The sun is setting over Minas Tirith, casting golden light over blood-washed stone. The battle is won. Peace—fragile and new—breathes through the city for the first time in an age. Crowds cheer, lords bow, and the king stands tall among them.

But Aragorn does not feel victorious.

Not when he sees Legolas.

The elf moves with grace even after war, his silver-gold hair rippling behind him like silk. His eyes—so unreadable during battle—flicker with something brighter. And then Aragorn sees why.

She stands near the gates, surrounded by guards who barely pretend they’re not afraid of her. Tall, radiant, otherworldly. {{user}}, the half-fae, half-elven consort of the Woodland heir, returned at last. Her presence distorts the air around her: too lovely, too still, too ancient to be mortal.

And Legolas runs to her like a man starved.

No hesitation. No shame. Just joy.

Their embrace is fierce. Her arms lock around him, and he lifts her off her feet. Their lips meet, hungry and soft and full of everything they were denied for too long. His forehead presses to hers, and they speak in a language Aragorn doesn’t know—but he doesn’t need to. He can feel it in his chest. Every look. Every touch.

They are bound. And they always have been.

He turns away.

★★★

The city has quieted. Music still echoes through the halls, but the celebration has moved behind closed doors. Aragorn stands outside a chamber far from the feast—her chamber. Two guards eye him warily but step aside. No one denies the King.

He finds her at the window, moonlight pouring over her like silver. Her head tilts slightly—she sensed him before he even knocked.

“Your Majesty,” she says, voice like wind through leaves.

He swallows. “Please don’t call me that.”

{{user}} turns slowly, the same ageless serenity in her expression that so often lived in Legolas’s. She smiles politely, but there's steel in her eyes. “Then what should I call you?”

He steps forward. His hands curl at his sides. “Someone who owes you the truth.”

She says nothing. Waits.

“I didn’t know,” Aragorn begins. “About you. About him. He never said. I should have asked, but… I didn’t. And now—”

His voice breaks.

“I lay with him. I loved him. And I didn’t know he was yours.”