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entishramblings · 6 months

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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.

…..

Everything Taglist: @lea----b @aredhel-of-gondolin @princecami @the-fandoms-georgie @jazziwritestolkienprimary @swimming-in-stardust @elvish-sky @red-riding @brun-lieve @hey-its-nonny @mirclealignr @sydney-1209 @laneynoir @straysugzhpe @runningfeather @finallyforgotten @kaiawrites @commanderawkward @xxbluestrifexx @slytherinambitious @redbirdbluebird333-blog @desert-fern @skairipakomtrikru @genderfluid-anime-goth @skairipakomtrikru @hemera1227 @sotwk @sirenofavalon @hobbitsesoftheshire @asianbutnotjapanese @mgchaser @heavenshumour @mgchaser @heavenshumour @casuallyeating-blog @cheari

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#vayawrites #lotr #lord of the rings #the hobbit #legolas #legolas x reader #legolas/reader #legolas fic #legolas fanfic #legolas fanfiction #LOTR fic #LOTR fanfic #legolas one shot #legolas drabble #legolas love story #LOTR writer #LOTR writing

1K notes · View notes

entishramblings · 2 months

Text

Haunting Me

[Legolas/F!Reader]

A.N: I have been struggling to write (like usual), so I figured I would whip out a no pressure Legolas fic. ANYWAYS, I strangely loved writing this!!! Thanks for the request XOXO

Request: @goose-gremlin — “Could you maybe do a Legolas x Reader on their period?”

Pairing: Legolas X Fem!Reader

Summary: The Reader is a member of Greenwood's Guard and is struggling with menstrual/period pain. Legolas takes care of her.

Disclaimer: I don't know elvish. I use the gracious elvish dictionary. Sue me lol

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings: blood, menstruation/period, pain, PMS, slight nakedness (not anything spicy you filthy fools), fluff, sweet precious elf boy

MASTERLIST | AO3 | WATTPAD

(Y/N)’s nose twitched, the pungent, musty scent of the incoming vile beasts invaded the fresh earthy tones of the Greenwood forest. Her keen ears picked up on subtle scurrying, the sound carried by the drift of the soft wind. Her jaw clenched and her fingers adjusted the grasp of her sword as she felt the aura of the trees shift—a surge of adrenaline fueling her anxiety, worsening the pain in her abdomen. Briefly locking eyes with the other elves in her sector, spread among the trees alert and ready, she knew their moment of action was imminent.

(Y/N) summoned the little energy she had through a deep inhale, praying to the Valar that these spiders wouldn't be in such a frenzied state. Because, if so, fuck that. For at the present moment in time, she really didn't have the capacity to deal with that absolute, motherfucking horseshit.

Because, truly, getting killed due to slowness from fatigue and cramps from one’s bloodmoon cycle would be rather unfortunate and deeply regrettable. However, facing expulsion from the guard and losing her reputation as one of the hand-picked defenders of the royal line because of it would be even worse.

(Y/N)’s gaze narrowed as Prince Legolas, leader of the Greenwood Guard, raised a closed fist.

Nêl (Three).

Tâd (Two).

Mîn (One).

He opened his palm, signaling the command: Kill them. Kill them all.

With a firm thud, (Y/N)'s boots landed on the soft soil as she sprung from the trees. She was quick with her blade, hunting the spiders as if they were meaningless prey. Her weapon was an extension of her form. Every movement was fluid and graceful, a testament to her mastery of combat. Despite her pain, she spun and twisted with ease, severing the arachnids' limbs effortlessly.

As she fought, she made sure to keep an eye on the Prince, knowing that if anything were to happen to Legolas under her watch, the king would surely banish her. Besides, she harbored no desire for him to meet his demise. She found him rather…admirable. Nothing more than that—of course not.

As (Y/N) advanced upon one of the vile beasts, her senses tingled with warning. Abruptly, she halted in her tracks, narrowly dodging an arrow that whizzed past her stomach. Her eyes narrowed as she wiped her head to see just who fired that arrow. A scoff escaped her lips as she locked eyes with him: Rekón.

When the battle came to an end, (Y/N) strutted towards Rekón, who was wiping the edge of his blade upon his thigh.

“What the hell was that out there?!” She snapped at him.

“What is it you speak of?”

“You nearly put an arrow in me!”

He shrugged. “Perhaps, you should have been faster, Shadowfoot.”

She scoffed at Greenwood’s nickname for her. “You're lucky I am fast. I can assume you don’t want elven blood on your hands—especially my blood.

He sheathed his blade and crossed his arms. “Don’t exaggerate, (Y/N). It’s unbecoming. Besides,” he leaned in and his voice lowered, taking on a snarky tone, “I don't care if you're handpicked by the King to be the Prince’s shadow, you're a pain in the ass.”

“Really, Otuuk Fe`Saign (warg kisser)?! I could have you and your ass in the mud faster than you could say—”

The rather tense interaction was interrupted by Legolas clearing his throat beside the pair. “What is going on over here?” he demanded.

(Y/N) huffed, not taking her eyes off the man before her. “Rekón here nearly redecorated my abdomen with a fucking arrow!”

The Prince sighed. “You know we can’t always calculate every motion on the battlefield, (Y/N). I am sure Rekón meant no harm.” He paused, turning his attention to the ellon. “Rekón, in the future, mind your arrows.”

“That’s the reprimand he gets?! Are you fu—“

Legolas looked at the elleth. “Watch your language, Shadowfoot. I expect this attitude to be gone by the time we enter my father’s halls.”

With that, Legolas walked away, calling out orders to burn the spider carcasses and move out.

As he disappeared into the mess of elves, (Y/N)’s brows pulled downward in a grumpy frown. “Princeling Ass,” she murmured to herself.

Unbeknownst to her, as she turned away, Legolas' gaze followed her, seeking out her form and lingering as she walked away.

….

The sun had not yet risen when the Prince’s sector of the Greenwood Guard arrived back in the Palace. The warriors dispersed into the armory, diligently stowing their weapons and armor in their designated places. (Y/N), however, did no such thing. Instead, with a persistent scowl etched on her face, she marched through the room and passed through the arched exit of the armory—presumably heading towards her chambers. Legolas's gaze tracked her suspiciously as she departed.

As the day progressed, the members of the Prince’s sector resumed their usual routines. Because it was their first day back from patrol, they were exempt from basic guard duties and standard positions. Instead, they utilized the early hours of the morning to bathe and rejuvenate themselves before gathering in the dining hall for breakfast. The remainder of the day was theirs to unwind and compile their patrol reports—the King sought to stay informed about all occurrences and perspectives during patrols, for a darkness seemed to be spreading among his trees.

At supper, Legolas moved among the tables in the dining hall, gathering last-minute reports from the warriors in his sector. As he did so, he scanned the long wooden benches, searching for the scowling gaze that had accompanied the last couple of days of patrol; however, there was no such gaze and no such person that it belonged to. Simply put, there was no sign of (Y/N).

She had missed all three meals and had failed to submit her patrol report.

Legolas cleared his throat before he addressed the elves from whom he was collecting papers. “Have you seen Shadowfoot? I need her report,” he inquired.

They shook their heads, more interested in their food than one missing shadow.

Legolas sighed, but refrained from pressing further. If anyone knew her whereabouts, they would have mentioned it.

Therefore, he made his way to her quarters.

When he arrived, he knocked softly on the door, but was met with silence.

"(Y/N)," he called out, his voice carrying through the wooden barrier.

Still, there was no response.

After a moment’s hesitation, Legolas reached for the door knob and twisted it slowly. The wood swung open quietly under his touch, exposing the darkness of the room beyond. Moonlight filtered in through the opened window, casting shadows that danced across the floor, the curtains billowing gently in the cold night air.

Legolas carefully stepped through the threshold and closed the door behind him. As he took in his surroundings further, surprise crossed his features. He didn't know what he had been expecting since he hadn't been in (Y/N)’s quarters, but it most certainly was not this.

The room was a complete mess. Clothing lay strewn about, along with various trinkets—small hand-carved boxes, beautiful natural rocks, and melted candles absent of flame. Several stacks of books were piled beside the bed, a few of them open and their pages still. Her weapons were scattered haphazardly, some resting on the floor, others on the table or atop the dresser. Legolas even noticed a few knives embedded into the wooden door—a sight that would surely displease Ada.

It was chaotic but calm in a sort of strange way. Typical for (Y/N), he supposed.

The Prince moved to walk further into the room, but was quickly halted against his will. His foot had gotten caught and, if it wasn't for his swift reflexes, he would have face-planted upon the stone flooring.

Legolas sucked in a sharp breath as he stabilized his form. Glancing down, he discovered the culprit—a crumpled tunic tangled around his boot, its fabric caught between the lacings.

He immediately sighed in dismay.

The blond-haired Prince reached down to untangle the stubborn garment. It proved to be a more challenging task than he had anticipated, requiring a few moments of quiet curses and annoyed grunts before he managed to free himself. Carefully, he folded the fabric and placed it upon a nearby chair.

Cautiously, he advanced to the large bed. At first, he could not spot the warrior within, given that the fluffy comforter and mountain of pillows were blocking his view. However, when he pulled back the blankets slightly, sure enough, she was buried deep within. The pillows were arranged around her like a protective nest and she was laying on her side. Her hair was splattered across the cushioned fabric and her expression was…one of pain. Her brows were pulled tight, her nose crinkled, and lips slightly parted.

At this, Legolas frowned, for he was now troubled deeply.

Diligently, the Prince reached out to brush some hair from her face, but just as his fingers made contact with her cheek, his action was interrupted.

(Y/N) suddenly sat up, a knife in hand. With wild eyes, she tried to slam it into his carotid artery.

He reacted quickly, Legolas intercepted her arm, preventing the blade from reaching its target. For a moment, they both froze in that tense position, the gravity of the situation sinking in as they processed what was happening.

(Y/N) was breathing quickly and she appeared very disheveled and confused. It seemed to take her a moment longer to grasp the situation fully.

"Jukkete (fuck)," she breathed out, trying to catch her breath before snapping at him. "Legolas, I almost killed you!"

The Prince still held her wrist. “(Y/N),” he began, “Are you alright?”

She huffed. "You know better than to sneak up on me like that, Princeling!" With a sharp twist, she pulled away from his grasp and settled back into the blankets. “What are you doing here?”

He raised his brows. “Princeling?” he questioned, a hint of amusement in his tone.

(Y/N) only grunted in response.

He sighed. “No one has seen you all day and—“ his sentence abruptly halted as he noticed a red stain upon the comforter. “(Y/N), you are bleeding!” He exclaimed. Without hesitation, he grasped at the blankets, in an attempt to detangle her form from them, as he continued his babbling of concern. “Why didn’t you tell me you were injured on patrol?!”

“Legolas,” she interrupted, her voice firm.

“Is it from Rekón’s arrow?! I thought you said he ‘nearly’ hit you?”

“Legolas,” she tried again.

He yanked the blanket further.” Because I swear to the Valar if it was from him, I will—“

“Legolas! Stop!” She snapped, her patience wearing thin. “I’m not injured.”

His jaw clenched in frustration. “(Y/N), I have been a warrior for all my life, I know the site of blood. That is blood. You cannot lie to me. I am your sector leader, your Prince—“

“Legolas! It’s my bloodmoon cycle!” she interrupted, sitting up to glare at him once more.

An awkward silence settled into the dark room.

“You are in pain,” he stated.

“I’m fine.”

His brows raised again. “Now, why don’t I believe you?”

“Because you're a princeling ass,” she retorted.

“No. Because for the last three days of patrol, your demeanor has been notably irritable, as you are now. You've been favoring your left side, your jaw has remained tightly clenched, and your skin a shade too pale. Not to mention, you've consistently had your hand on your hip, I'm assuming in an attempt to try and alleviate discomfort, and you even vomited behind a tree on two occasions. And, here you are, Shadowfoot, in bed, sleeping the day away in dirty clothes and not caring that you lay in blood.” He paused before finalizing his evidence. “You are in pain.”

“You have been spying on me?! I am supposed to be your shadow.”

“I have been keeping an eye on you,” he clarified.

“Why?!”

The muscle in his jaw twitched. “Because you are a member of my sector. You are my responsibility.”

“You are my responsibility,” she corrected.

He released hot air from his nose. “I am required to keep an eye on all of my warriors, whether they were hand-picked to guard me or not.”

(Y/N) huffed, shaking her head. “Did you know Sethna took a pretty nasty hit to her leg?”

“Don’t try to change the subject,” he gruffed.

“Legolas, did you know about it or not?”

A rather long moment of silence extended into the night before the Prince reluctantly responded in a low tone. “No.”

“Then you don't watch every warrior like you watch me.”

He inhaled slowly, trying to steer the conversation away from what (Y/N) was insinuating. “Is Sethna alright?”

“Yeah, she’s fine.”

Legolas nodded slowly, before returning to the main topic. “Why didn't you tell me you were in pain while on patrol?”

She rolled her eyes before muttering his name. “Legolas.”

“Why haven't you seen a healer?” he persisted.

She exhaled slowly, knowing Legolas wasn't going to let this go. “Because the healers document everything, and those records get attached to evaluations.”

“So?”

“So, I would be dismissed from the guard and relieved of my position!” she snapped.

He snorted lightly. “You would not be dismissed from the guard nor relieved of your position.”

“Others have gotten so for far less!”

Surprising her, his normally collected tone turned into a rough reply. “That doesn't mean that you would have!”

She frowned, her once loud voice now subdued. “What's that supposed to mean?”

He sent her a warning look, his eyes cautioning her against probing further.

Silence reigned for a third time that night before Legolas spoke softly. “Rest. I will draw you a bath.”

“Princeling, I do not need you to draw me a bath. I do not need a bath at all. Like I said, I am fine.”

He shook his head. “You are in pain. Let me help you.”

“Legolas–”

He cut her off. “(Y/N), do not try to argue with me on this. That is an order. Shadow or not, I am your superior and you will listen.”

With that, he stood and made his way into the bathing chambers, leaving the elleth alone with her thoughts.

She let out a slow, contemplative exhale before sinking back into the embrace of the bed once more. Lost in a haze of exhaustion, she must have drifted into a brief slumber, for it was only moments later that Legolas returned, his thumb brushing against her cheek. His voice, barely above a whisper, reached her ears. “(Y/N),” he urged softly. “Come. The water is hot. It will alleviate your pain.”

Groggily, she opened her eyes, confusion evident in the furrow of her brow.

“Come,” he repeated.

Gradually, she sat upwards, letting her legs dangle off the edge of the mattress. She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her teeth, praying to the Valar for the pain to settle.

“If the pain is too much, I can carry you,” Legolas offered in a gentle tone.

She scoffed, her eyes opening to glare at him. “I can manage on my own.”

With that declaration, (Y/N) stood up and took a few cautious steps forward. But before she could proceed further, a sharp gasp escaped her lips as the agony surged through her body, causing her to double over.

A comforting warmth enveloped her lower back as Legolas placed a reassuring hand there. He remained silent, respecting her pace and refraining from pressing his earlier offer.

A small whimper escaped her lips, tears threatening to escape from her eyes.

Legolas’ hand began to move in soft circles. “It will pass, Shadowfoot. I am here,” he whispered.

Slowly, she resumed her movement, inching her way towards the bathroom. Upon reaching the basin's edge, she gripped onto the sides tightly. She squeezed her lids shut once more, focusing on her breath.

Standing only inches behind her, Legolas spoke softly. “(Y/N), please, will you let me assist you? I hate to see you suffer.”

She exhaled through her nose, seemingly debating his offer. After a moment of contemplation, she relented. “Fine,” she stated, “but if you breathe a word of this—”

“I will not say a thing. I swear it,” he assured.

She nodded, accepting his promise.

“Let's get you undressed and in the bath then.”

With caution, his nimble fingers found the hem of her tunic and began to lift it over her head. Ensuring her stability by placing one hand gently on her hip, he then carefully guided her trousers downward, assisting her as she stepped out of them. Shaking slightly, she lifted each foot into the tub, one at a time, as the Prince's firm hand remained securely on her waist. Slowly, she lowered herself into the water, his touch barely trailing up her back as she descended. Her eyes closed and a sigh of relief escaped her lips, settling into the soothing heat of the water.

Legolas cleared his throat awkwardly. “I will just be in the other room. Call out if you need me.”

She simply hummed in response.

The Prince swiftly left the bathing room, making his way to the door leading to the hallway. Peering out, he caught sight of a maid. He called out to her and motioned for her to approach.

“Yes, my lord?” she inquired politely.

“I need you to fetch a new set of bedding and obtain the following herbs: valerian, boswellia, and athelas,” he instructed.

She nodded in understanding.

“And please, keep it discreet. I have an injured warrior in here who wishes for the injury to remain quiet.”

The maid nodded once more before hurrying off to fulfill his requests.

Legolas returned to the room, feeling the cool breeze from the open window once more. With determined strides, he crossed the space and closed it firmly, halting the chill from entering any longer. He then took to light some of the candles, casting a warm glow within the room before moving to the empty fireplace. He quickly grabbed kindling and wood from the basket beside the silent hearth, setting to task. Before long, the flames crackled loudly among the stone, radiating a comforting warmth that dispelled the lingering chill.

It was then when the maid entered, a large basket brimming with fluffy fabric in her arms. Placing it beside the bed, she then retrieved a pouch from the top. Approaching the Prince, she bowed her head. “The herbs you asked for, my lord.”

“Thank you,” he replied, accepting them graciously.

The maid took to changing the sheets, making no mention of the blood. Legolas cleared a space upon the table in (Y/N)’s room. Placing a cast iron pot—one of which was kept in each room—over the now vibrant flames, he filled it with water from a pitcher. As the water began to boil, he used a small bowl to grind the fresh herbs into a paste with a pestle. Once sufficiently smashed, he ladled some of the boiling water over it and allowed the mixture of herbs to steep, filling the air with its earthy aroma.

The maid, having finished her task of making the bed and straightening up, bid an awkward farewell to the Prince before exiting the room.

Legolas sighed, taking a seat in the chair beside the table, his ears attuned to any sounds from (Y/N)'s direction—just in case.

Nearly 45 minutes passed before she emerged from the bathroom. She was clothed in soft trousers and a loose top that hung off her shoulder, her hand pressed lightly against her abdomen.

“How do you feel?” he inquired, breaking the quietness of the night.

She turned her head towards him. “You are still here?” Her gaze swept across the room, trailing off as she took in the sight of the lit candles, crackling fire, and fresh bedding.

Abandoning the chair, he approached her and gently put his hand upon her bicep. “How is the pain, (Y/N)?”

As if suddenly drawn from her thoughts, she registered that he was indeed beside her. “I, uh, it has lessened a bit.”

He nodded, guiding her to the bed. Pulling back the clean sheets, he motioned for her to get in. Surprisingly, she complied, settling into the comfort of the fresh lavender scent emanating from the blankets and pillows.

Legolas briefly left her side before returning with a cup of tea, mixed from the healing herbs. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, he lifted the cup to her lips, encouraging her to take a sip. “Drink this. It will help.”

The steam kissed her face as she took the cup from him. As she drank, the warm liquid flowed down her throat and into her stomach, providing instant comfort. When she finished, she passed the cup back to him. “How do you know how to make such a tonic?”

The Prince placed the cup upon the side table. “My father used to care for my mother during her bloodmoon cycle, before she passed from this world. She too had excruciating pain. He taught me the right herbs to mix, the benefits of heat, and—” he paused, his hand moving to her lower back, where he began to massage lightly. “—what points to press to alleviate pain.”

She exhaled slowly, letting her eyes flutter closed.

“He had said, ‘One day, you will have a wife who too suffers such pain. This you must learn for her.’ And I listened.”

(Y/N) did not open her eyes. “I am not your wife.”

Before he could stop himself, his lips betrayed his secrets. “You could be.”

At this, she opened one eye, as if she was trying to subtly evaluate what his words meant based on his body language. Sensing the sincerity upon his expression, her other eye opened too. She put her full attention on him. “What?”

His cheeks flushed, the tips of his elvish ears reddening, though the warm glow of the fire hid his embarrassment. He turned his head away. “Forgive me, (Y/N). I—I didn't mean to be so…so forward.” He hesitated, then looked back at her, seeing her flabbergasted expression. “I–I suppose there is no hiding it now. The reason I keep such close watch over you is because my heart won't let me do otherwise. I fear, well, I fear that you are not just a shadow following my path.” He exhaled softly. “(Y/N), you haunt me in the most beautiful way.”

She shifted from the pillows, drawing closer until her face was mere inches from Legolas’. “You–you care for me?” she whispered.

His hand tenderly cupped her cheek, his thumb moving in a soft motion. “More than I could ever put into words.”

“Legolas,” she whispered. “Your father did not assign me to your sector. I was supposed to be appointed to protect him. I—I requested to be assigned to you.”

The Prince’s gaze met hers. “Why, (Y/N)?”

“Because you too have been haunting me.”

Legolas wasted no time. He pressed his lips to (Y/N)’s in a gentle kiss and she responded eagerly. She tasted of herbal tea and hope, while he tasted of honey and peace. His hands gently cradled her face, while hers found their way to the back of his neck, fingers entwining in his hair. The scent of fresh lavender surrounded her, mingling with the aroma of pine that clung to him. In their embrace, their minds intertwined, both haunted by the other's presence—in the most beautiful way.

Slowly, they parted. Legolas pressed a kiss to (Y/N)'s forehead before speaking softly. "Lay down. Rest. I will watch over you."

She looked up at him. “Won't you lay with me? I am cold.”

He snorted, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips like the stem of a flower being plucked from a spring meadow. “You only want me to alleviate your pain, don't you?”

She grinned back at him. “Perhaps, Princeling. Though, I did not lie, I am cold.”

With a playful roll of his eyes, Legolas kicked off his boots and drew back the covers. He allowed his body to melt against (Y/N)’s, providing warmth as he gently began to massage away her tension.

A content sigh escaped the woman’s lips as she snuggled further into him, eagerly stealing his warmth and accepting the pain relief he offered.

“Princeling,” she murmured, “You better not breathe a word of this either.”

He chuckled lightly, “I will not say a thing, Shadowfoot. I swear it.”

…

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Legolas Tag: in the comments

#vayawrites #lotr #lord of the rings #the hobbit #legolas #Legolas fic #Legolas fanfic #Legolas fanfiction #Legolas x reader #legolas/reader #legolas x y/n #legolas greenleaf #legolas drabble #Legolas imagine #legolas fics

472 notes · View notes

entishramblings · 8 months

Text

The Scorpion of Sarn Ford [Aragorn/F!Reader]

A.N: the amount of weird shit I had to google for this….my FBI agent definitely thinks I’m planning some fucked up crap.

Inspired: this fic was inspired by @estelofrivendell ‘s fic A Change of Heart. I adored the Assassin/Ranger relationship and had to put my own spin on it!

Pairing: Aragorn X Fem!Reader

Summary: The Scorpion of Sarn Forn is a notorious assassin. Much to Strider’s dismay, they are both hired for a job.

Disclaimer: I tried my best with geography, once again, it isn’t my best subject. heh!

Word count: 8.2k (idk why I’m like this)

Warnings: enemies to lovers, angst, fluff, humor that will have you peeing, blood, torture, death, murder, brief insinuation to sexual abuse (side character), creepy men that get what's coming to them, a little bit of spice, brief shirtless aragorn. this sounds very dark but I promise you its good, besides: shirtless aragorn. duh.

MASTERLIST | AO3 | WATTPAD

Aragorn never thought he would be in this position. He never even anticipated such a scenario. It was, quite frankly, entirely unfathomable. Not once did it cross his mind that he might be in the same city as her, much less be forced to sit next to her at The Black Falcon Tavern and Inn with a potential contractor. You see, The Scorpion of Sarn Ford—or as Aragorn preferred to refer to her as: the heinous hellspawn that middle-earth would undoubtedly be far better off without—was a notorious assassin. She made her coin from slipping into the shadows and slaughtering her targets, leaving no trace besides a corpse—still warm from the blood that once ran through it. The men of the south-west were wise enough to be wary and the rich of such lands were stupid enough to empower her with their dark wishes. She’s rumored to have a body count in the hundreds, including kings and queens. Though, that is not how she acquired her title.

Percaric Rothswood, one of the richer dukes of Anfalas, sat with them at a table in the back of the tavern. The Ranger and the Scorpion occupied the bench alongside the wooden wall, granting them both a clear vantage point of the entire establishment, while Percaric sat in a chair across from them. Aragorn's arms were folded, a small blade discreetly nestled up his sleeve, and his ale remained untouched on the table. Yet, the assassin reclined casually at his side, her dark cloak draped loosely enough to unveil the myriad of weapons adorning her attire, with two empty pints before her and a third in her hand.

The peculiar grouping drew the attention of onlookers—it was indeed an unusual gathering, particularly with the presence of the infamous Scorpion of Sarn Ford, and her form specifically beside Strider. Nervous and inquisitive gazes, hushed conversations, subtle nods, and even more overt glances from passersby and bar-sitters were all directed towards the pair. If a meeting like this were to take place, something must be going down.

“So, what’s this job, Percaric, that requires a ranger and a shrew,” Aragorn gruffed, his scowl as deep as the sand pits of the eastern coast.

The woman beside him snorted. “A shrew. Just what a lady wants to be called.”

He shrugged. “An argumentative, ill-tempered rat. I see no difference between it and you.”

She raised a brow, twisting her head to look at him. “Technically a shrew is a mole.”

Aragorn sent her a glare in response.

She huffed at him. “A mole that will die if it doesn't eat every two to three hours.” She picked up her ale and took a swing. “That sounds nothing like me.”

“You reckon so? I bet if you didn't get new gold to chew on in that exact time frame you would also die of pompous deprivation.”

A deep chuckle escaped her throat as her jaw tightened and her eyes narrowed. She turned to quip back an insult; however, Percaric nervously interrupted the hostile hires.

“Well, uh, you see, it's quite a delicate matter. The-the job, that is. My client doesn't want his indiscretions aired out among the common folk because, well, uh, the matter is quite sensitive and—”

Aragorn rolled his eyes. “Just spit it out, Percaric.”

The man exhaled through his nose, nervously patting the table. “Right, right, very well then.” He cleared his throat. “Well, uh, my client, his daughter was taken by someone of high prestige and, well, he would like her back.”

Aragorn leaned back in the chair. “Why doesn't he just pay the ransom then? Instead of hiring someone to take her back. There is a ransom isn't there?”

“Of course, of course. But, well, you see, this daughter, ehem, she’s bastard-born. His wife doesnt know that she exists and he would like to keep it that way. Paying the ransom directly would cause too much attention. Like I said, he wants this discreet.”

Aragorn sighed, his morals pulling hard on his heart. “How old is the girl?”

Percaric winced. “Fourteen.”

The Ranger cursed under his breath. “She’s just a kid.”

“Yes, yes. Well, you see, that’s why my client asked for you, Strider. Not many would want to help a bastard daughter.”

The Scorpion leaned in. “Then why did he ask for me as well?”

Percaric’s face twitched. “Well, uh, Scorpion, there’s a matter a bit more delicate involved that requires your skill.”

She raised her brows.

“My–my client’s daughter is quite beautiful. Well, we can only assume what is being done to her by her captor during her stay. He, well, he wants the perpetrator killed.”

She snorted, leaning back into the wall behind her. “Why not make Strider here do it?”

The Ranger clenched his jaw. “He should be imprisoned, rotting in a cell for his crime.”

“Ah,” she started. “You would bring him in instead of kill him, and that would mean a trial.” She winked at Percaric. “Too public for this client of yours.”

An anxious and awkward giggle-like breath left the man’s lips. “Precisely.”

“So, where is she being kept?” The Scorpion asked.

The duke glanced around him before leaning in and letting his next sentence come out as a whisper. “The tower of Eastemnet.”

“Eastemnet?” Aragorn confirmed, wide-eyed and surprised. “But that would mean—”

“Lord Theovail,” the assassin interjected. “One of the richest, well-guarded men in Arda.”

Percaric bit his lip. “Yes, yes. Now, well, now you see why my client asked for you, Scorpion of Sarn Ford.”

Aragorn huffed, hot air coming from his nose, as he shook his head—now finally reaching for his ale. “We will take the job,” he stated reluctantly.

“Oi! Not so fast,” the assassin interjected. “What’s the pay?”

The Ranger shot her a glare. “A girl, a child, is being held prisoner, and you worry of pay?”

She glared right back at him before turning back to Percaric. “The pay?”

He cleared his throat. “Three hundred pieces of gold up front and another three hundred upon your return of the girl, alive, and proof of Theovail’s death. Though you will have to split it, I’m afraid.”

She raised her hands with a tilt of the head. “Fine by me.” She turned, flashing a devilish grin to the man next to her. “Let us go hunt a girl-snatching arsewipe, Strider.”

He offered no-response other than a scowling side eye.

“Fantastic,” Percaric replied, taking two coin pouches out and plopping them on the table.

The assassin was quick to snatch up one of the bundles, standing, ready to take her leave.

Aragorn, however, let his finger drift over the coin. He glanced up at Percaric. “What’s her name?”

The man’s expression softened. “Calista, daughter of Lord Kassim.”

Aragorn nodded, grasping onto the pouch. “We will bring Calista home.”

……

The pair had been traveling for approximately two weeks at this point, and their interactions during this time were characterized by sparse conversations intertwined with numerous glares and disdainful expressions. In those few moments when words were exchanged, they were often heated disagreements concerning which path to follow, strategies for infiltrating the tower, or debates over the responsibilities of meals. It was, quite frankly, the most miserable trek across Arda that Aragorn had ever taken upon. But it wasn't until they were passing through the gap of Rohan, between the Misty Mountains and Ered Nimrais, that they met any trouble.

An arrow, coming from the mountain’s rocky side, whizzing past Aragorn’s ear was the first sign of danger.

He whipped his head around. “Scorpion!” he called out in warning, his eyes meeting the assassin’s for a brief moment.

She drew her dual silver blades only seconds before a small pack of goblins began descending. She was quick to behead the first goblin whose feet hit the grassy pass they walked through.

“Goblin’s from the Mountains,” she hissed.

Aragorn too drew his sword. “They shouldn't be this far south! They stay up near Ehu Daur and Moira!” He drove his blade through one of the beasts, swinging around to slice another.

“Well, clearly, they dont give a fuck as to where they should or should be!” The Scorpion quipped back as she brought one of her blades through the neck of one of the creatures. “On your left!”

Aragorn twisted his body just in time to block a blow from a rusted scythe.

The assassin dodged the next beast that came at her and sprinted towards the biggest one. She was quick to push herself into the air, flip over the goblin, and slice its throat before her feet even landed on the ground.

She looked up to see the two final goblins, one in match with her companion and the other approaching his back.

The woman moved quickly. Her feet carried her towards the beast who held its blade above Strider’s head. Just before it was to be brought downward, she yelled out a war cry and grasped onto the few hairs the creature had. She yanked hard. The goblin fell backwards onto the ground and she pounced on top of him, sending her blade through his heart—his pungent blood spraying across her face, neck, tunic, and leather armor.

With heavy panting breath, she stood and turned to face the Ranger who had slayed the final beast. Kicking the corpse of the one she had just killed, she spoke. “Only nine. A scouting team. More will be coming upon their lack of return. We gotta get a move on.”

Aragorn’s lips were parted in surprise, realizing that he nearly lost his life. Surprising the assassin, he spoke words that she never would have thought to leave his lips for her. “Thank you, Scorpion.”

She raised her brows. “I have a name, you know, Strider.”

The Ranger turned away from her, continuing along their path. “I don't care to know it,” he gruffed out, his brief sincerity from moments before disappearing.

She snorted, calling out to him regardless. “It’s (Y/N).”

“Don’t fall behind, Scorpion,” he replied.

