Chapter Text
The rain had begun before noon, a soft patter that slowly gathered strength until it pressed on the world like a heavy hand. By late afternoon, it was falling in sheets, blurring the distant hills and turning the East Road into a mess of mud and sluggish puddles. The air was cold enough to seep beneath cloaks and through layers of wool.
Elrohir shifted in the saddle, jaw tight. The damp had worked its way into his bones, settling with a familiar ache that he never admitted aloud. Storms always did this to him. The wind carried a chill that seemed to scout him out with unerring precision, and the sky felt too heavy, too close. Even after so many winters spent on the road, he never warmed to weather like this.
A few paces behind him, Legolas rode with his hood thrown back despite the downpour. Rain streamed through his hair and along the delicate lines of his face, but he seemed completely taken by the sight before them. Each flash of distant lantern light drew his gaze forward again. Bree was only a short way ahead.
Elrohir could not help a small, rueful smile. "Most would be cursing this storm by now," he said, raising his voice over the rain.
Legolas blinked, drops clinging to his lashes before running down his cheeks. "It is only water," he replied with unfeigned sincerity. "And it smells different here. I did not know rain could smell different from forest to forest."
Elrohir shook his head. "Everything smells different once you leave Greenwood. You will notice more of it as we go."
Legolas turned toward the lights again. Warm glows shimmered behind the curtain of rain, marking the cluster of inns and houses beyond Bree’s outer hedge. "So that is Bree," he murmured, his voice quiet with awe. "I have never seen anything like it."
"Then prepare yourself," Elrohir said. "It is louder than it looks, and far less polite than Imladris. But it has good roofs and fires that actually burn." He eased his horse forward, eager for warmth.
A peal of thunder rolled across the sky. Legolas started slightly, not in fear but in surprise, then tilted his head as if listening to something curious rather than threatening. Elrohir watched him for a moment. Even soaked to the skin, even exhausted from days of travel, he carried a kind of lightness that the storm could not dim.
Something in that expression struck Elrohir with quiet force. The wide-eyed curiosity, the small spark of wonder, the way the world still moved him even in the middle of a downpour. It softened him in ways he never admitted aloud. There were moments, like this one, when Elrohir forgot the cold entirely and could only see how beautiful his husband was. Not for any courtly grace or princely bearing, but for the bright, unguarded youthfulness that storms and hardship had never taken from him.
Elrohir felt a familiar tug of fondness, quiet but insistent.
"Come on," he said. "Before this storm finds new ways to torment me."
Legolas laughed under his breath and guided his horse up beside him. Together they rode toward the gate, rain drumming against cloak and saddle, the lights of Bree growing warmer and clearer through the grey curtain of evening.
They slowed as the outer hedge of Bree came into view, its gate a dim outline behind the curtain of rain. Lanterns along the posts flickered in the wind, their light shimmering on puddles that stretched across the path. Before they reached it, Elrohir lifted a hand and brought his horse to a stop.
He dismounted with practiced fluidity, boots sinking into the soft, waterlogged earth. Legolas followed soon after, landing lightly despite the mud. Both horses tossed their heads, rain dripping from their manes.
Elrohir stepped close and reached for Legolas’s hood. The soaked fabric clung stubbornly as he drew it up over Legolas’s head.
"Keep this on," he murmured. "We should be cautious here. Many strangers pass through Bree."
Legolas’s brows knit slightly. "Are elves not welcome?"
"They are," Elrohir answered. "But our ears and our faces tend to draw attention. Not all of it welcome. Better to pass quietly when we can."
Legolas studied him through the falling rain, droplets clinging to his lashes. There was trust there, open and unguarded, and something in Elrohir eased at the sight. He reached up almost without thinking and brushed a strand of wet hair from Legolas’s cheek. His fingers lingered.
The storm faded to a distant sound as he leaned in.
Elrohir kissed him softly at first, the touch warm against the cold rain. Legolas breathed in sharply, and his hands came up to rest lightly against Elrohir’s cloak. The kiss deepened just enough to warm them both, rain slipping down their faces, the world narrowing to the gentle pressure of lips and the quiet, steady closeness between them.
When Elrohir finally drew back, he rested his forehead briefly against Legolas’s, breath mingling with the chill air.
"We should go," he said quietly.
Legolas’s smile was small and luminous beneath the shadow of his hood. He nodded, gathering his reins once more.
They began walking toward the gate, leading their horses through the mud. Lanterns glowed brighter with each step.
A few paces from the entrance, Legolas spoke softly. "Elrohir...my Westron is still not very good."
"You will be fine," Elrohir said. "Confidence does more than perfect words. But leave the gatekeeper to me. Some of them can be difficult."
