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#LOTR fic
essenceofarda · 2 days
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OF BLESSED THYME & THISTLE | Chapter 1 | Page 4
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Faramir’s cousin, Lothiriel, comes to Minas Tirith to become a companion of his new bride, Eowyn, something that he hopes will ease Eowyn’s rough transition into Gondorian Society. Eowyn, for her part, decides her new companion would in turn make the perfect bride for her brother, Eomer King of Rohan. Matchmaking shenanigans ensue 😏
Page 4! Hmm... face the witch king again? Or spend your days with Faramir's female relatives (on his father's side) who are non-too-pleased (and make their displeasure very known) with the fact that Faramir wedded one of those "uncouth fair-haired northerners" 🤔 the witch king would be a welcome reprieve from these ladies!!
Thank you to Konartiste (won't let me tag you for some reason?) for making this page happen by donating to my Ko-Fi 💗🥰
I feel kinda bad that this page is non dialogue, so I'll try to get the next page up by sometime this weekend if i can!
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gloomwitchwrites · 3 months
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Winter Gem
Thranduil x Female Elf Reader
Content & Warnings: soft!Thranduil, widowed!Thranduil, fluff, peril & rescue, mild hurt/comfort
Word Count: 1.8k
Seeking something precious for Thranduil, you're caught in a storm. When you don't return, he goes searching for you.
A/N: For @firelightinferno
ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // winter 2023 masterlist
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“The first snows have arrived.”
“It has come early.”
Thranduil inclines his head in acknowledgement. “Indeed.”
You stand beside Thranduil outside the main gates. Five guards stand nearby but there is no danger. A steady snowfall drifts down from the sky. The snowflakes are slightly gray in appearance, almost like ash on the wind. You frown down at a few of the flakes that land on your leather vambrace.
“You look ready for your hunt,” observes Thranduil, gesturing toward your attire with the tip of his head.
���Yes,” reply softly. “I plan on heading out for a bit.”
His eyebrows rise toward his hairline. “In this weather?”
You glance up from the vambrace and meet his blue eyes. Thranduil’s gaze is startling and sharp. Piercing. Intense. It cuts right down to your heart. His gaze always holds you hostage, wrapping you up in his essence. Most might find Thranduil intimidating, but you know better.
“Is my king telling me I cannot?” You’re teasing him, and Thranduil knows this. His smile is one of soft amusement.
“As long as you return to me. You are free to do as you wish.” Even though Thranduil’s tone is gentle, you understand the deeper meaning.
Thranduil lost his wife many years ago. Other than his son, Legolas, you are his comfort. He wants you to be free, to enjoy the pleasures of life, but he also wants you to be safe, to return to him at the end of every leaving.
Thranduil glances over his shoulder. The guards on duty discreetly glance away, staring off into the distance as if they’ve suddenly found something of great interest. Thranduil leans in and shifts his body to block their view of you. He is close enough that it might appear that the two of you are kissing, but he does not meet your lips.
In the end, Thranduil is private about affection. He does not like to share your tender moments together in front of others.
“Enjoy your hunt. I eagerly await your return.”
You give him a half-hearted, sarcastic bow that immediately puts a wide smile on his face. Thranduil watches you until you disappear into the trees. Perhaps he lingers longer than that, wondering if you will turn around and come back to him.
It is true. You are on a hunt, but not for what he or anyone else is likely expecting.
Over a week ago, Thranduil went out in the woods with some of the guards on patrol. It’s the first time he’s been out beyond the walls in some time. Many patrols that ventured into the northern regions reported back on a strangeness in the air, and the scent of evil. Thranduil decided to investigate.
While tracking, he lost something precious.
Around his neck on a chain, Thranduil kept a silver ring. Within the ring is a precious gem, a blue stone so pale it almost appears white like a burning star. The chain that held it snapped while he and the guards chased a group of spiders that had made their way south.
He remembered it snagging, and while he did not show any distress upon telling you of its disappearance, you also know how much that ring and jewel means to him. It was a gift from his wife when they were newly married. She had a matching one, but upon her death, Thranduil moved it from his finger to around his neck.
This hunt—your hunt—is about that ring. You have a fairly good idea about where it might have fallen, and there is no reason for it to have moved since then. Few enter these woods unless they follow the road, and that is on rare occasions.
Tracking is your specialty, and your time is not limited due to the falling snow. But you’ve tracked in worse weather. The snow is unfortunate, but you can still search as long as it remains at its current pace. The tree cover will keep much of the snow in the higher canopy. There will be time yet before the snow completely covers the ground and you lose the trail.
Heading north, you retrace the path the patrol took. Yes, a week has passed, and nature reclaims much, but not everything is hidden so quickly. There are small disturbances that indicate the path ahead.
As you begin to draw nearer to the area Thranduil mentioned, the snow starts to pick up. It becomes thicker, not staying above in the canopy but instead making its way to the ground. It’s not ideal, but you can manage.
Thranduil mentioned two tree trunks growing together and then breaking apart. When you happen upon it, the snow comes down in thicker sheets. On the ground, it’s sticking. Collecting. Time is running out. Elves have good eyes, and you focus in on the ground, gnarled roots, and underbrush.
Near the base of the tangled tree, you notice a slight sparkle. Approaching it, you go down on one knee, brushing away some of the snow.
“Found you.”
The ring is there, resting in the roots. It appears undamaged, and that is a relief. Picking it up, you tuck it into an inside pocket, protecting it from the elements.
The snow crunches under your boots, and the wind howls. For the first time, you shiver. Cold is not and has never been an issue. Elves can withstand a great many things, including winter weather.
Frowning, you turn into the chilly wind. There is a disturbance. Something dark and foul. It sets the edges of your nerves tingling. A simmering suspicion bubbles up from somewhere within you, question whether this snow is natural or not.
Turning on your heel, you head back the way you came. But the snow is heavy, and your fresh tracks are starting to slip away, returning to the snow. As you walk, the snowfall becomes a storm. The wind whips up, swirling the snow around until you cannot see more than a few feet in front of your face.
Your instincts were right. This storm is not natural. It is too early for it, and storms like these are rare in the Woodland Realm.
The toe of your boot catches in a downed tree branch and you slam face first into the snow. It’s freezing. Temperature isn’t usually a deterrent for the elves, but this is beyond cold. It’s as if you’ve been swallowed whole by a massive glacier.
You walk and walk, and you have no idea if you’ve gained any ground. There are no visible signs, and you’re not sure how far you’ve gone, or if you’re simply walking in circles. The snow is deepening or perhaps you’re imagining it. Everything seems darker, like the world is closing in.
You’re not dressed for this sort of weather.
And you’re tired. So tired. Your knees and thighs burn, and sitting down for some rest doesn’t seem so bad. It’s fine. You can take refugee within the deep roots of a tree. You can stay warm there until the snow dissipates. Then, you can return. Thranduil will understand.
As if opening for you, the roots of a nearby tree expand, showing safety from the storm. You slink into it, curling up into a ball.
You drift in the howling wind. There is a haze that sits on your eyelashes. Whether you dream or not is irrelevant. Numbness oozes into your limbs, and that only forces you to curl up tighter, wanting to pull away from the cold.
A hand touches the side of your head. It is warm. Gentle. The fingers slide up to brush your hair out of your face. You hear your name but it is a whisper. Distant. So far away it doesn’t seem real.
There are arms around you. Lifting. Steady. And when you inhale, the scent is familiar. You know who it is instantly.
“Thranduil,” you murmur, and the answer is a gentle squeeze of your hand.
“I found you, my star.”
There are only short moments of consciousness. There is snow. Cold. The antlers of an elk. The gates of home, and then warmth. So much warmth that the numbness begins to recede.
You are brought back to the living world near a roaring fire. Beneath you is a makeshift bed comprised of pillows and soft blankets. You shift, and feel bare skin against bare skin. Slowly, you push yourself to sitting.
Your leather gear is gone, replaced with a soft robe that traps in the heat.
“You’re awake.” Thranduil’s voice is a gentle, comforting hug.
Turning toward his voice, you watch as he glides across the floor. Thranduil wears silver robes of starlight. In his hands in a small tray. On it is a steaming cup of tea and an assortment of food. Bending at the knees, Thranduil settles in beside you, placing the tray down on the blankets.
“You came looking for me,” you say, and your voice nearly cracks with emotion.
“Did you think I would not?” he asks, arranging the food around on the tray.
You know, deep in your heart, that Thranduil would come, but you also believed in your abilities as a tracker. “When did you start to worry?”
Thranduil lifts the cup off the tray and presents it to you. “When the storm picked up. Something about it felt unnatural.” You take it, and bring the warm beverage to your lips. “I gathered some guards and we set out. It is good that we found you in time.” He pauses. “I’m not sure my heart could take any more loss.”
The heat of the tea spreads throughout your body, the chill slipping away quickly. “I do believe you are correct. That storm was not natural.”
Thranduil nods. “There is a growing darkness to the north. The scouts on patrol have spoken of it often but have been unable to get close enough for more details.”
“Perhaps I strayed too close,” you murmur.
“Perhaps,” replies Thranduil, reaching out to take your hand. He lifts it, and brings it into his lap. Using both hands, he rotates your wrist until your palm faces the ceiling. Then, he guides your open palm to his lips, placing a soft kiss in the middle of it.
Instant warmth shoots out from that spot, running down your arm and piercing your heart like an arrow. Slowly, he curls your fingers in, creating a loose fist, and then brushes his lips against your knuckles before pulling away.
He does not release your hand. “I know why you left.”
“Thranduil—”
“You did not need to explain. I understand why.” Thranduil reaches out and cups your cheek, turning your face toward him. “I am thankful that you found it, but you are also precious to me, and losing you is a far greater loss.”
You turn into his touch. “That ring is important to you.”
“Many things are important to me. But the ring is just that. A thing. You are breathing. You are here. I would like to keep it that way.”
Your eyes drift close and you revel in the warmth of his touch. “Are you mad?”
“Never.”
“Will you hold me?”
“For as long as you like.”
taglist:
@foxxy-126 @glassgulls @km-ffluv @sweetbutpsychobutsweet @singleteapot @firelightinferno @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @protosslady @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @ninman82 @therealbloom
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eternal-vambraces · 2 months
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Masterpost
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Aragorn has sent his Captain north with two missions: to make a strategic survey of the ruins along Lake Evendim, and to relax and enjoy himself at Pippin’s wedding.
Boromir has more trouble obeying one than the other.
Chapter 1: Dahlia
Chapter 2: Bluebell
Chapter 3: Rose & Jasmine
Chapter 4: Strawberry
Chapter 5: Rockrose
Epilogue: Forget-Me-Not
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Boromir/Original Female Character, Merry Brandybuck, Pippin Took, Samwise Gamgee, Diamond Took, Estella Bolger, Fatty Bolger, Elanor Gamgee, Aragorn, Faramir, Eowyn, Arwen, Elboron, character death fix, Boromir Lives, a Shire wedding, culture clashes
Rating: T+
Warnings: Adult humor/themes/language, alcohol and tobacco usage, mentions of PTSD and past traumatic events.
***DISCLAIMER: All depictions of OC Fern Whitfoot are of an adult hobbit. Any interactions suggesting otherwise will be blocked and/or reported if necessary.***
Status: Complete
Word Count: 35k
Notes:
Artwork: All artwork throughout this fic is mine, unless credit is otherwise given.
Fan art: On that note, if you draw art for this fic, I’ll reblog it and slot it into the story with credit, if you consent! Just tag me @eternal-vambraces, or message it to me directly.
Flora: The flower meanings in this story are pulled from Floriography by Jessica Roux, except where I took creative liberties or made things up (such as the meanings of bells of Ireland Tookbank, milkweed, and rockrose). Incidentally, this is a gorgeous book, perfect for any fans of the Victorian flower language.
Character depictions: There’s no rhyme or reason as to why some characters look more or less like their movie counterparts. I like to play with character designs, and these are the ones that settled in place for this fic. It’s nothing personal against any of the actors or their portrayals.
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entishramblings · 5 months
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Watcher of Wanderers [Legolas/F!Reader]
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A.N: this was intended just to be a mini one-shot to get back into writing. although, I will admit I got carried away. oops. heh.
Pairing: Legolas X F!Reader
Song Inspo: Mountain Meditation by Chantress Seba
🌬️ I highly recommend listening while reading
Summary: Legolas senses a presence following the fellowship on their journey and it seems to be particularly fond of him.
Disclaimer: all mythology related to the reader was made up for plot purposes lol. not canon.
Word count: 5.6k (once again, idk why I’m like this)
Warnings: comfort, fluff, loneliness, flirting, suggested sexual innuendos, stalking sort of (yes, again, I know. you’re just gonna have to read it I can’t explain it)
Additional Content: moodboard linked here
MASTERLIST | AO3 | WATTPAD
When you are nothing but a breeze that passes through the travelers’ bending hair. When you are nothing but a tickle that brushes upon the vagabonds’ breaking skin. When you are nothing but a whisper that hisses upon the wanders’ deaf ear. When you are nothing but alone, you too are a voyager.
That’s what (Y/N) was, wasn’t she?
She sailed through the years, watching every war and every battle. She observed every lover as she observed every enemy. She attended to them all, from their start and to their end. She perceived them hunt—first for food and drink, the simplest things, then for more. She witnessed them build—smaller creations in the beginning, then large structures that reached deep into her sky. She gazed at them as they grew, in mind and body. They began as little screaming balls of flesh, then sprouted into large beings that walked and talked. They produced more of themselves. They multiplied. Families, they had called it. She saw each one of them go by, twisting with desire as they did with age. Each was sneaking to find something—riches, power, hope, love, safety—but it didn’t really matter. She just bore witness. She bore witness to the happiness and to the dread. Yet, even when it was dark and desperate, she did nothing. She was silent—as she was meant to be.
Cursed to ride the winds for all of her immortal years.
Cursed to guide them and bend them.
Cursed to behold them.
Cursed to be them.
Alone.
A Watcher of Wanderers.
She was unescorted, unattended, and unchaperoned. She was unaccompanied as she wove through the desolate lands of Arda. Through the oceans, through the deserts, through the mountains, she bent and bellowed. But (Y/N) didn’t need anyone to accompany her, for she simply didn’t exist—at least not in the way one would think.
