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— Caring is keeping —

summary : They say caring is sharing, but to Legolas it becomes keeping upon meeting you. Keeping you from focusing solely on Aragorn and not on him; keeping Boromir from getting too much leisure with you. The feeling in his chest is wrong, yet it catches like fire and the flames are both delicious and excruciating.

request pairing legolas x Ranger!fem!reader (no use of y/n)

content warning : jealous!legolas, aragorn is found family, boromir is a flirt but it’s for the common good, kind of obsessed!legolas, reader has a backstory, foot massage (oops), fellowship timeline

wc : 10,2k

taglist : requested by the lovely @catash ! ; @angiekayyy @entishramblings @hell-o-kittys @flooofity @xxliaaaa @p3nnydread @ladyelena112 @lilylovesflowers @zeninsaki @northstar-legolas3 @goldenatreides @viovicente @natasharaskolnikova

author’s note : it’s finally here! last one shot before a little while; as i said already i’m focusing on my long fics (AHFAK and Bloodborne) for now! although i still have an imagine in my drafts to keep this blog active while i wrestle with exams’ week lolz- ,,idk what to think of this honestly, it’s like i like and hate it at the same time lmao, perhaps i just hate the amount of time this has taken to write because i’m usually faster :(

➢ nini’s masterlist

➢ read on ao3

A twig cracks in the distance, the forest swallows it before it reaches the ears of the nine men walking. Or at least partially. A blond man with a tall and lithe figure stops in his tracks to listen to it for half a second, before continuing his journey. His senses sharpen naturally, attuning to the smaller noises the woods always make. He knows them by heart, to the point where he knows when a rock on the ground is out of its place or a track freshly taken.

The sound of the branch cracking behind them seems odd, but he does not mention it to the others. A flaw of his kin: elves believe everybody has their acute hearing and perception. If nobody picked it up, it must have been his own mind made too wary by the dread of the adventure awaiting them. After all, who would not be on their guard when undertaking such a perilous journey? The hobbits, apparently. All except Samwise, as always the cautious one — much to his credit —, who keeps on frantically looking around and motioning to Pippin and Merry to cease their trifling and be quiet.

None of them can imagine something is following them in the shadows of the trees, not ten feet away. Someone, in reality. You hide behind a trunk and stop all movements with a grimace that says you’re cursing yourself the moment the twig cracks under the heel of your boot. You had done better discretion work. Weirdly enough, nobody turns your way and the hobbits continue to giggle merrily. You wouldn’t have thought you’d be able to follow them so long considering there was in their group an elf, a Ranger, and a wise magician. Yet, none of them seem to have spotted you. You think all the praise on elven hearing is largely undeserved if this one cannot even spot someone is following them for days now.

You let the group walk away a bit more, putting extra caution in being as light as a feather when you walk to guarantee discretion. You had to thank your life as a Ranger for that. It had taught you to breathe steadily in all circumstances, to walk without a sound, to climb trees with ease, to survive on harsh conditions. Harsh conditions such as spying on a group of nine men, five of them being excellent fighters, without being caught. Arwen owed you for that, she really did.

You hadn’t been able to refuse her when she fell down to her knees with a look so desperate in her eyes you wouldn’t have thought it possible for an elf to worry so much. Timeless beings did not worry over the rest of the mortal world as you did, so it had to be important. And it was. Your journey had taken you to Rivendell to seek the hospitality of Elrond on the night of the Fellowship’s departure. You were a friend of Aragorn, and because of that Arwen believed you were the only one capable to carry on with the task she had for you; and the only one she could trust with it. Moreover, you were a Ranger. She could send you off without worrying about your safety too much; you knew how to take care of yourself.

She told you of the formation of the Fellowship, of the evil that loomed over the world with great malice; however prompting you not to voice its existence to anybody else. Nobody could know you knew, not even Elrond, not even the members of said Fellowship if you could avoid it —for your safety, she had said. You were supposed to follow them until they reached the first hills of the Misty Mountains, where it was not safe for you to go anymore. You could not possibly follow them in secret in the white peaks of the mountains. Arwen wanted you to make sure they were safe until then; to make sure Aragorn was safe.

You had tried to reassure her at first, telling her he was accompanied by mighty warriors and risked little with his own fighting abilities. The elven princess heard only what she wanted to hear, and now you were starting to believe she had been right to an extent. If they had not spotted you yet, many more discreet evils could have been ambushing them.

Of course, you didn’t know the elf of the party had noticed an additional presence days ago —without being able to catch it. If he really did want to catch you, he would have, but again, Legolas thought everybody knew you were here. Aragorn knew; a little bit. He knew something was odd in the forest, but was unable to name it clearly. It manifested in crunching of leaves that echoed, making it impossible to track the noise, or sometimes it was just the eerie feeling that something else was enjoying the warmth of their fire in the shadows.

It made you laugh undercover: he should have seen you from the first day on. After all, it was Aragorn who had taught you everything you knew. You were a teenager when the Ranger found you begging for scraps of food to the mean innkeeper of a small tavern in a poor human village. The town was nastier than Esgaroth back in the days of the Battle of the Five Armies; Aragorn had visited it once a few months before the dragon Smaug burnt it to ashes. It was one of those humans slums whose inhabitants were either drunkards or bandits.

Aragorn figured it was not a place for you to dwell in, women were not fairly treated in those parts. He offered you a dirty hand, which you took with your equally dirty one, and his company until you could both reach a friendlier town and the Ranger could buy you a proper meal. How long had it been since your last meal? Weeks, it seemed. You had gotten used to eating the mud-covered stale bread you found on the street, and drinking off of animal troughs in the back of old crumbling farms here and there. Sometimes the cows and goats gave you curious company as you drank from their water and fed off their food, but they never utter a word, never betrayed your presence to their owners.

