The following morning I awoke to a tingling sensation in my right foot. I tried to shake it awake, but something was piled on top of my calf. My foot nudged me impatiently with its incessant prickling, but I was unable to set free the blood that would rush into the places inside me that needed it most. I felt something against my leg that I had not felt in a long time: another leg, entwined in mine. I noticed suddenly the heap of breathing blankets behind me and the long, muscular arm that was slinked around my waist, the hand draped onto the bed in front of my stomach, strumming my heartstrings. I studied the offending hand for a moment, watching the way the arteries covering the knuckles pulsed in a silent rhythm, begging me to notice. I felt warm, tickling breath on the back of my neck coming at a slow pace; the steadiness of it caught me off guard. It was not rehearsed again and again like a scene from a play, but rather upbeat and improvised, fixed and unnerving.
Slowly, I felt the prickling sensation move from my right foot to my other foot, climbing up my legs and through my chest, scaling my body like a mountain, hanging on for life and the gratification of reaching a summit. The sensation finally peaked at the tip of my head and descended again like a waterfall, drenching my entire body with sweat. I forced saliva down my aching throat.
What made me uncomfortable was the sheer comfort that I felt, however paradoxical that may seem. Nothing about my predicament was awkward; underneath the arm that draped a curtain around our world, I was safe. Every Orc in Mordor could have waltzed into the room at that moment and all I would have been able to do is breathe.
I stayed in one position for longer than I had imagined an eternity. The universe simply shrunk to accommodate the time, and space had no property. In those few lifetimes I lay in that bed with that arm draped over me, hiding me from the world, space bended to fit and we were only one, that arm and me. I had become a part of the same beating that coursed through that cobweb of arteries spread over that hand, and no one could have convinced me otherwise. Sauron himself could have turned Arda upside-down and I would not have noticed. I was simply being.
After a moment longer than a lifetime of the gods, I managed to force every cell within me to move. It took another era for me to finally turn my body so I could look into the face of the person whose arm had become a part of my very soul. His long, golden tresses were cascading behind him on our pillow. The steady beat of his breathing had not been interrupted, and his arm was still draped over me. I saw the soft spots inside him, the dark holes that had been hollowed out by life, existing somewhere between his collarbone and his ribcage. I noticed the tender spots on his eyelids and the way they quivered slightly every time I took a breath. I noticed the deep brown of his eyelashes and the way they curled, saving his honey brown eyes from a storm.
I could do nothing but lie there and stare. I think I must have been there until Arda collapsed beneath us with age when I finally felt his breathing become a little erratic and watched as his eyelids flickered open, drinking in the sunlight in the room like someone dehydrated. Before I saw it, I felt an invisible string pull one end of his lips into a smile. I could have stayed there forever, staring at his half-smile, but I knew that would be unreasonable. There were far more important things than drawing the curtain on our world.
"Good morning," dripped Legolas' groggy voice, like honey into my ears. I wanted not to respond, to just ignore that he was awake and would soon move his arm from around me when he realized where it was. All I wanted to do was ignore the morning, pull the covers over our heads and disappear. I did not want to have to get up and worry about whether or not I would make it through another day, or what in Arda was keeping the world from simply caving in for so long. Had Sauron found his Ring? Should we leave Middle-earth now? I did not want to think about never returning to the calm beauty of Mirkwood or the shining elegance of Imladris. I wanted to stay under those warm sheets and under his strong arm. The emotions were so overwhelming that I felt a warm tear drip down my nose and threaten to trickle onto what was left of my universe.
Legolas' eyebrows knitted in concern, and without saying a word he moved his arm to wipe the tear from the tip of my nose. As he did so, I could not help smiling, and his thin lips parted in return.
"Good morning," I finally replied, realizing it would not actually be a good morning when we left that bed. Up until now it had been a good morning. To my relief, Legolas moved his leg from on top of mine and rolled onto his back, stretching and sighing while watching the ceiling. I could not read the expression that clouded his face.
"Guess we better get up," Legolas said, turning his head toward me, expression still undecipherable.
"Yes," I agreed reluctantly, making to sit up but Legolas pulled me down in one swift movement. He wrapped both of his arms around me and rested me so close to his body that my breathing and his were synchronized. I was unsure of how to feel as my heart beat against his and my arms tangled around his neck, my face buried in his chest. He smelled of warm bread out of the oven mixed with a rather wood-like scent that spiraled up my nostrils into my head, drowning my thoughts like slow currents. I had never felt so close to anyone in my life, not even Aragorn. I was lost in that moment.
Finally, Legolas pulled away and stared straight into my eyes. I thought for a fleeting instant that he was going to kiss me, but thankfully, he refrained whatever he was about to do or say and instead let me go, crawling out of his bed and leaving me behind in the warmth that was us.