The sun is too bright, the wind is too fierce, and it's s-s-so cold…

I drop to my knees, the thin material of my pants providing no protection from the hard, heavy snow layered against the earth. It doesn't matter – the frost has already bitten me, and –

The elements have painted my eyelashes with icicles. I squint through them, blind.

It would be so nice to sleep…

I feel something solid grip my waist. I must be dreaming. I close my eyes, feeling lifted as though into my mother's arms. Take me home.

"Mine." A warm voice croons, as if from a distance. My cheek falls against something solid, but not nearly as hard as the earth.

The last thing I feel is my hair tickling my nose. No, it couldn't be… All my hair is secured under my cap.

The needles thrown from the North slow my thought process. Then whose hair…?

And then –

Nothing hurts anymore.

Everything hurts. My vocal cords, dry, croak out a helpless cry. I twitch and my bare skin slides against velvet.

Burning hands respond and an impossibly smooth, deep voice soothes me with words I don't understand.

I try to speak but my chapped lips warn against forming a single syllable.

Something warm slips over my lips and – oh, god – whatever it is, it coats my lips perfectly. My vision is hazy; I see a hand below my nose, providing balm to my lips. I detect the scent of masculinity, but not man.

"Water. Please." My voice is tiny.

I don't realize someone is lying behind me until I feel his heavenly warmth peel away from me. I shiver, clutching at the nearest thing, which happens to be the thick blanket securing me against the bed. The blanket is so soft I can't feel it. I wonder if I'm dreaming again.

"Sit up."

I don't recognize the voice, but I'm too weak to resist it. As soon as I obey, the rim of a chalice kisses my bottom lip and my hands are flying out grasping and I'm drinking it, all of it, yes –

I gasp, finally releasing my grip when the cup is empty. I hear my companion – rescuer? – chuckle softly. His hand never left the chalice; he pulls it back and I glance over at –

He's sitting next to me, the blanket covering him from his abdomen down. His white hair cascades over his shoulders and the skin of his chest and arms is free from imperfection. I avert my gaze from the… well, the apex of his legs, which I shouldn't be looking at. My manners are beginning to thaw and I remember to look him in the eye.

I am granted a split second to gaze upon his face while his eyes are cast downward. His dark lashes – long and thick – shield me from his eyes and, when he meets my gaze, I'm swept up into the snowstorm all over again.

Another helpless noise escapes my throat and I do what any creature might do in his presence – I shrink back under the blanket. My learnt manners are urging me to sit back up and face him, but my instincts tell me to hide.

He murmurs something in a foreign tongue. "You're warm now," he says with the same tone and cadence. I assume he's translating. Although that is giving him the benefit of the doubt. What makes me assume he is a benevolent creature? His appearance hardens my lungs, shortens my breath – but beauty doesn't always translate to goodness.

I curl my toes. "Yes," I admit, not sure if he was asking a question or just making a statement. I don't want to risk being rude by accidentally ignoring him. There is something in the way he uses his voice, how he holds his chin, which commands respect. And something else that suggests I don't want to know the consequences of failing to pay that respect.

I stretch my arms and legs out as best I can without knocking into him. The bed is expansive, the room is expansive, and his body must be too, because my foot brushes against his leg – his feet are further down than mine, making me curious about his height. He surpasses me in size, strength, and hairstyle.

How long was I asleep? Does he expect me to fall back asleep? God, I can't sleep now – my heart is racing. I hope he can't hear it. "Where am I?"

He slips further down under the blanket so he's lying next to me, his smooth skin slipping against mine. It tickles, but I dare not laugh – I shiver instead. "You are where I need you to be." He slips his left arm underneath the pillow behind my head. He gently pushes me onto my side so he can cup my body with his longer one, then uses his right arm to pull me snug against him. "There are many tiny, beautiful winter treasures to be found, but not all of them can I hold in my hands without them melting."

His voice reminds me of the hot cider I used to love when I was a child. What was that about melting in his arms? Or, wait, what…?

There is something unsettling yet comforting about my surroundings that makes me ambivalent about finding sleep again. Although, if this creature is indeed my rescuer, is there really anything to be nervous about? I am grateful for a shelter from the cold – for a shelter at all. My home isn't much of a refuge these days.

I try to think back to the snowstorm, searching my memory desperately…

I turn around to face him, my weakened muscles protesting against the effort. "Why did you rescue me?" He feels so warm, his scent is so comforting – I want so badly to trust him.

He lifts his arm briefly to accommodate my shift in position and then wraps me up again. I catch a glimpse of his impossibly straight hair, his ear poking through the strands. He is definitely not Man. I rest my head under his, so my nose is against his chest. But he smells so much better than one.