Most of the time, animal were more compassionate than men.

After a little while, without knowing why or how or when it happened, Aragorn could not bring himself to let you go your own way anymore. He had discovered you were nice, and funny, and curious. Above all, you were full of undeveloped potential because you had to focus on survival. He could see himself wave you goodbye and then stumbling on your corpse in the forest some weeks later. No. You were still worth something. He could make a feisty woman out of you, he knew you had it in you. At first, it had been hard being seen as a Ranger by other Rangers. Not that you crossed path much, but sometimes they would reunite and then Aragorn had to bring you there to introduce you; you needed to recognise your people if you were in need of help. They had been hesitant, but if Aragorn had taken you under his wing it couldn’t be for nothing. You didn’t hold it against them: Rangers were wild men, not orphan girls. Yet you had in you something of a wild woman, you had to for having survived in the street so long.

Right now, it seemed Aragorn had trained you so well he was unable to catch your own presence. You had grown to be as discreet as him, though he handled you with a sword like a youngling still. You felt great looking after him in secret, like repaying him for what he had done for you. You made sure he was okay, to prove he could count on you.

Night had set on the Fellowship’s camp for a while now, you had climbed up a tree in silence in the early hours of the night and now took a well deserved rest. The fire of the camp allowed you to not be in complete darkness, even when you had made sure you were far away enough not to be seen. You could use the sleep, the journey was restless and it impressed you the four little hobbits could keep up with it —though Aragorn and another man often carried them up the trail. You didn’t need to fear your environment, for the men you followed took turn in watching the camp at night. Always in pair of two, the elf being the only one to never switch with anybody since he didn’t need sleep.

Legolas didn’t mind maintaining a vigil all night, he was used to it and his body was not even weary of the journey yet. He still felt all the youthful vigour of his muscles like he did the first day, and the small ration of lambas he was entitled to sufficed to keep his belly full.

He didn’t talk much, except with Aragorn. Boromir always seemed grumpy when roused out of bed for watch, Gimli already grumbled too much about having to ‘team up with an elf‘, and Gandalf preferred the wiseness of the quiet, something Legolas had in common with the old man. Only with Aragorn could the young prince exchange words and smiles. They had known each other for years now, and the Ranger was probably one of the most resilient people he knew.

Legolas was waiting for him to come out of his bedroll by the fire when a loud noise suddenly broke the calm of the forest. He shot up to his feet and fell into a defensive stance like second nature; one hand hovering over the arrows in his quiver and the other over the long knife strapped to his thigh. The sound echoed for a second: a loud thump, branches cracking, leaves crushing, birds flighting. Groaning, too? Yes, someone was groaning in pain not twenty feet away.

It seemed the sound had not reached the camp as loudly as it did where Legolas stood, on the border, because he heard no sound of people coming to see what it was or bedrolls rustling.

Right. He was going to have to deal with it on his own. It did not matter, as an elf he could approach the danger without making a single sound; unlike said danger.

Legolas made his way towards the noise cautiously. His boots touched the floor like he was walking on cotton, his breath steadied and his heart rate slowed to something imperceptible. All his composure frayed in a curious frown when he stepped past a tree and fell face to face with a form lying rigid on the ground, at the root of a bigger trunk.

Here, splayed on her back, eyes shot wide and chest heaving up and down in a struggle, laid a woman who had visibly fell from the tree she was perched upon. Legolas’s combat stance loosened a bit at the sight, before he took the long knife out of its sheath and pointed it right her way when she made the slightest move to scramble to her feet.

You couldn’t believe it: you fell in your sleep. You had forgotten the one important thing when sleeping in a tree, which was securing yourself to the bough with a rope. Now your whole body hurt and for a few seconds the force of the impact had kicked the breath out of you. Frankly, you could have passed out here until morning with how much your back and legs pulled with hot blinding pain; if it wasn’t for the man now threatening you with a weapon when you were in no shape for fighting. The pain worsened when you pulled yourself up with your hands to at least sit, but you bit it down and wobbled to your feet, aided with a grip on the treacherous trunk behind you.

Your lungs felt on fire and you wondered if you had not any broken bones that would reveal themselves once the adrenaline wore off, but for now a more important matter was at hand. You were discovered, and the blond elf in front of you seemed ready to end your miserable life if you even breathed wrong. Here, in the dead of night, he seemed menacing: blue eyes glowing in the dark and fair hair floating like eerie gossamer in a halo around him. If you didn’t know better, he could have been a ghost.

From Legolas’s point of view though, you looked nothing like the strong Ranger you really were. He had caught you in a dire position, and he was the one holding you had the end of his knife. From all that he could see, you were nothing but a lost woman. But if you were, why were you following them for days now? It didn’t make any sense, and Legolas knew better than to draw hurried conclusions. You had to be some kind of spy to be able to track them so long without being caught in plain day.

“Who are you? And what is your purpose here?“ his voice is stern and accusing. You cannot tell if it suits him in the darkness, but you imagine it does; elves are perfect by nature.

“I do not mean any harm, I swear it!“

“I have rarely seen someone follow a group of humble travellers without ill intents.“

Of course he lies about the real nature of the Fellowship. Clever, but you can be clever too.

“Only you are not just humble travellers, sir,“ Legolas’s grip on his knife tightens, he takes a menacing step towards you and you shoot your hands up in the air. “I am a friend of Aragorn.“

Closer, he looks even more ethereal, less of a ghost. You can make out the features of his face, the perfect pale ivory of his skin, the smoothness of his hair. There is not one strand that falls out of place, not a single wrinkle in his clothes. You know elves are this way, Arwen is the most beautiful girl you have ever laid eyes upon; yet this one feels different. The underlying storm in his eyes tells you he is less clam than his peers, more prone to the temper of wood-elves —for his blondness tells you he is not a child of Elrond. Of course, this is something you’ve spotted days ago, but now that he is here before you, your mind runs with curiosity.

