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.
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Web of Fate by Wolfling
Chapter notes: Summary: Exotic is in the eye of the beholder.
Story Notes: This is another ficlet in Web of Fate. These are just snippets I'm writing as they come to me. I don't promise them being in chronological order, though they are all in the same timeline.