But after so long in solidarity, watching and observing, (Y/N) wondered what it would feel like to be more than what she was. She wondered what it was to taste and touch, to smell and see, to live and breath.
She thought how pain must feel. How did it bring red to the surface of their skin? How did it bring tears to their eyes? How did it bring screams to their throats?
Still, she wandered more.
She thought how laughter must feel. How did it bubble in their chests? How did it bring water to their faces? How did it bring glee from their mouths?
Still, she wandered more.
She thought about how love must feel. How did it soften their gazes? How did it bring drops upon their cheeks? How did it bring proclamations to their lips? How did it feel to welcome in another soul? Was it safe—not that she would know what safety felt like.
Still, she wandered more.
As each day passed and each traveler followed, she continued to question, guess, inquire.
Some of these creatures were more in tune with the natural currents of the word. It was the immortal beings, distinguished by the pointy ears that lent them an air of otherworldly grace and their lightning-quick reflexes. They were not just any immortals, but those whose lineages stretched back to ancestors who had walked among the Valar themselves. At times, (Y/N) entertained the fantasizing notion that they possessed the rare ability to hear her, though she recognized that this belief was nothing more than wishful thinking. As a watcher of wanderers, she liked these ones best.
Yet that did not mean that others did not catch her eye, for she was curious of anything unusual from the regular patterns of life. And when nine—born of various blood—walked together, her curiosity peaked.
So, she followed them.
One was a Maiar, but not like her. He shared the same celestial origin, shaped as one of the spirits meant to aid the Valar in their worldbuilding endeavors. However, his form differed greatly from hers—a form (Y/N) yearned for. She had seen him many times before, puffing his pipe. He had many names, but most knew him as Gandalf.
Two more figures accompanied him, mortal beings aging like the rolling seasons. Burling and tumbling they went, with their countless heavy weapons. One emanated kindness, his heart a wellspring of warmth. She had seen him before too. But the other, he was….troubled.
Another was one of the immortal, graceful, pointy-eared race—elves, she recalled. He was fluid and elegantant. He was observant and evaluating. He was tranquil yet vigorous. (Y/N) liked this one. She always had liked the elves.
From the mountainous regions of unyielding stone came another companion—a burly and gruff figure. His anger resonated in the sharpness of his words and the boastry of his laughter. (Y/N) could feel his temperament through the earth's vibrations. It wasn't always pleasant
Next, matched four more. They were stompers and stumblers, in a clumsy sort of way; yet, it was evident that they held no desire to ravage the earth. If anything, they seemed to harbor deep affection for it. The sad one broke her heart, the kind one warmed her soul, and the last two made her giggle….and sometimes she thought the elf could hear it.
See that was the thing.
Initially, her fascination led her to accompany them, drawn by their sheer otherness—such a strange assembly of beings walking in unison. But as she ventured alongside them, she felt connected to them. She got to know them, and one seemed to know her….sorta.
The first time she noticed such a thing was when a sound of joy escaped her being.
The two silly ones, which she found out to be named Merry and Pippin, were cracking jokes at one another and performing a game of riddles. As they did so, they ended up breaking into an argument. The most ridiculous words they called each other: mushroom murderer, squash squisher, beet beater…..
She couldn’t help but release a whisper of amusement, and when she did, the elf—Legolas—abruptly halted. His eyes brimmed with uncertainty, and he swiveled his head, as though searching for someone.
But he couldn’t….
No…
He couldn’t have heard her….could he?
Of course, occasionally, all could hear her. In moments of anger, she would unleash her fury with deafening howls and piercing screams, causing gusts to bellow and trees to tremble. Her yell created a hollow sound as it funneled through the rest of the world—echoing upon mountains, bouncing off houses, riding along hills, drifting through the farmer’s mills. It took much frustration to create such a ruckus of vibrations. However, just a faint breath of joy? There was no way the elf could hear that….right?
…..
The second time that a strange encounter occurred was when the group stopped by a deep river. Legolas had wandered a little way away from the group where the trees were denser and the light was less, and oh of course (Y/N) followed.
There, the elf stripped off his clothing, letting the moonlight bend and dip upon his muscled form. The cool night air played gently against his bare skin as he ventured into the water, welcoming the invigorating sensation. With his hands, he meticulously scrubbed away any lingering grime, running his palms across his arms and fingers through his damp hair until no trace of dirt remained.
Gently, he laid upon his back, floating at the surface of the smooth river.
(Y/N) watched as he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply and repeatedly. Meditation, she recalled the elvish creatures of the world calling it.
Eager to draw nearer, (Y/N) gracefully glided closer, brushing ever so lightly upon the surface of the ripples. She circled him, her gaze drinking in every detail of his form slightly obstructed by the water—his elegant facial features, his sleek hair, his sculpted biceps, his toned abs, the sharp v-line of his lower abdomen, and, she couldn't help but notice his rather large…
A soft giggle escaped her lips, her warm breath brushing against his cheek.
Instantly, Legolas sprang upright, his feet finding a place upon the rocks beneath the now turbulent ripples. He swiftly pivoted, calling out, “Who’s there?!”
(Y/N) was still, shock and uncertainty shrouding her.
Legolas' cerulean eyes darted anxiously from side to side, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He moved with haste, continually spinning around in search of…..something.
“You…you can hear me?” (Y/N) whispered.
He did not respond and his state did not change. There was not an ounce of any recognition across his features.
…..
The third time that Legolas was startled by the curious enigma that appeared to be haunting him was when the fellowship had set up camp for the night.
Gandalf and Legolas were on watch, their attentive gazes shifting from the crackling fire to the perimeters of their camp. Mithanduil contentedly puffed on his pipe, releasing wisps of smoke that ascended into the night sky. Legolas was methodically sharpening the tips of his arrows, preparing for the inevitable fight. The ambiance was strangely peaceful, with the imminent dangers appearing to be held at bay, at least for the moment, even in the face of the dread.
However, this serene atmosphere suffered a sudden intrusion, initiated by (Y/N)'s ever-present curiosity.
She loved watching the creatures of Arda. It was her favorite pastime over the eons. Well, her only pastime. After all, she was a watcher of wanderers. For, as her shapeless form, there was nothing more she could do with her existence.
Therefore, when the elf began to draw whetstone upon the tops of his arrows, (Y/N) wanted to observe. She crept closer to him, becoming entranced by the rhythmic and tranquil nature of his movements. Drawn into the spectacle, she leaned in further and further until, unintentionally, she brushed lightly against his form.
His hand instinctively reached for his shoulder as his wide cerulean blues initiated their frequent and fervent scanning of the dim surroundings—a routine that seemed to be occurring with increasing regularity nowadays.
Gandalf’s gray eyes drifted upon the elf curiously, his bushy brows lifting in questions.
“I swore…” Legolas began, still peering about the campsite. “I swore I felt…something.”
The wizard’s inquiring gaze only deepened, imploring the elf to add more to his rather empty statement.
Noticing Gandalf's unspoken request for more information, Legolas continued, "My apologies, Mithranduil. Lately, I've been sensing a presence. Yet, when I search for it, I'm met with nothing but emptiness and confusion."
Gandalf huffed before pressing his lips to his pipe again, his gaze drifting away in a dismissal of danger. “It is probably just (Y/N).”
“(Y/N)?” He questioned, still puzzled.
Gandalf glanced at Legolas, and with a nonchalant hum, he spoke again. “The spirit of the wind. A Maiar with a form that knows no shape.” He rolled his eyes as he gruffed out an additional mumbling sentence. “She has a particular fondness for elves.”
Legolas, still flushed with adrenaline, only stared at him. “I—I do not understand.”
The wizard’s gray gaze drifted back to the elf, who was clearly seeking answers. “(Y/N) is one of the Maiar, tasked many ages ago by Manwë to help shape Arda. She still lingers in this realm, often stirring up her usual mischief as she follows wanderers on their adventures."
Legolas frowned. “If she wanders this earth, why can I see her not?”
Gandalf drew another puff from his pipe before responding, "She was cursed to be without form, unlike myself."
“Cursed? But why?”
The wizard raised his bushy brows once more. “Her mischief irked many—especially Manwë.”
“What sorts of mischief do you speak of?”
Gandalf shrugged. “Inconsequential pranks and harmless tricks. Quite frankly, an annoyance to us all, but not dangerous.”
At that very moment, a gust of wind swept in rather forcefully, causing the wizard's beard to billow and lifting his hat into the air, sending it spiraling down to land by his feet.
Legolas's lips parted in surprise as the wind subsided, and Gandalf let out a string of curses and grumbles.
"I believe you might have offended her," Legolas remarked, amusement dancing in his eyes.
The wizard snorted, his irritation obvious, as he picked his hat up and placed it atop his head once more.
….
As the weeks continued on, Legolas took notice of (Y/N)’s subtle presence.
It seemed she was indeed traveling with them. On scorching hot days, a refreshing breeze would rise and caress them gently, offering some much-needed relief. As the autumn months settled in, that coolness transformed into a warm breath flowing through the air, comforting them. When they kindled fires, little gusts rushed forward, providing oxygen and nurturing the flames. If an item of clothing or a parcel were dropped, it would be delicately carried toward a hand ready to collect. It was as if the wind—(Y/N)—was assisting them along their quest.
It was particularly noticeable to Legolas that she often lingered in close proximity to him. Her presence seemed to envelop him frequently, becoming unmistakable and distinct.
When Legolas would be tasked to collect firewood, a gentle breeze would follow him. It would brush leaves out of the way to reveal dry wood and small sticks, perfect for kindling. The wind murmured songs among the soil, almost as if it were beckoning him to dance.
When Legolas would be hunting for food, a calm drift would search alongside him. It would twist through the brush, startling small prey to reveal them to him. The wind breathed wordless encouragement to him, as if challenging him to impress her.
When Legolas would be walking upon hard terrain, a playful gust would walk with him. It would blow his hair away from his face to reveal his features. The wind sent flirtatious laughter upon his elvish ear, chasing shivers along his nerves.
When Legolas would be changing out of mud or blood covered clothes, a devious wisk would linger behind him. It would push his tunic and undershirt upwards to reveal his muscled form then make his extra clothing scatter. The wind whispered sultry glee to him, teasing him in efforts to show more.
This mischievous presence that shrouded him seemed to flirt with him—challenge, play, and engage. Of course, Legolas recalled Gandalf's earlier assertion that the wind spirit held a particular fondness for elves, but the true depth of this fondness had only become apparent as her companionship persisted. He couldn't deny that their ongoing interaction held a certain allure, for he would be lying if he said their little game did not entertain him.
When the fellowship was in Moria, however, silence reigned. The usual gusts and breezes that had accompanied them were absent. It was as if the very air mourned with them. Yet, as soon as they exited, with grief heavy upon their soul, a quick adrenalized wind came to find them. It seemed to brush around the rocks, taking in the pain of the travelers and trying to process what it meant. Though, as the wind noticed one was no longer there, she took to sending warmth their way in hopes to soften the sorrow—shrouding Legolas for just a moment longer than the others.
When the fellowship was in Lothlorien, (Y/N) came too. Rustling up trouble among the elves with flirtatious gusts, lifting skirts and sweeping away cloaks, fostering much annoyance and embarrassment among the immortal elven folk. However, those brushes of wind often struck Legolas more than any other.
When the fellowship—or rather the three that remained—took to sprinting across Arda, the wind ran alongside them. It pushed them forward with encouragement, almost too eagerly and too persistent. It was as if she was whispering ‘hurry hurry’ in their ears—as if she possessed knowledge they did not. Though Legolas suspected neither Gimli nor Aragorn noticed the subtle guidance of the wind.
A watcher of wanderers indeed.
As the group arrived in Rohan, their hearts brimmed with renewed hope, for they had gained the knowledge of Merry and Pippin’s life and the presence of Gandalf.
Following Mithranduil's expulsion of the sorcery that had ensnared King Théoden, the weary travelers were ushered to various chambers where they could refresh themselves and find much-needed rest.
Legolas opted to bathe immediately, determined to liberate himself from the accumulated dirt and grime that had clung to his body through the arduous months of travel. He eased into the in-ground basin, the soothing warmth and enveloping steam creating a cocoon of comfort. He tended to his skin and hair with meticulous care until he finally felt rejuvenated. Elves did not like to linger in grime.
Emerging from the bath, he stepped into the adjacent bedroom, where his gaze was drawn to the open windows, allowing the cool breeze to waft in. The wind seemed to recognize him instantly, rushing forth with an almost mischievous enthusiasm. It nearly yanked his towel from his waist! It was only through his quick reflexes that he narrowly avoided a less than modest reveal.
Legolas ground his teeth. “(Y/N),” he mumbled in a chastising tone.
In response, the wind seemed to giggle, as if playfully toying with him.
He rewrapped the towel and hastened to close the windows, yearning for a night of undisturbed peace. Normally, he would tolerate (Y/N)'s whimsical outbursts, but on this night, his weary body and mind craved respite and tranquility.
Legolas changed into more comfortable attire and settled into his bed. He allowed his heavy eyelids to drift shut, for he craved sleep. But after a brief moment, they snapped open.
He watched as the curtains shifted ever so slightly, followed by the tapestry on the wall and the drapes above his bed. The blanket beside him rustled gently, and then, there was no movement in the room.
She hadn't left when he closed the windows.
She was still here.
Though he couldn't see her, he was acutely aware of her presence…right beside him.
The elf couldn't help but blush, a warm crimson hue creeping up upon his ears and cheeks. Oh, if his Ada knew he was flirting with the wind….
In an effort to divert his thoughts from such matters and avoid giving (Y/N) any indication that he was dwelling on them, the elf shifted onto his side, turning away from the playful Spirit whose home was the sky.
…..
Legolas took notice of (Y/N)’s presence among the battles at Helms Deep and the Fields of Pelennor; although it wasn't until the latter that he knew for sure she was actively fighting alongside him.
Amidst the relentless chaos, the elf wielded his two silver blades, using them with deadly precision to cut the throat of one orc and immediately behead another. He swiftly pressed on, eliminating as many of the enemy forces as he could.
