#LOTR fic
Text
Winter Gem
Thranduil x Female Elf Reader
Content & Warnings: soft!Thranduil, widowed!Thranduil, fluff, peril & rescue, mild hurt/comfort
Word Count: 1.8k
Seeking something precious for Thranduil, you're caught in a storm. When you don't return, he goes searching for you.
A/N: For @firelightinferno
ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // winter 2023 masterlist
“The first snows have arrived.”
“It has come early.”
Thranduil inclines his head in acknowledgement. “Indeed.”
You stand beside Thranduil outside the main gates. Five guards stand nearby but there is no danger. A steady snowfall drifts down from the sky. The snowflakes are slightly gray in appearance, almost like ash on the wind. You frown down at a few of the flakes that land on your leather vambrace.
“You look ready for your hunt,” observes Thranduil, gesturing toward your attire with the tip of his head.
“Yes,” reply softly. “I plan on heading out for a bit.”
His eyebrows rise toward his hairline. “In this weather?”
You glance up from the vambrace and meet his blue eyes. Thranduil’s gaze is startling and sharp. Piercing. Intense. It cuts right down to your heart. His gaze always holds you hostage, wrapping you up in his essence. Most might find Thranduil intimidating, but you know better.
“Is my king telling me I cannot?” You’re teasing him, and Thranduil knows this. His smile is one of soft amusement.
“As long as you return to me. You are free to do as you wish.” Even though Thranduil’s tone is gentle, you understand the deeper meaning.
Thranduil lost his wife many years ago. Other than his son, Legolas, you are his comfort. He wants you to be free, to enjoy the pleasures of life, but he also wants you to be safe, to return to him at the end of every leaving.
Thranduil glances over his shoulder. The guards on duty discreetly glance away, staring off into the distance as if they’ve suddenly found something of great interest. Thranduil leans in and shifts his body to block their view of you. He is close enough that it might appear that the two of you are kissing, but he does not meet your lips.
In the end, Thranduil is private about affection. He does not like to share your tender moments together in front of others.
“Enjoy your hunt. I eagerly await your return.”
You give him a half-hearted, sarcastic bow that immediately puts a wide smile on his face. Thranduil watches you until you disappear into the trees. Perhaps he lingers longer than that, wondering if you will turn around and come back to him.
It is true. You are on a hunt, but not for what he or anyone else is likely expecting.
Over a week ago, Thranduil went out in the woods with some of the guards on patrol. It’s the first time he’s been out beyond the walls in some time. Many patrols that ventured into the northern regions reported back on a strangeness in the air, and the scent of evil. Thranduil decided to investigate.
While tracking, he lost something precious.
Around his neck on a chain, Thranduil kept a silver ring. Within the ring is a precious gem, a blue stone so pale it almost appears white like a burning star. The chain that held it snapped while he and the guards chased a group of spiders that had made their way south.
He remembered it snagging, and while he did not show any distress upon telling you of its disappearance, you also know how much that ring and jewel means to him. It was a gift from his wife when they were newly married. She had a matching one, but upon her death, Thranduil moved it from his finger to around his neck.
This hunt—your hunt—is about that ring. You have a fairly good idea about where it might have fallen, and there is no reason for it to have moved since then. Few enter these woods unless they follow the road, and that is on rare occasions.
Tracking is your specialty, and your time is not limited due to the falling snow. But you’ve tracked in worse weather. The snow is unfortunate, but you can still search as long as it remains at its current pace. The tree cover will keep much of the snow in the higher canopy. There will be time yet before the snow completely covers the ground and you lose the trail.
Heading north, you retrace the path the patrol took. Yes, a week has passed, and nature reclaims much, but not everything is hidden so quickly. There are small disturbances that indicate the path ahead.
As you begin to draw nearer to the area Thranduil mentioned, the snow starts to pick up. It becomes thicker, not staying above in the canopy but instead making its way to the ground. It’s not ideal, but you can manage.
Thranduil mentioned two tree trunks growing together and then breaking apart. When you happen upon it, the snow comes down in thicker sheets. On the ground, it’s sticking. Collecting. Time is running out. Elves have good eyes, and you focus in on the ground, gnarled roots, and underbrush.
Near the base of the tangled tree, you notice a slight sparkle. Approaching it, you go down on one knee, brushing away some of the snow.
“Found you.”
The ring is there, resting in the roots. It appears undamaged, and that is a relief. Picking it up, you tuck it into an inside pocket, protecting it from the elements.
The snow crunches under your boots, and the wind howls. For the first time, you shiver. Cold is not and has never been an issue. Elves can withstand a great many things, including winter weather.
Frowning, you turn into the chilly wind. There is a disturbance. Something dark and foul. It sets the edges of your nerves tingling. A simmering suspicion bubbles up from somewhere within you, question whether this snow is natural or not.
Turning on your heel, you head back the way you came. But the snow is heavy, and your fresh tracks are starting to slip away, returning to the snow. As you walk, the snowfall becomes a storm. The wind whips up, swirling the snow around until you cannot see more than a few feet in front of your face.
Your instincts were right. This storm is not natural. It is too early for it, and storms like these are rare in the Woodland Realm.
The toe of your boot catches in a downed tree branch and you slam face first into the snow. It’s freezing. Temperature isn’t usually a deterrent for the elves, but this is beyond cold. It’s as if you’ve been swallowed whole by a massive glacier.
You walk and walk, and you have no idea if you’ve gained any ground. There are no visible signs, and you’re not sure how far you’ve gone, or if you’re simply walking in circles. The snow is deepening or perhaps you’re imagining it. Everything seems darker, like the world is closing in.
You’re not dressed for this sort of weather.
And you’re tired. So tired. Your knees and thighs burn, and sitting down for some rest doesn’t seem so bad. It’s fine. You can take refugee within the deep roots of a tree. You can stay warm there until the snow dissipates. Then, you can return. Thranduil will understand.
As if opening for you, the roots of a nearby tree expand, showing safety from the storm. You slink into it, curling up into a ball.
You drift in the howling wind. There is a haze that sits on your eyelashes. Whether you dream or not is irrelevant. Numbness oozes into your limbs, and that only forces you to curl up tighter, wanting to pull away from the cold.
A hand touches the side of your head. It is warm. Gentle. The fingers slide up to brush your hair out of your face. You hear your name but it is a whisper. Distant. So far away it doesn’t seem real.
There are arms around you. Lifting. Steady. And when you inhale, the scent is familiar. You know who it is instantly.
“Thranduil,” you murmur, and the answer is a gentle squeeze of your hand.
“I found you, my star.”
There are only short moments of consciousness. There is snow. Cold. The antlers of an elk. The gates of home, and then warmth. So much warmth that the numbness begins to recede.
You are brought back to the living world near a roaring fire. Beneath you is a makeshift bed comprised of pillows and soft blankets. You shift, and feel bare skin against bare skin. Slowly, you push yourself to sitting.
Your leather gear is gone, replaced with a soft robe that traps in the heat.
“You’re awake.” Thranduil’s voice is a gentle, comforting hug.
Turning toward his voice, you watch as he glides across the floor. Thranduil wears silver robes of starlight. In his hands in a small tray. On it is a steaming cup of tea and an assortment of food. Bending at the knees, Thranduil settles in beside you, placing the tray down on the blankets.
“You came looking for me,” you say, and your voice nearly cracks with emotion.
“Did you think I would not?” he asks, arranging the food around on the tray.
You know, deep in your heart, that Thranduil would come, but you also believed in your abilities as a tracker. “When did you start to worry?”
Thranduil lifts the cup off the tray and presents it to you. “When the storm picked up. Something about it felt unnatural.” You take it, and bring the warm beverage to your lips. “I gathered some guards and we set out. It is good that we found you in time.” He pauses. “I’m not sure my heart could take any more loss.”
The heat of the tea spreads throughout your body, the chill slipping away quickly. “I do believe you are correct. That storm was not natural.”
Thranduil nods. “There is a growing darkness to the north. The scouts on patrol have spoken of it often but have been unable to get close enough for more details.”
“Perhaps I strayed too close,” you murmur.
“Perhaps,” replies Thranduil, reaching out to take your hand. He lifts it, and brings it into his lap. Using both hands, he rotates your wrist until your palm faces the ceiling. Then, he guides your open palm to his lips, placing a soft kiss in the middle of it.
Instant warmth shoots out from that spot, running down your arm and piercing your heart like an arrow. Slowly, he curls your fingers in, creating a loose fist, and then brushes his lips against your knuckles before pulling away.
He does not release your hand. “I know why you left.”
“Thranduil—”
“You did not need to explain. I understand why.” Thranduil reaches out and cups your cheek, turning your face toward him. “I am thankful that you found it, but you are also precious to me, and losing you is a far greater loss.”
You turn into his touch. “That ring is important to you.”
“Many things are important to me. But the ring is just that. A thing. You are breathing. You are here. I would like to keep it that way.”
Your eyes drift close and you revel in the warmth of his touch. “Are you mad?”
“Never.”
“Will you hold me?”
“For as long as you like.”
taglist:
@foxxy-126 @glassgulls @km-ffluv @sweetbutpsychobutsweet @singleteapot @firelightinferno @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @protosslady @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @ninman82 @therealbloom
#thranduil#thranduil x reader#thranduil fanfiction#thranduil x you#thranduil imagine#thranduil fluff#thranduil fanfic#thranduil fic#thranduil x female reader#thranduil x f!reader#thranduil x fem!reader#the hobbit fanfic#the hobbit fanfiction#the hobbit fic#the hobbit imagine#the hobbit thranduil#lotr fluff#lotr fic#lotr fanfic#lotr fanfiction#lord of the rings fic#lord of the rings fanfic#lord of the rings fanfiction#the hobbit movies
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Watcher of Wanderers [Legolas/F!Reader]
A.N: this was intended just to be a mini one-shot to get back into writing. although, I will admit I got carried away. oops. heh.
Pairing: Legolas X F!Reader
Song Inspo: Mountain Meditation by Chantress Seba
🌬️ I highly recommend listening while reading
Summary: Legolas senses a presence following the fellowship on their journey and it seems to be particularly fond of him.
Disclaimer: all mythology related to the reader was made up for plot purposes lol. not canon.
Word count: 5.6k (once again, idk why I’m like this)
Warnings: comfort, fluff, loneliness, flirting, suggested sexual innuendos, stalking sort of (yes, again, I know. you’re just gonna have to read it I can’t explain it)
Additional Content: moodboard linked here
MASTERLIST | AO3 | WATTPAD
When you are nothing but a breeze that passes through the travelers’ bending hair. When you are nothing but a tickle that brushes upon the vagabonds’ breaking skin. When you are nothing but a whisper that hisses upon the wanders’ deaf ear. When you are nothing but alone, you too are a voyager.
That’s what (Y/N) was, wasn’t she?
She sailed through the years, watching every war and every battle. She observed every lover as she observed every enemy. She attended to them all, from their start and to their end. She perceived them hunt—first for food and drink, the simplest things, then for more. She witnessed them build—smaller creations in the beginning, then large structures that reached deep into her sky. She gazed at them as they grew, in mind and body. They began as little screaming balls of flesh, then sprouted into large beings that walked and talked. They produced more of themselves. They multiplied. Families, they had called it. She saw each one of them go by, twisting with desire as they did with age. Each was sneaking to find something—riches, power, hope, love, safety—but it didn’t really matter. She just bore witness. She bore witness to the happiness and to the dread. Yet, even when it was dark and desperate, she did nothing. She was silent—as she was meant to be.
Cursed to ride the winds for all of her immortal years.
Cursed to guide them and bend them.
Cursed to behold them.
Cursed to be them.
Alone.
A Watcher of Wanderers.
She was unescorted, unattended, and unchaperoned. She was unaccompanied as she wove through the desolate lands of Arda. Through the oceans, through the deserts, through the mountains, she bent and bellowed. But (Y/N) didn’t need anyone to accompany her, for she simply didn’t exist—at least not in the way one would think.
But after so long in solidarity, watching and observing, (Y/N) wondered what it would feel like to be more than what she was. She wondered what it was to taste and touch, to smell and see, to live and breath.
She thought how pain must feel. How did it bring red to the surface of their skin? How did it bring tears to their eyes? How did it bring screams to their throats?
Still, she wandered more.
She thought how laughter must feel. How did it bubble in their chests? How did it bring water to their faces? How did it bring glee from their mouths?
Still, she wandered more.
She thought about how love must feel. How did it soften their gazes? How did it bring drops upon their cheeks? How did it bring proclamations to their lips? How did it feel to welcome in another soul? Was it safe—not that she would know what safety felt like.
Still, she wandered more.
As each day passed and each traveler followed, she continued to question, guess, inquire.
Some of these creatures were more in tune with the natural currents of the word. It was the immortal beings, distinguished by the pointy ears that lent them an air of otherworldly grace and their lightning-quick reflexes. They were not just any immortals, but those whose lineages stretched back to ancestors who had walked among the Valar themselves. At times, (Y/N) entertained the fantasizing notion that they possessed the rare ability to hear her, though she recognized that this belief was nothing more than wishful thinking. As a watcher of wanderers, she liked these ones best.
Yet that did not mean that others did not catch her eye, for she was curious of anything unusual from the regular patterns of life. And when nine—born of various blood—walked together, her curiosity peaked.
So, she followed them.
One was a Maiar, but not like her. He shared the same celestial origin, shaped as one of the spirits meant to aid the Valar in their worldbuilding endeavors. However, his form differed greatly from hers—a form (Y/N) yearned for. She had seen him many times before, puffing his pipe. He had many names, but most knew him as Gandalf.
Two more figures accompanied him, mortal beings aging like the rolling seasons. Burling and tumbling they went, with their countless heavy weapons. One emanated kindness, his heart a wellspring of warmth. She had seen him before too. But the other, he was….troubled.
Another was one of the immortal, graceful, pointy-eared race—elves, she recalled. He was fluid and elegantant. He was observant and evaluating. He was tranquil yet vigorous. (Y/N) liked this one. She always had liked the elves.
From the mountainous regions of unyielding stone came another companion—a burly and gruff figure. His anger resonated in the sharpness of his words and the boastry of his laughter. (Y/N) could feel his temperament through the earth's vibrations. It wasn't always pleasant
Next, matched four more. They were stompers and stumblers, in a clumsy sort of way; yet, it was evident that they held no desire to ravage the earth. If anything, they seemed to harbor deep affection for it. The sad one broke her heart, the kind one warmed her soul, and the last two made her giggle….and sometimes she thought the elf could hear it.
See that was the thing.
Initially, her fascination led her to accompany them, drawn by their sheer otherness—such a strange assembly of beings walking in unison. But as she ventured alongside them, she felt connected to them. She got to know them, and one seemed to know her….sorta.
The first time she noticed such a thing was when a sound of joy escaped her being.
The two silly ones, which she found out to be named Merry and Pippin, were cracking jokes at one another and performing a game of riddles. As they did so, they ended up breaking into an argument. The most ridiculous words they called each other: mushroom murderer, squash squisher, beet beater…..
She couldn’t help but release a whisper of amusement, and when she did, the elf—Legolas—abruptly halted. His eyes brimmed with uncertainty, and he swiveled his head, as though searching for someone.
But he couldn’t….
No…
He couldn’t have heard her….could he?
Of course, occasionally, all could hear her. In moments of anger, she would unleash her fury with deafening howls and piercing screams, causing gusts to bellow and trees to tremble. Her yell created a hollow sound as it funneled through the rest of the world—echoing upon mountains, bouncing off houses, riding along hills, drifting through the farmer’s mills. It took much frustration to create such a ruckus of vibrations. However, just a faint breath of joy? There was no way the elf could hear that….right?
…..
The second time that a strange encounter occurred was when the group stopped by a deep river. Legolas had wandered a little way away from the group where the trees were denser and the light was less, and oh of course (Y/N) followed.
There, the elf stripped off his clothing, letting the moonlight bend and dip upon his muscled form. The cool night air played gently against his bare skin as he ventured into the water, welcoming the invigorating sensation. With his hands, he meticulously scrubbed away any lingering grime, running his palms across his arms and fingers through his damp hair until no trace of dirt remained.
Gently, he laid upon his back, floating at the surface of the smooth river.
(Y/N) watched as he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply and repeatedly. Meditation, she recalled the elvish creatures of the world calling it.
Eager to draw nearer, (Y/N) gracefully glided closer, brushing ever so lightly upon the surface of the ripples. She circled him, her gaze drinking in every detail of his form slightly obstructed by the water—his elegant facial features, his sleek hair, his sculpted biceps, his toned abs, the sharp v-line of his lower abdomen, and, she couldn't help but notice his rather large…
A soft giggle escaped her lips, her warm breath brushing against his cheek.
Instantly, Legolas sprang upright, his feet finding a place upon the rocks beneath the now turbulent ripples. He swiftly pivoted, calling out, “Who’s there?!”
(Y/N) was still, shock and uncertainty shrouding her.
Legolas' cerulean eyes darted anxiously from side to side, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He moved with haste, continually spinning around in search of…..something.
“You…you can hear me?” (Y/N) whispered.
He did not respond and his state did not change. There was not an ounce of any recognition across his features.
…..
The third time that Legolas was startled by the curious enigma that appeared to be haunting him was when the fellowship had set up camp for the night.
Gandalf and Legolas were on watch, their attentive gazes shifting from the crackling fire to the perimeters of their camp. Mithanduil contentedly puffed on his pipe, releasing wisps of smoke that ascended into the night sky. Legolas was methodically sharpening the tips of his arrows, preparing for the inevitable fight. The ambiance was strangely peaceful, with the imminent dangers appearing to be held at bay, at least for the moment, even in the face of the dread.
However, this serene atmosphere suffered a sudden intrusion, initiated by (Y/N)'s ever-present curiosity.
She loved watching the creatures of Arda. It was her favorite pastime over the eons. Well, her only pastime. After all, she was a watcher of wanderers. For, as her shapeless form, there was nothing more she could do with her existence.
Therefore, when the elf began to draw whetstone upon the tops of his arrows, (Y/N) wanted to observe. She crept closer to him, becoming entranced by the rhythmic and tranquil nature of his movements. Drawn into the spectacle, she leaned in further and further until, unintentionally, she brushed lightly against his form.
His hand instinctively reached for his shoulder as his wide cerulean blues initiated their frequent and fervent scanning of the dim surroundings—a routine that seemed to be occurring with increasing regularity nowadays.
Gandalf’s gray eyes drifted upon the elf curiously, his bushy brows lifting in questions.
“I swore…” Legolas began, still peering about the campsite. “I swore I felt…something.”
The wizard’s inquiring gaze only deepened, imploring the elf to add more to his rather empty statement.
Noticing Gandalf's unspoken request for more information, Legolas continued, "My apologies, Mithranduil. Lately, I've been sensing a presence. Yet, when I search for it, I'm met with nothing but emptiness and confusion."
Gandalf huffed before pressing his lips to his pipe again, his gaze drifting away in a dismissal of danger. “It is probably just (Y/N).”
“(Y/N)?” He questioned, still puzzled.
Gandalf glanced at Legolas, and with a nonchalant hum, he spoke again. “The spirit of the wind. A Maiar with a form that knows no shape.” He rolled his eyes as he gruffed out an additional mumbling sentence. “She has a particular fondness for elves.”
Legolas, still flushed with adrenaline, only stared at him. “I—I do not understand.”
The wizard’s gray gaze drifted back to the elf, who was clearly seeking answers. “(Y/N) is one of the Maiar, tasked many ages ago by Manwë to help shape Arda. She still lingers in this realm, often stirring up her usual mischief as she follows wanderers on their adventures."
Legolas frowned. “If she wanders this earth, why can I see her not?”
Gandalf drew another puff from his pipe before responding, "She was cursed to be without form, unlike myself."
“Cursed? But why?”
The wizard raised his bushy brows once more. “Her mischief irked many—especially Manwë.”
“What sorts of mischief do you speak of?”
Gandalf shrugged. “Inconsequential pranks and harmless tricks. Quite frankly, an annoyance to us all, but not dangerous.”
At that very moment, a gust of wind swept in rather forcefully, causing the wizard's beard to billow and lifting his hat into the air, sending it spiraling down to land by his feet.
Legolas's lips parted in surprise as the wind subsided, and Gandalf let out a string of curses and grumbles.
"I believe you might have offended her," Legolas remarked, amusement dancing in his eyes.
The wizard snorted, his irritation obvious, as he picked his hat up and placed it atop his head once more.
….
As the weeks continued on, Legolas took notice of (Y/N)’s subtle presence.
