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my bow shall sing with your sword: legolas

Alone, at the very summit of The Hornburg, Legolas leaned against the cool, hard stone.

Far below him, in pursuit of Aragorn, the White Lady of Rohan ran along the Deeping Wall, lifted her skirts, and took the flight of stone steps two at a time, giving him the briefest glimpse of her long, slim legs in their little black boots.

Valar, those boots! Laced at her slender ankles.

Little black boots

You are a fool, he thought. She has no time for you. Besides, an elf and a woman could never be.


He closed his eyes and, for a few moments, allowed himself to imagine how it might happen.


He would ask for the chance to bathe. She would take him to the bathing room herself, find him soap, and a clean towel.

"Can I help you undress, my lord?"

He would stand, motionless, whilst she removed his leather pauldrons, his jerkin, and slipped off his tunic; he would sit obediently whilst she pulled off his boots.

Then she would reach for the lacings of his leggings. "Relax, my lord," she would say, pulling at the points. She would loosen the waistband and carefully pull down the fabric—and gasp at his straining erection—

"You are still tense after the battle, my lord; will you let me help you?"

She would kneel before him, wrapping her little hand around him, drawing him down to her mouth. His body would arch as her tongue caressed him in slow, deliberate circles;, her teeth would lightly graze his flesh; and, all the while, her long, thick, golden hair would brush his belly and thighs…

No! No! He must not come! Not yet!

Crushing the chair with his hands, he would regain some control, and bid her stop. Then, though his body would protest at the loss, he would withdraw—carefully, so as not to hurt her mouth.

"Was I not pleasing you, my lord?" she would ask.

"Ai, nadithen nín," he would say, "you were pleasing me far too much…"

He would stand, and draw her to her feet, lift her into the air—delighting her with his elven strength—and, holding her with arms outstretched, he would carry her to the massage table, where he would lay her on her back, feet in the air, one booted ankle over each of his shoulders…

And then, at last—unable to suppress the groan of pleasure from deep within—he would sink himself inside her.

"Oh my Lord," she would cry, "you are so big!"

A few shallow thrusts would show him that he could not last long; so, reaching back over his shoulders, he would grasp her ankles and, in turn, bring each foot to his lips.

"Ai hiril nín," he moaned, his hand inside his leggings, "oh, sweet life—those little black boots!"

"Is that better, my Lord?" she would ask, stroking his hair. "Can you rest now?"

That was when he would raise his head and give her his most winning smile. "Rest, hiril nín?" he would say, watching her smile grow as he pushed himself deeper inside her. "We shall not be resting. We have a whole night ahead of us!"




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Chapter 8

Ai, nadithen nín … 'Oh, little thing'.
Ai hiril nín … 'Oh, my lady'.