Legolas listens to this as he did before, except that this time he does not look away.
Only when Tavi finishes does he blink, and that slowly. He nods his head sideways in a slight acceptance.
"In Arda," he says, musical voice quieted like muffled bells, "there are many things that Men call magic. The healing some can do, our knowledge of the forests, the skill with which we craft weaponry, or the hate that our weapons have for yrch," and there is the first hint of emotion--a strong distaste with which he says the word, like he does not want it to linger in his mouth. "I rarely pay attention to it."
He takes a sip of the Dorwinion, slowly, to think. "What we call magic--the only thing we call magic--is that which is used to make things do what the maker wishes. It is against life, and growing things. It does not destroy to feed itself, it destroys to glut its undying hunger."
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Only when Tavi finishes does he blink, and that slowly. He nods his head sideways in a slight acceptance.
"In Arda," he says, musical voice quieted like muffled bells, "there are many things that Men call magic. The healing some can do, our knowledge of the forests, the skill with which we craft weaponry, or the hate that our weapons have for yrch," and there is the first hint of emotion--a strong distaste with which he says the word, like he does not want it to linger in his mouth. "I rarely pay attention to it."
He takes a sip of the Dorwinion, slowly, to think. "What we call magic--the only thing we call magic--is that which is used to make things do what the maker wishes. It is against life, and growing things. It does not destroy to feed itself, it destroys to glut its undying hunger."