#you just roll with the feeling of utter imbalance with no guaranteeing it evens out yet I'm the strange one??

[indigoaster]

If you ever happen to see me walking and for whatever reason you happen to look long enough to be making observations and those observations happen to be that I'm staring at the ground just ahead of me, moving at an inconsistent pace, seeming to jolt at random moments due to suddenly switching from long adult strides to "toddler learning the stairs meets choir kid" step-together-step-together, then shhhhhhhhhhh....no you didn'ttttttt

Cause you see there's a feral neurodivergence goblin running wild in my brain who's a big fan of "oooo shiny!", and if something catches its eye it locks in, and if it becomes aware of my feet + any cracks, colors, textures, or different materials I'm walking on that will be the only thing it can focus on until said feet stop moving. So you see in order to appease the beast each foot needs to step on each area of Different™ and in an equal amount or in a consistent, balanced, alternating pattern that ensures an equal number of steps on Different™. Because if one foot steps on something that the other doesn't that foot feels 𝙬𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙜 and the goblin will continue to state that it is 𝙬𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙜, that it is 𝙪𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣, that it is 𝙙𝙞𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙩 on a non stop loop until it is rightfully evened out by completing the missing step or an acceptable substitute balancing step is agreed upon, and trust me, you don't want to be part of those negotiations.

Signed,

A person who has been sat down for half an hour yet can still feel one yellowish carpet foot and one purplish carpet foot distinctly

[soyeahitsmiddleearth]

Hello there! Can I request a Legolas x reader oneshot where the reader suffers from an injury, and Legolas being the best friend takes care of them? Fluff pleasee. Thankyou <3

Safe With Me

---

It happened during the Battle at Helms Deep. 

There was death, pain, anguish, and sorrow everywhere. No matter where you turned or where you looked, someone somewhere was suffering (either from the pain of death, grief, or fear). 

You've always been confident in your fighting skills; you know that you're good and can hold your own in a fight, but 'holding your own' paired with protecting others never seems to end well. 

Those fools thought it better to put weapons in the hands of children rather than the shield maidens who hide down below in the caverns, and though it does make sense that they would be the last line of defense, surely they could still spare some women instead of forcing the children to pick up their slack?

Even so, it's because of this decision that you're in your current state of injury. 

After the wall had been blown to bits and everyone began their retreat to the inner levels of Helms Deep, you tried to gather everyone you possibly could. 

Being as you're a rather skilled fighter, having trained from a very young age within the confines of Mirkwood, you managed to save a good deal of men and slay an excellent number of orcs, but there is a limit to your victories.

With each stroke of your short swords do orcs fall; every slash and stab reaching a mark that leaves the orc army with one less ally. Try as they might to overwhelm you, you're just too quick for them, so their blows remain useless for the most part (though you do get the occasional cuts and slices that leave you hissing in pain). 

You're in the midst of battling those nasty orcs 4 on 1 when it happens. Having been doing all you possibly could to keep the numbers off of the unskilled and dying men and young boys, you begin to focus more attention ahead than behind you, and one of those foul creatures manages to run up on you and finally get in a proper hit. 

The initial blow is easy for you to dodge, for you feel its' presence lingering behind you, but you quick duck prevents you from escaping the lower blow dealt to your right leg.

As soon as the blade makes contact with your calf you know you're done for. 

The deep slash causes your leg to give out from underneath you and you collapse to one knee, left crying out in shock and pain as your arms grow weak. 

Very vaguely do you hear someone yell your name, your sharp elf ears enhancing your hearing so that it may reach you, but you can't turn to look. 

In your downed state the enemy begins to overwhelm you, so you push your pain away and drop back as another blade comes swiping above your head, an action that would've taken your head with it had you not moved in time. 

You jab your sword up and impale the closest creature, muscles shaking and aching as it goes lax and slumps over towards you. 

Your energy wanes quickly, and the heavy, dead orc only further drains what little fight you have left in you. 

There is no time for you to reclaim your blade from the body of the dead monstrosity, so you're forced to release your beloved short sword and strategically roll away from the other oncoming attacks, and while it does prove to serve you well, you're now left injured and with only one of your weapons. 

The imbalance caused by losing one of your short swords is an alien feeling, for you always have both to fight with, and on rare occasions, neither. 

Another one of those dastardly abominations comes for you in when it sees your hasty retreat and weakening form and tries to stab you, but you role low to the ground and knock it off of its' feet, jabbing your remaining sword down into his belly as soon as he's at your level. 

Fighting so low to the ground, unable to stand is no easy task, and very quickly are you overtaken again. 

A large armored foot comes up and hits you right in the face, and you go down with it having been unable to react in time.

You fall back and land none too gently on your aching spine, and in mere moments is your left shoulder run through and pinned to the ground.

