Blood of the Covenant [ Legolas x Fem!Reader ]

Chapter Seven 𐮛 A Dour Hand

"Wer nicht gewinnt, und doch verliert, hat viel gelernt, und nichts kapiert.
Es fängt nie an, es endet nie.

{Translation}
[He] Who doesn't win, and yet loses, learned a lot and got nothing.
It never starts, it never ends."

— Was is hier los?, Eisbrecher,
a song about the loss of empathy in the world.

◤──•~❉᯽❉~•──◥

Sitting in a makeshift tent, that had been crudely built with wood poles and wool sheets, [Y/n] occupied herself with her thoughts while massaging her arms to calm their constant nagging. A sigh escaped her when she realised her massaging wasn't relieving any of the pain, and instead turned to her oil lamp. It reeked of oil and wax, and she figured that sleeping close to it would make it difficult to sleep, so she put it on the floor far from her bed. She watched the flame flicker behind the glass, and held her hand out in the air, snapping her finger. It sniffed out immediately, and within a second, the flame had appeared at the tip of her fingers instead. She smiled, putting the flame back where it belonged. Her studying is finally paying off, and for safe measures, she recited more of her notes so she could use them in the coming battle.

There's a particular spell she wants to try, but she trembled at the thought of it. It's very risky, and could quickly lead to a painful death, but if she focuses her energy enough, perhaps she could succeed.

Her attention was suddenly drawn to the outside of her tent, as laughter erupted from a neighbouring shelter. She could hear people bustling by and sometimes stop near her tent, whispering rumours about her and cautiously avoiding sleeping near her area. She sighed, not used to this treatment from anyone. With Gandalf around, she sees that people have an easier time getting to know her or even push aside their convictions about her heritage... but with him being absent, they all looked at her like she was a lion out of a cage.

Deciding to try and mend a relationship with the folks, she exited her tent wearing a warm smile, greeting some women that passed her. Despite her efforts to seem friendly, this action had somehow drawn them even further away from her. They shifted their eyes and entered their tents like they had no business outside — as if they weren't just sitting freely under the moonlight a minute ago. She sighed, stinging with rejection, she decided to look for her friends who weren't far. Gimli sat before a fire, his gaze distant and his visage stoic. She approached him and attempted conversation, but he didn't seem to be in the mood.

Perhaps, I should just go back to my bed and sleep... she sighed sombrely getting up, but not before Eowyn approached her with a wooden bowl in her hand.

"Lady [Y/n], would you like some of this stew I made?" She asked, and just by catching a whiff of it, she could tell it was a foul stew. It smelled bland, yet full of lard and a strange vegetable she couldn't recognise. Bowing politely while hiding her revolt, she rejected her offer.

"No, thank you. I have already eaten earlier," she half-lied, feeling bad for the way Eowyn's smile had faded just a bit. She nodded in understanding, then quickly marched off to her next victim — Aragorn. Poor man. She chuckled darkly, hurriedly walking back to her tent. In her makeshift room, she only had her bag of lembas to enjoy, but it was getting harder to eat each day. The tongue grows tired of the same meals repeatedly, but her stomach growled too violently for her to pass up this offer.

She munched away at the sweet bread until her stomach felt better. Minutes must have passed by, with her sitting in her dimly lit tent like a mouse nibbling on cheese in the darkness of a storage room floor, she felt an abundant sense of loneliness take over her.