the gaur and legolas

I will not let you take me without a fight, thought Eowyn, drawing her little hunting knife. I will geld you, or I will die in the attempt! She turned and—crouching slightly, arms extended—prepared herself, as best she could with an injured ankle, to fight.

For several long, heart-pounding moments she waited, but nothing happened. The gaur was lurking, deep in the shadows, about three yards down the trail. Gripping her blade, Eowyn took a cautious step towards it.

The thing growled, but did not move.

Hopeful, Eowyn took another step, and then another.

Then something—some small change in the gaur’s posture or, perhaps, some sixth sense of her own—told her to look up, at the branches above her head.

Racing towards his beloved, Legolas found himself preternaturally aware of every living thing around him—of Eowyn’s ripe, intoxicating scent; of Gimli’s coppery odour; of Haldir’s earthiness; of the honest, meaty stink of the human at his heels; of the faint, stale whiff of some other human, somewhere nearby; and, most of all, of the overpowering male reek of the gaur, directly ahead.

There,” puffed Gimli, “there she is! And there is the beast!”

The March Warden had already fitted an arrow to his bowstring and, quickly planting his feet, he raised his bow, took aim, and loosed.

His arrow flew true, slicing through the air with deadly precision—

A blur of green and brown and bright blond hair dragged Eowyn’s gaze from the grotesque object hanging above her—

Legolas flew at his rival, and brought it down—

Haldir’s arrow missed the falling gaur, and buried itself in a mallorn trunk.

The thing was strong but—blood pounding, phallus straining, muscles bulging—Legolas’ body was throbbing with power and, baring his teeth in a feral snarl, he pinned the creature beneath him, and bit deep into its flesh.

The gaur roared, thrashing its head from side to side, spittle flying, until—somehow breaking Legolas’ grip—it threw the elf off and, rising up from the ground, forced him down upon his back and straddled him, throwing its arms wide and thrusting its erection forward, baying in triumph.

Legolas seized its testicles.

The creature’s victory shout turned to a yelp of pain and—as it slumped over, frantically clawing at Legolas’ wrist—the elf used his free hand, pounding its head until it cowered, and he could wrench himself free.

But the fight was far from over and, grabbing the elf’s ankle, the gaur hauled him back and, looming over him, went for his throat; Legolas, fighting for his life, snatched up a fallen branch and smashed it into the closing jaws.

And over and over the pair rolled, snapping and snarling, first one on top, and then the other…

No, my Lords—Lord Gimli! NO!” Osgar set himself in front of the dwarf and, with grim determination, held him back at sword point. “You must let Lord Legolas kill it himself.” His free hand shot out. “You, too, March Warden! Lower your bow.”

Eowyn watched, some crude part of her body excited by the sexual aggression driving the battle, and already preparing to mate with the victor.

The gaur suddenly reared up, dashing Legolas to the ground with a sickening thud, and Eowyn cried out,—“Lassui!”—and drew her hunting knife, hobbling closer, looking for an opening.

But a thin, reedy voice, from somewhere close behind her, piped out, “Young lady! Do not stray too far.”

“Let me pass, lad!” Gimli hefted his axe and took a step forward, scowling up at Osgar menacingly.

So far, the elf was holding his own, but all the biting and the clawing—all the downright dirty fighting—on his friend’s part had convinced the dwarf that the sooner the gaur was dealt with, and the fight was over, the better.

“No, my Lord,” said Osgar, unflinching. “If Lord Legolas wins, I believe he may still have a chance. If he loses… Well, then you will need your axe, my Lord.”

Locked in a crushing embrace, Legolas and the gaur lay face-to-face.

“You cannot best me,” panted the creature. “Submit!”

“Never,” gasped the elf. He felt his blood rising in response to the madness coursing through the gaur’s veins, but still he clung to his elven honour, and to his love for Eowyn—“I will never let you violate me—never submit to your foul ways!”

“Then die, fool!” snarled the gaur.

And, suddenly, it seemed to grow in size, its neck curving upwards, its jaws extending towards Legolas’ throat. The elf, making one last, wild attempt to save himself, wrenched a hand free and, clamping it round the gaur’s muzzle, pushed with all his might—

And then he was falling, falling, falling

“Lassui!” shrieked Eowyn. “No! No! Lassui!

She staggered to the spot where Legolas had disappeared—“Careful, young lady!”—and, dropping to her knees, peered down into the pit.

Far below her, the gaur lay impaled upon a bed of wooden stakes; Legolas, still clinging to the crumbling edge of the trap, was smiling up at her, as though all were well.

“Oh, gods, Lassui!” She grabbed his wrists. “I have you, my darling,” she cried, pulling with all her might, “I have you…” But she could not lift him—she lacked the strength—“Lassui!

Then powerful arms were reaching over her, and big elven hands were grasping Legolas, and Legolas was rising—Eowyn let go—and then her beloved elf was safe beside her, holding her, and she was clinging to him.

“Thank you, mellon nín,” said Legolas to Haldir.