The men around him were growing weary, their energy dwindling, but Legolas continued to stand firm, even though he too felt the drain on his strength.It seemed the dark forces had taken notice of the relentless devastation he was causing among their ranks, as they began to single him out. Hordes of orcs began converging on him, and Sauron's archers took aim. However, the arrows meant for him didn't find their mark. They veered off course, curving with an unexpected gust of wind, plunging directly into three orcs nearby.
Legolas whipped his head around in astonishment, but it took only a moment for him to grasp the source of this unexpected intervention: (Y/N).
As he continued to take down orc after orc, she remained by his side, using her ethereal presence to force the creatures back into one another, granting Legolas a distinct advantage and a brief moment to catch his breath. She deflected arrows aimed at him and extended her helping hand when he faced the Oliphaunt. She even lifted him up with a gentle drift when his footing faltered. (Y/N) followed Legolas throughout the battlefield, her commitment unwavering, even after the war had drawn to a close.
Exhausted and burdened by grief and relief, the mortal, battle-weary soldiers sought solace and took to rest, heal, and eat.
Legolas volunteered to wander the battlefield in search of any survivors.
He tread carefully, his feet moving softly over the blood-soaked and red-stained earth. The ground seemed to bear witness to the agony, uncertainty, and hope that had marked their strenuous journey. Legolas had never anticipated surviving the trials that had befallen him, yet here he stood, alive and persevering against all odds.
With a heavy heart and the absence of survivors to be found, Legolas, fatigued and drained, decided to make his way back to his comrades who were attending to the wounded and offering peace to those in need.
In a sudden fierce gust of wind, Legolas found himself surrounded by an unexpected swirl. Swiftly, he whirled around, his keen elven senses alert, just in time to witness an orc raising an axe menacingly above his head, poised to strike.
However, Legolas was not met with such a gruesome fate. The wind seemed to rise against the approaching beast, as though an invisible force hindered its advance. However, that force began to no longer be invisible. A strange, translucent figure began to materialize into the opaque form of a woman. She stood, her back pressed against his chest and her front pushing firmly against the would-be assailant. With her arms raised high, she held the axe at bay, preventing the deadly blow from falling upon the elf.
Legolas' lips parted in astonishment, his eyes widening as he struggled to comprehend the event unfolding before him. But everything transpired too swiftly for him to intervene. The figure solidified, to the point that he could feel her against him, and the axe came down at an unusual angle, slicing into the woman's side.
A cry escaped her throat, and she collapsed to the ground, her pain echoing through the air.
Suddenly thrust back into the harsh reality of battle, Legolas swiftly grasped the knife strapped to his belt. In one fluid motion, he drove the blade into the orc's heart. The creature gurgled for a moment, blood pooling from its mouth, before finally collapsing lifeless.
Without hesitation, Legolas fell to the unconscious woman crumpled at his feet. His heart clenched with dread as he noticed the crimson stains spreading across the delicate, iridescent fabric that cloaked his form.
"No, no, no," he murmured, his hands pressing against the wound in a frantic attempt to stop the bleeding. Panic tinged his voice as he glanced at her face, his voice rising in desperation, " (Y/N), you foolish Maiar. Why did you intervene? Why did you put yourself in harm's way?" His bloodied hand gently cupped her cheek. "Wake up. Come on, wake up!"
She remained unresponsive.
Swiftly, Legolas gathered her into his arms, keeping one hand pressed against the bleeding wound, and hurried towards the makeshift infirmary.
Pushing the doors open, he called out in a voice laced with fear, "Aragorn!"
Immediately, the urgent tone drew the attention of those nearby, even in the midst of the ongoing chaos of the healing ward. The Ranger, alerted by the distress in his friend's voice, swiftly moved past the curious onlookers, with Gimli at his side and Gandalf following not too far behind.
“A-an ax to the side. She’s bleeding heavily,” he sputtered out. “Please.”
Pointing to a makeshift bed, Aragorn commanded. ‘Get her on that cot! Quickly now.”
Gimili, entirely bewildered by the unfolding events and his friend’s frantic behavior, called out, “Laddie, who is that?!”
Legolas, gently placing her form on the cot, didn't even bother to look at his dwarf companion as he replied. “(Y/N).”
The dwarf shook his head and raised his hands in confusion. “Who the fuck is (Y/N)?!”
The elf sent Gimli a quick, almost exasperated glance. "The wind!" he snapped back, a bit too sharply.
Gimli’s eyes drifted around the room, his confusion turning into concern for his friend’s well being. “The wind?” he questioned. “Did ya happen to get knocked in the head, tree boy?”
It was Gandalf that chimed in. “(Y/N), a Maiar, the spirit of the wind. She has been with us throughout our journey.”
Aragorn shot the wizard a brief look as he swiftly cut away the mysterious, translucent fabric cloaking the woman and began tending to the deep, bleeding wound.
“With us the entire time?!” Gimli bellowed. “Then why haven't I seen her once?"
Gandalf peered over Aragorn’s shoulder. “She doesn't have a corporal form. At least, she didn’t. I’m afraid this is the first time any of us are seeing her.”
Legolas ran his bloodied hands through his hair, his fingers trembling with anxiety as he stepped back. His chest felt constricted with worry while his eyes remained fixated on the woman as Aragorn worked. “Can you do it, Aragorn? Can you save her?” he implored, his voice quivering with a mixture of desperation and hope.
The man met Legolas' gaze. His determination to save her was unwavering, even in the face of this strange reveal of a profound connection between a force he didn't know existed and his dear friend. Seeing Legolas’ pain, he responded firmly, "I will try."
Gimli, moving to stand beside the wizard, watched the scene with a mixture of concern and curiosity. He couldn't help but murmur, "I've never seen him so frazzled before." His words were filled with a deep sense of empathy for his elven friend, for this had clearly shaken Legolas to his core.
Gandalf let his gaze shift from the elf to Gimli, offering the dwarf a knowing look in response.
The watcher of wanderers had now become a wonder to the wanderers themselves.
……
Legolas sat in a chair beside (Y/N). He was quiet and still as he watched her chest rise and fall steadily. Aragorn had successfully treated her wound, preventing infection, though she remained unconscious. She rested soundlessly, her expression peaceful—despite Legolas’ bloody handprint, now brown, dried, and cracking, that lingered upon her cheek. Her features were graceful and elegant. Each curve and bend of her face accentuated her beauty. He wasn't sure what he had expected her to look like, though how she appeared made sense with her temperament. He could see her flirtatious streak, her mischievous tone, and her protective aurora. She was exactly what wind would be: strong yet gentle, fierce yet calm, emotional yet stern.
He watched over her, just as she had watched over him. So intently, that he didn't notice one behind him until a hand pressed firmly upon his shoulder.
"Legolas," Aragorn began, his expression filled with gentle concern as he inquired, "How do you know this woman?"
Legolas sighed, keeping his gaze on her. "She has been traveling with us," he explained.
The sound of wood scraping against stone told the elf that the Ranger pulled a nearby chair over to sit next to him.
“So Gandalf said. Though I do not understand,” Aragorn admitted.
Legolas shifted. “I started to notice strange occurrences—unexplained events.”
Aragorn raised a brow, “Strange occurrences?”
Legolas felt his cheeks heat as he cleared his throat. “Yes, yes, but more importantly, I noticed something helping us. Consistently.” He paused, “I asked Mithranduil about it and he told me of her.” He shook his head. “He said she was cursed to watch us—us inhabitants of Arda—and not be able to walk among us.”
“Then how is she here now before us, like this.”
Legolas glanced at his hands, a hint of nervousness in his expression. “I asked Mithranduil that too,” he admitted. “He said her sacrifice must have ended her limbo.” He then let his eyes land on his friend and he spoke once more, his tone almost fearful and definitely shy—something Aragorn had never seen from the elf. “If she doesn't survive, because of me, will Arda have wind no longer? I haven't felt a single breeze since she fell.”
Aragorn sighed. “I do not know, my friend. I do not know.” He reached forward and placed his hand upon his shoulder. “Please go clean up and rest. You are no good to her like this. I will take care of her, I promise.”
Legolas hesitated, “But what if she wakes?”
The Ranger sighed again, “If she wakes, I will send someone to—”
He was interrupted by a soft groan escaping from the lips of the Wind Spirit.
Instantly, both Legolas and Aragorn turned to look at the woman.
Her eyelids lazily blinked open, and she gradually became aware of her surroundings. A frown creased her face as she emitted another groan. Her hand moved slowly, making its way down to her bandaged side.
"What... what is this feeling?" she murmured to herself, puzzled by the sensations.
To her astonishment, Legolas responded, “Pain.”
She scrambled to sit upright in bed, the pain surging through her body but the sheer force of adrenaline propelled her actions. “You–you can hear me?” she whispered, eyes wide.
Legolas moved closer, taking a seat on the edge of the cot. In a gentle tone, he answered, "I can hear you. I can see you." He tenderly raised his hand to her cheek, resting it on the dried bloody mark already there. "And I can feel you."
A hushed gasp escaped her lips as she reached up to touch his hand. "It's... it's warm," she remarked, her voice filled with surprise. "I didn't expect it to be warm."
The elf smiled gently in response.
A mischievous smirk then graced her lips, and her gaze, rather unmistakably, wandered down his figure and briefly settled upon his pants. “Is everything this warm?” she inquired with a teasing tone.
Taken aback by her words and her brazen gaze, he cleared his throat. A noticeable flush crept across his cheeks and ears as he broke eye contact. With that, Legolas turned to face Aragorn, who stood behind him with raised eyebrows and a playful grin forming at the corner of his mouth. “My apologies, Aragorn.” He glanced back at the Wind Spirit. “(Y/N), this is—”
She interrupted him, her eyes on the other man. “I know who he is,” she said with confidence. “Aragorn, son of Arathorn the second, also called Strider or Wingfoot, Chieftain of the Dúnedain, and the Uncrowned King of Gondor.”
The expressions on both men's faces contorted, morphing to sheer astonishment—how did she know all that?
(Y/N) grinned sheepishly. "I am the wind," she confessed. "I see and hear a great deal."
…..
The Minas Tirith Castle was cloaked in the deep shroud of a late moonlit night as Legolas walked through its ancient halls. The soft flickering of torchlight painted wavering shadows on the weathered stone walls, lending an atmosphere that resonated with the weight of its history. His footsteps were silent as he moved, and his thoughts followed suit, meandering through the corridors of his mind.
However, up ahead, a figure bathed in a gentle glow caused Legolas to abruptly halt in his tracks, his thoughts instantly converging on the woman.
“(Y/N),” he called out, approaching her. “What are you doing away from the House of Healing? You shouldn't be out of bed. You should be resting!”
She let out an exasperated sigh, not appreciating his chastising tone. "I am a watcher of wanderers, Legolas. Therefore, I too am a voyager. It is not in my nature to stay still."
Legolas released a heated breath through his nose. “That may be true, but you now have a corporal form. No longer are you just a breeze.”
She rolled her eyes, shifting her feet to hide the persistent pain emanating from her side. “I may not be a breeze any longer, but I still control all the winds of Arda. I could knock you on your ass in seconds, injured or not.”
Legolas chuckled lightly. “I never would have gotten involved with the wind if I knew she was so temperamental,” he teased.
(Y/N), suppressing a grin, responded with a snarky retort. “Oh, so we are involved, are we?”
The elf sent her a look, trying to hide his expression of amusement. “I would be naive to think that all the times the wind flirted with me, it was just a ploy.”
“Maybe I enjoy a ploy from century to century, Legolas,” she replied.
He laughed lightly at her jest, then took a step closer, his demeanor shifting to one of seriousness. Gently, he pressed his hand to her bandaged side. “(Y/N),” he began softly. “Why did you do it? Why did you get in between that orc and I?”
She looked up at him, her eyes gleaming with sincerity. “You know why.”
“Say it,” he commanded.
“Because,” she began, her tone becoming shy and soft. “Because, I—I love you.”
Instantly, Legolas wrapped his arm around her back, pulling her close to him. He pressed his lips fervently against hers. As their mouths met with equal intensity, he tasted the essence of the wind. And oh, it tasted of adventure, suffering, and joy. It tasted of warm bread from the north, bitter nuts from the east, clear water from the south, and fresh fruit from the west. It tasted of eons and eons of wandering, yet still, she tasted of home. Her hands found their way into his golden locks of hair, twisting and tugging it lightly. He allowed her to siphon off his heat, for the wind was often cold and bellowing. Though, he could tell she was taking more than just his warmth—she was taking his love; and oh, he gladly gave it to her.
…..
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1K notes · View notes
frodothefair · 7 months
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Husband: I kind of want to write a short story about a person tends one of the more… rural beacons of Gondor.
Me: You should do it! Because it’s remote, you can make your protagonist as unhinged as you like.
Him: Okay. I’ll think about it.
Me: If I get 100 notes on a post on tumblr about this will you do it?
Him: …………..
…………
Ok, fine.
445 notes · View notes
minaturefics · 9 months
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Though I Know My Heart Would Break
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Request: For the poll that Legolas won! You guys sent in a few prompts, I've incorporated: sick (injured, rather) fic, hurt/comfort, everyone lives, and reader confesses first! Hope you guys like it! (Title is from Hozier's Francesca that has me in a chokehold)
Legolas x Reader
Gender-neutral reader
Content warnings: Mild injury (no overly graphic descriptions)
3.7k words
---
You walked through the forest, ducking under the cedar branches, weaving between the cypresses. The air was rich with the scent of herbs — thyme and sage, marjoram and parsley. The late afternoon sun filtered in through the canopy, specking the forest floor with light. Legolas’ footsteps were silent on the soft ground, but the steady clopping of the horse he was leading reassured you of his presence.
With the coronation over, and Eowyn and Faramir wed, attention was turned to restoring Minas Tirith and setting up a settlement at Emyn Arnen. You and Legolas were tasked with surveying the land and forests around Emyn Arnen. Sam was curious about the plants, hearing how new and different they were to those back in The Shire, but Frodo’s reluctance to stray further than the Citadel kept him in Minas Tirith. 
You paused by a cluster of pink rockfoils, thumbing the thin stems before plucking a few small flowers and tucking them into a waxed pouch. 
