Kíli has paced a channel through the moss by the time I hear it — the soft, distinct shift of leaves that always means an elf is near.

“Told you,” he mutters, pushing his hair back, trying to look casual.

He fails.

Tauriel appears between the trees, bow across her back, her stride light and certain. But she isn’t alone.

Someone moves beside her — and everything in the clearing tilts.

You walk with the same precision as a hunter, but there’s something else beneath it: a quiet command, ancient and effortless. Your light moonsilver armor fits like it was forged for your bones alone, catching only the faintest edges of light. Your cloak, white with silver and dark moss-green leafwork, stirs gently behind you.

There is no crown, no circlet, no sigil. Nothing that names you anything other than a warrior at Tauriel’s side.

Your hair falls like winter light over one shoulder, silver-white against the darker embroidery. You scan the clearing once, calmly, taking everything in with the cool attentiveness of someone used to assessing a room before stepping fully into it.

You stand a few paces back, letting Tauriel and Kíli drift toward one another — and for a moment, your posture softens with something like amused patience. The kind only someone who has witnessed this dance before would have.

I should not stare. But I do.

Tauriel greets Kíli, and they slip immediately into the quiet, intimate warmth they always do, both pretending not to notice how close they stand.

I drag my eyes away from them and glance at you instead.

You meet my gaze.

Not a full stare — not challenging — simply present, steady, evaluating. Your expression is unreadable: a flicker of curiosity, or caution, or perhaps nothing more than polite interest.

My mouth moves before my sense can stop it.

“So,” I blurt, “did Tauriel drag you into babysitting my brother, or is this voluntary punishment?”

Kíli jerks around, scandalized. Tauriel’s shoulders shake with suppressed laughter.

You don’t smile outright. But your head tilts slightly a silent, subtle shift that carries more meaning than words. A quiet acknowledgment. A hint of humor.

And somehow that almost undoes me more than any spoken reply could have.

I press on, tragically undeterred by self-preservation.

“She ropes plenty of elves into it,” I add. “Consider yourself in good company.”

Your expression shifts again, just a breath of amusement in your eyes. Not mocking. Not offended. Just… watching me unravel with infuriating grace.

Kíli elbows me hard, but he’s grinning now.

Tauriel steps back toward us and, completely unaware of the way my pulse is thrashing, says:

“Oh — Fíli. By the way, this is the Queen of Taur Im Duinath.”

The words hit me like an axe to the skull.

I freeze.

You? A Queen?

My breath leaves me in one painful rush. I look at your armor again. simple, practical, unmarked at your cloak, at your lack of crown, at the quiet strength in your stance.

A queen disguised as a warrior.

And I spoke to you like—

I swallow, straighten too fast, nearly dropping my balance. Kíli cackles outright.

You watch my entire humiliation unfold with a silence that is somehow gentler than pity and sharper than judgment. Your expression remains serene, but your eyes… your eyes say you saw everything. Every flustered breath, every foolish word.

I bow — too deep, too abruptly.

“My… apologies, my lady,” I manage. “Had I known."

You don't speak. No words. Just… presence.

And it is enough to make me feel more flustered than any reply could have.

Tauriel adds, “She wished to escape her council hall today. I invited her on my patrol.”

You give a small nod — controlled, graceful, the unmistakable bearing of someone used to command, even without ornamentation.

I try again.

“If you wish to avoid being roped into Kíli-duty for the rest of your stay… I will negotiate on your behalf.” Another reckless burst of honesty. Fantastic.

This time, the corner of your mouth softens. A ghost of a smile. Devastating.

You haven’t spoken a single word…

And somehow, I have never heard anything louder.