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entishramblings · 1 year

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The Innocence of Brutality Pt. 3 [Legolas/F!Reader]

A.N: and I present part 3 to you!!!! Enjoy!

Request: none

Pairing: Legolas X Fem!Reader

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

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

Word Count:

Warnings: nudity (not sex), mentions of war, mentions of torture, violence, fluff

MASTERLIST | AO3 | WATTPAD

The Innocence of Brutality Masterlist

That night, they settled into a camp rather late, for Aragorn and Gandalf wanted to put as much distance as possible between them and the bloodbath. So, exhausted and worn down, they huddled by the fire, doing the tasks they must attend to.

(Y/N), on the other hand, was still covered in orc blood. It was like a second skin at this point. A hardened, cracked shell of war. But it seemed she didn't want to wear such a thing, for she walked towards the river that ran by the edge of their camp. Immediately, she began to peel her clothing off, as well as the bandage upon her wing.

Instantly, all the men adverted their eyes and went about their tasks—building a fire, making food, treating minor scratches, taking a leak, etc.

The winged woman let her body drift into the water. It wasn't deep, not enough for a swim, for it hung around her waist calmly. Still, she crouched down and dipped her head under, letting it wash over her entire form. She stayed under the smooth liquid, allowing it to envelope her.

When she came up, she inhaled slowly. She felt much better, much cleaner. The water, as cold as it was—especially at the night—felt good on her skin. The movement of the river took away all the grim, dirt, and blood from not only her body but her wings. It rippled through each feather, cleaning off anything that lingered. Additionally, it felt relaxing and soothing on her injury. The water was almost healing in a sense.

(Y/N) spent much time in the river, letting it loosen her muscles, but as the chill began to settle, she decided to opt to spend time near the fire. Therefore, she rose from the water, gathered her dirty clothes in her arms, and approached the men once again.

She dropped the fabric in a pile on a log and stood before the flames.

Aragorn cleared his throat awkwardly. "(Y/N), where are your clothes?"

She, seemingly not having any qualms about being bare before them, gestured to the fabric. "They are bloody."

Legolas glanced up and instantly, his lips parted. Of course, from Aragon's words he had expected her to be naked—again—but he hadn't expected....this. She was absolutely ethereal. Legolas, of course, had seen her body considering the circumstances, but now...Valar. She stood before them with all the dirt, ash, and blood finally washed away. Her wet skin sparkled in the firelight, golden hues dancing upon the smooth flesh. Water dripped from every bend and twist of her body, running down in simple streams. But it was those wings of hers that held his attention. Originally, he had thought them to be a shimmery gray color. Now, however, he could see they weren't. They were clean of all harsh elements. Extending from her back, bright white with reflective colorful hues of pinks, blues, and yellows danced upon each feather. They practically glowed in the flame's lingering kiss. She was beautiful.

"You have to wear clothes," Aragorn's voice drawled on.

Legolas, blinking, averted his eyes again.

She crossed her arms. "Why?"

"Because that is what we do in this world." He gestured to all the men. "We are all wearing clothes."

Boromir cleared his throat. "She may use my extra tunic."

All eyes drifted to him with confusion as he stood.

He awkwardly brought the fabric to the woman. As he handed it to her, he spoke gently. "Thank you for fighting for us today. We would not have had such a good chance if you were not there."

(Y/N) tilted her head for a moment, those curious eyes, once again, staring into his soul, until she finally nodded in acceptance.

He turned to walk away, but she spoke again, holding the fabric close to her body. "What were they?"

Each person glanced around at the other, unsure what to say.

Boromir, however, answered. "They are orcs. Beasts bred for a vile purpose."

Legolas, thinking of his previous conversation with Gandalf, decided to add to Boromir's statement with the intent to pry into (Y/N)'s knowledge of good vs. evil. Even though he heard such horrid tales from the wizard, he still believed she could be good—that she could be kind and caring. "These orcs, they serve someone who is trying to harm us," he said.

"Why?"

Once again, eyes shifted nervously.

"We carry something that they want."

She frowned. "Why do you carry it?"

"To destroy it," he replied. "We are taking it to be destroyed so many will not be subject to harm."

"To help?" she questioned, looking for a simple answer. She seemed to like simple answers.

Legolas nodded. "Yes, to help. We want to help save the world and its people."

She bobbed her head up and down in understanding.

Surprisingly, it was Frodo who spoke. "(Y/N), do you want to help us do it?"

The air went absolutely silent at that question.

"Will it help you?" she asked.

He nodded.

"Then I will help."

A breath, that none realized they had been holding, seemed to slip back into the atmosphere.

(Y/N), however, did not pick up on such relief. Instead, she began pulling the tunic over her head, struggling to get it to lay correctly with her wings.

Legolas, seeing this, sighed in dismay. It was sad, really.

He stood upright. "Let me help." He approached her and began to pull the fabric over her body. It hung low and loosely in her front, but the back was simply not going to happen.

"Sam," he called out, "Could you pass me a blanket?"

The hobbit nodded and scrambled to get one to the elf. Legolas then wrapped it around (Y/N)'s waist, tying it taught, like a skirt.

"Aragorn, we will be needing to get her clothing that will fit her. Maybe the next town or market?"

He shook his head. "We can't risk getting too close."

"We cannot have her going on like this," he replied. "If she is to journey with us, she needs adequate clothing."

"How will we even get her into a town, Legolas? Those wings—"

(Y/N) interrupted. "Wings go away."

Both men twisted to look at her, unsure of what she meant.

"(Y/N)," Legolas began softly. "They are a part of you. We can't cut them off."

She shook her head. "No. They go inside when not broken."

Aragorn's lips parted, realizing what she was saying. "They retract," he blurted.

She nodded.

"That will make things easier, we wont have to get anything custom sewed. We can just purchase pre-made clothing in a size that will fit. It would be in and out rather quickly," Legolas said.

Pippin interjected into their conversation. "If we're gonna be going into a town, why don't we stay the night? Get a nice bed. Some fine ale and comforts!"

"And stock up on some more food, Strider!" Sam added.

Aragorn shook his head. "A night is too risky."

Gimli chimed in. "Nay, it's not. Not if it's only one night and we mind our own business."

"We are a strange group, Gimli, are we not? People would likely ask questions if we came bumbling in."

"So we split up," Boromir said. "We go in separate groups, a couple to a room. This far east the hobbits can pass as children."

Aragorn, inhaled deeply, seemingly thinking it through. After a moment, though, he nodded. "Fine. But it all depends on those wings. When will they be able to retract?"

Legolas frowned. "Let me look at the injury." He turned back to the woman. "(Y/N), may I?"

She nodded, bringing the wing down from its height. Legolas then began examining it, being sure to be careful...and cautious considering he now knew how much of a weapon they really were.

He frowned.

"What? What is it?" Aragorn said, worried.

He shook his head. "Nay, nothing is wrong. It's just—it is healing quickly. Much faster than such an injury should."

"She is Rámaite Mahtar," Gandalf stated simply. "Their bodies are designed for war. That includes healing. An injury that should take months or even years can be healed in a matter of weeks."

"The wing should be fully repaired within a couple of days, I believe," Legolas said. "It did receive a minor setback today with all the fighting, but it is nearly fixed. Let me put another poultice on it and wrap it for the night."

Aragorn dipped his head.

The fellowship drifted to their bed rolls with small smiles of excitement, for they much so desired one night of comforts.

"Is that alright?" Legolas asked. "If I treat the wound again?"

(Y/N) looked up at him and nodded, sitting down upon the grass. They had done it enough times now that it was now a regular occurrence, but Legolas always asked permission.

As Legolas worked, (Y/N)'s eyes drifted closed and her body relaxed. Legolas knew she was tired. The battle was probably exhausting—even more so if he considered the fact that she may have been in chains for eons...and most definitely tortured considering Morgoth was the one who watched her prison. His heart filled with sadness as he thought of that. It must have been so painful. So horrible.

Sam, the sweet hobbit, had come by them and collected (Y/N)'s dirty clothing. He began washing it in the river. Legolas sent him a grateful smile as he did so, for it was an act of complete kindness. He knew the little hobbit was doing it as a thank you for saving them. If she wasn't there, at least some of them would have been dead. Legolas knew that. He had fought in enough battles. Besides, considering they would need to keep moving tomorrow, clean clothing was a necessity. The makeshift fabric upon her form now would not hold in such terrain.