“Mellon nin,” Legolas said, sounding half-amused, half-exasperated, “Why do you pause and pluck? You have been doing so since we arrived. ”
“They’re for Sam. He might have agreed to stay in Minas Tirith, but I saw the shade of disappointment in his eyes. I thought perhaps I could bring the forest to him instead.”
His lips tugged up at the corners. “And what will you give the forest in return?”
“What do you mean?” You frowned and stood. 
He smiled, soft and knowing, eyes wandering over the barks and branches. “These trees have been left at peace for many years, the bushes and shrubs untouched. They are not used to wandering fingers and restless feet.”
You glanced down at the patch of rockfoils, the decapitated stems looking more brutal in light of Legolas’ words. Your lips twisted and he chuckled, and your eyes drifted back to him.
He had always been so full of light and laughter, even during the endless days and dark nights, even after Gandalf fell, even after the hobbits were taken. Ethereal, that was what people said of the elves. Otherworldly. 
But he looked so human, so normal, standing in a patch of sunlight, laughing at the concerned expression on your face. There were smudges of dirt on his boots, dew dotting the bottom hem of his cloak, and even a small leaf lodged in his hair. 
Yes, Legolas has always just been Legolas to you. 
Perhaps that was why it had been so easy to lose your heart to him. How could you not? While the others regarded him with a deference, or awe in the hobbits’ case, or even confusion at his elf customs, he had never truly seemed so different to you. His eyes, brown and alive in the light, still crinkled at the corners when he smiled. His voice, low and melodious, still cracked when he spoke of sorrows. And his hands, delicate and strong, still bore soft calluses from his bow. 
The last couple of days had been so indulgently wonderful. Without the threat of war or the constant need for secrecy and vigilance, being out in the wilds once more was soothing. It was a great secret joy, of course, that you had Legolas’ undivided attention. 
He had been more loose limbed and free with touches. Hands grazing yours as you walked, his knee against yours while you sat. His eyes too, seemed to melt into an amber by the fire, a tenderness in his gaze. It felt as though the seed of friendship had slowly, slowly, started to grow into something more. 
“Shall we continue on?” He said, and inclined his head towards the distant sound of water. “We can set up camp and leave our things while we walk the forest.”
You nodded and smiled before looking away, eyes scanning the forest floor before they landed on a patch of flowers. They were strange looking, three pronged with large paper-like petals. You knelt by them, carefully cutting the blooms with your knife, and idly said, “It is beautiful here, is it not?”
He hummed in agreement. “I could envisage residing here for a time, should Faramir allow it.”
You glanced at him over your shoulder and chuckled. “You should speak to Sam. Aragorn has already consulted him on some of the gardens in the Citadel, it would not surprise me if Faramir would ask him to Emyn Arnen to design something.”
“Those flowers,” he began, stepping closer and inspecting them, “they are… strange. I do not know what they are, and perhaps it would be better to leave them be.”
“Are they poisonous?”
He leaned in and sniffed them. “No, but as I said before, this forest is unaccustomed to such things. Gifts must be freely given, and what is not must be a fair exchange.”
You dropped them into the pouch and laughed, continuing through the forest. There was a strange note in his voice, something older, wiser, than the Legolas you knew. But what harm could there be in a few cuttings? The forest was vast; a few flowers and leaves here and there would not be any loss at all. “Come now, Legolas, you speak as though —”
A stone caught your toe, your knee buckled, and you fell to the ground. Sharp pain jolted up your wrists and knees, then a hot stinging spread across your palms and shins. You blinked, eyes focusing and unfocusing on the rotting leaves in the dirt, before warm hands rested between your shoulder blades.
“Are you alright?” Legolas said, crouching and easing you back into a sitting position. You stared at him, eyes drifting from his eyes to his lips. Had he always had such beautiful lips? “Mellon nin, are you alright?”
“Yes… I —” The shock of tingling subsided from your hands and legs and only a dull throbbing remained. You looked down at your knee, the same knee that had been shot, and found your trousers ripped and the old wound reopened. It was not as bad as the initial wound, though still relatively deep, and was bleeding sluggishly through the matted dirt. “Oh, I’m… bleeding.”
His eyes darted from your knee to the divot in the ground where a leaf caught in your fall was stained with blood. His lips tightened before he let out a soft sigh. “It is as I said: a fair exchange.” An easy smile spread across his face, the hand on your shoulder loosened its grip, and his voice took on a merry lilt. “However, I do not believe we will have any more trouble on our little trip here.”
The shock of the fall had subsided and you looked at the pouch still clutched in your fist. “Well, I suppose I should make the most of it then, and collect what I can for Sam.”
He laughed, squeezing your shoulder affectionately. “Never one to pass up an opportunity. Come, let us set up camp by the river and have a look at your wound. I do not wish for the matrons at the Houses of Healing tomorrow to claim I have neglected you.”
He pulled you to your feet, and looped an arm around your waist to help you hobble along. His arm was warm, his grip firm but gentle. Pressed up against him you could smell his scent, something fresh like grass or water, unsullied even by a couple of days in the forest. The both of you found a suitable spot under shelter by the trees, and after tying the horse up, he led you to the banks. 
His nimble fingers pried apart the shredded remains of the fabric by your knee and started to wash the wound. He dressed it with some honey from his pack and untouched moss from the forest floor and some spare wrappings you had in your supplies for such an eventuality. 
While he worked, you watched his hands. Long and lithe, they were precise and delicate with their motions. If only you could reach out, and lay your hand on top of his, to sweep your thumb over the back of his knuckles. But your hands were still muddied, and the new closeness you shared with him was too new and too tenuous for something like that. 
Legolas set up camp with a practiced efficiency, and soon the both of you were sitting beside each other by the fire, eating your supplies of bread and cheese. The fire crackled and popped, and around you the forest became alive at night. Owls hooted in the trees, and critters rustled in the bushes, and then, very softly, Legolas began to sing. 
The words were lost on you, but the melody was enough. The notes drifted in the air, curling around you, seeping into your skin. It sounded slow and adoring, leisurely and lazy, and the sensation of lying on sun-warmed grass, your lover’s touch skirting up your arm, filled your body. You leaned back on your arms, sinking into his voice, letting it carry and caress you. 
When the last few words rang in the air, you opened your eyes. Legolas was looking at you with a fond expression, eyes half-lidded and lips in a soft smile. 
“That song,” you whispered, “what is it about?”
His smile widened and he said, “I’ll tell you another time perhaps.”
-
Legolas stood on one of the parapets that overlooked the entrance to the Houses of Healing. Your wound was not healing as well as it should, most likely because of how bad the initial arrow wound was, and you were getting it redressed by the matrons. He sighed and let his eyes wander from the stone flagstones, to the rooftops, to the plains. In truth, the sight of your flesh, angry and inflamed, shook something in him. Even something as minor as your wound, was enough of a risk for infection, for fever. 
Humans were so fragile, so… final. 
He blinked at the thought. Yes, of course, how could he forget? Humans were mortal. Boromir was, Aragorn was. Even the merry little hobbits and Gimli were. How strange to think that such a thing slipped his mind when it came to you, but it was far too easy really. 
There was a vitality that seemed to pour from your being, an almost stubborn resilience, especially in the grim shadow of misfortune. It was the way you would play with the hobbits, even after a long day of walking, or grit your teeth and carry on, even harrowing experience after harrowing experience. When you smiled, the day was better, brighter, and he always found himself trying to get another laugh from you. 
And yet… such a light could be so easily snuffed out. 
He shifted on his feet and watched as you limped from the Houses of Healing. He had intended to go with you, but Sam had wanted to discuss garden plans, and Boromir had gone with you instead. He was about to raise his arm and call out to you, when a figure emerged from behind the line of trees. Boromir walked towards you with outstretched arms and pulled you into his side and helped you along, vanishing from his sight beyond the trees.
Ever since the end of the war, it had felt as though things were shifting between him and you. It was only small, nearly imperceptible changes — softer smiles, more frequent dinners alone, hands that reached and fingers that brushed. And yet… Why did it feel as though you were on the other side of something he could not cross? 
He thought of the cry of the gulls, the perpetual tugging at his heart for the sea. Oh, how he wished he had never heard them. Was this how Arwen felt all the time? Longing, aching. She was happy with Aragron, he knew, but sometimes he would catch her gazing out of a window, eyes forlorn and smile sad. Aragorn knew, understood even, and in those moments he left her to her quiet longing, never hurt or bothered, and welcomed her into his arms when she went back to him. 
But would you understand? Could you accept that there would always be one part of him that belonged to the sea, to the distant shore he would never reach? Or would it be a burden to ask such a thing of you? Maybe you would be better off with someone… mortal. He sighed and wandered back towards the Citadel proper. 
“Boromir, this is unnecessary. Put me down!” Your laughter rang out and you and Boromir emerged onto the courtyard. You were in his arms, limbs flailing as he wrangled to keep you held properly. “Boromir, I — oh, Legolas.”
“Ah, Legolas,” Boromir said as he gently replaced you back on the ground. “I return them to your care.”
He forced a smile onto his face. “How is your leg?”
“Mild infection but nothing to worry about,” you said, hobbling over to him. 
He instinctively reached out and wrapped an arm around your waist. You were warm underneath his hand, warmer than usual, and you smelled strongly of herbal poultice. He could detect traces of burdock and comfrey, and underneath it all, the smell of you. He took a greedy breath, filling his lungs with proof of your life. “You should be resting. Let us go back inside.”
“I’ve been inside the past week. I’m bored to death,” you grumbled. “Let’s sit outside for a while.”
He helped you to one of the stone benches and you collapsed onto it, hissing in pain. You gingerly stretched your leg out and sighed as you settled. He sat next to you, his eyes lingering on your knee. 
“Oh, stop fussing. It’s quite minor, really.”
“I have seen men succumb to infection from unassuming cuts. I do not think I will rest easy until you are fully healed.”
He followed the line of your leg up to your waist, then shoulders, and along your jaw and lips, up to your nose and eyes. Such beauty, destined to fade, to vanish from the world forever. How could he bear it? How could anyone?
“What is on your mind, my friend?” You asked.
“I was just thinking about the fading nature of men. I do not know how your kind bear it.”
“Death?” You chuckled. “But elves can die too, can they not?”
“Yes, but… it is not in our nature. In peace times, it is very rare for our kind to die. For men… even now, where there is no suffering any longer, you still experience the sting of mortality.” His chest constricted. “How can one stand to behold love and light, knowing it will vanish?”
“It is because they do not last, that we relish in them.”
“Even if it will bring you pain later?”
You smiled, gentle and indulgent, and placed your hand on top of his. His shoulders relaxed at your touch, the tension seeping out of his muscles. He wanted to capture the moment, to bottle it somehow, keep the image of you with the sun on your eyelashes and the feeling of the softness of your skin forever preserved. 
“Yes,” you whispered, “even then.”
Something shifted in his heart, just slightly, and a smile crept onto his face. Yes, he thought, especially then. 
-
“Sam,” you said, surveying the small garden. He had done a good job with it — the shrubs were well trimmed and flowers burst in orange and yellow all around. “Are you certain it will look good?”
He nodded and grinned. “It’ll look real pretty with some candles about. I still remember what it looked like in Lothlorien. We don’t ‘ave the sort of fancy holders and the like, but I’ll do my best.”
You smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know how to thank you for this. I would do it myself but my knee…”
“No thankin’ needed. If anything, I should be thanking you. You brinin’ me those plants and flowers, even when the forest didn’t like you doin’ so.” His eyes fell to your knee. “I’m real sorry it caused you such trouble.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that.” You chuckled and patted him on the back. You looked around the garden again, trying to imagine the candles and cushions that Sam said he’d arrange for the night time picnic you had planned. “Do you think he’ll like it?”
“I think he’ll love it. Mighty romantic, if I can say.”
You shifted on your feet, stomach suddenly lurching. “What if I’m mistaken, Sam? I’m not sure I could bear the embarrassment.”
The last week or so had been so lovely it had felt like a dream. Nearly every night, Legolas had invited you to sit with him at the top of some tower or parapet. He would point and tell you stories of the stars and of the elves that had come before. There were so many instances where he would lean in close, eyes half-lidded, and talk in a low, murmured tone. You would watch his lips, and watch as he watched yours. But then he would draw back and glance away. 
“The elves are funny folk,” he said with a sigh. “I couldn’t tell you what might be goin’ on in Legolas’ mind, but I doubt he would be spendin’ so much time with you if he didn’t have some… reason to do so. If you catch my meaning.”
“I hope so, Sam. Well, I’ll leave you to it. I need to go to the kitchens to see what cheese and fruit they might be able to spare me.”
He gave you an encouraging smile and with a little wave, you set off downstairs. 
The sun was just setting when Sam called you back to the garden to assess what he had prepared. Candles were dotted all around the courtyard, separated on candelabras and clustered in small groups around the picnic blanket. Plush cushions were laid out and there were little white flowers scattered on the soft wool, perfuming the air with the faint smell of jasmine. 
“Sam,” you gasped. “This is — I cannot —”
“I’ll be takin’ your speechlessness as a compliment?” He smiled shyly and ducked his head. He reached for the picnic basket in your hand and placed it on the blanket. “There, now it’s complete.”
“I’ll repay you for this Sam, I promise.”
He blushed. “Like I said before, there’s no need. Anyway, I best be hurryin’ along. Wouldn’t want Legolas to stumble upon me here and get any wrong ideas.”
You laughed and he vanished back inside. You limped over to the blanket, wincing a little as you lowered yourself, and tried to slow your breathing. Legolas would come, wouldn’t he? What if he took one look at the scene and fled? You shook your head. No, he wouldn’t do that. If you were truly mistaken about his feelings towards you, he would tell you gently and bear you no ill will.
“Mellon nin,” Legolas said from behind you and you turned, heart thumping in your chest. His eyes were wide and a slow smile was spreading across his face. “I received your message. Why have you asked me here?”
You swallowed. Did he not know? “Is it… is it not obvious?”
“I have an inkling, perhaps.” He wandered over, his steps lazy and relaxed, and sank onto the cushions. The tightness in your chest eased a fraction. “But I do not wish to presume what may or may not be in your heart. Will you not give me the truth?”
“Legolas, I…” You cleared your throat. By the Valar, why was it so difficult to speak? He arched an eyebrow at you and you glanced away, speaking more to the picnic basket than to him. “I… care for you. A great deal.”
