Kili had never felt Hatred in its pure form. He had never known the rage and violence that his uncle carried with him for many years, never tasted the bitter venom of fury and the flaming desire to kill. He has been angry, has been offended and disgusted but not once in his life had his anger fill him so completely and brought his darkest impulses to the surface.
He had never felt it, but he supposes it’s something akin to what he’s feeling now.
He pushes his weight forward, legs bracketing Legolas’ chest and trapping the elf’s arms to the ground. He vaguely hears Tauriel yelling at him to stop, but it’s far away and drowned out by the pounding in his ears and the ragged breath Legolas takes as Kili’s hands, dirty and sweaty from gripping a sword, squeeze tighter around his neck. Kili can feel blood oozing from his nose, possibly broken, and registers the hot sting of tears in his eyes, but still he does not stop, cannot stop, and digs his fingers into the pale flesh a little more.
Were Kili coherent to anything aside from the life under him and his need for it to cease, he’d wonder how something as simple as a sparing session escalated to this. One moment the two had been casually, if a bit awkwardly, clashing training swords and dodging well-placed kicks. Then, as they had found their rhythm, Legolas had ducked and Kili caught the face of the fair Captain Guard, entering the training grounds and pausing to watch.
He had paused, staring back at the woman he loved, or thought he loved, or once loved, he couldn’t be sure anymore, and didn’t see the strike before the elbow connected harshly with his nose.
Kili cried out, dropping to his knees and clutching his face. Wet warmth began to run into his fingers and he looked up to see Legolas standing above him, his face a picture of detached apathy, save a slightly raised brow.
Something deep in Kili snapped, a sickening lurch of red across his vision, and suddenly he was angry; Angry at himself, angry at their marriage, angry at his uncle and the kingdoms and maybe even at Tauriel. But mostly he was so, so angry at Legolas. All the turmoil he had been harboring the months living out the mockery of a union burst forth in an uncontrolled fire, and all other things faded to nothing as Kili screamed and lunged at the Elf Prince.
Now his arms began to ache, shaking slightly under exertion and the bruises blossoming under his sleeves. Still he pushed, watching with wide eyes as his husband labored under him, the sharp blue of his still open eye glazing slightly, once flawless pale skin now blotchy and red, silken blond hair clumped with dirt and in disarray about his face. This once ethereal being, tall and fair and utterly untouchable, infuriatingly perfect, was struggling, broken, made real to Kili, truly, for the first time since the wedding.
And as Kili felt a pair of strong arms wrench him of the elf, the only thought he could piece together was how beautiful Legolas looked.
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