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If you’ve seen my recent reblog from @writersmonth, you’ll know that I decided to take part in this event. I’ll try to post a drabble or a ficlet (it might be occasionally something more) every day. You will be able to read it both here and on AO3 (link in my bio).
I invite you, my lovely readers, to join me for the ride. I basically live off your support and feedback, so if you like what I’m writing, let me know! There’s no better motivation for a writer than knowing that you are reading my works and enjoying them 💙
Today’s prompt is a word: protective.
The fic you are about to read is a gift for the wonderful @aduialel as a thank you for helping out a friend in need. Thank you so much once again! <3
As per @aduiael’s request, the story is based on the Elf OC, the Warrioress of Dawn, I created for her a while back. Plus, I may have been a tad inspired by Yanni’s song Nightingale she recommended to me for this fic, and I think it fits here quite well.
So, are you ready to read about how love bloomed between King Thranduil of Mirkwood and a certain elven warrioress?
Fandom: The Hobbit/Lord of the Rings
Relationships: Thranduil x reader
Warnings: nasty spiders
* * *
THE WARRIORESS OF DAWN
You are one of the Sindar warriors, living in Lothlórien under Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn’s rule. Thanks to your great knowledge of healing and your unique ability to speak with every living being on Arda, be it a flower, a butterfly, a bear or the western wind, Lady Galadriel entrusted you with guarding the elven kingdom against the servants of Morgoth and his dark influence.
Your deeds reached the ears of king Thranduil whose domain was being corrupted by evil. He requested your help, hoping that in time Mirkwood could once again become Greenwood. You accepted his invitation gladly - foul abominations would not stain the elven realms with their presence. You packed your things, along with your weapon of choice - the Morning Star (Tindómiel) - and set out on your new adventure, promising yourself that the light would once again triumph over darkness.
* * *
Sindarin phrases:
Dúlin - nightingale
Mellon nín - my friend
Melannen - beloved (endearment)
Othwen nín - my warrioress
* * *
Nightingale
Greenwood the Great was no more. Or at least it didn’t look the way it used to last time you were there, two thousand years ago, when the world was younger. Now, shadow lay upon the ancient forest that became Mirkwood. You could feel it in the air you breathed, in the water you drank, in the ground under your feet. But that was exactly why you arrived to the Woodland Realm, invited by its ruler, king Thranduil – to stop the darkness from spreading further.
You were tracking the giant spiders for days now and your instincts told you that you were getting closer and closer to one of their nests. But you learned to rely on something else, too. Your companion in this quest, a swift and keen-eyed nightingale informed you constantly on the eight-legged creatures’ movements. And so it was him who brought you the news.
“The nest! I found the nest!” the little bird twittered in excitement, circling above your head.
“Show me, Dúlin,” you closed your eyes and murmured an ancient elven spell.
Soon, you no longer saw darkness. Instead, there were branches swaying in the wind, and then, as your bird friend soared, catching wind under his wings, bright sunlight, clear sky and a sea of treetops stretching as far as his eyes – your eyes – could see.
The nightingale flew as fast as he could and after a longer while he flew over the Enchanted River and arrived above a dark forest glade, completely corrupted by the taint of darkness. Countless spiderwebs, cocoons and bones of forest animals filled that place instead of green grass and summer flowers. Quite a few spiders were gathered in that place, too. The stench of that spawn of darkness was almost unbearable, even for you, the battle-hardened Warrioress of Dawn.
You opened your eyes. Now you knew where to find them.
Reaching the tainted forest glade was easier than you thought. You traveled not on the ground, but above it, jumping from one tree branch to another, not making even the slightest sound. A few whispered words made the forest wind help you move among the trees whose sturdy boughs reached out towards you, stretching under your feet, making you feel as if you were running on a wide path on the ground. You knew why it happened; the roots of these trees drank the enchanted water from the river nearby, and as you tuned your hearing to the whispering of their leaves in the wind, you heard their lament, as they sang of their longing for the pure, green forest of old.
The nest was almost there, the putrid smell of rotting flesh and decaying, deformed plants intensified. You stopped for a moment and surveyed your surroundings, holding your weapon, Tindómiel, firmly in your hands.
You almost missed the first giant spider. He lunged at you from among the branches above you. And then another, and another. Fighting these monstrosities off wasn’t easy, but your weapon cut through the air with a swoosh, time after time, never missing the target. Warned by your winged companion’s alarmed chirps, you noticed even more spiders coming your way, their large bodies covered with prickly hair, their pincers clicking menacingly. Being a seasoned warrior, you knew your limits, and it was obvious that you had no chance against their numbers, not in this kind of combat. You jumped onto a branch of another tree, putting some distance between you and your enemy. Swiftly you crossed to a long branch that stretched out just a few meters above the Enchanted River, its dark waters flowing in unsettling silence.
Closing your eyes, you focused all of your energy on the magic you were about to evoke. With your mind’s eye, you saw all the threads of life running through Mirkwood, creating a complex network of vivid colors: the vibrant green of trees, the pulsing red of the forest creatures, the greys and browns of the rocks and ground below. Every single being around you was already marked by darkness; you could feel their suffering echoing through your body as if it were your own pain. It needed to stop.
Words of magic formed on your lips and flew off into the air. Something stirred under the dark, glistening surface of the river. You sang your incantation louder, moving your arms upwards, your palms up, and directing the unleashed power ahead, towards the enemy.
A long whip of water appeared above the surface. It shot out towards the nearest arachnid, wrapping itself around its carapace and pulling it down the tree, into the dark waters of the Enchanted River. The spider’s last shriek rang in your ears when another water tentacle rose from the water, and then another, and another, each one of them pulling the spiders into fathomless depths of the river. You smiled. Nature was fighting together with you. As you opened your eyes, ready to return to the fray, you saw a huge grey spider in front of you. You gasped in surprise.
“I will suck your succulent body dry, elf,” the creature taunted you in its filthy tongue and charged.
Without thinking, you jumped to another branch; wide and leafless. Preparing to deflect the spider’s attack, you lowered your stance. That is when you heard a crack. And lost your footing. The branch broke off and fell through the air, taking you with it. The ground below you was getting closer. This was your last chance. You muttered one last word of magic, putting all of your power into it.
The last thing you heard was Dúlin’s frantic chirping coming from far, far away.
***
Everything hurt. You groaned.
“Allow me to alleviate your pain, mellon nín,” a low, melodic voice reached your ears. A pleasantly warm hand touched your forehead and the same voice murmured something. A soothing wave of energy washed over your whole body, relieving some of your pain.
“My lord Thranduil,” you protested, the thought of the King of Mirkwood using his precious magic on you filled you with many conflicting emotions. “There is no need, I am--”
“There is no shame in admitting an injury suffered in battle,” he spoke in his steady, reassuring voice you grew fond of during your stay in Mirkwood. “Not even for you, Warrioress of Dawn.”
Your eyes flickered open and you found yourself gazing into Thranduil’s blue eyes, clear as a mountain stream. He was leaning over you, his face was surprisingly close to yours, and yet you didn’t feel any embarrassment. Somehow, it felt… natural, and yet your heart seemed to beat slightly faster than before.
Your kind was not hasty to love. In some cases, hundreds of years passed before a deep bond would bloom between two elves, and you have known Thranduil for much less time. This had not stopped your heart from beating faster every time you saw him, every time you spoke with him. You tried to lock your feelings away in the deepest corner of your heart, knowing how slim chances were of him taking an interest in you just a few weeks, but you haven't fully succeeded.
“The spiders…?” you muttered, forcing your mind to return to the matters at hand. Were the shadows in his eyes and his furrowed brow caused by worry or irritation?
“You have outdone yourself. The nest is completely destroyed,” Thranduil straightened his back, his pale golden hair flowing down his shoulders and over his breastplate.
Before you closed your eyes to check the state of your surroundings, you knew he spoke the truth: something changed in the air, there were birds chirping in the trees, and even a curious hedgehog left the nearby bushes. With time, this desolate place would turn into a green glade, vibrant with life. Darkness held no power over it any longer. This knowledge filled your heart with happiness, but you couldn’t ignore the tiredness washing over you. During the last moments of your fight you have depleted much of your energy.
“Was that what you call ‘a short patrol’ in Lothlórien?” The King of Woodland Realm added. “If so, I do not wonder any longer why there is no darkness among the Mallorn trees.”
You sat up carefully, giving him a small smile. As a result of your encounter with the spiders, you were bruised, and you would probably have to take it easy for a few days, but your ribs seemed to be intact. The grass felt unusually soft under your palm and you sent a thankful thought towards the ground you sat on.
“My patrolling duty took me too close to the nest to return to the Woodland Realm without taking any action. By the time I would have returned with reinforcements, the nest would have been empty or maybe even deserted,” you addressed the king with an innocent face, knowing that he enjoyed your little verbal sparrings as much as you did.