He took your hand, and you dared to lift your gaze. He beamed at you, and then a flash of mischief entered his eyes. “As a friend?”
You scowled at him. “Do you often plan candlelit picnics for your friends, Legolas?”
He laughed and pressed his lips to the back of your hand. They were soft and warm, his breath hot on your skin. “I am teasing, meleth nin.”
Heat crept up your neck and you tried to withdraw your hand. He held fast and planted a line of kisses up, up, up, from your wrist to your elbow to your shoulder. His eyes were almost sparking in the dim, the dots of candlelight flickering in his dark irises. He kissed your jaw and your nose and your temple before dipping his head to capture your lips.
He kissed slow and languid, as though savouring the feeling of you against him. He tasted tart and sweet, no doubt from the berry and honey biscuits you knew he liked to snack on. The strange tension in your stomach snapped and vanished, and you melted under his touch. His growing smile made you giggle and your teeth knocked against his, making him laugh. 
“I am curious about what you have in that picnic basket of yours,” he murmured. “There will be time for such enjoyment later.”
A flush coloured your cheeks. “I suppose it would be a waste if we simply ignored all the food I prepared.”
“Though, before we continue, I must ask you a question first,” he said, growing grave and serious. His eyes drifted down to your joined hands, and he brushed his thumb over your knuckles. “Could you bear being with me, living with me, when part of my heart is forever owned by the sea?”
You reached up and brushed a stray strand of hair behind his ear. “My love, could you bear to be with me? If you stay, you will fade.”
“It would be a worse fate to live eternity without you,” he whispered. “That I could not bear.”
“Legolas…” It seemed all the more tragic that he, of all people, should die. He was light and joy and the thought of him growing cold and dim wrenched at your heart. “You deserve to… I cannot…”
“I have made my choice, meleth nin. Let us be happy together.” He cupped your cheek, a smile spreading across his face. His eyes were soft, but certain, his touch gentle but sure. He kissed the tip of your nose, chuckling, before he slanted his lips against yours. The kiss was chaste and quick, and all the more sweeter for its casualness. 
“For however long we have,” he murmured, “let us be happy.”
“Alright,” you said. You rested your forehead against his, inhaling his scent, breathing his breath. Yours, for now, for ever. “For however long we have.”
---
ok but what is it about the immortality of elves that has me appreciating/relishing/romanticising our mortal lives. i swear this is the second time ive done this with legolas.
Taglist: @sotwk
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mlmxreader · 1 month
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Quiet Nights | Legolas x gn!reader
『••✎••』
↳ ❝ Could you do Legolas with "Stop crawling in through my window!" ❞
: ̗̀➛ Legolas wants to spend the night with his significant other.
: ̗̀➛ n/a
•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•
The night was calm for once, a slight drizzle that blew towards the east and little more than that; the moon was wearing a half smile, and the birds had silenced themselves as they retreated to their nests for the night.
Not even mice dared to scamper and scuttle through the halls with their soft and playful squeaks, instead choosing to stay hidden and concealed within their nests, buried inside the walls as they slept soundly.
Foxes did not dare or care to stir, either, well hidden and concealed within their thick dens amongst the towering trees and scruffy shrubs; their tails pressed against their noses as they rested behind a coarse rope of dense brownish orange.
The night was calm, which was odd; on more usual nights, the rain would have hammered down heavily, crashing and thundering against the ground so hard that it bounced right back up again. Howling and screaming winds that were able to topple even the tallest and heaviest of trees; it could be so catastrophic, yet it was so normal.
The quiet was, more than anything, eerie.
Too quiet and too harsh that it felt overwhelming; but the quiet of the halls and the rooms was welcoming.
The soft drifting sounds of snoring and the careful creaks of the wooden floor as the occupants moved around to get food, water, to change into their night clothes.
The window on the left, near the front and overlooking the empty and desolate path, was left open ever so slightly; more ajar than anything else, although there was space for it to be pulled open.
Legolas smiled as he looked at it, holding onto the ladder that had been left out and placed against the window; gently, he hooked his fingers on the bottom ridge, and slowly pulled it open until he could get his arms in.
Wriggling and writhing until he fell to the floor with a padded thud; the sound of laughter from the king sized bed soon followed, and when he looked up, he smiled.
"You need to stop crawling in through my window!" Your laugh was infectious and loud as you got out of bed, grabbing Legolas by his bicep and helping him to his feet. "Are you alright? Did you hurt yourself?"
He shook his head, beaming and grinning at you and clinging onto your hands as his gaze slowly dropped to your lips before snapping back up to your eyes again. Biting at the inside of his lip, Legolas could only hum as he decided to close the distance, his soft lips meeting your cheek for a split second.
You could feel his breath against your skin, his hands going down to your sides so that he could gently tug you closer, your hands landing on his chest as you balled the fabric of his shirt up within your fists. A soft huff leaving your lips as you licked your lips and swallowed thickly.
"Are you going to answer my question?"
Legolas nodded, moving one hand up so that he could gently cup your jaw; his fingers were deft and tender. "My love, I'm fine. I've crawled in through your window plenty of times without so much as a bruise."
"I know," you sighed, letting go of his shirt and gently pulling hin over to the bed. He laid down, welcoming you onto his lap with eager greed for the feel of your skin against his own. "It still won't stop me from worrying, though."
"My father talked of you today," he admitted quietly, softly, almost under his breath. "He told me that I would do well to keep you near after your little... adventure with the spiders earlier. He said he had never seen someone able to sneak up on them with a sword before."
You shrugged, swallowing thickly. "I only did what I've been trained to do. Years as a soldier..."
The smile on Legolas' lips faded, and he shook his head as his eyebrows furrowed slightly. Worry overtaking him as he let out a shaky breath at the mere mention. "You mustn't talk of such a thing, now. You are not going back to that life, you know that."
You nodded, daring to press a soft kiss to his forehead. "I know, I am more than aware of that, my love. Your father's praises mean a great deal, but I would rather know that I have the love of the fairest Prince."
His grin returned as he nodded, taking your hands in his own and placing them against his chest; his heartbeat was deep and steady, a soft throb beneath the fine and thin fabric of his shirt that made all tension drop from your body upon the feel of it. A heavy sigh left you, similar to the kind of sigh that came before a deep and long slumber.
"You shall always have that," he promised gently, slowly moving you so that you were laid down beside him, his finger lightly tracing your jaw. "My heart will always be yours."
"And mine yours," you whispered, smiling as you let out a quiet yawn. "Do you think we should get some sleep, now? We have a long day ahead tomorrow."
Legolas nodded as he pressed his temple to your head, closing his eyes as he refused to let go of your hands; it was the same every night, and it never mattered much what kind of position the two of you were cuddled up in, Legolas always held your hands when he slept.
He couldn't fall asleep next to you without doing so, and as it became habit so many years ago when the two of you first got together, you couldn't either; fidgeting around a little, you wound up with the top of his head against your chin and your arms around his waist, one leg swung over his hips as he snuggled up, a small smile on his lips.
It was going to be a quiet, peaceful, night.
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starks-hero · 1 year
Text
Avert Your Eyes from Your Demise, Though Lovely It May Be
Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield x human!Reader
Summary: In which giant spiders aren't the only threat Mirkwood has to offer.
Word Count: 4.0k
Warnings: they're high on Mirkwood mist the whole time. Do with that what you will.
Translations: Siúlóirí portaigh - bog walkers (Irish) , amrâlimê - my love (Khuzdul) , lansel - love of all loves (Khuzdul)
a/n: I know movie Thorin is described as 5'2ish but I write him as 4'8 - 4'10 because it's more book accurate and because we should embrace this short king. Anyway, I call this 'the intimacy of going insane with your crush.'
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You couldn't shake the unease. Even now, as you sat at the edge of a clearance, bark biting harshly into your back, you could almost feel the forest closing in on you. Shadows scurried above you and the air itself was stale.
Your company of fifteen had quickly fallen to a number of just two, with only yourself and Thorin making it through the mist-clouded trails together. Neither of you were certain what had become of the others and given the eeriness of your surroundings, you didn't want to give it too much thought.
A sudden gust of wind rushed through the clearing and the limbs of the trees creaked inward. It was as if the forest was breathing.
“We have to find the others,” you said. Your voice sounded foreign and far off.
Thorin was pacing in front of you, twisting the hilt of his sword in his hand. “They would know well enough not to linger in these woods. We keep heading East.”
“Which way is East?”
“We follow the river.” You didn't miss the beat of uncertainty before Thorin's answer.
You shook your head. “We don't know where it leads.”
“It will lead us away from here which is good enough.”
Almost to emphasize Thorin's point, the surrounding trees creaked and groaned and another shadow scurried overhead. Caution steered your hand to the hilt of your sword and following Thorin's order, you moved on swiftly.
The forest felt too small and too large all at once. Branches knabbed and tore at your clothes and skin, the twisted limbs of rotting trees giving you no option but to duck or crawl beneath their roots. A glance skyward reminded you that this place, in all its foulness, was unending, the tree canopy stretching miles above your head and blackening out the sun's light.
That was if the sun was still up. You'd lost track of the time what seemed like hours ago.
You came to a sudden, harsh stop as your front rather unceremoniously met Thorin's back. With a quiet grunt, you found the reason for stopping was a tangled thicket of twisted branches that now stood before you. The tree, in all its obscure glory, seemed to consume the path entirely, its limbs too thick to cut and trunk too tall to climb. Too tired to think of a solution, you found yourself uncharacteristically willing to give up. Until Thorin shrugged off his furs.
You watched as the grey fabric rolled off his broadened shoulders and revealed his shirt, knotted pattern running up the arms.
“I'll go first,” he took the liberty of explaining as he bunched the furs together and placed them in his pack. “It will be easier for me to get out should I need to.”
You would have liked to argue but Thorin, a regularly stubborn fool, was surprisingly right. He was shorter, his limbs less likely to snag. His dwarven frame would move through the thicket much easier than your own.
He disappeared into the grove, swallowed by bark and darkness and you already found yourself questioning why you let him go alone.
You kicked at the dirt beneath your feet as you waited. Eyes set on the trees, you felt increasingly uneasy. You picked at the leather of your sword sheath. Thorin was a capable warrior and you didn't doubt his ability to defend himself. But something wasn't right, you could feel it, crawling on your skin and putting your hairs on end.
Giving in to impulsiveness, you followed after Thorin.
The branches clawed at your skin and snagged your clothes. You pushed aside what you could, rotting wood giving way easily beneath your palm, but as the many limbs began to swell into trunks, it became increasingly difficult to move. Your chest was pressed uncomfortably against the rough bark. You were never one to fear tight spaces but the sudden inability to take a deep breath came as an unwelcome shock. Just as panic had you reaching for your sword, relief found you in the form of the dwarrow prince.
With renewed determination, you mustered a final push and freed yourself from where you were wedged.
Thorin stood with his back to you, stance stiff. You called his name and he hushed you quickly.
His eyes were set on the tree line ahead of you. His gaze was hard, analytic and you didn't fail to notice how his fingers grazed the hilt of his weapon. He turned to you.
“Do you not hear it?”
“Hear what?”
As if the bugle of battle had been sounded, Thorin's stance shifted and in one swift, fluid movement, he drew his sword. His free hand guided you further behind him. Then, he shot forward, swinging his sword at an invisible target. His expression was one of determination as well as unmistakable fear. Another aimless swing and he turned to you.
“Can you not see it?!” He barked, frustrated at your unwillingness to help.
You raised your head and all but willed yourself to see anything but the winding trails of the forest. But despite how hard you employed your imagination, you saw nothing. Somewhere in the treeline, a bird took flight.
An uncomfortable recollection settled in the forefront of your mind. A shiver ran up your back.
"Thorin," Your hand cautiously fell against his shoulder. He turned to you with fire in his eyes but your expression made him pause. “Gandalf said a dark magic lay over this forest.”
At your words, his defensive stance melted away and defeat took its place. The elvish blade fell from where it was held at his side as he looked around and the fear in his eyes slowly shifted to confusion, then realisation.
“It's toying with our minds?”
You swallowed. The thought made your skin crawl; the idea of the forest as its own conscious entity was a horrifying one. That its magic could sink its claws into your mind and deprive you of your senses, keeping you walking in circles till your feet gave in. The entirety of Mirkwood was one giant spider's web and you hated to think what that made you and Thorin.
“We just need to keep our wits about us and our feet moving forward,” you managed eventually, casting weary glances towards the trees. "Now that we know what's happening we have the upper hand, we stay together, stay vigilant and keep our minds clear."
Thorin felt the sudden need to commend you for your calm demeanor and sudden leadership. But he'd also just attempted to fight a non-existent enemy so he decided saying anything at all was against his better judgment and settled for a curt nod instead.
Your plan fell apart comedically fast. You tried to remain optimistic but as you passed the same tree stump for what must have been the fourth time, you felt as though the forest was laughing at you. Your feet ached as though they'd been walking for days. You could hear each of your breaths echo as they came and the thud of your boots against the earth shook your bones.
The child-like laughter had started not short of an hour ago. Thorin couldn't seem to hear it.
When the rough terrain of rock and dirt softened into the cold, squelching mud of a bog, you both silently agreed that a break was needed. You sat at the end of the wetland, where the moss and reeds sprouted up between damp rocks. The water was gloomy, tinged grey and dark green with a sinister mist resting upon its surface.
The dreariness of the place seemed to seep into your bones.
Thorin sat an arm's length from you, hands braced against his knees as he looked out over the bog with a sullen stare.
“What do you see?” You asked.
“Fire." He said no more and you didn't pry.
In an attempt to ease the aches that had set deep in each of your muscles, you pulled your water canteen from where it hung against your pack. A cool drink of fresh water would be a small but welcome relief that you wouldn't take for granted.
But the liquid was thick and warm as it touched your lips and when you pulled it away it was coloured red. You tossed the canteen away with a grunt of disgust. It unceremoniously met the surface of the water before sinking into the mud.
“We need to leave this place,” you said, hands threading through your hair and pulling at the roots. Thorin didn't argue.
You walked until you felt the leather of your boots threatening to give way. You thought one of the trees you had passed seemed familiar, distinctive enough from the rest of the foliage that it stood out.
