Archive of Our Own ^beta

You had never regretted not learning Elvish more in your life. Well, that wasn’t strictly true, you could think of a few other times it’d been worse, but this had to be up there. As an elf, people always expected you would know your mother-tongue, but you’d been brought up by humans and never learnt it for most of your life. And even when you moved to Rivendell, you still hadn’t learnt it - even though you’d been able to.

Technically you could understand a few words, those being; gresta (help), dagor (battle), baura (need, or require), mann (food), and pen-channas (stupid, or idiot). To be honest, that last word was probably the reason most elves thought you could understand Elvish, as you used it fairly frequently in your vocabulary, and it was one of the first things you’d said to Legolas.

When you had said that to him, he looked at you with these slightly hurt eyes, then realised you were joking, and said something back in elvish (fôf you were pretty sure), and you had simply rolled your eyes in response. Looking back at that moment, you really should have informed him you didn’t know Elvish, but oh well - he thought you did, and you were way too prideful to admit anything otherwise.

Besides, although Legolas (and very infrequently Aragorn) spoke to you in Elvish, whenever it was something important they’d speak in Common tongue, as to make sure the hobbits understood too.

But to the point. You were regretting never telling Legolas you didn’t speak Elvish, because he’d started talking in it to you. Quite a lot. Never full conversations, mainly just phrases sprinkled in - but you had no idea what it meant. And you desperately wanted to find out.

Afterall, at one point - you and Legolas had been on watch together, him peering into the trees that weren’t illuminated by the fire, and you leaning up against him and looking at the stars. You felt him shift slightly, and leaned back off him, realising he was looking at you.

“Sorry, should’ve… asked permission, I know.”

There was a soft spoken smile in his voice when he spoke back, “Oh, don’t worry about it. I don’t mind it at all mellon . I was simply curious as to what you were doing.”

“I was,” you hesitated, not wanting to reveal you were slacking off, “Observing our immediate upward surroundings, to make sure a… bird, doesn’t attack us.” At the end of your speech, it honestly sounded more like a question than a statement, and Legolas let out a soft laugh accordingly.

“It is ok, I think the stars are very beautiful too,” he looked up, then back down at you, hesitating for a second, “They are pretty, meleth nîn .” 

There had been a pause after he’d said that, and you made eye contact for a brief moment. He seemed to be searching for something, but you weren’t sure what. And it didn’t matter if you had a brief thought it might be a love confession (and you liked him back-) you were not misreading signs and acting on unrequited love. So you had simply smiled, and then awkwardly shuffled up into a watching position, staying silent.

That incident had been two nights ago, and things had stayed awkward between the two of you. You had tried to approach him, going out to scout together, but he’d been reserved, and excused himself. All conversation was about what had just happened, and if you all had food. The only other thing you’d gotten out of him was a quiet muttering (that you weren’t sure if you should’ve heard), “ Im crumguru”

And being the Elvish genius you were, you had zero clue what that meant. But you could tell you’d done something wrong, you’d hurt Legolas. And that thought weighed you down, made even the supposedly limitless elf energy drain from you, being replaced by guilt.

Eventually you stopped walking for the day and set up camp, but despite all your companions around you, you still felt suffocated. Glancing up, you saw Aragorn and Legolas in hushed conversation, and conversation in Elvish for that matter. As you looked closer, although trying not to seem like you were staring, you saw a hint of sadness in Legolas’s eyes, before he turned away to Aragorn, who actually sent a brief look your way.

Frodo, bless his soul, saw your discomfort and gently sat down next to you, saying nothing but sitting in companionable silence. Before eventually something broke it, it was Sam, piping up, “Is anyone available to go get firewood, I want to start cookin’ before it gets too late.”

“I will.”

The exclamation went at the same time, from both you and Legolas. But before either of you could back out, Sam clasped his hands together, smiling, “Two is better than one I suppose, be back soon.” Stretching, the two of you got up - with you not missing the look that Legolas gave Aragorn. “Just be getting firewood, mind,” Gimli calls out, right as you begin to leave.

Normally, that would’ve elicited a dark blush from you (and sometimes a lighter one from Legolas), but tonight it just made your heart ache slightly. Normally, you made a light hearted reply at him, maybe nudge Legolas a bit, but this time you stayed silent. Instead Legolas responded, “Do not worry Gimli, it will just be collecting firewood.”

If it could, your heart would’ve sunk further into your chest, and you hurried along towards some of the trees, blindly stopping to see if any broken branches were lying about. You needed to apologise to him, or tell him the truth about why you’d responded the way you did. But instead you chose the cowards way, silently gathering fallen timber for a fire.

A few times, you could feel his blue eyes on you, not invasive, and more curious if anything - but you didn’t address or turn round and face them. It had only been a few minutes, and you’d gathered much more timber than you usually would with him, when you turned around, blurting out, “I think we have enough - do you want to head back?”