It seemed she was indeed traveling with them. On scorching hot days, a refreshing breeze would rise and caress them gently, offering some much-needed relief. As the autumn months settled in, that coolness transformed into a warm breath flowing through the air, comforting them. When they kindled fires, little gusts rushed forward, providing oxygen and nurturing the flames. If an item of clothing or a parcel were dropped, it would be delicately carried toward a hand ready to collect. It was as if the wind—(Y/N)—was assisting them along their quest.
It was particularly noticeable to Legolas that she often lingered in close proximity to him. Her presence seemed to envelop him frequently, becoming unmistakable and distinct.
When Legolas would be tasked to collect firewood, a gentle breeze would follow him. It would brush leaves out of the way to reveal dry wood and small sticks, perfect for kindling. The wind murmured songs among the soil, almost as if it were beckoning him to dance.
When Legolas would be hunting for food, a calm drift would search alongside him. It would twist through the brush, startling small prey to reveal them to him. The wind breathed wordless encouragement to him, as if challenging him to impress her.
When Legolas would be walking upon hard terrain, a playful gust would walk with him. It would blow his hair away from his face to reveal his features. The wind sent flirtatious laughter upon his elvish ear, chasing shivers along his nerves.
When Legolas would be changing out of mud or blood covered clothes, a devious wisk would linger behind him. It would push his tunic and undershirt upwards to reveal his muscled form then make his extra clothing scatter. The wind whispered sultry glee to him, teasing him in efforts to show more.
This mischievous presence that shrouded him seemed to flirt with him—challenge, play, and engage. Of course, Legolas recalled Gandalf's earlier assertion that the wind spirit held a particular fondness for elves, but the true depth of this fondness had only become apparent as her companionship persisted. He couldn't deny that their ongoing interaction held a certain allure, for he would be lying if he said their little game did not entertain him.
When the fellowship was in Moria, however, silence reigned. The usual gusts and breezes that had accompanied them were absent. It was as if the very air mourned with them. Yet, as soon as they exited, with grief heavy upon their soul, a quick adrenalized wind came to find them. It seemed to brush around the rocks, taking in the pain of the travelers and trying to process what it meant. Though, as the wind noticed one was no longer there, she took to sending warmth their way in hopes to soften the sorrow—shrouding Legolas for just a moment longer than the others.
When the fellowship was in Lothlorien, (Y/N) came too. Rustling up trouble among the elves with flirtatious gusts, lifting skirts and sweeping away cloaks, fostering much annoyance and embarrassment among the immortal elven folk. However, those brushes of wind often struck Legolas more than any other.
When the fellowship—or rather the three that remained—took to sprinting across Arda, the wind ran alongside them. It pushed them forward with encouragement, almost too eagerly and too persistent. It was as if she was whispering ‘hurry hurry’ in their ears—as if she possessed knowledge they did not. Though Legolas suspected neither Gimli nor Aragorn noticed the subtle guidance of the wind.
A watcher of wanderers indeed.
As the group arrived in Rohan, their hearts brimmed with renewed hope, for they had gained the knowledge of Merry and Pippin’s life and the presence of Gandalf.
Following Mithranduil's expulsion of the sorcery that had ensnared King Théoden, the weary travelers were ushered to various chambers where they could refresh themselves and find much-needed rest.
Legolas opted to bathe immediately, determined to liberate himself from the accumulated dirt and grime that had clung to his body through the arduous months of travel. He eased into the in-ground basin, the soothing warmth and enveloping steam creating a cocoon of comfort. He tended to his skin and hair with meticulous care until he finally felt rejuvenated. Elves did not like to linger in grime.
Emerging from the bath, he stepped into the adjacent bedroom, where his gaze was drawn to the open windows, allowing the cool breeze to waft in. The wind seemed to recognize him instantly, rushing forth with an almost mischievous enthusiasm. It nearly yanked his towel from his waist! It was only through his quick reflexes that he narrowly avoided a less than modest reveal.
Legolas ground his teeth. “(Y/N),” he mumbled in a chastising tone.
In response, the wind seemed to giggle, as if playfully toying with him.
He rewrapped the towel and hastened to close the windows, yearning for a night of undisturbed peace. Normally, he would tolerate (Y/N)'s whimsical outbursts, but on this night, his weary body and mind craved respite and tranquility.
Legolas changed into more comfortable attire and settled into his bed. He allowed his heavy eyelids to drift shut, for he craved sleep. But after a brief moment, they snapped open.
He watched as the curtains shifted ever so slightly, followed by the tapestry on the wall and the drapes above his bed. The blanket beside him rustled gently, and then, there was no movement in the room.
She hadn't left when he closed the windows.
She was still here.
Though he couldn't see her, he was acutely aware of her presence…right beside him.
The elf couldn't help but blush, a warm crimson hue creeping up upon his ears and cheeks. Oh, if his Ada knew he was flirting with the wind….
In an effort to divert his thoughts from such matters and avoid giving (Y/N) any indication that he was dwelling on them, the elf shifted onto his side, turning away from the playful Spirit whose home was the sky.
…..
Legolas took notice of (Y/N)’s presence among the battles at Helms Deep and the Fields of Pelennor; although it wasn't until the latter that he knew for sure she was actively fighting alongside him.
Amidst the relentless chaos, the elf wielded his two silver blades, using them with deadly precision to cut the throat of one orc and immediately behead another. He swiftly pressed on, eliminating as many of the enemy forces as he could.
The men around him were growing weary, their energy dwindling, but Legolas continued to stand firm, even though he too felt the drain on his strength.It seemed the dark forces had taken notice of the relentless devastation he was causing among their ranks, as they began to single him out. Hordes of orcs began converging on him, and Sauron's archers took aim. However, the arrows meant for him didn't find their mark. They veered off course, curving with an unexpected gust of wind, plunging directly into three orcs nearby.
Legolas whipped his head around in astonishment, but it took only a moment for him to grasp the source of this unexpected intervention: (Y/N).
As he continued to take down orc after orc, she remained by his side, using her ethereal presence to force the creatures back into one another, granting Legolas a distinct advantage and a brief moment to catch his breath. She deflected arrows aimed at him and extended her helping hand when he faced the Oliphaunt. She even lifted him up with a gentle drift when his footing faltered. (Y/N) followed Legolas throughout the battlefield, her commitment unwavering, even after the war had drawn to a close.
Exhausted and burdened by grief and relief, the mortal, battle-weary soldiers sought solace and took to rest, heal, and eat.
Legolas volunteered to wander the battlefield in search of any survivors.
He tread carefully, his feet moving softly over the blood-soaked and red-stained earth. The ground seemed to bear witness to the agony, uncertainty, and hope that had marked their strenuous journey. Legolas had never anticipated surviving the trials that had befallen him, yet here he stood, alive and persevering against all odds.
With a heavy heart and the absence of survivors to be found, Legolas, fatigued and drained, decided to make his way back to his comrades who were attending to the wounded and offering peace to those in need.
In a sudden fierce gust of wind, Legolas found himself surrounded by an unexpected swirl. Swiftly, he whirled around, his keen elven senses alert, just in time to witness an orc raising an axe menacingly above his head, poised to strike.
However, Legolas was not met with such a gruesome fate. The wind seemed to rise against the approaching beast, as though an invisible force hindered its advance. However, that force began to no longer be invisible. A strange, translucent figure began to materialize into the opaque form of a woman. She stood, her back pressed against his chest and her front pushing firmly against the would-be assailant. With her arms raised high, she held the axe at bay, preventing the deadly blow from falling upon the elf.
Legolas' lips parted in astonishment, his eyes widening as he struggled to comprehend the event unfolding before him. But everything transpired too swiftly for him to intervene. The figure solidified, to the point that he could feel her against him, and the axe came down at an unusual angle, slicing into the woman's side.
A cry escaped her throat, and she collapsed to the ground, her pain echoing through the air.
Suddenly thrust back into the harsh reality of battle, Legolas swiftly grasped the knife strapped to his belt. In one fluid motion, he drove the blade into the orc's heart. The creature gurgled for a moment, blood pooling from its mouth, before finally collapsing lifeless.
Without hesitation, Legolas fell to the unconscious woman crumpled at his feet. His heart clenched with dread as he noticed the crimson stains spreading across the delicate, iridescent fabric that cloaked his form.
"No, no, no," he murmured, his hands pressing against the wound in a frantic attempt to stop the bleeding. Panic tinged his voice as he glanced at her face, his voice rising in desperation, " (Y/N), you foolish Maiar. Why did you intervene? Why did you put yourself in harm's way?" His bloodied hand gently cupped her cheek. "Wake up. Come on, wake up!"
She remained unresponsive.
Swiftly, Legolas gathered her into his arms, keeping one hand pressed against the bleeding wound, and hurried towards the makeshift infirmary.
Pushing the doors open, he called out in a voice laced with fear, "Aragorn!"
Immediately, the urgent tone drew the attention of those nearby, even in the midst of the ongoing chaos of the healing ward. The Ranger, alerted by the distress in his friend's voice, swiftly moved past the curious onlookers, with Gimli at his side and Gandalf following not too far behind.
“A-an ax to the side. She’s bleeding heavily,” he sputtered out. “Please.”
Pointing to a makeshift bed, Aragorn commanded. ‘Get her on that cot! Quickly now.”
Gimili, entirely bewildered by the unfolding events and his friend’s frantic behavior, called out, “Laddie, who is that?!”
Legolas, gently placing her form on the cot, didn't even bother to look at his dwarf companion as he replied. “(Y/N).”
The dwarf shook his head and raised his hands in confusion. “Who the fuck is (Y/N)?!”
The elf sent Gimli a quick, almost exasperated glance. "The wind!" he snapped back, a bit too sharply.
Gimli’s eyes drifted around the room, his confusion turning into concern for his friend’s well being. “The wind?” he questioned. “Did ya happen to get knocked in the head, tree boy?”
It was Gandalf that chimed in. “(Y/N), a Maiar, the spirit of the wind. She has been with us throughout our journey.”
Aragorn shot the wizard a brief look as he swiftly cut away the mysterious, translucent fabric cloaking the woman and began tending to the deep, bleeding wound.
“With us the entire time?!” Gimli bellowed. “Then why haven't I seen her once?"
Gandalf peered over Aragorn’s shoulder. “She doesn't have a corporal form. At least, she didn’t. I’m afraid this is the first time any of us are seeing her.”
Legolas ran his bloodied hands through his hair, his fingers trembling with anxiety as he stepped back. His chest felt constricted with worry while his eyes remained fixated on the woman as Aragorn worked. “Can you do it, Aragorn? Can you save her?” he implored, his voice quivering with a mixture of desperation and hope.
The man met Legolas' gaze. His determination to save her was unwavering, even in the face of this strange reveal of a profound connection between a force he didn't know existed and his dear friend. Seeing Legolas’ pain, he responded firmly, "I will try."
Gimli, moving to stand beside the wizard, watched the scene with a mixture of concern and curiosity. He couldn't help but murmur, "I've never seen him so frazzled before." His words were filled with a deep sense of empathy for his elven friend, for this had clearly shaken Legolas to his core.
Gandalf let his gaze shift from the elf to Gimli, offering the dwarf a knowing look in response.
The watcher of wanderers had now become a wonder to the wanderers themselves.
……
Legolas sat in a chair beside (Y/N). He was quiet and still as he watched her chest rise and fall steadily. Aragorn had successfully treated her wound, preventing infection, though she remained unconscious. She rested soundlessly, her expression peaceful—despite Legolas’ bloody handprint, now brown, dried, and cracking, that lingered upon her cheek. Her features were graceful and elegant. Each curve and bend of her face accentuated her beauty. He wasn't sure what he had expected her to look like, though how she appeared made sense with her temperament. He could see her flirtatious streak, her mischievous tone, and her protective aurora. She was exactly what wind would be: strong yet gentle, fierce yet calm, emotional yet stern.
He watched over her, just as she had watched over him. So intently, that he didn't notice one behind him until a hand pressed firmly upon his shoulder.
"Legolas," Aragorn began, his expression filled with gentle concern as he inquired, "How do you know this woman?"
Legolas sighed, keeping his gaze on her. "She has been traveling with us," he explained.
The sound of wood scraping against stone told the elf that the Ranger pulled a nearby chair over to sit next to him.
“So Gandalf said. Though I do not understand,” Aragorn admitted.
Legolas shifted. “I started to notice strange occurrences—unexplained events.”
Aragorn raised a brow, “Strange occurrences?”
Legolas felt his cheeks heat as he cleared his throat. “Yes, yes, but more importantly, I noticed something helping us. Consistently.” He paused, “I asked Mithranduil about it and he told me of her.” He shook his head. “He said she was cursed to watch us—us inhabitants of Arda—and not be able to walk among us.”
“Then how is she here now before us, like this.”
Legolas glanced at his hands, a hint of nervousness in his expression. “I asked Mithranduil that too,” he admitted. “He said her sacrifice must have ended her limbo.” He then let his eyes land on his friend and he spoke once more, his tone almost fearful and definitely shy—something Aragorn had never seen from the elf. “If she doesn't survive, because of me, will Arda have wind no longer? I haven't felt a single breeze since she fell.”
Aragorn sighed. “I do not know, my friend. I do not know.” He reached forward and placed his hand upon his shoulder. “Please go clean up and rest. You are no good to her like this. I will take care of her, I promise.”
Legolas hesitated, “But what if she wakes?”
The Ranger sighed again, “If she wakes, I will send someone to—”
He was interrupted by a soft groan escaping from the lips of the Wind Spirit.
Instantly, both Legolas and Aragorn turned to look at the woman.
Her eyelids lazily blinked open, and she gradually became aware of her surroundings. A frown creased her face as she emitted another groan. Her hand moved slowly, making its way down to her bandaged side.
"What... what is this feeling?" she murmured to herself, puzzled by the sensations.
To her astonishment, Legolas responded, “Pain.”
She scrambled to sit upright in bed, the pain surging through her body but the sheer force of adrenaline propelled her actions. “You–you can hear me?” she whispered, eyes wide.
Legolas moved closer, taking a seat on the edge of the cot. In a gentle tone, he answered, "I can hear you. I can see you." He tenderly raised his hand to her cheek, resting it on the dried bloody mark already there. "And I can feel you."
A hushed gasp escaped her lips as she reached up to touch his hand. "It's... it's warm," she remarked, her voice filled with surprise. "I didn't expect it to be warm."
The elf smiled gently in response.
A mischievous smirk then graced her lips, and her gaze, rather unmistakably, wandered down his figure and briefly settled upon his pants. “Is everything this warm?” she inquired with a teasing tone.
Taken aback by her words and her brazen gaze, he cleared his throat. A noticeable flush crept across his cheeks and ears as he broke eye contact. With that, Legolas turned to face Aragorn, who stood behind him with raised eyebrows and a playful grin forming at the corner of his mouth. “My apologies, Aragorn.” He glanced back at the Wind Spirit. “(Y/N), this is—”
She interrupted him, her eyes on the other man. “I know who he is,” she said with confidence. “Aragorn, son of Arathorn the second, also called Strider or Wingfoot, Chieftain of the Dúnedain, and the Uncrowned King of Gondor.”
The expressions on both men's faces contorted, morphing to sheer astonishment—how did she know all that?
(Y/N) grinned sheepishly. "I am the wind," she confessed. "I see and hear a great deal."
…..
The Minas Tirith Castle was cloaked in the deep shroud of a late moonlit night as Legolas walked through its ancient halls. The soft flickering of torchlight painted wavering shadows on the weathered stone walls, lending an atmosphere that resonated with the weight of its history. His footsteps were silent as he moved, and his thoughts followed suit, meandering through the corridors of his mind.
However, up ahead, a figure bathed in a gentle glow caused Legolas to abruptly halt in his tracks, his thoughts instantly converging on the woman.
“(Y/N),” he called out, approaching her. “What are you doing away from the House of Healing? You shouldn't be out of bed. You should be resting!”
She let out an exasperated sigh, not appreciating his chastising tone. "I am a watcher of wanderers, Legolas. Therefore, I too am a voyager. It is not in my nature to stay still."
Legolas released a heated breath through his nose. “That may be true, but you now have a corporal form. No longer are you just a breeze.”
She rolled her eyes, shifting her feet to hide the persistent pain emanating from her side. “I may not be a breeze any longer, but I still control all the winds of Arda. I could knock you on your ass in seconds, injured or not.”
Legolas chuckled lightly. “I never would have gotten involved with the wind if I knew she was so temperamental,” he teased.
(Y/N), suppressing a grin, responded with a snarky retort. “Oh, so we are involved, are we?”
The elf sent her a look, trying to hide his expression of amusement. “I would be naive to think that all the times the wind flirted with me, it was just a ploy.”
“Maybe I enjoy a ploy from century to century, Legolas,” she replied.
He laughed lightly at her jest, then took a step closer, his demeanor shifting to one of seriousness. Gently, he pressed his hand to her bandaged side. “(Y/N),” he began softly. “Why did you do it? Why did you get in between that orc and I?”
She looked up at him, her eyes gleaming with sincerity. “You know why.”
“Say it,” he commanded.
“Because,” she began, her tone becoming shy and soft. “Because, I—I love you.”
Instantly, Legolas wrapped his arm around her back, pulling her close to him. He pressed his lips fervently against hers. As their mouths met with equal intensity, he tasted the essence of the wind. And oh, it tasted of adventure, suffering, and joy. It tasted of warm bread from the north, bitter nuts from the east, clear water from the south, and fresh fruit from the west. It tasted of eons and eons of wandering, yet still, she tasted of home. Her hands found their way into his golden locks of hair, twisting and tugging it lightly. He allowed her to siphon off his heat, for the wind was often cold and bellowing. Though, he could tell she was taking more than just his warmth—she was taking his love; and oh, he gladly gave it to her.
…..
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Welcome Home! Nothing Weird Happened.
Written based on @emilybeemartin's spectacular Boromir Lives AU comics, with permission. I might write more, who knows.
My whole thought process here is this: if Boromir lives and makes it back to Minas Tirith, he is about to receive an absolutely ludicrous quantity of bad news. And I for one think it would be both plausible and hilarious for Pippin to be the one who ends up delivering that news. So here we are!
Trigger warnings for that whole pyre situation from Return of the King.
It was fitting, to Boromir’s mind, that the battle for Minas Tirith should be decided by dead men. So many had died for the city of kings already, their blood seeping into her soil like rain. Why, then, should her fate rest solely in the hands of the living? An unnatural justice rang out in the clang of steel against phantom blades, heralding the return of a hope long since given up for lost.
“None but the king of Gondor may command me,” the wraith hissed.
“You?” Boromir had roared. “You, Oathbreaker? I am the heir to the Stewards of Gondor. Generations of my kin have died for an empty throne. None but the king of Gondor may command ME. Here stands the king of Gondor before us, and you will suffer him as I have!”
And suffer him they did. Sickly green washed over the last armored oliphaunt as the dead claimed more souls for their own. Boromir pulled his eyes away from the spectacle and spun his sword in his hand, scanning the area around him for the next foe. He found none. Only the backs of retreating orcs, and weary Men attending to their fallen brothers. That and, out of the corner of his eye, the strangest possible trio of a Man, a Dwarf, and an Elf. Finding no enemy to engage, Boromir instead turned his step toward the strange trio to embrace his friends in the wake of victory.
Aragorn, king of Gondor, did not appear especially regal at the moment. He was covered in grime and gore, surrounded by the corpses of orcs left to rot in the open field. Gimli’s sturdy metal armor was slick with blood, and it dripped steadily off the edge of the axe that he had slung over one shoulder. Legolas, of course, was only as disheveled as he might have been after a short run, clean of the muck that covered the rest of them. His hair still fell properly at his shoulder, what witchcraft did the Elf use to maintain it?
Boromir could only imagine what he himself must look like. He knew that he was damp and smelled like death, which did not bode well for a lordly appearance. Nonetheless, even in all his heavy armor Boromir felt lighter than he had since childhood. The battle was over, fought now only by those straggling beasts that had not managed to escape the field on foot. Boromir was still, impossibly, alive, and so were his companions. So was his king.
The enemy may yet prevail, but Gondor would not fall before the White Tree bloomed again. It was more than his grandfathers had ever dared to hope.
“Is that blood in your hair or just its natural grease?” Boromir asked his king, sliding his sword back into its scabbard and stepping over the body of a fallen orc to approach him.
Aragorn laughed, raising one dirty hand to skim his fingertips over the top of his head. “I cannot say, Captain. I only know that in either case, I would wash it before I present myself to your lord father.”
Boromir clicked his tongue dismissively. “My lord father’s not the one we have to worry about. If my brother hears that I’ve brought Isildur’s heir home in such a state, he’ll throttle me.”
He almost continued speaking. He almost added, if he’s alive. Aragorn heard the unspoken caveat all the same. His dark eyes had a softness in them when he spoke.