With curiosity tugging in the corners of his mind, Legolas decided to speak to (Y/N). Maybe he could get some answers from her, different from the biased ones Gandalf told him. "(Y/N), where were you before you came to us."

She opened her eyes and stared right into Legolas. Time seemed to stretch on as she examined his gaze, seemingly wondering if she should tell him or not.

"I was...I was in the dark," she replied softly.

He gently touched her wrist with the bruises that were now almost faded. "Is that where those came from?"

She looked down at his hand upon hers and nodded. "Yes."

"How long were you there for?"

She shrugged. "Don't know. Long."

He began moving his thumb in soft circles of comfort as he spoke again in that same gentle tone. "Did they hurt you there?"

(Y/N) blinked, turning her head way. "Yes."

Sensing that that was all the information he was going to get tonight, he ceased his questions and went back to tending to her wing. He didn't want to push.

After a couple of moments, however, she turned back to face him.

At first, he thought maybe she was going to tell him more of her life. But she did not speak.

Instead, her gaze did not move from his expression. Damn those beautiful curious eyes. They bore into him fiercely. So much so, that he stopped his task and looked up. "Is there something wrong, (Y/N)?"

"Why," she began as she reached her hand forward, her palm cupping his cheek.

Slightly startled, he sucked in a shaky breath. She had never touched him like...like this. She had grabbed at his arm when wanting his attention. She had pulled on his limbs to stop herself from slipping on the rough terrain (he assumed she normally would fly because legs didn't seem to really be her thing). And she had smacked him in the face with her wing when she didn't care enough to avoid his form when he was 'in her way.'

Her finger extended to touch his ear. "Why are yours pointed?"

Legolas, squeezing his eyes shut, noticeably shivered at her touch. He was quick to grab her hand and pull it from his ear.

She frowned at him, clearly unhappy at his lack of consent.

"I, uh," he stuttered. "They are pointed because I am an elf. Aragorn and Boromir are human. Gimli is a dwarf. The hobbits, well, they are hobbits. Their ears are also pointed. Gandalf is a wizard. We are all different races, so we are all different.

(Y/N) looked to Aragorn and Boromir before looking back at Legolas. "What is the difference besides ears?"

He raised a brow as he started to wrap the wing in bandages once again. "Between elves and humans?"

She nodded.

"Well, elves have better senses—sight, touch, smell, hearing, and even taste. We are stronger and faster. We, uh, also live for many more years. We live until we are killed."

"I live until killed," she replied simply.

His blue eyes drifted upwards, surprised by her words. "Is that so?"

She nodded. "Yes." She then looked to the others before looking back at the Prince. "Will you be...be..." She frowned, clearly searching for a word. "When they are gone will you be like—like when there are no more sausages left."

Legolas chuckled lightly. "You mean sad?"

"Sad?" she questioned.

He bobbed his head. "Yes." He then tapped her heart lightly. "Sad is when it hurts in here."

She nodded. "Yes. Sad."

Legolas sighed. "I suppose, I will be sad. They are my friends and I do not wish to have them absent from my life. It will be very hard to see them eventually pass from this world if they do not die on this mission."

"I am your friend."

He smiled at her, tucking the last of the fabric into a taught spot. "Yes, you are."

Her next words seemed too abruptly blurt out. "I will also be sad."

"You will?"

(Y/N) nodded. "Yes. I like friends." She then reached forward, grabbing a lock if his hair in her hand. She began to twist it between her fingers. "We will still be friends, yes? Even when they are....gone."

Legolas gently reached up and untangled her fingers from his hair. "Yes, if that is what you want."

She nodded.

"Very well then." He stood from his kneeling position. "I have first watch tonight. You should get some rest." With that, he stood up and took post at the front of the camp, his bow held in his hand.

(Y/N) exhaled as she watched him standing as still as a hunter looking for prey. For some reason, she wanted to stand with him. Instead, however, she turned and moved towards the hobbits who were already attempting to sleep.

"Ow! Pip! You are steeling all the blankets!"

"Yeah! It's cold. Give me some!"

"Oi! You've taken them all!"

"I did not!!!"

(Y/N) frowned as she sat upon her blanket about five feet away.

"Give 'em back, Merry!"

"You are the one with all of them!"

(Y/N) flared out her wings from their dropping position with a rather loud snap, drawing everyone's attention—including the hobbits. She didn't pay mind to the stares though. Instead, she turned on her side, facing away from the hobbits, and let both her wings lower over them like that of a blanket.

"Oh," one whispered quietly.

"This–this is very nice."

"Very warm. Much better than a blanket!"

She did not speak. She let her eyelids close as she drifted to sleep. The hobbits soon followed.

A couple of hours later, Aragorn approached Legolas and stood beside him for a moment before speaking. "It is my turn for watch, mellon nin (my friend)."

"I don't know if I could sleep right now," the elf replied.

The man did not turn to look at him. "Because of (Y/N)?"

Legolas swallowed dryly.

"I saw the two of you earlier. When you were binding her wing. She touched your ear. A very intimate act for your people."

"She doesn't know any better."

Aragorn raised a brow. "You didn't correct her though."

"I removed her hand."

"That is not enough. Part of me thinks you didn't want to tell her."

Legolas shifted. "She just wouldn't understand if i tried too."

"She has learned a lot in the past three weeks. I bet she would understand if you explained it to her. You are the one teaching her the most." He cleared his throat, his tone changing into one of slight teasing. "Wonder why that is?"

The elf cleared his throat. "Gandalf says that the Rámaite Mahtar can't tell the difference between good and evil. That they can't feel things like we do. But I think he is wrong. I think they can."

"Do you hope that she may feel something for you?"

Legolas tried to hide the red hue that danced upon his cheeks. "That is not what I meant." He turned to face his friend. "She asked me about how I would feel when you all died and I was left living."

"What did you say?"

"She was the one who described sadness. She just didn't know the word for it."

"And?"

"And she said she would be sad too because she would also still be here."

Aragorn's eyes drifted toward her and the hobbits under her wing before focusing back on Legolas. "She is immortal then?"

The Prince nodded. "Unless slain."

"Like you."

He nodded. "Yes."

Aragorn cleared his throat. "Why don't you rest?"

Legolas sighed. He knew he should.

Therefore, with only a quick dip of the head, the elf departed from his friend. Aragorn's words burned into his mind. He knew what the man was trying to say. He knew what he had meant.

The Prince laid down upon his back on his mat, only a couple of feet away from (Y/N). He let his head turn to the side, watching her sleep, until he too drifted into the land of dreams. However, only a couple of hours passed before he was jolted awake by a heavy mass smacking into him.

With a loud gasp, he tried to sit upwards and reach for his bow. He did not get very far.

Pinned to the ground, he frantically looked around himself with wide eyes in an attempt to see the enemy that knocked the air from his lungs. But he saw no enemy. No, he only saw a white fluffy wing covering his form—the bandaged part only two feet to the left of his chin. Legolas, still breathing heavily, turned his head to look at (Y/N).

She had rolled onto her stomach in her sleep. Her other wing, the uninjured one, still laid peacefully over the hobbits.

Legolas glanced at the wing on his chest again. Then back to her. Then over to the chuckling from the edge of camp.

Aragorn, smirking, sent him a look.

Legolas rolled his eyes before letting his head fall back to the ground with a loud huff. He didn't make any motion to do anything about the wing upon his chest. He just let it rise and fall with his breath.

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emeraldskulblaka · 2 years

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The Backstory to Finrod Zong

~ stream announcement ~

This is a very condensed summary of the events that precede the story of Beren and Lúthien featured in Finrod Zong. It's simplified and not entirely accurate in places, but will hopefully do its job.

Relevant characters:

Finrod, King of Nargothrond

Galadriel, his sister

Amarië, his lost love

Celegorm, his older half-cousin

Curufin, his younger half-cousin

Sauron, lieutenant of Morgoth, the Enemy

Lúthien, an elf princess

Beren, a mortal man

Thingol, King of Doriath, Lúthien's father

Melian, Queen of Doriath, Lúthien's mother

mentioned: Fëanor, the Silmarils, Morgoth, Barahir's Ring

Map:

In the early days of Tolkien's world Arda, all elves lived in Middle-Earth. Some were persuaded by the Valar (the 'Gods') to cross the sea and move to their own rich and bountiful land, Valinor. Others, including Thingol, stayed behind in Beleriand, a region of Middle-Earth. Thingol founded the kingdom of Doriath, married Melian, a Maia (a 'lesser God'), and the two of them had Lúthien, who grew up to be the most beautiful and powerful elf in the world.

