summary : Commercial alliances between Lindon and Mirkwood had always been common; and so was the dignified contempt both of their heir held towards each other. You thought of Mirkwood’s prince with a distinguished loathing regarding his arrogance and conceited personality, and he thought no different of you. It had never been a problem. But that was before there was mentions of reinforcing the bond between the two kingdoms with a strategic union. And not just any union: an heir wedding.
pairing legolas x fem!reader (no use of y/n)
⤷ enemies to partners to lovers
⤷ slow burn
content warning : blood, panic attacks, injuries, minor character death, forced mariage, angst, trauma, slow burn, slight smut, bits of political scheming, follows tolkien’s storyline (to an extent), distortion of the original timeline for plot purposes; let me know if i missed anything!
what are you willing to give for your kingdom?
table of contents —
chapter 1 : proud princes and petty princesses ⋮ read on ao3
chapter 2 : farewell feast ⋮ read on ao3
chapter 3 : Mirkwood calls ⋮ read on ao3
chapter 4 : the prince's chambers ⋮ read on ao3
chapter 5 : by matters of trade ⋮ read on ao3
chapter 6 : against dwarves and spiders ⋮ read on ao3
chapter 7 : ink bleeds red and secrets ⋮ read on ao3
summary : The Feast of Starlight closes its crowded hands around you, and Legolas is nowhere to be seen. Yet you have lots of things to address, and a little too much elvish wine when he drags you away from the lavish party.
pairing legolas x fem!reader (no use of y/n)
content warning : mentions of blood, mentions of minor characters death, arranged marriage, graphic depiction of murder and lethal wounds, slight drunkenness, talks of dead parents, backstory and lore heavy, for global content warning see a heart for a kingdom’s masterlist
author’s note : it's been a month, dropping this bomb here, hope you like it :p things are getting serious
➣ nini’s masterlist
➣ a heart for a kingdom’s masterlist
Cold and lingering like ghost-touch, the weight of your father’s hand and the distant ring of his voice days ago accompany you as you enter the ballroom. The Elvenking’s Halls are packed for the occasion, a sea of people lying before you. None pays you any attention for now, you hope it’ll stay that way. From the vault of the ceiling hang many lights hidden as decorations. Their steady glow warms up the atmosphere and magnify the flowing fabric of all the high-end apparels in the room.
The overall decorum is allowed to slip a little from its usual tightness, though it is still evident the gathering calls for high society. People laugh and chat merrily, their laughters can be heard at every corner of the room.
Upon taking your first step in the splendid Hall, you feel your heart squeeze. It is not the exuberant number of people which makes you nervous, it is the reason of their coming. It all makes you uneasy: the luxury of the decors, the lavishness of the buffet, the price of the wine. Such a feast must have costed a small fortune, but you know it is not one your father and king Thranduil are above spending for such an occasion.
Words about the Feast of Starlight have been spreading for as long as you can remember, both in elven and human realms. Those who cannot attend it like to dote and make assumptions on its greatness; those who have the chance to be counted as guests of the feast revel in generous descriptions of it to whoever cares to hear it.
This year, there is no doubt the descriptions will double in length.
Unfortunately, the decorations are no sweet enjoyment to you; on the contrary. They poke at your ribs uncomfortably. If today the care put in the Feast of Starlight is twice what it usually is to be, it is because it’s a very particular feast. One that requires your presence, one that will seal your fate.
In reality, you are already tethered right where everyone wants you by invisible bounds. The fabric of your dress at your collarbones scratches uncomfortably, you pull on it to ease the feeling. You hope it will not feel like bugs crawling on your skin or hundreds of all seeing eyes when they will announce the beauty you are sentenced with: young like you are, fair, golden haired. Immortal.
You gulp thickly. Back to the moment, you can’t drown right now. Your gaze skims over the assembly, a few guests have turned to you and send you warm smiles. You reply to them equally with practiced ease. Just like you rehearsed in front of the mirror. Your steps slowly take you across the room, into the crowd and eventually in front of your host. Slightly towering above the party on his pedestal, the king of the Woodland realm feels you coming his way before he sees it. When he appears in your line of sight, you notice he wears the finest robe you have ever seen: embroidered with gold patterns, so obviously above any of the guests’ attire.
You bow to him respectfully, then to your father who stands next to him. The traitor. Both of them. They look right, next to each other, two kings who betrayed their only child for lineage. A daughter’s life one parts with over politics; a son’s heart one compromises for greed. Some elves are greedy, it seems Thranduil may have started the tendency.
“Mesmerising, as always,“ the Elvenking compliments you without thinking too much about it. It is hard to tell if he even means it.
The smile you give him is pursed, he does not notice it. Already, his attention has departed from you. He searches something in the crowd behind you with a frown for a second, but settles for you again when he does not find it. You can easily guess what he was looking for. You have not seen Legolas anywhere.
“How do you like the Feast of Starlight, this year?“ Thranduil asks like you are a recurrent member of the party, but it is your first time participating.
“As much as I should, thank you.“
A polite answer, not a lie. You are enjoying this as mush as you should, which means not at all.
Thranduil sees right through your attitude. He does not mention it. The woodland king likes clever little things like you, he hopes you keep his son clever too.
A whirl of the crowd behind you catches the kings’ attention and cuts the discussion. On an upper loggia carved in the giant trunk of the tree that acts as the eastern wall of the room, an orchestra you had not noticed before begins to play. The music stops the Hall quiet for a short instant, before it rouses cheerful squeals from the people who order their scattering in rows and pairs for a dance.
In the rushed movement of it all, someone calls for the king’s attention and another presents you a plate full of wine glasses. You stare at the offer for a moment, watch your distorted reflection staring back at you in the red robe of the wine, before picking up a glass with a mouthed ‘thank you‘.
Around you, the room awakens as you step away from the royal throne and to a secluded border. One of the highest assembly in the world, elves of the finest kind, rouses in elegant dances and songs before you; yet you do not pay them the attention they deserve. To the human eye the sight would be heavenly, divine, almost too much to bear; to the trained, elvish one it is impressive and gleeful; to yours, however, it is nearly plain.
You have half a mind for festivities, and even if you keep on a princess’ facade, there is one fool you cannot play and it is you. The wine taunts you with affluxes of its scent: rich, supple, notes of vanilla and sweet spices you can pinpoint, the finish almost erotic when you taste it. Everyone around has a glass too, it is one of the only times in the year they are allowed to be careless.
You should not take this freedom for yourself too, but wine is too easy of a drink to abuse and the evening too stressful. It would not do you any harm if you took another glass. Once. Or twice. Or more than you ought to. You forget elvish wine hits harder than regular one, you forget it lets a funny feeling in your chest afterwards, like a flower blooming.
The lavishness of the party can do nothing against your irrepressible want to escape the boredom, to distract yourself to minimise the chance of any thought occurring. It works for a little while. Your mind swims a little in a haze every other guest shares, you feel more inclined to appreciate the joys of the feast. Alcohol is treacherous, and you are also more prone to emotions.
Your skin heats up as time goes on, your cheeks too though it is visible only to those who wish to scrutinise you.
Swiftly, the atmosphere changes and the noise mellows. The orchestra reverts to background music, people wander without rush, made slow and content by the liquor and food filling their belly. You notice the shift unlike everyone else; for them it is only the natural motion of the feast, to you it is the bell tolling.
Aimed at you like a spear slicing through the crowd is your father’s gaze catching yours. Your eyes advert as quickly as you can, your hands grow fidgety at the long sleeve of your dress. You step back, then aside when he still stares at you. Hurried, yet lacking their usual confidence, your steps take you right into the crowd where you can escape it.
You hide like a little girl in her mother’s closet. You hide like you did that same day with blood on your hands, and the violins of the orchestra grow louder.
Too loud.
Persistent. Like a warning, like a proof. You step away from the crowd and towards the nearest exit the moment your elbow hits a woman in the ribs and she grumbles, making you apologise profusely. When you finally reach it, you do not make motion to leave. Instead, you stay here, straight as ever, eyes wandering in the far, far away distance.
It’s like you want to know what will happen if you stay. If you whip yourself enough, will it make it more bearable? Can you tolerate to be stripped out of your life because someone decided your purpose was a prince? Immortal pain, immortal yet slain. If you bite, if you beg, if you howl, if you stab and strangle and hit–
A shoulder brushes yours, someone stops right next to you and it pulls you back to the glinting lights of the Hall.
When you pivot to turn to the trespassing presence, your head swims a little and it takes a second before you see clearly. In front of you, every gleam tangles in Legolas’s golden hair. They weave like jewels between his braids, emphasise the slope of his nose with curled shadows. Your fingers twitch at your side; his tunic matches yours.
Legolas needs a moment before he remembers to nod gracefully your way. You do not bow to each other anymore, a simple nod is enough: you know each other too well, share too intertwined of a fate for formalities.
You look at one another for longer than required, especially you. His own gaze lingers different than usual, more wandering. Less appropriate. It curls in the plush of your hips the dress marks, rakes up your belly until the plunging collar of your dress, studies the slope of your shoulders. The blue dress from the Farewell Feast was something, but now you are dressed in the colour of his realm and there is in Legolas an irrepressible urge to see you out of it. Because it is dangerous. He wishes you wouldn’t wear it so good.
A pale red dusts his cheeks, there is a glass of wine in each of his hands. He hands you one. Your fingers wrap around it too quickly to be casual, they brush his in the process and the feeling stays for a short while.
“You are the last person I wanted to see tonight,“ you try a snarky comment but it falls the wrong way, with more angst to its edge.
Legolas looks at you from where he stands, not with pity but with something far more devastating because it comes from him. He understands. You are both afflicted by the same grief, and it is so inconvenient that Legolas should be the one to understand your pain best. You have made it a point to keep him away from you or your good opinion for months now, yet for once this side of the story is not only yours.
You do not have the willpower to keep the face of your resentment on, it slips like your barriers under the spell of wine. It wouldn’t hurt if you let loose just this once, would it? It would not change the way of things, nor the dreaded passage of time. If anything, you think it would allow you less reserve to speak with Legolas truly, without filters of etiquette. He seems as tipsy as you: just a little bit, just enough to be true.
“And yet here we are.“
No, you really can’t hate him as much as usual when he takes all your mean remarks and never mentions them. He even smiles at you, the distinct upward twitch of his lips. Why are you looking at his lips?
“Join me?“ he points towards the exit behind you with his chin. “I don’t imagine you want to hear what they are about to say.“
You glance at the other end of the room where the kings stand, view partially obstructed by the head of people from the crowd, then at the exit behind you. Nobody looks at you, Legolas’s appearance did not shift everyone’s atmosphere, just yours. He came so furtively it is possible even his father does not know he is here, yet you doubt anything can go past Thranduil’s watchful eyes.
Legolas is right, you do not want to be here to hear people rejoice at the outcome of your destiny. One does not have to be very observant to know those things distress you: after all, you threw up after your first meeting with the prince when nothing had even been voice out loud yet. Of course, he does not know about this, but Legolas is far for a simpleton and he has seen the tension in your shoulders in each of these situations, how you lose yourself in a far away point in the void.
With a single movement of the head, you give him the answer he was hoping for.
“After you.“
His lips stretch without as much reserve when you accept his offer, and he steps beside you to lead the way towards the exit. On the way, you see him grab another cup full of wine; greedy, but tonight you have every right to be amongst sinners. You mirror the action, hoping salvation is a frayed mind. You know the thought foolish, but you are already imprudent following the despised prince down empty corridors.
In the back of your mind, the reminder that even your trusted ones like him awakens. You hope he won’t worsen the constant twist in your guts, that he stays as disagreeable as you think him to be.
The noises from the Hall become muffled enough not to be made out anymore just at the right time. You can swear you were beginning to hear Thranduil speak, and violins were no longer playing. You try not to imagine all that is being said right this moment, but it is hard to ignore it. It’s like you feel in your guts the moment it is said out loud, even though you cannot hear it.
You are now officially to be married with the prince.
You collar itches again, you pull on it and it’s like Legolas feels your anxiety. His steps suddenly stop at a turn, you take three more before remembering to stop too. He does not let you the time to question him. Instead, he gestures to his right to let you walk in before him. Under a partly hidden archway, a more luminous space expends, akin to a garden. You think you see a flowerbed thriving under a pool of clear starlight.
When you step in, Legolas’s hand comes to rest between your shoulder blades to guide you like the touch is natural. You do not mention it; the feeling is grounding despite your will. It coaxes you in until you are fully able to take in the place. Around you, all the riches of a luxuriant interior garden display. Ivy climbs to the stone walls, forget-me-nots pool on the green grass patches, the moonlight evens your traits.
You want to say something but all the words of every language feel wrong. Speaking of it would diminish the beauty of the place, without a doubt. It reminds you of the forest back home for the instant sense of relief it sets upon you. No longer do the stakes of the evening weight on your heart, you finally have a moment of peace. You crane your neck back to let your gaze wander above your head, where you expect to find a sky full of stars, but what you see exceeds everything the realm of your imagination could have thought about.
Right above you, falling in a canopy of the most beautiful kind, white wisterias hang. They rustle delicately with the low breeze, filter moonlight through sheer petals. The sight alone makes your heart swell, empties your head of remaining anger or stress. You see only the magnificent shrubs.
At your side, Legolas’s smile softens as your traits relax so visibly and your eyes go wide. He keeps for himself a chuckle when your jaw hangs slack, and turns his gaze to the sky. There is a newfound sense of pride in his chest upon seeing you so bewildered by something he showed you. You are not tense and on the edge like he has found you in the ballroom anymore, and he is the one who gets to see this side of you.
Legolas imagines the wine plays a part in this, and that your dominant loathing of him will soon return, but for the time being it is enough.
“It’s not much,“ he undermines, as if prefiguring you will find an excuse to hate this.
You do not.
“Wisterias…“ you whisper in a breath. Not for anyone in particular, but Legolas picks it up.
“Yes. You seemed rather fond of them.“
Your eyes meet for a moment, you try to decipher any trace of mockery in his tone but can find none. The elf-prince only looks true and ethereal, basket in the night. He looks unlike the boy you remember, less rough at the edges, more sweet on the tongue. Even his name has a different ring in your mind; one that does not induce hatred.
Legolas, Legolas, Legolas, Legolas.
Legolas in his fancy tunic that doesn’t even make him look phoney. Legolas with that small smile upon his face. Legolas through the crack of the curtain while you hid in his room. Legolas unkempt under you as you fought. Legolas blurry from a memory where he saves your life without ever asking for a favour in return.
Legolas that senses your anguish in a glance and takes you out of the Hall to the prettiest wisterias growing in his realm. Legolas that shares your torment and to whom you have been especially mean.
You lower your head to drink from your cup when he speaks again.
“My father never comes here, he avoids the garden.“
“How come?“
“It is too close to his heart, I suppose.“
You don’t understand what he means by that right away, until your gaze stops on a statue adorning the top of a small fountain. Ivy climbs to it, you make your way to the sculpture and push back the plants from its eyes like one would a stray lock of hair. As you stand in front of it, you have the underlying feeling of stepping in intimacy; like you are maybe not supposed to be the one observing the traits of a woman etched in stone and feel sorrow fill your heart.
Her features are fine, delicate like those of someone truly pure of heart. It’s like the passage of time does nothing to her. You imagine it was also the case in flesh and bones, because you begin to understand who she is. You recognise the cupid bow of her lips, the soft air about her.
Legolas joined your side quietly during your observation. He said nothing, but you know his eyes are fixated right where yours are. A weird feeling tugs at his chest, something he usually likes to avoid. The slight haze upon his mind makes it hard to do so, his heart opens to every emotion a little more.
The stone is cold and rough under your fingertips when you raise a gentle hand to trace the slopes of the woman’s face. They glide under your touch, you stare attentively as you try to ingrain them into your mind like they are worth remembering.
You wish you could remember his features as vividly before he died, not the grim, greenish complexion of his murdered skin. Maybe then he could visit you alive in your nightmares.
“My mother,“ Legolas introduces like it is not evident.
The prince has something of her very striking yet nameless. Something she grew in her belly just like him. Your forefinger falls from the tip of her nose.
“She was very pretty,“ you note.
“Yes, she was. It is a faithful rendition.“
“You look like her.“
“No, I don’t…“ his sentence trails, the rest comes after a sight. Legolas dislikes admitting it. “I look like my father,“ he says.
“Yes,“ you agree. “But she looks like she was a fair woman, and gentle.“
“She could be strict.“
The prince has a far away look in his eyes you have never seen before. It is a look you know far too well, and it pains you he should suffer it. Your eyes fall to his lips for a second, they glisten when he licks them wet.
“I was unfair to you,“ his eyes turn to you, not expecting it.
“So was I,“ is his only reply.
Short, hitting right where it is dangerous; coaxing compassion out of you. Compassion for the man whose sole existence binds you, is there a bigger joke on earth? Yet compassion nonetheless, and you do not push it away. How could you when he looks as equally lost as you? Tonight, you share something that goes beyond your instinctive resentment and all your mechanisms. Legolas allows you to see the cracks in his composure, a glimpse at what flesh strained by grief lies underneath.
You should too: let the naked truth replace hubris. As ugly as it is, as sickening.
Not just yet. The night has only begun.
“Come this way, we’re almost there.“
Just like that, Legolas steps away and you follow; closer than required, but the Halls would be a maze without him to guide you through them. He takes you up multiple flights of a spiral staircase, through a single gothic arched door, and your shoes clasp against the stone ground all the way. When you’re finally in front of an archway leading outside, the cool air wraps around your ankles again and seems to drag you where Legolas leads you.
Outside, it is more beautiful than in a dream awakened. The archway opens on a balcony, hanging right above the canopy so beneath you is a sea of white petals and above the night sky full of stars. For a moment, the view steals your breath and freezes you on the spot. Your eyes find the stars which shine brighter than usual, Legolas’s are already back on you, observing your reaction.
It warms something fuzzy in his chest when you cannot help a smile, illuminated by the cold light he likes most in the world. You step to lean against the railing, the soft wind ruffling in your hair all the beauty of the place. You don’t know what to say. Is there even something to say?
You believe there isn’t, and once you come down from your awe you let yourself turn to the prince and follow when he motions to sit down on the ground, shoulder against the wall to get more comfortable. Your dress pools around you a little, the stones feel cool against your legs. It anchors you when you look at the elf-prince, his hair going about with the wind. It’s strange seeing him in this light: untamed, made vulnerable by the alcohol. Already, you’ve learnt more in minutes with him now than you had in the past months.
You knew the look on his mother’s face, the traits he shared with her, the place he went for comfort. There’s a halo around his head made by the stars behind, and when you speak you do not think about what rolls off your tongue anymore.
“What was the quest of Erebor like?“ you forefinger runs along the rim of your cup, Legolas follows it attentively like it does something to him physically.
“Like running after dwarves: oddly hard to catch,“ you huff at this, almost a chuckle but not really.
“You were suspicious of me when they escaped.“
“I was.“
The silence does not have the time to settle, ruffling wisterias act as the only background noise. There is nothing bitter in the exchange, no blame you would cast on the prince or he on you.
“But you were the one hiding things.“
“We never really were in a partnership, you and I… You were the one advocating for their release only days before, you admit it was rather queer for them to break free like that all of a sudden.“
You nod. “Hm,“ Legolas is right. If it was him you wouldn’t have gave him the benefit of the doubt like he had given you. “And the battle?“
This time, Legolas thinks before speaking. You think you’ve already said something wrong when the words take their time to come out.
“Like death is supposed to feel. Wretched, a haze when you fight that never lifts off your eyes until it is too late.“
You know just the feeling. For once, the fact that he shares it with you makes you like him a little bit more. Or is it the look that he gives you, so deep and yet reassuring. Whatever you say, he will try to understand, and it’s the first time it happens to you. Your father never listened, never seeked to understand. He drew conclusions too hastily, just like you do.
“It was not lifted off my eyes yet when we met,“ he continues. You know what he means: his mother. “She... she died not two hundred years ago. Things have not been the same without her. The king– My father never talks of it. We never talked about mother, not before his whole folly about taking back the jewels. And I… saying I shrunk back would be a euphemism. But it is not the only reason I was deceitful with you. I had never been as ill-tempered as I was before coming to your realm. I believe you heard it time and again and understood it long before this, but the forest holds a malicious grip on us wood-elves. It does not excuse the way I acted, or my defensiveness, but I hope it can explain it enough.“
Your breath has slowed; you did not expect such a confession. It is not this you were looking to get out of him, far from it. But Legolas talked of the things that hurt naturally now, his glass long abandoned and empty on the floor beside him. He tells you what is inside his heart like you deserve to know. You can see the vulnerability in his eyes, the one one always has when talking of a long gone parent.
“The forest plagued my mind with anger, it would only rest when I walked through it. As if I was a part of it. But away from its magic, in your realm, there was such calm, something I had not felt in a really long time. I think, mostly, I was jealous of the serenity of your country. It allowed me to rest for a while, and it had been so long I had not rested. It scared me, irrationally. It felt so weird, all that peace around, like a con. I was unfair to you because I wished to avoid the possibility of finding solace away from my home; if you can find the heart to understand this.“
Unconsciously, you shifted on your spot, leaning in closer to better drink his words. In front of you, Legolas’s eyes seemed more alert to your every reaction, a small frown on his face. You knew all that, Gandalf had told you, but for him to tell you directly roused something else in your foggy brain. A confusion, because your heart should not flip inside your ribcage like that. Your eyes should not scan him so attentively that you could distinguish the grain of his skin, or the small cut on his upper lip.
Imperfect, for once. Unprincely with his hair disheveled and the very aware look in his eyes, like a deer who put himself in danger willingly and dares not move away from it. Legolas feels like he tests the limits of your calmness. How much can he say before you hate him, how many minutes before the atmosphere gets cold again? But you’re beginning to think maybe just like cold is only the absence of heat, hatred does not exist and is merely the absence of love.
Perhaps you did not hate him, but faced the impossibility to love him. To love him would have been against reason and everything you swore to protect. You search for something to say, maybe talk about your mother too, but it is not the same kind of grief. There is another thing. Something you tried to keep hidden but surfaced back with its own will like a monster because looking at Legolas sent alarms into your brain.
He was the face of your doom, always had been. Beautiful yet cursed to deceive you. Even right now, as he was pouring his heart out in hopes of gaining your good graces, he was bound to deceive you in the end.
“I was quick to resent you too,“ you say.
“You were quick to see what was going to happen to us. I think I was less perceptive.“
“I recognise patterns, that is all.“
“What do you mean?“
“I mean it is not the first time a wedding is forced upon me.“
The words fall heavy in the space between you. They extend it, Legolas leans back just enough for you to see. It almost makes you curl a bitter smile. Ah, the grieved widow archetype, he probably thinks. You wish it was this type of pain you suffered. Of course, Legolas does not know about it, the marriage’s echos were muffled by your family just after. To save you from disgrace and to avoid a conflict far greater than you. That’s why you can’t go about the world whenever you want anymore, there is always a risk that Arthedain still seeks for revenge. You could be followed, you could be ambushed, and so you had to be locked up in your ivory tower by the sea.
When your father had forced you to accept an engagement to the heir to Arthedain’s throne, you remember your world shattering like glass and slipping under your feet. You recall seeing your freedom torn away from you, and the underlying feeling that you were going to die in this marriage. It did not fail; but you died another way.
“You hope he died on the field, right? You hope I’m only a poor widow grieving, that would explain my behaviour towards you,“ you say, tone more aggressive than before.
Here it is, the hatred that comes back like second nature. Like a shadow following you around —and what an heavy shadow. But it keeps you going, this rage.
“I am not. I killed him for chaining me in silence.“
Quiet.
The aftermath of a bomb that dropped. Blurry, skin burning like you just slapped Legolas across the face. You murdered your late husband.
Perhaps the prince is a fool, downright deranged for not running away right this instant, but he does not. He stays here, sat next to you, and instead of backing away from the murderer before him, he leans in. Curiosity is a vice Legolas cannot escape when it comes to you. He feels no animosity towards you, no disgust. The elf-prince does not open his mouth to yell you’re mad, nor does he threaten you with the dagger he always has. He only does that weird, inconceivable thing: leaning in.
“I lay awake on our nuptial bad the first night. It had not been a full day we were husband and wife yet I felt… I felt myself drowning, suffocated. And it didn’t take more than a look at him for me to decide I was going to kill him.“
You want to scream, to yell at him to understand, to push you away, to burst into the ballroom and tell everyone you’re a monster. You want to limp behind him as he does so, to feel like your dress is soaked by blood again. You wish Legolas could know, could see the memory just like it plays in your mind: just like it happened. With you slipping the hunting knife you had stolen from under your pillow, crawling on top of your husband like you meant to swallow him. You remember the drag of your dress, hiking to your thighs as you straddled him, and the never ending wish that you would turn back.
Please don’t do that. Please go back to sleep. Close your eyes and pretend this never happened.
You could do that, you could sleep for the remainder of your life. You could turn into a quiet ghost, disappear because you were not needed.
Until his rough hands griped at your hips and you couldn’t anymore.
You felt he was going to be mean with it, whenever he asked for you. And your mind suddenly flooded with all that you could not take: being the queen everyone knows her husband cheats on with servant girls, watching people suffer and die because of his cruelty and not doing anything about it, observing life pass by in a black and white lens until it is too late. Letting go of Valinor. Never meeting your mother again.
