Welcome and thank you for visiting my Tumblr page. Below is a list of works that I have posted for your enjoyment. Have a swell day!
Started: 7/17/23
Last Updated: 5/10/26
Total Works for The Boys: 23
Total Works for BG3: 5
Total Works for LOTR: 1
Total Work for HOTD: 1
The Boys- Confessions
*An AU but not too far off from what we are familiar with. Becca doesn't exist and Reader has a secret that she hasn't told anyone. this is my first fanfic on Tumblr*
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9
Butcher Soldier Boy Y/n ending
Forge of the Heart- LOTR
*Reader is an Asgardian and joins the Fellowship. Asgardians in this AU are not as strong as they are in their respective universes (for example Thor summoning lightning, Loki teleporting/shape-shifting), but do have the power of strength, immortality, and profound fighting skills. *
*Prologue*
One Shots- The Boys
Game Night
Shark Week
Bad Dream
Bad Idea Right?
Why Me?
Headcanons- The Boys
Butcher as a Girl Dad
Soldier Boy as a Girl Dad
Homelander as a Girl Dad
Zoo Date w/ The Boys
The Boys Reimagined as Dog Breeds
The Boys- DND Edition
Baldurs Gate 3
Last updated: 7/9/24
My Tav- Emmy
Cat-tastrophe
Gale Dekarios- Wedding Bells
Gale Dekarios - Elminsters not around, might as well
Summary : Legolas would have done anything to protect you—even if it meant standing against his own people, his king, his father. Given a chance, you were now able to have a change of clothes, after all, the one you were wearing had seen better days. Though, you seemed to forget you were no longer in your own world. Which meant casually beginning to undress in front of the elven prince of Mirkwood had apparently been a far greater scandal than you anticipated.
A/n : I'm backk! It's been a month since my last update... was so busy with work and other projectss, sorry my lovess... T^T Sooo, here is a 14k-ish fic, yes its longgg haha. Theres lore drops, cute teasing between f!reader and Legolas too! hehe ^^ (Part of the f!reader is not from middle-earth series | Can be read as a one-shot as well!)
Wc : 14k
➽──────────────────────────────❥
Sunlight filtered through the towering canopy above, scattering gold across the winding halls of the woodland realm.
The forest seemed almost alive around you—lush ivy curling around ancient stone, soft streams weaving beneath elegant bridges, the air rich with the scent of moss, earth, and blooming flowers hidden deep within the greenery. It was beautiful in a way that felt unreal, almost dreamlike.
And yet, despite the beauty surrounding you, your situation was far from ideal. Your dwarf companions had long since been taken away under heavy guard, much to their loud displeasure. Kíli, especially, had not stopped complaining the entire journey.
"Elves are insufferable," he had muttered earlier under his breath while being marched away, earning himself a sharp glare from one of the guards. "Too tall, too perfect, too much hair."
You nearly laughed at the memory now. Unlike the dwarves, however, you seemed to have somehow landed yourself in the captain's favor—or at the very least, enough goodwill to avoid chains and rough handling.
The elves regarded you with far less hostility, also probably because you were half elven, though their curious stares followed your every step as if trying to unravel some mystery they could not place between you and their captain.
Hours had passed since your arrival, and the anticipation in your chest only grew heavier. Soon, you would stand before the King of Mirkwood himself.
You had heard enough stories from the dwarves during the journey to form some image in your mind—cold, prideful, impossible to reason with. According to the dwarves, the elvenking was everything insufferable about royalty wrapped into one immortal being.
It sure did made you wonder. What kind of person was capable of inspiring such irritation and bitterness from them?
Your eyes wandered endlessly through the woodland realm, unable to settle on one thing for too long. Everywhere you looked, there was something beautiful enough to steal your attention—glimmering lanterns hanging from twisting branches, silver streams weaving beneath carved stone pathways, towering pillars wrapped in ivy so green it almost glowed beneath the sunlight filtering through the canopy above.
The entire place felt alive, breathing softly around you like an ancient creature slumbering beneath the forest.
And the elves. Honestly, it was becoming increasingly difficult not to stare.
Everywhere you looked, there was another absurdly beautiful face gliding past like they had all collectively stepped out of some ancient painting.
Long silver hair, sharp features, elegant armor fitted far too well for your sanity, and posture so perfect it made you painfully aware of the way you were slouching half the time. Even the guards standing still somehow looked majestic. It was deeply unfair.
Your gaze caught on one specifically then. A male elf moving gracefully along one of the upper walkways carved into the glowing halls of Mirkwood. Tall, well ridiculously tall—with silver hair braided neatly down his back, dark green and gold fabrics draped elegantly over broad shoulders as he walked with effortless poise.
Your eyes followed him absentmindedly as he passed overhead, your head tilting slightly without even realizing it.
The elf then turned faintly then while speaking to another guard nearby, and your gaze instinctively drifted lower. Your brows slowly lifted higher the longer you stared, genuine disbelief spreading openly across your face.
"…Ooo." The sound escaped before you could stop it. Your eyes narrowed slightly in pure analysis as the elf continued walking completely unaware of the scandalous evaluation currently taking place beneath him.
"And they got nice ass too, what the hell…" you muttered under your breath, deeply offended by the consistency.
Your expression remained entirely serious. Almost scholarly, even. Like you were conducting some sort of research.
A light tap landed softly against your shoulder then, the sudden contact nearly made you jump out of your skin. Your entire body jerked slightly as you spun around far too quickly, eyes widening on instinct, only to immediately come face to face with Legolas standing beside you.
Golden lanternlight filtered gently through the carved woodland halls behind him, catching against strands of his hair until they almost seemed to glow.
Up close, he looked unfairly composed compared to the complete disaster currently unfolding inside your head. One of his brows was faintly drawn, concern softening the otherwise elegant sharpness of his features as he tilted his head slightly toward you, studying your face with quiet attentiveness.
"Are you well?" he asked gently, his eyes moving carefully across your expression, lingering just slightly as though trying to determine whether something had startled or upset you. "You seemed troubled in a way."
And that was unfortunately the exact moment your brain decided to betray you further. Because now, instead of the elf from earlier, you were suddenly painfully aware of him.
The way he stood close enough for you to catch the faint scent of cedarwood lingering around him. The way his armor fit neatly across his frame, and the way his eyes remained entirely focused on you with such calm sincerity that it almost made your chest tighten unexpectedly.
Your posture immediately straightened so abruptly it looked unnatural. "Yeah!" you answered far too quickly, the word cracking slightly halfway through before your hand flew upward into the most aggressively confident thumbs-up imaginable. "Completely fine. Never better."
Legolas blinked slowly in return, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary, suspicion faintly flickering beneath his expression.
Even without words, you could practically feel him trying to piece together whatever strange behavior you had just displayed. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly before drifting toward the upper walkways where your attention had been moments earlier, following the exact direction of your previous staring crimes.
Your soul nearly left your body right there and then. The last thing you wanted was to be locked up for staring at someone' ass. Right before he could ask another question—and potentially uncover the deeply embarrassing truth behind your sudden panic, you immediately turned on your heel and hurried ahead to catch up with the others ahead.
"Anyway!" you blurted out far too loudly, walking faster than necessary. "Beautiful kingdom. Very normal amount of trees."
Behind you now, Legolas remained standing there for only a second longer, confusion still faintly written across his features as he watched your retreating figure with narrowed eyes.
You could almost feel his suspicion growing. Yet eventually, he said nothing, merely following after you in quiet silence, though the faint crease between his brows never fully disappeared.
The deeper you traveled into the halls of Mirkwood, the quieter everything became. The soft sounds of water and distant voices faded beneath the weight of something heavier. Even the air itself seemed different here, cooler somehow, carrying the subtle scent of earth, moss, and old wood polished by centuries of care.
One by one, the dwarves were repositioned beneath the sharp watch of elven guards stationed throughout the hall. Chains rattled softly with every irritated movement from your companions, metal scraping faintly against stone as the guards guided them forward.
Bombur muttered complaints under his breath loud enough for half the hall to hear while Bofur attempted to calm him with little success. Dwalin, meanwhile, looked one inconvenience away from committing several crimes simultaneously, his broad shoulders tense beneath the grip of two guards escorting him forward.
Kíli, somehow, still found enough energy to smirk openly toward Tauriel despite the circumstances. "You know," he said casually while walking beside her, "for prisoners, we're getting a remarkably personal escort."
Tauriel didn't even look at him when she spoke. "Speak less."
"That sounded almost affectionate."
One nearby guard visibly sighed, even Fili looked tired of him the moment those words left him.
You, however, gradually found yourself guided elsewhere alongside Thorin. At first, you barely noticed the shift. One guard moved slightly to your side. Another adjusted course gently, steering you away from the others without outright separating you.
Your brows furrowed faintly as you slowed a little, glancing around in confusion while the others continued further down the hall. "Uh…" you looked back over your shoulder briefly. "I think I'm going the wrong way?"
No one answered immediately, the elven guards merely continued guiding you forward with calm silence, though none of them appeared hostile. If anything, they looked strangely cautious around you—as though uncertain what exactly they were supposed to do.
And by the time you fully realized what was happening, you stood at the center of the grand hall itself.
Thorin stood to your left, rigid as stone, broad shoulders drawn tight beneath layers of worn fur and leather as though sheer stubbornness alone held him upright.
Every line of his posture radiated restrained fury. His jaw remained clenched so tightly it almost looked painful, dark beard shifting faintly each time he exhaled through his nose in slow, controlled breaths that clearly weren't calming him in the slightest.
Even the chains around his wrists rattled softly whenever his fingers flexed at his sides, the sound sharp against the otherwise silent hall.
His blue eyes burned ahead with barely concealed contempt, fixed entirely upon the throne before him with the kind of hatred that felt...personal.
You honestly couldn't tell whether he was angry, offended, or merely seconds away from starting a full-scale war directly inside the throne room. Possibly all three.
Meanwhile, to your right stood Legolas, calm and poised as ever beneath the glow of the hall. Yet despite his composed exterior, you could feel his attention subtly lingering on you, as though making sure you were still there beside him.
While there was Tauriel, who stood slightly behind Thorin, silent and observant, her sharp eyes moving carefully between everyone in the room.
The throne room of Mirkwood stretched endlessly ahead, enormous roots twisting around ancient stone walls like living veins. Water shimmered beneath narrow bridges carved elegantly into the earth, reflecting silver light across the chamber.
High above, sunlight spilled through openings in the cavern ceiling, cascading downward in glowing streams that illuminated the throne at the far end of the hall.
It was beautiful. Terrifyingly beautiful.
Against the blinding silver-gold light pouring down from above, you found yourself squinting slightly, your brows knitting together as you tried to force your eyes to adjust.
The glow behind the throne was almost unbearable at first, washing everything in a hazy brilliance that made it difficult to focus on anything properly.
But slowly, the figure seated upon the throne came into view.
There he was, The King of Mirkwood. The infamous elven ruler the dwarves had spent days complaining about throughout the journey. The cruel king. The arrogant king. The king who apparently 'looked down his nose at everyone beneath him,' according to Thorin.
…Yet none of them had properly prepared you for this.
Your eyes widened slightly despite yourself, gaze dragging slowly over the elegant lines of his face, the sharpness of his features, the effortless grace in the way he sat upon the throne as though he had been carved there by the forest itself.
Even his expression—cold, unreadable, untouched by emotion, somehow only made him look more ethereal in its own way.
"Damn…" you breathed quietly beneath your breath, completely unable to stop yourself. Your eyes remained fixed upon the figure seated upon the throne, brows slowly drawing together further in genuine disbelief as the full image of the Elvenking finally settled properly into view.
A faint look of awe crossed your face despite yourself as you stared upward, momentarily forgetting entirely where you were supposed to be standing or the fact that this was technically an incredibly tense political situation. "Of course he's beautiful." you muttered quietly.
Beside you, Legolas' attention shifted almost immediately. He stared at you for a brief moment, clearly caught off guard by your reaction, as though whatever response he had expected upon seeing the Elvenking… it had certainly not been that.
His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, sharp yet quiet, trying to decipher the look of absolute disbelief written all over your face. "Is something amiss?" he asked softly at last.
The question came low enough for only you to hear as he leaned slightly closer toward you, graceful and effortless in a way that should honestly be illegal. One subtle movement—that was all it took, and suddenly his presence surrounded you completely.
His voice was smooth, calm, carrying that familiar elven gentleness that always seemed to catch you off guard no matter how many times he spoke.
But this time, he leaned too close. You felt the warmth of his breath near the shell of your ear, felt the slight brush of movement as he dipped his head toward you, and suddenly every single thought inside your head vanished completely.
Your entire body stiffened instantly, eyes widening as your pulse skipped violently against your chest the moment his voice brushed so close against your ear.
Panic shot through you for absolutely no reasonable reason whatsoever, heat rushing straight into your face so quickly it almost made your face entirely red.
Every coherent thought scattered immediately, leaving your mind completely blank except for the horrifying awareness of how close he suddenly was. And before your brain could even begin functioning properly again—your body reacted first.
You jumped abruptly, scooting several frantic steps sideways like a startled animal escaping danger, only to move far too quickly without looking where you were going.
A second later, you'd collided directly into something solid beside you. "-Ow!" The sound escaped before you could stop it, your face scrunching immediately from the impact as pain shot lightly through your shoulder.
Meanwhile, Thorin barely moved an inch from the impact. If anything, the dwarf only shifted slightly beneath the collision, broad frame remaining planted firmly in place like a wall of stone while you recoiled backward from him in horror.
Honestly, you were fairly certain you took more damage than he did.
Your eyes widened the second realization struck. Slowly, very slowly—you lifted your head to look at the person you had just rammed into.
Thorin stared back down at you in complete silence, one thick brow already raised while his jaw tightened faintly beneath his beard.
The expression on his face somehow managed to hold irritation, exhaustion, confusion, and concern simultaneously, like he genuinely could not comprehend how someone could survive this long while behaving the way you did.
You recoiled instantly, eyes widening in horror as you turned toward him. "Sorry- sorry!" you whispered frantically, your hands lifting defensively in front of you as if trying to physically shield yourself from his disappointment. "I didn't mean to- I just- he-"
You stopped immediately, because the second you actually tried to think of an explanation, you realized there was absolutely no way to describe why you had launched yourself sideways after Legolas simply leaned closer to whisper near your ear without sounding completely insane.
Your mouth snapped shut again almost instantly, no explanation was better than that explanation.
Heat still burned across your face as you awkwardly lowered your head slightly, lips pressing into a thin line while you slowly shuffled back into your original spot beside them, movements stiff with embarrassment.
You suddenly found the polished stone floor incredibly interesting to look at. Anywhere was better than meeting someone's eyes right now.
Unfortunately, the universe clearly hated you, as the moment you turned ever so slightly, you'd caught Legolas still watching you.
His expression remained composed, well mostly, but there was the faintest flicker of bewilderment lingering in his eyes now, as though he genuinely could not understand what had just happened.
"…I merely asked if you were well," he said after a brief pause, voice low and calm beneath the silence of the hall.
Yet underneath that usual smooth composure lingered the slightest trace of confusion, as though he were sincerely trying to figure out how his question had somehow resulted in you throwing yourself bodily into Thorin Oakenshield.
Your face somehow grew even hotter.
"I am well," you muttered quickly, far too fast to sound convincing while continuing to avoid eye contact with absolutely everyone in that enclosed space. "Too well, actually."
The second the words left your mouth, regret hit instantly. In fact, that did not help, quite literally at all.
Thorin let out a low, exhausted exhale beside you, the sound heavy with long-suffering resignation as he pinched the bridge of his nose for a brief moment, eyes squeezing shut as though he were physically trying to will patience into existence
The lines of his face deepened with irritation, his jaw tightening again before he dropped his hand with a muted grunt, looking every bit like a man who had begun questioning not just his choices, but the very concept of destiny itself.
Ahead of you, the great throne loomed larger with every passing second. The soft, ever-present sound of flowing water echoed through the chamber from unseen channels beneath the floor, weaving together with the distant rustle of leaves far above in the living canopy of the palace.
And unfortunately for you, you had a terrible feeling he had heard you. Very slowly, carefully, you leaned toward your right, lowering your voice into a cautious whisper as though the entire room might punish you for speaking too loudly. "That's the king right?"
Your eyes remained fixed ahead, completely unable to pull away from the figure seated upon the throne. Even from this distance, Thranduil's presence seemed to consume the entire hall without effort.
He sat with effortless authority, posture relaxed yet impossibly regal, one arm resting lazily against the carved throne as though the entire realm itself bowed naturally beneath him.
Silver light cascaded behind him in long streams, framing him almost ethereally, and for a fleeting moment, he looked less like a king and more like some ancient being pulled straight from myth.
Beside you, Legolas followed your gaze briefly before looking back at you. The faintest flicker of amusement touched his features as his gaze briefly swept over your openly astonished expression.
It vanished almost immediately, hidden once more beneath his usual composure, though not before you caught it. "That," he answered quietly, inclining his head ever so slightly toward the throne, "is the Elvenking."
The way he said it carried no exaggeration, just quiet certainty. Yet somehow, hearing the title spoken aloud sent a strange chill through you anyway.
You swallowed slowly, eyes drifting back toward Thranduil just as he finally moved.
The motion itself was subtle—merely the shift of his hand against the throne, the slow rise of his figure from his seat, yet the entire room seemed to still around it.
Every elf standing guard straightened almost imperceptibly. Even the sound of rushing water beneath the bridges seemed quieter somehow beneath the weight of his presence.
Your chest tightened slightly without reason, as Thranduil descended the steps of his throne with measured grace, robes trailing behind him like flowing moonlight. His expression remained unreadable, pale eyes sharp as they settled upon Thorin beside you.
"Some may imagine that a noble quest is at hand," he began smoothly, his voice echoing throughout the chamber like silk dragged over steel. "A quest to reclaim a homeland and slay a dragon."
You glanced sideways the instant those words left his lips. Thorin had gone completely rigid beside you, every muscle in his body locking into place beneath layers of controlled fury barely held in check.
His hands curled at his sides, knuckles tightening until they blanched, and his jaw clenched so hard it looked as though it might crack under the pressure.
Still, he did not speak—only stared forward with burning restraint, blue eyes fixed upon the Elvenking with a stare sharp enough to wound.
"I, myself," he continued, the faintest edge of amusement threading through his tone, "suspect a more prosaic motive… attempted burglary, or something of that ilk." His gaze never left Thorin as he spoke, pale eyes narrowing slightly as though he were reading something beneath the dwarf's silence, something unspoken but deeply familiar.
Every word was measured, deliberate, and cutting in its restraint, as if he had no need to raise his voice to make it land.
The Elvenking moved slowly now through the throne room, circling almost lazily, though there was something unnerving about the way he carried himself, as though entirely aware that every eye followed him, every breath shifted around him.
"You have found a way in." He said, each step he took echoed softly through the throne room. "You seek that which would bestow upon you the right to rule." His voice lowered slightly then, almost deliberate. "The King's Jewel. The Arkenstone."
At the mention of it, something dark flickered across Thorin's face. His shoulders stiffened further, fingers curling tightly at his sides. Beside him, you could almost feel the anger radiating from him in waves.
"It is precious to you and your people beyond measure," Thranduil said calmly. "I understand that."
His pacing then slowed, seemed to be taking in a moment before he continued. "There are gems within the mountain that I too desire," His voice softened faintly, his gaze distant for only a brief moment. "White gems of pure starlight."
For the first time since entering the throne room, something shifted in his expression—not emotion exactly, but memory. Something old. Something bitter.
The atmosphere changed alongside with it, even Legolas beside you seemed quieter now, his posture subtly straighter as silence settled heavily through the hall.
Thranduil then looked back toward Thorin, his attention fully back at him once more. "I offer you my help."
The declaration was simple, almost gentle in tone, yet it carried weight enough to silence even the faintest rustle in the hall.
It did not sound like generosity, it sounded like control wrapped in courtesy. The words lingered in the space between them, suspended in the air, as though waiting to see who would dare challenge their meaning.
Thorin's eyes narrowed slightly at it. He did not move, though suspicion was written plainly across his features now. "I'm listening," he answered carefully, voice low and guarded.
A faint smile touched the Elvenking's lips then—not warm, not kind, but full with quiet amusement. It was the kind of smile that belonged to someone who already understood the outcome of the conversation, and was merely deciding how much truth to reveal at once.
"I will let you go… if you but return what is mine."
As he spoke, Thranduil resumed pacing leisurely across the throne room, the sound of his robes brushing softly against stone the only thing breaking the silence. Yet halfway through his movement—
He paused.
It was small, almost nothing. But in a room like this, where every breath felt accounted for, even the slightest hesitation felt like a fracture in reality.
His pale eyes shifted first, breaking away from Thorin mid-thought as though something had quietly redirected his attention without warning. And then they landed directly on you.
Your entire body stiffened beneath his sudden attention, shoulders locking instinctively as though your instincts had decided to react before your mind could even begin to understand why.
The moment Thranduil's gaze fully settled upon you, everything changed.
You saw it immediately. The cold, distant indifference that had coated his expression just moments ago faltered so suddenly it was almost jarring, like something carefully controlled had slipped for the briefest fraction of a second.
His steps stopped completely, the faint, cutting amusement that had lingered in his eyes vanishing without warning, leaving something far more exposed in its place.
And then came something you never would have expected to see on the face of the Elvenking.
Shock. Pure, devastating shock.
His pale eyes widened, searching your face with alarming intensity, as though trying to make sense of something impossible standing before him.
The color seemed to drain from his expression bit by bit, his posture stiffening in a way that made the entire throne room fall eerily silent.
A faint crease formed between your brows beneath the intensity of his gaze then, unease slowly coiling in your chest the longer he continued staring. Because whatever was reflected in the Elvenking's eyes now—it went far beyond mere surprise.
There was sorrow there, deep and unmistakable, tangled together with something dangerously close to panic and a disbelief so nakedly exposed it almost hurt to witness.
It looked less like recognition and more like someone confronting a wound they had once buried, only for it to suddenly stand breathing before them again.
Your chest tightened uneasily at the sudden shift. The room itself even seemed to still around him in response. Even the guards along the walls stood more rigid, uncertain whether to move or remain frozen in place.
Thorin noticed it too, his brows furrowed slowly as his sharp gaze shifted between you and the Elvenking with growing suspicion, the earlier fury in his posture momentarily replaced by wary calculation.
He did not speak, but the way his stance subtly adjusted made it clear he no longer viewed this as a simple exchange of threats and bargaining.
Legolas, who stood beside you had gone noticeably still, confusion flashing clearly across his features for the first time since entering the hall, whilst Tauriel's eyes narrowed slightly, her attention sharpening immediately.
But the Elvenking just seemed to look like he had seen a ghost.
His lips parted faintly, though whatever words had risen there seemed to die before they could escape. His eyes roamed across your face with unsettling intensity, searching every feature with near-desperate focus, as though comparing you against a memory he had carried for far too long.
There was nothing regal in the look anymore, nothing distant or untouchable. Only someone trying, and failing to convince himself that what stood before him could not possibly be real.
Like he was looking at the past itself, and there it was, staring right back at him.
Then, barely above a whisper, "…Lumena?" The name slipped from his lips so faintly you almost believed you had imagined it, carried into the silence like something forbidden dragged unwillingly from the depths of memory.
Yet despite how softly it was spoken, the effect was immediate. The air itself seemed to tighten around the word, tension rippling outward so suddenly it felt as though the entire hall had drawn breath at once.
Your own brows pulled together completely, the name repeating itself in your head in loops.
Lumena?
Ahead of you, the Elvenking looked as though he regretted speaking at all. The instant the name left his lips, something shuttered violently behind his eyes, his expression tightening with sudden awareness, as though he had revealed far more than intended.
Despite himself, he could not seem to look away from you.
No—Not you.
His gaze had shifted lower now, fixed intently upon the pendant resting against your chest. And the moment he truly saw it, whatever fragile composure he had left seemed to fracture completely.
Before you could even begin to make sense of the name lingering in the air, Thranduil moved. One heartbeat he stood near the foot of the throne, distant beneath silver-green light and shadowed branches overhead—then suddenly he was before you, crossing the hall with such unnatural swiftness it hardly looked like movement at all.
The sharp sweep of his robes cut across the stone floor as he closed the distance in an instant, the suddenness of it forcing you to stumble backward in alarm.
Your breath caught hard in your throat, eyes widening as instinct immediately screamed at you to move, though your body barely had time to react.
"Wha-?" The sound barely escaped you before his hand moved.
Long pale fingers caught suddenly against the pendant hidden beneath your collar, gripping the chain with startling force before dragging it free into the open.
The motion snapped the pendant forward sharply, the chain biting briefly against your skin as you were pulled off balance with it.
A startled gasp left you immediately, your entire body lurching toward him from the force as your hands flew upward on instinct, grabbing tightly around his wrist without even thinking.
The pendant swayed faintly between the two of you now, glinting beneath the pale light filtering through the halls. And the moment he had saw it clearly, something inside him broke.
The throne room erupted into motion around you.
Several guards shifted forward instantly, startled by the abruptness of the Elvenking's actions, hands instinctively moving toward their weapons despite their hesitation, while Thorin took a sharp step ahead with visible alarm flashing across his face.
Beside you, Legolas stiffened completely. "My Elven-lord-" The word came sharper than before, edged with alarm as he took a quick step forward, clearly unsettled by the sight unfolding before him.
Yet Thranduil did not acknowledge him. In truth, he seemed entirely unaware of anyone else remaining in the room.
His entire focus had narrowed onto the pendant now trembling between his fingers. His breathing had changed—barely, but enough to notice, as though the sight of it had struck something deep enough to shake even him.
His eyes moved across every detail of the necklace with near-desperate intensity, disbelief warring openly across features that moments ago had been carved entirely from control.
His breathing faltered visibly, eyes widened further in horror and recognition crashing across his face with devastating force. Even his hand tightened unconsciously around the pendant, fingers curling against the silver chain like he could not convince himself the object before him truly existed.
"Where did you get this?" He gritted his teeth, the words weren't spoken calmly a single bit. It was rough, demanding, almost desperate beneath the anger, loud enough that the sound rebounded sharply against stone and carved pillars alike.
His voice rose sharply, raw and demanding in a way that made everyone in the hall freeze instantly. The sheer force behind it startled you badly enough that your heart nearly stopped.
You had never imagined the Elvenking capable of sounding so… shaken.
Panic surged through you immediately, fast and overwhelming beneath the weight of his stare. "I-!" The sound caught uselessly in your throat as your fingers instinctively tightened around his wrist, your mind scrambling desperately to answer while confusion and fear tangled together inside your chest.
"It's-it's my mother's!" you blurted out hurriedly, the words stumbling over each other in your panic. "I've had it ever since I was little-!"
The moment the truth left your lips—
Everything changed.
The tension in his grip loosened ever so slightly around the pendant as your words settled between you, and for one fractured moment, the grief hidden beneath his composure became impossible to conceal.
His stare turned distant, unfocused, as though your answer had dragged him somewhere far beyond the throne room entirely.
A thousand emotions flickered through his expression too quickly to fully grasp—shock, sorrow, regret, yearning, it'd all come crashing together beneath the fragile remains of restraint.
His jaw tightened sharply afterward, like he was trying to force himself back into control, but it was already too late.
His eyes searched yours again—desperately this time, as though trying to piece together every impossible detail standing before him.
"Your… mother?" he repeated quietly. Now they sounded almost fragile, like something spoken more to himself than to you. The Elvenking standing before you no longer resembled the composed ruler who had towered above everyone moments ago.
The distance in him had vanished, leaving behind someone visibly shaken by memories he had not been prepared to face again, caught between memory and grief, struggling to separate one from the other.
His eyes lowered once more toward the pendant still caught loosely within his grasp. For a brief moment, his thumb brushed across its surface with unmistakable familiarity, the movement slow and almost absent-minded, like tracing over something precious long believed lost.
When his gaze lifted back toward your face again, something inside his expression gave way completely.
Because you looked so much like her.
Not enough to mistake you for the woman he had once known—not truly. Time had changed too much for that illusion to survive.
Yet there were fragments. Small, unbearable pieces of her reflected back at him through you. The shape of your eyes. The way your expression shifted when confused. Even the stubbornness flickering beneath your fear reminded him too much of someone he had once known too well.
And it was enough.
For one terrible instant, it was written plainly across his face—that centuries-old grief had surged back into him all at once, tearing through wounds time had never truly healed.
His breathing steadied gradually, though the faint unsteadiness beneath it remained impossible to hide completely. Even now, his fingers lingered against the necklace as though letting go of it meant accepting something he was not ready to face.
The anger that had exploded from him moments earlier faded almost instantly, replaced instead by something quieter, something infinitely more dangerous.
Pain.
"Hah…" He laughed breathless. It escaped him quietly, but it sounded wrong coming from someone like him. Not amused nor cruel, it sounded like grief given sound after centuries of silence.
His eyes lowered briefly, lashes casting faint shadows across features no longer guarded carefully enough to hide the sorrow carved into them.
There was exhaustion there too, ancient and heavy, like he had spent centuries outrunning memories only for them to suddenly stand breathing before him once again.
Then slowly, almost hesitantly, he looked back at you.
"…So you did return," he murmured at last, voice scarcely louder than the whisper of leaves beyond the halls. The words drifted from him quietly, unfocused, as though spoken to someone far away rather than the person standing before him now. "Even after all this time…"
A faint bitterness touched his expression then—not anger, but the ache of someone who had once hoped for something impossible.
His gaze lingered on your face with unsettling intensity, searching through you and beyond you all at once, as though caught between present and memory.
"You said you would find your way back to me," he continued softly, almost breathless beneath the weight of remembrance. "And now… even in death, you still refuse to leave me be."
Your brows immediately drew together in confusion. What?
Your fingers instinctively curled tighter around the pendant now resting once more against your chest, grounding yourself against the growing unease twisting inside you. Returned? What was he talking about?
You opened your mouth slightly, wanting to ask, but before a single word could leave you, Thorin's voice shattered violently through the throne room.
"Oi!" The sheer force behind it made several elves tensed on reflex, armor shifting sharply as hands moved instinctively toward sword hilts and spear shafts.
Thorin stepped forward abruptly, boots striking hard against the stone floor as he planted himself partly between you and Thranduil.
The fury radiating from him now was impossible to ignore. His jaw was clenched so tightly the muscles visibly twitched beneath his beard, blue eyes blazing with restrained hatred as he glared up at the Elvenking.
To him, none of this mattered beyond one thing—
you looked frightened, and that alone was enough.
"Don't hurt her!" Thorin barked harshly, the insult ringing sharply through the hall with unmistakable venom. Somewhere behind you, you heard one of the guards shift immediately, hands tightening around their weapon.
But Thorin did not back down. If anything, he stepped closer still, planting himself more firmly before you as though daring anyone to try removing him.
His expression had darkened completely now, years of bitterness and distrust toward the Elvenking surfacing plainly across his face.
"Unhand her." Thorin snapped sharply, protective irritation flashing across his face.
Meanwhile, you stared at Thorin in complete horror. Did he seriously just say that to the King of Mirkwood? In his territory?
Thorin however, either didn't notice your panic—or simply did not care at all. His attention remained locked entirely on Thranduil as he continued forward another step, voice rough and edged with warning. "Back to business," he growled. "A favor for a favor."
For a fleeting second, Thorin glanced sideways toward you. The rage in his expression softened only barely, concern flickering across his features before it vanished beneath stone once more.
Then he turned back toward Thranduil, lifting his chin slightly despite the guards already bristling around the room.
It was your first time seeing him look at you that way, but you brushed it off, currently your main focus had to be on the Elvenking before you. If not, who knows? You'll be thrown into prison like the rest.
For several long seconds, Thranduil said nothing. Then slowly, almost like he was forcing himself awake from some distant memory, his eyes blinked once.
The movement looked strangely delayed, his composure pieced together too carefully now to appear natural. At last, his fingers loosened completely from the necklace.
The pendant slipped from his hand and fell softly back against your chest. Even then, his gaze followed it downward, lingering upon the silver as though part of him still could not bring himself to release it fully.
The moment his hold disappeared, you instinctively stumbled backward half a step, your hand immediately flying toward the pendant protectively.
Fingers curled tightly around it against your chest as though shielding it from him now, your pulse hammering so violently beneath your ribs it almost hurt.
The throne room remained deathly silent. No one moved, no one understood what had just happened.
Except perhaps Legolas. Because beside you, his expression had gone strangely pale as realization slowly began dawning across his features too.
"You have my word then," Thranduil said firmly, his tone slightly steadier now . "One king to another."
Thorin then laughed after hearing those words. A sharp, disbelieving exhale escaped him as he slowly straightened, the fragile crack in his composure showing through.
"Ah…" he murmured softly, eyes filled with mockery narrowing faintly upon Thranduil. "Right. A king's word." He spat, bitterness laced beneath his voice, as his expression twisted immediately.
"I would not trust Thranduil, the great king, to honor his word should the ending of days itself be upon us!"
The fury he had been suppressing finally surged free now, raw and burning. His voice thundered throughout the chamber, echoing violently against stone and water alike.
You flinched slightly at the sudden raise in his tone, this was no longer negotiation, but rather this was years of hatred finally clawing its way to the surface.
Thorin stepped forward again, pointing directly toward Thranduil with enough force that several guards immediately tensed. "You lack all honor!" he roared. "I have seen how you treat your friends!"
"We came to you once!" Thorin continued, voice cracking beneath the force of his rage. "Starving! Homeless! Seeking your aid!"
Every word dripped with old pain, "But you turned your back!" His voice echoed violently through the throne room now. "You turned away from the suffering of my people and the inferno that destroyed us!"
"Die a death of flames." Thorin then spewed in dwarvish.
The moment the words left him, everything was bound to be changed. Thranduil moved so quickly the motion barely registered. One second he stood still—the next he was directly before Thorin once more, eyes blazing furious.
The entire hall seemed to recoil beneath the force of his anger. "Do not speak to me of dragon fire." His voice dropped low, deadly. He leaned forward until he and Thorin stood nearly nose to nose, pale eyes burning with restrained wrath.
"I know its wrath." He spoke, as something twisted suddenly across his features.
And before your eyes, it seemed like a illusion shattered. You gasped softly at it. Burns spread violently across one side of Thranduil's face, blackened scars crawling beneath his skin like remnants of living flame.
The perfection of the Elvenking vanished instantly beneath the ruin hidden underneath, jagged and horrifying.
Thorin looked caught off guard as well.
"I know its ruin," Thranduil continued quietly, his voice no longer sounded merely angry now. Instead, it sounded haunted.
For one terrible moment, you swore you saw it reflected in his eyes—the memory of fire, destruction and loss, before he slowly straightened once more.
The burns vanished instantly beneath the glamour returning across his features, leaving only the cold, flawless face of the Elvenking once again. "I have faced the great serpents of the North," he said calmly.
The room remained deathly silent, taking in every word Thranduil had to say. "I warned your grandfather of what his greed would summon." His gaze hardened upon Thorin. "But he would not listen."
"You are just like him." he said, clearly mocking the son of it.
Thorin's jaw tightened violently, but before he could answer, Thranduil turned away sharply, lifting one elegant hand toward the guards.
The command needed no words. Immediately, the elven guards surged forward. Chains rattled loudly as they seized Thorin by the arms. The dwarf struggled instantly, fury flashing across his face as he attempted to wrench himself free. "Unhand me!"
The guards dragged him backward regardless, boots scraping harshly against stone.
Thranduil could care less, he'd already begun ascending the steps toward his throne once more, every trace of earlier vulnerability buried once again beneath layers of regal indifference.
He sat slowly, as though none of it had affected him at all, lowering his cold gaze toward Thorin. "Stay here, if you will," he said smoothly. "And rot."
The faintest tilt of amusement touched his lips once more. "A hundred years is a mere blink in the life of an elf."
His eyes darkened slightly. "I am patient."
The throne room fell silent again. Yet even as Thorin was dragged away shouting curses beneath his breath—You noticed something. Thranduil's gaze drifted back toward you once more, and the grief in his eyes had not fully disappeared.
You.
More specifically—the pendant trembling faintly against your chest as your uneven breathing caused it to shift. The same necklace he had once seen resting against another person entirely. Against her.
Something dark flickered across his expression then, so quick you nearly missed it. Pain. Fear. Guilt. Perhaps all three tangled together so tightly even he could no longer separate them.
Then he spoke, "Throw her in as well." The command sliced through the throne room in an instant, cold and absolute despite the faint strain hidden beneath it.
For a second, you genuinely thought you had misheard him. Your brows pulled together slowly, confusion washing across your face before disbelief followed right after it.