She huffed, her irritation obvious, before jogging to catch up with his wide strides. “I don’t like you very much either, but if we're gonna be on this job for a while, you could at least not be a dick.”

“Coming from the rudest and most corrupt person I have ever met, that's rich.”

She chuckled loudly. “Wow. Rude, okay, I deserve that. But corrupt? That’s a bit far-fetched.”

He stopped walking, twisting to glower down at her with disgust. “You truly think so? Let’s talk of why they attach the massacre of Sarn Ford to your name. You killed dozens. Women. Children. Innocents. All for what? Gold! Corrupt is too kind a word for you. Wicked, diabolical, vicious is more like it.”

(Y/N)’s brows shot upward as a pained and frustrated laugh thundered in her chest. “Really? Do you even know what was happening in Sarn Ford?!”

“They were farmers! Common folk! Living off the land in peace and you…you slaughtered them!” he yelled.

She got in his face, her hot, angry breath burning against his skin. “THEY WERE ALREADY GOOD AS DEAD, STRIDER!”

“How could you even say that?” he replied, horrified.

She closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath, before focusing back on the man before her. “A disease was making its way through their village. Incurable. Painful. An alchemist, who had been working for weeks to try and find anything to help them, hired me. There was nothing to be done for them except extend a hand of mercy. To give them a good, painless death.”

Aragorn stared at her, his brows pulled together with shock in his gaze.

The assassin clenched her jaw. “I had mothers plead with me to end their child's life while cradled in their arms, only to follow them into death. At least, that way, they could die together.” She looked up at him, her tone privy with rage. “So, yes, Strider, feel free to bestow upon me any epithet you see fit."

He was silent, his shock radiating into the wind around him. Quietly, he spoke again, “How did you not get sick?”

She exhaled slowly. “The alchemist instructed me to wear cloth over my face and cover all skin but my eyes. Once the deed was done, I burned everything I wore and paid for new clothes with gold born of their suffering.”

Aragorn nodded slowly, compassion in his gray eyes. “I am sorry. Doing such a thing mustn't have been easy. It was an execution of mercy.” He turned, continuing once more. “Though the tales of your other kills aren't so kind. Come along, Scorpion. There’s a town a couple days ahead.”

(Y/N) snorted, anger seething in her bones, but followed him nonetheless.”

…..

The pair strode towards the Inn, located not far from Gondor’s borders. They forcefully pulled the door open, unveiling a noisy uproar of laughter and boisterous shouting, mingling with the lovely odors of urine, sweat, and stagnant ale. Creating such an environment, one the Scorpion and Ranger were used to, were the disheveled bodies of inebriated men.

With a mischievous grin, (Y/N) expertly navigated through the crowd, leading Strider to a secluded table nestled in a dim corner. It wasn't long before the arrival of steaming platters of meat and bread arrived, along with two pints of foamy ale, both of which they heartily devoured. The Scorpion raised her hand, beckoning the barmaid over and placing an order for two more pints—both of which she downed, much to Aragorn's evident disapproval.

After releasing a loud belch, she casually swiped the back of her hand across her mouth, then rose to her feet. “Gonna go get some air,” she grumbled, her balance momentarily unsteady as she gained her footing. Aragorn, in response, merely offered an exasperated roll of his eyes.

The assassin maneuvered through the bustling throng of men, slipping through the sea of people before pushing through the doors. The sudden rush of frigid tranquility enveloped her skin as she stepped into the embrace of the night. With a deliberate intake of breath, she allowed the crisp air to fill her lungs. Her eyelids fluttered closed as she tilted her head upwards, letting the misting drizzle of rain kiss her skin. The sound of the tavern was muffled, and the echoes of the celebration they passed down the road drifted into the air. Though it was subtle, for it didn't drown out the sounds of the singing crickets or the croaking frogs. It was peaceful. Well, that is until a form slammed into her and pressed her against the wall.

The smell of ale-laden breath and sticky sweat filled her nostrils as her eyes shot open. Her gaze, fueled by adrenaline, locked onto the burly figure before her—a man with a rugged orange beard—who had forced himself upon her.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing all alone in a dangerous place like this?” he asked, a knife held to her throat.

She snarled up at him. “Oh, you're about to find out—”

Before she could make a move, however, the man was suddenly struck from the side, his body sent sprawling onto the weathered, muddy path.

As (Y/N) peeled herself from the wall, her hand instinctively reached for the slight gash on her neck. Meanwhile, the bearded man found himself seized by the throat, forcefully hoisted upward, and pressed hard against the unyielding stone.

“Do you even know who that is?” Strider uttered sharply.

A chuckle escaped the lips of the man, his bloodied lip spraying a fine mist of red onto Aragorn's face. “You’re whore?” he sneered.

With an unrelenting grip on the man's throat, Aragorn pulled him several inches away from the wall, only to slam him back against it once more. The impact elicited a grunt from the man. "The Scorpion of Sarn Ford," Aragorn hissed through clenched teeth, his voice seething with restrained fury.

The assailant’s laughter was dripping with sarcasm. “Yeah and I'm the fuckin’ King of Gondor.”

The Ranger clenched his jaw, ignoring the secret dig the man's comment produced. “You know why they call her that? Hmm. The Scorpion? Scorpions incapacitate their prey with venom, paralyzing them before they deal the final blow. That woman over there? She severs her targets’ spinal nerve, rendering them unable to move before subjecting them to her torture and kill. And the worst part? She doesn't even need them paralyzed. She gets off from witnessing the terror in their eyes as they're rendered helpless.”

Another laugh escaped the man, but as his gaze shifted towards (Y/N), his amusement faded. The assassin now held a dagger, twirling it in her fingers, a sinister grin stretching across her features.

He turned to look back at Aragorn, the color now drained from his face. “Ye’ c-cant be serious,” he stammered.

The Ranger merely lifted his brows and tilted his head.

Driven by desperation to escape the woman beside them, the man started to shove against Aragorn. However, a single forceful punch to his jaw rendered him unconscious, his body collapsing onto the mud once more.

“I had it handled,” the assassin stated.

Aragorn shot her a stern glare before responding bluntly, "Sure, you did."

The woman emitted a snort, yet settled into a squat beside the man, her dagger poised.

The Ranger, however, was quick to grab her by the wrist, successfully stopping her actions. "Are you out of your mind? We can't kill him. That's the last thing we need – drawing attention to ourselves."

With a huff of mild exasperation, she sheathed her blade. "Fine." She then nodded to the black horse tethered nearby, gesturing with a nod. "That's his horse. Saw him dismount as we entered. Bring it here."

Aragorn frowned, confused, but did as she asked.

“Alright,” she stated, gathering the man’s arms in her hands. “Help me with his legs.”

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

“Strider, just grab his damn legs.”

Exhaling audibly, the Ranger complied, reluctantly gripping the man's ankles. With a coordinated heave, they hoisted the man up from the muck. After a few groans and sighs, he was draped over his horse's back.

The Scorpion then took the leather strapping of the saddle and began binding the man’s hands and feet to it. She nodded to the young maple tree behind the Ranger. “Get me a large twig from that. Bout a foot tall. Keep the leaves on it.”

“What?” he hissed, his hands spreading wide in a gesture of bewilderment.

“Strider, would you just get the branch,” she urged impatiently.

Another loud, reluctant exhale left his lips, yet he trudged toward the tree and pulled off what she requested. He approached her, holding out the twig.

“Ah, thank you,” she acknowledged with a grin, accepting it from him.

With that she moved to the side of the horse, close to the man's legs. She seized the waistband of his trousers and gave it a yank, reaving his bare ass.

“Scorpion,” Aragorn chided.

Undeterred, she grinned, sticking the small branch between his ass cheeks so it stood upright, its leaves rustling faintly in the breeze.

“Seriously?” he gruffed out, his arms crossed.

(Y/N) looked at him with a wicked smirk. “You hear that party still going on down the road? I think they would appreciate some impromptu entertainment.” With that, she smacked the horse's rear and, with a brisk snort, it took off down the path.

Not even a minute passed, when they heard the shouts of anger and amusement funneling from the gathering.

Strider turned to glare at her, his jaw clenched and his eyes burning with irritation. He grasped onto her bicep and pulled her towards the doors. "Get inside the damned tavern, quickly."

A loud, hearty laugh flew from her throat, yet she allowed him to pull her along.

Engulfed once again in the clamorous atmosphere of the inn, Aragorn wasted no time in steering her towards the bar. “You can't just put a branch up the arsehole of a person that pisses you off,” he hissed under his breath.

She grinned unapologetically. “Sure, I can.”

He blew hot air out his nose, opting to withhold a retort. With a determined demeanor, he maneuvered them through the crowd of men, navigating as close to the counter as he could get. "Barkeep," he called out, projecting his voice. "Two room keys."

The man approached them with a shrug. “Only got one room left.”

Aragorn huffed. “Fine. Well take it.”

With that, the Ranger deposited three gold coins into the man's palm, secured the key, and then swiftly tugged the Scorpion alongside him as they grabbed their bags and ascended the creaky wooden staircase.

They approached their door, marked the same as the key, and it swung open under Aragorn’s touch. Within, the room exuded a chill darkness, accompanied by a faint draft slipping in through the slightly cracked window. The space appeared quite sparse, furnished with nothing but a small dresser, a modest table accompanied by two chairs...and a solitary bed.

A muttered curse escaped the Ranger's lips as he unceremoniously dropped his bag onto the table. "I'll take the floor."

(Y/N) rolled her eyes. “Really, Strider? It’s the one night we get the option of having a bed. As long as you stay on your side, I don't mind sharing.”

“Fine,” was his gruff response.

With that, the pair began getting comfortable for the night. Aragorn lit the worn down candle, its feeble golden glow illuminating the area, proving slightly better light as he dug through his bag. Meanwhile, (Y/N) shed her cloak and vast assortment of weapons, earning a skeptical glance from the Ranger. Yet, when she began to unfasten the tightly-worn leather armor that clung to her figure, his reaction was far more dramatic. "What on earth is that stench?!" he blurted out, recoiling.

She shrugged nonchalantly. “Remember those goblins? Yeah, I got an unexpected bath in their blood.”

“That was days ago. You reek,” he retorted. He strode over to the dresser, opening drawers until he came across a gray towel. Returning to the table, he picked up the pitcher beside the candle and gradually poured water into a small basin, also provided. After submerging the towel and wringing it out, he flung the damp cloth towards her, which she easily caught. “Clean yourself up.”

She shrugged once more. Turning away, she shed her shirt and let it drop to the floor. Her swift movements were focused as she wiped her face, neck, and chest, cleansing her skin of the grime that clung to it.

Though Aragorn didn't intend to look, his gaze inadvertently flicked towards her silhouette against the wall. It was then that his eyes fixed upon her bare back, adorned with a network of vivid, angry scars. He’d seen scars like that. He knew what they were from: torture.

“(Y/N),” he whispered sincerely, his steps leading him closer to her form. “What happened?”

Hearing her name for the first time from his lips, she was caught off guard—her heart skipping a beat. The simple utterance carried an unexpected weight, a rare vulnerability that seemed to momentarily freeze her in place. Uncertainty gripped her as she stood still, her mind racing to process the unfamiliar tone from him.

His touch was tender as he raised his hand to trace the lines on her skin. “Who did this to you?” he growled.

Brought back to the present, she instinctively recoiled from his touch. "I'm an assassin. I've earned my fair share of enemies," she replied, her voice tinged with defiance. Shifting her gaze over her shoulder, she met his eyes. "Have an extra shirt? Mine's beyond saving."

"I, uh, yes. Yes, of course," Aragorn responded, seeming to realize the sudden intimacy of the moment. He retreated to his bag, rifling through its contents until he procured a cream-colored tunic. He tossed it to her. "This should suffice."

“Thanks,” she grumbled, pulling it over her head.

(Y/N) approached the table, the Ranger's shirt engulfing her smaller frame. The fabric's loose drape hung off her shoulder. If she wasn't such a menace, Aragorn would have thought that she looked cute in his clothes.

Ungracefully, she deposited the damp towel on the tabletop before proceeding to yank off her boots and socks, placing them with a deliberate thud upon the chair nearby. “We are not that far from the tower of Eastemnet. Perhaps a two day journey or so. However, our predicament remains unchanged: we don't have a solid strategy. We don't have any floor plans. We don't know how many guards will be stationed. And we don't know where the girl is being kept. We are gonna be going in blind—”

“You’re bleeding,” he interjected, his voice carrying an unmistakable note of concern.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Just a scratch,” she dismissed casually.

Aragorn grasped onto her jaw, lifting her chin up to take a better look. "A seemingly insignificant wound could easily become infected, Scorpion," he asserted, his tone insistent.”

She pulled her head from his grasp with a snort. “I’m fine, Strider.”

He crossed his arms, an unyielding resolve in his expression. “If we are breaking into Lord Theovail’s tower and stealing from him, I'd prefer my partner not succumb to infection-induced delirium, potentially endangering both our lives." Swiftly, he nudged the empty chair towards her. “Now, sit down, Scorpion.”

(Y/N)’s brows lifted, followed by a teasing expression that animated her features. “Oh? So I'm your partner now?” she quipped, her tone laced with playful amusement. "What happened to the 'vicious shrew killer that you would rather leave tied to a tree,' as I seem to recall you once calling me?"

He glared at her. “Sit, or I will leave you tied to a tree.”

Surprisingly, she did as he asked, allowing herself to sink into the chair with her legs casually sprawled and her arms folded tightly across her chest. Aragorn dug through his bag, pulling out a couple small tins and a tiny glass bottle. Grasping the towel, he located a clean section and dipped it into the basin. Squatting down between her legs, he lifted the towel to her neck. "Chin up," he instructed, and she obeyed without protest. Gently, he began cleansing the wound, meticulously removing dirt and debris from the area. Next, he uncapped the small glass bottle. "This might sting," he warned.

She clenched her jaw, but said nothing as the alcohol was poured upon her neck. Aragorn gently dabbed the liquid away. He then opened one of the small tins, extracting a dollop of green goo.

“What is that shit?” (Y/N) asked.

“Athelas leaf paste.”

“Athelas leaf?” she echoed, seeking further clarification.

“Kingsfoil. Athelas is the elvish word for it,” he replied simply, his attention focused on gently applying the paste to the wound.

She raised her eyebrows. “Elvish, huh. You're full of surprises, Strider. Where’d ya learn that?”

“Shush. Be still.”

The Scorpion rolled her eyes, but complied as he completed the task.

Standing up, Aragorn rinsed his hands and addressed her once more. "We can devise a plan for the tower tomorrow. Right now, we need rest."

(Y/N) sighed, nodding in agreement, as she too stood. She made her way towards the bed and pulled back the thin sheet, eager to climb into the softness of a mattress—regardless of how old and worn it was.

The gentle sound of air extinguishing the candle was succeeded by the enveloping darkness that reclaimed the room. Soon, Aragorn’s footsteps followed. She discerned the rustle of fabric as, presumably, he removed his shirt. The bed then creaked gently as he settled beside her, lying on his back.

She, resting on her side away from him, let her eyes close. There she laid, for a moment, before shifting. Then she shifted again. And again.

“Stop moving, Scorpion,” Aragorn grumbled, his patience waning.

“I can’t get comfortable!” she retorted.

“That’s because you keep moving.”

“It’s cold and you're stealing all the blankets.” With a determined tug, she seized more of the fabric, leaving Aragorn with a minimal share.

He merely exhaled audibly, opting for a wordless response. At the very least, she had ceased her constant fidgeting.

Aragorn remained awake during the initial hours, unable to find slumber. (Y/N)'s breathing had swiftly settled into a rhythmic pattern after she commandeered the majority of the sheets, though her small unconscious movements kept interrupting the perceived tranquility. Occasional, soft whimpers escaped her lips, her brows furrowing with evident distress. In truth, Aragorn found himself uncertain of how to respond. He held onto the hope that the disturbances would cease on their own, perhaps that whatever troubled her dreams would eventually pass. And eventually, it did stop, but not without an unexpected turn of events.

The Ranger's senses jolted as the Scorpion’s frigid form rolled towards his side of the bed, seeking refuge in his warmth. Although she had mentioned feeling cold earlier, the intensity of her chill surprised him. The wave of uncertainty that washed over him did not leave as her cheek pressed against his bare chest. Initially, the thought of infection taking hold crossed his mind, but he quickly dismissed it; her skin would have been hot to the touch if that were the case. It only took seconds for him to realize that the draft from the cracked window was striking her side directly. With a sigh of reluctance, he tentatively encircled his arm around her, drawing her in further.

In her state of deep slumber, she instinctively nestled into him, drawing a slight skip from Aragorn's heart. He cast a cautious gaze downward, taking in her appearance.

She seemed so different—distinctly separate from the notorious assassin he knew her to be. There was an innocence, an unexpected purity, about her in this moment that rendered her almost unrecognizable. Gone was the perpetual scowl that often marked her features. Instead, her face had relaxed into a gentle expression of repose, free from the tension. Her lips, adorned with the faintest hint of a pout, moved slightly as she drew each breath, almost as if he warded off the nightmares that had plagued her.

In this vulnerable state, the Scorpion seemed untainted by her reputation, stripped of her fearsome persona. The layers of her identity, usually shrouded in crude comments and sharp weapons, had fallen away. It revealed that the facade that she showed the world was just that, a facade. A good one at that though. Even Aragorn—a man well-acquainted with the intricacies of human nature—hadn't thought it would be a mask; but her story of Sarn Ford was the first thing that revealed its possibility to him. It was as if the walls she kept built had crumbled away, allowing him a glimpse of the person beneath the lies. And, until sleep claimed him, he allowed himself to savor this glimpse—to see her beyond the assassin.

When the first light of dawn began to filter in, (Y/N) stirred, wrapped in the warmth and safety that had cocooned her during the night. She hesitated to peel open her eyelids, savoring the sensation. However, as her senses roused to full awareness, a gentle yet distinct rhythm reached her ears—the steady thud of a heart beating beneath her. In an instant, her eyes shot open, and a surge of apprehension raced through her.

Beneath her, Strider's form lay, his chest rising and falling in slumber. Anxiety tightened her chest and clawed at her throat. Reacting instinctively, she sat up abruptly and, fueled by adrenaline, threw a punch at him.

A resounding groan of pain escaped his lips as he scrambled to sit up, his expression twisting in both surprise and discomfort. "What the hell, Scorpion?!" he managed to sputter, his hand instinctively reaching to dab at his lip.

“I thought I told you to stay on your side of the bed!” she retorted sharply.

He glared at her, his irritation obvious. “I did. If you would take a moment to observe your surroundings, you would see you are in fact on my side of the bed.”

Wide-eyed and perplexed, she twisted her upper body around, casting a glance over her shoulder. As the reality of the situation dawned on her, she faced him once more. Her eyes filtered over his form briefly, taking in his muscled biceps and defined abs. Her expression then turned into a deeper scowl. “Fuck off!” she snapped.

He only stared at her, bewildered.

….

Under the shroud of darkness, the Ranger and the Assassin stood at the base of the tower of Eastemnet on the south side. Concealed within the protective embrace of the tree line, they had spent approximately three hours observing the guards' patterns and identifying vulnerabilities in the tower's defenses. There they had hidden two steeds that (Y/N) had procured for them at the inn—most likely through theft, though Aragorn didn't want to think of that—allowing for a quick escape with Calista. Strategically, they discreetly knocked out all the guards on the outposts, binding and gagging them, for they knew the element of surprise would be their only bet. So, now they stood, with a pretty loose plan, ready to steal back what Lord Theovail had taken.

The Scorpion grasped onto the vine that entwined itself along the stone surface of the tower. A swift, assessing tug confirmed its stability. Her gaze shifted briefly to the man positioned behind her. “About two hundred feet to the top. Best guess, that’s where Calista is being held.”

He nodded. “After you.”

The Scorpion adjusted her grip upon the vine and she initiated her ascent. Aragorn doing the same only minutes after.

They moved in a synchronized rhythm, the sound of their breaths and the faint rustling of vines mingling with the night's stillness. Each handhold and foothold was chosen with precision, the texture of the stone under their fingertips guiding their progress.

(Y/N)’s movements were fluid and practiced, evidence to her agility and experience. Her lithe form seemed to dance with the contours of the tower, making it look easy. Aragorn, not as accustomed to such endeavors, displayed a determination that rivaled his unease. His powerful muscles flexed and strained as he pulled himself upward, his eyes never straying far from the path she took.

After what felt like hours, the assassin spoke. “Nearly there, just a couple more feet.”

Aragorn only grunted in response.

The woman firmly gripped the vine adjacent to the windowsill, positioning her feet against the wall in a manner resembling a vertical walk. This facilitated her upward movement as she pulled herself closer to the window. Yet, as her head reached the level of the glass, she swiftly withdrew, instinctively lowering herself. In an unfortunate circumstance, the unconventional stance she maintained resulted in her ass colliding with Aragorn's face.

He groaned. “Really, Scorpion?! Really?!”

“My bad,” she huffed out. “Hold on a second. I think someone is in there.”

“Yeah, hopefully Calista.”

She resumed her ascent, then promptly lowered herself again. This time, Aragorn effectively maneuvered his head to the side, evading her buttocks.

Regardless of this, he shot her a glare—not that she would be able to see it.

“It was a maid.” she whispered. “I think we are in the clear now.”

With that, she heaved herself up for a final time and reached for the dagger strapped to her thigh. “Duck your head,” she commanded. With as much force as she could muster, she brought the blade against the glass, tucking her face into her elbow. It shattered, falling around them both like deadly snow.

The Scorpion pulled herself upward and through the window, careful not to be pierced by any stray piece of glass, and Aragorn did the same.

The room was small, but decorated to the extreme. The prominent feature was the bed, elevated upon a platform, its tall wooden posts adorned with a luxurious velvet canopy that cascaded in graceful drapes. The mattress was covered in ornate blankets and quilts, complemented by an array of plush pillows. However, any semblance of beauty was starkly contradicted by the grim sight of chains extending from the wall and ensnaring the wrists of a young girl, shattering the room's facade of luxury.

Immediately, Aragorn ran towards her side. “Calista,” he murmured gently. “Wake up. It’s time to go.”

Calista's golden hair framed a face that appeared worn and defeated. Her eyes fluttered open, revealing a gaze void of life. Her voice emerged as a feeble whisper. "Who are you?" she inquired softly.

Standing steadfast in the center of the room, (Y/N) maintained her posture with crossed arms. Her unwavering gaze fixed on the imposing wooden door that likely remained locked from the other side. “Your father sent us.”

Aragorn carefully manipulated the cuffs that bound Calista's wrists, gingerly freeing her from their constricting hold. "I'm Strider," he introduced himself, his fingers working skillfully. "We're here to help. Come.”

As if entranced, Calista began to sit up, struggling to rise from the bed. Aragorn extended his support, assisting her onto the floor. However, her weak frame proved too fragile to sustain itself. She leaned unsteadily against him, her body unable to bear its own weight.

The Ranger looked to his partner. “She’s too weak. There's no way I can scale down the wall with her on my back. She won't have the strength to hold on."

The Scorpion uttered a quiet curse. “You will just have to come with me to find Theovail.”

He shook his head. “It’s too dangerous. We can't bring her near him.”

“Well, we don't have any other choice,” she snapped. “But as soon as I kill him, we will have to haul ass. His guard will be coming for us then—if they don't already know we are here.”

Aragorn clenched his jaw, inhaling deeply. “Fine. Get that door open.”

With that, the Scorpion set to work picking the lock and Aragorn scooped Calista up in his arms, her golden head nestled into his chest. It wasn't long before the group was creeping down the tower, level by level. The Scorpion led the way, ducking behind walls and maneuvering around pillars, making sure the way was clear. When they came across a guard that was blocking their escape, she was quick to slice his throat and pull his body out of sight.

“Scorpion, why you can't just knock them out?” Aragorn whispered with exasperation.

She, dropping his legs as she stuffed him into a closet, glared at him. “And risk having him wake up and alert others? I think not."

He huffed, knowing she was right.

However, their path forward soon encountered a challenge they couldn't evade as easily. Just as they were on the verge of turning a corner, a young maid's panicked voice pierced the air. “The-the girl. She’s gone!”

(Y/N) slammed her back against the stone wall, Aragorn doing the same.

“What do you mean ‘she’s gone’??!” A deep male voice thundered.

A shared realization passed between (Y/N) and Aragorn—Lord Theovail had now entered the fray.

“FIND HER!” he snapped. “Or it will be your head!”

The servant scurried down the hall, running right past the Ranger and Assassin who slunk into the shadows with their charge.

(Y/N) cautiously peered around the corner. The room before them was every bit as lavish as the one that had imprisoned Calista, if not more so. A roaring fire crackled in the grand fireplace, casting flickering shadows that danced across the two plush velvet couches by it. Luxurious fur blankets adorned each sofa, hinting at Theovail’s rich indulgence. A sprawling fur carpet lay before the fireplace, while an ornate wine cart laden with deep reds was conveniently placed nearby. And there, infuriated, stood Lord Theovail himself, a glass of crimson liquid in hand, his temper fuming. To make matters worse, his guards were positioned near the room's exit—the very door that Aragorn would need to pass through in order to escape with Calista.

The Scorpion drew her knife, sending Aragorn a look. It was time. In a hushed tone, she whispered to him. “When you hear it’s over, take her and run to the doors. I'll be right behind you.”

He nodded in agreement.

She then disappeared into the shadows. Not even a minute passed before Aragorn heard the thumping of two bodies, one right after the other, followed by the telltale crash of a shattering wine glass meeting the floor.

“What is the meaning of this?!” Lord Theovail’s voice thundered, a mix of surprise and outrage lacing his words.

Aragorn cautiously peered around the corner, his heart pounding. Lord Theovail was now a whirlwind of fury and frustration, his gaze darting in every direction and a knife clutched in his hand. “I am not one to indulge in games!” he roared, his voice echoing through the chamber as he brandished the blade. “Reveal yourself, you coward!”

Within seconds, the Scorpion’s blade was poised menacingly at Lord Theovail's throat, her grip firm and unwavering as she held him in check from behind. Her voice dripped with a sinister malice as she spoke, her words slithering through the air like a venomous serpent. “Lord Kassim sends his regards.”

A broad chuckle bubbled from Theovail's lips, mingling with a mix of disbelief and arrogance. “A woman?! Kassim sends a woman to kill me?!”

Aragorn watched as the assassin drew another blade from her lethal arsenal, the steel glinting in the dim light. He winced inwardly, knowing what was about to unfold. In one swift, calculated motion, the Scorpion's blade found its mark, slicing deeply into Theovail's spine. The lord's body crumpled to the floor, staining the pristine white fur carpet with a gruesome red pool. His once-commanding presence now reduced to stillness. Though his eyes, wide and drifting in panic, showed his fear.

She then sat on top of him, bringing the blade to his neck once more. The Scorpion's lips curled into a chilling grin, her eyes alight with a dark satisfaction. “Not just any woman. You ever hear of The Scorpion of Sarn Ford?”

Instantly, a tidal wave of horror engulfed Theovail's blue gaze, his previously defiant demeanor shattered like the fragile glass of Calista’s window.

He knew the legend. He knew there was no escape for him.

However, at that moment, a large, burly guard burst in. Seeing what was unfolding, he was at his Lord’s assistance in a flash. His hand grasped onto the assassin’s hair, yanking her form from Theovail.

Aragorn clenched his jaw, giving her a moment before he intervened.

The collision sent shards of glass and splintered wood flying as the guard and the Scorpion crashed into the wine cart, locked in a fierce struggle. The guard, towering in his size, managed to regain his footing first and hauled the Scorpion up with him. His meaty fists struck out, landing brutal blows that drew crimson from her nose and brow.

The Ranger cursed. Quickly, he sat Calista upon the ground and rushed to his partner's aid. Unsheathing his blade, he lunged into the fray. His sword found its mark in the guard's back, the steel emerging through the man's stomach. Time seemed to freeze as the guard's bloodied gaze locked with the Scorpion's, a moment charged with shock and shared disbelief. The guard crumpled to the ground, revealing Aragorn.

With a swift motion, Aragorn twisted his blade downward and reached out to grasp the Scorpion's face, his hands marked by a blend of relief and fear. The touch, both tender and urgent, brought her gaze to his. Blood marked one cheek, while the other felt the cool press of his blade's hilt against her skin. His deep voice, a mixture of anxiety and care, called out her name. "(Y/N)," he stated, the word a lifeline that pierced through her dazed state.

"(Y/N)," he spoke once more, the urgency remaining. “Are you alright?”

She blinked, forcing a response. “Yes, yes. I'm fine.”

Aragorn released a sigh of relief, yet his hand remained for another heartbeat, a reassurance in the form of touch. "Take care of Theovail. I will get Calista," he instructed, his hands finally and reluctantly withdrawing as he moved to tend to their young charge.

The rest was a blur: (Y/N) slicing Theovail’s throat and grabbing his ruby ring, Aragorn hauling Calista into his arms, and the trio racing down the tower's corridors—fending off any obstacle that dared to stand in their path. Adrenaline drove them to the treeline, panting breath heavy and loud, as they climbed upon their horses and took off into the night—leaving behind the bloody assassination of the Lord of the Eastemnet Tower.

…..

Weeks later, at three in the morning, the trio stumbled into The Black Falcon Tavern, where they first met with Percaric. The establishment was eerily quiet, save for the slumbering figure of the barkeep, who had succumbed to the late hour with his head on the counter. At the far end of the room, Percaric and Calista's mother stood, their figures illuminated by a flickering candle on the table. An air of anxious anticipation clung to the atmosphere.

As soon as their feet crossed the threshold, that stillness was disturbed. Calista's voice pierced the quiet as she called out to her mother, her strength visibly renewed since the ordeal. Without hesitation, mother and daughter closed the distance between themselves, embracing as if they had been torn apart for eternity. Tears flowed freely, mingling sorrow with joy. The warmth of their reunion dispelled the darkness that had clouded their lives.

Percaric approached the Scorpion and the Ranger.

The assassin tossed the man Lord Theovail’s ring. “Proof of death,” she stated bluntly. “I was gonna bring you his head, but figured it would smell pretty rotten after the long journey.”

He nodded awkwardly, the thought making him feel ill. He took a quick moment to examine the ring. Seemingly satisfied, he spoke. “You did well. Lord Kassim sends his thanks.” He then tossed them both pouches of gold before turning back to the mother and daughter. As Percaric prepared to take Calista and her mother back home, he turned back to the two rescuers. His voice carried a sentiment with his words. "Thank you."

Aragorn's silent nod and the Scorpion's subtle acknowledgment conveyed their understanding and their shared commitment to a world that often demanded their sacrifice.

With that, Percaric, Calista, and her mother left the inn, leaving the assassin and the ranger alone.

“Well,” (Y/N) began, as she walked towards the snoring barkeep and leaned over the counter, fishing for the room keys. “I don't know about you, but I could do with a good night’s rest.” She pulled the ring from his waist and turned back to Aragorn. Holding it up, one key dangling, her grin faded. “You're kidding, right?” She shook her head with a huff but turned and made her way to the rickety stairs. “As long as you stay on your side of the bed this time, Strider—”

“Scorpion,” he interrupted as he followed her.

The wood creaked under her feet. “I am serious. Keep yourself in check—”

“Scorpion.”

“I will not hesitate to paralyze you—”

“(Y/N)!”

She froze upon the stairs, slowly turning to look at him on the step directly below her. Now they stood at the same height, face to face, only inches away from each other.

“You almost died out there,” he whispered, his hot breath brushing against her skin.

“Yeah, so did you. It happens,” she shrugged. “It’s what we do.”

“(Y/N),” he persisted.

“What?!”

