summary : For centuries your kind has lived hidden: unknown to the world, shrunk back in the shadows you belong in. The Great Ball is the only time you come out in the light, the only time you allow yourself to feast. Amongst moulded ceilings and cups of wine, Mirkwoodâs crown prince finds an interest in you and your red velvet dresses. But Legolas doesnât know you have teeth to bite him and an inherited bloodlust.
pairing legolas x fem!vampire!reader (no use of y/n)
‷ strangers to friends to lovers
‷ doomed love
content warning : fourth age, blood, forms of anthropophagy/cannibalism, cannibalism as a metaphor for love, original added race (vampires), death, angst, a lot of somatic descriptions, scheming, graphic descriptions of injuries, plot-driven, religious guilt, religious imageries and symbolisms, eventual smut, kind of gothic atmosphere
summary : What is it like to discover the taste of fear? Or the feeling of attraction for someone who sees the truth you hide in harmless cups of wine?
pairing legolas x fem!vampire!reader (no use of y/n)
content warning : blood, mentions of blood, cannibalism (blood drinking), talks of pregnancy, mentions of complicated pregnancy, mentions of wine consumption, killing, for global content warning see bloodborneâs masterlist
author's note : it has taken me a month to update this, sue me omg (yes you can tell this has freaky undertones every now and then, what about it?)
âą niniâs masterlist
âą bloodborneâs masterlist
The corridor you cross with hurried steps that make no sound is cold and eerie. Even deep in the dark maze of these corridors you know by heart, your perfect hearing allows you to distinguish the background noise of the feast coming from behind you. People laugh and chat, they sip on sweet elvish wine that cost a little fortune, blissfully unaware.Â
Ignorance is bliss, you are remembered of it every passing second. All those guests seem so carefree, disinhibited by good company, good food and good drinks, they forget to see whatâs right in front of their nose. You believe if all those conditions werenât united to create a perfect haze over the party, things would be far different. Imbeciles would still be blind, but clever ones would quickly spot the inconsistencies in the Ball. Why is the wine in some glasses a slightly different colour? Why do some guests never seem to age? Why is the number of people drastically lower after a few days, and why is it always those which nobody knew that vanish?Â
So much questions they do not ask, yet could save their lives.Â
However, it is not only the merry cacophony of the feast that you hear. Further away, deeper in the shadows, there is a low strangled sound â like a lamb trying to bleat â and echoing footsteps. The footsteps are heavy, not concealed like yours, though you can tell they try to be discreet. It fails miserably, and you are sure whoever is at the end of the corridor can hear them coming. You hope it is not too late for them to hear, and if so you better hope it is not too later either for you to do something about it.Â
Your dress glides upon the floor smoothly, without the smallest noise on the cobblestones, and you pick up the pace when a moan echos distinctly, even for the human ear. In front of you, a feminine silhouette appears. In the dark, your eyes better pick up the wavelengths of light others cannot see, like a batâs, but you do not need to see her to know it is a woman youâre chasing. Her steps fall with less of a thud than menâs, the heels of her shoes clasp high-pitched, and the air carries the remnant of the perfume she carefully applied hours ago. You often like womenâs scent better: itâs less aggressive to your sensible nostrils than menâs.Â
When your next step lands loud on purpose, her steps falter and she turns around, unaware she was being followed. It is so easy to get them alone once theyâre drunk, in a secluded corner where nobody will come look for them. Obviously, she had a little too much wine. The womanâs cheeks are red with alcohol and effort, while she pants to recover from the small race she just went through. She squints at you in the dark to better see, she does not notice you do not have to do the same to take her in perfectly.Â
Short brown hair falling in a somewhat feminine bob cut, a few inches past her ears, tousled from hurrying around like she did; big brown eyes that resembled a lost doeâs; and a smooth, pale neck in which you could see a vein throb; she looked exactly like the type of girl someone you knew very well would wrap around his finger and deceive. Honestly, could you blame him? Probably; but it wasnât like you didnât feel the same bloodthirsty want to sink your fangs into that protuberant purple vein and find out what she tasted like. Her dress didnât help at all: it was clear she was not high society, nobody would even look twice if the suddenly vanished.Â
She looked so lost, so panicked, and so tasteful.Â
Fear tastes weird on the tongue, like power one does not deserve, and it is why you make a point in keeping all guests at bay from such a feeling. All other vampires do too, it is a pre-established rule your kind works with since a long, long time. It keeps you from growing feelings powerful beings shouldnât have, feelings rooted deep inside you like instinct but locked away. You ignore it when primal impulses tell you to have your cake and eat it; nobody is here, nobody will know, and you know who sucks on sweet blood too without a shadow of guilt at the corridorâs turn.Â
But you canât. Youâre not like him, rules are what they are for a reason and even if everything raw in you screams the opposite, you will not feed on a scared animal. Not a doe, not a lamb, not a bunny. However, the doe is going to walk on a most unfortunate scene if you do not stop her soon, and then you will have no choice. Already, you see her head turn slowly towards the whiny croaks, traits wrinkled in curiosity and nerves though she does not look away from you. She canât tear her eyes from you as you walk her way. You know it because itâs on purpose. The human mind is easily played with when it is already agitated. Of course, you have no power of your own over her mind, but you do not need it, itâll always lean towards you first. It is a most human quality to like the uncanny, the odd things that cannot be placed yet are filling the air; itâs exactly what she sees in your eyes when they gleam crimson for a nanosecond she doesnât catch.Â
âLost your way?â you smile at her with bright white teeth; casual.Â
The woman stares at you as you take your last steps to her, but her bust is still halfway turned to the now dying sounds ahead of you and she doesnât answer.Â
âThose corridors are a bit of a maze when one is not accustomed to them, I confess.â
You try to giggle your way into her trust by being amiable, like you know how to. Those interactions are always rehearsed, itâs like you couldâve pictured them in advance.Â
âI should see you back to the ballroom,â you offer.Â
When preparing for the Ball this year, you had had the underlying feeling that things were going to be a bit different. Not necessarily bad, but different; harder to manage. Now youâre starting to see why. The woman has not even fully opened her mouth to speak and finally agree with you, that someone steps behind her from the corridorâs turn, and the scraping of their shoes on the cobblestones takes the words away from her mouth.Â
She turns around suddenly, attention having completely departed from you, just to end up face to face with the one man you did not want to see. You had figured already, but Izcasus stands here in front of you two. And his sole presence is not even the worse of it. You can feel the sheer anxiety emanating from the womanâs aura as she takes him in: disheveled like he just went through some kind of effort, red stains of thick fluid still coating the corners of his mouth and pearly teeth. Most of all, you see her eyes slowly lowering to long blond hair pooling on the ground from where he came from. She seems to recognise them, for she instantly gets more agitated.Â
Izcasus doesnât say anything, and it makes it worse. He just looks at her with that carnivorous smile youâve come to be wary of, and when she turns to you she finds no comfort in your face. This is bad. This is really bad. Youâve tried to keep it from happening, to drive her away from what you knew right away to be sounds of one of your kind feeding: because you felt it in the air, and because you saw Izcasus leave with that blond girl and being followed.
You failed. Now this girl knows something is utterly wrong and she is afraid. You smell it in the air, just like you smell Izcasusâ remaining hunger. It only fuels yours: this thirst. But you canât, the girl is afraid. She smells of fear like a prey you would have toyed with, and it is dangerous.
