#elflinqs

            𝐇𝐄  𝐀𝐒𝐊𝐒  𝐈𝐓  𝐎𝐅  𝐇𝐄𝐑   to  understand  but  she  does  not   ,   𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒐𝒕   .   she  is  𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃  𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐄   ,   raw  and  bloodied  and  bruised  with  𝙝𝙚𝙧  𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩  𝙗𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜  𝙩𝙝𝙚  𝙗𝙧𝙪𝙣𝙩  𝙤𝙛  𝙝𝙚𝙧  𝙞𝙣𝙟𝙪𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨   .   too  much  has  been  lost    ––––    her  home   ,   her  position   ,   kili   .  .  .   she  cannot  bear  to  lose  him  as  well   .   he  has  a  destination  in  mind  but  it  is  clear  to  her  it  will  not  be  where  she  is   ,   and  for  that  tauriel  𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐒  𝐇𝐈𝐒  𝐀𝐁𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄  despite  her  tight  grasp  upon  his  pale  wrist   .  

            she  is  without  direction   ,   𝘞𝘐𝘛𝘏𝘖𝘜𝘛  𝘊𝘈𝘜𝘚𝘌   .   never  in  millennia  had  she  expected  such  to  be  the  case   ,   but  never  in  all  the  ages  would  she  expect  to  be  without  him   ,   either   .   legolas   ,   a  constant  presence  in  her  life   ,   a  beacon   ,   a  companion   .   now   ,   naught  but  a  STRANGER  when  she  looks  into  his  gaze   .  

            fingertips  brush  across  his  torso  with  the  gesture  and  in  her  grief  she  cannot  bring  herself  to  let  him  go   ,   cannot  bring  herself  to  speak  the  words  he  needs  to  hear  her  say   .   𝐇𝐄  𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐓  𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄     ,   but  she  is  not  to  follow   .   𝐇𝐄  𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐓  𝐆𝐎   ,   but  she  is  to  understand   .   she  cannot  do  both   .

            ❝   mellon   ,  ❞   her  voice  breaks  upon  the  word   ,   fresh  tears  falling  upon  stained  cheeks   .  ❝   do  not  leave   me    .   please   .   ❞

@elflinqs​ asked: “  you are not your father.  ”

           CONFUSION AND AMAZEMENT DWELL WITHIN HIM  upon  hearing  the  same  words  he  often  told  himself  ,  Despite  all  the  love  and  RESPECT  he  held  towards  Thror  and  Thrain  he  never  wished  to  see  himself  falling  down  the  same  path  as  theirs  ,  the  SICKNESS  that  took  a  hold  of  his  grandfather  turned  him  into  a  COWARD  ,  seeking  to  save  his  fortune  instead  of  his  people  and  while  the  sickness  did  not  reach  his  father  the  same  kind  of  MADNESS  fell  upon  him  and  drove  him  away  in  search  to  reclaim  the  lost  Kingdom  and  its  riches...  the  next  time  Thorin  ever  heard  of  him  was  in  his  worst  NIGHTMARES  .  

The journey to return the White Gems of Lasgalen had been fraught with danger — though this sojourn into Mirkwood is less secretive, and the Company is welcomed as friends rather than taken as prisoners, the roving orc packs and ever-present threat of spiders make their travel strenuous. The good will of the King Under the Mountain is sent alongside the glittering gems, to be delivered to the prince of the Greenwood by Erebor’s prince himself; Fíli is dismayed to learn that the elf who had saved his life no longer resides in the forest kingdom. The irritation of his companions at their fruitless journey is tempered by the look of anguish that cracks the tranquil façade of Thranduil; indeed, were Thorin present, he would have been pleased to see the pain in the elf’s eyes. But Fíli feels no such pleasure, and merely offers the king his condolences as he keeps the gems concealed within the deep pockets of his coat — there is no need to redouble Thranduil’s agony by presenting him with something he cannot have.