It felt smooth like butter when the blade sunk in his chest, maybe a bit obstructed by the muscles and bones here. You only registered it had when you shoved it out of the cavity and held it up higher for another blow: harder, with more purpose to it. You felt your heart beat in your eardrums, and your breath turn ragged with every wound you created. One was not enough, neither was two, it had to be dozens until you could rest. The sound of flesh tearing beneath you in the dark would follow you every night from now on. It is a well deserved curse, for killing a man.
And so will the groans from the back of his throat. Monstrous, a breathy thing, bubbling with the blood he was coughing. It came from his parted lips, frothing with saliva, and in carmine bubbles from the stab wound perforating his lungs. The blood was hot, burning when it splattered on your face in small geysers each time you removed the blade. Then it stopped erupting when you stabbed again. And again, and again, and again, until what was left of him was his fingers twitching at his side, limp on the soaked mattress. You stabbed until your mind stopped racing and the anger in your chest loosened.
When it did and the world around you didn’t whirl anymore, you leaned forward, using your bloodied hand as leverage against his chest to reach for the oil lamp and open it. The skin beneath your palm squished, your hand made slippery by the amount of blood. When light filled the room, the sight was pure horror.
Face contorted underneath you, Arthedain’s heir laid dead in his own blood. The white linens of the bed where no longer pristine but reeked the atrocious odour of the fluid coating them: turning a rusty brown in the places where there was still not enough of it for the blood to stop being able to be sucked by the fabric. You tried a single glance at yourself, enough to mistake you for the corpse.
Your nightgown was equally soaked, and blood even clogged in your hair, on the tip of your eyelashes and in your brows. On your cheeks, it was still hot enough that you could feel it by the warmth, but soon it was going to dry and flake on the skin.
You climbed off of him, sat on the opposite edge of the bed and waited here until morning. When your father found you and you saw the look of sheer horror on his face despite his little girl looking dead inside in front of him, that’s when you understood you killed a man. And not any man.
A life for a life had never been so vivid of an imagery: it was him or you, one way or another.
“Is that what you’re planning with me?“
Legolas’s voice startles you, you forgot you were at the Starlight Feast and not back in that bloodbath. His tone is low, a genuine question judging by the way he looks at you. How is he not horrified? How can he ask so simple a question like you didn’t tell him you killed the last man who tried to marry you? It’s like he lets you be mean and show the ugliest side of yourself just so you won’t have anything else to scare him with in the end. And it’s you it scares. It’s frightening, actually, to have someone who knows your ugliest sides yet still decides they can work with them; accept the rot and cradle it until it smells sweet again.
Your lips purse in a thin line, you catch his gaze to see anything that would make sense in it.
“You’d kill me before my stroke fell. That’s why it frightens me so. I could never escape from our marriage once they trap me in it.“
The prince must be crazy, or terribly unaware, to not see what is utterly wrong with you. Your knees brush with how much he leant in, pulled by the vicious orbit of your crime. It’s uncanny and it is wrong how much more he want to know about you after this, but it is the emotions which his heart is submitted to.
It’s the wine. It probably is the wine, but the thing is Legolas starts to yearn for the part of you he does not know. Deep inside, he thinks of all that you have not said, of all the repressed emotions you have yet to let out and of how he could soothe them down if you let him.
“I never intended to trap you,“ he says. Alcohol made people delirious, it makes Legolas considerate.
“Not you,“ you sigh. “I didn’t see the situation you were in, I only saw you as an enemy.
“I am one to your liberty.“
“Yes. Yes you are.“
It hurts to say, but it is the truth. He doesn’t back down either way, just stays here in the silence with his knee grazing yours, his untamed golden hair and the light flush on his cheeks. You both take the other in in utter silence, as if to let the weight of your confession wash away. His eyes rake the hills of your figure without shame, uncaring of whether you see him or not. You do.
Legolas doesn’t mind. He is too preoccupied by the green mush of your dress, how it hugs your form just the way that makes him lose all bits of sense he has. It happened once at the Farewell Feast, it was worse last time when he stumbled upon you in the forest. The scene still plays in his mind, how could it not? You in that sheer white gown, soaked to the bone and looking at him with relief like you didn’t just tell him you were praying for him to be safe.
The prince doesn’t know if he ever felt so transfixed by someone in his whole life. Not in an improper way, no; he felt starstruck, blessed by all gods, but not hungry. The hunger would come next, when he laid down alone in his room and kept drifting to the indecent amount of skin he had seen. Showing through your gown, you weren’t even aware of the situation and yet Legolas felt mortified, like he would combust the next second if he kept on trying not to drift away from your eyes. He failed, of course he did, and guilt is not even the right word to describe how bad he felt the moment he glanced down at your chest. Your chest peaking under transparent fabric that came back to torture him every time he thought about you too much.
Lord, did he think about you.
Now the feeling is different, but it doesn’t make less of a mess of him. The Woodland prince feels his insides rearrange the longer he stares at you, because he knows what the fabric hides. He wants it bare, he wants it unabashed and his; he wants to take the time to learn every slope and hill, to map it with his eyes closed by the tip of his fingers only, to watch the flesh bounce if he presses his palm into it.
It’s bad. It’s the alcohol. You hate him, but wine knows nothing of hate, it understands only truth. And the truth is you are promised to one another so you cannot give this union reason and appreciate each other; even if both of you feel you would have, had the circumstances been different. Legolas feels it stronger than you, perhaps.
The heavy silence is broken by the prince, but as soon as he speaks you wish he could have kept the thought for himself.
“I like this dress on you.“
Is it just you or does his voice seem more syrupy?
For a second, your mind goes blank. You are left to blink at him in confusion, wondering if you heard wrong. When it is clear you have not, because he looks at you funny like he expects an answer, you manage one, beginning cracked as you swallow.
“Oh…,“ you clear your throat. “Uh… Yes, it was chosen most carefully.“
In front of you, Legolas holds back a chuckle. His lips curl only cause he cannot help it, and his eyes drift to the floor you are seated on. You follow his gaze, heart squeezing in an odd, foreign way. His hands reaches your way but your mind is too foggy to push it away, you can only watch it get dangerously close.
His fingertips find the soft flesh on the inside of your wrist, you stare at it dumbly as it trails on the tender skin. The touch is cold, sends small electric shocks up your arm and a warmth in your belly, similar to the wine’s. Delicately, he slips down to the base of your hand, flat against the ground to support your weight, and you look at him trace the bracelet that rests here. Thin, linking you to another kingdom. This is bad, Legolas is too perceptive for your own good.
The wind blows a gush harder than the others, and you snatch your hand away from him suddenly, breaking the magic. In an instant, you are up on your feet and panting like you just fought with the prince; your disheveled look reinforces that impression. Or the impression that you just made out, which could be true too given the tipsy heat of your cheeks matching his.
“I should go.“
“You can stay,“ he offers, though he is not motioning to stand.
“I’d prefer not to.“
It falls quietly and Legolas nods, yet you do not go. You stay here, eyes boring into his, the scent of wisterias taken to your nose by the breeze, and it bugs you you always hesitate with him; always turn back, always double think. It compromises everything you mean to do. Wine cannot even make you forget the inescapable end of this whole affair, neither can the lips of a good looking prince you so blatantly stare at, so why are you rethinking this?
summary : Some give themselves to life eternal, others cling to a destiny they have not chosen for themselves yet try to reclaim. It seems you do both in the sacred spring of the Grey Havens.
pairing legolas x fem!reader (no use of y/n)
content warning : mentions of blood, mentions of minor characters death, embarassing situation and an elf spiralling over it, for global content warning see a heart for a kingdom’s masterlist
author’s note : it's here!! slowly working towards making them adapt to each other lol, because the romance should get started atp :p also i'm so so excited for next chapter, i've been thinking about it since the very beginning of this fic!
ps : if anybody who has submitted an fanfic request reads this, know that i have not forgotten you and am currently working on the requests! i've got a lot of work at hand so things may take a little time, i apologise :(
➣ nini’s masterlist
➣ a heart for a kingdom’s masterlist
A bird sings in the distance, the lush forest replies to it with rustling leaves and cracking wood. Here, the trees speak too, but they are more reserved than the ones in Mirkwood. It is one of the only forests the elves have kept to be just as it was when they first discovered it; upon their first years in Middle-Earth. Its trees are among the oldest and wisest of this world, growing a luxuriant canopy that never falls, even in winter.
There is, in elves, an inherent sadness and nostalgic regret. A gentle melancholy for things as they were before. To regret the past and become unwilling to face change is a great elvish weakness, one which makes them not entirely good or in the right. Of course, it is so subtle in the ways it manifests that very few are aware of it; and if they notice it, people often fail to see it is this very feeling which pushes them to act a certain way. Lately, it seems this weakness has been more prominent in everything around you. The king of the Woodland’s realm engages in a war for a dispute over ancient jewels; the prince keeps the ill of his homeland secret as if it could make it less real; you lock in blind hatred and revenge and reminisce on the past every chance you get.
This forest, on the small hills at the edge of the Grey Havens, has been your people’s treasure for a long time now. It is a place where change had stopped, a place that had not grown with Middle-Earth but froze in its early days. Perhaps that is why every elf, you included, is so fond of it; why it is almost a place of pilgrimage for all who seek the undisturbed peace of Lindon. Here, you could have your cake and eat it: it seemed the only place on Arda your kin had succeeded in making a pleasaunce, where things were always fresh and fair.
Trees could whisper old lines; the breeze murmur songs from over the sea; animals befriend the first children of Illuvatar in which they had great trust. Above all, there was a spring with water capable of soothing every wound of the heart, of bringing prayers safely into the world ahead. Its surface sparkled with filtering sunlight, its surrounding were always crisp and kept away from the burning sun, safely tucked under the shade.
The cool water curls around your body, it soaks you up until your collarbone but it has been a long time now since you have stopped registering it. With your eyes closed, it’s been hours you kneel here in the spring, though it only feels like minutes. That is also what the spring does to people: it changes their perception of time. It makes them stay just like the forest, in the state in which they were when they first entered. For mortals, it is dangerous, but for eternal beings, time matters little. A day is a very short amount of time for elves, hours are even more like seconds to them.
But not for you. Human blood from centuries ago still runs true in your veins, you have no grasp over it. It trails time for you a little bit more, your conception of it borders the human one, although not to the same extent. A human would still be amazed by your elven patience, it is still what it is, but when things are at stake it seems to you time has a way of flying by and making you forget you have all of it in the world.
Does a rebel for a human cause has all the time in the world? You doubt it. The cause is chiefly fleeting, as are all human deeds.
You have taken a break from scheming and writing letters, as recommended by Eyvind in his last letter. You write a lot to him, it is pleasant to have someone to talk to, especially when Damocles’ sword hangs over your head. Before, it was with your servant Aeluin you talked, but this you cannot do anymore. You cannot burden her with such shenanigans. Nobody can know.
The weight upon your shoulders as of late had even made you forget all about the marriage you were destined to. Gandalf’s quick appearance had brought you back to it, but then it vanished just like all other things when the subject was not touched upon again. Your father was silent about it, and deep down you knew why. A party from your army had left some months ago to assist the elves of Mirkwood in the battle, there had been no news of them, or of the royals of the Woodland’s realm. He worried the prince would perish, he could not talk of a wedding when its liveability was being discussed.
You had not said a word of Gandalf’s wise foreshadowing to your father, neither of his assertion that the prince was alright. It had kept you from worrying and twisting your mind over his face more than you had already done; but now it had been a month since his counselling and none had returned. Thoughts of the army had taken you back as soon as you had entered the water of the spring. It was like it had a will of its own and wanted you to think about it —to think about the fact that far in the East there was someone you knew fighting, and he could very well be lying in his own blood. It went for Tauriel, and for Legolas too.
After all, you had said to the wizard that you were willing to try and appreciate him, now the sacred spring seemed to bring you back to your promise. And so here you were, since the very first light of day, praying in the water in your white sleeping-gown because you had been too hasty to change into anything else. The forest was the only place you were allowed to go in alone, and it willed only one visitor at a time, so you knew you shan’t be disturbed.
The air around you smelled of humid wood and morning dew that never left upon grass; white wisterias kissed the shiny veneer of the water, their stem twining around the trunk of nearby trees. It is a miracle wisterias should grow here, for they naturally thrive in sun-basked environment, but the forest replies to its own rules. Their fallen flowers sway in the calm water, they stick to your skin like a collar.
You wallow in a sort of meditational trance where nothing can reach you, not even the sound of the little waterfall in front of you. The forest’s noise doesn’t disturb you, it’s like you have become a part of it; deers and fawn overlook your presence to come and drink at the spring, hooves softly crushing the ground under them. Bees hover over wisteria blossoms, if it was night-time there would be moths covering the slope of your neck for a bit of warmth after having fed on those flowers.
There is a gentle buzz in your mind, and you pray without words. Wandering in a void that is yours only, in a way you have scarcely allowed yourself to. It takes a lot of resilience to stay in this state this long, but you do it most willingly. You have to do it, if it can be of any help to those fighting beyond your realm. If it means those you care for will survive. You hope Tauriel is alright; that Kili and Thorin have found back their kingdom; that Legolas can still be insufferable if it means he is alive.
Behind you, a branch snaps. It echos in between the trees and scares the wildlife away. You tear away from your trance and your eyes fly open as you rise from your kneeling position. No animal makes a twig crack like this one has cracked. When you turn around to the sound, you make the water swoosh with you, it swings around and further sticks the fabric of your gown to your stomach.
Your gaze catches hair before a face. Golden and gossamer-like. You would recognise them amongst hundreds. In front of you, slightly elevated because the spring you’re in forms a dip in the ground, stands a prince you were starting to forget the voice of. You were also starting to forget how easily crossed he made you feel, and it seems you forget still because there is not an ounce of irritation in you upon seeing him.
At first, you freeze at the sight of him. Of his lithe, tall figure; of his silk hair; of his ocean blue eyes that flood straight to the heart of you. No sound leaves you as you take him in with wide-open eyes. You think your heart stops before hammering in your chest. It’s like you can hear it above the rustling leaves; most likely he can hear it too in the utter silence. But you’re mistaken, it is not your heart Legolas hears pounding in his temples but his own. Without either of you knowing, it matches the frenetic rhythm of yours. Perhaps not for the same reasons.
It lasts a little while, where you simply stand here, paralysed and mute. Your eyes notice every change in his appearance: how his tunic has changed for a more greenish one, one that suits him best; how his features seem more soft and youthful; how the constant veil in his eyes has lifted.
He looks at you equally. You can see the prince’s eyes never stay in one place, as if there was too much of you to see and it had been too long he has not set his eyes on you. Too long indeed. So long that he finds you where he should not and there is no poison in your heart to resent him right now. If anything, you are relieved. Gandalf was right: he is alive and well, there was no need to worry. After all, he is said to be the best archer of his realm —perhaps of his time.
You think you can see a slightly darker hue take place on his cheeks, but it disappears as soon as he coughs from the back of his throat and speaks.
“Forgive me for my interrupting, I didn’t know you were here.“
Of course he didn’t, he should not have been able to enter the forest if there was someone else in it. Especially if it is someone praying. Either the woods wanted you to see each other, or they mistook you for lovers; for only those who are as one and the same can enter together. His voice too, is less harsh than you remember it.
“Legolas,“ you speak his name as if to confirm it still rings the same. This is not some other elf, it’s the prince you know. “No, that’s… I—“ you catch yourself stuttering. “I was just praying, you see.“
“I see.“
You cringe at yourself for pointing out something so evident. A quiet settles where you keep staring at each other, evaluating how much distance has changed you. Your heart finds it to appreciate him. Maybe it won’t last, but it’s that at least. The forest secludes you, you set on observing the wisterias instead of him to break the awkward atmosphere that is starting to establish.
Legolas doesn’t help you. He stays silent and… unbothered?
“For everyone’s safe return,“ you refer to your earlier explanation. “Yours included.“
The elf-prince feels his voice bunch in a lump in his throat at your words. You thought of him. You prayed for him. You are not pushing him away like you usually do but Legolas feels the urging need to depart in the next minute. It bothers him that he cannot afford your kindness longer, but if he does not go promptly he fears the situation will worsen and you will think he disrespects you. He has faced your disdain, and the prince would rather keep it at bay; for, to him, you glow best when you are not afflicted by anger against him. Your concern might be short lived, and so will be his good-conscience if he delays too much.
“Oh,“ he says. “Excuse me again. I just wanted to see the spring, everyone says so much about it.“
“Yes, it is one of the most magnificent in the realm!“ you are quick to reply, as if your mouth works faster than your mind to cut the silences.
Why does he not bid you goodbye? Why does he stay? Legolas curses himself, he bites the inside of his mouth to pain some sense into him. It doesn’t work much; his eyes dip and he feels his stomach twist. The trees seem to laugh around you, to mock him. You are deaf to it all.
“It is indeed,“ but Legolas does not take his eyes off of you. In fact, he has not observed the spring much since his arrival.
“I’ll leave you then. Goodbye.“
Upon those words, he takes his leave and disappears into the trees. You can’t help but frown at his sudden change in attitude. Here you were, thinking he was starting to be agreeable. Risking his life didn’t make him more charming, apparently. Your soothed down attitude does not last, it seems nothing in your character does with him, and hours of meditation are thrown out the window. You feel yourself grow red and proud, piqued by the fact that your sole presence was so abhorrent to the prince he could not stay in the same clearing as you for more than a few minutes.
Little do you know the elf-prince crossing the forest with racing steps does so with a growing red carnation to his usual composed likeness. Legolas feels the pointy tip of his ears burn up, they twitch in embarrassment. In his guts, a stirring burns him, and he fists his hands until his nails dig white crescents into his palms. He feels himself slowly losing his mind —this kind of thing had never happened to him before. The prince blazes with shame: he has crushed every sense of etiquette he knows, every ounce of decency elven court had taught him. He had lingered more than necessary; had made his presence known when he could have avoided the embarrassment; had stared, and hadn’t notified you of the problem when you seemed not to see it.
Now here he was, trying to get you out of his mind, though not for the same reasons he usually does. When Legolas closes his eyes to compose himself, there are images of you beyond his lids; and you wear a white, sticking nightgown, turned transparent by the water. He thinks he can smell the scent of your skin in the wet folds of it.
“Tauriel!“
When you step outside on the terrace after Aeluin came to tell you someone was waiting for you there, hair red like fire catches your eyes. Ginger locks flowing in the soft ocean breeze and the features of a woman you know stand here —a woman you hold dear to your heart. It seems today life gives you rest, for everyone you prayed for is unharmed.
She smiles at you something wide, happy to see you again, and you do not notice the small waver of angst behind her gaze because you cross the distance in between you with hurried strides. In no time, you end up in her arms, embracing her tight, something perhaps unusual for elves but to which she complies eagerly. Social norms do not matter so much when you reunite with a friend you believed dead. She wraps her arms around you and pulls you in, laughing in your ear. It makes you laugh too.
Against her, you can smell the natural scent of her, sullied with something else; a lingering smoke that belongs to the battlefield. You had never smelt it, yet you know immediately what it is. It’s like instinct brings you visions of war and of waste, it tells you battle sticks even to the purest beings against their perfection. If there is something that can sully an elf, you know it, it is death.
It has tainted you too and never left. It taints her now when you take another deep breath of her scent and it’s the metallic reminiscence of blood that takes your nose. You can recognise its stench from miles away, eyes closed. Its foul odour is an old friend of yours, one you still see in dreams, one that makes you panic when you wake up at night and think it is flooding your bedsheets and coating your neck. But not every death stinks like this, only a death that matters.
You part and you are about to ask her about it, but she does not let you speak. The corner of her eyes twinkle falsely, like she wishes to avoid the subject completely.
“What have you done to the prince?“ she ask. “He looked positively distressed!“
The prince. Right.
“Nothing! He just scared himself away when I turned around.“
“Turned around?“
“Yes, in the spring.“
“In the forest? But I thought you could only be alone in the forest?“
You sigh. “Usually, yes. It seems even the trees make great sport of teasing me.“
A smirk draws on her lips. “Were you wearing this?“
“Yes?“
“Oh…“ her smile widens. “No wonder why he failed to mention it.“
At here teasing, you look down at your dress, searching for what she finds so funny in it. that’s when it hits you. It is white. White turns transparent in water. You were soaked in water.
The look on your face makes your friend burst out laughing, like it is all a good joke. You, on the other hand, do not feel amused at all. On the contrary, you feel mortified! Warmth creeps up your neck to your cheeks, you feel the end of your ears equally burn and tiny needles pick at your stomach. Your throat constricts when you think back to Legolas’s light flush, or to the way his eyes had dipped before darting back up to yours quickly. You remember not even feeling the fabric around your body because it seemed to melt with it, and the fact that you were emerged from the waist.
That’s why he left so quickly. Not because he was already sick of you, but because you were putting him in a delicate position without even knowing. A warm weight presses down your lower stomach, it blooms like dawn and ripples to your core uncomfortably; yet, there is some dangerous part of you that does not want it to go away.
The prince had seen you naked. Half-naked. Maybe he had not even seen you naked at all but only made out what seemed to be the curves of your body —you try to reassure yourself. And anyways, he would have seen you naked one time or another if you were to get married; you hadn’t really thought about abstinence. Not that you had thought about doing it either!
Thoughts flow your mind uncontrollably, they race behind your eyes and Tauriel thinks she can read them with how evident they are. She calms her laughter after a while of your panicking and sets a gentle hand on your shoulder, trying to bring you back to the moment.
“Do not worry, I think he is as anguished as you are; if not even more. Perhaps don’t mention it in front of him? Pretend you are still ignorant of the situation, this way you will both be able to forget about it.“
You don’t think you can forget this anytime soon, but Tauriel’s proposition seems the wisest outcome.
“Come,“ she takes you by the hand to guide you to a nearby bench. “There is something I must tell you.“
Now her gaze has veiled again and all matters of shame are soon forgotten, you follow her diligently and search for her eyes. Once you sit down and are able to catch them, it’s a sorrow you hadn’t envisioned that plays. They glisten with held back tears the moment you look at her with a frown, with the concern of a friend. Tauriel remembers how hard she had cried in Legolas’s arms on the way there, and how she can be nothing but glad to have friends by her side. You both hate each other, yet if something links you it is the fact that you are keeping her standing in those moments.
Gently, you lace your fingers with her and wait for the redhead to speak. She swallows the lump in her throat, sniffs back her pain and sighs to calm herself down.
“I doubt anybody told you, but not many survived the battle.“
Your heart squeezes, you fear you know where this is going. You cast the thoughts away, hoping you are mistaken.
“Thorin did not make it.“
Your stomach lurches, you think your heart stops beating. Losing someone is always like dying a little bit yourself, the more the person is important to you, the more you die.
You didn’t know Thorin much, but to think that he was talking to you and making you laugh for the first time in a while not a few months ago and that now he was gone… It felt weird. This urging reminder that everything was not infinite, that you were an exception among nature; an anomaly.
Tauriel’s eyes glisten a little bit more, she presses them shut to try and make the tears disappear. She refuses to go into Valinor sad.
“And Kili,“ she begins. You can see her chest heave up and down in rhythm with her ragged breathing, her fingers fidget with a lock of hair. Fire wraps around her finger, you wish you could do anything to erase was she is about to say. “Kili is lost too…“
This time it hits softer. Because you had anticipated her words, because you didn’t know him. Your heart only hurts for your best friend, it tries to mimic the way her own must drown in grief. You fail to the task. You cannot possibly know what she feels, never have you lost someone this way: reaped by death. The only person you loved and lost was your mother, but she had simply sailed away to the other side of the sea, where you shall join her when the time is right. No matter how much you miss her, you will see your mother back before the end of all things; Tauriel will never see her lover again. Even in death, dwarves and elves do not share the same afterlife —it is a love unrequited, impossible.
If there is something you and Tauriel have in common in this, it is that the only death you have seen with your own eyes still haunts you at night. That’s the only thing. The affliction she suffers was caused upon her, unwished for. The burden you bear, however, you have casted upon yourself. It is a death you have chosen, provoked; one you were glad to see happen; one you never regret, in spite of everything. It is a torment you would put yourself in a hundred times over, because it was you or him.
You squeeze her hand but stay silent, there is nothing you could say that would ease her pain; she hides it with great strength already. Tauriel sniffs, takes a deep breath in and straighten up, forcing a smile on her lips. You mimic it warily, but it seems the woman would prefer for you to drift towards some other topic.
“I’m going to the Undying Lands. There is nothing left for me here, and I feel my heart calls for Valinor now,“ she smiles. “You know, it is weird, but I had never felt at peace until the sea called to me. Now that I know I will be sailing away soon, it seems the sorrow is less great. It even feels like a gift for me to bear, a reminder of my life on Middle-Earth, as painful as it has ended to be.“
You listen to her diligently and nod. The sea had never called to you. The shore did, maybe, but it was only because it was in Lindon and Lindon was your home. You hope one day you can feel the bliss she describes. This sentiment of peace, of easiness in the world because you are returning to the Vallars and the valleys that lay beyond will never change, never grow old and deceitful as things often do in Middle-Earth.
“That is why I am here with Legolas, to wish you goodbye.“
She came here with him.
“Is he coming with you?“ you ask, a bit too fast for it to be natural.
Tauriel frowns at your assumption, amused. It would make sense for him to go with her. Perhaps he has witnessed deaths that have struck him too, perhaps the sea calls to him for rest now. That’s why he wanted to see the spring, as every elf sailing to the Undying Lands do before leaving. That’s why you were not crossed at the sight of him, because your heart knew what your mind didn’t: that he was going, that it was no use waisting your last encounter on anger.