Yet you do not have a choice. Izcasus looks at you with eyes of a predator, fitting for the monster he is. They are full of dark irony, and his lips pull in a smile that showcase his canines. If you do not do it, heâll have his way with her. Something more dangerous than letting this girl go with what she saw would be to give Izcasus the opportunity to feel powerful. He is already too proud and confident for your own good, what would it be if he was suddenly encouraged to feed from a prey conscious of its fate? Power is already a danger to you when you seek only of the better good, to Izcasus it would turn into dominion.Â
He has been staying put thus far, not pushing boundaries, not teetering over the line, you cannot give him a reason to throw it all away. You have to do it, itâs the safest way.
He knows it because he looks at you expectantly, and the look turns into curiosity the moment you reach in front of you to grab the girlâs wrist and pull her towards you. From the corner of your eyes, you see him lean against the wall, watching some kind of twisted entertainment. How you hate him for it.
But you hate even more that sinking your canines into her neck is like drinking after days in the desert; like light after a full month night; like being touched after years of solitary existence. You resent the feeling it brings you, the pure joy, yet you lick the wound of your hunger and feed for what feels like an eternity.
Your nose flares against her skin, takes in the scent of her sweat and blood mingling: metallic. Itâs not blood that smells akin to metal, itâs the fear that comes from bleeding. Bloodletting when properly done smells like hot food, meat worth drooling on; this smells of carnage.
Your grip on the poor girlâs abused skin tightens, afraid to let go, and the pulsing of your skin quickens. You cannot hear the small squealing sounds she makes as her body stiffens. The more you drink, the more the blood filled a hole you did not know you had in your belly. An hunger you were born with, yet was always ignored; as if you could live an eternity looking past the need for control that was your kindâs. As if you could all. As if the rules made any difference.Â
âCalm down, nightingale. Youâre going to suck the marrow out of her bones at that rate,â Izcasusâ voice calls you back to reality after a while.Â
You open your eyes, still in her neck, and notice the skin here is practically torn apart. Not the quick, clean kills you are used to â no. Something switches inside you, an uncalled satisfaction, but you drown it a second later. Still, itâs a second too much.Â
The limp body of your victim falls heavily on the ground as you let go of her, distressed. Izcasusâ gaze lazily goes from her to your bloodied mouth, and a smirk you hate with a passion blooms on his own.Â
âAh, yes, I know that look,â he taunts. âIt is the one that says you thought you were so great you couldnât fall for the human trap, and now that you did you feel afraid too. Is it not fascinating, what fear does?â
âI am not afraid.â
âOf course youâre not, but it is starting to sprout somewhere behind those eyes.â
You hate that he is trying to decrypt you, but most of all you hate that he is right. You felt it, that ounce of control growing on you like a disease.Â
âYou are aware you would be more to my taste if only you accepted the true nature of what you are?â
Now his eyes have grown darker, and the comment falls heavy in the space between you. He is not the boy you were once friends with anymore, yet he acts like heâs got you figured. Your true nature is nothing like his. Youâll fight it everyday if you have to.Â
In the cleavage of your dress, you reach for a white tissue you wipe your mouth with, before tucking it back in the corset, unbothered by the blood stains.Â
âYou clean this mess, this is your doing,â your voice carries a semblance of authority Izcasus does not challenge for once. He only smiles wider.Â
âIt is your perception of things. I am only doing what my instinct calls for, and it calls for a lot of refreshments.â
You do not let him finish his sentence that you are already spinning on your heels and walking the other way around, away from him and his ideas, hoping they are not becoming common amongst your kind. This time your shoes clasp against the ground the same way your heart would thump in your chest had it not been black and atrophied. You take the long way back to the party, borrowing a little time to breathe; the ecstasy having not fully worn off.Â
You wish you could feel regret, but you donât. It would have been worse if Izcasus had taken your place. You did what needed to be done.Â
At the end of the corridor, you see the light of day filtering through the darkness you come from. The sole view of it makes your head hurt and your skin scratch. Your hand fishes for something in the pocket of your dress; you pull it out and uncork the small phial, before bringing it to your mouth and swallowing the greenish mixture in contains. The strong taste of oil and thyme makes you scrunch your nose in a scowl. You cough once at the remedyâs assaulting taste, and finally, the light of day is not a shame anymore when you reach it.Â
â§. â â
Outside, it is a gloomy night full of mist blocking the moonlight; it makes the air cooler and humidity stick to the stone walls of the manor. However, none of that can be felt in the warmth of the ballroom. The assembly of people warm it up, makes it merry unlike the weather. You have not met Izcasus since this morning, but the ruthlessness that always seems to hang around him lingers. The guilt has not left you, it had little occasions to do so, for you had been by yourself all day. Guests had been left to the side while you busied yourself with organising tonightâs dinner.Â
The first official one since the Ball begun two days ago; guests had been presented buffets to feed in the meantime. The Great Meal, as many liked to call it, was no less of a statement than the lavishness of the Ball itself. It was the moment that sealed the real beginning of the Ball, and also how well it was going to turn out for you.Â
Your father always told you dinner was the most important meal of any refined society: it gathered people in a silence they could only fill with small talks, cleared disinhibited minds with food, served to show rank clearly. It was also a risk, if you didnât set it up right. People are more aware of their surroundings when they eat, a survival instinct against the vulnerability eating puts one through. Things are noticed at dinner, oddities discussed; but it is a risk worth taking if nobody sees anything, because then people feel safe and let all their guards down.Â
Your family has become a master at grand dinners going smoothly. Hiding things, concealing them to make it look like everything is normal, has been your kindâs most useful skill for centuries now. You have had many tries at the Great Meal, all ending flawless, tonight was going to be one of them too.Â
Wandering through the crowd, you cast the thoughts aside and focused on the moment. Your eyes landed on people chatting, others sending you polite smiles, but never on the one person you wished to see. Two days ago, prince Legolas had left a curious impression on you. One that called to see him again and hear more of that which he had to say, yet he wasnât anywhere to be seen. You figured the elf stayed in the company of the king of Gondor, but his Highness was absent from your sight too.Â
You knew very well where this attraction to the prince came from, and you did not wish for it to go away. You couldnât do anything about it after all, it was just the way things were between vampires and elves. Although such a strong liking was perhaps a trait you inherited from your mother. You closed your eyes briefly and shook the thought away, still painful.Â
Life had a way of toying with you and make you pay for your atrocities, it seemed.Â
As you opened them again, your gaze landed on a small group at the other end of the room. Gathered in a half circle, you recognised people youâve known all your life: families almost as ancient as yours. The looks they sent you from where they stood were not to be considered friendly, they pierced you like cold needles, yet you made your way towards them anyway. Greeting people you despised also was part of your duty as host of the Great Ball, though it was one you were most unwilling to complete.Â
The more your steps took you their way, the more their sneers turned into haughty smiles. Pretending is an art it seems they master little; or were you just used to their phoney honey-voiced compliments?Â
You ignore their obvious disdain when you speak. âWhat an evening! Excuse me, Iâm running everywhere and had no time to greet you,â you say.Â
âWhat an evening indeed,â a redheaded woman speaks and her party hardly stifle their giggles.Â
They all look like they did not pass their glowing thirties and never will, dolled up in their most perfect attires. Shades of smooth silk and satin taunt you, make the corset of your dress strangely too tight all of a sudden. You smile at them politely, giggling too to pretend the joke doesnât affect you. It doesnât really, but the day has been stressful and it is one to many pair of unsolicited eyes on you.Â
âYou are too tight on rules, my dear,â the woman continues.Â
âYes, you would have more fun if you let loose on them once in a while,â another chimes in.Â
âYou know what the rules are here for. I do not take them lightly for a reason.âÂ
Your come back causes the majority of them to roll their eyes, and the other half to eye each other like you are the worst fun breaker of all time. That is exactly why you despise the lot of them: they sound just like Izcasus. Itâs been a few years now that you feel a light tendency grows amongst your peers. A tendency to forget what should not be forgotten, to consider rules can be passed upon because theyâve been ingrained in the system so long some take them for granted.Â
