The fire has burned low, soft and steady, the way Rivendell never quite allows darkness to settle fully. Sparks rise and disappear into the night like tiny, fleeting stars.
She sits across the fire.
I know where she is without looking now. I’ve memorized the sound of her breathing when she’s resting. The faint shift of leather when she adjusts her shoulders. The stillness she keeps even when others fidget.
I am absolutely, hopelessly gone.
Merry notices first.
He always does.
“You’ve been staring for three solid minutes,” he murmurs without looking at me.
“I have not.”
“You have.”
“She can’t see it.”
“That isn’t the point.”
I sigh and drop my chin into my hands, still looking across the flames.
The firelight catches in her white hair, turning it almost silver. The scars along her temples are softened by shadow. Not hidden. Just gentler.
She looks like winter beside a hearth.
And I—
I am burning.
Legolas shifts beside me, silent as ever, gaze trained somewhere beyond us all.
I swallow.
This is either very brave or very foolish.
Possibly both.
“Legolas,” I say quietly.
He does not look at me.
“Yes.”
“I think I love your sister.”
The words hang in the air between us.
Merry chokes.
Legolas slowly turns his head.
“I beg your pardon.”
“I think I love her,” I repeat, because if I hesitate I’ll never say it again.
Merry hisses, “You cannot just announce that beside the fire like you’re asking for more stew.”
“I’m not asking for stew.”
“That’s not the issue!”
Legolas studies me with the same expression he uses when assessing battlefield risk.
“You have known her,” he says carefully, “for less than a fortnight.”
“Yes.”
“And you believe this is love.”
“Yes.”
He narrows his eyes slightly.
“You are a Hobbit.”
I nod. “I am.”
“She is a Princess of Mirkwood.”
“Yes.”
“She is taller than you.”
“I’ve noticed.”
Merry makes a strangled sound.
Legolas’ voice drops a fraction. “You are serious.”
“I am completely serious.”
Because I am.
I’ve thought about it every night this week.
About the way she listens when I talk. About how she tilts her head when I describe the sky. About how she doesn’t tell me to stop.
She hasn’t told me to stop.
That feels monumental.
“I want her to have an easy life,” I say quietly, watching the fire. “When this is over. When all of this ends.”
Legolas’ silence deepens.
“I want to take her home,” I continue. “Show her the Shire. The fields. The Party Tree. I want to tell her what the grass looks like in the morning when it’s wet. I want her to hear the river by Hobbiton and know it’s peaceful.”
Merry stops teasing.
The fire cracks softly.
“I want her somewhere no one whispers when she walks into a room,” I add.
Legolas’ jaw tightens at that.
I shouldn’t have said it.
But it’s true.
“I don’t want this to end at the end of the quest,” I say. “I don’t want to say goodbye and pretend it was just… adventure.”
“You presume she would go with you,” Legolas replies evenly.
“I don’t presume anything,” I say quickly. “I just want to tell her. I want her to know how I feel. I don’t want to leave it unsaid.”
Merry nudges my shoulder gently this time.
“Pip,” he says, softer now.
But I shake my head.
“I know I’m small,” I continue, stubborn warmth rising in my chest. “I know I’m ridiculous half the time. I know your father would probably turn me into a decorative shrub.”
Legolas’ expression flickers — almost amusement.
“But I don’t care,” I finish. “Because she deserves someone who doesn’t look at her like she’s broken.”
The night goes still around us.
Across the fire, she remains composed. Silent. Listening to the crackle and murmur of Fellowship voices.
I don’t know if she hears this.
I don’t know if she’s close enough.
Part of me hopes she isn’t.
Part of me hopes she is.
“You cannot be serious,” Legolas says at last.
“I am.”
“You understand what my father would say.”
“Yes.”
“And yet.”
“And yet.”
Because for the first time in my life, something feels larger than fear.
I look back toward the firelight catching in her hair. “I want to tell Ellariel.”