Peace After Death, a Lord of the Rings:
They had been
running for days. Fleet of foot he was,
but worry weighed heavily on the spirit. As spirit and body were entwined, so then
the exhaustion of the soul dragged at the
body. Legolas
caught a scent on the wind, and felt the burden increase.
Death.
Fire.
Blood and ashes.
He shook off the
sadness at the waste, to be dealt with when and if needed, and
glanced over his shoulder at Gimli, toiling up the hill in their wake.
Aragorn knelt some ways ahead of them both, head
to the ground, listening for sounds of the Orc band
they pursued.
Would that they would not be too late.
Then Aragorn was
beside him. The horde of riders Legolas had spied a short while before was nearly upon
them. Ducking behind shelter until the
thundering host was before them, Aragorn stepped forth.
"What news
from the North, Riders of Rohan?" he called.
In an instant, as
if commanded by the same hand, the steeds wheeled and circled them. Legolas'
fingers curved around his bow, his eyes steady on the armored men and horses now ringing them in. A thicket of spears made an impassible
barricade around the three, who stood now back
to back.
One rode forward,
the tall leader Legolas had seen when first he'd
spotted the riders. His
spear-tip stopped within a foot of Aragorn's chest.
"Who are you, and what are you doing in this land?" His manner of speech and air of command echoed uncannily of Boromir
to Legolas.
"I am called
Strider," Aragorn responded.
"I came out of the North. I
am hunting Orcs."
Legolas watched the Captain of the guard closely as
Aragorn spoke for the remnants of the
Fellowship. The words were cautious, and
Legolas approved.
Hard blue eyes swept over him, from the
shadow of the crested helm, then moved on to Gimli,
then returned to Aragorn.
"The plains of
Rohan are awash with spies in these dark days. Who are your silent companions?"
From the corner of
his eye Legolas saw Gimli
bristle at the harsh challenge, squaring his stance and
bringing his great war axe to the ready.
"Give me your name, horse-master," he growled
with his natural bellicosity in the face of threat, "and I will
give you mine. And
more besides!"
Glare ablaze, the
Captain answered in kind. "I would
cut off your head, beard and all, Master Dwarf,
if it stood but a little higher from the ground!"
The bow leapt to Legolas' hand, arrow nocked,
before the words cleared the Man's lips, his movement
faster than mortal eye could follow.
Steady as the death his weapon promised, Legolas replied, "He stands not alone. You would die before your stroke fell."
Aragorn sprang
forth between arrow, spear and axe, his hands upraised. "Enough!" Murmuring words of restraint in the Elven tongue, he gave Legolas a
warning glance. Legolas heard but did
not yet lower his bow. Turning to the
Captain, Aragorn continued, "We intend no
harm to Rohan, nor to any of its folk, neither to man
nor to horse. Will you not hear our tale before you strike?"
The fire banked but
was not quenched in the horseman's eyes.
In response to Aragorn's plea, heeding
his leader's command, Legolas allowed his guard to
drop, as he returned his bow to its place across his back. The Captain dismounted, handing his spear to
the warrior by his side, and removed his
helm. His wild flaxen hair and fierce
expression matched the strength of his gaze.
"I will. But wanderers in the Riddermark
would be wise to be less haughty in these troubled
times," the Captain told Aragorn. His gaze dwelt long on Legolas
before he turned again to the
"I am Aragorn,
son of Arathorn.
My companions are Legolas of Mirkwood and Gimli, son of Gloin."
"I am Eomer, son of Eomund, and am
called the Third Marshall of Riddermark. Though the shadows
fall deep on the
Aragorn nodded
thanks for the courtesy returned. Legolas watched him ponder the meaning
buried in that last phrase for a moment before putting it aside to
consider when time was less of an essence. Aragorn continued his tale. "We are pursuing an Orc-host
that carried off our friends."
The bodies of men
and horses quivered in response to the words, hatred and anger near-spent by action but still and always present within
their hearts. The Captain spoke again.
"Then you need
not pursue them further. The Orc are destroyed."
"And our friends? They are Hobbits, and would be small, only
children to your eyes," Aragorn asked,
though Legolas heard more desperation than hope in
his voice.
