#lotrxreader

[queenstarlight2]

A Yandere Obsession in Middle-Earth: A Reader's Unintended Fall into Madness - {Characters} (on Wattpad) 

https://www.wattpad.com/1459485378-a-yandere-obsession-in-middle-earth-a-reader%27s?utm_source=web&utm_medium=tumblr&utm_content=share_reading&wp_uname=Shinu_Oni

 ➡️Yandere LOTR various x reader Lucky you, you go walking in the woods and now you're in middle earth. You might know the place but people are acting pretty odd, and the storyline doesn't seem to be anywhere in sight. This might be middle-earth but something is going on with the story... for better or worse.

 Yandere Hobbits, Thranduil, Elrond, Legolas, lindir, etc. 

CHAPTER 1 COMING TMR- 7/7/24

(if somebody wants better cover art, just ask)

[lillianofliterature]

do you do platonic preferences for lotr or only romantic?

Hello there, Anon! Thank you for the ask! <3

Yes, I would also write platonic preferences if someone were to request a scenario/preference in which they ask for it to be platonic (if you would like a platonic twist on a preference, send it in!). Otherwise, my default is typically on the romance spectrum.

In general, though, I am running out of preference ideas, so I'd very much appreciate any links to lists or ideas for more! I have several preferences in my drafts but beyond that my idea box is running low.

Xx Lillian

[jazzistolkienfanfics]

Melleth - Legolas x Reader

Type: Imagine Pairing: Legolas x reader Summary: Y/N knows some Elvish, but she confuses the two meanings for one word Legolas is continually saying: melleth (which can translate to both ‘female friend’ and ‘love’) Warnings: middle finger, mentions of being high, crushing obliviousness, ‘shit�� Word Count: 1462

Y/N and Legolas certainly made for a strange pairing wherever they went. Y/N, constantly covered in sweat, dirt, and occasionally blood, a decent height but absolutely dwarfed by elves (or most men, really), with a mouth like a drunken sailor also high on pipeweed and an irritating level of clumsiness. Legolas, ethereal, stupidly good-looking Prince of Mirkwood, taller than was comfortable for Y/N, never tripped onto his face in front of other royals, and spoke in a calm, agreeable voice on most occasions.

Outsiders to their life would never have assumed them acquaintances, let alone the most familiar of friends, with constant inside jokes with one another and the occasional awkward moment brought on by what the less ... stately members of society liked to call ‘sexual tension’.

According to Y/N, Legolas had absolutely no interest in her whatsoever. She’d heard his stories of his ex-flame, Tauriel, and how his father, King Thranduil, had declared her a ‘lowly Silvan elf’. The beautiful, talented, Captain-of-the-Guard Tauriel, ‘lowly’. Y/N was quiet certain Thranduil would choke on his imported wine if he heard of a human girl who was infatuated with his son, who didn’t like her anyway, as far as Y/N was concerned and aware. 

Y/N allowed herself some of her rare minutes alone, when she wasn’t caught up in all the action and battle as a result of joining the Fellowship after they’d helped her in a battle against Orcs, to contemplate on what life could be like with Legolas, permitted herself to briefly think of how he would hug her, how he would kiss h-

“Y/N! Are you coming, melleth?” the blonde elf in question called her name from where he exited the stable where Arod and Hasufel were kept.

Y/N jumped in surprise, her cheeks now a deep red and she was fervently thanking the Valar that Legolas was not telepathic. Though her embarrassment was muffled by the disappointment at hearing him call her ‘friend’. “Mellon! (friend!) Yeah, I’ll be right with you.”

Legolas’s face fell almost imperceptibly at her use of the word friend - he was constantly confused that every time he greeted her as ‘love’ Y/N would respond with ‘friend’. The beautiful, wild, headstrong human girl, he’d fallen for from the moment he first spoke to her, rejecting him so casually day after day, and yet still smiling at him and hugging him and ... it was all very confusing for Legolas. He knew that elves only fell deeply, truly in love once in their long, long lifetimes, and he was so sidetracked by her continuous ... ‘friend-zoning’ that he didn’t know if his feelings for her were the true kind, or just the kind he’d harboured for Tauriel - the same love young, naive children declared for each other.

But he did know that he found Y/N very attractive - from her e/c eyes that could hold thousands of emotions and subtleties at once, to her s/c skin that pleasantly reflected sunlight and was soft despite the fact it often had some small amount of dirt or blood on it, not to mention her unruly h/c hair that she was constantly blowing out of her face/fidgeting with in a most adorable manner. 

“Hey! Legolas!” the blonde elf jumped at the unexpected speech, looking down and starting when he saw her only centimetres away from him. “We going, or what?”

“Yes, of course,” he stuttered a little, then cleared his throat and smoothened out his speech. “Come on.”

He mounted Arod in one smooth movement, and held out his hand to Y/N. She was definitely gladdened by the fact that he was inviting her to hold his hand, but she glanced suspiciously at the horse he sat upon.

“Normally, I just walk next to you,” she said, and Legolas cursed internally at her quite valid statement.

“Aragorn said that we must move quickly today,” he said quickly. The Ranger had, indeed, said that. “And Arod does not like Gimli very much. So ... would you ride with me?”

Y/N grinned and let him pull her up so she sat in front of him, leaning over Arod’s neck. Legolas brought his arms around her waist so he could hold the reins. Gimli looked at the two of them and muttered something about ‘lovesick fools’, which made Legolas shoot him a scathing glare and Y/N give him a withering middle finger. Aragorn just sighed quietly, mounting Hasufel and pulling Frodo up. 

---

Hours later, Y/N began to shift uncomfortably and blink sleepily.

“It’s all right, melleth,” Legolas said kindly. “You can lean on me.” He was silently hoping, praying that she would say anything but-

“Thank you, mellon,” Y/N said through a quiet yawn, leaning backwards so her head (and then her entire top half) was resting against Legolas’s chest. 

The elf waited until he heard her breathing even out, and he was sure she was asleep, before he began to talk to her softly.

“Why must you do this to me, Y/N? Why do you flirt with me and blush around me and then reject me moments later?”

Unbeknownst to Legolas, who was still expressing his frustration aloud, Y/N had opened her eyes, and was fully awake and listening.

“I don’t understand!” he burst out, almost making Y/N reveal that she was awake as she struggled not to jump in shock. “I say that I love you, I call you love ... is it a human thing to ignore romantic advances?”

“Oh!” Y/N couldn’t stop herself and she sat straight up, twisting around to look at Legolas, who was somehow both pale with shock and flushed with embarrassment at once. “Melleth! It means love in Sindarin, doesn’t it? Shit - I thought you were calling me friend!”

Legolas took the hand that was holding the reins and smacked himself on the forehead. “I forgot that I was the one who taught you Sindarin! And I taught you that melleth meant-”

“-friend,” Y/N finished. “Does it really mean love?”

At this point, Legolas was wondering whether to tell Y/N the truth or not: to save him from the crushing mortification he felt of misunderstanding her for a period of months, but he decided that a late confession of his feelings would be better than potentially hurting her. Not that she would be hurt if she didn’t return his feelings, which was what he expected after Tauriel. 

“Yes, Y/N, it does,” he said slowly, looking at her - her e/c eyes wide with confusion. “I told you that elves only love once in their lives. And I think that my love is you.”

“You ... love me.” Y/N repeated slowly, knowing she sounded stupid but being too shocked to care. 

“Yes. And you probably don’t-”

“Legolas, if you say ‘you probably don’t love me’, so help me I will throw you off this horse.”

Legolas blinked rapidly. 

“I kept thinking you were deliberately calling me friend because you knew I was attracted to you and you were discouraging me!” Y/N explained. “And, honestly, look at you! You’re the Prince of Mirkwood! And you’re an elf - I didn’t even think that elves fell in love with humans.”

“We do,” Legolas smiled, his entire expression transforming into one of soft happiness. “Or, at least ... I do.”

Y/N stared at him for a moment, before laughing loudly and unapologetically. Legolas’s face fell a little. 

“I am so stupid,” Y/N laughed. “I can’t believe I kept calling you friend.” 

