SO I WAS JUST INTRODUCED TO YOUR LEGOLAS FICS AND I WANTED TO BINGE THEMM BUT IT IS A LITTLE CONFUSING AS TO WHICH PART IS WHICH .
SO I PLEASE REQUEST YOU TO MAKE A MASTERLIST OF YOUR FICS IF POSSIBLE 😭🙏
KINDA WANT TO READ ALL YOUR FICS!!
THANKYOU
HIII! Thankiew sm for showing interest in my stories ><
I have already made itt, not the best, but it'll do for noww! For each post I make, I write it like a oneshot, so if you're just interested in that specific plot/story I wrote, you can just read it and stop there haha.
But yeaa, the story are all connected like a series! It don't really matter which order you read it from, it's more like a surprise with each post.
Thoughhh, if you do want to read it by order, I have already listed it!!
thrown into a world unlike your own, you soon realize you've traveled back in time—into a land of magic, dwarves, hobbits, elves, and creatures once thought to exist only in stories. There, you come face to face with Legolas, the mysterious boy who had haunted your dreams for countless nights, only to discover he is real. As you uncover the truth behind your identity, heritage, and the fate tied to you, one warning follows you wherever you go: never try to change destiny. But the question remains—what if fate was never meant to stay unchanged?
Pairings : Legolas x f!reader
Genre : childhood friends to lovers, fluff, light!nsfw, angst, isekai/transmigration
Status : ongoing (series / can be read as a oneshot as well!)
Taglist : [open]
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꩜ CHAPTERS (after posting a chapter, I will update here! It is a random posting, not chapter by chapter, but I'll arrange the order here for you guys!)
[The oneshots don't all connect for now, in between them there are more stories to be/not yet told, it is a random posting cuz to me I wouldn't get bored and yall wouldn't either T^T]
༄.° read from top to bottom ><
⤷ Childhood Friends? = 9.6k
To you, he was only ever a boy from your dreams. But to him… you were never just a dream. You were his childhood friend, the one who vanished without a trace. Crossing through the forests of Mirkwood, could you possibly help to negotiate for your comrades release, or be as useless as one claims you to be?
⤷ Undressed. = 14k
Legolas would have done anything to protect you—even if it meant standing against his own people, his king, his father. Given a chance, you were now able to have a change of clothes, after all, the one you were wearing had seen better days. Though, you seemed to forget you were no longer in your own world. Which meant casually beginning to undress in front of the elven prince of Mirkwood had apparently been a far greater scandal than you anticipated.
⤷ Casual? = 3.8k
Was it casual when Legolas agreed to help braid your hair? After the brief skirmish with the orcs, fought in the hope of saving your dwarven friends, you'd ended up stuck with Legolas. Perhaps you'd caught feelings some time ago, though he always seemed to have his eyes elsewhere, or so you thought. Now, sent off on a quest to find Tauriel, you found yourself in an unexpected predicament: in need of a little… hair transformation?
⤷ Carvings = 3.8k
Legolas is here to teach you Sindarin! A word, a question. What is the true meaning behind it? Taking a rest, you earned yourself a deal with legolas. He teaches you Sindarin in return of something. Do you keep your promise? Who knows?
⤷ Bows and Arrows = 6.3k
Halfway to Lake-town, Legolas offers to teach you how to use a bow to help on the journey to rescue your dwarven companions. What starts as a practical lesson becomes quietly personal, as his closeness and gentle guidance make you aware of a growing, unspoken connection between the both of you.
⤷ I Don't Want To Die. = 9.6k
Haunted by visions of your own death, you push Legolas away to spare him the pain. But after a battle with orcs, his desperate pleas collide with your stubborn denials, sparking a storm of confessions, truths, and distance.
⤷ I'll kiss your pains away in secret , though you'll never know. = 8.8k
In the aftermath of a devastating dragon (smaug) attack on Laketown, among the chaos, you struggle under the weight of guilt, exhaustion, and grief, feeling powerless against the loss surrounding you. Bard and Fili did not seem to be the only ones who have comforted you. A particular elf did as well, with a kiss on your wounds, and a promise he made, though you'll never know.
⤷ First Waltz = 1.9k
f!reader was sent to middle-earth , a whole new and different dimension for her. Finding herself tied to fate of the fellowship , she had no choice but to follow along their journey. Legolas knew f!reader since young , meeting between dreams. After a long tiring journey , the fellowship seek shelter in the elven realm of Lothlórien. Being homesick , she found herself asking for a waltz in return of her missing her once-in-a-lifetime dance.
⤷ The Soldier, Poet, King = 2.7k
After a hard-won victory at Helm's Deep and a joyful reunion with the two hobbits, a celebration was held that night. A lively drinking contest soon erupted between the three : Gimli, Legolas and f!reader. Sobering up , Merry and Pippin pulled you to the center asking you to perform a song. (f!reader is not from middle earth series.)
⤷ I'm All Yours = 6.9k
Eomer, the Rohirrim prince, couldn't seem to take his eyes off you; your performance burned in his mind. He caught you when you stumbled, though someone else didn’t look pleased. Legolas, feeling a strange, sharp jealousy, found your lips the only thing that could ease the hunger building inside him.
⤷ A Boyfriend's Jealousy = 8.7k
Éomer seemed to have not took Legolas' warning about you, or has he? After your intimate moment with Legolas' had ended, a quiet obsession and jealousy flared as he watches, conflicted by your reassurances, the presence of Éomer and... words.
Summary : Legolas would have done anything to protect you—even if it meant standing against his own people, his king, his father. Given a chance, you were now able to have a change of clothes, after all, the one you were wearing had seen better days. Though, you seemed to forget you were no longer in your own world. Which meant casually beginning to undress in front of the elven prince of Mirkwood had apparently been a far greater scandal than you anticipated.
A/n : I'm backk! It's been a month since my last update... was so busy with work and other projectss, sorry my lovess... T^T Sooo, here is a 14k-ish fic, yes its longgg haha. Theres lore drops, cute teasing between f!reader and Legolas too! hehe ^^ (Part of the f!reader is not from middle-earth series | Can be read as a one-shot as well!)
Wc : 14k
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Sunlight filtered through the towering canopy above, scattering gold across the winding halls of the woodland realm.
The forest seemed almost alive around you—lush ivy curling around ancient stone, soft streams weaving beneath elegant bridges, the air rich with the scent of moss, earth, and blooming flowers hidden deep within the greenery. It was beautiful in a way that felt unreal, almost dreamlike.
And yet, despite the beauty surrounding you, your situation was far from ideal. Your dwarf companions had long since been taken away under heavy guard, much to their loud displeasure. Kíli, especially, had not stopped complaining the entire journey.
"Elves are insufferable," he had muttered earlier under his breath while being marched away, earning himself a sharp glare from one of the guards. "Too tall, too perfect, too much hair."
You nearly laughed at the memory now. Unlike the dwarves, however, you seemed to have somehow landed yourself in the captain's favor—or at the very least, enough goodwill to avoid chains and rough handling.
The elves regarded you with far less hostility, also probably because you were half elven, though their curious stares followed your every step as if trying to unravel some mystery they could not place between you and their captain.
Hours had passed since your arrival, and the anticipation in your chest only grew heavier. Soon, you would stand before the King of Mirkwood himself.
You had heard enough stories from the dwarves during the journey to form some image in your mind—cold, prideful, impossible to reason with. According to the dwarves, the elvenking was everything insufferable about royalty wrapped into one immortal being.
It sure did made you wonder. What kind of person was capable of inspiring such irritation and bitterness from them?
Your eyes wandered endlessly through the woodland realm, unable to settle on one thing for too long. Everywhere you looked, there was something beautiful enough to steal your attention—glimmering lanterns hanging from twisting branches, silver streams weaving beneath carved stone pathways, towering pillars wrapped in ivy so green it almost glowed beneath the sunlight filtering through the canopy above.
The entire place felt alive, breathing softly around you like an ancient creature slumbering beneath the forest.
And the elves. Honestly, it was becoming increasingly difficult not to stare.
Everywhere you looked, there was another absurdly beautiful face gliding past like they had all collectively stepped out of some ancient painting.
Long silver hair, sharp features, elegant armor fitted far too well for your sanity, and posture so perfect it made you painfully aware of the way you were slouching half the time. Even the guards standing still somehow looked majestic. It was deeply unfair.
Your gaze caught on one specifically then. A male elf moving gracefully along one of the upper walkways carved into the glowing halls of Mirkwood. Tall, well ridiculously tall—with silver hair braided neatly down his back, dark green and gold fabrics draped elegantly over broad shoulders as he walked with effortless poise.
Your eyes followed him absentmindedly as he passed overhead, your head tilting slightly without even realizing it.
The elf then turned faintly then while speaking to another guard nearby, and your gaze instinctively drifted lower. Your brows slowly lifted higher the longer you stared, genuine disbelief spreading openly across your face.
"…Ooo." The sound escaped before you could stop it. Your eyes narrowed slightly in pure analysis as the elf continued walking completely unaware of the scandalous evaluation currently taking place beneath him.
"And they got nice ass too, what the hell…" you muttered under your breath, deeply offended by the consistency.
Your expression remained entirely serious. Almost scholarly, even. Like you were conducting some sort of research.
A light tap landed softly against your shoulder then, the sudden contact nearly made you jump out of your skin. Your entire body jerked slightly as you spun around far too quickly, eyes widening on instinct, only to immediately come face to face with Legolas standing beside you.
Golden lanternlight filtered gently through the carved woodland halls behind him, catching against strands of his hair until they almost seemed to glow.
Up close, he looked unfairly composed compared to the complete disaster currently unfolding inside your head. One of his brows was faintly drawn, concern softening the otherwise elegant sharpness of his features as he tilted his head slightly toward you, studying your face with quiet attentiveness.
"Are you well?" he asked gently, his eyes moving carefully across your expression, lingering just slightly as though trying to determine whether something had startled or upset you. "You seemed troubled in a way."
And that was unfortunately the exact moment your brain decided to betray you further. Because now, instead of the elf from earlier, you were suddenly painfully aware of him.
The way he stood close enough for you to catch the faint scent of cedarwood lingering around him. The way his armor fit neatly across his frame, and the way his eyes remained entirely focused on you with such calm sincerity that it almost made your chest tighten unexpectedly.
Your posture immediately straightened so abruptly it looked unnatural. "Yeah!" you answered far too quickly, the word cracking slightly halfway through before your hand flew upward into the most aggressively confident thumbs-up imaginable. "Completely fine. Never better."
Legolas blinked slowly in return, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary, suspicion faintly flickering beneath his expression.
Even without words, you could practically feel him trying to piece together whatever strange behavior you had just displayed. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly before drifting toward the upper walkways where your attention had been moments earlier, following the exact direction of your previous staring crimes.
Your soul nearly left your body right there and then. The last thing you wanted was to be locked up for staring at someone' ass. Right before he could ask another question—and potentially uncover the deeply embarrassing truth behind your sudden panic, you immediately turned on your heel and hurried ahead to catch up with the others ahead.
"Anyway!" you blurted out far too loudly, walking faster than necessary. "Beautiful kingdom. Very normal amount of trees."
Behind you now, Legolas remained standing there for only a second longer, confusion still faintly written across his features as he watched your retreating figure with narrowed eyes.
You could almost feel his suspicion growing. Yet eventually, he said nothing, merely following after you in quiet silence, though the faint crease between his brows never fully disappeared.
The deeper you traveled into the halls of Mirkwood, the quieter everything became. The soft sounds of water and distant voices faded beneath the weight of something heavier. Even the air itself seemed different here, cooler somehow, carrying the subtle scent of earth, moss, and old wood polished by centuries of care.
One by one, the dwarves were repositioned beneath the sharp watch of elven guards stationed throughout the hall. Chains rattled softly with every irritated movement from your companions, metal scraping faintly against stone as the guards guided them forward.
Bombur muttered complaints under his breath loud enough for half the hall to hear while Bofur attempted to calm him with little success. Dwalin, meanwhile, looked one inconvenience away from committing several crimes simultaneously, his broad shoulders tense beneath the grip of two guards escorting him forward.
Kíli, somehow, still found enough energy to smirk openly toward Tauriel despite the circumstances. "You know," he said casually while walking beside her, "for prisoners, we're getting a remarkably personal escort."
Tauriel didn't even look at him when she spoke. "Speak less."
"That sounded almost affectionate."
One nearby guard visibly sighed, even Fili looked tired of him the moment those words left him.
You, however, gradually found yourself guided elsewhere alongside Thorin. At first, you barely noticed the shift. One guard moved slightly to your side. Another adjusted course gently, steering you away from the others without outright separating you.
Your brows furrowed faintly as you slowed a little, glancing around in confusion while the others continued further down the hall. "Uh…" you looked back over your shoulder briefly. "I think I'm going the wrong way?"
No one answered immediately, the elven guards merely continued guiding you forward with calm silence, though none of them appeared hostile. If anything, they looked strangely cautious around you—as though uncertain what exactly they were supposed to do.
And by the time you fully realized what was happening, you stood at the center of the grand hall itself.
Thorin stood to your left, rigid as stone, broad shoulders drawn tight beneath layers of worn fur and leather as though sheer stubbornness alone held him upright.
Every line of his posture radiated restrained fury. His jaw remained clenched so tightly it almost looked painful, dark beard shifting faintly each time he exhaled through his nose in slow, controlled breaths that clearly weren't calming him in the slightest.
Even the chains around his wrists rattled softly whenever his fingers flexed at his sides, the sound sharp against the otherwise silent hall.
His blue eyes burned ahead with barely concealed contempt, fixed entirely upon the throne before him with the kind of hatred that felt...personal.
You honestly couldn't tell whether he was angry, offended, or merely seconds away from starting a full-scale war directly inside the throne room. Possibly all three.
Meanwhile, to your right stood Legolas, calm and poised as ever beneath the glow of the hall. Yet despite his composed exterior, you could feel his attention subtly lingering on you, as though making sure you were still there beside him.
While there was Tauriel, who stood slightly behind Thorin, silent and observant, her sharp eyes moving carefully between everyone in the room.
The throne room of Mirkwood stretched endlessly ahead, enormous roots twisting around ancient stone walls like living veins. Water shimmered beneath narrow bridges carved elegantly into the earth, reflecting silver light across the chamber.
High above, sunlight spilled through openings in the cavern ceiling, cascading downward in glowing streams that illuminated the throne at the far end of the hall.
It was beautiful. Terrifyingly beautiful.
Against the blinding silver-gold light pouring down from above, you found yourself squinting slightly, your brows knitting together as you tried to force your eyes to adjust.
The glow behind the throne was almost unbearable at first, washing everything in a hazy brilliance that made it difficult to focus on anything properly.
But slowly, the figure seated upon the throne came into view.
There he was, The King of Mirkwood. The infamous elven ruler the dwarves had spent days complaining about throughout the journey. The cruel king. The arrogant king. The king who apparently 'looked down his nose at everyone beneath him,' according to Thorin.
…Yet none of them had properly prepared you for this.
Your eyes widened slightly despite yourself, gaze dragging slowly over the elegant lines of his face, the sharpness of his features, the effortless grace in the way he sat upon the throne as though he had been carved there by the forest itself.
Even his expression—cold, unreadable, untouched by emotion, somehow only made him look more ethereal in its own way.
"Damn…" you breathed quietly beneath your breath, completely unable to stop yourself. Your eyes remained fixed upon the figure seated upon the throne, brows slowly drawing together further in genuine disbelief as the full image of the Elvenking finally settled properly into view.
A faint look of awe crossed your face despite yourself as you stared upward, momentarily forgetting entirely where you were supposed to be standing or the fact that this was technically an incredibly tense political situation. "Of course he's beautiful." you muttered quietly.
Beside you, Legolas' attention shifted almost immediately. He stared at you for a brief moment, clearly caught off guard by your reaction, as though whatever response he had expected upon seeing the Elvenking… it had certainly not been that.
His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, sharp yet quiet, trying to decipher the look of absolute disbelief written all over your face. "Is something amiss?" he asked softly at last.
The question came low enough for only you to hear as he leaned slightly closer toward you, graceful and effortless in a way that should honestly be illegal. One subtle movement—that was all it took, and suddenly his presence surrounded you completely.
His voice was smooth, calm, carrying that familiar elven gentleness that always seemed to catch you off guard no matter how many times he spoke.
But this time, he leaned too close. You felt the warmth of his breath near the shell of your ear, felt the slight brush of movement as he dipped his head toward you, and suddenly every single thought inside your head vanished completely.
Your entire body stiffened instantly, eyes widening as your pulse skipped violently against your chest the moment his voice brushed so close against your ear.
Panic shot through you for absolutely no reasonable reason whatsoever, heat rushing straight into your face so quickly it almost made your face entirely red.
Every coherent thought scattered immediately, leaving your mind completely blank except for the horrifying awareness of how close he suddenly was. And before your brain could even begin functioning properly again—your body reacted first.
You jumped abruptly, scooting several frantic steps sideways like a startled animal escaping danger, only to move far too quickly without looking where you were going.
A second later, you'd collided directly into something solid beside you. "-Ow!" The sound escaped before you could stop it, your face scrunching immediately from the impact as pain shot lightly through your shoulder.
Meanwhile, Thorin barely moved an inch from the impact. If anything, the dwarf only shifted slightly beneath the collision, broad frame remaining planted firmly in place like a wall of stone while you recoiled backward from him in horror.
Honestly, you were fairly certain you took more damage than he did.
Your eyes widened the second realization struck. Slowly, very slowly—you lifted your head to look at the person you had just rammed into.
Thorin stared back down at you in complete silence, one thick brow already raised while his jaw tightened faintly beneath his beard.
The expression on his face somehow managed to hold irritation, exhaustion, confusion, and concern simultaneously, like he genuinely could not comprehend how someone could survive this long while behaving the way you did.
You recoiled instantly, eyes widening in horror as you turned toward him. "Sorry- sorry!" you whispered frantically, your hands lifting defensively in front of you as if trying to physically shield yourself from his disappointment. "I didn't mean to- I just- he-"
You stopped immediately, because the second you actually tried to think of an explanation, you realized there was absolutely no way to describe why you had launched yourself sideways after Legolas simply leaned closer to whisper near your ear without sounding completely insane.
Your mouth snapped shut again almost instantly, no explanation was better than that explanation.
Heat still burned across your face as you awkwardly lowered your head slightly, lips pressing into a thin line while you slowly shuffled back into your original spot beside them, movements stiff with embarrassment.
You suddenly found the polished stone floor incredibly interesting to look at. Anywhere was better than meeting someone's eyes right now.
Unfortunately, the universe clearly hated you, as the moment you turned ever so slightly, you'd caught Legolas still watching you.
His expression remained composed, well mostly, but there was the faintest flicker of bewilderment lingering in his eyes now, as though he genuinely could not understand what had just happened.
"…I merely asked if you were well," he said after a brief pause, voice low and calm beneath the silence of the hall.
Yet underneath that usual smooth composure lingered the slightest trace of confusion, as though he were sincerely trying to figure out how his question had somehow resulted in you throwing yourself bodily into Thorin Oakenshield.
Your face somehow grew even hotter.
"I am well," you muttered quickly, far too fast to sound convincing while continuing to avoid eye contact with absolutely everyone in that enclosed space. "Too well, actually."
The second the words left your mouth, regret hit instantly. In fact, that did not help, quite literally at all.
Thorin let out a low, exhausted exhale beside you, the sound heavy with long-suffering resignation as he pinched the bridge of his nose for a brief moment, eyes squeezing shut as though he were physically trying to will patience into existence
The lines of his face deepened with irritation, his jaw tightening again before he dropped his hand with a muted grunt, looking every bit like a man who had begun questioning not just his choices, but the very concept of destiny itself.
Ahead of you, the great throne loomed larger with every passing second. The soft, ever-present sound of flowing water echoed through the chamber from unseen channels beneath the floor, weaving together with the distant rustle of leaves far above in the living canopy of the palace.
And unfortunately for you, you had a terrible feeling he had heard you. Very slowly, carefully, you leaned toward your right, lowering your voice into a cautious whisper as though the entire room might punish you for speaking too loudly. "That's the king right?"
Your eyes remained fixed ahead, completely unable to pull away from the figure seated upon the throne. Even from this distance, Thranduil's presence seemed to consume the entire hall without effort.
He sat with effortless authority, posture relaxed yet impossibly regal, one arm resting lazily against the carved throne as though the entire realm itself bowed naturally beneath him.
Silver light cascaded behind him in long streams, framing him almost ethereally, and for a fleeting moment, he looked less like a king and more like some ancient being pulled straight from myth.
Beside you, Legolas followed your gaze briefly before looking back at you. The faintest flicker of amusement touched his features as his gaze briefly swept over your openly astonished expression.
It vanished almost immediately, hidden once more beneath his usual composure, though not before you caught it. "That," he answered quietly, inclining his head ever so slightly toward the throne, "is the Elvenking."
The way he said it carried no exaggeration, just quiet certainty. Yet somehow, hearing the title spoken aloud sent a strange chill through you anyway.
You swallowed slowly, eyes drifting back toward Thranduil just as he finally moved.
The motion itself was subtle—merely the shift of his hand against the throne, the slow rise of his figure from his seat, yet the entire room seemed to still around it.
Every elf standing guard straightened almost imperceptibly. Even the sound of rushing water beneath the bridges seemed quieter somehow beneath the weight of his presence.
Your chest tightened slightly without reason, as Thranduil descended the steps of his throne with measured grace, robes trailing behind him like flowing moonlight. His expression remained unreadable, pale eyes sharp as they settled upon Thorin beside you.
"Some may imagine that a noble quest is at hand," he began smoothly, his voice echoing throughout the chamber like silk dragged over steel. "A quest to reclaim a homeland and slay a dragon."
You glanced sideways the instant those words left his lips. Thorin had gone completely rigid beside you, every muscle in his body locking into place beneath layers of controlled fury barely held in check.
His hands curled at his sides, knuckles tightening until they blanched, and his jaw clenched so hard it looked as though it might crack under the pressure.
Still, he did not speak—only stared forward with burning restraint, blue eyes fixed upon the Elvenking with a stare sharp enough to wound.
"I, myself," he continued, the faintest edge of amusement threading through his tone, "suspect a more prosaic motive… attempted burglary, or something of that ilk." His gaze never left Thorin as he spoke, pale eyes narrowing slightly as though he were reading something beneath the dwarf's silence, something unspoken but deeply familiar.
Every word was measured, deliberate, and cutting in its restraint, as if he had no need to raise his voice to make it land.
The Elvenking moved slowly now through the throne room, circling almost lazily, though there was something unnerving about the way he carried himself, as though entirely aware that every eye followed him, every breath shifted around him.
"You have found a way in." He said, each step he took echoed softly through the throne room. "You seek that which would bestow upon you the right to rule." His voice lowered slightly then, almost deliberate. "The King's Jewel. The Arkenstone."
At the mention of it, something dark flickered across Thorin's face. His shoulders stiffened further, fingers curling tightly at his sides. Beside him, you could almost feel the anger radiating from him in waves.
"It is precious to you and your people beyond measure," Thranduil said calmly. "I understand that."
His pacing then slowed, seemed to be taking in a moment before he continued. "There are gems within the mountain that I too desire," His voice softened faintly, his gaze distant for only a brief moment. "White gems of pure starlight."
For the first time since entering the throne room, something shifted in his expression—not emotion exactly, but memory. Something old. Something bitter.
The atmosphere changed alongside with it, even Legolas beside you seemed quieter now, his posture subtly straighter as silence settled heavily through the hall.
Thranduil then looked back toward Thorin, his attention fully back at him once more. "I offer you my help."
The declaration was simple, almost gentle in tone, yet it carried weight enough to silence even the faintest rustle in the hall.
It did not sound like generosity, it sounded like control wrapped in courtesy. The words lingered in the space between them, suspended in the air, as though waiting to see who would dare challenge their meaning.
Thorin's eyes narrowed slightly at it. He did not move, though suspicion was written plainly across his features now. "I'm listening," he answered carefully, voice low and guarded.
A faint smile touched the Elvenking's lips then—not warm, not kind, but full with quiet amusement. It was the kind of smile that belonged to someone who already understood the outcome of the conversation, and was merely deciding how much truth to reveal at once.
"I will let you go… if you but return what is mine."
As he spoke, Thranduil resumed pacing leisurely across the throne room, the sound of his robes brushing softly against stone the only thing breaking the silence. Yet halfway through his movement—
He paused.
It was small, almost nothing. But in a room like this, where every breath felt accounted for, even the slightest hesitation felt like a fracture in reality.
His pale eyes shifted first, breaking away from Thorin mid-thought as though something had quietly redirected his attention without warning. And then they landed directly on you.
Your entire body stiffened beneath his sudden attention, shoulders locking instinctively as though your instincts had decided to react before your mind could even begin to understand why.
The moment Thranduil's gaze fully settled upon you, everything changed.
You saw it immediately. The cold, distant indifference that had coated his expression just moments ago faltered so suddenly it was almost jarring, like something carefully controlled had slipped for the briefest fraction of a second.
His steps stopped completely, the faint, cutting amusement that had lingered in his eyes vanishing without warning, leaving something far more exposed in its place.
And then came something you never would have expected to see on the face of the Elvenking.
Shock. Pure, devastating shock.
His pale eyes widened, searching your face with alarming intensity, as though trying to make sense of something impossible standing before him.
The color seemed to drain from his expression bit by bit, his posture stiffening in a way that made the entire throne room fall eerily silent.
A faint crease formed between your brows beneath the intensity of his gaze then, unease slowly coiling in your chest the longer he continued staring. Because whatever was reflected in the Elvenking's eyes now—it went far beyond mere surprise.
There was sorrow there, deep and unmistakable, tangled together with something dangerously close to panic and a disbelief so nakedly exposed it almost hurt to witness.
It looked less like recognition and more like someone confronting a wound they had once buried, only for it to suddenly stand breathing before them again.
Your chest tightened uneasily at the sudden shift. The room itself even seemed to still around him in response. Even the guards along the walls stood more rigid, uncertain whether to move or remain frozen in place.
Thorin noticed it too, his brows furrowed slowly as his sharp gaze shifted between you and the Elvenking with growing suspicion, the earlier fury in his posture momentarily replaced by wary calculation.
He did not speak, but the way his stance subtly adjusted made it clear he no longer viewed this as a simple exchange of threats and bargaining.
Legolas, who stood beside you had gone noticeably still, confusion flashing clearly across his features for the first time since entering the hall, whilst Tauriel's eyes narrowed slightly, her attention sharpening immediately.
But the Elvenking just seemed to look like he had seen a ghost.
His lips parted faintly, though whatever words had risen there seemed to die before they could escape. His eyes roamed across your face with unsettling intensity, searching every feature with near-desperate focus, as though comparing you against a memory he had carried for far too long.
There was nothing regal in the look anymore, nothing distant or untouchable. Only someone trying, and failing to convince himself that what stood before him could not possibly be real.
Like he was looking at the past itself, and there it was, staring right back at him.
Then, barely above a whisper, "…Lumena?" The name slipped from his lips so faintly you almost believed you had imagined it, carried into the silence like something forbidden dragged unwillingly from the depths of memory.
Yet despite how softly it was spoken, the effect was immediate. The air itself seemed to tighten around the word, tension rippling outward so suddenly it felt as though the entire hall had drawn breath at once.
Your own brows pulled together completely, the name repeating itself in your head in loops.
Lumena?
Ahead of you, the Elvenking looked as though he regretted speaking at all. The instant the name left his lips, something shuttered violently behind his eyes, his expression tightening with sudden awareness, as though he had revealed far more than intended.
Despite himself, he could not seem to look away from you.
No—Not you.
His gaze had shifted lower now, fixed intently upon the pendant resting against your chest. And the moment he truly saw it, whatever fragile composure he had left seemed to fracture completely.
Before you could even begin to make sense of the name lingering in the air, Thranduil moved. One heartbeat he stood near the foot of the throne, distant beneath silver-green light and shadowed branches overhead—then suddenly he was before you, crossing the hall with such unnatural swiftness it hardly looked like movement at all.
The sharp sweep of his robes cut across the stone floor as he closed the distance in an instant, the suddenness of it forcing you to stumble backward in alarm.
Your breath caught hard in your throat, eyes widening as instinct immediately screamed at you to move, though your body barely had time to react.
"Wha-?" The sound barely escaped you before his hand moved.
Long pale fingers caught suddenly against the pendant hidden beneath your collar, gripping the chain with startling force before dragging it free into the open.
The motion snapped the pendant forward sharply, the chain biting briefly against your skin as you were pulled off balance with it.
A startled gasp left you immediately, your entire body lurching toward him from the force as your hands flew upward on instinct, grabbing tightly around his wrist without even thinking.
The pendant swayed faintly between the two of you now, glinting beneath the pale light filtering through the halls. And the moment he had saw it clearly, something inside him broke.
The throne room erupted into motion around you.
Several guards shifted forward instantly, startled by the abruptness of the Elvenking's actions, hands instinctively moving toward their weapons despite their hesitation, while Thorin took a sharp step ahead with visible alarm flashing across his face.
Beside you, Legolas stiffened completely. "My Elven-lord-" The word came sharper than before, edged with alarm as he took a quick step forward, clearly unsettled by the sight unfolding before him.
Yet Thranduil did not acknowledge him. In truth, he seemed entirely unaware of anyone else remaining in the room.
His entire focus had narrowed onto the pendant now trembling between his fingers. His breathing had changed—barely, but enough to notice, as though the sight of it had struck something deep enough to shake even him.
His eyes moved across every detail of the necklace with near-desperate intensity, disbelief warring openly across features that moments ago had been carved entirely from control.
His breathing faltered visibly, eyes widened further in horror and recognition crashing across his face with devastating force. Even his hand tightened unconsciously around the pendant, fingers curling against the silver chain like he could not convince himself the object before him truly existed.
"Where did you get this?" He gritted his teeth, the words weren't spoken calmly a single bit. It was rough, demanding, almost desperate beneath the anger, loud enough that the sound rebounded sharply against stone and carved pillars alike.
His voice rose sharply, raw and demanding in a way that made everyone in the hall freeze instantly. The sheer force behind it startled you badly enough that your heart nearly stopped.
You had never imagined the Elvenking capable of sounding so… shaken.
Panic surged through you immediately, fast and overwhelming beneath the weight of his stare. "I-!" The sound caught uselessly in your throat as your fingers instinctively tightened around his wrist, your mind scrambling desperately to answer while confusion and fear tangled together inside your chest.
"It's-it's my mother's!" you blurted out hurriedly, the words stumbling over each other in your panic. "I've had it ever since I was little-!"
The moment the truth left your lips—
Everything changed.
The tension in his grip loosened ever so slightly around the pendant as your words settled between you, and for one fractured moment, the grief hidden beneath his composure became impossible to conceal.
His stare turned distant, unfocused, as though your answer had dragged him somewhere far beyond the throne room entirely.
A thousand emotions flickered through his expression too quickly to fully grasp—shock, sorrow, regret, yearning, it'd all come crashing together beneath the fragile remains of restraint.
His jaw tightened sharply afterward, like he was trying to force himself back into control, but it was already too late.
His eyes searched yours again—desperately this time, as though trying to piece together every impossible detail standing before him.
"Your… mother?" he repeated quietly. Now they sounded almost fragile, like something spoken more to himself than to you. The Elvenking standing before you no longer resembled the composed ruler who had towered above everyone moments ago.
The distance in him had vanished, leaving behind someone visibly shaken by memories he had not been prepared to face again, caught between memory and grief, struggling to separate one from the other.
His eyes lowered once more toward the pendant still caught loosely within his grasp. For a brief moment, his thumb brushed across its surface with unmistakable familiarity, the movement slow and almost absent-minded, like tracing over something precious long believed lost.
When his gaze lifted back toward your face again, something inside his expression gave way completely.
Because you looked so much like her.
Not enough to mistake you for the woman he had once known—not truly. Time had changed too much for that illusion to survive.
Yet there were fragments. Small, unbearable pieces of her reflected back at him through you. The shape of your eyes. The way your expression shifted when confused. Even the stubbornness flickering beneath your fear reminded him too much of someone he had once known too well.
And it was enough.
For one terrible instant, it was written plainly across his face—that centuries-old grief had surged back into him all at once, tearing through wounds time had never truly healed.
His breathing steadied gradually, though the faint unsteadiness beneath it remained impossible to hide completely. Even now, his fingers lingered against the necklace as though letting go of it meant accepting something he was not ready to face.
The anger that had exploded from him moments earlier faded almost instantly, replaced instead by something quieter, something infinitely more dangerous.
Pain.
"Hah…" He laughed breathless. It escaped him quietly, but it sounded wrong coming from someone like him. Not amused nor cruel, it sounded like grief given sound after centuries of silence.
His eyes lowered briefly, lashes casting faint shadows across features no longer guarded carefully enough to hide the sorrow carved into them.
There was exhaustion there too, ancient and heavy, like he had spent centuries outrunning memories only for them to suddenly stand breathing before him once again.
Then slowly, almost hesitantly, he looked back at you.
"…So you did return," he murmured at last, voice scarcely louder than the whisper of leaves beyond the halls. The words drifted from him quietly, unfocused, as though spoken to someone far away rather than the person standing before him now. "Even after all this time…"
A faint bitterness touched his expression then—not anger, but the ache of someone who had once hoped for something impossible.
His gaze lingered on your face with unsettling intensity, searching through you and beyond you all at once, as though caught between present and memory.
"You said you would find your way back to me," he continued softly, almost breathless beneath the weight of remembrance. "And now… even in death, you still refuse to leave me be."
Your brows immediately drew together in confusion. What?
Your fingers instinctively curled tighter around the pendant now resting once more against your chest, grounding yourself against the growing unease twisting inside you. Returned? What was he talking about?
You opened your mouth slightly, wanting to ask, but before a single word could leave you, Thorin's voice shattered violently through the throne room.
"Oi!" The sheer force behind it made several elves tensed on reflex, armor shifting sharply as hands moved instinctively toward sword hilts and spear shafts.
Thorin stepped forward abruptly, boots striking hard against the stone floor as he planted himself partly between you and Thranduil.
The fury radiating from him now was impossible to ignore. His jaw was clenched so tightly the muscles visibly twitched beneath his beard, blue eyes blazing with restrained hatred as he glared up at the Elvenking.
To him, none of this mattered beyond one thing—
you looked frightened, and that alone was enough.
"Don't hurt her!" Thorin barked harshly, the insult ringing sharply through the hall with unmistakable venom. Somewhere behind you, you heard one of the guards shift immediately, hands tightening around their weapon.
But Thorin did not back down. If anything, he stepped closer still, planting himself more firmly before you as though daring anyone to try removing him.
His expression had darkened completely now, years of bitterness and distrust toward the Elvenking surfacing plainly across his face.
"Unhand her." Thorin snapped sharply, protective irritation flashing across his face.
Meanwhile, you stared at Thorin in complete horror. Did he seriously just say that to the King of Mirkwood? In his territory?
Thorin however, either didn't notice your panic—or simply did not care at all. His attention remained locked entirely on Thranduil as he continued forward another step, voice rough and edged with warning. "Back to business," he growled. "A favor for a favor."
For a fleeting second, Thorin glanced sideways toward you. The rage in his expression softened only barely, concern flickering across his features before it vanished beneath stone once more.
Then he turned back toward Thranduil, lifting his chin slightly despite the guards already bristling around the room.
It was your first time seeing him look at you that way, but you brushed it off, currently your main focus had to be on the Elvenking before you. If not, who knows? You'll be thrown into prison like the rest.
For several long seconds, Thranduil said nothing. Then slowly, almost like he was forcing himself awake from some distant memory, his eyes blinked once.
The movement looked strangely delayed, his composure pieced together too carefully now to appear natural. At last, his fingers loosened completely from the necklace.
The pendant slipped from his hand and fell softly back against your chest. Even then, his gaze followed it downward, lingering upon the silver as though part of him still could not bring himself to release it fully.
The moment his hold disappeared, you instinctively stumbled backward half a step, your hand immediately flying toward the pendant protectively.
Fingers curled tightly around it against your chest as though shielding it from him now, your pulse hammering so violently beneath your ribs it almost hurt.
The throne room remained deathly silent. No one moved, no one understood what had just happened.
Except perhaps Legolas. Because beside you, his expression had gone strangely pale as realization slowly began dawning across his features too.
"You have my word then," Thranduil said firmly, his tone slightly steadier now . "One king to another."
Thorin then laughed after hearing those words. A sharp, disbelieving exhale escaped him as he slowly straightened, the fragile crack in his composure showing through.
"Ah…" he murmured softly, eyes filled with mockery narrowing faintly upon Thranduil. "Right. A king's word." He spat, bitterness laced beneath his voice, as his expression twisted immediately.
"I would not trust Thranduil, the great king, to honor his word should the ending of days itself be upon us!"
The fury he had been suppressing finally surged free now, raw and burning. His voice thundered throughout the chamber, echoing violently against stone and water alike.
You flinched slightly at the sudden raise in his tone, this was no longer negotiation, but rather this was years of hatred finally clawing its way to the surface.
Thorin stepped forward again, pointing directly toward Thranduil with enough force that several guards immediately tensed. "You lack all honor!" he roared. "I have seen how you treat your friends!"
"We came to you once!" Thorin continued, voice cracking beneath the force of his rage. "Starving! Homeless! Seeking your aid!"
Every word dripped with old pain, "But you turned your back!" His voice echoed violently through the throne room now. "You turned away from the suffering of my people and the inferno that destroyed us!"
"Die a death of flames." Thorin then spewed in dwarvish.
The moment the words left him, everything was bound to be changed. Thranduil moved so quickly the motion barely registered. One second he stood still—the next he was directly before Thorin once more, eyes blazing furious.
The entire hall seemed to recoil beneath the force of his anger. "Do not speak to me of dragon fire." His voice dropped low, deadly. He leaned forward until he and Thorin stood nearly nose to nose, pale eyes burning with restrained wrath.
"I know its wrath." He spoke, as something twisted suddenly across his features.
And before your eyes, it seemed like a illusion shattered. You gasped softly at it. Burns spread violently across one side of Thranduil's face, blackened scars crawling beneath his skin like remnants of living flame.
The perfection of the Elvenking vanished instantly beneath the ruin hidden underneath, jagged and horrifying.
Thorin looked caught off guard as well.
"I know its ruin," Thranduil continued quietly, his voice no longer sounded merely angry now. Instead, it sounded haunted.
For one terrible moment, you swore you saw it reflected in his eyes—the memory of fire, destruction and loss, before he slowly straightened once more.
The burns vanished instantly beneath the glamour returning across his features, leaving only the cold, flawless face of the Elvenking once again. "I have faced the great serpents of the North," he said calmly.
The room remained deathly silent, taking in every word Thranduil had to say. "I warned your grandfather of what his greed would summon." His gaze hardened upon Thorin. "But he would not listen."
"You are just like him." he said, clearly mocking the son of it.
Thorin's jaw tightened violently, but before he could answer, Thranduil turned away sharply, lifting one elegant hand toward the guards.
The command needed no words. Immediately, the elven guards surged forward. Chains rattled loudly as they seized Thorin by the arms. The dwarf struggled instantly, fury flashing across his face as he attempted to wrench himself free. "Unhand me!"
The guards dragged him backward regardless, boots scraping harshly against stone.
Thranduil could care less, he'd already begun ascending the steps toward his throne once more, every trace of earlier vulnerability buried once again beneath layers of regal indifference.
He sat slowly, as though none of it had affected him at all, lowering his cold gaze toward Thorin. "Stay here, if you will," he said smoothly. "And rot."
The faintest tilt of amusement touched his lips once more. "A hundred years is a mere blink in the life of an elf."
His eyes darkened slightly. "I am patient."
The throne room fell silent again. Yet even as Thorin was dragged away shouting curses beneath his breath—You noticed something. Thranduil's gaze drifted back toward you once more, and the grief in his eyes had not fully disappeared.
You.
More specifically—the pendant trembling faintly against your chest as your uneven breathing caused it to shift. The same necklace he had once seen resting against another person entirely. Against her.
Something dark flickered across his expression then, so quick you nearly missed it. Pain. Fear. Guilt. Perhaps all three tangled together so tightly even he could no longer separate them.
Then he spoke, "Throw her in as well." The command sliced through the throne room in an instant, cold and absolute despite the faint strain hidden beneath it.
For a second, you genuinely thought you had misheard him. Your brows pulled together slowly, confusion washing across your face before disbelief followed right after it.
A small breath escaped your lips, shaky and stunned, as though your mind refused to fully comprehend what had just happened. You genuinely thought you'd misheard him.
"…What?" The word barely came out properly, but the guards had already begun moving.
Armor shifted sharply as several elves stepped forward at once, boots striking against stone in practiced unison. The sound alone made your stomach tighten painfully.
You instinctively took a slow step backward, then another, eyes darting quickly between each approaching guard as panic slowly began creeping its way into your chest.
No one hesitated now, not after the king had spoken.
Your pulse pounded violently in your ears with every step they took closer. The throne room suddenly felt enormous and suffocating all at once, the glowing halls seeming to close around you despite their size. There was nowhere to go.
Even if you ran, you already knew how useless it would be. These were elves. You would barely make it past the pillars before they caught you.
And worst of all, Thranduil looked away, though not out of indifference. No… somehow that would have hurt less. He looked away like he could not bear to watch it happen, and that hurt far more than the order itself.
A faint huff escaped you then, almost laugh-like in its disbelief as you continued backing away slowly. Your fingers tightened instinctively around the pendant resting against your chest, knuckles paling beneath the pressure.
"Wait-" Your voice wavered despite your attempt to steady it. "I didn't even do anything-"
But the guards did not stop. One elf stepped forward first, arm extending toward you with clear intent to seize you before the situation worsened further.
Right as his hands reached, someone had moved in front of you, fast enough that you nearly gasped aloud in shock.
Legolas.
One moment he stood at your side, silent beneath the chaos unraveling around him—and the next he had stepped directly in front of you without hesitation, forcing the guards to halt immediately.
There he stood directly before you now, tall and rigid, placing himself between you and every drawn weapon in the room without a second of hesitation.
One arm extended instinctively across your front protectively, not quite touching you yet shielding you all the same, as though his body had reacted long before thought ever could.
The movement had been immediate, natural, effortless in the most dangerous way possible, like protecting you had never once been something he needed to think about.
And in his other hand, a dagger gleamed beneath the dim light of the throne hall.
You had not even seen the moment he drew it. One heartbeat his hands had been empty, the next silver flashed sharply before you as the blade settled with quiet precision at his side.
Legolas held it low, not carelessly brandished nor wildly threatening, yet the meaning behind it remained unmistakable. If anyone moved toward you again, he would not hesitate.
His grip remained steady despite the storm visibly brewing behind his eyes now. The Legolas standing before you now looked dangerous—tense in a way that made the entire hall freeze around him.
"Do not touch her." His voice came low and sharp, cutting cleanly through the suffocating silence.
It was not a plea. Not even a warning. It was a command.
Every guard stopped instantly. Not because they feared the dagger in his hand. Elves of Mirkwood did not frighten easily, least of all by steel. No—what unsettled them was the sight before them.
Their prince stood armed against his own kin, against his father's order.
The prince of Mirkwood stood armed before them now, openly shielding someone his father had just ordered imprisoned.
The realization spread visibly through the chamber in ripples of tension. Several guards exchanged brief uncertain glances, clearly caught between duty to their king and loyalty toward the heir standing before them now.
One shifted his footing uneasily, while another lowered his spear ever so slightly without realizing it. None of them seemed entirely certain how to proceed anymore.
Because this was no ordinary act of defiance.
A flicker of disbelief spread visibly through the throne room. Tauriel straightened instantly where she stood nearby, eyes widening slightly though not entirely in surprise, as though some part of her had always known this moment would come eventually ever since witnessing your interaction not too long ago.
Meanwhile, you could only stare silently at Legolas' back from behind, your thoughts momentarily falling into complete disarray.
You seemed to notice everything suddenly—the tension pulled tightly through his shoulders, the subtle rise and fall of heavier breathing he was trying desperately to control, the way his stance never once wavered despite the dozens of eyes now fixed upon him.
The realization settled strangely in your chest, because Legolas knew exactly what he was doing.
This was not some reckless impulse born from emotion alone. He understood the consequences standing before his father armed like this.
He understood every watching guard now waited for a single wrong movement to turn the throne room into chaos. And yet even knowing all that—he still refused to step aside.
Your fingers tightened unconsciously around the pendant resting against your chest.
One of the guards finally attempted another careful step forward anyway, perhaps hoping the prince's restraint would outweigh his resolve. The movement was slow, cautious, barely more than a shift against the stone floor.
Legolas reacted instantly, as the dagger lifted slightly in warning, while his gaze snapped toward the approaching elf with enough icy intensity to halt him mid-step. "I said," Legolas repeated slowly, each word edged with restrained anger, "do not touch her."
Silence crashed over the room once more before that same old cold voice pierced through it.
"Legolas." Thranduil's voice echoed sharply throughout the hall, the warning beneath that single word was unmistakable. Yet Legolas did not move, he did not even bother to lower his blade, nor did he step aside.
Slowly, Thranduil descended another step from the throne platform, his pale gaze fixed entirely upon his son now. The grief and confusion from earlier had vanished beneath something colder, something far more dangerous.
"You forget yourself," Thranduil said quietly, though the calmness in his voice somehow made it worse.
Legolas' jaw tightened visibly. For a brief moment, you saw conflict flicker across his expression—old loyalty clashing violently against something stronger now.
Still, he never lowered the dagger. "No," he answered firmly at last, his voice steady despite the tension pulling through him. "I remember precisely who I am."
A sharp tension swept across the throne room instantly at his choice of response. Several guards exchanged uneasy glances while Tauriel's attention sharpened further, clearly preparing herself should the situation collapse entirely.
Thranduil stopped only a few steps away, expression unreadable once more. "Stand aside." The command came calm.
And for the first time since you had met Legolas, there was something openly defiant burning within his eyes.
"She has harmed no one," Legolas said, "She's the daughter of Lumena. And if word were to spread that she was cast into the cells unjustly…" His eyes sharpened faintly. "There are many within this realm who would not remain silent"
His grip around the dagger tightened faintly then before continuing. "She is not our enemy."
Thranduil's expression darkened the moment those words reached his ears. "And yet," he replied smoothly, each word measured with dangerous precision, "you would raise a blade against your own king for her?" The question hung heavily between them.
Legolas hesitated, only for the briefest second. But in a throne room this silent, even the smallest uncertainty became impossible to miss.
You saw it flicker through him immediately, the conflict tearing beneath his composure as duty warred violently against something stronger now. Loyalty to his father, loyalty to his kingdom. And then… you.
His eyes shifted toward you at last, just one glance.
Yet somehow it felt heavier than everything spoken between them so far. His gaze caught the sight of your trembling hands curled tightly around the necklace against your chest, the fear you were trying desperately not to show.
And whatever answer he found there seemed to settle something inside him completely. When he looked back at Thranduil again, the hesitation was all gone. "If I must."
The entire throne room seemed to inhale sharply all at once.
Even you froze behind him, eyes widening in complete disbelief as your breath caught somewhere painfully in your chest. Because Legolas had just openly defied the Elvenking before the entirety of his court.
And judging by the slow, unreadable look now settling across Thranduil's face—This was no longer merely about prisoners. This had become deeply, dangerously personal.
Your eyes remained fixed on Legolas' back, your thoughts struggling to catch up with everything unfolding before you.
The way the guards had immediately halted the moment he stepped between you and them, the tension now crackling through the entire throne room because of a single movement from him alone—it was enough to tell you that Legolas held far more authority here than you had first assumed.
At first, you thought perhaps it was because he was captain of the guard, someone respected enough that others naturally followed his lead.
But that thought shattered almost instantly the moment one of the guards finally spoke, his voice strained with visible uncertainty as his eyes flickered nervously between Legolas and the Elvenking.
"My lord…"The elf hesitated, clearly choosing his words with care now, his grip tightening faintly around his spear.
"It is your king's command." His brows furrowed deeper, desperation slipping into his tone as though he genuinely wished not to stand against either side. "Even if he is your father… neither you nor I may openly defy him."
The words struck you so suddenly your mind blanked for half a heartbeat.
"…What?" Your head snapped up toward Legolas so quickly it almost hurt, eyes widening in complete disbelief as the realization came crashing down all at once.
"The Elvenking is your father?" you blurted, your voice echoing far louder than intended through the silent halls.
Several heads turned toward you instantly, though you barely noticed beneath the sheer disbelief crashing through your thoughts.
Your eyes widened further the longer you stared at Legolas' back, bafflement written plainly across your face. "You're a prince?!"
Of all the impossible things this day had thrown at you, imprisonment, emotionally unstable elf kings—somehow that had caught you most off guard.
Your brows pulled together harder in bewilderment, gaze flickering rapidly between Legolas and Thranduil as your mind desperately attempted to rearrange every interaction you had ever had with him into this entirely new context.
Suddenly everything made far too much sense.
The guards listening to him immediately. The way the elves moved around him with instinctive respect.
The hair.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," you muttered beneath your breath in complete disbelief before looking back at him again. "You're literally a prince, and you never told me!"
For the briefest second, something softened across Legolas' otherwise tense expression. It was small—so fleeting most would have missed it entirely, but you caught it nonetheless.
The slightest twitch near the corner of his mouth, subtle enough to vanish almost immediately, as though the absurdity of your outrage had momentarily slipped past his restraint and nearly pulled a smile from him despite himself.
Yet his posture never relaxed, his dagger still angled protectively before him as his sharp gaze remained fixed on the guards ahead, every muscle in his body coiled tight with restraint.
"You never asked," he answered simply.
You stared at him in genuine disbelief. "That is not something people usually have to ask!" you whisper-hissed back immediately, scandalized despite the danger around you. "Who walks around assuming they need to ask if someone's secretly royalty?!"
"Mm." For the briefest moment, Legolas' attention shifted toward you again, only slightly, though it was enough for you to catch the subtle change in his expression beneath all the tension surrounding him.
His gaze swept over you quickly, checking you over almost instinctively as though reassuring himself you were still unharmed amidst the chaos unfolding around you.
Then, quieter this time—low enough that the words brushed only against your ears, he spoke again. "Stay behind me alright?"
The calmness in his voice should not have affected you as much as it did, yet somehow it did.
Your breath caught faintly at the words, despite the guards surrounding you, despite the king standing only a few steps away watching everything unfold with unreadable eyes, Legolas still sounded far more concerned about you than himself.
And across the hall, Thranduil noticed it too. The Elvenking's pale gaze lingered upon his son carefully now, upon the protective angle of his body, the dagger still raised toward his own people, the quiet way he positioned himself between you and every possible threat without hesitation.
Something shifted across Thranduil's expression then, subtle enough that most would not notice.
"Legolas," Thranduil spoke at last, his voice quieter now. The disappointment woven through the single word settled coldly across the hall. "You place yourself in dangerous waters."
The warning lingered between them, not spoken as a king to a disobedient prince.
But almost… as a father watching his son walk toward the very same ruin he once could not escape himself.
"If protecting her places me there," he answered steadily, his grip tightening faintly around the dagger, "then so be it."
Silence followed immediately after, it was heavy and suffocating. And standing behind him, staring at the unwavering figure shielding you without hesitation, you realized something terrifying all at once.
He meant it. This was not reckless bravado nor some desperate attempt to frighten the guards into retreat. Legolas was not bluffing.
If this throne room turned against you now—if his father commanded these elves forward despite everything, he truly would stand against them for your sake.
"You act as though you know her well." Thranduil spoke back then. His pale eyes remained fixed upon Legolas with growing intensity, the faint sneer curling along his lips doing little to hide the tension tightening beneath his composure.
This conversation was no longer unfolding the way he'd wished.
Legolas however, had not lower his dagger despite such warnings. If anything, his posture only straightened further, shoulders squaring instinctively as he stood firmly between you and the guards.
"I do know her," he answered without hesitation.
His gaze then finally lifted fully toward his father, something almost challenging flickering through his eyes now. "She is the girl I told you about. The one I have been meeting when I was a child.”
Legolas tilted his head just slightly then, though the movement held no humor. "It seems," he continued quietly, "I was not lying after all."
As he finished, genuine disbelief crossed Thranduil's face. Just stunned disbelief, as though he could scarcely comprehend the words spoken before him.
"Hah…" A hollow sound escaped him, somewhere between disbelief and bitter amusement as he descended another slow step.
"And now you choose to utter nonsense before your king?" His voice hardened instantly afterward, centuries of authority crashing back into place. "I said stand aside, Legolas." He commanded, the words echoing harshly through the halls.
Legolas did not move though. He'd just planted himself more firmly before you, the dagger remaining steady within his grasp as his expression hardened with quiet resolve. No fear crossed his face now. No hesitation. Only stubborn certainty.
And the sight struck Thranduil harder than he could've ever expected. He was no longer looking at his son.
For the briefest, most painful moment, he saw himself instead. Younger. Reckless. Standing before another throne long ago with that same defiant fire burning in his eyes for someone he should never have loved so deeply.
For her. Lumena.
The memories came uninvited, vicious in their clarity. Soft laughter echoing through moonlit halls, gentle hands reaching for his, silver tears, blood and loss.
It had taken centuries to bury those memories deep enough to survive them. Centuries spent forcing himself not to remember her voice, her smile, the way she had once looked at him as though he alone existed beneath the stars.
He had wanted it all gone. Every trace of her erased from his mind because remembering had become torture.
Yet now you stood before him wearing her eyes, her necklace, her kindness. And his son looked at you the exact same way he once looked at her.
The realization twisted painfully through his chest. Something in Thranduil softened then despite himself, faint enough most would never notice it.
His expression faltered for only half a second, grief slipping through the cracks before his jaw twitched sharply once more, forcing the emotion back down where it belonged.
"…Very well." The words came quieter than before, though the sternness remained. Yet beneath it, there was the faintest tremble hidden within his voice now, almost swallowed entirely by pride.
Your eyes widened at the sudden shift in his expression, confusion written plainly across your face as you stared at him.
Around the hall, even the guards looked uncertain now, glancing uneasily toward one another as though unsure whether they had heard correctly.
Thranduil's gaze shifted toward you slowly then. For a moment, he simply looked at you, really looked at you. His eyes traced the bruises scattered across your hands, the exhaustion lingering beneath your expression, the thin weird clothing still clinging damply against your skin from the cold outside.
Something unreadable flickered across his face again before he spoke at last.
"You," he began carefully, though his tone remained controlled, "will remain under Legolas' supervision." His eyes flickered briefly toward his son afterward.
"Should anything occur…" he paused, before continuing, "It shall fall upon you."
Legolas inclined his head slightly without argument, though relief visibly loosened some of the tension held within his posture. The dagger lowered at last, though he still did not fully step away from you yet.
Thranduil's eyes then seemed to find itself drifting back toward you once more. He paused, his gaze lingered noticeably longer than necessary before he cleared his throat quietly, almost as though irritated with himself.
"And…" His voice faltered briefly before smoothing itself out again. "See that she is given proper garments to change into."
The room seemed to blink collectively in confusion. Thranduil immediately looked away afterward, pretending sudden interest elsewhere as though he had not just spoken.
"It is cold beyond these halls during this season," he added stiffly, the explanation sounding almost forced.
You could only stand there staring at Thranduil in complete confusion as he turned sharply, silver robes sweeping behind him while he ascended the throne steps once more.
Nothing about this situation made sense anymore. Not the way he looked at you. Not the grief hidden behind his anger. And certainly not the strange softness that kept slipping through despite how desperately he tried to bury it.
➽──────────────────────────────❥
The room they had brought you to was far quieter than the throne hall below. Soft lanternlight flickered gently against carved stone walls woven with twisting vines and roots, while silver curtains shifted faintly whenever the breeze slipped through the open archway nearby.
Compared to the chaos from earlier, the silence almost felt nice.
You sat near the edge of the large wooden bed awkwardly, your legs crossed beneath you as you absentmindedly tugged at the sleeves of your old hoodie.
Honestly, the thing had seen better days several disasters ago. It was stained with dirt, dried blood, ash, and whatever else this adventure had decided to throw at you. At this point, even you were beginning to question how you were still surviving inside it.
"…I smell terrible," you muttered quietly to yourself, lifting the collar slightly before immediately recoiling with a disgusted grimace. "Oh my god."
You had barely drawn breath to continue your complaints when a soft knock sounded against the wooden doorway, light and careful against the quietness of the room. Before you could even answer, the door slowly slid open, pulling your attention away immediately.
Legolas stepped inside soon after, though noticeably slower than before, as though he was still uncertain how to approach you after everything that had happened.
The light spilling into the room caught against his pale hair beautifully, softening the sharpness he'd carried within the throne halls.
Folded neatly within his arms rested a set of dark green and silver clothes, layered fabrics embroidered delicately along the sleeves in patterns you vaguely recognized from the female guards wandering the palace earlier.
The material looked so soft, and warm. Significantly cleaner than whatever remained of the clothes currently hanging off your body.
His gaze lifted the moment he stepped fully inside the room, immediately finding yours. And just like before, something in his expression softened almost at once.
"I brought these for you," he said quietly while approaching, his voice gentler now that the chaos from earlier had finally faded. He held the clothes out carefully toward you, fingers lingering slightly against the folded fabric as though unsure whether you would accept them immediately.
"They should fit… adequately enough." His eyes dipped briefly toward your current state then—the worn fabric, the dirt smeared faintly along your sleeves, the damp edges still clinging from the cold outside, before lifting back toward your face again.
A faint pause followed. Then the smallest trace of amusement tugged subtly at the corner of his mouth, softening his features in a way that almost distracted you entirely.
"Though," he added lightly, gaze flickering once more toward your rather questionable attire, "I fear nothing within Mirkwood was designed with your… unusual attire in mind.."
Your gaze immediately dropped toward yourself afterward, lips pressing into a small line as you looked down at the state of your current clothes.
Dirt stained the sleeves, the fabric slightly damp at the edges from the cold outside, and honestly? You were beginning to understand why every elf in this palace kept staring at your hoodie like it was some strange woodland creature.
"…That was mildly offensive," you muttered beneath your breath, though the lack of actual irritation in your voice made the complaint entirely useless.
The faintest flicker of amusement touched Legolas' features at that, subtle enough it almost disappeared before you fully caught it.
Though, It wasn't long before your attention snapped right back toward the folded clothes resting within his hands. The moment your fingers touched the fabric, your eyes widened almost instantly.
"Wait-" You took the clothes from him quickly, genuine surprise lighting across your features as your hands brushed carefully over the smooth embroidery woven into the sleeves.
The material was softer than you expected, cool beneath your fingertips yet rich and beautifully crafted in a way that made your own clothing suddenly feel even more tragic by comparison.
"These are actually beautiful." you breathed, the awe in your voice came entirely unfiltered as you lifted part of the fabric slightly to inspect it better beneath the lanternlight.
Silver stitching glimmered softly across the dark green layers like moonlight caught within woven leaves, elegant without seeming excessive.
Your brows lifted higher the longer you stared. "You all dress like this every single day?" you asked incredulously before looking back up at him, eyes bright with disbelief. "No wonder every person here looks like they walked straight out of some fantasy film."
Legolas frowned faintly in confusion upon your words. "…A fantasy film?" he repeated carefully, the unfamiliar words sounding oddly formal within his accent.
The question made you pause immediately. Your mouth opened halfway on instinct, fully prepared to explain—before the realization hit you all at once that trying to explain modern cinema to an elven prince from Middle-earth would probably create far more problems than solutions.
"…You know what," you said quickly instead, waving one hand dismissively through the air, "never mind."
Even with your reassurance, Legolas continued watching you with clear suspicion now, though thankfully he did not press further.
You grinned faintly afterward, standing up from the bed without another thought, still clutching the clothes carefully against yourself.
"Seriously though," you said while glancing down at your current hoodie with visible judgment, "thank you. I've been wearing this thing for so many days I'm very certain it's evolved into its own living organism by now."
Legolas' brows lifted faintly at your strange wording, confusion flickering briefly across his features as though he was genuinely trying to understand how clothing could possibly become 'biologically dangerous.'
But before he could question it further—You had already grabbed the hem of your shirt and pulled it straight over your head without a second thought.
Legolas froze instantly, well completely.
His eyes widened then, before he turned away with such alarming speed it would have been impressive under literally any other circumstance.
blonde hair shifted sharply across his shoulders with the sudden movement as he redirected his attention very intensely toward the farthest wall in the room like it had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in Middle-earth.
"My apologies-!" he blurted instantly, his voice noticeably tighter than before. One hand lifted halfway instinctively, almost like he did not know what to do with himself anymore.
"I did not realize you intended to-" He stopped abruptly, jaw tightening as the faintest flush began creeping across the tips of his ears. "Why," he asked carefully after a strained pause, still refusing to look anywhere near you, "are you removing your garments while I am still present?"
You blinked at him mid-motion. Your old hoodie now hung loosely from one hand while you stood there in the singlet underneath, looking significantly less scandalous than whatever horrifying conclusion Legolas had apparently jumped to in his head.
"…Huh?"
Your confusion only seemed to make him tense further somehow.
Legolas remained rigidly turned toward the opposite wall, posture impossibly straight now as though sheer discipline alone was keeping him from spontaneously combusting out of embarrassment.
"You could have warned me," he muttered quietly, sounding deeply distressed by the entire situation.
You stared at him for another second before slowly looking down at yourself, then back at him again.
Legolas still refused to turn back toward you, shoulders stiff as a board, posture rigid with obvious discomfort. "That is not appropriate." His voice lowered slightly, sounding both flustered and horrified all at once. "Particularly not before an unmarried person."
You paused, staring at the back of his head for a long moment as if you were genuinely trying to figure out where exactly the misunderstanding had begun. Then, almost cautiously, you looked back down at yourself again.
"…But I’m wearing a singlet underneath," you said, like that should have logically resolved everything.
Silence was all that was given back instead. From where you couldn't see, Legolas blinked once, slowly.
Then, as if against his better judgment, he turned just slightly over his shoulder.
And the moment his eyes registered that you were, in fact, somewhat covered, the faint flush that had been threatening his composure deepened instantly, creeping further up his ears in a way he clearly wished was not happening. He snapped his gaze forward again just as quickly.
You frowned now, genuinely even more confused. "What? It's basically the same as a sleeveless shirt."
"It is not the same thing," he answered immediately, far too quickly, as though the argument itself was something he needed to win for survival purposes.
His head turned away again with visible stubbornness, though the tension in his voice had softened into something slightly flustered. "No respectable maiden simply begins changing garments while a man remains in the room."
That made you pause for a second, before realization came kicking in. It was the medieval times you were currently residing in.
Your expression shifted instantly, lips parting before a quiet laugh slipped out without permission, the realization settling in so suddenly it almost embarrassed you on its own. You lifted a hand briefly to your face, half-covering it as you shook your head.
"…Oh my god," you muttered under your breath, still smiling despite yourself. "Right. Different era."
Legolas, still very much turned away from you, tilted his head slightly at the unfamiliar phrase. "…Era?" he repeated carefully, clearly not satisfied with how many unknown words you were introducing into his life today.
"Nothing," you said quickly, letting out another small laugh as you lowered your hand again. "Forget it. I'm sorry. Where I'm from, this isn't really… an issue."
That finally earned a faint shift in his expression. Not quite a turn, but enough that you could see the furrow forming in his brows. "Your world sounds," he began after a pause, choosing his words with visible caution, "deeply concerning."
And that did it for you, as you laughed harder. The sound filled the room warmly, lighter than before, softer too—and Legolas found himself relaxing slightly the longer he heard it.
Because after everything that had happened today, after the fear and tension and tears… hearing you laugh again felt strangely relieving, a little less suffocating.
"…You can turn around now," you said at last, amusement still lingering in your tone as you pulled the new attire properly into place over your shoulders.
Legolas hesitated for a moment. You could practically feel the pause stretch in the air before he slowly turned back toward you, as if cautiously testing whether it was truly safe to look.
And then he did, almost promptly forgetting how to breathe for a fraction of a second as well.
The Mirkwood attire fit you far better than anything he had expected—dark green layers falling neatly against your frame, traced with fine silver detailing that caught softly in the lanternlight with every small movement you made.
The fabric looked almost like it belonged to you already, blending oddly well with your presence despite how out of place you still technically were.
Your hair was slightly tousled from changing, your expression still carrying traces of exhaustion around the eyes, yet there was something about the way you stood there now—clothed in elven garments, light shifting across the fabric—that made you look unsettlingly at home in these halls.
Legolas stared a moment too long. It wasn't dramatic in any outward sense—no sudden movement, no change in stance, no visible reaction that would betray him easily
And yet the stillness that followed felt different. Not empty, but suspended, as though time itself had slowed just enough to make the silence noticeable.
A quiet pause stretched between you both where his usual composure seemed to falter in the smallest, most subtle way—like a thought had surfaced too quickly for him to properly contain it, leaving him briefly caught between instinct and awareness.
His gaze remained fixed, unblinking, as if he had forgotten to redirect it elsewhere.
You noticed immediately, one brow lifting as your head tilted slightly to the side. "…What? Do I look bad?" you asked, narrowing your eyes with sudden suspicion as you studied his face more closely, as though trying to catch him in the act of something unspeakable.
Legolas blinked, straightening so quickly it almost looked like a reflex rather than a choice. His posture reset itself into perfect composure, shoulders squared, chin lifted slightly, as if he could physically force the moment to reset. "No… it is nothing."
"…You hesitated," you replied at once, eyes narrowing further as you stepped half a pace closer, clearly unconvinced.
"I did not," he answered immediately, too quickly, his gaze flicking away for a fraction of a second before returning forward as though anchoring himself.
"You literally did," you pressed, leaning in just slightly now, arms loosely crossed as your expression sharpened in challenge.
"I was merely ensuring the garments fit correctly,"
A slow, mischievous grin spread across your face at that, the kind that spelled immediate trouble. You rocked back on your heels slightly, eyes glinting with amusement. "Ohhh," you drawled, dragging the word out as if you had just uncovered something scandalous. "So you were looking."
Legolas nearly choked on air. His eyes widened a fraction before he quickly recovered, lifting a hand slightly as if to dismiss the accusation entirely. "I most certainly was not-, but you did... well.. ask me to look-"
"You totally were," you cut in smoothly, stepping forward again with growing confidence, grin widening. "Because if you weren't, that means I look bad, doesn't it?"
"I was not," he insisted again, voice a touch sharper now, though still noticeably flustered. "And no- that is not what I meant-"
You stared at him flatly for a second, letting the silence stretch just long enough for the moment to settle, before tilting your head ever so slightly. "…Legolas," you said slowly, pointing at him with quiet satisfaction. "Your ears are red."
He immediately turned away again.
Legolas had turned away so quickly after your teasing that you nearly laughed again right then and there. There was something oddly adorable about seeing the usually composed prince of Mirkwood suddenly lose every fragment of dignity over a simple comment.
Meanwhile, he stood near the carved archway pretending to admire the architecture with far too much intensity for it to be believable.
You sat cross-legged upon the edge of the bed, sleeves slightly too long over your hands as you adjusted it properly. "You know," you said casually, watching him with obvious amusement, "for someone so calm during sword fights and giant spider attacks… you panic very easily."
You tilted your head slightly, watching the way his shoulders subtly tightened at your words. "Reminds me of the days back then."
Legolas let out a quiet breath through his nose, the closest thing to a sigh he seemed willing to allow himself, his gaze still firmly fixed on the carved archway as though refusing to give your teasing the satisfaction of his attention.
Yet even from where you sat, you caught it—the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, "I do not panic."
"Mhm." You leaned back slightly on your hands, tilting your head with an amused, almost knowing look as your eyes narrowed in playful skepticism.
"I merely prefer proper manners," he added after a brief pause, his posture straightening again as if the correction itself required physical reinforcement.