Thranduil clicked his tongue, “We both know that the spiders would have still been there. There was no need to risk your life over--”
“The forest is in pain,” you interrupted him, “I can feel it even now, and I will do everything I can to heal it. This is what I came here for.”
The king pressed his lips into a thin line. Silence stretched between you for a few long moments.
“I am thankful for your help,” he lowered his head slightly, placing his right hand over his heart. “Now, however, it is time to return.”
As soon as he stood up and reached out his arm towards you, offering support, you took it and slowly started to rise. A sudden lightning of pain flashed under your eyelids and you lost your balance, but a pair of strong arms steadied you, not allowing you to fall.
“My ankle,” you hissed, trying to breathe away your pain.
There was something wrong with it. Perhaps it was sprained, or maybe even fractured. You couldn’t stand on your right leg, and it has already started swelling.
“Let me help, mellon nín,” Thranduil said and lifted you gently in his arms. Your eyes met for a split second, and it was all it took to make you breathless. The king’s timeless charm seemed to be even stronger than usual. And was that a shadow of a smile dancing in the corner of his mouth? Surely, you were imagining things: imagining his strength as he lifted you without any visible effort, imagining his troubled yet intense gaze on you, imagining the tenderness of his touch as he held you close against his breastplate-covered chest.
A few moments later you were sitting sideways on Thranduil’s Great Elk, with the King’s arms wrapped around you, riding back towards the Halls of the Woodland Realm. You have never been so close to him before; his presence was both intoxicating and alluring, and the fact that your bodies were pressed against each other did nothing to help you. Only then did you realize that all those sensations provided a great distraction from your pain. Or perhaps that was Thranduil’s magic?
“My lord, I’m sure I’m able to ride on my own,” you protested without conviction, casting a glance towards the elves of the Mirkwood Guard unit following you on their mounts.
“And risk injuring your ankle further? As my esteemed guest you must allow me to express my gratitude in any way I see fit,” he replied.
“I… thank you, my l--” you started.
“There is no need for all those titles. No one can hear us now, Warrioress,” he interrupted you. This was a part of your unofficial agreement. After spending quite a few evenings in the king’s company, you realized how many topics you had in common, how much he cared for every single creature and plant in his realm, and how worried he was that the corruption of evil reached his woods. At the end of one of such evenings filled with fine food and pleasant conversation, he allowed you to call him by his name wherever you were alone. This was a great honor bestowed only upon a select few of his brethren. And now you were among them.
“Very well. Thank you… Thranduil,” as soon as his name left your mouth, you felt his chest rise and fall visibly against you.
“The pleasure is mine,” he said and you thought you heard a slightly softer tone in his voice. “But you do not need to prove your bravery every time you leave my halls, mellon nín. Not to me.”
A spark of something unidentifiable flickered in his eyes.
“My actions are not dictated by bravery. There is much suffering in the forest. You suffer together with it, I can feel it,” you offered, resting your hand reassuringly on his forearm.
Thranduil’s arms tightened around you, especially the one that supported your back, enclosing you in a protective embrace.
“It is my burden to bear until such time as Mirkwood is free of the taint of evil,” he spoke quietly, and as you looked at his noble profile, you couldn’t help but wonder how much pain was truly tormenting him.
“There has been enough suffering,” you leaned slightly closer towards him, taking in his masculine scent; he smelled like ferns after a spring rain, like the woods at dawn, like moss sprinkled with morning dew. “I am close to reaching the source of this corruption. Greenwood the Great will be reborn once again.”
“I must admit that I greatly admire both your deeds and your resolve, mellon nín,” he added, his words like the whisper of a stream. “Nevertheless, as soon as you leave my halls to face peril yet again, the wind laments in the tree crowns, the forest creeks weep, and the days stretch into eternity while the uncertainty of your return gnaws on my mind.”
“Is this why you ventured out so far from your halls to find me?” you met his eyes, carefully choosing your words. Thranduil the King was not one to leave the seat of his power on a whim.
“When I gazed upon your body under that tree, seemingly lifeless, I understood…” his gaze was now searching your face, and one of his hands rose to caress your cheek. “I never imagined that after thousands of years I would still be capable of feeling this way.”
The touch of his gloved hand was light as a feather, and yet a pleasant shiver ran down your spine, echoing in your whole body.
“Are you truly saying…?” you could barely believe your ears.
Thranduil looked deeply into your eyes, murmuring, “You are like a nightingale, singing its sweet song in the everlasting night and bringing relief. You are the bright light of hope in the darkness.”
“Thranduil… I…” your throat suddenly constricted, the sudden flow of emotions overwhelming you.
“If my feelings are not welcome, say only one word, and I will bury the song my heart sings for you deep inside me, and we will never speak of it again, mellon nín.”
“I can’t,” you raised your hand to his pale cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin under the tips of your fingers. “For my heart sings the same song since the moment I arrived to the Woodland Realm, melannen.”
The caress of Thranduil’s lips against yours was as sweet as wild honey and as gentle as a warm summer breeze. Gone was the usual superficial coldness of his demeanor, gone was his regal frown, and you discovered that beneath the mask of a ruler slumbered a great passion of a lover, making every single piece of your body come to life with one tender kiss.
And then you heard Thranduil whisper, “Would you stay in my kingdom and become my queen, othwen nín?”
Dúlin, your winged friend, twittered happily above you. He knew what your answer was going to be.
* * *
Read it? Like it? Spread love and reblog it!
Fell like reading more? Here is my masterlist for the Writer's Month 2021 event.
Taglist: @fizzyxcustard @shrimpsthings @dark-angel-is-back @sherala007 @amelia307 @anyaspidergirl-blog @jotink78 @rachel1959 @saltwater-in-the-afternoon @linasofia @justfollowtheroad @bitter-sweet-farmgirl @yourqueenunderthemountain @reblogunderthemountain @guardianofrivendell @elrawienthewhite @xmly-xo @tschrist1@nelleedraws @beenovel @vee-vee-writes
Oh, how I adored this! I cant belive it’s been up since 2021 and I haven’t read it!!! WTFFFFF! But I’m glad I am coming across it now :)
Soon, you no longer saw darkness. Instead, there were branches swaying in the wind, and then, as your bird friend soared, catching wind under his wings, bright sunlight, clear sky and a sea of treetops stretching as far as his eyes – your eyes – could see.
This is soo cool! I love this seer concept being incorporated into LOTR!!! I’m obsessed!
Closing your eyes, you focused all of your energy on the magic you were about to evoke. With your mind’s eye, you saw all the threads of life running through Mirkwood, creating a complex network of vivid colors: the vibrant green of trees, the pulsing red of the forest creatures, the greys and browns of the rocks and ground below
This paragraph is so beautiful. I adore how magic is weaved into nature throughout this.
“My actions are not dictated by bravery. There is much suffering in the forest. You suffer together with it, I can feel it,” you offered, resting your hand reassuringly on his forearm.
My hearttt—it makes me so *screams* to see how deeply thranduil loves his forest and his people. And if someone tries to help his forest and his people—he is so grateful and I love how the reader acknowledges this
Thranduil looked deeply into your eyes, murmuring, “You are like a nightingale, singing its sweet song in the everlasting night and bringing relief. You are the bright light of hope in the darkness.”
Summary: Your marriage to the Third Marshal of the Mark has been arranged in the hopes of renewing political ties between Rohan and Gondor. When Éomer is injured while on patrol, you both begin to learn important lessons in patience, and Valar forbid, communication.
AN: Here’s another installment of the arranged marriage-verse for Éomer! Let me know if you want to see more of these two, because I've got something brewing. 😉
Posted on Patreon: Jan. 23, 2026
Word Count: 3.2K
Tags & Warnings: Angst, injuries, hurt/comfort, tinge of spice
Series Masterlist
Three weeks and a day ago, Éomer and his Eored departed to hunt down a trail of orcs in the West Mark.
Three weeks and day, yet they hadn’t returned.
You understood his responsibility to protect Rohan, but you found that you missed him when he was gone. You missed breakfasting alone with him in the morning, and you missed his mostly stoic, but solid presence in the great dining hall, where the evening meal was more boisterous.
You were getting to know his most trusted men, Eothain and Falstred among others. You often gleaned even small tidbits through the stories they told, and you listened closely to anything that might reveal more about your husband. In turn, you tried to share more of yourself in childhood stories, living in Dol Amroth among the royal household of Prince Imrahil with your mother and brother.
Unfortunately, you had never known your father. He died when you were young. It was something you shared in common with Éomer, he’d revealed to you. Though he was already one and ten when Éomund’s recklessness led him into a battle he couldn’t win, pursuing a band of orcs in number that far surpassed his own.
But for all of these stories, so far, all you had learned was that your husband was a straightforward man, if prone to grumbling and brooding at times. It often took you time to pry out of him the underlying source of his moods. In his worst cases, it usually had something to do with his uncle’s continued decline. There were whispers that Théoden King now barely spoke, except through his advisor, Grima, who increasingly served as Théoden’s mouthpiece.
