【 ad astra 】’ Do you mean to challenge the true skill of my hands Master Bowman? ’ A glowing edge softens to teasing tones, his starlit eyes now slide for a glimpse at the one who trots beside him. ’ One musn’t hasten to form assumptions before they have beheld something with their own eyes. ’
Mischievous, he picks up his stride, now falling two steps ahead of Bard as waves of flaxen flow behind him. The chilly wind from the mountain has picked up and howls nonchalantly around them, as if the war’s end has left it without a care in the world. There is peace, but also there is reformation and the need to rebuild a city that had fallen to ruins many years before, and perhaps the wind waits for a time it can breathe between the carefully constructed bricks again.
’ ——If you can catch me, I will tell you any secret you desire. ’ And he splits off into a sprint quite suddenly, his laughter fluttering like many tiny butterflies behind him.
He is almost like a child again, begging his father to chase him around, but in this moment he desires only to relax. Perhaps it is not the best decision to be made, considering the circumstances, but who will see them amongst the fields of dead grass and trees? They are alone, traveling to one single destination, and he can afford a moment of play if only to ease the tension that still hangs in the air. So he will run and run until his legs grow tired ( which may be a long time indeed ) and he will see if the crafty bowman can keep up.
Bard imagines his expression to be nothing short of comical as he blinks and then stares at the quickly retreating form of the elf prince, dashing away across the fields, the sound of light, carefree laughter carried back to the bowman by the sudden breeze. His body processes and decides faster than his mind; strong legs break into a run, sharp eyes trained on the other, constantly measuring distance – but more, much more than that – keeping sight of his prey. Regardless of the playful nature of this moment, Bard is in no doubt; this is a hunt, and he is the hunter.
And Bard takes his hunting very seriously.
The elf prince is very light on his feet, to be sure, and unbelievably fast. And it is absolutely thrilling. It ought to occur as absurd to Bard, even just a little, but all it is, really, is liberating. He feels alive. There is nothing but the wind, the rush of the chase, the sound of his heartbeat thundering in his ears. He cannot hear Legolas, can only hear his own feet as they touch the ground, his legs as they brush the high grass as he races through the field at high speed. All he sees, however, is Legolas. His entire vision is filled with the sight of him, the distance between them closing, closing, closing—
He reaches out, his fingertips only barely touching silken strands of gold, the touch almost gentle in nature despite its competitive start. It is the closest he gets before his body begin its slow betrayal, the distance between them growing once more, and Bard laughs, breathlessly.
“Iyield!” he calls out, slowing his run until he can safely fall to the ground, lying on his back, catching his breath with an almost insistent smile. “Your secrets are your own for a little longer, my friend. Oh, but you are swift as a shadow. Mercy.”