The long white
crest on the Captain's helmet swung softly in the breeze as he shook his head. "All in the camp were slain and
the bodies burned."
Legolas felt a clenching in his chest. A wild soft sound of mourning came from Gimli's throat.
Aragorn's proud head bowed and his fists tightened. To have come so far, and
for naught. Failure hung
heavy on Legolas' spirit. Sensing the Captain's gaze on him again he looked up as the Man summoned two riderless
horses.
"Brego! Hasufel! May they share a fairer fate with you than
their previous riders." Eomer presented the horses to the three, a small recompense
for his part in the death of the Hobbits. As time and events would tell,
the price was early paid and the reason untrue, but the horses
did indeed fare better than their erstwhile riders.
That initial
confrontation stayed in the quiet undercurrents of Legolas'
thoughts through the days that followed. There was little time for introspection as
events swept them along, but in moments of watch
when the Men around him slept, at Helm's Deep waiting for the night to
come, a memory of eyes the color of evening sky searing through him would come
to him, and he would wonder.
Then Haldir of Lothlorien brought his
Legion to ally with the Rohirrim; the rain began; the
Orc- hordes arrived to join with them in battle;
and doomed fate was upon them all.
He had been right
to despair, though not for himself. Legolas surveyed the survivors
of the Galadhrim gathering their dead. The bodies would be removed to the depths of the wild forest, to return to the earth the
matter that was of no substance with the spirit sundered. Two he recognized led several he did not, as Rumil and Orophin gathered the shell that had been their brother and took him far
from the rock-hewn fortress, away from the sight of men.
Haldir would be greatly missed, by kith and kin, as
witnessed by the tears tracing Aragorn's bearded
cheek, streaking a path clean through the gore of battle still smearing his
skin. Songs rose as the Elves
worked, weaving a sibilant dirge through the rougher, more broken
song of the Rohirrim, singing their own
dead to the halls of their fathers. The
very air in Legolas'
lungs burned with grief; the ground beneath his feet wept with it; the rocks
echoed of it.
It threatened to
crush him.
He swept the scene
with a weary eye, noting Gimli by Aragorn's side, the
Elves at their death duties, the men at theirs,
the women keening their losses, the empty eyes of the children. His spirit
expanded within him until the weight of it ate at his bones, and he knew it was
time to retreat and regroup.
Clasping bow in
hand and training his sight on the distance, he spied the faintest of trails in
the sparse grass leading into the tree
line. Leaving the others to their grim
duties, Legolas made for
the trail, for a few stolen hours in the trees, accompanied by the quiet wail
of the wind and, were he so fortunate, some small measure of elusive
peace.
The forest grew
thicker as he walked, muffling the distant cries until the only sounds that came to his ears were the murmurs of the trees one to
another. The wind calmed from a buffet against his spirit to a whisper, and Legolas felt his mind clear as the miles grew between
himself and the carnage of Helm's Deep.
The ground evened as he went, until he found himself walking along the length of a canyon, the ground gentle beneath his
feet and the sun warm upon his back. Eventually he came upon a small cold trickle of water,
as if the rocks themselves gave up their tears to help him loosen the
hold he had upon his grief.
So much death was
out of place in such surroundings, drenched as they were in life. For a time
before he must return to face his friends again, he could forget the lines of
anger and pain carved into Aragorn's face, the spare trace of tear tracks
on his cheek as he watched Haldir's brothers at
their sad task. Legolas
could forget for a moment the desolation in Gimli's
eyes as he stared out over the sea of corpses,
as he clumsily patted the shoulder of a boy no taller than the Dwarf
himself, as the child stared sightless at the body of his slaughtered father.
The future held
little for these troubled times but more suffering, and Legolas
would grasp what reprieve possible as the
opportunity presented itself. Loose
pebbles beneath his feet brought his attention
back to his surroundings, and he spied a vertical rock face topped by a
platform, suspended as if tossed there by a careless giant's hand. The whimsy of the pattern, honed
by wind and rain over thousands of years, caught his fancy, and he
swiftly climbed the makeshift stone steps to the top.
