On Warriors and Darkness
Legolas let an arrow fly, effectively slaying another monstrous Orc that had threatened his countrymen. His normally clear and unburdened blue eyes were dark and clouded with hate. How dare these creatures invade their land and try to destroy what was good? He growled and unsheathed his twin daggers. He turned to his archers.
"Attack!" Legolas ordered, as they leapt from the trees of their home. "Take the flanks!"
He felt a sick sort of pleasure as he sliced open an Orc's throat. He found satisfaction in seeing the dead being fall at his feet. He delighted in seeing Orc blood spill to the earth. The "high" never wore off as the battle raged on. If anything it increased.
Hours later, after the battle had been won, the grim Prince relcined in his personal rooms, cleaning his blades. He grieved for the loss of elven life, but he could only sneer when he thought all the Orcs he had slain that day. His blood rushed with pleasure.
Legolas stood up and walked over to his shelf. He slid his blades into their sheaths and let his fingers run over the leather. Elleths and even other ellons who had not seen him in battle perceived him to be perfect and above such emotions. True, he was a prince, but he was also a warrior. Such perverse pleasure ran through him and he delighted in what he was, not who he was supposed to be.