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[goldenatreides]

˗ˏˋ silver steam ˎˊ˗

➤ legolas masterlist ➤ requests ➤ fandoms masterlist

꒰ pairing [legolas x reader] no use of y/n ꒱

꒰ wc: 3.7k ꒱

꒰ summary: “Three paces,” he mumbles against your skin, shaking his head slightly as if trying to clear a fog. “Every morning on the terrace. Every patrol. You walk behind me. Always…always behind me. Never beside me. I have spent a lifetime staring at the slant of your shoulder, wondering…absolute madness…wondering why I was not allowed to turn around.” For seventy years, military duty kept you safely frozen in his shadow. But tonight, the Dorwinion wine runs freely, the steam is scalding, and Legolas is absolutely through with the distance. ꒱

꒰ content: NSFW - MDNI, Dorwinion wine, drunk sex, power dynamics, biting, bath sex, fluff, vocal legolas, slight possessive behaviour ꒱

꒰ a/n: if you are wondering yes this is inspired by THAT scene in pursuit of jade ꒱

ᯓ★ read on ao3 or below the cut

The heavy oak deadbolt slides into place with a metallic thud, locking the roaring chaos of the Midsummer Feast on the other side. In the echoing quiet of Legolas’ private chambers, the air is already thick with the humid steam of the sunken marble bath – drawn hours ago by the palace staff and kept scalding by the hearth hidden beneath the carved floor. 

You do not lose a second. You turn to the attendants adjusting the linen towels by the basin. 

“Leave us,” you command, your voice carrying the crisp  authority of a lieutenant. “The Prince requires no further assistance tonight. Clear the chambers by the rear stairwell.” 

The servants bow quickly, keeping their eyes lowered. They slip out through the side corridor before they could look too closely at the heir of their realm, who leans his shoulder heavily against a carved stone pillar, his eyes glassy and dark. 

Once the tapestry settles behind them, you stride to the edge of the steaming bath, grab a handful of dried, crushed mint and winter-bark from a silver vanity and toss it into the water. The water hisses, the sharp scent of the woods blooming in the air, cutting through the cloyingly sweet stench of Dorwinion grapes clinging to his skin.

A frustrated grunt echoes from the stone pillar. 

You look back. Legolas curses under his breath in fragmented Sindarin, his usually lithe fingers tugging blindly at the reinforced bracer on his left forearm. He succeeds in only tightening the knot, his jaw clenching in irritation at his own sluggish movements. He yanks at it again, his heavy riding boots dragging on the rug as he sways. He glares down at them, and kicks them off his feet, swaying backwards dangerously. 

“Legolas, stop,” you murmur, stepping away from the bath and crossing the stone floor into his space. “You are only making it worse. Let me.”

“The laces are… knotted,” he rasps. He does not yield the arm immediately, stubbornly trying to force the leather over his hand. “The eyelets will not align. The room keeps shifting.”

“The room is perfectly still,” you say, catching his wrists to force his fumbling hands away from the leather. “It is your head that is spinning. Stand straight.” 

The moment your fingers clamp onto his wrist, the radiating heat of his body hits you like a wall. Legolas stops fighting the leather. His hands go slack, and his dark, dilated gaze snaps down to focus on your face. 

You drop your eyes to his forearm, deliberately avoiding his stare. Your fingers work the stubborn leather laces of his bracers, untangling the knot with the practiced efficiency of seventy years of duty. 

“You drank half the private stores of Dorwinion,” you mutter, your voice hushed but frantic as you strip away the first leather guard, letting it fall to the floor. “If your father had looked to the right during the toast — if he had seen the way you were holding your chalice—”

“He was looking at the lords of Mithlond,” Legolas interrupts softly. He did not sound like a prince right now, but as someone dazed and dangerously unbothered. “He did not see me. No one saw me.”

“I saw you,” you snap, your fingers moving to the silver buckles of his doublet, your knuckles inadvertently brushing against the linen of his shirt underneath. “The entire vanguard line saw you. You were staring across the hall like a madman.”

“I was looking at my shadow,” he murmurs. 

Your fingers falter on the second buckle. You keep your eyes trained rigidly on his collar, your heart hitting a sudden and erratic thud against your ribs. “Do not talk nonsense, Commander. Undo your shoulder guards.”

“I cannot,” he whispers, and there is a strange trace of a laugh in his chest. He does not lift his arms to help. Instead, before you can step back, his large hands come down, his palms anchoring firmly onto the sides of your waist. “I told you. The floor is moving like river-boats. If I let go of you, I will fall.”

Your breath hitches, your spine freezing as his thumbs press through the stiff fabric of your uniform, holding you flush in his space. 

“Legolas, remove your hands,” you whisper, the strict military mask faltering, revealing the desperate panic underneath. “We are in your chambers, but I am still on duty. Let go.”

He leans down, his face dropping into the crook of your neck, his wine-sweet breath fanning across your collarbone as he lets out a heavy sigh. 

“The deadbolt is thick,” he slurs against your skin, his grip tightening on your waist until it is almost bruising. “The uniform is off…the court is gone. Let me hold you until the room stops spinning.”

The warmth of his breath against your neck sends a traitorous shiver straight down your spine. For a second, your hands hover uselessly over the remaining silver buckles of his doublet, your knuckles trembling against his chest. The scent of the mint and winter-bark steam envelops you both like a shroud, your skin tingling in the mist. You tug at the buckles once more, and the shoulder guards and doublet tumble onto the floor, forgotten. 

You have to get him in the water. You have to sober him up before your own resolve disintegrates entirely.

“Legolas, lean back. Walk with me,” you say, your voice clipped. You wrap your arms around his torso, trying to bear his dead weight as you force your feet to take slow, dragging steps backwards toward the edge of the sunken bath. “Three steps. Just three steps and you can sit.” 

“Too many steps,” he mutters against your skin, his voice a mere lazy vibration. He barely lifts his feet, simply letting you drag him, his fingers tightly hooked into the leather at your waist, entirely refusing to yield an inch of the proximity. “Why are we…why are we walking?”

“Because you are going to ruin us both if you collapse on the stone,” you breathe, your heel finally finding the smooth lip of the marble. “Sit down, Legolas. Let go of my waist and sit—”

He did not let go.

Instead of releasing you, his grip tightens. His boot catches on the raised trim of the marble basin, his already compromised balance giving way as his larger frame tilts forward into the steam. 

You don’t even have time to gasp. With his hands clasped firmly around your hips, he pulls you straight down with him. The world inverts in a deafening explosion of white foam and scalding water. 

The pool swallows you both whole. For a suffocating, disorienting moment, you are submerged in churning heat, the dark grape of the wine and sharp sting of the crushed mint flooding your senses. The heavy wool of your lieutenant’s uniform and thick leather of your boots instantly turn to lead, holding you down. 

A moment later, your head breaks the surface. You gasp for air, coughing as you push your soaked bangs out of your eyes. The silver steam of the bath rises in thick clouds from the disturbance. You jam your toe against your heel, aggressively kicking the heavy leather off your feet and letting the boots sink into the shadow of the basin. 

Legolas rises beside you, the water cascading off his broad shoulders in a torrential sheet. His intricate warrior braids completely unravel, the long blonde silk of his hair plastered against his chest and neck. He looks beautifully unhinged, water dripping from his jaw as he blinks through the fog, a slow, dazed smile spreading across his face. 

“What did you do?” you hiss, panic finally breaking through your defenses like a flash of ice water. You lunge forward, your soaked leather gloves slapping against his slick shoulders as you try to push away from him. “Legolas! Look at my gear. Look at what you’ve done!” 

“The uniform…” he slurs, a laugh bubbling in his chest as he sways in the water. He does not move back. “It is too stiff anyway. Always…always so stiff.”

“This is not a joke,” you rasp, your chest heaving as you fight the dragging weight of your wet tunic, eyes darting frantically towards the bolted door. You unbuckle your own shoulder guards and doublet, squirming against his grip. You toss the waterlogged leather out of the bath, peeling your gloves off along with it. The linen of your undershirt clings to your upper body like a second skin, and you don’t miss how his half-moon eyes wander down, pupils blown wide as he meets your gaze again. “If the guards heard that splash—if anyone comes through that door, it is my sword they will take. It is my name they will ruin. I will be stripped of my rank and exiled before the sun hits the gates.”

The word exile did not sober him. It seemed to strike his dizzy brain like a physical blow, turning his lazy drunken smile into a look of frantic terror. 

He shakes his head, his wet hair spraying droplets across your face. His grip on your waist tightens, with a force which surely leaves bruises blooming in its wake. His large palms drag you through the water until your chest slams against his. He stumbles and wades forward, his feet slipping on the marble before he pins your shoulder blades flat against the slick wall of the bath. 

“No,” he whispers, voice cracking, thick with wine and desperation. He leans down, forehead pressing to yours, his breath hot and rapid against your lips. “No, no. No one… no one can take you. I will not let them.” His lips are but a hair’s breadth away, flushed and stained with wine. “I will throw the swords into the river. I will lock the gates.” 

“Legolas, you are out of your mind,” you whisper, hands pressing flat against his chest to try and put some space between your faces. “You are entirely drunk. Look at me, you don’t even know what you are saying. Tomorrow you will—”

“I know what I am saying,” he interrupts, voice ragged. His hands slide up from your waist, fumbling blindly until they cup your jaw, fingers threading into the hair at the back of your head. You hiss slightly from the tension at the roots. His breath is heavy, his eyes — once a reflective, royal blue — stare into yours, dark and dilated, with an intensity you do not recognise.

"I know your steps. Seventy winters... seventy winters I have been counting them." He lets out a low, miserable sound, half a laugh and half a sob, letting his head drop to rest in the crook of your neck. 

“Three paces,” he mumbles against your skin, shaking his head slightly as if trying to clear a fog. “Every morning on the terrace. Every patrol. You walk behind me. Always…always behind me. Never beside me. I have spent a lifetime staring at the slant of your shoulder, wondering…absolute madness…wondering why I was not allowed to turn around.”

“Commander, please—”

“Do not,” he chokes out, his thumb dragging clumsily along your wet cheekbone, a burning trail left in its wake. He lifts his head to look at you again. “Do not call me that. Not here.” He swallows hard. “The water is… it is too hot. You are burning up. Or am I?”

He blinks heavily, his hands tremblings where they hold your face. The heat of the water and the swirling steam seems to blur his mind entirely. 

“It is like the cave,” he slurs, his voice softer and far away. "The northern pass... the ice cavern. We sat in the dark for three days. It was so cold, the air was turning to frost. My skin was freezing. But here... right here..." He drags his hand down from your face, grabbing your palm, pressing it against his chest. His heartbeat gallops; an erratic thud threatening to escape from his chest. Your own matches his. "I was on fire because your head was against my chest. I had to turn myself to stone. I had to freeze my own blood so I would not…not turn around and ruin us both in the dark." 

A droplet of water slides down his cheek, catching the dim candle glow of the room. He leans in closer, until his lips brush the shell of your ear as he whispers, composure undone by the decades of silent pining. 

“Look at the water now,” he says, each word fueling a glowing, consuming heat in your bones. “We are not freezing anymore. Let me burn. Let me burn alive…just do not make me go back to the ice. Do not go three paces away from me again.”

His lips find yours, blazing and urgent, and the hand that cupped your jaw slides to the back of your neck, angling your face, breaking down every barrier you built up, every military protocol that you seared into your mind for decades. 

He pulls back, breathless and desperate, panting against your mouth. “I will not let them take you from me,” he says, voice husky and raw. 

Damn the military protocols. 

Damn the rules of the court. 

Damn the fabric that separates you. 

You pull him back in, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, and kiss him back, feverish and hungry. He groans against your lips as his arms wrap around you under the water, forearms locking around your back and pulling your chest flush with his. You melt into the kiss, the ghost of Dorwinion grapes dancing on your tongue, the heat of his body blazing against you in the water. 

He trails open-mouthed kisses along your jaw as a hand slides under your shirt and along your ribs, cupping your chest. You gasp as he continues down your neck, tongue languid and warm, kissing and nipping at the sensitive area above your collarbone, peppering marks that scatter across your skin like a constellation only he could bear witness to. 

“I need you closer,” he breathes into your neck, gossamer strands of his wet hair falling across your shoulder . 

The hot water made the fabric of your shirts entirely translucent, clinging to his broad chest and your skin like a futile attempt at modesty. His large hands hook onto the open collar of your wet shirt, his fingers clumsily tugging it up. You lift your arms to help him slide it off, baring your skin to the humid air. You reach for the hem of his sodden shirt, bundling the translucent linen and pulling it over his head, letting the wet cloth drift away into the dark water of the pool. 

When he straightens back up, you are both bare from the waist up, his torso radiating an unnatural, consuming heat that you wanted, needed, to feel against you. 

But the waterlogged wool of your trousers remains a frustrating barrier between your hips, blocking the very warmth you are starving for. Legolas feels it too; a low, frustrated groan leaves his lips as his hands dive beneath the churning surface, his thumbs dragging against your hip bones as he tries to pull the heavy fabric. His unsteady balance sways, his bare feet slipping slightly on the smooth floor of the pool. 

"Help me," he mumbles against your jaw, his grip uncoordinated but fiercely possessive as he clings to you. 

You catch his bare shoulders to steady him, guiding his warrior’s frame backward a half step as he sinks heavily onto the submerged marble bench behind him. Standing right between his knees, you lean down into the swirling mint-scented water, fingers finding his belt. There is no neat protocol to it — just a breathless urgency as you unbuckle the leather and peel the heavy wool down his muscular thighs. The water’s buoyancy carries the dead weight away effortlessly, and he kicks the trousers into the dark depths of the pool before his hands find your waist again. His touch is an impatient and demanding weight as you undo your own fastenings, sliding the last of the lieutenant’s uniform down your legs and letting it float away. 

When you slide back towards him, there is nothing left between you.

Legolas lets out a low sigh of relief, his bare thighs instantly locking around your hips beneath the surface, hauling you flush onto his lap. He is a furnace, his large hands cup the back of your thighs, anchoring you securely against him, pulling you impossibly closer. You run your hands up his smooth chest to his shoulders, rising and falling with heavy breaths. 

He does not move yet; he just holds you there, his chest heaving against yours, midnight-dark eyes blinking through the silver steam as if trying to memorize the feeling of your bare skin under the water. 

“Tell me I am not dreaming this,” he rasps, his voice wine-sweet against your lips. “Tell me I will not wake up on the terrace tomorrow with three paces between us.” He gazes up at you through thick lashes, droplets glistening on them as if on a silken web. The glow from the candles dances across his porcelain face, his cheeks flushed and lips swollen, and even now you think that he looks as if carved from pure starlight. 

“This is real,” you breathe, gently brushing his sharp jaw with your thumb. He shivers at your caress, eyes fluttering shut. “I am here, Legolas.” 

You lean down and his mouth finds yours again — no longer just a clumsy, drunken spill of words; it is a burning surrender to the fire you had both been running from for seventy years. Your hands slide up to lock behind his neck, your fingers tangling in the damp silk of his unraveled braids, as you sink onto his length, your mind going blank to all else but the feeling of him inside you. Legolas lets out a fractured groan, a sound that sends heat right to your core as it echoes off the damp tiled walls. 

The hot water laps at your chest as you move, the friction of your bare skin meeting under the water electrifying you, sending waves of pleasure coiling in your abdomen. You welcome the searing stretch as you take him, all of him; you welcome the burning of your thighs as you ride him in the churning water. 

Legolas shivers against you, moaning under his breath, a full-body tremor that has nothing to do with the temperature of the room. He slumps forward slightly, his forehead dropping against your shoulder as his breathing goes ragged and fast. His lithe hands slide up from your thighs to your waist under the water, his thumbs pressing hard into your hipbones, fingernails leaving crescent imprints into your flushed skin. He anchors you to his lap so tightly that every frantic thud of his heart beats against your own ribs, every movement of his hips meets yours. 

“Mine,” he murmurs into the crook of your neck, lips brushing your hot skin, sending a jolt of raging fire down your spine. He lets out a desperate groan, a broken mutter of hushed Sindarin, an unraveled confession he would never dare utter in the light. “My lieutenant, my shadow, my…you are mine. I will not let you go.”

"Yours," you promise him, tilting your head to give him better access, your own restraint completely melting into the steam. "Always yours." 

“They think I am a prince…” His grip tightens on your waist, the pace of his hips bruising and possessive, chasing his high. “But I am a beggar.” He bites your neck, teeth dragging along your skin, a moan escaping your mouth as you arch into him without thought. “I have been begging for…for a single glance from you for seventy winters. I have been starved of you.”

White hot pleasure rolls through your veins as you find your release, your arms going weak around his shoulders. His arms tighten around you, drawing you in flush against him, his own hips stuttering against yours as you feel his abdomen tighten. With a final groan you feel him tense against you, head buried in the crook of your neck, blonde hair draped over your shoulders like a gossamer curtain. 

After a long moment, Legolas tilts his head back against the marble rim of the pool, eyes fluttering shut. The frantic storm of his desperation has finally quieted, leaving only the gentle rise and fall of his bare chest against yours. Around you, the steam has begun to thin, and the amber glow of the candles on the vanity flicker out one by one, leaving the chamber bathed in the velvet dark of the moon and stars. 

The scalding water lost its edge long ago, turning soothing and cooling against your ribs, but Legolas does not budge beneath you. His hands are still hooked securely around your waist, his grip looser, softened by the deep pull of sleep, but no less unyielding. Every time you try to shift, to ease the weight on his thighs, his fingers tighten and pull you back flush against his sternum. 

“Legolas,” you whisper into the quiet room. “The fire in the hearth has died out. The water is getting cold. We have to get out.”

A hum reverberates deep in his chest. He does not open his eyes, but his head slides down to tuck over the crown of your head. 

“Stay,” he murmurs, his voice honeyed and sweet. “The water does not matter. I am warm. I have you.”

He lets out a sigh, his thumb moving in slow, rhythmic circles against your hip underwater, a tactile promise that he is not letting the distance return. 

“No more three paces,” he whispers into the dark, his voice growing closer to the hazy edge of dreams. “Tomorrow…you walk beside me. I am so tired of looking for you behind me. Walk beside me.”

He presses his lips to your temple, a soft and sacred vow. In the silver dark of the chamber you close your eyes, resting your forehead against his collarbone and listening to the steady beat of his heart. No longer erratic, no longer cold, but entirely and forevermore yours. 

taglist: @meg11 @ninaaazz @entishramblings want to be notified when my new writing drops? turn on post notifications for @goldenatreides-notifs 💌🫶 or ask me directly!

[redheadedramblings]

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.

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.

[entishramblings]

Just a gentle reminder to be kind and compassionate in the fanfiction community.

If you do not like something, do not read it. You don’t have to like it or leave kudos. You do not have to reblog it or share it. You do not have to comment on it. Just leave it be in its space.

Fanfiction is a space for people to explore and process.

Some people write fanfiction to work through emotions, wishes, and aspects of themselves that may be difficult to express elsewhere.

