Pottymouth: 8. 8

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8. 8



This is a little odd. All of a sudden Dorcas is Ducky and Cyndi-with-an-I is Poppet. And here they sit, at my table, trying to edge each other out, all eyes and slack jaws, staring at my Elf while he practically hand-feeds me chips and shrimp.

Mmm, tangy, limey, spicy, tequila-y, salty. Yummy. If I’d known he could cook like this I’d’ve hired him on as my personal slave five thousand years ago.

Licking his fingers isn’t too bad, either.

Can you just imagine? “Have fun in the Baltic Sea, dear; don’t worry about me, Legolas will take care of everything . . . “ Frances – Faramir – would’ve had a fit.

Wonder what he’ll think now? Not that we see each other much, but Legolas did mention something about wanting to get my money back, which kind of implies having to talk to the goddam bastard again. And considering how incredibly pissed off he was when he found out Faramir had walked out on me dragging our nest egg behind him . . . .

Not sure how I feel about that. I mean, I do kind of want my money back – at least, I did about four or five hours ago – hell, seemed like that was all I could think about, because when you’re strapped it IS all you can think about; how the hell am I going to pay for my mortgage/car repair/car payment/equity loan/phone bill? Poverty grips you by the intestines and squeezes all the respite right out of you; you can’t seem to think about anything else. What if I can’t make the payments? What if I lose the house? What if I don’t have enough money to buy food at the end of the month, after I’ve used up my paycheck doing the bills? What if what if what if?

Oh, fuck it. But now . . . . here I sit, bemused, content, confused, a little off-kilter, but all that sickening apprehension is GONE. I have an Elf to take care of me. And he won’t leave me, and he can’t lie, and he has plenty of his own money, and he’s fucking GORGEOUS, and he does things to my private parts that I thought only happened in THOSE kinds of romance novels. And not just with the Usual Implements, either. I won’t complain about the way his fingers and tongue and Little Legolas (well, not so little at that) bring me effortlessly to the stratosphere of physical gratification; that’s only a part of it – he can make me fly just by opening that filthy, foul, sweet-pink-lipped mouth. The way he says my name – or calls me “acushla” – or holy shit, when he sang that aria to me, and knew that I knew precisely what he meant –

Oh yeah, got it bad got it bad got it bad.

It feels as though he’s dropped a thick, heavy, wet blanket over my head. All that screechy panic, the heart-clutching anxiety, the overwhelming apprehension just went on a permanent vacation. And here I sit, chewing tender and tasty shrimp, thinking about chewing on a tender and tasty something else as soon as possible; my thighs humming from our last sexual encounter, my senses filled with him – the memory of the sharp rosemary scent of his hair, the silky texture of his skin, the clear quality of his voice, the snap and twinkle of those impossibly blue eyes – going over and over and over what he’s said to me the past couple of hours.

I’ll take care of you.

I’m not leaving.

I’m putting you back where you belong.

I’m never letting go.

I get the feeling you’ll be the best damn investment I’ll ever make.

Die Liebe ist’s allein.

Just that phrase makes my heart pound. I don’t want to say the word in English because I’m afraid of it. But Liebe works. So do other words in other languages I can think of. Amour, for example.

He makes my head spin. But in a good way.


Stupid fucking manky little gobshite bitches, why the fuck can’t they tell when they’re not wanted? I’d bung the little nits out the door except it’s not my bloody house. At least the prawns turned out all right. But this is not how I fucking planned to eat them. Wanted to see if the curl of their little cooked bodies was tight enough to grip a certain someone’s little pert brown nipple.

Bet they are. Bet Éowyn’s skin tastes even better with a smear of hot sauce on it. Love to slide my tongue around those firm soft tits, flick the prawn off the nipple, suck on it to get the juices off –

Oh fuck, shouldn’t have said juices, mate. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck, good thing I’m sitting down ‘cause these grotty kifes would suss out my condition in no fucking time at all.
Don’t suppose they’ve taken their eyes off me since I walked into the bloody room.