She turned on the horse, lifting one leg over so she now sat side-saddle, and gently reached out, touching his cheek so softly it felt like a stroke of the wind.

“I am sorry for hurting you,” you said, taking a deep breath to steady yourself for what you would say next. “Gi melin. (I love you)”

Legolas breathed in sharply, surprise sketched all over his features. You gave a low chuckle.

“I thought elves were meant to be more observant than this.”

Legolas just rolled his eyes, pulling you towards him and connecting your lips softly. He tasted like the kind of pure, sweet water one could drink straight from a spring, and like something citrusy and a little earthy. Everything he did was gentle - how he pulled her towards him, how his lips softly brushed across hers, and how his arms wrapped around his waist.

“OI!” Y/N and Legolas broke apart at the loud shout, that had come from Gimli’s direction. “STOP MAKING OUT AND KEEP MOVING! Oh, and Aragorn? You owe me ten gold.”

Aragorn muttered something under his breath along the lines of ‘shit’, waving a hand for you to get moving.

Legolas kicked Arod into motion, both of his arms remaining firmly around your waist. “Gi melin, melleth.”

Thanks for reading! Please feel free to heart this imagine, give me a follow and/or request (it makes my day so much!).

[alessandrapedrotti]

LOTR/The Hobbit collection (imagines, characters x reader & preferences) (on Wattpad) 

at the beginning you will have a dreamcast of mine of some characters of The Silmarillion (made just for hobby) and then.... just a little bit of everything! fanfics of characters x reader, imagines and preferences... just name it and you will have it (or i hope so)!!

https://www.wattpad.com/story/139975932-lotr-the-hobbit-collection-imagines-characters-x?utm_source=web&utm_medium=tumblr&utm_content=share_myworks&wp_uname=_Ale95_&wp_originator=fOd3SMYkfJqwqUdKjM2f03%2BvRkm8oAq1QhhhOy6BuuVr8PGjbKwdcZSmNEmQKA4fa41ZYXx5OzwBD3PFimO2ZvcMXJZPrOJAjV97C3Lp6PjztA19l8dYtcfBZ%2Bmg11hs 

[jazzistolkienfanfics]

Gi nathlam hí

Gi nathlam hí!/You are welcome here!

Hello, my name is Jazzi, and this is a blog on which I will write imagines, mini-series and your requests, for Lord of the Rings and the Hobbit.

DISCLAIMERS:

1. I am not J.R.R. Tolkien reincarnate, nor am I Peter Jackson. I do not own any of the characters, plots, locations or anything else used in the movies or books. I do, however, own some Original Characters, plotlines, and occasionally locations, and I will politely ask you to ask me permission before you use any of these, and credit me if you do so.

2. I am human. I have a life. I also have Wattpad (follow me at -devilblush on which I have one Legolas fic) and I therefore cannot update every day. I will be putting up new imagines or preferences or something at least once a fortnight, but probably more often. After exams. Please do not hate on me.

3. Following on from 2, there is ABSOLUTELY NO HATE tolerated on this blog. I love and support you no matter your ethnicity, religion, sexuality (have you seen the icon, honestly) but I will RAIN DOWN HELLFIRE IF YOU HATE ON ANYONE. *also I’m a people-pleaser please don’t break my heart here, guys*

4. This is a SMUT-FREE, INCEST-FREE, ADULT-MINOR-RELATIONSHIP-FREE blog. I will not write any of the above, and I reserve the right to deny requests I am uncomfortable writing (also, I’m in school. I’ve never been married. Don’t ask me to write weddings or any more than brief mention of children because I have no experience and will mess it up.) 

5. My writing will contain GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION, VIOLENCE, SWEARING, BLOOD, WAR, DEATH, and other themes that may not be appropriate. Proceed at your own risk of crying and/or being scarred (I’ve been told I write death graphically).

6. I check Tumblr as often as I can, but if I don’t see a request for a couple days I am very sorry! I will only reply to the ask or request once it’s done.

REQUEST RULES:

1. You can request an x reader for any character from Lord of the Rings or The Hobbit. In your request, give me a) the character who you wish me to write for, b) the gender of the reader so I use the right pronouns, and c) a prompt and/or summary if you would like. Include any additional information if you would like!

2. I will write fluff, angst, sadness, death, sickness, basically anything but smut, rape, incest ... anything sex-related.

3. Tell me if you would like me to write in third or second person (i.e. he/she or you)

4. Submit your requests in the REQUESTS! section! 

I love you, if you are reading this. <3 ❤️❤️❤️

MASTERLIST

[lillianofliterature]

tortured heart | aragorn x reader | 2/2

REVISED on August 4th, 2022. Expanded from 7.5K to 7.7K.

a/n: this short series is based on a request sent in by @blissful-swift.This is also for @nutella-hitler who requested to be tagged in a fic.

summary: as his hands meddle with herbs and linens, mingled with your blood and his own tears, Aragorn’s darkest fears are realized.

warnings: wounds, blood/gore, violent circumstances, sickness/fever

word count: 7.7K 

music: Healing Katniss, Rue’s Farewell, & We Could Go Home by James Newton Howard 

“Legolas,” Aragorn summoned, his voice quick and assertive, pulling the elf from his anxious position on the other side of the fire and close to his side. The fair-haired archer knelt down beside him, his gaze following where Aragorn gestured with a jut of his stubbled chin. "Place your hands here, where mine are, and push down firmly." 

Legolas quickly replaced Aragorn's hands with his own and waited for the ranger as he rose with haste and made his way to their supplies, which laid in a heap next to Gimli. 

He grabbed his pack from where it lay and brought it back to your unconscious body. Legolas watched pensively as Aragorn fumbled through the bag, careful to keep the pressure on your wound even. Legolas had laid out most of the medicinal things just moments prior, but there were a few items he had overlooked. 

He watched as Aragorn turned his body towards the fire in an attempt to quicken his pace of searching. With a grunt of frustration, Aragorn shook his pack to its side, spilling its contents onto the ground in the light of the flames. Within seconds, he snatched up a silver flask that glinted in the firelight. He unscrewed the flask and wafted it under his nose, pulling away with a disheartened look. 

Aragorn's displeasure came from the realization that he had only brought ale, which was a weaker beverage in the sense of its alcoholic content. It was good for warming up a cold body and taking the edge off of a hungry stomach, but not strong enough for sterilizing an open wound. Aragorn glanced at your pack but didn't bother to check your flask. He knew you only carried ale, and occasionally a small store of mead.

"Legolas, what did you bring with you?" 

"Just wine from my father's halls. It's won't do much for this, I'm afraid," Legolas looked apologetic. He wished he had something of more use. It was true that elves could hold their liquor better than most, but elven wine was soft and sweet. It wasn't meant for making one drunk, but rather to pair well with fine dishes and desserts. It took bottles of the stuff to make someone inebriated and Legolas only had a few ounces.

"Gimli?" Aragorn's gaze found the dwarf's above the tips of the flickering flames as he sat brooding in worry on the other side. His stout companion seemed puzzled by his inquiry as he glanced from your body and back to the ranger, as if Aragorn's question seemed unrelated to the predicament at hand.

"Ay', uh," He cleared his throat. "I brought some pipeweed. An extra tunic in case ah' soil this one. A few pairs of socks—finest wool in Moria; thick stuff. May not be pretty tah look at, but it'll save ya from losin' a toe when the frost nips at yah in the night. Oh, and ay' brought 'ah spare pipe in case 'ah lost this one. And there's a shilling of—..." The dwarf trailed off as he noticed Legolas turn back to face him, his hands still pressed firmly on your abdomen. The incredulous look on the elf’s face was matched by Aragorn's annoyed expression, which was soon accompanied by a sigh.

"In your flask, Gimli, what did you store in your flask? Ale? Mead?"

"Oooh," Gimli nodded slowly. "I brought this—" 

Gimli pulled his flask from his pocket, swishing its contents around. "Strongest brew this side o' tha' Iron Hills. Make 'ah mere man choke up 'is own gullet." 

Within seconds, Aragorn had screwed the lid back onto his own flask and got to his feet. With two large strides, he snatched the bronze flask from Gimli's hand and opened it. With one small sniff, Aragorn knew it was potent enough to complete the task. He turned his heel and knelt on the other side of your torso, across from Legolas, whose hands were still steady. 

