Bona Fide Legolas Kicks Butt
By Katharine
Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings and all related properties are copyrights of J.R.R. Tolkien, et al. This story is written for entertainment purposes only. No infringement is intended.
Warnings: Rated PG for a bit of violence and a nice death. Hee.
Written at Jocelyn's behest. A "sequel" of sorts to Good King Thranduil Kicks Butt.
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Chrysanthe Silverleaf gazed down from her lofty vantage point, her green and silver eyes wide with surprise. It was an unusual frame of mind for one such as she; after all, she was a Leaf Nymph, one of the last of her dying race. She had inhabited the lush canopy of Mirkwood for countless centuries, observing the comings and goings of Men and Elves and all the races of Arda, chuckling to herself at the folly of mortal creatures. As were all Leaf Nymphs, Chrysanthe Silverleaf was a shape-changer, and at the moment, she was a slender beech bough overhanging a well-trodden Elven path.
Chrysanthe's well-shaped leaves and twigs shivered in response to the lovely being passing beneath her gaze. He was an Elf, and one of the royal house, if her ageless eyes did not deceive her. Tall, graceful, and as slender as a sapling was he, with features that glowed as brightly as the stars on a cloudless night. The sunlight danced over his golden tresses and flickered in his bright silvery eyes, seeming to set him afire with life and ethereal splendor.
The Leaf Nymph had not seen one so bright in countless centuries. He practically radiated warmth and joy, more so than any Elf Chrysanthe could recall. In that very instant, her heart throbbed within her, and she knew that she must meet this fair creature before he passed beyond her sight. Perhaps he is the one, she thought, her pulse fluttering with excitement. Surely such a beautiful warrior is the one I have dreamt of for so long!
Chrysanthe abandoned her guise as a leafy bough in favor of a more pleasing form—that of a young Elven maiden, one so beautiful as to capture the attentions of even her royal quarry. Her silvery hair flowed in soft, glossy waves to her slender waist. Green and silver eyes danced merrily in a slim, delicately featured face. Her gown had been fashioned of silver and green, as well, and it changed hue with each movement she made. Thus costumed, Chrysanthe allowed a gentle smile to grace her face, and she called out, "Hail, O noble Elf of the Woodland Realm!"
The golden-haired warrior paused in his stride and turned, one dark brow arched in surprise. Chrysanthe felt her knees weaken as the full intensity of his stare was turned upon her. His eyes were the exact hue of pure molten mithril, and his gaze spoke of age and wisdom that belied his youthful appearance—yet in those crystalline depths, a roguish gaiety lurked, beckoning to the Leaf Nymph's own playful spirit. "Good day, my lady," he replied cautiously.
Chrysanthe missed the reservation in his tone, so enraptured was she by the sweetness of his voice. "Might I know the name of the fairest being I have encountered in all my long years?" she asked softly, stepping closer to him, her silver and green skirts swirling about her long, shapely legs.
The Elf inclined his head, and if Chrysanthe had not been so utterly captivated by the way his flaxen tresses slipped over his shoulders, she might have noticed the wicked glint that appeared in his bright smile. "I am Legolas Thranduilion, an Elf of this Greenwood, my lady," he said courteously. "Might I have your name in return?"
The Leaf Nymph lifted her silvery skirts and curtsied, taking care to show as much of her generous décolletage as she was able to. Thranduilion, he said, she mused. He is a prince, then! "I am Chrysanthe Silverleaf, one of the last of the Leaf Nymphs, the guardians of this same Greenwood." She fluttered her thick eyelashes at him and affected a pouting smile. "I did not jest when I spoke of your beauty, my lord prince. Surely you are the most exquisite creature ever to have trodden this path!"
"Ah, but have you not also trodden this path, my lady?" Legolas remarked graciously. "If so, then I relinquish the honor you give me, for my appearance is as dross to the gold of your finery."
Chrysanthe lowered her gaze and peered coyly at him. He is mine! she rejoiced inwardly. "You honor me, sir," she murmured, drifting ever closer to him. Her slender hand rose of its own accord, and he captured her long fingers between his own. His grip vibrated with tensile strength.
Legolas brushed his lips against the Leaf Nymph's small white knuckles, then quirked a small smile at the faint flush spreading across her cheeks. Pulling her closer, he murmured, "Ah, lady, your every glance puts blushing roses to shame!"
