitting as he bent closer. “What is it?” he asked, his voice low, alert.

For a long moment, Legolas did not answer. His eyes remained fixed on the dark beyond the lanterns, blue irises glinting strangely in the moonlight. At last he spoke, quiet and uncertain, the words threaded with unease.

“I do not know,” he said. “But something has shifted. Something has happened.”

His voice was steady, yet beneath it ran a tension that set Elrohir’s blood on edge. The music carried faintly still, laughter rising and falling, but to Legolas it seemed far away, thin and hollow against the silence pressing from the south.

Then, all at once, his body faltered. The strength in his step drained as if the ground itself had shifted beneath him. His breath hitched, sharp and ragged, and his knees threatened to give way. Elrohir caught him instantly, one arm clamping firm around his waist, drawing him close against his chest.

“Legolas?” Elrohir’s voice sharpened, low and urgent.

The prince did not answer at once. His hands flew to his ears, pressing hard as though to block out a sound only he could hear. His head bowed, golden hair falling forward to veil his face, but not enough to hide the tremor that ran through him. His lips parted, and the words escaped broken, hoarse with anguish.

“The trees,” he gasped, each syllable as though dragged from his lungs. “The trees are screaming.”

Elrohir froze, heart lurching. Around them, the revel roared on in the distance—flutes trilling, drums thundering, dancers laughing as they whirled—but in this moment, it seemed distant, mockingly bright against the pall that gripped Legolas.

The prince shuddered, his breath coming shallow and uneven. His eyes, when they lifted at last, were wide and luminous, fixed not on Elrohir but on the black horizon to the south. It was as though he saw through wood and stone to where some hidden wound festered, pouring agony into the roots of the world.

Elrohir tightened his hold, one hand rising to cradle the back of Legolas’s neck, steadying him. His own voice came rough, urgent, but steady. “What is it you feel? Tell me.”

But Legolas only shook his head, jaw taut, as if words could not carry the weight of what pressed through him. His breath came sharp, uneven, and then fragments slipped free, broken and raw between gasps.

“Death…” His voice trembled. “Cold…venom…shadows—” He stiffened in Elrohir’s arms, every muscle straining. “The south burns with it. The forest—” His eyes squeezed shut, his body trembling as though the grief of the trees was tearing through his very veins. “Elrohir, it weeps.”

From their watch nearby, two Greenwood guards moved quickly forward, alarm flashing across their faces. One called out, voice taut with urgency, “Prince Legolas—what is wrong?”

Legolas faltered violently, knees giving way. Elrohir caught him fully, his arms wrapping hard around him. In one motion, he swept him up against his chest, heart hammering. His voice cut sharply to the guards, leaving no room for question.

“Fetch the healers. Now.”

The guards exchanged a glance—grim, wordless understanding passing between them. One broke into a sprint toward the halls, the other staying close, hand hovering near his weapon, though his eyes never left Legolas.

The prince’s head dropped weakly against Elrohir’s shoulder, his breath shallow, skin gone cold despite the heat of wine still lingering in his blood. Elrohir held him tighter, one hand pressing to the back of his neck, thumb stroking through damp strands of hair as though sheer touch might anchor him.

“Stay with me,” Elrohir whispered, voice fraying despite his effort to keep it steady. 

Then Legolas shuddered violently, his body wracked with tremors as if some unseen hand had gripped him. His breath rasped, shallow and ragged, eyes glazing as though the world around him had grown distant. A coldness seeped from him that Elrohir knew all too well.

“Valar—no,” Elrohir hissed, panic breaking his composure. It was too familiar.

“Elrohir!”

Elladan came quickly from the shadows, his expression taut, driven by the thread of turmoil that bound him to his twin. He had felt it the moment it began—like a jolt through marrow, the echo of Elrohir’s fear and strain striking down their bond. It had drawn him across the lantern-lit green with unerring surety, as though no distance could ever sever that cord between them.

His gaze swept once over Legolas in Elrohir’s arms, and his face hardened with grim recognition.

“The same,” Elladan said, his voice sharp, leaving no room for doubt. “These are the same signs as before—the Black Breath.”

Elrohir’s head snapped toward him, denial flaring. “Impossible! We healed him—you and I both! We drew it out. He was freed. There is no shadow here!”

Elladan’s jaw clenched, his eyes bleak. He shook his head once, certain. “No, brother. You know it as well as I do. The Black Breath never truly leaves. It clings like a Morgul wound, scarred deep into spirit and flesh. You can mend, you can strengthen, but the poison lingers, waiting for darkness to stir it awake.”

Legolas convulsed again, his fingers knotting tight into Elrohir’s tunic as though he might anchor himself to him against the storm coursing through his veins. A faint cry tore from his throat, raw and broken, before his lips moved, a whisper catching in his breath.

“Make them stop,” he gasped, his voice hoarse, broken. “The trees…make them stop screaming.”

Elrohir’s heart lurched, horror seizing him at the words. He pressed his lips to the prince’s hair, clutching him tighter still as if he could shield him from a forest’s anguish.

The pounding of hurried feet cut through the din of music. A healer came running, her mantle flying behind her, eyes wide with alarm. The moment she saw who Elrohir held, her face blanched, dismay stark in every line.

“Prince Legolas—” she breathed, dropping at once to her knees beside them.

Elladan did not waste a heartbeat. His voice snapped sharp as steel, the tone of command that had carried him through battlefields. “Athelas. Boiled at once. We need clean water, linens, and fire enough to heat them. Quickly!”

The healer’s gaze flicked from Elladan’s grim authority to the trembling prince, then she nodded sharply. “Yes, my lord. At once.” She rose to her feet, her expression set, though the tightness in her jaw betrayed the weight of what she had seen.

“Take him to his chambers,” she urged, voice taut with urgency. “There, we can tend him properly. I will gather what is needed and follow.”

Elrohir shifted, clutching Legolas closer, his jaw se,t though his eyes burned with worry. He gathered the prince more firmly into his arms, already bracing to rise. Legolas stirred weakly against him, a broken sound catching in his throat, his hands still pressed to his ears as though to shut out cries no one else could hear.

Elladan stepped forward, steady and grim, clearing the path with a sharp glance to the guards gathering nearby. “Clear the way,” he ordered, his voice low but commanding. “Now. Make haste—the prince’s life hangs upon it.”

The guards moved at once, their faces pale.

A guard strode ahead, pushing through startled servants with clipped words and a raised hand, clearing the path toward the royal wing. Elrohir followed close, Legolas held tight in his arms, his every step measured, though his chest burned with urgency. Elladan kept at his side, eyes never leaving his brother or the prince, grim authority anchoring every pace.

At last, the carved doors of Legolas’s chambers loomed, the guard throwing them open without ceremony. Elrohir crossed the threshold and lowered his burden with aching care, laying Legolas upon the bed of pale silks. The prince stirred faintly, his breath shallow, lashes fluttering against bloodless cheeks. Elrohir’s hand lingered on his hair, brushing back golden strands as though touch alone could tether him to the waking world.

The door slammed wide again. Thranduil swept in with the force of a storm, his mantle trailing like shadow, Galion and Feren tight behind him. His eyes blazed, his voice cutting through the chamber with the edge of a blade.

“What is this?” he demanded, the words low, deadly, carrying all the fury of a king who found his son laid low. His gaze darted once to Legolas, stricken, before fixing on Elrohir and Elladan with glacial fire. “What has been done to him?”

Elladan stepped forward before Elrohir could answer, his voice firm, steady despite the king’s wrath. “The Black Breath,” he said grimly. “The same shadow that struck him before. Its mark never wholly left his spirit, and tonight it has been stirred awake. We must have athelas—boiled, steeped strong. At once.”

Thranduil’s eyes narrowed to shards of ice, his jaw tightening as his gaze flicked from Legolas’s pale form back to the Noldor standing over him. “Ever in Noldorin company does my son find himself stricken,” he said, his tone cold as frost. “Feasts, councils, alliances—always he is left bleeding or broken. Tell me, sons of Elrond, is this your father’s gift to Greenwood? Shadows and suffering delivered at my door?”

Elrohir stiffened, fury sparking in his eyes, but Elladan cut in before his brother could speak. His own grey gaze held unflinching as he met the king’s. “Do not mistake this, my lord. The shadow was not ours to give—it hunts of its own will. My brother has not harmed your son. He has stood by him. Even now, he bears him in his arms while you accuse him.”

For a heartbeat, the chamber seemed to tighten, silence weighted like drawn steel between them.

Thranduil’s following words faltered as a sound broke from the bed—a hoarse whisper, faint as falling ash.

“Make them stop…” Legolas’s lips barely moved, his voice raw, torn by trembling breath. “The trees…make them stop screaming.”

The king stilled where he stood, all fire arrested in an instant. The color drained from his face, his eyes snapping to his son. For a heartbeat, he did not breathe. Then he moved forward, the storm in him pulled tight into something more dangerous—controlled, terrible in its restraint.

He came to Legolas’s side in long, swift strides, dropping to a knee beside the bed. His hand hovered over his son’s brow, stopping short as though fearing the touch might break him. The icy mask of the Elvenking cracked, just enough for grief to gleam raw beneath it.

“My son,” Thranduil said, his voice low, almost breaking, though his tone held still the weight of command. His gaze cut to Elladan and Elrohir, sharper than any drawn blade. “You will tell me, now, what has been loosed upon him.”

Elrohir’s breath came unsteady as he bent over Legolas, his hand never leaving the prince’s hair as though that fragile tether might hold him in the waking world. “We had left the green,” he said, his voice taut with urgency. “I was walking him back to his chambers. He was flushed, laughing still, no sign of weakness. Then, suddenly, he faltered.”

His eyes lifted, grey and burning, meeting the Elvenking’s like steel striking frost. “He turned south. He said something had happened—he felt it. The joy left him in an instant. Then he shuddered, as though struck by a blow, and cried that the trees were screaming. After that—” Elrohir’s voice broke into rawness, his hand pressing tighter against Legolas’s damp hair, “—this took him. No blade. No poison. No shadow that I could see. Only this.”

The chamber seemed to constrict around his words, the silence heavy as stone. Even Galion and Feren stilled, their eyes locked on the prince’s pale form.

Thranduil’s stare lingered on Elrohir for a heartbeat more, sharp as a drawn blade. Then his gaze faltered—not in weakness, but in surrender to what mattered most. He turned fully to his son.

He bent closer, his tall frame folding in a single fluid motion, and his hand smoothed the damp hair back from Legolas’s temple. The gesture was precise, controlled, yet it lingered a breath longer than kingly composure should have allowed.

“Legolas,” he said, low but commanding, as if the force of his voice alone could anchor him. No endearment, no plea—only the unyielding will of a king refusing surrender. Yet the weight of his touch betrayed him, gentle as falling leaves, though his face remained carved in composure.

Galion shifted at his shoulder, as though to offer words, but Thranduil’s glance silenced him at once. His attention did not leave his son again.

“You will not yield,” he murmured, colder than steel, fiercer than prayer. “Not to this. Not while I stand.”

The door burst open, and a pair of healers swept in, arms laden with steaming kettles, basins, and the sharp green scent of fresh athelas. Their eyes fell at once upon the prince laid pale against the sheets, and a shadow of dismay crossed both their faces.

Elladan rose immediately, his composure drawn taut as a bowstring. “Here,” he barked, stepping forward with soldier’s authority. “Boil the leaves—now. I want steam rising before the breath leaves his chest.”

The healers obeyed without hesitation, setting their bundles down with swift precision, hands already working.

Elladan came to the bedside, his gaze sweeping quickly over his brother and the Elvenking where they hovered, too near the stricken prince. His voice cut sharply and sure. “Step back, both of you. I need space if he is to breathe again.”

Elrohir flinched, his hand tightening once more in Legolas’s hair before, with visible struggle, he forced himself to release it. His grey eyes were storm-tossed, too shaken, too raw to summon the healer’s steadiness he had learned beside his twin.

Elladan caught the falter in him, but said nothing, only set a hand briefly on his brother’s arm as he moved past. 

Only Thranduil did not yield at once. His pale gaze lingered on his son, cold fire banked with anguish. But at last, he too shifted back a pace, the weight of his authority bowing before necessity, leaving Elladan to his work.

Thranduil did not look from his son, but his words lashed sharp across the chamber. “Feren. What lies in the south? Find me the truth. Whatever befell, I will have answers—not silence.”

Feren straightened, blinking at the weight of the charge. “My King. We already keep a watch there. A company of seasoned warriors patrols the border. A raven came at dawn—no shadow stirred then.”

Thranduil’s gaze flicked to him, pale and cold as ice in moonlight. “At dawn, all was well. Tonight, my son shudders as though the wood itself has been pierced. Do you think a raven’s ink carries more truth than what courses through his blood?” His voice sharpened, each syllable cutting like steel. “The south festers, Feren. It has ever been so—each season another wound, each season another loss. Investigate. I will know what hunts my realm.”

A silence followed, heavy as stone, before Thranduil spoke again, lower now, but edged with iron. “Do not think me unprepared. Days ago, I summoned Mithrandir. He himself held suspicions of the south, whispers of power stirring, of an old shadow wearing a new mask. I would hear his counsel with my own ears, and I will have my answers.”

Galion stilled, the lines of his face taut with unease. Feren’s jaw tightened, a soldier’s discipline holding firm, though his eyes betrayed the shadow of dread.

At Thranduil’s words, the twins exchanged a glance, the bond between them sparking unspoken recognition.

Elladan was the first to speak, his voice low, deliberate. “Our father has long believed it no more than a Nazgûl, lingering in Dol Guldur. But Mithrandir…” He hesitated, frowning as the weight of memory pressed against his words. “Mithrandir suspects otherwise. He has hinted at it more than once in Imladris, though never plainly.”

Elrohir’s gaze never left Legolas, his hand still brushing faintly at his temple as though to soothe him even in unconsciousness. Yet his voice joined his brother’s, rough but steady. “A shadow older than the Nine,” he said softly. “One that wears other masks. If Mithrandir comes here for counsel, then he does not seek only confirmation—he seeks proof.”

Their words fell like a second silence across the chamber, heavier than the first. Even the hiss of athelas steeping in hot water seemed loud in the hush that followed.

Thranduil’s expression did not change, but the flicker in his pale eyes betrayed how near his fury edged toward fear.

The sharp scent of crushed leaves rose as the healers bent over the steaming basin, their hands working with swift efficiency. One looked up at Elladan, voice quick and urgent. “My lord—the water is ready.”

Elladan was already moving. He swept to the table, snatching the leaves, crushing them tighter between his fingers before casting them into the steam. At once the fragrance swelled—fresh and piercing, sharp as rain on cold stone, bright as air after thunder.

“Pillows,” Elladan ordered without looking up, his voice snapping with precision. “He must be lifted to breathe it in.” His eyes flicked to his brother, his tone softening only by a fraction. “Elrohir—stack them beneath him, quick. Keep his chest high.”

Elrohir was at once to the task, his hands unsteady but resolute as he slid the pillows beneath Legolas’s shoulders, raising him carefully against the silks. His movements trembled, not with doubt in the work but with the raw fear written across his face. He glanced once toward his twin, then back down at the pale prince.

“Breathe, my heart,” Elrohir whispered under his breath as he adjusted the last cushion. “Just breathe.”

Elladan lifted the basin and set it before the bed. He leaned in close, eyes sharp and voice steady. “Now. Let the athelas do its work. He must take it in.”

Elladan leaned over the basin, the steam rising thick with the sharp, clean scent of athelas. He cupped his hand, fanning the vapors gently toward Legolas’s pale face, his own expression taut with focus.

“Breathe, Legolas,” he urged, his voice low but commanding. “Draw it in—deeply. Do you hear me? You are stronger than this shadow. It has no claim on you.”

The prince stirred faintly, a tremor passing through his body as the steam curled around him. His lips parted, breath shallow at first, then catching on a ragged pull as the freshness reached his lungs.

Elladan did not falter. His tone sharpened, steady and insistent, as though each word might anchor Legolas more firmly to the waking world. “You walked through blood and venom before, Prince of Greenwood. You did not yield then—you will not yield now. Come back. Hear me, and return.”

He brushed more of the vapor closer with the edge of his hand, the fragrance spilling over Legolas’s damp brow, his cheeks flushed with fever yet cold beneath.

Beside him, Elrohir’s hand remained braced at Legolas’s shoulder, his lips moving in silent echo of his brother’s words—prayer and plea all at once.

The sharp fragrance of athelas thickened in the air, steam rising in bright curls that seemed almost to drive back the shadows clinging to the chamber.

Elladan bent close, his hand steady as he continued to fan the vapors toward Legolas’s face. “Breathe,” he urged, his voice firm, steady, commanding. “Breathe deeply, Legolas. Do not let it take you.”

When there was no response save a faint tremor, Elladan’s jaw set. He reached down, tapping lightly at the prince’s cheeks, first one then the other, coaxing his eyes open. “Come back to the light. Do you hear me?”

Legolas stirred faintly, his lashes fluttering, though his gaze did not yet focus. A rough, uneven breath shuddered from his chest as the scent of athelas spilled into him.

Beside him, Elrohir held firm at his shoulder, silent and pale, his lips pressed tight as though he could not trust his voice. All the steadiness of the healer in him was gone; only the lover remained, trembling with fear, leaving Elladan to carry the burden of command.

Elladan’s hand tapped lightly against his cheek again, his voice low but edged with steel. “Come back, Legolas. Back to the light, you belong to it, not to the dark. Breathe.”

For a long moment, nothing, only the rise and fall of shallow breath, the tremor in his chest. Then Legolas’s lips parted, the faintest sound breaking through.

“…light…” The word was raw, slurred, as though dragged from deep water. His lashes fluttered, a flicker of blue glinting beneath, unfocused but straining toward them. Another breath shuddered from him, this one deeper, the athelas sharp in his lungs. “…I see it…”

Elladan leaned closer, his eyes tightening with resolve, and kept fanning the steam to him. “Good. Hold to it. Follow it back. Do not lose it.”

Elrohir’s grip trembled at his shoulder, his head bowing until his forehead nearly touched Legolas’s hair. Silent still, but his whole body shook with the force of his held breath, as though willing every fragment of strength into the prince’s return.

Legolas’s chest heaved once, and suddenly he drew a great, ragged breath. His eyes snapped open, and with a surge of will, he pushed himself upright, as though dragged by unseen hands out of the dark.

“Easy!” Elladan caught him at once, steadying his shoulders. “Not so fast—ease yourself.”

Elrohir’s hand pressed firmly to his chest, trying to guide him back against the pillows. “Legolas, slow—breathe gently, not all at once.”

But the prince’s gaze had gone past them. His eyes, still glazed with shadow, fixed instead on his father standing rigid by the bed, then beyond to Feren and Galion at his side. His voice cracked, raw and strained, yet filled with terrible certainty.

“I have seen it,” he whispered hoarsely. “The south…our patrol. Their bodies—stripped of light, bound in webs. The trees cry with their deaths.” His hands shook where they gripped the silks. “One fled, wounded—then the shadow came down on him. A cry in the dark…and nothing left.”

Feren’s face blanched, his breath hissing sharply between his teeth. He stepped forward at once, bowing his head to the king, though his eyes burned with urgency. “My king, I will see to it immediately. If this is true, not a moment can be wasted.”

Galion’s lips pressed tight, unease flickering in his eyes, though his hand drifted toward the hilt at his side as though he too itched to move.

Thranduil’s gaze lingered on Feren, pale and unyielding, the weight of command sharp in his voice. “See to it. Search every shadow near the southern wood. Find what lies there, and bring me truth. If my son’s words prove, then Greenwood’s watch has failed.”

Feren bowed low, his face taut with the sting of failure, his shoulders rigid with duty. “It will be done,” he said, voice grim. Yet his eyes flickered once toward Legolas, fear and sorrow mingling with the iron resolve of a soldier who already guessed the cost.

But Thranduil no longer looked at him. The Elvenking moved back to the bed, his tall frame folding with measured grace as he lowered himself to sit upon its edge. His mantle spilled dark over the silks as he drew his son against him, one long arm wrapping firm across Legolas’s back, the other hand cupping the damp golden hair at his crown.

For a long moment, he was still, the icy mask of his face unbroken, yet his hold betrayed him—unyielding, as though he would hold his son against the world itself if it meant keeping him from shadow.

At last, he bent low, his lips brushing the strands of hair at Legolas’s temple. His voice, though quiet, cut like a blade drawn too close to breaking.

“Cursed be this gift,” Thranduil murmured, his voice low and edged with sorrow hidden beneath steel. “Merilien’s blood runs too deep in him—her sight, her burden. He bears what she once bore, and it rends him still.” His tone did not falter, but a shadow passed through it, as if he spoke not only to his wife long gone but to the silence that had never answered him. “What have you given our son, my love, that it tears him so?”

Legolas trembled in his arms, his body cold despite the heat of fever clinging to his skin. Thranduil’s hand pressed firmly at the back of his son’s head, steadying the slight shivers, though his long fingers betrayed a faint tremor of their own. He smoothed the golden hair with deliberate care, each stroke precise, as though such control might anchor both of them against the weight of what surged unseen.

The words hung in the chamber like mist, perilous in their closeness. For a breath, the Elvenking was absent, and only a father remained, pale and resolute, holding a son who shook in his arms and loathing the inheritance that had bound this burden to his child.

Elrohir stood frozen, his breath caught in his throat. He had seen Thranduil’s wrath, his cutting disdain, his pride bright as a drawn blade—but never this. Never the king stripped to something rawer, a father bent over his trembling son, steadying him with touch and will alone. The sight hollowed him, left him aching with a reverence he could not name. His hand half-lifted, as though to reach for Legolas, but he let it fall, knowing that, in this moment, the prince belonged only to his father’s keeping.

Beside him, Elladan’s face was drawn, grey eyes shadowed with a healer’s knowledge and a soldier’s grim certainty. Yet even he stilled, the sharp words poised on his tongue dying unspoken as he watched. His gaze flicked once toward his twin, then back to Thranduil, as though the weight of what they witnessed demanded silence.

The chamber hushed save for Legolas’s shallow breaths and the faint hiss of athelas steam curling upward. Beyond the walls, Greenwood still sang and feasted, but here—here lay the truth of the realm: a prince shaken to his core, a king holding him as though the world itself might steal him away, and the sons of Elrond standing in reverent silence at the threshold of it.

So the night closed—not with music nor joy, but with shadow pressing from the south, the echo of trees still crying in Legolas’s veins, and a darkness that would not rest until its name was spoken.

Chapter Text

The chamber was hushed but for the soft breath of those within. The scent of athelas lingered heavy in the air, sharp and green, clinging to the walls as though it sought to drive away the shadows that plagued the prince’s rest.

On one side of the bed, Elrohir had surrendered at last to reverie, his hand still entwined with Legolas’s as though even in sleep he feared to release it. His dark head lay bowed near their joined hands, the tension of wakefulness eased but not wholly gone. Elladan kept vigil nearby, slumped in a carved chair, his chin resting against a raised fist. A healer’s patience had carried him through long hours, yet reverie had claimed him too, his features gentled in the lamplight.

Between them, Legolas lay pale beneath the furs, his body chilled though swathed in warmth, his breath uneven. Thranduil sat close, unyielding in his vigil, his palm against his son’s hair, guarding him as though presence alone might shield him from what lingered beyond sight.

Yet memory stole upon him, insistent as the tide, until the chamber blurred and another rose in its place.

He stood again at the threshold of his own rooms, many centuries gone. Court had dragged long into the afternoon, the weight of the crown and grievances still heavy upon his shoulders. But as he entered, he halted, undone by the sight before him.

Merilien sat upon the edge of their bed, her long, chestnut hair falling loose about her shoulders, a simple cloth drawn across her chest where their infant son nursed. Legolas was but two months old, impossibly small, his tiny fingers curled in fragile fists against the linen, his cheek pressed close in perfect trust. Merilien’s hand cupped his head, her thumb stroking absently as she sang.

Her voice was soft, lilting, no more than a murmur of melody, yet it filled the chamber with a light no jewel could rival. Stone and timber seemed to still around her, as if listening. The glow of the afternoon painted her features in warmth, and in her Thranduil saw not only his queen, but a vision of life itself, beauty unadorned, fierce in its gentleness. He had always thought her beautiful, ethereal as moonlight; yet in this moment, crowned with motherhood, she seemed lovelier still, radiant in a way that stilled him utterly.

He remained at the door, rooted by reverence. For all his titles and victories, he had no words for this sight: his beloved with their child safe in her arms, nourished by love and song. A treasure more fragile than any crown he bore, for the thought of losing it struck fear deeper than any blade.

Merilien’s song softened to a hum, her head bowed, the curve of her smile hidden by the fall of her hair. She did not look up, yet her voice carried easily across the chamber, warm with quiet mischief.

“Will you stand there all day, my husband,” she murmured, “brooding like a sentinel at the door, or will you come closer?”

Thranduil’s lips curved, faint and wry. He lingered another breath at the doorway, drinking in the sight as one might the rarest jewel, before moving forward with measured grace. No courtier was present to witness him, yet his every step bore the composure of a king.

He stopped beside her, his hand brushing the edge of the coverlet, then—after the briefest pause—resting lightly upon the downy crown of his son’s head. The babe stirred, sighed, and nestled closer against his mother. Thranduil’s hand stilled there, his expression carved in its usual calm, yet his eyes betrayed the truth: a glint of wonder, sharp as sorrow, at so fragile and perilous a gift.

Merilien glanced up at last, her smile catching the light, and in her gaze was both laughter and knowing. It was the same smile he would come to see so often upon his son’s face—bright and unguarded, a fleeting glimpse of warmth that slipped past all walls. Even now, centuries hence, when Legolas allowed such light to break through his composure, it was Merilien’s smile returned to him, piercing and beloved.

His hand lingered upon the child’s head, fingers scarcely daring to press. At last, he spoke, his voice quiet, tempered with that dry edge she knew too well.

“Ever you conspire against me,” he murmured, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “I return from court armed for battle, and you lay me low with naught but a song.”

Merilien’s laughter stirred at that, warm and musical. She tilted her head, still cradling the babe to her, and without missing a beat answered, “Then perhaps you should be glad it is only song I wield, my king. Imagine how swiftly your kingdom would fall were I to set my full strength against you.”

Thranduil’s lips curved, the flicker of a smile glinting like steel beneath velvet. “You mistake me if you think I have not long known it,” he said. “You are far more perilous than any council I endure. And now,” his gaze dropped briefly to the infant nestled against her, “I see you have found an ally. Two against one. My odds grow worse by the hour.”

Merilien’s eyes danced as she bent her head in triumph. With a small, graceful motion, she drew aside the cloth that had covered her, uncovering the babe cradled against her. Freed of the cloth’s shadow, Legolas was revealed in his fullness—tiny limbs curled in fragile repose, his cheek pressed soft against her skin. Merilien lowered her face to him, pressing a kiss to the curve of his brow, her smile radiant as he shifted with a faint sigh and nestled closer into her warmth.

She then noticed the slackened mouth and softened breath. With practiced ease, she shifted, lifting Legolas carefully against her shoulder before extending him toward her husband. The babe gave a soft coo, a gurgle of contentment as tiny fists flexed in the air.

“Here,” she murmured, her voice threaded with quiet triumph, “your son is finished. Take him, before he claims me wholly for himself.”

Thranduil bent without haste, his movements precise, his hands steady as he gathered the small weight against his shoulder. Legolas stirred, offering a faint, disgruntled sigh before nestling into the silken fall of his father’s hair, another small coo escaping him as though in drowsy protest. The king’s expression did not shift, still carved in calm, yet his voice carried a quiet iron when he spoke.

“I am a king,” he said, as if the words alone could anchor him in something unshaken.

Merilien’s lips curved, laughter rippling soft from her throat as she drew her gown back into place with unhurried grace. “And yet,” she returned, her eyes gleaming with both mischief and tenderness, “in this chamber, you are also a father. Do not think to forget it, my love, for no crown, however weighty, can spare you from that truth.”

She gave a little nod toward the babe resting against his shoulder, her smile brightening into something sly. “Now hurry, burp him, before your kingly robes suffer for your pride.”

Thranduil arched a brow, his mouth curving in the faintest wry smile as he began to pat his son’s small back with practiced care. “So it is,” he murmured dryly, “that kings are brought low, not by blade or council, but by a foe scarcely the length of my forearm.”

Legolas answered with a tiny hiccup and another soft coo, as if to seal the jest.

Merilien’s laughter rang soft, the sound like water over stone. “Take care, my lord,” she teased, eyes bright as she watched them. “For such small foes grow swiftly, and one day he may prove more perilous to you than any sword raised in council hall.”

Thranduil’s gaze lingered on the child stirring faintly against his shoulder, and the faintest curl touched his lips. “Then let him,” he said, his voice low, threaded with iron and pride. “Of all perils, he is the one I would most gladly yield to.”

For a moment, silence settled, warm and complete, broken only by the babe’s soft murmurs. Thranduil’s hand continued its steady rhythm against his son’s small back, patient and unyielding as though each soft pat were both duty and vow.

Merilien watched them, her expression softened, her eyes alight with something that needed no words. She reached out, fingertips brushing along Thranduil’s sleeve, then sliding lower until they rested against his hand, where it steadied their son.

“He loves you already,” she whispered. “See how he listens for your voice.”

At that, Legolas gave another soft coo, his tiny body shifting as though to test its strength. His head wobbled in the effort, fragile and unsteady, the small neck straining valiantly before yielding once more to his father’s shoulder. The sight was so delicate it seemed a marvel that such a little frame could already bear so much life.

A hiccup followed, sharp and small, and he pressed closer into the shelter of Thranduil’s hold as though to prove his mother right. Thranduil’s hand kept its steady rhythm, firm and patient, until at last the babe gave a sudden, unceremonious burp that shattered the quiet like a pebble dropped in still water.

Merilien’s laughter bloomed, bright and unchecked, as she raised a hand to cover her mouth. “There, my husband! Your victory,” she teased, eyes shining. “All the council in Arda could not have drawn forth such a sound.”

Thranduil’s lips curved, wry and unhurried. “A mighty triumph indeed,” he said, his tone dry as he shifted the child against his shoulder. “I shall see that it is recorded in the annals of the realm.” With practiced ease, he drew Legolas down into the crook of his arm, cradling him so that the babe’s head rested neatly against the silken fall of his sleeve.

Legolas answered with another soft coo, his eyes blinking open as he wriggled weakly against the folds of his father’s tunic. One small fist latched clumsily onto the fabric, tugging as though in some unspoken claim. His gaze—blue and startlingly bright—turned upward, fixing for a long moment on the face above him.

The other hand soon found its prize in Thranduil’s hair, tugging with fierce, clumsy strength. The king’s head inclined only slightly beneath the pull, his composure unbroken as he looked down into his son’s bright eyes.

“Ever grasping,” he murmured, voice low and even, a wry glint beneath the calm. “First my robe, now my hair. What will you seize of me next, my son?”

Merilien’s laughter rang soft at his side, her smile tender as her gaze lingered on them both. Thranduil’s eyes did not leave his son, steady as moonlight, though touched with the faintest gleam of pride.

A knock rapped gently upon the carved door, low enough not to startle yet insistent enough to carry. Merilien lifted her head, but Thranduil’s expression had already shifted, the softness of husband and father cloaked once more in the composure of a king.

“Enter,” he called, his voice even.

The door opened with quiet deference, and Galion stepped inside. He bowed low, the gesture formal, though the familiar steadiness of his manner softened it. “Pardon, my king, my queen,” he said, “The council awaits their king. They grow restless in your absence.”

In Thranduil’s arms, Legolas began to stir at the intrusion. The small features crumpled, his lips drawing downward before a thin wail broke loose. His tiny fists tightened with startling strength; one still clenched in the folds of his father’s robe, the other tugging stubbornly at the bright strands of hair he had claimed. The sound was small but urgent, as if the child himself understood the threat of parting.

Thranduil’s gaze lowered, his face still a mask of composure but for the faintest shift in his eyes as he regarded his son’s distress. He smoothed a hand along the babe’s brow, steady and unyielding, before lifting his gaze toward his steward.

“Tell them,” he said, each word quiet yet brooking no argument, “that I will not be joining them. The council may wait, my son will not.”

Galion inclined his head, dark eyes betraying the briefest flicker of dry understanding. “A wise choice, my lord,” he replied evenly. “For I have sat through enough councils to know that none there wail so piteously when denied your presence.”

The faintest curve touched the king’s mouth, but he offered no answer, only returned his attention to the child in his arms. Galion, satisfied, gave a final bow and withdrew, closing the door soundlessly behind him and leaving the chamber once more in hush, broken only by the soft cries of the small prince.

“He is right, you know,” Merilien said, rising from the bed with a grace made no less by weariness. “Your council may scheme and clamor without end, but this one,” she brushed her fingers across her son’s small fist where it clung to Thranduil’s robe, “will not be soothed unless it is by you. Already, he knows how to command his king.”

Her eyes gleamed with quiet mischief as she looked up at her husband, her voice softening into something tender. “And you, my lord, seem powerless to resist.”

A faint curve touched Thranduil’s mouth, wry as ever. “Perhaps,” he said, his tone low, “but there are worse fates than to be commanded by such small hands.”

He shifted the child in his arms, one hand steady against the small back, the other cradling the fragile head. The sharp cries faltered into uneven whimpers, softening as his father began to pace, long, unhurried steps carrying them across the chamber. He came to the high window where late sunlight poured in, gilding his hair and setting the infant’s pale crown aglow, as though father and son were cast from the same light.

The king’s composure held, but when he bent his head his voice came low, unguarded, threaded with awe. “Hush now,” he murmured. “Be patient with me, my son. I have only known how to be a son, I have learned how to be a husband, and long have I borne the weight of a crown. But never have I been a father, until you.”

Legolas blinked up through damp lashes, his cries dwindling to hiccuping breaths, one small hand still fastened to his father’s robe as though refusing release.

Merilien lingered a moment where she stood, her lips curved in a smile both tender and wistful. She drank in the sight of them—the proud lord, solemn and unbending before all others, and the tiny child whose presence alone could soften him. In her gaze was fondness, yes, but also quiet triumph, as though she had always known this was the one role from which her husband could not hold himself apart.

Her gown then whispered against the floor as she crossed to where he stood by the window. She came close, close enough that the line of her shoulder brushed his arm, and leaned to gaze upon the child in his hold. With fingers light as snow, she touched her son’s brow, her smile caught between wonder and disbelief.

“I can scarce believe it,” she whispered. “That we made such a being.”

Thranduil’s lips curved, his eyes lingering on the babe cradled in the crook of his arm. “With the zeal you showed, my queen, I cannot claim surprise,” he answered. “So relentless were you in your purpose that perfection seemed inevitable.”

Her laughter bloomed at that, low and knowing, as she turned her face up to him. “Relentless, was I?” she murmured, her eyes alight with mischief. “If memory serves, my love, you were no less so.”

A faint glimmer touched Thranduil’s eyes, steel beneath velvet. He bent his head just enough that his words brushed close to her ear, quiet and wry. “Then let it be said he inherits his stubbornness honestly. From a mother who would not be gainsaid and a father who discovered too late he had no hope of resisting her.”

The smallest curl of a smile lingered on his lips as he lowered his gaze once more to their son, smoothing a hand over the soft crown of hair with a reverence no council or crown had ever drawn from him.

Legolas’s damp lashes fluttered, his wide blue eyes opening to fix on his father’s face. They seemed to drink him in—every line, every glint of gold in the light—as though nothing else in the world existed. His small mouth curved in a soft, unformed sound, neither coo nor cry, just breath caught in wonder. His fist shifted faintly where it already clung to hair and robe, not tugging this time but holding fast, as if to claim the figure above him.

For a heartbeat, the child’s gaze was steady, piercing in its innocence, as if he knew and marveled at the one who held him. Awe shone there, fragile and unguarded, reflected in the king’s own eyes.

Thranduil’s hand shifted, his long fingers brushing over the fine hairs at his son’s crown, lingering there in a touch that was both reverent and possessive. The moment held in stillness—Merilien’s laughter soft at his side, the babe’s quiet breaths warming the hush—before the vision blurred like mist on water.

The chamber of memory fell away.

He was once more seated at his son’s bedside, his hand where it had ever been, resting against the golden crown of hair. Just as in years long past, his touch was steady, smoothing gently as though the gesture alone might shield and soothe. Only now it was not an infant in his arms but his grown son beneath his palm, pale and cold, his breath uneven.

The circle of years pressed close, and Thranduil’s eyes closed briefly, carrying both then and now within a single unbroken vow.

His hand lingered in the golden strands, smoothing them as though memory itself were woven there. In the silence, grief pressed close. How keenly he felt her absence in this moment—his beloved wife, who would have known what he could not. She had carried within her much of the old blood of the Avari, fierce and untamed, and from that hidden lineage some gift had passed into their son.

It was a gift Thranduil could not wholly fathom. He could see its shadow and its brilliance both, but not its bounds, nor its purpose. Strange, perilous, and beautiful—it was hers, not his. She would have known how to name it, how to guide it, how to soothe the turmoil it now wove into Legolas’s rest. But she was gone, and he was left with only questions, and with the son who bore her inheritance like a secret fire.

His palm rested steady against Legolas’s crown, the gesture at once vow and supplication. Father, king, guardian—he could be all these. But he could not be what she was, nor could he give the knowledge she had taken with her beyond the circles of the world.

A shift broke the stillness. Elrohir stirred on the other side of the bed, his dark head lifting from where it had rested near their joined hands. His gaze fell at once upon Legolas, pale beneath the furs, and grief carved itself into every line of his face. Tightening his hold, he bent low and pressed a kiss to the hand he still clasped, as though such a touch might anchor the spirit that trembled there.

When he raised his head, his grey eyes found Thranduil. “My lord,” he said quietly, the words heavy with strain, “do you know why he feels it so? Twice the Black Breath has touched him, yet no Nazgûl stood near.”

For a long moment, Thranduil did not answer, his hand never leaving the crown of his son’s hair. At last, his voice came, even but weighted. “Because he is bound to the living world more deeply than most of our kind. He hears the song of the trees, and they answer him. It is a strength, but it also makes him vulnerable. Shadows that poison root and branch may find their way more swiftly to him.” His gaze lowered, lingering on his son’s still form. “Yet even I do not fully understand the breadth of it. The gift was his mother’s, not mine.”

Elrohir’s brows drew tight, his grief laid bare in the tremor of his breath. He looked down again at the hand clasped in his own, pale and still save for the faint twitch of uneasy dreams. His thumb brushed over Legolas’s knuckles, a futile gesture, yet he clung to it as though the motion alone could call him back.

“If it is his strength that leaves him open to such shadow,” he said at last, his voice low and unsteady, “then what chance has he, if every wound the dark lays upon the woods finds its way into him? What hope has he, if even when no wraith walks near, he suffers as though they breathe upon him?”

He bowed his head again, his lips brushing once more against Legolas’s hand, and his voice dropped to a whisper, more to himself than to the king. “Would that I could take it on myself, rather than see him bear it.”

Thranduil’s gaze remained fixed upon his son, his hand steady in its vigil at the golden crown. When he answered, his voice was low and even, each word measured.

“You cannot take it from him,” he said. “Nor would he permit it, even if such a thing were within your power. What he bears is his own—gift and burden alike. You may grieve it, as I do. You may stand beside him, as I command myself to do. But you cannot spare him.”

His thumb traced once more through the fair strands beneath his palm, and though his face was calm, his eyes were hard with truth. “Do not think it a weakness. Strength does not lie in what can be shielded from shadow, but in enduring it without breaking.”

Elrohir lifted his head at last, grey eyes darkened with fire. “Then I will go to the source,” he said, his voice firm, the grief in him hardened into resolve. “I will hunt the shadow where it dwells. The Nazgûl that festers there—Khamûl—he will face me. And I will see him ended.”

Thranduil’s hand stilled upon his son’s hair. Slowly, his gaze shifted to Elrohir, and when he spoke, his tone was quiet, but the words cut like steel.

“Fool,” he said, unyielding. “You speak of the Nine as though they were common foes. They are not so easily unmade. Would you throw yourself into their grasp, and in your folly bind yet another grief upon my son?”

Elrohir’s jaw tightened, but he did not look away. “I do not fear them.”

Thranduil’s gaze did not waver, cold and unyielding as winter stone. “Your fear, or lack of it, matters little,” he said, his voice like iron laid bare. “Wisdom is not proved by how loudly one denies dread. The Nine have endured because they are not foes to be met by courage alone. To stand before them unguarded is not valor, Elrohir, it is ruin.”

His hand moved once more through his son’s hair, the gesture steady even as his eyes remained fixed on Elrohir. “I will not see you add your folly to his peril. If shadow must be faced, it will be done with thought, not reckless oaths.”

Elrohir’s eyes flared, his hand tightening around Legolas’s as though he would anchor both their fates with that grasp. “Then let it be ruin,” he hissed, defiance burning through his grief. “I care not for wisdom if it leaves him to suffer. If it takes my life to end the wraith that haunts him, so be it.”

Before Thranduil could answer, another voice cut in, rough with sleep yet edged with steel.

“Brother,” Elladan said, his head lifting from where it had rested upon his hand. Reverie had fled him, and his grey eyes were hard as he fixed them upon his twin. “Do you think to stand alone against a wraith, as though sheer wrath could unmake what the power of the Nine has bound for an age? You would not strike him down; you would join him, and leave Legolas with one grief doubled.”

Elrohir’s head snapped toward his twin, eyes flashing. “You think me incapable? That I would falter where you would stand firm? Say it plain, Elladan! You speak of grief doubled—yet you would sit idle while shadow gnaws at him. I will not.”

Elladan rose from his chair in a fluid motion, the slant of his shoulders taut with anger long held in check. “Idle?” he bit back. “You call prudence idleness, brother? I have watched you since this began. Your fire consumes you, and you would fling yourself into the dark with no thought but vengeance. That is not love, it is folly dressed as devotion.” He took a step closer, his gaze hard, his voice rising. “Would you have him wake to find you also lost, taken by the very thing you swore to fight?”

It was a rare thing for the sons of Elrond to quarrel. They were seldom parted in mind or heart, and those who knew them often said their bond was seamless as mirrored glass. To see anger flare between them now was jarring, as though even their unity had been shaken by the shadow that plagued Legolas.

The tension cracked sharply in the air, but before Elrohir could strike back, Thranduil’s voice cut across them, low and edged like a blade.

“Ever is it the way of the Noldor,” he said, cold and sardonic, “to meet shadow with strife and quarrel, as though contention were their craft above all others. Even here, in my son’s chambers, you cannot resist it. One would think you more eager to war with each other than with the foe that stalks us.”

Elrohir drew in a long breath, his chest rising and falling as though he wrestled the words back from the edge of his tongue. His hand tightened once more around Legolas’s, anchoring himself there, and slowly the fire in his gaze dimmed to a simmer.

Elladan’s eyes never left him. His jaw worked, clenched tight, the muscle shifting beneath his skin as though each unspoken word cost him restraint. He remained standing, shoulders squared, his silence carrying as sharp a weight as his rebuke had moments before.

Thranduil’s hand never left his son’s hair, but when he spoke, his voice carried through the stillness like cold steel drawn. “You stand in my kingdom,” he said, quiet yet unmistakable. “And in the presence of one who cannot lift his own head. If you would quarrel, do so beyond these walls. I will not have discord waged over him as though he were some field of battle.”

His gaze flicked between them, cutting as a blade, before returning to the pale figure beneath his palm.

Elladan’s shoulders eased, the taut line of his jaw loosening as he let out a quiet breath. He bowed his head, his voice low but steady. “Forgive me,” he said, and with a muted rustle of fabric, he sank back into his chair. His hands folded tight against one another, the healer’s patience reclaiming him, though his eyes still lingered on his brother with unspoken weight.

Elrohir did not answer. His gaze had returned to Legolas, and the fire that had flared in him moments before had softened into something far more fragile. He lifted his free hand, brushing the back of his fingers gently along the pale curve of Legolas’s cheek, tracing it with the reverence of one who feared even the slightest touch might break him.

Legolas stirred faintly beneath that caress, a whisper of movement, his breath uneven but present still.

Elladan’s gaze lingered on his brother’s hand against Legolas’s cheek, then lifted toward the king. “My lord,” he said carefully, his voice tempered now, “does his mother have kin yet in Arda? Any who might know more of the gift she bore, and passed to him?”

For a long moment, Thranduil was silent, his hand steady against the golden crown of his son’s hair. At last, he shook his head once, slow and final.

“No,” he said, “Merilien was among the last. She came from a Silvan people who dwelt further north, near the roots of the Grey Mountains. They were closer in spirit to the Avari than to other kindred of their race—few and fierce in their ways. Most are gone now, faded or fallen. She was one of the last of them.”

His gaze dropped to the face upon the pillow, pale and restless. “In her, their line came here, and in him, it lingers yet. But there is no one left who can tell me its breadth. What he bears, he must learn without their guidance. And without hers.”

Elladan’s brow furrowed, his hands clasped loosely in his lap. “Then what is it he carries, my lord?” he asked, cautious yet intent. “What exactly was her gift?”

Thranduil’s gaze remained lowered, as if the words were not easily spoken.

