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At the start of Firith, when the dry days of Harvest gave way to the wind and rain of Fading...

Legolas and Haldir ran from guard post to guard post, enjoying the exertion; revelling in the freshness of the rain and the slight chill of the breeze; savouring the scents that the wet weather had released.


Eowyn looked up from her book.



The elf’s cheery greeting was cut short when his wife leaped from the warmth of their bed and caught him by the arms.

“What...?” He watched with fascination as she struggled to remove his jerkin, her fingers slipping on the wet metal clasps, her hands wrestling with the damp suede that refused to slide off his shoulders.


Help me.”

Legolas shrugged off his jerkin and favoured her with one of his most dazzling smiles.

Eowyn started on his tunic.

“This is very enjoyable,” he said, “but—”

“Take it off.” She disappeared into the bathing room.

Legolas removed his tunic, and then—for good measure—took off his undershirt as well.

Eowyn reappeared carrying two large towels. “Now...” she said, wrapping one towel around his shoulders before she started to unlace his leggings—cursing quietly to herself as she snagged the damp cords.

“Melmenya, what—OW!”


“You can kiss it better.” Legolas shot her another seductive smile.

Eowyn took no notice, instead concentrating on pulling his leggings past his hips and down his thighs. “Sit,” she said, guiding him to the bed and quickly spreading out the second towel.

She knelt before him.

Legolas’ smile broadened—he tilted his hips, and thrust them forwards.

But Eowyn ignored the invitation. “Lift your foot.”

“My foot?”

“Lift it.” She pulled off one boot, then tried to drag his wet leggings down over his knee. “Oh,” she cried in frustration, “lift the other foot.”

“Let me, melmenya.” Legolas kicked off his second boot and deftly removed his leggings. “There. What next?” But Eowyn had already seized the corners of the towel, and was vigorously rubbing his damp thighs. “Oh... Oh yes...” He smiled again, arching his back as the sensation travelled deep into his groin and—

Eowyn moved down to his shins.


His wife came up on her knees. “Your hair is dripping.” She pulled the second towel from his shoulders and carefully wrapped it around his flowing locks, squeezing it to soak up the moisture. “Get into bed.”

“I thought you would never ask.” Legolas slipped beneath the coverlet.

Eowyn quickly untied her sash and shrugged off her dressing robe.

“You could have let me do that, melmenya.”

But Eowyn had already climbed in beside him, and she wrapped her arms around him, and pulled him against her body. “Gods,” she muttered, rubbing his back with her hands. She worked her way down both sides of his spine, concentrating for a moment on the small of his back, then moved on, past his tailbone, to his buttocks, rubbing, rubbing—

Legolas pressed his erection against her belly.

Legolas!” Eowyn shook her head. “Still, I suppose it is a good sign.”

The elf, his buried in her hair, smiled. “Sign of what, melmenya?” he asked.

“Sign that we have caught it in time—that you will not take a chill.”

“A chill. I see...”

His heart brimming with tenderness now that he understood her actions, Legolas gently turned his wife onto her back and, smiling down at her, leaned in, and kissed her tenderly.

“You must be more careful,” said Eowyn, “now that the weather has changed, my love.”

Legolas hid his grin. This was not the time to tell his human wife that elves did not suffer from chills.

On the contrary...

The elf felt sure that the oncoming rainy season would prove much more enjoyable if he kept that piece of information to himself.

Legolas practises in the rain




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I imagine this happening very, very soon after the end of My bow shall sing with your sword.


Elven seasons
Echuir ... 'stirring' (early spring)
Ethuil ... *'budding' (late spring)
Laer ... 'summer'
Iavas ... 'harvest' (early autumn)
Firith ... 'fading' (late autumn)
Rhîw ... 'winter'
From Ardalambion.