Trine
(The Hunt)
Arwen stood on her balcony, holding her breath, until the door snapped shut behind Legolas. She lingered a moment longer watching the sunrise while the wind ran its playful fingers through her long ebony hair. Turning from the fresh morning air and light, she entered her spacious bedroom. Soft morning light spilled through the archway that led to the balcony and two tall, well placed windows, reflected off the smooth worn stone floor and illuminated the chamber with the same pleasant glow of all sunlit places. She cast a long shadow across the stone as she entered the room. Her trousseau hung on a form in a far corner. The gown had been her mother's, and her grandmother's before. Why? she asked herself angrily, Why did I call him to me?
White nuptial regalia scolded her from its corner. The pale green stone, the mate to the token that had changed Aragorn to Elessar, glinted coldly as she sank into a chair on the hearth. Arwen closed her eyes. The heat of the continually crackling fire washed over her, reminding her of a bright, warm day more than a millennium past…
Arwen had left her horse to fill her water skin in a clear running stream. Though she'd seen the doe grazing in a clearing downstream, it was the hunter's midnight colored hair in contrast to the fair, subtly olive colored flesh of his back that alerted her to his presence. Curious, she crept stealthily to the concealment of a large oak, only a little farther from her prey than he was from his.
The early Midsummer afternoon sun was hot as it filtered down through the dense canopy and tangled branches of beech and ash trees, dappling the bare shoulders and back of the elf who Arwen watched. He wore only a pair of supple doe skin leggings and light shoes. Across his back was strapped a quiver of arrows and a double scabbard tailored to a fine pair of long, horn handled daggers. In his hand was a bow. A shock of straight, thick, black hair lay in a finely woven herringbone braid in the shallow furrow of taut muscle between his shoulder blades. He was crouched low to the ground a bare yard from his prey.
The doe was utterly unaware of her stalker. The elvish huntsman remained so unnaturally still that he might have been hewn from stone. Only the slow, even movement of his breathing told Arwen that he was, indeed, a living creature, and even that would have been undetectable to any but elvish eyes. She watched, with amusement, the hunter who did not know that he himself was hunted.
She kept her place for a long while, waiting to see how the hunt would end. The longer she watched, the more dangerous, fierce, the more predatory he seemed to become, until, at last, the doe turned in her grazing toward him. Suddenly, Arwen understood that this was the moment he'd been waiting for. She watched, fascinated, as, in one graceful movement, he sprang from the thicket where he hid into the brightly sunlit clearing, all the sinewy muscles of his lower body rippling at once to launch him with almost impossible speed toward his target. When he landed, he fell immediately to a crouch once more. Before the doe had even a chance to realize her peril or flee, the elf had strung an arrow, aimed, and shot her through the throat. The arrow's point protruded just at the base of her head, and she collapsed where she stood.
Arwen let out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She crept out of her hiding place. She wanted to be closer to him, wanted to know his name. Arwen walked to the hunter who was stooped over his kill, her footfalls making no sound on the carpet of leaves and moss. The humidity of the air that promised evening rain also dampened any sound she might have made. When she reached him, she, too, crouched behind and beside him, just out of his sight. She watched as he carefully removed the arrow and set it on the ground at his feet. She listened as he began to sing a hunter's prayer, a prayer of thanks to the animal for its life. His voice was clear and soothing. His voice filled her with a desire to reach out to him, to touch him, to feel his skin beneath her palm.
She had already begun to extend her hand when he finished his song and leaned smoothly forward, grasping both the deer's front and hind legs, and with one mighty heave, yoked it across his shoulders. He picked up his bow and soiled arrow, then stood. Arwen looked on wide eyed and horrified as turned toward her. The elven huntsman gasped in alarm when he found her kneeling before him. Quickly as he had moved for the kill, he dropped his prize and aimed a deadly shot at her heart. Arwen did not flinch.
"Name," barked the hunter. The voice that had been so gentle became commanding and harsh. She remained silent for a long moment as though to inform him that she did not have to answer him at all. Then, she rose to near equal height, matching his intense gaze. His aim did not falter. Finally, she spoke,
"I am Arwen Undomiel; daughter of Elrond Half-Elven, lord of Imladris." As she regarded him, though her look remained neutral, she noted the dreadful beauty of his form and face. He did likewise. "Either shoot or introduce yourself," she said at last, using exasperation to mask the quickening she felt at his gaze. These were clearly not the words he had expected, she thought as she watched him attempt to remember who he, in fact, was.
