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Chapter Text

Molten moonlight.

The realisation struck with the clarity of a bell's chime. Yes! That was it: the colour you had been searching for, the one that might come close to describing the fairness of the King's eyes.

You had spent the past few minutes silently chasing the right shade, turning words over in your mind like stones in a river. His eyes were too changeful for blue; too luminous for simple grey. No, they shimmered too brightly for that. 

Molten moonlight, you'd decided at last. As if liquid silver had learned to glow.

You exhaled in quiet triumph, and with that, the world rushed back in around you.

It was the tenth anniversary of the High King of Gondor and Arnor's coronation, a Jubilee that drew lords, merchants, poets, wanderers—and, of course, you—from every corner of Middle-earth to the White City.

The Great Hall of Feasts at Minas Tirith blazed with light.

Torches ringed the walls in wrought-iron sconces shaped like flowering branches, their golden flames mirrored brilliantly in the polished marble floor. 

Above, the ceiling arched high and vast, like the upturned hull of a great ship, with stone beams ribbed in white. From the rafters hung silken banners in jewel tones: deep crimson, sea-green, indigo, and dusk blue. Some bore the emblems of Gondor; others featured ornate, spindly designs you did not know.

The feast tables overflowed with special offerings from all who had been invited. You, with your own basket of contributions, had stationed yourself at the very last table, where the breeze was cooler, and the crowd thinner. You had not come to be noticed. You had come by request, and to take it all in.

And take it all in, you did.

From afar, you could see platters of honeyed duck, saffron rice wrapped in leaves, blistered fruit, and spiced nuts all gleaming under the afternoon sun which spilled in from the large windows. Crystal flagons spilled over with mulled wine, mead, and cordials in every hue. Somewhere across the hall, hobbits were raising a cheer about pudding, while a pair of dwarves debated the merits of goat's butter over sheep's milk.

Then, suddenly, amid it all—the colour, the noise, the impossible opulence—you found a pair of molten moonlight eyes fixed on you.

The King stood three tables away from your own, speaking quietly with a cluster of foreign dignitaries and inspecting a pile of gifts brought by the Men of Rohan: mirrored trays stacked with sugared almonds, pyramids of exotic fruit glazed in syrup, and garlands of herbs hanging loosely over bread baskets. 

And yet, somehow, his attention had slipped. The King of the Reunited Kingdom was watching you. As if your earlier musings had called to him, aloud. As if your gaze had held weight by the sheer strength of your total adulation.

And now, slowly, without announcement... he was approaching. 

The King walked with measured grace, the press of the crowd seeming to ease around him without need for command. The hall, loud only a moment ago, dimmed to a hush in his wake.

You felt your pulse flutter, quick and hard, right under your skin. You tried to smooth your clothes and fix your expression into something composed, but your hands betrayed you with their tremble.

"Curious," the King murmured as he finally stood in front of you. A smile, barely there, curved his mouth, as if he were remembering something that pleased him. "Curious indeed. You, there. Are you a mortal maiden?" 

Uncertain of what he found so curious, you dipped into a curtsy nonetheless, the lavender silk of your ankle-length gown whispering against the marble floors.
 
"Yes," you replied, while lowering your eyeline deferentially. You noticed then the sword that hung at his side, the polished steel glinting in the torchlight, and you amended your words quickly. "Yes, my King." 

His surcoat was a deep blue-black, stitched with fine embroidery that bore the emblem of the White Tree across his broad chest. Over his shoulders rested silver pauldrons shaped like wings, though his armour was lighter than war-plate; this was not an afternoon for battle.

The King tilted his head. "Whence do you hail?" 

"Elythford," you replied, threaded with quiet pride. "A valley in Anórien, where the ford streams with starlight and our bees weave Varda's glow into honey. I come in my father's stead; he is now too weary to travel long distances in his older age."

"Ai, Elythford." The King's face lit up with recognition, and it only further beautified him. "As I thought. I am gladdened that my letter proved persuasive!" 

You blushed, remembering it well. Truthfully, you had never meant to attend such a spectacle. You had sent a polite refusal to the steward's invitation weeks ago: your family was small, your father's health waning, the journey too far. But then had come the second letter, sealed with dark wax and stamped with the royal sigil. Within it contained a request, phrased humbly but with a distinct sense of purpose: 

The air of Elythford is remembered fondly. I should like to be reminded of it. 

"Irresistibly so, my King," you said, thinking of your lone four-hour journey from Anórien to Minas Tirith on Elythford's most dutiful steed. The trip had been made this very day, in the brisk air of dawn, in order to arrive on time. The personal request had felt less like an invitation and more like a summons, one you couldn't possibly disregard.

"You come from a most honourable and peaceful land. Regrettably, many years have passed—threescore and five, if memory serves—since I have crossed through those sun-dappled glades and winding brooks."

"The bees still bumble and the trees still sway, my King," you said. A fond smile tugged at your lips as you thought about home—that oft-overlooked place—where life seemed to move slower and more quaintly than usual, as if the hands of Time themselves had been dipped in sweet syrup. "So in sixty-five years, you have not missed much." 

His eyes crinkled at the corners, the molten silver transforming into crescents of genuine, amused mercury.

"Then all is well," he concurred, with a good-natured laugh. "And what of your trade? Or perhaps your passion? What brings such a spark to your spirit, young maiden of the valley?" 

You answered him honestly. "My father and I keep The Hepta Confectionery Shoppe. There, my days are spent blending sugar and spice, coaxing sweetness from the simplest ingredients." Your fingers brushed the handle of the wicker-basket on the banquet table beside you. "For the Jubilee, I've brought a batch of our finest shortbread, in your honour." 

"Confectionery," he assessed, as if tasting the word. "That explains it. I sensed about you a sweetness." 

You dipped your head at the praise. "For your kind words, I thank you most humbly, High King of Gondor and Arnor," you said, with another gentle curtsy.

"Please," the King started, with a loose wave of his hand in the air, "provide me with the gift of your name, and in exchange for your generosity, I shall insist you call me Aragorn; for titles sit amiss in the light of such grace." 

"Oh! Of course, my King—my—Aragorn," you corrected, with a blush. His gaze washed over you like a fine wine, blurring the edges of thought. "Pardon me." 

You told him your name, then, which he echoed in a leisurely, thoughtful manner. It sounded different in his mouth: heavier, somehow, and rippling with what sounded to you like fascination.

"A name like spun blossom," he said. "I will not soon forget it." 

You wondered why he—among all the luminaries of Middle-earth gathered at this Jubilee—had taken such a specific interest in you. Lords of Rohan, Elves of Lothlórien, merchants of Dale and more filled the hall; yet here he stood, amused, alert, his attention yours alone. 

You found yourself savouring it, your heart whispering that if the moment should linger, that you might embrace it fully, drink deep of its richness and pleasantness.

And to your great delight, the moment did linger.

"The ribbons in your hair," Aragorn said, at last, "remind me of the early blooms of the luicarnë laima. Their purple colour is wonderfully rich."

You reached up, your fingertips brushing the trailing silk near your ear. Your hair was loose, but decorated at the ends with a few small purple bows. "Thank you," you replied. "I chose them carefully, for I desired ribbons to match the hue of my only dress."

At this, Aragorn stilled. Not offended, nor pitiful. Just... considering. "You have but one dress?" he asked. 

You nodded, a little shyly, fearing this fact might lessen you in the eyes of a king. "It serves me well enough."

"Then you have worn it well, and made it even finer by your bearing."

"You are kind, my Lord."

"Merely watchful," Aragorn demurred. "I have also observed you claimed the last post; furthest from the high table upon the dais."

"It was deliberate," you admitted. "I wished not to draw too much attention to myself."

"Then I must regretfully inform you," Aragorn replied, his tone low and touched with dry humour, "that your plan has failed."

You laughed in surprised delight. "In that case," you teased, "perhaps next year I shall wear no ribbons at all."

"No," he said, without hesitation. The word landed between you like a bell-note, sure and deep. "For that should be a loss to the afternoon."

The air grew thick, saturated with mingling scents: the rich fat of roasting game, the sharp crush of rosemary and thyme, the warm sweetness of beeswax candles, the subtle, expensive perfumes gracing noble skin. It felt dense, intoxicating, almost... sensual. 

You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. "In that case, I shall keep them on," you said, "for the good of Gondor."

He chuckled. "Duty becomes you." Then, Aragorn gestured to your basket. "This hamper is a work of art. Finely woven, intricate. It rivals the craft I have seen in Lothlórien."

"Thank you. It was my late mother's," you said, a touch of wistfulness colouring your voice. "I do not know where she procured it, but it is certainly beautiful."

"And these sweets of yours possess an aroma which could lure even a dwarf from his roast and mead. Might a king dare to taste such marvels, or are they reserved for merrier folk?" 

Warmth, both from his nearness and his words, wrapped around your lingering nerves. You smiled, reached into the basket, and from folds of soft, cream-coloured linen, you produced a treasure.

It was a pale-yellow biscuit, shaped into a perfect seven-pointed star. In its centre, a shallow dimple cradled a heart-shaped jewel of caramelised honey, glazed to a high shine that caught the torchlight like captured sunlight in amber glass. It glittered faintly, dusted with the finest silver sugar. 

"Even Kings may enjoy a taste, my lord," you said, playfully. "This is called a honey-star. You will be the first to try one today." 

You did not mention that you had already snuck a honey-star from the royal allotment yourself, on the long ride to Minas Tirith, making him technically the second to try them. The indulgence on your behalf had been partly out of a desire to soothe your nerves, and partly because you'd forgotten to pack food for yourself in your excitement. 

"A rare honour," Aragorn said, as he accepted your offering with a gracious nod. "I imagine you know the old tales, then?"

You laughed, surprised by his familiarity with such obscure lore. The tales he referenced were fanciful valley superstitions, whispered down generations. His deep knowledge of his realm's diverse cultures impressed you.

"Do you speak of the tales claiming honey-stars hold a whisper of starlight's truth? That they draw forth the heart's most fervent desire?" you clarified. "Aye, I know them. Though I confess, never did I ever lend them much credence. A charming fancy, perhaps. But quaint." 

"Then I am charmed indeed," Aragorn said, humbly, before putting the entire biscuit into his mouth. 

He chewed slowly. A soft, contemplative sound hummed in his throat. For a heartbeat, his expression was unreadable, a mask of regal composure. Then… a subtle shift. His eyelids lowered, not in dismissal, but in deep focus. His breath deepened, drawing in slowly, as if savouring an elusive fragrance. A stillness settled over him.

You couldn't bear the suspense. At the risk of sounding impatient or overeager, you had to ask. "How is it, my Lord? Each heart seeks its own flavour, or so they say."

The biscuit you'd tried, at the time, had tasted... multitudinous. Rich with many complex flavours, all coalescing into a terrific pleasure on the tongue. And you were satisfied, for it was the first time you had performed the recipe all on your own, without your father's help.

"It is sweet," Aragorn murmured in appraisal, and you let out a breath of relief. "And... strange, but not unpleasantly so. Beautifully strange. Like unmelting frost on an impossibly warm stone, or... a furtive memory I cannot place, one of floral exquisiteness." 

"Perhaps a memory of the future?" you offered, half in jest.

"Aye, perhaps." Aragorn appeared to be rather amused by your comment, which was now becoming a familiar affair between you two. There was his crescent-silver smile again. "If it is true these sweets reveal the heart's wish," he mused aloud. "I wonder what it believes I desire." 

Around you, guests laughed and moved like petals in the breeze, but you and the King stood very still. 

"May your answer find you swiftly," you said, demurely. 

He blinked before spending a moment to look upon you. There was a flicker of something in his countenance... something unreadable, but growing in severity. Then, Aragorn bowed his head, the glint of his crown reflecting off the torches all around you.

"You honour your valley and your father well," Aragorn said, in earnestness. "I thank you, fair confectioner. May your Jubilee be rich with merriment." 

And with that, he turned. His midnight-blue cloak swirled around him like a piece of the night sky given motion. Graceful, deliberate, he moved back into the throng. The crowd seemed to absorb him instantly, the path closing behind him as seamlessly as it had opened, leaving you alone with your basket of starlit sweets, your heart fluttering. 

You pressed the back of your palm to your forehead in an attempt to cool down. You told yourself that it was nothing. That your King had merely been acting out of kindness and warmth, as he had been known to do. 

But you would soon learn that nothing in Middle-earth was ever merely anything.

Chapter Text

Rich with merriment, indeed.

The Hall of Feasts shimmered with grandeur. At least a hundred small conversations filled the fragrant air, alongside hearty laughter, clinking goblets, and the distant music filtering out from the nearby Tower Hall.

Standing readily at your modest post, you had enjoyed the pleasure of meeting several handsome figures, each who treated you with the utmost courtesy and respect. You had met soldiers of Gondor who were earnest and sweetly shy as they mumbled their compliments; Elves that were high-cheeked and sharp-eyed who bowed with wistful grace; riders of Rohan that were as rugged and beautiful as the stallions they rode.

You'd even had the pleasure of meeting a gentle Hobbit who'd liked your confections so much that he'd asked if he might take some spares for "tomorrow's second breakfast".

Of course, you had permitted him to take as many honey-stars as his little bee-patterned knapsack could allow. After all, you had baked and brought enough shortbread to tempt a small army, and the prospect of a lighter basket for your evening's journey home was quietly appealing.

You were just beginning to succumb to a pleasant ease—glowing under all the attention—when a sharp sound sliced through the velvet hum of the afternoon. It was a single word. Urgent, uncertain. Strained.

Your name.

Hissed from the shadows like a struck match.

You turned, pulse leaping, and scanned the periphery, seeking the source of the call. The sound had emanated from a half-hidden space nestled between two massive pillars against the wall behind you, where a wide tapestry of embroidered blue fabric hung down to the floor, stirring faintly in the draft.

You knew that voice. It had held ardently captive your mind since you'd first heard it, mere hours ago.

"My King?" you called gently. You stepped closer, hesitant, but unable to resist. "Is that... you, King Aragorn, who calls out to me, from beyond the shimmering sea-silk?" 

There was a breath; the faint rasp of leather, the hitch of a body shifting. 

"Aye, indeed it is. Do not be afraid, young maiden of Elythford," came the reply, rough as gravel but warm, shaped by a mouth you now knew to be beautiful, though you could not see it. "I mean you no harm. Never that. But I must beg a moment of your discretion." 

An arm slipped out from behind the curtain, and he offered his open hand, long fingers splayed in elegant entreaty.

He was inviting you in. How could you refuse?

You moved in the direction of Aragorn's offered palm until your hand met his. At the first brush of skin, he pulled you through to him in a single, decisive motion, drawing the silk closed behind you. The fabric swept around you like a gasp, cocooning you both in breathless privacy.

You had imagined a room—a hidden antechamber, perhaps, concealed beyond the opulent veil—but there was no such thing. 

It was but an alcove: small, secret, suffocatingly close; deeper than it was wide. There was only space enough for one to lean back into the cool embrace of limestone, should they crave distance... or for two to stand together, breath to breath, with barely a handspan left between them.

Aragorn stood before you, taller in such closeness than before. The torchlight filtered in past the silk barrier and licked at his face, which you could see was stern and noble as ever, but now twisted with something… libidinous.

A faint frown kept his brows knitted close. His lips were parted, lush and ripe. His jaw was clenched in the manner of a man in pain. But he did not seem like he was entirely in pain…

Aragorn had changed garb since you had last seen him. Gone was the formal surcoat, polished armour, and even his sword, leaving him wearing his cloak and a lightweight grey tunic that hinted at the powerful form beneath. The fabric fell to mid-thigh, clinging and shifting easily with his movements, exposing flashes of suede breeches of a soft, earthy brown.

The ties of his tunic had come undone at the collar, exposing the elegant column of his throat, and a glisten of sweat caught the hollow there. His hands twitched restlessly at his sides, flexing and fisting as if they ached for occupation.

Lower still, his stance had shifted. His charcoal leather boots were planted wider than what would be considered polite, bunching the hem of his tunic up past his lean hips, drawing your eye inexorably downwards, where between his thighs— 

He was... aroused.

Gloriously, visibly, royally aroused. It looked painful. Almost violent. 

And yet, his eyes—those molten moonlight eyes—found you with unmistakable clarity. He was not lost in his lust. He was utterly present, and that made it worse. Better. Worse. Better— 

"Forgive me," Aragorn rasped, slicing through your inner spiral, "it is unbecoming of a King to impose himself thus. But I believe the fire of Elythford's honey has brought my blood to a boil, and I fear I am driven—compelled, truly—towards monstrous doings. Concerning you, fair maiden." 

His legs fell further apart. Another invitation. Or a warning. You could not tell. 

"I... I do not quite fully understand—" you tried not to look lower than the tense form of his chest, which was working hard around every breath. "Monstrous doings, my King?" 

"Your King," Aragorn began, derisively, "is but a man, Númenórean or not. At present, it seems my heart's desire is regrettably... base. And increasingly difficult to endure." 

His gaze dipped towards your mouth. And then lower.

"You... you're flushed," you whispered, as your fingers self-consciously touched your lips, to soothe the place he'd just been burning with his gaze.

