[#245] Midnight Hunt (The Lord of the Rings)

[vamp_ress]

Theme Prompt: #245 - Werewofl
Title: Midnight Hunt
Fandom: The Lord of the Rings
Rating/Warnings: General Audiences. Slash (Aragorn/Legolas). Canon Divergence. This vignette belongs to my series Untamed, but it should be able to stand on its own. You only need to know this: Aragorn is a werewolf.
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 846
Summary: A wolf, on the hunt for its mate.

~*~

I know this sharp feeling of lust mingled with violence. I know it is yours. I can feel it simmer just beneath my skin sometimes. It is all you can perceive right now while you run through the forest, following your mate’s trail. Your legs gallop in a wild rhythm, your heart pumps – from the exertion, from the excitement, from the anticipation. But your voyage through the forest is almost silent, even though it is swift. A bush rushes past you and its leaves shake lightly, as if in a dream. You jump over a fallen tree, you almost get caught in one of the many branches. You catch yourself at the last possible moment and land on your feet, never breaking stride. Off you go again, a predator leaving a silenced forest in its wake.

Your mate’s scent is bright on the air, it clings in silver tendrils to the bark of trees. You stop for a moment. You are motionless while you sniff the air, follow the trail of silver. The wind carries it over to you and the scent embraces you. You feel your mate close. You yearn for the touch of his hand, for the warmth of his body next to yours. I understand this emotion. It is mine. Was mine, but now it is yours as well. Ours. One heart beating for him, two souls wanting his presence.

He is not here, though. This game you play, this game where he vanishes into the dense woods and you follow his scent until he is within your grasp – it is my game as well. We played it often when I was young, still honing my skills as a ranger. I could catch up with him every single time. I suspect he always wanted to be found. Like he wants to be found by you now.

There it is, the silver scent. The wind creeps under your coat and leaves your mate’s fragrance on you. You smell alike now, your mate and you, and you howl your satisfaction into the night. From far away there is laughter, playful like my father’s lute. It runs to you and crashes into you bodily. Your whole body is tense, taking in scent and sound. It comes from close to the river and instinct takes over again.

You are gaining on him. Even I can feel him now. He is ahead, running swiftly on feet that tread even more lightly than yours. He can keep up his run for the rest of the night, so can you. But just as it was in my youth, he does not truly want to escape you.

When he is in your line of vision, his form drawing the light of the moon and his smell overpowering all your senses, you give one last mighty push. You thrust your body forward: the front legs leave the ground while the hind legs make you fly forwards and up. Into his back, intent on bringing him to the ground.

Of the two of us, he has always been the stronger. I never need to pull my punches, never need to hold back on his account. But you are a creature of magic, the product of an ill-fated curse bound forever in your mate’s love. You are stronger than him, always have been. You know it, revel in it. He knows it, too, it was a painful lesson. Your mate submits to you like he would never submit to me. You do not hold back on his account, you have no notion of the possibility of hurting him. You would give your life for him. You have attempted it, years ago when you jumped straight into an arrow meant for him. I wear your scar proudly amongst all the other scars.

You would die for him, but you would never think to hold back now. You crash into your mate, but he is an elf. He knows you are there and turns at the last possible moment to face you head on. You land on him and tear him to the ground. Your mate is pinned there, beneath you, and you hold him down with the sheer strenght of your two-hundred pounds. You push your nose into the crook of his neck, where the silver scent shimmers so promisingly. You growl and then you bite into his skin. Just to hold, to let him know that he is yours. This is how wolves mate. You have no other way to show your love.

He says something and the sound crawls across your skin. I know what he says: “My heart, you have found me.” Those are his words. You do not understand them. You only know that he submits, because he bares his throat further and he relaxes beneath you.

The hunt is what you live for. I let you have him, for I know what punishment it would be to be denied his affection. He looks at you. He looks at me.

“Estel,” he says.

- The End

(January 2025)

Comments

[badly_knitted]

Beautifully descriptive, love it.

[vamp_ress]

Thank you, I'm thrilled you like it!