Once he attained
the height of the stone sculpture he smiled.
A natural basin had formed, where the
water from the meandering stream gathered into a pool, neither too large nor
too shallow, but perfect for a battle-weary Elf to bathe. It was surrounded by rocky exposed granite and grassy patches, earthy artwork of slate
gray, dark green and light. At the far
end of the platform past the pool was a second
rise, nearly three times Legolas' height, terminating
in a curved edge. The smile on his
lips grew as he lightly walked the length of the platform and
sprang up the rise.
It was as he
suspected. The edge of the outcropping
was shaped like a giant bow, and the trickle of
water widened across the breadth of the lip, forming a curtain of sparkling
water at the back of the pool.
Above the fall spread a meadow, with tall grasses blowing in the wind, from which he could turn and see the entirety of the
valley below him. But first, there was the waterfall itself.
Without a second's
thought, Legolas stripped from his leather armor and
blood-stained clothing, shaking his hair free
from his braids as he stepped from his boots.
In a moment he stood bare beneath the
sun, and a moment later, stepped beneath the waterfall.
The first sluice of
water over his skin felt like the kiss of a fresh dawn, washing away the stench of death that lingered too strongly to be
lifted away by the wind. The spray was cold but not bone-chilling, and was invigorating after
the long rain-drenched mud-soaked night.
He stayed for some time, caught in the muted roar of water over
stone echoed by the patter of water over skin,
watching the rays of sun break into jewels of light reflected through the
falling water.
It was not until he
finally stepped from the cushion of sound and sight that he realized he was not alone.
At first glance,
looking up from the slaughtered Orcs littering the
acres around Helm's Deep, Eomer
did not recognize his king. Gone was the
weak, weary old man, his mind and soul twisted
by the foul Wormtongue at the behest of his dark
wizard master. In his place
was the golden King he had served faithfully, though that proud
visage was now marked with the tragedies that had so harshly befallen his
people.
Forgiveness was
granted without asking, by a touch to the shoulder and a warrior's
embrace. The past was put to rest,
and the uncertain future would wait. For
the now, there were the dead to bury and the
wounded to succor, a watch to be made and a breath to be taken before
planning the next offensive.
The morning passed
swiftly, yet not swiftly enough, at these onerous tasks. His heart was
burdened by the death he saw, not only in warriors trained up to
such risk but in men long past an age when such sacrifice should be
required, and boys not near old enough to give their lifeblood. Men, boys, Elves, and horses littered the
grounds surrounding and throughout the sundered
stronghold.
Of his hundred and
five riders, near a third were lost to the
Having seen to the
living, he then turned to the dead, ensuring that the bodies of his men were recovered and removed with dignity, and the
corpses of the hated enemy burned. As he moved among the corpses he glimpsed many an Elf,
gold armor battered and stained with blood, wide eyes empty and elegant
limbs graceless in death. Bile rose in
his throat at the waste, of both Men and Elves,
and his hatred for the Orc hordes rose to levels it
had not attained since his father had been slain when Eomer
himself was but a boy.
As he completed his
rounds, he was stopped by a strange solemn sight. A phalanx of Elves,
carrying out their dead, passed in rank, gleaming in the sunlight,
as if a brush of gold had been laid across the dark field. At the head of the column an honor guard of
two carried between them the body of the Captain
of the Elven archers.
His armor, pierced and rent as it was,
yet glowed; his hair was bound in braids and his face reflected the peaceful
calm of death. Eomer
felt his heart shudder in his chest as he watched the silent procession
march away into the trees.
It was enough. His duties done, he had an afternoon to rest
before gathering with the King and the generals
that night to plan the next step in the battle.
Those hours were his own, and he would
spend them as he needed to give himself the strength to go forth wherever fate
would next take him. He turned
away from the Elves and made for an ancient trail that led to a place private to his soul. Eomer had sought
refreshment there since he was a child, and he looked to
it once more to restore his soul to peace.
