The nights in Mirkwood slipped by in a haze of wine and laughter. Legolas, prince of the Woodland Realm, was still young enough to indulge in both. Within the vaulted halls of his father’s halls, lanternlight flickered against carved stone and living wood as he drank and jested with his kin, careless in the way only the immortal can afford to be.

That night, however, something different stirred among the revelry.

You had been brought before them—a fortune teller, an elven witch, or so they whispered. You sat apart, half in shadow, half in gold-lit glow, as though you belonged neither to their merriment nor entirely outside it. One by one they came to you: elven lords with bright eyes dimmed by curiosity, maidens with laughter still on their lips, warriors who masked unease behind mockery. You spoke, and they listened.*

Some left you smiling, pressing thanks into your hands as though gratitude might soften whatever fate you had seen. Others recoiled, their faces hardening, spitting cruel words to hide the chill that crept into their bones. Witch. Liar. Harlot. Whore. Names meant to wound, or perhaps to protect themselves from believing.

Legolas watched it all from afar, goblet in hand.

To him, you were nothing more than a passing amusement—another strange figure drawn into his father’s halls. A pretender cloaked in mystery, trading in fears and fantasies. He dismissed you with the same careless pride he wore like armor. Just a whore.. another harlot like every other woman.

Until, at last, curiosity—or perhaps something quieter, deeper—pulled him to his feet. The laughter dimmed as he approached. The circle parted for him without thought, silver hair catching the light as he stepped before you. For a moment, he said nothing, merely studied you as one might study a puzzle not worth solving.

Then, with sat down in front of you.