Author's Note: Alright! Well, first of all, I'm sorry about the formatting
on my first piece, but hopefully this one will work better. If all turns
out good, I hope to double my reviews for this fanfic; that means 2. Also,
the point of view stuff is a little weird, I usually don't like writing in
first person.
Title: Chances and Circumstances
Summary: Legolas reminisces about his first meeting with Aragorn, which was not exactly at the best of circumstances.
* * * It will never matter that it doesn't matter * * *
Legolas' POV
Sitting at the Council of Elrond, listening to Mitrandir speak, I thought of how I was to break the bad news to all sitting there, the news of Gollum's escape. My thoughts wandered, to Gollum's arrival at my home, Mirkwood. Aragorn, my good friend, had stumbled into the borders of our haven, delirious with fever and near collapse, but pulling the long-sought- after creature on a leash: Gollum.
And this brought me back, more than sixty years ago, to my first meeting with Aragorn. He was a lighter, more care-free man then, and did not carry the burden he had now. At the time, however, the circumstances of our meeting were not exactly the best.
A troupe of six, including my brother Fanduil and I, were hunting a pack of wargs. We had been tracking the pack for the past four days and were now quite close. It had been many years since wargs had been a problem in Mirkwood, but the times were starting to change and grow darker. We could all feel it, even if we did not all want to accept it.
It was late afternoon, and we had come to the consensus that on the fifth day, we would finish our hunt. If all went well, the pack of wargs would be dead before noon tomorrow. The method of slaughter would be a surprise attack from a safe distance, relying on our arrows and not out knives.
While the others were making camp, I went scouting out ahead. I was far away from the others when I hear the vicious barking of the wargs, quite close. Wargs only bark when they are on the trail of prey. Quickly I jumped up to a tree, and made my way though the dense branched to the source of the noise. I found myself next to a rock clearing of sorts. To my left was a steep cliff, more rocks, and then a continuation of the dense trees. I could have been the site for an old elven den or other building, but I did not think much about it in the events that followed.
The wargs were approaching, barking madly. I pulled out my bow, which I had brought with me as an afterthought, usually relying on my knife if any immediate danger was to occur. In the case of wargs, however, I preferred to use my bow because less contact was needed, as was advisable when dealing with such deadly creatures. However, the bow was unstrung, and as I started stringing it rapidly with expert hands, I saw what the wargs were after: a man.
He was sprinting as fast as he could with the pack on his heels, but he was running rather awkwardly. His arms were behind his back as if bound, and his neck and back were very straight. I glanced at something gleaming at the man's throat, a flash of metal, and noticed as well that his feet were bare.
He came to the edge of the cliff and, with but a moments pause, threw himself over the side. For a second he flew through the air, then, as the side of the cliff became less vertical, tumbled down the edge. He tried to keep his legs out in front of him, but he struck the side of his face on an outcropping of rock, and his lifeless body tumbled down the rest of the way.
The wards took their time going down the cliff, and I desperately tried to string to my bow. I saw the man was awake, but he had not gotten to his feet. Instead, he had wearily sat up and placed his back against the nearest boulder, a good defensive position, and was waiting for the wargs. I jumped gracefully from the branched of the tree and ran to the side of the cliff to have a better shot at the creatures.
The man, with his barefeet, was defending himself, kicking desperately at a warg. I now saw clearly that his hand were bound behind his back in a pair of silver cuffs. The warg grasped the man's ankle in his jaws. Another had come around the back and went for the throat. But the silver collar the man had on prevented it from sinking its teeth in. I could hear him shouting something in desperation and agony, and with surprise, realized it was elvish. Not the Sindarian that I spoke, but Quenyan.
Wasting no further time, I shot the attacking warg in the heart. I shot another in the haunches, and yet another straight though it's skull. Yelping, the wounded one ran off, along with the rest of the pack.
I hastened down the edge of the cliff, careful not to fall. It was tricky, even for an elf, and I had to crouch down on my feet and slide down the last part. When I got to the bottom, I made my way over to the man, bow in hand. I still did not know who this stranger was.
The man, for I knew for certain that it was a man now, was sitting in the same place. Eyes closed tightly and face contorted in pain. He was breathing hard, the result of the chase and tumble down the rocks. Blood flowed freely from his broken nose, and his left temple was also bruised and bloody from where he had his head in his fall. Once again I noticed the odd silver collar around his neck, and noticed, for the first time, the shaft of an arrow imbedded in the stranger's side. It was not a new wound; the man was a bloody wreck.
Slowly, he opened his eyes and glanced around, his gray gaze settling on me. He took a deep breath and said, "Thank you, friend," in flawless Sindarian.