"I have never seen a traveller so unprepared, so vulnerable, so…" Beautiful, he says under his breath, or maybe my mind is playing tricks on me. His voice is deep, and I'm not sure whether it's to reassure me or lull me into a false sense of security.

Either way, the cadence with which he speaks has a strange effect on me: I'm squeezing my legs together (which I hope he doesn't realize – how embarrassing) but my eyelids are getting heavier. I'm suddenly aware of my breathing; I try my best to breathe normally, to mask the effect that he has on my body.

He continues, "I am the Elven-king of the Woodland Realm, and a trespasser will always surrender to me before anyone – and anything – else." He cups the side of my face. "What is your name?"

His intense gaze and his beautiful face make me nervous, but I don't want to let him know that. He is definitely older than me, and I want to appear confident, like I can take care of myself. I say my full name, as evenly as possible.

He nods imperceptibly, as if memorizing my name and my features.

I bite my lip before speaking. In any other situation, it'd be a simple thing to ask someone's name – but here, it's so quiet, and he's so composed, I'm afraid of saying the wrong thing or tripping over my words. "And you are…?" I ask hesitantly.

When he reveals his name, I know immediately that I'll never be able to forget it.

"Thranduil," I echo him, saying it slowly, trying it out. I nestle back on my side, so my back is against his torso, the way we were before. It's weird, but a part of me feels privileged to know his name – like he's given me a private key.

When he fits his arm around my abdomen, he touches me as though he is revisiting old fingerprints he left on me centuries ago. How could a stranger know my body so well? He buries his face against the back of my neck, his nose at the base of my hairline, and inhales me, slowly.

I don't realize I've been holding my breath until he stops moving. Since his arm is over my abdomen, rising and falling with my breaths, I do all I can to monitor my breathing – neither rapid and shallow, which would give away my nervousness, nor too deep, which might give away the fact that I'm trying to take in as much of the scent of his bed as possible. I almost can't believe this is happening – like I'm still half asleep. Part of me assumes this is a dream, that I'll wake up and be back at home… and have to run away all over again.

He murmurs something in his own language. His voice is like honey that drips down my skin, curls around my curves, and fastens me to him. I will myself to stay awake, to listen even though the only thing I understand is the music of his words, but…

There are no windows. The candles overhead are like artificial stars. I wonder what the moon looks like tonight. Everyone who is alive right now, who looks up into the sky, gazes upon the same moon.

I remember the other humans, back home – what would technically be my family. A part of me wonders if anyone back home is looking for me. I kind of want someone to, just so that I knew they cared. And another part of me hopes no one comes after me, so I can truly get away from them.

I don't want to be on my own. I just want to be free. And safe.

My thoughts rouse my body. It takes me a moment to remember where I am, but when I do, I stay perfectly still. I'm supposed to be here, I tell myself, even though I don't fully believe it's true. I hug my abdomen, but the arms that kept me snug as I fell asleep have retreated.

The Elven-king of the Woodland Realm. He sounds way too important to actually care about me. Saving me, and then letting me sleep here – his kindness was most likely prompted by pity. I stay still, listening carefully, trying to discern whether he's sleeping or awake by his breathing pattern. I don't want to accidentally wake him up – he rescued me, the least he deserves is a proper night's sleep. I start practicing my goodbyes. I can't stay here forever.

I could turn around to look at him. Would it be rude to leave while he's asleep?

I shift a fraction of an inch, testing the bed. It doesn't creak, but I'm still cautious – all it takes is one noise to potentially wake him. Slowly, I roll over onto my other side, then prop myself up on my arm.

He's lying on his back, his hair fanned out roughly on the pillow and on his shoulders without even a touch of bedhead. His hair is so fabulous, it yields to nothing, not even sleep. The steady pulse in his neck, the slow rise and fall of his abdomen – there is a world at work within him, all of it hidden from sight.

His lips part – only a hair's width – but it's enough to startle me. All I need right now is for him to wake up and wonder why I'm hovering over him.

Well, I'm not hovering over him. I'm just watching…

I can't take my eyes off his mouth. A voice inside me says, kiss him.

No, that wouldn't be right. I doubt he'd let me kiss him if he was awake. My entire body heats up as I try to push the thought out of my mind. I should either leave or go back to sleep.

Then again, Thranduil was watching me sleep only a short time ago. And he must have been thinking something as he watched me – maybe not the same thoughts I'm having now, but…

I wonder how old Thranduil is. I've heard that Elves live much longer than Men, and I wouldn't be surprised if he is thousands of years old. Even though he doesn't look it.

Back home, many girls my age were betrothed to older men. I never understood it, but then, I was never very good at attracting the attention of the opposite gender. So often, I felt like an outsider, an alien in my own village, able to find my kin only among the characters of my favourite stories.

So I woke up in bed with an Elven-king… Definitely not like the fairy tales of my childhood.