Great, that wasn’t at all what you wanted to say to him. But screw apologies, you know, why have them when you can ask your c̶r̶u̶s̶h̶ - Legolas, about how much wood he’d collected. “Wait, Legolas, I meant to-”

“Yes, I think we have plenty between us,” he cut across, his voice quiet but instantly making you silent. For a second your throat hurt, and you swallowed hard, turning sharply and your heel and beginning to make your way back to Frodo and the others, clutching the bundle of logs painfully tightly.

As you hurried back, you could hear Legolas say something, but you cut him off, dropping the logs in front of everyone, “We’re back. Is this enough?” As you interrupted what small chatter had been ongoing, you saw as they looked in confusion to only you, before they saw Legolas appear a bit away, also holding quite a few logs.

Dinner was quiet, to you and Legolas at least, as you both sat alone and off to the side, only speaking to mutter a quiet thanks as soup was served around. At one point, everyone had finished eating and was settling down.  The matter of who would watch went on, and you volunteered, knowing you probably wouldn't be able to sleep.

There was a brief moment of silence as people waited for Legolas to volunteer, you two always did watches or scouts together, but when he remained silent Aragorn stepped up, volunteering with a brief hand up, and an almost chiding look at Legolas.

Everyone had settled down, as much as they could at least, and began to sleep.The first thirty minutes went by silently, with Aragorn giving you concerned glances every now and then. And the guilt was awful, consuming even. Every now and then your eyes would flicker to where Legolas was sleeping, and then to your bedroll - as far away as was possible. This wasn’t right. And, you’d never admitted this before, but it wasn’t right because you loved him.

Then, just as the hour mark approached, and you could see Aragorn beginning to speak, you blurted out, “I can’t speak Elvish.”

Simply silence, and genuine surprise on Aragorn’s features. You continued, “I know, I’m an elf - I should be able to. But I just never learnt, I know about five words - and one of them I called Legolas when I first met, so I think he thinks I can speak Elvish. But I really can’t, and I need you to translate for me.”

There was a chuckle, and a slow whistle from Aragorn, “That… was not what I was expecting. But of course, what do you need me to translate? And why?”

Without you thinking, blush began to spread around your face, and when you tried to whisper it out you couldn’t. There was something intimate, in that moment in the woods, and something that you almost didn’t want to share with Aragorn. Until, “Well, first… he called me mellon , but not like the fruit, I hope… it, sounded Elvish.”

“I imagine he meant the Elvish translation too,” Aragorn smiled, “And it means friend. But you said that was the first one?” There was a more reserved element to his prying, and you were grateful for that. And you were getting mixed messages. You had thought that night was romantic, but what if it hadn't been. What if he didn’t view you the same way?

But still, friendly or not, you felt a reluctance to share the second word, and Aragorn gave an understanding, yet knowing, smile. “You don’t have to tell me by any means, but if you want a full scale on the situation, you need to ask him.”

You nodded, looking over to near where Legolas was still sleeping. “I’ll ask him tonight,” you resolved, sitting up a little straighter, and looking at the stars. 

Aragorn had gotten up by this point, rolling his shoulders back, “I may wake him now, and you can talk. And if you need any Elvish translations, please ask me,” there was a sudden sense of butterflies in your stomach, and constriction in your throat, so you just nodded.

There was just a short walk to where Legolas was lying, and Aragon picked up a stick on the way. With a slight grin, he gently tapped the sleeping body of the elf. No movement. Then he tried again, no movement. But the third time a hand shot out, grabbing it before taking a blind shot, and Legolas sat up, reaching for a bow.

Scowling, he looked around the starlight then at Aragorn, “I assume I’m taking over the watch?” He asked, a little stiffly, while getting out of the simple bedroll and putting on his quiver, bow grasped loosely in his hand.

Aragorn nodded, with a slight grin, before moving slightly out of the circle to sleep, like he always did. Wordlessly, Legolas completely stood up, silently moving to the opposite side of the fire and staring into it, face lit strangely by the dancing flames.

This was simple, this would be easy. You had just told Aragorn it after all, so really there should be nothing stopping you from saying the same to him. But your throat was constricting, and you could feel the smoke sting in your eyes a little bit more.

Instead of words, a small choked sound came out of your mouth, as though you were being strangled or a dying animal. Instantly you saw Legolas look up, eyes showing concern as you tried to speak. Before hardening again, as though he could decide. Then he began to look away, when you managed to speak up.

“I can’t speak Elvish.”

There was shock in his face, you could tell. Shock and confusion, as he stared at you, mind working to absorb the information so late at night. Before a quiet, timid almost, “So you could not understand me, when I was talking to you in the forest?”

You shook your head, another almost choking sob sounded out in your throat, “I know five words, the most useful one is food.”

Something was filling his eyes, you could see. Something like relief, and possibly something more… but you couldn’t tell. And you didn’t want to make assumptions. There was a few seconds of silence between the two of you, before he stood up suddenly, and moved over to you. Not touching, but closer than you’d been in days.

“What… what did you call me? On that night,” you asked eventually, tearing your eyes away from the fire and into his.

“I- I’m not sure how you’d respond to it now,” he managed to get out stiffly, eyes not yet leaving yours.

“Legolas, the only reason I didn’t react is because I didn’t understand you, I promise. I was just uncertain about what you’d said, and I didn’t want to ruin our friendship.”