You knew that it frustrated Théodred, his own son, as well as his cousins Éomer and Éowyn. What you did not know, was how you could help.
You were faced with the question in a different way when Éomer finally returned, three days later. Eothain and two other men heavily supported him into the great hall, where you and Éowyn had come to receive him. He seemed barely conscious. His arm bore a laceration from elbow to wrist.
You held your hand over your mouth in a gasp when you noticed the blood running not only from his arm, but from a wound at his hairline down to his cheek, dripping on the floor.
When Eothain met Éowyn’s gaze, she understood what he would bid before he spoke.
“I will send for the healer,” she said.
Éomer’s tall frame took up almost the entire length of the bed. You sat at his bedside with worry creasing your brow. The healer and Éowyn had already tended to him, but your heart still lied in your throat. You couldn’t bring yourself to leave his side.
When he eventually woke, he found you curled up in a chair at his bedside. Uncomfortable, no doubt. He spoke your name gruffly, with the coarseness of sleep in his voice. You jolted awake, blinking in relief to see him with his eyes open. You smiled and went to sit beside him.
“How do you feel?” you asked. While you spoke, you raised the bandage from his head and changed it yourself with the supplies the healer left behind. Éomer watched you do it with a frown.
“Fine,” he said, whether it was the truth or not. “Why didn’t you come here to sleep?”
“I didn’t want to disturb your rest.” You resisted the urge to run your fingers through his hair like you would your brother. Part of you trembled inside, and it was fear. You were afraid of how much you already cared for this man. “Are you sure you are well? Should I send for the healer again?”
“No,” he said. At your raised brows, he said, more honestly, “I’ve had worse.”
You frowned. “Eothain told me that you all but ran headfirst into an orc’s club without heeding his warning. Have I married a reckless man?”
You both knew what you were really asking—if Éomer was such a man as his father after all.
He bristled with annoyance. The pain throbbing between his temples also made his words sharper.
“You’ve married a Marshal of the Mark,” he said. “I trust you understand what that means.”
“I understand very well,” you replied. “I only ask that you do not suffer needlessly.”
His jaw ticked. Another painful pulse above his brow followed the stinging reminder of his failures this day—to his men, and to his cousin, and to his king. His temper snapped.
“I have paid my dues in long, arduous years of training and had my share of censures,” he said. “I don’t need it again from a woman such as you.”
His voice was flat and gruff, chafing you even more. You paused, blinking incredulously.
“A woman such as me?”
“Unlearned in the ways of war,” he said. “And men. And for that matter, the world.”
Your lips pursed, but it could not disguise the hurt in your eyes. It pierced you too deeply. You nodded slowly. Raising your voice wasn’t your way, nor was being spiteful. Still…
“I dare think, you do not know me well enough to say so, my lord,” you said flatly.
You drew Éomer’s attention as you stood. The expressiveness of your eyes dimmed to cold embers. And it didn’t escape his notice that you used his title, not his name.
He sighed and briefly closed his eyes. He spoke your name, but you were already leaving.
“Rest well, if you so choose. I’m sure the healer will attend you better than me,” you said.
Before Éomer could think of anything to say, you saw yourself out of his chamber and allowed the heavy door to swing shut.
In the morning, Éowyn was exasperated with him as soon as she entered the door.
“If I am honest, I expected your stubborn, boorish nature to reveal itself much sooner than this. I applaud you for your restraint,” she said, and set a stool by his bedside with more snip than necessary. She began to unwind a long strip of new cloth to re-bind his arm, after she cleansed the wound.
Éomer would have shaken his head, if it wouldn’t have made it swim with vertigo.
“Do not start, Éowyn,” he warned.
Éowyn sat and stared hard at him. “I will remind you that while you slept, your wife stayed vigil at your side for the entire night without reprieve after I left. She helped the healer tend to you. This morning, she tells me you have no need of her. I hope you did not say so in those words.”
Éomer fell silent. When his gaze fell, Éowyn relented. She drew near to her brother and laid a gentle hand on his arm.
“She is distracted when you are gone, and though she does not say, I know the worry that lies behind her eyes until you return,” she says. “It is the same burden I carry.”
If it were possible, the well of Éomer’s guilt grew.
“In only a short time as this, I see she cares a great deal for you, brother,” Eowyn added. “I would advise treating her with a little more patience.”
Éomer would’ve liked to apologize. Only, you did not return to his bed that night. Or the next. Or the night after that. Instead, you must have chosen to sleep in your own bedchamber—a place you had not even entered since before the night of the wedding ceremony. Éomer refused to admit how bothered he was by it, that he now expected your warm body beside his.
He had been looking forward to returning home from a long ride, but he now realized that he had longed to return to you. He had missed his wife.
Meanwhile, Théodred returned from his Eored’s patrol of the East Mark. Eothain told him of Éomer’s mishap, and immediately Théodred set out through the darkened halls of Meduseld to visit his cousin’s bedchamber. There was not much that could fell Éomer.
However, Théodred paused when he passed by an open doorway that led to the light.
Peering inside, his confusion melted away to find you tending the garden. In just a few months, you had transformed the dingy, dying plants that remained, cutting them down to the only green parts of their stems. Already, new buds of life began to form.
You seemed agitated with your garden sheers, however.
“Good afternoon, my lady,” Théodred greeted you.
You straightened quickly, seeing the prince out of the corner of your eye. You reflexively hid the sheers off to the side and swept a frizzy coil of hair away from your face.
“Good afternoon, my lord. I am glad for your safe return,” you said.
Théodred smiled, but he noticed the tiredness pulling at your features in concern.
“Are you well?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. Merely trimming,” you answered, a bit distracted as you surveyed your work.
You had much more to do, yet not the energy to do it. However, it was a good distraction. You wanted to delay returning to an empty bedchamber. Meduseld was large and dark, and made eerie sounds at night. You had barely slept a few hours alone in your bed these past few days.
“I heard that you have looked after my cousin well,” Théodred said, earning back your attention. “I thank you for it.”
You demurred, lowering your gaze. “I have not done enough to warrant praise, my lord.”
Théodred’s head tilted as he considered you. “Why might you think that?”
Though you briefly looked up, your eyes fell back to the ground.
“Lord Éomer does not need an unpracticed hand. I am no healer,” you confessed. “I believe he prefers to be alone while he rests.”
Théodred hid a wry smile. He knew his cousin well. Éomer handled pain better than most, but he was not an easy patient, nor did he enjoy being fussed over.
Théodred gave you a kind look. “I am sure you did your best.”
With his hands clasped behind his back, he stepped closer to you and added, “Éomer is stubborn, as I am sure you have noticed. He does not wish to burden others, so he will rarely admit when he needs help. Nor is he likely to recognize it himself.”
You meet Théodred with a rueful look. “Not unlike my brother.”
Théodred smiled. “A terribly male trait, I’m afraid.”
You smiled a little in return.
“I understand, my lord,” you replied.
Oh, you understood. But at the very least, you and Éomer had once agreed to respect one another before going into this marriage. At this moment, you did not feel respected.
Théodred took his leave of you so he could visit Éomer next. His steps had a new layer of purpose when he strode into the bedchamber, where Éomer’s injuries still forced him to lay in bed. His face was more pallid than usual, his blonde hair wild and tangled, his night shirt hung disheveled from his frame when he sat up to greet Théodred.
Théodred raised a placating hand for him to lay at peace, but he regarded Éomer with a raised brow.
“You look terrible, cousin.”
“Thank you,” Éomer said sourly. The healers refused to let him out of bed yet, and his head still swam when he tried to rise completely. Though he hated the constriction. He had work to do, and all this laying around was irritating.
“How is married life suiting you?” Théodred asked dryly, his lips curving with amusement.
Éomer spied the knowing laughter in his cousin’s eyes, and he frowned.
“You’ve already been gossiping with Éowyn,” he grumbled.
“Do not blame your sister,” said Théodred. “I met your fair lady myself this morning, rather persistently attacking the garden weeds with shears.”
Éomer was more amused by that image, but considering how cross you must’ve been, he shook his head to hide his disgruntled embarrassment.
“Perhaps she imagines similarly pruning her husband,” Théodred remarked.
Éomer’s face fell. His palm rose to cover it, drawing over his beard.
“Idiot. Leave me be.”
“Remember that she is still learning your ways. If there is something she is missing, then express yourself properly,” Théodred advised. “Though I know that these trifles, such as considering your words before they escape you, have never been one of your virtues.”
Éomer rolled his eyes.
After Théodred took his leave, Éomer grew impatient. He resolved to leave this confounded bed, all the while annoyed that it never felt too large before.
You mainly made yourself busy with gardening. You worked on the tougher weeds that laced between the roots of the moon flowers. In a few weeks, this patch would revive and hopefully bloom beautiful blue-white bells under the glow of the moon.
If only you could get your tools to work.
“When were these shears sharpened last, the First Age?” you muttered.
