thranduil

“Oh…” Every deep, sharp thrust made Eowyn greedier for the next.

She arched her back, chasing the pleasure, and dug her fingers into the threshing floor, moaning, “Oh; oh yes; OH…” And, turning her head aside, she ripped up handfuls of earth and corn, riding out a storm of sensation that left her helpless, but wanting more.

And Legolas was still thrusting; and the tiny sparks that lingered in her head, her breasts, her arms, her legs, quickly glowed bright again, and burst into a flame that consumed her entire body. This time the climax was violent and, as she cried out her full-throated joy, a wave of warm, wet seed filled her, overwhelming her spirit with pure, animal pleasure.

Just in time, Legolas withdrew from Eowyn’s body and, with a ragged moan, spilled the last of himself upon the threshing floor, a tribute to Yavanna, the Lady of Harvests.

His guests applauded.

Then Eowyn reached up and, smiling, drew him into her arms, and he sank down upon her bosom, exhausted.

It was done.

But, even as the Mistress of the Ceremony was covering him with the velvet blanket, he felt himself growing hard again.

 

she was wild and wanton, like a woodland sprite

“They chose me,” murmured Eowyn.

Legolas raised his head.

She was wild and wanton like a woodland sprite and he wanted her again. Pressing his erection against her, he whispered, “I took you before you could drink the potion, melmenya, but I—oh! Oh Valar,”—he was trembling, trying to hold himself in check—“oh, Yavanna, I—oh!”

“Do not fight it, Lassui,” she whispered, reaching down between them, and grasping him tightly. Instantly, the ache turned to sweet relief, bringing a sob of gratitude to the elf’s lips. Eowyn shifted beneath him, drawing his penis between her thighs. “Just—oh,”—he drove himself inside her—“yes, my darling,” she cried, “yes!” And, though he needed no further encouragement, she slid her hands down his back and, clutching his buttocks, she urged him on. “Take me, Lassui; take me…”

Legolas rose up and, arms shaking, thrust and held himself deep, ground hard, and withdrew, savouring the tight velvety grasp of her body; and, immediately, he felt the delicious ripples of release building in his testicles. “Oh,” he moaned, “I am coming…”

But the potion—or Heral’s charm—decided otherwise.

And Legolas kept thrusting, riding the edge of orgasm, something deep inside him pulsing in exquisite waves; then Eowyn grabbed his shoulders and he realised that she wanted him to change position; and, as the blanket fell from his back, he found himself sitting up, with Eowyn straddling his lap, and his erection grew bigger and harder; and Eowyn, impaled upon him, leaned in and kissed his mouth; and he clasped her close, burying his face in her golden hair, his heart bursting with love for her; and, at that same moment, he climaxed—not explosively, but in a long series of intense, dry spasms, whilst his beloved—sobbing “Legolas! Oh, Legolas, my Legolas,”—writhed upon him.

All around him, his guests—their shadows dancing—were groaning and straining, and crying out in satisfaction, as they made their own sacrifices.

Legolas, surrounded by sex, smiled triumphantly.

His testicles were heavy with unspilled seed but he was too tired to go on. With the last of his strength, he laid his head upon Eowyn’s shoulder. She slid her arms around his waist and, hugging him fiercely, tightened herself around his still-hard penis—

And, to his complete astonishment, with a deep shudder, he burst inside her.

Morning

Legolas felt Eowyn stir and, kissing the top of her head, whispered, “Maer aur, híril nín.”

Mmmm.” She snuggled closer, murmuring, “You are lively this morning, Lassui.”

The elf smiled. “I am happy, melmenya.” He kissed her again. “But I think we should go up to our chambers as soon as you are ready. I have been thinking—”

“You are lively!” She sat up and, stretching, glanced around the Banqueting Hall. The ring-shaped table was still scattered with the remains of the previous night’s banquet. Beneath it, couples and triples of every combination—and in every state of undress—lay sleeping. “Any dead bodies?”

“Melmenya!” Legolas chuckled.

