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[rowancrowned]

 

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[rowancrowned]

[ that is all? legolas had been an easy child, perhaps sensing the depression and pain that had rolled off thranduil in waves at the death of his wife, but this is hardly 'ada may I have a knife please please please' of legolas' worst (sweetest) moments.

he sets his silverware neatly to the side, pushes his chair back to the table, and comes to adalia. she's smaller than he is (nearly all of them are) and so it's easy for him to embrace her- properly, she's an elf, the forehead-to-forehead touch, and then his hands on her shoulders, drawing up to his full height to pull her in and keep her there.

she isn't legolas. he doesn't expect squirming from her after being made to stand still for more than a count of seconds. nor is she gwen, to push for more, but those two are the extend of his experience of physical affection in the last months.

she's herself and her own. she can decide when she's had enough. ]

[thunderproof]

❰ it's not the kind of hug adalia is expecting, and at first she holds her breath, the tension she'd worked so hard to shed creeping back up her shoulders. it's an effort to force herself to relax again, to remind herself to breathe, and for a long moment adalia just stands there, stiff and unmoving, head barely even tilted up to reciprocate the affection. it takes deliberate, careful thought for her to reach up and put her hands on thranduil's shoulders, for her to raise her chin and press their foreheads together a little more firmly. their breaths mingle, and thranduil's skin is warm against adalia's own, and tears are leaking from behind her tightly shut eyelids but she can't care.

it only takes a second after that for her shoulders to start shaking and her breaths to heave through her. ❱

Please don't take this away from me. ❰ she hadn't meant to say anything, but the burning lump in her throat forces the words out. it feels like something she has to say, or she'll go crazy. ❱ I'll do anything, I'll be whatever you want, just please — please don't leave me alone again. Please.

❰ it's hard to keep herself upright. her grip on thranduil's shoulders is like a vice, her teeth grit against the sounds bubbling up inside her. she'll hate herself for this tomorrow, maybe, this manipulation, this greed — a world on fire and she concerns herself with trivialties like loneliness — but for now she can't help it. ❱

O'su. ❰ the word feels strange in her mouth, syllables she's learned but never had cause to use. ❱

not late

[rowancrowned]

Hush now, [ he soothes, careless, his hands as gentle stroking her back as hers are tight. he could not pull in a full breath without his ribs straining, but he does not need to. he looks at gwenaëlle, to confirm that he is doing it right, holding it even as he continues to stroke down adalia’s spine as he would with a fussing elfling, designed to ground and remind that all is well. ] I am least of all things flighty, Adalia. I will be here as long as you have need of me.

[ and she will hold him to it, for she has the age denied the people, and will have more. she is too young and too adrift, and he has nothing but stubbornness borne of age holding his bones weighty and fast. at least in that, they will mesh easily. ]

Adar, [ he corrects, and looks away from his wife, ] ‘father’ is adar in Sindarin, but you will need to teach me your mother-tongue as well, I think.