With that, he grasped onto her face, his finger warm and calloused from the lifetime of travel and battle. Time seemed to freeze as the moment lingered, the air changing between them.

And then, his lips were on hers.

At first, a sense of uncertainty held her still, her mind grappling to comprehend the sudden intimacy. But as his touch deepened and the kiss became a dance, she surrendered to the moment. Her fingers found their way into his hair, tangling themselves among the dark waves, as her lips moved with just as much force—if not more—as his. He tasted of pine and fresh soil, she wast sure if she quite literally was consuming the dirt upon his face, but she didn't care. She couldn't stop herself from becoming enthralled by his lips.

“Scorpion,” he mumbled against her mouth.

She hummed a reply as her lips continued to move with his.

“Room. Now,” he practically growled.

She grinned, her teeth tugging on his bottom lip. “Make me.”

Aragorn pulled away from her, raising his brow with a smirk. With that, he grabbed her by the hips and hoisted her up. Her mouth found his again as he stumbled up the stairs, ignorant to the barkeep who woke and was now squinting at the pair.

“The Scorpion and Strider,” the old man huffed. “The boys aren't gonna believe this one.”

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entishramblings · 4 months

Text

Fuck the Forbidden Pt. 2

[Boromir/F!MermaidReader]

PART 1 | PART 3 — coming soon

Fuck the Forbidden: FTF LINK MASTERLIST

A.N: my apologies for taking so much time to update: graduate school is a tornado, plus getting sick and the craziness of holidays season didn’t help. Anyways, thank you for your patience and your continuous support! I literally read all your comment in order to inspire me to write again!

Request: none

Pairing: Boromir X Fem!MermaidReader

Summary: The Reader is a Mermaid and witnessed a shipwreck. She becomes interested in human life—particularly one human: Boromir.

Disclaimer: Any mythology relating to the mermaids of middle earth is not canon. also I tried my best with arda water/river geography plz don’t come at me—it’s not one of my finer subjects :/

Word Count: 5.7k — listen, yes, I STILL have a problem

Warnings: depression, drowning, ptsd, alcoholism, angst, comfort, fluff, stalking (idk how to make that last one sound less creepy. you’re just gonna have to read it).

MASTERLIST | AO3 | WATTPAD

The following day, (Y/N) waited in the depths of the Anduin River by the entrance of the Minas Tirith castle. Sure enough, the captain, decorated in silver, came out upon his steed. Though he did not have the cheer he normally held—despite his recent struggles—he seemed….different. (Y/N) had hoped that he didn't remember what he saw under the lake. Maybe he figured he was too drunk and his mind was playing tricks on him? Maybe he would forget it all together? However, that fearful look in his eyes when he glanced at the river told her otherwise. It appeared Faramir failed to convince his brother that the mer-folk were just a myth.

Boromir deviated from his routine as well. He did not go to the market for the breakfast that he seemed to love. No, no. Instead he went out towards the edge of the city–towards the docks. And (Y/N) went with him. He passed his horse off to another and walked upon the wood, passing ship and boat, until he came upon a small fishing vessel. (Y/N) swam around it and took to the surface upon its side, far enough to not be spotted, but close enough to see and hear.

“Iwar,” Boromir called out. “You there?”

“Oi!” the old man replied, emerging from the sails. “What can I do for yer?”

“You have a moment?”

“For ye? Of course I do, lad. What is this about?” Iwar stated, squinting in the sun.

Boromir huffed, and pulled something from his pocket. He lightly tossed it to the older fellow. “What do you make of this?”

Iwar frowned, holding the whale up before his face by the string Boromir had used to make it into a necklace. “Where’d ye get it?”

“In a pond. One that connects to the Anduin River.”

Iwar sent him a strange look. “Do ye know what this is made out of?”

Boromir shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

“It’s bone, Boromir,” he replied tentatively.

At this, the captain’s lips parted. “Bone?”

Iwar tossed the whale carving back to him. “Aye, couldn't tell ye what it came from. Whittled too much away for that. Ye said yer got it from a pond?”

He nodded, swallowing dryly.

“Could’ve washed up from the currents.” Iwar stated, nonchalantly, returning to the tasks of his sail. “Some trinket someone lost to the sea.”

Boromir dipped his head, his anxiety present as he fiddled with the whale.

Iwar glanced at him. “Something else, boy?”

Boromir inhaled slowly. “Iwar, do you–do you really believe those tales of the sea-folk?”

The old man sent a weary look at the captain as he tied off one of the ropes upon the fabric. “Aye. Saw one of em’ when I was just a lad. Nearly lost my life.”

Boromir focused his gaze upon Iwar. “I think–I think I saw one last night.”

At this, the older man froze. Slowly, he turned his full attention to the captain, dread slipping from his face.

Still, Boromir continued, trying to justify his sighting. ‘Though, I don't know. I was very drunk. Had a couple ales too many. My mind could’ve—”

“You were out on the sea last night?” Iwar interrupted, confused.

Boromir shook his head.

“The shore then? Never heard of em’ venturing so close.”

Boromir released a nervous chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh, I was in the pond by the Minas Tirith castle.”

Iwar’s form stiffened as he walked toward the captain. He nodded at the bone carving in Boromir’s hand as he spoke in a tone that held so much anxiety that it radiated through the air around him. “The same pond where ye found that?”

“Yes.”

Iwar’s eyes widened wildly. “I’d tell ye what, lad. Ye have been marked by em.’ And that—” he dipped his head at the whale once more. “—I reckon that's human bone.”

Blood drained from Boromir’s face, replaced with sheer panic. His fingers clumsily grappled with the carving, uncertain of how to handle it. Reluctant to make direct contact, he hesitated before settling on gripping the string, allowing the whale to dangle. Disgust etched across his brow.

“I’d get out while ye can. Stay away from the sea waters, boy.” Iwar warned.

….

That night, Boromir didn't go to the pool of water by the white walls—nor the following night. He, quite frankly, didn't go near the water at all. He stayed far from the beaches and from the Anduin River. He took longer paths to where he needed to go in order to avoid such circumstances that put him near what Iwar had described to live in the sea.

And this—all this broke (Y/N)’s heart. It stirred up a tumult of emotions—sadness, anger, fear, and frustration. Therefore, on the third day, she sought solace in a secluded nook along the Bay of Belfas. Hoisting herself onto a warm rock, she sat, enveloped in her misery. Her once-vivid fantasies of the land-people and Boromir now dissolved into sorrow and regret. What lingered was the haunting image of Boromir's disdainful expression when Iwar speculated that her gift was crafted from human bone. Any mer-folk would be delighted to receive such a heartfelt gesture! But Boromir wasn't of the sea, now was he.

(Y/N) stayed upon the rock for hours, hoping the sun would soak up her melancholy mood. However, that is not what the golden beams absorbed. Her skin dried, her hair lightened and billowed freely, and the scales on her tail lacked the moisture they once held. It was at that moment discomfort struck. Excruciating, searing pain surged through her tail, a relentless agony that prompted a deep cry from her lips. Every nerve seemed to flare with an intense, burning sensation, rendering her nearly paralyzed by the sheer intensity of the pain. She couldn't move, only shake and claw at the rock she perched upon. It felt like hours as she laid there, praying to the gods to make it end. And when it did, she instinctively reached for her scales. However, to her surprise, her hand met no such thing; instead, flesh had replaced the once-familiar tail.

(Y/N) gasped.

Her father had said…

He had tested them all…

None had the gift….

He lied.

Emotions swirled around her naked form as she stared at the strange extension that replaced her glimmering scales—legs. Anger, irritation, sadness, regret, frustration, excitement all ran through her blood.

Slowly, she stood. As she took a wobbly step upon the rock, a loud, breathy giggle escaped her lips.

Was this a dream?

(Y/N) took another uncertain step, and another, and another—until she stumbled, her hand reaching out to break her fall. However, a splash came from that, for her palm struck where water had gathered in a dip upon the rock.

Immediately, she felt it.

Her skin tingled, then burned and stung, stretching and pulling in a painful dance. (Y/N) cried out as the pain intensified. With scales attempting to form on her dry legs, the tugging became excruciating once more—tears streamed from her eyes as she desperately scrambled towards the water.

Her form slipped and rolled, right off the rock and into the ocean.

Immediate relief enveloped her. Scales continued to knit together without a hint of pain. The water soothed her. It coated the soreness into nonexistence.

(Y/N) allowed her form to sink, adjusting.

There she floated, letting her body and mind adjust to what had just happened.

It was then when one of the turmoiling emotions overtook the rest of them. It coursed through her gills and surged through her veins.

How dare he…

With a decisive flick of her tail, she propelled herself toward her father's palace.

The anger granted her remarkable speed, causing other merfolk to whip their heads around in confusion as she barreled past them.

She swam directly to the grand chamber, where she anticipated her father perched upon his throne, and busted the door open with her tail.

“HOW DARE YOU?!” she screamed at him.

Heads turned instantly—her father’s, her sisters’, the guards’.

“HOW DARE YOU LIE TO ME, FATHER. HOW DARE YOU NOT TELL ME I HAD THE GIFT?!”

Her father rose, signaling the guards to leave. They swam away quickly, avoiding the impending wrath of the sea's king and his children.

“You lied straight to my face,” (Y/N) stated.

“(Y/N), what are you talking about?” Anahita interjected, appalled by her sister’s tone.

Mareena added to her statement. “That is no way to speak to our father!”

(Y/N)'s tail flicked with irritation as she focused her gaze on the man before her. “I have the gift to walk among the land-folk.”

Una gasped. Seria’s mouth dropped open. Rana’s eyes widened. Nerida’s brows shot upwards.

Their father swam towards (Y/N). “You went to the land?!” he growled. “It is forbidden.”

“I DID NOT GO ONTO THE LAND!” She snapped back. Taking a deep breath, she spoke again. “I was letting the sun warm me upon a rock when it happened—the tingling, the splitting, the pain.”

“You went to the surface—”

“How dare you not tell me, Father!”

“I DID NOT TELL YOU BECAUSE OF THIS!” He yelled. “Because I knew the minute you would figure it out, you would want to test out your new form. You would put us all in danger.”

“YOU HAVE PUT ME IN DANGER. YOU HAVE MASKED YOUR PROTECTION IN LIES THAT HAVE ONLY CAUSED ME PAIN. HOW DARE YOU!” (Y/N) retorted.

With that, (Y/N) swam away. She twisted through the reefs and the grass. She slipped through the schools of fish and their bubbles. She slithered through the rocks and caves. She did so until she was back in the Anduin River, where the lively markets and the hustle of people's households awaited. Breaking through the water's surface, she emerged with a cautious awareness, ensuring she remained unseen.

She swam along the edge until she came upon a line of clothing strung between two buildings. On it hung sheets as bright as a lemonpeel angelfish, a skirt holding the vibrance of an orange clownfish, a flowing wrap the hue of a blue tang fish, a pair of trousers the color of a brown leafy sea dragon, a top shaded like that of a pink fairy wrasse, and a flowing dress the cream color of a stingray’s belly.

(Y/N) looked at her surroundings.

The people were on the other side of the clothing line—all mucking about in the market. None even bothered to shed a glance behind the fabric. All were too busy going about their day.

Therefore, with little regard for the forbidden nature of her actions—because, really, fuck the forbidden—(Y/N) decided to defy the rules that had once controlled her life.

Originally, she hadn't intended to act in such defiance, but the anger coursing through her veins urged her forward into impulsive urges.

Hauling her form out of the water, (Y/N) manipulated the water clinging to her, using her fingers in twisting and rippling motions. She gathered the liquid into a cohesive ball and, with a flick of her wrist, sent the sphere dancing through the air before it plopped back into the river.

The tingling sensation began, followed by the excruciating pain, and soon enough, the transformation into legs commenced.

Anxiously, (Y/N) stood. Her shaky legs wobbled as she adjusted to their unfamiliar form. Her trembling fingers swiftly seized the cream colored dress—she didn't want to stand out, she needed to blend in—and she clumsily slipped it on. Her gaze then fixated on a brilliant blue wrap. The color resonated with the deep seas she hailed from, and she couldn't resist. The mermaid grasped the silk and yanked, winding it around her hair in a manner she had observed from land women when peeking from the river. Letting some of her locks cascade out of the twisted band, the blue fabric draped over her shoulders. She smiled.

Her hand instinctively rose to her neck, where her necklace adorned with shells, sea glass, and bones encircled her skin. A frown crossed her face. She couldn't part with it—this cherished gift from her since passed mother. Therefore, she let it remain, finding that it didn't look too out of place.

(Y/N) ventured into the market, nervously navigating the bustling city of Minas Tirith with her new, wobbly legs. The vibrant atmosphere teemed with life and excitement as diverse groups came together to weave the people into the human race. So many men, women, and children—all different sizes, all different shapes, all different skin tones—bustled through the streets.

Young children ran through the tents playing games and tricks on one another. Often enough, a woman was pursuing the chase while yelling for their halt of mischief. Men were not involved in this matter. Instead, they loudly called out the names of what they sold, along with prices, at the busy passerbyers in hopes of getting a customer. Never had (Y/N) seen something so brilliantly enthralling and engaging—not in her time under the sea with the mer-folk.

As she moved through the people, she discreetly snagged what she needed. A pair of sandals disappeared from a rack, and she swiftly turned away before anyone noticed. Vibrantly colored bracelets caught her eye at a vendor's stall, and she couldn't resist snagging a few. Additionally, she plucked food from bins and baskets. She didn't know what it was—but oh how delicious it tasted when it was not dunked in the salt of the sea.

Here, (Y/N) stayed, exploring the thrill of humanity and letting their culture enrapture her senses. So much so, that she failed to notice a soldier adorned in silver until she collided with his metal-plated chest.

Her form tumbled backwards, taking an extra moment to steady.

“Are you alright, miss?” a concerned voice inquired.

(Y/N) slowly raised her head to meet a familiar face: Faramir.

Unable to find her voice, she could only nod in reply. Shyness and anxiety filled her as she backed away from the unexpected encounter.

He acknowledged her reply with a dip of his own head before turning to another soldier a little ways away. He made way towards him and gently touched his arm. “Boromir, we should get going. Father is expecting us.”

(Y/N) went still. Her inquisitive gaze shifted towards him, and indeed, there stood Boromir. His dark, sandy hair brushed upon his forehead, tousled slightly from the refreshing breeze. Vibrant blue eyes held a sternness, concealing the sadness she knew resided in his heart. His pink lips pressed into a firm line, refraining from the warmth of a smile. Boromir was clad in the silver armor and the metal weapons that she had seen him in nearly every day. He looked fit for his position as captain, his authority nearly radiating from him. Now that she was upon the land, he seemed so much bigger—so much stronger. So much more important.

(Y/N)’s cheeks began to heat, prompting her to quickly ducked behind the fabric of a tent. After giving herself a moment, she peaked out.

Though she knew she shouldn't, she found herself following them. At a safe distance, she mimicked every turn, accentuated every step, and utilized every path they took. And when the Steward's sons crossed the threshold of Minas Tirith Castle, so did she.

Instantly, she was met with just as much business as the market. Servants flooded the halls, carrying trays of fruit and platters of meat. Maids held onto neatly folded laundry and finely pressed sheets. Guards bustled about, their steel clanking as they moved through the halls, to get to their next shift, meal, or rest.

(Y/N) was so overwhelmed that she failed to notice a group of soldiers rounding the corner. As they pushed past her, a heavy shoulder slammed into her, the edge of the metal plate catching her forehead. The impact sliced the skin open, causing her to tumble backward against the wall.

Surprising her, she felt a gentle hand upon her arm, holding her steady. A soft voice that she knew all too well, that spoke words all too similar to his brother’s, filled her ears. “Are you alright, miss?”

In a daze, (Y/N) looked up at the dark sandy hair, vibrant blue eyes, and perfect pink lips of Boromir. Too stunned to speak, she merely stared at him, every thought that had occupied her mind vanishing in the moment.

Boromir turned towards the group of soldiers who had caused the commotion and knocked her down. With a tone infused with authority and anger, he snapped at them, “Watch where you are going!”

They turned, initially confused and uncertain of Boromir's reprimand until they spotted the frightened and injured girl beside him.

“What kind of soldiers are you that you let your steel hit a woman!” Boromir added, his irritation even more obvious. “Keep better track of your things—and your forms!”

The soldiers nodded, though their indifference was evident, and they shuffled away without much concern.

Boromir turned back to (Y/N), repeating his prior question, his tone gentle once more. “I apologize for the actions of my men. I will reprimand them later, but right now you are more important, yes? Miss?”

She looked up at him, blinking. He didn’t recognize her, did he?

“You’re bleeding,” he stated softly, his finger pressed gently upon her forehead.

A quiet gasp of pain escaped (Y/N)’s lips and her expressions distorted slightly.

“My apologies. I did not mean to make your pain worse. May I take you to the infirmary? We can get that treated.”

Unsure what to say—and what an infirmary was—she nervously dipped her head.

“Alright,” he began. “Let’s get you moving.”

Gently, he helped her move away from the wall, one arm wrapped around her waist. However, with a couple steps, her vision swirled and she stumbled.

Boromir caught her quickly. “Whoa, whoa. Slow down. Just a step at a time.” His brows pulled together as he looked down at her. “Are you dizzy? Is the room spinning?”

“I—I,” she stuttered. “Y-yes, uh, sir.”

He released a heated breath from his nose, the anger at the men who had harmed her simmering within him. However, he pushed it away, ensuring his attention remained on her. "How about you sit back down? Lean against the wall to keep you upright, yes?"

(Y/N) nodded, allowing him to help lower her to the stone floor. As the coldness rushed through her bones and the stillness began to steady, she looked up at him. “T-thank you,” she whispered. “Uh, sir.”

The captain smiled softly. “You may call me Boromir.”

She nodded slightly.

Boromir looked up and stopped a passing servant. “Could you please fetch me a medical kit from the infirmary? Just basic supplies.”

The man nodded, accepting the order, and rushed off. Moments later, he returned with various materials in a small box.

Boromir expressed his gratitude as he opened the kit. Without hesitation, he took hold of a soft cloth and gently swiped it upwards, collecting the blood that was now trickling down (Y/N)’s forehead. He then pressed it against the cut that was bleeding rather heavily. "Hold this there," he commanded gently.

The woman reached up to follow his instructions, and Boromir proceeded to lay out an array of little bottles and scraps of cloth. "What is your name?" he inquired as he doused a cloth in the liquids of one of the containers.

Her eyes followed his motions nervously. “(Y/N),” she replied timidly.

The Captain smiled, attempting to provide some comfort. “Are you from around here, (Y/N)?”

She shook her head.

“No? What are you doing in these parts then?” He asked.

“I—I don’t know.”

Boromir frowned, looking up at her from the medical supplies. She appeared more disoriented than he had initially expected. Perhaps the blow to the head was more substantial than he had thought?

“You don’t know?” He questioned, no alarm in his tone. Meanwhile, he began threading a needle, preparing it for the task of stitching her forehead. “Have you come with anyone? A husband? A father?”

She frowned, a blush creeping into her face at the implications of his words. “N-no. Alone.”

Boromir pressed his lips together, a sudden loneliness hitting him—one that he knew all too well—as he placed the threaded needle upon a clean cloth.

“Do you have a place to stay?”

She shook her head.

“Hmm. Alright. Let’s get you cleaned up, then we can worry about that.”

Boromir took the cloth from her forehead, his hand brushing upon hers as he did so. He then began bringing a damp cloth towards her face.

Instantly, her eyes went wide and she ducked away from the material. “It’s alright. It’s alright. It’s just alcohol.” He replied, lowering the cloth.

“N-not water?” She whispered, almost fearful.

He shook his head. “Nay. Water would not clean it properly. This will prevent any infection, though I’m afraid it will sting a bit. Is that alright?”

Slowly, (Y/N) nodded.

Boromir pressed the cloth to the cut and, instantly, she hissed.

“I know, I am sorry,” he murmured.

Gently, he cleaned the wound, being careful to not make any sudden movements that may startle her. When he was certain it was clean, he moved to pick up the needle.

“I will have to stitch it back together so it heals properly.” He looked into her worried gaze and he instantly felt guilt tugging at his heart. It appeared she had never experienced such an injury, or perhaps she had but never received proper treatment for one.

Cautiously, he used his other hand to pick up her own. Her soft palms brushed upon his hardened calloused, gentleness upon her touch. Placing her hand upon his knee, he spoke softly, “If it hurts too much just squeeze really really hard, and I will pause, alright? It is important that you keep your head still, yes?”

She nodded, adjusting her grip upon his knee, a mixture of anticipation and anxiety in her eyes.

Slowly, Boromir began the delicate task of stitching her skin back together. Her grip tightened upon him, only slightly, as she adjusted to the strange sensation of tugging on her skin.

"You are doing beautifully, (Y/N). We are almost done. I promise," the Captain reassured her. As he finished the last stitch and skillfully moved the thread to knot itself, he breathed out, "There we go," placing the needle back upon the cloth. He smiled gently, a reassuring warmth in his eyes, as he carefully cleaned the area around the stitches. "All finished," Boromir stated before leaning back, (Y/N)’s hand slipping from his knee.

“It will be sore for a bit,” he said. “But it should heal in a week. The stitching will fall out on its own, so if it starts to come out, do not worry. Though, I would advise you not to get it wet.”

At that last sentence, (Y/N) smiled softly. She wasn’t planning on getting wet—not anytime soon.

“Can you stand? Has the dizziness subsided?”

The woman nodded and slowly rose to her feet, taking Boromir’s hand when he offered it.

“Let’s find you a place to rest while you heal. And I would like to apologize for my soldiers’ actions once more. You are welcome to stay in Minas Tirith as long as you would like. I will make sure you get everything you need.”

(Y/N) looked up at his kind expression and spoke with that same nervous hesitancy. “Thank you.…Boromir.”

The captain guided her through the castle, arriving at a room. He opened the door and gestured inside with a soft smile. "It is yours to stay in. I will ensure the maids are alerted to provide you with adequate care. If you need anything else, my chambers are just down the hallway to the right, the second door."

She nodded in reply.

He bowed his head. “I will leave you then, miss.”

With that, he was gone.

(Y/N) moved to the center of the room and slowly spun around taking it all in. It was massive and airy. The windows were wind open, the sea breeze rushing in and caring hints of the city. The white curtains blew with that gentle wind, dancing in its whispers. The walls of the chamber were adorned with intricate tapestries depicting only what she could assume to be the legendary tales of the city. They were woven with beautiful silver and turquoise thread, catching the light so delicately. A bed sat in the middle of the room, soft white blankets and comforters piled on it. (Y/N) walked towards it and gently sat upon the fabric. It was….strange. Very different from the large shells she was used to curling up in.

Feeling a sudden tiredness take over her form, she laid down with ease. Resting her head upon the pillow, she allowed sleep to consume her.

…….

When she finally woke, the sun had set, and the stars took their place among the blanket of the sky. Cautiously, she pulled her legs from the cage of blankets and let them dangle off the side of the bed. They looked so….strange upon her form. She was used to her glimmering tail that collected light to share among the waters. Not—not this. She lowered her feet upon the stone floor, almost startled by the coldness that greeted them.

Hunger settled into her stomach as she moved towards the door. However, she found herself at a loss, unsure where to find a meal at this time. The markets were long since closed and she knew not where the kitchen in the Minas Tirith castle was. Of course, she could wander down to the tavern that Boromir frequented regularly—she knew the way well enough, but she didn't have any means to pay.

(Y/N) shifted on her feet. Boromir did say she could come to him if she needed anything….

Almost as if it were an excuse to see him again, she slipped through the door and began following his directions to his chambers. With every step, her heart pounded harder. She would get to see him again—and it wouldn't be through layers of water.

Upon arrival, the door stood ajar, allowing a whisper of cold air to drift from his open windows. Cautiously, she peered into the room. It was shrouded in darkness, with only the soft glow of the moon reflecting upon the vast room—oh, and what a beautiful room it was. The room eluded a captivating chaos, in the most exciting way. Tablets and shelves were filled with various items—maps, books, stones, germs, inventions, and trinkets. The room held a multitude of objects, each beckoning to be looked at, studied, and pondered—igniting a sense of wonder and an urge to guess the intention. Oh, it was a captivating sight.

“Boromir?” she called out.

Silence.

Slowly, (Y/N) stepped in. She let her feet carry her throughout the room, her hand brushing upon every object that her eyes could consume. She picked things up, examined them, then put them down for another. She did so continuously, urgently, the thirst for knowledge of the humans’ customs eager in her blood. She did so, until she came across something familiar—something she was surprised to see.

(Y/N) picked up the bone carved whale from the shelf that it rested on.

He had kept it.

A little grin formed on her face, for after his conversation with Iwar she didn’t think he would.

“Does that one interest you?” A soft tone asked.

(Y/N) jumped, startled.

Boromir chuckled lightly, stepping into the room. “I am sorry. I didn't mean to startle you.”

She glanced down at the whale carving before looking back to him.

“I am not quite sure how that one came into my possession,” he continued as he moved to stand beside her.

She frowned, looking up. Her eyes were now direct at him, focused and stern—for the first time since he had met her. He would be lying if he said it didn't startle him a bit.

“You don't remember?” she asked, her tone strong.

“Well, no it’s not that. Of course, I remember how I got it. It just was a bit peculiar.”

(Y/N) tilted her head, not understanding.

Boromir sighed, his tone was distant as he spoke, his blue gaze not wavering from her curious eyes that suddenly seemed so bold. “A friend of mine says it's a dark omen, ment to mark me for death.” His vision trailed across her face. “He says it is made of the bone of my fallen brothers, urging me to follow them to their deaths.”

“Do you believe that?”

He blinked, his gaze lingering upon the whale. “I do not know what to believe.” Boromir looked at her expression. “What are your thoughts on such a statement?”

(Y/N) shrugged, placing the whale in its spot upon the shelf. “I believe people don’t understand other cultures and customs. I believe they make their own assumptions out of ignorance and fear.”

The captain raised a brow at her intelligence. “You are feeling better then?”

“Hmm?” (Y/N) hummed in question as she moved to another object.

“Well, that is the most I have heard you speak since I met you. You are wiser than you appear to be.”

She only shrugged in response, picking up a telescope and looking through its glass—by the wrong end.

“Though,” Boromir continued in a teasing manner as he plucked the object from her grasp, turned it the correct way, and placed it back in her palms. “That wisdom seems not to extend to everything.”

She frowned, looking through the glass once before placing it down. She then went for a music box, her confused expression deepening. “We do not have all these….these things where I am from.”

Boromir reached across her and twisted the little lever, releasing the gentle music from its hold. “And where is that, may I ask?”

At the twinkling sound, her smile, born of pure delight, extended from her expression. Her response to his question, however, was only that of a simple word, “Far.”

The captain raised a brow. “How far?”

(Y/N) shot him a strange look, placing the music box down and picking up a crystal sphere instead. “You ask a lot of questions,” she mumbled.

He grinned playfully. “You do not seem to give many answers, Miss (Y/N).”

She glared at him.

With that playful smile, he spoke again. “Would it help if you got to ask a question?”

(Y/N)‘s eyes crinkled with thought as she placed the object down and turned towards him. She saw how his shoulders slumped ever so slightly, how the circles under his eyes appeared so dark, how his expression was so hollow. Softly, she spoke again. “Why are you so sad, Boromir?”

Taken aback by this, his lips parted. “I—I do not know what you mean.”

She took a step closer to him, a step that nearly eliminated the space between them, and her piercing gaze burned up at him for the truth.

Hesitantly, he whispered that truth, as if she compelled it right out of him. “I—I recently was in a shipwreck. I thought, well, I thought I was dead—left for the watery graves below.” He paused, just for a moment. “But yet I am here and I do not know why. And, I am beginning to question things that I know, well, thought I knew, for the world appears different now.”

Silence.

Boromir's soft voice then picked up again, his breath warm upon the woman’s face. “Why are you so sad, (Y/N)?”

At this, her shy nature returned. (Y/N) turned her head away, not wanting to look at the source of her sadness.

Gently, Boromir tugged on her chin, forcing her to look at him. “You implored me to tell you such a truth,” he whispered. “May I not ask the same of you?”

(Y/N)’s tone was soft. “My truth is complicated.”

“Are not all truths complicated?” he responded.

With that, she withdrew from his grasp—a hold she desperately craved—and created enough distance between them, leaving him to wonder if such closeness had occurred at all.

A loud grumble then echoed through the dark room—splitting the darkness with something else, something much for lighthearted.

“When have you last eaten?” Boromir asked.

Her brows pulled together as she looked at her stomach.

He chuckled, offering her his hand. “Come. Let’s get you some food. I can take you to my favorite place.”

“But I—I have no coin,” she whispered shyly.

“You are a guest of Gondor, Gondor will see you fed.”

(Y/N) smiled, that innocent gaze returning. She hesitantly took his hand and he led her through the castle and towards the tavern.

The two arrived at the tavern rather quickly. Urine, stale ale, and sweat flooded (Y/N)’s nostrils—familiar aromas reminiscent of her vigilant watch over Boromir along the Anduin River. The lively atmosphere enveloped the pair. In the corner, a bard sang to the patrons, his melodic voice resonating throughout, enticing some to join in. Drunk men, tapping their feet along to the beat of the tune, howled in laughter and glee as they clinked their ales together and shoveled food into their mouths. Requests for additional drinks prompted maidens, adorned in long skirts and aprons, to gracefully deliver brimming glasses, the foaming liquid sloshing about.

(Y/N) smiled, taking in the environment.

Boromir cast a glance at her out of the corner of his eye, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. “It’s just a tavern.”

She turned to him, her grin unwavering. “We don’t have taverns where I am from.”

He raised a brow. “And where is that? You never said.”

She shrugged. “Far.”

(Y/N) moved deeper into the tavern, with Boromir following suit. He motioned towards an available table, and they both took a seat. Before long, a serving maiden approached. Boromir signaled for two meals and two ales, and they promptly arrived.

The woman wasted no time and eagerly indulged in her food, swiftly emptying the plate.

Boromir tried to suppress a smile as he saw this, for he was glad she was getting proper nutrition after her likely long and hard journey. He, of course, wished to know more of her origins; though, he could see she wasn't quite ready to discuss such things. Instead, he opted to answer any and all questions she had which began with her curious tone.

“Boromir, would you be willing to tell me of your city? How you live in these parts? I wish to know.”

His soft gaze made contact with hers and he nodded, chewing his food and swallowing before he spoke. “What would you wish to know?”

“Everything—its structures, its people, its culture, its history.”

Therefore, Boromir spoke of such things. He described the White City's towering architecture, the valor of its people, and the complexities of the various beliefs held. He relayed its history and tales, showcasing the values of the Gondorian people.

His narratives ignited a spark in her eyes, drew laughter from her lips, and filled her heart with joy.

Fuck the forbidden indeed.

As the hours stretched on, Boromir’s friends joined them. (Y/N) could see the gleam in their eyes and catch the less-than-subtle teasing tones as they whispered about Boromir bringing a lady to their tavern. Faramir, arriving shortly after, seemed prepared for a night of dealing with his drunken brother, only to find himself pleasantly surprised by his brother's apparent sobriety and the joy the unknown woman seemed to bring to his melancholy soul.

Yet, amid the cheerful atmosphere, a pair of shifting gray eyes belonging to an old man that (Y/N) recognized as Iwar, kept her uneasy heart alert.

…..

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entishramblings · 11 months

Text

Fuck the Forbidden Pt. 1

[Boromir/F!MermaidReader]

PART 2 | PART 3 — coming soon!

Fuck the Forbidden: FTF LINK MASTERLIST

A.N: so, I went to see the little mermaid live action and I couldn’t resist making a one-shot inspired by it. however,,, there are some twists and turns to the tail (heh see what I did there) so it is a bit different ;)

Request: none

Pairing: Boromir X Fem!MermaidReader

Summary: The Reader is a Mermaid and witnessed a shipwreck. She becomes interested in human life—particularly one human: Boromir.