Aragorn laughed, but it was broken sound, devoid of mirth. "Am I?" His hand trembled as he raked his fingers through the thick strands of his dark hair, the movement dislodging his crown slightly. "Then know it is not the celebrated Dorwinion wine. It is you." 

"Me? My King, I beg your account," you replied, your mind still reeling from his intensity, his urgency. He seemed so different from the last time you'd seen him. "What is this agitation that has seized you so?" 

"It dawned on me, slowly, after first tasting your confection," Aragorn explained. "An oddity of feeling, as if something had awakened within me. And in the time since our parting, I have increasingly felt... possessed. Not merely warmed, but inflamed. As though some potent spell has wrapped my blood in velvet heat and… concentrated it, somewhere I ought not mention…"

But you yearned to know everything. You had to confirm the implication of his words, even as it embarrassed you both. "Where, my lord? Where does it concentrate?"

"Low." Aragorn dropped to a whisper, a shamed scrape. "My blood has pooled very, very low. And the ache it has ignited between my trembling legs… by the Gods. It will not relent." 

Your mind was reeling. The King of Gondor and Arnor was telling you that he had a fierce, unassailable… ache? In the form of an erection? While barely a step away from you?

It is a jest, you thought to yourself, your gaze turning inwards for a moment. Or some kind of cruel test. Or, I have merely succumbed, finally, to a flour-induced madness of the brain. There is no other explanation.

Yet… the discomfort on Aragorn's face was a terrible, pitiful thing. A real thing. Though you had only met him recently, you had read and heard of him extensively, and he did not seem to be the type for such… bawdy… jokes.

You took in a deep, grounding breath. "Ignited. Unrelenting. I see. And so… you believe I am... involved? With this… pooling of the blood? At fault for it?" 

"You must understand," Aragorn implored, "I say all this not to shame you; nor to frighten you. Only to make plain the state to which I have been reduced. I come to you, now, for aid—for knowledge of how to return to myself—might this be an affliction born of my own treacherous heart's desire." 

His heart's desire. He was speaking of the folk-tale you had dismissed as charming fancy not mere hours ago.

"But… that tale about the honey-stars… is merely myth, my Lord!" you tried. "A trick of old, an invention of my forebears to charm coin from passing travellers. Those stories are only told in jest. They are just biscuits; nothing more. They do not truly… unveil anything."

Nor do they cause unrelenting aches, your mind added, unhelpfully.

"And yet, it seems that this myth has roots in some truth. Please know, I should never sully you with such forwardness unless I sensed—" Aragorn's eyes lifted to yours, "—unless I dared hope, against all reason, that you might lend me your grace and assist me with this... predicament." 

The tension at his breeches was even more pronounced now, where his predicament strained desperately against the well-worn material, clearly and intimately outlined, even in the dimness of your secret quarters. 

"And... if I would?" you breathed. "Assist you?"

"Then I pray you act swiftly. For if mercy delays..." Aragorn's jaw tightened. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if the words he were about to utter were physically painful to say. "I fear I will shame myself—without even touching you." 

The mental image flickered behind your eyes: Aragorn, too far gone for propriety, his back arching as a tidal wave of pleasure overcame him; his poor, oversensitive cock surrendering its wet bounty in generous pulses, turning the fabric of his breeches all sticky and sloppy down one leg…

It was enough to make you feel faint.

Your mouth felt as dry as the dunes of Harad. "Truly?" you rasped. "Things are that… dire?"

The King gave the smallest nod. "Worse. You have no notion of the torment that scalds me. Oh, Valar. You must forgive me. I know this is an affront of the highest order. I ought to be atop the dais, offering a toast to my people. Not cornering a frightened maiden in some forgotten stone crevice, wild with want, panting like a starved wolf at her feet." 

It hurt you to see him like this. You reached out and put a hand, gently, on his shoulder. "You are no wolf, Aragorn."

His hips jerked at the sound of his name. A guttural Sindarin curse tore from his lips. His hand reached out to hover at your waist, like he might dare to pull you in.

But he didn't touch.

Aragorn's fingers twitched, betraying a fierce battle for control; he seemed not to trust himself to make contact without shattering his precarious restraint. 

A curl of wind came through, then, ruffling the hem of your dress and moving your hair, and he shivered, as though even the gentlest breeze was a caress too intense to bear. 

"I should leave you," Aragorn said, low and hoarse. He stood taut, every muscle corded with tension, as if his own longing might undo him were he to relax. "We have only just met, and I… am not thinking as I ought. My blood is loud within me. Too loud. Were you to speak now... and deny me... I fear I may not heed it."

You gasped. But not only because of his words. Because those words were paired with that beautiful, burdened face—the face of a King, a warrior, a healer—and it was now drawn with the epitome of helpless, confused lust.

It was the most vulnerable you had ever seen a man.

And he bore it for you. 

An impulse, sudden and irresistible, surged through you. You moved into the space where his hand had been hovering at your waist, closing the distance between you, allowing him the touch he seemed to so desperately crave.

"You needn't leave," you whispered, soft as candle-glow, "unless you truly wish it. I am not denying you." 

Aragorn shivered again, and glanced down to the straining juncture of his thighs.

"You know not what you are doing," he breathed. "More than anything, I fear this: that you say these things because I am King, or because you pity; or worse yet, that you know not how to refuse without mortally wounding my pride." 

You followed the downward trajectory of his gaze, and then you saw it again: the undeniable evidence of his extreme arousal. The long, thick line of his erection was pulsing even more fervently now, and a damp patch had started to bloom at the apex of the strain, darkening the fabric as if his cock were weeping tears of need.

He was leaking for you. Just from talking. From wanting. 

"I say these things because I mean them," you assured Aragorn. Then, noticing the fine tremor in his shoulder under your hand, you whispered, "you are trembling…"

"Because I feel I am burning alive," Aragorn hissed, through his teeth.

And you realised it was true. Underneath your palm, through the layer of his tunic, you could feel the warmth emanating from him, as if there were a fire burning in the deepest part of his soul and scalding every inch of his skin.

Then, suddenly, Aragorn leaned forward, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"My… Lord?" you asked, nervous, hopeful, everything.

"If I could... rest my need against you," Aragorn murmured, reduced to begging. "For but a moment. So I may think. Please… if I could only press myself against your thigh. Your leg. Your side. Anything. It would be a mercy."

Your question came out soft, incredulous. "You would be content… simply to lean on me? To take your pleasure?"

"I… am not seeking pleasure. Only relief." Aragorn then seemed to realise how it sounded, because he flinched. "Not to release—Valar help me—but merely to ease this ache. Ere it humiliates me beyond redemption, and coerces me to spill like a fevered fool, untouched, into my own clothes…" 

You shivered at the thought, and you realised it was not a shiver of nervousness or disgust. "I… I know not what to say, my Lord—"

"Say no," Aragorn begged. You studied his eyes and saw that they were glazed, red-rimmed with unshed tears. "If even the smallest part of you hesitates: say no. And I swear to you, I will take it as sacred law." 

And so you searched yourself, delving into your whirlwind of emotions. You sought doubt, fear; a reason to pull away.

But there was none.

Only a potent wave of want, swelling with heat, tempered by a strange, burgeoning trust in the man suffering before you. You took in a steadying breath.

"I say come closer," you breathed. "You ask permission, and I give it freely." 

Aragorn let out a sound that bordered pain and relief. Slowly, he brought his hips forward until the swollen, leaking shape of him nudged against your upper thigh through the layers of your gown.

He did not grind. Nor thrust. He simply pressed there, as he promised, rigid and quivering, his head bowed in gratitude. 

"By the stars," Aragorn choked out. "You bring such relief. A true blessing, fair maiden. A balm. Just... grant me a moment longer. I will not move against you, I vow you this. I merely need my blood to settle. I will not move." 

"You may," you whispered back. "Move, I mean. A little. If it helps ease your torment, my honourable King." 

At this, Aragorn's hands flattened hard against the limestone behind you, framing your head. It seemed like he was bracing himself against a gale. "You are merciless," he gasped, clearly delighted by the thought. "Merciful—and merciless—Gods—what are you made of? Bless you, sweetness, bless—" 

And then he did move: a slow, trembling roll of his hips, dragging the length of himself along your thigh. Once, twice. A ghosting of friction, a gentle rut. Enough to make him groan deeply.

And all the while, you watched him. His face, so near, was contorted not in shame alone, but in awe, as if he were astonished by the ferocity of his own need, horrified and enthralled in equal measure.

It went on like this for a minute, then another, with neither of you saying anything. All you could hear was the faint whisper of fabric catching against fabric, and his ragged breathing coming out in puffs of air between you. You could feel the hard press of his erection as it bumped into you, over and over, back and forth, seeking and needy, leaking more and more.

You tilted your head towards his, so your foreheads were touching. "You are quiet, Aragorn," you murmured.

"It is only—I cannot fathom what is happening to me—" Aragorn cut himself off, gasping in pleasure. He thrust a little more forcefully against you, and the movement elicited a wet noise from where you were joined. "I… I have known the sharp tonic of desire, but this... this is madness. I can feel the heat surging in me—it burns, it hurts—I feel like a foolish, fey beast—" 

"No," you said, gently. "A beast would not have retained its honour as you have, Aragorn. You have not spoiled me, nor touched me without cause."

He groaned at your words, a sound of conflicted, mortified gratification. "Yet. Oh, Gods. But the thoughts I have had—the thoughts I am having—" Aragorn grimaced, as if tormented by a stream of forbidden images, yet his hips only increased their fevered, desperate motions. "They are dark. Vivid. Unworthy of a King. Unworthy of even the basest of men." 

You had to know. It felt almost as if the warmth in his blood was starting to affect you, too; a feverish, escalating heat that addled the wits. "Of what thoughts, my Lord, do you speak?"

"Fantasies," Aragorn started, his voice cracking, the tears flowing freely with the terror of his own admission, "among which burying the hilt of Andúril deep within your honeyed warmth is the singular most chaste."

It took you a moment to fully process the horrific poetry of his words.

"Your... sword?" you asked, a shiver of both fear and a strange, perverse fascination running through you. "Is that a… euphemism, my Lord?"

He shuddered. "No."

The word, so simply delivered, so full of dark shame, struck you like a bolt of lightning. Not a euphemism, you thought, dumbly. I see. So the King of Gondor means to sheathe his literal sword-hilt inside me. This is… not how I expected this afternoon to go.

You recoiled instinctively, only to find there was no more space left into which you could retreat, as you were trapped between very cool stone and unnaturally-warm flesh.

Aragorn pulled away from you, perhaps sensing that his building pleasure had reached too precarious a level, or perhaps he had simply been too horrified by his own stark admission.

"You must go," he pleaded, between sobs. He pushed himself back against the wall opposite your own, putting precious inches between you. "I… cannot part from you myself. I am not strong enough, nor in any state to leave. But I can—I must—bid you to go. I must brave this storm alone." 

You pulled the tapestry gently to one side, just enough to peek out into the Great Hall. Beyond, the celebration continued in full swing, a riot of sound and movement, so raucous and engaging that not a single soul was paying attention to your alcove at all.

You let the fabric fall back into place. You'd made up your mind.

So, you lifted the hem of your dress, as if preparing to step back into the light of the Hall and rejoin the festivities. Seeing this, Aragorn sighed, and it was a complex sound, mingling acute relief and crushing disappointment.

But… instead of leaving—as he had so desperately, selflessly requested—you sank gracefully to your knees, positioning yourself squarely between his widely-planted legs.

Aragorn flinched as if you had struck him. 

"My King," you said, looking up at him through the fringe of your eyelashes. "Allow me, please, to help guide you through this... storm." 

You placed your hands on his knees, parting them, and he made no motion to halt you.

It seemed he'd not the strength left to resist.

Breathlessly, you pushed the hem of his soft tunic upwards even more, bunching the fabric around his waist. The sight that met your eager eyes stole your breath: the hard, sculpted muscles of his taut stomach, dusted with a fine trail of dark hair that led coyly downwards, promising more.

"You… you need not do this," Aragorn murmured, one last attempt at politeness.

"I know," you replied, as you found the laces of his breaches. You began to work them loose, the leather sighing as it gave way. "I wish to."

His impressive length sprang free eagerly, as if released from a long confinement. The heat of him was astonishing—primal, even—you could feel it without even touching him. His thick manhood was flushed a deep, menacing red, and it throbbed visibly in a mesmerising rhythm; the swollen head smeared already with the wetness which wept steadily in pearly drops from his flaring slit.

It was, you thought with a blush, just as you had imagined it. And more.

As you knelt there, looking at him, you saw his hands clench into fists at his sides. His knuckles were white, as if he were attempting to restrain himself from succumbing to the powerful instinct to thrust, to guide, to take.

You paused for a moment. Were you truly about to do this? To offer such an intimate service to your King, a man you barely knew? Your knowledge of such intimacies was limited, gleaned from whispered tales the furtive explorations of your own private longings…

Yet, the sight of his raw torment... the naked vulnerability in his tear-filled eyes... it evoked within you a wellspring of compassion.

And it banished the last of your hesitation.

You dutifully lowered your head. Your lips parted around the head of his cock, your tongue flicking tentatively at the slit in an exploratory, curious taste, and that—that single motion, perhaps to your fortune—broke him. You had not even had the chance to lay your hand on him yet.

His climax took him like a possession.

A strangled groan escaped him and his fist beat once against the stone wall. Without warning, instinct won, and Aragorn buried himself to the hilt; the full, throbbing length of his cock speared all the way into your mouth, and he poured himself down your constricted throat in pulsing, helpless waves.

"Please—please, don't—" Aragorn gasped, his thighs shaking on either side of you. "Aníron, avo dhosto—please, do not stop—please, please—"  

It went on for longer than you thought possible, spurt after spurt of hot, viscous seed filling your mouth, as if he had been holding it in for days. Weeks. His spend did not taste unpleasant, either, as you had feared. Rather, it held a faint, surprising sweetness, a mild tang, reminiscent of the honey you knew so well from your home in the valley. Your throat worked around the intrusion, and you swallowed and swallowed, only for your mouth to fill back up again.

Forward and forward he crumpled in on himself, his powerful frame shaking, until the crown on his head wobbled precariously and finally fell, hitting the ground with a metallic chime. 

At last, you pulled your mouth away.

But it had been too soon, seemingly.

For Aragorn's cock throbbed violently once more, a final, powerful surge of his pleasure spilling forth, painting the shoulder of your dress with a thick white streak; some even splattering against the wall behind you.

"Oh!" you exclaimed, blinking in surprise.

Aragorn slumped back against the wall, his back flat. He was panting heavily; flushed down to the chest, sweat dampening his temples, his hair wild with exertion. 

And yet, somehow... his cock was still hard.

Not as angrily as before, but still stubbornly engorged, and pointing straight at you, twitching in time with the frantic beat of his heart. The head continued weeping in oozing trails of white. 

Aragorn's face was one of dawning horror. "What—how—?" he spluttered, mortified. "My—my heart's desire—Ai, Valar—it must not yet be satisfied—I thought—"

You bit your lip, feeling lightheaded. "My Lord, this does not at all seem typical of the honey-star's alleged—"

Interrupting your words—as if orchestrated by some unseen, impish God of mischief—a vibrant harmony of trumpets sounded from beyond the tapestry, bright and brassy, signalling the precise time for the King's eagerly anticipated address to the assembled court.

Aragorn jolted at the noise. "I.. I cannot possibly go out there in this... state! I am still—still so—" he gestured helplessly at his live lap, as if the reality were too vulgar to even name. His cock twitched, as if in assent. "I will disgrace myself in front of all Middle-earth! They will see!" 

You knew you had to think. Fast.

The urgency of the dire situation seemed to galvanise you. From your hair, you carefully pulled out one of the ribbons that Aragorn had so admired earlier. Deftly, you unravelled it of its pretty bow.

"Take this, my Lord," you offered, holding out the length of lavender silk. "If you wrap it around your... self, it will abate your... leaking. To prevent you from soiling yourself through to your tunic. But you must tie it firmly." 

He took the ribbon and tried to do as you'd instructed. Truly, he did. But his hands were shaking too severely, and his fingers too clumsy with sweat.

"Blast and damnation!" Aragorn cursed. "My hands... my strength, it fails me entirely at this most crucial moment—"

"I will do it," you resolved, taking the ribbon back.

There was no time to be prim. You slid the ribbon to nestle underneath his swollen sac, then brought it upwards, around the thick root of his still-firm length, where you tied the two ends together snugly. The purple colour stood out starkly against his skin.

You pulled your hands away and held your breath.

The ribbon kept.

His leaking slowed, and then, mercifully, ceased.

Aragorn tucked his cock upwards, against his stomach, then he refastened his breeches, to hide the shape. He hastily pulled his tunic down, and thankfully, the drape of fabric obscured the worst of the indecency.

"I am so deeply sorry to have defiled you," Aragorn lamented, as he swiped his thumb across your lips, which were still buzzing with lingering sensation. Then, he grabbed the corner of his cloak and dabbed at the streak of wetness he'd left on your shoulder. "I am most shamed to have stained your only gown, and to have abused your fair face." 

