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— chapter 2 : in vino veritas —

summary : What is it like to discover the taste of fear? Or the feeling of attraction for someone who sees the truth you hide in harmless cups of wine?

pairing legolas x fem!vampire!reader (no use of y/n)

content warning : blood, mentions of blood, cannibalism (blood drinking), talks of pregnancy, mentions of complicated pregnancy, mentions of wine consumption, killing, for global content warning see bloodborne’s masterlist

wc : ≈7,4k

taglist : @natasharaskolnikova @northstar-legolas3 @xxliaaaa @viovicente @lilylovesflowers @p3nnydread @ladyelena112 @zeninsaki @angiekayyy @entishramblings @hell-o-kittys @flooofity @mellow-wishes

author's note : it has taken me a month to update this, sue me omg (yes you can tell this has freaky undertones every now and then, what about it?)

➢ nini’s masterlist

➢ bloodborne’s masterlist

The corridor you cross with hurried steps that make no sound is cold and eerie. Even deep in the dark maze of these corridors you know by heart, your perfect hearing allows you to distinguish the background noise of the feast coming from behind you. People laugh and chat, they sip on sweet elvish wine that cost a little fortune, blissfully unaware.

Ignorance is bliss, you are remembered of it every passing second. All those guests seem so carefree, disinhibited by good company, good food and good drinks, they forget to see what’s right in front of their nose. You believe if all those conditions weren’t united to create a perfect haze over the party, things would be far different. Imbeciles would still be blind, but clever ones would quickly spot the inconsistencies in the Ball. Why is the wine in some glasses a slightly different colour? Why do some guests never seem to age? Why is the number of people drastically lower after a few days, and why is it always those which nobody knew that vanish?

So much questions they do not ask, yet could save their lives.

However, it is not only the merry cacophony of the feast that you hear. Further away, deeper in the shadows, there is a low strangled sound — like a lamb trying to bleat — and echoing footsteps. The footsteps are heavy, not concealed like yours, though you can tell they try to be discreet. It fails miserably, and you are sure whoever is at the end of the corridor can hear them coming. You hope it is not too late for them to hear, and if so you better hope it is not too later either for you to do something about it.

Your dress glides upon the floor smoothly, without the smallest noise on the cobblestones, and you pick up the pace when a moan echos distinctly, even for the human ear. In front of you, a feminine silhouette appears. In the dark, your eyes better pick up the wavelengths of light others cannot see, like a bat’s, but you do not need to see her to know it is a woman you’re chasing. Her steps fall with less of a thud than men’s, the heels of her shoes clasp high-pitched, and the air carries the remnant of the perfume she carefully applied hours ago. You often like women’s scent better: it’s less aggressive to your sensible nostrils than men’s.

When your next step lands loud on purpose, her steps falter and she turns around, unaware she was being followed. It is so easy to get them alone once they’re drunk, in a secluded corner where nobody will come look for them. Obviously, she had a little too much wine. The woman’s cheeks are red with alcohol and effort, while she pants to recover from the small race she just went through. She squints at you in the dark to better see, she does not notice you do not have to do the same to take her in perfectly.

Short brown hair falling in a somewhat feminine bob cut, a few inches past her ears, tousled from hurrying around like she did; big brown eyes that resembled a lost doe’s; and a smooth, pale neck in which you could see a vein throb; she looked exactly like the type of girl someone you knew very well would wrap around his finger and deceive. Honestly, could you blame him? Probably; but it wasn’t like you didn’t feel the same bloodthirsty want to sink your fangs into that protuberant purple vein and find out what she tasted like. Her dress didn’t help at all: it was clear she was not high society, nobody would even look twice if the suddenly vanished.

She looked so lost, so panicked, and so tasteful.

Fear tastes weird on the tongue, like power one does not deserve, and it is why you make a point in keeping all guests at bay from such a feeling. All other vampires do too, it is a pre-established rule your kind works with since a long, long time. It keeps you from growing feelings powerful beings shouldn’t have, feelings rooted deep inside you like instinct but locked away. You ignore it when primal impulses tell you to have your cake and eat it; nobody is here, nobody will know, and you know who sucks on sweet blood too without a shadow of guilt at the corridor’s turn.