"That sounds suspiciously like panic." You grinned immediately, pointing at him lightly as if presenting evidence in a case he was clearly losing.
His shoulders shifted subtly at that, a small adjustment like he was physically resisting the urge to turn back around and defend himself properly.
His jaw tightened for a second before he spoke again, voice still controlled but edged with quiet frustration. "Where you come from lacks concerning amounts of decorum."
You snorted softly at that, the sound breaking out before you could stop it as you shook your head slightly, clearly entertained. "You have no idea," you replied, lips curling into an easy grin as you watched him from where you sat, still clearly far too pleased with yourself.
At that, Legolas finally turned his head back toward you, and immediately stopped mid-motion.
His gaze landed on you properly this time, but instead of snapping away like before, it lingered. Just a second too long, then another, as though something had quietly caught his attention without him fully deciding to acknowledge it.
You noticed instantly. "…Why are you staring at me like that again?" you asked, narrowing your eyes slightly as you tilted your head, suspicious all over again.
The question seemed to pull him out of whatever thought he had drifted into. He blinked once, straightening as his composure tried to return.
Before you could continue, something in his expression shifted faintly. The teasing air seemed to fade from him as his attention sharpened instead, eyes narrowing just slightly as he focused past your words and onto something near your face.
"…Hold still," he said suddenly, voice quieter now.
You blinked in confusion, your expression slipping from playful to uncertain in an instant. "What?" you asked, sitting up a little straighter on the bed, hands pausing where they were resting against the fabric of your attire.
But before you could react properly, Legolas had already stepped closer. Far too close.
You barely even registered the movement. One moment he was still near the archway, half-lit by the lantern glow, and the next he was directly in front of you, his presence filling your space without warning.
Close enough now that the details you usually only caught from afar became impossible to ignore—the faint shift of colour within his eyes, the quiet steadiness of his breathing that never quite matched how fast your own had just become.
Up close, everything about him felt unfairly beautiful, from the pale glow of his skin beneath the silver-green light, the faint scent of cedar and rain lingering around him, to the quiet warmth hidden beneath his usually composed demeanor.
And then his hand lifted toward your face.
The motion was slow, deliberate, careful rather than sudden, but in your current state it might as well have been in slow motion. Your brain simply… stalled.
All coherent thought evaporated at once, leaving nothing but static as you tried to process what was happening and failed immediately.
Your expression froze mid-reaction, eyes widening slightly as your lips parted just a fraction.
Wait. What?
Your gaze flickered rapidly between his face and his approaching hand, panic and confusion tangling together so quickly you couldn't separate them into anything useful.
The rational part of your mind tried to speak, tried to insist there was a perfectly normal explanation for this, but it arrived far too late to matter.
No. Surely not.
That couldn't be what it looked like. Not with how close he was, not with the way he was looking at you right now—focused, unreadable, entirely too calm for whatever situation your imagination had already decided this was becoming.
Your breath hitched slightly, shoulders tensing as your body reacted before your thoughts could catch up, uncertainty written all over your face in the smallest details.
Without thinking, you instinctively leaned back slightly against the edge of the bed, your eyes squeezing shut in sheer panic.
Silence followed. Nothing happened. Slowly, you peeked one eye open.
Legolas was still standing right in front of you, hand paused mid-air as if he had simply stopped halfway through whatever he was doing.
His expression had shifted into open confusion now, brows drawing together slightly as he studied your face like you had just done something deeply unpredictable. "…What are you doing?" he asked carefully.
Heat surged into your face so fast it felt immediate and violent. Your eyes snapped fully open now, and you leaned forward slightly in sheer indignation and embarrassment.
"What are you doing?!" you whispered back at him immediately, voice hushed but frantic, horrified.
For a brief moment, Legolas just looked at you in silence, before understanding slowly flickered across his face. And to your utter devastation, amusement followed right after it. Very faint, very subtle, but definitely there.
"There was a strand of hair upon your face," he explained calmly, lowering his hand at last as if this was the most reasonable explanation in the world, his tone steady in a way that only made it worse. "I was helping you with removing it."
You stared at him, completely frozen in place, as the meaning finally settled properly in your mind. The tension in your shoulders dropped all at once, replaced instantly by a wave of embarrassment so intense it nearly made you physically recoil.
"Oh." The sound came out small, flat, and tragically late. Your gaze flickered away immediately as you lifted a hand to your face, half covering it as if that could somehow undo what had already happened. You wanted the floor to open up and take you with it. Preferably immediately.
A brief pause hung between you both, before Legolas' lips curved ever so slightly, so faintly it might have been mistaken for nothing at all if you weren't already hyper-aware of his every expression.
His head tilted a fraction as he studied you with quiet curiosity. "You believed I intended something else?" he asked, voice calm but with the smallest thread of amusement now woven through it.
His brows lifted just slightly as he waited for your answer, posture still relaxed in contrast to your complete internal collapse.
"No," you answered far too quickly, shaking your head once as your eyes darted away again, refusing to meet his gaze.
"…You closed your eyes," he continued after a beat.
"Well," you muttered, gesturing vaguely as if that explained everything, your ears visibly warm as you shifted your weight awkwardly on the bed, "with how you were acting, I panicked."
"That does not answer my question," he said immediately, entirely too composed for someone currently dismantling your dignity piece by piece.
You made a strangled sound of frustration before immediately covering your face with both hands, fingers pressing against your flushed cheeks, "Please stop speaking," you groaned into your palms, shoulders curling inward as you attempted, and failed—to disappear into yourself entirely.
A soft laugh escaped him then, quiet and warm and entirely too fond for your already struggling heart to handle properly.
Before you could recover, his hand lifted again—this time slower, gentler, giving you enough warning not to completely short-circuit again.
His fingers approached your face with careful restraint, brushing against your cheek so lightly it felt more like a suggestion than a touch. The contact was feather-soft, precise, as he gently swept the stray strand of hair away from your skin.
Your breath hitched at the sensation despite yourself, as his thumb grazed lightly along your skin before tucking the strand carefully behind your ear.
"There," he murmured softly, voice lower now, almost absent-minded in its gentleness.
The touch lingered only for a moment, yet somehow it felt unbearably intimate.
Your entire face burned immediately afterward, and judging by the faint shift in Legolas' expression, he noticed. His gaze softened visibly as he looked at you, something warm flickering behind his eyes before a quiet smile finally appeared fully across his face.
It was quiet, genuine, and dangerously fond in a way that made the air between you feel even harder to breathe in.
"You are very expressive," he said quietly, his voice calm and even, though the faint curve at the corner of his mouth betrayed that he was not entirely neutral about the observation.
His gaze lingered on you with quiet attentiveness, as if confirming his own statement in real time.
You frowned instantly despite still feeling the lingering heat in your face, brows knitting together as you looked up at him in disbelief. "…What is that supposed to mean?" you asked, tilting your head slightly, lips parting in offended confusion.
"It means," he replied after a brief pause, tone still composed but now carrying a trace of amusement he made no effort to hide anymore, "your thoughts are remarkably easy to read." His eyes flickered briefly over your expression as he spoke, as though demonstrating his point without needing further explanation.
Your jaw dropped a fraction, eyes widening in pure indignation as you leaned back slightly. "Excuse you?" you shot back immediately, personally insulted by the accusation.
Legolas tilted his head just a little then, hair shifting softly over his shoulder with the movement. The faint smile returned properly now, subtle but unmistakably entertained, as though he had found something unexpectedly enjoyable in the exchange.
"You wear every emotion plainly upon your face," he added simply, watching you with unbothered ease.
"Oh, and you don’t?" you countered at once, leaning forward slightly now, eyes narrowing as you tried to regain some ground in the conversation, your earlier embarrassment temporarily forgotten in favour of outrage.
"I do not," he answered without hesitation, posture straightening a touch as if the claim itself was a matter of fact rather than opinion.
You squinted at him immediately, suspicion written all over your face as you leaned in just a little more, studying him like you were attempting to catch him in a lie. "...Mhm. Sure."
His composure almost cracked again. Almost.
A faint shift passed through his expression, the smallest tightening at the corner of his mouth, the briefest hesitation in his eyes, like something inside him had nearly slipped before he quickly reined it back in.
For a brief moment afterward, neither of you moved away. The silence settled differently now—no longer awkward or tense in the same way as before, but heavier in a quieter, more uncertain manner.
Lanternlight trembled gently across the carved wooden walls, casting soft shifting shadows that made the entire room feel more enclosed, more intimate than it had any right to be.
Somewhere far beyond the windows, the sounds of Mirkwood continued on, distant and muffled, as though the world outside had decided not to interrupt whatever this was.
Legolas remained close, closer than necessary. Close enough that the warmth from where he had touched you still lingered faintly against your skin, faint but noticeable in the lingering space between you.
His posture was still upright, controlled, but not quite as effortless as before. There was a subtle stiffness now though, as if he had become suddenly aware of exactly how little distance remained.
His gaze, which had been steady moments ago, flickered again—quick, unintentional. It dropped downward for the briefest second before snapping away almost immediately afterward, as though he had caught himself too late.
It was a new emotion for him, or was it? Maybe he knew, understood what it had meant and felt, after all, this wasn't the first time it had happened.
Have you ever thought of posting your writings to ao3? They’re very good, and it would grant you a wider audience and easier chapter posting!
Yes! I have hahaa 😭
To be fair, the whole ao3 curse thingy got me all spooked up on posting if I have to be honest...
But I am still quite new with the warnings, tags and etc... and i know ao3 is strict with that, so once I've figured out how to and learn to, I would try to post more on there as well! :))
HI 👋 i was wondering if i could get a ryland grace request where he finds out his bubbly outgoing partner actually has bad anxiety but tries to not show it? if your requests aren’t open sorry <3
Hii yes! I would love to! >< My requests are open, but I would probably have to take some time to write because of my part-time job now haha. Thanks so much for trusting me and liking my work enough to put in this req, rlly appreaciate it.🥹
Could you write a one shot for Elladan or Elrohir? There aren’t many of them out there and I love your writing 🥹
Oh my gosh! I have not been checking my inbox frequently enough, that's on me T^T
I'm so busy with my part-time lately so my deepest apologies for neglecting my inbox! But yesss, I would love to write a oneshot for Elladan and maybe Elrohir too!! ><
ᯓ★. ݁₊ (found family /no romance! (parental love)/ teacher x student)
☄︎₊˚⊹☆ Summary : You are the only family he could ever call his, and he is the only family you could ever call yours. Between having to save the world or be there by your side, he had no options to choose when it comes down to this. You didn't know, so you wrote letters, thinking he abandoned you, hoping he'll read them and return back to your side. Cause he is your everything, your Mr. Grace.
१९ READ "LETTERS FOR MY EVERYTHING" (PART TWO) HERE!
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ A/n : This was originally suppose to be a longgg oneshot, but I did not have enough blocks left so I splitted it into two! No worries tho, I posted both Part 1 and Part 2 at the same time. Also I was just really sad when writing this, took me 3 weeks, so enjoy! (Ryan gosling got me HOOKED.)
"What is the actual name of the North Star?" Ryland Grace asked, a fistful of beanbags shifting in his grip as he leaned back against the edge of his desk.
The classroom buzzed with low chatter and the scrape of chairs, sunlight slanting through the windows and catching dust in the air as hands shot up all at once.
His gaze moved over them slowly, before settling on one. "The Little Dipper?" Jeff offered, his voice dipping at the end, and Ryland winced slightly, tilting his head as his lips pressed together. "Ooo… close enough? But not exactly what I'm looking for," he said, squinting as if reconsidering, before pushing himself upright and scanning the room again. "Anyone else?"
"Polaris." The answer came steadier this time, and Ryland's entire expression lit up—something quick and boyish breaking through as he straightened.
"Correct! You're on a streak!" he said, tossing a beanbag in a smooth arc that spun once before landing against your chest, your hands fumbling before you caught it with a small, surprised smile.
For the next few minutes, the room stayed alive—Ryland pacing between desks, crouching slightly to meet eye level, tossing beanbags with careless accuracy while laughter threaded through guesses and answers.
He moved like he belonged in the noise, like he needed it, the energy of the room settling naturally around him.
Then the bell rang, cutting clean through the moment. Chairs scraped loudly as students surged to their feet, voices overlapping, backpacks slung over shoulders in hurried, practiced motions.
"Remember to cash in your beanbags at the end of the week!" Ryland called over the noise, raising his voice just enough to carry, though most were already halfway out the door. The room emptied quickly, the chaos fading almost as fast as it had come, leaving behind a quieter, heavier stillness.
You lingered. Your fingers tightened around the straps of your backpack as you stood beside your desk, shifting your weight slightly but not quite moving, the fading sunlight stretching across the floor and stopping just short of your shoes.
"Hey." Ryland's voice softened as he stepped closer, one hand brushing absently along the edge of a desk. "I'll have to mark some papers first before I can send us home, kid," he added, brows pulling together just slightly, like he didn't quite like making you wait.
"…Alright." Your voice came out quieter than intended, and you turned, taking a step toward the door, the strap of your bag slipping slightly against your shoulder.
"Wait!" His voice stopped you mid-step, and you turned back, confusion flickering across your face as your grip tightened instinctively.
He hesitated, just for a second. "Remember to write down what you learned today, how you felt, what you—"
"What I did today, what I saw today," you cut in, the words coming out flat, practised almost. "Yeah. I get it by now, Mr. Grace."
The title lingered, and his reaction was immediate—his face scrunched, brows pulling together as he straightened, one hand lifting slightly in protest. "Hey- I told you not to call me that," he said, letting out a small breath through his nose as his shoulders rose and fell in a half-shrug.
'We're way past that stage. Plus, my name's Ryland, kid." His gaze didn't leave you, though lingering and searching, like he was trying to read something you weren't quite saying, and the quiet that followed felt heavier than it should have been.
Just as Ryland drew in a breath to continue, a sharp knock cut through the quiet, making both of you glance toward the door at the same time.
It opened just enough to reveal a woman standing there—mid-forties, posture straight, dressed in a well-tailored business suit that seemed too precise for a place like this.
A briefcase hung from her hand, her grip tight, knuckles faintly paling as if whatever was inside carried weight beyond paper. "Ryland Grace?" she asked, her voice calm but firm, touched with a European accent you couldn't quite place, eyes then flicking briefly toward you.
The look lingered a second too long—not unkind, but assessing, and instinctively, you dipped your head a little before shifting your gaze back to Ryland, suddenly aware of how out of place you must look.
"Uh, yeah," Ryland said, straightening as he stepped slightly in front of you without thinking, a subtle shift that didn't go unnoticed.
His brows pulled together, confusion flickering across his face as he glanced at you, eyes widening just a fraction as if silently asking do you know what this is about?
You gave the smallest shake of your head, fingers tightening around your backpack straps. "Can I help you with something?" he added, turning back to her, his tone polite but edged with uncertainty.
The room felt smaller now, the quiet heavier, like something had settled into it without permission. "I think you can," she replied, stepping inside without waiting to be invited, her heels clicking softly against the floor.
Up close, there was something sharper about her presence—controlled, deliberate, the kind that made people instinctively straighten without knowing why.
"My name is Eva Stratt. I'm with the Petrova Taskforce." The words landed with a weight that didn't quite make sense yet, but you felt it anyway, the seriousness in her tone pulling at something uneasy in your chest.
You shifted slightly, glancing between them. "…Is this, like… school-related?" you asked, your voice quieter, hesitant, but unable to stay silent for any longer.
Ryland blinked, the question clearly not helping him piece things together. "The what?" he echoed, a faint crease forming between his brows as he rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit slipping through.
His gaze flicked to you again, just for a second, grounding, before returning back to the lady. Stratt's eyes moved between the two of you, calculating, as if measuring how much to say—and to whom.
For a brief moment, something unreadable crossed her expression before it disappeared just as quickly. "That," she said, her grip tightening slightly on the briefcase, "is a long explanation." Her gaze settled fully on Ryland now, steady and unwavering. "One that I would prefer to discuss without an audience."
The word audience hung in the air, and you felt it land squarely on your shoulders. It was quite rather obvious, that she was speaking about you.
You shifted your weight, glancing between them before letting out a small, awkward breath. "…Right. Yeah. I'll just-" You gestured vaguely toward the door, then paused, glancing back at Ryland with a slight tilt of your head. "Go be… not an audience." Your lips twitched faintly, the hint of a smile breaking through despite the tension. "Very talented at that, by the way."
Ryland huffed out a quiet breath—half a laugh, half something else, as his hand came up to rub the back of his neck again. "Yeah, you've had a lot of practice," he muttered, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly, though the crease between his brows didn't fade.
His eyes lingered on you a second longer than necessary, like he wanted to say something more, but nothing came out.
You caught it anyway, that's what you get for spending too much time with him.
"…Don't take too long,” you added, softer this time, adjusting the strap of your backpack as it slipped down your shoulder. "I don't wanna have to start grading those papers for you."
And that earned a real reaction—a short, surprised laugh that escaped him before he could stop it, his shoulders loosening just a fraction. "Oh, wow. Yeah, no, that's where I draw the line," he said, shaking his head lightly. "Absolutely not."
"Tragic," you murmured, deadpan, though your grip on your bag tightened slightly. For a brief second, the tension cracked, just enough to breathe slightly.
Stratt watched the exchange in silence, her gaze moving between the two of you with quiet precision, noting the ease, the familiarity, the way Ryland's attention kept drifting back to you even when he tried to focus on her. Something unreadable flickered across her expression again, gone just as quickly.
You stepped backward toward the door, your hand brushing against the cool metal of the handle. "…Good luck with… whatever this is," you added, glancing once more at the briefcase, then at Ryland. There was a question there you didn't voice, sitting just behind your eyes.
He noticed that too.
'Hey-" he started, taking a small step forward, like he might stop you, but hesitated halfway, his hand dropping back to his side. "I'll- uh… I'll come find you after, okay?"
You nodded once, it was quick, and decisive, like that was all the confirmation you needed. "Okay."
The word was small, but it settled into the space between you and Ryland like something heavier than it should've been. You adjusted the straps of your backpack with a quiet shuffle, fingers tugging them into place out of habit more than necessity, before turning toward the door.
The door then opened with a soft creak, the hallway beyond stretching out in muted silence. Most of the students were already gone, lockers closed, voices faded, leaving behind that strange after-school stillness that always felt a little too big for one person. Cooler air slipped in through the gap, brushing lightly against your arms, but you didn't step out right away.
Instead, you lingered, just for a second.
Your hand rested on the door, fingers curled around the edge as you glanced back over your shoulder. Ryland was still there, standing near his desk, half-turned toward you, brows slightly furrowed like he was about to say something but hadn't figured out what yet. There was something unreadable in his expression—something that hadn't been there before.
You tilted your head just slightly, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at your lips, not quite playful, not quite serious, but something in between. "Try not to get recruited into anything weird, Mr. Grace."
For a split second, he just stared at you. His expression froze in place, caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief, "I- what does that even-"
The door clicked shut before he could finish his sentence, as the sound echoed softly in the now almost, empty room.
The silence that followed wasn't exactly the same as before. It wasn't just quiet, it was heavy, settling into the corners of the classroom, pressing against the walls, lingering in the space where your voice had just been. Ryland stood there for a moment longer than necessary, still facing the door like he half-expected it to open again.
It didn't.
He exhaled slowly, the breath dragging out of him as his shoulders dropped slightly. One hand came up to his face, fingers pressing briefly against his forehead before sliding down over his mouth, like he was trying to ground himself in something familiar. When he finally lowered his hand, his gaze lingered on the door just a second too long.
"…Yeah," he muttered under his breath, the word barely forming properly as it slipped past him, more exhale than sound.
For a moment, he didn't move. His gaze stayed fixed on the door long after it had closed, like he was still half-expecting it to open again, like you might lean back in, roll your eyes, say something else that didn't quite make sense but somehow did anyway.
His shoulders remained slightly angled toward it, caught between staying and turning, as if something in him hadn't quite followed through yet.
Then, slowly, he forced himself to look away. The motion was small, but it felt deliberate—like peeling himself out of something he didn't want to leave behind.
His jaw tightened faintly as he turned back toward the room, the weight of it settling in again the second he did. The classroom felt too quiet now, too still, like it had lost something essential the moment you stepped out.
Stratt on the other hand, hadn't moved. She stood exactly where she had been, posture straight, composed in a way that didn't shift with the atmosphere around her.
Her hands rested lightly at her sides, her gaze locked onto him with sharp precision, studying, not unkindly, but without hesitation. She hadn't looked at the door since. Not once. It was as if your presence, your voice, that small moment… had already been processed and filed away as irrelevant.
Or anticipated.
"…She is perceptive," she said calmly. The words landed cleanly, without inflection, but they carried weight all the same.
Ryland let out a quiet huff—short, almost humorless, as his hand came up again, dragging slowly down his face this time. When his hand dropped, it didn't fall naturally, it hovered for a moment, then clenched slightly before relaxing again.
"Yeah," he said, but softer now, like the word had settled deeper in his chest.
His eyes flicked back toward the door again, quick, and almost involuntary in his actions. There was something there this time, something unguarded.
His lips pressed into a thin line for a second. "…She picks up on things she shouldn't," he added under his breath, almost like an afterthought, though the tension in his voice said otherwise.
However, Stratt's gaze didn't waver. "If she notices patterns," she replied evenly, "it is because they are there to be noticed."
That made him pause. His brows drew together slightly, a faint crease forming between them as he processed that—not just the words, but what they implied.
His posture shifted, weight settling more firmly onto one foot as if bracing against something unseen. He let out a slow breath through his nose, gaze dropping briefly to the floor before lifting again.
"Yeah, well," he said, quieter now, a trace of something defensive slipping in, "she's still a kid..."
His gaze then shifted back to Stratt, but not fully. It lingered there, quiet and persistent, even as he forced himself to focus on the woman in front of him.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched, not empty, but heavy, and deliberate. The kind of silence where something important was about to be said, and both of them knew it.
Ryland shifted his weight slightly, one hand brushing against the edge of a desk absentmindedly, fingers tapping once before stilling. His jaw tightened faintly, as if bracing for something he couldn’t quite name yet.
Then, slowly, Eva Stratt shifted her attention fully onto him. "The Petrova Taskforce, like I said," she began, her voice even, controlled, every word placed carefully as she stepped forward and set her briefcase down on the nearest desk with a soft but deliberate thud.
The sound cut through the quiet, grounding it, anchoring the moment in something real. Her fingers lingered on the handle just a fraction longer than necessary, the smallest pause, though intentional, and calculated—before she let go. When she straightened, her posture was exact, composed in a way that felt practiced, her gaze locking onto his without hesitation.
"It's an international body set up to deal with the Petrova-line situation." There was no shift in her tone, no attempt to dramatize what she was saying, which only made it land harder. "I've been tasked with finding a solution." A brief pause followed, like she was giving him the space to process before continuing. "They've given me a certain amount of authority to get things done."
Ryland stared at her, the words taking a second to land, to mean something. His brows pulled together, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck as he let out a quiet, disbelieving breath. "They?" he echoed, a small, incredulous laugh slipping through. "Who's they?"
"Every member nation of the UN."
For a moment, nothing moved. The words landed, and then everything seemed to pause around them, like the world itself needed a second to catch up.
Ryland blinked once, slowly, like his brain had stalled mid-thought. His hand dropped from his neck, hovering awkwardly at his side before curling slightly, fingers flexing as if trying to grasp onto something tangible in what he had just heard. His mouth parted, but no words came out immediately, just a faint inhale that didn't quite complete.
"…What?" he said finally, the word quiet, almost breathless.
He shook his head once, sharper this time, as if the motion itself might clear the confusion. His weight shifted unevenly, his foot adjusting against the floor like he needed something solid to anchor himself.
"No-" he repeated, this time with more force, his brows knitting tighter as the disbelief started to settle into something more active, more urgent.
His hand came back up, gesturing vaguely in the space between them, like he was trying to physically arrange the idea into something that made sense. "How does that even happen?" he asked, his voice rising slightly. "You're telling me every member nation just… what? Agreed? Just like that?"
"Unanimous secret vote. It's complicated." She cut him off cleanly, already moving on, as if whatever explanation he was looking for simply didn't matter in the face of what came next. Or worse, as if she had already decided he didn't need it.
Her tone didn't change, but something about her focus sharpened, narrowing in on him with quiet intent. "I'd like to talk to you about a scientific paper you wrote."
Ryland blinked, the shift catching him slightly off balance.
For a moment, he just stared at her, like his brain hadn't quite caught up with the sudden change in direction. Then he let out a short breath through his nose, shaking his head as if trying to reset the conversation back to something that made sense.
One hand dropped to his hip while the other lifted slightly, gesturing in the air in a loose, unfocused motion—like he was physically trying to grab onto the previous topic before it disappeared completely.
"Secret vote?" he echoed, a faint scoff slipping through as he glanced away for a second, brows pulling together in disbelief. "Yeah, no- I'm gonna circle back to that later," he muttered, more to himself than to her.
"Also, my paper-writing days are over," he continued, more firmly now, like he was setting a boundary he clearly didn't want crossed. His lips pressed together for a fraction of a second before he spoke again. "Academia didn't exactly work out for me."
"You're a teacher," Stratt replied without missing a beat, one brow lifting slightly. "You're still in academia."
"Yeah, but-" he exhaled, a frustrated edge creeping in as he ran a hand through his hair, leaving it slightly more disheveled than before. "You know what I mean. Academia. With scientists, peer review, conferences, and-"
"And assholes who get you kicked out of your university?" she finished flatly, the words landing with precision. "Who got all your funding cut off and ensured you never got published again?"
Ryland’s movement stilled the moment her words reached his ears, just for a second, like something had caught him off guard, not in the content, but how easily she had just said it. How accurate it was. His jaw tightened slightly before he let out a quiet, humorless breath.
"…Yeah," he admitted, shoulders lifting in a small, resigned shrug. "That."
Without another word, Stratt unlatched her briefcase. The clasps clicked open sharply in the quiet room, the sound almost too loud now that everything else had stilled. Ryland's eyes flicked down instinctively, tracking the motion despite himself, his posture tightening almost imperceptibly.
She reached inside and pulled out a thick binder, placing it on the desk between them. The pages were neatly organized, tabbed, precise, everything about it screamed intention.
She flipped it open with practiced ease, the pages whispering softly as they turned, before stopping on the first one. Her hand rested lightly against the paper as her eyes scanned it briefly, already knowing what was there.
"An Analysis of Water-Based Assumptions and Recalibration of Expectations for Evolutionary Models," she read aloud, her tone measured, almost clinical. Then she looked up at him, eyes sharp. "You wrote this paper, yes?"
Ryland's stomach dropped. He didn't need to read the title. He recognized it instantly—the phrasing, the structure, the argument he'd spent months obsessing over, defending, losing over. His fingers twitched slightly at his side, like he had the sudden urge to take the binder, to close it, to make it disappear.
"I'm sorry," he started, a faint crease forming between his brows as he took a step closer despite himself, eyes flicking between her and the page. "How did you even get-"
"It was not easy," Stratt cut in, closing the binder halfway with a soft but final motion, her hand resting on top of it. "You made sure of that."
Ryland huffed out a quiet breath, something between disbelief and unease settling in his chest. "Yeah, well," he muttered, glancing down at the binder before looking back at her, "that was kind of the point."
There was a pause. Stratt studied him—not just his words, but the hesitation behind them, the way his posture shifted, the way his eyes kept drifting back to the binder like it held something he wasn't ready to face again.
"A dull title," Eva Stratt continued, her tone almost conversational as she tapped the binder lightly, "but very exciting content, I have to say."
Ryland let out a short breath through his nose, already shaking his head as he moved behind his desk, dropping into the chair with a faint creak. He dragged a stack of ungraded papers closer, more out of habit than intention, fingers fidgeting with the edges as if he needed something normal to hold onto.
"Look," he started, rubbing a hand over his face before glancing up at her, "I was in a bad place when I wrote that, okay? That whole thing was basically a 'kiss-my-butt' goodbye to academia." His shoulders lifted in a half-shrug, but his grip on the papers tightened slightly. "I'm… happier now. Teaching works for me."
Stratt didn't react, yet again. There was no flicker of surprise, no judgment, not even acknowledgment of the tension that had begun to settle in the room.
She simply turned another page, the crisp sound cutting through the quiet with quiet authority. Her eyes moved across the text with unsettling focus, absorbing every word like she had read it a hundred times already and still found something worth dissecting.
"You spent years combating the assumption that life requires liquid water," she continued, scanning the text with unsettling focus. "You have an entire section here titled 'The Goldilocks Zone Is for Idiots.' " A slight pause was earned, then the faintest lift of her brow. "You call out dozens of eminent scientists by name and berate them for believing a temperature range is a requirement."
Ryland winced, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Yeah, well-"
"Your doctorate is in molecular biology, correct?" she cut in smoothly, lifting her gaze to him. "Don't most scientists agree that liquid water is necessary for life to evolve?"
"They're wrong!" The words came out sharper than he intended, and he pushed himself upright, arms crossing tightly over his chest as if bracing against something.
His jaw set, frustration flickering across his face, not at her, but at the memory of it all. "There's nothing magical about hydrogen and oxygen. That's just what works here." He gestured vaguely, pacing once behind his desk now, unable to stay still. "Another planet? Completely different conditions. All life needs is a chemical reaction that creates copies of itself. That's it. You don't need water for that."
The room fell quiet again, the echo of his own voice seemed to linger longer than it should.
Ryland stilled, then squeezed his eyes shut briefly, a brief retreat inward as he exhaled through his nose. The breath came out heavier than he intended, carrying the last of that frustration with it as his shoulders dropped slightly.
"…Anyway," he muttered, voice dropping, "I got mad. Wrote the paper. Got burned for it." His gaze flicked toward the door, the one you had just walked out of, before returning to the desk.
"Then I got a teaching credential, a new life… something that actually makes sense." he continued, his tone flattening slightly, like he was reciting something he had told himself more than once. His fingers brushed lightly against the edge of the desk, grounding, familiar.
"So yeah." he added, quieter now, almost like a conclusion he had already accepted long ago. "I'm glad no one believed me. I'm better off."
"I believe you," Stratt said in response.
The simplicity of it made him huff out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh. "Thanks," he replied, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. He picked up a pen, tapping it lightly against the papers, already retreating back into something familiar. Safe.
"But I've got papers to grade. And a kid waiting on me outside," he added, almost as an afterthought, though his gaze flicked briefly to the door again. "So unless this turns into something that actually makes sense, I'm gonna have to ask—why are you here?"
Stratt closed the binder with a soft but decisive motion and slipped it back into her briefcase. "You are aware of the ArcLight probe and the Petrova line, I assume."
Ryland snorted lightly, leaning back in his chair as it creaked faintly under his weight. One arm draped over the side, the other still holding the pen loosely between his fingers. "I'd be a pretty lame science teacher if I wasn't."
"Do you think those dots are alive?" she asked.
He tilted his head slightly, the pen spinning absentmindedly between his fingers as his eyes drifted upward, thinking. "I don't know," he admitted after a moment, his tone more thoughtful now. "Could be dust bouncing around in magnetic fields for all we know." He gave a small shrug, casual on the surface, though his gaze had sharpened just slightly. "We'll find out when ArcLight gets back, right? That's soon. Few weeks?"
"It returns on the twenty-third," she said evenly. "Roscosmos will recover it from low-Earth orbit with a dedicated Soyuz mission."
Ryland nodded slowly, the information settling in as his pen came to a stop between his fingers. "Then yeah. We'll know soon enough." He gestured vaguely with it, as if outlining something obvious, something inevitable.
"The smartest people on the planet will tear those samples apart and figure it out. That's kind of the whole point." His eyes then narrowed slightly, curiosity slipping in despite himself. "Who's handling that, anyway?"
Stratt didn't hesitate. "You," she said.
The word came clean, as it settled into the space between them with a weight that didn't match its simplicity, and for a moment, Ryland didn't react at all. He just stared at her, completely still, like his mind had astray. The pen in his hand stopped moving, his fingers tightening slightly around it as if he'd forgotten he was holding it.
She watched him for a second, before lifting a hand, waving it once, casually, in front of his face. "Hello?"
Ryland blinked, his brows pulling together as he leaned forward slightly, the confusion finally catching up with him. "You want me to look at the dots?" he asked slowly, like forming the sentence might somehow make it more logical.
"Yes."
The silence that followed stretched just long enough for the absurdity of it to settle in. Ryland let out a short, incredulous laugh, the sound sharp and disbelieving as he pushed himself out of the chair. It scraped faintly against the floor as he stood, shaking his head immediately, one hand coming up as if to physically dismiss the idea.
"You want me to look at the dots?" he asked once more, as if the first time asking wasn't enough to make sense to him.
"Yes."
The same awnser.
"Okay—no. No, that's insane." He gestured toward himself, then around the classroom: the desks, the whiteboard, the remnants of a normal, grounded life that suddenly felt completely disconnected from what she was suggesting. "The entire world hands you a problem like this, and you come to a junior high school science teacher?"
"Yes."
He stared at her for another second, searching for something—hesitation, doubt, anything.
There was none, alright.
"Right," he muttered, already turning away, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair. "You're lying, insane, or some impressive combination of both."
He didn't wait for a response. By the time the last word left his mouth, he was already heading for the door. His steps were quick, almost purposeful in their urgency. His hand closed around the handle, pushing it open in one smooth motion, not even sparing her a glance over his shoulder. "I've got somewhere to be."
You. The thought slipped in uninvited, immediate and grounding in a way everything else hadn't been. Waiting out there, probably leaning against the wall, pretending not to care. Probably listening anyway.
His jaw tightened slightly as he stepped into the hallway, shoulders still tense, his grip loosening and tightening at his side like he was trying to shake something off that wouldn't quite let go, not even realizing how much faster he was walking until the cool air hit him.
Behind him, Stratt's voice followed—calm, controlled, but carrying something heavier than it should have, something that didn't belong to a simple warning. "This is not optional," she said.
The words pressed into the back of his mind as he kept walking. Though it seems, Ryland had no intention of slowing down, he didn't even turn, just lifted a hand in a loose, almost careless half-wave over his shoulder, "Seems optional to me!" he shot back, the defiance coming easy—but not entirely steady.
The door then swung shut behind him with a soft click, the sound lingering longer than it should have in the empty space. And just like that, whatever had just walked into his life didn't just stay in that room. It followed him out.
There you were, leaning against the wall just beside the classroom door, your shoulder pressed lightly against the cool surface, one foot tapping in a slow, uneven rhythm against the floor.
Your fingers traced the frayed edge of your backpack strap, nails catching on loose threads you’d picked at more times than you could count, something to keep your hands busy—something to make it look like you weren't waiting.
Still, your gaze flicked to the door every few seconds.
The handle then turned. The door opened with a soft creak, and Ryland stepped out, already mid-exhale like he'd been holding it in longer than he should have.
His hand lingered on the handle for a second before letting it fall away, his shoulders a little too tense, his posture not quite settling even as he stepped fully into the hallway.
His jaw was set just slightly tighter than usual, and there was something in his expression—something quiet, unsettled, sitting just beneath the surface like he hadn't managed to leave whatever was in that room behind.
You straightened, pushing yourself off the wall, the movement casual, like you hadn't been paying attention at all.
"…So," you said, tilting your head as you adjusted your bag higher on your shoulder, voice light, almost teasing, "on a scale of one to government conspiracy, how weird was that?"
He blinked, like the question had to catch up with him, like his brain had been somewhere else entirely and was only now being dragged back. His eyes settled on you, narrowing just slightly as realization set in,
"…You were listening?"
You raised a brow, unimpressed, the expression coming easily. "I was standing right there." You gestured vaguely toward the door with a small flick of your hand, shifting your weight onto one leg as your other foot tapped once against the floor. "What, you think sound just politely stops at walls?"
"That's not-" he started, the reflexive defense slipping out before he could stop it, but it didn't last. He cut himself off with a quiet exhale, dragging a hand through his hair in a rough, distracted motion that left it even more disheveled than before.
His fingers lingered at the back of his head for a second, pressing there like he was trying to ease something that wasn't physical. "You weren't supposed to be listening."
"Well," you shrugged, lips twitching faintly at the corner like you couldn't quite help it, "I just wanted to make sure you weren't embarrassing yourself with your lame jokes," Your gaze flicked toward the door for a brief second before returning to him, something curious settling just beneath the humor.
"Your jokes can get a little out of hand at times, don't you think?" you added, tilting your head. "Do you rehearse those, or do they just… happen to you?"
That got him. A quiet huff slipped out, as the tension in his shoulders eased just a fraction. Not gone, not really, but enough that it didn't sit so heavily in the space between the two of you anymore.
His head dipped slightly as he exhaled, like your comment had pulled him back from wherever his thoughts had been spiraling, grounding him in something simpler, something familiar.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The hallway stretched quietly around you, the distant hum of lights and the faint echo of footsteps from somewhere far off filling the silence just enough to make it feel lived in.
Then his gaze settled on you, properly this time, not distracted, not elsewhere, and something in his expression changed. It was subtle, almost easy to miss, but it was there: the slight softening around his eyes, the way his jaw loosened just a little, like whatever had been weighing on him had been pushed aside, just enough to make room for you.
"You've been waiting long?" he asked.
You shrugged, glancing down for a second as your fingers adjusted the strap on your bag again, buying yourself that split moment before looking back up. "Long enough to consider breaking in and saving you."
He nodded slowly, like he was taking that in with more seriousness than the words deserved, before stepping forward, falling into motion down the hallway.
You moved with him without thinking, your steps naturally matching his pace as he slipped one hand into his pocket, shoulders relaxing further now that he was moving. "Ah, yes," he said, dry, a faint hint of amusement threading through his voice. "My heroic rescue. Very subtle indeed."
"I would've knocked first," you added, glancing sideways at him, your tone light, "Probably.”
"Wow," he muttered, shaking his head faintly, though there was a ghost of a smile there now. "Real assuring, kid."
A small silence settled between you as you walked. It was quiet, but not uncomfortable. The kind that didn't press in or demand to be filled, just… existed, easy and familiar, like something the two of you had long since learned to share without thinking.
You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, subtle about it, like you weren't really looking. The way his gaze stayed forward but didn't quite settle on anything, unfocused in that way that meant his mind wasn't where he was. His free hand shifted at his side, fingers flexing once before going still again, like he'd caught himself doing it.
Whatever had happened in that room—it hadn't stayed there.
"…She looked important," you said after a moment, your voice quieter now, more careful, like you were testing the weight of the question before fully committing to it.
His steps slowed just a little the moment your question reached him. "Yeah," he admitted, eyes dropping briefly to the floor, like he needed that second to steady himself before looking ahead again. "Yeah, she did."
You let the silence sit for a second longer this time, watching him without turning your head fully, before looking ahead again. Your grip shifted on your bag strap, thumb pressing into the fabric absentmindedly, the motion small but repetitive. "…What did she want?"
Instead of a immediate response from him, you were responded back with a pause. It was not long, but long enough somehow.
"Work stuff," he said, a bit too quickly, like the answer had been waiting before the question even came.
You hummed softly, unconvinced, your lips pressing together as you resisted the urge to push harder, call it out. "…Right. Because random briefcase lady showing up after school definitely screams normal work stuff."
He glanced at you, catching the tone almost immediately. "…You're enjoying this aren't you?"
"A little," you admitted, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly, not quite a smile but close enough, enough that it softened the moment.
He shook his head at your words, a quiet breath slipping out of him, but there was no real annoyance in it—just a tired kind of amusement, something softer beneath it that lingered a second longer than the moment itself.
Soon, the two of you reached the end of the hallway, the glass doors ahead glowing with the warm wash of late afternoon light. The sun hung low enough to spill through the panels in soft gold, catching on dust that drifted lazily in the air, like time had slowed just enough to notice it.
The world beyond looked calm—unchanged with cars passing, distant voices faint, everything continuing like nothing had shifted at all.
Ryland paused. It was subtle, just a fraction of a second, the kind most people wouldn't catch, but you did. Of course you did.
His hand lifted slightly, hovering near the door handle without quite reaching it, fingers curling faintly like he'd forgotten what he was about to do.
His posture stilled, not rigid, but caught, like something had finally caught up to him all at once, something he couldn't walk past as easily as he had a few seconds ago.
You studied him, the shift in him settling somewhere quiet in your chest, a faint crease forming between your brows before you even realized it.
"…You're gonna tell me eventually," you said, not quite a question, not quite a statement either.
He looked down at you. And for a moment, something flickered across his face—hesitation, uncertainty, something heavier he wasn't ready to put into words. "…Yeah," he said quietly. "I will. Maybe."
It wasn't much, but it wasn't nothing.
You nodded once, like you understood, even if you didn't—not fully. "Cool," you said, reaching past him to push the door open, the metal cool against your palm. "As long as it's not, like… aliens. I suppose."
He froze. "…Right," he said, a little too quickly as he followed you outside. The sunlight spilled in immediately, warm and bright, washing over both of you and making him squint as he followed you out. "Yeah. Definitely not that."
You slowed, turning your head slightly to look at him, eyes narrowing just a bit, studying him in a way that didn't feel like staring but didn't feel casual either. "…That was a weird pause Mr. Grace"
"It was not a weird pause." he replied immediately, denying your statement.
"It was definitely a weird pause." you shot back, your eyes scanning the lying adults face. It was written quite plainly across his expressions anyways.
He sighed, dragging a hand down his face before rubbing the back of his neck again, a familiar, restless gesture. "You're overanalyzing."
"You literally teach science." you said, tilting your head slightly as you looked up at him, brows lifting like the answer should be obvious.
Your grip on your bag strap loosened a little as you spoke, your tone light—but your eyes stayed on him just a second longer than necessary, noticing the way he'd gone just a bit still at your earlier comment.
"That's different, alright?" He said it too quickly at first, like the response had already been waiting on his tongue. His expression tightened for a moment, like he was trying to convince both you and himself at the same time.
"How is that different?" You stepped forward as you asked it, walking backward for half a step before turning properly, still looking at him as you matched his pace.
The question came out more curious than challenging, but there was a faint smile tugging at the corner of your mouth like you already knew you weren't getting a satisfying answer.
"It just is."
You let out a quiet huff of laughter at that, shaking your head as you walked, the sound light against the late afternoon air. Your shoulder brushed his for a brief second, accidental, just enough contact to register before you shifted away again without acknowledging it, like it meant nothing at all.
And for a moment—just a moment, everything felt normal again. The warmth of the sun settled evenly over both of you, the distant hum of traffic and scattered footsteps filling the space around your quiet rhythm. Nothing urgent. Just walking, side by side, like the world had narrowed down to this stretch of pavement and the space between your steps.
It was easy, simple.
Like this was all it would ever be.
But something in the way his gaze drifted ahead of his steps, in the way his thoughts seemed a fraction faster than his body—like he was still half-trapped in whatever had happened minutes ago, told you that whatever 'normal' had just been, it wasn't going to last.
You barely made it halfway across the parking lot before everything shifted.
The sound came first. Car doors opening in quick, synchronized succession. Your steps slowed almost without permission in response, your attention snapping forward as movement entered your peripheral vision.
Footsteps followed immediately after, firm and purposeful, cutting across the open space in a way that made the air feel suddenly thinner, more contained.
Four well-dressed men closed in around the two of you like they'd been waiting all along. Their suits were too clean, their movements too precise, their expressions unreadable in that way that made your stomach tighten before your mind could catch up once more.
One of them flashed a badge—too fast for you to properly read, but long enough to understand.
"FBI."
The word itself didn't feel real. What was happening? Are you guys in trouble because of that lady?
Ryland reacted first, almost immediately. He stiffened beside you, his body shifting instinctively just a fraction closer, like he was trying to place himself between you and them without making it obvious.
"Whoa—hey, what-?" His voice was sharp, confused, but controlled, like he was trying not to escalate something he didn't understand yet.
"Sir, you need to come with us."
"Need?" Ryland repeated instantly, a short, disbelieving exhale breaking through as his brows knitted together. His head angled slightly, like he was trying to physically reframe what he’d just heard into something that made sense.
One hand then came up in a hesitant half-gesture, then froze mid-motion as his eyes moved quickly between the men, scanning their faces for any crack in their certainty—any sign that this was negotiable, or even slightly uncertainty.
While, his other hand shifted closer to you without fully committing to it, hovering there for a second like he couldn't decide whether he was grounding you or grounding himself. "Yeah, I'm gonna need a better explanation than-"
They didn't give him one.
Everything blurred after that—movement without space to process, doors opening, the press of urgency without anyone raising their voice. You were ushered into the back of a black SUV, the leather seat cold beneath you as the door shut with a heavy, final thud that echoed a little too loudly in your chest.
The world outside dimmed instantly, tinted through dark glass, the outside suddenly feeling very far away.
Ryland slid in right after you, his movements quicker now, the tension in him no longer kept hidden. He leaned forward almost immediately once seated, shoulders tense, eyes fixed toward the front as if looking hard enough might force answers into existence. "Okay, seriously—what is going on?" His tone was tighter now, edged with frustration breaking through restraint. "You can't just-"
Silence.
The men in the front didn't respond, didn't even turn around.
Only the quiet hum of the engine coming to life, filling the space where an answer should have been.
You sat there, fingers curled tightly around the strap of your bag, nails pressing into the fabric as the car began to move. The engine's low, steady hum filled the enclosed space, a constant vibration that made everything feel slightly unreal, like the world outside had been muffled on purpose.
Through the tinted windows, streets slid past in smeared fragments—traffic lights, signage, rows of buildings you didn't recognize. Nothing stayed still long enough to feel familiar, and that only made your grip tighten further.
It would've been a lie if you said you weren't scared, terrified even.
Ryland exhaled slowly beside you, leaning back just enough to glance at you, his expression shifting the moment his eyes met yours. The tension softened—not gone, but redirected, away from the situation and toward you instead.
"You okay?" he asked quietly.
You nodded too quickly in return. "…Yeah." The word came out on instinct, clean and immediate, like saying it fast would make it true. Your eyes stayed forward a second too long before you risked a glance back at him, only to find he hadn't looked away.
He held your gaze a moment longer than necessary, studying you in a way that felt too perceptive to ignore—but he didn't press any further. Whatever he saw there, he seemed to recognize without calling it out, like naming it would only make it worse. Instead, he just gave a small nod, as if accepting it for now, even if he didn't fully believe it.
The silence that followed settled back in almost immediately. Not easing. Not changing. Just stretching on as the car kept moving forward.
Ryland tried again at some point—questions, but they went nowhere, dissolving into the same unbroken silence all over again. Eventually, even he stopped, the frustration settling into something quieter. His fingers tapped once against his knee before stilling, his gaze drifting forward, distant.
When the car finally slowed, turning into a business park that looked painfully ordinary, it almost felt wrong. Clean sidewalks, low buildings, nothing out of place—nothing that matched the way your chest still felt tight.
The car then finally came to a stop, as the door opened.
"Out." One of the men commanded, and so you did. You stepped out, stepping onto the pavement a little too quickly, the ground feeling slightly unsteady beneath you, like your balance hadn't fully synced back with your body yet.
The air outside was cooler, and for a second you just stood there, recalibrating. Ryland came out right after you, close enough that his presence registered before you even turned your head. It was steady, familiar in a way that made the unfamiliar surroundings feel just a fraction less overwhelming.
Inside the building, your footsteps echoed in a long, narrow hallway that seemed to stretch farther than it should have. Unmarked doors lined both sides at perfect intervals, identical and impersonal, like the space had been built to erase individuality rather than to contain it.
The lighting overhead was harsh, flattening everything into something clinical, almost unreal, where shadows barely existed and time felt harder to track.
Your pace slowed without you meaning it to.
The weight of everything pressed in all at once—the silence, the structure, the people behind you who didn't speak unless necessary. Your hand shifted instinctively, brushing against Ryland's sleeve for just a second, light and uncertain, like checking something you couldn't afford to lose. He felt it immediately.
His gaze flicked down for the briefest moment, and his hand moved, not quite reaching for yours, but hovering near it, close enough that the intent alone felt like reassurance he hadn't fully given voice to. His shoulders tensed slightly, like he was ready to say something, anything, before—
"Separate them." The words landed cleanly in the corridor, cutting through the quiet like a line drawn in something that couldn't be erased.
"What? No—" Ryland turned immediately, stepping forward on instinct, but a hand rose in front of him, not forceful enough to feel violent, but absolute enough that it didn't matter what his reaction was.
His movement were stalled mid-step. His expression tightened at once, confusion sharpening into something more protective as his eyes snapped back to you.
"Hey—hey, it's okay," he said quickly, the words coming out faster now, like he needed to get them to you before anything else happened. "I'll be right there, alright? Just—stay here."
You nodded in return, small and quick, like that alone could hold everything in place. Even as your fingers curled tighter around your bag strap, the fabric bunching under your grip. Even as your chest felt just a little too tight, like your breathing had forgotten its rhythm and was trying to catch up with your vision.
You didn't look away from him, not until you had to—like if you held his gaze long enough, it might stop whatever was about to happen next.
It was all just hope anyways. And then he was gone, right before your eyes.
The space he'd been standing in felt too empty, too quickly gone, like something had been pulled out instead of simply moving away. The door shut behind you with a soft click, settling heavier than anything else so far.
The room was small, but it was quite well furnished, well...minimal. A table sat in the center, neatly placed, with two chairs pulled up on either side like someone had already decided where you were supposed to be.
The walls weren't bare, not entirely, but there was nothing on them that held your attention for long. Everything was in place for where a furniture should be, it was fine, alright, and yet somehow, that only made it feel more off without him there beside you.
You stood there for a moment, unmoving, like your body hadn't quite caught up to everything that had just happened, like it was waiting for something to settle that never did—assurance.
Your gaze upon the closed door, as if expecting it to open again, as if he might walk back through it like nothing had changed. When it didn't, your shoulders shifted slightly, a quiet adjustment, before you forced yourself to move again.
It wasn't long before you started pacing. Back and forth, measured steps that tried to feel casual but never quite managed it. Your shoes made soft, rhythmic sounds against the floor, the only thing breaking the stillness, and even that felt too loud in an enclosed space like this.
Your fingers moved restlessly—tapping against your arm, brushing along the edge of the table as you passed it, grounding yourself in something physical. You kept your gaze moving, tracing the walls, the corners, the door, like if you looked long enough, you'll forget you were even in this room in the first place.
It didn't.
This is fine, you told yourself. It's just… weird. Really weird.
You stopped, turning your attention toward the man stationed by the door now. He hadn't moved. Not once since you'd been brought in. His posture was straight, precise, though at times you'd notice a few scratches here and there.
His expression however, didn't shift when you looked at him—not even slightly.
"…So," you started, tilting your head slightly sideways, forcing a bit of curiosity into your voice to cover the rest, "do you guys do this often? Or is this like a… special event thing?"
You held your gaze on him a moment longer than necessary, waiting, expecting at least something. But nothing came in return of your question. Not even the smallest acknowledgment that you had spoken at all.
It was like talking to something that existed just outside the reach of normal interaction, a useless mannequin. Not even a glance was spared.
Then you nodded, slow and small, like you were closing the moment yourself since he clearly wasn't going to. "Right. Okay. Cool." The words came out light, almost absentminded, but your lips pressed together briefly after, something quieter slipping through before you could smooth it over.
You dropped into the chair next, the legs scraping faintly as you leaned back, staring up at the ceiling for a moment before letting your head tilt to the side as your gaze settled on the blank ceiling.
"…You gonna tell me how long I'm going to be stuck here?" you tried again, your voice quieter this time, the earlier lightness fading into something more honest, less put-together.
You kept your gaze forward at first, fixed somewhere past the edge of the table, before letting it drift just slightly toward him, not fully turning, just enough to catch him in your periphery. Waiting and watching, hoping for even just the smallest crack in that stillness.
Silence was still all you got, nothing that even hinted he'd heard you at all. He stood there the same way he had from the start, posture unchanged, gaze fixed somewhere ahead that didn't include you, like your voice had simply dissolved before reaching him.
You held there for a second longer, then your expression tightened, the smallest pull at the corner of your mouth before it flattened out again. Your tongue pressed briefly against the inside of your cheek as you looked away, shoulders shifting against the back of the chair.
One hand slid along the armrest, fingers curling and uncurling once before settling again, like you needed something to do with them, something to relieve that small and annoyed feeling flickering through you.
"…Wow," you muttered, quieter now, almost like you weren't trying to be heard anymore. A faint breath left you, sharper than before, dripping of sarcasm. "You're worse than him when he's grading."
You let your head tilt back again, gaze lifting upward once more, but it didn't quite land anywhere this time. Instead, your fingers started moving again—lighter at first, then a little quicker, tapping out a rhythm that didn't quite go anywhere, didn't even mean anything, just filled the space where a response should've been.
The sound echoed faintly across the room, but you let it exist anyway, because the alternative was letting the silence sit too close. It bounced off the walls softly, almost swallowed immediately by how still everything else was, yet it gave you something to anchor onto.
Your breath came out a little slower after that, shoulders loosening by degrees as whatever restless edge had been sitting under your skin finally dulled.
You shifted in the chair, reaching for your bag with a small, distracted movement, fingers brushing over the strap before slipping inside. The journal came out easily, familiar in a way that didn't require any thought prior, the worn cover bending slightly as you held it, edges softened from being opened and closed too many times to count.
For a moment, you just held the journal in your hands, fingers resting against the worn cover without opening it right away. Your gaze stayed unfocused, somewhere between the object and the empty space in front of you, like you were waiting for a thought to settle into place before you acted on it.
You flipped it open next, the pages turning with a quiet rustle that felt louder than it should have. Your pen was already in your hand before you really registered it, hovering above the paper for a brief second as your eyes tracked the blank space.
And then, finally, your hand started to move, started writing.
Today was… weird. I learned a lot about space exploration today. Not that I needed to, I've already read most of it from that book on Mr. Grace's bookshelf next to his bed! Honestly, his taste in books is kind of questionable. Like, who keeps that many space manuals and random science papers just lying around?
Your lips twitched faintly as you wrote that, pen dragging a little slower for a second before continuing.
Mr— You paused, pen hovering, then tapped the page once before scratching it out slightly and correcting yourself. Ryland got called in by some serious-looking lady, and then we got…
You lifted your gaze from the page, tilting your head slightly toward the man by the door, your expression shifting into something mildly curious, almost conversational. "…Is this kidnapping?" you asked, almost casual.
Yet again, no response was given. You nodded once to yourself, as if you'd just confirmed something to yourself, before turning back to the page without much ceremony. "…Okay. Writing kidnapping." Your pen resumed immediately, a little quicker now, the words coming more freely than before.
—picked up by FBI-looking people who don't talk. Like at all! And we were then brought to a super boring building. Currently in a room with a human statue who may or may not blink.
Your pen slowed again near the end. You paused, leaning back slightly in your chair, tilting your head as your eyes lifted toward the man again, narrowing your eyes slightly as you studied him.
This time, your expression was more openly curious, brows raised just a little, lips pressed together in thought. "…Do you blink?" you asked, like you were genuinely considering it this time.
Still nothing.
You held the look for a beat longer than necessary, as if waiting for the universe to correct itself. Then your mouth pulled into a small, flat line, and next, you found yourself looking back down at the page.
A quiet exhale slipped out through your nose. "…Okay," you muttered, "That's cool too, good to know."
He said he'd come back.
Your hand paused mid-line, pen hovering just above the page like it had forgotten what it was doing. The words just lingered there, heavier in a way that didn't quite match the rest of the entry.
Your fingers tightened slightly around the pen, then eased again, as if you were deciding whether to let that thought stay or move past it.
He always does, just maybe a little late at times.
You swallowed, blinking once before continuing, the scratch of the pen filling the silence, letting it take over again so you didn't have to sit too long inside your own head.
The sound of writing filled the room after that, steady and familiar, like it was the only thing keeping everything from going too still.
Though, It didn't last long before the door opened again.
You barely had time to look up from your journal before Ryland stepped in, his presence filling the room in a way that made everything feel… better.
His eyes found you immediately, quick, searching, and only then did his shoulders drop a fraction, tension easing out of him like he'd been holding his breath without realizing it.
"Hey," he said, his voice softer now, carrying a kind of careful attention as he stepped closer. His gaze stayed on you the entire time, steady but gentle, like he was making sure you were still okay before anything else mattered.
One of his hands lifted halfway on instinct, hovering there for a brief second as if he'd almost reached out without thinking, then hesitated and lowered again, fingers curling slightly at his side. "You ready?"
You nodded quick, already rising from the chair before the question had fully settled. The journal closed in your hands with a sharper snap than you intended, your grip tightening around it for a moment like you were locking something away.
The next thing you knew, you were somewhere else entirely.
The hallway blurred into motion, then space shifted—too many corridors, too many turns, everything sterile and bright in a way that made time feel less like it was passing and more like it was being moved. Eventually, the world opened into something larger.
The lab was enormous.
Not just big—constructed. Purpose-built in a way that made every surface feel intentional. The constant hum of machinery filled the space, quite literally becoming background noise for the lab. Screens stretched across walls, data scrolling endlessly in quiet streams of green and blue.
"…Okay," you said, glancing up at him just before he fully moved past, your brows knitting together in mild confusion. Your hand lifted slightly, gesturing toward the expanse of the lab beyond the glass. "How did you even get in here? Are you secretly a scientist?"
Ryland didn't even slow properly, already half-turned toward the equipment as if he'd been pulled into a different rhythm the moment he stepped inside.
He gave a loose shrug, like the answer wasn't at all worth unpacking. "I know a guy," he said, like that explained everything, his tone casual enough to almost make it believable. His gaze flicked back to you briefly, just long enough to check you were okay. "Stay here, alright?"
Your expression tightened slightly, one brow lifting as you watched him properly now. "…That's not reassuring."
"It's not supposed to be," he muttered under his breath, already turning away again, attention snapping back to whatever was waiting for him on the other side of the glass.
You stayed where you were for a second longer than necessary, eyes following him through the transparent barrier until he blended into the motion of the lab.
Only then did you shift, lowering yourself into the chair behind the screen. The glass was cool at your side, separating you from whatever he was doing beyond it.
You adjusted slightly, settling in. And only after a few quiet seconds did you notice—subtle movement beside you, the faint shift of weight in the chair next to yours, like someone had just sat down where no one had been a moment before.
You turned your head slightly, eyes drifting toward the man seated beside you, who had been silent since he got here, his attention fixed entirely on the glass in front of him.
"…Okay," you said slowly, leaning a little forward before Ryland got too far behind the glass windows, lowering your voice instinctively like it might carry further than it should.
Your hand lifted slightly, pointing in the man's direction without fully committing to it. "Who's that guy?"
Ryland glanced over his shoulder mid-step, following your gaze for half a second before looking back at you. Something unreadable flickered across his face, quick, gone just as fast, like it hadn't been there at all.
"He's… helping," he said, vague in a way that was definitely on purpose.
You stared at him, brows furrowing further in what may be slight frustration. "…That's even less reassuring."
"Yeah," Ryland muttered, almost to himself as he turned away again, shoulders already shifting back into his 'work' mode. "I'm hearing that a lot today."
And just like that, he was gone. He didn't even look back after that. Just kept walking, swallowed by the brightness and movement of the lab, leaving you on the other side of the glass with more questions than answers—and a silence that didn't bother to explain itself.
You leaned back in your chair a fraction, shifting your weight as your attention drifted from the glass to the man beside you. Carl—someone had said the name earlier.
Your head tilted slightly as you studied him, eyes narrowing just a little as if that might help you read something he wasn’t offering.
"…You blink, right?" you asked after a moment, eyes still lingering on him like you were trying to confirm it visually as much as verbally.
"I do." Carl replied shortly.
The answer came so cleanly, so immediately, that it almost caught you off guard. Your eyes shifted properly to him now, studying his face with a little more focus than before, like your brain was recalibrating its earlier conclusion.
A brief pause followed then, your expression softening into something mildly surprised before settling again.
You gave a slow nod, the tension in your shoulders easing a fraction as the assumption you'd quietly built collapsed. "…Cool," you said after a beat, "Just checking."
It wasn't long before the quiet settled again, but it wasn't entirely. Instead, it was filled instead with the steady pulse of machines, the faint shift of movement behind the glass, and that distant sense of something unfolding just beyond your reach, like the room itself was holding its breath.
Your fingers tapped once against your knee, then stopped, as if even that small sound felt unnecessary now. On the other side of the glass, Ryland stood out sharply against it all, moving with a different kind of urgency now.
He adjusted something, checked it, then immediately returned to it again, as if refusing to accept the possibility that the answer wasn't already there waiting for him.
His hands didn't slow; if anything, they grew more certain, more insistent, like his focus had narrowed until nothing else mattered.
You found yourself leaning forward against the glass without meaning to, palm resting lightly against the cool surface as your eyes stayed on the display beyond it—four points holding their positions, two responding, two stubbornly not.
It was looping through the same pattern, again and again. At some point, it stopped being something you were observing and started being something your mind refused to stop tracing, like it had settled somewhere just beneath your thoughts and decided to stay.
You exhaled lightly through your nose at that, brows drawing together as you leaned in a fraction more, fingers pressing faintly against the glass.
"He's doing it wrong," you said under your breath, almost absentmindedly, like the thought had slipped out before you could properly decide to keep it.
Hearing your words, Carl had finally turned his head toward you, a slight shift in attention—but you were already moving before the acknowledgment even registered.
You straightened properly now, stepping closer to the glass as your focus sharpened, the rest of the room fading into background noise. Your eyes tracked the screen with increasing intensity now, following the pattern again.
"It's not random," you said, steadier now, less questioning and more certain as the idea began to settle into place. "They're not ignoring it… they're choosing."
Your gaze didn't leave the display, even as movement on the other side of the glass briefly shifted—Ryland slowing mid-motion, his attention breaking just enough to register that something had changed in the room. His head turned slightly, not fully toward you yet, but clearly enough to show he'd heard.
"What?" he called out, distracted, still half in the experiment.
Your fingers then lifted and tapped lightly against the glass once, like you were trying to give shape to a thought that was moving too fast to stay contained.
Your brows pulled together, not in confusion anymore, but in concentration, as if the pieces were already falling into place and you were just trying to keep up with them.
"The ones that don't move, they're not broken," you said, the certainty building as you watched the pattern repeat again. "They just don't want that direction anymore. They already did the first part."
Ryland froze completely this time. You saw it happen—the shift. How his posture changed, shoulders tightening, then releasing as he turned back to the data, eyes narrowing in a way that meant the idea had landed.
"…No," he muttered, "That would mean—unless the cycle is already established…"
You didn't wait. Your thoughts raced ahead of his now. The moment the pattern clicked in your head, it came out faster than you meant it. Your voice overlapped his, words coming quicker.
"Energy collection first," you said, stepping forward without even noticing you were moving, eyes still locked on the screen ahead, "then resources—then reproduction—"
"—and return to the sun," Ryland finished at the same time, his voice snapping into clarity, something inside him finally aligning into place.
For a fraction of a second, nothing followed. No sound, no movement. Just the two of you standing on opposite sides of the glass window, staring at the same conclusion.
For a moment, neither of you moved, the space between you settling into something quiet but full, like the air itself had shifted without anyone saying it out loud.
Ryland was the first to break from it, though even that came gradually—a small adjustment in his stance, the tension easing from his shoulders as he turned fully toward the glass. His hand, still hovering near the console, dropped slightly as if he'd forgotten what he'd been doing for just a second.
His expression changed before he seemed to realize it had. There was disbelief there, still lingering in the way his brows knit faintly, like part of him was retracing the thought just to be sure it held.
But it didn't stay there for long. It shifted—subtle, but unmistakable, into something warmer, something that settled deeper inside. A smile slipped through, unguarded and uneven, the kind that didn't belong to control or composure, but to something more instinctive.
It stayed small, barely there, but real enough that it changed the way he looked at you entirely.
There was something in the way he looked at you then that didn't belong to the lab, or the data, or the problem you'd just helped solve. It was softer than that, more personal, the kind of look that came when someone saw something click into place and recognized it for what it was.
It was something softer, almost instinctive. The way a teacher looks when a student understands something before being told. The way pride settles in before words can catch up to it.
"You got that from that?" he asked, stepping closer to the glass, his gaze moving between you and the display like he was trying to retrace the exact path your mind had taken.
His voice had lowered without him noticing, softer now, carrying something that sat somewhere between admiration and quiet amazement.
You shrugged reflexively, shifting your weight slightly, one hand tightening around the edge of your sleeve like you needed something to ground the sudden lightness in your chest. "It was kind of obvious," you said, trying for casual, even as your eyes drifted away for a second before returning.
Ryland let out a breath that almost turned into a laugh, his head tilting slightly as he looked at you again, the disbelief settling into something more certain. "Yeah," he said right away, like the answer didn't even need a second thought.
"No. That was not obvious." He stepped closer without really thinking about it, stopping just short of the glass, one hand coming to rest lightly against the edge of the console beside him as he faced you fully now.
His brows lifted slightly, not in doubt, but in quiet recognition, like he'd just reassessed something and wasn't going to pretend otherwise. "That was…" he started, the words catching for a brief second as he let out a soft breath, his hand adjusting slightly against the console like he needed that extra moment to settle it.
His expression steadied then, more certain now, the hesitation gone as he finished, "That was actually really good."
His gaze then lingered just a second longer than it needed to, like he hadn't quite finished processing what had just happened, before he finally looked away.
The smile didn't leave away with it—not fully, it stayed there, faint and lingering at the corners of his mouth, as he turned back toward the experiment and let his attention fall into the work again.
And just like that, he was moving again.
He turned back to the experiment with renewed energy, hands moving faster now, adjusting parameters with precise confidence like the entire system had just become understandable.
There was a kind of excitement in him now, contained, but unmistakable, and it changed the feel of the room without needing to announce itself.
Beside you, Carl spoke again, his voice cutting cleanly through the hum of the lab, "…Did you two just say the same thing at the same time?"
You didn't look at him.
"Yeah," you said simply, your gaze still fixed on Ryland as he moved through the process. "That happens."
Carl paused, processing that information given and finding no immediate place to put it. "…Often?" he asked after a moment.
You gave a small nod after, almost absentminded, your attention still fixed on Ryland as he moved through the experiment with that same steady focus. "Yeah," you said, like it didn't need further explanation, your eyes following the rhythm of his hands more than the conversation beside you.
There was a pause after that—long enough to feel like it meant something, even if you didn't look. Carl seemed to sit with it, processing, turning it over in that quiet, methodical way of his before finally speaking again.
"…That seems inefficient."
The moment he said it, you'd finally glanced at him, deadpan. Your gaze slid over to him, your expression flattening first before shifting, your eyes narrowing in judgement.
It wasn't long before your nose scrunched faintly as well, the look settling into something openly unimpressed, almost offended on principle. "You seem inefficient."
That earned you nothing in return—at least, not one you could point to. Carl didn't seem to have reacted, but there was the faintest pause in him after.
It lingered just long enough to notice, then settled again, his attention returning to the glass as if the moment had simply been filed away.
On the other side, Ryland's movement slowed for a fraction of a second, just enough for him to glance back. It wasn't a full turn—just a brief look over his shoulder, but his eyes found you immediately, like he'd been checking without meaning to.
Something in his expression softened as he did, the edge of his focus easing into something warmer, and something far more personal. The corner of his mouth lifted then, and the look he gave you, said more than the words that followed ever could.
"You're amazing kid."
It was almost night by the time you finally settled back into the waiting room. You sat in the waiting room with your bag half-open beside you, one leg bouncing faintly against the floor as the last of your patience wore thin.
Every few seconds your gaze drifted toward the door, and every time it stayed closed just a moment too long, something in your expression tightened without you noticing.
By the time the door finally swung open, you were already on your feet, relief hitting too fast, too hopeful.
