Legolas and Eowyn

"I am happy for you," said Theoden. "He is an honourable man."

Eowyn smiled modestly, her eyes downcast. "You are both honourable men..."


The Golden Hall was hot and noisy. She approached Aragorn shyly but with a happy smile. "Would you like to take a walk in the cool night air, my lord?" she asked.

"Eowyn..." he said, and the reproach in his voice made Middle-earth stand still around her. "What is it you want from me?"

"I thought you knew," she whispered. "I thought you felt the same."

"You do not love me, Eowyn." His tone was gentle, as always, but every word he uttered was like a sword piercing her heart. "It is only natural that you would long for a champion, a hero—your life has been hard. But I cannot give you what you seek."


She stumbled along the empty wall-walk—looking for somewhere private to lick her wounds—and she did not notice the elf, gazing out across the plains of Rohan, until it was too late. Drawing on all her reserves of pride, she stiffened her back and walked towards him. "Is something troubling you, my lord?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

"I needed some air, my lady."

She stood beside him. "The smell of sweat and ale can be overpowering," she agreed. And, despite her misery, she smiled up at him.

The elf turned his intense, unnerving blue eyes on her and his expression seemed to say I understand your pain.

Eowyn was taken aback. I have mistaken his beauty for coldness, she thought. And he is troubled, too.

"Why are you wearing your cloak, my lord?" she asked. "Your healer told me that elves do not feel the cold." She looked more closely at the strange grey-green fabric, which always seemed to blend with its surroundings. "And you have your hood raised," she added.

"You are observant, my lady," he said. "I suppose it is because I can still sense danger. Elven cloaks are designed to hide the wearer from sight."

"What danger do you sense?"

"The eye of the enemy is moving, my lady."

"Searching for the ring?"


He turned back towards the plain and, inexplicably, Eowyn found herself reminded of her duties as a Shieldmaiden. "Is there anything you need, my lord?" she asked. "I believe my uncle's steward has found you a bedchamber. If you need clean clothes, or a bath, or company for the night—"

She never finished the question, because—to her amazement—this aloof, ethereal creature threw his arms around her, and crushed her against his body.

And, for a split second, she felt his erection pressing hard against her belly...

Just for a split second, before she pushed him away.

"My lord!" she said, laughing with embarrassment. "I did not mean me! There are experienced women whose role it is to—to comfort warriors."

The elf's face distorted in horror. "No, my lady; no, I do not require that!" He turned away from her. "I am sorry, my lady," he whispered.

He was hiding his face now—his face and his lower body—and, for some reason, Eowyn found it unbearable that such a beautiful creature should feel ashamed. "Please—do not trouble yourself, my lord," she said, sincerely. And, when he did not respond, she added, softly, "Good night, my lord."


She fled around the corner and stood, with her back pressed against the parapet's cold stone, trembling violently.

The elf's body had been warm and vital. She had felt strength in those slender arms and she had felt—Oh gods!—she held her hand to her mouth—she had felt potency in that hardness. Even though she had crassly offered to find him a whore it had never seriously occurred to her, before she had felt his erection, that an elf might not only have the same desires as a man but also possess the same private parts...

But the man does not desire me...

How strange that the elf should want me when Aragorn does not.

And how shameful that I should suddenly want him in return...

It was utterly shameful. But that did not stop her walking slowly back to where the elf was standing.


He was exactly where she had left him but now his graceful form seemed twisted.


How easy it is to read his feelings, she thought. He is not cold at all.

She stretched out her hand and gently touched his arm. He already knew she was there, of course, but when he turned towards her she saw a whole gamut of emotions pass over his fair face. Pain, fear, hope, love...


And a single word fell from her lips. "Yes."


He bent slightly, leaning down to her level and, with his eyes and with his long, slender fingers, he explored her face, her rounded ears, and her throat—and then he slipped his hand, oh so gently, inside her bodice and caressed her breasts.

Oh gods!

Eowyn was not a virgin. But the one lover she had had could never have made her body tremble the way the elf's delicate touch was doing now.

What would it be like to be taken by this being?