Legolas stared back at you, almost warring emotions in his eyes, and almost subconsciously his hands went out, wrapping gently around yours. You could see him try to speak, when he gulped, nervous one - still looking, but with a hint of fear.

“I called you my love,” he whispered, almost as though he was afraid, “In the forest. Meleth nîn means my love, and I said it because…” At that his voice trailed off, and you grasped onto his hands to stop them slipping out from yours.

“As… as in partners?” You asked, gripping onto his hands again when you could feel them slipping away.

“Yes, meleth nîn , as in… I love you.”

Pippin hadn’t joined the Fellowship for love, or for renown and glory - he’d joined for Frodo, and to help protect his friend. And it was going to stay that way, until the very end. Although he would be lying if he said that was the only reason he was trying so hard. It wasn’t a big deal, or something incredibly major. He just happened to have… an incredibly large crush on you. A rather reasonable amount of crush and intrigue - in Pippin’s opinion - but not to everyone else.

Merry had been pretty understanding, and then made fun of Pippin tremendously. In fact, he’d been rather annoyed at not seeing it before - anyone who looked at the two of you for more than five minutes could tell that there was something going on between you two. The young hobbit looked at you like you’d created the stars, with a shine in his eyes that tracked your every move and only brightened further when you smiled or looked in his direction. He’d shuffle lightly closer, eagerly listening to every word you said; he was completely enthralled by you.

Eventually, Pippin decided he needed to do something as a romantic gesture for you that wasn’t just pining while admiring your presence. His first idea was when you were in Rivendell together, sitting in one of its many meadows - and he decided to make flower crowns. Looking at the flowers in the field, he decided on a pattern of three daisies and one small, red flower. The daisies had come together quickly, and he reached for the red flower before immediately letting out a hiss of pain.

Looking at it closely, he notices all the little thorns on its stem - some of which were sticking into him. At the outcry of pain you immediately look over, taking his hand. “Are you ok, Pip?”

“Dandy!” Not feeling much pain, he holds up his finger to show you - only then realising some of the thorns are still embedded in it, and there are a few tiny bits of blood. “Oh. Well, it doesn’t really hurt - if that’s what you're concerned about.”

“Still.” Gently, you take his hand and brush the rest of the thorns off - and he winces when you get a few droplets of blood onto your clothes. He apologises as much as he can for them, but you assure him that it’s truly no big deal and you can simply wash them out later; it’s more important he’s not hurt.

Later, as Pippin thinks back to the feeling of your hand on his, he knows he’s blushing slightly. It was the first time the two of you had actually held hands, and of course he had to ruin the intimate moment by having it be while he was injured. He tries not to let that, or the fact his flower crowns were a failure, bother him - and he’s touched when you teasingly ask about his finger the next day. (His plan to clean your robes for you also fails after he finds out some of the Rivendell elves have already done that).

Deciding that what he’s doing isn’t exactly working, he instead decides to outsource his ideas - by going to the library and hoping they have books on that sort of thing. It’s fairly obvious as to where the library is, and to his pleasant surprise he can actually read a lot of the books in there, even if they don’t look as good as the elvish ones. He picks out a small, pocket-sized book on elvish courting before looking around for something more substantial - and perhaps something more detailed, that could properly give him ideas.

To his surprise, tucked away on a high shelf is ‘A young, respectable hobbits guide to courtship - etiquette and ideas’. It’s probably the best book he’ll be able to get, and he immediately goes for it before cursing elves for their ridiculous height. He’s not quite confident enough to ask the elf who's in there with him for help on picking up the book, so instead he decides to simply grab a chair and use it as a stepping stool for him. It works well, and he’s on level with the books so tries to reach out and pull it.

The book is more stuck than he expects, and when Pippin finally tugs it out he pulls more than he should. The momentum continues with him, pushing backwards and tipping him off the chair. There’s a brief moment as he wonders if this is how he’ll die, before he’s even left Rivendell, before his fall is cushioned by something soft and there’s a gasp of pain from behind him.

Immediately, he realises he’s fallen onto someone and scrambles to get off, pushing himself onto the floor before turning around. Next to him, he sees you - sitting there and taking a few deep breaths to get the air back into your lungs. Noticing your eye contact, you smile at him. “You okay?”

“Yes - of course. Are you?” He goes over immediately, trying to assess the damages while offering you a hand up, “I’m so sorry, I really didn’t mean for you to get hurt. I mean, I didn’t exactly mean to fall over at all - not a huge fan of bodily harm - but I especially didn’t mean to go into you. I’d have fallen differently if I knew you were behind me, I think-”

“Pippin.” You interrupt, softly but firmly, “Are you hurt?”

“Oh no.” He gestures to himself, “You truly did save me.”

“Glad to be of service.” You laugh, and he immediately lightens up again. “What were you trying to get?”

Picking up the book, he sees your eyes gaze over it and read the title before looking back to him. He might only be seeing things, but he swears you don’t look quite as happy as you did a second ago. Before he can ask you, you hand the book back to him, brushing the dust off its cover. “So, you’ve got a love waiting in the Shire for you?”