“She was bound to the living world in ways few of our kind remember,” he said at last. “The trees bent to her, and she to them. She could hear their song as speech, and they answered. Her touch could rouse growth, heal blight, and where she walked, shadow dared not linger long. In her presence, the woods themselves seemed to draw breath more deeply.”

His eyes flickered, sharp as glass in lamplight. “He has the same bond, though he has not her mastery. He feels what she felt, the joy and the wound alike, and it pierces him more deeply than most. He can coax nature to bloom, hear whispers where others hear only wind, but he has not yet learned to command it. And so, where she could drive Shadow back, he has little defense. What strengthens him also lays him bare.”

Elladan’s gaze lingered on the still form on the bed, the rise and fall of shallow breath. His voice, when it came, was soft with wonder. “He is truly a gift to the Eldar,” he said.

Thranduil’s lips curved, the faintest shadow of a smile touched with iron. “Do you think it only the Noldor who boast of jewels among their people?” he murmured. “The Silvan know their worth as well. To them, he is no mere son of mine, but a prince promised. A child spoken of in whispers long before his birth; one who would carry both their wild strength and the wisdom of older lines.”

His hand lingered at Legolas’s crown, his eyes distant, shadowed with memory. “His mother herself dreamt of him, years before his conception. She saw him walking in the wood, his hair like sunlight through the leaves, his step light as wind among the branches. She said he belonged to the forest before he belonged to us.”

Elrohir lifted his head, surprise flickering through his grief. “She had the foresight?” he asked quietly, as though the thought itself unsettled him.

Thranduil’s gaze did not waver from the pale face beneath his hand. “Not foresight,” he said, his voice even, threaded with memory. “Not as the Noldor speak of it. But she was as old as the woods she loved, and in her dwelt a wisdom the Avari carried from the first sundering. She listened, and the world spoke to her—trees, waters, and wind. In that listening, she found truth that others missed, and it seemed at times as if she looked beyond the veil of the present.”

His hand shifted slightly, brushing back a lock of fair hair from his son’s brow. “She knew he was meant to be born. Not for crown, nor for Greenwood alone, but for a purpose far greater than any we can yet name. She said he would be called to more than his father’s halls, and that his path would stretch far beyond the wood.”

Elladan’s eyes lingered on Legolas, and when he spoke, his voice was low, touched with something that was not quite surprise. “I have felt it also,” he said. “Not with clarity, nor often, but enough. There is more in him than prince or warrior. A thread I cannot see the end of, yet it is woven with greater purpose than most are granted.” His hand tightened faintly on the arm of the chair, as though holding the thought in check. “At times, it comes to me as foresight does. He is meant for something beyond even Greenwood’s need.”

Elrohir stilled at that, the words stirring something deep in him. He bowed his head, his thumb brushing once more across Legolas’s still hand, before he spoke in a voice edged with hesitation. “I, too, have seen it,” he admitted. “Not of my own seeking, but once, when his hand lay upon Narsil’s shards, and mine covered his. A vision struck me then, so sudden, I scarce knew what I saw.”

His breath caught, and his gaze turned inward, haunted by the memory. “He stood, fierce and unyielding, at the side of a man. Tall, dark of hair, a Dúnadan by his bearing. I knew not his name, but they fought as though fate itself had bound them shoulder to shoulder. And the shadow around them was vast.”

Elladan’s head turned sharply, his gaze fixed on his twin with a healer’s intensity, though something keener stirred behind his eyes. Thranduil, too, had lifted his gaze from his son, his hand stilling upon the golden crown as he regarded Elrohir with cool, unblinking scrutiny.

The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring, until Elladan broke it. “What more did you see?” he asked, his voice low but insistent. “Such visions do not come unbidden without reason. Tell us, Elrohir—what else was shown to you?”

Elrohir’s fingers tightened over Legolas’s hand, his jaw set. For a long moment, he hesitated, the memory shadowing his face as though it pained him to draw the images forth again. He then spoke, his voice low, weighted.

“There was a battle, great and terrible. I saw fire and steel, the air black with smoke and ash. He stood in the thick of it, Legolas, swift as light, his bow singing death into the dark. And at his side, the Dúnadan. They fought as one, their movements bound by a rhythm that was not chance, but fate. As though they had long been brothers-in-arms.”

His breath caught, and his gaze grew distant. “But the shadow,” He shook his head faintly, struggling for words. “It was a darkness unlike any I have felt, pressing upon them from every side. And yet,” his voice dropped, rough with awe, “they did not falter. The two of them stood, and all around them the field turned upon their strength.”

Thranduil’s gaze became distant, as if following threads only he could see. “So,” he said at length, his tone cool but edged with something sharper, “my son is fated to stand beside one of the Dúnedain. Ever does he seem drawn into the legacy of Elros, even as he is already bound to Elrond’s line. Two brothers sundered by choice, yet their blood and fate twine around him as though the world conspires it so.”

Elladan inclined his head slightly, a shadow flickering across his features. “Our uncle’s choice still echoes, it seems. Strange, that it should reach even here.”

Elrohir’s brow furrowed, unsettled. “Uncle?” he pressed. “What do you mean?”

Elladan’s gaze shifted—first to Thranduil, a flicker of something unspoken hardening in his eyes, then back to his brother. There was a concealed edge in his tone, though his words remained steady. “Our uncle once sought the king with a devotion rare even among kin. Much as yours for Legolas,” he added, voice low, deliberate. “But he was spurned, and cruelly. Our uncle chose the path of Men soon after. Father has never forgiven it. He lays that choice at Thranduil’s feet and has hated him for it ever since.”

Elrohir’s breath caught, his thoughts racing. He could not imagine such a sundering—Elladan torn from his side, driven to a fate from which no return could be. The thought alone hollowed his chest, sharp and unbearable. And yet, in the back of his mind, a deeper chill stirred. For had he not once walked the edge of that very choice himself? Weary of the long years of the Eldar, embittered by their silence and wars, he had longed for release, for an ending not bound to unbroken twilight. In his darkest hours, he had envied the swift fading of Men. He had nearly grasped that path and nearly become as his uncle had.

His gaze flicked to Thranduil, grief and anger colliding in him. “Spurned?” he asked, his voice cutting.

Thranduil’s expression did not waver. He regarded Elrohir with cool composure. “Truth is seldom softened by pretty words,” he said at last. “Yes, spurned. I did what I deemed needful then, and I do not repent of it. For had I chosen otherwise, this one,” his hand smoothed faintly over Legolas’s brow, “would never have drawn breath. And you, son of Elrond, would have had no hand to clasp tonight, no heart to bind with your own.”

The words struck Elrohir like a blade. For a moment, he only stared, as though they could not take root. Then his face hardened, fury breaking through his grief. “And this was kept from us?” His voice rose, raw. “All these years, Father’s loathing for Greenwood, for Legolas himself—and we were never told why?”

His hand trembled around Legolas’s, his breath unsteady. “By the Valar. He made us blind to it. Blind to his own wound, and to the truth that binds our houses.”

Thranduil’s hand smoothed once more over his son’s hair, his gaze cold and distant, though his voice carried a sharpened edge. “Ironic, is it not?” he said. “That the same blood which once pursued me now chases after my own. Elros with all his fervor, and now you, Elrohir—different sons of the same house, but alike in devotion, alike in relentlessness.”

His eyes flicked to Elrohir, cool as steel. “It seems the world is ever eager to bind our lines, no matter how often I would see them severed.”

Elrohir’s head lifted sharply, his eyes alight with fire as he met Thranduil’s gaze. “Do not mistake me,” he said, his voice fierce and unyielding. “Our story is not the same. My uncle’s devotion was spurned, but mine is not. Legolas and I are bound to one another in love returned—fierce, steadfast, and unbroken. No shadow and no scorn can undo it.” His fingers curled more tightly around Legolas’s hand, as if anchoring the truth in flesh and bone.

The words hung in the stillness, raw and unshaken, until Elladan’s voice broke it, quiet yet carrying the glint of sly affection. “Not our uncle, then,” he said, his lips curving. “If you must be likened to any tale, it is Beren and Lúthien. Was it not you, brother, who once likened Legolas’s beauty to hers?”

Color rose swiftly to Elrohir’s face, his jaw tightening as memory betrayed him. Elladan’s smile deepened just enough to show the tease, the faintest thread of warmth between them after their clash. It was mischief, yes, but also balm—an older brother’s way of easing the air without denying the truth of what he spoke.

Elrohir’s voice was low but unflinching, his thumb brushing tenderly along Legolas’s cheek. “I said it once, and I will not take it back. His beauty surpasses even that of Lúthien. And unlike her, he is mine, as fiercely as I am his.”

Elladan’s brows lifted, and a glimmer of mischief softened the shadow in his eyes. “Then you must be Beren, are you not?” he teased lightly. “Chasing after a beauty beyond all reckoning, ready to turn the world upon its head for his sake.”

Elrohir’s lips parted as though to retort, but another voice cut through, quiet and cool as drawn steel. Thranduil’s gaze did not shift from his son as he spoke, his tone dry, edged with irony. “If so, then remember well how that tale ended. Beren’s road was paved in grief, not triumph, and his joy was bought at terrible cost. Take care, son of Elrond, lest you bind yourself to a song whose ending you cannot bear.”

Elrohir’s head lifted, his jaw set, eyes flashing like tempered steel. “Then let it be grief,” he said, his voice fierce, steady, and unshaken. “If sorrow is the price, I will pay it. If the road is blood and shadow, I will walk it. For I would rather bear every wound that tale demands than take a single step apart from him.”

His hand tightened over Legolas’s, his thumb brushing once more across the pale knuckles, as though sealing his vow. “I am no Beren, but like him, I will not yield. Not to shadow, not to fate, not even to you, my lord.”

Thranduil’s hand lingered on his son’s hair, his expression calm, but the faintest curve touched his mouth, cool and edged with irony. “Is that why you burn to strike at the Shadow of the East, then? To prove yourself Beren reborn, slayer of wraiths and wooer of legends?”

His eyes flicked toward Elrohir, glinting with a restrained amusement that was no less cutting for its composure. “If so, I should remind you that Beren lost a hand for his folly, and more besides. Choose carefully which parts of his tale you seek to echo.”

A knock suddenly rapped softly against the carved door, low but insistent. Thranduil’s head lifted, the cool line of his mouth hardening back into composure.

“Enter,” he called.

The door opened, and Galion stepped inside, bowing swiftly. His dark eyes flicked once toward the bed before returning to his lord. “My king,” he said, voice low, “a raven has come. It bears tidings from the patrol that rode south to check the watch near Dol Guldur.”

The hush thickened, even the lamplight seeming to still. Thranduil’s hand lingered for a breath longer on his son’s hair before he withdrew it, his gaze fixed upon the pale face beneath.

Elladan rose from his chair, his tone quiet but firm. “Go, my lord. Elrohir and I will remain. We are our father’s sons, trained in both healing and war. He could not be in safer hands.”

For a long moment, Thranduil did not move. His eyes settled on the twins, sharp and measuring, as though he would read in them some flaw, some hidden crack. The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring, until at last he bent over his son, pressing a firm, lingering kiss to his brow. It was a simple gesture, yet it carried the weight of his reluctance, as though by it he left a vow in place of his presence.

“Very well,” he said. His gaze swept once more over his son, fierce and unwilling, before he turned to Galion. Without another word, he followed his steward from the chamber, the door closing soundlessly behind them.

Elladan exhaled slowly, running a hand over his face in a vain attempt to drive the weariness from his limbs. Exhaustion had claimed him before; it clung still at the edges of his thoughts, and he forced it back with an effort of will. His gaze settled again on Legolas, and his heart clenched. Even in unconsciousness, the prince’s features bore the strain of the Black Breath—his brow faintly furrowed, his breath uneven, the pallor of his skin unchanged. The shadow clung to him still, relentless.

He then turned toward the basin, gathering fresh water. His hands moved with the discipline of long practice, but his touch was gentle as he crumbled the athelas, releasing its sharp, clean fragrance into the air. The green scent spread swiftly, cutting through the lingering heaviness, yet it seemed a frail defense against the unseen weight that pressed upon the one lying still beneath the furs.

Meanwhile, Elrohir had not shifted from the bedside. Seated on the edge, he held fast to Legolas’s hand, his thumb tracing slow circles over the chilled skin. With his other hand, he brushed back strands of golden hair that clung damply to his brow. He bent, pressing a tender kiss there, and lingered, his breath stirring faintly against his beloved’s skin.

“Whatever grace is given me,” he whispered, raw and fervent, “let it pass to him.”

The words fell into the hush like a prayer, carried on the bright, living scent of athelas, as though the very leaves might bear them to whatever power listened. Elrohir bowed his head lower still, willing all that he was—strength, hope, even breath—to flow into the one he could not bear to lose.

Elladan’s hands stilled over the bowl, the sharp green scent of athelas curling into the air between them. He had not meant to intrude upon the whisper, yet the plea carried clearly in the hush. For a moment, he watched his brother bent over Legolas, lips pressed to his brow, the weight of love and grief in every line of him. The sight pierced him more keenly than any blade.

“You cannot give him your strength,” Elladan said at last, his voice low, steady, meant as much to soothe as to instruct. “Healing does not pass so.” He set the bowl carefully aside, then stepped closer, his gaze softening as it lingered on the clasped hands. “But do not think it worthless, what you do. The spirit hears, even when the body cannot answer. Sometimes love steadies what no draught or skill can reach.”

Elrohir lifted his head, grey eyes shadowed and bright all at once. He did not loose his hold; if anything, his grip tightened, his thumb brushing once more across Legolas’s knuckles. His mouth trembled, caught between grief and a fierce, unyielding vow.

Elladan’s gaze lingered on him a heartbeat longer, then he returned to his task, crushing the leaves into the water with renewed care. His words, softer now, drifted into the hush. “Stay with him. Speak to him. It may be the one thread that holds him fast.”

He bent over the bowl, his hands steady as he worked the crushed leaves into the steaming water. The sharp, living scent of athelas rose strong, cutting through the heaviness that clung to the chamber like a veil. He studied the vapors a moment, then lifted his gaze to his brother.

“Raise him a little,” he said quietly. “Set pillows beneath, so the steam may reach him better.”

Elrohir moved at once. With infinite care, he slid an arm beneath Legolas’s shoulders, mindful of every breath, and eased him upright. He tucked the pillows close until Legolas lay supported, his head turned slightly toward the bowl. Strands of pale hair slipped across his brow, and Elrohir brushed them back, his hand lingering against his temple a heartbeat longer than needed.

Elladan drew nearer with the bowl, fanning the fragrant steam toward Legolas’s face. The green scent deepened, filling the chamber like a forest after rain, sharp and alive.

Elrohir’s gaze lingered on the one he held, his voice low, unsteady, heavy with unease. “He still does not wake,” he murmured. “His eyes remain closed, as if even in sleep he cannot find the strength to rise.” His thumb moved gently across Legolas’s knuckles, though his touch trembled with the fear behind his words.

Elladan did not speak at once, intent on coaxing the vapors closer. The hush deepened, the athelas working its slow, unseen grace, while the two brothers kept vigil at either side of him.

His hand moved in slow, steady motions, wafting the steam toward Legolas’s face. At last, he spoke, his tone quieter than the whisper of leaves. “Rest is no enemy here, brother. His body fights even in slumber, and it will take time before he can rise from it. Better that his eyes are closed than staring into shadow without relief.”

Elrohir’s brow furrowed, his gaze not leaving Legolas, but his grip eased faintly at the words.

Elladan’s mouth curved with the faintest wryness as he added, “Though I wonder if our father’s lessons have all gone to waste. You spent half your youth hearing him lecture us on such things, and still you doubt every sign of healing the moment it does not come with haste.”

The tease was gentle, but it carried the weight of a twin’s affection, a small ember of warmth in the hush.

Elrohir gave a short, bitter huff that might have been a laugh. “Had our father been here, he would have filled the air with lectures while Legolas lay gasping for breath. Forgive me if I place little faith in his remedies.” His words were edged with dryness, but beneath them the anger still smoldered.

Elladan’s eyes flicked toward him, the faintest shadow of a sigh escaping as he continued to fan the steam. “Even now you cannot speak of him without heat,” he murmured. “Ever are you two at odds—his will against yours, and yours against his. Where I could bend to his counsel, you met him only with fire.”

Elrohir’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. His thumb moved slowly over Legolas’s knuckles, his gaze fixed on the pale face before him, as though it alone kept his temper in check.

Elrohir gave another short, his mouth curving without mirth. “His healing,” he said, voice low and sharp, “is little comfort to me. Our father may set bones and draw out poison, but what use is that, when his words cut deeper than any wound he mends? He cures the body and leaves the heart to fester.”

Elladan’s hand stilled where it moved above the steaming bowl. He glanced at his brother, his voice soft, edged with concern. “There is more in your anger than sharp words, Elrohir. I have long heard it in your tone, but you have never spoken it plain. Is it only his sternness you resent, or is there something more?”

For a moment, Elrohir said nothing. His jaw tightened, the muscle in his cheek shifting as though the force of what he held back might break through if he dared to speak. His gaze remained fixed on Legolas, his silence heavier than any outburst.

Elladan studied him quietly, his eyes gentle but searching. At last, he asked in little more than a whisper, “Is this about mother?”

The words seemed to still even the air, the sharp green scent of athelas hanging close about them as the silence deepened.

Elrohir’s head snapped toward him, his grey eyes blazing as he fixed his brother with a hard, unyielding glare. The silence between them grew taut, his jaw clenched so tightly it seemed words might break through by force alone.

Elladan did not falter. He met the look steadily, his healer’s patience and brother’s knowing giving him calm where another might have recoiled. His voice, when it came, was quiet but sure. “I remember when it changed. You and Father were not always at war. The bitterness began after mother sailed. From that time on, every word between you seemed to strike like flint against stone.”

Elrohir’s nostrils flared as he drew a deep, measured breath, his chest rising sharply before falling again. Still, he glared, the silence bristling, his grip on Legolas’s hand tightening as though to anchor himself against the tide Elladan’s words stirred.

The silence snapped with a small, pained sound from the bed. Both brothers flinched, their quarrel forgotten as their eyes flew to Legolas. His brow had drawn faintly, a shadow of discomfort flickering across his face.

Elrohir looked down in dismay, realizing how hard his grip had become. He loosed Legolas’s hand at once, his own fingers trembling as though he had struck a wound. “Forgive me, my heart,” he breathed, the words breaking from him in anguish. He bent quickly, pressing his lips to the back of Legolas’s hand in a touch so light it barely stirred the skin. His fingers followed after, stroking gently as if to soothe away the mark of his own thoughtless strength.

The furrow in Legolas’s brow eased, though faintly, and Elladan released a long, quiet breath. The sharpness between them dissipated, dissolving into the heavy hush of the sickroom. The scent of athelas lingered thick in the air, sharp and green, carrying with it the fragile thread of calm restored.

Elrohir drew in a long breath, ragged at the edges. His eyes, still glistening with the remnants of anger, softened into something far more raw. “Yes,” he said at last, the word escaping like a blade wrenched free. “It is about her.”

Elladan’s head turned fully toward him, his gaze steady. Elrohir met it, unflinching, though his jaw worked as though the words were tearing themselves loose.

“I can never forget,” he said, his voice breaking low, “how we found her.” His hand trembled where it held Legolas’s, but he did not let go. “The stench of them was everywhere—orc filth, blood, smoke. She lay there…” His throat closed, and when he forced the words out again, they shook. “She lay there broken, her body marred, her light dimmed. Her eyes—those eyes that had always held such warmth—clouded with terror. We lifted her, carried her home, but I knew.” His gaze dropped, tears gathering despite his struggle to contain them. “I knew before any healer spoke that her spirit was already half gone.”

His voice faltered; his lips pressed hard against Legolas’s knuckles, wet with the heat of his tears. “How could I forgive him? How could I forgive silence, or hesitation, when she was left to such a fate?”

The chamber seemed to tighten around the memory, the sharp scent of athelas unable to cleanse the wound of words spoken at last.

Elladan’s eyes softened, though his own face was taut with the weight of memory. “Elrohir,” he said quietly, his voice the gentlest murmur, “do not think he grieved less than we. I remember the look in his eyes when she sailed—there was no healing for him in that parting. Whatever else lies between you, know that he did not love her less.”

Elrohir’s head snapped toward him, his expression blazing. “Love her?” he spat, his voice trembling with fury. “He failed her. All his wisdom, all his power—yet he could not shield her from their hands, nor keep her light from fading. He let her slip from us into torment, and then into the West, and we were left with nothing but his silence.”

His hand tightened once more around Legolas’s, though this time his touch trembled not with strength but with desperation. Tears glinted on his lashes, fierce as the words that tore from him. “He is the greatest healer in Middle-earth, Elladan. And still, he failed her.”

Elladan straightened, his voice no longer soft but clear, carrying the weight of his own conviction. “Enough, Elrohir. You know as well as I that no healer could have undone what was done to her. Orc poison, orc torment—some wounds run too deep for any skill to reach. Do not lay upon him a burden that no hand in Arda could have borne.”

Elrohir’s head turned sharply, his eyes blazing as tears burned in their corners. “Do not excuse him to me!” he hissed. “You saw her, Elladan. You carried her body as I did, felt how frail she had become, how her light guttered. And where was he? Drowning in silence, in counsel, in endless waiting, when he should have torn down the mountains stone by stone to bring her back to us!”

His breath shook, fury and grief spilling in equal measure. “He is our father—her husband. And still, he failed her.”

Elladan’s eyes closed briefly, as though steadying himself against the force of his brother’s fury. When he opened them again, they shone faintly, tears gathering unbidden. His voice, though firm, was thick with grief.

“Do you think I did not see it?” he said, low but edged. “Do you think I did not feel her slipping from us with every breath? I carried her, too, Elrohir. I felt her trembling in my arms as though she were already half-gone. And I saw him. I saw our father broken in ways I had never thought possible. Do not tell me he did not suffer, that he did not fight for her in every way he knew how.”

His hand tightened unconsciously on the rim of the bowl, knuckles whitening. “He failed no more than we did. And yet you heap the blame upon him alone, as though your grief gives you leave to make him the villain.”

Elrohir’s breath caught, his lips parting in fury and anguish both, his tears cutting hot tracks down his cheeks as his gaze locked with his brother’s.

Elrohir’s breath came sharp, his chest rising with the force of words he could no longer hold back. “Always,” he spat, his voice trembling, “always you take his side. You defend him, excuse him, speak of his sorrow as though it wipes away his failings. And Arwen—” his voice cracked, raw with bitterness, “she is no better. She clings to him, gentle and dutiful, never daring to see the cracks in him, never daring to speak what we lived. The two of you would cloak him in endless mercy, while I am left to bear the truth alone.”

His hand trembled where it clasped Legolas’s, his eyes fierce and wet as he glared at his twin. “You would rather defend the healer, the lord, the father you imagine him to be, than name the one who let our mother slip into torment before our eyes.”

Elladan’s tears silently spilled, hot against his cheeks, but his voice rose sharp and unyielding. “Do not speak to me as though I did not suffer it too!” he hissed. “I bore the same nightmare you did. I carried her broken body, heard her cries, felt her slipping from us. Do not dare say I hid from that truth. It seared me no less than you.”

His chest heaved, his eyes burning through the blur of tears. “You call me blind because I will not heap all blame on him, but I will not twist my grief into hatred as you do. Our father failed no more than we did, and I will not stand here and let you speak of him as though he were some coward who abandoned her!”

The words rang with a force seldom heard from Elladan, his usual calm shattered, grief and fury breaking from him in equal measure.

Elrohir’s face hardened, his nostrils flaring as though to strike back, his eyes bright with anguish and rage both.

His voice tore through the hush, fierce and unrelenting. “That same filth has now reached for him,” he spat, his grip tightening over Legolas’s hand. “Do you not see it, Elladan? The shadow that broke our mother now coils around him. I will not watch in silence as Father did—I will not stand idle while the one I love is devoured.”

He bowed his head, tears slipping hot onto Legolas’s pale skin. His lips brushed the knuckles he clasped, the whisper escaping between clenched teeth. “Never again. Not while I yet breathe.”

When he lifted his gaze, it burned with a fire that seemed to drive back even the weight of athelas-scented air. “I will go to Dol Guldur,” he swore, his voice iron. “I will hunt the wraith that reaches for him. Khamûl will fall beneath my hand.”

The words struck the chamber like a blade unsheathed, sharp and final, their echo pressing against the walls as though even the stones themselves bore witness to his vow.

Elladan’s head snapped toward him, his eyes blazing through the tears still clinging there. “Madness!” he burst out, his voice rough with grief and anger both. “You would throw yourself into Dol Guldur alone? Against a Nazgûl? Have you learned nothing, Elrohir? We barely pulled Legolas back from the edge, and now you would follow him into shadow by your own folly!”

He took a step nearer, fists clenched at his sides. “Do you think vengeance will heal him? That recklessness will guard him? You would leave him to wake alone, bereft of you, while you go chasing wraiths no blade can master.”

His chest heaved, every word thick with desperation as much as rage. “You speak of Father’s silence, but at least he did not rush headlong to his own ruin! Do not shame her memory by seeking death in the same breath you claim it is love.”

The sharp scent of athelas swelled in the chamber as though to cut through the storm between them, but it could not mask the heat of their voices.

Elrohir shot to his feet, his chair scraping sharply against the stone. His eyes blazed, his voice rising fierce and unrestrained. “I fear no wraith!” he spat. “I will not cower behind walls and wait while that creature spreads its rot through the wood. Let it come against me—I will cut it down and see its shadow broken!”

His chest heaved with the force of it, the fire in him wild and consuming. The hand he had kept on Legolas trembled with the strength of his rage, though he never loosened his grip.

“Enough!” Elladan’s voice cut through, taut with command though it trembled at the edges. He stood and stepped closer, eyes fierce with his own grief. “Calm yourself, Elrohir! This fury blinds you. You are no use to him if you lose yourself to wrath. Sit down, before your words carry you beyond reason.”

His gaze then dropped, sharp and unyielding, to where Elrohir’s hand still clutched Legolas’s. “Release him,” he said firmly, though his voice was quieter now. “You will bruise his hand with your grip.”

Elrohir blinked, startled as though waking from a fevered dream. He looked down and saw the whiteness in Legolas’s knuckles beneath his hold. His breath caught, and at once he loosened his fingers, spreading them wide in a trembling gesture of surrender. Guilt carved itself into every line of his face as he drew his hand back to rest instead atop the furs, hovering close but no longer clutching.

Elladan’s tone softened, though his eyes remained intent. “He needs your strength, yes, but not like this. Do not make war upon the very hand you would keep safe.”

Elrohir bowed his head, shame flickering through the fire in his eyes, his chest still heaving with the remnants of anger he could not wholly set aside.

For a long moment, silence pressed close again, broken only by the faint rustle of furs and the soft hiss of steam rising from the bowl. Elladan did not move, his gaze lingering on his brother with a healer’s calm, but beneath it his jaw remained taut.

At last he spoke, his voice low, coaxing but steady. “Brother, this wrath cannot mend what is already done. Nor can it guard him now. If you would keep him, then keep yourself. Be the strength he will need when he wakes, not another wound waiting to fall upon him.”

Elrohir drew a long, unsteady breath, his hand hovering above Legolas’s as though he dared not touch him again. His eyes, rimmed red with grief, lifted at last to his twin, and though they still burned, the fire in them had dimmed to something quieter—anguish, fierce and unrelieved.

His throat worked once before the words tore free, rough and unguarded. “I cannot bear it,” he whispered. “I could not survive seeing him taken as she was. If the shadow claims him, if it steals him away into fear and silence. I will not endure it.”

His hand hovered over Legolas’s once more, then settled with exquisite care, fingertips barely grazing knuckles as if any weight might harm him. “I could not save our mother,” he said, voice fraying. “I will not live to watch this fate fall upon him.”

Elladan’s jaw eased, the anger ebbing from his face until only grief remained. He stepped closer, letting his shoulder brush his brother’s in a quiet, anchoring touch. “Then breathe,” he murmured. “Stay. Be the voice he knows, the hand he trusts. This is how you fight what took her, by refusing to leave him to it.”

He lifted the bowl again and fanned the green steam toward Legolas’s face. The air sharpened with the clean scent of athelas, bright as rain on stone. “Let the leaves do their part,” Elladan said more softly, “and we will do ours.”

Under their joined watch, a faint change stirred; no miracle, only the smallest easing. The tight line of Legolas’s brow loosened by a hair’s breadth; his breath, though shallow, found a steadier rhythm. Elrohir pressed his lips to the back of that still hand once more, but this time the kiss was steady, a vow made quiet.

“I am here,” he breathed. “I will not let go.”

The chamber settled once more into hush, broken only by the faint crackle of the lamps and the rhythm of Legolas’s breath. Elladan’s hand moved steadily, fanning the sharp scent of athelas across the prince’s pale face, while Elrohir bent close, his fingers resting lightly against the one he held, as if the contact alone might anchor him to life.

Together, they kept their vigil, eyes fixed upon the fragile stillness before them, yet neither could see the truth that stirred beneath closed lids. 

For while they labored to draw him back to waking, Legolas was far from them, drawn into shadowed paths where no hand could follow.

Dream took him, relentless and deep.

The warmth of the furs fell away, the scent of athelas with it, and in its place came the chill of damp earth and the press of darkness, heavy as a hand upon his chest.

The dark fell away, and he stood once more beneath trees. They arched above Legolas in endless green, their crowns laced with shafts of gold as though sunlight itself had been caught and woven into the leaves. The air was rich and sweet, carrying the scent of moss and blossom, and each breath filled him with a peace so pure it ached. A hush lay over the wood, not silence, but a living stillness, like the pause of dawn before the birds begin their song.

Legolas stilled, wonder stirring in his chest. This was no forest he knew, and yet it was all forests—Mirkwood as it had been in his childhood, Imladris in its fairest spring, even the wild glades of Lórien he had only heard sung of. Here, the world seemed whole, unmarred, each leaf and stone shining with the memory of what Arda once was.

His hand rose of its own accord, brushing the smooth bark of a nearby beech. Warmth answered his touch, thrumming faintly beneath the surface, as though the tree itself knew him and welcomed him home.

Then he heard it—soft, lilting, a sound that pierced deeper than air or leaf.

“ Legolas… ”

The word stole his breath. It drifted through the branches, light as a song meant for a cradle, tender with love unshadowed. His heart clenched. He knew that voice. He would know the cadence of it if all the ages of the world passed him by.

“Naneth,” he whispered, the word breaking from him as though it had waited all his life to be spoken again.

Again it came, nearer now, the syllables carrying like silver through the hush. “ Legolas… ”

Every part of him leaned toward it, his feet moving before thought could catch them, drawn down the green paths as though the earth itself urged him forward. The sound wrapped around him, familiar and beloved, and he followed, each step quickening, his pulse racing with the ache of a child who had longed too long to hear his mother’s voice once more.

And then, through the glow of the trees, he saw her.

She stood a little way ahead, clad not in jewels or raiment of state but in light itself, as though the forest had poured its very soul into her form. Her hair, long and chestnut-dark, spilled loose about her shoulders, catching the green shimmer of the leaves. Her eyes—green as the deep heart of the wood—met his at once, bright and unshadowed, and her lips curved into the smile that had lived only in fragments of memory.

Yet even as he beheld her, sorrow struck him. For he realized how the years had misted her face in his mind. He had thought he remembered her clearly, but grief had blurred her features into dream. Now, she stood before him more vivid than he had ever recalled—fiercer, lovelier, her presence so radiant that his chest ached with it. Tears swelled unbidden, stinging his eyes as though sight itself could not bear such joy.

Slowly, she lifted a hand, slender and pale in the light, her palm open in gentle summons. The motion was simple, but it struck him to the core, as though all the longing of his childhood—every night he had wished for her voice, every hour he had strained to remember her touch—was answered in that single gesture.

“Legolas,” she called, her voice soft as wind among leaves, yet it carried through him like song.

His breath caught, breaking raw from his lips. “Naneth…”

And with tears hot upon his lashes, he stepped forward, each pace drawn by a love older than memory, deeper than grief.

He stumbled the last few steps, and she was there—waiting, arms opening with a grace that seemed timeless, as though this embrace had been held in reserve for him since the day she left the world. She drew him in without hesitation, gathering him against her with the surety of a mother reclaiming what was always hers.

The warmth of her enveloped him, her hands smoothing over his back, her breath stirring his hair. A sound broke from him then, raw and unguarded, the kind of weeping he had long buried beneath crown and duty. He clung to her as though he might dissolve if he let go, his fingers knotting in the fabric of her gown, desperate to prove she was not some fading dream.

His tears fell unchecked, hot against her shoulder, each one a grief loosed after long captivity. His voice, when it came, was fractured, torn from the depths of him. “So many years have I longed for this. For your hands to hold me again.”

She pressed her lips to his brow, her touch soft and certain, her embrace unyielding. Her hand moved through his hair with the gentleness of memory made flesh, and the sound of her voice seemed to bind the breaking within him.

“My little leaf,” she whispered, her words warm as sunlight through leaves. “My beloved son.”

At last, she drew back just enough to look at him, her hands rising to cradle his face as though he were still the babe she had once held against her heart. Her thumbs brushed the wetness from his cheeks, gentle as falling rain, though her own eyes shone bright with unshed tears.

“How beautiful you have grown,” she whispered, her voice reverent, breaking with wonder. “Far more than I could have dreamt. You are no longer the child I held, yet you are still mine.” Her gaze softened, searching the lines of him with a mother’s knowing. “I see much of your father in you—the steel of him, the grace. It rests in your bearing, in the fire behind your eyes.”

Her lips curved, tender and wistful, as she smoothed her thumb along his cheekbone. “And yet,” her voice caught, hushed as though she scarcely dared say it aloud, “there is much of me as well. In you, we are both made whole.”

Legolas’s breath broke against her touch, his tears spilling freely now, unheeded. He leaned into the warmth of her hands, as though anchoring himself in a memory made flesh. “I feared I had forgotten you,” he whispered, voice trembling. “So many years, and your face had grown dim in my mind. Yet now—now I see you, and I know I never truly lost you.”

A tremor passed through him, and he drew a shuddering breath. “But is this a dream?” he asked, the plea raw in his voice. “Am I only lost in shadow, with my heart conjuring what it longs to see?”

Her hands tightened against his cheeks, her green eyes soft with love. “If it is a dream,” she murmured, her voice a caress of leaves stirred by wind, “then it is a good dream. For in it, I am with you again.”

His hands rose, covering hers where they cradled him, desperate to hold her closer. “I have longed for this, naneth—for your arms, your voice, and your light. I have dreamt of it, waking and sleeping, wishing only for your hands to find me again.”

His voice thickened, the words breaking into urgency. “And I have questions, so many questions. About the gift you left me, the gift that binds me to the wood. I do not understand it, not as you did. It pulls at me, tears at me, and I cannot master it. Tell me—help me to know what it is, and why it feels as though shadow hunts me because of it.”

Her thumbs moved gently across his cheeks, catching the tears that would not cease. Her eyes, green as the deep wood, lingered on him with pride tempered by sorrow. “It hunts you because it cannot break the Greenwood while you endure,” she murmured. “Your song steadies its roots, your touch strengthens its boughs. Where you walk, the forest remembers its strength; where you breathe, its heart beats against the dark. Even now, in your untried years, you have sheltered more than you know.”

Her hands cupped his face more firmly, as though to shield him from the very truth she spoke. “And so the shadow seeks you. If it cannot strangle the wood, it would silence the voice that gives it life.”

She lowered her brow to his, her breath warm and steady against his skin. Her words softened, but the weight of them could not be hidden. “Do not think it weakness that draws its malice, my leaf. It is your strength that it fears. That is why it comes for you.”

Legolas’s tears clung to his lashes, his breath ragged against her shoulder. “Why?” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Why must I be hunted for a gift I do not understand? It feels as though the very shadow itself seeks me, and I cannot fathom what I have done to warrant such pursuit.”

Merilien’s hands tightened upon his face, her gaze steady, luminous, and terrible in its clarity. “Because it cannot master Greenwood so long as your light roots it deep.”

His breath caught, grief swelling anew. “Then it will never cease,” he murmured, anguish roughening his tone. “It will follow me all my days.”

Her green eyes softened, yet in their depths some darker gleam began to stir, subtle at first, like stormlight hidden behind sunlit leaves. Her fingers, once warm, grew cool against his skin, though she did not release him. “Yes, my leaf,” she whispered, the lilt of her voice shifting, weighted now with something colder. “It will follow you. But why resist what cannot be turned aside?”

The glade dimmed, shadows stretching long across the grass. The trees around them seemed to draw back, their song falling to a hush. Her smile lingered, sweet as before, yet the sound beneath her words was not wholly hers. “Do not fight it, Legolas. Embrace it. Let it take you, and you will know its power. Only then will you master it.”

The sweetness of her tone clung to him, but beneath it throbbed a deeper note, hollow and cruel, until the very air seemed to tremble with it.

Legolas stilled beneath her touch, his breath catching as if the air itself had turned thin. The words—soft though they were—struck through him like a frost. For all the years he had longed for her voice, never had he dreamed it would speak thus.

His brow knit, tears trembling on his lashes as he searched her face, desperate for the warmth he had once known. “Naneth…” His voice was hoarse, almost breaking. “Why would you bid me such a thing? To yield to shadow, to let it claim me. How can that be your counsel?”

The forest shivered with him, branches curling inward as if recoiling from what had been spoken. Her hands still framed his face, but they seemed heavier now, their warmth ebbing into something colder, stranger. And in her green eyes—those eyes he had carried in memory all his life—there flickered a light that was not hers, sharp and alien, as though some hidden flame stared back at him through the beloved shape he longed for.

Her hands held him, but the warmth he yearned for seemed to fade, replaced by a weight that pressed cold against his skin. Her voice softened, sweet as ever, yet the words that spilled from it cut like frost.

“Because, my leaf,” she whispered, “to resist is to suffer. You are hunted because you defy what was meant to be. But if you cease the struggle, if you open yourself to what calls, you will know peace. No more chasing shadows, no more torment. Take its hand, and you will no longer be torn.”

Her green eyes glimmered with a light he could not name, too bright, too still. “Through you, Greenwood could be released from its burden. The shadow would not need to war against it, for your song would become its own. Order would return to Middle-earth—swift, unyielding. One hand to bind, one will to guide. And you, my son, need only surrender.”

Legolas froze, her words striking with a wrongness that chilled his very marrow. “No…” he whispered, the plea catching in his throat. His blue eyes, still glistening with tears, widened as clarity cut through the haze of longing. This was not his mother. It could not be.

He stumbled back, his breath shuddering, grief twisting into dread. A sudden rush of wings tore through the stillness—a bird breaking violently from the branches above. Its cry rang sharp in the hush, fleeing into the unseen sky.

Legolas turned at the sound, desperate for some anchor in the waking world. But when he looked back, the vision had shifted. She was gone.

In her place lay the memory he had carried since childhood, buried but never silenced. His mother’s body sprawled upon the earth, her hair dark and tangled with blood, her fair face hidden against the dirt. The grass about her was stained crimson, thick with the iron stench of death. Around her lay the guards who had sworn their lives to their safety, cut down in ruin, their forms twisted and broken where they fell.

The scene was gruesome, unflinching. It was the last he had seen of her—the sight seared into him, shaping every shadowed dream since boyhood. One that his mind had long hidden.

His breath broke, ragged and thin, as if the years between had dissolved and he stood once more as a child, staring at the unthinkable. Tears welled anew, blurring the horror before him, but nothing could soften the sharp edges of that truth.

Legolas tore his gaze away, his chest heaving as he staggered back. He turned, fleeing blindly, as though distance alone might spare him from the cruel vision. His feet struck the ground that shifted beneath him, the grass giving way to something harder, flatter, and stretching wide beneath an empty sky.

He slowed, breath ragged, and only then did he see the land about him. No longer a forest’s dappled shade, nor the blood-stained glade of memory, but vast, barren plains stretching in every direction. The air was heavy, oppressive, and beneath it the earth seemed to thrum with echoes of grief—sorrow that felt older than his own life, older even than the walls of his father’s halls.

A shiver ran through him. He did not know this place, had never set foot upon it, yet some part of him recoiled as if the very soil remembered slaughter.

And there, alone upon the plain, stood a figure. Tall, robed in faint shadow and light, his bearing unmistakable even though Legolas had never stood before him. A hand extended outward, beckoning, and the features resolved into a face he knew only from tapestries, from the faded pigments on ancient parchment, from the stories half-whispered at feasts.

His breath caught, his heart stumbling in his chest. “Daeradar…” he whispered, voice breaking in wonder. Oropher.

The likeness was undeniable. Pale hair stirred faintly, though no wind moved. Eyes of piercing blue, clear and proud, shone with the same light Legolas had so often glimpsed in his father—and, dimmer yet, in his own reflection. The proud carve of the jaw, the straight line of the brow, the height and bearing of a king unbent; all were there, made living before him.

Legolas’s throat tightened, his chest aching with wonder and grief entwined. Yet, even as his heart leapt, his mind recoiled. His voice came low, breaking, as he forced the words past trembling lips. “You are not here,” he whispered. “This cannot be. It is a shade, a trick of my longing. My grandfather walks no more upon this world.”

Yet still, his pulse thundered, shaken by awe, by longing. For though he named it false, every beat of his heart cried out at the sight of Oropher standing before him, hand outstretched as if to claim him from the wastes of shadow.

The figure’s hand did not falter, his gaze steady as he spoke. His voice rolled across the desolate plain, rich and resonant, carrying with it the timbre of command, yet softened with something that struck against Legolas’s heart like a half-remembered song.

“Legolas,” he said, and the name seemed to linger in the air. “I have longed to look upon you, my child’s son, fruit of my line. Never did my eyes behold you in life, and yet now, here you stand.”

Legolas’s breath caught. The cadence of the words struck him strangely—Sindarin, yet with a lilting undercurrent unlike what was spoken in Greenwood. It was older, heavier, touched with the accent he had sometimes heard slip unbidden into the Sindar lords of old, and even in his father’s speech, rare and fleeting. The lilt of Doriath, carried on a voice that should have been forever lost.

The hand extended once more, pale and sure, and the tall figure’s eyes glinted blue, proud and piercing, too near to his father’s gaze to be mistaken. “Come nearer,” Oropher said, the faintest glimmer of longing woven beneath his command. “Let me look on you, child of my house. You are the branch of the tree I never lived to see bloom. Let me behold what I left behind.”

“No,” Legolas whispered, shaking his head, the word breaking on his lips like a sob. His blue eyes were fixed on the figure, wide and unwavering. “You are not real. My daeradar never looked upon me in life, and he does not stand before me now.”

The denial trembled as it left him, though his heart beat with wild longing—for the hand that steadied his father, for the grandsire he had never known. It ached in him, sharp as hunger, yet he forced the truth into the air like a blade.

“This is a dream,” he said again, his voice roughened but firmer now. “You are not him. You cannot be.”

The figure did not falter at his words. Instead, Oropher’s likeness drifted closer across the barren plain, each step soundless upon the desolate earth. His hand remained outstretched, his voice rolling over the stillness.

“Grandson,” the voice pressed, rich and beckoning. “Do not deny me. For long have I waited to behold you. In life, the chance was stolen from me, but here it is returned. Would you turn from me, when I have longed so dearly to gaze upon you?”

The words wrapped about him like silk, warm with promise, heavy with chains. Blue eyes gleamed in the face before him, glimmering with pride and a hunger that seemed like love, but too sharp, too deep. In the tapestries, Oropher’s gaze had been proud, but not like this—never with that shadow flickering beneath the surface.

The ache of longing struck fierce and sudden—longing to know, to be known, to hear a voice call him grandson with truth. Legolas’s feet shifted of their own accord, the beginnings of a step forward.

Hesitantly, as though against his own will, Legolas moved closer. Each step fell soundless on the barren ground, drawn by the pull of that voice, by the face he had only ever seen in thread and paint. At last, he stood before the figure, the lines of kinship carved unmistakably, though sharpened by something darker.

Oropher’s hand came to rest against his cheek. The touch was cool, yet heavy with weight, as though the very plain leaned closer to witness. Legolas’s breath trembled; almost without thought, his own hand lifted, pressing over that phantom palm, seeking solidity where none could truly be found.

The figure’s lips curved, voice resonant with pride that struck like a blade sheathed in velvet. “Thranduil’s son,” he murmured, eyes gleaming, “how wondrously you were wrought. Fairer than dawn upon green leaves, swifter than the wind through ancient boughs. To think that my own blood could fashion such a marvel—beauty to humble the proudest Noldo, strength to shame their brightest jewels. You are the crown I was denied, the living proof of what was torn from me.”

The praise washed over him, warm and perilous, a tide that seemed to cradle even as it sought to pull him under. His chest ached with longing, to believe, to lean into it, and yet a deeper thread of dread pulled taut, whispering that the love in those words cut too sharp to be wholly true.

Legolas’s breath shuddered, his chest rising against the ache that pressed inward. His hand trembled where it rested atop the phantom’s, torn between clinging and recoiling. To see those eyes was a wound and a wonder both.

His lips parted, and the words slipped out like a confession torn from the marrow of him. “Cruel,” he whispered, voice breaking soft against the barren air. “Cruel, that a dream should give me what life never granted. Your hand, your gaze, your voice, and mock me with its falsehood.”