Eowyn noticed a familiar blond elf, already beginning to stir, and, curled up beside him, a dark-haired elleth. Poor Haldir, she thought. “Yes, I think we should go up straight away.” She scrambled to her hands and knees—and her efforts snapped the last few threads of lace holding her bodice together. “Oh! You have ruined my gown, Lassui.”

“Ruined?” Legolas smiled. “It looks very nice from where I am sitting, melmenya.”

Eowyn blushed, pulling the stiffened fabric closed across her breasts, and grinned at him.

“Valaina will mend it for you, my darling,” said Legolas. “Come…”

She took his hands, and he helped her to her feet.

Eryn Valen, Godith’s parents’ house

Hentmirë hovered anxiously upon the stairs.

Godith’s mother had carried a large bowl of warm water up to the sleeping room and was preparing to bathe the two babies Legolas had left in her care. Hentmirë watched her strip a soiled napkin from the tiny elfling. “How is he?” she asked.

The woman looked up from her charge. “I can’t see nothing wrong with either of them, my Lady,” she said.

“Are babies usually so loud?”

The woman laughed. “Yes, my Lady.”

“Are you ready, lass?” called Gimli from below.

“Excuse me,” said Hentmirë, leaving Godith’s mother to her work.

“We have set up a table for you by the door,” said the dwarf. He led the little woman to her station. “And Berryn has finished the map.”

Frowning, Hentmirë examined the bed sheet spread across the tabletop.

“It is as accurate as I can make it,” said the cartographer, “given the information we have.” He pointed to the features he had inked onto the fabric. “This is the village,” he said, indicating a cluster of rectangular shapes, “and the river,”—a thick black line winding from right to left—“the Eryn Carantaur and Caras Arnen roads,”—two narrower, straighter lines, intersecting at the village—“and these are forest trails. We have divided the Forest,”—a scatter of tiny fir trees—“into twelve areas.”

“As the search parties report back to you,” said Gimli, “you must cross off the bit they have just searched, and give them another.”

“How will I know that they have looked in the right place?” asked Hentmirë.

“These areas are well known to the locals,” said Berryn, “and they will be acting as guides.”

“What shall I do if they find something?”

“Mark it on the map, and send one of the young lads to fetch me,” said the dwarf.

“I shall do my best, Gimli.”

Eowyn lowered herself into the scented water, sinking into Legolas’ arms with a contented sigh. “What were you thinking?”

“Mmmm?”

“In the Banqueting Hall,”—she reached for the cake of soap—“you said that you had been thinking. What about?” She worked the soap into a lather.

“The missing baby,” said Legolas.

“Little Godwin?” Eowyn smoothed the creamy foam along her arm.

The elf watched her appreciatively. “Yes,” he said. “I was wondering if it was just coincidence that Heral was his father.”

He leaned in, intending to nuzzle her neck, but Eowyn pulled away in surprise, and she turned to face him, water spilling from her luscious curves. “What do you mean?”

“Mean? I am not sure…” He stretched out a hand and gently brushed a strand of damp hair from her shoulder. “It just seems strange.”

I think that Heral gave the baby away.”

“Yes. Or traded him,” said Legolas. His fingers slid over her damp skin; he cupped her breast.

“But for what?”

“Mmm?”

“What could the creatures have given him in return?”

“I have no idea, melmenya. Unless…” He leaned forward, and kissed her mouth, slipping his other hand around her waist. “What did Heral and they have in common?”

“Seducing women,” said Eowyn.

“Mmm.” He kissed her again.

“But…”

“Later, melmenya.” With smooth, elven grace, he leant back against the side of the bathtub and slid beneath the water, drawing Eowyn down upon him, her knees either side of his hips. He grasped her buttocks and pulled her against him; he was rock hard.

“You should not,” said Eowyn.

“I know.”

Eryn Valen

“I thought you were going back to the City this morning, lad,” said Gimli, drawing his axe to check its edge.

“I have no desire to watch—to attend—that Ceremony,” replied Thorkell bogsveigir.