"You have done nothing wrong," you assured him. Thoughtlessly, as he tended to cleaning your dress, you caught his hand and pressed a soft kiss to his knuckles. It was an act that startled even you by its boldness. Your cheeks flamed with heat as you looked away in embarrassment, feeling foolish. "You have taken nothing that I did not offer." 

He sighed. "I pray that is true. Still, consider this a vow: one hundred gowns. The finest silks, wools, linens... in every hue of the realm. I will see that they grace your door. It is... the barest recompense."

"That is not necessary, my Lord," you said. "I ask for nothing in return. The... honour... is payment enough."

"The honour," Aragorn repeated, and there was something like fluster upon his cheeks. When he spoke next, it was incendiary, teasing. "Has it thrilled you, then, to see your King reduced thus? To have him ruined by your sweetness, unmade by your slightest attentions? One lick. By the Valar, it was one touch of your hot mouth that relieved me. I feel like a green boy again." 

You could have demurred. You could have preserved some shred of your modesty, or played the coy maiden.

Instead, you answered honestly.

"It has thrilled me," you breathed, knowing it was entirely obvious, shining through every fibre of your being. "Aye, it continues to thrill me, terribly. Though my own... excitement... is mercifully less visible than your own."

Aragorn's mouth curled as he considered the implication laced prettily into your words.

Then, the shade of his lust—banished mere moments ago—stirred again, rising like smoke from embers not quite extinguished. It passed over his noble features like a dark cloud swallowing sunlight, twisting his good-natured countenance into something stark and undeniably predatory.

When the next words came out of his mouth, they were dark and hungry, and utterly compulsive.

"And if I were to expose the centre of your longing, as you so readily did mine?" Aragorn asked. His gaze dropped, searing downwards as though it possessed the power to peel back the layers of fabric shielding you. "Might I find your thighs pressed together, tacky with untended want? Are your delicate folds tender from clenching around nothing, aching for even a finger's mercy?"

You gasped. He sounded like a man overtaken, not one speaking of his own carefully considered will.

"Yes, my King," you admitted, and you could not stop the tears from springing to your eyes, for reasons you did not know. Was it shame? Hot, desperate arousal? Something else entirely?

At the sight of your tears rolling down your cheeks, Aragorn seemed to emerge from the stupor of his affliction. "I.... I beg your forgiveness," he rasped, seeming winded, hollowed out. He looked around, momentarily disoriented. He made a step to exit the alcove. "I must go. The court waits."

"Your crown!" you reminded him.

You picked it up from where it lay forgotten on the ground and stood, brushing your dress delicately with one hand as if you had not just cradled a sobbing King within your mouth. 

He bowed his head low. You set the crown upon his dark hair with ceremonial grace, and you heard the sound of trumpets again, bolder and more impatient this time, demanding the immediate presence of their King.

"If it were any other time, I would have made absolutely sure to offer you your own mercy," Aragorn said, softly. "I am sorry."

"Don't be." You tucked the loose strand of hair—the one now without a ribbon—behind your ear. "I'm not."

Aragorn's lips twitched into a flustered, wry smile. "Well, nonetheless, I am deeply in your debt," he said, gravely. "Remember my vow."

He took in a large, grounding breath, and with a final, lingering look in your direction, he passed through the tapestry to the other side.

Alone, your heart racing, you took a moment to gather yourself. You stared at the wall which bore the mark of him, an indecent rivulet of seed cutting down the limestone.

The picture before you reminded you of something. What was it? Something familiar, a phrase you felt you had heard not very long ago. You frowned, your gaze following the path of that slow, white drip as it acquiesced to gravity, seeming to you like…

Like unmelting frost against warm stone... 

"Oh," you breathed. Oh.

Chapter Text

You were certain your relentless pacing was beginning to wear a groove into the sun-baked flagstones of The Court of the Fountain.

Around and around you paced, a restless orbit around the gentle spray of the fountain, your steps mirroring the agitated dance of your thoughts as your sandals scuffed the stone, circling the events of the day, weighted with unanswered questions.

The King's speech had been short. Abrupt. You recalled it thus:

This land we share is bound not only by stone and steel, but by... sweetness. Warmth. The kind which endures through cold winters and long partings. So, let us toast the strength of sweet things, and converge shortly in the Tower Hall to dance!

Rapturous applause had swallowed his words whole. And as he'd descended the dais—his gait stiff, his mouth a thin line—he had passed close to you. Close enough that the dark wool of his cloak had brushed your arm.

Still reeling from your encounter with him, the taste of him vivid against your tongue, you had instinctively opened your mouth to speak. To offer polite praise of his speech, or perhaps bravely inquire after his well-being; a foolish hope swirling within you that the shared intimacy had forged some sort of unspoken connection.

But before you could utter a single word, he had walked right by you, his shoulder bumping into yours without so much as a flicker of caution; as careless as one might brush aside a cobweb, like you were but a ghost haunting the edges of his awareness.

He did not turn around to see who he had struck with such dismissive force, nor to apologise.

A sharp pain had lanced your heart like a thorn driven straight to the chest.

It seemed, with brutal clarity, that he had extracted whatever solace he had needed from you, and now, his purpose served, you were utterly inconsequential.

Were you now rendered invisible, no more than a forgotten indulgence, after the intense sweetness you had so willingly offered him?

"Pardon me, restless one," asked a curious voice from nearby. "Are you lost?"

You glanced up, your reflexive frown softening into surprise as you locked eyes with someone.

A man.

He stood tall, haloed in the afternoon's rich amber light. His kind face was framed by coppery waves of shoulder-length hair that charmingly caught the sun, making it appear to gleam with an inner fire.

His eyes—a clear, intelligent blue-grey—held a quiet steadiness as he appraised you with open, earnest curiosity.

"No," you said, the denial automatic. Then, with a sigh that seemed to deflate you, you ceased your frantic pacing and slumped onto the stone bench nearest to him. "Except, perhaps, in thought."

His mouth lifted at one corner. "A fair answer. Celebrations, for all their outward joy, often induce contemplation. And wandering." He extended a hand, long-fingered and capable-looking. "Faramir. Lord of Emyn Arnen, Prince of Ithilien, Steward of Gondor." 

Startled by the unexpected titles, you began to scramble to your feet, instinct demanding a curtsy. "Oh! Of course! Goodness, forgive my familiarity, my Lord—"

"Please, remain," Faramir said softly. He closed the difference between you with a swift grace, before placing a steadying hand on your shoulder. It was the touch of someone used to soothing skittish horses or frightened birds: grounding, yet not restraining. "You sought quietude, not ceremony. That much is clear. Rest."

He eased you gently back down onto the bench. A simple hum of acknowledgement was all you could manage as you inspected your new companion.

Everything about Lord Faramir spoke of clean lines and understated power. No armour encumbered him. He wore a pristine surcoat the colour of gull-wings; the revered White Tree embroidered across his chest in silver thread, seeming to shiver with every breath. Beneath, a tunic the colour of clotted cream clung to the lean lines of his arms, the sleeves gathered gently at the wrists.

A simple belt, cinched just so, defined the delicate taper of his waist. His breeches, the supple brown of forest-doe hide, hugged the lines of his legs before disappearing neatly into his knee-high boots.

Awareness prickled your skin; you had lingered too long. Flustered, you turned your gaze forward, only for it to settle upon the living symbol gracing Faramir's surcoat: the White Tree herself, standing sentinel over Minas Tirith.

"She is beautiful," you murmured, the observation escaping mostly without thought.

And she was. The Tree's graceful branches, stark against the brilliant azure sky, seemed to glow like polished bone beneath the relentless golden sunshine.

"A younger sister to the tree that stood before. But yes, undeniably beautiful." Faramir smiled prettily at the Tree as if it were a cherished, familiar companion. Then, his smile seemed to waver. "Though... her blossoms come later with each passing year."

You tilted your head. "Is that so?"

"Indeed," Faramir sighed. "No one speaks of it, of course. King Elessar, ever the pragmatist, credits the lingering cold of winter. But..."

"But you have other notions?"

"Yes," he said. "Rather, I believe it is grief." 

Your pulse gave an uneasy flutter. "Grief, my Lord?" 

"She remembers things. Especially those that we pretend to forget."

The words resonated with a startling, almost unnerving relevance to your own current turmoil. "What are you pretending to forget?" you asked, the question impulsive, escaping before you could fully consider the audacity of such a direct inquiry to a Lord-Prince-Steward.

Faramir adjusted the sword that hung at his hip. The blade was long and unpretentious, yet no less deadly for its humility. He met your eyes with a rueful smile that spoke volumes of hidden sorrows.

"Too much, my friend," he said. "Far too much."

"As I," you commiserated.

Faramir settled beside you on the bench, the weight of his presence steady and safe. It was then that you could smell the subtle scent clinging to his tunic, a clean fragrance of sun-warmed linen, sage, and the faint, sweet note of summer fruit. It was entirely intoxicating.

"I see you are not of Minas Tirith," he observed, devoid of any judgement. "Do you find the White City to your liking?"

You glanced out again across the sprawling courtyard, in the direction of the prow. The sky stretched wide and bright, streaked with high, slow-moving clouds that seemed in no hurry to leave.

"It is… overwhelming," you admitted. "Beautiful, yes. Breathtaking in its grandeur. But so vast. I feel... small, here. Like a pebble dropped into the current of a mighty river."

Lord Faramir extended his legs straight out in a stretch, then crossed his feet at the ankles. It was then you noticed that his boots were stippled with golden flecks of pollen. He was a man who walked forests as readily as palaces, it seemed.

"Small, perhaps, but not insignificant," Faramir countered. "A single pebble, strategically placed, may well change the river's course, given time."

You were struck by the understated elegance of his words. "That is rather poetic of you, Lord Faramir." 

"I have been accused of worse," he replied, a boyish grin illuminating his features. "May I be so bold as to inquire why a spirit like yours fled the revelry?" 

You hesitated, the hurt rising anew. Where could you even begin?

Try as you might, you could not understand the King's temperament. In your close confines, Aragorn had sounded so sincere. So lost. And yet... had it perhaps been all a trick? A routine he performed on all the unwitting maidens of elsewhere who caught his fleeting attention, for reasons you could scarcely fathom?

You shuddered, chastising yourself for harbouring such cynical thoughts about the noble King. Surely, that could not be true. But what other explanation could there be for such a swift and complete shift in his demeanour? Had you somehow misspoken? Offended his royal sensibilities in some unforeseen way?

"I realised… I wasn't quite so important as I'd imagined," you said, finally.

Faramir studied you for a moment. "That is a bitter draught. Was something said?"

You shook your head. "No. And that was the trouble." You looked down at your hands, at your fingers twisting together nervously in your lap. "The silence said enough."

Faramir's expression darkened with a kind of knowing. "I see. There are few things more confounding than sudden frost, especially where there once was warmth."

You flushed. There was that word again. Frost. If only Faramir knew the chilling irony of his words, how accurate he was, in more ways than one. It sent a ripple of agitation through you, causing you to cross and uncross your legs.

"Indeed," you said. "To be truthful, I know not why I am telling you all of this in the first place."

"Because you are a crystalline pool, recently disturbed," Faramir responded, simply. "The silt needs to settle."

"And you?"

Faramir hummed, thinking it over. "I am merely a quiet place on the bank, content to listen and wait until you are clear again. Please, feel free to continue."

"It is only… I thought, perhaps, I'd been noticed—seen—by someone special. Someone I… admired." You bit your lip. "But it seems I was mistaken. And now I feel so foolish, I can scarcely bear anyone looking at me at all."

The clumsy vulnerability of your admission hung in the air. But Faramir did not flinch, nor did he extend hollow platitudes.

Instead, he gifted you a quiet, unexpected kindness. "If privacy is your wish, I will look away," Faramir said, sweetly. "But I confess, I should find it a distinct loss to my senses."

A smile, small but genuine, touched your lips at the compliment, so gracefully delivered. "Then I suppose I must grant you an exception, Lord Faramir. You may look your fill."

This seemed to delight him. "A mercy indeed," he said. "And these words I offer freely in hope of providing some insight: I find it exceedingly difficult to imagine you are in the habit of being overlooked. In truth, I should wager you are noticed far more often than not."

You narrowed your eyes playfully, unsure whether to take his words at face value. "Is that meant kindly?" 

Faramir tilted his head in mock consideration, and it seemed his whole person was glittering with the winking lights of irreverence. "I have not yet decided."

The audacity of it—the dry, unexpected boldness of his reply—startled a laugh out of you. Real laughter, the kind that bubbled up out of somewhere deep and forgotten. "How impish!"

Faramir joined you in laughter, and his mirth was gentle, devoid of any mockery. "Of course, I meant it kindly! As if there were any room for doubt," he reassured you. "Whether it was wise to voice such a thought aloud, however... well, that remains to be seen."

Your smile lingered. "You have lifted my troubled spirits considerably, my Lord. I thank you most kindly for your unexpected companionship."

Then, as if summoned by your restored lightness and gaiety of heart, the faint but unmistakable sound of music reached your ears, drifting on the breeze from the open doors of the majestic Tower Hall.

Faramir's face kindled with recognition. "Ah! The Waltz of Gondor," he said, rising smoothly to his feet. "Might your newly-untroubled spirits permit me this dance, my lady?"

You wavered, caught between desire and a lingering apprehension. Part of you yearned to rise with him—to accept his gracious offer, to follow the enchanting music—and lose yourself in rhythm and movement.

But another, more cautious part of you resisted, the remnant awkwardness of your recent encounter with Aragorn still clinging to your mind.

You could not bear the thought of venturing inside to see the King, not with the memory of your shared intimacy so fresh upon you: his body trembling above you, his mouth slack with need, the ribbon cinched around his engorged sex like some obscene coronet…

"I would not see King Elessar," you said, thinly.

Faramir sounded invested, amused. "Why is that?"

You paused, evaluating the two men. Where King Aragorn was shadow and storm in his dark colours and brooding disposition, Lord Faramir was dawn-kissed marble; lightness and delicacy sculpted into something finely-wrought.

"As he is my cause to forget," you said, finally.

Sounding even more invested and amused—as if your response had been the most scandalous thing you could have possibly said—Faramir leaned in, his expression sharpening. "And why is that?"

"That… I cannot tell you," you answered, with a sigh.

You must have been pouting, because Faramir gave a soft half-laugh, a surprisingly tender sound.

"Come now," he coaxed gently. "The day is far too fine for sulking." He extended his hand a fraction further, ever persuasive. "If the prospect of looking upon him is untenable, then simply remain looking at me. I shall endeavour to keep your thoughts safely distracted while we dance." He considered you for a moment. "Or... indulge them further, if that is your secret wish."

He was certainly perceptive. Still, you hesitated, your fingers brushing his outstretched hand. "Lord Faramir..." 

"I promise to behave. I would simply see you in motion, that is all." 

His quiet insistence, the gentle pull of his presence, and the lure of escaping your own thoughts finally overcame your reluctance. With a soft sigh of surrender, you placed your hand in his. His grip was firm and reassuring as he led you.

You followed—hesitantly at first, then with more confidence—towards the vibrant sounds of harps and violins spilling from the welcoming doors of the Tower Hall.

The dance was ancient; a formal Gondorian court waltz woven with intricate steps and turns. Yet Faramir moved through it with an effortless, ingrained grace, as if the rhythm pulsed in his very blood, a natural extension of his being.

His hand rested lightly at your waist, a respectful anchor, his other hand holding yours with gentle assurance, fingers interlaced. He guided you with subtle pressure, anticipating your movements, making you feel surprisingly light and sure-footed, despite the lingering turmoil that churned within you.

You kept your gaze fixed straight ahead, stubbornly focused on the delicate silver pendant in the shape of a war-horn resting against Faramir's collarbone, a tiny point of light in your otherwise unfocused vision. You were unwilling to risk looking anywhere else just yet.

"Indulge me, my Lord," you said, by way of surrender. "Since pretending to forget is proving futile. What is the King doing?"

Faramir leaned in as he guided you through a smooth, sweeping turn, his breath warm against the delicate skin of your ear, his voice a low, intimate purr. "He is watching you." A pause, charged. "He is watching us. And it appears to be driving him quite mad."

"Does that please you?" you asked, catching the faint trill of something like delight in his hushed words, a subtle satisfaction that hinted at a complex relationship between the two of them.

"I think it rather pleases him," Faramir murmured, his gaze presumably scanning the King atop his throne. His answer was evasive, thoughtful. "Or tortures him. He seems distracted. Haunted of a focus... unfamiliar." 

"I see," you said, even though you really couldn't.

"It is rare to witness him thus," Faramir continued, more to himself than to you, sounding intrigued as he effortlessly navigated you both through another complex sequence of steps. You felt barely tethered to the floor, moving as if caught in a dream, guided by the sure and steady pressure of his hands. "Even slightly. He is usually the very picture of practiced control. But today—"

He stopped mid-sentence, his body tensing almost imperceptibly against yours.

"What?" you asked, though you were not sure you wanted to know. 

"There's… a tension in him. Visible, even from here. Low in the chest, the belly..." Faramir's melodic tone was now heavy with implication. "Perhaps even lower than that."

