Disclaim Her: I own neither Lord of the Rings, nor Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I just twist them to fit my evil purposes.
(for once): I finally got around to doing what I planned to do for months and started my very own Yahoo!Group, especially for my regular readers. Aside from update notifications, it's got snippets, abandoned fics and the likes. Plus, at one point soon, it will hopefully contain all
my fic, crossover as well as non-crossings. I'd be happy if you joined. Link is right here
. And don't try to run, I'll bug you with this until you all join. Mwahahahaha. Motion
There is death in her every motion.
She comes as the orcs flood the cavern, swamping them with death and blades, pain and arrows. She comes silent as a ghost and strong as the tide and by the time his senses pick up her presence she is already behind him and he cannot stop his blade from spinning around and lunging for her delicate throat. She breezes under his outstretched arm like a breath of wind, dancing around him in time to skewer one of the enemy.
Every swipe of her sword fells an orc, ends a life. Her hair flows behind her like rivers of gold and even as he fights on, Aragorn cannot help but notice how all motion stops for just a blink, how all eyes turn to her, drawn to her like all mortal races are drawn to death and the forbidden.
As a child of ten, maybe less he used to watch her as she walked Adar’s gardens like she belonged there. He sat high in the gently swaying trees, hiding himself from sight as well as he knew how and silently he swore his loyalty and love to her in a way that only boys untouched by the world and its sorrows can, swore to be her knight and keep her safe, always. Decades later she whirls through a cave of death and corpses and he knows now, sees now, that she needs no knight for there is nothing weak about her, nothing fragile to keep safe.
Another enemy crumbles under her delicate hands, hands whose every motion he used to follow as the trailed over rose petals, stroked down a length of silk and through a mile of hair. He watched these hands idly clasped in her lap as she sat at his father’s table and ate no food. He watched them and thought them the most beautiful hands he had ever seen. Now they are covered with blood, black as night and they move too fast to see.
Legolas stumbles for a mere second, as he runs out of arrows and she is there, covering the graceful arch of his back as he pulls his knife and spins into close combat with her. For all his elfish arrogance, he is probably the only one whose grace comes close to matching hers and still he seems nothing more than a candle next to her sun. Frodo falls and she rights him without thought, pushing back a horde of orcs, killing them faster than they regain their balance.
Boromir, too is saved by her and it takes Aragorn a single gaze to recognize the glazed look of the mortal man. The Queen of the Cave has him spellbound as a young lad, has him thirsting for her like orcs thirst for blood and then it is over. The last enemy falls to her sword and she stands among them, breathing even as always, hands stained.
When he was ten, maybe younger, Aragorn loved her, loved this goddess bound to human flesh, this creature of grace and silence. Her hands, small and pale seemed to him the most beautiful things he had ever seen in his short years and ever after he clung to these childish notions.
Now, standing in a cave far removed from the world, surrounded by corpses, there is death in her every motion.