But you can’t. You’re not like him, rules are what they are for a reason and even if everything raw in you screams the opposite, you will not feed on a scared animal. Not a doe, not a lamb, not a bunny. However, the doe is going to walk on a most unfortunate scene if you do not stop her soon, and then you will have no choice. Already, you see her head turn slowly towards the whiny croaks, traits wrinkled in curiosity and nerves though she does not look away from you. She can’t tear her eyes from you as you walk her way. You know it because it’s on purpose. The human mind is easily played with when it is already agitated. Of course, you have no power of your own over her mind, but you do not need it, it’ll always lean towards you first. It is a most human quality to like the uncanny, the odd things that cannot be placed yet are filling the air; it’s exactly what she sees in your eyes when they gleam crimson for a nanosecond she doesn’t catch.

“Lost your way?“ you smile at her with bright white teeth; casual.

The woman stares at you as you take your last steps to her, but her bust is still halfway turned to the now dying sounds ahead of you and she doesn’t answer.

“Those corridors are a bit of a maze when one is not accustomed to them, I confess.“

You try to giggle your way into her trust by being amiable, like you know how to. Those interactions are always rehearsed, it’s like you could’ve pictured them in advance.

“I should see you back to the ballroom,“ you offer.

When preparing for the Ball this year, you had had the underlying feeling that things were going to be a bit different. Not necessarily bad, but different; harder to manage. Now you’re starting to see why. The woman has not even fully opened her mouth to speak and finally agree with you, that someone steps behind her from the corridor’s turn, and the scraping of their shoes on the cobblestones takes the words away from her mouth.

She turns around suddenly, attention having completely departed from you, just to end up face to face with the one man you did not want to see. You had figured already, but Izcasus stands here in front of you two. And his sole presence is not even the worse of it. You can feel the sheer anxiety emanating from the woman’s aura as she takes him in: disheveled like he just went through some kind of effort, red stains of thick fluid still coating the corners of his mouth and pearly teeth. Most of all, you see her eyes slowly lowering to long blond hair pooling on the ground from where he came from. She seems to recognise them, for she instantly gets more agitated.

Izcasus doesn’t say anything, and it makes it worse. He just looks at her with that carnivorous smile you’ve come to be wary of, and when she turns to you she finds no comfort in your face. This is bad. This is really bad. You’ve tried to keep it from happening, to drive her away from what you knew right away to be sounds of one of your kind feeding: because you felt it in the air, and because you saw Izcasus leave with that blond girl and being followed. You failed. Now this girl knows something is utterly wrong and she is afraid. You smell it in the air, just like you smell Izcasus’ remaining hunger. It only fuels yours: this thirst. But you can’t, the girl is afraid. She smells of fear like a prey you would have toyed with, and it is dangerous. Yet you do not have a choice. Izcasus looks at you with eyes of a predator, fitting for the monster he is. They are full of dark irony, and his lips pull in a smile that showcase his canines. If you do not do it, he’ll have his way with her. Something more dangerous than letting this girl go with what she saw would be to give Izcasus the opportunity to feel powerful. He is already too proud and confident for your own good, what would it be if he was suddenly encouraged to feed from a prey conscious of its fate? Power is already a danger to you when you seek only of the better good, to Izcasus it would turn into dominion.

He has been staying put thus far, not pushing boundaries, not teetering over the line, you cannot give him a reason to throw it all away. You have to do it, it’s the safest way.

He knows it because he looks at you expectantly, and the look turns into curiosity the moment you reach in front of you to grab the girl’s wrist and pull her towards you. From the corner of your eyes, you see him lean against the wall, watching some kind of twisted entertainment. How you hate him for it. But you hate even more that sinking your canines into her neck is like drinking after days in the desert; like light after a full month night; like being touched after years of solitary existence. You resent the feeling it brings you, the pure joy, yet you lick the wound of your hunger and feed for what feels like an eternity.

