- Carvings
Pairings : Legolas × f!reader
Summary : Legolas is here to teach you Sindarin! A word, a question. What is the true meaning behind it? Taking a rest, you earned yourself a deal with legolas. He teaches you Sindarin in return of something. Do you keep your promise? Who knows?
A/n : I finally finished this one! Theres alot more coming btw hehe. This was a little rushed, so my apologies if there's any typos! :3 (part of the f!reader is not from middle earth series!) It can also be read as a one-shot.
Wc : 3.8k
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Halfway through the journey to Lake-town, Esgaroth, as the elves had called it, you found yourself pausing beneath the shelter of a broad, ancient tree. It's branches stretched wide overhead, leaves whispering softly as they filtered the sunlight into cool, dappled shade. Beyond it, the forest thinned toward the distant shimmer of Long Lake, the air carrying the faint scent of water and moss.
Tauriel and Legolas had insisted on the break for your sake. Despite your protests and assurance, more than once, that you were perfectly capable of continuing without rest, they had ignored you entirely. The decision had been made without debate, and now here you were, seated against the tree's trunk while the two elves lingered nearby, alert even at rest.
Boredom crept in quickly. At first, you welcomed the rest. But idleness had a way of creeping in, settling uneasily beneath your skin. Your gaze drifted across the forest floor, tracing patterns in fallen leaves and the tangled veins of exposed roots, until something long and straight caught your eye. There laid a slender stick half-buried in the dirt.
You picked it up, testing its weight in your hand, waving it half-heartedly through the air before letting it drop to the dirt. A sigh slipped past your lips, quiet and unhurried. With no pressing task to claim your attention, you lowered the tip to the soil and began tracing absent-minded patterns into the earth.
The lines were uneven, wandering without plan, yet now and then they curved into the graceful strokes of elven script, letters you had glimpsed etched upon pillars and scrolls in the Woodland Realm. They were imperfect imitations, half-remembered and crooked, but there was a strange comfort in their familiarity, as though each shallow mark tethered you, however faintly, to that distant, gilded place.
Your thoughts then wandered back to the hushed exchange you had overheard earlier, the elves speaking in their fluid, lilting language, every syllable woven like silk. Though you had not understood a single word, the cadence alone had told you it was something, something shared between them with ease.
The recollection pressed upon your chest now, a quiet, unwelcome weight. At the time, you had dismissed it as simple curiosity. Yet as the moments stretched on, the truth revealed itself more plainly. It was not merely curiosity that unsettled you, but the sharp awareness of distance—of standing near, yet never within.
Your gaze dropped to the shallow markings in the dirt. The elegant curves you had attempted only moments ago suddenly looked foreign, almost mocking. You recognized their beauty, yes, but not their meaning. You could copy their shape, but they remained hollow symbols beneath your hand.
A faint crease formed between your brows.
It was a strange realization, to walk among a people whose voices flowed like song, whose histories were etched into every branch and stone… and to understand none of it, even if you were blessed of their lineage. To smile when they smiled, yet never know why. To hear your name spoken, perhaps, and not recognize it.
The forest felt a touch quieter then, as if your thoughts had muffled its music. You exhaled slowly, dragging the stick once more through the soil. This time the lines lost their resemblance to letters entirely, dissolving into simple scratches.
You did not like the feeling, not the not knowing, not the being apart, not the silent barrier between hearing and understanding. It left you with the unsettling sense of standing at a door that everyone else could open but you.
And for the first time, you wondered whether that door would ever open for you at all.
"And what are you doing now?" The voice cut cleanly through your concentration, and the stick in your hand jolted, carving a crooked scar across the half-finished symbol. You didn't need to look up to know who it belonged to.
You stilled. There was no need to lift your gaze; the timbre alone gave him away, carrying that effortless composure only one person seemed to possess even in the heart of uncertainty.
Still, after a brief pause, you looked up. Legolas stood a short distance away, sunlight filtering through the canopy to rest pale gold upon his hair. His posture was relaxed, yet there was an alertness in his eyes, as if he noticed far more than he ever voiced. One hand rested lightly near his quiver, the other loose at his side. He must have approached silently, of course he had.
