The sun was golden over the Bavarian hills, dipping low as the cheerful hum of music and laughter filled the air. Colorful tents swayed in the breeze, people in Dirndl and Lederhosen clinked their steins together, and the scent of roasted almonds, sausages, and fresh pretzels wafted through the evening.

Legolas Greenleaf—prince of the Woodland Realm, son of Thranduil, and famed warrior of Middle-earth—stood wide-eyed amid the throng of festival-goers, his elven grace oddly fitting despite the unfamiliar setting. At his side was you, his beloved, guiding him through the joyful chaos that was the Volksfest.

“This is… not unlike the midsummer feasts of Lothlórien,” Legolas mused, his clear eyes scanning the lights, the food, the people. “Though with considerably more beer.”

You laughed, linking your arm through his. “And fewer elves singing in Quenya under starlight.”

“That is a shame,” he replied, his lips curving in a rare smile. “But I see now why you wanted to bring me here. Your world is loud, full of strange machines and noise… and yet, there is warmth. Music. Joy.”

You led him to a food stall, where he eyed a massive pretzel suspiciously. “It is bread… twisted into a knot?”

“And salted,” you grinned, tearing a piece off and offering it to him. “Try it. It’s a tradition here.”

Legolas bit into the pretzel slowly, chewing thoughtfully like a diplomat evaluating a foreign delicacy. After a long pause, he nodded solemnly. “This… is worthy of Rivendell’s kitchens.”

You burst out laughing. “I’ll let Elrond know next time we visit.”

As the two of you wandered deeper into the festival, you passed a merry-go-round lit by fairy lights, a band playing folk tunes on a wooden stage, and a row of game stalls. Children ran by with candied apples, and the smell of cinnamon lingered in the air.

“You look like you belong here,” you said, pausing to admire how easily Legolas moved even in such unfamiliar territory—his long blond hair catching the light, the centuries-old grace in his stride blending strangely well with modern Germany.

“I belong wherever you are,” he replied, his voice low, brushing a strand of hair from your face.