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Series: The End Of All Things
Chapter title: One of the Dúnedain
Author: Becca/Lara Lee ([ profile] aqua_alta/[ profile] take_this_waltz)
Fandom: LotR FPS
Pairing: Legolas/Aragorn
Raiting: PG-13 for this part
Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. I'm just having fun.
Warnings: crap Sindarin

One of the Dúnedain

When we first met he was already much older than he looked. He bore many names. Aragorn, Estel, Aragorn, Strider, the Dúnadan, Thorongil, Strider, and others that had not claimed him then.

"One of the Dúnedain", my father, the king, whispered into my ear while the members of his court and the guest from the North gathered around the long wooden table in Mirkwood's halls.

Elrond Half-Elven had taken the Adan into his custody as a small child, I had been told, and he had been raised in Imladris among the Elves. I wondered when he had first noticed that he was different, that he aged faster than his playmates, that he would never have to make the choice of the sons and daughters of Lúthien Tinúviel. From the mouth of one of the many messengers that had visited Mirkwood I had heard the tale of a mother's last words to her son, that giving him away was giving hope away, Estel to the Dúnedain, her son to the world of Men.

I do not possess the power of foresight like others of my kind though flashes of that gift of my people take possession of me at times. That night I recognised those words as mine, and my knowledge filled me with fear and rage. I did not know that the rage and fear I felt that night would affect the future so gravely. My future. And his. I should have known.

I could not tell his years. He looked young and yet he moved like warrior caged in old age. He gave brief account of the finding and capture of Gollum as well as of his and the creature's journey to the Woodland Realm. His bloodshot eyes betrayed both weariness and pride. He ate little and drank even less, careful sips of diluted wine, turning his head to exchange words with my father, to address others. Thranduil had not acquainted us, and it would have been inappropriate for him to speak to me, so he did not. It was not before much later that night, when we had already left the table, that my father beckoned for me to take the step forward and resume the position by his side.

"My son, the prince of Northern Mirkwood."

He would not introduce me by my name, and, according to etiquette, he would not refer to the Adan's presence at all. Against the etiquette, the Adan's eyes and mine met for a short moment, and I felt the fear and rage once more. My gaze dared him to not bend his knee. He did not. Instead, he let his right palm rest over his heart and lowered his head slightly. I remained silent. I did not know which name to use, there were too many.


Sight, hearing, taste, tactile sensation, scent - all senses are keen and sharp in the Eldar. My ears perceive the steps behind my back long before he comes into reach, and my fingertips sense the wavy movement of air caused by his approach. I smell the hint of wine in his breath.

"Mae govannen, Dúnadan."

"Hannon le, Legolas. Mirkwood is truly beautiful. I am very grateful that your father has granted me shelter here for a couple of days."

"You speak our language fairly well, ranger from the North."

Who is this Man who challenges me in a way no other would dare? Whose voice is low but pierces the quiet of the woods so thoroughly? Who calls me by my name even if it hasn't been offered to him and who speaks of my father as if he were a common host? He has been raised by the Elves of Imladris, Lord Elrond must have taught him, he must know.

"My father's messengers have informed me that you have spent many years of your life in the wild, so I will forgive the insolence of your address." My voice sounds calm and even. "And I will forget that you refused to show the obedience that is due to my position, for you are naught but a savage who does not know better." I do not turn to face him while I speak those words.

"There is no reason for me abase myself in front of you, Legolas of Mirkwood. No more than there would be for you to bow to me. You know that."

I cannot believe what I hear. I spin around. Our eyes meet for the second time and I become aware of a murmurous desire for this Man slowly taking shape inside of me, and of the fear and rage. My memory reaches back to an earlier conversation with my father. The Dúnadan is right. He is heir to a throne as well, a descendant of kings - though I am of Elven-kind and he is mortal. He holds my gaze as if he were not.

"Tírathach, firion," my thoughts whisper. "Tírathach..."



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February 2012


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