Your fingers tightened slightly around the stick.
"…Nothing," you answered at first, the word coming a touch too quickly to be convincing.
His gaze flicked to the ground beside you. To the scattered attempts at elven script. To the smudged lines where you had erased mistakes with the side of your hand.
A knowing look crossed his features—not mocking, not unkind. Simply observant at your choice of writing.
"You hold the branch as though it has offended you," he said mildly. "The soil has suffered much for your quarrel."
A faint huff escaped you despite yourself. "I am practicing," you corrected, though the lack of confidence in your tone betrayed you. "Or attempting to."
He stepped closer then, boots soundless against leaf and loam, and crouched just enough to see the markings clearly. His eyes traced the shapes with quiet attention, soon realising what they were.
"These are Sindarin characters," he noted. "From the Woodland archives."
Your surprise showed at once. Your brows lifted slightly, and whatever composure you had tried to maintain slipped in the face of it. You glanced from the markings in the dirt back to him, searching his expression as if to confirm he was not merely guessing.
"You recognized them from that?" you asked, disbelief laced through your voice. There was a hint of curiosity there too, an almost reluctant hope that your clumsy attempts had not been entirely meaningless.
After all, to your own eyes they had looked like little more than scratched curves and uncertain lines. Yet he had named them without hesitation, as though their shape spoke clearly despite your errors.
"They are… distorted," he said, though this time the corner of his mouth tilted upward, amusement softening the words. He lightly nudged one of the crooked symbols with the tip of his finger. "One might think the writer was wrestling the branch rather than guiding it."
The gentle tease in his tone made it clear he meant no harm. His eyes glimmered with quiet mirth, as if he found your earnest attempts more endearing than flawed. "Still," he added, a touch more lightly, "I have seen far worse from younglings who claim fluency."
A small silence stretched. The faint smile lingering on his face made it worse somehow.
You looked away first. "I realized," you said more quietly, "that I cannot read even a single word, or even listen! Not one. I walk among you all and your letters might as well be bird tracks in mud."
The admission felt oddly heavier spoken aloud. For a moment, he did not reply. The forest filled the gap, distant rustling leaves, the hush of wind through branches, the quiet breathing of the world around you.
Then, softer than before, he said, almost as if to comfort you. "Few outside our people can. It is no failing."
"It feels like one," you murmured. "When you all speak, I cannot follow. When you write, I cannot read. It is like standing behind glass."
His gaze shifted to you then, sharper in its focus yet warm in its intent. "And yet," he said, "You try."
He reached down and retrieved the stick you had let fall, his fingers closing around it with easy grace. In one unhurried motion, he lowered himself to a knee, movements quiet and balanced as though the forest floor were as familiar to him as a polished hall.
The tip met the soil, and he drew a single character into the earth. The line flowed without pause, measured, and effortlessly refined. Where your markings had wavered and doubled back, his stroke curved with certainty, each angle placed with purpose, each turn as natural as breath. It was elegant in its simplicity, the kind of beauty born not from effort, but from long familiarity.
"This," he said, glancing at you briefly as the final stroke settled into place, "is the sound 'ta'. "
He shifted back a fraction, leaning away just enough to give you a clear view. The character rested in the soil between you, simple, yet graceful, its curves precise where your own attempts had faltered.
"It appears often," he continued, tone calm but lightly encouraging. "If you choose to learn one, learn this."
His eyes rose to meet yours again, and there it was, that faint, almost secret smile, subtle as the first hint of dawn. His eyes stayed on yours a moment longer, sharp and amused, and the familiar prick of irritation rose once again as it settled in your chest.
"You're making fun of me, aren't you?" you asked, though part of you already knew the answer.
He tilted his head, lips twitching, eyes glimmering with mischief. "Me? Never," he said smoothly, though the sparkle in his eyes betrayed him. You knew he was up to no good with his next few words. "I am merely stating that from here, it looks as though the branch has given up entirely and plans to leave you writing god knows what if you persist."