“No, he is not. We are not lovers.“
The reply stops you dead in your train of thoughts. If you feel disappointed or relieved by the information, you do not know. Mixed feelings course in your veins. If he were to go, then you would be free. No more wedding, no more hatred, no more cage. But do you want him to go? You should. Yet, there is a comfort in your chest you refuse to address, knowing that he is not going anywhere.
“He would not go, I think he has dealings here with a certain elf,“ she insinuates with a sly smile.
You frown at the implication, feigning ignorance.
“I couldn’t possibly know who you’re talking of, we are surrounded by elves!“
Your refusal to acknowledge what is only evidence to her makes a laugh. She looks at you lovingly, and it only achieves to break your heart further because she is leaving.
“Take care of him. Now that the forest is pure again, we Mirkwood elves are plagued by cunning thoughts no more. I think the prince’s real nature will please you more than you will care to admit.“
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,“ you warn, not believing a word of it.
“I’m not. Legolas is one of the greatest men I know.“
Twice people have told you that the Necromancer’s dark magic had been changing the character of the wood-elves just like it changed the forest. Twice they had told you Legolas was a good man, and to give him a chance. Now, the idea was staring to make its way into your mind in a way you did not like.
You stare into the distance, a weather eye on the horizon over the sea, as the white dove departs from your windowsill. There, beyond the sea, lies all the people you love yet cannot see. Tauriel, your mother. You have not stopped thinking about her since this whole affair has stared. Would she be proud of you? You hope she would. The courage you have to fight for your own destiny is one you take from her, it is not your father’s. From him, it seems you owe your temper.
You wonder who the prince of Mirkwood owes his temper from. Is it his father; his mother?
The last time you saw him, it was when waving goodbye to Tauriel, with the wind around you taking her away and the sound of waves crashing on the shore like the first night you had met Legolas on the beach. You remember this night. You recall staring at his beauty in the pale moonlight, thinking if he could be less ethereal it would make things easier.
You now realise stripping Legolas from his beauty is a lost cause, something you cannot even imagine. It is ingrained in him, just like his steps fall featherlight on the ground like second nature and his eyes are always keen, always scrutinising your every move. The image of him in your mind flickers with the failing sun, it has lasted a second and now departs. Even if you tried to hold on to it, it would slip between your fingers. It’s like Legolas is not a thought to have but a presence to feel.
You are lost in contemplation when the door of your room behind you creaks open. You look past your shoulder, waiting to maybe see Aeluin, but it’s your father who stands here. A warm smile on his face, the one he was when he thinks of you —when he thinks he is doing what is best. He holds out a rolled piece of paper.
A letter.
You turn around and step to him, brows pulled quizzically. When you take it from his hands and look at it more closely, you think it burns you. Crimson wax seals it, it bears the seal of Mirkwood.
Your mind swims with what you already now yet refuse to acknowledge. You feel your legs wobbles under you; the dress you wear hides it from your father. Slowly, like handling a precious relic, you unseal it and unroll the paper. Then, it’s like the whole world tears to pieces when your eyes read the first words on the letter. The ground crumbles beneath you, the sun gives up and plunges you into eternal darkness. Your surroundings turn to dust, the edges of your vision blur, taint with a black veil as you can only read those small, yet meaningful words, over and over again.
‘Mirkwood solemnly invites you to the annual Feast of Starlight, to celebrate our guiding light, and the upcoming wedding of its heir.‘
The upcoming wedding of its heir.
You feel like trowing up bile, like throwing up your entrails. Gastric acid clogs your throat, your stomach lurches around nothing, your heart impales itself in a magnificent spurt of carmine red on your ribs.
quick question here (from an author doubting herself, as always): so yk i primarily write x reader fics for various reasons, and i’ve always read x reader fics too, but if there is something i’ve always struggled with whenever i’m reading an x reader fic is when the reader has no personality! like when they feel more like the shadow of a character than a character… mostly because i never put myself as the reader, it’s always some random other person in my head (not even an OC) that shapeshift according to the story i’m reading (because i make a strong point in keeping myself far from confusing reality and fiction yk)
that’s why my reader always has some sense of strong personality and a background (also because when i write i never think about my characters as myself. It’s not you as in me but you as in a whole other entity, if you will)
but lately i’ve noticed that it’s not the case for everyone! Some people really do self-insert and expect the reader to kind of fit their personality (which is what it was designed for at first lmao)
so i was wondering: how do you guys read my x readers? do you OC insert? do you self-insert? and if you self-insert is the fact that my reader has a personality of her own something that sometimes (or downright) bothers you? (especially in long fics such as AHFAK)
i’ve been very self-critical as of late, and reflecting on the fact that my readers are kind of more shaped like a OC without being one bc at the end of the day they have no name nor physical appearance, that is all up to you!
if i was to make an OC version of AHFAK, would you read it and perhaps be more interested in it? i was pondering about an OC version but it’s obviously a lot of work since the person the story is told in has to change (from second-person you to third-person she/he) and physical descriptions have to be added, + since the story was originally intended to be written with a second person pov is it fit for a third person pov? wouldn’t it be just weird to read and perhaps even become bad?
idk i’m asking a lot of questions but i love having you guys’ feedback and thoughts, even more (not more i’m exaggerating) when they are critical bc it brings room for improvement!
that’s it, thanks for letting me ramble haha! much love, as always 💗🫶🏻
author’s note : omg it's been a while! thank you so much for your patience, i hope this is not below the usual work, i barely reread it because i wanted to post lmao ^^'
➣ nini’s masterlist
➣ a heart for a kingdom’s masterlist
The night is still young in Lindon, remnants of the sun’s warmth hang in the air around you. The marine breeze is tepid. Locks of hair that are not hidden under your hood fly in your face and in your mouth, you push them back behind your ear and quicken your pace. In this part of town, it is no strange thing to cross hooded people hiding their activities. Nobody questions it, it is a truth all are aware of that people should not linger here, unless of course they’re up to business.
Your steps echo softly in the alley against stone-paved floor, the moon is new, it allows only a crescent of light to be cast. You can hear the faint hush of waves crashing on the shore, smell the distinct scent that comes out of them: more prominent with the spring tides. In the distance, light shines through the open windows of a lively house, you can hear laughters and music come out of it.
You hurry yourself towards the tavern, head lowered in case anyone would recognise you; how could they when it’s been years the people have not seen their princess? Especially in cheap side, as the neighbourhood is often called, where nobody has any time to accord to keeping in touch with royalty. Here, most are men who believed the region of the Grey Havens would bring them peace, only to be deceived when it was just like any other kingdom East. The only difference was that Lindon was the only stable elven kingdom left, and stable meant not at war.
Mirkwood had fell into war a few weeks prior. Its prince disappeared to follow a pack of orcs, and its king had taken on the folly of seeking back his late wife’s necklace. You couldn’t blame him. If your mom had left you a necklace you would want to see it back too.
The escape of the dwarves started all this mess. It was a prodigy: if the guards drunk on elvish wine were explanation on how they slipped unnoticed by the underground steam, nobody could tell how they got out of their cells. Only with the help of an accomplice could they have gotten the keys.
When a guard ran into the throne room in which you were, distressed and panting, and announced the breakout, you remember Legolas had sent you a look from the corner of his eye. He suspected you. His first thought was that you had done it. And if you were him, wouldn’t you suspect yourself too? You were the one who had argued with him about the capture of the dwarves, blaming him for making them prisoners.
You would most definitely blame you.
But at the same time, you couldn’t help the feeling of outrage that took you, because you had nothing to do with it! Since Legolas had saved you from the forest and braided your hair in secret, he was even more infuriating because he seemed to blow hot and cold only to annoy you. Now he was accusing you of working against him when he had been the one hiding important matters from you.
You didn’t have time to pick a fight with him, already he had to run to their pursuit, and then he disappeared all together. The last thing you saw of Legolas was his eyes blaming you, blue and piercing like needles right under your skin.
The memory vanished when you entered the tavern and warm light blinded you. Here, the sounds were ten times louder and the faint cold that had started to set outside replaced by air so hot and heavy it took you aback at first.
You take the hood off of your head and make your way to an empty table in a corner. Nobody looks at you, you pass as an average woman in the sea of people. You have to gently elbow your way through before finally getting there.
As you sit down, a waitress comes with a tray of pints and you take one to better merge in the scenery, although you don’t particularly like the bitter taste of beer. The edge of the glass finds your lips anyway and the sour liquid the back of your throat. It’s an average brew, with a strength made for human palates who frequent the place more often than elvish ones; it only warms your chest for a second before disappearing.
You let your gaze wander on the people around you, on the fire burning in the heart and the amount of money played on cards. This is one of the things you had missed the most about Lindon: being an hidden heir and sneaking out to observe people living a life you couldn’t have. A life you stabbed away from yourself, would be more appropriate to say. The golden cage you lived in was your own sentence.
You couldn’t be trusted with yourself, was what your father had said to you on this dreaded morning, when he had found you covered in blood in your nuptial bed. But the blood wasn’t yours.
Because you longed for liberty, you had to be kept in a cage. When fate had decided to bound you in shackles, there was no escaping it, neither marriage nor death could have given your life back to you. Whatever you did, the issue was the same, only some would have preferred for the issue not to strike a war. It almost did. If you had to strike up another to feel like you still had your destiny in hand, you wouldn’t hesitate. That’s what you always said, from the moment it was made clear Mirkwood was a most advantageous union; but lately, your promise was starting to fray, you were starting to hesitate.
You try to drown the thought in yours glass again, rim of the cup hitting your front teeth in the process. When you put the half-finished mug down, you are not alone anymore. On the bench in front of you sits a man, as mysterious as you, for his hood is still on. Leaned back, arms splayed over the backrest, his lips curl in an amused smile at the sudden alarmed flicker in your eyes.
“It is not often we are blessed with such mighty presence around here,“ his voice is honeyed, it runs a shiver like velvet upon steel along your spine at the fear of being discovered.
There is no reason he might know you, he looks to be in his thirties, the incident happened centuries ago.
“I think you’ve got the wrong person.“
“Have I, princess?“
Your title falls like a foreign word. Your heart freezes in your chest, air clogs in a lump in your throat but still the chatting of unknowing customers all around continues, undisturbed. You feel your body react before you do. Your hands clasp against the wooden table, you spring to your feet instantly, clearly making to leave. Your bust turns to do so, but something cloaks your hand and stops you. When you look down, the bare hand of the man rests above yours.
It’s warm at the touch and oddly reassuring, which should make you panic even more.
“Rest easy, I do not come to harm you,“ he says. “Only to talk.“
You gauge him, and sit back down with caution. His hand pulls away from yours at once.
“About what?“
“Do you come here often, my Lady? Observing people all night from your ivory tower, one can only imagine how isolated you feel.“
You feel your jaw clench. You pinch at the hem of your cloak under the table.
“One can know, if they have felt it. You are ignoring my question.“
“Do you feel it still? Can it spark anger enough for revenge in your heart or does the wisdom of your kin refuses it?“
“You are avoiding my question again.“
Your patience runs thin, his smile grows wider like you are an open book to him.
“I am not. In fact, I am replying right this moment.“
You realise his question is genuine and is part of that which he wanted to talk about. He has already entered the heart of the matter. You do not have to ponder long to find your answer, it tells you something you had wished to keep hidden.
“Yes, it can.“
Your reply satisfies him, his smile grows again before vanishing as he leans forward, bracing himself against the table. His voice lowers in secrecy.
“Arthedain needs you. Not as a queen this time, but as a revolutionary,“ blood flows slower in your veins, voices around become a muffled sound. Your brows pull in a frown, you study the man before you and the gravity of what he is insinuating. If this is a trick, it’s a strangely woven one. “Too long has an illegitimate family ruled, too long have they starved their people and sunk them in misery. Many want them gone, few have the will to make it happen.“
“Why would you think I have the will? After all, I am not affected by your misfortunes. I am heir to a prosperous kingdom, this is of little to no importance to me.“
“Clever,“ he laughs. “You see, this endeavour requires discretion, but discretion does not rally people to a cause. We need someone with influence to side with us, someone who matters on the political scene, but no ruler except a foolish one would have any reason to want to see Arthedain’s royal family fall,“ he marks a pause and you already know what he is about to say. “You have a reason.“
“You said it yourself, only a fool would join you in this enterprise.“
Yet you can already feel your heart pump fool’s blood.
The man smiles at every single one of your words. You’re a clever girl, quick witted, but he knows you foolish enough just by the fact alone that you are here tonight. Against the rules, far away from royalty and overlooking the danger, you chose to spend the night in this musty tavern.
“Look at it that way,“ his eyes hold yours. “You join: we have an influential member helping us from the shadows, and you get your revenge. It wouldn’t be wrong of me to say your whole life has been turned upside down in Arthedain, by a power-hungry family who only searched for links with elven heritage, would it?“
Perhaps he knows what buttons to push to get to you, perhaps you really long for a revenge your own family has not granted you, but the man in front of you and his proposition are all too appealing. The people of Arthedain deserve better, and you deserve to see your honour restored. You can finally be part of something bigger than you, something that does not lie in the royal chambers of your palace or the prospect of a wedding.
You lace your fingers together on the table and lean in. Your voice carries the secret of what you’ve gotten yourself into. “Who are we going to put on the throne after?“
We. You’re in.
The smile he sends you is thankful, relieved he wasn’t wrong about you.
“Someone who resurfaced not so long ago. We traced his lineage, he is related to the line of Isildur, cousin of Arathorn, the late chief of the Rangers of the North who died not ten years ago. The kingdom of Arnor has fallen, we know we do not have the power to reunify Arthedain, Rhudaur and Cardolan to form it back, but it is our wish that Arthedain be at least ruled by a legitimate heir to the lineage of the kings of Men.“
You nod, taking in the information. This is crucial news, and not the matter of one kingdom only. If the line of Isildur comes back to the throne of Arthedain, perhaps it is not foolish to dream that one day Arnor will be reunited and Gondor will have back its king. And, whether you want it or not, the fate of human kingdoms is not foreign to you. You share it in your heritage just like you share part of their blood far back on your mother’s side.
A blood you have always ignored. A blood which made you unlike other elves: less wise, more emotional. Your mother abandoned this side of her when she sailed to Valinor; when she left you on mortal lands with your father.
Now it’s the same blood which calls back to you, and you do not have the will to ignore it still.
“I can only do as much as to send letter to people I trust, and there are little,“ you say. “And I will not help from the shadows. I want to be here when you act.“
When the man’s eyes flicker with the flame of a candle burning at the end of the table, you notice how deep his eyes are. A brown that coaxes you, that screams fierce yet can only be bore by a good man. Yes, he is a good man.
“It will have to do at present.“
He plunges his hand in his pocket to fish out a thin cord which he presents to you. It’s not a cord but a bracelet, you notice he wears the same around his wrist. Gently, his fingers glide along the tender flesh of your wrist, right under where you pulse thumps, and they send cold electric shocks up your arms. So small it’s almost unnoticeable, yet when he finishes tying the bracelet and looks up at you, you can see in the charming smile on his face they did not fall unbeknownst to him.
It’s like he has eyes everywhere and in your brain especially. For a moment, you stare at each other dumbly. The weight of his thumb on your skin is forgotten, you feel your own fingers tingle. In a smooth motion that seems like the logical continuation of the event, he lowers his hood and finally you can take a proper look at his face.
It’s everything most human you know, heart-warming almost. A sharp contrast to the cold beauty of the elves. His hair blends in every hue of brown, with the ends glowing ginger under the candlelight. His chiseled cheeks and jaw welcome the stain of freckles and few white scars here and there, plum lips distract you for a second and when you reach back for his gaze, it has the range of emotions humans feel more easily.
He fascinates you as much as you have him figured already. Humans are not hard to decrypt; maybe that’s why their company is easier to bear. At least he doesn’t have piercing blue eyes that anger you and assess your every move with conceited arrogance.
Once again, everything turns back to the elf-prince. You want to slap yourself for even thinking of him.
The revolutionary stands up at last, he pulls back his hood and sends you a last look.
“When you will write to Annuminas, say it’s for Eyvind.“
You don’t have time to ask him if it’s his real name, he is already gone like the wind through a crack in the door. Around you, the noise is not drowned anymore and you’re back in the heart of the night, the only proof that you have not hallucinated all this is the cord around your wrist.
The cup in front of you still sits half empty, you stare at it before drowning what’s left.
How does one prepares a takeover, you do not know, but for you it takes the shape of late-night extensive reading on the history of Arthedain —although you know it by heart already, secret meetings and many letters. More letters than meetings, for you have attended none and have been connived to one.
To you, a revolution is words on paper, to Eyvind with whom you exchange fairly often, it is lost nights scheming a plan in vain. This last month, life has taken an odd turn. In appearance, it’s like nothing even changed, but in truth, the light stays on longer in the library at night and your sore fingers are stained with ink. You cannot count the number of letters you’ve sent, or how many quill you’ve used. In fact, you have not thought about anything else than Arthedain lately, like a poison to your mind.
Your room is silent except for the scratch of calamus on paper and your shallow breathing. The ink you spill is dark, meant to be read just as you write it: in the dead of night. Your wrist hurts, yet you do not stop for a while and continue to trace elegant curves on parchment, thoroughly practiced. Against the table, the bracelet on your wist presses a dent on your skin; you finally put the quill down to massage it soft again.
You pick it back up just as fast, black stains your forefinger in the motion.
« Eyvind,
I trust you and the others are safe and well, and I trust the map of the castle I supplied you with is of help. Crates packed with weapons are being sent your way, they should arrive a few days after this letter, if it is not delayed on the road. It is a chance dwarves from the Moria care little for human “quarrels“, as they call them, their forging is the best in Arda.
However, I hope we will not have to use them.
Tell Amanand the crates will be disguised as cargo of fabric for the clothes’ market when arriving at the gates. Tell him I have sneaked in a little something for his wife and daughter too, I pray she is not ill again. I have sneaked something for you too, you will recognise it when you will see it.
I must go now, starlight is still bright enough for me to go out and breathe some fresh air. I thank you again, for I feel you have given my life a purpose lately.
Yours, truly. »
Ink smudges a little on the last dot, you blow for it to dry faster. Carefully, you roll the paper and tie it secure with a string before walking to your window. Here, you whistle a melody that rhythms your life as of late, and a white dove lands on the edge of the window a few seconds later.
“Hi there,“ you murmurs to the bird, presenting it the open palm of your hand in which lies a slice of apple.
The dove accepts the treat eagerly and lets you pat it before gripping the paper roll in its claws and flying away with it. You watch it depart in the light of the moon until you no longer can.
The sticky sound of your bare feet on the floor echoes through the corridors of the Halls when you get out of your room for a walk. You cross no one, at this late hour people are often found meditating in their home or singing together ballads in the Song Hall. There was a time where you used to be fond of ballads, now they feel like a bad story.
The light breeze ruffles through your hair, your steps take you to the overlooking terrace. Here, you sit on the grass and let yourself breathe, stargaze for an hour or two as if you were still the same girl as months before. You link constellations, assess the phase of the moon, listen to the sound of the sea. If you close your eyes, you can almost hear the birds sing and feel the warmth of the sun hit on your skin. Grass tickles between your toes, your lips curl in a smile.
It reminds you of this afternoon, last autumn, when you first met Legolas. You were lying in the same spot, but it was not the same anxiety lurching in your stomach back then. You were anxious of meeting a boy your age, now you are anxious of starting a war at each wrong step. If you miscalculated with the prince, it could only result in him loathing you, today if you miscalculate you have to hope you have grown fairly good in combat during training.
You were at the edge of a war, but at the other end of the world, on the slope of the Lonely Mountain, one was already waging. One someone you haven’t thought about for a long time participates in. No matter how much you hate him, how much he blows hot and cold only with you, you can’t help but worry for him. After all, it has been a month since his departure now, and you father has still not given you any news on the man he had chosen to be your future husband. You expected it was the only thing on his mind when he looked at you, but apparently even that fell second.
Suddenly, the wind around you rises and brings to your nose the scent of pipeweed. You frown to the strong smell, eyes still closed trying to understand where does it come from, before darting back up when you grasp it comes from the very terrace you are on. You jump to your feet, alert, and the dagger always scraped to your thigh falls out of its sheath easily. The grip you have on it flatters when a rich and raspy laugh greets you at the other end of the garden.
You would recognise it among thousands, for it is old and all there is most friendly in Middle-Earth.
“Mithrandir!“ you yelp before running to the wooden bench on which is sat an old man with a grey beard.
Here, Gandalf chuckles at your reaction and smokes on his pipe slowly, ornamenting the air with drawings made out of grey smoke. He smiles when you nod to him respectfully and pats you on the shoulder.
“Come now, child, I have known you less alarmed by friends!“ he jokes.
But you do not laugh back, only look down at your feet sheepishly. You expect he knows about your doings, in fact, he is maybe even here to reprimand them.
He doesn’t. Only winks at you knowingly and motions for you to sit down with him with a wave of the hand.
“Does father know you’re here?“ you ask.
“He does not. I come in secrecy, and I believe you know to work around secrets,“ the tone of his voice is easy, as always, but there is an edge to it you notice. “I come to inquire on Mirkwood. I have heard you were quite the detective.“
You feel your cheeks redden obviously at his comment. Amidst all this, you had completely forgotten about the ill in the forest and your escapade in the prince’s chambers.
“I wouldn’t put it like that…“
Gandalf laughs again at your attempt at hiding the truth. So secret you have always been, even to him. “Fiddlesticks, there is no use in denying it you know why I say that. Your secret is well kept with me.“
You feel yourself ease.
“I am sorry to hurry you, but I do not have much time. I need you to tell me everything you know about Mirkwood and its ill.“
“Why?“ you know he said you didn’t have time, but it’s stronger than you.
“We have left it to grow too long, it is time to put an end to all this pain. Thranduil tells me the trees are suffering more with each day.“
“They do not talk to me like they do him, but… I have seen them hurt.“
Gandalf sends you a questioning look and you begin telling him about your unfortunate walk in the forest. You tell him about how the woods coaxed you into their core, how they sang lullabies to your ears and eased your heart from all the pain you had left. You do not miss a single detail, from the transformation of the forest in a spider-filled land to the moment you passed out. Only, you leave out of the story the fact that it is Legolas who saved you.
Gandalf can have no use of this information, surely.
“Who was it that saved you, you said?“
Of course. He has use of this information…
“The prince.“
Something veils the gaze of the wizard. He doesn’t talk for a bit, only smokes in silence as if contemplating something. It seems the information is weird to him. It is, because Legolas shouldn’t have resisted so much to the forest, even more if the poisoned water of the steam kept on leaking from you to him. In truth, he should have folded even faster than you, more exposed to the caprice of the forest than your mind can ever be.
Either the elf-prince has a prodigious strength of mind, or his heart was set harder on something else than the suffering trees.
“Can the wood-elves not deal with the Necromancer?“ you ask, tearing Gandalf out of his thoughts.
“No. It is far too powerful, and they are already dealing with a lot in Erebor,“ the wizard shakes his head and sighs. “Thranduil will not listen, he forgets he has a son to love.“
Silence sets again. Gandalf’s words break something inside you. Something where you keep your hatred for Legolas. For once, you realise you may not be so different from one another. Your father too, forgets he has a daughter. Legolas too, has not chosen this life for himself, or you as a wife.
Your thoughts about this whole affair change. You had said you too would have wanted to have back the jewels of your mother had she left them, but not at the means of a war if she had already left behind a child. Those gems are not the only thing Thranduil has left of his wife, he has their worth a thousand times over in his son. Legolas is not perfect, and he infuriates you like no other, but he is a good son, you do not doubt it.
If there is something you share with the prince, it is the loneliness you feel. And the lack of power. Heirs to immortal kingdoms, doomed to want, never to rule. Every single thing in your realms is compliant to the will of its king, not of his offspring. Your fathers are powerful men, things seem to exist for them, by them only; to you who can only have a bite of that sweet feeling of authority, the world works more against you than with you.
More than everything, and you do not know it yet, Legolas longs for control just as you do. He longs to feel as if he has in his hands the tiniest bit of authority over things, even one thing. Perhaps he sees this thing in you, perhaps that is why he feels so conflicted by you: you do not bend to the power he tries to assert; worse, you defy it. He hates it as much as it consumes him, slowly, unnoticeable until it is too late.
He hates that your tongue is always as sharp as knives with him, he loves that you birth a warm unfamiliar feeling in his guts. Because if you defy him it means you acknowledge he can hold a power you do not like. He resents that you are never agreeing with him as much as it excites him that you keep on fighting his every word.
Legolas sees you as the obstacle to every little things he has achieved control over. You, on the other hand, see him as the obstacle to the control you hold over your life. Your freedom is your power, you’ve claimed it time and again, he threatens it. He threatens every sense of stability you have managed to rebuild, because you only have to look at him for the walls to shake.
You think about him and you want to stop as well as you want it to keep going because the twist in your guts has a kind of delicious pain, something pleasant.
But then the war hits you once more. King Thranduil is implicated in this, his son must be too. And Tauriel. But Tauriel is in love with a dwarf, so you fail to imagine clearly whose side is she on in this. No matter which one, you could not blame her.
“About the prince,“ you begin tentatively. “He left to follow a pack of orcs, he hasn’t returned yet and I don’t think he means on returning so soon, but do you happen to know… Well, is he alive?“
A knowing smile blooms on Gandalf’s face, he thinks he understands the look on your face.
“Alive and well dear child, there is no need to worry about him.“
But you do not look relived, or cheer at the news. It makes Gandalf’s brows pull and scratch at his beard. A wise one confused is something one does not see often, but he allows you this.