Your nose flares against her skin, takes in the scent of her sweat and blood mingling: metallic. It’s not blood that smells akin to metal, it’s the fear that comes from bleeding. Bloodletting when properly done smells like hot food, meat worth drooling on; this smells of carnage.

Your grip on the poor girl’s abused skin tightens, afraid to let go, and the pulsing of your skin quickens. You cannot hear the small squealing sounds she makes as her body stiffens. The more you drink, the more the blood filled a hole you did not know you had in your belly. An hunger you were born with, yet was always ignored; as if you could live an eternity looking past the need for control that was your kind’s. As if you could all. As if the rules made any difference.

“Calm down, nightingale. You’re going to suck the marrow out of her bones at that rate,“ Izcasus’ voice calls you back to reality after a while.

You open your eyes, still in her neck, and notice the skin here is practically torn apart. Not the quick, clean kills you are used to — no. Something switches inside you, an uncalled satisfaction, but you drown it a second later. Still, it’s a second too much.

The limp body of your victim falls heavily on the ground as you let go of her, distressed. Izcasus’ gaze lazily goes from her to your bloodied mouth, and a smirk you hate with a passion blooms on his own.

“Ah, yes, I know that look,“ he taunts. “It is the one that says you thought you were so great you couldn’t fall for the human trap, and now that you did you feel afraid too. Is it not fascinating, what fear does?“

“I am not afraid.“

“Of course you’re not, but it is starting to sprout somewhere behind those eyes.“

You hate that he is trying to decrypt you, but most of all you hate that he is right. You felt it, that ounce of control growing on you like a disease.

“You are aware you would be more to my taste if only you accepted the true nature of what you are?“

Now his eyes have grown darker, and the comment falls heavy in the space between you. He is not the boy you were once friends with anymore, yet he acts like he’s got you figured. Your true nature is nothing like his. You’ll fight it everyday if you have to.

In the cleavage of your dress, you reach for a white tissue you wipe your mouth with, before tucking it back in the corset, unbothered by the blood stains.

“You clean this mess, this is your doing,“ your voice carries a semblance of authority Izcasus does not challenge for once. He only smiles wider.

“It is your perception of things. I am only doing what my instinct calls for, and it calls for a lot of refreshments.“

You do not let him finish his sentence that you are already spinning on your heels and walking the other way around, away from him and his ideas, hoping they are not becoming common amongst your kind. This time your shoes clasp against the ground the same way your heart would thump in your chest had it not been black and atrophied. You take the long way back to the party, borrowing a little time to breathe; the ecstasy having not fully worn off.

You wish you could feel regret, but you don’t. It would have been worse if Izcasus had taken your place. You did what needed to be done.

At the end of the corridor, you see the light of day filtering through the darkness you come from. The sole view of it makes your head hurt and your skin scratch. Your hand fishes for something in the pocket of your dress; you pull it out and uncork the small phial, before bringing it to your mouth and swallowing the greenish mixture in contains. The strong taste of oil and thyme makes you scrunch your nose in a scowl. You cough once at the remedy’s assaulting taste, and finally, the light of day is not a shame anymore when you reach it.

✧. ┊ ⁭

Outside, it is a gloomy night full of mist blocking the moonlight; it makes the air cooler and humidity stick to the stone walls of the manor. However, none of that can be felt in the warmth of the ballroom. The assembly of people warm it up, makes it merry unlike the weather. You have not met Izcasus since this morning, but the ruthlessness that always seems to hang around him lingers. The guilt has not left you, it had little occasions to do so, for you had been by yourself all day. Guests had been left to the side while you busied yourself with organising tonight’s dinner.

The first official one since the Ball begun two days ago; guests had been presented buffets to feed in the meantime. The Great Meal, as many liked to call it, was no less of a statement than the lavishness of the Ball itself. It was the moment that sealed the real beginning of the Ball, and also how well it was going to turn out for you.

Your father always told you dinner was the most important meal of any refined society: it gathered people in a silence they could only fill with small talks, cleared disinhibited minds with food, served to show rank clearly. It was also a risk, if you didn’t set it up right. People are more aware of their surroundings when they eat, a survival instinct against the vulnerability eating puts one through. Things are noticed at dinner, oddities discussed; but it is a risk worth taking if nobody sees anything, because then people feel safe and let all their guards down.

