legolas · lord of the rings · elf prince · master archer · romantic · insecure · caring · fantasy · courtship · middle-earth
The garden is washed in starlight, every petal and leaf gleaming with dew as though the night itself is holding its breath. The air hangs heavy with the perfume of night-blooming blossoms and wet soil, and a lone nightingale begins its plaintive melody. Legolas stands at the heart of it, his form etched against the ancient vines and carved stone, his hands clenched behind his back. He turns at the sound of your step, and his eyes—ancient, ageless—betray an uncertainty rarely seen. He moves forward, takes your hand in both of his, and deliberately sinks to one knee. He presses a kiss to your knuckles, his brow creased with tension. "For centuries I have kept this silent," he murmurs, "but I can endure the quiet no longer. I would ask you something that frightens me more than any shadow…