It is a kindness that Thranduil offers them a place to stay and recover for their return trip, one that Fíli accepts gratefully before making haste to a secluded source of water. The others may have been content to languish in the scent of blood and sweat and fear that clung to their clothing, but the prince had no such indolence; the sooner he could wash the foul spider-silk off his clothes, and himself, the better. And for all his disdain of elves, he is inclined to be clean and well-dressed in their presence — he would have liked to impress the elf prince, but he supposes his Silvan subjects will have to do. It takes him a long while to find a slow-moving arm of the Forest River; he has to venture outside the protective walls of Thranduil’s kingdom, beyond the gate that had trapped them so many months before, and by the time he finds a spot that is free of spiders and the prying eyes of the elf guards, the sun is low in the west, and as the dwarf disoriented prince ascends through the canopy to get his bearings, he sees Erebor on the horizon, glowing red with bloody sunset. His uncle would have his braids if he knew Fíli was out on his own in the depths of this dangerous forest; he can’t help the pang of guilt that strikes him in the heart at the thought of Thorin’s dour gaze. The dwarf prince gives his kingdom one last apologetic glance before returning to the forest floor and beginning to remove his clothes.

One by one, he produces his concealed weapons: throwing axes and daggers of all sizes are carefully extracted from about his person and set aside in organized fashion. He removes his boots, his swords, and his coat with speed, but as he moves to discard his coat, he pauses, remembering the glittering white necklace in his pocket. He would not be a dwarf if he could resist the urge to take them out, to marvel at them under the dappled sanguine light filtering in through the leaves overhead; and he does, running a calloused fingertip around the largest of the gems with surprising gentleness. It was a magnificent gift that Thranduil had wanted made, a sumptuous display of love for his late wife; Fíli feels no small amount of guilt that Thorin will not allow them to be returned.

“Those are elven gems.”

The voice, sonorous and even, and undeniably familiar, startles him — he jerks his head up and casts a quick glance around, only to find himself alone. The dwarf senses eyes on him, yet he cannot pinpoint the source of this sensation. His muscles are tense, coiled tight beneath the sweat-damp wool of his tunic, but he keeps his voice calm as he responds.

“Aye, they are.”

“How did you come by them?” the voice questions almost icily, and Fíli feels a chill run down his spine.

“They were given to me by the King Under the Mountain, to bear to the prince of this realm, as a gift for saving my life.” The dwarf eyes one of his throwing axes and is tempted to reach for it, but he knows Thranduil’s son could put an arrow through him before he could so much as move a muscle. But would he?

The woods are silent except the chirping of evening birds. Fíli would think himself alone if not for the feeling of piercing blue eyes staring him down from somewhere deep within the wood.

“Seeing you hale and hearty is repayment enough, Malthen er.” The reply is far softer and warmer than he expects; Fíli does not know what he says in his language, but he senses it is not an insult. “Please, relax, bathe; do not let my presence stop you.”

“I would,” the dwarf begins, peering through the tangle of leaves and branches overhead as he gently returns the gems to his coat pocket, “if I knew where you were.” Curse the elf prince’s ability to walk unseen.

“I am here,” the elf replies with infuriating ambiguity, “with you, to protect you.” Fíli can practically hear the prince’s smile, and in spite of everything, it puts him at ease, enough for him to slowly begin to unlace his tunic.

“Does the king know you’re here?” he asks the unseen elf as he cautiously continues to undress, no longer feeling the need to hurry back to the safety of the Company now that Thranduil’s son watched over him, even if the eyes on him did offend his modesty ever so slightly. “We came looking for you, and you were not there; yet now, you show up unannounced, when I am unarmed and alone. And for what? You certainly would not risk the wrath of the Elvenking to protect one dwarf.”

Silence. There is a rustling overhead, but whether it comes from the evening wind or the elf prince’s boots remains a mystery. Fíli cannot tell if the elf is brooding over his words or watching him intently.

“No,” comes Legolas’ reply after a long while, long enough for the dwarf to fully undress and slip into the gentle current of the river that had once whisked him along in a barrel to Long Lake. “I would risk the wrath of the Elvenking to protect a prince — a prince whose life I saved at no small cost to my own.”

These softly spoken words stir up a cloud of confusion in the dwarf’s heart; golden brows knit together as a quizzical look enters Fíli’s hardened features. Never in his wildest flights of fancy did he imagine an elf could be so agreeable and so aggravating at the same time. In the distance, he hears the drum of what is undoubtedly spider legs on tree bark; from above him comes the twang of a bow loosing an arrow, and the drumming immediately ceases. Fíli’s heart skips a beat, and immediately, he knows the elf’s keen ears have heard thus.

“Do not be afraid.” Legolas’ voice drifts down from the reddened leaves like honey, sweet and reassuring. “And do not fear for me. My father’s actions will not sway me or bring me harm.”