“Well, no. I mean, not exactly. I mean-”

“I’m not going to judge you if you have, Pippin.” You put on a small smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “Good luck with your love, Pip. I’m sure they’re honoured to have you.”

Pippin knows he should say something, reassure you that the only person he has his eyes on - he has his heart set on - is standing right in front of him, but for some reason he freezes. He awkwardly gives a nod, and then stands there and watches you leave while internally berating himself. Not only has he now missed yet another opportunity to confess, he’s now almost confirmed he’s in love with an entirely fake hobbit instead of you. After eating supper, he’s sitting next to Merry and complaining again.

“And now they think I’m in love with some hobbit from the Shire, Merry!”

“I know, Pippin.”

“But I’m not - I’m in love with them.”

“I know, Pippin. It’s very obvious.” Taking a deep breath, Merry turns to face his friend. “Is there anything else you could try, some of their interests perhaps?”

“They play an instrument, they’re very good at it, I heard them-”

“Maybe you could try and play that, see if the elves have spare instruments around. They seem the sort.”

“You, my friend, are incredible.” Getting up, Pippin thinks about running straight to the music room before deciding to try tomorrow, rather than almost at midnight. He can hardly get to sleep, instead thinking back to the songs he’s heard you play and trying to hum them to himself - getting a likeness but never quite getting to your quality. He goes to sleep with your music in his mind, and wakes up thinking about it as well, trying to remember how you had played it.

Following where he normally hears music, he checks with an elf that he can use instruments there and they assure him he can. Sitting inside the room, Pippin can’t help but reflect that it's not half as magic without you - or at least without the music. Practising, Pippin hums the opening lines to your song again before trying to play the instrument, or at least learning what sounds are made and how.

He gets as far as the first two notes when he feels eyes on him, looking up to see you watching. He can feel himself blush in embarrassment, too busy looking away from you to notice the blush on your cheeks. “I was just practising. You sound so beautiful, I wanted to see if I could as well.”

“That was played just by ear? You have musical talent.” Walking over, you sit next to him, guiding his fingers into the position they need to be. “Try like this.”

It takes ten minutes of the two of you sitting together, you showing him the positions and where he needs to go, before Pippin is able to play the first bar. As he finishes you clap, grinning at him while he looks proud of himself. “It’s still not half as good as yours.”

“And I’ve practised much more than double the time you have.” You respond, “Do you want to try again?”

“Actually, I was hoping I could hear your music again.” Pippin can feel the blush coming back, but when he holds it out to you he’s still smiling.

“Hmm, can you play any other instruments?” You look around, “We could play something together.”

“Oh, no. The only musicality I have is singing inside of taverns, nothing suitable for you and Rivendell.”

“Who cares?” You position the instrument, ready to start playing. “This is about us and the music, not the setting. You can sing and I’ll play.”

Taking a deep breath, Pippin nods and tries to think back to all the songs he’s learnt - and any songs that would be fit for you. His mind instinctively goes to what he’s heard Mr. Bilbo sing in Elvish, although he doesn’t fully trust himself not to mess up the words. His mind is almost completely blank, save for one of the hobbits traditional love songs. He looks back to you, waiting for him, takes a deep breath and begins to sing.

You’re immediately entranced, the singing is perfect - filling the room and finding the exact correct pitch, echoing softly and melodiously. You spend so long admiring it you forget to play, suddenly remembering and quickly putting a musical score under his voice. As the song continues, you finally allow yourself to really listen to the music and to realise what the song is about.

Pippin is singing a love confession, directly to you as he’s staring into your eyes. The both of you know exactly when you realise what’s going on, and he almost stops singing in relief when you blush and smile at him. His voice wavers on the next line, but you nod for him to go - staring at each other until he’s finished and waiting for you.

You take a deep breath this time, looking into his eyes before clearly giving an answer. “Yes. I love you too.”

Looking at yourself in the mirror, you try not to wince as you eagerly let the fabric fall back down over you. You don't look like you've been a member of the Fellowship, like you've fought Sauron's forces directly, you look like you've sat around and done nothing. Even after days of running and taking part in battles, your stomach doesn't lie flat - let alone have defined muscles. And the parts of your body that are more curved don't have that extra weight in muscle.

Even the bits that are more elven, more lithe and made of muscle, are still marred. This time by scars, a few raised and rough but most simply discoloured. All are eyesores, drawing attention immediately to the imperfections on your skin. It's even more obvious when you stand next to Legolas, his skin glowing and youthful. Even from centuries with a bow, his fingers remain uncalloused and smooth like silk. He doesn't seem to mind the contrast when he holds your hand. The silkiness against the craters on your skin. He also doesn't seem to mind the stares you two get when you're together. When he's close to you, and you're so obviously in love.

There are two types of stares you notice when people see you two like that. The first starts off fawning and admiring, and then you enter their gaze as well as Legolas. Then the positivity changes to more of a sneer, looking at the flawed shape of you compared to his perfection. The second type of stare is confusion, when their eyes flicker back and forth between the two of you as they wonder how you managed to convince him to like you.