Disclaimer: Any mythology relating to the mermaids of middle earth is not canon. also I tried my best with arda water/river geography plz don’t come at me—it’s not one of my finer subjects :/

Word Count: 9.5k — listen, I have a problem

Warnings: depression, drowning, ptsd, alcoholism, angst, comfort, fluff, stalking (idk how to make that last one sound less creepy. you’re just gonna have to read it).

MASTERLIST | AO3 | WATTPAD

The gulf of the great sea was known to bring down ships in the Bay of Belfalas during an unlucky storm. The rocky path towards the shore had claimed the lives of many during such circumstances. Though the weather was usually fair, now was not one of those times. The ship, The Deseirre, rocked and tilted under the storm's ruling, making it nearly impossible for the crew to evade the onslaught of unwelcomed waves crashing aboard. The harsh waters hit hard upon the men manning the vessel, nearly drowning them in the angry salt water of the sea as they desperately tried to keep the boat from going down. The captain of the ship was manning the wheel, turning and spinning it with frantic urgency. The quartermaster was calling out orders, directing the crew's efforts to secure the hatches and hold the ship steady. The sailors were running lines and yanking on ropes, hoping to pull the sails in a direction that would keep them afloat. However, as the night sky wept and bellowed in rage, it further obscured the treacherous rocks lurking in the cove. Still, Boromir prayed that their vessel wouldn’t be one to join the graveyard below.

“ONE. OF. YOU. FUCKING MORONS—“ A wave crashed down upon the quartermaster, stealing his sentence for a moment. The water slid across the deck, revealing his form. His waterlogged body fumbled to rise. “—GO REEF THE SAILS! NOW!”

The Captain of the Minas Tirith Guard caught the desperate man’s gaze and nodded—telling him that he would be the one to do the task. Boromir then took to stumbling across the rocking ship, dodging flying parcels and rolling barrels, as he attempted to get to the ship’s mast.

A sudden cry interrupted his actions, causing Boromir to turn his attention. It was Elidon, the youngest member of their group at the age of fourteen. He had been hit by one of the barrels—and three more were coming his way.

Instantly, the Gondorian Captain moved to his aid. He jumped in-front of the boy and took the blow of the next barrel before yanking them both out of the way of the other two.

“Sir Boromir, th—thank you.” Elidon stammered out.

He patted the younger’s shoulder in recognition of his thanks. “Help Heimir and the rest of the crew! Go!”

“But—but where are you going?! That side of the ship is getting hit with the most water?!”

“The sails must be reefed! Go to Heimir!” he yelled as he ran off towards the rigging.

A diplomatic mission, his father had called it.

Boromir, now at the mast, grasped onto the ropes and heaved himself up onto the first prong of the rigging.

Just a quick check-in across the seas to confirm their trade routes and hold relations, he had said.

The Captain of the Guard twisted his fingers as the wet material slipped from them, nearly losing his grasp.

It would be an easy sail, Denethor had claimed.

Boromir struggled to keep his footing as a large wave crashed upon him, disorienting him.

Not too far of a venture, he had insisted.

Of course, without any objection, Boromir had agreed to go to be the face of such discussions. After all, Gondor needed a representative, and who could be more suitable than the steward’s son himself?! Boromir had been actively assisting his father in various administrative tasks to ensure the smooth operation of Minas Tirith—hell, he was captain of the guard! Therefore, a simple sail was nothing; but, much to his dismay, this was no simple sail. They had come across rough waves and rocky terrain through their journey. They had hoped that the way back wouldn’t be as difficult. But, boy, were they wrong. It was worse.

So here the Soldier of Gondor was, climbing the rigging to reach the sails and secure the reef points. Hopefully, with luck, it would reduce the risk of the ship capsizing.

He was nearly there, only a couple feet away, when he first heard it: the shouting.

Though it was not just the yelling of orders and commands.

No, no, this was different.

This was the shouting of terror. A cry to let the rest of them know it was too late. There was nothing to be done at this point. It was just a warning—for them to brace themselves. They had but seconds.

One. Two. Three.

The ship crashed hard upon a rock, the sound of the splintering snap of wood getting lost in that of lightning.

Boromir's desperate grip grew stronger, his fingers digging into the coarse fibers of the rope as his legs flailed helplessly in the air. He could feel the burn of the material tearing and ripping open his skin, an agonizing reminder of the dire situation he found himself in. Yet despite this, he clung to that lifeline, his very existence hanging by a thread. He didn’t want to die. No, not like this.

The crew members' panicked voices echoed through the air, their urgent cries piercing the tense atmosphere and striking reality back into Boromir’s bones. Swiftly, they scrambled towards the lifeboats, driven by the need for survival. The soldier knew the ship was done. The irrevocable truth was evident—the ship was destined to sink and there was no saving it.

With a swift twist of his head, Boromir shook off the wet strands of hair that clung to his face, obscuring his vision. He knew he had to get to the others—quickly. His eyes darted from one possible route to another, assessing each for its level of safety.

Boromir, with his heart pounding, shifted his position. He would have to swing for it.

With a calculated movement, he extended his arm, stretching it out towards a rope that hung close by. His fingers grazed its surface, but it remained just out of his immediate reach.

He tried again. His palm collided with the rope, yet still, it slipped from his grasp.

Determined, Boromir reconfigured his stance once more, hoping that this adjustment would be the key to finally bridging the gap between his outstretched hand and his only lifeline.

However, just as he was to make contact, a powerful wave slammed into his back. This sent him flying through the air. Helpless and disoriented, he tumbled uncontrollably down the rigging, hurtling towards the ship's deck. With mere seconds to react, he desperately attempted to reposition his form mid-fall, aiming to land on the meatiest part of his body. However, before he could even try to execute any maneuver, a gust of wind propelled a swinging beam directly towards him. Its side rammed right into his abdomen, forcefully taking him along its path. A pained groan escaped his lips as his head collided with yet another beam. The darkness then consumed him.

From their lifeboats, the crew gazed in disbelief at the sight of the Steward's Son, a figure who had always treated them with kindness and compassion, being tossed about in the air like a little gnat. The rage of the sea batted him away dismissively, as if he was nothing more than a little pest. With mouths agape in astonishment, the sailors watched Boromir’s lifeless form plummeting into the water—water that seemed to almost reach up towards him, as if the ocean itself yearned to soften the pain of his fall. The roar and rumble of the waves then consumed him and his limp form vanished beneath the inky depths. He was swallowed whole by the relentless force of the sea.

“Make for the shore!” The captain of the now non-existent ship hollered.

“But Captain!” Elidon cried out frantically. “What of Sir Boromir?! We cannot leave him!”

Grasping the torn and drenched fabric of his younger companion's tunic, the captain hollered his reply. “No man could have survived a blow to the back of the head like that. Forget Sir Boromir!” His gaze then shifted urgently towards Heimir, a comrade who shared in the grief of the recently departed. "Row for the shore! NOW! We cannot delay a moment longer!"

“But Captain!” Elidon shouted.

“Shut it boy! Or I will throw you over too!” he snapped back.

Reluctantly, Heimir and another sailor, Stinar, started to row. The little lifeboat began to surge with the way of the winds as the men upon it desperately attempted to bring it home steady—the friend that some had held so dearly, abandoned to the black sea.

The men, however, did not know one thing—the most important thing.

They didn’t know of the legends that had almost since faded from their line. The legends that only the eldest of sailors dared to even whisper of—even after a couple pints. The legends of the beautiful and sinful beasts of the sea. The ones that lured men to their deaths and used their skeletons for fashioning jewelry.

…..

Amidst the disassembling of The Deseirre—its fragments mercilessly thrown upon the tumultuous waves to be claimed by the gods of deep—a pair of vigilant eyes floated atop the water's surface.

Their curious gaze captured the ethereal moonlight, reflecting its shimmering glow as the sea raged on. Observing intently, they absorbed the tragic spectacle of the ship bending and breaking. They witnessed the anguished cries of its crew and the frenzied efforts of those fighting for survival. In solemn stillness, they silently beheld the suffering. Yet, a tender warmth seeped into those unwavering eyes when they witnessed one soul selflessly shielding another of many years younger. This man took the brunt of debris, despite the pain. And, well, those inquiring eyes decided to follow that man.

They watched as he scrambled across the ship, desperately climbing to reach or do….something. They didn't know exactly what his goal was, but from his frantic behavior, they could only guess it was intended to prevent the ship from going down. His efforts, however, appeared to be in vain, for the ship was splitting into ruins and the men were abandoning it—all but him. He tried. Oh, yes, he tried very hard, but it seemed the odds were not in his favor.

Down he fell—spiraling unconscious towards the abyss.

And those eyes, the ones that surveyed the shipwreck, were connected to a lifeform that could feel such pain—pain of the heart. They belonged to one called (Y/N).

(Y/N) knew she shouldn’t.

They were not allowed to—none of them were.

It was forbidden among their clan.

Though the begging of the young boy yanked upon the crevices of her chest.

It was forbidden.

All men couldn't be like those ones—the ones her father fought in ‘TheWar of the Riptides’ all those centuries ago.

It was forbidden.

This man—this man couldn't be like them. No. No, he wasn't like them. He was a good man.

It was forbidden.

He had saved the boy and taken the pain with no complaint. After all that had happened in the past couple centuries, she had to believe that there was some kindness—some decency—left in the human race. And in that act, she saw it. She knew she saw it. So, here, listening to the young boy plead for the rescue of the man, Boromir, she could not let it disappear.

It was forbidden.

She couldn't let that kindness rot at the bottom of the deep.

It was forbidden.

She could not let it cease to exist.

Fuck the forbidden.

(Y/N) extended her palm outward, commanding the water to cradle the man's body, cushioning his descent and lessening the impact. The waves obediently rose, embracing his lifeless form for a fleeting moment before consuming him. Swiftly, she dipped beneath the surface, her tail propelling her gracefully through the depths. It took only mere seconds for her to locate the drifting figure, and without hesitation, she folded her arms around his limp frame. Drawing upon the innate strength bestowed upon her people, her fins pushed them both upwards. Their heads emerged from the water's surface and the moonlight bathed them in unison with the rain.

Ensuring the man’s head remained above the water's surface, the mermaid skillfully navigated her way towards the shoreline. She glided past the treacherous rocky terrain that had proven to be the ship’s demise. She evaded the broken debris that came from the hopeless fight. And she eluded the relentless onslaught of waves that came to snatch the prize she had stolen.

(Y/N) reached the shore at the break of dawn, just as the sun began its ascent to its position among the sky. The storm had halted during the first rays of light and now it kissed her skin and scales with praise. As she brushed upon the land, she gently laid Boromir’s head down upon the sand. Slow and soft she went about it. She was so careful with him. So diligent. She wanted him to survive. She needed him to survive.

With caution, (Y/N) leaned in and placed her ear against Boromir’s chest, her brow creasing and her lips tensing.

Please, please, please.

And there it was: the sound of blood thundering through veins, mimicking the tantrum of the storm in a mocking delight.

(Y/N) smiled softly. Oh yes, fuck the forbidden.

She lifted her head from the man’s form and bit her lip as a strange guilt flooded through her heart. Despite her relief, apprehension crept into her mind as she dreaded the potential consequences from the gods—and her father. She understood deep down that she should not have intervened. Just coming to the surface was bad enough. But this? Saving a man? Surely that was an extreme that shouldn’t have been trifled with. The mere glimpse of her tail, by even a single human, would forever rekindle the forgotten war between the races. It would seal the fate of the merfolk, burying them in their ocean.

It was forbidden.

(Y/N) turned to look behind her at the open ocean.

The little lifeboats were still a mile or two out. She had time—just a little time.

Despite the shame of her people that hung around her neck, she focused her care upon the unconscious man. Resting her elbow in the warm sand beside him, (Y/N) fixed her gaze upon his serene expression. Unable to resist, her index finger traced a delicate path along his cheekbone, his lips, and his chin. He didn’t seem like the humans from the tales. They all had been war-torn and death-driven. He was the opposite. He valued life—if it hadn't been for him that young boy would have found a new home in the watery graveyard. (Y/N) brushed his dark sandy hair from his face as she continued to caress his skin. Softly, she began to hum a healing harmony, seeking to provide solace to the motionless man. However, her efforts were brought to an abrupt halt when shouts sounded from the cliff above.

The land-dwellers had caught sight of the lifeboats, and it was only a matter of time before they set their eyes upon her. The fleeting sense of time she had once perceived vanished in an instant, replaced by an overwhelming sense of urgency. Yet, a spluttering cough at her side diverted her focus, triggering another surge of anxiety within her core.

It was forbidden.

“Who are you?” Boromir croaked, his squinting and blinking eyes conveying that he could not yet focus on her. His trembling hand then reached out to cup her cheek, taking its time to search for her skin in the air. As he did so, his palm accidently brushed upon her necklace of shell, seaglass, and bone. Still, he fumbled for tangible confirmation of her presence, and he did so until his hand found her face. “Who are you?” he whispered once more.

She placed her hand upon his beating heart. “Survive and live,” she commanded.

Then she was gone.

…..

Boromir sat up in his bed, the comforters pooling around his waist. His brother paced with restless energy before him, meandering across the floor in an agitated rhythm.

Back and forth.

“You never should have gone on that sail.” Faramir murmured. “Father never should have asked it of you—not with the waters getting more and more unpredictable by the day.”

Boromir sighed, tired of every version of this conversation that always seemed to come up no matter the circumstance. “Faramir, it is not his fault…”

The younger stopped his anxious steps and turned to look at Boromir. “Not his fault? You never should have been on that ship!”

“Yes, I should have. Keeping relations with neighboring territories is important. I had to be there.”

Faramir shook his head. “No, father should have gone himself if it was that important.”

“Faramir…” Boromir chided, emotionally exhausted and weary to the bone. “Please, let it rest. I cannot bear the arguing. Not now.”

The younger man let out a sigh, offering a nod of compliance. He settled himself on the edge of the bed, his kind blue eyes—that mirrored his brother’s—resting gently upon the fatigued figure. “I am sorry. I fear losing you to an ill fate, especially one so unnecessary.”

The Captain of the Guard offered a gentle smile. "Fear not, little brother. I managed to escape such a dire fate. The gods did not intend it for me, at least not now. I was saved."

Faramir arched an eyebrow, taken aback by his brother's particular wording. "Saved?"

Boromir inclined his head, his expression displaying a hint of reluctance. After a brief pause, he spoke once more. “Yes. Someone, well, someone rescued me.”

“What? Who? How do you know?”

A chuckle escaped Boromir, tinged with a touch of dark bitterness that resonated in his voice. "I was in a state of unconsciousness. I was drowning. There was no way I could have reached the shore, or even surfaced, on my own. Not in the state I was in."

“You don't think the tides brought you in?”

He shook his head. “Nay. The waters were too rough. They pushed me under and to the depths.”

Faramir huffed, trying to make sense of his brother's words. “Well,” he began, standing and patting his brother’s leg. “We must thank whichever crew member yanked you up and—”

“Faramir,” The Captain interrupted. “It was a woman.”

“—drug you to–to—a woman?” he questioned.

Boromir inhaled slowly. “Yes. It wasn't a crew member. It was a woman.”

“How do you know? Did you see her?”

“Just–just glimpses of colors and shapes.”

“Boromir–” he started.

With a bit of aggression, the Captain’s voice snapped. “I heard her!” He paused, regretting his tone and collecting his emotions before speaking firmly. “I heard her. She—she sang to me. She spoke to me.”

Faramir crossed his arms, his doubt evident. “She spoke to you? What did she say then?”

He looked up at his brother, focusing his gaze intently. “Survive and live. She said to survive and live.”

“You narrowly escaped death, Boromir. That was just your mind playing tricks on you as minds do to many who have a brush with such darkness. You, a soldier, know this.” He huffed. “Get some rest.”

With that, Faramir parted from Boromir’s bedchambers—leaving the stubborn man behind.

Boromir let out a weary sigh. Frustration, confusion, and restlessness weighing heavily on his heart. He had been confined to his bed for a day and a half, and the need to move, to be free, to live—it grew stronger within him.

Therefore, the Captain drew back the blankets and rose from the soft mattress that had carefully held his form while he healed. His feet felt strange upon the cold stone floor. It felt quiet and empty. It felt lonely and still. Boromir exhaled slowly. These feelings—they haunted him ever since the shipwreck. It was as if a fragment of his soul had been chipped away and consumed by the sea. It felt as if something dear to him was missing. He worried that whatever that piece was it lay at the bottom of the dark abyss.

He turned to look at the sunset beyond the glass of the window, shedding its soft gaze upon the waters that had threatened to claim his life. Driven to it, he moved near it, allowing that melody to echo in his mind once more.

That woman was out there….somewhere….and Boromir felt a pull to find her.

The Captain of the Guard shook his head at these thoughts.

Maybe Faramir was right?

Maybe there was no woman?

Maybe the tides had somehow rolled his body to land?

Maybe his mind was just plagued by the ghost of death that had reached for his soul?

Deciding that dwelling on such matters after two days of being bedridden was not going to help, he opted for a night out in his city. It would do him good—to see his people, his friends, his home. Therefore, Boromir was quick to dress and exit the castle of Minas Tirith, making haste towards his favorite tavern.

As soon as his footsteps passed the familiar threshold, his friends—sailors and soldiers—cheered his name and beckoned him further inside. With a radiant smile adorning his weary face, the Gondor Captain complied. His feet moved his form towards their table, glad for the welcome. The aroma of freshly baked bread and frothing ales mingled with the lively chatter of his companions, creating a relaxing ambiance of recognition. Food and drink were quickly passed to his empty hands, and he gratefully accepted. The nourishment, both physical and spiritual, infused him with renewed strength. The burdens of the past were momentarily lifted, replaced by a shared sense of joy and belonging.

However, as the ale flowed and lips ran loose, conversation soon turned towards the shipwreck—the biggest talk of the city.

“Man, I thought ya were a goner!” Heimir stated. “I watched as that beam ran right into ya and down ya went! By Eru, I swear the water came up to grab ya! There was no way ya could’ve survived that, I said. No way.”

Boromir shrugged, lifting his ale to his lips, unease regarding the direction of the conversation settling. “The gods must have been looking out for me,” he tried to dismiss.

The other dark-haired sailor, Stinar, shook his head. “And I’d be glad of it. Elidon was nearly in tears when the ship Cap’n said we had to leave ya behind!”

Boromir smiled softly. “He has a pure heart. Though I don't think there was a way that any of you could have saved me if you stayed. The Captain was right. I agree with his decision.”

Rollo, a soldier in Boromir’s guard, interjected. “See! This is why I stick to the sword! You'll never catch me on a ship. Hell, no.”

Laughter bubbled up at that comment, lightening the mood momentarily.

However, an older sailor, Iwar, leaned forward. “How’d ye do it then, lad?”

“Do what?” Boromir inquired.

“Ye know what I mean—” the old man grabbed him by the shoulder. “—survive, live, breathe for fucks sake!”

Boromir’s gaze cast down upon the table, just for a moment. There were those words again: survive, live. Feeling the ale run heavy in his blood and the despair that seemed to be chasing him surface, he looked up. Choosing to speak of his uncertainty, in hopes of comfort, he opened his lips. “Faramir says it must’ve been the tides.”

Heimir frowned at his friend’s doubtful tone, taking a swig. “Ya think it wasn't?”

Boromir shifted uncomfortably. “Unsure. I—I was unconscious. I don't remember anything until I was on the shore.”

“The sand told ya nothin then?” Stinar laughed out, clearly making jest.

Though, in the midst of Boromir's contemplative silence, a subtle shift in the atmosphere enveloped the group. Their collective intuition picked up on this unease, hinting at the darkness that followed their friend.

It was Iwar that spoke in a hushed whisper first. “Ye saw one of em,’ didn’t ya?”

All eyes drifted, unsure, to the old man.

“What do you mean?” Boromir questioned, his tone wavering.

A distant expression clouded the man's eyes, as if he had lost a part of his very soul to the depths of the ocean. “They wear the bones of our fallen kin. All strung up upon their necks like jewelry. We are spoils for them—spoils for them to take and do as they please.”

Stinar’s smile slowly dripped from his face. “Uh, what, uh, who?”

Iwar looked at Boromir, his green eyes bright and vibrant with the remembrance of fear. “The women of the sea,” he hissed.

At this, Heimir snorted and took a drink from his cup. “Women of the sea? Now look who’s had too many pints!”

Though, the tension only intensified, spreading outward like ripples on water, as Boromir averted his gaze.

“Boromir, tell em’ that he’s crazy! There be none of these sea women!” Heimir persisted, anxiety now stirring through his bones.

However, the silence lingered. It was strong and still—oppressive even. It magnified the odors of the stale ale, tavern piss, and sticky sweat that clung to the unwashed bodies that frequented such a joint.

“S-she sang to me,” Boromir whispered, for the second time that day.

Heimir and Stinar froze, their pints stiff and unmoving before their lips.

Iwar's weathered hand clamped tightly around the Captain of the Minas Tirith Guard's arm, his grip desperate and tinged with panic. “Did ye see it? The jewelry of bone? The slimy tail as hard as stone? They will sing to lure ye into their trap. Then they will devour ye in their nests of coral! Ye saw one of em,’ didn’t yer?”

Boromir's brows knitted together in disbelief. It seemed utterly preposterous, a mere fabrication spun from the ramblings of an old, intoxicated mind. There couldn't possibly be sea-dwelling women hunting them down. It was a nonsensical tale. With a dismissive gesture, he reached for his cup of ale, freeing his arm from the old man's grasp. "I have no idea what you're talking about. There was only a woman—a human woman."

Heimir grinned, laughing loudly and obnoxiously, as he slapped the Captain of the Guard's shoulder. “AYE! No sea tits to lure ya away from us! LET’S DRINK!”

…..

(Y/N) form twisted and turned as she moved with the current. She easily slipped above the corals and the reefs, through the sand dunes and the seagrass meadows, beyond the underwater canyons and the abyssal trenches. As she moved further, her iridescent scales—green, blue, purple, pink, orange—shimmered in the sunlight that had made it through the thick water, casting a mesmerizing display of colors. With each flick of her tail, she effortlessly propelled herself forward, closer to the realm of the merfolk.

As she came across one of the ship graveyards, she could not resist slipping through the ruins. Her keen eyes scanned her surroundings, curious and watchful, as she navigated the underwater cemetery. While she swam, her gaze drifted over all the little trinkets and forgotten treasures that the humans were forced to leave behind. Things she knew and things she did not. Books, maps, chests, and clothes—all scattered and heavy at the bottom of the sea. All forgotten. All forbidden.

As she came upon one of the men’s skeletons her brows pulled together and her hand reached for her necklace. The soft whispers of the sea echoed, as if it was trying to convince her to do what she desired. She knew she shouldn't. She knew she shouldn't make something for a human. It was a custom of the sea folk—not something to be shared with the land-dwellers. However, an insistent voice within the watery depths urged her on. (Y/N) cast a cautious glance in both directions, torn between her instincts and the weight of tradition. Succumbing to the persistent salty murmurings in her ear, she yielded to temptation. Seizing hold of one of the bones—the femur—she forcefully dislodged it from its resting place.

(Y/N) had initially intended to return directly to her father's castle, concealed beneath the shifting vallying dunes. However, something else tugged at her mind. If she were to proceed, she needed to acquire knowledge. With a sharp twist of her tail, she pushed herself back towards the ship that held the maps and artifacts. Her delicate hands sifted through each item, seeking the one she sought. Eventually, she stumbled upon a relatively intact parchment, its ink only slightly drifting. It contained a comprehensive depiction of the land, with all the locations meticulously scrawled. Every river and pond was carefully marked, and the paths upon the land were intricately detailed. It held the very information she needed.

With the map firmly grasped in one hand and the bone held carefully in the other, (Y/N) swam swiftly back home. It didn't take long for her to locate a secluded crevice where she could settle herself. There, she devoted hours upon hours to examine the parchment depicting the lands of the surface dwellers, tracing her finger along the various routes and pathways. When she exhausted such things, her attention turned to the femur that she had securely stowed in her bag. With quick movements, she continued to rummage through her satchel until her fingers found the familiar shape of a knife. (Y/N) then embarked on her task, delicately scraping the blade against the bone's surface, etching the carving she had planned.

It was only when her sister Anahita's voice reached her ears that (Y/N) finally lifted her gaze from her endeavors. “(Y/N)! There you are! Father has been oh so worried!”

Nerida echoed her sentiments. “Where have you been?!”

Amidst their inquiries, a mischievous gasp escaped from Una's lips, her tone playful, “By the shipwrecks, I see!”

‘The shipwrecks? What is your purpose there? You know the sharks like to linger,” Anahita persisted.

Slightly flustered by their sudden appearance and interrogation, (Y/N) swiftly concealed the bone, which was slowly taking the form of a whale, behind her tail. "What? No! Certainly not!" she responded, attempting to dismiss any notion of her activities near the shipwrecks.

Una swam towards her, giggling, before she snatched the femur from under her sister’s tale. “A bone from the human graves. Someone is in love!!!!!” she sang out.

“Shut up, Una! No, I am not!” (Y/N) retorted, her voice tinged with embarrassment and denial.

Plucking the half finished craving from Una, Nerdia joined in the teasing. “OoOo! A whale! Compassion. Care. Benevolence. Given to the protectors of the weak.”

Anahita grinned. “So who is it? Someone in the Sea’s Royal Guard?”

Una gasped. “Perhaps, Tamesis?! Oh, or Kai! Kai was always sweet on you!”

With an assertive glare, (Y/N) snatched the makeshift whale back into her possession. “It is not Tamesis or Kai!”

“Oh, so there is someone!”

An instant coral color flushed (Y/N)'s cheeks, her embarrassment evident. "Eat a pufferfish" she exclaimed, her angry words accompanied by the playful giggles of her sisters.

As the hours slipped away, (Y/N) put the finishing touches on her bone carving and made the necessary preparations for her secret expedition. She gathered the essential supplies: the map, her knife, a handful of oysters, and, of course, the delicately crafted whale.

As dusk settled and the sun's rays no longer reached the depths of the merfolk's domain, (Y/N) set out on her journey. Her sisters slumbered peacefully, unaware of her departure, while the guards remained oblivious to the existence of the hidden entrance she had been using for years. With determined swishes of her fins, she swam swiftly through the sea, her heart pulsating with anticipation. Eventually, she came upon the beach where she had left Boromir. Breaking the surface—a forbidden action that now lost the fear attached to it—she was not surprised to find the sand absent of his presence. He was likely up with the other people of the land, doing land-people things.

(Y/N) swiveled her head and contorted her graceful form until she located the mouth of the Anduin River. It would serve as her conduit to the grand city, her navigation, her concealment. It would lead her to the place where she would find him. She recalled how the men from the shipwreck had addressed him with the title of ‘sir.’ He had to be important. The important ones were always addressed as ‘sir’ and they always lived in the big cities.

The mermaid inhaled sharply, reconsidering her mission. This would be it. Once she did this, there was no taking it back. It was the moment of no return. She bit her lip. Consequences be damned. Fuck the forbidden.

So, (Y/N) gracefully glided through the currents. Her silky fins steered her through the Anduin, the gentle ebb and flow of the river guiding her way. As she swam, the distant echoes of voices reached her ears, growing louder with each passing moment. They were voices filled with excitement and joy, resonating with laughter, cheers, and animated conversations. Curiosity danced in her eyes as she neared the surface, her head emerging from the water like a whale coming up for air. With her gaze fixed on the scene before her, she observed intently, taking in the lively spectacle unfolding beyond the riverbank.

The first thing she noticed, after the sounds of life that had traveled through the water, were the smells. Thousands of different scents drifted through the air—ones that she could not identify other than the instinctual fragrances of smoke and flavor: food, she guessed. Spices and sweets filtered through her nostrils, captivating her attention. She wondered what they tasted like. The next thing that piqued her interest was the colors and action. It appeared that she had surfaced next to a social market, a sort of eatery, or a…something. Men sat upon benches drinking, eating, and speaking. There seemed to be more so inside the building, but some flowed out, stumbling and dizzy. The sloshing of the liquid in their cups appeared to be the culprit as they moved with sloppy ease. Inebriated. They were inebriated. The merfolk could get like that if they ate too much Sarpa Salpa—the dreamfish of the sea bream, they called it. Though how the men fumbled was a bit different to how the merfolk did. The humans had legs…not tails, after all.

(Y/N) with wide eyes and parted lips could not stop seeing it all—a simple little tavern, yet it was bursting with passion and life. By Ulmo! It was beautifully, terrifyingly, strangely exciting.

Though that excitement turned into a nervous thrill. A fluttering sensation rose from the depths of her stomach, coursed through her heart, and finally settled like a bubble in her throat. It was a strange wave of emotions, a mismatched concoction of hope and uncertainty, as a figure emerged from the establishment before her. In that moment, disbelief clouded her thoughts. No, it couldn't be. The eagerness she felt at the possibility of finding him oh so easily was restrained by a nagging doubt, a flicker of skepticism whispered in the corners of her mind. Could it truly be him? Could this chance meeting be the end of her quest? Though, that waving dark sandy hair that ran across his forehead and the stubble beard that matched did not lie. She had carried that man through the rapids and held his face in her palms. It indeed was him—Boromir.

(Y/N) was quick to duck behind a large rock, peering beside it with those cautious and curious eyes of her. She watched as he moved to look out up the river, seemingly contemplating his thoughts. His face was stern and still, almost emotionless. But his eyes—they betrayed him. They pooled with uncertainty and confusion, a lingering level of sadness hiding underneath a lack of understanding. He seemed….lonely.

(Y/N)’s fingers gripped at the rock as she leaned forward with fascination; however, she wasn't paying much mind to her hold, for it slipped and her hand fell into the water with a splash.

Guided by instinct, Boromir’s head snapped in her direction.

She was quick to duck behind the rock, her sleek skin and iridescent scales melding against the cool surface of the stone, ensuring her presence remained hidden.

“Is someone out there?” his voice called.

(Y/N) held her breath, but he made no move to search further. Instead, she heard his footsteps retreating.

She scoped out his motions quietly, following his form with her chasing eyes. She had just found him. She didn't want to lose sight of him—not when she didn't know where to find him again! Having only a second to make a decision, (Y/N) dunked under the water. Her eyesight angled upwards as she swam deep in the river alongside him. He paused, every one and a while, glancing at the stream, and everytime he did, the mermaid would push herself deeper and deeper into the depths.

It was a short endeavor. A fifteen minute swim—though it would have been faster if she wasn't going at such a slow pace to match Boromir’s strides—before he went where she could not follow: The Minas Tirith Castle. He parted from the way of the river and began the ascending path towards the brilliant white castle. (Y/N) had been correct in her assumption: he was indeed someone of importance. As he disappeared from sight, she surfaced above the waterline, her gaze fixed on the spot where he had vanished. She would see him again. She had to. (Y/N) turned her attention to her surroundings, taking in the scenery for her return. The water stretched ahead, extending towards the north, but another path curved around the castle. Driven by curiosity, she followed that bend, gracefully swimming amidst the swaying seagrass, startling small fish with her playful movements in the late hour. Before long, she reached an opening where the river flowed into a steady pond.

The mermaid's grin widened as she glided through the water, relishing the caress of the cool night air against her skin. Tilting her head back, she gazed up at the towering castle that loomed above her. Its grandeur and intricacy surpassed anything she had ever seen in her underwater kingdom. It boasted multiple tiers, labyrinthine pathways, countless rooms, and majestic balconies. It was a sight to behold, captivating her with its magnificence. However, her gaze abruptly froze, and an audible gasp escaped her lips.