There was a thorny bush, its stems thick with decay, which was why you needed the shears. You finally leaned all your weight on the handle, and the stem finally cut. Though your hair fell in your face dangerously close to the blades. No matter how dull they might be, sheers were still dangerous. You carefully picked strands of hair from the blades and positioned the tool for another unruly stem.
When a familiar voice called your name just behind you, however, you gasped and whirled around with the sheers in your hand, an unintentional weapon.
Éomer grunted as he leaned away, but he also stepped closer to where you kneeled on the ground. He was without his armor of course, dressed in a loose tunic tucked into his breeches and boots.
“What are you doing? You should not be...” you began to reproach him, but fearing it sounded like a nagging order, or some other thing that might provoke his temper again, you fell quiet.
Éomer took note of it, a familiar sting behind his ribs.
“You have done well with this place,” he said of the garden, surveying your work.
You paused, unable to help the way you blushed. Éomer’s gaze found yours and settled there.
“May I speak with you?” he asked.
After a long, measuring look, you relented. “Let us go where you will be more comfortable.”
Back to bed, implied your tone. Éomer smiled slightly. He still offered a hand to you, helping you from the ground. In turn, you supported him by his arm as the two of you left the garden together.
After returning to his chamber, you sat with him at the neutral ground of the large, comfortable chairs before the unlit fireplace. The autumn air was cooling, soon into winter, but for now it was still warm enough.
Swallowing his pride, Éomer spoke first.
“About the other day…I am sorry if you felt slighted by my words—”
“‘If,’” you echoed, raising a brow. “So if I felt slighted, it was my own fault to take offense?”
“That’s not what I meant.” Éomer realized now what Théodred had been getting at. Either he truly was terrible with words, or he continued to underestimate the testiness of his wife.
You said nothing more, but your true thoughts were in your eyes. He tried again.
“I am not accustomed to being looked after by anyone beyond my sister,” he explained. “Even then, I forget that she hides her worry for me, along with her other troubles. Perhaps it is a trait we both share.”
He reached over and laid his calloused hand over yours, squeezing lightly.
“So please forgive my callousness,” he said. His lips formed a slight smile. “It may take some time for me to remember that my wife is a kind woman. She has somehow come to care for my wellbeing, despite being forced into an arrangement she did not choose.”
You paused, blinking in surprise, as his earnestness touched you as deeply as his cutting words had. You considered his hand over yours. Hesitantly, you covered it with your own. It reminded you of your first morning with Éomer, sharing breakfast together in this very place.
“I did not mean to scold you,” you said. “I know that I am not a warrior, but that does not mean I know nothing of the costs of war. Long have the Swan Knights of Dol Amroth met corsairs in battle. Many of their bodies could not be recovered by the swell of the sea. As a girl, I would watch from the keep as their dwindled numbers returned from bouts with pirates, black market traders, and slavers from both Umbar and Harad...”
You took in a steeling breath.
“Once, a bloated, mottled thing washed upon the shore. The skin was pallid and gray, mutilated by fish and whatever else. My brother could only recognize his friend by a scar upon his right hand, accidentally inflicted when they sparred together as children.”
Éomer was silent, but he listened to you intently.
“Since that day, I have worried that I too should have to identify my brother’s body, knowing him only by his own scars,” you confessed. “How can I not also hold that burden for you?”
Éomer considered this with a tilt of his head, and after a moment, a deep nod.
“I understand,” he said.
“I do care for your wellbeing. Not only for my duty, but because you are a good man. A better one than I might’ve hoped for, despite his stubbornness,” you said, with a teasing note at the end.
Éomer didn’t quite know how to respond. When you said such things, it made him feel warm in the face and neck. Shifting uncomfortably, he cleared his throat and managed to stand without his head swimming. He reached for you to help you up with him, then he kissed the hand you offered him.
“Will you return to these rooms tonight?” he asked.
You gave a subtle smile as he guided you closer to his side. You braced your free hand on his chest and met his gaze.
“I might be persuaded,” you said.
Éomer thumbed at your chin, his lips edging toward a smile himself. He tugged you to him in a kiss, allowing it to be gentler than usual. It lingered just enough to keep you hanging upon it, and upon him. Your hands came to rest familiarly on his chest. Both of his slid down to hold your waist in an enticing grip. You knew that half-lidded look of his.
“Éomer,” you warned, despite the pleasant tingling down your spine. “I will return to our bed, but you are not yet healed.”
His eyes took on a hint of amusement, and mischief.
“I've been forced to postpone a proper homecoming, and I’d rather not wait any longer,” he said, leaning down to capture your lips again. When he was satisfied that he had your attention, his lips marked their desires along your neck, stopping just under your ear. “Allow me to prove I am well enough to give my wife pleasure, and satisfy my own. For the moment.”
You couldn’t help the tremble that ran through you, a warm pulsing between your legs. In that moment, you found it difficult to deny him anything. So, you did not.
You trusted the strength in his hand as he led you to bed.
AN: 😘 If you're craving more heat, don't worry. That "more" I was talking about is coming soon...
Next Time: Actions into Words
Summary: Winter brings bitter cold to Meduseld, but it will be up to you and Éowyn to bring the warmth and merriment of Yule to its halls. What gift can you offer your husband of six months, especially as you begin to realize what he means to you?
Within the privacy of your shared chamber, you heard Éomer stoking the fire while you defrosted in the warm waters of the tub. Even though he had just come in from a long day’s ride, he had your bath prepared before his own, and he was giving you privacy, remaining behind the partition.
It had been a few weeks since you’d drawn the courage to join him in any more bathing adventures, or in fact, invite him into yours. You were, perhaps irrationally, afraid of deepening your feelings for him. You knew he was at least fond of you, and he was conscious of his duties as a husband. You were also certainly compatible with him…physically. But you doubted very much that his thoughts of you went beyond that.
You doubted that he loved you.
It is one thing to be dutiful, even kind, you thought, but it is another thing entirely to love and be loved.
☕ Keep Reading: Actions into Words
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You often gleaned even small tidbits through the stories they told, and you listened closely to anything that might reveal more about your husband.
I really appreciate how you highlighted the lack of knowledge of each other because of an arranged marriage. That’s something that is really impactful and sets the tone
When he eventually woke, he found you curled up in a chair at his bedside. Uncomfortable, no doubt. He spoke your name gruffly, with the coarseness of sleep in his voice.
My heart is so full oh my Valar
You frowned. “Eothain told me that you all but ran headfirst into an orc’s club without heeding his warning. Have I married a reckless man?”
OKAY BUT THE PARALLEL HERE (which you addressed in the literal next line lol)
“I dare think, you do not know me well enough to say so, my lord,” you said flatly.
THE ANGST IS SO GOOD
Théodred smiled. “A terribly male trait, I’m afraid.”
I love this line so fucking much.
“I met your fair lady myself this morning, rather persistently attacking the garden weeds with shears.”
“Perhaps she imagines similarly pruning her husband,” Théodred remarked.
I SPAT MY TEA—I adore how fucking blunt he is and how he calls Eomer out!
Summary: After the battle at Helm’s Deep, you find it difficult to enjoy the victory feast. Aragorn notices your melancholy and tries to comfort you.
AN: Don't worry, I've got more Dean Winchester, Jason Teague, and Beau Arlen stories coming soon, but I had to finally get out my first ever LOTR story. So if you're a LOTR fan, I would love to know what you think of this! I thought it would only be right to start with Aragorn, our rugged hero. In this one, the reader is Éomer and Éowyn’s sister (the middle child, age-wise).
Word Count: 1.4K
Tags/Warnings: Angst, mentions of death, hurt/comfort, and fluff
“Tonight, we remember those who gave their blood to defend this country,” said Théoden King.
You watched from the crowd before him in the great dining hall of Medulseld, unable to hide your heavy heart. You needed no reminder of what the victory at Helm’s Deep had cost your people.
Théoden raised his chalice full of Rohirric ale and declared, “Hail, the victorious dead.”
“Hail,” the crowd echoed back to him, as was the custom. You repeated yours more quietly before you drank from your cup. The ale tasted like swill on your tongue; not because it wasn’t well-made, but because you didn’t have the heart to enjoy it.
Soon the hall was filled with the chatter and boisterous laughter that came with good food and heavy drinking, and after a battle such as this one, there would be no shortage of spirits. You weren’t surprised that Éomer, your older brother, instigated a drinking game with Rohan’s guests.
“No pauses, no spills,” he said, handing Gimli and Legolas each a pint poured straight from the cask.
“And no regurgitations,” the dwarf added, a mischievous gleam in his eyes when he glanced at the elf.
You smiled, but even in that, it didn’t reach your eyes. Éomer noticed you, or more accurately your unusual quietness.
“Are you all right?” he asked. You saw through his usual stoic expression to the concern laced underneath. You tried to give him a proper smile when you nodded.
“Yes, perhaps just tired,” you said. You took your leave of them with the idea that you might get some fresh air, see the night stars. The memory of being trapped under the depths of Helm’s Deep while a bloody battle raged above was seeped in your subconscious. After the fortified walls of the stronghold crumbled, you remembered thinking, A great crypt this will make of us. Buried forever under ash, orc blood, and bone.