Your cheeks flamed scarlet. You jerked your gaze away, focusing with a desperate intensity on a vast tapestry depicting a heroic battle scene across the hall, though the details blurred quickly.

"I do not know what you mean," you protested, but the unconvincing wavering of your voice betrayed you utterly.

"Do you not?" he simpered.

"I thought you promised to behave," you chastised, thoroughly flustered by his perceptiveness and the unwelcome surge of memories it provoked. "You are proving to be quite the coquettish Lord!"

"It appears so! Forgive me," he replied, through bright laughter. Then, he looked down at you, really looked, and his attention was cool and clean, precise. "Forgive me," he repeated, but the words were different this time, betraying some profound depth of feeling. "There must be... something in the air around you." 

"I've worn nothing enchanted," you said, too quickly, in defense of your own honour. 

"That may be true," Faramir conceded, smoothly. "But I wonder if the enchantment wears you. It calls to mind tales I have heard of the far South, of the perfumed courts of Harad. Tell me, have your travels ever taken you to such lands?"

Harad? You tilted your head.

"I'm afraid not, my Lord," you answered. "I admit, Minas Tirith is the furthest I have travelled away from home. Why do you ask?"

"Ah. It is nothing. Just a reminder of notorious Haradrim charms," Faramir said. "Surely, the King must feel the same irresistible pull. It is the only thing which explains the nature of his gaze upon you."

"And how is he looking at me?"

"As if he wishes to be precisely where I am at this moment, holding you thus, feeling the warmth of your hands in his own. Or... as if he wishes to smite me where I stand, for daring to take such a liberty. It really is a sight. You ought to witness it for yourself."

Compelled and terrified, you finally dared to lift your eyes towards the dais.

There, Aragorn sat upon his imposing throne, redressed in his dark cloak, which he'd drawn tightly around his body like a protective shield, shrouding him in shadow despite the illumination of the hall.

A golden goblet lay, forgotten and untouched, by his feet.

And Aragorn's eyes, dark and burning, were fixed unwaveringly on you, on Faramir's hand at your waist. And when Faramir's palm slid lower, just a fraction, to rest more firmly at the small of your back in a natural shift of the dance, Aragorn's fist slammed down onto the ornate stone armrest, startling a serving boy into dropping a tray laden with delicate pastries.

"Do you want him?" Faramir asked, his soft words cutting through the haze, a direct and probing inquiry.

You blinked. "Pardon me, my Lord?" 

"Aragorn. Do you desire him?" 

You searched Faramir's fair face, seeking any hint of jealousy, resentment, or scorn, and found none of those things. Instead, his expression held something quieter, a subtle ache of melancholy, a knowing sadness that echoed the earlier grief to which he had alluded.

"I want for him his happiness," you said, eventually, choosing your words with careful diplomacy. 

The intricate steps of the waltz drew you closer for a fleeting moment, before it pulled you apart.

"Then you ought to go to him," Faramir diagnosed softly, a sigh woven into the fabric of his words. He gently let go of your hands. "He needs you, it seems. Desperately."

"And what of you?" The question slipped out, prompted by the quiet resignation you detected in his tone.

"I know full well what it is to be secondary, after my elder brother, Boromir." Faramir's smile was a wistful curve of his lips; rueful, but lacking bitterness. "I have made a lifetime of waiting. I am rather good at it." 

Your heart clenched painfully at the quiet dignity laced with a palpable sorrow in his admission.

"No. No, I will not go to Aragorn, Lord Faramir," you said, grabbing his hands to re-situate yourself into the dance. "Because at this moment, I am here, with you." 

At that, Faramir seemed to become lit from within with the fires of joy, as if it were the first time he had ever been chosen first; as if your simple statement held a weight and significance far beyond your own understanding.

Still, there was a stubborn flicker of disbelief in his blue-grey eyes. "You humour me."

You felt the steady press of his hand at the small of your back again. The strings swelled as he pulled you closer. You noticed then the pulse in his throat: furious, insistent, as if threatening to burst through his skin.

"Not at all, my Lord. I am thoroughly enjoying your company," you replied. "You are a genuine pleasure. There is a light in you—a quiet goodness and profound wisdom—that I find rivals the very jewels of this celebration."

"All this you can discern from a single dance?" He laughed softly, a self-deprecating chuckle that seemed to brush aside your words with charming modesty.

Yet his body betrayed him, offering a different story. He was warming in your arms, a faint flush rising on his neck, and fine lines at the corners of his eyes had appeared, crinkling deeper with the richness of his pleasure.

"All this is plain to my own senses," you insisted kindly, "and I imagine the rest of the court perceives it as well. Is your brother here also?" You gestured vaguely around the room, filled with swirling dancers and hushed conversations, trying to spot a similar head of coppery hair, a familiar breadth of shoulder.

The light in Faramir's face dimmed, though he did not let it extinguish entirely. "Sadly not," he said, gently. "Boromir was lost in the war."

Your step faltered. "Oh! Please accept my deepest condolences. I feel certain your inherent goodness was just as plain to him. I have no doubt he was as proud as of you as any brother could possibly be."

Then, Faramir surprised you. "Your words may be as sweet as your shortbread," he remarked, as he spun you.

"You had one!" you exclaimed, startled. "A honey-star?"

Faramir smiled, as guileless and sweet as a boy caught in a harmless mischief, and dipped his head. "I did."

"Yet I do not recall serving you," you mused, a frown creasing your brow.

"I have never been the first man in a crowded room to catch the eye," Faramir demurred. 

"Tch. You are speaking modestly," you countered, skeptical. Was he testing you? While it was rather bold of you to argue with the man, your resolve was steadfast. "No, I did not serve you, my Lord. I'd have undoubtedly remembered such a face. And voice. And... countenance."

Thankfully, Faramir seemed to take your challenge as the compliment it was intended to be.

"You are observant," he said. "I had been intending to approach you as you were setting up, when I was arrested by the sudden bumping into of an old Rohirric friend of mine. Once alone again, I approached your station, but saw that only your basket remained." 

Your heart caught. You must have been... helping... Aragorn at that precise moment in time. "I see."

"I hope you do not mind the petty thievery," Faramir said, smiling gently.

"Not at all," you answered, honestly. "The honey-stars are there for everyone to enjoy. Watching over the basket was but an easy way for me to make conversation with people. I only pray the biscuit was... amenable to you, my Lord."

"Truly. I have never tasted anything quite like it. The flavour changed as it melted on my tongue: at first, a delicate mildness, a hint of vanilla... before deepening into something richer, more earthy. Like the sun-ripened apricots my brother and I used to steal from the Royal Orchards in our youth."

You giggled. It was a charming image. "It seems your roots in petty thievery run deep."

Faramir hummed a laugh as he realised the connection. "Indeed! Forgive me, I know it is rather undignified behaviour for a Prince."

"Though you are not merely a Prince, are you?" you teased.

"That much is true," he conceded. "King Elessar was gracious to retain the Steward's role in Gondor. Though the city needs no Steward with the King returned, the title... persists."

"Then perhaps," you said, leaning infinitesimally closer as the dance brought you together, "one cannot truly be said to 'steal' what, by right and duty, already belongs to them. In your case, would that not include everything within Gondor's walls?"

"Is that so?" Faramir murmured. "Everything, hm? That would include the artisans, would it not? The jewellers, the weavers... the bakers whose creations can disarm a Steward with a single bite."

You bit your lip. "I suppose logic would demand it," you replied.

"Then I am very grateful to logic indeed," he said. "Since it has just presented me with a most formidable argument for why I should not feel the slightest guilt for having monopolised your company this afternoon."

"Good," you replied, batting your eyelashes. "For I would have you enjoy me fully, without guilt."

"Gods." Faramir's throat moved as he swallowed. You watched him closely: he almost seemed afraid. Of what, you were unsure. "Those shortbread biscuits of yours. They sharpen the senses, do they not?" 

"Perhaps. If one is particularly sensitive to sweet things." 

"Oh," Faramir murmured, with a soft huff of laughter escaping his lips, carrying a coy, libidinous insinuation. His gaze trailed the entire length of you, up and down. "I am."

"You must be," you said. You allowed your hand to drift casually to his chest, your fingertips just grazing the fine, intricate embroidery of his surcoat, feeling the rapid thrum of his heart beneath your touch. "Your heartbeat is very fast."

"Well, that is because I am trying very, very hard not to kiss you at this moment," he admitted. "Your lips, I must confess, are... remarkably inviting."

At his bold confession, a sudden, delicious wickedness stirred you, fuelled by the knowledge that Aragorn's burning gaze was still fixed upon you from the across the room. You tried, for a fleeting moment, to resist the urge to give voice to the thought. You nearly held your hand over your mouth to prevent the words from escaping, but the question came before you could fully stop it.

"If you desire to kiss me so intensely, Lord Faramir... why try so very hard not to?" 

Faramir seemed taken aback by your directness. You were also, admittedly, taken aback by your own gall. Were you truly about to embark in yet another potentially scandalous encounter with a near stranger, so soon after meeting? 

Still, Faramir seemed to know better than to push his luck. "You are right," he breathed, "I would indeed stop trying."

His right hand cupped the back of your head, his fingers tangling into your hair, as he slowly, deliberately, pulled your mouth towards his own.

The world dissolved into a symphony of sensation. His lips were softer than you imagined, yet held a firm, certain pressure that left no room for hesitation. The music swelled around you, but it was a distant thing, drowned out by the roaring pulse in your own ears.

"Gods," he murmured, "so sweet…"

Faramir's fingers tightened in your hair, a gentle anchor that tilted your head just so, allowing him to deepen the kiss. It was a slow, deliberate burn, a tasting and testing and teasing that sent sparks cascading down your spine. When his tongue traced the opening of your lips, it was an invitation you accepted without thought, opening to him as a flower turns to the sun. The taste of him was clean, like cool water and the minty freshness of the forests he loved, and you drank it in, forgetting the hall, the music, the watching King, forgetting everything but the feel of his mouth moving against yours with a growing, desperate hunger.

"Oh, my," you breathed, exhilarated, speaking against his mouth, "what are we doing?"

Faramir pulled away, though his grip at your waist tightened.

"Now, I am trying very hard not to do other things entirely," Faramir panted. His mouth found you again, but this time his lips captured your neck, sucking firmly enough to make you gasp. "By the Valar... if this is how you taste here, I would forfeit my titles to be a guest at your table further south... oh, would that you suffered me to bury my nose in your c—" 

"My Lord!" you exclaimed, cutting off the rest of his sentence as you felt his emboldened hand travel down your back, past the curve of your waist and flare of your hips, to squeeze playfully at the soft flesh of your rear.

"—to let my eager mouth trace the very seam of you, over and over, so I may discover if the core is as sinfully sweet as the skin—"

THWACK!

A sound like the sudden crack of thunder echoed through the chamber. It was a sharp, resonant noise, one that cut through the music and startled the dancers into momentary stillness.

Above, Aragorn had risen from his seat. His goblet lay spilled, the crimson wine spreading like a stain of passion across the floor. He was descending the stairs of the dais and stalking towards you, his cloak flaring behind him like ominous dark wings, leaving blood-wine bootprints in his wake.

Your own blood ran cold.

There was something in Aragorn's eyes—what it was, you could not tell—but you were not keen to discover whether it was fury or amusement. But Faramir had completely lost himself, it seemed, he had not even heard the bang.

"Faramir," you gasped, peeling yourself away from him, out of his kneading hands and away from his suckling mouth. "Steward of Gondor, Prince of Ithilien, Lord of Emyn Arnen—I must make my most immediate haste!" 

"But—"

"I apologise!" you called over your shoulder, as you ran into the nearest passageway you could find.

You pressed your back flat to the wall and instinctively touched your kiss-swollen mouth, which was still tingling from Faramir's ardent attentions. Sighing, your touch travelled down to your neck, tracing the sensitive skin where the man had drawn your blood to the surface, leaving the tell-tale splotchy marks of possessive passion.

A realisation dawned on you as your fingers toyed with the developing bruises. Your perfume oil. The one you had chosen this morning, before dipping your fingers into the vial and swiping them across your neck, behind your ears, your wrists. The oil was your handmade concoction, an edible combination of your most favoured essences.

Vanilla. And apricot.

Chapter Text

Fleeing had been your first instinct.

Now, having slipped through some secret stone artery leading away from the overwhelm of the Tower Hall, you found yourself utterly lost.

With nothing else to use as a compass, you chose to blindly follow a new floral scent that rose to your senses deliciously. Your mind buzzed with the memory of Lord Faramir's zealous mouth and hands, and the King's subsequent, ardent advance towards you.

In your fevered state, you could barely track the twists and turns of the corridor, nor the flights of stairs you ascended and descended. Marble gave way to rough-hewn stone beneath your sandals; the air grew cooler, damper, until you stumbled upon a curtain of wild ivy veiling a narrow archway.

From beyond it, the intoxicating scent pulsed with intensity. And so, without hesitation—propelled by a desperate need for refuge—you pushed aside the thick, tangled vines, and stepped into...

A hidden sanctuary.

The remains of an old outpost, it seemed; a circular hollow, half-eaten by time and neglect. Ahead of you, a significant portion of the wall had crumbled into total ruin, revealing a breathtaking vista; an opening that led directly to the sheer, dizzying drop of the mountainside beyond.

To your right, a wide basin had been worn smooth into the stone floor by an age of dripping water, fed now by a slow, steady trickle descending from the fractured point in the roof high above. The droplets rang out softly as they fell, their rhythm ancient and patient. The rippling water's surface shimmered with the molten hues of sunset.

All around you, impossibly rich roses, in every shade one could imagine, formed a lush latticework across what remained of the crumbling stone walls. Their tenacious vines clung to the ancient structure, threading across the entire room like veins.

The exposed air, carrying the cool kiss of mountain winds, coaxed their delicate petals into detaching and drifting down like silent, silken rain, forming a soft carpet underfoot. These fallen petals, along with the patches of velvety moss clinging to the stone floor, softened your step as you moved cautiously to one edge of the basin, drawn by the sight of a particularly impressive bloom, the colour of fresh, spilled blood, its petals unfurling with opulent grace.

You crouched by the edge of the water. "Ah," you sighed, burying your nose into the centre of the flower. "I thank you, Gods, for this cooling solitude, and the beautiful roses."

Just as a sense of peace and calm started to wash over you, you were nearly startled forward into the basin by a tuneful voice which seemed to ring out from nowhere:

"Careful. The lyth are beautiful indeed, but armed."

You gasped, eyes darting. The only other visible inhabitants of the place were the fireflies which hovered like blue embers caught in the gossamer threads of a waking dream. Who had—?

Then, you felt a shift in the air—like the world had drawn a breath—and when you turned around, he was there, standing on the other side of the basin, though he had most certainly not been there moments before.

An Elf.

A very fair Elf, at that.

"Legolas Greenleaf." You rose to your feet, the words a greeting in themselves.

He had gleaming, pale-gold hair, which lay loose but for two braids, one starting at either temple, trailing behind each delicately-pointed ear. His high-collared tunic was of a pretty powder blue, decorated with ornate clasps, and fastened at the waist with a belt of silver rope. His flared sleeves swept past the wrists and covered his knuckles. His leggings were silver also, cut with the same ethereal elegance as the rest of him.

"You have heard of me," he said.

"Truly," you affirmed, offering a bow that felt painfully mortal and graceless in the face of his marble-smooth perfection. "For you are famed across all Middle-earth, Prince of Mirkwood. You move with a quiet that is…" you searched for the word, "...astonishing. It is as if you walk on the breath of the world, not its stone."

"I am told it is unnerving." With a motion like liquid thought, he leapt across the basin and landed beside you without the faintest whisper of sound. Grace incarnate. "I rather enjoy it." 

"Do you make a habit of enjoying the startlement of mortals, then?"

"That depends," he responded, his head tilting in a manner both avian and deeply curious. "Are you a mortal?"

"Why, it is twice today I have been asked that," you remarked, furrowing your brow, "and I do think the answer is rather obvious, though I mean no disrespect. Yes! I am human."

Legolas hummed. It was a musical sound, filled with mischievous gaiety. "Are you certain?" 

You stilled. "What an odd thing to say. Yes, I am quite sure. I am a mortal of Elythford, in the fair vales of Anórien." 

Something like recognition flashed across his face, though you were not sure why.

"Ah. You ought to take the question as a compliment, maiden of Athrad Elenillor," Legolas mused, as light and airy as the rainbow petals drifting around you. "Those who inquire surely do so because they perceive your fairness to be beyond the race of Men, that is all." 

Oh. You had not considered it from that perspective. You glowed brightly at the unexpected compliment, and his glossy Elvish invocation of your home, the musical syllables sounding like a forgotten melody, or perhaps one you would learn.

"Is... that so?"

"Without a doubt," he said. Then he leaned closer, as if to inspect you. "You proclaim your mortality, and yet, even now, observing you in this light… I find the evidence lacking."

"I beg your pardon?" you stammered, caught between offence and a strange, flattered confusion.