Upon hearing the name of his companion, Legolas’s demeanour shifts. Instead of becoming more friendly like you would have thought, it gets more defensive.

“What business do you have with him?“

“None but peace. I am not a spy of the Dark Lord, I come from the inquiring of a dearly beloved.“

Legolas frowns. Arwen. But he has to make sure you are not lying, though he feels no ill intent coming out of you. “If you are a friend, you should be able to tell be who is Aragorn.“

Now it’s your turn to frown through the pain still stinging in your back. Is he friend enough with the man to know that?

“A Ranger…?“ you try.

Wrong answer. The elf takes another step to you, the blade of his long knife now inches away from your face. Not very patient for an elf, you note.

He looks like he is about to end you without further ado, and in your panic you cave in. He better know it already. “Son of Arathorn!“

As the name bounces against the trees around you, his knife lowers visibly and something passes over his face. Relief. His expression shifts the tiniest bit, he points at you with his chin.

“Hands behind your back. I am bringing you to camp.“

Okay. Not dying first, trust second.

The camp was oddly unfamiliar as you walked in front of Legolas to its centre by the fire, even though you watched it being set up. You had not stoped for a second than already someone in the distance was walking your way. Legolas stayed behind you without a word, posture straight and perhaps closer than required. Extra caution in case you tried to escape. You would not, but Legolas didn’t know that; it was good that he was careful.

You stared at the woods right in front of you, footsteps growing closer by the second before someone erupted out of the shadows. Not just anyone. Aragorn.

“Legolas, where have you been? I searched for you everywhere, and-“

The Ranger cut himself abruptly when his eyes landed on you. A beat passed before he called out your name: half-surprised, half-pleased, but mainly unhappy. You shouldn’t be here. It was dangerous, even for you. Aragorn’s mind went through all the horrible things that could have happened to you, before settling when it hit him that you were the oddity tugging in the atmosphere lately. This was silly. You were so good he himself had not been able to place you as other than just some strange feeling in the air he couldn’t quite put his finger on, and now he was worrying about you getting endangered when they would have been the endangered ones had you been unfriendly.

You tried a small smile, unsure. The quiet rummaging you three made dealing with an improvised reunion sufficed to stir Gandalf out of his sleep, which subsequently woke Boromir, Gimli and Sam —the hobbit had not slept on both ears since they departed from Rivendell.

Now, you were sat on a log near the warmth of the fire, ditto for Aragorn on the other side. Gandalf stood a bit crooked at his side; the redheaded dwarf mimicked him, leaning on a walking staff he had found for himself; and the other, younger one — Boromir, you thought he had been called —, sat next to him on the log, mirrored by the single hobbit almost like his shadow, only shorter. On your side stood only the blond elf, mute. He had not said a word since Aragorn’s appearance, and when you glanced back at him from time to time, he was already looking at you, a barely-there crease between his brows that said he was turning something in that head of his.

You whisper your name awkwardly to the four men who do not know it, hands flat in your laps to keep yourself from fidgeting. This was not how this should’ve gone.

“She’s a friend of mine,“ Aragorn says to summarise. You were more like family, but saying it would have resulted in questions you did not want to deal with tonight.

“Aye, what is she doin’ here without ya knowing, then?“ the dwarf asks. He has a point.

“This, I do not know, Master Gimli.“

The answer questions you back. You sigh.

“I have been following you on the account of Lady Arwen,“ you begin. “She…asked me to make sure you were doing okay until the first slopes of the Misty Mountains.“

Aragorn cannot help the smile that blooms on his lips. He gently shakes his head and sends you a look that says he trusts you.

“She tells the truth,“ he says. With that, the atmosphere seems to shift to something less tense, more welcoming for you.

In a way, it makes you proud that five grown men could have been on their guard in front of a single woman like you; it often only happened when you knocked one of them down on the ground.

“You can stay the night,“ he continues. “By the first light of day we will resume our journey, and you will turn back to Rivendell.“

You swallow thickly. “I am not, Aragorn. I’ve put great thought into it: I want to join you on your journey.“

The words land right in the fire and it strengthens a little bit with a small blow of the wind. You are allowed one quick breath before the answer is imposed upon you.

“Absolutely not.“

Aragorn’s mouth doesn’t move, and the voice doesn’t belong to him. Behind you, the especially quiet elf spoke up for the first time in what feels like an hour. Every gaze in the camp turns to him. Legolas suddenly feels very self conscious. He doesn’t even know why he refused so categorically, why the idea of your presence around him everyday felt… dangerous. Not threatening but dangerous. He could see the unguarded affection Aragorn had for you in his eyes, and decipher the smirk forming on Boromir’s lips at your feistiness. The prince couldn’t name the weight in his chest, but he could feel it and it was enough.

You were not coming. For his sake, you had to.

“Legolas, I think she made up her mind already,“ Gandalf gently says. Legolas could hear the wiseness in his words; how could he ever reasonably argue with a wise one? “The Fellowship doesn’t have to be restricted to nine people only; we could use with another addition. She has proven to be very discreet, I think you would not even notice her presence among us.“

Everybody agrees with the old man; Aragorn nods solemnly; Gimli makes an approving sound from the back of his throat; Sam seems more wary but agrees anyway; and Boromir looks right at you like he trusts you already. Gandalf had never been more wrong: it would be impossible for Legolas not to notice you. You lingered already and he only met you an hour ago.

Now it was worse, because you were officially a member of the Fellowship and had proposed to take the last night watch round with Legolas to make up for your trouble. He had to spend the hours before morning with you in the dark, just after having threatened you perhaps more than necessary and blatantly refused your presence. He had to make up for it. You were not responsible of the foolish way his mind acted around you. Boromir could look at you all he wanted, why did he care?