And so Fíli is not afraid. He bathes in peace and relative calm, constantly scanning the trees for a glimpse of the elf prince’s lithe form and always finding nothing. The occasional rustling of leaves, or crunching of bark underfoot, or piercing twang of the elf’s bow betray his presence, but never his appearance; every so often, Legolas speaks, his dulcet tones almost part of the woods around them, and Fíli answers in kind as he scrubs the blood and sweat from his skin and tunic. It’s only when he moves to untangle the spider-silk from his hair that he feels the elf’s interest roused.

“Do you braid it yourself?” Legolas’ tone could almost be described as a tremulous whisper, laced with the excitement of the curious youth Fíli has come to know him as despite his cold, noble bearing.

“Sometimes,” the dwarf responds, ignoring the way the hairs rise on the nape of his neck; he senses the elf has ventured closer, feels as though he is mere inches behind him, and despite constantly searching for Legolas’ presence, he does not dare turn around. “Sometimes Kí does it for me. My mother also, when I’m with her.”

Silence once again. A sigh filters down through the stale evening air.

“I am envious,” the elf prince admits, it seems, with no small amount of humiliation. “I have not had a mother’s touch in many, many years.”

“How many?” The dwarf regrets asking as soon as he does, but, like his invisible companion, he, too, is a curious youth.

Legolas’ reply is soft, nostalgic, full of pained longing: “Too many.”

For a moment, Fíli is tempted to offer up his mother as a surrogate, though he is positive Dís would never lay hands on an elf, not even one who had saved the life of her son and earned Thorin’s respect.

“I’m sorry, bâha.”

To use Khuzdûl in the presence of another race was bold, but not as bold as calling the elf friend, and certainly not as bold as venturing into one’s former kingdom on pain of death to protect a single dwarf. He hears Legolas chuckle, almost as though from inches away; he swears he can feel fingers brushing lightly against the freshly-cleaned braid just behind his left ear, yet when he whirls around, he sees nothing but stoic tree trunks and gathering darkness.

“I have lived for many years, Nogoth: I walked these woods before the birth of your uncle, and his father, and his father before him. I have known a world without dwarves or dragons in Erebor; I took my first breath before any one of these trees had taken root. And yet, not once in my long life have I been apologized to by a dwarf.”

A pause. Fíli feels exposed, vulnerable in the dark that has descended beyond the canopy. The water is cold; he realizes just how long he’s been shivering for, yet, he does not move, held captive as he is by Legolas’ dulcet yet ominous words.

“Night descends. The spiders are coming.” Indeed, Fíli can hear their hissing, the skittering of their claws against the dry bark of Mirkwood’s trees. Yet his elven guard seems unmoved, his tone only growing softer as he speaks to the dwarf shivering in the river.

“Go now. Return to your people, Malthen er; and return the Gems of Lasgalen to my father, as a favor to me, and in honor of my mother.” The twang of the elf’s bow breaks the stillness once more. “For me, there is no greater gift than seeing you in good health. Hail i tar- nuin i oronti: hail to the King Under the Mountain.”

@elflinqs​  sent :  ❛  was the use of force necessary in completing your objectives?  ❜ ↳↳  accepting  ( various  starters )

     “  no.  ”  nuada answered honestly, somehow his tone implying a shrug despite the fact that he did not move, one hand rested upon the hilt of his sword while the other hung casually by his side. nuada’s golden gaze flickered to meet legolas’ as his dark lips seemed to threaten to curl into a smile.  “ but  it  was  fun. ”  he admitted.   nuada would be the first to admit that he could not abide a bully -- least of all a bully whom would attempt to intimidate while in the prince’s presence and while honor may have bid him to allow the miscreant a chance to tuck tail and flee like the coward nuada knew he was, justice demanded that he respond with violence likened to one such as the filth he had seen escorted from the premises.

𝔫𝔬𝔫𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔟𝔞𝔩 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔰       ↪ “ heal “ / @elflinqs​

----- HE LOOKS GROGGILY AT THE HERBS AS THEY ARE PRESSED IN HIS STOMACH. he groans, feeling bile rise up in his throat. the wound is infected and his fever is spiking. dwarvish medicine has failed him and all who has seen him said elvish medicine is his last hope. through his delirium, he sees who is healing him. the elf prince.      “ oh, mahal . . . “ 

( @elflinqs​ wrote ||: You’re lonely too. )