Meanwhile in Valinor, the 'mad scientist' Fëanor created three exceptionally beautiful gems, the Silmarils. He had seven sons, two of which are Celegorm and Curufin. Fëanor's younger half-brothers had children as well, making Finrod and Galadriel half-cousins to the two Cs. However, the time of peace suddendly came to an end when Morgoth, the Enemy, stole the three Silmarils and killed Fëanor's father. Enraged by the Valar's inaction, Fëanor decided to claim his gems back himself and headed towards the sea, but was met by resistance from the elves living there, who were unwilling to yield their ships to Fëanor. In a rage, Fëanor, his sons, and their followers killed several of those elves (the First Kinslaying), stole the ships, and sailed to Middle-Earth. Upon arrival there, he burned the ships, forsaking his promises to his extended family. Those who had followed Fëanor to the shore, but had not taken part in the Kinslaying, including Finrod and Galadriel, had no other option but to turn North and cross the Helcaraxë (the Grinding Ice) to reach Middle-Earth as well. In leaving Valinor and the Valar behind, Finrod had to let go of his beloved Amarië, who chose to stay behind. All elves who decided to leave Valinor were banned from returning. Fëanor's betrayal and the Kinslaying created tensions within his family, which were never fully overcome.

Fëanor (who dies in battle not long after reaching Beleriand) and his sons are constantly driven by the Oath of Fëanor, which compels them to reclaim the Silmarils and pursue Morgoth as well as anyone else who tries to get between the Silmarils and their rightful possessors. This Oath is the prime motivation for Celegorm and Curufin in Finrod Zong.

As the elves from Valinor settled in Beleriand, Finrod founded Nargothrond, Galadriel stayed in Doriath in close proximity, and the Sons of Fëanor lived in the Northern parts. Several hundred years later, the Fëanorian strongholds were largely overrun as a result of a major battle, and Finrod agreed to let Celegorm and Curufin stay in Nargothrond with him. During that same battle, Finrod was saved last minute by a mortal man called Barahir, whom he promised friendship and gave a ring as a token of a favour owed.

This is were the events of the rock opera begin:

A few years later, Barahir's son Beren, exhausted from his journeys and on the run from Morgoth's servants, stumbles into Doriath, where he meets Lúthien. The two fall in love. Thingol, however, doesn't want his daughter to marry a mere mortal, and sends Beren off to claim a Silmaril from Morgoth - a quest that's very likely to kill Beren and solve the 'problem.' Beren remembers Finrod's vow to his father and leaves for Nargothrond to ask Finrod to raise an army and join him in his endeavour. When C&C hear of this, they remind Finrod of their Oath and dissuade Finrod's people from following their king. Finrod, however, remembers his own love for Amarië as well as his promise to Beren's father, and decides that at least one of them should be able to fulfill the song of love. He casts down his crown and leaves with Beren and a handful of his most loyal subjects. Soon after setting out, they are captured by Sauron, Morgoth's lieutenant, in Tol-in-Gaurhoth. Finrod doesn't reveal their identities and fights Sauron with songs of power, but loses. He and Beren await their end in Sauron's prison.

Meanwhile, Thingol sets out from Doriath and offers C&C (specifically Celegorm since Curufin is married) his daughter's hand in marriage as well as the crown of Nargothrond. Melian scolds him for this, reminding him that there is but one true love, as he himself should know.

Lúthien escapes from Doriath and arrives at Nargothrond, where she is taken captive by Celegorm and Curufin. When she's unwilling to give up, they resolve to let her go. She even manages to arrive at Sauron's tower in time to save Beren and frees him both by defeating Sauron. Beren is the only one of the prisoners still alive - Finrod had sacrificed himself to save Beren mere moments prior to her arrival.

After the events of the rock opera:

Beren and Lúthien make it to Morgoth's stronghold. Lúthien enchants Morgoth while Beren cuts a Silmaril from his crown. They flee back to Doriath, but Beren is mortally wounded and dies. Stricken by grief, Lúthien fades and joins Beren in death. Once again, she puts forth her great power and appeals to Mandos (the 'God of the Dead') to release them. Moved by her beauty and the powerful song, he grants them both another life - as mortals. They live happily ever after and have a son, Dior, who would succeed Thingol as King of Doriath.

Celegorm and Curufin as cast out of Nargothrond, and Finrod's nephew Orodreth takes up the crown.

After his death in Sauron's tower Tol-in-Gaurhoth, Finrod is re-embodied fairly quickly in Valinor and reunited with Amarië.

Galadriel as the one to narrate both the prologue and the epilogue outlives them all by millenia and returns to Valinor only once she is allowed to after the destruction of the One Ring and the final defeat of Sauron.

#emeraldstreams #finrod zong #finrod rock opera #emeraldposts

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aipilosse · 3 years

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What Brings Us Together

oh ho ho, new long fic just in time for @feanorianweek. And, um, it's going to be silvergifting. And, um, it is very Galadriel heavy. But Nerdanel features prominently in chapter one, so I think it's still kind of on theme for today.

Rating: Will eventually be M for torture and eventual sex (I hope), but the prologue and first few chapters are definitely G.

Summary: As various members of the House of Finwë prepare for the wedding of the yén, Galadriel rides to Nerdanel's house to start a project of her own. Many other guests are arriving as well, some of them quite unexpected.

Prologue:

To many, Aman may seem as far west as west can be. It is named the Uttermost West after all. This is not entirely accurate however; a very few can go farther west still. Past the Halls of Mandos, where the dead wait (and wait and wait). Past the Halls of Nienna, where all the tears of the world flow in silvery falls to stream into dark pools. Past the Walls of the World, abandoned and crumbling, now that Aman is peeled off the globe. Past the Ekkaia, more memory now than actual sea, which goes from blinding light to deepest night in an instant as the Lights of the Sky sail quickly past.

Here many of the Valar fear to tread. Here the fabric of the world is weak, and there are nameless things gnawing around the edges, waiting for their chance to devour. A few who are very powerful, very bold, very foolish, or perhaps a mix of all three, know that as far west as west can be there is a door.. It is black and huge — although size is a tricky thing to judge at the margins of the world; even únat seems slippery here.

There is a ceaseless Guard on the door. Over the years the Guard has grown. Dark pillars, ever watchful, hedge around the door. The only sound is the memory of waves and a click click click sound from within the pillars. The Guard does not sleep, they cannot sleep, and each moment stretches to its breaking point.

Some say there should be a guard on the Guards. Great woe would befall the world should their guard cease, or should one slip away. The question of who would guard the Guards is never satisfactorily answered though. Eärendil, sailing along the edge of darkness with his Silmaril and his sword always glances down to make sure that all is as it should be, but that is only once a day. From his ship, he cannot hear the noises coming from inside the pillars.

As far west as west can be there is a Door, and it is guarded. The world is empty that far west, so there is no one to note that there’s one less thing going click click click .

Continue to Chapter One, where it's a lovely morning in Valinor, and you are a horrible goose an elven lady, wise and fair.

#silvergifting #celebrimbor #sauron #annatar #eventually #galadriel #my writing #nerdanel #feanorianweek #fourth age #valinor #silmarillion #lotr

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growingstrong-imagines · 5 years

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Kissed by Fire // Prologue

Summary: What happens when the Queen kissed by Ice needs to turn to the Queen kissed by Fire in desperate times? Will the visit of the Dragon Queen cause unintentional anger and even unexpected feelings in the Northern Realm? People aren’t joking when they say opposites attract.

She was marching down the hallways with the heels of her slightly uncomfortable boots hitting the floor loudly. Her head was held high up; she had learnt throughout the years that it was probably the number one rule a real Queen had to follow. The simple crown of metal and diamonds made her neck ache but she couldn’t care less about the pain- she had an important thing to execute. Or more accurately, someone to execute.