Every time I wondered about older men, it was always in an abstract way. Never like this.

Very innocently, I reach my hand forward and place it on his arm, keeping my eyes on his in case he opens them. Even though I'm not doing anything wrong – at least, that's what I tell myself – I'm still nervous.

I thought that if I just let myself touch his arm, my urges would go away and I wouldn't have to battle with myself any longer. Now, my desire to get closer to him is even stronger. I mentally kick myself for allowing myself to touch him.

He inhales sharply.

I freeze. A strand of his hair tickles my finger.

If he woke up right now, I'd have to admit why I have my hand on him, which means confessing to my crush.

He's a great and powerful Elven-king, and I'm just… me.

I know I'm being too hard on myself, but there's no point in convincing myself otherwise. He is so gorgeous, he probably has a bevy of beautiful maidens waiting to share his bed.

I bring a hand to my lips, touching the spot where he applied the balm. If I kissed him, would the balm transfer over and leave a tell-tale sheen?

I lower myself closer to him. His hair is so vast, I can't help myself – I lift my hand off his arm and smooth a strand against the pillow. His hair goes on forever, cooler than the temperature of my fingers, and there isn't a single kink or knot in it.

Moving so slowly, it doesn't even feel like I'm moving, I close the distance between our faces. I'm an inch from his face now; he's out of focus. I'm staring at his closed eyes, ready to lie back down if he suddenly opens them. If he woke up right now, I swear I'd pee myself. I hold my breath so the puffs of air won't hit his cheek.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I place a single, whisper-light kiss against his cheekbone.

I retract my head, sucking in a breath. I feel a little thrill vibrate down my spine.

I turn my head to face the pillow. I can't help it; I smile, squeezing my eyes shut.

I hear the tiniest of noises – his head twitches against his pillow.

My eyes widen and I do my best not to jump out of bed. Quickly, I lay the side of my head against the pillow and shut my eyes.

After a few moments of silence, I open my eyes. He still appears to be sleeping. I know I should go back to sleep now, but I can't stop replaying that fleeting moment, that stolen kiss, over and over in my head.

I feel so silly; I feel like my heart's turned into mush. I curl my toes, needing some part of me to tense up so I won't burst.

I can't believe how I only kissed Thranduil's cheek, yet it felt more intense than all of the kisses I've shared with other guys combined.

I wonder how intense it might be to kiss him on the lips.

I open one eye, stealing another glance at him. I press my face into the pillow, hard, pretending it's him. The pillow doesn't have feelings; the pillow can't say yes or no.

But I need to show respect to Thranduil. And how respectful is it to kiss someone while they can't give their consent?

Maybe it depends on the kiss. Caregivers will kiss their babies' heads. Surely an innocent kiss can't be that horrible.

The pillow is soft, but it doesn't sate my desire. I need to know what it feels like to kiss him, to truly kiss him. Maybe when he wakes up, I can ask his permission?

And then he'd reject me. My face burns, anticipating the humiliation.

I wonder what it would be like to go to bed not just this night but every night, with a strong, lovely creature beside me to protect me. To have a man say, "I love you," and really mean it.

My lips part silently as I mouth an impossible wish, not because I mean it, but because I want so desperately to know what it feels like to say it to a man.

The pillow won't do. My dreams won't do. My thoughts won't leave me alone. I need to kiss him.

I'll do it quickly, just as I kissed his cheek, and then I'll be done. I inch towards him again. It feels so intimate to be this close to a man, especially one who is older. I wonder about what kind of experiences he's had…

Back home, I kissed guys who had roughly the same amount of experience as me. But to kiss Thranduil – that would be an adventure with someone much more experienced, much more capable. I long to learn how he might surprise me.

The promise, the hint, of a vast collection of carnal knowledge that grossly exceeds mine is enough to send a rush of anticipation throughout my body. I fantasize not about kissing him anymore, but about what he would do with me, if he wanted me the way I wanted him.

I lower myself over his face. I know just how sensitive human lips are, and I assume Elven lips are the same – I can't apply any pressure, or he'll feel it and certainly wake up. My neck is stiffening, but I dare not adjust myself and risk bumping into his nose. I close my eyes and count to three.

One… two…

I accidentally lower myself a hair's width too low, but it's low enough to touch his lips.

His eyes open.

Caught, I pull my head back too fast.

I feel like crying, I'm so embarrassed – although there's no denying the pulsing between my legs. I bury my face in the pillow like an ostrich.

He murmurs my name and it sounds so nice, I have to press my whole body into the bed to keep myself from shaking. "How long have you been awake, little one?"

I can't tell if he's serious or whether he's teasing me. I know he saw me, but I'm not willing to admit defeat just yet. Doing my best to be a good actress, I let out a fake snore.

A laugh bursts out of him. "Ah, fast asleep, I see."

