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The Innocence of Brutality Pt. 11 [Legolas/Reader]

A.N: Hi everyone! At some point, I will post regularly...oops. Anywayssss…here is another chapter. Please let me know your thoughts :)

Request: none

Pairing: Legolas X Fem!Reader

Summary: The Reader is Rámaitë Mahtar, a warrior spirit race, and she meets the fellowship on their quest to destroy the ring.

Disclaimer: Any mythology relating to the Rámaitë Mahtar is not canon as I made up Rámaitë Mahtar. Also, all elvish was translated from a translator site—it may not be accurate.

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: mentions of war, mentions of torture, violence, fluff, hurt/comfort, blood, injuries, gore, nudity, discussion of sex, saruman being a creep, protective Legolas

MASTERLIST | AO3 | WATTPAD | The Innocence of Brutality Masterlist | HERE for OC format

Legolas stood behind (Y/N) upon the battlements of Helm’s Deep. A solid line of warriors stretched beside them, their bodies forming an extension of the fortress—a living wall filled with fear, dread, and desperate anticipation.

Legolas’s hands moved with practiced grace, though they longed to tremble, as he gathered (Y/N)’s hair and wove it into a tight braid. Legolas had seen his fair share of battles, but something about this one was different. Perhaps it was Sauron? Or maybe the fact that now he was worrying for another: (Y/N). She too has seen war, but he knew not to what extent she had witnessed and partaken in. The air hung heavy with dread and the turmoil of ‘what if’s’ as raindrops began to fall. War would be upon them within the hour. No words passed between them as the moments slipped by—not when he finished the braid, not when the rain turned hard, and not even when the first orc horn sounded.

The battle was a blur—a wash of deep anxiety and fear. It only worsened when (Y/N) took to the air, leaving Legolas’s side. He did his best to keep her in sight without losing his own life, but each time he risked a glance skyward, dread tightened in his chest.

She would dive from above, cutting through the ranks in swift, deadly passes, felling dozens with each strike before soaring back into the sky. It wasn’t long before the orc generals noticed the damage she was inflicting. Soon, their trebuchets and mangonels turned toward her, hurling massive boulders into her path.

She dodged each one with breathtaking precision but Legolas feared she wouldn’t be able to evade them all.

The first boulder tore through the air with a thunderous force, its full weight coming at the Rámaite Mahtar. She saw it coming, her body perfectly in tune with the battle surrounding her. Therefore, she twisted aside, the wind of the stone passing snapping her hair and garments violently in its wake. Another followed, and another—the dark shapes blotting out the sky as they hurtled toward her. She wove between them with precision, each movement a narrow escape and each turn sharper than the last.

Below, Legolas fought on, his blades and bow moving with instinctive grace, but his focus was fractured. Every creak and groan of the catapults pulled his gaze upwards to (Y/N).

What if she could not dodge them all?

The thought lodged itself deep in Legolas’ bones and it would not leave. It buried itself into every crevice of his being and made a home, like a parasite of horror. And, as more stones were loosed into the sky, Legolas felt something colder than fear take hold—helplessness, sharp and unfamiliar, as he watched the skies turn against her.

The battle raged on, fear and dread consuming every soul upon the field, broken only by a flicker of hope when Gandalf arrived at daybreak with the Rohirrim. It was fierce—bloody and unrelenting. Yet, by some grace, perhaps a blessing of the Valar, it came to an end, and Rohan endured to see another dawn. As the remainder of the orcs scurried into the forest and the ents began to rip them apart and finish them off, (Y/N) came down from the sky, landing in front of Legolas.

“(Y/N)!” Legolas called out, rushing towards her. He was quick to slam his body into hers, wrapping her in a tight embrace, which she gladly returned.

“Legolas,” she stated bluntly, pulling away with a frown. “What is it? What is wrong?”

The Elven Prince cupped her cheeks between his two palms, cradling her face. “Oh (Y/N), I do not like watching them try to strike you down. I feared for your life.”