Legolas joined you on a log by the fire after everyone returned to sleep the last hours of the night away. He figured the rest of the night would be calm, he could let his careful scouting of the surroundings down for a bit. You were looking in front of you past the fire when he sat down, watching out for the darkness beyond the borders of your small camp.

There were more important things to look at, but the glow the fire casted on your face distracted Legolas from them far too easily. Shadows curled daintily under the angles of your face, emphasising them. You felt him stare, yet said nothing.

Curious for an elf, to be so unguarded. Was he an oddity amongst his peers or were you discovering the blunt pride of some of them could bleed into their other emotions? He doesn’t let you think this through long enough.

“I apologise for having threatened you. And for not seeing right away the trust Aragorn has in you must be fair.“

The sound of his voice is more gentle now, basked in the warmth of the flames as if they serve to loosen the strain in his throat. It takes you off guard at first. You do not rush a reply as you turn your head towards him, inspecting his features as he does you. You had not had the chance to see him this close, with his presence almost seeping into yours because your knees graze. None of you move away, you pretend not to notice it.

In your quiet observation, he seems even more ethereal than back in the forest, emerging from the darkness. He looks different, more like the being of light he was supposed to be: sharp jaw and aquiline nose cast like bronze in a perfect lost-wax mould. You had seen the process once in a forge the blacksmith had been kind enough to let you stay the night in; he was about your age, but a clever apprentice who already knew his master would be far too drunk to realise he had let anyone in without authorisation.

“Legolas, yes?“ you test the sound of his name on your lips. It ripples just the right way in his stomach. He nods. “Do not apologise for being on your guards. I would rather you’d react like this than the other way around, I can hardly blame you.“

It tears a smile out of him. You do not hold any grudge towards him and it’s a relief. Legolas has the strange wish of doing right by you, of showing you he can keep the group safe. He thinks of all the times he had not been attentive enough when you were following them and about how you must have laughed at him.

“I must tell you, I feel I am bound to trust you fully by the end of the night.“

His tone has a playful edge to it, you remember he must be your age in elven years. “You flatter me!“ you laugh softly.

“I wish it was the case.“

Deep in the marrow of his bones, the elf-prince feels the insatiable feeling of you settling. Your presence, your laugh, your good graces; he wants all of it. One thing about Legolas is that he never quits.

It takes weeks before you finally reach the Misty Mountains. Your journey finds itself delayed by several events, much of which are a pain to deal with. The bright side of things is that it allows you plenty of time to get to know your new companions.

The hobbits quickly take a liking to you: Merry and Pippin make it their lives mission to make you laugh and Sam to grouch after them under the amused eye of Frodo. Gimli, as always, doesn’t bother having you around as long as you are not an elf; and Gandalf often offers you wise words you keep in mind for later. Those are your companions. The others, however, are your friends in the Fellowship.

It is great sharing a path with Aragorn again. Nostalgia hurts less around him. It reminds you of a time in your life where everything seemed bright because he made things better. You talk for hours without an end during night watches, entertain yourselves with each other’s company in the day. When battle comes your way — much more than you want it to because you had hoped for a journey under the spell of discretion —, old habits die hard. You find yourself looking out for him again, just like you did back then. In the aftermath, you silently check up on him, scolding on the account of Arwen when he gets a little too reckless.

With Boromir, it feels like you have known each other for years. It is so easy laughing with him, talking about things as small as the weather, teasing the hobbits together. Liking him feels like second nature, like a friend you were always supposed to have. Boromir is the cheer in your mood, the soft man by the fire who sometimes tells you about his brother. He tells you you would like Faramir better than him, and you tease saying you already do, though it is not true.

However, there is one last man in the Fellowship and you do not know where you stand with him. Legolas is everything all at once and nothing all the same. He gravitates around you like a magnet, yet you can count the times you talk on the fingers of your hands. With him, things are different in the most obvious way. They are different because he observes you all the time; you can feel your skin prickling under his gaze, and when you turn around he is already looking at you.

Legolas hovers near you after every battle, silently hoping you would come to him. Each time you deflect and turn to Aragorn, he feels his blood boil uncontrollably. And yet he tries. He picks up every mushroom and berry on the side of the road to offer them to you; often without a word, sometimes explaining how to recognise them in nature. He feeds you to your heart’s content, so much that you can never complain of an empty belly. Legolas makes sure you are always sat close to the fire, he smiles at you when your eyes cross and lets you sleep even when you should scout with him.

The elf-prince doesn’t know why he acts this way, he looks out for you like instinct. He covets like instinct too. His heart squeezes of its own will when he sees you so close to the others. You laugh with Boromir, scold Aragorn, but shy away with him.

He fears you dislike him.

After all, why would you be so agreeable with Boromir and not with him? Has Boromir done half the things Legolas does for you in silence? Does he know your eyes glint in the moonlight? or the scrunch of your nose when Sam cooks somethings that smells delicious? or that you need to cling to something when you sleep?

Why is it that you worry constantly for Aragorn but never for him? Legolas hates that it messes with his mind so much, that you threaten his composure. He hates that you like everyone but him, that you talk freely but become mute once the prince approaches you. It’s sheer torture to the dejected elf; he who asks nothing more than to know the tune of your laughter, the memories of your past.

Legolas refuses to name it because he fears to make it true, but everyone else has noticed the way he acts with you. All of his friends can pinpoint the exact moment he boils with wicked feelings that belie his elven nature. Gimli even makes a great sport of counting the times he can catch him staring at you from afar, eyes soft until they land on either Boromir or Aragorn. Then they turn into a glare that the dwarf cannot qualify as anything else than jealousy. The princeling is jealous. And he lets him know.