It's even worse when you and Legolas go to the more formal dinners, when folks have to be polite with their words - so show even more disdain with their actions. The ones who know of Legolas's social status are even worse; how could someone of his noble lineage marry a commoner? It's one of these dinners you're about to be forced to attend, and one of these dinners you're dreading.

A soft knock on the door breaks your eye contact with the mirror, and you step away just as Legolas enters your room. His eyes light up when he sees you, looking you up and down before smiling. "You look beautiful."

"You're only saying that because I'm dressed in your colours." You tease, trying not to let your worry - that that is the reason he said - seep into your voice. He looks gorgeous in your colours, of course, they only serve to compliment his natural colours, making him look even more gorgeous.

"Not at all." He offers you his hand, immediately holding you tightly when you put your hand in his. "I hope you will enjoy this ball, some of my kin will be here."

"Elves?"

"Yes, from as far as my home." He pauses for a second, then smiles, "From Eryn Lasgalen."

"That's great news. Do you know any yourself?" You ask, trying to put the conversation on him. He thinks for a second, before telling you of the first elleth - a captain of the guard. In the meantime, you attempt to listen while trying not to think about what elves being with you means. If humans judge you as being unworthy of an elf, how will elves judge you when they find out you are with their prince?

Eventually, you manage to listen to Legolas again - hoping you haven't missed any vital information. His stories, and genuine enthusiasm, soon manage to lift your spirits and distract you from your worries. It works so well you're able to walk into the ball, not even noticing the others as you get to your friends. Aragorn welcomes you with a smile, you can tell he's grateful when genuine friends come over, and looks at the two of you. "By Valar, with the two of you and my wife I think everyone on my council has outdressed me."

He's lying, of course, dressed in a beautiful robe of wine red and forest green that somehow does not clash on him, but the words warm your heart. Aragorn has reason to lie about your appearance, but not as much as Legolas does. You offer him a compliment as well, "Nonsense - you both look lovely tonight. If you were not King of Gondor I'm sure many would think you an elf."

"Except for the beard, of course." Aragorn points out, eyes briefly flickering to where you assume the elves are.

"Then we have found an advantage for you not to be an elf." Legolas smiles, "It suits you."

The three of you begin to talk, not quite flouncing etiquette with the time you're spending with him, but getting close. Arwen catches your eye, and you see her begin to move towards you - Legolas murmuring in your ear that he will be back soon, unless you need him. You wave him off, before offering a smile and small bow to Arwen. With a laugh that sounds like music, she returns your gestures. "There is no need to bow to me. Your actions have put your standing well beyond mine."

"And the scandal when I don't bow to the queen?" You respond, trying to keep the mood cheerful while anxiety begins to swirl in your stomach. Realistically, Arwen doesn't mean anything by it - but the dip where velvet sits on scar tissue instead of regular skin goes from unnoticeable to uncomfortable. The wound on your finger almost seems to catch on something, even though it is long healed, and you're reminded of the perception of elves. It is said that scars tell a story - does that mean your mistakes are imprinted on your body for any elf to read?

At exactly the wrong time, Legolas appears again with an elleth maiden. No - not a maiden, a captain of the guard; except you would be forgiven for mistaking her to be a noble, or a muse for some talented artist. You recognise the name when Legolas introduces her, and your mind connects her to stories he's told - stories of grave danger. Except they've made her glow while they would have made you bruise. What would have been a scar on your face is not even an imperfection on hers. Taking a deep breath, you bow before introducing yourself.

You can see recognition in her eyes before she bows back, eyes flickering from you to him as she stoops. The action only worsens your nausea, and not even the presence of your love can alleviate them. Surrounded by three elves (and a man who is so fair he may as well be one) you feel even worse, and you duck to excuse yourself from the conversation.

Lost in the ballroom, you try to judge where you should go based on the presence of people. There are very few people near the food, and you realise you've missed the window. Not that the nausea would help in keeping any food down. Instead, you gravitate to a place with a manageable amount of people - easing into making small talk with other humans. As the conversation ends, a shock greets you as your next companion appears. Another elf.

She's just as beautiful as Legolas' friend, and is wearing a tight-fitting robe of pure white. Keeping up conversation decently well, you manage to hide your nerves until Legolas suddenly appears by your shoulder, holding a plate of food. It's a mixture of proper meals and canapes, but nonetheless a gesture that warns your heart. Swallowing whatever he'd been eating, he holds the plate closer, "For you."

"Thank you." Going for whatever he's eating, you come away with only a small bite - a biscuit-type thing that's thinner than a coin with a patte that tastes like spring. Perfectly elvish food. He doesn’t need to eat as much either, yet another difference. Finishing it, you swallow and smile at him politely while somehow hoping for the elf to come back. To your surprise she does, and you take advantage of the opportunity.

Some architect in Gondor was looking out for you, and you’re soon able to slip away from the crowds. You almost bump into a few people, but you’re elegant enough to not cause too many difficulties. None of the servants running the place stop you either, although there are a few eyebrows at someone dressed in such finery being around there. In fact, you make it all the way to your room before the first ragged breath makes it way out of you - tears threatening to spill, while breathing heavily to stop them. Not that anyone could hear you in your chambers. More tears water your eyes, and you think about letting them escape when a servant knocks on your door.

