|
“That will not do,” said Eowyn, shooing
Merry from her tent. “You will not kill many Orcs with a
blunt blade! To the smithy! Go!”
Legolas, standing nearby with Gimli, stole a glance at the White
Lady of Rohan. Tonight, she looked fragile, and feminine, yet
the elf knew that, only days before, she had fought bravely in
the Glittering Caves, protecting the women and children by holding
back the invading Orcs until the men arrived. He smiled—
“You should not encourage him,” said Eomer.
Legolas’ gaze fell upon Eowyn’s brother.
“You should not doubt him!”
“I do not doubt his heart,” the man replied. “Only
the reach of his arm.” His companion sniggered.
Eowyn stood her ground. “Why should Merry be left behind?”
she insisted. “He has as much cause to go to war as you.
Why can he not fight for those he loves?” She was speaking
quietly, calmly, but Legolas knew that it was her own position
she was describing—and so did her brother.
“You know as little of war as that hobbit,”
he said, rising from the fireside. “When the fear takes him—when
the blood and the screams and the horror of battle take hold—do
you think he would stand and fight? He would flee and he would
be right to do so.” He towered over her, using his bulk to
illustrate his point. “War is the province of men,
Eowyn.”
…
Legolas glanced at Gimli.
The dwarf—surprisingly sensitive in such matters—jerked
his head towards the woman’s tent.
The elf patted his shoulder gratefully.
…
“My Lady?” Cautiously, Legolas pulled the tent flap
aside.
To his surprise, he found Eowyn kneeling on the ground—and
it took him a moment to realise that she was leaning into a large
wooden chest, searching through its contents. “May I come
in…?”
“If you wish.” She closed the chest lid and turned
towards him—spreading her arms as though trying to hide what
she had just been doing—and her eyes were bright with unshed
tears.
Legolas’ heart faltered at the sight. “Your brother
wants only to protect you,” he said, gently, “you and
Merry. To save you both from the horror of battle—”
“If I were a man he would order me to fight,” she interrupted,
speaking with the same suppressed passion he had heard earlier,
“he would have me flogged for a coward if I did not!”
“Yes…” Legolas held out his hands. “But you
are not a man, my Lady.”
“Why should sex matter?” She let him help her to her
feet. “I can fight! We need warriors and I can fight!”
“But they need something to fight for,” he said.
She frowned.
“When the time comes,” he explained, “they will
have to kill—and kill and kill—and they will find something,
deep inside themselves, that they—” He stopped abruptly.
“And, when it is all over, they will want to return home
to the one thing that matters—”
“Rohan.”
Legolas shook his head. “Their wives. Their wives and their
mothers, their sisters and daughters—their women,
untainted by the horror that they have just have endured—”
“And they will despise them,” said Eowyn, angrily.
“They will hold their women cheap for precisely that reason—because
they were not there…” The elf was still holding
her hands and she pulled them from his grasp and turned away.
“But I am already tainted, Prince Legolas. I have fought
Orcs in the Glittering Caves.” She stiffened her already
stiff spine. “I am a warrior, a Shieldmaiden.”
Legolas smiled. In her little suede corslet she looked so small,
so vulnerable, and yet she was so full of fire. He laid his hand
on her shoulder. “Without any doubt, my Lady, you are a warrior.”
She swung round, surprised by his touch.
It was not the first time that he had revealed his feelings for
her—she had rebuffed a foolish embrace during the celebrations
after Helm’s Deep—but now she stared up at him, her
eyes huge and suddenly dark, searching his face (he felt) for
a sign of his true intentions.
Legolas waited.
Then, at last she raised her hand, and laid it upon his.
“Melmenya,” he murmured, leaning towards her.
“But I—Lord Aragorn…”
“Aragorn is betrothed,” said Legolas. His lips sought
hers. “I offer you my heart.”
She pulled back. “I am mortal.”
“Any one of us may die in time of war, Eowyn nín.”
He leaned in again and, this time, he kissed her, lightly at first
and then, when she did not resist, with more and more passion,
gathering her up in his arms and feeling the softness of her body
and the sweetness of her lips. “Oh, Eowyn…”
He slid his hands down her back, to her waist, and pulled her
closer—
She drew back her head and stared up at him, wide-eyed—and,
for a moment, he thought she would shove him away—slap him—call
out to her brother for protection. But then she smiled—a
smile of such innocent desire, of such childlike complicity, that
it made his heart leap. “My Lord!” she gasped.
He smiled back. “Legolas.”
Then he devoured her, nuzzling and nipping the velvety skin of
her neck, earning from her a deep, shuddering sigh. “Are
you—oh—are you going to ravish me, Legolas?”
Her golden hair smelled of horses and, beneath that, of rose
petals. “Only if you want me to, melmenya. Do you want me
to?”
“Did you mean it—your heart? For ever?”
“If you will have me, Eowyn nín, I will stay with
you until y—until we are parted.”
“Yes,” she said, quietly. “Yes, I want you to.”
…
There was a camp bed in the tent’s side chamber, and he
lifted her into his arms, and carried her behind the thick curtain,
and set her down upon it. “If I had a choice, melmenya, our
first time would be long and lingering,” he whispered, sliding
her skirts up her thighs, “but, as it is, we must seize what
little time we have.”
Her legs were as slender as a faun’s and he leaned between
them, kissing the soft skin of her inner thighs—and she opened
herself to him—and he worked his way up to her centre, stroking
and probing the tender flesh with his tongue. There, she smelled
only of herself and her scent was intoxicating. Still teasing
her, Legolas reached under his own tunic, unlaced his leggings,
and pulled himself free.
Eru, how he wanted her!
But he must calm himself…
Her hands, tangled in his hair, were gently urging him on—suddenly,
her body arched and Legolas felt her spasm with pleasure. Then
she sank back onto the bed, eyes tightly closed, and murmured,
“Thank you.” And—with something less than elven
grace—he shuffled forwards and straddled her, and kissed
her cheek, and he felt her head turn and her lips brush his ear.
“What about you?”she asked. And her little hand slipped
down to his groin, and closed around him.
“Goodness,” she murmured.
“Melmenya?”
“You are so big.” He felt her cheeks flame and he smiled
as she began to stroke him, hesitantly at first but quickly growing
bolder—harder and more rhythmical—and suddenly he wanted
desperately to come, and he clawed at the fur blanket, muttering
curses in his effort to stop himself.
Her hand stilled. “Have I hurt you?”
He swallowed hard. “No, melmenya…”
He heard her sigh with relief. Then he felt her pull at him,
gently, and he lifted himself up on his hands and let her draw
him, closer and closer, until he was resting just inside her,
all warm and wet. Their eyes met, and they both smiled—Legolas
shakily—she nodded, and, in a single, firm stroke, he drove
himself deep, and began to thrust.
Sweet adaneth! Sweet, sweet adaneth…
He made no attempt to control himself now, no effort slow himself
down, for she was meeting his thrusts with equal vigour and, as
their bodies collided, and parted, and collided again, he felt
the first delicious ripples of his climax starting, deep in his
groin, and he threw himself down on her, attacking her mouth and
moaning, “Eowyn, Eowyn, oh sweet Eowyn…!”
till he burst inside her.
…
He sank into her arms.
“What will you do,” she asked, much later, “when
I die?”
“I will sail West,” he lied, kissing her hand—for
he already knew that he could not live long without her.
|