“Yes, cruel indeed,” Oropher’s likeness murmured, his palm cupping Legolas’s cheek as though in mourning, lies spilling forth. “Cruel that I fell not to Orc or fire, but to the spears of my own kind. It was the Noldor who cut me down at Dagorlad, their arrogance keener than steel, their pride more ruinous than any foe.”

The hand upon his face, once warm, tightened by slow degrees. Fingers dug into his skin, not a caress now but a grip, hard and merciless. Legolas flinched, his breath catching sharp in his throat, shoulders jerking as if the hold seared through flesh into bone. His hands twitched, caught between wrenching free and reaching up to steady himself against the cruel touch.

“And crueller still,” the voice pressed, silk unraveling into venom, “that my own blood lies tangled in their bed. You, grandson of Oropher—taken into the arms of Elrond’s son, as though you were some trophy to be claimed. Elrond, who stood by while I bled the life from my body, who bent his knee to Gil-galad while I was trampled into the mud. Tell me, what honor is left in you, son of my child, when you warm the sheets for the house that watched me die?”

The barren plain seemed to shudder beneath the words, the sky bruising darker above. His grip bit deeper, cruel fingers pressing as though to brand him with shame, each word a lash meant to flay him open.

Legolas clenched his eyes shut, the venom in that voice burning through him like poison. His breath came ragged against the crushing hand, and for a heartbeat, he prayed the darkness behind his lids would grant him escape. But when he forced them open, the world had shifted, and his soul reeled.

The barren plain was gone. In its place stretched a field drenched in carnage, the stench of blood and iron thick enough to choke him. Torn banners of Greenwood lay trampled in the muck, their green and gold smeared dark with gore. All about him, the bodies of his kin lay scattered—faces pale, eyes glassy, mouths frozen in silence where once they had cried war-cries to the wind.

And there, at the heart of the slaughter, lay his grandfather. Oropher sprawled amid the ruin, his fair hair matted with filth and blood, his armor shattered through by shafts of Orc-forged steel piercing his body, jutting like cruel markers. The mud had claimed him half-swallowed, and yet his face was still turned skyward—empty-eyed, lips slack, robbed of every vestige of the king Greenwood had lost.

The sight tore through Legolas like a blade. This was no noble memory in gilded tapestry, no proud figure framed by his father’s reverence. This was ruin, raw and merciless; the truth of death writ in gore. His knees buckled, his chest seized with horror, his blue eyes wide and unblinking as though to shut them now would be a cowardice he could not afford.

A sound cleaved the stillness—a cry so raw it seemed torn from the marrow of the world. Legolas flinched, his heart seizing, and turned toward it with dread already in his bones.

Through the ruin she came, her step faltering yet still touched with the unearthly grace of the Sindar. Pale hair streamed loose around a face he knew only from portraits and half-faded tapestries: his grandmother, Oropher’s queen, long lost before his birth. Even beneath the mire of blood and shadow, her beauty was unmistakable—noble, sorrowful, every line of her bearing speaking of a realm sundered with its king.

Her gown was torn, stained with mud and gore, yet she paid it no heed. She dropped to her knees in the filth, gathering Oropher’s mangled form with trembling hands. She lifted his head from the mire and drew him to her chest, her tears streaking pale against her face as her voice broke in a keening wail that seemed to tear the sky itself. It was not a cry for the dead alone, but for Greenwood, for all that lay shattered with him.

Legolas staggered a step nearer, his breath choking in his throat. Her grief struck him with a force beyond words, as though her lament were woven into his blood. He raised a hand helplessly, but his lips formed no sound.

Her sobs shook her slender frame as she bent over Oropher, pressing her face to his blood-streaked brow, her voice breaking into Sindarin lament, the syllables heavy with a sorrow older than he could bear. The field seemed to echo her wail in endless refrain, until it filled every corner of the barren sky.

And Legolas, standing helpless amid the ruin, felt that grief cleave him open, as if it had lain waiting in his blood all along.

Her sobs broke suddenly into silence, ragged and shuddering. Slowly, she lifted her head from Oropher’s bloodied brow, her tear-streaked face turning toward him. Her eyes met Legolas’s, and what he saw there froze his blood.

“Do you not see?” she whispered, her voice hoarse with grief, yet threaded with something darker, a cadence not wholly her own. “There is no resisting. Shadow claims all in the end—king, queen, warrior, child. Even your grandfather fell, though he was fierce as flame. Why, then, should you fight? Yield, my child. Embrace it. Let it take you, and your struggle will be over.”

Her hands, still red with Oropher’s blood, stretched toward him, pleading and terrible all at once. “Give yourself to it, and all pain will cease. One hand clasped, one vow spoken, and Greenwood itself would bow, spared its torment. You were meant for this. Do not waste yourself against the tide.”

Legolas staggered back, shaking his head violently, tears stinging his blue eyes. “No,” he gasped, breath breaking as though the air itself sought to betray him. “You are not her. You cannot be. My daernaneth would never speak such words.”

Her face blurred before him, grief twisting into a mockery of tenderness, her outstretched hands clutching at the air.

With a cry torn from his chest, Legolas turned and fled, his feet striking the ruined plain. He did not know where he ran, only that he must. If he lingered, if he listened to this dream, he feared the shadow might yet snare him in its coils.

His flight carried him blindly, each breath a ragged plea for escape. Yet the forest fell away beneath his feet, the earth curdling into blackened stone. Walls rose, jagged and wrong, not built but clawed up from the marrow of the world. The air was foul, thick with ash and rot, each breath a wound, each shadow alive with whispers.

He staggered, and only then did he see his hands. His knives gleamed faintly, pale silver dulled by the darkness, their hilts biting into his palms as though they had been forced there. He could not remember drawing them, yet they belonged to him as surely as his own heartbeat.

The ground beneath him pulsed, a sickly thrum that rattled through his bones. From the walls oozed a damp, fetid mist, as though the stones themselves bled rot. Every corner seemed to breathe, slow and rasping, waiting for him to falter.

Then it came.

A cry, shrill and piercing, erupted from the depths. It was no mortal scream, no beast’s roar, but a sound that split marrow from bone. A Nazgûl’s wail—endless, merciless. It scraped along his spine like rusted iron, dug into his skull like claws, hollowing his chest until breath itself became agony.

The knives shook in his grip, the silver edges quivering as though they too recoiled. His heart thundered, each beat hammering fear into his blood. The fortress breathed with the cry, shadows twisting and writhing, as if eager to drag him down into their waiting dark.

And Legolas knew, with a dread that stole the strength from his limbs, that he was no longer merely dreaming of shadow—he was standing inside its heart.

His breath came hard, but he forced his steps forward. His knives gleamed faintly in the dim, each stride echoing hollow against the stone. Fear pressed close, talons scraping at the edges of his spirit, yet he set his jaw and did not falter. He had been raised beneath Greenwood’s eaves; he had stood before shadows all his life. If this was the heart of the terror that hunted him, then he would face it as a prince of the wood.

The wail faded, drawn into silence too complete, too listening. Then a voice rose in its place—low, rasping, terrible in its weight. It seeped from the walls, the stones, the air itself, each word coiling like smoke through the dark.

“ Little sapling ,” it crooned, the name twisted into mockery, cruel and intimate. “ Son of the forest. Do you think your roots can hide you? I have tasted the marrow of kings, I have broken lords beneath my hand. What hope has a stripling of bark and breath such as you? Did you think you could flee my gaze forever? ” 

The syllables throbbed with malice, as though spoken by something vast and bodiless, too great to be contained in a single throat. It burrowed into his bones, thick as tar, pressing his knees toward the earth.

Legolas’s grip tightened on his knives until his knuckles whitened, his blue eyes narrowing against the shadows that writhed around him. His voice, though low, rang steady with defiance.

“Show yourself,” he said, his tone sharp as steel. His gaze swept the darkness, piercing though it met nothing. “Nazgûl or shade, I fear you not. Come forth, if you would speak to me.”

His heart thundered, each beat a drum of dread and resolve alike. He turned slowly, blades lifted, eyes straining through the clotted dark. Shadows shifted like smoke around him, refusing form, yet the voice only laughed—a sound like iron grinding against stone, vast and merciless.

The laughter thinned into silence, then the voice coiled low, heavy as pitch, seeping into marrow.

“I know what festers in you ,” it hissed, each word scraping like rusted iron. “The stench of Oropher’s pride, brittle and broken. And deeper still—the blood of the wild stock, rootless, unbent, clinging to mud and shadow. A strain that never learned obeisance, never bowed to light. You think it strength? It reeks of loam and rot. Old sap, old songs, sour with decay. ”

The sound slithered closer, pressing at his skin like unseen claws. “ You are no prince, little sapling. Strip away the silks, and what remains? A half-feral whelp of trees and dirt, raised on whispers and bark. You are no jewel, only a root clawing blindly in darkness. ”

Legolas’s grip on his knives tightened until his fingers ached. His breath came sharp, shoulders drawn rigid, yet still he stood. The voice pressed harder, its weight like a hand forcing him toward the ground.

“I could grind it out of you,” it purred, venom laced with mockery. “Snap you like green kindling, bleed that wild blood into the dust until it is nothing, and the world would not remember you. Your sire’s crown could not shield you. Your mother’s gift could not save you. All that lineage, all that song, and still you would be carrion in the end. ”

The shadows writhed closer, brushing cold across Legolas’s skin like breath. His knees bent before he willed them straight again, chest heaving, blue eyes narrowing through the dark. Terror gnawed at him, but beneath it, his defiance burned sharper still.

His breath shuddered in his throat as the dark pressed closer. Then, unbidden, his gaze dropped, and the ground itself betrayed him.

At his feet, three forms lay stretched in a grotesque row. His heart lurched, his knives clattering faintly as his grip faltered.

Oropher first, sprawled as he had seen before—armor shattered, pale hair matted with blood, spears jutting like cruel thorns from his broken frame. Beside him, the slender figure of his grandmother, her hair clotted, her face drowned in grief eternal, lips still parted in a scream that had never ceased. And last—dearest and most unbearable—Merilien. His mother lay as he remembered her last in childhood: face pressed to the earth, hair strewn across her, but here she was no vision softened by memory. Her skin was ashen, streaked with blood, her green eyes open and clouded, staring through him into nothing.

Legolas staggered back, the bile rising sharply in his throat. His breath came ragged, his knives trembling in his hands as if they, too, recoiled from what they beheld.

And over it all, the voice unfurled again, dark and merciless.

“Look well, sapling,” it crooned, mockery dripping from every syllable. “Behold the lineage you cling to—each cut down as easily as young trees in a storm. Your proud grandsire, trampled into the mire at Dagorlad by those he called kin. Your frail grandmother, undone not by blade but by grief so deep it rotted her from within. And your mother, snuffed out for her defiance, her voice silenced before it could teach you how to wield what she bore. ”

The laughter that followed was jagged, grinding, like stone torn across stone.

“I killed them all,” it whispered, cruel and intimate. “By spear, by sorrow, by shadow, I unmade your line long before your breath was drawn. And now you stand, the last tender leaf, trembling on the bough. Do you think I will not pluck you, too, and make of you the sweetest spoil? ”

The corpses at his feet seemed to shiver in the dark, their eyes turning toward him, glassy and unseeing, yet fixed upon him all the same.

Legolas’s chest heaved, his blue eyes wide with horror, every nerve screaming to flee, but still he stood, knives raised though his hands shook, his spirit torn between defiance and the terror that threatened to crush him.

Legolas’s jaw locked, though his chest heaved, each breath dragging like glass. He forced the words out, blades trembling but raised.

“I am not the last leaf,” he said, voice cracking but fierce. “My father and I will not yield. Together, we will cast you out. Greenwood will not fall to you.”

For a moment, silence swallowed the world. Then laughter rose, low at first, then swelling into a sound vast and merciless, a grinding mockery that made the stone quiver beneath his feet.

“Not the last? ” the voice jeered, thick with venom. “You cling to lies, sapling. Look, then. Look to your left, and see what becomes of your vaunted strength. ”

Against his will, Legolas’s head turned.

The knives slipped from his hands, clattering lifeless to the stone.

Thranduil lay there.

His father’s form was broken and cruelly cast aside, robes riven and soaked through with dark blood. His pale hair was clotted and streaked with filth. The proud circlet of his brow had been bent and crushed, twisted into mockery. Worst of all were his eyes—blue as Legolas’s own, but staring blank and glassy, emptied of all life and fire. His lips, which had so often curved in wry command and kissed his brow, hung slack in silence.

Legolas staggered forward a step, then dropped to his knees with a cry torn raw from his throat. “Ada!” The word was no longer prince nor warrior, but child, desperate and broken. Tears surged hot, blinding him, spilling unchecked as his hands reached out into nothing, fingers trembling in their futility.

The voice laughed louder, a roar that cracked like fire in stone, filling the dark until it seemed the air itself shuddered.

Legolas’s vision swam, his blue eyes fixed in horror on the ruined body of his father. His chest convulsed with sobs, his tears cutting hot trails down his bloodless face as he bowed forward, helpless before the image.

And all around him the laughter rolled on, vast, unending, merciless.

Legolas’s breath shuddered as he forced the words out, a broken whisper to himself. “It is not real. None of this is real. Only a dream.”

The vast laughter ceased, and for a moment the silence pressed so thickly it seemed even the stones held their breath. Then another voice slid forth, thinner, rasping, a serpent’s hiss wrapped in mock devotion. It crept close, slick and vile, curling into his ear as though whispered from just behind him.

“My lord,” it purred, dripping reverence that tasted of rot, “grant him another vision. Show him the mongrel he clings to. The stink of him is on this one still—sweet with sweat, ripe with longing. He reeks of the Noldo, every breath of him tainted by the Half-elven’s whelp.”

The voice twisted, breaking into laughter like shattered glass. “Greenwood’s heir, silken beneath the covers for a son of Imladris. Is this the jewel the fallen king dreamed of? Is this what his line bled out on the fields for? A prince reduced to a plaything, rutting with the very blood that watched his kin die?”

The air itself seemed to recoil, thick with poison. Legolas’s stomach turned, the weight of the words dragging like chains on his chest. Yet still he lifted his head, trembling, blue eyes burning through the blur of tears.

Legolas’s lips parted, a whisper breaking raw against the weight of the dark. “Two voices,” he breathed. “Not one.”

The air trembled, the shadows stirring like ash disturbed. The first presence lingered vast and oppressive, its weight pressing from all sides, cold as iron and fireless flame. But near at hand the second coiled closer, thin and rasping, every word slick with malice.

The nearer one had named the other its lord. The words clung in the silence like a brand, marking out rank and dominion. One was the master—vast, bodiless, suffocating in its might. The other, crouched and servile, moved like rot gnawing at the roots of a tree, close enough to whisper poison into his ear.

Two shadows twined about him, not one. And their voices now filled the dark, circling, pressing, as if the chamber of his dream had become a cage between master and servant, hunter and prey.

Legolas rose, slow and unsteady, but rose nonetheless. His heart bled at the sight of his father’s broken form upon the ground, yet his chin lifted, proud even in grief. The knives trembled in his grip, not from weakness, but from the force of his resolve. His voice cut into the silence, hoarse but unyielding.

“Enough. You veil yourself in shadow, you weave lies from blood and memory, but still I stand. If you would hound me further, then show yourself.”

The plain convulsed with sound. A shriek burst from the dark, high and piercing, a blade of sound that tore through flesh and marrow alike. Legolas staggered, wincing, his hands clenching hard around his hilts as the cry raked across his skull. The air itself seemed to shiver with it, and for a moment the world narrowed to that one, unending note of torment. Still, he did not fall.

When at last it broke, the silence returned fouled, heavy with malice. Then came the laughter—jagged, scraping, cruel.

“You would see me, sapling?” the nearer voice hissed, twisting the name into mockery, each syllable dripping with venom. “Then see.”

From the heaving dark, something moved. Cloaked in black, it slid forward like smoke dragging weight, soundless, and relentless. The folds of its raiment stirred though no wind touched them, and each step left the air colder, fouler.

The hood turned, fixing on him. Beneath it, there was no face, no mask, only a void. A darkness deeper than the night around them, writhing as though alive, hollow yet watching. It was absence made flesh, and its malice pressed against him until his breath came hard and shallow.

Legolas’s stomach twisted, his skin chilled to the marrow, yet his feet held. His blades lifted, thin gleams of light in the void, his blue eyes fixed and unwavering. Though the dread gnawed at his bones, though his spirit quailed, still he stood against the horror.

Before him, the second of the Nine—Khamûl—loomed revealed, a figure of emptiness and ruin, its very presence rotting the earth where it tread.

From the void beyond Khamûl, the other voice unfurled again, vast, resonant, thrumming like iron dragged across stone. It seeped from every crack in the fortress, so immense it seemed the walls themselves bent to carry its will.

“Little Greenleaf,” it murmured, almost gentle, almost kind—yet every syllable was weighted with rot. “Why fight the tide? You bleed because you resist. You suffer because you flee. Lay down your defiance, and all torment will end. ”

The air thickened, the very stone quivering with the venom of its promise.

“I will show mercy,” it went on, the words a serpent’s hiss wrapped in velvet. “Your Greenwood shall not burn. Its roots shall not wither. Its people will know peace and order if you but bow. One word, one surrender, and they shall be spared. ”

The voice lingered, thick as smoke, sinking into bone. “But stand against me, and the forest you love will choke upon its own song. Its leaves will blacken, its rivers run foul, and every life within it will curse your name. ”

Khamûl stirred at the words, a low rasp of laughter escaping the hollow beneath his hood, as though savoring the cruelty of the lie.

Legolas’s shoulders straightened, grief raw upon him, but pride burning through it like tempered fire. Though his knees trembled, he lifted his chin, his blue eyes hard as ice beneath the press of shadow.

“You will not have me,” he said, his voice low but unshaken. “Nor will you have my people. Greenwood is not yours to claim, nor shall it bow to false mercy. My father yet stands, and I stand with him. We are not so easily broken.”

The vast voice did not answer at once, but the silence was worse—thick, listening, seething with malice. Then Khamûl shrieked, a piercing cry that split the air like iron tearing, jagged and merciless. Legolas flinched, pain lancing through his skull, the knives quivering in his hands.

The darkness thickened, rushing close as though to smother him. It writhed at the edges of his sight, clawing with unseen hands, pressing until his breath caught. His gaze darted upward—and there, once more, lay the form of his father, sprawled lifeless upon the blood-soaked ground.

Terror surged like a blade through his chest, but even as his vision blurred, something shifted, the cruel scene wavered, cracking at the edges like glass strained too far. The shriek echoed, then thinned, as though heard from a distance.

Shadows pressed closer, clutching, dragging, but light pricked faintly at the edges of his sight, the first thin thread pulling him back. His hands still clutched his knives, his breath ragged, but he felt the world tilt, the false plain and the fortress beginning to falter, yielding to something beyond.

Legolas wrenched free of the dream with a ragged gasp, the sound tearing the stillness of the chamber. His eyes flew open, wide and stricken, breath sawing in his chest as though he had run leagues through shadow. The close walls of his own chambers swam into focus—the carved stone, the flickering torchlight, the lingering sharpness of athelas heavy in the air.

On either side of him, the sons of Elrond leaned close; Elladan on his right, Elrohir on his left. Their faces were taut with worry, hands bracing him as he lurched upright, furs sliding from his chest.

“Legolas—wait—” Elladan’s voice pressed low, firm with a healer’s urgency. “Do not rise so quickly—”

“Peace, beloved,” Elrohir urged, one hand steady at his back, the other still clasping his chilled fingers. “You are safe.”

But their words could not pierce the terror in his eyes. He looked from one to the other, blue gaze burning, wild, as if the dream had followed him waking. His chest heaved, his hands trembled.

“Where is my father?” he demanded, voice rough and desperate, cutting through the hush. “Where is he?”

The question hung like a blade, startling in its urgency. The twins exchanged a glance over his head, their silence weighted, uncertain.

Elrohir leaned close, his hand steady at Legolas’s shoulder, his voice pitched low to soothe. “Peace, Legolas. He has only stepped out with Galion. Your father is near—you are not forsaken.”

But the words struck no calm. The echo of the dream still clung to him—the vision of his father’s lifeless form upon the barren plain, eyes glassed and bloodied, a sight more terrible than any blade could wound. That horror burned behind his lids even now, and it seized his heart with dread.

Terror blazed in his eyes, raw and unguarded, and with a sudden burst of will, he flung the furs aside. “Then I must go to him,” he gasped, his breath ragged, limbs trembling as he forced himself upright. The pallor of his face was stark, sweat beading his brow, yet still he fought to stand.

“Legolas—no!” Elladan was at his side in an instant, healer’s reflexes quick and unyielding. He pressed firmly against Legolas’s chest, driving him back against the pillows with a controlled but inexorable force. From the other side, Elrohir caught him, fingers clamping to his shoulder, holding him down with the strength of desperate love.

“You cannot,” Elladan said, his voice hard with fear though hushed with urgency. “The Black Breath clings yet—you would fall before you reached the door.”

“Release me!” Legolas’s cry broke sharp, ragged, his hands clutching at theirs in frantic resistance. Blue eyes, wide with terror, fixed only on the door as though salvation lay beyond it. 

It was a side the twins had never seen of him—the prince stripped of composure, frantic as a wounded bird, thrashing against the very hands that held him safe.

With a sudden surge of strength born of fear, Legolas bolted upright once more. His shoulders strained forward, but the twins were swift; Elladan caught him at the chest, shoving him firmly back against the pillows, while Elrohir gripped his arm, holding fast.

“Lie still!” Elladan commanded, his tone edged with alarm. But Legolas thrashed against their hold, his blue eyes wide with terror, his voice raw with urgency.

“Unhand me!” he gasped, his cry breaking sharp as steel. His fingers clawed at theirs, frantic, his gaze darting toward the door as though it alone held salvation. “Do not keep me from him!”

The sharpness of his voice carried beyond the chamber. The heavy door burst open, and two Greenwood guards rushed in, blades half-drawn in alarm. Their eyes swept the scene—the prince struggling beneath the twins’ grasp, his voice hoarse with terror, the bedclothes in disarray about him.

“My lords!” one called, stricken. “What is happening here?”

The other stepped further in, his face taut with worry. “What has befallen the prince?”

“Hold him,” Elladan snapped, his healer’s authority cutting through the din. He loosed his grip only long enough to push away from the bed, striding swiftly toward the small chest where his supplies lay. “Do not let him rise, Elrohir.”

The guards had already stepped forward, alarm in their eyes, but Elladan’s voice arrested them as he snatched up mortar and flask with practiced speed. “The prince is in a frenzy of spirit,” he said sharply, words clipped as he worked the draught together. “Some vision grips him—we know not what. But you will not touch him. I will prepare something to bring him rest.”

Elrohir bent low over Legolas, tightening his hold as the prince writhed weakly against him. His hand, though firm, was tender where it cradled shoulder and arm. “Hush now,” he whispered, his voice pitched low and steady, though grief weighted each word. “It is all right, Legolas. You are safe. Your father is near. All will be well.”

Elladan’s hands moved with relentless speed, grinding and mixing, the sharp tang of herbs rising sharp as steel in the air. The guards hovered, uncertain, but Elrohir bent low over Legolas, his hold steady though his own breath faltered at the wildness in the prince’s eyes.

“I saw them,” Legolas gasped, his voice a raw, broken cry. His chest heaved, every word dragged from him like a wound torn open. “Not one—two. Two shadows in the south.” His fingers knotted in Elrohir’s sleeve, desperate, unyielding. “One vast, one near—master and servant. One called the other lord.”

Elrohir’s heart clenched, his voice taut with dread. “Two?” he pressed, fear bleeding through his urgency. “Legolas, what did you see?”

The words burst from him, fevered, unstoppable. “My mother, my grandparents—slain before me. Their faces twisted in death, blood everywhere, their bodies torn and broken.” His blue eyes shone wide, drowning in terror. “Then the south—the black stone beneath me, the knives in my hands, their cries in the dark. One voice, deep as fire, cruel as chains, mocking me.” His body convulsed with the memory, his hand gripping Elrohir’s as if to anchor himself to the living.

Another sob ripped free, his words tumbling over each other. “And the other voice shrieked, near to me, laughing. Mocking you, mocking us. It said I reek of you, Elrohir. That I warm your bed. It laughed as though our love itself was filth.”

His whole frame trembled as he cried out again, the pitch near breaking. “Then my father—” His breath seized, his eyes wild with remembered horror. “I saw him dead. Dead in the mud, his crown broken, his body—” His voice cracked, torn apart, “I saw him gone, and I could not reach him!”

Elrohir’s heart stilled, horror striking him as sharply as the vision itself. He gathered him close, though the prince still thrashed. “No,” he whispered fiercely, grief riven through his voice. “No, Legolas, he lives. Hear me, he lives. It was shadow, nothing more.”

But Legolas only shook in his hold, the terror spilling unrelenting, his body trembling as though he still stood before that black hall and its voices.

Elladan was at the bedside in an instant, a small cup clutched in his hand, steam curling from its rim with the sharp bite of crushed herbs. His command cut across the chamber, low and clipped. “Stand fast,” he told the guards, grey eyes like steel. “We know not of this frenzy’s cause. He must be stilled, or the shadow will break him further.”

He dropped to his knees, his healer’s composure wrapping itself over the panic that coiled in his chest. “Legolas,” he said, voice pitched low, steady against the tumult, “forgive me.” One hand slipped behind the prince’s head, bracing it with gentle strength, while the other brought the draught near.

Legolas twisted, breath ragged, his hands clutching desperately at Elrohir’s sleeve. “I will not sleep,” he cried, terror sharpening his voice, blue eyes wild and unfocused as though the chamber itself had turned to phantoms. “You will not make me sleep!”

“Hush now,” Elladan murmured, though the firmness in his tone brooked no refusal. “This will not steal your mind, nor cast you into dreams. Only calm you, only cool the fire that consumes you. Nothing more, I swear it.” He tilted the vessel, but when Legolas turned his head away and clamped his lips shut, Elladan’s patience hardened into necessity.

“Elrohir,” he said tightly. At once, his brother obeyed, cupping Legolas’s face with both hands, steady but unyielding. Elladan pressed thumb and forefinger to his jaw, forcing it open with healer’s skill as much as strength. The draught touched his lips, and the prince gagged against it, but Elladan did not falter.

The struggle was brief, desperate, a clash of fear and necessity, but the first swallow passed, and then another. Elladan whispered his apologies with every breath as he guided the cup, each word a balm against the force of his hand. At last, the draught was taken, and the cup lowered empty.

Elladan eased him back against the pillows, his palm smoothing damp strands of hair from his brow. His touch lingered, gentle now, as though to erase the memory of restraint with reverence. “Peace, Legolas,” he murmured, his own breath uneven. “It is done. You are safe.”

The draught lingered bitter on Legolas’s tongue, the taste sharp as crushed bark and steel. he coughed once, his chest heaving, but Elrohir’s hands steadied his face, holding him gently as though touch alone might anchor him against the storm.

Slowly and reluctantly, the fight bled from him. The tightness in his limbs eased, the wild thrashing subsiding to tremors. His breath still came ragged, sharp against the hush, but no longer with the edge of frenzy. His eyes, though wide and glistening, flickered with the first signs of faltering strength, his panic dulled beneath the weight of the draught.

Elrohir bent close, his voice a murmur that trembled with both relief and fear. “That is it, my heart, let it ease you. I am here. We are here.” His thumb brushed gently along Legolas’s temple, a tender counterpoint to the struggle just past.

Elladan remained kneeling, his healer’s calm unbroken outwardly, though his shoulders sagged with quiet release. His hand smoothed once more through the golden hair dampened by sweat, the motion slow, steady, insistent in its gentleness. He watched the tremors soften, listened to the breaths even by degrees, and only then let out a long, quiet breath of his own.

The guards lingered by the door, tense but unmoving, their eyes fixed on the prince who had so seldom been seen undone.

Elrohir did not lift his gaze from the one he held, but his voice cut low across the chamber. “Go—summon the king. Tell him his son has woken, yet shadow still clings to him.”

The guards bowed sharply and withdrew, the door shutting with a muted thud that left the room heavy in its wake.

Silence swelled, broken only by the ragged pull of Legolas’s breath and the quiet murmur of the twins. Elladan’s hand moved slowly through his hair, each word he whispered meant to steady rather than command. Elrohir’s lips brushed Legolas’s temple, his voice a litany of comfort—soft, urgent, as though sheer devotion might yet shield him from what hunted his dreams.

The chamber seemed to hold its breath with them, the air thick with the green bite of athelas, sharp and living, clinging like the last fragile ward against the dark.

Far from Greenwood, another chamber stirred. In Imladris, Elrond’s reverie fractured, his half-open eyes widening as breath tore sharply from him. For a heartbeat he did not move, the stillness of his bedchamber broken only by the echo of that sudden gasp. The lamplight burned low, shadows pooling along the carved stone, yet the air itself had shifted, chill and heavy, as though grief had seeped through the very walls.

He did not rise. He only lay there, taut with a listening dread, his gaze fixed upon the darkness beyond the window. What had seized him was no vision shaped with clarity, no foresight he could name, but something deeper—an echo not born of his own spirit. It pressed into him raw and unbidden, terror not his own yet carried on the thread that bound blood to blood.

His hand lifted slowly to his brow, but the gesture did little to drive it away. The shadow clung, heavy with grief and dread, until certainty settled cold within him; it was not his darkness he had woken to, but another’s. And though it bore no name, no face, still he knew—it had touched one tied to him, and its echo lingered, bitter, in his veins.

Yet reverie would not return to him. The chamber felt close, the air too still, as though the very stones held their breath. A foreboding pressed against his spirit, familiar as the taste of dread, yet offering no clarity, only the weight of what must come. It was the edge of foresight, unbidden and cruel, and it pulled him eastward.

Elrond rose, dark hair spilling loose about his shoulders, and crossed to the balcony. The night air met him cool and sharp, carrying the distant murmur of the Bruinen, but even the river’s song could not quiet the fire that smoldered in his blood. He set his hand to the carved stone and looked out across the mountains.

There lay only shadow, ranges veiled in moonlight, forests unseen beyond the horizon. Yet his gaze pierced further still, reaching across leagues he could not walk, to Greenwood shrouded under its ancient boughs. It was there the dread coiled thickest, a weight upon his chest that no breath could ease.

Long he stood in silence, the wind tugging faintly at his sleeping robes, the world hushed as though it, too, listened. At last, his lips parted, the words scarcely more than breath, yet carrying like an oath into the dark.

“It draws near.”

And the night gave no answer but silence.

Chapter Text

The corridors lay hushed as Thranduil strode through them, the sound of his tread sharp against the stone. Galion kept pace a step behind, his face composed though his eyes betrayed what the king already knew—the tidings borne by the raven were grim. Feren’s voice still echoed in memory, low and clipped with the weight of command, as they had spoken swiftly of the southern patrol.

The bodies of the southern watch had been found at last—scattered in the leaf-mold, torn in ways that bespoke not only spider malice but something fouler still. Some lay wrapped in webs, their limbs twisted at unnatural angles, as though toyed with before death. Others bore wounds too precise, throats opened as if by a cruel hand rather than fang. Their eyes were blackened, sunken, as if shadow itself had hollowed them from within. The patrol sent to recover them—the one who loosed the raven north—spoke of the stench of rot clinging to the clearing, of silence so deep even carrion-birds had fled. No sign of ambush remained save for the corpses, laid out like a warning, or a lure.

But it was not the raven’s tidings alone that pressed his stride into swifter measure. For as he turned from council with his captain, the guards that were dispatched to find the king intercepted him. Their words had been careful, yet what they described stripped him of stillness: the prince thrashing in his sleep, his cries breaking raw into the chamber, calling for his father as though the sound might draw him back from the dark. His breath came uneven, shallow, as though shadow still clung to his lungs. Elrohir and Elladan’s voices had risen in heated quarrel, sharp enough that even the guards beyond the doors had heard the clash. And through it all, the chamber itself seemed weighted, an unseen pall heavy enough that even seasoned warriors had felt unease at its presence.

Now, every pace drove him back toward those carved doors, his jaw set, his thoughts a blade’s edge between anger and fear. The raven’s tidings were ill, yet worse by far was the thought of finding his son’s chamber a battlefield of discord and shadow.

The familiar doors loomed ahead, tall and grave beneath the torchlight. Thranduil did not slow. With one hand, he pushed them wide, the wood groaning faintly as they yielded, and the air within rushed to meet him: sharp with athelas, heavy with lamplight, threaded with the raw hush of grief and devotion.

His gaze fell first upon his son. Legolas lay still beneath the furs, his skin as pale as carved marble, his lips parted with the faint rasp of breath. His face seemed drawn and unnaturally slack, as though drugged, his lashes dark crescents against cheeks drained of all warmth. Damp strands of gold clung to his temples, glistening in the lamplight, and the rise of his chest was shallow, uncertain—each breath as if wrested from some unseen grip.

Beside him sat Elrohir, clasping his hand as though to anchor him to the world, his head bowed, dark hair falling forward. Elladan stood a little apart, a basin steaming in his hands, the sharp green scent curling through the chamber. Both twins looked up at once as the king entered, their faces shadowed, strained.

Thranduil’s composure held, but iron lay beneath it. His words cut low, cold, and unmistakable. “Speak. What transpired here while I was gone?”

Elladan was the first to find his voice. He set the basin carefully upon the nearby table, the steam curling pale between them, and inclined his head with a healer’s composure.

“My lord,” he said evenly, though fatigue shadowed his features, “the prince was overcome by shadow in your absence. His body thrashed as though seized in torment, and he cried out for you by name. We used athelas to steady his breath, and for a time, it eased him; however, the Black Breath lingered. In the end, I was forced to give him a draught to still his unrest, else he would have lost himself further in the struggle.”

Elrohir’s head lifted sharply, his grey eyes darkened with fire. “Lingers, aye, but it clings to him as if it would devour him whole. You ask what transpired, my lord? Your son nearly slipped from us. And while he fought shadow unbeknownst to us, Elladan and I—” his jaw clenched, the words edged with shame and defiance alike, “we quarreled like fools when we should have stood as one.”

Elladan’s glance flicked toward his brother, reproach and grief alike in his eyes, but he said nothing further. The hush swelled again, broken only by the faint rasp of the one upon the bed.

A soft stir drew all eyes at once. Legolas shifted weakly against the furs, lashes fluttering, a faint line furrowing his brow. His gaze turned, unfocused, heavy-lidded still from the draught Elladan had given him, the shadow of exhaustion blurring all clarity. And yet, through the haze, his eyes found the tall figure that had entered the chamber.

“Ada…” The word slipped raw from his lips, no more than a breath, but enough. His eyes, glassy with fever and dream, clung to his father’s face as though it were the only surety left in a world dimmed and darkened.

At the sound of that faint word, Thranduil was already moving. In two strides, he crossed the chamber, and without hesitation, he seated himself upon the carved edge of the bed. The furs dipped beneath his weight as he leaned close, one hand immediately finding his son’s brow. His touch was steady, smoothing damp strands of hair from Legolas’s temple with a reverence that belied the iron in his bearing.

“Legolas,” he murmured, low and fierce, as though the name itself might call his spirit back from the dark. The prince stirred faintly at the sound, lashes fluttering. Weak fingers shifted against the coverlet, groping until they closed upon the edge of his father’s sleeve.

Thranduil’s hand lingered, palm broad and unyielding against his son’s hair. But when he lifted his gaze to the twins, the storm broke through. His eyes, bright and cold as unsheathed steel, fell upon Elladan. The words, when they came, struck like frost splintering stone.

“You dare drug my son in my own halls?” His voice was soft, deadly, every syllable honed to a blade. “Without my leave, without so much as a word—you thought yourself free to pour poison into his veins, as though I were absent and he your charge?”

Elladan stiffened, but he did not recoil. His hands clenched against the basin at his side, knuckles whitening, yet his healer’s poise held. “My lord,” he answered, his tone measured, though weariness shadowed it, “he could not be calmed. His body thrashed as though to tear itself apart, his voice broke in cries for you, and no hand, no herb, no word could still him. Had I not given him the draught, he might have undone himself before our eyes. I did only what necessity demanded.”

Elrohir half-rose from the bedside, grey eyes burning as his voice cut fierce across the hush. “He speaks truth. Your son was slipping beyond our reach. Elladan’s hand held him where neither mine nor yours could. The draught was no cruelty. It spared him from greater peril.”

Legolas shifted faintly at the clash of voices, his fingers tightening feebly on his father’s sleeve, a tether fragile but insistent. His lips parted as if to speak, though only a faint breath escaped.

The storm in Thranduil’s gaze lingered a moment longer upon the twins, but his hand never left his son’s hair. He then drew a sharp breath through his nose, eyes lowering once more to the pale face before him. His voice, when it came again, was quieter, yet no less edged with command.

“You will explain,” he said, his tone carved in iron. “Every breath, every moment that passed in my absence. Leave nothing unspoken.”

Before either twin could answer, a faint murmur broke the hush.

Legolas shifted weakly beneath the furs, his lips moving, breath ragged. “I saw her,” he whispered, his voice blurred and heavy. His unfocused gaze turned toward his father. “She was there. She spoke to me.”

Thranduil froze, his hand stilling in the golden strands. For a heartbeat, he said nothing, only stared at the pale lips shaping that word. When his voice came, it was low and taut. “What do you mean, Legolas? Who did you see?”

Legolas’s brow furrowed faintly. His eyes slipped shut and then opened again. “Naneth,” he said again. “And Daeradar. Daernaneth. All together.” His breath caught, and he shifted restlessly against the pillow. “The voices were calling me.”

Elladan moved quickly, a healer’s concern in his face, but Thranduil lifted a hand to still him without breaking his gaze from his son.

“Calling you?” His words cut with the sharp edge of fear. “What voices were these?”

Legolas blinked slowly, his gaze drifting, the effort of speech carving lines of strain across his face. “Two voices,” he murmured. “One sweet. One dark. Light and shadow both. They pulled at me. I did not know which way to go.”

His fingers tightened faintly against his father’s sleeve, the grip unsteady but insistent, as though the truth of his words rested there more than in the sound of them.

Thranduil leaned closer, his expression carved in stillness, though his eyes betrayed a glint of dread.

Elrohir’s hand closed gently over Legolas’s, his voice pitched low. “He is too far under the draught to answer with clarity, my lord. His mind wanders. Let him rest.”

But Legolas stirred, his head turning against the pillow, lashes heavy. His eyes sought Elrohir, glassy and uncertain, yet fixed as though only one face held him to the world. His lips trembled.

“My grandfather hates me,” he whispered, the words slurred, broken by uneven breath. “He hates me because I love you.”

The chamber stilled. Elrohir froze, the fire in his eyes faltering.

Elladan leaned forward at once, his healer’s composure cracking into alarm. “Legolas,” he pressed, sharp with confusion, “what are you saying? What do you mean?”

Legolas blinked, slow and drugged, but stubbornly held Elrohir’s gaze. His voice wavered, raw. “I saw him. His eyes burned. He said I dishonor him for loving you.” His breath hitched, chest rising in a shallow tremor, the effort of speaking dragging him further down toward the weight of the draught.

The chamber froze at the broken words. 

Thranduil’s hand, steady in his son’s hair, went taut as stone. His gaze sharpened, the air itself seeming to thin as he bent nearer.

“Oropher,” he said, the name a blade on his tongue. His voice was low, cold, and terrible. “You saw him?”

Legolas stirred weakly. “His eyes,” he whispered, each word dragged from him as though weighted. “Fire and scorn. He said I should not bind myself to him.” His gaze shifted, unfocused, toward Elrohir. 

Thranduil’s breath cut sharp through his nose. For an instant the mask of composure faltered, and the shadow of grief crossed his face. His thumb moved once across his son’s temple in a touch both tender and fierce, as though he could shield him from the vision by will alone.

“Delirium,” Elladan said quickly, though unease roughened the calm of his tone. “He is drugged. He speaks in fragments. The draught clouds his mind.”

But Elrohir bent closer, refusing to yield, his hand tightening over Legolas’s. “Clouded or not, it was no idle words. He spoke from his heart, from what weighs on him most. Shadow does not invent what already lives in truth.”

Thranduil’s gaze cut to him then, cold and hard as forged steel. The air bristled with his wrath, the pale light of the lamps catching like fire in his eyes. He did not speak, but the silence itself was perilous, and even Elrohir faltered beneath it.

A faint sound from the bed broke the standoff—a low, distressed murmur from Legolas, his fingers clinging weakly to his father’s sleeve. Thranduil bent at once, smoothing his hair again, his face tightening with protectiveness.

When he straightened, his voice was quiet, but every word was edged in iron. “Leave us.”

Elladan hesitated, healer’s duty warring with obedience, but the weight of the king’s command left no space for argument. He bowed his head and stepped back.

Elrohir lingered, his jaw clenched, his hand still locked over Legolas’s. His grey eyes burned with defiance, refusing to yield.

“Elrohir.” Thranduil’s tone was softer than steel but no less final. “Release him. You will not remain.”

The silence stretched, taut as a drawn bow. Then, slowly, Elrohir loosened his grip. His fingers lingered for a heartbeat longer against Legolas’s before he pulled away. He rose, bowing stiffly, his eyes locking with Thranduil’s in a silent clash of wills, before turning toward the door.

One by one, the chamber emptied. The doors closed behind them, leaving only father and son in the hush. The air was heavy with athelas and fevered breath, and Thranduil’s hand lingered where it had ever been—steady upon the golden crown of his child.

Beyond the carved doors, silence did not hold.

Elrohir strode down the passage with swift, furious steps, the echo of Thranduil’s command striking him harder than stone. His chest burned as though every word had been a blow. To be torn from Legolas’s side, dismissed as though his devotion were naught, while shadow gnawed at the very breath in the prince’s lungs, was a cruelty he could not bear.

The lamplight streaked across his face as he went, glinting in his storm-grey eyes. His hands clenched at his sides, restless, itching for the weight of steel or for some act that might break the helplessness coiled in him. His mind churned with images of Legolas thrashing, gasping for air, whispering in terror, and Thranduil forcing him back into silence and distance.

“Elrohir.”

The call came quick, steady. Elladan’s tread followed, lighter but no less determined, until his hand caught his brother’s arm.

“Wait.”

Elrohir turned sharply, eyes flashing. He tried to wrench himself free, but Elladan’s grip held. He knew that look too well—the set of his brother’s shoulders, the unrelenting line of his jaw, the dangerous light in his gaze. It was the same look Elrohir had worn before battles ridden to despair, before choices made with no thought of return.

“You cannot go on like this,” Elladan said, his tone even but edged with urgency. “I know your face. You will do something reckless. Tell me it is not so.”

Elrohir’s breath came harsh through his teeth, his fury straining against restraint. “Reckless? Legolas lies drugged and fevered, shadow clawing at his spirit. And I was torn from him like a thief in the night. His own father would sooner cast me from his side than trust me to guard him. And you would have me wait?”

Elladan held his gaze, though the words struck deep.

“If Thranduil will not shield him,” Elrohir said, voice dropping to a raw, burning vow, “then I will.”

Elrohir wrenched himself free with a violent twist, the movement sharp enough to sting. He did not break stride; if anything, his pace quickened, boots striking stone like blows.

“Elrohir!”

Elladan’s voice snapped after him, shorn now of calm. He closed the distance with long strides, temper flaring beneath the thin rein of his healer’s restraint.

“You will not tear through Greenwood like some maddened stag,” he hissed, seizing pace at his brother’s side. Frustration edged every word. “Do you mean to challenge Thranduil himself? To hurl your rage at the one whose word keeps this realm from breaking?”

Elrohir’s eyes burned, his jaw hard as iron. “If that word tears me from Legolas’s side, it is no shield but a chain.” His hands curled into fists, white at the knuckles. “I will not stand aside while shadow hunts him. If Thranduil bars me, I will find another way.”

Elladan swung in front of him, blocking the corridor, his patience snapping. “And what way is that? Will you defy the king in his own hall?” His voice sharpened, low and fierce. “You would set yourself against a king in his own stronghold—and for what? To lose Legolas altogether?”

Elrohir halted, chest heaving, the fury in his gaze clashing against his brother’s steadiness. For a moment, the corridor itself seemed to tremble with the heat of their tempers. The silence between the brothers fractured at the sound of hushed voices ahead. Three figures came into view beneath the torchlight—Erestor, Glorfindel, and Feren—walking close, their words low and grim. Dol Guldur , patrol , slain , unnatural —fragments of the south carried on the air like sparks before a blaze.

Elrohir’s head lifted, fury hardening into sudden purpose. His stride lengthened, relentless, each step striking stone like the beat of a war-drum.

“Elrohir,” Elladan muttered, quickening after him, irritation tightening into dread. He knew that look, carved sharp into his brother’s face: rage given direction, too focused to be stopped.

Erestor’s eyes caught them first, keen and unyielding, his voice falling silent. Glorfindel turned a heartbeat later, golden hair catching the lamplight, his jaw set in wary stillness. Feren halted last, hand brushing the hilt at his side, though instinct checked him before he drew.

The corridor hushed around them.

“Elrohir,” Glorfindel said at last, his tone calm but edged, the weight of command beneath it. “You walk with fire in your eyes. What has driven you so?”

Elrohir came to a halt before them, his shoulders rigid, breath burning through his chest. He met Feren’s gaze without yielding, his voice low and flint-hard.

