“Sometimes,” said Legolas, “it hurt to see you.”

Warm in her bedroll, covered with two elven cloaks—her own and his—Eowyn lay beside him, her hand resting on his chest. “Did Gimli know? About—about your feelings for me, I mean?”

“He did, though we never spoke of you.” Legolas smiled, fondly. “Gimli can be very thoughtful, melmenya. Who else would have helped me build a garden for you?”

…

“Prince Legolas!”

The elf looked up from the winter-flowering êgvor he was carefully staking out. “My Lady!” He smiled. “I did not expect you back so soon…” He wiped his—already spotless—hands on a rag, rose gracefully, and greeted her formally, hand on heart, head bowed.

“It seems that Faramir’s business in Minas Tirith will take another two weeks, at least,” said Eowyn. “So I decided to come home. Faramir has Berengar with him, and—and I wanted to see my garden.” She held out her hand.

“Then I must show it to you—though there is little to see, as yet—oh, my Lady, you are cold! Please, wear this.” He took off his elven cloak and draped it around her shoulders.

Eowyn smiled up at him. “I am no delicate maiden, Master Elf—I have just ridden twenty miles through the early morning mist—but it is chilly, here in the shade, so, thank you.”

Legolas offered her his arm. “I have particular instructions to draw your attention—to draw everybody’s attention—to the heap of stones along the southern wall. It is, apparently, a work of genius.”

“It is going to be an artificial stream,” said Eowyn, smiling.

“So I have heard.” The elf raised an eyebrow.

Eowyn laughed. “Yes—Gimli is very proud of it.” They stood beside the dwarf’s construction—a long, narrow, sloping channel, neatly built from blocks of square-cut granite, capped with tastefully arranged ‘banks’ of delicately-coloured natural rocks.

“It will look pretty when those are wet,” said Eowyn.

“Gimli wants me to plant ferns between them—he has seen something like it in my father’s palace—though this, he assures me, is far more sophisticated than anything an elf could have devised.”

Eowyn scanned the courtyard walls. “Where will all the water come from?”

“It will use only a small amount of water, stored in a cistern hidden underneath—the water will circulate—but you will have to ask Gimli how that will work, I am afraid.”

“Show me the trees,” said Eowyn, smiling.

…

At the centre of the courtyard, where the light was almost constant—with Gimli's help—Legolas had removed the paving stones, freeing the rich earth beneath, and planted a grove of young trees, and flowering shrubs. “Do you like them?” he asked.

“They are beautiful.”

“This one,” said Legolas, stroking a slender trunk, “is a cherry tree. In early spring its boughs will be all but hidden by pink blossoms—the petals will rain down upon this bench—and when the tree grows a little older, it will give you cherries…”

Gently, Eowyn took hold of one of the delicate branches and looked closely at its leaves. “Can they really thrive,” she asked, “I mean, here—amongst all this stone?”

“They were nervous, at first. But when I described the joy that they would bring to their lady, they said that they—”

“They spoke to you?” She frowned, searching his face for the truth.

“All living things have a voice,” said Legolas, “and love to tell their tales. Does your horse not speak to you?”

“No,” said Eowyn, shaking her head. “No, he does not. Oh—I know when he is scared or angry, when he is happy, too; but no. I speak to him, and I am sure that he understands me—beyond the simple commands he has been taught, I mean. But he does not speak to me. I wish he could…”

“Perhaps,” said Legolas, “it is just a matter of learning. It was the elves who taught the trees to speak.”

“How strange,” said Eowyn. Then she added, shyly, “Could you teach me to speak to Brightstar?”

Legolas laughed. “One day, perhaps. But—give me your hand. Now place the other on the tree trunk. (It may help to close your eyes).” Then he spoke in what, to Eowyn, sounded like Elvish, though she did not recognise any of the few words she knew—and the tree—

She pulled her hands away, and stared at the elf, open-mouthed.

“My Lady! What is it?”

“I saw it,” she whispered. “Heard it—what the tree was thinking—or what you…” She took a few steps backwards. “I must go inside—I have things to do. Urgent things…”

Now it was the elf who looked surprised—and worried, she thought—but he recovered quickly, placing his hand upon his heart and bowing his head. “Of course, my Lady. Good day.”

…

“It was a beautiful garden,” said Eowyn, snuggling close.

“It was our garden, melmenya. Yours and mine. I used to sit beneath the cherry tree and imagine—”

“Weaving blossoms in my hair, and making love to me.”

Legolas gasped. “How do you know that?”

“Because the tree told me,” she replied. “In vivid detail.”

…

“Mmmm…” Eowyn, stretching luxuriously, caught sight of him, standing in the shadow of the trees. “Prince Legolas! How long have I been asleep?”

The elf smiled. “It is late afternoon, my Lady,” he said. “It will soon be time to go inside.” He stepped forward, and crouched beside her. “You have blossom in your hair, nafain.” And he stretched out his long, slender hand and brushed the flowers away…

Then his fingers slid downwards, in a gentle caress, and rested on her bosom.

Smiling, Eowyn rose up, and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“You are like a tree spirit,” he whispered.

They kissed, slowly, Legolas pulling her close, so that she could feel him, hard against her belly. “Make love to me,” she murmured.

He nuzzled her neck, and she felt his hands move again, turning her over, and raising her skirts; and she set her palms on the stone bench and felt his lean, hard thighs push her legs apart, and his penis press eagerly against her sensitive flesh—“Oh, Legolas!”—until it found its home, and he buried himself inside her.

Then, bending in close, and brushing his lips across her ear—“You must be quiet,” he warned—he smiled against her neck, and she moaned as he seemed to be withdrawing from her; but then he thrust in again, hard and deep, and she shuddered with delight, her hands gripping the carved stone—

And then his rhythm grew fast and insistent, and she had no choice but to tell the whole world how wonderful it was.

…

“Am I forgiven?” whispered Legolas, sinking into her waiting arms.

“For telling the trees how you would pleasure me?” She stroked his hair. “I am not sure that I can ever forgive you for that.” (With his face in her bosom, he could not see her broad smile). “At the time,” she said, “I thought I must be seeing my own wishful thinking. You always seemed so—sexless.”

“Sexless!”

“I began to think that I had only imagined your trying to seduce me at Edoras—I began to agree with the people who said that you were effeminate—”

“You were married, melmenya! I was just being respectful—”

Eowyn burst out laughing. “No one,” she said, hugging him tightly, “could possibly be less effeminate than you.” She slid her hand between their bodies, and moved it, up and down, slowly at first, then faster—and harder.

And Legolas, though he had made love to her only moments earlier, closed his eyes—a serene smile on his beautiful face—and waited, patiently, until his hips suddenly jerked, and he cried out—

“Oh yes, melmenya! YES!”