“Not tired of ragin’ in ya corner, princeling?“ his booming voice does little to keep their conversation discreet. Legolas grimaces at how obvious his friend is being, but also because he has been discovered. “I do not know what is it you talk of.“

“Sure ye do! Can’t stop giving the lassie heart-eyes for a minute, can you?“

“I am not-“ he goes to reply before deciding against it. There is no use denying the obvious. Legolas sighs. “Do you think she dislikes me?“

At the question, Gimli laughs so hard you end up glancing at Legolas quizzically from where you stand. He dismisses it with an embarrassed wave of the hand before frowning at his companion who lands a harsh slap on his back. The strength of it makes Legolas stumble forward a little. Now the annoyance is visible on his perfect features.

“You’re still young, lass!“ are Gimli’s final wise words to his friend. They only serve to leave Legolas as confused as ever.

What does he mean ‘still young‘? He’s two thousand years old!

That night, after having assured Legolas you didn’t need more sleep and could keep watch with him without problem, things unfolded just as every other night. Until you heard featherlight footsteps behind you and a body sitting down next to you second later. You watched Legolas’s elegant frame fold down to your height, his back lean against the tree. If you closed your eyes hard enough, maybe you would be able to imagine the muscles under here rolling with every move he made.

Bad thoughts. You needed to get a grip.

“Endless night, uh?“ his voice drawls in the intimacy of the late hours.

Thing is, you could never get a grip with Legolas. His very presence triggered your alarms, sent goosebumps along your arms. He stepped close enough and your stomach twisted in the same way it did amidst battle. You wanted to befriend him, you really did, but every time he talked to you your words got lost in your throat; you wanted him to like you so much it got you mute. What if you looked silly? You could never rival with all the high society he was accustomed to, you were no elf, just a mere Ranger.

It didn’t help that he was as breathtaking as only an immortal man could hope to be. You hum in reply, fearing you’ll make a fool out of yourself if you draw a single syllable. Instead, it’s Legolas who feels a fool for talking to you. Perhaps you really do not want to talk to him… It’s not the first time you lock back into your shell at the sight of him; it makes the elven prince slightly depressed.

“I uh… am I bothering you?“ he asks without looking at you this time.

The thought makes you feel remorseful immediately.

“No, not at all! It’s just… Well, you’ll find it silly, really.“

“What if I promise I won’t?“

You breathe in. “I don’t know how to talk to you,“ it almost comes out as a whisper. There is naught for a moment but your hammering heart, and then the quiet is broken by the sound of Legolas’s laughter. “See, you think it is dumb.“

“I don’t, I don’t! I’m sorry it’s just– I thought I was the one who did not know how to talk to you.“

You hadn’t even thought about it. For him to be in the same anguish as you! Now you both look like fools as you observe each other in the dark, and the smile you crack widens his.

“How about we both try, then?“

After this, things between you are ten times more obvious for the members of the Fellowship. Legolas lives not five feet away from you at all times, his gifts of food multiply, and now you even talk endlessly on the road. Along with it, the wicked feeling in his chest when you let Boromir make you laugh or when you check on Aragorn increases. You are not just a woman he roots for now, you are the one he desperately searches to please and impress.

Whatever Boromir tells you, Legolas swears he could have thought about it way before him; and all the scratches Aragorn brings, the prince avoids. He can be greater in battle, funnier, more interesting. He can learn the answer to every single one of your questions just so you won’t ask anyone else. He knows he has no right over you, but it’s stronger than him.

Legolas cannot control the glare he sends, almost murderous, whenever he sees Boromir monopolising your attention, nor the cold shoulder he shows Aragorn when he is the one you run to after battle. Legolas can show off his skills and tricks all he wants, it’s like you are blind to them and never look at him amidst battle. If only you would just look at him. Except you do look at him — all the time — you are just more subtle than he is.

Legolas sees nothing and all companions alike have to deal with his newfound temper, with his jealousy. Boromir most of all, is the target of almost every killing glare. He is young and he is handsome, and the prince fears you like him better. From the other side of the camp, Legolas sends dirty, half-concealed looks to the son of the steward of Gondor; which makes him utterly self-conscious.

“Aragorn, why is Legolas looking at me like that?“ he finally asks his friend one day, trying to escape the death glares he gets. Legolas is being unreasonable, he knows it himself.

“I think it’s because you said her braids were lovely,“ Aragorn points at you with his chin. In the distance, you talk with Gandalf, carefully woven hairstyle adorning your head.

“What? because of this?“

“Yes, he did the same to me yesterday when she taught me how to make a flower crown for Arwen.“

The steward’s son snorts and shakes his head in disbelief. “I do not mind jealousy, but this is not justified.“

“At this length, even Pippin will soon notice something is up with him.“

“Of course he will, the kid has eyes everywhere…“ it tears a smile from Aragorn. Boromir continues. “The princeling wants to play jealous elven boyfriend with a woman he cannot even look at without blushing? I will give him something to be jealous of.“

It doesn’t fail.

Legolas feels even more blind resentment towards Boromir as days pass. It’s like the man means to make him jealous, to build up the envy coiling in his stomach. It’s purposeful, the prince knows it perfectly by the way the steward’s son looks right at him every time he talks with you. But he does not only talk with you: he gets more physical. A hand on your shoulder, a feet grazing yours when you sit, a reach for a wild strand of hair falling across your face: everything is good to make Legolas fume. Boromir knows it and he takes great delight in seeing his usually composed companion struggle to hide away the feelings he has for you. Honestly, it’s as fun as a game of cards for him. Legolas says nothings, he seethes in his corner and glares like a madman until he gets the chance to have you back at his side.

Boromir wonders how long the prince will let this unfold. How much more flirting can he take before he bursts? After all, elves are not known for their nonchalance in matters of the heart, far from it. Everyone knows their friend’s behaviour is far from usual, except you. Of course, you have not known Legolas different than this: from the moment he met you he felt the irrepressible yearning of a man who has his heart’s other half at arms’ length, but cannot reach for it.