“The battle is over, Captain of the White Tower,” Aragorn said. “We must turn our efforts now to the dead and wounded. May we not find you kin among them.”
If the taste of ash settled on the back of Boromir’s tongue, it could be attributed to the smell of Mordor’s filthy army laying dead at his feet, and not to the terrible image that flashed across his mind’s eye of Faramir’s bloodied and unblinking face.
“My father will be well,” Boromir asserted, determined not to speculate on his brother’s wellbeing. “He is past his time as a warrior. He will have commanded our troops from a place of safety within the walls.”
Aragorn inclined his head in assent. His hair really was a sight- black blood had matted chunks of it together, and where they stood now in the open field, with the sun just beginning to peek through the enemy’s unnatural bank of shadow, Boromir could see that his clothes were in much the same state. Perhaps this was why Aragorn so persistently favored black for his travel clothes. Were he wearing any other color, it would be obvious that he was as drenched in the blood of orcs as if he had bathed in it.
A warrior of staggering skill was this king of Men, but he preferred not to proclaim his deadliness to the world. He tucked it away into shadow until such skill was needed. Perhaps one day Boromir might look upon this man that he called brother and not be humbled by the mere sight of him.
Perhaps.
“I will search with a sharp eye, then, for Captain Faramir,” Aragorn promised.
Boromir closed the distance between them to grip Aragorn’s shoulder in thanks. Aragorn returned the gesture with ferocity, digging his fingers into the mail covering Boromir’s upper arm. Gimli thumped Boromir’s back in a heavy handed gesture of approval, and Legolas bowed his head with a coy smile. A river of unspoken words passed between the four of them, about great and important things like love and fear at the end of the world, and then they released each other. Aragorn turned his stride towards the Citadel to lend his knowledge of elvish medicine to the House of Healing. Legolas and Gimli set out together to help carry the wounded into the city for aid. Boromir made for the rocky outcrop at the city’s outermost wall, the one that archers favored for its vantage point. There he was sure he would find rangers, and hopefully news of Faramir.
The walk carried him past countless dead orcs and uruk-hai, but also more dead men and horses than Boromir had ever seen on a single field. For every pair of comrades he saw embrace in giddy relief, another wail of grief reached his ears from somewhere else. His mail grew heavier with every step he took.
Boromir had scarcely made it halfway to the archer’s outpost before he was stopped by the sound of his own name.
“Captain Boromir!” a familiar voice shouted. “You live!”
Boromir stopped and whirled about. There, about ten yards from Boromir, close enough to the outermost wall to be half-concealed in its shadow, crouched a man in a forest-green cloak. His hands still hovered over a fallen Gondorian soldier, as if he had frozen partway through checking for signs of life. Before the man in green rose to stand, he brushed a hand over the fallen one’s face, coaxing his eyes shut before stepping away. Boromir felt a dull pang of grief in his already overburdened heart at the confirmation that yet another of his countrymen was dead. He had no time to acknowledge that pain, though, as the man in green righted himself fully. The green cloak, brown leather vambraces, and longbow on his back all sparked immediate recognition.
Boromir knew this man, had met him before, but his weary mind failed to provide a name for him. It hardly mattered. The uniform he wore told Boromir everything he needed to know. Faramir had been clad exactly the same, the last time Boromir had seen him. This was one of the rangers of Ithilien, his brother’s own company. Hope swelled painfully in his chest. He hastened his step towards the ranger.
The ranger rushed to meet him and performed a quick, obligatory salute when they were close enough to speak comfortably. “My lord,” he greeted, breathless. “Your father thought you dead, but we in Captain Faramir’s company held out hope.” A wide grin split across his face. “You cannot imagine how sorely you’ve been missed!”
Seeing his smile finally dragged the ranger’s name to the front of Boromir’s memory. “Anborn,” he said warmly. “It’s good to see you alive and well. Tell me, what news do you have of my brother?”
Anborn’s smile dropped, giving way to a look of naked concern as quickly as a candle being snuffed out. “I have no news, my lord, none that is not two days old at least.”
"Then give me the old news,” Boromir pressed, trying not to snap.
Anborn grimaced and nodded. “My lord,” he said, haltingly, “The last time I saw your brother, my Captain, was on the day he rode out to reclaim Osgiliath with a company of forty mounted soldiers.”
Boromir could only stare for a long moment, turning over Anborn’s words in his head to try and make them comprehensible. No clarity came to him. “My brother is- in Osgiliath?”
Another grimace. “If he is still there, he is dead.” Boromir’s lungs constricted and froze. Anborn continued, “Osgiliath was overrun more than a week ago. I’ve heard rumors that Faramir made it back to the Citadel, but I cannot say any more than that without inventing rumors myself.”
“The Citadel,” Boromir repeated. He forced breath into his uncooperative lungs. He would go to the Citadel, and he would find Faramir there with their father, incoherent with frustration after arguing strategy with Denethor. He turned on his heel and started walking. Anborn said something as Boromir strode away, but he didn’t hear it properly over the ringing in his ears.
What he had heard of Anborn’s words clamored in his mind- it sounded as if Faramir had taken a company of only forty men to reclaim an overrun city. That would be absurd, though. Faramir may be prone to bouts of melancholy and brooding, but he wasn’t suicidal. And even if he did, for some reason, decide to seek his own death, he would never bring any number of Gondor’s defenders with him to do it.
Your father thought you dead.
Boromir broke into a run.
Faramir didn’t hold sway over all their troops’ movements. Faramir wasn’t the Steward.
He was moving too slowly. Stumbling to a halt, Boromir grasped at the leather straps holding his pauldrons in place and did his best to unfasten them with numb fingers. Denethor had not been the same in recent years. The shadow in the east had darkened his thoughts, day by day, and set him talking as if the end were already here. His gray eyes had glinted in a way that Boromir scarcely recognized when he’d spoken of the One Ring. He’d never favored Faramir, never encouraged him the way he deserved, but the cruelty that had colored Denethor’s every interaction with his secondborn in the year or two before Boromir left shocked him.
Boromir’s pauldrons landed on the ground in a heap, and now he doubled over to escape the shirt of mail. It was a difficult task without taking off his sword belt, but he managed. He needed to be faster, but he could not bear to go unarmed. The chain links poured gracelessly down over his head, yanking his hair as they went, and then he was free. Boromir took off running again, now unencumbered.
Faramir would never plan a suicide mission.
Would he accept one, though, if he was ordered?
Boromir’s feet touched white marble bricks for the first time in months that had felt like decades. He did not pause. Shouts followed him as he went, calling his name or exclaiming surprise. Arches and edifices flew by overhead. Rubble littered the street. He caught glances of bodies crushed under great stones.
Boromir made it to the stairs. His weary legs burned and protested, but he dared not slow his descent. He needed to know where Faramir was, now. He needed to know what had happened in Osgiliath, before any more ideas had the chance to take root in his head. If he finished the line of thinking that Anborn’s news had set off-
Boromir might kill his father with his bare hands.
So, he would not stop, and he would not think, until he found answers.
He reached the top of the stairs.
A small group of guards, maybe five or six, clustered together at the Citadel gate, all spoke over each other in urgent tones. Boromir could not hear most of their words over his own ragged breath, but he caught a few. He heard “Mithrandir” and “Witch King” and “wood”, and then, “Denethor.”
“Where?” Boromir barked. Every one of the men before him startled and turned to him with unabashed fear written across their faces.
If Boromir had looked a mess back on the fields, by now he must appear absolutely deranged. Half his armor gone, hair wild, white shirt drenched with sweat and blood- he could hardly blame the unsuspecting guards for the shock and confusion they displayed so brazenly at his question. Nor could he blame himself for the urge to grab the nearest one and shake him until he spoke sense.
Fortunately for all present, the guard furthest to the left, a man of slight and youthful stature underneath his plate armor, spoke up.
“The House of Stewards,” he said, voice trembling. He pointed in the right direction. “In the tombs. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.”
Boromir ran like he had never done in his life.
For what possible reason would his father and brother be in the tombs in the midst of battle?
He threw himself against the door to the tombs of his forefathers. They gave way with no resistance, and as he stumbled through the opening, he noted that the floor was dusted with splintered wood. This door had already been broken through. There he stopped short.
He could not, for the life of him, make sense of the scene before him.
In the center of the foyer, directly on top of Húrin’s memorial etching, were the remains of- a bonfire? Heaps of ash and charred wood covered the usually immaculate white marble floor, built up into a high, still-smoldering mound in the chamber’s center. The air reeked of smoke. Neither Denethor nor Faramir were in sight, nor was anyone else. The tombs appeared deserted.
“Faramir?” Boromir called warily.
A clang of metal and the scuffle of unshod feet on stone answered his call, and then-
“Boromir!”
A small form collided hard with his midsection, forcing him to take a staggering step back. Small arms wrapped around him like a vice, a familiar vice, and Boromir abruptly realized that he was in the embrace of a hobbit.
“Pippin?” he demanded, aghast.
The young hobbit turned his face up to meet his gaze and a fresh wave of panic seized him. Pippin’s face was coated in ash and streaked with tears.
“Boromir!” Pippin cried again. “You have to help, Gandalf said that healers were coming but nobody came, there was screaming in the halls so I dragged him as far as I could but he’s heavy and I don’t know where Gandalf went and just- just- come here!”
The hobbit released his iron grip around Boromir’s waist in favor of clutching one of his wrists and started hauling him off to one side of the room, into a corridor of mausoleums. There, poking out of the nearest alcove, Boromir spied the lower half of a single black boot.
Pippin pulled him onward when his own pace faltered. With each step he could see more of the body that Pippin had apparently tried to drag to safety. A small, or rather, hobbit-sizedsword lay carelessly discarded on the floor beneath the alcove’s arching entrance where Pippin had dropped it. That would explain the clanging sound Boromir had heard just before being tackled, then. Which would mean that when he called out, Pippin had been guarding this archway with sword in hand.
Pippin’s relentless tugging finally forced Boromir to where he could see the stricken man on the floor.
It was Faramir.
Of course it was Faramir.
A rough, strangled sound echoed through the quiet tombs, and Boromir only realized a moment later that it had come from his own throat. Pippin darted from his side to kneel at his brother’s head, petting his hair and murmuring a soothing word. Faramir did not react in the slightest. He wasn’t dead; Boromir had seen enough dead men in his life to know with unfailing precision the difference between a dead body and a dying one.
No, his brother was not dead. He was only dying.
Boromir dropped to his knees.
In all this time that he had dreaded coming home and hearing that Faramir had fallen in battle, it had never occurred to Boromir that he might watch him die.
“He needs medicine,” Pippin pleaded, his little hand nestled in Faramir’s hair. Boromir now saw that the hobbit was dressed in the garb of the guards of Citadel, mail under a velvet tunic embroidered with the white tree. What had happened in his city? When had this barely-trained halfling become his brother’s last line of defense?
“Go,” Boromir rasped. He touched the hilt of his sword. “I will protect him now. Go to the House of Healing, down one level. Aragorn is there. He will listen to you.”
Without another word, Pippin took off at a sprint. Boromir and Faramir were left alone, together for the first time since Boromir had left for Rivendell.
Boromir wanted to scream.
Instead, he maneuvered himself carefully to sit at his brother’s side. How Pippin had managed to stash Faramir away in this little nook, Boromir had no idea. He could only just find room for himself against the wall without jostling the motionless body beside him. He reached a tentative hand out to lay it on Faramir’s forehead. He paused before he touched skin, momentarily stunned by the radiating heat. When his fingers settled on his brother’s brow, it was like touching metal that had been left in the sun too long. Faramir burned. Boromir gently smoothed his hand over damp hair.
It wasn’t just Faramir’s hair that was damp, actually. It was everything on him. His short beard, the finely embroidered collar of his tunic, the silk of his sleeves. If his fever was so high, it was not so surprising to find him coated in sweat. The choice of clothes, though, was undeniably strange. There was no blood staining the fabric. Had he not been hurt in battle, then? Had he simply been taken by a violent illness? Was there a plague in the city? That might explain the lack of gore but not the presence of finery. Boromir had only ever seen Faramir wear this tunic for ceremonies. He wouldn’t have put it on before battle, and he would certainly have taken it off if he were falling ill.
No, the only reasonable conclusion was that Faramir had not been the one to dress himself. A terrible, unspeakable suspicion wormed its way into his heart.
Boromir almost regretted sending Pippin away without first asking him what had happened to create this bizarre tableau. Almost. His answers could wait until Faramir had been brought safely into the care of physicians. He lifted his hand to stroke Faramir’s hair again, but the slickness that clung to his palm bade him pause.
That wasn’t sweat in his brother’s hair, it was something else, something more viscous. Puzzled beyond words, Boromir brought his hand close to his face to inspect it.
His palm was smeared with oil.
All at once, a dozen disparate fragments of information arranged themselves into nightmarish clarity.
Someone had dressed Faramir for a funeral. Someone had brought him into the place where the bones of their ancestors rested and covered him in oil. Someone had lit a bonfire in the center of the tombs.
Not a bonfire. A pyre.
Someone had tried to burn his little brother alive.
“No,” Boromir whispered, as if he could prevent his next thought from taking shape.
Only one person in Gondor could do any of this without being stopped.
In the tombs, the guard at the gate had said. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.
Boromir launched himself upright, out of the cramped alcove, and was sick all over the marble floor.
For the second time in a day, Pippin found himself running for someone else’s life. At least he didn’t have so far to go this time. He could not remember ever being so tired. It was also fortunate that he knew already where to find the House of Healing. Gandalf had insisted he memorize the route there as soon as he’d made his oath to Denethor, which was a bit insulting, to be honest, but turned out very useful in the end.
The first time he’d entered the House, just a few days ago, he’d thought it was very full. Most of the rows of clean, simple cots had been occupied by rangers returning from outside the city. As he dashed through the sturdy oaken door now, though, he entered a different world entirely.
The cacophony of sound, smell and movement that surged up to meet him stopped Pippin in his tracks. The House of Healing was so crowded he could not see the far wall. He could barely see the nearest row of cots. Tall ladies rushed about in every direction, shouting orders to one another above a nauseating din of groans and cries. Pippin had been standing guard in a cloud of smoke for hours, and yet the onslaught of ugly and unfamiliar smells that accosted him here made him wish for the scent of smoke again.
His foray into the front lines of a battle had been terrifying. This place might be worse.
Boromir had said that Aragorn was here, though, and Pippin would walk headfirst into an army of orcs right now if it meant that Aragorn would help him. He never wanted to be in charge of anything, ever again, especially not trying to keep great lords and heroes alive. Aragorn was good at that sort of thing, he could take over now. Pippin took a deep breath and began forging a path through the chaos, calling Aragorn’s name as he went.
As he weaved his way through cots, ducking underneath outstretched arms and around long legs, Pippin heard questions following him that he had no desire to answer.
“How old is that boy? Who let a child in the guard?”
"Is that one of those halflings? The wizard’s pet or something?”
“Are you lost, little one?”
Some of these Men had the most terrible manners, clearly. Most of them were bleeding very badly, though, so Pippin could forgive them for their rudeness. He ignored them all and kept moving.
“Aragorn!” he shouted again.
A women that had been rushing by him paused for an instant to glare down at him. “Hush, you,” she scolded, in a voice that spoke of unquestionable authority. She wore a sort of veil with a nice brooch on it, so Pippin supposed she might be in charge here. “Lord Aragorn’s doing very important things right now and I’ll not have you disturbing him.”
Pippin’s heart jumped. “Where is he?” he asked.
The woman tsked and shook her head, making to continue along her original path. She held a bowl in her arms that Pippin was quite sure he did not want to see the inside of. Whatever it was sloshed unpleasantly when Pippin lurched after the women and grabbed a handful of her skirt to prevent her from leaving.
“The Steward has ordered me to fetch Aragorn! Show me where he is!” Pippin declared. He didn’t think it was a lie. Denethor was dead, so that made Boromir the Steward in his place, probably.
The woman gasped in surprise. “Lord Denethor lives?” she asked. “Wondrous news, we thought lord and son dead already.”
Pippin avoided the question about Denethor by standing up as straight as he could. “Lord Faramir needs medicine,” he said imperiously. “He needs Aragorn’s skill. Take me to Aragorn.”
With a quick hand gesture to follow and not another word, the woman took off walking at a brisk stride deeper into the crowded hall. Pippin had to run to keep up with her. After what seemed like a dozen maneuvers around clumps of people and cots, a figure clad all in black finally came into view.
“Strider!” Pippin cried with relief.
Aragon knelt at a young man’s bedside with a wet rag and bowl of water in his hands. He turned his face at once toward the sound of Pippin’s voice, a genuine smile gracing his lips as he did. Some of the panic that had been driving Pippin these last several hours faded away at the sight. If Aragorn was here, then surely things would get better now.
His relief faltered a bit when Pippin noticed that Aragorn was simply covered in blood- both red and black, and sweat, and grime that Pippin could not begin to identity. The Men gathered round him didn’t seem to mind Aragorn’s state, but then, most of them were splattered with blood as well, probably their own. Even Aragorn could not dispel the somber truth hanging in the air, that unimaginably many people had died today.
Faramir would join the dead soon if Pippin didn’t get a move on, so he marched past all those tall, bloodied Men to stand right at Aragorn’s side.
“Faramir’s dying,” he hissed, hoping he was quiet enough for none but Aragorn to hear. He didn’t especially want to deliver more bad news to the people in this room. “Boromir is with him, but he needs medicine, now.”
If Aragorn found this news distressing, he did not show it. He just nodded thoughtfully, and asked, “Can he walk?”
Pippin shook his head. Aragorn hummed an acknowledgment and rose to his feet. He handed the bowl and rag he’d been holding to another woman that Pippin hadn’t noticed before, murmuring something that sounded like instructions. He then spoke to the lady that had led Pippin, the one who seemed to be in charge.
“Ioreth,” he addressed her. “We have need of a stretcher.”
“It will be done,” she said, and turned on her heel to vanish back into the crowded hall.
Aragorn wiped his hands on his trousers to dry them. Pippin suspected he made them dirtier in the process. “Pippin,” Aragorn said. “Will you please lead me to Boromir and Faramir?”
“Yes, this way,” Pippin answered quickly. He was eager to be out of this terrifying place. He found it easier than before to navigate through the throng. He realized after a few moments of uninhibited movement that people were stepping aside to make way as soon as they saw Aragorn following him.
Had Aragorn already gotten around to being crowned while Pippin was busy? These people were certainly treating him like a king.
“Did you already become the King?” Pippin asked without thinking.
Aragorn chuckled dryly. “No, and I don’t think the lady healers would much care if I had. They care only that I know how to draw out the poison that covers many orcish blades, and that I’ve shared what I know.”
“Oh,” said Pippin, feeling queasy.
Finally, the door came into sight, and with a quick burst of speed, Pippin flung himself back into fresh air. Mostly fresh, anyway, permitting for some lingering smoke. The smell of blood and death that lingered in his nostrils seemed even more vile when contrasted against another, cleaner scent, and it made him gag. Aragorn placed a sympathetic hand between his shoulders.
“The battle to save the wounded is the hardest and the bloodiest,” he said gently. “There’s no shame in being shocked by it.”
Pippin couldn’t quite speak yet, so he bobbed his head in a jerky, shaking nod. He allowed himself two deep breaths before turning his attention back to the task at hand. Right. Faramir. Shot full of arrows and nearly burned to death, currently stashed in a mausoleum, actively perishing of fever. He had to bring Aragorn there, and then maybe he could sit down for a moment. He set off again at a jog.
Aragorn, being unfairly long-legged, could follow him with a brisk walk. Pippin was growing weary of these big people, he really was.
Back over the same cold marble stone he went, retracing his steps to the tombs. Two men carrying a stretcher had started following them at some point- Pippin hadn’t noticed exactly where they came from, but the stretcher they carried was already stained with red, so he suspected that they had been going back and forth from the House of Healing for a while already. Aragorn let there be silence between them for several yards, but began asking questions as soon as they crossed under a crumbling archway.
“What happened to Faramir to leave him needing medicine?”
“He was shot at least twice, I’m not sure when. Sometime yesterday.”
"Where has he been?”
“Well, he got shot when he was fighting in Osgiliath, and then the horse dragged him back, and that probably made it worse, actually, but then Denethor put him away someplace for a day or so and then brought him into the tombs and tried to burn him alive.”
Aragorn froze for a moment. “What?”
“Denethor lost his mind just before the battle started, he tried to burn Faramir alive on a pyre. And himself too, I think. He thought the world was ending.”
“Where is Denethor now?”
“He jumped off the wall.”
Aragorn took up walking again, now at a faster stride. “Boromir is with his brother now?”
