Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Rating: PG 13
Notes: Drabble, 202 words.
Suddenly it didn't matter what colour the sun would rise or how much blood would be spilled in the black of the night. Nothing mattered next to the knowledge that he could find shelter from the icy atmosphere against Aragorn's warm embrace.
His ears would hear only the heavy breathing of Aragorn and not the shrill cries of hunting ring wraiths or the whispers of death that lingered in the chilled air. His eyes would close to the sights beyond where they lay, he would see no spies nor feel fear towards their sable blade-like wings.
He would not smell the feint trace of Nazgul on the breeze or the approaching enemy. He would just smell the justice on Aragorn's sweet skin, the dirt and sweat that had stained his face, the taste of danger and fear.
His bow lay forgotten and unneeded in arm's length of them, underneath the weight of Anduril's heavy blade. The string dangerously exposed to the sharp edge of metal and bows scattered nearby in a messy arrangement.
He smiled against Aragorn's neck, rough stubble scratching at his smooth elvin skin, brushing against his jaw. The Ranger shifted slightly and pressed himself closer to the elf, content.