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legolas and eowyn


In his haste to reach Eowyn, Legolas slid clumsily from Arod’s back, pushed through the tangle of bracken and briars, and ran down the sloping bank to the rocks of the Gynd Vyrn, where she was sitting, completely still, gazing into the bubbling waters of the Heledir.

Falling to his knees, the elf threw his arms around her. “I have been looking for hours, melmenya…”

The woman did not reply—though, to Legolas’ relief, she did lean against his shoulder.

“My father and Haldir, Gimli and Berryn, we have all been looking for you…” He glanced around the familiar glade. “What made you come to this place? Where is Brightstar?”

Eowyn lifted her head, and smiled at him, and his heart lurched at the sorrow in her eyes. “Oh, Eowyn nín,” he whispered, “what has happened? Where is Brightstar…?”

“He is grazing,” said Eowyn, breaking her silence at last, “over by the droveway.”

“Then what is it?” He drew her closer, and his elven senses answered his own question. “It has started,” he said.

She nodded.

“I am sorry, melmenya. But it will happen, when the time is right—perhaps next month. Unless you want us to stop trying,” he added, suddenly. “If the disappointment is too much—”

“I cannot, Lassui.”

“Then we will wait until you ca—”

“I cannot.” She pulled away from him.

Legolas frowned. “Then we will not, Eowyn nín.”

But she was crying—and not bravely, like the Shieldmaiden who had captured his heart, but wretchedly, her body shuddering with each anguished sob.

Terrified, the elf could only watch and wait.

Gradually, her tears subsided.

Legolas, not knowing what else to say, murmured, “Do you remember the last time we were here, melmenya?”

She sniffed. “It was a happy day.”

“Is that why you came here, meleth nín?” Tilting his head, he studied her face. “What is it, Eowyn? What are you not telling me? Have you changed your mind? Do you not want—”


“I do not understand.”

She buried her face in her hands. “I went… I went to Master Dínendal, Lassui. He examined me. He says… He says that I am barren.”

Legolas—unable to comprehend that Eowyn, his wondrous Eowyn, might be anything less than perfect—shook his head—

“I am sorry!” she wailed, “I am so, so sorry!”

He realised that his face had frozen in a frown, and he made a conscious effort to regain control of himself.

“Melmenya?” He grasped her shoulders. “Do you think that I…”—he searched for the right word—“do you think that I am angry? Do you think that I mind? Except that it makes you unhappy, I do not care at all! If you are well, and love me, then nothing else matters—”

“But little Meldon,” she cried. “And you—your dream—your son!”

My son? No!” He hugged her fiercely. “Our son, Eowyn. Our son!”

“Do you think,” said Eowyn, at last, “that your dream was a mistake?”

The huge autumn sun, sliding towards the trees, was bathing them in its golden light. Legolas, still holding her in his arms, considered her question.

“No,” he said. “But I think that the Valars’ plans have many layers.” He kissed her temple.

Eowyn sniffed. “What do you mean?”

“Well—we have been hoping for a child, but perhaps—one day, somewhere in Middle-earth—a child will be hoping for parents.”

“And they will bring us together…”

“Could you be happy with that, melmenya? If that was what happened?”

Eowyn sniffed again, and nodded slowly—though her face was still wet with tears. Tenderly, Legolas wiped them away. “We must go home now, meleth nín,” he said. “Gimli will still be looking for you. Haldir will be frantic—he has probably called up the Guards already. And my father—well, he will be declaring us both lost, and appointing Lord Fingolfin Viceroy.”

To his relief, Eowyn managed a faint smile. “Your father does not like Fingolfin,” she said. “Fingolfin is far too strong for him. Your father will choose someone he can bully—he will choose Lenwë.”

Legolas smiled back.

They walked home, hand-in-hand, along the old shepherd’s track, leading their horses behind them.

“Do you know what day it is today?” asked Legolas.

Eowyn, still subdued, shook her head.

“It is the anniversary of the night we spent behind the waterfall.”

“On our way home from Caras Arnen?”

“Yes.” He squeezed her hand. “Exactly one year since the night we made our vows.”

“Just a year.” Eowyn sighed. “How much has happened in one year! What we have endured!”

“Am I that hard to live with?”

“Legolas!” She smiled, at last, and her beauty almost took his breath away.

“That is better,” he said.

“You will not tell your father, Lassui? Or Haldir? About me? You will not—”

“I will tell no one, melmenya.”

“Because you are ashamed of me?”

Eowyn!” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Because you have just asked me not to. But I would tell no one in any case, because your body is nobody’s business but your own.” He turned her hand and kissed her palm. “And mine.”

“Dínendal thinks that it may have been the poison—though he cannot be sure…”

“Shhhhh.” He took her in his arms and kissed her, slowly and thoroughly, feeling both his heart and his body respond to her. There was no one like her—not for him—there never had been and there never would be. “As long as you are well, Eowyn nín, and happy here, with me,” he whispered, his voice quiet but firm, “I am happy. All I want—all I have ever wanted—is to spend my life with you.”




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I imagine this happening a few days after the end of Shadowland, and it forms a sort of prologue to Winter Magic.