Your cheeks heated, partly from embarrassment, partly from the ridiculous image he'd conjured. "I'm not that bad," you muttered.
"Not bad?" He crouched beside you, eyes scanning the dirt with exaggerated scrutiny. "I've seen more legible markings on a squirrel's paw. Honestly, if you continue like this, you'll be stuck writing god knows what for the rest of your days."
Heat crept up your cheeks, but you couldn't help the reluctant snort that escaped. He leaned back, clearly pleased with himself, the faint smile never leaving his face.
"Asshole." you muttered under your breath, shaking your head.
Legolas tilted his head, eyes narrowing as if considering your words. Then he gave a small, deliberate nod as though he understood what you meant before pausing. His brow furrowed.
"…Asshole?" he murmured to himself, testing the sound, as though it were some strange, foreign spell.
He looked at you with genuine curiosity, the faintest crease forming between his brows. "I do not know this word. Asshole… what does it mean?"
It took a moment for the realization to settle, this term, this insult, had not even been invented yet during this time. You blinked again, caught between incredulity and amusement, and then a slow, mischievous smile curved your lips. You knew what to do.
"You want to know what it means?" you asked, voice light and teasing. "Well... I can tell you… but only if you make me a deal."
His interest piqued, he leaned slightly closer, eyes glimmering with intrigue. "A deal?"
"Yes," you said, pointing to the stick in your hand. "If you teach me Elvish properly, real Elvish, not just scribbling letters like a fool... then I'll tell you what it means."
Legolas's smile widened just the tiniest fraction, the kind of smile that carried both challenge and amusement. "I see," he said slowly as his eyes glimmered, already anticipating the game you were about to play. "You bargain, do you? Very well. Teach you I shall… and then, perhaps, you may reveal this mysterious word."
You grinned, pleased with his response. "It's a deal."
Wasting no time, he guided you through the letters one by one, patient and precise, correcting your strokes without ever losing that faint trace of amusement in his expression.
Slowly, clumsily at first, you traced each symbol in the dirt, your lines gradually straightening, curves flowing more naturally under his watchful eye.
Finally, you stepped back, surveying your work. A small, satisfied smile tugged at your lips. "Not bad," you murmured to yourself, heart swelling with pride. You looked up at Legolas, expecting… some kind of praise, a nod, even the faintest acknowledgment.
"It’s…" he began, his voice stretching the pause far longer than necessary. Your smile faltered, suspicion creeping in that it wasnt as good as you had thought. "Serious?"
He let the pause linger, eyes fixed on the markings as if weighing the right words. Your chest tightened as you awaited an awnser.
"But these were the letters you taught me!" you groaned, frustration cracking your tone.
Then, at last, a slow, faint smile curved his lips. "Well," he said softly, "Elves perceive things faster than humans. You should be the same, considering you share the lineage of one."
You pouted, cheeks puffed, but there was no argument left in you. With a small huff, you accepted it and bent back down, returning to practice.
After a few more attempts, the shapes of the letters finally felt natural under your hand. You could reproduce them without hesitation, but their meaning remained a mystery, floating just out of reach.
Furrowing your brows, you finally looked up at him. "Test me," you urged, determination creeping into your tone.
Legolas blinked, startled for a fraction of a second, before giving a slow nod. He paused, fingers lightly brushing the dirt as if the very earth could help him decide. Thought flickered behind his pale eyes, weighing which word might be a fit for a test.
A small, knowing smile crept onto his face, subtle and almost imperceptible. "Melin gin" he spoke, his voice soft yet somewhat hesitant.
You stared at him, blinking, your mind utterly blank. The letters were all familiar, you had practiced again and again, but strung together like this, they formed a pattern that meant nothing to you.
"Okay," you finally admitted, exhaling slowly, your hands dropping to the dirt in defeat. Cheeks warm, you shook your head. "I… I don't know what that meant."
Defeated, you sank back against the tree, shoulders slumping as a quiet groan slipped past your lips. The forest was quiet around you, and for a moment, you just let yourself rest there, tired but oddly satisfied. You had learned the letters so understanding could come later. There was no rush, you told yourself, letting the thought settle like a small, comforting weight in your chest.