"Great! Let’s go home and continue that book you were reading to me!" you said, turning fully toward the entrance as you bent down to gather your things, fingers moving faster than necessary as you shoved items back into your bag. "I just seem to can't remember it, which is weird 'cause I would never forget something like that-"
But the sentence faltered as your hands slowed, and your head lifted mid-motion. The words just died somewhere between your chest and your throat as your eyes landed on her instead, your expression faltering before you could catch it. For a second, you just stared, your thoughts stalling in a way that felt heavier than it should have.
There, Eva Stratt stepped in instead, composed as always, though there was something faintly apologetic in the way she held your gaze, "Well, I'm sorry to interrupt," she said evenly, pausing just inside the doorway, “but have you seen Dr. Grace anywhere?”
You didn't answer right away, your movements freezing halfway through adjusting your bag, as your jaw setting just enough to give something away, even if you didn't want it to.
Disappointment settled first, followed too closely by something else—frustration, maybe, or just the weight of being left waiting again. "No," you said finally, the word coming out flatter than you meant it to.
You let out a small breath after, more to steady yourself than anything else, your gaze dropping briefly before shifting away. Guess it was just more waiting. More silence.
She nodded once, already half-turning as if preparing to leave just as quickly as she arrived. "Right. I'll head out first," she added, one hand reaching for the door again with practiced efficiency.
And that was when your eyes caught on the folder in her hand. Your eyes had caught on the bold lettering without meaning to, the word sharp enough to pull your attention back instantly. 'NASA'
You went still the moment it crossed your eyes, just enough that even your breathing felt like it paused for a second longer than normal. Your brows drew together slightly as your eyes stayed fixed on the document, not moving, not blinking right away, as if your mind had hit something it didn't immediately know how to process.
"Woah...you work with NASA? Are you an astronaut?" Your reaction came out before you could stop it, your entire posture shifting forward as you stepped closer without thinking.
The earlier boredom, the waiting, the frustration, it all disappeared in an instant. Your smile widened quickly, almost involuntarily, eyes lighting up with a kind of excitement that made you feel like a kid again.
There was no hesitation in you now, just curiosity spilling over itself as you looked at the folder, then back at her face, like you were trying to connect the idea to a real person standing in front of you.
Eva Stratt didn't move much, but something subtle changed across her face—a slight lift of her brows, a quiet adjustment in her focus, as if she was re-evaluating the way you'd just seen her.
"No," she replied simply, as her eyes held steady on you for a moment longer than before, "I am not an astronaut."
"Oh."
The word slipped out of you almost immediately, your excitement deflating just as quickly as it had appeared. Your shoulders dropped a fraction, and your attention drifted away from her face, the spark of curiosity fading into something more neutral.
The thought of asking more questions lingered for a second, before slipping away entirely, like it hadn't quite found a reason to.
"Why?" she asked after a brief pause, "You wish to be an astronaut?"
For a moment, you didn't answer—not because you didn't know how to, but because it felt strange to be asked so plainly, like it mattered what you said.
Something in your expression softened then, the earlier burst of excitement returning in small bits. It didn't came rushing back the way it had before; instead, it lingered quietly.
The question itself seemed to land somewhere deeper, and for a moment you just let it stay there. It's been long since someone had asked you what your dream was.
"Yeah…" you said finally, a small smile forming as you looked down for a second before lifting your gaze back up. "I wanna explore space."
The words came out easier than expected. And with them, that smile stayed, wider this time, reaching all the way to your eyes, like it had been waiting a long time just to be said out loud.
"You're intelligent," Stratt said after a brief pause, her tone steady, as though she were simply confirming something already established. "Dr. Grace mentioned you figured out the reproduction of the astrophage."
There was no extra weight added to it, no attempt to make it sound impressive—just a factual statement delivered with precision. Then she shifted slightly, bending down just enough that her eyes met yours directly, her presence suddenly closer without becoming any less controlled.
"Maybe you'll become an astronaut someday," she said after a moment, "Maybe."
As soon as the words left her, she straightened again, the moment closing just as quickly as it had opened. Her attention already moved forward, hand reaching for the door with the same efficiency she carried into everything else, like nothing ever lingered for long in her world.
But before she could leave, your hand had already caught her sleeve. It wasn't a hard tug—just enough to stop her motion, to pull her attention back towards you.
Her expression shifted as she turned, in a way that was rare for her, subtle confusion breaking through her usual composure, something you didn't often see, or maybe just never got the chance to even notice.
You didn't hold her gaze for long at first. Your fingers loosened slightly, but they didn't let go immediately, like you weren't entirely sure you were allowed to do it in the first place.
"Thank you," you said quietly, the words coming out softer than you expected, your voice catching just slightly as you looked away for a second before forcing yourself to meet her eyes again. "Thank you for believing in me."
Stratt's attention stayed on you without wavering, her expression unreadable at first, composed in that way that made even waiting feel intentional. For a moment, it almost seemed like she might simply turn away without acknowledging your words at all.
The words sat in the air for a second before you continued, "And thank you for your service. It seems like that's what you're doing with Mr. Grace. It seems important. I’m guessing it has something to do with that astrophage, right?"
Stratt's stance changed almost without visible effort, her attention sharpening as it settled fully on you. Whatever softness had been there a moment ago disappeared, replaced by the same precise, controlled focus she seemed to default to, and maybe just a hint of being impressed as well.
"Clever," she said bluntly, as she released your sleeve and straightened back to her full height.
"But you shouldn't know that much, kid."
Then she moved toward the door at last. It opened smoothly under her hand, her attention already moving ahead of her body, no longer anchored in the room. "I've got to get going now," she said finally, already stepping through the threshold without looking back again.
You woke up to silence that felt wrong in a way you couldn't immediately explain, like the room had been carefully stripped of anything that could give you context or comfort.
It spread evenly across everything, pale and constant, with no variation to break it up. No shadows to give depth, no shift in tone to hint at time passing, making it impossible to tell how long you had been there.
When you pushed yourself up, the motion came too quickly.
Your body reacted on instinct, but your balance didn't follow. The room seemed to dip for a moment, your vision slipping slightly as a wave of dizziness rolled through you without warning.
Your hand shot out to brace yourself, fingers pressing hard into the mattress as your stomach tightened and your breath stalled halfway, like your body needed a second to catch up with what you'd just done.
Nothing in your mind was fully there. It was straight absence, like someone had taken whole sections of your thoughts and left gaps where something important should have been.
You blinked hard, once, then again, trying to force clarity into place, but instead your breathing started to shift on its own, becoming shallow and uneven as your chest tightened. The air felt thinner somehow, harder to draw in fully
Your heartbeat the began to pace, it felt too loud, too close, like it was happening just under your ears instead of inside your body. Your fingers dug into the fabric beneath you, gripping without thought, searching for something solid to hold onto as everything else seemed just slightly out of reach.
Every attempt to gather your thoughts slipped apart the moment you got close, leaving you with nothing but the awareness that they weren’t staying where they should.
That was when your focus finally landed—catching on a figure you hadn't registered before.
A man sat across the room, positioned just far enough to blend into the stillness at first glance. He hadn't moved nor made a sound, just remained there in his seat.
His gaze was already on you by the time you realised, not intrusive, not aggressive, but constant in a way that made it impossible to ignore, like he had been waiting for the exact moment you'd notice him.
He wasn’t doing anything that should have been frightening on its own, but he was a stranger to your mind. Your body reacted before your mind could even form a proper thought, your shoulders tensing as you shifted back slightly, breath catching again as your eyes locked onto him.
The longer you kept looking at him, the less your thoughts held together—who is he, why is he here, why am I here—but none of it settled into anything useful, just noise stacking on top of noise.
It slipped apart before you could hold onto any of them, until it all blurred into a kind of noise that only made your chest tighten further. Your breathing turned faster then, uneven, as your chest rose too quickly as panic began to build in a way you couldn’t slow down.
The space around you then seemed to have shifted without actually changing.
The space seemed to draw in on itself, your awareness shrinking with it, like you could no longer take in everything at once. The edges of your vision felt distant, harder to hold onto, while everything closer pressed in too sharply. It left you disoriented, like you were sitting in something too small for the way your chest kept trying to expand.
Your grip on the sheets tightened, fingers curling into the fabric hard enough that your knuckles paled, grounding yourself in the only thing that felt real to the touch.
You tried to steady your breathing, to pull it back into something controlled, but it wouldn't cooperate. Each inhale came too quick, too shallow, slipping out of rhythm no matter how hard you tried to fix it. Your body had already decided something was wrong—and it wasn't waiting for your mind to catch up.
Before you could even stop it, the fear broke through first. "I want to go home!" The words came out raw, louder than you meant them to be, your voice unsteady as your gaze flickered across the room, searching without knowing for what. "I want to go home!"
That was when he moved. Slowly and carefully—like he was aware of how easily the moment could tip further. He stepped closer, not rushing, not closing the distance all at once, his movements deliberate in a way meant to keep from overwhelming you.
His expression shifted then, something softer replacing the stillness from before as he raised his hands slightly, "Hey... it's alright-"
Before he could even continue his reassurance, the words never seemed to have gotten its chance to land.
Your voice broke through first, louder this time, your breathing hitching and spiraling further out of rhythm as that panic surged past anything you could seem to contain for now.
The sound tore out of you without control, your chest rising too fast, your lungs struggling to keep up as everything blurred together into something overwhelming.
Then, the door opened. The sound cut through everything like a clean break in a loop that wouldn't stop. Your head snapped up instantly, almost too fast, your entire body reacting before you could think.
Ryland had stepped inside, and somehow, everything seemed to have stopped escalating.
Not gradually, not gently, just like something inside you had been running too fast and suddenly found something it recognized enough to pause for.
Your breath had caught mid-motion, returning in uneven waves that were still shaky, but no longer climbing higher, your shoulders loosening slightly as if the tension had lost its direction.
The room stayed the same, but it felt different almost immediately. It was less threatening, like the edges of everything had been softened just by his presence alone.
Ryland's eyes went straight to you right away, and his expression shifted instantly—concern tightening his features as he moved closer, slower now, careful in a way that made him feel like the only stable thing in the room. "Hey," he said, voice calm but steady, "hey, it's okay. You're alright."
It wasn't dramatic or forceful, but it landed anyway, almost as if your body had recognized it before your thoughts could even start an argue with it.
Your breathing eased in uneven increments, still shaky but no longer climbing into something uncontrollable. Each inhale came a little steadier than the last, your chest no longer fighting itself as hard, while your gaze stayed locked onto him without you fully deciding to do so.
It wasn't a conscious choice, it was just where your attention kept returning to, as if everything else had quietly fallen out of relevance.
Soon, everything else in the room seemed to have faded into something unimportant—the man in the corner, the unfamiliar surroundings, even the fear itself losing some of its weight as your focus narrowed to him.
Sensing his cue, Ryland lowered himself carefully, his movement slow and intentional as he brought himself closer to your level without crowding you.
He didn't rush the distance between you, keeping it open enough to feel safe, his posture relaxed in a way that signaled he wasn't here to force anything—just to be present.
Every shift in him felt intentional, like he was paying attention to how even small movements might affect you, adjusting without making it obvious.
"Can you hear me?" he asked gently, watching your face closely. "Do you know where you are?"
Listening to his words, you swallowed hard, throat dry and scartchy, head still foggy like something important had been taken out of reach. You tried to think, but every attempt felt like pushing against something missing rather than something blocked, and it made your chest tighten again.
Your gaze stayed on him longer than anything else in the room, almost as if it had decided there wasn't anywhere else worth looking. There was something about his presence that tugged at you in a way you couldn't quite explain.
Your mind didn't have a name for it, didn't have a memory to attach it to, but something deeper in you seemed to respond anyway, like it remembered in a way your thoughts couldn't.
"I…" the word coming out smaller than you intended, trailing off as you blinked slowly, trying to push through the fog sitting heavy behind your thoughts.
You frowned faintly, searching his face like it might give you the missing pieces you couldn't reach on your own. "…I don't…" you tried again, quieter this time, "…I don't know where I am."
Carl remained just behind him, still and observant, confusion written clearly on his face as he watched the exchange unfold.
There was a clear uncertainty in the way he looked between you and Ryland, like he had expected Ryland to panic, or be just as confused as he was currently, something that made immediate sense of what was happening.
Instead, he was met with calm responses, and that seemed to leave him without a place to put what he was seeing.
Ryland, however, didn't react as though anything was out of place. He only nodded once, like he had already accounted for it, and his expression softened just a fraction more as he stayed crouched in front of you. "Okay," he said gently, "that's okay. You're safe."
Safe.
The word itself didn't bring back any of your memory sadly, but it changed something in your body anyway. Your breathing then began to ease in small, no longer splintering the way it had before, and while the room still didn't feel familiar, it stopped feeling like it was pressing in on you from every side.
The space around you remained unknown, but it became easier to exist inside it without fighting it quite as hard.
Ryland stayed where he was for a moment longer, watching you carefully, reading the changes that weren't visible on the surface before speaking again, his tone softer now, more careful, as if testing something.
"Do you remember me?"
That question made something flicker at the edge of your thoughts—not a clear memory, but fragments of something that refused to stay still.
A place that felt like a classroom without a name. A voice that wasn't strange, even if you couldn't place where you’d heard it before. And a quiet sense of not being alone in it at all, like someone had been there with you in a way your mind just couldn't reconstruct.
You frowned slightly, trying to pull it into focus, your mind straining against the fog as if it was just out of reach.
Your lips parted slowly. "…Mr. Grace..?" you said, uncertain, the name coming out like you were borrowing it rather than remembering it, unsure if it truly belonged to him or had simply surfaced by chance.
Ryland went still for a brief second. Then something in his face shifted—relief came through quietly, like a pressure he hadn't been showing finally let go.
He exhaled slowly, giving a small nod as his posture eased, the tension in his shoulders loosening until he looked less guarded, more present.
"Yeah," he murmured under his breath.
He swallowed, glancing at you like he was trying to steady himself as much as you. "Yeah, it's me. Mr. Grace" A pause followed, longer this time, like the next words weren't easy to place. "You're my student."
His jaw tightened briefly before he continued, quieter. "You always wanted to go up there," he said, eyes flicking up for a second, as if he could see something beyond the room. "Past everything. Past Earth, to explore the vast space beyond our sky." His gaze came back to you, and his voice dipped even lower. "And you… you're also my family, kid."
For a moment, he didn't add anything else.
And something in you responded anyways. Just like that, your breathing finally steadied, though not fully, not perfectly, but enough that the panic stopped growing, as if your mind had decided that whatever was missing, he was still something it could hold onto.
Your room was quiet in a way that felt warm rather than empty, the kind of silence that settled gently over everything instead of pressing down on it.
The lamp in the corner casted a soft amber glow across your desk, lighting up scattered sketches, open notebooks, and your journal lying slightly crooked like it had been left mid-thought and never fully recovered. Nothing was perfectly arranged, but none of it felt out of place.
Your pencil moved slowly across the page, guided more by habit than intention, lines forming without much thought behind them.
Still, your attention kept drifting back to the journal beside you, where pages were filled with fragments that didn't quite feel like strangers anymore—classroom notes, small jokes, half-remembered experiments, and moments that were starting to stitch themselves back together in your mind.
You paused often, pencil hovering above the page, as if waiting for your thoughts to catch up.
The memories didn't come rushing back, they surfaced slowly, unevenly, like pieces finding their way up one at a time.
Ryland's voice in a classroom that always felt slightly too chaotic to be serious, the way he'd hand out those beanbag rewards like it was a perfectly normal educational system he had absolutely not invented on the spot, and the walks after class where he'd talk too fast about ideas that were clearly bigger than the space between you.
The Beatles played somewhere in the background of those memories too, always slightly too loud, always slightly repetitive, but comforting in a way you didn't question then, and missed more than you realized now.
The door opened before you could fully settle into any one of them.
You didn't startle anymore—you just turned your head slowly, like part of you had already expected it, knew who it would be. And there he was. Ryland stepped in, letting out a quiet breath as he crossed the threshold, his shoulders loosening the second his eyes found you, like the weight of whatever world he came from stayed just outside the room.
His eyes moved over the room in a quiet sweep—the desk first, catching on the scattered pages, the half-finished sketch, the journal left open.
Then his gaze found you, and something in his expression eased, that familiar kind of tired softness settling in, the kind that always made things feel a little less overwhelming just by being there.
"Still here," he said lightly, though his voice carried more relief than teasing. He leaned slightly against the door for a second before pushing off it, stepping further into the room. "Good. I was worried you'd replaced me with your new substitue."
"It's more reliable," you said without looking up immediately.
He huffed out a small breath, something close to a laugh, shaking his head as he let the door fall shut behind him with a soft click. "Wow," he muttered, dragging a hand briefly over the back of his neck before letting it drop.
"Didn't even hesitate. I feel replaced." His gaze flicked back to your desk, then to you again, a faint curve pulling at the corner of his mouth. "For the record, I offer significantly better commentary."
"You're late, again." you added, quieter this time.
That made him pause for half a second as he took your dissapointment in. His mouth twitched then, as if he might deflect it with something light, but it didn't quite make it out.
Instead, he exhaled out through his nose, the hint of a smile lingering but not quite settling as he dipped his head in acknowledgment. "Yeah," he admitted quietly, "I know."
For a second, neither of you spoke after that. The air between the two of you shifted, not uncomfortable, just heavier with things neither of you said out loud often enough.
He didn't rush to change it. Neither did you. It just… stayed there, stretching gently between the two of you like something familiar you'd both learned how to sit inside.
You lowered your eyes back to your journal, fingers brushing along the edge of the page absentmindedly, as something in your mind finally clicked into place more clearly than before—the classroom, the experiments, the way he always acted like time was negotiable when it came to teaching you something he found interesting.
It wasn't just scattered memory anymore; it had a shape, feeling, a kind of warmth that made your chest tighten in a way that wasn't entirely unpleasant.
"I can remember a little," you said quietly.
The moment you spoke, Ryland's movement slowed the second it landed.
You didn't rush to fill the silence, but your voice stayed steady as you continued, eyes still on the journal in front of you. "I used to sit in your class. You'd do experiments that always looked like they were one step away from going wrong," A faint breath of amusement slipped through your words. "And you'd still act like it was exactly how it was supposed to go."
The corner of Ryland's mouth lifted slightly at that, small and unguarded. He didn't interrupt, just watched you, as he listened to your words.
"And the beanbags." You added, "You gave them out like it was currency for being right, even though I'm pretty sure you just liked throwing things at people."
A small laugh escaped him at that, softer than usual, but it faded quickly into something more thoughtful.
"And after class," you went on, slower now, "sometimes we'd leave together. You'd always play The Beatles when we reached home, like it was just part of our daily routine, even when you only knew a few songs and just replayed them." Your fingers curled slightly on the edge of the journal. "And now you're just… not there most of the time."
Ryland's expression shifted subtly, the faint remnants of humor draining out into something quieter and more conflicted, as he leaned slightly against the desk, like he needed something physical to steady himself. "I didn't realize it felt like that," he said honestly, voice lower now.
You glanced up at him then. "I notice everything."
That landed harder than anything else. Ryland let out a slow breath through his nose, and for a moment his eyes dropped before returning to you. A faint, almost tired curve touched his mouth, though not quite a smile. "Yeah," he murmured, "I know you do."
The silence that followed didn't feel hollow. This time it wasn't empty—it was full of understanding that didn't quite have words yet. Ryland rubbed his thumb against his fingers briefly, like he was thinking through something heavier than he wanted to admit, then looked back at you with a kind of careful honesty.
"I'm trying," he said eventually,. "I swear I am. But I keep getting pulled away more than I like, kid."
"I don't want you pulled away," you said plainly, like there wasn’t anything else it could mean.
And that made him still for a moment. His focus narrowed in on you more completely, the rest of the room seeming to fall away in importance without him even trying to make it happen.
You hesitated, then added quieter, more vulnerable than before, "I don't want to be separated from you anymore."
The words landed differently this time—heavier, softer, real in a way that seemed to catch him off guard. Ryland looked at you like he was trying to process something he didn't have a prepared response for, like all his usual ways of handling things didn't apply here.
He exhaled slowly, before shifting closer, lowering himself slightly so he wasn't just standing over you anymore, his expression gentler now, "…I don't want that either," he said quietly. "I just don't always know how to fix it... this separation thing."
You looked down at your journal upon hearing his response, the only thing you could seem to have done there before speaking, "Then don’t fix it alone."
"That's what you told me before, wasn't it?" Your brows knit slightly, frustration and sincerity seeping through your voice. "Don't tell me you can't even follow your own advice. I can help too, you know. I can talk to her, or I could even-"
You didn't even get to finish it. Ryland had heard you, but the rest of your words never fully reached him the way you meant them to. It wasn't an interruption so much as a slow fading—like your voice was still there, but slipping further away with each second, losing clarity as something in his attention shifted somewhere else, further down a path you were still trying to step onto.
His expression changed with it—subtle, but weighted. Not rejection, not distance in a harsh sense, but something heavier and more resigned, like he had already started carrying the answer before you were done speaking.
"Hey," he said gently, cutting in without raising his voice. He lowered his gaze to you, steady but firm in a way that wasn't harsh. "Look at me, kid. This isn't something you can fix. It's not on you. It's on me."
He stared at you for a moment longer then, before letting out a quiet breath that sounded almost like surrender, before a faint, tired hint of humor returned in his tone.
"But you are dangerously good at saying things that make me rethink my entire life choices," he muttered.
You finally looked up properly at that. "Well," you replied, matter-of-fact, "that's good enough, I guess."
That earned a small smile from him—quiet, but real enough that it softened something in his expression before he could hide it again. It didn't linger long, but it changed the way he looked at you.
His gaze dropped after, settling on your hand near the journal, and something in him shifted, less guarded now, more careful, like he was handling something that mattered more than he was used to showing.
He lifted his hand slowly, almost like he might stop halfway, before extending only his pinky toward you.
The gesture felt unpolished on him, slightly awkward on its own, like he was aware of how simple it was compared to everything else, and how serious it still managed to feel. "Pinky promise," he said quietly. "No disappearing. No forgetting. No becoming 'too busy to exist.'"
A faint breath of laughter slipped past your lips, soft and unexpected, easing some of the weight that had been sitting between you. You hesitated for just a second, then reached out, your pinky hooking around his.
His grip closed gently around it, careful but certain, the kind of hold that didn't need strength to feel solid. He didn't let go right away, and neither did you, the silence between you settling into something steadier than before. "I won't forget you," he said, voice lower now, more certain. "Ever."
You nodded slightly, still holding on. "…You better not."
A small pause passed before he added, almost softer than anything he'd said so far, "You're my family, I would never."
The words stayed in the room longer than the silence that followed it. You held his pinky a moment longer before finally loosening your grip, not because you wanted to let go, but because it felt like you didn't have to hold on as tightly anymore for it to mean something.
The quiet stretched just a little too long before Ryland broke it, almost like he couldn’t stand letting it sit there any longer.
"…Is it okay if I ask for a hug right now?"
It came out almost casually, but not quite. His voice dipped at the edges, softer than usual, and when you looked up, he was already watching you—a little unsure in a way he didn't often show, like he was waiting for permission instead of assuming it.
You looked up at him, and for a split second, the seriousness of the moment cracked. You let out a short snort before you could stop yourself, the sound slipping into a quiet laugh.
It caught you off guard more than him—how easily he could do that, shift the weight of a moment just by saying something completely unexpected. This was him. The version of him you knew best.
"You don't have somewhere to be?" you shot back, lifting a brow as you tilted your head slightly, the hint of a smile tugging at your lips.
He blinked, like the thought had only just caught up to him, hitting him a second too late.
"Right…" he muttered, the word dragging out as realization settled in. His hand came up briefly, rubbing the back of his neck as his gaze flicked away, like he was mentally retracing everything he was supposed to be doing. "Stratt," he added under his breath, more to himself than to you.
For a moment, he was just there, like he was weighing it, whatever he had to go to versus whatever this was. Then he looked back at you, something stubborn and familiar slipping back into place.
"Then you're going to have to wait," he said before straightening a little, a faint hint of a smile tugging at his expression. "I'm not dropping it. I'll come back for that hug."
You huffed softly, shaking your head as you leaned back just slightly, your eyes narrowing in mock judgment. "I'll live longer than you anyways, you oldie." you replied without missing a beat, a teasing glint flashing through your gaze. "I'm not going anywhere anytime soon."
Eva Stratt didn't raise her voice, nor did she rush, didn't do anything that could be called forceful—and yet the moment she stepped into the room, the space seemed to draw tighter around her.
It wasn't long before, she sat down across from Ryland, placing a thick folder onto the table with careful precision, like something being set in place rather than simply put down.
Ryland' body reacted before his mind agreed with it: his shoulders tightening a fraction, fingers tapping once against his sleeve before he forced them still. He leaned back anyways, trying to look casual, but his eyes stayed alert in a way that never fully switched off anymore.
Stratt on the other hand, didn't waste any time, as she opened the file without preamble, flipping it open with the same quiet efficiency she always had. "The child," she said, her gaze still on the pages in front of her. "Your ward. I need an updated assessment."
Ryland exhaled slowly, like he'd been expecting the question but still disliked hearing it phrased that way. "She's not a ward," he corrected automatically, then softened it a moment later when Stratt didn't react. "She's my student. And she's under my care, yes."
Stratt turned a page. "Condition."
Ryland's jaw tightened just slightly before he answered. His eyes dipped briefly, not settling anywhere in particular, just enough to suggest he was weighing his response rather than avoiding it. "You saw her breakdown, didnt you?"
A brief pause followed, just long enough to feel intentional.
"…Stable," he said finally, though his voice didn't fully commit to the word. He leaned back slightly, adjusting his posture as his hand brushed once against his sleeve before going still. "Physically she's fine. Mentally…" His brow creased slightly as he spoke, searching for something more accurate than simple terms, "…inconsistent."
"Clarify."
Ryland shifted slightly in his chair at her words, gaze dropping for a second as if the table held easier answers than the conversation head-on. "Trauma-related memory disruption," he said more carefully now, his tone tightening into something clinical out of habit rather than comfort.
His fingers then moved once against his sleeve before stilling again. "Her short-term retention is unreliable. Under stress, it deteriorates further. Lack of sleep makes it worse." He paused, exhaling quietly, like even that explanation felt incomplete.
"Her brain isn't processing and storing experiences the way it should when it's under strain." There was a brief silence before he added, more quietly this time, "There's also prior neurological damage. Blunt force trauma." His jaw shifted slightly just from from the thought of it, "That altered her baseline functioning."
That was when Stratt lifted her gaze, her attention fully engaged now.
"Explain origin of trauma," she said.
Ryland didn't answer immediately. His jaw tightened once, like the words had weight before they even left him. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped, less detached now, more grounded in something he didn't revisit easily.
"Home." he said quietly. "Prolonged abuse." His eyes stayed lowered for a moment longer before shifting slightly. "We didn't identify the full extent early enough. There were warning signs—recurring injuries, inconsistent explanations, withdrawal."
A faint crease formed between his brows, something more personal slipping through despite himself "She hid it," he added, softer now. "Better than she should have been able to."
His fingers pressed lightly into his own knee under the table, a grounding habit he didn't seem to be aware of anymore.
Stratt flipped another page, expression unchanged at least to his eyes. "Continue."
Ryland's gaze drifted slightly, unfocused now, like the room had shifted somewhere else entirely.
"The night I found her…" he began, then stopped briefly, the words stalling just enough to matter. His throat tightened slightly, and he swallowed once before continuing. "She hadn't shown up to class. No response from her parents either. I went to check because it was… wrong. She never missed without notice. It was unlike her."
He drew in a slow breath, but it didn't quite steady him like he'd expected it to.
"I remember the smell first. Before I saw anything." His brows pulled together faintly, like even recalling it wasn't something he could fully separate from the feeling. "Blood. Smoke. Something burned… metallic." A brief pause. "Something was wrong."
His voice tightened slightly, but he pushed through it anyway. "The door was locked. I broke it using a fire extinguisher I grabbed from the hallway." He exhaled faintly, like the memory was still moving faster than the words. "I wasn't thinking. I just moved."
Stratt didn't interrupt.
Ryland's eyes stayed down, fixed somewhere near the edge of the table, like looking up would pull him out of something he hadn't finished going through yet.
"When I got inside… she was on the floor. Not unconscious." A slight pause followed, his brow tightening further. "That was the strange part. She was awake, but barely. Disoriented. Couldn't coordinate movement properly like she needed it to."
"She kept trying to focus on me," he added, softer now, his eyes unfocused like he was seeing it again rather than describing it. "Like if she looked away for even a second, I wouldn't still be there."
A pause, as his voice softened further. "There was extensive trauma in the home. Her parents-" He stopped, then corrected himself carefully, "They were already gone by the time I arrived. It had happened before I got there."
The silence that followed was heavy enough to feel physical.
"I stayed with her until emergency services got there." he continued. "She couldn't even sit up properly. She kept holding on like she was about to fall any moment.'
"I remember thinking she didn't want to lose consciousness because she was afraid she wouldn't come back." His throat tightened slightly, but he forced the next words out anyways.
"She ended up in my custody afterwards. There wasn't a stable placement available at the time, and moving her through multiple systems in that condition…" He shook his head faintly, the motion restrained. "It would've done more harm than good."
The moment Ryland finished, Stratt closed the file with an almost deliberate care. The soft thud of it settling against the table carried more weight than it should've.
Ryland hadn't look up yet. "I wasn't prepared for any of it" he admitted after a moment, the words slipping out more to the space than directly to her. "But once she was there… that was it. There wasn't really another option."
"And the cognitive decline" Stratt added after awhile.
That made him still in his thoughts. He drew in a slow breath, holding it for just a second before letting it out again, like he was arranging something fragile before putting it into words.
"It wasn't immediate. At first it looked like standard post-traumatic stress effects—memory lapses, dissociation, difficulty retaining short-term information under emotional strain." He paused.
"We introduced journaling early on," he continued, one hand gesturing briefly toward the idea before falling still again. "A way to anchor memory externally. Something consistent she could return to when things didn't line up internally. It worked… for a while."
His gaze lifted slightly, drifting toward the glass wall, though it didn't quite settle on anything beyond it. For a moment, it looked as though he was just focusing, just not entirely on the present.
"Then it became more inconsistent," he continued, quieter. "Not just forgetting events, but losing continuity between them. Like the brain is failing to consolidate episodic memory reliably. The injury likely disrupted hippocampal encoding pathways, and trauma is making it worse."
He fell quiet for a second, then added, more subdued. "It scares her when she realizes it's happening."
Stratt didn't interrupt. She watched him instead, her attention steady, assessing in a way that didn't require words.
"She tries to compensate it," he added. "Harder than she should have to. She writes everything down, tries to reconstruct gaps. But on bad days… even that isn't enough."
Stratt's eyes then flicked briefly toward the glass , as if she was trying to mask her own emotions from slipping.
Ryland followed then, glancing instinctively, his expression softening in a way he didn't seem aware of. "She's very smart," he said, almost reflexively. "That's part of why it's worse in a way. She notices the inconsistencies at times."
Stratt finally spoke again, flat and precise, her gaze still fixed upon the view beyond the glass windows. "You are emotionally compromised in this case."
Ryland gave a small, humorless exhale. "Yeah," he said simply, didn't even argue it. Didn't even try.
The word sat there, unchallenged. A moment passed before he spoke again, softer this time, his voice losing what little distance it had left. "But I'm still the one she turns to, the one she trusts."
"She calls me her family sometimes," he added, quieter now, like the admission wasn't meant to carry as far as it did.
Ryland sat back slightly, eyes still unfocused, like the memory of everything he'd described was still sitting somewhere just behind his words.
"I keep thinking I'm supposed to be the stable one," he murmured under his breath, though loud enough for Stratt to still be able to hear what he was saying.. "The one keeping things together. But most days it feels like she's the one holding onto me so I don't fall apart either…"
The room felt artificially calm in the way only controlled environments could manage, too carefully designed to pretend that human decisions weren't currently being weighed down like collapsing stars.
The lights above cast an even, unchanging brightness across the space, flattening everything beneath it. Just a quiet hum that filled the gaps between words, steady and indifferent, like it had no stake in what happened here. Papers were spread across the table in neat stacks, untouched, and waiting.
Ryland sat slightly off to one side rather than directly at the center. Not by much, but enough to suggest he hadn't fully settled into the space given.
His fingers moved absently along the edge of the table, brushing against it in a slow, repetitive motion before pulling back, only to return again a second later. He didn't seem to notice he was doing it.
His gaze then shifted between the reports and Stratt, never quite resting. It was confusing for him to be called in here, and there was this gut-feeling that something wasn't exactly gonna go his way.
"The Astrophage misallocation is critical," Stratt said, her voice slicing cleanly through the silence as she pushed the report across the table. The motion was controlled, deliberate in a way like she was placing something unavoidable directly in front of him. "The quartermaster's miscalculation increased the usable mass by a factor of one million."
Ryland leaned forward immediately, his eyes moved quickly over the page, scanning line after line, until they stopped. Completely. His expression tightened as the numbers settled into place, his brows drawing together hard as the realization hit all at once.
"That's not an error margin," he said immediately, voice tightening. "That's a total system failure. One milligram changes everything. You can't just scale that and hope containment holds."
Across the table, Dr. Lokken shifted in his seat, the movement small and restless, like he couldn't quite stay still under the weight of it. "It was a labeling mistake," he said, though even his own voice lacked conviction.
Ryland let out a short breath that almost passed for a laugh, except there was nothing amused in it. He leaned back slightly, running a hand briefly over his face before dropping it again. "A labeling mistake is misplacing a decimal," he said, his tone edged now, disbelief bleeding through. "This is—this is catastrophic physics."
The tension in the room tightened further before another voice cut through it. "So a mistake just killed my entire team?" Yáo's voice cut in suddenly, rough and hollow.
No one responded.
Stratt didn't even turn toward Yáo when she spoke, her attention still fixed ahead as if the question hadn't changed anything in her mind at all. "We move forward regardless."
That was enough to stop Ryland cold. The small, restless movements he'd been making stopped completely. His head then lifted a fraction slower this time, but when he spoke, there was no hesitation left in it.
"No," he said, the word cutting through the room with sudden clarity. His posture shifted forward again, tension settling visibly into his frame. "No, we don't just 'proceed regardless.'" His voice tightened, the restraint in him thinning by the second.
"You're talking about untested energy scaling with volatile biological fuel systems. If you launch with this kind of uncertainty, you're not solving a problem—you're multiplying it."
Ryland turned toward him immediately, the movement quick, almost abrupt. His eyes widened slightly, frustration cutting through the urgency in his voice.
"And if you launch wrong, you lose the entire mission permanently." he shot back. His hand lifted briefly, gesturing before dropping again. "That's not a delay problem—that's a failure condition."
Stratt's gaze settled on him at last—steady, unblinking, the kind of attention that didn't waver once it had decided where to land. It wasn't aggressive, not outwardly, but it carried weight all the same.
The room seemed to narrow around that single point of focus, the quiet tightening as if it were waiting to see how he would respond. "We will adjust personnel," she said calmly, untouched by hesitation.
Ryland frowned slightly, caught off guard, as something in her phrasing didn't sit right. "What does that mean?" he asked, his voice tightening with suspicion, the question coming out sharper than he intended.
She didn't answer him verbally. Instead, she reached for another document and slid it across the table toward him. The paper came to a stop just in front of him, just within his reach.
Ryland's eyes dropped to it automatically. His gaze scanning the first few lines, before it stopped. His jaw tightened then, the muscle shifting faintly under his skin.
"…No," he said, the word slipping out before he'd even finished reading.
He continued, reading a little further. His head shook once the moment he's done, sharper this time, as if rejecting the idea outright before it could settle. "No. Absolutely not." His hand lifted slightly off the table, then dropped again, like he didn't know where to put it.
Stratt however, remained unchanged. "Science officer," she clarified without emphasis, as if the title alone should have been enough.
Ryland let out a breath that broke into something rougher than intended—a short, disbelieving sound that didn't carry any trace of amusement.
He leaned back in his chair, the movement abrupt this time, one hand coming up to drag across his face before settling at the back of his neck. His fingers pressed there briefly, needing a second to process just how serious she was.
His eyes then found its way back, flicking back down to the document, then up to her again, searching for something, or anything—that suggested this wasn't as final as she intended.
It wasn't there.
'I am not an astronaut," he said, the words firmer now, edged with something closer to disbelief than refusal. His hand dropped back to the table, palm flattening against the surface as he leaned forward slightly again, like pushing back against the idea itself.
"I don't have the training. I don't have the qualifications. I don't even know how to moonwalk—I put the 'not' in astronaut okay? You can't just—" He stopped himself, a sharp exhale escaping his mouth in pure disbelief this was happening.
For a moment, he just stared at her, like he was waiting for her to correct herself, that this was just something that could be undone.
It was a mistake to expect hesitation from her, it was just ridiculous of him to expect. Ryland knew how Stratt worked—had seen it enough times to recognize the pattern.
She didn't test ideas out loud, didn't float possibilities just to see how they landed. If she said something, it was already decided. Still, there had been a brief, stubborn part of him that waited for a correction that never came.
He watched her now, searching anyways for any flicker of reconsideration, any sign that this was still a discussion and not a conclusion already reached. There was nothing. Her gaze remained fixed on him, steady and unyielding.
"We don't require an astronaut," she said. "We require expertise in Astrophage dynamics."
For a second, Ryland just stared at her.
Then he let out a quiet, disbelieving breath, his hand lifting halfway before dropping again, like he couldn't quite decide what to do with it. He pointed at himself anyway, the motion sharper the second time, as if physically indicating himself might somehow highlight the flaw in her logic.
"Me?" he said, incredulity slipping fully into his voice now. "I teach middle school science." His brows pulled together, his mouth tightening as he leaned forward slightly, emphasizing each word like she might have missed them the first time. "That is the exact opposite end of whatever qualification pyramid you're working with."
Off to the side, Yáo spoke without looking up, his voice low and stripped of anything but blunt fact. "There is no qualification pyramid anymore."
Ryland turned toward him so quickly his chair shifted slightly against the floor. "That is not reassuring!" he snapped, the words coming out sharper than he intended, but he didn't take them back. He dragged a hand through his hair, pushing it back in a rough, restless motion before falling again.
He stepped away from the table.
Only one step—but it was enough to break the line he'd been holding, like his body needed distance even if his mind refused to disengage. He turned, pacing half a step, then stopped again, pivoting back toward them almost immediately, like he couldn't decide whether to leave or keep arguing.
"I don't do space," he continued, the words coming faster now, his hands moving in uneven gestures that didn't quite settle. "I don't do zero gravity. I don't do—" he gestured vaguely upward, fingers splaying in the air, "—any of that. Anything involving surviving outside Earth's immediate protective envelope. That's not my field."
Sitiing next to Yáo, Ilyukhina tilted her head slightly, watching him with a kind of quiet assessment. "You will adapt" she said.
Ryland stared at her the moment she finished, really stared this time, his expression flattening for a second as if his brain needed an extra beat to process that she had said that without hesitation.
His lips parted slightly, then pressed together again, his brows lifting in a way that hovered between disbelief and something dangerously close to exasperation.
A short breath left him—half a laugh, half in disbelief, entirely humorless in its way.
He pointed at her vaguely, not quite precise, just enough to direct the weight of his response. "That," he said, his voice tight, "is what people say right before someone dies."
Stratt remained still, watching him like he was already part of the equation. "We don't need confidence. We need capability."
Ryland let out a frustrated breath at Stratt's reasoning, then his voice dropped slightly, his shoulders rising slightly before dropping again. He turned his head away for a second, jaw tightening as his hand came up to press briefly against his forehead, like he was trying to steady the direction of his thoughts before they scattered completely.
When he looked back at her, something in his expression shifted—not away from fear, but toward something more personal. "You're missing something" he said. "There are people who depend on me staying here."
That made Stratt pause just slightly.
Ryland swallowed once, his throat tightening, but he didn't look away this time. "There's a kid. A student. She's under my care. She's been through enough instability already. I'm not just walking away from a job—I'm the only consistent thing she has left."
Stratt's gaze lifted the moment Ryland finished, her focus narrowing. "You have no immediate family."
Ryland let out a short breath that almost resembled a laugh, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. He shook his head once, small but definite, like the statement didn't even deserve consideration. "That's not true," he said, quieter now. "She is."
The air in the room seemed to settle, quieter than before. "She's already dealing with gaps in her memory," he added, voice lower now. "If I'm suddenly gone, it won't just be disruption—it'll be…" He faltered briefly, jaw tightening as he searched for the right word. "It'll be something else she has to piece her life back together around."
Ryland shook his head slightly, almost to himself now, his gaze dropping again before dragging back up. "I can't just leave her in the middle of that and call it 'necessary.'"
"Casualty projections include all variables."
Ryland's head snapped up. The reaction was immediate, sharp, his posture straightening as something in his expression hardened. "She is not a variable,"
His hand pressed firmly against the tabletop, fingers splayed for a moment before settling. It wasn't a gesture of emphasis so much as grounding, like he needed something solid beneath him to match what he was saying.
And then he held, his gaze never wavered from hers this time.
Stratt didn't reply right away. When she did, her reply arrived without pause, as if it had been waiting behind everything he'd said. "Your emotional attachments do not alter mission requirements."
There was no emphasis, no inflection to soften or sharpen it, just clean structure, delivered like something already proven rather than argued.
The moment he'd hear her words, Ryland didn't answer immediately. For a moment, it looked like he might. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again as whatever he had intended to say lost shape before it could form properly.
The air around him shifted in a subtle way, like something internal had loosened its grip and left him briefly without direction. When he finally spoke, the edge had gone out of his voice.
"I know" he said. "I just…" The words didn't continue right away. Instead, there was a brief stillness, like he was standing too close to something that didn't have a safe way to be expressed. "She calls me family."
That was all. Nothing followed it, no justification or expansion. The sentence simply settled into the room and stayed there, unadorned.
Stratt did not interrupt it as well. She just watched him for a moment longer, not reacting in any visible way, as if the statement had been placed on the table alongside everything else—neither rejected nor embraced, simply accounted for.
Then, without shifting her posture or breaking her focus, she spoke yet again. "You have three hours."
Rylands mouth fell open, he was truly in a lost of words. He had no idea how to reply or even save himself out of this. His eyes dropped to the document again, but it was clear he wasn’t seeing it anymore. The text, the structure, even the weight of the decision on the table—all of it blurred into something abstract, ungraspable.
He was somewhere else entirely now—somewhere with a classroom, a quiet room, and a kid who trusted him more than he thought he deserved.
His throat tightened slightly, though he didn't speak. There was no immediate reaction left to give, no argument that could be shaped quickly enough to matter.
When he finally shifted, it wasn't decisive in the way earlier movements had been. There was no attempt to push back, no final burst of resistance. It was something quieter than that. A slow, reluctant awareness settling in, like he was beginning to understand that every direction forward had already been narrowed.
The realization didn't arrive all at once. It gathered instead—piece by piece, heavier with each second, until it became unavoidable. There wasn't a version of this that didn't cost something.
The office fluorescent lights pressed down evenly from above, flattening every shadow until even emotion felt exposed under them. Ryland sat near the table with his shoulders tense and uneven, as if his body couldn't decide whether to brace for impact or collapse altogether.
His hands kept flexing at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling in a rhythm that betrayed him more than his voice ever could. Across from him, Stratt remained still in a way that didn't feel human so much as deliberate, like stillness was simply another tool she was using.
"I understand what you think I am," Ryland broke the silence then, his voice came out rougher than he meant it to, the edges already worn thin, like he'd been running the same argument through his head over and over until the words had started to lose its structure.
He didn't look directly at her at first, his gaze hovering somewhere just off-center, as if meeting it head-on would make it harder to hold onto what he was trying to say.
A short breath left him, closer to a dry humorless laugh than anything else, shaking his head once, rejecting something that hadn't stopped advancing.
"But I can't do it. I can't be your solution. I'm not built for this." His eyes flicked away briefly, jaw tightening as if holding something in. "You'll find someone else. Someone trained. Someone who actually belongs in… this."
Stratt didn't so much as shift at his refusal. If anything, it felt expected—like his rejection had already been accounted for somewhere long before he said it out loud. When she spoke, her tone was calm enough to feel almost distant. "You are the solution."
That made something in him falter, just for a fraction of a second, before the reaction caught up with him. His posture stiffened, then broke slightly as he stepped back, the movement small but instinctive, like he needed space from the weight of what she'd just said.
"No, I'm not," he replied, sharper now, the words coming quicker as if he needed to push them out before they could be argued down.
His hand lifted briefly in a loose, uncertain gesture before dropping again, his expression tightening as frustration started to show more clearly.
"I'm a teacher. I explain basic astrophysics to kids who are more interested in lunch than orbital mechanics. That's my job. Not saving the planet. Not getting shot into space!"
"Stop hiding behind your classroom. It's insulting."
Ryland's mouth opened, his lips parting like he had an immediate response, something ready to defend himself, but it didn't come out right away.
When he did speak, his voice had dropped. "It's not hiding," he said, his tone tightening despite the volume. "It's where I'm supposed to be. There's also a kid I take care of. She depends on me. I can't just—walk away from that."
Stratt adjusted forward slightly, a minimal movement that somehow shifted the entire atmosphere of the room. "The Earth will lose a quarter of its population in under thirty years," she said, her tone steady, untouched by urgency despite the scale of it.
"And thats with the best-case projections of all the countries in the world working together to ration food, and we know that won't happen."
Ryland shook his head before she even finished, the motion immediate, as if rejecting the premise itself, more desperate now. "That's not—this isn't a math problem where you just subtract one life and add another. She's not a statistic. She's—" He stopped, breath catching slightly, then forced it out. "She's family."
The word settled heavily between them, but Stratt's expression remained the same. "Then do it for your family," she replied, her tone unchanged as well, the statement followed naturally from everything before it.
Everything in him seemed to halt the moment onwards. Ryland blinked slowly, like the meaning of her words hadn't quite registered at first, his expression shifting in stages—confusion flickering briefly before giving way to something more fragile, more guarded, something more exposed that he didn’t seem prepared for.
"Don't," he exhaled the word in a breath, drawn from a place he wasn't willing to let her reach. His gaze then lifted fully to meet hers, no longer wavering, but steadier in a different way. "Don't use her like that," he continued, "Don't turn her into something you can use against me."
Stratt held his gaze from across the table, unmoving. There was no flicker of hesitation, no visible sign that his words had unsettled anything in her, even if somewhere beneath that control she was weighing them carefully.
She had trained herself too well for that—whatever conflict existed, it stayed contained, locked behind a discipline that didn't allow emotion to interfere with outcome. To her, this wasn't cruelty. It was necessity.
Ryland's voice faltered when he spoke again, the strain finally breaking through in a way he couldn't fully hide. "You don't know her," he said, heavier now, like each word carried more than it could hold.
His gaze didn't quite stay steady, shifting for a brief moment before returning, like the image of you had pulled him somewhere else entirely. "You don't know what she's already gone through."
"I'm the only stable thing she has left."
He stopped there. Not because he was finished—but because the rest of it didn't come as easily. His throat tightened, the pause stretching just long enough to feel fragile enough, before he forced the next part through.
"If I leave now, she—" The words stopped abruptly, his breath catching as the sentence broke apart before it could finish. He swallowed, slower this time, the motion deliberate as he forced himself to continue. "She'll lose everything."
The quiet that stretched past then, stretched past the point of comfort. It didn't break—it settled, deep and unmoving, like something inevitable had already been decided within it.
And In the middle of that silence, Stratt inclined her head slightly, the motion restrained, almost imperceptible, yet carrying a sense of finality that hadn't been there before.
She drew in a controlled breath, turning just enough toward the door, as her attention shifted with quiet certainty. "Come in."
Ryland reacted immediately. His head snapped toward the sound right away, the shift in him sharp and instinctive. The tension that had been sitting beneath his skin surged all at once, visible now in the way his shoulders tightened and his stance shifted. "No—wait," he said quickly, his voice rising before he could stop it. "What is that?"
The door began to open, the faint sound of it cutting cleanly through the stillness.
Ryland's attention locked onto it instantly, his body going rigid in a way that wasn't fully conscious, like every instinct in him had sharpened at once.
His breath stalled halfway, chest tightening as he tried to brace for whatever was about to step through. His mind moved ahead of the moment, reaching for possibilities, trying to predict, to prepare—
but when the door finally gave way, and the shape of what stood beyond it came into view, that preparation collapsed just as quickly.
This wasn't what he had been expecting, not even close.
The shift showed before he could stop it. His expression faltered, the certainty he'd been holding onto slipping as his eyes widened slightly, something unsteady flickering through them.
For a brief second, he didn't move at all—just satthere, caught between recognition and disbelief, like the reality in front of him hadn't fully settled into place yet.
Stratt then spoke again, her tone even, but carrying a weight that didn’t soften the impact of her words. "Look, this may seem like me betraying you" she said, her gaze steady on him, "but it's actually me believing in you."
Ryland's entire posture changed. He took a step back without thinking, the movement unsteady, like his body was reacting faster than his thoughts could catch up.
His eyes widened, not just in shock, but in the realization beginning to settle in, piece by piece, as the situation shifted beyond anything he could argue against in the same way as before.
"No—no, don't do this," he said quickly, the words coming out uneven, his voice tightening as urgency broke through. His hands lifted slightly, hovering in front of him as if trying to halt something already in motion. "Are you seriously going to do this? We can still talk about this," he added, the strain in his voice more apparent now.
"I'm telling you I can't go, but that doesn't mean you just—just stop for a second, please!" he said, more firmly now, though the desperation beneath it didn't fade. "Listen to me."
Stratt no longer spared him a glance. Her focus had already shifted elsewhere, as if he had been moved out of the center of the decision entirely. "Mission protocol will state induced sedation for transit preparation. You will be recorded as compliant. And be remembered as a hero."
Ryland stared at her like the sentence didn't belong in the same language as everything else. "You can't just decide that," he said, voice rising now, as his head shook in refusal. "That's not how people—how choices—work."
"It is when time is no longer available."
Something shifted in the room as soon as Stratt had finished. It wasn't sudden, but it was unmistakable.
Ryland felt it before he fully saw it, the subtle movement at the edges pulling his attention as his breathing began to falter. He stepped back instinctively, his footing uneven as distance became the only thing his body seemed to understand. "No—no, I'm not doing this," he said quickly, panic threading through every word. "I said no. I said I can't—!"
The approach was controlled, measured. Unavoidable.
"Wait—don't Carl!" His voice broke as it climbed, the strain finally overtaking whatever composure he’d been holding onto. He twisted slightly, trying to pull free, not with force, but with urgency. "I'm not done talking—!"
There was no aggression in his resistance, only panic—raw and immediate, like a person trying to hold onto something slipping out of existence. His words tumbled faster now, breaking apart under their own weight. "She's going to think I left her—she's going to forget me—I promised I wouldn't—!"
Stratt spoke again, her voice quieter this time, "Grace." It wasn't loud, nor did it need to be—the single word landed with a kind of finality that made everything else fall away.
It wasn't a command, not exactly, but it reached him all the same, threading through the chaos and forcing his attention back to her whether he wanted it or not.
Ryland stilled, just for a brief second, but it was enough. His chest rose sharply, breath catching unevenly as his eyes locked onto her, searching desperately for something that might still change, something that might tell him this wasn't already decided.
There was nothing there. The realization came too slowly, and in that hesitation, something else overtook him before he could react.
He barely registered it at first, just the sensation that followed. Then his body reacted, a delayed symptom as his balance faltered slightly, his hand lifting instinctively like he could steady himself against something that wasn't there.
His vision blurred at the edges, the sharpness of the room softening into something distant and unstable, while a dull heaviness began to settle behind his eyes, spreading faster than he could fight it. "Did you just drug me—?"
From somewhere behind him, Carl's voice broke through, low and even, grounding in a way that didn't match the unraveling inside him. "You know who you are."
Ryland's breath broke again, uneven and shallow now, his body struggling to keep pace with a reality that was slipping out of sync.
He tried to move, to respond, but everything felt delayed, like he was reaching through something dense that resisted him at every turn. "I don't," he managed, the words barely holding together, his voice trembling as if it might disappear before he could finish speaking.
Carl didn't hesitate. "You're gonna do great."
And something in Ryland finally broke—not loudly, not dramatically, but completely. His resistance had faltered, not because the fear disappeared, but because it had nowhere left to go.
His legs weakened beneath him, his body no longer responding the way it should, while the last threads of resistance slipped through his grasp. His breathing turned slowed, his shoulders sagging slightly as everything he had been holding up started to collapse at once.
"I can't…" he whispered again, but the words no longer carry resistance. They came out softer, breaking apart as they left him, like they no longer had the strength to hold their original meaning. "I can't leave her…" There was no argument left in it, no attempt to push back, only something quieter, something that felt closer to grief than refusal.
His voice grew thinner with each word, fading as the edges of the room began to lose their shape. The world around him no longer held together in clear lines, dissolving instead into scattered pieces that wouldn't stay still—brief flashes of a classroom, the echo of a familiar voice, a kid waiting for him in a place he might never return to.
Promises he hadn't meant to break, now slipping loose one by one as his thoughts lost their structure.
His body followed soon after. The tension left his limbs unevenly, fingers loosening at his side as if they’d forgotten what they were meant to hold.
His breathing slowed, not in calm but in surrender, each inhale shallower than the last as the distance between him and everything else widened. The room dimmed in a gradual retreat, like it was stepping back while he remained fixed in place, unable to follow.
And the last thing he managed, barely audible as everything pulled away, wasn't a solution or an argument or a plea. It was something smaller. Something that hurt more because it couldn't be fixed.
ᯓ★. ݁₊ (found family /no romance! (parental love) / teacher x student)
☄︎₊˚⊹☆ Summary : You are the only family he could ever call his, and he is the only family you could ever call yours. Between having to save the world or be there by your side, he had no options to choose when it comes down to this. You didn't know, so you wrote letters, thinking he abandoned you, hoping he'll read them and return back to your side. Cause he is your everything, your Mr. Grace.
۫ ꣑ৎ READ "LETTERS FOR MY EVERYTHING" (PART ONE) HERE!
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ A/n : This was originally suppose to be a longgg oneshot, but I did not have enough blocks left so I splitted it into two! No worries tho, I posted both Part 1 and Part 2 at the same time. Also I was just really sad when writing this, took me 3 weeks, so enjoy!
The ceiling was the first thing you learned to focus on. Not because it was interesting, but because it didn't move. It stayed exactly where it was, unchanged, offering something steady in a place where nothing else felt grounded.
Your eyes would find it before anything else, tracing the faint lines and corners without really seeing them, just needing something constant to hold onto while everything else struggled to settle.
Time no longer moved in a way you could track.
It didn't flow—it broke apart, arriving in scattered pieces that never quite connected to each other. Moments passed without leaving anything solid behind, as if they dissolved the second you stopped paying attention to them.
You would find yourself halfway through a meal with no memory of starting it, the taste already gone before you could place it, the action itself feeling distant, like it had happened to someone else.
Voices came and went in the same way—present for a brief second, then slipping out of reach, detached from faces, from meaning, from anything you could hold onto long enough to make sense of.
Sometimes you would push yourself upright without knowing why.
Your body would react first, a sudden pull of urgency tightening through your chest, like you were late for something important, something you were meant to remember.
Your gaze would move quickly, searching the room as if the answer might be waiting just out of sight, your hands shifting slightly against the surface beneath you, ready to move before you even knew where to go.
But the thought never completed itself. It would falter halfway, slipping through before it could take shape, leaving behind nothing but that lingering sense of wrongness you couldn't explain.
You would remain there for a moment, still and uncertain.
Your breathing would stay uneven, like you were waiting for something to return, for the missing piece to come back and make sense of what you felt. But nothing ever did. The feeling would drain slowly, leaving your body to settle back on its own, the tension easing without resolution.
And just like that, the moment would disappear, would pass into nothing yet again.
There had been a teacher, once.
You knew that much, even if the rest refused to stay. His face wouldn’t settle in your mind no matter how often you tried to picture it, dissolving before it could fully form, like your memory couldn’t keep hold of anything that specific for long.
Still, fragments stayed behind—his voice, steady and oddly comforting, the way he explained complex things as if they were obvious, as if the universe itself wasn't as complicated as it felt.
That sense of ease came back in pieces too, faint but persistent, something your mind couldn't completely erase.
You remembered liking his class.
That part came clearer than anything else. The sound of it, the rhythm of learning, moments that felt lighter than the rest of your days.
There were flashes of laughter you couldn't quite place, your own maybe, or someone else's, and a strange familiarity tied to them that made your chest tighten in a way you couldn't explain.
But whenever you tried to follow that thread further, to understand why it mattered or what it meant, it slipped away. The more you reached, the less there was to grasp, until all that remained was an absence you couldn't explain.
Your fingers would sometimes still against whatever you were holding, your gaze unfocusing slightly as you tried again, quietly, stubbornly, to piece it together.
It never worked. It always ended the same way—without resolution. What should have been a clear memory instead turned into a gap you could feel but not define, like something important had once occupied that space and no longer did.
The absence wasn't empty in the usual sense; it pressed softly down, like a shape left behind in air after something had been taken away.
And sometimes, you would find yourself sitting still for longer than you realized.
Eyes unfocused, attention turned toward nothing in particular, as if waiting for something you couldn't name. There was no reason for it you could identify, just a lingering sense that something—or someone, was supposed to return. It never came into focus, but the feeling
And sometimes, without any real intention behind it, your gaze would drift toward the door.
It wasn't something you decided to do. Your head would turn slightly on its own, eyes settling there as if drawn by a quiet pull you couldn't explain or interrupt.
Whatever you were doing would loosen in your hands, attention slipping away from it in slow degrees until the rest of the room no longer held your focus in the same way. The sounds around you would continue—distant, unimportant, while that one point remained fixed in your awareness.
You would end up still. Not frozen exactly, but paused in a way that felt unplanned, like your thoughts had wandered somewhere they didn't return from right away.
Your expression would go unfocused, not empty but distant, as if your mind had stepped slightly out of alignment with the present moment.
Even your breathing would soften without instruction, settling into a quieter rhythm that didn't feel entirely chosen.
There was no clear expectation behind it.
No name you could attach to what you were waiting for, no image your mind could hold onto long enough to define it properly.
And yet the sensation remained persistent. Something in you insisted that the door mattered more than anything else in the room, even if you couldn't say why.
Because beneath everything that had faded or fractured or simply slipped away, something was still left behind.
A sense, quiet and unshakable, that someone was meant to return through it. Not a memory you could access, not a detail you could retrieve, but a feeling that refused to be erased completely. It existed without shape now, without certainty, but it stayed anyway.
And so you would keep looking, not for anything you could name. Just for the idea that the waiting itself still meant something.
They told you that you were in a hospital.
Everything around you seemed to confirm it—the stark white walls, the muted footsteps passing by outside your room, the steady rhythm of machines that never quite faded into the background no matter how long you listened.
The environment was quiet, but not comforting, more like a controlled stillness that didn't allow anything to feel fully at ease.
People spoke to you in calm, measured tones, explaining that you were there for your own safety, that your condition needed to be observed carefully after what they called 'trauma.'
They tried to explain what had happened to your mind.
Something about an injury, about a part of your brain that handled memory—the part responsible for consolidating short-term memories into long-term storage.
They mentioned the hippocampus, spoke about how it wasn't doing what it was supposed to anymore, how new experiences weren't being stored the way they should.
The terms they used were long and clinical—anterograde instability, failure in memory encoding—but they never stayed long enough for you to understand them.
The explanations would pass through you the same way everything else did. All you understood was that your memories didn't stay. They slipped away before they could become part of you.
You could feel things happening, experience them in real time, but the moment you looked away, either mentally or physically, and it was like they had already begun to disappear.
There was no sense of continuity, no solid thread connecting one moment to the next.
And they told you it wouldn't stop there. They said it would get worse—worse than it already was now.
They tried to explain that under repeated trauma, the brain doesn't only lose what already exists, it can struggle to create anything new at all.
They told you that sometimes, it isn't just forgetting. It's the process itself breaking down, the way new moments are supposed to settle and become memories no longer working the way it should.
They went on, carefully, as if choosing their words mattered.
If it continued, they explained, even your sense of self could begin to fade, not all at once, but gradually, as the connections that held everything together weakened.
There were mentions of long-term damage too, something about the injury worsening over time, affecting more than just memory if it progressed.
The explanations stretched on, detailed and precise, but they didn't stay with you long enough to fully make sense.
In the end, most of it didn't stick.
The words passed through your mind the same way everything else did—briefly there, then gone, leaving behind only the faint understanding that something wasn’t right, and that it might get worse.
Carl was the one who stayed.
He told you he was there to help, and somehow, you believed him without fully understanding why. There was something about his eyes, it was kind, tired in a way that made him feel familiar even when you weren't sure you had met him before.
He moved through your days with quiet consistency. He brought you food, reminded you where the bathroom was, explained things gently when you got confused.
You found yourself trusting him, or at least thinking you were supposed to, as if that role had already been decided for you.
And yet, something didn't settle.
Even with him there, even with the routine he tried to build around you, the feeling never fully went away. There was the sense that someone else should have been there too, that something had been left behind inside you without explanation.
One afternoon, when the light outside the window was pale and thin like winter was already arriving early, you found a book on the chair beside your bed.
Carl had left it there, probably by accident. He'd been called away earlier, his footsteps hurried, his voice fading down the corridor.
When you reached for it, your fingers hesitated just above the surface, hovering for a moment before making contact.
The texture of the cover felt strangely familiar beneath your touch. It didn't trigger a clear memory, but it lingered in a quieter way, leaving behind a faint sense of recognition you couldn't quite explain.
"Hi there, I'll be your substitute nurse for today—everyone else is tied up on a busy shift." The voice broke through the stillness, sudden enough that your hands pulled back instinctively, retreating beneath the blanket without you thinking about it.
The movement was quick, almost defensive, like your body reacted before your mind could process who had spoken. Your gaze lifted toward the doorway, still adjusting to the interruption.
The nurse didn't seem to notice. She just moved further into the room, guiding a cart filled with supplies, the soft clatter of equipment filling the quiet space.
"Well, technically I’m just an intern," she continued casually, her tone light in a way that didn't match what you were used to. "But they told me it can get pretty quiet in here, so I figured—why not fix that a little?"
She reached beneath the cart and pulled out a small speaker, holding it up with a hint of satisfaction.
You blinked, watching her, a slight widening in your eyes betraying your surprise. The energy she brought into the room felt unfamiliar, almost out of place compared to the usual quiet routine.
Most of the nurses moved gently around you, their expressions careful, touched with something softer—pity, maybe, or concern they didn't know how to hide.
This was different, and you weren't quite sure what to do with it.
"I don’t have much on here…" she murmured, her voice dropping slightly as she scrolled through the small list of songs.
A faint crease formed between her brows, her lips pressing together in mild concentration as she searched for something suitable. The quiet tapping of her fingers against the device filled the brief pause, soft but noticeable in the still room.
Then her expression shifted.
"Hmm… how about The Beatles?" she said, looking back up at you with a sudden spark of energy, as if she'd just remembered something. Without really waiting long for an answer, her hand moved to press a button, the motion quick and decisive.
You blinked at her, your brows drawing together slightly, the name unfamiliar in a way that made you repeat it without thinking. "The Beatles?"
"Yeah," she replied easily, her smile widening in a way that felt warm and unforced. "You're going to like this one, I think. My parents used to sing it to me when I was younger—kind of like a lullaby. It's really calming."
There was a softness to her voice now, a hint of something personal that sat just beneath the surface, as if the memory meant more to her than she was fully saying.
A moment later, the music began to play.
"Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise"
It was familiar, so familiar. The sound settled around you gently, but something about it caught deeper than it should have. You didn't move at first, your gaze unfocusing as your attention slipped away from the room and into the melody itself.
"Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to be free
Blackbird, fly
Blackbird, fly
Into the light of the dark black night"
You stayed still, the world around you fading slightly as the music took its place, filling the spaces your thoughts couldn't hold onto. Your breathing slowed at first, syncing with the rhythm, your fingers loosening slightly where they rested, as if your body recognized something your mind couldn't quite grasp yet.
And the next thing you knew, you were singing it. The words came out quietly at first, almost uncertain, but they were there, complete and unbroken, like they had always existed somewhere inside you.
You didn't know how you knew them, didn't understand where they had been hiding, but your voice followed the melody naturally, as if it had done so countless times before.
"Blackbird, fly
Blackbird, fly
Into the light of the dark black night"
Everything else seemed to fade from your awareness. The room, the sounds, even your own thoughts dimmed until only the music remained, looping softly in your mind.
It wasn't just something you were hearing anymore—it was something you were inside of, something that held your attention so completely that nothing else could break through.
Images began to form, not clearly at first, but enough to feel real like they once were. They came like fragments of a scene, moving and unfolding in a way that felt less like imagination and more like memory trying to resurface.
You saw yourself lying in a bed, the space around you warmer, softer than the one you were in now. Beside you sat someone, their presence steady, their voice carrying the same melody that now filled your head.
It was the same song.
The same gentle rhythm, the same familiar tune.
You could feel it there too—the quiet comfort of the moment, the kind that didn't need explanation. There was a smile on your face, natural and unforced, and the sound of laughter lingered somewhere close, blending with the music.
Even the air felt different, carrying a warmth that wrapped around you in a way that made everything feel safe, whole, like nothing was missing.
And for that brief moment, it didn't feel distant at all.
"Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
"You were only waiting for this moment to arise" you finished softly, the last note lingering just a second longer than the rest. Something shifted the moment it left your lips, like a quiet alignment happening somewhere deep inside you.
Before you could think it through, you turned, your movement quick and almost instinctive, reaching for the book beside you as if the song had pointed you straight to it. Your fingers closed around it without hesitation, like it wasn't a choice so much as a response.
You opened it.
At first, it didn't feel like anything more than paper and ink—pages filled with notes, scattered thoughts, writing that didn't immediately feel like yours.
The words sat there, distant, unfamiliar in structure, yet carrying a strange pull, like they were trying to reach you from somewhere just beyond your understanding.
You skimmed through them slowly, your eyes moving without fully processing, until something began to shift beneath the surface of it all.
A name appeared once, then again, then again—repeating across the pages in different contexts, never staying in one place long enough to feel complete.
It wasn't random. It felt like something trying to rebuild itself, like your mind was circling it, reaching for it, but never quite managing to hold onto it fully.
Mr. Grace. The name landed somewhere deep.
Your breath hitched without warning, sharp and sudden, like something inside you had been jolted awake. Your fingers moved faster across the pages, no longer careful, the paper shifting unevenly beneath your grip as your hands began to tremble.
You didn't know why—you only knew you couldn't stop. Your eyes raced over the lines, but the words started to blur, not because you couldn't read them, but because something deeper was changing, like your vision itself was struggling to keep up.
It felt like pressure building from the inside.
Not pain, exactly—but something close to it, something tight and overwhelming, like doors that had been sealed shut were suddenly being forced open all at once.
Your thoughts didn't move in a straight line anymore. They collided, overlapped, surged forward faster than you could process, until there was no space left to separate one from the next.
Light flooding a classroom. A voice calling your name. The sound of laughter, bright and familiar. Beanbags flying across desks, the dull thud of them landing, the way it always made you laugh.
The way he smiled when you got something right, proud in a way that felt bigger than the moment itself. The way he always tried to stay calm, even when he clearly wasn't, like he was holding everything together just enough so you wouldn’t see it slip.
The smell of markers, of coffee, of something faintly burnt from an experiment that hadn't gone quite as planned, and the way he'd laughed it off like it was part of the lesson.
And then something heavier—missing time. Confusion that didn't make sense no matter how hard you tried to understand it. Fear that settled too deep, too fast.
Bright hospital lights that hurt to look at. A voice—his voice telling you to breathe, again and again, like it was the only thing keeping you there. A hand holding yours, firm, and grounding, refusing to let go even when you couldn't hold on properly yourself.
The feeling of slipping.
Of losing something you couldn't name.
Of being left behind inside your own mind.