The more Boromir taunts him, the more he fails to keep his temper a secret. Up the snowy trail of the Misty Mountains, he has you as close as he can while still being correct. Down in front of the hidden door of the Moria, while waiting for Gandalf to solve the entrance’s riddle, Legolas still hovers close to you.

You see him pacing awkwardly a few feet from where you stand, and for once no one else pays as much attention to you. Aragorn and Boromir are busy with the hobbits, Gimli looks at them from afar, and you are alone at last.

You give Legolas a side glance, inviting him to your space once your eyes cross. He doesn’t waste a second in stepping towards you. Soon enough, his back leans against the same cold stone as you. The ground beneath you crunches under the sole of his boots, the air feels humid and rancid, it bullies your lungs at every breath you take. The heat of the elf’s body next to you smudges onto yours —the only heat that remains behind the frost of the Caradhras.

It seems the chilly wind has frozen your bones and the blood inside your system; even moving a finger is great torture. In your shoes, your toes are so numb it would be painless to chop them off. Your nostrils hurt like breathing underwater each time you inhale. You wonder if the pain will ever pass. They say you can stay with your limbs frozen by the cold for days before it settles; never had you known such harsh conditions. You were a Ranger of plains and forests, of hilltops at best, not one of summits and caves.

Next to you, Legolas looks as vigorous as always. It’s like the weather is of no importance to him, like the cold avoids him on purpose because timeless beings do not deserve to suffer from climate as mortals do. His cheeks are only coated by a light haze of red, and in his hair you can still make out clinging snowflakes ornamenting his locks.

Proof from his undisturbed state is the warmth of his body. He is not even touching you and yet you can feel him burning like his own sun. Or at least it seems like it against your frozen cold frame. The duality makes you huff a laugh you regret as soon as it scratches your throat painfully. The smile on your face contorts in a wince, and Legolas is quick to lean forward, bracing his weight on his bended knees to better look at you.

“Is everything alright?“ he asks while you lose your voice in a dry cough.

“Yes, it’s–“ another cough. “The air,“ you gesture vaguely around yourself to prove your point.

“Is it the cold?“

You nod, unwilling to speak again.

“Here,“ Legolas unclasps the fibula at his neck, and in a second his heavy cape drapes around you like a shield.

The cloak keeps out every blowing of the wind. It basks you in a heat you have come to forget with time: the warmth of another body. The cape still holds Legolas’s, and his scent. The smell creeps up your nose steadily, soothes the burning when you snuffle.

You look at the elf-prince, incredulous, and open your mouth to begin a thanks. “No need, I will do just as good without it,“ he cuts.

For a moment, you just look at each other with smiles that can be described as none other than dumb. Legolas reaches behind you for the hood of the cloak, which he pulls to your head, and it just becomes worse. The cold is the least of your worries, you feel you could snuggle at his side wrapped like a moth in its papery cocoon. Instead, you just shift your foot to touch his and it nearly equals burning up in flames.

In Legolas’s mind, it’s a war not to take a look at Boromir and hope to see his crestfallen expressions while his own swells with swaggering pride. Childish, but the prince feels like a teenage boy hitting puberty with all that unreserved spite.

He looks at the spot your bodies connect for a few seconds, before delicate fingers wrap around your ankle and lifts it up to lay it down on his leg. Unable to do anything else than let him angle you as he pleases, you just stare at the elf in disbelief, watching the way his brows crease in concentration when he unties your boot and eases it off your foot. Through your woollen socks, you can feel the weight of Legolas’s fingers as he presses them right on every painful spot. It’s like the palm of his hands that grazes the slope of your foot can pinpoint them, like he knows exactly which way your body hurts and how to make it better.

The pressure is both delicious and soothing. It alleviates the soreness of your muscles, the stiffness in your tendons. Without thinking about it, your head lolls back against the stone and your whole body relaxes. You feel yourself sink in the ground: your leg stretch in his lap, your lips half-open to let out a shaky breath.

Through content, lidded eyes, you see him smile softly and chuckle; you mimic the pull of his lips by instinct and push your foot in his hand to coax him into the massage. It’s like his fingers lace a magic thread around your toes, for you feel them move again.

“Funny feeling?“ Legolas asks with a quick glance.

“You are a wizard with your hands, it can’t be any other wa–!“ the rest of the sentence goes lost in a deep groan, almost a moan that cracks towards the end, as he pops an especially tight knot in the flat of your foot.

Legolas’s stomach twists at the sound, worse when you shot a hand to his shoulder to stabilise yourself. Your fingers dig in the fabric of his tunic until your knuckles turn white, he can see yours toes curl despite the thickness of your sock.

Now that’s a bad thought to have. How else can he make you go all stiff and breathy, how much whiter can your knuckles turn, how much harder can you grip at his shoulders? Would your legs fit upon them?

He casts the idea away and rolls his thumbs where he pressed seconds before to soften the remaining pain.

“Better?“ now there is a slight edge to his voice, a danger you itch to plunge into.

Your fingers loosen their hold on his vest, they extend to reach his gossamer hair until you can easily slip them in between each digit. Slowly, you wrap some around your forefinger before releasing your prey and repeating the process. Legolas observes as you play with his hair, inches away from the vibrating pulse in his neck. If you so much as graze it, you would feel how ready it is to come out of his chest.

“Infinitely.“

You both go quiet as he eases the last bits of tender flesh he finds, eyes sometimes boring into yours when your breath so much as hitches. His elven magic must play a part in this, though you do not know how. It is of no importance as long as you can wiggle your toes again and feel Legolas’s deft fingers creep as high as your shin, as if he were slick.