The Queen in the North had always shown mercy where she was able to and wasn’t quick to judge, because she knew that her people were humans with human mistakes- but it was different this time. When she had found out that one of her mercenaries were also getting paid by Cersei Lannister, Lyarra Stark didn’t hesitate to throw him in one of the cold cells of Winterfell with the strong wind blowing huge amounts of snow in the small window, making the traitor shiver night and day. She even heard him plead every time her path around the castle led her to the cells and she really had to stay strong not to change her mind on the subject.

Lyarra was followed by her most trusted knight Sandor Clegane to the marcenary’s cell where she looked deep into those light green eyes of the man. My father had always said ‘never trust the green-eyed’.

“The day has came. The day where you re-earn your freedom,” she said in a low voice, making the man who’d turned into a skeleton during the weeks stand up in excitement. Little did he know that the Queen wasn’t willing to let him stay alive. “Quite ironic, that you were sent here to kill me and you’re also the one who gets killed in the end. You know what people in Essos say? Valar Morghulis. All men must die, my friend. Who’s the man here?”

Lyarra looked at him with a serious expression on her face, not willing to break right now. She saw the fear in his eyes and as shameful as it might be, the Queen was entertained by it- she loved filling men around her with the fear of God. She turned to the knight standing behind her and without even blinking once, she sentenced the man to death.

“Bring my sword, Ser Sandor. Let us take his head.”

Lyarra looked around in the court of Winterfell while her men forced the traitor mercenary on his knees before her people and the army of the Dragon Queen. Daenerys was watching the scene from a respectful distance, admiring the emotional and physical strength the Queen in the North had. It was one thing to watch her dragons burn people and another to behead someone with a sword almost heavier than the woman herself with the possibility of the strike not being powerful enough to end the suffering quickly. She had heard about the Queen’s accomplishments in battles and she had always listened to the stories with admiration in her eyes. And all of a sudden, she was standing only a few feet away from her and watching her beheading a traitor.

Lyarra lowered her head to look at the man before getting her sword.

“Any last words?” She asked with obvious hatred in her voice. She wasn’t interested in what the man had to say, but she knew she needed to stay respectful towards the Northern traditions and especially her father.

“A slut will never be a real Queen,” the man spitted out, increasing Lyarra’s anger and hatred towards him. She decided not to wait any longer- she pulled out her sword, lifted it up in the air and let a tear flow down her face with the deadly strike making the man’s wrinkled head roll on the ground.

Daenerys would never forget the white snow stained by the traitor’s blood.

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elesianne · 4 years

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A Silmarillion fanfic, chapter two

Story summary: Through all the struggles and triumphs of the Noldor, Angrod and Edhellos hold on to their love and their faith in each other.

Despite the title, there is more than romance in this fic.

Length: ~2,000 words; Rating: Teenage audiences

Some keywords for the whole fic: romance, family, some fluff and angst, mild sexual content, the Noldor and their fall and their triumphs, canon compliant

AO3 link (first chapter here)

Chapter II // The high princes of the Noldor

The Noldor advanced ever in skill and knowledge; and the long years were filled with their joyful labours, in which many new things fair and wonderful were devised.’ – The Silmarillion: Of Fëanor and the Unchaining of Melkor

‘Melkor would often walk among them, and amid his fair words others were woven, so subtly that many who heard them believed in recollection that they arose from their own thought. Visions he would conjure in their hearts of the mighty realms that they could have ruled at their own will, in power and freedom in the East[—]

High princes were Fëanor and Fingolfin, the elder sons of Finwë, honoured by all in Aman; but now they grew proud and jealous each of his rights and his possessions.’ – The Silmarillion: Of the Silmarils and the Unrest of the Noldor

Eldalótë has gold dust on her fingers at the end of some work days, and Angaráto washes away soot from his every evening. She is a gilder, he a blacksmith; neither are as fine royal crafts as those that many in the house of Finwë pursue, but they suit Eldalótë and Angaráto well.

Gold leaf is fragile, and painstaking to apply. It is precious and valuable, too, and a mistakes are literally costly.

But the end result is always so beautiful, and once Eldalótë has mastered the techniques, she often falls into an almost trance-like state as she works.

Some of Angaráto’s extended family look down on her craft because she does not herself create the objects she gilds, but she does not mind working on the art of other’s hands. She loves bringing it to a new height of beauty by emphasising all or some of it by a gleaming layer of finest gold.

She only works as a gilder a day or two a week after she marries, but her mother-in-law arranges a worktable for her at a gilders’ workshop in Alqualondë, too, so she doesn’t have to forsake her craft even when she and Angaráto are there.

Angaráto would go mad with work like hers, he tells her. He loves having something to expend some of his strength and energy on.

‘And having to hit metal accurately forces me to focus’, he explains to her when they are young and each apprentices in their respective crafts. 'I have to work myself into the right shape to work the metal.’

She understands then that it is not that different from the state she finds herself falling into when her work goes well though she works with whisper-thin, temperamental gold and he with stubborn iron and steel.

'Which came first, your interest in blacksmithing or your epessë, Angamaitë?’ She asks him once, when they are still young and unmarried. Her beloved is nicknamed iron-handed.

She has some strength in her for she is a craftswoman after all, and loves riding her spirited mare far and fast, but nothing like he has his in his arms and his large hands. Some of it is all his own as if an extension of his spirit, and some from learning his craft.

They lie on their backs under a flowering tree in her family’s garden, and the stern and watchful eyes of her grandmother sewing under the next tree.

'The name. Findaráto gave it to me, Angaráto replies. He sneaks a quick touch of his hand to hers in the not-long-enough grass. Eldalótë can feel her grandmother’s disapproving gaze, though there is no scolding yet. 'It gave me the idea to perhaps become a blacksmith. I didn’t have any particular passion from a very small child like some do.’

'Like Findaráto and his passion for shaping stone.’ Eldalótë’s eyes follow a bee busily toiling in the blossoms above them while she remains aware of Angaráto constantly almost-touching her.

'Or cousin Makalaurë and his songs. I heard uncle Fëanáro once say that he sang before he could speak.’ Angaráto snorts. 'Artanis makes all sorts of noises. Some of them could perhaps be counted as singing, I suppose. All of them are too loud.’

'She is a very sweet child’, Eldalótë defends. She stares at the yellow blossoms and dreams of golden-haired babies.

Angaráto snorts again. 'In looks, perhaps. Not otherwise! My parents have their hands full with her. But Aikanáro became a very decent friend once he grew out of babyhood. I dare hope that little sisters do the same.’

There are only a few peaceful years following their marriage. As if out of nowhere, but also arising gradually like a weed growing toward the light, the peaceful if driven existence of the Noldor is poisoned by unrest and strife. Arafinwë and Eärwen and all of their children spend even more time among the Falmari than before, preferring the untroubled atmosphere of Alqualondë.

Angaráto and Aikanáro are the only ones in the family who would sometimes prefer to stay and take sides in the debates and arguments. Angaráto has a few heated discussions with his father about it, as heated as anyone can have with Arafinwë. The end result is, every time, that Arafinwë does not force Angaráto to come to Alqualondë but states that he would prefer it. Angaráto always bows to his father’s preference and wisdom eventually, after some grumbling.

(Eldalótë once overhears his father-in-law ask Angaráto, as another prong in his argument, 'Would Eldalótë not also prefer to come to Alqualondë?’

Angaráto admits that probably she does, and in that he is right. Her own family is in Tirion, but they are growing quarrelsome too, asking for her opinions on Fëanáro and Nolofinwë as someone who knows both better than they do. She does not want to take part in those family quarrels, though she is, because of Angaráto’s close friendships, closer to the house of Nolofinwë than Fëanáro.)

She is glad when Angaráto always brings them to Alqualondë in the end. The salty-fresh air, the sheen of pearls and shells all around, the ships coming to harbour in the evening – they come to represent freedom from argument-created anxiety for her.

Even in Alqualondë though, there is no cessation in young Artanis’ ponderings of what the land on the other side of the wide sea is like, and how it would be to rule realms there. Arafinwë and Eärwen look uneasy at this, but Findaráto encourages it.

Artanis asks their grandfather Olwë, once, when Findekáno is visiting with them. Eldalótë is there in Olwë’s hall that night and listens with them as the king of the Falmari describes the starlit land he knew as plagued by danger and hardship.

It doesn’t put out the fire in Artanis and Findekáno’s eyes and, Eldalótë notes with discomfort, her own husband and Aikanáro also lean forward as they listen intently.