I curse myself for my carelessness. I turn my head to peek up at him. There's no use in pretending anymore. I worry about whether he'll be angry at me for stealing a kiss while he slept – or worse, laugh at how ridiculous I am for trying to come that close to someone so dizzyingly high above my station.

He cups my shoulder. My eyes widen. His touch is firm and I can't tell what he's thinking. His eyelids lower. "You are so young. You don't know how to kiss properly."

My heart sinks below the mattress. I knew I was a fool. "I'm sorr-"

He pushes me against the pillow, pressing his mouth against mine.

It's too much to process at once: the ghost of his husky voice still haunting me as both his hands grasp my shoulders, keeping me in place. I couldn't move if I tried. My hands, stunned, are still by my sides. Just as I begin to lift them –

He retreats just as quickly as he advanced on me. My lips part, speechless. One hand remains on my shoulder, giving me a glimmer of hope despite my attempts to talk myself out of wanting another kiss. I can't help it – it's like he has his own gravitational pull. I get closer to him, but he keeps his arm stiff, holding me away from him.

Embarrassed, I feel wave of disappointment wash over me.

And then he kisses me again. Our lips fit together perfectly. This time, his tongue enters me, touching my tongue so gently it's enough to make me whimper.

It's slow, it's languorous. He kisses as though he has already mastered time, as if he is going to live forever. Before, I was only ever kissed by guys who might live to be several decades, if they were lucky. They kissed quickly, like stones skipping across the surface of a pond. But Thranduil's kiss is deeper than an ocean, and darker than the heart of the earth.

I close my eyes this time. This time it's real. This time, he must be kissing me because he wants to. How unbelievable is that? Still nervous, I keep my body still, even though I want to envelop him with my legs and arms. I lift my hands, placing them on either side of his neck. Keeping him close, I move my thumbs ever so slightly, stroking the line of his jaw.

He slowly pulls his tongue out, licking my top lip for a millisecond – just enough time for me to doubt whether he actually did it, or whether my desire has driven me to hallucinate. He moans oh-so-quietly as he pulls away. His arms brush against mine, and every hair on my arms stands up. My skin feels so sensitive. He cups my face. The pads of his thumbs dance along my cheekbones in perfect synchrony. "How does that feel?"

I'm grateful for the blanket covering our bodies, so he can't see what a mess he's made out of me. I keep my eyes shut, too nervous to open them. He's too perfect for me to look at. "Good," I stammer.

He draws circles around my eyes with the tips of his fingers, enticing me to look at him. "Merely 'good'?"

He sounds like he's smiling. Curious, I open my eyes. His mouth is soft but straight – only his eyes suggest a hint of teasing. I'm afraid to tell him the truth, afraid that if I tell him just how good it felt, he'll laugh at me. He must know that I don't have nearly as much experience as him. Is he toying with me? I hope not – at this point, I don't think I'd survive that much blunt trauma to the heart. I try to pull his head back down, but he keeps himself rooted. He finally smiles with his mouth; I'm not getting any closer to him without giving him an answer.

I sigh, giving in to him. "No. It feels amazing."

And then his entire body is pressing down on me. I feel like a leaf being swept up into the sky by his great power. I would have never guessed that I could feel so fragile, yet so safe, at the same time. It would be so easy to drown in him, but my lungs protest. I lift my chin, breaking the kiss, gasping.

He allows me a single precious sip of air before he consumes me again, his tongue reaching further within me this time. He hums, joining the vibration of my vocal cords with his own. He moves between my legs, slowly, giving me time to anticipate the sensation of having him even closer to that which pulses within me.

I want so badly to wrap my legs around his waist. I worry about seeming too forward. I was taught not to speak unless spoken to, to not be the one to initiate things. If I pulled him in closer with my legs, would he push me away?

Before I can decide, he moves a hand to my neck. He slows his kisses and strokes my collarbone, finally releasing my mouth. I gasp but feel no relief – I need his lips on me again.

I squeeze my eyes shut, scolding myself. His passion has spoiled me. I'm going to need him for the rest of my life now, and I won't be able to have him ever again. Why else would he break away? I turn my head away, wanting to increase the distance between our bodies, inadvertently exposing my neck to him.

He kisses the space between my collarbones, then my pulse point, slowly making his way to the spot behind my ear. "My little one," he breathes into my ear. "You yielded so swiftly to the wind and snow… I envied the storm, and I could only imagine you yielding even more rapidly, more wholly, to me."

He doesn't give me a chance to linger on his words. I catch a glimpse of the look in his eyes. He doesn't care what I want anymore; his passion has consumed the both of us. He grabs my legs and wraps them around his waist. This time, I am the one to lift my head and seal our lips together.

I know I'm not dreaming, because it's so much better than that. It's perfect.