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"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?"
"Yes."
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.
Broken.
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...
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.
"Yes."
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."
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