You tighten the cloak around your neck and it stays yours all throughout the Moria. It is safely wrapped around you when you step in and escape the aquatic monster, when you defeat the cave troll, and even when you cross the bridge away from the Balrog: a hair’s breadth from meeting Gandalf’s fate as you fight against a strong pair of arms which ultimately leads you out of the mine.

Out in the sun again, you do not collapse on the ground like the others. You do not cry, you do not look back. You only stand here paralysed, death replaying again and again in your mind. Death so quick it feels fake, leaving you so unprepared. Death like a rattlesnake, following you around as its noise gets louder the closer you think you are to safety. Death beautiful for the fear it casts upon you mortals, for the pain it achieves to give those like the elves.

The walk to Lothlorien is long, yet quiet. Nobody speaks much, only Boromir lightens up your mood with small talk. It doesn’t matter if you talk of things as trivial as the weather, as long as you talk the darkness away. You talk to make sure you don’t have time to find a missing piece to the Fellowship, to never stop and ask yourselves where do you go now.

But in the back of the group, there is a pair of eyes that never leave you. When you turn to them, it’s not you they look at but your companion, and Legolas seems so far away in his thoughts he might be unreachable. His steps are less concealed, his focus less sharp, like he sees only a tunnel bordered by darkness and leading to the scene playing before him.

It quickly becomes awkward, and it stays that way until Lothlorien. There, the elves sing obituaries you do not understand. They invite you in for a while, to eat and rest as much as you should. But to you and the rest of the Fellowship, separating after having spent so much time together feels weird. You find yourselves always in the same room as another, never alone with yourselves.

As a matter of fact, it is Boromir you stay with in one of the communal areas, though deserted by everyone else. You carefully tend to a wound of his he got while escaping the Moria. With as much precision as you can, your fingers assess the extent of the problem. You begin motion to stand up and search for a basin of clean water when movement catches the corner of your eye. By the doorway, standing at the threshold and looking at you with something in his eyes far from composure, is Legolas.

The elf-prince’s gaze switches from you to Boromir, from Boromir to you, and then to his wound and how awfully close it is from your fingers. He feels his blood loop in his veins at the idea, and takes a step forwards without thinking this through. Then another. And another. Until he stands in front of you both, sitting on the edge of a carved in bench.

You try to give him a reassuring smile, but Legolas ignores you altogether. Or rather he does not see you. His gaze is fixated on the steward’s son, frown evident on his usually perfect face. You frown too: there is something obviously strange in his attitude, a tension in his shoulders.

“I think she needs rest, Boromir,“ he eventually speaks. “You can seek for Lothlorien’s healers, they are the best in all the elven realms.“

“Thank you Legolas, but I will stick with this one.“

The twinkle in Boromir’s eyes and the sharp wit of his cunning smile pushes all of the prince’s buttons. The wrong ones. They drag out his impatience, his pride, his jealousy.

“She is quite skilled, you know?“

Legolas clenches his jaw so hard it shows. “I know. And skills come with rest. The healers are waiting for you, I called for them on your behalf.“

He lies. It is so evident he lies Boromir does not know what to do of it for a second. His reply hangs without falling for a while too much, so does the glare the two men send each other. But on Boromir’s side of the coin, he only rejoices in seeing Legolas so unabashed —so human. Jealous and yearning: those are traits unfit for an elf, yet they are the prince of the Woodland realm’s.

“Sorry, Miss,“ Boromir bows lightly as he stands to his feet. “It seems the princeling here really hates to see me taken care of.“

He steps away from you and past Legolas, so close their shoulders bump and the prince’s elven ears catch something in the breeze following the Gondorian.

“Thief,“ Boromir whispers with a smirk.

It makes Legolas burn and his inside knot in shame and anger. The feeling quiets when he closes his eyes, breathes in and opens them to you. Still here and still free to be his. Though this time he knows if he keeps on cowering, someone will take actions before him.

Legolas steps to you, but you raise to your feet the moment he does so. For a second, he thinks you will leave. You look like you will. Instead, you voice your obvious annoyance. It is not the first time you catch the prince drive away whoever is talking to you. In other circumstances, it would be sweet that he seeks for you so much, but not here. Not when you face death everyday and find your only comfort in your friends. You do not need to suffer the emotions he cannot keep in check.

“That’s enough, Legolas. I am growing tired of whatever this is.“

His breath catches in his throat. Legolas feels his heart stop once and his eyes slowly widen in surprise. “Excuse me?“

“Don’t pretend you don’t know. I am not a servant in your Halls appointed to your side.“

“Far from me is the idea of thinking of you as one,“ the calmness in his tone infuriates you. He who seemed so distressed a mere minute ago.

“The idea may be far, but the actions are not,“ the rest of your sentence comes after a moment of silence, as if you weight it in your mind. “Maybe we shouldn’t talk anymore, if you cannot see me befriend others.“

A punch in the guts.

It makes Legolas dizzy, turns his thoughts into a blurred mess, but he lets nothing be known of it. His mask of composure slips on again, just as it does whenever you make him nervous. Elven court had taught him that the greatest defence of his soul was clam, wiseness. Even if the situation did not call for it; even if his heart throbbed with conflictual emotions.

“We are in a fellowship together, it would be unreasonable,“ the flat tone of his voice emphasises your building anger. He talks like you are the one to blame, like you’re acting hysterical.

“Me, unreasonable? You are the one who is acting irrational here, Legolas!“

“I know, and I wish I could help it.“

“I thought elven self-control was remarkable,“ you scorn, not having it in you to be the sensible one.

“It is,“ he replies. “Usually.“

“What makes you so different?“

“You.“

Another punch in the guts. Aimed at you, this time.