Her brows furrowed deeper. “I am fast. I am Rámaite Mahtar (Winged Warrior).”

He chuckled lightly, for he knew she did not doubt her own skill. She was made for war. She was used to this. But, he? He was not used to the one who claimed his soul and held his heart being seconds from death and a direct target of Sauron.

Therefore, he pulled her close to him once more, pressing his lips to her own in a soft, yet firm, kiss. When he pulled away, he spoke softly, “I love you, my starlight.”

She smiled up at him. “I love you too.”

……

A company set out for Isengard, led by Gandalf and joined by Aragorn, Gimli, Legolas, (Y/N), Théoden, Éomer, and a small escort of Rohirrim soldiers. They rode beneath the leaves of the forest and out across the broken lands, the air still heavy with the memories of war as the tower of Orthanc rose into view. But before they could come to its base, they moved through the devastation of the ents.

Most of Isengard was in tatters, its furnaces and shattered machinery drowned beneath dark, murky water that funneled into the deep shafts and forge pits below. Yet, that destruction was not as heart-wrenching as one may think, for it felt like a reclamation by the trees.

The Ents themselves stood proud and strong among the ruin, tall and watchful as they waded through the water and stood guard over what they had seized from the clutches of Saruman.

(Y/N), sitting in front of Legolas, turned her head towards him. “The tree people…” she began.

Legolas nodded, “Yes, the Ents.”

“I know them,” she whispered.

Yet, before he could respond and inquire what she meant, a loud quip of laughter, followed by carefree voices, called out to them.

(Y/N)’s gaze snapped in the direction and, immediately, a large smile stretched across her face. “Merry! Pippin!” she cried out.

She leapt from the horse her and Legolas rode upon, her wings springing from her back. She flew up on the ruins where they sat. She was quick to wrap her arms around them and pull them into a deep embrace.

“When Gandalf told us you were not dead, I was very happy.” She stated.

The two hobbits stared up at her, returning much of the same sentiment. “I am also glad you are not dead!” Merry stated.

“Yes, the last time we saw you, your wings were filled with arrows!” Pippin added.

“They no longer are,” she replied.

“Do you want some salted pork?” Merry began, “It tastes similar to Sam’s sausages!”

The chatter between the three continued until the rest of the company from Rohan caught up with (Y/N). Pleasantries soon followed, along with light scolding over weed and salted pork, before the group finally turned their attention toward the tower.

As they approached Treebeard at the base, he was quick to greet Gandalf. “Wood and water, stock and stone, I can master. But there is a wizard to manage here, locked in his tower.” His eyes then shifted to the winged being sitting in front of Legolas. “Ah, yes…a Sky Reaper. I remember your folk. Very swift. Very fast. The sky did grow dark when you wandered the winds.”

(Y/N) looked up at him, but did not reply. Their eyes locked and, to Legolas, it felt as if Treebeard knew of each crime she had committed in her previous life—and he was right.

Yet the interaction was not paid attention to by many others, for Gandalf called up to Saruman.

As they waited, a short debate started: whether or not to kill the turned wizard. Yet, the discussion did not last long for Saruman appeared above them.

Silence struck as eyes shifted—each person waiting for the other to begin the dreaded conversation. Yet, it was the corrupted wizard who spoke first, for his gaze on (Y/N). “Where did you get that—that Rámaite Mahtar (winged warrior)? I did not see such a creature in any of my visions.”

Legolas reacted instantly. His bow was drawn and an arrow notched within the span of a heartbeat, the sharpened tip aimed directly toward the wizard. “She is not yours to claim, Saruman.” The elf’s voice cut through the silence with dangerous precision. Beneath the calm of his expression simmered something far less restrained—protectiveness sharpened into a simple, direct fury.

A faint smile curled upon Saruman’s lips.

“How fascinating,” the wizard murmured, leaning slightly against his staff. “Such hostility. As though I have spoken of a person and not a weapon.”