Their son is born is Alqualondë on a windy night, the curtains in Eldalótë’s bedchamber’s windows fluttering and swaying like the wings of seabirds.

Their child is small enough as newborn that Angaráto can hold him on just one of his large hands. Eldalótë watches, too tired to even speak yet filled with incandescent joy, as father gets to know son. Angaráto appears lost for words. He touches the baby’s tiny fingers, tiny toes, perfect ears, tuft of dark golden hair. Their son stares back at him with unblinking eyes as blue as cornflowers in the heart of summer, or so Eldalótë would describe them if she were writing a poem.

Eldalótë smiles as she falls quietly into rest.

Artaresto is the first child of a new generation born into the third house of the Noldor, and he is cherished by all of them. Findaráto adores him even though Artaresto has a particular penchant for Findaráto’s fine, colourful clothes and especially for burping on them. Findaráto only grins and praises him for his evident appetite.

When his older brother once again comes to Eldalótë and Angaráto’s rooms with the flimsy excuse of bringing the baby yet more unnecessary gifts, Angaráto says to him drily, 'You should court your own sweetheart at a pace faster than glacial so you might have little ones of your own to spoil before ours is grown tall.’

'I don’t think I shall’, Findaráto replies as if one half in sleep, or some other vision, even while he tickles Artaresto’s sweet little belly.

Angaráto looks unnerved, and looks at Eldalótë. She can offer him no explanation or consolation. They are both left worried when Findaráto leaves, whistling his way down the corridor.

Eldalótë grieves it when Angaráto begins using the strength in his arms and hands and spirit to forge instruments of protection, and of killing too. Of late, every man of means and many of the women, too, seem to be sporting a shield as they go about their business in Tirion, as if it had become a compulsory part of dress. Angaráto and Aikanáro and Findaráto believe that swords are necessary to make and learn to wield as well. She supposes that they must, if there is any danger, and recently a threat seems to be hanging above everyone’s heads.

She gilds the pommels of her husband and Aikanáro’s swords though she finds the new weapons almost as unpleasant as the barely-named threats. There have been no such weapons in Aman ever before: not meant for hunting or sport, but for something else.

Her aversion to violence only strengthens the enchantment of strength and staying that she sings through the fine gold into the unforgiving steel of the swords.

She gilds the device of her father-in-law on their shields too. From the shields’ centre of orange sapphires radiate golden rays of light which she enchants to deflect blows away from her loved ones.

She prays to the Valar whom she, too, doubts of late that the blades and shields will not be needed.

One day Angaráto tells her to start practising archery again. She was a keen archer growing up and even won a few competitions, but her bow has lain untouched most of the time since Artaresto was born.

Eldalótë asks him why she should take it up again. 'For the same reason I have forged few things other than swords for a while now’, he replies, face grim.

So she asks Findekáno whether she can join him in his practice, and asks him to help her teach Artaresto too – for Angaráto is not much of an archer, and Findekáno who is his close friend as well as cousin is a famed one. Elenwë and young Idril join them too, and Artaresto enjoys practising together with his cousin on their small bows. Their mothers find it more difficult to enjoy, knowing as they do that the training has possible motives other than competitions or hunting.

One evening after Eldalótë returns from practice Angaráto gives her a pair of daggers, beautiful but so wickedly sharp that she cannot rejoice in them.

'I do not need more weapons as a gift for remastering one’, she tells him.

He buries his face in her hair and she strokes his gently. It is sweaty from his own arms practice.

'Let’s take a bath together’, she suggests.

In their bed she asks him to hold her close and prove to her that his fingers on her skin are as gentle as ever though they forge and wield weapons now whose bright steel gleams with a lethal purpose.

'The world is shifting, I can feel it, and shall never be what it has been’, she says. 'I need to know that you are still here with me, that I can be certain of you if nothing else.’

'Always’, Angaráto swears. 'I am always here and yours.’

He touches and holds and fills her just the way she enjoys, familiar and exciting at the same time. He is as gentle and as rough as she likes, and the only hurt here in their bed is pain which is asked for and intertwined with pleasure.

'You have shining eyes, my flower’, Angaráto rumbles when they lie cooling down side by side looking at each other. 'I dare not ask whether from tears or better feelings.’

'Not all tears are evil.’ She lifts messy strands of hair away from his face; he grasps her wrist and kisses it. 'My tears for you have never been for anything but joy’, she tells him.

'We shall have peace for a while’, Eldalótë says to Angaráto, relieved when Fëanáro is exiled from Tirion for breaking the peace of Valinor by drawing a sword on his brother.

'Yet the king, by leaving Tirion with the guilty party, has soured the justice given to my uncle’, Angaráto replies with bitterness. She has never heard him speak of his grandfather so harshly.

Whenever he leaves the house, he still carries his shield. The shield is almost the height of her shoulders, taller than Artaresto, and it has sharp edges.

A/N: Next chapter on Sunday.

#in this chapter: *the noldor intensify*#so give this a chance even if you're not one for romance especially #silmarillion fanfiction #tolkien fanfiction #angrod #angrod's wife #edhellos #eldalotë #eldalótë #my fics #everbeloved #elesianne's fics

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entishramblings · 1 year

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The Innocence of Brutality Pt. 5 [Legolas/F!Reader]

A.N: so I originally was going to end this fic at pt. 4, but somehow everyone loved it?? so we are continuing. i hope you enjoy! Also it gets the tiniest bit heated 🌶

Request: none

Pairing: Legolas X Fem!Reader

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

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

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: nudity (not sex), mentions of war, mentions of torture, violence, fluff

MASTERLIST | AO3 | WATTPAD

The Innocence of Brutality Masterlist

The gentle rays of the morning sun, dancing with a pink and orange hue, crept through the glass of the shitty window of the inn. The light fractured and bent from the cracks that shattered through it, creating rainbows across the room. These little clusters of colorful light dashed across the wooden walls and flooring, and filtered across Legolas skin. This (Y/N) found fascinating.

(Y/N), the first awake, stayed curled into the elf’s side, tracing the rainbows that stretched upon his bare chest. She too was wrapped under the covers, her clothing twisted around her body, but she didn’t seem to mind. She was focused on the different bursts of light that twinkled upon Legolas’ form.

At this repetitive gentle touch, he opened his blue eyes.

“(Y/N),” he stated roughly, for he was rather groggy, as he gently rubbed her back.

“What are these colors?” she asked abruptly, not picking up on the rather gentle and soft demeanor Legolas preferred to take at this hour.

He frowned, glancing down at his skin. A little smile then crossed his face, for he realized what she had meant. “Rainbows,” he replied. Legolas pointed at the window. “The light coming through the glass creates them. It is said that rainbows are messages from the Valar, wishing us well as the sun rises and sets.”

She frowned. She didn’t seem to like the Valar.

With that, she rolled away from him and stood from the bed, the sheets falling back down onto Legolas like that of a wave collapsing into the sea.

He sighed at the loss of contact, for he wished she had stayed curled against him.

(Y/N), however, didn't seem to notice. She just walked around the room, absorbing the decoration of light that it now wore.

“We should find the others,” Legolas began. “They will want to leave as soon as—”

A brisk knock sounded upon the wooden door and the creator of such a sound didn’t stop to wait for an answer. “Laddie!” Gimli called as he threw open the door. “Have ya seen the girl?! Aragorn says she left sometime in the night…” His voice trailed off when he noticed her in the room, tracing the colorful hues that swirled upon the walls. “Well, uh, nevermind then.”

Gimli turned to look back at the elf, his expression one of playful accusatory.

Legolas instantly shut that down. “She came to wake me this morning.”

(Y/N)’s brows pulled downward as she heard his untruthful words, but she did not move to say anything about it.

“Ahh,” was Gimli’s short reply. “Well, both of ye hurry up. We wanna be out of here before the rest of the town opens their measly lids.”

The elf only nodded, throwing the covers back and rising from the bed.

Satisfied that his friend wasn’t going to go back to sleep, Gimli left—slamming the door as he did so.

The winged woman didn’t turn, instead she, still captivated, continued to study the colors.

Therefore, Legolas decided that it was alright to change from his sleep trousers and into his traveling clothes. With dismay, he peeled them off and began re-dressing quickly. This would be one of the few times that he would get the chance to sleep in such comforts, for once they were on the road he knew it was unlikely that they would stop again. Regardless, he was quick to finish up, for he didn’t want another member of the fellowship to burst in. He didn't want them asking any questions.