“Tell me what has happened in the south.”

Glorfindel’s brows lifted, and though his voice was courteous, there was the faintest bite beneath it. “Well met, Elrohir. A greeting is custom, even in dark times, though I see you have little patience for courtesy tonight.”

Erestor’s dark eyes narrowed, his tone sharper still. “You forget yourself. To stride up unbidden and press captains for secrets not yet given—it is rash, and reckless besides. If you would be heeded, measure both your tread and your tongue.”

Elladan reached his brother’s side, his hand half-raised as though to still him. “Peace,” he urged, low and taut. Yet Elrohir did not yield; his eyes remained hard, his stance unbroken.

“You speak of rashness,” he said, his voice low and iron-bound, “yet shadow slaughters in the south, and Legolas lies hunted even in his sleep. If tidings are yours, speak them plain. I will have no veils, nor patient delays.”

Feren shifted at last, his jaw tight. “Plain, then. The watch was torn apart—set out like carrion in the dark, their deaths wrought not by spiders alone but by something crueler still. That is what we found. That is what waits in the south.”

Elrohir’s jaw hardened, his voice striking through the hush like steel drawn from a sheath. “I was set to join a patrol. Then put me with one bound for the south. Do not waste me on safer roads when the true peril lies there.”

Feren’s eyes flickered, but before he could answer, Erestor’s voice cut across, cold and clipped. “That is unwise. You know it as well as I. No leave such as this would be granted you—not by the king, and not by your own father. Elrond would never consent.”

The words struck like a door slammed, but Elrohir’s fury surged against them. He stepped forward, grey eyes lit with fire, his voice rising sharp against the stone. “I am no child to be bound by his word. My father’s consent is not my leash. I care nothing for his cautions, nor for his fear. While he sits in Imladris with counsels and scrolls, shadow hunts here. And I will not stand idle while those I swore myself to are left to fall.”

His words rang harsh through the corridor, echoing off stone as though the very walls carried his defiance. Silence followed, taut and heavy. Elladan closed his eyes briefly, knowing his brother’s temper had broken past the point of recall.

“Elrohir.” Glorfindel stepped forward, golden head lifted, the lamplight striking fire along the stern set of his jaw. His gaze fastened on Elrohir, steady and unyielding, the authority of long command in every line of him.

“You will not address Erestor so,” he said, each word deliberate as a hammerfall. “He speaks wisdom, as he ever has, and you would do well to heed it. I will not suffer his counsel to be met with contempt—least of all from you.”

The air grew taut. Elladan’s brow furrowed, his emotions flaring into quiet alarm at the deepening fracture. Feren shifted uneasily, as though sensing a duel of tempers fit to spill into steel.

Elrohir’s breath came fast, his chest rising and falling, the fire in his eyes not dimmed but forced to stillness beneath Glorfindel’s rebuke. His hands flexed at his sides, aching for some outlet his restraint denied.

Erestor remained silent, though his dark gaze lingered upon Elrohir, the disappointment there heavier than any words. It was not anger that cut—it was the sharp, quiet weight of judgment, and the knowledge that he expected better.

Elladan moved at once, stepping between them before his brother’s fury could break its leash. His hand pressed firmly against Elrohir’s chest, a steadying barrier.

“Enough, Elrohir,” he said, voice low but edged with command. “Still yourself before you tear down what little peace remains. You will gain nothing by railing at those who stand with us.”

Elrohir’s jaw clenched, his eyes still fixed past his brother, locked on Glorfindel and Erestor alike. His breath came hard, the storm in him barely checked.

It was Erestor who spoke then, his voice smooth but sharp as honed glass. “Ever has Elrohir spoken more swiftly with his fists than with his tongue. It is an old fault, born of fire, and fire consumes as swiftly as it defends.”

The words landed with quiet precision, a cut more wounding than any shout. Elladan felt the tension in his brother stiffen beneath his hand, the flare in Elrohir’s eyes answering not in denial, but in wounded pride.

Glorfindel’s gaze flicked briefly toward his husband, approval in his stillness, before returning to the twins, watchful and commanding. Feren stood silent at their flank, his face unreadable, though his eyes darted between them with the keen readiness of a soldier who knew how swiftly words might give way to steel.

Elrohir’s eyes swept over them all, and the glare he leveled was fierce enough to sear. For a breath, it seemed he might unleash words that would scorch the stone itself, but fury drove him only into silence. With a harsh breath through his teeth, he turned on his heel, his robes snapping at his stride, and stormed down the corridor toward the guest chambers.

The echo of his steps lingered long after he vanished into shadow.

Elladan remained behind a moment, shoulders taut with the effort of holding his brother’s fire at bay. He inclined his head in apology, the gesture formal though touched with fatigue. “Forgive my brother. His temper outpaces his reason when grief sits on him.”

Erestor’s expression did not soften, though his silence was acknowledgment enough. Glorfindel’s gaze lingered on Elladan with something steadier—understanding, tempered with warning. Feren folded his arms, watching after the path Elrohir had taken, his face unreadable but for the grim set of his jaw.

Elladan bowed once more, then turned to follow, lengthening his stride until the sweep of his robes vanished into the same darkened hall. 

Feren’s gaze fixed on the shadows where the twins had vanished. The silence stretched a moment before he spoke, his voice low, roughened by thought.

“There is a fire in him,” he said. “Too much for any elf I have ever seen. Passion that burns without check.”

Glorfindel’s mouth curved, his tone wry, though his eyes remained keen. “That is the gift of the Half-elven, my dear Captain. Flame enough to light a host, or to set the world alight if not tempered.”

Erestor’s gaze lingered down the corridor, his expression unreadable. “It is the mortal blood,” he said at last, voice smooth but edged with steel. “It gives them haste, fervor, and hunger. Strength, yes, but also blindness. Fire cuts both ways.”

Glorfindel’s mouth curved, a gleam of humor softening the stern cast of his features. “Erestor speaks with authority in this matter. Long has he borne the fire of Elrond—and with far more grace than I could claim. If any knows the temper of that blood, it is he.”

Erestor turned his dark gaze upon his husband, one brow lifting in silent reproof. “You mistake forbearance for patience, Glorfindel,” he said smoothly, though the faintest shade of fondness threaded through the severity of his tone.

Feren’s brows rose at that, his expression unguarded in soldier’s frankness. “Lord Elrond? Does he truly burn so hot? I had thought him all ice and calm, even in council.”

Glorfindel laughed softly, golden head tilting. “Ah, calm is the mask, not the blood. Even Elrond has his storms, though he cloaks them well. Call them tantrums, if you will—he has had his share. Erestor has weathered more than one, and so have I, unfortunately.”

Feren shook his head, a rare small smile flickering across his face despite the shadow of their tidings. “Then the sons have not strayed so far from the sire.”

Glorfindel’s smile lingered, his eyes bright with mischief, though his tone held its usual golden poise. “Take heart, Captain. Best accustom yourself now to such fire. If all runs its course, Elrohir will be Greenwood’s Prince Consort, and you will have the honor of tempering his storms more often than not.”

Feren gave a low huff, half-laugh, half-grumble, though his brows knit in thought. “Honor, you call it? I see already how often my king and he will clash—steel to steel, pride to pride. Neither born to yield. It will fall to us to endure the thunder. And truth be told, that is no strange fate to Greenwood. The line of Oropher has ever run hot; his stubbornness burned fiercely, and so does the King’s. Rarely, but surely, even the prince shows the same flame.”

Erestor’s gaze slid sidelong, the faintest trace of dry amusement at his mouth. “Then perhaps you and I share a fate, Captain—weathering the tempests of lords too proud to bow, and naming it loyalty rather than folly.”

Glorfindel chuckled warmly at that, laying a light hand upon his husband’s arm. “Wise counsel, and kindly given. You will find no better preparation for what lies ahead.”

Feren shook his head, though the ghost of a smile still tugged briefly at his lips before fading to sobriety. “If such storms are to come, may the Greenwood stand the stronger for them.”

Glorfindel’s eyes gleamed, his smile quickening into mischief. “Storms there will be, Captain. Mark my words—Elrohir and your king will clash like stags upon the leaves, antler to antler, proud and unyielding. And you, loyal as you are, will stand too near when the sparks fly.”

Feren gave a short, rough laugh, though his gaze remained sober. “A fine prospect. I can already see their tempers striking like steel. If thunder must sound in these halls, I only pray it shakes shadow more than it shakes us.”

Erestor inclined his head slightly, his tone dry as glass. “You grow accustomed quickly. Take comfort in this—storms pass, though they leave their mark, and oft those marks are the lessons that endure longest.”

Glorfindel chuckled. “Well spoken, as ever. Marks need not be weakness, Captain. In time, they may prove the forest stronger.”

Their voices softened, turning again to low words of the south—the raven’s tidings, the slaughtered watch, the stirrings of Dol Guldur. Torchlight wavered across stone and mail as their steps drew them deeper into the hall, until at last the sound of their speech faded into stillness.

The corridor lay quiet once more, wrapped in shadow and the hush of night.

The first light of dawn pressed pale through the high windows, softened by the heavy curtains. The chamber lay hushed, steeped in the fading scent of athelas and the glow of embers banked low in the hearth.

Thranduil had not left his vigil. The long night had found him seated at his son’s side, his hand clasping Legolas’s with unyielding steadiness, as though by sheer will he could hold him against the pull of shadow.

Legolas stirred, the heaviness of the draught still upon him, though his breath came steady and his gaze found its way to his father’s face. His fingers tightened faintly, the fragile pressure of a child long grown, yet clinging still.

“Adar,” he whispered, his voice hushed, strained with weariness, “tell me, would Grandfather truly be disappointed in me? For loving Elrohir?”

The words fell scarcely louder than breath, but they struck as though they carried the weight of all his fear. His eyes, blurred though they were, searched his father’s with desperate need, as if only Thranduil’s answer could anchor him.

Thranduil’s head lifted at once, his gaze keen and troubled. His voice cut swift and low, sharper than he intended. “Why would you think such a thing, Legolas?”

Legolas’s fingers tightened faintly around his father’s hand. For a moment, he faltered, his lashes lowering as though the weight of the words pressed too heavily to be borne. But the silence urged him, and at last his voice slipped free, hushed and strained.

“In the dream, I saw him,” he murmured. “Daeradar. He stood before me, his eyes burning with fire. He looked at me with scorn, and he said I should not bind myself to Elrohir—that in loving him, I shame our house.”

The confession trembled from his lips, broken by weariness and the lingering haze of the draught. Yet the words lingered in the air like smoke, heavy and bitter. His gaze lifted at last, blurred and searching, fastening on his father’s face as though begging him to tear the vision to pieces with a single word.

Thranduil’s eyes sharpened, and his grip closed firmly over his son’s hand. His voice came swift and unyielding. “No, Legolas. Your grandfather would never have spoken such words to you. He was a stern father and a king of great pride, but cruel, he was not. Whatever your dream showed you, it was not my father’s voice.”

Legolas’s lashes trembled, his lips parting faintly. “Truly?”

“Truly,” Thranduil said, his tone steady though softened with warmth. His thumb brushed lightly across Legolas’s knuckles, as though anchoring each word. “He would have been surprised, as I was. He might have struggled with his pride, as I have. But he would have set it aside for your sake. For his grandson, he would not have turned love into shame.”

Legolas’s eyes glistened faintly, his gaze searching his father’s face. “You believe it so?”

“I know it,” Thranduil answered, his voice lowering to something fierce, protective. “Had he lived to see you grown, he would have spoiled you beyond all measure, nettle sprite. He would have placed every treasure of Greenwood at your feet and thought it not enough. You would have been his delight. Nothing you love could have turned his heart against you.”

At that, Legolas’s lips curved, the faintest ghost of a smile breaking through the haze of the draught. His grip tightened on his father’s hand, fragile yet certain, as though Thranduil’s words had steadied him more than any potion.

Thranduil lifted his hand, tracing the weary planes of his son’s face, thumb brushing lightly along the hollow beneath his eye. His voice softened, yet every word rang with certainty.

“He would have flaunted you, Legolas. He would have shown your beauty as one shows a jewel of the Greenwood, proud beyond measure. And had he lived to see you now, he would have delighted to watch a son of Elrond chase at your heels.”

A flicker of dry humor touched his mouth, though the pride in his tone was plain. “He would have needled Elrond for an age over it, never letting him forget that his child’s heart was caught by his grandson. It would have been his sport at every feast and council.”

The faintest ghost of laughter stirred in Legolas’s breath, blurred, but real. His lips curved, fragile yet luminous, and he leaned more fully into the cradle of his father’s hand, the shadow of his dream eased by the image Thranduil’s words conjured.

“I wish…” His voice was soft, halting. “I wish I could have known him, Adar. Not as a shadow in dreams, but as you remember him. As he truly was.”

The words carried no reproach, only quiet yearning, spoken like a child’s wish given breath at last. His blurred eyes searched his father’s face, as though Thranduil alone might grant him that lost bond.

Thranduil’s gaze softened, the sharpness in his eyes dimming into distance as memory stirred. His thumb lingered against his son’s temple, tracing as though to anchor both past and present.

“I was but a child,” he began quietly, “barely tall enough to string a bow. I had climbed too high in one of the great beeches near our halls in Lindon, where I was raised. The branch gave way beneath me, and I fell. I remember lying breathless, the wind knocked clean from me. I expected his wrath—he had always been quick to sternness. But instead, my father gathered me into his arms and held me close. He told me I was a fool, yes, but his fool, and he carried me home himself, though the path was long.”

A faint curve touched his mouth, wry and tender at once. “That was my father. His temper was sharp, but his love sharper still.”

Legolas’s eyes lingered on him, soft and searching through the haze of the draught. “I would hear more. Of your childhood. Of him.”

For a moment, Thranduil was silent, the past flickering like half-shuttered light across his gaze. He smoothed his hand through his son’s hair, the gesture steady, though his voice, when it came, was quieter.

“Another time, nettle-sprite. To speak of him stirs pride, but pain as well. My heart is not yet ready to walk those paths again. Tonight is for your rest.”

Legolas’s gaze clung to his father’s, blurred by the draught yet intent. His voice came low, a whisper, unsteady. “Adar…when you speak of Dagorlad—you saw him fall, did you not?”

Thranduil’s hand stilled against his cheek, the light in his eyes shadowed. “I did,” he said at last, the words reluctant, heavy. “I saw my father struck down, and it is a sight I cannot forget. To speak of it is to bleed afresh.”

Legolas’s hand trembled in his. His eyes glistened, unfocused from the draught, but his words pressed out. “The shadow showed me more. It showed me you.” His breath faltered, raw. “And then I understood, Adar—what it is to carry such grief. For I saw you lying still, cold as death, your breath gone. I saw you robbed from me as he was from you.”

His voice shook, breaking as the memory forced itself to the surface. “You did not stir when I called. Your crown had fallen, and the light I have always known in you was gone. The shadow made me watch as if it were truth, as if the world itself had been unmade. All the Greenwood seemed hollow, the stars themselves turned dark, and I—” He turned his face into his father’s palm, his breath unsteady. “I felt as though I had already lost you. It split me open. It left me empty, as if nothing remained.”

For a long moment, Thranduil was silent, his hand unmoving against his son’s cheek. When at last he spoke, his voice was low, steady as stone, yet carrying a depth that pierced the hush.

“Elves are not invincible, Legolas. We are bound to Arda, and the future is a veil none can pierce. I will not pretend otherwise. You and I may be called to grief in days yet to come.” His thumb traced gently along his son’s temple, a touch as steady as the words themselves. “But I would never leave you by choice. Not while breath is in me, not while strength remains in these hands. Whatever shadow seeks to twist before your eyes, it is a lie. I will not turn from you.”

His gaze burned into his son’s, fierce beneath the quiet. “You are my heart, Legolas. No darkness, no malice of fate, could ever make me yield you. If death comes for me, it will not be by my will, nor with my love unspoken.”

Legolas’s lips curved into a faint smile, fragile though his voice was. “You are my heart also, Ada, though I fear you must share it now with Elrohir. You will forgive me that, will you not?”

Thranduil’s brow lifted, his hand never leaving his son’s cheek. “Forgive you?” His tone was smooth, edged with dry amusement. “You speak as though I had a choice in the matter. I suppose I should be grateful you spared me any portion at all. The Noldo ought to guard his share wisely. Should he falter, I will not hesitate to reclaim it entire.”

The words, wry as they were, carried a quiet warmth that softened their weight.

The fragile smile faded, and Legolas’s gaze clouded once more, fixed on shadows only he could see. His next words came halting, each breath dragging against him. He spoke of a shadowed figure that had risen in the dark—a presence vast and cold, its malice pressed like iron against his spirit. Khamûl. He did not name it so, yet the weight of it lingered in every syllable. And behind that shape came voices twined together, one warm and binding, the other sharp as a blade, both whispering to him, calling him by name.

The chamber seemed to dim around them, as though the shadows themselves bent closer to listen. Thranduil’s hand remained steady against his son’s temple, but his gaze hardened, the fire in his eyes flaring against the encroaching dark. More than the vision itself, it was the words his son spoke—the intonation, the echo of those unseen voices—that unsettled him, kindling a deeper unease than he would ever show.

Legolas’s voice faltered at last, unraveling into silence. The words hung in the air like smoke, bitter and clinging, until the hush of the chamber swallowed them whole.

And with it, the light of dawn pressed pale against the veiled windows.

Elrohir moved swiftly about the guest chamber, the pale light of dawn spilling across scattered gear and half-packed saddlebags. His motions were sharp, deliberate, each fold of cloak and strap of leather a channel for the fury that still burned beneath his skin. He set his bow aside, then reached for the whetstone, dragging it down the edge of his long knife with measured force, the scrape ringing too loud in the stillness.

He had not slept at all. The shadows of the night clung to him, his mind returning again and again to the image of Legolas pale and drugged, whispering of dreams that stank of Dol Guldur. Rage lent speed to his hands as he buckled his quiver, checked the fletching of arrows, and laid out the last of his kit. By Thranduil’s leave, he had been set to ride with a patrol—and though it was not the southernmost, it would take him nearer to that border than any safe course others might have chosen for him.

The door opened softly. Elladan stepped within, his tread hushed though his eyes were not. He lingered a moment by the threshold, watching his brother with quiet restraint.

“You mean to ride, then?” he said at last, his voice even but edged with weariness.

Elrohir did not lift his eyes from the strap he pulled taut. “Aye,” he said, his tone clipped but certain. “This is the first of the trials Thranduil has set for me. I will not falter at the first step.”

Elladan’s brow arched, a flicker of wry amusement touching his features as he crossed the chamber. He plucked up a comb from the stand and stood behind his brother, surveying the dark tumble of hair that fell loose about his shoulders.

“So this is how you mean to begin? Hair unbraided, a snarl of knots from a sleepless night?” His voice dropped into mock solemnity. “A glorious start to your trials indeed. Half the Greenwood will take you for a wild woodsman. They may even pity Legolas, if this is the state of the consort they are to endure.”

The faintest sound escaped Elrohir—half a scoff, half a huff of laughter quickly strangled. His jaw set again, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him, curving despite his will.

Elladan drew the comb through his brother’s hair, each stroke steady until the tangles yielded to his hand. The long dark strands gleamed in the pale light, falling smooth beneath his touch. With quiet precision, he began to braid, fingers moving as they had a hundred times before.

“You drive yourself hard as ever,” he said softly, his voice pitched low. “But even steel can break when struck too fiercely. Be careful, Elrohir. These trials are no game, and the shadow that stirs them is no common foe.”

Elrohir’s shoulders tightened, but he did not turn. “Careful?” His voice was quiet, edged. “Care is what has kept me from him—what has bound me in patience these long years. I will not cloak myself in it now. Not when all I do is for Legolas.”

Elladan’s fingers hesitated for the barest moment, then resumed their weaving, the braid forming with unerring steadiness. His silence carried both worry and a brother’s wordless devotion.

His voice, when it came, was low, almost hesitant. “You speak as if only one binds you to this world. But there are others, Elrohir. Others who love you as fiercely, though differently.”

He paused, the strands of hair taut between his hands, before finishing more softly, almost as if afraid the words might break. “Do I not have your love, too, brother? Am I not still part of your heart?”

The question hung between them, gentle yet piercing, spoken not in jealousy but in longing, as though Elladan sought reassurance that his brother’s fire had not burned him aside.

Elrohir froze, the braid half-finished, then turned sharply beneath his brother’s hands. The dark fall of his hair slipped free as he faced Elladan fully. His grey eyes blazed, fierce and unyielding, though softened at the edges by something more fragile.

“Never doubt it,” he said, voice rough but steady. “You hold my love as no one else ever could. Not Legolas, not any who walk this earth. Whatever fire drives me to him, it does not lessen what binds me to you. We were bound before the world ever saw us—two lives quickening together in our mother’s womb. You are my other half, Elladan. You always have been, and you always will be. If the world were torn from me, if every bond were sundered, yours would remain. You are the first I ever loved, and the love I will carry to my last breath.”

Elladan’s breath caught, his composure slipping as the words struck home. His hand lingered against his brother’s shoulder, thumb brushing lightly at the collar of his tunic as though to steady him. A faint smile touched his lips, sorrow and fierce affection mingling.

“Then remember it,” he murmured. “For sometimes you burn so brightly for him that I fear you will forget the rest of us.”

Elrohir shook his head at once, almost harshly, and seized his brother’s hand in his own. “Forget you? Never. Not in life, not in death, not in any shadow that lies between. If I seem consumed by Legolas, it is only because he is my wound and my balm both—the ache that has haunted me, and the healing I crave. He is the fire I have chosen, yes. But you—” His grip tightened, his eyes fierce. “You are the blood in my veins. Without you, Elladan, I would not stand.”

Elladan’s eyes softened, though light glimmered in their depths. He drew his brother close, pressing their brows together in the old gesture of their childhood. “Then go with my blessing, and with my love,” he said quietly. “But go with care, Elrohir. For if you fall, it is not only Legolas who will be left broken.”

Elrohir’s shoulders eased, the tautness in him loosening at last. He let out a long breath, then inclined his head. “I will be careful,” he said, the words quiet but steady, as though they were meant less as a promise to himself than as a vow to his brother.

Elladan’s hand lifted, his palm warm against Elrohir’s cheek, thumb brushing the line of his jaw. “When did my younger brother grow so wise?” he murmured, his voice pitched low, equal parts teasing and tender.

A short, incredulous snort broke from Elrohir. “You speak as if you were centuries my elder. Do you forget? You are older by mere minutes, Elladan. Minutes. And you never let me forget it. If there is wisdom in me, it is only because you squandered all of yours.”

Elladan’s laugh was soft, quiet enough to belong to the hush of dawn itself. He shook his head, the fond smile curving his lips at odds with the faint gleam in his eyes. “Minutes or no, it still counts. Do not strip me of my only claim to seniority, my dear brother.”

Elrohir huffed, but his retort died in his throat. Instead, he stepped forward, sudden and unguarded, and drew his brother into a firm embrace. His arms wrapped around Elladan, holding him with a fierceness that belied his usual restraint, and he bowed his head as he had in their youth, tucking it beneath his twin’s jaw. The gesture was instinctive, a return to the solace of their childhood, when the world was no larger than the space they shared between them.

Elladan stilled for a heartbeat, then closed his arms around him, resting his chin lightly atop the dark crown of hair. He could feel the strength thrumming through his brother’s body, and the tremor of all he held back. The closeness bound them as it always had—two lives first quickened together, now pressed close, each holding the other as though no shadow in Arda could part them.

For a long while, they stood clasped together, the silence between them weighted not with absence but with all that could not be spoken. At last, Elladan eased back, his hands firm upon his brother’s shoulders.

“Come,” he said quietly, though his voice carried a steadiness born of habit more than ease. “If you must ride, let me at least see you presentable.”

Elrohir allowed himself to sink onto the bed, and Elladan gathered the loosened strands of hair once more. Patiently, he combed and wove, the braids falling neat and sure beneath his hands. Dawn spread its light further into the chamber, catching on steel buckles, on the curve of polished wood, on the sheen of dark hair drawn into order. Slowly, the storm that had driven Elrohir seemed to still, not quelled, but steadied by the simple rhythm of his brother’s care.

When the last braid was tied, Elladan’s hands lingered, resting lightly at his shoulders. He said nothing further, yet in his touch was something older than words.

The hush stretched, filled only by the sound of breath and the first stirrings of morning in the halls beyond. Then, as all things must, the moment passed, leaving them ready for what awaited beyond the chamber door.

At the gates of the stronghold, the courtyard stirred with the first light of dawn. Silvan and Sindar alike moved among the shadows, each attending to the rituals of departure. Warriors tested bowstrings with sharp pulls, arrows fletched with mottled feathers gleaming in their quivers. The air was filled with the scent of leather, oiled wood, and steel ground keen.

Feren stood at the center of it all, arms folded behind his back, his gaze sharp and measuring. No strap or buckle escaped him; no blade went unchecked. It was his way, and the warriors knew it—under his eye, there was no room for carelessness.

Beside him, one of the Sindar commanders approached: Arphenion, sharp-eyed, hard-featured, and a veteran whose authority carried the weight of millennia. He inclined his head in deference to Feren, but the set of his mouth was taut, his tone edged when he spoke.

“So it is true, then,” Arphenion said, low enough to avoid the ears of the warriors but sharp enough that the words cut. “The son of Elrond rides with my patrol?”

Feren’s eyes flicked to him, unreadable.

Arphenion’s lip curled faintly, though his voice remained measured, respectful in form if not in spirit. “Tell me, Feren—must he truly be placed among my company? A Noldo’s blood runs thick in him. And worse, the taint of mortality. Do we owe Elrond’s line so much that Greenwood’s watch is burdened with his presence?”

The disdain beneath his words was thinly veiled, as though he spat out the name of Elrond even while standing at attention.

Feren’s gaze fixed on Arphenion, cold and steady. “Aye. It is true. Elrohir, son of Elrond, rides with your company. That is the king’s will—and his will is not for you or I to question.” His voice carried no heat, only the flat certainty of command, which was sharper than anger.

Arphenion inclined his head, though the motion was stiff, his jaw hard. The flicker of distaste in his grey eyes did not pass unnoticed.

Feren shifted a half-step nearer, lowering his voice, though the edge in it cut all the deeper for its restraint. “Leave your quarrel with his bloodline at the gate. On the road, he is not Noldo, nor half-elven. He is a warrior under your banner. He will march as your soldiers march, bleed as they bleed, and fight as they fight. And should he stumble, you will see him rise again. That is how Greenwood endures.”

He paused, letting the silence settle heavy between them, broken only by the jangle of bridles and the scrape of whetstones where the Sindar and Silvan readied side by side. Then his eyes narrowed, his tone dropping to something quieter, steadier. “Do your duty, Arphenion. And see that your company does the same.”

Arphenion held his stare, proud as stone, before bowing his head in reluctant assent.

Among the gathering ranks, Caleth fussed with the strap of his quiver, his brown hair falling loose in untidy strands where his braid had half-unraveled. He made a face as he tugged the leather taut, muttering with all the subtlety of one forced to clean the stables after a night of merriment.

“Arphenion again,” he groaned, loud enough for Thalion to hear, though not quite enough to draw the Commander’s rebuke. “By the Valar, I will be marched into the grave from sheer tedium before a single arrow flies. If only the prince were here as our commander. I would take that gladly. At least the road would not feel thrice its length.”

Thalion slid his whetstone along the edge of his blade, his movements calm, deliberate. His glance flicked toward Caleth, a faint glimmer of amusement in his grey eyes. “I will not gainsay you. Better to follow the Prince into shadow than Arphenion into the sun. Our prince carries hearts with him. Arphenion carries silence.”

Caleth grinned, emboldened, and gave his bowstring an unnecessarily dramatic pluck. “Then it is not only I who suffers. When Legolas leads us, even a nest of spiders seems worth the march.”

Thalion shook his head, though the ghost of a smile betrayed him. “Careful, Caleth. Loose words travel fast. You would not want Arphenion to hear them—he is stone enough without being soured further. Still…” his voice dropped lower, softer, “I, too, would sooner march behind the prince’s banner. Always. But if we are not careful, such talk will have us both polishing the Commander’s boots from sunrise till nightfall.”

Caleth winced theatrically, though his grin lingered. “Then may the Valar keep my tongue, for I’ve no wish to see my reflection on Arphenion’s boots.”

Thalion slid the whetstone back into his pouch and sheathed his blade with a clean snap. His gaze swept the lines of warriors mustering at the gate before he spoke. “At least,” he said evenly, “we will not ride without interest. The scowling one joins our patrol.”

Caleth let out a long, theatrical groan, tugging hard at his bowstring as though it were to blame. “Elrohir? By the stars, why him? I would far sooner it were Elladan. That one at least knows how to laugh before a march. Elrohir looks as though he carries the weight of Arda between his shoulders. A week under his scowl, and I will be driven to madness.”

Thalion’s lips curved faintly, though his expression stayed composed. “You forget, we have seen him fight. Scowl or no, he is swift with a blade and steady with a bow. I would rather his temper at my side than against me.”

Caleth rolled his eyes, running a hand through his hair. “Aye, we saw him fight, like a storm, all thunder and no mercy. But tell me, Thalion, will that storm make the road shorter? Will it bring cheer at the fire when the march is done? Elladan would share a jest or a song. Elrohir will glare at the flames until they burn out of shame.”

Thalion allowed himself the ghost of a chuckle. “Perhaps. But a storm, as you call him, drives back the dark. And it is better to march with thunder at your side than silence at your back.”

Caleth gave another groan, though the glimmer of a grin betrayed him. “Then thunder it is. But if I must march with Arphenion’s silence and Elrohir’s frown both, you will have to promise me a jest each night, Thalion, else I shall not survive.”

Thalion slid his gloves onto his hands, watching Caleth fuss with his quiver for the third time. “I think,” he said at last, his tone deceptively mild, “that it is not Elladan’s smile you long for on this march, but his tent. Perhaps even his cot.”

Caleth barked a laugh, brown hair slipping loose around his face as he shot a sidelong glance at his companion. “And what of it, Thalion? If Elladan invited me into his tent, I’d go gladly. Would you have me lie and say otherwise?”

Thalion’s brow arched, though the faintest twitch at his mouth betrayed amusement. “Bold words. You speak as if he were waiting for you.”

Caleth plucked his bowstring with deliberate languor, smirking. “Who is to say he is not? The Noldor are famed for their appetites, are they not? And Elladan carries mortal fire in his blood besides. I would wager his passions are all the more fierce for it. And I, as you know, am hardly without charms.” His eyes gleamed, as though savoring the scandal of the thought.

Thalion gave a soft snort, half disbelieving. “Charms? A half-Silvan fox chasing a Noldorin lord? That will end well.”

Caleth’s grin widened, unbothered by the jab. “Foxes are cunning, Thalion. Better than stags, who stand still until the hunter’s arrow finds them. If Elladan is wise, he will see the worth in me. And if not—” he shrugged with mock carelessness, slyness glinting in his eyes, “well, then at least I will have the pleasure of trying. After all, our own prince is half-Silvan, and he has wholly enchanted Elrohir, has he not?”

Thalion shook his head, though his lips curved with reluctant mirth. “Valar preserve us if Elladan ever learns of your schemes. We will hear no end of it.”

Caleth’s grin turned rakish as he slung his quiver across his back. “If he learns of them, it will only be because I succeeded.”

Thalion slid the strap of his vambrace into place, his glance cutting sidelong. “Or because you were caught mid-attempt. And Elladan’s sword, I hear, is sharp enough to sever more than your pride.”

Caleth threw back his head and laughed, the sound bright and shameless in the chill air. “Then I’ll be quicker than his steel. Cunning, sly, and gone before the blade is raised. Besides, if he is as passionate as his blood suggests, perhaps he will not reach for his sword at all.”

Thalion’s mouth twitched, though he forced it flat, fastening the buckle of his gauntlet with unhurried precision. “One day, Caleth, that tongue of yours will put you in greater peril than all the spiders in the South combined.”

“And when it does,” Caleth replied smoothly, eyes glinting with mischief, “I trust you, mellon nín, will be there to haul me out again—sword or no.”

For a heartbeat, Thalion’s eyes lingered on him, steady and unblinking. Then, despite himself, his lips curved faintly. “Always.”

Before Caleth could reply, a shift rippled through the courtyard. The scrape of whetstones slowed, bowstrings stilled in their testing, and voices dipped to a hush. Elrohir strode into the mustering yard, his dark hair braided, his gear set with deliberate care. Each step was measured and resolute; his grey eyes lit with a fire that seemed to cut the morning chill itself.

Silvan archers glanced up from their fletching, wary but curious. The Sindar stiffened in their ranks, gaze following him with cool reserve. The weight of eyes pressed upon him, not hostile, yet not welcoming either. It was the look given to one not yet proven among Greenwood’s watch.

Caleth gave a low whistle between his teeth. “Speak of tempests, and lo—they come to ride with us. Look at him. Braided and burnished like a lordling. I’d wager Elladan’s hand was in that. His brother has a neater touch than he.”

Thalion’s glance slid to him, sharp as a warning. Still, the corner of his mouth tugged with the faintest trace of mirth. “Quiet your tongue. Jest or not, you will be marching at his side before the sun is high. Best save your wit for the road.”

Caleth smirked, but his eyes stayed on Elrohir, watching the half-elf with the sly interest of one who smelled both storm and story ahead.

Caleth’s smirk lingered, but it was cut short as the ranks stirred. Arphenion moved forward from where he had been overseeing the final preparations, his bearing straight-backed and unyielding, every line of him etched in authority.

“Elrohir, son of Elrond,” he said, his voice smooth yet cold, like steel drawn across stone. “So the king has set you among us. I am Arphenion, commander of this patrol.” His eyes swept over the half-elven figure with open reserve. “I trust you come prepared. Greenwood’s roads are not softened for outsiders, be they Noldo or otherwise.”

The form of courtesy clung to the words, but disdain bled through them all the same. Around them, Greenwood soldiers shifted, glances flicking between commander and newcomer, waiting to see if storm would meet stone.

Elrohir inclined his head with stiff formality, his voice measured. “I am prepared, Commander. My skill with bow and blade will serve Greenwood as it has served my own people. I ask no softening of the road.”

But then his gaze lifted, steady and unflinching, a flint of fire kindling in the depths of his grey eyes. “Nor will I be found wanting because of the blood I carry. I will march, fight, and bleed as any of your company. And should shadow rise against us, it will find me no easier prey than you or yours.”

The words were delivered without raising his voice, but the steel in them rang clear. A murmur stirred faintly through the ranks, some shoulders straightening, others exchanging sidelong glances.

A silence lingered after Elrohir’s reply, taut as a drawn bowstring. Arphenion’s expression did not shift, save for the faint narrowing of his eyes.

“Very well,” the commander said at last, his tone cool and deliberate, carrying the weight of command with just enough polish to mask the barb beneath. “If you would march, fight, and bleed as one of us, then you will begin as the least among us. That is the way of Greenwood—every hand tested, every back made to bear its share.”

His gaze swept the assembled ranks, lingering on both Sindar and Silvan alike, making certain they all heard. Then his eyes returned to Elrohir, flinty and sharp. “You will tend the pack mules. See to their loads, their sores, their fouled hooves. A son of Elrond should find such company fitting, if he means to be counted one of us. See to them at dawn, at halt, and at dusk. Their care is no small task, nor is it an honor. But if you would prove yourself as one of Greenwood’s company, begin with sweat before steel.”

The words carried like a blow, heavy enough to be heard through the yard. A ripple passed through the ranks. Among the Silvan, there were sidelong glances, a few smothered grins, jesting at a lord of Imladris turned mule-keeper. Among the Sindar, the looks were colder, measuring, some approving of the commander’s severity.

Arphenion folded his hands neatly behind his back, his voice lowering to the tone of finality. “Prove yourself there, and you may yet earn your place at the front of the line, where steel speaks truer than beasts.”

Elrohir’s jaw tightened, the retort already burning at the back of his throat. Pride seared hotter than the morning sun, and his lips parted, ready to lash back.

But before he could speak, a voice rang across the yard, clear, bright, and touched with golden mirth.

“Well now,” Glorfindel said, stepping forward from where he had walked out with Erestor and Elladan. The dawn caught in his hair as if the sun itself had chosen him for its herald, but there was steel beneath the shine of his smile. “Commander Arphenion, you set a sharp trial. Pack mules for the son of Elrond? Truly, it is a noble station you bestow. In Imladris, we usually reserve such honor for our rawest recruits.”

A ripple of amusement stirred through the company, though no one dared let it rise above a murmur. Arphenion’s face remained stone, though his eyes flicked briefly.

Glorfindel inclined his head with practiced grace, but his voice carried the weight of command—the authority of one who bore a high rank in his own realm. “And yet, I will not gainsay you. For it is true. No warrior is above toil, nor above muck. We have all begun at the back of the line, shoulder to shoulder with beasts. Let Elrohir begin there if you will. But do not mistake him for a youth untried.”

His gaze swept the ranks, then fixed coolly upon Arphenion. “I have fought beside him. I have seen him hold the line when shadows pressed hardest. Burden him with mules if you must, but when the hour comes for steel, you will find no truer blade at your side. Of that, I stake my own name as Captain of the Guard of Imladris.”

The words struck like the ring of a clear trumpet—bright, commanding, impossible to ignore. Among the soldiers, there were smothered grins, sidelong glances, some edged with surprise, some with a flicker of reluctant respect. Even Erestor, grave and silent at Glorfindel’s shoulder, allowed the faintest curl of his mouth.

Arphenion’s jaw tightened, but he inclined his head, the barest gesture of acknowledgment. To press further would be to pit himself openly against Glorfindel, and that was a contest no words could win.

Before the silence could stretch further, a cry rang from the gates.

“The King! The Prince!”

The courtyard shifted at once. Bows dipped, blades stilled, and voices fell into hush. Every gaze turned toward the archway, where dawn’s pale light framed the figures approaching.

Thranduil came first, tall and grave, his mantle sweeping behind him, the tracery of his crown catching fire in the morning light. At his side walked Legolas, clad only in a simple tunic of soft grey, his golden hair unbound and falling loose about his shoulders. The mark of weariness lingered in his step, a faint tremor of the night’s ordeal still upon him, yet no dimness touched the light he bore. Even wan and pale, he carried himself with quiet dignity, and to the eyes of Greenwood’s warriors, he was no less their fair prince.

Elrohir’s breath caught. The courtyard, the mules, the Sindar’s cool stares, and the Silvan’s watchful glances all fell away. Before thought could check him, he was moving, striding across the yard with a swiftness that drew startled eyes. In a heartbeat, he stood before Legolas, fire leaping unguarded in his grey gaze, fierce devotion laid bare.

“Legolas,” he breathed, low and urgent, meant only for him, though the silence made it carry. His hands half-lifted, uncertain, as though to assure himself the prince was no wraith conjured from a dream.

Legolas’s lashes lifted. His gaze was blurred still by the remnants of the draught, but it steadied as it found him. A faint curve touched his lips, fragile yet luminous against the pallor of his face. He raised one hand, weak but sure, and set it against Elrohir’s arm.

“Shadow could not keep me,” he whispered, voice hushed but clear, “from seeing you ride out.”

A ripple stirred through the gathered ranks, as though the yard itself had narrowed to the single space between them.

Thranduil’s gaze swept the assembly, cool and commanding. His voice, when it came, carried like iron through the hush.

“This patrol rides with my blessing, and with the eyes of Greenwood upon them. Among you walks one who undertakes his first trial. Let him be measured. Let him be tested. For though the road is harsh, it is by trial that worth is proven.”

His eyes lingered, flint-bright, upon Elrohir where he stood before his son. The words that followed rang sharp as a blade drawn in warning.

“See that you do not squander it.”

Elrohir inclined his head, every movement measured, though the fire in his eyes did not dim. “I will not squander it, my lord,” he said, his voice carrying with steady weight. “Whatever task is set before me, I will see it through.”

A hush lingered in the yard, the ranks of the soldiers watching with guarded eyes. Thranduil’s gaze remained upon him a moment longer, sharp as tempered steel, before he turned his attention back to the assembly at large.

But Legolas’s hand tightened faintly on Elrohir’s arm. Pale though he was, his step unsteady, there was no mistaking the quiet resolve in his voice as he looked to his father.

“Adar,” he said, soft yet sure, “grant us but a moment.”

Thranduil’s eyes narrowed slightly, measuring his son, but after a beat of silence, he gave the barest nod.

Legolas wasted no time. His fingers curled around Elrohir’s sleeve, and with surprising swiftness for one still weakened, he drew him aside, out from the center of the courtyard, past the reach of watching eyes. The murmur of the gathered ranks dimmed behind them, replaced by the hushed rustle of the morning wind through banners and the stamping of mules waiting at the gate.

There, in the narrow space between shadow and dawn, Legolas turned to him fully. His face was pale, his golden hair falling loose in tangled strands, but his eyes, though weary, shone clear, fixed on Elrohir as though the whole of the world had narrowed to him alone.

For a moment, Legolas only looked at him, his lips parting as though the words themselves cost him strength. His hand lingered at Elrohir’s sleeve, tightening faintly.

“Elrohir,” he said at last, his voice low, uncertain. “Forgive me. For how I was when I woke. I spoke in fragments, in fear. I…I did not mean to wound you.” His gaze faltered, dropping, as though the shame of it pressed him down more heavily than the weight of the draught still lingering in his veins.

But Elrohir would not have it. He lifted a hand, tilting Legolas’s chin with gentle insistence until their eyes met again. His touch was firm but tender, his thumb brushing lightly along the line of his jaw.

“There is nothing to forgive,” Elrohir said, his voice steady, fierce in its gentleness. “You were shadow-struck, half-dreaming. The words were not yours, but the darkness twisting through them. And even if they had been, still I would not hold them against you. Nothing could turn me from you—not dream, not shadow, not fear.”

The fire in his grey eyes softened as he looked at him, and his hand lingered, cradling Legolas’s face as though he were the most fragile treasure in Arda.

A faint smile touched Legolas’s lips, fragile but real, and some of the weight seemed to lift from his eyes. He leaned into Elrohir’s touch, the warmth of it easing what lingered from the night.

“I am glad,” he whispered, “for I could not bear it if you thought less of me.” His fingers curled lightly over Elrohir’s wrist, holding him there. “I only wish…” He drew a shallow breath, the faintest crease tugging at his brow. “I wish I could ride out with you. To stand at your side, as I have before.”

The words faltered, edged with quiet frustration. “But I have just learned my father has barred me from command—or from setting foot with any patrol—until he deems otherwise. For a time, at least, Greenwood fights without me.”

Elrohir’s hand lingered against his cheek, his grey eyes fierce but steady. “Then your father is wise. Better you remain within these halls, where shadow cannot so easily touch you. It is safer so.”

Legolas’s breath left him in a low sigh, his shoulders sagging as though the words had struck harder than he wished to show. He looked aside, frustration threading through the softness of his features. “Safer,” he echoed, bitterness ghosting the word. His gaze flicked back, a spark of hurt lighting in his eyes. “I had hoped you, of all, would stand with me in this, not with him.”

Elrohir did not flinch beneath the spark of reproach in Legolas’s eyes. His hand tightened faintly at his cheek, as though to keep him from turning away.

“Then let me be plain,” he said, low but unyielding. “I would stand with you in all things, but not in this. You know what hunts in the south. You told me yourself of the shadow in your dreams, of the voices that sought to claim you. To place you on those roads now is to hand you into its claws.” His voice roughened, fierce with a love that cut sharper than anger. “If I side with your father, it is only because I would see you live. Better you call me coward than I see you carried back in silence and shadow.”

His thumb brushed once across Legolas’s jaw, softer now, though the fire in his eyes did not fade. “You are my heart, Legolas. And my heart I will not risk—not for pride, nor for duty, nor even for your longing to stand beside me. Live, and let me bear the danger for us both.”

Legolas drew a sharp breath, the faint color in his pale cheeks rising. His hand came up, closing over Elrohir’s where it cupped his face, but this time his grip was not pleading—it was firm.

“I am not a child,” he said, voice low but taut with quiet fire. “Do not speak to me as though I were some fragile thing to be kept behind stone walls while others bleed in my stead. I am my father’s son, prince of this realm, and I have fought and bled long before you ever laid eyes on me. Do not mistake weariness for weakness.”

His gaze, though blurred by the draught’s shadow, locked onto Elrohir’s with clear force. “If you love me, then see me as I am, not as someone to be hidden away. I am no jewel to be locked in a chest. I am no child to be set aside.”

Elrohir did not answer at once. He let the flare of Legolas’s words burn between them, let the fire in his eyes strike him like arrows loosed without mercy. Then, slowly, he drew a breath, the tension in his shoulders easing. His hand slipped from Legolas’s cheek only to settle along his jaw, thumb brushing the faint hollow there.

“I know what you are,” he said softly, steady as the hush that followed. “A prince, a warrior, a son of kings, and no child to be guarded like glass. You have fought where I have fought, stood where I have stood. I would never take that from you.”

His voice lowered, almost breaking with tenderness. “But I have only one heart, Legolas, and it is bound in you. If I guard you fiercely, it is not to cage you. It is because the thought of losing you is a wound I cannot bear to name.”

Before Legolas could answer, Elrohir bent and pressed his lips lightly to his, the kiss a gentle seal to words too raw to linger. It was no claim, no desperate grasp, but a quiet vow: fierce love tempered into tenderness.