And beneath all of it—him leaving you.
The absence hit harder than anything else, cutting through every other memory with a clarity that hurt in a way nothing else had. It wasn't just that he was gone, it was the space he left behind, sudden and hollow, like something vital had been pulled out without warning.
Like the one thing that had kept everything steady had simply… disappeared.
Your chest tightened sharply, breath catching again as it refused to come out properly. Your voice broke before you even realized you were trying to speak, the word slipping out uneven, fragile, like it didn't belong to you anymore.
"What—?"
The book slipped from your grasp before you even realized you'd lost hold of it, the sound of it hitting the floor dull and distant compared to everything else crashing through you.
Your chest seized, tight and overwhelming, your lungs couldn't keep up with the sudden rush of everything returning all at once. It was too much—too fast, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't slow it down or push it away.
Your body folded in on itself slightly, shoulders curling forward as your breath turned uneven, breaking apart into shallow, trembling inhales.
The tears came without warning.
You didn't feel them start, only noticed when they were already there, slipping down your face as your mind struggled to hold onto everything at once—everything you had lost, everything that had been taken, everything that was slipping again even as you tried to grasp it.
Your fingers tightened against the edge of the bed, gripping hard enough to ache. Your vision blurred, not just from tears, but from the weight of too many memories pressing in at once, each one demanding to be felt, to be remembered.
"Mr. Grace…" you whispered, the name barely holding together as it left you. Your lips trembled around it, like the act of speaking it was the only thing keeping something from slipping away again.
It didn't feel like a memory no more, it felt like reaching, like if you said it just right, he might answer, might come back through the space he had left behind.
Beside you, the nurse had already moved closer. Her hands were on your shoulders, steady but unsure, trying to ground you as she spoke quickly, her voice soft but rushed, words tumbling over each other in an attempt to calm you down.
You could see her mouth moving, hear the shape of her concern, but none of it settled in your mind properly. It all blurred into noise, distant and indistinct, drowned out by the storm inside your head that refused to quiet.
The door opened then. Carl stepped in without hesitation, his presence immediate, his gaze locking onto you with a focus that cut through everything else.
"What happened?" he asked, his voice firm but edged with urgency, the calm he usually carried slipping just enough to show through. Behind him, the nurse spoke again, faster this time, her composure cracking as guilt crept into her tone. "I don't know—I just played some music for her and then she—she just started—"
You couldn't follow the rest.
Your body shook too violently, your fingers gripping the edge of the bed so tightly it hurt, like it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.
Your breath came in uneven bursts, your chest tightening as you forced the words out, each one breaking as it formed. "He—he was here," you managed, your voice splintering under the weight of it. "He was here and I—Why did he leave me?"
Carl went still the moment he heard your words. Something passed across his expression, something restrained, something he chose not to say. And when he didn't answer, when he didn't give you the one thing you needed, it left a space that felt worse than the confusion, worse than the pain.
Because it felt like the truth had been right there, and then taken from you again, the truth was just out of reach.
And after that day, you found yourself writing letters.
At first, it was messy. Pages filled with half-formed sentences, repeated questions, and sometimes you would apologize without fully knowing what you were apologizing for.
You wrote to him like he could still read them, like somewhere in the world he was receiving them even if you weren't sure where he was anymore.
You told him about the small things—your days, the moments you forgot, the way you kept trying to remember him harder each time his presence slipped away.
Some days, the words came easily, filling page after page like you were trying to outrun the loss itself. Other days, you couldn't bring yourself to write at all, your hand hovering above the paper before falling still again.
Those were the days you dreaded most, the ones where the quiet felt heavier, like something inside you was being gently erased without resistance.
And yet, even then, he remained in a way you couldn't explain, returning to you the next morning, not fully remembered, but not entirely gone either.
And then winter came. Not metaphorically. Literally.
The world outside turned white in a way that didn't feel natural anymore. They said it was a global climate collapse—runaway feedback loops, failing atmospheric regulation, systems breaking faster than they could be repaired. All you really knew was that the cold had arrived, and it wasn't leaving until the sun is back.
The cold seeped into everything. Hospitals became shelters. Then even those overflowed, turning into crowded rooms filled with quiet voices, thin blankets, and carefully rationed warmth.
The air itself felt heavier, like survival had become something fragile and uncertain. Outside, the world had slowed into something unrecognizable.
Carl changed too. He looked more worn with each passing day, the exhaustion settling deeper into his face in ways he didn't try to hide anymore.
And you—you kept forgetting. More than before. Some mornings, you would wake up and sit there for a moment, unsure of what that feeling even was.
The act of waking itself felt unfamiliar, like your mind had to relearn it each time, like even the beginning of a day was something you couldn't fully hold onto anymore.
One day, you found yourself sitting by the window, the glass faintly fogged from the cold that had begun seeping even into places it shouldn't reach.
Your hands felt stiff, almost detached, and your breath lingered in the air in soft, fading clouds. You couldn't recall what day it was, or how long you had been sitting there.
Only the sense remained, that you were waiting for something, and that the waiting itself mattered even if you couldn’t name what it was for.
And then it happened. Like a fracture running through frozen glass, something inside your mind shifted. A name surfaced, cutting through the haze that had settled over everything.
Mr. Grace. It didn't arrive as a thought you searched for, but as something that broke through on its own, like it had been trying to reach you for a long time and finally found a way through.
After this long, it still found a way back to you.
With it came everything else. Not all at once, but in fragile waves, as if each memory had to fight through layers of distance just to be seen again.
Warmth you couldn't feel anymore. Laughter that no longer echoed in the present but still existed somewhere behind your eyes. The image of someone who stayed close, who tried so hard to remain part of your world that it almost seemed like it hurt him to do so.
Your hands trembled as you reached for the paper. The movement was unsteady, weak in a way that surprised you, but it didn't stop you. The cold around you didn't matter anymore, nor did the weight of everything that had changed outside the window.
The world could keep falling apart in distant pieces—you could feel it or you knew it, but it no longer held your attention the way it had before.
Because you remembered him. And in that moment, forgetting him again felt like something you couldn't survive a second time, and it sure did hurt more than anything the cold could ever do
"Would you like something to drink, Dr. Grace?"
"Huh?" The sound left him a second too late, like his mind had been somewhere else entirely and was only just catching up. Ryland blinked, his gaze lifting as he dragged himself back into the room, the shift a little disorienting after so long spent in a place, where conversations were rare for a period of time.
For a brief moment, there was that strange, lingering disconnect, after all he had half-expected to hear another voice other than himself. "Uh—coffee," he said after a beat, nodding once, then again like he needed to confirm it to himself. "Yeah. Coffee's good."
The woman gave him a polite smile before turning away, her footsteps fading into the background noise of the building. Ryland watched her go for a second longer than necessary, then leaned back slightly in his seat, exhaling under his breath.
His fingers tapped once against the armrest before going still again, like his body hadn't quite decided what to do with itself yet. Everything here felt… louder, in a quiet sort of way.
Being back on Earth didn't feel real. Not fully.
There was too much of everything—too many sounds, too many people, too much movement packed into spaces that suddenly felt smaller than they should.
Just getting into the building had been a mess of flashing lights, overlapping voices, reporters pressing forward with questions he didn't have the energy to answer.
It had taken effort just to make it into this waiting room, and even now, the noise of it all felt like it was still echoing somewhere behind his eyes.
And there were people he knew he was going to have to face.
That part sat heavier.
He shifted slightly in his chair, his jaw tightening just a fraction as the thought settled in. They were the ones who had made the decision for him, after all—the ones who had taken away his choice, sedated him, sent him into space without so much as a real conversation.
It wasn't something you just… forget. Not something that faded cleanly, no matter how much time had passed. And yet, it wasn't the same as it had been before.
The anger was still there, buried somewhere beneath everything else, but it had dulled around the edges. Not gone, not forgiven—just… quieter. Replaced, or maybe balanced, by something else he couldn't quite name. A strange kind of calm, if that was even the right word for it.
A knock was then heard, the door opening, revealing the same woman who he had spoken to earlier. The same woman stepped in, offering a small, professional smile as she glanced toward him. "Dr. Grace? Carl is here to see you…" she said gently, stepping aside just enough to let the moment settle.
The second Ryland's eyes landed on him, something in his expression shifted—subtle, but unmistakable. He couldn't name what he felt, not properly, not all at once.
Carl looked older, more worn than he remembered, the kind of change that didn't come from time alone but from everything that had happened in between.
It sat strangely with him, that difference.
Ryland's eyes narrowed slightly, not in anger, but in confusion, like he was trying to sort through too many emotions at once and couldn't find where any of them began or ended.
A part of him recognized that, once, he would have reacted differently. Sharper, and louder. Maybe even reckless enough to close the distance and demand answers in a way that left no room for anything else. But now, standing there, all of that felt distant—muted under something more focused.
Because there was only one thing that mattered.
He pushed himself up from the chair almost immediately, the movement quick, a little too sudden. His mouth opened, ready to speak, the question already sitting at the edge of it—but Carl seemed to have beat him to it.
"Hey—"
Ryland didn't eve let him finish. The interruption came instinctively, urgency cutting through everything else as he stepped forward, his words rushing out before he could slow them down.
This wasn't something he could wait on, not after everything, not after coming back to a place that still held the weight of what had been done to him. He hadn't come back for closure. He hadn't come back for answers about himself.
He had come back for her.
"Where's the kid?" he asked, the question coming out fast, almost breathless. His hands moved as he spoke, restless, trying to keep up with the thoughts crowding his head, gestures forming and breaking as if he could piece the words together physically.
"I—I've got so much I need to tell her, and ask—how is she? Is she okay? Is she doing alright?" His voice faltered slightly, but he pushed through it anyway. "Did she ever—did she ever mention me? I just—I hope she's not mad at me because—"
Ryland faltered mid-sentence, the rest of his words falling away as his attention locked onto Carl's face. Something in his expression—something quiet, something wrong, it made his chest drop before his mind could catch up.
His eyes searched him instinctively, tracing every detail like he could force an answer out of what wasn't being said. "W-why are you looking at me like that?" he asked, the question uneven as it left him, his brows pulling together. A short, breathless laugh slipped out, thin and misplaced, like he was trying to brush it off before it could mean anything.
But the smile didn't hold long. It faded almost as quickly as it appeared, the disbelief draining from his face as something colder settled in. His color seemed to drain with it, leaving him pale, the shift slow but unmistakable as realization began to press in on him.
He shook his head once, faintly, like he could push the thought away before it fully formed. It couldn't be that. It couldn't be what his mind was trying to piece together. Not after everything it had taken just to get back here.
He had come all this way. Across something that should have been impossible to cross, holding onto that one small, fragile hope the entire time.
It had stayed with him through every moment, quiet but constant, something he refused to let go of no matter how unlikely it felt. And now—now it was turning against him, that same hope threatening to collapse into something that would take everything else with it.
"No—" The word broke halfway out, catching in his breath as he took a step back, the movement instinctive, like distance might delay whatever was about to be said.
"Please…" It came out softer this time, barely held together, his eyes flicking across Carl's face again and again, searching, desperate for something—anything, that would prove this wasn't real.
This wasn't how it was supposed to be. He had told himself, over and over in his mind, that everything before didn't matter anymore. That what they had done—what they had taken from him, it had a reason.
That it had been necessary. That it was in the past. He had forced himself to accept it, to move forward, to carry it without letting it break him apart.
But none of that mattered now. Not if you were gone.
"Please…" His voice tightened, sharper now, cracking under the strain as the panic finally broke through. His composure slipped, frustration and fear rising all at once, too fast to contain. "Goddammit, Carl—where is she?!" he shouted, the words tearing out of him, his hands lifting in a helpless, frantic motion as if he could demand the answer into existence.
And this time, he was already starting to lose it.
Ryland didn't hesitate, he just moved on instinct. He closed the distance in an instant, his hands coming up to seize Carl by the shoulders with a grip that bordered on desperate. His fingers dug in, not out of anger, but out of something far more fragile—like if he let go, everything else would fall apart with it.
The movement was urgent, frantic, as if he could physically pull the answer out of him if he just held on hard enough. "Where is she?!" he demanded, his voice breaking under the pressure, shaking Carl slightly as his own breath came uneven and sharp. "Goddammit, Carl—just answer me, please—!"
"She's dead!"
The words hit him like something solid. Carl's voice cut through everything, loud and raw, enough to stop Ryland completely, and leave nothing but silence in its wake. The force of it knocked the momentum out of him, his hands loosening slightly as he stared back, frozen.
Carl's expression didn't waver, nor did he look away. Ryland just saw through him, Carl's eyes were red, glossed over, guilt and grief sitting there in a way that didn't leave room for doubt.
Dead. The word didn't settle. In fact, it didn't make sense to him at all.
Ryland just stood there, his grip falling away entirely now as his mind struggled to even grasp what he'd heard. Dead? What did that even mean here?
You were still so young—you had time, a future that stretched far beyond anything he could imagine, things that were supposed to happen. It didn't fit, didn't align with anything he had held onto during the long, impossible journey back.
And yet, somewhere deep down, deeper than denial itself, he knew.
You had always been fragile in a way the world wasn't kind enough to handle. Always standing too close to the mountains edge, even when you tried not to be.
He had known it, had carried that quiet fear with him, but he had never expected it to happen this soon. He believed—he had needed to believe, that he would make it back in time.
That whatever was waiting at the edge wouldn't take you before he got there. Not before he got back, not before he could keep his promise.
Was it the cold? His chest tightened painfully, breath catching as the possibility unfolded in his mind with quiet cruelty. Because if it was, if the world he had tried so hard to save had taken you anyway—then what had any of it been for?
If he had been faster, smarter, better—if he had solved it sooner, sent the taumoeba back before everything collapsed this far, then maybe you would still be here.
Maybe he wouldn't be standing here now, too late.
"What—?" The sound barely made it out, his voice thin, and fragile, his lips trembling as he tried to form something that resembled understanding. But nothing came, if nothing made sense.
A part of him wanted to leave, to walk away, to run, to put distance between himself and the words so they couldn't settle into something real. "You're lying…" he said instead, a hollow breath of laughter slipping through, too light, too wrong for the moment.
A faint, disbelieving smile flickered across his face, brittle and fleeting, though gone almost as quickly as it appeared when he looked back at Carl and saw nothing change.
Just the truth, sitting there, unmoving.
"You're lying—right, Carl?" he asked again, quieter this time, his voice barely holding together, like he was afraid of what would happen if he heard the answer a second time. His eyes searched Carl's face desperately, clinging to the smallest chance that this could still be undone, that this was some kind of mistake.
Because if it wasn't, then he had come all this way… just to lose you anyway.
Carl didn't say anything when he left.
He lingered for a moment longer than he needed to, his gaze resting on Ryland like there were words caught somewhere behind it—words that refused to come out because none of them would make this better.
His jaw shifted slightly, like he almost forced something through, but in the end, he didn't. He just turned, quietly, and walked away, his footsteps dull against the frozen ground, each one growing softer until they disappeared completely, leaving Ryland behind with the wind and a box that felt far heavier than something so small should.
Ryland didn't move for a long time. Not because he was calm, but because his body didn't know what to do with the grief that had nowhere left to go.
His fingers stayed wrapped tightly around the box, his grip rigid, knuckles drained of color as if holding on was the only thing keeping him upright. His shoulders had drawn in slightly, almost unconsciously, like he was trying to make himself smaller, to contain something that couldn't be contained.
The grave sat in front of him, still and unchanged. And the longer he looked at it, the more distant everything else began to feel, like the world had shifted somewhere out of reach.
The air was cold, sharp against his skin, but he barely registered it anymore. It was as if something inside him had gone quiet in the worst possible way—not healed, not settled, just… emptied.
Because this was it. There was nothing left to fix, nothing left to undo. Only what remained, and somehow, that hurt more.
It took him a long time to move. When he finally did, it was slow, almost reluctant, like even the smallest motion required more effort than it should have.
His hands shifted toward the box, unsteady, his fingers brushing against the edge before lifting the lid with a care that felt out of place for something so simple. There was hesitation in it, a quiet resistance, like part of him already knew what waited inside and wasn't sure he could bear to face it.
The letters sat there, exactly as they had been left—stacked neatly, edges aligned, each one marked with a date that stretched across time he had not been part of.
They looked untouched, preserved in a way that felt almost cruel, like time had been allowed to move forward for everything except this. His gaze lingered on them, unmoving, as if staring long enough might change something, might undo what those pages quietly represented.
Proof. That you had been here. That you had waited. That you had written to someone who never answered.
His breath faltered, as the weight of it pressed in, heavier with every passing second. For a moment, he didn't reach for them. He just stood there, frozen in place, as if touching them would make everything undeniable in a way it hadn't been before.
His fingers hovered above the stack, trembling faintly, before finally lowering, closing around the first letter with a gentleness that bordered on reverence.
The paper felt too light in his hands, too fragile for something that carried so much.
He swallowed, his throat tightening as his gaze dropped to the page, the edges of his vision blurring slightly before he forced it back into focus. There was no preparing for it, no way to make it easier.
And still, he unfolded it, and began to read.
Letter 1
"Dear Mr. Grace,
Today was science class again. The new substitute teacher is boring. He just reads from the textbook, and nobody really listens. It's not the same like it used to be.
Did you leave? Or did I just forget why you're not here?
If you come back, can you tell me what I'm supposed to remember?"
Ryland's breath faltered before he even realized it had changed, the air catching somewhere in his chest like it didn't know how to move properly anymore.
His eyes lingered on the last line, then moved over it again, slower this time, as if reading it differently might make it hurt less. It didn't. If anything, the repetition only made it settle deeper, the question pressing in with a quiet weight that felt impossible to ignore.
His jaw tightened, the muscle ticking faintly as his grip on the letter shifted, fingers curling just enough to crease the edge of the paper. "I didn't leave," he murmured, the words barely holding together, his voice unsteady in a way that sounded unfamiliar even to himself.
"I never meant to—" He stopped, swallowing hard, his throat tightening as if the rest of the sentence refused to come out. His gaze stayed fixed on the ink.
"I was going to come back."
The confession slipped out softer this time, more vulnerable, like it had lost something between the thought and the sound. His thumb pressed harder against the page without him noticing, the paper crumpling slightly beneath the pressure.
It felt wrong—that this was the version of him you had been left with. Someone who left. Someone who didn't come back.
For a moment, he looked down. His eyes flicked toward the grave, drawn to it despite himself, but the second they landed there, something in him recoiled.
He looked away just as quickly, like the sight of it was too much to hold onto, like if he stared any longer, it would make everything too real in a way he couldn't take back.
Letter 2
"Dear Mr. Grace,
Carl says I should keep writing even if you don't answer. He says it helps with my memory. I don't really know if it's working. Sometimes I forget what I was trying to write halfway through, and then I just sit there for a long time.
I miss science class. I keep thinking I hear your voice when I close my eyes but then it goes away before I can even hear it clearly.
Why did you leave me? Did I do something wrong? If I did, I'm sorry. I can try to be better, I promise. I just don’t know what I did.
The sound that left Ryland wasn't quite a laugh.
It broke apart halfway through, collapsing into something that didn't belong to anything close to humor. His head shook immediately, once, then again, more forcefully this time, like he could physically push the words away, reject the idea of it.
"No," he said under his breath, the word rushed, almost desperate. "No, no, no—you didn't—"
His voice caught, it fractured mid-sentence, the rest of it falling away as his hand came up to his forehead, pressing hard, like he could steady himself through force alone.
His eyes squeezed shut for a second, his brows drawn tight as if he was trying to hold something together that was already slipping apart.
His breathing turned uneven then, the feeling of tears slowly forming in the corner of his eyes. He dragged in a breath that didn't quite fill his lungs, then another, until it stuttered completely, stopping for a brief, fragile second before forcing itself to start again.
"You didn't do anything," he whispered, the words quieter now. His gaze dropped back to the letter, unfocused. "I didn't leave you. I swear I didn't leave you because I wanted to. I would never..."
But nothing changed.
The ink stayed exactly where it was. The paper didn't shift, didn't respond, didn't give him anything back.
And the grave—remained silent.
Letter 3
"Dear Mr. Grace,
Carl is taking care of me. He tries really hard. I think he doesn’t know what to say sometimes.
I still wait for you sometimes at the door when they bring me back to the room. It just feels like you're supposed to come.
So when are you coming back?"
Ryland couldn't bring himself to speak.
Not because there was nothing left to say, but because everything he could think of came out wrong the moment he tried to form it. His mouth stayed slightly open for a second, like a sentence had almost made it out, then stopped halfway and disappeared again. Nothing followed, just a heavy silence that settled in its place.
His throat tightened as he swallowed, but even that small movement felt difficult, like his body had turned unresponsive in ways he couldn't control.
His gaze dropped without meaning to, avoiding the letters, avoiding the grave, avoiding anything that might force him to give shape to what he was feeling.
For a moment, he just stood there, caught in something that didn't have language anymore. And the worst part was that there was nothing he could say that would change what had already been said.
Letter 4
"Dear Mr. Grace,
The doctor said something about my brain today. I didn't really understand all of it, he used really complicated words. Carl tried to explain it but I didn't really understand it either.
I forget things a lot now. Sometimes I forget what I was saying in the middle of saying it.
He said I might die soon.
I don't think I felt scared when he said it. I think I just felt tired instead. I wish I could remember you more clearly before that happens."
The paper trembled faintly between Ryland's fingers, but the rest of him had gone still in a way that didn't feel natural. It was as if motion itself had been paused inside him, leaving only the weight of what he was reading to continue moving.
His eyes didn't leave the words I might die soon, fixed there like repetition could somehow soften it, like staring long enough might make it mean something else. But it didn't change. It stayed exactly the same.
His face twisted then, not just in sadness, but in helpless anger at a universe that didn't negotiate. His jaw tightened, but it wasn't enough to hold it in.
There was no outlet for it, no direction it could take, so it stayed trapped in his face, twisting his expression again and again into something raw and helpless.
His eyes glistened faintly once more, not falling yet, but close—like even grief was struggling to decide whether it was allowed to fully arrive.
Letter 5
"Dear Mr. Grace,
I don't think I remember everything the way I used to anymore. I'm trying really hard right now as I write this.
But I still remember waiting. I keep thinking about it, like it's the one thing that didn't leave. I think I was waiting for someone… I think it was you. It has to be you, right?
Because if it wasn't, I don't know why your name is still here when everything else goes away.
If you come back and I don't remember you anymore, please don't be sad. I think I would still feel happy if I saw you again, even if I didn't understand why at first.
I hope I see you again. :)"
Not even a breath that felt like it belonged to him was made. It was as if his body had stopped trying to translate what pain was supposed to look like, leaving only stillness in its place.
The letter remained in his hand, but his grip had loosened slightly, the paper hanging there without tension, like even holding on had become too much effort.
Slowly, his hand lowered. The movement was small, unsteady, almost absent-minded, as if it wasn't fully his decision anymore. His gaze drifted with it, drawn back toward the grave without resistance this time. And when he looked at it, he didn't turn away.
There was no sharp reaction anymore, no shock, just the slow settling of something too heavy to fight.
"I'm here," he said quietly. The words came out carefully, like they had to pass through something thick just to exist. His eyes stayed fixed ahead, not really focused on anything, just anchored in the space where you should have been.
A pause followed, long enough that it felt like the wind itself filled it.
"I'm here now." his voice softened further, the edges of it fraying. It wasn't a declaration anymore. It sounded closer to something he didn't know how to take back.
"You were waiting…" he continued, barely above a whisper now. His jaw tightened briefly, but it didn't stop the rest from coming. "And I wasn't fast enough."
The wind moved through the open space, cold and unbothered, brushing past him like none of this mattered to it at all. The letters in his hand shifted slightly with the air, fragile things carrying years of absence in thin sheets of paper.
And for a long moment, he was just there in front of the grave—not as a scientist who solved impossible equations, not as the man who saved the world, but as someone who held every word you had left behind, finally understanding that all the distance he had crossed only brought him to the one place he could never change.
He didn't notice when night began to take over.
There was no clear moment where it arrived—no shift he could point to. It simply happened the way light fades from something already slipping out of reach. Gradually, then all at once in hindsight.
The brightness drained from the world in quiet layers until even the grave no longer looked like a place, only a shape in the dark where something irreversible had happened.
he wind followed the change, colder now, cutting through the open ground with slow, unhurried persistence, as if time itself no longer cared to be gentle.
Ryland hadn't moved from where he knelt. His posture had collapsed slightly with exhaustion, knees drawn in closer without him really deciding to, like his body had begun conserving what little strength remained.
The last letter was in his hands now, but it no longer looked like something he was holding, more like it couldn't decide whether it wanted to exist anymore.
The paper trembled faintly, reacting to the smallest shifts in his grip, as if even it struggled under the weight of what it contained.
His eyes no longer moved across the words in a natural rhythm. They latched onto them instead, stuck in place, unable to move forward at a normal pace.
Each sentence didn't feel new anymore—it simply felt heavier than the last, not because it revealed anything different, but because it confirmed what he already knew he couldn't change.
Everything you had written carried the same quiet ending, one you hadn't known you were moving toward.
It was the last time you'll ever be able to speak to him.
And somewhere between grief and exhaustion, his expression had stopped changing properly. It wasn't shifting anymore in the way emotion normally would—it was stalling between states, caught somewhere between disbelief and collapse.
His face held a strained stillness, like his mind was still attempting to reject what it understood too clearly, while his body betrayed him in smaller ways he couldn't control.
And still, he read it again, and again.
Final Letter
"Dear Ryland,
Yes I remember now. Somehow. At least… parts of it came back
Carl just told me you didn't abandon me, that you were actually in space, trying to save everyone. You liar. You told me you weren't going anywhere.
I tried to be mad at you. I really did. But I think I can't anymore. It feels weird to be mad at someone who feels so far away it's like you're part of a dream instead of a person.
But it's also kind of cool, I guess. Knowing someone I know is out there. And even more than that… it's you. The same you who used to make everything sound less impossible than it was.
And it's not fair! I remembered I said I wanted to be ana stronaut first!
Question. Do you still teach like you used to? Do you still get excited when students answer questions right? I think I remember your face when that happened. Like you were pretending not to care but you did anyway.
It's a shame though… I heard you're not coming back.
That's not true, right? I think they're lying to me. People here say things softly when they think you won’t understand them. I understand more than they think I do.
Based on what I wrote before, you wouldn't just leave. You wouldn't do that. And based on everything I remember about you…it must be true then.
Saving the world sounds like something you would do though. 100%.
I think I'm going to die soon. I can feel it when I wake up sometimes. Like my thoughts don't stay in one place anymore. Like I'm slipping away from myself bit by bit.
It's scary… but I'm trying not to be. I want to be brave for you. Because I know you'll come back soon, right? I know you will. I mean, you have to.
I haven't even cashed in my beanbags yet. I saved them all. Ever single one.
I used to think I'd trade them for something fun someday. Something small. But now I think I know what I actually want.
Instead of a normal prize… I want something else.
Come back. Quickly. And sit with me, just for a little while. That's all I want.
We made a promise, didn't we? I think we did.
You can't break promises like that, Ryland.
Look, I don't even call you Mr. Grace anymore. I stopped, because we're family. Family sticks together. That's what you said once, or maybe I wrote it down because I wanted it to be true.
Who else do I have but you? Carl tries. He really does. He's kind, but he's not you. He doesn't laugh the same way, he doesn't explain things like the universe is simple when it isn't.
Thank you, Ryland. For being my teacher… and my family… and the only person I've ever really had.
You're my hero. My friend. My teacher. My family.
So can you please just come back already? I forgot what you look like sometimes. I forget your voice too. But I think you’'re probably still a little stupid. That part stays. That part makes me feel better.
P.S. Don't leave me ever again when you're back. I don't really like being stuck with Carl sometimes.
The silence after he finished was unbearable.
Ryland's gaze remained locked on the final line of the letter, not reading it anymore, but trapped by it—like the words had stopped being ink on paper and had instead burned themselves into into him.
His mouth opened slightly, as if a response had formed somewhere inside him, but nothing made it out.
Then, barely there, like it cost him something to say it, he finally managed, "I didn't leave you." The words came out quiet again, like he was trying to convince something that couldn't hear him anymore.
His throat tightened immediately afterward, and for a moment he was just there, staring at the letter as if it might somehow respond if he waited long enough. His fingers shifted minutely against the paper, then stopped again, caught between holding on and letting go.
"I was coming back," he said, louder this time, "I was right there. I was—"
And then it happened all at once, not something he could brace for,but a collapse that overtook him without warning. His expression changed sharply, like something inside him finally gave way after being held too tightly for too long.
His eyes filled too quickly, overwhelmed, as if the grief had been waiting just beneath the surface and finally found its way out. His breath hitched hard, broken, and his shoulders shook as he bent forward slightly, as though the weight of it had become too much to be under.
"I'm sorry," he choked out, the words splintering as they left him. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—I didn't mean to—I didn't—" Each attempt at speech collapsed into the next, until there was nothing structured left, only the raw sound of someone trying and failing to hold themselves together.
Tears finally broke through completely, tracking down his face without restraint, unnoticed at first, then impossible to ignore.
He pulled the letter closer, pressing it against his chest like proximity could undo the absence, like holding it tighter might bridge something that time had already destroyed.
His hands trembled against it, as if even paper had become too fragile to contain what it represented. But no matter how tightly he held on, nothing shifted. Nothing came back.
And that realization hit him fully then—heavy, final, and irreversible. Because no equation, no mission, no miracle of whatever had ever accounted for this kind of loss.
And Ryland Grace, the man who solved impossible things across the universe…could do absolutely nothing here.
He just stayed there in the dark, holding her last words as though they were the last remaining proof she had ever existed, while everything inside him finally broke without sound. Just the quiet failure of everything holding him together, piece by piece, until there was less of him than there had been before.
Ryland didn't even remember lowering himself down.
One moment he was standing, the next he was sitting against the cold stone, his back slumped, his head resting sideways against the tombstone like it was the only thing left solid enough to lean on.
The surface was colder than he expected, rough beneath his temple, but he didn't move away. His hand still clutched the letter, crumpled slightly now from how tightly he had been holding it, the edges digging into his palm without him noticing.
His eyes were half-lidded, unfocused, staring at nothing in particular. The kind of stare that wasn't empty—but too full. Too much inside to process, too much to hold, too much to survive intact.
Carl approached quietly. His steps were careful, deliberately softened as he drew closer, as though the air around Ryland had become something fragile enough to shatter if disturbed too abruptly.
He stopped a short distance away rather than closing the gap, hands hanging loosely at his sides, uncertain what position to take in a moment that didn't seem to offer any correct response.
His eyes moved briefly from Ryland to the grave and back again, lingering there as if trying to understand where exactly things had broken. For a while, he didn't speak at all.
Neither did Ryland.
The silence between them stretched, filled only by the wind threading through the open space, colder now. It brushed against Ryland's face, catching faintly on his damp lashes, tangling in his unkempt hair that had fallen forward without him noticing.
He looked stripped of everything familiar—no trace of the man who had stepped out of that spacecraft. That version felt distant now, almost unrecognizable.
What remained was someone worn down past coherence, held together only by exhaustion and the remnants of grief, of someone who had made it back too late.
Then, finally— "You lied to her." The words were quiet, stripped of heat or accusation. They came out almost evenly, but there was something hollow underneath their tone. His voice didn't rise, didn't sharpen; it simply existed in the space between them, heavy in its simplicity.
Carl frowned slightly in return, caught off guard. "What?"
Ryland exhaled slowly, the sound barely there, before he shifted just enough to turn his head. It took effort. His movements were sluggish, heavy, like even lifting his gaze required something he didn't have much of left.
When he finally looked at Carl directly, his eyes carried a dull redness at the edges, swollen from everything that had already broken through them.
There was no attempt left to compose himself, no barrier remaining between what he felt and what showed on his face. It wasn't just fatigue in the usual sense—it was something deeper, settled into him too fully to be temporary.
"You told her I saved the world," he said quietly. "But I hadn't even sent anything back yet. The timelines don't match."
Carl didn't answer immediately.
He stood there for a moment too long, his gaze lowered toward Ryland in a way that wasn't quite steady. His jaw flexed once, subtle but tense, as if he was choosing between explanations that all felt insufficient.
Something moved across his face, uncertain, heavy, edged with a guilt he didn't fully know how to carry. The kind that didn't ask for forgiveness, because it already knew it wouldn't help.
"…It's the truth now," Carl said softly at last. "You did save the world."
Ryland stared at him for a second as if the words had taken a moment to reach him properly. Then he let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh—but it broke halfway through, collapsing into something quieter.
"But I didn't get to save my world." The words came out softer than anything he had said before. And somehow, they hit harder than everything else.
His gaze dropped, falling back to the ground, to the edge of the grave, to the space where you should have been standing instead. His fingers tightened again around the letter, crinkling it further as his shoulders dipped slightly.
Carl's voice came again, lower now, more careful in its pacing. "You can't save everything, Ryland." He paused briefly, then continued, each word chosen deliberately.
"Sometimes saving one world… means losing another."
The wind picked up slightly then, brushing past them both, carrying the silence deeper.
Ryland didn't respond right away, he just couldn't. His throat moved as he swallowed, his jaw tightening like he was trying to hold something back again—but it didn't work this time
His breath hitched, small and sharp, his eyes closing for a second as if shutting them might undo the reality in front of him.
"…Yeah," he whispered. "…I can't save two worlds." His voice broke on the last word. And that was it, there was no holding it together anymore.
His shoulders began to tremble before he could stop them, worsening until his entire frame folded under its own weight. His head dipped forward until it met the stone fully, forehead pressing into the cold surface as if it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart entirely.
The letter slipped slightly in his hand from the movement, its edges bending under his grip, but he didn't loosen it. Letting go didn't feel possible. It felt like losing the last remaining proof that anything had ever mattered to him.
It was the only piece of you he had left that still felt alive.
"I should've been here," he choked out, the words breaking apart as they left him. "I should've been here when you needed me… when you were scared… when you—" The sentence collapsed mid-way, cut off by the sharp hitch of his breath as his throat tightened too violently to continue.
Silence followed along, but even that felt unstable.
"I told you I wouldn't leave," he whispered then, softer, almost disbelieving, as though he was speaking to something that might still hear him, to something that could never answer him back.
His face stayed pressed against the stone, voice directed downward now, not to the air, but to you, like proximity could somehow undo distance. "I told you that, didn't I? I told you I'd stay. I promised... I told you—"
The words broke again.
"I lied." The admission came out barely audible, just air shaped into confession. And the moment it left him, something inside him seemed to collapse further.
His body curled inward without intention, one hand dropping to brace against the ground as if instinct alone was trying to keep him from fully breaking down.
The other arm pulled the letter closer to his chest, pressed tightly against him in a desperate, unthinking motion, as if paper could preserve something time had already long erased.
His face remained against the stone, eyes shut tightly now, but tears slipped through anyway, trailing down and disappearing into the cold surface that offered no response, no warmth, nothing.
"I'm here now," he said, almost desperately. It sounded like something he was trying to convince the world of, or maybe himself. "I came back. I did everything right—I fixed it, I—"
His breath faltered violently, cutting the sentence in half. His chest jerked with it, uneven and strained, like even breathing had become too difficult to regulate from all the tears he had shed.
"But you're not here."
Silence followed the rest, and in that silence, Ryland had not move for a long time. He didn't lift his head from the stone, didn't reach for anything that might resemble control.
The instinct to fix things—the part of him that had carried him through impossible problems, had nowhere to go now. It simply… stopped.
The wind passed through the open space again, low and unhurried, brushing against him without resistance. It caught faintly in his hair, moved past his shoulders, slipped between him and the grave like it belonged there more than he did.
He stayed where he was, pressed against the cold surface of the stone, as if it was the only thing left that still connected him to you in any real way. There was no comfort in it, no warmth—just presence, just proof that something had once existed.
And somewhere beneath the weight of everything crushing onto him, a thought settled in, impossible to shake.
For the first time since he had left Earth, he found himself wishing he never had. Not out of regret for what he'd done, but for what it had cost.
The victory that had once meant everything now felt vacant, stripped of meaning in the face of something so much smaller, and so much more important to him. Saving the world had been possible.
This hadn't been.
The guilt didn't come in sharp waves, instead it had waited, waited for him to finally stop moving so it could finally take hold. It didn't ask for answers, didn't offer any either.
And beneath it, came the thought he couldn't push away. Maybe he had never been meant for that role in the first place. Maybe he had never deserved that role.
There was no defense left in him to argue against it, no logic strong enough to counter what felt so absolute. Because in the end, none of the reasons changed the outcome.
And in the end, that was all that mattered.
Carl didn't say anything at first.
He just stood there after returning back to check on him, his gaze fixed on Ryland—not with urgency, not with expectation, but with the quiet understanding of someone looking at a man who had nothing left to hold himself together with.
There was a quiet shift in Carl's posture, something almost hesitant, before he stepped forward and gently set a box down on the ground beside him.
The soft thud of it against the earth sounded louder than it should have.
Ryland flinched slightly at the noise, his head lifting just enough from the tombstone to glance at it. His movements were slow, delayed, like everything had to fight through layers of exhaustion before it reached his body. His eyes were unfocused at first, then gradually sharpened as they landed on the box.
Confusion spread across his face. His mouth parted slightly, like he was about to ask something, but no words came out. His breathing hitched awkwardly instead, his nose still blocked from crying, forcing him to inhale through his mouth in uneven, shaky pulls. He blinked once, twice, as if trying to understand why Carl had brought something like this here.
Carl crouched down beside him without a word. There was something careful in the way he moved, something almost… respectful. Like whatever was inside that box wasn't his to handle roughly.
His knees met the ground softly, and for a brief moment, his hand hovered over the lid of the box instead of opening it. His fingers rested there, unmoving, like he was giving the moment space to breathe… or perhaps giving Ryland the chance to turn away before it became too much.
But Ryland didn't look away.
He stayed exactly where he was, eyes fixed, as if something in him already knew that whatever waited inside mattered too much to avoid. There was no preparation in his expression, no defense, just that same hollow stillness that had settled into him, now bracing for something he couldn't yet name.
The moment the lid lifted, something in Ryland crumbled down. His eyes widened, just enough to break the stillness they had been trapped in, and then stilled again—this time not from emptiness, but from recognition.
Inside the box, it was neatly packed, worn a little from time, though still intact—were dozens of small tiny planet beanbags. Tiny, colorful, familiar in a way that hit him instantly, violently.
Some still carried faint creases like they had been clutched too tightly for too long. And beneath them, tucked carefully, were sheets of paper—drawings.
Ryland's hand didn't move right away. It twitched at his side first, before slowly, hesitantly—his arm lifted, each motion heavy, uncertain, as though he wasn't sure he had the right to touch any of it.
His fingers hovered above the contents of the box, suspended there for a moment too long, caught between reaching and pulling back.
His hand lowered at last, brushing against one of the small beanbags before curling around it. He lifted it carefully, far more carefully than something so light required. The softness of it registered immediately beneath his fingers, familiar in a way that didn't give him time to prepare.
His thumb brushed over the fabric absentmindedly, feeling the texture, the shape. His throat tightened immediately as memories hit him without warning. The classroom filled with bright lights and laughter. Your small hands catching one mid-air. The way you used to look at him when you got an answer right—bright, proud, waiting for him to notice.
"…You really kept them huh?" he murmured under his breath, voice cracking softly under it.
It wasn't a question. It was disbelief.
His other hand moved then, slower still. It reached toward the bottom of the box, fingers trembling faintly as they slid beneath the layer of beanbags to pull out a sheet of paper. The edges caught slightly as he lifted it free, worn down by time, corners bent and softened from being handled over and over again, like it had been held often.
He unfolded it, opening the paper carefully. The creases gave way one by one, revealing the drawing beneath.
Two figures—one taller, one smaller. Stick figures, barely detailed, but there was no mistaking it. One was taller, sketched with slightly messy strokes at the top of its head. The other stood close beside it, smaller, holding something round in its hand, something that looked unmistakably like the beanbag he still clutched between his fingers.
Right above them, a handwriting labeled it—
"Me and Ryland."
His breathing halted, lips parting slightly as his eyes locked onto the paper. His fingers tightened around it without him noticing, the paper crumpled slightly beneath his fingers, small creases forming where his hold became too firm, too desperate to stay steady.
His brows pulled together sharply, his eyes squeezing shut for a brief second as if he could block it out, but it was a helpless choice anyways. It only made it worse. When he opened them again, they were already filled, tears spilling over before he could stop them.
"You were saving them…" he choked out, voice breaking completely. "For me…"
Carl stayed silent beside him. There was nothing left to say. His presence lingered at the edge of it all—close enough to stay, but distant enough not to intrude. Some things couldn't be explained, couldn't be softened, couldn't be made easier by words. And this was one of them.
But he wasn't untouched by it at all.
He had been holding it in, long before this moment, long before the box had ever been opened. It showed in the way his shoulders stayed just a little too stiff, in the way his hands hung at his sides without quite knowing what to do.
His jaw tightened faintly, the muscle twitching once, and then twice, like he was keeping something contained that didn't want to stay that way.
Because he had been there, when no one else was.
When Stratt had been pulled away by decisions too large to pause for anything smaller, it had been Carl who stayed behind. Carl who sat through the quiet moments, who filled in the gaps, who learned how to speak gently enough for someone who kept forgetting.
He had been the one to guide you through days that never stayed, to answer the same questions again and again without letting frustration show, to pretend stability even when there wasn't any left.
He had cared. Not out of duty, and definately not because he was told to, but because somewhere along the way, you had become something more than responsibility.
Something closer, something that felt like his.
And now, even that was gone.
He exhaled slowly, the breath uneven despite how controlled it tried to sound, his gaze lowering briefly toward the ground before shifting back again. His eyes were glassy, though he hadn't let anything fall yet. Not here, not now.
He too, held responsibility over it. It would've been cruel of him to even shed a tear. But it was there, always there, being held back.
Just barely.
Ryland let out a broken sound then, somewhere between a sob and a breath, as he pressed the drawing against his chest, the beanbag still clutched tightly in his other hand. His head dropped again, forehead nearly hitting the box this time as he curled inward, like he was trying to protect something that was already gone.
His fingers dug into the fabric of the beanbag, knuckles whitening, like he could somehow hold onto the time he had missed, the moments he never got to have. The drawings. The letters. The waiting.
All of it, and none of it had been enough to bring him back in time.
The tears came all at once, unrestrained, spilling over faster than he could process, his breathing collapsing into uneven, fractured sounds that barely resembled anything coherent.
There was nothing left for him to say. After all, everything that mattered had already been laid out in front of him.
Right there, within that small, worn box. Every piece of you that had endured, every moment you had clung to, every quiet act of believing that he would come back. The letters, the drawings, the tiny keepsakes—they weren't just objects. They were time, were proof of days spent waiting, of hope that hadn't faded even when everything else had.
And he hadn't been there to meet it.
You had kept holding on through everything. Through the confusion, through the forgetting, you had still waited. Still believed.
Not once did you ever stop, not even at the very end when you knew your time was up.
It wasn't long until a faint rhythm broke through, footsteps pressing into the ground, each one dull and heavy against the quiet. The sound carried slowly, until it settled close enough to feel unavoidable.
Then his name followed, spoken after what felt like far too much time had passed. "Grace…" The voice was steady, controlled, and achingly familiar.
Ryland reacted before he could think straight. His head lifted fast, taking more out of him than it should have. His vision dragged upward, still clouded at the edges, until it found the source—and stopped there.
Eva Stratt.
She stood a short distance away, positioned beside Carl, composed as ever, her presence cutting cleanly through everything that had just unraveled. There was no urgency in her posture, no outward sign of the weight that hung in the air—it made the contrast sharper somehow, harsher against the state he was in.
She hadn't changed in the ways that mattered. Time had marked her, though, fine lines etched into her skin, hair now streaked pale where it once held its color, the quiet signs of harsh years.
Something in Ryland shifted as he looked at her. It wasn't sudden, not something that snapped into place, but it showed all the same. His brows pulled together just slightly, tension gathering in the lines of his face as though he was holding something back that refused to stay contained.
His hand faltered where it rested, fingers loosening for a brief second before tightening again, and for a moment it seemed like he might speak—like something might finally break through.
But it didn't. He just kept looking at her. And the longer the silence stretched, the heavier it became, settling into the space between them like something that couldn’t be moved.
He wanted to lash out. The urge rose up sharp and immediate, tangled with everything he hadn't said, everything he had forced down. He wanted to throw it all at her—all of it.
Every accusation, every piece of anger that had nowhere else to go. He understood her reasons, he always had since then—but that understanding didn't make forgiveness come any easier. If anything, it made it harder, because it didn't change what had happened.
And yet, still nothing left his mouth.
His lips parted slightly, but no sound followed, like even that small act demanded more from him than he had left. Maybe it was exhaustion, dragging him down until there was no strength left to fight. Maybe it was the kind of emptiness that comes after something breaks too completely. Whatever it was, it kept him silent.
So instead, he met her gaze. His eyes were red, swollen, raw from crying. There was no attempt to hide it, no effort to steady himself or pull back into something composed. Everything he couldn't say, every question, every hurt, every piece of anger that hadn't found its way out—sat there, unguarded, laid bare in the way he looked at her.
And somehow, that said more than words ever could.
Why did you send me away? Why did you make that choice for me? I never agreed to this—I never wanted it. Look at what it cost, look at what's left now. You couldn't even save her. What does it matter if the world calls me a hero, when the one person I needed to come back to was falling apart, alone, and forgetting me while I wasn't there? This is on you.
For the first time, Stratt couldn't hold his gaze. It wasn't hesitation at first, it was something closer to retreat, as her eyes glanced away like they could no longer withstand what was reflected back at her.
She had carried this for years, buried beneath decisions and outcomes and the weight of what had been necessary. But none of that dulled the image of him standing here now, broken in a way she had always known would come back to find her, to haunt her.
And it had never been easier—not when she saw you, not when she was reminded of what had been left behind, waiting for someone who will never return.
Her attention drifted outward, settling somewhere beyond him, past the hill, past the quiet stretch of land, toward a world that had been saved at a cost she could no longer justify out loud.
Her posture remained composed, but something in it had softened, no longer as firm as they once were. She drew in a breath, "'I'm sorry," she said. The words came quieter than expected, stripped of authority, stripped of certainty.
"I did everything I could," she continued, her voice steady but thinner now, as if it had to pass through something heavy before reaching him. "I brought in specialists. The best I could find. I made sure she had every possible chance." A pause followed, brief but weighted, her gaze lowering slightly as if she already knew what came next wouldn't change anything.
"They all told me the same thing," she finished softly. "It was too far gone."
Stratt' words hit Ryland straight through the gut, lodging somewhere he couldn't protect. He took it in, but the ache only grew, spreading through him until it became too much to contain, too much to hold behind clenched teeth and forced silence.
His chest tightened sharply, breath catching as something in him finally gave way. "Why won't you look at me?" he asked, his voice rough and strained, as his eyes fixed on her turned profile.
"Look at me, Stratt!" The demand broke out of him, louder this time. Tears blurred his vision, gathering faster than he could blink them away, his gaze locked onto her like letting go would mean losing even this. And so she did, she turned back, meeting those pairs of eyes that haunted her every night.
Ryland's lip trembled as he tried to steady his breathing, a shaky inhale catching in his throat before breaking apart. Tears slipped free, tracing down his face unchecked, his expression crumpling under the weight of everything he had been holding back.
"You don't just get to look away now, ...not when you looked me in the eye before when you made that decision. When you sent me to die!"
His brows drew together tightly, shaking his head as if rejecting something he still couldn't fully accept. "I tried not to blame you," he continued, "I really did..."
There Stratt was now, standing there facing him, and for the first time, the composure she had always carried seemed to disapear. There was a faint sheen in her eyes now, something fragile threatening to surface, held back only by habit and control.
"I'm sorry," she said, the words slipping out too quickly, as if letting them linger even a second longer would break whatever restraint she had left. And then again, softer this time, but no less desperate. It was all she had to offer, all she could give in place of something she could never undo—apologies repeated in different forms, each one falling short before it even reached him.
But it wasn't enough. It would never be enough.
Ryland could no longer bear it, as something in his expression twisted, and without another word, he turned away from her, like even looking at her had become too much to endure.
His gaze fell instead to the one place he hadn't been able to look away from for long, the grave in front of him. The stone stood quiet and unmoving, your name carved into it with a permanence that made his chest tighten all over again.
For a moment, everything else faded. The cold air, the presence behind him, even the sound of his own uneven breathing, it all dulled at the edges as his focus settled onto there.
And in that silence, it almost felt like you were still here. Like if he just listened hard enough, he might hear your voice again. But even that was slipping from him now. Your voice, your face… they didn't come back the way they should. Only fragments remained, incomplete, frozen in time, refusing to grow with the years he had lost.
That was all he had left. Memories that wouldn't stay whole, letters that came too late. Pieces of you that existed only in what you had written down, what you had tried so hard to leave behind for him to find. Everything you had saved, everything you had held onto—it was all he had now.
And it wasn't you.
There was no going back, no fixing it, no second chance waiting somewhere ahead. Just this and absence. Even the thought of what could have been hurt more than anything else.
A life where you were still here walking beside him, sitting in his classroom, raising your hand with that familiar spark in your eyes. A life where he got to hear you laugh again, to hear you argue back, to watch you grow into someone beyond the child he had been forced to leave behind.
He could see it so clearly, too clearly. And yet, it was nothing more than something he would never have. Just a quiet, impossible wish that lingered long after everything else had already been taken from him.
Hello! I absolutely love your fics, I’ve been reading the “f!human reader not from middle earth” series and was wondering if there was separate master list for it? I just get a bit confused as to what order to read them in T-T
Thank you for your lovely writing!
Okay first of all, my deepest apologies for not writing it in chronological order, cause I wanted it to be able to read as oneshots and not get bored of it. Well, to be fair it started off as a snipet of a superrr long fanfic I wrote when I was like what 10? 12? 😭🙏
But hey it doesn't really matter, I'm just rewriting it and adding some plot/tweaks to it. You can actually not read it in specific order cause some info/plot is still hiding in my drafts haha!
BUT, if it that's what helps you read better, I'll try my best to make one! So yea, there's no specific way to read them as of current. And yea, I totally understand why it's confusing, cause there's a whole 2 separate movies/plot.
And thank you sm love for liking this series! I'm trying my best to write more nowadays, though it is quite hard with my semesters coming up soon. But what rlly motivates me to write is you guys, so I'm really grateful to help writers/readers who are interested in my little works 🫶🏻
-I'll kiss your pains away in secret , though you'll never know.
Pairings : Legolas x f!reader | fatherfigure!Bard x f!reader
Summary : In the aftermath of a devastating dragon (smaug) attack on Laketown, among the chaos, you struggle under the weight of guilt, exhaustion, and grief, feeling powerless against the loss surrounding you. Bard and Fili did not seem to be the only ones who have comforted you. A particular elf did as well, with a kiss on your wounds, and a promise he made, though you'll never know.
A/n : This is for anyone who had to grow up too fast, who learned independence before they were ready, and carried more than they should. Honestly… I wrote this fic for me at one point of my life. Haha, sometimes we write what we need mostt. If you've ever felt guilty, like you weren't enough, or that your efforts went unseen, I hope this fic reminds you that you are enough. I hope these pages bring a little comfort, a little hope, and a reminder that even in the chaos, you're never truly alone. 🤍 (veryyy emotional topics are written so be aware) (Part of the f!reader is not from middle-earth series | Can be read as a one-shot as well!)
Wc : 8.8k
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The air was cold, not the gentle, quiet chill that came with dawn, but something far more biting. It clung to your skin like a second shadow, sharp and invasive, a cruel contrast to the suffocating heat of dragonfire that had only just torn through everything.
The shift was too sudden, too violent—like the world had been wrenched from flame into frost without mercy. Even the wind felt different now, hollow as it whispered through the ruins, carrying with it the faint scent of ash and something far heavier that lingered in your lungs.
Morning had come, but it brought no comfort. Dawn stretched weakly over the lake, pale and lifeless, its light spilling across the water in dull streaks that did nothing to warm what remained. It only revealed more, too much more.
Laketown, what was left of it—lay in ruin.
The banks were crowded with survivors, if they could still be called that. People huddled together in scattered groups, their voices fractured into a restless chorus of grief.
Cries rang out, sharp and broken; Shouts followed, desperate and disoriented. And beneath it all, the quiet, endless sound of sobbing, low and unrelenting, as though the land itself mourned with them.
Smoke still rose in thin, stubborn trails, curling into the pale sky from what remained of the wooden structures. Blackened beams jutted out at odd angles, skeletal and warped, barely holding its shape.
Some pieces still burned, small tongues of fire flickering weakly, clinging to life despite the cold, as if refusing to let the destruction end just yet.
The water lapped softly at the shore, deceptively calm, its surface reflecting the grey light of morning. But even it could not hide what it carried. Ash drifted across it in uneven patches, and beneath the surface, just barely visible, shadows moved where they should not.
Everything felt… still. It was certainly not peaceful. Just… empty, in the aftermath of something too violent to fully comprehend.
And scattered among it all, was the dead. They lay along the shore where the water had claimed them and returned them just as mercilessly. Bodies half-submerged, limbs caught at unnatural angles, clothing darkened and heavy with lakewater. Some were dusted in ash, their forms blurred beneath a grey veil, while others remained untouched by flame—yet no less still, no less gone.
The gentle lapping of the water against them felt almost cruel, as if the lake itself refused to acknowledge what it carried.
Your gaze drifted over them slowly, as though pulled against your will. You couldn't look away, not fully. Your eyes traced shapes, faces you dared not linger on for too long, yet couldn't help but see.
Your face felt tight, streaked with something you hadn't noticed until now, your tears, dried and fresh all at once. Your lips parted, a breath catching somewhere in your throat, but no words came. Nothing formed. Nothing could form. What was there to say, when everything that mattered had already been lost?.
A heaviness settled deep in your chest, pressing down until even breathing felt like an effort.
Useless, or perhaps it was guilt for every life you hadn't been able to save in time. For every scream that still echoed somewhere in the back of your mind, refusing to fade no matter how tightly you tried to shut it out. For standing here now, breathing, when so many no longer could.
Your eyes slipped shut, lashes trembling as they brushed faintly against your cheeks. Your head bowed, just slightly, as though the weight of it all had finally found somewhere to rest. For a moment, the world fell away—the cries, the smoke, the ruin, and all that remained was the quiet within you.
A prayer came then, fragile and fleeting. Not in words, you had none left to give, but in feeling. In the ache that filled your chest, in the silent plea that reached for those who could no longer hear, no longer answer. It lingered only for a heartbeat before dissolving into the stillness, carried away like ash on the wind.
When your eyes opened again, they burned. Glassy, rimmed red, your vision wavered as the world returned in fractured pieces, light bleeding into your vision, shapes blurring before slowly, cruelly, sharpening back into focus. And with it came everything you wished it wouldn't, the devastation, the loss. The undeniable truth laid bare before you.
It was your first time experiencing such a cruel sight, a war scene. What you were going through now is real, and thats your reality.
Your breath hitched, shallow and uneven, as something tightened painfully in your chest.
If only…
The thought came quietly, yet it struck deeper than anything else.
If only you had been stronger.
You were so lost in your thoughts, drowning in the quiet, relentless echo of your own failures, that you didn't notice when someone stepped up beside you.
Sound faded into something distant. You didn't hear the soft crunch of gravel beneath approaching boots, didn't notice the subtle shift in the air as someone stepped close. You didn't even register your name being called.
"…hey, are you alright?" The voice came gently, threaded with careful concern, worry woven into every syllable, like he was afraid of saying the wrong thing and pushing you further away. It pulled at you slowly, dragging you back from the spiral in your mind.
Your gaze dipped first, unfocused, before your head turned just enough to acknowledge the presence beside you. And there he was.
Fíli stood close, closer than you had realized, near enough that you could see the fine tension in his expression—his brows drawn together, eyes searching your face with quiet urgency.
His usual confidence had softened into something far more vulnerable. His lips pressed together briefly, then parted again, like he had something to say but didn't quite know how to begin, nor continue.
"I… I don't know, Fíli…" Your voice came out quieter than you intended, barely above a murmur, almost unsteady in a way as though they might break apart before fully forming.
But he heard it. His expression shifted immediately, concern deepening as his shoulders straightened just slightly, as though bracing himself for you, every bit of him focused on the quiet crack in your voice.
This wasn't the you he knew. The spark he had always admired—the quiet strength, the fire in your eyes, the way you carried yourself like you could withstand anything, felt dimmed now, like it had been smothered beneath something heavier.
Fíli noticed it immediately, the absence of it, and it unsettled him more than he let show. His jaw tightened faintly, a flicker of something protective crossing his expression as he studied you, as if trying to find even a trace of that familiar light.
But your gaze didn't linger on him. It slipped away almost the moment it met his, dropping to the ground near his boots. You fixated on the dirt, the scattered ash, the faint marks left behind by chaos, anything that wasn't him.
Your fingers curled slightly at your sides, tension settling into your frame, shoulders drawn in just enough to make yourself smaller.
"Hey…" he murmured again, softer this time, his voice dipping as he shifted a half-step closer. "Don't shut me out."
Still, you couldn't look at him. Or maybe… you wouldn't.
A flicker of something uneasy tightened in your chest. Were you afraid of seeing disappointment in his eyes… or afraid that it was already there? That he had already decided you had failed upholding your responsibilities?
The thought hit harder than you expected, striking like a jagged stone in your chest. Old words clawed their way back: useless.
Your jaw tightened, teeth pressing together as your chest constricted with each shallow breath. The air felt thick, almost heavy enough to push you down.
Maybe… maybe they were right. Maybe this was proof. Standing here, trembling with your own helplessness, breaking over things that felt inconsequential—love, fleeting moments, the chaos of emotions, while others had lost everything, truly lost it.
If only you'd focus on yourself, on honing your powers, mastering what you were capable of, instead of chasing after someone who thrived on giving you mixed signals. The thought gnawed at the edges of your mind, sharper than any blade.
You lifted your gaze, trying to steady yourself, eyes drifting past the smoke and rubble of Laketown to a scene unfolding nearby. Kíli was there, leaning slightly toward Tauriel, his hands gesturing as he spoke, words lost in the distance but his earnest expression unmistakable. Tauriel's lips curved faintly, a small, amused smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, her posture relaxed yet attentive.
And there, Legolas stood frozen, shoulders rigid, eyes locked ahead, almost as if he was staring at Tauriel with a quiet intensity that seemed to anchor him to the spot.
His jaw was set, lips pressed thin, a flicker of something raw and longing, or was it frustration?—passing across his otherwise composed face. Even from here, you could sense the tightness in his chest, the way his hands curled slightly at his sides, fingers twitching as if restraining some invisible urge.
For a fleeting moment, it hit you: maybe all those soft reassurances, those quiet, intimate words he'd offered back there… perhaps they were just that, meant for friendship. Nothing more. And yet, seeing him now, the image carved itself into your mind, a mix of envy, clarity, and that bitter pang of wanting what you couldn't have.
You had time to ache over a feeling, a fleeting attachment, but not enough strength to save more lives. Not enough to pull anyone from the ashes. The thought pressed down like molten lead, squeezing your lungs, coiling around your stomach.
Your shoulders slumped involuntarily once more, drooping as if the weight of every failure, every scream, every life that had slipped from your grasp rested there.
Even standing felt like a burden. Your fingers twitched at your sides, nails digging into your palms, as if grounding yourself could somehow anchor the storm of mixed emotions inside of you.
"I don't even know what I'm doing anymore..." you whispered, voice cracking faintly, barely audible over the distant cries, eyes glistening with unshed tears as the world around you blurred in grief and smoke.
"…hey." Fíli's voice came again, softer this time, warmer, threading through the haze of your thoughts.
You felt it before you saw it, his hand lifted slowly, hesitating just above your arm as if testing the air, then settled lightly, a grounding weight that didn't push, didn't demand.
His fingers pressed just enough to remind you he was there, steady and careful. "Don't do that," he murmured.
He waited, thumb brushing the fabric of your sleeve in a subtle, almost tender motion, a silent reassurance. His eyes met yours, steady and unflinching, holding you in place without a word. "Look at me," he said again, quieter now, the insistence threaded with patience.
You felt it, not a shove, not a command—but the gravity of his gaze, pulling you gently back into the present, leaving no room to look away.
You turned at last, slowly, as though the movement itself weighed on you. When your eyes met his, the worry there hit harder than anything else, it strucked clear, written plainly across his face.
"You are not useless," Fíli said, the words leaving him with quiet conviction, his grip on your arm tightening just slightly as if to anchor you there. His brows drew together, gaze searching yours like he needed you to understand. "Not in any way."
He drew in a breath, chest rising before he let it out softer, more honest. "And I'll admit it… I admire you. actually" A faint, almost self-conscious huff left him, like the confession surprised even him, but he didn't look away. "And I'm not the only one who thinks that way-"
The moment didn't get to settle, before another called.
"Fili! We've got to get going to the other side!" A voice shattered through, causing the both of you to turn toward the voice calling. Across the ruined shore, Óin stood with the others, already gathering themselves, already preparing to leave. They were waiting—but not for long.
Fíli's attention then snapped back towards you, urgency creeping into his movements. His hand slid down to catch your sleeve more firmly this time, tugging you with him. "We have to go," he said quickly, glancing back once, then again at you, before pulling you gently along. "We need to meet Thorin- come on-"
He stepped forward.
You didn't.
The resistance was slight, but it was enough. Enough to stop him mid-motion, enough to make the fabric in his grasp pull taut.
Fíli stilled, the motion dying instantly as realization crept in, slow and unwelcoming. His hand remained where it was, fingers still curled in your sleeve as if letting go wasn't an option he was ready to face.
He turned back to you, more slowly this time.
"You're not leaving..." His voice dropped, quieter now, something fragile slipping through the edges of it. It wasn't really a question. His brows knit together, confusion flickering into something heavier, his grip tightening just slightly like he could keep you there if he held on long enough.
"…are you?"
You shook your head slowly, the motion small but resolute. Your fingers slipped from his grasp, though not harshly—just enough to create some distance.
"I can't go," you said, voice quieter now, but steadier than before. Your gaze drifted past him, back toward the refugees, the wounded, the smoke still curling into the pale morning air. "They need help. I can heal, and they're short on medicine and supplies. I can't just leave them like this, Fili."
Fíli blinked, the words hitting him harder than he expected. "No-" he started, almost immediately, his voice catching before he forced it forward.
"They… they can manage. They've survived this long, haven't they? They have Bard as well." His hand lifted again, uncertain, hovering between reaching for you and pulling back. "We gave our word to Thorin… didn't we?"
But he didn't stop there. The words kept coming, faster now, uneven, like he was trying to fill the space before you could respond. "And Thorin- he didn't mean half of what he said. None of us did. We-" he faltered briefly, jaw tightening before pushing on, "...we like having you with us. More than that." His voice softened despite himself, quieter, almost pleading. "You should come with us-"
"I-" You cut in gently, your thoughts scrambling, tangling over themselves before you forced something lighter to the surface. A small smile tugged at your lips, fragile but playful, as you tilted your head slightly. "Aww… you guys care about me that much? Well, I figured."
It should've worked. Normally, that would've earned at least a faint smile, a huff, something. Maybe a teasing remark, maybe a small roll of his eyes.
But not this time. Fíli didn't smile. Not even a little.
His expression barely shifted, eyes still fixed on you with that same unwavering worry, like he could see straight through the thin veil you'd thrown up. His brows knit tighter, his gaze softening in a way that only made it worse—because he knew.
He knew you were pretending.
"Are you sure…?" Fíli asked after a beat, his voice quieter now, the resistance in him easing but not gone. His brows remained drawn, eyes searching yours with a lingering doubt. "It's not because of something else, right?"
Your smile held—steady, practiced. You gave a small shake of your head, lifting your chin just slightly as if to make it more convincing. "I'm sure," you said gently. "Don't worry about me… worry about your king."
For a moment, he didn't move.
Fíli just stood there, studying you. His gaze flickered over the little things: the tightness in your smile, the way your fingers curled faintly at your sides, the slight tension in your shoulders you tried so hard to hide. He noticed all of it, and it made something in his chest sink.
But time didn't wait. Another call rang out from behind him, sharper this time, more urgent. His jaw tightened further, and he finally took a step back, even though it looked like the last thing he wanted to do.
"Then… we'll meet again," he said, trying to steady his voice, though it softened despite him. A faint, hopeful smile touched his lips. "We'll have a proper feast once we've reclaimed our home. A big one—you'd better be there."
He hesitated, then added more quietly, more sincerely, "And… you should know this." His eyes met yours again, unwavering. "You're strong. And kind. Our companion." His voice dipped slightly, almost gentle. "Don't let anyone make you believe otherwise."
Then, as if to lighten the weight of it all, he lifted his hand, closing it into a fist, holding it out toward you with a small, tentative smile. "Fist bump?"
Your eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across your face. For a second, you just stared at his hand, caught off guard. Then something warmer broke through, your smile growing—this time slightly real, almost softer, touched with something almost fond.
"Really?" A soft breath of disbelief slipped past your lips as you stepped forward, closing the small distance between you. Your hand lifted, hesitating for just a second before gently meeting his in a light tap.
"I can't believe you remembered…" you murmured, a faint, genuine warmth touching your voice as your fingers curled back to your side. "And I will," you added, a little firmer now, holding his gaze for one last moment. "We'll meet again. Soon… hopefully. well, I did promise I'll help officiate Kili's wedding with Tauriel, and be the godmother of his two children..."
Fíli let a small, quiet smile tug at his lips at your remark, the memory of overhearing that conversation still fresh in his mind. He lingered a heartbeat longer, eyes tracing the gentle curve of your expression, as if committing the sight of you to memory, before he finally turned.
His hands flexed lightly at his sides, a small, almost imperceptible sigh escaping him, before he finally turned. One careful step, then another, until he was moving, merging with the rest of the group.
His figure gradually faded into the ebb and flow of the others, yet the imprint of the moment remained, silent and steadfast, carried with him as they pressed on.
You stayed where you were. Your eyes followed him until you couldn't anymore, until distance swallowed the details, until he became just another silhouette against the pale morning light.
And only then… your smile began to fade.
It slipped slowly, the warmth draining from your expression as the last trace of him disappeared. Your shoulders sank, the tension you had been holding so tightly loosening all at once, leaving behind something heavier in its place.
Whatever strength you had gathered—whatever you had held together for their sake, unraveled quietly the moment they were gone.
You slumped against the rough face of a large rock, your body giving in the moment it had something solid to lean on. The cold seeped through your clothes, but you barely noticed it anymore. Every muscle ached, heavy and unresponsive, as if even the effort of sitting upright was too much to ask.
Hours had passed—hours of pouring yourself into others, of mending wounds that weren't yours, of giving and giving until there was almost nothing left.
Now it showed. Your vision blurred at the edges, dark spots flickering in and out as your head throbbed dully, each pulse slower, heavier than the last. It didn't feel like simple exhaustion anymore, you simply felt yourself slowly drifting away.
A faint, strange tickle brushed against your upper lip. It pulled a weak reaction from you, your hand lifting sluggishly, fingers dragging beneath your nose.
You froze. When your hand fell back into your line of sight, there it was—dark and unmistakable. It was blood.
For a brief second, your heart lurched, a flicker of panic sparking in your chest. Your brows twitched, lips parting slightly as if to react, to say something, or anything, but nothing came.
Even that felt too heavy for your current state. Your hand lowered slowly, almost limply, resting against your lap as your head tipped back against the stone. Your breathing remained shallow, uneven, your body too drained to respond the way it should.
"You're exhasuted." The voice called out. It pulled you back just enough to lift your head, though the movement felt slow and heavy, like even that small movement cost too much. Your vision swam for a moment before settling—and then you saw him.