As he slung his bow over his shoulder, he spoke. “(Y/N).”

She didn't answer—her curious eyes still stuck to the damn rainbows like sap would adhere to a tree.

“(Y/N),” he called again, a little harsher.

This time, she turned to look at him.

“Come on.”

With that, she followed him from the room.

As the fellowship started their trek through the rough terrain once again, many different moods hung in the air. The hobbits were refreshed and lively, talking of the food they ate and the rest they had. It seemed the night at the inn served them well. Gimli and Boromir were in high spirits too, chiming in on the hobbits’ conversation. Even Gandalf seemed happier as he spoke with Aragorn about navigation. Legolas, on the other hand was silent.

The elven Prince hung in the back, his eyes locked onto the winged warrior that walked with the hobbits. His mind swirled with thoughts as anxieties crept deep into the dark corners of his mind and his heart hung heavy with guilt. He feared that he somehow had taken advantage of (Y/N). Although they had only kissed, he felt as if they shouldn’t have—despite what his heart desired. She was still very much so unaware of this world and the ways of its people. She was still learning and figuring out how to navigate such a treacherous existence. (Y/N) was so innocent and uneducated, he didn't want to pressure her into anything—including a relationship with him. Valar—Did she even know what a relationship was? Were they even in one? The last thing he would want to do was manipulate her with the hope and cravings of his heart when he wasn't entirely sure she knew how hearts worked. Still, his spirit yearned to hold hers—to keep hers safe. Legolas kept reminding himself that she was the one who initiated the kiss. (Y/N) had been the one to climb on top of him and grab onto his face. She had been the one to press her lips upon his own and melt his mind into nothing but thoughts of her. Besides, she had shown him that she knew what love was. She had admitted to those emotions with her words of Morgoth and desire to be free of him, yet still choosing risk instead—risk for Legolas. Not to mention, a third factor filled his system with concern: the fellowship. They were on a quest—the most important mission to ever take place upon middle earth. Would his devotion to (Y/N) be detrimental? Would his friends approve of the woman that most were still wary of? Gandalf most certainly would not. And he was pretty sure Boromir wouldn’t either, for the man’s less than appropriate words spoken when they first met the Rámaite Mahtar drifted in his thoughts. If they knew how quickly he would surrender everything for her, would they still want his help? Furthermore, Gandalf’s words of unease still lingered in his mind. (Y/N) has been described as the most ruthless and brutal of the Rámaite Mahtar. Although she did not seem it most times, he knew she was dangerous. All of this, well—he knew not what would become of him and he feared it was too late. The damage had already been done. But now? Now he was addicted to her. He couldn’t bear to not be woven into her soul. Maybe he should never have crawled into that crater? This persistent war raged on within the elf’s mind—dark, lonely, and full of an aching pain.

“Legolas,” a feminine voice stated as fingers smaller than his own slipped into his palm.

The elf blinked a couple times, turning to look at (Y/N). He had not realized she had come to walk with him. He let his hand slip away from hers as he spoke. “Yes?”

“The rainbows,” she began as she pointed to the sky. “One is here.”

Legolas looked up and, sure enough, the vibrant hues hung upon the clear blue—stretching like that of a smile. He couldn’t help but mirror it for a moment as he glanced at the gleeful woman beside him. “That it is.”

She grinned.

…

As the days went on, Legolas tried to keep his distance from (Y/N). The war in his mind still persisted for he knew not what the right decision would be. Yet still, this distance was hard to control. Every ounce of him wanted to embrace her. He wanted to wrap his strong arms around her form and hold her to his chest. He wanted to pull her away from the brewing war and away from her past. He wanted to teach her more of their world. He wanted to keep her safe. He wanted to love her. But the nine pairs of watchful eyes that flickered around him made him hold his desires at bay. (Y/N), however, didn’t make it easy to do so.

Legolas was acutely aware that one thing she seemed to love was his attention. She was always beside him—tugging on his arm, pulling on his hand, and yanking on his form. Her persistence always came with a smile and excitement. She was simply happy. She was happy to learn. She was happy to explore. She was happy to experience. The weight of the mission didn't seem to bring her spirits down, though Legolas assumed it was because she didn't entirely understand how much responsibility they held. If they failed, the world would burn. There would be no more birds, no more fish, no more rainbows. But still, (Y/N) just wanted to live and be free.

As they began to set up camp, (Y/N) came bouncing towards the Prince. “Legolas!”

He glanced up from his bag. He had been rummaging in it, looking for his notebook, before he was to help with the preparations.

“Yes, (Y/N)?” he asked.

She took a couple steps forward, her hands raking up his chest and on their way to grasp his face.

Slightly alarmed by her very public affections, Legolas quickly ducked away from them.

“Perhaps, you would like to help Sam with the cooking? He stated. “I am sure he could use an extra pair of hands.”

She frowned, not liking his very blatant avoidance of her touch. Still she responded to his statement. “Sam need help?”

Legolas nodded towards the hobbit. “I’m afraid Merry and Pippin are haggling him for some of the uncooked food.”

Instantly, (Y/N) whipped her head to look at them. Sure enough, the two greedy hobbits were all over Sam who was desperately trying to keep them at bay so he could work. Her brows pulled downwards. “Hobbits!” she gruffed out. She then marched towards them. (Y/N) easily lifted the two menaces away from Sam by grasping their upper arms. Despite their surprised protests, they were raised a couple feet into the air and plopped down out of the way. She then sat beside Sam, tucking her legs underneath herself. She started speaking to him, pointing to things and asking him questions. The hobbit answered her freely and even passed her a knife and begin to teach her how to chop potatoes. She was then on task, focusing on learning—Legolas’ lacking affections seemingly gone from her mind.

As Legolas turned away from the scene, Aragorn’s gaze caught his own. The Ranger sent him a funny look. One that told the Prince that his friend indeed witnessed the strange interaction between Legolas and the Rámaite Mahtar—and Aragorn didn't know what to think of it.

Legolas, however, turned away, ignoring his friend’s curious and questioning gaze.

As the night continued and the group ate and began to settle around the fire, they soon needed more wood to burn. Legolas was the one who took initiative.

“I shall fetch more firewood,” he stated plainly. “The nights are beginning to get colder so we may have to keep it stoked throughout the night.”

Aragorn only nodded in agreement.

(Y/N), however, stood up as well. “Help, yes?”

Legolas shrugged and spoke nonchalantly. “It is not necessary.”

“I shall help anyways,” she replied simply as she moved past him into the woods.

Legolas released a quiet breath through his nostrils, but followed her into the trees nonetheless.

Before the Prince even held one stick in his hand, (Y/N) invaded his personal space. The Rámaite Mahtar grabbed at his tunic and yanked him towards herself. Her lips pressed upon his own and she folded her body into his. The kiss, however, did not last long for Legolas pulled away. “Wait, wait, (Y/N).”

She frowned, looking up at him with her pouty lips. Valar—he loved those lips.

Legolas swallowed dryly.

“What wrong?” she asked, grabbing for a lock of his hair.

He pulled her hand from it as he corrected her gently. “What is wrong.”

She nodded. “What is wrong?” she asked again.

Legolas sighed. “I do not think we should be so prominent with our affections, (Y/N), especially around the others.”

The winged woman frowned, not entirely understanding.

“I do not think we should kiss when we are around our friends.”

She tilted her head slightly. “But I like kisses.”

He smiled lightly at that. “Yes, I know.” He then released another long breath, taking her hand in his own. “I just do not think it is appropriate to do such things in-front of others, especially because I am unsure if they would approve of our affections for each other.”

(Y/N)’s lips twitched, irritated, as she pulled her hands from his. “Other people kiss in-front of others. At the town.”

At this, Legolas frowned. Ah, so that is where she learned it. He now guessed that she had witnessed a prostitute and a customer. It would explain the highly sexual way she had approached him and sat upon his lap. Although, he was unsure how to explain such a concept to her. He didn't think, at this moment in time, it would be appropriate to teach her of such things. But he still knew he needed to describe to her what he meant by his words, in as simple terms as possible.

“(Y/N),” he began, thinking of how he was to word such a thing. “It makes me uncomfortable to do such actions in-front of our friends. In my culture, the elvish culture, such behaviors are kept a bit more private.”