It is a tendency that scares you, because you remember what life was like when you did not have those rules. You remember was it took to set them. What it took from you.Â
âThe Red Days are over, there is nothing wrong with having a little fun. I reckon most of those humans would not even notice it, they are so easily played with,â a man on your right says.Â
âI remember your father had lots a fun back then,â another one. But this one lands wrong, very wrong.Â
It seems they all feel it, because silence washes harshly all of a sudden and the crimson in your eyes gleams harder, less hidden. The practiced smile you wore withers, your brows pull and you feel the blood in your veins loop, gain a newfound vigour. Everyone now looks at the fool who said that. Even if they dislike you, people know some things are not to be mentioned with you. Especially not your father.Â
âThen you also remember my father died so you could still have your fun,â the words fill the quiet, no one snickers anymore. âEnjoy your evening.âÂ
You turn around to leave, and the undisturbed noise of the crowd behind you hits back, as if muted before.Â
Enough talking, a butler gives you a sign from a corner of the room and you nod once. You make your way to the dinning room and stand alone next to your chair at the far end of the banquet table, waiting for guests to be invited by the butlers to take their seats as well.Â
It takes just a few seconds before bewildered men and women enter the dinning room, neck craned to the ceiling where a crystal chandelier hangs. The pressure washes off little by little when you hear amazed gasps all about the room as people find their rightful place around the victuals-filled table. You greet them, thank them when they give you compliments, and respectfully wait for everyone.Â
Gaze fixed to the entrance, there is one particular guest you wait for. You know he will sit too far away from you for your liking, but already youâre planning on changing that. If someone can make this evening take a better turn, it is undoubtedly the handsome elf you fail to get out of your mind. And it seems your wishes are heard, because the moment those blue eyes walk in the room, they catch yours like he knew you would be here.Â
Legolas stills for a second, only waiting for Aragorn who takes in the luxury of it all and the amount of delicious looking food on the table, before heading your way. The two men walk together up to a certain point where they part; Aragorn being king of Gondor has the right to sit closer to you, but Legolas is only a prince and there are people with higher of a rank whom are granted the seats near you.Â
The Dunedain nods to his friend and pats his shoulder affectionally before coming to sit right in front of you. You smile at him something that does not resemble the fake ones you give others.Â
âKing Aragorn,â he nods in greeting. âWhy donât you ask the prince to come sit closer to us? I would hate to have you eat away from your own party,â you suggest.Â
The king opens surprised eyes and shakes his head, dismissing the offer with a wave of the hand.Â
âI do not wish to confuse the order of the table, my Lady. Legolas and I are capable of socialising with people we do not know, though I have to admit it is a skill wood-elves do not master as well as their archery,â he jests, and you cannot help but chuckle back.Â
âNonsense!â you can already tell it would be a much merrier evening with Legolas by your side. At least he does not irritate you, quite the opposite. You wonder if it is elven magic that soothes you so every time he is around or simply your own fondness of him.Â
âPrince Legolas,â you call. âCome sit closer to us, I beg you. To me.â
Legolas would have politely refused if you did not specify it was a wish of your own, but now he feels it is impossible for him to not give you anything you would ask for. Some people look at him, confused, but he ignores them as you gesture towards the sit next to Aragornâs. Not right next to you because it would be improper, but close enough to satisfy you.Â
A few seats away, you do not notice the suspicious look Izcasus gives to the interaction, nor the whispering he hushes to the woman next to him. Whatever it is, it makes her stifle a mocking laugh that dies instantly when Legolasâs ice cold eyes catch hers. Like a child caught red-handed, she looks away at once and Legolas take his sit where you instructed him to.Â
Now that the movement of people has stopped, Legolas takes a time to observe his surroundings. Everything is so nice, to the point where it feels odd. The prince knows it, lavishness often hides secrets: his father is a fond user of this technique. The food looks great, the bottles of wine are the same he can find in his Hallsâ cellar, but the lights are too low to enable perfect view of the elements about the room.Â
When you stand up, the chatters lower to a hum before dying, and Legolas is left to watch you like everyone else; like a fool. There is still about you that same youth that he noticed two days ago, almost surreal. Out of time.Â
âDear guests,â you begin with practiced ease, like talking to a hundred people is a casualty. âOnce again, I am delighted to be your host this year. It is a pleasure to have you all here, gathered in, dare I say, the most pleasant society of all Middle-Earth. Every four years the Great Ball is held, every four years it is a success; let us hope this year will live up to the tradition,â people nod, they hum in agreement. âNo more boring speeches from my part, you must all be very hungry and I am keeping you from this delectable food!â laughters in the assembly, your smile brightens with confidence. âI wish you a pleasant Great Meal, and the very best Great Ball.â
You lift your cup in the air, full of wine, and people follow. Except theirs are empty. So is Legolasâs.Â
The prince looks around at the people toasting, all holding empty glasses, with a few exceptions. He does not know why this strikes him, or why does this particular quirk seems odd, but the only people who hold up a full glass strangely resemble you. Not in looks, but in attitude. They all radiate of something the elf-prince cannot place, yet stands out. They are all young, and if there wasnât so many people in the room, Legolas would have felt there was a kind of ambiguous power around them. Something heavy, something between night and day: eerie but not to him. A danger he was not subject to.Â
When he puts down his cup and guests begin to pour wine into their own empty ones, it seems the colour is slightly different for yours. Not from a whole shade, neither from a tone, more like shadows swimming in your cup. And a thickness that coats the crystalline borders and lingers; unlike the kind of elvish wine he tasted all his life.Â
In the same fashion, your plate is also full before his. The meat there resembles any other kind of meat, and it is elvish instinct only that tells him it would taste different if he was to eat it.Â
Legolas looks up at you, and you are already observing him. There is a small smirk at the corner of your lips, as if you know what he is looking for and it doesnât scare you. Deep down, Legolas knows he should fear this secrecy. It should scare him that something is happening behind closed doors, that you are almost daring him to find out. Yet it does not. The very real intuition that what you are is unlike anything he can think about only fuels his curiosity.Â
The prince has eyes everywhere you should not want them, and it amuses you. It should not, because Legolas is not bound to the same deal his father is. Thranduil vowed that if the elves had nothing to fear from you, then you had nothing to fear from them; but the character of his son you do not know and it might reveal to be very different. To let Legolas get away with noticing so much about your schemes was reckless, yet all your opinions on secrecy ended with the face of a beautiful elf. You almost wanted him to uncover your truth, to see the ugliness naked for what it really was just so you could see if it repelled him, or if the prince was as twisted as you are.Â
He smiles at you above the rim of his glass he brings to his mouth, and you think you already know the answer. You really were just like your mother.Â
You break the intimacy of the moment when you address Aragorn.Â
âIt saddens me the queen could not come, I would have loved to meet her.âÂ
âYes,â the king gives you an apologising look. âShe sends her regards and humbly asks that you forgive her. You see, I wanted to stay with her too, but she practically pushed me out of Minas Tirith. The elves stubbornnessâŠâ
You chuckle at his feigned annoyance; Aragorn could never really dislike any part of Arwenâs character. The comment on elves makes you look back to Legolas, who doesnât seem to have averted his gaze from you since the beginning.Â
âReally? Is your kind of a stubborn nature, prince Legolas?âÂ
âI wouldnât know, I⊠I believe so, yes, for my part.â
You smile at that. An elf with a flaw, have you ever heard of such a thing? And yet it is one Legolas confesses to have; one you cannot blame him for, for you are probably as equally stubborn. The fact increases your interest. You catch yourself wanting to know all the ways in which his stubbornness shows, the bad and the ugly you cannot quite discern yet but long for âto which extent is he like you? his light-driven nature corrupt by whatever unguarded pride the gods allowed the elves to have â.Â
âWood-elves are known to be less wise than their peers, my friend,â Aragorn adds.Â
âMy father would be an example, yes.âÂ
âEither way, trust me madam, it is worse when said elf is with child! I cannot force upon Arwen a single thing that she does not want to do, even when it regards her health or the babyâs.â
Again, you laugh at his obvious nervousness. âWomen are often more skilled than men at finding out the needs of the life that grows in their belly, king Aragorn,â and the king huffs a laugh.
