The Unforgiven { Legolas x OC - LotR Fanfiction}

15: Sense of Hollow Grief

3019, January 17

The night in Lothlórien was still young—tinted in shades of sapphire and soft gold. Moonlight filtered through the Mallorn trees, casting lace-like shadows on the glade of Galadhon Lawn, where silver dew sparkled like dust from stars. The Fellowship descended slowly beneath the canopy, their steps weary yet hushed in reverence.

The Elves had prepared a restful sanctuary: fine tents nestled among the trees, cushions laid near a softly murmuring fountain, and pavilions lit with lanterns that glowed like starlight caught in crystal. Food had been set out—bowls of fruit, plates of elven bread, and goblets of pale wine. Gentle music drifted faintly, the tones of harps and voices echoing as though sung by the leaves themselves.

The eight companions settled upon the cushioned couches, grateful for rest and silence. But Ethir, as ever, remained apart.

She stood at a distance, eyes drawn to a tent pitched on the eastern side of the lawn—set in the shadow of a flowering tree whose white blossoms swayed softly in the breeze. A maiden stood there, graceful and serene, having just emerged from within.

"I have placed clean garments upon your bed," the Elf-maiden said with a courteous smile. "Soap and towels are in the main hall. You may leave your attire there after you have bathed. The streams lie to the South and North, as you prefer. Is there anything else you require, my lady?"

Ethir dipped her head in quiet thanks. "That is more than enough."

The maiden offered a gentle nod and vanished as lightly as moonlight on still water.

Ethir entered the tent. It was modest, yet more elegant than any chamber she had ever known—pillows of silk, lanterns glowing softly, and linens embroidered in pale thread. She set her sword gently by the bed, the weapon resting like a coiled shadow on the polished wood.

Without glancing twice at the folded garments, she gathered them in her arms and made her way to the main hall. There she took soap and a pair of fine towels. Then, turning northward, she followed the winding path until she reached the streams.

The water glittered beneath the moon, clear as glass and calm as breath. For a long moment, Ethir stood still, watching the light ripple across its surface. It was too perfect. Too peaceful. The silence pressed on her like velvet, beautiful and suffocating.

She disrobed in silence, setting aside her stained and battle-worn clothing. With a single step, her foot met the water—and to her surprise, it was warm, like spring sunlight hidden in a stream.

She waded deeper, letting the water embrace her.

It was as though the stream knew her aches and welcomed her without judgment. Her muscles, taut and bruised, began to unwind. Her limbs grew weightless. Her breath slowed.

She rubbed the soap into her hair, scrubbing the dried blood and dirt from her skin. Long black streaks swirled around her, as the stream turned dark with the remnants of battle. Orc blood, her own blood, and something older—stains of shadow that clung to her more than to her skin.

The bar of soap was spent before the water ran clear. But at last, she was clean. Cleaner than she had been in years.

She emerged slowly, body steaming in the night air. Wrapping herself in the towel, she dried with deliberate care, her hands moving methodically as though anchoring herself to the present moment.

Then came the clothing. She slipped into the soft elvish undergarments, then reached for the outer layer—and froze.

It was a gown. Silver, flowing, stitched with fine threads that shimmered like starlight. It hung like mist in her hands.