Legolas, having quickly supervised the burning of the Orc bodies, and fortified (with Eomer and Haldir), the perimeter of the encampment against further attack, came swiftly into the Healing Tent.

He glanced at Thorkell bogsveigir, lying bandaged upon one of the beds. “Where is Eowyn?”

“My lady is behind the blanket,” said the Beorning, “with the healer.”

Legolas thanked him with a brief bow of the head. “You did well, Master Bowswayer,” he added, approaching the temporary screen, “we will speak later—may I enter, Master Dínendal?”

“Indeed, my Lord,” replied the healer.

Legolas stepped inside.

…

“How is she?” he asked, sitting down beside Eowyn and gently grasping the bandaged hand that she stretched out towards him.

“I am fine Lassui,” said Eowyn. “I told you, it is just a scratch.”

Legolas glanced up at Dínendal, who nodded in confirmation, then he turned back to Eowyn, lightly patting the back of her hand. “And these?”

“Throbbing,” said Eowyn. She grinned.

Legolas shook his head.

“The salve I have applied has dulled the pain,” said Dínendal, “and will gradually deaden it altogether. It must be reapplied at least once more—come to me tomorrow morning, my Lady, and I will change your dressings. Lady Eowyn,” he added, turning to Legolas, “is healing well—almost as quickly as an elf—but she remains human in that her flesh is still susceptible to corruption.”

Eowyn winked at Legolas.

Legolas smiled. “I will make sure that she comes to see you first thing, Master Healer,” he said. “May I take her away now?”

“You may, my Lord.”

Carefully, Legolas lifted Eowyn into his arms, manoeuvred her past the blanket-screen, and—pausing only to let her wave to Thorkell—carried her from the Healing Tent.

…

“Are you going to corrupt me now?”

“Later,” said Legolas, “if you are lucky.”

…

Supper was surprisingly cheerful, for—having ringed the encampment, which was much less dispersed than usual, with a series of bonfires, and posted twice the customary number of guards—both elves and men (not to mention the dwarf) were in the mood to celebrate the rescue of their lady; and the cooks had, therefore, at remarkably short notice, prepared a sylvan banquet of roasted meats, and herby vegetable ragouts, with chunks of warm bread, ripe cheeses, fruited biscuits, honey tarts and lavender cakes.

And Eowyn, sitting between Legolas and Eomer, had insisted that Thorkell bogsveigir be brought to join the feast, so the Beorning—under protest—had been carried from the Healing Tent by Valandil and Orodreth.

…

“Well?” said Eowyn, toying with the remains of her honey tart.

“Well what?” asked Eomer. He spread a fruited biscuit with a knifeful of soft, ripe cheese.

“Are you not going to say anything?”

“Would it be any more than a waste of breath?” He took a bite. “Mmm.”

Eowyn grinned. “In this case, yes, I admit that I made a foolish mistake, so preoccupied was I with—certain thoughts—that I wandered too far from the camp without realising it. I was lucky that Thorkell and Legolas,”—she turned, to grasp the elf’s hand, and he broke off from his conversation with Gimli and Haldir to smile at her,—“that Legolas found me. So, if you do want to say anything, now is the time.”

“Be more careful,” said Eomer. “I mean it! You are not—well, perhaps you are immortal, but you can still be hurt, Eowyn. Killed.” He was silent for a moment. Then, “What thoughts?”

“Oh, foolish worries.” She smiled. “But Thorkell bogsveigir and I are blood brothers now.” She looked over to the Beorning, and was a little surprised to find that he was also looking at her. They both bowed their heads in greeting. “I have been thinking, Eomer,” she continued, “that you could use a good archer—”

“Oh no!” Eomer reached for another biscuit.

“Why ever not?”

“Why do you want to be rid of him?” He cut a piece of cheese.

“I do not want to be rid of him. I just think that he might be happier serving a human lord.”

“He is a troublemaker,” said Eomer, taking a bite of biscuit, and adding, with his mouth full, “and that I do not need.”

“I think he is past that,” said Eowyn.

Eomer set the rest of his biscuit on his platter and, turning to his sister, looked her directly in the eye. “You can be very naïve at times, Eowyn.”

…

Later

“Come here,” said Eowyn, stretching out her arms.

Carefully closing the canvas door of the little hut, Legolas shook his head at her impatience.

“Lassui…”

He turned, and smiled at the pout on her lovely face. “You,” he said, softly “have had too much wine.” He crawled over her. “You are always like this when you are drunk.”

Eowyn frowned up at him. “I am not drunk!” Then, “Like what?”

“Demanding.” He kissed her neck. “Wanton.” He sucked and nipped the soft skin, whispering, “Lascivious…”

“Oh, Lassui…” Her bandaged hand reached under his tunic.

But Legolas caught it and held it fast (against the hard ridge of his erection). “You must not hurt your fingers, melmenya.” He kissed her cheek. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want to kiss you—there.”

“Oh, meleth nín…” He pressed his lips to her forehead. Then, straightening up, he unhooked the fastenings of his tunic and shrugged it off.

“I am sorry,” said Eowyn.

“For what, my darling?” He pulled at his laces.

“For wandering off and getting you into danger.”

Legolas smiled down at her. “You are drunk!”

He opened his leggings and, leaning over her, lowered himself to her lips.

Eowyn kissed him, lightly at first, then more passionately, then drew him into her mouth, and stroked him with her tongue—

“Wait!” he gasped. “Wait, wait…”—he pulled himself away from her, trembling and already breathless—“I might fall upon you.”

“Then lie on your back,” said Eowyn.

“But I was going to make love to you.”

She smiled. “Later, Lassui.”

“Melethril nín…” He raised her bandaged hands to his lips and kissed them. Then he did as she had asked, rolling onto his back and lying, legs apart, with his arms by his sides.

Eowyn, still a little unsteady, knelt between his knees. “You are so beautiful,” she murmured, leaning forward and nuzzling his long, thick erection, brushing her mouth over the hot, hard flesh. “So beautiful…”

…

Legolas stroked her hair and felt her smile. Then she dipped her head lower and sucked one of his testicles into her mouth.

“Oh yes,” he muttered. “Yes…” And his body arched, stomach muscles fluttering, and his erection hardened and rose up from his belly at each caress of her warm tongue. “Oh, sweet Eowyn…” He closed his eyes and lay, grasping the bedroll, stretched out on a rack of pleasure until, just at the critical moment, she suddenly released him, and he collapsed, groaning with disappointment.

But that did not last long—crawling up his body, Eowyn took his penis in one of her bandaged hands—he squirmed at the feel of the dressing on his erect flesh—then she lifted him, and wrapped her warm, soft mouth around him.

Manwë and Varda!

He almost came.

But he fought back his orgasm—and she, knowing him so well now, waited, letting him step back from the brink before she began. And he raised his head, and watched her—watched her sweet body move rhythmically as her clever mouth sucked the life from him—from his shaking thighs, and his straining belly, and from under his trembling arms—and he moaned at the first faint ripples of another climax, deep in his groin, knowing that this time nothing could stop it.

And he stiffened and jerked as her hand grasped his buttock—and the other was stroking him—up—and down—and up—and down his whole length and—yes—squeezing and stroking—yes—and his hand grabbed his thigh as he came—oh sweet gods—he came, shooting long gouts of seed—once, twice, thrice, four times, five—thick and white across his belly—

Then he sank down, smiling up at her gratefully, blissfully emptied.