"Lift your hands gently," Aragorn said, his voice calm but full of authority. "Now remove the cloth. Slowly." He watched as Legolas followed his instruction carefully, allowing him to pour a generous amount of the liquid over the wound. 

As he did so, he glanced at your unmoving face, surprised to see you unfazed by the contact, which was no doubt extremely painful paired with the depth of your wound. In one breath, he was thankful that you were blind to the pain in your unconsciousness, but in another, it worried him all the more. Something this strong would indefinitely jolt a body's reflexes, but with you, nothing happened. Aragorn swallowed his worry and looked at Legolas. The elf was holding the blood-drenched cloth in his hands, trying not to despair as he realized what was happening to your body before his very eyes. He'd rarely seen death, especially not anything so brutal and gruesome—not inflicted upon his companions. 

"Aragorn—" The ranger followed where Legolas' eyes fell. The elf's hands were tainted with crimson liquid and the once pure cloth of Aragorn's shirt was stained red and dripping onto the earth. Aragorn sympathized with Legolas; he knew the young prince had hardly seen death in his life, yet in the last day alone he had watched one companion die before his eyes and now another's blood was riddled in his pores. 

He wanted to comfort his friend, but there wasn't any time to spare. Comfort could come when you were conscious and on your way to mending.

 "Rinse your hands and throw that piece out. We can't use it anymore. Bring those other strips from the pot over here. She needs fresh bandages." Aragorn’s words seemed to drift from one pointed ear through to the other. The elf was frozen as he stared down at his hands, which trembled slightly in the cascading light of the fire, the color of your blood staining his pale skin. Aragorn's heart rent within his chest for him, but there simply wasn't time for this! "Legolas! The bandages."

The elven prince was startled to action and promptly made his way to the waterskin canteens by the fire, pouring some over his hands just enough for most of your blood to rinse off. He ignored the pink tint that remained as he reached for the collection Aragorn's remedies. There were a few strips of clean cloth that had been sterilized a little earlier, which were now dry. He picked one up and, while unraveling it, handed it to Aragorn. 

Aragorn glanced at Legolas' face as he took the strip from his hand and doused it with the liquor within Gimli's flask. He then leaned forward, dabbing the gash in your torso gently, probing it enough to let the alcohol sterilize whatever infectious grime had nestled itself there. He was sure, no doubt, that the Uruk's blades were never purified, cleaned, or even made with a straight edge. Your skin bore the ramifications of their hastily made weapons. 

"Take the yarrow and mix it with a little bit of water and grind the blossoms up until it's firm. It will help to stop the bleeding and seal the wound. Gimli, take those strips out of the boiling water and drape them over the edge to dry. I'll need them for her other cuts. And find the linen gauze in her satchel; I'll use it for the binding." 

Both companions set to complete the tasks given to them as Aragorn began the tedious task of cleaning your wounds—but before he could properly clean them, he had to find them. He was aware already of the deep gash in your lower abdomen, which was the worst of all. But apart from your torso, everything was still hidden beneath your clothing, just barely peeking out from wherever your clothes had been torn. In order for Aragorn to clean and purify the flesh, he had to have access to them.

He took his knife and carefully loosed the seams at the shoulder of your sleeves so they could be removed easily, leaving your upper torso covered and shielded from the brisk evening air. There were a few cuts to your face and a light laceration to your left arm, which could now be seen well enough to clean. The rhythmic sound of the rock grinding into the bowl that Legolas was using to mix the yarrow and water into a paste provided Aragorn with a stimulant to pace himself. With each small cut, he allowed himself a few seconds to dab water over it and remove the blood and dirt, and a few more seconds to apply a little of Gimli's liquor. 

Every few seconds, he would glance to your torso, watching the cloth there slowly sop up more blood. He tried his best to focus on one task, but the loss of blood was beginning to worry him. With the laceration on your left arm, he could see a little bit of your deeper tissues beneath the initial abrasion. Each time he poured water over it, fresh blood pooled in its place. Aragorn's mind began to race. If you kept losing blood like this, you would be gone within the hour. There would be no way to bring you back if you died from—

"Here, this is the first of the yarrow," Legolas unknowingly broke through Aragorn's anxiety as he knelt down next to him, handing him the first small batch of yarrow on a clean rag. "I'll make some more for her smaller cuts." As Legolas laid the rag in Aragorn's palm, he promptly returned to his bowl and cluster of uncrushed yarrow blossoms. 

Aragorn hadn't the ability to utter thanks as he crossed over to your right side where the gash was. He removed the cloth gently, which was soaked through with blood. He tossed it onto the earth next to the other ruined strip. With more water over the gash to rinse the fresh blood onto the ground beneath you, he used two fingers to press the yarrow into the marred flesh. When he filled the wound, he spread a light layer of it on the edges of the broken skin, sealing up any available passage. 

By the time Aragorn had finished, Legolas had another batch of the paste prepared for the other wounds. Aragorn promptly applied it to your arm as he had your torso, and then used a tiny bit to seal up the cuts on your cheeks. Legolas and Gimli watched impatiently, awaiting their next task. When Aragorn finally stood on his knees and turned towards them, they sat up straight. 

"I will need both of you to help me," Aragorn instructed, preparing the thicker gauze he had wrapped up in a coil from his satchel. The two companions came to his side, eagerly listening as he guided their hands. "Gimli, I need you to keep her sitting up just enough to allow Legolas to pass the gauze underneath her into my hands."

Gimli sat on the ground as Aragorn gently nestled your shoulders onto his legs, where Gimli was to support your back with his arms. Your head rested back against Gimli's chest where he could see the dark crimson in your (h/c) hair and the dried blood that had tainted your flesh. It was enough to bring the disagreeable fellow to a few tears that threatened to spill over his round cheeks and into the braids of his beard.

He watched quietly as Legolas and Aragorn repeatedly wrapped your torso, passing the gauze back and forth until it was layered generously. After that, Legolas wrapped your arm while Aragorn placed small patches of the gauze over your cheeks. When they finished, Aragorn helped Gimli position your body onto the ground gently. As Gimli stood, both he and Legolas noticed the shift in Aragorn's demeanor. 

Now that the bleeding had been stopped and the wounds had been medicated and cleaned, he could find some peace within himself. Although there were still dangers that could arise through the rest of the night, they had at least gotten the largest task done within a little more than an hour, which was incredibly good timing for such extensive wounds. 

But now came the waiting and the watching. 

Aragorn would have to watch carefully to make sure the yarrow had sealed the wounds, to make sure your temperature was level, and to watch the hours to ensure that you would become conscious on your own soon. He sat on his knees where he had been for half an hour, nursing your wounds, slouched and weary. As Gimli and Legolas settled themselves on their meager bedding, Aragorn stood and retrieved both his and your covers, rolling them out as he pulled them up from the ground. When he did so, your satchel tipped over, spilling your journal and a few other items onto the dirt. He bound the blankets in one arm and stooped to return your things, but the journal he kept in his hand as he seated himself on the ground beside you. 

He covered you gently with the thicker blanket, hoping to ward some of the chill off from your exposed body. It would be senseless to put fresh clothes on you when he would have to replace your bandages as soon as the morning dawned over the plain. You were right next to the fire as well, which would provide a lasting source of heat. 

As silence fell over them, Aragorn decided to flip through your journal, eager to see what you had stored away within its pages since you had last shared your writings with him. That was something you often did every few days with Aragorn as you traveled together, but since the Fellowship had been established and the journey to save Middle-earth had begun, there seemed to have been less time for personal pleasures. Now there were night watches, early hours, four hobbits to guard, and many other tasks that seemed to have overtaken the peaceable sense of your regular lives. There were a few nights, however, that Aragorn had stayed up after his watch to sit with you through yours, despite your protests, which had allowed you both some time to revel in one another's company.

