Blood of the Covenant [ Legolas x Fem!Reader ]

Chapter Twelve 𐮛 Stay

"A sea of dead black, a crimson glow swirling in the ripples of a strange tide.
Faces faded into the calm of it all, as dark covered their senseless pride.
Fear wracked burning hearts and shackled their wrists to the inferno,
as all things dwindle eventually, in death will let her know; that lest he see her again in the reflections of the cursed water...
he only hopes till then, she remembers his smile for her."

— 'The Dark Calm' by Me (cheesecakeg1rl).

◤──•~❉᯽❉~•──◥

Death is unbeknownst to elves. They get the liberty of immortality — though it may be a curse in the eyes of many, you can't deny that it has its benefits; to be able to close your eyes some day on one earth, and to wake up in another, surrounded by your ancestors and people who love you unconditionally. Elves don't need to worry about being forgotten. They don't fear death... they seldom grieve it among themselves. They merely look to the sea and wonder; how are they doing? I cannot wait to see them again. That is a blessing many have begged for...

Is she an elf? The witch, [Y/n]. The last Izalith descent. What could you call this enigma of a woman? The girl who aggravated him deeply, but at the same time intrigued him more than any other force on Middle Earth. She had the ears of an elf, even if they were longer and pointier. She also lived a long life, keeping her youthful body and visage. Is she in the Undying Lands?

That is all he could wonder.

Legolas could only hope she was granted passage into the Halls of Mandos, as he studied her glassy eyes and damp red lips, her hair flowing in the breeze peacefully like she was merely laying down on the ground to rest her weary body. Unfortunately, one cannot ignore the details. The shard that protruded from her chest, larger than a sword but thinner than a sheet of paper stood jaggedly erect, spewing her blood everywhere till it soaked the dirt beneath her and stained everything she wore like she had been dipped in a tub of blood.

He dropped to his knees, and shook her gently by the shoulder. Wake up, [Y/n]! He shakes her more, but you are as rigid as a log. His hands shook as he brought them back up to his face, seeing the crimson liquid coat his entire hand even though he only shook the left side of her body. She continued to stare at the sky unmoving. He began to shiver more ferociously, feeling a cold pit grow in the depths of his guts, till he felt nauseous. Is this grief? He wonders. He had only witnessed grief. Yes, even when Gandalf and Boromir died. He was not close to them. He didn't smile at them genuinely before, nor has he ever thought of them deep into the night, filling himself with questions as they'd lay beside him while he stood night watch. Yes, he felt sadness for them. Sympathy... even remorse. But, nothing compared to what he was feeling now.

It's all his fault, right? It's his fault you're dead. He had forgotten about you in battle — trusting you to take care of yourself even though he was vehemently opposed to that idea before. He laid his trust in you, and look where it has gotten him. He frantically pressed on her wound, trying to stop the bleeding, but like pressing down on a soaked sponge, only more liquid came flowing out. Why is there so much blood? He asked himself, unable to contain himself any longer. He scooped her up into his arms and cradled her head with his left arm while his other hand tightly pressed the wound in a futile attempt to save her.

He pressed his finger underneath her nostrils, and felt no warmth of air come from them. He puts pressure on her pulse, but feels nothing. He hates how cold she is. He hates how her blood was slowly becoming darker the more she bled, and he couldn't help the sensation of his throat constricting and releasing a strangled cry. Don't cry. He wipes his growing tears fiercely, accidentally wiping her blood onto his face. He feels it in his fingertips, the blood and his tear mixing together into one. A horrifying notion.