The unnatural feeling of the intruding weapon in your shoulder draws a pained cry from between your parted lips, and you find that you can no longer move that arm (if it were any bigger of a blade, you would've lost the arm altogether), so you rely on the other weaponed arm to stop the killing blow. 

With the last of your strength, you jab your sword upwards and stab it through the chest, relishing in the telling squelch and screech as metal and flesh alike are ripped to nothing, and then the wriggling creature stills and slumps heavily atop you. 

It's heavy and knocks the wind out of you completely, an unwelcome and suffocating feeling, and you'll later learn that this saves your life. 

Moments later, your world fades to black.

---

You were so sure that it was all over. That, while you tried your hardest, you failed. 

The last thing you remember was the horrible pain blooming from your shoulder and the blade protruding from your broken and battered body, and then the newly dead orc falling on top of you followed by complete and utter darkness. 

The bodies of man and orc alike littered the very ground you once stood on and the enemy was gaining more ground than you had to spare, so when you did finally wake up to see color again, you thought yourself to be dead just like all those around you. 

Only, you didn't quite anticipate that the Halls of Mandos would allow you to feel the pain and anguish of your past life. 

A quick look around tells you that you are, in fact, not actually in Valinor, for one of the very first sights you see is that of a dim wooden ceiling and your body laid out of a bed of mans creation. 

Pain is the first thing you feel once the anesthetic of unconsciousness wears off, and it's quite the pain alright. 

A quiet, agonized groan puffs past your chapped lips and your teeth clench together in tandem with your soft whimpers.  

You try to sit up, slowly raising your upper body from the bed, when a fresh pang of pain shoots through your shoulder and pins you back down to the bed. 

Instead of trying to get up this time, you just angle your head down and analyze your shoulder wound.

It's at this moment that you realize that your outer layer has been removed (probably cut away), and you're left with nothing but the gauze wrapping your shoulder and a covering for your modesty.  

When you look further down you see that your cut up calf has been treated much the same, and the only missing layer is that single leg of your trousers. 

Your vision suddenly goes blurry and you're forced to squeeze your eyes shut again, but this time when they open, there is another presence in your line of sight. 

It takes a few seconds for you to recognize the person hovering above you, but as soon as you do a small smile up turns the corners of your lips.

"Legolas..." Uttering that single name takes quite a bit of energy from your already bone dry reservoir, but you don't regret it for even a moment. 

Those sparkling pools of blue shine with relief when your whispered speech reaches his ears, and as soon as he's there does he disappear from your immediate vision. 

"I thought you were never going to awaken." He breathes, leaning over you once again with a damp towel in hand this time. "Tell me, how is the pain?" 

The towel is most likely to keep you from overheating, though you can't feel any sort of cold or hot like other mortal beings, and you appreciate it greatly. 

Your voice is barely a whisper when you reply, and it makes his elven heart throb in his chest with many emotions. "Painful?" Truthfully, it's a rather intense suffering that makes it hard for you to even think straight, but you don't wish to worry him any more than you already have. "Nothing that I cannot handle, I believe."

"That look in your eyes betrays a different story." He counters softly, reaching down to graze your too-warm cheek gently. "I will have to change your dressings soon. But I'm not so sure you will want to be awake for that." 

An alluded to promise of pain much worse than what you currently suffer, something you seldom wish to experience, though it's not like you can just pass out on command. 

"I will have one of the healers prepare for you a sleeping elixir, should you agree to have it." 

"What of the others? Surely I am not the worst of the wounded. You should conserve what you can." The words leave you even though you don't necessarily want to abide by them, but you don't take it back either. If you could prevent pain from anyone else, then you would. There's no guarantee that you'll react promisingly to it any ways. 

"There is plenty to go around. Do not worry yourself over others for the time being and allow me to help you." Those words don't make you feel any better.

If there is an abundance, then that means there haven't been enough wounded to use it (and not from a lack of injury either). 

A moment of silence washes between the two of you, and then in that same delicate whisper of yours do you ask, "How many...?" 

Hesitation rears its' ugly head and morphs his pleasant stare into a sorrowful, crestfallen frown, and it promises you nothing good. 

"Too many. But we must worry about that later when you have regained your strength and replenished your health. Please, rest." His places his hand over yours, touch as soft and careful as a feather, and he says no more on the matter. "I shall-" 

"Please, don't leave." You plea before you can engage your filter, curling your fingers around the warmth of his own, "I cannot handle the solitude right now." 

He hesitates once more but does not require further prompting, for he takes the seat next to your bedside and sits down. "Then I will stay right here with you." 

Your head tilts to the side to look over at him and the smallest of smiles brightens your pale face, "Thank you, Legolas. You've always done well by me." 

"For you, my friend, I would do anything. This is nothing." 

You're in good hands being left in his charge, and this thought lulls you into a pleasant, painless sleep.