Legolas and Gimli watched as Aragorn slowly turned the pages of the journal with a solemn smile upon his features. They recognized the book as yours; they had seen it in your hands many times since the journey had begun. There was one moment, though, as he read, that his brows drew together and his jaw tightened, and they wondered what he must have stumbled upon. When he looked up and studied your face for a moment as he contemplated what he had read, he brushed a strand of your hair from your face. They both looked away, towards the fire or upward into the sky, feeling as if they were witnessing something that was tacitly private and tender. They didn't utter a sound.

Aragorn didn't comment either as he heard Gimli's sniffles from the other side of the fire, nor did he act as if he noticed the way Legolas uncharacteristically rocked back and forth slightly as he tended the flames, or the way his fingers fluttered against each other in anticipation. As another hour wore on, their postures slouched and began to weigh heavily upon them. Aragorn, although tired, couldn't begin to think of resting himself. But there was no reason for them to avoid sleep. 

"Legolas, Gimli," He spoke gently with a comforting tone and a faint lopsided smile. "Get some sleep. There's no sense in all of us staying awake." 

"But Aragorn, what if you need help during the night?" Legolas asked, concern laced in his graceful features.

"Then I will wake you," He answered, nodding towards them in reassurance. "I'll be fine, so long as she is."

"Are ye' sure, laddie? We wouldn't mind sharin' tha' load with yeh."

"Quite," Aragorn's smile grew, but they saw the tiredness in his eyes. "Sleep."

His companions shared a questioning glance before settling beneath their bedding and allowing themselves to succumb to their exhaustion. Legolas, although an elf with considerable stores of energy, was even wearied by both the journey and the emotional strain of what he had witnessed in recent hours. And Gimli, however much he maintained his emotionally vacant facade, seemed quite worn himself from losing Boromir, the hobbits, and watching you struggle for life before his very eyes. But even their worries could not keep the sleep away for long. In a few minutes, Gimli's snores accompanied the crackling of the fire and the steady cadence of Legolas’ slumbering breath.

 For a long while, Aragorn returned to your journal, drinking in the richness of every page as though it were the very wine in Legolas' flask. You had written pages worth of things about the four hobbits and their gentle quirks, their innate kindness and hearty humor. You had scribbled down sketches of their curly hair or the way their feet compared to his and Boromir's. 

He chuckled as he studied the sketch of his foot next to Merry's. He remembered that evening with perfect clarity. It had only been two days after the Fellowship had departed from Rivendell, when everyone was still getting acquainted with one another. He had noticed how quickly the hobbits had taken to you, no doubt for the way you could feel like home to any soul that crossed your path. 

The sketch had taken place as everyone had settled in for the evening by the fire. Merry and Pippin had been telling stories about their home, describing the Shire and its quaint beauty, as well as the hobbits who inhabited it. 

You had become absolutely enamored with the thought of such a lovely place. However, amongst their words, you had been stuck on one detail about hobbit physiology since the moment you had met Frodo during the council meeting. Aragorn had been waiting for you to inquire about their feet for nearly three days; he knew you thought it both adorable and rather hilarious, that beings of such small stature would have such large feet—and the volume of the hair that grew on them! It was the source of your giggling as they went on with their storytelling. 

But as you asked your questions in between their sentences, you had had the brilliant idea to sketch their feet, which had soon led to you comparing Merry's feet to your own, and then Boromir's, who had also been subject to laughter on the subject; and finally, you had turned to Aragorn, who had been less than welcoming on the idea of parading his feet for eight other men to stare at. But the look on your face as you turned to him had been full of merriment and he could not risk disappointing you, however ridiculous the request was.

 He had been oblivious, however, to the butterflies that had erupted in your stomach when he had shied his boots away from your greedy hands and donned a bashful smile - all until you practically begged him, pulling at his arm with your delicate hands. He hadn't lasted more than a minute before you were seated by his bare feet, pencil scribbling away, as both Merry and Pippin peered over your shoulder, with Merry occasionally offering his foot as a model beside his own.

In the next few pages were different flowers and blossoms from weeds, as well as a few leaves of various shapes and colors. They were adhered to the page with the now-dried syrup Sam had brought along in his pack, much to the hobbit's dismay. Next to each carefully pressed object was a note, labeling the plant and the day it was picked, the reason it had been kept, and who had given it to you. The flowers and their frail pedals had been picked and given to you by Sam, who was always admiring their differences as the company trekked onward. 

Next to Sam’s chosen blossoms was one (f/c) flower that he remembered giving to you around the same time. He gently ran his finger over the perfectly dried petals as a swell of giddish happiness erupted within him. You had thought enough of it to keep it preserved next to your other treasures.

Next to it was a note written in careful penmanship.

 From Aragorn, in the afternoon on the fifth day of our journey, just before we reached the borders of the Lothlorien forest. He said it reminded him of me, since it bears my favorite color.

I thought it very sweet of him.

I shall cherish it forever.

Aragorn could feel the heat rise in his cheeks. He quickly flicked his eyes to the next page.

The leaves had been plucked from shrubs, trees, and the ground by Frodo, who claimed to have a collection of them himself in his home in Bag End (and had suggested turning them into garland once the journey was concluded). The weeds, of course, had been given to you by Merry and Pippin, who had somehow found beauty in their simplistic and plain blossoms. 

It was comforting to see their input in your journal, especially now that they had been separated from the rest of you. Aragorn's thoughts wandered to Merry and Pippin as he read their reasoning for picking the various weeds; some for the funny way they smelled and others for their odd shapes. 

Where were they now? Were they injured? Were they even alive at this point? 

With a steady hand, he closed your journal and set it beside him, unable to continue reading your eloquent words, gazing upon your simple handwriting, and admiring the pressed oddities hidden between its pages. It was obvious to him now that no matter how hard he tried to focus on the hope that you would be on the mend by morning, it was of no use; he would always worry for you. He would always fear a life spent in your absence.

The truth of the matter was that, if he was to lose you, to watch your life slip through his fingers before his very eyes, it would kill him completely. It was irony at its finest; to speak of that kind of inward death when your body was bruised and frail before him. It was a very ill-favored joke, a matter conveyed in very poor taste, as it were. 

And yet he did not laugh. Nor did he smile. In fact, he felt himself swallowing tears. 

Aragorn's eyes settled on your features, recalling the words carefully written in your journal, recollections of each day and the things that mattered enough to be put to paper; the things so important to you that they had to be preserved. As he studied your bruised skin, a dark thought entered his mind with tumultuous volume. Would there one day be a time when he would wake to remember that you were no longer living? Would there be a day he would have to learn to adjust to never seeing your smile, to feel his thumb caress the softness of your cheek, or never being able to close his eyes as he listened to you speak? Would there ever be a time when the comfort of your presence ceased to exist? Or when those bright (e/c) eyes did not return his gaze, knowing every thought that passed through his mind?

Amidst his worries, Aragorn noticed the blood that had been mingled into your hair and skin and the dirt-smudged in your features. He leaned over your body and retrieved one of the rags he had used to clean your smaller cuts, which was still quite clean. He poured the waterskin over the rag, dousing it with fresh water, and scooting himself close enough to be able to place your head in his lap. 

Carefully, he took bunches of your (h/c) hair and ran the wet rag through it, cleansing the blood from its strands. He then took the rag and folded it inward to a clean side and gently scrubbed the dried blood from your forehead and nose, and finally over your lips. His fingers slowed there as he noticed, not for the first time, the beauty in your natural features. 

It was mesmerizing. 

He returned the rag to your forehead and swept it one final time over your skin. When Aragorn's fingers brushed against your forehead, the brief contact revealed an intense heat that had begun to radiate from your skin. With a puzzled expression, he placed the back of his hand against your forehead and neck. They were broiling hot. Beadlets of sweat were gliding down from your hair to the nape of your neck. 

"No, no, no," Aragorn mumbled, leaning forward on his knees, and laying you back onto the ground. His mind began to race with rapid thoughts of fear, worry, and responsibility; he knew what was happening, and there were limited ways that he could fix it. Most of what would come would be up to you. With firm force, Aragorn patted your cheeks in an effort to draw you into consciousness. "(Y/n), can you hear me? You need to wake up—now!" 