Wish they weren’t here, wish they’d take their bally little selves off. Fuck it, need to talk to Éowyn about our little interchange a few minutes ago – she knew what I said, I knew what she said, but there’s more to be said, isn’t there? Hell yes, you can’t make that kind of bleeding confession and then faff off.

Think we’re going too fast here.

Just a couple hours ago I had no mission, no motive, not a single! fucking! clue! what to do. Just hauling my ronson round the country, doing the fucking starving-artist thing, waiting waiting waiting. No word from the Valar in years, just the occasional “Jolly good, well done old chap” I get now and then to let me know I haven’t bished it up.

And now –

Fucking A, I can’t even turn my head without feeling as though she’s bloody bollocked me. Got those pretty little hands wrapped around my knacks, squeezing every last microgram of reason out of my head. Always knew she was a bit of all right, but bloody hell! Was I fucking blind all these years, to not see her like this? I can smell her, orangy-lemony-musky; I can see her, honey colored hair, shining silvery eyes, red red red lips like ripe cherries, the flush of health on her oval cheeks; I can hear her, Réponds à ma tendresse, verse-moi l’ivresse, oh bloody hell do I want to . . .

Every once in a while, Manwë speeds things up a bit. Doesn’t do it often, but when he does I just have to hang on to the grip bar and wait it out. I sit, watch the stars wheel above me, listen to the buzz of humanity in the back of my head like an insignificant hum, and then . . . centuries, millennia have passed me by, and suddenly everything screeches to a halt.

Haven’t gone through the windscreen yet, but I’m damn sure it’s only a fucking matter of time.

“What does your tattoo say?”

I look over, it’s the fat red-haired one. She’s looking at my shoulder.

“Says ‘watch the stars, sail the sea,’” I say. Now that’s a nice looking prawn, curled pink edges and white flesh speckled with pepper and bits of lime pulp. It makes a satisfying schwick as I spear it with my fork and lift it to Éowyn’s mouth. She smiles, opens her lips, extends her tongue halfway, looking into my eyes. Put it in, darling, she seems to be saying, and oh my sainted aunt suddenly I want to feel her mouth around me –

Fuck! Goddam leather trousers!


So that’s what it means. Mmm, shrimp, good shrimp, happy little tastebuds. Made an exhibition of myself there but I don’t particularly give a flying fuck; after tasting his semen I’m eager for more. Never cared much for giving head in the past – of course it was just Faramir’s head, and that wasn’t much to sing about, besides, his cum was all bitter . . . and I always got the feeling he was pretending I was someone else.


Bet Legolas would want to watch, not just close his eyes and lie back.

And I bet he’d return the favor, too.

“Do you like to sail?”

You dumb little shit, won’t you just shut up and LEAVE ALREADY?


All right, Ducky, you’re reaching there. I meet Éowyn’s eyes; she’s as frustrated as I am. Not to worry, acushla, just a matter of time and they’ll bugger off.

“Done a lot of it, yeah,” I admit. Suddenly I remember something that makes me grin. “Remember sailing round Crete, acushla? Fuck, that was a party, that was.”


Turquoise sea, powder-blue sky, white clouds and white cliffs and white stucco houses. The brilliant splash of fuchsia from an overgrown tangle of bougainvillea. Coffee-colored skin on the white-clad slaves, sweet cold yellow wine, the feel of rough boards beneath my bare feet. I can even smell the salt on the air.


She smiles. She remembers. Idyllic, that’s what it was.


What made it even better was that Faramir wasn’t even there. He was off with one of the Hellanodikai, probably butt-fucking him for all I cared, overseeing the senate meetings in the Bouleuterion. And Aragorn was in Macedonia, so it was just Arwen and me, draped in thin gauzy white robes, sailing in our little white boat around the steaming hot Aegean. We’d stopped off at Makrygialos, in the little strait across from the islet there, and found to our astonishment that the two gentlemen sunning themselves in the nude were none other than our fellow Chosen, Legolas and Gimli, stretched out buck-naked on the bright orange tile rooftop of the inn there. We ordered our slaves to feed and accommodate them, and before we knew it they’d turned our quiet, sedate little sail into a party cruise.