When he drew back, his grey eyes searched Legolas’s, steady and unyielding. “Whatever storms come, I will walk them with you. But let this trial be mine. Let me face it, so that when your time comes, you will not walk into shadow alone.”

Legolas did not pull away. The fire that had kindled in him still glimmered in his gaze, sharp and unrelenting, but Elrohir’s gentleness met it, softened it, as though water had been poured upon flame without extinguishing the heat beneath.

“I should be beside you, beside my people,” he murmured, his voice low, taut. “Every part of me longs for it. And yet…” His grip tightened weakly on Elrohir’s sleeve, his eyes closing for a heartbeat. “Yet, when you speak so, I cannot gainsay you. You are my heart also, and I would not see you wounded by my stubbornness.”

He leaned into Elrohir’s touch then, weary but resolute, his golden hair brushing against his lover’s arm. “Still,” he added, a faint edge of bitterness threading through the softness, “I am no less chafed for it. To be barred from the road while others bear its dangers—it cuts deeper than I can say.”

Elrohir’s hand remained steady at his jaw, thumb stroking lightly as though to anchor him. His grey eyes did not falter. “Then let that cut be mine to carry, too. Your strength will not be lessened for waiting. And I will return to you.”

Legolas’s lips curved faintly, though his eyes glimmered with both longing and frustration. For that moment, torn though he was, he yielded, holding fast to both his pride and his trust, knowing they would walk beside one another, whether on the same road or across its shadow.

Legolas closed the small distance between them, his lips finding Elrohir’s with quiet urgency. What strength lingered in him, he poured into that kiss, pressing closer as though to defy both dawn and shadow. His hands, trembling yet resolute, reached up and traced from Elrohir’s face down the strong line of his throat, until his fingers brushed against something familiar at his neck.

The touch slowed. His hand lingered there, over the braided strands of golden hair, worn thin with age yet still strong. The necklace he had woven long ago, back when their bond had only just begun.

Legolas broke the kiss at last, though he remained close, breath mingling with Elrohir’s. His eyes, glassy with the haze of the night yet sharpened by wonder, fastened on the necklace. “You kept it,” he whispered, voice fragile, almost unbelieving. “All this time—you kept it.”

Elrohir’s hand rose, closing over his where it rested on the token. His gaze softened, fire dimmed into something steady, and unshakable. “I keep it always. But I wear it seldom, to spare it harm. Today I bear it with me, that I may carry a part of you on the road. Whatever trial awaits, this will remind me that I do not ride alone.”

The words bound them close as any vow. Legolas’s fingers curled against the cord, his breath catching with the weight of it—the gift once given in hope, now in devotion.

Elrohir bent once more, brushing his lips gently across Legolas’s, a kiss fleeting but laden with all he could not say in the sight of so many. He lingered only a heartbeat, enough to steady them both, before he drew back just far enough for his grey eyes to meet Legolas’s.

“It is time,” he murmured, his voice low and even. “The patrol waits, and I must go to them.”

His hand lingered at the curve of Legolas’s cheek, thumb tracing lightly as though committing every line to memory. Then, with deliberate care, he lowered his hand and stepped back, though his gaze did not waver, holding Legolas’s as though he could carry it with him onto the road.

Together, they turned back toward the waiting court. The hush of the courtyard seemed to follow them as they walked—Legolas pale but steady at Elrohir’s side, Elrohir’s stride taut with the effort of not looking back too long.

Elladan was the first to step forward, his hand clasping his brother’s shoulder with quiet strength. “Go well, and return whole,” he said, voice pitched low enough to be brotherly but carrying enough that others heard the weight of it.

Glorfindel inclined his golden head, the light of dawn catching on his hair, his smile warm though touched with gravity. “Walk with honor, Elrohir. Trials are meant to temper, not to break.”

Erestor’s gaze lingered longer, his dark eyes keen, unreadable. At last he spoke, smooth as glass, but the quiet weight in his tone was unmistakable. “Do not squander this chance. Few trials come twice.”

Elrohir inclined his head in turn to each of them, his expression solemn, his grey eyes steadier now than they had been in the shadows of night. Then he turned last to Thranduil, bowing slightly, the gesture formal, precise, and respectful, though his heart burned with much more.

“By your leave, my lord,” he said.

Thranduil’s gaze was unreadable, pale as winter light, though his nod was measured and certain.

Only then did Elrohir turn, crossing to where the patrol stood mustered in their ranks. The company had stilled, waiting. A murmur passed among them as Arphenion stepped forward, flanked by Silvan and Sindar alike. With deliberate formality, the commander placed the reins of the laden pack mules into Elrohir’s hands.

The leather straps were rough against his palms, heavier than their weight should warrant. Around him, he could feel the eyes of the company upon him—the smothered amusement of some, the cold appraisal of others, the watchful neutrality of a few. The mules stamped and tossed their heads, ill-tempered, as though resenting the task as much as the one set to it.

Elrohir’s jaw tightened, but he held the reins without flinching. His shoulders squared, his grip firm, and he accepted the charge in silence, not bowing to shame. If this was to be his beginning, then he would meet it as steel met the hammer without break, without complaint.

From where he stood beside his father, Legolas’s breath caught. The sight cut deeper than he would admit—a son of Elrond, a lord of Imladris, reduced to the lowest duty among Greenwood’s watch. His heart twisted, the fire of protest rising, yet his lips remained still. He knew too well his father’s will and the eyes of the court upon them.

And yet, beneath the ache, pride stirred also. For though others might see a humiliation, Legolas saw only Elrohir’s steadiness—the way he bore it without shame, as though the reins were no less honorable than a sword-hilt. Strength lay not only in battle, but in endurance, and in that moment, Elrohir shone the brighter for it.

Legolas’s hand clenched faintly at his side, the urge to step forward, to speak, barely contained. But he held his place, his gaze fixed on Elrohir, and whispered beneath his breath, unheard by any but himself. “You are more than they know.”

Arphenion gave a curt nod once the reins were passed, and the matter seemed settled in his eyes. He barked a few final orders to the ranks, his voice clipped and carrying, and the warriors moved into place on foot with practiced precision. Blades were checked, quivers secured, cloaks drawn tight against the dawn’s chill.

The mules shifted restlessly, tugging at their lead, and Elrohir bore the pull without falter. He guided them with steady hands, his expression unreadable, though the tautness in his jaw betrayed the weight of pride forced into silence. Around him, Greenwood’s watch gathered into formation, their discipline absolute, though their sidelong glances lingered still on the half-elven lord in their midst.

At the head of the yard, Thranduil and Legolas stood together. The king’s gaze swept the lines with cool gravity, unreadable as stone. Beside him, Legolas stood quiet, his face pale yet steady, the loose fall of his hair catching pale fire in the dawn.

Elrohir paused then. Just for a breath, he turned his head over his shoulder. His eyes sought only one face amid many and found it at once.

Their gazes met. Legolas’s breath stilled, his heart tightening with the force of that look—fierce, steadfast, and unbroken even under the weight laid upon him. It was not long, scarcely more than a heartbeat, but it was enough. A promise unspoken, carried in the grey fire of his eyes.

Then Elrohir turned back, shoulders squaring once more as he took his place among the company. The moment broke like a ripple swallowed into still water, leaving only the hush of breath and the shifting of leather and steel as the patrol braced for departure.

The horns sounded, and the world beyond lay dark with trees and shadow.

The first trial had begun.

Chapter Text

The days that followed slipped into a rhythm of dust and silence. Elrohir had marched with the patrol since dawn on the first morning, his steps measured among Greenwood’s soldiers, his hands roughened not from bow or blade, but from the reins of the pack mules.

The beasts were stubborn—broad-backed, long-eared, and sullen, with eyes that seemed to mock him at every tug of the lead. Each dawn, he was the first to rouse them, brushing burrs from their coats, checking their hooves for stones, binding loads with careful knots until the packs sat snug. Often, as he worked, he hummed low under his breath—fragments of songs without words, tunes carried from Imladris but softened now with memory. The mules twitched their ears as though listening, and his thoughts strayed ever to a golden-haired elf left behind in the halls of the king, pale yet luminous, whose light had steadied him even through shadow.

At halts, he loosened their girths, soothed their braying with scraps of apple or dried grain, and endured the laughter of some of the soldiers who found no shame in watching Elrond’s son buried elbow-deep in mule sweat. They whispered among themselves, voices pitched low, but not low enough to escape his notice, their words sharp with scorn. Elrohir held his tongue, jaw tight, refusing them the satisfaction of reply. Silence was his shield, obedience his answer.

At dusk, he saw to the beasts again, long after the last bowstring was unstrung and the fires were kindled. Nothing eventful had touched the patrol yet—the roads ran quiet, the trees heavy with their late-summer hush. And yet Elrohir’s pride bore the sharper weight. He was a warrior bred for steel and battle-song, yet here he was, tethered to creatures that cared nothing for his skill, judged at every glance by Greenwood soldiers who measured his worth in silence. He had spoken little to any of them since their march began, answering only when ordered, following every command without complaint.

But he did not falter. Every strap pulled taut, every hoof cleaned, every snarled rope undone by his hands—each act he bore as trial, as oath. If Greenwood demanded sweat before steel, then sweat they would have of him. And though his shoulders ached and his palms grew sore with the constant pull of leather and rope, he endured.

Caleth nudged Thalion with the tip of his elbow as they walked, their bows slung across their shoulders. He tilted his head toward the back of the line, where Elrohir trudged with the mules, the reins gathered in his hands.

“He has been quiet,” Caleth murmured, his tone pitched low enough not to carry, though sly curiosity glinted in his eyes. “Too quiet. For a Noldo, I expected more thunder and less silence.”

Thalion’s gaze flicked back, steady and measuring. The set of his mouth was calm, as though carved of the same stone as the Greenwood paths beneath their feet. “Better silence than complaint,” he answered evenly. “He follows orders, does what is set before him. That is more than many expected.”

Caleth smirked, unconvinced. “Aye, but still…silence breeds its own questions. Even the mules give him more conversation than he gives us.”

Thalion’s lips curved faintly, a ghost of humor beneath his composure. “Then perhaps that is his wisdom. Better to speak to beasts than to waste breath on soldiers who would twist his words into jests.”

Caleth gave a soft snort, tugging his quiver strap higher on his shoulder. “Ever the defender, Thalion. You would excuse a storm for raining, and praise it for not striking you with lightning.”

“Storms pass,” Thalion said, his tone quiet but firm, eyes still fixed forward. “This one endures. That is enough for now.”

Caleth’s gaze drifted toward the front where Arphenion marched, straight-backed, stiff as oak, his silence pressing down over the company like a second weight of mail. Caleth heaved an exaggerated sigh.

“If I must march another league beneath that one’s shadow,” he muttered, “I shall wither before we reach the border. I need some entertainment.” His eyes slid slyly back toward Elrohir and the mules, and he began to ease his pace, steps lengthening just enough to let the line carry him backward.

Thalion’s head snapped toward him, his whisper sharp as a hiss. “Caleth. Leave him.” His hand tightened on the strap of his bow, and though he moved to slow his stride as well, his tone was edged with warning. “If you must chase storms, do not drag the rest of us into the thunder.”

Caleth only smirked, unrepentant, his boots carrying him a pace slower still. “Thunder or no, better than marching in silence till my ears fall off.”

Thalion muttered a low curse in Silvan, falling into step to shadow him before mischief could carry him too far.

Caleth drifted back until the pack mules’ heavy tread matched his own. The smell of leather, sweat, and dust clung to them, and the steady thump of their hooves seemed louder than the hushed march of Greenwood’s warriors. Elrohir’s head lifted once at the shift in pace. Grey eyes flicked sideways—sharp, measuring—but just as quickly turned forward again, his shoulders tightening as if to dismiss them, his stride unbroken. The reins stayed firm in his hands, his gaze fixed on the road ahead as though the beasts were the only company he would suffer.

Caleth’s mouth curled into a grin. He cast Thalion a sidelong glance, sly amusement gleaming in his eyes, before turning his attention back to Elrohir. He studied him openly: the austere set of his jaw, the proud carriage even beneath burden, the braids neat and intricate in the Noldorin style—half of his hair interwoven at the crown, two slim plaits falling before his ears—so unlike the looser, earth-bound patterns of Greenwood’s warriors. His gaze lingered longer, noting the softer curve of Elrohir’s ear where braids swept hair back, the faintest roundness that marked him unlike the rest.

Caleth leaned in just enough for his words to reach, his voice smooth and pitched with feigned innocence. “Tell me, my lord,” he murmured, eyes glinting with mischief, “is it true of all the Half-elven, that their ears carry that roundness? Or is that mark yours alone?”

The words slipped out like a stone cast into still water, rippling with curiosity. His smile deepened, sharp beneath its charm, as though testing for the first crack in a shield.

Thalion’s hand twitched at his side, his breath drawn through his teeth in a low hiss. “Caleth,” he warned, his voice cutting low, sharp as flint. His gaze flicked briefly to Elrohir, then back, steady with disapproval.

But Caleth only smirked wider, his eyes lingering boldly on Elrohir, savoring the edge of the moment like a hunter toying with a stag before the chase.

Elrohir’s pace did not falter, though a flicker of steel lit his eyes at the words. He turned his head just enough that the curve of his ear, the very mark Caleth had seized upon, caught the morning light.

“You stare hard for one so curious,” he said, voice low and clipped, every syllable honed like the edge of tempered steel. “If the shape of my ears is the gravest peril you can find on this road, then your watch grows lax.”

His gaze lingered on Caleth for the barest breath, cold and unflinching, before he faced forward again. The reins tightened in his hands, and the mules plodded on, heedless of the storm bristling in front of them.

But Caleth’s grin only sharpened, as though the bite in Elrohir’s words had been the very reply he sought. He leaned a fraction closer, eyes glinting with mischief and calculation alike.

“Peril?” he murmured, tone smooth with mock innocence. “Nay, my lord, I call it curiosity. We of Greenwood have little chance to study the sons of Elrond up close, and you are not quite as I imagined. Fiercer, perhaps. More silent. And aye, different in ways plain to see.” His glance flicked, deliberate, to the rounded curve of Elrohir’s ear. “It sets one wondering.”

Thalion’s breath hissed sharply through his teeth, his hand twitching at his side. “Enough,” he hissed, his eyes sharp as a drawn bow. “Test him further and you will find yourself the fool, not he.”

Still, Caleth did not fall back. His step matched Elrohir’s with ease, his smile lingering as though nothing in the world could turn him aside from the quarry he had chosen.

Elrohir’s jaw tightened, though he did not turn his gaze aside from the path ahead. For a long moment, he let Caleth’s words hang unanswered in the air, the mule’s tack jingling softly between them. At last, he spoke, his tone low and edged, the kind of calm that cut sharper than anger.

“If you wonder at the difference, then mark it well,” he said. “Rounder ears or no, it is not the shape that tells an elf. It is whether he stands when shadow falls. I have stood. I will stand again. Can you say as much?”

The words struck with flint-hard finality, and his grey eyes flicked to Caleth for a heartbeat, sharp as a drawn arrow, before turning forward once more.

Caleth only chuckled under his breath, grinning as though the sharpness had slid clean off him. “Valar save us, you are a grim one,” he said lightly, his tone bright with mock offense. “I ask about ears, and you give me speeches of shadow and standing. If all Noldor answer so, no wonder your councils last for weeks.”

Beside him, Thalion slapped a hand across his mouth at once, too late to smother the snort that escaped. He drew a long breath through his nose, exhaled, and at last shook his head, the faintest flicker of weariness in his eyes. When his hand dropped again, he made no further attempt to silence Caleth. He knew too well that once his companion had sunk his teeth into a jest, no warning would pull him off.

Caleth eased a step ahead of the mules, then turned to walk backward, his stride unhurried despite the uneven ground. He laced his arms loosely behind his head, posture relaxed as though the march were little more than a woodland ramble. His gaze fixed boldly on Elrohir, lingering with the frankness of one who delighted in pressing boundaries.

“You are very comely,” he observed, tone light, almost idle, though mischief glinted in his eyes. “That jaw, those braids, polished as any lord of a high court. No denying it.” He tilted his head, grin sharpening. “And yet I wonder, how is it that our prince, fair and ethereal as spring itself, lost his heart to one so grim? Handsome, aye, but all storm and no sunlight.”

The comment hung in the air like a thrown spark, half-jest, half-provocation, the sly curiosity of one who pressed until he found a crack.

Beside them, Thalion groaned under his breath. Shaking his head, he muttered low, “Caleth…” before letting the hand fall, resignation in his eyes.

Elrohir gave no sign of hearing him. His gaze stayed fixed on the road ahead, shoulders squared, the reins held firm in his raw hands. Not a flicker of amusement, nor the barest tightening of his mouth, betrayed that Caleth’s words had touched him at all.

Caleth’s brows rose at the silence, but his grin only deepened. Rocking back on his heels, he continued his backward stride.

“Ah, so that is how it is,” he drawled, voice pitched just loud enough to carry. “Ignore me if you will, my lord, but do not forget—you march with the prince’s closest friends. You’ll not charm him by scowling at us as though we were spiders underfoot. Best not treat your allies as shadows, else the road will be a lonely one.”

Thalion said nothing this time. His earlier warnings had fallen on deaf ears, and he knew too well the futility of dragging Caleth back once mischief had hold of him. Instead, he kept his stride beside them, eyes fixed on Elrohir with quiet weight, measuring how the half-elf would answer—if he would answer at all.

Elrohir’s silence stretched long enough that it seemed he might never answer at all. The steady clop of hooves and the rustle of the patrol filled the space where words might have been. Then, without so much as turning his head, he spoke, his voice low, smooth, and edged with frost.

“Tell me,” he said at last, “is meddling a trait of all Wood-elves, or were you alone so blessed?”

The barb was delivered with calm precision, sharper for the restraint that wrapped it, and his grey eyes flicked to Caleth for the briefest instant, cold as tempered steel, before turning forward again.

Caleth’s grin only broadened, delighted rather than cowed, as though the strike had been the very answer he’d been waiting for. “Ah, so you do have a tongue after all,” he said lightly, brown eyes glinting with mischief. “Good. I was beginning to think the mules had stolen it.” He tipped his head toward the beasts plodding between them, his grin sly. 

Thalion’s gaze lingered on Elrohir, steady and unreadable, though the faintest glimmer crossed his features—something between quiet amusement and reluctant respect. He said nothing, only walked on, letting the tension between his companion and the half-elf weave its own current through the march.

Caleth’s arms fell at last, swinging loosely at his sides before he twirled on his heel with the careless grace of one who never tired of dancing on the edge of danger. He spun once, cloak flaring, then faced forward again, still matching the patrol’s pace without effort.

“Meddling, is it?” he echoed, eyes glinting with mischief. “Strange, then, that your prince suffers it well enough from me. He never minds when I pry—indeed, he laughs.”

His gaze slid sidelong to Elrohir, bold as a hunter sighting quarry, unrepentant in its weight. “So I must wonder, grim lord, what charm did you work, that Legolas of Greenwood should smile for you, when he ignores a thousand others?”

That drew the faintest flicker from Elrohir, an almost imperceptible stiffening of his shoulders, a tension in the set of his jaw. Caleth saw it and pounced, his grin sharpening.

“Ah,” he said slyly, voice dipping like a blade through silk. “So I strike nearer to truth. But do not fool yourself, my lord, you are hardly the first to try and catch our prince’s heart.” He leaned closer, his tone lilting with feigned innocence, though mischief burned beneath. “Nor are you the first to grace his bed.”

Thalion at last broke his silence, his voice low but edged with gentle reproach. “Caleth,” he said, shaking his head, though there was more weariness than true rebuke in his tone. “It is not proper to speak so of the prince’s private matters, least of all on the open road. You shame yourself more than him.” His eyes softened for a breath, as though he spoke not only for Elrohir’s sake but also for Caleth’s, a reminder born of long friendship. 

Caleth only shrugged, unrepentant, though his grin tilted with fondness at Thalion’s scolding. “My dear Thalion,” he said lightly. “If I were to speak of the weather, you would still find a way to dress me down for it.”

But his eyes, sly and amused, remained on Elrohir, as though he could not resist waiting to see if the Half-elven’s composure would finally crack.

Elrohir’s stride never faltered, but at last he spoke, his voice low and certain, each word carrying the finality of iron.

“I may not have been the first,” he said, voice honed to steel, “but I will be the last, and none shall come after me.”

Caleth blinked, then his grin spread slow and wolfish, delight gleaming in his eyes. “The last, is it? Then I should beg your pardon, my lord.” With a sweep of his arm, he bent into a flourishing bow even as he walked, cloak brushing the dust. “For so I address not merely Elrond’s son, but perhaps our future Prince Consort.” His tone was all mock-solemnity, but his eyes danced with mischief.

Beside him, Thalion gave a sudden cough, pressing a fist to his mouth to smother the laugh that threatened. His shoulders shook once, betraying him all the same, before he straightened and schooled his features back into composure.

Elrohir’s grey gaze slid toward them, cool and unyielding, though the faintest tightening at the corner of his mouth suggested that Caleth’s jest had struck closer than he liked. He let Caleth’s flourish linger unanswered for a breath before he finally spoke, his tone low and edged with irritation that cut cleaner than anger.

“What is it you want of me?” he asked, eyes narrowing slightly. “Why waste your tongue on me when the road is long?”

Caleth’s grin widened, sly and unrepentant. “Want? Only this—that I might know my closest friend’s future husband. It seems wise to take the measure of the one who dares claim his heart.”

A short, humorless breath escaped Elrohir, more scorn than laughter. “Is that so?” he said, his voice silken with disbelief. “Or is it to take my measure, so that you might use me as a stepping-stone to tumble into Elladan’s bed? If so, I counsel you to choose your path more wisely. My brother is less forgiving than I.”

Thalion’s brows shot high, his mouth twitching as though caught between a groan and a laugh. For once, it was Caleth who faltered, blinking before his grin returned, brighter and sharper, unwilling to concede even when the jest had been turned against him.

Caleth threw back his head and laughed, the sound ringing down the line so that several soldiers ahead turned to glance back at the commotion. Undeterred, he leaned closer, lowering his voice just enough that only those nearest could catch the words.

“Aye, I admit it,” he said, eyes wicked with mirth. “I fancy Elladan. For who would not, with a face like his? Handsome as starlight, and that streak of mortal fire in him…” His grin curved. “I’d wager it makes him rougher in bed than any Elf would dare be. And I, for one, would not mind being the one he proved it on.”

Elrohir’s head turned then, grey eyes hard as tempered steel. “Tread carefully, Caleth,” he said, voice low but edged with warning. “I do not appreciate my brother being spoken of so.”

Caleth’s grin only sharpened, unrepentant. “Peace, my lord. I mean no harm, only admiration. If anything, you should be flattered. Clearly, charm runs deep in your bloodline.”

Thalion gave a low laugh, shaking his head. “Strange, though, to confess it so plainly to his twin, who looks exactly like him. Tell me, Caleth, do you speak to the wrong brother, or do you simply not care which?”

Caleth groaned, throwing his head back in mock despair. “Traitor! You are supposed to be on my side, not his.” He gave Thalion a shove for emphasis, though his grin never dimmed.

And for the first time since the march began, Elrohir felt his mouth curve, the faintest smile tugging at his stern composure. He did not let it linger, but the soldiers nearest saw it, fleeting and real—the crack in his grimness that no amount of silence could wholly hide.

A voice cut down the line, firm and clipped.

“Caleth.”

Arphenion did not so much as slow his stride, but the weight of his tone carried like a drawn bowstring. “Enough. If you put half as much effort into your watch as you do your tongue, this company would walk in peace. Hold it.”

Caleth winced, shoulders hunching theatrically as though the rebuke had struck him a physical blow. He muttered just loud enough for those nearest to hear, “By the Valar, he is joyless as stone. A bore beyond compare.” He hunched his shoulders, grumbling under his breath, “He ought to show me more respect. My father is Captain of the Guard, after all.”

Thalion’s brow arched, his voice pitched low and needling. “And what a fine way you honor him—by prattling about ears and beds until Arphenion himself is driven to despair. A wonder Captain Feren has not disowned you already.”

Caleth groaned as though struck, dragging a hand down his face in theatrical misery. “Valar preserve me—first the commander, now you. Does no one in this company remember where their loyalties lie? You were meant to be my ally, Thalion, not my gaoler.”

Thalion snorted, sharp and unrepentant, the sound bursting free before he bothered to cover it.

Elrohir let a breath slip past his guard, quiet but edged with warmth, nearly a laugh, fleeting and genuine. For the first time in days, the shadow of his grimness cracked, just enough to remind him that the road, even under trial, was not without its lighter steps.

Arphenion lifted a hand, the company halting at once. His voice carried over the quiet rustle of the trees, clipped and steady.

“We make camp here. Fires in the hollow, tents along the ridge. Half the company will take first patrol; the rest will keep watch.”

The Greenwood warriors broke formation at once, their movements fluid from long practice. Cloaks were shaken out, bows unstrung, and packs laid in ordered rows. A low murmur of voices rose as kindling was gathered, steel striking flint to coax the first sparks into flame. The air shifted with the rhythm of camp—efficient, unhurried, and familiar.

Elrohir turned to the mules. They blew hot breath against his palms as he unbuckled the straps, the weight of their packs sliding heavily to the ground. He rubbed their withers where the leather had pressed, his hands moving with steady care, though the skin of his palms was sore against coarse hair and rope. He fetched water from a skin, tipping it into a shallow trough until the beasts pressed forward eagerly, ears twitching. From a pack, he drew grain, measuring it out with deliberate care until the braying softened into steady munching.

Bootsteps crunched over the dry leaves. Elrohir glanced up to find Arphenion standing over him, arms folded across his chest, his expression as austere as ever.

“The beasts are settled,” the commander said flatly. His eyes flicked once toward the company before fixing on Elrohir again. “Now see to the rest of us. Forage enough to feed the company before night falls.”

The order carried no heat, no contempt, only the same iron tone that had marked every command since their departure. Yet it pressed down with weight all the same, setting Elrohir apart. 

Elrohir straightened slowly from the trough, wiping his palms against his tunic. He met the commander’s gaze without flinching, his expression a mask of calm restraint.

“As you will,” he said evenly. “I will hunt for game.”

A murmur of movement rippled through the camp—the hiss of steel drawn for sharpening, the crack of branches broken for firewood, the steady rhythm of seasoned warriors making camp. Yet Elrohir felt the weight of eyes upon him still, Greenwood soldiers measuring him in silence.

He turned toward the dark line of the trees, his bow already slung at his shoulder. The mules huffed behind him, their braying softening into contented chomps, but his steps were already carrying him outward, toward shadow and leaf, where he would prove himself once more.

He moved with care, his ears straining for the crack of a twig or the rustle of brush, his eyes scanning for the faintest shift of movement. The bow rested ready at his shoulder, his fingers brushing the fletching of an arrow now and again as if by instinct.

Time stretched. He listened for the scurry of hare, the wingbeat of a pheasant startled from cover, yet his thoughts wandered despite himself, drifting to golden hair and laughter that lingered in memory. So distracted was he that he never noticed the faint glimmer of rope half-buried in leaf mould, nor the eyes that watched him from the branches above.

When a boot pressed down, there came a sudden snap, a whir of tension loosed, before he could draw breath, the ground vanished beneath him. The rope tightened, jerking him aloft, and Elrohir found himself flung upside down, suspended by an ankle in a crude snare. His bow clattered to the earth as he swung, cloak falling over his head in undignified folds.

Laughter rang out, bright and merciless, as a half-dozen Wood-elves slipped from their hiding places—Sindar and Silvan alike, their mirth echoing through the trees. One clutched his side, another pointed with glee, and their voices rose in jests Elrohir scarcely caught above the ringing in his ears.

His eyes narrowed, the blood pounding in his head. With a swift twist, he pulled a knife from his belt, slicing clean through the rope. He dropped in a controlled fall, landing squarely on his feet, bow already snatched up from the ground in the same motion.

The laughter continued to ring bright and merciless through the trees, but Elrohir’s gaze was ice. He drew himself upright, the knife still in his hand, his voice cutting cold across their mirth.

“Is this the measure of Greenwood’s warriors?” he asked, calm and sharp as flint. “Laying snares for their own allies?”

A few chuckles lingered, though thinner now. One of the Sindar leaned on his bow, his smirk edged with scorn. “Allies? Strange word on your tongue, son of Elrond.”

Another stepped forward, Silvan eyes hard beneath the fall of his hair. “This is nothing beside what our prince endured. A snare and a fall into leaves, no blood, no bruise. Yet, you dragged him behind your horse until his knees were torn raw, and still he forgave you.”

A murmur rippled through the others, no longer laughter but the sound of old wounds remembered. Some faces held grim satisfaction, others only cold watchfulness, but all bore the same truth: they had not forgotten, and they did not forgive so swiftly as their prince.

Elrohir’s hand tightened on the hilt of his knife until his knuckles whitened. Grey eyes flashed, and for a heartbeat it seemed he might strike back with word or steel. The rope still swayed above him, mocking, and the weight of memory pressed heavier than the snare itself.

The circle tightened, a few of the hunters still grinning, others glaring as if daring Elrohir to answer. The air itself seemed to hold its breath.

Then a familiar voice cut in, light but edged.

“Mandos’s breath, you’ll get yourselves strung up if you keep on like this.”

Caleth sauntered into the clearing as though he had stumbled on a fireside tale rather than a snare sprung on Elrond’s son. His usual grin was there, but thinner, sharpened at the edges. He wagged a finger at the circle of hunters, tsking under his breath. “Come now, enough. The prince would skin the lot of you if he heard of this—and worse, he’d make me listen to his lecture. Spare me that, at least.”

Thalion followed at his shoulder, his tone steady, cutting through the mirth like a drawn bowstring. “He’s right. Prince Legolas would not laugh at this, nor forgive it. Nor should you expect him to.” His grey gaze swept over the gathered faces, cool and unyielding until the chuckles faltered.

The silence that followed was reluctant, but it held. Caleth gave a satisfied sniff, flashing Elrohir the briefest sidelong look—half reassurance, half mischief—before clapping his hands together. “There, much better. Now, unless any of you fancy me reporting this to our prince, I’d say we leave the snares for the enemy.”

From the ring of hunters, one voice rose, low and hard.

“Would he, though?”

The speaker stepped forward—Rhovan, a tall Sindar, storm-eyed, his hair pale as winter birch beneath the canopy’s gloom. He looked not at Caleth or Thalion, but straight at Elrohir.

“You speak of our prince as though he would forgive such sport,” Rhovan said, his tone like cold iron. “And aye, he would. Too easily. But we do not forget.” His gaze swept the others, and more than one nodded grimly. “Dragged behind a horse until his skin was torn, left bleeding in the dirt—this Noldo did that. And now he walks among us as though nothing was owed.”

The silence that followed was thick, heavier than before. Caleth’s grin faltered, his hand half-raised in protest, but no jest came to his lips. Thalion’s mouth tightened, his eyes flicking briefly toward Elrohir with something like warning and sympathy.

Rhovan’s voice dropped, weighty with the memory of their prince’s pain. “Say what you will, Caleth. But do not ask us to laugh with him. Our prince is precious to us all—more than life, more than crown. We guard him with everything we are. And we do not forgive easily what wounded him.”

Elrohir’s grip tightened on the knife still in his hand, the edge glinting faintly in the half-light. For a long moment, he said nothing, letting Rhovan’s words hang in the air, pressing like a weight against his chest. When he spoke at last, his voice was low, measured, cold as stone.

“You guard him fiercely,” he said, his gaze sweeping the circle of hunters. “As you should. He is worthy of such devotion.” His grey eyes narrowed, fixed now on Rhovan alone. “But do not mistake me. I owe nothing to your forgiveness, nor do I ask it. What stands between your prince and I is ours alone, and it has already been met.”

The words fell quiet, without flourish, but the steel beneath them was unyielding. Elrohir sheathed his knife with deliberate calm, his jaw set in hard lines.

Rhovan did not yield. He stepped closer until he stood square before Elrohir, his shadow falling long in the dimming light. His eyes burned, and his voice came low, hard as hammered steel.

“You think this matter lies only between you and our prince?” His lip curled faintly, bitter as ash. “No. You owe Greenwood itself. You owe every knife and bow that has stood between him and shadow. You should be on your knees, begging pardon, not standing here with pride in your voice, Noldo.”

He swept a hand toward the gathered company, their faces grim in the hush. “You march now in this patrol, one of the trials the king himself set you. A trial to earn Greenwood’s measure.” His gaze narrowed, his tone colder still. “But know this, son of Elrond—mine you will never earn. Not while I draw breath. I will never bend to a Noldo, least of all one who once dragged our prince in the dirt like a beast.”

The words struck the air like iron on an anvil, leaving silence in their wake. No laughter lingered now, only the taut, heavy quiet of warriors waiting; the forest itself was hushed, as though it listened.

Before the silence could harden further, Caleth’s voice cut in, smooth as silk.

“Valar’s breath, Rhovan,” he said, striding into the circle as though it were a stage built for him alone. “You thunder at him like he were no more than some wandering Noldo, tripping into our woods with his nose in the air. Open your eyes.” He tipped his chin toward Elrohir, a grin curling sharply. “Do you not see it? The old blood runs in him. Look long enough and you’ll glimpse Lúthien herself in those grey eyes. Thingol’s line stares you in the face.”

He leaned an elbow against Thalion’s shoulder, grinning as if to soften the sting of his words. “And unless I mistake myself, your line once bent knee in Menegroth’s halls, proud servants of Doriath’s King. Strange, is it not, that you of all should turn your nose at Thingol’s heir?”

A ripple moved through the gathered warriors, some exchanging glances, others narrowing their eyes, unsettled by the old names spoken aloud.

Rhovan’s jaw clenched. His hand tightened on his bow as though he longed to strike back, but for a heartbeat, words failed him.

Caleth only smiled wider, his voice dropping into a murmur. “Careful, old wolf. The past has a long memory, and you tread close to biting the very hand your fathers once served.”

Rhovan’s eyes burned, but no words came. His jaw tightened, lips pressed thin, fury caged in silence. At last, he turned on his heel, cloak flaring with the motion, and stalked into the trees. The others followed after him, their glares heavy on Elrohir until the shadows swallowed them, leaving only the echo of their steps behind.

The clearing felt larger in their absence, the hush of Greenwood folding close once more. Caleth lingered where he stood, rocking back on his heels before letting out a long, exaggerated sigh.

“Well,” he said at last, a grin creeping back into place, sly and irreverent, “that went marvelously. No knives in your ribs, no arrows loosed at your head. By Greenwood’s standards, that’s practically an embrace.”

Thalion shook his head, the barest huff of laughter escaping him despite himself.

Elrohir’s gaze lingered on the dark between the trees where Rhovan and the others had vanished, the hush of the forest pressing close. At last he spoke, his voice low, almost more to the shadows than to the two who remained.

“I do not begrudge them their words,” he said. “How could I? I have not forgiven myself for what I did to Legolas. And I do not know if I ever shall.”

Thalion’s head turned, his eyes steady on him. He gave no easy comfort, but there was a measure of respect in the stillness of his gaze, as if he marked the truth in Elrohir’s words.

Caleth tilted his head, his grin fading to something smaller, more searching. Mischief gave way, if only for a breath, to candor. “Well,” he said, softer than usual, “perhaps that is why he chose you. You bleed over it more than any of us could make you.”

He stepped closer, hands sliding into the fold of his belt. “You may win a measure of favor from the Silvan yet,” he said, voice pitched low and conspiratorial. “They are easier folk, quick to laugh, though not quick to forgive; yet, the love our prince bears you will weigh heavily with them. Prove yourself with bow and blade, and their grudges may soften in time. But the Sindar…” He gave an exaggerated sigh, rolling his eyes to the heavens. “Valar, they are another thing. Stern, stiff-necked, dour as their old kings. They clutch their grudges like misers clutch their coin. You’ll be halfway to Mandos’s Halls before you thaw one of them.”

Thalion’s brow lifted, his tone dry. “Strange words, Caleth, from one who shares their blood. Or have you forgotten your own mother is a Sindar?”

Caleth clutched at his chest in mock offense. “Aye, and I’ve borne the curse of it all my days. Stern as stone, the lot of them—save me, of course. I like to think the Silvan in me keeps me tolerable.” He let the grin linger a moment, then softened, his voice taking on rare warmth. “And my dear mother…she is different. Beautiful, patient beyond reason. How she suffers me, I cannot guess.”

Thalion only shook his head, though a faint smile tugged at his mouth.

Caleth’s eyes glinted as he leaned a little nearer to Elrohir. “Legolas may wear the look of royal Sindar blood, but his heart is more Silvan—untamed, laughing, as quick to climb a tree as to sit a throne. Except,” his grin sharpened, “when Oropher’s fire boils in his veins. Then you’d best give him space.” He gave a theatrical shiver. “As for our king—ah, he is another matter entirely.” His voice dropped into a conspiratorial whisper, his grin wolfish. “The very trees tremble for fear of him.”

Elrohir’s grey gaze slid sidelong toward him, cool and steady. “I have yet to see a tree tremble in his presence,” he said, his tone as dry as winter air. “But I have seen warriors do so.”

Caleth blinked, then barked out a laugh, clapping him on the shoulder. “There it is! A tongue sharper than a blade when you choose to use it.”

Thalion’s mouth curved faintly, his eyes glinting with quiet amusement.

Elrohir stood silent for a moment, the forest’s hush folding close again now that the others were gone. At last, he inclined his head, grey eyes steady on the two who remained. “My thanks,” he said quietly. “For stepping in. I do not forget such things.”

Caleth’s grin returned at once, bright and unrepentant. “Ha! Did you hear that, Thalion? Thanks, from the son of Elrond himself. A rare gift indeed. Best treasure it.” He leaned in, lowering his voice with mock gravity. “Another step and we’ll be calling each other friends.”

He clapped Elrohir on the arm, a gesture that was entirely too familiar, and spread his hands wide as though declaring some grand truth. “Practically brothers already.”

Thalion’s mouth curved into a faint smile, his tone dry as ever. “Aye. Friends, perhaps. Though I suspect he’ll regret it the moment you open your mouth again.”

Caleth gave an exaggerated gasp, clutching at his chest as though struck. “Thalion! And after I defended your honor just last week against Galion’s sharp tongue.” His eyes sparkled with mischief as he looked back to Elrohir. “See what I suffer?”

Elrohir’s lips pressed thin, but the smallest curve betrayed him, the faintest flicker of humor slipping through his stern composure. 

He then drew a slow breath, the weight of the moment settling into something steadier. His gaze shifted toward the dark line of the trees, where shadows pooled thick beneath the branches. “Come,” he said at last, his voice low but certain. “The patrol expects meat tonight, and I would not hunt alone. Walk with me.”

Caleth’s grin lit at once, bright and mischievous, as though the heaviness of a moment ago had been no more than smoke in the wind. He tapped his bowstring with a theatrical flourish. “Gladly. Better we bring back a brace of rabbits than have Arphenion come sniffing after us with that stormcloud brow of his. Valar save me, I’d rather face a boar’s tusk than his temper.”

Thalion exhaled softly, shaking his head as he fell into step. “You’ll face both if you keep running your tongue before your sense,” he murmured, though there was the faintest trace of warmth in his voice.

Elrohir’s lips curved—not quite a smile, but something near enough—as he adjusted the strap of his bow and led the way beneath the darkening canopy. The last shards of sunlight filtered down through Greenwood’s vast boughs, dappling their cloaks in gold before fading into the green gloom ahead.

Caleth trailed a step behind, still humming under his breath, irrepressible even now. Thalion walked steadily at Elrohir’s side, his silence carrying a kind of quiet solidarity. Together, the three slipped into the underwood, leaving the swaying rope and the campfire’s distant murmur behind, their figures swallowed by the deep, waiting forest.

The Greenwood lay hushed beneath its canopy, but within the halls of the king, the air was taut with a different stillness. Far from the patrol’s road, Legolas waited outside the council chamber, his back straight against the carved stone of the corridor.

The heavy doors were closed, their panels of oak bound with silver, and from behind them came only the faintest murmur of voices—low, measured, rising now and then in sharp cadence before sinking again. Thranduil’s council was long in session, and though Legolas could not catch the words, he knew the rhythm well of reports of border strength, of shadow seen too near the southern marches, of trade with the Lake, of tidings from Lórien. Matters that stretched late into the evening, leaving him to wait in silence.

A single torch guttered nearby, its flame casting long shadows across the floor. He fixed his gaze on that flickering light, though his thoughts wandered restlessly, circling the same ache: how many days had passed since Elrohir had gone, and how many yet remained before he would hear word of him again.

The corridor smelled of resin and stone, of woodsmoke carried faintly from the great hearths below. Guards stood at their posts a little down the hall, motionless as carved figures, their eyes sliding toward him only once before returning to their watch. Legolas folded his hands behind his back, a picture of composure, though beneath the calm, his thoughts ran swift as the forest stream.

At last, the great doors swung open, their hinges whispering against stone. One by one, the lords and counselors filed out, their voices subdued after lengthy debate. Each paused as they passed, inclining their heads in respect. A few smiled as well, brief but genuine, for Legolas was well loved in his father’s halls. He returned each bow with quiet grace, though his thoughts were already turning toward the chamber beyond.

When the last had gone, he stepped inside.

The council chamber lay hushed, the long table scattered with maps and records, the air still faintly heavy with the press of voices. At the far end, before the high-arched window that looked east over the darkening forest, Thranduil stood motionless, hands clasped behind his back. The fading light caught in his hair like pale fire, his profile stern against the glass.

Without turning, his voice carried across the chamber, cool and edged with dry reproach. “You need not linger outside my councils like a page, nettle-sprite. It ill suits the son of the king to haunt the hallway as though hoping for scraps.”

Legolas’s mouth curved, humor glinting beneath his composure. “If it ill suits me to linger, then perhaps I should vanish altogether,” he said, voice light with mock consideration. “Would that please you better, Adar? To have your son haunting the halls like a restless shade, rather than waiting dutifully at your door?”

Thranduil turned then, one brow arched, his expression a mask of regal coolness betrayed only by the faint gleam in his eye. “This realm suffers enough unrest without you adding to it. One ghost in these halls is more than sufficient,” he replied dryly. 

Legolas drew a long breath, the flicker of humor fading from his eyes. He stepped further into the chamber, the heavy doors shutting softly behind him, and for a moment the hush of the room pressed close.

“Adar,” he said at last, his voice steadier than the quickening of his heart, “I would speak with you—not as prince to king, but as son to father.” His gaze lifted, meeting Thranduil’s directly. “I wish to appeal the decision you gave…that my name be struck from the patrols.”

Thranduil regarded him in silence for a long moment, the fading light casting sharp lines across his face. When he spoke, his voice was calm and unyielding, carrying the double weight of crown and kinship.

“Whether as king to prince or as father to son, my word will not change,” he said. “Your name is struck from the patrols, and it shall remain so. No appeal will move me from that course.”

Legolas’s jaw tightened, and for a moment the mask of princely composure slipped, revealing the fire beneath. “I am not a child,” he said, the words edged with pride and hurt in equal measure. “I have stood where shadow creeps, bled for this realm, borne command when it was asked of me. Yet you would bind me to these halls as though I were still too young to lift a bow.”

His breath came sharper, the ache in his chest rising with every word. He had endured trials, endured doubt, endured the weight of being both prince and soldier, and yet, here was his father, stripping him of what he had earned. To be left behind, set aside as if fragile, cut deeper than any wound of blade or fang.

Thranduil’s gaze did not waver, though something flickered in his eyes, an unspoken weariness, perhaps grief, but his voice remained even, measured, a king’s decree. “I hear you, my son. I do not mistake your years nor what you have given. But my word is final. You will not ride with the patrols.”

Legolas’s hands curled at his sides, knuckles pale, the golden light about him sharpened by the flare of temper. For a heartbeat, he looked less the even-tempered son of Thranduil and more a scion of Oropher himself—willful, unbending, a spark of defiance burning bright.

“Adar, I cannot learn what I must from within these walls. I cannot master the gift that stirs in me, nor glean what waits in the south, if I am caged here like some songbird in your keeping. The halls are strong, yes, but they do not teach. They do not answer the whispers in my dreams, nor the shadow that gnaws at the edges of Greenwood.”

His gaze fixed on Thranduil, unflinching, though the heat in it was sharpened by hurt. “You would have me still, unmoving, when every part of me knows I must go forward.”

Thranduil’s eyes narrowed, his presence filling the chamber like a drawn bow. “Quarreling with your king ill becomes a prince, Legolas,” he said, each word clipped and deliberate. “You are heir to Greenwood. You know your duty.”

Legolas’s breath caught, his jaw tightening. The fire that so often lay banked within him leapt to the surface. “I do know my duty,” he said, voice rising despite himself. “To my people, to this realm, to the forest that lives through me. You would chain me to stone walls while shadow gnaws at our borders. How am I to serve if you bind me as though I were still a child at your knee? I will not be caged when my duty calls me beyond these halls.”

Thranduil turned fully, and when he spoke, his voice was not merely his own—it was the voice that had silenced councils, commanded armies, stilled even the boldest hearts. It rolled through the chamber with the weight of a crown and the fire of a king whose word was law.

