Legolas' face was outlined strikingly by the moonlight that sifted through the tree-tops.  Mithmír had rarely seen him in a truly wooded environment, and now she felt she caught a glimpse of his full beauty; how he, a Wood Elf, looked in his element, his home in Mirkwood – or rather, Greenwood the Great.  He face was mostly in shadow, but the soft light caught on his hair and nose and lips, and the stars shone from the immeasurable depths of his age-old eyes.

'You're beautiful,' she whispered, the words taking new meaning even as she said them.  She raised one hand to rest on the side of his head, tracing unusually delicate fingers along his chin, his satin-smooth skin, his high and elegant cheek-bones.  This was so unlike touching anyone else…

The Elf inclined his head to her hand sensuously, lips betraying the true strength of his passion, despite his calm face, as they parted a little.  'Then we are matched,' he replied coolly; graciously accepting the compliment without a hint of arrogance or boastfulness.  His arms closed tighter about her, not forcing her to step towards him, but merely suggesting – and she did not refuse.  The shield-maiden moved forward boldly, so her body was pressed against his.  She shivered at the sensations, and his hand settled in the small of her back just as his head moved forward and his lips caught hers in a fleeting kiss.  When he moved his head away again, one pointed ear brushing against her still-outstretched fingers; and Mithmír opened her eyes again slowly, as if trying to delay the moment when sight, not touch, must take it's place as the most important of her basic senses.

'Why did you lead me into the wood?'  She asked in a heavy whisper, laying her hand down on his shoulder where fingers played with deceptive idleness with his braid.

'So you could catch me,' he replied serenely.  'Or rather –' he laughed a little, the sound as pure as running water, piercing the night like a dagger-point – 'I could catch you.'

She locked her eyes with his, a flutter of anger stirring there, but not for long, and not at him.  Few males did she hold close enough to her heart to forgive them for implying her to be weaker in any aspect of the fighting arts.

'I did not mean to imply that you are more feeble than I, Mithmír,' whispered Legolas, one hand slipping under the back of her tunic and stroking her skin.  He appeared to read her mind.

She laughed a little, breaking the stare and instead moving into run her lips along his throat, not quite kissing, but as close to it as she could be.  'I know you did not.'  Or else, she added silently, you might well be engaged in a fight now.  'You are probably the stronger, however,' she admitted with incredible self-knowledge.  Oddly enough it did not hurt her to say so.  'You are an Elf of high lineage, an immortal, with many centuries of experience, wisdom and a wealth of Elvish tools and weapons…'

Legolas took one hand from her back to lay a finger delicately over her lips, hushing her in a gesture that was, at once, passionate and brotherly.  'You are an Elf, now, and I cannot think of a higher line of Men than the Dúnedain, your father and yourself; and was your mother not Lómwing Melkalwen, a High Elf?  And shall you not be an Aratirith?'  He gazed at her seriously.  'You are of high birth, and very few beat you in swordplay.  Your archery is very good, your daggers swift and deadly.  You strike hard and fast.  You are young; but you have all youth's life and spirit…'  He paused to kiss her again.  'And I love you for it.  It is I who shall be marrying above my rank, not you.'

Mithmír blushed.  'Really, Legolas, you're a Prince…'

'And when we marry, you shall be a Queen, and a Queen to rival even Galadriel and your ancestor Melian.'  He smiled softly, aware of how much his simple and honest words would affect her.  'You don't need an Elven Ring to be as loved and honoured as Galadriel, Mithmír Rochiwen Silfëa,' he reminded her, using the name for her that only his lips spoke.  'You have a magic of your own that is far greater than any which the old Elven Smiths could harness.'

Mithmír's blush rose up to her cheeks, not only from his words but from his lithe, heated body pressing against hers.  She could feel every elegant, sculpted contour of his body through his thin shirt almost as if it were a part of her.  'Thank you,' was all she replied, breathlessly.  'Thank you. I can't wait to be your Queen…'

Legolas moaned a little as if in agreement, the warm air expelled from his mouth gracing the skin of her neck as he worked caressing lips up to meet hers.  'You cannot long for that day as much as I do,' he replied unusually huskily.

She would have replied, but his lips were on her own, his tongue seeking hers, and she was all too happy to remain silent, and instead talk with him through touch and the silent affirmations of love in the eyes of them both.

Tondfael sensed the people in the wood from far away.  He was not the Aratirith of perhaps the highest Elf left living for nothing.

'Hiril [lady]…' he said, halting his walk back to the camp.  There was little need for words between him and the Lady of the Golden Wood.  They understood each other well enough, and though not a warrior Galadriel would know what he was drawing her attention to.

She turned her piercing eyes to him, halting her light steps also.  Beside her Celeborn halted.  Bainuilos looked over at his son from Celeborn, his Lord's, side.  He looked confused for but a second, and then resolve hardened in his eyes.  He would stay with the Lord and the Lady while his son went to scout.

'Tiri [look],' she replied in her familiar, beautiful voice.

Tondfael nodded, and taking his bow to hand slipped away into the trees, soon but one fast-moving shadow among many.  He knew not what he was searching for; and doubtless he would never guess what he was to see….