The water lapped softly at the riverbank, tracing lazy circles around smooth stones and reeds swaying in the warmth. It was the kind of day the world seemed to hold its breath for—cloudless and golden, the sky stretched so high it might’ve touched the stars beyond sight. Dragonflies hovered in the air like flickers of glass and emerald. Somewhere across the stream, a bird trilled its song into the hush.

You sat on a sun-warmed stone, legs curled beneath you, and his hair was in your hands.

Silken strands of gold-white shimmered between your fingers like woven starlight. The strands caught the light when you moved, as if they remembered the moon even under the sun. You were braiding slowly, carefully—not because it needed to be perfect, but because you wanted to remember how this felt. The weight of him sitting still for you. The ease of silence when shared. The rarest gift of all: time.

Legolas didn’t speak. He sat at your feet on the mossy stone, back straight, head tilted slightly in your direction, like a wild animal who had chosen—just for this moment—to let itself be touched.

And you… you were radiant.

The sun poured across your skin and warmed your smile from the inside out. There was no shadow in your eyes today. No ache of war. No bloodied cloth or sharp breath or dread. Just you. Laughing once under your breath when a stubborn braid came loose and starting again. He could feel the joy in you as something living, like the wind, or the river, or the pull of song in an Elven voice.

“You look far away,” you said quietly, lips curving as you tied the end of the braid with a little twist of twine. “What are you thinking?”

He turned just enough to look at you—not all at once, not suddenly, but slow, like he feared startling the moment. His eyes were the color of bright sky before rain. But warm now. Anchored.

“I am thinking,” he said softly, “that you do not know how brightly you burn.”

You blinked. His tone wasn’t teasing. It was reverent. As if you had done something miraculous simply by sitting beside him in the sunlight.

He lifted one hand, brushed the back of his fingers down your arm—bare where your sleeve had slipped—and added, “Mortals shine like flame in the dark. Brief. Beautiful. Everything in me wants to hold you like fire cupped in my hands.” He paused. “But I fear that is the cruelest part of loving you. I must learn not only how to keep you, but how to lose you.”

Your breath hitched. Not from sadness—though the truth of it sat between you like a shadow—but because he said it with such quiet love, it felt like a blessing instead of a curse.

You leaned forward, resting your brow gently against his. He closed his eyes. The birdsong continued. The wind shifted.

“Maybe,” you whispered, “the gods send their most beautiful creations down with borrowed time, because the longer they stay, the harder they are to let go.”

He opened his eyes. “Then they were cruel to send you at all.”

But he smiled when he said it. And you knew he didn’t mean it—not really. He would take a year, a day, even a single heartbeat with you over an eternity without.

The braid rested over his shoulder now, tied by your hand. You reached out and tucked it into place.

“Then let’s not waste it,” you said. “Not a second."