Some people write fanfiction to process trauma and or difficult experiences they went through.

Some people write fanfiction simply because they love a story and want to spend more time with beloved characters and worlds.

For many, fanfiction serves as a creative outlet, a coping mechanism, a form of self-discovery, and/or a way to build community with others who share their interests.

The hate comments or anon hate asks, simply are not necessary. Use your energy for other things, my dears! <3

[mirieltales]

𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗛𝗜𝗗𝗗𝗘𝗡 𝗝𝗘𝗪𝗘𝗟 𝖳𝗁𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗎𝗂𝗅 𝖮𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗇.

𝘀𝘆𝗻. 𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗍𝗁𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗂𝗋𝗄𝗐𝗈𝗈𝖽, 𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍-𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝖺 𝗆𝗒𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽, 𝗄𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗎𝗂𝗅, 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗅𝗒𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖿 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖿𝗂𝖾𝗋𝖼𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾. 𝗳 ! 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 𑣿

𝐵ecause she has not crossed the threshold of the Elvenking’s halls since she was a small child, she has become a myth among the lower realms and traveling merchants. They call her the Lost Princess or the Hidden Jewel of Mirkwood. Outside the heavy oak doors, people whisper that she possesses a beauty so radiant it would blind mortal men, or that she is made of starlight itself. In reality, her absence is not of her own making, but the result of Thranduil’s crippling, suffocating grief. When his queen fell, a part of the Elvenking died with her, and in his desperation to protect the last delicate piece of her legacy: his soft-spoken, gentle daughter, he locked her away in a cage of root and stone, convincing himself it was for her own safety.

She was born with an ancient, volatile magic. Perhaps the ability to manipulate the flora and fauna of the forest, or to weave illusions out of moonlight, but it remains entirely untested. She doesn't want to use it for malice or vanity; her heart is deeply empathetic, and she longs to venture into the darkening woods to purge the giant spiders and the shadow of the Necromancer. Yet, whenever she brings it up, Thranduil shuts the conversation down with terrifying finality. To him, her power is not a weapon to be wielded; it is a beacon that will draw the dark forces of Middle-earth straight to her. He views her magic as a fragile glass ornament: beautiful, but easily shattered if exposed to the harshness of war.

Legolas is entirely torn between his duty as the Captain of the Guard and his role as an older brother. When he is out in the field, he is a fierce warrior, but the moment he returns to the palace, his fierce demeanor melts into a profound, protective gentleness. He loves the sweet, soft-spoken nature of her sister, often bringing her pressed wildflowers from the borders of the forest or smooth stones from the riverbeds she hasn't seen in centuries. However, he sings the exact same tune as their father. When she begs Legolas to let her slip into the training yards or accompany his scouts, he will place a heavy, gauntleted hand on her shoulder, his eyes swimming with a mixture of guilt and absolute resolve.

"You speak of fighting, little sister, as if the shadow is something that can be reasoned with," Legolas would murmur, his voice a strained, quiet plea. "You have a light in you that this forest desperately needs to keep alive. Let me face the dark so you never have to know its touch. Do not ask me to fail our mother's memory by letting you fall."

Her interactions with her father, Thranduil, are a dance of quiet grace and immense, unspoken tension. She does not scream or rage against her confinement; her sweetness and innate nobility prevent her from throwing tantrums. Instead, she approaches his throne with a fluid, silent step, her presence like a calming breeze in the otherwise tense, paranoid court. She speaks in soft, melodic tones that remind Thranduil so acutely of his late wife that it physically pains him.

One evening, after Legolas returns wounded from a skirmish, she confronts her father in his private chambers, her gentle demeanor masking a quiet, desperate resolve.

The Elvenking stood by the expansive stone balcony, his long silver hair catching the pale moonlight, a silver goblet of wine untouched in his hand. He did not turn when she entered, though the soft rustle of her silk robes betrayed her presence. "You should be asleep," Thranduil said, his voice a low, resonant baritone that carried the weight of millennia. "The night grows cold, and the shadows creep closer to the walls." "The shadows are already within the walls, Adar," she replied softly, stepping closer, her hands folded neatly in front of her. "I felt the forest weep today. I felt Legolas's pain when the poison grazed his armor. I have the power to mend the roots, to push the dark back. Why do you force me to sit in darkness while my brother bleeds?" Thranduil turned slowly, his regal features carved from ice, his cold blue eyes boring into hers with a sudden, fierce intensity. The sheer aura of his authority filled the room, heavy and suffocating. "Do not speak to me of what you can do," Thranduil commanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous, gravelly whisper as he stepped down toward her. "You see a battle to be won. I see the end of my bloodline. You think your magic makes you invincible? It makes you a prize. The darkness out there does not wish to fight you, child. It wishes to consume you. It wishes to tear the light from your veins just as it tore your mother from my arms." He stopped just inches from her, the harshness in his eyes cracking for a fraction of a second to reveal a hollow, desperate terror. He reached out, his long, ring-adorned fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair from her cheek with a tenderness that contradicted his stern words. "I have watched the world burn, and I have buried everything I ever held dear," he murmured, his grip on her shoulder tightening just enough to emphasize his words. "I will lock you in the deepest vault of this mountain before I let the world take you, too. You will stay where it is safe. You will be the peace that remains when everything else is gone. That is my final decree."

Confined to the inner sanctuaries, she spends her days tending to the few remaining untainted gardens within the cavernous palace. Under her gentle touch, flowers bloom out of season, and small birds slip through the high arrow-slits just to sing to her. Thranduil often watches her from the high walkways, hiding in the shadows so she won't see the sorrow on his face. He knows he is breaking her spirit by keeping her a prisoner, but to Thranduil, a living, resentful daughter is infinitely better than a dead, heroic one.

On the anniversary of the Queen’s passing, the rules soften just a fraction. Thranduil will summon her to his private study, away from the eyes of the court. There, the rigid Elvenking lets his guard down. He will sit with her in complete silence, brushing her hair or letting her pour his wine, finding a profound, aching comfort in her gentle presence. In those quiet moments, she holds his hand, using her soft voice to sing the old lullabies of the Woodland Realm, acting as the emotional anchor for a king who is drowning in his own immortality.

𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗲𝗿’𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲. ֺּׅ⏦ﾟ ֺּׅ　　 I’m the biggest nerd and I absolutely LOVE lotr. I just had to try and write this idea that has been in my head for months.

[entishramblings]

The Innocence of Brutality Pt. 12 [Legolas/Reader]

A.N: Here is another chapter....that was fast for me lol.

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: 4.6k

Warnings: mentions of war, mentions of torture, violence, fluff, hurt/comfort, blood, injuries, gore, nudity, discussion of sex, vague discussion of the definition of rape, creepy men get what's coming to them, protective Legolas

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

The hall of Edoras had long since dissolved into noise and firelight—a celebration for the win at Helms Deep and a feast for the lives of those lost. Long tables stretched out upon the room filled with carefree relief. Laughter sang from every corner, mingling with the clash of tankards and the rough chorus of drunken Rohirrim songs. The air smelled of smoke, ale, sweat, and roasted meat. It was a time of content, where they could all breathe and forget the horrors of war—even if it was just for a moment.

At one of the tables sat what remained of the fellowship, along Éowyn and Éomer, enjoying the festivities.

(Y/N) sat beside Legolas with her posture half-slouched against him in a way that he was beginning to understand meant she had consumed far too much mead. Apparently, the Rámaite Mahtar (winged warriors) did not have the alcohol tolerance of the elves.

One wing rested loosely behind Legolas’s back, occasionally twitching whenever the hall erupted too loudly. The other hung on the opposite side. Her cheeks were faintly flushed from the ale, and her hair had loosened from its braid. She was several cups beyond sober and looking entirely too pleased about it.

Legolas had already removed three drinks from her hands.

She had somehow acquired a fourth—likely from Gimli, much to Legolas’s dismay.

Down the long table where the group was seated, a handful of Rohirrim soldiers spoke in hushed tones. Unfortunately for them, Legolas’s keen elven hearing caught every word—not that they knew.

“…I’m telling you,” one of them, with deep auburn hair, whispered as he nudged his companion. “There is no way that that elf is just guarding her out of duty.”

“I mean, think about it,” another man, with dark eyes, said. “If I had a woman like that sitting beside me, I would not be sharing a single breath of air with the rest of you.”

“That elf already does not share air with the rest of us,” a third pointed out. “He glares at anyone who gets within three paces of her.”

The Rohan soldiers let their eyes drift back to Legolas and (Y/N).

The man with auburn hair spoke again, muttering into his cup. “I am simply saying…if they are not sharing a bed already, then the elf has the restraint of Eru himself.”

A snort nearly escaped the dark-eyed man. “No man looks that possessive over a woman he hasn’t fucked.”

“That is exactly my point.”

Across the table and a little ways up, Legolas sat beside (Y/N) in rigid silence, very clearly pretending not to hear a single word. Which would have been more convincing had the tips of his ears not gone noticeably pink. (Y/N), meanwhile, was drunk enough to be entirely unbothered by the world around her.

The third soldier leaned closer. “So you think they’ve—”

“Yes,” the first man interrupted immediately. “Without question.”

A pause.

“…go on then,” the other pressed, lowering his voice. “If you’re so certain, describe it properly. In detail.”

“You are asking me,” he replied carefully, “to narrate what the elf bedding his woman looks like…in detail? Absolutely not. I am not speaking those thoughts–not in detail, not in an outline, not even in a metaphor. I prefer to keep my tongue where it is.”

“Oh come on,” he insisted, wiggling his eyebrows.

“You did not see him at Isengard. He threatened to decorate the tower with Saruman’s entrails just for the few comments the wizard made.”

The dark-eyed soldier snorted, “I pity the man who tries tonight.”

The third Rohirim sighed dramatically. “Still. Lucky bastard.”

That finally earned a reaction. Legolas’s eyes lifted slowly from his drink and rested on the group of men.

The entire cluster of Rohirrim immediately straightened like boys caught stealing from the royal kitchens. The elf had heard them.

“What,” Legolas asked from his place at the table with a terrifyingly calm tone, “exactly makes me fortunate?”

Silence. Absolute silence from the soldiers. Yet, confused glances and eyebrow raises from Aragorn, Gimli, Éomer, and Éowyn, for they had not heard the conversation unfold between the men.

Then, one of them actually answered. “My lord, respectfully…” He gestured vaguely toward (Y/N), currently half-asleep against Legolas’s shoulder with her one wing draped lazily behind him. “Look at her.”

And, because drunken men clearly lack survival instincts, another tacked onto his friend’s sentence. “I mean, you survive Helm’s Deep, get carried through it by legends, and walk away with that sitting beside you like she belongs there. It’s not fair.”

Aragorn slowly pressed his fingers against his temple, already tired and wary of where this was going.

Gimli, on the other hand, looked delighted. “Fair?” the dwarf echoed. “Life is not fair. The elf just learned it comes with rewards.”

Legolas stared at the soldiers. Then slowly looked down at (Y/N). For a long moment, he said nothing at all. Then, almost idly, he reached up and adjusted the edge of her wing where it was flush against him, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Fortune implies chance,” he said. He paused, gently cupping (Y/N)’s jaw in his hand and guiding her to look up at him, his thumb brushing gently across her flushed lips—likely more to make his point than out of necessity. That possessive elven streak taking hold. “This was not chance.” Legolas finally looked back at the soldiers. “You may call it fortunate,” he added evenly, “if it helps you sleep.” He let (Y/N)’s face fall from his careful grasp. Then, with absolute finality, he finished his words: “I do not.”

Across the table, Aragorn exhaled slowly, recognizing the tone well enough to know the conversation was over—without Legolas enforcing his point with action.

As the discussion disbanded with unease, (Y/N) blinked up at him, a frown crossing her face—clearly too drunk to understand the meaning behind the events and conversation that just transpired.

Unfortunately, this was not the only incident as the night dragged on—each passing moment seemed to invite yet another lapse in judgment of Rohirrim men, as if the evening itself had grown determined to test Legolas’s patience.

Behind Legolas and (Y/N), a young Rohirrim soldier stared at the woman openly.

Not subtle. Not even remotely.

He stood with his back against the wall with his friends surrounding him. His eyes were fixated on (Y/N) like poisoned sap to a tree. The pint of ale within his grasp was sloshing slightly.

Young. Drunk. Overconfident—A fatal combination.

Aragorn watched him from his place across from the elf and Rámaite Mahtar. He was well aware of what a man with desires looked like and that….well, that was one of them. The Ranger knew that Legolas was cognizant of him too, for the elf’s jaw was tight and his form stiff. He had been tracking the man, with every one of his senses, with the same focus he usually reserved for battlefield targets—despite his back being to him.

The Rohan man’s companions only seemed to be encouraging the soldier, for they elbowed him and muttered support and reassurance between suppressed laughter.

Legolas’s ear twitched, catching the words they echoed.

To most, the elf appeared calm, but Aragorn knew better.

It wasn't long before the soldier, bolstered by entirely too much ale and the misplaced confidence of a man not fearing for his life nearly enough, approached them and leaned on the table beside (Y/N)—the opposite side of where Legolas was beside her.

“So…” he began, grinning crookedly at (Y/N). “Has anyone told you that you are the most beautiful woman in this hall, my lady?”

Legolas’s grip on his cup tightened. The nearby Rohirrim who had previously made their comments immediately went silent—their gaze fastened to the situation that was about to unfold as if it was a saddle to a horse.

Across the table, Aragorn physically closed his eyes and clenched his jaw for just a moment. This was not going to go well.

Gimli, on the other hand, grinned into his drink.

(Y/N), with a frown, blinked slowly at the man—not sure of how to respond.

The man continued, his grin and tone growing bolder. “I saw many of my comrades staring at you, and I couldn't allow them to approach you first. But can you blame them? Beautiful women are rare enough after war.” His gaze flicked briefly toward her wings. “Beautiful winged women, even more so.” His eyes then drifted to her shoulder and the sleeve that had long since slipped from its place, exposing the smallest bit of cleavage.

The air beside her began to heat in rage.

Legolas lifted his cup and took a rather large sip. He did not even turn to look at the man. “You are staring,” he said calmly, “rather disrespectfully.”

The soldier, somehow still determined to march willingly toward his own funeral, laughed. “No offense meant, elf. I was only admiring her.”

Legolas’s gaze shifted toward him.

“And I am deciding,” he replied calmly, “how much admiration I am willing to tolerate before I remove your teeth from your mouth.”

A choking sound escaped Aragorn somewhere into his cup of ale, and Gimli outright barked out a gleeful laugh. Éomer only raised his brows, and Éowyn covered her mouth with wide, shocked eyes.

Meanwhile, the Rohirrim soldier’s smile faded slightly as he attempted to recover, now realizing that he was walking on tricky ground. “Sir elf, truly, I only wished to say your female comrade is—”

“She is not my comrade.” The correction came far too quickly.

A low chuckle rumbled from Éomer as he lifted his drink. “Bold man,” he mused dryly, “trying to court an elf’s wife.”

Hearing this, what remained of the man’s grin dropped instantly.

Legolas did not correct Éomer; instead, he stood up from his place upon the bench and turned fully towards the soldier. He did not move with haste or anger. If anything, the calmness of his actions made the moment worse. Light flickered across the sharp curves of his face and the long strands of his blonde hair as he stepped toward the man with controlled precision, each movement measured.

The soldier swallowed hard.

From across the table, Aragorn exhaled hot air through his nose. This was escalating—exactly as he expected.

Legolas stopped directly before the Rohirrim, leaving only about two feet of space. Close enough to intimidate.

“You have spent the better part of this evening staring at her,” the elf said evenly.

The man opened his mouth, likely to deny it, but Legolas continued before he could speak.

“You approached her.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “And then you spoke to her as though she were eager for the attention of drunken men. She is not.”

The soldier visibly paled. “My lord elf, I meant only respect—”

“No,” Legolas interrupted. “You meant desire.” The bluntness of the statement struck the table like stone falling upon rock.

Even the nearby Rohirrim had stopped pretending not to listen now—their mouths gaping and eyes wide, anticipation of how this was to unfold burning brightly in their gazes.

Legolas’s expression remained perfectly composed, but beneath that composure simmered something sharp enough to draw blood. “You looked upon her as though you were entitled to her attention merely because you survived a battle.” His gaze swept once over the man. “You are not.”

Behind Legolas, Gimli looked moments from collapsing with delight while Éomer drank openly through a grin.

“And yet,” Legolas continued, his voice steady, “You persisted.”

The soldier straightened nervously. “I did not realize—”

“That much is obvious.”

A painful silence followed.

Then, Legolas leaned slightly closer. The soldier could feel the elf’s hot breath against his face—almost as if Legolas was daring him to try. “She is under my protection,” he stated quietly. “And if you approach her again with intentions so transparent, you will discover precisely how little patience I possess tonight.”

The soldier nodded immediately. “Yes, my lord.”

Only then did Legolas step back.

The Rohirrim man retreated almost instantly into the crowd, eager to escape with his dignity still partially intact—if you could even call it that.

A low chuckle escaped Éomer as he watched the man flee. “Gods,” he muttered into his drink, “you court like a territorial wolf.”

Legolas ignored him completely and resumed his seat beside (Y/N).

Gimli snorted into his ale. “Careful, horse-lord. That sounds like poetry coming on. I don’t have enough ale in me to tolerate that.”

Éomer only grinned.

Across the table, Aragorn gave him a tired, warning look—practically begging him not to test the elf.

Éomer shrugged, entirely unbothered by Aragorn’s subtle gesture. “Wolf is wrong anyway,” Éomer said lightly, eyes still on Legolas. “Too crude.” Amused, he spoke again with a faint shake of his head. “I have been watching this elf for an hour. Dignity left the moment that girl leaned against him, and he forgot how to sit like a man instead of a drawn bowstring.”

Gimli released a deep laugh immediately.

Aragorn exhaled through his nose—half resignation, half amusement.

Éomer leaned back, thoroughly entertained now.

“And yet,” he added, grin widening as he took a sip, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so carefully lose their composure in my life.” His eyes flicked once more to Legolas. “It’s impressive.”

Legolas only glared at him.

Beside him, Gimli, openly enjoying himself, spoke. “I like this game we have played tonight,” the dwarf muttered. “We should name it: Guess When the Elf Snaps.”

The blonde elf’s sharp look transferred to his dwarven friend, his blood boiling.

Gimli only laughed, raising his cup, calling for another pint. “Ay! Get me another!”

At this (Y/N) blinked, the sleepiness drifting a bit from her demeanor. A lazy grin stretched across her face. “Me as well!”

Legolas looked at her with a frown, “(Y/N), you are drunk. You do not need another pint.”

Her brows furrowed as she looked at her empty tankard. “But it is empty. That means I need another.”

Once again, Gimli’s roaring blitheness echoed upon the hall. “Ay! She needs another pint, lad!”

Much to Legolas’s disapproval, a barmaid came to their table with multiple pints, placing one in front of (Y/N).

It was at that moment that large, hairy feet thundered down the top of the table….yes, the top of the table. Merry and Pippin stood upon the wood and began a lively tavern song.