 The sound of Aragorn's voice roused Legolas from his slumber in seconds. The elf turned his head from his pillow and adjusted his eyes to the bright light of the fire. With a look at the sky, he could see that it was only the young hours of the morning, with the moon still high among the stars. He glanced to Gimli, who was still snoring, and to the heap of supplies that sat untouched, and finally, he flipped onto his back to find Aragorn leaning over your body with a tense expression. 

He was much more anxious than he had been before; there was a childlike urgency in his eyes. 

"Aragorn? What is it?" Legolas' groggy voice brought Aragorn's gaze to his. 

"She's caught a fever." Aragorn simply answered, shucking the blanket from his legs and taking large strides toward the collection of herbs Legolas has set out hours before. He grabbed a handful of jars and wrapped herbs and brought them back to your side. He began to unravel the wounds that he and Legolas had covered earlier, searching for the infection that had brought the fever on so quickly. 

"What can I do?" Legolas knelt beside Aragorn, watching anxiously as the ranger peered under the edge of the bandages wrapped around your abdomen. 

"She needs something to eat, whether she's awake or not. You could make some broth with the herbs I have here. They'll fight the sickness from the inside and give her some strength." Legolas took the herbs and began to boil water over the fire. While he waited, he nudged Gimli with his foot, drawing the dwarf from his slumber with a violent jolt.

"What are yeh tryin' tah do!? Give me ah' heart attack?!" Gimli chastised, rubbing a hand over his unkempt beard. 

"It's (Y/n). She's become ill," Legolas returned to the fire, snipping off the leaves of the herbs and crushing others into powder before pouring them into the pot. Gimli sat up and rubbed his beard a moment longer before getting to his feet. 

"What's that?" He inquired, peering over the boiling pot.

"Herbs to help her gain her strength back." Legolas watched as Gimli wandered over to his pack and pulled out a bundle of cloth. As he made his way back, he unraveled it and began dropping tuffs of dried meat into the pot.

"What are you doing? It doesn't call for your petrified meat!"

"It's dried pork; it'll give'er more strength than that grass yer' dumpin' in there."

"Gimli, you're supposed to be helping–"

"No, he's right. I was unaware that we had meat. Good thinking, Gimli." Aragorn's voice silenced the bickering of the two companions. Gimli's smile was smug as he looked at Legolas and added the rest of his pork into the mixture. Before Legolas could return his smugness, Aragorn's heavy sigh captured their attention. 

"It doesn't make any sense! Her wounds are fine; there's no sign of infection anywhere," Aragorn said, his voice laced with frustration. He rubbed a hand over his mouth and chin, considering the possibilities. "We must have missed something." 

Legolas and Gimli watched as Aragorn pulled your boots from your feet and searched your legs a second time for any swelling or gathering moisture through your green leather. As the minutes wore on, he found one area on the inward side of your lower thigh, only a little more than an inch long. He ripped the fabric open enough to expose the complete wound, revealing a small gash with a green tint to the tissue surrounding it. 

What worried him most were the vessels of blood that bulged around the wound, gradually fading into the skin. It had bled little in comparison to the others and had dried much quicker, pulling the trousers close to your skin and hiding it rather well from his sight earlier on. From the looks of it, it seemed to be a wound inflicted by an arrow. He chastised himself for having looked over it before. 

"Legolas, come look at this," He said as he tenderly fingered the swollen skin. There was a fever here, too. When Legolas' shadow flickered beside him, he opened the cloth of your trousers to show the elf. "What does that look like to you?"

"Poison," The elf replied with a sudden expression of distaste. "They must have dipped the shafts of their arrows with it." 

Aragorn did not utter a sound, nor did he return his friend's fretful gaze. He only stared at the wound, considering the next course of action he could take for something this far along. In a mere moment, he was opening his jars and mixing things in his hands. A few things he chewed in his mouth with haste before applying them directly. After that, he began to medicate the wound as best as he could with what else he had. Until the broth had been prepared, Aragorn toiled tediously over your body, suppressing his thoughts with his calculated remedies, whispering between breaths only words that Legolas could interpret as elvish. 

When he had finished, he maneuvered himself around and placed fresh rags drenched in cold water on your forehead. Every few minutes, he would check the dilation of your eyes, warring with himself not to cry when he saw your eyes staring blankly into nothingness. He covered your feet with spare woolen socks and draped blankets over your body above the thigh in an effort to chase the fever. When Legolas finally brought the broth, Aragorn took on the task of trying to get you to swallow. He hoped the sensation would wake you since nothing else had. 

"Come on, (Y/n), swallow," He whispered as he tilted your head upward and set the edge of the bowl to your lips. "Swallow for me. You've got to try."

Gimli and Legolas sat themselves down in their bedding, not able to keep the tears from their eyes. It was heartbreaking, not only to see Aragorn so torn, but to see your life become so fragile, to watch you wilt like a flower as the hours tired on. Once again, they uttered no sound and gave no indication that they heard his tender pleas towards you. They began to wonder how it would be if they had lost another companion by morning. 

How could they part with your body? How could they offer proper respect to you? How would they be able to tread onwards without your footsteps beside theirs? 

Aragorn knelt forward and attempted to pour a small amount of the broth into your mouth, hoping that it would be swallowed. When it pooled out and trailed down your chin, his shoulders dropped. What else could be done if you remained unresponsive? He had done everything he could to medicate the wounds. This part was entirely up to you.

His tears blurred his vision as they spilled over his cheeks. He set the bowl down beside him and wiped the broth from your chin. Taking in a shaky breath, he leaned forward, placing a gentle kiss on your cheek. When his lips parted from your skin, he lingered there, gingerly holding your cheek in his hand. 

"Please, (Y/n), I can't save you if you don't try," He murmured, resting the side of his forehead to your temple. His breath met your ear. "Please, just try. You have to help me in this," When he rose, he placed a lingering kiss to your forehead, his tears dripping from his chin. "Do not abandon me to take up the crown alone, to embark on a life with your absence."

He sat up once more and picked up the bowl, whispering encouragement to you as he tried once more to offer you broth. As the liquid cascaded into your mouth, there was a stolid pause as he waited either for it to pour back out or be swallowed; nothing happened. He laid you back down, defeated within himself. Your recovery was a slim hope, now; a dim flickering against the horrid realization of what was to come. You would be dead by dawn. 

He set the bowl back down and buried his face in his hands, rubbing the exhaustion and crippling stress from his worn features. All three men studied the grains of dirt on the ground, buried in their grief. Aragorn released a silent, guttural sob as it leaped from his lungs. He dropped his head into his hand and the other he laid over your own. His tears poured forth without restraint; without dignity. 

What else was he to do? 

 The sound of sputtering pulled three pairs of eyes to your face with shocked silence. The broth in your mouth spilled out as you coughed and attempted to raise your head. Aragorn sat frozen as he stared at you, too stunned to react. 

"For—for Valar's sake! Are yo–are you trying to drown me?!" You managed, taking in heaving breaths between gargled words. You closed your eyes tight as your head throbbed. As you regained control of your body, you began to feel the weight of the blankets on top of you and the cloth on your forehead. Rather suddenly, you became aware of the searing pain in your abdomen, and a throbbing numbness near your knee. Your left arm felt as though it had been crushed and your cheeks burned. 

What on earth had happened?

"(Y/n)!" They all echoed.

"(Y/n), you're awake!" Aragorn breathed, taking your face in his hands. You heard him sniffle as he placed a salty kiss upon your forehead. He was finally able to surface above his tears, as one surfaces above the raging current of a river.

"What—...what happened?" 

"Don't you remember? You were attacked by the Uruk-kai," Legolas explained, coming nearer.

"And I lost?" You scoffed.

"What do you remember last?" Aragorn asked, brushing your cheek with his thumb. You could see the remnant of his tears glistening in his eyes. His gentle features brought a weak smile onto your lips as you tried to remember. But when it came rushing back to you, your lips fell into a frown.

"I—I remember going after Merry and Pippin. I knew you were running to find Boromir, so I thought I would trek ahead and try to get them back." Your voice was breathy and weak, but it was like sweet birdsong to Aragorn's ears. He had feared he would never hear it again. You lifted your head meagerly and looked around. "Where's Boromir? Is he alright? And the hobbits? Did you not go after them?"