"Yes,” Pippin confirmed, doing his best to keep up with Aragorn’s pace.
“Does he know what happened?”
That was a good question, actually. Had Pippin explained the situation at all? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember most of today, to be honest- it was all a blur of screams and fire.
He remembered the blinding panic he’d felt when heavy footsteps had entered the tombs. He remembered clutching his sword with sweaty hands and bracing himself to get torn to shreds by uruk-hai, and then abandoning his sword to hurl himself at Boromir once he’d heard the man’s voice. What had Boromir said, though? Anything? Had Pippin said anything?
He remembered Boromir dropping heavily onto his knees. The look on his face had been awful. He looked sad and scared and sick all at once. Pippin had never been sure what the word anguish meant, but he was sure now.
“I don’t think so,” Pippin finally answered.
Aragorn muttered something to himself, a string of elvish words that Pippin had never heard before. It sounded like what Legolas said when he missed a shot, though, so Pippin could wager a guess at what it meant.
At last, they reached the door to the House of Stewards. Pippin darted through, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Aragorn was still following. Through the foyer, around the smoldering remains of the pyre, down the corridor on the right, and there they were. The lords of Gondor. Not quite as Pipping had left them.
Boromir had extracted Faramir from the alcove where Pippin had dragged him to lay his brother out in the open. The fine silk tunic Faramir had worn lay in oil-soaked shreds scattered about the floor, and the mail shirt he’d had on underneath was similarly cast aside, half-obscuring a puddle of vomit near the entry to the alcove. Pippin was sympathetic- being in this place made him want to retch, too.
Faramir lay on his side in his undershirt. The fabric had been white once, Pippin knew, but blood, oil and ash had colored it through. Boromir knelt at his back, holding him steady by the upper arm with one hand and gently tearing the cloth of the ruined shirt with the other. The cloth didn’t move the way it should when Boromir tugged it. It stuck stubbornly to Faramir’s scorched upper back and shoulder, like it had been glued there.
Pippin gasped in horror as the realization hit him. Boromir couldn’t get Faramir’s shirt off because it was stuck to his burnt skin, fused in place by the heat of the fire. Had his skin melted? Could skin melt? The thought alone sickened him.
Boromir must have heard Pippin gasp, because his head snapped up to fix the hobbit with a wild stare.
Pippin didn’t usually think of Boromir as frightening. Fearsome, of course, but not to his friends. Certainly never to Pippin.
He looked frightening now. His eyes were wide, and his pupils were tiny pinpoints. His lips were pulled back into an animalistic expression, somewhere between a grimace and a snarl, showing just a hint of teeth. His shoulders curled forward, hunching slightly over Faramir’s still form, and through his thin, damp shirt Pippin could see he was shaking with pent up energy.
When Pippin was younger, one of Farmer Maggot’s dogs had gone missing. They’d found the creature hiding under a shed, nursing a bleeding paw, growling and snapping at any hobbit that tried to approach. Boromir did not make a sound, but Pippin swore he could hear the same wounded dog’s growling all the same.
Pippin felt rather than heard Aragorn approaching from behind him, and it was a great relief when Boromir’s gaze flicked up off his face to fixate on Aragorn instead. With what seemed to be a tremendous effort, Boromir opened his mouth to speak.
“Where is Denethor?” he rasped, voice shaking.
Aragorn took a cautious step forward, moving in front of Pippin. He held his hands up, fingers splayed open, the way he did when trying to settle a spooked horse. “Boromir, my brother-” he began, voice soft and steady.
Boromir interrupted before he could take another step. “Tell me where my father is, Aragorn,” he croaked. “Tell me so I can find him and gut him.”
“He’s dead,” Pippin blurted. “He set himself on fire and then he went off the edge of the wall and died.”
Aragorn stiffened. Boromir’s jaw went slack. He heard gasps from the men carrying the stretcher behind him.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have spoken. Gandalf was always telling him something to that effect.
Boromir let out long, low groan and slumped in on himself, bowing his head so low his forehead grazed Faramir’s hair. He released the firm grip he’d been maintaining on his brother’s upper arm to grab fistfuls of his own hair instead.
Aragorn moved swiftly to kneel beside Boromir. He wrapped one arm around Boromir’s shoulders and pulled him into a lopsided embrace. Boromir went without protest, deflated and boneless against his king. Aragorn spoke to him, too softly for Pippin to hear, and coaxed him to shuffle backwards just a pace or two to create space at Faramir’s side. The two half-forgotten men with the stretcher between them seized their opportunity and swept in to gather Faramir up. Boromir twitched forward when they lifted his brother, but Aragorn held him back with a hand on his chest. With quick, synchronized steps, Faramir was taken out of the tombs.
Louder now, so Pippin could hear again, Aragorn spoke with real regret in his voice. “I must follow them. I promise I will give all the skill I have to make Lord Faramir well.”
“I’m coming,” Boromir stated.
Aragorn fixed him with a hard stare. “It will be ugly,” he warned. “I’ll have to cut the shirt off his back, and I expect much of his skin to come with it. If he wakes it will be to scream.”
“I know,” said Boromir.
“I would rather not find your blade shoved through my heart while I work.”
Boromir flushed. “I would not.”
Aragorn raised one eyebrow. “All the same, if you wish to follow, leave your sword at the door for my peace of mind.”
Boromir opened his mouth, but seemed to think better of it and simply bowed his head in assent. Aragorn hauled himself to his feet and offered Boromir a hand up, which Boromir accepted without hesitation.
“Can I help?” Pippin asked, surprising himself.
Aragorn eyed him up and down. One corner of his lips twitched upward. “Yes, Pippin, I think you can help us all very much by staying at Boromir’s side and keeping him calm. If you have any more news to deliver, however, perhaps you could share it beforewe enter the House of Healing?”
Pippin recognized the admonishment for what it was and ducked his head, chastened. On the other hand, now that he mentioned it-
“Gandalf’s staff is broken,” he announced.
Aragorn closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I see. Thank you, Pippin. Anything else?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Very well. If you think of something, take Boromir out into the hall and tell him.” Aragorn turned to Boromir and spoke sternly. “Boromir, if Pippin takes you out into the hall, I forbid you to pick up your sword until we have had a chance to speak.”
Boromir huffed out something very close to a laugh. “Wise council, my king.”
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Sleepless Nights ⋆.˚ ⭒₊ .
For those out there struggling to sleep, I present to you...
Synopsis:
An elf from Rivendell, you eagerly joined the fellowship. However, many harrowing months into your journey, you constantly find yourself struggling to sleep.
Maybe a confession and a certain blond elf can help soothe your insomnia...
Legolas x gender-neutral elf!reader
No use of y/n
Prequel to Romantic Inclinations, but can also be read as a one-shot
Want to feel truly immersed? Listen while you read
Encampment | Forest Sounds
Content Warnings:
Spice scale: it’s spicy…but like it could also be spicier
Intimate physical touch + allusions to more
Word Count:
1.5k words
Translation Dictionary:
Meleth Nín = My Love
Mellon Nín = My friend
Aman = Blessed Land
⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚
On tumultuous nights in which Legolas would undertake watch, the Fellowship and seemingly the entire forest would fall into a deep, weary slumber. Despite dozing constantly during your trek across the foothills, much to Gimli's envy, when day finally welcomed the night your worries continued plaguing your mind. You had laid staring up at the stars, knowing exactly which ones would lead you home to Rivendell. Despite the stick digging into your shoulders, it wasn't the thought of a snug bed and safe fire that tempted you, but rather those that you'd left behind. Before you joined the fellowship, there had been whispers of exodus. In the moment you had been hungry for adventure, ignoring the signs, but what if you'd made a mistake? You couldn't help but picture your kin sailing to the Grey Havens, escaping the torment that kept you from a good night's rest.
"Having trouble?" a kindly voice whispered. You briskly shot up, turning towards the source.
He sat back to a tree, vigilantly carving away at a piece of wood with his dagger. Despite your weapons lying comfortably around you; daggers by your ankle and spear by your side, Legolas's bow and quiver remained strapped to his back.
"Well that can't be comfortable," you teased, imagining the feel of a bow poking into your back. Suddenly you felt better about the stick.
"I could say the same thing about your arrangement," his head pointed towards your spot on the floor, eyes transfixed on his work.
"Hm, touché," you smirked, a pleasant silence falling between you.
The woods were immensely calm; the stridulation of insects a harmonious melody drowned out by a singular frog and its stark croak. The tranquility reflected in your companions, whose soft huffs of air you could hear below the crackling of the firewood. Maybe it was your expansive hearing that kept you from a restful sleep. You suddenly couldn't help but envy your newfound friends. Your thoughts were interrupted by the carving of wood as Legolas began to struggle with a corner, sawing forcefully at the bark.
"And what, exactly, are you making at this ungodly hour?" You stared at him with the corner of your eye, feigning annoyance.
"Wouldn't you like to know," the sawing continued.
"Mhm, what an astute observation" you mocked, standing and taking your place next to him, letting your head rest against the tree's homely bark.
After only a few weeks spent together you and Legolas had become settled in each other's presence. Through all of your teasing, you found it incredibly difficult to find anything about him to dislike. This unnerved you in a way, that is, how effortlessly you felt yourself falling for the princeling.
The silence returned once more, but the sawing had halted. You turned your head, finding Legolas already staring at you. His eyes were fawn-like and the tips of his ears began turning pink. Despite his curious embarrassment at being caught, he didn't shy away.
"What's on your mind?" you can feel your cheeks blossoming as the question leaves your mouth, your effort to prevent the blush only making it worse.
"How about you tell me what's keeping you from a good-night's rest," his eyes shone with genuine concern as he returned to his work. You felt the tension loosening, your playful demeanor returning once more.
"And what do I get for revealing such a thing, Prince?" You crossed your arms as if it could shield your fluttering heart.
"Whatever you want," the string was being pulled tighter once more.
You tried to keep your composure, confused as to how he was flustering you so.
"How about...you tell me what you're carving and why?" His eyes seemed to widen nervously at your proposal, only adding to your curiosity.
"Hmph, deal," he reached out his hand, and you leisurely reached your hand out. His handshake was gentle and his palms sweaty.
"But earnestly, mellon nín, what is plaguing you?" he said softer than before, suddenly aware of the others sleeping around the fire.
A sigh escaped your chest before you even registered it. You never told anyone about your troubles, and yet somehow it felt natural with Legolas. You weren't sure how much to say.
"I just...haven't found my sleep to be restful. Not since we left-," you swallowed hard.
You glanced at him as you attempted to compose yourself, expecting him to encourage you with his words. But he sat silently, knowing present in the depth of his stare.
He silently nodded, urging you to continue speaking.
You continued.
"When we first left, I had no hesitancy. And yet, as we continue, both our struggles here and those at home...trouble me," a breath enters your lungs.
"I anticipated that this journey would be difficult, yes, but not impossible. The latter grows more apparent every day," you worried as to his response, and suddenly you found the ground to be rather intriguing. You began sifting the dirt through your fingers, soothing yourself as your cheeks turned red in shame. It was unlike you, let alone any elf, to be so vulnerable with another.
Suddenly, you felt a hand on your shoulder; urging you to look up. Legolas's face came into view, eyes soft and glowing with firelight.
"I'm glad I am not the only one who feels this uncertainty," he smirked, though his eyes appeared more sorrowful than anything. You breathed a sigh of relief, shoulders relaxing all at once.
"We're not meant to lose hope at the prospect of another day not appearing before us-" He halted himself.
"-But, if it's any consolation, I'm glad my last day would be spent amongst all of these wonderful individuals," you chuckled at his words, fighting back a tear. "And if I could visit Aman with anyone...," he paused, seeming to collect his thoughts.
"...I would want it to be with you," his eyes lingered on your face, his demeanor more nervous than you had ever witnessed.
He searched your face for any sign. Disdain, perhaps? Or maybe acceptance.
Your breathing hitched as his eyes dipped down to your lips. Your arms could no longer muffle the sound of your hammering heart.
You were suddenly made aware of the hand on your shoulder, the way Legolas's hair seemed to burn more so than glow, the way his eyes sparkled with moonlight as they looked at you with the reverence of a thousand worshippers.
"Seems we have the same wish," you said quietly. Your words lingered as neither of you moved. Legolas sat motionless, not wanting to back away...or overstep.
You noticed.
Raising your hand to his cheek, you steadily moved your face closer to his. Your lips lingered over his for a second, before you moved back slightly; glimpsing into his eyes, searching for permission, before returning fluidly to his lips.
His lips encompassed your bottom lip gently, before pulling back to look at you. Your heart fluttered as he peered at you with an indescribable sense of wonder; impressing a sense of fey upon him. A smirk appeared on his face as he leaned back into your chest, his lips smashing against yours.
You could feel the string in your heart snap, all semblance of control leaving your body.
His arms wound around the back of your neck, and without a thought you moved your legs around his waist; straddling him as his back was pressed against the tree.
A small grunt escaped his lips as your hips gently made contact with his, the angles of his face sharp beneath your calloused fingertips. He gently pried your hands from his face as his lips trailed down your cheek,
then your jawline-
and then to your barely exposed neck.
You let out an audible gasp as his teeth gently bit into your skin, your hands finding their place in his hair. Legolas began shifting his hips, a pleasurable moan escaping your lips.
"SHHH," the sound emanated from the campfire.
His face leapt away from your neck, searching for the source.
Your hand covered your mouth as you fought back a roaring bout of laughter. Legolas's face was blooming as he held his breath.
Had they heard you? If Gimli had spotted the two of you neither of you would hear the end of it.
You both waited for a moment, searching for any sign of movement amongst your supposedly slumbering friends.
You couldn't believe what just happened. Next time, you resolved to find a more private location.
You let out a sigh, slumping into his chest; arms wounding around his neck as his arms found their way around your waist.
"So...who taught you that," you whispered, giggling to yourself at the thought of his lips on your neck...the claim his teeth had made on your skin.
"A certain, close source, that I shall not divulge," his hot breath lingered on your ear, his voice coarse.
"Hm, so that's how Arwen got those marks,"
"I hope you don't mind, meleth nín,"
"Not in the slightest-" you pulled back slightly, forehead resting against his.
"-I shall wear it like a badge of honor," you kissed him on the forehead.
A certain twinkle shone in Legolas's eyes as he leaned in to kiss the bite mark with enough gentleness to make you cry yet again.
"I think we may awaken the entire forest if we continue," a blush formed on your cheeks.
"Let's get some rest then," he smiled, his cheeks painted crimson at the thought.
You stood slightly, unwinding your legs from his hips. You slid to the floor, resting your head on his now outstretched legs. Without a word, he grabbed the blanket from his side, placing it around your drowsy form.
Legolas began to hum an unfamiliar tune, fingers making lazy strokes across your face. All you could hear was his steady heartbeat and voice, drowning out all else.
Your heart swelled with warmth as you fell asleep in Legolas's arms for the first time.
✩✩✩✩
If you have any criticisms or requests please send them my way! Have a restful day/evening <3
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Quiet Nights | Legolas x gn!reader
『••✎••』
↳ ❝ Could you do Legolas with "Stop crawling in through my window!" ❞
: ̗̀➛ Legolas wants to spend the night with his significant other.
: ̗̀➛ n/a
•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•
The night was calm for once, a slight drizzle that blew towards the east and little more than that; the moon was wearing a half smile, and the birds had silenced themselves as they retreated to their nests for the night.
Not even mice dared to scamper and scuttle through the halls with their soft and playful squeaks, instead choosing to stay hidden and concealed within their nests, buried inside the walls as they slept soundly.
Foxes did not dare or care to stir, either, well hidden and concealed within their thick dens amongst the towering trees and scruffy shrubs; their tails pressed against their noses as they rested behind a coarse rope of dense brownish orange.
The night was calm, which was odd; on more usual nights, the rain would have hammered down heavily, crashing and thundering against the ground so hard that it bounced right back up again. Howling and screaming winds that were able to topple even the tallest and heaviest of trees; it could be so catastrophic, yet it was so normal.
The quiet was, more than anything, eerie.
Too quiet and too harsh that it felt overwhelming; but the quiet of the halls and the rooms was welcoming.
The soft drifting sounds of snoring and the careful creaks of the wooden floor as the occupants moved around to get food, water, to change into their night clothes.
The window on the left, near the front and overlooking the empty and desolate path, was left open ever so slightly; more ajar than anything else, although there was space for it to be pulled open.
Legolas smiled as he looked at it, holding onto the ladder that had been left out and placed against the window; gently, he hooked his fingers on the bottom ridge, and slowly pulled it open until he could get his arms in.
Wriggling and writhing until he fell to the floor with a padded thud; the sound of laughter from the king sized bed soon followed, and when he looked up, he smiled.
"You need to stop crawling in through my window!" Your laugh was infectious and loud as you got out of bed, grabbing Legolas by his bicep and helping him to his feet. "Are you alright? Did you hurt yourself?"
He shook his head, beaming and grinning at you and clinging onto your hands as his gaze slowly dropped to your lips before snapping back up to your eyes again. Biting at the inside of his lip, Legolas could only hum as he decided to close the distance, his soft lips meeting your cheek for a split second.
You could feel his breath against your skin, his hands going down to your sides so that he could gently tug you closer, your hands landing on his chest as you balled the fabric of his shirt up within your fists. A soft huff leaving your lips as you licked your lips and swallowed thickly.
"Are you going to answer my question?"
Legolas nodded, moving one hand up so that he could gently cup your jaw; his fingers were deft and tender. "My love, I'm fine. I've crawled in through your window plenty of times without so much as a bruise."
"I know," you sighed, letting go of his shirt and gently pulling hin over to the bed. He laid down, welcoming you onto his lap with eager greed for the feel of your skin against his own. "It still won't stop me from worrying, though."
"My father talked of you today," he admitted quietly, softly, almost under his breath. "He told me that I would do well to keep you near after your little... adventure with the spiders earlier. He said he had never seen someone able to sneak up on them with a sword before."
You shrugged, swallowing thickly. "I only did what I've been trained to do. Years as a soldier..."
The smile on Legolas' lips faded, and he shook his head as his eyebrows furrowed slightly. Worry overtaking him as he let out a shaky breath at the mere mention. "You mustn't talk of such a thing, now. You are not going back to that life, you know that."
You nodded, daring to press a soft kiss to his forehead. "I know, I am more than aware of that, my love. Your father's praises mean a great deal, but I would rather know that I have the love of the fairest Prince."
His grin returned as he nodded, taking your hands in his own and placing them against his chest; his heartbeat was deep and steady, a soft throb beneath the fine and thin fabric of his shirt that made all tension drop from your body upon the feel of it. A heavy sigh left you, similar to the kind of sigh that came before a deep and long slumber.
"You shall always have that," he promised gently, slowly moving you so that you were laid down beside him, his finger lightly tracing your jaw. "My heart will always be yours."
"And mine yours," you whispered, smiling as you let out a quiet yawn. "Do you think we should get some sleep, now? We have a long day ahead tomorrow."
Legolas nodded as he pressed his temple to your head, closing his eyes as he refused to let go of your hands; it was the same every night, and it never mattered much what kind of position the two of you were cuddled up in, Legolas always held your hands when he slept.
He couldn't fall asleep next to you without doing so, and as it became habit so many years ago when the two of you first got together, you couldn't either; fidgeting around a little, you wound up with the top of his head against your chin and your arms around his waist, one leg swung over his hips as he snuggled up, a small smile on his lips.
It was going to be a quiet, peaceful, night.
#mlem writes#legolas x reader#legolas x you#legolas x y/n#legolas imagine#legolas fic#legolas fanfiction#legolas fluff#legolas greenleaf x reader#legolas greenleaf fanfic#legolas greenleaf#lotr legolas#legolas#lotr x reader#lotr x you#lotr x y/n#lotr imagine#lotr fic#lotr fanfiction#lotr fanfic#lotr fluff#lotr#lord of the rings x reader#lord of the rings x you#lord of the rings imagine#lord of the rings fanfiction#lord of the rings fic#lord of the rings
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Though I Know My Heart Would Break
Request: For the poll that Legolas won! You guys sent in a few prompts, I've incorporated: sick (injured, rather) fic, hurt/comfort, everyone lives, and reader confesses first! Hope you guys like it! (Title is from Hozier's Francesca that has me in a chokehold)
Legolas x Reader
Gender-neutral reader
Content warnings: Mild injury (no overly graphic descriptions)
3.7k words
---
You walked through the forest, ducking under the cedar branches, weaving between the cypresses. The air was rich with the scent of herbs — thyme and sage, marjoram and parsley. The late afternoon sun filtered in through the canopy, specking the forest floor with light. Legolas’ footsteps were silent on the soft ground, but the steady clopping of the horse he was leading reassured you of his presence.