"There is a light in you that sings of something more," he said simply, as if stating that the sky was blue. Or, rather, lavender, as the sun continued to set. "But let us set that riddle aside for now. For I have heard of you as well, mortal one."

"You have?"

He reached out and plucked a pure white rose from the wall. "Of course. I believe your biscuits have caused quite the stir. A veritable whirlwind of delight is sweeping through the Jubilee. The hobbits, I am told, may very well stage a full-scale riot if your supply runs out ere night's end."

You laughed, the tension breaking. "I am glad my humble sweets bring such pleasure. Though I fear I gravely underestimated the appetite of the Shire."

"Hobbits are good-natured folk. They will forgive you," Legolas said, his glacier-blue eyes glistening with playful humour. "Eventually." 

"I shall cling to that hope," you said, looking at the exquisite flower in his hand.

You tried to recall what little you knew of Elves beyond myth and found yourself frustratingly unlearned. Talk of them was scarce in mortal Elythford, true knowledge scarcer still, but you had vaguely heard stories of their renowned resistance to intoxication. You sighed with relief, knowing it meant Legolas could not be undone by your honey-stars in the event that he should try one. If Elves could even eat mortal food at all.

Either way, he would not suffer the same fate as Faramir or Aragorn, and that brought you great measure of comfort. For there was a brewing unease in your mind regarding the powerful effect to which both men had fallen. Could you really let yourself believe you were lovely enough to have captured the attention of both of them? Or was something deeper going on?

"You think loudly," Legolas said, which made you realise it had been some time since either of you had spoken. You had been too lost in your own worry.

Your heart raced with the implication of his words, but you attempted to proceed with a light-hearted nonchalance. "That is a very Elven thing to say," you remarked.

"It is," he readily admitted, chuckling. He extended the rose to you in a graceful offering, and you accepted it, your fingers brushing his cool skin as you did so.

With a slight start, you noticed the flower's stem bore no thorns.

"You warned me that the roses were armed," you remarked, as you gently tucked the flower behind your ear, where it stayed obediently nestled. "And yet, I see no spines."

"I was referring to the petals," Legolas explained. "When crushed, they release a fiery liquid substance. Some Elves consider it a delicacy, and use it to bring heat to their dishes. Nonetheless, you are bold, to wear such latent danger in your hair."

"Where else to wear danger, if not there?" you quipped, which made Legolas grin. He looked almost... admiring. Or impressed. And for a fleeting, treacherous moment, you imagined his fair face admiring and impressed for reasons other than laughter. "You... cannot actually read my inner speech, can you, prince Legolas?"

"Would it disquiet you, were it true?"

"Yes!" you exclaimed. "Very much so!"

"Why?" He seemed altogether too amused by your distress.

"Because—" you faltered. "Because there are some thoughts that I would keep to myself."

Thoughts, for instance, of how Faramir had grown increasingly ravenous for you, as if each kiss had only deepened his craving. Thoughts of his breath, warm and wicked against your skin; his honeyed pleas, warped with indecency, as he described how he longed to taste you elsewhere, in places far more private and intimate. Thoughts of the weight of his hand on your hips, the barely restrained urgency with which his touch dragged lower, hungrily cupping and squeezing your—

"You are thinking of the Steward of Gondor," Legolas interrupted, simply.

Your stomach churned. You touched the bruise at your neck, self-conscious.

"How did you—?" Had Legolas somehow heard—or worse yet, seen, in the intimate theatre of your mind—everything that had transpired in the Tower Hall? The memory of Faramir's soft, persistent mouth, the way his fingers had tangled in your hair? "I apologise—I am not usually so—"

He raised a hand, gentle as a lullaby. "Peace. You need fear no intrusion from me. I only tease. Mind-reading is an art lost to most of my kin, and even then, it requires invitation, a willing openness of the spirit. I cannot walk uninvited into the halls of another's mind."

You sagged with relief. "But... how did you know?"

"I read your body," Legolas explained. "In temperature. In the glimmer of your eye. The pace of your breath, still uneven from dancing with him."

You turned away, as if that might afford you some privacy. "Ah, so you saw us," you murmured. "You neglected to mention that small detail, Prince Legolas. So you are not clairvoyant, then. Just a voyeur."

It seemed, for the first time since meeting, you had managed to rouse a genuine, full-bodied blush to Legolas' fair cheeks. The colour ripened slowly, like blood seeping into freshly fallen snow.

"You were... very graceful with the Prince of Ithilien," Legolas started, before he followed it up with a comment you could only describe as retaliative. "Though I confess, I was unaware that a fervent kiss, followed by such... enthusiastic exploration... was the traditional finale to the esteemed Gondorian Waltz. Have the courtly dances of Men evolved so dramatically since last I visited?"

"Are you teasing me again?" you asked, crossing your arms in a mockery of sternness that was utterly betrayed by the smile threatening to break free.

"Perhaps," he singsonged.

"Well," You raised your chin in an attempt to project an air of fortitude and indifference. "The kiss was supplementary. Improvised. And what of it?"

"Nothing. I only found it interesting." 

"Do Elves kiss?" you blurted out, then winced. "Forgive me. That was—impertinent. You need not answer."

"Elves do all manner of things," Legolas replied, mildly evasive, but with a smile ghosting across his lips. "But not always in the ways of Men."

"Then what, exactly, did you find so interesting about me being with Lord Faramir?" 

"It stole my attention," Legolas explained, "because I have known Lord Faramir for many long years. He is a man of deep feeling, yes, but also of caution. Restraint. Measure. And yet... there he was, devouring you in front of the entire court with a hunger that bordered on possession. I believe I even witnessed his hand venture quite definitively southward upon your—"

"Enough!" Embarrassment flooded your face in a hot, crimson wave. You cast about desperately for a distraction, for higher ground in this verbal sparring match. "And what of you, Legolas Greenleaf? You appeared from the very air, a trick of the light and shadow, and have yet to account for yourself. Why have you come here, after me? Are you the guardian of this ruin, or merely a spectre with a penchant for commentary?"

Legolas didn't answer immediately. Instead, he turned with a silent, ethereal grace that made your own movements feel clumsy and loud, and walked to the very edge of the ruin. There, where the solid stone crumbled into jagged teeth against the vast sky, he knelt. He reached into a hidden crevice within the fallen stones, as if retrieving a secret.

When he stood, he held his longbow, an instrument of pale wood that seemed less carved and more awakened, holding the last light of the sun deep in its grain; and a quiver of arrows, fletched with feathers as white as a cloud.

"I was here before you. Up there." He nodded towards a slender, impossibly-high spire that pierced the violet sky like a needle. "Practicing my aim against the wind. One can see right into the Tower Hall from that high up. Then, I heard movement in this abandoned place, so I came to investigate; for this room is known to few. Myself. The King. And now... you."

You blushed. In your mind flashed an intrusive image of the King, undone and panting, his manhood barely contained by your hair-ribbon. "I see."

He rested his bow and quiver against one of the still-standing stone walls, the gesture casual, unguarded. "And now," he pointed out, with a knowing smile, "I perceive that you are thinking of Estel."

"Who?"

"King Elessar, of course," Legolas explained, with a little laugh, while you filed that name away for later. He sat down at the edge of the ruin, his back toward you, his long legs dangling off the side. "You were thinking—quite intently, might I add—of your King."

"How did you—?" Your breath caught in your throat. "I mean! No! Not intently, not like that—"

"You are torn," Legolas continued. "Wondering if your heart can cleave itself cleanly in two. And I believe a smaller, quieter part of you whispers... what might it be like to know a love as rare and avid as the Firstborn can share?" He glanced back over his shoulder, his graceful profile etched against the dying light. "The kind which encompasses the Firmament to the Abyss."

"Oh, Gods above," you lamented, groaning in humiliation. The heat of your blush seemed to scorch your very ears. "Am I truly such an open book?"

"It is not a weakness," he said. "It is your vitality. Mortal hearts are bright, wild things. They are meant to spark and flare and change course."

You felt a compelling urge to take a step towards him, drawn by an invisible force, without quite understanding the underlying motivation. Perhaps it was merely a simple desire to see his enigmatic face again. No matter what it was, you soon found yourself taking step after step, until you were standing at the edge of the same precipice he was sitting on.

"I fear I have behaved most improperly on this rather… eventful day," you confessed, a pout forming on your lips. When he responded with a soft, rich chuckle, you shot him an accusatory look. "You are enjoying this! My utter and complete fluster. The spectacle of my disarray!"

"I am witnessing it," he corrected, though his widening smile belied his defence. "It is like a flame trying not to flicker when the wind passes. Your pride resists, a valiant little guard, but your heart betrays you at every gate. It is a captivating dance all its own."

You sat down beside him, on the crumbling edge of the world. Below you both: the yawning abyss. Legolas seemed pleased—if not amused—by your nearness.

"Do you always talk like that?" you asked, squinting at him. When he tilted his head, curious, you continued. "Like everything you say is part riddle, part prophecy. You speak more like a poet than an archer." 

"What do you think archery is, if not poetry?" Legolas countered smoothly, his gaze drifting to his bow leaning on the wall. "Precision. Timing. Desire. A perfect curve, aimed true." When you just stared at him with an unmoved expression, he shook his head in mock-exasperation. "Tch. Mortals. They always want things to be so clear."

"Ah, yes. We are foolish like that: we have this frustrating preference for understanding the words that are spoken to us."

"You understand more than you credit yourself with," he said, sharpening in intensity. His attention felt as if it were pinning you in place. "More than you believe."

"Do you deliberately cloak your meaning in riddles," you pressed, leaning in, "because you fear someone might truly see you, Prince Legolas? See past the Elven glamour to the heart beneath your ageless exterior?"

He went very still. The blasé glint vanished from his eyes, replaced by something older. "Tread lightly," he warned. "You speak as if you glimpse the edges of the veil. And I must counsel you: Elves guard their inner selves fiercely. We dislike being seen by just anyone."

"Yet here you are," you whispered, holding his intense gaze. "Sitting beside just anyone on the edge of oblivion, being seen. Voluntarily."

"And truly, that is most troubling of all," he said. The shared laugh that followed felt like a secret pact. "Though... you are not, by any measure, just anyone."

You dipped your head at the praise. "No?"

His eyes flashed with something like recognition; sincere, rapt seeing. "No," Legolas breathed, and the quiet, lyrical intensity in his tone made you shudder. "No, you are not."

You gulped.

After some time of watching the sunset together, you found yourself holding a question on your tongue. So, you gathered your courage and spoke the thought aloud, before Legolas could intuit it out of you once more.

"Earlier, you said Elves do things... differently... to Men," you ventured. "What... did you mean by that?"

Legolas smiled. Had he been waiting for you to ask?

"Elves feel deeply, but we wield our desires differently. Where Men might touch, we... speak."

"You... speak?" you bit your lip. "How do you mean?"

"For instance, I could reach across this small distance and caress you, but I need not. My words alone, if chosen carefully, and imbued with the proper intention, would be more than sufficient to summon the fire in you; and it would readily answer. I could draw it forth—stoke it, coax it to a glorious, unrestrained crest, let it unravel you, body and soul—all without ever needing to lay a single hand upon your delicate skin."

The world tilted. This was beyond mere flirtation; it was a revelation of an entire universe of intimacy you had never dreamed of. It was alien, a magic that felt both terrifying and profoundly, deeply seductive. Your mouth went dry; your wits scattered like startled birds.

"Ah. I—I find that prospect—rather fascinating," you stammered, embarrassed by your own lack of decorum or grace. "Very, very... interesting."

"Would you that I try?" Legolas asked, mercifully sparing you the need to make the request yourself. His gaze was open, patient, yet charged with potent possibility.

The question hung in the rose-scented air, thick with unspoken promise. You had witnessed the fire ignite and consume Aragorn, had felt it kindle and blaze in Faramir... and a deep, needy part of you, starved for release from the day's turmoil, craved to feel that intensity for yourself. To understand it. To be mastered by it, safely, within this hidden sanctuary, by this enigmatic Elven Prince.

"Yes," you breathed, the word a surrender. "Yes, I should like that very much."

"Then close your eyes," he instructed. "Do not merely listen. Hear. Let the syllables become sensation. Let the rhythm become your pulse. Surrender to the music, and the meaning will find you."

"I shall... try," you mumbled, unsure.

Your eyelids fluttered shut, and the vibrant colours of the sunset abruptly faded into darkness. Everything fell away. All that remained was the sound of his voice, the rustle of roses, and the distant, slumbering murmur of the city below. 

"Picture the starlight of Athrad Elenillor," Legolas began, slow and deliberate, each syllable weighted with intent. "Not the cold light Men see, but its true essence: warm, vibrant, liquid silver. Feel it now, spilling over your skin, a luminous cascade of pure energy. It knows you, this ancient light. It recognises the unique spark that flickers within you, the ache that burns deeper than touch can ever reach... the hunger for connection, the yearning for complete and utter release. For pleasure beyond your wildest dreams. I wish to give it to you, now. Allow yourself the pleasure. You are a conduit for bliss, unlocked further by every word you hear..."

His words felt like a physical caress, tracing dizzying patterns along the raw, exposed wires of your nerves. Gooseflesh rippled over your arms; a sharp, involuntary gasp escaped you.

"Fascinating..." you murmured, already adrift.

"The fire within you stirs now," he continued. "Sliding lower. Curling languidly in your belly, where it blooms with vibrancy, much like the flower in your hair. Can you feel it? The warmth, the pulse, the way it grows, spreading from your core outwards?" 

"I can feel it," you whimpered, your body beginning to tremble with pleasure and anticipation.

"Good, good. So can I."

Your eyes opened, drawing you back to the tangible world. "What?" you whispered. "You feel it too?"

"What I speak into you," Legolas explained, "moves through me also. Your rising desire—I feel it. Not as a shadow, but as if it lives in my chest. I feel precisely where it gathers. Where it begs."

"How can that be?"

"It is the nature of the Elves. For us, when one spirit opens itself fully to another in longing... when the connection is given breath, acknowledged wholly... it forges a thread. A temporary bond, a shared space of feeling. It is deeply intimate." He swallowed, a visible ripple in his throat. "And now... through that invisible thread of ours... I feel everything as you do. The heat. The pulse. The gathering storm. It is like a double-voiced poem singing in my blood, as I can feel every sensation of yours as keenly as I do my own."

"Even this?" you asked, a sudden recklessness seizing you. Slowly, deliberately, you cupped your own breast through the fabric of your gown, rolling the already-hardened peak of your nipple between your thumb and forefinger.

Legolas gasped. A full-body shudder wracked his frame, so unlike his usual composure. "Valar!" he rasped, "you must not—!"

"Why?" you pressed, emboldened by his visceral reaction. Your hand froze. "Did I... does it hurt? Did I hurt you?"

"No. Not hurt." Legolas was blushing fully now, and it was rather... cute, you thought. "It only... it overwhelms the senses in a way that is difficult for mortals to fully comprehend," he admitted. "Elves do not oft mix words and touch in this manner. Either one is enough to evince such astounding pleasure, that employing both at once is... extraordinarily potent. Recursive."

"Meaning... it feels unbearably good?" you giggled.

He let out a ragged breath that was half-laugh, half-groan. For a moment, he looked devastatingly, charmingly human, undone and fondly exasperated at once, and all the more beautiful for it.

"You ask with such devastating simplicity."

"So tell me with devastating simplicity," you shot back, feeling like perhaps he'd been right to call you bold, earlier.

For a moment, he didn't answer. Then—

"Yes," Legolas confessed. "A thousand times, yes. It is a pleasure so sharp it is akin to pain, a bliss that could fell a creature of weaker constitution."

"And you are of harder stuff, then?" you asked, your eyes deliberately drifting downward.

Legolas followed your gaze, a new, daring glint in his eye. "Harder stuff indeed," he said, wryly. "I believe the evidence is rather… pronounced."

And it was. Your breath hitched. The soft, powder-blue fabric of his tunic had ridden up, and the sleek silver of his leggings was strained over a distinct, formidable ridge. The stark line disrupted the fluid drape of his clothing, a proud monument tenting the material between his lithe thighs. The fine cloth was pulled taut, a clear and commanding silhouette against the twilight, hinting at the firm, unyielding thickness beneath.

"You find the view educational?" he teased, but his breath caught at the end, betraying his own strain.

"I find it… illustrative," you managed, unable to tear your eyes away. "It suits you."

"Does it?" he asked, laughing. With a slow, deliberate shift of his body, he leaned back, bracing his weight on his hands behind him. The pose was one of utter nonchalance, yet it was the most provocative thing you had ever witnessed. It elongated the line of him, from the strong column of his throat to the lean muscle of his abdomen, and in doing so, it presented the evidence of his arousal to you without shame or obstruction. His head was tilted back slightly, the pale gold of his hair cascading over his shoulders, his eyes half-lidded as he watched you watch him. "And how, precisely, does it suit me?"

"It is… elegant," you whispered, your gaze tracing the unapologetic shape. "Like a drawn bow. All that potential energy, that lethal grace, held in a single, perfect line. A beautiful disruption."