Around them, on the village green, three search parties, made up of men and elves, and a handful of dwarves, were waiting for the order to move out.

“Well, we can use every pair of eyes we can get,” said the dwarf. “As long as it does not land you in trouble with the King.”

“I have a pardon.”

“Eh?” Gimli looked up at the Beorning, but the man—tall and dark as a raven—was already stalking across the grass to join the searchers.

The dwarf shook his head. Then, “Right,” he cried, sheathing his axe and clapping his hands together, “let us get going!”

Ahhh…” Sighing contentedly, Legolas drew Eowyn down into his arms and cuddled her. “Last night was wonderful, melmenya,” he murmured, “but I needed to make love to you in private.”

“It was nice.” She snuggled close.

Legolas smiled; but he knew they could not afford to spend the day in idleness. “We must talk to Cyllien, melmenya,” he said, “as soon as possible. It has been two days.”

“You know that she spent last night with your father?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think he will let us talk to her?”

“He will certainly bluster,” said Legolas.

“Poor Haldir.” Eowyn raised her head. “I wonder… Would it be cruel, Lassui, after we have spoken to Cyllien, to visit Haldir again, and tell him about her and your father? Perhaps it would convince him to tell us the truth.”

North of Eryn Valen

Thorkell bogsveigir’s search party had been assigned the area in which Eowyn had already found the three babies. The Beorning had struck out alone, following an almost invisible trail that wound through the scrub on the western bank of the river—Their main hunting ground, if the stories are true, he reasoned.

He dismounted, and examined the ground. There were no obvious tracks, but—he sniffed the grass—there was certainly an odour. “Goat’s piss,” he muttered, though its scent had an unfamiliar tang.

He took a few more steps and, eyes watering, clamped a hand over his nose and mouth. “I am standing in their bloody latrine,” he grumbled, scanning the forest to his left, “they must surely be somewhere nearby—oh, yes…”

The shelter was hidden amidst the bushes—shaped like a beehive, woven from living branches, thatched with grass, and decorated—Thorkell’s lip curled at the incongruity of it—with garlands of dried flowers.

“A nest.”

The King’s servant—looking slightly harassed—showed Legolas and Eowyn into the sitting room of Thranduil’s apartment.

“Good morning, Ada.” Legolas glanced around the chamber.

“Lost something, Lassui?”

Legolas shook his head.

“Then to what do I owe this great pleasure?” Thranduil gestured towards the chairs arranged beside the fire. “Good morning, Eowyn.”

The couple sat down. “We would like to speak to Cyllien,” said Eowyn.

Thranduil raised an eyebrow.

“We know that she celebrated the Rite with you, Ada,” said Legolas. “And she did not return to Arinna’s this morning. So we assume that she is still here with you.”

“Very astute, Lassui. She is bathing,” said Thranduil.

“Then we will wait.”

“Would you like a drink?”

“Thank you.”

“Eowyn—would you be so kind?”

“No,”—Eowyn grinned—“Ada.”

With an exaggerated sigh—“Wherever did you find her, Lassui?”—Thranduil walked over to the sideboard, took the stopper from the decanter, and poured three glasses of apple brandy.

“She is one of a kind,” said Legolas, as Thranduil handed him a drink. “Thank you.”

Eowyn took the second glass. “Thank you, Ada.”

Thranduil sat down. “What do you want with Cyllien?” he asked, suddenly serious.

Legolas and Eowyn exchanged glances. “It is in connection with the murder, Ada,” said Legolas.

“I thought that your March Warden had confessed to that.”

“He has; but we believe—”

“Did you know, Ada,” Eowyn interrupted, “that the man who attacked Cyllien at the market—the man you stopped—was the same man who was murdered?”

You have been listening to tales—”

The door opened, and Thranduil looked up at the newcomer, and smiled. “Ah, my dear, you have visitors.”

Cyllien, pale and nervous—But, thought Eowyn, looking more lovely than ever—crossed the room and sat down beside the Elvenking.

