The quiet commotion drew Legolas out of reverie.

Eowyn was still asleep. Taking care not to wake her, he disentangled himself and crawled out of the hut.

To the north of the camp, just beyond the mess tent, Haldir’s lookouts had detained three riders—Beornings, to judge by those horses, thought Legolas. They have probably strayed from the trail, looking for the river, and come upon us unexpectedly.

The March Warden was already approaching them.

There is no need for me to get involved. He would go back to Eowyn’s bed.

Smiling at the thought of his beloved’s warm, soft body in his arms, Legolas gave the riders a final glance before he turned away—and one of the men caught his eye.

He stopped, and looked more closely.

The man—from his build, really no more than a youth—was wearing a dark mantle with the hood raised, so that his face was hidden from view, but something about the way he was sitting his horse seemed…

Familiar.

Legolas went closer.

“I bear an urgent message,” the first rider was telling Haldir, “for Thorkell bogsveigir.”

That man again! “I thought,” said Legolas, “that your Chieftain had disowned Master Bowswayer.”

The Beorning, who also seemed familiar, bowed with genuine respect. “This is a family matter, your Highness.”

“And it took three riders to deliver it?” asked Haldir, still suspicious.

Is that a trick of the shadows, Legolas wondered, or does he look uneasy? But there was no trace of dishonesty in the messenger’s voice when he replied, “There are reports of Orcs in these parts, your Highness. It is unwise to travel alone.”

It seemed a reasonable explanation. “Valandil,” said Legolas, “rouse Thorkell bogsveigir and bring him to the mess tent. You will,” he added, pulling back the door flap and inviting the messengers to enter, “be more comfortable breaking your news in here. Orodreth—light a lamp.”

“Why are you giving that man preferential treatment?” asked Haldir, watching the tall, dark figure of Thorkell bogsveigir cross the camp and duck under the canvas.

“They are human,” said Legolas. “An urgent family matter may mean a death.”

“A death,” said Haldir. “Of course…”

“Something we can easily forget. But, at such times, men need privacy.”

…

Legolas was sitting by the fire with Gimli and a wakeful Eomer, expecting Thorkell bogsveigir to come to him asking leave to set his affairs in order, when he heard the dull thud of hooves.

They are leaving!

Rising to his feet, he watched the Beornings climb the sloping riverbank and turn north, noting, now, that the youngest rider, still muffled up in his mantle, seemed to be sleeping in the saddle, his horse being led by one of his companions.

If they were attacked by Orcs, thought the elf, shaking his head, he would have a rude awakening.

…

“Do you think I should speak to him?” asked Eowyn, pulling on her riding boots—and the sight of the soft suede hugging her slender legs—

“Legolas?”

“Hmm?”

“Should I speak to Thorkell bogsveigir?”

He crawled between her raised knees and, catching her around the waist, lowered her onto the bedroll. “And say what, melmenya?” He nuzzled her neck.

She tried to pull away. “No, Lassui, there is no time.”

But the elf sank down upon her, the hard head of his erection pressing persuasively into her sensitive flesh. “Are you sure, meleth nín?” he murmured.

Chuckling, Eowyn brushed her lips across his cheek and, lightly kissing his ear (provoking a delicious tightening in his groin), whispered, “Absolutely. You promised Haldir that you would take part in the archery drill this morning—remember? To raise morale? You should have woken me earlier, melethron nín…”

She was right. “Tonight,” said Legolas, rolling onto his side with a heavy sigh, “I will make you beg.”

…

Thorkell bogsveigir was sitting—alone amidst his elven comrades—head bowed in concentration, restringing his bow.

Eowyn smiled at Valandil and he, with the uncanny understanding of elves, silently rounded up his fellows and herded them away, leaving the man behind.

Thorkell, sensing the elves' departure, looked up, glanced around, then settled his gaze on Eowyn. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked, sardonically.

“I thought,” said Eowyn, stiffly, “you might like to know that Legolas is willing to grant you a leave of absence, should you need it.”

“I do not.” He looked away, as though dismissing her.

“Very well.” Eowyn turned to leave.

“It is killing you,” said Thorkell.

She turned back, frowning.

He had picked up his quiver and was slipping his arm through its strap. “Women always have to know,” he said, bringing the second strap across his chest and feeding its end through the buckle. “But curiosity kills the cat.”

“Whereas it will be one of us that kills you,” said Eowyn. “And quite soon, I should think.”

The man laughed. “Well, since you have always shown such an interest in my affairs… They came to tell me that my father is dying,” he said, fastening the buckle and tying off the end, “and he wants to see me—no doubt to clear his conscience before he embarks on the Last Journey—or maybe he just wants to congratulate me on my recent change of fortune.” He picked up his bow. “So, no, I have no need of a leave of absence, thank you.”

He rose and pushed past her—though they were standing in open ground and there was no excuse for the physical contact.

Eowyn spun round. “You will have a lifetime to regret that decision,” she called after him.

…

There was a festival atmosphere amongst the Rohirrim as, ale and breakfast meats in hand, they gathered around the practice butts to watch the archery drill. Skirting the crowd, Eowyn heard several men laying bets on the performance of their elven friends—and briefly wondered whether she should place a small wager on Legolas…

She grinned.

The rest of the camp was deserted apart from the servants dismantling the tents and packing away the furniture—and a small group of people still sitting at one of the mess tables, huddled together in what looked like a heated discussion.

Berryn and Lord Fingolfin, thought Eowyn, smiling. Scholars are worse than drinkers for arguing…

She stared for a moment at the third figure: a short, lightly built, and—judging by his posture—extremely nervous young man.

She could not remember ever having seen the youth before—not in Eomer's entourage, nor with Berryn and Lord Fingolfin. And yet he seemed familiar—

Oh no!

Forgetting all about the display that was drawing cheers from the crowd behind her, Eowyn ran to confront the stranger.