A small breath escaped your lips, shaky and stunned, as though your mind refused to fully comprehend what had just happened. You genuinely thought you'd misheard him.
"…What?" The word barely came out properly, but the guards had already begun moving.
Armor shifted sharply as several elves stepped forward at once, boots striking against stone in practiced unison. The sound alone made your stomach tighten painfully.
You instinctively took a slow step backward, then another, eyes darting quickly between each approaching guard as panic slowly began creeping its way into your chest.
No one hesitated now, not after the king had spoken.
Your pulse pounded violently in your ears with every step they took closer. The throne room suddenly felt enormous and suffocating all at once, the glowing halls seeming to close around you despite their size. There was nowhere to go.
Even if you ran, you already knew how useless it would be. These were elves. You would barely make it past the pillars before they caught you.
And worst of all, Thranduil looked away, though not out of indifference. No… somehow that would have hurt less. He looked away like he could not bear to watch it happen, and that hurt far more than the order itself.
A faint huff escaped you then, almost laugh-like in its disbelief as you continued backing away slowly. Your fingers tightened instinctively around the pendant resting against your chest, knuckles paling beneath the pressure.
"Wait-" Your voice wavered despite your attempt to steady it. "I didn't even do anything-"
But the guards did not stop. One elf stepped forward first, arm extending toward you with clear intent to seize you before the situation worsened further.
Right as his hands reached, someone had moved in front of you, fast enough that you nearly gasped aloud in shock.
Legolas.
One moment he stood at your side, silent beneath the chaos unraveling around him—and the next he had stepped directly in front of you without hesitation, forcing the guards to halt immediately.
There he stood directly before you now, tall and rigid, placing himself between you and every drawn weapon in the room without a second of hesitation.
One arm extended instinctively across your front protectively, not quite touching you yet shielding you all the same, as though his body had reacted long before thought ever could.
The movement had been immediate, natural, effortless in the most dangerous way possible, like protecting you had never once been something he needed to think about.
And in his other hand, a dagger gleamed beneath the dim light of the throne hall.
You had not even seen the moment he drew it. One heartbeat his hands had been empty, the next silver flashed sharply before you as the blade settled with quiet precision at his side.
Legolas held it low, not carelessly brandished nor wildly threatening, yet the meaning behind it remained unmistakable. If anyone moved toward you again, he would not hesitate.
His grip remained steady despite the storm visibly brewing behind his eyes now. The Legolas standing before you now looked dangerous—tense in a way that made the entire hall freeze around him.
"Do not touch her." His voice came low and sharp, cutting cleanly through the suffocating silence.
It was not a plea. Not even a warning. It was a command.
Every guard stopped instantly. Not because they feared the dagger in his hand. Elves of Mirkwood did not frighten easily, least of all by steel. No—what unsettled them was the sight before them.
Their prince stood armed against his own kin, against his father's order.
The prince of Mirkwood stood armed before them now, openly shielding someone his father had just ordered imprisoned.
The realization spread visibly through the chamber in ripples of tension. Several guards exchanged brief uncertain glances, clearly caught between duty to their king and loyalty toward the heir standing before them now.
One shifted his footing uneasily, while another lowered his spear ever so slightly without realizing it. None of them seemed entirely certain how to proceed anymore.
Because this was no ordinary act of defiance.
A flicker of disbelief spread visibly through the throne room. Tauriel straightened instantly where she stood nearby, eyes widening slightly though not entirely in surprise, as though some part of her had always known this moment would come eventually ever since witnessing your interaction not too long ago.
Meanwhile, you could only stare silently at Legolas' back from behind, your thoughts momentarily falling into complete disarray.
You seemed to notice everything suddenly—the tension pulled tightly through his shoulders, the subtle rise and fall of heavier breathing he was trying desperately to control, the way his stance never once wavered despite the dozens of eyes now fixed upon him.
The realization settled strangely in your chest, because Legolas knew exactly what he was doing.
This was not some reckless impulse born from emotion alone. He understood the consequences standing before his father armed like this.
He understood every watching guard now waited for a single wrong movement to turn the throne room into chaos. And yet even knowing all that—he still refused to step aside.
Your fingers tightened unconsciously around the pendant resting against your chest.
One of the guards finally attempted another careful step forward anyway, perhaps hoping the prince's restraint would outweigh his resolve. The movement was slow, cautious, barely more than a shift against the stone floor.
Legolas reacted instantly, as the dagger lifted slightly in warning, while his gaze snapped toward the approaching elf with enough icy intensity to halt him mid-step. "I said," Legolas repeated slowly, each word edged with restrained anger, "do not touch her."
Silence crashed over the room once more before that same old cold voice pierced through it.
"Legolas." Thranduil's voice echoed sharply throughout the hall, the warning beneath that single word was unmistakable. Yet Legolas did not move, he did not even bother to lower his blade, nor did he step aside.
Slowly, Thranduil descended another step from the throne platform, his pale gaze fixed entirely upon his son now. The grief and confusion from earlier had vanished beneath something colder, something far more dangerous.
"You forget yourself," Thranduil said quietly, though the calmness in his voice somehow made it worse.
Legolas' jaw tightened visibly. For a brief moment, you saw conflict flicker across his expression—old loyalty clashing violently against something stronger now.
Still, he never lowered the dagger. "No," he answered firmly at last, his voice steady despite the tension pulling through him. "I remember precisely who I am."
A sharp tension swept across the throne room instantly at his choice of response. Several guards exchanged uneasy glances while Tauriel's attention sharpened further, clearly preparing herself should the situation collapse entirely.
Thranduil stopped only a few steps away, expression unreadable once more. "Stand aside." The command came calm.
And for the first time since you had met Legolas, there was something openly defiant burning within his eyes.
"She has harmed no one," Legolas said, "She's the daughter of Lumena. And if word were to spread that she was cast into the cells unjustly…" His eyes sharpened faintly. "There are many within this realm who would not remain silent"
His grip around the dagger tightened faintly then before continuing. "She is not our enemy."
Thranduil's expression darkened the moment those words reached his ears. "And yet," he replied smoothly, each word measured with dangerous precision, "you would raise a blade against your own king for her?" The question hung heavily between them.
Legolas hesitated, only for the briefest second. But in a throne room this silent, even the smallest uncertainty became impossible to miss.
You saw it flicker through him immediately, the conflict tearing beneath his composure as duty warred violently against something stronger now. Loyalty to his father, loyalty to his kingdom. And then… you.
His eyes shifted toward you at last, just one glance.
Yet somehow it felt heavier than everything spoken between them so far. His gaze caught the sight of your trembling hands curled tightly around the necklace against your chest, the fear you were trying desperately not to show.
And whatever answer he found there seemed to settle something inside him completely. When he looked back at Thranduil again, the hesitation was all gone. "If I must."
The entire throne room seemed to inhale sharply all at once.
Even you froze behind him, eyes widening in complete disbelief as your breath caught somewhere painfully in your chest. Because Legolas had just openly defied the Elvenking before the entirety of his court.
And judging by the slow, unreadable look now settling across Thranduil's face—This was no longer merely about prisoners. This had become deeply, dangerously personal.
Your eyes remained fixed on Legolas' back, your thoughts struggling to catch up with everything unfolding before you.
The way the guards had immediately halted the moment he stepped between you and them, the tension now crackling through the entire throne room because of a single movement from him alone—it was enough to tell you that Legolas held far more authority here than you had first assumed.
At first, you thought perhaps it was because he was captain of the guard, someone respected enough that others naturally followed his lead.
But that thought shattered almost instantly the moment one of the guards finally spoke, his voice strained with visible uncertainty as his eyes flickered nervously between Legolas and the Elvenking.
"My lord…"The elf hesitated, clearly choosing his words with care now, his grip tightening faintly around his spear.
"It is your king's command." His brows furrowed deeper, desperation slipping into his tone as though he genuinely wished not to stand against either side. "Even if he is your father… neither you nor I may openly defy him."
The words struck you so suddenly your mind blanked for half a heartbeat.
"…What?" Your head snapped up toward Legolas so quickly it almost hurt, eyes widening in complete disbelief as the realization came crashing down all at once.
"The Elvenking is your father?" you blurted, your voice echoing far louder than intended through the silent halls.
Several heads turned toward you instantly, though you barely noticed beneath the sheer disbelief crashing through your thoughts.
Your eyes widened further the longer you stared at Legolas' back, bafflement written plainly across your face. "You're a prince?!"
Of all the impossible things this day had thrown at you, imprisonment, emotionally unstable elf kings—somehow that had caught you most off guard.
Your brows pulled together harder in bewilderment, gaze flickering rapidly between Legolas and Thranduil as your mind desperately attempted to rearrange every interaction you had ever had with him into this entirely new context.
Suddenly everything made far too much sense.
The guards listening to him immediately. The way the elves moved around him with instinctive respect.
The hair.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," you muttered beneath your breath in complete disbelief before looking back at him again. "You're literally a prince, and you never told me!"
For the briefest second, something softened across Legolas' otherwise tense expression. It was small—so fleeting most would have missed it entirely, but you caught it nonetheless.
The slightest twitch near the corner of his mouth, subtle enough to vanish almost immediately, as though the absurdity of your outrage had momentarily slipped past his restraint and nearly pulled a smile from him despite himself.
Yet his posture never relaxed, his dagger still angled protectively before him as his sharp gaze remained fixed on the guards ahead, every muscle in his body coiled tight with restraint.
"You never asked," he answered simply.
You stared at him in genuine disbelief. "That is not something people usually have to ask!" you whisper-hissed back immediately, scandalized despite the danger around you. "Who walks around assuming they need to ask if someone's secretly royalty?!"
"Mm." For the briefest moment, Legolas' attention shifted toward you again, only slightly, though it was enough for you to catch the subtle change in his expression beneath all the tension surrounding him.
His gaze swept over you quickly, checking you over almost instinctively as though reassuring himself you were still unharmed amidst the chaos unfolding around you.
Then, quieter this time—low enough that the words brushed only against your ears, he spoke again. "Stay behind me alright?"
The calmness in his voice should not have affected you as much as it did, yet somehow it did.
Your breath caught faintly at the words, despite the guards surrounding you, despite the king standing only a few steps away watching everything unfold with unreadable eyes, Legolas still sounded far more concerned about you than himself.
And across the hall, Thranduil noticed it too. The Elvenking's pale gaze lingered upon his son carefully now, upon the protective angle of his body, the dagger still raised toward his own people, the quiet way he positioned himself between you and every possible threat without hesitation.
Something shifted across Thranduil's expression then, subtle enough that most would not notice.
"Legolas," Thranduil spoke at last, his voice quieter now. The disappointment woven through the single word settled coldly across the hall. "You place yourself in dangerous waters."
The warning lingered between them, not spoken as a king to a disobedient prince.
But almost… as a father watching his son walk toward the very same ruin he once could not escape himself.
"If protecting her places me there," he answered steadily, his grip tightening faintly around the dagger, "then so be it."
Silence followed immediately after, it was heavy and suffocating. And standing behind him, staring at the unwavering figure shielding you without hesitation, you realized something terrifying all at once.
He meant it. This was not reckless bravado nor some desperate attempt to frighten the guards into retreat. Legolas was not bluffing.
If this throne room turned against you now—if his father commanded these elves forward despite everything, he truly would stand against them for your sake.
"You act as though you know her well." Thranduil spoke back then. His pale eyes remained fixed upon Legolas with growing intensity, the faint sneer curling along his lips doing little to hide the tension tightening beneath his composure.
This conversation was no longer unfolding the way he'd wished.
Legolas however, had not lower his dagger despite such warnings. If anything, his posture only straightened further, shoulders squaring instinctively as he stood firmly between you and the guards.
"I do know her," he answered without hesitation.
His gaze then finally lifted fully toward his father, something almost challenging flickering through his eyes now. "She is the girl I told you about. The one I have been meeting when I was a child.”
Legolas tilted his head just slightly then, though the movement held no humor. "It seems," he continued quietly, "I was not lying after all."
As he finished, genuine disbelief crossed Thranduil's face. Just stunned disbelief, as though he could scarcely comprehend the words spoken before him.
"Hah…" A hollow sound escaped him, somewhere between disbelief and bitter amusement as he descended another slow step.
"And now you choose to utter nonsense before your king?" His voice hardened instantly afterward, centuries of authority crashing back into place. "I said stand aside, Legolas." He commanded, the words echoing harshly through the halls.
Legolas did not move though. He'd just planted himself more firmly before you, the dagger remaining steady within his grasp as his expression hardened with quiet resolve. No fear crossed his face now. No hesitation. Only stubborn certainty.
And the sight struck Thranduil harder than he could've ever expected. He was no longer looking at his son.
For the briefest, most painful moment, he saw himself instead. Younger. Reckless. Standing before another throne long ago with that same defiant fire burning in his eyes for someone he should never have loved so deeply.
For her. Lumena.
The memories came uninvited, vicious in their clarity. Soft laughter echoing through moonlit halls, gentle hands reaching for his, silver tears, blood and loss.
It had taken centuries to bury those memories deep enough to survive them. Centuries spent forcing himself not to remember her voice, her smile, the way she had once looked at him as though he alone existed beneath the stars.
He had wanted it all gone. Every trace of her erased from his mind because remembering had become torture.
Yet now you stood before him wearing her eyes, her necklace, her kindness. And his son looked at you the exact same way he once looked at her.
The realization twisted painfully through his chest. Something in Thranduil softened then despite himself, faint enough most would never notice it.
His expression faltered for only half a second, grief slipping through the cracks before his jaw twitched sharply once more, forcing the emotion back down where it belonged.
"…Very well." The words came quieter than before, though the sternness remained. Yet beneath it, there was the faintest tremble hidden within his voice now, almost swallowed entirely by pride.
Your eyes widened at the sudden shift in his expression, confusion written plainly across your face as you stared at him.
Around the hall, even the guards looked uncertain now, glancing uneasily toward one another as though unsure whether they had heard correctly.
Thranduil's gaze shifted toward you slowly then. For a moment, he simply looked at you, really looked at you. His eyes traced the bruises scattered across your hands, the exhaustion lingering beneath your expression, the thin weird clothing still clinging damply against your skin from the cold outside.
Something unreadable flickered across his face again before he spoke at last.
"You," he began carefully, though his tone remained controlled, "will remain under Legolas' supervision." His eyes flickered briefly toward his son afterward.
"Should anything occur…" he paused, before continuing, "It shall fall upon you."
Legolas inclined his head slightly without argument, though relief visibly loosened some of the tension held within his posture. The dagger lowered at last, though he still did not fully step away from you yet.
Thranduil's eyes then seemed to find itself drifting back toward you once more. He paused, his gaze lingered noticeably longer than necessary before he cleared his throat quietly, almost as though irritated with himself.
"And…" His voice faltered briefly before smoothing itself out again. "See that she is given proper garments to change into."
The room seemed to blink collectively in confusion. Thranduil immediately looked away afterward, pretending sudden interest elsewhere as though he had not just spoken.
"It is cold beyond these halls during this season," he added stiffly, the explanation sounding almost forced.
You could only stand there staring at Thranduil in complete confusion as he turned sharply, silver robes sweeping behind him while he ascended the throne steps once more.
Nothing about this situation made sense anymore. Not the way he looked at you. Not the grief hidden behind his anger. And certainly not the strange softness that kept slipping through despite how desperately he tried to bury it.
➽──────────────────────────────❥
The room they had brought you to was far quieter than the throne hall below. Soft lanternlight flickered gently against carved stone walls woven with twisting vines and roots, while silver curtains shifted faintly whenever the breeze slipped through the open archway nearby.
Compared to the chaos from earlier, the silence almost felt nice.
You sat near the edge of the large wooden bed awkwardly, your legs crossed beneath you as you absentmindedly tugged at the sleeves of your old hoodie.
Honestly, the thing had seen better days several disasters ago. It was stained with dirt, dried blood, ash, and whatever else this adventure had decided to throw at you. At this point, even you were beginning to question how you were still surviving inside it.
"…I smell terrible," you muttered quietly to yourself, lifting the collar slightly before immediately recoiling with a disgusted grimace. "Oh my god."
You had barely drawn breath to continue your complaints when a soft knock sounded against the wooden doorway, light and careful against the quietness of the room. Before you could even answer, the door slowly slid open, pulling your attention away immediately.
Legolas stepped inside soon after, though noticeably slower than before, as though he was still uncertain how to approach you after everything that had happened.
The light spilling into the room caught against his pale hair beautifully, softening the sharpness he'd carried within the throne halls.
Folded neatly within his arms rested a set of dark green and silver clothes, layered fabrics embroidered delicately along the sleeves in patterns you vaguely recognized from the female guards wandering the palace earlier.
The material looked so soft, and warm. Significantly cleaner than whatever remained of the clothes currently hanging off your body.
His gaze lifted the moment he stepped fully inside the room, immediately finding yours. And just like before, something in his expression softened almost at once.
"I brought these for you," he said quietly while approaching, his voice gentler now that the chaos from earlier had finally faded. He held the clothes out carefully toward you, fingers lingering slightly against the folded fabric as though unsure whether you would accept them immediately.
"They should fit… adequately enough." His eyes dipped briefly toward your current state then—the worn fabric, the dirt smeared faintly along your sleeves, the damp edges still clinging from the cold outside, before lifting back toward your face again.
A faint pause followed. Then the smallest trace of amusement tugged subtly at the corner of his mouth, softening his features in a way that almost distracted you entirely.
"Though," he added lightly, gaze flickering once more toward your rather questionable attire, "I fear nothing within Mirkwood was designed with your… unusual attire in mind.."
Your gaze immediately dropped toward yourself afterward, lips pressing into a small line as you looked down at the state of your current clothes.
Dirt stained the sleeves, the fabric slightly damp at the edges from the cold outside, and honestly? You were beginning to understand why every elf in this palace kept staring at your hoodie like it was some strange woodland creature.
"…That was mildly offensive," you muttered beneath your breath, though the lack of actual irritation in your voice made the complaint entirely useless.
The faintest flicker of amusement touched Legolas' features at that, subtle enough it almost disappeared before you fully caught it.
Though, It wasn't long before your attention snapped right back toward the folded clothes resting within his hands. The moment your fingers touched the fabric, your eyes widened almost instantly.
"Wait-" You took the clothes from him quickly, genuine surprise lighting across your features as your hands brushed carefully over the smooth embroidery woven into the sleeves.
The material was softer than you expected, cool beneath your fingertips yet rich and beautifully crafted in a way that made your own clothing suddenly feel even more tragic by comparison.
"These are actually beautiful." you breathed, the awe in your voice came entirely unfiltered as you lifted part of the fabric slightly to inspect it better beneath the lanternlight.
Silver stitching glimmered softly across the dark green layers like moonlight caught within woven leaves, elegant without seeming excessive.
Your brows lifted higher the longer you stared. "You all dress like this every single day?" you asked incredulously before looking back up at him, eyes bright with disbelief. "No wonder every person here looks like they walked straight out of some fantasy film."
Legolas frowned faintly in confusion upon your words. "…A fantasy film?" he repeated carefully, the unfamiliar words sounding oddly formal within his accent.
The question made you pause immediately. Your mouth opened halfway on instinct, fully prepared to explain—before the realization hit you all at once that trying to explain modern cinema to an elven prince from Middle-earth would probably create far more problems than solutions.
"…You know what," you said quickly instead, waving one hand dismissively through the air, "never mind."
Even with your reassurance, Legolas continued watching you with clear suspicion now, though thankfully he did not press further.
You grinned faintly afterward, standing up from the bed without another thought, still clutching the clothes carefully against yourself.
"Seriously though," you said while glancing down at your current hoodie with visible judgment, "thank you. I've been wearing this thing for so many days I'm very certain it's evolved into its own living organism by now."
Legolas' brows lifted faintly at your strange wording, confusion flickering briefly across his features as though he was genuinely trying to understand how clothing could possibly become 'biologically dangerous.'
But before he could question it further—You had already grabbed the hem of your shirt and pulled it straight over your head without a second thought.
Legolas froze instantly, well completely.
His eyes widened then, before he turned away with such alarming speed it would have been impressive under literally any other circumstance.
blonde hair shifted sharply across his shoulders with the sudden movement as he redirected his attention very intensely toward the farthest wall in the room like it had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in Middle-earth.
"My apologies-!" he blurted instantly, his voice noticeably tighter than before. One hand lifted halfway instinctively, almost like he did not know what to do with himself anymore.
"I did not realize you intended to-" He stopped abruptly, jaw tightening as the faintest flush began creeping across the tips of his ears. "Why," he asked carefully after a strained pause, still refusing to look anywhere near you, "are you removing your garments while I am still present?"
You blinked at him mid-motion. Your old hoodie now hung loosely from one hand while you stood there in the singlet underneath, looking significantly less scandalous than whatever horrifying conclusion Legolas had apparently jumped to in his head.
"…Huh?"
Your confusion only seemed to make him tense further somehow.
Legolas remained rigidly turned toward the opposite wall, posture impossibly straight now as though sheer discipline alone was keeping him from spontaneously combusting out of embarrassment.
"You could have warned me," he muttered quietly, sounding deeply distressed by the entire situation.
You stared at him for another second before slowly looking down at yourself, then back at him again.
Legolas still refused to turn back toward you, shoulders stiff as a board, posture rigid with obvious discomfort. "That is not appropriate." His voice lowered slightly, sounding both flustered and horrified all at once. "Particularly not before an unmarried person."
You paused, staring at the back of his head for a long moment as if you were genuinely trying to figure out where exactly the misunderstanding had begun. Then, almost cautiously, you looked back down at yourself again.
"…But I’m wearing a singlet underneath," you said, like that should have logically resolved everything.
Silence was all that was given back instead. From where you couldn't see, Legolas blinked once, slowly.
Then, as if against his better judgment, he turned just slightly over his shoulder.
And the moment his eyes registered that you were, in fact, somewhat covered, the faint flush that had been threatening his composure deepened instantly, creeping further up his ears in a way he clearly wished was not happening. He snapped his gaze forward again just as quickly.
You frowned now, genuinely even more confused. "What? It's basically the same as a sleeveless shirt."
"It is not the same thing," he answered immediately, far too quickly, as though the argument itself was something he needed to win for survival purposes.
His head turned away again with visible stubbornness, though the tension in his voice had softened into something slightly flustered. "No respectable maiden simply begins changing garments while a man remains in the room."
That made you pause for a second, before realization came kicking in. It was the medieval times you were currently residing in.
Your expression shifted instantly, lips parting before a quiet laugh slipped out without permission, the realization settling in so suddenly it almost embarrassed you on its own. You lifted a hand briefly to your face, half-covering it as you shook your head.
"…Oh my god," you muttered under your breath, still smiling despite yourself. "Right. Different era."
Legolas, still very much turned away from you, tilted his head slightly at the unfamiliar phrase. "…Era?" he repeated carefully, clearly not satisfied with how many unknown words you were introducing into his life today.
"Nothing," you said quickly, letting out another small laugh as you lowered your hand again. "Forget it. I'm sorry. Where I'm from, this isn't really… an issue."
That finally earned a faint shift in his expression. Not quite a turn, but enough that you could see the furrow forming in his brows. "Your world sounds," he began after a pause, choosing his words with visible caution, "deeply concerning."
And that did it for you, as you laughed harder. The sound filled the room warmly, lighter than before, softer too—and Legolas found himself relaxing slightly the longer he heard it.
Because after everything that had happened today, after the fear and tension and tears… hearing you laugh again felt strangely relieving, a little less suffocating.
"…You can turn around now," you said at last, amusement still lingering in your tone as you pulled the new attire properly into place over your shoulders.
Legolas hesitated for a moment. You could practically feel the pause stretch in the air before he slowly turned back toward you, as if cautiously testing whether it was truly safe to look.
And then he did, almost promptly forgetting how to breathe for a fraction of a second as well.
The Mirkwood attire fit you far better than anything he had expected—dark green layers falling neatly against your frame, traced with fine silver detailing that caught softly in the lanternlight with every small movement you made.
The fabric looked almost like it belonged to you already, blending oddly well with your presence despite how out of place you still technically were.
Your hair was slightly tousled from changing, your expression still carrying traces of exhaustion around the eyes, yet there was something about the way you stood there now—clothed in elven garments, light shifting across the fabric—that made you look unsettlingly at home in these halls.
Legolas stared a moment too long. It wasn't dramatic in any outward sense—no sudden movement, no change in stance, no visible reaction that would betray him easily
And yet the stillness that followed felt different. Not empty, but suspended, as though time itself had slowed just enough to make the silence noticeable.
A quiet pause stretched between you both where his usual composure seemed to falter in the smallest, most subtle way—like a thought had surfaced too quickly for him to properly contain it, leaving him briefly caught between instinct and awareness.
His gaze remained fixed, unblinking, as if he had forgotten to redirect it elsewhere.
You noticed immediately, one brow lifting as your head tilted slightly to the side. "…What? Do I look bad?" you asked, narrowing your eyes with sudden suspicion as you studied his face more closely, as though trying to catch him in the act of something unspeakable.
Legolas blinked, straightening so quickly it almost looked like a reflex rather than a choice. His posture reset itself into perfect composure, shoulders squared, chin lifted slightly, as if he could physically force the moment to reset. "No… it is nothing."
"…You hesitated," you replied at once, eyes narrowing further as you stepped half a pace closer, clearly unconvinced.
"I did not," he answered immediately, too quickly, his gaze flicking away for a fraction of a second before returning forward as though anchoring himself.
"You literally did," you pressed, leaning in just slightly now, arms loosely crossed as your expression sharpened in challenge.
"I was merely ensuring the garments fit correctly,"
A slow, mischievous grin spread across your face at that, the kind that spelled immediate trouble. You rocked back on your heels slightly, eyes glinting with amusement. "Ohhh," you drawled, dragging the word out as if you had just uncovered something scandalous. "So you were looking."
Legolas nearly choked on air. His eyes widened a fraction before he quickly recovered, lifting a hand slightly as if to dismiss the accusation entirely. "I most certainly was not-, but you did... well.. ask me to look-"
"You totally were," you cut in smoothly, stepping forward again with growing confidence, grin widening. "Because if you weren't, that means I look bad, doesn't it?"
"I was not," he insisted again, voice a touch sharper now, though still noticeably flustered. "And no- that is not what I meant-"
You stared at him flatly for a second, letting the silence stretch just long enough for the moment to settle, before tilting your head ever so slightly. "…Legolas," you said slowly, pointing at him with quiet satisfaction. "Your ears are red."
He immediately turned away again.
Legolas had turned away so quickly after your teasing that you nearly laughed again right then and there. There was something oddly adorable about seeing the usually composed prince of Mirkwood suddenly lose every fragment of dignity over a simple comment.
Meanwhile, he stood near the carved archway pretending to admire the architecture with far too much intensity for it to be believable.
You sat cross-legged upon the edge of the bed, sleeves slightly too long over your hands as you adjusted it properly. "You know," you said casually, watching him with obvious amusement, "for someone so calm during sword fights and giant spider attacks… you panic very easily."
You tilted your head slightly, watching the way his shoulders subtly tightened at your words. "Reminds me of the days back then."
Legolas let out a quiet breath through his nose, the closest thing to a sigh he seemed willing to allow himself, his gaze still firmly fixed on the carved archway as though refusing to give your teasing the satisfaction of his attention.
Yet even from where you sat, you caught it—the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, "I do not panic."
"Mhm." You leaned back slightly on your hands, tilting your head with an amused, almost knowing look as your eyes narrowed in playful skepticism.
"I merely prefer proper manners," he added after a brief pause, his posture straightening again as if the correction itself required physical reinforcement.
"That sounds suspiciously like panic." You grinned immediately, pointing at him lightly as if presenting evidence in a case he was clearly losing.
His shoulders shifted subtly at that, a small adjustment like he was physically resisting the urge to turn back around and defend himself properly.
His jaw tightened for a second before he spoke again, voice still controlled but edged with quiet frustration. "Where you come from lacks concerning amounts of decorum."
You snorted softly at that, the sound breaking out before you could stop it as you shook your head slightly, clearly entertained. "You have no idea," you replied, lips curling into an easy grin as you watched him from where you sat, still clearly far too pleased with yourself.
At that, Legolas finally turned his head back toward you, and immediately stopped mid-motion.
His gaze landed on you properly this time, but instead of snapping away like before, it lingered. Just a second too long, then another, as though something had quietly caught his attention without him fully deciding to acknowledge it.
You noticed instantly. "…Why are you staring at me like that again?" you asked, narrowing your eyes slightly as you tilted your head, suspicious all over again.
The question seemed to pull him out of whatever thought he had drifted into. He blinked once, straightening as his composure tried to return.
Before you could continue, something in his expression shifted faintly. The teasing air seemed to fade from him as his attention sharpened instead, eyes narrowing just slightly as he focused past your words and onto something near your face.
"…Hold still," he said suddenly, voice quieter now.
You blinked in confusion, your expression slipping from playful to uncertain in an instant. "What?" you asked, sitting up a little straighter on the bed, hands pausing where they were resting against the fabric of your attire.
But before you could react properly, Legolas had already stepped closer. Far too close.
You barely even registered the movement. One moment he was still near the archway, half-lit by the lantern glow, and the next he was directly in front of you, his presence filling your space without warning.
Close enough now that the details you usually only caught from afar became impossible to ignore—the faint shift of colour within his eyes, the quiet steadiness of his breathing that never quite matched how fast your own had just become.
Up close, everything about him felt unfairly beautiful, from the pale glow of his skin beneath the silver-green light, the faint scent of cedar and rain lingering around him, to the quiet warmth hidden beneath his usually composed demeanor.
And then his hand lifted toward your face.
The motion was slow, deliberate, careful rather than sudden, but in your current state it might as well have been in slow motion. Your brain simply… stalled.
All coherent thought evaporated at once, leaving nothing but static as you tried to process what was happening and failed immediately.
Your expression froze mid-reaction, eyes widening slightly as your lips parted just a fraction.
Wait. What?
Your gaze flickered rapidly between his face and his approaching hand, panic and confusion tangling together so quickly you couldn't separate them into anything useful.
The rational part of your mind tried to speak, tried to insist there was a perfectly normal explanation for this, but it arrived far too late to matter.
No. Surely not.
That couldn't be what it looked like. Not with how close he was, not with the way he was looking at you right now—focused, unreadable, entirely too calm for whatever situation your imagination had already decided this was becoming.
Your breath hitched slightly, shoulders tensing as your body reacted before your thoughts could catch up, uncertainty written all over your face in the smallest details.
Without thinking, you instinctively leaned back slightly against the edge of the bed, your eyes squeezing shut in sheer panic.
Silence followed. Nothing happened. Slowly, you peeked one eye open.
Legolas was still standing right in front of you, hand paused mid-air as if he had simply stopped halfway through whatever he was doing.
His expression had shifted into open confusion now, brows drawing together slightly as he studied your face like you had just done something deeply unpredictable. "…What are you doing?" he asked carefully.
Heat surged into your face so fast it felt immediate and violent. Your eyes snapped fully open now, and you leaned forward slightly in sheer indignation and embarrassment.
"What are you doing?!" you whispered back at him immediately, voice hushed but frantic, horrified.
For a brief moment, Legolas just looked at you in silence, before understanding slowly flickered across his face. And to your utter devastation, amusement followed right after it. Very faint, very subtle, but definitely there.
"There was a strand of hair upon your face," he explained calmly, lowering his hand at last as if this was the most reasonable explanation in the world, his tone steady in a way that only made it worse. "I was helping you with removing it."
You stared at him, completely frozen in place, as the meaning finally settled properly in your mind. The tension in your shoulders dropped all at once, replaced instantly by a wave of embarrassment so intense it nearly made you physically recoil.
"Oh." The sound came out small, flat, and tragically late. Your gaze flickered away immediately as you lifted a hand to your face, half covering it as if that could somehow undo what had already happened. You wanted the floor to open up and take you with it. Preferably immediately.
A brief pause hung between you both, before Legolas' lips curved ever so slightly, so faintly it might have been mistaken for nothing at all if you weren't already hyper-aware of his every expression.
His head tilted a fraction as he studied you with quiet curiosity. "You believed I intended something else?" he asked, voice calm but with the smallest thread of amusement now woven through it.
His brows lifted just slightly as he waited for your answer, posture still relaxed in contrast to your complete internal collapse.
"No," you answered far too quickly, shaking your head once as your eyes darted away again, refusing to meet his gaze.
"…You closed your eyes," he continued after a beat.
"Well," you muttered, gesturing vaguely as if that explained everything, your ears visibly warm as you shifted your weight awkwardly on the bed, "with how you were acting, I panicked."
"That does not answer my question," he said immediately, entirely too composed for someone currently dismantling your dignity piece by piece.
You made a strangled sound of frustration before immediately covering your face with both hands, fingers pressing against your flushed cheeks, "Please stop speaking," you groaned into your palms, shoulders curling inward as you attempted, and failed—to disappear into yourself entirely.
A soft laugh escaped him then, quiet and warm and entirely too fond for your already struggling heart to handle properly.
Before you could recover, his hand lifted again—this time slower, gentler, giving you enough warning not to completely short-circuit again.
His fingers approached your face with careful restraint, brushing against your cheek so lightly it felt more like a suggestion than a touch. The contact was feather-soft, precise, as he gently swept the stray strand of hair away from your skin.
Your breath hitched at the sensation despite yourself, as his thumb grazed lightly along your skin before tucking the strand carefully behind your ear.
"There," he murmured softly, voice lower now, almost absent-minded in its gentleness.
The touch lingered only for a moment, yet somehow it felt unbearably intimate.
Your entire face burned immediately afterward, and judging by the faint shift in Legolas' expression, he noticed. His gaze softened visibly as he looked at you, something warm flickering behind his eyes before a quiet smile finally appeared fully across his face.
It was quiet, genuine, and dangerously fond in a way that made the air between you feel even harder to breathe in.
"You are very expressive," he said quietly, his voice calm and even, though the faint curve at the corner of his mouth betrayed that he was not entirely neutral about the observation.
His gaze lingered on you with quiet attentiveness, as if confirming his own statement in real time.
You frowned instantly despite still feeling the lingering heat in your face, brows knitting together as you looked up at him in disbelief. "…What is that supposed to mean?" you asked, tilting your head slightly, lips parting in offended confusion.
"It means," he replied after a brief pause, tone still composed but now carrying a trace of amusement he made no effort to hide anymore, "your thoughts are remarkably easy to read." His eyes flickered briefly over your expression as he spoke, as though demonstrating his point without needing further explanation.
Your jaw dropped a fraction, eyes widening in pure indignation as you leaned back slightly. "Excuse you?" you shot back immediately, personally insulted by the accusation.
Legolas tilted his head just a little then, hair shifting softly over his shoulder with the movement. The faint smile returned properly now, subtle but unmistakably entertained, as though he had found something unexpectedly enjoyable in the exchange.
"You wear every emotion plainly upon your face," he added simply, watching you with unbothered ease.
"Oh, and you don’t?" you countered at once, leaning forward slightly now, eyes narrowing as you tried to regain some ground in the conversation, your earlier embarrassment temporarily forgotten in favour of outrage.
"I do not," he answered without hesitation, posture straightening a touch as if the claim itself was a matter of fact rather than opinion.
You squinted at him immediately, suspicion written all over your face as you leaned in just a little more, studying him like you were attempting to catch him in a lie. "...Mhm. Sure."
His composure almost cracked again. Almost.
A faint shift passed through his expression, the smallest tightening at the corner of his mouth, the briefest hesitation in his eyes, like something inside him had nearly slipped before he quickly reined it back in.
For a brief moment afterward, neither of you moved away. The silence settled differently now—no longer awkward or tense in the same way as before, but heavier in a quieter, more uncertain manner.
Lanternlight trembled gently across the carved wooden walls, casting soft shifting shadows that made the entire room feel more enclosed, more intimate than it had any right to be.
Somewhere far beyond the windows, the sounds of Mirkwood continued on, distant and muffled, as though the world outside had decided not to interrupt whatever this was.
Legolas remained close, closer than necessary. Close enough that the warmth from where he had touched you still lingered faintly against your skin, faint but noticeable in the lingering space between you.
His posture was still upright, controlled, but not quite as effortless as before. There was a subtle stiffness now though, as if he had become suddenly aware of exactly how little distance remained.
His gaze, which had been steady moments ago, flickered again—quick, unintentional. It dropped downward for the briefest second before snapping away almost immediately afterward, as though he had caught himself too late.
It was a new emotion for him, or was it? Maybe he knew, understood what it had meant and felt, after all, this wasn't the first time it had happened.
This is Chapter 1 to the series Aemma, feel free to check out the prologue *here* or if you'd like to check out my other works, feel free to visit *here*. Thank you and enjoy!
