He needs no sight to tell him that the slanting sun joins him in this dance, glittering dust motes stirred to swirling by the silent passing of his blades, golden shafts of light caught in steel and sheared away into the dark corners of the Hall to burn for a moment in darkness. The Firstborn exist in both planes of being at once; and even as he moves through knife-forms, stretching and warming muscle, feeling the sunlight warm on his skin, his awareness fills the empty hall like still water. Legolas is still young by the standards of his people and cannot yet cast his mind like a fisherman's net over wood and valley, but here in this stillness nothing can approach him unawares. He cuts short a blade-arc and spins, lifting his knives in front of him in an x-shaped block, and catches Andúril between them. Aragorn smiles and lowers his blade. "So this is where you disappeared to." "Mae govannen," Legolas answers with a smile of his own, and does not say meleth. Aragorn steps back and lifts Anduril, saluting and centering. Legolas raises his own blades and then lowers them, moving back into a defensive position. Smiling, Aragorn begins to circle Legolas, slow graceful prowling. "Elves so seldom strike first," he observes. "You wait for the enemy to betray a weakness and then exploit it." "I know your weaknesses, my friend," Legolas answers quietly. "Do you?" Aragorn asks, and darts in with a feint-and-slice that slips harmlessly from Legolas' blades. "And what are they?" Legolas eyes Aragorn narrowly, then moves in and spins to the side, catching Aragorn's arm and pulling him off-balance before he steps back again. "You're rash. You commit yourself too soon." "There's something to be said," Aragorn replies, and nearly catches Legolas' jerkin with Andúril 's tip, "for committing oneself." "And more to be said," Legolas argues, drawing Aragorn in with a feint and then darting away with a sweeping backhand blow that forces Aragorn to turn a stroke into a parry in mid-swing, "for keeping one's options open." Aragorn laughs. "And what of your weaknesses?" Legolas parries three blows in quick succession and frowns at Aragorn. "What weaknesses?" he asks, mildly affronted. "That one, to begin with," Aragorn answers dryly. "And that you fight like a dancer." "I what?" "I've watched you." Aragorn feints, slices, darts away, circling so that Legolas' back is to one of the great stone pillars. "I've seen you move away from a quick and graceless kill in favor of one with more... style. This Elvish love of beauty, order, grace - it's a weakness in battle." As if to demonstrate, Aragorn lunges forward in a quick, blunt move that carries him farther and faster than Legolas was prepared for. Legolas begins to leap away but Aragorn's foot catches against his ankle; and before he knows quite what hit him, Legolas is pinned back against the pillar with Andúril flat against his throat. There is silence for a moment, broken only by the quick sounds of their breathing. Aragorn smells of leather and pipe smoke, and his hand is rough and warm where it brushes the curve of Legolas' neck. "Perhaps I would have counted it a strength," Legolas says quietly. Aragorn smiles sadly. "And I might have called rashness a strength. It suits Men better than Elves, I think, because we have so little time in which to cast our lots." Legolas lifts a hand and runs his fingertips slowly, delicately, over the Evenstar. The light of the setting sun turns the pendant red and shadowed under his hand, and he sees Arwen walking alone in the ruins of Lothlorien. "It will all pass," he whispers, and never has he felt it more keenly. Aragorn slips a hand onto his shoulder. "Yes," he says simply. "But perhaps not tonight." Legolas looks up into light, changeable eyes, older than their years and younger, and thinks that there is something to be said for this business of living in the moment. A slow, unwilling smile spreads over his face. "Then let us ask nothing more," he says; and leans forward to brush a soft kiss over Aragorn's brow, a kiss that need be nothing more than a token between friends, or between brothers. The sun slips behind the hills to the West, casting the room into shadow, and the wind carries to Legolas' ears the sound of distant horns.   A/N: Happy birthday, commie!     Back to the fanfics page Back to the home page