“Hey! Ho! To the bottle I go.

To heal my heart and drown my woe!”

(Y/N) grinned up at them, clearly excited and enthralled by the chaotic cheer.

“Rain may fall and wind may blow,

But there still be many miles to go.”

It was at that moment that Pippin saw her dazzling eyes and released a gleeful cheer. He extended his hand to her and was quick to accept it. He and Merry yanked her up onto the table, looping their arms with hers. She tucked her wings back into her form. With that, the three’s arms were locked as they swung around and around, the song continuing—(Y/N) going right along with them.

“Sweet is the sound of the pouring rain,

And the stream that falls from hill to plain.”

Merry’s foot swung slightly, accidentally kicking the bowl of half-eaten peanuts. They, unfortunately, went sprawling across the table—some even clattered against Legolas's chest.

The elf sighed, but opted not to ruin their fun.

“Better than rain or rippling brook...

Is a mug of beer inside this Took!”

With that, Merry and Pippin took to chugging their drinks, prompting the Rámaite Mahtar (winged warrior) to bend down and grab hers. With that, she too tilted the tankard back and downed the whole thing.

Only moments later, a second song started, and the three continued their dancing, hoots and cheers following. That is how the next hour passed, drink after drink, and dance after dance.

It only came to an end when (Y/N) lost her footing. Her perception distorted and twirled as her body fell forward, right into the arms of her lover—who luckily had noticed her body begin to tip and stood upright to catch her.

The smell of pine and honey filled her nostrils as her dizzy gaze finally settled onto Legolas’s face. “Legolas!” she started with a breathy giggle. “Will you join us?”

“I am afraid not, my starlight,” he replied gently. “I fear it may be time for you to retire.”

“Retire?” she questioned, not fully understanding.

“To sleep,” he clarified.

(Y/N) frowned, “But I want to dance again!”

“There will be more occasions for dancing, my starlight. I fear that if I do not get you to rest, you will wake up with a rather regrettable headache.”

“What is this h-headache you speak of?” she asked, her words slurring.

The elf sighed, "Unfortunately, I believe you will find out in the morrow.” With that, he placed her down, careful to steady her on her own two feet.

He then began to guide her from the hall. As the large, wooden doors closed behind them, a silence—almost eerie—settled, for the distant spill of music and laughter behind the doors was now quieted and muffled. The temperature of the air itself appeared to have dropped, for some of the windows were open and cool night air drifted in. Now that they were no longer side-by-side with drunken soldiers, the chaos faded.

(Y/N) took a deep breath in, her form drifting toward one of the windows. “It smells like…flowers. You know, the little purple ones we saw with Frodo.” She sighed, her tone somber. “I miss Frodo. And Sam.” Her gaze settled onto the elf beside her. “Do you think they are alright?” she whispered anxiously.

The elf exhaled slowly, not wanting to let his mind drift to such dark corners tonight. “I hope so, but I fear I cannot give you an answer.”

She sighed softly. She allowed her forearms to rest upon the stone of the windowsill, and her eyes settled on the night sky. After a long couple of moments, she spoke again. “This world is pretty.”

Legolas, standing beside her, smiled softly. “That it is.”

“When I was with him….with Morgoth and his servants, there was no such thing as ‘pretty.’”

Legolas glanced at her, but her attention was focused out far, as if her mind was away with the painful memories.

“Sometimes, when I think about it, it feels like…” (Y/N) paused. “Those—those images when you sleep?”

“Dreams,” he provided.

“Yes, dreams.”

Legolas turned to face her, gently stroking her cheek. “You do not ever have to return there. You can stay here.”

She looked up at him, her eyes dewy and soft. “In this pretty world?”

The concern of his lip twitched into a soft grin at her intoxicated words. “Yes, in this pretty world.”

Abruptly, a light, airy giggle left her lips—sounding like tower bells ringing in celebration. “Y-you,” she began drunkenly, “You are also pretty.”

A soft chuckle left his mouth. “You are intoxicated. Let’s get you to sleep.”

She only hummed in reply as Legolas began leading her to one of the designated rooms, lined with beds, for the guests and soldiers.

Swaying and being supported by Legolas’s arm wrapped around her waist, she spoke with a frown. “We are not going to the room I stayed in last time? Éowyn will not like that.”

Legolas raised his brow in question.

“Apparently,” she began, “women cannot share rooms with men in this town unless they are….Ah, what–what is that word? Wed! Yes, Éowyn said, unless they a-are wed.”

The elf only sighed, “I fear I do not feel comfortable leaving you in an unguarded room tonight.”

“Explain?” she inquired simply.

Legolas sucked in a deep breath, feeling unsure how to proceed with these details. She held the right to know of the violations that could come upon women by dishonorable men. “Well,” he began with uncertainty. He knew he would have to be blunt and direct, given her understanding of this world. “There are some people in this world who will intentionally harm women to settle their own desires. Some of them will try to force sex upon a woman without her consent.”

Her brows furrowed. “I do not want sex with men that are not you.”

“I know this, (Y/N), which is why I would not want to put you in a position where you are unsafe.”

“I would just kill them if they tried,” she quipped back. With that, (Y/N) stumbled over her own feet, her balance giving way beneath her from the effects of the mead. Legolas guided her upright with practiced ease, as though he had been expecting it all along—and he had.

The Prince raised his brows. “Unfortunately, I fear you are too drunk to be able to kill someone with ease.”

She snorted. “I can.”

Legolas, not wishing to even try to win this argument, did not push back. “Regardless, with the amount of eyes that were on you this evening, I would prefer you to be with me.”

She only shrugged in reply.

What Legolas did not tell her was that he had deliberately chosen not to remain in her room with her. Valar forbid, should some drunken man mistake the locked door to (Y/N)’s room for an invitation, Legolas suspected that, without Aragorn or Gimli nearby to restrain him, the encounter would end with a body.

It was not long before they arrived at the designated chamber. Some spots were already filled with snoring men, the alcohol lying claim to their night.

Legolas was quick to lay out a bedroll along the wall before settling himself against the wooden panels. (Y/N) lowered herself onto the mat beside him, resting her head in his lap. The Prince began gently stroking his fingers up and down her back in a soft rhythmic movement, and it was not long before (Y/N) was fast asleep.

As the night stretched on, drunken men of Rohan began to filter in. They were quick to select a bedroll and sleep, weary from the battle and ale.

Aragorn came in, his eyes landed on (Y/N) and Legolas. He knew the reasoning behind this. He did not have to inquire. The uncrowned king approached them and laid a mat down near them, finding comfort in the companions that he had known and traveled with for so long.

The door creaked open once more, and this time it was Gandalf who stepped through.

The sound echoed briefly through the quiet chamber before the door opened once more. Two Rohirrim soldiers entered, struggling under the weight of a dwarf they knew all too well. Gimli was thoroughly unconscious, snoring loudly enough to shake the rafters.

Not long after came Merry and Pippin, their faces flushed with drink and mischief as they stumbled into the chambers rather ungracefully.

Legolas took note of each person who entered the chamber. His watchful gaze remained calm until the Rohirrim soldier, who had approached (Y/N) earlier, stumbled through the doorway—still far too drunk for his own good.

Immediately, the elf’s expression hardened into something far less welcoming.

The soldier noticed.

The Rohirrim man’s eyes flicked first to (Y/N), sound asleep with her head resting in Legolas’s lap, then to the elf himself. The murderous glare waiting for him left little room for misunderstanding. Whatever courage the man had possessed earlier in the evening was not present now. Without a word, he moved to the farthest corner of the room, laid out his bedroll, and promptly turned his back to them before curling up for the night.

It wasn't long before Legolas too allowed his eyes to close softly, letting himself get some rest.

That quiet rest hung in the room for hours. Until a rather vast disruption—full of fear and doom.

Many gazes were snapped open as Pippin’s gurgling shrieks echoed upon the walls. His hands were wrapped around the plantir, and his entire body shook and writhed. Aragorn was quick to grab the sphere from his grasp, which only sent the Ranger into a similar state. (Y/N) was the next to do so—snatching it in an attempt to aid him.

Immediately, she too entered a trance-like state.

The voice of Sauron crept into the corners of her mind. “(Y/N), (Y/N), (Y/N),” he hissed. “Now what are you doing here—out from the Hollow of Chains and the Iron Pits of Wings?”

A deep, flaming darkness swallowed her. It encased her and seeped deep into her core. Flashes of memories struck her mind. Memories filled with the smell of iron, the taste of blood, and the sound of her and her kins’ screams.

It felt like she was there again, back in the clutches of Morgoth. Broken, beaten, bloody.

She could feel the pressure of the chains that had dug into her wrists and ankles for thousands of years. She could feel the slices of blades and whips that had broken her skin. She could feel the deep fear that had encased her heart.

Then came laughter—cold, cruel, and familiar.

The image of Sauron emerged from the corners of her mind, clad in armor and flames—an image of a man she had known before, yet she had not had a name attached to it. Not until now.

“You escaped,” he mused, circling her slowly. “A remarkable feat. Morgoth himself would have found amusement in that. He probably has.” He paused. “To think that he and I spent centuries breaking your kind and yet, here you are.”

His form moved closer to her, and the image shifted again. Helms Deep. Legolas. Rohan. The Hobbits. Lothlorien. Aragorn. Gandalf. Boromir. Gimli……Again, Legolas.

Sauron’s face appeared once more, contorting with amusement. “Ah. The elf. The prince who guards you as though he can shield you from what is coming. He cannot.”

The vision twisted, showing Legolas. Legolas beaten. Legolas bloody. Legolas’s body broken and bruised. Legolas tortured. Legolas dead.

(Y/N) tried to scream and run towards him, but she was locked in those chains, and her voice was stolen. She could feel hot tears and snot running down her face, and she pulled and pulled against the iron.

“Oh, a weakness!” Sauron’s voice slithered. “We had not thought that your kind had had any at all—even with all our experimentation. If only we had known it would take merely an elf.”

The vision shifted again—Legolas hung chained from the ceiling, shirtless and covered in wounds. Sauron appeared before him with unnerving calm, and without haste drew a blade across his chest. A raw cry of pain escaped Legolas as it cut through his skin.

With that, those iron chains that held (Y/N) shattered, and she lunged forward.

“There she is—our most brutal little warrior.”

Then back in darkness she was. Spinning around, looking for him—desperately, angrily, fearfully.

"The creature Morgoth could never quite extinguish,” Sauron’s voice echoed without form. “Perhaps, I should return you to him?”

It was then that the illusion faded, for a light burst through the darkness and the vision cracked like glass.

She was back—back in Rohan, back in the sleeping chambers, back with her friends.

“(Y/N)!” Legolas called out.

She looked down at the glass ball that had rolled upon the floor, away from her.

Gandalf was quick to cover it.

She could feel the elf’s arms upon her, pulling her close to him, but her eyes were focused on Pippin.

Gandalf’s furious voice echoed through the room. “Fool of a Took!”

He rushed to the catatonic hobbit’s side and pressed a hand against his forehead. Murmuring words under his breath—likely some form of magic. Pippin jolted awake with a gasp.

The wizard immediately began questioning him with urgent intensity, receiving in return a breathless, desperate account of what he had seen.

Legolas turned (Y/N) to face him, her form flushed against his own. He grasped her face between his palms. “Are you alright, my starlight?”

She only nodded, her hands resting flat upon his chest—where the wound in the vision had been.

….

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[entishramblings]

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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[tarithenurse]

Denied again

FANDOM: Lord of the Rings.

PAIRING/STARRING: Samwise Gamgee, Meriadoc Brandybuck, Peregrin Took, Frodo Baggins, & Strider a.k.a. Aragorn son of Arathorn

WORD COUNT: 280.

SUMMARY: Aragorn has denied the hobbits yet another meal.

CONTENT: Hunger (hobbit definition), silliness.

A/N: This is my contribution of the day for the January Jumble Scribbles challenge. The prompt of the day is: “Here’s another curse. May all your bacon burn”. As per usual please like, comment, and especially reblog - that’s the only way to make sure other people see it too. Here’s my TAGLIST and my MASTERLIST for more.

Denied again

“We cannot halt here,” Strider grumbles as he resolutely snatches the rations from Pippin’s hands and stuffs them back into the bag.

The hobbits exchange nervous glances.

“Why not?” Sam asks.

It is actually a gentle day where the sun is breaking through the thin layer of clouds, the light dappling the leaves of the bushes and trees. The landscape is flattening, so these little hills with glades are few and far in between.

“We have far to go still and little time,” Strider patiently explains. “It would be unwise to dally.”

“No one’s doing any dallying,” Merry defends the hobbits, stepping forward with squared shoulders and making himself look as tall as he can. “But a hobbit’s got to eat!”

They’ve had this discussion before and it did not pan out in favour of the hobbits.

Strider pinches the bridge of his nose, breathing in slowly before exhaling ever so softly.

“Second breakfast...” The hobbits nod eagerly but stop as Strider shakes his head and ties the provisions bag closed. “We need to preserve our rations. We need to keep moving. It is not safe for you -” here he looks to Frodo - “to be out and about.”

One of the mumbles something, making the other nod in silent agreement.

“What was that?” Strider asks, one of the brows in his rugged face arched.

That’s when Sam, gentle Sam, speaks up. “T’was a curse.” He puffs himself up. “And here’s another curse. M-may all your bacon burn!”

There’s fear in the brave hobbit’s face but it changes to confusion as Strider suddenly breaks into a smile.

“Then I shall fear your wrath, Samwise Gamgee. Come...we must continue.”

[tarithenurse]

Cold front and warm embrace

FANDOM: Lord of the Rings.

PAIRING/STARRING: Éomer son of Éumund x wife!fem!reader.

WORD COUNT: 537.

SUMMARY: You are caught by surprise by the change in weather.

CONTENT: A bit of fluff, implied nudity, kissing.

A/N: Today’s the 8th day of Flufftober Spring Edition, marking the start of the second and last week, and the prompt is “Cold Front”. As per usual: please like, comment, and especially reblog - that’s the only way to make sure other people see it too. Here’s my TAGLIST and my MASTERLIST for more.

Cold front and warm embrace

The day had started sunny and pleasant like the many past ones. Tempted by the warm weather, you had gone to work in the garden, tending to the herbs – it was your private little nook that you had established and while it was free of use to anyone, no one dared pluck a single leaf without your permission as they respected the work you put into it.

So you had gone, nursing the little sprigs of rosemary and thyme, weeding and watering without noticing the clouds piling up until they fully had blocked out the sun’s rays and the temperature had dropped.

Glancing up at the now overcast sky, you decided to juuuust finish your work.

When the first drop fell, icy cold on your skin, you shrugged off the discomfort and promised yourself that in just a moment you would be done.

Next instant, the clouds unleashed their full potential, releasing a torrent of water that not only made watering obsolete but also soaked you to the bones.

Wincing, you grabbed your tools, tossing them in the bucket and rushing for shelter the nearest place: the stables.

It was warm there, the heat of the large animals adding to the scent of straw. Standing in the middle of the room, you breathed in slowly as you took in the view from the wide doors: grey curtains of rain and no sign that it would stop anytime soon.

Putting the tools aside, you knew you had to brave the weather to make it back to the King’s Hall.

Head down and shoulders up, you sprinted out of the stables and up the wide path towards the next shelter. Skipping over the smaller puddles that had already formed and cursing silently at the bigger ones you had to waste time circumventing. The rain was falling hard, partially blinding you and spattering up from the ground, stained with earth and dust that quickly caked you light shoes – you could feel your footfalls pressing water out of them every time you took a step.

The guards, dutiful and vigilant despite the weather, saw you coming and opened the door for you to rush through without delay. Heat met you with a force like an embrace as you finally could slow down and raise your head. A few servants greeted you, but it was your husband’s reaction that took your breath away when he hurried from the throne to sweep you up in his strong arms.

“My dove,” he mumbled just for you to hear, “you will catch a cold like this.” Then he lowered his voice even more. “We must get you out of these drenched clothes and warm you...I know a way.”

It was not long after that, that you were laying under the furs and linens in your shared bed, back pressed against his shape and his arms around you. Éomer was peppering gentle kisses on your shoulder and neck, slowly chasing the cold away.

“I could stay like this forever,” he mumbled against your skin.

“Me too.”

It would be lovely but it was just a dream. You both had responsibilities, preventing you from enjoying many moments like this. For now, though, you would enjoy it.

[tarithenurse]

Fae/elf

FANDOM: Lord of the Rings.

PAIRING/STARRING: Legolas & fae!fem!reader, Gimli & Galadriel (mentioned).

WORD COUNT: 820.

SUMMARY: A chance meeting in the Undying Lands.

CONTENT: Nothing bad, just a lot of curiosity and gentle approaches.

A/N: “Imagine Legolas with a fae s/o elves and fae are mistaken for one another by outsiders only for legolas and fae reader to be like no we are totally different with one difference being fae controlling nature and having healing powers. I have this idea fae reader likes to show legolas things that interest her”. So, this turned out to be the meeting rather than the established relationship with the introduction to Legolas’ friends. Still, I hope you like it. As per usual: please like, comment, and especially reblog – that’s the only way to make sure other people see it too. Here’s my TAGLIST and my MASTERLIST for more.

Fae/elf

He has heard of them. As an elf of the wild woods, Legolas was a wild child – at one with the forest and its seasons and yet there was still a politeness to his kin relationship with nature. A certain civility. Not to mention that the elves of Greenwood live orderly lives with roofs over their heads and beds to find rest in.

But there are elves who are downright feral, or so he’s been told. Elves that abandoned the way of their brethren eons ago in order to be part of nature instead of living along side it. “Fae”, they’re called by most. “Sylvan”, they call themselves if the tales are to be believed.

As a child, Legolas threw himself over the tales – there were many – only to trace them all back to the same few encounters from ages ago. Defeated, the young prince eventually gave up on his dream of ever meeting a fae himself.

Little did he know.

Eons have passed. Legolas has come to the Undying Lands with his best friend, the dwarf Gimli (it had caused a great uproar but the dwarf proved himself, making the other elves accept him). The dreams of Legolas’ youth are long forgotten.

“Come, Gimli, ride with me.”

But Legolas knows it’s a request that falls on deaf ears as Gimli is working on a diadem for Galadriel – a personal request. So the former prince of Greenwood sets out on his own.

The morning dew still clings to every straw and leaf. The creatures of the night are only just settling down. This is the time of day that Legolas adores the most: when the light is young and the air is thin, carrying the fragrances on the gentle mist that gathers in otherworldly pools on the fields.

He has ridden for an hour when he halts in a clearing and dismounts. Leading the deer he has ridden on to the brook, the blond elf stretches and turns to face the rising sun. He still has a hand on the neck of the animal as it drinks so he feels it move, attracted to something further down the stream.

Turning to see what it is, Legolas has to strain his eyes: a crouched figure, dressed in soft leathers and leaves, watching him with clear eyes that hold eons of wisdom yet also a child’s curiosity.

Fae.

There’s no doubt.