The moment the words left your lips, the visual poetry of his desire translated directly into physical sensation within you. You felt it—a distinct, powerful throb deep within your own core, a direct, mirroring echo. A soft, surprised cry escaped your lips.

"Oh!" you gasped, your hand flying to your lower belly. "Was that...?"

"You," he breathed, his body tensing, a shudder running through him. His hips canted forward almost imperceptibly, a silent plea. "That was you. And me. The thread, singing between us." He let out a shaky laugh. "Your admiration is… felt quite acutely, my lady. When you use your words just so... well, it seems you have a talent for making the implicit, explicit."

"And you have a talent for making the explicit… utterly captivating," you countered, feeling drunk on the power, on the shared current arcing between you.

"It seems my body is far less reticent than my tongue," Legolas confessed, "it offers its own testimony to your presence quite freely."

"And what is it testifying to, Prince Legolas?" you asked, leaning forward slightly, captivated.

He met your gaze, daringly. "That your words are a weapon. That your curiosity is a catalyst. And that this 'beautiful disruption,' as you call it," he said, his eyes flicking down again, "is a testament to a desire I have not felt in many an age. It is… remarkably persistent."

"Good," you whispered, the word a vow that seemed to vibrate in the air between you.

A full-body shudder wracked his frame. "Valar," he rasped. "Then your approval alone is enough to…" He trailed off, swallowing hard as another visible pulse of tension made the fabric of his leggings look painfully taut. The sight was so blatant, so raw, it felt like a physical touch. "Enough to make the poetry feel dangerously close to its final, devastating stanza."

The image was so shockingly intimate it stole your breath. "Aren't you afraid of..." you pursed your lips together for a moment, not knowing exactly how to put it. "Making a mess?"

A genuine, surprised laugh burst from him, though it was strained at the edges. "No," he breathed, his expression a mixture of agony and amusement. "That is a mortal frailty. The pleasure of the Eldar is… a purer thing. A climax of the spirit that shakes the fëa to its core, a seizure of light and music so intense the body can barely contain it. It leaves no physical mark, no spillage. Only the memory of a star being born and dying within one's soul."

The clinical yet poetic explanation was the most arousing thing you had ever heard. The idea of him being utterly undone, swept away in a silent, brilliant cataclysm that left no trace but the memory of ecstasy on his face… it was overwhelming.

"If it is true that the thread binds us so completely," you mused, "that I am feeling the echo of your heart in my chest, and you the tremor in mine... what becomes of one when the other falls?" The words were inadequate, clumsy mortal cages for the celestial concept you were grasping towards. "What happens when the pleasure can no longer be contained? If I... when I simply... break?"

"You take me with you," he answered, softly. And though he was sitting some distance apart from you, it felt like his lips were brushing the shell of your ear, like his breath was on your neck. "If you fall, we fall together. And likewise, were I first. The thread will pull taut, and we will shatter as one. My soul will meet yours, and for a moment, we will be a single, perfect note in the great music of the world."

"Oh," you intoned, the word a sigh of absolute surrender. You did not mind the sound of that at all. You wanted nothing more than to witness that star being born within him, and to feel its echo ignite within yourself.

"Now," Legolas said. "Close your eyes. Let the fire have its way. Do not guide it; be its vessel. Let it rise and rise, until there is no you, only the ascent. You are anchored here, by me, by my voice. I will guide you, all the way through."

You surrendered completely, your eyelids fluttering shut, abandoning yourself to the current. A low moan escaped you as you felt a distinct, slick pulse deep within your core, a flutter that was both entirely your own and utterly his. From his direction came a sharp, synchronised hitch of breath, a gasp that was torn from his throat as if your pleasure had physical hands.

"My Prince," you whimpered, "I feel—I am at the very edge—"

It was undeniable now, a tidal wave of ecstasy gathering all the scattered sparks of the day into one incandescent whole. Your skin became a map of lightning, every nerve ending alight. Yes, you thought. This was it. Your core was a molten sun, aching with a glorious, slick heat. Your heartbeat was a wild, frantic drum against your ribs, and through the silken thread binding you, you could feel the matching, desperate tension in him—a bowstring of pure light, drawn to its breaking point, humming with the need to release its arrow. Yes, yes, yes—

"Do it," he urged, his words soft as a lover's touch yet unyielding. "The ancient stars hold their breath for you. They have waited an age for a light like yours to burst. Let it shine. Fall for me. Fall with me. An ngell nîn—please—"

It was the final, sacred permission. Pleasure did not simply crash over you; it erupted from within, a silent, shattering nova that tore through the last vestiges of your mortal form. It was a convulsion of light, a seismic event of the spirit. Your body arched, no longer your own, a bow bent by a divine archer. Ragged, sobbing gasps were ripped from your lungs as wave after wave of blinding, pulsing rapture seized you, unmade you, and began the slow, trembling work of reassembling your soul.

And next to you, Legolas gasped as though pierced, his hands bracing against the stone beneath him, his own breath broken and ragged, his usually serene features contorted in a mirror of your own devastating pleasure. You saw the vibrant blue of his eyes flash with an intense inner light, like a star being born

"Yes," Legolas exhaled, the word a ragged prayer, "yes, I feel you—I feel your fire—Anorwen—"

The name, spoken in his tongue with such fervent intimacy, was a balm and a brand. You were just about to cry out his name in turn, to reach for him across the space that suddenly felt like a gulf between worlds, when—

"Legolas Thranduilion!"

The voice was not yours, but Aragorn's; a crack of thunder in your private, shimmering sky.

Your eyes flew open and your body instinctively jerked back, your legs flailing against the uneven stones of the ruin, causing a loose stone to skitter into the void. "Aragorn?"

Through the ivy-cloaked archway, two figures stormed into the sanctuary—the King of the Reunited Kingdom and the Steward of Gondor—not as rulers, but as twin tempests of fraught concern.

Your ecstasy vanished in an instant, extinguished as if the raging flame had been suddenly plunged beneath the icy waters of Cuiviénen. Gone was the thread that had so intimately bound you to Prince Legolas. Looking over at him, you wondered if he, too, mourned the full depth of the moment stolen from you both.

Faramir reached you first, his movements swift and purposeful. Before you could protest, his hand closed around your arm, his grip firm and urgent as he hauled you back from the precipice. The motion dislodged the blood-red rose from your hair; you watched, heart lurching, as it spun down into the deepening shadows below.

"By the Valar!" Faramir cried. His hands were at your shoulders, and your face, tilting your chin and brushing back your hair as if inspecting you for unseen wounds, as if you were newly-returned from perilous battle. "My lady! Are you unharmed?"

"Yes, my Lord," you giggled, and you were sure you sounded rather silly and dizzy. You were unsteady on your feet as you scanned him up and down; he looked different, though you could not place why. "I am quite well." Another giggle. "Truly."

"You think I would allow any harm to come to her?" Legolas asked.

Faramir wheeled on Legolas, releasing you only to gesture violently towards the crumbling precipice with an accusatory hand. "Are you mad? Look where she was situated! One startled breath, one loose stone shifting, and she would have plunged into the chasm!"

"I would not have allowed that to happen," Legolas replied, as he rose smoothly and without sound from his own perch. "Had she faltered, I would have caught her before gravity thought to shift. Or do you question the balance and reflexes granted by the blood of Eldar?"

"I distrust fey moods that lure mortals to cliffsides!" Faramir shot back.

Before tempers could rise further, Aragorn interceded. "Enough," he commanded, gently grasping your hand to guide you. "Come here, and sit. There is much we must discuss."

A childish, petulant impulse momentarily arose within you, a strange desire to resist his gentle command, even as your legs instinctively obeyed, letting him guide you to a low, moss-covered stone. "So," you remarked, a pout forming on your lips as you looked up at him, "I am visible to you once more, my King? After my sudden disappearance into the spirit realm?"

"Ah." Aragorn had the grace to look truly chastened. "I see I owe you a profound apology. After my speech, I could not bear to look at you. Not from lack of desire, but from a fear that a single glance would unravel the last of my composure entirely. And when I had finally gathered the courage to seek you... you were gone. Forgive me."

The confession startled you. You had not realised he was even aware of your presence in the hall. "And the bump?"

He tilted his head at you. "The... bump?"

"Into my shoulder! After your speech, you... you walked into me! Slightly!" Hearing yourself say the words, out loud, made you feel as if perhaps you had been overreacting, just the slightest bit.

"That, I fear, was pure and simple oafishness," Aragorn said, "born of a terribly disquieted mind. For the bump, I beg you forgive me, also."

"Oh. I... feel rather foolish now," you admitted. "Of course, you are more than forgiven. I had unfairly attributed callousness to a situation I did not fully comprehend. I am sorry, also. What… then, brings you both to this secluded spot; undoubtedly something relating to this disquiet of yours?"

"Indeed," Aragorn explained. "Lord Faramir and I have spoken at length, and… it seems we have both come to a disturbing conclusion."

"Which is…?" you asked, though you were unsure whether or not you wanted to know the answer.

"Our hearts," Faramir said, stepping closer, his intense gaze fixed on you, "have, with... inexplicable force... fixed themselves upon you."

You frowned, the last dregs of your dizziness clearing. "Is that so disturbing?"

"The fixation burns... more than is seemly," Aragorn elaborated, choosing his words with care. "We have spoken of our heart's desires, and find them both worryingly base in their depth and severity. We fear that your honey-stars may have inadvertently revealed a hidden truth about the nature of the hearts of Men."

"And yet," Legolas interjected, "it is not only the hearts of Men that have been so profoundly affected."

"You... partook of one?" Aragorn asked.

"I did," Legolas responded, raising an eyebrow. "Why does that surprise you? The scent alone was enough to rouse curiosity. The flavour even better. So unexpectedly hot, sharp, red. Fiery. Like the crushed petals of the lyth."

"Wait, what?" you asked, your head swilling from Aragorn to Faramir to Legolas in utter confusion. All three of them turned their undivided attention to you. "I... I thought Elves did not eat mortal food?"

Legolas gave a soft, rueful laugh. "Where did you hear that? Elves appreciate beauty in all its myriad forms, including those that dance upon the tongue."

You stared at him, a fresh wave of panic washing over you. "I—I do not know!" You were feeling frantic, the implications of their words sinking in with alarming clarity. "It is only... the valley barely speaks of Elves at all!"

"Does it trouble you?" Legolas asked. "You were the one who brought them."

"Aye, that much is true, but—wait, you found them... spicy?" you pressed.

Legolas nodded. "Unquestionably so. And undeniably potent."

"So you, too, have noticed the… shift?" Faramir asked, turning to Legolas. "You have felt your desires... transform into something perhaps a little less... noble, shall we say? And into something altogether more... base and ungovernable?"

"Yes," Legolas admitted. "I sense it. A distinct and growing hunger has taken root where once there was only peace."

"But you—" Aragorn surged to his feet, a hand running through his dark hair in frustration. "Legolas—of all of us! You are not so easily swayed by such... mortal charms! Your spirit is anchored in the Elder Days! It is meant to be steadier than this!"

"Immunity is not the same as indifference," Legolas replied, "I am not carved from stone, Estel. The fire found purchase."

You felt unmoored. Your pulse echoed in your ears. Was that why Legolas had found you in the first place? Why he had so artfully encouraged you to let him speak your lust into bloom, to fall with him? Had he been drawn not by true intrigue, but instead by the same wild craving you had seen reflected in the eyes of both Aragorn and Faramir?

"Something is wrong," you insisted, standing up. "Let us imagine the old tales of the honey-stars are true. Even so: no two souls in Middle-earth are strictly identical in their desires and inclinations. And yet, each of you have responded, strikingly, in kind. Even you, Prince Legolas, despite your Elven wards against all but the deepest magics..."

Legolas' expression sharpened. "Yes?"

Your body was struck by a cold knot of growing dread tightening in the pit of your stomach. The honey-star's effects were too potent, too uniform, binding these three in a way that felt unnatural.

Their desires—their fixation on you—mirrored each other's with an eerie and unsettling precision, as if—

"Oh, no. No, no, no." You took a faltering step back as the truth took shape, ugly and undeniable.

As if drawn from a single source.

"What is it?" asked Faramir.

You looked at them, stricken. "I fear this may not be the work of your own desires at all," you whispered. "But... mine."

The three of them exchanged a long, silent look.

"And how do you reason that?" Aragorn asked you, carefully.

The disparate threads of the day wove together into a tapestry of horrifying culpability. "On my journey here," you began, the words tumbling out in a rush, "I was so anxious. I wanted so badly for my offerings to be well-received, to bring people joy. I grew hungry, and without thinking, I ate one of the honey-stars. And as I did... I made a wish. A silly, passing thought. I did not believe the tales..."

"But magic rarely concerns itself with the certainty of the believer," Legolas said softly. "Nor does it parse intent. What was your wish?"

Tears welled in your eyes, blurring your vision. "It was... terribly self-indulgent. A foolish vanity. I would not speak it aloud, unless deemed absolutely necessary."

"You may keep it, for now," reassured Aragorn. "But if your wish was set into motion from that moment... before any other had tasted the sweets..."

The implication settled over all of you, but it landed on you with the weight of a tombstone.

"Then..." Your eyes stung with the sudden prickle of moisture, and all of a sudden, it was spilling over. "Then I have corrupted you, my Lords, and made a mockery of your noble hearts. And not only you, but all who shared in my basket. The entire batch is cursed!"

Aragorn reached out, his calloused fingers gentle as he cupped your cheek, brushing away a tear with his thumb. "Weep not," he murmured, comfortingly. "No true harm has been done."

"Unless," Faramir's voice, soft and strained, cut through the moment, "you count the grievous wound to my pride." He was blushing ferociously, the colour high on his cheekbones. "My lady, I, too, must add my apology to the King's. My behaviour in the hall... the liberties I took... I was not myself. It was a fever in my blood, and I am shamed by it."

You dipped your head, biting your lip at the memory; a memory that, despite everything, held a thrilling, secret heat. "You are kind to offer apology, my Lord," you said softly, daring a glance at him through your damp lashes. "But you need not. I... found I did not mind those... liberties."

"You... oh. Oh." The sounds were soft, stunned exhalations from Faramir. The blush on his face deepened to a shade that perfectly matched the deep rose of his tunic and breeches.

And that, that, was the detail you had failed to note when he and Aragorn first stormed in: Faramir had changed his clothes. The intricate, formal attire he had worn in the Tower Hall was gone, replaced by this softer, more intimate ensemble. In the time between your dance and now, he had felt the need to shed one skin for another. The question of why hovered on your lips, a tantalising mystery amidst the chaos.

"Now," Aragorn said, his voice gently firm, pulling the conversation back to the more pressing matters. "It seems our path is clear. To unravel this knot, we must first understand the thread from which it is spun. We must discern the precise nature of this magic."

"The Royal Archives," Faramir suggested, his scholar's mind instinctively seeking answers in parchment and lore. "The records of Gondor are deep. There may be an account of a similar enchantment, a precedent that can guide our hand."

"Or a melody of unbinding, a counter-charm lost to mortal memory but perhaps remembered in older songs," Legolas added, his thoughtful gaze still resting upon you, as if he were trying to read the original wish written in the very lines of your soul.

You drew a steadying breath, dabbing the last of the moisture from your eyes with the back of your hand. The despair began to recede, replaced by a sharp, clear purpose. "Then let us not waste another moment," you said, gathering your courage. "The answers will not find us here among the roses, as lovely as they may be. Let us go."

Aragorn offered his arm, which you took with grace. Faramir fell into place at your other side, still a picture of magnificent pink. Legolas moved ahead to part the curtain of ivy for you all, and as he did, his fingers deftly plucked another rose from the wall with his free hand.

The rose was perfect; sapphire in colour, its petals edged with the faintest silver, as if kissed by the stars themselves.

Legolas presented it to you with a look that was both an apology and a promise. "To replace the one you lost," he said, smoothly, tucking it behind your ear. "A reminder of your boldness."

You smiled. "You seek to decorate me, Prince Legolas, even at a time like this?"

"No," he responded, with a wink, "I am decorating the flower."

Chapter Text

Dust. So much dust.

It hung in the air like suspended time, dancing in the thin shafts of twilight piercing the high, narrow windows of the Royal Archives. How long had this knowledge slumbered here, you wondered? Undisturbed, the dust settling like layers of longing in every hollow and scroll-case?

You watched the motes swirl aimlessly, before the sound of a page turning caused your gaze to drift to Lord Faramir.

He sat ensconced in a worn leather chair tucked beside an arched window, a heavy tome open on his lap like an offering. The fading light worshipped the edges of his auburn hair, gilding each strand, and cast long shadows beneath his eyes. There was tension in his posture, a subtle coiling in the line of his shoulders that spoke of restraint barely maintained.

"My Lord Steward," you began. "What, may I ask, captivates you so?"

He looked up, and the world slowed. His lashes lifted, and for a crystalline moment, as his piercing blue-grey eyes held yours, the word hung between you, transforming. Captivates. It seemed he might answer it in its truest, most thrilling sense. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor passed through his elegant fingers, resting in the gutter of the book.