And then the morning came, along with the sun—
“Oh,” you gasped at knocking into someone’s sturdy form. Aragorn, the Ranger, stopped you from tumbling to the floor. His hands were strong, but gentle holding you steady by your arms. Your gaze caught on his left hand, where a silver ring on his forefinger, holding a small green jewel, reminded you that he was no mere rugged ranger. He was the main reason any of you survived the long siege.
“Are you all right, my lady?” he asked. His voice was even and kind. Always kind.
You tried to steady yourself inside. You always struggled to do so when you looked too deeply into his eyes, so wonderfully blue as a cloudless day. Your face began to warm in a blush.
“I am sorry, my lord,” you said, quick and breathless. Your sloshing cup lied between you two. After a moment, it settled a little. You noticed he didn’t have a drink of his own, and so you found yourself raising your cup in offer to him.
Those cloudless eyes rose to meet you. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and his hands slid around yours to bring the cup to his lips. You were spellbound where you stood; you couldn’t even remember blinking while the man took one long sip. He eventually released your hands and inclined his head in thanks.
When you smiled, it almost reached your eyes.
His head tilted slightly. “Are you truly well?”
Your brief happiness faded, and your lips pursed. “Why must everyone ask me that?”
His earnestness shifted into amusement.
“It is a good night,” he said. “One that is hard won.”
“Hard won, indeed,” you agreed, but your tone was heavier.
It didn’t escape his notice as you nodded to him in respect, hesitated briefly, then slipped away from him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw your younger sister Éowyn watching, a small frown marring her features. She had been looking for him.
Aragorn gave her a reserved smile to acknowledge her, but his gaze couldn’t help but be drawn to the path you took away from him. So, he followed you.
He found you based on where his instincts led him—out of the dining hall, and onto a wide ledge that served as a balcony overlooking the immense hill on which Meduseld stood. The cold night air tugged at the skirt of your dress and blew your hair wild on the wind. You held yourself against that cold.
You also flinched at Aragorn’s hand on your back, no matter how gentle he was. His brows furrowed.
“I apologize for intruding, but it is cold out here,” he said.
After a moment, you shook your head and turned to him, drawing your cloak closer to your body. “You are not intruding, my lord. I only…I needed room to hear my own thoughts.”
A weight settled over Aragorn’s heart when he looked at you, so forlorn. Since he’d come to Rohan, and since Théoden King had been freed of his madness, the light in your eyes had begun to brighten day by day.
Aragorn fought at Helm’s Deep for all of Rohan so that its Golden Hall might not fall to Sauron’s malice. But in his mind, it was also your face that too often flashed before his eyes while he fought and scraped. He drew strength whenever he remembered your smile, however rare it was to behold.
“And what do they say?” he asked you in a quiet voice. Quiet, but not without care.
You were looking out at the dark horizon instead of him. You held yourself tighter against the chilled wind.
“That this peace is a lie,” you said. “That all too soon, the next battle will be upon us…and you will leave.”
You looked over at him then, holding his attention far greater than you knew.
“You all will leave, and this hall will once again become a colder, darker place,” you said.
Your admission struck him, so much that he didn’t at once know what to say. He only knew that he didn’t want to see you walk away from him again.
He reached for your hand, the one that lay at your side. He stepped closer into your space, until his broad form was all you could see. Admittedly, there was nothing else you wanted to see, save for the pale glowing stars above. There was a time that you thought you might never see them again.
Aragorn raised his free hand to curl a finger beneath your chin. He murmured your name, and you allowed him to tilt your face upwards so he could see you. Your tearful eyes slowly met his.
“Hope is not lost,” he said.
“But you cannot promise that all of you will return,” you said. With a steeling breath, you finally allowed yourself to be more honest. “That you…will return.”
Aragorn’s eyes widened slightly after he caught your meaning. Then, he softened.
“No. I cannot promise that,” he said.
You bit your lip as a tear fell down your cheek. He swept it away, drawing his thumb tenderly there against your skin.
“But there is one thing that I can promise,” he said.
Your head tilted in question, and it gave him the perfect opportunity. He leaned down and touched his lips to yours. At first it was cautious, a question. You inhaled deeply. Your eyes fell shut.
His second kiss was firmer, heady like red wine. Your trembling hand rose to touch his bearded cheek, and he steadied you by holding your hand there. He broke from you, just to press another tender kiss into your palm, then the inside of your wrist. Your breaths came out in a shaky rush.
“What does this promise mean?” you asked.
Aragorn paused, looking up at you again. He found you smiling. It was small but true as it lightened your face from its despair. Now, he saw hope. He saw fledgling joy.
His lips tugged at a similar smile. “It means I will carry you with me, even when we are apart.”
He moved your hand to rest over his heart.
“It means I carry you here now, even though I stand before you,” he said.
You splayed your fingers out, so your thumb could caress at the edge of warm skin not covered by his collar.
“Then I will do the same.”
AN: Eomer is coming next on the LOTR train! 💜
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The ale tasted like swill on your tongue; not because it wasn’t well-made, but because you didn’t have the heart to enjoy it.
The survivors guilt is so real and I appreciate how you demonstrate how it sucks the little enjoyment out if life
After the fortified walls of the stronghold crumbled, you remembered thinking, A great crypt this will make of us. Buried forever under ash, orc blood, and bone
That discription is wow. Just wow.
Aragorn raised his free hand to curl a finger beneath your chin. He murmured your name, and you allowed him to tilt your face upwards so he could see you. Your tearful eyes slowly met his.
UGH these soft gestures and actions claim my sorry ass
What a lovely read! Thank you for writing, friend!
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ willow dancing on air, covering me | Aragorn, Son of Arathorn
desc.: Yes, I'm picturing gentleness with Aragorn. This is after he was crowned King of Gondor and Andor. Since he's with you and not Arwen, I switched some things up. Get cozy and enjoy.
Aragorn tucked her hair behind her ear, the strays of them floating by the light air. His sorrowful gaze refused to hide itself under the guise of his victory, seeking more of her, as much as he could. Whilst the kingdom of Gondor enjoyed a peaceful night's sleep, their King lacked one. His sole comfort was in knowing she was with him, whole and unseparated.
"I wished you had not been there," he muttered, his thumb brushing her chin. Aragorn looked only at her amulet, the one he gifted from Gondor's depths of treasures. It was easier that way.
"Perhaps then you'd be safe," he reasoned, "perhaps the scars of war would not affect you so. I—" he broke off, his chest tight with ache, "I have failed you, have I not, nin mel?"
Her nimble fingers clasped his, grasping them tightly.
"You do not speak of yourself as highly as I'd like you to," she hushed, "I do not like that."
She kissed his knuckles, dirtied with honor, and let him know how she felt. She let her soul see his, and Aragorn closed his eyes once her gentle palm met his cheek.
"Think not of what could have been, for it rots your soul — and I'd like to have you, as you are, here with me. The war has taken so much of you from me. I do not want to grieve a second longer."
Aragorn's strong arm, one he used to wield swords and fight Orcs to their shame, embraced her — around her soft shoulders, closer against him. His heart slowed to a thrum as he kissed her; from her forehead, to her nose, and finally her lips. It was a moment of selfishness he would not forgive himself for. But even then, she'd comfort him, kind and courageous in her own right.
"We'd start anew," he whispered the oath against her, "upon the hills of Gondor and under its willow trees. Your willow trees, as they grow tall and strong in your presence."
Her smile was of flower petals as she giggled. Aragorn couldn't help but mirror it.
Her palm rubbed his chest, clad in his evening robes, "Those are my favorites. You remembered."
He was wholly at her mercy, in the dark of twilight, by the privacy of their own. It was his own trophy, her presence as his reward.
They held each other to sleep.
a/n: if you loved this, you'll love the rest of my writing. It would be lovely for you to check out my published works — they're accessible, digital, and made with love. 💌 enjoy.
Summary: In the starlit halls of Rivendell, Legolas’s long-hidden love for his human companion flares into fierce jealousy when a charming elf lord courts her at a diplomatic feast.
Paring: Legolas x Human Reader
word count: 7000+
warnings: Fluff, Jealous Legolas, probably some spelling mistakes
A/N : Hi there! Enjoy this Legolas fic I wrote the other day!
Masterlist
. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.
The air in Rivendell tasted of pine and river-mist, cool even in late summer. You had ridden beside Legolas for three weeks across the wilds of Eriador, your horse’s hooves drumming the same rhythm as his white stallion’s, your laughter echoing through the same lonely valleys. He was your best friend—had been since the day you stumbled, half-starved and soaked, into the halls of Mirkwood after a goblin raid on your caravan. Legolas had found you first, bow still drawn, silver hair braided with leaves, and instead of slaying the “strange mortal intruder” he had lowered his weapon and offered you water from his own flask. From that moment the friendship had grown like the mallorn trees of Lothlórien: steady, deep-rooted, impossible to uproot.