With the coronation over, and Eowyn and Faramir wed, attention was turned to restoring Minas Tirith and setting up a settlement at Emyn Arnen. You and Legolas were tasked with surveying the land and forests around Emyn Arnen. Sam was curious about the plants, hearing how new and different they were to those back in The Shire, but Frodo’s reluctance to stray further than the Citadel kept him in Minas Tirith.
You paused by a cluster of pink rockfoils, thumbing the thin stems before plucking a few small flowers and tucking them into a waxed pouch.
“Mellon nin,” Legolas said, sounding half-amused, half-exasperated, “Why do you pause and pluck? You have been doing so since we arrived. ”
“They’re for Sam. He might have agreed to stay in Minas Tirith, but I saw the shade of disappointment in his eyes. I thought perhaps I could bring the forest to him instead.”
His lips tugged up at the corners. “And what will you give the forest in return?”
“What do you mean?” You frowned and stood.
He smiled, soft and knowing, eyes wandering over the barks and branches. “These trees have been left at peace for many years, the bushes and shrubs untouched. They are not used to wandering fingers and restless feet.”
You glanced down at the patch of rockfoils, the decapitated stems looking more brutal in light of Legolas’ words. Your lips twisted and he chuckled, and your eyes drifted back to him.
He had always been so full of light and laughter, even during the endless days and dark nights, even after Gandalf fell, even after the hobbits were taken. Ethereal, that was what people said of the elves. Otherworldly.
But he looked so human, so normal, standing in a patch of sunlight, laughing at the concerned expression on your face. There were smudges of dirt on his boots, dew dotting the bottom hem of his cloak, and even a small leaf lodged in his hair.
Yes, Legolas has always just been Legolas to you.
Perhaps that was why it had been so easy to lose your heart to him. How could you not? While the others regarded him with a deference, or awe in the hobbits’ case, or even confusion at his elf customs, he had never truly seemed so different to you. His eyes, brown and alive in the light, still crinkled at the corners when he smiled. His voice, low and melodious, still cracked when he spoke of sorrows. And his hands, delicate and strong, still bore soft calluses from his bow.
The last couple of days had been so indulgently wonderful. Without the threat of war or the constant need for secrecy and vigilance, being out in the wilds once more was soothing. It was a great secret joy, of course, that you had Legolas’ undivided attention.
He had been more loose limbed and free with touches. Hands grazing yours as you walked, his knee against yours while you sat. His eyes too, seemed to melt into an amber by the fire, a tenderness in his gaze. It felt as though the seed of friendship had slowly, slowly, started to grow into something more.
“Shall we continue on?” He said, and inclined his head towards the distant sound of water. “We can set up camp and leave our things while we walk the forest.”
You nodded and smiled before looking away, eyes scanning the forest floor before they landed on a patch of flowers. They were strange looking, three pronged with large paper-like petals. You knelt by them, carefully cutting the blooms with your knife, and idly said, “It is beautiful here, is it not?”
He hummed in agreement. “I could envisage residing here for a time, should Faramir allow it.”
You glanced at him over your shoulder and chuckled. “You should speak to Sam. Aragorn has already consulted him on some of the gardens in the Citadel, it would not surprise me if Faramir would ask him to Emyn Arnen to design something.”
“Those flowers,” he began, stepping closer and inspecting them, “they are… strange. I do not know what they are, and perhaps it would be better to leave them be.”
“Are they poisonous?”
He leaned in and sniffed them. “No, but as I said before, this forest is unaccustomed to such things. Gifts must be freely given, and what is not must be a fair exchange.”
You dropped them into the pouch and laughed, continuing through the forest. There was a strange note in his voice, something older, wiser, than the Legolas you knew. But what harm could there be in a few cuttings? The forest was vast; a few flowers and leaves here and there would not be any loss at all. “Come now, Legolas, you speak as though —”
A stone caught your toe, your knee buckled, and you fell to the ground. Sharp pain jolted up your wrists and knees, then a hot stinging spread across your palms and shins. You blinked, eyes focusing and unfocusing on the rotting leaves in the dirt, before warm hands rested between your shoulder blades.
“Are you alright?” Legolas said, crouching and easing you back into a sitting position. You stared at him, eyes drifting from his eyes to his lips. Had he always had such beautiful lips? “Mellon nin, are you alright?”
“Yes… I —” The shock of tingling subsided from your hands and legs and only a dull throbbing remained. You looked down at your knee, the same knee that had been shot, and found your trousers ripped and the old wound reopened. It was not as bad as the initial wound, though still relatively deep, and was bleeding sluggishly through the matted dirt. “Oh, I’m… bleeding.”
His eyes darted from your knee to the divot in the ground where a leaf caught in your fall was stained with blood. His lips tightened before he let out a soft sigh. “It is as I said: a fair exchange.” An easy smile spread across his face, the hand on your shoulder loosened its grip, and his voice took on a merry lilt. “However, I do not believe we will have any more trouble on our little trip here.”
The shock of the fall had subsided and you looked at the pouch still clutched in your fist. “Well, I suppose I should make the most of it then, and collect what I can for Sam.”
He laughed, squeezing your shoulder affectionately. “Never one to pass up an opportunity. Come, let us set up camp by the river and have a look at your wound. I do not wish for the matrons at the Houses of Healing tomorrow to claim I have neglected you.”
He pulled you to your feet, and looped an arm around your waist to help you hobble along. His arm was warm, his grip firm but gentle. Pressed up against him you could smell his scent, something fresh like grass or water, unsullied even by a couple of days in the forest. The both of you found a suitable spot under shelter by the trees, and after tying the horse up, he led you to the banks.
His nimble fingers pried apart the shredded remains of the fabric by your knee and started to wash the wound. He dressed it with some honey from his pack and untouched moss from the forest floor and some spare wrappings you had in your supplies for such an eventuality.
While he worked, you watched his hands. Long and lithe, they were precise and delicate with their motions. If only you could reach out, and lay your hand on top of his, to sweep your thumb over the back of his knuckles. But your hands were still muddied, and the new closeness you shared with him was too new and too tenuous for something like that.
Legolas set up camp with a practiced efficiency, and soon the both of you were sitting beside each other by the fire, eating your supplies of bread and cheese. The fire crackled and popped, and around you the forest became alive at night. Owls hooted in the trees, and critters rustled in the bushes, and then, very softly, Legolas began to sing.
The words were lost on you, but the melody was enough. The notes drifted in the air, curling around you, seeping into your skin. It sounded slow and adoring, leisurely and lazy, and the sensation of lying on sun-warmed grass, your lover’s touch skirting up your arm, filled your body. You leaned back on your arms, sinking into his voice, letting it carry and caress you.
When the last few words rang in the air, you opened your eyes. Legolas was looking at you with a fond expression, eyes half-lidded and lips in a soft smile.
“That song,” you whispered, “what is it about?”
His smile widened and he said, “I’ll tell you another time perhaps.”
-
Legolas stood on one of the parapets that overlooked the entrance to the Houses of Healing. Your wound was not healing as well as it should, most likely because of how bad the initial arrow wound was, and you were getting it redressed by the matrons. He sighed and let his eyes wander from the stone flagstones, to the rooftops, to the plains. In truth, the sight of your flesh, angry and inflamed, shook something in him. Even something as minor as your wound, was enough of a risk for infection, for fever.
Humans were so fragile, so… final.
He blinked at the thought. Yes, of course, how could he forget? Humans were mortal. Boromir was, Aragorn was. Even the merry little hobbits and Gimli were. How strange to think that such a thing slipped his mind when it came to you, but it was far too easy really.
There was a vitality that seemed to pour from your being, an almost stubborn resilience, especially in the grim shadow of misfortune. It was the way you would play with the hobbits, even after a long day of walking, or grit your teeth and carry on, even harrowing experience after harrowing experience. When you smiled, the day was better, brighter, and he always found himself trying to get another laugh from you.
And yet… such a light could be so easily snuffed out.
He shifted on his feet and watched as you limped from the Houses of Healing. He had intended to go with you, but Sam had wanted to discuss garden plans, and Boromir had gone with you instead. He was about to raise his arm and call out to you, when a figure emerged from behind the line of trees. Boromir walked towards you with outstretched arms and pulled you into his side and helped you along, vanishing from his sight beyond the trees.
Ever since the end of the war, it had felt as though things were shifting between him and you. It was only small, nearly imperceptible changes — softer smiles, more frequent dinners alone, hands that reached and fingers that brushed. And yet… Why did it feel as though you were on the other side of something he could not cross?
He thought of the cry of the gulls, the perpetual tugging at his heart for the sea. Oh, how he wished he had never heard them. Was this how Arwen felt all the time? Longing, aching. She was happy with Aragron, he knew, but sometimes he would catch her gazing out of a window, eyes forlorn and smile sad. Aragorn knew, understood even, and in those moments he left her to her quiet longing, never hurt or bothered, and welcomed her into his arms when she went back to him.
But would you understand? Could you accept that there would always be one part of him that belonged to the sea, to the distant shore he would never reach? Or would it be a burden to ask such a thing of you? Maybe you would be better off with someone… mortal. He sighed and wandered back towards the Citadel proper.
“Boromir, this is unnecessary. Put me down!” Your laughter rang out and you and Boromir emerged onto the courtyard. You were in his arms, limbs flailing as he wrangled to keep you held properly. “Boromir, I — oh, Legolas.”
“Ah, Legolas,” Boromir said as he gently replaced you back on the ground. “I return them to your care.”
He forced a smile onto his face. “How is your leg?”
“Mild infection but nothing to worry about,” you said, hobbling over to him.
He instinctively reached out and wrapped an arm around your waist. You were warm underneath his hand, warmer than usual, and you smelled strongly of herbal poultice. He could detect traces of burdock and comfrey, and underneath it all, the smell of you. He took a greedy breath, filling his lungs with proof of your life. “You should be resting. Let us go back inside.”
“I’ve been inside the past week. I’m bored to death,” you grumbled. “Let’s sit outside for a while.”
He helped you to one of the stone benches and you collapsed onto it, hissing in pain. You gingerly stretched your leg out and sighed as you settled. He sat next to you, his eyes lingering on your knee.
“Oh, stop fussing. It’s quite minor, really.”
“I have seen men succumb to infection from unassuming cuts. I do not think I will rest easy until you are fully healed.”
He followed the line of your leg up to your waist, then shoulders, and along your jaw and lips, up to your nose and eyes. Such beauty, destined to fade, to vanish from the world forever. How could he bear it? How could anyone?
“What is on your mind, my friend?” You asked.
“I was just thinking about the fading nature of men. I do not know how your kind bear it.”
“Death?” You chuckled. “But elves can die too, can they not?”
“Yes, but… it is not in our nature. In peace times, it is very rare for our kind to die. For men… even now, where there is no suffering any longer, you still experience the sting of mortality.” His chest constricted. “How can one stand to behold love and light, knowing it will vanish?”
“It is because they do not last, that we relish in them.”
“Even if it will bring you pain later?”
You smiled, gentle and indulgent, and placed your hand on top of his. His shoulders relaxed at your touch, the tension seeping out of his muscles. He wanted to capture the moment, to bottle it somehow, keep the image of you with the sun on your eyelashes and the feeling of the softness of your skin forever preserved.
“Yes,” you whispered, “even then.”
Something shifted in his heart, just slightly, and a smile crept onto his face. Yes, he thought, especially then.
-
“Sam,” you said, surveying the small garden. He had done a good job with it — the shrubs were well trimmed and flowers burst in orange and yellow all around. “Are you certain it will look good?”
He nodded and grinned. “It’ll look real pretty with some candles about. I still remember what it looked like in Lothlorien. We don’t ‘ave the sort of fancy holders and the like, but I’ll do my best.”
You smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know how to thank you for this. I would do it myself but my knee…”
“No thankin’ needed. If anything, I should be thanking you. You brinin’ me those plants and flowers, even when the forest didn’t like you doin’ so.” His eyes fell to your knee. “I’m real sorry it caused you such trouble.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that.” You chuckled and patted him on the back. You looked around the garden again, trying to imagine the candles and cushions that Sam said he’d arrange for the night time picnic you had planned. “Do you think he’ll like it?”
“I think he’ll love it. Mighty romantic, if I can say.”
You shifted on your feet, stomach suddenly lurching. “What if I’m mistaken, Sam? I’m not sure I could bear the embarrassment.”
The last week or so had been so lovely it had felt like a dream. Nearly every night, Legolas had invited you to sit with him at the top of some tower or parapet. He would point and tell you stories of the stars and of the elves that had come before. There were so many instances where he would lean in close, eyes half-lidded, and talk in a low, murmured tone. You would watch his lips, and watch as he watched yours. But then he would draw back and glance away.
“The elves are funny folk,” he said with a sigh. “I couldn’t tell you what might be goin’ on in Legolas’ mind, but I doubt he would be spendin’ so much time with you if he didn’t have some… reason to do so. If you catch my meaning.”
“I hope so, Sam. Well, I’ll leave you to it. I need to go to the kitchens to see what cheese and fruit they might be able to spare me.”
He gave you an encouraging smile and with a little wave, you set off downstairs.
The sun was just setting when Sam called you back to the garden to assess what he had prepared. Candles were dotted all around the courtyard, separated on candelabras and clustered in small groups around the picnic blanket. Plush cushions were laid out and there were little white flowers scattered on the soft wool, perfuming the air with the faint smell of jasmine.
“Sam,” you gasped. “This is — I cannot —”
“I’ll be takin’ your speechlessness as a compliment?” He smiled shyly and ducked his head. He reached for the picnic basket in your hand and placed it on the blanket. “There, now it’s complete.”
“I’ll repay you for this Sam, I promise.”
He blushed. “Like I said before, there’s no need. Anyway, I best be hurryin’ along. Wouldn’t want Legolas to stumble upon me here and get any wrong ideas.”
You laughed and he vanished back inside. You limped over to the blanket, wincing a little as you lowered yourself, and tried to slow your breathing. Legolas would come, wouldn’t he? What if he took one look at the scene and fled? You shook your head. No, he wouldn’t do that. If you were truly mistaken about his feelings towards you, he would tell you gently and bear you no ill will.
“Mellon nin,” Legolas said from behind you and you turned, heart thumping in your chest. His eyes were wide and a slow smile was spreading across his face. “I received your message. Why have you asked me here?”
You swallowed. Did he not know? “Is it… is it not obvious?”
“I have an inkling, perhaps.” He wandered over, his steps lazy and relaxed, and sank onto the cushions. The tightness in your chest eased a fraction. “But I do not wish to presume what may or may not be in your heart. Will you not give me the truth?”
“Legolas, I…” You cleared your throat. By the Valar, why was it so difficult to speak? He arched an eyebrow at you and you glanced away, speaking more to the picnic basket than to him. “I… care for you. A great deal.”
He took your hand, and you dared to lift your gaze. He beamed at you, and then a flash of mischief entered his eyes. “As a friend?”
You scowled at him. “Do you often plan candlelit picnics for your friends, Legolas?”
He laughed and pressed his lips to the back of your hand. They were soft and warm, his breath hot on your skin. “I am teasing, meleth nin.”
Heat crept up your neck and you tried to withdraw your hand. He held fast and planted a line of kisses up, up, up, from your wrist to your elbow to your shoulder. His eyes were almost sparking in the dim, the dots of candlelight flickering in his dark irises. He kissed your jaw and your nose and your temple before dipping his head to capture your lips.
He kissed slow and languid, as though savouring the feeling of you against him. He tasted tart and sweet, no doubt from the berry and honey biscuits you knew he liked to snack on. The strange tension in your stomach snapped and vanished, and you melted under his touch. His growing smile made you giggle and your teeth knocked against his, making him laugh.
“I am curious about what you have in that picnic basket of yours,” he murmured. “There will be time for such enjoyment later.”
A flush coloured your cheeks. “I suppose it would be a waste if we simply ignored all the food I prepared.”
“Though, before we continue, I must ask you a question first,” he said, growing grave and serious. His eyes drifted down to your joined hands, and he brushed his thumb over your knuckles. “Could you bear being with me, living with me, when part of my heart is forever owned by the sea?”
You reached up and brushed a stray strand of hair behind his ear. “My love, could you bear to be with me? If you stay, you will fade.”
“It would be a worse fate to live eternity without you,” he whispered. “That I could not bear.”
“Legolas…” It seemed all the more tragic that he, of all people, should die. He was light and joy and the thought of him growing cold and dim wrenched at your heart. “You deserve to… I cannot…”
“I have made my choice, meleth nin. Let us be happy together.” He cupped your cheek, a smile spreading across his face. His eyes were soft, but certain, his touch gentle but sure. He kissed the tip of your nose, chuckling, before he slanted his lips against yours. The kiss was chaste and quick, and all the more sweeter for its casualness.
“For however long we have,” he murmured, “let us be happy.”
“Alright,” you said. You rested your forehead against his, inhaling his scent, breathing his breath. Yours, for now, for ever. “For however long we have.”
---
ok but what is it about the immortality of elves that has me appreciating/relishing/romanticising our mortal lives. i swear this is the second time ive done this with legolas.
Taglist: @sotwk
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Husband: I kind of want to write a short story about a person tends one of the more… rural beacons of Gondor.
Me: You should do it! Because it’s remote, you can make your protagonist as unhinged as you like.
Him: Okay. I’ll think about it.
Me: If I get 100 notes on a post on tumblr about this will you do it?
Him: …………..
…………
Ok, fine.
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Avert Your Eyes from Your Demise, Though Lovely It May Be
Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield x human!Reader
Summary: In which giant spiders aren't the only threat Mirkwood has to offer.
Word Count: 4.0k
Warnings: they're high on Mirkwood mist the whole time. Do with that what you will.
Translations: Siúlóirí portaigh - bog walkers (Irish) , amrâlimê - my love (Khuzdul) , lansel - love of all loves (Khuzdul)
a/n: I know movie Thorin is described as 5'2ish but I write him as 4'8 - 4'10 because it's more book accurate and because we should embrace this short king. Anyway, I call this 'the intimacy of going insane with your crush.'
You couldn't shake the unease. Even now, as you sat at the edge of a clearance, bark biting harshly into your back, you could almost feel the forest closing in on you. Shadows scurried above you and the air itself was stale.
Your company of fifteen had quickly fallen to a number of just two, with only yourself and Thorin making it through the mist-clouded trails together. Neither of you were certain what had become of the others and given the eeriness of your surroundings, you didn't want to give it too much thought.
A sudden gust of wind rushed through the clearing and the limbs of the trees creaked inward. It was as if the forest was breathing.
“We have to find the others,” you said. Your voice sounded foreign and far off.
Thorin was pacing in front of you, twisting the hilt of his sword in his hand. “They would know well enough not to linger in these woods. We keep heading East.”
“Which way is East?”
“We follow the river.” You didn't miss the beat of uncertainty before Thorin's answer.
You shook your head. “We don't know where it leads.”
“It will lead us away from here which is good enough.”
Almost to emphasize Thorin's point, the surrounding trees creaked and groaned and another shadow scurried overhead. Caution steered your hand to the hilt of your sword and following Thorin's order, you moved on swiftly.
The forest felt too small and too large all at once. Branches knabbed and tore at your clothes and skin, the twisted limbs of rotting trees giving you no option but to duck or crawl beneath their roots. A glance skyward reminded you that this place, in all its foulness, was unending, the tree canopy stretching miles above your head and blackening out the sun's light.
That was if the sun was still up. You'd lost track of the time what seemed like hours ago.
You came to a sudden, harsh stop as your front rather unceremoniously met Thorin's back. With a quiet grunt, you found the reason for stopping was a tangled thicket of twisted branches that now stood before you. The tree, in all its obscure glory, seemed to consume the path entirely, its limbs too thick to cut and trunk too tall to climb. Too tired to think of a solution, you found yourself uncharacteristically willing to give up. Until Thorin shrugged off his furs.
You watched as the grey fabric rolled off his broadened shoulders and revealed his shirt, knotted pattern running up the arms.
“I'll go first,” he took the liberty of explaining as he bunched the furs together and placed them in his pack. “It will be easier for me to get out should I need to.”
You would have liked to argue but Thorin, a regularly stubborn fool, was surprisingly right. He was shorter, his limbs less likely to snag. His dwarven frame would move through the thicket much easier than your own.
He disappeared into the grove, swallowed by bark and darkness and you already found yourself questioning why you let him go alone.
You kicked at the dirt beneath your feet as you waited. Eyes set on the trees, you felt increasingly uneasy. You picked at the leather of your sword sheath. Thorin was a capable warrior and you didn't doubt his ability to defend himself. But something wasn't right, you could feel it, crawling on your skin and putting your hairs on end.
Giving in to impulsiveness, you followed after Thorin.