“We've been here before,” you said. “We're going round in circles.” You turned to on your heel and found no sign of the dwarf.
“Thorin?”
The eerie silence of the forest echoed back to you.
“Thorin?!”
The feeling of unease returned tenfolds. Shadows crawled above you and the wind quivered through the trees. The mist had worsened, hiding your feet beneath its thickening grey clouds.
But then, like a lifeline being tossed to a drowned sailor at sea, you heard your name. Far off and faint, but your name all the same. Spoken in a voice that flooded you with relief. Calling after him, you followed the resonating sound of his calls until they led you to the point where the water met the soil.
Logic quickly took a back seat as your desperation to find Thorin had you stepping off the path. You sunk immediately, the bog swallowing you up to your knees. You pushed through the thick, sluggish mud, ignoring the burn it caused in the back of your legs. The voice became clearer until his form finally appeared, carved out from the mist.
"Thorin," you greeted him with a smile. But Thorin's expression did not mirror your own. His brows were drawn together and every ounce of air vanished from your lungs when an unsteady hand reached out to cup your cheek.
“I was so worried." Your name fell brokenly from his lips. "I feared I'd lost you.” His hands, shaking and trembling, ran down your arms then back to the swell of your shoulders. His breathing was labored and you could only imagine what Thorin must have witnessed to put the usually stoic king in such a state.
“You're alright? You're not harmed?"
You shook your head and gently grasped Thorin's wrists and he smiled, softer and more sincere than you had ever seen him. The sight made you feel at ease for the first time since stepping foot in the forsaken forest.
"I am glad, Amrâlimê.”
You were not well versed in the culture of dwarves but you were no fool either. You had heard the word spoken among the dwarrow people you'd crossed paths with in the Blue Mountains, noticed the tenderness and sincerity that always encompassed the word, how it was never said with any amount of offhandedness. The word was a confession itself, a confession of the highest kind.
And Thorin had just spoken it to you. As if it were the simplest thing on Earth.
Your confusion must have been evident as Thorin smiled again, the corners of his eyes creasing in amusement.
“You must not look so surprised, my love,” his thumb grazed your jaw. “That I should wish to call you by such a name.”
“What–” You managed in a clumsy attempt to make it known to the dwarf in front of you that you had no idea what was going on. “Thorin.”
The king didn't answer. Rather he kept his eyes fixed on you, coarse fingers working their way from your jaw up to your temple, then brushing just beneath your eye. He touched you as if you were made of something more precious than all the metals held in the great halls of Erebor. And despite the nagging feeling in the back of your mind, in that moment you would have been content to stay there.
In the bogs of a cursed forest with your friends lost and your mind bewitched, all so that the king would keep looking at you as he was now.
But your better judgment, (or more likely, the uncomfortable feeling of mud and bog water dampening your clothes,) brought you back to reality. You moved to speak again but Thorin stopped you.
“It's alright, we're safe here, you and I,” he promised. “You needn't think of anything else.”
You tried to ignore how believable his words sounded as you took a step back. Hurt flashed in the dwarf's eyes.
“No, no we need to find the others. The company–”
“–will find their own way,” he calmed you, hand reaching out again to touch your shoulder. It sent a jolt of warmth through you. “You carry so much, endlessly worrying for the well-being of others. But you needn't burden yourself any longer, lansel. You know what it is you desire, what you deserve. So take it.”
You closed your eyes at his words. His hand found the back of your neck and you allowed him to draw you in closer.
“Let it be just us. Stay with me, Amrâlimê. That's all I ask.”
You had never felt such temptation in all your years. Would it truly be so wrong of you? To allow yourself to have this after all you'd persevered. You had long given up trying to convince yourself that you felt something for the dwarven king. That his bravery, stoicism, and unbridled loyalty to his people didn't fascinate you. You had wanted Thorin since not long after the journey's beginning. And now he wanted you too. There was no reason to keep this from yourself, no reason you shouldn't have it.
But somewhere in the back of your mind, was the persistent reminder that something was wrong. A reminder that resurfaced in the form of Bombur's cooking and Bofur's songs and Balin's stories and Bilbo's immeasurable trust in you. Your friends were still lost and that proved enough to bring you back to rationality.
“Thorin,” you started sternly.
“Forget them,” he said, as if he already knew what you were going to say. “Forget everything else. It is just us now. All is as it should be.”
You felt a tinge of discomfort at his words and you took another step back. Thorin would never forsake his kin, not if he was in his right mind. He traced your cheek again and this time you grasped his arm in a strong enough hold to pull it away.
You caught sight of his hand out of the corner of your eye and what you saw made you feel ill. The skin was rotting, bones threatening to tear through their paper-thin bonds. The fabric of Thorin's clothes had vanished and your nails had sunk into the rotting flesh which had begun to fall way in your grip.
You yanked your hand back in disgust, tripping and falling backward into the water at the sight of the creature. A gaping hole sat in the center of its face where you imagined its nose should be and a rigid crack served as its mouth. Green threads of damp mossy hair sprouted from its head and hung in front of the hollow cavities of its eyes.
An Siúlóir Portaigh. A creature you hadn't crossed paths with since you'd last traveled East of Gondor.
A bony hand reached out for you and you shot yourself backward, scrambling to your feet. Thorin's deep voice had been replaced with a low rasping gurgle, the sound growing louder as the creature lunged for you.
You turned and ran.
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Thorin's voice had grown hoarse from calling your name.
He had turned away for one moment and you were gone and now as he searched, he feared to think what may have become of you.
His feet sunk into the ground beneath him, water reaching his ankles and soaking through his boots. Reeds sprouted up from the water, the smallest brushing his knees and the tallest towering a foot above his head. With a grunt, he pushed on.
The wind howled as it passed through the hollow chamber of the reeds and Thorin felt the hair on his neck stand up. Then, a shadow passed in front of him. He instinctively reached for his blade. It pushed through the long grass as it approached him but the glint of familiar armor has him dropping his sword.
“Thorin!” You beamed as you reached him. “You're alright. I lost sight of you in the fog.” You grabbed hold of his arms and Thorin was taken back by your sudden brashness. “I'm so glad I found you.”
He watched you for a moment, his joy at finding you unharmed outweighing the odd tinge of suspicion he felt. He cleared his throat and tilted his head forward in a curt nod.
“We must get back to the others.”
He turned to walk on but your arms held him in place.
“You needn't worry, they'll be alright,” you said casually. “As will we.”
Thorin offered a baffled look that doubled as a warning. He was uncertain what had caused your uncharacteristic forwardness and in all honesty, wasn't quite sure what to do about it.
You raised your head skyward and smiled again. With no shortage of confusion, Thorin followed your gaze
The sun had come back up and its light was seeping through the leaves above his head. The forest's canopy turned golden, as if set alight by dragon fire. Thorin's expression softened.
“Beautiful, isn't it?” Your hand found his own. “We could stay here, Thorin. You and I. Imagine it.”
Thorin blinked. He could stay here, with you. He could tell you everything he'd been longing to say since the escape from the goblin tunnels and the orc ambush on the cliffside. After all, why shouldn't he? Did he not deserve this after so many hardships? You could truly be together, you could offer him a new start, a new home– Thorin blinked again.
“And what of Erebor?”
You seemed amused by his question. You brushed his braid away from where it hung against his jaw and Thorin surprisingly let it happen.
“Erebor lies half a world away, a buried kingdom of dust and despair in the clutches of a dragon. Is it truly worth so much? Worth so many lives lost,” you asked. “We have everything we need here.”
And Thorin could only think about how right you were; your hands in his, the feel of your fingers brushing his hair, the rising sun and golden leaves– he could want for nothing else.
“Do you not want for this?”
“I–” he tried.
“You have done honorably by your people, Thorin, but you have been selfless for far too long.” He closed his eyes as you spoke. “Choose not what is right by them but by you. No more pain, no more fear.” He could feel your breath against his cheek. “Just us. Stay with me, my love.”
And Thorin decided in that moment that he would.
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Your legs ached and your lungs burned.
The bog was becoming harder and harder to navigate but you were yet to find Thorin and you did not plan on stopping till you were certain he was safe.
The water grew shallower and you took it as a blessing. With your lower half free of the mud, you drew your sword. You rounded the trunk of a decaying tree and were met with a horrific sight.
Thorin, with decaying hands grasped round his neck and a deformed maw nearing his face. Thorin stood in a trance, eyes glossed over and body stiff. The siúlóir's mouth widened, rotting skin tearing as it did. Its nails dug into the side of Thorin's neck, harsh enough to draw blood. Still, he didn't move.
You acted on impulse. With a quick lunge forward, you drove your sword through the creatures back, twisting it twice before pushing it deeper.
Its screech was inhumane. It grasped at its wounds, its guttural yowls putting your hairs on end. You ran it through again. The siúlóir went quiet and Thorin screamed out.
“No!” His voice was distraught, his hands grasping at the creature as it slumped to the ground. “No–!”
“Thorin!” You grabbed his shoulder and roughly yanked him back. He raised his head and looked at you as though he'd seen a ghost. “It's alright– it's alright, it's me.”
His gaze fell back to the creature at your feet and given the twist of horror and disgust in his expression you figured he was now seeing it in its true form.
“Siúlóirí portaigh,” you muttered under your breath. “Bog walkers.”
Thorin blinked before taking in his surroundings with frantic eyes. He regarded you with a cautionary look. He said your name and when you nodded, you saw his stance relax slightly. His fear turned to confusion. “What–”
“They were going to drown us,” you answered plainly. You nudged the creature's shoulder with your heel and watched it sink a few inches into the water. “We need to go, this place will be crawling with them.”
Thorin wanted to question how you knew so much about such monsters but given how desperately you wanted to leave their hunting ground, he prioritized.
He offered one last glance at the creature, body now mostly submerged in the sullen water. He shuddered at how well the creature had worn your face, how much its voice had mimicked your own. How easily fooled he'd been.
He silently followed after you.
You walked until the mud on your clothes had hardened and the silk webs coating the trees had all but vanished. The leaf canopy above you had thinned out and the surrounding forest was now warm with the sun's light. The moment you heard a nearby bird song, you knew the dangers of Mirkwood had passed.
Thorin rested against the trunk of a sapling. His gaze was focused on something over your shoulder but given the blankness of his stare, you knew he wasn't looking at anything at all. You took a seat at his side and began to tend to his wound.
A nasty gash ran from the back of his neck to just below his throat. You worked silently. Thorin didn't even seem to notice until you applied a fraction too much pressure and with a sharp intake of breath, he turned to you.
“Sorry.”
There was a beat of silence. Then Thorin spoke.
“What did you see?” he asked you. “That creature, it toyed with my mind, showed me things I longed for that I hadn't even admitted to myself. So what did it show you?”
“Nothing.” The lie came easy. “Nothing of worth. I've dealt with siúlóirí before, they feed you lies, draw you in and then drown you before you even realise you're in danger. Whatever you seen, I wouldn't linger on it.”
Thorin seemed almost saddened by your answer. But it vanished as quickly as it had appeared, he gently brushed your hand away and got to his feet.
“We keep heading East.” The usual stoicism had returned to his voice. “Dwalin would know to do the same. If we do not regroup with the company in a day's time we head back the way we came and search.”
You nodded and got to your feet like a soldier following orders.
And as you fell into step beside the dwarf you thought maybe it would be best to take your own advice. To pass what you'd seen off as baseless lies not worth thinking about. But the feel of Thorin's shoulders brushing your arm reminded you that would be no easy task.
You entered Mirkwood wondering if what you felt for the dwarven king was more than just fondness. Now you were certain.
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quick authors note: I invented the siúlóirí an portaigh for this fic and the name translates to ‘bog walkers/walkers of the bog’ in Irish. It was pretty fun combining two of my interests, writing and folklore, to create my own mythological creature :)
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dearsnow · 9 months
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THE MOON WILL SING
- the moon hums a tune only elvish ears can pick up. (legolas x gn!human!reader, fluff, idk if you guys will be able to understand the symbolism but it makes sense to me…)
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word count: 576
a/n - this is my first legolas piece :) it’s not the quality i would like it to be, but i came out of a writing slump not too long ago so 🤷 it is what it is <3 much thanks to @minaturefics for inspiring this 💕
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For once, the night is peaceful. The birds are chirping, as are the crickets, and the trees are swaying to their tune. There are creaks and chitters, crackles and buzzes and the occasional snore from the fellowship sleeping so close to you. The forest is alive, and it is the greatest thing you have ever heard. The melody is softer than music and louder than thunder, existing in a sort of beautiful in-between. The world is perfect, you think. Nothing can compare. And, of course, the world gave you the elf sitting quietly next to you.
“Could you not sleep either?” You whisper, not wanting to disturb the woodsy strums filtering through the wildlife around you. Legolas shakes his head.
“It is a heavenly night.” He whispers back. “It is times like these when I can hear the moon sing her quiet song.” His figure is illuminated by starlight, casting his features in an otherworldly glow. In that moment, he looks ethereal. He picks a fallen leaf between his fingers and smoothes it with a gentle touch.
You look up at the sky, and he looks at you. “What is she saying?” You ask. 
He takes a breath, his words forming clouds in the air. “Something joyous in words I cannot begin to understand.” He places the leaf down, grasping your hands in his. “She tells me something, in thought.” He murmurs, looking deep into your eyes. His own are like pools that forever draw you in. “She tells me that I love you like her.”
You are stunned for a moment. You know he likes you, as you do him, but love is another thing entirely. It is something you feel in kind, though you have not found the words to express it until now. You grip his hands back, searching for something to ground you in this moment. All you can find is soft palms and the stars urging you forward. “And I love you like the sun.” You choke out. There is something so beautifully tender in his gaze. “You may ask the sun in the morning, though. I am sure they will say the same.” He laughs gently and quietly, a melodious sound.
“I will be sure to.” He reasons. He reaches out to cup your face in his palms. “You must rest, meleth nin.” His fingers swipe over your cheekbones.
You hesitate. “I would not want to on this comely night, unless you slept as well.” He squints at you, the action just barely visible in the night.