They looked like a couple, Cyllien like a queen, and Eowyn sensed Legolas flinch, though, outwardly, he seemed perfectly calm. “Ada,” he said, “perhaps you—”

“I shall stay, Lassui.”

“Very well,” said Eowyn, patting Legolas’ hand. She took out her wax tablet. “Cyllien,” she began, watching the elleth closely, “why has Haldir confessed to a crime he did not commit?”

If Cyllien had seemed nervous before, now she was positively trembling, and Eowyn noticed that she glanced at Thranduil before replying, “I—I do not understand what you mean.”

“I think you do,” the woman persisted. “Haldir did not kill Heral. His story does not fit the facts in several important details. He is lying to protect someone. I think he is lying to protect you.”

“Thoron?” wailed Cyllien.

Legolas leapt to his feet with a cry of horror. “Ada, how could you?”

“Sit down, Lassui.”

“Sleep with her if you must—I understand that—I have always understood your need for that—but to tell her—to allow her…”

Eowyn had stood up and, although she did not fully understand what was happening, she tried to calm him.

“Listen to your Harvest Queen, Lassui,” said Thranduil—and there was a hint of warning in his voice that Eowyn did not like.

“Come, my darling,” she said, softly. “We will speak to Cyllien another time.” She drew Legolas away from his father, guiding him towards the door.

“You should not have given it to her, Ada,” said Legolas.

Eowyn bundled him into the lobby, and closed the door behind them.

Outside, in the cool, fresh air, Legolas grasped the rail of the flet wall, and took a deep breath.

“What just happened, Lassui?” Eowyn came up beside him.

“You heard what she called him?”

“Yes,” said Eowyn. “Thoron. Eagle.”

“It was my mother’s name for him,” said Legolas. “It was a private thing—between the two of them.”

“And your father—”

“Gave it to her.” Legolas turned to face her. “This is not one of his fancies, melmenya. This is serious. But it is not that—truly it is not. It is just,”—a great, gasping sigh escaped him—“he should not have allowed her to use my mother’s name for him.”

Eowyn reached up and laid her hand upon his cheek. “I know, Lassui; I know.”

Legolas covered it with his own; then he turned his head and, closing his eyes, he kissed her palm.

Oh, Lassui…” She glanced across the walkway. “Come; come with me.”

She led him behind the wooden screen that hid the building site from passers by, and onto the unfinished flet. The wood, she noticed, had been scrubbed clean, or else the stained planks had been replaced—at any rate, no trace of Heral’s lifeblood remained on them—so she took Legolas up into the roofless apartment, and they sat down on a flight of steps.

There was no point in deceiving him. “I think that Cyllien did it,” she said, “and I think—Lassui, I think that your father knows it.”

For a long time Legolas was silent. Then he replied, very softly, “So do I.”

North of Eryn Valen

Thorkell bogsveigir fitted an arrow to his bow.

He had tethered his horse a good quarter mile down river and had returned stealthily, keeping to the trees. He had found himself a perch, high up in one of the young carantaurs, and now he was sitting amidst its branches, well-screened, and downwind of the creature’s nest.

He would get one shot—two if he was quick and very lucky—and he must be accurate: he must disable, not kill.

The Beorning waited.

“What are we going to do?” asked Eowyn.

A light breeze stirred the branches above her; she looked up at the wide, curving window of the King’s apartment, which overlooked the steps on which she and Legolas were sitting, but could see no sign of King Thranduil or Cyllien.

“We must separate them,” said Legolas, decisively. “I will talk to him; you talk to her.”

“Is it not a little late for talking?”

Legolas sighed. “We still need to know what happened, melmenya; and we need to know how far my father is involved.”

“Do you think he will tell you?”

“Eventually.”

“Lassui… ” Eowyn took hold of his hand. “I do not think that it can have been self defence. Cyllien had no reason to come here,”—she indicated the building site—“unless she followed him. With a knife.”

“A white knife,” said Legolas. “Which probably belonged to my father.”