“I am your king,” he thundered, the force of it striking like a blade through stone. “And I am your father. My word is not to be debated, nor quarreled with, nor set aside. It is law, and it will be obeyed.”

The words struck like hammer-blows, leaving the chamber ringing with their echo.

Legolas blinked, the heat in him breaking against the sheer force of that voice. His shoulders, proud and unbending a moment before, slackened by a fraction. He lowered his gaze, breath sharp in his chest, the fire within him quelled for now.

For a long moment, Thranduil did not move, his figure tall and unmoving before the window’s pale light. Then, with measured steps, he crossed the chamber, each footfall quiet but deliberate until he stood before his son. The stern line of his face eased only slightly as he reached out, his hand cool and steady beneath Legolas’s chin. With gentle insistence, he lifted his son’s face until blue met blue.

“Do not mistake me, Legolas,” he said, the thunder gone from his voice, replaced with something lower, older, and far more intimate. “I would sooner see these halls crumble to ruin and the crown itself turned to ash than lose you to the darkness beyond our borders. You are my son before you are any warrior or prince. That is why I keep you here. That is why I guard you so.”

The words fell heavy, not as a decree, but as truth laid bare. And though the fire still burned hot in Legolas’s heart, it faltered beneath the weight of his father’s love revealed in that touch and tone.

His breath softened, the last edge of his defiance bending as he took a step closer. He lowered his head until his brow came to rest against his father’s shoulder, drawing steadiness from the familiar weight of him. For a time, neither spoke; the chamber held only the sound of their breathing, king and son bound in a silence that was neither command nor surrender, but something older—love, fierce and unspoken.

A knock sounded against the heavy doors, polite but firm, breaking the stillness.

Thranduil’s hand lingered a heartbeat longer at his son’s back before he straightened, the mask of the king slipping easily into place once more.

“Enter,” he said, his voice smooth and composed.

The doors opened to admit Elladan. Dark-haired and composed, he carried a parchment in his hand. His gaze swept the chamber, and for the briefest instant, surprise flickered in his grey eyes—to see king and prince so near, shadows of intimacy and command still hanging between them. Then his expression settled again, courtly and measured, as he inclined his head to both of them.

“My lord,” he said, holding the message with care, “a letter has come into my keeping. Though it was addressed to me, I believe its contents touch upon this court, and so I would place it before you.”

There was no urgency in his manner, only the steady bearing of one who knew the weight of words. Yet something unspoken lingered in his gaze, a quiet awareness that the letter’s true reach was not yet known. Neither king nor son could guess whose hand had penned it, nor what tidings it carried.

Thranduil’s gaze shifted from the parchment to Elladan, his brow arched. “What tidings, then?”

Elladan inclined his head, his voice steady but touched with a note of fondness. “It is from my sister. Arwen writes from Lórien. She journeys northward and asks leave to visit your halls, my lord. She has never seen Greenwood and would have the chance at last.”

A soft gasp escaped Legolas, unguarded. “Arwen?” The name fell from him as though it carried both wonder and memory.

Elladan’s lips curved, mischief glinting in his grey eyes. “Aye, Arwen. Perhaps she comes not for the forest at all, but to try her charms on you once more. Who knows? She may yet hope to steal your heart away from Elrohir.” His tone carried the familiar echo of an old jest, one that had long lived between them.

Legolas’s laughter broke free, bright and unrestrained, chasing the heaviness from the chamber like sunlight through shadow. “She may try,” he said, fondness and mischief twined in his tone, “but Elrohir would not suffer it—and neither would I.”

Elladan’s answering laugh was quick and full, his grey eyes glinting. “Then I almost pity her. Between you and my brother, she will find herself outmatched at last—and I shall enjoy every moment of it.”

Even Thranduil’s sternness eased, the faintest glimmer of amusement crossing his face, though his eyes lingered keenly on his son, measuring the warmth in his laughter as though it were balm.

Elladan tapped the parchment against his palm, his smile crooked. “Truth be told, she may have written this days ago. By now, she is likely already upon the road.”

Thranduil’s brows arched, a faint gleam of disdain in his cool gaze. “So hasty she cannot await an answer before descending on my halls? Impatience ill becomes the Evenstar.”

Elladan gave a low laugh, unoffended. “Impatience becomes us all, my lord. It is the curse of our half-elven blood. None of us waits as we ought.”

Legolas’s eyes brightened with sly mirth, his voice threading light through the air. “None of you? Does that include you as well, Elladan?”

Elladan barked a laugh, shaking his head, and faded into a smile as he bowed his head toward Thranduil. “My lord, if I may—I would ride to meet her on the road. Might I have the leave of your court to do so? A Greenwood soldier or two to guide me would suffice, that I not mistake the safer paths.”

Before Thranduil could answer, Legolas stepped forward, his voice cutting in with quiet urgency. “He will need no guide.” His blue eyes turned swiftly to his father, light quickening in them. “Let me go. I know the forest better than any, and I would see her safely here.”

The plea rang clear, soft yet insistent, his composure tempered by the earnest edge of longing—for freedom, for purpose, for a chance to prove himself once more.

Thranduil’s answer came at once, swift and cutting, a blade drawn clean. “No.”

The word struck the air like iron, final and unbending. His gaze fixed on his son, cool as tempered steel. “We have just spoken of this. Your name is struck from the patrols, and you would defy me by leaping at the first excuse to leave these halls? You will not. Not for Elrond’s daughter, not for any guest. The matter is ended.”

Legolas drew a breath, his composure fraying at the edges. “Adar, it is a simple errand,” he pleaded, his voice low but fervent. “No foray into the south, no perilous watch, only the short road to meet a guest. Let me go with him. Do not hold me caged for so small a thing.”

Elladan, who had stood silent till now, stepped forward. He caught the flicker of desperation in Legolas’s eyes and felt it strike deep. “My lord,” he said, his tone steady but edged with warmth, “you have my word—I will not let harm come to him. He will not be alone. If you grant this leave, I will guard him as I would my own blood.” He paused, then added with quiet conviction, “And I meant to ask Glorfindel to ride with us. His name alone carries weight enough to keep the road safe. With him beside us, no shadow would dare draw near.”

At that, Legolas turned his gaze to Elladan, blue eyes softening. Gratitude shone clear in his look, unspoken yet unmistakable, as though the weight in his chest had eased for the first time since he entered the chamber.

For a long moment, Thranduil said nothing. His gaze lingered first on Elladan, then on his son, the silence stretching heavy as stone. At the mention of Glorfindel, his expression shifted, the barest flicker of thought crossing his cool mask. Few names carried such weight, and even Thranduil could not dismiss it lightly.

At last, he drew a slow breath, the steel in his eyes softening, though only by a fraction. “If Glorfindel rides with you, the road is not without safety,” he said. His gaze swept between them, sharp still, but edged with weary concession. “Very well. You may go—both of you. But hear me, Legolas.” His eyes fixed on Legolas, voice firm as the roots of the mountain. “This is no license beyond the errand. You will ride to meet her, and you will return. Nothing more.”

The words rang with the weight of command, but beneath them lay the thread of something else—reluctant trust, born not of ease, but of love too fierce to hold forever in chains.

Legolas’s breath caught, hope flaring bright in his eyes. He bowed his head in gratitude, the tension in his shoulders breaking into lightness, though reverence still shaped his voice. “Thank you, Adar.”

Thranduil’s hand swept once through the air, crisp and final. “Go, before I think better of it. My patience is not endless.”

Elladan bowed with easy grace; Legolas inclined his head, though the relief in his eyes belied his composed demeanor. Together they stepped out, the heavy doors shutting behind them with a deep, echoing thud.

No sooner had the latch fallen than Legolas turned, eyes alight, and caught Elladan in a sudden embrace. His voice was low, fervent, the words pressed close against his friend’s shoulder. “Thank you. Truly. I could not have swayed him without you.”

Elladan stiffened, startled by the unguarded gesture, before a grin broke across his face and he clasped Legolas in return. “Careful, Legolas,” he teased, his voice warm with laughter. “It’s a blessing my twin is not here to see this. Elrohir would be scowling fit to bring the mountain down, thinking I’d stolen you away with nothing more than an embrace. He would sooner storm the halls than let me steal so much as a smile from you.”

Legolas’s laughter rang out, bright and unrestrained, echoing down the stone corridor like sunlight chasing shadow.

Elladan gave his shoulder a final squeeze and stepped back, his smile still curved with quiet amusement. “Come, then. Best get yourself ready,” he said. “I’ll meet you at the gates, with Glorfindel at my side. Between us both, even your father’s doubts will find little ground.”

Legolas inclined his head, the brightness of his smile tempered by gratitude. For the first time that day, hope pressed stronger than the weight of chains. “I will be there.”

They parted, their steps echoing in opposite directions down the stone hall.

When at last Legolas came to the gates of the Woodland Realm, the evening light was fading, spilling long shadows across the forest floor. Elladan was already waiting, dark hair glinting in the twilight, and beside him stood Glorfindel—golden and radiant, as though no dusk could dim his light. Both were armed and ready, the calm of seasoned warriors steadying the air around them.

A knowing smile touched Glorfindel’s mouth as Legolas approached. “Thranduilion,” he said, warmth cutting clean through the cool of the hour. “So your father has lent you to us after all.”

Legolas’s brows lifted, a wry smile ghosting at his lips. “Lent? You make it sound as though I were some trinket bartered between lords. I would have you know, my lord, I am no one’s coin to be passed about.”

Elladan gave a low chuckle, grey eyes glinting. “A coin, perhaps not. But you are most certainly the most carefully guarded prize in these halls. Half the guard watches you closer than the borders.”

Glorfindel’s eyes glimmered with amusement. “And yet here you stand, ready to ride the road at his side, Elladan. Tell me, should I take this as proof of Thranduil’s faith, or of your silver tongue?”

“Faith,” Legolas said smoothly, though the curve of his mouth betrayed the jest. “For silver, my lord, you will find none in Elladan.”

Elladan laughed outright, clapping Legolas on the shoulder. “I’ll remember that, Legolas, when I’m the one dragging you back before your father.”

A new voice interjected, smooth and cool, but edged enough to still the laughter.

“I trust,” Thranduil said as he stepped forward, “there will be no dragging of my son. Once was quite enough, in Imladris.”

The words carried the weight of memory, but his tone was measured, more warning than wrath. He came to stand beside them, Erestor just behind, his gaze steady as it swept over the three.

Elladan inclined his head at once, his voice low but steady. “You are right, my lord. My choice of words was poorly made, and I beg your pardon. I meant no slight, least of all in jest.”

Thranduil’s brow arched, his tone smooth as glass but edged. “See that you do not test apologies as often as Greenwood tests its arrows, Elladan. They lose their force when loosed too freely.”

Glorfindel’s mouth curved, his voice calm and assured, carrying warmth without softening. “Have no fear, Thranduil. Legolas will walk this road beside us, and we will see him returned to you with no cause for apologies at all.”

Legolas’s brows lifted, the faintest sigh slipping from him as though he had weathered such exchanges a hundred times before. “If the two of you are quite finished swearing oaths over me,” he said, voice calm but edged with wry affection, “I would remind you that I am present, not some parcel to be spoken of in absence.”

The look he turned on his father carried long-schooled patience, sharpened by the ease of a son too used to such protectiveness; the one he gave Glorfindel held a glint of humor, as though to say he had no need of rescue from either of them.

Erestor then came forward with a satchel in hand, every strap tied with meticulous care. He stopped before Glorfindel, dark eyes narrowing just enough to betray long familiarity.

“All your noble assurances,” he said coolly, “yet you would have set out without so much as a loaf between you. You forgot the rations.” He placed the satchel firmly against Glorfindel’s chest. “Even legends, it seems, cannot march on air.”

A faint curve ghosted his mouth as he stepped back again, the glimmer of satisfaction needing no further word.

Glorfindel accepted the bundle with a rueful smile, inclining his golden head. “And thus you see, Thranduil, why I am never permitted to leave Imladris unattended. He ensures my triumphs are supplied as well as sung.”

Thranduil’s gaze flicked between them, one brow arched, his tone edged with dry disdain. “A useful match, then—one keeps the other fed, and both spared from folly. Few unions in any age have proved so practical.”

Glorfindel’s smile curved, bright as a blade catching light. “Practical, yes,” he allowed, voice threaded with amusement, “but never tedious. A well-provisioned union leaves ample strength for more rewarding labors.”

Elladan let out a groan, though laughter broke through all the same. He dragged a hand down his face, shaking his head. “By the Valar, Glorfindel. If Elrohir heard that, he’d be scandalized into drawing steel.”

Erestor’s hand shot out with quiet certainty, fingers catching Glorfindel’s jaw and turning his face down to meet his own. “Behave,” he said, the single word clipped as steel, though the softening in his eyes betrayed the affection beneath.

Glorfindel only laughed under his breath and bent, stealing a swift kiss. “As you command,” he murmured against his husband’s mouth, “though I’ll not be long. I’ll return with Arwen before you’ve time to miss me.”

Thranduil’s expression did not shift, save for the faint narrowing of his eyes, unimpressed, as though this display belonged more to a woodland glade than to his gates.

Legolas caught Elladan’s glance, the two of them sharing the same look of long-suffering, amused, and fond in equal measure.

The guards stepped forward, reins in hand. One offered Legolas his own mount, a tall grey whose mane caught the torchlight like smoke. Legolas laid a palm against its neck, his voice slipping into Silvan, low and steady as water through stone. The horse snorted softly, ears twitching toward him, and stilled beneath his touch.

When he lifted his head again, he saw Elladan and Glorfindel already gathering their reins, boots angled as though to mount.

“Not here,” he said, calm but certain. “The path beyond the gate is too narrow, the roots too deep. We walk until the ground grows kind to hooves.”

Elladan stilled, then inclined his head in quiet assent, letting the reins fall easily against his shoulder. Glorfindel only smiled, faint but knowing.

So they moved out together, leading their mounts beneath the shadowed boughs.

At the threshold, Legolas turned once more. His eyes found his father standing beneath the arch of stone, tall and still. He offered a small smile, brief, but bright with quiet warmth, like sunlight spilling through a break in the leaves.

Thranduil did not stir. His face was carved in stillness, but his gaze held fast, sharp as frost, fierce as flame. Only in his eyes was there movement,  the unspoken vow of a king, and the fiercer love of a father who would not look away, not even as the forest swallowed his son.

Then Legolas turned back, and the company’s figures slipped into the green dusk, their steps hushed beneath the canopy until only the murmur of leaves remained.

The road widened gradually as Greenwood’s roots thinned and the leaf-mould gave way to firmer earth. By the second day past noon, they had mounted, the horses taking the track at an easy canter where fallen boughs no longer barred the way. Sun broke in panes through high boughs; motes turned in the light like slow snow.

They let the pace settle to something companionable. The forest’s breath moved with them—birdcall, the soft clink of tack, the low creak of leather. When the ground dipped toward a shallow runnel, Elladan eased alongside Legolas, a grin already forming as if a story had been riding his shoulder since the gates.

“You asked once,” he began, deceptively mild, “what mischief keeps twins humble.”

Legolas’s mouth curved. “I recall asking what mischief keeps you humble.”

Glorfindel’s chuckle came warm and low. “Careful, Thranduilion. He is about to offer evidence in abundance.”

Elladan spread his hands. “I was gentle in childhood. Elrohir was less so, except where I was concerned.” His grin widened. “We were but young elflings, and honey-cakes were cooling in the kitchens. I told him, very convincingly, that the cooks of Gondolin once improved their cakes with crushed beetles for color and sweetness, crimson as sunset, and perfectly harmless.”

Legolas’s brows lifted, laughter already threatening. “And he believed you?”

“He did not believe me,” Elladan said, wounded dignity failing to hide his delight. “But he gave me that scowl of his, the same one he still wears, and resolved to test the matter.”

Glorfindel tilted his head, amused. “And how did he ‘test’ it?”

“With dedication.” Elladan leaned over his saddle-bow, conspiratorial. “He took the smallest beetle he could find and bit it in half, to see if the flavor would, his word, ‘marry well’ with the honey. He chewed. He considered. He went very quiet.”

Legolas broke then, laughter bright as water over stone. “Valar defend him—”

“Oh, defend him indeed,” Elladan chirped. “For I, moved by brotherly love, performed the same experiment so he should not suffer alone.”

Glorfindel’s eyes glinted. “And?”

“And we discovered together that beetles do not improve honey-cakes. Elrohir turned a most instructive shade of green, then promptly sicked it all up. I, being the elder by a breath, declared the inquiry conclusive and suggested we never speak of it again.”

“You spoke of it to everyone,” Glorfindel said, voice all fond reproach. “Until your father heard, and the kitchen door became a fortress.”

Elladan laughed aloud. “True enough. Father was wroth enough to banish us from the kitchens for a month. Mother, however, nearly wept with laughter.”

Legolas wiped at the corner of one eye with a gloved knuckle, the laughter still in his voice. “So, this is how the sons of Elrond pursue knowledge, through valiant sacrifice?”

“Only the loftiest forms of inquiry,” Elladan agreed solemnly, though mischief glinted in his eyes. “But if you ever serve honey-cakes to my brother, never ask his opinion of their color.” His grin sharpened. “On second thought, ask. Watching him squirm will be worth it.”

Legolas’s eyes gleamed, his smile curving sly. “Then I shall be sure to ask him, and often. I will whisper of beetles whenever honey-cakes are served, and his scowl will eclipse the sun itself.”

Glorfindel laughed, bright and unrestrained. “I would ride leagues to see that. Elrohir, undone by a memory of insects. What glory!”

Elladan nearly doubled with mirth, his voice caught between delight and mischief. “If you do it, Legolas, send for me at once. I would trade half my father’s library for the chance to watch his face when you remind him.”

Legolas’s laughter lingered, but it gentled as it faded, the sly curve of his lips softening into a thoughtful expression. He could almost see it: the fierce scowl giving way, however briefly, to the shadow of a smile. The image warmed him, quiet and unspoken.

Elladan caught the shift. His own grin eased, giving way to something steadier, more earnest. “You know,” he said, his voice pitched low, “Arwen and I have long loved you for the light you bring him.”

Legolas turned, faint surprise flickering in his eyes, but Elladan pressed on, the words gathering like a truth too long held.

“Our brother has ever been fierce—swift to wrath, careless with his own life, carrying storms where others found stillness. Many nights we feared what that temper might carve into him, what shadows it might leave.” Elladan’s grey eyes brightened, his smile touched with wonder. “But you…you draw something else from him. You draw joy. When he smiles because of you, Legolas, it is not the sharp laugh of pride or anger, but the true music of his spirit. It is a sound I thought lost to us. And when I see it, my heart sings.”

Glorfindel’s gaze softened, though his smile remained bright. “There is no finer music than that,” he said warmly.

Elladan guided his horse a pace nearer, close enough that his hand reached across and clasped Legolas’s. His grip was steady, fraternal, the words he spoke carrying the weight of kinship more than jest.

“You have saved my brother in ways you may not even understand,” he said, voice low, the candor of it unguarded. “You tempered his storms, gave him cause to lay aside his recklessness and remember there is more to life than anger and shadow. For that, I will ever be grateful.”

His gaze swept briefly over the forest around them, as though marking more than trees. “And more still. I marvel that your love has done what councils could not. For long have our kindreds stood apart, Sindar and Silvan in the east, Noldor in the west, each mistrusting the other. Yet, you and Elrohir…you have bound us together, if only by a thread. That, too, is no small thing.”

Legolas held his gaze, struck silent for a moment. The earnest weight in Elladan’s voice pressed deep, more humbling than any accolade of war or court. His fingers curled faintly around Elladan’s hand before he found words.

“If such a thread has been woven,” he said softly, “it is not mine alone. Elrohir chose me, as I chose him. Whatever light you see in him is his own. It is only that, with me, he does not hide it.”

Elladan’s smile widened, bright with brotherly pride. “Then may he never hide it again. Long did we fear he might bury himself in shadow.” He gave Legolas’s hand a last firm squeeze before letting go. “Now I see the elf he was meant to be, and it is because of you.”

Glorfindel, who had ridden quietly behind, let out a soft laugh. “Careful, Elladan. If you heap him with more praise, you’ll have the prince blushing brighter than sunrise.”

The corners of Legolas’s mouth curved, though his eyes were bright with more than mirth. “Blushes fade,” he said, his voice steady and warm. “Your brother’s storms do not. If I have calmed them, then it is worth all the jest you can muster.”

Elladan’s grin returned, mischief quickening in his eyes. “Still, I confess, there is one wound I cannot quite forgive—that you never gave me a chance, Legolas. My pride suffers sorely for it.” He leaned closer in mock seriousness, his voice dropping as though sharing some scandal. “Even Arwen hoped to be chosen once. She often sighs that you and she would have had the most beautiful children in all of Arda. She laments what might have been.”

Legolas’s laughter spilled bright and unrestrained, shaking off the weight of the moment like sunlight through leaves. “You are shameless, Elladan.”

Glorfindel’s golden head tilted, his eyes glinting with mirth. “Careful, child. Say that in front of Elrohir, and you will discover whether your brother favors the sword or the dagger for fratricide.”

Their mirth lingered as the miles fell away, laughter threading through the rhythm of hooves and the sigh of branches. At last, the forest began to thin. The boles of oak and beech grew sparser, the undergrowth less tangled, until the trees broke altogether and gave way to open sky.

The company reined in at the border’s edge, the vast sweep of the Wilderland rolling westward before them. Meadows stretched long and green, broken by low ridges and the silver gleam of a stream winding north. The air was clearer here, touched with the scent of sun-warmed grass and the faintest trace of water.

Glorfindel urged his horse a step ahead, golden hair catching the open light. He raised a hand to shade his eyes, scanning the distance with the ease of a warrior. “We will not ride long before we find them,” he said, voice calm but certain. “Arwen’s escort will have taken the straight road from the south. By my guess, another league at most, and we will meet them upon it.”

Elladan’s face softened at the thought, a fond smile breaking across his features. Legolas’s gaze followed westward, his heart quickening with both eagerness and a quiet, unspoken anticipation.

He drew his horse to a halt, lifting his gaze to the sweep of land beyond. The horizon stretched vast and unbroken; the sky was wide and pale with the afternoon light. Meadows rippled in the wind like green seas, and the silver thread of a stream caught the sun, bright as a blade. He let out a quiet breath, awe softening his face.

“It is only the second time I have crossed the border,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Strange, how the world feels larger with every step beyond the trees.”

Elladan rode up beside him, his smile turning sly. “Careful, Legolas. If you speak so, Elrohir will have you out here for weeks. He will steal you away, just to show you every marvel Arda has to offer.”

A faint laugh touched Legolas’s lips, though his eyes lingered on the horizon. “Do you think so?” he asked, voice low, wistfulness threading beneath the words. “I have longed to travel far, to see if the stars burn with the same fire in other lands, if rivers sing the same songs beyond our woods. But my father…” He paused, the smile dimming. “My father has ever kept me within his halls, as though the borders were walls, and the world beyond forbidden.”

The wind caught his hair, and for a moment his face was all longing—poised between the beauty before him and the weight of what he had never been allowed to claim.

Glorfindel urged his horse a little closer, his voice gentling as he followed Legolas’s gaze to the vast horizon. “The stars do shine the same, young one,” he said, warmth softening his tone, “but in every land they take on a different song. I have seen them above Gondolin’s white towers, above Imladris’s falls, above battlefields strewn with shadow, and always they are the same, yet never the same. One day, Legolas, you will see them all.”

Elladan leaned over with a grin, though affection steadied his words. “And sooner than you think. Your father may hold you within these halls, but he cannot hold you forever. When Elrohir is your husband, he will have the right to lead you anywhere in Arda, and you know well enough he will seize it.”

A small smile ghosted Legolas’s mouth, tempered by thought. “And yet,” he said quietly, “we will both have duties here. I am my father’s heir; Elrohir will be bound at my side. Our steps may not be as free as dreams would have them.”

Glorfindel’s eyes softened, his voice steady with conviction. “Duty need not bar you, Thranduilion. A king may walk the world and still be king. And when the time comes, you will not walk it alone.”

Elladan nodded, his smile touched with brotherly certainty. “Aye. Between you, I think you will bend even Thranduil’s will. He will see he cannot cage both of you.”

Legolas drew in the wind once more, the ache and the hope mingling in his chest. For a heartbeat, his longing felt lighter, steadied by their voices.

He straightened suddenly in his saddle, his head tilting as his keen ears caught a sound faintly borne on the wind. Not the rustle of leaves nor the song of birds, but the harsh clang of steel and the ragged cries of voices raised in battle.

His breath stilled. “Do you hear it?”

Glorfindel’s golden head snapped toward the west, eyes narrowing. Even as the echo carried clearer with the guttural shouts of Orcs and the shiver of arrows loosed, he was already urging his horse forward. “Ride!”

The three of them surged across the meadow, grass tearing beneath pounding hooves. The wind roared in their ears, carrying the scent of iron and smoke.

They crested a rise, and the scene broke before them.

On the plain below, Arwen and her escort fought hard-pressed. The silver-grey of Lórien cloaks flared amid the dark press of Orcs, bright against the snarling black. Haldir stood at the fore, his brothers flanking him, their bows a blur of motion as blades flashed where the line pressed too close.

And at the center, Arwen. Her dark hair streamed like starlight unbound, catching the sun in a silken storm about her face. The white gleam of her blade flashed as she turned aside blow after blow, her stance steady, her eyes bright with the fire of her house. She was no frightened maid, but daughter of Elrond and Celebrían, her every movement recalling the grace of Lúthien and the fierce courage of her kin. Blood streaked her cheek where an arrow had grazed her, yet she fought on with fearless poise, her voice rising clear above the din to rally those around her.

Elladan’s breath caught sharp in his throat, horror slamming through him like a blade. “No,” he whispered, stricken. The sight struck too close to the tale that had haunted every hour since the day his mother’s escort was hewn down, her guards slaughtered, her cries lost into the dark as Orc-hands dragged her away. He had not seen it, but he had lived with it, dreamed of it, and now it rose before his eyes as though the wound had opened anew.

His face blanched, and then fury ignited, wild and untempered, a storm breaking free. His hand clenched white on the reins, and his voice ripped from him in a roar that cracked the air. “Not again! By the Valar, never again!”

Without another word, he spurred his horse, thundering down the slope with reckless speed, the earth shuddering beneath the pounding hooves. His cry tore from him like a blade unsheathed, anguish and wrath fused into one sound that shook the plain.

Glorfindel and Legolas followed close, their mounts flying, sunlight flashing on drawn steel as they rushed to meet the tide.

The plain erupted as they struck the field. Elladan’s horse tore into the press of Orcs, his blade flashing in arcs of white fire as he carved a path with raw fury, each stroke driven by a brother’s terror. Glorfindel followed hard, golden hair streaming like a banner, his sword rising and falling in strokes so swift that dark bodies fell before they knew death had claimed them.

Legolas rode at their flank, his bow already in hand before his horse’s hooves struck the edge of the melee. His fingers moved like quicksilver, each arrow loosed in the space of a heartbeat. Shafts whistled through the din, striking clean between blackened helms and twisted mail. One Orc toppled backward before its axe could cleave down on a Lórien guard. Another fell with an arrow driven through the throat, its scream cut short. A third spun away from Arwen herself, her guard broken for an instant, until Legolas’s shot took it clean through the eye.

He did not slow. Even from horseback, his balance was sure as stone, every motion fluid as though bow, string, and arrow were part of him. The horse beneath him needed no guidance; it knew its master’s will, weaving through the clash with ears flat and nostrils flared. Arrows flew as swiftly as thought, every one finding its mark, until the air seemed to sing with the hiss and strike of his aim.

A Lórien warrior, bloodied, staggering, looked up to see Orc-steel turned aside at the last instant by Legolas’s shaft. Awe flickered in his eyes before he fought on, steadied by the sight of Greenwood’s Prince loosing death like a storm.

Still, the Orcs pressed, their snarls rolling in waves as more poured from the broken treeline, blades catching the light in ragged arcs. The clash thundered on, the line swaying as steel met steel, and still Elladan cut forward in reckless fury, Glorfindel at his side, Legolas’s arrows singing death over their heads.

Through the din, a guttural voice rose, coarse and rasping. One of the Orcs, broader than the rest, lifted its head and sniffed the air, yellow eyes gleaming. “The Silvan whelp,” it spat, its words thick with scorn. “The green-blood’s brat is here!” It snarled, baring jagged teeth. “Take him! The Master will want his pretty head.”

A ripple passed through the pack. Several broke from the main press, their blades raised, their eyes fixed not on Arwen or her guards, but on the lone rider whose arrows cut them down with relentless precision.

Legolas loosed another shaft, driving it through a helm so cleanly that the body toppled before it reached him. He had heard the snarl, but he did not falter; his bow sang, arrow after arrow, his face calm as moonlight, every strike swift and sure. His horse surged forward at his slightest touch, weaving him through the fray so his aim was never broken.

Glorfindel’s gaze swept the battlefield even as his blade tore through the black tide. His eyes narrowed when he saw the shift—the Orcs breaking, not to overwhelm Arwen, but to carve a path toward Legolas. A curse hissed between his teeth, bright wrath flashing in his golden face.

“They hunt him,” he muttered, low and fierce, cutting another down in a blaze of steel. His horse screamed as he spurred it hard, surging through the press. Then, in one fluid motion, Glorfindel swung free of the saddle, landing with the grace of a predator loosed. His voice rang like a trumpet blast across the field:

“Legolas! They come for you!”

Steel blazed in his hands again, golden hair flaring as he carved a path toward the prince, fury burning brighter with every step.

Legolas heard Glorfindel’s cry, but his hands did not still. He loosed two more arrows in a blur—one through an open throat, the other sinking deep into a leering eye—before the quiver at his back ran light. In a single fluid motion, he swung down from the saddle, boots striking earth with the grace of a cat. The horse wheeled clear, trained to leave him space, even as his hands flew to the hilts strapped across his back.

The twin knives sang as he drew them, their edges flashing in the half-light. The first Orc lunged at him, a jagged blade raised high. Legolas slipped aside, swift as wind through leaves, and the knife in his right hand cut a red line across its neck. Before the body fell, his left hand buried steel in another’s gut, pulling free as black blood sprayed across the grass.

He did not falter. Every movement was seamless, unbroken, the same surety that had steadied his bow now flowing through blade and body. Orcs closed in, snarling curses, but he moved within their circle with lethal calm, knives flashing arcs of pale fire. One after another fell, and still his eyes were steady, his breath even, as though the battle itself had fallen in line with his rhythm.

Elladan, who had long dismounted, cut through the last of the Orcs barring his way, his sword dripping black. He burst into the circle where his sister stood, her guard pressed tight around her. “Arwen!” he cried, voice breaking, and for a heartbeat, he pulled her against him, his arms fierce with terror and relief. “Are you hurt?”

She drew a breath, steadying beneath his grip, her eyes bright though blood streaked her cheek. “I am well,” she answered swiftly, her voice clear even in the din. “Do not fear for me, Elladan, I am unscathed.” Her hand pressed briefly against his shoulder, anchoring him. Then her gaze darted beyond, horror sharpening her features.

“But look—Legolas!”

Elladan turned at once. Across the field, Legolas fought alone, his knives flashing pale against the black tide. He cut down one foe, then two, then spun to meet a third, but still they came, surging toward him in endless waves. For every Orc that fell, two more seemed to take its place, snarling and jeering as though the Greenwood prince were quarry set apart for them.

Arwen’s breath caught, her voice rising above the clash. “They mean to break him! Elladan, he is being overwhelmed!”

The words struck like fire through his chest. Elladan’s hand tightened on his sword, his grey eyes blazing as he wrenched free of his sister’s hold. “Then they shall break on me first,” he snarled, and with a cry, he hurled himself back into the fray, racing toward the storm that gathered thick around Legolas.

Legolas’s knives sang as they moved, swift arcs of silver cutting through the dark tide. He turned, struck, turned again, each motion clean and sure, though the circle pressed closer with every heartbeat. His breath came quick now, the edge of strain beginning to thread through his calm, but he did not falter.

Across the field, Glorfindel fought like fire loosed upon the world, his blade flashing in great sweeps that felled Orcs two at a time. Around him, the Galadhrim pressed hard, Haldir’s voice sharp above the din as he and his brothers carved forward, their bows now traded for steel. Still, the Orcs swarmed, an endless flood, driving between them and the prince they sought to cut down.

Legolas dropped another with a strike to the throat, spun, and buried a blade in the belly of the next. Black blood spattered his arm; his eyes burned with bright resolve.

Elladan forced his way through the fray, his sword a blur of desperate fury. He had almost reached Legolas when his gaze caught on the ridge beyond.

There, a hunched Orc, half-hidden behind its kin, bow drawn taut. The arrow it nocked gleamed with a sickly sheen, poison glistening green-black in the light. Its beady eyes fixed not on the melee, but on Legolas’s unguarded back. Its cracked lips stretched into a cruel grin.

Elladan’s chest seized. The world narrowed to that single bowstring, that single point of venom aimed at the one his brother loved. His voice tore free, raw and shattering.

“Legolas!”

Elladan’s cry split as he surged forward, every strike of his sword hewing with desperate strength. Orcs fell before him, one with its arm severed, another cut clean through the chest, but still the bowstring sang in his ears, stretched taut, ready to loose.

“Faster,” his heart pounded. “Faster.”

The arrow loosed with a hiss.

Legolas did not see it, his knives crossed against the downward blow of a brute before him, his focus bound in the clash of steel and the press of enemies. The poisoned shaft sped toward his back, straight and sure.

Elladan broke through the last of the Orcs and hurled himself forward. He seized Legolas by the shoulder, dragging him tight against his chest. For one heartbeat, Legolas’s eyes widened in startled recognition.

Then the arrow struck.

It buried itself in Elladan’s back, the poisoned shaft driving through flesh to his lung. His breath tore ragged from his chest, sharp and broken, but he did not fall. His sword did not leave his hand.

Legolas staggered beneath the sudden press of him, horror surging as he felt the shudder of impact. Yet, Elladan remained upright, his body taut with fury and fire. With a hoarse cry, he wrenched free just enough to bring his blade around again, cutting down the Orc that had closed in upon them.

The arrow’s fletching jutted grotesquely from his back, dark poison already seeping into the wound, but adrenaline burned through him like a second fire. Each breath rattled, wet and shallow, crimson flecking his lips, yet still he fought, every stroke driven by sheer will.

Legolas’s breath came sharp, panic clawing at his chest even as his knives struck out, cutting down another Orc that lunged for Elladan. He tried to steady him, but Elladan only pushed forward, blade flashing in wild arcs. They fought together, shoulder to shoulder, Legolas turning each time to guard his flank, the prince’s knives swift as light while Elladan’s sword hewed through dark bodies with raw, furious strength.

Across the field, Glorfindel’s eyes caught the fletching jutting from Elladan’s back. His face darkened with wrath, his strokes burning hotter, each one a deathblow. “To the prince!” he roared, his voice carrying like a trumpet over the chaos.

The Galadhrim obeyed without hesitation. Haldir’s shout rang sharp, his brothers flanking him as they cut a swath through the tide. They pressed with deadly discipline, their line bending toward Legolas and Elladan, driving a wedge through the Orcs with steel and bright cries.

From within the knot of battle, Arwen’s voice rose clear, ragged with fear. “Elladan!” Her cry carried above the clash, her eyes wide as she saw her brother’s blood fleck his lips, his sword still raised even as the poison worked through him.

Legolas’s heart wrenched, but he moved as he must, knives flashing, steadying Elladan each time his step faltered. The Orcs pressed closer, endless, snarling and jeering as though the scent of blood only fed their hunger.

Still, together, they held.

The clash rang to its last fury. Glorfindel’s sword rose and fell in a storm of light, every stroke cleaving black flesh until no foe remained standing before him. His final blow split helm and skull, the Orc collapsing with a hideous shriek as silence swept the field. The last of the enemy lay broken on the trampled grass, their blood soaking the earth.

Elladan swayed where he stood, his sword arm slackening. For a heartbeat, he fought to hold himself upright, but the strength bled from him at last. He dropped to one knee, breath tearing ragged from his chest, his hand braced against the ground. The poisoned shaft still jutted from his back, every inhalation wet and shallow.

“Elladan!” Legolas cried, his knives falling forgotten to the earth. He dropped beside him, one hand steadying his shoulder, the other hovering helplessly, aching to staunch what he could not yet reach. He bent close, his ear catching the rattling strain of every breath, horror tightening through him with each sound.

Bootsteps pounded across the bloodied grass. Arwen broke through the ring of her guards and dropped instantly to her knees, her face stricken. She reached for her brother with both hands, clutching his arm, her voice trembling but swift. “Elladan, stay with us. Stay with me.”

Her dark hair spilled across her shoulders as she bent over him, tears welling bright in her eyes even as she sought to steady him. Legolas’s gaze met hers across Elladan’s bowed form, grief and terror mirrored between them, while the field around rang with only the harsh breath of the living.

Glorfindel stood over them, sword still in his hand. His eyes burned with wrath and grief alike, scanning the field for any lingering threat before his gaze returned to Elladan, sharp with urgency.

He came swiftly, his sword sliding back into its sheath with a final scrape of steel. He dropped to one knee beside Elladan, golden hair falling forward, eyes sharp as he swept the wound. His hands, steady even in battle’s wake, pressed against Elladan’s shoulder to brace him upright.

Elladan’s breath rattled, shallow and wet, his chest hitching with the effort. Yet he forced his healer’s knowledge into words, voice raw with pain. “One of the lungs…pierced.” He coughed, crimson flecking his lips, his body shuddering with the effort. “And the arrow—it is poisoned.”

Glorfindel’s jaw clenched. A curse, low and furious, spilled from him in Quenya, the sound carrying the burn of wrath and grief alike. His gaze fixed on the fletching that jutted grotesquely from Elladan’s back, the poison dark and glistening where it seeped into torn flesh.

A Lórien warrior shouldered past the ring, falling to his knees with a healer’s satchel already open. His fingers brushed the shaft, testing with practiced caution. “If I draw it here,” he said grimly, “he will bleed faster than I can bind. If I leave it, the poison works deeper with every breath.” His dark eyes lifted, steady but weighted with truth. “We have no good choice, only speed.”

Arwen’s hands clutched at her brother as though she could anchor him to the earth by sheer will. “Then waste none of it,” she said, her voice sharp with desperation, though tears burned in her eyes. “He must be taken to the Elvenking’s halls at once. My father’s skill is far, but perhaps Greewood’s healers may yet save him.” Her brow pressed against Elladan’s shoulder, her words muffled with anguish. “We cannot lose him here, not like this.”

Legolas rose sharply, resolve burning through the horror in his face. “Athelas grows near,” he said, his voice urgent. “I know where—among the streams east of here. I can fetch it, and quickly—”

But as he turned, a hand shot out and caught his wrist, firm as iron. Glorfindel’s grip was unyielding, his gaze fierce with command. “No.” His voice cut like a blade, leaving no space for protest. “I swore to Thranduil that I would not let you out of my sight, not for a step, not for a breath. You will not vanish into shadow while I stand guard.”

For a heartbeat, the world seemed to hold its breath. Elladan gasped in his sister’s arms, the rattle of each inhalation a terrible counter of time. The Galadhrim ringed them close, silent and taut, awaiting the word of what must be done. Legolas’s chest heaved, his free hand curling to a fist at his side, the need to act straining against the weight of Glorfindel’s vow.

Every moment was another drop of poison working deeper, another ragged breath Elladan might not have left to spend.

Haldir pushed forward, his fair hair darkened with blood and dust, his face set with the cold calm of command. He knelt briefly beside Elladan, his keen eyes flicking to the arrow and then to the healer already at work. “We cannot tarry,” he said, his tone clipped. “My brothers and I will fashion a litter. With enough hands, we can bear him swift and steady to the Elvenking’s halls. It is the only chance.”

The healer’s hands moved deftly, steady despite the press of eyes around him. With a quick, practiced motion, he snapped the shaft close to Elladan’s back, leaving only the embedded head within. The broken length was tossed aside, the cruel sound of splintering wood sharp in the stillness. “So he may lie flat,” the healer explained curtly. “Any jolt will worsen the wound, but this will keep him still enough to move.” He pressed clean cloths firmly against the torn flesh, binding around the jagged end to prevent it from shifting further. “The arrow stays,” he said at last, voice flat with decision. “To draw it here would spill his life on this ground. Better to fix it fast and move him quickly. Athelas may slow the poison if we reach it soon.” He cinched the bindings tighter, then glanced up at Glorfindel. “Speed is our ally now, nothing else.”

Arwen bowed her head, her dark hair veiling her grief, but her voice was steady. “Then we ride. Every moment is dearer than gold.”

Legolas still knelt at Elladan’s side, his hands trembling where they pressed lightly against his arm. His eyes, bright as glass in the fading light, burned with anguish. “This is my fault,” he whispered, the words spilling raw. “They hunted me, and you—” His voice broke, shame heavy in it. “You should never have stood in their path.”

Elladan’s breath came ragged, flecked with red, but his hand tightened around Legolas’s wrist with surprising strength. He forced his grey eyes open, the storm in them gentled by fierce resolve. “No,” he rasped, each word edged with pain but firm. “Do not carry blame that is not yours. I chose it.” He swallowed hard, a tremor running through him as he drew in another shallow breath. “I would choose it again, every time, if it meant that arrow found me instead of you. Elrohir would not survive your loss, Legolas, he would be broken beyond mending.”

Legolas bent closer, his forehead almost brushing Elladan’s, his breath unsteady as though to speak might shatter him. “And if you fall,” he whispered, voice thick with grief, “then he will not survive yours either. I could not save him from that.”

Around them, Haldir and his brothers were already tearing cloaks into strips, binding stout branches together, their movements swift and practiced. The healer pressed down once more to steady Elladan’s wound, his voice a murmur meant only for Glorfindel’s ear. “We must move him. Soon.”

Haldir bound the last strip of cloth tight, his brothers lashing the stout branches together with a precision that spoke of long practice. Ropes were fastened to the frame, looped to two steady mounts, so the litter would ride suspended between them, swift, smoother than the jarring of shoulders could allow.

“Gently now,” the healer urged, crouching low as Elladan was lifted. Even braced, a hoarse sound tore from his chest, his breath catching wet and shallow. Legolas stayed at his side through every moment, one hand steady on his arm, his other ready to guide his head to rest against the waiting pallet. Arwen moved with them, her voice trembling in soft reassurance, smoothing dark hair from her brother’s fever-damp brow.

At last, Elladan lay upon the litter, the broken shaft bound fast, his pallor stark against the dark cloth beneath him. His lips were flecked crimson, his chest rising in ragged pulls, yet his hand still clutched Legolas’s wrist with fierce resolve, as though sheer will could hold him to the world.

Glorfindel’s eyes burned with command. His voice cut sharply through the hush left in battle’s wake. “Set the horses steady and bind the frame tight. Half the company to ride the flanks, the rest to guard the rear. We make for the Elvenking’s halls with all speed, and we do not break until his gates are before us.”

Haldir swung to his saddle, his brothers following close. “The road will not be kind,” he said grimly, “but the mounts will bear him faster than we can. We will clear the path ahead, nothing will reach him again.”

Glorfindel’s gaze swept the company, then came to rest on Legolas, fierce and unwavering. His voice softened, but only by a hair. “Stay by him. If the poison drives him further into shadow, a voice may be the only tether strong enough to keep him here.”

Legolas bowed his head once, the light in his eyes burning like tempered steel. 

With a great heave, the litter was lifted into motion, secured between the healer’s mount and Arwen’s own steed. The horses stepped into a careful rhythm, their heads tossing against the strange weight, but they steadied beneath guiding hands. Legolas rode close, every line of his frame taut with guilt and fierce resolve. His gaze never left Elladan, as though the sight alone might keep him breathing.

The company wheeled east, ranks tightening close around them. Under Glorfindel’s command, they rode swift and hard, Greenwood streaming by in a blur of green and gold. Branches lashed overhead, roots thudded beneath the pounding hooves, and still they pressed on without pause, every heartbeat carrying them nearer the king’s halls, and further from the edge of despair.

The forest swallowed them in shadow and motion.

Far to the north, on a cliff that thrust like a stern prow above the endless canopy, another figure stood. Cloaked in grey, staff in hand, Mithrandir gazed out across Greenwood the Great, though many now named it Mirkwood, for the taint that crept ever deeper from the south. From this height, the forest rolled vast and unbroken, green shadows spilling to every horizon. Yet the wizard’s eyes turned ever southward, to the darker mists that clung near Dol Guldur’s keep, heavy with malice.

His brow furrowed beneath the wide brim of his hat. “The shadow lengthens,” he murmured to himself, voice low as the wind that whipped the cliff’s edge. “And it hunts still.”

A thought stirred—of a young elf, bright as sunlight through leaves, whom he had not seen in centuries. Legolas, Prince of Greenwood. Mithrandir’s eyes narrowed, the weight of foresight heavy in his chest. “If fate threads so near again…” His hand tightened upon his staff. “Then the storm will not wait long.”

The wind keened over the cliff, carrying the whisper of leaves from the vast forest below.

Chapter Text

The forest had grown still. Only the hush of branches stirred above the patrol’s camp, their canopy woven close enough to turn starlight into a pale, green-silver veil. Fires had burned down to embers, and the smell of wood smoke clung faintly to the night air. A few of the wood-elves kept their watch, shadows moving silently at the perimeter, bows loose in easy hands, while the rest had surrendered to rest, lying scattered with the lightness of those who trusted both forest and kin to guard them.