She nodded, processing the information he told her. “But in Strider and Boromir’s…culture it is...Ahh. More–more normal?” she asked.

Legolas nodded. “Yes. Humans tend to be more public with their affections. I just do not think I am accustomed to that quite yet. And I…” he paused. “And I am unsure they would approve of us.”

At that, (Y/N)’s untamed, curious, (e/c) eyes gazed up at him. He knew she was trying to figure out what he meant by such a statement.

“You think they would not like us sharing affections?” she clarified.

Given her emphasis on the word ‘us’ Legolas knew she understood that he meant them specifically. The Prince bobbed his head, showing her that she did indeed guess the correct answer.

Her brows pulled down as obvious worry settled in. Her voice seemed to waver. “You think they would be…angry?”

Legolas cursed himself. He could guess what her mind associated with the word ‘anger,’ for her only true first-hand experience with such a thing was with Morgoth. “Perhaps not ‘angry’ but upset?” he furthered.

(Y/N) released a breath, kicking at the ground. “Because of me?”

Legolas’ face softened at that as guilt hung in his heart. She could tell. She could pick up on the wariness that still hung in the group. He wanted to tell her ‘no.’ He wanted to say it had nothing to do with her, but he knew he couldn’t lie. Lying would only make things worse and diminish all the progress she had made in learning the behavior of this world.

“They just are still getting comfortable with you. They don't know you well and the stories of your race have been…unsettling. I suppose they just need more time.”

(Y/N) nodded sadly. She understood and she accepted it. Still, that dejected look of hers broke Legolas’ heart and scattered it to the edges of the word. Valar—seeing her sad. He couldn’t handle it.

The Prince reached forward, cupping her cheek in his hand. “All will be well,” he whispered. “Just give it time.”

Those vibrant eyes of hers drifted up to his.

By Eru—

Legolas couldn’t stop himself. He ducked his head to reach her lips with his own and his mouth begged hers to settle his desires. (Y/N) instantly responded to the notion, for it was what she had wanted all along. She let herself move in time with him. Their mouths melded together into one union and their bodies flushed together as well. At first it was softer, still persistent, but contained. However, that changed as soon as (Y/N) began nipping and tugging on his bottom lip. She pushed Legolas’ back up against the tree with a bit of an aggressive force as she became more hungry and desperate for his touch. Silenced by his thoughts, he complied and met her with just as much passion. Legolas weaved his arms around her, his hands grabbing at her hips. He continued to snake them upon her body, trailing along her sides and upon her back. As his hands brushed over her shoulder blades, however, she abruptly pulled herself away from him.

A foot of space now hung between them as she stared at him with wide eyes and parted lips.

“(Y/N),” he stated simply, worried for he feared that maybe they had gotten too enthralled in the moment.

“My wings,” she whispered.

Concerned, Legolas pushed himself from the bark of the tree. “Is something wrong? Do you feel pain?”

She paused, her eyes focusing on the ground as her mind obviously turned and twisted. “No,” she began. “No pain. Just–just strange.”

He gently placed a hand upon her shoulder. “Do you want me to take a look? To check and make sure everything is alright?”

Slowly, she shook her head. “No. It is gone.”

The Prince moved his hand to her face and gently stroked her cheek. “If it happens again, you will tell me, yes? And I can examine them to make sure nothing is wrong?”

(Y/N) nodded her head in agreement.

“Alright,” he stated. He sighed, looking around at the forest. “We should probably gather some wood and head back.”

The Rámaite Mahtar bobbed her head in agreement. The pair then moved to gather wood—(Y/N) shifting her legs a bit as some dampness persisted between them.

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entishramblings · 3 years

Text

It’s Not That Bad [Legolas X Reader]

A.N: I’m so sorry I have not been writing as often. I’ve had zero time. But anyWaYS...here is a fic that has been requested by someone who has always been into my writing so thank you for supporting me and here is a fic for you! Additionally, I did some research on herbs and stuff so I could make this at least a little accurate!

Request: @quilledinkpen — Hellooo i hope you're having a good day ^-^ I was wondering if I could request a Legolas x reader? Something like she's travelling with the fellowship and is kinda the unspoken "mom" of the group, like she's always doing her best to make sure everyone's safe, and reminding Pippin and Merry to be careful and stuff like that. Just an all-around motherly person lol (mainly to the Hobbits bc they're her babies but she looks after the other guys too) I think it'd be cute ^^ Thank you!

Pairing: Legolas X Reader

Summary: (Y/N), a healer, travels with the fellowship. She takes care of everyone and is basically “the mom friend.”

Word Count: 2, 510

Warnings: battle wounds that are kinda graphicish?

(gif not mine)

MASTERLIST

(Y/N) was a well known healer throughout all of Arda. Many traveled to her for treatment for life threatening ailments. But now, now it was her time to travel throughout the lands of Middle Earth in search of a salvation for all. A gruesome quest to destroy the evil ring of power had begun and someone well versed in natural apothecary was needed. (Y/N), of course, volunteered for this role for there was no one better suited than her. Besides, it was her duty to contribute to the survival of this world as she was one in it and relied heavily on what the earth produced. And if Sauron was to rule.....well, we all know where that would lead: no earth, no life, just darkness.

(Y/N) ruffled through her dark-brown leather satchel as she sifted through her healing herbs. Little pouches filled with athelas leaves, echinacea stalks, alder bark, valerian roots, and more piled inside the confinements of the fabric.

“Sam,” She called out. “Would you mind making hot tea for Frodo while I take care of Strider’s cut?”

The little hobbit ran over instantly and she passed him a couple pouches naming each one out loud, “Valerian root, dried chamomile pedals, and sycamore bark.” She then lowered her voice and leaned it, for it wasn’t anyone else’s business to hear. “It will help him sleep and deter the anxieties the ring bestows upon him.”

Sam nodded quickly and set to work as (Y/N) moved towards Aragorn who sat upon a large rock.

“Let me have a look.”

The dunedain rolled his eyes, “(Y/N), it is not that bad. Just a scratch.”

The young women sighed in annoyance and pulled up his sleeve to reveal a slash across his bicep. He was right—to an extent—it wasn’t terrible. He would not need stitches. However, it did need to be cleaned and wrapped for infections were nasty things.

(Y/N) started by pouring some alcohol over the wound; receiving a harsh hiss from the dunedain in response. She muttered a quick apology before continuing. The young woman ground athelas leaves into a fine paste and expertly smeared it onto the cut. She then unrolled gauze and placed it upon the wound. Lastly, she pulled white dressings from her satchel. She gingerly wrapped it around his arm, yet she was careful to still pull it taught as the goal was to keep the athelas paste in and bacteria out.

She stood up and brushed her hands off before placing them firmly on her hips. “See Strider, it takes only a couple minute.”

He grumbled at her comment but thanked her for the medical attention.

(Y/N) nodded quickly and went to check on the rest of the fellowship. She made her way to Boromir who was also sitting in rest. She put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Boromir, how are you doing? Any wounds?”

He seemed slightly startled at first for his mind had been elsewhere, but he looked up at her with a soft smile.

“I’m quite alright, My Lady.”

A light chuckled escaped her lips. “My friend, how many times must I tell you? It’s (Y/N), no lady of any sorts!”

He shook his head and grinned at her, “Well, my lady, I am doing quite fine.”

She let her eyes circle into the back of her head as the corner of her lip pulled into a smirk.

The healer turned and made her way to Gimli who was sharpening his axe.

“Gimli, I trust you are alright as I see you are already preparing for the next battle even though we just endured one.”

His gruff voice answered immediately, “Aye lassie! Those orcs can’t ensnare a dwarf that easily!!”

She laughed at his comment as Merry and Pippin came rushing up to her. As soon as she saw their faces she knew that the two mischievous hobbits wanted to claim her attention. She lowered herself down to their height as they flung themselves into her arms.

“Ahh my two hobbits! How did you fare in the battle?”

They pulled from her hug and began speaking at the same time.

“It was intensely scary but we were fierce!”

“Merry had hit one with a tree branch! It was quite magnificent!”

“Yes it was, I would have to admit! And Pip tripped another and he fell flat on his face!”

(Y/N) beamed at the two and giggled at their attempt to tell the story. As much as she was focused on caring for everyone, the hobbits cared for her—in another way that is. The four of them brought joy to her heart and glee to her spirit. Their innocence and appreciation of the simplest things brought happiness to her soul. They had offered her a welcomed visit to the shire at any time; telling her of the grand tour they would take her on. She had grown to look upon them as children for their smallness and way of perceiving life was similar so.