His horse found the
way by memory, a shake of his mane and a whicker making plain the horse was as relieved as the man to be taking leave of
the thick stench of blood and pitch and burnt flesh for a little
while. An hour or so passed as they
walked through the trees then through the hills
until they found themselves following a well-known stream through a well-loved
canyon. The smell of water caused
the horse's head to come up, and Eomer smiled without
effort for the first time that day.
Trotting aslant up
the hillside, Eomer heard a noise that was out of
place and brought his horse to a halt. Staring up at the falls he saw a glimmer
through the sheet of water, and cautiously urged
his steed closer. When he could see
clearly, he stilled and stared.
There was a man
bathing beneath the falls, a creature of dream perhaps, as no man Eomer had
ever beheld was so finely made. Hair the
color of moonbeams flowed over strong shoulders and
down a long back, and the water sliding down the elegant limbs appeared as snow
melting in the sun, the skin was so pale.
A moment's watching informed Eomer that the
man was in fact an Elf, and instinctively
wishing to prolong the vision, Eomer urged his horse
with hand and knee to retreat into the trees, not making a sound.
Here was beauty as
it should be, not defiled by death but abundant with life. The Elf tipped his
head back, allowing the water to run over his face, streams parting his hair
and painting it over his shoulders nearly to his waist. Through the thin wash of water the planes of
the Elf's face were blurred but recognizable,
and Eomer wondered how Aragorn's friend Legolas could have found this secret place.
Even as the thought occurred to him Eomer scoffed
silently. If anyone could find this
haven, it would be the Elf. Had the others not been constrained by the
need to retrieve their dead, they might all have
ended up at this place, as soothing as it was to the soul. Eomer felt a wholly selfish gratitude that Legolas
was not one of the Archer corps, and had remained at Helm's Deep, for if
he had not, then Eomer would never have seen such
beauty for himself.
As Legolas stepped from the water to the side of the rocks he
turned and bowed his head toward the falls. Although he spoke softly, his voice carried
clearly, and Eomer heard him
say, "May the sound of falling water bring us sleep and the
forgetfulness of grief." His words carried the ritual intonation of a prayer.
Legolas then turned and climbed up to the meadow. As Eomer watched he
found himself riveted to the sight, and his
thoughts came near to being a prayer of thanks.
If the Elf had been a welcome sight when
obscured by water, once the impediment was removed the sight of him was
wondrous indeed. He seated himself in
the soft grass and lifted his face to the sun,
his eyes falling closed as his hands rose to braid his hair. Slowly, his voice
drifting with the breeze as if in harmony with the wind itself, Legolas began to sing.
The words were
incomprehensible to Eomer, but the melody was
compelling. It brought
tears to eyes that had not allowed such expression since he was a
babe. Eomer dismounted
silently and crept forward, drawn by the sweet mourning song of the Elf.
"Si man i yulma
nin enquantuva?
An si Tintalle
Varda Oilosseo Ve fanyar maryat
Elentari ortane, Ar liye tier undalave
lumbule..."*
A breath of silence
hovered on the air as the song came to an end, then Legolas murmured,
"Hiro îth ab 'wanath," a phrase
familiar to Eomer, as the archers had whispered
it over the bodies on the battlefield, both of their kin as they gathered
them up and of the Orc as the Elves turned away
from the burning pyres. He'd asked
Aragorn at the time what it meant, and pretended not to see the tears on
the King of Gondor's lashes as the man said
quietly, "May they find peace after death."
Eomer stay silent, mesmerized by the Elf's song, his
beauty in the sunlight, the air of peace surrounding him; from his first
sight of Legolas he had been unwillingly impressed by
the Elf's courage and loyalty.
When Legolas mounted Hasufel
Eomer had been impressed again by
the immediate rapport between horse and rider, the manner of
control the Elf had taken disdaining the use of bridle and rein. From all he had heard of the battle, Legolas had made an
impressive showing, further increasing his worth in Eomer's
estimation. To have such
courage and spirit encased in such beauty was truly a gift, and Eomer appreciated it, if only from afar.
Legolas now sat in the sunshine, the breeze playing with
his hair, staring down at the valley below. Eomer wondered what
the far-sighted Elf might see that could fascinate him so
completely. As a
consequence he was badly startled when, without turning to face him, Legolas called out,
"Join me or go, but cease spying.
