elf prince has dropped by the forge, to pick up a packet of new steel
arrowheads. Post Paths of the Dead, Pre-Pellenor Fields. The demands of the
war have overtaxed the ability of the remaining elves to produce sufficient
stock, and they're too far away for supply lines, at any rate; Aragorn &
company have turned, for the moment, to a few highly skilled weaponsmiths,
to augment their supplies. Will, for some strange reason, lives in Belfalas,
in a town called Port Royal. And the timing is all...okay the WHOLE FIC IS
JUST WRONG. Okay?
Legolas strode confidently through the doorway of the smithy. "Journeyman
Turner? Are these points to be ready soon? We must sail with the tide, and
that leaves us with precious little leeway."
Will didn't look up from his work, and continued to hammer at the forge
intently. "Aye, I will have the last of them roughed out momentarily. They
will need to cool before trimming and honing. A task of say, two hours? Less
if you can find me an assistant, one with a deft hand and an eye for
Legolas responded, "I have some small experience with maintaining the edge
of a blade, be it knife, sword or arrow."
Will glanced up, startled by something in the inflection of the voice. There
was a hint of a smirk at the corner of Legolas' mouth. "You are one of the
Woodland Folk!" He had never actually met an elf before. He attempted to
avoid staring at the pointed ears, and failed. Flustered a bit, he returned
his attention to quenching the leaf-shaped arrowhead in his tongs.
"I am," the warrior replied, matter-of-factly. "You have met my people
before, have you not?"
"No!" There was something strangely familiar about this person, thought
Will. And um...attractive. "No, you are the first I have ever encountered."
A brief puzzlement crossed the elf's eyes. "Then how came you by this?" The
long, calloused fingers reached into Will's hair, lightning-quick, and drew
out the bangle that hung, deeply hidden from most eyes, within his thick
brown locks. "It is of elven manufacture, obviously." Turning it in the
light, he examined the intricate designs hammered into the tiny bronze,
silver and copper links and rounds.
"I..."Will stammered and glanced down. He would have pulled away, turned
away, but the elf still held his hair. "It was a gift," He blushed. "I
didn't steal it, if that's what you're asking." He cursed his oversight in
covering his hair this morning; it was his usual custom when working to keep
it tied back, out of the way.
Legolas leaned forward, intent. "Who gifted this to you?"
Will was becoming decidedly uncomfortable, with the proximity of their
bodies and with the line of questioning that was being taken. "No one you
would be acquainted with, I am sure. A Pirate...and a good man."
Legolas's eyes widened in surprise. "Jack gave this to you?"
It was Will's turn to be surprised. "You know Jack?"
Will found his right hand suddenly grasped firmly within the warriors'
fingers. The elf traced the lines and blisters and callouses he found there,
his touch somehow both delicate and powerful simultaneously. He stroked down
the length of each finger, beginning with the smallest, and working his way
unhurriedly to the thumb.
Then, still holding Will's dominant hand in his left, Legolas took his own
right and traced a line from Will's brow, around the edge of his face to the
cheekbone, and on to the jawline. Continuing out to the tufted chin, he
stroked the small hairs there.
"I see it." He stated simply. And he drew Will in for an entirely voluntary
and yes, even enthusiastic kiss.
Will was, as usual, confused. Not complaining, mind you. Just...Why did
everything that involved Jack have to make so little sense?