“It is because I will be promised to marry him very soon,“ you tell. “Not for love. Since my future lies with him I wanted to know if it still stood.“
The thing you are about to say hurts your throat, you force it out to make it real but, deep down, you fear you do not believe a word of it.
“Had he been dead, a weight would have been lifted from my shoulders.“
Gandalf’s gaze softens, he shakes his head and reaches a hand for your shoulder. You glance at his hand, a friendly and supporting weight. Now the wise man sees right through you. You feel your throat clog and swallow back the lump forming here. The wizard’s voice carries a warm tone, it is rasp with age.
“When the time is right, you will find it in your heart to appreciate him.“
“Will I?“
“I am sure. He is a very fine young man. Perhaps you simply haven’t met him in the best circumstances,“ of course an arranged marriage is not the best of circumstances, but that is not what he means. “The forest is very dear to him, what is most precious to us has the best chances of clouding our minds. You mustn’t hold him so accountable.“
The forest. You never thought about this, how the state of his homeland could affect his humour. How the black bile of melancholia could only be more dominant given sindar elves are deeply linked to the forest and it reeked of evil. For you, it does not excuses all his taunting, or the way he has not ceased to be arrogant and self-important with you, but because you have experienced it yourself, it eases your resentment.
You feel a little stupid for not having thought about this before, but again, his father had not been so mean with you and there was no doubt he was affected by the Necromancer’s magic just as much. And in Lindon, Legolas was far away from Mirkwood, he had had no excuse to act as he did then.
“Thank you Gandalf. Perhaps I will try,“ you only reply, half-believing it until you can see him again when the forest will turn back to normal.
“It is a great start.“
It is. It’s more than everything you had allowed yourself to think about the prince, it’s the most comprehensive you have ever been with him. Only, he will never know, and you do not have time for empathic work anymore. In the horizon, a red sun rises, burning like the licking flames of a dragon tearing down everything in their wake. You hope blood has not been spilled too far East, but Gandalf’s grip on his staff tightens and his eyes veil.
Heyyy sweetheart do you plan on releasing a new chapter soon? 🩷
hiii!! thought i could use this ask to keep you guys in touch with how is this story going!
currently am working on chapter 7 but i have another fanfic ongoing on my main acc and i’m one chapter away from the end so i’m focusing on it to end it the way i want to!
i would say you can expect chapter 7 coming in two weeks or so? maybe be a little less if i’m not too busy
as for the rest of the story, a heart for a kingdom already has 17 chapters planned (so 11 more to come out!), i just have to figure out the right way for it to end so i imagine the fic could go up to 18-19 chapters as it builds! in the end it should be around 90k words
also! a new legolas x reader long fic is simmering in my drafts and the prologue should come out very soon! if you’re interested check out the sideblog dedicated to it (@bloodborneee)
that’s it for AHFAK related infos! thanks for asking sweetheart 🫶🏻💗
summary : A quarrel is not uncommon between you and Legolas, but this one clings to your mind differently than before. You should be more careful, or you will soon learn the prince may not be all bad.
pairing legolas x fem!reader (no use of y/n)
content warning : spiders, mentions of blood, minor injuries, exploration of the canon, for global content warning see a heart for a kingdom’s masterlist
wc : ≈6,5k
taglist : @entishramblings @goldenatreides @hell-o-kittys @flooofity @angiekayyy @xxliaaaa @urfavfakeblonde (let me know if i missed anyone!)
author’s note : i overcame the writer's block by gaslighting myself and this is what came out of it,, mixed feelings about this but, oh well..! i've been wanting to write this chapter since chap one lmao the outline has been in my drafts for so long now i feel!! so exited to write the next parts because things are becoming veeeery interesting hihi
➣ nini’s masterlist
➣ a heart for a kingdom’s masterlist
The Great Hall is oddly silent from where you stand on one of the bridges crossing it, safe for the voices gradually raising from its entrance. The unintelligible shouting catches your attention, you stop in your tracks to look up to the main bridge leading to the throne’s room: a group of thirteen men led by soldiers step into the light. In front, Legolas guides them, most likely to his father. They disappear into the underground corridors before you have time to witness more and their shouting still doesn’t make any sense.
You stay watching the entrance of the tunnel for a while, lost in thoughts as if the group would magically reappear. Since your sneaking in Legolas’s chambers, you had had no other altercation with him, he had gone away for Lake Town the following morning and hadn’t returned before three full days had passed. You remember how glad you were for the absence of the prince, though it quickly made itself feel and you were left bored at every royal dinner. It’s almost as if you had missed having someone to bicker with.
Arguing had become a routine with Legolas.
Moreover, if the prince wasn’t in Mirkwood, there was no other way for you to learn more about Dol Guldur or the Necromancer. You had tried roaming endless books in search for hints, but it seemed this was no ancient evil form, or if it was it had a new shape. For once, the library could not quench your thirst for knowledge, you could only get your information through eaves dropping; no guard had uttered a word of it, neither did king Thranduil to your father.
But so it appeared the prince had returned, at last. You didn’t know when, probably in the course of the evening, and already he was up to something; you were positive the tiny grumbling men weren’t part of his Lake Town trip. Looking back to it, it was true the strangers were unusually small, and speaking a tongue that resembled nor common speech or elvish. You did not recall hobbits in books were so loud, they weren’t even found more than a few miles away from the borders of the Shire.
Interest piqued, you made for the king’s throne’s room, surely you’d find your answer here. It was not after you were right in front of the first corridor that the voices rose again, this time even louder, breathier almost, like they were struggling against something. Soon enough, forms emerged from the dark, still accompanied by the same soldiers who were now motioning them forward with a harsh grip on their shoulder. That’s when you noticed the strangers were no hobbits at all, but dwarves; and given their tone, they were not sweet-talking their elven captors. Though obviously stout, they struggled against the iron grip imposed upon them.
Amidst the little crowd that has now formed with the dwarves and elves, your eyes lock with Legolas’s for a moment. You send a questioning look to which he doesn’t answer. Instead, he turns away from you to follow the party down bridges and flights of stairs. Right. How could you even think you had missed the inconsiderate temper of the proud prince.
But because ignoring you is the best way to make you pry further, you follow the guards down the stairs they took with a few seconds latency. Your footsteps echo behind you, they let your presence be known to Legolas. Of course, you are always in his way, always where he doesn’t want you to be. Legolas barely conceals a sigh when he sees you, he had enough problems as it was, now you were adding to them.
“Who are they? Why are you taking them down to the cells?“ you ask, trailing behind the prince because he doesn’t stop to answer.
He doesn’t answer at all. Nobody does and your question is left hanging in the air. You pass another corridor, then the dwarves are led down darker stairs, ones you know end up in a cold cave further underground, with cells bars beginning to rust.
“Do I need a private audience to know what is happening here?“
“Make sure she doesn’t follow,“ is what answer you are given.
Except it is not addressed to you but to the two young guards at each side of the stairs’ arched entrance, who now look at you like they really hope you won’t make them see you back to your room. Taken aback, you watch Legolas disappear down the stairs: so his arrogance really did go this far. He was so unbothered by you that he couldn’t even take the time to reply to you properly and instead passed the burden you were along to others.
It takes few seconds for your mind to work past the growing hatred in your chest and command your feet to follow Mirkwood’s heir anyway, albeit rather slowly, for two pairs of hands catch your arms and hold you back. The look you send to the guards is unmatched, but it is not meant for them: it’s a loathing meant for the prince keeping you from everything that was happening in this realm.
He ought to know you were not the kind of wife waiting patiently for her husband to settle things out, ignorant of the outside world, locked in her ivory tower embroidering cushions all day. That is if you ever were to be married, but lately it seemed tragically unavoidable. Your fathers still go on perfectly, king Thranduil speaks to you like a daughter already.
You struggle against the guards’ grip, and squirm out of it eventually when they unwillingly release you. Even they know you will find a way, or maybe they just know the prince is bound to tell you at some point.
The hem of your dress swooping against the stone-floor almost makes you trip before you catch yourself back on the rails of the stairs and rush down them. Whatever this is all about, you have the underlying impression that it has to do with the forest; after all, you had seen thin gossamer coat the hair and clothes of the dwarves. The same sticky substance you had mistaken for snow clinging to the trees on your first passing through Mirkwood more than a week ago.
On your way down to the cells, you pass multiple guards regaining the surface of the Halls, all but one. Legolas is still down there.
When the stairs finally open on a descending cave, he is already turned your way, obviously annoyed. Behind him, the thirteen men are already locked up behind bars; the grumbling of their voices tames with your appearance, it dies down until silence is left to wash over you. You have to pry your eyes away from them to avoid blushing when they look up at you with bewildered eyes, as if you were starlight made human —or elven.
At least, the prince’s gaze doesn’t praise you so. If anything, it seems to do the opposite and you can bear his silence and poised looks no longer.
“Am I entitled to explanations of some kind?“ you ask again.
“We found them wandering suspiciously in the woods, that is all you need to know,“ Legolas replies, which doesn’t satisfy you much. Behind him, a contradiction you don’t quite hear rises. Your brows pull together as you step down the last flight to stand level with him, few meters away.
“All I need to know or all there is to say?“ the quiet that follows is answer enough. “That’s not right. You can’t make them prisoners, they did nothing wrong, only crossing the woods like a lot of people do.“
“They are dwarves crossing elven woods, it is suspicion enough.“
You scoff and it earns you a glare from the prince. “Suspicions,“ you echo. “I knew wood elves were less wise than their peers but to that extent I was unaware.“
Legolas closes the distance between you before you have time to breathe, now he towers in your space and it is obvious to anyone with the eyes to see it that you are arguing. He contains the crack in his composure that slips, though you birth a familiar anger in his sternum, and you look too proud of your reply for his own good. Why do you take such delight in angering him?
His voice comes out lower somehow. “Enlighten me, then, if you know so much more than us on the matter,“ his eyes pierce right through you, they draw you in and prevent you from looking away. “The forest is sick, a wanderer is not just a wanderer anymore. Especially when there is thirteen of them.“
“Sick,“ you repeat. “A nice word to say plagued by dark magic.“
Your voice cuts like steel in the air, Legolas’s eyes widen ever so slightly but you catch it and it makes your lips twitch in a grin. He did think you were a stupid ignorant girl, then. No one speaks for a bit, finally, you have him at loss for words.
“You believe them spies of the Necromancer without reason,“ the cursed name leave your lips with a coldness inherent to it. It casts over the room a dread and a tension, as if uttering its name was acknowledging it was real. Legolas’s heart misses a beat: so you know.
Until now you had been ignorant of this for him, a thorn on the sole of his foot but not equal to the dagger at his neck the Necromancer was. You were away of all this in a way, you belonged to another world than a war-waging one. It seemed the elf-prince had been mistaken all along; Tauriel was right: he did underestimate you.
A flicker passes in his eyes. If he understands how you came to know this, he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he frowns and parts his lips to speak. They glisten under the light of the torches lighting the room, your eyes blink to them once before darting back up.
“Have you-“ he stops himself before shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter. What we do with our prisoners is none of your concern.“
“It is,“ you argue. “We are allies, your enemies are our enemies. But Lindon won’t stand for imprisoning people who did nothing.“
Allies. The word has a bitter edge to it. Legolas knows what you mean: you are allies linked by treaties, and soon by heirs.
Now, Legolas knows you belong to the same world, you carry the same weight upon your shoulders. You hold your chin high in front of him, too sure of yourself, too feisty, but not in the usual composed way of the elves. This quirk of yours he can never get used to. How he wishes you could have been like any other elf, perhaps then he could have forced himself in love with you and everything would have ended up well. But no, you just have to be insufferable, to get under his skin like no other and fire arrows at his ribs with each of your remarks.
You probably don’t know how to shoot an arrow.
“You and me are not allies,“ you can almost hear his restrain crack like trees in the forest. You are right, he is less wise than other elves, so his perfectly carved facade does not do much in front of your see-through eyes because you are strangely just like him in that way.
“You will find that it is not a decision left for us to make, somehow.“
“Believe me, I’ll make sure it is,“ his assertion hangs in the air but you know he has no way to make that happen. He takes a step back, only now realising how close you stood all this time and how every time it was the case you angered him until he stomach lurched. “Now if you’ll excuse me,“ he breathes, “I will remain courteous and leave you on this.“
The elvish court has taught him propriety, but certainly not the tone that goes with it. You roll your eyes at such blatant display of superiority.
“I would never deny you the pleasure of politeness, as you do it so well, my prince.“
Upon your words, he takes his leave without a look back, steps echoing up the stairs until they are but a mere memory to your still bubbling mind. Alone with your thought and the remnant of the argument you just had, you let yourself fall sat on a stone stair and take your head in your hands, eyes closing until you see colour dots clouding your vision.
You forgot you weren’t actually alone in the cold underground when coughs pull you back to your surroundings and you realise you had given yourself in spectacle to an attentive audience this whole time. In front of you, the dwarves look at you differently than minutes ago: lost is the right word. You fail to see why until you remember the tongue they spoke between them before was not one you could understand, and so was the one your quarrel with Legolas had occurred in. Dwarves didn’t understand sindarin, though you believe one of them has knowledge of the basics, for he looks at you with a smirk the others don’t have.
The man you walk to curiously is undeniably handsome, although perhaps not according to dwarven customs for he has the type of beauty humans are rather fond of. As all dwarves are, he is much smaller than you, but his height takes nothing away from his allure. He stands here stout and strong, striking blue eyes a different kind of enticing than the elvish ones you are accustomed to. You believe his jaw sharp under the rough hair of his beard, it is of the same colour as his hair, even if a white strand runs through them at the front. When you finally stand before him, his voice startles you because it comes out richer than you had expected, cavernous with a spark of irony deep inside.
“I never thought I’d see the princeling lose his composure,“ he says.
The thought makes you smile, you huff a laugh before sitting down on the floor, back against a stone-wall.
“If anything, I’m the one who lost patience. It was embarrassing,“ you sigh as the stranger before you cocks a brow in amusement. “I’m sorry they are holding you up in here, I tried to advocate for you.“
“An elf trying to help us?“
“Why is that so hard to hard to believe?“ your question feels silly to the dwarf, like you are asking why is the sky blue and the mountains cold.
“Because we are dwarves, miss.“
You suddenly remember elves and dwarves are known to never see eye to eye, but right now your hatred is solely turned to a certain elf-prince. You have no will to hate someone else, the fight against sanity he puts on your mind constantly is already too tiresome.
“I would have done it if you were humans too, if that is what you are asking,“ you simply reply to the man, it’s enough to satisfy him and he reads no further into it, too busy remembering the way you pushed the prince to the edge of his nerves so easily. Surely, this is no usual behaviour for elves.
“I didn’t know elves could despise each other so, you arrogant people always look down on everyone but your own.“
His remark tears a laugh out of you again. It’s been a long time since you last laughed genuinely. “I guess we are a special kind, he and I“
“How come? If you don’t mind me asking.“
You bite your lips when you think about how silly what you are about to say will sound. “Are you dwarves often forced into marriages with strangers?“
He doesn’t say anything for a time, just let the answer make its way between the bars of the cells he is trapped in, although the look on his face says it all. Brows raised, he looks at you like he just heard the most stupid thing in his entire life. A forced marriage? Elves really were pointy-eared weasels.
“So that’s why you resent him.“
“Oh, no, I could have satisfied myself with this union had he not been so deceitful and self-important,“ you grumble.
Your interlocutor smirks undercover, something burning the tip of his tongue. He wants to say you look like you don’t have the best of characters either, but decides against it; you probably know it already.
Up the stairs, a sound catches your attention and you remember you shouldn’t delve here too long, as much as the dwarf’s company eases your irritation. You stand to your feet in a swift motion and tower over the man again. You glance to the stairs behind you.
“I should go, breathe some fresh air,“ the dwarf nods politely. “Pray, what is your name?“
“Thorin Oakenshield, my lady.“
His name rings strangely in your mind, you ponder for a second about it. Perhaps you already read about him in a book, though you cannot remember which one. Somehow, you are under the impression that if Legolas had been right about something, it was that those men were no mere dwarves.
“Thorin,“ you let it taste in your mouth. “I’ll remember it.“
“You shall, soon the king under the mountain will bear this name.“
Now this rings a closer bell to you, you are not ignorant of the stories about the king under the mountain and the great treasure of Erebor. They said his halls were filled with gold as far as meets the eye, and that he possessed the most precious stone there was: the Arkenstone. But there was no king under the mountain anymore, the dragon Smaug had taken his place. Taking back Erebor was a fool’s errand: and after all, dwarves were considered fools.
With this in mind, you send a last nod to Thorin before climbing back up the stairs in a hurry, the underground slowly starts to feel like it suffocates you. On your way, you cross Tauriel heading for the cells, you don’t question her whereabouts, only reply with a small smile to the worried look in her eyes. Soon, you gain back the centre of the Great Hall, but in the distance your keen eyesight spots Legolas talking to guards right in the direction you have to take to gain back your room. Like he senses you every time you are around, his gaze hooks to yours at the other end of the main bridge and it sends another irrational wave of warm irritation bloom in your chest.
How you hate that he has such control over your emotions.
Your dress sweeps on the floor and around you in a curling motion when you abruptly turn on your heels and head towards the exit. You need to get away from him, as far as possible. You cannot stay a minute longer in the Elvenking’s Halls, your lungs constrict in anger at each of your ragged breath and it seems only the fresh air of the outside world can ease the fire catching in them.
You hate him. You hate his looks, his personality, his wits and deep down, it is possible that you hate how you resemble him. You loathe what you deem as his obvious hatred of you, unknowing that the prince blames you of the same crime. Any of his attempts at kindness can be nothing else than a litany of schemes against you, as if had he held anything other than contempt towards you it would have been a problem. Because it would have been one. He couldn’t like you given how distasteful you were with him, it would only make things worse.
When you come out to the surface after going up an endless amount of tunnels, the cold winter breeze slaps your face harshly. You’re glad for it. It shakes some anger out of you, you immediately feel more peaceful outside. Behind you, the Halls seem a prison you don’t look back to. In front, the forest obviously dying but strangely appealing. For a split second, you think you hear voices whisper your name in between the trees, they promise you a heart devoid of any rage.
The only path that crosses the forest lays before you, it seems to be completely harmless. You know it is not, you know you shouldn’t do this, but there is a force pulling you in against reason. You promise to yourself you won’t get more than a few miles away. You only have to not stray from the path.
The first steps you take into the forest feel featherlight, like floating upon air. Suddenly, you are ridden of any irritable thought, the white coated trees and the mist cloaking the dirt floor tame your fire. The forest feels ethereal basked in the dying light of a clouded sun, you hadn’t registered it was already so late in the day. It doesn’t matter, the forest will seek you back to the Halls in time.
It feels great not to have any hatred deep inside of you, to look at things easily from a far away point of view. What should scare you only coaxes you deeper into the woods: the trees crook in mythical shapes, the mist glitters, dew sparkles on spiderwebs between naked bushes. In this light, even thinking about Legolas is different. You think back to him again, to his annoyingly handsome face that suddenly pleases you. Everything that makes you feel something doesn’t have to be bad, you think. You do not know if it is the incredible peace and easiness the forest clouds your mind with or a real thought, but you work your way around the idea of the prince and he is strangely not so disagreeable anymore. You know you were harsh on him, but it was for the better.
There is a pang at your chest, something with the colours of remorse. The trees groan around you, the path gets thiner and your wandering steps miss it altogether. You don’t see it, the forest only beckons you closer to its centre.
You wander for some time, nature feels welcoming, not at all like Legolas’s notes had described them. Your feet drag in the leaves on the ground, you flow easily where your steps guide you. Only someone who never went into those woods could think ill of it. You stop in your tracks to take a deep breath in, the leaves rustle all around you but there is no wind.
As if the air itself poisoned your mind, the comfortable feeling you swim in quickly morphs into something else against your own will. It seems the forest controls your state of mind completely. Your mouth feels pasty, dread finds a way to creep up your spine like a bad dream. The trees around change, they are too tall, too pressed against each other. Their branches are crooked too sharply and level with your feet to make you trip when you take a step back from another sound on your left; you catch yourself back against a trunk before shrieking away as fast as possible when your hands touch something sticky covering it.
Between your fingers, white gossamer plays, you have to wipe it on your dress to get rid of it, the hem of which is already caked in mud, leaves and spiderweb. The air weights you down with an invisible heaviness, it probably lies in the fog that wraps around your ankles, cold like tentacles. Your heart hammers painfully in your chest but your blood runs lazier than you would like and your feet do not reply to the commands your mind sends them right away. When you turn around to leave in the direction you came from, everything has changed and you can no longer find it, no matter how many spin around yourself you do: it seems the trees themselves with their flaked bark have moved to block your way out.
You settle for the only path left, though you have to scramble through sticks and bushes to get to it. Behind you, the earlier sound follows. You turn around to it: there is nothing. A shadow creeps behind a tree, it echos an ominous rattle all around you, like there is thousands of them surrounding above your head. A grey sky is the only thing welcoming you when you look up, and the rattle echos again.
The last reasonable thing left to do is rush through the forest away from what is following you, even if you have no clear direction in mind. You clutch at the dagger at your thigh under your dress like a war-sword, it gives your heart courage enough. The dead trees that encircle you have a mean edge to them, you don’t know how long you roam between them like this, probably hours, possibly minutes. The sun is too low in the sky for it to be minutes: the starlight doesn’t shine here. Every time you want to go somewhere, there is a tree blocking your way, it looks like the forest pushes you where she wants you. And right now, where she wants you is the last place on earth you’d like to be.
You take a tight turn around a trunk, only to be met with a tiny clearing filled with spiderweb. Unknown shapes hang in them, wrapped in white gossamer, reeking the scent of flesh rotting. You don’t have to think to know you need to get away from this, but your mind blurs forevermore and your limbs grow heavy, prickles under your skin. It buys enough time for the thing that follows to show its face, and it seems your luck nears zero because what stands in front of you, mandibles high in the air and menacing, is a spider.
One that towers over you twice and shrieks when you flee in the opposite direction. Your legs carry you warily in the almost dark, it feels like running in a dream, like none of your limbs are subjects of your own mind. You don’t care for sticks and thorns tearing at your dress in your race, only think about the awful sound of clambering behind you and the cracks of the spider’s legs under her weight as she chases you.
The more you sink into the trees, the more it becomes hard to breathe, even keeping up with your own speed demands a subhuman effort. It’s like the mist that engulfs you clogs your throat. You re not swift and fast like your elven capacities usually allow you to be, your feet stomp loudly beneath you. You stumble on them multiple times only to catch yourself back on your hands. Palms on fire, scratched and covered in dirt, you fumble around the hilt of your weapon, missing it twice before finally closing on it.
A sigh of relief escapes you when the dagger comes out of its sheath and you lower your gaze to it for a second. When you look up, you are already tripping face first over a root, the impact of solid ground against your forearms that prevent you from breaking your nose into the mud punches the remaining air you have out of your lungs. It hurts to breathe for a while, every hoarse sigh that leaves you is like breathing out fire, you whine and groan in pain, unable to do anything else than crawl helplessly on the ground. Your nails dig into the dirt, you feel the impending doom that follows the sound of eight legs scratching against tree bark.
You are not dying here. Not now, not like this, not when you should have known better than to venture in those woods; not because of your misplaced resentment for a prince. You attempt to get back on your feet, and right when you think you succeed, your legs give out and send you back on your stomach. But the harsh pang of the forest floor never comes, instead there is a freezing coldness that washes over you and seeps inside your bones, perhaps forever. When you try to breathe, water flows your lungs and you are left to push yourself with whatever strength you have left out of the river you fell in, coughing for air at the surface. The water does not soothe the fire your lung blow, if anything, it worsens it.
In your back, a doom lurks, a shadow cloaks you and it threatens with a clicking sound that frightens you. You turn around in the water, holding your weapon that now resembles more a kitchen knife in front of you; as if it could save you. Your strengths leave you gradually, your legs have already stopped responding and your eyes flutter closed against your will before you force them open again: in vain, for they always close back.
Above, the giant spider brings your death, it reeks of it. You see the glint of its sharp claws against imaginary light, you can feel them tear smoothly through your flesh and rip out your heart. Ironically, you can see yourself in the monster killing you. You had killed yourself already when killing someone else; his blood had soaked the bedsheets and splattered in your eyes, burning hot, and you had mistaken it for yours for a second. It was only fair for you to meet your end so soon, after all, marriage was death in your world.
The stroke never falls, your flesh never tears and for a second you think death might be painless. Only, it is not and through half-lidded lazy eyes you see the ending motion of a blade piercing through the air. The spider stops moving suddenly, time feels frozen until her head falls from her body seconds after the blow. It rolls heavily on the ground somewhere you do not see and the creature suddenly jerks and convulses in spasms before hitting the ground with a dull thud.
Just like this, it’s over. The forest doesn’t speak anymore, it leaves you in an eerie silence. Your eyes close, your heart slows eventually and you feel your body dip back into the river without being able to do anything about it. You are too tired to fight.
Drenched to the bone, you don’t understand right away that you head never touched back the water, not until a warmth creeps through the layers of soaked tissues of your clothes and the feeling of skin upon your cheek forces your eyes to flutter open.
Inches away from you, Legolas observes you with a frown. One of his arms encircles your back, lifting you up from the water as best as he can, and his hand holds your head from titling back. Your clouded mind doesn’t register the worried look he is wrinkled in, nor how his eyes roam frantically all over your face for any trace of pain. Your ribs hurt, your back hurts, there is a small gash on your cheekbone from a thorn and he smoothes his thumb over it to wipe the blood away, but the pain is dull, defeated by the magic the forest plays upon you.