“Mae govannen,” he greets softly, afraid to startle them.

Thankfully, instead of getting scared, the fae elf stands up and it becomes apparent it’s a female. Slowly, she steps closer. And closer. Until she’s right before Legolas who just keeps still. An elegant hand rises, index finger extended and she...boops his nose, making her erupt in a giggle. Perhaps it’s the act itself that brings her so much joy or perhaps it’s Legolas who is very taken aback by the action.

Then she turns and runs off, only pausing briefly to send him a bright smile before disappearing into the forest from whence she’s undoubtedly come.

---

Legolas returns the next morning, earlier still, and she’s there as if waiting for him.

Dismounting, he pulls a pack of lembas bread from his satchel, offering it to her. It’s wrapped in green leaves which he folds aside to reveal the golden treat within.

She’s intrigued, that much is obvious. Edging closer, her nostrils are flaring to pick up the sweet scent of the honey that’s used for the lembas. Carefully proffering it forward, Legolas watches in fascination as she takes it with delicate hands and brings it to her lips. He loves the way she bites into it, the way her eyes close as she discovers the taste.

“It is good, is it not?” he mumbles.

But even the soft sound of his voice is enough to bring her out of the moment and she retreats a bit, eyes big with wonder as she considers the situation. Then she holds out her hand, cupped as if offering him something despite the fact that her palm is empty. Or it was. Out of thin air, delicious ruby berries appear, overflowing so a few spill to the ground. She pushes her now full hand closer to him, clearly showing that she wants him to take them, so he does, astounded and full of questions.

How did she do it?

Taking one, he relishes in the sweet and tart taste as it pops between his teeth – eyes closed. It’s the perfect taste of late summer, bringing back memories of foraging as a young elf in the vast forest of Greenwood...before it became Duskwood.

But he also feels the surge of energy fill his body, not unlike how the lembas bread would. She must have recognized the effect and recreated it in these berries.

Opening his eyes, he finds that she’s gone, though, but something tells him that they’ll meet again.

[entishramblings]

Without Incident [Legolas/F!Reader]

A.N: I have been struggling to write (as usual, it seems). So, in efforts to get back into the swing of things…here is a legolas one-shot

Request: N/A

Pairing: Legolas X Fem!Reader

Summary: At one of Thranduil’s feasts in Greenwood, A drunken Prince Legolas tends to cause subtle incidents. The reader plays an unintentional part in this.

Disclaimer: I don't know elvish. I use the gracious elvish dictionary. Also, if there are spelling mistakes, its bc i have the brain of a snail and am old and tired.

Word count: 2k

Warnings: fluff, flirting, alcohol, humor, slight awkwardness, drunk!legolas, dad!thranduil, thranduil lowkey losing his shit and is also very amused, thranduil could use an ativan 

MASTERLIST | AO3 | WATTPAD

(Y/N) was a member of the Greenwood Guard. She held no rank of particular distinction and carried no notable status, but she was content with that. Her life was steady and purposeful—serving as a sentry and soldier of the Woodland Realm, attending to her duties with quiet diligence and unwavering loyalty.

It was the evening of one of King Thranduil’s extravagant feasts. Music and laughter spilled faintly through the heavy doors of the grand ballroom, though (Y/N) remained stationed outside, unmoving at her post adjacent to another guard, Rulthion. Both stood in practiced silence, as was expected of them. Yet that stillness broke. The door opened from within, and through the narrow gap stepped Prince Legolas. However, the Prince did not appear as he normally did. If anything, his state was the furthest thing from his usual self that they could ever possibly have expected.

Rulthion and (Y/N) exchanged a worrisome look.

The pair of elves let their gaze follow the Prince as he aimlessly wandered and stumbled into the hall, approximately ten feet in front of them. His blonde hair was pulled into a low, messy bun, small strands falling in front of his face, and a red tint clung to his eyes and his cheeks as he moved. His pale blue tunic was partially unclasped by the chest, revealing a bit more skin than the elven folk were accustomed to. However, that was not the most shocking thing about the situation. It was the dark green wine bottle held in his hand that was brought up to his lips more times than it should have been in the span of the forty-five seconds that he had been out here.

He moved to descend the nearby stone staircase, his form too unsteady for (Y/N)’s liking. She watched as he just barely made it down one step, heavily leaning onto the wall for support. He moved to make the second step, and his body nearly plummeted. He would have been sprawled out at the bottom if it weren't for (Y/N)’s firm grasp upon the back collar of his tunic. She was quick to yank him back up into the hallway.

He turned around lazily to see his rescuer, only to smash his chest up against her own due to his inebriated state, which was making him entirely unaware of depth perception.

She froze, and he did not move away.

Legolas looked down at her, the smell of wine strong upon his breath as it fanned out upon her face. A little smirk formed upon his expression before he spoke to her, a tad bit of sultry upon his tone. “Mae govannen, pîn cugu (Well met, little dove).”

(Y/N) blinked at him, entirely unsure how to respond to such a nickname that was apparently bestowed upon her by his drunken state.

“I fear I do not know your name. I have not seen you around these halls, and what a misfortune that has been for my gaze. I do wish to know what it is they call you, pîn cugu (little dove).

(Y/N) frowned. “My lord, I fear you have had too much wine, for you know my name. I am often by your side on patrols.” She inclined her head slightly at his responding empty gaze. “It is (Y/N), My Prince.”

He blinked at her, then lifted a hand to her cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over her lower lip. “Ah, (Y/N), yes,” he murmured. “The pretty one who seems to send my guards’ arrows astray.”

Her frown deepened at his words. She had never heard such a thing before, and the thought that the guards might gossip about her appearance left her quietly unsettled—yet not as unsettled as the Prince’s hand upon her face. Gently, she took hold of his wrist and guided his hand away. “’Tis not my doing that their arrows fail to meet their mark.”

“I tell them as much,” he replied softly, his blue eyes intently scouring her own. “I do not care to see them staring at you, pîn cugu (little dove). I have little patience for it.”

(Y/N) cleared her throat awkwardly, drawing her eyes away from the Prince as she took a step backwards, creating a subtle distance between them. “My lord, you are rather intoxicated. Perhaps it is time you retired to your chambers? Or, at the very least, obtain a glass of water.”

Legolas rolled his eyes, tipping his head back with a soft, unprincely groan. When his gaze returned to her, it lingered—too focused, too steady. His hand lifted again, this time catching a few strands of her hair between his fingers, twisting them absently as though they were something he had every right to hold.

(Y/N) stilled. After a brief moment, she gently reached up and guided his hand away from her hair, lowering it back to his side with careful control. “You are not yourself tonight, my prince,” she said quietly, her voice even despite the tension in her chest.

Legolas blinked at her, as though considering this for the first time. “I am myself,” he said at last, quieter now. “Just…less restrained than usual.”

The moment stretched—quiet, taut, unsettled by the distant spill of music behind the ballroom doors. Legolas remained where he stood. His gaze stayed on (Y/N) longer than it should have, unblinking, in a way the wine could not fully account for.

That moment did not last long, for it was interrupted by the creaking of the large wooden doors and subtle footsteps, measured and purposeful.

“Prince Legolas,” a guard called out. “Your father requests your presence.”

Legolas did not answer immediately. His attention remained on (Y/N), as though he did not hear the voice at all.

The guard cleared his throat softly, a hint of unease in his posture. “It is…urgent.”

Legolas exhaled through his nose, the faintest hint of frustration slipping through his composure. He straightened, pulling himself from the closeness of (Y/N).

“So it would seem,” he murmured. With that, he took steps back towards the ballroom doors, giving (Y/N) a slight inclination of his head. “May your watch be without incident, pîn cugu (little dove).”

The doors closed behind the Prince and the guard, the music lingering in the stillness.

(Y/N) slowly returned to her post on the opposite side of the double doors, taking up her position across from Rulthion. They stood in mirrored silence—each stationed on either side of the grand entrance. After a moment, Rulthion spoke quietly with a faint smirk. “Without incident,” he echoed. “I fear he was the incident.”

“Do not breathe a word of this to anyone,” she replied, her cheeks red.

…..

Unfortunately—mostly for the Prince—the night did indeed bring another disruption…and it was him…again.

A couple of hours had passed, the doors opening and closing as guests came and went. This time, however, the disturbance came in the form of Legolas being escorted out of the ballroom by his father.

The King held his son firmly by the bicep, guiding him through the doorway and out into the corridor. The Prince looked even more disheveled than he had the first time he exited the room. His sloppy, low bun was coming undone, and his footing was worse—if that was even possible.

Once Thranduil and Legolas stood away from the door, the King released his grasp. “Legolas,” he hissed, not caring that the two sentries were about to witness this reprimand. “By the valar—what were you thinking? Drinking this much during a formal occasion?!”

Legolas huffed, rolling his eyes. “Adar (father), you drink just as much.”

The king let out a sharp, humorless snort. “And yet I do not make a spectacle of myself,” he snapped.

“I did no such thing!” he rebutted.

Thranduil’s gaze flicked over him, unimpressed. “Walking directly into a servant carrying a tray of wine is, in fact, ‘such a thing,’ Legolas.”

That was when (Y/N) noticed the dark splashes of deep purple staining on the prince’s tunic.

“It is not my fault, Adar (father)!” Legolas insisted, gesturing sharply as if the evidence might vanish if he ignored it.

The King raised his brows, and his tone filled with dry amusement, “Oh? So I suppose it was a wizard who cast a spell upon your legs and made you wobble straight into the servant?”

Legolas sighed heavily. “No, no—it was that guard.” He paused, then added, as though correcting something obvious, “The pretty one.” He rubbed at his temple as if the thought itself were a nuisance. “I cannot seem to stop thinking of her.”

(Y/N) felt her blood run cold. He couldn't be referring to her…to their recent conversation, could he?

At Legolas’s words, Thranduil’s expression shifted—less severe now, more observant, as though a separate thread had suddenly become more interesting than the reprimand itself. “If you are referring to a member of the Greenwood Guard, she likely has a name.”

“Yes, yes,” Legolas replied, mildly impatient now. “I know she does. I am asking what it is.”

Thranduil let out a soft breath through his nose, almost a laugh—if one squinted. The severity had eased, replaced with amusement for something far more entertaining. “You mean to tell me,” he said, “that your disgrace this evening was not caused by wine, nor by poor footing…but by a guard you cannot even name?”

The Prince huffed, irritation at his father and himself, rather obvious. “The little dove,” he pressed, as though that should clarify everything. “You must know…the one I told them to stop staring at.”

“I fear I do not know, ion nin (my son),” Thranduil replied smoothly.

Legolas exhaled sharply through his nose. “She–she is beautiful, Adar (father), and I just–I just…”

“And you cannot stop thinking of her,” the King finished, clearly enjoying this far more than he should.

“Yes,” Legolas admitted, as if it were an inconvenience rather than a confession. “It is rather distracting.”

Silence settled between them.

Then the King let out a quiet laugh. “I would very much like to meet this guard,” he said, “who has managed to render my son so distractible without even trying.”

Legolas, now realizing that Thranduil was making a jest of him, frowned. “Ada (father)!”

At that, something in Thranduil’s expression shifted; the teasing had clearly passed and the reprimand settled back into place, firm and complete.

“Enough,” the King said. “You are unfit to remain in the company of the court,” Thranduil continued coolly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

His gaze then shifted to (Y/N).

“You,” he said.

(Y/N) straightened immediately, stepping forward. “My king.”

Thranduil’s expression remained composed. “Take him to his chambers,” he ordered.

“Yes, my Lord—” she began; however, she was interrupted.

“I can walk on my own,” Legolas stated, crossing his arms, clearly irritated.

“I do not recall asking,” Thranduil replied evenly.

“Adar (father)!” Legolas nearly whined.

The King cast him a sharp, disapproving look before turning fully to his son with a quiet snort. “Can you truly navigate these halls without incident? Pray tell—what color are this guard’s eyes?” he challenged.

The Prince frowned as he squinted, trying to get his blurry vision to settle. “I…uh…they are..”

“Exactly my point.” He paused. “You will retire. Quietly.”

Legolas looked between them once, still half-protesting, but the argument never formed. Instead, he exhaled, defeated.

“This is unnecessary,” he muttered, beginning to walk with (Y/N).

He then spoke to her, his steps swaying into an unsteady stagger. “Do you know her—the guard, the little dove?”

She grabbed onto his arm to stabilize him. With a subtle smirk, (Y/N) replied. “My lord, I know many members of the Greenwood Guard. You will need to be more specific than bird-related nicknames.”

…

Tags are in the comments because there are many of you <3

[itzdollysblog]

Legolas x Half elf! Reader

A/n: Ayoooo first one! I’m actually pretty proud of this! Enjoy!

~The Calling~

Being a half elf, it came with a choice. A choice that not many had.

become mortal, or stay timeless forever.

It should be easy, right? stay young and beautiful forever while those you love age and die. Let twenty years go in the blink of an eye, meaning nothing to me. While it’s an entire lifetime for another. Watch as age attacks everyone else, but not me.

my hands hold scars. But they hold no wrinkle. No etch of time. It’s unnerving to me.

Although I am quite young, only 21, the idea of eternity is overwhelming.

My grandfather, God bless his soul. The choice was not given to him. He has seen much death. The responsibility of serving middle earth for almost all of its existence, is daunting.

I could never do what he does.

For me, at first, it was simple. Live forever, and eventually sail to the west. Where I would go and live in peace, amongst my fellow kin.

But were they ever really my people?

I did not grow up the same way as other elves did. Had no true connection to my culture. I traveled with Gandalf. Seeing all of middle earth. He found me as a child, after my hometown was attacked. Mother and father…nowhere found.

While he did his best, I fear it may have influenced me in the way he wasn’t expecting. I grew to love mortality. The aging. The wrinkles of the face. The delicate work hands would carry. The gray that would naturally fade the color of the hair. How the eyes sparkle when talking about memories of their younger days.

I envy that.

I remember the first time I spoke to my grandfather about it. That envy. I asked if he felt it too. And of course, he didn’t give a straight answer. But in between the lines, it was the same as mine.

In a short amount of time, I grew to despise immortality. And I knew when I was ready, I would give it up. To grow old. When the world was safe. When this ring was destroyed. When I could grow my flowers and herbs without the fear of my garden being poisoned and destroyed by the world.

That was until, I met a certain elf. And he began to ask questions. Questions I didn’t think I would ever ponder about.

“You are not a full elf maiden.” Legolas said simply, walking alongside me. I always covered my head with a hood whenever I traveled. My ears weren’t as pointed as his. So it was easy to mistake me as a human.

“No.” I said simply, “My mother was an elf maiden. But my father was a Dunedian.” The look on his face was one of concentration. As if he was really taking in every word I said.

“So I have the choice to stay immortal, or not.” I continued, looking forward. A part of me was afraid. Of what, I didn’t know. Maybe not fully anyways.

“Have you chosen?” He asked quickly, a small sense of urgency hiding in his voice. This caused me to look over at him, my eyes a bit wide. But I kept my cool.

“Yes,” I began, “When this ring is destroyed, and all of middle earth is safe. I shall give up my immortality. I should like to grow old. Watch as the wrinkles of time grace my face. And my hands grow hard with labor of a garden.”

He looked forward, taking in my words. No elf would give up immortality, unless it was for a lover. So to hear one willing giving it up, was almost unheard off. But I could feel that a part of him, almost understood me.

“Is there a mortal you love?” He asked, his voice a little quieter. And a part of me was hurt in a sense. For years, me and Legolas have had dreams of each other. Of course, we’ve never really spoken of it. But sometimes, someone will talk of funny memories. And we’ve found that we will speak of a memory we’ve had of each other in a dream. A dream so real, it felt like another reality.

Our own home.

“Those four little creatures, I love the dearly.” I teased, “But beyond them, and everyone else here, no. There is not someone who has captured my heart.” I looked over at him, my eyes locking onto his. “At least, no one has really tried. Yet.”

He nodded, and didn’t speak. But spoke up again for a moment, “If the one who held your heart was an elf. Would you change your decision then?” He asked, and I thought for a moment.

I never really considered the probability. What elf would want a half one? One who didn’t have the average grace. The view of Undying lands.

I will not sit here and say the whole I am not like other women. A life of battle and glory does not satisfy me. It would not make me whole. For my entire life I have been at the end of a sword, one way or another.

But when I look at him, I see something I never thought off. A partner. An immortal who could make time more easier. Who in their own way, hold time and memory in a beautiful way. Not cold by time, but rather, a warmth on a spring day where the sun rises for the first time since winter.

In a moment, I could see a life with him. Waking up beside him. Cooking. Gardening. Visiting all of middle earth. Helping it heal. Healing each other in the process.

And eventually, we would go to the west together. Seeing all of our kin.

Eternity is long. But we would have each other.

But was I really willing to trade the gift of mortality and warmth. For another? Another type of heat. Another type of sunrise.

“He would have to be really convincing.” I teased, looking forward as I watched the rest of the fellowship. Even though we were all walking towards the possibility of never returning, I wouldn’t want to be with any other group of misfits.

“Perhaps he will be, Mellon Nin.”

[wordbunch]

all my riches for her smiles .✦ ݁˖

[Boromir x f!reader]

a/n: WE ARE SO BACK on the regularly scheduled tolkien bullshit! i missed writing for these characters so much. this is self-indulgent but i accepted the fact that i'm posting primarily for my own fantasies OOPS. but anyway - reblogs&comments feed the author!💗

summary: stealing romantic moments under the stars; 2k of plotless fluff. no [y/n], reader mentions having a sister, height difference, they are both SO down bad they should be institutionalized.

disclaimer: never have & never will use AI in my writing, this shit is from the heart!

"Do you know much of the stars, my lady?" a familiar voice broke you out of your thoughts as your gaze was fixated on the clear night sky, the one thing that made it slightly enjoyable to be on night watch while the rest of the fellowship took a well-deserved break. 

“Not as much as I would like, I admit. My sister has always known more, but I have been curious, at least,” you answered earnestly, averting your eyes only to meet cloudy blue ones belonging to the man who was now sitting next to you on the damp grass. Involuntarily, your lips coiled into a soft smile. You were pleased to note that Boromir smiled in return. 

"My brother as well, although I have not remembered many of his stories about them, to be honest," he shrugged, making himself comfortable in your proximity, your company preferable to anybody else’s, even though he could have been resting – lord knows you all needed it desperately.

"You do not seem the kind of man who spends time stargazing," you laughed airily, giving him a brief once-over; his tall build and broad shoulders all but looming over you even while sitting down. The fresh air enveloped you with the scent of trees and autumnal mist, distant and low sounds of the forest stirred in the background. In spite of everything that was happening, you still managed to find some mirth and peace in moments like these. Especially when shared with a certain gallant nobleman.

"Why would I gaze at them when you are beside me? I much prefer this view to anything happening in the skies," Boromir spoke lowly, directed only at you, even though the others were a safe distance away from the two of you – but he wasn’t taking any chances. Something in the way he said those words made them seem especially solemn and genuine, and a shiver passed through you.