Your eyes are nigh to burning holes in my
back."
The water drove
gently against his skin as if to pound away all hint of the days
on the hunt since the Fellowship sundered, crowned by the
slaughter at Helm's Deep. Legolas
stood beneath the cleansing spray for a long time, lost in the
rolling thunder of the splash upon the rocks, until the draw of the sun
beyond the rocky platform was too strong to resist.
He felt the Man's
eyes upon him the moment he left the shelter of the water.
There was no
hostility, only curiosity and a faint hunger he felt pull at him from the shadows beneath the trees. It was one of the Horseman, for Legolas could hear the horse as well, at
ease in its rest. Sensing
no threat, the Elf ignored his watcher for the moment and continued
on his way up the granite wall face to the meadow beyond. The grass moved beneath his
feet, rough and homely, warmed from the sun. Once away from the rolling timpani of the waterfall he could hear the wind again, whistling
as it passed through the leaves of grass, a flat round sound very
different from its whisper in the trees.
Sinking down atop
an inviting hassock, Legolas cast his gaze on the
valley below. He was
high above and far beyond the immediate sight of the smoke rising
from the corpses at Helm's Deep; all that met his eye were the shifting
grasslands, billowing rhythmically with the passage of the wind. Above in the pellucid sky wheeled birds,
their cries a distant echo to the keening of the
women at the battleground, grief lost in that distance. Cloud-shapes drifted by, obscuring the
land from the sun before continuing on their way, the greens and browns of the
grasses shifting in the striations of light and shadow like waves
cresting and falling in the far ocean.
The waves of
wind-blown grass and the high-circling birds recalled a faint memory, stories heard as a child, wakening again in Legolas the desire to one day stand and watch the sea. Though he knew it not, that day would
come years hence, with his chosen beside him; until it
did, he would live each moment as it came and take what comfort
might be wrought from it. With
that decision, bred in his spirit as it was, came the words to his lips to sing
the honored dead on their way, and release this
day's suffering to the wind.
More darkness would
come, and he would bear it as he must.
Until then he would sing the hymns of
praise and remembrance. Staring out over
the valley, he paid no heed to the Man watching
him as he embraced the healing rays of the sun and sang a final farewell to
those of his people who would never seek the Havens.
Some time passed,
long enough for the last moisture to dry from his skin and hair, braids
forming quickly under his fingers; long enough for the Lady's song to be
sung for her fallen champions; long enough for the eyes feasting upon him
to become an itch to be scratched.
Legolas dropped his hands to his thighs
and sighed softly, then called over his shoulder,
"Join me or go, but cease spying. Your eyes are nigh to burning holes in my
back."
He had long since
realized, as he was singing, that he knew the scent and sound of his watcher, though he'd had little contact with the
As spirit and body
were entwined, so that which refreshed the body could be used to refresh the spirit, should other methods fail.
The words rocked Eomer back on his heels.
It would appear the keen hearing and
uncanny abilities of Elves were more than old tales used to entertain
children. As his
surprise faded a rush of anger took its place. Spying, indeed; it sounded as if he was a shy boy on the edges of a campfire, afraid to come
into the light.
He glanced over his
shoulder at his horse, who at that moment snorted in apparent agreement, or perhaps mirth at Eomer
being caught out as if he was that feckless child. As abruptly as it had
shown, his anger faded, resolve growing in its stead. This was his place; his sanctuary; his retreat.
No Elf, no matter how beautiful nor how distracting, would take that
from him when he most needed it. The battles he'd seen, the death he'd
brought, and both the losses to and the grievous
injuries done the men he'd led for so long demanded he take his rest where he
could find it.
Mayhap the
diversion Legolas promised would be more help than
hindrance after all.
Bidding his horse
make free of the lush grass, Eomer doffed his helmet
and strode out into the sunlight. The Elf's curious light eyes followed his
movement, but no expression could be seen
gracing the fine-drawn features. Nodding
once to greet his uninvited company, Eomer stripped off the rest of his clothing and lay it
carefully down next to his weapons. Legolas
appeared disinterested in his actions as the Man lay the last of
his adornments aside and strode off to indulge in his own much-needed
ablutions.