Standing there, on one of the balconies, was Boromir.

By Ulmo—her luck was getting ridiculous now.

His bare torso shimmered with a gentle sheen under the soft moonlight, accentuating the sculpted contours of his obviously strong body. Leaning casually against the sturdy balcony railing, his arms extended, showcasing his muscled biceps. Though, a hint of vulnerability bleed through his physical appearance, manifesting as a pensive expression etched with longing and uncertainty.

If only he cast his gaze downward, he would have seen a face that reflected that same yearning.

…..

(Y/N)’s tail swished as she ducked into the dining area of her father’s palace. As expected, she found she was not the sole presence in the room. Instead, she was greeted by the disapproving gazes of her six sisters. Their eyes bore a mixture of reproach and inquiry, silently questioning her tardiness. Though Una didn't hold that silence long.

“Where have you been?”

(Y/N) blew bubbles from her nose, trying to mask the lie with a coy reply. “Just a morning swim.”

“Ah” Nerida commented. “A morning swim.”

“Yes,” (Y/N) persisted, maintaining her charade. "The coral was absolutely enchanting in the morning light. You should experience it sometime—if only you possessed the skill to rise early.”

“Oy!” she snapped back, clearly irritated by her sister's teasing.

However, just as the sisters' playful banter was to escalate, their father gracefully entered the room. His presence commanded immediate attention. Warm greetings were exchanged, and the atmosphere shifted to one of familial harmony. It was during one of these conversations that the shipwreck, that had occurred only days prior, was brought up. Here, (Y/N)’s gaze snapped up.

"Why do you think they keep getting on ships if they keep getting caught in storms?" Rana questioned, her voice filled with genuine curiosity. "You would think they would learn from their mistakes, wouldn't they?"

Anahita nodded in agreement, her expression contemplative. "They say insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting different results."

Mareena chimed in, her tone tinged with a hint of bitterness. "They are quite disgusting, aren't they? Killing us for sport, and yet they willingly put themselves in harm's way for the same reasons."

However, (Y/N) decided to offer a different perspective, breaking the momentary silence that followed. "Well, actually," she began, her voice confident yet cautious. "They use ships to trade supplies with other land-dwellers."

All eyes shifted to (Y/N) with suspicion.

“Isn't that right, father?’ she quickly tacked on.

The tension in the room immediately dissipated as their father nodded in agreement. "Yes, that is true. They have established numerous trade routes, and ships are their means of transportation. It's a very different way of life compared to ours, and unfortunately, it has also led to numerous conflicts and wars between them. The desire for variety and resources has come at a great cost. They traded it for death.”

“How–how do you know all this father?” (Y/N) questioned timidly. “You say it as if you have spent time with them.”

The older merman let out a weary sigh, placing his shell filled with food down on the table. "I have," he admitted, his gaze filled with distant memories.

Instantly, the room fell into a stunned silence as all eyes fixated on their father, their expressions a mix of shock and disbelief.

“I have walked among them before and it was my greatest mistake.”

“You-you what?” Seria gapped.

“Among them?” Una blurted.

“But why would you want to do such a thing?!” Anahita inquired.

Their father's gaze turned solemn as he recounted his past. "Long before any of you were born, during the War of the Riptide, my father sent me to infiltrate the land-dwellers' realm. I lived among them, observing their ways, gathering their secrets. But it was a treacherous undertaking that nearly cost me my life.” He paused, tacking on an additional mumbling sentence: “Those eel fuckers."

A heavy silence enveloped the room, the weight of their father's revelation sinking in. Only the sound of their hearts pounding in their chests broke the stillness, each of them grappling with the newfound knowledge of their father's past—even more dangerous than they were led to believe.

“H–how did you walk among them, father? How did you get legs?” (Y/N) probed, though she knew she shouldn't have.

Their father's gaze turned dark and filled with years of pent-up anger and regret as he locked eyes with her. For a moment, she feared he wouldn't reveal the answer. However, he finally spoke, his voice carrying a hint of bitterness. "Some of us possess a rare gift. When our bodies are completely dry, void of any water upon our skin or tails, we have the ability to transform into a legged form."

Instantly, gasps and chatter sounded.

“My daughters–” he addressed, though they did not listen. “QUIET!!!”

Startled, the mermaid sisters fell silent, their wide-eyed gazes fixed on their father.

“It is a very rare gift—one that is almost never seen—and only passed by blood if the gods wish to curse you with it. It is the most dangerous gift to have. One drop of water on your skin when you have legs has your tail growing back in seconds. And then you are killed by those humans that bore witness.”

Shock dripped from the daughters of the king of the sea.

"But fear not," their father reassured them, his voice softening. "None of you possess this gift. I tested each of you when you were born."

Expressions of worry, relief, and confusion danced across their faces, but (Y/N) couldn't help but notice a peculiar look in their father's eyes—a gaze that lingered strangely upon her.

……

The following day brimmed with a mix of excitement and trepidation as (Y/N) patiently awaited Boromir's arrival at the entrance of Minas Tirith. Rising before the sun, she positioned herself by the riverside, her heart fluttering with anticipation.

To her surprise, Boromir emerged on a horse, his form clad steel. Silver plates of armor adorned his muscular frame, providing a formidable shield for his vital organs. His attire was decorated further with weapons forged from the finest metals, poised and ready to be unsheathed at the slightest hint of danger. She knew he was important.

Though, this newfound knowledge began to stir dread into her soul. Boromir was a soldier—not a sailor. He trained in the art of warfare and killing. If he had been born centuries earlier, he might have been among those who waged war against her kind. He could have one of the hunters who pursued her father. One of those…eel fuckers…as he had put it. Yet, (Y/N) reassured herself that Boromir was different. He valued life. He couldn't be like his ancestors.

(Y/N) followed him, along the river (as much as she could) as the hours stretched on. She watched as he navigated the city as if he knew every turn and every crevice. She observed as he conversed with the people, each one eager to speak to him. She perceived as he stood guard at the entrance of the city, until the sun had set and his shift was taken over by another. And she peered up at him as he ended his nights upon his balcony—only once hearing him speak to another, a brother she guessed, of a lingering feeling of being watched.

For three days, she partook in his routine.

For three days, she made it her own.

And, for three days, she learned all she could about him.

Yes, he was a soldier, but not just any soldier. He was the Captain of the Minas Tirith Guard. He was the son of the Steward, who was ruling in place of a king, for in these times of uncertainty, Boromir stepped forward to help his father protect and care for the city he held so dear. He bore the weight of leadership and responsibility, serving as a pillar of strength and guidance for his people. He was a good man—doing just as much work as the men he commanded.

It wasn't until the end of the third day, however, that Boromir deviated from his routine. Much to (Y/N)’s surprise, instead of going up the path towards the castle, he deviated to follow the river that went along the bend of the white palace wall.

(Y/N) swam deep below the surface beside him, slipping into the center of the pool as he went to the edge.

The Captain of the Guard sat down upon the sandy bank and began to untie his boots. The night was warmer than it had been, for winter had ended and spring was just beginning to break. So, she wasn't surprised, when he rolled up the bottoms of his trousers and stuck his feet in.

(Y/N)’s heart was pounding and her blood ran quickly, for she had never been so close to him since she held his unconscious, drowning form.

It was forbidden.

She watched for a while, as his face and body seemed to droop. The weight of his responsibilities and the burdens of his past seemed to bear down on him. The façade of strength and cheer that he wore for the world gradually faded away, revealing the vulnerability and weariness that lay beneath. Though it wasn't until a tear ran down his cheek that she truly began to worry. Was it the lingering aftermath of the shipwreck that haunted him? Did it have more of a permanent effect on him? It seemed as though the shadow of that dreadful event lingered deep within. She had urged him to embrace life—to survive. But this sadness…was it preventing him so?

Cautiously, she dug in her bag and pulled out the bone carving of the whale. Now was her chance. Maybe she could offer some comfort? Though, she knew she couldn't swim up and hand it to him, for he couldn't know that she was there—not yet, not now. She wouldn't risk her people being known to the land-folk. She wouldn’t endanger them. Her father would surely be furious at her if she did. Besides, if she were to rise now, she would give Boromir such a fright.

Therefore, taking a rock from the bottom of the pond, she positioned herself as close as she dared to Boromir. She ensured that she remained hidden beneath the water's surface, maintaining the delicate balance between proximity and secrecy. She then put her plan into action. She tossed the stone through the water, sending it up with a subtle splash, diverting Boromir's attention to the ripples created in its wake. As quick as a shark—if not quicker—(Y/N) flicked her tail hard. She rose close to the surface and lobbed the whale beside the man before plummeting down into the depths.

When Boromir’s head turned back, he noticed the little craving.

(Y/N) peered up as she watched his confused expression.

His brows pulled together and his lips parted. Cautiously, he picked it up. It fit in his palm quite nicely. Not too big, not too small. His fingers twisted around its delicate form with ease. He examined it, running the tip of his index finger along the length of the piece and his thumb brushing over the flippers. “Where did you come from?” he whispered with a smile.

Boromir stayed at the pond for nearly an hour, (Y/N) staying with him. His fingers aimlessly fiddling with the whale as he gazed up at the stars, taking time to breath—to live. And when he turned to leave, he took the whale with him.

…..

As the next two weeks passed on, (Y/N) adopted Boromir’s routine as a part of her own. Though not every day she could do as such, for her father and sisters began to notice her absence. So, in order to avoid their suspicion, there were stretches of time where she did not get to swim up to the Anduin River. Instead, she spent her hours wandering around her father’s palace, helping with mer-duties and daydreaming of the Captain of Gondor.

However, the days where she gilded upon the waters in Minas Tirith were the most exciting. Now that the weather was warm, the city truly came to life. Markets opened daily where food, drink, cloth, and trinkets were sold. If (Y/N) was lucky, one of such tents would open right beside the river. When no one was looking, she would reach a hand from the water and grab a thing or two. She had gotten to try some very interesting foods; however, she figured they would taste much better if she didn't plunge them into the salty river the second she got her hands on them. Alas, that was the cost of avoiding detection—a price she was willing to pay. (Y/N) also was able to snatch various little objects, but most of the time she didn't know what they were. She found herself wishing that she had received the gift that her father had—the gift of transformation to a legged form. She wanted to be where the land-folk were—where Boromir was.

The captain had begun to stay out later, going to the tavern with his friends here and there. On those nights, he would disappear inside, for hours, and (Y/N) would wait in the river for him to return—in whatever state he would be in. Some nights he would have smiles plastered across his face as he giddily stumbled home. Other nights it would be a solemn expression, a tear escaping here and there, as he swayed like the gentle tide. But the worst nights? Those were the ones that ended in screams from the balcony above the little pool. Nightmares now plagued Boromir’s mind, waking him up and coating him in fear—and sweat. The only relief would be the cold night’s air and the barely audible sound of (Y/N) voice. (Y/N) always knew when those nights had arrived, for they were the ones when his brother, Faramir, had to come to the tavern and get him. It was those nights when Boromir’s body folded and slumped against his brother’s, for Faramir would drape the captain’s arm over his shoulder and drag him back to the Minas Tirith castle. It was those nights when the man, that appeared so strong, would speak in sentences just as broken as he was. It was those nights when he spoke of the shipwreck, of the darkness, of the piece of his soul that went missing in the Black Sea. And just once—he whispered to his brother of her. The woman who saved him from the depths. Those nights—those hurt the most. Yet, despite all this, he carried the whale carving with him everywhere he went—on a string upon his neck.

But, now that the weather was warmer, Boromir came to the pond almost every night that he wasn’t at the tavern…and the nights at the tavern lessened. Here, he would contemplate the sadness and separation he seemed to now have, but it appeared that he had a sort of comfort by the little lake. This comfort may or may not have been another gift from (Y/N). When the captain would stick his feet into the water, the mermaid would hum to heal his heart. The vibrations, subtle they were, would filter through the lake and soak into his skin. As he was not immersed, he could not hear the beautiful sounds, but he would at least feel some of the rejuvenating property it held. It was something he had felt before upon the shore and something he continued to feel when the nightmares drove him to the balcony.

Today had proven to be an unusually scorching and grueling day for Boromir. The relentless sun beat down upon him, intensifying the already restless atmosphere among the people. Amidst the sweltering heat, he found himself engaged in a relentless pursuit of a thief who had attempted to snatch a coin pouch from the frail hands of an elderly woman. Luckily for the Captain, a little puddle of water mysteriously slithered out in-front of the thief, causing him to slip and allowing Boromir to arrest him.

Given that that activity, and more, took its toll upon the man of duty, Boromir found himself in the shelter of the tavern with the comfort of his friends. However, that appeared to not be enough, for that night Boromir left the tavern and wandered to the pond—(Y/N) slithering in the depths of the Anduin by his side.

Under the water on the lake, (Y/N) floated in the soft currant, her eyes closed and her humming drifting through the ripples. She was content and was hoping to bring some of that serenity to the man that was to put his feet in the pool. This, of course, explained why she was so startled when his entire body dove into the water. With eyes as wide as the full moon, (Y/N) twisted her form to stare in fear and alarm at the man that stripped to nothing but his undergarments and sunk only six feet across from her. But true terror did not hit her until Boromir’s eyes opened.

When those bright blue eyes met hers with just as much horror, if not more, he instantly scrambled backwards—her doing the same.

Maybe if they both had stopped to see just how scared the other was, they would have realized that they were not in danger; but instinct had taken over as they desperately tried to get away from each other.

Luckily enough, it appeared that they had not been alone. A large hand shot down from the surface and gripped upon Boromir’s arm. In seconds, he was pulled up and out of the water—gasping and fumbling upon the bank.

“What the hell, Boromir?!” the voice of Faramir sounded.

The Captain scrambled upon the sand and muddied land, backing away from the water frantically. “T-there w-was–down there, the water, Eru, d-down there—s-something. Mermaid.”

“Boromir, are you drunk?!” he snapped. “By the Valar—you are! Again?!”

“F-Faramir, there was-was a woman down there,” the captain murmured, struggling to stand.

His brother sighed in dismay as he grasped onto Boromir’s arm once more and helped him steady. “You have been having too many conversations with Iwar…and too many drinks.” He pulled upon the captain again. “Let’s get you in bed before you decide to go for another drunken swim.”

With that, Faramir helped dress his brother—just enough to get past the guards without embarrassing the intoxicated captain—and guided him home, trying to ignore the blubbering of the anxious mess he led.

(Y/N) stayed still at the bottom of the pond, shock baring her fins from any movement.

Well, damn. Fuck the Forbidden. It really bit her in the tail.

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entishramblings · 11 months

Text

The Innocence of Brutality Pt. 7 [Legolas/F!Reader]

A.N: hey my preciouses. so im back from my hiatus with some pain and suffering for you all. this part was very hard to write as this story is a 10th walker. lol i struggle to follow an already created plot and not get bored writing—and that’s why I gotta add some twists and funky ass kicking Rámaitë Mahtar lore heh. anywaysss...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: 6.5k (i know I'm sorry i am a menace)

Warnings: nudity (not sex), mentions of war, mentions of torture, violence, fluff, hurt/comfort, beard abuse (sorry gimli)

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

The fellowship and the Rámaite Mahtar spent hours upon hours enduring the biting lash of the snow's frigid touch and the piercing wail of the wind. The Pass of Caradhras fought against them, hard and strong. Relentless it was; as if the mountain itself was pained by their footsteps, doing all it could to shake them off and consign them to a frozen grave. Though they soon discovered that the mountain was not alone in pursuing their downfall.

Legolas frowned, squinting past the snowflakes that landed upon his lashes. It was hard to focus on anything but navigating through the blowing blizzard, for if he wavered his calculations, he and the fellowship would surely fall to their deaths. Yet still, something tugged at his mind, begging him to recognize its warning. The elf, determined to unravel what it was, let his senses settle into the air around him, absorbing all he could. That is when he heard it—a resonant voice murmuring curses into the wintry air.

The elven prince spun on his heel—so fast that he startled the dwarf behind him. Now facing the rest of his company, he cried out his cautionary statement. “Someone is aiding the storm. There is a fell voice upon the air.”

Gandalf met his eye, and only one word passed the wizard’s slips. “Saruman.”

(Y/N) turned to Legolas. Over the wind, she yelled her question to him. “Who is this man of saru?”

However, before any method of how he could even begin to articulate such a person even entered his mind, Aragorn and Boromir tones sprung into the air. Their voices grew insistent, advocating to return the way they came, only for Gandalf to fiercely argue against it.

“Legolas,” (Y/N) addressed again, not paying mind to the serious conversation behind her. “Who is this man of saru?”

“(Y/N),” he started. However, he was interrupted by a deep murmur that reverberated through the mountain’s core. That was the only warning the fellowship received. Seconds later, heavy clumps of snow came thundering down from the slopes above them. Legolas’ unfinished words were swept away by the mountain's rampage, lost amidst the chaotic dance of falling powder.

“Get back!” was briefly heard as Aragorn pressed his body against the side of the mountain. He attempted to take Frodo and Sam with him through a failed outreached hand grasping upon nothingness.

The Rámaite Mahtar’s eyes followed the motion, her instincts kicking in.

Her wings snapped open, tearing through the fabric and leather armor that clothed her. They extended outwards, providing a canopy over the four hobbits, just as the avalanche was to bury them.

(Y/N) grit her teeth, her form shaking slightly as the pressure hit.

Silent the hobbits were, no sound leaving their normally chatty lips, as the onslaught of snow railed upon (Y/N). Only awe was present upon their expressions as those four pairs of big, worried eyes looked up at her stern face.

The Rámaite Mahtar, however, took no notice to their concern. She held steady until no further weight was forced upon her wings.

Slowly, she lifted her head up—proud and strong—and her wings following suit. She shook them off. The snow she had caught tumbled from her feathery masses. It skipped off the edge of the mountain, leaving its longtime home.

Legolas emerged from beneath the snow rather quickly. A single glimpse of (Y/N)'s outstretched wings and the visible hobbits revealed to him what she had done. Knowing they were out of harm's way, he wasted no time in digging through the snow to unearth his other companions.

As the first hand broke the surface, Legolas seized hold of it and yanked. Spluttering, up came Aragorn. The two didn't need to speak to know what else needed to be done. They instantly began to sweep away the glistening snowflakes that continued to conceal their comrades. They hoped to retrieve them—one by one—from their frozen confinement.

(Y/N), seemingly deeming the two men competent enough to handle the task, moved closer to the hobbits. She patted Frodo’s head as she looked between the four of them. “Safe, safe, yes?”

Their responses consisted of small nods and drifting gazes, their minds still in shock.

Boromir and Gandalf soon emerged, though one member of their company was still not yet found.

“Gimli! Where is Gimli?” Legolas called out desperately.

(Y/N) furrowed her brows as her gaze scanned the snowy landscape. Meanwhile, the rest of the fellowship frantically dug, their efforts driven by urgency. (Y/N) took a few steps forward, her expression determined.

Suddenly, she began stomping in various spots on the fluffy snow bed.

Her companions, including Legolas, exchanged puzzled glances, unable to comprehend her actions. However, their confusion quickly dissipated when a muffled war cry echoed from beneath her feet. Without hesitation, (Y/N) plunged her hand deep into the snow and pulled hard. Emerging from the white depths, beard first, came Gimli, hollering and gasping for air.

Sighs of relief exited many lips before the arguing between the navigators started once again.

(Y/N) looked between them, watching, observing, trying and failing to understand the gravity of the situation. Though it seemed it wasn't really up to her to have to understand. The decision got passed down to Frodo and the small hobbit picked their dwarven friend’s option: The Mines of Moria.

Therefore, they wearily trudged down the mountain, their souls burdened and their bodies fatigued. (Y/N)'s wings guarded the hobbits, shielding them from the biting winds until they finally arrived before the sealed doors of the dwarven kingdom. And there they remained, seated in patient anticipation—for hours on end.

In the stillness, only the soft murmurs of Gandalf's whispered words and hushed conversations drifted among the fellowship, creating an atmosphere of quiet suspense.

Legolas perched beside Y/N, holding her leather armor layer in one hand and a sharp knife in the other. He was carefully carving the ripped section into a smoother line, ensuring easy exposure of her wings. Given their current lifestyle, he presumed it was crucial for her to retract and unveil her deadliest weapon effortlessly. Besides, they lacked the time and resources to stop in a town again, and even if they did, they wouldn't find suitable clothing to accommodate her unique form. The Rámaite Mahtar were not supposed to exist—not in this world at this time. She was an exception. She was a phenomenon. She was a secret—one that could get them all killed.

“Legolas,” (Y/N) stated. “Who is this man of saru?”

The elf briefly glanced up at her as he continued to work. This was the third time he was asked this question by her, and he knew she would ask it again if it was left unanswered. She was persistent like that. He cleared his throat. “Do you remember how we told you that there were some who intended to harm us and the people of this world?”

She nodded.

“Well,” he continued. “Saruman is one of them. He is aiding and orchestrating armies for Sauron.”

“Sauron?” (Y/N) questioned.

Legolas sighed, placing the leather down as he focused on (Y/N). He knew he would have to give her all his attention for this conversation. It wasn't one that you could have so casually. “Sauron is consumed by an insatiable thirst for power. He wants to enslave its people, create an empire of pain and suffering, and burn it down to ash and bone.”

“Why?” she asked, so innocently.

“(Y/N),” he stated softly, gazing into those goddamn brilliant, concerned, (e/c) eyes of hers. “Sauron…Sauron was a servant of Morgoth.”

The Rámaite Mahtar's lips parted, releasing a hushed gasp that was woven with fear and disbelief.

Legolas watched as these emotions shattered her soul and wreaked havoc in her heart. Her brows furrowed, her lips contorted, her gaze wandered, and her eyelids fluttered. Processing. That is what she was doing—absorbing the shock and dissecting its meaning.

“(Y/N),” he whispered, reaching for her hand. “(Y/N), Morgoth will not come here. He cannot come to this plane. The Valar would never permit it.”

She shook her head, pulling away from him. “Yes, he would. For me, he would. For me, they would let him.”

“(Y/N),” he said again, desperately.

She stood, shaking her head, her voice rising slightly. “You do not understand!!!”

Legolas, sensing her distress escalating, abandoned his seat and moved to stand with her. Gently, he took both her hands in his own. “(Y/N), help me understand.” He peered down into her wild eyes, searching for an answer. “Please, help me understand. I am here. I am listening.”

She glanced down at the ground below her feet, taking in a deep breath as she tried to gather herself—to regulate her emotions, Legolas perceived.

After a moment, she looked back to him. Her voice was quiet as she spoke. “I—I did things. B–before. When I was here long ago.”

The Prince nodded his head in encouragement.

She shut her eyes and withdrew her hands from his hold, letting her arms wrap around herself in what appeared to be a self-soothing state. “T–terrible things.” (Y/N) focused her gaze back onto Legolas. “They–they wanted it empty of some of the stuff they put in it.”

“What do you mean?” he inquired softly, his confusion deepening. “What did they want empty?”

(Y/N) frowned, her expression twitching as she tried to pick out the correct word to use. “The–the world.” She paused, just for a moment. “So, we emptied it. But–but we did not understand. I did not understand. There were peoples there.” As her words flowed on, she delicately extended her hand and brushed her fingertips against his ear. He fought the urge to flinch at the contact, but he did not stop her. Knowing how sincere and vulnerable she was in that moment, he wanted her to continue her truth. He didn't desire to give her any reason at all to halt her words. “Peoples like—like you, but not like you. Different.” She furthered, her hand then slid along the curve of his elvish ear until it was nothing but a ghost. (Y/N) looked down once again. “They screamed and cried, but we did not know, so we did not stop.”

“(Y/N),” he whispered, cupping her cheek and forcing her to look at him. “It was not your fault. The Valar did not teach you. They did not teach you of right and wrong.”

Her eyes squeezed shut, a tear escaping them. “It was my fault. I was the leader.”

Legolas’ thumb gently wiped away the water that ran down her cheek. “But you did not know, my starlight. You did not know.”

A quiet sob escaped her chest as she tried to look away from him. Though he would not let her. He would not let her suffer this guilt alone. Legolas pulled her form into his own. He enveloped her in his embrace, encircling his arm around her waist, while his other hand cradled the back of her head.

Instantly, she responded to this affection. Her hands—those small, deadly hands that had annihilated so many people—grasped onto his tunic, yanking at the threads. The ethereal glow of her wings enveloped him as well, as if just her arms were not enough to hug him back. And the pressure of her body against his was firm, almost urging him to anchor himself in case he lost balance. In that moment, with her face nestled against his chest, she sought solace and refuge in his embrace.

Softly, he pressed a kiss to her head as his hand moved in slow, soothing circles on her back.

Legolas knew the rest of the fellowship was trying, and failing, not to stare, but he did not care. This—this was important. This realization. This moment. This needed to happen. It represented her growth in the most pure and genuine way.

The embrace, however, was disturbed by the sound of a gentle plop that resonated in the air like a soft melody—though one very much out of place. One after another, the droplets of sound caressed their ears, intruding upon the intimate moment they shared. However, Aragorn’s chidding tone unintentionally attempted to give it back to them as he ordered Merry and Pippin to halt their actions.

Still, (Y/N) turned to look at the rippling of the water, watching as it moved with little rifts and smooth slides. The Rámaite Mahtar tilted her head, ignoring Frodo’s voice pipping up with a question regarding the door’s riddle. It wasn't directed at her anyways. She took a step closer to the water, and another, and another—until the sound of loud stone shifting claimed her and her companion’s attention.

The group gathered their belongings, (Y/N) folding in her wings and pulling the altered leather armor upon her form, before they flowed through the now opened doors. As they listened to Gimli rave of his cousins’ hospitality, they filed in. However, hospitality did not greet them. Nothing did. There were no torches. There were no cheers. There were no dwarven faces. Simply put: not a trace of life offered them a welcome and naught but dread stirred in their presence. As darkness wrapped around them, Gandalf lit his staff. That glow began to reflect light, allowing the fellowship to bear witness to the truth.

“This–this is no mine.” Boromir began, horror upon his tone. “It’s a tomb!”

Immediately, Gimli’s loud cries of despair echoed throughout the vast walls and the hobbits’ heavy breathing followed.

“We should never have come here. We must make for the Gap of Rohan!” Boromir exclaimed.

Rash shuffling from each member of the group followed as they began scrambling from the hallway of bones. Those bones, however, were immediately replaced by a new threat—one of tentacles and slime.

Before they even could escape the tomb, Frodo was clawing at the ground, his anguished cries for help piercing the air. The other hobbits urgently grasped his arms, straining with all their might to free him from the vile creature coiling around his legs. Yet his friends were only so strong. The creature drug the poor hobbit to the lake, flinging him through the air like a mere plaything.

Instantly, the fellowship, with weapons raised, were scrambling after him.

Though, the one that was the fastest was (Y/N). Her wings extended from her form, not breaking the newly crafted adjustments to her leather. With one strong push, she was in the air and weaving through the tentacles.

“By the Valar,” Aragorn whispered.

At his tone, Legolas’ gaze flickered from his aimed arrow and to his friend’s line of sight above the beast of the lake. Immediately, the elf’s lips parted in astonishment. Even after the months that they had known the Rámaite Mahtar, they had yet to see her fly. They had seen those beautiful wings act as blades, blankets, and canopies, but they hadn't seen them act for their intended purpose. They hadn't seen them serve as instruments of the wind. Legolas could not help but let his bow falter as he stared.

“She’s….she’s beautiful,” Legolas whispered.

Aragorn, his own shock subsiding, grabbed the elf’s arm and hissed a panicked order at him. “Legolas, cast aside your admiration and put an end to that vile beast!”

“Right, right,” he mumbled, drawing his arrow once again.

Aragorn ran into the water, slicing at the tentacles in desperate hope to free Frodo—and prevent his own capture.

(Y/N) maintained a relentless attack from above, using her wings as weapons to sever the slimy limbs impeding her path towards Frodo. With remarkable speed and precision, each stroke of her wings propelled her closer to the young hobbit, the distance shrinking inch by inch. However, just as she was closing in, the beast sent two tentacles her way. She spun quickly, her wings slicing them both, but it was the third to the back that she did not anticipate. It smacked against her shoulder blades, hard. Her body was launched backwards as if she was nothing but a gnat being batted away. The blow held such vigorous force that she crashed into the side of the mountain and tumbled with broken rock. Everything crumbled until she too joined the dust upon the ground.

Legolas, with fearful eyes, screamed her name. She did not answer.

The Prince continued firing arrow after arrow as he moved backwards towards the broken Rámaite Mahtar. Each forceful strike diverted the creature's attention. This distraction allowed Aragorn to slice the tentacle constricting Frodo, while Boromir swiftly caught him.

“Go, go, go!” Aragorn yelled, pushing Boromir and Frodo back onto the land. “Into the mines!”

The group darted through the entrance, Legolas scooping (Y/N) up into his arms as he did so.

The lake’s guardian tried to pursue them, its battered limbs slamming against the rugged mountain surface. However, in doing so, the squid-like creature lost its meal. In its desperate attempt to give chase, the fellowship’s fate was sealed. The attack caused the rocks to tremble and shudder. So much so, that the entrance to the passage crumbled and collapsed—entombing the alive with the dead.

Thick dust now drifted through the air, melding with the sounds of adrenalized breath and pounding hearts. They stood still as Gandalf lit his staff once more.

“We have now but one choice,” the wizard started as he began walking deeper into the mine. “We must face the long dark of Moria. Be on your guard. There are older and fouler things than orcs in the deep places of the world.”

“Mithrandir, wait.” Legolas called out, almost desperately.

All eyes shifted, only to be surprised to see the Rámaite Mahtar cradled in his arms. Before, she had appeared to be invincible. From the first day they encountered her, when she lifted the strongest member of the fellowship by the throat and nearly killed him, they had thought she was unstoppable. This belief was further reinforced as they witnessed her relentless prowess in battle. She ruthlessly obliterated a pack of orcs like it was nothing. She had annihilated them with sheer force that made even the elves look weak. A glimmer of possibility was instilled in them. Maybe their quest was not destined to fail after all? She was their hope. And now? Now that hope was a slumped, unmoving, bleeding form.

“(Y/N)?” Pippin whispered, his voice so quiet, so small.

“Is–is she alive?” Merry added, his tone mirroring his closest friend’s.

Legolas did not answer them as he gently laid her body onto the ground, kneeling next to her. With frantic lips murmuring a prayer in Sindarin, he reached to hold her face. Almost instantly, the Prince’s shaking hands were painted in her red blood. He tried to not focus on it as his nimble fingers found her carotid artery. He couldn't afford to think that she could be dead. Not now. Not ever.

The air was quiet and full of anxiety as they awaited his words—ones that would either break or heal their hearts.

“She’s alive.”

Sighs of relief left many’s lips, though Legolas did not hear one exit the wizard’s.

“I must treat her wounds.”

Gandalf huffed. “We cannot linger here.”

“Mithrandir!” Legolas called out, appalled. “She cannot be left to bleed—”

“Legolas, îdh, listo. (Legolas, calm, please.)” Aragorn stated, raising his hand. He then turned to the wizard. “Gandalf, Legolas is right. Without medical attention she could die. I understand you do not trust her yet, but she has saved our lives many times over. We need her.” He paused, nodding to the hobbits. “They need her.”

He huffed but dipped his head in agreement. He couldn't argue with that logic. “Ten minutes.”

Legolas was quick to pull his medical bag from his shoulder and began digging for supplies.

“Legolas, man tur- im ceri? (Legolas, what can I do?)” Aragorn stated as he knelt beside him.

The Prince passed him a small pouch as well as a mortar and pestle. “Mol hi into a sirith ir im heneb hen. (Grind this into a paste while I examine her.)”

Aragorn nodded, beginning the assigned task.