The two scampered off quickly, most likely to share their adrenaline filled story with Boromir, while (Y/N) did a final scan of the fellowship.

Her eyes soon rested on the elf. Legolas was off to a distance standing upon the rocky tundra. Something about his posture made her frown. His back was to her and his head seemed bowed, as if he was looking down at something. Furthermore, his one arm was pulled up at an awkward angle—strange, even for the elf. As the healer that she was, she was compelled to check on him.

(Y/N) weaved through the rocks until she was only a short distance from him.

“Legolas?” She questioned softly.

He immediately whipped around. His shirt fell to cover his form, but not before (Y/N) caught a glimpse of bright purple, red, and black. The young woman’s lips instantly parted in shock. She had seen many wounds in her life, on many people of many different races. However, it was not often that she had an elven patient with a wound like that. To state it simply, (Y/N) was worried—that looked bad, very bad. Legolas on the other hand was only flustered for he, an elf, had gotten snuck up on. He did not have great concern for the injury given that there were far more important things to worry about.

“Legolas,” (Y/N) stated firmly. “Lift your shirt.”

He sighed, “(Y/N), it’s not—“

She interrupted him, “Let me guess, ‘It’s not that bad?’” She shook her head, “You and Strider.”

She stepped forward and took the hem of his shirt in her hand. She cautiously lifted the fabric, not caring about the socially deemed scandalousness of the action—she was a healer after all.

(Y/N) sucked in a breath. A relatively large bruise stretched across his torso with a sizable cut in the center of it.

“By the Valar, Legolas!” She exclaimed with exasperation. “You should have come to me straight away!”

“(YN)—“

She cut him off again, “No. don’t ‘(Y/N)’ me. This is serious. It could be internal bleeding. I don’t care that you are an immortal elf, you can still die from this.”

The healer gently let her fingertips brush against his skin, tracing and examining the injury. He winced in pain at the contact and that did not escape (Y/N)’s attention.

“How did this happen exactly? I need every detail.”

Legolas groaned again when she grazed over the cut; and when he spoke it was with heavy breaths, “A harsh kick to the side into another orc....” (Y/N) hand pressed on the bleeding laceration and he hissed in pain before continuing to speak. “...who—who slashed downward.....with a jagged-edged blade that had a—a curved tip.

(Y/N) looked up at him with concern, his breathing was getting labored and that was not a good sign. Not a good sign at all.

“Alright, come on.” She ordered. The young woman practically dragged the reluctant elf back towards the group and pushed him down on a rock.

She knelt in front of him and, once again, ruffled through her satchel.

“Take your tunic off,” she commanded while pulling out various pouches and gauze dressings.

(Y/N) could feel all of the fellowships’ gazes on the two, which only intensified when Legolas removed his tunic. She could hear the hobbit’s hushed whispers and concerned tones for the wound was gruesome and ugly—probably the worst they have ever seen considering their simple lives.

Once she had all her supplies ready, she set to work.

(Y/N) was kneeling in-between Legolas’s legs while she studied the torn up, bloody, and bruised fresh for yet another time; it was imperative that she made a plan before starting.

During this examination, the young woman could not help but let her eyes wander across his chest and rippling muscles. The bends and curves of his form looked perfect against his pale complexion. He was incredibly toned and well built, even more so than humans. She would be lying if she said she wasn’t attracted to him.

Additionally, battle scars of various shapes and sizes littered his body—which was expected given he was over 2,000 years old. Here, she took a moment to study them for if one really looked at a warriors scars their fighting style would be revealed. Many stretched across his being—specifically on his ribcage, sides, pecs, and abs—it was clear that he was way more reckless than he would like people to think. He was fast with his moves, going for the quickest way to an oppenent’s death, but that often left him exposed. No wonder he ended up with this terrible bruising gash. He lived up to the Mirkwood elf expectation—less wise and more fierce.

As (Y/N) realized that her mind had wandered too far off task, she cleared her throat and reached for the flask of liquor.

“This will sting,” she stated before pouring it over the broken flesh. As expected, a loud groan escaped his lips and his fists clenched around nothingness.

Carefully she dabbed the area with a cloth. (Y/N) then threaded a needle and began to sew his skin back together. The elf was stiff as he clenched his jaw and flexed his muscles—a natural reflex in this kind of situation. She continued to pull his skin taught so their was no more breakthrough bleeding. It seemed that he had gotten used to the sensation as she went given he began to relax. Next, she made a paste for the wound, much like Strider’s. However, she decided to use more than athelas leaves because this cut was more severe than the Ranger’s. (Y/N) ground up echinacea stalks and mixed in alder bark to soothe inflammation and fight infection. Gently she applied the blended mixture into his torso. Lastly, she wound gauze and dressings around his midsection in order to keep everything in place.

Much time had past given stitches took long; luckily, the fellowships’ concerned glances faded.

(Y/N) stood up from her position and it was then when she released just how close the two were. She stood between his legs, their faces inches apart. If it was anyone else, she wouldn’t have cared for she often had to be in such proximities with others as she was a healer. But this wasn’t anyone else, it was him.

“You—you should be fine now,” (Y/N) whispered. She cleared her throat and stepped backwards. “I will have to check on it every day and redo the bandages. And I advise you: no sudden movements, and no lifting heavy objects—like the hobbits.”

Legolas cracked a smile at that last comment. “Thank you, (Y/N). I truly appreciate your skill.”

“That is what I’m here for, is it not?” She adverted her eyes and kept her hands busy by gathering her supplies for she feared her expression would betray her.

Legolas put his tunic back on as he spoke, “I suppose it is, but nethertheless I thank you.”

......

As the days went on she continued to check Legolas’s wound. (Y/N) tried to make it more private by dragging him off to the side or away from the group, given that she suspected it was uncomfortable for him to undress everyday in front of inquiring eyes (aka the hobbits).

It was dusk when she crouched down to examine it once again.

“It is healing nicely,” She said. “A lot faster than I suspected, but I suppose that is because you are elven.” Her nervousness caused her to continue speaking when she did not wish to do so. “I mainly treat men....and dwarves. It is not often that I have a wounded elf at my door. Do you know an elf named Feren? I recall he said he was of Mirkwood Kin. I treated him once years ago for a busted leg when he strayed into northern territories.”

A small smirk crossed Legolas’s face, “Ahh so you are the beautiful healer who patched him up so well?”

(Y/N) felt heat creep up her face, “I—I would not say that—“

“Nonsense! He spoke of your beauty and skill many times, and he was not mistaken. I am just surprised that I have been lucky enough to gaze upon you and have you heal me.”

These words made (Y/N)’s gauze wrapping motions falter. “It—it is my job, Legolas.”

“Yet you go beyond your assignment and duty everyday. I see how you take care of us all, especially the hobbits. You truly have a noble heart.”

(Y/N) smiled softly and spoke in a teasing tone, “Well I suppose you are right—all you boys would be lost without me.”

A deep chuckled hummed in Legolas’s chest and the healer joined in with a bright laugh.

The giggles settled soon enough and Legolas spoke, his sentence quite abrupt. “How would you feel about coming to Mirkwood and living there as a healer once the ring is destroyed?”

Shocked, (Y/N) stuttered. “I—I am unsure. I don’t know if—“

“(Y/N)...” He interrupted. “I do not wish for the end of this journey to be the end of our acquaintance.”

The young woman looked down, “As I agree, but—“

“(Y/N),” he whispered.

Something about his tone made her freeze.

Ever so gently, he lifted her chin to force her to look at him. His voice was quiet as he spoke, “I—I don’t think you understand what I am trying to convey.”

Oh....

Now she understood.

The healer glanced at his lips which hovered near her own before biting her bottom one and locking gazes with him. Legolas of course noticed this and waisted no time. He pressed his mouth against hers and she instantly responded. Her hands slid up his bare chest, careful to avoid the wound on his torso, and then tangled themselves in his blonde locks. His muscular arms wrapped around her waist tightly as he focused on the taste of mint tea and fresh honey. The two moved their lips in sync and the world around them melted away. Suddenly, there was no quest, no fellowship, no responsibilities—only the two of them and the thudding of their hearts.

.......

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