Aragorn looked in awe at the blond Prince of Mirkwood. He knew that when Legolas had anger to vent, he went to the training fields – but he had never seen him FIGHT angry. And it was a sight to be seen, believe you me.
The usually agile Prince was now faster than lightning, more graceful than the most self-possessed cat. He easily cleared seven backflips in a row, before doing a complicated-looking twist with apparent ease. He threw three small, dart-like knives, each hitting the center of the targets on the trees. He darted to the side, then back, weaving amongst the obstacles of the field. He drew his arrow and shot three in quick succession, so fast that his arm was just a blur.
They all hit the same place, one after the other, and they had appeared so fast that it might have been sorcery. Legolas was beside them suddenly; he pulled them all out at once, easily. He placed a foot against the trunk, gave a small jump, and propelled himself, running directly up the tree trunk. Aragorn suddenly saw him emerge from the foliage, springing lightly into the open air, flipping in midair. The Elf landed on his feet and drew himself up in front of Aragorn.
"Do you need something, Estel?" he questioned. There was barely a hint of a pant in his voice.
"To help you vent," was all the human replied before lunging at the Elf, sword drawn. Legolas barely parried it with one of his long knives. He drew the other, grimly smiling. "I believe that I will owe you one," he said to Aragorn, who grinned.
Then the Elf attacked him, and all Aragorn could make out with the silver flash of blades, the green blur of Legolas' tunic, and a rush of blond. The Elf rammed into him, and Aragorn managed to barely deflect the two knives. Legolas flipped over Aragorn's head, landing lightly behind him. Aragorn spun carefully to retain his balance and not be caught off guards.
Legolas dashed at Aragorn once more. The Man sidestepped, but the Elf had been expecting this: he expertly pivoted on one foot, swinging out at Estel's chest with the other. Aragorn 'oof'ed and fell to the ground, but almost immediately caught himself and sprang up. He swung his sword at Legolas, but it missed by no more than a centimeter.
Their blades clashed overhead, each straining against the other's formidable strength. The battle raged in their eyes.
"You've…been trained well," Legolas panted.
"As have…you…," Aragorn replied. A breeze blew towards Aragorn from behind Legolas. A scent wafted towards the Dunedain's face. He sniffed. It was clean and fresh; reminiscent of trees and fresh spring, a twang of autumn hidden within…and then Aragorn knew. His eyes widened; he dropped the sword, which fell with a clang to the ground. Legolas looked worried.
"Estel? Mellon-nin? Are you alright?" questioned the Elf, his brows furrowed in worry for his friend.
"I…I…Thank you for the spar, Legolas. It was wonderful," stammered the Man before picking up his sword, sheathing it, and rapidly leaving the fields.
Legolas caught a backwards waft of the Man's scent, and he breathed it in deeply: it smelt of campfires and sweet roses and pine trees, with the faintest background of mint. He memorized it, allowing his mind to wander along it for a moment, thinking that it was so…familiar…before bringing it back to the current problem: why Estel had run.
Estel lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He thought back to Legolas' scent…
Sixteen-year-old Estel lay on his infirmary bed after a rather nasty run in with a Warg. Someone had saved him from the Warg den; no one had told him who yet.
His throat hurt.
"Water…Nen…" he whispered.
"Si, sugo," whispered a voice from beside him. "Here, drink,"
A cup of water was given to him, but he could not raise his hand. The voice chuckled.
"How foolish of me…here," and the cup was lifted to his lips and tilted back. Estel thankfully drank the cool, clear water. His head almost instantly felt the better for it.
"Hannon le," he said, "Thank you."
"You are welcome." The voice was smooth, and Estel knew, without knowing how he knew, that it was an Elf; but a new one, he had never heard this voice before in his life. It reminded him of the forest.
"Who are you?" he croaked.
"Call me…Melethron," offered the voice. Estel smiled.
"'Lover?' Why that?"
"My father believed that I looked more like a lover my mother had had than him – and thus, my name."
Estel laughed – or croak-coughed, either way. "You might as well re-name me Cael – lying in bed."
The voice laughed as well. "Very well, Cael."
"Shut up, Melethron."
And so a great friendship had been born. Melethron was from Mirkwood, with light blond hair and deep blue, almost violet, eyes. His skin was pale, like all other Elves; he was alert and keen.
And then, one day, Estel realized that his feelings for Melethron stretched beyond friendship. Maybe he should ask Melethron if he would live up to his name…
"Mel," he said one afternoon after their daily spar, "I…erm…" He suddenly remembered his Ada's words: "Actions, my son, are stronger than most words will ever be…"
And Estel had kissed Melethron.
Who had kissed him back.
And so he and the Mirkwood commoner went from close friends to even closer lovers. Until one day, when Melethron came with horrible news.
"I must leave – I am being called to serve my country," he had told Estel; the Man could see the Elf had been crying. "I…I do not want to leave, Cael!"
It was strange that Estel had never told him his name, but he never really thought to.
"Melethron, I –,"But before Estel could finished, Melethron interrupted.
"No time, Cael. Wait for me here; I'll meet you as soon as I can come back. Here; keep this as a sign of me, and remember," he had whispered. He had taken a golden chain with a glimmering silver mithril leaf from around his own neck and given it to Estel.
And he had given the now seventeen-year-old Man a last, lingering, burning kiss – and Estel had caught his scent on a stray breeze as he left, and it was clean and fresh; reminiscent of trees and fresh spring, a twang of autumn hidden within…
Aragorn's eyes filled with tears as he grasped the silver mithril leaf around the golden chain upon his neck that he had kept secret for all these years. Then he was decided. There was only one way to determine whether Legolas was his lover, his Melethron, from so many years ago. Tonight, at the great feast, where Legolas was sure to be, he would wear the pendant in plain sight. And sit next to the blond Prince.
And so it was begun – but it had never really stopped. You see, it had paused – and all it needed was a little breeze to set it into motion once more…
Aragorn: Geez, calm down, angeltread.
Legolas: Seriously, girl. Get a grip. R&R!