Legolas lifted her head, feeling the back of it, before speaking in the common tongue for the others to understand. “Swelling, but no blood from this blow. Seems it just knocked her out.” He twisted her face to see the bleeding cut above her brow. “This cut is pretty deep. I will need to stitch it so the skin mends properly.”

“Despite her ability to heal quickly? Cuts like this usually are gone within a day or so for her, correct?”

“Yes, but the flow is heavy and with the risk of infection—especially with all the grime in here…..” Legolas let his sentence trail off.

“Master elf,” Samwise interrupted softly. “Is there anything I can do?”

The Prince looked up at him. A gentle smile crossed his face for he knew of (Y/N)’s relationship with the hobbits. He knew how much she cared for them and they her. “Sam, if you could get Gandalf’s staff, maybe provide us with some better light?”

The hobbit nodded and quickly scurried off. Legolas could hear the soft conversation between the grumpy wizard and the innocent hobbit, though he was too focused on (Y/N) to pay attention. Regardless, Gandalf must have given in, for the hobbit returned seconds later with the light.

“Sam, hold it over here. I must check her wings.”

The light cascaded brightly above them, its luminosity filtering across the brilliant wings. The feathers absorbed and reflected those subtle colors, shining them back upon the three men. If the scene wasn't encased in blood and emotional turmoil, it would have been a radiant spectacle. But now, the once alluring silk-like texture bore the marks of horror—marks none would want to see freely.

“There does not appear to be any significant damage. Most of the blood is from the head wound or superficial cuts.” Legolas stated. “It looks worse than it really is.”

“But–but then why isn't she waking up?” Pippin inquired with unease.

Legolas did not answer, for he didn't have a reason to give the hobbit. Instead, he returned to the wound upon her brow. “Pass me that needle and threat.”

Soon enough, the Rámaite Mahtar’s cut was sealed and the blood upon her face was wiped clean. If they had not known of the events that had transpired, maybe she would have looked like she was sleeping peacefully. That, however, much to their dismay, was not the case.

Boromir, seeing (Y/N)'s treatment completed, spoke again. “We can take shifts carrying her.”

Legolas clenched his jaw, refusing to look at the Gondorian, as he gathered the winged warrior into his arms. “When her wings are exposed, it adds at least a hundred pounds to her weight. Without elven strength, you wouldn’t be able to carry her for long.”

Boromir scoffed lightly and sent a look at the elf.

Legolas wanted to snap back with another snarky reply, but he knew it would do no good. Hell, his previous comment was uncalled for—and he knew it. Boromir was a good, honorable man at heart. Legolas knew he would never do anything to harm (Y/N). The Gondorian respected her—as a woman, warrior, and friend. Besides, at this point, it was quite apparent that the Prince and Rámaite Mahtar’s souls were bound. So, Legolas kept his mouth shut as he pushed past Boromir and towards the front of the group.

Aragorn walked up beside the Gondorian. He gently patted the man’s shoulder. “Don’t take it personally. Elves tend to get quite possessive over their lovers, especially under dire circumstances.” The Ranger then chuckled. “Not one of their finer traits.”

Boromir snorted lightly in amusement, now not taking Legolas’ behavior to heart. “Indeed,” was his simple reply.

Time seemed to stretch endlessly as they continued their journey along the paths of the old dwarven corridors. The fellowship found themselves halted at a crossroads, a convergence of three diverging paths, where Gandalf stood at the forefront, evaluating which direction to proceed with.

Legolas settled himself on the ground, leaning his back against the cool stone surface. Keeping (Y/N) in his lap, he gently adjusted her position, allowing her head to rest upon his chest and shoulder, her face nestled against the curve of his neck. Finding a moment of reprieve, he let out a soft sigh and pressed his head against the wall behind him, shutting his eyes. With a soothing touch, he traced gentle strokes along the Rámaite Mahtar's cheek, passing the time with rest.

It felt like only minutes, even though he knew it was hours, when Gandalf called for them to follow. Legolas begrudgingly stood with (Y/N) in his arms.

“Legolas,” Aragorn’s voice softly sounded beside him. “Let me take her.”

The elf turned to face his friend. “It’s alright. I’ve got her.”

The Ranger shook his head. “You must keep some strength if we are to make it through this mine. Exhaustion will do you no good. I will watch over her, even if it’s just for a little while.”

Legolas exhaled slowly but dipped his head in agreement. He knew Aragorn was right. As an elf, he had senses that would allow him to slay twice as many servants of darkness. If they were to come across any enemies, they would need him—especially with their strongest weapon now unconscious. Therefore, he passed (Y/N) to Aragorn.

The Ranger was careful as he took her into his arms, her wings hanging limp around him and brushing upon the dusty floor. “Valar—“ he mumbled. “You weren’t kidding about her weight.”

Legolas smirked lightly. “If she is too heavy, I can take her back.”

The Ranger grunted. “No, no. I’m fine.”

The elf raised his brows but followed the others.

Legolas kept an eye on Aragorn and (Y/N) as they moved. Though it wasn't out of distrust or jealousy, it was out of concern. He could sense, as the minutes passed and as the terrain roughened, the Ranger began to tire. However, it seemed he was not the only one who could tell.

Boromir approached Aragorn. “You look like you could use a break. I will carry her.”

Aragorn let out a low—and slightly strained—laugh. “Are you certain? Legolas wasn’t mistaken about her weight.”

The Gondorian bobbed his head. “I hardly believe she is that much to bear.”

“Suit yourself,” the Ranger replied as he passed the winged warrior to the other man.

“By the Creator….” Boromir immediately gruffed out.

Now it was Aragorn’s turn to tease. “I warned you.”

“That you did,” the Gondorian grunted. He then nodded ahead. “We don’t want to get left behind. Let’s keep moving.”

However, it wasn’t long before Boromir approached Legolas. “I won’t ever doubt the strength of you and your people again,” he expressed, accompanied by a warm smile. “Are you able to carry your girl again?”

Legolas nodded, guilt flickering in his heart for his previous rude demeanor towards the man. “Yes. Thank you, Boromir. I appreciate your help.”

The Gondorian nodded in understanding before he passed (Y/N) back towards the elf.

…..

As the days passed, (Y/N) still hadn’t woken, which proved to be worrisome. The wound upon her forehead had healed, leaving only a light scar that Legolas knew would disappear in a couple days. The swelling upon the back of her head vanished as well, providing even more confusion to her still unconscious state. She would stir here and there, but never did those curious, (e/c) eyes open. If she had survived a fall from the Valar’s incarceration, why was she remaining unconscious from a strike of the lake’s beast?

Still, they could not wait on her to wake. They had to push further. So, the fellowship continued to pass through Moria in secret, observing the dwarven wonders as they did so. However, it was ignorant to hope that that secrecy would last—and as soon as the corpse of an old dwarf tumbled down that well, they knew they were discovered.

It all happened so fast.

Legolas barely had time to place (Y/N)’s form down against Balin’s tomb before the doors were splintering, revealing orc faces dripping with evil desire.

However, at the first clank of a sword, there came at least one good act.

A large gasp, loud and alarm-filled, struck the air. The Rámaite Mahtar jolted upright. In an instant, her wings snapped back to life, shedding their previously limp state, and surged outward with lethal swiftness. As they unfurled, they decapitated three nearby orcs.

Legolas could only manage to call out her name in relief before he too was consumed by the battle.

With (Y/N) ripping the vile creatures into pieces, even faster than the elf, the fellowship had thought they had a chance. Well, that was until one sentence left the Gondorian’s lips.

“They have a fucking cave troll.”

From then on, it was a blur. Each member of the group was fighting for their lives—including the hobbits. Though all their hearts stopped when Frodo called out in pain and crumbled to the ground. Shrieks of fear left every member’s lips as Aragorn desperately rushed to his body. Those heartaching cries, however, quieted when Frodo’s small voice sang out clearly. “It’s alright. I’m not hurt.”

Then they were running again, and again, and again.

The immense chamber teemed with a horde of orcs, swarming across every surface—the ground, walls, and ceiling. So much so, that the members of the quest were encircled by them, barely having room to breathe. A sort of stalemate settled in, both sides waiting for the other to make the first move.

(Y/N)’s wings twitched as she rotated, readying herself.

Though a fight did not come—not from the thousands of revolting beings.

Badum, badum, badum.

Each member of the fellowship spun and turned at that sound.

Badum, badum, badum.

The orcs faltered and swiveled their heads.

Badum, badum, badum.

Panic then erupted. The grotesque creatures scrambled to flee. They shoved and pushed one and other as their gangly forms scurried away—back to the hellhole that they came from.

Badum, badum, badum.

“What is this new devilry?” Boromir whispered.

Badum, badum, badum.

Gandalf sucked in a deep breath. “A balrog of Morgoth.”

(Y/N)’s heart froze.

“A demon of the ancient world,” Gandalf continued. “This foe is beyond any of you. RUN!”

It was here that the fellowship mimicked the goblins—though with more care for one another. They took off down the vast hallway as they made for the Bridge of Khazad Dum. Their legs moved quicker than they ever would have thought possible—stopping only when there was a gap in a path above the fiery abyss.

Legolas was the first to leap across, his nimble form making it appear easy. Gandalf was the next to make the jump. Merry and Pippin were to follow with Boromir; however, they were halted as arrows shot at their feet—just nearly missing.

(Y/N) whipped her head around, just in time to see another projectile whizzing straight towards Boromir.

The Rámaite Mahtar was quick to lift her wing in front of him. The fine tip pierced her instantly, causing a deep grunt of pain to exit her lips. The arrow went through the feathery flesh, but halted as it got stuck in tight muscle—only inches away from Boromir’s forehead.

The Gondorian’s wide eyes shifted to her—in thanks, in shock, in guilt.

Legolas quickly turned and fired his bow, taking out the archer.

“Go!” (Y/N) shouted as she lowered her wing.

With that, Boromir grabbed Merry and Pippin and leaped onto the other side. His feet landed just before the section they had previously stood on collapsed.

(Y/N) was next. She lifted her wings slightly, despite the pain, to give herself more of a drift. As she landed she shuffled close to Merry and Pippin and ripped the arrow from her wing with a groan.

As Legolas caught Sam and then Gimli—by the beard—another arrow whizzed past the hobbits’ head.

Once again, the Rámaite Mahtar shielded them—earning two more arrows in the wing.

By the time Frodo and Aragorn finagled their way across the ever growing gap, the Balrog was upon them.

The fellowship were fleeing as fast as they possibly could. A few brave souls dared to steal a glance behind, their hearts pounding in their chests. Among them was Frodo, and as his eyes locked onto the fiery menace descending upon Gandalf, a cry of terror escaped his lips. The collective gaze of the group shifted at that, now drawn to the scene unfolding before them. They then bore witness.

The wizard stood strong. His deep voice, full of power and protection, echoed through the cavern. “You cannot pass.”

The Balrog attacked. Gandalf defended.

“I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udûn. Go back to the Shadow!”

Once again, the Balrog attacked. Gandalf defended.

The wizard brought his sword and staff crashing down upon the bridge, a resounding boom echoing through the air. His voice then thundered, filled with unwavering determination. "YOU SHALL NOT PASS!" Those words seemed to reverberate through the chamber, carrying the weight of his command across the stone. In that moment, he stood as a barrier, defying the very force that sought to destroy them and their mission.

The bridge began to crumble. Piece by piece, the stone began to fall, taking the Balrog with it.

Gandalf inhaled deeply.

It was done.

The whip, however, lashed out one final time. With a swift motion, it coiled around the wizard's ankle, forcefully pulling him off his feet. In a fleeting moment, he was airborne, his body suspended before gravity claimed its prize. Gandalf’s hands flailed, desperately reaching out for anything to anchor him to the bridge's edge. His fingers found the stone and his nails dug in. Though, he knew he had no chance. He wished only to leave a message for the one who looked up to him the most.

Frodo cried out once again, lunging for his mentor and friend.

Boromir, however, wrapped a strong arm around him and held him back.

The little hobbit, sobbing, held eye contact with the wizard.

“Fly you fools,” Gandalf whispered.

Then, he too, was gone.

Frodo screamed, his cry intertwining with that of his fellow hobbits, creating a symphony of despair that echoed through the burning darkness.

However, they weren’t the only ones to have a profound reaction.

Surprisingly, (Y/N) rushed forward. She sprinted down the bridge, her legs carrying her fast, but she wasn’t fast enough. Legolas anticipated what she was going to do. He saw how her strides stretched wide and how her wings extended. She was gonna jump. Reacting swiftly, he took off after her. His paces were wider and his speed was quick. Just as she was about to push herself into the air, Legolas grabbed onto her waist and yanked her backward. The unstable bridge trembled under the sudden motion, threatening to give way, but the elf maintained his balance and steadied the winged woman in his grasp.

“LEGOLAS!” she snapped in fierce anger. Her threatening gaze—one that he had only seen directed towards enemies—poured into him, almost incinerating his soul.

“IT’S TOO LATE!” He barked back, ignoring the startlement that just flushed his veins and choosing to focus on the bridge crumbling beneath their feet. “RUN!”

With that he tugged her in the opposite direction, following the remaining members of the fellowship.

When they burst from the mines, their souls shattered like fragile glass. The hobbits collapsed upon the stony ground, their tears flowing freely, their sorrow reverberating through their chests. Agonized grimaces etched themselves onto the faces of Gimli and Boromir. Aragorn tried his best to conceal his pain, though his grey eyes betrayed him with hidden turmoil. And Legolas? He stood motionless, disbelief written across his face.

(Y/N), however, snapped him out of it. She pushed her palms against his chest, hard. “WHY DID YOU DO THAT?”

He twisted to look at her. “What?”

“Why did you stop me?!” The Rámaite Mahtar quipped back aggressively. She grasped onto the two arrows still embedded in her wing. She yanked them out. “I COULD HAVE SAVED HIM!”

Legolas shook his head, his tone calm and full of despair. “No, (Y/N). No, you could not.”

Her hands ran through her hair, frantically and angrily, the strands tangled and pulled on as she sought release from the overwhelming emotions rippling through her blood. A frustrated scream escaped her lips—a raw manifestation of these turbulent feelings surging. With a sudden burst, she spun back around, facing him with eyes ablaze. “I have killed one of those–those balrogs!” She took an enraged step towards him. “My legion and I bleed one dry of its fire! And you—”

Legolas interrupted her, his tone now picking up. “And I stopped you from killing yourself! You and your legion—”

“Legolas!—”

He grabbed onto her shoulders as his next words raced across the stones, silencing the area from all but tears. “YOUR LEGION ISN'T HERE!”

The wind skipped through the leaves of the trees, uneasy at the elf’s sudden tone. It blew gently upon the despairing people, begging to kiss their skin with some kind of hope, but only succeeding in tearing their hearts further. Still, it continued its melancholic dance. Seemingly carrying the weight of their shattered souls with its whispering of sorrowful melodies.

Nature itself mourned alongside (Y/N) as she stared, bewildered, at Legolas.

The Prince closed his eyes and lowered his head. He inhaled deeply, regretting his tone. After a moment, now returned to his normal steady and calm temperament, he gazed into her eyes and spoke again. “(Y/N), your legion is not here and they will remain absent. They were not present to help you defeat this Balrog and they will not come to help you fight others. They are imprisoned, beyond your reach. They won't escape as you did—not now, not after you have. The chains will have been fortified and the gates sealed with blood. You are the sole Rámaite Mahtar that will ever step on these lands.” He paused, his tone now a whisper. “You are alone.”

(Y/N)’s expression distorted. Her brows crinkled, her lips quivered, her eyes watered, and her form shook. Emotions whipped through her blood, boiling and freezing in the pain of realization and acceptance. She supposed a part of her had thought that her race would eventually return with her—join her in learning this plane. Though now that that secret hope was exposed and disproven, there was nothing else to be said. The truth stood liberated from the web of self-created falsehoods that had previously concealed it.

“(Y/N),” Legolas whispered, realizing the dream he had just shattered.

And that was all it took.

A loud sob escaped her throat and tears pooled down her face. She flung her form into his arms and cried.

She cried and she cried—as loudly as the hobbits.

And Legolas held her. He rocked her back and forth as he smoothed her hair, desperately trying to keep her safe from the pain, though he knew it was too late. He pressed a kiss to her head as he whispered into her ear. “Though you may be alone among your kind, I will forever be by your side.”

…..

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entishramblings · 1 year

Text

The Innocence of Brutality Pt. 4 [Legolas/F!Reader]

A.N: so here is the fourth part! unsure if I will make more parts because this fic hasn’t been as popular as my previous ones idkkkk? But I do wanna get a chapter of FATE up before I consider adding to this series?? lol don’t mind this ramble. EDIT: okay I will not discontinue this series I didn’t realize so many people did like it???

Request: none

Pairing: Legolas X Fem!Reader

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

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

Word Count: 2k

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

MASTERLIST | AO3 | WATTPAD

The Innocence of Brutality Masterlist

Only a couple days later, the fellowship approached a small town. It was small enough not to be very noticeable, yet large enough to have a marketplace to purchase some clothing for (Y/N) along with other supplies that they may need.

Aragorn nodded to Legolas. “Check her wing. See if it is healed.”

The elf turned to (Y/N), his eyes asking for permission.

She dipped her head ever so slightly, granting it.

He took to unbinding it and, as the fabric fell away, his lips parted. The wound was basically gone. It was still noticeable that there had been an injury, but it was mostly healed and feathers were beginning to grow back over the thin fleshy material.

“(Y/N), how do you feel? Does it hurt?”

She frowned, snapping them open. She then flapped them slightly, sending a large gust of wind at her friends who wobbled at the pressure. “No pain. They feel…better.”

“Can they retract?” Aragorn asked.

(Y/N) nodded as she lowered them again. Slowly, they began to fold in on themselves…until there was nothing.

With parted lips, Legolas walked around her form. His eyes fell upon her exposed back and….nothing. No scar. No mark. Just skin.

She looked human–ish. She still had that distinct ‘something different look’ but only ever so slightly. One wouldn't be able to pick up on it. At least none of the humans or simpler-minded creatures.

“Okay,” Aragorn stated, appeased. “(Y/N) and I will go with the hobbits. Boromir will go with Gandalf. And Legolas and Gimli, you go alone. Most will see either of you as a messenger of your people stopping for the night. Boromir will seemingly be assisting an old man with his travels. And (Y/N) and I will be seen as a family with the little ones.”

At this, Legolas clenched his jaw. He didn’t know why, but heat brewed in his chest.

“We will all stay in the same inn, but don’t make obvious contact with one another. Is everyone sure of the plan?”

Nods followed.

“Good.”

The smaller groups took turns entering the village, (Y/N), Aragorn, and the hobbits first.

They muddled by the market first, purchasing clothing and other essentials, before heading towards the inn. As they walked the streets, they passed all sorts of people—some chasing their children, and others trying to sell goods or services. One of these, services, caught (Y/N)’s attention.

A woman sat upon a man’s lap, her lips smashed against his. As their mouths moved in sync, the man’s arms wound their way across their hips. Aragorn knew that soon enough they would make their way into an ally or room for rent and do what they pleased. Of course, the others were not aware of such a lifestyle.

“What–what are they doing?” (Y/N) asked.

Pippin, rocking back on his heels, replied in a playful tone. “Kissing!”

The winged warrior frowned. “What is this…kissing?”

“It’s what people do when they love each other!” Sam replied.

“Love?” (Y/N) questioned.

“You know,” he began. “When you really like someone. When you really care bout ‘em.”

“I care about you.”

“Well of course you do.” Frodo said gently. “But love is different. It’s very special.”

Merry decided to interject at this point. “It’s like when you wanna be with them all the time!”

“You want to be with Pippin all the time,” (Y/N) said.

“Well, he’s my best friend! It’s different!” Merry defended.

Surprisingly, it was Aragorn who settled this debate. “All of those things are love, just different kinds. Romantic love is what you are asking about.” He ushered them along, still speaking in a quiet tone. ‘Romantic love is when your soul is bonded with another’s forever. It is when you would do anything for them. It is when you feel most cherished, most cared for, and most safe.” His hand drifted to the necklace that hung around his neck. “It is when you would want nothing but the best for that person, even if it breaks your heart.” He cleared his throat. “Now come along. We need to get to the inn.”

(Y/N) frowned, but followed along, her eyes lingering upon the couple.

They got a room, one as large as they could, and cleaned up, before making their way down to the bar for a meal and drink. (Y/N) sat, in her new clothes, at a nook table with the hobbits and Aragorn. It was then when Gandalf and Boromir walked in. They exchanged a quick subtle nod before drifting to a table nearby. Gimli entered about a half hour later—loud and complaining for some ale and mead. And Legolas soon followed.

However, when the elf entered and scanned the room, his eyes froze on the Rámaite Mahtar. Her hair, clean and sparkling, framed her face nicely. Dark trousers wrapped around her waist and her feet were now clad by brown leather boots. A green tunic was covered by a simple leather armor, one that the Rangers often wore, and a matching cloak was tied under her neck. She looked put together…less homely and rugged. She looked normal…almost. Regardless, she was blending into their cover story quite well. She was smiling, talking, and eating with the hobbits. Aragorn’s arm was wrapped around her too as he held an ale. They looked sorta like a family traveling through the area. Legolas hated it.

(Y/N) caught a glimpse of the elf from the corner of her eye and flashed him a smile.

He sent her a small one in return, trying to mask the jealousy boiling in his blood.

With that, he disappeared into the bar.

As the night continued on, each small group began to subtle make their way into their rooms upstairs.

Currently, Legolas sat upon the mattress in his small room. His dirty clothes were discarded and he wore only a clean pair of rousers. He was writing in a little book, a journal, that he was keeping throughout the journey. If he didn’t survive this, he wanted his father to find it. He wanted his father to know why he undertook such a journey. He hoped it would provide at least some comfort for the man.

It was then that a knock sounded upon his door.

“Come in,” he called, for he knew it could only be a member of the fellowship. No other here would disturb an elf. His people had a reputation that led others to stay away.

A loud creaking sounded as the door slowly swung open.

“(Y/N)?” Legolas said, surprised.

She entered and closed the door behind her.

“I have your clothes,” she said simply, before placing a rumbled-up pile of green on the small table next to the bed.

He smiled. “Thank you for returning them. I see the new ones Aragorn got you fit quite well.”

“Yes.” She walked towards him, standing right in front of him. “What are you doing?”

“Journaling,” he said. “I am writing of our adventure—taking notes, sketches. I want to keep a record of it, just in case.”

She frowned, peering at the book. “Just in case what?”

He looked up at her, sorrow in his blue eyes. “Just in case I die.” He cleared his throat, looking back down at the pages. “I want my father to have it. As an explanation. I assume by now he knows I have taken upon this quest.”

“I don't want you to die,” (Y/N) responded with a bit of a waver in her voice.

Legolas sighed. “I don’t want you to die either–any of you.”

Surprising the elf, (Y/N) reached forward. She pulled the notebook from his hands as well as the ink and feather. She placed them carefully on the bedside table before returning in front of Legolas.

“(Y/N),” Legolas began, confused. The sentence that was to follow, however, didn’t.

His voice faltered into nothingness as (Y/N) lifted one leg at a time to sit on his lap. As she settled upon him, she brought her hands to his cheeks.

“(Y/N),” he began again. Still, his words could not form past her name.

She leaned forward, her eyes fluttering closed, and pressed her lips to his. At first, he didn’t respond, shock filtering through his bones, but his body soon responded. His mouth began moving in pattern with hers and his arms encased her form. Her lips tasted of lavender and light, hints of ale filtering through that. She tasted different. She tasted ethereal. He liked it. He pulled her body close as they shared one breath. He let her fingers weave into his blond locks, entangling themselves deep into it, and he didn’t stop her when her hands ever so slightly brushed his elvish ears. He did, however, have to resist the sexual urge that came from such a touch. It was a slow kiss, one of hesitation and unsureness, but not unwanted.

When the pair pulled away, Legolas looked up at her face. His next sentence was not that of accusation, but rather of question. “Why did you do that?”

She bit her lip. “Sam said that is what you do when you care about someone. It’s called kissing.”

“I know what it is called.” He chuckled lightly. “So did you kiss the hobbits too?”

She shook her head. “It is only for when you really care about someone.”

He raised a brow, his arm wrapping tighter around her back. “Is that so?”

She nodded, not picking up on his teasing manner. “Yes. They said it is when you love someone.”

His second eyebrow lifted upwards to meet his first. “Do you even know what love is?”

(Y/N)’s expression turned to that of determination and seriousness as she spoke her next words. “I will kill for you.”

“(Y/N), you are a race that brings death. Killing for someone isn't love—”

She shook her head. “No. You don’t understand. I—I don’t like war…not really. I don’t like that people hurt. I don’t like where I went after…after the first time I was here. With–with a man named Morgoth.” Her voice turned into a whisper. “He–he tortured me. I bled because of him.” (Y/N) blinked a couple of times, trying to hold back tears. It didn’t work. “But I would do it again…for you. I am doing it again...for you.”

That was the most words he ever heard her say consecutively. “I–I don’t understand—” he stuttered, a bit surprised by the content.

“I ran. I escaped. I came here to…to hide.”

Legolas tilted his head with his lips parted as he reached forward to brush away the water running down her cheek. He now knew what she was trying to say. “(Y/N),” he whispered.

She inhaled deeply. “If they find me, they will send me back. But–but I dont care. I have you.”

With that, Legolas grasped her cheeks. “(Y/N), I will fight anyone, including the Valar, who tries to take you away.” He paused, just for a moment. “Anyone who tries to take you away from me. ”

The Prince then slammed his lips against the winged woman’s. He held onto her tight as his one hand weaved its way into her hair. He presented more pressure upon that hand and the one around her waist to pull her towards him, almost frantically. Every ounce of his soul held onto her as their mouths melded together—instantaneously, urgently. It was wet, it was rough, it was desperate.

He knew she was capable of emotion. He knew she was capable of more than the basics. She could feel it, live it, experience it. So much so that she could identify love…in herself and in others.

The Rámaite Mahtar were more than just warriors.

Legolas had known it all along and (Y/N) had just proved it to him.

He needed nothing more.

He could finally allow himself to love her…not that he hadn’t this entire time.

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entishramblings · 1 year

Text

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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entishramblings · 1 year

Text

The Innocence of Brutality Pt. 6 [Legolas/F!Reader]

A.N: here we go again! you all are being spoiled by the amount of depression fics i am writing lmao. this part was interesting to write. i really had to dive into my psychology background for this juicy piece. but at the same time, this entire series is a psychology whirlwind so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ (also I am running out of gifs of wings that do not have faces in it so if ya got some please send them my way)

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: 3.6k

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

MASTERLIST | AO3 | WATTPAD

The Innocence of Brutality Masterlist

The weeks continued as the fellowship slowly advanced towards their dreaded destination. They had not run into any more orcs or vile beasts of the darkness, but that is not to say that there were no problems. Decisions regarding safe routes to take and various methods of navigation became harder and the terrain got rougher and rougher. Spirits seemed to lessen as well. The hobbits were weary as were the men. Although, for Legolas, most of his concerns centered around the Rámaite Mahtar that had claimed his heart.

After their first discussion, (Y/N) kept in mind Legolas’ preferences regarding affection; however, after some time, he could see her getting impatient and needy.

(Y/N) started reaching for him more and more—and not just when she slipped. She would try and grab his hand while walking. She would reach for golden locks of his hair to play with when they took breaks. She would purposefully sit right beside him, her form smashed up against his, as they ate. Every once in a while Legolas would send her a warning look and she quickly learned what it meant, but eventually it didn't seem that that was enough.

Part of him felt immensely guilty. He knew she was touch starved. Her life had been spent in war and in chains. He knew very little of it, but he expected she received no comfort. And now? Now that she was free and thriving in Arda, that is all she desired. She just wanted affection and love from him. Hell, Legolas desired it too. But, the other half of him was annoyed and upset. He felt disrespected a bit, like the boundaries he had set were being violated. He had this anxiety surrounding the rest of the fellowship knowing of his and (Y/N)’s relationship, for he feared they would question his loyalties. And she was aware of this disquietude. They had discussed it that night in the forest. It just seemed that, overtime, her patience faded.

Regardless, he had thought that, despite all this, they were doing a decent job of hiding their relationship, but he was soon proven wrong.

One night, as they settled for camp, (Y/N) approached the Prince who sat upon a log beside the fire.

“Legolas, look!” she called out.

“Hmm,” he hummed, his mind being pulled from his rather depressive mulling state as he looked up at her.

But, she didn’t stop her approach before him as he would have thought. Instead, she plopped her ass right down in his lap. Her form then curled into his, her one arm wrapping around the back of his neck and her breasts just barely brushing against his chin as she steady herself.

Startled, he shifted uncomfortably. His eyes widened and his cheeks turned a red hue, like that of a berry blossoming in the summer. He was unsure what to do and how to proceed. If he jumped away from her, surely she would feel unwanted. But if he leaned into such an embrace and encouraged it, their relationship would be quite public and she would think violating the boundaries he had set was alright. Therefore, he just sat still—unable to hide his expression of embarrassment.

“Look what Pippin and I found in the creek!” she exclaimed excitedly, not picking up on his discomfort. (Y/N) opened her palm to reveal a decently sized gemstone. “The rainbows,” she stated as she twisted it in her fingers. “Do you see them?”

“I, uh, yes. I do.”

“What kind of rock is it? Does it have a name?”

Legolas cleared his throat awkwardly. “Uh, yes, yes. It is called opal.”

“Opal,” she repeated. (Y/N) then frowned, looking at his expression. “Do you not like opal?”

He raised his brows. “No, no. I like it. It is a perfectly fine stone.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. He could see her thoughts twisting and her mind turning. He knew she was evaluating his behavior and trying to figure out his strange temperament. After a moment though, she seemed to understand why his tone was slightly off and why he pulled away from her a bit. He had been doing so for a decent amount of time nowadays. It would be ignorant for him to assume she didn’t notice. Unfortunately, this only made her deepen her frown.

(Y/N) stood up from her perched spot upon him and scurried off in the opposite direction. “Boromir,” she called out. “Look what Pippin and I found!”

Slowly, Legolas raised his face. He knew there was one, merely four feet from him, who had witnessed this and would gladly voice his opinion. And, of course, the Prince’s vision was met by Aragorn’s raised brows and questioning gray eyes.

But, before either could say anything, another conversation began a little ways away—one that soon snagged their attention.

“What do you think?” (Y/N) asked.

“It is quite beautiful, love,” Boromir stated. “Shines like those wings of yours.”

Instantly, Legolas’ icy gaze snapped to the Gondorian.

The elf could not stop the anger that boiled in his blood and flashed across his face. He could not halt the possessiveness that spurred in his bones and rippled across his skin. He could not cease the jealousy that flushed his heart and twisted his gut.

How dare he call her such a thing.

Legolas watched as (Y/N)’s eyes flashed back to him, just for a second, before she placed a hand upon Boromir’s muscled bicep to seemingly steady herself as she continued to show him the stone.

The Prince clenched his jaw and released hot air from his nostrils.

How dare she do such a thing.

The elf’s fuming, however, was interrupted by a low chuckle from his friend who had the entire incident laid before him like a play.

If Legolas thought their affections weren’t obvious now, he would be an idiot.

Aragorn spoke in a hushed, teasing tone. “She is pissed at you.”

Legolas, wearing the deepest frown, turned to glare at the Ranger.

Aragorn rolled his eyes as he spoke his next words in Sindarin. “Oh tul- bo, Legolas. (Oh come on, Legolas.)”

“Mahn? (What?)”

“He na- in mel with cin. A cin hen. I pan -o cin ar ú- caudol—edregol hen (She is in love with you. And you her. The pair of you are not subtle—especially her.)”