You think you might die frozen in his arms for a while. Eventually, Legolas gently grabs your arm to wrap it around his neck before lifting you out of the water.
“Hold on to me,“ he instructs, voice softer than you remembered.
His arms are also soft, softer than you would have liked, they keep you steady. Safe in his hold, you feel like sleep might soon get the best out of you, but you try to do as you’re told anyway and cling to the back of his tunic with slipping fingers. He motions you to stand on your feet and take a few steps away from the riverbed, though he carries you more than you walk. In your grogginess, you bump against his chest once or twice and it only serves for the prince to tighten his grip around you.
In the back of your mind, you remember the promise the forest had lured you with: at least it was true, you had no mind for any anger towards your saviour. And even if you did, you could not have twisted this into what it wasn’t. He saved you, there was nothing else to it, no hidden mockery, no plan to embarrass you. Legolas had saved your life without thinking twice, and if he had thought twice on something, it was solely on your safety.
Minutes later, your shoulders are lifted from one of the soaked weights around them and it is replaced by a newfound warmth: Legolas’s coat and cape are draped around you, secured at the neck by a button he finishes clasping when you look up at him. The frown on his face has not left, and the sleepy buzz your body is prisoner of doesn’t allow you to feel the cold graze of his knuckles in your neck. There is a small flame in his eyes when your parted blue lips breathe against his chin in your daze and his gaze darts to them unconsciously. It lives because he is unaware of it himself.
“Don’t tell anyone about the spider…“ you plead, your mouth struggles to form the words correctly.
It makes his lips twitch. How can you be so stubborn even on the verge of passing out?
His hands slide to your waist, “I won’t,“ before hefting you up on the back of a horse like you weight nothing.
You don’t have time to think about how other-worldly he looks in the dire scenery of it, nor the right mind to work up such a thought, that he is already sat down before you on the horse. His warmth radiates now that you are pressed to his back, you dampen his clothes with your soaked ones but it does not matter, his body heat seems to annihilate any coldness in your bones.
Your mind closes upon yourself again, but this time you do not stop it. There is no need fighting the sleep that curls around you now that you are safe. When the horse takes its first step, the uneasy movement makes you sway dangerously and Legolas’s hand wraps around your wrist to pull you closer in his back. You don’t see the way he straightens up when he wraps your arms around his chest to secure you, one by one, because your cheek is pressed to his back and he feels too soft and too warm beneath you. The strengths of his back under your head is but another dream you cannot subvert to your foggy brain, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat slowly lulls you to sleep, it mends whatever fear is left in you.
“I swear, if you tell anyone…“ is the last thing he hears you mumble behind him before your grip around him loosens and your head rests heavier between his shoulder blades.
Legolas cannot help the small smile his lips curl into, or the relieved sigh that leaves him. You are safe, it makes him forget you hate him and the argument you had earlier on.
When you wake up, it’s to the scent of fresh herbs and clean sheets and the roaming of someone’s hand in your hair. The coldness in your body has disappeared, the cover under which you are tucked feels like the warm embrace of the sun upon a cloud. It reminds you of your childhood, when you used to play in the ocean carelessly and catch a cold; your mother would tuck you in bed afterwards and brush through your hair gently, never leaving your side until you were soundly asleep. You are afraid opening your eyes will break the magic, so you allow your weary bones to relieve in the tenderness bestowed upon you. You’re glad for whoever soothes their fingers against your scalp.
Of how you ended up in this situation, only the sticking feeling of laziness persists for a time. You fail to recall anything but how your whole body felt sore and your mind numb. The sound of a door opening cuts your thinking, the hand in your hair stills.
“How is she?“ you’d recognise Legolas’s voice amongst thousands, but it lacks the sharp edge it has when he speaks to you.
That’s because he doesn’t speak to you, beside you Tauriel replies, and once again you catch yourself wishing they could have been in love. But they are not and you are reminded it is you whom is promised to the prince, you he is to love in public and hate in the intimacy of your room. It is also you he saved, and for that you can be nothing but thankful. You reason with yourself, if there is a time Legolas doesn’t deserve your wrath, it is now.
“Has her fever lowered?“
You can hear the smile in Tauriel’s voice when she answers. “It has, I think she is starting to stir.“
“Oh, right,“ you wish you could see Legolas’s face right now, because you have no idea what expression the tone of his voice conveys, it feels to the ear like one you never saw on him.
The door shuts right after and you decide it is time for you to open your eyes. When you do, Tauriel is already looking at you with a smile, as if she knows you weren’t actually sleeping. You greet her with a tired voice and raise on the mattress to be sat next to her.
“How long was I asleep for?“
“A day maybe, Legolas went to search for you as soon as your father noticed your disappearance.“
“Yes, I know,“ in fact, you didn’t know, but the fact that he had found you at the right time and taken you back to the Halls was enough hint of it. You look down at your laps, a braid that wasn’t here before on your shoulder catches the corner of your eyes. You realise your hair are tied up in a way they weren’t during your scrambling with the spider, you remember they kept on falling over your eyes, out of the careful braid you had tied them into in the morning. “Thank you for braiding my hair Tauriel, it’s sweet.“
Your friend looks down at your hair for a second, her gaze seems to flicker with something, almost a frown, and she nods politely. The conversation falls into a steady silence for a while, it carries the unwavering presence of a friend and the weight of your thankfulness. Tauriel doesn’t ask the questions you know burn the tip of her tongue, she doesn’t inquire on what pushed you to go into the forest despite the risks, nor what was on your mind when you crossed her in the staircase of the dungeon. If Legolas told her you know about the Necromancer, she doesn’t say a word about it.
“So… The dwarves?“ you trail. “Are you still holding them up down there?“
Tauriel’s lips press in a thin line, you know the answer already. “We are,“ of course, they were. “Wouldn’t you say that one of them has a sort elvish beauty...? Maybe not elvish but still… Less hairy than the others, is he not? Kili I think his name is.“
A smile blooms on your face at the mention and your friend averts her gaze from yours. She knows very well his name is Kili.
“Well, I don’t know their names but I wouldn’t say so for any one of them. Maybe one, Thorin, resembles more a human than a dwarf in looks, but he is not really my kind of man.“
“Because you have a kind of man?“ she pries with a smirk.
You scoff, “Now, I know you do.“
A beat passes during which her cheeks redden, and you both fall into an uncontrollable fit of laughter as soon as your eyes meet. Your heart swells of happiness in your chest, it feels good being able to laugh easily about things as silly as boys with a friend. You were never able to do so before, only read about in books and fantasised about sharing your life with a girl you could call a sister. You hoped Tauriel was becoming one.
You catch your breath as best as you can while she stands up from her chair.
“I should leave you rest now,“ she says, wiping a tear at the corner of her eye.
“Give my greetings to Kili on the way,“ you taunt.
But instead of closing the door behind her, she marks a stop on the threshold and sends you a playful look over her shoulder.
“Oh, also, I didn’t braid your hair,“ she lets a pause set in the revelation. “Legolas did. He said you’d hate to have them down.“
The last thing you see of her is the glint in her eyes and the barely concealed smirk that plays upon her lips: you know it insinuates a lot of things. The fact simmers under your skin uninvited the moment you are finally alone in the room. Legolas saw your hair undone. Worse, he braided them back to avoid you the embarrassment of waking up without your usual patterns. Braiding is an intimate act, one every elf learns to do with the utmost care. Nobody ever braided your hair before. You feel sleep has stolen you from a first time, but perhaps it is the opposite and it has offered it to you; for if you were aware it would have never happened.
Something different than anger peaks in your chest. Something you don’t like because it makes you weak for a moment.
You look down to the woven shapes the strands above your shoulders take, weight them between your fingers carefully. They resemble his but are not quite the same. It was one of the few braids that held no meaning. As always, Legolas bricked himself in silence with you.
summary : Trade is not always commercial, it can take different forms and birth different kind of treaties. Legolas knows it. He also knows all are a pain to deal with, yet business in Lake Town calls him eventually.
pairing legolas x fem!reader (no use of y/n)
content warning : none, for global content warning see a heart for a kingdom’s masterlist
wc : ≈2,2k
taglist : @entishramblings @goldenatreides @hell-o-kittys @flooofity @angiekayyy @xxliaaaa @urfavfakeblonde (let me know if i missed anyone!)
author’s note : small chapter to break the rythm a little because this fanfic is already 20k words and we just reached the 1/4? not the funniest thing to write lmao but i feel like it was needed to insist on certain elements of the story! next chapter will most likely be very long soooo (and i've been dying to write it since chapter one) ,, also! a heart for a kingdom now has a dedicated sideblog, you can find every chapter of the story on here and turn on notifs for the blog to be notified when another one comes out :p
➣ nini’s masterlist
➣ a heart for a kingdom’s masterlist
The sun is rising in Lake Town but it seems it never shines to its full extent, the sky over the city always covered in grey. By early morning the distant murmur of the city intensifies. Shops open, crates are moved from an end to another, someone coughs in the distance and the low splattering of the water moving accompanies everything. Water here is a constant back noise, though not as it is in Lindon.
Legolas recognises the shift in the tide, less free, less pure. It stinks of spoiled food and drains, it leaves no white surf to linger on the beach. His humble embarkation slides easily on the lake, people look at him when he passes, observing. The prince stands out from the rest in the human city; by his beauty, by his composure, by his evident status. The white mist engulfing the streets does not seem to have any effect on him, it hovers over his figure but never clings.
The city’s noise does not change at his passing, only shrinks back on itself as though whispering is a common occurrence here, afraid of anything that slips past closed doors. The prince takes that into account, he notes it wordlessly in his mind.
The pontoon on which the boatman ties the bark is damp with everlasting moisture and covered in green moss at the edges, it creaks under weight when Legolas steps on it. In front stands a house, bigger than all others though equally crooked. He steps into it, an appointed elvish attendant following a step behind. A servant welcomes him immediately, he bows too low and sways a little as he does so. Legolas also keeps it in a corner of his mind.
“The Master is waiting for you, sire,“ the tittle falls uneasily, the prince is not its usual bearer.
“Thank you,“ he nods nevertheless and lets himself be guided across the corridors.
The Great House buzzes with the same whisper as the city, concealed though badly done. Women servants giggle in his path, footsteps echoes too loud in the halls. When he reaches a door, as simple as it could have led to any room in the building, the room it opens to is far different than any of the Hall or city. Grand windows let light in, although candles have to burn at every corner of the room and on a chandelier above because the sky outside is rather grey, and a long refectory table takes up the space in the centre. At its end sits a man, short and stout, half concealed by the amount of food that lays on the table before him. Standing up does not do him much good in front of Legolas who meets him in the centre with long strides, both addressing a courteous bow of the head to the other.
Legolas notices he is dressed more finely than any of the people he saw outside or inside the Great House. It serves little to hide the unkept attitude of his reddish hair and the crown that slightly tips to the side on top of his head. Everything about the dinning hall of Lake Town is lavish but poorly executed. Appearances are an art the floating city does not master.
It matters little, it’s not to audit appearances the prince of the Woodland Realm’s has come, but to settle a matter of trade. He takes his seat next to the Lord of Lake Town, his attendant next to him, but none of them eat. They only look at each other above the food. The sight of so many delicacies on a single table while people outside are walking flesh and bones, surviving on fish, makes Legolas uneasy. Almost sick.
The food distinctly smells of herbs, the prince of the Woodland Realm’s recognises them immediately for they are his.
“I understand you are facing some...“ the Lord begins without ceremony, “Troubles,“ the word lands harsh on the corner, intended to sting.
“It is under control.“
“For how long?“
“As long as it needs to be.“
The human lord’s mouth lifts like he half believes it. Maybe he should be reminded of the flitting importance of his mortal kingdom.
“People are well and eating, it is the best we can hope for,“ this time the smile drops. Legolas’s eyes do not waver, they study, unreadable.
“It is.“
A familiar odour rises from outside the window, it comes from the lake but Legolas does not remembers it smelt like that; this is the smell of the forest. It creeps up his spine uneasily. The lake takes its spring in the Lonely Mountain of Erebor, it flows to Mirkwood, not from it, it shouldn’t bring the scent of the forest but let its currents keep it away. Something shifts in the prince’s composure, something that has everything to do with the dark magic that runs in the water.
This is more serious than he envisioned.
“Mirkwood expects you to hold up to the promises you made,“ the reminder takes its place in the silence.
“We are.“
“You have refused multiple cargoes that were agreed on.“
“They were not in the state that was agreed on.“
The fraction of a frown wrinkles Legolas’s face. “What is said state?“
“Usable.“
His heart sets in his chest, not from relief but something else entirely. A boat moves the water below, the reeking scent of the decaying forest hints again. The traded herbs are hand-picked in the northern south of the forest, where the evil has not yet spread entirely, they should have been as good as usual. It’s worse than he thought. It means the evil lies in things at the roots, it is in them before it can be seen, then it spreads like poison.
An anger that has been more prominent than it ought to lately tingles at his mind, deceitful. Elves are rational beings, they don’t act on impulse, yet it seems the state of the forest makes them forget about it. Legolas thinks back to you for a second. He prefers thinking you are the one messing up with his composure for you have almost none and it is not the forest affecting you. He wonders why it is he can neither place you in a human nor in an elvish kingdom. You stand out in both just like you blend in.
“We wish to lower the amounts until the matter is settled.“
“It is under control,“ Legolas repeats.
“Under control is not solved. You know it allows too many mistakes to be made.“
What the Lord sees as caution, Legolas sees as the promise of an embargo. The prince is an envoy sent to fix problems in the trade and keep his kingdom beneficiary, not bind it in foreign accords and bend its spine more than it is already. A luck elves are patient beings, they have an eternity ahead of them.
“I will see that your wishes are respected,“ he announces. “But you must hold to our previous agreements once Mirkwood comes back to normal. With interests and regulated import quotas, regarding the fact that you demand revision of the previously set agreement in times you know are dire.“
The lips of the lord curl upward in a grin. He does not believe Mirkwood will come back to normal.
Quills and papers are taken out of the attendant’s satchel, a detailed agreement in common tongue is written as Legolas negotiates the rates and tariffs. The assistant turned to scribe writes a copy with the same pace, Legolas is handed both to sign Mirkwood’s elegant lettering, the edges spiking up in his own style. A sponge covered in fresh ink is brought to the Master of Lake Town, he dips the coat of arms on his ring in it before pressing the inked crest to the treaty. The stamp is crisp and doesn’t smudge.
On the road back at last, the water still carries its annoying scent, it seems it spreads in the humidity of the night air. The boatman’s face is only lit by the flickering light of a lantern hooked to a rod at the front of the boat, he keeps silent and focused on his work. But the prince does not have all the answers he seeked for yet.
“Do you fish south from the river, still?“ he asks.
The boatman turns his head to him for a second before steering back in front of him.
“No sir, we don’t. Poor Jinny’s little daughter caught something terrible from a fish we trawled there,“ Legolas nods once and hums to the answer, he understands Jinny doesn’t have a daughter anymore.
“We fish further north now, where the water is more clean, pollution from the city has not yet reached those parts,“ he adds.
“Indeed.“
Nothing more is said the whole journey back, yet Legolas’s mind hardly finds any rest. Where else will the evil spread? Can it reach past the mountains and smear onto the West?
The Elvenking’s Hall is silent when the prince enters it again after a three days absence. His father seated on his throne carved out in wood seems to be waiting for him. He addresses his son a smile, calculated and thankful, not the warm crack in his composure it was before.
Father and son now meet in the centre of the room, standing like political allies rather than family; it has been a while since Legolas has felt like he had a family. The coldness in his father’s gaze does not sting like it used to in the beginning, the prince has gotten used to the king’s restrain. He wonders if he looks like his father. Not physically, obviously, for their long blond hair, pale blue eyes and slender figures put side by side would cast a doubt over who is who, but in personality. Is the sharpness of his gaze the same as his father’s?Does he reeks of the same self-assurance? Has the grief washed out of his face any futile form of emotion to leave only those which are calculated, schemed?
He hopes not.
“Were you able to strengthen relations with Lake Town?“
There was never mentions of strengthening relations, only keeping the market working. As ever, Thranduil is never satisfied with easy answers, he orders and then waits for more. Especially from his son. It seems Legolas was born to deceive his father. He never had his wits or knowledge, nor his charisma or his presence; he bordered them only.
“We’ve come to an accord for the future.“ the king doesn’t speak, which pushes Legolas to go on. “The forest’s sickness is spreading beyond the realm, their water is dark, their fish is spoiled.“
Legolas takes out of his pocket the folded treaty and hands it so his father. The silence rests heavy as the piercing eyes of the older man roam the paper, detecting any cracks, noticing every flaw. The prince waits anxiously for his father’s approbation.
“This is bending under pressure,“ he finally strikes.
“It is avoiding an embargo.“
“Lake Town could not embargo an immortal kingdom, its Lord is a simpleton,“ the king retorts. “So we have the upper hand should the forest find a cure?“
“It will.“
The assurance in his son’s voice on the subject tears a smirk out of him. “Good.“
Mirkwood’s royal family looks at each other for a beat longer than necessary, the kind of absence one authorises oneself with relatives, then Legolas turns around to leave. He is almost at the door when Thranduil’s voice stops him.
“Someone missed you at dinner, lately“ Legolas can hear the smirk in his father’s voice before he sees it when he turns around.
“She missed pestering me,“ he corrects.
“You two will see eye to eye with time.“
The quiet sets once again, something burns the tip of the prince’s tongue. Something he never allowed himself to fully voice to his father, something that hung around but was never unpacked. He finds the courage to say it at last, it seems like the only opportune moment for the times Legolas spoke of the underlying decisions made about his future by his father can be counted on the fingers of one hand.
“A marriage will not erase mother.“
It lands like a blow in the emptiness: quiet but slicing through the air like a blade against wind. It seems Thranduil’s expression shifts for a second, Legolas misses it.
“That is not what I am asking of you,“ the king replies. “Mirkwood needs this, two elven heirs on the same Earth is a rare occasion.“
An occasion.
Not an occurrence, but an occasion. Everything to him is one, everything serves political purposes. Nothing just happens anymore in Legolas’s life, things must benefit, induce profit. Steps are calculated like figures, feelings arranged in columns to better count them, bodies aligned to never bend out of line. Perhaps this is why he feels so crossed by you: you escape all his calculations.
The prince came back from an envoy to settle a matter of trade only to be met with another one; an arranged union is a different kind of trade, but it is a trade nonetheless. Though this one he does not know how to handle.
summary : A threat is growing in Mirkwood, and for each time the prince works to hide it away, a princess works harder.
pairing legolas x fem!reader (no use of y/n)
content warning : none, for global content warning see a heart for a kingdom’s masterlist
wc : ≈5k
taglist : @entishramblings @goldenatreides @hell-o-kittys @flooofity @angiekayyy @xxliaaaa @urfavfakeblonde (let me know if i missed anyone!)
author’s note : why is this lowkey bad? this chapter was supposed to be short… next one will most likely be! also did you catch the pride & prejudice reference? :p (and happy valentines even if these two will hate each other’s guts for a while still!)
➣ nini’s masterlist
➣ a heart for a kingdom’s masterlist
The military wing of Mirkwood’s Halls is silent, nothing can be heard in its multiple corridors, it seems as though every guard has deserted it. It is usually clad with elves going about their military duties, but not today as they almost all have been granted a day of rest after a particularly long mission in the woods. But with close attention, at the very far end of the wing, sounds of panting and dull thuds can be caught. In the training room, the princess of another realm is taking advantage of the abandoned state of the area. It is like she is fighting against a ghost, sometimes throwing a hit at a mannequin standing on a wooden base in the centre.
Down the corridor leading to the room, the muffled sounds catch the attention of the prince of the Woodland’s Realm; he stops in his tracks to the changing rooms to listen. The distinct sound of someone fighting surprises Legolas, no elvish guard in their right mind would go training after the mission they came back from: it even left the prince almost disheveled. Curious, he abandons his idea of changing to inquire on the restless guard, he didn’t think he would have to order rest, yet here he was. The more he approached the half open door, the more he realised the grunts that came out of it had a sort of feminine undertone to them, not ones of a grown up elf-man. Instinctively, he slowed down his pace, silencing his footsteps until they made no sound like he was walking on cotton.
Legolas didn’t know what he was expecting when he opened the door, but it was certainly not seeing you fight with the very air and stab a mannequin, precise blade in its carotid. The prince stayed bewildered for a moment, incapable of moving by fear of being seen, incapable also from tearing his gaze from your form. The thought had never crossed his mind, yet to see you stripped out of your usual gowns and adorning the tunic of his people set stranger blood course in his veins; his stomach coiled ever so slightly, he might have missed it if it wasn’t you who ignited it. You looked out of time, ethereal, movements imperfects but flowing easily like the wind carried them. It pushed Legolas to linger in silence a little more, observing you while his breath stilled. There was a sort of anger to your movements, a rage even the most clueless of hobbits could have perceived.
Your blade thrust into the side of the mannequin’s head before you turned around to block an imaginary strike, only the strike wasn’t imaginary and steel suddenly met steel in a clinging sound in the middle of the room. You froze, out of breath, as you took in the blond strands of gossamer hair your eyes first laid upon. Slowly, as if not to anger a wild animal with hurried movements, your gaze raked up to the piercing blue eyes of your opponent. In front of you, stood the prince, effortlessly keeping your weapon at bay.
Something bubbles in your blood at the sight of him, you ignore it. You reach for the longer sword in your back, making it clash against his while you put your disadvantageous dagger back in its sheath at your thigh. The sound of metal sliding against one another as you push back his sword makes you wince, it seldom affects the prince who leaps forward to slash while you parry as best as you can. It seems Legolas doesn’t even try, his strikes are precise and deliberate, you can impose no struggle that would impact his composure.
“What are you doing here?“ you ask between breaths.
“I return the question,“ it appears sword fighting makes Legolas less clipped, his lips twitch in a grin.
“Is it not obvious?“
“Then you have your answer.“
You frown at the attitude he shows, arrogant as ever. Your blades meet times again, they ring and echo all about the room, quickly the exchange resemble more of a dance. Your feet follow each other’s swiftly, where he steps right you step left, when you pass forward he passes back, when he feints and creates an opening you dodge and deflect his blade like you had seen it coming. The air around you tighten, a tension lingers in which both of you know you’re not fully saying things, you’re not trying to hit where it hurts: only tease.
“Where are all the guards?“ you inquire as you fade, taking advantage of the small break to let your fingers loosen their grip on the hilt.
Legolas does not reply. The quiet lingers, your brows pull at your question left unanswered. When the prince notices you open your mouth to speak again, he leaps and your swords collide as you guard; you can feel him impossibly close. Closer than you ever were. Too close, for a panic you can’t manage surges through you. Legolas’s chest almost presses to yours between weapons. Over you, he towers dangerously and you can feel the fanning of his breath hitting your forehead. You’ve got nowhere to run, his blade binds yours and your eyes lock; you are trapped in a glacier. In his eyes, nothing transpires.
“Do you talk as a rule while fighting?“ he finally breaks the silence.
Legolas hates that his skin prickles at your smirk. “Only when I am bored,“ you wit.
Your attitude disappears when he takes a step closer, you swear you could feel his heart beating in his chest and the fever of his skin under layers of fabric before you tripped on your own feet clumsily in an attempt to escape the proximity. You let go of your sword in your fall, it tumbles to the ground in an unpleasant sound that makes you close your eyes as hard as you can and wrinkle your traits. When you open them again, the warmth you felt encaging you reveals itself to be Legolas. He keeps you down with a strong arm pressing down your collarbone. The prince’s satisfied smile grows when he sees you looking around frantically for an escape. He can feel your chest press further into his arm when you try to get up, in vain.
He thinks you are finally forfeiting when your lips part to speak, but finds himself more lost than anytime you’ve spoken to him.
“You’ll think of me when it bruises,“ is the last thing he registers before a sharp pain rushes through him.
Beneath him, your teeth sink into the tender flesh of his arm like you mean to eat him alive. You stain his delicate ivory carnation with screaming red bitting marks until he shrieks his arm away with a barely contained hiss. The distraction gives you a second to push the prince over you to the side, making him hit the ground abruptly. You roll too to end up on top of him, straddling his chest, dagger unsheathed pressed to his neck.
Under you, the elf-prince looks nothing like his composed self: his hair lays disheveled in a halo around his head and his skin glisten lightly. You almost snort; never had you thought you would see the prince of the Woodland’s Realm sweaty by your fault, moreover as you straddle him. You wonder at how well he wears exhaustion before your flesh buzzes beneath your skin, that’s how you wear exhaustion: with rage bubbling.
For a second, Legolas feels he lost his breath and any rational thinking, he can only take you in: the fire in your eyes and the light weight your body presses into him. It seems he lost his instinct for anything that isn’t you or the sharp coldness of the blade pressing above his neck, enough to threaten, never to cut. You do nothing of your obvious advantage and he doesn’t exploit it, solely focusing on forgetting by all means how perfectly you fit where you are; he wants to stab away the thought that you belong here. Almost unnaturally, his eyes leave your face to glance at the dagger which threatens him. He recognises it: the wavy carvings of its hilt, the pearls embedded on the pommel.
“You did not think your own gift would be the end of you, uh?“ you breathe out.
