Jealous Guardian (One-Shot)
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.
. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.