"You flatter me, my lord," you replied with an undeniable smile, skin warming in the evening breeze. 

"You do not need to be so formal, I have told you already,” he answered brightly, even with an edge of laughter, “we have been travelling together for many weeks now. Only my name will do."

"You ask me not to be formal but you persist with 'my lady',” you retorted, a slight confusion clouding your features. “None of the others call me that anymore, not for a while now. We have been through enough already to disregard such formalities.” 

"Perhaps I just enjoy the sound of it." His answer was plain, straightforward, open. 

"The 'lady' part, or rather the 'my'?" you inquired boldly, raising a questioning eyebrow. For a split second, Boromir fiddled with the hem of his sleeve before dropping it and meeting your eyes – you could read the answer in his gaze, as you so often could lately, but you preferred to hear it spoken.

"The latter, certainly." 

So there was the truth, almost glowing brightly against the backdrop of the darkness and against the hopelessness of the world. In the days of uncertainty in which you all had found yourselves in, to admit something beautiful and sincere seemed almost an act of defiance. You were hoping it wasn’t so easy to notice how flustered you became over such a small sentence, but the glint in Boromir’s eyes as he looked at you with undisguised affection told you a different story.

"If it brings you happiness, you may call me that. Or something else, if you like," you conceded, having composed yourself only slightly. Every time your eyes met, something echoed deep inside; little did you know it was a very mutual sensation.

"I will give it some thought then."

"That one over there is my most beloved star," you pointed upwards after a few beats of silence, Boromir immediately following your hand with his sharp eyes. "I forget the name, but it is the one I have always seen from my window as I was sitting awake, wondering what might be out there for me, someday," you trailed off, almost pensively out of old habits. 

"And how do you like what is out there?" he prompted you, unreasonably enchanted by even something as simple as the way you spoke about the stars, beyond curious about any story that you might choose to share with him – he was honored to lend you an ear. His question, you noted, simultaneously felt light, noncommittal, yet pointed.

"Well, I am, for one, quite enjoying the company right now. And the sky is lovely." You seized your turn to share fragments of a tantalizing truth which had been tugging at the two of you for quite some time. 

"Likewise – and this one here is the fairest star of all of them," Boromir replied, throwing caution to the wind at last as he gently, carefully enveloped your hand in his, his touch instantly warming both your skin and heart. The moment he felt the softness of your skin against his ragged palm, he thought he’d found himself in paradise. Subconsciously you shifted towards him, his large frame all but radiating heat, until you were almost side by side, separated by little more than just air.

"And I thought you were not a stargazer, my – Boromir," you quickly corrected yourself, clearing your throat with slight awkwardness at recalling what he asked of you only moments ago, and the man beside you almost combusted with joy. 

"I thoroughly enjoyed the sound of that, my lady," he mused, deeply pleased, absolutely hell-bent on never letting go of your hand again, if fate allows. And if it doesn’t – he was more than willing to fight whatever dared to try and pull you away from him.

"There you go again with 'my lady'" you laughed, playfully rolling your eyes, and Boromir thought to himself that he would do anything in his power to hear that laughter as many times as possible, exchange anything that still remained good in the world to see the crinkle in the corner of your eyes as you beamed. Yet you were thoroughly unaware how such a simple sound alleviated years of weight and worry piled up on his shoulders. 

"I thought you liked that one as well, my darling," he tested the waters yet again, voice almost wavering right at the end, but he didn’t miss the way that your breath caught in your throat and how your fingers pressed just slightly more intensely into his hand. 

"I like everything coming from you," you concluded, your heartbeat picking up speed that you worried it might be visible even through your clothes, even in the night.

"Would you like a – "

Kiss.

He wanted to say kiss. 

But both his heart and his mouth stammered at the way your eyes were lingering on him, how you blinked as if you were in a dream, how you regarded him with such fondness; your presence warm and kind throughout the struggles of the quest. Although Boromir considered himself to be a courageous man, face-to-face with you so closely, intimately, his bravado was crumbling; instead he was a man on his knees, ardent, devoted.

But you knew what he was going to say, and he loved you all the more for it.

"I very much would," you whispered in a breathless reply – before he’d even properly touched you at all –  that you'd had prepared for a while now, even though you were sometimes unsure if you would ever end up needing it.

Still adamant on keeping your hand securely in his grasp, his other one found its way to your face, a careful finger tracing a path down your cheek as the whole world seemed to freeze around you. The first brush of his lips against yours was so cautious it made your heart ache – this imposing man with his broad shoulders and towering height and booming voice was touching you as if you were the most delicate person he’d ever encountered. 

But the second Boromir realized you weren’t going to shatter at his fingertips and that you wanted this, wanted him – he pulled you impossibly closer in the blink of an eye and then he wondered – as much as he was even capable of sober thinking in that particular moment – how he had been living and breathing at all without you so perfectly slotted right against him.

As much as you could estimate, he was still reining himself in to a certain extent, but you found appreciation for it – after all, you were yet to start mapping each other out and learning how to navigate whatever it was that you were venturing into. It was as if you were sheltered from the whole world when he held you close and hovered over you, everything else seemed distant and minuscule. For one brief moment just before breaking the kiss, your hand wound up in his hair, fist closing around it; he gulped.

However, you were wrong to think he would let you go just like that, or ever again, as he lovingly kept sprinkling kisses on your cheek, the other cheek, top lip, bottom lip, just underneath your jaw, until you giggled at the unexpected sensation; Boromir’s heart somersaulted in his chest as he internally thanked every single string of fate that pulled him right towards this very moment and then bound him to you.

In order to give yourself some space to breathe and not float away into seventh heaven, you only slightly moved away, grinning so brightly it put the stars to shame. Some strands of hair had fallen into Boromir’s face in the aftermath of your frenzied embrace, so you reached out to move them away with your free hand; his heart tripled in size at your simple movement, judging by the lovesick look in his eyes. 

A comfortable silence fell onto the two of you, as you repositioned yourself so you could snugly lean into the sturdy man behind you. At least for a couple of moments, you felt like no evil in the world could touch you as you felt his steady heartbeat through layers of clothes. Both of his arms found their way around your waist like it was second nature, then your own hands rested over them. In the background, there was some light commotion coming from your friends – probably discussion over who gets the final bites of dinner – but you paid no attention, blissfully stuck in your own little universe.

“I think,” Boromir’s whisper brushed just over your ear, “I might enjoy looking at the stars now.”

“Were you not watching me most of the time?” you challenged, delighting in the deep chuckle that reverberated within his chest.

“Exactly.”

“As much as I would love nothing more but to stay like this forever…” you began regretfully, eliciting a wistful sigh from Boromir, “if I don’t go and rest soon, I will be unable to carry my own belongings tomorrow, never mind be useful in any larger capacity as we go.”

“My darling,” he murmured into your skin, nose brushing against your cheek as he left a few featherweight kisses there for good night, “I would carry your entire self, let alone your things, if you asked me to.” 

the way i was giggling and kicking my feet while writing this...... sigh. more lotr content coming very soon TRUST, like fluffy alphabets and hedcanons. should i do a taglist thing again?

[lokigodofmyheart]

HOT WATER

Pairing: Legolas x Reader

Words: 2.4k

Summary: Y/N is exhausted and Legolas show her a place with hot water to relax. 

Warning/Content: soft smut.

MASTERLIST

Legolas observed the girl as she walked alongside the Fellowship. The journey has been long and hard for all of them. But it must had been harder on her, a mortal woman.  

Y/N could feel her muscles ache as she walks with the Fellowship. Her clothe were stained with dust and sweat and wherever else were in those roads. The only thing she craved right now was a moment of peace. Legolas fell back to walk in pace with her. He glanced at her, taking a mental note of her current state of exhaustion.  

Aragorn decided to stop and make camp because it' was getting already darkening it would be way too dangerous to walk at night. Everyone agreed, after all, they were all tired. Except for Legolas. 

As soon everything was settled for them to rest, Y/N sat on the grass, her back against a tree and her eyes closed. She closed her eyes, trying to relax a little. Legolas noticed her state and he sat by her side, as he silently observed her for a moment before speaking.  

"You seem tired." he noted quietly, his voice filled with genuine concern. 

“I am a little.” She looked at him.  

The elf nodded, understanding what she meant. "There's a spring not far from here." He offers slowly, tilting his head towards a direction "The water is pure, warmed by the earth. It will help you." 

Y/N hesitate at first, but the thought of washing away the dirty, in a warm water instead of the cold ones they had been finding...she was really tempted. 

“Okay, sure,” Y/N stood up from the ground with a small smile on her lips“lead the way, elf.” 

Legolas smiles back, his expression gentle. He gets up from his seat and starts making his way through the trees, making sure she was following him as he leads her to a small, secluded spring.  

The water is crystal clear, and steam rises up from its surface. The sun sets leaving them with the dark of the night and the light of the moon "Here we are." he says quietly, gesturing towards the spring. 

“That actually looks very nice.” She spoke already taking off her boots. 

Legolas nodded in agreement. The spring looks like a small oasis in the middle of the forest. The moonlight reflects on the water's surface, glimmering quietly. "Let the water soothe your muscles and ease your mind." he advises, as he turns his back at her politely to let the woman undress. 

She finished quickly, throwing her clothes at the ground and slip into the water. The warm instantly relaxed her body and her aching muscles. Legolas stands on the edge of the spring, his back still towards her. He listens to the sounds of the night, his keen ears attuned to everything surrounding them.  

"You don't need to be so vigilant all the time." Y/N says, looking at his back. 

Legolas' attention abruptly snaps back toward her. Her voice cuts through the silence and he turns slightly to glance at her. He can just make out her form in the water, the moonlight casting a soft glow on her skin "It's dangerous out here." he replies in a quiet voice, still standing on the edge. "We must always be on guard." 

“Well, there’s no danger here.”  

She was correct to a certain extent and he knew it. At this very moment, they were safe and in a secluded area, away from the dangers of the surrounding wilderness  

"Habit." It’s all he says.  

"Join me." Y/N says half-playful, half-serious "I won't look. I promise.” Legolas raises an eyebrow at her request, clearly not expecting it.  

She turned her back to him, as she was trying to untangle her hair, giving no mind to him, after all, she was sure he would decline. But then she heard the quite rustle of fabric. The sound of his tunic being pulled over his head and the rest of his clothes. And them, the water moving as he enters. 

Legolas slowly makes his way to her, his steps light and graceful. The warm water instantly easing his tension. He watches her silently for a moment as she struggles with her hair. Letting out a soft sigh, he spoke "Let me help you with that." 

He carefully moves closer to her through the water, his long, slender fingers reach out to gently undo the tangled strands of her hair. His touch is surprising soft, slowly detangling her messy hair. Nothing at all from what she expected from an Elf prince and warrior.  

“You’re good at this...” Y/N spoke quietly, enjoying the touch of his hands in her hair, enjoying how his fingertips barely grazing at her skin.  

"I have had plenty of practice." he replies quietly, his voice low and calm as he continues. 

She let out a soft chuckle and Legolas couldn't help but smile faintly at the sound. He works through the last few strands of her hair and finally, it is free from tangles. "There." he murmurs, his fingers gently running through her now-smooth hair. 

“Thanks.” She smiles, turning to finally look at him. They were very close, she noticed. And very naked too. She expected him to move away, but he doesn't.  

Their proximity makes him aware of her body, the feel of her skin just inches from his own. His gaze meets hers and it lingers. It's intimate and intense as his eyes travel over her face, tracing the contours of her features. Her face is wet from the water and his gaze is captured by the water droplets on her face, his eyes tracing the path they take He reached out a hand and gently brushed away a few more droplets, his fingers lingering on her skin for a moment.  

He speaks quietly, almost a whisper "You are breathtaking." The words slip out before he realizes. 

Y/N reaches her hand to his shoulder, tracing the path of the droplet, making his breath hitches as her fingers touched his skin, the intimacy of it makes his skin tingle. His gaze doesn't leave hers as he swallows, his own hands slowly cupping her face, brushing her cheekbones before he leans into her, pressing his lips against hers in a slow kiss, testing, savoring her. 

As soon as his lips were on hers, she closed her eyes and kissed him back. Legolas deepens the kiss, his tongue gently tracing the seam of her lips. His hands slowly move, sliding down her neck and over her shoulder, pulling her closer against him, their bodies pressed together in the warm water. 

His hands grow bolder, going to her back, tracing the curve of her spine, sliding lower until he grips her waist beneath the water, pulling her even closer. Legolas breaks the kiss for a moment, his breath uneven, and his eyes dark as they lock onto hers. 

"Tell me to stop" He murmurs. 

“Don't.” she murmurs too, before she closed the distance kissing him again, a more passionate kiss this time.  

Legolas responds to her kiss with fervor, his tongue slipping into her mouth, tasting her as his hands grip her tighter, pulling her closer against him while his hands roams over her body, exploring the curves and angles he's longed to touch. Her hands did the same, exploring his chest, his muscles, making the elf whisper words in his tongue, which she could not understand.  

His kiss becomes more urgent, the need to feel her growing with each passing moment. His hands slide down her body, grabbing her hips firmly and pulling her against him. Y/N let out a soft moan, feeling how hard he already was from just kissing. He breaks away from the kiss, his breath jagged as he looks at her with a silent question. 

Y/N understood and nod at him. Legolas doesn't need any more encouragement. He gently lifts her, his strong hands sliding down the backs of her thighs, wrapping her legs around his waist. When he sinks into her, he does it slowly, eyes locked into hers, watching every little reaction. Watching as she moans and her eyes almost roll back as she enters her inch by inch.  

Legolas holds her against him, his hands gripping her thighs as he stays still for a moment, savoring the feeling of being buried deep inside her. His eyes are darkened with need and desire as he looks at her, a soft growl escaping him as he starts to move in a slow and gentle pace.  

The water ripples around them as they move and the night were filled with soft gasps and moans from both of them. He loves how responsive she is to his touch, the way she gasps and moans, the way her nails digging into his shoulder, the way she arches against him as he moves, pushing her closer to the edge. 

Legolas felt when she reaches her orgasm, clenching around him and makes him follows her when the sensation is too much and he finally cum. Legolas holds her tight against him, feeling her body trembles. He buries his face into the crook of her neck, his arms around her waist, holding her as he follows her over the edge of pleasure, murmuring in his mother language. 

“What does that mean?” She asks curiously.  

He lifts his head up to look at her, his eyes still hazy with pleasure he replies in a gentle voice "It roughly translates to 'my sweet flower'”. 

Y/N smiles a little with his answer and he couldn’t help but returns the smile. She lifts her hand, gently caressing his cheek. Legolas closes his eyes at her touch, taking in the feeling of her fingers on his skin, her tenderness bringing him a sense of peace. For a moment, all he can think of is her, the feeling of her body against his, the soft sound of her breathing and the touch of her fingers on his skin. 

“We should go, before Aragorn or Gimli come look for us...” she made no motion to move from him. 

 Legolas reluctantly nods, knowing that she's right. He carefully pulls her legs from around his waist, letting her stand on the ground, but still keeping her close. He caresses her cheek gently and steals a quick kiss before speaking. 

They slowly move to get out of the water. Legolas steps out first, reaching out to help her from the water. He grabs his trousers from the ground and quickly pulls them on. He stays by her side as she gets dressed too, not wanting to leave her just yet "Unfortunately, you're right..." 

They slowly move to get out of the water. Legolas steps out first, reaching out to help her from the water. He grabs his trousers from the ground and quickly pulls them on while Y/N did the same with her clothes. When they’re done, he steps closer, taking her hand in his and lacing his fingers through hers. 

She smiles again, giving him a quick kiss. Legolas responds to the kiss, gently cupping her face with his free hand. His thumb caresses her cheek as he looks at her, his gaze tender and fond as he speaks, his voice low 

"We should return to the others..." 

Y/N nods. She broke the silence as they walk back to the camp “Thanks, I really needed that...the water was indeed good.”  

Legolas nods in understanding, his hand still holding hers as they walk slowly "So did I." he replies quietly "It's a small moment of peace and relaxation, something we rarely get in this journey." 

Once they step back where the fellowship was, they noticed that Aragorn and Gimli were still awake. And obvious Aragorn was the first to notice that Legolas’ hair was also wet. 

Aragorn gives a sly smile at the sight of Legolas' wet hair. His eyes dart to Y/N for a moment, then back to Legolas 

"Went for a swim, didn't you?" he asks, clearly amused. 

“We really needed a shower. You should try one too.” She says back to him. Legolas glances at her with a subtle smile, appreciating her humor.  

Aragorn chuckles in response to her suggestion, but there's a knowing look in his eyes as he replies. "I'll give it serious consideration. A proper bath wouldn't hurt." 

She chuckles too, sitting by the fire with them and Legolas followed her. The man, the elf and the dwarf kept talking, but Y/N was so tired she slowly fell asleep, letting her head fall on Legolas’ shoulder.  

The elf glances down at her, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he realizes she's dozed off, her head now resting on his shoulder. He instinctively brings his arm around her, pulling her a little closer, careful not to wake her.  He looks up to see Aragorn and Gimli's eyes on them, both wearing knowing smiles “Not a word.” 

Gimli raises an eyebrow, a lopsided grin on his face, and whispers just loud enough for them to hear “Looks like someone found a new pillow." 

Aragorn tries to hide a chuckle, but it ends up as a cough. He glances at Legolas, a smirk on his face “Who knew our dear Legolas made such a comfortable pillow?" 

Legolas rolls his eyes at their comments, trying to dismiss them with a snort of feigned annoyance. He looks down at Y/N, still asleep against him, her head resting on his shoulder. His expression softens as he speaks quietly, almost to himself "She's just tired..." 

“Yes, a bath in hot waters must be really exhausting.”  Aragorn says teasing his friend. 

Legolas shoots Aragorn a look, knowing he's not going to give up this topic anytime soon "We both needed it. It's been a long day." 

Gimli can't help but chime in, still smiling in amusement "Of course you did. And since both your clothes are dry, I wonder if-" 

Legolas raises a hand, silencing Gimli mid-sentence “Enough, you two." he mutters sternly, his patience running thin. Aragorn and Gimli exchange grins, but they decide to drop the topic for now.  Legolas carefully scoops her up in his arms, making sure not to wake her, and carries her to her bedroll. He lays the woman down gently, making sure she's comfortable. He pulls a blanket up over her, tucking it around her loosely, and sat by her side, keeping watching her as the other’s sleep. The rest of the night is quiet, and the only sound is the soft breathing of the rest of the Fellowship. 

[ninaaazz]

— Failing scholars —

summary : Invinting Faramir over to “study” but he actually brings his books over and wants to review the material.

pairing faramir x fem!reader (no use of y/n)

content warning : none, pure fluff

wc : ≈ 3,5k

taglist : @angiekayyy @entishramblings @goldenatreides @xxliaaaa @hell-o-kittys @number1faramirkisser

author’s note : prompt by @number1faramirkisser huge thanks for letting me use it to write this, it was so much fun! this work rightfully goes to you as a gift :p

➢ nini’s masterlist

➢ read on ao3

Minas Tirith’s private parlour is silent except for the hiss of the wind outside through the window, the weather is not kind over Gondor today. You sit on a chair at a wooden desk, the room around you lit up by the faint hue of the sun hiding behind grey clouds and the flames of candles burning on a chandelier over your head. You look at it when a flame flickers and sigh. The wood under your fingertips is rough, its polish gone in places, you fear a splinter will get through your finger but continue tracing over it absentmindedly.

