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Legolas?
For the first time since coming to live with him, Eowyn had awoken
without his strong arms around her.
She turned over.
He was not lying beside her… He was not in their bed chamber.
She threw back the coverlet and climbed out of bed.
Winter was already approaching and the room felt chilly, but
elves, Eowyn had found, did not light fires for warmth, only for
light and cheer. Just one of the many strange things I must
learn to live with, she thought, slipping on her thick velvet
dressing robe and hunting for her fur-lined slippers.
“Legolas?”
There was no reply from the bathing room.
Nor do elves, she thought, looking at herself in the mirror,
get tangles in their hair. She raked a hand through her
own dishevelled locks. In fact, they hardly get dirty at all.
(She had once asked Legolas how he could bear to sleep with a
sweaty, smelly human, and he had laughed, and kissed the tip of
her nose, and told her that she was beautiful).
Eowyn stifled a yawn.
Elves, of course, did not sleep, either—not in the normal
way. They rested their spirits by communing with Arda, singing
to the stars or walking beneath the trees. And if they did lie
down, it was open-eyed—something that Eowyn still found slightly
unnerving.
But Legolas always joined her in bed. Always.
So where was he this morning?
They had not quarrelled. They seldom did, and never for long,
since Legolas’ answer to almost any disagreement was beautifully
simple—immediate and prolonged sex.
Where is he? She reached for the door latch, just as the
door opened.
“Melmenya!” Keeping one hand—suspiciously, Eowyn
thought—behind his back, Legolas entered the bed chamber,
and gently propelled her towards the bed.
“Where were you?”
It sounded petulant. But her elf simply smiled.
“Wh—”
“Shhhhhh…” Using one strong arm, he lifted
her onto the bed, sat down beside her and, with an elaborate flourish,
conjured up something small and silken, which he dropped into
her lap.
Eowyn stared at the exquisitely embroidered pouch. “What
is it?” she asked.
“Open it and see!”
...
The first time he made love to her—without the Harvest
Rite and its potions adding fire to her blood—was a profound
revelation.
They were sitting, side by side, upon their bed, drinking
wine and talking. He made some prediction about their future together,
she turned to him, smiling, and his expression suddenly grew serious.
Without a word, he took the glass from her hand and set it down
upon the nightstand.
“What—?”
“Shhhhh.”
He drew her close, kissing her tenderly, and his hand moved
between their bodies.
“Leg—?”
“Shhhhh.” He pressed his lips to her forehead.
She glanced down, and her heart fluttered at the sight of
him, standing free of his leggings—his size still made her
breathless! She sank back onto the bed.
Legolas grasped her waist. “Turn over,” he said,
softly.
Turn over? Ignoring some tiny misgivings, Eowyn did as he
asked.
“Now come up on your hands and knees.” Nuzzling
and nipping her neck, he gently slipped his hands under her belly—“Up…”—and
lifted her into the strange position. “Yes—like that…”
“Legolas?”
“Shhhhh.” He slid his hands over her bottom, and
down her thighs, and she felt him grasp at the fabric of her skirts
and draw them up around her waist, leaving her buttocks exposed
and vulnerable.
“Oh. Valar.” His hands cupped her naked flesh, caressing
her, lightly at first, then harder, kneading her, making her squirm
and squeeze her muscles tight to savour the delicious ache inside
her. Her legs were already shaking, and she tried to sink down—
“No…” He held her up, wrapping his arms around
her, one hand supporting her belly, the other her breasts. “Trust
me, melmenya, you will enjoy it like this,” he murmured,
smiling against her skin. “Open your legs for me…”
“Open…?” Did he intend to mount her, like a
stallion, from behind?
She hesitated. But his hand slid down to her groin and his
fingers slipped between her thighs—“Open them…”—and
his voice was commanding but so gentle, and his hand—
Oh gods, his hand!
Eowyn spread her knees, and was amply rewarded by his penis,
slipping between her legs, teasing, teasing, then probing gently.
“You are so wet…” He lodged himself just inside
her—kissing and biting her neck—and his long, slim fingers
pressed on her sensitive flesh—until she spread her legs
further—and he pushed himself home.
Oh, dear gods!
Eowyn’s arms gave way, and she fell on her face, her
buttocks still high in the air—“Oh gods, gods, gods,”
she moaned—her body was trembling all over. “Oh, oh,
oh!” His thrusts were a sword of fire. And she screamed—clawed
at the bedsheets, screaming—as her vital spirits rushed down
to her core and she climaxed around her beloved elf.
…
“Thank you.”
Legolas, gazing deep into her eyes, smiled lazily. “For
what, melmenya?”
She kissed his hand. “For making me feel like this…”
...
“Open it!” said Legolas excitedly.
His mood was infectious. Eowyn untied the drawstring, pulled
open the pouch and peered inside. “A key…” She
tipped it into the palm of her hand. It was small and—like
everything Elven—elegant, fashioned in silver, with a beautiful
leaf-shaped bow.
“What do you suppose it fits?” asked Legolas.
Eowyn shook her head. “I have no idea.” She had never
noticed many locks in Eryn Carantaur.
“Shall we see if we can find something?”
Eowyn grinned—he was acting like a child with a new pony.
“What are you up to?”
Legolas laughed. “Come, melmenya.” He held out his
hand.
“I am not dressed.”
“We shall not be going far. Come.” She let him lead
her into the lobby and ‘discover’ a small wooden chest,
sitting in the middle of the floor. “Where can that have
come from?”
He released her and she knelt beside it, examining the familiar
emblem on its lid—an Elven sword surrounded by a ring of
birch leaves. “The arms of the Woodland Realm.”
“Do you think your key will fit?” asked Legolas.
“I would be willing to wager Brightstar on it,” she
said, grinning up at him. She turned the lock and raised the lid—“It
smells of lavender!”—and peered inside, at what appeared
to be a bale of plain black cloth.
She looked up at Legolas, questioningly.
Smiling, he reached down, and pulled open the black wrapping.
Eowyn gasped. Inside was a mantle of pale silver-green velvet,
embroidered with fresh young leaves of every kind, and hemmed
with a delicate fringe of silvery silk. She ran her fingers over
the sumptuous fabric.
“Let me help you put it on,” said Legolas, lifting
it from the chest.
Eowyn slipped off her dressing robe and Legolas, with a proud
smile, draped the mantle about her shoulders. “It was made
for my grandmother,” he explained, carefully lifting her
hair. “My father gave it to my mother when they married.
Then Ada gave it to me, when I came of age, so that I could give
to my wife.”
“Oh, Legolas…”
“I sent for it before we left for Caras Arnen, melmenya,
but it did not arrive until this morning.”
“That is where you had gone…”
He nodded. “Galathil told me that a chest had arrived from
Mirkwood, but I wanted to make sure.”
“Does your father know that you sent for it?” asked
Eowyn, softly.
Legolas laughed. “My father personally weighs, measures,
and dockets everything that passes in or out of the palace gates,
melmenya.”
“Will he not be angry that you are giving your mother’s
mantle to me?”
“I have not yet read his letter—but I understand that
he has sent one of his spies to investigate you.” Laughing
at her horrified expression, he kissed the tip of her nose. “The
mantle is mine to give to whomever I choose, melmenya,
and I have chosen you. Nothing my father can do or say
will change that.”
He looked down at her, his expression suddenly serious.
“What—?”
“Shhhhh.”
He drew her close, kissing her tenderly, and his hand moved between
their bodies…
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