Aemond, no more than 10 years old, sat on his favorite chair in the library of the Red Keep, an open leatherbound book of Old Valyria sitting on his lap. The moon high in the sky, cascading its pale light through the open windows, a gentle breeze carrying the scent of Blackwater Bay nudged his air as he continued to read the ancient text about his lineage. This was his safe space. It’s where he could escape all duties and formalities of court, the ongoing harassment from his eldest brother and two nephews and the scrutinizing gaze of his mother striving for perfection.
SLAM
The sound of the doors reverberated through the quiet hall of the library. Aemond quickly looked up to see who had disturbed his peace and found himself looking at his twin sister storming over to where he sat. She stood in front of her brother, then began pacing back and forth, arms crossed over her chest, irritation laced in her features. She let out scoffs and huffs of annoyance. Aemond watches her as she paces, her skirts shifting each time she turns, her eyes full of fire.
“If you don’t sit down, you’ll wear a hole through the floor.” He nudges a stool in her direction.
“I cannot sit down, I am too upset. They make me so furious!” Aemond rolls his eyes at her remark. He returned his gaze to that of his book, but not his full attention. He would always share that with his sister.
“What happened this time?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Then why are you upset?” Aemma sighs heavily, she places her hands on her hips and stops in front of Aemond. Aemond looks up from his book and studies Aemma, really studies her. This is the most angry he’s seen her. Cheeks flushed, the clenching and unclenching of her jaw, her rage was burning almost as hot as dragonfire. Aemond marked his spot in his book and set it on the side table.
“Sit.” He said calmly but with slight authority. Aemma looked at the stool that Aemond gestured towards and she kicked it with her slippered foot, she winced at the contact. Her twin gave her an exasperated look and shook his head when she bent down to rub her big toe.
“Stubborn.” Aemond got up from his chair and knelt down to take off her slipper to ensure there was no injury. He then handed her slipper back. Aemond’s violet eyes met Aemma's brown ones and he asked,
“Who upset you?” He had an inkling on who, he just wanted confirmation.
“Who do you think?” Aemma’s voice cracked as she picked up the stool and plopped down on it, hands gently pulling at the roots to her auburn hair.
Aemond thinks at first it was Aegon, it never fails that Aemma gets a backhanded comment from their eldest sibling now and again but no, not even Aegon could make her this angry. It becomes clear who she’s frustrated with. Aemond never understood Amma's reaction to the attention she received from their parents. He shook his head and scoffed.
“What?” Aemmas head snapped up and her eyes looked like they could pierce through Aemonds skull.
“At least Mother and Father pay attention to you, they barely acknowledge me.”
“Aemond-”
“No! You complain about being noticed where father barely looks at me as if I embarrass him. Mother always fusses over you.” Aemma stood up from her stool and almost shouted at Aemond,
“You think I like this attention? I can’t do anything without being compared or corrected. They watch how I eat, how I dress, how I present myself. I can’t even do needlepoint without them breathing down my neck! Mother tells me to behave one way while Father has me behave another.” As Aemma explains, Aemond stares at the ground, scowl across his face. Despite everything, all he feels in his heart is bitterness. Bitterness for the affection and attention his twin receives while he gets scraps.
“Poor princess, everyone dotes on you too much.” Aemmas heart drops to her stomach. It’s like Aemond didn’t hear a single word she said. She sits back down on the stool and says softly,
“What I mean to say is that they do not see me, they see her.” Silence settles between them. It takes a few moments, but Aemond finally realizes that the attention that his sister receives is a burden. Aemond feels the sting of living in his brother Aegon's shadow, often being overlooked because he is the second son to the king. Aemma is the same, being named after the Visery’s first wife and the king's attempt to mould Aemma into that image of soft spoken grace, whilst simultaneously their mother shapes her to carry herself with discipline and duty.
Aemond sharply exhaled and turned towards the small side table next to his chair. He picked up the flask and offered it to Aemma, his way of offering an apology. It was some of their fathers wine watered down. They weren’t supposed to have the drink until they were thirteen, but it seems like tonight the both of them could use it.
“We’re not supposed to drink that.” Aemma pushes the flask away. Aemond offers it to her again.
“Just try it. One sip will not make you drunk.” Aemma takes the flask and hesitantly takes a small sip, acknowledging his amends. The bitter liquid hitting her tastebuds, her face scrunches and she immediately hands the flask back to Aemond.
“Thats terrible, why do they drink it?”
“For the effect. You’ll get used to the taste after a while. You can’t be drinking milk at every meal when you’re older.”
“I know that, and I don’t drink milk for every meal!” She pouts and crosses her arms over her chest in defence. Aemond huffs out a chuckle.
“Oh yeah? What did you drink with dinner tonight?” Aemma looks at Aemond and the studders, he has her caught.
“I- well- I only drink milk along with dinner when my lemon cakes are too sweet.”
“And how many lemon cakes did you eat that warranted two cups of milk?” Aemma looks down at the floor, shuffling her slippers against the stone.
“None.” She says quietly. Aemond blinked.
“Did cook not make any today?” She shook her head, her auburn waves dancing around her shoulders.
“Mother told me to put them back and if I eat too many of them, I will become unfit and not find a suitable match.” Aemonds expression darkened. Of course their mother would say that. Nothing said out of care or caution to health, but to the prospects of propriety and marriage.
Aemond stood up from his chair and set the flask down on the side table with a solid thunk. He began walking to the exit of the library.
“Where are you going?” Aemma sat up on her stool in alert.
“To get you lemon cakes.” Aemma stood and ran over to Aemond just before he opened the great wooden doors.
“Wait, you can’t go into the kitchens at this hour, you’ll get in trouble.”
“I will not.” Aemond cracked the door to the library and looked down the hallway. It was empty. There would be few guards on their way to the kitchens, most of them being stationed outside of bed chambers. Aemond squeezed his body through the small crack of the doors and quickly ran towards the servant staircase. Aemma followed, with less grace but with just as much determination to follow her brother. Reaching the top and looking down the dimly lit stairs, Aemond turned to Aemma and grabbed her hand.
“Come, we’ll be quick.” He tugged her along. She let out a small yelp and followed obediently.
Once they reached the kitchens, after narrowly escaping capture by a few tired guards, they took in the empty space. Moonlight spilled into the room and out onto the countertop. A small fire emitted from the hearth in the corner of the room. On the opposite side of the room was an unremarkable door propped slightly ajar, which Aemond made his way to.
Aemond creaked the door open and laid eyes on what the pantry had to offer. A variety of produce, flour, dried herbs, jars and clay pots on multileveled shelves. He began opening each jar and pot to seek his prize, setting the lid down with a light clatter each time he didn’t find what he was searching for.
“Aemond, shh! You’re being too loud.” Then, Aemond spotted them. Lemon cakes. He smiled triumphantly to himself but when turned around, he straightened up and had a look of pride laced on his features. Walking out of the pantry with the clay pot, Aemond gestured towards the lit hearth on the opposite side of the room. The two scurried over and sat down, shoulder to shoulder, on the cold cobblestone flooring. Aemond opened the lid, a sickly sweet, citrus smell emitted from the pot and reached in and pulled out a lemon cake. He tore it in two and offered one piece to his sister. Aemma reached out and gingerly took the cake from his hand, fingertips brushing his palm.
Aemma watched as her brother devoured his half of the lemon cake while she took a tentative bite. The tart flavor of lemon, the sweetness of icing coated her tongue and for the first time in a while, Aemond saw a genuine smile from his sister. A warmth spread in his chest, he’d never admit it, but he’d do anything to see his sweet sister smile like that.
Helping themselves to another, Aemond looked forward and watched the paltry flames dance in the hearth. They sat like this for a while, just enjoying each others company in silence eating stolen sweet treats. He felt a weight at his shoulder and saw that Aemma had placed her head there lightly, looking in the same direction as he. His cheeks flushed at the contact.
Sniff. Sniff.
Aemond stiffened. He looked down and saw a tear roll down his twins face and onto his tunic. He didn’t need to ask what she was crying about, he already knew. Her behaviour earlier had been a shield she used to protect from her true feelings. Mothers rules and Fathers comparisons… Aemma was never allowed to show the world her true self. Aemond gently placed his hand on her shoulder in solidarity, Aemma leaned into the contact like it was her lifeline. Her tears flowed easily now, lemon cakes forgotten. Leave it to Aemond to truly see her as a person and not clay to be shaped into whatever object the crafter has desired.
In that quiet space between them came an understanding. The others loneliness and longing and the desire to be loved and seen as who they are, not for who they would become. Here in the pale lit kitchen, they were free from prying eyes of the court, scornful looks from their mother, unobtainable expectations of their father, and the jests from halfwitted older brothers. They just simply existed, as two twins trying to navigate this life together.
Synopsis: Aemma is Aemonds older twin and is described to resemble her mother Alicent in features rather than the standard Targaryen visage. (Aemond x OC)
Trigger warning: character death, death in childbirth
*Prologue*
King Viserys could not take his eyes off the gold ring that once belonged to his dearly beloved, Aemma. He rotated the cool object over in his hands, while replaying their final moments. Recalling her cries of pain, her panicked voice. Midwives forced her arms and legs to remain on the bed while the maesters sliced into her belly, blood pouring onto the soft sheets below. All at his command, his command that forfeited her life.
Regret. Longing. Grief.
All very human emotions, but ones he does his best to keep to himself, because giving voice to such emotion is to put a target on your back. He pours himself into making stone models of the Red Keep and the occasional turn about the lush gardens. Even taking a young wife to serve as Queen and to bear his offspring. Anything to distract himself from facing the harsh reality of what he had done to the one he was supposed to love and protect. His Aemma. But events like this throw him back into that dreadful memory.
“My king,” a young maester enters Viserys’ chambers and stands hunched, new to his position and unsure of how to address the King in such delicate matters. “The Queen has begun her labors. She is making good progress and the babe should be born soon.” Viserys sat in his chair, still rotating the golden ring in his right hand, staring into the lit fireplace, seemingly in another world. With a wave of his left, he dismissed the young maester. The King could still hear activity outside of his bed chambers, which indicates that the long night of childbirth had just begun. Viserys kissed the signet on the delicate ring as a tear ran down his cheek while one name echoed in his mind. Aemma.
*
“Almost there my Queen, one more push!” a young midwife wiped at Alicent's brow with a clean cloth. Alicent's chemise was soiled with blood and sweat. Around her, midwives of all life stages rushed about to gather laundered linens and fresh water to clean Her Grace.
One more push, then the afterbirth. Alicent told herself. With as much strength as she could find, she gave one final effort and the babe was free from her womb. There was no screaming, no wailing on Alicent's behalf. She would not lower her decorum, not even in the delivery chambers. What she did allow herself to feel, was an overwhelming sense of relief. She did her duty.
Across the room, the midwives stimulated the infant vigorously. Rubbing its back, spanking its bottom and clearing out as much of the fluid from its throat as possible. Then, crying. Everyone became relieved hearing the sweet sound. Alicent, still laying in bed drenched in perspiration, held out her arms to hold the babe swaddled in white cloth and cheeks tinged pink. Just as the babe was to be placed in her awaiting arms, a sharp pain radiated from her midsection causing her to jolt and let out a cry.
“Another is coming.” an older midwife exclaimed after examining Alicent. The firstborn was placed in its cradle still crying for its mother. Alicent prepared herself for performing her duty once more.
*
Alicent lay on her delivery bed, energy completely spent. The youngest midwife wiped her brow, arms and legs with a cool rag, another assisted in getting her changed. In the corner of the room, the two babes that Alicent carried for 9 months lay resting in the same cradle.
The door to the delivery chambers opened and Viserys walked in. He spared a quick, single glance at his wife as she recovered. Walking over to the cradle, he pulled back one of the white coverings of the infant.
“Second born but a healthy boy, your grace.” Viserys stared at the child. Alicent said softly, looking towards her husband,
“I will call him Aemond.”
“Aemond” Viserys nodded. The servants all bowed their heads in respect to the king. Viserys’s gaze turned to the other life resting beside that of his second son. Pulling back to gaze on the child, he gasped.
“Firstborn this eve and a healthy daughter, your grace.” Moments of that night with Aemma replayed in his head. Grief, guilt and the lack of agency he provided his first wife chipped away at his mind.
*
“Aemma. Her name shall be Aemma.” Alicent blinked up at the ceiling for a moment. She struggled, but sat up in bed and looked at her husband. She asked with uneasiness,
“What was that Viserys?”
“Her name is to be Aemma.” Something ugly twisted in Alicent's gut. A bitter feeling, something on the edge of envy. Bile slowly rises in her mouth but Alicent swallows it down.
“Darling, perhaps instead we should name her Aemira or Aemara. Names similar to Aem-”
“I said Aemma God’s Damnit! Am I not the King? Do I not get a ruling on what we name our child, my child?” With the sudden shout, the babies woke up from their sleep and began crying. Viserys pinched the skin at the bridge of his nose and let out a heavy sigh. Turning back to Alicent, he gestures to the cradle,
“Her name is Aemma. I will hear none of it. Tend to this.” Viserys promptly walked out of the chambers. The room was silent, besides the crying infants. Alicent sat in bed, gobsmacked by what transpired.
The head nurse carried her children to her to feed. Alicent took Aemond to her breast, but looking at her infant daughter, all she could feel was the echo of Viserys' grief. How Alicent, no matter how dutiful and doting of a wife she could be, would never compare to that of his late wife who he has named their daughter after. The feeling in her gut returns and twists sharply. She knows that feeling does not belong there as a mother but this little creature, through no fault of her own, had sown seeds of inadequacy and small blooms of resentment inside Alicent. Just for being born, just for being named, Aemma.
*let me know what you think and if I should continue or not.*
unused footage of legolas in fangorn forest after ring is destroyed
orli looks so divineee and that embroidered silver tunic
leggy's hair is unbraided!! did aragorn unravel braids in his nightly rampage of leggy
PJ please give us a mithril cut, just chunk all the unused 1,300 hour footage together, you don't even need to edit it, add music whatsoever I'll watch it in 2000s 480p resolution
author’s note : this request was actually fun! veeery indulgent, i know, but it's fun writing things that demand less work sometimes
➢ nini’s masterlist
➢ read on ao3
My friends call me a loser
‘Cause I’m still hanging around
I’ve heard so many rumours
That I’m just girl that you bang on your couch
You have no real recollection of when exactly it started to happen, it seemed it just did out of nowhere. One day you were hanging out with Legolas like normal and the next you had his mouth all over your neck and the sense of belonging somewhere.
You had always been friends, not close like he could be with Tauriel but friends nonetheless. Except he kept on sending you knowing looks, on lingering his fingers in the small of your back when he crossed you, or fixing your stance with deft hands he knew where to place when you trained. Soon enough what was bound to happen happened.
You still remembered the first time you slept together. Legolas did not have to bat an eye for you to follow him eagerly through the maze of the Halls’ corridors, stealing kisses at each turn just to coax you into his room better. When you finally stood in front of the door with him, cheeks heated, it took a shift in the tension for it to snap and for the world around you to blur in a spinning haze. The walls seemed to move on the satin of the couch he laid you on, the colours to flash with his cold hands groping at your flesh, and the ceiling to fall upon your head when there was no pretending you weren’t rolling your hips to his as he dragged inside your core.
Maybe you were headless. Maybe you were a fool. But he kept on murmuring praises you could have sworn were made right in heaven, and you let yourself hope for a moment. Hope the prince was still your friend, hope he was not going to leave you here limp like a rag doll; all despite your friends’ warnings or the rumours in the guard that followed you like a second shadow. A heavy shadow, one filled with whispers that only calmed when Legolas entered the room and his stature silenced everything else.
The rumours became insignificant the moment he hefted you up on the couch and had you burn against him and grip at his shoulders for the tiniest bit of relief.
I thought you thought of me better
Someone you couldn’t lose
You said, “We’re not together.“
So now when we kiss I have anger issues
Often, rumours had a part of truth about them.
You understood it when you were lying in the warmth of the aftermath once, half on top of him, and went to chase for his lips lazily. Because his eyes had darkened and turned into a frown as he looked at you; as if he had caught something in your eyes he didn’t want to see here. You stopped halfway to his mouth and wrinkled too, your eyes searching for the cause of his rejection frantically.
“We’re not together“
That was the cause. He saw the flicker of growing love in your eyes and it panicked him. He thought it was clear from the start: this was nothing serious. This was casual. You weren’t supposed to read into it that much.
In the middle of the night, with the remnant of the ache he placed upon you between your thighs, still smelling like sweat and him, he had the audacity to tell you you were nothing. And the worst? You took it without a flinch.
You felt your heart tear in your chest, the blood flow everything inside, yet you showed nothing.
It was your fault for thinking you were ever enough for him to consider in this kind of light. It was your fault for not seeing that you were the one gripping at his back, murmuring sweet nothings in his neck when he dipped into you, kissing his name into his mouth with a fever when you came; not him.
You were not irreplaceable, nor the missing piece to his puzzle.
It didn’t matter, you could do with something casual. You could be casual if he wanted you to, you could be everything he asked and more: the dark side of the sun, the hidden face of the moon, the crack in the atmosphere, or the tamed dove on his shoulder.
It didn’t matter. Yet you leaned for a kiss after nodding like it was obvious you weren’t together, and you felt your fingers twitch with pent-up anger.
In your dreams, you bit him in the kiss; tore off his rosey lips and coated them with blood. You scratched at his perfect ivory skin until it turned an angry shade of red, slapped him across the face and tightened your pretty fingers around his pretty, pale throat.
In reality, you screamed his name with your back arched to the sky. The moans you made should have been proof of how impossible it was for you to keep this casual.
You said, “Baby, no attachment“
But we’re…
Knee deep in the passenger seat and your eating me out
Is it casual now?
Two weeks and your mom invites me to her house in long beach
Is it casual now?
No attachment is what you kept on repeating to yourself. He had said it that way and he meant it. You could do it if it meant you got to not lose his friendship. Or him.
Only, it did not feel like no attachment at all when he had you splayed on the royal throne in the throne room when his father was not here. It did not feel like nothing to be sat on a king’s throne, legs parted, with a prince mouthing at your skin between them hungrily. Perhaps the throne bore the marks of your nails digging into the armrests, still.
Legolas went down so willingly it was almost hard to believe he meant it when he said it was casual. How could someone who didn’t feel anything for you get so visibly happy when you whined under soft ministrations? How could their eyes shine with a barely concealed pride at the bare sight of you already worming on your sit in anticipation.
Yet he did. He worked the screams away with immortal perfection; earned the content sighs he made when you pulled at the roots of his hair, but stood up as soon as he was done, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Legolas took the time to dress you back up, to fix your wrecked appearance, before leaving you with a peck on your lips in which you could taste yourself: salty like tears.
It was getting harder everyday to brush it off as casual. You couldn’t look at yourself in the mirror without being imposed marks of the prince’s presence along your body. Like you belonged to him, like somehow he had any right on you. He had none, and so did you. But you couldn’t say seeing the other elves look so dejected after they spotted the hickeys in his neck, crawling the tiniest bit just past his collar, didn’t make you happy.
The worst for your delusion came after. When his father, king Thranduil, invited you to dine with them in the royal Halls. This couldn’t be casual: his father inviting you in their home for dinner. Surely, he was aware of something, and if he was aware maybe Legolas talked to him about it. Or he heard the rumours and wanted to address them himself.
You never knew; Thranduil never voiced his objective out loud. The dinner went out perfectly, he made no allusion at your relationship with his son and was less aloof than you would have thought him to be. He even asked a lot of questions. Perhaps it was the perfectly laid out plan of a king trying to better read you and your intentions, or perhaps it was genuine curiosity. Though you doubted the king would show anyone real curiosity, he already knew everything he needed to know.
Meeting parents was definitely not casual.
I know what you tell your friends
It’s casual, if it’s casual now
Then baby get me off again
If it’s casual, it’s casual now
Legolas drowns the thought that this is maybe more than he ever intended it to be every time it comes to him. He casts it away like the plague and justifies himself to the stars who will listen to him.
Sometimes, his friends listen to him too. Aragorn especially, when the ranger finds the time to travel to Mirkwood.
Aragorn knows you, he met you once or twice. Furthermore, Aragorn is a very perceptive man, Legolas cannot hide anything from him because they know each other so well. So when you pass them both talking in the corridors and bow in curtesy to the human before sending a warm smile to the elf, of course he notices. Not only does he notice your smile, which is quite evident, but also his friend’s response to it: the slight straightening of his back, the twitch of his jaw, the tension in his shoulder…
Aragorn sees all and he is quick to tease the prince about it. Who are you and what do you do to him to leave the mighty composed elf-prince so anguished merely by looking at you? What runs through Legolas’s mind?
The answer is simple: you on your back squirming under him, mouth agape for air and the begs you let out. That’s what he sees. And how you lace back your dress after with sharp focus, or how you smooth back the folds of your skirt to pretend you do not look like a mess right now.
But when Aragorn asks him, the only answer he can give is: “We are not courting. It’s just casual; I thought humans did this sort of things a lot?“.
If elves do not usually have that kind of relationships it is because they are more sensitive, closer to their feelings. It seems logical, yet both Legolas and you refuse to acknowledge it. The high is worth the pain, you think.
Dumb love, I love being stupid
Dream of us in a year
Maybe we’d have an apartment
And you’d show me off to your friends at the pier
After a little while, thoughts you shouldn’t have begin to impose themselves in your mind.
You allow yourself to dream of a future with the one man with whom you know nothing can happen. After all, you know nothing about Legolas. You know the way his body feels and the melody of his whines when his world hangs on the seem of your lips, but not his more intimate character. What is his favourite colour? Who is his best friend? Does he like to travel? How often does he think about his mother?
All those questions are a mystery you never uncover. There is not enough of him as a person that you can place, so all your dreams are inherently silly.
You are aware of it, but your brain refuses to separate it from reality. You think about living with him: sharing a room every night even if it’s only for sleeping, waking up to the smell of breakfast being cooked, and being blessed with the sight of a slightly disheveled prince, back turned to you without his shirt. Deep down, you wish for it with all your heart. Perhaps he could even present you to his friends, and be so clingy that they would joke for you two to get a room.
The dreams of having him all for yourself do not waver, especially not when he knocks on your door days later, looking on the edge of madness. Legolas’s eyes are glossy on your threshold, his legs buckle until he falls to his knees in front of you and buries his face in your belly, between the sheer folds of your nightgown.
You don’t know what happened. You never ask, only let him release it by eating you out right on the floor and then have you for as long as he needs it. You don’t pry, don’t ask questions; you comb through his hair when he sobs in your shoulder as he sinks to the hilt, and end up sobbing yourself in small hiccups because the pace he sets never relents.
In your haze, you hallucinate holy words:
“I love you, I love you, IloveyouIloveyouIIoveyou“ is what he babbles incoherently in the crook of your neck as he finishes and brings you to your own limit.
But he doesn’t. Legolas has his mouth closed the whole time, and your mind runs too freely for your own good.
I know “Baby no attachment“
But we’re…
Knee deep in the passenger seat and your eating me out
Is it casual now?
Two weeks and your mom invites me to her house in long beach
Is it casual now?
I know what you tell your friends
It’s casual, if it’s casual now
Then baby get me off again
If it’s casual
It’s hard being casual
When my favourite bra lives in your dresser
And it’s hard being casual
When I’m on the phone talking down your sister
You lay in the heavy aftermath of it on the floor after having taken it to his own room for a long while. None of you speak, you just let your gaze wander around.
Your clothes lay discarded on the floor, you do too. But Legolas reaches with a hand for the covers on his bed and he pulls them down to cover you, as if it would change anything. It does. Your heart flutters at the attention and the warmth encompasses you softly as he lays back his head on your chest. His hand rests on your naked stomach, it heaves up and down with the rhythm of your breathing —still a bit ragged, still panting.
What ruins your night is not the everlasting emptiness of your core when he is not here; it’s the bra you spot slightly hanging from his dresser.
It’s your favourite, and you know you left it here on purpose. It has not moved, as if it has a place here and he keeps it just in case you stay long enough to need it. A silent testimony of how much unrequited time you spend with a prince who messes with your feelings without ever endangering his.
There’s a jealousy that blooms in your stomach the day after. It’s green and ugly, you know you shouldn’t feel that way. You have no right. But it cannot be helped when you see him laughing with her from the corner of your eyes.
It’s not her you should be mad at, it’s him. Tauriel did nothing wrong, but it’s so obvious he is affectionate towards her it hurts. In public, above all things. Why can’t he be affectionate with you? Why do you have to be a secret confined to the four walls of his room, to the dirty moment of an empty throne room? Why can he come crying to you and channel out his rage but you can’t? Why can’t you slap him when he’s beneath you for all that he makes you go through, for all the feelings that bear his name and drown you?
And I try to be the chill girl that
Holds her tongue and gives you space
I try to be the chill girl but
Honestly I’m not
You don’t interfere when he talks to her, or to others. You never come talk to him first, unless it’s necessary. You give him space, keep your emotions bottled up to please him.
You play casual, unaffected. Or at least you try to. It works until you don’t have the mind to fake it anymore. Your anger spills out in outbursts, you grumble in a corner and avoid him like the plague when he tries to talk to you. There’s something wrong with you, it just shows.
You’re not the easy girl he would probably like you to be, not when he planted the seed of your love himself. You’re angry, you’re sad, you’re jealous and you’re hurt.
Still, you open the door for him and bruise his opened mouth.
Knee deep in the passenger seat and your eating me out
Is it casual now?
Two weeks and your mom invites me to her house in long beach
I know what you tell your friends.
Baby, get me off again
I fucked you in the bathroom when we went to dinner
Your parents at the table, you wonder why I’m bitter
Bragging to your friends, I get off when you hit it
I hate to tell the truth, but I’m sorry, dude, you didn’t
You shouldn’t have done that. Now you regret every choice you’ve made in the past few months.
Escaping oh-so not subtly to the bathroom the second time his father invites you to dinner, only for Legolas to join you in minutes later; what were you thinking? You should have said no, should have left the luxurious bathroom of the Halls the moment he entered them.
You had not. You just melted in his kiss and melted furthermore when they trailed to your neck. Worse when he hefted you up to sit on the edge of the sink, worse when he gathered the fabric of your dress in his fist to better exposed your already trembling legs.
How could you ever escape him? Legolas was like a trap set to trigger only on you since the very beginning. The sole feeling of his burning skin sufficed to make you lose all sense. He kissed his way into your heart; a prince’s kiss, who is always granted everything he wants. Righteousness be damned, if he wants you he can have you.
You hide your moans in his arm, try not to mess up his hair when he breaks you in half, do everything in your power to keep him pristine and untouched while he does the opposite. Does Legolas even cares about how other people see you? It seems not when he bites your lips, sucks on the side of your neck and pulls your hair just enough to make them seem wild. He does not care when he ends hot on the inner side of your thigh. He does not see you hold back shameful tears when you clean yourself up.
But this time you leave first without looking back at him once, and he is still oblivious to your wrath as he braces himself against the sink, catching back his breath with his eyes closed.
Are you the worse or the best thing that ever happened in his life?
I hate that I let this drag on so long, now I hate myself
I hate that I let this drag on so long, you can go to hell.
When Legolas find the courage to knock at your door after days of not seeing you, he feels his heart sinks in his chest, as if prefiguring something he knows in his guts.
He opens the door, and then he finds your room empty —of you and of any of your furnitures.
You left without a word. Like a shadow, a mirage in the desert.
And for the first time in his life, Legolas doesn’t know what to do.
۶ৎ Summary : Haunted by visions of your own death, you push Legolas away to spare him the pain. But after a battle with orcs, his desperate pleas collide with your stubborn denials, sparking a storm of confessions, truths, and distance.
A/n : This is a reallyyy long angsty one, cuz theres very detailed fight scenes and expressions I just wanna express, and I hope you guys are immersed when reading as well. 🥹 SPEAKING OF FIGHT SCENES, WHY IS IT SO HARD TO WRITE. THIS WAS DREADFUL! ( Part of the f!reader is not from middle earth series | Can be read as a one-shot too.) +edited!
Wc : 9.6k
➽──────────────────────────────❥
You were nearing your destination, the forest thinning just enough to hint at the clearing ahead. The two elves moved swiftly before you, light-footed, effortless, barely disturbing the earth beneath them. Their steps made no claim upon the earth, soundless to the ears.
You followed as best as you could. You had improved, that much you could admit. Your footing was steadier now, no longer stumbling over every hidden root. Your breathing came more controlled, less desperate than it once had.
And yet, you still lagged behind. There was something about them, something you had yet to grasp. The way they seemed to lessen their weight upon the earth, as though gravity held no firm claim over them.
They moved with a lightness that felt almost unreal, steps barely touching the soil before lifting again, swift and silent as if carried by some quiet, unseen current.
You had tried to mimic it. Adjust your balance or even softening your steps, trust the ground instead of fighting it. But no matter how much you practiced, you still felt behind compared to the two, undeniably mortal some would say, or that was just how you perceived it.
Where they seemed to float between moments, you were anchored to each one. Bound to the pull of the world beneath your feet in a way they never were.
Just as you were trying to catch up, something deep inside your head had seemed to called after you. The sensation was subtle, almost easy to ignore, yet it unsettled you in a way you couldn't quite explain.
It wasn't pain at first, more like a sudden pressure behind your eyes, a tightness that made the world tremble slightly out of place. The noise around you dulled into distant echoes, slowly fading into a faint ringing that settled in your ears. Your breath hitched, caught before you could stop it.
For a brief second, something flickered at the edge of your vision—a flash of light bending where it shouldn't, shadows moving without a source. Shapes formed and unraveled before you could properly focus on them, unfamiliar and out of place.
And then they were gone, as if they had never been there at all.
You steadied yourself, fingers curling faintly at your sides as you forced your posture straight. It was nothing. Just fatigue, you told yourself. You had been overworking, barely giving your body rest, constantly demanding more of it than you should. Anyone would feel off after pushing themselves this far.
But the sensation lingered, and you soon realised it wasn't something new.
Your fingers slowly loosened at your sides as a quiet dread crept up your spine. You had felt this before, that same pull beneath your thoughts, that same distortion of sound and sight, the subtle warning before everything else followed. Recognition settled in, heavy and undeniable.
The visions.
You had never truly mastered them, never learned how to summon them willingly or stop them once they began. They were never something you controlled. They came as they pleased, unpredictable, untimely, and often at the worst possible moments.
Cruel in their timing and merciless in their clarity. And once they took hold, once that quiet pull in your mind deepened into something undeniable, there was no resisting them.
You tried to steady yourself again, fingers curling into your palms until your nails bit into skin, as if the sting alone could bring you back to the present. You focused on the feel of it, the pressure, the faint burn of anything solid, anything real.
It almost worked, until a strange stillness fell over everything, heavy and unnatural, like the pause before a storm breaks. The edges of your vision soon blurred, colors draining and bleeding into one another. The floor beneath you felt distant, and then the world fractured.
White light flooded your vision, it was blinding, absolute, leaving no corner untouched. The forest around you dissolved into nothingness, every sound swallowed by it's silence.
Fragments tore through your mind like shards of broken glass—shadows that didn't belong, crimson stains that burned, the ringing clash of steel, a cry ripped raw with grief. Possibilities unfolded all at once. Futures flickered before you, threads not yet woven but waiting, shaking with potential, threatening to pull you into paths you were not ready to walk.
A sudden hush fell over everything, as if the world itself had been paused. The chaos of light and vision vanished, leaving a quiet that pressed against your chest.
And there, stark and undeniable, you saw yourself. Lying on the cold, hard stoned floor, every part of you unnaturally still and motionless. Limbs slack, heavy as if the weight of the world pressed them down. Your eyes closed, pale against the unforgiving stone.
Around you, scattered across the jagged terrain, lay bodies draped in dented, bloodied armor. Helmets cracked, gauntlets twisted, weapons clattering silently beside them. Some faces were frozen in agony, others serene in a cruel, final peace. Shadows pooled in the hollows between the stones, accentuating the lifeless forms.
A lump formed in your throat, your chest tightening with a cold, sinking dread. Fear gnawed at you, but beneath it, something darker thrummed, recognition and sorrow, a grief too heavy to name. This was no longer just a vision to you, this was a warning. A glimpse of what could be.
But you were not alone in this vision.
Your head was rested on someone's lap, the cold stone replaced by the faint warmth of another. Your fingers twitched, your heart hammering in sudden, panicked fear. You tried to lift your gaze, to see more clearly, and the world trembled around the edges as your vision sharpened.
A sudden, sharp hitch tore through your chest, leaving your lungs frozen and your throat tight. Your heartbeat slammed against your ribs, echoing in your ears, as if the world itself had stopped to let you register what you were seeing.
Every nerve burned with a mix of disbelief with fear, and your gaze locked, unwilling, or just being unable to look away.
It was him, Legolas. Alive, though pale and tense, his eyes held a storm of fear and sorrow that seemed to reach straight into you. His hand hovered over your shoulder, a fragile attempt, as if he could somehow protect you from the dead bodies and the cruel, fractured world around you.
The sight slammed into your chest like a cruel weapon, twisting your heart with relief, terror, longing, and grief, all at once. Each beat ached as if it might shatter, your stomach filled with helplessness.
He looked nothing like the composed warrior you knew of. Gone was the steady, unreadable gaze of the elf who carried himself with quiet certainty. Instead, his eyes were wide and vulnerable, and his entire posture betrayed a fragility that cut through you sharper than any blade.
His hands trembled as they cradled you, long fingers smeared with blood, your blood. The flawless, composed image you knew of him was gone. Golden hair hung in disarray across his face, strands clinging to his skin as if he had run his hands through it in frantic despair.
His shoulders, once straight and proud, slumped under a weight you could feel even from where you were, heavy with fear and helplessness. Every detail, every tremor, every falter had shattered the image of the steadfast warrior you thought you knew, and it had revealed a vulnerability so raw it made your heart ache.
And his eyes, they were red-rimmed and glassy, wild with something uncontainable. Tears ran unchecked down his pale cheeks, carving silver paths through the grime and ash that clung to him. He made no effort to wipe them away, to be fair, he didn't even notice it.
His lips moved, whispering your name again and again, frantic, urgent, but no sound reached you, leaving only the weight of his desperation hanging between you.
There was anguish etched into every line of his face. Guilt lingered in the set of his shoulders, in the trembling of his hands. A devastation so deep it seemed to hollow him from the inside. He looked terrified—not of battle, not of death, but of losing you, of being powerless to protect the one thing he could not bear to see taken from him.
The sight shattered something else inside you, tearing at a corner of your soul you hadn't known was so fragile. The knowledge that this fate awaited you, that soon you would lie there, lifeless, cradled in his arms, sent your heart tumbling into a dark, bottomless pit.
Fear clawed around your ribs, tight and suffocating. Of course you were afraid. Who could stand unshaken when confronted with death so close, so intimate, that it pressed against your very chest like a living thing?
And yet… what tore at you most was not your own end. It was him, the thought of him breaking like that. Of those ancient, steadfast eyes dimming, losing their light because of you, made your chest constrict. The idea of him bearing that grief, immortal and unending, felt far crueler than death itself, a weight no heart should ever have to carry.
Fate had always been relentless. It bent and twisted, but it never vanished. You had learned that much. It lingered, patient and inevitable, waiting for the moment to circle back and claim its due.
But as the vision began to fade, as the white light splintered and the forest slowly bled back into view, one truth burned hotter than any terror: if this was your destiny, you would face it. Not because fear had abandoned you, but because you would not allow his last memory of you to be one of regret.
You would endure, for him, for yourself, for the fragile thread of hope that still lingered between you. You knew you had to put space between you, no hesitation, no argument with your own heart.
Every instinct urged you forward, to stay near, to let him hold you, to let yourself lean on him—but the vision had made the stakes painfully clear. The pain he would carry if you didn't step back was too great to risk. To protect him and your own, you had to distance yourself, even if it meant tearing your own heart apart.
It was the only solution you could see. In the end, it would be better, for both of you. Sooner or later, you would leave anyway, whether by death or returning to where you truly belonged, but not from here. Pulling away now might spare you both a heartbreak too heavy to bear. It was cruel, yes, but necessary.
"…Hey. Are you alright?" A voice called, carrying worry that made the words tremble just slightly, pulling your gaze toward it. You looked up, and your breath hitched at the sight of his worried eyes, there Legolas stood, hands gripping your shoulders with a tension that seemed to remind you this was reality.
Beside him, Tauriel's expression mirrored the same concern. Her brows were furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, and her hands twitched at her sides, as if she wanted to reach out but didn't dare.
