He had never been much gifted with prescience, never been one to dwell on such things as destiny or fate. What magic he had was that of a warrior, imbued in his arrows and his bow, in his body and his skill. The most important moment was the one he was in and he did his utmost to experience each to the fullest.

Time had no hold on him. It stretched out in an endless road before him, and would take care of itself. He was content to leave the planning and the plotting, the prophecies and the premonitions to others who were farther of sight and wiser of mind than he.

He moved through the river of time, unchanged and unchanging, marking the seasons, but unaffected by their passing.

Until the day he first laid eyes on him. The human.

Aragorn.

He had just been a youth when Legolas had first seen him. Barely out of boyhood, awkward and gawky as only an adolescent could be, but with the shape of the man he would become already visible in his eyes.

It was those eyes especially that had first caught Legolas' attention. They were so dark and serious, full of ghosts and doubts, responsibility and fears. They were such old eyes, to be in so young a face.

The more that Legolas watched, the more that the young human seemed the very antithesis of Legolas himself. Destiny and fate were things Legolas avoided but they clung to Aragorn, seeming to grow thicker and more real with every breath. There Legolas moved through time without being touched by it, time seemed to weigh down heavily on Aragorn, each minute, each second adding to the burden.

Legolas should have been repelled by what he saw, what he sensed, should have avoided all contact and clung all the harder to the way of life that had been his for millennia. But he could not deny the fascination the human held. He could not resist the pull that Aragorn exerted, could not keep himself from being pulled into his orbit, the destiny that clung to him wrapping around Legolas and making him a part of it.

Changing him.

The passage of time had never meant anything to Legolas before. But now he was aware of every passing second. Now he finally had a way to measure time that meant something to him.

Day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, he marked the passing time with the most precious timepiece of them all: a single human life.

The human who had bound him to Time and Destiny with nothing more than a single look.

It wasn't fair, Aragorn thought sullenly.

It wasn't that he minded hunting in winter. The cold didn't bother him that much and he knew that learning the winter tracking and survival skills was something that would serve him well in the future -- especially if he took up the ranger's life as he planned.

He wouldn't even mind struggling through the thigh deep snowdrifts -- at least not as much -- if he hadn't been the only one doing it.

Aragorn glanced ahead to where his companion was running lightly over the top of the snow with no effort at all.

Winter hunting wasn't the problem. Winter hunting with a thrice becursed elf who didn't even have the decency to sink into the snow was. Especially when said elf seemed to forget his human companion wasn't so fortunate when setting the pace.

Aragorn paused for a moment to catch his breath. Legolas had gone another couple of lengths before he noticed and came back.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Aragorn replied, voice still a bit winded. "The going's just a bit more difficult for some of us."

"We can take a rest, of course, if you need it," Legolas immediately offered.

"Thanks," Aragorn muttered, slipping his pack off and stretching sore and overused muscles, while Legolas stood and watched, looking disgustingly fresh and energetic.

"You know, you could at least have the decency to pretend to be tired," Aragorn said with a scowl.

Legolas looked at him. "Why would I do that?" he asked, expression puzzled, but Aragorn caught a sparkle of amusement in the elf's eyes which only made him more irritated.

It had been annoying enough when he had thought Legolas had just forgotten he wasn't as agile. But doing it on purpose....

Without thinking about it, Aragorn scooped up some snow, packed it loosely, and let fly at Legolas, hitting him square in the face.

The elf sputtered, wiping the snow away and staring at Aragorn in wide-eyed surprise.

"Sorry," Aragorn apologized, not even trying to sound sincere. "My hand slipped."

"I see," Legolas replied evenly, then suddenly exploded into action, diving to the side and downward, grabbing some snow, and throwing the resulting missile at Aragorn with a born archer's aim.

Things got rather chaotic then.

When the dust -- and the snow -- had settled, Legolas was lying in the drift beside him, as snow-covered as he was, both of them breathless with laughter. Each time they calmed, they'd look at each other and start laughing again.

"So..." Legolas finally managed, even schooling his face to seriousness, though his eyes still danced with amusement, "do you feel lighter?"

The question took Aragorn by surprise, and it was a moment before the meaning behind his friend's words sunk in. When it had, he replied seriously, "So light I could run across water."

Legolas smiled and kissed him gently. "Your spirit will always be able to fly. Never forget it."

Aragorn let his breath out in a contented sigh. "If I do, I will have you to remind me."

Aragorn stood at the edge of the shooting range and watched, held captive by the sight in front of him.

Legolas was shooting, sending arrow after arrow thudding into the center of the target with careless skill. The elf was a study in grace and speed, movements almost a blur as he cocked, drew and fired over and over. His eyes were half-closed and distant-looking, belying the incredible concentration Aragorn knew he was bringing to bear.