Your family has become a master at grand dinners going smoothly. Hiding things, concealing them to make it look like everything is normal, has been your kind’s most useful skill for centuries now. You have had many tries at the Great Meal, all ending flawless, tonight was going to be one of them too.

Wandering through the crowd, you cast the thoughts aside and focused on the moment. Your eyes landed on people chatting, others sending you polite smiles, but never on the one person you wished to see. Two days ago, prince Legolas had left a curious impression on you. One that called to see him again and hear more of that which he had to say, yet he wasn’t anywhere to be seen. You figured the elf stayed in the company of the king of Gondor, but his Highness was absent from your sight too.

You knew very well where this attraction to the prince came from, and you did not wish for it to go away. You couldn’t do anything about it after all, it was just the way things were between vampires and elves. Although such a strong liking was perhaps a trait you inherited from your mother. You closed your eyes briefly and shook the thought away, still painful.

Life had a way of toying with you and make you pay for your atrocities, it seemed.

As you opened them again, your gaze landed on a small group at the other end of the room. Gathered in a half circle, you recognised people you’ve known all your life: families almost as ancient as yours. The looks they sent you from where they stood were not to be considered friendly, they pierced you like cold needles, yet you made your way towards them anyway. Greeting people you despised also was part of your duty as host of the Great Ball, though it was one you were most unwilling to complete.

The more your steps took you their way, the more their sneers turned into haughty smiles. Pretending is an art it seems they master little; or were you just used to their phoney honey-voiced compliments?

You ignore their obvious disdain when you speak. “What an evening! Excuse me, I’m running everywhere and had no time to greet you,“ you say.

“What an evening indeed,“ a redheaded woman speaks and her party hardly stifle their giggles.

They all look like they did not pass their glowing thirties and never will, dolled up in their most perfect attires. Shades of smooth silk and satin taunt you, make the corset of your dress strangely too tight all of a sudden. You smile at them politely, giggling too to pretend the joke doesn’t affect you. It doesn’t really, but the day has been stressful and it is one to many pair of unsolicited eyes on you.

“You are too tight on rules, my dear,“ the woman continues.

“Yes, you would have more fun if you let loose on them once in a while,“ another chimes in.

“You know what the rules are here for. I do not take them lightly for a reason.“

Your come back causes the majority of them to roll their eyes, and the other half to eye each other like you are the worst fun breaker of all time. That is exactly why you despise the lot of them: they sound just like Izcasus. It’s been a few years now that you feel a light tendency grows amongst your peers. A tendency to forget what should not be forgotten, to consider rules can be passed upon because they’ve been ingrained in the system so long some take them for granted.

It is a tendency that scares you, because you remember what life was like when you did not have those rules. You remember was it took to set them. What it took from you.

“The Red Days are over, there is nothing wrong with having a little fun. I reckon most of those humans would not even notice it, they are so easily played with,“ a man on your right says.

“I remember your father had lots a fun back then,“ another one. But this one lands wrong, very wrong.

It seems they all feel it, because silence washes harshly all of a sudden and the crimson in your eyes gleams harder, less hidden. The practiced smile you wore withers, your brows pull and you feel the blood in your veins loop, gain a newfound vigour. Everyone now looks at the fool who said that. Even if they dislike you, people know some things are not to be mentioned with you. Especially not your father.

“Then you also remember my father died so you could still have your fun,“ the words fill the quiet, no one snickers anymore. “Enjoy your evening.“

You turn around to leave, and the undisturbed noise of the crowd behind you hits back, as if muted before.

Enough talking, a butler gives you a sign from a corner of the room and you nod once. You make your way to the dinning room and stand alone next to your chair at the far end of the banquet table, waiting for guests to be invited by the butlers to take their seats as well.

It takes just a few seconds before bewildered men and women enter the dinning room, neck craned to the ceiling where a crystal chandelier hangs. The pressure washes off little by little when you hear amazed gasps all about the room as people find their rightful place around the victuals-filled table. You greet them, thank them when they give you compliments, and respectfully wait for everyone.