You are torn from your daydreaming when the door opens in a slight cry and a sheepish boy walks in with a small smile on his face. Yours light up as well at the sight of him, not for long though. Your brows draw together a little in confusion, you don’t understand how this could have happened. You were sure you had been clear enough in your intentions with him, otherwise why would you invite him to study with you in a private parlour a material you don’t even need to learn for another three weeks? Even beside that, it had been months now since you had grown aware of your feelings for the prince, and your attempts at courting weren’t so discreet.

Yet Faramir seemed to not see any of them, you wondered if he chose to ignore them or was simply incapable of seeing you as other than a friend. The thought pinched your heart a little, you thought you two had grown fairly close since you first met during lessons. You were trying really hard to make him see you were interested, to try and help him tear advances out of himself if he was too shy to work ones on his own; every single one of your attempts failed.

Just like Faramir thought you were failing a subject and was dead set on making you pass the year with him. He couldn’t survive Middle Earth’s realms’ genealogy class without you again.

As a scholar attending the same elite reserved classes as the prince of Gondor, you had put much more effort than him being accepted in the program, and had generally better grades than him. In reality, more often than not you were the one teaching him over schedule. Except for military strategy, that was his strong suit. So you had pretended you were failing this exact subject, along with promising you’d help him with history of Middle Earth, for good measure. Faramir had not needed any kind of reward or deal to accept your request, he was more than happy helping you. Moreover if it meant he could spend more time with you, though he would never admit it to your face. How could he ever deny you anything when you asked him with those doe eyes that would make him fold to his knees and abide every single one of your commands? When you trailed your hand along the side of his arm and batted your eyelashes in his face? When you pouted so and he had to violate himself not to stare at your lips?

No, really, you had done everything you could to hint studying was an excuse. And now, Faramir was standing at the door with that sickeningly sweet smile, a mountain of study books in his arms —much more than you would have thought you would need giving your initial intentions. Blatant flirting was going to have to wait, the prince was already sitting down by your side, manuals slamming down the desk as he let them fall.

“Would you like us to go over elvish military tactics right away?“ he asked, already opening a book to a carefully dog-eared page.

You held back a smile at the folded corner. You recognised him here, always trying to do things as best and as neatly as possible to please his father and make his brother proud. Boromir was less delicate, yet it mattered little for he excelled in everything.

The pressing look the prince sent you and the silence that lingered reminded you of the question hanging; you wanted to smash your head on the desk, that’s what you wanted to do.

“Maybe we could begin with history instead?“

“But you’re the one who needs to stud-“

“Come on! Best is last,“ you flash him a wink to which he blushes instantly.

“Alright.“

A smile creeps up your face as he switches books. You weren’t going to let your plans fail so easily, perhaps if you were the one doing the teaching you could work up a way to make him take the hints. When he pushes the book to you, your hands graze even though his rest on the higher end of the cover. You look up to fleeting eyes and a pinkish hue to the cheeks of the prince, it makes your smirk widen.

You try to keep up the appearances with the first question, average inquiries about Middle Earth’s biggest events, the name of old kings and specificities concerning certain regions. When Faramir less expects it, actively trying to recall everything he knows about his world, you lean against the desk towards him, elbows lazily supporting your weight as you rest your chin on the back of your intertwined hands.

“The name of the next stewardess of Gondor?“ you ask, voice underlined by a warmth that burns him right where it shouldn’t.

Faramir seems to give the question a real thought for a split second before his traits wrinkle and he shrugs. Why do you look at him like that? With eyes that draw him in instinctively like he isn’t already a puppet to your will.

“I don’t know… Boromir doesn’t have his eye on any girl that I know of,“ he replies as if you had asked a real question. “This isn’t even a true question from the books, you’re being nosy.“

The way he smirks like he has you figured doesn’t fail to make your guts twist, but he is also so clueless it despairs you. Perhaps there is really nothing that will work with this boy aside from smashing your lips to his; even that you think there is a chance he misreads. You could have fallen from your sit for all he knows. What a curse the Valars made you like sweet, clueless boys.

“Oh. Yes, Boromir… Must be very busy with the army and all.“ 

The boy in front of you nods, you’re getting tired of this one-way thing. You slam the book shut before throwing your head back with a long sigh. You don’t catch the way Faramir’s throat bobs when his gaze falls on your own on full display, fair and perfect for his lips to stain. It’s hard for him to stand still and keep his composure when you act like this, overly-friendly and too touchy for his own good. It has been this way for weeks now, maybe months, and it seems like you test him to stay his calm collected self, but Faramir has far too much respect for you to let himself fold to your easy temper. You probably don’t even know what you’re doing to him.

“Do you want to take a break? We could go for a walk,“ the prince invites, seeing your unfocused state.

It makes you feel bad telling him you’re bored, you know he will take it the wrong way and think you mean he bores you, which is utterly false; you settle for the textbooks at last. You know he is happy to help, you can at least give him that.

You lower your head back and shake it slightly at his concerned look. “No, let’s keep going, I am sure we’ll finish in no time.“

Faramir isn’t so sure of that but he doesn’t say anything, just lays out the military book in front of you and begins to try and explain notions you may have missed. You think you know the material by heart but quickly finds that little of what he says makes any sense to you. Perhaps you did need to review this topic with him, in fact. With time, you find yourself bracing further against the desk and leaning in closer to the sketches on the pages, as if closing the distance with them could make you decrypt their meaning easier. The corner of a page flies slightly when your breath hits it, beside you, Faramir too has leaned in unconsciously while explaining the reading of the pages.

You don’t register you are awfully close to each other until he asks you to point at something you have no idea where to place on the drawing and your guess reveals itself to be wrong. Like second nature, his fingers delicately wrap around your wrist to make you point at the right answer. Your eyes dart up to his at the motion and it seems he only realises what he just did when he meets your gaze and you turn a pretty shade of pink in front of him. Under the pad of his fingers, the prince can feel your pulse quickening, he loosens his grip enough for you to escape but you don’t. You are too busy staring at the golden shimmer of his eyes under the flames around you, casting required light upon your work and reflecting on his face. Your breath slows by instinct; lost in the blue of his eyes, you lose the dear pressure of his hand when he coughs from the back of his throat to break the tension, eyes averting everywhere but back to yours.

You shift back in your sit a little, a normal amount of distance between you. Faramir resumes his teaching, though there is a slight strain to his voice he needs to clear his throat a couple of times to make disappear. You rest your head upon your crossed arms on the surface of the desk, eyes following lazily the quill he uses to point at things on a map. Unfortunately, your eyelids grow heavy and your mind groggy, the more you try to fight the sleep creeping in, the more the lights seem to dim and Faramir’s voice softens until it is but a background noise in your head. The last thing you hear before dozing off is the typical buzz of reluctant sleeps lulling you in its safe comfort.

It takes a minute for Faramir to see you’ve fallen asleep next to him. When he notices, he can’t help but observe you fully now that he has the possibility. Your body heavies up and down with the easy pace of your breath, peaceful, and your face holds no frown. The prince smiles to himself, as always, his favourite topic completely bored you. He liked to think you completed each other, where you had your flaws he had his strengths and the other way around.

Unconsciously, the prince of Gondor reached for a lock of hair which had slipped from its place and fell in front of your face. He brushed it back, and the motion flowed on its own so that soon he was brushing the top of your head tenderly. The petting didn’t stir you awake right away, and for a long while he stayed here in silence, watching you beauty sleep the lesson away. It was a wonder how you could look this pretty still while asleep, he couldn’t be the only one thinking you were a sight to behold.

His heart squeezed in his chest at the thought of other men wanting to make you theirs, jealousy was not something Faramir hid very well, it showed in clipped tongue and longer silences, which seemed without ending since the boy wasn’t usually a talkative persona. But then he remembered he was the one watching you sleep on your lesson, lesson which he was the one you invited to. The prince of Gondor was the one gravitating around you, whether the pull was equally felt or not.

The hand in your hair didn’t stop roaming gently, untangling wild locks in the process, nor did it when you eventually blinked awake under his touch. Eyes opened to slits to better hide yourself from the lighting of the room and because they were still heavy from sleep, the first thing you saw was Faramir beside you, addressing one of his soft smiles you melted for. The movement in your hair continued, soothing you. You didn’t jump at it, only acknowledged its gentle presence, still too clouded by Morpheus to dig deeper in the intimacy of the situation. Faramir seemed to have relaxed, the book beside him was still opened but left untouched like you remembered it was before you gave in to tiredness. An orange haze softened his features, tangled in his hair.

“What time is it?,“ you asked, voice strained.

“Late, I’ll walk you to your room.“

“No, I want to stay here with you,“ the prince’s lips twitch. “If I go back to my room you’ll leave,“ you explain like it is the most obvious thing.

“What if i stayed?“

“You would?“

“Do you want me to?“

Your eyes twinkle at the question, you nod and without further ceremony he gets up, motioning for you to do so too. You leave the warmth of the parlour in a beat for the sudden coldness of the fortress’ corridors, your books and quills still lying about the desk messily. You hang at the prince’s arm as he guides you through the maze back to your room. When you finally reach it, he does as he said he will: he lets you in first but follows after.

He doesn’t leave.

You crawl under the covers and the mattress beneath you dips under the weight of Faramir sitting down at the edge of it. You look at him quizzically and huff a laugh.

“You are not going to sit here all nigh, are you?“ he shrugs. Sometimes, he is so respectful and well behaved it gets in the way of your intentions. You shake your head like you can’t believe it. “Lie down with me.“

“Are you sure?“

“I’m cold,“ you say as you open the covers for him to slip under.

He does so very gingerly, trying to maintain as much a respectable distance with you as he could, though the situation you were in was not fit for etiquette in the first place. Faramir felt as if his heart was now beating everywhere all at once when you sent his carefulness flying by scooting closer and pressing a kiss to his cheek. Cheeks which turned red in a matter of seconds at the warmth of your lips, but you didn’t see it, you were already lying down again. On his chest this time.

You had but little time delving in the way his heart thumped a steady rhythm under your ear, although faster than normal, before you sunk back to sleep again in his arms, Faramir’s hand stroking your arm gently. The prince tried to keep awake all night, refusing to fall asleep next to you in your own bed because it seemed like crossing a line you hadn’t invited him in. But as the night settled deeper, his head began to feel heavier than before and he felt himself nodding off multiple times before he finally succumbed to sleep against his will.

In the morning, you woke up to the sun filtering through light curtains, hitting your face in patches. Around you, something radiated of warmth, and when you looked down you saw a limb around your waist, keeping you in place soundly. That’s when you remembered you didn’t fall asleep alone, and Faramir had kept his promise: he didn’t go away.

Your rubbed the sleep away from your lids and straightened to fall face to face his the prince, already awake, a cool shade of blue and purple starting to paint his under-eye.

“I hardly slept like this in years,“ you greet with a smile.

Faramir’s lips mimic the curl of yours. “I am glad. I must apologise, I fell asleep during the night.“

The excuse makes you frown in incomprehension for a minute, you had expected for him to sleep, was inviting him in your bed not enough proof? That’s when it hit you that the prince had tried to keep awake all night because he still believed you indifferent, too friendly in character, perhaps a bit clueless regarding social cues.

The melody of your laughter hit Faramir like an axe when you burst out laughing, eyes almost watering with tears. He was the one who had to take lessons in social cues, any man would have caught on your feelings by now, but not him. Maybe he believed himself unworthy of your love, not great enough to attract any girl like his brother did, especially not you.

You understood nothing would work, you had to slap the reality to his face, otherwise you’d spend an eternity making a fool out of yourself a bit more each day.

When your laughter died down and you looked up at him, the lost look in his eyes confirmed your guess. You didn’t think much when your fingers closed around the collar of his shirt and you smashed his lips to yours, the prince oddly easy to handle. Faramir froze in the kiss, he tried to make sense out of it, to rationalise you must have fell. Nothing worked, nothing explained this other than a purposeful doing. You had chosen to kiss him, it was no mistake on your part with the grip you held on his clothes.

When the prince of Gondor came back to his senses, it took him a split second before pulling you closer with an arm around your back and a hand to your cheek. Your worry sunk down when he replied to the kiss, though your heart tripped on itself inside you. Lips parted instinctively and in seconds the man of your dreams was all over you, gentle yet urging in the way people often are when they let loose a feeling they hid for years.

He helps you crawl higher into his laps, hands more adventurous than you would have imagined, and you kiss until there is no breath left in your lungs. You don’t part because your chests melt as one and you plunge back into his mouth the second an inch separates you. Your lips bruise against his, lazy from sleep still, languid in open-mouthed kisses which make you numb to the core. Things find their meaning into him, into the softness he cradles them in, if the bed creaks and he doesn’t acknowledge it then it doesn’t exist.

Your hands slide to his neck for better leverage until, at the end of all things, you have to part when a voice rings your name outside the door.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but have you seen Faramir? He is not in his room,“ Boromir’s voice asks.

“Oh, uh yes,“ you hold back a giggle when the missing prince cuts your answer with a kiss again. “Hm, I think he is at the market, you should look for him there.“

Boromir’s voice doesn’t reply right away, as if he doubts your information or is trying to listen more closely. “Alright, thank you,“ and then the heir leaves, hidden from the truth by the closed door.

You let yourself fall in a stomach-aching laughter when you cannot hear his footsteps echo in the hall, in the opposite direction from the market. It dies slowly in your throat when your lover pushes hair out of your face with a gentle hand, his cheeks are coloured by a pinkish haze.

“Please, next time do not bring your books, because I wanted to kiss you quiet every time you spoke about studying,“ you plead.

“But you wanted to study?“ the obvious look you give him looks like it solves a puzzle in his mind, adds a missing wheel to the machine.

“Oh.“

“Oh,“ you reply, relieving in the fact that, next time, you won’t have to wait for him to pick up on your innuendoes before doing something about them.

[mellow-wishes]

LIKE REAL PEOPLE DO

legolas greenleaf x gn!reader, friends to lovers, romance, angst, hurt/comfort, confessions, reader is part of the fellowship, set years after return of the king, human!reader, aragorn & reader very close/platonic interaction

SYNOPSIS : the war had taken a toll on you and you wished for yourself to be in the arms of a close companion, someone you had longed to hold for a very long time. fate seems to surprise you when you see him again.

WORD COUNT : 4.7k words

WARNINGS : not proofread. names for the reader (wanderer, my liege, meleth nin), kissing, singing-ish, reader doesn’t understand sindarin, reader is traumatized because of the war on the ring + other implied backstory, questions/talks of : ( time, aging, and death, the war, fighting, scars, wounds, passing away, and burial ), mix of book/film legolas. viewer discretion advised.

NOTES : this is in some way related to my other legolas fic patience but can stand on its own.

MASTERLIST | AVAILABLE ON AO3

★・ now playing : like real people do by hozier

The air sways like the quiet whistle of a carved wooden bird, singing a harmonious and tender tune. It was the kind of soothing music that still takes its time to settle onto you. You had a difficult time settling into the quiet of the forest, even if it was usually a calm sound that the forest carried when you travelled as a Wanderer, you could still remember the death that rotted it.

It somehow felt more uncommon to see these trees alive, as you try to move away from all the burdens that you had tried to carry on by walking further and further away from the forest and into the bustling noise.

The capital city of Gondor was just nearby, yet you felt your heart asking for rest, not from the walk, from everything that had happened, and your only response was to still keep going; the War had already ended, and yet you kept going.

You hold on to the hilt of your sword, which rests in its scabbard. You begin to hum, something to soothe your ragged heart.

Years had passed since the War of the Ring, and the wounds of terror had begun to heal as soil became richer and water became clearer. It is evident now that, as people try to restore the places they used to call home, they try to continue living.

You still felt like you needed to breathe.

Each step became lighter as you were moved forward, which then made you take another; as you began to step on stones that shine like pearls, you realized where you finally were. Minas Tirith, the city you have come to frequent for the current moment of your time after the war. You remember it clearly when humanity won the creeping darkness that came from the depths of Mordor; those years of constant waiting, and the ruin it had gained. It was slow, but time moves.

You can see it in the people; they seemed more merry as they walked along. You remember how quietly the people used to move. The uncertainty and the hopelessness of a King that could never have existed.

Each person, one by one, slowly look up to the moving character, as the people see you enter their home quietly; they knew of you, but they knew not to bother you—you weren’t really a fan of the larger crowds, it was less of a hazard than before, still, you weren’t fond of the strangers that followed, as you don’t look at the people who started. Continuing on foot, moving closer to the castle grounds.

You had nothing to boast to these people; you wanted to visit simply because. You tried to smile at the younger people who had seemingly recognized you from afar, but they immediately didn’t bother with what’s right as they followed you. Parents hold their kids close to them so they would not follow you, but most didn’t bother, letting them follow you even beyond their line of vision.

You wonder what kinds of stories their parents tell them. Did they talk about a young hero who was part of the fellowship? Or, did they talk about how you appeared in Middle-earth, like some sort of ghost that had recently gained their humanity? You think about the strangers of people who seemed to be fascinated as to where you came from, and you tell them you don’t remember either, letting them run their imaginations amok.

It wasn’t fun listening to people learn about where you had come from. You didn’t want to remember where you belonged; it didn’t matter if you couldn’t control the way they spoke to you like a person who never existed. It still wasn’t right to talk to someone like that; it was never fun.

A young boy tugs the hem of your blouse, distracting you from your thoughts and even promptly halting the quiet walk of trying to ignore the people. As he extends his whispers to you, it is quiet and light. “Wanderer, that is what the people call you?”

Innocence, you thought to yourself. But you weren’t sure if this would lead to more questions being asked. But still, curiosity, it was something you longed for, how you used to be. Nodding at the young boy, you crouch down to look at him at his level, “I’m certain that the King has told you about my true name?”

That made him smile, “Yes, but I believe Wanderer is a much better name than what the King calls you.”

Now you were the next one to smile, placing a hand on his shoulder. Remembering the reasons you kept your self-proclaimed title of Wanderer, you remember how proud you were of the name. “It is a name that I also adore, but I believe my days as a Wanderer have ended.”

“Why? Don’t you want to continue to travel?” The young boy asks, and there is a feeling of disappointment that was left when he said it.

You look at him, you wanted to tell him the exhaustion it had held, and how you still wanted to travel without worry, to let yourself drift without the weight of something that even you don’t know, pulling you further down.

You feel your eyes gaze to the side and away from the young boy as you see a stranger in a coat of armor approaching you. Ringing bells in your head, it could be something dangerous as you feel your arms move to shield the young boy when you hear your name being called.

“Wanderer.” The guard repeated, this time calling you by your title.