The prickle along
his skin must be only the chill of the mist rising from the waterfall and the heat of the sunlight, not the weight of a
stare. For when Eomer
glanced over one last time before granite
impeded his view, the Elf was once more staring off unblinking down along
the valley.
Splashing beneath
the water, colder than expected, Eomer made short but
efficient work of his bath. Diving to the bottom of the pool, he rinsed
the last of the blood and sweat from his skin,
surfacing and wading to the rocky side,
wringing out his hair and swiping the water from his beard as he
scaled the incline to return to the meadow.
He felt refreshed but chilled from his
immersion, and carefully scouting a seat far enough from Legolas
so as to respect the Elf's privacy but not far enough away to signify
hostility, he closed his eyes, raised his face to the sun, and soaked in
the silence.
Peace,
unfortunately, was harder come by than he'd hoped. Too soon he grew restless,
his muscles jumping under his skin as he found himself bidden by
his own impatient nature to move.
Opening his eyes again, he sighed, then stilled in sudden alarm.
Legolas had moved whilst Eomer's
eyes were closed. Eomer
had not sensed it, for the Elf moved more
stealthily than shadow over light. Now
kneeling within arm's reach, Legolas
watched calmly as Eomer adjusted to his presence. Fascination lent courage
to fingers without permission of thought, and Eomer's
hand reached out to touch the spun-silk locks trailing down over Legolas' arm.
A fine brow
arched. Eomer
realized that the movement came from himself and stayed
his hand yet again. The
corner of Legolas' mouth moved up of a sudden,
forming a half-grin that invited the Man to
continue his unadvised movement. When Eomer found himself unable
to do so, the grin spread to encompass the generous mouth, and a long- fingered
hand enfolded his own. Strength beneath
unexpectedly soft skin, decorated with an
archer's calluses, singed Eomer's hand, but it was
nothing to the heat from the soft kiss the Elf then laid against his
palm.
Nor the inferno
that raged when Legolas followed the kiss with the
smallest of bites to the heel of Eomer's hand. The
sting flew faster than an arrow from his hand to his heart to his groin, and he groaned, incapable of stifling
it. Legolas'
grin developed a wicked edge.
Seduced by the spark
in those bright light eyes and the mischief in a face both ageless and
timeless, Eomer raised his free hand and ran it along
the fine-grained skin of Legolas' shoulder,
sliding it beneath the sun-dried hair and pushing the shining mass back until
it no longer obscured Eomer's view of Legolas' body. From
the curve of oddly beardless cheek to the
intricate upsweep of ear, down the long line of throat where the hard pulse
beat to the hairless expanse of chest, the Elf was unlike any man Eomer had ever lain with, yet impossible to dismiss
as womanly in any way. He was truly
unearthly in Eomer's eyes,
and all the more desired for it.
Years later, as Eomer looked upon his wife's face, he would see the echo of
that bloodline, and silently rejoice in the
otherness taken as his own.
For the moment,
though, there was only Legolas, and the sweet smell
of grass, and the sunlight dancing on his
skin. Leaning forward, taking the
invitation inherent in Legolas' smiling acceptance of his caress, Eomer placed a gentle kiss below one pointed ear,
inhaling deeply of the spice and starlight that was the scent of the
Elf. Beneath his lips,
he felt the muscles move as Legolas
swallowed, then a thrumming began beneath his tongue as Legolas hummed contentedly.
Firm hands drifted
over him, then settled against his hips and turned him with an ease that was at once both unexpected and
arousing. Legolas
slid one long leg between Eomer's thighs and
leaned down to capture his mouth in a kiss, his hair falling down to
block the view of the world from Eomer's eyes
in such a way that it seemed nothing existed but Legolas'
mouth, the weight of Legolas' body against him, and
the heat consuming them both.
There was less
urgency than comfort in the touch of hand to body, mouth to mouth, legs
twined together, and Legolas absorbed the warmth of
contact as contentedly as his skin had earlier absorbed the warmth of the
sun. With their embrace came sensations
foreign to him, regardless that in the future
this Man would seem smooth to the touch, in contrast to the one who would
eventually hold Legolas' heart.