Now the Last Homely House welcomed you both for the great diplomatic feast. Elrond had called lords from every elven realm—Lindon, Lothlórien, even a delegation from the Grey Havens—to speak of the growing shadow in the East. You were the only human present, a quiet curiosity among the ageless. Legolas had insisted you accompany him; he would not leave you behind in the wilds, he said, though his sea-grey eyes had flickered with something unreadable when he spoke the words.
You stood now at the edge of the Hall of Fire, the long tables groaning under silver platters of honeyed fruits, roasted venison, and loaves still warm from the ovens. Lanterns of crystal hung from the carved beams, catching the light of a thousand candles and scattering it like falling stars across the flagstones. Music drifted from unseen harps—soft, ancient melodies that made the heart ache for things half-remembered. Elves in robes of leaf-green and star-silver moved between the tables with the grace of wind over grass.
Legolas was beside you, as always. His tunic was the deep green of Mirkwood pines, embroidered with tiny golden leaves; his hair fell loose tonight, catching the firelight in threads of moonlight. He had not spoken much since you entered the hall, only offered you his arm and led you through the throng with the quiet protectiveness that had become as familiar as your own shadow.
“You look as though the stars themselves have dressed you,” he murmured, voice low enough for only you to hear. His fingers brushed the simple silver circlet you wore—a gift from him months ago, fashioned from a single strand of mithril he had found in the Misty Mountains. “They suit you better than any crown of gold.”
You smiled up at him, warmth blooming in your chest the way it always did when he spoke like that—gentle, sincere, and utterly unaware of how your pulse quickened. “And you look like the prince who once dragged a half-drowned human out of the forest and decided she was worth keeping. I still owe you for that, by the way.”
He laughed softly, the sound like water over stones. “You repaid me a thousand times over with every mile we have walked together.”
Before you could answer, a voice like silver bells cut through the music.
“Legolas Thranduilion, and… the mortal companion of whom we have heard such tales.”
You turned. The speaker was tall even for an elf, with hair the color of polished copper and eyes like polished amber. His robes were the deep indigo of twilight, clasped at the shoulder with a brooch shaped like a leaping stag. Lord Calenmir of Lothlórien, you recalled from Elrond’s introductions earlier—kinsman to Celeborn, known for his swift wit and quicker smile.
Calenmir bowed low, first to Legolas, then to you. When he rose, his gaze lingered on your face a heartbeat longer than courtesy required. “My Lady,” he said, the title wrapping around you like silk, “I have traveled many leagues to speak of borders and alliances, yet the sight of you here is the fairest treaty Rivendell could offer. Will you honor me with a cup of the valley’s finest wine and perhaps a tale of your journeys with the Prince of the Woodland Realm?”
Legolas’s hand tightened fractionally on your arm. You felt it, the sudden tension in the lean muscle beneath green velvet, but his face remained the mask of polite elven calm.
You accepted the cup Calenmir offered, its stem cool against your palm. “I am no lady, my lord—only a traveler who was lucky enough to find friendship in Mirkwood. But I would gladly share a tale if it pleases you.”
The elf lord’s smile widened, bright as new leaves. “Then let us walk a little while the music plays. The night is young, and so, I suspect, are your stories.”
He offered his arm. You glanced at Legolas. Something flickered behind his eyes—quick as a shadow across still water—then vanished. He released your arm with a courteous nod. “Go, mellon nín. I will be here when the tale is done.”
Calenmir led you through the crowd. The hall seemed to open before him; elves stepped aside with murmurs of respect. He spoke easily, asking about the road from Mirkwood, the color of the leaves in autumn, the way the stars looked from a mortal’s eyes. His voice was warm honey, his laughter light. You answered honestly, enjoying the conversation the way one enjoys a cool stream on a hot day—pleasant, undemanding.
Yet every few moments your gaze drifted back toward the tall figure in green who had not moved from the edge of the dais. Legolas watched. He did not drink. He did not speak to the lords who approached him. His eyes followed you and Calenmir as though tracking an arrow in flight.
The music swelled into a lively galliard. Calenmir set his cup aside and bowed again, hand extended. “Would you dance with me, traveler? I promise the steps are simple enough for even one who learned them beneath the leaves of Mirkwood.”
You hesitated only a moment. Legolas had taught you the elven dances during long evenings by campfires; you knew them well. “I would be honored.”
Calenmir’s hand was warm, his grip sure. He swept you into the circle of dancers with effortless grace. The hall blurred—swirling silks, laughter like bells, the scent of night-blooming jasmine drifting through open arches. Calenmir guided you with the lightest pressure, his voice close to your ear as he counted the steps in Sindarin, teasing when you stumbled once and caught yourself against his shoulder.
“You dance as though the wind itself carries you,” he said. “Legolas has been a patient teacher, I see.”
“He has,” you answered, smiling. “Though I still step on his toes now and then.”
Calenmir’s amber eyes sparkled. “Then perhaps you might allow me to teach you the next measure. I know a slower dance—one meant for moonlight and quiet words.”
Before you could reply, a new voice cut through the music, clear and edged with something you had never heard from him before.
“Forgive the interruption, Lord Calenmir.”
Legolas stood at the edge of the circle, tall and still as a pine. The other dancers parted around him without thinking. His gaze was fixed not on the elf lord but on you, and the grey of his eyes had darkened to storm-cloud.
Calenmir’s smile did not falter, but his hand loosened on yours. “Prince Legolas. Of course. The dance is yours if the lady wishes it.”
Legolas stepped forward. His fingers brushed Calenmir’s as he took your hand; the touch was cool, deliberate. “She does,” he said quietly, and the certainty in his voice sent a small shiver down your spine.
The music shifted seamlessly into something slower, strings sighing like wind through the mallorns. Legolas drew you close—closer than Calenmir had held you, closer than friendship usually allowed. One hand settled at the small of your back, the other clasped yours; his palm was warm now, almost feverish. You could feel the faint tremor in his fingers.
The world narrowed to the space between you. Candlelight caught on the tiny golden leaves embroidered across his chest. You smelled pine and leather and something uniquely him—the scent of the forest after rain.
“You were watching,” you said softly as you turned beneath his arm.
“I was.” His voice was low, meant only for you. “I could not seem to look away.”
You tilted your head, searching his face. The usual easy humor was gone; something raw flickered there instead. “Legolas… is something wrong?”
He spun you again, graceful as always, but the motion felt urgent. “Nothing that cannot wait,” he answered, deflecting with the smoothness of long practice. “Enjoy the feast, mellon nín. The night is beautiful.”
But his hand pressed a fraction tighter at your back, as though anchoring you to him. The dance carried you past Calenmir, who watched with polite curiosity and the faintest lift of one copper brow. Legolas did not glance at him again.
When the last notes faded, the dancers applauded softly. Legolas did not release you at once. His thumb brushed once, almost absently, across the back of your hand.
“Come,” he said. Not a request. “There is air in the gardens that the hall cannot match.”
He led you through the arched doors before you could protest. The night outside was silver and velvet. Moonlight spilled across the terraces of Rivendell like liquid pearl, illuminating fountains that sang with crystal voices and pathways lined with white roses that glowed faintly in the dark. The Bruinen rushed far below, a constant lullaby. Fireflies drifted between the leaves like wandering stars.
Legolas did not stop at the first terrace. He guided you deeper, past the sculpted hedges and into a small, secluded glade where a single ancient oak spread its branches like sheltering arms. The grass was soft beneath your feet; the air smelled of earth and night-blooming flowers. Here the music of the hall was only a distant sigh.
He released your hand only to turn and face you. The moonlight painted his features in silver and shadow, sharpening the elegant lines of his cheekbones, darkening the storm in his eyes.
“I cannot pretend any longer,” he said. The words came out rougher than his usual melody, as though they had been held back too long. “I have tried, for your sake and for the sake of the friendship I treasure above all things. But tonight… watching Calenmir speak to you, watching him take your hand, watching you smile at him—” He broke off, jaw tightening. “I felt something I have no right to feel. Jealousy, raw and unfamiliar. It burned like dragon-fire in my chest.”
Your heart stuttered. You had known him for years—known every cadence of his voice, every subtle shift of his mood—yet you had never heard this.
“Legolas,” you whispered, stepping closer. “You… you have feelings for me?”
He laughed once, short and pained. “Feelings. What a small word for what has grown inside me these past seasons. Every mile we rode together, every night we sat beneath the stars trading stories, every time you laughed at my poor attempts to teach you Sindarin—I fell further. I told myself it was friendship only. That you are mortal, that I am not, that the years would steal you from me one day and I should not burden you with what cannot last.” His voice cracked on the last word. “But I cannot watch another claim what my heart has already named its own. I love you. Not as a friend loves a companion. As the trees love the sun. As the sea loves the shore. With everything I am, and everything I will ever be.”
The confession hung between you like a living thing, bright and trembling.