“I need not to, though I will lie with you if that is what you wish.” He smiles. His smile is one you have adored since the moment you met him. You have adored him since the moment you met him, and this midnight interaction is proof enough. There will never be another being so suited to you as he.
“I wish it.” You say quietly, tone hopeful. He nods just once and wraps his arm around you, slowly pulling you down to the plush forest floor. 
You stay like that for a long time, with his touch sending fire through your veins as his breath lulls you to sleep. The swaying forest and the beaming moon look down on you. Though it is too hushed for you to hear, the moon will always sing her song to deaf ears. And, of course, Legolas will always be there to sing it to you.
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Taglist (misc): @skeletonfromthecloset
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southfarthing · 11 months
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Eowyn tells Faramir it isn't necessary to write all of Rohan's songs and legends in a book lest they be forgotten. The Rohirrim do not read and write: they are oral storytellers, and they have great respect for their minstrels and their history. They will not forget anything.
She says it to reassure him and save him the trouble, but it does not seem to soothe his mind.
He smiles quickly at her before turning to the window. He looks out at the hills of Emyn Arnen as though watching for a storm on the horizon, and then Eowyn understands.
She grasps his hand.
At his touch, an image rushes through her mind: a grey, mutinous sea; and among the froth and the fury – sodden books, orphaned heirlooms, and a tapestry that will never again be seen or re-made, with both story and skill lost to the devouring waters.
The water washes over them both before slowly receding, leaving only a mist that she blinks away, and the distant glint of the Anduin to the west as it flows down to the Sea.
'Have I ever told you of Eorl the Young?' she says. Her voice is rough; she clears her throat.
'We know much about Eorl in Gondor,' Faramir says softly. 'His friendship with Cirion and his aid in our time of need was great.'
'And what about after?' she asks. 'What does Gondor know about that?'
Faramir turns to her with a wry smile. 'Very little.'
'Would that you had someone to teach you a little history.'
The mirth in Faramir's eyes mirrors her own.
'Would that I did.'
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slaasherslut-side · 10 months
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shut the fuck up im doing hot girl shit (thinking about legolas)
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epilogue-and-prologue · 7 months
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Blue Moon
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Fandom: The Lord of the Rings (movies) Ship/Pairing: Eomer x Reader (one mention of reader wearing a dress) Trope: Noble x Humble worker Note: IT’S SOTWK’s FAULT. We talked about Eomer’s hands and here we are. The title « Blue Moon » is a reference to the song « Blue Moon », my favourite rendition being sung by Ella Fitzgerald. Warnings: Horses? Word count: 1 595 Tag-list: @heilith @asgardianhobbit98 @middleearthpixie @glassgulls @evenstaredits @fizzyxcustard @sotwk
There was something hypnotising about his hands.
The way his palm moved along the planes of the horse’s back. They were delicate. Deliberate in their care for the animal. Several times today, you had caught your gaze lingering a little too long on his slender fingers and their dexterity. Several times you had wondered what they’d feel like against your skin, in your hair weaving braids during a quiet evening. Those were fairy tales. You did not dwell on them, even when it kept you up at night; heat clinging to your skin, the chilly wind doing nothing to help your wandering mind.
It seemed to appease his uneasy nature to come here. He would go in the early hours of the day, only to come back in the middle of the morning. To the outside world, he was a leader. Someone they could trust and follow into depths unknown. Here, he was only Eomer. You considered yourself lucky to have witnessed both.
Others were concerned by his willingness to spend so much more time with you instead of them. You had dismissed them easily enough, but the thought had lingered. Why was he only asking you to help him? A bucket, water, hay, a brush for the horse’s mane. You were not willing to fathom an answer, especially if it was the wrong one. Seeing him like this it made you happy enough. You were content with this, whatever this was.
From time to time, he would ask about your day and you would always answer the same things. Fine and good. Excellent, perfect or grand. Never would you have said what you wanted to say. That it was him who made those days fine, and good and excellent and perfect and grand. Until meeting him, working with horses had been your life’s dream, and you were fulfilled by it. When he was there, you weren’t so sure anymore. It felt as if all of him was completing what you had and did not know you were missing.
“What are you thinking about?”
Barely above a whisper, his question lingered in the air between the two of you, almost as if he had not meant to ask it aloud. He was still working his fingers through the hair, looking beyond the horse’s back, away from you. If he had looked at you, you could have traced a lingering hint of a pinkish hue on his cheeks.
A chilly breeze rose, and you had to tighten the cloth around your shoulder, crossing your arms close to your chest.
“Nothing important, Sire.”
A laugh echoed through the wooden box around you.
“Then why are you boring a hole in my skull with your staring?”
Your cheek felt warmer than they had been moments ago.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you, sire. If you need me to go, I… — No. Stay.”
Eomer had not meant for his voice to grow this loud. Nor to turn around so abruptly. The nerves in him, electrified by your eyes, led him to act so.
It had grown almost suddenly, this affection he had for you. First, you were something to behold. Once he discovered your face, your features, the way you moved and talked, he only ever wanted you to be near him when the mask fell off. When he could be himself and not who he was supposed to be. Second, you never pressured him into talking, going silent for hours on end, just being there with him and Lia. She was not his usual horse. He preferred not to overexert Firefoot, especially after the events he had seen on the battlefields. You were the one to care for her when he could not, even before he started mounting her. The mare had a gentler temper, dark robe and larger body. She adored you and if instincts served him right, animals were always the true tellers of someone’s nature. Thirdly, and lastly, your presence calmed him like no one else could. Except when you were threatening to leave. Or when you were looking at him, behind his back. He never wanted you to stop looking at him like that. When your eyes were observing and kind on him, his weary body and his weary mind, he felt that he could take on another thousand wars just to find you here again, safe and sound, watching him. He only hoped you could say the same about him.
“As you wish, Sire.”
The goosebumps on your arms and the way you protected yourself from the cold struck him then. With the winds of winter approaching, the weather had gone incredibly cold, and you were only wearing a thin linen above your usual dress and robes. He stepped out of the box, coming closer to you as he’d ever been. He grabbed for a cover lying around. Those were used for the horses but they’d have to do. He wrapped it around you, as tight as he could. It smelled of the stables and hay. A hint of pink shattered across his cheekbones in the morning lights. Your breaths were leaving your lips in hot clouds between you. The way he settled his palms on your shoulders, securing the cloth around you, drove a whole different kind of shiver down your spine. You could feel his fingers over the fabric, his overexerted hands catching some threads, before he took them off you, gently. You could not help the sharp inhale you took when he did.
“Would not want you freezing to death on my account.”
His smile did not reach his eyes, but you felt the warmth it procured you down to your toes. At a loss for words, you smiled in return, trying to hide your face. Your arms were still secured against your chest but your heart was not as protected as you had hoped it would be.
In a thoughtless step, Eomer leaned down and brought his lips to your cheek. He could feel the burn of them under his skin. The way you looked up at him, bewildered and hopeful, brows knitted together in confusion, only made his mouth ache for more. Still, he would not do it unless you said so. He had already overstepped and behaved un-gallantly enough. Hence his surprise when he found your hands gripping at his lapel, obviously not willing to let him go. A soft curve graced his mouth, a pleasant feeling growing in him.
“Can I…?”
Your vigorous nodding let him know exactly what he wanted. Only then did he pull you closer, his hands drawing you in, the warmth you felt from his lips and the tenderness with which his fingers nestled against your jaw below your ears, enough to make you forget about the world around. Delicately, his mouth danced with yours, eager to please and swift to do so. Soon, his wide hand drew you in, pulling you at the waist. Your fingers met his heart through cloth and flesh and bones, beating in a rhythm only known to you both.
“I…”
You bit your lip while you could see him observing you through hooded eyes, his fingertips sending shivers down your arms. He was tracing the hollow of your cheek with his knuckles, leaving you breathless once more. He looked as if he had seen the most marvellous creature in the entire world. You could not believe it was you on the other end of that fantasy.
“I… do not know what to say… I… — Then you don’t need to say anything.”
His fingers found their way down the length of your throat. He looked positively charmed, yet you pulled back, hesitant. What if this had been… just a fling? Just something he could do, just because he wanted to. No other reason. No feelings involved. What if he was playing with you?
“I will. — What?”
He chuckled at your incredulous expression.
“I will say something. — Oh.”
He brought you back to him again, kissing your cheek.
“I…” He kissed your nose. “…will never…” your other cheek. “…ever…” Your fingertips now. “…let you…” This was getting on your nerves and he knew it, smirking behind your hand. “…be seen by anyone else but me, in this state.”
The last words murmured against your cheek, to the shell of your ear, elicited a burning anticipation deep in your bones.
“My King, I would never ever let anyone but me see you in this state. — I don’t think anyone had ever really seen me before you.”
His candid answer surprised you. In a tender caress, he stroked your back through the fabrics of your clothes, not thick enough to keep his touch at bay. A thumb ventured below your breast, too close to be accidental. You inhaled sharply.
“And I will never let anyone else see me like this. If you’ll have me, of course.”
His declaration hit your heart at an arrow’s speed.
“You really mean that? I’m not just a… — You’re not just anything. You are the world and beyond. You are everything. I hope to be everything to…”
Before he could finish, you pulled him down for another kiss. This one arousing and passionate; desires trapped, finally meeting in the middle.
“I will. I absolutely will.”
A heartbeat passed in his arms, trying to keep your hands to yourselves.
“You were asking me to… — … court and eventually marry you? Yes. And you said yes, you cannot take it back now.”
Your laughter rang through him as it rang through the stables, enlightening the new day ahead.
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gloomwitchwrites · 2 months
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Gentle Dark
Haldir x Female Reader
Content & Warnings: romantic tension, yearning, passionate kissing, fade to black, admission of feelings, fluff, light angst
Word Count: 1.3k
On a patrol together, Haldir confronts you about your feelings for him even though you’re promised to another.
A/N: For @childofyuggoth
ao3 // taglist // main masterlist
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The stars twinkle through the gnarled canopy. White. Bright. Bathing the forest floor with iridescent light. You close your eyes and inhale deeply, savoring the scents of the forest around you. Caras Galadhon dwells behind you, sleeping and silent in the peaceful dark.
You are attuned to every sound in the deep wood, and as you filter through it all, you find nothing out of place or suspicious. But the disturbance of the wood is not of your immediate concern. There are greater trials and closer bodies that seek your attention other than the animals that softly move through the underbrush.
Haldir of Lórien is a beacon in the dark. You sense him before you see him, standing just shy of your right shoulder.
“The night is quiet,” he whispers.
You open your eyes, turn to face him. “It is indeed.”
Haldir’s gaze casually drops to your lips and then back to your eyes. A gentle heat radiates up your body to encompass you in its embrace. You have little control over your body’s reaction to him.
The answering of your flesh when he is in your presence is unfair. It is a cruel joke. You are promised to another, but not one of your choosing. If you had a choice, you would pick Haldir.
Always.
But that is not to be. That is not the path set out before you.
Him standing here next to you, alone in the gentle dark, is agony. The heat of him is so near, so alive that it sends your senses tingling with anticipation. The clashing beat within you is a deafening drum.
Can Haldir hear the racing of your heart? Can he sense your need and your aching tremble?
You hope he can’t, but you also silently hope that he does. What would he do then?
Haldir’s gaze finally leaves you to glance out into the wood. “We should begin the patrol.”
“Of course,” you murmur, inclining your head, allowing Haldir to take the lead.
He returns his gaze to you briefly before taking a step forward to walk between two trees. You follow him at a short distance, watching the distance, keeping a constant pivot. The two of you walk in relative silence, moving like phantoms amongst the towering trees.
At a small clearing, Haldir pauses. You cozy up beside him, a question starting to form on your lips.
“Do you remember this place?” he asks softly, gaze fixated at the center of the clearing. A sharp beam of moonlight illuminates the ground. The flowers glow under its lunar light.
You do know this place. On one of your many patrols with Haldir, he confessed his love in this very clearing. He held your hands in his, kissed your knuckles and each of your fingers. He whispered in a longing of gentle song that soothed your nerves and calmed your soul. In that moment, you didn’t want anyone else, you only wished for him.
But how things change.
“It is etched upon my heart,” you answer truthfully.
Haldir’s silver hair shines like starlight. “I’d like to stay here. My memories of this place are happy ones.”
The two of you have come to this clearing on multiple occasions. It is no coincidence that Haldir’s patrol includes you. He selects you on purpose, and you go with him willingly because you desire the closeness. It will not last forever, not when you’re promised to another.
“We can only linger here for so long,” you remind him.
Haldir sighs heavily, and turns to face you. He has always been stoic. Calm. Even in your presence, even when he whispered gentle words of love to you, Haldir never appeared…desperate.
The look on his face now is anything but calm. It is intense—a billowing storm tightly contained.
“Stop looking at me like that,” you murmur, startled by the sudden change.
Haldir’s gaze goes to your lips, lingers, and then flicks up to your eyes. “Why do you deny yourself what you want?” he asks.
You swallow and tuck your clenched fist behind your back. Haldir’s directness is too much. He knows that this is not of your own choosing.
“You cannot ask this of me,” you answer, hating yourself for sounding so weak.
Haldir entirely shifts his body in your direction. Taking a step forward, he moves into your space. Your back bumps up against the tree next to you. Haldir places his hand against the trunk next to your head.
You are trapped, but by all the stars in the night sky, you do not care.
His scent is woodsy and clean. You lean in a bit, inhaling, attempting to remember his smell since this might be your last opportunity to do so.
“You stay loyal to him.” Haldir bends at the elbow, pressing in. “And yet you know that he lusts after another.” The center of his brow furrows slightly. “Why not be with someone who will always worship you?”
Him. Him, meaning, your betrothed. The one you’re supposed to be with in the end. The selection made for you. This is an expectation placed upon you.
And Haldir is right. He does not love you. While you intend to be loyal in your upcoming marriage, you also know his heart will yearn for another. But you also yearn for someone else, and Haldir is standing right here, questioning all of this, wanting to know why you won’t pick him.
“Sometimes duty comes before happiness,” you reply softly, gaze cast downward.
“Does it?” he counters quickly.
You keep your face turned toward the ground. Stare at your feet.
The two of you have lain in this clearing, limbs draped over and around each other. There has always been closeness between the two of you. There has always been touching, skin pressed to skin, lips brushing but never fully meeting. Yet, the two of you have never completed the act itself.