"My lord," she whispered, suddenly afraid that someone or something might snatch him from her, "we may not have much time."

He said something in his own, melodious language and, with a smile, added, "Impatient Shieldmaiden." Then, stepping back, he seized the points of his laces and pulled.

Eowyn gasped.

With effortless strength, he lifted her onto the stone wall, pushed her skirts up to her waist and, grasping her booted ankles, drew her feet over his shoulders. Eowyn—who had always insisted that her lover snuff out the candles before they made love—instinctively tried to pull away, wanting to hide herself.

"Trust me, hiril nín," the elf whispered.

He leaned forward and tenderly kissed her mouth. Then, using his hand, he stroked his penis along her sensitive flesh.

"Oh!" cried Eowyn. "Oh!"

"Do you like that, hiril nín?" he asked, gently.


He positioned himself carefully, gently teasing her with shallow thrusts. Then he grasped her buttocks and, driving his hips smoothly forward, he pushed past the slight resistance and slipped deep inside her, filling her completely.

Eowyn's entire body jack-knifed. "Oh!" she wailed.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked, beginning to withdraw.

"No! No!" she cried, tightening her muscles, "please do not stop!"

"Oh, hiril nín," he groaned, "relax, melmenya; relax and be patient or it will end too soon. Please—trust me," and, kissing her neck, he began to thrust.

Gods, how he filled her! And his mouth on her throat...

Eowyn could not stop her body tightening around him. Within moments she raching for something she had never felt before...

But it was already too late. The elf was shuddering violently. "Sweet Eru," he groaned, and Eowyn felt his warm seed fill her womb. "I am coming..." He buried his face in her shoulder, and his body twisted. "Oh Valar, I am coming."

"Oh," said Eowyn, "oh..." She was pleased that he had enjoyed it. And it had certainly been better for her than usual, but it was so miserable to think that she would never feel whatever it was she had been so close to feeling. She buried her face in his hair and wept silently.

"A moment," the elf gasped. "A moment to recover, hiril nín. I am sorry—it had been a long time. But I shall not leave you unsatisfied, melmenya. I promise." And she immediately felt him growing hard again inside her; and then he raised himself up and, grasping her hips, began to thrust.

And that tiny feeling, low in Eowyn's body, suddenly became a beautiful, aching need and, from pure instinct, she began to meet his thrusts. "Harder," she cried, "please, please... harder... harder—OH!"

It spread through her like wildfire, burning every inch of her body, and she lay back, writhing on the cold stone—letting it consume her until finally, incapable of any more physical sensation, she sobbed with deep emotional release as the elf, too, cried out in completion.

"Oh, my lord," she whispered, again and again, "my sweet lord; my sweet, sweet, lord..." And, gazing up into his ageless blue eyes, she lifted his hand to her lips, and kissed it fervently. "Thank you, my lord," she said.

"Legolas," he whispered, "Eowyn nín."

"Legolas. Thank you, Legolas."


"Melmenya? Eowyn! Wake up, Eowyn nín!"

Reluctantly, Eowyn opened her eyes. She was lying, one leg thrown across the elf, pressing herself against his thigh.

"I was dreaming," she said.

"I noticed!" Legolas grinned. "About me, fortunately." He pulled her closer and kissed her forehead.

"We were outside the Golden Hall," she said, "after Helm's Deep. But, this time, I did not say no—and you made love to me."

"What strange things men's dreams are," he said, stroking her hair.

"They give vent to our deepest hopes and fears," said Eowyn. "And to our regrets."

"Do you really have regrets, melmenya?" asked Legolas. "About us?"

"Only about the time we wasted," she said. "Almost five years."

"But we cannot know what would have happened if we had joined ourselves that night," he said, settling her against his chest. "We might have decided that it was a terrible mistake—"

"No, never!"

"We might. But, as it is, when we were finally brought together, we were both ready for it—and we had the blessing of the Valar."

"Yes." She sighed. "But my dream was so wonderful..."

"Better than the real thing?"

Eowyn was quiet for a moment. Then, hiding her smile against his chest, she said, with feigned innocence, "I am not sure, Legolas. I think I may need reminding what the real thing feels like."



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