The branches clawed at your skin and snagged your clothes. You pushed aside what you could, rotting wood giving way easily beneath your palm, but as the many limbs began to swell into trunks, it became increasingly difficult to move. Your chest was pressed uncomfortably against the rough bark. You were never one to fear tight spaces but the sudden inability to take a deep breath came as an unwelcome shock. Just as panic had you reaching for your sword, relief found you in the form of the dwarrow prince.
With renewed determination, you mustered a final push and freed yourself from where you were wedged.
Thorin stood with his back to you, stance stiff. You called his name and he hushed you quickly.
His eyes were set on the tree line ahead of you. His gaze was hard, analytic and you didn't fail to notice how his fingers grazed the hilt of his weapon. He turned to you.
“Do you not hear it?”
“Hear what?”
As if the bugle of battle had been sounded, Thorin's stance shifted and in one swift, fluid movement, he drew his sword. His free hand guided you further behind him. Then, he shot forward, swinging his sword at an invisible target. His expression was one of determination as well as unmistakable fear. Another aimless swing and he turned to you.
“Can you not see it?!” He barked, frustrated at your unwillingness to help.
You raised your head and all but willed yourself to see anything but the winding trails of the forest. But despite how hard you employed your imagination, you saw nothing. Somewhere in the treeline, a bird took flight.
An uncomfortable recollection settled in the forefront of your mind. A shiver ran up your back.
"Thorin," Your hand cautiously fell against his shoulder. He turned to you with fire in his eyes but your expression made him pause. “Gandalf said a dark magic lay over this forest.”
At your words, his defensive stance melted away and defeat took its place. The elvish blade fell from where it was held at his side as he looked around and the fear in his eyes slowly shifted to confusion, then realisation.
“It's toying with our minds?”
You swallowed. The thought made your skin crawl; the idea of the forest as its own conscious entity was a horrifying one. That its magic could sink its claws into your mind and deprive you of your senses, keeping you walking in circles till your feet gave in. The entirety of Mirkwood was one giant spider's web and you hated to think what that made you and Thorin.
“We just need to keep our wits about us and our feet moving forward,” you managed eventually, casting weary glances towards the trees. "Now that we know what's happening we have the upper hand, we stay together, stay vigilant and keep our minds clear."
Thorin felt the sudden need to commend you for your calm demeanor and sudden leadership. But he'd also just attempted to fight a non-existent enemy so he decided saying anything at all was against his better judgment and settled for a curt nod instead.
Your plan fell apart comedically fast. You tried to remain optimistic but as you passed the same tree stump for what must have been the fourth time, you felt as though the forest was laughing at you. Your feet ached as though they'd been walking for days. You could hear each of your breaths echo as they came and the thud of your boots against the earth shook your bones.
The child-like laughter had started not short of an hour ago. Thorin couldn't seem to hear it.
When the rough terrain of rock and dirt softened into the cold, squelching mud of a bog, you both silently agreed that a break was needed. You sat at the end of the wetland, where the moss and reeds sprouted up between damp rocks. The water was gloomy, tinged grey and dark green with a sinister mist resting upon its surface.
The dreariness of the place seemed to seep into your bones.
Thorin sat an arm's length from you, hands braced against his knees as he looked out over the bog with a sullen stare.
“What do you see?” You asked.
“Fire." He said no more and you didn't pry.
In an attempt to ease the aches that had set deep in each of your muscles, you pulled your water canteen from where it hung against your pack. A cool drink of fresh water would be a small but welcome relief that you wouldn't take for granted.
But the liquid was thick and warm as it touched your lips and when you pulled it away it was coloured red. You tossed the canteen away with a grunt of disgust. It unceremoniously met the surface of the water before sinking into the mud.
“We need to leave this place,” you said, hands threading through your hair and pulling at the roots. Thorin didn't argue.
You walked until you felt the leather of your boots threatening to give way. You thought one of the trees you had passed seemed familiar, distinctive enough from the rest of the foliage that it stood out.
“We've been here before,” you said. “We're going round in circles.” You turned to on your heel and found no sign of the dwarf.
“Thorin?”
The eerie silence of the forest echoed back to you.
“Thorin?!”
The feeling of unease returned tenfolds. Shadows crawled above you and the wind quivered through the trees. The mist had worsened, hiding your feet beneath its thickening grey clouds.
But then, like a lifeline being tossed to a drowned sailor at sea, you heard your name. Far off and faint, but your name all the same. Spoken in a voice that flooded you with relief. Calling after him, you followed the resonating sound of his calls until they led you to the point where the water met the soil.
Logic quickly took a back seat as your desperation to find Thorin had you stepping off the path. You sunk immediately, the bog swallowing you up to your knees. You pushed through the thick, sluggish mud, ignoring the burn it caused in the back of your legs. The voice became clearer until his form finally appeared, carved out from the mist.
"Thorin," you greeted him with a smile. But Thorin's expression did not mirror your own. His brows were drawn together and every ounce of air vanished from your lungs when an unsteady hand reached out to cup your cheek.
“I was so worried." Your name fell brokenly from his lips. "I feared I'd lost you.” His hands, shaking and trembling, ran down your arms then back to the swell of your shoulders. His breathing was labored and you could only imagine what Thorin must have witnessed to put the usually stoic king in such a state.
“You're alright? You're not harmed?"
You shook your head and gently grasped Thorin's wrists and he smiled, softer and more sincere than you had ever seen him. The sight made you feel at ease for the first time since stepping foot in the forsaken forest.
"I am glad, Amrâlimê.”
You were not well versed in the culture of dwarves but you were no fool either. You had heard the word spoken among the dwarrow people you'd crossed paths with in the Blue Mountains, noticed the tenderness and sincerity that always encompassed the word, how it was never said with any amount of offhandedness. The word was a confession itself, a confession of the highest kind.
And Thorin had just spoken it to you. As if it were the simplest thing on Earth.
Your confusion must have been evident as Thorin smiled again, the corners of his eyes creasing in amusement.
“You must not look so surprised, my love,” his thumb grazed your jaw. “That I should wish to call you by such a name.”
“What–” You managed in a clumsy attempt to make it known to the dwarf in front of you that you had no idea what was going on. “Thorin.”
The king didn't answer. Rather he kept his eyes fixed on you, coarse fingers working their way from your jaw up to your temple, then brushing just beneath your eye. He touched you as if you were made of something more precious than all the metals held in the great halls of Erebor. And despite the nagging feeling in the back of your mind, in that moment you would have been content to stay there.
In the bogs of a cursed forest with your friends lost and your mind bewitched, all so that the king would keep looking at you as he was now.
But your better judgment, (or more likely, the uncomfortable feeling of mud and bog water dampening your clothes,) brought you back to reality. You moved to speak again but Thorin stopped you.
“It's alright, we're safe here, you and I,” he promised. “You needn't think of anything else.”
You tried to ignore how believable his words sounded as you took a step back. Hurt flashed in the dwarf's eyes.
“No, no we need to find the others. The company–”
“–will find their own way,” he calmed you, hand reaching out again to touch your shoulder. It sent a jolt of warmth through you. “You carry so much, endlessly worrying for the well-being of others. But you needn't burden yourself any longer, lansel. You know what it is you desire, what you deserve. So take it.”
You closed your eyes at his words. His hand found the back of your neck and you allowed him to draw you in closer.
“Let it be just us. Stay with me, Amrâlimê. That's all I ask.”
You had never felt such temptation in all your years. Would it truly be so wrong of you? To allow yourself to have this after all you'd persevered. You had long given up trying to convince yourself that you felt something for the dwarven king. That his bravery, stoicism, and unbridled loyalty to his people didn't fascinate you. You had wanted Thorin since not long after the journey's beginning. And now he wanted you too. There was no reason to keep this from yourself, no reason you shouldn't have it.
But somewhere in the back of your mind, was the persistent reminder that something was wrong. A reminder that resurfaced in the form of Bombur's cooking and Bofur's songs and Balin's stories and Bilbo's immeasurable trust in you. Your friends were still lost and that proved enough to bring you back to rationality.
“Thorin,” you started sternly.
“Forget them,” he said, as if he already knew what you were going to say. “Forget everything else. It is just us now. All is as it should be.”
You felt a tinge of discomfort at his words and you took another step back. Thorin would never forsake his kin, not if he was in his right mind. He traced your cheek again and this time you grasped his arm in a strong enough hold to pull it away.
You caught sight of his hand out of the corner of your eye and what you saw made you feel ill. The skin was rotting, bones threatening to tear through their paper-thin bonds. The fabric of Thorin's clothes had vanished and your nails had sunk into the rotting flesh which had begun to fall way in your grip.
You yanked your hand back in disgust, tripping and falling backward into the water at the sight of the creature. A gaping hole sat in the center of its face where you imagined its nose should be and a rigid crack served as its mouth. Green threads of damp mossy hair sprouted from its head and hung in front of the hollow cavities of its eyes.
An Siúlóir Portaigh. A creature you hadn't crossed paths with since you'd last traveled East of Gondor.
A bony hand reached out for you and you shot yourself backward, scrambling to your feet. Thorin's deep voice had been replaced with a low rasping gurgle, the sound growing louder as the creature lunged for you.
You turned and ran.
Thorin's voice had grown hoarse from calling your name.
He had turned away for one moment and you were gone and now as he searched, he feared to think what may have become of you.
His feet sunk into the ground beneath him, water reaching his ankles and soaking through his boots. Reeds sprouted up from the water, the smallest brushing his knees and the tallest towering a foot above his head. With a grunt, he pushed on.
The wind howled as it passed through the hollow chamber of the reeds and Thorin felt the hair on his neck stand up. Then, a shadow passed in front of him. He instinctively reached for his blade. It pushed through the long grass as it approached him but the glint of familiar armor has him dropping his sword.
“Thorin!” You beamed as you reached him. “You're alright. I lost sight of you in the fog.” You grabbed hold of his arms and Thorin was taken back by your sudden brashness. “I'm so glad I found you.”
He watched you for a moment, his joy at finding you unharmed outweighing the odd tinge of suspicion he felt. He cleared his throat and tilted his head forward in a curt nod.
“We must get back to the others.”
He turned to walk on but your arms held him in place.
“You needn't worry, they'll be alright,” you said casually. “As will we.”
Thorin offered a baffled look that doubled as a warning. He was uncertain what had caused your uncharacteristic forwardness and in all honesty, wasn't quite sure what to do about it.
You raised your head skyward and smiled again. With no shortage of confusion, Thorin followed your gaze
The sun had come back up and its light was seeping through the leaves above his head. The forest's canopy turned golden, as if set alight by dragon fire. Thorin's expression softened.
“Beautiful, isn't it?” Your hand found his own. “We could stay here, Thorin. You and I. Imagine it.”
Thorin blinked. He could stay here, with you. He could tell you everything he'd been longing to say since the escape from the goblin tunnels and the orc ambush on the cliffside. After all, why shouldn't he? Did he not deserve this after so many hardships? You could truly be together, you could offer him a new start, a new home– Thorin blinked again.
“And what of Erebor?”
You seemed amused by his question. You brushed his braid away from where it hung against his jaw and Thorin surprisingly let it happen.
“Erebor lies half a world away, a buried kingdom of dust and despair in the clutches of a dragon. Is it truly worth so much? Worth so many lives lost,” you asked. “We have everything we need here.”
And Thorin could only think about how right you were; your hands in his, the feel of your fingers brushing his hair, the rising sun and golden leaves– he could want for nothing else.
“Do you not want for this?”
“I–” he tried.
“You have done honorably by your people, Thorin, but you have been selfless for far too long.” He closed his eyes as you spoke. “Choose not what is right by them but by you. No more pain, no more fear.” He could feel your breath against his cheek. “Just us. Stay with me, my love.”
And Thorin decided in that moment that he would.
Your legs ached and your lungs burned.
The bog was becoming harder and harder to navigate but you were yet to find Thorin and you did not plan on stopping till you were certain he was safe.
The water grew shallower and you took it as a blessing. With your lower half free of the mud, you drew your sword. You rounded the trunk of a decaying tree and were met with a horrific sight.
Thorin, with decaying hands grasped round his neck and a deformed maw nearing his face. Thorin stood in a trance, eyes glossed over and body stiff. The siúlóir's mouth widened, rotting skin tearing as it did. Its nails dug into the side of Thorin's neck, harsh enough to draw blood. Still, he didn't move.
You acted on impulse. With a quick lunge forward, you drove your sword through the creatures back, twisting it twice before pushing it deeper.
Its screech was inhumane. It grasped at its wounds, its guttural yowls putting your hairs on end. You ran it through again. The siúlóir went quiet and Thorin screamed out.
“No!” His voice was distraught, his hands grasping at the creature as it slumped to the ground. “No–!”
“Thorin!” You grabbed his shoulder and roughly yanked him back. He raised his head and looked at you as though he'd seen a ghost. “It's alright– it's alright, it's me.”
His gaze fell back to the creature at your feet and given the twist of horror and disgust in his expression you figured he was now seeing it in its true form.
“Siúlóirí portaigh,” you muttered under your breath. “Bog walkers.”
Thorin blinked before taking in his surroundings with frantic eyes. He regarded you with a cautionary look. He said your name and when you nodded, you saw his stance relax slightly. His fear turned to confusion. “What–”
“They were going to drown us,” you answered plainly. You nudged the creature's shoulder with your heel and watched it sink a few inches into the water. “We need to go, this place will be crawling with them.”
Thorin wanted to question how you knew so much about such monsters but given how desperately you wanted to leave their hunting ground, he prioritized.
He offered one last glance at the creature, body now mostly submerged in the sullen water. He shuddered at how well the creature had worn your face, how much its voice had mimicked your own. How easily fooled he'd been.
He silently followed after you.
You walked until the mud on your clothes had hardened and the silk webs coating the trees had all but vanished. The leaf canopy above you had thinned out and the surrounding forest was now warm with the sun's light. The moment you heard a nearby bird song, you knew the dangers of Mirkwood had passed.
Thorin rested against the trunk of a sapling. His gaze was focused on something over your shoulder but given the blankness of his stare, you knew he wasn't looking at anything at all. You took a seat at his side and began to tend to his wound.
A nasty gash ran from the back of his neck to just below his throat. You worked silently. Thorin didn't even seem to notice until you applied a fraction too much pressure and with a sharp intake of breath, he turned to you.
“Sorry.”
There was a beat of silence. Then Thorin spoke.
“What did you see?” he asked you. “That creature, it toyed with my mind, showed me things I longed for that I hadn't even admitted to myself. So what did it show you?”
“Nothing.” The lie came easy. “Nothing of worth. I've dealt with siúlóirí before, they feed you lies, draw you in and then drown you before you even realise you're in danger. Whatever you seen, I wouldn't linger on it.”
Thorin seemed almost saddened by your answer. But it vanished as quickly as it had appeared, he gently brushed your hand away and got to his feet.
“We keep heading East.” The usual stoicism had returned to his voice. “Dwalin would know to do the same. If we do not regroup with the company in a day's time we head back the way we came and search.”
You nodded and got to your feet like a soldier following orders.
And as you fell into step beside the dwarf you thought maybe it would be best to take your own advice. To pass what you'd seen off as baseless lies not worth thinking about. But the feel of Thorin's shoulders brushing your arm reminded you that would be no easy task.
You entered Mirkwood wondering if what you felt for the dwarven king was more than just fondness. Now you were certain.
quick authors note: I invented the siúlóirí an portaigh for this fic and the name translates to ‘bog walkers/walkers of the bog’ in Irish. It was pretty fun combining two of my interests, writing and folklore, to create my own mythological creature :)
#I like to imagine that reader is dúnedain#and that Siúlóirí Portaigh inhabit the dead marshes po#because i love adding unnecessary lore to my fics 😌#thorin oakenshield x reader#thorin x reader#thorin oakenshield#thorin oakenshield x you#thorin x you#thorin x y/n#the hobbit x reader#the hobbit fic#lotr fic#lotr imagine#the hobbit imagine#the hobbit
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THE MOON WILL SING
- the moon hums a tune only elvish ears can pick up. (legolas x gn!human!reader, fluff, idk if you guys will be able to understand the symbolism but it makes sense to me…)
word count: 576
a/n - this is my first legolas piece :) it’s not the quality i would like it to be, but i came out of a writing slump not too long ago so 🤷 it is what it is <3 much thanks to @minaturefics for inspiring this 💕
For once, the night is peaceful. The birds are chirping, as are the crickets, and the trees are swaying to their tune. There are creaks and chitters, crackles and buzzes and the occasional snore from the fellowship sleeping so close to you. The forest is alive, and it is the greatest thing you have ever heard. The melody is softer than music and louder than thunder, existing in a sort of beautiful in-between. The world is perfect, you think. Nothing can compare. And, of course, the world gave you the elf sitting quietly next to you.
“Could you not sleep either?” You whisper, not wanting to disturb the woodsy strums filtering through the wildlife around you. Legolas shakes his head.
“It is a heavenly night.” He whispers back. “It is times like these when I can hear the moon sing her quiet song.” His figure is illuminated by starlight, casting his features in an otherworldly glow. In that moment, he looks ethereal. He picks a fallen leaf between his fingers and smoothes it with a gentle touch.
You look up at the sky, and he looks at you. “What is she saying?” You ask.
He takes a breath, his words forming clouds in the air. “Something joyous in words I cannot begin to understand.” He places the leaf down, grasping your hands in his. “She tells me something, in thought.” He murmurs, looking deep into your eyes. His own are like pools that forever draw you in. “She tells me that I love you like her.”
You are stunned for a moment. You know he likes you, as you do him, but love is another thing entirely. It is something you feel in kind, though you have not found the words to express it until now. You grip his hands back, searching for something to ground you in this moment. All you can find is soft palms and the stars urging you forward. “And I love you like the sun.” You choke out. There is something so beautifully tender in his gaze. “You may ask the sun in the morning, though. I am sure they will say the same.” He laughs gently and quietly, a melodious sound.
“I will be sure to.” He reasons. He reaches out to cup your face in his palms. “You must rest, meleth nin.” His fingers swipe over your cheekbones.
You hesitate. “I would not want to on this comely night, unless you slept as well.” He squints at you, the action just barely visible in the night.
“I need not to, though I will lie with you if that is what you wish.” He smiles. His smile is one you have adored since the moment you met him. You have adored him since the moment you met him, and this midnight interaction is proof enough. There will never be another being so suited to you as he.
“I wish it.” You say quietly, tone hopeful. He nods just once and wraps his arm around you, slowly pulling you down to the plush forest floor.
You stay like that for a long time, with his touch sending fire through your veins as his breath lulls you to sleep. The swaying forest and the beaming moon look down on you. Though it is too hushed for you to hear, the moon will always sing her song to deaf ears. And, of course, Legolas will always be there to sing it to you.
Taglist (misc): @skeletonfromthecloset
#solar eclipse.#legolas x reader#legolas greenleaf#legolas#legolas x y/n#legolas x you#lord of the rings#lotr imagine#lotr#lotr x reader#lotr elves#lord of the rings x reader#lord of the rings x you#lord of the rings x y/n#lotr fluff#lotr fanfic#lotr fic
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Eowyn tells Faramir it isn't necessary to write all of Rohan's songs and legends in a book lest they be forgotten. The Rohirrim do not read and write: they are oral storytellers, and they have great respect for their minstrels and their history. They will not forget anything.
She says it to reassure him and save him the trouble, but it does not seem to soothe his mind.
He smiles quickly at her before turning to the window. He looks out at the hills of Emyn Arnen as though watching for a storm on the horizon, and then Eowyn understands.
She grasps his hand.
At his touch, an image rushes through her mind: a grey, mutinous sea; and among the froth and the fury – sodden books, orphaned heirlooms, and a tapestry that will never again be seen or re-made, with both story and skill lost to the devouring waters.
The water washes over them both before slowly receding, leaving only a mist that she blinks away, and the distant glint of the Anduin to the west as it flows down to the Sea.
'Have I ever told you of Eorl the Young?' she says. Her voice is rough; she clears her throat.
'We know much about Eorl in Gondor,' Faramir says softly. 'His friendship with Cirion and his aid in our time of need was great.'
'And what about after?' she asks. 'What does Gondor know about that?'
Faramir turns to her with a wry smile. 'Very little.'
'Would that you had someone to teach you a little history.'
The mirth in Faramir's eyes mirrors her own.
'Would that I did.'
#AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH MY SAD NUMENOR MAN#this was meant to be a text post idk what happened#faramir#eowyn#farawyn#tolkien#lotr#my fic#oneringnet#lotr: fic#*lotr#lord of the rings#lotr fic
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Gentle Dark
Haldir x Female Reader
Content & Warnings: romantic tension, yearning, passionate kissing, fade to black, admission of feelings, fluff, light angst
Word Count: 1.3k
On a patrol together, Haldir confronts you about your feelings for him even though you’re promised to another.
