Eowyn and Legolas

“Why are you smiling, Eowyn nín?”

They were walking, arm-in-arm, along the river bank, like any pair of sweethearts. The sky overhead was blue and cloudless; the grass underfoot was bright with new life—sprinkled with white and yellow flowers. To Legolas, it seemed that every other being in Middle Earth was singing—

“I am enjoying having you to myself for a while,” said Eowyn.

Sadly, he drew her to the water’s edge, and sat her down upon a rock.

“You are treating me,” she said, still smiling, “like someone who is recovering from an illness—treating me how Faramir treated me, when I left the House of Healing—but I am not ill, Legolas.”

“No.” He gazed at the water.

“Say it, my love.”

“Say what?”

“Say whatever is on your mind. I would rather you said it—however much it may hurt—than stayed silent like this.”

Hurt? How can you think that I would hurt you?” He wrapped his arm around her. “It is just… I thought we would have forever, and now we may not. And I do not know how to fit eternity into a few short hours…”

“Then just tell me you love me,” said Eowyn, laying her head upon his shoulder.

He raised her to her feet and they carried on, following the broken edge of the meandering river bank.

“Do you want to spar?” asked Legolas.

“You are no swordsman, my love.”

“Then Haldir, or Eomer could—”

No. I want to spend these hours with you.”

“Do you think you can beat him, melmenya?”

“Yes, if the gods are with me,” she said. “He will underestimate a woman—he is sure to. If I can best him quickly, I believe I can win. But the longer it lasts, the more it will shift in his favour.”

Legolas stopped and, turning to face her, slipped both hands around her waist. “Remember what we promised.”

Eowyn shook her head. “I would never hold you to that, Lassui.”

“We made a promise—I will follow you, through the light, and join you where men go when they die,” he said. “After I have dealt with him.”

Later, she fell silent.


“I am frightened, Lassui.”

“Of what, meleth nín?”

“I do not know… Suppose they will not let you follow? Suppose—”

He cut her off, crushing her to his chest. “Whatever they ask of me, however long it takes, I will do it. Just do not give up hope, melmenya. Trust me, wait for me, and do not give up hope.”

It was dark when they slipped back into the camp.

In the privacy of her little shelter he undressed her, marvelling—Perhaps, he thought, for the last time—at the softness of her breasts, the slenderness of her waist, the smoothness of her slightly swelling stomach, the subtlety of her shapely hips and her lightly muscled thighs…

He bent, and kissed her reverently. “You must sleep,” he whispered, lying down beside her.

“I need you,” she said. “Inside me.”

He unlaced his own leggings and entered her, pushing gently through the slight resistance.

She smiled serenely—“Thank you…”—and drew him down, and their bodies settled together.

He made love to her slowly, calling on every ounce of his elven strength, every fibre of his elven self-discipline, to hold her in that place where the world shrinks to nothing but two people; and when he could wait no longer, when his body slipped from his control, he took her with him, filling her with perfect contentment.

“I love you,” she murmured.

He raised his head to reply, but she had already drifted into sleep. He kissed her forehead. “Sleep well tonight, Eowyn nín. Sleep well, beloved.”



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