âElves especially,â a small silence where you turn your attention to the prince sets. âMy mother used to tell me she knew at what age I was going to sing my first songs and exactly which tree was to be my favourite before I was even out of the womb.âÂ
Legolasâs eyes have grown distant, reminiscing an old past that stings a bittersweet pain. You know exactly the feelings, as well as you know the extent of the small smile pulling at his lips. You wonder if your mother knew such things about you as her belly swelled with growing life. Did she envision the kind of monster you were already? Did she hope you would escape the fate she foresaw? You never asked, she never told.Â
âDid she got it right?â your own voice comes out softer, with a tender smile on your lips that turns something new in the princeâs stomach. It makes the grief more bearable.Â
âAll of it.âÂ
If you were to have a child, would you know its softness or its malevolence beforehand? You imagine what it would feel like to have life grow in your belly, to see it swell with it. It is a known fact that vampiresâ pregnancies are harder than humansâ, or elvesâ. Elves need more time to fully create such beings of lightness, and it makes sense, for infants of their race usually grow faster than human babies. In their first years, you can hardly distinguish them from a human, but time passes inevitably and it is painfully obvious that a six year-old elf is much more independent and skilled than its human peer. It is the case until early adulthood, then the similarities linger again: only their aura, beauty and ears give away an elf on the outside. And eventually time catches up again and as humans wither and grow old, elves stay beautiful and timeless.Â
For vampires, on the other hand, the differences are not so visible. They stay akin to elves all their life, but more discreet. It is only in the womb that a mother can know whether she is nurturing light or shadows â an in-between. You are well aware of it: a vampiric pregnancy is painful, lethal almost. It prefigures the kind of creature it will birth, for the foetus in the womb is like a wild animal already. It tries to suck the life out of its mother: ungrateful unborn child. It kicks and tears at the flesh to escape, or at least that is what your mother told you; you were never fit for a cage.Â
You think about growing a monster of your own, sentencing it with unescapable hell only because it is your belly it grew in. A vampireâs womb is like the source of a disease: keeping it here constantly, infectious.Â
Unconsciously, your hand comes to rest on your lower stomach. The pressure is warm, itâs like youâre waiting to feel kicking beneath. You know there is no way for you to escape what you are with a baby, to mirror what you would want to be onto someone else at your image, only tinier.Â
Vampirism grows in the motherâs womb.Â
In blood it lives, and by blood it spreads. Nature has it that all female vampires experiment the same condition during pregnancy: a leak of their own blood from the placenta to the fluid the foetus floats in. Being a vampire is a curse, inherited while the foetus grows in contact with its motherâs blood. It is bloodborne, and never by blood undone.Â
Your baby would be like you, by your fault, and it is probably why the Valar made you yearn for the only race you cannot mate with. Perhaps it is a scheme to ensure you will ultimately disappear, perhaps it is only to make you suffer your sins.Â
You do not know, and you abandon the fantasy of a baby as well as the hand on your belly. You do not need the burden of a life that is not fully one filling the rot inside your stomach; because itâll come out undead yet stillborn, with a heart atrophied and black like yours, and a thirst it will not control.Â
â§. â â
Legolas is used to waiting. When one lives two thousand years in a world that turns to fit dying things better, waiting can be a curse. It is one especially when surrounded by mortals, when they all fall in deep slumber at night and he cannot. Legolas knows that if he was tired enough he would collapse in sleepâs embrace too, but it is not the case. He has been good with alcohol so far, and no tremendous physical effort has been imposed upon him, so wariness keeps far from him still.Â
And to make time pass by faster, what is best than contemplating? This too, is something elves are used to. They have been contemplating the world around them for millennia now, watching it wilt, change against their will. If Legolas could, he would like to keep things as they ever were, to stop change and growth and still time to a stolen moment. Maybe then could his mother still be with him.Â
Such a desire is fruitless, so the prince does not dwell on it further. Instead, he busies himself with walking around the manorâs domain. The night has engulfed it, everybody sleeps except for a few people he felt wandering in the corridors, but didnât see. As always, it is nature that calls to him best, and Legolas finds himself strolling around the greenhouse on his own.Â
Illuminated by the moonlight shining above, the elf-prince scrutinises his surroundings: a glasshouse that opens on the scary shadows outside, yet protects him in a confined place where life thrives. There are many plants and flowers paving the way he takes, all of them he recognises. They are not exotic by any means â sage, rosemary, lavender, thyme, roses and lilies â but they do not all usually live in the same environment, and to Legolas who knows so much about nature, it is a small miracle that they can be all found here together.Â
He pauses in his tracks, inspects the flowers closer and wonders at how you keep them alive. Again, his thoughts do not go to the moulded ceilings or the magnificent buffet, no, instead they go to you.Â
âSo it is true that elves do not sleep.â
Your voice startles him, and Legolas turns around like he would on an enemy, only to fall face to face with your grinning features. Once again, it is a mystery to him the way you keep your footing so light that he does not hear it. Normally, nobody can sneak up on him, he always catches the intruding presence minutes before it reveals itself, but he did not catch yours. Startling an elf: here is something Legolas never heard of! Yet here you are with your teasing grin and a different gown than the ones youâve worn up until then.Â
Legolas cannot help but dote on it for a second. The black fabric of the gown is less heavy, allows more liberty of movement, and its long sleeves cover your hands until your fingers. You look less intimidating, less of a host he should impress.