Detecting no trace of accent, I realized that he must be fluent in both languages. He took another deep breath, and resting his head against the stone, fell into unconsciousness.
* * * * * TBC!
Title: Chances and Circumstances
Summary: Legolas reminisces about his first meeting with Aragorn, which was not exactly at the best of circumstances.
* * * It will never matter that it doesn't matter * * *
Legolas' POV
Sitting at the Council of Elrond, listening to Mitrandir speak, I thought of how I was to break the bad news to all sitting there, the news of Gollum's escape. My thoughts wandered, to Gollum's arrival at my home, Mirkwood. Aragorn, my good friend, had stumbled into the borders of our haven, delirious with fever and near collapse, but pulling the long-sought- after creature on a leash: Gollum.
And this brought me back, more than sixty years ago, to my first meeting with Aragorn. He was a lighter, more care-free man then, and did not carry the burden he had now. At the time, however, the circumstances of our meeting were not exactly the best.
A troupe of six, including my brother Fanduil and I, were hunting a pack of wargs. We had been tracking the pack for the past four days and were now quite close. It had been many years since wargs had been a problem in Mirkwood, but the times were starting to change and grow darker. We could all feel it, even if we did not all want to accept it.
It was late afternoon, and we had come to the consensus that on the fifth day, we would finish our hunt. If all went well, the pack of wargs would be dead before noon tomorrow. The method of slaughter would be a surprise attack from a safe distance, relying on our arrows and not out knives.
While the others were making camp, I went scouting out ahead. I was far away from the others when I hear the vicious barking of the wargs, quite close. Wargs only bark when they are on the trail of prey. Quickly I jumped up to a tree, and made my way though the dense branched to the source of the noise. I found myself next to a rock clearing of sorts. To my left was a steep cliff, more rocks, and then a continuation of the dense trees. I could have been the site for an old elven den or other building, but I did not think much about it in the events that followed.
The wargs were approaching, barking madly. I pulled out my bow, which I had brought with me as an afterthought, usually relying on my knife if any immediate danger was to occur. In the case of wargs, however, I preferred to use my bow because less contact was needed, as was advisable when dealing with such deadly creatures. However, the bow was unstrung, and as I started stringing it rapidly with expert hands, I saw what the wargs were after: a man.
He was sprinting as fast as he could with the pack on his heels, but he was running rather awkwardly. His arms were behind his back as if bound, and his neck and back were very straight. I glanced at something gleaming at the man's throat, a flash of metal, and noticed as well that his feet were bare.
He came to the edge of the cliff and, with but a moments pause, threw himself over the side. For a second he flew through the air, then, as the side of the cliff became less vertical, tumbled down the edge. He tried to keep his legs out in front of him, but he struck the side of his face on an outcropping of rock, and his lifeless body tumbled down the rest of the way.
The wards took their time going down the cliff, and I desperately tried to string to my bow. I saw the man was awake, but he had not gotten to his feet. Instead, he had wearily sat up and placed his back against the nearest boulder, a good defensive position, and was waiting for the wargs. I jumped gracefully from the branched of the tree and ran to the side of the cliff to have a better shot at the creatures.
The man, with his barefeet, was defending himself, kicking desperately at a warg. I now saw clearly that his hand were bound behind his back in a pair of silver cuffs. The warg grasped the man's ankle in his jaws. Another had come around the back and went for the throat. But the silver collar the man had on prevented it from sinking its teeth in. I could hear him shouting something in desperation and agony, and with surprise, realized it was elvish. Not the Sindarian that I spoke, but Quenyan.
Wasting no further time, I shot the attacking warg in the heart. I shot another in the haunches, and yet another straight though it's skull. Yelping, the wounded one ran off, along with the rest of the pack.
I hastened down the edge of the cliff, careful not to fall. It was tricky, even for an elf, and I had to crouch down on my feet and slide down the last part. When I got to the bottom, I made my way over to the man, bow in hand. I still did not know who this stranger was.
The man, for I knew for certain that it was a man now, was sitting in the same place. Eyes closed tightly and face contorted in pain. He was breathing hard, the result of the chase and tumble down the rocks. Blood flowed freely from his broken nose, and his left temple was also bruised and bloody from where he had his head in his fall. Once again I noticed the odd silver collar around his neck, and noticed, for the first time, the shaft of an arrow imbedded in the stranger's side. It was not a new wound; the man was a bloody wreck.
Slowly, he opened his eyes and glanced around, his gray gaze settling on me. He took a deep breath and said, "Thank you, friend," in flawless Sindarian.
Detecting no trace of accent, I realized that he must be fluent in both languages. He took another deep breath, and resting his head against the stone, fell into unconsciousness.
* * * * * TBC!