Bard. There he stood a few steps away, his posture firm despite the weariness etched into his features. Strands of his hair clung slightly to his face, his clothes still marked by ash and battle, but his eyes, they were sharp and observant, fixed on you with quiet certainty.
You stared back, caught off guard.
It wasn't your first time seeing him, not after everything that had happened, but something about this felt… different. The aftermath of survival, of standing side by side against something that should've killed you both, it left a strange, lingering tension in its wake. One that made words feel awkward, misplaced.
So you said nothing, and Bard seemed to have expected that, understanding your choice of silence.
He held your gaze for a moment longer before exhaling softly, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. Then, without another word, he stepped closer and lowered himself beside you, leaving a respectful distance.
His gaze shifted away, settling somewhere ahead, giving you space rather than pressing for conversation.
For a while, the two of you simply sat there. The distant crackle of fire, the murmur of voices, the soft lapping of water against the shore—it all filled the silence between you, but it wasn't uncomfortable.
"Thank you." The words were quiet, but firm enough to pull your attention back to him. You turned your head slightly, your eyes landing on his profile.
"You saved me," He continued, "My son… my people from the dragon." His jaw tightened faintly, like the weight of it still sat heavy on him. "You helped give this town another chance."
He paused, then turned to look at you fully, his gaze meeting yours, direct and sincere.
"And… thank you for dealing with Alfrid." There was the faintest shift in his expression then, something almost resembling dry amusement. His eyes drifted past you, and yours followed instinctively. Not far off stood a familiar figure—disheveled, shaken, and very deliberately keeping his distance.
Ah. Right.
You remembered. The sharp edge of your frustration, the way it had spilled over earlier when he'd pushed too far. The impact, the lack of restraint—you hadn't exactly held back.
Your eyes lingered on him for a second longer before shifting away again, the memory settling quietly at the back of your mind.
"His name' Alfrid?" you murmured, the words slipping out softly, almost absentminded. A faint pout tugged at your lips, your nose scrunching slightly as if holding something back. "Not surprised…" you added under your breath, a small, breathy huff escaping you.
Bard exhaled quietly at that, the faintest hint of agreement in his tone. "Yeah…" He spoke, though it lacked any real focus. The words faded almost as soon as it was spoken, his attention already shifting back to you.
His gaze moved slowly, deliberately, taking in what you had tried not to show. Your hair sat in slight disarray, strands clinging where sweat and ash had settled. The faint stain beneath your nose hadn't gone unnoticed, even if you had wiped it away. Your eyes, tired and dulled at the edges, carrying something heavier than exhaustion.
Something no one your age should have to carry.
There was a subtle change in his expression then, something tightening behind his composure. Not pity, never that, but a quiet understanding.
Then his gaze shifted downward, settling on your hands. The bruises darkened beneath your skin, cuts etched across your knuckles and palm, faint streaks of dried blood still clinging stubbornly.
His eyes softened slightly, a mix of concern and quiet admiration flickering across his features as he took in the silent testament of everything you'd endured.
"…You put everyone else before yourself," Bard said quietly, his voice low, carrying a weight that made you pause. His eyes flicked toward your hands, "You've been mending everyone else… but your own wounds… you've left them untouched."
Your brows knitted, confusion etching across your face as his words sank in. You followed his gaze, hesitant, almost afraid of what you might see. Slowly, almost reverently, you lifted your hands into the morning light, letting them catch the pale sun filtering through the smoke.
Cuts marred your skin, bruises darkened and swollen, streaks of dried blood faintly clinging to your knuckles and palms. You stared at them, frozen, a strange dissonance creeping over you, as if these marks didn't belong to your own body—that somehow you were only truly seeing them for the first time.
Your lips parted slightly, a soft, shaky breath slipping out as if the words themselves were too heavy to form. For a moment, you just sat there, staring blankly at the ground, unsure if you even had the strength to speak.
A faint frown tugged at the corners of your mouth, but just as quickly, you let your hands fall to your lap, brushing them over one another with a weak shrug.
"They needed it more," you murmured, almost automatic, as if stating a fact rather than a choice. Your gaze drifted, unfocused, tracing nothing in particular. "It's just a few cuts… I'll be fine."
A quiet laugh escaped you, bitter and soft, shaking your head. "And you know… that's exactly what my grandpa used to say. Always lecturing about putting myself first. But… they need this more than me, no? I can't just stand by when I can help."
As you moved, the pendant at your chest shifted, the chain loosening beneath your tunic. It slipped partially free, catching the light and Bard's attention.
His eyes widened slightly, a flicker of recognition passing over his features. The piece of jewelry… it was no ordinary trinket. He had heard tales of it before—an ancient emblem once worn by one of the greatest elves, the one who could bend time and life at her will, Lumena.
Bard's gaze lingered, a mixture of awe and disbelief shadowing his expression as the pendant swung gently with your movements.
His gaze was then brought back to yours, sharp now, as if he were connecting the dots in a sudden realization. "That necklace… I've heard stories," he said carefully.
"Of the elf who could heal, who could bend time itself… Lumena." His eyes searched yours, gauging every flicker of reaction.
And you did just that, your eyes widened slightly, a sharp intake of breath betraying surprise before you steadied yourself. "You…You know about this necklace?" you asked, voice quiet, a mixture of curiosity and caution threading through each word.
"I do," he replied, tone careful, almost reverent. "I've heard countless tales. A powerful elf… chosen for great responsibility. But with such power, there is always a price. Every time she wields it, her life force is sapped. The more she uses, the greater the toll." His eyes softened, reflecting a dawning understanding, and a subtle weight settled over his features.
"Are you…?" His question hung in the air, tentative, and for a heartbeat you let yourself laugh softly, shaking your head with a small, rueful smile.
"No," you let out a soft laugh, the sound light but a little too quick, like it was meant to smooth everything over. The smile touched your lips briefly, but it didn't stay. It faded almost as soon as it came, your lips pressing into a thin, controlled line as your gaze flickered away for a second before returning.
"I think… you're talking about my mom." There was a faint glint of amusement in your eyes, but it didn't quite reach them—something else lingered there, something tighter, carefully hidden behind the ease in your tone.
Bard nodded slowly, as if accepting your answer, but his eyes never truly left your face. "Ah… I see." A brief pause followed then, his gaze lingered on you, thoughtful, something unspoken turning behind his eyes. "But the consequences… they're real, aren't they?"
The question was then hung between the two of you, heavy and suffocating, as though even the air had stilled to wait for your answer.
You didn't give one. Your lips parted slightly, a breath slipping out quietly, but the words never followed. Instead, your gaze dropped—just for a second, just long enough. Your fingers shifted faintly against your lap, shoulders drawing in as your breath hitched before you forced it back into something steady.
It was subtle, but not subtle enough. Bard had caught it all, the hesitation, the tension you tried to swallow down, the faint crack in the composure you were so carefully holding together.
His expression changed the moment he realized, understanding settling in slowly, unwelcome. His jaw tightened, brows knitting together as his eyes lingered on you, quieter now, but far more certain.
"You've been using it nonstop since the battle," Bard said, his voice firmer now, concern no longer hidden beneath the calm. He shifted closer, leaning forward with a quiet urgency, one hand braced against his knee,while the other hovered briefly in the air, as if he meant to steady you, but thought better of it.
His brows pulled together, eyes searching yours with a firmness that didn’t waver. "You need to stop. You need to rest, before you push yourself too far."
"Look, I'm fine, alright?" The words came too fast, cutting through his before he could finish. You straightened instinctively, pushing yourself up against the rock despite the faint sway in your balance. Your brows furrowed, eyes narrowing just slightly as you met his gaze for a brief moment—defensive, almost stubborn.
But you spoke too soon, by then, a thin trail of warmth slid past your upper lip.
You froze for half a second before your hand came up, wiping it away hastily, almost carelessly, but the faint smear of red across your skin was impossible to miss. Your fingers trembled faintly, but you pulled them back quickly, hiding it as best as you could.
Bard's gaze sharpened instantly, something in it darkening—not anger, but concern that rooted him in place. His brows drew together deeper now, his attention fully locked onto you, as if he wasn’t about to let this go so easily.
"…okay, maybe I'm not," you admitted, voice harsher than intended, a flash of defensiveness threading through your words. "But I can do whatever I choose. I want to help… it's one of the reasons why I'm here."
Your teeth sank into the inside of your cheek as soon as you spoke, a small bite to hold back the tremor in your voice. Your shoulders tensed, and your gaze fell immediately to the ground, tracking the cracks in the dirt, avoiding him. Fingers twitched against your knees, restless and nervous, unwilling to meet his eyes.
But what he'd say next caught you off guard almost immediately, "You'd choose to, or is it out of guilt?" Bard's voice was soft, deliberate, but it carried the weight of truth. "For not being able to save those who had passed..."
Your head jerked up upon hearing his words, eyes wide, as though he had peeled back a layer you didn't even know you were hiding. Your lips parted, words failing, and your chest tightened painfully.
Was it really guilt, just as he said? Or was it responsibility? The need to do something… anything… because you could? Your brows knitted together, jaw clenching, and for the first time, the faintest quiver crossed your lashes.
You didn't answer immediately. Instead, you fidgeted with your sleeve, fingers curling around the fabric, grounding yourself against the weight of the truth he had so effortlessly unearthed.
"I..I'm not a child alright? You dont need to tell me what I know." You bit back, voice trembling faintly despite the edge you tried to put on it. Your eyes darted away, tracing anything but him, unable to hold his gaze.
"But you are one," He said softly, each word deliberate, heavy with meaning. "You are a child... at least one in my eyes-" His eyes held yours now, warm and steady, piercing softly through the walls you'd built, patient and understanding in a way that made this feeling felt unbelievable, distant at times.
"Well... I'm eighteen." you muttered back, a mixture of defiance and weariness lacing your tone. You straightened your back just slightly, trying to seem taller, stronger, though your shoulders sagged with exhaustion, and your lashes dipped in fleeting vulnerability.
He leaned forward, closing the space between you ever so slightly, careful not to overstep, his presence grounding. "Age doesn't change the weight you've carried," he murmured, voice low and steady.
"No child, no one… should ever have to endure cruelty like that. The pain, the burden, you've shouldered far too much." His words hung in the air, tender but piercing, as his eyes searched yours for the smallest flicker of acknowledgment, a quiet insistence that you weren't alone.
He truly cared, and he wasn't entirely sure why. Perhaps it was gratitude, for the way you had saved him, his son, and the people of the town. Or perhaps it was something deeper, a compulsion to protect, to shield someone so clearly strong yet undeniably vulnerable.
You had the power, yes—there was no denying that, but beneath it, he saw the confusion, the fear, the quiet tremor in your spirit that you tried so hard to hide. How could he turn away from someone who needed guidance, or even just a sliver of warmth and reassurance? His chest tightened at the thought, and without realizing it, he shifted slightly closer, an unconscious gesture of silent support.
Your lips parted then, wanting to speak, to argue back at him, but no words came. Instead, you swallowed hard, the heat rising in your chest, and your hands fidgeted slightly in your lap, fingers brushing against the bruises and cuts you hadn't noticed in your fatigue.
You froze before you knew it, breath catching in your throat as your eyes locked with his—eyes so full of care, directed entirely at you, a stranger he had only just met.
The weight of it pressed into your chest, and for a fleeting second, your defenses wavered, crumbling down all together. You had never really had anyone to confide in, not truly. Fear of humiliation, of being misunderstood, had always kept you silent. And now, staring at him, that fear roared back, sharp and insistent.
A tightness coiled in your stomach as memories surfaced—growing up without parents, relying only on your grandfather, the one family you could count on even if blood didn't bind you.
It hadn't mattered then, and it didn't seem to matter even now, yet the absence left a hollow ache, a constant reminder that you were always forced to be stronger, faster, smarter, older than your years.
Being sent here only deepened it. You had no one you could truly call your own, not in this world, at least. The responsibility pressed down relentlessly: saving others, tending to the injured, yet powerless to protect those who mattered most. That thought twisted your chest, gnawing at something raw and tender within you.
You finally shifted slightly, fingers curling into the dirt beneath you, eyes flickering away to avoid his gaze once more, though part of you wanted to cling to it. To admit the truth, to let someone else see the cracks you'd spent years hiding.
Bard didn't move closer, not yet, but his posture softened, the rigid line of his shoulders easing. His eyes never left yours, gentle but steady, as if he could see through the walls you'd built so carefully, read through the tension you refused to admit out loud.
"You don't have to carry it all alone," he said, voice low, careful not to startle you. "I don't know everything you've endured… but I see you. And I… I can help, if you let me." There was no judgment in it, only quiet acknowledgment of the weight you bore. "Not everything is yours to fix."
Your gaze then flickered toward him, hesitant, as if testing the waters. The tremor in your hands faltered slightly, then steadied, and you let out a small breath you hadn't realized you were holding.
"I… I just-" Your words caught, lost somewhere between frustration and exhaustion. You wanted to explain, to defend yourself, but the truth lodged in your chest too firmly. He didn't push, didn't ask for details. Instead, he simply stayed there, letting the silence stretch, letting you feel that you weren't entirely alone.
You didn't continue your answer immediately. You couldn't. Instead, your gaze stayed on him. A soft exhale escaped your lips once more, almost involuntary, as if acknowledging something you hadn't allowed yourself to admit: maybe it was okay to let someone in, even just a little.
Just as you did, the lump in your throat then began to grew too heavy to swallow. Your chest tightened, a sudden, unbearable pressure that made your vision blur. The dam you had built around your emotions—the careful walls of pride and strength had cracked, splintering under the weight of everything you had held inside for so long.
And then, finally, it broke.
Hot tears spilled over your lashes, trailing down your cheeks unchecked. Your shoulders shook violently as you sank downwards, sliding down the rock slightly, the exhaustion and guilt and fear pouring out in raw, trembling sobs. "I… I can't… I can't save them all…" you gasped, voice hoarse, each word trembling with anguish. "I try, I try so hard, but it's never enough!"
Bard reacted instantly, lowering himself beside you. His hands were gentle, but firm, sliding around your trembling frame, pulling you close. "Shhh… it's okay. It's alright," he murmured, voice soft but steady, grounding you. "You're not alone. I'm here."
You let yourself collapse against him fully, forehead pressed to his chest, arms clutching at him as if holding on for dear life. Every sob shook your body, every shiver of pain and exhaustion escaping in ragged breaths.
He didn't speak over you; he just held you, letting you cry, his fingers stroking the back of your hair gently, anchoring you to something solid, something safe.
Through your tears, you could feel his warmth, the steadiness of his heartbeat beneath your temple. For the first time in a long while, you weren't trying to be strong. You weren't trying to be invincible. You were just… human, a child who needed someone to care for them.
And he didn't flinch. He didn't judge. He simply held you as the storm inside you raged, whispering quietly, "You're stronger than you think… but even the strong need someone sometimes."
Your sobs slowly began to weaken, shaking less violently, though the tears continued to fall. You buried your face deeper into him, seeking both comfort and absolution, finally allowing yourself to feel the weight of your own fragility—and knowing, for the first time in so long, that it was okay.
From afar, unseen by you, another pair of eyes had already found you.
"Ú-veditho nadad lin nîf?" (Will you not give her comfort?) Tauriel's voice came softly. She stepped closer, her boots barely making a sound against the ground as she came to stand beside him.
Legolas didn't answer. He stood still, almost unnaturally so, his gaze fixed on you—on the way your shoulders shook, the way you clung to Bard like you were falling apart in his arms. His jaw tightened, a flicker of something raw passing through his eyes before it was quickly buried beneath his usual composure.
He wanted to move. Every part of him urged it, to close the distance, to pull you away from that pain, to hold you the way he should have, long ago when he had the chance to. To reassure you, to tell you that you didn't have to carry it alone. His fingers twitched faintly at his side, curling as if they already knew the shape of you.
But he didn't. He couldn’t.
Your words echoed in his mind, relentless. The prophecy. The vision. Your death. It had all been so clear, so unavoidable. And he had chosen to leave—to walk away from you before it could come to pass, before he could watch it happen with his own eyes. Fear had driven him then, sharp and suffocating.
And now… it was consuming him.
A quiet breath left him, almost unsteady, his gaze faltering for just a second before settling on you again. Seeing you like this, hurting and breaking, something twisted painfully in his chest.
"Ah aen, le dartha sí." (And yet you stand here) Tauriel added, softer now, her eyes flickering between him and you, understanding settling in her expression.
His lips pressed into a thin line. When you pushed him away earlier, it had struck something deep, something he hadn't been prepared for. At first, it felt wrong—unacceptable. He didn't understand it, didn't want to. But then your words had settled, sharp and final, and he had no choice but to hear them.
And it hurt, more than he cared to admit.
"Ú-chenin." (I'm… not sure) The words came quieter than expected, almost lost beneath his breath. Legolas blinked rapidly, his gaze faltering for the briefest moment. There was a sharp sting behind his eyes, it was unfamiliar. It had been centuries since he had felt anything close to this, and yet now it pressed in, relentless, refusing to be ignored.
Tauriel noticed immediately. Her gaze lifted to him, studying the subtle fracture in his composure. For a moment, she said nothing, her expression softening with quiet understanding. Then, gently but firmly, she spoke.
"You said we ride north to Gundabad," she reminded, her tone steady and grounding, an anchor against the storm she could see building in him. She took a small step forward then, turning slightly toward him. "We shall leave within a few hours."
She paused, her eyes lingering on him, searching before continuing. "Le láe uin echuiad er a phadar den," (You may only have one chance to tell her) she added, softer now, but no less certain. "Avo losto" (Do not waste it)
With that, Tauriel turned, her steps light as she moved away, leaving him standing there with the weight of her words settling heavily in his chest.
Legolas didn't follow ahead. Instead, his gaze remained fixed on you, unmoving, as if the world around him had faded into nothing. He watched the way you clung to Bard, the way your frame trembled with each sob, and something inside him twisted painfully.
His hand shifted at his side, fingers curling slightly, then loosening again—uncertain and restrained just for you. Every instinct urged him forward, to close the distance, to reach for you…
Hours had passed since then, before the world finally grew quiet again. The chaos had settled into a fragile stillness, and somewhere within it, you had drifted off, resting against the cool surface of the rock, your breathing slow and even, as if your body had simply given in after holding on for far too long.
Bard had stayed until he was sure of it, his quiet insistence eventually winning over your stubbornness. Only then had he left, leaving the quiet to settle around you like a fragile cloak.
And now… you slept.
Legolas approached then, only when he was certain no one was watching. His steps were soundless, careful, almost hesitant—as though he feared disturbing something fragile.
His gaze fell on you the moment he drew close, and for a second, he simply stood there, unmoving. Your expression, finally at peace, struck something deep within him. It was the first time he had seen you like this in… too long.
Slowly, his eyes traced downward, the sight of your injuries quickly caught his eyes, traces of blood stained your nose, your palms bruised and cut, knuckles still raw. His chest tightened, a sharp ache that twisted deeper the longer he looked. He couldn't believe he had left you there, alone, carrying all this on your own.
He stood there staring, unable to bring himself down near you, but he did so in the end anyways. Finally, he'd lowered himself beside you, careful not to startle your slumbering form.
His hands hovered a moment over yours before gently enclosing them, lifting them slightly into his lap. The touch was tender, almost afraid, afraid of breaking the fragile being in front of him.
"Goheno nin..." (Forgive me) He whispered, the words fragile, barely audible, yet carrying the weight of every moment he had failed you. His lips pressed softly to the back of your knuckles, warm and gentle, and he closed his eyes, letting the memory sweep over him, the two of you as children, carefree, innocent, the bond they had once shared before you left him.
The ache in his heart deepened, bittersweet and heavy. He had remembered that day ever since. And now, holding your hand in his like this, he vowed silently, not to let you face the world alone again.
"You just need to kiss the pain away! That's what my grandpa told me." A younger you declared, determined, your small hands clutching his as they hovered over a tiny cut.
Legolas' eyes were still red from crying, glistening with unshed tears, as he looked down at you in stunned confusion. Before he could respond, your lips pressed lightly against the back of his hand, a soft, earnest kiss.
His face heated immediately, a faint blush creeping across his cheeks, and he looked away, embarrassed yet captivated by your sudden intrusion.
"See? It's no longer pain isn't it?" you smiled, pride spreading across your small features, eyes sparkling with the certainty only a child could muster. But Legolas only shook his head gently, still wincing just slightly, though he tried not to show it.
You frowned at his response, not wanting to believe it hadn't really work. Your brows knitted together in mock indignation, "Then I guess you need more kisses!" With that, you peppered his hand with quick, giggling kisses, squirming just enough to tickle him, earning bursts of laughter from the tiny elf.
And suddenly, somehow, it was true, he couldn't feel the pain no more. From that day on, Legolas carried the memory with him, a ridiculous, impossible notion that somehow held power—because if it came from you, he knew it was always an exception.
Legolas' eyes fluttered open, soft green catching the fading light as they settled on your sleeping face. A faint, helpless smile tugged at the corner of his lips, small and quiet, but entirely his, because when it came to you, restraint had never been his strong suit.
He lingered there, watching the gentle rise and fall of your chest, letting himself trace the familiar lines of your features. Then Tauriel's words seemed to have found its way back to his mind. Should he wake you? Should he finally tell you everything? His hand hovered in the air, frozen, uncertainty tightening his chest.
Not now, he whispered silently to himself, letting it drop back to rest beside him. "Weston… tolathon ad. Sîr," (I promise... I will return. Soon,) he murmured under his breath, voice low, almost drowned out by the stillness around you. "Ir tolathon… pedithon i daer peded ned echuir i 'wain. O 'wanath nîn… a chen." (When I do… I will speak what should have been spoken long ago. Of my regret… and of you.)
"Ú-chebin le edraith dan i chened nîn… ú-chebin le edraith dan i innas nîn. Le uin i chenen… i…" (You were never beyond my sight… nor beyond my thoughts. You've always been the one I've watched, the one I…)
He faltered, the weight of the truth catching in his throat, but finally, in a whisper meant only for the wind, he let it slip.
"i mellon nîn..." (The one I love...)The words hung in the quiet, fragile as crystal, and you never stirred to hear them—not now, not ever in that moment. And perhaps, if you had, you wouldn't have even known.
His gaze drifted back to your bruised and battered hands, lingering over the cuts and dried blood. He paused, heart tightening, he wasn't gifted with the subtle art of healing like some, but he refused to let that stop him. Not for you. Not ever.
He fumbled through his pockets, fingers brushing against the small, worn container of ointment he had brought. A soft, almost wistful smile curved his lips as memories washed over him—how he used to do the exact same thing whenever you’d scraped yourself as a child.
Ever since you had shown him the 'kiss,' he had followed the ritual in secret, pressing his lips softly to your injuries while you slept, before carefully applying the ointment to fade the pain and marks.
Though, there had been one time, long ago, when a wound cut too deep and left a scar he couldn't erase, a small reminder that even his devotion had limits.
Snapping out of his reverie, Legolas uncapped the container and pressed his fingers gently against the balm, spreading it across your bruises and scratches.
Every movement was slow, tender and meticulous, ensuring that each wound was soothed, each ache attended to. He murmured softly to himself, almost unconsciously, "Rest… I've got you," as his hands traced the contours of your injuries with care, his blue eyes reflecting a fierce, protective devotion.
Just as he finished, a sharp voice pierced the quiet. "We need to leave now, or else it'll be too late to travel back," Tauriel called from behind, her tone brisk but not unkind. Legolas stiffened, the reminder pulling him from the fragile cocoon of care he had wrapped around you, reminding him of duty beyond this quiet moment.
He nodded once, almost imperceptibly, before he paused, his gaze lingering on your peaceful face, so still and vulnerable in sleep. Every breath you drew seemed fragile, precious, and he felt the weight of the world pressing down upon him for having left you before.
A low sigh escaped him, barely more than wind through leaves. His voice then dropped to a whisper, rough with unspent emotion. "I swear it… I shall return to you," he murmured, his voice trembling with quiet resolve. "Soon, and I will speak all that my heart has long held silent."
His hand hovered, almost instinctively brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek, lingering as though he could imprint the memory into himself.
His eyes traced the curve of your jaw, the faint rise of your chest, the softness of your sleeping features—every detail he feared might vanish if he turned away. "Tolo nîn." (Wait for me,) He whispered, words thick with longing and promise.
With measured steps, he rose, the faintest tension in his shoulders betraying the turmoil within. One last glance, one last imprint of your presence, and then he turned, leaving the quiet stillness of the rock behind. Yet even as his form receded, his eyes remained drawn to you, unwilling to sever the fragile thread that bound them.
Just as Legolas vanished from view, Bard caught the movement, his sharp eyes narrowing in curiosity. He stepped forward cautiously, but by the time he reached the spot, the elf had already disappeared down the path, leaving only the quiet rustle of leaves in his wake.
Bard's gaze fell to you, still slumbering against the rock. He bent slightly, his brow furrowing as he considered waking you to move on with the others toward the castle. But then, something caught his attention—your hands.
They rested gently on your lap, unblemished now. No cuts, no bruises, no traces of the blood that had so recently marked them. His eyes widened, the faintest gasp escaping him, a mixture of awe and disbelief flickering across his face.
He could see the careful touch that had healed you, the tenderness, the intent, the care that spoke of someone who knew you, who had cherished you.
Bard's lips parted slightly, eyes tracing the curve of your hands, the faint marks of care already gone. He looked toward the path Legolas had taken, understanding dawning. A small smile touched his face, "So…" He whispered softly, "she is not alone… someone watches over her."
He crouched just a little, keeping his gaze on you, the awe lingering, heavy and silent. In that moment, he didn't need to know the details, didn't need names—he only knew what mattered. Someone cared for you. You had not been abandoned, you had not been truly alone.
Bard straightened at last, a quiet sense of peace settling over him as he whispered, almost to himself, "You are not alone, little healer. Not alone… never truly alone..."
۶ৎ Summary : Éomer seemed to have not took Legolas' warning about you, or has he? After your intimate moment with Legolas' had ended, a quiet obsession and jealousy flared as he watches, conflicted by your reassurances, the presence of Éomer and... words.
Warnings : they did it. (Consensual s3x | no verbal usage of scenes, it's all vague.) (Not forced upon!) (Nsfw) | Happens after the fic 'I'm All Yours' if needed more context behind the consent part! 🫶🏻
A/n : Jealous Legolas is back! When I say I giggled while writing this, it is not an understatement. This was so fun to write, it lowk brought me back from my writers-block guys. This was more of a fun and light read, though i would say the angst will be back in the next one, so i'll apologise in advance. Also, they did it already? 😧 YES. ENJOYY! ( Part of the f!reader is not from middle-earth series / can be read as a one-shot as well ) +FatherFigure!Bard/Thranduil incoming soon~
Wc : 8.7k
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After finally coaxing you into sleep, whether by quiet murmurs or sheer exhaustion, Legolas remained beside you, long after your breathing had steadied.
The room still carried traces of what had passed between you. Warmth lingered in the air, heavy and unmistakable. The sheets were disheveled, twisted faintly beneath you both, and the closeness you had shared had not yet fully faded from his skin. Even now, he could feel it—like an echo that refused to settle.
He didn't move. Instead, he simply watched.
Your features, once tense and drawn, had softened in sleep, though not completely. There were remnants of it still, the faint crease between your brows, the way your lips parted slightly as you breathed. Strands of your hair clung to your damp skin, framing your face in quiet disarray.
Something in his chest tightened. Slowly, almost without thought, he shifted closer, the movement slow, almost cautious in its own.
His hand rose, hesitating for the briefest second before brushing those strands away from your face, his touch was featherlight—careful, as though afraid even this might wake you. His fingers lingered, tracing the warmth of your cheek, grounding himself in something real.
His gaze darkened slightly, not with anything harsh, but with memory. The way you had looked beneath him after losing all his restraints that night. The way your breath had caught, the way his name had fallen from your lips, soft and unguarded. It returned to him now with unsettling clarity, each bit of fragment vivid, impossible to ignore.
His jaw tightened faintly, something conflicted flickering across his features as he drew in a slow breath.
He should not dwell on it. The thought came firm, disciplined, something ingrained in him after years of control. And yet, it rang hollow the moment it settled, collapsing under the weight of everything he had just experienced… everything he was still feeling.
It did not fade. If anything, it deepened. Slowly, relentlessly, it worked its way through him.
"You're like my boyfriend… of course I'll like you better than anyone else. I only have my eyes on you, okay?" Your words lingered, clear as if you had just spoken them, threading through his thoughts with unsettling persistence.
Legolas' gaze lowered slightly, his expression tightening further, not with anger, but with something far more uncertain. His brows drew together faintly, a crease forming as he tried to make sense of it.
Boyfriend. The word felt unfamiliar in a way that unsettled him.
He turned it over in his mind, searching for meaning, for context, or anything that would anchor it to something he understood. You often spoke differently, your phrasing strange at times, shaped by a world far removed from his own… but this, this felt different.
What did you mean? Was he just something trivial to you? A passing term with the title of a 'friend', light in weight, easily spoken and just as easily forgotten? Or had there been something more behind it?
His gaze flickered back to you, drawn as if by instinct alone, pulled in by something deeper than reason.
You slept on, unaware, unbothered by the quiet storm you had left behind in him. Your breathing was soft, steady, your expression finally at peace, untouched by the questions now circling endlessly in his mind. And that only made it worse.
Because while you rested… he could not. A faint tension settled in his shoulders, subtle but present, as the thought pressed further. His fingers curled faintly into the fabric beneath him, the movement subtle but grounding, as if pulling himself against the quiet disquiet building within him.
Were you still only friends… in your eyes? Even after everything? Even after the way you had looked at him, felt beneath him, held onto him like there had been nothing else in the world that mattered?
It did not make sense, none of it did. And yet, he could not dismiss it.
His gaze lingered on you, searching your face as if the answer might somehow reveal itself there, hidden in the quiet rise and fall of your breathing. But you gave him nothing, you remained still, untouched by it all, your expression softened by sleep, distant in a way that felt almost unfair.
A slow breath slipped from him, quieter than the last, as if even that small release carried weight. "Your words are still not easily understood…all you do is speak in riddles," he murmured under his breath, eyes never leaving you even for a second.
And so the questions remained, unanswered, unresolved, sinking quietly beneath the surface of his composure, where they took root instead of fading. They would not loosen their hold, not with time, not with distance, not unless you chose to give them meaning yourself.
His hand then drifted lower, thumb brushing gently along your cheek once more before pausing near your lips. He stilled there, his breath slowing, his composure threading thin for just a moment.
You were right here, so close that he could feel the subtle warmth radiating from your body, the faint rhythm of your breathing brushing against his own. Close enough that the scent of you, the softness of your presence, could drown out every thought beyond this single, fragile moment. If he let himself, he could lose himself entirely here, forget everything beyond this moment, and simply exist in the quiet gravity of you.
His expression softened, the hard edges of control easing just enough to reveal the pull of something deeper, though a flicker of conflict still lingered in his eyes.
Carefully, he drew his hand back just slightly, though not completely, his fingers still resting lightly against your skin. There was a quiet tension in that restraint, a deliberate choice to hold back, even as every part of him urged him closer.
"…Rest," he murmured, the word barely audible, carried on a breath that trembled ever so slightly with unspoken emotion.
He shifted then, settling beside you, close enough that your warmth didn't feel like a memory. One arm rested near you, not quite pulling you in, hovering just shy of contact.
His eyes still lingered on your face. Even now, even like this, you unsettled him. With a slow, measured shake of his head, he forced himself to look away, to let the image slip from his thoughts, even if only for a moment.
He rose carefully, mindful not to disturb you in the slightest, each movement deliberate and silent. The world outside called to him, and he eventually found himself stepping into the night. The chill of the air bit at his skin, sharp but cleansing, calming the tension coiling through his mind and heart.
For a while, the cold worked its quiet magic, and he thought he could push the thoughts aside. But it wasn't long before it returned, though for a entirely different reason.
Aragorn stepped up beside him on the worn stone steps of the Golden Hall, his presence quiet but steady, a familiar weight that seemed to fill in the space between them. The chill wind swept mercilessly through Edoras, tugging at cloaks and rattling through the carved pillars behind them, yet neither man seemed to notice.
Legolas' gaze remained fixed on the horizon, but the sudden awareness of Aragorn beside him drew a subtle shift in his posture, a quiet tension that hadn't been there a moment ago.
Below, the city lay in uneasy stillness, its quiet streets swallowed by shadow, while beyond, the mountains loomed like silent sentinels under a sky darkened with storm clouds. Thick clouds rolled slowly overhead, swallowing what little starlight remained until the heavens felt distant… hidden.
Legolas stood motionless, but not at ease. His sharp gaze traced the sky, searching, listening—sensing something that could not be seen. His grew somewhat restless, as a faint crease appeared between his brows as his mind turned inward, grappling with feelings that had no name and no release.
"The stars are veiled…" he murmured, his voice low, almost lost to the wind. There was a pause, as if he were reaching for something just beyond his grasp, something ancient and unsettling. "…Something stirs in the East."
"A sleepless malice." His words hung between them, heavy, as his eyes found its way to Aragorn'. There was something different in his expression now, something sharpened by realisation.
Aragorn felt it the moment their gazes met. A quiet understanding passed between them, unspoken yet undeniable. It settled deep in his chest, cold and certain, like a truth he had long hoped to outrun. His fingers curled slightly against the edge of his cloak, betraying the tension he was hiding.
So it begins…
Legolas held his gaze for only a moment longer before looking away, his attention returning to the dark horizon. When he spoke again, his voice had steadied, but no less grave than it was before. "The Eye of the Enemy is moving."
The wind then rose without a warning. It swept past them in a sharp, biting rush, tugging harshly at their cloaks and hair, slipping through the carved pillars with a hollow, restless sound.
For a time, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched between them, long and unbroken, filled only by the restless wind that swept across the stone steps and whispered through the pillars behind them.
Aragorn's gaze shifted, settling on Legolas with quiet scrutiny.
He took in the subtle signs, the faint flush lingering across his lips, darker than usual, slightly swollen as if from something more than the cold.
His hair, though still unmistakably elven, was not as immaculate as it often was—loosened in places, a few strands falling out of their usual order. And his tunic… partially unfastened at the collar, careless in a way that did not suit him.
Aragorn's brow lifted ever so slightly.
Ah.
Understanding came quietly, but fully. He let the silence linger a moment longer, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly before he exhaled, the sound soft, almost amused at what he had discovered.
"You have seen better nights, my friend," He said at last, his voice low, though now touched with something drier, more knowing. His eyes flicked briefly to Legolas' collar before returning to his face. "You look like a mess now."
the words just hung there in the air, and for a brief moment, Legolas said nothing. He remained still, though not entirely at ease. The wind stirred faintly through his hair, catching the loose strands that had escaped their usual order, brushing them lightly across his face.
His gaze stayed fixed ahead, distant, as if weighing whether the remark deserved a response at all. Then, slowly, the corner of his lips lifted.
It was subtle, barely there, but enough to soften the sharp line of his expression. A flicker of something lighter passed through his eyes, quiet amusement slipping through the restraint he so carefully held. He exhaled softly through his nose, the sound almost soundless.
"It was not without its merit," he replied, his tone smooth. His head then tilted just slightly, the motion unhurried, though his gaze shifted further toward the horizon, deliberately avoiding Aragorn's.
Of course he notices. The thought came with quiet certainty.
"And I would not agree with your assessment," he continued, lifting his chin a fraction, as though reasserting control through the smallest of gestures. His expression smoothed, carefully neutral once more—but not entirely that convincing.
There was the faintest pause before he added, almost idly, "I believe I appear as I always do." But even as the words left him, his gaze faltered for awhile, unfocused, his thoughts drifting somewhere far less composed. A memory, perhaps. A feeling not so easily dismissed.
It passed quickly. Yet the evidence remained, in the loosened strands of his hair, the faint disarray of his attire, the barely-there flush that had not yet faded.
And Aragorn, who had walked beside him through all this time. Missed none of it.
On the other hand, you slept soundly in a room entirely your own, untouched by the world beyond its walls. The quiet wrapped around you, deep and undisturbed, pulling you further under with every steady breath.
How long has it been since you’ve slept like this? The though drifted lightly across your mind. It lingered for only a second before dissolving into the quiet, slipping away like it had never been there at all.
You shifted slightly against the sheets, a small, unconscious movement, your fingers curling loosely into the fabric as you sank deeper into the stillness.
Something then stirred at the edges of your mind, faint but insistent. The darkness behind your closed eyes fractured, the calm splintering without warning—until it gave way completely, and suddenly… you were somewhere else in your head.
A city rose before you, vast and unyielding, its towering walls carved from pale stone that gleamed beneath a cold, lifeless sky. White stretched endlessly across its structures, pristine at first glance… but the illusion soon shattered the longer you looked.
The air reeked of blood, thick, metallic and suffocating, clinging to every breath you tried to take. It pressed against your lungs, heavy and unrelenting, until your chest tightened painfully.
Your gaze shifted, unsteady, taking in the distant movement—flashes of steel colliding, the echo of shouting voices carried by the chilling wind.
Something moved beyond your sight, vast and looming, its presence felt more than seen. Smoke curled into the sky in slow, deliberate spirals, while shadows twisted where no light should have allowed them to exist.
What were you seeing? The thought barely had time to form before it was swallowed whole.
A breath brushed your ear, "Minas Tirith." The whisper slid around you, curling into your mind like it belonged there. A sharp chill shot down your spine, your entire body going rigid as something unseen seemed to settle just behind you.
And in the next instant, your eyes snapped open. It was another vision.
A broken gasp tore from your chest as you jolted upright, your whole body tensing as if bracing for something unseen. Your fingers clenched tightly into the sheets beneath you, the fabric bunching in your grip as though it were the only thing anchoring you to what truly felt like reality.
Your breath came uneven, shallow, your heart pounding as a sharp ache throbbed behind your eyes, pulsing with the remnants of whatever you had just seen.
For a moment, everything was a blur. Shadows bled into shapes, the room around you indistinct and unfamiliar. You squeezed your eyes shut briefly, your brows knitting together as you forced yourself to steady your breaths, before opening them again, blinking rapidly until the room began to settle into place.
Wooden beams stretched overhead. Carved walls caught what little light there was, dim and warm, but entirely unknown to you. Your gaze darted from one corner to another, quick and searching.
Where… am I? The question echoed louder this time, sharper, laced with a growing sense of disorientation. You swallowed hard, your throat dry as you tried to pull together something that would made sense.
Your mind scrambled, reaching for memory, for clarity—but it slipped through your grasp. Fragments came, disjointed and unclear… laughter, voices, the dull warmth of something burning down your throat.
Drinking. Too much of it.
Your expression faltered slightly, confusion deepening as your fingers loosened just a fraction against the sheets. That was all you had. No clear recollection of how you got here. No memory of this place. Just the lingering haze of intoxication, and that unsettling feeling that something had gone very, very wrong.
Then you felt it—the fabric against your skin. You stilled, your breath caught as your gaze dropped slowly, almost hesitantly, to the clothes you were wearing… or rather, the ones you didn't remember to be wearing.
The material was lighter, softer, unfamiliar in both texture and fit, draping over you in a way that felt wrong. Not yours. Your fingers lifted instinctively, brushing over the sleeve, then the collar, as if touch alone might explain it, but it only made the unease settle deeper.
Your head snapped up again, quicker this time, your eyes scanning the room with growing urgency, until something on the floor pulled your attention down.
And it froze you in place. There, scattered carelessly across the wooden boards were your clothes. The sight made your stomach tighten, your pulse stuttering before picking up again, louder now, almost echoing in your ears.
"…What the hell?" you whispered, your voice unsteady, barely more than breath.
And then, It came back. Not all at once. Not clearly. A fleeting image—Legolas above you, his gaze fixed on yours with an intensity that made your chest squeeze tight even now.
There had been something in his expression, something softer, something dangerous in the way it blurred the line between restraint and want. The memory flickered, shifting before you could hold onto it fully, the warmth of his presence, the closeness, the way the space between you had simply… ceased to exist.
A sensation then followed. Faint, but unmistakable. Heat. Movement. A tangled closeness that sent a quiet, involuntary breath catching in your throat. The ghost of it lingered against your skin, too real to dismiss, too vivid to ignore. Your fingers curled slightly into the sheets beneath you, gripping them without realizing.
"…No way," you murmured, quieter this time. You sucked in a sharp breath, the sound catching somewhere between shock and disbelief. Your eyes widened, staring at nothing in particular as the realization hit you all at once, heavy and impossible to ignore.
Heat rushed to your face almost instantly, spreading across your cheeks and down your neck as embarrassment followed close behind. Your fingers tightened in the sheets, gripping it as if grounding yourself might somehow undo it—explain it.
It wasn't what you thought… right?
Your lips parted, and the words slipped out before you could stop them, quiet and strained.
"…Shit," you muttered first, the sound rough and jagged, a mixture of frustration, shock, and disbelief? Your fingers flexed against the sheets further, curling and unclenching as if the motion could steady the storm of thoughts racing through your head.
Your cheeks burned even hotter now, your heart hammering unevenly in your chest, each beat echoing the weight of the realization.
Finally, the words came again, almost whispered as if speaking them out loud might make them real. "I… I'm not a virgin anymore..?"
The admission lingered in the air, heavier than the sheets that wrapped around you, and for the first time, you let yourself truly feel the full weight of what that meant. You did it.
You swallowed hard, your throat still tight, and then almost violently, you shot upright from the bed. Your movements were frantic, clumsy with urgency, as you grabbed your discarded clothes and shoved yourself into them, fumbling with buttons and straps in your haste.
"Stupid… absolutely stupid of me," you muttered under your breath, tugging the cape over your shoulders with sharp, impatient motions. The words were bitter, laced with frustration at yourself, at the lingering heat and memory that refused to leave your mind.
You could have cursed louder, harder, at yourself for letting things spiral, but there was no time. Not now. War was coming, and every second counted.
But you knew just how much you wanted it as well. But still, you'd never imagine actually doing it, especially with him. Just the thought alone had sent you blushing, you were hopeless.
You pushed off the bed, your boots hitting the floor with hurried thuds, heart hammering in your chest. Your pace was fast, perhaps—but your body had seemed to betray you.
Your legs trembled, wobbling beneath you as if they had minds of their own. A sharp groan escaped your lips as your knees buckled, sending you stumbling forward slightly before you caught yourself on the edge of a table.
Your face contorted, a mix of annoyance, embarrassment, and lingering frustration flashing across it, teeth bared in a small snarl. Fingers curled into fists at your sides, and without thinking, the words slipped out, raw and pointed, carrying every ounce of your flustered exasperation.
You knew exactly why and how your body had turned into this.
"Fuck you, Legolas."
Right then, you gritted your teeth tighter, pushing every lingering thought aside as you rushed toward the hall. The sounds of preparation met you almost immediately—horses being groomed and saddled, armor clanking as it was fastened, the sharp scrape of blades being honed.
The tension in the air was tangible; everyone knew what was coming. Relief washed over you in a brief, quiet wave, Gandalf must have spread the word.
You then find your eyes darting among the chaos, searching, hoping to find someone, the one responsible for this mess you were going through.
But your gaze seemed to have drifted across someone, settling on a pair of familiar faces. There was Éowyn, standing beside Aragorn, her stance calm yet alert in the morning bustle. Without thinking, your feet carried you toward them, muscles moving on instinct.
Then you saw it—Aragorn's hand stretching toward the blanket draped over Éowyn's horse. Your pace faltered for just a heartbeat before snapping into overdrive. Whatever was hidden beneath that blanket, you knew exactly what it was, and without a second thought, you surged forward, faster than you had intended, propelled by equal parts urgency and determination.
Just in time, you slipped neatly between Aragorn's outstretched hand and the horse, boots planting firmly as you claimed the space with quiet determination. "Nu-uh. I don't think so," you said, your tone light with teasing despite the decisiveness of your movement.
A small, confident smile curved at your lips as you lifted your gaze to meet his, holding it steady, hoping to pull his attention back to you, if only for a moment.
Aragorn froze for a heartbeat, his hand halting mid-reach as your sudden movement cut him off. His eyes widened ever so slightly, just enough to betray his surprise, before his hand instinctively drew back.
A faint crease formed between his brows, confusion flickering across his features, though it softened almost as quickly as it came. There was a hint of amusement there too now, quiet and knowing, as he regarded you.
You turned then, spinning gracefully to face Éowyn. She had been caught off guard at first, her posture stiff with surprise, but it melted just as quickly, her expression softening as understanding settled in. A glimmer of gratitude flickered in her eyes then.
In response, you offered a small, confident wink, letting it play across your face—a silent, unspoken you're welcome, before your hand slid down, coming to rest against the horse's broad back
The animal shifted beneath your touch, muscles rippling under your fingers as it responded to the gentle pressure. With a light, guiding nudge, you sent it stepping forward, hooves clattering softly against the stone.
Éowyn moved alongside it, matching its pace with ease now, her eyes briefly meeting yours in a glance full of quiet gratitude before she focused ahead.
"You know," you said, a small smirk tugging at your lips, "you can't just go unveiling a lady's possession like that. It's rather rude, don't you think?" The words left with a teasing lilt, and Aragorn couldn't help but huff out a short, amused laugh in response.
"Right. My mistake," he replied lightly, though his gaze drifted down unconsciously, tracing the faint, darkened marks along your neck. A quiet laugh escaped him when he recognized them—oh, he surely did know.
"Though, you might want to tend to those bruises on your neck." he added, brows lifting in subtle admonishment, with the corner of his mouth lifting upwards enough to betray the emotions he couldn't quite contain to himself, "Wouldn't do to let them linger."
Your confident smirk faltered almost immediately upon his words, brows knitting together as confusion flared across your face. Then realization hit like a jolt all of a sudden, heat flooding your cheeks as the meaning of his words settled fully.
Without thinking, your hands shot up to cover your neck, pressing against the tender skin as embarrassment bloomed hot and fierce. Your lips parted, about to stammer out a defense, when a familiar, teasing voice slid smoothly into the moment:
"I do wonder where you got that from…"
You would recognize that voice anywhere. Your entire expression soured the moment it reached you, any lingering embarrassment immediately twisting into irritation. Slowly, your gaze lifted, only to meet those unmistakable blue eyes again.
There he was. Legolas, walking toward you with that infuriatingly composed stride, a smugness so faint yet so present etched into his features. It lingered in the slight curve of his lips, in the calm confidence of his gaze—and oh, how badly you wanted to wipe it right off his face.
You didn't even think, as your hand moved faster than your restraint ever could. A sharp smack landed against his arm as you swung, not hard enough to truly hurt, but enough to make your point. "Yeah… I wonder too," you shot back, tone edged, your eyes narrowing as you looked him up and down, clearly unimpressed, and very much not amused.
And yet to him, the sight of you like that, flushed and bristling, only seemed to amuse him more.
A small smile touched his lips, subtle but unmistakable, his eyes softening with something dangerously close to fondness. "Im naer," (I apologise) he said smoothly, the apology light on his tongue, lacking any true remorse as his shoulders lifted in a careless shrug.
Then he leaned in, just slightly, close enough for only you to hear. "ach," (But) he added, voice lower now, threaded with quiet teasing, "Law garog úvelim." (You did not seemed inclined to refused.)
The moment his words reached you, something in your chest tightened. You couldn't deny it, he wasn't wrong. Not entirely. The memory still lingered too clear, the heat of it, the way you hadn't exactly resisted. If anything… you had wanted it just as much. And that truth burned hotter than the embarrassment ever could. You practically threw yourself onto him.
But there was no way you were letting him have the last word.
"So much for being my boyfriend," you shot back, the word laced with biting sarcasm, your lip curling faintly as you turned sharply on your heel. Without sparing him another glance, you walked off, your steps quick, almost purposeful—like staying any longer would only betray more than you intended.
Behind you, Legolas stilled. The movement of the world around him seemed to carry on—voices, footsteps, but for a brief moment, he did not follow. He remained where he was, shoulders set, gaze fixed ahead though no longer truly seeing. Your words lingered echoing, settling in deeper than before. Boyfriend, that word again.
His expression shifted, the faint amusement fading as his brows drew together, a subtle tension forming in his features. His gaze dropped slightly, unfocused, as the word turned over in his mind, unfamiliar all over again.
Almost without thinking, his attention drifted after you, drawn by something he couldn't quite name, perhaps the lingering echo of your voice, or the unanswered weight of that word.
His gaze followed the path you'd taken, searching, as if meaning might reveal itself in your absence. Though, instead of an awnser, he saw Éomer approaching you, closing the distance with an ease that felt far too familiar.
The confusion that had clouded his thoughts only moments ago sharpened, tightening into something far less uncertain. His gaze narrowed ever so slightly, the faint crease between his brows deepening as a flicker of irritation surfaced, uninvited but undeniable. His posture straightened, shoulders drawing back with quiet tension, his attention now fixed entirely on the scene unfolding before him.
…was it not clear?
The thought came unbidden. After last night, after everything, had it not been made obvious enough? Or had he failed to make it so?
His jaw set subtly, a quiet frustration settling beneath his otherwise composed exterior. He did not move, did not interrupt—but his gaze lingered, more watchful than before, as if measuring something he had not realized he cared to measure.
Beside him, Aragorn watched the change with quiet curiosity, his head tilting just slightly as he studied his friend's expression. It was rare, seeing Legolas so… distracted. Though, if it was for you, it wouldn't be considered that way, it was a well known fact with him.
His gaze followed the direction of Legolas' line of sight, quiet and observant as ever. There you were, only a short distance away, standing with Éomer. From afar, you seemed far more composed now, posture steadier, a polite smile resting on your lips as if nothing had happened at all.
Aragorn let out a soft hum, the sound thoughtful, before he spoke. "Something troubles you?" he asked, tone casual with quiet awareness, his eyes flicking briefly toward Legolas before settling back on the scene ahead. "You seem… far from your usual focus."
Legolas did not answer immediately., as his gaze remained fixed on you.
Meanwhile, you found yourself on the receiving end of Éomer's concern. He stood close, his expression open, brows drawn slightly as he studied you with careful attention. "Are you well?" he asked, voice steady but laced with genuine worry. "You took more drink than was wise last night."
You blinked at him, momentarily caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone. The concern felt unexpected. Unfamiliar, even. Your brows knit slightly, confusion flickering across your face, but you quickly masked it, letting out a small, dismissive shrug as if it were nothing worth lingering on.
"I'm fine," you said lightly, brushing it off with a wave of your hand, though the faint stiffness in your posture suggested otherwise.
Éomer's gaze lingered on you a moment longer, thoughtful, as though quietly measuring the truth in your words. Then, almost without realizing it, his eyes began to drift, drawn downward by something that caught his attention.
They paused. His expression shifted, brows pulling together slightly as his focus settled on your neck, studying it with a faint crease of concern. "…You have something-" he began, his voice trailing off as his eyes remained staring, clearly having noticed more than you would have liked.
Before he could even finish, you'd already reacted. Your hands flew up almost instantly, pressing over your neck in a hurried, defensive motion, as if you could hide it just by covering it fast enough. "Oh-ahaha…" you let out, the laugh awkward and far too quick, your voice betraying you as your eyes darted anywhere but his face.
Your mind scrambled, thinking of possible awnsers to give. "I...uhh...it was the insects…" you said, the excuse tumbling out unevenly, your words trailing off for a split second as doubt crept in. The words felt flimsy the moment they left your mouth, like they might fall apart if he so much as questioned them.
That sounded ridiculous. You swallowed, forcing a small, tight smile onto your lips as you pushed through, "Bites," you added quickly, as if clarifying would somehow make it more believable.
The smile stayed on your face, but it didn't quite reach your eyes. You glanced back at him, hesitant, gauging his reaction—half hoping he'd accept it, half bracing for the inevitable doubt.
But instead of pressing further, a laugh broke through. It was easy, unguarded, carefree in a way that caught you off guard. Not sharp, not suspicious… just light, as though whatever he had noticed simply wasn't worth questioning.
He shook his head slightly as the sound left him, a quiet chuckle lingering as he looked back at you. "You are… quite something," he said, amusement threading through his voice, the corners of his lips lifting enough to show a flash of teeth.
His eyes rested on you then, softer than before—warmer, though you didn't quite notice it, too caught up in your own embarrassment to really see. There was a fondness there, something that lingered just beneath the surface of his expression.
Because deep down… he knew. He wasn't blind to it, nor unaware of what those marks truly meant.
But strangely, He didn't dwell on it. Not when his attention kept returning to you instead, to the way you stumbled over your own excuses, the way your eyes refused to meet his, the way your entire presence felt so unguarded and real despite everything.
There was something in it, something foolish, perhaps… but endearing in a way he hadn't expected. And for reasons he couldn't quite explain to himself, he'd found himself wanting more of it.
But the moment was then cut short when his name was called. The voice carried authority, firm and unmistakable. You turned instinctively, your gaze landing on King Théoden, who stood a short distance away, his presence commanding even without movement. Beside him, others had already begun to gather.
Éomer's attention shifted at once. He glanced back at you briefly, as though reluctant to break away, before duty settled back over his features. "My apologies," he said, his tone dipping into something more formal now. "It seems I am needed."
With a small, respectful nod, he turned, already moving toward the king without hesitation.
You stood there, watching him go for only a second before letting out a quiet breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding. Your shoulders loosened slightly as the tension slipped away, relief settling in its place.
Finally. The embarrassment still lingered, faint and warm beneath your skin, but at least you were no longer under direct scrutiny.
But the respite was fleeting. Before you could even settle fully into the quiet, a familiar presence materialized beside you—silent, effortless, and unmistakably him. You turned slightly, and there he was: Legolas, standing there, as though he had simply appeared from the air itself.
His gaze met yours briefly, steady and knowing, with a horse standing obediently at his side, muscles rippling beneath the sleek coat, perfectly calm under his touch. He didn't speak at first, letting the moment stretch, a quiet confidence radiating from him.
"Ride with me," he said, his voice smooth, quieter now, his head tilting ever so slightly as his eyes met yours. There was something in the way he said it, so simple, yet certain.
And despite yourself… despite the lingering irritation from earlier, the echo of his teasing smile, the subtle smugness in the tilt of his lips-
You hesitated. Because truthfully? How were you supposed to refuse that? Still, a small fire of resistance sparked within you—not from anger, but from something more stubborn, more stubbornly human. Pride, perhaps. Or the remnants of your own self-assurance. You had trained before, hadn't you?
You knew how to ride. Maybe not with elegance, maybe not with the poise of an elf, but you knew how to stay in the saddle, sometimes. That alone had to count for something.
You straightened your back, shoulders squaring, eyes narrowing just enough to show that resolve. "…I think I'll manage on my own," you said, voice firmer than you felt, the lift of your chin a deliberate challenge.
There was determination there, woven through with just a touch of defiance, as though declaring it aloud might convince not just him, but yourself.
It was a bold claim, a very bold claim. One that you knew, deep down, would be tested the moment your heels pressed into the horse's sides. Yet even as adrenaline stirred in your veins, a part of you couldn't help but glance at Legolas, wondering just how much he'd notice your stubborn pride.
And, of course, he noticed. How could he not? His lips curved into a small, knowing smile, eyes softening with quiet amusement and something warmer, something fond, at your stubbornness and childish determination.
"With your current skills," he said lightly, though there was no real reproach in his tone, "I'll have to disagree." His gaze lingered on you, teasing yet tender, as if every ounce of your defiance and pride only made him want to watch over you more.
You let out a reluctant sigh, your shoulders dropping slightly as if giving in, though the faintest spark of defiance remained. "Right…" you murmured, too quickly, almost as if part of you had been waiting for him to dismiss your idea, longing to ride beside him despite yourself. A sheepish smile tugged at your lips. "I guess I have no choice but to ride with you-"
Then movement seemed to have caught your eye. Behind him, atop another horse, someone was already seated. Your smile faltered, eyes widening slightly, caught mid-thought. "…Well, I guess I'll have to ride on my own then…' The words slipped out, sharper and more clipped than intended, your mouth pressing into a thin line.
Legolas, for once, was caught off guard. His brow lifted, a flicker of surprise in his eyes as he turned toward the horse behind him, only to find another rider already settled there. Before he could react, Gimli's voice boomed over the air, completely oblivious to the tension he'd stirred.
"We should get going. They are all moving ahead Legolas! Get on!"
And just like that, the moment hung between you and Legolas, a mixture of irritation, amusement, and unspoken feelings threading through the quiet chaos.
Legolas' brows drew together, a crease forming between them, his lips pressing into a thin line as well. Irritation flickered across his face, every muscle in his posture tense, hands flexing almost imperceptibly at his sides.
He had been planning this, rehearsing the perfect way to get you onto the same horse as him, imagining the quiet victory of seeing you ride beside him. And now, all of it seemed to unravel before his eyes.
Gimli, ever oblivious to the delicate tension, noticed the change in expression and cocked his head, curiosity overtaking caution. His voice boomed across the space, rich and unrestrained, "What?" His eyes bounced between Legolas' tightening jaw and narrowed eyes, and you—who, despite your best efforts, struggled to hold back the laughter threatening to escape.
You shifted your weight slightly, biting the inside of your cheek to stifle a giggle, but the corners of your lips betrayed you, twitching upward despite your protest. Legolas' gaze flicked toward you, and in that brief exchange, his irritation deepened—not at you, not entirely, but at the universe for conspiring to thwart him yet again.
Gimli, still clueless, blinked between the two of you, utterly uncomprehending of the silent war unfolding. His innocent, booming question only made the tension more acute, and you couldn't stop the laugh that finally slipped past your lips, soft and musical, causing Legolas' eyes to narrow even further, half in exasperation, half in reluctant amusement.
Before he could even open his mouth, another presence intruded, one Legolas had not wanted to appear in this… delicate situation. Éomer. It was as if he had been hovering nearby, listening in on the tension-filled standoff between the two of you.
"You can ride with me," he said, a confident gleam lighting his eyes, chest puffed slightly. "I can assure you in my horse-riding skill." His smile was broad, self-assured, almost challenging in its certainty.
You turned toward him, your thoughts briefly swaying. Truthfully… you weren't entirely confident riding alone, not yet.
But before you could even acknowledge it to yourself, a voice cut through, "Shouldn't you be making haste across the Riddermark to summon every able-bodied man to Dunharrow, to aid us in battle?" Legolas' words were smooth, calm, but threaded with a tension that betrayed his almost obvious irritation.
Your gaze then flicked back towards him, eyebrows drawn together in confusion, caught between curiosity and a touch of amusement. It was almost as if Legolas had been silently eavesdropping on the conversation between the King and Éomer—every word, every subtle inflection noted with that unerring attention only he could muster.
Eomer, unfazed, leaned slightly forward, voice steady and confident. "It is true, but I'll be fast. After all, I am one of the best riders in Rohan," he said, eyes briefly flicking toward Legolas, aware of the unspoken challenge in the elf's posture.
Your eyes soon shifted between the two, caught in between the tension, before a small smile crossed your face. "I'll just ride with Eomer." you said, voice warm and reassuring, tilting your head slightly to meet his gaze. "It's fine, Legolas."
Your deliberate choice left Legolas frozen for a moment, chest tightening in a subtle tension, jaw set in a line that betrayed more than just frustration, there was something softer hidden beneath it, a flicker of… longing, perhaps.
He had been ready to argue, to insist, to pull you onto his horse despite your stubbornness, but your decision had struck a quiet, undeniable finality.
Before he could gather his thoughts, Gimli's booming voice cut through the tension once more. "Brilliant! Now we can all head off. Legolas, quick- get on!"
Legolas' eyes flicked toward you once more, a shadow of that softer emotion lingering there, before he shifted with fluid grace, mounting his horse. The muscles in his shoulders moved under his tunic, his hands steady, but the faint exhale he allowed himself as he settled spoke volumes of the restrained frustration and reluctant acceptance curling within him.
It had been hours since the small exchange, and now the ride pressed on. Legolas rode with that effortless grace only he possessed, Gimli perched firmly behind him, the dwarf muttering occasionally about sore muscles or stiff reins.
But Legolas' attention was elsewhere—his eyes fixed, sharp like arrows ready to fly. They were locked on you, unblinking, piercing through the space between you as if he could will his gaze to reach you no matter the distance.
The ride had grown rough, far rougher than it needed to be. Gimli felt it immediately from the back, his body jolting with each uneven stride, armor clanking sharply as he fought to keep his balance. Each step of the horse sent a jarring shock up his spine, his grip tightening instinctively as irritation began to simmer beneath his breath.
This wasn't the terrain, he knew the difference well enough. No… this was deliberate.
"Ride properly, would ya?" Gimli tested, edged with a growing impatience as another harsh jolt rattled through him, forcing him to brace harder against Legolas' back.
Still, no response, not even the slightest bit of acknowledgment. Legolas rode on as if he hadn't heard a word, his posture still impeccably straight, hands steady on the reins—but his mind was nowhere near the path ahead. It was elsewhere. Entirely elsewhere.
"Oi! What's got you this dazed for?" Gimli huffed, irritation finally getting the better of him as he lifted a hand and gave the elf a firm whack on the back.
The impact landed solid, and for a split second, Legolas went completely still. Not just in body, but in thought. As if something had been cut clean through, his mind yanked abruptly from wherever it had wandered.
The tension in his shoulders shifted under the strike, muscles tightening before settling again, though not quite as smoothly as before. The faint sting lingered, grounding him in a way he hadn't expected.
A quiet breath slipped past his lips as he forced himself back to the present. "It is nothing," he replied coolly, though the tightness in his voice could still be heard. "Keep your hands to yourself."
But even as he said it, his gaze betrayed him again. It drifted, inevitably, and instinctively back to you.
There you were., so effortlessly placed where he could see you, yet just out of reach. Your arms wrapped securely around Éomer's waist, fingers gripping into the fabric at his sides as the horse surged forward. Your head tipped back slightly, laughter escaping you, light and unguarded, carried by the wind. Your cheek brushed faintly against his back at times, your grip instinctive, trusting.
You looked… at ease. Carefree. As though the world had narrowed to the thrill of the ride and the man before you.
Something in Legolas snapped. His jaw clenched, teeth pressing together as a flicker of something darker crossed his face—a sharp, fleeting snarl of jealousy that he made no effort to hide, not from himself. It should have been him. He should have been the one you held onto, the one you leaned into, the one who felt your warmth against his back.
A bitter edge crept in, settling deep and heavy in his chest. It coiled there, tightening with every passing second he allowed himself to watch, every laugh of yours that reached him across the distance.
Because you looked happy, and whatever that happiness was, it wasn't his doing.
His chest rose slowly with a controlled breath, but it did nothing to ease the heat spreading beneath it, nothing to quiet the sharp, insistent thought pressing at the forefront of his mind.
Because no matter how many times he tried to dismiss it, it wasn't him. And that truth burned far more than it had any right to.
Without thinking, without even realizing he had done it—Legolas' grip tightened around the reins. The leather creaked faintly under the sudden pressure.
Beneath him, the horse responded instantly, surging forward with a sharper, more forceful stride now. The rhythm broke, what had once been smooth and controlled turned uneven, each step hitting harder than the last, the pace just erratic enough to unsettle.
Gimli lurched violently. "Easy there, you elf!" he barked, his hands scrambling for purchase as his body jolted backward, barely managing to keep his seat. His boots pressed harder into the stirrups, armor clanking noisily as he clung on. "You trying to send me flying off?!"
However, Legolas didn't answer. His eyes locked onto you with a quiet intensity that bordered on something far deeper than mere attention. It was as if the world around him had dimmed, every sound dulled, every distraction stripped away until there was nothing left but the sight of you riding just out of reach.
Even when he tried, if he tried at all to pull himself away, his gaze refused to follow.
Finding itself drawn back over again and again, to you.
Gimli narrowed his eyes, suspicion creeping in now. He shifted his weight with a low grunt, adjusting himself more securely behind Legolas as the horse finally steadied—though not by much. One hand remained braced against the elf's back, the other gripping tightly to keep from being thrown again.
He leaned forward slightly, peering past Legolas before flicking his gaze back to him, studying the rigid set of his shoulders, the unnatural stillness in his posture, the way his silence stretched just a little too long.
"…There is definitely something bothering you, isn't there?" he pressed, voice shifting, curious now. "Tell me. I am quite wise for my kind." He lifted his chin slightly, pride slipping into his tone despite the situation.
For a moment, Legolas froze, caught off guard by the weight of his own thoughts. He could feel it, that tug of uncertainty, the small knot of jealousy and confusion twisting in his chest.
A quiet sigh escaped him, almost unnoticeable over the rhythm of the horse's gait. Perhaps… perhaps sharing it, even partially, might help. A new perspective, someone else's insight—it couldn't hurt.
"Tell me, Gimli… do you know what a 'boyfriend' is?" Legolas asked finally, his head turning slightly over his shoulder. His eyes peeked through the strands of his hair at Gimli, wary but earnest, as though the answer might solve something lodged deep in his mind.
Gimli blinked, clearly perplexed, before tapping his beard with a finger. "A… boyfriend? Isn't that just a lad who counts himself a friend?" he said slowly, squinting as if weighing each word. "Seems simple enough to me."
His voice carried genuine curiosity, tinged with a trace of his own amusement. Though, Legolas couldn't help but frown faintly. Friend? Just exactly like what he'd thought? But if it were so simple, why then had he watched you cling to Éomer so easily, laughing and at ease, offering warmth meant for him alone? Why had he let himself stew so long when you'd told him you had only eyes for him, and him alone.
Then, as if the thought had finally found its release, Gimli laughed—a deep, booming sound that carried across the horse's steady pace. "Ah! I see now! This is about her, isn't it?" His eyes then darted back to Legolas, who had averted his gaze, a faint flush dusting his cheek.
Gimli's grin widened, teasing to the eye. "Aye, you'd best take heed, my friend. If you linger too long in hesitation, someone else might claim her first." His gaze then flicked forward to you and Éomer riding ahead, and something akin to quiet warning lingered in his tone, even amidst the mirth.
The words barely settled before Legolas' attention snapped back. His lips pressed into a thin line, nostrils flaring almost imperceptibly. He leaned slightly forward in the saddle, reins taut under his grip once more, and his icy blue eyes locked onto Éomer from behind, tracing every movement, every glance all over again.
Jealousy curled like a silent flame within him, low and hot, his heart thudding as if he wanted nothing more than to step forward, to be the one you clung to, to feel your warmth against him again.
Aragorn, who had currently caught up with the pair, rode beside them with an easy grace, his gaze sweeping over the path before him, and then catching Legolas, noticing it almost immediately.
He tilted his head slightly, amusement flickering across his features, mixed with a trace of exasperation at his friend's all-too-obvious distraction. Following Legolas' line of sight, his eyes fell naturally on you. Of course. There you were, riding with Éomer, your laughter carried by the wind, your posture relaxed and carefree.
A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of Aragorn's lips, disbelief dancing in his gaze as he shook his head ever so slightly. The sight of Legolas' sharp focus and taut restraint, so clearly pinned on you was equal parts entertaining and telling.
"Eyes on the road, Legolas," Aragorn said lightly, "You're letting yourself get distracted."
Legolas' jaw tightened, the line sharp beneath his pale skin, a brief flicker of irritation, or was it awareness?—passing through his otherwise unreadable expression. A subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth, the faint narrowing of his eyes, betrayed that he had heard every word Aragorn had said.
Yet still, his gaze lingered, unwavering, locked on you as though distance were irrelevant. Every movement you made, every subtle shift of posture, seemed to etch itself into his mind.
His fingers, light on the reins, flexed almost imperceptibly, betraying a tension that belied his effortless grace. The wind tugged at his hair, the horse beneath him steady, obedient, but his mind clearly elsewhere.
"But it is," Legolas murmured, his voice low and measured, though his eyes had never left your figure. Legolas' gaze followed every subtle motion, as if he could etch not just your form into memory, but the way the sunlight kissed your hair, the rhythm of your breathing, the faint heat radiating from you even at this distance.