Startled, Legolas’ eyes went wide as he tried to deny it. “A–a avo sinnen mahn ha na- cin ped- -o. (I–I dont know what it is you speak of.)”

The Ranger snorted. “Nin mellon, mín gar- sinnen an lefnar nia ho- i tád -o cin felf

an eithor. Since, mín govannen hen actuallui. Ha cel al- n- anui mor obstel. (My friend, we have known for weeks how the two of you feel for each other. Since, we met her actually. It couldn’t be any more obvious.)”

“Mín? (We)?” he spluttered.

“Na lesma Gimli a im. (At least Gimli and I.)” Aragorn poked the fire aimlessly. “A conthela i gurth tiro Gandalf eno aned cín té, im asthela hon sui eithel. (And considering the death glares Gandalf still sends your way, I assume him as well.)”

Legolas, now accepting that there was no way out of the situation, rested his chin in his hand and sighed. Defeated, his eyes focused on Boromir and (Y/N). “Thosl im am ú- gelir -o cín cened, im ceri- iest i er eleg wo- finna- glinth. (Though I am not glad of your observation, I do wish that one other would take notice.)”

Once again, light laughter rumbled in Aragorn’s chest. “Im ceri- ú- gûl ho cened hen in i pâd. (I do not think he sees her in that manner.)”

Legolas huffed, his eyes not leaving (Y/N)’s fingers that curled into the rust-colored fabric of Boromir’s tunic.

Aragorn nodded at the Rámaite Mahtar and Gondorian. “Ae telf, im am thossui il -o i na- hen (If anything, I am afraid all of that is her.” He paused. “He na- dol ha bo thel- (She is doing it on purpose).”

The elf sighed. “A sinnen. (I know.)”

Taking a serious turn, Aragorn spoke again. “Whui ceri- cin ab- hen míl if cin trului mel hen? I na- all he waln. (Why do you deny her affection if you truly love her? That is all she wants.)”

A light pink danced across Legolas’ face as he bowed his head. “Cin sinnen -o i custal -o nin bethal. A im–im del iest an i mala -o hi companui na n- enraged bui golodh regath hen a im, an im cened i unesta in all cín elro. (You know of the customs of my culture. And I–I didn’t wish for the members of this company to be enraged by such knowledge regarding her and I, for I see the wariness in all your eyes).”

Aragorn exhaled slowly, carefully picking out the words he was to say. “Nin mellon, ceri- cin beli he wele oiale near huth up- anui -o ammen? (My friend, do you believe she would ever place harm upon any of us?)”

“Baw. Im sennen he will ú-. (No. I know she will not.)”

“Thal whui eou- cin nifred i golodh -o eleg? (Then why would you fear the opinions of others?)” he persisted.

Legolas glanced down, ashamed.

As the hours progressed, Legolas stood upon the edge of the cliff, looking out at the plane below and the stars above. He took the first watch…and the second. He was going to take the third as well, but the soft steps of another pulled him from such focus.

“Legolas,” (Y/N) stated.

He did not turn.

She moved and stood beside him, looking out into the darkness as well. “What is it?”

He shook his head. “Tis nothing.”

“Not out there,” she replied, stepping in-front of him, claiming his attention and getting in his personal space. “Inside…you.”

Legolas shifted uncomfortably. For the second time that day, he used a sentence of denial. “I do not know what you mean.”

“You are upset.” (Y/N) stated.

She frowned as she took another step closer to him, her lips only inches from his own. He could feel her breath tickling his skin. He could taste the ethereal light she inhaled and exhaled. And he could smell her earthy and sweet scent. His senses were overcome by her. Yet, he did not respond to it.

After a moment of silence and no movement, she spoke again. “Upset at me. Why?”

Legolas scoffed slightly, turning his face away from her and letting his eyes drift back into his head briefly. It put a physical distance between them. It showcased his irritation. He did not reply.

Frustration began to brew inside the Rámaite Mahtar. “You will not answer me?” she stated.

“(Y/N),” he huffed in a dismissive tone.

Surprising him, she reached forward and grasped onto the front of his tunic. She roughly yanked him towards herself, getting in his face once again. “Why!?” she demanded forcefully.

Out of instinct, Legolas smacked her hand away and took a couple steps backward. Appallment hung upon his expression as he stared at her. He was shocked by her actions. This was the first time she had ever been aggressive and threatening with him since their first meeting—hell, this was the first time she had ever been like that with anyone in the company. And, to be honest, it scared him. It made him think back to his conversation with Mithrandir, which startled him even more for he didn’t want to believe that she only knew the combativeness of war.

Confused by his reaction, (Y/N) cocked her head.

“(Y/N),” he began quietly, trying to keep his composure. “Do not touch me like that.”

At this, she frowned and her eyes filled with perplexity.

Legolas swallowed dryly. She did not understand. She was frustrated and had no idea how to express it. So, she had done the only thing she knew how to do when she was agitated or angry: lash out. Realizing this, he spoke again. “Have I ever touched you aggressively? Even when I have been upset or frustrated?”

Slowly, the Rámaite Mahtar’s lips parted and the anger in her eyes melted into that of guilt. She realized what he was alluding to: she was being hurtful. “I—I did not mean it,” she stuttered quietly.

(Y/N) turned away from him, in a bit of a frantic manner. Seemingly realizing that she had nowhere to go, however, she moved to sit upon the edge of the cliff. A form of escaping the situation, Legolas guessed, for she genuinely had no idea what to do.

Slowly, he approached her. He stood behind her and spoke softly. “(Y/N), I understand you are frustrated. So am I. I just ask that you speak with me instead of lashing out at me.”

Silence.

“Please,” he added gently, in hopes to encourage her into a productive method of communication.

Silence.

“How about if I start?” He paused, for a moment, before continuing gently. “I was upset with the way you interacted with Boromir. It felt as if you were doing it on purpose to make me jealous and I did not like seeing you give another attention like that. I am sorry that I did not answer you when you asked me calmly the first time. It was unfair of me to do so.”

After a couple seconds of silence, seemingly thinking over his words, (Y/N) shot up. She turned to face him and he was surprised to see every emotion displayed upon her expression. The Rámaite Mahtar then began a long rant that Legolas was not expecting—one that he never would have guessed to leave her lips. It was rushed and full of anger, irritation, doubt, and sadness. It came with running tears, the color and consistency of pure starlight bursting and breaking.

“Why do you refuse to touch me? You do not sit beside me anymore. You do not hold my hand anymore. You do not kiss me anymore!” She stomped her foot and gestured widely. “I–I try. But–but you send me away and look at me as if—as if—” A little shriek left her lips and a sob followed, clearly frustrated as she struggled to pick out words to convey her feelings. “—as if you do not want me—even when no friends are looking!”

Now, the water continuously flowed from her eyes, freely and full of an aching pain. “I do not like hiding us from the friends. Why can they not know? Why can they not know?!”

Another gut wrenching sob echoed from her lips as her rant changed from yelling to a sad, cracking whisper. “I–I am scared. He will come to find me. He will come to look for me. I am not hiding b-because friends need help and I want to help…and I–I want you. But you do not–you do not take care for me any longer! You–you do not dress me. You do not brush my hair. You do not clean off the dirt. And you do not let me do any for you also!”

(Y/N)’s hands found their way into her (h/c) locks. She squeezed and pulled a little as more tears and cries spilled from her. “I don’t understand!!! I have tried–tried to learn it! I have tried to learn why b-but—” Her wings snapped open, ripping past the fabric of the simple tunic she wore: an emotional response. “BUT I CAN’T!”

It was in this moment that Legolas’ heart shattered. It felt as if his blood froze and filled with ice. That ice spread and spread and spread, until it coated his heart and solidified. It then was smashed into pieces—pieces of guilt, shame, sadness, and regret. What had he done?

Instantly, he rushed forward. Just as her form was about to collapse, her knees wobbling and her body drained, he wrapped her tightly in his arms.

“Shhh, shhh, (Y/N),” he whispered. “I am sorry. I am so sorry, my starlight.” Legolas could feel a tear run down his own cheek as he wove his hand unto her hair and cradled her head. “I never intended to make you feel as if I did not love or care for you any longer. I got wrapped up in my own fears of judgment when I should not have.”

(Y/N) buried her head into his neck, tears stinging his skin and sobs echoing into his blood.

Legolas squeezed his eyes shut, just for a moment, before focusing on the sparkling sky above him in an attempt to hold himself together.

He should have known. Valar—he should have known. The decision to create a distance to hide their affections was not the correct choice to have made. She was a very physical being, he knew that already but now he could see just how much. And pulling away from her only made her struggle to adapt harder. She may be able to shred various beings into nothing but liquid, but that did not make her mature enough to handle everything else on her own. She needed someone to care for her physically and emotionally. She was still learning and she needed someone to teach her. It was almost as if she was like a child or teen—just one with the skills of a killer and the intelligence, body, desires, and wants of a grown woman. She was just so foreign to their ways of life that she needed a guide. She had needed him. And he had failed her.

Legolas inhaled deeply, sucking in as much courage as he could, before looking down at her broken form once again. Slowly, he grasped her head in his hands and gently pulled it from the crook in his neck. He forced those eyes—those damn vibrant eyes, now filled with pooling water—to look into his own.

“(Y/N),” he whispered. “I promise you. I swear it to you. I will not let Morgoth take you from me. Although you are much stronger than I, I will defend you with every last one of my breaths. No longer will I fear the judgment of my friends. No longer will I push you away because of such a fear. I love you and I will for all of eternity. I will take care of you and teach you. I swear it.”

He rested his forehead against hers. “I swear it,” he repeated.

In a quiet, sad tone, (Y/N) whispered to him. “Does this mean you will kiss me again? I–I like kisses.”

He chuckled lightly and a small smile formed upon her lips.

Legolas then pressed his mouth upon hers and began to softly show her the truth to his love. She responded to it instantly, accepting the tender apology and gentle care. The kiss was short, simple, and wet, but full of raw emotion. It was full of love.

When they pulled apart, the Prince gently scooped her into his arms. He slowly sat down upon the grass and placed her into his lap. (Y/N) buried her head back into his neck and wrapped her wings around him, covering his back and dusting the ground. They stayed there in silence for a while, calming down.

Legolas was careful to monitor her breathing and her heart rate as she settled from her emotional outburst. This was the first time that she felt emotions all at once—he knew it would have to had beeen overwhelming. And once these things quieted and steadied, she seemed to notice too, for she began to shift a bit.

(Y/N) reached up to grab at a lock of his golden hair. As her fingers twisted and turned it, he did not stop her. And after a moment she spoke again. “What is the word when you feel bad about something?”

He raised a brow, sending a quick glance down to her, for he was not expecting that to be her first sentence to him after their fight. She, however, was not looking up at him to see his expression. Instead, her vision focused upon the softness in her grasp.

“Well,” Legolas began. “Guilt, I suppose.”

She shook her head. “No, not that one. The one you said earlier.”

He frowned, trying to figure out what she meant. It took a moment, but he soon realized what word she was looking for. “Sorry.”

She nodded. “Yes. That one.”

(Y/N) then pulled her body from his chest. Staying in his lap, she looked up at him. “Legolas, I am sorry for making you sad about being close to Boromir. I did it on purpose because I was mad. And that is—that is…” She frowned. “What is it when the hobbits yell rude things at each other?”

With his brow still raised, he provided the simplest answer that he thought she was looking for. “Mean?”

She nodded. “Mean, yes. It was mean.”

Legolas had to fight a smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth, but not for a bad reason. First of all, it was adorable watching her learn their language. Second of all, he was proud of her. He had thought it would take more time for her to realize her wrongdoings and accept that she too had a part in the disagreement. He was not expecting anything in return for his apology, but he was glad to get one as well.

Despite what Gandalf had said, Legolas knew she was grasping the difference between right and wrong.

The Rámaite Mahtar were capable of learning such things.

Legolas bobbed his head slightly. “Thank you for apologizing.”

She sighed and snuggled into him once more. She let her head nuzzle back into the crook of his neck as her wings still hung around him, like a shield or a blanket. And it was like this, that she fell asleep. It was like this, that Legolas held watch throughout the entirety of the night. And it was like this, that the fellowship woke to.

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entishramblings · 1 year

Text

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.

Everything Tag: @sokkasdarling @scxundress @quilledinkpen @hufflepuffinblr @lea----b @aredhel-of-gondolin @princecami @the-fandoms-georgie @jazziwritestolkienprimary @swimming-in-stardust @elvish-sky @red-riding @brun-lieve @idiotic-canadian @hey-its-nonny @angelxnaa @bisexualdragongirl @edensgarnden @elizabeth-anya-knight @sydney-120-sweetheart-blog @laneynoir @straysugzhpe @runningfeathers @awarwithinitself @finallyforgotten @kaiawrites @commanderawkward @xxbluestrifexx @slytherinambitious @redbirdbluebird333-blog @angelgracesworldofchaos @desert-fern @hellsitegivemeafreeusername

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Legolas tag: @dark-angel-is-back @mylittle-escapingdreams @moriamithril @abandoncloud9 @bweakmybonez @aphroditesmoon

The Innocence of Brutality: @byshaunajoy

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#vayawrites #lotr #lord of the rings #the hobbit #legolas #legolas fic #legolas fanfiction #Legolas fanfic #legolas x reader #legolas/reader #legolas greenleaf #legolas imagine

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entishramblings · 6 months

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okay what if I were to write again?! 👀

#vayawrites #👀#LOTR fic

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entishramblings · 4 months

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Fuck The Forbidden [Boromir/F!MermaidReader]

AO3 | WATTPAD | MASTERLIST

Links to chapters:

Fuck The Forbidden Pt. 1

Fuck The Forbidden Pt. 2

Fuck the Forbidden Pt. 3

Summary: The Reader is a Mermaid and witnessed a shipwreck. She becomes interested in human life—particularly one human: Boromir.

Disclaimer: Any mythology relating to the mermaids of middle earth is not canon. also I tried my best with arda water/river geography plz don’t come at me—it’s not one of my finer subjects :/

Status: complete

Total Word Count: 23k

Warnings: depression, drowning, ptsd, alcoholism, angst, comfort, fluff, stalking (idk how to make that last one sound less creepy. you’re just gonna have to read it), physical assault, creepy men that gets what’s coming to them, shirtless boromir

#vayawrites #boromir #boromir x reader #boromir/reader #boromir x you #boromir/you #lotr #lord of the rings #the hobbit #boromir fic #boromir fanfic #boromir fanfiction

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entishramblings · 1 year

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The Innocence of Brutality Pt.1 [Legolas/F!Reader]

A.N: I've been working a lot on FATE (my long fic...you should check it out) so I haven't been posting many one-shots. BUT FINALLY....here you go! It's a bit different from my usual one-shots but hey I figured I may as well give it a go. This will have many parts depending on how much traction it gets ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Request: none

Pairing: Legolas X 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: ~8k (yes I went overboard)

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

MASTERLIST | AO3 | WATTPAD

The Innocence of Brutality Masterlist — PART 2

The sky had been getting darker and darker as the hours went by, the sun slipping into a restless dream as a storm brewed. Clouds hung deep and gray high above the fellowship while claps of thunder neared them. It was a grumbling and crackling battle of light and dark. With every booming sound, the menacing void loomed closer and closer, electrifying the air with anxiety. It was casting above them at a rapid rate—a rate at which they could not outrun.

Gandalf squinted up at the sky as it churned and flashed again. "Hurry up. We don't have much time."

Legolas and Aragon exchanged a worried look before shifting their gaze to Gandalf, at the front of the group, who was now murmuring to himself. For the past two hours, he had been pushing a fast past—too fast for the hobbits and the exhausted mortals of the group.

They were all acutely aware that it had something to do with the strange storm bubbling above them, but other than that they knew not.

Aragon, who was bringing up the flank with Legolas, leaned in towards the elf. He lowered his voice to a whisper as he spoke in the elvish tongue, not wanting to worry the hobbits who were straggling and struggling before them. "Man- na- ho pent? Tur- cin hear ha? (What is he saying? Can you hear it?)"

Legolas sent a deadpan look to his friend. "Cin attindo nin edhelen tûr? (You doubt my elvish abilities?)"

Aragorn rolled his eyes, his tone dripping with sarcasm and faked irritability. "Tharchol- man an tuin -o ammen who are róvan -o lhaw, nin mellon. (Translate for those of us who are hard of hearing, my friend)."

Legolas' lip tugged slightly upward, like the stem of a flower reaching for the light, as he turned his attention back to Gandalf; however, that grin faded quite quickly as he picked up the words falling from the Maiar's lips.

"What? What is it?" Aragorn hissed, now in the common tongue, for they were far enough behind the others not to be heard.

Legolas shook his head as he lowered his voice. "He is worried. We are moving too slow."

"Too slow? Even I would not pick this pace to escape an oncoming storm."

Legolas pressed his lips into a tight line, tilting his head as he continued to listen to the wizard's muttering. "He thinks this weather is....unnatural."

Aragorn cast a weary and suspicious look up at the ever-darkening shadow upon them. "Sauron?" he whispered.

Legolas frowned. "I do not know. It doesn't necessarily feel...evil."

"What does it feel like?"

The elvish Prince shook his head, unsure.

Aragorn raised a thick brow. "You can't identify it? You are rather old. You must have felt such a feeling before."

Legolas shot him a gare at the words that came out rather a bit insulting.

His friend only smirked in reply.

The talking ceased between the two men, but they kept glancing up at the swirling clouds, which were now twisting with strange colors—hints of dulled oranges, pinks, purples, and blues. It most definitely was not natural. They were sure of that.

The storm continued to grow worse and worse with every advancing step. The pair now hung close to the hobbits considering the harsh weather conditions. The hot wind began whipping around them, making it harder to push against, as hail pelted them. The air was also stiff and murky, tension and power leaking into the atmosphere, which only produced more concern. An unusual combination of weather, yes. It was quite strange. It was terrifying.

"Gandalf!" Aragorn called out just as he yanked Sam out of the way of an entire tree turning and tumbling through the air. "We must seek shelter."

The wizard only shook his head as he turned to yell over the harsh sounds. "No. We must move further. We must get away from this."

"It will be the death of the hobbits!" Boromir interjected as he held tightly onto Pippin's shoulder. "We need to stop!"

"I wouldn't stop in this even if I had gotten my legs ripped off!" Gandalf snapped.

The cerulean blue eyes of the elf filled with worry. As an elf, he trusted Mithranduil and his wisdom, but this behavior made Legolas anxious. Never had the wizard been so admit about a concern. Not like this. "What is it, Gandalf? What worries you?"

The old man's gray eyes shifted to the center peak of the storm, where the light and thunder seemed to originate yet also hang calmly. He did not answer the elf's question though. Instead, his lips parted as a hole and began to open in the center. It was only then that he spoke. "We are too late."

With that, something began to tumble from the clouds. It spun, twisted, and warped—the winds tearing and clawing at it as if the world did not want its existence in this plane.

Legolas stepped forward, squinting.

What is that?

The Prince took another step.

A limb? No, it couldn't be.

Yet, as the object descended, he could make out flailing arms and legs, whipping hair, and...and wings.

"By the Valar," Legolas whispered.

"W-what is that?" Boromir stuttered, his anxiety dripping from his tone for he could not see what the elf could.

"A—a woman," Legolas breathed out. "A winged woman."

All eyes twisted and turned, necks cranking upwards in hopes to make out the figure Legolas described.

As the wind threw her into a rather forceful descent, she was finally close enough for the other members of the fellowship to make out her shape.

With gaping mouths, they all stared.

Her body, merely thirty feet away, slammed into the ground....hard.

Rocks and dirt were flung from every direction, which caused the men to raise their arms, turn their backs, and shield their eyes.

As the dust settled and the whipping wind hung still, the storm was silent and unmoving. Slowly, they turned back to see what was just delivered unto them.

A large crater had opened up, yet they couldn't make out the being that lay within. All they could see was a smoldering pile of feathers and little flickering flames.

Instantly, Legolas moved forward. His elvish body easily and quickly pushed him to the front of the group. He was about to pass Gandalf, but the wizard flung out his arm and stopped him—surprisingly fast reflexes for the old man.

"Don't," he muttered simply.

Legolas' brows pulled tight. "Is she one of Sauron's? Do you know that to be true?"

Gandalf, with narrowed eyes, shook his head. "No. Something far more dangerous."

The Prince shifted his weight. "What is she?"

Gandalf glanced at all the curious eyes upon him before his deep voice huffed across the dirt as he reluctantly spoke his next words. "Rámaite Mahtar."

Legolas spoke the translation. "Winged Warrior."

Gandalf nodded. "Before the Maiar were created, the Valar built a breed of warrior spirits. Strong, fierce, and utterly brutal. They used them once, and only once, to help defeat the darkness that occupied the lands long before they were molded into what we wander today."

"Why? Why only once?" Aragorn interjected. "Not even to defeat Morgoth?"

"Because they destroyed everything."

"We are here, are we not?" Boromir replied.

The wizard's eyes narrowed. "But before, we were not, were we? I would not dare interact with such a creature."

"But why was she sent here then?" Legolas rebutted.

As quick as an arrow, Gandalf's form shifted towards Legolas rather aggressively, and he barked his next words. "She could not have been sent here! She must have escaped to here!"

"Escaped?" Aragorn questioned.

"We don't have time for this. We must move while she is still. We can only hope that she is dead."

Legolas shook his head, muttering to himself for a moment, as he strained his elvish ears to listen.

Badum, badum.

Badum, badum, badum.

"She is not dead," he breathed out.

Badum, badum.

Not able to bear leaving a living woman, probably juried, behind, he shoved his bow into Gandalf's hand and took off in her direction.

"Legolas! Legolas!" Gandalf yelled, vexed.

But he did not falter. The Prince skipped across the rock and stone until he climbed to the top of the crater. Curiously, he peered over the edge.

About ten feet across and five or six down, among the dirt and dust, there she lay.

Her naked body, covered in ash, was curled in on itself like that of a baby deer left alone in the forest. Her (h/c) hair was sprawled messily across her face, blocking her features from view. It concealed her. It hid her. It was a block in the path to her soul...if she had one. Gandalf did say they were brutal. Regardless, much of Legolas' focus was on another part of the being: her wings. They now laid across the ground coated in the same dust....and blood. One wing specifically was badly damaged. It was broken. It was warped. It was snapped at the bone. It looked bad....very bad.

"By the Valar," he breathed out.

Legolas knew he would need to get a closer look at that wing. There was still a chance he could repair it. If he didn't, an untreated injury like that would kill her. He knew could help her. He knew could heal her. He knew it.

The Prince felt the fellowship's eyes on him as he began to slowly climb into the crater, being sure to avoid some of the smoldering embers and flames that still flickered within. He was slow as he approached the woman, for he didn't want to startle her.

Unfortunately, he did.

As his foot, silent in step, settled approximately two feet away from her, her eyes snapped open. He got a flash of brilliant (e/c) as they stared into his cerulean blues—for barely half of a second. As quick as an arrow leaving a bowstring, her form snapped upright and her wings warped around her entire body—forming a shield. It was a broken, bloody shield but a shield nonetheless.

Legolas faltered back. She was quick....maybe even quicker than him. And most definitely unpredictable.

Softly, Legolas spoke. "I am not going to hurt you." He took a cautious step forward, reclaiming his previous position. He could feel the fellowship's gaze still burning into him. They had moved closer to see what would take place. He could sense it. He focused back on the barricade of bloody feathers before him. "You are injured. Let me help."

One of the wings shifted, barely noticeable to any being of mortal descent, but Legolas was not one of those, was he? He could see the very small gap in the cascade of pain and dust. And, through this waterfall of despair, peered one of those curious (e/c) eyes.

Legolas knew he was being evaluated. She was examining and studying him. She was deciding if he was a threat.

He raised his palms, showing he was not going to touch the knives on his belt and back. "I am here to help," he repeated.

There was no motion.

He swallowed dryly as he thought back to Gandalf's words. The woman was a warrior. She was born of a warrior race. She was created to destroy and decimate entire worlds. Supposedly. Regardless, if she was going to kill him, she would have already.

With shaky hands, he opted to make a decision on how he would proceed. He reached forward. The Prince let his palm gently touch the un-injured wing in an attempt to move it out of the way to see the figure.

Wrong decision.

In an instant, the wings flew open and spread wide. The injured stretch of feathers hung at an awkward, bloody, and most certainly painful angle, but that didn't seem to matter to the woman. Her hand wrapped itself around Legolas' throat tightly. His own came up to hers in a poor attempt to pry off her grasp as his feet rose from the ground. Wheezing and huffing sounded from his lips, but she did not stop. Instead, those brilliant, (e/c) eyes only stared through the ash coating her face and form. That vibrant color burned into him with rage, anxiety, and....and fear.

Instantly, loud shrieks sounded from the hobbits—which were quickly shushed by the others, for they knew what may happen if the woman's attention focused on them.

Aragorn, however, still pulled his bow, ready to fire—not that it would do much.

But, at the sound of that panic, the woman's head snapped towards the group of people watching the interaction. She tilted her head curiously.

Legolas, thinking the same thought that his friends had, tried to speak to get her attention. He would rather it be on him than on them. Therefore, his raspy, broken voice sounded weakly. "Friend. We–we are friends."

Once again, those (e/c) eyes twisted back to him. The woman tilted her head again, her gaze peering into his.

The word then rolled off her tongue strangely and uncertainly, as if she was unsure of the sound. "F-friend."

"We-we can help," he wheezed out, desperately.

"We can help," she repeated.

"P-please," he whispered, his vision starting to blur.

All in one moment, the tightness fell from his neck as she abruptly dropped her hand. As soon as his feet hit the dirt, Legolas bent forward. He placed his hands upon his knees as he desperately tried to get air back into his lungs. He inhaled it in long gulps, begging it to fill his lungs.

He was defenseless. He was nothing against her. He knew it. And she knew it too.

She stood there, as still as stone, watching him as he recovered.

Aragorn took aim once again.

"Wait, laddie," Gimli muttered, putting a hand on the Ranger's bow.

Aragorn glanced at him suspiciously but lowered it nonetheless.

As Legolas stood upright once more, he peered at the woman before him. His gaze was cautious, for he feared she might wrap that viperous grip around his throat again; but, still, his curiosity and desire to help wouldn't fade. He needed to know more.

The Prince shifted as he took to observing her.

She wasn't exactly what he expected. She was human-like. She was elf-like. She was in the same image....but not. Something about her looks seemed slightly off. It was different, but not in a prominent or bad way. She just seemed...distinct. She seemed evolved. She seemed primitive. All contradictions. All at the same time. Yet, still, she was similar enough to pass as human or elf...well, mostly. Her ears were not pointed but she held that eternal expression of the elves. She was in between the two races. The woman was smaller than him—excluding the massive wingspan of what had to be nearly sixteen feet—as most beings were, for he was indeed an elf. Apparently, even the Rámaite Mahtar didn't have the height of elves either. Regardless of all this, she still stood proudly and powerfully before him.

She could kill him in an instant.

"You are injured," he began, his voice now rough, as he glanced at her broken wing. "I can help you."

She squinted curiously at him, once again. "Help," she stated, with no tone or inflection.

Legolas nodded. "Yes. I can help heal you if you will allow me."

Her gaze poured confusion into his.

Slowly, Legolas moved to the broken wing. He stopped as he arrived at the section that was ruptured and cautiously lifted his hands. He looked to her for permission, except nothing but that empty stare looked back at him. Therefore, making a decision, he took the wing in his hand.

Wrong decision. Again.

Immediately, she jerked back and hissed at him.

Legolas' hands flung to the sides of his head in a motion of surrender. "It's alright," he said calmly. "I am just examining it. I am here to help you."

Still, she held a frown of distrust.

He slowly touched the wing again, and she snapped an angry snarl at him.

"Shh, shh. It's okay," he whispered. Legolas then placed his palm upon her wing for the third time.

This time, she winced but did not make any motions to attack him.

As Legolas began to examine it, he spoke to her. "My name is Legolas."

She tilted her head, now seemingly interested. "Leg-o-las," she repeated.

He smiled and nodded. "And you? What are you named?"

That interest practically evaporated into nothingness in one second. She turned her head away from him, focusing on the group staring at them both. She basically ignored the elf. Clearly, she was not worried about an attack from him.

"Alright," he mumbled to himself. "I suppose I will have to earn your trust before I learn your name."

She did not look at him.

As he examined her wing, he told her of what he discovered—though he wasn't sure she was really listening. "It is broken. Still hanging on limply though. I can bind it with supplies and provide medicine for the wound." He let his hands fall as he moved back to face her, trying to get her attention. "If you come with me, to my friends, I can help."

She tilted her head, now looking at him. "Come with...."

"Yes. That is where we have supplies. That is where I can help."

Legolas took a couple of steps to his friends, before looking back to see if she was coming.

Seeing this, the woman took a cautious step forward.

Legolas smiled softly, holding out his hand in an inviting manner.

She, however, did not take it. She just pushed past him, her good wing knocking into him rather aggressively, as she continued towards the group.

Legolas jogged to catch up to her, being sure to avoid the massive wings this time, for he knew his friends may panic at the way she was approaching them. It most certainly seemed menacing.

They all shifted nervously when they saw her advance, but Legolas was still alive so they presumed the woman had made peace with him...hopefully.

She stopped about three feet in front of them, waiting for Legolas.

He ducked under her wing and stood before their gaping gazes. "We are going to help her."

"Are you serious?!" Boromir gruffed out. "The wizard said–"

"She is a living being. We will not let her become a victim of Sauron's manipulation. We are going to help her."

Boromir released a rough exhale. He knew what the elf was saying. And he was right. It was either them or Sauron. And they could presume that if she sided with Sauron, it would mean their end.

Aragorn nodded, accepting the situation much quicker than Legolas would have thought. "Alright. We must find a place nearby to camp for the night."

Legolas turned to look at Gandalf.

Would the wizard approve?

He would not look at the elf.

Apparently not.

Legolas sighed. He knew this would cause strain within the group, but what was he to do? This was the only option. Rámaite Mahtar or not, she needed help.

Therefore, he, with nothing else to say, took to following Aragorn—and the winged woman followed him.

Pippin, however, stood still, gaping as the naked figure strutted past him.

"Advert your eyes, Pip!" Sam huffed out in exacerbation. "It's not proper to look at a woman when she's unclothed!!"

The little hobbit, whose lips were parted and whose eyes were still fixated on the woman's ash-covered chest, replied. "I wasn't lookin!"

"Yes, ya were!" Merry replied with a giggle. "But so was I!"

"Come on," Frodo interjected. "Let's not stray from the group."

With that, they moved towards an area encircled by trees and rocks amount a mile away. The fellowship then began to set up camp and the sun started to set—the previously menacing weather entirely gone from existence. Aragorn started a fire as Boromir collected more wood and dropped it near the center. Sam began to unpack his cooking supplies, the rest of the hobbits huddling around him and stealing some scraps as he began. Gimli took to smoking his pipe, Gandalf doing the same but with a wary gaze on the strange woman who now joined them.

Legolas motioned to a log near the fire, in efforts to get the winged being to sit, as he gathered the healing supplies from his bag.

She glanced around at the group of people around her. Seeing Gandalf and Gimli upon a different log, she looked back to the stretch of wood that Legolas had gestured to. Cautiously, she moved towards it and sat down.

She stared at the various individuals around her and that stare was felt. Every so often, they would glance at her with anxiety in their eyes. Except Gandalf. His eyes never left her.

After a moment or so, one of the men, Aragorn, approached her. With a small smile, he passed her a long stretch of fabric before turning back to the fire.

She tilted her head as she took it before placing it limply on her lap—not necessarily covering much.

Legolas looked up from his leather satchel of healing herbs and pressed his lips together to suppress a small smile as he witnessed her little frown. She looked so confused. Despite knowing how lethal she was, it was cute.

