Meeting in the Woods

Chapter Three Comparisons Sorted and a Good Reclaimed

Author's note: Thank you all SOOOOOOOOO much for your reviews-I wish I could do something more than just thank you guys. This chapter's slightly longer, because of the amount of dribble I wanted to cover, as well as not being talented enough to end it half way through-la de la! Enjoy =^^=

Also! To everybody who reviewed chapter one but weren't mentioned in Chapter Two-THIS ISN'T BECAUSE I DIDN'T CHERISH YOUR REVIEWS! It's because I posted Chapter Two before it showed up on FF.net…I didn't get your reviews until it was TOO LATE! I'm going to thank everybody in the next chapter, as this one'll probably be up too early as well =^^=

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            "Who are you?" the elf had asked, hoarsely, delirious from pain and blood loss. Aragorn was tempted to tell him, but his better judgment caught him before he could pronounce his real name.

            "Strider," he replied stiffly. "Who are you?"

            "Mellon," Legolas replied immediately. He coughed gently into his fist.

            Aragorn smirked at the pseudonym. Of course, the elf had no reason to believe that Aragorn knew any Elvish of any description, but frankly, he could have chosen a better alias.

"Mellon," repeated Aragorn, effectively pretending he was pronouncing a new word. "That's pretty. Is it Elvish?" [1]

~*~

            "I apologize," he said, slowly, abashedly, soft crimson having found home on his cheekbones.

            "For what?" the Ranger asked, glancing up from his stewpot.

            "I compared you to him," replied the elf slowly. He scanned his eyes over the Ranger. Though the man's clothes were ragged, unkempt for many moonfalls, they were of distinctly elvish make. The man that once Legolas had found almost repulsively dirty and scarred looked completely different. Washed, and flatteringly bathed in the dancing firelight, it seemed to Legolas he bore a certain rugged handsome only found about weatherworn men. "I know now there is no comparison."

            Aragorn smiled softly, before ducking his head, casting his eyes back into the stew. He knew then that the elf trusted him, and from the depths of his normally steel-cased being, he trusted the elf as well. Though the two had shared little conversation, and knew little of each other-he didn't know the elf's real name, nor the elf his-the bond they now shared was something stronger than the Ranger had felt with any other being.

            "I wash up all right, eh?" the Ranger replied, in a voice he hopped to be gruff. Living among the elves for so many years had caused the man to shed the hoarse masculinity he once had. Despite himself, he found that his voice and actions were now more graceful, articulate like the elves.

            Legolas smiled, allowing himself a gentle laugh. He absently brushed a strand of hair from his face, before dusting some herbs into the simmering stew. He did not allow himself the luxury of recoiling from the heat of the flames. Instead, he busied himself in absorbing the aroma of the stew, dreamily smiling.

            "You haven't eaten in far too long," Aragorn assessed. "I hope this won't be a shock to your system," he added, his voice ending in a surprisingly downcast note.

            Legolas shook his head. "If it is," he replied warmly, "I'm sure it won't be the stew's fault." He dipped the wooden ladle into the thick gray liquid, and idly splashed the contents around. "I think it's ready," he added.

~*~

            The Elf had eaten a small portion of the thick stew, before politely announcing he wouldn't be able to eat any more. Aragorn, though the elf tried to disguise the action, watched as the blonde pulled his bedroll away from the fire before lying in it.

            Aragorn, bitterly cold on the thin leather strip he lay on to protect himself from the harshly tangled roots and jutting rocks below (though he wouldn't allow himself to shiver), wondered why the elf was so afraid of the flames. Though, of course, he knew the answer-he was just too disgusted by it to actually let it surface as a tangible thought.

~*~

            "Wake up, vermin," came the voice, breath as ever laced with alcohol and smoke. Legolas' eyes cleared, the foul yet completely familiar scent pulling him from his dreams. He winced, finding those hateful gray eyes bearing once again into his.

             "Please," Legolas breathed, finding his throat constricted with blood, painfully creeping up into his mouth as he spoke. "No more. Let me die."

            The man laughed humorlessly, idly thumbing the elf's bruised cheekbone. "Not just yet," he replied calmly. He lifted his right hand, and tangled it into the sultry blonde hair, slowly running his dirty fingertips up and down the silky hair. "So fine," he murmured. Without warning, he withdrew a dagger from his belt-it had long ago lost it's sheath.

            Legolas winced, expecting more sadistic pain, but instead the blade was leveled with the blonde's temple. The man anxiously cut a thick strand of the silken hair from the elf's head, clutching it tightly between his thumb and forefinger.

            "Mmm…" the man murmured, bringing his new treasure up to his nose, smelling it as though it were some kingly spice. He touched the hair to his lips, then slid it into the leather pouch at his waist. "Still, it's much more beautiful while still on your head," the man pronounced suddenly.

            Legolas braced himself, dropping his eyes shut to block out the hideous face as it reared towards him, braced himself against the sandpapery rub of the man's tongue to his lips, the crushing weight of the man's hands on his chest, pressing his breath from his lungs.

~*~

            Legolas' eyes suddenly cleared, and Aragorn blinked himself out of weariness, sitting up as the elf did. "What's wrong, Mellon?" Aragorn asked, slowly. The elf looked dazed, slowly lifting his hand to his brow, sweeping his fingertips over a strand of hair cut significantly shorter than the rest.

            "Did you move his body?" Legolas asked urgently, rushing himself to his feet. He laid his palm over his temple, where he had been fumbling with his hair, as if protecting an injury.

            "Are you hurt?" Aragorn demanded, rising with the elf.

            "No," Legolas replied. He lightfootedly pranced backwards, then turned, dashing through the trees to the clearing, where the man lay ever dead, a gaping hole between his eyes, where Aragorn had re-claimed his dagger.

            Aragorn followed quickly, and watched with utterly confused curiosity as the elf bent over, fumbling through the man's coinpurse. Aragorn half-expected the elf to stand up, baring sickles of gold or silver.

            Legolas searched through the cluttered purse until his fingertips grazed the familiar silk of his hair. Hurriedly, he yanked the hair from the purse, and shoved it into his own pocket. Aragorn didn't get a glimpse at what the object was.

            "What was that?" Aragorn immediately asked, demanding, but nevertheless warm.

            "Nothing, Strider," Legolas replied dismissively, laying a hand over his pocket protectively. The elf smiled, and shook his head. "I was just reclaiming something that was mine."

***

Yay! Legolas isn't having mental spasms anymore! How exciting is THAT?! Mellon is the elvish word for Friend ([1])-I think I even spelt it right…I only know it from watching FoTR with subtitles, since I don't remember the book. I really should re-read it.

Reviews are still much treasured…don't be shy! Review! …need to work on that. =^^=