A/N: For @childofyuggoth
ao3 // taglist // main masterlist
The stars twinkle through the gnarled canopy. White. Bright. Bathing the forest floor with iridescent light. You close your eyes and inhale deeply, savoring the scents of the forest around you. Caras Galadhon dwells behind you, sleeping and silent in the peaceful dark.
You are attuned to every sound in the deep wood, and as you filter through it all, you find nothing out of place or suspicious. But the disturbance of the wood is not of your immediate concern. There are greater trials and closer bodies that seek your attention other than the animals that softly move through the underbrush.
Haldir of Lórien is a beacon in the dark. You sense him before you see him, standing just shy of your right shoulder.
“The night is quiet,” he whispers.
You open your eyes, turn to face him. “It is indeed.”
Haldir’s gaze casually drops to your lips and then back to your eyes. A gentle heat radiates up your body to encompass you in its embrace. You have little control over your body’s reaction to him.
The answering of your flesh when he is in your presence is unfair. It is a cruel joke. You are promised to another, but not one of your choosing. If you had a choice, you would pick Haldir.
Always.
But that is not to be. That is not the path set out before you.
Him standing here next to you, alone in the gentle dark, is agony. The heat of him is so near, so alive that it sends your senses tingling with anticipation. The clashing beat within you is a deafening drum.
Can Haldir hear the racing of your heart? Can he sense your need and your aching tremble?
You hope he can’t, but you also silently hope that he does. What would he do then?
Haldir’s gaze finally leaves you to glance out into the wood. “We should begin the patrol.”
“Of course,” you murmur, inclining your head, allowing Haldir to take the lead.
He returns his gaze to you briefly before taking a step forward to walk between two trees. You follow him at a short distance, watching the distance, keeping a constant pivot. The two of you walk in relative silence, moving like phantoms amongst the towering trees.
At a small clearing, Haldir pauses. You cozy up beside him, a question starting to form on your lips.
“Do you remember this place?” he asks softly, gaze fixated at the center of the clearing. A sharp beam of moonlight illuminates the ground. The flowers glow under its lunar light.
You do know this place. On one of your many patrols with Haldir, he confessed his love in this very clearing. He held your hands in his, kissed your knuckles and each of your fingers. He whispered in a longing of gentle song that soothed your nerves and calmed your soul. In that moment, you didn’t want anyone else, you only wished for him.
But how things change.
“It is etched upon my heart,” you answer truthfully.
Haldir’s silver hair shines like starlight. “I’d like to stay here. My memories of this place are happy ones.”
The two of you have come to this clearing on multiple occasions. It is no coincidence that Haldir’s patrol includes you. He selects you on purpose, and you go with him willingly because you desire the closeness. It will not last forever, not when you’re promised to another.
“We can only linger here for so long,” you remind him.
Haldir sighs heavily, and turns to face you. He has always been stoic. Calm. Even in your presence, even when he whispered gentle words of love to you, Haldir never appeared…desperate.
The look on his face now is anything but calm. It is intense—a billowing storm tightly contained.
“Stop looking at me like that,” you murmur, startled by the sudden change.
Haldir’s gaze goes to your lips, lingers, and then flicks up to your eyes. “Why do you deny yourself what you want?” he asks.
You swallow and tuck your clenched fist behind your back. Haldir’s directness is too much. He knows that this is not of your own choosing.
“You cannot ask this of me,” you answer, hating yourself for sounding so weak.
Haldir entirely shifts his body in your direction. Taking a step forward, he moves into your space. Your back bumps up against the tree next to you. Haldir places his hand against the trunk next to your head.
You are trapped, but by all the stars in the night sky, you do not care.
His scent is woodsy and clean. You lean in a bit, inhaling, attempting to remember his smell since this might be your last opportunity to do so.
“You stay loyal to him.” Haldir bends at the elbow, pressing in. “And yet you know that he lusts after another.” The center of his brow furrows slightly. “Why not be with someone who will always worship you?”
Him. Him, meaning, your betrothed. The one you’re supposed to be with in the end. The selection made for you. This is an expectation placed upon you.
And Haldir is right. He does not love you. While you intend to be loyal in your upcoming marriage, you also know his heart will yearn for another. But you also yearn for someone else, and Haldir is standing right here, questioning all of this, wanting to know why you won’t pick him.
“Sometimes duty comes before happiness,” you reply softly, gaze cast downward.
“Does it?” he counters quickly.
You keep your face turned toward the ground. Stare at your feet.
The two of you have lain in this clearing, limbs draped over and around each other. There has always been closeness between the two of you. There has always been touching, skin pressed to skin, lips brushing but never fully meeting. Yet, the two of you have never completed the act itself.
That is binding. That is forever.
But you see it in Haldir’s eyes now as you sneak a peek of him. That desperate hunger. The desire to be with one person for the end of your days. It is an arrow through the heart, piercing and sharp and stinging.
You wish to satiated it, to admit to what you want most in this world. Because it is him. It is Haldir that you crave more than anyone else.
“I would be breaking my oath,” you reply softly, finally having the courage to look at him directly.
“Would you?” he asks. “You have made no vow. You have created no bond. The choice is yours. Utterly.” He gestures at himself with his free hand. “And I am right here.”
With a shaking hand, you reach up to cradle his cheek. Haldir turns into your touch, sighing gently, and that snaps your resolve, dissolves it like the winter snows melting in the sun. Haldir must sense the change, because the two of you meet, lips finally joining in what they’ve been longing for.
He tastes perfect. Wonderful. A match made for the ages.
Haldir’s hand upon the tree departs, leaving the bark to encircle your waist, to draw your body against his. You do not resist. You surrender to him, opening like a flower, wanting nothing more than to forget all your fears and sorrows in this little clearing.
The night is long, but it is not forever. For now, the two of you can have this.
Haldir drags you even closer, pressing you firmly against him as he learns the contours of your lips. His hands discover the planes of your body, and yet it’s not enough for him. Haldir is charged like lightening across the sky.
The two of you have been denying these mutual feelings for far too long.
This is a tremor. Earth-shaking. A star bursting into dust.
Haldir guides you to the center of the clearing, easily removing his cloak with one hand. He breaks away a moment to lay it down on the dewy grass, reaching for you the moment it fans out to hold the two of you.
You sink down with him, buckles and straps, and armor disappearing as you go.
It is everything.
It is nothing.
It is all you need in the gentle dark.
taglist:
@foxxy-126 @glassgulls @km-ffluv @firelightinferno @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @protosslady @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @berarenado @therealbloom @ninman82 @thewulf @ferns-fics @beebeechaos
#haldir#haldir of lorien#haldir x reader#haldir x you#haldir fanfiction#haldir fanfic#haldir fic#haldir of lothlorien#haldir fluff#haldir imagine#haldir x female reader#haldir x f!reader#haldir x fem!reader#lotr fic#lotr fanfic#lotr fanfiction#lotr fluff#lotr haldir#haldir lotr#lotr#lord of the rings fanfiction#lord of the rings fic#lord of the rings fanfic#lord of the rings#the lord of the rings#lotr movies#lord of the rings fluff#lord of the rings imagine
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shut the fuck up im doing hot girl shit (thinking about legolas)
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Blue Moon
Fandom: The Lord of the Rings (movies)
Ship/Pairing: Eomer x Reader (one mention of reader wearing a dress)
Trope: Noble x Humble worker
Note: IT’S SOTWK’s FAULT. We talked about Eomer’s hands and here we are.
The title « Blue Moon » is a reference to the song « Blue Moon », my favourite rendition being sung by Ella Fitzgerald.
Warnings: Horses?
Word count: 1 595
Tag-list: @heilith @asgardianhobbit98 @middleearthpixie @glassgulls @evenstaredits @fizzyxcustard @sotwk
There was something hypnotising about his hands.
The way his palm moved along the planes of the horse’s back. They were delicate. Deliberate in their care for the animal. Several times today, you had caught your gaze lingering a little too long on his slender fingers and their dexterity. Several times you had wondered what they’d feel like against your skin, in your hair weaving braids during a quiet evening.
Those were fairy tales. You did not dwell on them, even when it kept you up at night; heat clinging to your skin, the chilly wind doing nothing to help your wandering mind.
It seemed to appease his uneasy nature to come here. He would go in the early hours of the day, only to come back in the middle of the morning.
To the outside world, he was a leader. Someone they could trust and follow into depths unknown. Here, he was only Eomer.
You considered yourself lucky to have witnessed both.
Others were concerned by his willingness to spend so much more time with you instead of them. You had dismissed them easily enough, but the thought had lingered. Why was he only asking you to help him? A bucket, water, hay, a brush for the horse’s mane. You were not willing to fathom an answer, especially if it was the wrong one. Seeing him like this it made you happy enough. You were content with this, whatever this was.
From time to time, he would ask about your day and you would always answer the same things. Fine and good. Excellent, perfect or grand. Never would you have said what you wanted to say. That it was him who made those days fine, and good and excellent and perfect and grand.
Until meeting him, working with horses had been your life’s dream, and you were fulfilled by it. When he was there, you weren’t so sure anymore. It felt as if all of him was completing what you had and did not know you were missing.
“What are you thinking about?”
Barely above a whisper, his question lingered in the air between the two of you, almost as if he had not meant to ask it aloud. He was still working his fingers through the hair, looking beyond the horse’s back, away from you. If he had looked at you, you could have traced a lingering hint of a pinkish hue on his cheeks.
A chilly breeze rose, and you had to tighten the cloth around your shoulder, crossing your arms close to your chest.
“Nothing important, Sire.”
A laugh echoed through the wooden box around you.
“Then why are you boring a hole in my skull with your staring?”
Your cheek felt warmer than they had been moments ago.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you, sire. If you need me to go, I…
— No. Stay.”
Eomer had not meant for his voice to grow this loud. Nor to turn around so abruptly. The nerves in him, electrified by your eyes, led him to act so.
It had grown almost suddenly, this affection he had for you.
First, you were something to behold. Once he discovered your face, your features, the way you moved and talked, he only ever wanted you to be near him when the mask fell off. When he could be himself and not who he was supposed to be.
Second, you never pressured him into talking, going silent for hours on end, just being there with him and Lia. She was not his usual horse. He preferred not to overexert Firefoot, especially after the events he had seen on the battlefields. You were the one to care for her when he could not, even before he started mounting her. The mare had a gentler temper, dark robe and larger body. She adored you and if instincts served him right, animals were always the true tellers of someone’s nature.
Thirdly, and lastly, your presence calmed him like no one else could. Except when you were threatening to leave. Or when you were looking at him, behind his back. He never wanted you to stop looking at him like that. When your eyes were observing and kind on him, his weary body and his weary mind, he felt that he could take on another thousand wars just to find you here again, safe and sound, watching him. He only hoped you could say the same about him.
“As you wish, Sire.”
The goosebumps on your arms and the way you protected yourself from the cold struck him then. With the winds of winter approaching, the weather had gone incredibly cold, and you were only wearing a thin linen above your usual dress and robes. He stepped out of the box, coming closer to you as he’d ever been. He grabbed for a cover lying around. Those were used for the horses but they’d have to do. He wrapped it around you, as tight as he could. It smelled of the stables and hay. A hint of pink shattered across his cheekbones in the morning lights. Your breaths were leaving your lips in hot clouds between you.
The way he settled his palms on your shoulders, securing the cloth around you, drove a whole different kind of shiver down your spine. You could feel his fingers over the fabric, his overexerted hands catching some threads, before he took them off you, gently. You could not help the sharp inhale you took when he did.
“Would not want you freezing to death on my account.”
His smile did not reach his eyes, but you felt the warmth it procured you down to your toes.
At a loss for words, you smiled in return, trying to hide your face. Your arms were still secured against your chest but your heart was not as protected as you had hoped it would be.
In a thoughtless step, Eomer leaned down and brought his lips to your cheek. He could feel the burn of them under his skin. The way you looked up at him, bewildered and hopeful, brows knitted together in confusion, only made his mouth ache for more. Still, he would not do it unless you said so. He had already overstepped and behaved un-gallantly enough.
Hence his surprise when he found your hands gripping at his lapel, obviously not willing to let him go. A soft curve graced his mouth, a pleasant feeling growing in him.
“Can I…?”
Your vigorous nodding let him know exactly what he wanted. Only then did he pull you closer, his hands drawing you in, the warmth you felt from his lips and the tenderness with which his fingers nestled against your jaw below your ears, enough to make you forget about the world around. Delicately, his mouth danced with yours, eager to please and swift to do so. Soon, his wide hand drew you in, pulling you at the waist. Your fingers met his heart through cloth and flesh and bones, beating in a rhythm only known to you both.
“I…”
You bit your lip while you could see him observing you through hooded eyes, his fingertips sending shivers down your arms. He was tracing the hollow of your cheek with his knuckles, leaving you breathless once more. He looked as if he had seen the most marvellous creature in the entire world. You could not believe it was you on the other end of that fantasy.
“I… do not know what to say… I…
— Then you don’t need to say anything.”
His fingers found their way down the length of your throat. He looked positively charmed, yet you pulled back, hesitant. What if this had been… just a fling? Just something he could do, just because he wanted to. No other reason. No feelings involved. What if he was playing with you?
“I will.
— What?”
He chuckled at your incredulous expression.
“I will say something.
— Oh.”
He brought you back to him again, kissing your cheek.
“I…” He kissed your nose. “…will never…” your other cheek. “…ever…” Your fingertips now. “…let you…” This was getting on your nerves and he knew it, smirking behind your hand. “…be seen by anyone else but me, in this state.”
The last words murmured against your cheek, to the shell of your ear, elicited a burning anticipation deep in your bones.
“My King, I would never ever let anyone but me see you in this state.
— I don’t think anyone had ever really seen me before you.”
His candid answer surprised you. In a tender caress, he stroked your back through the fabrics of your clothes, not thick enough to keep his touch at bay. A thumb ventured below your breast, too close to be accidental. You inhaled sharply.
“And I will never let anyone else see me like this. If you’ll have me, of course.”
His declaration hit your heart at an arrow’s speed.
“You really mean that? I’m not just a…
— You’re not just anything. You are the world and beyond. You are everything. I hope to be everything to…”
Before he could finish, you pulled him down for another kiss. This one arousing and passionate; desires trapped, finally meeting in the middle.
“I will. I absolutely will.”
A heartbeat passed in his arms, trying to keep your hands to yourselves.
“You were asking me to…
— … court and eventually marry you? Yes. And you said yes, you cannot take it back now.”
Your laughter rang through him as it rang through the stables, enlightening the new day ahead.
#eomer xf!reader#eomer imagine#eomer x reader#lotr imagine#one-shot#lotr fic#it's sotwk's fault#fluff
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elucidative | l.greenleaf
↳ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: elucidative |. /ih-loo-si-deyt/ | verb | to make lucid especially by explanation or analysis | y/n is only a little dumb
⇢ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: legolas x reader
⇢ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: fluff
⇢ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: none
⇢ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.1k
a/n: Hiii - Sorry I've been MIA - work has been a bit more hectic and I've been having a hard time finding time to write! I could not stop thinking about the Bridgerton scene with Charlotte and George. Lightly inspired by @reality-warp 'Rávamë’s Bane Trilogy', quite literally one of my all-time fave fics and authors in this fandom and is a literal queen in world and character building so check out her fics if you haven't already!
copyright © | please do not repost my work.
“Manwë’s breath, how much higher can this wall get?”
Reaching for yet another tendril of the vines climbing up the wall, you attempt to climb higher up the stone wall.
It was a precarious situation — one in which you did not expect to be but were not entirely surprised to find yourself in.
You scaled the stone walls attempting to reach the top of the wall to escape yet another suitor. With flowing sleeves laced with snagged threads and leaves woven into your hair, you don’t quite know how long you’ve been attempting your half-scattered escape plan. At this moment, all you knew was that you’d been in this dreaded courtyard for over an hour and you would not be waiting another minute to be trapped and shackled for the next “prince” to come around.
As a ward of Lord Glorfindel, you were of course expected to adhere to the life of a lady in every way possible. You’ve studied every subject, attended every lesson from etiquette and mannerisms to reading and writing in Khuzdul, and attended each and every dreadful social event your father has encouraged.
Feeling your grip falter yet again, you stumble backward and glare at the very metaphoric yet also a very real wall in front of you.
You have always strived to be the perfect daughter in every way possible. However, in regard to love and courtship, you refuse to follow the ancient, decrepit tradition. Between the many years of dodging conversations and offers of marriage, you’ve reached way past the age of courtship, spending many years avoiding each and every suitor thrown your way.
Rather than bubbling with excitement, you felt the fear of the unknown settle in. Having so much to live for and not enough time to experience, you think of your time spent with the twins and the Rangers of the North — time spent traveling, exploring, and living.
You remember joining the twins and meeting Aragorn… meeting Legolas. He was an elven ranger you befriended through Aragorn. He was strong and sturdy, and for a moment you thought you were in love. The camp up North was a place where not many talked of their past but where they all focused on the present. It was a simple life but it was the life you were able to create for yourself.
Lost in the thoughts of the slow spiral of your sanity, you didn’t hear the footsteps coming up behind you as you reached yet again for the closest, protruding stone on the wall —
“What in the world are you doing?”
Without turning to even see who it is, you let go of one hand waving your intruding guest away.
“Please mind your own business, sir. You can escort yourself out — possibly, somewhere that is anywhere but here.”
You continue your ascent without a second thought but slipped down the wall as stone slowly tore up your hands. Stepping back, you place your hands on your hips and take a look at the growing annoyance in front of you. This stupid wall.
You hear an exasperated sigh behind you and felt someone lightly, grab your shoulder, pulling you from behind.
“Excuse me, sir. But you will unhand or you risk losing your… Legolas?”
Turning around, you were shocked by the familiar face of someone you were completely and utterly infatuated with over the past couple of years. Paralyzed and flustered, you couldn’t help but notice how clean and ethereal — you have never seen him this clean before; his muddied boots were somehow clean and the ragged pants you were so used to was exchanged for a less holey look. Somehow these fit even better. You feel your eyes gaze up but froze — you were staring too long.
“Lose my what?” he asked with a little smug grin.
“Nothing! Absolutely nothing. On the contrary, you can keep everything… It was nothing…” you rambled as you quickly turned around.
You hear him step a bit closer, coming behind you on your side to examine the wall you were so desperately climbing less than a second ago.
“What in Arda are you doing here, Y/n?” he said with his curious, blue eyes. Though a few feet away, just his presence causes your mind to go in a scramble.
“Me? What are you doing here?” you exasperated. Fiddling with your hands, you begin pacing back and forth, pretending to examine every bit of the wall, looking anywhere but him.
Look anywhere but his eyes, Y/n. That is how we’ll survive his cursed beauty.
“You are climbing a wall. If anyone should be questioned, it is you,” he bit back.
You quickly move your shoulder to release his grip and turn around.
“First of all, I live here. Second of all, please do mind your business, Legolas. I am quite a bit … oof … I’m quite a bit busy here. and I’m running out of time.”
Stepping towards the wall, you begin to attempt to climb yet again. If anything, it was to break free from his distracting grip on your body. Ignoring the growing warmth on your cheeks, you couldn’t help but notice how large and warm his hand was and how one touch made you feel like hot honey dripping down your body.
Shaking off the startling moment, you were determined to leave. And even he could not stop you.
“What in the world are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re doing something.”
“I am not”
“Yes… you quite obviously are are.”
“I am n o t.”
“Yes… you are,” he said firmly.
Relenting — you turn back around to face him. Beautiful face and all. You notice how his head is turned slightly down, his eyebrows furrowing just the slightest beginnings of a small smirk staring down at you.
“Fine,” you relented. “If you must know, I am trying to figure out the best way to climb over this disgustingly high wall and escape this dreaded meeting with this so-called ‘prince.’”
“You’re trying to what? With who? Whatever for?”
“Well, the first thing — hmph …” you grunt as you turn back around to attempt to climb for the fifth time in a row. “The first thing is that my dearest father has been parading me around to different suitors, a Lord here, a Duke there — and now, um, it’s apparently another ‘prince’.”
You take a step back because rather than focusing on climbing, you feel a sense of frustration overcome you. The situation of late has finally dug its claws into you... feeling a greater weight on your shoulder than you have originally led yourself to believe. You feel him standing behind you — the burning intensity of his stare on your back.
“No one has spoken of him… no one has spoken of this so-called Prince of Mirkwood?” You continued, “What if he has the personality of a gremlin and the looks of a troll? The Valar knows the little patience I have for men.”
“Gremlins and trolls aside — does what he looks he really matters to you? ” he asked.