Legolas lifted a brow. "Difficult?"
Elrohir exhaled with the weary patience of someone recalling a long-suffering memory. "Once, Elladan and I were turned away entirely. Suspicious behavior, he said. Our crime was looking tired at the wrong hour."
Legolas’s lips twitched. "Truly? That is all?"
"Apparently, we were a grave threat to Bree’s peace," Elrohir said. "Two exhausted elves, clearly up to no good."
Legolas bit back a laugh. "I suppose fatigue can be very menacing."
"It can," Elrohir said with a straight face. "Especially ours. Which is why I will speak first tonight. I would prefer not to be accused of plotting mischief simply for standing in the rain."
Legolas finally let a soft laugh escape and tugged his hood lower, the rain drumming steadily as Bree’s wooden gate rose before them, lantern light gleaming across the wet ground.
The gate loomed high above them, its timbers dark with rain, water seeping through every seam. A lantern swung from a crooked iron hook, its glow trembling in the wind. Elrohir halted their horses before the heavy door and raised his voice.
A moment later, a small shutter clattered open. Two wary eyes stared out at them as if expecting brigands instead of travelers.
"What business have you here?" the gatekeeper snapped, sounding offended simply by their presence.
Elrohir stepped forward, rain dripping from his hood and cloak. "We are travelers, nothing more. Seeking shelter for the night. A dry roof and a warm fire. The Prancing Pony, if space allows."
The man grunted, unimpressed. His gaze darted to Legolas, lingering far longer than decorum ought to permit. Legolas shifted, uncertain. Elrohir did not shift; he narrowed his eyes, very slightly.
The gatekeeper leaned even closer, nose almost pressed to the wood. "Why do you glow like that?" he demanded. "Both of you. Like foxfire in a storm."
Legolas’s brows rose. Elrohir’s jaw ticked.
"We are elves," Elrohir answered, slow and controlled. "That is all. We pass westward and seek only rest."
The man sniffed loudly. "Elves bring nothing but trouble and ill tidings, so they say."
A flicker of irritation crossed Elrohir’s face. Before he could speak, Legolas stepped forward, lowering his hood just enough to let the lantern catch his face. Rain slid down the curve of his cheek, bright against skin that truly did seem to give off a soft light of its own.
He spoke with careful precision, the unfamiliar Westron shaping gently on his tongue. "We do not bring trouble. Only tired feet. And we would like to rest, please."
The transformation was instant.
The gatekeeper’s stern expression faltered, confusion replacing suspicion. He stared at Legolas not with fear but with the awkward uncertainty of a man confronted with something both beautiful and entirely outside his experience.
"Well," he muttered, clearing his throat. "You...you do not seem dangerous. Only soaked. Very soaked."
Legolas offered a small, hopeful smile. It softened even the rain-heavy air around them.
"Aye, well...all right," the man finally conceded. "Go on then." The shutter slammed shut, and the gate creaked open with a groan of wet hinges. "Inn is straight ahead. Keep to the lamps. And mind the mud."
Elrohir inclined his head curtly and led the horses through. Legolas followed close behind, relief warming his features beneath the falling rain.
Inside the hedge, Bree’s lanterns glowed in soft, wavering pools along the muddy lane. Smoke rose from chimneys. Warm light spilled from windows. The air smelled of wet earth, hearthfires, and the faint promise of something cooking.
Legolas looked around with quiet awe. Elrohir glanced sideways at him and felt a smile tug at his lips.
Tonight, at least, they would have a warm roof.
They followed the muddy lane toward the stable yard beside the Prancing Pony, the sound of rain giving way to the muffled clatter of hooves on packed earth. Warm lanterns glowed beneath the stable roof, smoke rising from somewhere deeper inside.
A stableman hurried out as they approached, tugging his cap lower against the rain. His eyes widened a bit at the sight of two cloaked figures leading horses that were far too fine for most travelers. But he held his composure well enough.
"Evenin’," he said, a little breathless. "Stalls are open. I can put your horses up if that suits you."
Elrohir stepped forward, handing over his reins, then Legolas’s. "They have ridden far," he said. "Ensure they are dried, fed, and warm. They deserve it."
The man nodded eagerly, already half in love with the horses. "Aye, sir. I’ll treat them like royalty."
Elrohir reached into his cloak and pressed a small cluster of silver coins into the stableman’s palm. The man stared at them, stunned.
"Sir, this is far more than—"
"I know," Elrohir said calmly. "It is meant to be."
The stableman’s spine straightened immediately. "Then rest easy. They’ll be tended better than my own supper."