There was something heavier now—a tightening in his chest, a prickling heat that was sharp and unwelcome. Jealousy, raw and unyielding, curled through him like a living thing.
His stomach twisted, fists clenching subtly on the reins as his eyes followed you, tracing the warmth of your grip on Éomer's waist once more, the carefree tilt of your laughter. Each movement was a quiet, painful reminder that it wasn't him, and the sting of that truth flared hotter than he expected.
Legolas' jaw clenched, and for a heartbeat his breath caught in his throat, unnoticed beneath the stoic mask he wore. His mind raced—flashbacks of your warmth against him, of the closeness he'd longed for, of moments that had already passed, all of it colliding with the sight before him.
Aragorn, riding beside him, caught the fixation then, and allowed himself the smallest shake of his head, lips twitching with a faint, knowing smile. He didn't need to speak; the elf's quiet obsession, sharp and unrelenting, said it all, more than words ever could.
"Right," Aragorn murmured softly, almost to himself, a note of reluctant acknowledgment in his voice. "It surely is."
۶ৎ Summary : To you, he was only ever a boy from your dreams. But to him… you were never just a dream. You were his childhood friend, the one who vanished without a trace. Crossing through the forests of Mirkwood, could you possibly help to negotiate for your comrades release, or be as useless as one claims you to be?
A/n : Okay so, I procrastinated this one for a longggg time 😭 Also, I was busy with work , if you'd consider that an excuse heh. Do pardon my writing if it's bad or if there's any typo/mistakes! I was stuck in a writers block with this one T^T. Anywaysss, hope you guys enjoy this one <3 (Part of the f!reader is not from middle-earth series! | Can be read as a one shot too!)
Wc : 9.6k
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"HARGHH!" Your scream tore out of your throat as you drove the dagger forward. The blade sank deep into the spider's body with a sharp, sickening crunch, the force of the strike jolting all the way up your arm.
You squeezed your eyes shut on instinct, shoulders tensing as the creature jerked once before going completely still.
For a moment, the forest fell quiet around you except for your uneven breathing. Slowly, you opened one eye, the spider lay crumpled at your feet, dead.
There it lay, motionless against the forest floor, its limbs drawn inward at unnatural angles as if the life had been pulled clean out of it. For a moment, you simply stared, your mind taking a second too long to catch up with what you were seeing.
Your gaze dropped to the dagger lodged deep within its body, the blade still buried where it had struck, before flicking back to the creature itself—then back again to the weapon, as if repeating the motion might somehow make it make more sense. The image didn't quite settle in your mind, leaving you caught in that strange loop of disbelief, trying to reconcile the stillness before you with the chaos that had existed just moments ago.
"Oh." Across from you, Kíli had gone completely still. His dagger hung loosely in his hand, forgotten as he stared at the lifeless spider with open disbelief. His eyebrows lifted higher and higher, his mouth parting slightly as he processed what he had just witnessed.
Then his gaze drifted back to you, the silence stretched just for a beat longer.
"...Well," he said finally, his tone thick with dry disbelief, tilting his head as if reconsidering everything he knew about you. He gestured toward the spider with a casual flick of his blade, though the faint crease between his brows betrayed how caught off guard he actually was, "it would have been very nice if you'd used those skills during the many battles we've already survived."
His head tilted slightly once more as he studied you, lips pressing together as if holding back further commentary. "You know," he added, sighing as though deeply inconvenienced, "instead of screaming and hiding behind us like a frightened forest animal."
You yanked the dagger free with a wet pull and turned sharply toward him, your eyes narrowing. A strand of hair had fallen loose across your face, and you brushed it away with an impatient flick of your fingers.
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," you said sweetly, though the sarcasm dripping from your voice could have soured milk. Your lips curved into a sharp, unimpressed smile as you wiped the blade against your sleeve with exaggerated care.
"It's not my fault I only just figured out how to use these..." You waved your hand vaguely in the air beside your head, fingers fluttering in a loose circle as if the concept itself were ridiculous.
"...powers."
Your expression twisted into a half-smirk as you glanced back at him, one brow lifting in mock challenge. "Literally five seconds ago." You planted one hand on your hip, tilting your head slightly as though daring him to argue.
Kíli just stared at you. His mouth opened, clearly ready to fire back something clever, but before a single word could leave his lips, another voice cut through the clearing. "Kíli's right."
You stiffened slightly before turning toward the sound. There Thorin stood a few paces away, watching the exchange with a look that bordered somewhere between mild irritation and quiet judgment. His posture remained steady, shoulders squared as though the forest around you wasn't crawling with danger.
His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary, the faintest crease forming between his brows. "Instead of aiding us," he continued evenly, his voice carrying the weight of quiet authority, "you chose to hide behind our backs and claim you could not fight."
He gave a small shrug, as though the matter were painfully obvious. Without even waiting for a response, he turned away and began moving forward again, sword still loosely in his hand.
For a moment, you simply stared after him, before the realisation of him mocking you rushed over. Your jaw fell open slightly in disbelief. "Hey!" you called after him, throwing your hands up in frustration. "I really didn't know how to fight!" You huffed, your voice echoed faintly between the trees as Thorin continued walking.
You let out a tight breath, dragging a hand down your face as irritation simmered just beneath the surface. Your fingers pressed briefly against your eyes before falling away, your jaw tightening as the frustration refused to settle. "Unbelievable-" you muttered under your breath, the word barely escaping past the tension in your throat.
Then something seemed to slice through the quiet. A sharp, unnatural hiss ripped through the air, so sudden and piercing it felt like it carved straight through your thoughts. Your entire body jolted on instinct, shoulders snapping rigid as your breath caught mid-inhale.
For a fraction of a second, you couldn't move, couldn't even think, your senses scrambling to make sense of the sound. Then your head whipped toward it, eyes widening as something above shifted.
The sky stirred violently, leaves trembling and branches quivering as though something unseen had disturbed them. Shadows twisted where there should have been none, and before you could fully process it, strands of silk came spilling down—thick, glistening ropes that unraveled at an alarming speed, catching what little light filtered through the trees. They dropped in uneven lines, swaying slightly as they descended, each thread impossibly strong, impossibly wrong.
Massive shapes emerged from the darkness above, descending with a terrifying swiftness. One after another, they dropped straight into your path, their weight slamming against the forest floor with heavy, sickening thuds that seemed to echo far too loudly in the confined space.
The ground beneath your feet shuddered faintly with each impact, the vibrations traveling up through your legs, locking you in place for just a split second too long.
Their limbs unfolded slowly, stretching outward as if testing the ground beneath them. Their legs were long, spindly, and grotesquely jointed—bent at angles that made your skin crawl, adjusting with small, jerking motions that felt almost mechanical in their precision.
Their presence closed in like a tightening noose. The faint, rhythmic clicking of their limbs against bark and soil scraped along your nerves, each sharp, uneven sound burrowing deeper beneath your skin. It wasn't loud—but it didn't need to be. It was constant. Relentless. Enough to make your shoulders tense and your spine stiffen as the creatures began to shift, their movements slow at first, almost cautious.
They were circling you. You could see it now—the way they spread out, inch by inch, cutting off space, hemming you all in. Leaves crunched softly under their weight, branches trembled faintly as more descended, threads of thick silk glinting faintly in the dim light.
Your grip tightened around your weapon, fingers curling until your knuckles ached. Your pulse thundered in your ears, each beat louder than the last, your breathing growing shallow despite your efforts to steady it. You forced yourself to stay still, to not show the unease creeping into your chest—but it was still there, coiling tighter with every second.
Though, the ones around you reacted without a word. Steel slid free with quiet, deadly intent. The soft twang of bowstrings being drawn cut through the air. Boots shifted against the forest floor, each stance grounding, settling into readiness. There was no hesitation in them, only instinct honed through too many battles like this.
The first to move was Thorin, he stepped forward, blade rising with controlled precision, then he stopped.
The motion faltered just enough to catch your attention. His arm didn't drop, but it didn't strike either. Instead, his gaze shifted upward, lifting past the immediate threat, narrowing slightly as something unseen drew his focus beyond the danger.
You followed it, his line of sight, your own breath catching as your eyes traced the towering trees, straining to find what had caught his attention. For a moment, you wondered if you had imagined it.
And then a flicker tore through your vision. Not enough to name at first, just a fleeting distortion at the edge of your vision, gone so quickly it left you second-guessing yourself. Your brows drew together, a faint crease forming as your gaze sharpened, instinctively searching the canopy for what you thought you saw.
Then came the flash, a streak of gold cut through the green and shadow, gone in an instant before appearing again somewhere else entirely. Your eyes struggled to keep up, your mind barely catching onto the shape of a figure moving with unnatural speed.
Before you could fully process it, the figure launched downward, leaping from the branches without hesitation, catching hold of a strand of silk mid-fall.
The motion was breathtaking in its simplicity, yet impossible in its perfection. Every movement just seemed to flow into the next, each step and sweep measured yet effortless, as if the very laws of gravity had bent around him. He moved with an elegance that belied the violence of the act, his form a blur of gold and steel as he descended toward the forest floor.
He landed directly atop on one of the spiders, the impact deadly. The creature crumpled beneath him, limbs twitching once, twice, before going completely still. Its dark eyes, glinting with menace only moments before, now reflected nothing but the fleeting shadow of its passing.
It was over before the creature could even react, as he moved again without pause, already transitioning into the next motion.
He slid forward across the ground, low and swift, passing beneath another spider that had turned toward Thorin. The blade in his hand swept upward in one clean unbroken motion, following the momentum of his body as though the weapon itself were an extension of his arm, as the strike split the creature apart in half.
Silence settled over the clearing like a heavy fog, thick and suffocating in its stillness, broken only by the faint scrape of leaves beneath his landing. The elf knelt with an almost casual grace, steady and composed as if the violent flurry of motion had drained nothing from him at all.
His bow was already in his hands, drawn in a single seamless motion, the arrow notched and aimed straight at Thorin before you could even register him reaching for it.
Your breath hitched, caught somewhere between awe and fear, as golden strands of hair shifted across him, catching the faintest glimmer of light. You couldn't see his face clearly—not really. The angle, the shadows, the way he moved kept the finer details hidden, leaving only glimpses: the sharp line of a jaw, the curve of a shoulder, a hint of intent in the tilt of his head from where you stood.
Even without seeing his expression fully, the focus in him was unmistakable. Every movement, every subtle shift, screamed precision, a quiet, lethal certainty that didn't need to be spelled out in features. There was no hesitation, no flicker of doubt, only the sense that when he acted, nothing would stand in his way.
Then came the sound, faint at first, barely more than a whisper through the leaves. A soft scrape of movement, a brushing against bark, then another, and another, each one layering over the last until it became impossible to ignore.
The forest seemed to hum with it, a subtle vibration that slithered through the undergrowth and along the trunks, growing from an abstract sense of presence into something sharply, terrifyingly real.
Your body tensed before your mind could even catch up, muscles coiling, breath shallow and fast, as your gaze darted toward the source. One by one, they began to appear, weaving through the dense foliage as if they had been born of the forest itself. Their forms were tall and lithe, bodies cloaked in garments that blended seamlessly with the greens and browns around them.
Weapons caught the stray shafts of sunlight, glinting like frozen threads of silver, but their faces remained mostly hidden, either angled away or shadowed beneath hoods and overhanging hair. There was an elegance to their approach, a predatory grace that was beautiful and terrifying all at once.
And through it all, the knowledge settled deep in your chest, Elves. Dozens of them, moving like whispers given shape, gliding from one shadow to the next with uncanny precision, until you realized the forest had become a cage, and you were at its center.
Bows were already drawn, the taut strings vibrating faintly under the tension, arrows drawn and trembling like extensions of the elves themselves. Their movements were fluid, practiced, each one perfectly synchronized with the others, their aim unerring and cold as they swept over every figure in the clearing.
Every glance, every breath you took seemed to register with them, a network of deadly focus that extended in every direction.
You turned slowly, your movements deliberate as your eyes scanned the perimeter, trying to measure the threat, trying to find even the smallest opening, some imperfection you could exploit. But there was none. They moved with an effortless cohesion that left nothing to chance, no gap left unguarded, no angle uncovered.
Arrows pointed at you from every side, their tips catching faint light as they quivered in silent warning, and you could feel the invisible weight of countless gazes pinned to your chest, cold and unblinking.
The golden-haired elf's voice then broke through the tension. Every word seemed to carry the weight of someone who knew the consequences of their own promise. "Do not think I won't kill you, dwarf. It would be my pleasure."
Your throat went dry at his words, pulse spiking as your lips parted in a silent, involuntary swallow. Your gaze flickered toward Thorin for the briefest instant, seeking some anchor, some reassurance from the leader, before snapping back to the elves encircling you.
"Kíli!" The shout shattered the moment. You spun around, your breath catching as your eyes locked onto the movement behind you, snapping into focus.
A thick strand of silk was wound tight around his ankle, yanking him backward across the forest floor with relentless force. His body jolted with every harsh tug, leaves and dirt scraping beneath him as he struggled to resist. His hands clawed at the ground, fingers digging into the soil, grasping at anything that might slow him down.
He twisted sharply, trying to turn onto his side, his free leg kicking out in an attempt to break the pull, but it wasn't enough. The spider dragged him further, inch by inch, its many legs clicking rapidly as it retreated, hauling him like prey already claimed.
"Help!" Kíli shouted, his voice strained, panic bleeding through as he tried to pull himself free.
"Kíli!" Fili lunged forward immediately, desperation written clearly across his face, his hand reaching out as though he could grab him, pull him back, but the distance was just far enough to make it impossible.
For a split second, everything seemed to tilt toward disaster, before a movement sliced through the chaos. A figure burst through the trees, her presence sharp and sudden, swift as a flame catching wind. The red-haired elf moved with unwavering focus, her eyes already locked onto the threat as she assessed the situation in an instant.
Her bow lifted in one smooth motion as the arrow flew, and one spider dropped instantly without a sound. She turned immediately, her body pivoting with controlled force as a blade flashed into her hand. The knife drove cleanly into another spider that lunged too close, her expression tightening slightly with the motion before she pulled free without breaking stride.
Sliding to a controlled stop, she drew again, her focus snapping toward Kíli as the spider continued dragging him.
The arrow loosed with a sharp snap of the string, and struck true. The spider dragging him jerked violently as the arrow drove straight through it, the force of the impact halting its movement in an instant. Its limbs twitched, then gave out almost completely. Its body collapsed, the tension in the silk snapping loose as it crumpled, lifeless, against the forest floor.
Kíli then hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the breath from him as he scrambled backward, pushing himself away with hurried, uneven movements. But the danger wasn't over, as he hadn't gone far before another spider surged toward him, closing the distance with terrifying speed.
"Kíli!" someone shouted, urgency cutting through the air.
He forced himself up immediately, chest heaving, turning quickly toward the red-haired elf. Desperation was clear in his expression as he reached out toward her. "Throw me your dagger!" he called, his voice tight with urgency. "Quick!"
She didn't even falter for a second. If anything, something in her expression seemed to settle further, her focus narrowing rather than breaking under the pressure. Her eyes sharpened, a flicker of something unyielding passing through them as her lips pressed into a firm, unimpressed line. "If you think I'm giving you a weapon, dwarf, you're mistaken!"
The moment the last word slipped past from her tongue, her wrist had already snapped forward, sending the dagger spinning free. It cut through the air with deadly accuracy, the brief glint of metal was the only warning before it struck. The blade buried itself deep into the spider rushing at Kíli, stopping it mid-charge as its body jerked violently before passing.
Kíli froze where he stood, chest rising and falling as he stared at the fallen spider, before slowly lifting his gaze towards the elf who had saved him.
There was something almost boyish in the way his expression shifted, shock giving way to something softer, something unguarded. His lips parted slightly, as though he meant to say something but couldn't quite find the words fast enough. A quiet kind of awe settled in his eyes.
Noticing the change, your gaze didn't leave him as quickly as it should have. Your eyes narrowed ever so slightly, attention lingering in a way that felt far too deliberate to pass as casual.
What had been a simple look stretched into something quieter, more observant, as you found yourself watching him. The tension that had once defined his features had eased without his notice, the sharpness in his expression giving way to something far more open, far less guarded than the version of him you had grown used to.
And he hadn't even realized it himself, the way his attention remained fixed somewhere it probably shouldn't have.
His focus remained fixed elsewhere, drawn toward something, or someone, with a steadiness that didn't belong to the usual quick remarks and easy confidence he wore so naturally. And that alone was enough to make your suspicion grow.
Because you knew that look.
You had seen it far too many times—countless scenes, countless characters, all unfolding the same way. The quiet pause after something significant, the lingering gaze, the subtle shift in posture like the world had momentarily narrowed down to one person. It was the kind of expression that never needed words, the kind that always led to something more whether the characters realized it yet or not.
Your brows drew together slightly as realization began to settle in, slow but certain. There was no way you were getting this wrong.
Your lips pressed into a thin line, head tilting just a fraction as if adjusting your angle might somehow disprove it—but it didn't. If anything, it only made it clearer. The more you looked, the more obvious it became, and a faint look of disbelief flickered across your face as you exhaled quietly through your nose.
Your eyes flicked briefly in the red haired elf's direction before returning to Kíli's, as though confirming the connection, your expression tightening just slightly with the weight of your conclusion.
No, you definitely weren't mistaken. You were just about to piece it together further—about to fully acknowledge what this meant and what kind of complications it was bound to bring, when the moment was abruptly cut short.
"Search them." The voice came sharp and commanding, slicing cleanly through your thoughts before they could go any further.
Your head lifted instantly, the shift in atmosphere immediate. The surrounding elves moved at once, their earlier stillness giving way to controlled motion as they stepped forward, bows still raised, eyes locked onto each of you with unwavering focus. The tension returned just as quickly as it had left, pressing in from all sides and leaving no room to dwell on anything else.
And just like that, whatever realization had been forming in your mind was forced aside, unfinished and abandoned.
You watched, tense, as the elves moved closer to the dwarves beside you. One of them stopped in front of Fili first, the elf's fingers were swift, brushing over the folds of his clothes. Fili's jaw clenched in response, his eyes darting briefly toward you as though to ask silently for support he didn't expect you to give.
When the elf's hand moved, Fili's knives were too, gone in an instant, neatly sheathed and stripped from him in a single motion. Fili exhaled slowly through his nose, a stiff like shrug betraying his frustration and quiet resignation.
Looking ahead, a few paces in front of you, Gloin's expression hardened the moment the elf reached into his pocket, a small picture frame emerging from it. His eyes pinched narrowly, nostrils flaring just enough to convey his irritation, moving forward on instinct, as his voice cut sharply through the air. Every word carried the heat of indignation, the unmistakable sting of someone affronted, unwilling to let the intrusion go unanswered.
"Hey! Give it back! That's private!" Gloin's hands flexed at his sides, fingers curling as though he could physically snatch it back, yet he could only stay rooted in place, his eyes flitting between the frame and the elf holding it.
Though, the elf didn't seem even the slightest bit affected by his words, as he tilted the frame toward the light, his sharp gaze lingering on the first picture with that cool, unreadable composure.
His lips pressed together in a faint, controlled line, and the slight tilt of his head carried an air of judgment, as though weighing Gloin's every reaction. The elf's eyes then settled down on the small photograph in his hands, his tone smooth yet carrying a subtle, probing weight. "Who is this? Your brother?"
Gloin's eyes widened at the question, and his entire posture stiffened as though he had been affronted in more ways than one. His chest lifted slightly, voice snapping with defensive pride of a man who refused to be questioned about what was his.
"That is my wife!" His voice rang out firmly. The words trembled slightly with emotion, a mixture of protectiveness and disbelief that someone could so casually question what was clearly so personal.
Gloin's eyes flared, his brows drew tightly together the very second, casting a shadow over his eyes, while his lips pressed into a hard line. Every inch of him radiated a silent dare, a challenge that seemed to warn the elf against pushing any further.
The elf, however, remained entirely unmoved yet again, remaining unnervingly composed. His posture was still, the calm in his bearing almost unsettling against Gloin's defensiveness. Slowly, he shifted his attention towards the second photograph, eyes steady and unblinking, taking in the small features of the child.
His blue eyes traced the tiny features of the dwarf child with an unsettling precision. His gaze lingered, carrying the faintest trace of amusement beneath the veneer of polite curiosity.
"And what is this horrid creature? A goblin mutant?" The question fell lightly, almost serene in tone, but the underlying mockery cut clear through the still air.
It pressed against Gloin's pride like a weight, forcing him to straighten even further. The warmth in his eyes toward the child in the picture hadn't dimmed, but it was now laced with a flash of offense that only intensified as he replied, pride tempered by a flicker of fury. "That's my wee lad, Gimli."
The elf's expression still remained unreadable, untouched by any trace of humour or softness. One eyebrow lifted slowly, his eyes narrowing, lips barely twitching into what could almost pass for contempt. His gaze flicked up at Gloin, sharp and calculating, and you could see the silent weight of judgment settle like a shadow over the dwarf.
It was then that you lost it. The tension, the absurdity of the moment, the clash of their composure—it all hit you at once. A small, almost involuntary laugh escaped before you could stop it.
The moment it left you, your eyes widened. You clapped a hand over your mouth far too late, breath catching as you froze in place, as if stillness alone might undo it. The sound had already stretched across the frozen space, echoing unnaturally in the hush that fell over both elves and dwarves.
Your body stiffened, every muscle locked as heat raced across your cheeks and up the back of your neck. You froze entirely, currently aware of every gaze fixed on you, each one carrying a mix of curiosity, judgment, and quiet amusement against you.
Your hand remained clamped over your mouth, a poor attempt at hiding what had already slipped through. You didn't dare move, didn't dare speak, caught in that sharp, suffocating moment between wanting to disappear entirely and trying futilely to will the burning in your face to fade.
Before you could curse yourself further for your ill-timed amusement, Kíli's voice rang out, breaking the awkward tension rising. He stepped slightly forward, energy practically radiating off him, his smile wide and infectious.
His eyes sparkled with reassurance, as he gestured toward you with one hand, the other sweeping out in a kind of dramatic emphasis that made you want to duck in embarrassment.
"Right! She's half elvish. You can ask her," he said, the words tumbling out with more sincerity than showmanship. His gaze flicked briefly to you, as if checking you were still there, before returning to the elves. "We didn't come here to cause trouble."
There was a slight hitch in his breath before he continued, his voice softening just a touch, losing that earlier confidence he wore. "Elves wouldn't harm one of their own… would they?"
You could suddenly feel the subtle shift around you—the dwarves' wary postures softening slightly, the elves sharp gaze holding a trace of consideration, and even the forest itself seemed to exhale with a momentary reprieve.
You cursed quietly under your breath, the words slipping out in a low, strained whisper as your gaze dipped for a fleeting second, as if the ground might offer some escape it clearly wouldn't.
As if things couldn’t possibly get any worse, of course, Kíli had to pipe up. His timing was impeccable in the most infuriating way, his words poised to stir the pot just when you'd thought the tension had reached its peak.
"Raise your head." The command came steady, carrying a quiet authority that made it impossible to ignore.
Hesitation passed over your features, your brows drawing together just slightly, as you lingered a fraction longer than you should have. Your lips pressed into a thin line, holding there for a beat, as though even the smallest movement required careful consideration.
Your gaze flickered to the side without thinking, a quick, searching motion, as if some unseen opening might present itself. It didn't. The realization settled just as quickly, leaving you with no choice but to face what was in front of you.
Finally, with a slow exhale, you forced yourself to lift your head.
At first, your gaze rose cautiously, almost reluctantly—until it met his. And then it stopped entirely, everything else seemed to blur at the edges, leaving only him in sharp, impossible focus.
He stood close enough that you could make out every detail with unsettling clarity, and for a brief, disorienting moment, your mind went completely blank. There was something almost unreal about him, something that made it feel as though you were staring at a figure pulled straight from a dream rather than someone standing in front of you.
His features were sharply defined yet impossibly refined, as though each line had been carved with intention. The structure of his face was striking—high cheekbones catching the faint light, a straight, elegant nose, and a jawline so clean it gave him an air of quiet authority even in stillness.
And then there were his eyes, fixed on yours, as though once they'd found you, there was nowhere else they intended to look.
A clear, striking blue, so vivid it almost felt unnatural, they didn't simply meet your gaze—they held it, drawing you in before you could think to look away. It felt as if they saw too much, catching every subtle shift in your expression, every uneven breath, every fleeting thought you hadn't managed to hide.
There was a sharpness to them, something cool and assessing, as if he were measuring every detail of your presence in silence.
You couldn't help it, you were lost to the allure of him. Your chest tightened and lips parted slightly, caught between wanting to step closer and frozen just by the sheer, undeniable pull of his presence. It was breathtaking, impossible, and it left you staring, utterly spellbound.
His hair fell around him in smooth strands of gold, catching the scattered light that slipped through the sky above. It gleamed softly, as though it carried its own faint glow. Each lock seemed impossibly smooth, weightless, falling with effortless grace, framing his face in a way that only heightened the sense of unreality surrounding him.
there you stood, stilled entirely, caught off guard in a way you hadn't been prepared for, your gaze lingering longer where it had no right to. Your eyes widened just a fraction, something soft and almost dazed slipping into your expression before you had the chance to pull it back.
It was the kind of reaction you would have mocked in any other situation, the kind born from surprise, from being struck by something you hadn't seen coming, something… beautiful.
And yet, there it was, plain as anything, written across your face.
Though, the more you stared, the more that it seemed he was someone you once knew. Your thoughts stumbled, tripping over themselves as you tried to place him, to understand why he felt so familiar.
There was a tug at the back of your mind, faint at first, then stronger the longer you held his gaze. Your brows knitted together, the subtle crease between them deepening as confusion began to seep in, washing over the fleeting awe that had gripped you moments ago.
Blinking rapidly, almost as if forcing your eyes to see clearer would help, you searched for an answer. You knew this face. You were sure of it.
The realization built slowly, each fragment of memory clicking into place with painstaking slowness, until it coalesced in a sudden, undeniable awnser. Your expression faltered, the calm awe you had worn moments before dissolving entirely.
Your eyes widened, pupils dilating as disbelief flooded through you, and your lips parted, not just in silent shock this time, but with words that refused to be held back.
"…crybaby?…" The nickname slipped out under your breath, quiet and uncertain, as though you didn't fully trust your own voice. You blinked again, faster now, your gaze darting across his features as if searching for confirmation, your head tilting the slightest bit as your mind struggled to catch up with what it was seeing.
Oh no. Your spine straightened almost abruptly, as though bracing yourself against the sudden weight of the realization on what you had just said. Heat surged unbidden, climbing your neck and flooding your cheeks, leaving you painfully aware of every inch of your skin. You could feel your pulse hammering in your temples, each beat amplifying the disbelief that threatened to unravel your composure entirely.
"I-" you started, your voice catching just slightly before you forced it steady, shaking your head quickly as if that might undo what you'd just said.
"I mean-" you corrected yourself, a little too fast, your expression tightening as you tried to recover whatever dignity you had left. Your fingers itched to smooth your hair, to adjust some invisible fault in your posture, but your eyes betrayed you yet again, flicking nervously back to his, tracing the angles of his face with a mix of awe and incredulity, still searching, still unsure if you were completely losing your mind.
"Legolas?" you asked, the name coming out more carefully this time, though the disbelief still lingered in your tone. "…Is that you?”"
For a long moment, he stayed perfectly still, his gaze locked on yours with an intensity that seemed to strip away everything else around you. Every subtle twitch of your lips, every fraction of a blink, every fleeting hesitation, it all seemed to register with him, cataloged in that unyielding stare.
And yet, beneath the calm, almost sculpted control of his expression, there was a subtle shift—a slight furrow of his brow, a barely noticeable tension around his eyes, that hinted something inside him had stirred: curiosity, recognition, or perhaps something deeper.
The silence that followed after felt far too long then. Your stomach tightened almost instantly, doubt creeping in faster than you could push it away.
Had you misunderstood everything? Maybe you'd spoken too soon, assumed too much. The confidence you'd clung to moments ago slipped through your fingers, leaving a hollow, uneasy weight settling in your chest.
Your shoulders drew in slightly, stiff and protective, and your lips pressed together almost automatically, as if trying to keep the doubt from spilling out. Perhaps you had been mistaken. Perhaps this wasn't him. But then, it seemed as if he'd remembered.
It started small. The tension in his posture softened, the rigid line of his jaw easing, and the sharp intensity in his eyes lost just a fraction of its edge. Recognition, subtle but undeniable, it began to settle in, weaving across his features like the first light of dawn creeping through shadow. You caught it, the precise instant when he'd realise.
His gaze sharpened in realization, as if something long forgotten had suddenly resurfaced. The crease between his brows smoothed out, and the corners of his lips lifted ever so slightly, forming the beginning of a smile that hadn't been there before.
And then he said it, he said your name. Your name fell from his mouth, gentle yet certain, and the sound of it, coming from him, felt impossibly unreal.
Your chest constricted, and suddenly you seemed to be unable to draw air, your gaze locked on him as he closed the distance. Each step he took seemed to carry weight far beyond its motion, compressing the space around you. There was something different about him now, something softer, warmer somehow, carrying a familiarity that made your mind stumble over memories you hadn't realized were still there.
"Where have you been!" Legolas laughed softly, a sound tinged with disbelief yet threaded with relief, like he could hardly believe you were really here. The way he said your name, just once, somehow held years of unspoken worry and the sudden, overwhelming certainty that you were truly in front of him.
Before you could even process his words, he had already closed the distance between you, arms wrapping around you in a sudden, firm hug. The unexpectedness of it stole your breath completely now, catching you completely off guard.
Your body went still for a split second, arms hovering awkwardly at your sides, your mind struggling to catch up with what was happening. You could feel the warmth of him, the firm, grounding weight of the embrace.
This was happening. This was actually happening.
Your arms lingered in the air, unsure where to go, your fingers trembling slightly as they hovered near his back. The scent of him, faintly earthy and familiar, pressed against your senses, and your heart thudded wildly, as if trying to catch up to the sudden reality of being held. It was grounding and disorienting all at once, a clash of emotions that made your knees want to buckle.
In the end, your hands found their way to his back, patting it awkwardly, unsure of whether it was enough or too much.
A small, hesitant smile then tugged at your lips, it was all you could manage. Probably, because you didn't quite know what you were doing at this point.
You didn't know how to respond, how to act, how to place yourself in this sudden, impossible reality—how to react to him.… he had never been real to you before. Just a figure that lingered in dreams, in half-formed memories that never quite made sense when you woke up. Someone distant, untouchable.
And now he was here, standing in front of you. Holding you like you belonged in his world as much as he seemed to belong in yours. It didn't make sense. None of it did.
Before you could gather your thoughts, or even just a proper response to form, he had already pulled back. The warmth of his embrace disappeared too quickly, leaving a hollow tug at your chest and a strange unsteadiness in your posture.
But he didn't let go entirely, as his hands shifted, moving deliberately to your shoulders, fingers curling just enough to hold you steady, a presence both firm and reassuring.
The movement was abrupt, a sharp little tug that jolted you unexpectedly. Your body pitched forward just slightly, a quiet stumble hovering at the edge of your balance—but his hands remained firm, steadying you before you could falter.
Your breath caught in your throat, fluttering like a trapped bird. Your chest rose and fell too quickly, a faint warmth creeping into your cheeks as the nearness of him made your thoughts scramble, scattering into fragments that refused to settle.
Every subtle motion, the way his hands pressed gently against your shoulders, the faint scent of him brushing against your senses, the quiet hum of his presence so close to you was intoxicating.
"Oh." The word escaped before your mind could catch it, barely audible, carried more by instinct than intent. Your lips parted almost on their own as your eyes found his again, drawn in despite yourself. Up close, it was impossible to ignore him.
They held yours with an intensity that made it difficult to look away, as if he were searching for something within you, something he had been waiting far too long to find again.
"You have not come to the tree in ages," He said, his voice lower now, quieter, but no less steady. His gaze still lingered on you, and there was a subtle tension in the set of his shoulders, a restraint that couldn't entirely mask the feelings he held beneath.
His brows drew together faintly, not in anger, but in something closer to concern… or perhaps disappointment. "I had begun to think you would not return at all."
The words hit deeper than you expected, a pang of guilt threading through your chest. Your fingers curled slightly at your sides as if to steady yourself, lips pressed together briefly before you nodded, the motion small and hesitant. "Right…" you murmured, the word dragging a little as your mind scrambled for something, anything that would somehow make sense of your absence.
Your gaze shifted quickly, almost as if the leaves and shadows at your feet had suddenly become far more compelling than the intensity of his eyes. "Uhh… I was just busy," you added, the explanation coming out a touch uneven despite your attempt to sound casual.
It wasn't entirely untrue.
Your fingers fidgeted faintly at your sides, brushing against the fabric of your sleeve as you spoke, your shoulders stiffening under his hands. There was a slight lift of your brows, an almost apologetic curve to your expression, though uncertainty lingered in your eyes. You weren't even sure if you were convincing yourself, let alone him.
Because you had been busy. Just… not in the way he would have thought.
You hadn't stopped coming to that place by choice. It had simply… stopped happening. The dreams, if that's what they were—had faded without warning, leaving behind only fragments, faint memories that never quite felt real when you tried to hold onto them.
And now, standing here, with him looking at you like this, like you had been gone, like you had left by choice—it twisted something deep in your chest that you didn't quite know how to name.
So you nodded again, smaller this time, as if reinforcing your own words. "Just… busy," you repeated quietly, though this time, it sounded a little more certain than before.
You then seemed to realize then just how quiet it had become. Your shoulders stiffened under Legolas's hands, a sudden awareness prickling at your skin, every glance, every breath, every movement seemed magnified under the weight of so many eyes.
It made it harder to think, harder to breathe, as though even the smallest misstep might fracture the fragile balance holding this moment together. Your heart pounded in your chest, loud, echoing your unease to everyone watching.
"Psst!" The sound was soft, barely more than a whisper, but it cut through the tension all the same.
Your head turned just slightly, cautious, your gaze shifting over your shoulder until it landed on the source.
Fili. There he stood a short distance away, leaning forward just enough to betray the careful effort of staying unnoticed, though it was clear he was failing spectacularly.
His brows were lifted, eyes wide and shining with that desperate, earnest energy that made it impossible to misread his intent. There was something almost comical about the way he tried to remain subtle while very obviously not being subtle at all.
You stared at him for half a second, your expression hardened, lines of impatience threading across your face. "What?" you whispered back sharply, the word carrying a hint of frustration. Your brows drew together, eyes narrowing just a fraction as if silently asking him whether this was really the time.
Fili didn't seem to be bothered by the slightest. If anything, he leaned forward just a little more, his urgency growing more obvious by the second. His eyes widened, practically pleading now, as he gestured faintly with his head toward Legolas.
"Tell him we mean no harm!" he whispered, his voice hushed but insistent, each word pushed out quickly as if afraid he'd run out of time. His expression was a mix of hope and anxiety, as he watched you expectantly, like you were their last and only chance at not making this situation worse.
There was a brief pause. And just like that, the pressure had shifted back onto you. Your gaze flickered between them, caught in the space between two completely different worlds.
Fili stood there, tense and hopeful, practically willing you to say the right thing—while in front of you, Legolas remained steady, composed, his attention still fixed on you. It made your thoughts difficult, the contrast between them pulling at you from both sides. You hesitated, your lips parting slightly as if the words might come on their own.
They didn't. So you forced them to.
Your eyes finally settled back on Legolas, steadying yourself as best as you could under his gaze. A small, almost sheepish smile tugged at your lips, your expression softening as you tried to ease the tension that hung thick in the air.
"Ahaha…" The laugh came out a little awkward, quieter than you intended, but you pushed through it anyway. Your hand lifted slightly, a faint, uncertain gesture as if that alone might make your words sound more convincing.
"Well… you know…" you continued, glancing briefly over your shoulder toward the dwarves before looking back at him. "These are my companions. We've traveled quite a distance to reach our destination."
There was a pause, stretching longer than you were comfortable with, before you forced your voice out again. This time it was softer, tinged with caution, almost coaxing, "We really mean no harm."
Your expression held when you spoke, carrying a quiet earnestness as your eyes searched his face for the faintest flicker of understanding or trust. But the response you got in return wasn't exactly what you'd expected. A faint sound left him, a quiet breath that almost resembled a laugh.
It wasn't loud, nor was it warm. There was no real amusement behind it, only a faint trace of disbelief laced beneath the sound.
"You have not lost your way with words," He murmured, his head tilting just a fraction, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied you with quiet scrutiny. There was an edge to his tone, dry and almost teasing, yet beneath it lingered the faintest trace of doubt. "But this is no jest."
There was a subtle shift in his posture then, something firmer settling into place. His eyes drifted for a moment past you, landing on the dwarves, taking them in with a careful, assessing glance. Then, just as smoothly, his gaze swung back to you.
"Elves and dwarves do not walk the same path," He continued, his voice calm, "Trust does not come freely between them."
Your smile wavered, fading before it could fully form. A shadow of puzzlement crossed your features, your forehead creasing subtly as your eyes swept over his face, searching for any hint that he might be joking.
This wasn't how it was supposed to go.
You opened your mouth, ready to question him, to push further to understand what he had meant until, "Legolas."
You turned instinctively, your attention pulled toward the red-haired elf as she stepped forward, her presence just as commanding as before. There was urgency in the way she called his name, her gaze flicking between him and the rest of the group, clearly expecting his attention.
Legolas stilled for a fraction of a second, his eyes lingering on you before his attention drifted elsewhere, the tension in his expression smoothing back into that familiar composure. His hands, which had remained steady at your shoulders, loosened before falling away completely, the absence of them leaving behind a strange, fleeting emptiness.
He glanced back at you, though just briefly. "Stay here," he said, his tone softer now. There was something almost reluctant in the way he pulled away, as if he hadn't quite finished whatever it was he had wanted to say.
"I will return shortly." His gaze lingered on you as he spoke, sweeping over your face one last time, committing every detail of you to memory. Then he gave a small, almost distracted nod, more of a promise to himself than to you, before turning away, moving off without waiting for a reply, leaving a tension in the air that clung to you long after he was gone.
You blinked once, then nodded instinctively, the motion coming a second too late. "…Okay," you murmured under your breath, though he was already out of earshot.
Your eyes followed him for a moment, tracing the line of his retreating figure. There was something effortless in it. The faint shift of his broad shoulders, the straight line of his back, the way the light caught against strands of gold as he passed beneath the canopy.
You exhaled softly, almost without meaning to.
"…Damn." The word slipped from you in a hushed breath, barely there, your head tilting just slightly as your gaze lingered on the space he had just occupied. A small sigh followed, your lips pressing together faintly as a thought crossed your mind—one that felt almost surreal even as it formed.
When were you ever going to see something like this again… with your own eyes?
"…What are you doing?" The voice sliced cleanly through your thoughts, sharp enough to pull you back in an instant.
You startled, just slightly, your focus snapping back as your head dipped down, only to find Fili and Kíli suddenly standing far closer than they had before. It was as if they had simply appeared there, out of thin air, both of them watching you with expressions that made it very clear they had been observing you for a while now.
Fili's brows were raised just enough to show curiosity laced with suspicion, whileKíli's mouth hovered at the edge of a grin, like he was holding back a comment he was far too eager to make.
Though, Kíli didn't even try to hide it, as his eyes flicked briefly in the direction Legolas had gone before settling right back on you.
"She's staring," he pointed out, his tone light, almost teasing, a glint of curiosity flashed in his eyes, like he'd just caught onto something entertaining.
Your reaction was immediate. "What? No, I'm not-" you shot back quickly, your nose scrunching as you frowned at him, the denial slipping out a little too fast to sound entirely convincing.
You crossed your arms without thinking, shifting your weight as if that alone would make your defense stronger. But the faint heat creeping up your neck betrayed you, a flicker of embarrassment slipping through despite your effort to bury it beneath irritation.
Fili didn't even try to hide his disbelief against your words. "Oh, don't even bother," he scorned, his voice dry, though not unkind. His lips curved faintly at the corner, more amused than anything, as he glanced at Kíli for an agreemen, before settling back on you. "It was rather obvious."
You let out a scoff, rolling your eyes as your arms fell back to your sides. Your posture loosened just enough to show your annoyance, chin tilting slightly as you gave them an unimpressed look, as if neither of them deserved the satisfaction of a proper reaction.
"Well, you can't exactly blame me," you muttered, lifting a hand in a half-hearted gesture as if defending yourself in a losing argument. Deep down, you knew they'd caught you.
Your expression eased, the edge of defensiveness softening into something more casual, though there was still a hint of stubborn pride lingering in the way you held yourself. "I don't exactly see faces like this from where I came from. This is-" you paused briefly, searching for the right word before settling on one with a small shrug, "...rare."
Kíli let out a quiet huff of laughter at your chosen words, shaking his head slightly, while Fili's expression softened just a touch, though his focus remained steady.
"Right," Fili drawled, stretching the word just enough to make it clear he wasn't entirely interested in that particular topic. His tone then shifted as he continued, the lightness fading into something more serious, as he leaned in just a fraction nearer. "We don't particularly care for your taste in hair or eyes-"
"Though it is questionable," Kíli added under his breath, earning himself a brief look from his brother.
"-but could you perhaps," Fili continued, ignoring him, "use whatever connection you have there to speak with him? Convince him we are not a threat and let us off on our own way?"
You let out a sharp exhale in response, running a hand through your hair as frustration crept in, tugging at the edges of your composure. "I'm trying!" you shot back, your voice dropping slightly as you gestured vaguely in the direction Legolas had gone. "It's not exactly easy when he's acting like he doesn't trust a single word coming out of my mouth."
"Then try harder!" The sudden voice behind you came just as sudden with a shove.
You barely had time to react before the force sent you forward, your breath catching as your footing slipped beneath you. A quiet yelp threatened to escape, your body pitching straight ahead—right towards him.
The ground felt uneven under your boots, your balance completely thrown off, and for a split second, you braced yourself for an ungraceful fall.
But it never came. Before you could even crash into him, he had already turned, catching you just in time with a swift, effortless movement that left you suspended in his arms.
It was almost unsettling how quickly he reacted, like he had sensed you before you even reached him. One smooth motion, precise and effortless, and his hands had found you, steadying your fall as he caught you against him.
His grip was firm, one arm bracing your back while the other steadied your arm, keeping you upright as if it had been nothing more than a minor misstep.
You couldn't breathe all over again. You froze under his touch, every nerve alert and aware of his presence. Your hands had instinctively clutched onto him by then, fingers curling slightly against his clothing as you steadied yourself, your face just inches from his.
The world seemed to narrow again, your thoughts stalling completely as the realization sank in. You could feel the warmth of him, the solidness of his hold, the faint rise and fall of his breath—calm, steady, and entirely unaffected.
Unlike yours.
A flush spread quickly up your cheeks, catching you off guard. Your eyes flicked away for a split second, seeking anything else to focus on, only to find themselves drawn right back to him again. Your lips parted, though no words came out, your composure slipping faster than you could gather it.
"I-" you began, only for the words to falter, catching awkwardly in your throat. Meanwhile, he looked entirely unbothered by it. If anything, there was the faintest hint of amusement in his expression now, subtle but present in the way his gaze softened just slightly. His grip didn't tighten, nor did it loosen immediately—just enough to make sure you were steady before he spoke.
"You should take more care where you step," he said, his tone calm, touched with something almost gentle, as he leaned just an inch closer, the warmth of his body brushing against yours, grounding you even as it made your pulse quicken.
Eventually, he released you, though not abruptly. His hands lingered a moment longer, steadying you just enough to guarantee your balance, before he eased back, creating space once more.
You, on the other hand, were still untangling yourself from the sudden closeness. A shaky breath slipped past your lips as you straightened, fingers brushing at your sleeve in a futile attempt to gather some composure.
Your gaze dropped, only for it to rise again, caught between embarrassment and lingering fluster, your earlier confidence completely vanished.
Right. You had a job to do.
Your fingers curled slightly at your sides as you forced yourself to focus, clearing your throat softly before speaking.
"What… um-" you paused, wincing faintly at your own lack of coordination before trying again, your voice steadier this time. "What are you going to do with them?" Your gaze darted briefly toward the dwarves, scanning their tense forms, before returning to him. Even amidst your effort to remain composed, a thread of concern wove through your eyes.
He followed your gaze for a moment, his features smoothing into a controlled, guarded expression. "They will be taken to Mirkwood," he replied, "To stand before the King."
There was no hesitation in his words, no room left for interpretation. His eyes then returned to yours, steady as ever. "What follows," he added, "will be for him to decide."
And those words stayed with you all the way to Mirkwood, echoing quietly in the back of your mind. You fell into step beside him, close enough to feel the faint brush of his sleeve, your shoulders nearly touching with every measured stride.
You forced your attention on the path ahead, but it was impossible to ignore the annoying tightening in your chest. Your pulse raced a little faster with every step, and despite your best effort, your eyes kept drifting, stealing fleeting glimpses of him from the corner of your vision.
A faint sound then drew your attention, a soft, deliberate hiss came from behind.
Your head turned just enough to glance over your shoulder. There they stood, the dwarves lined up like statues, yet their eyes spoke volumes, wide and pleading.
The elves had them fully in their control, and yet their expressions were impossible to miss—hope, worry, and frustration mixed into each tense line of their faces.
Your stomach tightened. They were all looking at you, waiting for you to somehow fix what had already spiraled beyond your control.
"Negotiation?" You murmured, voice barely above a whisper, shaking your head almost imperceptibly. You cast a quick glance at Legolas, keeping the movement subtle, a silent plea that he might somehow see and understand before the dwarves noticed your hesitation.
It was sadly, all in vain. Their disappointment was immediate, palpable when they saw through you. You then found Thorin's gaze on you all of a sudden, each second of his stare digging into your nerves, holding a grudge like he couldn't forgive your inability to be of help.
"Useless." The word hit before it even left his lips, carried in the sharp, deliberate movement of his mouth. You watched it form, slow and precise, each letter etched with his frustration and disappointment, before he looked away.
Your entire body froze, tense from head to toe. Your mouth fell open in shock. Useless? The word struck harder than you'd imagined, like a blade aimed straight at you.
You blinked, momentarily stunned, before your brows knit together in disbelief. How could he say such a thing? Your lips parted, ready to speak, fight back, but no sound emerged. The sting of his judgment sank deep into your chest, spreading a warmth across your cheeks in embarrassment.
The dwarves' gazes darted toward you, some softening with quiet sympathy, others still wide and tense with anxious hope. Yet Thorin's face remained the same, his expression carved from resolve, and the word thrummed insistently in your mind, reverberating like a weight you weren't sure you could bear: useless?!
In a world shaped by secrets and impossible choices, two lives become intertwined by a bond neither fully understands. As time passes and fate pulls them down separate, painful paths, memories and promises refuse to fade. Were they always meant to find each other?
𑣲⋆｡˚ READ "TIED BY FATE" (PART ONE) HERE!
: ̗̀➛ A/n : Finally done with this! It's been long since I've posted the first one, but it's finally hereeee. It was originally longer than this, but I had decided to shorten it with some timeskips / cuts. Cause this ori fic is so longgg 😭 Sooo, I'd just focused on the yearning this two had for one another hehe. (Also, I accidentally deleted like half the fic last min, and had to rewrite it 😞)
: ̗̀➛ Warnings : blood/injured , major character death! , tiny manipulation? , angst , hurt/comfort
: ̗̀➛ Wc : 16k+
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It had been a few days since that dream. Or at least, that's what you kept telling yourself.
You treated it like something distant. Just a fragment of your imagination that decided to haunt you for a night and leave. You went on with your days normally —waking up, eating, putting on your headphones like nothing had changed you.
It was a quiet afternoon, the sun spilled softly through your curtains, painting your room in a muted gold that felt almost fragile. Dust floated lazily in the air, visible only when the light caught it just right. You were lying on your bed, one arm tucked beneath your head, the other resting loosely over your stomach.
Your walkman rested against your hip, the steady mechanical whir of the tape turning faint beneath the music. The headphones pressed comfortably over your ears, slightly warm from wearing them almost all day.
It had become your comfort these past few days.
You didn't know why, exactly. But the moment the music started, the world felt… quieter, less threatening you suppose. Like whatever waited outside your room couldn't quite reach you through the melody. The songs wrapped around your thoughts, smoothing their sharp edges, drowning out the whispers you couldn't seem to silence on your own.
You felt safe like this.
Looking down, your fingers brushed over the familiar tape spinning inside. The one Steve had gifted you. You were listening to it right now.
"You need better taste in music," he had teased, pressing it into your hand with that crooked grin of his. You never told him you played it more than any other.
Right now, the familiar intro filled your ears, followed by the steady, haunting rhythm. A faint, almost bittersweet smile tugged at your lips as the lyrics flowed through your ears.
"Every breath you take…
Every move you make…
Every bond you break…
Every step you take… I’ll be watching you…"
The words used to sound ridiculous when Steve would belt them out in that over-the-top dramatic voice of his, hand pressed to his chest like he was performing on some grand stage. You used to wrinkle your nose at him every single time.
"That sounds really creepy, you know," you'd tell him flatly, folding your arms while he kept going anyway. "Like something a stalker would say."
He'd only laugh at that, completely unbothered, throwing you an exaggerated wink in return.
"Every single day…
Every word you say…
Every game you play…
Every night you stay… I'll be watching you…"
You stared at the ceiling, eyes tracing the faint crack near the corner that you'd memorized over the years. The song pulled memories from places you'd tried not to visit.
It brought back memories of late-night talks, stupid arguments, and the way the whole team used to feel inseparable. You knew every abnormality this town had thrown at you, you had faced them with them. Fought through it and survived it, together.
But lately, you weren't sure when it started. You just found yourself drifting, pulling away without meaning to. Their laughter felt further. Their voices slightly distant. Even when you were standing beside them, it felt like there was some type of glass between you.
You didn't know why. The voices in your head didn't help either. Sometimes they sounded like warnings, sometimes like lies. And sometimes… like truths you weren't ready to face.
You squeezed your eyes shut, letting the chorus play again, louder in your ears as if it could silence everything else.
All of a sudden, the sound of a knock surfaced as it reached past your earphones. The sound cut through the music faintly at first, blending with the rhythm in your ears.
You ignored it as you frowned slightly, eyes still closed, pretending you hadn't heard it. The headphones muffled it enough that you could almost convince yourself it was part of the beat.
Though before you could fully convince yourself, another knock followed after another, if anything, it was louder and firmer than the one before.
Your eyes opened slowly, staring blankly at the ceiling as the lyrics continued to pour into your ears.
With a small sigh, you lifted your hand and pressed the stop button. The music cut off abruptly, leaving behind the faint mechanical whir of the tape slowing to a halt.
Silence, the kind that rang in your ear stubbornly, irritatingly.
For a second, you considered staying exactly where you were. Pretending to be asleep or pretending you weren't there. The bed felt too comfortable, the sheets too warm, the safety of your own little world too fragile to step out of.
But you couldn't ignore it forever. After all, they took you in, gave you this room, a life to live again. You wouldn't repay that kindness with silence.
Slowly, you pushed yourself up, the mattress dipping as your weight shifted. The headphones slid down around your neck, resting there as you reached for the walkman and placed it carefully on your bedside table. Your fingers lingered on the tape for just a moment longer than necessary.
The floor was cool under your bare feet. The afternoon light seemed dimmer now, the warmth thinning as a cloud passed outside.
"I'm coming," you called out, walking toward the door slowly, each step heavier than it should've been. Your hand hovered over the knob before you finally turned it.
The door opened to reveal your mom standing there, her arms loosely crossed as she observed you.
"Sweetie, did you finish your homework?" she asked gently. "I've seen you in your room the whole time ever since the holidays started."
She stood there in the hallway light, her expression soft but searching. The warm glow behind her made the rest of the house look safe. So painfully normal compared to the way your room had felt just moments ago.
You nodded automatically. "Yeah. I finished it." The lie slipped out so easily it almost scared you.
In reality, you had completely forgotten about your homework. It hadn't even crossed your mind these past few days.
Summer still had a long way to go, sure. But the teachers hadn't been generous. The work they gave was practically calculated, measured carefully against the number of days you were given off. Just enough to keep you busy. Just enough to make sure you couldn't slack.
She studied you for a moment, her eyes scanning your face like she was searching for something you weren't saying.
"You've barely come out," she added. "You're not sick, are you?"
"No," you answered quickly. The reply came a little too fast, and you tried to soften it with a small shrug, glancing away for a moment. "I just… didn't feel like going out."
Looking back at you, she couldn't help but softened at that, the concern in her face easing as she took a small step closer to you. Her brows, which had been drawn together in worry, relaxed ever so slightly.
"It's not good to stay cooped up all day," she said gently, tilting her head as she studied you more carefully, like she was trying to read something in your expression. "You used to run out the door the second school ended."
A faint, nostalgic smile tugged at her lips. "Now I practically have to drag you outside."
You tried to return the smile, the corners of your mouth lifting just enough to look convincing. Your gaze drifted briefly to the side, fingers curling loosely at your sleeve before you forced yourself to look back at her.
"People change," you muttered lightly, giving a small shrug like it didn't matter, even though something tight lingered in your chest.
Her expression shifted slightly at your words, the faint smile fading as her brows slowly drew together. A small crease appeared between them as she looked at you more carefully now, concern flickering across her face like she was trying to piece something together.
'Are you still talking to the others?" she asked, her voice gentler this time. "I haven't seen them around lately."
Your chest tightened even more at the question, the feeling almost sudden and uncomfortable. For a moment you wished she hadn't asked at all.
"Yeah," you replied quickly, your gaze drifting past her shoulder instead of meeting her eyes, settling on the quiet hallway behind her. You could only fix your attention there—on the empty space, the doorway, anything that kept you from looking back at her. "We're fine."
Fine. The word sat strangely in the air, heavier than it should have been.
She studied you for another moment, her lips pressing together slightly like she didn't fully believe it. But after a second, she only gave a small nod and let the silence settle, choosing not to push any further.
"Just… don't shut yourself away, okay?" she added softly. Her expression was gentle, but there was a quiet seriousness behind it, her eyes resting on you a moment longer than usual. "Whatever's going on in that head of yours, you don't have to carry it alone."
Your throat tightened slightly at her words, a dry lump forming as if the sound of her concern had lodged itself right there and then. There it was again, that quiet implication that something about you wasn't right, that maybe things were heavier than you let on.
Maybe there was. And for a moment, you didn't know whether to resent it or feel relieved that someone still noticed.
"Well, your dad and I will be out for a date tonight," she continued after a moment, her tone shifting as she tried to keep things casual. "So I've already prepared dinner for you. Just reheat it in the microwave."
"Okay," you replied in a murmur, your voice quieter this time.
She lingered there for a second longer, hesitation flickering across her face like she almost wanted to say something else. But whatever it was, she had decided to keep it to herself that evening. With a small nod, she finally turned and walked down the hall, her footsteps fading gradually.
You stood there for a moment, watching until she disappeared around the corner. The house finally settling back into silence, the familiar one you knew of.
Slowly, you reached out and closed the door, the sound of the it seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet house. You leaned your forehead against the cool wood, eyes closing for a brief moment, as if pressing against it could somehow steady the odd tension coiling in your chest. Your breaths felt shallow and uneven, though you couldn't pinpoint why.
You weren't sick. You weren't sad. So why did everything feel… off?
After a moment, you pushed yourself away from the door and turned back toward your room. Your gaze immediately fell on your bed, the familiar sight offering a small, grounding comfort amidst the strange heaviness that lingered.
On the Walkman, on the tape laying there. The afternoon light had shifted yet again, stretching long, golden shadows across the floorboards and walls. Dust motes floated lazily in the sunbeams, catching the fading light like tiny, restless sparks.
The warmth that had filled the room earlier now felt diluted, as if the sunlight itself had retreated, leaving the corners in soft, creeping gloom. The air then felt still, carrying a subtle weight that pressed against your chest. Even the familiar hum of the house seemed quieter, muffled, as though it were holding its breath along with you.
You stepped closer to your bed, fingers brushing over the Walkman as if it were a fragile piece. Your thumb hovered over the play button, hesitant. For comfort, just for a little longer than you should let it be.
You pressed it in the end. The tape clicked into motion with a tiny, mechanical snap, and almost immediately a burst of static hissed in your ears. It was sharp, grating, as if the sound itself were like tiny sparks scratching across your eardrums. You flinched, a chill shiver crawling up your spine. Your brow furrowed instinctively, lips pressing together as unease settled in your chest.
Something about the sound felt wrong, not just off, but… intrusive, like the tape was reaching out past the speakers, brushing against your nerves. Your stomach twisted, a low, uncomfortable coil tightening as your pulse ticked up in quiet alarm.
For a moment, you just stared at the Walkman, fingers hovering over it as if letting it continue might somehow undo whatever had shifted in the air around you.
It was supposed to be comfort. Familiar and safe. But right now, it just felt like a warning you couldn't quite name.
Pulling one headphone slightly away from your ear, you leaned closer to the Walkman laying on your bed, eyes narrowing as you scrutinized it. The device gleamed innocuously in the fading light, its buttons still intact, tape seated properly. Everything looked exactly as it should.
The tape was the same one you'd put in, the one you knew by heart. Still, unease lingered, prickling along your skin. You pressed stop, the click sharp in the quiet room, and then hesitated for a moment before pressing play again, as if giving the tape a second chance to behave normally.
This time, the music began again—but it was different. Softer, uneven, almost as if it were melting under the weight of some unseen force.
"Every breath you take…"
Your stomach knotted painfully, a slow, insistent twist of unease crawling up your spine. The lyrics dragged unnaturally, each word lingering longer than it should, like time itself was bending in on you. Your chest felt heavy, your pulse picking up in that quiet, insistent way that warned something was wrong.
With a sharp exhale, you yanked the headphones off completely, letting them hang loosely around your neck. Your eyes stayed locked on the Walkman, glaring at it, as if it had betrayed you, an ordinary device now seeming impossibly wrong, harboring something cold and deliberate beneath its familiar casing.
The music didn't stop. It continued to seep faintly from the loose earpiece resting against your collarbone, a ghost of sound that sounded so wrong.
"Every move you make…"
Your heart thudded in response, heavy and deliberate, each beat pressing into your chest with a weight that made your ribs ache, impossible to ignore.
You didn't like this, not one bit. It was just an old tape after all. Old tapes glitch. That's all, it had to be. And yet… the sensation of being watched, of something wrong lingering in the air, refused to fade.
You reached forward to press stop, but before your finger could even touch the button, the music had cut off on its own.
Silence swallowed the room immediately, thick and heavy, pressing against your ears and chest. Your eyes widened, pupils dilating as a cold prickle ran up your spine.
Then—a sound. Faint, almost imperceptible at first, yet it cut through the silence with a clarity that made your skin crawl. From somewhere behind you, in the confines of your own room, you had felt it, a soft exhale. It was slow, deliberate, and disturbingly close.
Your shoulders drew tight, almost hunched, while your fingers slowly curled into fists at your sides without you realizing, nails digging faintly into your palms.
Your heart slammed hard against your ribs, each heavy beat echoing in your ears like a drum you couldn’t silence. The sound filled your head, loud and relentless, as a cold wave of dread spread through your chest, tightening your lungs and making every breath feel shallow.
Your jaw clenched, lips pressing together until they ached, as your eyes darted around the whole room, searching for the impossible. But there was nothing. Nothing that should have been there. And yet… you could feel it. You could feel it behind you, close, patient, waiting for you.
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The drive to your house was tense, so tense the air in the car felt almost hard to breathe. The low hum of the engine and the steady rush of tires over asphalt filled the silence, but none of them seemed to hear it.
In the backseat, Lucas sat stiffly, his hands clasped together between his knees. From the outside he looked composed, almost steady, but the tight set of his jaw and the way his shoulders refused to relax betrayed the storm of worry inside him.
Beside him, Dustin shifted restlessly, his foot bouncing nonstop against the floor of the car. His fingers kept tugging at the brim of his cap, eyes flicking nervously to every passing streetlight and shadow outside the window.
The thought clawing at the back of his mind refused to settle, the idea that you could be a target for Vecna. That somehow you could end up like the others. Dustin swallowed hard, shaking his head faintly as if trying to physically knock the thought away. No, that was ridiculous. Total bullshit.
You weren't just another person in Hawkins. Not to them, not to him.
To Dustin, you had always been the one who looked out for them, the one who stuck around when things got weird or scary. The one who teased them, argued with them, dragged them out of trouble, and somehow made everything feel a little less terrifying when the world started going sideways.
You were like a big sister to him—to all of them, really.
Up front, Max sat leaned back in her seat, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as if holding herself together. The bright orange foam of her Walkman headphones covered her ears, the cord trailing down to the cassette player resting in her lap. Even with the music playing, it was obvious she wasn't really listening.
Her shoulders were stiff, posture tense despite the way she tried to appear composed. One of her fingers tapped faintly against her arm in an uneven rhythm, betraying the restless energy building under the surface.
Her gaze stayed fixed on the windshield, but every so often her eyes shifted toward the passing streets outside, her brows pulling together slightly.
Her jaw would tighten for a moment before she pressed her lips together, exhaling slowly through her nose like she was trying to steady herself. The music in her ears was supposed to keep her grounded, but the anxious knot in her chest seemed to refuse to loosen.
Steve's hands locked around the steering wheel, his fingers curled so tightly around it that the leather gave a faint creak under the pressure. Even with Max sitting beside him, leaned back with her headphones on, the tension in the front of the car was impossible to miss.
His posture was stiff as he pushed the car faster than he normally would, the needle on the speedometer inching higher whenever the road opened up ahead of them.
Streetlights flashed across his face in quick bursts as they passed beneath them, briefly revealing the strain in his expression, the tight line of his mouth, the deep crease forming between his brows. His jaw flexed again, and he swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the road even as his thoughts dragged him somewhere else entirely.
For a split second, an image forced its way back into his mind—Ms. Kelly's desk. The stack of files sitting at the corner, yours.
He remembered the way it had been sitting there among the others, your name printed neatly at the top. Almost everything on the page had been marked, lines of information and symptoms circled and highlighted in red ink. Too much red, way too much.
His grip on the wheel tightened without him realizing, the memory lingering longer than it should. He couldn't lose you. Not like that, not another time.
Steve then forced his focus back onto the road, pressing his foot down slightly harder on the gas. They just needed to get there, and they needed to be fast.
Neither of them said anything, but the tension between them was obvious. Every second that passed without reaching your house seemed to wind the nerves in the front seat tighter and tighter.
"Guys…" Dustin's voice finally broke the heavy silence hanging inside the car. It came out quieter than he intended, uncertain, like he wasn't sure if he should be speaking at all.
He shifted slightly in his seat, fingers tugging nervously at the brim of his cap before glancing between the others. "You don’t think she'll… you know…" He hesitated, the words catching awkwardly in his throat. His brows pulled together, and he swallowed before forcing himself to finish. "…really get captured next by Vecna..."
The moment the words left his mouth, he had already regretted them. His lips pressed together tightly as he looked down at his hands, wishing he could take it back. Saying it out loud somehow made the possibility feel a lot more real than he wanted it to be.
Max spun halfway in her seat, eyes blazing and wide with a mix of fear and frustration. "Don't say that!" she snapped, voice sharper than she intended, trembling at the edges.
Max's arms then tightened across her chest as she pressed her lips together, her eyes flicking toward Steve with barely contained panic.
Steve could only exhale sharply through his nose in return, tightening his grip on the wheel, his knuckles paling as the tension in the car seemed to press down from every side. "Dustin, not helping," he muttered, voice strained.
Max's gaze snapped back to the windshield, jaw tight, letting out a frustrated huff upon hearing steve's words. The fear they all shared made it impossible to sit still, impossible to stay calm.
Even with the music from her Walkman droning softly in her ears, she couldn't block out the terror curling in her chest. Steve's words had only reminded her that they were all on edge—none of them could let themselves think clearly until they got to her.
Behind the two, Lucas shifted slightly in the backseat, hands tightening briefly in his lap before lifting one to try and calm the spiraling tension in the car. "Look," he said carefully, forcing himself to think straight despite the knot in his chest. "We should probably get to Eddie soon too. Jason, Patrick, and Andy are still looking for him. If they find him first-"
Before he could even finish, both Max and Steve turned toward the backseat at the same time. "We know!" Max and Steve shouted together, their voices tight with panic and frustration.
Steve shook his head immediately after, running a hand briefly through his hair before returning it to the wheel. "Look, we know about Eddie," he said, voice tight with stress. "But right now I...I mean, we...we just-" He cut himself off, exhaling sharply.
Almost as if helping Steve finish the thought he couldn't voice, Max let her shoulders tense even more, pressing back against the seat as her eyes stayed locked on the windshield.
Her voice dropped to a quieter murmur, but the urgency in it didn't fade. "We just… need to get to her first," she said, words clipped and tight. "That's all."
The weight of their words settled all over the car.
Dustin felt his stomach twist as he glanced at Lucas. Hearing the panic in Max's voice and seeing the tight worry in Steve's face made everything suddenly feel much more real. This wasn't just another problem to solve—it was you.
"Yeah," Dustin said quickly, sitting up straighter. "Yeah, okay. We'll deal with the rest after."
No one had spoke after that, as the car sped through the streets, the tension inside it intense. Every one of them was thinking the same thing, even if none of them said it out loud.
They just needed to get to you in time.
The car slowed as they neared your house, the engine humming unevenly as Steve eased his foot off the gas. The tension inside the vehicle tightened instantly, thick and suffocating.
Then the sound hit them.
The distant wail of sirens cut through, growing louder with every passing second. It sliced straight through the silence inside the car, making Dustin's head snap toward the window while Lucas leaned forward in his seat.
A moment later, the flashing red and white lights came into view. The ambulance lights strobed violently against the crowded street, spilling across the road and crashing through the car windows in blinding bursts.
The light reflected harshly across the windshield, forcing Steve to squint slightly as his grip on the steering wheel tightened. The red glare washed over his face, then disappeared, then returned again in a dizzying like rhythm.
In front of the house, a crowd had gathered, neighbors spilling out onto the lawn and driveway in uneasy clusters. Some stood with their arms folded tightly across their chests, others leaned toward one another, whispering behind raised hands.
The low murmur of worried voices floated through the air, broken occasionally by the crackle of a police radio or the metallic clatter of equipment being moved.
And through the shifting gaps between bodies, the group had caught a glimpse of movement.
Two paramedics were pushing a stretcher toward the open back doors of the ambulance. The metal legs rattled faintly against the pavement as the wheels rolled unevenly over the cracks in the driveway.
And on it, someone lay there, bundled beneath thin white sheets and strapped down across the chest and legs, their body completely still. One arm had slipped slightly from the blanket, hanging limply at the side of the stretcher as it moved.
The person didn't move even the slightest inch as the paramedics lifted the stretcher rails and began sliding it carefully into the back of the ambulance.
For a moment, none of them inside the car breathed, dared to even. Because even from this distance, even through the crowd, they knew. And the realization struck like a punch straight through the chest.
Steve was the first to shove the car door open. The moment his feet hit the pavement, he was already moving.
Each step toward the house felt wrong, too heavy, as if something was dragging against his limbs, and slowing him down when all he wanted to do was run. His heart pounded violently in his chest, every beat loud enough that it seemed to echo in his ears.
"Steve-!" Max's voice called after him, followed by Lucas', "Steve, wait-!".
But their voices barely reached him. The wail of the sirens, the crackling radios, the anxious chatter of the crowd—it all blurred together into a harsh, overwhelming noise that swallowed their words before they could reach him.
His eyes were locked on the ambulance, on the stretcher, on you. A few more steps, just a few more. Though, it was never really close enough for him.
Strong arms caught him across the chest and shoulders, stopping him abruptly before he could get any closer. "Sir, you can't-" one of the officers started firmly.
Steve barely heard him. His eyes were wide, fixed on the back of the ambulance where the paramedics were lifting the stretcher the rest of the way inside. Your body lay completely still against the thin mattress, head tilted slightly to the side, limbs unmoving.