She took a cautious step closer, eyes darting between you and Legolas, the faint quiver in her posture betraying her unease. "I told you we should've rested longer," she said, voice tight with worry.
Your eyes flicked to Tauriel for a brief moment as she spoke, taking in the furrow of her brows and the worry spread across her face, before returning to Legolas. The longer you looked at him, the more his features seemed to warp, twisting with the same haunted expression from your vision.
Panic instantly flared inside you. Without being able to think, you pushed him back, palms pressing hard against his chest.
Legolas froze, stunned, confusion flashing across his features. The shock wasn't physical, it was something deeper. The weight of your hands on his chest struck him in a way words never could, it sent a jolt of ache through him. It throbbed where your palms pressed against his heart, a searing emptiness that left him staggered.
You didn't apologize. You couldn't. Your eyes stayed fixed on the ground, it blurred beneath your gaze, avoiding his entirely. "I'm fine," you murmured, voice tight and uneven, though every word felt like a lie pressing against your chest. "We… don't need to rest."
Tauriel's sharp eyes flicked between the two of you, catching the tension that hung. Her brow arched slightly, lips pressed together as curiosity and concern warred across her features.
Just moments ago, everything had been fine, laughs were shared and none of this nonsense. Now, she wondered why you were acting as if you were suddenly afraid of him, avoiding him. Her head tilted ever so slightly, one hand brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the other resting lightly at her side, fingers fidgeting.
She glanced at Legolas, only to find his gaze fixed on you, hurt and bewildered. He didn't understand why you were pulling away, why your eyes avoided his.
Sensing the need to step in, Tauriel's voice cut through the silence. "Alright then. Lean on Legolas' shoulder, he can keep you balanced-"
"No." Your words trembled, as you lifted your gaze to meet Tauriel's. "I… I think it'll be better if I lean on yours…" The weight behind your decision pressed on you, but the words slipped out before you could stop them, carrying the unspoken truth of the distance you were trying to maintain.
Your words seemed to land like stones in the quiet air, heavier than you had wished. Legolas' brows knitted together instantly, sharp lines of confusion and hurt cutting across his face. His lips pressed into a thin line, jaw tightening as if he were trying to stop himself from speaking, from asking why.
He simply stared at you, unable to move, the hurt radiating from him so strongly that you could feel his gaze piercing you from the side.
Tauriel opened her mouth, curiosity and concern tugged in her expression. "Why...Why not his shoulder? Are you-"
You didn't answer back. Words felt heavy and useless, tangled in the ache that still lingered from the vision. Without wanting to waste any more time, you reached for her hand, letting her grasp anchor you. The other hand came up to rest lightly over her shoulder, steadying yourself as best you could, relying on her for support.
Behind you now, Legolas remained still, quiet. His sharp eyes followed your every movements. Every small gesture you made replayed in his mind: your hesitation, the way your gaze had avoided his.
He couldn't tell if he had done something wrong, or if it was something else entirely, but the unease that coiled in his chest was undeniable. Every hesitation, every averted glance, pressed against him like a weight he couldn'r shake off, leaving him restless and on edge as he followed silently behind.
Finally, after what felt like hours, the familiar sight of Lake-town, or Esgaroth some would call, spread out before you. Timber-framed houses rose on stilts above the shimmering waters, their weathered wood glinting in the moonlight.
Narrow walkways and rickety bridges crisscrossed the canals, while small boats bobbed gently at the docks. Smoke curled from chimneys, carrying the mingled scents of woodsmoke, cooked fish, and the earthy tang of the lake.
You exhaled, a shuddering breath escaping your lips as Tauriel's hand squeezed yours, steadying you, as you lowered your palm from her shoulder. You had finally reached your destination. Your companions were here, and your search would finally continue.
Legolas followed quietly behind the two of you, his eyes reflecting a mixture of lingering concern and the questions he still didn't dare voice. The weight of the vision had still clung to you, but now, at least, there was something tangible to focus on.
Almost immediately, Tauriel quickened her pace, followed by Legolas behind her, as they weaved through the 'streets' of Lake-town with effortless precision. You let out a shaky sigh at the sight, heart pounding, before sprinting to keep up, forcing your legs to match their speed.
Suddenly, a high-pitched scream pierced through the air, sharp and panicked. Without thinking, you pushed yourself harder, following Tauriel's lead as she surged ahead.
And somehow, you found yourself running side by side with her. Your lungs burned and your legs ached, but a flicker of astonishment ran through you, you were keeping pace with her, moving with a grace that felt almost unnatural to begin with.
Above you, Legolas leapt from roof to roof, bow in hand, his eyes scanning the chaos below like a hawk, pinpointing threats before they struck. Ahead, your eyes fell upon a house where the screams inside had grown louder, echoing through the streets of the town.
Your pulse quickened, and without hesitation, you pushed yourself to run faster, to reach it, when suddenly an orc lunged onto the balcony, snarling.
But Tauriel was already there. With a swift motion, she plunged her knife into its throat, silencing it instantly. Drawing her second blade, she slashed and stabbed, cutting down the orcs spilling from the doorway.
You managed to catch up in time, following close behind her with daggers in hand, the ones Elrond had entrusted to you. You plunged one into an orc, grimacing at the sight of its grotesque, twisted features and the dark, sticky blood that coated your hands. Nausea bubbled briefly, but the urgency of the fight kept you moving.
Legolas then dropped through a hole in the roof, landing with silent precision and joining the fray. Orcs fell around him, arrows finding their marks, blades slicing through armored flesh.
Amidst the chaos, splintering wood and clashing steel ringing in your ears, an orc suddenly broke through the fray and lunged at Kili. It seized his wounded leg with a vicious grip, claws digging into already torn flesh. Kili's scream ripped through the room, sharp and pained, cutting straight through you.
Before you could even move, Tauriel reacted. Her arm snapped forward, blade flashing through the air with lethal accuracy. The knife struck true, burying itself deep into the orc's throat. The creature gurgled, staggered, and collapsed, its grip loosening as Kili gasped for breath.
Together, Legolas and Tauriel fought like twin streaks of light, blades flashing and arrows flying, cutting through the orcs with ruthless precision. They moved in perfect rhythm, 'strike, turn, kill', leaving bodies in their wake.
Admist the havoc of the two, an orc had broke free from the chaos and charged straight at you, its roar shaking the walls. Its blade lifted, ready to cleave downward at you.
Your pulse spiked, loud and thunderous in your ears. You had to use it. You reached inward—not with your hands, not with any visible movement, but with something far deeper. Past instinct, into that quiet, hidden place within you where your power had waited.
And the world seemed to answered. It was subtle at first, a tremor beneath reality itself. The air tightened, as though drawn taut on invisible strings. The roar of the orc dulled, its snarl stretching into something warped and distant.
Time did not stop, it had just yielded before you.
You felt it give beneath your will like fabric pulled between your fingers. The rhythm of everything around you slowed, heartbeats dragging, footsteps suspended mid-stride, droplets of blood hanging in the air like scattered rubies caught in glass.
All but you, you moved freely to your will. Your body felt sharpened, honed to something almost weightless. Every breath was quick, precise. The world had become unbearably slow, and you stood at its center, untouched by its drag.
You stepped forward, and the floorboards barely seemed to resist you. The orc's body shifted in agonizing slowness. You watched the tightening of its shoulders before the motion truly began, saw each muscle coil beneath its scarred skin.
The blade in its hand rose inch by inch, and you could already map the arc it would carve through the air, where it would descend, how it would turn, the exact moment it would aim for you.
It was all laid bare.
You moved without wasting any second, one dagger slipped beneath its guard, sliding between its ribs with surgical precision. The second followed, dragging across its throat. Dark blood spilled outward, blossoming from its wound, but even that flowed slowly, thick ribbons suspended in air like crimson silk.
For a moment, you stood there in the silence of your own stolen time, surrounded by frozen violence.
Then your control faltered, you had released it. The world snapped back into place. Sound crashed into you all at once, steel against steel, screams, the wet thud of the orc's body hitting the floor. To everyone else, it had happened in a blink. A single breath.
But you felt the drag of those suspended seconds clinging to your skin, the echo of slowed blood and stretched silence still humming faintly in your bones.
Infront of you, Tauriel's blade struck fast. It slid between the plates of the orc's armor with a sickening sound, forcing a guttural snarl from its throat. The creature staggered, thick hands flailing as it tried to recover its balance. Its breath came in ragged bursts, foul and hot, splattering dark saliva across the wooden floor.
Kíli saw an oppurtunity, and he did not hesitate. With a sharp cry, he lunged forward and drove the knife, the one she had thrown to him, deep into the orc's side. He twisted it as he pulled it free.
The orc convulsed between them. Then it collapsed, dead weight crashing against the floorboards.
The room felt still as it crashed. Dust and the faint tang of blood hung in the air, momentarily masking the chaos around you.
Then Kíli gasped. The sound was wrong. It wasn't the breath of relief after battle. It was sharp and broken, like something tearing inside him. His fingers flew to his side, and he crumpled, falling hard onto the floor with a strangled howl of pain.
The sudden stillness was replaced by tension so thick it pressed against your chest, the sight of him falling twisted your stomach with fear.
Before you could even rush over to Kíli , Tauriel had already spun on her heels the moment she saw him fall. "Kíli." The word left her in a whisper, already thick with fear.
The wound at his side was dark, but darker still were the veins spreading outward from it, thin, shadowed lines crawling beneath his skin. A faint heat radiated from the injury, unnatural and cruel, pressing against her palms as she instinctively tried to stem the damage. Every shallow breath he drew made the sight worse to bare.
Outside, boots pounded across the wooden balcony. An orc burst from the doorway, panic twisting its brutal features. Without breaking stride, it vaulted over the railing. The impact of its landing shook the boat below, sending water slapping violently against its sides.
The orc lifted its head, eyes wild, and bellowed toward the massive figure approaching through the chaos. Its voice cut across the air, hoarse and urgent. "Ekinskeld! Obguranid!" (Oakenshield has gone!)
Far ahead, Bolg strode forward through the dim light. His pale eyes glinted as they fixed upon the house where the battle raged. "Gur! Arangim!" (Fall back! Regroup at the bridge!)
The command rippled through the remaining orcs left. One by one, they abandoned the fight, leaping from the balcony into the waiting boats below.
Wood groaned and splintered under the impact, water crashing violently around the vessels as they rocked with each landing. The retreat was swift, brutal, almost mechanical in its accuracy, a chaotic withdrawal made efficient by fear and obedience.
Though it seemed some had a hard time retreating. One orc lunged toward Legolas, roaring in fury, its weapon slicing through the air in a wide arc.
However, Legolas was able to move like liquid steel. He pivoted on his heel, body coiling and releasing with effortless precision. His blade arced in a silver flash, sinking deep into the orc's chest in an instant. The force of his turn threw the creature off balance, and with a practiced shove, he sent it stumbling backward.
The orc tumbled over the balcony railing, limbs flailing wildly, before crashing into the boat below with a wet, muffled thud. The impact rocked the vessel violently, tilting it like a seesaw.
One of the orc who had leapt into the boat earlier, was then thrown upward by the sudden shift, arms flailing as it flew through the air.
Legolas reacted instantly. His knives cut through the air in a blur, and one clean strike severed the orc's head mid-flight. The body then plummeted into the water below, sending a spray of icy lake around the rocking boat.
The head lingered for a moment, eyes locked on Legolas with a final, unnatural stare, before he released it to fall, disappearing beneath the waves.
Legolas' gaze lifted, calm and unflinching from the kill. Across the water, he could see the remaining orcs, Bolg's forces, fleeing through the streets of Lake-town, retreating in a chaotic wave after their leader.
Every twitch of their bodies, every faltering step, registered in his eyes. Calm and precise, he took it all in, already mapping their movements, calculating the next move in the hunt.
You followed his eyes, letting your own gaze track the fleeing enemy, momentarily torn from Kíli. For a brief instant, the chaos of the battle and the retreating orcs consumed you, even as worry still gnawed at the pit of your stomach.
Inside the house, the air still smelled of iron. A young boy's wide eyes scanned the room, lingering on the fallen orcs, disbelief painted across his young face.
"You… you killed them all," he breathed, voice shaking with awe, as his gaze then flicked toward you, and for a brief moment, his shock deepened into wonder. You met his look, and a small, gentle smile curved your lips as you nodded softly in return, quiet reassurance passing between you.
Legolas' voice then broke the heavy silence, low and controlled, carrying the weight of command. "There are others. Tauriel, come."
He strode toward the door, his movements measured, before pausing halfway. His sharp gaze flicked back toward you, and there was something unspoken in his eyes, something he seemed like he wanted to say.
For a brief moment, it felt as if he might speak, but the moment passed. His gaze shifted away, the unspoken sentiment left hanging between you, and he turned, moving onward without another word.
Tauriel on the other hand, had her eyes fixed upon kíli, lifted her gaze. There his body lay sprawled on the floor, pain etched into every line of his form, while Oin crouched at his side, hands pressed against his wound.
"We're losing him!" Oin's voice was tight, urgent.
Tauriel's expression twisted between shock and panic in an instant. Her eyes darted between Kíli's faltering form and Legolas, who remained at the doorway, silent and waiting.
"Tauriel." The single word landed heavily in the room, cutting through the chaos in her thoughts. Tauriel's eyes met his for a fleeting moment, a silent exchange that held everything unsaid, before her gaze snapped back to Kíli, panic sharpening all over her features.
Legolas lingered at the doorway, his gaze fixed on Tauriel, following the subtle hesitation in her movements. Then his eyes flicked to you, holding for just a heartbeat—long enough to take in the unspoken answer between you. Understanding passed silently, a quiet acknowledgment of the choices you'd already made.
With that, he turned, breaking the connection, and stepped through the doorway, leaving the room and its turmoil behind. Without hesitation, he leapt over the balcony, landing on the bridge below with barely a sound, and began running toward the fleeing orcs.
Seeing Legolas gone, Tauriel drew in a sharp breath and pushed herself to move toward the door, to follow him. But a sudden, ragged groan froze her in place. Kíli's cry of pain tore through the room, and her eyes snapped to him, every feature of hers glimmered with worry.
Across the bridge, Legolas had already caught up with the fleeing orcs. With unerring precision, he drew an arrow and released it in a single fluid motion. The projectile whistled through the air, striking one orc at point-blank range. The tip sank cleanly through its skull, embedding itself deep into the wooden planking behind, leaving no chance for survival.
Tauriel's eyes flicked between the scene and Kíli, torn. Behind her, you stayed still, watching her every movement, every flicker of expression she showed. You could see it in the tension of her shoulders, the way her gaze softened at his pain—she cared, more than she would admit.
It made you felt related in some sense, as if you saw yourself in her.
A sudden noise made her spin, knives drawn instinctively. You mirrored her movements from behind, blades appearing in your hands without thought. But the threat was fleeting, there Bofur came running, holding the Kingsfoil leaves with a stunned, breathless expression.
Tauriel's eyes widened, disbelief and relief washing over her in equal measure. She snatched the leaves from his grasp with reverent urgency.
"Athelas," she whispered, voice thick with relief. Her hands trembled slightly as she examined the healing herb, tracing the green leaves with care.
"Athelas…" Her tone repeated, almost a prayer, carrying the weight of hope for Kíli's survival.
Hearing the reverence in her voice, a spark of hope flared inside you for Kíli. You let out a short, steadying sigh of relief, before casting your gaze toward the open doorway. The battle was still raging outside, and you could fight now, but how long you'd last? You couldn't quite say so yourself.
Part of you wanted to stay, to stay beside Kíli and lend what you could. You had the power to heal, to soothe pain, but if an antidote was ready, it was wiser to let it do its work. Better that than drain yourself, leaving nothing to face the fight ahead.
As if sensing your thoughts, Tauriel's eyes fell upon you. A brief nod met yours, subtle yet laden with understanding. In that instant, you knew exactly what she meant. Without hesitation, you moved, rushing through the doorway to join the fray.
You ran with all your might, your heart hammering in your chest, each step frantic, each breath ragged, as though your survival depended on your speed.
Ahead of you, the clash of steel and the guttural cries of battle grew louder and louder, echoing off the alley walls. Legolas was still in pursuit, his knives slicing through the air, taking down the fleeing orcs with ease.
Then the alley stretched before you like a trap. Bolg had stepped into its narrow shadowed length just as Legolas entered from the opposite side. The two of them froze, eyes locking onto one another.
Legolas' hand immediately slid down to Orcrist at his hip, fingers curling around the familiar hilt. With a single, fluid motion, he drew it and gripped the hilt with both hands, advancing toward Bolg with a deadly calm.
And then you appeared, somehow straight behind Bolg. The realization struck a second too late for you.
Panic flared hot in your chest as you took in the sheer size of him from this close, the broad expanse of armored back, the cruel spikes, the way he seemed to swallow the narrow space whole. You had taken a wrong turn. Of all the paths in Lake-town, you had chosen this one.
Across from you, Legolas' head snapped toward you. For a fraction of a second, his eyes widened in confusion, but that expression shattered, replaced instantly with worry. His brows furrowed, every muscle in his face and body tensed as he registered the danger you had just walked into.
Bolg seemed to sense the shift in Legolas' focus. Curious, He turned slowly, his massive form looming as his pale, glinting eyes settled on you. The alley felt impossibly narrow beneath his towering bulk, every inch of space dominated by his menace.
You froze, momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer presence of him. Then, forcing yourself to appear calm, you straightened your shoulders and looked up at the enormous orc. A small, cautious, awkward smile crept across your lips, your hand rising slightly in a tentative wave.
"Hi, we meet again haha..." Your voice slipped past your lips, quieter than you meant it to be, yet it rang with surprising clarity. The word felt almost absurd against the danger standing right there, but it was all you could manage—an awkward, fragile greeting to the creature that could and will probably crush you with a single motion.
Bolg simply stared at you. His pale eyes narrowed, not with immediate rage, but with something far more unsettling. Confusion laced with contempt. His scarred lip twitched faintly, pulling at the jagged line that split his mouth, as though the simple act of you waving required effort to comprehend.
On a battlefield choked with smoke and blood, you had smiled at him like you were greeting a neighbor across the street.
A deep, irritated rumble rolled from his chest, low and rough, his pale eyes narrowing as his scarred lip twitched in clear annoyance. His head tilted once, slow and almost considering, like he was deciding whether you were worth the trouble.
And you were. He needed. Well, wanted you gone ever since you made a move on him back at the forest. It's a memory he'll never forget, the embrassment you gave him. It's just so that the universe happened to decide to bring you to him.
Then, whatever thought had crossed his mind disappeared. The faint flicker of consideration drained from his face, leaving it hard and unreadable. His jaw tightened, muscles ticking beneath scarred skin, pale eyes locking onto you with cold intent, and his arm moved without warning in a sudden.
The weapon in his grip tore through the air in a brutal horizontal sweep, iron whistling sharply as it cut toward you. The force of it stirred dust from the stones and sent your hair whipping back, the sheer power behind the swing, clear in the way his shoulders twisted and muscles locked into the strike.
It was meant to take you down in one hit.
You flinched hard, boots scraping against wet stone as you threw yourself backward. The blade skimmed close enough that you felt the wind of it brush your cheek.
"Move!" Legolas' voice cut cleanly through the strike. He surged forward, light on his feet despite the slick stone beneath him, but two orcs burst from the shadows at the same instant, holding him back.
One lunged from the left, ducking beneath a broken beam with surprising speed, its shoulders hunched and blade already swinging upward. Its yellowed teeth showed in a feral grin, spit flying as it snarled.
The other came from the right, vaulting over a splintered crate in a clumsy but powerful leap. It landed hard, boots skidding, and drove forward immediately, weapon raised high.
They had been waiting, and now they were closing in on him from both sides.
Legolas pivoted fluidly, movement seamless and precise. His blade snapped up just in time, catching the first strike with a bright, ringing clash that shuddered down the steel. Sparks jumped between the weapons as he held the block for a split second.
His elbow then drove back without looking. It connected with a sharp crack against the creature's jaw, as the orc's head snapped sideways, spit and blood spraying as it fell.
Both dropped onto the ground before you knew it, hard bodies hitting the stone with dull, heavy thuds. Despite taking down two, Legolas didn't seem to hesitate. He didn't even look to see if they would rise again. He was already turning, already moving, golden like hair whipping behind him as he redirected all his momentum toward Bolg.
His expression was sharpened into something lethal, eyes locked on his target as his blade came around in a clean arc.
You didn't hesitate either. In fact, you moved fast, so fast it felt like time had already anticipated you, bending instinctively around your next step. The thread inside you pulled tight, humming along your spine, and the world yielded. Everything slowed yet again.
Bolg's motion dragged as if he were moving through thick water. The savage sweep of his weapon became slow, iron inching forward instead of slicing. His muscles, once explosive, now strained visibly beneath grey skin, every flex exaggerated in the slowed stretch of time.
His expression shifted too, caught mid-transition.
The once sharp focus in his pale eyes faltered, widening just a fraction as something felt wrong. His brow began to draw together, the heavy line between it deepening slowly, confusion creeping across his scarred features as he realised his body wasn't responding the way it should. Even the curl of his lip lagged behind his intent, forming into a snarl that seemed delayed, unfinished.
He could feel it, the resistance. The way his body no longer obeyed him with its usual brutality. He was now trapped inside it yet again, caught in his own swing, and you were already moving around him.
You slipped inside his reach, boots whispering against the stone, every step precise and weightless in the slowed world.
Your daggers flashed. The first blade carved across his side, dragging a sharp line through grey skin. You felt the resistance, hard, almost like cutting through thick leather, but steel sank anyway. The second came up immediately after, angling toward his shoulder in a clean, controlled strike.
The impact shuddered through your wrist. A thin line of red surfaced where you cut, dark and slow in the distorted time, tracing the path of your blades.
Not deep enough to wound him, but enough to mark him. His skin resisted like cured hide. Each strike only carved shallow lines, red seeping sluggishly across grey flesh. He barely reacted.
The instant you moved, Legolas was already moving torward you. It was seamless, almost instinctive, as if the two of you had rehearsed this moment a hundred times. He soon landed where you had stood, Orcrist arcing in a clean, controlled slash aimed at Bolg's midsection.
You passed him in the same breath, as your eyes met. Time still dragged around you, stretching that single glance longer than it should have been. His expression was sharp, focused, but there was something tight in it. Relief. The quick confirmation that you were unhurt.
A confirmation that no words could carry, yet his eyes spoke it plainly.
It passed as quickly as it came, but you saw it, clear as daylight, before the world pulled you apart again. Your focus was then placed toward the other two orcs ahead. One was just rising, shoulders hunched, shaking its head violently as if to clear the fog from the blow it had just taken. Though, You didn't quite give it a second to recover.
With a burst of motion, you lunged forward, blades flashing, slicing across its chest in a clean, vicious line. The orc bellowed, staggering backward as your momentum carried you into a spin. Before you could steady, your path collided almost directly with the second orc from behind, its snarling face mere inches from yours.
Its breath hit you almost immediately, a rancid, stomach-churning mix of rot and sweat that made your eyes water. "What the hell-!" you shrieked, instincts taking over, as you swung your fist straight into its nose.
The impact was brutal, bone crunching beneath your knuckles reverberating up your arm with every heartbeat. Pain flared sharply, white-hot and relentless, coiling along your forearm as if the strike had left a trail of fire behind it.
The orc's eyes spun wildly in return, crossing in confusion. Its knees buckled beneath it, and with a pitiful, gurgling groan, it toppled over, gone before its body even met the cold stone ground.
You stood frozen for a moment, staring at the heap, your hand still aching, "…Why did I do that?" you muttered, as the recoil hit a second later. Your knuckles screamed. Your vision swam slightly, as sensation flooded your arm.
"Fuck- that hurts," you hissed under your breath, shaking your hand once before instantly regretting that too.
Hearing the sudden hush, your head snapped up, and there he was. Legolas. Blood ran in a thin streak down his nose, catching what little light filtered into the alley, glinting bright crimson against pale skin.
His jaw was set so tight it looked as if every word he hadn't spoken was locked behind it, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes flashing with anger. Every line of him screamed, from the tense curve of his shoulders to the way his fingers flexed around the hilt of Orcrist. He was a storm contained in a single frame.
Then it hit you—Bolg was gone. In the whirlwind of motion, the chaos, he had somehow slipped past, leaving nothing but the echo of his presence.
Your eyes then returned to Legolas, and with that, the walls you'd built, the careful space you'd maintained between him and yourself, fell away completely.
You acted without thinking. "Don't touch it," you snapped, every word bristling with annoyance. Yet your hands moved with surprising gentleness, tearing a small strip of cloth from your clothes to dab at the blood streaking his face.
Legolas froze under your touch, pupils widening, gaze caught somewhere between surprise and… something else. Gratitude, maybe, or the quiet acknowledgement of care. His breath hitched faintly, shoulders stiffening, yet he didn't pull away.
Your gaze then lifted without even trying, meeting his, and for the briefest of instants, the storm etched into his features eased ever so slightly. Something delicate stirred behind those blue eyes—a quiet, fragile warmth, threading through the tension once held between the two of you, softening the edges of his focus in a way that made the world around you feel impossibly still.
Then a faint, involuntary smile brushed across his lips, quick and almost ghostlike. "What are you smiling at?" you demanded, sharp edges lacing the words, though the bite felt hollow even to your own ears.
Your chest, traitor that it was as always, betrayed the words with a slow, curling heat that spread across your ribs, a warmth you refused to name, refused to let slip into your tone.
You were failing miserably.
"No, it's just... you're finally speaking to me." Legolas spoke. Relief softened his gaze, washing over his features. He had thought, all this time, that he'd done something wrong. The tension that had knotted his shoulders loosened slightly, though the rapid beat of his heart still reminded him how much he'd feared of this moment.
Hearing his words, a jolt ran through you, reminding you sharply that you weren't supposed to care, that you weren't supposed to let yourself lean toward him.
Your eyes widened, and for a split second, your chest tightened as if you couldn't draw a full breath. A flicker of panic danced in your pupils, and your hands itched to fidget, to push him away, but you froze instead, caught between impulse and restraint.
Your lips parted slightly right after, but no sound came, and your brow furrowed, betraying the conflict curling inside you.
Your eyes soon faltered at the thought, breaking contact with his, and the heat that had prickled at your neck and chest seemed to spike, forcing your body into motion. Instinctively, you stepped back, putting space between you and him.
This wasn't what you wanted—not this closeness, not this sudden, raw vulnerability his words had unearthed. Every pulse, every quickened breath reminded you that leaning toward him was a temptation you must refuse to indulge.
Legolas froze, his smile faltering the instant he saw your expression. Stupid, he chastised himself, for even opening his goddamned mouth. Not even able to have you in his arms for more than a few minutes, you had retreated, slipping back into the careful distance you'd always maintained, the walls around you rising faster than he could keep up.
He was left rooted in place, staring at the space you'd just vacated, the echo of his own misstep reverberating louder than any words he could call back.
He didn't understand. He couldn't. The sight of your back, turned deliberately toward him, stirred something he couldn't resist. Without thinking, his hands shot forward, fingers curling around your wrist. A gentle but firm tug held you in place, refusing to let you leave so easily.
"Why are you avoiding me?" Legolas' voice cut through the silence, low but edged with tension, the faint tremor betraying how much he hated this distance between you.
His brows drew together, shadowing the sharp lines of his face, and his eyes held a mix of frustration and pleading , as if silently begging you to meet them, to break the wall you had built between you.
But silence was all that answered back. You couldn't bring yourself to speak, not yet. The thought of letting even a single word slip felt like stepping too close to a cliff edge; you feared that if you did, you would unravel, letting the raw ache of death, heat and longing tumble free, exposing everything you had fought so hard to contain.
Taking in your silence, Legolas' composure finally cracked. His blue eyes darkened, storming with frustration, shadows flickering beneath knitted brows. The usual calm in his features had vanished, replaced by a hardness that didn't suit him, a quiet vulnerability bleeding through. His jaw tightened, lips parting with a rasp of barely contained desperation: "Answer me… please. Tell me why!"
The ache in his chest was palpable, each word trembling with the weight of emotions he rarely let surface—frustration, fear, and a kind of helpless longing that made his limbs feel heavier, his breaths sharper.
"Have I wronged you in some way? Speak, I beg you," Legolas' voice broke, rough with desperation to know. His grip on your wrist wasn't harsh, but it was insistent, grounding him as he leaned slightly closer.
"If it is, I shall make it right. If it is some failing of mine, I will mend it, whatever it may be. Only... do not turn from me, do not push me away when nothing I know of has passed between us-!"
His blue eyes shimmered with raw, unguarded emotion, pleading, a quiet ache shining through their depths. The faint tremor in his voice betrayed how much he feared losing the fragile thread of connection between you. Every word was a bare confession of his frustration, his longing, and the helplessness that clawed at him.
"Enough!" you snapped, your voice cracking, sharp and jagged. With a sudden movement, you twisted, yanking your wrist free from his grasp. Your eyes, glossy with unshed tears you fought to keep back, locked onto his, blazing with anger and hurt.
Rage and helplessness churned inside of you, you hated hearing him speak as if he were the one at fault, as if he were the problem when you knew, painfully, it was you.
"So what if I am?" you demanded, voice trembling. "What if I'm really pushing you away… ignoring you?!' Your fists clenched at your sides as the walls you'd built around yourself threatened to crumble under the weight of everything you'd held in for far too long.
Legolas flinched at the sharpness in your voice, the sudden pull of your wrist leaving him momentarily stunned. You had finally saw it, his blue eyes, once steady, trembled with hurt.
The tension in his jaw softened, lips parting slightly as if to speak, but no words came, only the ache of seeing the one he cared for turn from him, leaving him exposed to a pain he hadn't expected to feel so painfully.
Taking in his expression, the hurt etched so plainly across his face, you felt something inside you give way. The anger you had clung to so tightly splintered, replaced by a rush of emotion too strong to cage any longer. You could no longer turn away.
"It doesn't matter anyways!" The words tore from you, more wounded than cruel. Your chin trembled despite your effort to steady it, brows drawn together as tears finally brimmed over, clinging stubbornly to your lashes. "I'm here on borrowed time. I'll be gone before you know it."
Your lips quivered after the confession, teeth pressing together as if to stop anything more from spilling out. There was defiance in the lift of your chin, but it cracked under the weight of fear—fear of leaving, fear of wanting, fear of letting him mean something when you knew you might not stay. The walls you had built weren't made of anger at all. They were made of dread.
Your chest heaved as you spoke, voice barely more than a breath, trembling with the weight of everything you'd kept buried. "Back… back to where my mother had sent me! Does she even… even love me? I don't know anymore."
Each word cut through the air, raw and fragile, revealing the aching uncertainty you'd carried for so long.
Legolas stepped closer, his gaze unwavering. "You are the child of Lumena," he said firmly, his voice steady, resolute. "You belong here. This is where you truly live, gifted with the power of time." The words wrapped around you like a shield, yet could not fully still the storm in your chest.
He paused, reaching a hand as if to brush some of your anguish away, though he did not touch. His voice softened, threaded with a tenderness that made your heart ache. "She loved you. She loves you. She sacrificed… everything, to keep you safe…"
His words lingered in the air, a fragile tether between your pain and the truth you'd refused to see, and for a moment, the world felt so impossibly small, condensed to the space between you and him all over again.
A small, bitter laugh of disbelief escaped you, trembling at its edges. "Me? Gifted with power?"
Your fingers then found way as it fumbled at your collar, gripping the necklace that rested there. You held it out deliberately, raising it so he could see every detail, every glint of significance.
"This! This is the power," you said, voice tight, almost snarling, as if the words alone could keep the shame and doubt at bay. "Without this… I'm nothing." Your gaze flicked briefly to him, daring him to question the weight you placed on something so small, and yet, to you, so indispensable.
"Not only that…" Your voice dropped, heavy with frustration and disbelief. "My fate… it's bound to die. Bound to even destroy some… some stupid ring."
Your grip on the necklace tightened, knuckles whitening as if holding onto it could somehow anchor the chaos of your life you were facing. Your eyes flashed with a mix of bitterness and helplessness, lips pressed tight as though speaking the truth aloud was both a confession and a curse.
Each word cut through the air like a shard, carrying the weight of a destiny you hadn't chosen but were forced to bear.
"So I'm trying my best to push you away," you said, each word spilling out in a rush. "Because I keep having these feelings… these… weird feelings that I can't keep to myself."
"I just can't… I can't deny it anymore. And it's driving me crazy every single time! And you!"
Your eyes were even glossier now, glinting with unshed tears, and they burned into his as if willing him to understand the chaos he'd stirred in you. "It doesn't help me at all when you keep looking at me with those eyes, that gaze… like you care! When I know you probably care for someone else… someone other than me-"
Your chest heaved with each word, lips quivering, cheeks flushed, the weight of everything you'd buried crashing out in a torrent.
"But I do." Legolas' voice was soft unlike yours, carrying the weight of every unspoken moment, every suppressed feeling he had felt listening to you unravel before him.
The words hit you like a sudden gust, stealing what little air remained in your lungs. Your eyes widened, lashes trembling as you stood frozen in place, you couldn't breathe, could barely process the confession spoken.
"I do care," he continued, "And it's you. It's always been you. Even from the day I first saw you in the forests of Mirkwood… You gave me a reason to smile, to live, to look forward to each and every day that came after."
His eyes glimmered, earnest as though the entirety of his heart had been laid bare, beating visibly in the quiet intensity of the moment and for you.
You shook your head, stubbornness warring with the truth his words had untangled. You didn't want to believe it, not fully, but a small, undeniable part of you did. You had always thought you knew best for yourself, that you could control the chaos of your own fate, and so you turned away, forcing your back to him as if distance could shield you from what you felt.
Legolas' voice cracked through the silence, strained with frustration and the sting of watching you turn away yet again, "I do not understand! Why do you turn from me?!" His hands twitched, hovering where your wrist had been moments before, fingers curling slightly in the empty space between you, powerless to close the distance you had chosen. "What… what are you so afraid of?!"
"I'm afraid to die!" you burst out, your voice breaking as the tears you had fought so hard to contain finally spilled over, tracing helpless paths down your cheeks.
Your hands flew to your chest, fingers clutching at the fabric there as if you could physically hold yourself together, as if you could steady the frantic pounding of your heart. The fear you had buried for so long tore free in that moment, it had felt suffocating instead, and painfully honest.
"I don't want to die… I'm so scared…" the confession slipped past your lips in a fragile whisper, each syllable trembling with the vulnerability you had once fought so fiercely to conceal. Your shoulders shook with quiet sobs, and your gaze dropped to the ground, unable to withstand the look of his eyes on you.
Right there and then, you felt unbearably small, stripped of pride, of defiance, of strength you once held. And even as your heart ached for him to hold you, to tell you it would be all right, a cruel voice within you insisted you did not deserve that comfort.
"And yet… somehow, your sorrowful gaze is what scares me even more." You let out a shaky laugh, bitter and soft. "Can you believe that?" you continued, your voice trembling yet painfully earnest as your fingers curled, lifting to press against your chest.
"The thought… the thought of seeing you live in guilt, in sorrow because of me-" your breath hitched, words stuttering under their own weight, "It hurts me even more than death, and that's what my visioned showed me...warned me." Your eyes glistened, tears blurring your sight, and the fragile laugh that escaped you broke apart almost as soon as it formed, dissolving into a quiet, vulnerable tremor as the last word fell from your lips.
"It's like cold water splashing on me," you whispered, voice tight and trembling, sniffles breaking through as you struggled to hold yourself together. "A wake-up call… that these feelings… they don't matter. A reminder… again… that I'm on borrowed time."
Your fingers clutched at your sleeves, every word trembled with the weight of despair, the ache of knowing your heart wanted what it could never fully claim, and the cold sting of reality pressed against you like ice.
Legolas could only stare back at you, his eyes wide, unflinching, as though even the smallest movement might shatter what remained between you. He did not dare look away. He did not dare blink, drinking in the raw anguish painted across your face.
Something inside him formed painfully at the sight, a silent vow forming in the depths of his gaze even as he stood there, momentarily stripped of words.
"We can change it," he said, "We can fight it… together." He continued, every syllable carrying the weight of hope, the unshakable conviction that no matter how impossible it seemed, he would face it by your side, and that somehow, together, you could endure it all.
You shook your head upon hearing his decision, a bitter laugh catching in your throat, tears glinting at the corners of your eyes. "No… we can't." The words slipped out like a wound, sharp and final, cutting through the fragile thread of hope he had just offered.
"No… I know we can-" Legolas' voice trembled, thick with desperation. Every fiber of him ached to believe it, to reach across the chasm you had created.