The burn of beard against his cheek, the coarse thickness of the hair
through which his fingers twined, the
unaccustomed bulk of the thighs he straddled combined to take Legolas completely out of the preoccupation with
despair that had been dragging at his spirit.
Eomer tasted of salt
and sunlight, leather and steel, his mouth firm and wide beneath Legolas', his limbs corded with muscle, not sleek to
the touch.
His very
differences, Man from Elf, made him an endlessly interesting discovery, and Legolas
took his time, lingering over his explorations, enjoying it. Fingers stroked down the curve of stomach, the cradle of pelvis, the cleft of buttock
until the bunched muscles beneath the hair- roughened skin quivered beyond
Eomer's control.
Only when broken sighs and words strangled in
his throat matched the undulation of Eomer's body
beneath him did Legolas at last show mercy in
the giving of pleasure. Eomer arched and shuddered, fists clenching in Legolas'
hair as he spent into Legolas' hands, a
cry not unlike one of the far-off gulls breaking on his lips.
Holding him in the
bend of one arm, the other soothing the trembling body as one would an exhausted horse, Legolas
watched as Eomer regained his senses. Only when eyes the
dark of
Hands slid the
length of Legolas' arms to wind round his neck,
pulling him down into a kiss that was both
fierce and breathless. Brought thus
flush against Eomer's body, Legolas arched his
back and pushed his hips forward, burying himself as far as he could reach
before clenching his own arms around Eomer's
back and giving himself to his completion.
The movement alone was enough to bring Eomer
to an end again; sensitive as his flesh was from
previous handling, the force of Legolas crushing
against him and the press of movement within him were too much.
They lay thus
entwined together for some time, exchanging soft kisses and gentle caresses, until the natural course of movement separated
them. Even then they lay close; Legolas
combed his fingers through Eomer's
beard, taming the wild curls disarrayed by their kisses, as Eomer brushed back the long fine strands of silky hair from
Legolas' face.
No words were spoken, no promises given,
for there were none to be made; this was a time out of time, and when it
was over it would be done. Both knew
it. Neither felt the need to say the
words.
When their breath
moved freely again and the blood beneath their skin heated, they lay together
once more, as easily as the first time, and when they were sated, they
stayed, Eomer with his head resting against Legolas' thigh, staring out over the valley, watching the
waves of grass blow. Legolas amused himself weaving warrior's braids and
lovelocks in Eomer's thick hair. Eomer only stopped him when he reached for the wild flowers
and made as if to weave them in as well.
"While I'll
gladly wear your Elven lovelocks, Legolas,
a crown of posies would be more than my dignity
could bear," he protested. Legolas laughed agreement, and Eomer
feigned indignation that the Elf would not leap
to defend Eomer's manhood.
"You are more
than capable of mounting such a defense for yourself," Legolas
teased. "So
you've proven this past hour, even if it was as mount, not as
rider!"
Eomer rose immediately to the challenge. Legolas grinned as
the Man reached up and pulled him down into a
rough embrace.
"Shall we put
that to the test, then, and have me prove my ability
beyond doubt?"
Once more they
found themselves in disarray in the long grass.
In the laughter and the sighs, there was
no room for grief, and no echo of sadness.
Late that night the
horsemen rode out from the Deep. Gandalf
was a beacon beside Legolas,
Aragorn starlight next to him, and the Rohirrim in
steady formation behind them. Near
to his right Legolas could feel Eomer's
presence, though he gave no sign of his knowledge. Their moment was past; the next step on the
long dark path before them led to Isengard,
uncertain times, doubtless pain and further loss. Still in that moment Legolas
found his spirit lightened, and he was thankful
for that measure of peace shared before they rode once more to face
death.
End notes:
* From The Fellowship of the Ring.
Song sung by Galadriel as the Fellowship were heading
out. Translated
from the Quenyan: "Who now shall refill the
cup for me? For now the Kindler, Varda,
Queen of the Stars, from
The second quote,
"Hiro îth ab 'wanath," is the Sindarin blessing Legolas says in
the