Elrohir had tried to keep apart, his cloak drawn tight around his shoulders, the hardness of root and earth beneath his bedroll softened by nothing but weariness. Yet, Caleth and Thalion had refused to leave him to solitude, their bedrolls set deliberately close; Caleth with a grin that dared him to protest, Thalion with the quiet assurance of one unwilling to relent. He endured it with stiff dignity, though the nearness was a strange balm he would not name.

He had fought sleep for hours, listening to the soft cadence of Caleth’s muttered jokes and Thalion’s measured vigilance. But in the end, exhaustion claimed him. In such moments, he cursed his mortal blood, for most Elves could go days without sleep, while he felt the weight of weariness sooner, heavier. At last, his body slackened, his breath steadied, and the tension that so often clenched his jaw and hands eased away.

The world of Greenwood faded. Only the steady beat of his heart kept him tethered to the present until even that rhythm began to blur into something deeper, slower, carrying him toward a dream.

It was not Greenwood he saw when the dream took him.

Stone replaced root and moss, smooth and pale, veined with the quiet light of Imladris. Arched windows opened to the night, and the sound of the Bruinen carried through the halls like a long-kept heartbeat. He knew this place too well, the passage that led to his parents’ chambers. His steps felt unsteady, his hands restless at his sides, as though the years of battle and discipline had not prepared him for this.

The door stood half-open. Through it, lamplight glowed and beyond, the wide sweep of a balcony where silver air drifted, carrying the scent of rain and stone. His mother stood there, silver hair loose about her shoulders, lifted by the wind. She did not turn when he entered. Her gaze was fastened outward, across the valley, where stars shone cold and unpitying.

Elrohir stopped at the threshold, hardly daring a breath. He remembered this night—remembered it too well, though he had tried all his years to bury it. The night she told them she would sail. The moment her shadowed torment had proved heavier than her love could endure.

“Why do you tarry in shadow, my little hawk?” Her voice was soft as falling water, no hint of reproach within it, only the weary gentleness that had ever wrapped her son in warmth. Even now, with the wind teasing silver strands loose about her brow and starlight rendering her pale against the dark, she spoke as though they lingered in some quiet garden, not upon the threshold of parting.

Elrohir swallowed hard. The words he had rehearsed seemed clumsy, too blunt, yet they forced their way past the tightness in his throat. “Is it true?” His voice faltered, then steadied with the desperate edge of certainty. “You mean to sail. To the Undying Lands.”

At that, she turned. The lamplight caught her features, luminous still, but the brilliance of her eyes had dimmed. Not for want of healing, for her body bore no wound now, every scar long since smoothed away, but for something deeper, untouchable, that time and salves could not restore. The torment she had endured lingered still, hidden in the quiet spaces between her breaths, in the way her gaze slipped from his, as though even his love could not anchor her fully to Middle-earth.

Her lips parted, but for a breath, no sound came. When at last she spoke, her voice was scarcely more than a thread of wind drawn through leaves.

“It is true, my son.” She held his gaze, though sorrow dimmed the light in her eyes. “I have tarried long beyond my strength, hoping love might bind me to this shore. But the sea calls, and I have no more will to resist it. The hurts I bore…they are gone in flesh, yet they remain within me, festering where no healer’s hand may reach. Here, every stone, every shadow reminds me of what was done. I cannot dwell beneath them and yet remain whole.”

Her hand rose, fingertips brushing the edge of the balcony’s doorframe as though she might draw strength from its steadiness. “It is not for lack of love that I go. You, Elladan, Arwen, your father—you are the dearest part of me. But to stay would be to wither, and to wither before your eyes is a cruelty I will not inflict.”

She turned back to the valley, the starlight tracing her profile in pale fire. “Do not think it abandonment, Elrohir. Think of it as a healing I must seek where only the Blessed Realm can grant it.”

Elrohir moved at last, drawn forward as though the distance itself burned him. The threshold fell away beneath his stride, and he stopped only when the lamplight brushed both their faces. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, aching to reach for her yet held back by the terrible knowledge that he could not hold her here.

“Naneth,” he whispered, the word raw and boyish despite the weight of years upon him. “Do not speak so. Do not call it healing if it takes you from us. You have endured more than any heart should bear, yet you are still here, with us. With me.” His voice broke, then rose again, sharp as steel drawn in desperation. “Is our love not enough? Am I not enough to keep you in these halls?”

The plea rang harsher than he had meant, stripped of the careful restraint that battle and age had taught him. It was the voice of a son facing the one wound he had no weapon to meet, no armor to shield against. For though all her children grieved, it was Elrohir who had clung closest to her, the son who lingered most at her side, who sought her presence as a ship seeks the shore. To lose her now, to watch her turn away across a sea he could not follow, was a blow he could not imagine surviving.

Celebrian’s face softened, though sorrow shadowed every line. She opened her arms in quiet invitation, and when he stepped into them, she folded him close, as she had when storms broke over Imladris and he was still small enough to be sheltered at her heart. His cheek pressed against the fall of her silver hair, and he felt the rise and fall of her breath, steady yet weighed with grief.

“My little hawk,” she murmured, the words brushing his temple. “I would give all the world to remain, to walk at your side until the end of days. But nothing here can heal what was taken from me. To stay, broken as I am, would be to bind you to my fading. That I will not do.”

Her hands tightened around him. “This is a wound you cannot mend, Elrohir. Nor can your father. My path leads West, and though it sunders us now, it is the only road by which I may be made whole again. One day you will see that I have not forsaken you, only sought the strength to love you as you deserve.”

Elrohir’s tears came freely now, hot against her shoulder where she cradled him. “I cannot fathom it,” he whispered, voice roughened with anguish. “To live beneath these skies and never hear your voice again. To turn to you and find only silence. Naneth, how can I endure a world without you in it?”

Celebrian drew him back just enough to cup his face, her thumbs brushing the tears. “You will not be bereft,” she said softly. “Your brother, your sister, your father. They remain. They will be your strength when mine is withdrawn.”

But her words struck flint against bitterness. Elrohir’s jaw tightened, his voice rough. “My father?” He spat the title more than spoke it. “He, who could not heal you, though all lore of Elves and Men lies in his hands? He, who let the light drain from your eyes while he buried himself in council and craft?” His grip at her waist trembled, desperate and fierce. “Do not name him to me as though he can fill the void you leave.”

Celebrian did not flinch at his words, though they cut sharper than any blade. She only drew him nearer, pressing her lips to his damp brow as though she might still shield him from his own anguish.

“Your father did not fail me, Elrohir,” she said softly. “There are wounds even his wisdom cannot mend. He would have bled himself dry to give me peace, and still it would not have been enough. Do not lay my choice at his feet, for he suffers this sundering as deeply as you, though he hides it in silence. He cannot bear to show you how it breaks him.”

Her hand lingered at his cheek, steady despite the tremor of her voice. “If you would be angry, be angry at the cruelty of this world, not at him. He loves you more than you know, and he loves me with a devotion that shone brighter than the stars. Do not despise him for what is beyond his power.”

Her words fell over him like balm and blade together. Elrohir felt the fight draining from him until only the hollow ache of grief remained. He clung to her in silence, his tears soaking her gown, unwilling to release her though every heartbeat told him she was already slipping beyond his reach.

He then lifted his face, wet with sorrow, and the vow broke raw from his lips. “Then I will sail with you. If you depart, I depart. Let the world scorn me as faithless; I care nothing for it. I will not be parted from you.”

A shadow of anguish flickered across her face, yet through it she smiled, tender and unyielding. Her fingers wove gently into his dark hair, her voice soft as the sigh of the Bruinen below. “No, my hawk. That road is not yours. Your road is here, beneath these skies, in the battles yet untested, in the light still struggling to endure. The Sea does not call you as it calls me.”

She drew back, holding his gaze. Tears welled bright in her eyes, but within them burned a strange clarity. “You will remain, and you will not be forsaken. For love waits for you in this land, Elrohir. A love so fierce it will outlast grief, a love so great it shall be sung when all other songs are spent. With whom, I cannot see. But it will come, and it will mend the wound I leave.”

Her hand lingered tenderly against his cheek, her smile trembling like starlight through tears. “Do not follow me West, beloved son. Follow the thread that is woven for you here.”

Elrohir flinched as though her words had been a blade. “No,” he breathed, and then again, louder, the sound raw in his throat. “No! Speak not to me of fate, of threads I cannot see or songs I care nothing for. What love could rival yours? What bond could weigh heavier than the blood that binds me to you? You ask me to remain while you pass beyond my reach—Naneth, you tear the world from beneath my feet.”

His hands closed hard upon her arms, trembling with the force of grief. “Do not name to me another’s love, some shadowed promise in the years to come. I want only you. If you sail, then I will follow. To the ends of Arda, to the very gates of Aman itself. I would rather be faithless to all the world than faithful to a life that holds you not.”

Celebrian regarded him in silence, her gaze luminous and sorrowful, as though she would carve every line of him into memory. At last, she lifted her hand, sweeping it gently across his brow, chasing away the furrows that anguish had etched there. Then she cupped his face between both palms, drawing him into the full steadiness of her eyes.

“The love that fate has woven for you will not diminish mine,” she murmured, each word a vow. “A mother’s love is not bound by shore or season. It will endure in you, Elrohir, until the world’s unmaking. And though I sail from your sight, we shall meet again, in a day beyond shadow, when no sundering can part us.”

His composure shattered. He broke against her, sobbing as though he could pour all of his grief into the sea. She gathered him close, pressing her cheek to his dark hair, her embrace fierce and unyielding, the strength of it carrying all she could not remain to give.

Slowly, the dream began to thin, the balcony’s stone grew pale and formless, the stars blurred into mist, her voice soft as rain fading upon water. Her warmth lingered only a breath longer, then slipped from him like a tide returning to its deeps.

Elrohir woke with a sharp intake of breath, tears wet upon his cheeks. He pressed the heels of his hands hard against his eyes, but the wetness would not be banished, born as it was from a grief too deep to be rubbed away. Slowly, he forced his lungs to steady, drawing breath after breath until the ragged edge dulled, though the ache remained.

The dream clung to him still; his mother’s hands upon his brow, her voice like water murmuring over stone, her parting embrace both balm and wound. It was dear to him, yet as heavy as iron, and he felt the hollowness of her absence as keenly as when he had first watched her depart.

He tilted his head back, searching the dark canopy until the stars broke through in scattered fire. Cold, untroubled, they stared back at him, untouched by the sundering of one family. His lips moved almost without thought, the words too soft for any but the night to hear.

“Was it you, Legolas?” he murmured to the heavens. “Were you the love she foresaw?”

The whisper faded into the hush of Greenwood, unanswered. Yet the weight of it pressed against his chest all the same.

A faint tremor coursed through him as the night’s breath slipped beneath his cloak, cool with the damp scent of moss and river. He drew the folds tighter around his shoulders, yet the chill lingered, pricking at him in a way the Elves about him did not seem to notice.

From nearby came a low murmur, drowsy but edged with mischief. “So it’s true, then? You feel the cold more than we do. A burden of your mortal blood, perhaps?”

Elrohir turned, surprised. Caleth lay sprawled upon his bedroll, head pillowed in the crook of his arm, eyes glinting faintly in the starlight. It was clear he had been watching far longer than he let on.

“Yes,” Elrohir said at last, voice quiet but steady. “I do.”

Caleth’s mouth quirked, the glimmer of a grin catching faintly in the starlight. “Then I shall keep the fire nearest your bedroll, lest you freeze to death before you’ve proven yourself to us. It would be a shame, after all, to lose you to a chill and not to some glorious clash of blades.” His words lilted with teasing, but the sharpness was blunted, more jest than jab.

He rolled onto his back, folding his arms behind his head, gaze drifting upward through the canopy. “Strange, though. You march as far as we do, bleed as freely, yet the cold clings to you. Is that what it is, being half-elven? Do you tire more quickly, feel hunger gnaw sharper, wait longer for wounds to close?”

Elrohir drew in a slow breath, the admission low, reluctant, but honest. “Yes. All of that.”

Caleth huffed a soft laugh, not unkind. “Hmph. And still you keep stride. Perhaps we are the ones with no excuse.”

Elrohir gave a quiet snort, the sound rough but tinged with wryness. “As a child, I puzzled over it endlessly. Why I wearied sooner than the others of our kindred, why hunger pressed sharper on me, why a wound clung to me long after it had fled from them. Elladan and I would wonder at it together, whispering in the dark, asking why our strength never matched theirs. We did not yet understand what it meant to be half-elven. Only that we were…different.”

His gaze dropped to the earth, fingers tightening faintly in his cloak. “In those days, I thought it meant we were somehow less. It took long years before I learned there was no simple measure, no answer that would fit in a child’s mind.”

Caleth pushed himself up onto one elbow, eyes glinting in the dim firelight as he regarded Elrohir without his usual grin.

“Legends, the both of you,” he said, voice low but certain. “The sons of Elrond. Every Orc that slinks in the North knows your names, and they curse them in their dens. They fear your arrows in the dark, your blades in the open field. Tell me, does that sound like ‘less’ to you?”

He sank back onto his bedroll, folding his hands behind his head, gaze turning again upward to the canopy. “If anything, it is your blood that makes you more. Two legacies joined in one, sharpened against shadow. You carry both, and it is that which makes enemies tremble.”

Elrohir gave a short huff, half sigh, and half snort, tugging his cloak tighter about his shoulders. “If Orcs truly tremble at my name, it is only because Elladan has shouted it into their ears often enough. He has ever been louder than I.”

Caleth’s laughter burst bright and unrestrained, a bark that carried into the trees before he rolled onto his side, grinning at Elrohir. “So the scourge of the North is naught but the echo of your twin’s lungs? I shall never hear your deeds told again without thinking of that.”

The mirth was infectious, though Elrohir only shook his head, the faintest curve at his lips betraying him.

From the shadows, a drowsy voice rose, muffled by the weight of a cloak. “Valar save me,” Thalion grumbled, dragging the wool higher over his brow. “If you two must rattle on like magpies, carry it to the branches. Some of us still prize our sleep.”

Caleth bit down on another laugh, his shoulders shaking, his eyes glinting with mischief in the dying firelight. Elrohir settled back against the earth, the ache of old memory not gone, but eased by woodland banter, by the simple warmth of voices in the dark.

Time slipped by unnoticed until the stars dimmed and the sky began its slow surrender to dawn. The air was sharp with chill, smelling of moss, damp bark, and the faint tang of last night’s smoke. Elrohir stirred, drawing his cloak from his shoulders with care so as not to wake those still wrapped in sleep.

The camp lay hushed. Only the watch shifted at the edges of the clearing, their outlines half-merged with the trees. Embers glowed faintly where the fire had been, painting dull copper over the curve of a sleeping helm. Caleth’s even breathing mingled with Thalion’s quieter rhythm, both untroubled by the pale stirrings of morning.

Elrohir moved with silent steps toward the mules, tethered beneath the trees. Their ears flicked at his approach, hooves scuffing softly against the earth. He reached for the nearest, laying a hand along its dark neck, the warmth beneath the coarse hair a steady contrast to the cool air. He murmured to it in low Sindarin, then bent to check the knots, his fingers swift and practiced.

As he worked, a thread of melody escaped him, soft, half-voiced, a line of Quenya that had lingered with him since childhood. The words were no louder than a breath, carrying the cadence of ancient prayer rather than song; a weaving of light into morning, a hope whispered to ward shadow from the road ahead. The mules flicked their ears as though listening, calm beneath his hands.

Above the canopy, the first blush of gold touched the eastern horizon, filtering pale through Greenwood’s branches. Elrohir lifted his head at last, the song still on his lips, and for a heartbeat the weight of night and dream seemed softened by the coming day.

A soft tread in the leaf-mulch drew Elrohir’s attention. He turned, his hand still resting on the mule’s bridle, to find Rhovan stepping out from the trees. The Sindar warrior moved with quiet purpose, his cloak gathered close against the dawn chill, his pale eyes catching the faint light that filtered through Greenwood’s canopy.

“Quenya,” Rhovan said, the word falling from his tongue like a stone. His voice was low, but it carried the iron edge of old disdain. “You give it breath here, as though you do not know our law. That tongue is forbidden in Greenwood, and well you should remember why.”

The air between them seemed to tighten. Elrohir straightened, drawing himself to his full height, though his voice when it came was calm. “I sang to myself only,” he said. “No slight was intended, nor challenge given. The words rose unbidden, little more than a murmur to the dawn.”

Rhovan’s gaze lingered on him, cool and unreadable, his silence weighted with ages of mistrust that no apology could easily soften.

He then spoke again, his tone still quiet but sharpened like a blade drawn slowly. “You may walk among us, Half-elven, but do not mistake our tolerance for welcome. The Silvan see you as strange, set apart. To them, you are too proud, too stiff, too bound by a world beyond these trees. And to us of the Sindar, you carry the stain of tongues and bloodlines that have ever brought ruin. You are not one of us, nor will you ever be.”

He shifted a pace nearer, enough that Elrohir caught the pale glint of his eyes in the wan light. “Your songs are not sung here. Here, you are nothing more than a guest at sufferance, bound by a king’s decree and the patience of those who march beside you. Remember that, when you speak your forbidden words beneath our boughs.”

The mules shifted uneasily between them, ears flicking at the tautness in the air. Elrohir stood still, the weight of Rhovan’s words pressing heavily against the quiet dawn.

His hand stilled upon the mule’s mane, the slow rhythm of his touch steadying him against the weight of the words. His jaw tightened, yet when he spoke, his voice was level, composed, the steel in it tempered rather than sharp.

“I did not come to Greenwood to demand a place among you,” he said. “Nor do I expect your songs to speak my name. I am here because your king set me this trial, and because Legolas is dearer to me than ease or pride. If scorn is the toll for that, then I will bear it.”

He raised his gaze, meeting Rhovan’s pale eyes without flinching. “You tell me I do not belong. Perhaps that is so. Yet I remain. And I will not be moved from the ground I have chosen.”

The mule shifted between them with a quiet snort, and the hush of Greenwood seemed to press in closer, the air taut as a bowstring between the two.

Rhovan’s mouth twisted, not in mirth but in something colder. “I cannot fathom what our prince sees in you,” he said, his tone quiet but edged like drawn steel. “To my eyes, you are little more than a shadow of an Elf, a semblance, not the truth. A Noldo’s bearing clings to you, and beneath it I scent the blood of Men. It stains you, marks you, no matter how proudly you hold yourself.”

His pale gaze swept over Elrohir, lingering with deliberate disdain. “Legolas is of this wood, Silvan and Sindar both, root and branch of Greenwood’s heart. You are not. You never shall be. No oath you swear, no trial you endure, not even the King’s command will make you one of us. You wear Elven grace as a cloak, but underneath, you are other.”

The words fell heavy in the cold air, barbs meant to pierce deeper than any blade.

Elrohir’s breath caught sharp in his chest, fury rising swiftly and hot at the insult. He opened his mouth, but before the words could spill out, another voice cut across the space like a sharp blade.

“Enough, Rhovan.”

Arphenion strode into view, tall and cold in the half-light, his expression carved in stern lines. He did not glance at Elrohir; instead, he fixed his pale gaze on the Sindarin warrior. “You let your tongue run too far.”

Rhovan stiffened, defiance sparking in his eyes. “Commander, it is no idle quarrel. A Noldo has no place beneath these trees. Why should we—”

“You will hold your peace,” Arphenion said, voice low but unyielding. “The King himself decreed this trial, and the Prince walks beside him without complaint. Will you set yourself higher than both of them? Will you shame Greenwood with strife in your own ranks?”

The rebuke landed hard. Rhovan’s mouth twisted, but no words came. His silence was sullen, taut as a bow unstrung.

Arphenion’s gaze lingered a moment longer, then narrowed. “If the Prince hears of this, it will not be the Noldo who feels his displeasure.” The warning hung heavy in the air.

Only then did his eyes flick toward Elrohir, cool and impersonal; no comfort, no favor, only the acknowledgment due a charge he would rather not bear. With a final sweep of his cloak, Arphenion turned back into the camp’s dim hush, leaving the sting of his authority in his wake.

Rhovan muttered under his breath, shooting Elrohir a look sharp as flint before retreating to his place among the sleepers.

Elrohir let the silence settle, the sting of Rhovan’s words still burning in his chest. He drew a slow breath, steadying himself, then turned back to the mules. His hands moved with deliberate care, tightening straps, checking knots, smoothing bridles where leather had twisted in the night. The animals shifted beneath his touch, their ears flicking, their dark eyes calm—creatures of burden, untroubled by quarrels or bloodlines.

One by one, he packed their loads: bundles of dried meat and grain, spare fletching, bedrolls still faint with the smoke of last night’s fire. The rhythm of the work steadied him, drawing him from anger into something quieter and more resolute. He murmured softly to the beasts as he worked, low words in Sindarin this time, his voice even and untroubled.

Dawn crept through the canopy, a pale gold thread weaving between branches. As the mules stamped and shifted, ready for the day’s march, Elrohir straightened, rolling his shoulders against the weight he carried. Whatever Rhovan saw when he looked at him, whatever judgment still waited in other eyes, Elrohir would not falter. He had chosen to remain and he would endure.

The hours slid by beneath the canopy, the hush of Greenwood broken only by the steady tread of boots, the creak of leather, the soft clink of gear shifting with each stride. No shadow stirred in the undergrowth, no arrow loosed from a hidden bowstring; the forest lay calm, its silence a heavy mantle about them.

By the time the sun had climbed past its highest point, the patrol had settled into the long rhythm of the march. Elrohir walked at the rear, the mules plodding steadily under his hand, their loads swaying with each step. Beside him, Thalion moved with his usual quiet vigilance, eyes ever scanning the trees.

Caleth, however, was less inclined to silence. With a groan of exaggerated weariness, he tipped his head back to squint at the dappled light overhead. “This is dreary,” he muttered. “Days in the wild, and not so much as a rabbit daring to cross our path. If this is what all our patrols amount to, I shall wither from sheer boredom before an Orc’s blade ever finds me.”

He cast a sidelong glance at Elrohir, mischief sparking in his eyes. “Tell me, my lord, are all your northern forays so bloodless? Or did we draw the one patrol in Greenwood cursed never to see anything more exciting than its own shadows?”

Elrohir did not look up from the lead rope in his hand, but the corner of his mouth twitched faintly. “If this is dreary to you, then count yourself fortunate. Where I come from, patrols are rarely so quiet. Blood and steel are poor companions, even if they stave off your boredom.”

Caleth gave a dramatic sigh, spreading his arms as though to appeal to the trees themselves. “A dreary march and a dour companion! Truly, the Valar test me.”

That drew the faintest snort from Elrohir. “If you seek constant excitement, Caleth, I am sure the spiders will be glad to provide it. Shall I call them for you?”

Thalion’s lips curved in a rare smile, though his gaze stayed forward. “Better careful silence than needless boasting,” he said quietly. “Boredom, as you call it, keeps us alive.”

Caleth rolled his eyes but grinned all the same, falling back into step beside them.

The march fell back into silence, only the steady thud of boots and the soft clop of hooves filling the noonday hush. Then, without warning, Elrohir’s stride faltered. A tightness gripped his chest, sharp and sudden, as though the air had grown too thin. He drew a breath, but it caught, leaving him unsteady.

It was not fatigue nor hunger; he knew the shape of those well enough. This was deeper, lodged beneath bone and breath. A tremor ran through him, and with it came a pang of knowing, as if some unseen thread had been tugged. Elladan. The thought struck like a spark in the dark. He could not explain it, yet the bond they shared had ever carried such moments—when grief, or fury, or pain too great for one to hold bled across the space between them.

Beside him, Thalion’s sharp eyes missed nothing. “Are you well?” he asked, his voice low and pitched so that Caleth, still muttering to himself a pace ahead, would not hear. 

Elrohir’s fingers tightened on the mule’s rope, knuckles pale against the worn leather. He forced his breath into something steadier, though the unease lingered beneath. “I am not certain,” he admitted at last, the words hushed. “It is nothing I can name.”

Caleth, who had not caught their hushed exchange, suddenly drifted back into step with them, mischief never far from his tongue. His keen eyes swept the thickets to either side, always searching, until they caught on a tangle of low bramble clinging to a fallen trunk. He let out a low whistle, pointing with his bow.

“Well, here is treasure enough to mend the dullness. Those berries—see how dark they shine? The Prince would trample three leagues of thorn for them. Sweet as honey, sweeter still when stolen. Legolas has the worst sweet tooth of any Elf alive.”

Elrohir’s lips twitched before he could school them, and the barest smile curved his mouth. His reply came low, steady, and certain, though it carried the warmth of memory. “I know.”

At that, Caleth blinked in surprise, his brows lifting, then broke into a wide grin. “Ahh, so it’s true, then. He’s confessed it to you himself. That makes you an accomplice to his crimes, my lord.”

Thalion allowed himself a small chuckle, his eyes still sweeping the trees. “Once, when cocoa beans were brought north from far-off lands, the cooks made cakes from it, rich and sweet, rare as silver. By the next dawn, not a crumb remained. None had to ask who the culprit was. The Prince devoured them all, shameless as a squirrel in autumn.”

Caleth laughed outright, the sound ringing sharp through the hush of Greenwood. “A warrior in the field, yet helpless before sugared bread. There is Greenwood’s scandal laid bare. Keep him from honeyed wine and sweet-cakes, and perhaps the Shadow would never touch us.”

Elrohir could not help it; his smile deepened, fleeting but genuine, softening the stern set of his face. To hear such glimpses of Legolas—his mischief, his small indulgences— was like catching light through heavy boughs. The thought of him, not only as warrior and prince, but as one who stole cakes and hoarded berries, stirred something tender within him, easing the heaviness of his stride.

His smile lingered longer than he expected, and after a moment, he tilted his head toward the two Silvan warriors, his tone dry but edged with unmistakable curiosity. “Is there anything else you would share of him? Since you seem determined to ruin his dignity, I may as well hear the rest.”

Caleth’s grin spread like wildfire. “Anything else? Oh, we could fill leagues of road with tales. Did you know, son of Elrond, your princely beloved sings to every creature that wriggles or hops? Birds, of course, but also fish; he once knelt on the banks crooning to the trout as though they were maidens at a feast. Frogs too. A whole choir of them sang back once. Nearly drove the patrol to madness.”

Thalion gave a low chuckle, his eyes glinting, though his voice was measured. “And worms. Do not forget the worms. He will not allow us to use them for bait. He picks them up from the soil, strokes them like pets, and tucks them safely back beneath the leaves. His friends, he calls them.”

Elrohir let out a short laugh, quickly masked with a cough into his hand, but his eyes betrayed him, gleaming with amusement. “Friends with worms. Yes, that sounds like him.”

Caleth pressed on mercilessly, delighted with his captive audience. “And as for his famed beauty—do not believe it is ever so polished as the songs claim. Many a time, he’s returned from the woods looking like he rolled headlong through every bramble, face streaked, hair tangled with leaves, and dirt on his brow. The King despairs, I tell you. His jewel of Greenwood, looking more like a badger-cub than a prince.”

That drew a real smile from Elrohir, low and unguarded, warmth breaking through the shadows that had clung to him. “I can imagine it,” he said softly, his voice thick with fondness.

For a moment, the weight of the march eased. Laughter threaded the hush of Greenwood, lightening what had been heavy, and Elrohir found himself strangely grateful for their teasing, for the small tales of Legolas that no ballad would ever sing.

The easy rhythm of the march broke with a sharp cry from the front. “Commander!” a Wood-elf’s voice rang out, urgent. “Webs!”

Elrohir’s head snapped up. Through the trees, he glimpsed it—white strings clinging thick about a trunk, the strands glistening faintly in the wan light. More hung in tatters from the boughs above, swaying like banners of some fell heraldry.

Arphenion strode forward, his cloak brushing against the undergrowth, eyes narrowing as he traced the lines higher into the canopy. “Spiders,” he said, voice low but carrying. He lifted his hand in command. “Form up. With me.”

The patrol shifted swiftly into motion, bows in hand, blades loosened in their sheaths. Elrohir tugged sharply at the lead rope, urging the mules aside from the path. They balked at the scent in the air, stamping nervously, but he steadied them with a firm hand and quiet words. He led them quickly toward a shallow bend in the trail, where the undergrowth grew thick, a pocket of cover where they might be left until the danger was driven off.

“Hold,” he murmured, running a hand down the nearest mule’s neck as the beast tossed its head. “I’ll come back for you.”

When he glanced up, the patrol was already moving ahead under Arphenion’s lead, steel and sinew tense in the shadow of the webs. Elrohir tightened the last knot on the tether, then turned to follow, every sense braced for what the forest might loose upon them.

Caleth and Thalion fell back as Elrohir caught up, moving in to flank him at the rear guard. Caleth cast a glance upward, nose wrinkling as the dark strands stretched between the branches like ropes of pitch. “Of course,” he muttered. “Spiders. And here I was just praying for excitement.”

His eyes slid toward Elrohir, mischief glinting even now. “Looks like we’ll have to climb. Hope you’re ready, son of Elrond.”

Elrohir’s mouth tightened, his gaze flicking to the thickened canopy where the webs clung. “Climbing trees like a squirrel was never among my lessons,” he said dryly.

Caleth gave a bark of laughter that startled a bird from the underbrush. “Then, best you learn quick. Greenwood does not wait for Elves who lag behind.”

Thalion’s voice cut in, quieter but carrying more weight. “He is right. If you mean to be accepted here, you must move as we move. Fight as we fight. There is no place for half-measures beneath these boughs.”

The hush deepened as Arphenion raised his hand, signaling the patrol to spread out, bows lifted toward the shadowed limbs above. All around, the forest felt tighter, as though holding its breath.

Elrohir set his hand to the rough bark and began to climb after Caleth and Thalion. The Wood-elves ascended with swift, fluid grace, their boots finding every notch and branch as though the trees themselves guided them. Elrohir followed more slowly, testing each foothold, his balance taut with the effort of not slipping. The damp bark bit into his palms, and more than once, he swayed, catching himself against the trunk with a muttered breath.

“Careful, son of Elrond,” Caleth called down with a grin, pausing on a branch above to lean out just enough for mischief to gleam in his eyes. “If you mean to climb with us, you must learn to move like a hawk, not a newborn fawn. Balance, always balance—or you’ll tumble down before you’ve loosed a single arrow.”

Then his grin widened, wicked as moonlight on a blade. “Still, perhaps you’ll fare better if the Prince were with you. I can picture it now, you tugging him up into the branches, pinning him there against the bark. Ravish him in the leaves and you’ll find your grip much steadier, I’ll wager. There are some roots one will never lose hold of.”

Thalion barked a laugh and cuffed Caleth’s arm, though his own smile betrayed amusement. “You’re incorrigible,” he said, shaking his head. “One day, he’ll put an arrow through your tongue for such talk.”

Elrohir said nothing, jaw tight, but Caleth’s words struck sharper than he cared to admit. The thought of Legolas—close, breath warm against his throat, pressed into the wild tangle of Greenwood’s canopy—burned unwanted through his mind. Heat rose unbidden to his face, and he forced his gaze upward, clinging harder to the bark as though focus alone could drive the image out. The branches creaked beneath his weight, the webs glistening ahead like foul ropes strung to snare the unwary.

He angled a hard glance upward, his voice low and cutting. “If you spent half as much breath on watch as you do on gutter-talk, Caleth, Greenwood would be free of spiders by now.”

Caleth’s laugh rang bright and shameless. “I knew you had a tongue under all that dour silence. Careful, son of Elrond, bare it too often, and you may find it better suited for sweeter pursuits than scolding me.”

Thalion cuffed him again, though his own mouth twitched with mirth. “Hush, fool, before Arphenion hears you. If he catches wind of this, it won’t be spiders snapping at us from these branches.”

Caleth grinned wolfishly but fell quiet, while Elrohir pressed higher into the canopy, jaw tight, forcing his thoughts back to the climb. Still, Caleth’s jest clung to him like the webs glistening ahead, inescapable, needling, and far too vivid.

The higher they climbed, the thicker the foul strands grew, clinging to branch and bough in white-veined ropes. In a rustle of discipline, bows came up, strings drawn taut, eyes scanning the shadows above.

Elrohir shifted his footing carefully on the broad limb beneath him, pulling his own bow free. Beside him, Caleth crouched like a cat poised to spring, while Thalion moved with the stillness of one long used to waiting in silence.

For a moment, the forest was utterly still. Then it came, a faint tremor in the air, the quivering of web pulled taut. A sound like a harp-string plucked, sharp and quick, but stretched across the dark. Another followed, faster. Something heavy was moving, scuttling swiftly along the lines above.

The branches shivered faintly underfoot as the patrol listened, every ear straining. Elrohir’s heart thudded hard in his chest, the sound carrying nearer, the web singing with the speed of whatever hunted along its cords.

The web shivered once more, then split. From the dark canopy above, shadows dropped in a sudden rush, thick-legged and glistening with venom. Spiders, swift and terrible, descended on cords of black silk, their screeches tearing through the stillness.

The Wood-elves loosed as one. Their bows sang, arrows flashing silver through the gloom, each shot precise and sure. From every branch, their movements were fluid as the wind through leaves, scaling higher, shifting from bough to bough with a grace that seemed almost born of the forest itself. Blades flashed when the distance closed, curved steel cutting through bristled hide with practiced ease. They fought not as scattered warriors, but as one living thing, each strike weaving into the next.

Elrohir’s bow sang too, his arrows biting deep into glistening eyes and jointed limbs. Yet when one beast skittered close, snapping its dripping fangs toward him, instinct took him another way. He let his bow fall to the strap at his shoulder and drew steel, his blade gleaming as he met the charge head-on.

His training was not theirs, not the swift, leaping dance of Greenwood, but it was no less fierce. His cuts were heavy and certain, strokes meant to cleave through armor, to break shields and bones. The spider reared and shrieked as his blade bit deep, severing one bristled leg, then another. Elrohir pressed in, relentless, until the creature sagged against the web and stilled.

Around him, the air was thick with hisses and the sound of bowstrings thrumming, the Wood-elves a blur of speed and precision above the web-laden branches. For a heartbeat, Elrohir stood out among them, not one of the forest’s dancers, but a warrior of a different mold, fierce and unyielding, his sword-arm tireless.

The canopy rang with battle—the hiss of arrows, the clash of steel, the shrieks of dying spiders. Yet still more poured from the dark, thick-bodied and swift, their legs rattling against the webs as they swarmed toward the Elves.

Elrohir cut another creature down, his blade biting through its fangs, and in the next heartbeat, he saw an opening below. A line of web stretched taut, swaying with the weight of a spider rushing toward the ground. Without hesitation, he seized it. The foul strand stuck to his palm, slick and reeking, but it bore his weight as he swung down in a long arc, dropping from branch to branch until his boots struck the forest floor.

The impact jarred his bones, but he kept his feet beneath him, sword flashing free again. A spider scuttled toward him, fangs dripping, and he met it with a brutal cleave, his strike severing its foreleg clean through. Another came, and he pivoted, driving his blade up beneath its belly, rolling free as it collapsed in thrashing death.

Above, the Wood-elves moved with uncanny grace, voices sharp in Silvan as they called warnings, shifting formations from branch to branch. They loosed arrows down in a rain of death, their movements swift as deer among the leaves. Elrohir fought beneath them, a figure apart yet no less fierce, his blade-work brutal and relentless. Where the Wood-elves darted like quicksilver, Elrohir carved his way forward like a storm breaking through stone.

Black ichor spattered his boots, his breath harsh in his throat. Still, he pressed on, striking, turning, cutting down another with a roar that split the din.

From the corner of his eye, Elrohir caught the flash of steel. Arphenion stood poised on a wide limb above, knives in hand, his movements quick and economical as he slashed through the spiders that pressed on him. One creature shrieked as a blade drove clean into the gap beneath its fangs, but another was already upon him, and another beyond that, the branches quivering under their weight.

The commander fought with ruthless precision, but the press was heavy, too many limbs, too many fangs snapping close. Even Arphenion’s grace could be dragged down beneath such numbers.

Without pause, Elrohir surged forward. He ducked beneath the sweep of a spindly leg, black ichor spraying as he hacked it away, then drove toward the thick of the fight. His blade crashed against a spider’s hide, carving a path through to Arphenion’s side.

Another lunged low, jaws wide, Elrohir’s sword arced in a brutal cut that severed its foreleg and split its head. He pressed in at Arphenion’s flank, his voice rough with battle. “Hold them, I’ll clear your side!”

For a breath, the Sindar commander’s pale eyes flicked to him, sharp and unreadable even in the din, then his knives flashed again, swift as lightning, meeting Elrohir’s steel stroke for stroke. Together they pushed back against the swarm, one with dancer’s grace, the other with a warrior’s weight, their styles clashing yet cutting a swath through the spiders that sought to drag them both down.

The clash raged, ichor spattering bark and leaf, but at last the press began to thin. Arrows whistled from above, finding their marks with deadly surety, and the shrieks of the dying spiders rang louder than the hiss of the living. The branches still quivered with movement, but fewer bodies poured from the webs now, their swarm breaking against the Elves’ unrelenting defense.

Elrohir cleaved through another, black fluid streaking down his blade. He turned, chest heaving, just as Arphenion drove both knives up into the belly of a spider that had reared above them. The creature convulsed, then sagged, crashing down into the tangle of webs below.

For a moment, silence hovered in the space between them. Arphenion straightened, his breath sharp, pale hair damp against his brow. His eyes met Elrohir’s, pale, piercing, still taut with the edge of battle.

“You wield steel well enough,” he said at last, his voice clipped, unwilling to soften. A faint pause, almost reluctant. “Better than I expected.”

Then, without waiting for a reply, he turned sharply to scan the trees, knives ready, though his shoulders eased as the shrieks faded into silence. Above, the Wood-elves called to one another, their voices signaling the kill-count, their laughter sharp with the release of danger.

The tide of spiders was broken. Only a few stragglers twitched in the webs, quickly dispatched by arrows. Greenwood stilled once more, though the foul stench of spider ichor lingered heavy in the air.

Boots scuffed bark as the others descended, the last skitter of dying limbs fading into silence. Caleth dropped first, landing light as a cat, his grin already wide as he spun his knives idly in his hands. Thalion came after with a slower grace, pausing a moment to scan the trees before joining them on the ground.

“Well,” Caleth drawled, glancing at the black ichor still dripping from Elrohir’s sword. “If that was the fighting of a fawn, then I’ll gladly march with fawns. You carved through them like the High Elves of legend—fierce as the tales sung in winter halls.” His grin widened, sharp with mischief. “If the spiders had any sense of song, they’d be composing laments already.”

Thalion inclined his head, his gaze steadier, the faintest edge of respect threading his words. “Your strokes are not ours, heavier, less fluid, but they were true, and they struck hard. Few could have stood so long on the ground alone and lived. The spiders fell before you as enemies once fell before the heroes of the Elder Days.”

Elrohir wiped his blade against the grass, sheathing it with a quiet scrape. “Legends are better left to song,” he said dryly, his tone clipped. “I am no more than a soldier doing what was required.”

Caleth chuckled, unconvinced, while Thalion’s glance lingered a moment longer before he, too, looked away.

Arphenion approached then, his knives dark with ichor, his expression as stern as ever. He gave Elrohir a brief, assessing look, pale eyes sharp. “You fought well,” he said, the words simple, stripped of warmth yet carrying the weight of acknowledgment.

Then he turned, raising his voice to the company. “Gather the carcasses. Burn them. We will not leave Greenwood fouled by their stench. Let fire clear what shadow remains.”

The Wood-elves moved swiftly, working as one to pile the bodies and set them alight. Acrid smoke curled upward, stinging the air, the flames hissing as they consumed the foul webbing. The reek of spider-flesh was bitter, but above it the forest slowly began to breathe again, the oppressive weight of shadow easing from the boughs.

Elrohir stood a moment apart, watching the firelight flicker through the branches, until the last shrieks of burning silk died away. Yet the unease that had gripped him earlier did not fade. It lingered beneath his ribs, heavy and nameless, as though some wound had been struck elsewhere and its echo throbbed within him still. He could not give it voice, nor trace its source, but the sense of wrongness clung to him like a shadow he could not shake.

Then he turned with the rest, ready to follow where Arphenion would lead.

The path narrowed, roots thrusting high and uneven across the forest floor, the air grown dense beneath the boughs. Glorfindel raised a hand, and the horses were checked. “No further,” he said, his voice curt with command. “The way is too steep. We go afoot.”

The litter was unfastened from its place between Arwen’s mount and the healer’s horse. With swift precision, Haldir and his brothers bent to the task, lifting Elladan between them with the ease of long practice. They bore the weight, the litter swaying only slightly as they found their rhythm, the horses following quietly.

Arwen pressed close behind, her hand brushing the frame as though her touch alone might steady it. Legolas kept to her side, his eyes drawn ever to the figure upon the canvas.

Elladan’s skin had grown pale, his brow slick with sweat. His breath came in ragged pulls, the rattle beneath them thick and wrong, the cruel price of the arrow that had pierced his lung. Fever glazed his eyes when they opened, though more often they slipped shut, his jaw clenched as if sheer will alone held him tethered to this world. The faint scent of athelas still clung to him, sharp and clean, but its grace could only slow the poison, not halt its spread.

Legolas’s gaze lingered, heavy with a fear he would not speak. He had seen Elves wounded before, but seldom one so proud and fierce brought low so quickly. Every staggered breath felt like a thread fraying beneath his watch, every flicker of pain across Elladan’s features a lash against his own heart.

Ahead, Glorfindel moved swift and sure, his golden hair catching stray glints of light as he led them on, his posture unbending, every stride an order to the forest itself to yield passage.

Arwen leaned close as they went, her hand never leaving the edge of the litter. “Elladan,” she whispered, her voice low but firm, as though her will alone could anchor him. “Stay with me, my brother. We are near. Only a little further, and the Elvenking’s healers will tend you.”

Elladan stirred faintly at her words. A sound tore from his lips, raw and broken—a wet rattle that caught in his throat and dragged into a coughing gasp. His chest heaved once, twice, as though every breath was drawn through thorns. His hand twitched, reaching weakly before it faltered back to the canvas. 

Arwen seized it, folding her fingers tight around his. “No,” she whispered fiercely, pressing his hand to her heart. “You will not fade. You are stronger than this. I will not let you go.”

Legolas walked close at her side, his gaze riveted to the shallow rise and fall of Elladan’s chest. Each ragged pull of air struck him like a blow, the sound thick with fluid, rattling and uneven, as though the very act of breathing was a battle slipping beyond Elladan’s strength. He longed to speak, but no words came, only a silence heavy with dread, every step an agony of waiting for the next breath to come.

Glorfindel’s voice carried back, low and urgent. “Press on. The Halls are close, make haste.”

Legolas’s voice came low, strained, scarcely more than a whisper. “This is my doing.” His eyes did not leave Elladan’s face, pale and fevered, every breath a ragged struggle. “Had I not led him into danger, had I been swifter, stronger—” His throat closed, but he forced the words past it. “Forgive me.”

Arwen turned sharply, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders as she reached for his hand. Her fingers closed firm around his, steady despite the tremor of fear that lived in her eyes. “No,” she said, voice soft but resolute. “Do not speak so. The blame is not yours, but theirs. The foul creatures who set this trap. Elladan chose to fight at your side, as he has fought a thousand times before. You cannot call his courage your failing.”

Legolas shook his head, jaw tight, but Arwen’s grip only tightened, her gentleness anchoring him in spite of her own dread.

From ahead, Haldir’s voice carried back, quiet but firm. “The Prince of Greenwood speaks as though he alone bore the battle.” He glanced over his shoulder, pale eyes flashing. “Yet, we all saw Elladan stand, and we all know the malice of Orc-kind. Their poison is to blame, not your arm.”

Rúmil added, his tone sharper, though not unkind. “No Elf may guard every stroke. Not even you, Prince. To hold yourself to such measure is folly.”

And Orophin, bearing part of the litter’s weight, spoke last, his words steady as the cadence of his stride. “Elladan fights yet. His breath is ragged, but his will endures. Do not waste it doubting yourself. He would not thank you for it.”

Arwen’s hand remained in Legolas’s, her touch warm despite the cold fear shadowing her features. “Hear them,” she murmured, her gaze steady. “You are not to blame. We will see him through this.”

Her fingers lingered in his, her gaze softening despite the worry that shadowed her brow. “Forgive me,” she said quietly, her voice catching for a breath. “I have spoken only of fear and grief, yet I have not even greeted you as I should. It has been too long since last we stood side by side. I have long waited to see you again, Legolas.”

For a moment, the ache in Legolas’s chest eased. He met her eyes, and though sorrow pressed heavy upon him, warmth stirred there as well. “My heart sings to see you again, Arwen,” he said, his voice low but earnest. “I had not known how deeply I missed you until this hour. Too many years have kept us apart, and yet here you are, and I find I have missed you more than words can tell.”

A faint smile curved Arwen’s lips, though her hand trembled where it clasped his. Between them passed the briefest flicker of light, a shard of joy breaking through the shadow of the moment, before their gazes returned again to Elladan’s fevered form.