“What do you want?” You spat unintentionally, harsh and abrasive.

For whatever you had in your heart to protect something stronger than reason, it didn’t matter if the people looked at you strangely. How could they not see the potential threat?

“The King asks for your presence.” That was all the Guard said. Standing tall, he waited for you to get up, looking down at you, not in a mocking manner. At least you hope it wasn’t.

You stare at him, confused, “What...?”

Kneeling, the guard removes his headgear, revealing an older man whose face looks kinder behind the sharp exterior of the Gondorian armor. “My liege, the King wishes to see an old friend.”

Pity, there was pity in his face.

You let go of the young boy, and you look at him for a moment, smiling quietly. But the boy didn’t smile back; instead, a look of worry was present on his face.

“Are you alright?” The young boy asked you before a hand swiftly grabbed you, taking you to the steps of the white fortress.

You couldn’t forget the look on the young boy’s face as you followed the Gondorian guard.

The King of Gondor, and your close friend, Aragorn, as much as he has now become much busier in his duties as a King, he always finds just enough time to spend one morning with a companion. Of course, that lucky companion would be you. 

“My liege. Welcome to Minas Tirith.” Aragorn said, he placed his hand on his chest before bowing slightly. It was a greeting that you were only familiar with because of Aragorn.

Behind him were the courtiers who greeted you; knowing it was time, the courtiers whispered to the King, and you wondered as to what it could be before they quietly left the halls, leaving the two of you alone in the warm morning.

Aragorn quickly gives you a tight embrace; even in his age, there is still a sense of power that overwhelms you. Maybe it was the status of a high king, embracing a lowly Wanderer.

“Do you wish to walk to visit the gardens?” Aragorn asked, “We have a lot of catching up to do.”

“That would be nice, though I do not know where that would be.”

“You’ll find it to be everywhere where you need it to be.” Aragorn finishes before walking towards you. Patiently, he lets you take the lead for once.

The walk was easy; it reminded you of how leaves take their time to let go of the branch. You notice the surprise greenery that appeared throughout different halls that you had yet to explore. You find yourself stopping, one specific hall caught your line of sight, and your steps become slowed.

The fountain was grand, it was like the adventures that you had gone to, where you would visit the waters. Clear and with no signs of grime on the water. It looked too beautiful to ignore.

Aragorn notices the way you linger just a little longer to look at the fountain that flowed beautifully, as if this is the first fountain you’d ever seen. “My friend,” Aragorn said, “Is there something on your mind?” And then a question.

There was a lot on your mind, from the nightmares that seemed to jolt you awake every time, even when things had been peaceful, to the forest when he had left to travel.

Why now did he appear in the back of your mind was even out of your control. You haven’t seen Legolas in a very long time, nor has he seen you either; the only form of communication that you two had begun to do was writing letters.

The letters that he had written to you, talking about his current adventures with one of your friends, Gimli, and how he had wished that you could have joined him in restoring Middle-earth; they were one of the things that had brought you a bit of joy every time you had awakened.

“Many that are difficult to describe. Exhaustion, how I almost insulted one of your guards,” you tell him, moving just a little closer as you feel the warmth of the sun hit your face, “I’ve told you about most. I believe that you might have grown tired of them already.”

“Nonsense.”

Aragorn remembers the stories you told, and the excitement you had when the journey began, which reminded him much of the young Hobbit, Pippin. Aragorn notes that your stories were usually full of love and uncertainty. Aragorn knew that there was something in your heart, one that longed for more than peace. Wishing to return to the day things felt right to you. Aragorn learned of your latest writing, how you wished to return to going on adventures without feeling lost through it. 

“I had heard from many that you are visiting Mirkwood in a few days?” As light passed through the halls of his kingdom, warmth didn't pass on to Aragorn’s tired face; there was a sense of worry. Aragorn knew that there were still things that needed to be worked with in the forest of Mirkwood. And, although it was not his home that he had worried about, you are his friend.

“How did you know?” You look at him, confused; it was not something that had been talked about while you two walked around in the gardens.

“You loved to talk about the beauty in their realm.” Aragorn smiles, he knew that Legolas would keep you safe if he learnt about it.

You don’t notice the way he mumbles to himself in Sindarin, you quietly think to yourself that you should have studied the language when you had the time.

“I trust that our friend Legolas is escorting you to the Mirkwood forest?” Aragorn stops in his tracks, noticing a flower that had been cut off accidentally. “If Legolas were to learn of your visit, he would be very elated.”

“He will be visiting the glittering caves with our friend, Gimli!” You say as if it is a fact. Picking up the flower, you pass it on to Aragorn and smile when he quietly plays with its petals.

“I see, then I suppose you are alright with travelling by yourself?” 

“You never trust me, do you, Aragorn? First, my skills in protecting my companions, and now this? You’re unbelievable.” You cross your arms before letting out a huff, looking away at the King of Gondor, who looks at you with slight confusion.

There wasn’t a bone of hatred in your blood, and as you look at Aragorn, he sheepishly looks back at you. You both let out a laugh.

It was a good laugh too, one that you haven’t had in a long while. Looking at the sunlight that was finally at its peak, you look at Aragorn. There was still a ragged heart that beat. You choose to ignore it.

“When are you going to continue with your duties?” you ask Aragorn.

“In a few.” Aragorn steps forward, taking the lead. “I’ll have someone escort you around the castle; you may walk freely before you leave.”

“Before I leave? The fortress is too big for me to leave tonight.” Smiling, you quickly follow Aragorn. Feeling a small sense of nostalgia, it reminded you much of your journey with him, but there was now less of a deadline to race to.

“Then you can walk around tomorrow,” Aragorn says, placing a hand on your back.

“Just like old times?” A hint of uncertainty was placed in the tone of your voice. You notice how Aragorn looks up at the distance ahead, it seems a lot was running through the mind of the King.

Truly, it did remind Aragorn much of the walks the two of you had together, “Might as well. My lover and our child believe it to be a good bonding time; they quite enjoy your company.”

“I do as well.”

It had been days before you found yourself back in the wide, lush forest. It had its moments of beauty; the ground you stepped on moved slowly, awake and full. You look at the roots that trailed on the surface, looking beautiful as ever. Flowers had already bloomed, and you noticed that one had already fallen.

It reminded you of the leaves beginning to fall, and as you picked up the flower, you began to ponder. Humans were such fragile beings, you thought to yourself. They were like leaves on the trees that fell on the palm of your hand, except that trees lived long enough to heal their wounds. Humans would pass before they could even let themselves heal.

It was a thought that you grimaced.

“Mirkwood,” you mumble to yourself, trying to move away from the certain dread that continues to pull you down, “Are you still the peaceful land that was once held by the green lush that he had adored?” He, the one you spoke of, was the light-haired friend who seemed to continue to linger on your mind.

You begin to hum a story; one where Legolas has held you, beyond the onlooking terror of the orcs, you could still feel it in the weight of his hand. It felt normal, even beyond the cold winds blowing against your skin. And as he had let go of your hand, you felt the winds shift; the arrow blowing as the elf shot down the orc precisely, and when you turned around, you noticed the twitching body of the fiend.

You didn’t know how to describe Legolas in your song; he felt impossible to describe. The sway of your body as you make a whirl. From a hug, a stare, you imagine yourself in Legolas’ embrace. Feeling secure in the strength of his arms, he made rest calm even in the loud song of celebration behind the tents.

In the quiet and mournful night, where the moon soared high, he let himself become your only source of light even in the darkness. By the fire where exhaustion hit you, you remember lying your head on the lap of the elf, telling him that it was only going to be a moment before you would get off of him.

Not knowing it, you would awaken by the shake of Gimli’s hand, in which he had told you you had slept for quite a long time, laughing at Legolas’ predicament. Looking up at the elf, Legolas simply smiled at you, as if it wasn’t a bit of a bother. The way he tilted his head when he did so, you hum about the moment, even through the embarrassment.

You tried to remember Legolas and the way he looked; it made you think of the light colored hair of the elf, and fondly you think of the moments you had with it, the careful braiding, mumbling against his ear as you complimented how smooth he takes care of it.

Remembering the slight twinge in his ears, perhaps because of how close you were, he quietly talked about the flowers that were adorned on his hair. Their history and their symbolism, not knowing what the one that Legolas placed on your hair, you let your body lean behind him, a whisper as to what your flower symbolized.

Legolas laughed, and you felt the occasional movement against your back when he did so. He told you that he would tell you when the right moment comes, as he mumbles the meaning in a language you couldn’t decipher.

Legolas was everything you could ever imagine for a close companion; kissing the flower on your hand, you danced. You wish to be in his arms once more. The night would be brighter and mornings sweeter when you danced with him. 

"I knew I would find you here!" His voice yelled out for you, and it felt real.

You can hear the horse grunt over the distance as it becomes clearer. Within the depths of your heart, there was a rush and warmth that seemed to spread through your ribs.

You stopped singing.

As you turn to look at the closing distance of a trotting horse moving towards you, Legolas rides along, his hand holding onto the sash with a relaxed grip, trusting his steed that it would not run away from him. Those familiar blue eyes that looked at you with comforting fondness.

"Legolas? How, what..?" you mutter to yourself, realizing the strength of an elf’s ability to listen, you note that Legolas had probably heard your mumbling.

“Mellon nin; Wanderer, it has been years,” Legolas says, letting his horse come to a halt as he drops himself off. Legolas whispers to his horse, assuming it is in the language you cannot understand, as the horse trots away.

“What about your venture to the forests? The letters that you sent told me you weren’t to return until a year?”

“Gimli is to visit his homeland,” Legolas says, crossing his arms as he walks forward to where you stood still, “And I wanted to see you again.”

Legolas notices the way you stood; it had been long since he had last seen you. You have grown older, and there was a slight wrinkle every time you grinned; your eyes, however, looked a little more exhausted. Lack of proper rest, he thought to himself, and he felt worried at the thought that you might not be getting enough sleep.

“Let us walk? I know that you are fond of walking.” Legolas says as he extends his hand to you.

"We are almost there..." Legolas said quietly, his hand intertwined with yours, with a sense of familiarity, as if the memory of holding your hand had happened a few weeks ago, when really, it had been years.

You didn't know where you two were going, and Legolas was mostly the one leading the way. Mud streaks your boots, as the ground was still damp from midnight's rainfall.

"I could have brought my own horse Legolas," you say, but you weren’t really complaining. If walking a fair distance meant just a quiet moment with the man you hadn’t seen in years, you would take it in a heartbeat. Reminding you of moments with him back when you had little time for repose.

“I know, but it reminds me much of how we spent our days with the Fellowship.”

Legolas seems to know how to read minds now.

The walk was calm, you followed familiar and at the same time, unfamiliar roads along with Legolas, who seemed not to look behind you and was adamant on walking forward to the destination.

“Do you remember this forest?” Legolas asks you, squeezing your hand as he does so, an acknowledgment or jog in the memory.

“We’ve seen a lot of forests, Legolas. What you're asking could be one of many.”

“The first time we had ever met.” He hinted, “I remember you hugging someone.”

“I was protecting a young child who was right in front of an orc,” you quietly correct him with a smile on your face. “I didn’t know that it was you who saved me. No wonder you looked familiar.”

“They were getting closer to you when I found you, yet you didn’t look afraid,” Legolas said, “I was fascinated with your bravery.”

You didn’t know how to respond to such a compliment. Legolas had complimented you during the journey for your strength, yet, hearing him close to you as he spoke praise in your valor. You felt the slight flush on your cheeks, not including the praise.

It felt nice.

Looking at the distance right in front of you, you can see a large tree, large as a willow, though its leaves resembled more of a maple. It seems the wind pulls you closer to the elf, who hums an old melody from his home.

“Are you afraid of something then?” Legolas asked, letting go of your hand, he takes a few steps back, “Is it death?”

Did you fear death? As you stood in front of the tree, it seemed to look down on you, though there was nothing that brought fear onto you, even in its large size. You think about the things that you have truly feared.

Being forgotten, without a burial, or a memory of what you were like before you had passed, your casket, in which your name has been carved out, will soon smooth out with the years to come.

That was something you feared. At least, you believed it to be. You didn’t know if there was something that you were afraid of.

“I am afraid of being forgotten,” you mumbled, yet even the thought of being forgotten wasn’t scary enough. It felt as if there was something else that you didn’t know of.

Legolas looked at you. He was quiet and impossible to decipher; thinking about the time you had met him, you remembered how difficult it was to understand him. But even with those difficulties, you couldn’t help but fall in love somehow. Not through the mystery behind his eyes or even the songs he sang as a lullaby for you to sleep to, but simply because he was simple even through everything.

You remember how you described Legolas as an endless river. You thought of yourself as someone who would follow a trail of a river, no matter how long and arduous that trail would take you; you were determined to find the mouth of the river.

Those that reminded you of rivers filled your curiosity. You wondered where the river of his would end. Legolas had a history that you still don’t know of, for what was he like before he had met you?

“Legolas.”

“Yes?” Legolas' gaze softens, and carefully, you see that he places his hands behind him.

“I…”

“Tell me,” Legolas tilts his head, and you could see him smile slightly, “I can wait.”

You wanted to know what he was thinking. Why did he smile at you, even when you couldn’t ask a question? You look at his eyes, similar that of the river that you loved.

Silence fills the two of you. You hear the humming of the birds and see him, you know how much he loved to take in with his scenery, telling much about how he loved the world that surrounded him. But he doesn’t look anywhere but you. Legolas focused his being onto yours, 

Wind blows past the bare parts of your skin, the blonde of his hair tickles against your cheeks, and now you have realized the space between the two of you has simply disappeared. You were seeing him move, closer and closer, and you looked at his eyes, unchanging, but still, it felt as if it was holding back something that you couldn’t describe. The light of his hand almost misses yours; he holds your hand.

“Can I kiss you?” You ask him.

“Please.”

You give Legolas an unhurried and gentle kiss, lips brushing against the hollow of his cheeks. The smell of wood and pine fills the air you breathe, and you attempt to pull him closer to you. Your fingertips graze against his knuckles, a careful tug on his hand so as not to let him stray further away.

Legolas doesn’t move any further, as if it is a signal for you to continue—patiently and earnestly, he lets you have him. A song that can never be forgotten, not even when you pass.

You look at him. Your hands instinctively move to hold his face—it was soft, and Legolas leans in against your touch immediately. How time has never affected him, even now, he still looks the way he did when you first met him.

 “Gi Melin,” Legolas muttered, leaning against your ear as he whispers to you, “No matter where you are, my heart will follow, I will love, and I will always remember.”

"You love me…?" You mumble, being pulled further and further, as you try to release your hand from his face when he slowly presses his hands closer against yours, letting his skin feel yours. Different and changing, he lets his fingertips graze against your rough scars that couldn’t be repaired.

“Legolas, please stop this.” This is what you were afraid of, “I am nothing but a fickle life, Legolas, please.”

“But I want to,” Legolas's brow furrows, shaking away the thought in your head by leaning close to you, “I loved you like embers that glowed when we talked by the fireplace. Was I mistaken?”

“No Legolas, I love you.” You look at him, feeling a tight knot in your throat, “But, I am afraid of the fact that I can’t live a life knowing that you love me. Legolas, you will grow past my lifetime. I don’t want to put you through this. I don’t want you to love me like this—”

“I care not for who you are, or who you once were. The time that you will spend with me will be very little for the time of an elf.” Legolas interrupts, “I cannot become mortal, to love the same way Lady Arwen loves our King Aragorn.” Legolas gazes at you with glassy eyes, as tears begin to fall, unbeknownst to him.

“But please, meleth nín, even in this moment with you will be enough for me to never forget.” Meleth nín. My love. The love that began to beat in his chest; it was a phrase that he never uses, as he lets himself lean in to melt into your kiss. He feels the way you move closer to feel the softness of your lips as you let your hands hold onto him. Legolas hears you mumble in between the kisses—you ask him to never let go.

Legolas kisses you, feeling you pull away as you look at him with those eyes that never changed when he first saw you by these same paths—he wants to kiss you again. He hugs you instead.

It didn’t matter to him that you were someone who couldn’t have a fixed history. Perhaps you let it burn somewhere, away from the world, even where he couldn’t see, and it wouldn’t matter to him. No matter the years that will pass, when you are no longer living in this world. If the world did realize the truth of who you really were, he would still love you.

Legolas would bury you and let you be adorned with the flowers that he had placed on your hair all those years ago. In a language you can’t decipher, he will give you flowers that show the feelings that he had concealed ever since he saw you protecting that young child.

I will always love you. I will never forget you.

He will love. Yes, he will love you forevermore.

NOTES : man,,,i don't know how to feel about this fic because this is the second legolas fic that i had ever written and i think i rushed it,,but please let me know what you guys think! reblogging and commenting about it is much appreciated!

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©️MELLOW-WISHES

[entishramblings]

Of Beasts and Bloodlines [Legolas/F!Reader]

A.N: So here it is…not my best work as I really have been struggling to write, but I hope you enjoy it regardless. Also, I feel like this fic might make me have to fight furry allegations? Whatever lol. (said with jest)

Request: N/A

Pairing: Legolas X Fem!Reader

Summary: In the forests of Greenwood, the reader, a skin-changer and the last of her bloodline, struggles to survive. When she meets Legolas, the elven prince, a bond forms between them. 

Disclaimer: I don't know elvish. I use the gracious elvish dictionary. Sue me lol. Also, if there are spelling mistakes, its bc i have the brain of a snail and am old and tired.

Word count: 4.1k

Warnings: Fluff, hurt, comfort, angst, violence, gore, genocide, emotional distress, slight jealousy, nudity (not in a sex way lol), Thranduil lowkey losing his shit

MASTERLIST | AO3 | WATTPAD

How (Y/N) came to be the Greenwood resident mouse-catcher was, in truth, a rather unusual circumstance. See, mountain lions were meant to live in the mountains, or perhaps in the forests or the rocky canyons—not in stone castles. And for a while, she did live in the natural world. She hunted along Ered Mithrin, more commonly known as the Grey Mountains, which stretch along the north of Rhovanion. This is where she derived from. (Y/N) was born a shapeshifter, a skin-changer. There were few spread across Arda, not many known. As for (Y/N)’s lineage, it was nearly extinct.

(Y/N)’s kin had been systematically hunted and killed in a devastating purge, targeted for the power they possessed. The dark forces of Mordor feared their abilities to such an extent that they sought to eradicate them entirely. (Y/N) had been the most unfortunate among them all because she was the one that survived. She was the only member of her clan that escaped the brutal, bloody slaughter. She was unsure how, but she did. In the aftermath, she fled to the forests of Greenwood, where she remained for years, living in her animal form.

(Y/N) had tried to shift back to the human body she had once held, but the grief had stolen that capability from her. She simply couldn’t, no matter how hard she tried.

During this time, the orcs found her once more. They had slipped into the elven forest and continued their relentless hunt for the skin-changers of Arda. She fought fiercely—clawing, biting, and tearing through them—but not without cost, as an arrow struck her shoulder. The wound weakened her, allowing the creatures to gain the upper hand.