Your gaze follows the visible tension that leaves his shoulders, and the pink of his lips when he speaks.Â
âIf I may be so bold, I would easily mistake you for one,â he says it knowing you are aware of the features that make you stand out.Â
You smile and take a step closer, allowing yourself to enter his space.Â
âBelieve me, it is too great of a compliment for me to deserve. I have trouble sleeping,â you justify. Legolas frowns, and you cannot tell if he trusts you. If he doesnât, he lets nothing be known of it and resumes his walk around the greenhouse, with you by his side.Â
âAre you enjoying the Ball?â you ask.Â
âI am. Thank you for inviting me to sit with your party at dinner. I am not used to conversing outside of my own group, and the meal would have surely felt much longer without your and Aragornâs company.â
âThere is no need, I wanted you to sit closer. My enjoyment of the evening would have been different too, had you not both been here.â
Legolas does not pick up the conversation, and it falls in an awkward silence you had not prefigured. The kind of quiet you are usually not used to with people; heavy with something that resembles shyness. You keep on walking without a word, holding onto the fact that Legolas admitted he liked your company, and you recognised you seeked his too. You pass another patch of flowers and let your fingers reach to feel the petals. The prince watches the movement attentively, like he discovers you.Â
âWhy do you keep so many plants growing? How do you do it?â
Your smile grows again, but your eyes stay focused on the flowers. âIt is an old family secret.â
The princeâs eyes stay sharp and scrutinising, but he does not speak another word, does not push. He lets himself be guided amongst the plants, soothed by the sweet scent of herbs, until you start the conversation again when you deem it best.Â
Long minutes pass where you find yourself talking with the elf-prince of all things insignificant, and some others more important. You ask about what he likes best in his realm, and he has no time to ask something back that already you have another question for him. At length, the conversation drifts far away from the Great Ball, on purpose though Legolas is oblivious to it. He ends up wondering about your taste in mead or flower baths, and asking for the answers he wants. You give them to him as long as they are harmless: now he knows that you do not share his soft spot for honey, and would beg for a chamomile scented donkey milk bath. He can see you wallow in it, and there is a twisted thing in his stomach that tells him you would taste so, so sweet.Â
The more he knows about you, the more mysterious you grow, with questions you refuse to answer yet matter to him the most. But spending time with you also awakens an unrestrained kind of hunger he has, almost invisible at first; so much that he isnât even aware himself he is imagining bitting the bridge between your shoulder and neck and soothing the pain with a lick that will taste of the chamomile he will have you bathing in.
No, Legolas does not know the sort of needy monster you will turn him into if he keeps on getting curious. And oh, how curious can the elf-prince be.Â
As surface level as the discussion is, none of you notice how fast time flies by, and for the first time Legolas forgets about waiting. Minutes slip through his fingers like grains of sand on the beach, and they only stop when you hear the first chirping of a bird outside. In a few hours, the sun will be up and youâll have to handle yet another day of ball. Even if you do not need as much sleep as humans, you need rest, and the prince gives you the opposite: he keeps you on the edge of your seat.Â
âDo you often walk at night with your guests?â the question is bolder than the ones before. You eye him to discern any kind of trick behind it, but can find none, only the raw blue of his eyes that searches for yours.Â
âOnly those who interest me.â
A small silence lingers, it announces your departure before you can even voice it. Legolas feels the urge to beg you to stay, to borrow a little more time with you; as if it was ever going to run thin, yet he does nothing. His kin rarely acts on impulses, and no matter how different Legolas can be from his peers, this is something elven court has rooted in him. He wields his countenance like a weapon until it bends and breaks.Â
âI should go back,â you say, stepping forward to break the proximity. âYou should see yourself back to your room too, prince Legolas. The manor can be quite eerie at night.â
He looks at you and nods, but does not move to do as he is told.Â
âGoodnight,â he whispers like a secret for you only, and it is enough to make you walk back to your quarters with the hope that it will push him to do so too.Â
Legolas is far too perceptive for your own good, and perhaps it should upset you more. Regardless, something tells you the elf-prince saw so much wrong and ugly in this world, there is a chance he might yearn for yours like one yearns to turn the evil they slew into a god, and worship its cruelty in a final act of devotion to convince themselves there is still some good to draw out of a sinner.Â
summary : For centuries your kind has lived hidden: unknown to the world, shrunk back in the shadows you belong in. The Great Ball is the only time you come out in the light, the only time you allow yourself to feast. Amongst moulded ceilings and cups of wine, Mirkwoodâs crown prince finds an interest in you and your red velvet dresses. But Legolas doesnât know you have teeth to bite him and an inherited bloodlust.Â
pairing legolas x fem!vampire!reader (no use of y/n)
The sun shrinks in the distance, cold and bitting, when the main doors of the manor are shut for the days to come. The Grey Mountains see their first life in four years, they will soon see the end of some of them too. From your spot at the foot of the great stairs, you read the room for the first time. The atmosphere is the same every year: you can smell the nonchalance of the guests, how merry and unbothered they are. Your gaze slides over the sea of people in the reception hall, your heart feels fuller though you know it is a trick of your mind.
Lying in your chest, the organ is too black and atrophied for any kind of movement.Â
It has been years you have not seen your home in such a lively state. Chandeliers hangs over peopleâs head, casting a warm glow upon the room; walls echo with laughters and discussions, their red dripping its hue on every reflecting surface; the moulded ceilings are, as always, the talk of many people; and sun is blocked from the stained glass windows by heavy red curtains. In the corners, tables are set with bites of food to eat, and zigzagging between people, you see the annual butler carry a trail of wine glasses that the guests take willingly. Your lips twitch. Their fingers wrap around the stem; from where you stand, you can make out the grain of their skin as if you were right next to them. On an indoor loggia overlooking the first floor, an orchestra plays the first melodies of the weekend. Many more will be heard in the course of the ball.Â
The merry hum of the reception tickles your sensitive ears, you rejoice in those last minutes of peace. In a minute, people you know will have you hostage to their babbling and the only way you will have to escape it is pretexting you need to greet the other guests, which is partially true. You make a standing point in greeting those who come back every four years, just as your father did.Â
You know it, the Great Ball is the event of every bissextile year, it cannot fail. Every mighty royal of Middle-Earth is invited to it, if something appears out of the ordinary word would spread as quickly as catching fire. No news is good news, that is why you have to stay on your guard every passing second; nothing can stray out of the carefully carved out path you have intended. The Ball is a tradition, a life or death one, it has to unfold perfectly. For now, everything goes according to plan. People move before you like metronomes with the rhythm of the music, you already see a woman you recognise from hundred years ago attract a lost young man in the darkness of a leaving corridor. Nobody saw them but you, you bet he tastes sweet. You know he does; men have a way of growing tooth-rotting when they believe you love them.Â
You take a deep breath, close your eyes upon releasing it and plaster an agreeable smile on your face the moment they flutter back open. For a second, you miss the darkness behind your lids and the solitude, but it all disappears as you take your first step on the tiled floor. The red velvet of your gown flows behind you, like a red sea raising where you walk, your shoes do not clasp against the ground. Nobody can see the concealed purple bags under your eyes; itâll be better in an hour or so, when the sun will have finally descended fully. You move quietly, though unmistakable by your presence. Many lesser people who were not here the time before, who wonât be here in four years, address you courteous signs of the head. You reply to them with your best smile, the one you practiced for hours in front of your windowâs reflection. You know it charms them effectively. It always does, poor lambs to the slaughter. You hope they do not see it coming; it is best when they are not polluted by fear and anxiety. The wine and music serve to make their hearts merry, to lull them into indulgent sins. Â