“No… Of course not. It’s the not knowing and the fact that I do not know him or his heart that I do not like.
You take a step back to take a look once more at the wall in front of you. Glaring with all of your might, in hopes that your internal rage can burst a whole through these dreaded walls.
“Y/n —you must know... “ Legolas began.
Your eyes run through all the nooks and cranny’s vine-covered stone beast, ignoring Legolas’s words for only a second. There it is. A protruding stone just two feet away from the top. You found one last way you have yet to try.
“Thank the Valar! I think I found a way.”
You walk towards the wall once again, mapping out the new path of vines and protruding stones.
“I think if I can just reach this stone I can lift myself up! If you lift me just a little, I believe I can reach that vine and use these stones to climb up,” you said excitedly.”
“You want me to lift you up… so that you may… escape?”
“Yes, obviously. Did you not hear of threatening the gremlin-troll prince? Please, Legolas.”
“Your father will know that you are missing? The twins have just arrived as well?”
“Those are tomorrow’s problems, Legolas. The prince will be coming today,” you whined.
As you begin your ascent, you feel your foot slipping from the stone. Despite this, you stretched your hand above your head to grab the vine. As you reached, you feel the stone beneath your foot crumble and in a matter of seconds you find yourself falling.
“Lego—”
“Y/n,” he cuts you off. “I have no intention of helping you escape.”
Standing a little too close, you can feel the warmth emanating from his body. As you gaze up to his face, you see he’s wearing an emerald green tunic, soft and silky — something far nicer than the typical garb you always see him in.
“And why not? There is little time to —.”
Your finally glance up to look him in the eyes and —
“You’re wearing a crown,” you blankly stated.
Confused, you oh-so-slowly begin to piece the puzzle together.
“Yes, I am wearing crown,” a small grin appearing on his smugged face.
“Where in the world did you get a crown?”
“It was given to me,” he said as he looked around feigning boredom.
“By who?!” you retort.
“My father.”
“Your father? What does— is he like a king?”
“He is a king,” he said frankly.
“Which makes you a — “ you slowly piece the information together.
“A prince? Yes, a gremlin-troll prince to be exact,” he retorts with now a full grin and staring down at you.
“And you said nothing?” You frantically exclaimed.
“I figured you’d realize at some point,” he chuckled.
You stood there reflecting on all your life decisions at once. Every conversation, every hidden glance. He was a prince.
“I thought it was common knowledge and that you knew of my title,” he said quietly. “I apologize for not disclaiming it sooner.”
“So if what you’re saying is true…” you teased. “You just assume everyone thinks of you as royalty? That’s quite the assumption”
“Y/n, you know I did not mean it like that,” he groaned.
With a little giggle, you stepped away from him and asked “Should I call you, sir?”
“…Y/n, what?”
“Oh my, I’ve never bowed.” Your voice shifts into worry, “Is this grounds for beheading?”
“Y/n, no.”
“I should bow.”
“No— you should not.”
“I’ll bow.”
“Y/n — stop.”
“Please sir, I am merely a lowly peasant. Have mercy, your highness,” you exclaimed as you lower your head and drop into the deepest curtsy.
As he attempts to stop you, he reaches for your arm hoping to put an end to your jester.
As you back away and dodge, you look at him, batting your eyelashes, and cry “My liege, spare me from this punishment I only wish to live.”
Ears turning red with a desperate voice, he begs “Y/n, please.”
As you step back once more, he’s quicker this time and grabs your arm, pulling you close. your chest crushed against his, he drops one of his hands to your waist and the other to your back. You were so close you felt his breath caress your face. As you look up, you find him staring intently at you.
As you stare at each other, you couldn’t help but break into giggles over the preposterous situation. As you begin to giggle, he looks away trying to hold in his laughter, only to also laugh at the situation.
It felt nice — to feel free and silly, if only for a moment.
As both your laughter calms down, he looks back down at you asked, ”So what do you think of the gremlin-troll prince?”
“Nothing too horrid, he’s actually quite dashing,” you teased.
“Dashing, hmm?” he chuckled.
Unaware of everything around you, you were both startled to hear the courtyard doors open with footsteps following. Jumping from each other's arms, you separated a good distance away only for you to see your father and Elrond turn into the corner section you were standing in.
“Oh, good. You’ve met!”
#legolas imagine#legolas imagines#legolas one shot#legolas one shots#legolas x reader#legolas reader insert#legolas fic#legolas fics#lotr imagines#lotr fic#lotr fanfic#lord of the rings#lord of the rings fanfic#lord of the rings fic#lord of the rings imagine#lord of the rings imagines#lotr imagine#lotr x reader#lord of the rings x reader#legolas#legolas x you#legolas x y/n#legolas fanfic
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Kill Our Friendship | Legolas x gn!reader
『••✎••』
↳ ❝ Hi can I request “When you've known someone a long time, you just want to kiss them just to see if they're a good kisser. There's nothing wrong with that, right?” With Legolas please? ❞
: ̗̀➛ To perform one small little action will kill a friendship, but maybe that's for the best.
: ̗̀➛ n/a
•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•
You were comfortable as you strolled through the woods with Legolas at your side, all too aware of his hand lingering beside yours, so close that you could almost feel his fingers brush against your own so deftly; it wasn't far now, the small little clearing that sat at the edge of the expansive lake.
There was a small raft waiting for you there, tied to some weeds and some bushes, anchored against the bank. It was made of old wood, but it was sturdy in its frame; it could easily hold you and Legolas without a doubt, and you were excited to show it to him.
After all, you had spent so long crafting it that there was only one person in the world you deemed important enough to see it.
You caved in, linking your fingers with his and swinging your hands back and forth a little bit; it made you smile, especially when he looked at you so softly and so warmly. In his blue eyes was a hidden summertime that never ended, and when he smiled, it seemed as if the seasons were forever stuck there.
Legolas dared to smile, practically skipping along beside you until you tugged him over to the little raft at last. Amongst the expansive lake, it was easy to tell that it went on for miles. The murky dark olive colour calming along with the thick scent of the bushes and trees.
You finally let go of his hand, kneeling down for a moment to untie the raft. Legolas wasn't far behind, helping you to get it onto the water's body; he jumped on it beside you, lying on his back and letting the sun hit his skin.
You lowered yourself down next to him, your temple pressed against his and your hand finding its way to his; fingers interlocking tightly. You could only hum as you smiled, clearing your throat and trying not to show how anxious you really were.
"What do you think?"
Legolas grinned as he closed his eyes. "How did you manage to do this without anyone knowing?"
You shrugged, letting out a quiet laugh. "You aren't the only one who can be so stealthy, you know."
He laughed along for a second before falling into a comfortable silence with you; he rarely got the time to be so close, and he appreciated every single second that he could get.
It was his favourite thing, to be close with you and to actually be there with you whenever it was possible. He loved it, he loved you.
But of course, there was a... certain expectation. Legolas was a Prince, after all, and you were not of royal blood of any kind; but you had been friends for so long, always joined at the hip, that it was impossible to get you away from him and vice versa.
He knew that if he was going to act on his feelings, it would surely bring about the death and ruin of friendship - but when he opened his eyes to see you undressing, it was all too tempting for him to finally admit how he felt.
Your body was the most brilliant thing he had ever seen; every inch of exposed flesh slowly creating a masterpiece until you were left with nothing but your skivvies on. You laid back down, all too aware of his gaze, and awkwardly shifted onto your side; resting your head against your hand and letting your elbow dig into the wood.
"Why are you staying at me like that?"
Legolas shrugged as he met your gaze, swallowing thickly and trying to ignore it all. The racing, heavy pounding of his heart in the cavern of his chest. The little droplets of sweat forming on his palms. The slight shake of his fingers.
"When you've known someone a long time, you just want to kiss them just to see if they're a good kisser. There's nothing wrong with that, right?"
You shook your head, trying not to smile as you swallowed thickly, letting your free hand rest on his chest. "Not at all... I may have wondered myself, here and there..."
His gaze flicked to your mouth for a moment, and he slowly reached out; his thumb just in front of your ear and his fingers desperately clinging behind it as he leaned in slightly. "Shall we find out?"
You nodded, softly whispering "yes" before leaning in yourself; clumsily, Legolas moved to straddle your waist, letting his other hand copy the position of the other as you clung to his shoulders. Finally, he sealed the kiss.
It started out so chaste, but you could not help it; gathering his platinum hair in your hand and tugging it softly. He grinned, kissing you harder and harsher as you eagerly and desperately tried to keep up. But it couldn't last forever, and he pulled away when the need for air started to creep into his chest.
"That was..." he breathed out, nodding. "If it would be alright with you, I'd like to do it again."
You nodded back, trying not to act so fucking eager. "I'd like that, actually."
He smiled, a little relaxed as he pressed his forearms either side of your head and allowed some of the anxious tension to drop from his body. "Can I ask you something?"
"Always."
"Can we kill this friendship?" He asked quietly. "And become something else?"
You shrugged, gently playing with his hair as you nodded slowly. "I would like that, actually. Especially if that something else means you'll keep kissing me like that."
Slowly, a grin spread across his face, and he nodded as he licked his lips, his gaze dropping to your mouth. "I'll kiss you like that as many times as you wish, beloved. All you have to do is ask."
"All I have to do is ask?"
"Yes," he breathed out. "Just ask, and I will happily oblige."
"Alright," you agreed. "Legolas, if you'd be so kind... kiss me again, please?"
#mlem writes#legolas x reader#legolas x you#legolas x y/n#legolas imagine#legolas fic#legolas fanfiction#legolas fluff#legolas greenleaf x reader#legolas greenleaf fanfic#legolas greenleaf#lotr x reader#lotr x you#lotr x y/n#lotr imagine#lotr fic#lotr fanfiction#lotr fanfic#lotr fluff#lotr#lord of the rings x reader#lord of the rings x you#lord of the rings x y/n#lord of the rings imagine#lord of the rings fanfiction#lord of the rings fic#lord of the rings fluff#lord of the rings
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Watching, Wanting
A/N: Hello! (its been awhile) I just wanted to indulge in my love for Boromir (ft some faramir bc i love my brothers). Very vague plot if you squint. It's a bit spicy, but nothing explicit!
Reader gets sent out in a storm by Faramir and turns up at Minas Tirith soaked.
Boromir x Reader
Gender-neutral reader
Rated: TEEN
2.3k words
---
The low hills of Emyn Arnen at your feet gave way to soft fields and in the distance the Anduin meandered through the landscape. There were dark clouds on the horizon, grey and heavy, and the faint earthy scent of coming rain was in the air. If you rode fast, you could make it to the city in a few hours, but judging by the clouds, you would be riding right into the storm anyway. You sighed and turned to Faramir. “Are you certain this is of such vital importance that I have to risk getting soaked to the bone?”
He nodded. “My brother requires these maps. I would have sent it with the trade carts this morning but it slipped my mind.”
“Rather uncharacteristic of you,” you muttered, raising your eyebrows at him.
He shrugged, an easy smile on his face. “My mind has been occupied of late. It is no easy feat, establishing a settlement.”
You softened at his words. Eowyn and Faramir had been working from dawn to dusk the past few weeks and the spring rains had been slowing construction and delaying the new workers and settlers journeying to Emyn Arnen.
“Very well.” You tucked the long, flat wooden box into your pack and buckled the waxed canvas securely. “I’ll be off now.”
“Safe travels, my friend,” he grinned and waved.
You swung onto your horse and, with a flick of the reins, started off down the road. As the grass and trees sped by, your thoughts drifted to Boromir.
You had become friends with Faramir first and, in the months Boromir had been away from Minas Tirith, you had helped coordinate the Ithilien Rangers from the city. Boromir had been civil to you when he returned, respectful of your battle and logistical strategies, but distant outside of the war rooms and planning councils. But something shifted one evening.
It was one of the many victory dinners, a smaller, more intimate one for The Fellowship and close companions. The hobbits had pulled you into their game of roughhousing and somehow you had ended up sprawled on top of Boromir. He had been large and solid underneath you, his hands heavy on your waist. You looked up into his grey eyes and your breath caught in your throat.
After that, it seemed as though his eyes were always on you. Across dinner tables, across courtyards, even, once, from across the throne room in full view of everyone.
You thought that with the end of the war, there would be no need for much contact between you and him, that all you would ever do is look, but Faramir had unofficially appointed you as a representative between the city and Emyn Arnen.
There had been so many afternoons spent with Boromir, shoulder to shoulder, pouring over maps and trade routes, so many nights spent eating across from each other in the low light of his private dining room. Yes, he was brave and proud and a fantastic tactician, but all that seemed to vanish when you saw him.
Really saw him.
Him with sleeves rolled up, exposing his strong forearms. His hair tied up, the pale column of his throat on full display. And those training breeches, somehow loose and tight at the same time…
What would he look like sprawled on your bed? Eyes glazed and chest heaving, hair mussed and lips parted. His breath hot in your ear, his voice low and raspy.
Thunder clapped overhead and rain started to fall on your overheated skin. The drops were cool and refreshing and you tipped your face to the sky.
How were you to spend another evening, another moment, in his presence? It was maddening, the way his eyes would blaze, the way he would draw close to you but never touch.
Why would he not act? It is true that you did not hold as high a standing as his family, but the brothers never seemed to care about such a thing. Even though that may be true, surely he understood that it was not as if you could do anything — it would be far more impertinent that you, of a lower standing, should be the first to move.
You shook your head and tightened your grip on the reins. You would ride back tonight to Emyn Arnen, even if you had to make the journey in the dark. It would be too much to spend another night near Boromir only separated by a few doors.
-
Boromir rushed down with the panicked servant who had burst into his study. What was his brother thinking? Sending you to Minas Tirith in the storm? He rounded the corner and found you shivering and dripping onto the polished marble. Someone had already taken your cloak and pack and you stood in your soaked clothes and saturated boots, clutching a wooden box. He swallowed at the sight of the fabric clinging to your form and strode towards you.
“Riding in such a storm is madness. What was so urgent it could not wait until morning?” You shoved the box into his hands and he stared at it for a moment before shaking his head. “Come, let us get you warm and dry first.”
He led you to his rooms and sat you down before the fire. “You cannot stay in those clothes,” he said, handing you some towels and a blanket along with some of his spare clothes. “You will catch your death.”
“But, Boromir, it is not proper —”
“I do not care. I would rather some impropriety if the alternative is illness or death.” He turned around and faced the wall. “I will not look until you are sufficiently… dressed.”
For a moment, he thought you were about to protest some more until he heard the slick swish of your clothes. He could imagine you, peeling off your layers, bare skin tinged orange by the fire. Heat crept up his neck to his ears. By the gods, he needed to control himself. He squeezed his eyes shut and drew a ragged breath in.
What sort of delightful torture was this? How many days had he spent beside you, close enough to breathe in your scent? How many nights had he spent staring at his bedroom door, willing you to walk through it?
He took a deep breath, trying to ignore the sound of your wet clothes hitting the floor. He had to be proper. A gentleman. A man of honour. He had to be mindful of his position and standing. Yes, his brother had appointed you various titles and responsibilities, but whatever they were, they were still ranked below his own title of Captain of Gondor.
He had heard too many stories of people being swayed and persuaded by the nobility — he would not allow you to feel obligated to reciprocate his own selfish desires simply because he was ranked higher than you were.
There was the rustle of cloth, the whisper of cotton on skin, and he fought the images of you donning his clothes. Oh, how will he ever wear that tunic ever again and not think of you?
You were wonderful and smart and were filled with endless ideas for new laws and trade. But in his quiet moments, he wondered what you would feel like under his touch, wondered what sort of sounds you would make.
How would you say his name? In a whisper? A gasp?
In a cry of pleasure?
He spied the wooden box you had brought with you on the side table and shook his head. Damn Faramir for putting him in such a position! What could possibly be so important?
“I, um — I’m just going to look at what my brother sent. Do not be alarmed by my movement,” he said and heard you hum in assent.
With slow, measured steps, he made his way to the box and opened it.
“Faramir said you needed maps,” you muttered behind him.
There were maps indeed, but they were just the regular sort that anyone could buy at the market cartographer. He frowned, rifling through the parchment, and pulled out the envelope tucked in between the papers.
Brother,
Forgive my deception, but I hope my interference will be forgiven. Aragorn has written to me saying he is on the verge of tearing his hair out at the sight of you two. Eowyn and I are not faring much better here in Emyn Arnen with the constant pacing and faraway looks my, our, friend has whenever they return from the city.
I pray you spare all of us any more heated longing stares.
Best of luck,
Faramir
The nerve of his brother! To send you out in the storm simply for the purposes of… of… matchmaking! The paper crinkled in his grip and his eyes wandered down to the scrawl at the bottom.
P.S. I am not so foolish as to send them out in anything threatening. Spring storms may be chilly, but hardly dangerous.
That mollified him little and he grumbled.
“Is anything the matter?” you asked. “Were they damaged in the rain?”
“No, not at all. It is nothing. Simply my brother being… my brother.”
He read the letter again. Pacing… faraway looks… heated stares… Was his brother implying…? No, that could not be, could it? But, then again, perhaps he did not imagine the way you would linger in the sitting room after dinner or how he would feel your eyes on him sometimes. Your expression was always unreadable, careful and controlled, that he could hardly be sure of what you felt for him. If you felt anything at all.
And yet, Faramir’s letter…
Your bare feet shuffled on the stone. “You may turn around if you wish.”
He folded the letter away and replaced it along with the maps into the box. He turned and his stomach clenched at the sight of you.
You were bathed in the warm light of the fire, your skin aglow, incandescent in the dim light. His tunic was loose on you and the front ties of the collar were undone, revealing the skin of your chest. His eyes wandered down to the pile of wet clothes on the floor and he spotted, what were unmistakably, underthings, heaped on top.
Heat flared low in his belly and he glanced away.
You. Naked under his clothes. Valar help him.
-
Boromir had that look in his eyes again, all aflame and intense, except he was directing it at one of the tapestries on the wall. You glanced down at the wet clothes at your feet. Well, he could not have reasonably expected you to keep your underthings on, could he?
He was still staring at the wall. His jaw was tense and his hands were clenched by his sides. You took a step forward and he stood straighter. His eyes cut to yours for a moment, smoldering with want, before they went back to the wall. He took a shuddering breath and you took another step.
Perhaps if you couldn’t act, you could make him act first instead.
You fought a smile and walked to stand before him. You could smell him fully then, his familiar musk mingling with cedar from the scent he favoured.
“Boromir,” you whispered.
His eyes snapped to you and he swallowed.
“Boromir.”
You tipped your head to the side and parted your lips.
“Boromir.”
He crashed his lips against yours, his hands coming up to cradle your face. He deepened the kiss, his chest rumbling in a low moan when your fingers curled into his shirt. He tasted like the bitter tea he favoured after dinner. His hand drifted down, skimming your waist before coming to rest on your hip. Your nails scraped at the nape of his neck and he groaned.
His body was warm, hot even. He pressed himself closer to you and you could feel him, hard, against you. Heat pooled in your stomach and you moaned his name. His hand slipped under the hem of your shirt and he pulled back for a moment. “Is this alright?”
You nodded and tipped your head back. “Don’t stop.”
“I’ve… wanted this… for weeks,” he said, kisses drifting towards your jaw. The delightful scratch of his beard was followed by soft, warm lips as he worked his way down your neck. “Wanted you.”
“You should have done something.”
He smiled against your skin. “I’m doing something now.”
His lips paused at the curve of your neck and shoulder, sucking for a moment, as his hand slid up your side, his touch gentle but demanding. Your fingers fumbled with the ties on his tunic and tugged on the fabric. He pulled it off and tossed it to the side and he stood flushed and grinning before you. You trailed your fingers down his solid chest, past his stomach, following the light dusting of hair down.
“Maddening man, you —”
There was a knock on the door and you yelped, startling away from him.
“Who is it?” he asked, voice low and rough. He cleared his throat. “What is the matter?”
“Should we prepare a hot bath for your friend in the spare room?” The servant’s voice was muffled through the door.
His eyes darted to yours before a smirk spread across his face. “There is no need for that, thank you.”
There was the sound of retreating footsteps and you exhaled. Boromir let out a relieved chuckle and pulled you towards him.
“Sending my warm bath away?” You threw a challenging look at him. “How ever will I get warm?”
“I can think of a great many ways.”
“Will I like any of them?”
“I think you will find that you’ll like all of them.”
He dipped his head, capturing your lips, and tugged you in the direction of his bedroom.
---
I never realised just how quick things can head into a mature rating until I wrote this lmao. Not sure if I will ever write smut but well ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ (maybe)
Tags: @sotwk @ass-deep-in-demons @thetempleofthemasaigoddess @hippodameia
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