Beside you, Legolas's sharp gaze had landed on your relaxed figure, and all of a sudden, you felt the weight of it, reminding you of the deal you had struck. His expression shifted, the faint trace of amusement returning as he leaned slightly closer. "I"ve done my part," he said, voice steady but insistent. "So… what does this asshole mean?"
Your eyes snapped wide open, heart skipping a beat just from the thought of it. The deal. You'd completely forgotten. You couldn't possibly tell him, not now, not ever. Saying it aloud might risk… well, something far worse than a simple reprimand.
Your mind spun, searching desperately for a safe excuse, anything that would keep you out of danger while still holding to your side of the bargain.
"Well…" you began, the word stretching thin as your thoughts tangled over one another. Your voice wavered, buying time your mind desperately tried to fill. "You know what… I-" you stalled, your eyes flicking anywhere but his face.
"I… can't really tell you," you finished at last, the words coming out smaller than you intended, as though even they were unsure of themselves.
Legolas tilted his head, a flash of confusion crossing his face as he opened his mouth, clearly about to press the question further. However, you snapped your hand up just in time, cutting him off before he could speak any further.
Your heart pounded in your chest, and your mind raced desperately, scrambling for a clever way to uphold your end of the bargain.
"But!" you blurted quickly, the word tumbling out before he could corner you with another question. You straightened a little, forcing a bright note of enthusiasm into your voice, as if this had been your plan all along. "I can teach you how to draw!"
"But that-" he began, only for you to wave him off quickly, dismissing the rest of his sentence before it could form.
You glanced around in a fret, scanning your surroundings for inspiration, as you let your gaze settle on the sturdy tree just behind you.
An idea sparked, and you grinned, eyebrows lifting in triumph. "Right! Carving! I shall draw, or you shall… say a carving on this tree." You smiled, feigning innocence, your lie smooth as silk.
Legolas' brow furrowed, the lines of his face deepening with puzzlement. "But… how are you going-" he began, his voice trailing off as his eyes followed your movements, clearly struggling to piece together your sudden plan.
You didn't wait for him to finish. Your hand slipped swiftly into your pocket and emerged with the small knife he had gifted you before your parting from the Woodland Realm. The cool metal felt reassuring in your palm, a secret advantage in your little scheme.
"With this," you said simply, smirking over your shoulder as you turned to the tree.
You pressed the tip of the knife into the bark and began carving. The rough surface resisted, scratching faint lines across your palm as you guided the blade. Soon, a crude figure began to emerge: a stickman, angular and uneven, yet unmistakable in form. Atleast to you.
One arm stretched crookedly upward, the other flailing slightly. The legs were jagged, giving it an almost animated sense of motion. Its face, a simple circle with two dots, looked more surprised than anything else, though to you, it captured the exact expression of someone.
Every cut left small flecks of bark falling to the ground, soft scratches marking your progress, and a faint scent of sap rising as you worked. You hummed quietly under your breath, focusing on the simple joy of creation while keeping one wary eye on Legolas, who had remained still behind you, watching with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.
By the time you stepped back, the stickman stood boldly carved into the tree, rough but full of character. You turned to him, feigning pride once more as your eyebrows raised, waiting for his reaction.
Legolas stepped back slightly, his sharp eyes narrowing as they traced the rough lines etched into the bark. He tilted his head, squinting, as if the angle might reveal some hidden sense, some meaning that eluded him at first glance.
The sunlight caught the jagged edges of the carving, throwing thin shadows across its uneven form, and for a long moment he simply stared, silent, as though trying to read more than just the lines carved.
Finally, he turned to you, frustration and disbelief warring in his expression. "What exactly is this?" His voice was low, carrying that rare edge of vulnerability only he allowed in fleeting moments.
You felt a small thrill at his reaction, the tiniest flicker of triumph warming your chest. Your lips curved into a subtle, playful smirk, as you met his gaze evenly. "It's you," you said softly, yet with a teasing edge that made him blink in surprise.