Aragorn sighed, partly in admiration, partly in envy. He knew he was a good archer himself, knew he had the potential to be even better, but he would never be as good as Legolas.

Legolas wielded the bow like it was part of him, as comfortable with it as he was with his own limbs. In comparison, there were times that Aragorn felt a stranger in his own body, still not entirely used to the added inches of height he'd gained over the winter.

He knew that ease in his own skin would come with time, but that was just the point.

Time.

He had only a finite amount of it, where Legolas had an uncountable supply. What couldn't he master with endless years to do it in?

"Aragorn?"

He blinked, looking up to see Legolas walking towards him, with a tiny amused smile of his face, his bow causally held in one hand. "Are you going to take a turn?"

He looked down at the target with its tight grouping of arrows in the center. "There's no way I can do better than you," he finally replied.

"That isn't why we do this. The goal is to better yourself, not to better me -- or anyone else." Legolas' rebuke was sofft, full of affection and understanding.

"I know," Aragorn said with a sigh. "I know. It's just--"

"You want to be the best." The elf smiled and gestured at Aragorn's bow. "So show me your best today."

It was obvious that Legolas was not going to leave him alone until he gave in. With another sigh, he picked up his bow and stepped to the firing line.

Once there, his reluctance faded as he concentrated on finding his rhythm and focus, firing arrow after arrow at the target.

His movements were nowhere as fast or as smooth as Legolas', but they were quick and efficient, and while his arrows were not as tightly packed together as the elf's had been, they were all on the target and closer to the center than not.

Finally he lowered his bow and turned to find Legolas watching him intently, wearing an unreadable expression.

They stood like that for a long while, Aragorn unable to look away, caught by the intensity of the elf's gaze. Legolas was usually unassuming, a quiet and comforting presence, but at the moment Aragorn, held captive by intense dark eyes, was reminded that this was a personality that had the weight of millennia behind it. And at the moment all that weight was focused squarely at him.

Then Legolas smiled and Aragorn was able to breathe again. "Not bad, but may I show you something?"

"Of course," he responded automatically, still slightly dazed by Legolas' gaze.

"Please..." Legolas gestured at the line and Aragorn obligingly took his place at it again and raised his bow.

Then he caught his breath as Legolas pressed up against his back, arms coming around him, so the elf's hands were covering his own.

Legolas began guiding him through a slightly different way of drawing, his voice soft in Aragorn's ear. Soft as a seduction, and Aragorn was once again reminded that the elf had no doubt mastered many things other than archery.

He wondered if he would ever be so privileged to have Legolas show him certain of those skills, and suspected if he was, it would be as overwhelming an experience as the glimpse he caught of Legolas' long life.

It is said of the elves that we are the very epitome of grace and beauty. Magic and light imbues every part of us and shines forth in everything we do, every movement we make.

All of which may be true, I can not deny. But it has never been something I gave much thought to, never been something that I dwelled on in others. The way I move has simply been the way I move; ordinary, commonplace. When one is born of air and light, others with the same airy grace hold little fascination.

But there are other kinds of grace in the world, other kinds of magic.

He ensnared me from the very first moment I saw him. If the elves are born of air, then he is born of the earth, bound to it, with roots sunk deep. Strong. Steadfast.

I have watched him grow from awkwardness and uncertainty, watched him gain skill and strength and confidence. And my fascination has only grown as he has.

I watch him as we spar, hard pressed to keep my mind on the fight. He practically glows with the joy of movement, of the dance of blades that we are performing. I can feel the tightly leashed strength and power inherent in every move.

He never lets go, not with me, not fully. There have been very few times that I've ever seen him do so with anyone, and those have always been during a serious fight, when I'm usually too busy to fully appreciate it.

I want to see him like that, not just fighting, but in passion. I want to feel his power without restraint. I want to have him so completely focused on me that he forgets everything else -- even holding back.

For one moment I want to be the only thing in his world...and I want to be able to forget anything else exists but him.

It is a selfish wish I know, for he is too tied to the world, too tangled up in destiny to ever be able to fully let go. But still the desire is there even though I will never speak of it, never ask for it. It fuels my imagination though, gives fodder for my dreams.

Dreams I should not be dwelling on at the moment because the world suddenly spins and I find myself flat on my back with Aragorn's sword at my throat.

"If this had been a serious fight you would be dead," he tells me plainly, with a touch of exasperation. "Where is your head?"

"My apologies," I reply with as much contriteness as I can manage. I hold perfectly still as his sword is still held against me. "I was... distracted."

"Distracted," he repeats thoughtfully. "That only seems to happen when you spar with me."

"It does, doesn't it?" I smile slightly and manage a shrug despite my position.

Aragorn lowers his sword finally as he shakes his head and smiles. "You really are the most exasperating being." He holds out a hand which I take and let him pull me to my feet and into his arms.

"It is only that I prefer the earth over the air," I whisper just before he kisses me.