The spirit for crowds the Great Ball casts in you begins to rise. You find yourself much more inclined to talk to guests and be frivolous all night, all of a sudden. This too, is a carefully rehearsed number. A lie of the finest kind which nobody but those who play it too notice. You will pretend to be pleased by their jokes, pretend to be frivolous, pretend some of them are of interest to you. The truth is less amusing: you care only for your own party, and it is because duty demands it.Â
As you cross the room, you lock eyes with someone you know very well: a man and his wife hanging at his arm; your own party. The air whispers around you as you take the last steps to them, and when you reach the couple you bow to the woman, before holding out your hand for the man to kiss. His lips are cold as death on your skin, her eyes glimmer with a flash of vermeil for a split second only you can catch. Your smile widens, the tension in your muscles ease at the sight of familiar faces.Â
âHow do you like the Ball?â you ask with a movement of the hand showing it out to them.Â
âAs always, my dear, it is magnificent,â the woman replies. âThe new guests areâŠâ she lowers her tone in secrecy. âFresh.â
Your grin turns lopsided. You shrug as if you hadnât hand picked them yourself for month before the gathering. âI should hope so.â
âNonsense, you have always had the refined taste of your father,â the man sips on his wine and holds back a grimace that makes you chuckle. âHowever, I fear I will never get used to⊠this. What do you call it, again?â
âDorwinion wine.â
âAh, yes.âÂ
From the corner of your eyes, you see another familiar face looking at you. The young man broods in the corner, clad in his black jacket, and there is fire in his eyes that doesnât stray from you. You know it isnât meant to be taken personally, Izcasus always has that look in his eyes. It used to excite you when you were younger, the danger that laid about him, but not anymore. Danger was alright when you were still teenagers, but now danger speaks great doom to you, and he does not get it.Â
âExcuse me,â you bow to the couple, before heading in the young manâs direction. They look at each other knowingly and swiftly turn on their heels, searching for another entertainment. Your people are often considered vapid beings, all they care for is good distractions and good food. Both are given to them at the Great Ball, it is the sole purpose of it.Â
Upon seeing you walk his way, Izcasusâ lazy eyes seem to open a bit more, and he straightens, crossed arms loosening to hang at his side. He leans further into the tall porphyry column he is backed upon, sly grin creeping up his face. There are a lot of pretty girls this year, no doubt heâll slake his lust and hunger thoroughly.Â
âMy lady,â he charms the moment your steps still in front of him.
You reply with a mocking roll of the eyes. âIzcasus.âÂ
The boy takes his time observing you, not hurried in any way. His gaze inspects your dress, gauges the velvet of it and linger where he has no right in the square cleavage of your collar, on the white pearls adorning your neck. Because he takes you in so unabashedly, you do so too. Though there is not much to say, for he looks like any handsome boy of your kin: black jet hair, snow-white skin, plump red lips and chiseled jaw you could cut yourself onto. You can spot many girl in the ballroom who would like to cut themselves on his skin, to have him bite at their neck. They do not know he means it literally.
It is not your case; Izcasus bores you, he is too reckless, too selfish. You do not know selfishness, as opposed to what one could think, everything you do is for others. The Ball is for others, you are only entitled to its setting up.Â
âYou have outdone yourself, you almost make me believe beauty comes with age, nightingale,â the tone of his voice annoys you, and the silly nickname he gives you too. You hold back from gritting your teeth. It is hard to know if he refers to you or the roomâs stature; probably both.Â
âYou should know all about it,â you taunt. âHow old are you again? Almost three thousand?âÂ
âTwo thousand seven hundred years old.â
âWomen wonât wait for you anymore once you grow your first white hair.â
Izcasus knows it is impossible, just like you he is trapped in eternal youth, but you see him palm at his hair nevertheless as if there could be a single strand of white in their darkness. It makes you stifle a laugh and he sends you daggers with his eyes.Â
âA shame youâll be the only one still able to wait, then,â you hold your chin higher when he leans in, refusing to back up. His breath is cold, it crashes on the bridge of your nose. âWe had fun last time.âÂ
The memory sends a disgusted shiver down your spine. Last time was a bloodbath with him, you remember you almost threw up at how violent he had been. Visions of blood staining the floor and gushing everywhere impose themselves to you: staining your dress, splattering on your face, clogging in your hair. It was all but the clean kills you were used to. And the worst? The bastard seemed to enjoy it. You recall the way his eyes had been wide open and shining red, his lips pursed in a voracious smirk showcasing his bloodied teeth. You remember the colour of sin in his eyes, and the sharp coldness of his fangs when he had thanked you for the last day of the Ball in his own sick and twisted way: with a kiss on the side of your neck. The feeling had burnt uncontrollably for days after, you had scratched it until your skin broke out and drew blood.Â
The mask you wear does not crack, you have known him too long for it to have a visible effect on you whatsoever.Â
âLast time was a mistake. Behave,â you whisper the last word like a shameful secret.Â
Thatâs the thing with Izcasus, if you are not careful enough, he can turn against you as easily as he can love you.Â
Glaring at him, you bow courteously and take your leave without further ado. There are many more deserving guests here than him, and some of them will not spend the night. If you can be the last courteous interaction they have before they meet their end, then it would at least ease your guilt. The first day of the Ball is always like that, you reek of guilt until you sink your teeth in soft flesh and the feeling is like being born anew. What can you do against the animal instincts that control you? How can you escape the primal thirst of your soul? You still have no satisfying answer, but you know you should not blame yourself so much: many are those who do not ask themselves such questions. Your kin surely does not take pity as a virtue, you can deplore it all you want but it is true.Â
Once again, you take to glide amongst the crowd from guests to guests. The easy smile on your face has returned, though you make a mental note of keeping an eye on a certain someone. You wander about the reception hall, chat cheerfully with people clad in their best attire, compliment them on their manners and decorum. It is all a game of appearances: the Lords come with the hope of forming new connections and strengthening the old ones, lesser nobility shows up just because they have been invited and it is the event of their lives, and people like you are here for far somber things. Things that better stay silenced, things you hide in the shadows at the turn of an hallway, things that minimise the number of guests as days pass. Nobody ever notices anything, royals are too busy with their own selves to care about third-rate bourgeoisie. You are also very proficient at making corpses disappear without a trace; a skill that comes with age and experience.Â
After a while talking with the same type of people who had nothing in mouth but laudatory praises concerning your qualities they were very much unaware of, boredom starts to get the better out of you. A stroke to the ego flatters you, but too much of it gets sickening. Even if you must remain attentive to everything as the host of the evening, the Great Ball is also a moment for you to try and have fun. If you cannot relax fully, you can at least stop pretending all your smiles with some of the guests. This year, particularly, there are two men on the guest list you have been waiting to meet. A king and a prince, whom had both never attended any of the Balls, had been the object of your particular attention.Â
Straying from the one-sided discussion you are having with two women Izcasus eyes so much you believe he is not beneath a double as his next meal, your own gaze wanders around the room. You hope to find the men you have been looking for, but it seems vain when it comes to the point where you have seen every face in this crowd at least twice. In fact, it is vain; you donât even know if they have bothered to come.Â
You are about to give up on any hope of real entertainment when a sort of soft glow catches your attention. In the corner of your vision, something radiates of a pure essence against the closed space of the Hall felted with red walls and red curtains, hushed in the low buzz of never-ending chatters, and swaying with the movement of every ball gown gathered here. Something your soul recognises immediately, something your instincts now scream for. Something, or someone.Â
When you turn your head to it, there are blue eyes that pierce yours at the same time, as if they foreshadowed your upcoming staring, and the most utterly perfect face you have ever seen. The way your muscles jolt under your skin and your ears block out every sound to a dull hum is nothing but primal. It is instinct hitting back at you, making you erase everything in your line of sight but the aquiline nose and pale cheekbones of your next prey. Except it is not a prey, far from it. It is an elf.
