“Good morning…”

Slowly, Eowyn emerged from beneath her fur blankets. “Lassui,” she mumbled.

Legolas smiled, sympathetically. “Headache?”

“No…” She sat up. “Just tired.”

“Gimli sent you this.” He held out a steaming tankard.

Frowning, Eowyn pulled a hand from the tangle of bedding, took the drink from him and, peering into its smoky depths, sniffed at spiralling vapour. It smelled—disconcertingly—like freshly-oiled chain mail. “What is it?”

“It is a dwarven tonic, melmenya. It is supposed to revive a warrior, the morning after.”

“The morning after what?” Eowyn sat up. “Does Gimli think that I was drunk last night?”

Legolas laughed. “No, Eowyn nín! The morning after a battle—Gimli knows that you were wounded yesterday. The tonic is usually brewed by dwarven maidens. Dwarves are a very hardy people, melmenya. Try it.”

“I was not wounded, Lassui, I just slipped and—oh, very well!” Watching her elf over the rim of the tankard, Eowyn took a cautious sip—and screwed up her face in disgust. “Ugh!”

“Bad?”

She shook her head. “Worse!”

“Aw…” Legolas rubbed her back, encouragingly. “When you have finished it, I will give you a sweetmeat.”

“You have eaten all your sweetmeats.”

“Mmm… A kiss, then.”

“Do not flatter yourself.” Eowyn wiped the tears from her eyes and looked again into the steaming grey liquid. “Are you sure that this is safe?”

“Perfectly, melmenya. Master Dínendal himself says that it will do you good.”

With a deep sigh, Eowyn lifted the tankard to her lips, threw back her head, and drained the tonic in a single draught.

“Melmenya! That was just like a dwarf!” Legolas hugged her proudly.

Eowyn handed him the tankard. “And I deserve,” she gasped, between convulsive swallows, “a dwarven helm—for drinking it. Let us hope—that I do not—grow a beard.”

“If you do, I am sure that Eomer will show you how to—ow!”

“Stupid elf,” she cried, shoving him down onto the bedroll, “stupid, arrogant,”—she pinned his wrists to the ground—“insufferable,”—(he did nothing to resist)—“elf…” She swooped in and kissed him roughly, at the same time pressing herself against him until she felt his body respond.

Then she raised her head, and smiled at him, wantonly.

“You taste disgusting, melmenya,” said Legolas.

They both chuckled.

“Is there time?” asked Eowyn.

“That would depend,” he replied, “on what you had in mind.”

She leaned down and whispered in his ear.

But Legolas was suddenly serious. “We must be careful, Eowyn nín,” he said, stroking her hair, “you are bruised there. But I can do what I did last night.”

“No.” Eowyn came up on her hands. “Last night was lovely, Lassui, but it is not the same. I want to feel you,”—she moved, seductively—“inside me. Filling me.”

Legolas swallowed hard. “My lethal Shieldmaiden.”

…

“Ah—be careful, Eowyn nín.” He was holding her by the waist, using his elven strength to support her as she rode him. “If it hurts, melmenya—oh, yes—if it hurts, stop, meleth nín…”

Eowyn leaned down and kissed his mouth. “Nothing hurts when you are inside me, Lassui,” she murmured. “You are so beautiful.”

“No. It is you who are beautiful,” he said, raising a hand to brush back her thick, dishevelled hair, “so full of life, my darling, so—so—oh…” And, suddenly forgetting his fear of hurting her, he slid his hands down to her hips and, grasping them, he started to thrust upwards, with fast, urgent strokes.

…

Eowyn gasped.

His eyes (bluer than the summer sky) had suddenly widened in astonishment and, leaning over him, overflowing with love for him, she watched him come—still riding him, but gently now—and her own climax, which had been prickling inside her for some time, at last burst forth in a dazzling shower of sparks, just as his ended in one final—joyful—thrust.