 

The woman with hair like midday sun bids her mate farewell, crosses the wooden path, slips into the trees, and waits.

I climb down, from branch to branch, until I am almost close enough to touch her. Her hair sparkles like falling water; she smells like spring rain.

Every now and then she turns, and searches for me, her face clouded. She suspects that I am near; but my body becomes bark and leaves, and she does not see me.

 

Watching from her uncomfortable vantage point deep in the trees beside Thranduil’s apartment, Eowyn saw Cyllien leave and, keeping well back and taking full advantage of the route’s twists and turns, she followed.

Cyllien was walking slowly, head bowed, far too preoccupied to notice her; Eowyn risked closing the gap. There is a garden flet, she thought, not far from Arinna’s house. Perhaps I can persuade her to come in there with me—

But, to her surprise, Cyllien, having reached the crossroads, turned left, and climbed the spiralling stairs up to the next level.

She is not going back to Arinna’s, thought Eowyn. She is going home to Haldir! And a clever if somewhat dishonourable idea popped into her head. She held back, watching Cyllien cross the pretty flet and approach the first house. The Guards, standing either side of the door, had been ordered to stop Haldir leaving but not to prevent anyone else from entering, and they stepped aside to let her pass.

Taking full advantage of the Guards’ distraction, Eowyn passed behind a line of potted bay trees, and slipped down the side of the building.

A row of unglazed arched windows ran along the narrow path, placed high in the wall to prevent the occasional passer by seeing into the house. But not high enough, thought Eowyn, to stop me overhearing.

She stood beneath the windows, and listened.

Cyllien closed the door behind her.

The room was in semi-darkness, some of its silken drapes drawn, others pulled carelessly aside. Haldir, still wearing his field cloak and jerkin, sat amidst the chaos of dirty plates and discarded clothing.

“You look terrible,” she said.

“I told you to stay away.”

“I can’t.” She crossed the room and sank to the floor at his knees. “They know you did not kill him, Haldir—Mistress Perfect knows, and she will not let you do this.” She grasped his hand. “I will always be grateful to you, beriadir nín, for taking care of me: for doing this for me. But we both know that we were never meant to be together, Haldir. It is time to end it.”

“I gave you my word.”

“And I release you.”

For the first time he turned to face her, and his eyes met hers. “Why, Cyllien? Why, with that… That animal?”

The elleth sighed, settling back on her heels. “He was not the first.”

“Who else?”

“There was Calemir the goldsmith. Caranthir’s brother, Baimeldir, just once, before he travelled West. There was Coru—”

“Manwë and Varda!”

“Oh,” cried the elleth, angrily, “this is from the elf who calls out E-o-wyn when we make love—who came back from Eryn Laeg reeking of her!”

“Cyllien…” Haldir tried to grab her wrist, but she pulled away from him.

“Heral was different, if you want to know. Heral was big, he was tireless, and he knew more than one position—”

“You whore.”

Cyllien laughed. “He had this thing—this little wax man with a huge ceber—and he made me touch it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“When I touched its cock, he felt it—we both did—and we fucked, Haldir. He fucked me in every room of this house, front and back and between the tits; he fucked me out there on the walkway; he fucked me on Mistress Perfect’s own doorstep. We could not stop fucking, Haldir: we fucked in the building works; we fucked…” She suddenly came to her senses and, closing her eyes, she whispered, “We fucked in the King’s apartment.”

“If this man was such a fucking uruk hai,” said Haldir, bitterly, “why did you kill him, Cyllien?”

“You are so quick to assume it was me.” She scrambled to her feet.

“Where are you going?”

“To see Legolas and Mistress Perfect.” She made for the door.

“CYLLIEN! TELL ME WHY!”

“HE DID NOT LOVE ME!” she screamed. “And he called me a whore, Haldir, so I ended it.”

Eowyn heard Cyllien close the door, and sighed inwardly.

We have been chasing her for two days, she thought. And now that she is ready to speak to us, I cannot approach her without admitting that I have been eavesdropping—and losing the advantage.