Legolas' brows drew together again, sharp lines of irritation cutting across his otherwise serene face as he glanced back at the first carving. He shook his head slowly, eyes narrowing.
"Well… it doesn’t look like me," he said, each word carrying that quiet, unyielding precision that made it feel less like an opinion and more like a judgment.
Your chest sank at his words. The small thrill of accomplishment you'd felt moments ago deflated instantly, leaving a hollow weight in your stomach.
You let out a long, frustrated sigh, shoulders drooping under the weight of your disappointment, and stepped back toward the tree. The knife felt suddenly heavier in your hand, but a spark of determination flared within you.
This time, each movement was deliberate, each line traced with care, the blade guided as if you were coaxing the very essence of life from the rough, resistant bark.
"And who exactly are you drawing now?" his voice followed, curious but laced with that faint exasperation only he could manage.
You didn't respond. Your focus narrowed, each stroke precise, each line a quiet rebellion against his critique. When at last you straightened, stepping back from your work, a surge of pride warmed your chest. Your eyes lifted to meet his, almost shy in its defiance.
"That's me," you said softly, standing fully upright now.
Legolas blinked, his sharp gaze softening for the briefest moment, before the corner of his lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smile. It grew, shoulders shaking with restrained laughter. "Ah… yes. Now this one actually looks just like you," he said, amusement dancing in his eyes.
Your cheeks flamed, a rush of heat mingling embarrassment with a stubborn thread of pride. Arms crossed tightly over your chest, you shot him a sharp, pointed glare, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing just how pleased you secretly were. "Oh, come on!" you exclaimed annoyed.
But even as you scowled, you couldn't help but deny it, the sound of his laughter, the way his eyes crinkled in genuine amusement, made your small victory feel lighter somehow.
As his laughter gradually faded into the rustle of leaves and the whisper of the wind through the branches, a quiet settled between you, warm and unspoken, like the forest itself was holding its breath before the two.
You could hear your own heartbeat, steady and insistent, and for a moment, the world beyond this small clearing seemed to dissolve.
Your lips pressed together thoughtfully, puckering slightly as you reconsidered his teasing words, turning them over in your mind. "Melin gin?" you murmured softly to yourself, before glancing back at him.
He was sitting beside you, posture relaxed, eyes lifted to the pale sky above, yet somehow you felt his gaze even without meeting it.
"What does that mean? The one you tested me with," you asked, curiosity getting a hold on you.
Legolas didn't move, his body still, but the faintest curve of a smile lingered at the corners of his lips, subtle and knowing. "Hmmm…" he hummed, the sound low, as if he were savoring both the word and the moment.
"It's a greeting," he said finally. "Like when you meet royalty… or someone you hold in esteem." He tilted his head toward you ever so slightly, a subtle movement that seemed almost shy in contrast to his usual composure.
When his gaze returned to yours, there was a quiet intensity in his eyes that seemed to suspend the very air between you, as though the space itself had been woven from threads of light and shadow. Your heart caught in your throat, and for a heartbeat, the world beyond the forest seemed to vanish.
You swallowed, feeling the warmth creep into your chest, and nodded slowly, letting the meaning of his words settle over you. "Then I shall greet you," you said, a soft smile lifting your lips, your tone light but filled with a hint of something daring. You straightened just a little, letting the moment linger, and spoke carefully, "Melin gin."
The sound of the words on your lips lingered in the air, fragile, at once strange and tender. They felt almost intimate, like a secret carried on the breeze, an offering stretching silently between the two of you with quiet meaning.
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i was just as confused as the reader when i saw the term melin gin...i just now looked it up and omg? you (author) are going to be dealt with, very affectionately cause this is such an amazing read ;;; the description around the scenery AND LEGOLAS BEING A TEASE???
A small, knowing smile crept onto his face, subtle and almost imperceptible. "Melin gin" he spoke, his voice soft yet somewhat hesitant.
somewhat hesitant, YEAH man,,, okay whatever,,,, ugh this damn dude, i just think this is a very sweet bonding fic, love to read more of it 🫶