Legolas watched with soft amusement, the shadow of his hood doing little to hide it. As they stepped away from the stall door and back into the thin drizzle, he leaned closer, brushing their shoulders together beneath the rain.
"You were surprisingly generous, husband," he murmured, voice lilting with a hint of mischief.
Elrohir gave a tired exhale that wavered between a sigh and a laugh. "We have more than enough. Thanks to your father’s generosity."
Legolas’s smile deepened. "He meant well."
Elrohir shot him a look. "He ambushed us with a chest. A literal chest. I thought he was bringing farewell wine. Instead, he marched up with a box the size of a small wardrobe and dropped it at my feet. I am fairly certain it dented the stones."
Legolas’s shoulders shook with quiet laughter. "He did."
"I told him we did not need more," Elrohir went on, lowering his voice as though Thranduil might be lurking behind a rain barrel, "and he stared at me as if I had insulted his entire bloodline. Then he informed me that his son would have the finest of everything and threatened to personally follow us if I dared refuse him again."
Legolas covered a smile with the shadow of his hood. "He often means these threats."
"I suspected as much," Elrohir muttered. "His expression suggested I had dishonored half the Greenwood."
"You had," Legolas replied, face perfectly solemn despite the glimmer in his eyes. He tilted his chin ever so slightly. "I am Greenwood’s Prince, after all."
Elrohir gave him a look of exaggerated suffering. Legolas failed to hold back a laugh, soft and bright.
Elrohir huffed, but the sound was full of affection. "Your father’s pride is a fragile thing."
"It is," Legolas agreed, voice warm. "But his heart is not."
Elrohir’s expression eased. Rain dripped from his lashes as he took a moment to look at Legolas, the lanternlight catching on the softness of his features. Even tired, even soaked, Legolas carried an unguarded brightness that steadied him more than the promise of any fire inside the inn.
"Come," Elrohir said, brushing his fingers lightly against the small of Legolas’s back. "Inside. Before you begin praising the rain again."
Legolas’s eyes brightened with a smile he tried and failed to hide, the expression warming the dim space between them.
They crossed the small courtyard, lanterns flickering above like restless fireflies, the warm golden spill of light from the Prancing Pony’s windows cutting through the cold gloom. Voices and laughter hummed through the thick wooden walls, carrying the promise of warmth, food, and a dry place to rest.
The warmth of the Prancing Pony washed over them the moment they stepped inside. Firelight flickered across low-beamed ceilings, casting golden reflections on polished tankards and damp cloaks hung to dry. Conversations dipped for a heartbeat as patrons took in the sight of two strangers crossing the threshold, rain-soaked and gleaming faintly in the lamplight.
Elrohir did not slow. He touched the small of Legolas’s back in a subtle guiding gesture and made for the counter, ignoring the stares. He had been in Bree many times before. The curiosity of Men did not interest him.
Legolas, however, could not help looking.
Elrohir paused only when the absence of Legolas at his side became unmistakable. He turned and found him standing stock-still, gaze caught on something across the room. Elrohir followed it and felt his stomach sink.
A table of dwarves. Of all things.
He exhaled a long, silent groan. Given who Legolas’s father was, this had the potential to become the kind of diplomatic incident bards would later exaggerate into a tragedy.
“Stop staring,” he murmured, voice barely audible beneath the hum of the inn. “Those dwarves are from the remnants of Moria. The last thing we need is them wondering why a fair-faced stranger is studying them.”
Legolas did not budge. His eyes were wide, brightened by that quiet inner glow he carried, his wonder impossible to hide. “I have never seen dwarves,” he whispered. “Not so close. My father never allowed them passage through the Greenwood.”
Elrohir shut his eyes for a beat, gathering patience the Valar surely never intended him to have. “Do not let any dwarf hear you say that,” he muttered. “And for the love of peace, keep your hood low. They cannot know who you are.”
Legolas blinked, baffled. “Why?”
Elrohir angled his body subtly, shielding him from the dwarves’ line of sight. “Because the Sindar have never forgiven the dwarves for Doriath,” he said quietly. “For the murder of Elu Thingol. That wound is older than the age of most mountains. And your father…” He hesitated, searching for a polite word and settling for the truth. “Your father is famous for his hatred of dwarves. Infamous, even. There are bards that know his opinions by heart.”
Legolas considered this, brows knitting. “Do you hate them?”
“No,” Elrohir replied without hesitation.
Legolas looked at him, earnest and unguarded. “But they killed your ancestor.”
“That was Ages ago,” Elrohir said. “Long before even my father’s parents drew breath. Imladris does not inherit grudges.”
Legolas lifted his chin slightly, a small spark of resolve lighting his face. “Then just because my father hates them does not mean I must.”