"No…" The word slipped from him under his breath, barely more than air.
The officer tightened his grip even more, trying his best to hold him back. "You need to stay behind the line-"
But Steve didn't care, how could he when all he could care about is you right now? He shoved forward again, trying to push past them, his movements desperate and uncoordinated.
"I need to get to her-!" His voice cracked, raw and panicked.
Another officer stepped in, grabbing his arm, holding him back before he could break through the small barricade of people and tape. "Sir, you need to calm down,"
"No!" Steve snapped, struggling harder now, trying to wrench himself free from their grasps. "Let me go-!" He screamed, his eyes never leaving you. Never left the sight of your body being pushed fully into the ambulance.
His ears rang loudly, drowning everything else out until the world felt distant around him. He couldn't hear what the officers were saying anymore. Couldn't hear the others behind him, all of it vanished in the haze of his terror. All he could see was you.
His vision blurred as tears flooded his eyes, burning hot as they slipped down his face. His chest heaved violently, breaths coming in uneven bursts as panic and guilt clawed their way up his throat.
"No…" he breathed once more, voice breaking. Then again, louder. And again. He repeated over and over, each 'no' an attempt to deny the truth rushing its way into him, as he shook his head in frantic denial.
His voice broke as he shouted your name. His lips moved in frantic, silent screams, begging you to wake up, but there was no response.
And with every passing second, it began to feel unbearably real: maybe… you really were gone.
It was too late. They hadn't made it in time. Vecna had already reached you, already taken you away. Their hands hovered uselessly in the air, and all they could do was watch.
The ambulance's siren cut right through them, a piercing reminder of their failure. Through the back window, they saw you, motionless and unresponsive, lying inside as it pulled away. Every second it drove further from them, and it felt like a punch to the chest.
Vecna had won. And the price of seeing you like that, the helplessness, the guilt, the grief, it was theirs alone to carry.
The officers were still gripping his arms, but Steve had already stopped fighting. His body had gone rigid, like something inside him had suddenly shut down. His eyes stayed locked on the back of the ambulance as if staring hard enough might somehow force the doors open again.
But it was all hope, just broken hope.
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The shift happened so suddenly it felt unreal.
One moment you had been in the room. The memory of it still clung to you in scattered remnants, something strange happening around you. Your heart had been racing then, your thoughts scrambling to make sense of the unsettling shift in the atmosphere.
One second you had been there, standing in your room with the tension rising around you like a storm about to break. The next second the world had shifted so abruptly that your mind couldn't even process the transition.
Now you were somewhere else entirely. Your chest rose slowly as you pulled in a breath, the air was warm in your lungs. For a moment you simply stood there, disoriented, your mind struggling to catch up with what had just happened.
Your brows slowly pulled together as confusion settled across your face. You hadn't moved. At least… you didn't remember moving.
Your head turned cautiously as your eyes scanned the unfamiliar surroundings, your mind trying desperately to bridge the gap between where you had been and where you were now.
But there was no explanation.
It couldn't have been the Upside Down. That was the first thought that forced its way into your mind as you looked around.
The place you had explored before, had always felt wrong the moment you stepped into it. The air there had been damp and heavy, thick with the scent of rot and decay. Everything had been covered in that sickly layer of ash-like particles drifting endlessly through the air. Vines crept along every surface, dark and pulsing, like the place itself was alive in the worst possible way.
But this…this was nothing like that.
Sunlight poured down from above, warm and bright against your skin. It felt real—genuinely warm in a way that made the chill from earlier slowly fade from your arms. The sky stretched wide and clear overhead, soft clouds drifting lazily through a calm blue expanse. There was no darkness, no storm of floating spores clouding the air.
The ground beneath your feet was dry and solid, not the damp, spongy terrain you had come to expect from that other place. A faint breeze stirred through the air, brushing lightly against your clothes and carrying the subtle scent of sun-warmed wood and grass.
Your brow furrowed even deeper. It didn't make sense. Because if you weren't in the Upside Down, then where the hell were you?
You lifted your head, and your breath caught. A house stood before you, as if it had grown out of the earth itself, strange and familiar all at once.
It looked like something from another time entirely. The design was unmistakably old-fashioned—tall, narrow windows framed in dark wood, a steeply pitched roof that rose sharply toward the sky, and a broad porch stretching across the front of the building.
The structure carried the kind of architecture you'd expect to see in photographs from years ago, something that belonged to a past era rather than the present, undeniably outdated to some.
And yet, the longer you stared at it, the more something about it felt off.
The wood along the walls was smooth and evenly painted, not cracked or faded the way you would expect from something so old in design. The porch railings looked freshly varnished, their dark surfaces catching faint light with a clean, polished sheen. Even the steps leading up to the front door sat perfectly straight, not a single board bent or worn from age.
It was old in appearance, but untouched by time.
Your eyes narrowed, as unease crept into your chest. The place felt staged, almost. Like a memory that had been rebuilt rather than a home that had actually lived through years of life.
A faint chill prickled along the back of your neck. Your breathing quickened slightly as the question repeated in your head, louder with each passing second.
Panic began to stir inside of you all over again. You turned quickly, instinctively searching for something, anything, that might explain how you had gotten here. But the moment you spun around, you'd came face to face with someone standing directly behind you.
"Ah!" The startled cry escaped you before you could stop it, sharp and breathless. Your whole body jerked backwards, your foot sliding awkwardly against the ground as you recoiled in pure shock.
For an instant, your heart felt like it had leapt straight into your throat. The man remained perfectly still. He didn't flinch at your cry, didn't take a step back, didn't even blink. He simply stood there watching.
Your breathing came faster now as your eyes locked onto his face, your mind racing as it tried to process what you were seeing. At first all you could notice were the pale sweep of his skin, the way his blonde hair fell neatly across his forehead, the sharp, defined angles of his features.
Each detail pressed itself into your memory, impossible to look away from, impossible to fully understand.
His posture was relaxed, in a way that only made the tension in your chest tighten further. One hand rested loosely at his side, his shoulders straight but effortless, as though your sudden outburst had been nothing more than a mild inconvenience.
Then your eyes met his, and a strange stillness seized you. His gaze was sharp, unwavering, and it sank straight through you, making your stomach twist. It wasn't angry, it wasn't threatening, just deliberate, as if he were quietly unraveling every thought, every subtle reaction that crossed your face.
Your fear. Your confusion. The faint parting of your lips as you struggled to draw in a steady breath, he seemed to notice it all, as if every small, unguarded detail of you were laid bare before him.
To you, however, your mind scrambled to place him, some distant sense of familiarity tugging at your thoughts. The longer you looked, the stronger that feeling grew, gnawing at the back of your memory like something trying to force its way into the surface.
Your brow furrowed, slow and instinctive, your breath caught in your throat. And then it hit you, recognition, sharp and sudden.
Your eyes widened instantly, the color draining from your face as the realization crashed through you. You knew him.
Images flickered through your memory, fragments that felt almost too real of that night you had tried to dismiss as dreams, moments where you had woken up unsettled without fully understanding why.
Your chest tightened. "You…" The word slipped from your lips softly, barely louder than a whisper as disbelief spread across your features. Your voice trembled slightly, betraying the part of you that refused to accept what your eyes were seeing.
The man's head tilted slightly at the sound of your voice. His expression held nothing of confusion, yet not a trace of surprise crossed his face either, like he had been expecting you.
His eyes stayed on you the entire time. They didn't wander, didn't search your surroundings the way yours had moments ago. Instead, they studied you with quiet patience, like someone observing the final step of a long process finally reaching its end.
And the longer you looked at him, the more unsettling that calm became. There was something almost intimate in the way he looked at you, not mockery, not threat, just quiet understanding, like he'd already imagined this moment a dozen times.
His lips parted slightly, the movement slow and deliberate, and for the first time, a faint shift touched his features. It wasn't quite a smile, but there was something close to it lingering at the corner of his mouth.
For a brief second, he simply looked at you like that, his gaze softening in a way that made the air between you feel much heavier than before.
"I've been waiting… It wasn't easy saving you." His voice was quiet, smooth, carrying a strange calmness that didn't quite match the tension twisting inside your chest. The words spoken weren't rushed or dramatic; they came out slowly, like a statement he had practised in secret to himself countless times before.
The weight behind them settled over you, subtle but undeniable. Each syllable lingered, drawing your attention, pinning you where you stood. You couldn't tell if it was patience or inevitability that carried in his tone, but either way, it definitely left your thoughts scattered.
Your chest tightened violently, every heartbeat a drum against your ribs, yet somehow, the storm raging inside you was tempered by the way he watched. Each glance he gave carried a weight that made the chaos in your mind feel tethered and anchored, though you couldn't explain why.
"I… what do you mean?" Your voice was barely audible, barely more than a breath. Fingers curled at your sides, pressing into your palms as if you could pin yourself down to the world while your mind raced on. "Save me… from what?"
"The monsters," he said softly, leaning just a little closer, eyes still fixed onto yours. His tone was calm, persuasive, as if he wanted you to believe his every word. "They've gone to get you, but you're safe here. With me. I promised I'd keep you safe."
Safe. The word echoed in your mind like a lifeline. You felt a flicker of relief, just enough to make your shoulders drop slightly, just enough to make your panic waver. Somehow, it felt as if you could really trust him, his every word.
Then, as if cued on time, a sharp wave of pain struck without warning. Memories, fragments you had buried deep, pieces you had tried so hard to forget, it had surged back all at once, burning and chaotic in your head. They flashed through your mind in broken images, too fast and too overwhelming to grasp.
You gasped, a strained sound escaping your lips as your hands flew to your head. Your fingers pressed against your temples as if you could somehow hold the memories back. Your knees trembled beneath you, threatening to give out as the pain pulsed through your skull.
And yet, he didn't step away. Instead, he moved closer toward you. His presence closed the distance between you, and when you looked up, you found his eyes already fixed on yours.
The intensity of his gaze was steady, it was impossible to look anywhere else, as if the world around you had faded and only he remained in focus in your peripheral vision.
"The effects of the pill… seem to have held up for quite some time," he murmured, almost conversationally. Each word pressed against your mind like a gentle hand guiding you, softening the terror just enough for you to listen.
His hands then slowly rose to cup your face. It was warm, steady, and surprisingly gentle.
The sudden closeness made your breath hitch. His palms framed your cheeks with a careful firmness, as though you might break if he held you too tightly. His thumbs brushed softly along your skin, wiping away the tears the pain had forced from your eyes. The touch was slow, almost soothing.
"Must've been painful… I'm so sorry, darling," he whispered, his voice low and careful, each word spoken close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath.
You wanted to pull away in that moment, you knew you should. Every instinct told you to back away, to break whatever strange hold he seemed to have over you. But your body refused to move.
Something about the way he held you, the softness of his touch, the quiet care in his voice, made you freeze instead. All of a sudden, you were vulnerable to him.
And worse… a small, confusing part of you found yourself leaning into it, aching for that warmth to linger just a little longer.
"You've been through so much," he said softly. His voice dropped to a near whisper, gentle and reassuring, as if speaking any louder might shatter the fragile moment between you. His eyes searched your face, filled with something that almost looked like concern.
His brows knit together slightly, the faint crease between them giving his expression a quiet seriousness. "You don't have to face it alone. Not anymore."
As he spoke, his thumbs continued their slow, comforting motion against your cheeks, brushing away the last traces of tears. His touch lingered there, warm and grounding, as though he was trying to hold you together piece by piece. His gaze never left yours, watching carefully, studying every flicker of emotion that crossed your face.
Your breathing was still uneven, chest rising and falling as the remnants of pain and confusion swirled inside you. Your lips parted slightly, but no words came out. Instead, your eyes softened just a little, the panic in them fading into something more uncertain, more vulnerable to him
The closeness of him made your heart pound in your chest. You could feel the steadiness of his presence, the calm certainty he carried, and somehow it made the chaos in your mind feel quieter.
"There now…" he hushed quietly. His voice was soft and steady, the kind that seemed to smooth over the sharp edges of your panic before you even realized it was happening. It slipped through the tension in your chest, easing it little by little, like a quiet reassurance meant only for you.
His eyes lingered on your face with careful attention, studying every small change in your expression. The slight furrow of your brows, the tremble in your lips, the tears still clinging to your lashes, he noticed all of it, determined not to miss a single moment.
"You're alright," he continued, his tone low and reassuring. "The memories can be… overwhelming at first."
Your brows drew together slightly at that. Memories? Your mind tried to grab onto what he meant, but the fragments slipping through your head were blurry and incomplete. Every time you tried to focus on them, another dull ache pulsed behind your eyes.
"I don't-" you started weakly, shaking your head a little. "I don't understand…"
Henry’s expression softened when he saw the panic creeping across your face. Not with confusion, but with quiet patience. The kind of patience someone has when they already know the answer you're desperately searching for.
His gaze remained steady, calm, as if none of this surprised him in the slightest. If anything, there was a faint understanding in his eyes, a silent assurance that everything unfolding was exactly as expected.
"That's alright," he said gently, as one of his thumbs brushed carefully beneath your eye again, wiping away the last tear that had slipped down your cheek. His touch lingered for a moment, warm against your skin. "You're not meant to remember everything all at once."
"You've been kept in the dark for a long time," he continued quietly. "Longer than you should have." Each word seemed to sink in slowly, like a truth you weren't ready to face but couldn't ignore.
Kept in the dark? The thought hung at the back of your mind, a cold whisper of unease that made your lips part, ready to demand answers. But before you could form the question, he had spoken again.
"But that's not your fault," he added quickly, his voice gentle, almost protective. "None of this is."
Your eyes flickered uncertainly, searching his face for some kind of explanation. You wanted clarity, a thread to grasp in the swirling fog of confusion pressing at the back of your mind. But he offered nothing, instead of answers, he simply studied you, a faint trace of sympathy that softened the edges of his otherwise unreadable expression.
"You were never supposed to face them alone," he continued. His hand shifted slightly against your cheek, the movement slow, as though he were careful not to startle you. One thumb traced a gentle line along your skin, the touch light but grounding, a subtle attempt to ease the tension still lingering in your expression. The warmth of his hand remained there for a moment, steady and patient, before he spoke again.
"And now you won't have to." There was something steady in the way he said it. "You're safe here," Henry murmured softly. "With me."
His voice softened on the final words, almost protective, the quiet assurance in his tone settling gently between you. His gaze had never left yours for a second, as though he expected you to understand the promise without him needing to repeat it.
Your breathing had slowed without you realizing it. The reassurance in his voice seemed to ease the tightness that had gripped your chest earlier, the sharp edge of panic gradually fading. In its place came a strange heaviness, subtle at first, then deeper, like exhaustion slowly settling into your bones.
Henry noticed. His gaze lingered on you, thoughtful, observant. Something in his expression gentled at the sight, the sharp focus in his eyes softening just a fraction, as he watched the tension leave your shoulders and the fight in your posture begin to fade. "You're tired," he said quietly, "That's normal."
His hand lifted then, moving with quiet intention until his fingers gently found your chin. He tilted your face upward, guiding your weary gaze back to his. "You've been fighting for a long time."
His voice dipped lower, smoothing into something softer, more soothing to ones ear. The steady calm of it seemed meant to ease the last of your resistance.
For a brief moment, something hesvier flickered in his eyes. Guilt, perhaps. Or regret. His brows drew together faintly, the corners of his mouth tightening as he looked at you, somewhat apologetic. Though the version of you standing here now wouldn't understand why.
"You don't have to anymore."
✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦
A year had passed since that day. At least… that's what it felt like.
Time here moved differently, in a way you never quite questioned. The days blended together beneath warm sunlight and quiet calm, the strange chaos of that first moment slowly fading into something that now felt like a distant memory.
And yet you could still remember it clearly. The moment you first saw him, the moment he told you his name, Henry. That's what he had told you to call him.
Since that day, pieces of your memories had slowly returned, surfacing little by little like fragments rising from deep water. At first, they came with the same sharp headaches, the same rush of confusion—but Henry had always been there when they did.
He was always patient and gentle, guiding you through them along the way.
And as those memories resurfaced, the feelings tied to them began to follow. Emotions you once dismissed as distant dreams gradually turned into something real, something undeniable. They felt stronger now, clearer, their warmth giving you a new sense of light.
He had treated you with nothing but care, nothing but quiet devotion. He listened when you spoke, comforted you when the returning memories overwhelmed you, and held you through every restless night that followed.
Somewhere along the way, without you even realizing when it happened… You had fell for him all over again. It hadn't happened all at once. There was no single moment you could point to, no clear line where everything changed.
Instead, it came gradually, quietly weaving itself into the days you spent beside him. Little by little, those moments built into something deeper. What once felt uncertain slowly turned familiar, comforting even. His presence became something you leaned on without realizing it—something steady in a world that still felt half-shrouded in missing pieces.
How could you not?
"Henry!" you laughed suddenly, the sound bright and easy as you felt a pair of arms slide around you from behind.
His embrace had become familiar to you now. His arms slipped easily around your waist, drawing you back against the taller line of his frame. The hold was secure without being forceful, his presence settling behind you with a quiet steadiness that had long since become comforting.
Warmth radiated through the contact, the solid weight of him grounding in a way that felt instinctively safe. You felt him shift slightly, leaning down so his head lowered beside yours, his cheek brushing near your temple.
You turned within the circle of his arms, your hands lightly resting against him as you lifted your gaze. A small smile curved across your lips the moment your eyes found his.
But Henry was already looking at you.
There was a quiet softness in his expression, his pale eyes resting on your face with undivided attention. The way he looked at you made a gentle warmth spread through your chest. His hand then shifted slightly against your side, holding you just a little closer towards him.
"You've seemed a little distant lately…" he said quietly. The observation came softly, almost thoughtful, as though he had been noticing it for some time before finally saying it aloud. His voice carried its usual composed warmth, yet something more attentive lingered beneath it now.
His eyes couldn't help but trace over your face, careful and observant, as if weighing every small change in your expression. A faint crease formed between his brows, the subtle shift betraying a quiet worry he hadn't quite voiced yet.
"You drift away sometimes," he added after a moment, his tone still gentle. "Is something troubling you, darling?"
The question came with quiet patience, his voice low and even, carrying a gentle care that felt difficult to ignore as always. As he spoke, one of his hands rose unhurriedly, his fingers sweeping a stray lock of hair back from your face.
The gesture was slow, almost absentminded, yet filled in its tenderness. His fingertips remained near your cheek afterwards, the pad of his thumb brushing lightly against your skin in a small, familiar show of affection.
His eyes never left yours, instead he waited, quietly observing every small change in your expression. There was a stillness in his stare, a quiet insistence that made it clear he wouldn't look away until he understood what you were feeling.
You shifted slightly in his arms, your smile fading just a little as you looked up at him. "Well… to be honest," you admitted, your voice softer now, "I've been having those headaches again."
Henry's face flickered with the smallest shift in expression upon hearing your worries, subtle enough that it could be mistaken for nothing. His focus on you deepened, each detail of your face seeming to draw him in further, an alertness that seemed to drink in every detail of your face.
"Headaches?" he repeated quietly. His tone remained soft, controlled, yet something in his expression tightened. The line of his jaw grew faintly rigid, and a subtle tension settled behind his eyes as he looked at you more closely, as if the word alone had unsettled something he hadn’t expected to hear. "What kind of headaches?"
You shrugged lightly in return, trying to make it sound less serious than it felt. "I keep hearing noises," you said, letting out a small, awkward laugh as if the whole thing was a little too ridiculous to believe.
Though, Henry didn't laugh. The small, uneasy chuckle you had let out seemed to fade into the air between you without a response.
His eyes lingered on you, watching with a focus that felt far more serious than your attempt to make light of it. If anything, your words seemed to draw his attention in further, his gaze sharpening ever so slightly as he considered them. "Noises?" he repeated, his voice dropping slightly, quieter than before. "How so?"
You paused for a moment, searching for a way to put the feeling into words. Your brows drew together slightly as you sifted through the strange sensation in your mind.
"It's… odd," you said slowly. You had hesitated again, trying to explain something that barely made sense even to you. "It's almost like there's music playing somewhere," you continued, glancing off for a second as if listening for it again. "Like a song that's just… there."
A faint smile tugged at your lips, a little amused by how ridiculous it sounded when spoken out loud. "Honestly," you added, your smile returning faintly, amused by your own explanation. "it's like I've got some kind of radio built into my head."
Hearing your words, Henry still didn't smile. He couldn't. And for the briefest instant, something in his gaze shifted, his eyes growing colder, the warmth draining from them as a heavy look settled behind them.
"It's actually one of my favorite songs," you continued, unaware of the subtle shift in his expression.
As you spoke, faint traces of memory stirred at the edge of your mind. They surfaced quietly, like distant echoes beginning to take shape.
A car ride, sunlight spilling through the windows, voices overlapping in easy conversation. Someone laughing in the front seat.
Then another glimpse. Steve's familiar voice carrying from somewhere nearby, teasing someone with that careless confidence of his. The kids bickering in the background, their argument loud but harmless, dissolving into laughter moments later.
More pieces followed afterwards. Your parents calling from the doorway, telling you dinner was ready. The warmth of the house in the evening, the quiet comfort of belonging somewhere safe.
The recollections pressed gently against your chest, leaving a faint ache behind. A soft longing settled there. You missed them.
But before the feeling could linger for long, another memory surfaced, clearer and heavier than the ones before.
The words Henry had spoken to you long ago.
'I had to save you, from the monsters.' The memory of his voice settled over your thoughts, quiet and certain. Your mind wrapped around the explanation the same way it always did, the pieces falling neatly into place the moment you recalled it.
The unease in your chest eased, replaced by a familiar sense of understanding. Whatever had happened back then, whatever darkness those memories hinted at, Henry had been the one who pulled you away from it. The one who kept you safe.
And in the end, that was the only part that truly mattered.
"Is it?" His voice drew you out of your thoughts, pulling you back in the present. He was still watching you, a faint tightness had settled across his tensed face, a quiet calculation passing behind his eyes as if he were considering something carefully.
"But if it's causing you pain…" he went on, each words slower now. As he spoke, his hand had found its way and lifted toward you. His fingers brushed lightly along the side of your face, the touch gentle as he swept a loose strand of hair back behind your ear.
His thumb lingered against your cheek, tracing a gentle line that felt both comforting and protective. The touch seemed to carry an unspoken promise, a quiet shield against the pain you'd described.
"You shouldn't have to endure something like that," he murmured, lowering his voice just enough that it brushed against you with weight and intent, the calmness in his tone carrying a gravity that made it impossible not to believe him.
"I'll gladly get rid of it for you." Henry whispered, his voice barely above a breath, close enough that you could feel the warmth of it brushing against your skin. He leaned in slightly, as if the nearness alone could convey the depth of his devotion, the lengths he would go just to keep you safe.
His arm shifted, a subtle squeeze around your waist that drew you a fraction closer, as if anchoring you to him without needing to speak.
"There's no reason for you to keep hearing things that only cause you pain," he murmured, his voice soft but firm. His eyes softened as they found yours, the intensity in them giving way to something warmer, protective, almost tender.
"You deserve peace, darling," he added, each word deliberate, carrying a promise you couldn't ignore. "And I'll make sure nothing ever disrupts that."
The sincerity in his tone, paired with the reassuring press of his arm, wrapped around you like a quiet cocoon.
"It's alright," you said with a small shrug, brushing it off as if it didn’t matter much. "It's kind of cool to have a built-in radio in my head."
Henry didn't respond right away. His arm remained steady around your waist, hand resting lightly at your side, but for a brief second, his eyes flickered away, distant, as if he'd caught a thread only he could follow.
He understood immediately, reading the warning signs before you could even process them yourself. It was your friends, the ones he had always resented. Why were they allowed to be near you? To share laughter and closeness that he had longed for?
After all the waiting, all the careful planning, after finally having you here, by his side, he would not let anyone come between you. His jaw tightened slightly, the faint crease between his brows deepening as a cold certainty settled over him.
Without speaking, without a hint of hesitation, a resolute promise took root within him: he would ensure this, anything that threatened you, anything that drew you away from him, would never happen again.
"Mmhm," he hummed quietly, the sound low and almost reflective, yet still carrying that familiar gentleness you knew. You didn't quite catch the subtle tension in his eyes, the way they lingered on you longer than necessary, the way his mind was already working.
Later, the house had fallen into a hushed silence.
The warm sunlight that had filled the room earlier now poured through the windows in softer shades of gold, the afternoon slowly slipping toward evening. The air inside the house felt calm, peaceful in the familiar way it always did.
You had ended up on the couch together. Henry was seated against the back of it, one arm loosely wrapped around you as you rested comfortably against his chest. His presence felt solid behind you, tall and steady, his warmth spreading through you as his hand slowly traced absentminded patterns along your arm.
Your legs were tucked beside you, the soft cushions sinking beneath your weight. The room was quiet except for the faint rustle of fabric whenever one of you shifted slightly.
Henry's chin rested lightly near the top of your head, his breathing slow. Every now and then, his fingers moved through your hair in slow strokes, the motion calm and rhythmic. Comforting.
You had both been quiet for a while. Your eyes traced the slow dance of dust motes drifting through the sunbeams, drifting along with them into memories and daydreams that felt a world away.
Eventually, the silence started to feel heavier. Your fingers idly traced the fabric of Henry's sleeve before you spoke. "I wish all of this would just end…" you murmured softly.
Henry's hand paused slightly in your hair. You stared ahead, your voice quieter now, "You know… the monsters and stuff."
Your brows drew together faintly as you spoke, the thought clearly weighing on you. Even after everything Henry had done to protect you, the idea of them still existing somewhere out there unsettled you.
You shifted slightly against him, tilting your head just enough to glance up at his face, seeking reassurance. As always, his gaze was already on you.
His expression was calm, though there was a thoughtful heaviness behind his eyes. His fingers resumed their slow, gentle strokes through your hair, each movement softer now, almost coaxing peace into you.
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then his hand shifted, cupping the side of your head, drawing you a little closer against him. "They will,"
His gaze then drifted briefly toward the window, as if measuring some distant threat, before returning fully to you. "But I won't let them reach you," he added softly.
His thumb traced a delicate line along your arm as he held you closer, "Not ever," he whispered.
"Well...that's nice." You murmured softly, a faint, self-conscious smile tugging at your lips as you leaned a little deeper into the warmth of his embrace. Your fingers moved almost unconsciously, tracing tiny, absent-minded circles against the fabric of his sleeve, grounding yourself in the simplicity of the moment.
The late afternoon light had softened into a warm amber glow, stretching long shadows across the floor. Everything felt peaceful here, safe. As though the chaos and dangers of the world beyond these walls couldn’t touch you while you were like this, held in his presence.
You hesitated, words lingering on the tip of your tongue before spilling out in a thoughtful whisper. "If they ever… disappear," you said slowly, your voice quiet but sincere, "I think I'd like to get married."
Henry froze against your thoughts. His hand, which had been gliding gently through your hair, stilled against the side of your head, fingers lingering as if caught in thought.
Marriage. The word echoed quietly in his mind, strange and foreign. It wasn't a notion he had ever truly considered, not in any serious sense. For most of his life, such ideas had felt distant, irrelevant, almost trivial compared to the concerns that had dominated him.
Control. Power. Survival. Those had always mattered more. They had been the pillars of his life for as long as he could remember, the steady rules by which he measured everything and everyone around him.
Emotions, attachments, fleeting notions of happiness, those had always seemed like luxuries he couldn’t afford, distractions that could jeopardize the fragile balance he had fought so hard to preserve. They were the framework of his existence.
But now… hearing it from you, spoken with such ease, warmth, and sincerity, something inside him shifted. A flicker of feeling, subtle and unfamiliar, a small, unsteady tug at his chest that he hadn't expected, one that made the world around him feel slightly softer, slightly brighter. Hope, some would call if.
A subtle warmth crept through his chest, spreading slowly and unfamiliar, tugging at corners of his mind he rarely allowed to soften. The thought of it, of you belonging to him in that way, of sharing a life built together—felt strangely appealing, something he hadn't realized he wanted until now.
His gaze dipped to your face, taking in the small, earnest smile you wore. "Marriage?" he repeated, voice low, almost questioning, though a faint curve began to tug at the corner of his lips. "That's what you want?"
You nodded without hesitation, tilting your head slightly so your eyes could meet his fully. "Yup," you said simply, "To find my one true love." The words hung between you, carrying the weight of hope and longing, making the room feel smaller, more intimate, wrapped in the gravity of the promise you hadn't even realized you were offering.
Your cheeks had warmed to a gentle pink, the softest hint of embarrassment showing in the way you smiled. It was shy, a little playful, but completely genuine.
Henry couldn't help it. The sight of you like that, flushed, hopeful, looking at him with those bright, trusting eyes, had only made the smile on his face grew wider.
His hand lifted slightly, brushing a stray strand of hair away from your forehead as he looked down at you. His expression had softened in a way it rarely did, something almost fond warming his pale features.
"You're adorable," he murmured quietly, low and almost teasing, the faintest flicker of amusement dancing at the edges of his voice.
Your nose scrunched slightly at his words, and Henry let out a soft, low chuckle that made the warmth of his amusement brush against you like a gentle breeze.
Then his hand moved, settling lightly against your cheek. "Then I'll promise you something," he said, his tone lowering just a little as his gaze held yours. "I will marry you."
Your eyes widened, a spark lighting within them, and you couldn't hide your excitement. "You better keep that promise!" you exclaimed, wagging a playful finger at him. The grin tugging at your lips made the words impossible to take seriously, even for yourself.
Henry laughed quietly under his breath. The sound warm and low, as he caught your hand gently, lowering it just slightly, before drawing it closer to rest against his chest. The simple gesture carried more meaning than words ever could, wholly his.
"I always keep my promises," he replied softly. And the way he looked at you when he said it, made the words sound less like a joke and more like something already decided.
But slowly, the mask began to slip. The warmth in his smile wavered, faltering just enough for you to notice, before his eyes drifted somewhere distant, lost in a memory only he could see.
You could see the change happen. The way the light in his eyes dimmed just a little, the way his shoulders grew still beneath you, like a thought had suddenly taken hold of him.
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, quiet and measured, he finally spoke. "Maybe if life hadn't been so cruel to us…" His voice softened, carrying a rare vulnerability, a thoughtfulness you seldom glimpsed. "Maybe I would’ve had the chance to marry you by now."
Slowly, almost unconsciously, his fingers wove through yours, resting where your hands lay against his chest. The gesture was gentle, absentminded, as if he needed the contact to tether himself to the present.
His gaze lowered, lingering on your joined hands, tracing the connection silently, a mixture of longing and regret etched into the quiet curve of his expression.
The words landed differently than anything you'd spoken just moments before, weighted and deliberate. "Maybe…" he murmured after a pause, his voice softer, almost hesitant, as if tasting the meaning before letting it fall.
When his gaze returned to yours, it carried a depth that made your chest tighten, a flicker of unrest, of guilt, shadowing the pale intensity of his eyes.
"If we had never met," he said slowly, each word measured, carefully chosen, "maybe… you would've been happy too." The sentence lingered between you, fragile and painful, a confession more than a thought, and the room felt impossibly still around it.
Your brows knitted together almost immediately, confusion flaring like a spark across your features. The words he had spoken didn't make sense to you, didn't fit the reality you felt in your chest.
You shifted slightly in his arms, tilting your body so you could look at him more directly, your fingers tightening around his just for a fraction.
"Henry…" you called out, the uncertainty in your voice plain, mirrored in the gentle crease of your forehead. Then, after a breath, certainty found its way through.
"But I like to think that we're tied by fate." The words left your lips steadier than you anticipated, carrying a quiet conviction. Your eyes softened as you met his gaze, the thought of destiny, of inevitability, offering a strange comfort.
"I was always meant to find you in the cafeteria that day," you continued, voice gentle, "Always meant to find you again after that. In every situation." A small, almost nostalgic smile brushed your lips as the memory surfaced—back when things had been simpler, when laughter had been lighter, and the world hadn't yet pressed down with the weight of everything that followed. When the world wasn't so cruel.
Henry's gaze lingered on you as you spoke, truly lingered, taking in every subtle movement, every flicker of emotion across your face: the gentle curve of your hopeful lips, the quiet warmth shining in your eyes, the earnest conviction threading through your words.
For a brief moment, something complicated flickered across his face. His jaw tightened slightly, his gaze dropping away again like he was turning over something difficult in his mind. Then he exhaled quietly. A small smile slowly returned to his lips, softer this time.
"You sure do have a way with words, don't you," Henry murmured. His hand lifted again, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your face. His fingers lingered near your cheek for a moment, his thumb tracing lightly along your skin in a slow, thoughtful motion.
You laughed softly at his words, a light, airy sound that seemed to float in the room, and for a fleeting moment, you wished time could pause here, just like this.
The warmth, the closeness, the quiet intimacy, it allfelt infinite, a bubble of peace that had nothing to do with the outside world. Your heart beat a little faster, and for once, the past and its horrors seemed distant, almost impossible.
But it didn't last, like it always did.
In an instant, your body was now currently ripped from that fragile calm, suspended midair as your eyes locked onto the creature before you, unfamiliar, impossibly strong, a twisted shadow of the man you once trusted.
"H-Henry…" you called out, your voice trembling fragile, a plea that scraped against the edge of hope. A small part of you still believed he could hear you, that the Henry you loved was still somewhere inside.
The force pressing against your throat grew heavier, your lungs screaming for air. You could have fought back, struggled, even hurt him—but you couldn't. You had spent years running, hiding, surviving at the cost of his trust, and guilt gnawed at you from every bits and pieces in you. You had done nothing but bring harm since that day.
Since you'd escape that hell.
"P-Please!" you gasped, surrender creeping into your tone, your strength fading.
For a fleeting second, it seemed he heard you. His expression wavered, eyes flickering with something you recognized, the tiniest echo of the man you loved.
Then his lips quivered, and a whisper of a voice broke through, frantic and fractured. "N-no! You promised me she would be safe!"
It was him, or at least part of him. The voice carried panic, fear, desperation. It was clear the Henry you knew, was struggling to surface.
Instead, another voice answered, darker andcolder, a sharp contrast that made your stomach twist upon his words. "We made a deal, Henry. You and I are now one. I gave you what you wanted. It's not my fault she ran away from you that day."
The words were ice in your veins. The corrupted version of him, the side you hadn't known could exist, spoke with a cruel certainty.
All at once, your body suddenly collapsed onto the floor with a harsh, jarring thud. Your knees scraped against the cold, unforgiving surface, and your palms pressed down instinctively as you tried to steady yourself.
Air came in jagged, desperate gasps, your chest rising and falling in frantic, uneven waves. Panic clung to your lungs like a weight, but beneath it all, relief coursed through you, dizzying and disorienting, making the room tilt and spin just a little.
Your hair had slipped free, strands damp and clinging to your cheeks from sweat, and a trembling hand pressed against your throat, as if that small gesture could chase away the lingering terror.
You knew, somewhere deep in the wreckage of that moment, that he was still in there. Some vestige of him remained, fragile and fighting. But when your eyes found him, it was as if every ounce of the man you loved had been swallowed by the darkness, strength lost from saving you just this one last time.
The light in his eyes, the warmth in his presence, it was all gone, leaving only a shadow where Henry had been, a hollow echo of the person who had once protected you so fiercely.
Before you could fully register what was happening, a violent force struck him. His body jerked sharply, twisting in midair like a puppet on broken strings, before crashing onto a jagged spike.
The impact resonated through the room—a harsh, final note that made your stomach lurch and your chest tighten, a sharp mix of horror and disbelief. The suddenness of it, the raw brutality, left your mind reeling.
Eleven stood a few steps away, her arm still extended as if bracing against the effort. Her face glistened with sweat, flushed with strain, but her eyes burned with quiet resolve.
Despite the exhaustion pooling in her gaze, her jaw remained set. A thin trickle of blood ran from her nose, the faintest proof of the power she had wielded, yet she hardly seemed to notice it.
There, Henry hung impaled, utterly still, his form eerily serene in the chaos. The air around him felt impossibly heavy, dense with tension, as if even the world itself had paused, watching the silence that followed his fall.
Now it had become something else entirely. What once might have been dismissed as a passing recalling of a memory that day, had settled into a relentless pattern.
It returned night after night, creeping into your head whether you welcomed it or not. Each dat carried the quiet dread of knowing it would come again, the same unsettling images waiting behind closed eyes.
Rest no longer brought comfort. Instead, it dragged you back into that haunting sequence, until the line between it and memory began to blur, leaving the weight of it lingering long after you woke.
The breeze came then, soft and almost delicate, brushing against your skin like the gentlest whisper. It ruffled your hair, carrying with it the earthy scent of grass and damp soil. You leaned back slightly in the wooden chair, letting it cradle your weight, the wood creaking faintly under you.
The warmth of the sunlight touched your face, soft and soothing, but your mind was still racing, heart hammering against your ribs, a mix of relief and lingering fear making your chest feel tight.
Your lips parted slightly, releasing a soft sigh, and for a fleeting moment your eyes closed, letting yourself just feel the quiet, the small peace that had followed chaos.
A faint, bittersweet smile ghosted over your face, as though you were trying to convince yourself that this peace was real, that the danger had truly passed. Your fingers drifted along the coarse wood of the armrest, tracing the grooves and imperfections, grounding yourself in the tactile proof of life, of presence, of survival.
Slowly, you turned your head, and you noticed another rocking chair beside you. It was empty, silent. It swayed faintly in the breeze, the creak of its movement delicate and haunting, echoing a melancholy sound that reached your ears.
It felt as though it was waiting, patient, expectant, for someone or something that would never come, nor return.
Your gaze wandered past it, settling on the grave beside the chair. The soil was neatly heaped, dark against the sunlight that caught the carved name, engraved with an unsettling precision.
"You left me too soon…" The words fell from your lips, barely more than a whisper, dissolving into the wind that stirred the grass around you. Your eyes shimmered, fixed on the empty rocking chair, the quiet grave beside it, the hollow spaces that marked absence in the world.
Your jaw tightened, lips pressing into a thin line as though you were trying to trap the surge of grief rising from deep within your chest. It pulsed there, raw and relentless, an ache that refused to be silenced.
A shudder crept slowly up your spine, a cold that had nothing to do with the air around you. Your fingers tightened in your lap, curling into the fabric until your knuckles blanched beneath the strain.
Beneath your ribs, your heart pounded hard and uneven, caught in a whirl of emotions—fear twisting with grief, and beneath it all, something softer and more delicate, a reverent awe you couldn't quite explain.
You drew in a shallow breath, forcing it down past the lump lodged in your throat, and your eyes lingered on the grave as if it could speak back, reveal the truth of what had happened.
"Isn't that right, Jane?" you whispered, your voice trembling slightly, soft and unsure, fragile like the thread of a dream. Your expression held the trace of a smile, but your eyes were wide, glimmering with unshed tears and the stark, hollow ache of understanding.
You pressed your hands further against your knees, feeling the subtle tremble of your arms as your chest rose and fell in uneven, shuddering breaths. Your lips quivered as your voice broke, fragile and uncertain.
"How long has it been?" you whispered, tilting your head toward the sky. The sunlight fell over your face, warm and tender, but impossibly distant, brushing your skin in soft golden strokes that seemed almost cruel in their beauty.
"Thirty? A hundred? Two hundred years?" A hollow laugh escaped you, breaking midway into a sigh that felt as empty as the quiet around you. Your shoulders drooped, weighed down by the weight of time and memory.
The faint crease between your brows deepened as your eyes, glimmering with the threat of tears that wandered across the horizon, tracing a world that had moved on without you.
"I can't even recall anymore…" you murmured, voice almost lost to the gentle sway of the breeze, carrying the weight of years, loss, and the fragile ache of solitude.
"Though... I think my time is here..." A tear finally slipped down your cheek, tracing a cool line that you didn't bother to wipe away. Your hands clenched slightly in your lap as your gaze dropped to the earth, distant and unfocused.
"Sometimes, I wonder if this really is the freedom I wanted... escaping it all, but I'm alone... all over again." Your throat tightened, and your breaths came short and ragged, each inhale painful, each exhale trembling.
"What if I never left that day... accepted this stupid plan to flee... leave them all behind..." The words broke off into a whisper, barely audible over the rustle of the wind.
Tears welled in your eyes before spilling over, trailing down in warm, silent streams that burned softly against your skin. Your fingers tightened against the rough arm of the rocking chair, pressing into the worn wood until your knuckles blanched with the force of your grip.
You tried to take a deeper breath, but your chest refused to expand, as though some unseen weight had settled over your ribs, tightening with every attempt to draw in air. The effort left your lungs burning, each breath shallow and uneven.
"I didn't even get to marry..." The confession slipped out softly, barely more than a breath, vulnerable and unguarded. Your lips trembled as the words left them, quivering with the ache of longing and the sharp sting of regret, the corners of your mouth dipping as sorrow settled across your features.
A soft, hollow smile then flickered over your face as your eyes fluttered toward the sky once more. "Maybe… freedom is what awaits me beyond…" The light around you began to change, gathering and softening as it seemed to wrap gently through the air, like strands of silk drawn through sunlight.
It grew brighter with every passing second, so luminous it was almost overwhelming to look at.
Your eyelids felt impossibly heavy, weighed down by the endless cascade of memories—the kids you had cherished, the friends whose laughter had filled your days, the tears and joy that had stitched the tapestry of your life. Each memory pulsed through you like a final heartbeat, warm and cruel all at once.
Your lips parted slightly, a faint, broken breath escaping you. "Henry…" The name trembled on your tongue, barely audible, soaked with longing, surrender, and something painfully unresolved.
Your head tilted back just enough for the sunlight to catch the tears streaking your face, gilding them in fleeting warmth. Your shoulders slumped, your body folding into itself as if gravity had doubled on you.
The warmth and light consumed you slowly, eyes half-lidded, lids fluttering as your breath eased and your chest stilled. The last trace of tension in your jaw and hands melted away, replaced by a fragile, quiet stillness. Your lips held the faintest trace of a smile, soft and sorrowful, before your eyes closed completely.
And then… stillness. A quiet, almost unnoticeable breath slipped from your lips as your body loosened completely, every last bit of tension draining away. The wind drifted past your face, gentle and cool, as though it carried with it the echoes of everything that had filled your life—the laughter, the sorrow, the fleeting joys and lingering regrets.
All of it swept softly into the distance, leaving only silence in its wake. A life that had lived too long for its own good… finally at long last, at rest.
Then, almost unnoticed at first, a new sensation threaded through your body. A tender warmth returned, timid and careful, spreading through your limbs like a faint spark kindling once more. The emptiness around you shifted, stirring ever so slightly, a subtle pull at the edges of your awareness, like a gentle hand reaching out, coaxing you back from the void.
Then a voice drifted through the haze, soft and patient, almost tender as it spoke your name. It reached you gently, like someone calling from just beyond a dream, careful not to disturb the fragile space you were suspended in, drawing your scattered senses back from the void.
Your eyelids struggled against their heaviness as you forced them open. The movement was slow, laborious, as though they carried the weight of everything you had just passed through. A rush of ight flooded your vision the moment they lifted, it was bright, overwhelming, forcing your eyes to narrow against the glare.
Gradually, shapes emerged from the brilliance, the outline of a person took form before you. And then it became clear. Someone unmistakably familiar.
And there he was, Henry. You recognized him instantly, though something about him felt almost unreal, like a memory made whole again. He looked younger, just as he had been the first time you met him, balanced in that delicate space between innocence and quiet mystery.
The radiant light brushed against his golden hair, and his eyes held the same quiet steadiness you remembered, softened by a calm resolve that felt both familiar and distant.
He stood before you with his arms open, the gesture simple but filled with quiet reassurance. There was no rush in it, no urgency, just a silent offering, as if he had been waiting patiently for you to find him again, that he had been here all along, waiting for you to come back.
Without even realizing it, your hand lifted toward him, drawn to him as if by gravity. Your fingers trembled slightly before finally closing around his.
The moment your fingers met his, a wave of warmth coursed through you at long last. It was steady, insistent, and strangely familiar, like sunlight finally breaking through a long, endless winter. It seeped into your chest, unraveling the tight coils of isolation that had wrapped around you for years, loosening the frost that had settled deep in your bones.
For so long, the world had felt distant, indifferent, as if you were a shadow moving through empty streets. But now, holding onto him, the emptiness began to recede. Your heartbeat slowed, the storm inside your chest easing just enough for hope to bloom again.
A fragile light sparked behind your ribs, gentle yet unwavering, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the ache of solitude was met with the steady, undeniable presence of someone who had always been meant to find you.
Almost as if your body remembered before your mind did, your legs began to move. The heaviness that had clung to them moments ago slowly faded, replaced by a soft pulse of courage that whispered through every fiber of you, guiding you forward.
One step after another, you drifted closer toward him. Your fingers tightened around his, seeking, needing, savoring the connection that had weathered time and distance. And before you truly registered the movement, you found yourself standing beside him once again.
You could feel it in the brush of his shoulder against yours, the quiet rise and fall of his chest in sync with your own, the steady warmth radiating through him as though it had always belonged there, to you. The world outside, the endless days of waiting, the ache of separation, faded into insignificance.
Without a word, without hesitation or any need for explanation, the two of you moved as one, feet carrying you forward into the vast expanse of brilliant white that stretched endlessly before you.
The world around you felt empty at first, silent and weightless, but faint ripples of light shimmered through the space as you passed. Within them, brief flashes appeared, like fragile reflections caught in glass. Glimpses of a life that might have been, memories untraveled, choices unmade.
You saw fragments flicker past: laughter that had never been shared, quiet afternoons untouched by fear, ordinary moments filled with warmth instead of loss. Small, gentle pieces of happiness that had existed somewhere beyond the path your life had taken.
Your hand clenched around his tighter, you didn't want to let go.
His warmth grounded you, steady and reassuring like always, the only thing that felt certain in a place that seemed to shift with every step. You had been alone for decades, drifting through a world that had nearly erased you. Now his presence felt like the one thread holding everything together.
Your pace quickened without you meaning to, carrying you forward almost of their own accord. One step bled into another, faster, almost breathless, your feet carrying you forward through the endless brightness.
You weren't sure if you were chasing those glimpses, or running from the unbearable thought that you would never truly live them, never really able to experience that happiness.
What had once been scattered flashes slowly gathered together, forming something whole. A scene unfolded before you with startling clarity, vivid and alive, as if the world itself had paused to display this singular moment.
You stood there in a white dress, its soft fabric glowing under the warm sunlight as it spilled across the folds. The air around you was filled with the gentle fragrance of flowers and the distant sound of laughter drifting through the breeze.
People surrounded you—familiar faces, warm and joyful. Families, friends, the children you had cared for so deeply. They were all there, their smiles bright, their voices light with celebration.
For a moment, the crushing weight of everything you had lost, all the years, the pain, the life stolen from you, lifted just slightly from your chest. In its place bloomed a happiness so powerful it made your breath catch, so overwhelming it nearly buckled your knees beneath you.
And then you saw him standing there in his tailored suit, identical to those dreams and fantasy you had once thought of. Henry stood tall before you, his gaze locked gently onto yours as though nothing else in the world existed, the certainty that you were his and he was yours.
The light framed him softly, catching in his hair, outlining him like a quiet halo, a figure suspended in a moment that felt eternal. His eyes still held a quiet love, a kind of wonder that reflected exactly what you felt in that moment.
Of course it was him. It had always been him for you.
Tears welled in your eyes, spilling freely down your cheeks as you took careful, unsteady steps toward him. Your lips trembled into a smile, shaky but radiant, cheeks burning with a tangle of disbelief, and uncontainable joy.
Each movement felt impossibly light, as though the burden of lost years, quiet suffering, and endless waiting had finally slipped from your shoulders, leaving only the warmth of this moment.
The soft whisper of fabric shifted with your movement, the sound delicate and intimate against the quiet. The air carried the sweet fragrance of blooming flowers, drifting gently around you, grounding you even as your heart swelled so fiercely it felt ready to break free from your chest.
Each breath came deep and trembling, every heartbeat echoing loudly in the stillness, as if the entire world had fallen silent just to witness this moment.
Then a voice cut through the quietness. "Do you take your beloved as your wife?" the pastor intoned, each word precise, resonating in the spaces between your trembling breaths, drawing your attention wholly to the moment that had been waiting for you all your life.
Henry's gaze softened, a warmth and vulnerability flickering in their depths. A small, almost bashful smile touched his lips, while a thin sheen of unshed tears caught the light in his gaze, glimmering quietly like emotions he had held onto for his entire life.
"I do," he said, his voice steady yet layered with an emotion that made it feel as though the words carried the weight of a thousand unspoken promises.
"And do you take-" the pastor began, turning toward you, but you didn't wait. How could you?
"I do," you breathed, the words tumbling out with urgency and joy, carried on a rush of emotion you couldn't hold back. Your eyes shined as they met his, the happiness in your chest too vast to contain. In that single moment, every glance, every heartbeat, told him what your voice could only begin to express, that he had always been the center of your world.
"You may now kiss the bride," the pastor announced, the moment stretching, suspended in the light and warmth surrounding you both.
Henry leaned in slowly, deliberately, as though he wanted to savor every second of the distance closing between you. His forehead touched yours first, gentle and warm, giving you a moment to breathe him in, to feel the quiet gravity of everything he had carried in his heart all these years.
When his lips finally met yours, the world seemed to fall away. The kiss was soft yet certain, filled with a depth of feeling that words could never quite reach. It carried tenderness and devotion, but also the quiet ache of time lost, of years spent apart when you should have been together.
Your arms lifted instinctively, sliding around his neck as you pulled him closer, holding him as if letting go might unravel the fragile miracle of this moment. His warmth surrounded you, steady and grounding you in a happiness that felt almost too much for your heart to contain.
When you finally drew back, your chest rose and fell quickly, breath unsteady from the closeness. Your lips remained slightly parted, your eyes bright with tears that clung stubbornly to your lashes. You whispered close, voice shaking with joy and disbelief, "You kept your promise..."
Henry's hands then rose to cradle your face with gentle care, his palms warm against your skin as his thumbs brushed lightly along your cheeks, the same quiet gesture he had always used to steady you. His eyes held yours, deep and unwavering, filled with a warmth that spoke more clearly than words ever could, as though a lifetime of devotion lived within that single look.
"I always do, darling." he whispered, leaning forward once more, pressing another kiss to your lips—brief and tender, but filled with quiet meaning, like a promise spoken without sound. It felt like a vow renewed, a reassurance that every hardship, every moment of waiting, had led the two of you back to this.
Tears slipped quietly down your face, tracing warm paths along your skin before falling into the silence below. They caught the pale glow around you, each drop glimmering briefly before disappearing, as though even your sorrow was being swallowed by this strange, gentle world. Your breathing came uneven, shallow pulls of air that made your chest tighten, the motion unfamiliar, as if your body was remembering how to live again after a long, hollow stillness.
Your hands clutched at the fabric of your dress, or into the faint impression where it might have been, searching for something solid to hold onto. Something real enough to keep you from drifting away again to those impossible reality.
Images swirled behind your head: the soft glow of the ceremony, the distant murmur of voices filled with happiness, the warmth of people gathered close. You could almost hear the laughter echoing again, feel the quiet joy that had once filled the air.
It felt like remembering a life that had slipped just beyond your reach. A future that had been waiting for you once, bright and simple, before time had stolen it away. And yet the emotions it stirred were unmistakably yours: the tenderness, the longing, the bittersweet wonder of seeing what might have been, unfolding before you as if it had always belonged to you.
A trembling smile fought its way through your tears, barely holding together as emotion swelled in your chest. Maybe, just maybe, fate had spared you this one moment, this chance to find him again, to hold him close, to feel the certainty of connection that had been missing for so long.
And strangely, the unknown no longer felt so frightening. Standing there, between everything that had been taken and whatever waited beyond, the path ahead didn’t seem quite so dark anymore. Not when he is here.
You lifted your gaze to him, eyes shimmering with more unshed tears, voice catching with every word. "I…I'm sorry," you whispered, "you've waited so long… haven't you?" The words felt heavy in your throat, each one carrying the weight of all the years he had spent standing in the quiet, all alone, waiting for you.
You imagined the long years stretching behind him—quiet days, empty moments, an endless patience no one should have been asked to endure for someone. And yet he had remained here waiting, as though the passing of time had never shaken his certainty that if he waited long enough, you'll be back next to him eventually.
Henry's expression softened instantly. His eyes, they were alive with memories you couldn't name, with a patience forged from years of quiet endurance, and yet they held you completely now.
He took a step closer, closing the space between you, as his hands coming up to hold your face. His thumbs traced slow, careful paths over your cheeks like he always did in comfort, lingering over the damp traces of your tears.
"It doesn't matter how long I've waited," he murmured, his voice low, and suffused with warmth that seeped into your very bones. His eyes had never left yours, holding you as though you were something precious, something fragile he would protect above all else. "Because if it's for you… I'll wait forever, a thousand lifetimes more, if I must."
Your tears continued to fall upon his chosen words, but they were no longer of despair, they were joined by a tender warmth, a quiet peace settling in you that you had long denied. Your lips trembled, lifting into a small, grateful smile as you leaned slightly into his touch, feeling the steady strength of him against your skin.
Henry's gaze deepened, softened to something almost sacred. His eyes shimmered with devotion so fierce it threatened to shatter you, yet gentle enough to cradle the raw pieces of your heart, glimmering with emotion that needed no words—longing, and the quiet satisfaction of finally being exactly where he wanted to be.
He brought your face closer, resting his forehead against yours, and for a moment, the weight of all the years, all the pain and waiting, seemed to dissolve yet for another time.
The uncertainties of life, the voids of what lay beyond, even the inexorable march of time itself—all of it fell away. There was nothing outside this closeness, nothing but the faint warmth of his hands on your face, the rhythm of his breath mingling with your own, the unspoken truth that neither distance, nor death, nor despair could undo this tether. Here, in this quiet eternity, you were whole. You were together.
Your chest rose and fell in rhythm with his, hands reaching instinctively to cling onto his wrists. You felt the warmth of his skin, the steady pulse beneath your fingers, the unshakable certainty of him now being able to be next to you.
Tears continued to trail down your face, your tears couldn't help but soak the fabric of his sleeves. And still, he didn't pull away. Instead, he held you tighter, a steadfast anchor against the chaos and sorrow, like a lighthouse in the storm of everything that had come before.
He was your immovable sanctuary.
And perhaps… you had been right all along. About the invisible threads that had tugged at your lives, about the quiet, stubborn pull of fate that had led you here despite everything. Only now, those threads had woven something delicate and extraordinary—a fleeting, fragile happiness that shimmered between you. It was a moment suspended outside time, a perfect pause where the world's cruelties could not reach you
Here, now, there was no past to haunt you, no looming future to fear. Just the two of you, finally allowed to exist side by side, in the quiet certainty of each other's presence. The only happy ending you had ever truly been able to have.
۶ৎ Summary : Haunted by visions of your own death, you push Legolas away to spare him the pain. But after a battle with orcs, his desperate pleas collide with your stubborn denials, sparking a storm of confessions, truths, and distance.
A/n : This is a reallyyy long angsty one, cuz theres very detailed fight scenes and expressions I just wanna express, and I hope you guys are immersed when reading as well. 🥹 SPEAKING OF FIGHT SCENES, WHY IS IT SO HARD TO WRITE. THIS WAS DREADFUL! ( Part of the f!reader is not from middle earth series | Can be read as a one-shot too.) +edited!
Wc : 9.6k
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You were nearing your destination, the forest thinning just enough to hint at the clearing ahead. The two elves moved swiftly before you, light-footed, effortless, barely disturbing the earth beneath them. Their steps made no claim upon the earth, soundless to the ears.
You followed as best as you could. You had improved, that much you could admit. Your footing was steadier now, no longer stumbling over every hidden root. Your breathing came more controlled, less desperate than it once had.
And yet, you still lagged behind. There was something about them, something you had yet to grasp. The way they seemed to lessen their weight upon the earth, as though gravity held no firm claim over them.
They moved with a lightness that felt almost unreal, steps barely touching the soil before lifting again, swift and silent as if carried by some quiet, unseen current.
You had tried to mimic it. Adjust your balance or even softening your steps, trust the ground instead of fighting it. But no matter how much you practiced, you still felt behind compared to the two, undeniably mortal some would say, or that was just how you perceived it.
Where they seemed to float between moments, you were anchored to each one. Bound to the pull of the world beneath your feet in a way they never were.
Just as you were trying to catch up, something deep inside your head had seemed to called after you. The sensation was subtle, almost easy to ignore, yet it unsettled you in a way you couldn't quite explain.
It wasn't pain at first, more like a sudden pressure behind your eyes, a tightness that made the world tremble slightly out of place. The noise around you dulled into distant echoes, slowly fading into a faint ringing that settled in your ears. Your breath hitched, caught before you could stop it.
For a brief second, something flickered at the edge of your vision—a flash of light bending where it shouldn't, shadows moving without a source. Shapes formed and unraveled before you could properly focus on them, unfamiliar and out of place.
And then they were gone, as if they had never been there at all.
You steadied yourself, fingers curling faintly at your sides as you forced your posture straight. It was nothing. Just fatigue, you told yourself. You had been overworking, barely giving your body rest, constantly demanding more of it than you should. Anyone would feel off after pushing themselves this far.
But the sensation lingered, and you soon realised it wasn't something new.
Your fingers slowly loosened at your sides as a quiet dread crept up your spine. You had felt this before, that same pull beneath your thoughts, that same distortion of sound and sight, the subtle warning before everything else followed. Recognition settled in, heavy and undeniable.
The visions.
You had never truly mastered them, never learned how to summon them willingly or stop them once they began. They were never something you controlled. They came as they pleased, unpredictable, untimely, and often at the worst possible moments.
Cruel in their timing and merciless in their clarity. And once they took hold, once that quiet pull in your mind deepened into something undeniable, there was no resisting them.
You tried to steady yourself again, fingers curling into your palms until your nails bit into skin, as if the sting alone could bring you back to the present. You focused on the feel of it, the pressure, the faint burn of anything solid, anything real.
It almost worked, until a strange stillness fell over everything, heavy and unnatural, like the pause before a storm breaks. The edges of your vision soon blurred, colors draining and bleeding into one another. The floor beneath you felt distant, and then the world fractured.
White light flooded your vision, it was blinding, absolute, leaving no corner untouched. The forest around you dissolved into nothingness, every sound swallowed by it's silence.
Fragments tore through your mind like shards of broken glass—shadows that didn't belong, crimson stains that burned, the ringing clash of steel, a cry ripped raw with grief. Possibilities unfolded all at once. Futures flickered before you, threads not yet woven but waiting, shaking with potential, threatening to pull you into paths you were not ready to walk.
A sudden hush fell over everything, as if the world itself had been paused. The chaos of light and vision vanished, leaving a quiet that pressed against your chest.
And there, stark and undeniable, you saw yourself. Lying on the cold, hard stoned floor, every part of you unnaturally still and motionless. Limbs slack, heavy as if the weight of the world pressed them down. Your eyes closed, pale against the unforgiving stone.
Around you, scattered across the jagged terrain, lay bodies draped in dented, bloodied armor. Helmets cracked, gauntlets twisted, weapons clattering silently beside them. Some faces were frozen in agony, others serene in a cruel, final peace. Shadows pooled in the hollows between the stones, accentuating the lifeless forms.
A lump formed in your throat, your chest tightening with a cold, sinking dread. Fear gnawed at you, but beneath it, something darker thrummed, recognition and sorrow, a grief too heavy to name. This was no longer just a vision to you, this was a warning. A glimpse of what could be.
But you were not alone in this vision.
Your head was rested on someone's lap, the cold stone replaced by the faint warmth of another. Your fingers twitched, your heart hammering in sudden, panicked fear. You tried to lift your gaze, to see more clearly, and the world trembled around the edges as your vision sharpened.
A sudden, sharp hitch tore through your chest, leaving your lungs frozen and your throat tight. Your heartbeat slammed against your ribs, echoing in your ears, as if the world itself had stopped to let you register what you were seeing.
Every nerve burned with a mix of disbelief with fear, and your gaze locked, unwilling, or just being unable to look away.
It was him, Legolas. Alive, though pale and tense, his eyes held a storm of fear and sorrow that seemed to reach straight into you. His hand hovered over your shoulder, a fragile attempt, as if he could somehow protect you from the dead bodies and the cruel, fractured world around you.
The sight slammed into your chest like a cruel weapon, twisting your heart with relief, terror, longing, and grief, all at once. Each beat ached as if it might shatter, your stomach filled with helplessness.
He looked nothing like the composed warrior you knew of. Gone was the steady, unreadable gaze of the elf who carried himself with quiet certainty. Instead, his eyes were wide and vulnerable, and his entire posture betrayed a fragility that cut through you sharper than any blade.
His hands trembled as they cradled you, long fingers smeared with blood, your blood. The flawless, composed image you knew of him was gone. Golden hair hung in disarray across his face, strands clinging to his skin as if he had run his hands through it in frantic despair.
His shoulders, once straight and proud, slumped under a weight you could feel even from where you were, heavy with fear and helplessness. Every detail, every tremor, every falter had shattered the image of the steadfast warrior you thought you knew, and it had revealed a vulnerability so raw it made your heart ache.
And his eyes, they were red-rimmed and glassy, wild with something uncontainable. Tears ran unchecked down his pale cheeks, carving silver paths through the grime and ash that clung to him. He made no effort to wipe them away, to be fair, he didn't even notice it.
His lips moved, whispering your name again and again, frantic, urgent, but no sound reached you, leaving only the weight of his desperation hanging between you.
There was anguish etched into every line of his face. Guilt lingered in the set of his shoulders, in the trembling of his hands. A devastation so deep it seemed to hollow him from the inside. He looked terrified—not of battle, not of death, but of losing you, of being powerless to protect the one thing he could not bear to see taken from him.
The sight shattered something else inside you, tearing at a corner of your soul you hadn't known was so fragile. The knowledge that this fate awaited you, that soon you would lie there, lifeless, cradled in his arms, sent your heart tumbling into a dark, bottomless pit.
Fear clawed around your ribs, tight and suffocating. Of course you were afraid. Who could stand unshaken when confronted with death so close, so intimate, that it pressed against your very chest like a living thing?
And yet… what tore at you most was not your own end. It was him, the thought of him breaking like that. Of those ancient, steadfast eyes dimming, losing their light because of you, made your chest constrict. The idea of him bearing that grief, immortal and unending, felt far crueler than death itself, a weight no heart should ever have to carry.
Fate had always been relentless. It bent and twisted, but it never vanished. You had learned that much. It lingered, patient and inevitable, waiting for the moment to circle back and claim its due.
But as the vision began to fade, as the white light splintered and the forest slowly bled back into view, one truth burned hotter than any terror: if this was your destiny, you would face it. Not because fear had abandoned you, but because you would not allow his last memory of you to be one of regret.
You would endure, for him, for yourself, for the fragile thread of hope that still lingered between you. You knew you had to put space between you, no hesitation, no argument with your own heart.
Every instinct urged you forward, to stay near, to let him hold you, to let yourself lean on him—but the vision had made the stakes painfully clear. The pain he would carry if you didn't step back was too great to risk. To protect him and your own, you had to distance yourself, even if it meant tearing your own heart apart.
It was the only solution you could see. In the end, it would be better, for both of you. Sooner or later, you would leave anyway, whether by death or returning to where you truly belonged, but not from here. Pulling away now might spare you both a heartbreak too heavy to bear. It was cruel, yes, but necessary.
"…Hey. Are you alright?" A voice called, carrying worry that made the words tremble just slightly, pulling your gaze toward it. You looked up, and your breath hitched at the sight of his worried eyes, there Legolas stood, hands gripping your shoulders with a tension that seemed to remind you this was reality.
Beside him, Tauriel's expression mirrored the same concern. Her brows were furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, and her hands twitched at her sides, as if she wanted to reach out but didn't dare.
She took a cautious step closer, eyes darting between you and Legolas, the faint quiver in her posture betraying her unease. "I told you we should've rested longer," she said, voice tight with worry.
Your eyes flicked to Tauriel for a brief moment as she spoke, taking in the furrow of her brows and the worry spread across her face, before returning to Legolas. The longer you looked at him, the more his features seemed to warp, twisting with the same haunted expression from your vision.
Panic instantly flared inside you. Without being able to think, you pushed him back, palms pressing hard against his chest.
Legolas froze, stunned, confusion flashing across his features. The shock wasn't physical, it was something deeper. The weight of your hands on his chest struck him in a way words never could, it sent a jolt of ache through him. It throbbed where your palms pressed against his heart, a searing emptiness that left him staggered.
You didn't apologize. You couldn't. Your eyes stayed fixed on the ground, it blurred beneath your gaze, avoiding his entirely. "I'm fine," you murmured, voice tight and uneven, though every word felt like a lie pressing against your chest. "We… don't need to rest."
Tauriel's sharp eyes flicked between the two of you, catching the tension that hung. Her brow arched slightly, lips pressed together as curiosity and concern warred across her features.
Just moments ago, everything had been fine, laughs were shared and none of this nonsense. Now, she wondered why you were acting as if you were suddenly afraid of him, avoiding him. Her head tilted ever so slightly, one hand brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the other resting lightly at her side, fingers fidgeting.
She glanced at Legolas, only to find his gaze fixed on you, hurt and bewildered. He didn't understand why you were pulling away, why your eyes avoided his.
Sensing the need to step in, Tauriel's voice cut through the silence. "Alright then. Lean on Legolas' shoulder, he can keep you balanced-"
"No." Your words trembled, as you lifted your gaze to meet Tauriel's. "I… I think it'll be better if I lean on yours…" The weight behind your decision pressed on you, but the words slipped out before you could stop them, carrying the unspoken truth of the distance you were trying to maintain.
Your words seemed to land like stones in the quiet air, heavier than you had wished. Legolas' brows knitted together instantly, sharp lines of confusion and hurt cutting across his face. His lips pressed into a thin line, jaw tightening as if he were trying to stop himself from speaking, from asking why.
He simply stared at you, unable to move, the hurt radiating from him so strongly that you could feel his gaze piercing you from the side.
Tauriel opened her mouth, curiosity and concern tugged in her expression. "Why...Why not his shoulder? Are you-"
You didn't answer back. Words felt heavy and useless, tangled in the ache that still lingered from the vision. Without wanting to waste any more time, you reached for her hand, letting her grasp anchor you. The other hand came up to rest lightly over her shoulder, steadying yourself as best you could, relying on her for support.
Behind you now, Legolas remained still, quiet. His sharp eyes followed your every movements. Every small gesture you made replayed in his mind: your hesitation, the way your gaze had avoided his.
He couldn't tell if he had done something wrong, or if it was something else entirely, but the unease that coiled in his chest was undeniable. Every hesitation, every averted glance, pressed against him like a weight he couldn'r shake off, leaving him restless and on edge as he followed silently behind.
Finally, after what felt like hours, the familiar sight of Lake-town, or Esgaroth some would call, spread out before you. Timber-framed houses rose on stilts above the shimmering waters, their weathered wood glinting in the moonlight.
Narrow walkways and rickety bridges crisscrossed the canals, while small boats bobbed gently at the docks. Smoke curled from chimneys, carrying the mingled scents of woodsmoke, cooked fish, and the earthy tang of the lake.
You exhaled, a shuddering breath escaping your lips as Tauriel's hand squeezed yours, steadying you, as you lowered your palm from her shoulder. You had finally reached your destination. Your companions were here, and your search would finally continue.
Legolas followed quietly behind the two of you, his eyes reflecting a mixture of lingering concern and the questions he still didn't dare voice. The weight of the vision had still clung to you, but now, at least, there was something tangible to focus on.
Almost immediately, Tauriel quickened her pace, followed by Legolas behind her, as they weaved through the 'streets' of Lake-town with effortless precision. You let out a shaky sigh at the sight, heart pounding, before sprinting to keep up, forcing your legs to match their speed.