At that, the muscle in Legolas’s jaw twitched, his aim staying taught and trained upon the old man.

“I have searched long for whispers of the winged killers,” Saruman continued. “Ancient things. Violent things. Creatures bred for war long before the kingdoms of men learned how to sharpen steel.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “And yet, here one is beside you, leashed by sentiment. Where ever did you find it?”

Legolas’s eyes narrowed.

“Legolas,” Aragorn spoke softly. He reached out and laid a steadying hand on the elf’s arm, guiding the bow down with careful pressure. “We need him alive,” he murmured quietly.

Legolas held Aragorn’s gaze for only a moment longer. Then, at last, he yielded.

The hand that had held the arrow shifted to (Y/N), settling at her womb and curling there, mindful not to let the arrow harm her—subtle, instinctive, possessive.

It was then when Saruman’s lips curled back into that smug, vile expression. It was sharp with amusement, with discovery—as though he had stumbled upon a weakness ripe for exploitation. “How protective you are,” he mused, eyes sliding lazily toward Legolas before returning to (Y/N). “One would think she belonged to you.”

Legolas’s reaction was immediate. Every line of his body pulled taut, sharp and dangerous. Though his bow had lowered, his hand shifted, still gripping the arrow tightly enough that his knuckles paled.

Saruman noticed—of course, he noticed.

“Ah,” he hummed with amusement. “There it is.” He paused before continuing. “She must be very dear to you indeed. Tell me, elf…do you guard her so fiercely because she is dangerous?” His eyes gleamed. “Or because you cannot bear the thought of another laying claim to what warms your bed?”

At his words, everyone froze. The air was full of anxious heat as their eyes shifted to the Elven Prince.

And the sound that exited Legolas’s lips could not be described by anything but a growl—angry and primal. In one swift movement, his bow was raised once more, the arrow aimed directly between Saruman’s eyes. The killing intent behind it was unmistakable, stripped raw and ugly for all to see.

“Speak of her again,” Legolas said sternly, “and I will decorate the stones beneath your tower with what remains of your entrails.”

Several of the Rohirim shifted. Even Gimli looked prepared to intervene if needed. Aragorn too, for a flicker of concern crossed his expression.

“Legolas,” he said quietly—not a reprimand, but a grounding. A reminder.

It did little.

The elf did not shift. He did not soften. If anything, the tension in him sharpened further, as though Saruman’s words had only driven the instinct deeper.

Yet Saruman only seemed more intrigued. “There,” the wizard murmured, almost delighted. “Not merely protective. Possessive.” His gaze drifted toward (Y/N) again. “How very mortal of you, elf.”

Aragorn moved his steed forward, blocking Legolas’s arrows’ path to Saruman. “Enough,” he said, voice steady, carrying the quiet authority of someone used to commanding men who would die for less. “You will not speak to us as though you sit above consequence.”

King Theoden was the next to speak, addressing Saruman. “You stand above the ruins you made,” Théoden said coldly, “and yet you still speak as though you govern what remains.”

Cautiously, Legolas’s bow lowered—for the third time.

The conversation then shifted back to the various debates with Saruman. Gandalf inquiring for information, Sauman promising none but dread. His hand reached into his robes and he pulled out a large murky orb—the plantir.

“Something festers in the heart of middle-earth.” Saruman stated, “Something that you have failed to see. But the great eye has seen it. Even now he presses his advantage. His attack will soon come. You are all going to die.”

It all happened too fast—Saruman’s staff breaking, Gríma Wormtongue striking him down, his body falling upon the spike of the great wheel before slipping into the murky waters of Isengard, and the palantír coming into the possession of Gandalf.

Silence then followed—heavy, final, and almost disbelieving. Then, as if the weight of what had passed finally settled upon them all, Théoden spoke. “We have seen enough of this ruin. We return to Rohan—to our dead, our wounded, and what remains of our strength.”

……

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