"Oh, for God's sake!" you finally snapped, voice cracking with frustration and pain, tears spilling freely once more. "I've tried it once… it doesn't work! It comes back to you eventually. It's a lost cause, Legolas!" Your hands shook at your sides, trembling with the intensity of the confession, as if letting it out could somehow make the truth less unbearable.
Then it happened, you broke. The tears you'd been holding back finally spilled over and over again, hot and unrelenting, and with them came soft, broken whimpers that rattled through your chest.
Your shoulders shook violently as the grief and fear you had carried poured out, leaving you trembling and utterly exposed to the emptiness around you.
Legolas instinctively reached for you, fingers outstretched, but froze mid-air. Something held him back, he didn't understand why it wasn't easy to hold you now—why the simple act of comforting you felt impossibly distant, out of reach.
Was it because of what you'd said? Deep down, he knew. He knew you had spoken the truth, yet he hadn't expected the blow to strike this hard, to carve this ache so deep into him.
Seeing you like this, broken, helpless and lost, it was almost too much to bear. You sank to the floor, folding in on yourself, squatting as your body shook with sobs that racked every inch of you.
Legolas could only stare, frozen, every instinct within him screaming to reach for you, to pull you from the depths of your despair. But the weight of your words and the reality of your fear pressed down too heavily against him. With a tight, painful breath, he tore his gaze away, turning slowly. His steps were silent as he slipped into the shadows, leaving nothing behind but the echo of your cries, ringing through the stillness like a haunting refrain.
Where they seemed to float between moments, you were anchored to each one. Bound to the pull of the world beneath your feet in a way they never were.
These descriptors make me feel so much oh my Valar
Panic instantly flared inside you. Without being able to think, you pushed him back, palms pressing hard against his chest.
This is such a powerful moment here. It shows deep emotion and fear—something so raw and physical. Not to mention, Legolas’ utter confusion.
Time did not stop, it had just yielded before you.
Holy shit I’m loving this. This is sooo cool.
The rhythm of everything around you slowed, heartbeats dragging, footsteps suspended mid-stride, droplets of blood hanging in the air like scattered rubies caught in glass.
This analogy is everything
For a moment, you stood there in the silence of your own stolen time, surrounded by frozen violence.
This. I can literally feel this sentence in my bones.
"Have I wronged you in some way? Speak, I beg you," Legolas' voice broke, rough with desperation to know. His grip on your wrist wasn't harsh, but it was insistent, grounding him as he leaned slightly closer.
Oh my heart. My little heart strings are being pulled. He is too precious. Too sweet.
"My fate… it's bound to die. Bound to even destroy some… some stupid ring."
The way I gasped
My friend, I have no words. I am completely, utterly obsessed with this fic.
A/n: Ayoooo first one! I’m actually pretty proud of this! Enjoy!
~The Calling~
Being a half elf, it came with a choice. A choice that not many had.
become mortal, or stay timeless forever.
It should be easy, right? stay young and beautiful forever while those you love age and die. Let twenty years go in the blink of an eye, meaning nothing to me. While it’s an entire lifetime for another. Watch as age attacks everyone else, but not me.
my hands hold scars. But they hold no wrinkle. No etch of time. It’s unnerving to me.
Although I am quite young, only 21, the idea of eternity is overwhelming.
My grandfather, God bless his soul. The choice was not given to him. He has seen much death. The responsibility of serving middle earth for almost all of its existence, is daunting.
I could never do what he does.
For me, at first, it was simple. Live forever, and eventually sail to the west. Where I would go and live in peace, amongst my fellow kin.
But were they ever really my people?
I did not grow up the same way as other elves did. Had no true connection to my culture. I traveled with Gandalf. Seeing all of middle earth. He found me as a child, after my hometown was attacked. Mother and father…nowhere found.
While he did his best, I fear it may have influenced me in the way he wasn’t expecting. I grew to love mortality. The aging. The wrinkles of the face. The delicate work hands would carry. The gray that would naturally fade the color of the hair. How the eyes sparkle when talking about memories of their younger days.
I envy that.
I remember the first time I spoke to my grandfather about it. That envy. I asked if he felt it too. And of course, he didn’t give a straight answer. But in between the lines, it was the same as mine.
In a short amount of time, I grew to despise immortality. And I knew when I was ready, I would give it up. To grow old. When the world was safe. When this ring was destroyed. When I could grow my flowers and herbs without the fear of my garden being poisoned and destroyed by the world.
That was until, I met a certain elf. And he began to ask questions. Questions I didn’t think I would ever ponder about.
“You are not a full elf maiden.” Legolas said simply, walking alongside me. I always covered my head with a hood whenever I traveled. My ears weren’t as pointed as his. So it was easy to mistake me as a human.
“No.” I said simply, “My mother was an elf maiden. But my father was a Dunedian.” The look on his face was one of concentration. As if he was really taking in every word I said.
“So I have the choice to stay immortal, or not.” I continued, looking forward. A part of me was afraid. Of what, I didn’t know. Maybe not fully anyways.
“Have you chosen?” He asked quickly, a small sense of urgency hiding in his voice. This caused me to look over at him, my eyes a bit wide. But I kept my cool.
“Yes,” I began, “When this ring is destroyed, and all of middle earth is safe. I shall give up my immortality. I should like to grow old. Watch as the wrinkles of time grace my face. And my hands grow hard with labor of a garden.”
He looked forward, taking in my words. No elf would give up immortality, unless it was for a lover. So to hear one willing giving it up, was almost unheard off. But I could feel that a part of him, almost understood me.
“Is there a mortal you love?” He asked, his voice a little quieter. And a part of me was hurt in a sense. For years, me and Legolas have had dreams of each other. Of course, we’ve never really spoken of it. But sometimes, someone will talk of funny memories. And we’ve found that we will speak of a memory we’ve had of each other in a dream. A dream so real, it felt like another reality.
Our own home.
“Those four little creatures, I love the dearly.” I teased, “But beyond them, and everyone else here, no. There is not someone who has captured my heart.” I looked over at him, my eyes locking onto his. “At least, no one has really tried. Yet.”
He nodded, and didn’t speak. But spoke up again for a moment, “If the one who held your heart was an elf. Would you change your decision then?” He asked, and I thought for a moment.
I never really considered the probability. What elf would want a half one? One who didn’t have the average grace. The view of Undying lands.
I will not sit here and say the whole I am not like other women. A life of battle and glory does not satisfy me. It would not make me whole. For my entire life I have been at the end of a sword, one way or another.
But when I look at him, I see something I never thought off. A partner. An immortal who could make time more easier. Who in their own way, hold time and memory in a beautiful way. Not cold by time, but rather, a warmth on a spring day where the sun rises for the first time since winter.
In a moment, I could see a life with him. Waking up beside him. Cooking. Gardening. Visiting all of middle earth. Helping it heal. Healing each other in the process.
And eventually, we would go to the west together. Seeing all of our kin.
Eternity is long. But we would have each other.
But was I really willing to trade the gift of mortality and warmth. For another? Another type of heat. Another type of sunrise.
“He would have to be really convincing.” I teased, looking forward as I watched the rest of the fellowship. Even though we were all walking towards the possibility of never returning, I wouldn’t want to be with any other group of misfits.
۶ৎ Summary : Éomer seemed to have not took Legolas' warning about you, or has he? After your intimate moment with Legolas' had ended, a quiet obsession and jealousy flared as he watches, conflicted by your reassurances, the presence of Éomer and... words.
Warnings : they did it. (Consensual s3x | no verbal usage of scenes, it's all vague.) (Not forced upon!) (Nsfw) | Happens after the fic 'I'm All Yours' if needed more context behind the consent part! 🫶🏻
A/n : Jealous Legolas is back! When I say I giggled while writing this, it is not an understatement. This was so fun to write, it lowk brought me back from my writers-block guys. This was more of a fun and light read, though i would say the angst will be back in the next one, so i'll apologise in advance. Also, they did it already? 😧 YES. ENJOYY! ( Part of the f!reader is not from middle-earth series / can be read as a one-shot as well ) +FatherFigure!Bard/Thranduil incoming soon~
Wc : 8.7k
➽──────────────────────────────❥
After finally coaxing you into sleep, whether by quiet murmurs or sheer exhaustion, Legolas remained beside you, long after your breathing had steadied.
The room still carried traces of what had passed between you. Warmth lingered in the air, heavy and unmistakable. The sheets were disheveled, twisted faintly beneath you both, and the closeness you had shared had not yet fully faded from his skin. Even now, he could feel it—like an echo that refused to settle.
He didn't move. Instead, he simply watched.
Your features, once tense and drawn, had softened in sleep, though not completely. There were remnants of it still, the faint crease between your brows, the way your lips parted slightly as you breathed. Strands of your hair clung to your damp skin, framing your face in quiet disarray.
Something in his chest tightened. Slowly, almost without thought, he shifted closer, the movement slow, almost cautious in its own.
His hand rose, hesitating for the briefest second before brushing those strands away from your face, his touch was featherlight—careful, as though afraid even this might wake you. His fingers lingered, tracing the warmth of your cheek, grounding himself in something real.
His gaze darkened slightly, not with anything harsh, but with memory. The way you had looked beneath him after losing all his restraints that night. The way your breath had caught, the way his name had fallen from your lips, soft and unguarded. It returned to him now with unsettling clarity, each bit of fragment vivid, impossible to ignore.
His jaw tightened faintly, something conflicted flickering across his features as he drew in a slow breath.
He should not dwell on it. The thought came firm, disciplined, something ingrained in him after years of control. And yet, it rang hollow the moment it settled, collapsing under the weight of everything he had just experienced… everything he was still feeling.
It did not fade. If anything, it deepened. Slowly, relentlessly, it worked its way through him.
"You're like my boyfriend… of course I'll like you better than anyone else. I only have my eyes on you, okay?" Your words lingered, clear as if you had just spoken them, threading through his thoughts with unsettling persistence.
Legolas' gaze lowered slightly, his expression tightening further, not with anger, but with something far more uncertain. His brows drew together faintly, a crease forming as he tried to make sense of it.
Boyfriend. The word felt unfamiliar in a way that unsettled him.
He turned it over in his mind, searching for meaning, for context, or anything that would anchor it to something he understood. You often spoke differently, your phrasing strange at times, shaped by a world far removed from his own… but this, this felt different.
What did you mean? Was he just something trivial to you? A passing term with the title of a 'friend', light in weight, easily spoken and just as easily forgotten? Or had there been something more behind it?
His gaze flickered back to you, drawn as if by instinct alone, pulled in by something deeper than reason.
You slept on, unaware, unbothered by the quiet storm you had left behind in him. Your breathing was soft, steady, your expression finally at peace, untouched by the questions now circling endlessly in his mind. And that only made it worse.
Because while you rested… he could not. A faint tension settled in his shoulders, subtle but present, as the thought pressed further. His fingers curled faintly into the fabric beneath him, the movement subtle but grounding, as if pulling himself against the quiet disquiet building within him.
Were you still only friends… in your eyes? Even after everything? Even after the way you had looked at him, felt beneath him, held onto him like there had been nothing else in the world that mattered?
It did not make sense, none of it did. And yet, he could not dismiss it.
His gaze lingered on you, searching your face as if the answer might somehow reveal itself there, hidden in the quiet rise and fall of your breathing. But you gave him nothing, you remained still, untouched by it all, your expression softened by sleep, distant in a way that felt almost unfair.
A slow breath slipped from him, quieter than the last, as if even that small release carried weight. "Your words are still not easily understood…all you do is speak in riddles," he murmured under his breath, eyes never leaving you even for a second.
And so the questions remained, unanswered, unresolved, sinking quietly beneath the surface of his composure, where they took root instead of fading. They would not loosen their hold, not with time, not with distance, not unless you chose to give them meaning yourself.
His hand then drifted lower, thumb brushing gently along your cheek once more before pausing near your lips. He stilled there, his breath slowing, his composure threading thin for just a moment.
You were right here, so close that he could feel the subtle warmth radiating from your body, the faint rhythm of your breathing brushing against his own. Close enough that the scent of you, the softness of your presence, could drown out every thought beyond this single, fragile moment. If he let himself, he could lose himself entirely here, forget everything beyond this moment, and simply exist in the quiet gravity of you.
His expression softened, the hard edges of control easing just enough to reveal the pull of something deeper, though a flicker of conflict still lingered in his eyes.
Carefully, he drew his hand back just slightly, though not completely, his fingers still resting lightly against your skin. There was a quiet tension in that restraint, a deliberate choice to hold back, even as every part of him urged him closer.
"…Rest," he murmured, the word barely audible, carried on a breath that trembled ever so slightly with unspoken emotion.
He shifted then, settling beside you, close enough that your warmth didn't feel like a memory. One arm rested near you, not quite pulling you in, hovering just shy of contact.
His eyes still lingered on your face. Even now, even like this, you unsettled him. With a slow, measured shake of his head, he forced himself to look away, to let the image slip from his thoughts, even if only for a moment.
He rose carefully, mindful not to disturb you in the slightest, each movement deliberate and silent. The world outside called to him, and he eventually found himself stepping into the night. The chill of the air bit at his skin, sharp but cleansing, calming the tension coiling through his mind and heart.
For a while, the cold worked its quiet magic, and he thought he could push the thoughts aside. But it wasn't long before it returned, though for a entirely different reason.
Aragorn stepped up beside him on the worn stone steps of the Golden Hall, his presence quiet but steady, a familiar weight that seemed to fill in the space between them. The chill wind swept mercilessly through Edoras, tugging at cloaks and rattling through the carved pillars behind them, yet neither man seemed to notice.
Legolas' gaze remained fixed on the horizon, but the sudden awareness of Aragorn beside him drew a subtle shift in his posture, a quiet tension that hadn't been there a moment ago.
Below, the city lay in uneasy stillness, its quiet streets swallowed by shadow, while beyond, the mountains loomed like silent sentinels under a sky darkened with storm clouds. Thick clouds rolled slowly overhead, swallowing what little starlight remained until the heavens felt distant… hidden.
Legolas stood motionless, but not at ease. His sharp gaze traced the sky, searching, listening—sensing something that could not be seen. His grew somewhat restless, as a faint crease appeared between his brows as his mind turned inward, grappling with feelings that had no name and no release.
"The stars are veiled…" he murmured, his voice low, almost lost to the wind. There was a pause, as if he were reaching for something just beyond his grasp, something ancient and unsettling. "…Something stirs in the East."
"A sleepless malice." His words hung between them, heavy, as his eyes found its way to Aragorn'. There was something different in his expression now, something sharpened by realisation.
Aragorn felt it the moment their gazes met. A quiet understanding passed between them, unspoken yet undeniable. It settled deep in his chest, cold and certain, like a truth he had long hoped to outrun. His fingers curled slightly against the edge of his cloak, betraying the tension he was hiding.
So it begins…
Legolas held his gaze for only a moment longer before looking away, his attention returning to the dark horizon. When he spoke again, his voice had steadied, but no less grave than it was before. "The Eye of the Enemy is moving."
The wind then rose without a warning. It swept past them in a sharp, biting rush, tugging harshly at their cloaks and hair, slipping through the carved pillars with a hollow, restless sound.
For a time, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched between them, long and unbroken, filled only by the restless wind that swept across the stone steps and whispered through the pillars behind them.
Aragorn's gaze shifted, settling on Legolas with quiet scrutiny.
He took in the subtle signs, the faint flush lingering across his lips, darker than usual, slightly swollen as if from something more than the cold.
His hair, though still unmistakably elven, was not as immaculate as it often was—loosened in places, a few strands falling out of their usual order. And his tunic… partially unfastened at the collar, careless in a way that did not suit him.
Aragorn's brow lifted ever so slightly.
Ah.
Understanding came quietly, but fully. He let the silence linger a moment longer, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly before he exhaled, the sound soft, almost amused at what he had discovered.
"You have seen better nights, my friend," He said at last, his voice low, though now touched with something drier, more knowing. His eyes flicked briefly to Legolas' collar before returning to his face. "You look like a mess now."
the words just hung there in the air, and for a brief moment, Legolas said nothing. He remained still, though not entirely at ease. The wind stirred faintly through his hair, catching the loose strands that had escaped their usual order, brushing them lightly across his face.
His gaze stayed fixed ahead, distant, as if weighing whether the remark deserved a response at all. Then, slowly, the corner of his lips lifted.
It was subtle, barely there, but enough to soften the sharp line of his expression. A flicker of something lighter passed through his eyes, quiet amusement slipping through the restraint he so carefully held. He exhaled softly through his nose, the sound almost soundless.
"It was not without its merit," he replied, his tone smooth. His head then tilted just slightly, the motion unhurried, though his gaze shifted further toward the horizon, deliberately avoiding Aragorn's.
Of course he notices. The thought came with quiet certainty.
"And I would not agree with your assessment," he continued, lifting his chin a fraction, as though reasserting control through the smallest of gestures. His expression smoothed, carefully neutral once more—but not entirely that convincing.
There was the faintest pause before he added, almost idly, "I believe I appear as I always do." But even as the words left him, his gaze faltered for awhile, unfocused, his thoughts drifting somewhere far less composed. A memory, perhaps. A feeling not so easily dismissed.
It passed quickly. Yet the evidence remained, in the loosened strands of his hair, the faint disarray of his attire, the barely-there flush that had not yet faded.
And Aragorn, who had walked beside him through all this time. Missed none of it.
On the other hand, you slept soundly in a room entirely your own, untouched by the world beyond its walls. The quiet wrapped around you, deep and undisturbed, pulling you further under with every steady breath.
How long has it been since you’ve slept like this? The though drifted lightly across your mind. It lingered for only a second before dissolving into the quiet, slipping away like it had never been there at all.
You shifted slightly against the sheets, a small, unconscious movement, your fingers curling loosely into the fabric as you sank deeper into the stillness.
Something then stirred at the edges of your mind, faint but insistent. The darkness behind your closed eyes fractured, the calm splintering without warning—until it gave way completely, and suddenly… you were somewhere else in your head.
A city rose before you, vast and unyielding, its towering walls carved from pale stone that gleamed beneath a cold, lifeless sky. White stretched endlessly across its structures, pristine at first glance… but the illusion soon shattered the longer you looked.
The air reeked of blood, thick, metallic and suffocating, clinging to every breath you tried to take. It pressed against your lungs, heavy and unrelenting, until your chest tightened painfully.
Your gaze shifted, unsteady, taking in the distant movement—flashes of steel colliding, the echo of shouting voices carried by the chilling wind.
Something moved beyond your sight, vast and looming, its presence felt more than seen. Smoke curled into the sky in slow, deliberate spirals, while shadows twisted where no light should have allowed them to exist.
What were you seeing? The thought barely had time to form before it was swallowed whole.
A breath brushed your ear, "Minas Tirith." The whisper slid around you, curling into your mind like it belonged there. A sharp chill shot down your spine, your entire body going rigid as something unseen seemed to settle just behind you.
And in the next instant, your eyes snapped open. It was another vision.
A broken gasp tore from your chest as you jolted upright, your whole body tensing as if bracing for something unseen. Your fingers clenched tightly into the sheets beneath you, the fabric bunching in your grip as though it were the only thing anchoring you to what truly felt like reality.
Your breath came uneven, shallow, your heart pounding as a sharp ache throbbed behind your eyes, pulsing with the remnants of whatever you had just seen.
For a moment, everything was a blur. Shadows bled into shapes, the room around you indistinct and unfamiliar. You squeezed your eyes shut briefly, your brows knitting together as you forced yourself to steady your breaths, before opening them again, blinking rapidly until the room began to settle into place.
Wooden beams stretched overhead. Carved walls caught what little light there was, dim and warm, but entirely unknown to you. Your gaze darted from one corner to another, quick and searching.
Where… am I? The question echoed louder this time, sharper, laced with a growing sense of disorientation. You swallowed hard, your throat dry as you tried to pull together something that would made sense.
Your mind scrambled, reaching for memory, for clarity—but it slipped through your grasp. Fragments came, disjointed and unclear… laughter, voices, the dull warmth of something burning down your throat.
Drinking. Too much of it.
Your expression faltered slightly, confusion deepening as your fingers loosened just a fraction against the sheets. That was all you had. No clear recollection of how you got here. No memory of this place. Just the lingering haze of intoxication, and that unsettling feeling that something had gone very, very wrong.
Then you felt it—the fabric against your skin. You stilled, your breath caught as your gaze dropped slowly, almost hesitantly, to the clothes you were wearing… or rather, the ones you didn't remember to be wearing.
The material was lighter, softer, unfamiliar in both texture and fit, draping over you in a way that felt wrong. Not yours. Your fingers lifted instinctively, brushing over the sleeve, then the collar, as if touch alone might explain it, but it only made the unease settle deeper.
Your head snapped up again, quicker this time, your eyes scanning the room with growing urgency, until something on the floor pulled your attention down.
And it froze you in place. There, scattered carelessly across the wooden boards were your clothes. The sight made your stomach tighten, your pulse stuttering before picking up again, louder now, almost echoing in your ears.
"…What the hell?" you whispered, your voice unsteady, barely more than breath.
And then, It came back. Not all at once. Not clearly. A fleeting image—Legolas above you, his gaze fixed on yours with an intensity that made your chest squeeze tight even now.
There had been something in his expression, something softer, something dangerous in the way it blurred the line between restraint and want. The memory flickered, shifting before you could hold onto it fully, the warmth of his presence, the closeness, the way the space between you had simply… ceased to exist.
A sensation then followed. Faint, but unmistakable. Heat. Movement. A tangled closeness that sent a quiet, involuntary breath catching in your throat. The ghost of it lingered against your skin, too real to dismiss, too vivid to ignore. Your fingers curled slightly into the sheets beneath you, gripping them without realizing.
"…No way," you murmured, quieter this time. You sucked in a sharp breath, the sound catching somewhere between shock and disbelief. Your eyes widened, staring at nothing in particular as the realization hit you all at once, heavy and impossible to ignore.
Heat rushed to your face almost instantly, spreading across your cheeks and down your neck as embarrassment followed close behind. Your fingers tightened in the sheets, gripping it as if grounding yourself might somehow undo it—explain it.
It wasn't what you thought… right?
Your lips parted, and the words slipped out before you could stop them, quiet and strained.
"…Shit," you muttered first, the sound rough and jagged, a mixture of frustration, shock, and disbelief? Your fingers flexed against the sheets further, curling and unclenching as if the motion could steady the storm of thoughts racing through your head.
Your cheeks burned even hotter now, your heart hammering unevenly in your chest, each beat echoing the weight of the realization.
Finally, the words came again, almost whispered as if speaking them out loud might make them real. "I… I'm not a virgin anymore..?"
The admission lingered in the air, heavier than the sheets that wrapped around you, and for the first time, you let yourself truly feel the full weight of what that meant. You did it.
You swallowed hard, your throat still tight, and then almost violently, you shot upright from the bed. Your movements were frantic, clumsy with urgency, as you grabbed your discarded clothes and shoved yourself into them, fumbling with buttons and straps in your haste.
"Stupid… absolutely stupid of me," you muttered under your breath, tugging the cape over your shoulders with sharp, impatient motions. The words were bitter, laced with frustration at yourself, at the lingering heat and memory that refused to leave your mind.
You could have cursed louder, harder, at yourself for letting things spiral, but there was no time. Not now. War was coming, and every second counted.
But you knew just how much you wanted it as well. But still, you'd never imagine actually doing it, especially with him. Just the thought alone had sent you blushing, you were hopeless.
You pushed off the bed, your boots hitting the floor with hurried thuds, heart hammering in your chest. Your pace was fast, perhaps—but your body had seemed to betray you.
Your legs trembled, wobbling beneath you as if they had minds of their own. A sharp groan escaped your lips as your knees buckled, sending you stumbling forward slightly before you caught yourself on the edge of a table.
Your face contorted, a mix of annoyance, embarrassment, and lingering frustration flashing across it, teeth bared in a small snarl. Fingers curled into fists at your sides, and without thinking, the words slipped out, raw and pointed, carrying every ounce of your flustered exasperation.
You knew exactly why and how your body had turned into this.
"Fuck you, Legolas."
Right then, you gritted your teeth tighter, pushing every lingering thought aside as you rushed toward the hall. The sounds of preparation met you almost immediately—horses being groomed and saddled, armor clanking as it was fastened, the sharp scrape of blades being honed.
The tension in the air was tangible; everyone knew what was coming. Relief washed over you in a brief, quiet wave, Gandalf must have spread the word.
You then find your eyes darting among the chaos, searching, hoping to find someone, the one responsible for this mess you were going through.
But your gaze seemed to have drifted across someone, settling on a pair of familiar faces. There was Éowyn, standing beside Aragorn, her stance calm yet alert in the morning bustle. Without thinking, your feet carried you toward them, muscles moving on instinct.
Then you saw it—Aragorn's hand stretching toward the blanket draped over Éowyn's horse. Your pace faltered for just a heartbeat before snapping into overdrive. Whatever was hidden beneath that blanket, you knew exactly what it was, and without a second thought, you surged forward, faster than you had intended, propelled by equal parts urgency and determination.
Just in time, you slipped neatly between Aragorn's outstretched hand and the horse, boots planting firmly as you claimed the space with quiet determination. "Nu-uh. I don't think so," you said, your tone light with teasing despite the decisiveness of your movement.
A small, confident smile curved at your lips as you lifted your gaze to meet his, holding it steady, hoping to pull his attention back to you, if only for a moment.
Aragorn froze for a heartbeat, his hand halting mid-reach as your sudden movement cut him off. His eyes widened ever so slightly, just enough to betray his surprise, before his hand instinctively drew back.
A faint crease formed between his brows, confusion flickering across his features, though it softened almost as quickly as it came. There was a hint of amusement there too now, quiet and knowing, as he regarded you.
You turned then, spinning gracefully to face Éowyn. She had been caught off guard at first, her posture stiff with surprise, but it melted just as quickly, her expression softening as understanding settled in. A glimmer of gratitude flickered in her eyes then.
In response, you offered a small, confident wink, letting it play across your face—a silent, unspoken you're welcome, before your hand slid down, coming to rest against the horse's broad back
The animal shifted beneath your touch, muscles rippling under your fingers as it responded to the gentle pressure. With a light, guiding nudge, you sent it stepping forward, hooves clattering softly against the stone.
Éowyn moved alongside it, matching its pace with ease now, her eyes briefly meeting yours in a glance full of quiet gratitude before she focused ahead.
"You know," you said, a small smirk tugging at your lips, "you can't just go unveiling a lady's possession like that. It's rather rude, don't you think?" The words left with a teasing lilt, and Aragorn couldn't help but huff out a short, amused laugh in response.
"Right. My mistake," he replied lightly, though his gaze drifted down unconsciously, tracing the faint, darkened marks along your neck. A quiet laugh escaped him when he recognized them—oh, he surely did know.
"Though, you might want to tend to those bruises on your neck." he added, brows lifting in subtle admonishment, with the corner of his mouth lifting upwards enough to betray the emotions he couldn't quite contain to himself, "Wouldn't do to let them linger."
Your confident smirk faltered almost immediately upon his words, brows knitting together as confusion flared across your face. Then realization hit like a jolt all of a sudden, heat flooding your cheeks as the meaning of his words settled fully.
Without thinking, your hands shot up to cover your neck, pressing against the tender skin as embarrassment bloomed hot and fierce. Your lips parted, about to stammer out a defense, when a familiar, teasing voice slid smoothly into the moment:
"I do wonder where you got that from…"
You would recognize that voice anywhere. Your entire expression soured the moment it reached you, any lingering embarrassment immediately twisting into irritation. Slowly, your gaze lifted, only to meet those unmistakable blue eyes again.
There he was. Legolas, walking toward you with that infuriatingly composed stride, a smugness so faint yet so present etched into his features. It lingered in the slight curve of his lips, in the calm confidence of his gaze—and oh, how badly you wanted to wipe it right off his face.
You didn't even think, as your hand moved faster than your restraint ever could. A sharp smack landed against his arm as you swung, not hard enough to truly hurt, but enough to make your point. "Yeah… I wonder too," you shot back, tone edged, your eyes narrowing as you looked him up and down, clearly unimpressed, and very much not amused.
And yet to him, the sight of you like that, flushed and bristling, only seemed to amuse him more.
A small smile touched his lips, subtle but unmistakable, his eyes softening with something dangerously close to fondness. "Im naer," (I apologise) he said smoothly, the apology light on his tongue, lacking any true remorse as his shoulders lifted in a careless shrug.
Then he leaned in, just slightly, close enough for only you to hear. "ach," (But) he added, voice lower now, threaded with quiet teasing, "Law garog úvelim." (You did not seemed inclined to refused.)
The moment his words reached you, something in your chest tightened. You couldn't deny it, he wasn't wrong. Not entirely. The memory still lingered too clear, the heat of it, the way you hadn't exactly resisted. If anything… you had wanted it just as much. And that truth burned hotter than the embarrassment ever could. You practically threw yourself onto him.
But there was no way you were letting him have the last word.
"So much for being my boyfriend," you shot back, the word laced with biting sarcasm, your lip curling faintly as you turned sharply on your heel. Without sparing him another glance, you walked off, your steps quick, almost purposeful—like staying any longer would only betray more than you intended.
Behind you, Legolas stilled. The movement of the world around him seemed to carry on—voices, footsteps, but for a brief moment, he did not follow. He remained where he was, shoulders set, gaze fixed ahead though no longer truly seeing. Your words lingered echoing, settling in deeper than before. Boyfriend, that word again.
His expression shifted, the faint amusement fading as his brows drew together, a subtle tension forming in his features. His gaze dropped slightly, unfocused, as the word turned over in his mind, unfamiliar all over again.
Almost without thinking, his attention drifted after you, drawn by something he couldn't quite name, perhaps the lingering echo of your voice, or the unanswered weight of that word.
His gaze followed the path you'd taken, searching, as if meaning might reveal itself in your absence. Though, instead of an awnser, he saw Éomer approaching you, closing the distance with an ease that felt far too familiar.
The confusion that had clouded his thoughts only moments ago sharpened, tightening into something far less uncertain. His gaze narrowed ever so slightly, the faint crease between his brows deepening as a flicker of irritation surfaced, uninvited but undeniable. His posture straightened, shoulders drawing back with quiet tension, his attention now fixed entirely on the scene unfolding before him.
…was it not clear?
The thought came unbidden. After last night, after everything, had it not been made obvious enough? Or had he failed to make it so?
His jaw set subtly, a quiet frustration settling beneath his otherwise composed exterior. He did not move, did not interrupt—but his gaze lingered, more watchful than before, as if measuring something he had not realized he cared to measure.
Beside him, Aragorn watched the change with quiet curiosity, his head tilting just slightly as he studied his friend's expression. It was rare, seeing Legolas so… distracted. Though, if it was for you, it wouldn't be considered that way, it was a well known fact with him.
His gaze followed the direction of Legolas' line of sight, quiet and observant as ever. There you were, only a short distance away, standing with Éomer. From afar, you seemed far more composed now, posture steadier, a polite smile resting on your lips as if nothing had happened at all.
Aragorn let out a soft hum, the sound thoughtful, before he spoke. "Something troubles you?" he asked, tone casual with quiet awareness, his eyes flicking briefly toward Legolas before settling back on the scene ahead. "You seem… far from your usual focus."
Legolas did not answer immediately., as his gaze remained fixed on you.
Meanwhile, you found yourself on the receiving end of Éomer's concern. He stood close, his expression open, brows drawn slightly as he studied you with careful attention. "Are you well?" he asked, voice steady but laced with genuine worry. "You took more drink than was wise last night."
You blinked at him, momentarily caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone. The concern felt unexpected. Unfamiliar, even. Your brows knit slightly, confusion flickering across your face, but you quickly masked it, letting out a small, dismissive shrug as if it were nothing worth lingering on.
"I'm fine," you said lightly, brushing it off with a wave of your hand, though the faint stiffness in your posture suggested otherwise.
Éomer's gaze lingered on you a moment longer, thoughtful, as though quietly measuring the truth in your words. Then, almost without realizing it, his eyes began to drift, drawn downward by something that caught his attention.
They paused. His expression shifted, brows pulling together slightly as his focus settled on your neck, studying it with a faint crease of concern. "…You have something-" he began, his voice trailing off as his eyes remained staring, clearly having noticed more than you would have liked.
Before he could even finish, you'd already reacted. Your hands flew up almost instantly, pressing over your neck in a hurried, defensive motion, as if you could hide it just by covering it fast enough. "Oh-ahaha…" you let out, the laugh awkward and far too quick, your voice betraying you as your eyes darted anywhere but his face.
Your mind scrambled, thinking of possible awnsers to give. "I...uhh...it was the insects…" you said, the excuse tumbling out unevenly, your words trailing off for a split second as doubt crept in. The words felt flimsy the moment they left your mouth, like they might fall apart if he so much as questioned them.
That sounded ridiculous. You swallowed, forcing a small, tight smile onto your lips as you pushed through, "Bites," you added quickly, as if clarifying would somehow make it more believable.
The smile stayed on your face, but it didn't quite reach your eyes. You glanced back at him, hesitant, gauging his reaction—half hoping he'd accept it, half bracing for the inevitable doubt.
But instead of pressing further, a laugh broke through. It was easy, unguarded, carefree in a way that caught you off guard. Not sharp, not suspicious… just light, as though whatever he had noticed simply wasn't worth questioning.
He shook his head slightly as the sound left him, a quiet chuckle lingering as he looked back at you. "You are… quite something," he said, amusement threading through his voice, the corners of his lips lifting enough to show a flash of teeth.
His eyes rested on you then, softer than before—warmer, though you didn't quite notice it, too caught up in your own embarrassment to really see. There was a fondness there, something that lingered just beneath the surface of his expression.
Because deep down… he knew. He wasn't blind to it, nor unaware of what those marks truly meant.
But strangely, He didn't dwell on it. Not when his attention kept returning to you instead, to the way you stumbled over your own excuses, the way your eyes refused to meet his, the way your entire presence felt so unguarded and real despite everything.
There was something in it, something foolish, perhaps… but endearing in a way he hadn't expected. And for reasons he couldn't quite explain to himself, he'd found himself wanting more of it.
But the moment was then cut short when his name was called. The voice carried authority, firm and unmistakable. You turned instinctively, your gaze landing on King Théoden, who stood a short distance away, his presence commanding even without movement. Beside him, others had already begun to gather.
Éomer's attention shifted at once. He glanced back at you briefly, as though reluctant to break away, before duty settled back over his features. "My apologies," he said, his tone dipping into something more formal now. "It seems I am needed."
With a small, respectful nod, he turned, already moving toward the king without hesitation.
You stood there, watching him go for only a second before letting out a quiet breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding. Your shoulders loosened slightly as the tension slipped away, relief settling in its place.
Finally. The embarrassment still lingered, faint and warm beneath your skin, but at least you were no longer under direct scrutiny.
But the respite was fleeting. Before you could even settle fully into the quiet, a familiar presence materialized beside you—silent, effortless, and unmistakably him. You turned slightly, and there he was: Legolas, standing there, as though he had simply appeared from the air itself.
His gaze met yours briefly, steady and knowing, with a horse standing obediently at his side, muscles rippling beneath the sleek coat, perfectly calm under his touch. He didn't speak at first, letting the moment stretch, a quiet confidence radiating from him.
"Ride with me," he said, his voice smooth, quieter now, his head tilting ever so slightly as his eyes met yours. There was something in the way he said it, so simple, yet certain.
And despite yourself… despite the lingering irritation from earlier, the echo of his teasing smile, the subtle smugness in the tilt of his lips-
You hesitated. Because truthfully? How were you supposed to refuse that? Still, a small fire of resistance sparked within you—not from anger, but from something more stubborn, more stubbornly human. Pride, perhaps. Or the remnants of your own self-assurance. You had trained before, hadn't you?
You knew how to ride. Maybe not with elegance, maybe not with the poise of an elf, but you knew how to stay in the saddle, sometimes. That alone had to count for something.
You straightened your back, shoulders squaring, eyes narrowing just enough to show that resolve. "…I think I'll manage on my own," you said, voice firmer than you felt, the lift of your chin a deliberate challenge.
There was determination there, woven through with just a touch of defiance, as though declaring it aloud might convince not just him, but yourself.
It was a bold claim, a very bold claim. One that you knew, deep down, would be tested the moment your heels pressed into the horse's sides. Yet even as adrenaline stirred in your veins, a part of you couldn't help but glance at Legolas, wondering just how much he'd notice your stubborn pride.
And, of course, he noticed. How could he not? His lips curved into a small, knowing smile, eyes softening with quiet amusement and something warmer, something fond, at your stubbornness and childish determination.
"With your current skills," he said lightly, though there was no real reproach in his tone, "I'll have to disagree." His gaze lingered on you, teasing yet tender, as if every ounce of your defiance and pride only made him want to watch over you more.