“Prince Legolas has sent up food, if you would like it.” You can hear the awkwardness in the messenger's voice, “And he wishes to inform you that there is no pressure to rejoin the event. He shall be up with you soon.”

“There’s no need.” You go closer to the door, “Tell him he can be as long as he wants. And you can take the food, I’m not hungry.”

“I will inform him now.” The servant leaves, and you listen to their footprints slowly fade away until you're alone again. Which is when you feel ‘safe’ enough to begin to break down.

✧

It feels like only a second ago you were by his side, but when Legolas looks around the room he cannot see you anywhere. The plate of food he still has for the two of you feels heavy in his hand, but he keeps hold of it while scanning the ballroom and walking around it. The two of you need to eat, after all. On his second lap of the ballroom Legolas realises that you’ve left, properly, and goes to one of the servants - asking for them to deliver the food and inform you that he’ll come to you shortly, and that you should feel no pressure to attend this event.

He excuses himself as quickly as he can, citing the ball as becoming overwhelming to the few who ask and hurrying up the stairs. The turns to your shared chambers are becoming muscle memory to him, although normally the two of you make this trip together - sharing your thoughts on whatever you’d just done, or talking about nothing in particular to not focus on the stresses of the day. As he approaches your floor he realises he hears no movement, and the only sound is him opening the door.

Until Legolas keeps moving forward - and his ears begin to pick up the stifled sound of sobbing. Of your crying. It makes him hurry up, going towards you as fast as he can until he truly realises that something is seriously wrong. The steps are still quick, but not running, and his mind begins to pace through what could be happening so that he may try and comfort you.

When he sees the plate outside your door, untouched and discarded, an idea of what’s happened begins to come to him. He knows the food that he’s picked out is your favourite, and so it won’t be that that’s stopping you. Getting to the door he gently knocks on it, and hears your cries suddenly begin to halt. He can hear the constricted breaths, and rushes to reassure you, “You can cry, meleth nîn. And please, may I come in?”

There’s silence at first, and he adds to his statement. “If you truly don’t want me here you can say, but I cannot hear you cry and do nothing about it. I want to help.”

Although there’s still no verbal response from you, he can hear a slight shuffling - and there is no voice of protest. Legolas begins to open the door, just enough to slip in before letting it shut behind him. As soon as he’s in the room his eyes go to you, heart slightly breaking as he sees the red rim around your eyes - the way they are still glassy. He can see your light tremble, as you stop yourself from crying in front of him, and he instantly goes to your side. “Please, never be afraid to cry in front of me.”

Legolas begins to pull you into him, and that’s what finally breaks the dam as you feel yourself begin to sob as tears stream from your face. He still holds you close, pulling you into a warm hug - letting you hear his steady heartbeat. He doesn’t force you to stop crying, merely humming and gently tracing circles on your back. “You can let it out… I’m here… don’t worry, I’m not going to leave.”

He holds you in his arms for as long as you need, until you finally stop and begin to shuffle out of his grasp - realising you’ve wept all over his shirt. He begins to let you go, but doesn’t let you stray far. Watching and waiting for you to be ready to talk. “I’m here for you.”

“I know.” You try to give him a smile, but it comes out watery - and you can feel the puff around your eyes, the fact they must be red and horrible. Some of the thoughts must show on your face because he frowns slightly, pulling you closer again.

“You know you are beautiful, meleth nîn.” When Legolas says it to you he says it with such sincerity, gently kissing you on the forehead. “You are beautiful like this as well, and I love you like this.”

Although it makes you smile, you try to protest. “I’ve just been crying-”

“And?”

“And my eyes will be horrible and red-”

“They look perfect to me.” His interruptions are gentle, but you can tell he means them. “All this shows is emotion, emotions like sadness, or like love. If you stop your eyes from shining in happiness it will be a bad day for all.”

“I’m not crying in happiness.”

“I’d rather your eyes show all emotion than none.” He seeks out your eye contact, and now that he’s mentioned love being visible in your eyes you can see it in his. In the way they round slightly with care, but have a faint shine in them that gets larger as you begin to smile - a shine you can only interpret as love. It is steady, and ever present, but seems especially obvious now.

“I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.”

“When all my imperfections disappear?” You try to put on a teasing tone, but it falls slightly flat.

“Imperfections?” His head tilts in genuine confusion, eyes searching your body but never landing on a specific place, almost as if he cannot find them. “If even elven eyes cannot see them, I begin to doubt they are there.”

The gesture makes you laugh, but you still hold out your hand to him - palm up for him to see the callouses. When he sees them a hand instantly closes around them, his fingers joining and resting against yours in a familiar position. Simply, he says, “The callouses by which I know it is your hand I am holding? The ones that show the dedication you have, the time we’ve spent together?”

Eyes searching, he follows your gaze to the other parts that stick out to you, resting a hand there or giving it a small kiss - each time with only love in his gaze, and no disgust. Then you realise you’ve run out of places, and Legolas can look into your eyes again. “I don't think I've ever loved someone like I've loved you."