A silence followed, filled only with Elladan’s strained breathing and the soft crunch of boots against the path. Then, Haldir’s voice drifted back, cool and composed even beneath the weight of their burden.

“It seems we are all at fault,” he said, the faintest thread of wryness edging his tone. “We, too, have not yet given you greeting, Prince of Greenwood. Years have passed since last our paths crossed, and yet here we meet again in such dark fashion.”

Rúmil snorted softly, though his eyes never left the path. “Aye. What friends we make, forgetting courtesy altogether. We should have offered a welcome before thrusting you into battle.”

Orophin’s voice followed, steadier, touched with a rare warmth. “So take it now, belated though it is. Well met once more, Legolas Thranduilion. May our next meeting be under brighter stars than these.”

The corners of Legolas’s mouth softened, the shadow of a smile flickering there even as his gaze lingered on Elladan. “Your greeting honors me,” he said quietly. “Though I would that it were in peace, your words bring me comfort still.”

Elladan stirred with a sudden, broken groan, his body twisting weakly against the litter. His breath rattled harshly in his chest, each draw a battle that left him shuddering.

The Lórien healer at once quickened his pace, eyes flashing to Glorfindel. “He needs more athelas, and swiftly.”

Glorfindel’s jaw tightened, his golden brows drawn low in hesitation. “We dare not slow…”

Another ragged cry broke from Elladan’s lips, silencing any further debate. Glorfindel’s hand clenched at his side, then cut the air with command. “Lay him down. Do it quickly.”

The brothers eased the litter to the ground with practiced care, and the healer was already reaching into his pouch, hands deft as he drew forth the pale green leaves. He crushed them swiftly, adding water from his flask to a small bowl, setting a small fire quickly, and soon the air filled with the sharp, clean scent of athelas, a balm to cut through the heavy reek of sweat and poison.

Arwen dropped to her knees at Elladan’s side, taking his hand in both of hers, her lips moving in low words of comfort. Legolas crouched opposite, his eyes fixed on the shallow rise and fall of Elladan’s chest.

“This wound…” Legolas’s voice was hushed, strained. “The poison spreads so swiftly. I have seen warriors stricken before, yet seldom has shadow worked its craft with such speed.”

Arwen lifted her gaze, grief shadowing her fair features. “It is our doom,” she whispered. “Our gift, some call it, but to us it can play a burden. We are not as other Elves, Legolas. My brothers, myself, even my father—mortal blood runs in us still. Wounds fester more swiftly, poisons cling more cruelly. We are neither wholly of one world nor the other, and in that between-place lies our frailty.”

Her voice broke, though her hand never left Elladan’s. “And that frailty is upon him now.”

Legolas’s jaw set, his eyes fierce with a light that wavered between grief and defiance. “If mortal blood makes him frail,” he said, his voice low yet ringing with conviction, “then let him borrow strength from mine. Shadow shall not take him while my heart yet beats.”

He reached across the litter, clasping Elladan’s limp hand and drawing it to his own chest, pressing it hard against the steady thrum beneath his ribs. His fingers closed tight, as if he could bind Elladan there by force of will alone.

At once, the air shifted. What had been heavy with sickness and smoke grew sharp and clean, tinged with the green breath of living things. The branches overhead gave a long, slow shiver though no wind touched them, their leaves stirring as if in answer to his cry.

Light pierced the canopy where moments before no stars had broken through, a silver beam spilling downward to crown Elladan’s face and chest. It limned the sweat on his brow, turned the pallor of his skin to faint radiance, and eased the harsh lines of pain that marred his features. His breaths, still ragged, came less strangled for a few precious moments, as though the forest itself lent him air.

Around them, silence fell. The healer’s hands stilled above the crushed athelas, awe widening his eyes. Haldir and his brothers slowed their actions, Rúmil’s lips parting in a wordless exclamation, Orophin frozen as though struck still by wonder. Even Arwen, who had wept without ceasing, looked up in astonishment, her tears halted by the living hush that had descended.

The forest seemed to lean nearer, its voice whispering in leaves and roots, answering Legolas’s heart. It was his mother’s gift, rising unbidden and fierce, no longer hidden in dream or passing touch, but blazing here in the open for all to see.

And Legolas bent low, still holding Elladan’s hand tight against his chest, his face carved with anguish and resolve. “Please,” he whispered, his voice breaking with fervor, “if there is any grace in me, take it. Draw it out, give it to him. Only let him stay.”

For a heartbeat, it seemed the very world listened. The trees swayed, though no wind stirred, their leaves whispering like a thousand voices carried on one breath. The silver light deepened, spilling further over Elladan’s form, until his chest rose with a steadier pull of air, the rattle less cruel for those few blessed moments. Among the Eldar, such light was ever a solace for the stars had been their first companions, and many times their radiance had strengthened weary hearts when all else faltered. Now that same grace seemed to lean low, answering through the green of Legolas’s gift.

The healer exhaled sharply, breaking the spell, plunging the crushed athelas into the steaming water at his side. The fragrance rushed out in waves, fresh and piercing, mingling with the forest’s breath, weaving with it until the clearing rang with life. He bent swiftly over Elladan, bathing his brow, setting the bowl close so he might breathe the steam. Then, bracing a hand beneath Elladan’s head, he coaxed a few swallows between his lips, letting the water laced with the leaf trickle down his throat.

Glorfindel had stilled as stone, his keen eyes fixed upon Legolas, the golden light mirrored in their depths. Only when Elladan’s breath eased fractionally beneath the mingled touch of herb and gift did he speak, his voice low and grave. “So the tales are true.”

Haldir and his brothers glanced at one another, wonder and unease mingling alike on their faces. None dared speak, not yet, but all looked to Legolas as though they beheld him anew.

Arwen’s tears fell afresh, but her hand never left her brother’s. She looked across at Legolas, her lips parted, her voice hushed in reverence. “You gave him breath.”

Legolas shook his head, though his hand did not release Elladan’s. The radiance that had kindled around him was already fading, retreating into the hush of the trees as if it had never been. His voice was low, “No. Do not mistake me for what I am not. I have no healer’s craft, no knowledge of herbs or lore. Whatever you saw…it was not mine to give. Perhaps the light lent him a moment’s ease, but it cannot drive out the poison. I am no more than a vessel the forest chose to answer.”

Arwen reached across the litter, her fingers settling lightly over his where they pressed Elladan’s hand. Her touch was steady, her gaze bright with tears that did not dim their certainty. “You humble yourself too far, fair one,” she whispered. “Athelas soothes, but it does not stir trees to bow or summon the stars through shadow. That was you, Legolas. Not chance. Not the wind. You are a gift to the Eldar, though you see it least of all.”

Her words struck him to silence. For an instant, he could not meet her eyes, the weight of her conviction heavier than any chain. Yet the warmth of her hand upon his, and the unwavering reverence in her voice, bound him fast in stillness, as if the forest itself bore witness and agreed.

Glorfindel moved at last, the weight of his tread light but certain as he crossed to the litter. He crouched beside Legolas, golden hair catching the pale shafts of dawn that filtered through the trees. For a momen,t he said nothing, only studied the prince with a gaze that seemed to pierce bone and spirit alike. Then, with gentleness, he lifted a hand and turned Legolas’s face toward his own.

“Do not turn from this, child of Greenwood,” he said, his voice low, grave, but not unkind. “What we saw was no trick of wind nor chance of light. It was you. A gift wondrous and perilous both.”

Legolas’s jaw worked, as though he would deny it still, but Glorfindel’s hand held him steady, his gaze unyielding. “This is why the forest bends when you call. Why the trees shiver to your grief. Why the stars breaks shadow at your plea. It is grace, but such grace is never hidden for long. Know this, Legolas—the Enemy scents such light as surely as wolves scent blood. This gift that can awe and heal can also mark you as quarry.”

Around them, the company had fallen utterly silent, the crackle of the athelas steam the only sound. Arwen’s hand still covered his, but her eyes shifted to Glorfindel, wide with understanding and fear.

Glorfindel’s hand fell away at last. He rose to his full height, his gaze sweeping the company, keen and resolute once more. “We should not tarry longer,” he said, his voice carrying the quiet authority of one long used to obedience. “The Halls are near, but shadow lingers yet, and delay serves only our foes. Lift him again. We move.”

Haldir and his brothers bent once more to the litter, their motions careful, practiced, but touched now with a reverence for what they had witnessed. The healer gathered his satchel, the bowl of steaming athelas left to spill its fragrance over the trampled earth, a ward against whatever darkness might trail them.

Arwen brushed a trembling hand over Elladan’s brow before rising to her feet. Then she turned to follow as the bearers lifted her brother once more.

With a sharp word, Glorfindel set the pace, striding into the deepening path. The horses trailed behind, reins loose, their ears flicking nervously, but their hooves sure. Around the litter, the company fell back into formation, their movements hushed, their eyes sharper than before.

The forest closed over them again, shadows shifting with each step, the air heavy with both the scent of athelas and the memory of the light that had broken through the dark.

Time passed beneath the press of Greenwood’s boughs, each step marked by the low rattle of Elladan’s breathing and the grim silence of those who bore him. The light had shifted by the time the stone arches of the Elvenking’s Halls rose before them, half-veiled by ivy and shadow. The air grew cooler as they neared, the path narrowing into the guarded way that led within.

The sentries moved to bar their path, spears crossing in practiced discipline. Legolas stepped forward then, his bearing calm but his eyes alight with urgency. His voice carried with quiet authority, measured but leaving no room for denial. The guards started at the sight of him; they had not recognized their prince at first in battle-worn cloak and shadow, but at his approach their composure faltered, deference rising swift to the surface.

“Let us pass. We come with one wounded.” His glance swept to the litter, then back to the guards, steady as steel. “Every moment is dear. Open the gates.”

At once, the spears lifted. The guards bowed their heads low, voices murmuring “Your Grace,” as they stepped aside to unbar the doors, their movements brisk with shame at the delay.

Legolas walked ahead of the litter as they entered. He caught the eye of a waiting guard within and spoke in a tone low but commanding. “Go swiftly. Tell the healers Lord Elladan is being brought to them, stricken with poison and sorely wounded. They must be ready without delay.”

The guard did not hesitate, vanishing into the torchlit corridor at a run. Around them, the deep halls stirred, the sound of many feet echoing as word began to ripple ahead.

The company’s steps rang hard against stone as they swept through the vaulted passages, their pace quickening as the doors to the healing chambers came into view. Within, lanterns burned bright, casting a steady glow over shelves of glass vials and bundles of drying herbs that perfumed the air with sharp, green fragrance. Basins of steaming water had already been set out, and the healers gathered in readiness at the summons.

They moved forward as one when the litter was borne in. At Glorfindel’s curt gesture, Haldir and his brothers eased Elladan down onto a small bed, its frame of carved wood draped with clean white linen. The shift jarred him, and a ragged groan broke from his lips. His body twisted weakly, his chest heaving, each breath rattling like air drawn through broken reeds. Sweat slicked his brow, plastering dark strands of hair against his temples.

The healers bent over him at once, deft hands loosening clasps and pulling away the torn fabric about the wound. Cloths were pressed to his brow, bowls of steaming water and clean bandages set at hand, but all paused a heartbeat as Glorfindel spoke.

“He was struck in the back by an Orc’s arrow,” he said, his voice calm but carrying iron command. “The shaft punctured his lung, and the venom spreads swift. Athelas slowed it, but no more than that.”

The word struck the chamber like a stone cast into still water. One healer’s hand faltered on the rim of a basin, the bowl sloshing dangerously before he steadied it. Another gasped softly, eyes darting to her fellows. Murmurs rippled low, sharp with fear.

“Orcs?” one whispered, disbelieving. “So close to our borders?”

A hush settled over the room, the weight of dread pressing in, as though even here, beneath stone and torchlight, shadow had stolen across the threshold.

The Lórien healer who had tended Elladan on the road stepped forward, his face taut with weariness. “We did not dare draw the arrow’s head,” he said, his voice steady but shadowed with regret. “It was barbed deep. To pull it hastily in the wild would have torn more lung, and so we cut the shaft short and bound it fast. But some of it remains still within.”

At a signal, the Greenwood healers turned Elladan gently onto his side. The linen beneath him darkened, stained fresh by what seeped from the wound. When the wrappings were pulled back, a murmur of dismay swept the room.

The injury gaped wide and cruel, the flesh about it livid and swollen. Poison had blackened the skin in jagged streaks, and foul ichor oozed slow and steady from the torn place where the arrowhead still lodged. The scent of corruption rose sharp and bitter, clashing with the clean perfume of athelas that lingered in the air.

Legolas drew in a sharp breath but did not move forward. He stood a step behind, his shoulders rigid, every instinct urging him to help, yet he knew he had no place at the healer’s table. Beside him, Arwen’s hand slipped into his, her slender fingers twining with quiet strength. She did not look away, though her face was pale with grief.

Together they stood back, bound hand to hand, their silence heavy, their gazes fixed on Elladan as the healers bent swiftly over him.

The healers wasted no time, setting out slender knives and long-handled forceps, bowls of steaming water, and clean linen ready at hand. One pressed a cloth steeped in athelas to the wound while another steadied Elladan’s body against the convulsions of his ragged breath. The Lórien healer leaned close, pointing with careful precision to where the broken head of the arrow still lay, lodged deep in flesh.

Legolas’s voice cut across the low murmur of their preparations, quiet yet carrying weight enough to draw every eye. “Please,” he said, his tone stripped of all but naked earnestness. “Save him. He gave his life for mine.”

A hush followed, heavier than before. The Greenwood healers, who had already moved with care and compassion, stilled in their motions. Their gazes turned to Elladan, not only as a patient fallen to poison, but as the one who had stood for their prince, who had borne shadow’s venom so Legolas might still draw breath. Reverence tempered their resolve, sharpening their hands with purpose.

One healer inclined his head, his voice low but steady. “We will not fail him, your grace.”

At that, their work resumed with redoubled focus, every motion deft, precise, and solemn. Arwen’s hand tightened around Legolas’s, and though her eyes glistened, she nodded faintly, as if his plea had been hers as well.

The healers bent close, their hands swift as they cut away the last of the wrappings. One steadied Elladan’s shoulder while another slid the forceps deep into the wound. The moment they probed, Elladan convulsed, a strangled gasp tearing from him. His breath faltered, rattling harsh, and suddenly blood welled from the wound itself, seeping fast into his lung.

A crimson trickle slipped from the corner of his mouth; another dark line followed from his nose. His body arched faintly, as though he were drowning on dry land.

“Quickly!” one healer barked, his composure taut with strain. Bowls were brought nearer, cloths thrust into hands. They worked with fevered precision now, voices sharp as they steadied Elladan, each second stretching taut between life and loss.

Arwen’s composure broke. With a low cry, she turned from the sight, falling against Legolas, her arms wrapping tight about him as she pressed her face to his shoulder. He folded one arm around her instinctively, his other hand still clenched white at his side, his gaze locked on the table even as she wept against him.

Glorfindel did not move. His golden head was lifted, his eyes fixed unblinking on the healers, watching each motion as though willing their hands to succeed. His expression was grim, his jaw set like stone.

Behind them, Haldir drew a steady breath and touched Rúmil and Orophin’s arms. Without a word, he began to guide his brothers from the chamber. A few of the Lórien company followed, their faces pale, unwilling to witness more. Yet the Lórien healer remained at the bedside, sleeves rolled, his hands unshaking as he guided the Greenwood healers with clear instruction, his voice sharp with experience.

Still, Elladan struggled, breath catching in wet, gurgling gasps. The chamber rang with the urgency of the work, the stifled cries of linen pressed to staunch the blood, and the hushed desperation of those who watched, powerless but to hope.

The healers worked in a frenzy of focus, their hands slick with blood as they pressed deeper into the wound. Elladan’s chest heaved shallowly, each gasp bubbling crimson, his lips stained dark as more blood spilled from nose and mouth. For a breath, the chamber held only the wet sound of his faltering breaths and the sharp, urgent orders of the healers.

Then, a cry rang out. One of them lifted the forceps high, and between the iron tips gleamed the barbed head of the arrow, blackened with poison, wet with gore. The sight of it drew a collective exhale from those who had not dared breathe.

“Now!” the chief healer urged. Cloths were pressed swiftly to the wound, others pouring steaming water over torn flesh, flushing out the corruption. Another crushed fresh athelas into the basin, the fragrance rising sharp and bright against the stench of blood. They moved with practiced rhythm, cleansing, binding, stanching the flow; every motion carried by relief that the worst had been drawn forth.

Elladan groaned, weak but still present, his chest hitching as his body fought for air. Though ragged, his breath began to steady, each pull less drowned by the blood within.

Arwen clung to Legolas, trembling, her face still buried against his shoulder. He held her fast, his eyes never leaving Elladan as though watching alone could keep his spirit tethered.

Glorfindel’s hand eased upon the hilt of his sword, fingers loosening where they had clenched unthinking. His gaze remained locked on the healers, but some of the stone in his face softened, a flicker of hope piercing through.

The Lórien healer leaned close over the wound, voice low but certain. “The arrowhead is gone. He is not free of shadow yet, but he has a chance now.”

The Greenwood healers moved without pause, their hands sure despite the sheen of blood that stained them. Fresh cloths were laid over the wound as steaming water was poured again and again, crimson swirling down into basins. A sharp knife trimmed away the ruined flesh, and the Lórien healer added athelas to the wash, its fragrance rising to cut through the bitter stench of poison and ichor.

Another healer lifted Elladan’s head gently, sliding a hand beneath his neck to steady him. From a small vial, she coaxed a few drops of a clear draught between his lips. His throat worked faintly, struggling to swallow, but some of it went down. “For the pain,” she murmured. “And to ease his breath.”

Bandages were wound tight and clean, layer upon layer pressed firmly over the wound. The flow of blood slowed, though each hitch of Elladan’s chest was still shallow, rasping, as if he drew air through a narrow reed. Yet the gurgle that had marked his drowning breaths began to lessen.

The chief healer bent close, her hands lingering at his back. Her voice carried calm resolve, though her eyes were shadowed. “The venom runs deep. His body will fight it long, and the fever may yet rise. But he breathes still, and the worst is behind us. From here, it will be will and watchfulness.”

Arwen’s grip on Legolas’s hand eased, though her face was pale, streaked with tears. She looked to her brother, her lips trembling. “He endures.”

Legolas inclined his head faintly, his gaze fixed upon Elladan’s fragile rise and fall of chest. “He endures,” he echoed softly, though the tension in his frame did not wholly ease.

Glorfindel exhaled at last, the sound heavy, his bright eyes lingering on the healers. “Please keep vigil,” he told them, though the order was needless. They nodded with solemn bows, already settling to their stations beside the bed, preparing for the long hours ahead. He lingered only a heartbeat longer, gaze fixed upon Elladan, before turning on his heel. His stride was swift, purposeful, bearing him from the chamber—no doubt to carry word to the King himself.

Arwen lowered herself to the floor, her gown pooling around her knees.. She took Elladan’s hand gently into both of hers, pressing it against her cheek as if by sheer will she could warm the cold from his fingers. Her tears fell soft against his skin, but her grip was steady, unyielding.

“Do not trouble yourself for me, dear sister,” Elladan rasped, his voice a thread of sound frayed by pain. Each breath rattled, wet and shallow, yet he shaped it into words with stubborn pride. “I will endure. And after such darkness…what better sight could I wake to?”

With a trembling hand, he lifted his fingers, brushing the curve of her cheek, the sweep of her brow, as though memorizing her face anew. His touch was weak, yet his eyes shone faintly, his smile a ghost of the old warmth. Arwen bent into it, closing her eyes, her tears sliding freel,y though her answering smile did not break.

On the other side, Legolas came to his knees, then folded lower until he sat level with Elladan, the faint lamplight framing his hair. He did not reach at once; his head bowed, as though in reverence at a shrine. Only then did he lift his gaze, his voice low, steady, but heavy with sorrow.

“Elladan,” he said, the name almost a plea. “Forgive me. It was my arm that failed to turn the stroke. If there is blame to be borne, let it rest on me. You should not have paid such a price for my life.”

Elladan’s lashes fluttered, but his gaze found Legolas again, the fever-clouded haze parting just enough for stubborn warmth to shine through. His voice came thin, ragged with strain, yet steady with resolve.

“I would take the stroke again,” he murmured, each word torn from his wounded chest, “for no price is too high if it means my brother wears that smile you give him. To see him so—it is worth more than steel, more than breath. Worth more than my own, Laicolassë.” His fingers sought Legolas’s hand, as if to bind him there, and his lips shaped the Quenya softly, almost reverently.

For a heartbeat, silence hung between them. Then Legolas’s mouth curved, faint and wry, even through the weight of sorrow. “Quenya is forbidden in Greenwood,” he said, his voice low, a dry thread of humor breaking through grief.

A ghost of a grin touched Elladan’s cracked lips. “Aye. I know. All the better to call you so, where none but you and I may hear it.”

Arwen’s tears fell afresh, but this time a laugh slipped through, light as silver bells. She pressed her brother’s hand tighter between hers. “Elladan, you rogue. Elrohir will never suffer this. He will burn with jealousy at your boldness.”

Legolas’s gaze softened, though his hand did not loosen from Elladan’s. In his eyes lingered a glimmer of warmth, fragile yet unyielding, holding fast against the shadow that pressed close.

Time passed in the close-lit chamber, measured by Elladan’s fragile breaths and the low murmur of the healers. At last, Legolas rose. His hand lingered on Elladan’s a moment longer, then slipped free, leaving Arwen to keep her vigil at her brother’s side. He bent his head to her briefly, a promise unspoken, and then turned away, his steps quiet on the stone.

He meant to go to his father, to bring word of what had passed and seek his counsel. But as he turned into one of the long passages that wound through the halls, a different sound reached him first.

Voices. Low, woven in solemn harmony, carrying the weight of grief through vaulted stone. The song was no battle cry nor hymn of triumph, but a lament, heavy with sorrow, rising and falling like wind through bare boughs.

Legolas slowed, then stilled altogether as a company came into view, bearing litters draped in dark cloaks. The fallen of the southern patrol. Their armor was mottled and blackened where poison had seared through leather and mail; the edges of their cloaks were stiff with ichor. When the coverings shifted with the bearers’ steps, pale faces showed beneath, skin waxen and marred, lips tinged blue, eyes closed but sunken, as though shadow had gnawed them hollow before death claimed them.

These had been seasoned warriors who had long kept Greenwood’s borders against encroaching dark. Now their strength lay broken, their bodies cruelly wasted, the bright flame of their lives quenched as if the forest itself had been defiled.

The lament rose around them, raw with love and sharper grief. The song wound high and low like wind through a ruined canopy, carrying sorrow too deep for words. Along the corridor, Elves inclined their heads, hands pressed to their hearts in respect. Some wept openly, their tears unchecked, voices faltering as they tried to follow the lament. Others stood rigid with grief, their silence heavy as stone, eyes fixed on the fallen as if by sheer will they could call them back.

Legolas bowed his head as the procession passed, but his gaze could not help straying to the faces of the dead. He knew them, companions and warriors he had trained beside, shared laughter with by the campfire, marched with through leagues of shadow. To see them thus, their features robbed of light and dignity, was to feel his own heart pierced a hundredfold. Each lifeless face was a wound, each shrouded form a cry that rang in his chest, demanding answer.

The lament swelled, the voices deepening until the very stone seemed to carry their grief. Legolas closed his eyes, letting the song pour through him, heavy and inexorable. His breath caught with it, and for a moment he felt himself singing too, though no sound passed his lips, as if his spirit itself had joined theirs in mourning the fallen.

The last of the litters came into view, borne slower than the rest, as if even the strength of those who carried it faltered beneath its burden. The cloak that draped the fallen slipped askew, and what it revealed made Legolas’s breath seize sharp in his chest.

This one had not fallen to spider-fang alone. The flesh was gray, waxen, as though the very life had been drawn out, leaving behind only a husk. Black veins marbled the skin like cracks in stone, spreading outward from a wound he could not see, the poison of shadow writ deeper than fang or venom could carve. The warrior’s lips were pulled back faintly, not in pain but in some final, terrible stillness that felt worse. A face Legolas had once known, now twisted into something unrecognizable, as if shadow had laid claim to it in the end.

His hand pressed reflexively to his chest, fingers curling tight into his tunic. He did not speak, could not. The sight was too raw, too near to nightmare, and yet here it lay before him in the cold truth of torchlight.

The bearers’ steps echoed as they passed him, carrying the body toward the deep halls where the dead would be honored. Others bowed as it went by, voices of the lament faltering before resuming, trembling with sharper grief.

Legolas inclined his head low, but his gaze lingered despite himself. A heaviness settled over him, darker than before, as though a warning had passed unseen in the wake of the dead.

A voice, low and tremulous, rose at his side.

“Oh, how the South drains us,” Lathwen murmured, a handkerchief pressed delicately to her eyes. Her tone was threaded with sorrow so artful it rang true to every ear around them. “It bleeds us of warriors, of light, of hope. Every season, more sons and daughters are returned to us cold, and still the shadow creeps further.” She lowered the cloth, revealing the faint sheen of tears caught in her lashes. “It is a cruel burden, one Greenwood cannot long endure.”

The lament swelled through the hall, but her words wove under it, intimate, persuasive. “Spiders thick as a tide. Orcs now at our borders. And whispers…” She paused, voice breaking just enough to catch. “Whispers of a Nazgûl walking the dark. If such evil has truly returned, what chance have even our strongest against it?”

Her gaze slid to Legolas, soft with grief, heavy with a weight she seemed to share. “At least there is Arphenion’s patrol,” she said gently. “They are to pass near the southern reaches. Brave hearts, all of them. Perhaps their presence will hold the line where so many have fallen.”

The words struck through him like ice. Arphenion’s patrol. Elrohir. Caleth. Thalion. He felt the world tilt, the air grow thinner, the lament fading to a dull roar in his ears.

Legolas’s hand rose faintly, brushing against the stone wall for steadiness. Her sorrow seemed unfeigned, her compassion plain, yet the thought of Elrohir walking into the jaws of what had torn these seasoned warriors apart hollowed his chest with sudden dread. Elrohir’s laughter, faint and fleeting, pressed into memory. To think of that laughter falling into silence beneath these same shadows

The song of mourning faded around him, though the notes still rang clear in the hall. He turned slowly toward Lathwen, his face pale as moonlight, the grief in his eyes sharpened now by sudden alarm.

“Arphenion’s patrol?” His voice was low, taut, each word pressed as though the very naming of it cost him. “You are certain of this?”

Lathwen lowered her gaze, dabbing again at the corners of her eyes as if steadying herself against her own sorrow. “I am,” she said softly, the words drawn out with a gravity meant to soothe even as they cut. “I heard it spoken myself. Their route takes them near the shadow’s edge. No doubt the King saw it as needful—Arphenion is steadfast, and his company strong. If any can endure it, it will be them.”

Her hand lifted slightly, as though to touch his arm in comfort, but she let it fall back to her side, her eyes glistening with that artful sorrow. “It is cruel, I know, to think of more lives risked so soon after these.” Her gaze flicked to the litters as they disappeared deeper into the halls, then back to him, soft and heavy with seeming compassion. “But such is the lot we are given. And the South cannot be left unwatched.”

The words struck him like arrows, yet he held himself still, his back straight, his expression composed but for the faint tightening at his jaw. Only in his eyes did the storm betray itself; fear, sharp and sudden, mingling with grief until both threatened to break the careful restraint that bound him.

Legolas inclined his head to Lathwen, his tone as even as he could shape it despite the roil within. “My lady, I thank you for your words.”

She dipped her head with solemn grace, though as he turned away, the faintest smile curved her lips—a smile hidden swiftly in the folds of her hand, the smile of one who knew she had loosed the first thread of her design.

He did not linger. His steps carried him swiftly through the stone-hewn passages, the echoes of lament still clinging to his ears. The weight of grief pressed on him, sharpened now by a keener dread—Caleth, Thalion, Elrohir. The thought of them walking unwittingly into the maw of the South set his heart hammering.

The council chamber’s doors stood open, torchlight spilling across the hall. Within, voices murmured low but insistent. He stepped just close enough to see.

Thranduil sat at the head of the long, carved table, his bearing tall and unyielding. To his right, Glorfindel leaned forward, golden head bowed as he spoke with quiet force. Across from him, Erestor’s dark gaze was intent, his long fingers tracing some note upon the parchment before him. Galion stood at Thranduil’s shoulder, his expression carved in worry, while Feren and Lindariel held their places at the table’s flank, their postures taut, their eyes clouded with unease.

Legolas slowed, unseen for the moment at the doorway. The chamber was thick with tension; though the words were too low for him to catch, the air itself seemed strained, as if shadow had spilled into the very council.

Then, Thranduil’s eyes lifted and found him.

For a heartbeat, silence fell. The King’s gaze hardened, though no anger lit it, only command, cold and immovable. His voice cut across the room, firm enough to still every other tongue.

“Leave us.”

The words were directed not at the council but at his son. His tone carried no rise, no falter, only the clear finality of one accustomed to obedience. “This is not for your ears, Legolas. Go.”

The weight of it struck like a gate barred before him. Thranduil’s face was composed, but beneath the smoothness Legolas knew well the warning.

“Adar—” Legolas began, his voice low but steady. “I have only one question.” He stepped nearer, the words pressed sharp at the back of his tongue. “Arphenion’s patrol—”

But Thranduil’s hand lifted, silencing him before the thought could form. “Not now.” The dismissal was quiet but absolute. “There will be time for questions later. You are dismissed.”

The finality cut deeper than any rebuke. Thranduil’s gaze had already shifted back to his council, as though his son’s voice had been no more than a shadow at the door. It was not anger that drove him, but focus honed to steel, the burden of king and father colliding in silence he would not show.

Legolas bowed his head, though his jaw tightened, every muscle taut. Frustration burned in him, sharp as a blade; ever was he dismissed, turned from the truth as though he were a child hovering where he did not belong. His father’s ban had barred him from the patrols; now it barred him even from knowledge, as though his heart were too fragile to bear it.

He inclined his head with all the quiet grace he could summon. “As you command, my king.”

Then he turned, withdrawing step by step from the chamber’s glow into the shadowed corridor beyond, his heart heavy with the knowledge that silence, too, could wound.

The corridors of the halls were hushed, the torches burning low along the carved stone. Legolas moved through them swiftly, his steps muted on the worn flagstones, but the fire in his chest did not abate. It drove him onward, though he had no destination save escape from the sting of his father’s dismissal.

Yet when he turned a corner, he came to a standstill. The long passage opened into a vaulted alcove, its walls hung with woven histories—tapestries rich with Greenwood’s line, their colors dimmed by years but still bright with the weight of memory. His gaze caught upon one in particular, and his breath faltered.

Oropher. His grandfather stood there in thread and dye, proud and tall, hair pale as winter light, his hand lifted in command to a host arrayed behind him. His eyes—rendered in that woven likeness with all the defiance and fierce devotion that had led his people eastward—seemed to fix upon Legolas as though they had awaited him all along.

Legolas moved closer, drawn by a gravity older than himself. For a time, he only stood, shoulders taut, throat tight, until the words broke from him in a whisper.

“Daeradar, I do not know what to do.” His voice cracked but did not falter. “My heart calls me south. It will not be still. Elladan lies stricken by shadow’s venom, fighting yet for breath. I will not stand idle while Elrohir, Caleth, and Thalion march into that same darkness. To lose them as well…” His jaw clenched, grief shadowing his fair features. “I could not bear it. I will not.”

The words caught, breaking sharper as his throat closed. “And Elrohir—” His breath shook, the name itself a wound. “Already my spirit cleaves to his; I cannot imagine the world without him in it. To lose him now, just when we have found each other—” His hand pressed briefly to his chest as though to hold himself together. “It would tear me asunder. I would not endure.”

His hand lifted, brushing the tapestry’s coarse edge, as though the ancient threads might lend him strength. “And yet, my father has forbidden me. Never have I gone against his word. To defy him is to break the bond I have kept all my life, the bond of son to sire, of prince to king. How can I betray him so? How can I turn from the will that has ever guided me?”

He bowed his head, pale hair falling across his cheek, his voice raw with anguish. “But if obedience means watching shadow devour those I love, am I not betraying them instead? Tell me, Daeradar, what would you have me do? To honor my father’s command, or to shield the ones close to my heart with my own life?”

The silence of the hall pressed in, broken only by the hiss of the torches. Yet, Legolas lingered there, the weight of Oropher’s gaze upon him, torn between the iron of his father’s will and the relentless cry of his own heart.

Legolas lingered one breath longer beneath his grandfather’s woven gaze, then drew back, his hand falling from the tapestry. The silence gave him no answer, but his heart thundered with its own. He could not wait upon command, nor plead for leave that would never be given. Elladan already lay stricken, shadow gnawing at his life. And Elrohir—Elrohir marched now into that same peril, each step carrying him closer to a doom Legolas could not watch.

His father’s word pressed against him, cold and unyielding, as heavy as iron chains. Never once had he broken it. Not as a child, nor as a prince, nor as a warrior. That bond had bound his life as surely as blood. To sever it now was to strike at the very root of who he was. The thought burned him, bitter as betrayal.

Yet another thought burned hotter still—the image of Elrohir falling, pale and still, laughter stolen, love sundered. The ache of it pierced deeper than duty, deeper than fear. He bowed his head, a sharp breath tearing from his chest.

“Forgive me, Adar,” he whispered to the stone and the silence. “I cannot do nothing. Not while shadow hunts the ones I love. If it must be disobedience, then let it fall on me, not on them.”

He turned sharply, his stride swift down the long corridor, his cloak whispering behind him like wings of shadow. He went straight to his chamber, the place that had always been his refuge. There he moved with swift, near-silent purpose, gathering bow and quiver, a change of raiment, a satchel light enough for speed. His hands shook once as he touched the familiar things, and the tremor was not from haste but from the sharp cut of what he knew he must do. He packed quickly, each movement a wound and a vow alike, as though the weight of every strap and clasp pressed the truth more firmly into him.

And so Legolas made his choice. While their eyes were fixed on strategy and doom, he would slip unseen through the hidden ways of his own home and out to the forest’s edge. He would run south, heart heavy with grief yet fierce with resolve.

Each step tore at him, as though some part of him splintered beneath the weight of what he betrayed. Never had he stood against his father’s word; never had he placed his will before Thranduil’s command. Yet now, love demanded it of him, fierce and unrelenting. His love, his oath, his very soul demanded it.

Moonlight silvered the stones as Legolas slipped into the night. He moved as a shadow among shadows, his steps soundless, his cloak drawn close. He did not take the stables, nor summon a steed that might betray him; instead, he chose the paths he had known since childhood, narrow ways carved through rock and root, the secret trails he had once raced with bare feet when the world was simpler. Now those same passages carried him toward defiance, his breath low and steady, his heart a storm beneath the stillness.

Behind him, far from the silence of his departure, laughter stirred in the hidden chambers of the halls. Lathwen’s voice rose soft as velvet, her goblet raised high. Across from her, Anghiril’s silver cup clashed against hers with a bright, cruel chime. Their eyes gleamed as wine spilled red along the rim, and they drank deeply, savoring the turn of events they had set in motion.

Unknowingly, Legolas pressed onward beneath the boughs, the moon a cold witness above. The forest lay hushed, its silence vast, as though it too held its breath. Each step carried him closer to the South, where shadow thickened and the web of fate grew taut. There, choices once made could not be unmade, and the cost of love would be written in blood.

For even now, the dark lay patient, biding its hour. When it came, its stroke would not fall upon him alone, but reach further, leaving a scar unseen yet perilous, one that no herb nor light could easily unmake.

Chapter Text

The night had passed without rest. The torches in the council chamber had guttered low, burned to stubs, and still Thranduil had not left his seat. Glorfindel’s golden head had bowed at last in thought, Erestor’s ink had bled into weary notes, and Lindariel’s calm voice had cut through hours of debate, steadying Feren’s sharper tones and Galion’s careful counsel. 

They had spoken of the South, of the festering shadow spreading further with each season, of how Greenwood might rally its strength against it, of whether Elladan’s wound marked a darker craft at work than Orc alone. Again, Glorfindel and Erestor pressed Elrond’s summons, his plea that the realms join in council, a White Council that might stand against what even now gathered in Dol Guldur’s depths. Still, Thranduil had not bent, his silence as firm as his crownless brow.

When at last he dismissed them, dawn’s pallor had already begun to bleed through the high windows, painting the carved stone with a chill light. Thranduil rose with unhurried grace, though his limbs bore the weight of sleepless hours and thought upon thought knotted within him. His stride carried him through the hushed corridors toward his private chambers, where fresh water and silence waited.

Yet, as he neared the familiar hall, his steps slowed. Next to his own door, the carved lintel of another chamber loomed. The polished wood stood quiet, unmarked, but the sight of it held him still.

For a long breath, he did not move. His hand, pale against the fall of his robe, curled faintly as though some instinct might have raised it to knock. But he did not. He lingered instead, the weight of last night’s dismissal pressing sharper now that silence lay between them. He saw again his son’s face as it had been—composed, yet shadowed by hurt; the faint tightening of his jaw, the frustration in his eyes when Thranduil had silenced him as though he were yet a child. It was a look that returned to him now, unwanted and unshakable, stirring something close to regret beneath the iron of his resolve.

At last, Thranduil let the silence break. His hand rose, knuckles rapping softly against the polished wood.

“Legolas,” he called, his voice even, carrying neither command nor rebuke, only the weight of habit. He waited, listening for the light step that so often came belatedly, the faint stir of movement within.

The seconds lengthened, still and unbroken. He tried again, lower this time. “Legolas.”

No answer came. The hush of the hall pressed close.

He lingered, hand resting against the door, the carved grain cool beneath his palm. His mouth set in a faint line that softened almost imperceptibly. Legolas had ever been slow to wake, his rest deep as the roots of Greenwood itself. It was one of his few indulgences, and only a handful knew it. To most, the Prince was tireless, ever alert, ever graceful, the swiftest to rise and the last to fade. But Thranduil knew better. He could picture it now as he had seen it countless times: his son tangled in sleep, hair in golden disarray, strands plastered across his cheek with the stubbornness of dreams, lashes heavy with slumber, lips parted in breaths soft and even. In those rare, unguarded hours, the Prince of Greenwood was simply a boy still, beloved and untroubled, sheltered in the quiet of his chamber.

A faint breath escaped Thranduil, sharper than he meant, and his hand pressed the latch at last. He eased the door open, stepping into the chamber beyond.

The door yielded with a muted groan, and Thranduil stepped into the chamber. At once, something struck him wrong. The air was still, untouched by the warmth of slumber. The bed lay smooth, linens uncreased, as if no body had sought rest there through the long night.

His gaze swept the room, sharp though weary, and found small disarray where there should have been order. A drawer left ajar. A tunic cast aside in haste. The faint emptiness of the stand where a quiver usually rested, the shelf where familiar trinkets had stood. It was not the chaos of neglect but the deliberate scattering of one who had taken what they needed and gone swiftly.

He crossed further in, his long stride carrying him to the great arched window that overlooked the forest canopy. There, upon the sill and branches close by, a cluster of small birds lingered. Their feathers caught the morning light in glimmers of green and brown, their bright eyes turning restlessly toward the chamber within.

They were the very creatures Legolas had ever called to him, the little companions that would flock to his hand for seed or song. Now, they perched in silence, as though waiting still for the one who had not come. Their presence stilled Thranduil’s breath, for it seemed they kept vigil in his stead, bearing witness to the absence that struck colder than any empty bed.

For a long while, Thranduil stood unmoving. A shadow of unease tightened in his chest, though he pressed it down with the iron of long habit.

Memory returned, keen as a blade—Legolas at the council doors, his voice low, the plea upon his lips before Thranduil cut it short. Arphenion’s patrol. He had silenced him, unwilling to be swayed, and his son had bowed with quiet grace, as he always had.

Never once had Legolas set his will against him. From childhood, the boy had obeyed without faltering. When told to hold to the inner courts while others marched, when commanded to bend to the loremasters instead of the sword, when later ordered to bide his time in lesser patrols before proving himself in greater. Even in moments of fire, when passion lit his eyes, his son’s pride had been tempered by deference. Obedience had shaped him, not out of fear, but out of loyalty. It was the bond that bound them: prince to king and son to father. Surely not now, not after all these years, would he break it.

Thranduil drew a breath, forcing steadiness where doubt pressed. The bed might be empty, his things hurriedly disturbed, but there was reason enough. Legolas’s heart would have led him to Elladan’s side, to share the vigil with Arwen through the long and bitter night. Compassion, not disobedience, explained his absence. His son was dutiful and steadfast. Always had been.

He let his gaze linger one last moment upon the window, upon the waiting birds, then turned sharply. His robes whispered against stone as he left the chamber, his stride long and purposeful. He would go to the healing halls. There he would find his son, as he must, keeping vigil as he had ever kept faith.

Thranduil’s pace quickened, the long folds of his robes whispering against stone. Guards straightened as he passed, their spears striking the floor in salute; servants dipped low, voices offering soft greetings. He did not answer, not so much as a glance. His eyes were set ahead, his countenance serene, but within, his thoughts raced like a torrent beneath ice.

Every step toward the healing chambers struck with doubled weight, dread, and hope knotted together. He told himself he would find Legolas there, as he must. Yet, the image of the undisturbed bed lingered in his mind, sharp as a thorn, and the sight of those waiting birds pressed like a question he dared not name.

Still, he strode on, the vaulted corridors echoing with the steady rhythm of his boots, his heart beating faster with every turn that drew him nearer to the halls of healing.

The doors to the healing chambers parted at his approach, and at once the air shifted, sharp with the mingled fragrance of herbs, steam, and the faint, bitter tang of blood newly washed away. Lanterns burned low, their golden glow softened against polished stone, spilling gently over the still figure upon the bed.

Elladan lay upon clean linens, his chest rising and falling in the fragile rhythm of healing sleep. Fever lingered in the faint flush of his skin, yet his face was eased now, the cruel strain softened, his breath steadier beneath the balm of athelas and the skill of Greenwood’s healers.

At his side sat Arwen, her dark hair unbound, falling forward as she bent over her brother. She hummed softly, a low, lilting thread of song woven more of comfort than craft, her hands moving gently as she smoothed and plaited Elladan’s hair back from his damp brow. Her touch was tender, each careful braid an anchor to memory and love, keeping him tethered to her in the silent hours of vigil.

At the sound of the King’s step, she lifted her head. Weariness shadowed her fair face, pale from long hours of watchfulness, yet her gaze was steady. She inclined her head, voice low with composed apology. “My lord, forgive me that I did not give you greeting last night upon my arrival. My care was with Elladan, and I thought only of him.”

Thranduil came nearer, his eyes sweeping once over the bed, taking in the shallow but steady rise of Elladan’s chest, then resting briefly upon Arwen. “No apology is needed,” he said, his tone even yet touched with quiet grace. “Your place is with him.”

For a moment, he lingered, his gaze on Elladan’s slackened features, pale still but eased from torment. Then his voice came, quiet but deliberate. “Tell me, has my son been here?”

Arwen’s brows drew faintly, surprise flickering in her eyes. “He was,” she said. “He came with us and stayed for a time, though sorrow weighed on him. But he left before dawn, saying only that he would go to speak with you.”

Thranduil stilled. His face remained composed, regal in its calm, but within him something shifted, sharp and cold. The words struck through him like the first crack of ice across a river.

His countenance betrayed nothing, only the faint narrowing of his eyes, the stillness of his frame, as though he had turned to stone. Yet within, his heart beat hard against the gathering dark.

“I see,” he said at last, his voice level, though the words tasted of iron on his tongue.

Arwen studied him in the hush that followed, her fingers still resting lightly upon her brother’s hair. A furrow touched her brow, and her voice came soft, hesitant. “What is it, my lord? Has something passed?”

Thranduil’s gaze did not waver from Elladan’s face, though the shadow pressed hard beneath his breast. When he spoke, his tone was smooth, unbroken, as though the weight upon him had never stirred. “It is nothing that need trouble you, daughter of Elrond. Only see that word is brought to me once your brother is strong enough to speak. I would have him called before me.” His voice dipped, quiet but resolute. “He saved my son’s life. I mean to see that service honored.”

Arwen’s lips curved faintly, though her eyes shone with unshed tears. She lowered her gaze to Elladan, brushing her thumb gently over the back of his hand. “Elladan will not ask for reward,” she said, her voice threaded with fond certainty. “Not for this. He would count it no sacrifice at all.”

Thranduil inclined his head slightly, though his eyes lingered on the wounded son of Elrond with the cool weight of a king’s regard. “Whether he asks it or not,” he said, the steel of command veiled in calm, “he will have it.”

For a heartbeat, silence gathered again, broken only by the steady hiss of Elladan’s breathing. Thranduil stood unmoving, carved in pale stillness, yet within him the dread coiled tighter, a storm he would not show. Then he turned, his robe whispering faintly as he made for the door, his face the same mask of composure he had always worn.

Thranduil’s steps carried him swiftly through the stone-hewn corridors and out toward the sunlit courts, his stride long, his robe trailing like a shadow in his wake. His heart pressed tight in his chest, his thoughts wound taut, fixed on one hope alone—that he would find his son among the stables, as he had so often in younger days, seeking solace in the quiet steadiness of a horse’s breath.

But before he reached the arching doors, a familiar voice rose from the colonnade.

“My lord.”