Legolas shrunk back against a tree, his face turning away from the sight 10 strides ahead. With his conscious he moved his head to the side, but the will lasted only but a moment. His nod away from the scene turned back in an onward gaze and a pained wince. Light like feather it all floated within the space of seconds, the scene unfolding like a fast blooming flower in the midst of a sunny downpour. It would have been beauty if it hadn’t been horror and the end.
        Her body, wrapped in the shocked state, clenching muscles held still for the one terrifying moment. As if by the grace of a dance she easily slid from the blade. Her cloak floated behind her on the night air, ruffling to the ground before her. Legolas legs departing as he pushed away from the tree, sprinting. He’d been chasing after all, but had stopped encountering too much for his sight to behold and still try to change. She now lay and he crashed beside, his knees taking the full brunt blow to the forests floor.
        Legolas eyes were fixed, widened, eager and they registered nothing of his own body. His head swayed to the side, glancing up at the tall gaunt statuesque body, hand clenched to the hilt of a long sword. Back Legolas head swayed, his hands taking up the chilling hands reaching to cup the wound. Legolas pressed her hands upon her chest. His face suspended in time, still without any shape but that of utter shock and eager desperation, anxiety if there could be such a thing. Lips parted with trepidation of what he couldn’t bear, but faced head on. He had gone deaf. The senses of touch and sight were the only that influenced him. The chill to the hands beneath his own, the blood, gorgeous ruby rivers, streaming from between his well-used slender fingers – that stirred him.
        His face was glossy and slick with a film of perspiring, his chest heaved with the evidence of tearing through the woods although he knew not why until now. Aragorn stood, towered, over the two elves laid on the ground. The fair Legolas dropped to his knees beside the equally fair she-elf, the pale she-elf. Legolas looked up his eyes clear, without any indication of even a single tear, despite the story they told by their dazed stare. Aragorn towered still, motionless, stoic looking upon the two, resolute, uninhibited, without blame or guilt.
        Legolas watched her breath make shallow transparent clouds in the cold winter air and his eyes widened and creased in pain when the clouds ceased to rise from her pale blue lips. His mouth had been opened slightly since he’d come from his pause at the trees and it still did not shut even releasing the small dormant hands beneath his own.
        The elves’ eyes closed for a moment, his head turning at gradual pace to meet with Aragorn unintelligible stare. His eyelids lifted revealing the evidence of no known tears, but the acceptance of the favor he had born so many nights before to Aragorn. Aragorn’s sword bearing arm flailed back his sword carelessly tossing behind, his cloak rippling in the same direction from the force. Liquid pain brimming at the corners of his eyes he turned away in the tradition of a muted, sore and bitter anger against his action. The kind that comes with mourning within, the kind of anger faced when a last ditch effort does nothing to remedy a hurt still twisting deep within, mutilating it's owner's entire being.
        Legolas turned from Aragorn, elfin hands touching the Departed’s fingers with one last caress, before dropping away to the forest floor. They held him up as he blinked, swaying to and fro without discipline or warning. He bowed his head, now allowing his entire body waver forward, spilling him to the ground softly, his cheek resting at her waist. The world spun, literally in his eyes, flailing fast upward, leaving him to doubt everything. He saw himself as the world went round and round and his view shone down upon him, lying, impotently beside the beautiful love given as revenge and reward and to repay a debt Legolas owed Aragorn.