An elf-prince; the one you have been searching for.Â
Your eyes gleams a flash of crimson for a split second, something unnoticeable; yet Legolas notices it. He notices it because his eyes have forced their way upon you and now that he looks at you the prince cannot help but feel his heart miss a beat. Or two. Maybe four. He frowns at the weird hue that just passed in your eyes, but the wrinkles he has turned into ease as soon as he sees you excuse yourself to your interlocutors to take a step towards him. Next to him, Aragorn looks at you come their way too. There is something slightly unsettling about you; something he would have had a hard time putting his finger on even in his time as a ranger.Â
It takes you but seconds before standing in front of the two men, welcoming smile plastered to your face, though it is not as fake this time. You bow.Â
âMy King,â you address Aragorn.Â
The man takes your hand to press his forehead on the back of it.
âMy Prince,â you turn to Legolas and he does the same with your hand. It is abnormally cold. Freezing, even.Â
When you feel he presses against the skin more than what is safe, you gently pull back your hand and address him a small smile. For a little while, you stay here silent. Every fibber of your body screams at you, the hand he has touched trickles with small fireworks. You take a small breath, keeping your composure. Of course your own mind would betray you in front of an elf. It is in your nature to be enthralled by them, the excitement you feel in front of the prince is your very first instincts being reminded to you. It is also punishment from the gods for your sins. Beings of darkness should not yearn for those of light, yet your kind does.Â
It does against all that is right in this world, because vampires have always felt elves were the closest thing to their own perfection. You crave for a light that can never reach you, for a perfection so akin to your own yet so far. The first children of Illuvatar: the alter dei; and then the last: the fallen angels.
âI am glad you could come. I understand it is your first Great Ball,â you say, though it is evident.Â
Legolasâs father, king Thranduil, used to come by himself to represent Mirkwood âwhen he would bother to come; you remember despite being an elf he was not as appealing to you as his son. Perhaps his aloof character made it so. And for Aragorn, it has only been three years since he became king; you had not invited Gondorâs attendant to the last Ball, you did not like the man very much.Â
âI understand why you call it the âGreatâ Ball. You have nothing to envy to the royal feasts of elven and human realms,â Legolas compliments, and for the first time you are allowed to hear his voice. It catches you off of guard the tiniest bit at first, you had not expected it to be so soft, yet so confident. You think you could do with hearing it all night. Â
His golden locks fall in front his shoulders as he talks, the subtle movement of the air is enough to bring his scent to your heightened senses. You curse the unslaked ache that has rotted for far too long without relief in your belly. Did every elf smell this mouth-watering or just him? The singular odour clings to your nose, presses like an anvil upon your chest and rushes through your vein. You know the feeling very well: hunger. Bloodlust, more precisely, for it is not his scent you smell but his blood: metallic, and sweet like flower sap.Â
You force up another tight smile as your stomach coils. It is a scent you have never smelt, and itâs worse than everything that it should be so unfamiliar to you. You have no time to adapt to it, and you have still not fed. There is a filthy want in your stomach that awakes like a monster. One for flesh and bones, one for blood as sweet as Legolasâs must taste. You mentally shake the thought away.Â
The more you stay in front of him, the more anguish fills your mind. You need to go. You need to tame the creature you are in your core back to its den. Youâll return to him when you will not have the irrepressible carnivorous want to eat him alive
âThank you,â you say as you glance behind you, prefiguring you are making for a way out. âI should go greet the other guests; I hope we can talk more in the nearest future. It is such a pleasure having you here,â you excuse yourself, bowing courteously and taking a step back before fully turning around.Â
Legolas looks at you go, the velvet fabric of your dress still imprinted in his mind. If he closes his eyes, he thinks he can make it out in the emptiness as well as the black lace emphasising your waist and collar. He feels a weird tug in his stomach, a weak growl he does not like. In the back of his mind, Legolas misses completely the plague that is starting to spread.Â
There is something off about you; something raw. But to the prince, it is so much more than that. He feels this oddity spreads to the whole manor, like the stonewalls murmur to him half-whispers of concealed secrets he cannot make out. And something lacks in the ballroom.Â
âThere is no mirror.â
âIndeed?â Aragorn frowns, amused. The king does not quite understands the problem with the lack of mirrors, and he certainly did not know his friend a firm judge of decors.
âOne should think a ball is the one important place to look at oneâs apparel and showcase it,â Legolas explains.Â
The observation lands quietly in the atmosphere, but it reinforces its uneasiness. It is too early to be making assumptions, but the princeâs instinct rarely proves him wrong. And above all that, there is you and you perfectly rehearsed smiles and greetings; you and the youth upon your face; you and the quietness of your footsteps. Legolas doesnât know if you are twenty or a thousand years old, it seems you could be both in the very particular way of the elves; he convinces himself it is merely this which makes him dote on you.Â
Only, your eyes cross multiple times in the evening and it can hardly be justified as coincidence anymore. So much that you are now both fully aware you observe each other from the other end of the room. Still, you keep on staring, letting him know he is not discreet. A glance above the rim of your glass while sipping on wine, another when speaking to someone who doesnât quite entertain you as the princeâs ogling does. It burns your skin how attentively he observes you, makes you tingle in anticipation. Whatever this yearâs Ball will bring, you are quite sure Legolasâs attention is something you wonât be able to escape for long. A chance you have never been one to deny most welcome attention bestowed upon you. Especially if it was from an elf. Especially if the elf in question made you drool with the idea of his blood coating your tongue.Â
You know it is just a dream, silly and foolish. You would not wish to hurt him, you love his kind too much, it is ingrained in you like a pattern. You do not like the prince, not yet; but he makes you curious. Curiosity is a dangerous beast for a woman like you to have; it kills the cat. Yet, something tells you all your reactions to the elf will be driven by sheer instinct, whether you like it or not. It is treacherous, but you have never learnt to step away from a warm fire because it burnt: because at least it warmed you, did it not? Because there is something soothing in the burn. A thrill, a pain.Â
It takes just a second of inattention from Legolas for him to lose you completely.Â
Youâve disappeared from the crowd. Simply vanished like youâve never been there in the first place. Your presence does not linger in the atmosphere, itâs like he dreamt you altogether. Legolas blinks at the spot where he was supposed to find you, meanwhile you cross an empty corridor with a guest youâve lured here.Â
The corridor stays quiet when you plant your canines in the side of his neck, except for a single whimper he lets out and the slow stopping of his breath. You lick the wound and the blood flows more easily upon touching your saliva; itâll take a minute for you to suck him dry. With each famished gulp you take, itâs like being reborn full of bad deeds, full of the ugliest sins you will still cradle in your heart until the guilt disappears.Â
For now, you feel no guilt. Nothing but pure red dripping bliss, a mental Eden that crawls through your veins. You can feel the blood inside of you thicken, get more dense to flow slower and coax your system into a well deserved hibernation. There is a lazy vigour that stretches in your muscles, one you will keep for the rest of the night but will have to sleep off in the morning, like a cat.Â
It has been so long since youâve last tasted human blood, and single boy wonât make you last four years. He is the first of a long row; for the better good, you convince yourself. The taste of your first prey in years will linger on your tastebuds until the second one, and at length you wonât even remember his face; how it contorts in ugly blissed out pain. You will come to look past how odd it is that humans always look like they are enjoying the agony. Some of them even moan like you bring them relief. You like to think perhaps it is a pleasurable end for them.Â
Beneath you, the drawn-out beat of a heart stops. What was his name again? Youâre not sure you even asked.Â
The night is still young in the Grey Mountains; the manor at its peak comes alive with the shadows. By day time, it looks like an abandoned mansion, but once darkness encompasses it, its walls speak with the blowing wind and animals running away from it can be heard in the forest. They can be heard but there is nobody to do so. The path to the top of the Grey Mountains is treacherous and fraught with danger, none ventures in those parts unless they have a death wish. Except on rare occasions: once every four years, by spring time when the weather is more clement and the road rid of the winter-snow. When only great sins of gluttony and lust push against mortal sloth to guide them here. Â
Despite all this, the manor still has perpetual inhabitants, secluded like a secret âpassed to the realm of myth for some of the simpler folks who do not have the time to worry about the doings of invisible people. A perpetual inhabitant would be more appropriate to say.