"You… choose your words with a scholar's precision," he said. "For it is not the tome that holds me, but the distraction that assails my focus." He blinked, as if drawing a veil, and gestured downward. "The assailant in question is an old historical text. One that once offered me… considerable insight. A treatise on Haradrim enchantments. Of a… particular variety."

You tilted your head, pulse thrumming as the implications settled.

Before Faramir could elaborate further, Aragorn cut through the charged atmosphere from where he stood before a towering shelf nearby.

"Do you speak of the Sangûl lozenges?" Aragorn asked, turning to face Faramir with predatory focus. When the Prince of Ithilien nodded, Aragorn continued, "You believe the maiden may have laced her shortbread with the potent blood-berries of Harad?"

Legolas hummed in the distance, amused. "Those same berries which were outlawed from Gondor many years past?"

Faramir's mouth quirked. "Outlawed by my late Father, I recall," he acknowledged. "But no. I do not accuse the recipe of such dark ingredients. Only… the principle of the thing called to mind an old text. A memory, long shelved. It spurred no more than a moment's curiosity. Forgive me. I imply nothing of the baker, whose hands and heart I know to be gentle."

"The symptoms echo, but the source is a dissonant chord," Aragorn murmured. He turned his face back toward the shadows of the high shelf, his profile etched in stern, thoughtful lines. "This is not the hot, dry magic of Harad. My intuition whispers it is something else. Something deeper, and cooler, and far more ancient."

Faramir dipped his head in assent, a gesture of profound respect. "Your intuition is a compass that rarely errs, my King."

Aragorn did not turn, but a faint, approving smile touched his lips; it was a private thing, shared only with the darkness, and you, who could just make out the curve of his lips in profile. "And your caution is the steady hand that reads the map, Lord Faramir. It serves the realm as faithfully as your scholarship."

The compliment hung in the air, a King's quiet benediction, and it seemed to settle around Faramir's shoulders like a mantle.

"The King is generous with his praise," Faramir said, turning to you with a boyish humility that made your heart twist. "He speaks too highly of me."

"Aragorn is many things," you replied, "but he is no idle flatterer." Your gaze drifted to the book he now held pressed to his chest; it was an unconsciously protective, endearing gesture. "You mentioned this volume helped you once. How?"

Faramir set the book aside as if parting from a talisman. "Perchance, my lady," he said, the words leaving him on a measured breath, "that is a conversation for a... kinder hour."

"Does it trouble you still?" you asked, leaning closer. "The memory?"

"The trouble is past." Faramir's fingers found the war-horn pendant at his throat, tracing its familiar shape, worrying it with the pad of his thumb subconsciously. "But the story is a vault, and I have misplaced the key in a very old wound. Perhaps, in time, I may retrieve it. And share the tale with you."

You traced the vulnerable curve of his neck with your eyes. The flush deepened under your quiet scrutiny, and you wondered idly what other places on his body might bloom so beautifully under the right attention.

"Of course," you said. "It should be my pleasure to know you, in confidence."

He stuck his tongue between his teeth. "The greater pleasure, I assure you, would be mine. Though, I must confess, I find myself increasingly losing the taste for discretion. I fear I crave to be known by you against every corner of the citadel. Anywhere you may deign to study me."

You made a clipped noise of scandalised gratification, and you were about to answer when you saw a flicker of motion in your periphery. The spell shattered, not by sound, but by a deeper, more ancient awareness. You were being watched.

Legolas was a phantom elsewhere in the vast place, moving with the silence of falling snow. You hadn't heard even the whisper of his tread since crossing the threshold. Now, catching glimpses of him between the narrow gaps in the towering shelves, you saw him. Tall, flowing, a vision of pale gold and powder blue..

The Elf was not looking at you. Not directly. His head was turned away, as if listening to a distant strain of music, but his eyes were fluttering things, occasionally stopping on the space where you and Faramir were talking.

One finger trailed lightly along the spines of the books as he passed. Not scanning. Not searching. Communing. As if the books themselves breathed, held memories, sighed secrets only his keen senses could perceive. Perhaps he had read them all, centuries ago. Perhaps he remembered everything, word for word, touch for touch.

There was a knot of guilt and terror forming in your throat. What had your desire unleashed? If the enchantment truly was born of your own longing, then every kindness offered to you today was conjured, not earned.

You considered the three men now bound to you by accident, enchantment, or perhaps a flicker of real choice. Aragorn, a pillar of strength with a devastating core of softness. Faramir, a steady flame of intellect and vulnerability. Legolas, a resonant hum in your bones, the echo of a shared fall. Which binding was the most perilous? The most thrilling? You could not tell.

"I believe I may have unearthed a treasure of relevance," Legolas announced, making you jump. "A historical text, it seems."

You, Faramir, and Aragorn gathered at the centre, drawn together by invisible threads. A large, rectangular table served as the focal point, its ancient wood almost sagging under the sheer weight of scattered parchment rolls and leather-bound tomes upon it; some which looked older than some kingdoms of Middle-earth.

"Let us pursue it with haste, then," said Aragorn.

Legolas set the book down with care, and it landed with a heavy thud. A theatrical cloud of dust rose with the motion, displacing an age of silver stillness. "Enchantments of Athrad Elenillor: Volume One," he read. "It appears to have been written by an Elf-scholar of Lothlórien during the Second Age, though there is no name attached, only initials."

The book itself was remarkably large, its covers crafted from deep, lustrous maroon leather impossibly smooth to the touch; clearly bearing the unmistakable hallmarks of Elven craftsmanship. Sensual, even in its creation.

"Volume One?" you repeated, breathless. You tentatively ran your fingertips across the intricate gold-embossed scripture adorning the cover. It felt unnervingly warm under your touch, almost alive, aware. As if it might bite you at any moment; or worse, invite you in. "I had no inkling my humble valley warranted enough scholarship for a volume at all, let alone multiple!"

"Your own history runs far deeper than you know," Aragorn said.

The delicate vellum pages shimmered faintly. With painstaking care, Aragorn turned the possibly-enchanted pages, cautious not to tear the brittle edges or smudge the faded, dark-red ink. All three of them leaned in closer to inspect the dense, cursive writing.

Aragorn, Faramir and Legolas remained deeply focused for a long while, their heads bent in rapturous concentration. Sometimes flipping back and forth between whole chapters, other times stepping away from the book entirely to engage in hushed deliberations in fluid, musical Sindarin. Their arms crossed thoughtfully, voices kept to low, conspiratorial whispers that sent shivers down your spine.

The intricate conversation, filled with unfamiliar sounds and nuanced inflections, was completely foreign to your ears, yet achingly beautiful to behold. Like listening to delicate string instruments being plucked with impossible fidelity, each note resonating in your chest.

Still, after many minutes of their no-doubt scholarly discussion, your impatience outweighed your awe. You stepped boldly into the centre of their small, intense huddle, close enough to feel their body heat in the cool archive air.

You shifted back and forth on your feet, eager and restless. "My Lords? What insights have you gathered from this ancient text? Please, my rudimentary understanding of Sindarin extends only to the most basic of pleasantries… I would know what you are discussing with such intensity. Might you be so kind as to enlighten me in the common Westron?"

"The text is... remarkably dense, filled with archaic phrasing and intricate details. And unfortunately, it appears to end rather prematurely," said Legolas, running his fingers through his hair in a gesture that was entirely too distracting. It gleamed even in the archive's low light, catching gold like captured sunlight. "Hence, the need for multiple volumes. But what we have gathered so far..."

Legolas looked at Aragorn, some unspoken communication passing between them. Aragorn continued, "The honey-stars, as you call them, are known as Giliglîn in Sindarin, and Melwëtinwë in the older Quenya tongue. They are a conduit for an ancient form of enchantment, one deeply rooted in the intricate school of… heart-magic." He paused. "This, it appears, is the true origin of the seemingly fanciful folk-tales we discussed earlier. Except, as we are now discovering, it is no mere tall tale spun for amusement."

Faramir looked at you, and there was a grave severity in his expression, which made your blood run cold and hot simultaneously. "Heart-magic is not simple charmwork," he explained. "It is primeval. Deeply challenging to wield successfully. And..."

You swallowed hard, throat suddenly dry. "And?"

"Elvish," Legolas answered. "Heart-magic is unequivocally of Elvish origin. Meaning that only one who possesses some amount of Elvish blood can perform such intricate and demanding enchantments."

Confusion washed over you, darkening your brow. "But that does not make sense. I am the one who baked these accursed biscuits with my own two hands, and I am most certainly not—I could not be—" you gave a shaky, incredulous laugh, but it died quickly, strangled. "I am… mortal."

It came out like a question more than a statement.

Aragorn placed a steadying hand on your shoulder. "You are mortal," he said, resonant with certainty. "But not only."

You stared at him, the floor suddenly feeling less solid beneath your feet, the air too thin. "What... what in all of Middle-earth could you possibly mean by that, my King?"

Aragorn sighed, and an ancient, sad cloud passed across his features.

"Years ago, as a Ranger, long before I ever dreamed of claiming the throne... I encountered a curious woman near the edge of Athrad Elenillor," he explained, his expression taking on a reminiscent quality. "She lived a solitary existence in a large manor, dedicating herself to the intense study of forgotten relics and the concocting of all manner of potions and arcane spells. She was utterly and completely consumed by the art of spellcraft. She called herself the Lady of the Starlit Valley."

"My King, I am afraid I do not entirely understand the full weight of your implication," you said.

"What I am attempting to convey is this," Aragorn started, and you could see him choosing his words with care, as if they might wound. "Seeing you at the Great Hall of Feasts this noon startled me, for the resemblance between you and the Lady of the Starlit Valley was… uncanny, save for the ears. Hers were tapered, yours are not. Yet, in every other aspect, you are of her exact image. That was what I first found so curious about you, what stirred my attention and invited me to your station."

Your heart was thunder in your chest. You could recall him murmuring something about curiosity upon first meeting you.

"I… never knew her. My mother," you said. "She died shortly after I was born. My father all but refused to speak of it, his grief a palpable wall between us. I always simply assumed she was just ill, or..." You turned away from them, overwhelmed. "No. This simply cannot be the truth. I should know if I were Elvish, of all things! Surely such a thing would be... felt! Should it not be obvious?!"

"Tell us," Legolas began. "Might you have known, yet refused to see? Might you have always discarded it as something else? As standing perpetually at the edge of a secret? Never quite belonging?"

The pointed accuracy of his words frightened you. You had, in truth, always carried that inexplicable feeling… a subtle sense of being somehow out of sync with the simple rhythms of mortal life. Of wanting more, feeling more, seeing more than you should. Being… different.

"Do… not all mortals feel that way?" you asked, desperately. "A sense of... not entirely belonging? No? No. This is madness. Folly. It simply cannot be! I do not believe it. I refuse to!"

"Yet, my lady, the evidence is before us," Faramir said, and when you turned to look at him, his eyes were full of tenderness. "Heart-magic requires Elvish lineage. Not only did you wield it, but you wielded it unknowingly, instinctively. No pure mortal could have accomplished such a thing."

"Well, let us clarify: did you make the confections entirely on your own?" Aragorn asked.

"Yes," you affirmed. "I have baked these honey-stars many times before, but always with my father's help, and always using his recipe. But for the Jubilee, for you, my King…" You gasped as a vivid memory surfaced, sharp and bright. "I wanted them to be particularly special, a true offering of my best craft. And so… I decided to use a much older recipe. One my father had kept tucked away, rarely used. One that felt... right somehow."

"That older, more potent recipe, I imagine, belonged to the enigmatic Lady of the Valley," Aragorn stated with quiet certainty. "And you… it is my firm belief, based on all that we have learned, that you must be her direct progeny."

"Oh, Gods." Your head was swimming, the revelation cascading through you. "Is it really true, then? No... It cannot be... and yet... oh, it is the only thing that makes sense!" You pressed your hands to your face, trying to hold yourself together. "Please, tell me, my Lords: how do I stop this madness? How do I reverse this… heart-magic, as you call it, and free us all from the utter foolishness I have wrought upon this day?"

"It says here that the effects of this particular spell shall persist…" Aragorn read, "'until the original wish is fulfilled to its intended measure, the caster fully satisfied by its outcome'. Thus, the enchantment shall dissolve into utter, unambiguous refreshment.'"

"Satisfied?" you quoted, the word suddenly weighted with new meaning. "But my heart's desire has already been satisfied, in a manner of speaking. And it has caused nothing but utter chaos and confusion because it appears to have been satisfied so wholly!"

"But what, precisely, was it that you wished for?" Faramir asked. When you hesitated, he added, "please, my lady. I know you deemed it a burden. But a burden shared is a burden halved, and we would gladly halve it for you, many times over."

You worried your bottom lip with your teeth. Shame burned in your chest, hot and terrible.

"Tell us the truth of your heart," Aragorn encouraged. "Share with us the specific phrasing you used when you made your wish, as best you can possibly recall it. We can bear it. Indeed, we must."

You closed your eyes, the memory vivid and damning: the dawn ride, the nervous excitement bubbling within you, the honey-star melting on your tongue—tasting so rich and complex, coating your mouth with sweetness—only to have led to such unforeseen ruin and disorder.

"I wished this," you whispered, barely audible. "Exactly this. By my own craft, I wish to forge perfect delight. Sevenfold."

The silence that followed was deafening.

"Hm. 'Perfect delight'," Legolas mused. "That is... a rather curious choice of words. In Sindarin, there is a similar term: aegellas."

At the utterance of that single Elvish word, Faramir seemed to choke, his hand flying up to cup his throat. It was the first time you had ever seen him so utterly caught off-guard, so undone.

"What? What is it?" you asked quickly, alarmed, taking a step toward Faramir. "What does it mean?"

"Aegellas is... a word of layered resonance," Aragorn started, and you could hear his amusement. "It speaks not only of joy, but… of joy fulfilled, overflowing. The highest crest of sensation. When all restraint is loosened and delight becomes rapture."

Legolas could barely repress the smirk ghosting across his mouth, sharp and sly. "In the common tongue, I believe the closest equivalent term would be... orgasm."

Heat flooded your face, your neck, your entire body. You were certain you'd spontaneously combust right there in the dusty archives.

"Ah. Yes. There is a similar euphemism in Elythford, too," you admitted, flustered. It was the exact reason why you had been so incredibly reluctant to reveal the true nature of your foolish wish earlier. "But you must understand, it was never a serious petition! It was a joke! A private, silly pun that got away from me!"

"A joke," Aragorn echoed, one brow arched. The look in his eyes was deeply, terribly attentive. "Explain the thought. Precisely."

"The thought just… popped into my head, fully formed!" you rushed to explain, the words tumbling out. "I took a bite of the honey-star, and I thought, 'I hope these bring the kingdom perfect delight.' And then I… I giggled. Because the other meaning, the base meaning, struck me. It felt wicked and clever. So in that giddy, foolish moment, I sealed the thought. I made the pun my wish." You buried your face in your hands, the full absurdity crashing down. "It was a play on words. A bit of cheek. Not a… not a literal carnal mandate!"

"And yet," Legolas purred, "magic is a literalist. It tends to hear the deepest truth of a phrase, not its charming wrapper."

Faramir released a soft, measured exhale. "And… sevenfold," he repeated, the word a careful, husky exploration. "You wished for this delight to be… multiplied so precisely? Why?"

You nodded miserably. "It is a tradition in the valley," you explained. "To wish in sevens. For fortune."

"Fortune," murmured Aragorn. "A… potent fortune indeed. Though it seems to have manifested more as a… divine complication."

"So… to break this spell," you breathed, "I must cause… the aegellas..." The Elvish term felt foreign and yet perfectly fitted to your tongue, a sinful secret shared, much more palatable than confronting the truth with the bawdy, common word. "In anyone who ate a star?"

"Seven times," Aragorn confirmed. "The enchantment is not a malady. It is a servant. A rather single-minded servant. It perceives your wish as a command. Its every influence—the heightened senses, the… stirrings—is its attempt to arrange the circumstances for that command's fulfilment. It is, in its own arcane and terribly inconvenient way, trying to help you."

The implication crashed over you like a wave.

My shortbread biscuits are trying to aid me, you thought, feeling dizzy or perhaps delirious, or both. That is, in the task of having sex with the entire kingdom.

"A point of… technical clarification," Faramir interposed. He cleared his throat. "The enchantment specifies a number, but not… a distribution. Hypothetically, could its condition be deemed satisfied if the requisite measure were reached through the… sustained focus," he chose the words with painful care, "of a single participant?"

Aragorn's attention shifted like a lodestone turning toward true north. His gaze, a palpable weight, moved from Faramir's studied nonchalance to your face, mapping your reaction. "A pertinent question," the King rumbled. "But it hinges on intent. Maiden, when this wish formed—this clever, wicked pun—did it wear a face? Was there a specific heart, or hearts, you imagined gladdening?"

You shook your head, a vehement, desperate motion. "No single face," you insisted. "Just… a feeling. A vague, abstract warmth."

"Then the magic is distributive," Legolas concluded. His voice came from no particular direction, or from everywhere at once. "An invitation cast wide. Logic, and a certain poetic equity, would suggest the fulfilment be… shared."

"The mortal form has its limits," Aragorn added, his tone one of grim, practical wisdom that somehow made the subject more illicit. "To demand such a feat of endurance from one man alone would be… a labour bordering on impossible."

