legolas and eowyn

Three days later

She was lying on her left side, curled up like a kitten, one small hand, lightly fisted, lying on the pillow beside her cheek.

Is she? Unhooking the fastenings of his tunic, Legolas tilted his head—Yes, she is smiling! He chuckled softly. What are you dreaming of, melmenya?

He shrugged off his tunic and began unlacing his leggings.

Ever since they had been together, Eowyn had insisted that he have regular doses of male-only company—tonight she had gone to bed early, leaving him with Eomer and Gimli. And it had been pleasant—toasting slices of cram, drinking wine, and sharing memories the Ring War—Legolas slid his leggings down his thighs—but he had missed her—her feminine way of drawing out Gimli and of teasing Eomer—her merry laughter.

He climbed into the bedroll beside her.

“Mmmmm.” She stretched, and turned over. “Did you have a good night?”

“Yes.” He took her in his arms. “Were you having a pleasant dream?”

“Dream?” She snuggled close. “I do not remember—” She chuckled, low in her throat. “You are naked…”

“I am an elf.”

“Mmmm.” Her hand slid downwards. There was a moment’s pause. Then—suddenly awake—she pushed herself up on one arm and stared down at him.

“What is wrong, melmenya?”

“That is what I was about to ask.”

“What do you mean?”

She nodded towards her hand.

Legolas frowned. “What?”

“You know what.”

He shook his head.

“Yes you do.”

“No, melmenya, I do not!” But she was clearly upset and he could not bear seeing her unhappy. He pulled her into his arms. “You are tired, my darling.”

“Is it me?”

“Is what you?”

She moved her hand.

“What are you? Oh you mean…” He closed his eyes and concentrated on the feel of her fingers, casting his mind back, for good measure, to their first time—reliving the moment when he unlaced her bodice, and revealed her slender body—

Eowyn pulled her hand away. “What are you doing?”

“I thought you wanted—”

“I wanted to know why you did not want me—I did not want you to—to perform—”

“Did not want you?”

“You have always wanted me—before tonight. Always.” She turned away.

“Melmenya!” He pulled her back. “Whatever makes you think that I do not want you tonight?”

“You are not—ready.”

Legolas shook his head. “I—”

“You are always ready.”

“Am I?” He could not keep the touch of pride from his voice.

“You know you are. Why not tonight?”

“I was just looking at you—am I really? Always?

“Yes.” She scowled. “What do you mean, looking at me?”

“You looked so sweet.” He grinned. “Not at all like you do now.”

“So you did not want to make love to me because I looked too sweet?”

“I wanted… You were dreaming, melmenya. I wanted to hold you whilst you dreamed. I wanted to watch you wake in my arms. I wanted—I wanted to do more than just make love to you…”

Eowyn said nothing for a long moment. Then, “I am awake now.”

“Yes,” said Legolas smiling, “you are.”

He slipped inside her quickly, sighing as much with relief as with pleasure.

“Legolas, if you do not want—”

“Shhhh.” He thrust hard, knowing what she liked.


Shhhh.” He thrust again, and the sensation almost overwhelmed him. “Manwë and…” He closed his eyes, grinding his teeth.

And he realised that he was never less like an elf—at least, in that respect—than when he was inside her. With others he had learnt to extend it—for two glorious days, on one remarkable occasion—but with her it was—well, perhaps not impossible, but he could seldom delay his release. And never for long. She was special. He risked one more thrust. “Oh. Yes. Oh, I am coming… Melmenya—” His voice sounded strange—high-pitched with surprise.

And, not even attempting to fight it now, he sank down into her body, and lost himself in shuddering bliss.

“I am sorry. I will make it up to you.”

He felt her hand stroke his hair and he knew that he was forgiven—not for climaxing so prematurely, for that never troubled her, but for—


For forgetting the differences that still existed between them—male, female; elf, human; immortal and… Newly immortal.

“For the elves,” he said, softly, “the world moves both very swift and very slow. Swift, because they themselves change little, and all else fleets by; slow, because they do not count the running years.”

“I am not an elf.”

“No.” He lifted himself up on his hands and gazed down at her, love welling up in his heart until it overflowed and filled him, body and spirit.

She looked up into his face and—reading the feelings plain there—sighed, and he allowed himself a small smile of triumph. “You will learn to think like one, melmenya. I will love you—want you—forever. You will find that the ripple of a moment makes no lasting change to the strong current of the years…”

Suddenly hard again, he began to thrust—in slow, deep strokes—“Valar,” he groaned, “how could you think that I did not want you?” He leaned down, hips still moving rhythmically, and kissed her mouth, slowly and thoroughly; then his head sank into the crook of her shoulder, and he bit her neck.

“Oh gods!” Eowyn's body twisted away from him.

He rose up and thrust harder, faster.



She clasped her arms around his shoulders and, arching up from the ground, desperately met his strokes.

“So—you have not always been so—voracious?”

Legolas laughed. “Only since I have been lucky enough to have you—”

She took him by surprise, catching his wrists and pinning him down on the bedroll, peering deep into his eyes.

Legolas allowed her her few moments of triumph before, exerting his elven strength, he turned her onto her back and straddled her. “How could you even think that I would lie to you?” he muttered, shaking his head.

Then his mock frown turned slowly into a broad smile. “Wild Shieldmaiden.”

“At least,” said Eowyn, nodding at the long, thick erection suddenly looming over her, “you are back to normal now.”



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This starts a few days after Legolas.


Cram … cake of compressed flour or meal (often containing honey or milk) used on a long journey. (From the Selected Sindarin Vocabulary at Ardalambion).

“For the elves,” he said, softly, “the world moves both very swift and very slow. Swift, because they themselves change little, and all else fleets by; slow, because they do not count the running years.” paraphrases Legolas' explanation of time in The Fellowship of the Ring.