Sometime between the lovely dusky hues of sunset and the inky blackness of midnight, a chill has seeped into your bones. Even with your own cloak and your bedroll, there’s still some warmth missing. Something that’s letting ice settle into your bones. Staring up at Caradhras, you wonder if it’s the mountain's fault. You’re still a while off - but the malevolence of it can be felt even from here. And something that malevolent is also probably petty enough to send cold weather in the way of the Fellowship.

So here you are, stuck on watch duty and (perhaps) being cursed by a mountain to shiver. As a group you’ve agreed not to light a fire; stealth is paramount and the lasting marks it gives make the Fellowship too easy of a target. That decision had seemed so logical and reasonable to you only a few hours ago. Now, the reward of possibly not getting seen by enemies right now isn’t a great comfort or resolver to your issues. Still, you are only to be on watch for another hour.

The cold is sharp enough to keep you awake at least, and you gaze out into the blackness around you. Nothing stirs, except for the movement of the Fellowship around you. The gentle breathing in and out, the occasional shuffle of a bedroll while asleep. And then a louder movement and shifting of fabric.

It’s close enough that it’s probably a member of the Fellowship, so while you whip around to see what it is your hand only strays to your blade - it doesn’t wield it. Aragorn seems fairly thankful of that fact as you turn to face him, his hands not above his head but his palms open. Showing that he’s not a threat. “My apologies if I startled you.”

“There’s no need to apologise.” You relax, your hand letting go of the knife as you shuffle to face him more. “I’m just glad I didn’t hold a knife to your throat.”

“I trust you not to damage me.” There’s a small smile on his face, “And I would rather you put a dagger to strangers in the night than simply let foes walk in. Your dagger to my throat is much preferable to the dagger of an orcs.”

At his comment you allow yourself to laugh a little, and he joins you. “It almost sounds like you’re asking me to stab you.”

“When more of the Fellowship are awake I would be happy to spar with you, preferably not to first blood.”

“You’d be fine with sparring with me?”

“You’re a worthy opponent.” Aragorn has shifted himself slightly as the two of you have been talking, out of his bedroll and now simply sitting, looking up at the stars. “I imagine Boromir would be grateful for someone to show as an example to the young hobbits. Perhaps it will teach them the value of actually sword-fighting with their swords.”

This time you can grin as you respond, “I think the hobbits have done remarkably well already. Flipping enemies onto their back, who are over double their size.”

Aragorn laughs this time, making an effort for it to be quiet - but it is still rich, infectious. “I think I am still slightly sore from their antics.”

“The fine bedding of thin fabric and dirt is not helping?” Both of you have been travelling for long enough that beds are at risk of becoming a forgotten luxury, but even rangers can still tire of sleeping on this floor. Especially as it becomes cold enough to be firm, more like solid wood or rock than the ground. Aragorn lets out an appreciative hum at your words, before the conversation lulls between the two of you.

It is not an unpleasant or uncomfortable silence, and is in fact far from it. Aragorn has a quiet, unobtrusive way of making his presence known as he gazes up towards the stars. It’s comforting in a way, and you find it reassuring - not just in the sense a fellow human is beside you. There is something about the man that implies safety, a level of protection. Still, you don’t drop your gaze as you continue your watch - making sure that there is nothing watching the two of you in the shadows. Seconds pour into minutes, which begin to stack on top of each other before Aragorn speaks again.

“You’re cold.”

“Hm?” For some reason, you only making a questioning noise. You are cold (you’re fairly certain he’s just seen you shiver), but something in you refuses to immediately acknowledge it.

“Your cloak is thin, and not for the weather of Caradhras. Besides…” His gaze travels briefly over you.

So he has seen you shiver. Hopefully not too badly. Resisting the urge to pull your cloak closer to you, now that you’re talking the chill has started to make itself known again, you try to reassure him. “The weather is not yet too bad, nor am I freezing. I can survive the rest of the watch.”

“But I do not want to see you shiver through it.” Moving, Aragorn’s hands go to the clasp around his throat. “The chill is yet to affect me, take this.”

“I- I couldn’t.” Your words come out slightly higher than you tried, but you don’t want to accept the cloak. You don’t want him to chill either, and… it feels strangely intimate. “It won’t do us any good if both of us freeze.”

“It won’t do any good if you freeze either.” He points out, stopping to think. His hands still move to fully unclasp the cloak, but he doesn’t take it off when it gets looser. “Come closer.”

“You mean…” You’re thankful he’s not close enough to hear your heartbeat, or to feel the heat on your face.

“The cloak is big enough for both of us, for the most part.” His tone is still remarkably casual, before it becomes more serious. “Unless I have overstepped.”

There it is. The true invitation of if you want to come closer to him or not. And truthfully, he hasn’t.

Taking a quick breath, you move closer to the man - unsure of how much distance you should leave between the both of you. You inch closer, before eventually his arm loops around you with fabric - both enveloping you with the warmth of the cloak, and pulling you slightly closer to the ranger. He smiles, before asking, “Warmer?”

