Legolas

Aragorn had disappeared for an hour or so, returning with three rabbits and some wild carrots. The hobbits had looked at him – or rather, the rabbits – as if seeing an epiphany and are now happily skinning the rabbits to prepare them for tonight's meal.

It looks as if it will be a feast, with rabbit stew, and the last of our bread and cheese. Grinning almost sheepishly, Boromir has even produced a skin of red wine from his pack, to the laughter and appreciation of the others.

When Sam serves up the stew, I can feel Aragorn's eyes watching me. I ignore him pointedly, concentrating instead on my stew. It is thick, with plenty of chunks of rabbit meat, and floating carrots. I can smell the aroma of the herbs used to spice it, and suddenly I know that I am starving.

I begin spooning the stew into my mouth greedily, ignoring the heat even as it burns my tongue and throat. Nothing has ever tasted so good, not even the feasts at Lothlorien or Rivendell. I cram my mouth full of bread and the tart cheese, regretting the time needed to chew.

Aragorn sees my hunger and laughs, dishing me up another bowl of stew.

"Getting out of Moria given you back your appetite?" he asks.

I am too busy stuffing myself to answer. In no time at all, I have finished my second bowl, and my portion of bread and cheese. Everyone else is still slowly savouring their first helpings.

"Here, try some of this." Boromir passes his skin of wine to me. I sniff it cautiously, being unused to human wine. It smells fruity and sharp all at once, and my hunger is still not satisfied. I take a long swig at it, red running down my chin in my haste. It burns as it goes down, and I choke, feeling sick.

Unsteadily, I rise, and shove the wineskin back at the surprised Boromir. "Excuse me a moment," I manage, before I turn and lose myself in the grove of trees at our backs.

The frantic craving for food had disappeared, leaving me feeling nauseated. My long-empty stomach churns, protesting at the sudden gluttony. Worse is the guilt that courses through me. I know not why food should make me think of Rosalind, but the strange link has formed itself firmly in my mind. Sated like this, I feel the same self-loathing that I did when I saw Rosalind covered in bruises.

Falling to my knees again, somewhere out of earshot from the fellowship, I bring up all that I have eaten again. This time there is no need to physically trigger the vomitting; my body is frantic to be rid of the food that I have just eaten. I kneel retching until all I bring up is greenish bile, and tears are streaming from my eyes. There is a small stream bubbling nearby, and shaking, I make my way to it. I wash my face and my mouth, to try and be rid of the sour taste in my mouth, but I am careful not to swallow any.

I make my way further upstream, and a small bush of thyme catches my eye. I strip some of the small, silvery green leaves to chew, to make the bitterness go away. Reason tells me that I should return to the camp now, but I am reluctant to face their questioning stares. It is pleasant enough here, with the wind sighing in the boughs above and rustling through the drying grass.

Goosebumps rise on my arms, and I realise that I am cold, and have been cold since the slopes of Caradhras. I do not remember being cold before; Elves rarely feel the elements. But now my hands are numb, and my skin is mottled with it. I shiver in my thin tunic, which has always been warm enough for me.

"Cold?" a voice asks, and warm arms enfold my body.

"Aragorn," I murmur, suddenly content.

"Where did you run off to?" he asks, leaning in close so that I feel his breath on my cheek.

I flush red, not knowing what to answer. "I had to…that is…."

To my surprise, he gives a low chuckle. "Couldn't wait?" And hot kisses trail down the side of my neck. His lips move to meet mine.

"You taste like wild herbs," he whispers.

I turn my face away, so his lips are in my hair, now.

"Aragorn," I say, unable to hide the huskiness in my voice. "What are you doing?"

He pulls back a little, but is still holding me in the warmth of his embrace.

"Don't you like it?" he asks, a little uncertainly.

"I don't mean that…I mean…." He stops my words with a gentle finger that traces the side of my neck down to my side. I try again. "Don't you…aren't you betrothed to Arwen?"

The name of his beloved gets his attention, and he sits stiffly.

"What is it that you feel for me?" he asks at last, very quietly.

Whatever I expected, this is not it, and I am thrown aback.

"Desire," I answer.

"Not love?"

I am silent, pondering that in my mind. "Can it be that it is love, though I know you so little? I am not sure that I know what love feels like. I know I feel good when you are holding me. I feel as if all around me the world can be falling to pieces, but as long as you are with me, it doesn't matter."

"It is difficult to know what love is supposed to feel like," he agrees. "Before I met you, I thought…I thought I knew love, and was in love, but now I am not sure anymore."

"Things would be a lot simpler for many, had they never met me," I answer bitterly, thinking of Rosalind.

"Simpler, perchance, but not better, beautiful one."

"What is it you feel for me?" I ask in return.

"Desire," he admits. "More than desire. I want to know the softness of your skin, and the secrets of your body. But I also want to see laughter in your lips…and love in your eyes."

I open my mouth to reply, even though as I do so I realise I don't know what to say. Aragorn places a finger on my lips, and shakes his head.

"Don't."

He kisses me, slowly and sweetly, then carefully unlaces my shirt. I feel his gentle hands caress my body, but it is not what I want. I do not understand why his touches evoke repugnance, even as he stirs passion, but reason has not been my strong point lately.

"No," I whisper to him, and distract him with a kiss of my own.

We spend the night in lovemaking, with me exploring every inch of him and getting to know him intimately.