She had no choice but to wait until Cyllien was safely clear of the flet, then return to her chambers, and let the elleth come to her.

North of Eryn Valen

Thorkell bogsveigir raised his bow, curling his long fingers around the bowstring in a deep hook.

In all his life he had never seen anything like the creature—half man, half goat—that was dancing down the river bank trailing a long garland of purple daisies behind it.

Just asking for it.

The Beorning set up his shot—fixing his eyes upon the entrance to the shelter, he drew, aimed at empty space, and waited.

Suddenly, the creature broke his line of sight as it ducked into its nest, its haunches presenting a perfect target. The Beorning loosed, keeping still until his arrow hit home.

Yes!

The creature howled once, fell on its face, and lay unmoving.

Thorkell bogsveigir scrambled to the ground and, pulling a coil of elven rope from his belt as he ran, raced to secure his prisoner.

Eowyn pushed open the door to her and Legolas’ private chambers and stepped inside.

The servant, Galathil, bowed his head in greeting.

“Lord Legolas?” she asked.

“He is in the sitting room, my Lady; he asks not to be disturbed.”

Poor darling, thought Eowyn, trying to prepare himself for tonight. “Have there been any callers?”

“No my Lady.”

“If a Lady should come, show her into the study and ask her to wait.”

“Very good, my Lady.”

Eowyn went into the bedchamber, closed the door behind her, and leaned against it with a heavy sigh.

Had she heard Cyllien confess to murder? She tried to remember exactly what the elleth had said to Haldir.

‘You are so quick to assume…’ No, that was not an umambiguous confession, though it would not be the first time that Cyllien had taken offence when she was in the wrong.

‘He called me a whore so I ended it.’ Ended it how? Might that be a threat? After all, Haldir had called her a whore, too.

‘This is from the elf who calls out E-o-wyn when we make love…’

“Oh, Haldir,” she sighed. “It is true: people who eavesdrop never hear anything good about themselves.” She felt unclean. “I need to bathe…”

She unlaced her bodice, slipped it off, and laid it on the chair beside the dressing table; then, reaching for the buttons of her underdress, she noticed her jewel box, lying upon the table.

A great, physical surge of lust shook her body, and she could not stop herself lifting the lid, just to take a look.

The figurine lay beside her hand, its penis straining up at her, erect but strangely passive. Waiting, she thought.

Longing.

This is what it is all about.

Grasping the tabletop, and ignoring the ache stabbing her vitals, she examined the charm.

Its face (which she had thought featureless) had a slight suggestion of high cheekbones and dark brows about it; its body (which she had thought broad) was willowy but muscular; its arms and legs (which she had thought thick) were long and slender; its phallus (which she had thought curved) was straight, and rather thick…

Oh gods, she thought. It has changed. It has grown more like Lassui!

She reached out, and touched the braid of hair strapped around its massive erection. She had assumed that the hair was Cyllien’s, and that its being immortal hair might explain why the charm was so powerful.

But, she thought now, with a sudden flash of insight, suppose it is not Cyllien’s. Suppose—

The door flew open behind her.

“Melmenya,” gasped Legolas, staggering into the bedchamber, “what are you doing?”

They came together with a great crash, like two forces of nature. He was inside her before she realised what was happening—irresistible, unstoppable.

Somehow, her outstetched hand found the wax figurine, and her fingers curled around its massive erection, holding it as though her life—as though both their lives—depended on it.

Nothing else mattered—nothing existed—only the relentless pounding of his phallus, filling her body with unbearable pleasure, and their impending climax, terrifying her with its promise of oblivion.

 

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Legolas
navigation

Contents page

contents

Previous chapter: The Rite
The investigation continues; Legolas and Eowyn prepare themselves for the Harvest Rite.

chapter 5

Next chapter: More lies
The tad-dail attack, Hentmirë is very brave; Thranduil tells some lies.

chapter 7

Elvish
Beriadir nín … my guardian
Ceber … erection (wooden stake)