“It is not the dagger I doubted.“
And for a moment, your dizzy mind thinks that he his going to push the hair out of your face when his hand lifts; you are harshly torn out of your daydreaming when he manages to twist your wrist and make you drop the weapon, sending it slide at the other end of the room. You look at the dagger, defeated, and roll down next to him, eyes closed and arm to your face to shield you from the light of the room. You hear the rustling of fabric and something being picked up. When you open your eyes again, Legolas stands before you, a hand held out to you; you ignore it and get up on your own.
“Good fighting,“ he breaks the silence that had settled. “You should improve your stance, it will help you win.“
“Against you?“
“You could not win against me,“ his lips curls upward, you loathe his self-important smile.
You loathe him more when his hands fall to your abdomen and your lower back, forcing you straight with a light pressure on both: correcting your stance. You look at each other from the corner of your eye until he leaves without further ado. Around you, the tension disappears with him, the air becomes breathable again. You wait for the sound of his footsteps to fade to let out a groan —almost a scream— and kick an invisible target on the ground. Whatever you do in this realm, it is turned against you.
You never felt so alone and misunderstood than with anything regarding Legolas, for everybody seemed to love him as much as you despised the man. Alone with your rage, alone with the twist in your stomach.
The royal bath chambers bring instant relief to your weary body when you step in, the humidity hanging in the air better traps the lingering scent of herbs and plants: lavender, wild roses and thyme sway in the water of the bath that has been drawn for you. You delve in the dimness of the room. Another harsh light would have made your head ache without a doubt, here you bask in eternal darkness for there is no window to the chamber. Your bare feet clasp against the tilled floor softly, quiet wrapping around you. The faint glow of scented candles allows you to make out your surroundings, only an elvish eyesight could observe your body strip out of the unwelcome layers it is clad with in the dark. Fabric rustling and falling to the ground in a deadened sound is quickly followed by water moving, it echoes in the room, wet and sloppy, along with the relaxed sigh you let out.
The warm water soothe your sore muscles, it dampens the tip of your hair that falls into it, darkening. It is as if a balm has been applied all over your body and soul, strained feelings of the day wearing off like all other illnesses. You linger in the comfort of the water for some time, allowing yourself to rest and not think of anything for once until the bath turns cold. Another sound of water splashing as you get out of your sanctuary, this time followed by the splatter of your wet feet on the ground. The room around you is not even cold when you stand here naked and dripping, it is warmed by a crackling fire in the corner, where your towel rests.
When you are dried and ready to come out, new green cotton gown adorning your figure like ivy, an intrusive thought gets the better of you now that you are out of the protection of the water. You remember you still don’t know why there was not guard in the military wing. Legolas never answered your question and it came back clinging at your mind oddly. Something told you they didn’t just all disappear for no reason, one does not simply removes all the guards from the fortress like that. Legolas’s silence was deliberate, so was his changing of the subject.
In the silence, muffled voices slip past the walls. They come from outside the room, right past the door. Slowly, you approach the source of the voices, quiet as a cat when your pointy ear presses to the wooden panel of the door. Through it, you can now distinctly hear a conversation between the two guards guarding the bath chambers, the only ones you crossed all day —and they were appointed by the king. You close your eyes to better focus, trying to catch up with the conversation that forms like a puzzle in your mind.
“Heriion was hurt,“ is the first thing you make out of the discussion. The worry of the elf speaking it would not be as evident to spot had he known you were listening.
“How bad?“
“Badly. More people are coming to the Halls to seek refuge, only they do not come from the farther South of the woods anymore.“
“Let us not speak of misfortune, my friend. These are dire times, indeed,“ the other guard seems more composed, less alarmed, you cannot tell if it is foolish of him yet. “But I believe we damaged enough of the surrounding areas at the root of evil for now.“
“Do you think king Thranduil fears for the realm?“
“Have you ever seen the king fear anything?“ a beat passes. “Then he does not. Prince Legolas and him are very much alike on this topic, his self-control is remarkable, even for an elf.“ You frown unconsciously at the mention, pressing further into the locked door.
“I heard he is to depart for Lake Town as an envoy, the trade with the humans isn’t going so well.“
“When?“
You still your breath in an attempt to better catch the reply when you don’t hear it right away, you understand the answer never came after a few seconds in the heavy silence. You assume the guard doesn’t know himself.
“They say, the Lord of Lake-Town is a tyrant, he lets his people suffer,“ says the guard whom you think is the youngest of the two, now that you picked up on the grain of his voice.
“They would be right, indeed. Tyranny is a most human characteristic.“
Nothing is said anymore for a while, the conversation shuts and it appears none of them is inclined on giving you further informations on Legolas, or Lake-Town’s Lord, or the evil they all speak of; especially on the evil. But the moment your hand falls on the handle, ready to push it down to open the door, the inquiring tone of the youngling rises again. He asks many questions for an elf, not that you would complain.
“Who is to manage Dol Guldur’s forces then if not the prince?“ the stranger name makes a shiver run down your spine, something dread-like courses through you.
“You run your mouth too freely, Elandorr.“
The bite of the answer showers cold over the guards’ discussion, you understand it has ended for the night. However, your inquiring has not. You cannot stay in the dark longer and will not be left uninformed by Mirkwood. Being your ally, and the closest one seeing a marriage between your realms is lurking in the horizon, the evil that lies over the forest is just as much your duty as theirs, for it could also compromise the safety of your people. Yet, the king refuses for you to know anything of it, and so does his son. Irritation simmers under your skin, perhaps the prince thinks you clueless enough to meander around without ever questioning your surroundings. Worse, perhaps he believes you too stupid to uncover the truth even if you set yourself to do so. You cast him aside from your thoughts and think back to Lindon. You miss the waves, you miss the hurried sounds of the port and the market down the royal terraces, you miss the plush of your bed and you miss home especially. Your kingdom will not suffer the consequences of a treacherous ally.
When you step outside again, the door opening on a maze-like corridor, the guards look at you for a second before you address them a polite smile and a thanks and walk away. You walk with a purpose through the many tunnels of the Halls, and luck has it that nobody sees you, even when you continue forward as you pass the corridor leading to the guests’ wing where you should have turned. Your heartbeat quickens in your chest the nearer you get to the one place you are not supposed to go: the royal chambers. Again, no guard is posted at their entrance, a chance you will not have twice; it comforts you in engulfing yourself into the dimly lit corridor without looking back. Your steps lead you through it, they thud metrically in the emptiness. Your stomach shrinks on itself, the skin of your back tingles lightly like you fear someone is watching you. You don’t dare preparing an excuse in case you are discovered, only push the possibility away though its roots wrap around your ankles in a menace.
In front of you, the corridor splits suddenly, no sign tells you where to go; obvious, for its usual residents know the place. Only your instinct is left for you to decide, it leads you to take the left corridor when you think you hear sounds coming from the other one, but you could have dreamt them as well. Few meters deep, you are met with a door, wooden and carved with tree-like patterns, the frame is painted green and no light filters through the little opening above the ground. You stand before it in silence for a while, scanning for anything: a sound, a breath, the rustling of fabric, the scratching of a quill against grainy paper. The place is silent, save for the cracking of the wood it is made of. The cold feeling of the handle against your palm grounds you, you let your heart leap and panic as you pull it down, eyes narrowing to a slit as if closing them could make you disappear if someone was to be in the room.
When the door opens and you are met with pitch black darkness, a sign that the room is indeed devoid of life, you can’t help the relieved sigh that passes your lips. And with the swiftness of your sigh, you sneak through the door into the unknown. The slip of a dark green gown is the last evidence of your presence the corridor sees.
Your elven sight takes but a second before adapting to the lack of light, the windows that could provide you with one are carefully wrapped with green curtains. To your right, you make out the shape of a desk, polished and made of fancy oak wood, it is meticulously clean: two distinct piles of papers with titled files resting atop occupy the left corner, the right one is home to a quill and a bottle of ink, as well as an extinguished candle.
You step to the desk and open one of its drawers, by chance a box of matches is the first item you find. You light up one and bring its flame to the candle’s wick, the faint scent of fire catching making its way to your nose. Now that the room is lit, you can look at your surroundings better: the room is simply furnished, the desk, a large bed with what seems to be ones of the most delicate and luxurious sheets you have ever seen is flanked by a single bedside table, and an arm chair rests alone in the corner. You can see the length of the right wall against which the oaken desk stands is punctuated by alcoves in the wall, hidden by thick pairs of curtains. If you’ve imagined the king to have much more extravagant taste, then it can only mean you have reached the apartments of his son, the prince. The distinct scent of him finally decides to cling to your nose, pinewood and musk that reinforces your guess. The realisation makes your anxiety spike up once more, you remember you cannot linger, loneliness is a precious commodity.
You begin by reading the words scribbled on the files on the desk, the glowing yellow light of the candle underlines them, neat elvish handwriting with letters that spike at the end of each telco. Unfortunately, they are of no interest to you: it’s only the files of each guard in Mirkwood, and the only one that interests you is missing: Heriion, the wounded elf the guards mentioned, probably has it with him in the healer’s office. You set for searching the drawers frantically, but each time you open one and roam through the papers it contains you are met with deceit; no trace of the ill that nurtures the forest is to be found. You only skim aimlessly through commercials records, notes on guards shifts, numbers regarding trades you have too little time to decode. You don’t notice the strange change in numbers concerning the trade with Lake Town, how they lower and seem to have been written with a harsh grip on the quill, the lettering frays at the edge with tiny splatters of ink.
The risk you take seems pointless the more you search, you are about to give up with the desk and search elsewhere when a sealed bottle of ink falls in the drawer you close. The sound it makes is hollow, unusual but distinct to your ears.
You still for a second and put the bottle back in its place before knocking softly on the bottom of the drawer, as if to ensure you didn’t dream. Your knock echos weirdly: you didn’t dream. In seconds, the drawer is emptied from its content and the tip of a quill uses as a leverage for you to lift the false bottom. Under it is revealed a clever hiding, clad with notes and papers of all kind. The smile that stretches across your face reeks of pride and satisfaction. Legolas had ordered Tauriel to see that you didn’t found any evidence of his secret, he should have looked in front of himself better.
You take hold of a flying paper on top, Tengwar letters reads « Known informations on Dol Guldur » as well as a date: two weeks prior, a day before you first arrived in Mirkwood. You roam through the note, words underline in your mind, they forms connections with each other, you can almost see the pieces of the puzzle slot together.
The blur that clogs your mind thins, your brain keeps on running like it never intends to stop. Everything makes sense yet you know you are always too greedy, and then you feel as if so much information lacks it is impossible to comprehend a thing to a satisfying extent.
The tip of your pointy ear twitches at the sound of footsteps down the corridor. For a second, you forget how to breathe before coming back to your senses and throwing the paper you hold back in the false bottom of the drawer like it burnt you. You place its wooden concealment back along with the other things that were in it before shutting it close quietly.
The footsteps grow closer, you have but little time.
You blow out the candle and press your index and your thumb to its hot wick to prevent smoke from escaping out of it. The burn it casts on your fingers makes you hiss, you bring them to your mouth for relief as you jump into cover behind the curtains of the alcoves in the wall. The world stills around you when the door opens and light from the outside corridor filters in. Your hand is clasped against your mouth when Legolas enters the room, unknowing of the intruder it hides.
When he pauses at the entrance for a second, you feel it is idle to think he will not notice your presence, your smell probably lingers, perhaps there is a slight shift in the air you don’t see but he does. It seems there isn’t for he doesn’t inquire further and instead goes to the windows to open the curtains and let the light in. You are grateful for your choice of gown, its dark velvet fabric does not catch the light, it serves to hide you perfectly behind the small slit of the curtains that allows you to observe the prince.
Suddenly, a warm feeling creeps up your cheeks; you feel embarrassed to be here. You finally register fully where you are, as it didn’t hit you before, too engrossed in your sneaking : in Legolas’s bedroom, in his intimacy —uninvited. You had only thought about the possibility of getting caught with dread and never envisioned not being seen could be just as shameful. You were invading. It was for a good cause, but still the usual customs and reserve of the elvish kind stuck with you, you doubted anything was more improper. It is worse when Legolas stands by the window and removes his cape that he drapes on the armchair with a worn out sigh, you clasp a hand to your eyes to hide the vision from you, terrified he is going to undress. Your mind goes racing in every wrong directions, you think of every possible bad outcome of this, petrified at the thought of voyeurism upon the prince. The conjecture of this is very wrong, everything about this is wrong, it forces you into a position you despise.
Finding classified files concerning a threat to your kingdom was a thing, but lurking in the shadows creeping on someone was another: one had its reasons, the other you couldn’t approve of. You expect to hear the sound of fabric hitting the ground, sliding against smooth skin, but nothing of the sort is to be heard. Your curiosity takes the best out of you and you part your fingers from your eyes in a slit to look through. You do not know if what you see is better or worse than seeing the prince undressed, for Legolas is currently unbraiding his hair under your eyes. There is nothing you can do but stare at the vision, his skilled fingers trail between the light strands of hair to undo the expect patterns weaving them, his hair falls straight over his shoulder, refusing to hold any curl.
Perhaps it is worse than seeing him undress: the ritual of undoing braids is almost sacred to elves, it is a very intimate moment with oneself, seldom shared aside from partners. Braids hold meanings, symbolic powers, they shield their bearer from some things, they show what people want to show like they hide what they keep secret; an elf without a braid is almost like an infant born anew, without filters, naked in the light. The only elf you have ever seen without a braid is king Thranduil, and his confidence makes up for it. You heard once he refused to braid his hair since the death of his wife, the thought pinches at your heart uncomfortably.
You cannot look at Legolas in such vulnerable position without him knowing, your fingers close the opening they made to plunge you in the dark once again. Sure, you like to see him lose his composure, fray at the edge because he can hardly keep from despising you, but not like that.
His voice rises in the silence, it settles the spiral in your mind because it startles you.
“« Good fighting »“, he quotes himself. “What were you thinking, Legolas? Are you trying to befriend her when there is urgent matter at hand?“ the prince scolds.
Now you are sure of it, he doesn’t have a clue you’re here. Your earlier empathy for him is replaced by usual distaste as his comment, he can’t even be nice without feeling sick about it hours later. Obviously, Legolas has no intention of improving your relations, and even if you have no wish for it too, it makes him even less likeable. You are the only one he is like that with, it seems he wants to get under no other skin than yours; as in to enrage you, that is. The elf-prince paces to the window where he looks out to the night sky filtering through the ground above your head and the giant roots that support the fortress.
“The moon is veiled, the forest grows sick.“
The worried whisper doesn’t quite reach your ears through the curtain but you don’t dare move from your spot in the back of the alcove, afraid to be discovered. After a while, you wonder if he ever intends to go out of his room again, at this rate you’ll spend the night here waiting for the opportune moment to leave and will be caught before you can. Just as if he heard your prayer, Legolas makes to leave before turning when he is at the door to look behind. Your blood freezes in your veins at his sudden movement, you think he saw you by the way he is looking at your direction but quickly realise he is instead looking at the candle on the desk. Strange, Legolas remembers it was placed further to the right; he shrugs before eventually leaving for good, a servant must have moved it while cleaning.
Alone again, it’s like your breath comes back to you and you can finally breathe, though you stay hidden in the shadows a few second more for good measure. When you come out, your gaze lands back on the desk and what it is filled with; the idea of stealing the documents comes to you but you let it go at once. You would be caught in less than a day. It seems everything you learnt today is fraud, the forest’s predicament is much more serious than you would have thought and nothing in your heart is able to comfort you. You think back to the documents, to the guards’ discussion you spied upon, and suddenly something makes you crack up in a smile. Curiously, it’s the prince.
summary : Unfortunately, the Woodland’s realm and its sick forest calls to you for your first visit out of the kingdom, and you wish you could explain better the senseless grudge you hold towards its heir. The crown prince too isn’t so pleased with your arrival. He is already dealing with a dark magic force south from his realm, a witty princess with eyes everywhere he does not want them shouldn’t be a problem; yet it is a problem. One Legolas finds he has a hard time managing.
pairing legolas x fem!reader (no use of y/n)
content warning : none, for global content warning see a heart for a kingdom’s masterlist
author’s note : i feel like this took me forever i had a huge writing block at the beginning of the chapter it seemed insurmountable :( buuuut i came through with it and i’m really satisfied with the outcome of this chapter actually (bear with me i went fucking ballistic with the descriptions like emile zola who???) also why did i think this one was going to be short because i had nothing to say at first and it’s now ≈6k words long 😟
➣ nini’s masterlist
➣ a heart for a kingdom’s masterlist
An eerie silence held the corridors of Lindon’s Royal Hall, one you had always lived with but never acknowledged as you did now. The building seemed dead with all sense of party departed from it; you were never made for crowds before but longed for one now. No longer satisfied with the golden cage the king trapped you into —not that you ever were, but you had grown accustomed to it— you didn’t know where to look without being infuriated. Everything was a constant reminder of the prince you had in horror. You cursed yourself for it. His abhorrent presence shouldn’t have entertained you against your will during the last few weeks, but it did anyway and you were then stuck with the dullness of everyday life. A life of contemplation out the window, of boredom punctuated by daily fighting practice you had requested; it had been given to you, as always.
The sound of cutlery shrieking on a plate brought you back to reality with a wince.
In front of you, your father didn’t even bother looking up, engrossed in a document concerning a trade of some kind. The dinning room was silent once again, only filled with humid sticky sounds of mouths shewing and the clinging of forks on porcelain. You didn’t touch a drop of the wine before you, it called for festivities where there was none.
The king had been silent since the departure of Mirkwood’s royal family but it seemed he was the only one in the realm. You knew all too well about what gossip lived on the tongue of the people: words of a most advantageous alliance. And you knew it was not a commercial one that stirred giggles out of women in the street, for only one kind of alliance could do so. You swallowed thickly at the thought, focusing on the vegetables in your plate to keep your head from spinning again.
A servant brought another plate, full of cheese this time, and your father coughed at your attention. For a second you thought of an hallucination, it had been days none of you had exchanged a word at dinner —not that you did so before. Looking up from your plate, your eyes cross the king’s and you see in them something you cannot decipher. You don’t know if they are serious or sorry, soft like ones of a father or firm like ones of a king. Perhaps both at the same time.
He speaks and the sentence doesn’t fully reach your brain, it gets stuck halfway when you try to push it back like a bad dream. You hope you dreamt what he said and wake up to your father ever so mute. You do not and he repeats himself.
You are to go to the Woodland’s realm with him in a few days, something about giving them the chance to return the favour of hosting. You think back to what a terrible host you were to the prince; you know he’ll make sure to be one too. But it is not your biggest concern. Not a word comes out of your throat as your father looks at you expectantly, they feel stuck like the boats to the port outside. You know exactly why the king wants to take you with him to the Woodland’s realm, it’s not for mere visiting like you’re used to: it’s to fuel the thought of a wedding in the back of everyone’s mind. Your mouth grows pasty and your voice comes out as low as the breeze when you regain it.
“Father, I know what is your design in making me go to Mirkwood,“ you say, eyes to the ground. “Please don’t.“
The king’s brows pull together, straining his forever-young elven features. You inherited from his immortal beauty; his greatest blessing and your biggest curse.
“My design? Well politeness dear, visiting them is the least we can do! And the prince is a very agreeable young man, that is for sure,“ he speaks with underlying intent, clear as spring water. You have grown accustomed to his excuses of friendship, to his lies, it had brought you near madness the one time you hadn’t been cautious.
You held back a gastric reflux at the thought of your own father betraying you again. But could you call him your father when he didn’t love you like one ought to? Your wrath drifted back to Legolas: the conceited prince probably had a loving family, it made you green with envy.
“You know it is not only that…“
“You will do as you are told and make the journey with me for Mirkwood. We will stay at least three weeks,“ now he talked like a king with a plan.
The long haired elf-king stood up from his chair with the unabashed grace only a powerful immortal being could hope to achieve, quietly, like everything he did. If there was a word to describe your father it was that: the calm and the quiet. He had plunged his home in an everlasting quiet and his daughter with it, yet you had never been a taciturn being, the words burned at your throat to come out and they often did against your better judgment. Even when he plotted it was always with a guarded attitude. He allowed tales to spread in the realm if they were only as loud as a whisper; controllable. The only voice he couldn’t control was yours, that much he knew.
The king stopped in his steps when the voice of his daughter echoed in the heavy air of the room.
“What if we are too young to marry, father?“ you beg him to reconsider. He seems to forget all about the event that almost put your kingdom into war.
An event you caused.
“Too young to marry? Nonsense, I was half your age when I married your mother!“
Your heart stung at the mention. You often restrained yourself from thinking of your mother, nobody uttered her name and the subject was avoided when it could be. For long you had held a grudge towards her for abandoning you like she did; the anger died down when you met her fate. The courage you had found that night was one which had grown in her belly just like you, one she had placed to make you better than her: fiercer.
“Maybe that is why mother left as soon as I was of age,“ your voice rungs in the dinning room for a beat too long. You knew the line you had crossed was a thread away from the anger of your father, you also knew you wouldn’t be able to do anything against your father had he been hurt in his feelings. Elves were proud beings after all.
“We do not talk about your mother’s departure,“ the stern voice of the king echos, it empties the room of its servants in a beat. Now it is only you and your kin in the silence you carry like a burden. You remember there was always silence in your parent’s marriage. You often thought silence could be the fruit of a fine, stout, love as well as it could be its death. “I love you my dear, you remind me greatly of your mother,“ you pretend the words don’t wreck you more than they ought to. “But I fear you inherited from everything that was most human about her, and I need to see you with someone who can look out for you.“
Your teeth sink deeper in your cheek than imagined and there is a twitch on your face at the wince you hold back. The familiar metallic taste of blood coats your tongue.
“You know I can look out for myself.“
“I wish did. I wish i did…“
And again, you find yourself alone in a home too big for one princess, with feelings you deem too grand for one person too. And so Mirkwood calls you back. You could only hope its prince had more control over who he was to wed than you did.
Cold and lithe, the glimmering blade of a weapon you dearly loathed glided along your finger, they bumped against its sea-like carving and slipped from the dull edge of its flanks when the carriage tilted. You fixed your eyes on the horizon, past the Misty Mountains, Greenwood the Great —or Mirkwood, as it was called now— was but miles away, growing dreadfully closer. An uneasy feeling settled in your chest as you made out the first trees of the forest with your elven sight, the words you had exchanged with Aeluin came back to you. You had told her you would be back soon enough and despite knowing your feelings, and because she was, like all elves, very fond of gossips, she had whispered in a secret-like manner « and happily wed, assuredly ». You only replied one thing you were sure she understood the wrong way: « one must allow oneself to dream ».
And so the people of Lindon dreamed of weddings and grand feasts. All had the fair prince in mind, some joked they should have liked being the bride, and you saw him in nightmares gushing red spurts again and again in your wedding bed. You were sorry for yourself it had to come to this. You knew Legolas fought effortlessly, unlike you, and in a heartbeat you would be the one drowning in your own blood. Of that you also dreamed, every so often.
The approaching forest looked odd now that you were close, and eventually the name Mirkwood found its sense: crooked trees with crooked branches, flacking bark from which colours seemed devoid, growing grey rather than the earthy brown you were accustomed to, though you weren’t entirely sure it was their actual colour or the ambient mist floating around.
On the edge of the woods the horses grew nervous, agitated, they refused carrying on the elven path crossing Mirkwood. Strange, you had read nothing in your books that described Greenwood as a haunted, sick forest. On the contrary, nature was supposed to thrive and wood-elves were especially linked to her; a wonder they let their haven turn into this. Of course you had heard words of Greenwood losing its splendour, but never like that. This looked like a dwelling for trolls, not an elvish-kingdom.
You resigned to leaving the horses behind and take the path by foot, accompanied per usual of your royal guard. A glance at your father was enough to say he wasn’t as surprised as you were; maybe he already knew the predicament in which Mirkwood lay. Inside the forest, the fog engulfed you whole, straying from the path would mean getting lost in a matter of seconds, but it was not only that which shook a weird feeling inside your stomach. You could feel it: a dark magic lying within these woods, hiding in the very roots of the trees, in the white haze cladding you like a cloak. Oddly, the mist left no moist at the tip of your fingers, made of something else than thin air. As you looked above you, you found the trees lush with white-coated leaves, an even odder thing since the nearest mountains were not as high as to produce snow. Then it hit you it wasn’t snow resting on the leaves, it wasn’t even leaves at all but spiderweb, gossamer running between the trees and around them. You held out a hand to touch one, it sticked to your fingers until you wiped them clean on your dress.
You thought you still had two dozens of minutes of walk through the sickened forest but your guards stopped walking suddenly. Before you stood two other elves, wearing the armour of the wood-elves’ army. In front of you, a bridge leading to a huge door carved in the rocks, surrounded by blue panels and tree-like pillars; you could feel the magic sealing it rippling against your own elvish one: the one your hair, your dress and even your skin were made of. Of course, you knew the king’s Halls were an underground fortress, but somehow the drawings had failed to fathom the immenseness of it all, how such a palace could be hidden under a mere plateau, as high as it was. Inside, it was even grander. You wandered —because it felt like wandering, given how big it was— upon bridges above a pit still illuminated by patches of light filtering miraculously through the leaves and roots of the less sick northern trees of the forest, until you reached darker and skinnier tunnels. Eventually, deep in the belly of the Halls, at the end of descending stairs, laid before you a large open room, lit in dim lights from flames glowing at every corner, with columns carved in enormous tree roots and stones and various galleries leading in and out of it. The place was buzzing with sound, elves going on and about through the many passage; only a little payed attention to your party. To your glimmering eyes, Mirkwood’s fortress basked in ethereal beauty, the kind only elves had the secret of, for only magic from the first children of Ilúvatar could have been at the base of such a thing. Many stone bridges connected the wondrous tunnels to the heart of the cavern: the king’s palace. Also carved in roots and stones, its hugeness while you stood before it like an insect sent your heart flying with apprehension. Never had you seen such beauty, such grace in architecture mixed with the underlying feeling of unabashed power. It was as if to remind any who entered the Halls that the Woodland’s king may live underground but his authority and dominion only thrived greater, hidden from those who were foolish enough to think him wavering. Though, given the state of his forest, he was maybe starting to waver. Your elven hearing caught the distinct sound of a steam far away, a system of underground running water hidden somewhere deeper.