Elrohir let out a breathy, incredulous laugh. “You truly wish to test the limits of your father’s temper.”
Legolas’s lips twitched. “Someone should.”
And then, inevitably, his gaze drifted back to the dwarves again, full of unfiltered fascination. “They look so strong,” he murmured. “And proud. Their voices are like stone. Like mountains that walk.”
Elrohir stared at him in disbelief. “Please stop admiring them.”
“But it is true.”
“Elbereth preserve me,” Elrohir muttered, rubbing his brow. “If Thranduil ever hears you say that, he will send me to the dungeons for corrupting you.”
Legolas finally let out a soft, stifled laugh, eyes bright beneath the shadows of his hood. Elrohir tugged gently at his sleeve before either dwarves or fate decided to complicate the moment further, guiding him toward the counter with the air of someone narrowly avoiding disaster.
They reached the counter, stepping into a brighter pool of lanternlight. Behind it stood a stocky man with a kind, weather-worn face and a chestnut-colored beard so full it could have had its own name. He straightened the moment he saw them, eyes bright with curiosity rather than suspicion.
“Well now,” he said, puffing out his chest as if welcoming royalty. “Good evening to you, gentlemen. Welcome to the Prancing Pony. Barnabas Butterbur at your service. Food, drink, a room…or all three?”
His smile widened. “Ale’s fresh tonight, if you’re wanting to warm yourselves.”
Legolas instantly made a subtle but unmistakable face. His nose wrinkled as if someone had waved a sour onion beneath it.
Barnabas let out a soft, good-natured chuckle. “Not fond of ale, I take it. No trouble. Travelers come with all kinds of tastes.”
Legolas opened his mouth, clearly unsure how to respond, but Elrohir stepped in with a smoothness that suggested long practice.
“He prefers drinks that do not smell like they have been aged in a horse trough,” Elrohir said, entirely straight-faced.
Legolas whipped his head toward him, scandalized. “I did not say that!”
“No,” Elrohir murmured, eyes dancing, “but you thought it with great intensity.”
Barnabas laughed harder, slapping the counter. “Ah, I like you two already. A pair of fine travelers with good taste and better humor.”
He leaned forward slightly. “We have wine, if your companion would prefer something gentler. Not the fancy vintages, but a decent red. And a sweeter white, too, if that’s his liking.”
Legolas’s expression softened, cautious curiosity settling over the last of his embarrassment. “Wine would be welcome,” he said quietly.
Elrohir folded his arms, the gesture carrying a hint of fond smugness. “Your sweetest bottle, if you have one.”
Legolas gave him a narrow-eyed look, the slightest tilt of his head shifting his hood back a little. The lanternlight touched his features more fully.
Barnabas’s breath caught. For a moment, he simply stared. “Bless me,” he murmured. “I have seen the fair folk in my years, but I cannot recall anyone quite as fair as you.”
Legolas’s eyes widened in surprise, and color rose faintly to his cheeks.
Elrohir reached out to pull the hood back into place. The motion was calm and protective, not abrupt. “We would prefer to remain unnoticed,” he said.
Barnabas straightened and nodded with quiet understanding. “Of course. That will be respected.”
He turned to Elrohir with a gentler smile. “And a drink for you, sir. Ale, perhaps?”
“Ale would be appreciated,” Elrohir replied.
“Well, you’re in luck,” Barnabas said. “Stew’s still warm, bread’s still soft, and I can have your supper brought to a quiet corner. Folk will stare, so better to give you a comfortable spot to stare from.”
He gestured toward a quiet alcove near the wall, wrapped in shadow and lit by a single golden lantern.
Elrohir nodded in approval. Legolas dipped his head in a polite bow before following Elrohir away from the counter.
When they were out of earshot, Legolas leaned closer and muttered, “You are insufferable.”
“I know,” Elrohir replied calmly. “It is part of my charm.”
Legolas tried to glare again, but the warmth in his eyes betrayed him. The faintest smile tugged at his mouth.
They crossed the common room toward the alcove Barnabas had pointed out. It was tucked into a quiet corner, half sheltered by a timber beam and lit by a single warm lantern. The light pooled softly across the table, making the space feel almost separate from the rest of the inn.
Elrohir reached the table first. He pulled out a chair with an easy, practiced motion and waited. When Legolas sat, Elrohir pushed the chair in gently, careful not to startle the creaking floorboards.
Legolas looked up at him with a small, fond smile that warmed more than the lantern.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
Elrohir took the seat across from him. The steady warmth of the alcove finally eased the tension from his shoulders. Legolas sat very still for a heartbeat, taking everything in, eyes reflecting the shifting lanternlight. Then he looked around the room again, his expression thoughtful and open.