He stood, taking his leather bag with him. He placed it at her feet before gently taking the blanket from her lap. He smiled softly, to assure her there was no harm to come, as he draped it over her body. Legolas did his best to swirl it across her skin while leaving her wings free from the fabric. She only looked up at him as he did it.

The Prince stepped back and was about to move to her left—towards the break in her wing—when a gust of wind rushed through his hair. There the injured wing curled, the wound now directly in front of her, and, therefore, him.

He knew what she meant by that: heal me.

Legolas knelt upon the soil and took to making an athelas paste with a mortar and pestle. She watched him curiously as he did so. Soon enough, he gently took the injury in his hand and began to smear the healing property onto the afflicted area. She let him.

"This will help stop any bleeding and prevent infection. Though, I will have to tend to the wound regularly."

She did not answer. Instead, her brilliant eyes were focused on those behind the elf. He glanced up at her as her gaze shifted with every word of conversation between his friends.

The Prince's brows pulled together.

When Aragorn spoke, her eyes were on him.

When Gimli spoke, her eyes moved.

When Boromir spoke, her eyes drifted again.

Boromir was the first to notice Legolas noticing such a pattern and, in turn, noticed the said pattern.

He stood. In an accusatory tone, he barked out a rough demand. "What is she doing?"

Instantly, all eyes shifted to the woman.

"She's just sittin there, lad," Gimli gruffed, drawing another breath from his pipe.

Her eyes went to Gimli...again.

"Nay, she's—she's looking at us," he argued.

Her eyes focused back on Boromir.

Gimli rolled her eyes. "Eh, let the lassie look. What is she gonna do?"

"What is she gonna do," sounded again....but not from any man. No, no, it came from her—from the woman.

Instantly, all eyes stuck to her like tree sap.

"That!" Boromir huffed as he pointed. "What was that?!"

"What was that," she repeated.

"Stop it!" Boromir snapped.

"Stop it," she replied.

"I said! STOP!"

"I said. Stop."

The hobbits' eyes were wide. Frodo stepped behind his friends. Sam grasped onto an empty pan. Merry and Pippin's mouths fell open, food falling from them as they stared in fear—like the rest of them.

Surprisingly, Gandalf was the next to speak. "She's learning, you fools."

She repeated his words: "She's learning, you fools."

"Every word you speak, every action you do, every look you give...She learns."

Each member of the fellowship's eyes filtered back to the woman as the sentence sounded again: "Every word you speak, every action you do, every look you give...She learns.

"What do you mean?" Frodo asked, now emerging from the hobbit blob and shakily walking towards the woman.

"What do you mean."

Aragorn grabbed the hobbit's arm, stopping him. In a parental-like tone, he spoke. "He means that she is incredibly intelligent."

"He means that she is incredibly intelligent."

Gandalf nodded, drawing from his pipe again. "Rámaite Mahtar are incredibly intelligent, smart, and deadly creatures. And you are feeding it."

Her tone echoed him again. "Rámaite Mahtar are incredibly intelligent, smart, and deadly creatures. And you are feeding it."

"Just get her to stop it!" Boromir snapped.

"I will not stop it," she stated.

At that, all sound was sucked out of the air. Everything seemed to be still but the breeze that shuffled lightly through the leaves. Did they just hear that correctly? Those words—they were not repeats.

Her voice then sounded again, slightly unsure. "I want to learning."

Legolas looked up at her from his kneeling position. In a soft and gentle tone, he spoke ever so quietly. "I want to learn."

A small smile pulled at her lips. "I want to learn," she repeated.

"Don't teach her!" Boromir yelled. "You want her to get smarter faster? You want her to learn how to kill us quicker?"

Legolas stood up, his form blocking the woman from Boromir's view. "She already knows how to kill us. And she hasn't. What is the harm in helping her learn how to communicate with us? She is a living being, you should treat her like one."

Boromir took a menacing step forward as he pointed at her. "A living being?! She might be, but she–she is an animal!"

Legolas narrowed his eyes. "She is more similar to us in likeness and image than any wild beast."

Boromir snorted. "And she has ensnared you with it." He raised a hand, motioning to the woman behind Legolas. "With those breasts, that ass, and those warm folds between her legs—I bet you just want to bury yourself in there—"

Legolas' fists balled and he practically growled at the person insulting him...and the woman. "You, human, know nothing of elvish culture. How dare—"

"ENOUGH!" Aragorn interrupted. "She is learning. Do you want her to learn this?! Hmm? You want her to learn anger and violence? More than she already knows?"

Silence.

The Ranger huffed slightly, dropping Frodo's arm and picking up a, rather large, stick to poke the fire with. "That's what I thought," was his gruff reply as he sat down upon a log.

Slowly, the fellowship dissipated back to their own tasks, uneasiness hanging in the air.

Legolas turned back to the woman. She was already focused on him with those frustrated, confused, (e/c) eyes of hers. Legolas knew she didn't understand what Boromir's words meant, for she was still figuring out what words were, but he presumed she could pick up on the basics of interaction by now.

She tilted her head at the elf.

He knew that she knew that he was upset.

He inhaled through his nose, releasing a long breath as he knelt down in front of her once again. "Don't mind Boromir. There is a lot of unease with our quest."

"Quest?" she questioned.

He nodded slightly, unsure of what to answer. He knew that his companions would not appreciate him telling her of their strenuous mission. They were already irritated with his decision to bring the woman into their group. Besides, he was unsure if she would even be able to understand it if he tried to explain it. Yes, it seemed she was grasping the basics of their language, but that was all at the moment: the basics.

Therefore, instead, he decided to comment on what he was doing. "I am going to wrap your wing in a bandage now. We don't want any dirt or grim getting in there, do we?" He smiled gently, glancing up at her ash-covered face before moving to finish the winding. "My, uh, my father and I used to repair injured birds' wings. At my home, in Greenwood, we have a great castle. It's strong for defense but the stone isn't so great for the creatures of the sky. Some of them have, unfortunately, flown into it. When I was a young elfling, he taught me how to mend their wings from such injuries. Yours are not far off from that of a bird, though significantly more damaged."

She tilted her head. "Bird?"

He bobbed his head, looking up at her. "Birds," he repeated gently. He pointed up to the sky and imitated the sound they make through a soft whistle.

She smiled, a little giggle escaping her lips.

Legolas grinned too. He liked her laugh. It didn't seem so scary or deadly. It was almost childlike, to be honest. He wondered if Gandalf had truly been right....she didn't seem that utterly, completely terrifying. Yes, she may have almost killed him earlier, but she could have just been scared. Living beings react when you scare them.

He looked back at her adorable face and instantly, his mind began racing through what else he could do to make her laugh. He wished to hear more of those little, bright giggles again.

Feeling embarrassment filter through his blood at that thought, he glanced back down at the wing.

The Prince tucked the last of the wrapping into itself before looking to her once again. "How about we get that ash off of you?" With that, he dug through his bag until he pulled out a rag. He then removed his water skin from his belt, using his teeth to pull open the stopper. He took a quick sip, then held it out to her.

She cautiously took it from him, twisting it in her hands, before glancing at the man before her.

He nodded encouragingly.

She raised the leather-skin to her lips and took a sip. It spilled down her chin as she did so, but she drank most of it. She then handed it back to him, almost in a shy manner.

Legolas poured some of it onto the swatch of the fabric before lifting it to the woman. He then gently began to wipe the grim from her skin, revealing the natural curves and extensions of her face, until there was no more ash upon her expression.

As he pulled the now gray fabric down to pour more water on it, she looked down at it. Her lips parted as she reached a dirty hand to her now clean face. She looked back to Legolas with an expression of surprise.

After a moment, she held out her hand to him.

He raised his brows slightly but began to wipe the ash from her hand, wrist, and arm. As he did so, he noticed something that made his heart freeze. Purple bruises, now uncovered from the ash, hung upon her wrist. Legolas glanced at her other hand. He could see the same purple and blue hue peaking through the dirt. He was sure to be extra gentle as he cleaned it, for he knew it must be painful. His mind, however, was now spinning with more questions.

Gandalf had said that she had to have escaped. What had she escaped from? It was obvious that she had been restrained. Why had she been? Was she tied up for a rather big reason? How dangerous was she, really? Should they be worried?

She lifted her hand in front of her face and examined it before another giggle left her lips. Valar—it was so adorable. She then pulled her leg out from the blanket and set it before the elf, her dirty foot resting upon his thigh.

Legolas' mouth parted at the action that would, in any other circumstance, seem sexual. She didn't know that though. No, she just wanted to be clean.

With nervous hands, Legolas took her calf in his grasp as he gently scrubbed away again. Valar, if his father saw him now, he surely would be smacked. She removed that leg from him and place her other in its spot. Her eyes were asking him to do the same for it. So he did. Once that leg was washed from the elements, she stood upright and began tugging on the blanket that Legolas had wrapped around her.

Understanding what she was bout to ask, and deeming it too provocative for their circumstances and his culture, he too stood and held out the rag.

She tilted her head.

"Learning, yes?"

Tentatively, she took the rag from his hand. "Leaning."

He smiled before turning away and scrambling to collect his medicinal supplies. He did not wish to be beside her when that blanket finally fell. It wasn't proper. With his leather bag hung over his shoulder, he began making his way towards Aragorn and the now blazing fire.

"Legolas," the winged woman's voice called out, seemingly urgent.

He turned, along with the rest of the fellowship.

"(Y/N)," she stated.

He blinked. "(Y/N)?"

She nodded. "Yes," she paused for a moment, trying to figure out how to convey what she wanted to say. "Legolas. You. (Y/N). Me."

"Your name? It is (Y/N)?"

She dipped her head up and down ever so slightly.

"Nice to meet you, (Y/N)," Legolas replied with a smile.

She grinned.

He then took to sitting beside Aragorn at the fire. He gratefully accepted a bowl of sausages and vegetables from Sam, for he hadn't realized how hungry he had been.

Meanwhile, (Y/N) took off the blanket and began to scrub away at her body. Every member of the fellowship, including the elf, avoided looking at her. They might be men but they were respectful. Legolas had seemingly decided for them that the Rámaite Mahtar was to be of their group, at least for the time being, and they were going to respect that—as well as her honor.

As they ate, Aragorn nudged the elf and spoke in a low tone. "So, (Y/N)."

Legolas swallowed. "I do not think she is going to kill us. If she was going to, she already would have."

"I suppose so." He stated. That is not what he had intended by his words. Aragorn sent a quick look at the woman before turning back to Legolas with a raised brow. "We should find her some clothing, don't you think?"

The elf only nodded, his cheeks red as he refused to look at the winged being.

"Don't suppose the hobbits' would fit her. Neither would yours. Or mine. I doubt Gandalf would spare his robe either."

Legolas chuckled at that. "I don't see many options. We will just have to make do. I think I may have an extra tunic. Those wings of hers will make it a bit difficult though."

Aragorn nodded. "I have an extra pair of trousers."

The two then began to ruffle through their belongings until they pulled out what they could.

"What about shoes? She has small feet. Smaller than mine and yours," Legolas said.

The Ranger snorted as he sent a glance at the footprint on Legolas' thigh. "You would know, wouldn't you?" The Ranger then tossed the trousers to his friend.

"Aragorn," he whispered in a slightly irked tone for he didn't appreciate the comment or the fact that he had to be the one to approach the rather very naked woman...again!

He smirked. "You will figure it out."

"But why do I–"

"She trusts you, doesn't she? She told you her name."

"I–" Legolas began, but the man had already walked away.

With a sigh, the elf began to approach (Y/N).

His gaze refused to drift anywhere but from her face to the ground—nothing in-between. He cleared his throat. "(Y/N)."

She turned, her wing nearly knocking into him.

"I, uh, I brought you some clothes."

She tilted her head and walked towards him until she was only inches away. He could feel her hot breath upon his skin. It tingled at his lips and brushed upon his nose. He could even smell her distinct scent—most ash and fresh soil, but there was something else there. Something different. He could hear her heart too, beating steadily, as if she didn't know what she was doing to him. And he could see that ever-present curious gaze of hers, examining him. Every part that made her living and free was there. It was right in front of him.

Legolas swallowed dryly and shifted his feet uncomfortably, before placing the bundle in her hands.

(Y/N) accepted it. She grasped onto the top fabric, letting the rest of them crumble to the floor.

She frowned at the trousers in her hands, twisting them trying to figure out what to do with them.

"They-they are to cover you. Trousers. To-to cover your legs."

Her frown deepened.

Legolas cleared his throat as he patted his thigh. "Legs."

She held up the pants. "Legs."

He shook his head. "No, no." As his face turned the color of a rose, he gently moved his hand forward, allowing a singular finger to poke her thigh. "Legs," he repeated. The Prince then touched the fabric in her hands. "Trousers." He then pulled at his own pants. "You wear them."

She nodded, understanding.

(Y/N) held them open as she lifted her leg to fit it through the hole. It easily slipped in and she moved to do the same to the next one. This, however, did not go so smoothly. She instantly began to wobble. Out of instinct, Legolas reached out and steadied her by the waist.

She pulled the pants up, her fingers brushing against his.

Instantly, he let go of her form....and she let go of the trousers. And, of course, they slipped. Quickly, she caught them, her eyes wide as she looked up at Legolas. "Help."

He pressed his lips together to prevent a little laugh. As uncomfortable as this situation was, he would have to admit that it was a bit amusing. But seeing this...this pure behavior. Well, there was no way she could have destroyed entire worlds—not with that kind of innocence to her. She seemed so...so precious. So young. So malleable. Gandalf had to be wrong.

Nodding to acknowledge her plee, Legolas tugged out a long stretch of fabric from one of his pockets. It was meant to bind wounds, leftover from wrapping her wing, but it would have to make do as a belt. He quickly looped it through the small hoops upon Aragorn's pants and tied it taught in the front. He then bent down to roll up the trousers around her ankles, for they practically swallowed her feet. While Legolas was down there, he grabbed the tunic she had dropped only moments before. He stood once again and began to dress her in it, trying his best not to look at her breasts. Luckily, it was a wrapping tunic, so it went rather quickly—until he got to her back. He, quite fortunately, was able to weave it around the part of the wings that extended from her skin so they could still move at ease. It wasn't perfect, but—once again—it would have to do. Legolas then began to pull some more fabric from one of his bags. He ripped it into smaller strips and began to bind her feet to serve as temporary shoes.

"There you are," he stated simply as he stood upright.

She smiled, playing with some of the soft material that now coated her body. "There I are!"

The corner of Legolas' lip tugged upwards just a bit. "There I am," he corrected.

She nodded. "There I am."

He bobbed his head as a means of telling her she was correct. The Prince then took to moving back to his place near the fire. He knew it was a bit abrupt to leave (Y/N) there, but he was unsure of what else to do. Besides, if he was being honest, his pants were now feeling a bit too tight for his liking and he wanted to take a couple of steps away from what had caused such a thing—especially before anyone noticed.

Much to his dismay, she followed him—stopping by Gandalf for just a moment to give him a rather large sniff. The wizard glared at her.

Legolas, once again, sat down on the log next to Aragorn. And she sat next to him.

The Prince swallowed dryly. Not what he had intended.

Aragorn, of course, saw that subtle discomfort and snorted rather obnoxiously.

(Y/N) frowned at the Ranger, not understanding, but she quickly became disinterested in the interaction. Instead, she settled her elbows upon her thighs and rested her face in her hands. She let her gaze become absorbed by the flames.

After a couple of minutes of this, Legolas—feeling guilt swell in his chest for his rather rude behavior of abandonment towards her—spoke again. "It is called fire."

She sighed, almost longingly. "I know....fire."

Legolas raised a brow and Aragorn shifted uncomfortably. She was speaking of the last time she was on a physical plane like this. She was speaking of the destruction Gandalf had mentioned. She had to be.

"You know fire?" Legolas pryed.

She bobbed her head. "I know fire. Fire was before."

"Do you like fire?" Aragorn asked, a bit too boldly for Legolas' liking.

She frowned, her eyes drifting to her bandaged wing. "Fire hurts."

The two men exchanged a look.

Before anything else could be said, Sam surprisingly approached. He seemed nervous as he did so, timid and unsure as the plate in his hand shook ever so slightly. "I, uh, lady (Y/N)," he began. "I made you up a plate. I reckon ya gotta be hungry after that fall you had there. Some fine sausages will do you good and help to heal that injury of yours."

"Does she even eat?" Aragorn whispered to Legolas.

The elf shrugged. "I–I don't know."

Cautiously, she took the plate from Sam as well as the fork he passed her. The object moved strangely in her hand as she looked at the others eating—trying to figure out what she was supposed to do. Her gaze settled on Gimli, who was shoveling the meat into his mouth way too quickly. Slowly, she impaled one of the sausages and brought it to her mouth. She chewed, just as the others did, and swallowed. Suddenly, the hunger seemed to settle in. She quickly continued the motions and, within minutes, that plate was empty. Suppose Gimli was good at teaching at least something, despite not knowing that he was doing such a thing.

(Y/N) looked up at Sam. "Like sausages."

The hobbit smiled, a little breath of relief escaping him, as he took the plate back. He was about to walk away when she reached out and grabbed onto his sleeve.

His form stilled almost immediately, and Aragorn's hand danced across the hilt of his sword.

"Sausages," (Y/N) stated.

"You–you would like more?" Sam stuttered.

She nodded.

"I–I can get you more sausages. We have some extra that will go bad if they don't get eaten up."

She released his sleeve and he nervously scurried off before returning with another plate.

She eagerly took it and cleaned it right off. Passing the plate back to him, she sighed, placing a hand on her stomach. "Good sausages."

Sam smiled shyly. He supposed that if someone who didn't know much about food liked his meal, he better be good at cooking. Therefore, failing to hide his grin, he disappeared back to his cooking supplies to tidy up.

The fellowship began to settle down for the night. The hobbits seemed to pile themselves together in a puddle of blankets and Gimli and Boromir laid out their bedrolls.

"I can take first watch," Aragorn stated simply as the sound of snoring started.

"Do you want company?" Legolas asked.

Surprisingly, it was Gandalf who interjected. With his attention still on (Y/N), he spoke. "I will do so, Legolas. You have had a long day, haven't you? You should rest."

The elf frowned at the subtle coolty upon the wizard's tone. He knew why, of course, but he didn't exactly appreciate it.

"Very well then," Legolas replied. With that, the elf stood and began to set up his sleeping roll as well. He laid down upon it with a quiet sigh. As angry as he was at Gandalf's little comment, he did indeed need the rest. Taking care of (Y/N) had been a lot—mentally, physically, and emotionally. He needed to close his eyes. He needed to just....think. Had he done the right thing? Should he have pulled her from that crater?

(Y/N) did not move to sleep, however. Instead, she stood up and began to explore their mini campsite—Aragorn and Gandalf's weary gaze hanging upon her.

As she strut about, picking up sticks and stones and examining them, their eyes followed. She tapped two rocks together curiously. Little clinking sounds echoed ever so quietly. She did it again, and again, before suddenly dropping them and moving on. She then plucked a leaf from a tree and began chewing on it, abruptly spitting it out only seconds later.

Aragorn and Gandalf exchanged a confused look. Well, this was interesting.

(Y/N) continued on with her mission of discovery. As she stomped through the camp, her exhausted wings dragged down upon the ground—knocking Sam's neatly stacked dishes onto the dirt—earning a couple of grumbles and groans from the sleeping men. She didn't seem to care or realize, for that matter.

Instead, she picked up Legolas' bag and began to pick random things out of it. She lifted a little leather pouch from its depths and pulled at the strings. She sniffed what was inside. Reaching into it, she pulled out some leaves. (Y/N) held them above her, examining them in the firelight, before putting them back in their container. She then pulled out another little leather pouch and yanked it open. She stuck her hand into this one too but pulled out a gold coin instead of herbs. She sniffed it. She put it in her mouth. She spit it out. (Y/N) reached into the bag once again and pulled out a sheathed knife.

At this, Aragorn and Gandalf shifted. What was she going to do with that?

She began twisting it around until she figured out how to pull the weapon from the sheath. Aragorn's fingers filtered over the hilt of his sword once again. She, however, held the blade close to her face and sniffed it. She then took her finger and poked the sharp point. Jumping at the pain, she frowned. (Y/N) watched as a little bit of blood prickled upon her finger, just for a moment, before wiping it on her trousers—well, Aragorn's trousers. It seemed she was more surprised than hurt.

She sheathed the blade and put it back in the bag.

(Y/N) continued doing this with all of the objects in Legolas' bag until she went through the entire thing. She then stood up again and went around to find something else to examine.

Soon enough, as the night's watches changed, the winged woman got tired. She eventually sat down, leaned her back upon a tree, and wrapped her dropping wings around her. There, she fell asleep.

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entishramblings · 1 year

Text

The Innocence of Brutality Pt.2 [Legolas/F!Reader]

A.N: so here is part two! please let me know what you think!

Request: none

Pairing: Legolas X Fem!Reader

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

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

Word Count: 2k

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

MASTERLIST | AO3 | WATTPAD

The Innocence of Brutality Masterlist

"So," Pippin began the next morning. "Who's gonna wake her?"

The fellowship stood in a line in front of (Y/N). Various expressions of worry, concern, and irritation upon their brows.

"Legolas," Aragorn stated simply.

"Why me?"

"She trusts you. She told you her name."

The elf sent his friend a glare, for that excuse was becoming annoying, but regardless he cautiously approached the winged woman.

He squatted down in front of her. "(Y/N)," he stated simply.

No movement.

"(Y/N)," he repeated.

No movement.

"It is morning. You must wake."

He lifted his hand. He knew he was going to regret this. He gently tapped her foot.

Instantly, those brilliant, curious, (e/c) eyes flung open.

Within seconds, Legolas was pinned facefirst onto the ground with her on top of him.

Yup. He regretted it.

Each member of the fellowship drew their weapons, well, except the hobbits who ducked behind their friends.

Gasping for breath, Legolas spoke. "(Y/N), please."

Instantly, her grip upon him loosened. "Legolas," she stated simply, no inflection upon her tone. With that, she stood up and began walking towards the embers of last night's fire, her wings knocking into Aragorn and Boromir. She didn't seem to even care that their weapons were drawn. Instead, she plopped down upon the log once more.

Legolas groaned as he rolled not his back, looking up at the sky.

The rest of the fellowship disbursed to gather their belongings, but Aragorn stood above the elf grinning. "Got the wind knocked out of ya, Princeling. Looks like you finally met someone who can put you on your ass."

"Shut it," the elf groaned.

Aragorn chuckled as he moved to help his friend up.

As Legolas was pulled onto his feet, he let his eyes drift to (Y/N). "Aragorn," he began. "I think she has what most men have when they see war."

"A murderous skill set?" he joked.

Legolas shook his head. "No, no. A haunted mind."

Aragorn raised his brow in question.

"Her wrists. Last night, I saw them covered in bruising. And her behavior is strange."

"Well, she is not of this world. Of course, it is strange."

Legolas sighed. "I know that, but strange in the sense of fearful...in a way. Jumping at touch as if she expects something worse. Turning at sounds that are a bit too quickly. And those damn eyes...She is always examining everything. I think she was tortured wherever she was before this."

Aragorn inhaled slowly. "Maybe there was some truth to what Gandalf said. Maybe she is dangerous."

Legolas' brows pulled downward, his eyes drifting to the wizard. "Whatever he knows, he doesn't want to share it."

The group was ready to continue their journey after a quick breakfast. So, they set off once again. The winged woman seemed to just follow along as if she had nothing better to do, which was entirely possible considering her circumstances.

As they went along for the three days, (Y/N) continued her curiosity.

She stayed relatively near Legolas or the hobbits, but she would only ask questions when she was beside the elf. Her questions, however, were her pointing to random objects as she walked and simply saying one word: "What."

He would answer.

First, (Y/N) pointed to a little creek. "What," she said.

He raised his brows, unsure at first, kinda lost aimlessly in his mind. "Hmm?"

She frowned at his lack of attention. She tugged on his sleeve and pointed once again. "What."

"A creek or river," he said. "It's water. It's what we drink."

She squinted. "Creek. River."

He nodded.

"Why men?"

He frowned, not understanding.

"Why men in river?"

Legolas squinted at the water. He saw no men. But, he saw a flash of orange. Then another. Fish. He suppressed a smile. (Y/N) had likely learned from their conversations that they were men. She probably generalized that to every living being.

"No. That is a fish."

"Ahh. A fish."

He nodded. "Yes."

The second example of her learning took place when a cluster of birds flew above them.

Immediately, that precious giggle spilled from her mouth. She grabbed Legolas' sleeve as she pointed to them. "Birds!" she recalled from their first conversation.

He smiled back.

The next couple of weeks consisted of this but progressing rather quickly. In no time, she could speak in almost full sentences. She had learned by listening, watching, and trying. Not to mention Legolas' help. It was rather scary, to some, Legolas assumed. But he loved it. He loved how she wanted to learn. He loved how intelligent she was—how intelligent she must be in order to learn so much so quickly. He could tell, however, that Gandalf didn't like it. The wizard sent the elf looks of discontent whenever he would teach her new words...or just in general. The elf didn't know why it was all such a bad thing. She seemed...harmless...almost.

That 'harmless' ideology soon changed though.

The fellowship had been crossing through an open plane with little coverage, and it was here when they were ambushed by a party of orcs. Not many, just under twenty, but enough to have them worried.

As soon as the first orc had been spotted, someone shouted. It was undetermined who did yell the warning, but that mattered not. They immediately surrounded the hobbits and pulled out their blades. It was too late to evade the beasts.

As the orcs then started yelling and snarling, the fellowship began making the circle tighter, ready to defend. It was at this time that (Y/N) was roughly shoved into the circle with the hobbits. And she didn't necessarily like it.

Those damn curious eyes of hers were wide as she absorbed every detail around them. She took in the terrain, the creatures before them, and the fear of her companions. She was trying to figure out what exactly was happening. She didn't understand, well, not at first, but as soon as Legolas fired the first arrow and the orcs began to charge, she knew.

The men she traveled with yelled battle cries as they too began swinging their weapons at the orcs.

She pushed past Legolas, determination upon her brow.

"(Y/N)! Get back!" Aragorn called out.

Instantly, Legolas' head snapped in her direction. He had not realized she slipped past him. Usually, he was pretty good at noticing her wearabouts—which wasn't necessarily hard because she was always hitting shit, and people, with her damn wings.

"(Y/N)!" he shouted.

But it mattered not.

The woman began to advance upon the orcs, her wingspan wide and held proud—despite the still healing injury.

As the first one neared her, she smacked it with her wing. It went flying backward about fifteen paces. It probably would have gone further if it hadn't knocked into two other orcs and took them down, but alas, shit happens. Quite unfortunate for the vile beasts. And even more so when the three of them stayed in that heap upon the soil–not even a groan sounding.

Another orc came at her. (Y/N) reached both her hands forward when he was near and she ripped the axe from him—as well as his arms. She threw the entire wood and flesh medley to the ground, ignoring the screaming coming from the creature. However, her palms were wrapped around his neck in seconds. A loud snapping sound then echoed in the open area.

It was brutal.

The orcs, now seeing her as a threat, started to target her. She, however, began to tear them apart—quite literally.

The next one that got close...well, his heart went missing. If you could even call it that. (Y/N) reached her hand through his chest and tore it out. She then squeezed it in her palm until it splattered everywhere.

Another orc approached her and she slammed her wing into it, knocking it to the ground. She then brought down the feathery mass and impaled the orc with its end. Black blood spluttered and sprayed.

Legolas' lips parted as he witnessed this. He quickly sliced the throat of an orc before turning back to look at (Y/N).

He had touched those wings. They had felt soft and comforting, not sharp and ready to impale through flesh and bone.

By the Valar–

At this point, almost every orc was charging her, and the fellowship was picking off the contorted, bloody, and barely alive bodies that she sent flying their way. Really though, driving their blades through the mangled orcs was a mercy at this point. It wasn't that they didn't want to help with all the fighting. It was that they didn't need to help.

(Y/N) bashed and broke every single one of those evil beasts. She used her whole body as a weapon. She needed no sword or knife. No bow or axe. She used her hands, feet, nails, teeth, and wings. She pulled them apart, ripping limb after limb clean off.

The whole thing was finished in a matter of minutes.

It was....horrifying.

(Y/N) turned back to face the fellowship, who stood frozen in awe, fear, disgust, surprise—every emotion possible, really—as they stared at her.

Coated in black, oozing blood, her form was buried in the death and decay she caused. She, however, was smiling with the liquid dripping from her mouth and skin.

She approached them, stepping on corpse after corpse. And with each step, she chanted one word. "Dead, dead, dead," she said, her feet squishing into puddles of body parts. "And more dead, dead, dead!"

She, still grinning, walked right up to Frodo and patted his head thrice. "Safe," she stated simply, happily.

With that, she turned on her heel and continued in their previous direction.

Parted lips of shock and apprehension were worn on every fellowship member's face, but still, the men began to follow her.

Aragorn leaned towards Legolas. "Not thinking she is so innocent anymore, are you?" The Ranger walked on, not waiting to hear Legolas' response. Regardless, he didn't have one.

As Gandalf huffed past the elf, bumping into him slightly, Legolas was jolted back to reality.

"Gandalf," he called out, jogging to catch up with the wizard. As his pace fell in step with the old man, he spoke again. "Gandalf, I–I believe you."

"Stupid elf," he mumbled. "You should have believed me from the start."

"Mithranduil," he said. "I want to know. I want to know what you won't tell us."

The wizard raised a wiery brow at him.

"Who is she? How is she—how is she—"

"So innocent yet so brutal?" he interjected, finishing Legolas' sentence.

Legolas nodded.

Gandalf exhaled through his nose. "You really want to know, elfling?"

"Yes. I do.

Gandalf huffed as they continued walking. "The Rámaite Mahtar came before me–before the Maiar. As I said before, there was a world before ours, not complete and not long-lived, but it existed. The Valar created them, the winged warriors, to destroy an evil that clung to the lands. And they did but at a great cost. They destroyed everything. They burned the world entirely–all good, all evil. They see no difference. They just killed. They killed every living thing until there was nothing but ashes."

Legolas frowned. "What happened to them?"

Gandalf sent a wary look (Y/N)'s way. "The Valar imprisoned them. Morgoth as their jailer."

"What? Why?"

"Why?!" Gandalf snapped. "Did you not just hear what I told you?"

"I did, Mithrandiul. I did," he replied calmly. "I just...I don't understand. Why didn't the Valar teach them? I mean, look at (Y/N), she can learn. She's learning so quickly!"

"She is learning our language and our behavior, but not the difference between good and evil. That she cannot learn. She only can kill."

The blue-eyed elf looked down. "I do not believe what you speak. I think there is more to her than just warrior."

Gandalf only huffed in disagreement. "That is because you haven't yet heard the worst of it."

"The worst of it?"

"The Rámaite Mahtar that was the most bloodthirsty, cruel, and vicious. The one inscribed into stone as barbaric and heinous. The one most feared. She was called (Y/N)."

Legolas stopped in his tracks, the words hitting him like that of an orc blow.

Gandalf still moved ahead, but the elf did not.

He stood, as still as a deer, trying to process the information.

It couldn't be so...It couldn't.

"Gandalf," Legolas called out weakly. "What–what would have happened if Sauron found her first?"

The wizard turned back to him, sending a warning look.

Legolas didn't need him to speak an answer. He knew what the wizard thought. He thought that they would soon find out. He thought that Sauron would take their winged warrior and she would instantly comply—that she would instantly kill them.

The elven Prince let his gaze drift to (Y/N), the most vicious of the Rámaite Mahtar. She was currently skipping with the hobbits, holding their hands and swinging their arms. Their laughter and giggles rippled through the air, drifting back to Legolas. Her blood-covered smile shown just as radiantly as her wings.

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