You reached up and touched his cheek. His skin was cool, but the flush beneath it was warm. “I have loved you the same way,” you said, voice shaking with relief and wonder. “Since the night you gave me your cloak because I was cold and told me stories of the stars until I fell asleep against your shoulder. I never dared speak it. I thought… an immortal prince and a human traveler? It sounded like a song that ends in sorrow. But if you are brave enough to say it, then so am I. I love you, Legolas. With all the short years I have, and all the love those years can hold.”
For one heartbeat he simply stared, as though the words were a language he had forgotten how to hear. Then his arms came around you—strong, certain, trembling with the force of years held back. He pulled you against him, your head fitting perfectly beneath his chin, and the sigh that left him was half relief, half prayer.
When he drew back it was only far enough to cup your face in both hands. His thumbs brushed your cheekbones with a reverence that made your eyes sting. “You are not afraid?” he whispered. “Of what time will do?”
“I am afraid of a life without you,” you answered. “Everything else we will face together—mortal and immortal, one heartbeat at a time.”
The kiss began gently—his lips brushing yours like the first touch of dawn. Then the jealousy he had named earlier surged forward, tempered now by joy. The kiss deepened, possessive in the way only centuries of quiet longing can make it: his mouth claiming yours with heat and hunger, one hand sliding into your hair to tilt your head exactly as he wanted. You tasted starlight and pine and the faint sweetness of the wine he had not drunk. His other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him so there was no space left for doubt, no room for any other elf or lord or future to come between you. The kiss spoke of fear—of losing you to the swift river of mortal years—and of fierce determination to cherish every second the Valar granted.
When you finally broke apart, both of you breathing hard, he rested his forehead against yours. A soft, wondering laugh escaped him.
“I have guarded many things in my life,” he murmured, voice husky. “Borders, friends, the memory of fallen kin. But guarding my heart from you was the hardest duty I have ever failed.”
You smiled, tracing the line of his jaw with trembling fingers. “Then stop guarding it. Let it be mine instead.”
He kissed you again—lighter this time, playful, the way he used to press a quick kiss to your hair after a long day’s ride. “It has been yours since the moment I offered you water in the forest and you looked up at me with those impossible mortal eyes and said, ‘Thank you, elf-prince, but I think I’ll live.’”
The night around you seemed to glow brighter. Somewhere far off the hall’s music still played, but here in the glade there was only the rustle of leaves, the song of the Bruinen, and the steady beat of two hearts—one immortal, one mortal—learning a new rhythm together.
Legolas took your hand once more, lacing your fingers with his. “Come,” he said, the old easy warmth returning to his voice, now laced with something deeper, brighter. “Let us walk back slowly. I wish to dance with you again—but this time without an audience, and without any elf lord daring to cut in.”
You laughed, leaning your head against his shoulder as you strolled beneath the ancient oak. “Calenmir will be disappointed.”
“Let him be,” Legolas answered, unrepentant. “I have waited long enough. Tonight the only arms around you will be mine.”
The path curved upward toward the golden lights of the hall. Fireflies danced alongside you, as though Rivendell itself approved. Legolas paused once more at the edge of the terrace, turning you to face him under a lantern whose crystal caught the moonlight and turned it soft rose.
“One more thing,” he said, brushing a stray lock of hair from your cheek. “When the feast ends and the delegations depart, I would like to ride home to Mirkwood with you at my side—not as my companion, but as the one my heart has chosen. My father will raise an eyebrow. The court will whisper. But the trees will know the truth, and so will I.”
Your smile felt like sunrise. “Then let the trees bear witness. I’m not going anywhere, my jealous guardian.”
He laughed—bright, free, the sound carrying on the night wind like the first notes of a new song. Then he kissed you once more, quick and sweet, before drawing you back into the light of the hall where the feast still waited.
But the music no longer mattered. The only dance that counted was the one happening between two souls who had finally stopped pretending the stars had not already written their names together.
And somewhere in the gardens behind you, the white roses glowed a little brighter, as though even the flowers of Rivendell were smiling at the sight of an immortal prince and his mortal love walking hand in hand beneath the moon.
led you through the throng with the quiet protectiveness that had become as familiar as your own shadow.
This line is so simple, yet so deep. I truly enjoy the connection with shadow
The dance carried you past Calenmir, who watched with polite curiosity and the faintest lift of one copper brow. Legolas did not glance at him again.
I adore the subtle hints of observation. Actions speak louder than words. Calenmir KNOWS what Legolas is doing and I adore that
I love you. Not as a friend loves a companion. As the trees love the sun. As the sea loves the shore. With everything I am, and everything I will ever be.
My heart—the comparisons to nature make the message hold so much more meaning!
“I have guarded many things in my life,” he murmured, voice husky. “Borders, friends, the memory of fallen kin. But guarding my heart from you was the hardest duty I have ever failed.”
This line is everything!!!
What a wonderful fic! I have been CRAVING Legolas content and no one has been writing any so THANK YOU for writing!
a/n: this came from my brain and you can have it before i go on a small vacation!🥰 also i am not dead, just busy. anyway, hope you enjoy, and remember that comments+reblogs+nice asks motivate the writer! ❤ no warnings, just fluff & fun.
disclaimer!! no AI has been, or will be, used in my writing.
⊹ ࣪˖ FRODO
best believe he’s been preparing for the day ever since your last birthday – everything needs to be as lovely as possible for his beloved
he’s not the greatest cook, but with the help of some trusted friends, there is amazing food and sweets all for you
definitely gets you the absolute most sentimental and sweet gift ever, which may or may not be your own personal poetry collection that has accumulated over months of thoughtful, loving writing on his side…
you get lavished in kisses and hugs more than usually; he also doesn’t let go of your hand the whole day, no matter if you’re in public or in the coziness of your home – the location is up to you, he will adapt to anything
⊹ ࣪˖ SAM
the sight that greets you first thing in the morning is a stunning bouquet of flowers right on your bedside table
you may wonder why you woke up alone, today of all days, but within moments, this sweet boy appears at your side with a hefty breakfast tray
and he shyly gives you a heartfelt written letter too
he certainly takes a day off from all his tasks – it’s all about you, after all!
basically he cooks up a feast – what an amazing gift – and you host a small get-together at your home; not too overwhelming, but still quite hobbit-like
constantly keeps checking in to make sure you are having a wonderful time
⊹ ࣪˖ MERRY
surprise party?? ABSOLUTELY – but there’s a catch – the party happens on the day after your birthday so that you don’t suspect a thing at any point
and also so that he can have you all to himself, selfishly, on your special day
there are some loose plans he suggests – places and activities you enjoy, but he’s always down for anything you want – and it’s a good idea to let you think that you’re in control of everything so you really don’t suspect a party…
you have to stop him from proclaiming praises of you in the street
the following day when you get beyond shocked by the party with all your dearest guests, your facial expression is worth all the scheming he went through
literally straight away he starts planning how to out-do himself next year
⊹ ࣪˖ PIPPIN
he loves a fun occasion and he’s basically more excited than you are, it’s really sweet – he loves that he gets to celebrate his favorite person
however, he will stress himself out with choosing a gift and actually might resort to just asking you what you would like most
but definitely surprises you with something of his own choosing on the side
however you choose to spend the day, he’s happy to oblige, but at some point you will certainly end up out and about, and have a drink or two
trust he will hold a cheesy speech in your honor (if not even a spontaneous song), and you are definitely pulled up to dance wildly and be the star of the evening
⊹ ࣪˖ARAGORN
the whole day is devoted only and exclusively to you, no matter all the obligations and circumstances, he is all yours on your special day
starting by being woken up by the most loving kisses and a whole bunch of them
he is not that big on gifts – however, if he knows it means a lot to you, he will deliver, trust me – but you are certainly receiving something either very useful, very thoughtful or both
loves to whisk you away somewhere and just give you all of his attention and affection, over time this becomes a nice tradition (you slightly suspect he does it for himself too, to some extent, but what is there to complain about?)
you best believe you shall get outpours of romantic words and poetry!! dreamy sigh
⊹ ࣪˖ LEGOLAS
loves to see you happy and to shed positive light on you, no matter the occasion – he’ll take it!
he is very interested in your people’s birthday customs and eager to adapt; most of all he enjoys the fact that he gets to give you a gift; or in his case, at least two or three, most finely crafted by his kin – only the best for you, naturally
if you wish to have a celebration with many guests, he is happy to oblige, but he is hoping you’d rather let him take you on an adventure of his own
so he can show you some of his most favorite places in nature, and the most beautiful ones, just for you
but no matter how much he appreciates the beauty of the surrounding nature, he will make sure you know that your grace and fairness surpass all of it, by far
waxing poetry at you for like, half the day at least
⊹ ࣪˖ BOROMIR
you receive a royal treatment to say the least, and whatever wish you may have is this man’s command
when it comes to choosing some gifts for you, he is surprisingly indecisive (partially self-doubt, partially unable to find something worthy of you), so you receive a whole bunch of things, which await you as soon as you wake up
he will see it done that all your favorite foods are prepared for the day, including a big cake if you like that
naturally, there is a big celebration, and you just know he toasts to you tens of times throughout the evening, his keen eyes never leaving your frame for a single moment
however, you end the day quietly, on a terrace under the stars with whispered compliments and breathtaking kisses
Just a gentle reminder to be kind and compassionate in the fanfiction community.
