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You had never seen him angry before. It was something you hadn’t realized until you were witness to the look of thunderous rage on his painfully beautiful face.
Not that he was the only one with such a look, but his stood out more. The look of anger with any of the others just couldn’t compare to the rage from someone so ancient and lovely. He looked older and more dangerous than you’d ever thought possible. Beautiful and terrible all at once. A stark and terrifying contrast to the easy smile you’d grown so accustom to.
Just like the others he was armed and primed to kill. There wasn’t a chance he would miss either. Not when there was less than ten feet separating him from his target… he wouldn’t have missed at even a hundred feet.
The only thing stilling his hand was the dangerous proximity of the attacker’s blade to your throat. You were the unwilling shield keeping the man alive and the one he seemed to hope would allow him to escape. His odds didn’t seem very favorable though given the level of anger his actions had invoked.
Even Sam looked ready to spill blood on your behalf. Though it was hard to imagine anyone else killing your attacker with the way Legolas was looking at him. He gaze alone looked like it could have felled a hundred men. It would have struck fear into even a battle hardened Uruk-hai.
Yet even if the man were smart enough to be afraid, he was still in control enough to keep you captive and thus prolong his existence just a little more. None of the group would make a move when doing so might get your throat slashed.
Though the attacker could just as easily of strangled you. The hand not holding the blade was cupped around your neck and encompassed more than enough to stop you from breathing.
He pulled you in just a little closer as he spoke. “I don’t have to hurt her,” he breathed out and the feel of his breath on your neck made you positively ill. “Just stay back and I’ll let her go once I’m safe.”
“I have a better idea.” Legolas grit out and his melodic voice was almost unrecognizable. “Remove your hands from her,” his tone was so commanding that you felt suddenly very small and weak. Never mind the fact that it wasn’t even aimed at you. “Or I will gladly do it for you.”
The hand holding the blade against your neck shook, though you could not tell if it were from fear or anticipation. He certainly wasn’t lowering the weapon so much as pushing it just a little closer to your skin. A silent warning that was foolish and brash.
He was backing you away from the group, though they moved right along with him. They didn’t trust his word to let you go anymore than you did and he wasn’t stupid enough to outright kill you with so many weapons pointed his way.
Yet if you were going to get through this ordeal alive, your boys needed an opening to stick something pointy in. You were really the only one in place to do so, though you had no way to really warn them you were about to do something stupid.
As he stepped back again, dragging you along, you stomped down on his foot with all your might just before rearing back and slamming your head into his nose. The shock of pain put a little distance between you and the knife, enough that you could get a little leverage on his wielding arm and drop out of the way of the arrow aimed at his ugly face.
Legolas shot him the moment you dipped out of sight and the others rushed forward to help. Aragorn caught the man’s arm as it tightened and forced the blade close enough to draw blood and Boromir pulled you away.
It all happened in the span of seconds and frankly you were a little too shocked to feel much pain, though the blood coated your fingers when you reached up to assess the damage.
Another hand reached out towards your wound, one that shook a little before it curled to cup your chin instead. It drew your eyes upward to meet his imploring gaze.
Legolas seemed almost… frail at the sight of your blood, though the injury was mostly superficial. It hardly even hurt. Yet he looked at it as though it were breaking him somehow.
You wanted to say something, to comfort him somehow, but you didn’t know what to say. Even if you had, he struck first: moving closer as he pulled you near to envelope you in his arms. You could feel his fear in his embrace, could feel the sense of loss that had been plaguing him like a waking nightmare.
You looked up as the urge to comfort him threatened to drown you in guilt. It hadn’t really been your fault and no one was blaming you, but the thought of being the cause of his despair was so unbearably painful.
Yet you never got to say a word. The moment you looked up he was kissing you. Softly at first and then with a desperate hunger that threatened to consume you. An aching need to solidify that you were real and alive because he’d come too close to losing you. He had to assure himself of the most important thing in the world for him right then.
That you were safe.