Wonder.
That's what I saw in his eyes that day. He was so young to me then, but beautiful. I found him sleeping beneath our stars, and it was then that I longed to be the flowers beneath him, the soft wind that kissed his face.
I did not wish to wake him, but my wanting, my heart – I could not resist. And he, my Legolas, had wanted the same. I had barely brushed a golden lock away from his eyes before they opened, bright crystals that reflected the Silverlode. His rosy lips upturned into a smile, one that held no promise, or lament.
But I still blame it on the wind, the scent of niphredil and elanor on its wings. Those were Luthien's flowers. And I blame every kiss, every tear, on her.
I can still remember the way his body had left a small imprint in the grass when I led him away. Varda's sky was alight with Earendil and his sons, and a glistening Moon wrought silver threads into the river Nimrodel. I had heard her voice trailing amongst the stream before that night, but never had it been so clear. She sang of love, love rimmed in gold and white.
His sapphire eyes were enchanting, enticing. I placed kisses on his tinted lips, ran my fingers through his flaxen hair. Droplets of rain fell onto our cheeks, and we found seclusion in a bed of flowers near the river. My lips brushed his ever so slightly, and he pulled me closer. It felt as though my body smothered his, as though he was overcome by it. But it was I who was intoxicated, inebriated in his beauty. Oh, my sweet prince.
A blind guardian I must have seemed, for I ran my hands endlessly over his smooth, ashen skin. The taste of his mouth like wine; a river of burgundy fire. Only his lips upon mine kept silent the tears that brimmed my eyes. He must have mistaken them for the rain, because his own cerulean circles had no remorse, held no pain. For all that was dealt to me in my fair, everlasting life, never had I seen such beauty as to match our immortality. Never had one graced me with such wings as to make me fall in love with flight.
I would have kept him by my side if not for the sun, the waxing sun stirring below the treetops; a scarlet dawn. I watched his fingertips float over the flowers beneath us, like wind over the water. He took an ivory blossom from the earth and held it in his hand. Legolas looked to me then, eyes lustrous. He held my hand in his, the warmth coursing through my veins. He then placed the blooming niphredil in my other, a pallid Moon to keep in my palm.
Our lips met a last time, where I could taste myself upon his silken, saccharine mouth. But, poignant was our parting, his golden hair glistening in the unsullied morning. His absence had me remember the soft flower, petals of white. Never did I realize that, like the inconstant Moon, she would wither, my niphredil. Yet I, enduring every winter she could not, would be without my sweet blossom.
But I still blame it on the wind, the scent of niphredil and elanor on its wings. Those were Luthien's flowers. And I blame every kiss, every tear, on her.