A window at the top of one of the manorâs side towers glows. If someone was to look inside of it, they would see a woman hunched over a desk, hair bracketing her face so itâs impossible to clearly distinguish her face. The room around her is dim with candlelight, the fire that burns their wick seems to live yet never to consume. In it, there lies an atmosphere bordering with creeping dread, something that crawls up oneâs spine like an insect before digging in the flesh of their skin.Â
The room smells strongly of herbs and oil; it makes the womanâs nose wrinkle against it. She smells it stronger than common people, almost dizzying her. The paste she grinds in her mortar sticks to the pestle, the sound of wood thumping against wood repeatedly rhythms the movements of her wrist. Outside, the moon is full. She glances at it once before closing the curtains with a harsh tug like it has offended her, a hand to her chest fisting at the satin fabric of the dress she wears. But her atrophied heart does not beat, and it is only the muscles beneath her skin that twitch to mimic the long lost pumps.Â
Her other hand trails to her hair, she pulls at the roots to ground herself; she fumbles a blind hand in her back, undoing her corset to give her more room to breathe. When itâs done, she leaves out a deep sigh before straightening up, focusing back on her mixture. Itâs like the very sight of it assaults her, like working those herbs triggers an instinct from the depth of her veins she seems to fight with.Â
She canât spiral now. This is important.Â
Carefully, when she deems the paste fluid enough to her liking, she picks up a small bottle with a cork she pops off. The greenish mixture flows down the mortar to the glass recipient, it spills along the side of the bottle until she gathers it with a finger âsticking it in her mouth to lick it clean right after. The taste makes her frown again, unpleasant to her carnivorous tastebuds.Â
The woman seals the bottle with the cork again, and places it on a rack on her left, at armâs length. Here, are meticulously lined up dozens of the same herbal paste: jasmine and thyme, rosemary and sage. It looks like remedy for a whole town of sick people, but she is the only spirit of the manor. Corridors whistle with gusts of wind, not a living spirit in sight, not even hers.Â
The bottles seem to stare at her, they reflect her features in a distorted way and it makes her crack up a smile. She looks funny in this light. Not only does she look funny but she also feels like it for days now: the tonic always has a weird effect on her the first days. Itâll pass, as it always does.Â
The days approaching should be merry, they should be worth the work she has been giving them for weeks now. They are not. They remind her of her condition, they remind her this is all a con and she is deceitful. She wonders if she can push the deadline further from a year or so. The idea lives in her mind for quite some time as she sits in silence, pondering, before falling in the case of all the things that cannot be helped. Because if five years instead of four is an effort she can make, the same cannot be said for everyone else. She knows few are the ones like her; those who did not relish in the darkness, those who do not embrace it more everyday.
Something uneasy stirs in her guts. Will a time come when her people grow tired of hiding for the better good? Will they forget all about their past and history despite the clemency of the wises? She wonders, yet she has no answer: gods do not talk to the dead, nor to the inbred offsprings they birth in the darkness. Although her people were not full darkness. They were born at the edge of day, when the sunset blurs into the distance, in the in-betweens of this world ânot ethereal like elves, neither horrid like Ringwraiths.Â
Punished had they been for emerging at the wrong time, condemned to a hunger never full, never satiated. A thirst never quenched; a desire never slaked. The sun could shine upon all living things, yet never the last children of Iluvatar will delight in its warmth. They would always prefer the cold light of the moon, distant and familiar. Except in situations like this one, where its comfort has to be cast away.
It was only for a few days, to entertain the guests and flash charming smiles before having them at her table for supper. Moreover, there was new faces she had not seen before, mighty they were said to be, for it was a new mortal king and an elven prince that were of addition to the party this year.Â
The womanâs head suddenly hurts like it is being hit repeatedly. She takes it in her hands to calm it. It does nothing against it, and with hesitant eyes she lifts up her gaze to a golden cup of wine on the deskâs corner. She stares at it for a moment, before sighing and bringing it to her lips. She had hoped she could have resisted until tomorrow.
The wine coats her tongue, slides down her throat that bobs as she drinks. When she pulls away, it stains the top of her lips, which she wipes with a quick flick of the tongue. A keen eye would have noticed the sharp of her fangs when her mouth opened, or the weird glimmer in her eyes.Â
You look down at the cold tip of your fingers before bringing one to your mouth and biting a single hole in it, not bigger than the one of a big needle. The red droplet rises at the surface of the pad of your finger, and you let it hang over the mortar until it falls. Soon, you search and reach for other kinds of herbs and repeat the process of mixing over again; trying to forget about the lingering taste in your mouth.
At the bottom of the glass there is a heeltap remaining: it is too thick, too red, and smells too metallic. You make a mental note in remembering not to mix up the bottles and serve it to those who shouldnât drink it. For them, there is Dorwinion wine waiting in the cellar; itâs a shame you should like the taste of it too.Â
author's note : soooo after more than a month of teasing, here i present to you bloodborne! i'm so happy to finally write this omfg i can't fathom!! don't worry, it does not mean i'm letting AHFAK go, it's still very much my baby; it only means you get twice the legolas content ;) just letting you know that vampires here are a whole other race i created specifically for this fic and the tolkien universe so some of the things of your 'usualâ vampires may not apply, just as things the âusualâ vampire does not have may apply! all will be revealed in due time but honestly i have a full sheet of vampires' flaws/strengths/backstory all backed-up by scientificISH (ish, i repeat) explanations so when this fic is over i might just release them to share it with you guys and give you more content and/or explanations on things i may not be able to deep dive in within the story's borders :p
summary : For centuries your kind has lived hidden: unknown to the world, shrunk back in the shadows you belong in. The Great Ball is the only time you come out in the light, the only time you allow yourself to feast. Amongst moulded ceilings and cups of wine, Mirkwoodâs crown prince finds an interest in you and your red velvet dresses. But Legolas doesnât know you have teeth to bite him and an inherited bloodlust.
coming this winter/spring á°.á
.ââ± legolas x vampire!reader
.ââ± fourth age
.ââ± doomed love
.ââ± forms of anthropophagy/cannibalism (blood consumption)