He looks at you like someone whose thousand of years on earth have taught him words can be fruitless in the face of a devout pair of eyes. Words are meaningless and empty when rivalled with the way he looks at you: deep, sapphire blue. He says ‘you‘ with his eyes in all the languages of the world, with the force of a man who has been ripped from his common sense the moment he met you.

“Wh-what does that mean?“

He wishes his intensity could scare you away; he deserves only this for the way he has been acting. But Legolas swears you lean forwards. An instinct of your body rather than your mind. It snaps his restrain, cracks his perfectly carved out facade.

“It means I wish I knew how to stop but I cannot stand here unwavering when Boromir courts you so blatantly. Or watch you make sure Aragorn is alright after battle without being envious.“

There. He said it. You have the right to know. You should know.

In your eyes, the tempest softens. The frown you wear is no longer accusing. Perhaps you should condemn his jealousy, perhaps you should tell him it is no problem of yours, but it is impossible. Your hand lifts in the space between you without thinking about it, you stare at his cheek for a second before deciding against it. Somehow, it freezes the elf before you even more when your palm goes to rest on his chest, right above his heart.

Beneath the fabric of his clothes and the tender flesh and muscles of his body, you feel the steady hammering of it. Too fast to be casual. Matching yours without knowing.

“Legolas…“ you murmur as your eyes lift to his. “I do not look out for you as much because you never get hurt. Your elven abilities are so sharp it would be looking down at them to doubt you can protect yourself better than others. I am not doing it out of spite, I am doing it because I trust you,“ you do not let him the time to speak back. “You are the only one I can lean onto. It’s a relief having someone I do not need to look out for, but it does not mean I don’t care for you. Far from it.“

There is a shift at your waist. A steady warmth settles here, it pulls you a step closer to him. Dangerous. Innocent.

“What about Boromir?“ his voice is as low as a whisper, sheepish like he knows he shouldn’t push the subject. It’s stronger than him.

“What about him?“

“He courts you,“ Legolas states, like it is flagrant.

“I do not think he does, he acts just as you do.“

“That is the problem,“ your mouth opens but no sound comes out of it. “Would you let him court you?“

Legolas hates that you seem to think about it. He hates that your response is not immediate and in the negative. He resents that he even has to ask, that he is not confident enough to just know you won’t.

“I do not know. Why would it be a concern of yours?“

The answer comes out hurried. You could vanish if he waits too long. You could end up in another’s arms, and Legolas would have had the chance to tell you nothing. He would sail to Valinor or die with unrequited feelings that know only one way out. And it’s you. “Because I am afraid you would. And if you do it means you cannot be mine after all of this is over.“

Time stills. None of you speak. The shift of your hand from his chest to his cheek is slow, agonisingly so. With half a mind to the external world, Legolas leans into your touch. Your pinky strokes the underside of his jaw, you see the prominent slope of his throat bob as he swallows.

“You are willing to wait until our mission is over?“

“I am.“

At that point, it’s a whisper to the wind. The space between you closes, slowly, unhurried. You lean until your noses brush, and every time he breathes it’s into your mouth.

“But human patience is not as great as yours, my prince,“ your lips graze when you speak. It’s already a kiss but you know you both need more. Legolas’s pulse jolts under your fingertips in his neck, and it’s not for the mere ghost of your mouth: it’s for you whole. He is not satisfied until your jaws hang slack to welcome the other against your mouth. He wraps his lips around yours in barely concealed hunger, nibbles at them softly when he feels you melt in his hold.

His hands slip from your waist to the small of your back to bring you closer. You let your chests collide. Legolas pushes you impossibly close, like he wants to absorb you, to watch you dissolve in him like a body his same size.

Your fingers crawl up his nape, twist the golden hair here and massage his scalp until he gets breathier into your mouth.

In the distance, the elves have stopped their singing. You fist at Legolas’s tunic with your other hand, still clinging when you pull away to catch your breath, pulling his bottom lip between your teeth in the process. Your ragged breath calms after a little while where you stare only in his eyes, the blue of them swallowed almost whole by the width of his pupil.

You can see your distorted reflection in them: flushed and out of breath, bordering the little orphan you once were. You came a long way from here, and the road before you still has no end.

Legolas cups your cheek lovingly, leans to rest his forehead against yours. You watch his lids close in awe, marvel at the disheveled state of his hair now that you ruffled them. It is such a rare sight to see: an elven prince made wild by a woman.

His breath hits against your face when he speaks, barely above a sigh.

“Such hands will never suit you. You were not meant to receive this kind of touch“ a mortal one, he means. Boromir’s.

Indeed, you have yet to address his jealousy. It seems you take joy in toying with him; he deserves it a little.

“Neither were you,“ you point out.

“You are mistaken. I was carved to the exact pattern of your palm, and my lips to fit the hollow space between your knuckles.“

To prove his point, he lifts your hand up to his level and places soft, lingering kisses to your scraped knuckles: fighting does not spare them. It is so odd that you should be the one an immortal prince chooses to bestow his affection upon; you, a mortal. You, an orphan made Ranger. You, wild against his calm, roughed where he is smooth.

“Then stops doubting the Valar made me to fit you back.“

It is a promise that needs not to be said as one. You seal it with your lips melting back against his, this time with a newfound strength as you pull him down to you by the collar.

In Legolas’s stomach, the rot turns to spring and he feels no longer consumed by ugliness. Flowers bloom in his chest where you rest your palms, all the other men of the world are forgotten, and you taste like the path to righteousness. Caring is not keeping you for himself selfishly, the elf-prince knows it now, but by rights if he will not marry you when all this is over.

He can see it for yourselves: a life in a beloved forest, at place to settle to for once and a bed to share until you grow old. Maybe he can even convince the Valar to let you go to Valinor as his only and very last wish. And if they do not, he will smuggle you in like a burglar; for where there is a place for him, there is also one for you.

#lotr x reader

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#lotr x reader