"Boromir was slain, (Y/n). He, too, tried to rescue the halflings. He provided a distraction so they could escape." Legolas explained.

"What? He—he’s gone?" 

Legolas nodded slowly as your voice dipped with remorse. You looked up at Aragorn.

"And the hobbits? Were you able to save them?"

"Our concern was with you first, (Y/n). You nearly got yourself killed." Aragorn placed his hand on your forehead to check for the fever. It was still warm, but much cooler than before. When his eyes met yours again, you could see his relief had become a subtle frame of frustration. "It was foolish of you, going on alone like that! Did you want to die?!"

"Nonsense! I was fine! You should have left me and gone ahead!" You retorted, trying to pull yourself up into a sitting position. You winced as you did so, the pain in your abdomen increasing significantly. You felt Aragorn's hands on your upper arms, gently guiding you back down to the bedding. 

"Here, sip this. It will give you some of your strength back." He brought the rim of a bowl to your lips. You felt the warmth of his hand behind your hair, helping you lift your head. It was the same stuff you had almost choked on only minutes before. You swallowed one gulp and pulled your head away from it, earning a huff from Aragorn. He should have known you would be this difficult.

"How much time have we lost? We must set away immediately! Merry and Pippin are still out there," You ignored his second offer of broth and took in a deep breath, trying once more to sit up, ignoring the pain that surged all over your body. 

"You—" Aragorn began, applying pressure to your shoulders as he forced you to lie back down, "—are going to rest. We will continue our search soon enough."

"But the hobbits, they're onl–"

"There is nothing for it, (Y/n). We cannot control what has happened, nor the time that has passed," He chided, allowing his voice to grow a little stern. You were impossible sometimes! Even on the brink of death, you refused to realize how much strain your body had been put through. 

"I scouted the edge of the plain, just ahead, before I came back with the yarrow," Legolas offered.

"What did you see?" Aragorn asked, glancing up as he carefully tipped the bowl upwards to your lips once more.

"They moved beyond my range of sight not long after I spotted them, but if they're as foolish and unwise as we know them to be bred, they'll have gone through the forest of Fangorn."

"Why didn't ye' say somethin' before?!" Gimli barked, giving the elf an incredulous expression. 

"We needed to care for (Y/n). It would have been unwise for us to set off alone without Aragorn and leaving her here wasn't an option." Legolas explained to the dwarf, defending his reasoning with a deliberate tone. He turned to Aragorn and gestured with his chin to the plain. "The Old Forest will have slowed their journey to Isengard considerably. They are far too dense and impatient to have gone around. They will have tried to make their own path through it, which will take more time."

"Aye!" Gimli sat straight up, a smile forming from somewhere underneath his copper beard. "We may yet have a chance!"

"Not if we lay around," You mutter in between mouthfuls of broth and chunks of pork, evading the rim of the bowl Aragorn was bringing to your mouth. "We have to hurry."

"The sun is not even risen, (Y/n). You need your rest, as do the rest of us. We'll set out in the morning, as soon as I'm sure that you can withstand the journey." Aragorn's word was final. 

Once you had eaten the rest of the broth and its contents, he fed you a few mouthfuls of some disgustingly bitter herbs. 

Soon enough, you had drifted back to sleep, as well as Aragorn, who nestled himself not far from your side. For the next few hours, until the sun had risen far above the horizon, Legolas had remained awake to keep a careful watch on you while Aragorn regained his energy. When you began to wake that mid-morning to the sound of rustling about, you found that the small camp had been picked up and ready for travel, while your companions munched on Lembas bread and mead. 

Within the hour, you felt ready to begin the trek onward (or at least swore as much, though Aragorn’s skepticism remained unchanged). Rather than allow you to overexert yourself upon waking, he insisted that he change your bandages and apply more numbing extracts to help with the discomfort. 

He was incredibly tender as he wrapped your torso once more while Legolas helped you stand. When you had been patched up, Aragorn had assisted you in donning a fresh tunic. He had refused to let you wear a belt, however, for fear it would irritate your abdomen further (which you protested for the issue of not having a place to hitch your scabbard and blades). He felt worried enough at the chance of agitating your wounds with the walk you had ahead of you. 

While Aragorn and Gimli snuffed the fire and began to discuss the next best step with you in tow, Legolas had agreed to braid your hair since you were unable to lift your arms without encouraging the pain to become worse. So, with the prettiest braid you'd ever worn and the most fretful ranger aiding you in each step as you leaned against him, you set forth to regain your large-footed friends. 

 Aragorn realized as you leaned into him, his arm wrapped under your own, that the greatest pardon had been given to him in your recovery. He could see now from the terrible magnitude of his fear that he had felt through the night, that losing you would declare death upon his own soul—it would proclaim everlasting torture upon his heart.

 bonus scene: ( this is my favorite part, the rest is garbage ) 

This was ridiculous. You’d practically lived half your life mounted upon a horse, and now because of a few scrapes, you couldn’t manage it on your own? You huffed in annoyance with your uncooperative body.

"Take your time, (Y/n). I'll not have you risk opening those wounds again," Aragorn's hands held your waist firmly as you attempted to mount the large steed that shifted awkwardly in front of you. You gripped the saddle with all your might, ignoring the pain that surged across your body as you tried to hop up. There had been three unsuccessful attempts already which had resulted in Aragorn's foot being smashed under yours. 

"Again?  I wasn't the one who opened them in the first place." You retorted, just before pulling up on the saddle and balancing yourself perfectly onto its seat. You sighed contentedly while Aragorn released the pensive breath he had been holding. 

"Scoot forward a little—but be careful not to rub your thigh against the pummel," He instructed, sliding his foot into the stirrup. There had only been two horses that could be spared from Eomer's charge whose riders had perished in the night ambush on the Uruk-kai. You watched as Aragorn tested the buckles and tugged on the skirt. "Now, stay still."

"Wait, you're going in the back?" Aragorn halted just as he pulled up, planting his foot with a thump onto the ground again. The expression on his face questioned your inquiry. "I would rather sit behind—if you don't mind."

"I thought we agreed that it would be more comfortable for you to sit in front, that way if you tire during the journey you can lean against me."

"I would rather lean forward against your back. It would impair you less."

"And what if you fall asleep and plummet to the ground?" 

"I won't. I'll hold on." You smiled sheepishly, knowing Aragorn was skeptical. He always was when you had injured yourself - or really any time there was a chance of putting you at risk. When he finally nodded, you swung your leg back over and began to slide yourself down from the saddle so he could mount easily without having to dodge you. He placed his hand firmly on your knee, stopping you where you sat.

"No, no—stay where you are. You don't need to do that all over again."

"How are you going to bring your leg around?" You asked, swinging yours back.

"I'm not quite sure," He smiled curiously, slipping his foot back into the stirrup and preparing himself to pull up. When he hid, he was slow and steady, carefully tucking his leg under him until he was up far enough to release it over the side. When he did, he tottered to the side momentarily, warranting you to fling your hands forward and steady him. His chuckle encouraged a genuine smile to form on your lips. When he glanced over his shoulder, you could see that he, too, was grinning. "Just like that, I suppose."

You allowed him to get comfortable before wrapping your arms around his torso to keep him balanced on the steed. Before long, Gimli and Legolas and done the same, without the minor inconvenience of mounting in the wrong order. And with that, you were riding across the plains of Rohan, towards the edge of Fangorn Forest. 

When it was discovered that the halflings had survived the ambush and made their way into Fangorn forest, you were able to dry your tears as you clutched little Merry’s belt. After you had met Gandalf the White within the shrouded cover of the trees, you found yourself exhausted from the exertion of the day's revelations. As you mounted the steed once more, you fell asleep against Aragorn's back during the ride to Edoras. 

Aragorn would never admit it for fear of worrying you further or giving power to his innermost fears, but he was glad you had decided to sit behind him instead of in front. It was not only much easier to steer Brego, but it was also comforting. It was a warming sensation to feel your head resting against his shoulder and your arms wound around his torso. He was beyond the feeling of relief as he felt your presence so close to him. 