Suddenly, a high-pitched scream pierced through the air, sharp and panicked. Without thinking, you pushed yourself harder, following Tauriel's lead as she surged ahead.
And somehow, you found yourself running side by side with her. Your lungs burned and your legs ached, but a flicker of astonishment ran through you, you were keeping pace with her, moving with a grace that felt almost unnatural to begin with.
Above you, Legolas leapt from roof to roof, bow in hand, his eyes scanning the chaos below like a hawk, pinpointing threats before they struck. Ahead, your eyes fell upon a house where the screams inside had grown louder, echoing through the streets of the town.
Your pulse quickened, and without hesitation, you pushed yourself to run faster, to reach it, when suddenly an orc lunged onto the balcony, snarling.
But Tauriel was already there. With a swift motion, she plunged her knife into its throat, silencing it instantly. Drawing her second blade, she slashed and stabbed, cutting down the orcs spilling from the doorway.
You managed to catch up in time, following close behind her with daggers in hand, the ones Elrond had entrusted to you. You plunged one into an orc, grimacing at the sight of its grotesque, twisted features and the dark, sticky blood that coated your hands. Nausea bubbled briefly, but the urgency of the fight kept you moving.
Legolas then dropped through a hole in the roof, landing with silent precision and joining the fray. Orcs fell around him, arrows finding their marks, blades slicing through armored flesh.
Amidst the chaos, splintering wood and clashing steel ringing in your ears, an orc suddenly broke through the fray and lunged at Kili. It seized his wounded leg with a vicious grip, claws digging into already torn flesh. Kili's scream ripped through the room, sharp and pained, cutting straight through you.
Before you could even move, Tauriel reacted. Her arm snapped forward, blade flashing through the air with lethal accuracy. The knife struck true, burying itself deep into the orc's throat. The creature gurgled, staggered, and collapsed, its grip loosening as Kili gasped for breath.
Together, Legolas and Tauriel fought like twin streaks of light, blades flashing and arrows flying, cutting through the orcs with ruthless precision. They moved in perfect rhythm, 'strike, turn, kill', leaving bodies in their wake.
Admist the havoc of the two, an orc had broke free from the chaos and charged straight at you, its roar shaking the walls. Its blade lifted, ready to cleave downward at you.
Your pulse spiked, loud and thunderous in your ears. You had to use it. You reached inward—not with your hands, not with any visible movement, but with something far deeper. Past instinct, into that quiet, hidden place within you where your power had waited.
And the world seemed to answered. It was subtle at first, a tremor beneath reality itself. The air tightened, as though drawn taut on invisible strings. The roar of the orc dulled, its snarl stretching into something warped and distant.
Time did not stop, it had just yielded before you.
You felt it give beneath your will like fabric pulled between your fingers. The rhythm of everything around you slowed, heartbeats dragging, footsteps suspended mid-stride, droplets of blood hanging in the air like scattered rubies caught in glass.
All but you, you moved freely to your will. Your body felt sharpened, honed to something almost weightless. Every breath was quick, precise. The world had become unbearably slow, and you stood at its center, untouched by its drag.
You stepped forward, and the floorboards barely seemed to resist you. The orc's body shifted in agonizing slowness. You watched the tightening of its shoulders before the motion truly began, saw each muscle coil beneath its scarred skin.
The blade in its hand rose inch by inch, and you could already map the arc it would carve through the air, where it would descend, how it would turn, the exact moment it would aim for you.
It was all laid bare.
You moved without wasting any second, one dagger slipped beneath its guard, sliding between its ribs with surgical precision. The second followed, dragging across its throat. Dark blood spilled outward, blossoming from its wound, but even that flowed slowly, thick ribbons suspended in air like crimson silk.
For a moment, you stood there in the silence of your own stolen time, surrounded by frozen violence.
Then your control faltered, you had released it. The world snapped back into place. Sound crashed into you all at once, steel against steel, screams, the wet thud of the orc's body hitting the floor. To everyone else, it had happened in a blink. A single breath.
But you felt the drag of those suspended seconds clinging to your skin, the echo of slowed blood and stretched silence still humming faintly in your bones.
Infront of you, Tauriel's blade struck fast. It slid between the plates of the orc's armor with a sickening sound, forcing a guttural snarl from its throat. The creature staggered, thick hands flailing as it tried to recover its balance. Its breath came in ragged bursts, foul and hot, splattering dark saliva across the wooden floor.
Kíli saw an oppurtunity, and he did not hesitate. With a sharp cry, he lunged forward and drove the knife, the one she had thrown to him, deep into the orc's side. He twisted it as he pulled it free.
The orc convulsed between them. Then it collapsed, dead weight crashing against the floorboards.
The room felt still as it crashed. Dust and the faint tang of blood hung in the air, momentarily masking the chaos around you.
Then Kíli gasped. The sound was wrong. It wasn't the breath of relief after battle. It was sharp and broken, like something tearing inside him. His fingers flew to his side, and he crumpled, falling hard onto the floor with a strangled howl of pain.
The sudden stillness was replaced by tension so thick it pressed against your chest, the sight of him falling twisted your stomach with fear.
Before you could even rush over to Kíli , Tauriel had already spun on her heels the moment she saw him fall. "Kíli." The word left her in a whisper, already thick with fear.
The wound at his side was dark, but darker still were the veins spreading outward from it, thin, shadowed lines crawling beneath his skin. A faint heat radiated from the injury, unnatural and cruel, pressing against her palms as she instinctively tried to stem the damage. Every shallow breath he drew made the sight worse to bare.
Outside, boots pounded across the wooden balcony. An orc burst from the doorway, panic twisting its brutal features. Without breaking stride, it vaulted over the railing. The impact of its landing shook the boat below, sending water slapping violently against its sides.
The orc lifted its head, eyes wild, and bellowed toward the massive figure approaching through the chaos. Its voice cut across the air, hoarse and urgent. "Ekinskeld! Obguranid!" (Oakenshield has gone!)
Far ahead, Bolg strode forward through the dim light. His pale eyes glinted as they fixed upon the house where the battle raged. "Gur! Arangim!" (Fall back! Regroup at the bridge!)
The command rippled through the remaining orcs left. One by one, they abandoned the fight, leaping from the balcony into the waiting boats below.
Wood groaned and splintered under the impact, water crashing violently around the vessels as they rocked with each landing. The retreat was swift, brutal, almost mechanical in its accuracy, a chaotic withdrawal made efficient by fear and obedience.
Though it seemed some had a hard time retreating. One orc lunged toward Legolas, roaring in fury, its weapon slicing through the air in a wide arc.
However, Legolas was able to move like liquid steel. He pivoted on his heel, body coiling and releasing with effortless precision. His blade arced in a silver flash, sinking deep into the orc's chest in an instant. The force of his turn threw the creature off balance, and with a practiced shove, he sent it stumbling backward.
The orc tumbled over the balcony railing, limbs flailing wildly, before crashing into the boat below with a wet, muffled thud. The impact rocked the vessel violently, tilting it like a seesaw.
One of the orc who had leapt into the boat earlier, was then thrown upward by the sudden shift, arms flailing as it flew through the air.
Legolas reacted instantly. His knives cut through the air in a blur, and one clean strike severed the orc's head mid-flight. The body then plummeted into the water below, sending a spray of icy lake around the rocking boat.
The head lingered for a moment, eyes locked on Legolas with a final, unnatural stare, before he released it to fall, disappearing beneath the waves.
Legolas' gaze lifted, calm and unflinching from the kill. Across the water, he could see the remaining orcs, Bolg's forces, fleeing through the streets of Lake-town, retreating in a chaotic wave after their leader.
Every twitch of their bodies, every faltering step, registered in his eyes. Calm and precise, he took it all in, already mapping their movements, calculating the next move in the hunt.
You followed his eyes, letting your own gaze track the fleeing enemy, momentarily torn from Kíli. For a brief instant, the chaos of the battle and the retreating orcs consumed you, even as worry still gnawed at the pit of your stomach.
Inside the house, the air still smelled of iron. A young boy's wide eyes scanned the room, lingering on the fallen orcs, disbelief painted across his young face.
"You… you killed them all," he breathed, voice shaking with awe, as his gaze then flicked toward you, and for a brief moment, his shock deepened into wonder. You met his look, and a small, gentle smile curved your lips as you nodded softly in return, quiet reassurance passing between you.
Legolas' voice then broke the heavy silence, low and controlled, carrying the weight of command. "There are others. Tauriel, come."
He strode toward the door, his movements measured, before pausing halfway. His sharp gaze flicked back toward you, and there was something unspoken in his eyes, something he seemed like he wanted to say.
For a brief moment, it felt as if he might speak, but the moment passed. His gaze shifted away, the unspoken sentiment left hanging between you, and he turned, moving onward without another word.
Tauriel on the other hand, had her eyes fixed upon kíli, lifted her gaze. There his body lay sprawled on the floor, pain etched into every line of his form, while Oin crouched at his side, hands pressed against his wound.
"We're losing him!" Oin's voice was tight, urgent.
Tauriel's expression twisted between shock and panic in an instant. Her eyes darted between Kíli's faltering form and Legolas, who remained at the doorway, silent and waiting.
"Tauriel." The single word landed heavily in the room, cutting through the chaos in her thoughts. Tauriel's eyes met his for a fleeting moment, a silent exchange that held everything unsaid, before her gaze snapped back to Kíli, panic sharpening all over her features.
Legolas lingered at the doorway, his gaze fixed on Tauriel, following the subtle hesitation in her movements. Then his eyes flicked to you, holding for just a heartbeat—long enough to take in the unspoken answer between you. Understanding passed silently, a quiet acknowledgment of the choices you'd already made.
With that, he turned, breaking the connection, and stepped through the doorway, leaving the room and its turmoil behind. Without hesitation, he leapt over the balcony, landing on the bridge below with barely a sound, and began running toward the fleeing orcs.
Seeing Legolas gone, Tauriel drew in a sharp breath and pushed herself to move toward the door, to follow him. But a sudden, ragged groan froze her in place. Kíli's cry of pain tore through the room, and her eyes snapped to him, every feature of hers glimmered with worry.
Across the bridge, Legolas had already caught up with the fleeing orcs. With unerring precision, he drew an arrow and released it in a single fluid motion. The projectile whistled through the air, striking one orc at point-blank range. The tip sank cleanly through its skull, embedding itself deep into the wooden planking behind, leaving no chance for survival.
Tauriel's eyes flicked between the scene and Kíli, torn. Behind her, you stayed still, watching her every movement, every flicker of expression she showed. You could see it in the tension of her shoulders, the way her gaze softened at his pain—she cared, more than she would admit.
It made you felt related in some sense, as if you saw yourself in her.
A sudden noise made her spin, knives drawn instinctively. You mirrored her movements from behind, blades appearing in your hands without thought. But the threat was fleeting, there Bofur came running, holding the Kingsfoil leaves with a stunned, breathless expression.
Tauriel's eyes widened, disbelief and relief washing over her in equal measure. She snatched the leaves from his grasp with reverent urgency.
"Athelas," she whispered, voice thick with relief. Her hands trembled slightly as she examined the healing herb, tracing the green leaves with care.
"Athelas…" Her tone repeated, almost a prayer, carrying the weight of hope for Kíli's survival.
Hearing the reverence in her voice, a spark of hope flared inside you for Kíli. You let out a short, steadying sigh of relief, before casting your gaze toward the open doorway. The battle was still raging outside, and you could fight now, but how long you'd last? You couldn't quite say so yourself.
Part of you wanted to stay, to stay beside Kíli and lend what you could. You had the power to heal, to soothe pain, but if an antidote was ready, it was wiser to let it do its work. Better that than drain yourself, leaving nothing to face the fight ahead.
As if sensing your thoughts, Tauriel's eyes fell upon you. A brief nod met yours, subtle yet laden with understanding. In that instant, you knew exactly what she meant. Without hesitation, you moved, rushing through the doorway to join the fray.
You ran with all your might, your heart hammering in your chest, each step frantic, each breath ragged, as though your survival depended on your speed.
Ahead of you, the clash of steel and the guttural cries of battle grew louder and louder, echoing off the alley walls. Legolas was still in pursuit, his knives slicing through the air, taking down the fleeing orcs with ease.
Then the alley stretched before you like a trap. Bolg had stepped into its narrow shadowed length just as Legolas entered from the opposite side. The two of them froze, eyes locking onto one another.
Legolas' hand immediately slid down to Orcrist at his hip, fingers curling around the familiar hilt. With a single, fluid motion, he drew it and gripped the hilt with both hands, advancing toward Bolg with a deadly calm.
And then you appeared, somehow straight behind Bolg. The realization struck a second too late for you.
Panic flared hot in your chest as you took in the sheer size of him from this close, the broad expanse of armored back, the cruel spikes, the way he seemed to swallow the narrow space whole. You had taken a wrong turn. Of all the paths in Lake-town, you had chosen this one.
Across from you, Legolas' head snapped toward you. For a fraction of a second, his eyes widened in confusion, but that expression shattered, replaced instantly with worry. His brows furrowed, every muscle in his face and body tensed as he registered the danger you had just walked into.
Bolg seemed to sense the shift in Legolas' focus. Curious, He turned slowly, his massive form looming as his pale, glinting eyes settled on you. The alley felt impossibly narrow beneath his towering bulk, every inch of space dominated by his menace.
You froze, momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer presence of him. Then, forcing yourself to appear calm, you straightened your shoulders and looked up at the enormous orc. A small, cautious, awkward smile crept across your lips, your hand rising slightly in a tentative wave.
"Hi, we meet again haha..." Your voice slipped past your lips, quieter than you meant it to be, yet it rang with surprising clarity. The word felt almost absurd against the danger standing right there, but it was all you could manage—an awkward, fragile greeting to the creature that could and will probably crush you with a single motion.
Bolg simply stared at you. His pale eyes narrowed, not with immediate rage, but with something far more unsettling. Confusion laced with contempt. His scarred lip twitched faintly, pulling at the jagged line that split his mouth, as though the simple act of you waving required effort to comprehend.
On a battlefield choked with smoke and blood, you had smiled at him like you were greeting a neighbor across the street.
A deep, irritated rumble rolled from his chest, low and rough, his pale eyes narrowing as his scarred lip twitched in clear annoyance. His head tilted once, slow and almost considering, like he was deciding whether you were worth the trouble.
And you were. He needed. Well, wanted you gone ever since you made a move on him back at the forest. It's a memory he'll never forget, the embrassment you gave him. It's just so that the universe happened to decide to bring you to him.
Then, whatever thought had crossed his mind disappeared. The faint flicker of consideration drained from his face, leaving it hard and unreadable. His jaw tightened, muscles ticking beneath scarred skin, pale eyes locking onto you with cold intent, and his arm moved without warning in a sudden.
The weapon in his grip tore through the air in a brutal horizontal sweep, iron whistling sharply as it cut toward you. The force of it stirred dust from the stones and sent your hair whipping back, the sheer power behind the swing, clear in the way his shoulders twisted and muscles locked into the strike.
It was meant to take you down in one hit.
You flinched hard, boots scraping against wet stone as you threw yourself backward. The blade skimmed close enough that you felt the wind of it brush your cheek.
"Move!" Legolas' voice cut cleanly through the strike. He surged forward, light on his feet despite the slick stone beneath him, but two orcs burst from the shadows at the same instant, holding him back.
One lunged from the left, ducking beneath a broken beam with surprising speed, its shoulders hunched and blade already swinging upward. Its yellowed teeth showed in a feral grin, spit flying as it snarled.
The other came from the right, vaulting over a splintered crate in a clumsy but powerful leap. It landed hard, boots skidding, and drove forward immediately, weapon raised high.
They had been waiting, and now they were closing in on him from both sides.
Legolas pivoted fluidly, movement seamless and precise. His blade snapped up just in time, catching the first strike with a bright, ringing clash that shuddered down the steel. Sparks jumped between the weapons as he held the block for a split second.
His elbow then drove back without looking. It connected with a sharp crack against the creature's jaw, as the orc's head snapped sideways, spit and blood spraying as it fell.
Both dropped onto the ground before you knew it, hard bodies hitting the stone with dull, heavy thuds. Despite taking down two, Legolas didn't seem to hesitate. He didn't even look to see if they would rise again. He was already turning, already moving, golden like hair whipping behind him as he redirected all his momentum toward Bolg.
His expression was sharpened into something lethal, eyes locked on his target as his blade came around in a clean arc.
You didn't hesitate either. In fact, you moved fast, so fast it felt like time had already anticipated you, bending instinctively around your next step. The thread inside you pulled tight, humming along your spine, and the world yielded. Everything slowed yet again.
Bolg's motion dragged as if he were moving through thick water. The savage sweep of his weapon became slow, iron inching forward instead of slicing. His muscles, once explosive, now strained visibly beneath grey skin, every flex exaggerated in the slowed stretch of time.
His expression shifted too, caught mid-transition.
The once sharp focus in his pale eyes faltered, widening just a fraction as something felt wrong. His brow began to draw together, the heavy line between it deepening slowly, confusion creeping across his scarred features as he realised his body wasn't responding the way it should. Even the curl of his lip lagged behind his intent, forming into a snarl that seemed delayed, unfinished.
He could feel it, the resistance. The way his body no longer obeyed him with its usual brutality. He was now trapped inside it yet again, caught in his own swing, and you were already moving around him.
You slipped inside his reach, boots whispering against the stone, every step precise and weightless in the slowed world.
Your daggers flashed. The first blade carved across his side, dragging a sharp line through grey skin. You felt the resistance, hard, almost like cutting through thick leather, but steel sank anyway. The second came up immediately after, angling toward his shoulder in a clean, controlled strike.
The impact shuddered through your wrist. A thin line of red surfaced where you cut, dark and slow in the distorted time, tracing the path of your blades.
Not deep enough to wound him, but enough to mark him. His skin resisted like cured hide. Each strike only carved shallow lines, red seeping sluggishly across grey flesh. He barely reacted.
The instant you moved, Legolas was already moving torward you. It was seamless, almost instinctive, as if the two of you had rehearsed this moment a hundred times. He soon landed where you had stood, Orcrist arcing in a clean, controlled slash aimed at Bolg's midsection.
You passed him in the same breath, as your eyes met. Time still dragged around you, stretching that single glance longer than it should have been. His expression was sharp, focused, but there was something tight in it. Relief. The quick confirmation that you were unhurt.
A confirmation that no words could carry, yet his eyes spoke it plainly.
It passed as quickly as it came, but you saw it, clear as daylight, before the world pulled you apart again. Your focus was then placed toward the other two orcs ahead. One was just rising, shoulders hunched, shaking its head violently as if to clear the fog from the blow it had just taken. Though, You didn't quite give it a second to recover.
With a burst of motion, you lunged forward, blades flashing, slicing across its chest in a clean, vicious line. The orc bellowed, staggering backward as your momentum carried you into a spin. Before you could steady, your path collided almost directly with the second orc from behind, its snarling face mere inches from yours.
Its breath hit you almost immediately, a rancid, stomach-churning mix of rot and sweat that made your eyes water. "What the hell-!" you shrieked, instincts taking over, as you swung your fist straight into its nose.
The impact was brutal, bone crunching beneath your knuckles reverberating up your arm with every heartbeat. Pain flared sharply, white-hot and relentless, coiling along your forearm as if the strike had left a trail of fire behind it.
The orc's eyes spun wildly in return, crossing in confusion. Its knees buckled beneath it, and with a pitiful, gurgling groan, it toppled over, gone before its body even met the cold stone ground.
You stood frozen for a moment, staring at the heap, your hand still aching, "…Why did I do that?" you muttered, as the recoil hit a second later. Your knuckles screamed. Your vision swam slightly, as sensation flooded your arm.
"Fuck- that hurts," you hissed under your breath, shaking your hand once before instantly regretting that too.
Hearing the sudden hush, your head snapped up, and there he was. Legolas. Blood ran in a thin streak down his nose, catching what little light filtered into the alley, glinting bright crimson against pale skin.
His jaw was set so tight it looked as if every word he hadn't spoken was locked behind it, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes flashing with anger. Every line of him screamed, from the tense curve of his shoulders to the way his fingers flexed around the hilt of Orcrist. He was a storm contained in a single frame.
Then it hit you—Bolg was gone. In the whirlwind of motion, the chaos, he had somehow slipped past, leaving nothing but the echo of his presence.
Your eyes then returned to Legolas, and with that, the walls you'd built, the careful space you'd maintained between him and yourself, fell away completely.
You acted without thinking. "Don't touch it," you snapped, every word bristling with annoyance. Yet your hands moved with surprising gentleness, tearing a small strip of cloth from your clothes to dab at the blood streaking his face.
Legolas froze under your touch, pupils widening, gaze caught somewhere between surprise and… something else. Gratitude, maybe, or the quiet acknowledgement of care. His breath hitched faintly, shoulders stiffening, yet he didn't pull away.
Your gaze then lifted without even trying, meeting his, and for the briefest of instants, the storm etched into his features eased ever so slightly. Something delicate stirred behind those blue eyes—a quiet, fragile warmth, threading through the tension once held between the two of you, softening the edges of his focus in a way that made the world around you feel impossibly still.
Then a faint, involuntary smile brushed across his lips, quick and almost ghostlike. "What are you smiling at?" you demanded, sharp edges lacing the words, though the bite felt hollow even to your own ears.
Your chest, traitor that it was as always, betrayed the words with a slow, curling heat that spread across your ribs, a warmth you refused to name, refused to let slip into your tone.
You were failing miserably.
"No, it's just... you're finally speaking to me." Legolas spoke. Relief softened his gaze, washing over his features. He had thought, all this time, that he'd done something wrong. The tension that had knotted his shoulders loosened slightly, though the rapid beat of his heart still reminded him how much he'd feared of this moment.
Hearing his words, a jolt ran through you, reminding you sharply that you weren't supposed to care, that you weren't supposed to let yourself lean toward him.
Your eyes widened, and for a split second, your chest tightened as if you couldn't draw a full breath. A flicker of panic danced in your pupils, and your hands itched to fidget, to push him away, but you froze instead, caught between impulse and restraint.
Your lips parted slightly right after, but no sound came, and your brow furrowed, betraying the conflict curling inside you.
Your eyes soon faltered at the thought, breaking contact with his, and the heat that had prickled at your neck and chest seemed to spike, forcing your body into motion. Instinctively, you stepped back, putting space between you and him.
This wasn't what you wanted—not this closeness, not this sudden, raw vulnerability his words had unearthed. Every pulse, every quickened breath reminded you that leaning toward him was a temptation you must refuse to indulge.
Legolas froze, his smile faltering the instant he saw your expression. Stupid, he chastised himself, for even opening his goddamned mouth. Not even able to have you in his arms for more than a few minutes, you had retreated, slipping back into the careful distance you'd always maintained, the walls around you rising faster than he could keep up.
He was left rooted in place, staring at the space you'd just vacated, the echo of his own misstep reverberating louder than any words he could call back.
He didn't understand. He couldn't. The sight of your back, turned deliberately toward him, stirred something he couldn't resist. Without thinking, his hands shot forward, fingers curling around your wrist. A gentle but firm tug held you in place, refusing to let you leave so easily.
"Why are you avoiding me?" Legolas' voice cut through the silence, low but edged with tension, the faint tremor betraying how much he hated this distance between you.
His brows drew together, shadowing the sharp lines of his face, and his eyes held a mix of frustration and pleading , as if silently begging you to meet them, to break the wall you had built between you.
But silence was all that answered back. You couldn't bring yourself to speak, not yet. The thought of letting even a single word slip felt like stepping too close to a cliff edge; you feared that if you did, you would unravel, letting the raw ache of death, heat and longing tumble free, exposing everything you had fought so hard to contain.
Taking in your silence, Legolas' composure finally cracked. His blue eyes darkened, storming with frustration, shadows flickering beneath knitted brows. The usual calm in his features had vanished, replaced by a hardness that didn't suit him, a quiet vulnerability bleeding through. His jaw tightened, lips parting with a rasp of barely contained desperation: "Answer me… please. Tell me why!"
The ache in his chest was palpable, each word trembling with the weight of emotions he rarely let surface—frustration, fear, and a kind of helpless longing that made his limbs feel heavier, his breaths sharper.
"Have I wronged you in some way? Speak, I beg you," Legolas' voice broke, rough with desperation to know. His grip on your wrist wasn't harsh, but it was insistent, grounding him as he leaned slightly closer.
"If it is, I shall make it right. If it is some failing of mine, I will mend it, whatever it may be. Only... do not turn from me, do not push me away when nothing I know of has passed between us-!"
His blue eyes shimmered with raw, unguarded emotion, pleading, a quiet ache shining through their depths. The faint tremor in his voice betrayed how much he feared losing the fragile thread of connection between you. Every word was a bare confession of his frustration, his longing, and the helplessness that clawed at him.
"Enough!" you snapped, your voice cracking, sharp and jagged. With a sudden movement, you twisted, yanking your wrist free from his grasp. Your eyes, glossy with unshed tears you fought to keep back, locked onto his, blazing with anger and hurt.
Rage and helplessness churned inside of you, you hated hearing him speak as if he were the one at fault, as if he were the problem when you knew, painfully, it was you.
"So what if I am?" you demanded, voice trembling. "What if I'm really pushing you away… ignoring you?!' Your fists clenched at your sides as the walls you'd built around yourself threatened to crumble under the weight of everything you'd held in for far too long.
Legolas flinched at the sharpness in your voice, the sudden pull of your wrist leaving him momentarily stunned. You had finally saw it, his blue eyes, once steady, trembled with hurt.
The tension in his jaw softened, lips parting slightly as if to speak, but no words came, only the ache of seeing the one he cared for turn from him, leaving him exposed to a pain he hadn't expected to feel so painfully.
Taking in his expression, the hurt etched so plainly across his face, you felt something inside you give way. The anger you had clung to so tightly splintered, replaced by a rush of emotion too strong to cage any longer. You could no longer turn away.
"It doesn't matter anyways!" The words tore from you, more wounded than cruel. Your chin trembled despite your effort to steady it, brows drawn together as tears finally brimmed over, clinging stubbornly to your lashes. "I'm here on borrowed time. I'll be gone before you know it."
Your lips quivered after the confession, teeth pressing together as if to stop anything more from spilling out. There was defiance in the lift of your chin, but it cracked under the weight of fear—fear of leaving, fear of wanting, fear of letting him mean something when you knew you might not stay. The walls you had built weren't made of anger at all. They were made of dread.
Your chest heaved as you spoke, voice barely more than a breath, trembling with the weight of everything you'd kept buried. "Back… back to where my mother had sent me! Does she even… even love me? I don't know anymore."
Each word cut through the air, raw and fragile, revealing the aching uncertainty you'd carried for so long.
Legolas stepped closer, his gaze unwavering. "You are the child of Lumena," he said firmly, his voice steady, resolute. "You belong here. This is where you truly live, gifted with the power of time." The words wrapped around you like a shield, yet could not fully still the storm in your chest.
He paused, reaching a hand as if to brush some of your anguish away, though he did not touch. His voice softened, threaded with a tenderness that made your heart ache. "She loved you. She loves you. She sacrificed… everything, to keep you safe…"
His words lingered in the air, a fragile tether between your pain and the truth you'd refused to see, and for a moment, the world felt so impossibly small, condensed to the space between you and him all over again.
A small, bitter laugh of disbelief escaped you, trembling at its edges. "Me? Gifted with power?"
Your fingers then found way as it fumbled at your collar, gripping the necklace that rested there. You held it out deliberately, raising it so he could see every detail, every glint of significance.
"This! This is the power," you said, voice tight, almost snarling, as if the words alone could keep the shame and doubt at bay. "Without this… I'm nothing." Your gaze flicked briefly to him, daring him to question the weight you placed on something so small, and yet, to you, so indispensable.
"Not only that…" Your voice dropped, heavy with frustration and disbelief. "My fate… it's bound to die. Bound to even destroy some… some stupid ring."
Your grip on the necklace tightened, knuckles whitening as if holding onto it could somehow anchor the chaos of your life you were facing. Your eyes flashed with a mix of bitterness and helplessness, lips pressed tight as though speaking the truth aloud was both a confession and a curse.
Each word cut through the air like a shard, carrying the weight of a destiny you hadn't chosen but were forced to bear.
"So I'm trying my best to push you away," you said, each word spilling out in a rush. "Because I keep having these feelings… these… weird feelings that I can't keep to myself."
"I just can't… I can't deny it anymore. And it's driving me crazy every single time! And you!"
Your eyes were even glossier now, glinting with unshed tears, and they burned into his as if willing him to understand the chaos he'd stirred in you. "It doesn't help me at all when you keep looking at me with those eyes, that gaze… like you care! When I know you probably care for someone else… someone other than me-"
Your chest heaved with each word, lips quivering, cheeks flushed, the weight of everything you'd buried crashing out in a torrent.
"But I do." Legolas' voice was soft unlike yours, carrying the weight of every unspoken moment, every suppressed feeling he had felt listening to you unravel before him.
The words hit you like a sudden gust, stealing what little air remained in your lungs. Your eyes widened, lashes trembling as you stood frozen in place, you couldn't breathe, could barely process the confession spoken.
"I do care," he continued, "And it's you. It's always been you. Even from the day I first saw you in the forests of Mirkwood… You gave me a reason to smile, to live, to look forward to each and every day that came after."
His eyes glimmered, earnest as though the entirety of his heart had been laid bare, beating visibly in the quiet intensity of the moment and for you.
You shook your head, stubbornness warring with the truth his words had untangled. You didn't want to believe it, not fully, but a small, undeniable part of you did. You had always thought you knew best for yourself, that you could control the chaos of your own fate, and so you turned away, forcing your back to him as if distance could shield you from what you felt.
Legolas' voice cracked through the silence, strained with frustration and the sting of watching you turn away yet again, "I do not understand! Why do you turn from me?!" His hands twitched, hovering where your wrist had been moments before, fingers curling slightly in the empty space between you, powerless to close the distance you had chosen. "What… what are you so afraid of?!"
"I'm afraid to die!" you burst out, your voice breaking as the tears you had fought so hard to contain finally spilled over, tracing helpless paths down your cheeks.
Your hands flew to your chest, fingers clutching at the fabric there as if you could physically hold yourself together, as if you could steady the frantic pounding of your heart. The fear you had buried for so long tore free in that moment, it had felt suffocating instead, and painfully honest.
"I don't want to die… I'm so scared…" the confession slipped past your lips in a fragile whisper, each syllable trembling with the vulnerability you had once fought so fiercely to conceal. Your shoulders shook with quiet sobs, and your gaze dropped to the ground, unable to withstand the look of his eyes on you.
Right there and then, you felt unbearably small, stripped of pride, of defiance, of strength you once held. And even as your heart ached for him to hold you, to tell you it would be all right, a cruel voice within you insisted you did not deserve that comfort.
"And yet… somehow, your sorrowful gaze is what scares me even more." You let out a shaky laugh, bitter and soft. "Can you believe that?" you continued, your voice trembling yet painfully earnest as your fingers curled, lifting to press against your chest.
"The thought… the thought of seeing you live in guilt, in sorrow because of me-" your breath hitched, words stuttering under their own weight, "It hurts me even more than death, and that's what my visioned showed me...warned me." Your eyes glistened, tears blurring your sight, and the fragile laugh that escaped you broke apart almost as soon as it formed, dissolving into a quiet, vulnerable tremor as the last word fell from your lips.
"It's like cold water splashing on me," you whispered, voice tight and trembling, sniffles breaking through as you struggled to hold yourself together. "A wake-up call… that these feelings… they don't matter. A reminder… again… that I'm on borrowed time."
Your fingers clutched at your sleeves, every word trembled with the weight of despair, the ache of knowing your heart wanted what it could never fully claim, and the cold sting of reality pressed against you like ice.
Legolas could only stare back at you, his eyes wide, unflinching, as though even the smallest movement might shatter what remained between you. He did not dare look away. He did not dare blink, drinking in the raw anguish painted across your face.
Something inside him formed painfully at the sight, a silent vow forming in the depths of his gaze even as he stood there, momentarily stripped of words.
"We can change it," he said, "We can fight it… together." He continued, every syllable carrying the weight of hope, the unshakable conviction that no matter how impossible it seemed, he would face it by your side, and that somehow, together, you could endure it all.
You shook your head upon hearing his decision, a bitter laugh catching in your throat, tears glinting at the corners of your eyes. "No… we can't." The words slipped out like a wound, sharp and final, cutting through the fragile thread of hope he had just offered.
"No… I know we can-" Legolas' voice trembled, thick with desperation. Every fiber of him ached to believe it, to reach across the chasm you had created.
"Oh, for God's sake!" you finally snapped, voice cracking with frustration and pain, tears spilling freely once more. "I've tried it once… it doesn't work! It comes back to you eventually. It's a lost cause, Legolas!" Your hands shook at your sides, trembling with the intensity of the confession, as if letting it out could somehow make the truth less unbearable.
Then it happened, you broke. The tears you'd been holding back finally spilled over and over again, hot and unrelenting, and with them came soft, broken whimpers that rattled through your chest.
Your shoulders shook violently as the grief and fear you had carried poured out, leaving you trembling and utterly exposed to the emptiness around you.
Legolas instinctively reached for you, fingers outstretched, but froze mid-air. Something held him back, he didn't understand why it wasn't easy to hold you now—why the simple act of comforting you felt impossibly distant, out of reach.
Was it because of what you'd said? Deep down, he knew. He knew you had spoken the truth, yet he hadn't expected the blow to strike this hard, to carve this ache so deep into him.
Seeing you like this, broken, helpless and lost, it was almost too much to bear. You sank to the floor, folding in on yourself, squatting as your body shook with sobs that racked every inch of you.
Legolas could only stare, frozen, every instinct within him screaming to reach for you, to pull you from the depths of your despair. But the weight of your words and the reality of your fear pressed down too heavily against him. With a tight, painful breath, he tore his gaze away, turning slowly. His steps were silent as he slipped into the shadows, leaving nothing behind but the echo of your cries, ringing through the stillness like a haunting refrain.
Piggy backing off the last ask, is there a list of characters you do/don’t write for. I know currently you’re writing for LOTR, specifically Legolas. Do you write for anyone else within that fandom or even outside of it?
🤍 Thank you sm for asking me!
ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Is there a list of characters I do/don't write for.
Hii! Okay so I lowkey have not figured this out, like a list of characters to write or to don't. I'm in ALOT of fandoms actually, and I'm not joking, sadly.
You say it, you name it, and I'm like what 70% gonna be in the fandom. So genuinely just rec me anytime, I don't mind :)
But if I do have to make one for now, these would be the more popular 'fandoms/universe' I would definetely write for. (And I will definetely think about it to make a proper one 🥹)
╰┈➤ Lord Of The Rings (obvi)
╰┈➤ Stranger Things
╰┈➤ Percy Jackson
╰┈➤ The Mortal Instruments
╰┈➤ Marvel
╰┈➤ Harry Potter / Fantastic Beasts
╰┈➤ Anime! ( exp : JJK | HAIKYUU )
╰┈➤ Kpop! ( in general, exp : TXT | SVT )
╰┈➤ Sherlock (BBC)
╰┈➤ Divergent
╰┈➤ The Hunger games
╰┈➤ Teen Wolf
╰┈➤ Vampire Diaries
╰┈➤ Game Of Thrones
╰┈➤ Bridgerton
╰┈➤ Resident Evil
╰┈➤ Formula 1
╰┈➤ Brooklyn 99
╰┈➤ Project Hail Mary (sorry I just had to)
(And that's all I have at the back of my head at the moment 😞)
ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Do I write for anyone else within the LOTR fandom.
Yes! I definetely do! I am planning to write for more characters within the LOTR fandom. There'll be one-shots and maybe even more series to come cause my mind NEVER stops clocking in bro. It's a blessing and a curse 😭
ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Do I write for anyone else outside the LOTR fandom.
Again, yes I do! I have a Henry Creel fic that I'm writing currently, it's a longgg one (around 30k+) and thats part 2, part 1 is already posted!
So yea, I hope this isn't messy, I haven't figured out much myself yet 😿 Againnn, thank you sm for asking, for I would have never thought about it myself. 😭
۶ৎ Summary : Eomer, the Rohirrim prince, couldn't seem to take his eyes off you; your performance burned in his mind. He caught you when you stumbled, though someone else didn’t look pleased. Legolas, feeling a strange, sharp jealousy, found your lips the only thing that could ease the hunger building inside him.
A/n : WOOOO! Idk why, but the more I write, the longer each fic gets. Lmk if you like long focs or short ones cause this might get abit out of hand. 😭 But oh well, hope yall enjoy this onee! (From the 'f!reader not from middle-earth series) can be read as a one-shot too yeaa :3 +more to come soonn!!
Wc : 6.9k+
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The noise never truly faded when your song ended. Instead sound rolled on in its wake, laughter ringing bright, tankards striking wood in careless cheer, voices rising over one another in eager praise.
People leaned close together, retelling your performance with bright eyes and wide smiles, their words growing more animated with every sip of ale. You caught fragments of your own melody hummed badly, fondly, as if it had given them something to hold onto for the night.
Firelight trembled along the stone walls, spilling amber light across faces flushed with drink and delight, shadows flickered like restless spirits at the edges of the room.
Joy filled the space around you, warm and bright, but it no longer reached inside. The energy that once held you upright slipped away little by little, leaving a hollow tiredness behind. Your arms felt heavier at your sides, your legs slower to move.
You drew a breath and found it shallow, your chest tight with the strain of giving so much of yourself away in song. Your limbs soon felt distant from you, slow to obey, weighed down by exhaustion and the lingering haze of drink.
The sounds around you began to blur at the edges, laughter stretched into echoes and voices drifted far away, as though you were sinking beneath water.
The floor soon tilted subtly beneath your boots. You tried your best to steady yourself, tried to gather what little strength remained, but it slipped through your grasp like sand. One step faltered after another, and suddenly your knees gave way.
A small gasp left your lips as the world lurched sideways, the stone floor rushing toward you in a dizzying sweep. Instinct tensed your body for the inevitable impact—but it never came.
An arm had caught you mid-fall, as it wrapped around your waist and pulled you upright with effortless strength. The sudden steadiness was disorienting, your weight drawn against something solid, something firm to the touch. Leather brushed against your sleeve, and with it came the faint scent of the wind clung onto it.
Your vision swam as you turned your head, and through the haze you found yourself gathered securely in Éomer, the prince of Rohan's arms.
"My apologies, my lady," he said, his voice low and smooth to your ears, each word wrapped in effortless grace. "Another breath and the floor would have claimed you for its own." He continued on, the words reached you as though borne on a distant breeze, with the faintest hint of amusement at the way fate had conspired to place you in his hold.
His arm remained firm around your waist, steadying you, his touch warm through the fabric of your attire. His gaze then dipped briefly, as if confirming you were truly upright now, before lifting again to meet your eyes. And in that look, the formal politeness softened, easing into something more personal, more attentive over you.
"You seem unsteady," he said quietly, the faint curve of his mouth softening the words spoken. "I would not forgive myself if harm befell you within my sight."
A faint, dazed smile curved your lips when you heard his words, your eyelids fluttering as you tried to keep the world from spinning. "Mhmmm…" you managed, the sound barely more than a murmur.
Your body relaxed more than it should have, your weight sinking back into him as if he were the only solid thing left in your current tilting world.
Even in your half-sober state, you could not command your balance. Standing upright felt like a task meant far beyond you in your current state.
Éomer felt the shift instantly. Not just the physical weight of you leaning, but the quiet surrender in it. The way your muscles softened, and the way your hand loosened at his arm, trusting rather than bracing.
Éomer's breath stilled for half a second, his hold adjusted without drawing attention to it, palm spreading more securely at your waist as he grounded you against him.
There was nothing hurried in the movement, nothing unsure. He simply made himself steadier, stronger, as though the very earth beneath his boots answered to his call.
You fit against him too easily. His gaze lowered to your face now, studying the faint haze in your eyes, the small, absent curve of your smile. You looked unaware of how close you were standing, unaware of how openly you leaned into him, of how your cheek hovered dangerously near his chest.
A flicker of something crossed his expression, something warmer than amusement, heavier than mere concern.
"My lady," he said quietly, voice losing some of its polished formality. It was softer now, lower in tone.
You exhaled again, another quiet hum slipping past your lips as the world continued to tilt around you. The distant sounds of the hall seemed to have sounded far away, muffled by the steady rhythm of his breathing beneath your ear.
He hesitated. Then, carefully, his hand shifted just slightly higher along your side, not wandering, not improper, but ensuring you would not slip from his grasps. His thumb pressed faintly against the curve of your waist, grounding you there.
"If you continue to lean so freely," he murmured, a faint warmth threading through his tone, "I may begin to think you're doing this intentionally.
His eyes soon found its way back on you again, as it lingered on your face searching, perhaps for clarity, perhaps for permission.
You had drawn his attention earlier that night, your performance bright with life and spirit, impossible to ignore. But this version of you, unguarded, your softened expression, sure did stirred a quieter concern in him, something gentler than admiration.
A soft chuckle rumbled from his chest, warm with fond amusement over your unguarded state. "It seems the cups have conquered you tonight, my lady..."
The sound of his words vibrated faintly beneath your cheek, low and steady, and you felt it more than you heard it. His breath brushed over your hair as he dipped his head slightly, not close enough to crowd you, just near enough that his presence felt enclosing.
His thoughts clearly had already left the celebration long behind with you now in his arms. He had started considering where you might sit, where you might rest before collapsing from sheer fatigue.
Though you had other thoughts entirely.
"No," you protested at once. A small pout formed on your lips, your brows knitting in stubborn denial. It might have been convincing, had your body not betrayed you by swaying dangerously.
Your shoulder dipped to one side as you finished protesting, your footing faltering as the corridor tilted in a way it absolutely should not have.
Thankfully, Éomer reacted quick, his arm soon tightened around your waist in one swift, controlled motion, pulling you securely back against him, while his other hand came up instinctively to steady your upper arm.
His breath left him in a quiet exhale, not frustration, not annoyance, something closer to restrained laughter.
"Oh?" he murmured, one brow lifting faintly as he looked down at you. "No?" he repeated, slower this time.
The corners of his mouth curved despite his effort to remain composed. The warmth in his voice was unmistakable now, a low amusement that he did not bother to hide. His hand remained steady at your waist, thumb pressing lightly as if to test whether you might attempt another heroic stand on your own.
"You deny it," he continued, the faintest smile curving at the corner of his mouth in defeat, "yet the evidence seems… quite determined to prove otherwise."
"I am perfectly fine!" you insisted, sealing the claim with a determined press of your lips. And perhaps you would have continued your valiant defense—had another gaze not been resting on you.
From across the hall, removed from the warmth and laughter, Legolas stood in stillness.
His arms were folded across his chest, yet there was no ease in his posture. His fingers curled slightly into the fabric at his sleeves, as if holding himself in place, reminding him to stay in place.
His sharp gaze was fixed on the sight before him, on you leaning into another's hold, on the Rohirrim prince looking at you as though you were something worth guarding.
He did not have a name for the feeling that stirred within him. Only that it burned. A tight, unfamiliar heat coiled in his chest as he watched. His jaw tightened, his breath no longer as steady as it had been moments before.
Why should this trouble him? Why should his heart beat as though he stood on a battlefield? He told himself it was nothing. A passing irritation, a fleeting thought just like any other time. Yet his feet nearly moved of their own accord. One step forward followed by another, halted only by discipline.
An urge tugged at him, persistent and unwelcome: to cross the hall, to place himself between you and Éomer, to interrupt the quiet closeness that had formed. To claim a space he had never thought to claim.
Ever since you've returned, everything felt the same as it was before. You both knew of each others true feelings for one another, yet it felt all the same all over again, that was the torment of it.
That realization unsettled him most of all. He wanted your hand in his because you chose it. He wanted your breath to falter because of him and not because you were trying to maintain your composure or whatever. He wanted to stop pretending that the space between you was necessary.
Most of all, he wanted the right to claim what already felt his, not in arrogance, but in longing just for you, only you.
Your presence beside him was no longer enough after knowing you felt the same, it did not soothe him one bit. It only made the hunger sharper, because now he was not fighting doubt. He was fighting desire.
And he was no longer certain how much longer he could bear it.
Then his gaze flickered away, catching movement across the hall. A group of men were tossing apples back and forth, laughing recklessly with each catch and throw, their voices echoing loud in his ears.
Legolas soon took notice over the apples arced through the air, some landing perfectly in waiting hands, others wobbling dangerously before being snatched in the nick of time. The sight sparked something quick and cunning behind his eyes.
He knew exactly what he would do.
In one fluid motion, he lifted his bow. The movement was so natural, so swift, that few noticed until the string was already drawn. His world narrowed instantly, the laughter and tossing apples fading into the background. All that remained was a single, sharp line of intention stretching from his fingers to the space where you stood.
Before anyone could even react, the arrow tore through the air, slicing a silver streak that whistled sharply with its passage. Several heads turned instinctively, but too late to follow its path.
It flew with such precision that it passed mere inches between you and the Rohirrim prince, the rushing wind brushing lightly against your sleeve, before striking the tossed apple mid-arc. The fruit split with a crisp, satisfying crack, the arrow carrying it back to pin against the stone wall.
A stunned silence rippled outward around. Éomer's eyes widened at the sharp whistle of the arrow, and for a fraction of a second, his hold on you wavered. Reflexively, he reached to steady you, fingers brushing against yours, but that moment was all Legolas needed.
Legolas was already moving across the hall to you, he crossed the space like a gust of wind, light-footed and impossibly fast, his arms sliding around you before Éomer could regain his grasp. The warmth and strength of him pressed you back, grounding you instantly as your pulse raced in startled exhilaration.
A small, satisfied smile tugged at the corner of his lips, the kind that spoke of quiet victory when he felt you in his arms. The earlier tension in his expression melted into cool composure, though the glint in his eyes betrayed his pride.
His gaze lifted deliberately toward the Rohirrim prince, calm but unmistakably triumphant, as if to silently declare that the moment, and you, were entirely his.
"My apologies," he said smoothly, voice clear enough for those nearby to hear. "I was merely demonstrating a trick." He said as he inclined his head toward the apple quivering on the wall, explaining the shot had been nothing more than casual sport.
"R-right! He was just showing a trick! Ha! Spectacular shot!" someone laughed, too loudly, eager to dissolve the tension somehow. Others quickly echoed the praise, and the hall slowly filled again with chatter and claps for the trick.
All but one.
The Rohirrim prince did not smile. His jaw tightened in fact, eyes narrowing as they moved from the arrow, to Legolas, to you, still held within the elve's embrace. The look he gave was sharp enough to cut, a storm barely held at bay.
"She should return to rest," he said, his tone clipped, each syllable carrying something fierce just beneath the surface. His arm extended toward you, hand moving with absolute certainty, full of purpose and unspoken urgency, a claim wrapped in concern, impossible to misread.
His gaze then landed on Legolas', storm-dark and focused, threading a silent warning across the space between them.
However, Legolas shifted slightly and slid into place, just enough to interpose himself between you and Éomer's reaching hand. The movement was subtle, but deliberate. Protective as if he claimed you.
"I will see to her," he replied, voice low and steady, yet carrying a quiet authority that brooked little argument. His arms did not loosen around you. If anything, they sunk deeper, more securely, as though he had already decided you were not leaving his side again.
Up close, you could feel the controlled tension in him, the way his breath remained even by will alone, the faint quickening of his heartbeat where your shoulder rested against his chest. His expression was serene, but his eyes… his eyes burned with something deeper than what you could comprehend.
"She is safe with me," he finished softly, though the words held the weight of a vow rather than reassurance. It was no longer a statement of fact—it became a promise. Hearing his words, your head snapped up at once, confusion and disbelief flashing across your face.
'Am I?' The question echoed in your own mind louder than the noise of the hall. Your eyes narrowed slightly as you studied him from this close, the calm curve of his expression, the quiet certainty in his gaze, the arm that still circled you as if it had every right to remain there.
Your heart thudded, not in comfort, but in startled protest. You weren't sure whether to push back, flee, or melt into the warmth of his hold, and before your mind could catch up, your words had already escaped, fumbling over your own emotions.
"No, I'm not-!" you started, the words burst out before your mind could catch them, more on instinct than thought. Your chest heaved, as your eyes can't help but be locked on his, heart hammering against your ribs as if trying to escape.
Every nerve screamed, every pulse throbbed, and yet, even as your protest spilled into the air, there was a helpless thrill in the nearness of him, in the undeniable pull of his presence.
Though your protest never made it that far.
Legolas' hand lifted swiftly, his warm palm pressing over your mouth before your words could escape into the hall. The motion was smooth, almost gentle to the touch., as though he knew you all too well to pull a trick like this.
"Mmmph!" you tried to argue back anyways, your brows furrowing as you attempted to pull his hand away, your voice reduced to a muffled sound of indignation.
Just right behind you, you felt the slight exhale he released. His eyes dropped to you for a moment, a subtle warning glinting there, before he looked forward again as if nothing were amiss.
"Well I'm afraid we must take our leave now," he said sharply, there was no room for hesitation or argument; it was not a question, not a suggestion, it was a decision already made, a quiet decree that left the moment hanging heavy with his authority.
Even the polite cadence of his tone could not mask the certainty behind it, the subtle insistence that whatever followed would proceed on his terms alone.
Even as his voice carried across the hall, his eyes never truly left you. They lingered, flickering only at the corner of his vision, tracing your every movement, every subtle shift, as though the rest of the room had been swallowed by a haze.
And then he moved. Without waiting for permission, without giving space for objection, he guided you along with him. His arm remained firm around your waist, holding you close yet gentle, steering you through the thinning crowd as if the very act of guiding you was both a claim and protection.
The laughter and clamor of the hall then fell away behind you, fading into distant echoes, replaced by the soft, cold hush of the corridor beyond.
Your muffled protests softened into frustrated little huffs against his hand, the sound swallowed by the warmth of his palm. Every step he took pressed the certainty of his intent into you, a steady rhythm that left no room for doubt or escape, each movement carrying a quiet authority that demanded your compliance without a single word.
Only once the great doors of the hall swung shut behind you with a heavy thud did the atmosphere seem to change. The noise, the heat, the chaos of the gathering faded into memory, leaving a quiet that was almost oppressive in its intimacy.
The corridor felt narrower somehow, the walls pressing in just slightly, as if conspiring with him to leave the two of you alone. And still, he had not let go. His arm remained snug around your waist, the warmth of his touch pressing insistently into your side.
You both did not walk too far ahead. Only a few turns down the corridor where the torchlight dimmed, casting long, wavering shadows that seemed to curl around the two of you, the stone walls muffling the noise of the hall. Yet the distant chatter and laughter still drifted faintly through the air, a reminder of the world just beyond this narrow space.
Then your back met the cool stone, sharp and grounding against your skin. You hadn't even realized he had guided you here, one moment you were following, the next you were pinned by circumstance, with nowhere else to step, and yet it didn't felt suffocating.
He stood there tall, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, the subtle press of his chest against yours with each measured breath, an unmovable presence that filled the space between entirely.
The corridor's dim torchlight flickered across his features, catching the curve of his lips, the sharp line of his jaw, the depth of those eyes that held yours captive without a single word.
The haze in your mind thickened with every passing second. The remnants of drink, the lingering adrenaline from the hall, blurred your thoughts and dulled the edges of your restraint.
And then there was him. The way he looked at you made it just impossible to think clearly. His gaze was intense, lingering in a way that pressed against your heated skin.
Every glance, every subtle curve of his lips, every twitch of his brow seemed amplified in the dim corridor, drawing your awareness inescapably toward him.
Your breath hitched without thought, and your chest tightened, not in fear, but in an exquisite, maddening awareness of just how close he was, and just how much you wanted him to be.
Then he leaned in, his face drew inches from yours, and the world seemed to shrink to the space between your breaths. You could feel the heat radiating from him, subtle but impossible to ignore, the gentle brush of his warm exhale against your lips, teasing the sensitive skin of your cheek, curling along your jaw in a way that left goosebumps rising against your spine.
The contrast between the chill of the corridor and the smoldering press of him against you was dizzying, intoxicating, like fire sparking against ice. Your heart thudded erratically, your pulse ringing loud in your ears, yet each sound was swallowed almost immediately by the silent, deliberate closeness of him.
Your heart stumbled in your chest as a result, a frantic, uneven rhythm that seemed far too loud in the quiet of the corridor. And then—hic. A tiny, involuntary hiccup slipped past your lips, shattering the silence between you.
Your eyes stayed locked on his, wide and caught, refusing to look away, as if turning your gaze even for a second would make this moment far too embarassing for you to bear.
A small smirk curved onto his lips, "Still afraid of me after all this time?" he murmured, voice low and teasing.
His gaze roamed over you, slow and steady, as though he were memorizing every flicker of expression—the wide, startled tilt of your eyes, the delicate flush creeping over your cheeks, the slight, almost involuntary part of your lips that begged to be noticed.
He tried to focus, to hold himself to one feature, but it was impossible; every flutter of your lashes, every breath that caught in your throat, dragged his attention along, teasing, tempting, and igniting the want that had long been simmering beneath the surface.
You shook your head quickly, a futile gesture against the pull of him. "N-No…" you whispered, voice trembling just slightly, a fragile protest against the closeness that made your chest tighten and your thoughts stumble, only for another hiccup to betray you.
His smirk deepened at your response, that slow curl at the corner of his lips that made your chest tighten with both anticipation and a faint, helpless exhale. "We've done this a few times before, have we not?" His voice was low, almost teasing you yet again.
"W-Well… not like this, hic-" the sound jumped out of you before your mind could catch it. You slammed a hand over your mouth in embarrassment, desperate to smother the tiny, helpless noise, though it did nothing to hide the flare of heat creeping across your cheeks.
Your eyes stayed fixed on him, wide and unblinking, caught in the intensity of his stare as though letting them wander would undo every ounce of control you still had.
For him however, the sight was utterly disarming. He found your every gesture unbearably endearing. A quiet huff of laughter left him as he gently took your wrist, easing your hand away from your lips. Instead of letting go, he laced your fingers in his.
Your thoughts twisted themselves into knots, spiraling in ways you could neither control nor name in response to his actions.
He's far too close. You could feel his pulse from his hands intertwined with yours, causing a tension that wrapped around your chest and made your lungs feel too tight for air.
Why isn't he stepping back? Logic demanded space, demanded reason, yet your body, stubborn and traitorous, leaned ever so slightly toward him, drawn to the warmth, the quiet insistence of his presence.
Your mind continued to race, each thought tangled with another, a chaotic symphony of desire and restraint. Memories, fleeting blushes, the awareness of his eyes tracing every subtle movement of your body —it was too much, and yet not enough.
And amidst it all, a quiet realization surfaced: you wanted this. You wanted him to stay, to close the distance, to press further into that tantalizing, unbearable tension, even as the rational part of your mind flailed in protest.
Desire and restraint, fear and hunger, it had all tangled into a perfect, chaotic storm that left you suspended, breathless, and achingly aware of him in every sense.
"Just so you know…" you admitted, your voice was quiet, almost fragile, barely rising above the soft hush of the corridor. Each word felt like it carried a weight you weren't used to bearing aloud. "I've never done anything like this before."
Your eyes stayed locked on his as you spoke, wide and vulnerable, and in that gaze there was something unspoken, a quiet yearning that you would soon admit.
Something in his expression shifted upon hearing your confession, it was subtle but undeniable. The smirk at the corner of his lips didn't fade, if snything, it deepened, as though he were savoring the very moment, tasting the weight of your words before committing to his own.
His eyes then darkened, shadowed with an intent that made your stomach flutter. "Then…" His voice dropped lower, roughened slightly, as if the words had to fight their way past something deeper inside him. "…I am all yours tonight."
His gaze dropped to your lips the instant he spoke, and it lingered there, consuming with his eyes. The hunger in it was no longer subtle, it was like a quiet fire that seemed to pull everything else from the room.
It was the look of a man who had waited far too long for a taste he already knew he would crave, who knew exactly what he wanted and how impossible it would be to resist once given.
"All mine?" you echoed, your own gaze betraying you before your mind could catch up, flickering down to his lips, drawn like a moth to flame, before snapping back to meet the intensity in his eyes all over again. There was a strange, intoxicating vulnerability in the way your voice quivered, curiosity and a hesitant longing tangled together.
"All yours…" His response came in a breath, quick and urgent. Before you could even fully register them, he closed the distance effortlessly, as if the space between you had always been meant to vanish.
When his lips met yours, it was not hurried, not hesitant, yet every movement trembled with the force of everything he had held back for years. It was a kiss that demanded attention—slow and intense, a hunger tempered only by patience, a quiet promise folded into each brush of his lips against yours.
It was as if time itself had slowed, each heartbeat magnified, every small inhale and exhale a shudder of anticipation and surrender. His lips moved against yours with intent, tracing and claiming, tasting the subtle tremors your body offered, a shiver at the curve of your jaw, or a soft sigh trapped between your teeth.
There was no rush, only the painstaking precision of a man savoring a long-denied indulgence, imprinting the moment into memory as if he could carry it inside him forever.
The warmth of him pressed into you in waves, a living force that drew your knees closer, your hands clutching at his shoulders and chest, helpless yet greedy. Every nerve in your body screamed, every pulse stuttered under the weight of his closeness, and still, you did not pull away. Instead, you gave in, fully and unreservedly, letting the ache of want and the dizzying thrill of him wash over you.
It was like tasting the first cool drop of water after an unbearable thirst: precious, leaving you both trembling for more.
His hands moved lightly but firmly, anchoring you closer, fingers brushing along your back and shoulders grazed as if memorizing the exact weight and warmth of you. Each gentle press, each lingering touch spoke volumes, of restraint finally given way, of permission no longer needed, of a desire that claimed the space between you like it had always belonged there.
His hand around yours tightened just slightly, a quiet assertion that made your chest clench, while the other hovered near your waist, trembling between restraint and the pull of something he could no longer deny.
Every fraction of movement, every subtle press, carried a weight, a language of longing and possession that left your mind dizzy.
And for that moment, the rest of the world ceased to exist. There was nothing but the heat of him pressed against you, the quiet claim in the way he held you, and the unspoken promise lingering in the space between each lingering touch.
When you finally pulled back, your lips burned with the memory of him, tingling as though they still carried the echo of his breath, the press of his mouth, the slow, deliberate intent behind every second of that kiss.
Your chest rose and fell unevenly, your mind swimming with the quiet thrill of closeness, the ache of restraint, and the dangerous allure of what had just begun. Even the faintest whisper of his warmth lingered on your skin, leaving you suspended in your own desires, trembling from a tension that had only just begun to ignite.
Just for a moment, you could not breathe, not because he had stolen the air from you, but because you suddenly remembered where you were. The corridor was not hidden. It was not some secret alcove carved for stolen moments.
The distant murmur of voices drifted around the corner, like a warning whispered too late. Anyone could've walked right past the two of you making out, the thought of it alone made you embarrassed and nervous almost immediately.
You pulled back abruptly, your palms flattening against his shoulders. The fabric beneath your fingers was warm from his body, and you realized you hadn't let go of him at all, even while trying to create distance.
"We shouldn't be doing this here… should we?" The words escaped in a breath, soft and uncertain, betraying the doubt your mind tried to cling to.
Yet your body spoke a different truth, your lips were still parted and warm from his, and fingers trembling as they lingered against him, neither pushing him fully away nor drawing him closer.
Legolas' didn't take a step back, nor did he look startled by the fact of it. If anything, the faintest curve tugged yet again at the corner of his mouth.
His eyes traced every detail of your expression, the way your lashes fluttered when you tried to gather yourself, the heat blooming across your cheeks, the stubborn attempt to look composed when your breathing betrayed you.
He loved this. In fact, He reveled in it. The way your composure faltered, the vulnerability you didn't realize you were giving away. The quiet, desperate want you tried to bury, the heat behind your cheeks, the slight tremor in your fingers, every tiny betrayal of control was a melody only he could hear.
He watched, fascinated and possessive for the first time, as you unraveled before him, pretending it wasn't happening, pretending you weren't acutely aware of the pull between you. And yet, every sigh, every hitch of your breath, every flash of hesitation told him everything he needed to know.
"Why shouldn't we?" he asked softly, laced with a teasing edge, as a sly lift occured at the corner of his mouth. His eyes danced with mischief when they met yours, daring and coaxing, almost taunting you.
The open hall did not matter to him, the risk had not matter either. Only you.
He stepped closer again, each motion measured as if he were savoring the distance he had yet to claim from you. The fragile space you had fought to maintain dissolved like mist, replaced by the undeniable presence of him.
His body brushed yours subtly, heat pressing insistently through the fabric of yours, searing a trail across your nerves like a tattoo, and leaving your pulse scattered all around in a mess.
Your back met the stone wall more fully now, its chill a sharp contrast to the warmth of him on you, a grounding touch that only made the ache for him more intense. You wanted more.
Without a warning, he leaned toward your ear, slow and tempting, every fraction of an inch loaded with intent. His breath whispered across your skin, warm and intoxicating to your mind, carrying with it the faint scent of him.
The air around you thickened with your breaths, tight with anticipation, every heartbeat echoing against the hush of the corridor, amplifying the tension that wrapped around you like a living thing.
Your mind raced, caught between awareness and desire: every brush of his hand, the subtle shift of his hips, the deliberate press of his chest against yours, threaded fire through your veins, leaving you suspended in a delicious, dizzying torment where wanting him had become both danger and inevitability.
When he spoke, his lips hovered so close to your ear that the warmth of his breath skimmed along the delicate curve of it, sending vibrations all over your skin.
"It would be nice," he murmured, his voice softened to something almost dangerous in its intimacy, "to let them know that I am yours."
There was no haste in him. His mouth soon found way as it lingered near your temple afterward, close enough that you could feel the faint brush of his breath against your hair, close enough that the world beyond the two of you seemed to dim into irrelevance.
His breath then seemed to drifted lower, unhurried, grazing the curve of your ear before descending toward the exposed line of your neck. The warmth of it lingered there, savouring your scent, stirring a shiver that rippled through you that made your knees weaken.
He hovered there for a moment, close enough that you could feel the faint touch of his lips almost touching skin. There was a tension in him then, a subtle tightening in his body, as though instinct urged him forward, but he couldn't bring himself to for now.
You swallowed, and even that small motion felt deafening in the hush between you. The sound seemed to echo in your own ears, betraying just how unsteady you had become.
Your heart slammed against your ribs with humiliating force, so fierce you were certain he could feel it, in the delicate hollow of your throat, in the tremor of your fingertips, in the very place where his hand rested at your waist.
You didn't move. You couldn't. Your body refused the command your mind tried to give it. Every warning bell still rang somewhere in the distance, yet they felt muffled beneath the steady heat of him, beneath the way his presence wrapped around you. Stepping away would have required clarity. And clarity had long since abandoned you.
He drew back only slightly, not enough to create real distance, just enough to see you. The warmth of his breath left your skin reluctantly, and the cool air that replaced it felt almost startling.
His eyes found yours again as he eased back, they always did. No matter how you shifted, no matter how you tried to steady yourself, his gaze would always return to you, as though it had nowhere else it wished to be.
You tried to look away. You truly did. Your lashes lowered, your focus drifting toward the stone wall behind his shoulder, anywhere but the intensity waiting in his expression. But you never quite made it.
His hand lifted before you could escape. Warm fingers slid beneath your chin, tilting your face upward. The motion was slow, not forceful even in the slightest. He gave you no room to pretend indifference, no space to retreat into composure.
Your breath caught as your eyes were drawn back to his, and that was your mistake. He held you there gently, thumb resting near the curve of your jaw, as though he wanted you to understand something without words.
"And that you are mine," he said, his voice dipping lower, almost a growl beneath the words. It wasn't shouted. It didn't need to be. The way he spoke of it sunk deep against you, beating your pulse to his, drowning you in a truth that was both thrilling and terrifying. The statement wrapped around you tighter than his hands ever could.
The tension was unbearable now. His eyes didn't waver from yours. They were dark, unblinking, he didn't dare to, a storm restrained by the faintest line of control.
The laughter from the hall rose again in the distance, jarringly normal against the storm building between you. The world continued on, unaware of the two.
Yet in this narrow stretch of corridor, time truly felt slowed down. Your lips parted almost against your will, a soft, trembling gasp escaping. Your breath mingled with his, as your body leaned the smallest fraction forward, betraying all your thoughts and hesitation echoing the desires you had tried so hard to keep buried.
And he saw it. He saw everything. His gaze locked onto yours unrelenting, as if he had been waiting for this moment his whole life.
The heat behind his eyes deepened, hunger tempered by restraint, awareness tempered by patience. The longing in your eyes became his undoing. And this time, he did not stop himself.
The hand at your waist tightened as it yanked you forward, anchoring you in place before him, and just like that, his lips found yours again.
This kiss was nothing like the first. His mouth moved against yours with urgency, not careless, but driven as though he feared if he didn't take this now, the moment would slip away again.
His fingers flexed at your waist, drawing you closer until there was no space left between you. The stone at your back was forgotten; the only thing grounding you was him.
You gasped softly into the kiss, your trembling breath brushed against his lips, and instead of pulling away, you leaned in. You wanted this. You truly wanted him.
Your hands rose of their own accord, gliding from the curve of his shoulders into the thick sweep of his hair, fingers tangling through the silken strands as if pulling him closer torwards you. Each thread you caught, each gentle tug, seemed to tether you to him, grounding your racing pulse against the storm of your desire.
The action drew a deeper response from him, reaction immediate. A low, throaty sound slipped past him, muffled and barely audible, yet it vibrated through your chest, setting your senses alight with a fierce, unsettling tingle.
His hand shifted, sliding up your back slowly, deliberately, holding you as you dissolved into his touch. The kiss deepened, he tasted like restraint finally broken, like longing given permission.
Your body responded without hesitation against hid. You tilted your head instinctively, matching him, chasing the warmth he offered. The distant noise from the hall blurred into nothing but distant echoes.
The space between you grew impossibly tight, each inhale shallow and urgent, as though the air itself had grown too small to contain the two of you. Your chest ached, lungs burning, each breath tasting faintly of him, thick and warm of the memory of the kiss.
At last, necessity forced the separation. His lips drew back slowly, reluctantly, lingering a heartbeat longer than needed, somehow refusing to release you.
Your foreheads fell together when it was undone. Both of you were breathless. Your chests rose and fell rapidly, the space between your lips barely an inch away.
You could feel the warmth of his breath fanning across your mouth, could see the slight flush that had crept across his usually composed features. For once, he looked undone.
His eyes remained half-lidded, dark with desire for more. "I'm going to get greedy if we continue…" he admitted quietly, voice rough from more than lack of air.
Your heart thudded painfully against your ribs. Your fingers remained tangled in his hair, a insistent reminder of the heat coursing through you. While your body pressed against his, every inch of you aching for the closeness you had just tasted.
You knew what he meant. You felt it too, the way one kiss had not been enough, how even now your lips tingled with the urge to just pull him close with another kiss.
You swallowed, trying to steady your voice. But the truth slipped out softer than you'd intended. "Maybe…" you breathed, your lips brushing lightly against his as you spoke, "maybe I don't mind if you do."
You admitted as your hands traced a deliberate path down, fingers sliding over the smooth line of his shoulders, feeling the strength beneath your touch. At the same time, your gaze lifted, meeting his fully for the first time without hesitation.
"I told you," you whispered, a small, daring smile ghosting over your flushed, swollen lips, "I've never done anything like this before."
Your thumb moved, tracing the edge of his shoulders unconsciously. "But I don't want you to stop." you admitted, voice low and unsteady, carrying a vulnerability that left you exposed yet impossible to deny.
The moment your words reached him, a subtle glimmer flickered in his eyes, darkened by desire yet softened by something almost like relief, as a mischievous smile curved his lips.
"Then," he murmured at last, his voice low and roughened by the kiss, thick with both promise and warning, "don't blame me if I take what I desire."
