It was some time later before he returned to his company, finding them all fast asleep as he himself should have been. Though even when he knew better he had never truly been able to resist her, not when the mere sight of her echoed in the thud of his heart. It was something he had once loved, had once needed as though she were the very air he craved to breathe. He had tried unceasingly to hate her, had thought he did hate her; though a look upon her face, or a hand upon her skin, and hate was no more than a breath released on a chilled wind.

These were the thoughts, like a plague to his mind, that kept him awake as he stared out at the elven stronghold. As though by fate. For his eyes saw a figure in the distance, her hair dark beneath the moonlight before she covered herself in a hooded cloak. He'd know her form anywhere, her long lithe silhouette he had etched into his memory. It should have brought him joy to have driven her away, to not have to make a farewell; knowing the yearning that would pierce his heart as he left her. It should have at least brought him peace. But there was nothing, he was empty as he watched her gracefully climb atop her horse, watched her turn her eyes to his balcony as though she could feel his eyes upon her, and then as she spurred her horse forward.

He had redressed and left her, not taking note of her silence to know that she was troubled. Not caring to look at her face and see the shine in her eyes from his cruelty. He did not see her cry, nor would she would have let him. It left him following her with his eyes not fully understanding her sudden departure, why she could not bear another moment with him so near that she left without her guards. He did not understand that he had wounded her in a way that made it impossible to stay, and so he was forced to watch her leave. His heart yearning to follow. Though instead he turned his back on her as she retreated, and he laid beside his kin and tried to find rest. He did not find peace in slumber: his peace was racing away as though fleeing from a foe, her heart as old and weary as his own.

Legolas watched his sister closely in the following days, gluing himself to her side and occupying her time with trivial things she quickly grew wearisome of. He saw her eyes wander away, often finding the dwarf prince and seeing the small smile that etched itself on her mouth when she met his warm eyes. He did all he could to plant himself between them, digging roots as deep as he could to keep her from Thorin's sight; though dwarves were stubborn, and he very much enjoyed her company.

The dwarf's infatuation did not worry Legolas, it was his sister's that weighed heavy on his shoulders; for no matter how he tried to speak to her, she did not listen. Many times she would stand by his side and then the next moment be gone, leaving him searching for her. Though Eliniel was clever, she knew to stay out of sight if she did not wish to be pulled away, and Thorin wanted her near enough to find the deepest parts of the Mountain for them to explore. Once even, she had convinced him to dance with her, so entranced by her was he. Anything she asked he would give.

Most every day Thorin stole her away, catching her attention before disappearing down a hall – waiting as many moments as it took before she followed. And she always followed, bound to him as though with a string. "My prince," she would greet softly, her sweet voice a birdsong to his ears.

"Milady," he in turn would say, placing a kiss upon her hand and watching as she turned away smiling.

"Where would you like to venture to this day?" he asked, placing her hand in the crook of his arm as they walked down darkened corridors.

She was quiet a moment as she thought, having seen almost every crevice of his home within the span of ten days; only two remained before she and her kin would depart, a thought that saddened her greatly for in all truth she did not wish to leave. She would give the sun to stay, she would leave her trees and take the hard unforgiving stone to remain by his side. Though what she wanted mattered not, for she could not stay; and she could see on his face it was something that saddened him as well. She could feel it in how firmly he held her hand, in how deep his gaze was upon her face as he awaited an answer. "Anywhere," she told him, her voice a small whisper.

"Eliniel?" he asked concerned, seeing in her eyes a great need.

Her smile was a small quaint thing, exposing the quivering in her belly as she fought for the words to leave her tongue. "I will go anywhere," she said staring down into his eyes as he gazed up at her, "so long as you take me."

He stared up at her astounded, hearing what she truly wanted in that simple request. No words could come to him, he was left finding it more and more strenuous to draw breath; wanting nothing more than to agree. She wanted to stay, more than that she wanted to stay with him. He took her face in his hand, his chest burning with the need for air, running his thumb over her lips; many days now he had imagined the feel of them on his own. Had turned away from the thought by the question of if she would wish for him to; he could see it now in her eyes she did. He could take her as his wife, make her his queen, spend the rest of his days never having to face leaving her: this was a fool's dream. But by Durin's beard he was more than a fool, and she was too.

"Thorin?"

He turned to see Balin standing a little away from them, his eyes wide with shock at how near Thorin was to placing his mark on her. He looked back to Eliniel, a need written clear in his eye though she took his hand and lowered it from her face. "Will you be alright?" he asked, his voice deepened with desire.

She smiled gently, knowing this was truly coming to an end. "I can find my way back," she assured him. "Mister Balin," she said kindly, bowing her head before leaving both dwarves.