Chrysanthe allowed her hands to rest against the Elven prince's broad chest. She marveled at the firm muscles rippling beneath the fabric of his outer tunic; his strength is well-concealed within this trim frame, she thought delightedly. "May I ask something of you, my lord prince?" she purred, her fingers toying with his silky warrior's plaits.
"Anything, lady," he whispered. Had Chrysanthe glanced upwards at that moment, she would have seen the Elf's smile darkening menacingly.
"A token of your favor," Chrysanthe breathed, closing her eyes in utter ecstasy. Legolas Thranduilion smelled of pine and fresh breezes, as though he spent all of his days running through the treetops, drinking in the sunshine and singing with the birds. "Perhaps the taste of your lips upon mine, so that I may never forget the day I encountered the woodland's finest craftsmanship."
"Ah, lady, I shall give you far more than that," Legolas murmured in reply. "I pray you, open your lovely eyes, and look upon me once more; else I shall surely go mad for lack of your sweet glance."
Chrysanthe's heart fluttered madly within her heaving bosom, and she did as he asked, tilting her finely crafted face upwards. Their lips were only inches apart. She could taste his breath, could scent the faint aroma of wine and honey. And his eyes…
…his eyes…
...her eyes…
Chrysanthe staggered backwards, ripping away from his arms, clawing frantically at her face. Screams as shrill as the grate of metal on metal shattered the woodland's summery peace. By the stars, her eyes burned! They burned as though white-hot daggers had been driven through them, instantly boiling away their creamy innards, searing their glistening surfaces to ash! Louder and louder the Leaf Nymph shrilled, staggering wildly in an attempt to escape whatever foul witchery had so injured her.
"Lady!" Legolas called, his clear voice slicing easily and malevolently through Chrysanthe's shrieks. "Would you care to know what, precisely, has affected you thus?"
Chrysanthe sank to her knees, moaning, her hands clutched to her face in agony. "What…what have you done?" she sobbed.
His voice held a lofty smirk. "I merely sprinkled your adoring eyes with a remarkable powder—I believe it is called ray-dee-oh-ack-tive dust. It was given to me by a gracious lady from an organization known as the PPC, with the assurance that it would cause a most unpleasant end for any strange women who troubled me today. I would say that you adequately fit that description, Lady Nymph."
Chrysanthe sobbed piteously. "I…I don't understand…"
A slight disturbance of the air before her registered faintly in her pain-wracked mind—he had knelt down in order to speak very softly, almost intimately. "You see, my lady, there are no 'Leaf Nymphs' in this Greenwood. Therefore, I must assume that you are one of the abominable woman-creatures my father has warned me of, one of these sirens that lure unsuspecting Elves to their doom. In fewer words, lady…" Chrysanthe could almost see his crooked, satisfied smile. "…you are a Mary-Sue."
"B-but…I am Chrysanthe…my name is not Mary-Sue!" she wailed.
A low, musical chuckle greeted her pitiable cry. "Nevertheless, lady, you will go to an end befitting one such Mary-Sue. Farewell, and may Morgoth bid you a fond welcome when you descend into his black Shadow!"
Chrysanthe's blood ran cold at his words. They were chillingly merry, at complete odds with his obviously murderous intentions. She attempted to shift her shape, to escape as a fleet-footed deer, or perhaps a swift-winged swallow…
A shower of featherweight particles cascaded over the Leaf Nymph's crumpled form, a haze of glowing dust so fine that it might have been mere sunlight, but for the somewhat violent reaction it evoked in Chrysanthe Silverleaf's rippling skin. Just as her figure began to melt, just as she began to entertain the hope that she would escape this monster, just as her arms began to sprout the speckled feathers that would carry her to safety…
Legolas Thranduilion watched the creature before him thrash and scream in its death throes, its substance melting into a grotesque heap of charred slag even as it cried out for mercy. One finely carven lip curled upward in disgust. "A horrid end for a horrid creature," he murmured to himself, turning away from the pitifully moaning globule. He quirked a faint grin at the small yellow sack he still held—very, very carefully—in his right hand. "Perhaps this 'PPC' will lend me enough of this dust to coat my arrows…"
And the Elf prince's merry laughter echoed in the Greenwood's branches, drowning out the last of Chrysanthe Silverleaf's groans.
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Notes:
(shakes head) Honestly, Tolkien's Elves are so much sexier than their dumbed-down fangirl-ized counterparts.
Die, Sue, die!