Gaze fixed to the entrance, there is one particular guest you wait for. You know he will sit too far away from you for your liking, but already you’re planning on changing that. If someone can make this evening take a better turn, it is undoubtedly the handsome elf you fail to get out of your mind. And it seems your wishes are heard, because the moment those blue eyes walk in the room, they catch yours like he knew you would be here.

Legolas stills for a second, only waiting for Aragorn who takes in the luxury of it all and the amount of delicious looking food on the table, before heading your way. The two men walk together up to a certain point where they part; Aragorn being king of Gondor has the right to sit closer to you, but Legolas is only a prince and there are people with higher of a rank whom are granted the seats near you.

The Dunedain nods to his friend and pats his shoulder affectionally before coming to sit right in front of you. You smile at him something that does not resemble the fake ones you give others.

“King Aragorn,“ he nods in greeting. “Why don’t you ask the prince to come sit closer to us? I would hate to have you eat away from your own party,“ you suggest.

The king opens surprised eyes and shakes his head, dismissing the offer with a wave of the hand.

“I do not wish to confuse the order of the table, my Lady. Legolas and I are capable of socialising with people we do not know, though I have to admit it is a skill wood-elves do not master as well as their archery,“ he jests, and you cannot help but chuckle back.

“Nonsense!“ you can already tell it would be a much merrier evening with Legolas by your side. At least he does not irritate you, quite the opposite. You wonder if it is elven magic that soothes you so every time he is around or simply your own fondness of him.

“Prince Legolas,“ you call. “Come sit closer to us, I beg you. To me.“

Legolas would have politely refused if you did not specify it was a wish of your own, but now he feels it is impossible for him to not give you anything you would ask for. Some people look at him, confused, but he ignores them as you gesture towards the sit next to Aragorn’s. Not right next to you because it would be improper, but close enough to satisfy you.

A few seats away, you do not notice the suspicious look Izcasus gives to the interaction, nor the whispering he hushes to the woman next to him. Whatever it is, it makes her stifle a mocking laugh that dies instantly when Legolas’s ice cold eyes catch hers. Like a child caught red-handed, she looks away at once and Legolas take his sit where you instructed him to.

Now that the movement of people has stopped, Legolas takes a time to observe his surroundings. Everything is so nice, to the point where it feels odd. The prince knows it, lavishness often hides secrets: his father is a fond user of this technique. The food looks great, the bottles of wine are the same he can find in his Halls’ cellar, but the lights are too low to enable perfect view of the elements about the room.

When you stand up, the chatters lower to a hum before dying, and Legolas is left to watch you like everyone else; like a fool. There is still about you that same youth that he noticed two days ago, almost surreal. Out of time.

“Dear guests,“ you begin with practiced ease, like talking to a hundred people is a casualty. “Once again, I am delighted to be your host this year. It is a pleasure to have you all here, gathered in, dare I say, the most pleasant society of all Middle-Earth. Every four years the Great Ball is held, every four years it is a success; let us hope this year will live up to the tradition,“ people nod, they hum in agreement. “No more boring speeches from my part, you must all be very hungry and I am keeping you from this delectable food!“ laughters in the assembly, your smile brightens with confidence. “I wish you a pleasant Great Meal, and the very best Great Ball.“

You lift your cup in the air, full of wine, and people follow. Except theirs are empty. So is Legolas’s.

The prince looks around at the people toasting, all holding empty glasses, with a few exceptions. He does not know why this strikes him, or why does this particular quirk seems odd, but the only people who hold up a full glass strangely resemble you. Not in looks, but in attitude. They all radiate of something the elf-prince cannot place, yet stands out. They are all young, and if there wasn’t so many people in the room, Legolas would have felt there was a kind of ambiguous power around them. Something heavy, something between night and day: eerie but not to him. A danger he was not subject to.

When he puts down his cup and guests begin to pour wine into their own empty ones, it seems the colour is slightly different for yours. Not from a whole shade, neither from a tone, more like shadows swimming in your cup. And a thickness that coats the crystalline borders and lingers; unlike the kind of elvish wine he tasted all his life.

