eowyn and legolas

Theodred had laughed at such nonsense.

And Faramir, though an attentive husband—at least in those early days—had never bothered.

Eowyn sighed. Why should Legolas be any different?

“Come, melmenya,” he said, rising from the breakfast table.

“Where are we going?”

He smiled.

The glade where the craftsmen-elves had their workshops was still filled with morning mist, but Master Nolofinwë was waiting for them.

“It is ready, my lord,” he said. “The finest I have ever forged.”

Legolas drew the graceful blade from its scabbard and carefully tested its balance. “Perfect,” he said. “Happy Sweetheart’s Day, melmenya.”


He arched his back and, suddenly turning his head aside, growled, deep in his throat.

Eowyn, between his legs, waited until his body had relaxed; then she came up on her knees and, wrapping her arms around his neck, kissed his mouth, whispering, “That much, Lassui.”


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Written for Valentine's Day 2006.