You didn’t have time to analyse or marvel at the craftsmanship of your kin any further that the large door of the royal palace closed behind you, shutting out every other sound. Now the silence washed over you again and your guts knotted around themselves, apprehension closer with each echoing step you took. Guards led you through another couple of corridors, larger and finer than the tunnels, each carved with living-renditions of trees astonishingly detailed, until you entered an even more astonishing room. The throne room stood centred around an ambulatory made out of pillars carved right from the living rock, stalactites crowned the ceiling, and the throne itself, headrest sculpted out of wood, stood higher in the centre on a pedestal.
Suddenly, you felt like a little girl hidden in the shadow of your dad when he took a step forward to meet king Thranduil and his son and you didn’t. For a split second your limbs refused to obey and you could only stand here, frozen while the prince looked at you quizzically, small pull at his brows. When you finally went their way, the king greeted you with a smile, inquiring about your health, though elves were seldom affected by illness. You could only muster a polite short answer before his attention returned to your father and a discussion ensued. Piercing eyes burning holes in your neck prevented you from focusing on the kings.
A foot away, stood the elven prince who appeared somewhat taller, greater, now that you were in his realm. It stung you to notice he also was somehow more handsome than the last time you saw him. You tried to shake the thought away; you had only grown accustomed to his beauty in the past and had forgotten about it in the months separating your visit, that is all. At least you hope it is, because his golden hair seems made of silk that flows down his back and his usual braids you can’t help but stare at, nor can you pry yourself from mapping his face: the pull of his brows you begin to know more than you should, the shadows that cast a sharpness to his jaw, the smoothness of his skin akin to yours, the pale pink of his lips your only ghost over —no need dwelling in such places, and the deep mesmerising blue of his eyes one could mistake for brown. The image prints in your mind for later; to give a face to your anger. Anger tastes best with a face, you know it of experience.
When he bends and you offer him your hand instinctively, by custom, he then seems less towering, more like the prince you remember hates you just as much. His lips graze the back of your hand diligently. It makes your stomach coil with something you don’t like. And his breath hits the birth of your wrist when he speaks before straightening up.
“I trust your journey went well?“
“As well as one could hope crossing Mirkwood,“ his traits wrinkle again. “Delightful forest, a shame she has to suffer so.“
“Indeed,“ Legolas states, eyes firm now. “You do know we are working on relieving her from her pains. The forest is very dear to us, our kin taught the trees to speak.“
“I imagine.“
The discussion closes as fast as it begun. It appears to Legolas that he cannot talk with you for long, whatever he says you twist as a scorn. The prince finds that the sickness of the forest is slowly growing on him, the guarded patience he showed in Lindon slowly flakes and he fears it will be much harder for him to keep his feelings for himself in front of you, whatever their nature is: boredom or deceit —and he is already tired of playing the perfect host. Your gaze strays from Legolas’s but his keeps on your form, he watches attentively as you look around yourself, at the broken lines of the ceiling and everything in sight like it’s the first time you go past your realm. He can’t possibly guess it is the first time you see anything else than the springs and beaches of Lindon since a long time. A time you wish to bury into myth.
An uncomfortable feeling clogs at his throat for a second as he takes in your look. The journey was long and wary, still you remain unaffected by the events, like all elves. The prince comes to wonder what would it take for you to look out of tune, disheveled : a fight, a race? He looks away for a second to hide away the corner of his lips twitching. Legolas decides pushing you to express nice feelings would probably be the best way to rouse you. It annoys him that he cannot tell for sure, that he cannot seem to make out your character as easily as he does for others. It is true that elves are more hesitant with one another, their instinct and gift of prediction, of anticipating people —humans especially— falls somewhat flat to another elf’s equivalent ability. But they are enlightened beings, they know things; with you, Legolas appears to not know anything.
He presses his perceptive gaze back to you until he can close his eyes and still see you shaped in lines in the darkness behind his eyelids; you feel it prickle at your skin. By elvish standards you would be deemed average, a beauty but not one to move kingdoms for. However, Legolas was beginning to find his standards were straying from the elvish ones since the feast. Of course you were beautiful, that much he knew and would hold you in high regard if beauty was a criterion to his esteem, but when you stepped into the light that evening with that dress on, with those braids in your hair and that look on your face —the same one you yelled at him with hours later—, you ruined every other form of beauty for him. You were no longer plain or average, you were now forever the beauty of the feast, like the night had opened his eyes.
Opened is perhaps too much of a word, loosened would be more appropriate. But Legolas wasn’t such a materialistic man; your personality hadn’t followed you looks and you were still pompous and insufferable. He only happened to find you more pleasant to look at now, that is all.
Suddenly, the blond elf is cut short in his contemplation, a pair of eyes catches his red handed. You didn’t cross the gaze of the prince for a second before he turned it away, now trying to ease the tension —or regain his composure— with a cough from the back of his throat.
You, on the other hand, weren’t so radical in your opinion of his good looks. You had never been inclined to deny him the beauty he possessed, from the very first moment you had found him handsome, maybe more than they pictured him to be, but it had had the opposite effect on your liking of him. Beautiful beings were not always good. They could be selfish and vicious. That’s why you were careful of such beauty.
Prying you away from your thoughts, king Thranduil invited his guests to allow being escorted to their rooms for a moment alone after their journey. It was true you craved for a second alone with yourself. Diligently, you followed a woman down the many halls, leaving behind the sacred feeling of the throne room and its mouldings for the more hushed warmth of the guests wing. Your father had reached his room at some point in the way to yours and you were left alone with the elegant woman by your side, her strides longer than yours yet still adjusting to your pace. She moved with the agility and grace of a cat it seemed, even though she reminded you more of a fox: her long red hair flowing like fire behind her, crispy scent of wood and outdoors clinging to her clothes. She was your age or a bit older, a hundred year difference mattered little for elves.
“Your room is opposite from your father’s,“ she speaks, filling the comfortable silence that had settled. “Curtesy of the prince, he said you would like it better.“
“Oh,“ you weight. “Tell him I’m…“ words lack as you try to find the appropriate term to convey your unusual sympathy of the blond. “Appreciative, of his concerns.“
You’re pleasantly surprised at the attention of the prince and can find no ill intent to it, it bugs you that you had not sooner acknowledged you could sometimes just be nice to each other, regardless of the judgment you held towards one another. Your lack of emotional depth makes you feel foolish, Legolas had been more mature than you were and you are ashamed of behaving like a spoiled princess. You don’t have to appreciate him more but you do take note of trying to be courteous at least.
“Do you and the prince appreciate each other, then?“ the ginger elven asks, her deep green eyes meeting yours.
“No.“
Your answer comes out harsher than you want it to be, it seems to take her aback. You feel yourself flush at your reaction.
“Appreciate is not the term I would use…“ you add to ease the awkwardness. “We go along. As much as we can.“
“Excuse me, it was not my place to ask, miss.“
The blooming smile you send her way reaches your eyes as you ask her to call you by your name instead. You learn hers is Tauriel. You twist the syllables in your mind, they bounce twice on the tip of your tongue and once on your palate like a melody.
“It would be nice to have someone to look out for here,“ you state before she stops in front of a door you guess is your chamber’s.
Once alone, you take your time to wander about the room. It’s larger than you would have thought, big chunks of roots protrude from the walls, and the glowing flame lightening it cloaks it in a cozy atmosphere; elves don’t sleep much but they do like to pay close attention to their bedrooms, for many other things can be done in a bedroom: it is a shelter for an overwhelmed guest as well as a sanctuary for star-crossed lovers. The flash of a thought about the prince’s quarters skip through your mind, you forget all about it when your gaze land on the window embed in the rock. The edge of the window is dressed as a bench with luxurious oriental cushions from the region of Rhûn, but they are nothing compared to the view outside: you realise you’re up at the top of the main cave of the fortress, the bridges and elves crossing them appear tiny under you, still basked in the warm light that characterise the place. It seems even bigger from here and you wonder if some kind of elvish magic is not at work here to fit in the undergrounds such a dwelling.
You don’t feel uneasy as you did before to such grandness, only rapt with wonder, enchanted almost. The sentiment pushes you to come out of your room at once to explore, trailing down the corridors you took moments ago with Tauriel until you are back in the main room, as tiny as an ant below the structures. You wander in awe across the bridges and past the inhabitants of the Halls, some of them smile at you kindly, make room for you to pass even if you are as quick on your feet as them, though only half their kin.
Half concealed in the dark, you find a passage going down in steep stone stairs, nobody takes it but nobody guards it either. A lingering scent of berries and wet wood dances in the air from the cave bellow. You look around once and slip into the darkness of the stairs, quiet as a breeze. Your steps don’t clasp against the stones and you force your heart to slow down, its beating imperceptible, like a lizard slowing its heart rate. Instinct tells you to stay on your guard, even if it is foolish because you know you are safe in Mirkwood.
The dark shadows of the corridor wear out further away, to the end of the stairs probably. You are about to go down the last flight of stairs when a hushed voice you recognise stills you to place. In an instant, you almost jump to press against the wall as flat as possible, hiding in the shadows. You feel the rocks in your back dent against your skin uncomfortably and the stillness in your breath frays ever so slightly. The man does not seem to have heard you, you think it’s because he is too preoccupied by his conversation but, really, it would have been difficult to spot you even for an attentive elf. Of your discretion skills you knew little yet.
The voice rung again and you cursed yourself for always ending up at the same place as him: the prince. Legolas’s voice was soon cut by another: a woman’s, whom you identified as Tauriel. The room they were in looked like a wine cellar, you could only see what the wall of the stairs to your right didn’t hide: barrels bearing a fine stamp you recognised as Dorwinion’s, and fine amber wine bottles labeled with tiny elvish lettering. And of course, there was the distinct smell of berries, fermentation, and sometimes a sweet hint of chocolate that characterised wine cellars.
In the distorted reflection of a bottle standing on a dresser, you could make out the red-headed girl and the prince. You had walked in on an animated conversation it seemed, one spoken low as if they were afraid the walls had ears —and the wall, in fact, had ears.
“I don’t understand how you can think about hosting guests when Greenwood is in this state,“ Tauriel half-cried half-whispered. “Even the starlight brings me seldom comfort.“
“My father knows what he is doing, Tauriel.“
“Oh? And is a marriage going to heal the forest?“ the bitterness her tone is laced with makes Legolas go silent.
Tauriel makes motion to leave and before your heart can leap at the thought of being seen, the prince holds her back, hand wrapped around her wrist gently. In the bottle, her movement is distorted as she turns around, but you can see her head lower to look at the grip the king’s son has on her. In your heart, there is a small, futile, flutter of hope when you see them together. The look in the eyes of the prince you can only imagine, but you wish for it to be gentle and loving. Perhaps, if he is in love already then he will refuse the wedding. You can picture it in your head as clear as day: the tragic elf-prince carrying the burden of a forbidden first love. It makes him more likeable in a way. You hope he loves her dearly.
When his voice cuts through the heavy silence, it disappoints you.
“They cannot know about this. King Círdan and his daughter can never know about what ill nurtures the forest. The dark forces that lie within are ours to bear.“
With a tug of the arm Tauriel escapes from his grasp. From her height, she looks at him —disapproving.
“You underestimate her, Legolas. She will inquire, and when she’ll have no answer asking, she’ll get them another way. The girl is not half as gullible as you think her to be; she will find out.“
“See that she doesn’t.“
On that note, Legolas walks your way to leave the cellar and you almost instantly leap up the stair with the same quietness you came in with. When you come out to the light at last, you’re out of breath from the emotion. You lose yourself past the few people still walking the fortress, and back to your room as fast as you can. You suddenly hope your scent didn’t linger in the dark for Legolas to pick up on, in this case, you know he will.
The weight of the door feels heavier as you close it shut. You lean against it and allow yourself to breathe normally after having held it back for so long. You heard the prince well enough: a dark force is playing in Mirkwood, and it is plaguing at the forest like leprosy. If you had your questions before, now it was worse, moreover because Legolas didn’t want you to find out about it for a reason that escaped you. And to his misfortune, Tauriel was right: you were nosy and knew where look for, years of searching obscure informations in the content of books had taken their toll on you. Mirkwood’s secrets were yours to discover, and discover them you intended on.
After what seems like hours, you finally escape from dinner and into the deserted halls of the fortress. Changing country did not push your father to be more eloquent with you and you were left by the kings to converse with the prince; it suffices to say that Legolas seldom spoke and so did you. You had been tempted to ask questions about the forest but decided against it, he was never going to be your informer and if he knew you were actively prying your chances of finding out his secret would decrease drastically. So it had been a long, stretchable dinner punctuated by silences amidst the quiet.
You now roamed the emptied streets of Mirkwood’s royal Halls, fascinated to see beauty out of the pages of a book in front of your eyes. With each step you take, your trust in the detailed illustrations of your manuals flattens, you now know they can never represent deeply the craftsmanship and ethereal shine of real elven architecture. Books had no magic, and perhaps that is why you used to trust them more, it seemed they could not deceive. Alas, deceive they did because none had shown you, at the end of an alley, hidden between the roots, the small gazebo miraculously lush with bushes and smaller trees that stood before you. Light filtered through to hit in patches on the stone floor, and in the middle a finely sculpted wooden bench faced the opening that gave on another bridge, further away in the Elvenking’s Halls. A smile pulled at your face when you noticed the figure sat on the bench, looking out dreamingly. You weren’t particularly discreet and still she hadn’t seen you, lost in deep thought. Your plotting mind hopes she is thinking about the prince.
Tauriel only acknowledges you when you sit down next to her in silence. She offers you a smile and nothing more, only the graceful presence she radiates of. You feel suddenly shy, it amazes you how one can have such fierceness in their eyes yet the lacing gentleness of easy friendship tied to them; it’s not the same envy you usually feel that now takes the better of you. You can see why Legolas likes her.
Her silent company is comfortable, but soon it runs too quiet for your racing mind, there are questions at the tip of your tongue and increasing hopes in your heart you must have an answer for; they could save you from your fate. Gingerly, you finally break the silence and gather the courage to inquire.
“So, are you and the prince…?“
“In love?“ you flush when she sees right through you in a matter of seconds and nod expectantly. “No, not at all!“
Just like that, your hopes are crushed like glass, though you knew feelings were never a safe ground to bet on.
“He is a childhood friend, my dearest one even, but it ends here. And even if we were, he is a prince and I am just a wood-elf, our worlds are too different.“
“But if you were a princess?“
“If I were like you?“ the hue on your cheeks deepens at the insinuation. “Legolas is a great man, loyal, caring, protective… But he is not the kind of prince my heart longs for, I fear.“
You scoff, earning a playful frown on the face of your friend. “He is not the kind of prince anyone’s heart longs for, I assure you! Arrogant and deceiving, that’s what he is.“
“I think it may be because the princess he met was arrogant and deceiving too,“ she teases, though you know she means no harm.
“I am not! His character makes me so.“
Tauriel looks at you blandly, and you know exactly what she means by it. It shames you people are able to see perhaps you weren’t as fair to him as you should have been; but again, what do they know about being forced in a union you dread more than one could imagine? What do people know about being bound in chains all your life, so much that the smallest thing you can do to free yourself is rouse up a war?
The dying flames lighting the Halls wear down, they cast gloom rather than comfort on your face that bears no trace of your increasing worry, you shove it carefully where you know it is best hidden: in the running arteries of your heart. The lump down your throat moves like a living animal, you feel yourself spiralling once more in a place devoid of coherent thoughts. A place you thought you had escaped of.
Soon you won’t be able to escape your destiny with the prince, you feel it in your bones.
summary : The time is not for meetings anymore, your opinion of the elven-prince is set. Alas, both your fathers do not relent on the idea of a wedding, and soon you expect it to live on the tip of every tongue in the realm. The incoming feast in honor of the allied kingdoms does not help, and resentment does not always bleed bright red.
pairing legolas x fem!reader (no use of y/n)
content warning : mentions of blood, for global content warning see a heart for a kingdom’s masterlist
wc : 4,605k
author’s note : idk i love how they’re dumb and stupidly resentful, hope you do so too :) lots of ideas in the back of my mind btw it’s all very exciting and scary at the same time!! oh and also i don’t have a taglist but if any of you wish to be tagged in upcoming works i’ll work out one! just let me know (if you have fandoms/characters preferences) :p
➢ nini’s masterlist
➢ a heart for a kingdom’s masterlist
You let your head fall between your hands, elbows red from supporting against the wooden desk too long. The sound of a door shutting is quickly followed by the long sigh you let out and a growl of anger. You feel as if your brain is of steel when it pounds inside your head and try, in vain, to make it stop. Aeluin brought you the news: Greenwood’s royal family is to depart in two days, and tomorrow will be held a formal dinner with every amiable friend of the court to wish them goodbye. When such a reception is held, it is of practice for the receiving and visiting kingdoms to offer a gif; a token of everlasting alliance. This time, your father wants you to offer the gift. And with no doubt, prince Legolas is required to do so too.
You see straight through the kings’ game: leaving you and the prince alone every chance they got, asking you to give him a tour of the city, ogling you every time you so much as looked at each other. And your father wouldn’t stop talking about him: how great of a young man he was, how amiable, how handsome; just to compel you into liking him. But there was nothing to like in the prince. He had shown only conceited arrogance and disdain towards yourself, looks of superiority every time you talked. You gave them back to him, obviously. But he deserved it, you thought.
A marriage was most convenient, you knew it. But, in their concealed love for their children, the kings couldn’t bring you to marry by force. They tried and tried again to push you into one another’s arms, so if you didn’t court yet you would at least frequent each other. You thought if it was only for your father you’d already be wed, whether you liked it or not; for why would he not make you marry by force if he already did once? Thranduil must have really loved his son to let him get away with such beauty for so long.
You stand up from your chair, figuring no other amount of studying could be done now that your mind was off to something else completely, and leave the library. You had not done a meter in the corridors before you fell face to face with the very prince you wished to avoid. You took a step back and he stood unshaken. Your eyes met for the umpteenth time in a week and this time you could not contain a whine of irritation at the magnificent blue in them. He had to be everywhere you didn’t want him to be, really. And always towering over you like a lion to a pray. Anger bloomed in your chest at the feeling; hunted in your own halls! He opened his mouth and you walked past him without a word, letting him stand here for a second. Legolas stayed unmoving for a while. Clearly, you had heard the news and were as happy as he was. At least, you could agree on that. But you were all mouth and no action, that much was clear, so he knew you’d comply anyway. The thought gave him an idea.
You stormed into the servants’ hall in a hurry, eyes searching for the one who was the closest thing you had to a friend. Aeluin was already looking at you, obviously, startled like all of the other maids.
“Excuse me,“ you calmed yourself. “Aeluin, could you accompany me outside? I need fresh air,“ you explained, the woman already by your side. She nodded before leading you out; a servant’s quarter was personal, and you felt embarrassed having walked in so uninvited. You wanted to apologise but knew Aeluin would tell you it was not needed. You only felt the rage burn down when the wind blew in your face and the sun blinded you; you had missed the outside world. The halls felt like a prison to you since then. A golden one, but a prison nonetheless. You had let your habit of walking on the beach down, of getting to know strangers in the street and spend the day listening to stories made all across the country. Books were great for accuracy, but they lacked the emotional compendium of the human mind.
You led your maid, with whom you walked arm in arm, to the buzzing centre of the city. Your nose led you close to the merchant streets and the market. Greasy smell of fish and oil poised your clothes yet you payed no mind to it. You felt relieved not smelling only the luxurious perfumes the servants embalmed the halls with anymore; they made your head reel most of the time.
“My lady, we ought not to dwell too much in the centre. You know your father does not like you going where it is too crowded, let’s not worry him,“ Aeluin’s soft voice reasoned.
“What he does not know cannot worry him, Aeluin,“ you wit. “Besides, how does he want me to pick a present for the prince if I am not to go where presents there are?“
You heard your companion hold back a giggle and you smiled at her. It has been a long time since you last smiled, you felt. The sounds of people living and the warmth of the sun gliding along your skin made you dizzy with joy. An old crooked joy that is still hiding somewhere past your ribs, between the cracks in your bones. Your friend speaks again.
“What are you going to get him? To the prince?“ she asks.
Curiosity you did not think as a vice, but wish it had not been present at the moment. Your demeanour shifts and you feel yourself tense. It’s almost as if you had forgotten about what this gift meant really.
“I don’t know,“ you state. “I have no idea. You’d admit it is hard to find something pleasant for someone you despise so.“
Aeluin looks at you but says nothing. She must feel her inquiring was not the best choice of conversation, yet you do not stop in your complaint.
“Can you believe he is so full of himself? And our fathers want us to marry! I could never be happy with him, and him with me. I’m sure you can’t even appreciate him, and you like everyone!“ you stop yourself suddenly and grow red. “Excuse me, I shouldn’t bother you with my problems,“ you say, eyes to the ground.
A shadow passes.
“I think you should talk to him,“ she says, breaking the silence.
When you burst out in laughter, it is against your will, incapable of controlling yourself.
“I’m sorry my lady, I did not mean to be funny,“ she cuts you. “If I may be so bold as to advise you, I really think you should talk to the prince. You are not the only one who is being forced to engage with someone they hate; as much as we know, he is too.“
Your laugh dies down in your throat, you swallow it like a ball and let yourself ponder as you walk through the streets. The avenue is packed with people; none of them recognise you, they are too busy talking with each other and scanning the stands. And it’s been too long since you have last made a public appearance. You think about talking to Legolas about the situation and you don’t see a way it could turn out well. You surprise yourself wishing there was a way.
Your eyes catch a glimpse of something on one of the stands and it makes you do a double take. You stop in your tracks to look at it more closely, fingers running over the carved ornaments in the wood it is made of. You take it in your hands, now fully grasping its weight: almost feather like. Your eyes glimmer at the object, or maybe it is the sun reflecting upon them, and you can’t help but imagine Legolas using it. It is so delicate-looking yet so resistant, its decorations remind you of the architecture of the Woodland’s realm; one you saw countless times in books and drawings.
“Do you think he’d like it?“ you ask Aeluin, standing next to you.
“I know I would,“ she simply replies. And somehow, it comforts you.
The sound of people chatting at every corner of the room is almost unbearable, and the lonely princess in her corner prays for it to be nearly over with. The reception hall is lit with dim flames everywhere, decorated with seashells and plants to remind of both kingdoms at the core of the gathering, and is crowded with people in their most perfect attires: tunics and gowns of every colour and form mingle. The unfamiliar scent of perfumes mixing crawls in your nose to start a dreaded headache, and you feel uneasy in your heels with everyone looking at you. You can swear there are eyes to ogle you every time you turn your head, yet you catch none. You sip on your wine absentmindedly, thinking maybe if you act perfectly content in your loneliness the burning rash of gazes on you will die out.
You know what they expect you to do, what they came here with in mind: for you and the elven Mirkwood-prince to be all over each other. To think about it makes you grit your teeth. You can’t even spot him in the sea of guests, you even wonder if he bothered to come. It wouldn’t surprise you if he didn’t, his pride would be but further proved. Your fingers tingle with anticipation as you stare blankly at the entrance door, you don’t know to which god you should pray to be left alone tonight.
When your shoulder burns with the cold touch of a hand on your skin you curse yourself for not having prayed any harder; not that you think it would have changed anything, but relying on external forces is always a great way to misdirect one’s anger. The person to whom belongs the unwelcome hand circles you before standing right before you, as always towering over your figure with all his might.
Prince Legolas stands here, his hair is carefully braided and you dream of ruffling through it to dishevel his looks for once. His eyes quickly reeks your body but you notice it and can’t help doing so too. It infuriates you he doesn’t look snob in his tunic, just like it infuriates Legolas you don’t look like a child playing dress up in yours. You look like a woman, an elegant one moreover, and it makes his skin prickle.
The forced and barely unclipped smile he gives you disappears when you continue to wear disgust so apparently in your traits.
“Could the princess do me the honour of at least pretend?“ he asks voice low.
You raise a quizzical brow at his demand. “Why would I?“ you reply.
“Because everyone is looking at you funny,“ the blond almost sighs when he realises you think you’re being witty again.
You look around you and suddenly all the eyes you tried to catch the past minutes are glued to you like insects. It makes you want to scratch at your skin until it draws blood. You quickly turn your head back to the prince; for once looking at him is the least intimidating thing to do. A sweet smile blooms on your lips that his mirror almost immediately. It angers you that he is so skilled at pretending he is delighted to speak to you. But then you realise you are too.
Your teeth catch your lower-lip instinctively and his eyes follow the gesture for a split second before landing back to yours. Deep sapphire orbs scrutinising your every thought, like he can read you like an open book and crawl inside your mind with his damned eyes.
“So are we to converse with each other? We both know we are not so talkative, I’m afraid,“ you said, trying to escape the situation.