Legolas smirked. "Impossible for one Man, without a doubt," he said, tilting his head provocatively, drawing out the word Man with unmistakable emphasis and implication.

Your face burned. You could scarcely believe you were standing in the middle of the dusty, hallowed Royal Archives, alongside three of the most important dignitaries in all Middle-earth, while engaging in such an explicitly candid discussion regarding the logistics of male sexual endurance.

Faramir shot Legolas a withering look. "We truly need not probe any further into the often-unfathomable… proclivities… of the Elves, Woodland Prince. The theoretical point is made."

"Need not," Legolas agreed in a suggestive echo, his voice slipping and sliding around insinuation like a ribbon of liquid silk. "But whether one would not is an entirely different matter, a far wilder garden. Do you not find curiosity itself a form of desire?"

Faramir closed his eyes briefly, as if pained by a sudden, vivid thought. A ragged sigh escaped him. "Must you whisper so?"

"How so?" Legolas laughed, the sound bright and teasing. "Is the hearing of the Afterborn so acutely tuned? Or is it just your own, son of Denethor?"

"I shall not answer that," Faramir breathed, turning his face away. "And do not call me by that title. I would prefer most anything else."

"Would you?" Legolas inquired, tilting his head. The lamplight caught the pale gold of his hair. "Anything?"

Faramir seemed wary. "Legolas…"

"What, then, shall I call you?" Legolas asked. "The Prince of Ithilien? So formal. The Lord Steward? A stone of an office, not a name." He took one silent step closer, the scent of rain and ancient wood suffusing the air.

"Faramir tends to suffice," he replied, curtly.

"Indeed. It is a gentle name for a gentle man," Legolas mused. "A little poem in Sindarin, have you ever considered? Fara: sufficient, enough. Mîr: jewel. A modest treasure, your name implies of you." His lips curved. "Though modesty, I find, tends only to add to a jewel's charm."

Faramir's breath caught. The blush that had been fading returned, rising from the collar of his tunic to paint his cheeks and the tips of his ears a brilliant, transparent rose. In the dusty twilight, he glowed like a pretty pearl held to a flame.

"There," Legolas murmured, dropping back into that intimate whisper. "See? A jewel indeed. One that answers to heat with its own light."

Flustered beyond speech, Faramir seemed to search for solid ground. His gaze darted to Aragorn, who watched with an inscrutable, quiet amusement, then back to Legolas' unfazed demeanour. When he found his voice, it was a startlingly direct counter-thrust.

"If we are speaking of names and their meanings, then allow me, Legolas Thranduilion," Faramir began. "Laeg, for green. Golas, meaning a collection of leaves. A name for one perpetually in spring. Unmarked by the frosts that carve canyons into stone. Untouched by the long winters that teach endurance. A beautiful name, to be sure. Yet it speaks of a surface. Of something that… flutters on the breeze. Tell me, do you never yearn for a name that speaks not of how you appear, but of what has shaped you from within?"

"How do you mean?" Legolas asked.

"I mean, I would be called 'Faramir, brother to Boromir'. Not 'son of Denethor'. One remembers a bond. A loss. A love that weathered me, that left its grain in my heart. The other… merely denotes a source. I would rather be known for what I have cherished than for what I have sprung from."

The playful, predatory light in Legolas's eyes did not vanish, but it was transformed, deepened by a sudden, profound gravity. The Elf went preternaturally still with a riveted focus that made the space between them feel charged. 

"A hit," Legolas acknowledged. The ageless mask of amused grace softened at its edges, revealing the keen, ancient attention beneath. "A true one. 'Faramir, brother to Boromir'. I shall remember it. When the fullness of the title is required." He paused, letting the respectful silence linger, before a ghost of his earlier mischief returned, now tempered with something like fondness. "Though it is, I must note, a mouthful for casual conversation."

"I have heard," Faramir replied, "that the Firstborn are renowned for their… articulacy. That my mouthful would pose little challenge to one of your particular aptitude."

Aragorn, observing from his place of kingly detachment, slowly raised a brow, his lips pressing together as if to contain a sound.

"Who now," Legolas breathed, the word a velvet accusation, "is speaking of Elvish proclivities? You reprimand my whispers, then craft implications like a master bard. Aptitude, you say?" He let the word hang. "I shall choose to interpret that as… mere scholarly interest. For now."

It was Aragorn who broke the spell, though his intervention served only to underscore its potency. A low, quiet rumble of a chuckle escaped him, drawing all eyes. He had been a statue of weathered patience, his gaze tracking the exchange with a Ranger's perception for hidden trails and a King's understanding of shifting balances of power.

"A truce, I beg of you both," Aragorn said, his voice imbued with gentle authority. "Do not tease him so, Legolas. The hour is late, and our minds are already burdened with… unprecedented riddles." His gaze then shifted to Faramir, and his expression softened into one of familiar commiseration. "And you, my Lord Steward, must not let his needle find its mark. It is his favourite sport, to watch a worthy mind become beautifully entangled. An ancient habit, and one of which he is inordinately fond."

Faramir, taking a steadier breath, gave a curt nod of gratitude to his King. Legolas merely smiled, a bright, unrepentant thing, as if accepting the characterisation as a compliment.

And you, standing at the centre of this silent, electrifying exchange, felt the heat in your own cheeks mirrored by a strange, thrilling lurch deep within. This moment between them was not about you. And yet, in its way, it was all about you; about the wish that had plucked this taut string between them, making it hum with a latent, dangerous promise that shimmered in the very air you breathed.

"Oh, I wish I had never baked those cursed stars at all," you lamented.

"Careful," warned Legolas. "Your wishes tend to carry weight, as we have learned."

"There must be a way to undo it, surely?" you pleaded, desperate, drowning. "Or perhaps to reverse the spell entirely! What else does the book mention? Does it offer any other potential solutions?"

Aragorn's finger traced a series of lines with careful deliberation. "There are several methods which may be explored," he said, offering hope. "But each carries a cost," he continued, crushing it.

"A cost?" you asked. "Tell me. I shall pay it."

"Unmaking the spell may be achieved through invoking Symmetry of the Heart," Legolas read. "'Should the wish-caster prove unable to accomplish their heart's desire, its veriest opposite will suffice: the heart's deepest woe.'"

"Meaning," continued Aragorn, gentle but unyielding, "that whatever should wound you most deeply must somehow come to pass in order for the wish to be released."

Faramir's eyes searched yours, seeing too much. "What is the sorrow your heart could not bear to witness?"

You swallowed hard, the answer rising immediately, bringing with it an agonising pang in your chest.

"My father," you whispered, your hand instinctively flying to cover your mouth, as if to physically block the terrible words from escaping. "His failing health. The mere thought of losing him to his illness prematurely—" You shook your head fiercely, violently, for the thought was poison in your mind, and you would not entertain it. "No. I could not bear to name it, let alone survive it. Please. What else? There must be something else."

"There is another method detailed here. Instead of directly unmaking the spell itself, one may attempt to unmake the bid, by invoking Symmetry of the Wish," Aragorn read, his face etched with dark, grave lines. "It is described as a more personal, contextual approach. Whatever was specifically wished for must have its exact inverse brought to vivid life. Then, the wish-caster would be allowed to make a single-word amendment to the construction of their original bid."

"The opposite of perfect delight..." you murmured, reeling with the potential implications, your mind spinning dark scenarios. "What would be its dark reflection? Perfect sorrow, perhaps? Devastation?"

"Your original wish was clearly meant to evince feelings of intense pleasure and unadulterated joy," said Faramir. "Therefore, its direct reflection may unfortunately be found in the grimmest depths of betrayal. Soul-crushing ruin, done unto those afflicted, by your hand, in any way you deem fit."

"It demands that I become a weapon," you gritted out, horror rising like bile. "And strike at those who I originally desired to... soothe? All for a mere, single-word change in my original wish? How could that be at all appealing?"

"The appeal lies in its repeatable nature," Legolas explained with academic detachment that somehow made it worse. "Through multiple, consecutive invocations of the Symmetry of the Wish, the original bid may take on a new, wildly different shape, without need for the re-ingesting or remaking of the honey-stars. The book speaks of casters in the past who were able to cheat the system in this manner, though it is of little help to us now."

"Even still," you protested, "should the Symmetry of the Wish have helped in its one-word change: I would not harm anyone who is innocent. I simply cannot!"

"There is one final way mentioned within these pages: an emergency protocol, as it were," Aragorn said heavily. "A complete and irreversible annulment of any heart-magic spell."

"That is perfect!" you exclaimed, grasping at the lifeline. "It is exactly what I seek. How goes the protocol?"

Aragorn exhaled, and the sound was full of reluctance. "It requires a significant sacrifice. A physical severing of the very hand that wrought the enchantment without foreseeing the ultimate end. A permanent punishment for wielding such potent forces with what might be perceived as a certain... lightness."

The words hit you like a physical blow. Give up your hand? The very tool that allowed you to earn your modest living? That allowed you to create, to bake, to craft beauty from simple ingredients? Could you truly offer up one half of what permitted you to indulge in your cherished craft?

"Severing the power at its root," hummed Legolas. "There is poetry in it. But also much cruelty."

Poetry and cruelty, you thought. Legolas was right. And in that moment, a quiet resolve settled over you: solid, unwavering, terrifying in its clarity. The difficult decision had been made in your mind already.

Better your pain than theirs. Better your sacrifice than their suffering.

"An annulment, then," you said, "I will do it. I will willingly perform the necessary sacrifice. If it spares you all from this... affliction, and any others. If it unravels the spell without... disgrace."

"I beg your pardon? That cannot be asked of you!" insisted Faramir, lunging forward to snatch at your wrist. His grip was warm, desperate, his thumb pressed against your racing pulse.

"And yet," you said, pulling free from his hold with effort, trying to will your bottom lip into staying its pathetic tremor, "it is the only way."

"It is not."

Aragorn gripped your shoulder, turning you to face him fully. He stared down at you with a thrilling intensity, so close you could see the flecks of grey in his beard and threaded through his dark hair, could feel the heat radiating from his body.

"You could, in theory, still choose to fulfil your wish," Aragorn suggested. "To… realise, shall we say… that which you so zealously entertained in your mind on your way to Minas Tirith."

You flinched at his words, the mere suggestion rending you on the spot. "What?! You truly mean—to bring the spell to its intended completion? To—to somehow—evince this aegellas... in seven men?! That thought is untenable, my King! Utterly… lewd!"

You did not mention the small, treacherous part of your mind that whispered with strange, undeniable allure that the thought tempted you. Severely. Ceaselessly. Teasing you with forbidden fascination, with dark promise, with the kind of desire that made your skin feel too tight and your blood run hot.

"I daresay you would find a rather enthusiastic collection of at least seven admirers most willing to volunteer," simpered Legolas.

For a moment, your brain simply ceased functioning, Legolas' words too indecent and yet everything you wanted to hear simultaneously. You spluttered, trying to find the right words, any words that didn't sound like confession or capitulation.

"But—! Even so—it would not be a true willingness!" you exclaimed, grasping desperately at rationality. "The spell is clearly clouding people's minds, altering their natural inclinations, as you three have described. It would be coercion! I could not do it!"

"And yet," Faramir began, his voice rising with genuine disbelief, and perhaps a touch of hurt, "you would consider maiming yourself? Permanently?"

"Mine alone would be the pain, as is rightful," you said stubbornly, lifting your chin in a parody of courage.

"Let us not be so hasty in our decision-making," said Aragorn. "There is still a measure of time yet to fully explore all potential avenues, before making a final choice. First, we must ascertain the full scope of the spell's spread. Whom else do you recall offering a honey-star?"

You winced, the memory of your eager generosity now feeling perverse, dangerous. "Too many. Rohirrim. Courtiers. And that is not to mention how I simply left my basket unattended on the banquet table for any and all to try once I left my station!"

The horror of it all crashed over you anew. Just how many people had you inadvertently ensnared?

"We must deal with that," Faramir noted. "Ostensibly, it is still there. Unwitting members of the court may be indulging as we speak." He sighed, the sound rough with tension. "Do you recall serving any others? Any in particular who stood out? Or perhaps had more than one?"

Your mind flashed to a sudden stand-out memory. "Oh! Yes! I distinctly remember serving a cute hobbit, for he asked to take some extra—"

"Cute?!" cried a voice from behind one of the towering shelves, indignant and mortified in equal measure.

Wide-eyed, flushing crimson from his curls to his collar, that very same hobbit you'd just mentioned tumbled into view, having seemingly tripped over a stray roll of parchment while attempting to peer through the gaps left by pulled books in one of the tallest shelves.

Startled, you gasped, hand flying to your chest. "How long have you been lurking there?!" you exclaimed.

"Not lurking, I swear! And not long! Honest!" He swallowed hard, looking queasy and flustered. "Blast and botheration, I'm all left-feet in these fancy court shoes. I'm much better at hidin' when I'm barefoot!"

Despite yourself—despite everything, really—a startled laugh bubbled up in your throat, prompted by the absurdity of the situation.

Aragorn laughed too, warm and genuine. "Samwise Gamgee," he said fondly, crossing to pull the hobbit to his feet. "You are a long way from the music and merrymaking, dear friend of mine."

You remembered meeting Samwise earlier in the afternoon, sometime between your encounters with Aragorn and Faramir. He had been so cordial and sweet, earnest in conversation, sincere in his effusive praising of your confections. Oh, if only you had possessed the knowledge then that you did now, you would have undoubtedly warned the poor hobbit of the potential... side effects.

"I was seeking quiet," Sam replied, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "And cooler air. It's dreadfully stiflin' in the halls. Of course, now I find you all tucked away in here, muttering most mysteriously about magical biscuits and... bodily satisfaction!" he giggled nervously.

"We fear it is no laughing matter, Master Gamgee," said Legolas, though not unkindly.

Sam let out a low whistle. "Well, then... there may be a bit of a dilemma, since I believe I've already had..." He counted on his fingers. "Uh, five or six of those cookies? Maybe more? Ate one while I was eavesdrop—er, accidentally listening—to be honest."

"And..." you started, attempting casualness to avoid causing alarm, "how exactly do you feel at this present moment, Samwise?"

"Warm," Sam replied. "Too warm. Thought it was all the dancing, or the wine. But..." He bit his lip. "Perhaps not."

"You seem to possess a remarkable knack for stumbling directly into the heart of adventure, Sam," remarked Aragorn.

Sam grinned, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. "Trouble, your majesty. I don't sniff it out, it finds me." Suddenly, his eyes widened in horrified recollection, and he gasped. "Merry and Pippin! Oh, dear me!"

"What is it?" Faramir asked, looking protective.

"It's just... I gave those rascals an entire bag of those biscuits!" Sam started to pace back and forth. "Told 'em quite sternly to save them for tomorrow's elevenses, but, well, you know them! I'd wager they've polished off the whole blessed lot already!"

"Oh, I have ruined everything!" you exclaimed, a fresh wash of shame and dread overtaking you, "I have turned a day of joy into a nightmare, creating unwitting puppets of my own selfish desire!"

Sam frowned. "Hey, now, miss—"

"How can any of you bear to look at me?" you cried, deeply embarrassed. "I am so terribly sorry. I was truly foolish to think I could have naturally caught the eye of such fair and noble folk." The realisation cut deeper than any physical blade could. "I am not so charming, or beautiful, or beguiling, after all. Without this wretched poison, none of you—"

"Áva quetë! Do not speak such despairing words!" Aragorn called out. "You must not submit to these thoughts, for the truest poison is the guilt which threatens to consume you."

"We will find a way to break the spell," Faramir said, "whether by… fulfilling it…" He cleared his throat. "Or finding another path. You have newfound friends here, in these walls."

Legolas nodded in agreement. "And outside of them. Your sorrow is heavy, and true, but your heart is brighter still. There may yet be another, less drastic way to break the spell. We have only the knowledge provided by the first volume in the series. I shall continue to search for any further volumes."

"And I shall retrieve the basket containing the rest of the honey-stars, to ensure no more of the court become afflicted," Faramir declared, seemingly galvanised by Legolas' words and ready to put further plans into action. "While I am there, I shall attempt to retrieve Merry and Pippin."

"Good. And I," Aragorn started, "shall personally guide you to the royal bedchambers." He promptly blushed a rather fetching shade of crimson as the accidental suggestiveness of his words hit the air.

Sam coughed loudly into his fist, an action which prompted Aragorn to shoot him a look that could have stilled a charging boar at fifty paces.

"Is… that so, my King?" you asked. "Your... personal... chambers?"

"Aye, for further counsel, I mean!" Aragorn clarified. "For a sacrifice as large as the one you are considering ought to be made after much thoughtful discussion, and only after thoroughly exploring every conceivable alternative option."

"Too right! And I will come with you both!" Sam added brightly, stepping forward with determined cheerfulness. "Because... well, 'cause I want to! Someone's got to keep things sensible-like. And I'm just the hobbit for it!"

It was a comforting thought. Or, it would have been, had your most stalwart chaperone not already consumed enough enchanted shortbread to seduce a stone troll.