You let out a reluctant sigh, your shoulders dropping slightly as if giving in, though the faintest spark of defiance remained. "Right…" you murmured, too quickly, almost as if part of you had been waiting for him to dismiss your idea, longing to ride beside him despite yourself. A sheepish smile tugged at your lips. "I guess I have no choice but to ride with you-"
Then movement seemed to have caught your eye. Behind him, atop another horse, someone was already seated. Your smile faltered, eyes widening slightly, caught mid-thought. "…Well, I guess I'll have to ride on my own then…' The words slipped out, sharper and more clipped than intended, your mouth pressing into a thin line.
Legolas, for once, was caught off guard. His brow lifted, a flicker of surprise in his eyes as he turned toward the horse behind him, only to find another rider already settled there. Before he could react, Gimli's voice boomed over the air, completely oblivious to the tension he'd stirred.
"We should get going. They are all moving ahead Legolas! Get on!"
And just like that, the moment hung between you and Legolas, a mixture of irritation, amusement, and unspoken feelings threading through the quiet chaos.
Legolas' brows drew together, a crease forming between them, his lips pressing into a thin line as well. Irritation flickered across his face, every muscle in his posture tense, hands flexing almost imperceptibly at his sides.
He had been planning this, rehearsing the perfect way to get you onto the same horse as him, imagining the quiet victory of seeing you ride beside him. And now, all of it seemed to unravel before his eyes.
Gimli, ever oblivious to the delicate tension, noticed the change in expression and cocked his head, curiosity overtaking caution. His voice boomed across the space, rich and unrestrained, "What?" His eyes bounced between Legolas' tightening jaw and narrowed eyes, and you—who, despite your best efforts, struggled to hold back the laughter threatening to escape.
You shifted your weight slightly, biting the inside of your cheek to stifle a giggle, but the corners of your lips betrayed you, twitching upward despite your protest. Legolas' gaze flicked toward you, and in that brief exchange, his irritation deepened—not at you, not entirely, but at the universe for conspiring to thwart him yet again.
Gimli, still clueless, blinked between the two of you, utterly uncomprehending of the silent war unfolding. His innocent, booming question only made the tension more acute, and you couldn't stop the laugh that finally slipped past your lips, soft and musical, causing Legolas' eyes to narrow even further, half in exasperation, half in reluctant amusement.
Before he could even open his mouth, another presence intruded, one Legolas had not wanted to appear in this… delicate situation. Éomer. It was as if he had been hovering nearby, listening in on the tension-filled standoff between the two of you.
"You can ride with me," he said, a confident gleam lighting his eyes, chest puffed slightly. "I can assure you in my horse-riding skill." His smile was broad, self-assured, almost challenging in its certainty.
You turned toward him, your thoughts briefly swaying. Truthfully… you weren't entirely confident riding alone, not yet.
But before you could even acknowledge it to yourself, a voice cut through, "Shouldn't you be making haste across the Riddermark to summon every able-bodied man to Dunharrow, to aid us in battle?" Legolas' words were smooth, calm, but threaded with a tension that betrayed his almost obvious irritation.
Your gaze then flicked back towards him, eyebrows drawn together in confusion, caught between curiosity and a touch of amusement. It was almost as if Legolas had been silently eavesdropping on the conversation between the King and Éomer—every word, every subtle inflection noted with that unerring attention only he could muster.
Eomer, unfazed, leaned slightly forward, voice steady and confident. "It is true, but I'll be fast. After all, I am one of the best riders in Rohan," he said, eyes briefly flicking toward Legolas, aware of the unspoken challenge in the elf's posture.
Your eyes soon shifted between the two, caught in between the tension, before a small smile crossed your face. "I'll just ride with Eomer." you said, voice warm and reassuring, tilting your head slightly to meet his gaze. "It's fine, Legolas."
Your deliberate choice left Legolas frozen for a moment, chest tightening in a subtle tension, jaw set in a line that betrayed more than just frustration, there was something softer hidden beneath it, a flicker of… longing, perhaps.
He had been ready to argue, to insist, to pull you onto his horse despite your stubbornness, but your decision had struck a quiet, undeniable finality.
Before he could gather his thoughts, Gimli's booming voice cut through the tension once more. "Brilliant! Now we can all head off. Legolas, quick- get on!"
Legolas' eyes flicked toward you once more, a shadow of that softer emotion lingering there, before he shifted with fluid grace, mounting his horse. The muscles in his shoulders moved under his tunic, his hands steady, but the faint exhale he allowed himself as he settled spoke volumes of the restrained frustration and reluctant acceptance curling within him.
It had been hours since the small exchange, and now the ride pressed on. Legolas rode with that effortless grace only he possessed, Gimli perched firmly behind him, the dwarf muttering occasionally about sore muscles or stiff reins.
But Legolas' attention was elsewhere—his eyes fixed, sharp like arrows ready to fly. They were locked on you, unblinking, piercing through the space between you as if he could will his gaze to reach you no matter the distance.
The ride had grown rough, far rougher than it needed to be. Gimli felt it immediately from the back, his body jolting with each uneven stride, armor clanking sharply as he fought to keep his balance. Each step of the horse sent a jarring shock up his spine, his grip tightening instinctively as irritation began to simmer beneath his breath.
This wasn't the terrain, he knew the difference well enough. No… this was deliberate.
"Ride properly, would ya?" Gimli tested, edged with a growing impatience as another harsh jolt rattled through him, forcing him to brace harder against Legolas' back.
Still, no response, not even the slightest bit of acknowledgment. Legolas rode on as if he hadn't heard a word, his posture still impeccably straight, hands steady on the reins—but his mind was nowhere near the path ahead. It was elsewhere. Entirely elsewhere.
"Oi! What's got you this dazed for?" Gimli huffed, irritation finally getting the better of him as he lifted a hand and gave the elf a firm whack on the back.
The impact landed solid, and for a split second, Legolas went completely still. Not just in body, but in thought. As if something had been cut clean through, his mind yanked abruptly from wherever it had wandered.
The tension in his shoulders shifted under the strike, muscles tightening before settling again, though not quite as smoothly as before. The faint sting lingered, grounding him in a way he hadn't expected.
A quiet breath slipped past his lips as he forced himself back to the present. "It is nothing," he replied coolly, though the tightness in his voice could still be heard. "Keep your hands to yourself."
But even as he said it, his gaze betrayed him again. It drifted, inevitably, and instinctively back to you.
There you were., so effortlessly placed where he could see you, yet just out of reach. Your arms wrapped securely around Éomer's waist, fingers gripping into the fabric at his sides as the horse surged forward. Your head tipped back slightly, laughter escaping you, light and unguarded, carried by the wind. Your cheek brushed faintly against his back at times, your grip instinctive, trusting.
You looked… at ease. Carefree. As though the world had narrowed to the thrill of the ride and the man before you.
Something in Legolas snapped. His jaw clenched, teeth pressing together as a flicker of something darker crossed his face—a sharp, fleeting snarl of jealousy that he made no effort to hide, not from himself. It should have been him. He should have been the one you held onto, the one you leaned into, the one who felt your warmth against his back.
A bitter edge crept in, settling deep and heavy in his chest. It coiled there, tightening with every passing second he allowed himself to watch, every laugh of yours that reached him across the distance.
Because you looked happy, and whatever that happiness was, it wasn't his doing.
His chest rose slowly with a controlled breath, but it did nothing to ease the heat spreading beneath it, nothing to quiet the sharp, insistent thought pressing at the forefront of his mind.
Because no matter how many times he tried to dismiss it, it wasn't him. And that truth burned far more than it had any right to.
Without thinking, without even realizing he had done it—Legolas' grip tightened around the reins. The leather creaked faintly under the sudden pressure.
Beneath him, the horse responded instantly, surging forward with a sharper, more forceful stride now. The rhythm broke, what had once been smooth and controlled turned uneven, each step hitting harder than the last, the pace just erratic enough to unsettle.
Gimli lurched violently. "Easy there, you elf!" he barked, his hands scrambling for purchase as his body jolted backward, barely managing to keep his seat. His boots pressed harder into the stirrups, armor clanking noisily as he clung on. "You trying to send me flying off?!"
However, Legolas didn't answer. His eyes locked onto you with a quiet intensity that bordered on something far deeper than mere attention. It was as if the world around him had dimmed, every sound dulled, every distraction stripped away until there was nothing left but the sight of you riding just out of reach.
Even when he tried, if he tried at all to pull himself away, his gaze refused to follow.
Finding itself drawn back over again and again, to you.
Gimli narrowed his eyes, suspicion creeping in now. He shifted his weight with a low grunt, adjusting himself more securely behind Legolas as the horse finally steadied—though not by much. One hand remained braced against the elf's back, the other gripping tightly to keep from being thrown again.
He leaned forward slightly, peering past Legolas before flicking his gaze back to him, studying the rigid set of his shoulders, the unnatural stillness in his posture, the way his silence stretched just a little too long.
"…There is definitely something bothering you, isn't there?" he pressed, voice shifting, curious now. "Tell me. I am quite wise for my kind." He lifted his chin slightly, pride slipping into his tone despite the situation.
For a moment, Legolas froze, caught off guard by the weight of his own thoughts. He could feel it, that tug of uncertainty, the small knot of jealousy and confusion twisting in his chest.
A quiet sigh escaped him, almost unnoticeable over the rhythm of the horse's gait. Perhaps… perhaps sharing it, even partially, might help. A new perspective, someone else's insight—it couldn't hurt.
"Tell me, Gimli… do you know what a 'boyfriend' is?" Legolas asked finally, his head turning slightly over his shoulder. His eyes peeked through the strands of his hair at Gimli, wary but earnest, as though the answer might solve something lodged deep in his mind.
Gimli blinked, clearly perplexed, before tapping his beard with a finger. "A… boyfriend? Isn't that just a lad who counts himself a friend?" he said slowly, squinting as if weighing each word. "Seems simple enough to me."
His voice carried genuine curiosity, tinged with a trace of his own amusement. Though, Legolas couldn't help but frown faintly. Friend? Just exactly like what he'd thought? But if it were so simple, why then had he watched you cling to Éomer so easily, laughing and at ease, offering warmth meant for him alone? Why had he let himself stew so long when you'd told him you had only eyes for him, and him alone.
Then, as if the thought had finally found its release, Gimli laughed—a deep, booming sound that carried across the horse's steady pace. "Ah! I see now! This is about her, isn't it?" His eyes then darted back to Legolas, who had averted his gaze, a faint flush dusting his cheek.
Gimli's grin widened, teasing to the eye. "Aye, you'd best take heed, my friend. If you linger too long in hesitation, someone else might claim her first." His gaze then flicked forward to you and Éomer riding ahead, and something akin to quiet warning lingered in his tone, even amidst the mirth.
The words barely settled before Legolas' attention snapped back. His lips pressed into a thin line, nostrils flaring almost imperceptibly. He leaned slightly forward in the saddle, reins taut under his grip once more, and his icy blue eyes locked onto Éomer from behind, tracing every movement, every glance all over again.
Jealousy curled like a silent flame within him, low and hot, his heart thudding as if he wanted nothing more than to step forward, to be the one you clung to, to feel your warmth against him again.
Aragorn, who had currently caught up with the pair, rode beside them with an easy grace, his gaze sweeping over the path before him, and then catching Legolas, noticing it almost immediately.
He tilted his head slightly, amusement flickering across his features, mixed with a trace of exasperation at his friend's all-too-obvious distraction. Following Legolas' line of sight, his eyes fell naturally on you. Of course. There you were, riding with Éomer, your laughter carried by the wind, your posture relaxed and carefree.
A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of Aragorn's lips, disbelief dancing in his gaze as he shook his head ever so slightly. The sight of Legolas' sharp focus and taut restraint, so clearly pinned on you was equal parts entertaining and telling.
"Eyes on the road, Legolas," Aragorn said lightly, "You're letting yourself get distracted."
Legolas' jaw tightened, the line sharp beneath his pale skin, a brief flicker of irritation, or was it awareness?—passing through his otherwise unreadable expression. A subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth, the faint narrowing of his eyes, betrayed that he had heard every word Aragorn had said.
Yet still, his gaze lingered, unwavering, locked on you as though distance were irrelevant. Every movement you made, every subtle shift of posture, seemed to etch itself into his mind.
His fingers, light on the reins, flexed almost imperceptibly, betraying a tension that belied his effortless grace. The wind tugged at his hair, the horse beneath him steady, obedient, but his mind clearly elsewhere.
"But it is," Legolas murmured, his voice low and measured, though his eyes had never left your figure. Legolas' gaze followed every subtle motion, as if he could etch not just your form into memory, but the way the sunlight kissed your hair, the rhythm of your breathing, the faint heat radiating from you even at this distance.
There was something heavier now—a tightening in his chest, a prickling heat that was sharp and unwelcome. Jealousy, raw and unyielding, curled through him like a living thing.
His stomach twisted, fists clenching subtly on the reins as his eyes followed you, tracing the warmth of your grip on Éomer's waist once more, the carefree tilt of your laughter. Each movement was a quiet, painful reminder that it wasn't him, and the sting of that truth flared hotter than he expected.
Legolas' jaw clenched, and for a heartbeat his breath caught in his throat, unnoticed beneath the stoic mask he wore. His mind raced—flashbacks of your warmth against him, of the closeness he'd longed for, of moments that had already passed, all of it colliding with the sight before him.
Aragorn, riding beside him, caught the fixation then, and allowed himself the smallest shake of his head, lips twitching with a faint, knowing smile. He didn't need to speak; the elf's quiet obsession, sharp and unrelenting, said it all, more than words ever could.
"Right," Aragorn murmured softly, almost to himself, a note of reluctant acknowledgment in his voice. "It surely is."
۶ৎ Summary : Eomer, the Rohirrim prince, couldn't seem to take his eyes off you; your performance burned in his mind. He caught you when you stumbled, though someone else didn’t look pleased. Legolas, feeling a strange, sharp jealousy, found your lips the only thing that could ease the hunger building inside him.
A/n : WOOOO! Idk why, but the more I write, the longer each fic gets. Lmk if you like long focs or short ones cause this might get abit out of hand. 😭 But oh well, hope yall enjoy this onee! (From the 'f!reader not from middle-earth series) can be read as a one-shot too yeaa :3 +more to come soonn!!
Wc : 6.9k+
➽──────────────────────────────❥
The noise never truly faded when your song ended. Instead sound rolled on in its wake, laughter ringing bright, tankards striking wood in careless cheer, voices rising over one another in eager praise.
People leaned close together, retelling your performance with bright eyes and wide smiles, their words growing more animated with every sip of ale. You caught fragments of your own melody hummed badly, fondly, as if it had given them something to hold onto for the night.
Firelight trembled along the stone walls, spilling amber light across faces flushed with drink and delight, shadows flickered like restless spirits at the edges of the room.
Joy filled the space around you, warm and bright, but it no longer reached inside. The energy that once held you upright slipped away little by little, leaving a hollow tiredness behind. Your arms felt heavier at your sides, your legs slower to move.
You drew a breath and found it shallow, your chest tight with the strain of giving so much of yourself away in song. Your limbs soon felt distant from you, slow to obey, weighed down by exhaustion and the lingering haze of drink.
The sounds around you began to blur at the edges, laughter stretched into echoes and voices drifted far away, as though you were sinking beneath water.
The floor soon tilted subtly beneath your boots. You tried your best to steady yourself, tried to gather what little strength remained, but it slipped through your grasp like sand. One step faltered after another, and suddenly your knees gave way.
A small gasp left your lips as the world lurched sideways, the stone floor rushing toward you in a dizzying sweep. Instinct tensed your body for the inevitable impact—but it never came.
An arm had caught you mid-fall, as it wrapped around your waist and pulled you upright with effortless strength. The sudden steadiness was disorienting, your weight drawn against something solid, something firm to the touch. Leather brushed against your sleeve, and with it came the faint scent of the wind clung onto it.
Your vision swam as you turned your head, and through the haze you found yourself gathered securely in Éomer, the prince of Rohan's arms.
"My apologies, my lady," he said, his voice low and smooth to your ears, each word wrapped in effortless grace. "Another breath and the floor would have claimed you for its own." He continued on, the words reached you as though borne on a distant breeze, with the faintest hint of amusement at the way fate had conspired to place you in his hold.
His arm remained firm around your waist, steadying you, his touch warm through the fabric of your attire. His gaze then dipped briefly, as if confirming you were truly upright now, before lifting again to meet your eyes. And in that look, the formal politeness softened, easing into something more personal, more attentive over you.
"You seem unsteady," he said quietly, the faint curve of his mouth softening the words spoken. "I would not forgive myself if harm befell you within my sight."
A faint, dazed smile curved your lips when you heard his words, your eyelids fluttering as you tried to keep the world from spinning. "Mhmmm…" you managed, the sound barely more than a murmur.
Your body relaxed more than it should have, your weight sinking back into him as if he were the only solid thing left in your current tilting world.
Even in your half-sober state, you could not command your balance. Standing upright felt like a task meant far beyond you in your current state.
Éomer felt the shift instantly. Not just the physical weight of you leaning, but the quiet surrender in it. The way your muscles softened, and the way your hand loosened at his arm, trusting rather than bracing.
Éomer's breath stilled for half a second, his hold adjusted without drawing attention to it, palm spreading more securely at your waist as he grounded you against him.
There was nothing hurried in the movement, nothing unsure. He simply made himself steadier, stronger, as though the very earth beneath his boots answered to his call.
You fit against him too easily. His gaze lowered to your face now, studying the faint haze in your eyes, the small, absent curve of your smile. You looked unaware of how close you were standing, unaware of how openly you leaned into him, of how your cheek hovered dangerously near his chest.
A flicker of something crossed his expression, something warmer than amusement, heavier than mere concern.
"My lady," he said quietly, voice losing some of its polished formality. It was softer now, lower in tone.
You exhaled again, another quiet hum slipping past your lips as the world continued to tilt around you. The distant sounds of the hall seemed to have sounded far away, muffled by the steady rhythm of his breathing beneath your ear.
He hesitated. Then, carefully, his hand shifted just slightly higher along your side, not wandering, not improper, but ensuring you would not slip from his grasps. His thumb pressed faintly against the curve of your waist, grounding you there.
"If you continue to lean so freely," he murmured, a faint warmth threading through his tone, "I may begin to think you're doing this intentionally.
His eyes soon found its way back on you again, as it lingered on your face searching, perhaps for clarity, perhaps for permission.
You had drawn his attention earlier that night, your performance bright with life and spirit, impossible to ignore. But this version of you, unguarded, your softened expression, sure did stirred a quieter concern in him, something gentler than admiration.
A soft chuckle rumbled from his chest, warm with fond amusement over your unguarded state. "It seems the cups have conquered you tonight, my lady..."
The sound of his words vibrated faintly beneath your cheek, low and steady, and you felt it more than you heard it. His breath brushed over your hair as he dipped his head slightly, not close enough to crowd you, just near enough that his presence felt enclosing.
His thoughts clearly had already left the celebration long behind with you now in his arms. He had started considering where you might sit, where you might rest before collapsing from sheer fatigue.
Though you had other thoughts entirely.
"No," you protested at once. A small pout formed on your lips, your brows knitting in stubborn denial. It might have been convincing, had your body not betrayed you by swaying dangerously.
Your shoulder dipped to one side as you finished protesting, your footing faltering as the corridor tilted in a way it absolutely should not have.
Thankfully, Éomer reacted quick, his arm soon tightened around your waist in one swift, controlled motion, pulling you securely back against him, while his other hand came up instinctively to steady your upper arm.
His breath left him in a quiet exhale, not frustration, not annoyance, something closer to restrained laughter.
"Oh?" he murmured, one brow lifting faintly as he looked down at you. "No?" he repeated, slower this time.
The corners of his mouth curved despite his effort to remain composed. The warmth in his voice was unmistakable now, a low amusement that he did not bother to hide. His hand remained steady at your waist, thumb pressing lightly as if to test whether you might attempt another heroic stand on your own.
"You deny it," he continued, the faintest smile curving at the corner of his mouth in defeat, "yet the evidence seems… quite determined to prove otherwise."
"I am perfectly fine!" you insisted, sealing the claim with a determined press of your lips. And perhaps you would have continued your valiant defense—had another gaze not been resting on you.
From across the hall, removed from the warmth and laughter, Legolas stood in stillness.
His arms were folded across his chest, yet there was no ease in his posture. His fingers curled slightly into the fabric at his sleeves, as if holding himself in place, reminding him to stay in place.
His sharp gaze was fixed on the sight before him, on you leaning into another's hold, on the Rohirrim prince looking at you as though you were something worth guarding.
He did not have a name for the feeling that stirred within him. Only that it burned. A tight, unfamiliar heat coiled in his chest as he watched. His jaw tightened, his breath no longer as steady as it had been moments before.
Why should this trouble him? Why should his heart beat as though he stood on a battlefield? He told himself it was nothing. A passing irritation, a fleeting thought just like any other time. Yet his feet nearly moved of their own accord. One step forward followed by another, halted only by discipline.
An urge tugged at him, persistent and unwelcome: to cross the hall, to place himself between you and Éomer, to interrupt the quiet closeness that had formed. To claim a space he had never thought to claim.
Ever since you've returned, everything felt the same as it was before. You both knew of each others true feelings for one another, yet it felt all the same all over again, that was the torment of it.
That realization unsettled him most of all. He wanted your hand in his because you chose it. He wanted your breath to falter because of him and not because you were trying to maintain your composure or whatever. He wanted to stop pretending that the space between you was necessary.
Most of all, he wanted the right to claim what already felt his, not in arrogance, but in longing just for you, only you.
Your presence beside him was no longer enough after knowing you felt the same, it did not soothe him one bit. It only made the hunger sharper, because now he was not fighting doubt. He was fighting desire.
And he was no longer certain how much longer he could bear it.
Then his gaze flickered away, catching movement across the hall. A group of men were tossing apples back and forth, laughing recklessly with each catch and throw, their voices echoing loud in his ears.
Legolas soon took notice over the apples arced through the air, some landing perfectly in waiting hands, others wobbling dangerously before being snatched in the nick of time. The sight sparked something quick and cunning behind his eyes.
He knew exactly what he would do.
In one fluid motion, he lifted his bow. The movement was so natural, so swift, that few noticed until the string was already drawn. His world narrowed instantly, the laughter and tossing apples fading into the background. All that remained was a single, sharp line of intention stretching from his fingers to the space where you stood.
Before anyone could even react, the arrow tore through the air, slicing a silver streak that whistled sharply with its passage. Several heads turned instinctively, but too late to follow its path.
It flew with such precision that it passed mere inches between you and the Rohirrim prince, the rushing wind brushing lightly against your sleeve, before striking the tossed apple mid-arc. The fruit split with a crisp, satisfying crack, the arrow carrying it back to pin against the stone wall.
A stunned silence rippled outward around. Éomer's eyes widened at the sharp whistle of the arrow, and for a fraction of a second, his hold on you wavered. Reflexively, he reached to steady you, fingers brushing against yours, but that moment was all Legolas needed.
Legolas was already moving across the hall to you, he crossed the space like a gust of wind, light-footed and impossibly fast, his arms sliding around you before Éomer could regain his grasp. The warmth and strength of him pressed you back, grounding you instantly as your pulse raced in startled exhilaration.
A small, satisfied smile tugged at the corner of his lips, the kind that spoke of quiet victory when he felt you in his arms. The earlier tension in his expression melted into cool composure, though the glint in his eyes betrayed his pride.
His gaze lifted deliberately toward the Rohirrim prince, calm but unmistakably triumphant, as if to silently declare that the moment, and you, were entirely his.
"My apologies," he said smoothly, voice clear enough for those nearby to hear. "I was merely demonstrating a trick." He said as he inclined his head toward the apple quivering on the wall, explaining the shot had been nothing more than casual sport.
"R-right! He was just showing a trick! Ha! Spectacular shot!" someone laughed, too loudly, eager to dissolve the tension somehow. Others quickly echoed the praise, and the hall slowly filled again with chatter and claps for the trick.
All but one.
The Rohirrim prince did not smile. His jaw tightened in fact, eyes narrowing as they moved from the arrow, to Legolas, to you, still held within the elve's embrace. The look he gave was sharp enough to cut, a storm barely held at bay.
"She should return to rest," he said, his tone clipped, each syllable carrying something fierce just beneath the surface. His arm extended toward you, hand moving with absolute certainty, full of purpose and unspoken urgency, a claim wrapped in concern, impossible to misread.
His gaze then landed on Legolas', storm-dark and focused, threading a silent warning across the space between them.
However, Legolas shifted slightly and slid into place, just enough to interpose himself between you and Éomer's reaching hand. The movement was subtle, but deliberate. Protective as if he claimed you.
"I will see to her," he replied, voice low and steady, yet carrying a quiet authority that brooked little argument. His arms did not loosen around you. If anything, they sunk deeper, more securely, as though he had already decided you were not leaving his side again.
Up close, you could feel the controlled tension in him, the way his breath remained even by will alone, the faint quickening of his heartbeat where your shoulder rested against his chest. His expression was serene, but his eyes… his eyes burned with something deeper than what you could comprehend.
"She is safe with me," he finished softly, though the words held the weight of a vow rather than reassurance. It was no longer a statement of fact—it became a promise. Hearing his words, your head snapped up at once, confusion and disbelief flashing across your face.
'Am I?' The question echoed in your own mind louder than the noise of the hall. Your eyes narrowed slightly as you studied him from this close, the calm curve of his expression, the quiet certainty in his gaze, the arm that still circled you as if it had every right to remain there.
Your heart thudded, not in comfort, but in startled protest. You weren't sure whether to push back, flee, or melt into the warmth of his hold, and before your mind could catch up, your words had already escaped, fumbling over your own emotions.
"No, I'm not-!" you started, the words burst out before your mind could catch them, more on instinct than thought. Your chest heaved, as your eyes can't help but be locked on his, heart hammering against your ribs as if trying to escape.
Every nerve screamed, every pulse throbbed, and yet, even as your protest spilled into the air, there was a helpless thrill in the nearness of him, in the undeniable pull of his presence.
Though your protest never made it that far.
Legolas' hand lifted swiftly, his warm palm pressing over your mouth before your words could escape into the hall. The motion was smooth, almost gentle to the touch., as though he knew you all too well to pull a trick like this.
"Mmmph!" you tried to argue back anyways, your brows furrowing as you attempted to pull his hand away, your voice reduced to a muffled sound of indignation.
Just right behind you, you felt the slight exhale he released. His eyes dropped to you for a moment, a subtle warning glinting there, before he looked forward again as if nothing were amiss.
"Well I'm afraid we must take our leave now," he said sharply, there was no room for hesitation or argument; it was not a question, not a suggestion, it was a decision already made, a quiet decree that left the moment hanging heavy with his authority.
Even the polite cadence of his tone could not mask the certainty behind it, the subtle insistence that whatever followed would proceed on his terms alone.
Even as his voice carried across the hall, his eyes never truly left you. They lingered, flickering only at the corner of his vision, tracing your every movement, every subtle shift, as though the rest of the room had been swallowed by a haze.
And then he moved. Without waiting for permission, without giving space for objection, he guided you along with him. His arm remained firm around your waist, holding you close yet gentle, steering you through the thinning crowd as if the very act of guiding you was both a claim and protection.
The laughter and clamor of the hall then fell away behind you, fading into distant echoes, replaced by the soft, cold hush of the corridor beyond.
Your muffled protests softened into frustrated little huffs against his hand, the sound swallowed by the warmth of his palm. Every step he took pressed the certainty of his intent into you, a steady rhythm that left no room for doubt or escape, each movement carrying a quiet authority that demanded your compliance without a single word.
Only once the great doors of the hall swung shut behind you with a heavy thud did the atmosphere seem to change. The noise, the heat, the chaos of the gathering faded into memory, leaving a quiet that was almost oppressive in its intimacy.
The corridor felt narrower somehow, the walls pressing in just slightly, as if conspiring with him to leave the two of you alone. And still, he had not let go. His arm remained snug around your waist, the warmth of his touch pressing insistently into your side.
You both did not walk too far ahead. Only a few turns down the corridor where the torchlight dimmed, casting long, wavering shadows that seemed to curl around the two of you, the stone walls muffling the noise of the hall. Yet the distant chatter and laughter still drifted faintly through the air, a reminder of the world just beyond this narrow space.
Then your back met the cool stone, sharp and grounding against your skin. You hadn't even realized he had guided you here, one moment you were following, the next you were pinned by circumstance, with nowhere else to step, and yet it didn't felt suffocating.
He stood there tall, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, the subtle press of his chest against yours with each measured breath, an unmovable presence that filled the space between entirely.
The corridor's dim torchlight flickered across his features, catching the curve of his lips, the sharp line of his jaw, the depth of those eyes that held yours captive without a single word.
The haze in your mind thickened with every passing second. The remnants of drink, the lingering adrenaline from the hall, blurred your thoughts and dulled the edges of your restraint.
And then there was him. The way he looked at you made it just impossible to think clearly. His gaze was intense, lingering in a way that pressed against your heated skin.
Every glance, every subtle curve of his lips, every twitch of his brow seemed amplified in the dim corridor, drawing your awareness inescapably toward him.
Your breath hitched without thought, and your chest tightened, not in fear, but in an exquisite, maddening awareness of just how close he was, and just how much you wanted him to be.
Then he leaned in, his face drew inches from yours, and the world seemed to shrink to the space between your breaths. You could feel the heat radiating from him, subtle but impossible to ignore, the gentle brush of his warm exhale against your lips, teasing the sensitive skin of your cheek, curling along your jaw in a way that left goosebumps rising against your spine.
The contrast between the chill of the corridor and the smoldering press of him against you was dizzying, intoxicating, like fire sparking against ice. Your heart thudded erratically, your pulse ringing loud in your ears, yet each sound was swallowed almost immediately by the silent, deliberate closeness of him.
Your heart stumbled in your chest as a result, a frantic, uneven rhythm that seemed far too loud in the quiet of the corridor. And then—hic. A tiny, involuntary hiccup slipped past your lips, shattering the silence between you.
Your eyes stayed locked on his, wide and caught, refusing to look away, as if turning your gaze even for a second would make this moment far too embarassing for you to bear.
A small smirk curved onto his lips, "Still afraid of me after all this time?" he murmured, voice low and teasing.
His gaze roamed over you, slow and steady, as though he were memorizing every flicker of expression—the wide, startled tilt of your eyes, the delicate flush creeping over your cheeks, the slight, almost involuntary part of your lips that begged to be noticed.
He tried to focus, to hold himself to one feature, but it was impossible; every flutter of your lashes, every breath that caught in your throat, dragged his attention along, teasing, tempting, and igniting the want that had long been simmering beneath the surface.
You shook your head quickly, a futile gesture against the pull of him. "N-No…" you whispered, voice trembling just slightly, a fragile protest against the closeness that made your chest tighten and your thoughts stumble, only for another hiccup to betray you.
His smirk deepened at your response, that slow curl at the corner of his lips that made your chest tighten with both anticipation and a faint, helpless exhale. "We've done this a few times before, have we not?" His voice was low, almost teasing you yet again.
"W-Well… not like this, hic-" the sound jumped out of you before your mind could catch it. You slammed a hand over your mouth in embarrassment, desperate to smother the tiny, helpless noise, though it did nothing to hide the flare of heat creeping across your cheeks.
Your eyes stayed fixed on him, wide and unblinking, caught in the intensity of his stare as though letting them wander would undo every ounce of control you still had.
For him however, the sight was utterly disarming. He found your every gesture unbearably endearing. A quiet huff of laughter left him as he gently took your wrist, easing your hand away from your lips. Instead of letting go, he laced your fingers in his.
Your thoughts twisted themselves into knots, spiraling in ways you could neither control nor name in response to his actions.
He's far too close. You could feel his pulse from his hands intertwined with yours, causing a tension that wrapped around your chest and made your lungs feel too tight for air.
Why isn't he stepping back? Logic demanded space, demanded reason, yet your body, stubborn and traitorous, leaned ever so slightly toward him, drawn to the warmth, the quiet insistence of his presence.
Your mind continued to race, each thought tangled with another, a chaotic symphony of desire and restraint. Memories, fleeting blushes, the awareness of his eyes tracing every subtle movement of your body —it was too much, and yet not enough.
And amidst it all, a quiet realization surfaced: you wanted this. You wanted him to stay, to close the distance, to press further into that tantalizing, unbearable tension, even as the rational part of your mind flailed in protest.
Desire and restraint, fear and hunger, it had all tangled into a perfect, chaotic storm that left you suspended, breathless, and achingly aware of him in every sense.
"Just so you know…" you admitted, your voice was quiet, almost fragile, barely rising above the soft hush of the corridor. Each word felt like it carried a weight you weren't used to bearing aloud. "I've never done anything like this before."
Your eyes stayed locked on his as you spoke, wide and vulnerable, and in that gaze there was something unspoken, a quiet yearning that you would soon admit.
Something in his expression shifted upon hearing your confession, it was subtle but undeniable. The smirk at the corner of his lips didn't fade, if snything, it deepened, as though he were savoring the very moment, tasting the weight of your words before committing to his own.
His eyes then darkened, shadowed with an intent that made your stomach flutter. "Then…" His voice dropped lower, roughened slightly, as if the words had to fight their way past something deeper inside him. "…I am all yours tonight."
His gaze dropped to your lips the instant he spoke, and it lingered there, consuming with his eyes. The hunger in it was no longer subtle, it was like a quiet fire that seemed to pull everything else from the room.
It was the look of a man who had waited far too long for a taste he already knew he would crave, who knew exactly what he wanted and how impossible it would be to resist once given.
"All mine?" you echoed, your own gaze betraying you before your mind could catch up, flickering down to his lips, drawn like a moth to flame, before snapping back to meet the intensity in his eyes all over again. There was a strange, intoxicating vulnerability in the way your voice quivered, curiosity and a hesitant longing tangled together.
"All yours…" His response came in a breath, quick and urgent. Before you could even fully register them, he closed the distance effortlessly, as if the space between you had always been meant to vanish.
When his lips met yours, it was not hurried, not hesitant, yet every movement trembled with the force of everything he had held back for years. It was a kiss that demanded attention—slow and intense, a hunger tempered only by patience, a quiet promise folded into each brush of his lips against yours.
It was as if time itself had slowed, each heartbeat magnified, every small inhale and exhale a shudder of anticipation and surrender. His lips moved against yours with intent, tracing and claiming, tasting the subtle tremors your body offered, a shiver at the curve of your jaw, or a soft sigh trapped between your teeth.
There was no rush, only the painstaking precision of a man savoring a long-denied indulgence, imprinting the moment into memory as if he could carry it inside him forever.
The warmth of him pressed into you in waves, a living force that drew your knees closer, your hands clutching at his shoulders and chest, helpless yet greedy. Every nerve in your body screamed, every pulse stuttered under the weight of his closeness, and still, you did not pull away. Instead, you gave in, fully and unreservedly, letting the ache of want and the dizzying thrill of him wash over you.
It was like tasting the first cool drop of water after an unbearable thirst: precious, leaving you both trembling for more.
His hands moved lightly but firmly, anchoring you closer, fingers brushing along your back and shoulders grazed as if memorizing the exact weight and warmth of you. Each gentle press, each lingering touch spoke volumes, of restraint finally given way, of permission no longer needed, of a desire that claimed the space between you like it had always belonged there.
His hand around yours tightened just slightly, a quiet assertion that made your chest clench, while the other hovered near your waist, trembling between restraint and the pull of something he could no longer deny.
Every fraction of movement, every subtle press, carried a weight, a language of longing and possession that left your mind dizzy.
And for that moment, the rest of the world ceased to exist. There was nothing but the heat of him pressed against you, the quiet claim in the way he held you, and the unspoken promise lingering in the space between each lingering touch.
When you finally pulled back, your lips burned with the memory of him, tingling as though they still carried the echo of his breath, the press of his mouth, the slow, deliberate intent behind every second of that kiss.
Your chest rose and fell unevenly, your mind swimming with the quiet thrill of closeness, the ache of restraint, and the dangerous allure of what had just begun. Even the faintest whisper of his warmth lingered on your skin, leaving you suspended in your own desires, trembling from a tension that had only just begun to ignite.
Just for a moment, you could not breathe, not because he had stolen the air from you, but because you suddenly remembered where you were. The corridor was not hidden. It was not some secret alcove carved for stolen moments.
The distant murmur of voices drifted around the corner, like a warning whispered too late. Anyone could've walked right past the two of you making out, the thought of it alone made you embarrassed and nervous almost immediately.