“I have never been surrounded by so many people who are not elves,” he said quietly. “It feels strange. And…interesting.”
His gaze traced the movements of the patrons. He did not stare openly, but his curiosity was unmistakable. Human laughter. The scrape of tankards. The clatter of boots. The rumble of low, deep voices.
It was the last sound that drew him again.
He looked toward the dwarves.
Elrohir watched the moment Legolas’s attention drifted. Before the longing curiosity could turn into action, he reached across the table and gently touched Legolas’s chin, guiding his face back toward him.
“No,” he said quietly. “I know what you are thinking. Do not.”
Legolas’s mouth twitched. “You do not know what I am thinking.”
“I know exactly what you are thinking,” Elrohir replied.
Legolas leaned forward a little, lowering his voice with a quiet, playful glint in his eyes. “Would you still love me if I befriended a dwarf?” The question was clearly a tease, delivered with soft mischief rather than true worry.
Elrohir stared at him for a long second. The question itself was ridiculous, yet the tone was familiar. Legolas often asked small, strange things like this, and Elrohir had long ago grown used to the way his husband’s mind worked.
He let out a slow breath, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Of course I would still love you.”
Legolas brightened, pleased with the answer even though he had known it.
Elrohir continued, his voice dropping into something wry and dry. “Your father, however, would be furious. And he would find a way to make it my fault.”
Legolas’s lips curved in quiet amusement. “That does sound like him.”
Elrohir gave him a look that lay somewhere between affection and resignation. “Do not tempt fate. Not tonight.”
Legolas reached across the table and lightly brushed his fingers against Elrohir’s hand. The touch was small but full of warmth, both reassurance and affection. Lanternlight softened the edges of his smile.
“I only asked,” he said softly.
Elrohir met his eyes, held them for a quiet moment, then gave his hand a gentle squeeze before letting go. “And I answered. Now stay with me. No wandering thoughts toward dwarves.”
Legolas tried very hard not to smile, but the effort failed at once. Warmth brightened his eyes as he settled back in his chair, entirely unable to hide the fondness that bloomed there.
A young maid approached their table a few minutes later, balancing a wooden tray with steady hands. She lowered it onto the table with a quiet nod.
“Here you are, sirs. Stew, fresh bread, berry tart, wine, and ale. If you need anything else, only call.”
She slipped away again, leaving the warmth of the food behind her.
Legolas leaned forward, eyes widening in quiet wonder. The dishes were simple, generously served, and fragrant with spices he did not recognize. Mortal food was still new to him, and his curiosity was clear in every small movement.
He examined the stew first, tilting his head slightly. Then the bread, warm enough that steam drifted from the torn crust. Last, he regarded the small berry tart, studying it with the reverence of someone considering a rare discovery.
Elrohir watched him over the rim of his ale, amusement softening his features.
Legolas lifted the tart, sniffed it, and blinked. “It smells sweet.”
“It is dessert,” Elrohir replied. “You will like it.”
Legolas took a cautious bite. The sweetness bloomed on his tongue, and his eyes widened. “It is delicious.”
Elrohir hid a smile behind his cup and took a long drink, savoring the warmth of the ale.
Legolas, delighted, took another bite, larger this time.
“Leave me some,” Elrohir said, tapping the tart with the end of his fork.
Legolas met his gaze with innocent mischief. Without looking away, he placed the entire remaining piece into his mouth.
Elrohir set his cup down slowly. “So this is the challenge you chose tonight.”
Legolas hummed, eyes bright with victory as he chewed.
Elrohir leaned back, but affection softened every line of his face. “You traveled through rain and mud for hours, and you wage war over dessert, my heart.”
Legolas swallowed the last of the tart and slowly licked the berry juice from his fingers. He kept his gaze on Elrohir, teasing, the hint of a smile touching his mouth.
Elrohir held his stare for a long moment, his voice low when he finally spoke. “If you intend to tempt me, you could at least left me a bite to enjoy first.”
Legolas’s smile deepened, warm and playful. “You should have taken it sooner.”
Elrohir let out a soft breath that was not quite a laugh. “I was occupied,” he said quietly. “Watching you.”
Legolas blinked at him, the teasing slipping from his eyes and leaving something quieter in its wake. A hint of color rose along his cheekbones, and a small dimple appeared at the corner of his mouth, the one that surfaced only when he was genuinely caught off guard. He looked down for a moment, as if the table were suddenly very interesting.