Balin stared after her, hating to admit he liked her more than he had first thought he would; but upon turning back to Thorin, seeing that his prince was staring at her back sad and lost, he wished she had never come. "Thorin?" Balin asked again, moving out of the way as Thorin charged past him. It left Balin with little else than to follow his prince, just barely slipping through the door of his room before it was slammed. He waited patiently as Thorin caught his breath, as he regained his senses now that she was no longer clouding his judgment. "This must end," he urged, knowing he was speaking out of place, but not wishing to see his dearest friend hurt. "She leaves in two morns."

"Do not tell me when she leaves as though I do not know," Thorin yelled turning on him. "I know the number of minutes before I will never see her again. I know." In a wave of frustration he grabbed his desk and flipped it on its side before storming out of the room. Leaving Balin shocked speechless at how obvious it was Thorin had fallen in love with her.

…

She did not leave her room the next day, instead seeking solace in the warmth of her bed and the numbing silence that allowed thoughts of him to slip away. Legolas stood against the door for many hours waiting for her to speak, watching her hand furiously drawing in her book. But she said nothing, nor did she acknowledge him; she knew he would never tell her that this was her fault, but she would see it in his eyes and it would hurt her none the less.

"Are you sure you do not wish to come to the feast?" Thranduil asked, standing beside where she lay. His voice was calm and level, but there was an edge beneath it.

What could she say, that she wanted to stay with Thorin for she believed they might love one another? "I do not feel well," she told him softly, curled tightly as though she could hold herself together.

He could sense her sadness, her longing: he did not understand it, but he knew something troubled her greatly. "Perhaps you will feel better when we are home," he said, touching her head briefly before leaving – not once looking at her.

But there lay the problem, returning home would do nothing more than leave her longing for a dwarf she'd irrationally allowed herself to have feelings for. This was her fault, she should never have taken his hand that first morning after they arrived. She should have done what she was supposed to, turn her back on him for the reason that he was a dwarf and she an elf.

Sleep did not come to her that night, her mind was laden with thoughts and wants; keeping her awake with what she wanted but could not have. Hours into the night she gave up tossing and turning and instead lay thinking of his face, finding it handsome in its own right. Thoughts of his hand upon hers, the wonderful smile she could coax out of him at times, the burning of his gaze; her own fluttering heart, the reason she was so pained.

A flapping of wings caught her attention and she sat up staring at the door, hearing the sound of wings outside it once more. Looking down she saw her brother's peaceful face as he dreamed and she inched her way out of the bed and into the hall, seeing a dark raven at her feet. Taking the small parchment tied to its foot she held it up to read it under the torchlight.

"Meet me at the river's beginning," was its simple message.

The string pulled tighter around her and wearing no more than a thin sleeping gown she walked as quickly as she could through the Mountain, finding less and less guards to hide from the further she went, until finally she saw him sitting upon a rock waiting for her.

"I was not sure if you would come," he said when she sat beside him, his eyes looking to her to see she had come the moment the bird reached her: making him smile despite the fact knowing that did nothing more than hurt him all the more.

"Of course I came," she told him, staring down at the water; feeling his warmth beside her buzzing beneath her skin. They staid quietly for a while, simply bathing in the feel of the other so near – though as all things do, it had to come to an end. "I leave on the morn."

He swallowed before taking her hand in his, holding it tightly in his grasp. "I know," he whispered. She would leave, it was that simple. Her father would not allow her to stay, nor would his own grandfather. This was doomed to despair them from the very beginning. "Tell me you want to stay," he said, proving himself a masochist.

She turned to him, her eyes glistening in the dim light. "I want to stay," she said as he had asked.

"You wish to stay and I am a dwarf."

"Why does it have to matter?" she asked in turn, proving her heart was as gentle as it seemed. Naïve in the way only a kind young woman could be.

He stared at her, etching her face to memory so that he would never forget. "Tell me you love me," he said, knowing that was the reason why they were here now – why a dwarf prince and elven princess were sitting side by side in the dead of night holding fast to each other's hand.

"I love you."

Three words, so simple, so short, but they meant everything. She would never love again. A long unending life she would face, her heart taken and buried with a fool of a dwarf. He took her face in his hands, timidly pressing his lips to hers; a sigh escaping him before he stood and left her.

Dawn rose and Thror hosted a last meal for his elvish guests, bidding his goodbye to the Elvenking and his kin before they left. Thranduil felt his daughter's heavy heart like a wave crashing over him, taking note of the longing in the prince's eyes as he looked after her. Legolas remained at her side as they travelled home, grabbing her hand when she turned to look back to Erebor and its future king. Thorin stared after her, his heart raging furiously in his chest, screaming with every beat to go after her. But his feet stayed, and he stood watching her until she disappeared on the horizon.