“They will be more inclined to stop starring if they think we are giving them what they want,“ his voice is followed by his hand resting on your arm. You resist the urge to slap him away and widen your smile.
“I hope you know I will be giving you hell for this,“ you warn through gritted teeth, and his expression now is not as false as before when it shifts to slightly sarcastic.
“Oh, but I expect you to.“
Your mouth finds the sweetness of the liquor in your glass again and its carmine red stains your lips as you look around you swiftly. It seems nobody is looking at you anymore, back to their own relations. You silently thank the customs of elves to be so modest around physical touch; you didn’t think a smile and a hand would suffice to tame their appetite for gossips. You lose yourself into the contemplation of the hall, so beautifully decorated, until a clasp of hands drags you back to reality. Your father is calling for people to gather around the table and begin the dinner. Legolas is already walking past you when you turn your head back in front of you, but a whisper of the wind brings you his voice.
“Allow me to tell you, you look… Different, tonight,“ is what the wicked wind tells you.
You bite down the inside of your cheek to resist the need to burst with anger. Knowing him, this could only mean two things : you look great whereas you usually look awful, or you look awful even when you try.
You follow him after a second of pause only to realise table etiquette has never roused you so then now: when you remember you should be seated next to your father and in front of the prince you despise. It’s a great torture to face him mere minutes after he commented on your appearance, even more now that both your fathers are smiling at you in a way that could be less obvious. In your plate, everything looks so delicious and fancy you almost drool; you thank the cooks for providing a meal that will occupy the mouth of people long enough.
Though, if mouths are busy, it is not always the case of eyes; not Legolas’ at least. The prince cannot help but look at you every time you seem like you are absorbed in something else. He blames it on you sitting in front of him. Deep down, he knows it is your pale blue dress that flows upon you like water at its spring, it makes you look good-natured when you are not. Usually, elves are kind and calm, patient, sometimes a bit arrogant but never with their own kin; the blond prince cannot explain why you are not. You seem to have a human-like temper that brings out his, one he didn’t know he had. He even suspects you to be a dwarf, for only a dwarf could annoy him so. He knows it is not true though, you are too pretty to be a dwarf. Too tall, too. You look like a sad tragic princess, gaze lost in the contemplation of your plate, nobody paying attention to you.
When your father stands up and talks at the end of the dinner, you think the bell saves you; but it is only to bury you further into your predicament. You don’t hear what is being said because your ears are buzzing and your vision turns black suddenly. You feel the acid in your stomach cry and tear it apart. In your mind, you stab and stab a pillow again but the feathers that come out of it are sticky with blood; you already see it stain your dress and splash in your face. You cannot see that everyone is looking at you, waiting for you to stand up. You cannot see the look on Legolas’ face either, but you feel his foot hitting your shin and the dull pain anchors you back to reality. You breathe in sharply and look around you, visibly lost. Your father coughs impatiently and you resolve only to look at the dreaded prince in hope that protocol comes back to you.
It doesn’t. Until the tip of his shoe bumps twice against your ankle again and you remember to stand up, your counterpart following the motion.
Formally, he takes the object his father presents to him, a white cloth is wrapped around it. Your dread grows as he now hands it to you, head down in reverence. When you reach out for the present, your fingers brush his and you note he is cold and soft. You smile at him with a gesture of the head and begin unwrapping, glint of light against steel catching your eyes. You don’t notice you’re holding your breath before the realisation of what you’re holding before you slaps.
It’s a dagger. Weightless and beautiful, handle and blade carved in wave-like patterns; precious but lethal. Like the wrath growing in your chest by the second. Like the meaning behind it, unreadable for others but clear as light of day to you. You see red. Does he mean to mock you and your fighting abilities, knowing his out-pass yours? You know he does. It’s not a gift but a scorn. Arrogant, proud elf-prince had the audacity to taunt you through such a formal gift, when you for once had put effort to be pleasant in yours.
The smile you adorn as you hand his gift to Legolas is full of unguarded disdain; you hope he sees it, you hope everyone else does. When the prince unwraps his present, he is first surprised by the meticulous work of the wood, then crossed by the connotation of it your smile only furthers.
A comb. A wooden comb to provoke him in front of everyone. You insult him in public, insult his looks, and he can’t believe he dared tell you you looked pretty less than an hour ago. Shallow, prideful elven-princess couldn’t behave for a second, could she? He had thought about your gift and had put meaning into it only to be met with offence. He could not think of anything else to do then returning your vain expression and pinch himself to avoid working on resentment.
Deafening clapping sounds brought them back to reality as they both realised nobody was aware of anything. But they were, and that is what mattered.
Relief finally comes when the king discharges the guests from their trouble and wishes them goodnight. Streak of gossamer hair split through the crowd and already the prince is gone, leaving by the back door. Not even excusing yourself, you stand and follow. You’d have none of that. He insults you and then thinks he can just disappear to his quarters?
Sound of heels clasping against the tiled floor in your race prefigures your coming in the corridor. Legolas knows whose heels follow him so but he does not stop. He prefers remaining polite as long as he can —but he doubts it will be long enough to save him from you. It’s a matter of seconds before a slim hand wraps around his arm and forces him to turn around. Here you are before him, out of breath, strands of hair now out of your neat braids, storm raging in your eyes.
“Are you trying to mock me? In my own home?!“ you accuse, voice strong without ever letting go of your grip on him.
“Mock you?“
“By offering me a dagger? In front of everyone!“ you cry out, desperate at his attempt at feigned ignorance.
“Must I remind you, you offered me a comb?“ Legolas finally replies in the same tone, getting rid of your grip with a harsh movement of the arm.
“It was thoughtfully done!“ you exclaim.
“Believe me, I know it was. And you ought to review your thinking,“ you feel the heat grow to your cheeks and you think an erupting volcano could not attempt to imitate you.
“Oh! Have we ever heard such a thing?! Review my thinking? Your father is such a pleasant man it’s a miracle he raised a son like you,“ you spit, voice full of disdain.
“A miracle you are too, I assure you,“ and the look of contempt on his face makes you want to jump at his neck and lash out. But you don’t. You only fist at your dress to try and ease the anger.
“Great,“ you reply. “If my opinion wasn’t set on you then, it is now.“
“I’ll save you the trouble of explaining your sentiments in the way you so gracefully do,“ he wits, proud and arrogant.
“Charming. Goodbye,“ on that you turn around and leave him here, echos of your heels resonating like a bad dream in his mind until they fade in the tumult of the night.
In the night, Lindon’s princess is nothing but a quivering form under white sheets when she drifts away in the softness of her mattress. Ball dress long forgotten in a pool of forget-me-nots on the ground, naked body showered by tears to wash away the shame. What a curse her ancestors had brought her: to feel things as if they are for the first time over and over again.
The sun shined high in the sky the day of Mirkwood’s royal family’s departure, prefiguring the outgoing of their journey. A sense of joy had taken you as soon as you woke up, you even caught yourself chatting amiably with Legolas over breakfast, surprising everyone since your fathers had lost any hope of an advantageous marriage. If your friendliness reinvigorated the thought of a union in the kings’ minds, Legolas saw clearly through it. If you inquired over his feelings, how he must dearly miss home, it was to better subtly convey your haste for him to go back to his realm.
Legolas had not had many experience with visiting an ally kingdom as the prince. Often enough he was sent as an emissary, a spokesperson for Mirkwood’s court; his status offered him protection and the truthfulness of his counterparts. This was the first time his father had taken him with him as the prince of the Woodland’s realm for a diplomatic stay, and if every princess of every kingdom made his stay as insufferable as you did his, it was also the last. You hadn’t even left him the time to be polite before sending a spike his way. He remembers you asking him if he liked to read, in a tone that said « of course you don’t ». The blond had never caught on remarks so easily as he did with you, but you had in your air something that made his blood boil in a strange way, one he didn’t like because it was foreign. There was nothing he could have said that would have improved your opinion of him, yet you were so wondrously predictable.
The week had passed at an agonising speed, fate working so that you always had to cross path more than needed: in the hallways, on the terraces, in the yard. It played with your mind a game of patience you were both slowly losing; but at last the time had come for him to leave. All day, you were humming joyfully and telling Aeluin how much you enjoyed going back to your routine, seeing the Halls slow down to a calm pace again. Your maid could not help but laugh and warn you not to be too prompt, for it often ended up in disappointment.
“But how could I be disappointed? Everything will finally be back to normal! And I’ll never have to see that arrogant, vain, princeling again,“ you cheer while she helps you braid your hair.
“Don’t run your tongue too fast, my lady,“ she laughs.
The braid she twists your strands in is one that holds goodbyes and farewells, one for parting with a friend. You know it is of practice to wear one when people leave, but it feels wrong wearing it for Legolas after having despised him so much; like your hair is talking a language it does not speak, chained in its formal first sentences.
“Could you hide another braid in my hair, Aeluin? One that says « I’m very pleased you’re finally leaving »,“ you ask with a pleading look.
“I could, but it would be very improper of you,“ she scolds, knowing nonetheless you’d have your way.
A long sigh leaves you and you groan, head thrown back.
“To hell with property, I’m only a thousand years old, I can bend the rules sometimes,“ you don’t have to do a lot of fighting before your servant is working on the corrupt braid in the back of your head, hidden under your hair.
Hours later, as the sun kisses the city of Lindon goodbye, so is Mirkwood’s royal family. You stand before king Thranduil, shaking his hand with great fondness as he thanks you for your hospitality. A soft breeze ruffles through your hair and your heart rumbles in apprehension when the blond man steps away to his carriage. Your gaze cannot go lost in the void for long before it hooks on Legolas’s, deep and blue as always, splitting you open like a secret.
The golden light of the decreasing sun warms up his skin, his ethereal beauty taunting at you once again. But for once, you don’t have the heart to be angry; if anything, you’re relieved he is leaving. You look up at him with a smile you rarely offered, your head following his as he bows once, and notice he is looking above you. In your hair precisely, studying the braid patterns that adorns it. Your smile widens for a moment; you think it charming that he thinks the main braid is the message. But again, your wits meet his when his fingers ghost past your neck and reach for the hidden lacing behind your head. You think you could die in shame, mortified when he twists it in his fingers and examines it like the feathers of an arrow, but a smirk stretches his lips and his dreaded eyes lock with yours again.
“The feeling is shared,“ he whispers only for you to hear, a wicked secret that lodges itself in your neck with the fanning of his breath. “Goodbye, princess.“
“Farewell, my prince,“ is the only reply you force out of your mouth when his back is already to you.
When you turn around to look at the royal Halls, you hope to find your home waiting for you as it was before, but instead you find coolness like steel. The calmness of the hallways you relieved in feels more like coldness now, devoid of the warmth of chatters, and your routine speaks to you like a prison more than a dwelling. You look back at the departing carriage and see the sun leaving with it, plunging Lindon’s royal domain in everlasting shadows for the young princess. You see yourself eat in silence, sleep with nothing on your mind, roam aimlessly through the grand corridors and lose yourself in books once more.
For a split second you think you miss your bickering with the elven prince; but when your father’s hand falls on your shoulder and squeezes it affectionately, you have the underlying impression that you won’t miss it for long.
— chapter 1 : proud princes and petty princesses —
summary : Commercial alliances between Lindon and Mirkwood had always been common; and so was the dignified contempt both of their heir held towards each other. You thought of Mirkwood’s prince with a distinguished loathing regarding his arrogance and conceited personality, and he thought no different of you. It had never been a problem. But that was before there was mentions of reinforcing the bond between the two kingdoms with a strategic union. And not just any union: an heir wedding.
pairing legolas x fem!reader (no use of y/n)
content warning : mentions of blood and slight panic attack, for global content warning see a heart for a kingdom’s masterlist
wc : 3,150k
author’s note : first time publishing on tumblr ever so i’m still figuring things out about the layout of the app haha,, be kind, it’s been a while since i last posted any work (years maybe???) also first time writing for legolas, i hope i do him justice 🙏🏻 i don’t really know how long this fic will be but it’s slowly becoming my baby so probably as long as i feel it! comments are always appreciated, don’t be shy :p
➣ nini’s masterlist
➣ a heart for a kingdom’s masterlist
The fresh ocean breeze has cleared the sky from any cloud, but not the port of Lhun from its sailors. Crowds of merchants and locals pressed together in the street for the remnant goods of the market, not many were left but many were the people still looking out for them in the early afternoon. Lindon’s largest port knew no rest, but its princess did.
Sprawled in the grass of one of the many royal garden terraces overlooking the city, the hem of an azurish canvas dress flowing with the wind, you lay in the sun after a copious meal. The sounds of people lulling you to sleep faster than imagined, or at least what sleep could look like for an elf. Heir to the throne of Lindon, one of the last elvish realms standing, and the most ancient one, you had not a worry in the world aside from your education. Education in which you took great pride; everything you desired learning was granted to you.
You let the slaty air of the ocean stick to your face, cling to your nose and taste in your tongue, dreaming of kingdoms beyond yours for you had no occasion of visiting one yet. You knew everything there was to know about the history of Middle-Earth, its inhabitants, kingdoms and practices, but were never able to put them to the test; left with only your imagination to wander. Of course, visitors from all over the world had came to visit Lindon, royals too, and you were not unfamiliar with strangers. But you never returned the pleasure of visiting them. Tonight once more, you welcomed a visiting kingdom to your halls: Woodland’s realm. It was their first time in Lindon but you knew the king, Thranduil, was a descendant of Lindon-elf-lineage, and his son Legolas, heir to Greenwood, was said to be a remarkable archer. He was also said to be of a remarkable beauty, but so was any elf, you thought.
Your mind drifted to picturing him nonetheless: ethereal elven beauty apparent in his traits, strong hands, those of an archer, and a little something in his eyes you couldn’t decipher. You wondered if the prince was much different from you. If his character was amiable, if you’d find a friend in him given he was only a few hundreds of years older than you. Did he have a lover? Surely he must be a dream awakened for any girl crossing his path.
You had been courted once.
“Excuse me, miss,“ a voice interrupted your train of thoughts. Great, you thought, you shouldn’t delve on people’s life without knowing them, especially not ones you were about to meet, especially not princes.
You straightened up, dizzy spell catching up with you for a second before your eyes were finally free of any coloured dots. Aeluin, your closest servant, was standing under an arch. Her hazelnut hair dancing around her head with the wind added to the softness of her personality. You sometimes wished to call her a friend but etiquette forbid it, and etiquette you followed –most of the time.
“The king of the Woodland’s realm and the prince have arrived. They are waiting for you with your father in the dinning hall,“ she informed, voice as soft as the breeze.
You froze for a second, heart clinging suddenly before you gathered the courage to stand up. Air flowed your lungs in a deep breath as you made your way through the many outdoor halls of the royal residence of Lindon. Your shoes clasped on the pale tiles of the ground in a regular melody, like waves to the shore. The closest the dinning hall, the greater your apprehension was. Your stomach felt like a sailor’s knot, acid menacing to make you throw up your stress, a monster gnawing at your insides like the claws of a bird to a tree.
The giant white door stood before you, its height the same as your dread’s, before being pushed open by the guards standing across it. The hall seemed empty until the door was fully open. There, sat at the very right end of the table: your dad and two other men whom you recognised as king Thranduil and his son Legolas. All were now looking at you, a pray to a wolves’ pack or so it seemed. You bowed without thinking. Maybe the action would serve to hide your face long enough from the king’s unreadable gaze. Your eyes locked with another pair of blue ones as you straightened.
Your heart caught in your chest and you felt like tripping over it.
Ice-cold eyes and handsome face belonging to a boy your age you identified as prince Legolas were ogling you. You had to stop yourself from staring. You didn’t meet a lot of boys your age, young elves were rare, and this one wasn’t a good first time as you were sure he was at least three times prettier than the other elf boys. He stood up and bowed too before sitting down again. You got out of your trance when his father called your name.
“It is a pleasure meeting you, we heard about what an educated young woman you were as soon as we arrived here,“ complimented king Thranduil as you finally took your seat in front of the prince. “I trust you will get along,“ he added, now looking at his son expectantly. The latter didn’t bat an eye, simply looked at you still.
You thanked the king with a polite smile before sipping on the wine that filled the glass before you. Its sweetness took you aback, remnants of honey wrapping your tongue in their sugar-coated tentacles and slipping down your throat leaving you eager for more. Dorwinion wine, exported from the other end of the continent by your guests who entertain close trade relationships with the kingdom precisely for its liquor. You read once that a river had been built for the sole purpose of transporting wine from Dowinion to Greenwood. Your father, king Círdan, seemed now too engrossed in his discussion with the Sindar king to pay attention to any of the heirs.
You look into the deep-red robe of the wine, your distorted reflection starring back at you. Your eyes dart back to the blond prince in front of you.
“Do you like to read?“ you ask, though unable to justify to yourself such a question.
Legolas pries his gaze from the sea’s view through the window. It falls on you instead, steady and destabilising. You think he does it on purpose, this look of conceited superiority on his face. Or maybe it’s indifference, you cannot tell.
“No. I don’t read much,“ he simply states. You mentally cringe: you should have asked him if he liked being an arrogant princeling instead.
“Right,“ your smile is clipped in an effort not to be insolent, but you fear it will happen sooner than expected.
Of course, pretty boys can never be expected to be nice as-well. All his good looks turns to dust the moment he looks back at the window; looks like he can’t even be bothered to seem interested in a discussion and it makes your blood boil.
Legolas stares into the distance, the city above the sea softens the tip of his tongue that burns with a witty arrogant remark to match yours. The blue roofs and white walls of the habitations he sees meddle into the sea and sky under and above, the market begins to clean itself from people; not from seagulls who land on the paved street to eat at the scraps of fish that have fallen from the stands. His mind cannot turn elsewhere for long. So this is the girl his father wanted him to meet. And judging by the look he gave him earlier, meeting was not his sole intention. His dark-green tunic contrasts with your pale blue dress just like your personality contrasts with your looks. Good looking princesses can except nothing more than to be petty, he should have known. You probably thinks you knows everything from your books but has never seen the real world or fought in battle for what you believed in, he ponders. He lets out a sigh under his breath, barely there but noticed nonetheless by the princess who seems outraged.
“I am sorry I cannot entertain you better, I fear I am not one for small talks,“ your voice passes the barrier of your lips again, hinting at his ears with a tone he does not want to engage in. “But, I am glad, my opponent seems of the same constitution,“ you add with a smile tainted with feigned politeness.
This time, he cannot contain the contempt-stained remark that rushes out of his mouth against his better judgment.
“Rest assured, your opponent does not wish to be such entertained either. I’m convinced you will improve your reading of people in the near future.“
You feel the heat rise upon your face to colour your cheeks with a dusty red at his words. Snarky, rude and prideful is what the elvish prince is; you think again of your earlier wondering on the terrace and curse yourself for having pictured him as you did. He can have no woman waiting for him in Mirkwood, and if he does, Valars help her.
You pray for this to be nearly over with, but you know your father far too talkative and their stay here already too long. The royal family of Mirkwood is to stay at least a week, a bat of an eye really, but it feels like two with the clipped elf in front of you. Moreover, the guests rooms are nearing yours, which is a really inconvenient disposition to cross his path as little as possible. You try to focus on the conversation the kings are having to hide your aggravated blush from the piercing see-it-all eyes of the prince, though he is already back at his contemplation of the outside world.
Suddenly, you feel like you have seen this play before. Your father smiles too much, it is too polite and flattering to be truthful. The two men ignore completely their offsprings, they talk with too moderate a tone and there seems to be no political matter at hand. Your heart races, it pumps what is left of your blood as you are sure you’re turning white by the second, and you feel slightly dizzy. The wine stares at you in its red robe, it blames you for having sipped on it but you know it is not the culprit. The moment you close your eyes opening them again feels like a release, red sticky paint does not drips on white linen anymore. You look up at the blond and feel you might throw up. Your legs command before you do and you’re suddenly up on your feet after the loud scraping of a chair on the floor.
“I beg you to excuse me,“ you apologise, head lowered because you cannot bear to see any of their faces; and you are sure Legolas is no longer focused on his window.
You cannot hear your footsteps on the tiles as you walk out, nor the sound of their voices calling you back if they do so. And you don’t gain consciousness before emptying the content of your stomach in a bedpan in your room. Darkness seems somewhat greater of a friend here.
When you wake up drenched in sweat, throat itching from the scream you just let out, you prefer not to think about sleeping again. It’s been three days since Mirkwood’s royal family arriving in Lindon, and twice in a row you woke up in this state. You cradle your head for comfort but it’s the same thing all over again, pure white becomes stained with a red so deep you wonder if you could drink it and taste wine. You know you wouldn’t. And the panic welcomes silence, mouth agape for a single scream that never comes. Even your own body binds you.
You open your eyes again and you notice the moon is full outside; your room feels oddly cramped and hot. Your bones creak when you rise, or maybe it’s your wooden bed frame released from your weight. The gentle tip-toe of your naked feet against the tiled floor reminds you of water droplets falling after a rainy day as you finally reach the window and open it. Outside, the air is fresh. A warm breeze brings to your nose the salt of the sea and she calls to you indefinitely. Before you know it, you’re crawling under a poorly screwed wooden plank of the main fence and into to outside world. You’re not allowed to go out alone, but you do so anyway. Your feet bring you blindly to the shore, calm washing over your nerve the moment your toes hug the sand-beach. Your joy is of short duration. Sat under the moonlight in the sand is a silhouette you recognise to its long blond hair; you don’t have the chance to escape before he turns around and sees you. You damn the eleven high-hearing you’re accustomed to and walk his way, you cannot go back and you will not go back only because he is here. When you sit down next to him, at a reasonable distance nonetheless, you wish he didn’t have eyes to look at you like that. Because you have the weird annoying feeling that he sees right through you. That he knows even what you don’t.
“Trouble resting, these days,“ he says, not like a question but more like a statement, and it makes you slightly furious.
“I could say the same to you, prince Legolas," you try to outwit him.
“Only, i don’t scream in my sleep,“ he remarks, and you can’t help from suddenly staring at him like looks could kill. You wish looks could kill, you really do. The prince falls silent as your eyes meet his in the shadows but he does not look away. Maybe he enjoys it: making fun of you and pushing your buttons, the wrong ones obviously. You try not to say anything, but you find that your lips have a hard time remaining closed, for what it’s worth.
“You don’t know a thing about me. You’ll never do. Don’t try to decode me like I am some form of other language you have to translate,“ you warn, tone sharp like a blade to try and maybe finally shut him off. “If anything, you are the one who needs translation for those eyes. It’s irritable how you keep them so unreadable.“
But in reality, you would have read a great deal of things in them if you had payed attention. If you could agree that one’s expressions were more nuanced than contempt, disscontempt, and empty brain; especially people with whom you entertained a mutual resentment.
Nobody dares speak anymore. He breaks eye contact first to stare into the distance and you notice his hair is undone. No braid twists his locks, save for a single one in the back of his head, they are let free against the wind and stick to his neck in patches with the humidity. You know you’re staring and you know he noticed it, but you couldn’t care less now. He could a least let you stare him down for taunting you. So you could rationalise that he wasn’t that attractive, that you didn’t need his validation or friendship. But the task proves itself to be easier said than done. Ivory skin reflecting over the moon like a pearl, alabaster hair unusually untamed, sharp jaw and perfect aquiline nose: he was breathtakingly beautiful, whatever you had to say about him. You could do nothing about it but accept and swear that it will never have any effect, whatsoever, on the likeness of your sentiments towards him. You had to pry yourself from looking at his arms when your gaze went south and you noticed he wasn’t wearing his usual tunic but a long-sleeved shirt that did far too much good to his appearance.
Now you were the one feeling like an idiot. You lie down in the sand to look at the sky, the ocean washes over the shore and its melody eases your pain and lulls you to sleep before you know it.
Minutes pass in utter silence and Legolas finally looks at the girl who dislikes him so. He is about to speak when he notices the stillness of your form, the evenness of your breathing: the deep slumber you are in. Elves don’t usually have to sleep, but if they do it’s because of absolute fatigue. You must wear exhaustion in your heart if not on your face, he thinks. He gawks at you for a bit. For once, he has the opportunity of looking at your face without drawing your wrath. And it somehow feels like a privilege these days, when all you managed to do was find a reason to openly abhor him. In this light, soft from morpheus catching up on you, peaceful, he could almost learn not to resent you. But then he knows you’ll wake and won’t be the soft princess you are when you don’t speak. He thinks maybe if you didn’t speak he could even like you. Unfortunately, you do speak. And far too much for his liking.
Birds chirp in the distance; the sun is almost up. The elven prince gets on his feet and looks back at you. He ponders for a second if he should leave you here. After all, you were not his to watch over. But he is also just as sure that you will find a way to make him pay; probably tell your father and get him in trouble with his own.
“Hey, get up,“ he says, louder than needed.
It wakes you up instantly in a hurry. You glare at him through half-lidded eyes but he is already gone in the distance, leaving you no choice but to get up and follow, glaring at his back all the way for good measure. Sneaking back in, you look back at the moon like you would an old friend, saying goodbye for the night.
“Goodnight, princess,“ but when you turn back Legolas has already disappeared into his apartments.
The empty corridor echoes your footsteps, it seems on purpose to ruin the calm of the royal hall, and now you can no longer say goodbye to the hidden moon. As you lie back in bed, in the comfort of your clean sheets, you think nothing can happen to you anymore. You hide your heart under a fistful of bedding and let exhaustion run you down again like old time. But this time, on the mattress, there is golden locks of hair, and you think the stake in his chest is yours.
