notbecauseofvictories:

Legolas and Arwen have known each other most of their lives, in the way that only children of Third Age Elvish royalty can—Thranduil hosted midwinter hunts for the White Hart that Elrond was obliged to attend; Rivendell was a summer house, in truth, hidden among the cool mountains, and Legolas spent more than one summer swimming in the Brunien with Elrohir and Elladan. Galadriel makes a point to gather everyone in Lothlorien every few decades, a gesture that is probably intended to foster unity among their kind, but instead serves as an excuse to judge Thranduil’s fashion choices and roll their eyes at Elrond’s drunken rambles about Gil-galad’s prowess in battle.

There was even—briefly, but from all parties—a hope that Legolas and Arwen might wed. Obviously, Arwen is significantly older than Legolas, and though she did not have a crown, exactly, she was Galadriel’s favorite and Elrond’s daughter. But the throne of the Greenwood is considered a lesser seat, besides, and Legolas is a lesser son—even if his brothers were already betrothed, or fighting elsewhere.

They were both Elves, nobility of the Third Age, and it seemed eminently sensible.

Legolas at that time was the Elvish equivalent of a teenager (fewer pimples, more existential crises and bad poetry) while Arwen was in her early twenties (plus several hundred years) and they both hated every second of it.

At that point, neither of them could have told you why. They couldn’t even tell each other why, except in the vaguest, least helpful terms. “It just doesn’t…” Arwen had said, hunching her shoulders. They were sitting on her bed in Rivendell, and Legolas had nodded with probably more fervor than was strictly necessary. “Right!” he’d answered. “Exactly, it’s not—I mean, you’re…! It’s just…”

(She was nice. Arwen had always been nice to him. He liked her, she was very beautiful, and she liked him—he was funny, sort of cruel, unaffected, and had a nice singing voice. But for a race that prized world-ending love, that sang songs of Luthien and Beren, Finwe and Mirel, they were decidedly ill-matched.)

Later, he’d taken her hand. “You can lie,” Legolas had said, and even after, Arwen will remember how kind that was. “You can tell your father that—that we…I don’t mind.”

They’re alone in her room, the both of them cross-legged on her bed, and still she feels nothing except a tepid sort of affection, a gratitude. He’s being kind, of course she’s grateful. She just…wants to feel something, alone in her room, sitting this close to a man. (She’s sung the Lay of

Leithian enough times in her father’s halls, that’s what she wants.)

“No,” she tells Legolas, and he smiles when she kisses him on the forehead. “It’s all right. I’ll figure out another way.”

(Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and a Man, comes to the halls of her grandmother like Beren came to Doriath. Holy fucking shit, Arwen writes to Legolas. I didn’t actually think it was real, what the fuck.

“I know exactly what you mean,” Legolas says, decades after, when Arwen sits beside her kingly husband in the halls of Minas Tirith. Legolas’ grey eyes track the passage of Gimli, son of Gloin, across the hall, and Arwen cannot help but loop her arms around the Elf who might have once been her betrothed, and laugh.)