Posted with author's permission. The rest can be found on the tolkien_slash list.
Title: Call of the Sea Chapter 2A
Author: Capella (c_capella2000) firstname.lastname@example.org
Rating: PG (We're getting there – NC17 coming up soon)
Summary: Interlude, follows chapter 2. Aragorn reflects again,
Disclaimer: None of the characters are mine, no profit is going to
be made, no offence is intended.
Warning : None
Authors Note: See Introduction
Feedback: I'd love it.
When he fights, his beauty is terrifying.
He stands quite still, straight and tall, and moves his hand from
quiver to bow almost too fast for my eyes. Even in the confusion of
a skirmish at dusk I have never seen his arrow miss its mark. His
gaze does not linger to see his victim fall, but already has a new
target in sight .
When the bow will no longer suffice he draws his knives and becomes
perhaps more fearsome. He dances with deadly grace amongst his
opponents, leaping, twisting, spinning and ducking, bringing them to
grief, as often as not, through their own clumsy movements as they
attempt to intercept him.
To the enemy locked in his stare his attention must seem absolute,
but I have seen him reach behind and dispatch another opponent with
a swift thrust or kick, without for a moment breaking eye contact
with the creature before him.
His movements are so swift and sure, they appear to be long
practised. And yet he fights only by constantly changing his
tactics, reacting and anticipating, seizing the opportunity of
weakness presented to him.
At first I could not reconcile the nature of this dreadful warrior
with that of the gentle, playful elf who finds rapture in the
starlight and trees. When I tried to ask him of this apparent
contradiction, he had little to say.
Eventually he offered:
"To those who serve the darkness, Aragorn, a swift death is more
than a kindness."
I looked into his eyes then, and was humbled by what I saw. The
ancient sorrow of the elves who have known a bliss beyond evil, and
have lived through its long debasement and corruption. If I had not
known his true age, I could have believed that Legolas had witnessed
the dawn of sorrow in Middle Earth at first hand.
A momentary lull in the struggle around me allows me to look across
at him where he fights. He does not seem to tire, nor does the
stench of blood and death appear to affect him. His strength, speed
and intelligence in battle are breathtaking, but that is not what
holds me in awe. It is the magnificent calm with which he dispenses
death that makes me weak. Awareness hits me like the tug of dread
in my gut. I may call him a friend, but in truth he will be forever
alien to me, burning with a controlled intensity that I may never
touch or comprehend.
Of course it is in that instant, when its utter futility becomes
apparent to me, that my desire for him reaches its peak.