She should have died. She should have joined her bloodline in the halls of the afterlife. Yet, it seemed Arda had other plans. A Greenwood elven patrol crossed the path of the battle and swiftly cut down the remaining orcs as if they were dead branches that had been snapped and cast aside.

(Y/N) had heard stories of the elves from her elders—enough to believe they could be trusted, to an extent that is.

Therefore, when one with hair the color of sunlight approached her as she lay on the forest floor, panting and bloodied, she did not attempt to kill him. Instead, she only hissed—warning him to back off. He obeyed that command. He raised his hands in surrender, and spoke to her in a soft, steady voice, assuring her he meant no harm. There was a quiet insistence in his words as he promised to see her healed, and, at last, she relented. Thus, she found herself carried in the arms of the Woodland Prince on the journey to the halls of Greenwood.

…

When the patrol arrived at the entrance of Greenwood’s castle doors, an elven man was there to greet them. An intricate crown rested upon his head and jewels, fastened by intricate rings, adorned his fingers. His silver and red robes cascaded around his body like a velvety river that poured out power and authority. (Y/N) knew he was the king, for this man couldn't be any other.

As the Prince stood before his father, with the injured mountain lion in his arms, Thranduil’s brows turned into a scowl.

“Legolas,” he stated directly. “What is that?”

The Prince adjusted the rather large and murderous cat in his arms. “A mountain lion.”

The King exhaled deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Legolas, I know what it is. Why is it in my halls?”

Innocently, Legolas looked at the creature. “She’s injured. She needs care.”

Thranduil huffed, for he was rather used to his son bringing in strays. “Fine, fine.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Just have that beast out as soon as it is healthy.”

The smallest hint of a grin traced across Legolas’ lips as he replied with a placating lie. “Of course, Adar (father).”

From the way the two elves interacted, (Y/N) could tell they were kin. She was perceptive enough to infer that they were likely father and son. Yet, before she could analyze them any further, she was carted off by the Prince—once again. They moved through the winding halls to the healing ward, where they were met with subtle, knowing glances: it appeared that Legolas bringing in wounded creatures was not an uncommon occurrence. The healers set to work, removing the arrow, cleaning the wound, applying a poultice, and binding it with careful precision, all while those wary, animal eyes remained fixed on the Prince.

…..

The next few days were unfamiliar and uneasy for (Y/N). At the healers’ cautious request, she remained in the Prince’s chambers, keeping to the space beneath his desk and rarely venturing out—only when he managed to coax her forward a few hesitant steps with a piece of raw meat. And so the days passed, her trust building gradually, one offering at a time.

Their first physical interaction that wasn’t laced with the necessity of wound care or bribery arose from cautious curiosity. It occurred in the midst of a bitter winter night, as a snowstorm howled across the land—wind rattling the windows and hail striking against the stone walls. A steady fire burned in the hearth of Legolas’ chambers as he lay in bed, waiting for sleep to claim him.

It was then that (Y/N) slipped out from beneath his desk, unprompted by any offering of food. She approached the edge of his bed and peered up at him. Sensing movement and the weight of her gaze, he opened his eyes and sat upright. He was surprised to find her watching him so intently.

Gently, Legolas patted the mattress. “Would you like to come up, pîn faer (little soul).

The mountain lion tilted her head at him, curious and calculating. After a moment, she leapt onto the bed, casting nervous glances in his direction. Still wary, she settled at the foot of the mattress, keeping him within her watch.

He longed to reach out and touch her, but he knew the choice had to be hers. So instead, he lay back and allowed his eyes to close, pretending that the injured creature was not there at all.

The nights that followed unfolded in a quiet progression, each one marked by a subtle shift. On the second night, (Y/N) returned to the Prince’s bed and settled at a cautious distance, her chin resting lightly upon his feet. On the third, she crept a little closer, her paws draping across his legs as she watched him with wary eyes. By the fourth night, her tail lay gently across his stomach, her presence no longer quite so hesitant. And on the fifth, she drew near his face. He remained still, watching her quietly, allowing her full control of the moment. She nudged him with her head, then pressed closer, rubbing her face against his as a low, steady purr filled the chamber.

A soft chuckle escaped Legolas. He reached up to scratch her face, inciting more vibrating hums from the gentle beast. “Hello, pîn faer (little soul),” he stated simply.

With each night that came after, as the months passed, the mountain lion curled into the Prince’s arms—warm, safe, and content.

…

As morning rays traveled through Legolas’ window, he pulled himself from the comfort of his bed and his mountain lion—earning a couple disgruntled grunts from the creature.

He started to prepare himself for the day, quietly bustling around the room to do so. He began talking mindlessly to (Y/N), sharing his plans for the day—meeting with his father, training the soldiers under his command, reviewing patrol reports, creating upcoming schedules for the guards, and so on. He did this because it wasn’t necessarily his day anymore, it was their day.

You see, (Y/N) had taken to the Prince and they were nearly inseparable. She would follow him like a shadow, exploring the castle with him and tending to all his Princely tasks. So much so, that it was a regular occurrence for the Greenwood elves to see (Y/N) trailing the halls. They no longer were uncomfortable by her presence. She was now a constant in their lives.

As he traded his comfortable sleepwear for his usual woodland attire, he cast a glance at the creature sprawled across his bed.

She was staring at him.

He frowned, turning towards her, as he pulled on his lower undergarments. He stood, shirtless in his underwear. “What? Do you not agree with the plans today?”

She answered with a yawn, rising to stretch.

His expression softened as he stepped closer.

With gentle nudges and a rumbling purr, she tried to coax him back to bed, drawing a quiet laugh from the prince. “We can’t, pîn faer (little soul). We have duties to attend to.”

The mountain lion huffed, then leapt from the bed and padded toward the door.

Legolas frowned as he pulled on his tunic. Mumbling to himself, he stated, “I swear she can understand me.”

With that, the pair headed out the door and through the Greenwood halls, making their way to Thranduil’s chambers.

With a knock and a brief invitation to enter, Legolas stepped inside, (Y/N) close behind. They found Thranduil seated at the small table in his chambers, reviewing papers as he sipped his tea and enjoyed a hearty breakfast.

“Adar (father),” Legolas began. “Did you receive the patrol reports I provided you? I had concerns regarding the increase of spiders upon the east side of the forest.”

The King did not glance up when he replied. “Yes, yes. I am reading through them now.”

“I believe we should dispatch another patrol to track them to their nest. I feel as if—“

The King interrupted him, his head snapping upwards. “Hush—do you hear that?”

Legolas’ brows pulled downwards. “What is it that you speak of?”

Thranduil huffed as he glanced about the room with intent focus and curiosity. “A mouse. It has been haunting me for a week and Feren has not been able to catch it.”

The Prince suppressed a grin. “You have assigned your advisor to catch a mouse? That sounds rather beneath him.”

Thranduil rolled his eyes, sensing his son’s teasing tone. “You would as well, had you gone a week without sleep. And besides, this particular mouse requires someone of exceptional intelligence to catch it. It is a remarkably cunning little menace—“ his tone shifted as his eyes landed on (Y/N), leaning against the Prince’s legs. “Legolas, what is that beast still doing in my halls—in my chambers, no less?!!”

Legolas looked down at the mountain lion before sending an innocent look back to his father. “She likes me,” he stated bluntly.

“I have no desire to keep a wild animal in my home. What purpose could it possibly serve? It’s nothing more than another mouth to feed—”

But before the King could finish, (Y/N) sprang into action—though not toward him. She bolted across the room with startling speed, slamming into a dresser. A flurry of frantic scurrying followed, then a sharp squeak, and finally a sickening crunch.

Moments later, she returned, a limp tail dangling from her mouth. She stopped before the King, dropped her prize at his feet, and revealed a lifeless mouse.

Then she looked up at Thranduil, her gaze steady and expectant.

The King’s eyes narrowed. He glanced from her to his son, his expression darkening.

Legolas only grinned. “She serves a purpose—one that Feren clearly does not.”

Thranduil’s scowl deepened. “Very well. The beast may stay…for now.”

In the weeks that followed, a mouse, or sometimes two, would appear outside the doors of Thranduil’s chambers every few days, much to his displeasure. It was almost as if the mountain lion considered it payment for her keep—delivered with deliberate cheek and unmistakable intent.

The King, unsurprisingly, was not amused.

….

The summer months had come, leading to the elves spending much time outdoors training, tending to gardens, or simply resting. It was during this time that Legolas walked with the captain of the guard, Tauriel, through the trails close to the Greenwood castle. (Y/N) trailed behind them.

The mountain lion watched intently, her eyes narrowing as Tauriel’s gaze softened, a quiet shimmer lighting within it whenever she looked at Legolas. She noted the easy way Tauriel laughed at something the Prince had said, the sound warm and unguarded. Her attention sharpened further as Tauriel reached for Legolas’ hand to steady herself over a narrow creek.

(Y/N) huffed and sprang across the gap, deliberately brushing against the elleth as she landed, just enough to make her stumble.

“Careful, pîn faer (little soul),” Legolas called, mistaking it for an accident. “We must be mindful of where our friends stand.”

The mountain lion answered with a low, rumbling growl before pressing her face against Legolas’ calf, subtly placing herself between him and the elleth.

Tauriel lifted a brow. “She seems quite taken with you, my friend.”

Legolas smiled softly as he crouched, running a gentle hand along the lioness’s back. “And I with her, I think.”

(Y/N) cast Tauriel a smug look, a quiet purr building in her chest.

The she-elf frowned, but spoke with a nervous chuckle. “I don’t think she enjoys my company very much.”

Legolas glanced up at her, unconcerned. “Nonsense. She is a remarkably friendly creature.”

Tauriel’s smile lingered, but something in her gaze was suspicious as she watched the mountain lion settle possessively at Legolas’ side. There was an awareness in the creature’s eyes—too deliberate, too knowing.

….

Summer was slowly giving way to autumn, and the nights carried a gentle, refreshing draft that drifted through open windows, cooling the castle walls.

Legolas, (Y/N), and members of the Woodland Guard had just returned from a spider hunt.

It was rough. It was brutal. It was bloody.

The mountain lion had partaken in the slaying of the vile creatures, for she was quick and fast—hunting was an innate part of who she was as a skinchanger.

She had joined the Prince on these patrols before, but this one was different—it was different because Legolas almost did not return from it.

There was a moment in battle where he had gotten pinned down by a rather large spider and was separated from the rest of the guard—but not from (Y/N).

She was quick to pounce on top of the hairy beast and dig her canines deep into its brain. She ripped its skin and bone open, sending grey matter flying through the air. Those sharp teeth, meant for shredding meat off bone and breaking open flesh, did not stop there. She continued ripping the beast apart until it released its grasp upon the Prince.

It flailed helplessly as its body could not take the desecration (Y/N) was bestowing upon it. She would have continued if it wasn’t for a sword piercing deep into its middle—carefully angled to not harm the mountain lion.

Legolas stood, panting and staring at her bloodied teeth.

A gentle smile formed upon the Prince’s expression. “Thank you, pîn faer (little soul).”

She answered with a low, rough sound—something akin to the meow of a barn cat—as she leapt to his side.

And that….that is when (Y/N) truly knew.

That fear she had felt when she saw Legolas ensnared beneath the spider—it was one she recognized all too well.

The feeling that had seized her. It was tight, forgotten, and all-consuming. Yet, it was not fear alone, but something far more vulnerable. It was a sensation she had known once before, long ago, before loss had stripped such an emotion from her world. It was love—deep and undeniable, taking root where she had sworn nothing would ever grow again.

She cared for Legolas—far more deeply than she had ever intended.

That evening, Legolas departed his chambers freshly bathed and dressed. This time, however, he did not bring (Y/N) with him. Instead, she remained curled upon his bed, watching as he prepared to leave—to spend time with Tauriel. They were to review “patrol reports,” he had said, though the mountain lion had long since noticed the subtle shifts in Tauriel’s demeanor toward the Prince….and she did not like it.

And so, the night unraveled from there, (Y/N)’s thoughts slipping loose and spiraling, spilling into every quiet corner of her mind until the moon stood high in the sky.

Did Legolas return the regard Tauriel harbored for him?

What if she dared to reach for him?

What if she sought his lips?

And what if he did not turn away?

The questions circled relentlessly, tightening their hold until that deep, unbidden care she bore for the Prince—something she, a creature of tooth and instinct, had no right to feel.

But…

She could, in truth, feel such care…just not in this form.

She began pacing the stone flooring—debating.

Could she do it? Could she shift once more…for him?

The question throbbed in her mind, pounding against her thoughts as if it were screaming, pleading, begging. Yet it did not come alone; it was bound to a strange sensation—sharp, insistent, and tinged with envy. A feeling that pulled taught and hard, like a rope coiling around her throat. And that pull? It began in her heart and funneled down the Greenwood halls towards a certain elf with the hair the color of the sun.

(Y/N) stood still.

Frequent shifts came smoothly, even without discomfort. But this…this was far from easy. A shift she had not attempted in countless years struck her with a pain no skin-changer should endure.

The mountain lion released a deep, gruff, painful sound as her body began to become consumed with excruciating pain. She could feel her form begin to contort and bend in the most agonizing way.

Every nerve burned as if it was being blessed by the fires of Mordor. Each muscle stretched as if it were being torn from her skeleton. And every bone felt stiff and cold, like the ghosts of the fallen had taken each ivory structure to the depths of death to keep them company.

It was as if she was experiencing everything and nothing all the same. The pain was all encompassing, gathering every aspect of self into it; and it did so until it was a bright white light of emptiness. Nothingness.

(Y/N) blinked.

She blinked again.

The ceiling of the Prince’s room began to come into focus—stone and wooden beams. They blurred and unblurred until they stabilized…sorta.

Slowly, (Y/N) lifted an arm and her hand appeared in her line of vision—her human hand.

She began to shift her form ever so slightly, only to cry out in pain. It was raw and filled with whimpering weakness—she nearly didn’t recognize herself in that sound.

She turned her head to look at her other arm, only to turn away in disgust, for the bone in her forearm was snapped and sticking out of her skin. A wave of nausea hit her—from the pain or repulsion of the sight, she knew not. She rolled on her side and used her intact arm to push herself up slightly.

She vomited.

(Y/N) attempted to pull herself upwards to stand; however, a deep, sharp pain stabbed her in the ribs. She groaned.

Hesitantly and excruciatingly, she began to drag herself from Legolas’ chambers toward his door—leaving a rather heavy trail of blood behind her.

As she reached the wooden barrier before her, she lifted a trembling hand toward the handle. It took several attempts—her blood-slicked palm slipping against the metal—before she managed to turn it enough to crack the door open. Forcing it wider, she pulled herself into the hallway beyond.

The pain surged, sharper now, and her vision began to blur once more. A cry tore from her throat before she could contain it.

Then, the darkness claimed her.

It was not long before a Greenwood guard, making his rounds, came upon the sight—a naked, bloodied woman curled in the center of the corridor. At once, he rushed to her side, calling out urgently for aid. Others answered his cry, soldiers and servants alike, who hastened to cover her and carry her swiftly to the healing ward.

…..

A sudden swell of anxiety and curiosity stirred in Legolas’s chest as he came upon a small cluster of guards gathered just outside his chambers, deep in hushed discussion. It was not their presence that unsettled him, however, but the trail of blood that led from his door.

“What has happened?” He asked, approaching them. “Whose blood is this?”

Immediately, they turned to face him.

He swallowed dryly, “Not the mountain lion, is it?”

A guard with deep brown hair, Tarron, spoke. “No, no. 'Twas not your beast. It was a woman.”

Legolas peered into his room, taking note of the blood and the vomit. “Who? A servant?”

Tarron shook his head. “We don’t know. I didn’t recognize her.”

The Prince frowned, for when you live for centuries upon centuries, you tend to know everyone in your home. “You did not recognize her?”

“Nay. Ruvenn did not either. He took her to the healing ward.”

Legolas raised his brows, taking note of the amount of blood. “She’s alive?”

Tarron nodded.

With that, the Prince turned and made his way to the healing ward, pushing open the large wooden doors. The chamber stretched long and open, lined with empty beds, yet his gaze was drawn at once to its sole occupant and those that gathered around her.

At the bedside stood the head healer, Halafarin, carefully binding the arm of a woman, while another healer moved at his side, supplying what was needed. Yet it was the sight of his father, standing over the bed, that surprised Legolas the most.

“Who is it?” Legolas questioned, moving towards them.

Thranduil replied, “I know not.”

The Prince allowed his gaze to rest upon the stranger before him. If even the King did not recognize one within his own realm, then who would?

“Not one of your warriors, I’m assuming?” Thranduil persisted, almost begging for an answer.

Legolas only shook his head, flabbergasted, as he examined her features. He took note of every curve of her expression and each dip and bend. She was beautiful in every essence of the word. How could he not have seen her within these walls before?

“I may have an answer as to why none of us recognize her,” Halafarin stated, interrupting Legolas’ thoughts. He gently grasped the woman’s chin and rotated her head. He then brushed aside her hair, revealing her ears with no point.

“A human?” Thranduil remarked, a faint note of abhorrence coloring his tone.

Legolas frowned, leaning into his elvish senses. “She does not carry the scent of a human,” he said quietly. “There is something… different.”

Thranduil cast his son a sharp look. “Whatever her nature, how did she come within my halls? Has one of your guards neglected their post?”

The Prince exhaled in quiet frustration. “Of course not.”

“Well, I most certainly did not permit a human to enter—” Thranduil pressed; however, his sentence was stolen from him by a loud interruption.

The woman bolted upright, drawing in a sharp, panicked breath.

It was then that Legolas saw her eyes—eyes that he knew by heart.

When her frightened gaze found him, her breathing began to steady and her tension eased as recognition took hold.

“Legolas,” she breathed.

Thranduil’s head snapped toward his son. “You do know her?”

But Legolas did not answer. He stared at her in stunned silence, his father’s words falling unheard. His lips parted slowly as he spoke, barely above a whisper.

“Pîn faer… (little soul).”

She smiled softly. “Hello, Legolas.”

“Y-you…” he faltered, disbelief catching in his voice. “You’re a skin-changer.”

“A skin-changer?!” Thranduil cut in, his gaze snapping between them. “What—who…” Realization dawned, sharp and incredulous. “The beast?! The mountain lion?”

The woman turned to face the King, slight annoyance in her tone. “You know, I prefer not to be called ‘the beast.’ I have a name.”

Legolas' vibrant gaze, the color of the sky, softened. “What is your name? What do they call you?”

She looked at him, sadness upon her expression. “There is no one to call me anything anymore.” The smallest, softest, hint of a smile stretched across her lips. “No one, but you, calling me Pîn faer (little soul).”

“But before me?” He questioned gently.

“(Y/N),” she replied.

That night, the Prince and the skin-changer sat together in the healing ward, Legolas perched at the edge of her bed. They spoke at length. (Y/N) told her story—her grief, her fears, the path that had trapped her in her animal form, and the loss of her kin. She laid her heart bare before him, and he received it with gentle, unwavering care.

…

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