You pulled back abruptly, your palms flattening against his shoulders. The fabric beneath your fingers was warm from his body, and you realized you hadn't let go of him at all, even while trying to create distance.
"We shouldn't be doing this here… should we?" The words escaped in a breath, soft and uncertain, betraying the doubt your mind tried to cling to.
Yet your body spoke a different truth, your lips were still parted and warm from his, and fingers trembling as they lingered against him, neither pushing him fully away nor drawing him closer.
Legolas' didn't take a step back, nor did he look startled by the fact of it. If anything, the faintest curve tugged yet again at the corner of his mouth.
His eyes traced every detail of your expression, the way your lashes fluttered when you tried to gather yourself, the heat blooming across your cheeks, the stubborn attempt to look composed when your breathing betrayed you.
He loved this. In fact, He reveled in it. The way your composure faltered, the vulnerability you didn't realize you were giving away. The quiet, desperate want you tried to bury, the heat behind your cheeks, the slight tremor in your fingers, every tiny betrayal of control was a melody only he could hear.
He watched, fascinated and possessive for the first time, as you unraveled before him, pretending it wasn't happening, pretending you weren't acutely aware of the pull between you. And yet, every sigh, every hitch of your breath, every flash of hesitation told him everything he needed to know.
"Why shouldn't we?" he asked softly, laced with a teasing edge, as a sly lift occured at the corner of his mouth. His eyes danced with mischief when they met yours, daring and coaxing, almost taunting you.
The open hall did not matter to him, the risk had not matter either. Only you.
He stepped closer again, each motion measured as if he were savoring the distance he had yet to claim from you. The fragile space you had fought to maintain dissolved like mist, replaced by the undeniable presence of him.
His body brushed yours subtly, heat pressing insistently through the fabric of yours, searing a trail across your nerves like a tattoo, and leaving your pulse scattered all around in a mess.
Your back met the stone wall more fully now, its chill a sharp contrast to the warmth of him on you, a grounding touch that only made the ache for him more intense. You wanted more.
Without a warning, he leaned toward your ear, slow and tempting, every fraction of an inch loaded with intent. His breath whispered across your skin, warm and intoxicating to your mind, carrying with it the faint scent of him.
The air around you thickened with your breaths, tight with anticipation, every heartbeat echoing against the hush of the corridor, amplifying the tension that wrapped around you like a living thing.
Your mind raced, caught between awareness and desire: every brush of his hand, the subtle shift of his hips, the deliberate press of his chest against yours, threaded fire through your veins, leaving you suspended in a delicious, dizzying torment where wanting him had become both danger and inevitability.
When he spoke, his lips hovered so close to your ear that the warmth of his breath skimmed along the delicate curve of it, sending vibrations all over your skin.
"It would be nice," he murmured, his voice softened to something almost dangerous in its intimacy, "to let them know that I am yours."
There was no haste in him. His mouth soon found way as it lingered near your temple afterward, close enough that you could feel the faint brush of his breath against your hair, close enough that the world beyond the two of you seemed to dim into irrelevance.
His breath then seemed to drifted lower, unhurried, grazing the curve of your ear before descending toward the exposed line of your neck. The warmth of it lingered there, savouring your scent, stirring a shiver that rippled through you that made your knees weaken.
He hovered there for a moment, close enough that you could feel the faint touch of his lips almost touching skin. There was a tension in him then, a subtle tightening in his body, as though instinct urged him forward, but he couldn't bring himself to for now.
You swallowed, and even that small motion felt deafening in the hush between you. The sound seemed to echo in your own ears, betraying just how unsteady you had become.
Your heart slammed against your ribs with humiliating force, so fierce you were certain he could feel it, in the delicate hollow of your throat, in the tremor of your fingertips, in the very place where his hand rested at your waist.
You didn't move. You couldn't. Your body refused the command your mind tried to give it. Every warning bell still rang somewhere in the distance, yet they felt muffled beneath the steady heat of him, beneath the way his presence wrapped around you. Stepping away would have required clarity. And clarity had long since abandoned you.
He drew back only slightly, not enough to create real distance, just enough to see you. The warmth of his breath left your skin reluctantly, and the cool air that replaced it felt almost startling.
His eyes found yours again as he eased back, they always did. No matter how you shifted, no matter how you tried to steady yourself, his gaze would always return to you, as though it had nowhere else it wished to be.
You tried to look away. You truly did. Your lashes lowered, your focus drifting toward the stone wall behind his shoulder, anywhere but the intensity waiting in his expression. But you never quite made it.
His hand lifted before you could escape. Warm fingers slid beneath your chin, tilting your face upward. The motion was slow, not forceful even in the slightest. He gave you no room to pretend indifference, no space to retreat into composure.
Your breath caught as your eyes were drawn back to his, and that was your mistake. He held you there gently, thumb resting near the curve of your jaw, as though he wanted you to understand something without words.
"And that you are mine," he said, his voice dipping lower, almost a growl beneath the words. It wasn't shouted. It didn't need to be. The way he spoke of it sunk deep against you, beating your pulse to his, drowning you in a truth that was both thrilling and terrifying. The statement wrapped around you tighter than his hands ever could.
The tension was unbearable now. His eyes didn't waver from yours. They were dark, unblinking, he didn't dare to, a storm restrained by the faintest line of control.
The laughter from the hall rose again in the distance, jarringly normal against the storm building between you. The world continued on, unaware of the two.
Yet in this narrow stretch of corridor, time truly felt slowed down. Your lips parted almost against your will, a soft, trembling gasp escaping. Your breath mingled with his, as your body leaned the smallest fraction forward, betraying all your thoughts and hesitation echoing the desires you had tried so hard to keep buried.
And he saw it. He saw everything. His gaze locked onto yours unrelenting, as if he had been waiting for this moment his whole life.
The heat behind his eyes deepened, hunger tempered by restraint, awareness tempered by patience. The longing in your eyes became his undoing. And this time, he did not stop himself.
The hand at your waist tightened as it yanked you forward, anchoring you in place before him, and just like that, his lips found yours again.
This kiss was nothing like the first. His mouth moved against yours with urgency, not careless, but driven as though he feared if he didn't take this now, the moment would slip away again.
His fingers flexed at your waist, drawing you closer until there was no space left between you. The stone at your back was forgotten; the only thing grounding you was him.
You gasped softly into the kiss, your trembling breath brushed against his lips, and instead of pulling away, you leaned in. You wanted this. You truly wanted him.
Your hands rose of their own accord, gliding from the curve of his shoulders into the thick sweep of his hair, fingers tangling through the silken strands as if pulling him closer torwards you. Each thread you caught, each gentle tug, seemed to tether you to him, grounding your racing pulse against the storm of your desire.
The action drew a deeper response from him, reaction immediate. A low, throaty sound slipped past him, muffled and barely audible, yet it vibrated through your chest, setting your senses alight with a fierce, unsettling tingle.
His hand shifted, sliding up your back slowly, deliberately, holding you as you dissolved into his touch. The kiss deepened, he tasted like restraint finally broken, like longing given permission.
Your body responded without hesitation against hid. You tilted your head instinctively, matching him, chasing the warmth he offered. The distant noise from the hall blurred into nothing but distant echoes.
The space between you grew impossibly tight, each inhale shallow and urgent, as though the air itself had grown too small to contain the two of you. Your chest ached, lungs burning, each breath tasting faintly of him, thick and warm of the memory of the kiss.
At last, necessity forced the separation. His lips drew back slowly, reluctantly, lingering a heartbeat longer than needed, somehow refusing to release you.
Your foreheads fell together when it was undone. Both of you were breathless. Your chests rose and fell rapidly, the space between your lips barely an inch away.
You could feel the warmth of his breath fanning across your mouth, could see the slight flush that had crept across his usually composed features. For once, he looked undone.
His eyes remained half-lidded, dark with desire for more. "I'm going to get greedy if we continue…" he admitted quietly, voice rough from more than lack of air.
Your heart thudded painfully against your ribs. Your fingers remained tangled in his hair, a insistent reminder of the heat coursing through you. While your body pressed against his, every inch of you aching for the closeness you had just tasted.
You knew what he meant. You felt it too, the way one kiss had not been enough, how even now your lips tingled with the urge to just pull him close with another kiss.
You swallowed, trying to steady your voice. But the truth slipped out softer than you'd intended. "Maybe…" you breathed, your lips brushing lightly against his as you spoke, "maybe I don't mind if you do."
You admitted as your hands traced a deliberate path down, fingers sliding over the smooth line of his shoulders, feeling the strength beneath your touch. At the same time, your gaze lifted, meeting his fully for the first time without hesitation.
"I told you," you whispered, a small, daring smile ghosting over your flushed, swollen lips, "I've never done anything like this before."
Your thumb moved, tracing the edge of his shoulders unconsciously. "But I don't want you to stop." you admitted, voice low and unsteady, carrying a vulnerability that left you exposed yet impossible to deny.
The moment your words reached him, a subtle glimmer flickered in his eyes, darkened by desire yet softened by something almost like relief, as a mischievous smile curved his lips.
"Then," he murmured at last, his voice low and roughened by the kiss, thick with both promise and warning, "don't blame me if I take what I desire."
-I'll kiss your pains away in secret , though you'll never know.
Pairings : Legolas x f!reader | fatherfigure!Bard x f!reader
Summary : In the aftermath of a devastating dragon (smaug) attack on Laketown, among the chaos, you struggle under the weight of guilt, exhaustion, and grief, feeling powerless against the loss surrounding you. Bard and Fili did not seem to be the only ones who have comforted you. A particular elf did as well, with a kiss on your wounds, and a promise he made, though you'll never know.
A/n : This is for anyone who had to grow up too fast, who learned independence before they were ready, and carried more than they should. Honestly… I wrote this fic for me at one point of my life. Haha, sometimes we write what we need mostt. If you've ever felt guilty, like you weren't enough, or that your efforts went unseen, I hope this fic reminds you that you are enough. I hope these pages bring a little comfort, a little hope, and a reminder that even in the chaos, you're never truly alone. 🤍 (veryyy emotional topics are written so be aware) (Part of the f!reader is not from middle-earth series | Can be read as a one-shot as well!)
Wc : 8.8k
➽──────────────────────────────❥
The air was cold, not the gentle, quiet chill that came with dawn, but something far more biting. It clung to your skin like a second shadow, sharp and invasive, a cruel contrast to the suffocating heat of dragonfire that had only just torn through everything.
The shift was too sudden, too violent—like the world had been wrenched from flame into frost without mercy. Even the wind felt different now, hollow as it whispered through the ruins, carrying with it the faint scent of ash and something far heavier that lingered in your lungs.
Morning had come, but it brought no comfort. Dawn stretched weakly over the lake, pale and lifeless, its light spilling across the water in dull streaks that did nothing to warm what remained. It only revealed more, too much more.
Laketown, what was left of it—lay in ruin.
The banks were crowded with survivors, if they could still be called that. People huddled together in scattered groups, their voices fractured into a restless chorus of grief.
Cries rang out, sharp and broken; Shouts followed, desperate and disoriented. And beneath it all, the quiet, endless sound of sobbing, low and unrelenting, as though the land itself mourned with them.
Smoke still rose in thin, stubborn trails, curling into the pale sky from what remained of the wooden structures. Blackened beams jutted out at odd angles, skeletal and warped, barely holding its shape.
Some pieces still burned, small tongues of fire flickering weakly, clinging to life despite the cold, as if refusing to let the destruction end just yet.
The water lapped softly at the shore, deceptively calm, its surface reflecting the grey light of morning. But even it could not hide what it carried. Ash drifted across it in uneven patches, and beneath the surface, just barely visible, shadows moved where they should not.
Everything felt… still. It was certainly not peaceful. Just… empty, in the aftermath of something too violent to fully comprehend.
And scattered among it all, was the dead. They lay along the shore where the water had claimed them and returned them just as mercilessly. Bodies half-submerged, limbs caught at unnatural angles, clothing darkened and heavy with lakewater. Some were dusted in ash, their forms blurred beneath a grey veil, while others remained untouched by flame—yet no less still, no less gone.
The gentle lapping of the water against them felt almost cruel, as if the lake itself refused to acknowledge what it carried.
Your gaze drifted over them slowly, as though pulled against your will. You couldn't look away, not fully. Your eyes traced shapes, faces you dared not linger on for too long, yet couldn't help but see.
Your face felt tight, streaked with something you hadn't noticed until now, your tears, dried and fresh all at once. Your lips parted, a breath catching somewhere in your throat, but no words came. Nothing formed. Nothing could form. What was there to say, when everything that mattered had already been lost?.
A heaviness settled deep in your chest, pressing down until even breathing felt like an effort.
Useless, or perhaps it was guilt for every life you hadn't been able to save in time. For every scream that still echoed somewhere in the back of your mind, refusing to fade no matter how tightly you tried to shut it out. For standing here now, breathing, when so many no longer could.
Your eyes slipped shut, lashes trembling as they brushed faintly against your cheeks. Your head bowed, just slightly, as though the weight of it all had finally found somewhere to rest. For a moment, the world fell away—the cries, the smoke, the ruin, and all that remained was the quiet within you.
A prayer came then, fragile and fleeting. Not in words, you had none left to give, but in feeling. In the ache that filled your chest, in the silent plea that reached for those who could no longer hear, no longer answer. It lingered only for a heartbeat before dissolving into the stillness, carried away like ash on the wind.
When your eyes opened again, they burned. Glassy, rimmed red, your vision wavered as the world returned in fractured pieces, light bleeding into your vision, shapes blurring before slowly, cruelly, sharpening back into focus. And with it came everything you wished it wouldn't, the devastation, the loss. The undeniable truth laid bare before you.
It was your first time experiencing such a cruel sight, a war scene. What you were going through now is real, and thats your reality.
Your breath hitched, shallow and uneven, as something tightened painfully in your chest.
If only…
The thought came quietly, yet it struck deeper than anything else.
If only you had been stronger.
You were so lost in your thoughts, drowning in the quiet, relentless echo of your own failures, that you didn't notice when someone stepped up beside you.
Sound faded into something distant. You didn't hear the soft crunch of gravel beneath approaching boots, didn't notice the subtle shift in the air as someone stepped close. You didn't even register your name being called.
"…hey, are you alright?" The voice came gently, threaded with careful concern, worry woven into every syllable, like he was afraid of saying the wrong thing and pushing you further away. It pulled at you slowly, dragging you back from the spiral in your mind.
Your gaze dipped first, unfocused, before your head turned just enough to acknowledge the presence beside you. And there he was.
Fíli stood close, closer than you had realized, near enough that you could see the fine tension in his expression—his brows drawn together, eyes searching your face with quiet urgency.
His usual confidence had softened into something far more vulnerable. His lips pressed together briefly, then parted again, like he had something to say but didn't quite know how to begin, nor continue.
"I… I don't know, Fíli…" Your voice came out quieter than you intended, barely above a murmur, almost unsteady in a way as though they might break apart before fully forming.
But he heard it. His expression shifted immediately, concern deepening as his shoulders straightened just slightly, as though bracing himself for you, every bit of him focused on the quiet crack in your voice.
This wasn't the you he knew. The spark he had always admired—the quiet strength, the fire in your eyes, the way you carried yourself like you could withstand anything, felt dimmed now, like it had been smothered beneath something heavier.
Fíli noticed it immediately, the absence of it, and it unsettled him more than he let show. His jaw tightened faintly, a flicker of something protective crossing his expression as he studied you, as if trying to find even a trace of that familiar light.
But your gaze didn't linger on him. It slipped away almost the moment it met his, dropping to the ground near his boots. You fixated on the dirt, the scattered ash, the faint marks left behind by chaos, anything that wasn't him.
Your fingers curled slightly at your sides, tension settling into your frame, shoulders drawn in just enough to make yourself smaller.
"Hey…" he murmured again, softer this time, his voice dipping as he shifted a half-step closer. "Don't shut me out."
Still, you couldn't look at him. Or maybe… you wouldn't.
A flicker of something uneasy tightened in your chest. Were you afraid of seeing disappointment in his eyes… or afraid that it was already there? That he had already decided you had failed upholding your responsibilities?
The thought hit harder than you expected, striking like a jagged stone in your chest. Old words clawed their way back: useless.
Your jaw tightened, teeth pressing together as your chest constricted with each shallow breath. The air felt thick, almost heavy enough to push you down.
Maybe… maybe they were right. Maybe this was proof. Standing here, trembling with your own helplessness, breaking over things that felt inconsequential—love, fleeting moments, the chaos of emotions, while others had lost everything, truly lost it.
If only you'd focus on yourself, on honing your powers, mastering what you were capable of, instead of chasing after someone who thrived on giving you mixed signals. The thought gnawed at the edges of your mind, sharper than any blade.
You lifted your gaze, trying to steady yourself, eyes drifting past the smoke and rubble of Laketown to a scene unfolding nearby. Kíli was there, leaning slightly toward Tauriel, his hands gesturing as he spoke, words lost in the distance but his earnest expression unmistakable. Tauriel's lips curved faintly, a small, amused smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, her posture relaxed yet attentive.
And there, Legolas stood frozen, shoulders rigid, eyes locked ahead, almost as if he was staring at Tauriel with a quiet intensity that seemed to anchor him to the spot.
His jaw was set, lips pressed thin, a flicker of something raw and longing, or was it frustration?—passing across his otherwise composed face. Even from here, you could sense the tightness in his chest, the way his hands curled slightly at his sides, fingers twitching as if restraining some invisible urge.
For a fleeting moment, it hit you: maybe all those soft reassurances, those quiet, intimate words he'd offered back there… perhaps they were just that, meant for friendship. Nothing more. And yet, seeing him now, the image carved itself into your mind, a mix of envy, clarity, and that bitter pang of wanting what you couldn't have.
You had time to ache over a feeling, a fleeting attachment, but not enough strength to save more lives. Not enough to pull anyone from the ashes. The thought pressed down like molten lead, squeezing your lungs, coiling around your stomach.
Your shoulders slumped involuntarily once more, drooping as if the weight of every failure, every scream, every life that had slipped from your grasp rested there.
Even standing felt like a burden. Your fingers twitched at your sides, nails digging into your palms, as if grounding yourself could somehow anchor the storm of mixed emotions inside of you.
"I don't even know what I'm doing anymore..." you whispered, voice cracking faintly, barely audible over the distant cries, eyes glistening with unshed tears as the world around you blurred in grief and smoke.
"…hey." Fíli's voice came again, softer this time, warmer, threading through the haze of your thoughts.
You felt it before you saw it, his hand lifted slowly, hesitating just above your arm as if testing the air, then settled lightly, a grounding weight that didn't push, didn't demand.
His fingers pressed just enough to remind you he was there, steady and careful. "Don't do that," he murmured.
He waited, thumb brushing the fabric of your sleeve in a subtle, almost tender motion, a silent reassurance. His eyes met yours, steady and unflinching, holding you in place without a word. "Look at me," he said again, quieter now, the insistence threaded with patience.
You felt it, not a shove, not a command—but the gravity of his gaze, pulling you gently back into the present, leaving no room to look away.
You turned at last, slowly, as though the movement itself weighed on you. When your eyes met his, the worry there hit harder than anything else, it strucked clear, written plainly across his face.
"You are not useless," Fíli said, the words leaving him with quiet conviction, his grip on your arm tightening just slightly as if to anchor you there. His brows drew together, gaze searching yours like he needed you to understand. "Not in any way."
He drew in a breath, chest rising before he let it out softer, more honest. "And I'll admit it… I admire you. actually" A faint, almost self-conscious huff left him, like the confession surprised even him, but he didn't look away. "And I'm not the only one who thinks that way-"
The moment didn't get to settle, before another called.
"Fili! We've got to get going to the other side!" A voice shattered through, causing the both of you to turn toward the voice calling. Across the ruined shore, Óin stood with the others, already gathering themselves, already preparing to leave. They were waiting—but not for long.
Fíli's attention then snapped back towards you, urgency creeping into his movements. His hand slid down to catch your sleeve more firmly this time, tugging you with him. "We have to go," he said quickly, glancing back once, then again at you, before pulling you gently along. "We need to meet Thorin- come on-"
He stepped forward.
You didn't.
The resistance was slight, but it was enough. Enough to stop him mid-motion, enough to make the fabric in his grasp pull taut.
Fíli stilled, the motion dying instantly as realization crept in, slow and unwelcoming. His hand remained where it was, fingers still curled in your sleeve as if letting go wasn't an option he was ready to face.
He turned back to you, more slowly this time.
"You're not leaving..." His voice dropped, quieter now, something fragile slipping through the edges of it. It wasn't really a question. His brows knit together, confusion flickering into something heavier, his grip tightening just slightly like he could keep you there if he held on long enough.
"…are you?"
You shook your head slowly, the motion small but resolute. Your fingers slipped from his grasp, though not harshly—just enough to create some distance.
"I can't go," you said, voice quieter now, but steadier than before. Your gaze drifted past him, back toward the refugees, the wounded, the smoke still curling into the pale morning air. "They need help. I can heal, and they're short on medicine and supplies. I can't just leave them like this, Fili."
Fíli blinked, the words hitting him harder than he expected. "No-" he started, almost immediately, his voice catching before he forced it forward.
"They… they can manage. They've survived this long, haven't they? They have Bard as well." His hand lifted again, uncertain, hovering between reaching for you and pulling back. "We gave our word to Thorin… didn't we?"
But he didn't stop there. The words kept coming, faster now, uneven, like he was trying to fill the space before you could respond. "And Thorin- he didn't mean half of what he said. None of us did. We-" he faltered briefly, jaw tightening before pushing on, "...we like having you with us. More than that." His voice softened despite himself, quieter, almost pleading. "You should come with us-"
"I-" You cut in gently, your thoughts scrambling, tangling over themselves before you forced something lighter to the surface. A small smile tugged at your lips, fragile but playful, as you tilted your head slightly. "Aww… you guys care about me that much? Well, I figured."
It should've worked. Normally, that would've earned at least a faint smile, a huff, something. Maybe a teasing remark, maybe a small roll of his eyes.
But not this time. Fíli didn't smile. Not even a little.
His expression barely shifted, eyes still fixed on you with that same unwavering worry, like he could see straight through the thin veil you'd thrown up. His brows knit tighter, his gaze softening in a way that only made it worse—because he knew.
He knew you were pretending.
"Are you sure…?" Fíli asked after a beat, his voice quieter now, the resistance in him easing but not gone. His brows remained drawn, eyes searching yours with a lingering doubt. "It's not because of something else, right?"
Your smile held—steady, practiced. You gave a small shake of your head, lifting your chin just slightly as if to make it more convincing. "I'm sure," you said gently. "Don't worry about me… worry about your king."
For a moment, he didn't move.
Fíli just stood there, studying you. His gaze flickered over the little things: the tightness in your smile, the way your fingers curled faintly at your sides, the slight tension in your shoulders you tried so hard to hide. He noticed all of it, and it made something in his chest sink.
But time didn't wait. Another call rang out from behind him, sharper this time, more urgent. His jaw tightened further, and he finally took a step back, even though it looked like the last thing he wanted to do.
"Then… we'll meet again," he said, trying to steady his voice, though it softened despite him. A faint, hopeful smile touched his lips. "We'll have a proper feast once we've reclaimed our home. A big one—you'd better be there."
He hesitated, then added more quietly, more sincerely, "And… you should know this." His eyes met yours again, unwavering. "You're strong. And kind. Our companion." His voice dipped slightly, almost gentle. "Don't let anyone make you believe otherwise."
Then, as if to lighten the weight of it all, he lifted his hand, closing it into a fist, holding it out toward you with a small, tentative smile. "Fist bump?"
Your eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across your face. For a second, you just stared at his hand, caught off guard. Then something warmer broke through, your smile growing—this time slightly real, almost softer, touched with something almost fond.
"Really?" A soft breath of disbelief slipped past your lips as you stepped forward, closing the small distance between you. Your hand lifted, hesitating for just a second before gently meeting his in a light tap.
"I can't believe you remembered…" you murmured, a faint, genuine warmth touching your voice as your fingers curled back to your side. "And I will," you added, a little firmer now, holding his gaze for one last moment. "We'll meet again. Soon… hopefully. well, I did promise I'll help officiate Kili's wedding with Tauriel, and be the godmother of his two children..."
Fíli let a small, quiet smile tug at his lips at your remark, the memory of overhearing that conversation still fresh in his mind. He lingered a heartbeat longer, eyes tracing the gentle curve of your expression, as if committing the sight of you to memory, before he finally turned.
His hands flexed lightly at his sides, a small, almost imperceptible sigh escaping him, before he finally turned. One careful step, then another, until he was moving, merging with the rest of the group.
His figure gradually faded into the ebb and flow of the others, yet the imprint of the moment remained, silent and steadfast, carried with him as they pressed on.
You stayed where you were. Your eyes followed him until you couldn't anymore, until distance swallowed the details, until he became just another silhouette against the pale morning light.
And only then… your smile began to fade.
It slipped slowly, the warmth draining from your expression as the last trace of him disappeared. Your shoulders sank, the tension you had been holding so tightly loosening all at once, leaving behind something heavier in its place.
Whatever strength you had gathered—whatever you had held together for their sake, unraveled quietly the moment they were gone.
You slumped against the rough face of a large rock, your body giving in the moment it had something solid to lean on. The cold seeped through your clothes, but you barely noticed it anymore. Every muscle ached, heavy and unresponsive, as if even the effort of sitting upright was too much to ask.
Hours had passed—hours of pouring yourself into others, of mending wounds that weren't yours, of giving and giving until there was almost nothing left.
Now it showed. Your vision blurred at the edges, dark spots flickering in and out as your head throbbed dully, each pulse slower, heavier than the last. It didn't feel like simple exhaustion anymore, you simply felt yourself slowly drifting away.
A faint, strange tickle brushed against your upper lip. It pulled a weak reaction from you, your hand lifting sluggishly, fingers dragging beneath your nose.
You froze. When your hand fell back into your line of sight, there it was—dark and unmistakable. It was blood.
For a brief second, your heart lurched, a flicker of panic sparking in your chest. Your brows twitched, lips parting slightly as if to react, to say something, or anything, but nothing came.
Even that felt too heavy for your current state. Your hand lowered slowly, almost limply, resting against your lap as your head tipped back against the stone. Your breathing remained shallow, uneven, your body too drained to respond the way it should.
"You're exhasuted." The voice called out. It pulled you back just enough to lift your head, though the movement felt slow and heavy, like even that small movement cost too much. Your vision swam for a moment before settling—and then you saw him.
Bard. There he stood a few steps away, his posture firm despite the weariness etched into his features. Strands of his hair clung slightly to his face, his clothes still marked by ash and battle, but his eyes, they were sharp and observant, fixed on you with quiet certainty.
You stared back, caught off guard.
It wasn't your first time seeing him, not after everything that had happened, but something about this felt… different. The aftermath of survival, of standing side by side against something that should've killed you both, it left a strange, lingering tension in its wake. One that made words feel awkward, misplaced.
So you said nothing, and Bard seemed to have expected that, understanding your choice of silence.
He held your gaze for a moment longer before exhaling softly, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. Then, without another word, he stepped closer and lowered himself beside you, leaving a respectful distance.
His gaze shifted away, settling somewhere ahead, giving you space rather than pressing for conversation.
For a while, the two of you simply sat there. The distant crackle of fire, the murmur of voices, the soft lapping of water against the shore—it all filled the silence between you, but it wasn't uncomfortable.
"Thank you." The words were quiet, but firm enough to pull your attention back to him. You turned your head slightly, your eyes landing on his profile.
"You saved me," He continued, "My son… my people from the dragon." His jaw tightened faintly, like the weight of it still sat heavy on him. "You helped give this town another chance."
He paused, then turned to look at you fully, his gaze meeting yours, direct and sincere.
"And… thank you for dealing with Alfrid." There was the faintest shift in his expression then, something almost resembling dry amusement. His eyes drifted past you, and yours followed instinctively. Not far off stood a familiar figure—disheveled, shaken, and very deliberately keeping his distance.
Ah. Right.
You remembered. The sharp edge of your frustration, the way it had spilled over earlier when he'd pushed too far. The impact, the lack of restraint—you hadn't exactly held back.
Your eyes lingered on him for a second longer before shifting away again, the memory settling quietly at the back of your mind.
"His name' Alfrid?" you murmured, the words slipping out softly, almost absentminded. A faint pout tugged at your lips, your nose scrunching slightly as if holding something back. "Not surprised…" you added under your breath, a small, breathy huff escaping you.
Bard exhaled quietly at that, the faintest hint of agreement in his tone. "Yeah…" He spoke, though it lacked any real focus. The words faded almost as soon as it was spoken, his attention already shifting back to you.
His gaze moved slowly, deliberately, taking in what you had tried not to show. Your hair sat in slight disarray, strands clinging where sweat and ash had settled. The faint stain beneath your nose hadn't gone unnoticed, even if you had wiped it away. Your eyes, tired and dulled at the edges, carrying something heavier than exhaustion.
Something no one your age should have to carry.
There was a subtle change in his expression then, something tightening behind his composure. Not pity, never that, but a quiet understanding.
Then his gaze shifted downward, settling on your hands. The bruises darkened beneath your skin, cuts etched across your knuckles and palm, faint streaks of dried blood still clinging stubbornly.
His eyes softened slightly, a mix of concern and quiet admiration flickering across his features as he took in the silent testament of everything you'd endured.
"…You put everyone else before yourself," Bard said quietly, his voice low, carrying a weight that made you pause. His eyes flicked toward your hands, "You've been mending everyone else… but your own wounds… you've left them untouched."
Your brows knitted, confusion etching across your face as his words sank in. You followed his gaze, hesitant, almost afraid of what you might see. Slowly, almost reverently, you lifted your hands into the morning light, letting them catch the pale sun filtering through the smoke.
Cuts marred your skin, bruises darkened and swollen, streaks of dried blood faintly clinging to your knuckles and palms. You stared at them, frozen, a strange dissonance creeping over you, as if these marks didn't belong to your own body—that somehow you were only truly seeing them for the first time.
Your lips parted slightly, a soft, shaky breath slipping out as if the words themselves were too heavy to form. For a moment, you just sat there, staring blankly at the ground, unsure if you even had the strength to speak.
A faint frown tugged at the corners of your mouth, but just as quickly, you let your hands fall to your lap, brushing them over one another with a weak shrug.
"They needed it more," you murmured, almost automatic, as if stating a fact rather than a choice. Your gaze drifted, unfocused, tracing nothing in particular. "It's just a few cuts… I'll be fine."
A quiet laugh escaped you, bitter and soft, shaking your head. "And you know… that's exactly what my grandpa used to say. Always lecturing about putting myself first. But… they need this more than me, no? I can't just stand by when I can help."
As you moved, the pendant at your chest shifted, the chain loosening beneath your tunic. It slipped partially free, catching the light and Bard's attention.
His eyes widened slightly, a flicker of recognition passing over his features. The piece of jewelry… it was no ordinary trinket. He had heard tales of it before—an ancient emblem once worn by one of the greatest elves, the one who could bend time and life at her will, Lumena.
Bard's gaze lingered, a mixture of awe and disbelief shadowing his expression as the pendant swung gently with your movements.
His gaze was then brought back to yours, sharp now, as if he were connecting the dots in a sudden realization. "That necklace… I've heard stories," he said carefully.
"Of the elf who could heal, who could bend time itself… Lumena." His eyes searched yours, gauging every flicker of reaction.
And you did just that, your eyes widened slightly, a sharp intake of breath betraying surprise before you steadied yourself. "You…You know about this necklace?" you asked, voice quiet, a mixture of curiosity and caution threading through each word.
"I do," he replied, tone careful, almost reverent. "I've heard countless tales. A powerful elf… chosen for great responsibility. But with such power, there is always a price. Every time she wields it, her life force is sapped. The more she uses, the greater the toll." His eyes softened, reflecting a dawning understanding, and a subtle weight settled over his features.
"Are you…?" His question hung in the air, tentative, and for a heartbeat you let yourself laugh softly, shaking your head with a small, rueful smile.
"No," you let out a soft laugh, the sound light but a little too quick, like it was meant to smooth everything over. The smile touched your lips briefly, but it didn't stay. It faded almost as soon as it came, your lips pressing into a thin, controlled line as your gaze flickered away for a second before returning.
"I think… you're talking about my mom." There was a faint glint of amusement in your eyes, but it didn't quite reach them—something else lingered there, something tighter, carefully hidden behind the ease in your tone.
Bard nodded slowly, as if accepting your answer, but his eyes never truly left your face. "Ah… I see." A brief pause followed then, his gaze lingered on you, thoughtful, something unspoken turning behind his eyes. "But the consequences… they're real, aren't they?"
The question was then hung between the two of you, heavy and suffocating, as though even the air had stilled to wait for your answer.
You didn't give one. Your lips parted slightly, a breath slipping out quietly, but the words never followed. Instead, your gaze dropped—just for a second, just long enough. Your fingers shifted faintly against your lap, shoulders drawing in as your breath hitched before you forced it back into something steady.
It was subtle, but not subtle enough. Bard had caught it all, the hesitation, the tension you tried to swallow down, the faint crack in the composure you were so carefully holding together.
His expression changed the moment he realized, understanding settling in slowly, unwelcome. His jaw tightened, brows knitting together as his eyes lingered on you, quieter now, but far more certain.
"You've been using it nonstop since the battle," Bard said, his voice firmer now, concern no longer hidden beneath the calm. He shifted closer, leaning forward with a quiet urgency, one hand braced against his knee,while the other hovered briefly in the air, as if he meant to steady you, but thought better of it.
His brows pulled together, eyes searching yours with a firmness that didn’t waver. "You need to stop. You need to rest, before you push yourself too far."
"Look, I'm fine, alright?" The words came too fast, cutting through his before he could finish. You straightened instinctively, pushing yourself up against the rock despite the faint sway in your balance. Your brows furrowed, eyes narrowing just slightly as you met his gaze for a brief moment—defensive, almost stubborn.
But you spoke too soon, by then, a thin trail of warmth slid past your upper lip.
You froze for half a second before your hand came up, wiping it away hastily, almost carelessly, but the faint smear of red across your skin was impossible to miss. Your fingers trembled faintly, but you pulled them back quickly, hiding it as best as you could.
Bard's gaze sharpened instantly, something in it darkening—not anger, but concern that rooted him in place. His brows drew together deeper now, his attention fully locked onto you, as if he wasn’t about to let this go so easily.
"…okay, maybe I'm not," you admitted, voice harsher than intended, a flash of defensiveness threading through your words. "But I can do whatever I choose. I want to help… it's one of the reasons why I'm here."
Your teeth sank into the inside of your cheek as soon as you spoke, a small bite to hold back the tremor in your voice. Your shoulders tensed, and your gaze fell immediately to the ground, tracking the cracks in the dirt, avoiding him. Fingers twitched against your knees, restless and nervous, unwilling to meet his eyes.
But what he'd say next caught you off guard almost immediately, "You'd choose to, or is it out of guilt?" Bard's voice was soft, deliberate, but it carried the weight of truth. "For not being able to save those who had passed..."
Your head jerked up upon hearing his words, eyes wide, as though he had peeled back a layer you didn't even know you were hiding. Your lips parted, words failing, and your chest tightened painfully.
Was it really guilt, just as he said? Or was it responsibility? The need to do something… anything… because you could? Your brows knitted together, jaw clenching, and for the first time, the faintest quiver crossed your lashes.
You didn't answer immediately. Instead, you fidgeted with your sleeve, fingers curling around the fabric, grounding yourself against the weight of the truth he had so effortlessly unearthed.
"I..I'm not a child alright? You dont need to tell me what I know." You bit back, voice trembling faintly despite the edge you tried to put on it. Your eyes darted away, tracing anything but him, unable to hold his gaze.
"But you are one," He said softly, each word deliberate, heavy with meaning. "You are a child... at least one in my eyes-" His eyes held yours now, warm and steady, piercing softly through the walls you'd built, patient and understanding in a way that made this feeling felt unbelievable, distant at times.
"Well... I'm eighteen." you muttered back, a mixture of defiance and weariness lacing your tone. You straightened your back just slightly, trying to seem taller, stronger, though your shoulders sagged with exhaustion, and your lashes dipped in fleeting vulnerability.
He leaned forward, closing the space between you ever so slightly, careful not to overstep, his presence grounding. "Age doesn't change the weight you've carried," he murmured, voice low and steady.
"No child, no one… should ever have to endure cruelty like that. The pain, the burden, you've shouldered far too much." His words hung in the air, tender but piercing, as his eyes searched yours for the smallest flicker of acknowledgment, a quiet insistence that you weren't alone.