“Yes.” Your tone is only slightly begrudging, and it’s more to tease than anything. “Definitely.”

“I’m glad to be of service.” His tone is warm as well, and he stares at you for a second more before looking back up to the stars. “Please, move if you need to be more comfortable.”

From the little part of your legs that are touching, you can feel that he’s warmer than you. For a second you think about moving closer to him, but you’re already sharing a cloak. “Wouldn’t want to leech all of your heat.”

“It is not leeching if I am offering.” Gently, one of his hands rests upon yours. “If that is what you want.”

His body heat is not just what he’s offering. But, as you think for a second (hand slowly intertwining with his), you realise you don’t want to say no to either offer. Moving even more fractionally than before, you close the gap between the two of you - resting onto his shoulder. His arm adjusts the cloak briefly, pulling it more around you to shield you as well as he can from the elements.

This time, he doesn’t pull his hand from your shoulder.

The two of you had met each other in the archives of Minas Tirith, when the tome he had been looking for ended up being found in your hands instead. You still remember the shock and awe you'd felt in meeting the steward's son so casually in the libraries, even if most who went there knew it was a frequent haunt of his. In hindsight you should have expected him to be so polite and courteous, greeting you before he'd noticed the book. When he'd asked after it you were quick to reassure him it wasn't an urgent read for you, and then you tried not to become too flustered as he thanked you and promised to return it.

He'd kept that promise rather quickly, walking up to you only two days later with the book in hand.

From then, you'd seen him more and more in the archives. And then more and more in all of the city of Minas Tirith. Until eventually he'd approached you with a rose and some of the most beautiful words you'd heard, asking if you would consider courting him.

It was no wonder the both of you kept going back to the libraries, really; the halls of lore being so important for your jobs and as a way to finally try and relax for the day.

When Faramir checks for you in your shared chambers to no success, he immediately suspects where you are. A suspicion that, after only a short walk, is confirmed when he walks into your favourite reading nook - a small chair near the window, hidden from prying eyes by a large bookshelf. What he hadn't expected was to find you sleeping, head rested on the chair and with the book still open in your hand.

Allowing himself to smile, Faramir looks over you to try and commit the scene to memory. The small smile still on your lips, how you look both happy and safe. Moving gently so as to not wake you, Faramir looks over the books placed around you for something that he can read for a short while until you wake up. A few titles intrigue him, although in the end he settles for one of the slimmer ones you've chosen - one of the short romance novels he's sometimes found you reading.

Briefly moving towards you again, Faramir places a light kiss on your forehead before moving towards the window to sit down.

And then you stir a little.

Freezing, Faramir waits to see if you'll immediately fall asleep again. Instead you open your eyes slightly, looking around in confusion before focusing on him, " Faramir?"

"Ah, my apologies my love," his voice is soft as he responds to you, "There is no need to be awake if you do not wish to be. I will be here regardless of when you wake up."

Listening to him for a moment, you begin to say something before a yawn cuts you off and he smiles again. Then, your eyes close again, "If you're sure. I love you."

"I love you too." Faramir isn't even sure if you've heard him, but he says the words with sincerity. Will always say them with sincerity.

Waiting for a few minutes to ensure you're comfortable, Faramir makes his way to the windowsill and sits down before beginning to read. It doesn’t take long for him to become lost in the book, although his eyes keep flickering to you.

When you eventually wake up, you can't quite recall what happened as you shift slightly to be properly upright in the chair. Only a little away from you is Faramir, sitting against the window and turning the page of a book. There's always a peacefulness to him when he's reading, a calm focus that you rarely see in him when he's not by your side. As you look upon him, your brief waking up comes back to you - the faint ghost of his lips across your forehead. "Is it a good book?"

Faramir looks up from the book instantly, a smile on his face. "Yes, you have good taste in romances."

He realises what he's said once it's left his lips, and the both of you laugh for a moment together before he speaks again, "Did you sleep well?"

"Fairly." You stretch, now properly sitting up. "You know, I had a lovely dream."

Some glimmer of mischief must be in your eyes, or perhaps he can read you that well, as Faramir cocks his head for a moment then lays the book down. "Really?"

"Mmm."

"And what was in this dream of yours?" The book is fully discarded, now, although he still simply sits on the window's edge while looking at you.

"You kissed me." His eyes remain on you and you can feel yourself becoming a little more flustered. "It was- rather nice, is all."

Faramir laughs at the end, standing up and moving closer to you. "I'm glad that I'm affectionate in the dream world."

Gently, he presses his lips to your forehead again, "Even if it was not a dream."

Moving away again, your hand catches his before he can stray far and Faramir makes no move to resist it. Instead, he settles himself next to you in a quiet companionship. Ready to wait as long as you wish for him too. His silent presence is comforting, and you relax for a while before speaking again, "May I have another kiss?"

Faramir is still smiling, and it grows wider when you ask the question. He moves closer to you again, although this time not as high as when he had kissed your forehead - instead lower. His lips are almost on yours as you feel the words 'of course' barely be breathed out, before Faramir properly kisses you.