Author's notes: This was one of the first LoTR fics I wrote…I'm thinking of rewriting it, but until then I'll just upload this one…It's not exactly award-worth material, aheh, but reviews are still much appreciated! ^-^
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Something caught to the fringes of the Ranger's hearing, and automatically he tensed, crouching lower into the cover of the underbrush. Again, the scream ripped antagonistically through the night. Despite himself, Aragorn felt fear swell in his gut-something was going wrong, nearby.
The man brought himself to his feet, squaring his shoulders as he glanced around the darkness, looking for a break in the dense trees that might lead him to the source of the yell. Through the tightly distributed trees, in the far distance, the man could barely make out the outlines of two forms-one slender, ridged, the other of equal height but burly, etched into a faraway clearing.
Aragorn looked frantically around where he lay, noticing how frightfully bright the fire he lit seemed to burn. Rushing forward, the firelight dancing in his eyes, he quickly smothered the flames in both of his feet, ignoring the heat that spread over him.
Eyes narrowed, and a rough hand laid over the hilt of his blade, the man slowly weaved his way out of his clearing towards the other one, watching as the burly silhouette danced in front of the over, the image shifting and wavering from the unsteady firelight faraway.
Aragorn crouched behind a thankfully massive tree, leaning to the side only enough to catch a glimpse of the two. The slender one, unmistakably an elf, was tied to a tree blossoming from the middle of the clearing. His jerkin had been slit open, exposing a porcelain chest. The fire burnt dangerously close to the creature's feet, causing sweat to ripple up over his form.
More horrible than the obvious entrapment of the elf were the knifecuts that played over his chest and arms, some still freely bleeding, unkempt down his chest, others scabbed, slowly healing on their own. Unconsciously, the elf lolled his head onto his shoulder, coughing gently. Blood stained the corners of his lips, threatening to spill out.
The burly man laid a hand on the elf's chest, smirking as he felt along the creature's muscles, murmuring to himself. He drew his knife again, slowly sculpted it around the elf's navel.
In his distressed sleep-Aragorn could tell he was not sleeping out of his own free will, as the elf had dropped his eyes closed, to shield himself from the pain he was feeling-the elf shivered, a million strands of fair blonde hair falling from his shoulders behind his back.
Aragorn didn't hesitate a moment longer. In a fluid motion, he drew his throwing dagger and thrust it towards the burly man. He barely had a moment in which to glance up, before he was struck between the eyes, lifelessly stumbling backwards and falling.
The elf's eyes shot open, and Aragorn knew he had never been unconscious, only willed himself to appear so to avoid further pain. Aragorn rushed over, quickly untying the bonds that held the elf's slender, now-raw wrists and ankles.
Legolas nearly fell forward, used to the support of the tree, but felt arms roughly contour his shoulders, force him away. The arms relaxed, and Legolas felt himself being lowered to his knees. Only then did he allow himself to feel pain.
The wounds on his chest, and now his stomach, bled freely, painfully drying the young elf of the spirit he still retained. His eyes burned as soon as he opened them, and he painfully wrenched them shut, forbidding tears to fall. Hunching forward, he spat out the bile and blood that burned in his throat.
Still feeling the arms of the unknown man around him, Legolas weakly batted his fingers at the ones clasped on his throat. "Unhand me," he commanded, though without much hope.
"I don't think so," Aragorn replied, almost haughtily. He maneuvered his arms, sweeping the impossibly light elf into his arms. Beyond the coating of crimson blood, the elf's bones showed clearly through pale skin.
The elf nervously shifted, slightly, as much as he could, blink his eyes open a sliver, to stare at the human in disbelief. Though he was fairly foul in appearance, dashed with scars and mud, hair tousled and unkempt, there was certain warmth that seemed to surround him, a kindness Legolas hadn't seen in months from anybody, and hadn't seen every surrounding a Man.
"Thanks," the Prince murmured, truly grateful. Aragorn nodded, before feeling the elf go limp in his arms, having willed himself at last into unconsciousness.
***
It's been said before, but I just have to repeat- what is it about that (incredibly godlike) elf that makes us all want to hurt him? Anyway…my take on how they met, incredibly old fic. Should I write another chapter? Or should I just leave it like this? Reviews loved! You guys keep me alive-seriously! =^_^=
Also-Aragorn only looked foul because of all the mud…He, um, fell in it earlier. Don't hurt me!