"Legolas Greenleaf; son of Thranduil, King of the Silvan Elves of the Greenwood," he replied, lowering his bow. While Legolas preferred to think that he did this because she was no threat, he knew it was because he had been unable to resist her disarming eyes, and it disturbed him.
The two elves stood looking at each other, they knew not how long. Looking on the exquisite creature before him, Legolas began to feel a little foolish for his rather drastic reaction. It was he who, at last, broke the silence.
"Well, my Lady Undomiel, I suppose I won't make myself out a fool by feigning awareness of your having been behind me," he smiled, barely resisting the mad urge to giggle, for he was genuinely relieved that she had not been some minion of the evil that had taken up residence in Dol Guldur. The look, which she was sure mirrored her own, of sheer dumbfounded surprise that still played in his eyes, compounded by his slightly crooked smile, was so comical, that Arwen was completely unable to maintain a straight face. She smiled broadly at him before they both collapsed in gales of relieved laughter. Legolas was forced to steady himself with his hands on his knees, and Arwen found herself obliged to lean against the trunk of the large oak she'd been hiding behind to support her weight.
"I…," she gasped, winded by a continual fit of giggles, "I'm so…so sorry! I didn't mean to…t'frighten you," she finally managed. She, too, was relieved he hadn't let fly his arrow. She knew that she was quick; quick enough to avoid an arrow, even at short range, but not point blank. "I am sent to deliver a message to your father, Legolas Greenleaf; son of Thranduil, King of Silvan Elves of the Greenwood. Shall I call my horse to carry back our supper or have you a steed close?" she smiled as they regained themselves.
"Yes, thank you. I was not looking forward to carrying it home alone," he answered straightening to his full height. "But I think I will follow you," he added, turning to follow her as she left the clearing, "Unless you decide to creep up on me again and try to scare me completely out of my wits a second time."
"I am sorry," she snorted a giggle, "but I couldn't help myself. You were entrancing," she heard a distant voice she recognized as her own say. Why had she said that, she wondered. He was practically a perfect stranger. Legolas chose, tactfully, to ignore her last sentence. Leaving no pause, lest it become awkward, he said,
"No need for apology. We are both in one piece. But truly, I know few who can come closer than a league of me without my knowing it. I am impressed by your stealth," he said sincerely. He watched her intently for a moment before looking, once more, at the path ahead, "…and your beauty," he added softly. Why had he said that, he wondered. He decided he'd said it because it was true. They walked in silence together.
The remainder of their journey to Thranduil's halls was uneventful. They talked of the orcs that stirred in the Misty Mountains, the foul things that ventured from the south of Greenwood that made men call it Mirkwood, exchanged news of Rivendell and the Greenwood, and shared what tidings they had from Lothlorien in the south. Legolas occasionally cast a surreptitious glance to memorize her face, one detail at a time. Arwen felt him stray nearer her as they walked.
When the pair reached the heart of the Greenwood, they were met by a company of Legolas's people who took the doe ahead to be dressed and prepared for the evening feast. They entered the subterranean palace where Legolas brought Arwen before his father. She produced from an inner pocket of her grey traveling cloak, a message requesting a delegate of the Silvan folk to attend the coming council concerning the shadow spreading from the southern reaches of Thranduil's realm. The lord of Mirkwood thanked and dismissed her and sent his son to show her to her room. Thranduil observed, as they left, how they seemed to gravitate toward one another, steadily closing the gap between them as they disappeared through the wide stone arch of the Great Hall.
Once in the corridor, Legolas could contain himself no longer. He took Arwen's hands, bringing her opposite him, her back to the wall only a little way behind her. She would not look into his face, not wishing him to see the desire that flared in her at his touch. Legolas brought her eyes to his with a gentle hand. She backed away. He followed. Arwen stopped when her heel brushed the wall behind her. She knew that if he should come nearer, if their lips should meet, there would be no resisting him, and she feared that helplessness. As he gazed on her fair face, her grey eyes expressed her fear, pleading with him not to take that final step. Legolas's eyes fell with something he had rarely felt before: shame. Though he was prince, and not to be denied, and though he desired her greatly, he had no desire to press this agonizingly lovely creature passed her will. With a sigh of disappointment, he respected her unsaid request, taking a step back and releasing her.