If you do not like something, do not read it. You don’t have to like it or leave kudos. You do not have to reblog it or share it. You do not have to comment on it. Just leave it be in its space.
Fanfiction is a space for people to explore and process.
Some people write fanfiction to work through emotions, wishes, and aspects of themselves that may be difficult to express elsewhere.
Some people write fanfiction to process trauma and or difficult experiences they went through.
Some people write fanfiction simply because they love a story and want to spend more time with beloved characters and worlds.
For many, fanfiction serves as a creative outlet, a coping mechanism, a form of self-discovery, and/or a way to build community with others who share their interests.
The hate comments or anon hate asks, simply are not necessary. Use your energy for other things, my dears! <3
𝐵ecause she has not crossed the threshold of the Elvenking’s halls since she was a small child, she has become a myth among the lower realms and traveling merchants. They call her the Lost Princess or the Hidden Jewel of Mirkwood. Outside the heavy oak doors, people whisper that she possesses a beauty so radiant it would blind mortal men, or that she is made of starlight itself. In reality, her absence is not of her own making, but the result of Thranduil’s crippling, suffocating grief. When his queen fell, a part of the Elvenking died with her, and in his desperation to protect the last delicate piece of her legacy: his soft-spoken, gentle daughter, he locked her away in a cage of root and stone, convincing himself it was for her own safety.
She was born with an ancient, volatile magic. Perhaps the ability to manipulate the flora and fauna of the forest, or to weave illusions out of moonlight, but it remains entirely untested. She doesn't want to use it for malice or vanity; her heart is deeply empathetic, and she longs to venture into the darkening woods to purge the giant spiders and the shadow of the Necromancer. Yet, whenever she brings it up, Thranduil shuts the conversation down with terrifying finality. To him, her power is not a weapon to be wielded; it is a beacon that will draw the dark forces of Middle-earth straight to her. He views her magic as a fragile glass ornament: beautiful, but easily shattered if exposed to the harshness of war.
Legolas is entirely torn between his duty as the Captain of the Guard and his role as an older brother. When he is out in the field, he is a fierce warrior, but the moment he returns to the palace, his fierce demeanor melts into a profound, protective gentleness. He loves the sweet, soft-spoken nature of her sister, often bringing her pressed wildflowers from the borders of the forest or smooth stones from the riverbeds she hasn't seen in centuries. However, he sings the exact same tune as their father. When she begs Legolas to let her slip into the training yards or accompany his scouts, he will place a heavy, gauntleted hand on her shoulder, his eyes swimming with a mixture of guilt and absolute resolve.
"You speak of fighting, little sister, as if the shadow is something that can be reasoned with," Legolas would murmur, his voice a strained, quiet plea. "You have a light in you that this forest desperately needs to keep alive. Let me face the dark so you never have to know its touch. Do not ask me to fail our mother's memory by letting you fall."
Her interactions with her father, Thranduil, are a dance of quiet grace and immense, unspoken tension. She does not scream or rage against her confinement; her sweetness and innate nobility prevent her from throwing tantrums. Instead, she approaches his throne with a fluid, silent step, her presence like a calming breeze in the otherwise tense, paranoid court. She speaks in soft, melodic tones that remind Thranduil so acutely of his late wife that it physically pains him.
One evening, after Legolas returns wounded from a skirmish, she confronts her father in his private chambers, her gentle demeanor masking a quiet, desperate resolve.
The Elvenking stood by the expansive stone balcony, his long silver hair catching the pale moonlight, a silver goblet of wine untouched in his hand. He did not turn when she entered, though the soft rustle of her silk robes betrayed her presence.
"You should be asleep," Thranduil said, his voice a low, resonant baritone that carried the weight of millennia. "The night grows cold, and the shadows creep closer to the walls."
"The shadows are already within the walls, Adar," she replied softly, stepping closer, her hands folded neatly in front of her. "I felt the forest weep today. I felt Legolas's pain when the poison grazed his armor. I have the power to mend the roots, to push the dark back. Why do you force me to sit in darkness while my brother bleeds?"
Thranduil turned slowly, his regal features carved from ice, his cold blue eyes boring into hers with a sudden, fierce intensity. The sheer aura of his authority filled the room, heavy and suffocating.
"Do not speak to me of what you can do," Thranduil commanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous, gravelly whisper as he stepped down toward her. "You see a battle to be won. I see the end of my bloodline. You think your magic makes you invincible? It makes you a prize. The darkness out there does not wish to fight you, child. It wishes to consume you. It wishes to tear the light from your veins just as it tore your mother from my arms."
He stopped just inches from her, the harshness in his eyes cracking for a fraction of a second to reveal a hollow, desperate terror. He reached out, his long, ring-adorned fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair from her cheek with a tenderness that contradicted his stern words.
"I have watched the world burn, and I have buried everything I ever held dear," he murmured, his grip on her shoulder tightening just enough to emphasize his words. "I will lock you in the deepest vault of this mountain before I let the world take you, too. You will stay where it is safe. You will be the peace that remains when everything else is gone. That is my final decree."
Confined to the inner sanctuaries, she spends her days tending to the few remaining untainted gardens within the cavernous palace. Under her gentle touch, flowers bloom out of season, and small birds slip through the high arrow-slits just to sing to her. Thranduil often watches her from the high walkways, hiding in the shadows so she won't see the sorrow on his face. He knows he is breaking her spirit by keeping her a prisoner, but to Thranduil, a living, resentful daughter is infinitely better than a dead, heroic one.
On the anniversary of the Queen’s passing, the rules soften just a fraction. Thranduil will summon her to his private study, away from the eyes of the court. There, the rigid Elvenking lets his guard down. He will sit with her in complete silence, brushing her hair or letting her pour his wine, finding a profound, aching comfort in her gentle presence. In those quiet moments, she holds his hand, using her soft voice to sing the old lullabies of the Woodland Realm, acting as the emotional anchor for a king who is drowning in his own immortality.
𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗲𝗿’𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲. ֺּׅ⏦ﾟ ֺּׅ I’m the biggest nerd and I absolutely LOVE lotr. I just had to try and write this idea that has been in my head for months.
she has become a myth among the lower realms and traveling merchants. They call her the Lost Princess or the Hidden Jewel of Mirkwood.
This concept is so so cool! And I love how you worded her titles and what she is referred to by!
She was born with an ancient, volatile magic. Perhaps the ability to manipulate the flora and fauna of the forest, or to weave illusions out of moonlight, but it remains entirely untested
OH MY VALAR! I’m so invested in this
"You have a light in you that this forest desperately needs to keep alive. Let me face the dark so you never have to know its touch
This is so sweet but oh so sad
"The night grows cold, and the shadows creep closer to the walls."
"The shadows are already within the walls, Adar," she replied softly, stepping closer, her hands folded neatly in front of her. "I felt the forest weep today.
THESE LINES have me in a chokehold!
I really appreciate the way you showed grief as a manipulator. Grief can be all consuming and truly destroy parts of ourself out of fear. I see how you depicted that and let it flow through your words!
aragorn needs to be 10x weirder in all tolkien content. he’s too manly for elves. he’s too elvish for men. he roleplayed his crush’s grandpa, and then married her even though they were kinda siblings by adoption. he deals with his feelings by singing. he’s a horse girl. he was raised by elrond peredhel. he had the weight of the world placed on his shoulders when he was still an emo teen. everywhere he goes people think he’s lowkey a freak. let him own it.
What are your guys's theories about the unnamed Blue Wizards of Middle-earth? I personally like to think they started magic societies and cults and stuff in the East
OR alternatively they were actually trying to carry out the mission of you know saving middle-earth like they were supposed to but by the time they actually get around to it it's been the industrial revolution and they just emerge from their monasteries and stuff like ・_・ did we miss something which would be really funny imo
So if yall didn’t know, in The Hobbit book, Thranduil had the Dwarves locked up for approximately weeks, and Bilbo was just invisible and wandering in the palace the entire time, vibing miserably.
My headcanon, therefore, is that the Mirkwood Elves now have a local legend about a ghost haunting Thranduil’s palace, never seen but generally thought to be harmless. Thranduil scoffs at the idea, but has been seen glancing around at the dark corners of rooms. Legolas fully believes in it and is known to say hello out loud when he enters an empty room, in case the ghost is nearby.
It’s not until Legolas joins the Fellowship that he figures out that the supposed ghost was actually an invisible Bilbo the whole time. He never tells Thranduil, because he thinks it’s funny to see his regal father unnerved by the idea of a ghost.