That is binding. That is forever.
But you see it in Haldir’s eyes now as you sneak a peek of him. That desperate hunger. The desire to be with one person for the end of your days. It is an arrow through the heart, piercing and sharp and stinging.
You wish to satiated it, to admit to what you want most in this world. Because it is him. It is Haldir that you crave more than anyone else.
“I would be breaking my oath,” you reply softly, finally having the courage to look at him directly.
“Would you?” he asks. “You have made no vow. You have created no bond. The choice is yours. Utterly.” He gestures at himself with his free hand. “And I am right here.”
With a shaking hand, you reach up to cradle his cheek. Haldir turns into your touch, sighing gently, and that snaps your resolve, dissolves it like the winter snows melting in the sun. Haldir must sense the change, because the two of you meet, lips finally joining in what they’ve been longing for.
He tastes perfect. Wonderful. A match made for the ages.
Haldir’s hand upon the tree departs, leaving the bark to encircle your waist, to draw your body against his. You do not resist. You surrender to him, opening like a flower, wanting nothing more than to forget all your fears and sorrows in this little clearing.
The night is long, but it is not forever. For now, the two of you can have this.
Haldir drags you even closer, pressing you firmly against him as he learns the contours of your lips. His hands discover the planes of your body, and yet it’s not enough for him. Haldir is charged like lightening across the sky.
The two of you have been denying these mutual feelings for far too long.
This is a tremor. Earth-shaking. A star bursting into dust.
Haldir guides you to the center of the clearing, easily removing his cloak with one hand. He breaks away a moment to lay it down on the dewy grass, reaching for you the moment it fans out to hold the two of you.
You sink down with him, buckles and straps, and armor disappearing as you go.
It is everything.
It is nothing.
It is all you need in the gentle dark.
taglist:
@foxxy-126 @glassgulls @km-ffluv @firelightinferno @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @protosslady @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @berarenado @therealbloom @ninman82 @thewulf @ferns-fics @beebeechaos
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eternal-vambraces · 2 months
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Illustrations from chapter 2 of The Unravelling of Hard Words
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^I've had this one sitting in my WIP folder for months; it was good to have an excuse to finish it.
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^Dueling uncles, drawn with @konartiste in mind
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^If you don't know how to flirt, simply inconvenience them with your physical prowess (warning: mixed results)
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^Sixteen-year old Boromir mentally singing Evanescence in a haze of ennui, it's just like my high school French classroom in 2004
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^I updated Boromir's shirt on this one specifically for @chiropteracupola to a more period-accurate top with drop shoulders and an open neck, which is objectively hotter than the weirdly modern Oxford button-down I had him in before.
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^Cheer up, Fern, he's a dope but at least the guilt will gnaw away at him for the next twelve hours.
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^Sorry, did I say Boromir was having a great time in this fic? He will, I promise. But first, the SUFFERING.
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shrubdaddy · 1 year
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elucidative | l.greenleaf
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↳ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: elucidative |. /ih-loo-si-deyt/ | verb | to make lucid especially by explanation or analysis | y/n is only a little dumb
⇢ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: legolas x reader
⇢ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: fluff
⇢ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: none
⇢ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.1k
a/n: Hiii - Sorry I've been MIA - work has been a bit more hectic and I've been having a hard time finding time to write! I could not stop thinking about the Bridgerton scene with Charlotte and George. Lightly inspired by @reality-warp 'Rávamë’s Bane Trilogy', quite literally one of my all-time fave fics and authors in this fandom and is a literal queen in world and character building so check out her fics if you haven't already!
copyright © | please do not repost my work.
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“Manwë’s breath, how much higher can this wall get?”
Reaching for yet another tendril of the vines climbing up the wall, you attempt to climb higher up the stone wall.
It was a precarious situation — one in which you did not expect to be but were not entirely surprised to find yourself in.
You scaled the stone walls attempting to reach the top of the wall to escape yet another suitor. With flowing sleeves laced with snagged threads and leaves woven into your hair, you don’t quite know how long you’ve been attempting your half-scattered escape plan. At this moment, all you knew was that you’d been in this dreaded courtyard for over an hour and you would not be waiting another minute to be trapped and shackled for the next “prince” to come around.
As a ward of Lord Glorfindel, you were of course expected to adhere to the life of a lady in every way possible. You’ve studied every subject, attended every lesson from etiquette and mannerisms to reading and writing in Khuzdul, and attended each and every dreadful social event your father has encouraged.
Feeling your grip falter yet again, you stumble backward and glare at the very metaphoric yet also a very real wall in front of you.
You have always strived to be the perfect daughter in every way possible. However, in regard to love and courtship, you refuse to follow the ancient, decrepit tradition. Between the many years of dodging conversations and offers of marriage, you’ve reached way past the age of courtship, spending many years avoiding each and every suitor thrown your way.
Rather than bubbling with excitement, you felt the fear of the unknown settle in. Having so much to live for and not enough time to experience, you think of your time spent with the twins and the Rangers of the North — time spent traveling, exploring, and living.
You remember joining the twins and meeting Aragorn… meeting Legolas. He was an elven ranger you befriended through Aragorn. He was strong and sturdy, and for a moment you thought you were in love. The camp up North was a place where not many talked of their past but where they all focused on the present. It was a simple life but it was the life you were able to create for yourself.
Lost in the thoughts of the slow spiral of your sanity, you didn’t hear the footsteps coming up behind you as you reached yet again for the closest, protruding stone on the wall —
“What in the world are you doing?”
Without turning to even see who it is, you let go of one hand waving your intruding guest away.
“Please mind your own business, sir. You can escort yourself out — possibly, somewhere that is anywhere but here.”
You continue your ascent without a second thought but slipped down the wall as stone slowly tore up your hands. Stepping back, you place your hands on your hips and take a look at the growing annoyance in front of you. This stupid wall.
You hear an exasperated sigh behind you and felt someone lightly, grab your shoulder, pulling you from behind.
“Excuse me, sir. But you will unhand or you risk losing your… Legolas?”
Turning around, you were shocked by the familiar face of someone you were completely and utterly infatuated with over the past couple of years. Paralyzed and flustered, you couldn’t help but notice how clean and ethereal — you have never seen him this clean before; his muddied boots were somehow clean and the ragged pants you were so used to was exchanged for a less holey look. Somehow these fit even better. You feel your eyes gaze up but froze — you were staring too long.
“Lose my what?” he asked with a little smug grin.
“Nothing! Absolutely nothing. On the contrary, you can keep everything… It was nothing…” you rambled as you quickly turned around.
You hear him step a bit closer, coming behind you on your side to examine the wall you were so desperately climbing less than a second ago.
“What in Arda are you doing here, Y/n?” he said with his curious, blue eyes. Though a few feet away, just his presence causes your mind to go in a scramble.
“Me? What are you doing here?” you exasperated. Fiddling with your hands, you begin pacing back and forth, pretending to examine every bit of the wall, looking anywhere but him.
Look anywhere but his eyes, Y/n. That is how we’ll survive his cursed beauty.
“You are climbing a wall. If anyone should be questioned, it is you,” he bit back.
You quickly move your shoulder to release his grip and turn around.
“First of all, I live here. Second of all, please do mind your business, Legolas. I am quite a bit … oof … I’m quite a bit busy here. and I’m running out of time.”
Stepping towards the wall, you begin to attempt to climb yet again. If anything, it was to break free from his distracting grip on your body. Ignoring the growing warmth on your cheeks, you couldn’t help but notice how large and warm his hand was and how one touch made you feel like hot honey dripping down your body.
Shaking off the startling moment, you were determined to leave. And even he could not stop you.
“What in the world are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re doing something.”
“I am not”
“Yes… you quite obviously are are.”
“I am n o t.”
“Yes… you are,” he said firmly.
Relenting — you turn back around to face him. Beautiful face and all. You notice how his head is turned slightly down, his eyebrows furrowing just the slightest beginnings of a small smirk staring down at you.
“Fine,” you relented. “If you must know, I am trying to figure out the best way to climb over this disgustingly high wall and escape this dreaded meeting with this so-called ‘prince.’”
“You’re trying to what? With who? Whatever for?”
“Well, the first thing — hmph …” you grunt as you turn back around to attempt to climb for the fifth time in a row. “The first thing is that my dearest father has been parading me around to different suitors, a Lord here, a Duke there — and now, um, it’s apparently another ‘prince’.”
You take a step back because rather than focusing on climbing, you feel a sense of frustration overcome you. The situation of late has finally dug its claws into you... feeling a greater weight on your shoulder than you have originally led yourself to believe. You feel him standing behind you — the burning intensity of his stare on your back.
“No one has spoken of him… no one has spoken of this so-called Prince of Mirkwood?” You continued, “What if he has the personality of a gremlin and the looks of a troll? The Valar knows the little patience I have for men.”
“Gremlins and trolls aside — does what he looks he really matters to you? ” he asked.
“No… Of course not. It’s the not knowing and the fact that I do not know him or his heart that I do not like.
You take a step back to take a look once more at the wall in front of you. Glaring with all of your might, in hopes that your internal rage can burst a whole through these dreaded walls.
“Y/n —you must know... “ Legolas began.
Your eyes run through all the nooks and cranny’s vine-covered stone beast, ignoring Legolas’s words for only a second. There it is. A protruding stone just two feet away from the top. You found one last way you have yet to try.
“Thank the Valar! I think I found a way.”
You walk towards the wall once again, mapping out the new path of vines and protruding stones.
“I think if I can just reach this stone I can lift myself up! If you lift me just a little, I believe I can reach that vine and use these stones to climb up,” you said excitedly.”
“You want me to lift you up… so that you may… escape?”
“Yes, obviously. Did you not hear of threatening the gremlin-troll prince? Please, Legolas.”
“Your father will know that you are missing? The twins have just arrived as well?”
“Those are tomorrow’s problems, Legolas. The prince will be coming today,” you whined.
As you begin your ascent, you feel your foot slipping from the stone. Despite this, you stretched your hand above your head to grab the vine. As you reached, you feel the stone beneath your foot crumble and in a matter of seconds you find yourself falling.
“Lego—”
“Y/n,” he cuts you off. “I have no intention of helping you escape.”
Standing a little too close, you can feel the warmth emanating from his body. As you gaze up to his face, you see he’s wearing an emerald green tunic, soft and silky — something far nicer than the typical garb you always see him in.
“And why not? There is little time to —.”
Your finally glance up to look him in the eyes and —
“You’re wearing a crown,” you blankly stated.
Confused, you oh-so-slowly begin to piece the puzzle together.
“Yes, I am wearing crown,” a small grin appearing on his smugged face.
“Where in the world did you get a crown?”
“It was given to me,” he said as he looked around feigning boredom.
“By who?!” you retort.
“My father.”
“Your father? What does— is he like a king?”
“He is a king,” he said frankly.
“Which makes you a — “ you slowly piece the information together.
“A prince? Yes, a gremlin-troll prince to be exact,” he retorts with now a full grin and staring down at you.
“And you said nothing?” You frantically exclaimed.
“I figured you’d realize at some point,” he chuckled.
You stood there reflecting on all your life decisions at once. Every conversation, every hidden glance. He was a prince.
“I thought it was common knowledge and that you knew of my title,” he said quietly. “I apologize for not disclaiming it sooner.”
“So if what you’re saying is true…” you teased. “You just assume everyone thinks of you as royalty? That’s quite the assumption”
“Y/n, you know I did not mean it like that,” he groaned.
With a little giggle, you stepped away from him and asked “Should I call you, sir?”
“…Y/n, what?”
“Oh my, I’ve never bowed.” Your voice shifts into worry, “Is this grounds for beheading?”
“Y/n, no.”
“I should bow.”
“No— you should not.”
“I’ll bow.”
“Y/n — stop.”
“Please sir, I am merely a lowly peasant. Have mercy, your highness,” you exclaimed as you lower your head and drop into the deepest curtsy.
As he attempts to stop you, he reaches for your arm hoping to put an end to your jester.
As you back away and dodge, you look at him, batting your eyelashes, and cry “My liege, spare me from this punishment I only wish to live.”
Ears turning red with a desperate voice, he begs “Y/n, please.”
As you step back once more, he’s quicker this time and grabs your arm, pulling you close. your chest crushed against his, he drops one of his hands to your waist and the other to your back. You were so close you felt his breath caress your face. As you look up, you find him staring intently at you.
As you stare at each other, you couldn’t help but break into giggles over the preposterous situation. As you begin to giggle, he looks away trying to hold in his laughter, only to also laugh at the situation.
It felt nice — to feel free and silly, if only for a moment.
As both your laughter calms down, he looks back down at you asked, ”So what do you think of the gremlin-troll prince?”
“Nothing too horrid, he’s actually quite dashing,” you teased.
“Dashing, hmm?” he chuckled.
Unaware of everything around you, you were both startled to hear the courtyard doors open with footsteps following. Jumping from each other's arms, you separated a good distance away only for you to see your father and Elrond turn into the corner section you were standing in.
“Oh, good. You’ve met!”
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essenceofarda · 15 days
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The Three Eowyns from my 1920s Middle Earth au, "A Dance at the Palantiri"!! The White Lady of Rohan, Dernhelm, and a flapper dancer!
aka the three personas of Eowyn that Faramir falls in love with simultaneously without realizing that they are all, in fact, the same person LOL
Fic Summary: It's the 1920s in Middle Earth, and Éowyn just wants to get away. Just for a week, to be able to truly be herself, not just an esteemed Princess of the Riddermark. When she escapes under the disguise of a man named Dernhelm to Osgiliath, by fate she crosses paths with Lord Faramir, an infamous playboy and partygoer, who manages to rope her into becoming a bartender at his equally, if not more, infamous club and bar, The Palantiri. The Palantiri is more than meets the eye, same as its owner, however. Éowyn quickly realizes that the club is not just for people to lose themselves, but to lose their secrets too. There's more than meets the eye of Faramir, too, she finds. Suddenly, Éowyn finds herself neck deep in a years old secret operation in the war effort, and must do so while keeping up the guise of a man.
Trying out and having fun with a different to my usual style "very stylized" style :D
Also should I update this fic?
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