Elrohir watched him with a warmth that softened his entire expression. His voice dropped to something meant for Legolas alone. “The Noldor have many songs for the kind of beauty you carry,” he said. “It is the sort that brightens a room without trying.”
Legolas let out a soft breath, half embarrassment, half disbelief. “You sound like someone reciting poetry,” he murmured, trying to tease, though the pink deepening in his cheeks gave him away.
Elrohir held his gaze, steady and sure. “I speak plainly. You must know how striking you are.”
Legolas tried to deflect again. “You exaggerate.”
“I never exaggerate about you,” Elrohir said. “Surely you see it, if only a little.”
Legolas’s fingers curled lightly around the stem of his wine cup. He looked up slowly, eyes warm and shy at once. “It feels different when you say it,” he confessed. “Different, and real.”
Elrohir’s breath eased out, gentle and full of affection. The lanternlight caught the soft glow along Legolas’s cheeks, the faint curve of his smile, the openness he offered only to him.
Legolas glanced down again, unable to hide the small, glowing smile that returned to his lips. It was the kind of smile that made Elrohir feel the entire long road had been worth it. Every cold mile, every struggle against shadow, every moment spent pushing back against prejudice and fear, all of it seemed a small price for this one quiet light before him.
They ate slowly, the warmth of the stew easing the last chill from their bones. Legolas tasted everything with quiet curiosity, pausing often to glance at Elrohir as though sharing each discovery with him. Elrohir watched him with a soft, steady fondness, taking his own time with his ale.
From time to time, their eyes met. Sometimes Legolas’s gaze lingered shyly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Sometimes Elrohir looked up first, unable to keep the warmth from his expression. Each glance felt like a secret exchanged, gentle and unspoken.
The candle between them burned low. The murmur of the inn softened into a distant hum. In their little alcove, it felt as though the world had narrowed to the glow of lanternlight, the quiet clink of dishes, and the warmth of the person sitting across the table.
By the time the last crumbs of bread were gone, there was a soft ease in Legolas’s shoulders that had not been there when they arrived. Elrohir drained the rest of his ale, eyes never far from him.
Legolas brushed his fingers along the rim of his cup, then looked up one more time. The shy, luminous smile returned, small and bright.
Elrohir felt the warmth of it settle deep in his chest. He then set his empty cup aside and regarded Legolas across the small table.
“If you keep looking at me like that,” he said quietly, “I might lose my restraint entirely and ravish you tonight, my heart.”
Legolas’s breath caught, then softened into a quiet, delighted laugh. He rested his chin lightly on his hand, eyes warm and luminous.
“Good,” he murmured. “Because I do not feel like doing any of the work, my dear husband.”
Elrohir stared at him for a long, heated moment, surprise flickering into amusement. “Is that so?”
Legolas’s smile deepened, slow and teasing. “Quite so.”
Elrohir leaned in slightly, voice lowering. “You make dangerous requests when you are warm and full and smiling at me like that.”
Legolas lifted one shoulder in a delicate, unbothered shrug. “I trust your strength,” he said softly. “And your enthusiasm.”
Elrohir let out a quiet breath, almost a groan, his eyes fixed on him with undeniable hunger wrapped in affection. “You are fortunate I wish to remain a respectable guest in this inn.”
Legolas traced the rim of his wine cup with a fingertip, gaze never leaving Elrohir’s. “Respectable,” he echoed, teasing. “Only until we reach our room.”
Elrohir’s voice dipped lower. “Yes. Until then.”
Legolas held his gaze, playful and inviting. “I look forward to your restraint failing.”
Elrohir’s hand curled loosely around the edge of the table, as if he needed something to hold on to. “It already has.”
A soft flush rose across Legolas’s cheekbones, and he looked away for a heartbeat, shy and radiant all at once. When he looked back, the warmth in his eyes was unmistakable.
“Then perhaps,” he whispered, “we should go upstairs.”
Elrohir rose from his chair with the smooth, self-assured grace Legolas had come to recognize in every movement. “Stay here,” he murmured. “I will settle the bill and ask for our room.”
Legolas nodded and remained seated, hands folded loosely on the table as he watched Elrohir cross the common room. The dim lanterns caught the line of his shoulders, and something warm stirred in Legolas’s chest. Even the simple sight of Elrohir speaking to the innkeeper made him want to smile.
When Elrohir reached the counter and Barnabas greeted him, Legolas let his gaze wander again.
It drifted, inevitably, to the dwarves.
They were still gathered around their table, tankards lifted, deep voices rumbling like earth shifting beneath stone. Their braids were intricate, their clothing heavy and practical, their presence unmistakably solid. Everything about them was different from the elves he had known all his life.
Legolas found himself fascinated.