He truly cared, and he wasn't entirely sure why. Perhaps it was gratitude, for the way you had saved him, his son, and the people of the town. Or perhaps it was something deeper, a compulsion to protect, to shield someone so clearly strong yet undeniably vulnerable.
You had the power, yes—there was no denying that, but beneath it, he saw the confusion, the fear, the quiet tremor in your spirit that you tried so hard to hide. How could he turn away from someone who needed guidance, or even just a sliver of warmth and reassurance? His chest tightened at the thought, and without realizing it, he shifted slightly closer, an unconscious gesture of silent support.
Your lips parted then, wanting to speak, to argue back at him, but no words came. Instead, you swallowed hard, the heat rising in your chest, and your hands fidgeted slightly in your lap, fingers brushing against the bruises and cuts you hadn't noticed in your fatigue.
You froze before you knew it, breath catching in your throat as your eyes locked with his—eyes so full of care, directed entirely at you, a stranger he had only just met.
The weight of it pressed into your chest, and for a fleeting second, your defenses wavered, crumbling down all together. You had never really had anyone to confide in, not truly. Fear of humiliation, of being misunderstood, had always kept you silent. And now, staring at him, that fear roared back, sharp and insistent.
A tightness coiled in your stomach as memories surfaced—growing up without parents, relying only on your grandfather, the one family you could count on even if blood didn't bind you.
It hadn't mattered then, and it didn't seem to matter even now, yet the absence left a hollow ache, a constant reminder that you were always forced to be stronger, faster, smarter, older than your years.
Being sent here only deepened it. You had no one you could truly call your own, not in this world, at least. The responsibility pressed down relentlessly: saving others, tending to the injured, yet powerless to protect those who mattered most. That thought twisted your chest, gnawing at something raw and tender within you.
You finally shifted slightly, fingers curling into the dirt beneath you, eyes flickering away to avoid his gaze once more, though part of you wanted to cling to it. To admit the truth, to let someone else see the cracks you'd spent years hiding.
Bard didn't move closer, not yet, but his posture softened, the rigid line of his shoulders easing. His eyes never left yours, gentle but steady, as if he could see through the walls you'd built so carefully, read through the tension you refused to admit out loud.
"You don't have to carry it all alone," he said, voice low, careful not to startle you. "I don't know everything you've endured… but I see you. And I… I can help, if you let me." There was no judgment in it, only quiet acknowledgment of the weight you bore. "Not everything is yours to fix."
Your gaze then flickered toward him, hesitant, as if testing the waters. The tremor in your hands faltered slightly, then steadied, and you let out a small breath you hadn't realized you were holding.
"I… I just-" Your words caught, lost somewhere between frustration and exhaustion. You wanted to explain, to defend yourself, but the truth lodged in your chest too firmly. He didn't push, didn't ask for details. Instead, he simply stayed there, letting the silence stretch, letting you feel that you weren't entirely alone.
You didn't continue your answer immediately. You couldn't. Instead, your gaze stayed on him. A soft exhale escaped your lips once more, almost involuntary, as if acknowledging something you hadn't allowed yourself to admit: maybe it was okay to let someone in, even just a little.
Just as you did, the lump in your throat then began to grew too heavy to swallow. Your chest tightened, a sudden, unbearable pressure that made your vision blur. The dam you had built around your emotions—the careful walls of pride and strength had cracked, splintering under the weight of everything you had held inside for so long.
And then, finally, it broke.
Hot tears spilled over your lashes, trailing down your cheeks unchecked. Your shoulders shook violently as you sank downwards, sliding down the rock slightly, the exhaustion and guilt and fear pouring out in raw, trembling sobs. "I… I can't… I can't save them all…" you gasped, voice hoarse, each word trembling with anguish. "I try, I try so hard, but it's never enough!"
Bard reacted instantly, lowering himself beside you. His hands were gentle, but firm, sliding around your trembling frame, pulling you close. "Shhh… it's okay. It's alright," he murmured, voice soft but steady, grounding you. "You're not alone. I'm here."
You let yourself collapse against him fully, forehead pressed to his chest, arms clutching at him as if holding on for dear life. Every sob shook your body, every shiver of pain and exhaustion escaping in ragged breaths.
He didn't speak over you; he just held you, letting you cry, his fingers stroking the back of your hair gently, anchoring you to something solid, something safe.
Through your tears, you could feel his warmth, the steadiness of his heartbeat beneath your temple. For the first time in a long while, you weren't trying to be strong. You weren't trying to be invincible. You were just… human, a child who needed someone to care for them.
And he didn't flinch. He didn't judge. He simply held you as the storm inside you raged, whispering quietly, "You're stronger than you think… but even the strong need someone sometimes."
Your sobs slowly began to weaken, shaking less violently, though the tears continued to fall. You buried your face deeper into him, seeking both comfort and absolution, finally allowing yourself to feel the weight of your own fragility—and knowing, for the first time in so long, that it was okay.
From afar, unseen by you, another pair of eyes had already found you.
"Ú-veditho nadad lin nîf?" (Will you not give her comfort?) Tauriel's voice came softly. She stepped closer, her boots barely making a sound against the ground as she came to stand beside him.
Legolas didn't answer. He stood still, almost unnaturally so, his gaze fixed on you—on the way your shoulders shook, the way you clung to Bard like you were falling apart in his arms. His jaw tightened, a flicker of something raw passing through his eyes before it was quickly buried beneath his usual composure.
He wanted to move. Every part of him urged it, to close the distance, to pull you away from that pain, to hold you the way he should have, long ago when he had the chance to. To reassure you, to tell you that you didn't have to carry it alone. His fingers twitched faintly at his side, curling as if they already knew the shape of you.
But he didn't. He couldn’t.
Your words echoed in his mind, relentless. The prophecy. The vision. Your death. It had all been so clear, so unavoidable. And he had chosen to leave—to walk away from you before it could come to pass, before he could watch it happen with his own eyes. Fear had driven him then, sharp and suffocating.
And now… it was consuming him.
A quiet breath left him, almost unsteady, his gaze faltering for just a second before settling on you again. Seeing you like this, hurting and breaking, something twisted painfully in his chest.
"Ah aen, le dartha sí." (And yet you stand here) Tauriel added, softer now, her eyes flickering between him and you, understanding settling in her expression.
His lips pressed into a thin line. When you pushed him away earlier, it had struck something deep, something he hadn't been prepared for. At first, it felt wrong—unacceptable. He didn't understand it, didn't want to. But then your words had settled, sharp and final, and he had no choice but to hear them.
And it hurt, more than he cared to admit.
"Ú-chenin." (I'm… not sure) The words came quieter than expected, almost lost beneath his breath. Legolas blinked rapidly, his gaze faltering for the briefest moment. There was a sharp sting behind his eyes, it was unfamiliar. It had been centuries since he had felt anything close to this, and yet now it pressed in, relentless, refusing to be ignored.
Tauriel noticed immediately. Her gaze lifted to him, studying the subtle fracture in his composure. For a moment, she said nothing, her expression softening with quiet understanding. Then, gently but firmly, she spoke.
"You said we ride north to Gundabad," she reminded, her tone steady and grounding, an anchor against the storm she could see building in him. She took a small step forward then, turning slightly toward him. "We shall leave within a few hours."
She paused, her eyes lingering on him, searching before continuing. "Le láe uin echuiad er a phadar den," (You may only have one chance to tell her) she added, softer now, but no less certain. "Avo losto" (Do not waste it)
With that, Tauriel turned, her steps light as she moved away, leaving him standing there with the weight of her words settling heavily in his chest.
Legolas didn't follow ahead. Instead, his gaze remained fixed on you, unmoving, as if the world around him had faded into nothing. He watched the way you clung to Bard, the way your frame trembled with each sob, and something inside him twisted painfully.
His hand shifted at his side, fingers curling slightly, then loosening again—uncertain and restrained just for you. Every instinct urged him forward, to close the distance, to reach for you…
Hours had passed since then, before the world finally grew quiet again. The chaos had settled into a fragile stillness, and somewhere within it, you had drifted off, resting against the cool surface of the rock, your breathing slow and even, as if your body had simply given in after holding on for far too long.
Bard had stayed until he was sure of it, his quiet insistence eventually winning over your stubbornness. Only then had he left, leaving the quiet to settle around you like a fragile cloak.
And now… you slept.
Legolas approached then, only when he was certain no one was watching. His steps were soundless, careful, almost hesitant—as though he feared disturbing something fragile.
His gaze fell on you the moment he drew close, and for a second, he simply stood there, unmoving. Your expression, finally at peace, struck something deep within him. It was the first time he had seen you like this in… too long.
Slowly, his eyes traced downward, the sight of your injuries quickly caught his eyes, traces of blood stained your nose, your palms bruised and cut, knuckles still raw. His chest tightened, a sharp ache that twisted deeper the longer he looked. He couldn't believe he had left you there, alone, carrying all this on your own.
He stood there staring, unable to bring himself down near you, but he did so in the end anyways. Finally, he'd lowered himself beside you, careful not to startle your slumbering form.
His hands hovered a moment over yours before gently enclosing them, lifting them slightly into his lap. The touch was tender, almost afraid, afraid of breaking the fragile being in front of him.
"Goheno nin..." (Forgive me) He whispered, the words fragile, barely audible, yet carrying the weight of every moment he had failed you. His lips pressed softly to the back of your knuckles, warm and gentle, and he closed his eyes, letting the memory sweep over him, the two of you as children, carefree, innocent, the bond they had once shared before you left him.
The ache in his heart deepened, bittersweet and heavy. He had remembered that day ever since. And now, holding your hand in his like this, he vowed silently, not to let you face the world alone again.
"You just need to kiss the pain away! That's what my grandpa told me." A younger you declared, determined, your small hands clutching his as they hovered over a tiny cut.
Legolas' eyes were still red from crying, glistening with unshed tears, as he looked down at you in stunned confusion. Before he could respond, your lips pressed lightly against the back of his hand, a soft, earnest kiss.
His face heated immediately, a faint blush creeping across his cheeks, and he looked away, embarrassed yet captivated by your sudden intrusion.
"See? It's no longer pain isn't it?" you smiled, pride spreading across your small features, eyes sparkling with the certainty only a child could muster. But Legolas only shook his head gently, still wincing just slightly, though he tried not to show it.
You frowned at his response, not wanting to believe it hadn't really work. Your brows knitted together in mock indignation, "Then I guess you need more kisses!" With that, you peppered his hand with quick, giggling kisses, squirming just enough to tickle him, earning bursts of laughter from the tiny elf.
And suddenly, somehow, it was true, he couldn't feel the pain no more. From that day on, Legolas carried the memory with him, a ridiculous, impossible notion that somehow held power—because if it came from you, he knew it was always an exception.
Legolas' eyes fluttered open, soft green catching the fading light as they settled on your sleeping face. A faint, helpless smile tugged at the corner of his lips, small and quiet, but entirely his, because when it came to you, restraint had never been his strong suit.
He lingered there, watching the gentle rise and fall of your chest, letting himself trace the familiar lines of your features. Then Tauriel's words seemed to have found its way back to his mind. Should he wake you? Should he finally tell you everything? His hand hovered in the air, frozen, uncertainty tightening his chest.
Not now, he whispered silently to himself, letting it drop back to rest beside him. "Weston… tolathon ad. Sîr," (I promise... I will return. Soon,) he murmured under his breath, voice low, almost drowned out by the stillness around you. "Ir tolathon… pedithon i daer peded ned echuir i 'wain. O 'wanath nîn… a chen." (When I do… I will speak what should have been spoken long ago. Of my regret… and of you.)
"Ú-chebin le edraith dan i chened nîn… ú-chebin le edraith dan i innas nîn. Le uin i chenen… i…" (You were never beyond my sight… nor beyond my thoughts. You've always been the one I've watched, the one I…)
He faltered, the weight of the truth catching in his throat, but finally, in a whisper meant only for the wind, he let it slip.
"i mellon nîn..." (The one I love...)The words hung in the quiet, fragile as crystal, and you never stirred to hear them—not now, not ever in that moment. And perhaps, if you had, you wouldn't have even known.
His gaze drifted back to your bruised and battered hands, lingering over the cuts and dried blood. He paused, heart tightening, he wasn't gifted with the subtle art of healing like some, but he refused to let that stop him. Not for you. Not ever.
He fumbled through his pockets, fingers brushing against the small, worn container of ointment he had brought. A soft, almost wistful smile curved his lips as memories washed over him—how he used to do the exact same thing whenever you’d scraped yourself as a child.
Ever since you had shown him the 'kiss,' he had followed the ritual in secret, pressing his lips softly to your injuries while you slept, before carefully applying the ointment to fade the pain and marks.
Though, there had been one time, long ago, when a wound cut too deep and left a scar he couldn't erase, a small reminder that even his devotion had limits.
Snapping out of his reverie, Legolas uncapped the container and pressed his fingers gently against the balm, spreading it across your bruises and scratches.
Every movement was slow, tender and meticulous, ensuring that each wound was soothed, each ache attended to. He murmured softly to himself, almost unconsciously, "Rest… I've got you," as his hands traced the contours of your injuries with care, his blue eyes reflecting a fierce, protective devotion.
Just as he finished, a sharp voice pierced the quiet. "We need to leave now, or else it'll be too late to travel back," Tauriel called from behind, her tone brisk but not unkind. Legolas stiffened, the reminder pulling him from the fragile cocoon of care he had wrapped around you, reminding him of duty beyond this quiet moment.
He nodded once, almost imperceptibly, before he paused, his gaze lingering on your peaceful face, so still and vulnerable in sleep. Every breath you drew seemed fragile, precious, and he felt the weight of the world pressing down upon him for having left you before.
A low sigh escaped him, barely more than wind through leaves. His voice then dropped to a whisper, rough with unspent emotion. "I swear it… I shall return to you," he murmured, his voice trembling with quiet resolve. "Soon, and I will speak all that my heart has long held silent."
His hand hovered, almost instinctively brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek, lingering as though he could imprint the memory into himself.
His eyes traced the curve of your jaw, the faint rise of your chest, the softness of your sleeping features—every detail he feared might vanish if he turned away. "Tolo nîn." (Wait for me,) He whispered, words thick with longing and promise.
With measured steps, he rose, the faintest tension in his shoulders betraying the turmoil within. One last glance, one last imprint of your presence, and then he turned, leaving the quiet stillness of the rock behind. Yet even as his form receded, his eyes remained drawn to you, unwilling to sever the fragile thread that bound them.
Just as Legolas vanished from view, Bard caught the movement, his sharp eyes narrowing in curiosity. He stepped forward cautiously, but by the time he reached the spot, the elf had already disappeared down the path, leaving only the quiet rustle of leaves in his wake.
Bard's gaze fell to you, still slumbering against the rock. He bent slightly, his brow furrowing as he considered waking you to move on with the others toward the castle. But then, something caught his attention—your hands.
They rested gently on your lap, unblemished now. No cuts, no bruises, no traces of the blood that had so recently marked them. His eyes widened, the faintest gasp escaping him, a mixture of awe and disbelief flickering across his face.
He could see the careful touch that had healed you, the tenderness, the intent, the care that spoke of someone who knew you, who had cherished you.
Bard's lips parted slightly, eyes tracing the curve of your hands, the faint marks of care already gone. He looked toward the path Legolas had taken, understanding dawning. A small smile touched his face, "So…" He whispered softly, "she is not alone… someone watches over her."
He crouched just a little, keeping his gaze on you, the awe lingering, heavy and silent. In that moment, he didn't need to know the details, didn't need names—he only knew what mattered. Someone cared for you. You had not been abandoned, you had not been truly alone.
Bard straightened at last, a quiet sense of peace settling over him as he whispered, almost to himself, "You are not alone, little healer. Not alone… never truly alone..."
A.N: So here it is…not my best work as I really have been struggling to write, but I hope you enjoy it regardless. Also, I feel like this fic might make me have to fight furry allegations? Whatever lol. (said with jest)
Request: N/A
Pairing: Legolas X Fem!Reader
Summary: In the forests of Greenwood, the reader, a skin-changer and the last of her bloodline, struggles to survive. When she meets Legolas, the elven prince, a bond forms between them.
Disclaimer: I don't know elvish. I use the gracious elvish dictionary. Sue me lol. Also, if there are spelling mistakes, its bc i have the brain of a snail and am old and tired.
Word count: 4.1k
Warnings: Fluff, hurt, comfort, angst, violence, gore, genocide, emotional distress, slight jealousy, nudity (not in a sex way lol), Thranduil lowkey losing his shit
MASTERLIST | AO3 | WATTPAD
How (Y/N) came to be the Greenwood resident mouse-catcher was, in truth, a rather unusual circumstance. See, mountain lions were meant to live in the mountains, or perhaps in the forests or the rocky canyons—not in stone castles. And for a while, she did live in the natural world. She hunted along Ered Mithrin, more commonly known as the Grey Mountains, which stretch along the north of Rhovanion. This is where she derived from. (Y/N) was born a shapeshifter, a skin-changer. There were few spread across Arda, not many known. As for (Y/N)’s lineage, it was nearly extinct.
(Y/N)’s kin had been systematically hunted and killed in a devastating purge, targeted for the power they possessed. The dark forces of Mordor feared their abilities to such an extent that they sought to eradicate them entirely. (Y/N) had been the most unfortunate among them all because she was the one that survived. She was the only member of her clan that escaped the brutal, bloody slaughter. She was unsure how, but she did. In the aftermath, she fled to the forests of Greenwood, where she remained for years, living in her animal form.
(Y/N) had tried to shift back to the human body she had once held, but the grief had stolen that capability from her. She simply couldn’t, no matter how hard she tried.
During this time, the orcs found her once more. They had slipped into the elven forest and continued their relentless hunt for the skin-changers of Arda. She fought fiercely—clawing, biting, and tearing through them—but not without cost, as an arrow struck her shoulder. The wound weakened her, allowing the creatures to gain the upper hand.
She should have died. She should have joined her bloodline in the halls of the afterlife. Yet, it seemed Arda had other plans. A Greenwood elven patrol crossed the path of the battle and swiftly cut down the remaining orcs as if they were dead branches that had been snapped and cast aside.
(Y/N) had heard stories of the elves from her elders—enough to believe they could be trusted, to an extent that is.
Therefore, when one with hair the color of sunlight approached her as she lay on the forest floor, panting and bloodied, she did not attempt to kill him. Instead, she only hissed—warning him to back off. He obeyed that command. He raised his hands in surrender, and spoke to her in a soft, steady voice, assuring her he meant no harm. There was a quiet insistence in his words as he promised to see her healed, and, at last, she relented. Thus, she found herself carried in the arms of the Woodland Prince on the journey to the halls of Greenwood.
…
When the patrol arrived at the entrance of Greenwood’s castle doors, an elven man was there to greet them. An intricate crown rested upon his head and jewels, fastened by intricate rings, adorned his fingers. His silver and red robes cascaded around his body like a velvety river that poured out power and authority. (Y/N) knew he was the king, for this man couldn't be any other.
As the Prince stood before his father, with the injured mountain lion in his arms, Thranduil’s brows turned into a scowl.
“Legolas,” he stated directly. “What is that?”
The Prince adjusted the rather large and murderous cat in his arms. “A mountain lion.”
The King exhaled deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Legolas, I know what it is. Why is it in my halls?”
Innocently, Legolas looked at the creature. “She’s injured. She needs care.”
Thranduil huffed, for he was rather used to his son bringing in strays. “Fine, fine.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Just have that beast out as soon as it is healthy.”
The smallest hint of a grin traced across Legolas’ lips as he replied with a placating lie. “Of course, Adar (father).”
From the way the two elves interacted, (Y/N) could tell they were kin. She was perceptive enough to infer that they were likely father and son. Yet, before she could analyze them any further, she was carted off by the Prince—once again. They moved through the winding halls to the healing ward, where they were met with subtle, knowing glances: it appeared that Legolas bringing in wounded creatures was not an uncommon occurrence. The healers set to work, removing the arrow, cleaning the wound, applying a poultice, and binding it with careful precision, all while those wary, animal eyes remained fixed on the Prince.
…..
The next few days were unfamiliar and uneasy for (Y/N). At the healers’ cautious request, she remained in the Prince’s chambers, keeping to the space beneath his desk and rarely venturing out—only when he managed to coax her forward a few hesitant steps with a piece of raw meat. And so the days passed, her trust building gradually, one offering at a time.
Their first physical interaction that wasn’t laced with the necessity of wound care or bribery arose from cautious curiosity. It occurred in the midst of a bitter winter night, as a snowstorm howled across the land—wind rattling the windows and hail striking against the stone walls. A steady fire burned in the hearth of Legolas’ chambers as he lay in bed, waiting for sleep to claim him.
It was then that (Y/N) slipped out from beneath his desk, unprompted by any offering of food. She approached the edge of his bed and peered up at him. Sensing movement and the weight of her gaze, he opened his eyes and sat upright. He was surprised to find her watching him so intently.
Gently, Legolas patted the mattress. “Would you like to come up, pîn faer (little soul).
The mountain lion tilted her head at him, curious and calculating. After a moment, she leapt onto the bed, casting nervous glances in his direction. Still wary, she settled at the foot of the mattress, keeping him within her watch.
He longed to reach out and touch her, but he knew the choice had to be hers. So instead, he lay back and allowed his eyes to close, pretending that the injured creature was not there at all.
The nights that followed unfolded in a quiet progression, each one marked by a subtle shift. On the second night, (Y/N) returned to the Prince’s bed and settled at a cautious distance, her chin resting lightly upon his feet. On the third, she crept a little closer, her paws draping across his legs as she watched him with wary eyes. By the fourth night, her tail lay gently across his stomach, her presence no longer quite so hesitant. And on the fifth, she drew near his face. He remained still, watching her quietly, allowing her full control of the moment. She nudged him with her head, then pressed closer, rubbing her face against his as a low, steady purr filled the chamber.
A soft chuckle escaped Legolas. He reached up to scratch her face, inciting more vibrating hums from the gentle beast. “Hello, pîn faer (little soul),” he stated simply.
With each night that came after, as the months passed, the mountain lion curled into the Prince’s arms—warm, safe, and content.
…
As morning rays traveled through Legolas’ window, he pulled himself from the comfort of his bed and his mountain lion—earning a couple disgruntled grunts from the creature.
He started to prepare himself for the day, quietly bustling around the room to do so. He began talking mindlessly to (Y/N), sharing his plans for the day—meeting with his father, training the soldiers under his command, reviewing patrol reports, creating upcoming schedules for the guards, and so on. He did this because it wasn’t necessarily his day anymore, it was their day.
You see, (Y/N) had taken to the Prince and they were nearly inseparable. She would follow him like a shadow, exploring the castle with him and tending to all his Princely tasks. So much so, that it was a regular occurrence for the Greenwood elves to see (Y/N) trailing the halls. They no longer were uncomfortable by her presence. She was now a constant in their lives.
As he traded his comfortable sleepwear for his usual woodland attire, he cast a glance at the creature sprawled across his bed.
She was staring at him.
He frowned, turning towards her, as he pulled on his lower undergarments. He stood, shirtless in his underwear. “What? Do you not agree with the plans today?”
She answered with a yawn, rising to stretch.
His expression softened as he stepped closer.
With gentle nudges and a rumbling purr, she tried to coax him back to bed, drawing a quiet laugh from the prince. “We can’t, pîn faer (little soul). We have duties to attend to.”
The mountain lion huffed, then leapt from the bed and padded toward the door.
Legolas frowned as he pulled on his tunic. Mumbling to himself, he stated, “I swear she can understand me.”
With that, the pair headed out the door and through the Greenwood halls, making their way to Thranduil’s chambers.
With a knock and a brief invitation to enter, Legolas stepped inside, (Y/N) close behind. They found Thranduil seated at the small table in his chambers, reviewing papers as he sipped his tea and enjoyed a hearty breakfast.
“Adar (father),” Legolas began. “Did you receive the patrol reports I provided you? I had concerns regarding the increase of spiders upon the east side of the forest.”
The King did not glance up when he replied. “Yes, yes. I am reading through them now.”
“I believe we should dispatch another patrol to track them to their nest. I feel as if—“
The King interrupted him, his head snapping upwards. “Hush—do you hear that?”
Legolas’ brows pulled downwards. “What is it that you speak of?”
Thranduil huffed as he glanced about the room with intent focus and curiosity. “A mouse. It has been haunting me for a week and Feren has not been able to catch it.”
The Prince suppressed a grin. “You have assigned your advisor to catch a mouse? That sounds rather beneath him.”
Thranduil rolled his eyes, sensing his son’s teasing tone. “You would as well, had you gone a week without sleep. And besides, this particular mouse requires someone of exceptional intelligence to catch it. It is a remarkably cunning little menace—“ his tone shifted as his eyes landed on (Y/N), leaning against the Prince’s legs. “Legolas, what is that beast still doing in my halls—in my chambers, no less?!!”
Legolas looked down at the mountain lion before sending an innocent look back to his father. “She likes me,” he stated bluntly.
“I have no desire to keep a wild animal in my home. What purpose could it possibly serve? It’s nothing more than another mouth to feed—”
But before the King could finish, (Y/N) sprang into action—though not toward him. She bolted across the room with startling speed, slamming into a dresser. A flurry of frantic scurrying followed, then a sharp squeak, and finally a sickening crunch.
Moments later, she returned, a limp tail dangling from her mouth. She stopped before the King, dropped her prize at his feet, and revealed a lifeless mouse.
Then she looked up at Thranduil, her gaze steady and expectant.
The King’s eyes narrowed. He glanced from her to his son, his expression darkening.
Legolas only grinned. “She serves a purpose—one that Feren clearly does not.”
Thranduil’s scowl deepened. “Very well. The beast may stay…for now.”
In the weeks that followed, a mouse, or sometimes two, would appear outside the doors of Thranduil’s chambers every few days, much to his displeasure. It was almost as if the mountain lion considered it payment for her keep—delivered with deliberate cheek and unmistakable intent.
The King, unsurprisingly, was not amused.
….
The summer months had come, leading to the elves spending much time outdoors training, tending to gardens, or simply resting. It was during this time that Legolas walked with the captain of the guard, Tauriel, through the trails close to the Greenwood castle. (Y/N) trailed behind them.
The mountain lion watched intently, her eyes narrowing as Tauriel’s gaze softened, a quiet shimmer lighting within it whenever she looked at Legolas. She noted the easy way Tauriel laughed at something the Prince had said, the sound warm and unguarded. Her attention sharpened further as Tauriel reached for Legolas’ hand to steady herself over a narrow creek.
(Y/N) huffed and sprang across the gap, deliberately brushing against the elleth as she landed, just enough to make her stumble.
“Careful, pîn faer (little soul),” Legolas called, mistaking it for an accident. “We must be mindful of where our friends stand.”
The mountain lion answered with a low, rumbling growl before pressing her face against Legolas’ calf, subtly placing herself between him and the elleth.
Tauriel lifted a brow. “She seems quite taken with you, my friend.”
Legolas smiled softly as he crouched, running a gentle hand along the lioness’s back. “And I with her, I think.”
(Y/N) cast Tauriel a smug look, a quiet purr building in her chest.
The she-elf frowned, but spoke with a nervous chuckle. “I don’t think she enjoys my company very much.”
Legolas glanced up at her, unconcerned. “Nonsense. She is a remarkably friendly creature.”
Tauriel’s smile lingered, but something in her gaze was suspicious as she watched the mountain lion settle possessively at Legolas’ side. There was an awareness in the creature’s eyes—too deliberate, too knowing.
….
Summer was slowly giving way to autumn, and the nights carried a gentle, refreshing draft that drifted through open windows, cooling the castle walls.
Legolas, (Y/N), and members of the Woodland Guard had just returned from a spider hunt.
It was rough. It was brutal. It was bloody.
The mountain lion had partaken in the slaying of the vile creatures, for she was quick and fast—hunting was an innate part of who she was as a skinchanger.
She had joined the Prince on these patrols before, but this one was different—it was different because Legolas almost did not return from it.
There was a moment in battle where he had gotten pinned down by a rather large spider and was separated from the rest of the guard—but not from (Y/N).
She was quick to pounce on top of the hairy beast and dig her canines deep into its brain. She ripped its skin and bone open, sending grey matter flying through the air. Those sharp teeth, meant for shredding meat off bone and breaking open flesh, did not stop there. She continued ripping the beast apart until it released its grasp upon the Prince.
It flailed helplessly as its body could not take the desecration (Y/N) was bestowing upon it. She would have continued if it wasn’t for a sword piercing deep into its middle—carefully angled to not harm the mountain lion.
Legolas stood, panting and staring at her bloodied teeth.
A gentle smile formed upon the Prince’s expression. “Thank you, pîn faer (little soul).”
She answered with a low, rough sound—something akin to the meow of a barn cat—as she leapt to his side.
And that….that is when (Y/N) truly knew.
That fear she had felt when she saw Legolas ensnared beneath the spider—it was one she recognized all too well.
The feeling that had seized her. It was tight, forgotten, and all-consuming. Yet, it was not fear alone, but something far more vulnerable. It was a sensation she had known once before, long ago, before loss had stripped such an emotion from her world. It was love—deep and undeniable, taking root where she had sworn nothing would ever grow again.
She cared for Legolas—far more deeply than she had ever intended.
That evening, Legolas departed his chambers freshly bathed and dressed. This time, however, he did not bring (Y/N) with him. Instead, she remained curled upon his bed, watching as he prepared to leave—to spend time with Tauriel. They were to review “patrol reports,” he had said, though the mountain lion had long since noticed the subtle shifts in Tauriel’s demeanor toward the Prince….and she did not like it.
And so, the night unraveled from there, (Y/N)’s thoughts slipping loose and spiraling, spilling into every quiet corner of her mind until the moon stood high in the sky.
Did Legolas return the regard Tauriel harbored for him?
What if she dared to reach for him?
What if she sought his lips?
And what if he did not turn away?
The questions circled relentlessly, tightening their hold until that deep, unbidden care she bore for the Prince—something she, a creature of tooth and instinct, had no right to feel.
But…
She could, in truth, feel such care…just not in this form.
She began pacing the stone flooring—debating.
Could she do it? Could she shift once more…for him?
The question throbbed in her mind, pounding against her thoughts as if it were screaming, pleading, begging. Yet it did not come alone; it was bound to a strange sensation—sharp, insistent, and tinged with envy. A feeling that pulled taught and hard, like a rope coiling around her throat. And that pull? It began in her heart and funneled down the Greenwood halls towards a certain elf with the hair the color of the sun.
(Y/N) stood still.
Frequent shifts came smoothly, even without discomfort. But this…this was far from easy. A shift she had not attempted in countless years struck her with a pain no skin-changer should endure.
The mountain lion released a deep, gruff, painful sound as her body began to become consumed with excruciating pain. She could feel her form begin to contort and bend in the most agonizing way.
Every nerve burned as if it was being blessed by the fires of Mordor. Each muscle stretched as if it were being torn from her skeleton. And every bone felt stiff and cold, like the ghosts of the fallen had taken each ivory structure to the depths of death to keep them company.
It was as if she was experiencing everything and nothing all the same. The pain was all encompassing, gathering every aspect of self into it; and it did so until it was a bright white light of emptiness. Nothingness.
(Y/N) blinked.
She blinked again.
The ceiling of the Prince’s room began to come into focus—stone and wooden beams. They blurred and unblurred until they stabilized…sorta.
Slowly, (Y/N) lifted an arm and her hand appeared in her line of vision—her human hand.
She began to shift her form ever so slightly, only to cry out in pain. It was raw and filled with whimpering weakness—she nearly didn’t recognize herself in that sound.
She turned her head to look at her other arm, only to turn away in disgust, for the bone in her forearm was snapped and sticking out of her skin. A wave of nausea hit her—from the pain or repulsion of the sight, she knew not. She rolled on her side and used her intact arm to push herself up slightly.
She vomited.
(Y/N) attempted to pull herself upwards to stand; however, a deep, sharp pain stabbed her in the ribs. She groaned.
Hesitantly and excruciatingly, she began to drag herself from Legolas’ chambers toward his door—leaving a rather heavy trail of blood behind her.
As she reached the wooden barrier before her, she lifted a trembling hand toward the handle. It took several attempts—her blood-slicked palm slipping against the metal—before she managed to turn it enough to crack the door open. Forcing it wider, she pulled herself into the hallway beyond.
The pain surged, sharper now, and her vision began to blur once more. A cry tore from her throat before she could contain it.
Then, the darkness claimed her.
It was not long before a Greenwood guard, making his rounds, came upon the sight—a naked, bloodied woman curled in the center of the corridor. At once, he rushed to her side, calling out urgently for aid. Others answered his cry, soldiers and servants alike, who hastened to cover her and carry her swiftly to the healing ward.
…..
A sudden swell of anxiety and curiosity stirred in Legolas’s chest as he came upon a small cluster of guards gathered just outside his chambers, deep in hushed discussion. It was not their presence that unsettled him, however, but the trail of blood that led from his door.
“What has happened?” He asked, approaching them. “Whose blood is this?”
Immediately, they turned to face him.
He swallowed dryly, “Not the mountain lion, is it?”
A guard with deep brown hair, Tarron, spoke. “No, no. 'Twas not your beast. It was a woman.”
Legolas peered into his room, taking note of the blood and the vomit. “Who? A servant?”
Tarron shook his head. “We don’t know. I didn’t recognize her.”
The Prince frowned, for when you live for centuries upon centuries, you tend to know everyone in your home. “You did not recognize her?”
“Nay. Ruvenn did not either. He took her to the healing ward.”
Legolas raised his brows, taking note of the amount of blood. “She’s alive?”
Tarron nodded.
With that, the Prince turned and made his way to the healing ward, pushing open the large wooden doors. The chamber stretched long and open, lined with empty beds, yet his gaze was drawn at once to its sole occupant and those that gathered around her.
At the bedside stood the head healer, Halafarin, carefully binding the arm of a woman, while another healer moved at his side, supplying what was needed. Yet it was the sight of his father, standing over the bed, that surprised Legolas the most.
“Who is it?” Legolas questioned, moving towards them.
Thranduil replied, “I know not.”
The Prince allowed his gaze to rest upon the stranger before him. If even the King did not recognize one within his own realm, then who would?
“Not one of your warriors, I’m assuming?” Thranduil persisted, almost begging for an answer.
Legolas only shook his head, flabbergasted, as he examined her features. He took note of every curve of her expression and each dip and bend. She was beautiful in every essence of the word. How could he not have seen her within these walls before?
“I may have an answer as to why none of us recognize her,” Halafarin stated, interrupting Legolas’ thoughts. He gently grasped the woman’s chin and rotated her head. He then brushed aside her hair, revealing her ears with no point.
“A human?” Thranduil remarked, a faint note of abhorrence coloring his tone.
Legolas frowned, leaning into his elvish senses. “She does not carry the scent of a human,” he said quietly. “There is something… different.”
Thranduil cast his son a sharp look. “Whatever her nature, how did she come within my halls? Has one of your guards neglected their post?”
The Prince exhaled in quiet frustration. “Of course not.”
“Well, I most certainly did not permit a human to enter—” Thranduil pressed; however, his sentence was stolen from him by a loud interruption.
The woman bolted upright, drawing in a sharp, panicked breath.
It was then that Legolas saw her eyes—eyes that he knew by heart.
When her frightened gaze found him, her breathing began to steady and her tension eased as recognition took hold.
“Legolas,” she breathed.
Thranduil’s head snapped toward his son. “You do know her?”
But Legolas did not answer. He stared at her in stunned silence, his father’s words falling unheard. His lips parted slowly as he spoke, barely above a whisper.
“Pîn faer… (little soul).”
She smiled softly. “Hello, Legolas.”
“Y-you…” he faltered, disbelief catching in his voice. “You’re a skin-changer.”
“A skin-changer?!” Thranduil cut in, his gaze snapping between them. “What—who…” Realization dawned, sharp and incredulous. “The beast?! The mountain lion?”
The woman turned to face the King, slight annoyance in her tone. “You know, I prefer not to be called ‘the beast.’ I have a name.”
Legolas' vibrant gaze, the color of the sky, softened. “What is your name? What do they call you?”
She looked at him, sadness upon her expression. “There is no one to call me anything anymore.” The smallest, softest, hint of a smile stretched across her lips. “No one, but you, calling me Pîn faer (little soul).”
“But before me?” He questioned gently.
“(Y/N),” she replied.
That night, the Prince and the skin-changer sat together in the healing ward, Legolas perched at the edge of her bed. They spoke at length. (Y/N) told her story—her grief, her fears, the path that had trapped her in her animal form, and the loss of her kin. She laid her heart bare before him, and he received it with gentle, unwavering care.
…
Tags are in the comments because there are many of you <3
