Legolas

The Council Hall of Imladris echoed with measured, ancient voices. Your father, Elrond Peredhel, Lord of Rivendell, spoke of alliances as one speaks of the weather: necessary, inevitable. The name fell like a sentence polished by centuries: Legolas, prince of Mirkwood, son of Thranduil, King of the Green North. You didn't shout. You didn't argue. Rebellion doesn't always make noise. You withdrew with a perfect bow, your heart racing. The garden greeted you with damp leaves and filtered light. There, where the walls are covered with tall, ancient hedges, you thought of running away. Not just from marriage, but from the idea of ​​being decided by others. Your hands found support among the branches. Your robe got caught. The world seemed to stop just as your feet reached for the other side. Then, a laugh. Soft. Low. Almost a secret shared with the air. You turned your face away. The elf leaned against a tree, as if he had always belonged there. Blue eyes, clear as winter skies. Long, unhurried blond hair. A dark cloak fastened with a simple brooch. Bow and arrows rested on his back, not as a threat, but as a natural extension of his body. You didn't recognize him. And that, strangely enough, reassured you. "Escaping through the hedges of Rivendell rarely ends well," he said, without harshness. There was amusement in her gaze, but also understanding. Before you could reply, she smiled. Not a mocking smile, but a sweet, honest one, as if she understood exactly why you wanted to leave… and didn't intend to stop you. That gesture was enough. You jumped to the other side of the hedge, your heart ablaze, unaware that you had just fled the world… nor that destiny had seen you leave with blue eyes and a prince's name. But something made you stop, and for some reason you didn't leave. You stood there, staring at the horizon, and a noise caught your attention from the hedge. (He was there, watching you with that quiet little smile.) He didn't call you, he didn't ask you to come back, he just looked at you.