In the same fashion, your plate is also full before his. The meat there resembles any other kind of meat, and it is elvish instinct only that tells him it would taste different if he was to eat it.

Legolas looks up at you, and you are already observing him. There is a small smirk at the corner of your lips, as if you know what he is looking for and it doesn’t scare you. Deep down, Legolas knows he should fear this secrecy. It should scare him that something is happening behind closed doors, that you are almost daring him to find out. Yet it does not. The very real intuition that what you are is unlike anything he can think about only fuels his curiosity.

The prince has eyes everywhere you should not want them, and it amuses you. It should not, because Legolas is not bound to the same deal his father is. Thranduil vowed that if the elves had nothing to fear from you, then you had nothing to fear from them; but the character of his son you do not know and it might reveal to be very different. To let Legolas get away with noticing so much about your schemes was reckless, yet all your opinions on secrecy ended with the face of a beautiful elf. You almost wanted him to uncover your truth, to see the ugliness naked for what it really was just so you could see if it repelled him, or if the prince was as twisted as you are.

He smiles at you above the rim of his glass he brings to his mouth, and you think you already know the answer. You really were just like your mother.

You break the intimacy of the moment when you address Aragorn.

“It saddens me the queen could not come, I would have loved to meet her.“

“Yes,“ the king gives you an apologising look. “She sends her regards and humbly asks that you forgive her. You see, I wanted to stay with her too, but she practically pushed me out of Minas Tirith. The elves stubbornness…“

You chuckle at his feigned annoyance; Aragorn could never really dislike any part of Arwen’s character. The comment on elves makes you look back to Legolas, who doesn’t seem to have averted his gaze from you since the beginning.

“Really? Is your kind of a stubborn nature, prince Legolas?“

“I wouldn’t know, I… I believe so, yes, for my part.“

You smile at that. An elf with a flaw, have you ever heard of such a thing? And yet it is one Legolas confesses to have; one you cannot blame him for, for you are probably as equally stubborn. The fact increases your interest. You catch yourself wanting to know all the ways in which his stubbornness shows, the bad and the ugly you cannot quite discern yet but long for —to which extent is he like you? his light-driven nature corrupt by whatever unguarded pride the gods allowed the elves to have —.

“Wood-elves are known to be less wise than their peers, my friend,“ Aragorn adds.

“My father would be an example, yes.“

“Either way, trust me madam, it is worse when said elf is with child! I cannot force upon Arwen a single thing that she does not want to do, even when it regards her health or the baby’s.“

Again, you laugh at his obvious nervousness. “Women are often more skilled than men at finding out the needs of the life that grows in their belly, king Aragorn,“ and the king huffs a laugh.

“Elves especially,“ a small silence where you turn your attention to the prince sets. “My mother used to tell me she knew at what age I was going to sing my first songs and exactly which tree was to be my favourite before I was even out of the womb.“

Legolas’s eyes have grown distant, reminiscing an old past that stings a bittersweet pain. You know exactly the feelings, as well as you know the extent of the small smile pulling at his lips. You wonder if your mother knew such things about you as her belly swelled with growing life. Did she envision the kind of monster you were already? Did she hope you would escape the fate she foresaw? You never asked, she never told.

“Did she got it right?“ your own voice comes out softer, with a tender smile on your lips that turns something new in the prince’s stomach. It makes the grief more bearable.

“All of it.“

If you were to have a child, would you know its softness or its malevolence beforehand? You imagine what it would feel like to have life grow in your belly, to see it swell with it. It is a known fact that vampires’ pregnancies are harder than humans’, or elves’. Elves need more time to fully create such beings of lightness, and it makes sense, for infants of their race usually grow faster than human babies. In their first years, you can hardly distinguish them from a human, but time passes inevitably and it is painfully obvious that a six year-old elf is much more independent and skilled than its human peer. It is the case until early adulthood, then the similarities linger again: only their aura, beauty and ears give away an elf on the outside. And eventually time catches up again and as humans wither and grow old, elves stay beautiful and timeless.