He had faced his worst fears during the night and hoped desperately that they would never reoccur. He prayed that, should you one day agree to take his hand, he would be granted death before you. But he doubted he would be given such a pardon for a second time in his life.

tags: @blissful-swift @nutella-hitler @blueshirtcadet​​ @merlin-288​@ceruleanrainblues​ @midzard-hoe​ @ashley-in-underland

[lillianofliterature]

Aragorn’s chest tightened as he watched the man place a chaste kiss upon your cheek before enveloping you in his arms. He knew he could do nothing, but the love he had for you made his entire body lull with an aching pain. He wanted nothing more than to be the man you ran to after witnessing the horrors of battle. He wanted to be the man you searched earnestly for when the battle concluded, praying he survived. 

He would never interfere, of course. That was dishonorable. You obviously loved the man very much and knew him very well. After all, Aragorn had only spent a few weeks with you since you had joined the Fellowship. This man seemed to have been a long-term companion of yours. 

But he couldn’t suppress the fire in his soul that burned only for you.

[please ask before using my imagines as prompts, or at least give credit to the idea if you are inspired by it. do not copy what I’ve already written. do not repost. thank you!]  [gif not mine, found on google ages ago.]

[lillianofliterature]

[please ask before using my imagines as prompts, or at least give credit to the idea if you are inspired by it. do not copy what I’ve already written. do not repost. thank you!]  [gif not mine, found on google ages ago.]

[lillianofliterature]

embracing grief | thranduil x reader

a/n: I wrote this shortly after my own Great Grandfather, Lawrence, died just before Christmas three years ago. He was a WWII veteran with a passion for his country and I wanted to pay homage to his service. He was a great man, a loving husband and father, and a marvelous Great Grandfather.

I tried to leave it mostly unchanged from the original, but if there are any grammar or spelling mistakes please overlook them - I tried to find everything I could and correct them. I've been working on a different series all. day. long. And I'm mentally worn out. So forgive any leftover errors! Enjoy!

summary: Reader, the Queen of Mirkwood, wife to King Thranduil, scours the flanks of battle for fallen soldiers in need of healing. Amongst the corpses and violent disarray, she stumbles upon a face she'd hoped to never find lying lifeless upon the battlefield.

warnings: death, aftermath of battle, grief, angst

word count: 2.7 K

music: A Mother's Love by John Lunn

In any battle, torment and loss are imminent. Even when the men are far superior in all manner of combat, death has a way of snaking through the battle field and piercing them into suffocation. No amount of armor, weapons, or superior training can prevent the fatal blows, the trauma that ensues, or the unbearable shroud of grief that poisons the heart of every fighter. No battle is free of these dangers, nor the sorrows that spill out with them. This battle was no different.

The Elven king scoured over the lifeless soldiers that bore the armor of elven decent. The golden plates and gauntlets glinted in the falling snow. His boots fell in heavy dread. His skin stung against the terrible cold, the heat of battle dissipating with the fallen. The cold light fragmented the scrapings and imperfections laden over the once immaculate suits.

His eyes drifted over their bodies, the skin that was once lily white, now faded in blue, stained with blood and bruises. Their eyes searched with a hollow gaze into a far off void, relentlessly searching. The king's eyes widened with every step he took, the vast amount of men he had already lost in the young hours of battle astonishing. Perhaps the seeking of precious jewels was not worth the loss of so many men, of so many subjects that once walked his halls.

Soon enough, the king found himself recognizing the faces that laid before him. A captain of his eastern Guard, who often joined his councils with stern advice. A young soldier whom he had recruited only weeks ago, his quest to serve now fulfilled in the utmost degree. A palace smithy, called into battle for the sake of the appeal of an army of great magnitude, who had perfected the armor he now bore in defeat.

As his pace heightened, he mindlessly began searching the bodies around him. As the faces grew familiar and more daunting, he frantically found his way amongst elves, over orcs and through the growing stench of death. Abruptly, his eyes swept upon a scene which eased his chaotic searching, but filled his soul with contempt. There you were, on your knees, tears spilling over yours cheeks. You desperately shook the body before you, whimpering in pleas.

"Please! You cannot leave me to face this world alone...please." Your voice curled over the hitches in your throat, each tear provoking a sob, and each sob another tormented wave of despair.

You were not clad in golden armor, nor in the silver plates of royalty. Your green robes, torn and dirt-ridden, flowed over your feet. The ends of your raiment's were wet with snow, your cold skin aching in bitter malice. Your (h/c) hair fell heavily in the damp air, no longer flowing softly on the breath of the wind. It stuck to your face and whipped sharply against your pale skin. This pale illusion was flushed, even with your naturally (s/c) hue. Your cheeks grew red in your panic, your body hot and cold all in one wave.

You were not meant to be amongst the soldiers, nor even the battlefield as of yet. You were the lead healer and also the queen of Mirkwood, Lady of the Woodland Realm, who was meant to be kept safe and away from the battle's fray. Following the movement of the battle, you had shadowed behind the swift direction of its course, treading amongst the dying where the living in battle had once been.

You had been searching the bodies for any survivors, for any ragged breath that could be salvaged amongst the brutal aftermath. And so abruptly before you, as you swiftly glanced beyond another body, your eyes fell upon a familiar face. From then a scene unraveled that you prayed to Illúvatar you'd never witness again. You could only cry out in broken pleas, a fit of sweat and shock hurling you to your knees beside the man now before you.

The king stopped dead in his tracks, breath escaping him. His thoughts unfurled in every direction, of guilt and remorse, of anger and growing grief.

"(Y/n)..." He breathed, your name the only audible word that escaped from mind onto tongue. As shock belittled him, he stood idle, body and thought crashing in stunned horror. Your arms fell limp over the shoulders of your loved one, his eyes frozen upward in a breathless haze.

"Aduadar (Grandfather), please." You whispered in soft tone. "Don't go."

Slowly, you broke your gaze from your grandfather's armor, the sight suddenly sickening in an entirely different perspective. To look at a body that has just been torn from its soul is a grave image for any to witness. Your head fell back and you searched the skies for any distraction, for any feature in its grandeur that could ease this unbearable truth. 

But all you found were the clouded sky, hues of mournful greys that only pushed you further into remorse. In disdain, you clamped your eyes shut and leaned back on your legs. You breathed in slowly, trying your best to calm the chaos that flooded your entire being.

Your sudden despair was not even solely on the fact of a life without your grandfather, but of this moment, and the next few days ahead of endless darkness. Of a darkness you knew would never really go away, but only fade until you, too, had passed into the Grey Havens. But that was ages to come, was it not? How could you suppress that grief, the riddled chaos that screamed inside of you now? 

How could you ease the piercing emptiness that now hollowed in your heart in this very moment? It was as if something had escaped that would never return, something that was never meant to be gone from you.

As you breathed in your first long breath, it suddenly caught in your throat, and you quickly cast your face down and covered your mouth as a loud, deafening sob broke out. You gut heaved, your body thrown into a rage of trembling. There was no easing the cries, there was no silencing the deep, dry revulsion that insinuated your weeping. With both hands now covering your mouth in attempt to silence the terrible sound, you doubled over and rested your head on his breastplate. Your forehead chilled against the freezing armor.

Thranduil felt his inmost being quake with this display before him, the sight of his beloved wife grieving the traumatic loss of her dearest grandfather, her closest friend. He had always seen him walking with her amongst the halls, speaking of realities only they could understand. He had seen him accompanying you in the deeper passages of the palace on his first visit, after your marriage. He had seen your grandfathers eyes swell with a compassion and love so deep when he looked at you, and he knew no man would ever dare challenge that love.

He had seen your grandfather comfort you in studies, steady you in councils when your opinions had been cast aside by elders, and even witnessed his making you laugh in your most forlorn of hours. This man, this loving man, had also given Thranduil wisdom on many subjects. He had brought back a certain air of fatherhood that Thranduil lost ages ago.

He had given council on how to be a husband, and how to treat his granddaughter with the utmost of respect and the deepest of love. He had even led him in the ways of true leadership, of faltering and rising in humility and in honor. Of judgements and pride to be left behind, of torments and evils to be faced. And of victories and a love to embellish always, into everlasting life.