"I am sorry, my Lady Undomiel," he whispered, eyes still to the floor. She was moved. He was a prince. She had expected him to demand his way, and she had not looked forward to refusing him because, in her heart, she didn't want to. But he hadn't made her, and she was grateful. A smile touched her lips as she watched him, head hung like a scolded child.
"My name is Arwen," she answered in a whisper that was little more than a breath. It was she that took the final step. Bringing his aristocratically handsome face to hers, she closed her eyes and brushed her full, soft lips against his. Legolas was electrified by this merest of kisses. He felt as though he had come alive for the first time in his life. Even the thrill of the hunt never made is blood rush so.
He pulled her closer to him, pressing his powerfully built body against her. The smooth curve of her waist and flair of her hips as she rocked toward him, allowing her self to be held, heated his desire. He pressed his lips forcefully against hers in a passionate and demanding kiss. To his surprise and delight, she kissed back with equal ferocity.
Legolas was unaccustomed to women this aggressive. The sexual politics of his people gave him right to almost any woman he chose, and, while many of Legolas's past lovers had been glorious, and skilled, and more than happy to share his bed, none of them had, though he had delivered unfailingly, ever demanded much in return. This one kiss told him that Arwen would be much different from anything he had ever experienced before.
His hands came to rest in the small of her back, and hers, on his shoulders. Arwen parted her lips slightly, inviting him, enticing him to taste her mouth. Their breath mingled as they held each other for a glorious moment that seemed to stretch on endlessly. She smiled inwardly as she felt the heat of his desire grow to urgency, then to need against her hips. Her stirring, though not so evident as his, blazed quickly to equal intensity, but she was unwilling to indulge her impulse to spirit him away to her room, and, once they reached it, take him straight to her bed. Instead, she disentangled herself from him, then headed in the general direction she hoped her room lay.
Legolas trotted lightly after her, catching her arm and spinning her around to kiss her once more, beginning more gently this time. He was instantly rewarded. She positively fell into his arms when his lips met hers so tenderly. But, again, she pushed him away.
"Show me to my room," she said breathlessly. He looked at her, stunned. Though her voice denied him, her lips begged to be claimed and conquered. He was confused. The way she stood was vulnerable and innocent, but her eyes were smoldering, lustful. He was very confused.
"Come, then," he answered, leading her off down the corridor. Once, she brushed her fingers over his palm. He snatched his hand away and would not look at her. Upon reaching her door, he was haltingly courteous. "Here you are, my Lady Undomiel. I hope everything is to your liking. Someone will come for you when supper is ready," Legolas said. He deliberately and pointedly looked anywhere but where she stood, and set not one foot over the threshold.
"Will you come for me?" she asked quietly. Her long fingered hand darted out to his. Before he could snatch it back again, Arwen had his hand in a surprisingly strong grip. "Please?" she asked, finally having his attention. Legolas did not answer for a time. She drew close, searched his face, moving nearer still. When her lips touched his, he did not respond. Arwen backed away to look quizzically at him. He continued to stare past her as though she were no more substantial than a breath of wind. She placed a hand on his broad, still bare, chest, gave him a blistering kiss, and, with a slender finger of her free hand, began to caress the velvet curve of his ear from lobe to point. Legolas was entirely unable to suppress the shudder of pleasure that swept him. Arwen continued to rub the flexible cartilage between her thumb and forefinger, as she backed away enough to look him in the eyes. "Please," she repeated.
"I will," he finally managed tremulously.
"Tonight, then," she said. Even as she finished speaking, Legolas covered her mouth with his, swallowing any phrase that might have followed. His hands wandered over her body as his tongue moved along the contour of her lower lip. His long fingers knotted in her sable tresses, ran down the arch of her long neck, traced the slightly flushed ivory curves of her clavicles, slid along her sides to her slender waist, and followed the flair of her slim hips, finally coming to rest, once again, at the small of her back.
All too soon, he found himself releasing her warm, supple body. She backed through her door and closed it slowly, shooting him a lascivious glace as the last sliver of light from inside the room was pinched from the hallway. He stood staring focused on some far off point.
"Tonight," he murmured to the closed door, then turned toward his own apartments to dress for dinner.
_____________________________________