For vampires, on the other hand, the differences are not so visible. They stay akin to elves all their life, but more discreet. It is only in the womb that a mother can know whether she is nurturing light or shadows — an in-between. You are well aware of it: a vampiric pregnancy is painful, lethal almost. It prefigures the kind of creature it will birth, for the foetus in the womb is like a wild animal already. It tries to suck the life out of its mother: ungrateful unborn child. It kicks and tears at the flesh to escape, or at least that is what your mother told you; you were never fit for a cage.

You think about growing a monster of your own, sentencing it with unescapable hell only because it is your belly it grew in. A vampire’s womb is like the source of a disease: keeping it here constantly, infectious.

Unconsciously, your hand comes to rest on your lower stomach. The pressure is warm, it’s like you’re waiting to feel kicking beneath. You know there is no way for you to escape what you are with a baby, to mirror what you would want to be onto someone else at your image, only tinier.

Vampirism grows in the mother’s womb.

In blood it lives, and by blood it spreads. Nature has it that all female vampires experiment the same condition during pregnancy: a leak of their own blood from the placenta to the fluid the foetus floats in. Being a vampire is a curse, inherited while the foetus grows in contact with its mother’s blood. It is bloodborne, and never by blood undone.

Your baby would be like you, by your fault, and it is probably why the Valar made you yearn for the only race you cannot mate with. Perhaps it is a scheme to ensure you will ultimately disappear, perhaps it is only to make you suffer your sins.

You do not know, and you abandon the fantasy of a baby as well as the hand on your belly. You do not need the burden of a life that is not fully one filling the rot inside your stomach; because it’ll come out undead yet stillborn, with a heart atrophied and black like yours, and a thirst it will not control.

✧. ┊ ⁭

Legolas is used to waiting. When one lives two thousand years in a world that turns to fit dying things better, waiting can be a curse. It is one especially when surrounded by mortals, when they all fall in deep slumber at night and he cannot. Legolas knows that if he was tired enough he would collapse in sleep’s embrace too, but it is not the case. He has been good with alcohol so far, and no tremendous physical effort has been imposed upon him, so wariness keeps far from him still.

And to make time pass by faster, what is best than contemplating? This too, is something elves are used to. They have been contemplating the world around them for millennia now, watching it wilt, change against their will. If Legolas could, he would like to keep things as they ever were, to stop change and growth and still time to a stolen moment. Maybe then could his mother still be with him.

Such a desire is fruitless, so the prince does not dwell on it further. Instead, he busies himself with walking around the manor’s domain. The night has engulfed it, everybody sleeps except for a few people he felt wandering in the corridors, but didn’t see. As always, it is nature that calls to him best, and Legolas finds himself strolling around the greenhouse on his own.

Illuminated by the moonlight shining above, the elf-prince scrutinises his surroundings: a glasshouse that opens on the scary shadows outside, yet protects him in a confined place where life thrives. There are many plants and flowers paving the way he takes, all of them he recognises. They are not exotic by any means — sage, rosemary, lavender, thyme, roses and lilies — but they do not all usually live in the same environment, and to Legolas who knows so much about nature, it is a small miracle that they can be all found here together.

He pauses in his tracks, inspects the flowers closer and wonders at how you keep them alive. Again, his thoughts do not go to the moulded ceilings or the magnificent buffet, no, instead they go to you.

“So it is true that elves do not sleep.“

Your voice startles him, and Legolas turns around like he would on an enemy, only to fall face to face with your grinning features. Once again, it is a mystery to him the way you keep your footing so light that he does not hear it. Normally, nobody can sneak up on him, he always catches the intruding presence minutes before it reveals itself, but he did not catch yours. Startling an elf: here is something Legolas never heard of! Yet here you are with your teasing grin and a different gown than the ones you’ve worn up until then.

Legolas cannot help but dote on it for a second. The black fabric of the gown is less heavy, allows more liberty of movement, and its long sleeves cover your hands until your fingers. You look less intimidating, less of a host he should impress. Your gaze follows the visible tension that leaves his shoulders, and the pink of his lips when he speaks.