"For even that is not enough." Lauruveiel whispered, a flash of regret straining in your grandfathers eyes. Your grandfather smiled sadly, and Thranduil realized that he was speaking of his own wife. "Nothing could ever fulfill what she deserves, and that is why you must delve into her with all that you have, and all that you are. Love is only true when you give without want in return, when sacrifice is perceived as privilege."

Thranduil watched as his gaze broke away from the forest beyond the terrace and met his own. A stern, solemn expression sifted into one of understanding, and the wrinkles under his nose and in his cheeks deepened as he laughed a laughter of reverence, not of merriment.

"No lady should have to gaze at the stars and wish she could see them more intimately, for it the man's privilege to give her the skies and let her walk amongst them."

Thranduil inched forward in a state of disoriented disbelief. He knew full well that in every being's life, there are stages of loss that can only be met alone, and even help is met by grief. Though he would never let you suffer alone, if not at all, but he knew better than to break the shield of perpetual shock. You had to allow it to fall away yourself, before he could capture your frailty. Offering his embrace and his words would only cause the debilitated foundations beneath you to crumble in restraint. They would fall empty and cold. He kept silent, holding himself idle until you were ready, watching you closely.

Your skin shivered as a wave of chills invaded your body. The blistering cold and the weak state of spirit had tired your body, every move beginning to pain you.

"Aduadar (Grandfather)!" A heavy breath left your lips. "Am man? Am man lle autamin? ( Why? Why must you leave me?)" Your voice was no longer soft and warm, as it had always been. It was poisoned with wet vowels and dripping sobs. It was cracked with tones not natural to you, with a horror pouring fourth from your mouth.

You sat up and allowed your hands to fall over your grandfather's. You leaned back and softly lifted his hand onto your lap. Your fingers carefully grazed over his. Your sobs had faded and now in their place  a heaving and hot flow of tears poured out in a relentless stream over your reddened cheeks. Your eyes fixed intently at his fingers, taking in his hands that had once captured yours in a loving guidance.

Those hands that had steadied your balance over rocks, hands that had grasped yours in moments of simplistic felicity, and on days that clouds seemed closer to the ground in their looming downpours of drenching uncertainty. Shakily, you raised his hand up to meet your trembling chin. As your tears dropped onto his purplish skin, you closed your eyes and stilled yourself, then placed a forlorn kiss upon his knuckles.

Upon opening your eyes, you lowered his hand to your chest, your last attempt at holding on.

"You mustn't leave me now, Aduadar (Grandfather). I beg of you. You have been my shield and my happiest of memories...how will I return to a life of joy without the man who made it so?" You whispered, your grip on his hand tightening in fear, as if his body would fade into the fog that drifted amongst the lifeless bodies.

You looked up, a sudden surge of childish hope urging you to seek for remaining life, for eyes blinking in consciousness.

"Echuio... (Wake up...)" You whimpered.

You hoped to feel his breath drink in the crisp air, for his armor to rise and fall. But you were met with empty blue orbs that still gazed up at the heavy skies. You heard no breath, saw so subtle movement beneath the metal. But somehow, his eyes seemed...happy. They always had. It was his smile that had been foretelling... and now, in his last despair, there was no smile, only stillness. You wrung your fingers around his pauldrons, giving them an abrupt tussle.

"No! Echuio! Ec-Ech...Echuio...Aduador..." Your tears poured over relentlessly. Your cheeks turned hot as the chill of the air encompassed the flow of salty liquid.

You leaned forward and grazed a soft hand over his forehead. His skin was warm beneath, but cold to the touch. You noticed the latch from his breastplate pressing against his neck, a most uncomfortable feeling, however it was now not felt by him.

You reached to unlatch the clasp, the cold wind biting your skin to numbness. Your fingers dropped the latch, over and over, as your hands trembled. You briskly swiped a heavy stream of tears and grasped it once more. It clumsily broke apart and you removed the upper breastplate. His helmet lay battered only a few feet away, of no use in aiding him now.

You smiled forlornly, and ran your fingers over his face and shut his eyes. Softly, a sense of quiet turmoil resided over you.

"You must wait for me there, between light and shadow. I will come. I always have." You whispered, your mind growing silent and numb in the immense pain. "Guren níniatha n'i lû n'i a-govenitham (My heart shall weep until I see you again)." You leaned forward once more, placing a soft, longing kiss upon his forehead.

You pulled away, inches from his face. You took in his features. The thick eyebrows you had long since been mesmerized by in your youth, the wrinkles delicately etched on his face by laughter and sorrows. His round nose and the red freckles on his cheeks. You brushed strands of snow-white hair from his face, the sweat from the fight still sickling them to his neck. Your thumb caressed his cheek as his hair fell away.

"Na lû e-govaned vîn, savo 'lass a lalaith. Losto vae. (Until we next meet, have joy and laughter. Sleep well.)" You spoke softly, your eyes now burning in the swelling tears. You leaned back in a final grievance, taking up his hand in yours once more. You were overcome once more in sobs, but not like the violence of those before. These were muted and destitute.

Thranduil now knew it was time to step forward, to endure with you and give you strength.

"(Y/n), a'maelamin (my beloved), I am so sorry." He spoke with a quivering voice, the sudden and unspeakable loss beginning to subdue him as well.

You looked up, your eyes flashing with a sense of relief. You were not alone.

"Thranduil...I-..." You began, but another sob broke loose. You grasped your grandfathers' hand tightly, his skin growing colder. "I cannot bear it."

Swift as a breeze, he drew near you. In your numbness, you felt the rich embrace of your husband, his strength and sorrow intertwining and steadying your chaotic mourning.

For a long moment, you drank it all in. Your tears softened and fell slower and less rapidly than before. Your body still trembled, but it was a warm, steadied trembling. A trembling to tie you over, until another wave hit you, until this cloak of numb happenstance rippled away into a raw wound.

"Melonin (my love), let us bid him farewell." He murmured, his voice deep and soft, relinquishing your trailing thoughts.

You began to hold still in each second, only focusing on the physical changes before you. Your spirit was worn into tattered restraint, your mind only able to grasp what your flesh felt, what your eyes witnessed, and what your ears heard. Thranduil's embrace; unyielding and pure. His breath; complete and genuine. His voice; warm and comforting. The air; vivid and sharp. The light; grey and cold.

Thranduil reached down and took your grandfather's hand, softly and in a most gentle manner. He kissed it in silent reverence, in a love and respect that only he could give, that you felt sure was sincere and most alarmingly grave. Then his voice reverberated in his own mourning.

"Alamene, Lauruveiel. Namarie ei ollo vae (Go with our blessing, Lauruveiel. Be well in sweet dreams). And in your wisdom, grace the heavens."

Upon these words, a final lapse of your tears poured forth, a worn, weary aftermath coursing through you. You turned into his arms, his embrace fast becoming a shelter from memory, from truth, from death. From reality.

"Av- 'osto, melamin. He is well once more." He whispered. His arms fell over you, his head atop yours in captivating shadow.

For a long while, as sorrows plumed and despair fell and rose, you were steadied by your husband, whose grief mirrored yours in a way that strengthened your hidden stretch of will.

In days of war, in hours of sorrow, all passes in slow existence. All fades in shrouded gloom. That which lives must find death within the passing. And as light remains gliding and shafts unveil in the bleakest of despair, some soul, some shared mourning, must be embraced. For by this, a soul may lie beyond the death of its successor.

[lillianofliterature]

When the words had left your mouth, your eyes were wide as berries and your cheeks as red as plums. You winced as you looked at the men who sat around the fire, their gazes now blank and their silhouettes frozen in shock. 

The sound of a cast iron pan being dropped added to the clumsiness and stunned stupor of the predicament. The pan had been loosed from Sam’s fingers as he registered what you had said. It rolled on the ground until it stopped with an echoing clank. 

“(Y/n)!” Legolas seethed through clenched teeth.

You looked up at him with a sheepish grin.

“I’m sorry, melamin, it just slipped out...” You muttered. 

[please ask before using my imagines as prompts, or at least give credit to the idea if you are inspired by it. do not copy what I’ve already written. do not repost. thank you!]  [gif not mine, found on google ages ago.]