He watched the way they spoke to one another, the way they laughed, the way their hands punctuated their stories. Their language rose in tones he did not recognize, thick and rough, yet with a rhythm that intrigued him.
He wondered what their homes looked like, carved deep in stone or nestled among mountain halls. He wondered what their people were like, beyond stories told in Greenwood, stories filled with caution and old anger.
He wondered what it might be like to speak to them.
A soft breath escaped him, not quite a sigh, more an exhale of curiosity. There was something grounding, something ancient and unyielding in their presence. Very unlike elves. Very unlike anything he had known.
He did not notice that one of the dwarves looked up briefly, catching the faint glow of him across the room, before returning to his drink.
From the counter, Elrohir turned his head slightly, checking on him, making sure he remained in his seat and not halfway across the room, and introducing himself. The look carried both warning and fondness, and Legolas lifted his eyes innocently as if he had been doing nothing at all.
He folded his hands neatly atop the table and tried to pretend he had not been staring.
But his curiosity lingered like a quiet ember.
Legolas lowered his eyes again, letting the candlelight settle across the rim of his cup as he tried to ignore the lively murmur of the inn. He lifted the wine, savoring the sweetness, trying to remain still until Elrohir returned.
A chair scraped sharply against the floor.
Legolas looked up, startled, as a man dropped heavily into Elrohir’s empty seat. He smelled of damp wool and ale, and his cheeks were flushed with drink. His stare fixed on Legolas with a boldness that made Legolas’s breath pause for a single, uneasy moment.
“Well now,” the man said, leaning forward with a grin that felt too familiar for a stranger. “I could not help noticing you from across the room. I have never seen someone as luminous as you. Truly a gift to look at.”
Legolas straightened slowly. Courtesy came to him by instinct, even when discomfort tightened subtly along his spine. “You honor me,” he said quietly. “But my husband will return soon. That seat belongs to him.”
The man’s smile did not fade. If anything, it sharpened.
“Let him return,” he drawled. “No harm in sharing a table with someone as lovely as you.”
Legolas rose a little from his chair, intending to excuse himself with dignity. “Forgive me. I should join him. It has been a long day.”
He barely pushed back his chair before a hand shot out and closed around his wrist.
The grip was firm. Too firm.
Legolas froze, breath caught high in his chest. His instinct was to remain calm, to keep his voice gentle. “Please,” he said quietly. “Release me. You misunderstand my meaning.”
The man’s hold tightened. “I am only being friendly.”
Legolas attempted to pull back, not forcefully, but with clear intent. His expression remained composed, yet a flicker of worry crossed his eyes. He was unaccustomed to such forwardness, unaccustomed to being touched without invitation.
Across the room, Elrohir turned from the counter, ready to walk back. Then saw the man in his chair. Then saw the hand on Legolas’s wrist.
Elrohir went still for a heartbeat, as if taking in the scene with precise, consuming clarity. The quietness of his reaction held far more danger than any raised voice.
He began to cross the room with slow, deliberate steps.
The change in the air was subtle, but Legolas felt it before he saw him. Relief, sharp and warm, moved through him even as the man’s fingers remained tight around his wrist.
The stranger remained oblivious.
Elrohir did not.
Elrohir reached the table and stopped beside Legolas. He did not raise his voice. The calm stillness in his posture, the cold precision in his eyes, shifted the air around them more effectively than any shout.
“Release him,” Elrohir said quietly.
The man turned, irritated. “I was only talking. No need to get riled.”
Elrohir’s gaze dropped to the fingers still wrapped around Legolas’s wrist. “Let him go.”
The man tightened his grip, meeting Elrohir’s eyes with a sloppy bravado. “He is only being shy. Some folk enjoy a bit of attention.”
Legolas drew himself upright, his voice steady as he spoke. “I told you no. That should have been clear.”
Before the man could answer, Elrohir moved.
There was no theatrics in it. He simply reached forward, took hold of the man’s wrist in a measured, precise grip, and removed it from Legolas’s arm as easily as lifting a leaf from water. The man’s breath caught in surprise as his fingers fell open with no resistance at all.
Elrohir set Legolas’s wrist gently on the table, then straightened to face the man fully. His tone remained soft, but steel lay just beneath it.
“He did not ask for your attention. His refusal was enough. Leave.”
The man bristled. “I was being friendly. You do not own him.”
Elrohir’s expression did not shift. “No one here said anything about ownership. What he said was no. You chose not to listen.”
The man snorted. “You travelers and your fine manners. Some of us are not made of glass.”
Legolas lifted his chin slightly, meeting the man’s eyes with quiet confidence. “I do not break,” he said. “But I do not tolerate disrespect.”