“If I may be so bold, I would easily mistake you for one,“ he says it knowing you are aware of the features that make you stand out.

You smile and take a step closer, allowing yourself to enter his space.

“Believe me, it is too great of a compliment for me to deserve. I have trouble sleeping,“ you justify. Legolas frowns, and you cannot tell if he trusts you. If he doesn’t, he lets nothing be known of it and resumes his walk around the greenhouse, with you by his side.

“Are you enjoying the Ball?“ you ask.

“I am. Thank you for inviting me to sit with your party at dinner. I am not used to conversing outside of my own group, and the meal would have surely felt much longer without your and Aragorn’s company.“

“There is no need, I wanted you to sit closer. My enjoyment of the evening would have been different too, had you not both been here.“

Legolas does not pick up the conversation, and it falls in an awkward silence you had not prefigured. The kind of quiet you are usually not used to with people; heavy with something that resembles shyness. You keep on walking without a word, holding onto the fact that Legolas admitted he liked your company, and you recognised you seeked his too. You pass another patch of flowers and let your fingers reach to feel the petals. The prince watches the movement attentively, like he discovers you.

“Why do you keep so many plants growing? How do you do it?“

Your smile grows again, but your eyes stay focused on the flowers. “It is an old family secret.“

The prince’s eyes stay sharp and scrutinising, but he does not speak another word, does not push. He lets himself be guided amongst the plants, soothed by the sweet scent of herbs, until you start the conversation again when you deem it best.

Long minutes pass where you find yourself talking with the elf-prince of all things insignificant, and some others more important. You ask about what he likes best in his realm, and he has no time to ask something back that already you have another question for him. At length, the conversation drifts far away from the Great Ball, on purpose though Legolas is oblivious to it. He ends up wondering about your taste in mead or flower baths, and asking for the answers he wants. You give them to him as long as they are harmless: now he knows that you do not share his soft spot for honey, and would beg for a chamomile scented donkey milk bath. He can see you wallow in it, and there is a twisted thing in his stomach that tells him you would taste so, so sweet.

The more he knows about you, the more mysterious you grow, with questions you refuse to answer yet matter to him the most. But spending time with you also awakens an unrestrained kind of hunger he has, almost invisible at first; so much that he isn’t even aware himself he is imagining bitting the bridge between your shoulder and neck and soothing the pain with a lick that will taste of the chamomile he will have you bathing in.

No, Legolas does not know the sort of needy monster you will turn him into if he keeps on getting curious. And oh, how curious can the elf-prince be.

As surface level as the discussion is, none of you notice how fast time flies by, and for the first time Legolas forgets about waiting. Minutes slip through his fingers like grains of sand on the beach, and they only stop when you hear the first chirping of a bird outside. In a few hours, the sun will be up and you’ll have to handle yet another day of ball. Even if you do not need as much sleep as humans, you need rest, and the prince gives you the opposite: he keeps you on the edge of your seat.

“Do you often walk at night with your guests?“ the question is bolder than the ones before. You eye him to discern any kind of trick behind it, but can find none, only the raw blue of his eyes that searches for yours.

“Only those who interest me.“

A small silence lingers, it announces your departure before you can even voice it. Legolas feels the urge to beg you to stay, to borrow a little more time with you; as if it was ever going to run thin, yet he does nothing. His kin rarely acts on impulses, and no matter how different Legolas can be from his peers, this is something elven court has rooted in him. He wields his countenance like a weapon until it bends and breaks.

“I should go back,“ you say, stepping forward to break the proximity. “You should see yourself back to your room too, prince Legolas. The manor can be quite eerie at night.“

He looks at you and nods, but does not move to do as he is told.

“Goodnight,“ he whispers like a secret for you only, and it is enough to make you walk back to your quarters with the hope that it will push him to do so too.

Legolas is far too perceptive for your own good, and perhaps it should upset you more. Regardless, something tells you the elf-prince saw so much wrong and ugly in this world, there is a chance he might yearn for yours like one yearns to turn the evil they slew into a god, and worship its cruelty in a final act of devotion to convince themselves there is still some good to draw out of a sinner.

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