Help me.”

A look of horror passed between the two elves.

The gaur’s growl was not pleading—not even commanding—it was soft, and seductive. “Help me.”

“You must shoot it, my Lord,” said Osgar. He had retrieved Legolas’ great Galadhrim bow, and was holding it out to him. “Through the heart, my Lord.”

Frowning, Legolas took the weapon and drew it slowly, tentatively, as though feeling its draw weight for the very first time.

“You shall not—kill me,” said the gaur, in ragged gasps, “not now…” It made a sudden, desperate effort to wrench itself free but, failing, sank back onto the spikes. “You know—what I can give you—I have shown you—how it feels—and you want it—with her,”—it nodded, weakly, towards Eowyn—“and with other women—and with men—for there is no—no pleasure—greater—that making a man submit—then taking him—”

Legolas loosed a single arrow.


Osgar insisted that the gaur’s remains must be properly burned

Using elven rope, Haldir climbed down into the pit and, carefully leaving the fatal shaft in place, lifted the body; Gimli took it from him and, together with the man, carried it out of the Forest and onto the plain, and—not far from where the travellers, slowly descending from the trees, had begun to congregate—the pair gathered a pile of unburnt timbers.

“Here,” said Thorkell bogsveigir, directing two men to dump the body of the captive changeling beside that of his leader, “this one is dead meat. The other is alive, and still looks human, but who knows?” He nodded towards the gaur’s remaining follower, being escorted towards them by four elderly Rohirrim.

With a grunt, Gimli signalled Osgar to light the wood; the man touched a smouldering brand to base of the pyre. “We will take care of him,” he said to the Beorning.

“Primitive,” said Haldir, referring to the stakes at the bottom of the trap, “but effective.”

“And not Galadhrim,” said Legolas, crouching at the edge of the pit. He seemed entirely recovered, but Eowyn kept a supportive hand upon his shoulder.

“No,” agreed Haldir. “No more than that is.” He gestured at the naked male corpse hanging, a few paces from the trap, impaled upon a sharpened branch, its rotting flesh daubed with a thick, red stain.

“Tell us more about the voice you heard, melmenya,” said Legolas, patting her hand.

“It sounded—well, gentle,” said Eowyn. “Old, and kindly.”

“Kindly? Are you sure?” said Haldir.

She nodded. “I think he was trying to keep me safe.”

“Away from the pit,” said Legolas.

“Yes, but… More than that. He was trying to keep me close to the body. Look at it, Lassui—Haldir—what does it remind you of?”

Neither elf answered.

“It looks like one of them,” she said, “when they are changing. And the branch goes straight through its heart. The gaur would not go anywhere near it. Standing beneath it saved me, Lassui.”


“And when Eomer King returns,” said Legolas, addressing the assembled travellers, “we will round up the rest of the horses.”

He had divided the able-bodied into three groups. The first—all elves—were to search the nearby Forest for materials with which to construct temporary shelters for the elderly and infirm; the second—mostly humans, and including the cooks and their assistants—were to pick over the smoking ruins of the campsite for anything that could be salvaged; the third group—led by the March Warden—would hurry on to Caras Galadhon, looking for wagons or boats, for warm clothing and food—and for anything else useful that the elves of Lothlórien might have left behind.

As the rest of the search party was making its final preparations, Eowyn drew Legolas aside. “Is it really over, Lassui?” she asked, looking up into his eyes.

“Of course, melmenya.”

“I know your wound has gone,” she insisted, “but,”—she took hold of his hands—“I heard what it said to you at the end, and I know how you felt—how a part of you still feels.”

“It will pass,” said Legolas. His pale cheeks had flushed a deep, shameful crimson. “I am sure it will soon pass—”

“You kept trying to tell me how a gaur makes another person into something like itself—with its seed—that is why it was about to rape you when I rescued you; that is why,”—she squeezed his hands—“fighting it made you so—aroused—”

“I was like an animal.

“You were magnificent! You have nothing to be ashamed of—you fought it—fought its seduction—to the very end. But why should you have to suffer now? Why should you have to feel so wretched?” Gently, she lifted his hands to her lips and kissed them. “There is time, Lassui, before we leave. Let me finish it for you. I can finish it. For both of us.”

She led him a little way down the trail and, there, out of sight of the others, she reached up under his jerkin, and he felt the fabric of his leggings suddenly loosen, and her strong fingers wrap around him, and he leaned in, and kissed her mouth, in long and lingering thanks.

Then he sank back against the tree and—head thrown back and muscles taut—he let her, with her loving hands and her soft, warm mouth, work him up to a climax, coaxing the tension from deep inside him, drawing the sting from his trembling limbs—


Release ripped through him, and the cries that came with it started deep in his belly and forced themselves out, leaving his body jerking and shuddering in their wake.

“Ai. Meleth…” He sank to his hands and knees and Eowyn was beside him. And she wrapped her arms around him, and gathered him close.

“Now,” he whispered, resting his head against her shoulder, “now it is over.”


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