Elrohir remained perfectly still beside him, an unspoken threat in that stillness alone.
“I will repeat myself once,” Elrohir said. “Walk away.”
Something in the man finally faltered. He looked between them again, his bravado thinning into confusion. He then got up and turned without another word, muttering under his breath as he stumbled back into the crowd, rubbing his wrist as though trying to understand how he had lost the contest so easily.
Elrohir waited until he disappeared into the noise of the inn, then lowered himself into the chair across from Legolas. His eyes softened as he reached for Legolas’s wrist, checking the skin with careful fingers.
“Did he hurt you?”
Legolas shook his head, lips curving. “No. Though I suspect he is nursing his pride more than his wrist.”
Elrohir’s mouth lifted faintly. “A shame. I had hoped to bruise his pride far more thoroughly.”
Legolas’s smile brightened. “You already did.”
Elrohir exhaled, the tension easing from his shoulders at last. “Good.”
He lingered a moment longer beside Legolas, his fingers still resting lightly on the inside of Legolas’s wrist until he was certain the tension had left his husband’s body. Only then did he rise.
“Our room is ready,” he said quietly.
Legolas’s expression softened as he stood. The moment between them, though brief, had reset his calm. Together they left the alcove, descended into the hum of the common room, and crossed toward the stairs. A few patrons glanced up, but no one approached. Legolas stayed close to Elrohir’s side as they climbed to the upper floor.
Their room waited at the end of the hall, lit by a single lantern. Someone had already set their packs inside, and a small fire glowed in the hearth, warm enough to chase away the lingering chill of the rain.
Legolas took one slow look around, then walked straight to the bed and let himself fall backward onto it, as if the mattress had called him by name. His hair fanned out across the quilt, and he let out a soft sigh.
“Bree has been interesting so far,” he said, amusement threading through his voice.
Elrohir removed his cloak, wringing out a line of water before hanging it near the hearth. “Interesting is one word for it.”
Legolas stretched his legs along the blankets, entirely unbothered by the dampness of his clothes. “New faces, new customs, new experiences.”
“New men trying to put their hands on you,” Elrohir added, his tone dry as he pulled his soaked tunic over his head. “And you are getting the sheets wet.”
Legolas glanced at him, smiling. “So will you.”
“Yes, but I am actually attempting to remove my wet clothes.”
Legolas lifted his head slightly to watch the movement of Elrohir’s hands, the way the lamplight touched his skin. “You could remove mine,” he said.
Elrohir paused mid-motion and looked at him, shoulders still bare, droplets of water tracing paths down his chest. “Could I?”
Legolas reclined again, utterly serene. “It is more efficient.”
Elrohir stepped closer, one knee pressing into the edge of the mattress, bracing himself as he leaned over Legolas. “Efficient,” he repeated, as though testing the word. “That is your reasoning?”
“It is sound reasoning,” Legolas said. “And I am very tired.”
Elrohir lowered his face just enough that Legolas felt the warmth of his breath. “You are also very smug, my star.”
“Am I?” Legolas murmured, eyes half-lidded and pleased.
“Yes,” Elrohir replied. “And wet. And lying on the inn’s bed as if you had nothing to do with how damp it is becoming.”
Legolas touched the back of Elrohir’s hand with a slow, deliberate stroke of his fingers. “If you are concerned,” he said gently, “you are welcome to rescue me.”
Elrohir’s breath caught, a quiet sound of surrender and affection. “I should have known tonight would end like this.”
Legolas’s smile deepened, soft and radiant. “You always know.”
Elrohir shook his head slowly, as if conceding to a fate he had already accepted the moment Legolas smiled at him across that dim corner downstairs. He braced one hand beside Legolas’s hip and reached with the other to undo the first clasp of his husband’s damp tunic.
Legolas’s breath caught, soft and warm in the quiet of the room.
Outside, rain tapped against the window. The fire crackled low. Their belongings lay neatly packed near the wall, forgotten for the moment. The world beyond Bree seemed far away, softened to nothing but darkness and distant storm.
Legolas lifted a hand, fingertips brushing along Elrohir’s jaw with a tenderness that made the rest of the night unfold without words. He held Elrohir’s gaze, content and unguarded, and Elrohir bent to press a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth, then another, deeper and surer.
The lanternlight dimmed as they moved together, shadows swaying across the wooden walls.
What followed needed no witness.
Much later, long after the last candle burned low and the storm outside had gentled to a whisper, the small room at the Prancing Pony lay quiet, warm, and unmistakably lived in. Two figures rested close beneath the thick quilt, breath mingling, the troubles of the day left somewhere far behind them.