Oh, those hangovers . . . damn, though, was it worth it!

Didn’t think of Legolas as a sexual being then, though I knew he’d had his share of encounters. He was always so serious about them – took such good care of them, even when they’d gotten old and frail and feeble and forgetful. First her lover, then passing himself off as her son, her grandson; mourning her death, burying her and moving on.

Wonder how many old women he’s taken care of?

Wonder if he’ll like taking care of me for a change? I’m older than hell but I still look good. And no way in hell he’ll be able to pass himself off as my son.


From a purely artistic point of view Crete’s a visual orgasm. Oh, those memories, the colors, the smells and sounds and the feel of the rocking boat beneath my feet, the sounds of the gulls and the ladies’ laughter.

Maybe after she gets tired of her horse farm I’ll buy another sailboat.


It was so wonderful, so much fun. And I still sort of remember how to sail, too – we did a lot of it once upon a time, it was the only way to get from point A to point B after all –

Oh, stop it! Can’t do everything at once. Horses first, boats later.

Hope he doesn’t mind.


Love the way those silver eyes light up. Oh bugger, have I got it bad.


“Ooo, Winnie, I didn’t know you’d been to Europe!” squeaks Dorcas. WINNIE?! She catches my eye and says quickly, “I mean, Éowyn.”

“Where d’yer think she met me, then, Ducks?” asks Legolas, winking at me. “Lumme, Éowyn, remember that meal we had in Kato Zakros? Some minor member of the Greek nobility . . . What a booze-up – we got absofuckinglutely mullered.”

Oh holy shit, do I remember that. I laugh.

“I remember the hangover I had the next day, that’s for sure,” I say, picking up a chip. I twirl it around my fingers, feeling the salt on my skin.

“Grim was so rat-arsed he couldn’t walk. Think he drank a barrel of plonk that night.”

“Remember trying to get him back on the boat? He kept tacking to the left – “

“Damn near ducked him in the harbor, didn’t we then? Ought to’ve; he was such a fucking gobshite when he was squiffy.”

I’m laughing so hard I can’t even eat anymore. “And poor Arwen, he barfed all over her dress, it was that pretty gold one I remember – “

“Ah, acushla, that was a rave-up, wasn’t it?” He grins at me, that oh-so-adorable, pinch-my-dimpled-cheeks grin that makes me want to tackle him to the floor and fuck him senseless.

Dorcas and Cyndi might object. Or not. Maybe they’d like to watch.

Ew. Don’t even THINK about that.

Speaking of, they’re looking back and forth from Legolas to me, like they’re watching a tennis match but have no clue as to the rules of the game.

Established one thing, at least: Legolas and I had a PAST. There’s history behind us, girls, so don’t even bother.

Oh, and go away. Now.


Not peckish anymore, oh fuck no; think I ate a kilo of prawns but they were so bloody GOOD. Helps too to wash it down with tequila. Got a little buzz going, feeling lightheaded – or that could be my little acushla, sucking the wits right out of my head.

Sucking – oh fuck, oh bugger. Right out of my head. Don’t know whether to laugh or drag her back to the bedroom.

Could do both, I suppose.

The two mingers look uneasy – probably because Éowyn and I are looking at each other like a starving man looks at a chop. Can’t help it, can’t even care; bloody hell do I want to knob her right here and now. Fuck yeah, right on the table again but this time she gets to be on top.

Note to self: Do not wear leather trousers around Éowyn. Bloody uncomfortable.


“So,” says Dorcas, eyeing Legolas diffidently. What’s up with that? “Is he, are you, um, staying the night?”

“Well, I’m sure the fuck not leaving now,” says Legolas without a pause. “Pretty bloody rude to have it off and disappear.” I hit him, in fun but a little harder than I mean to. “Ow!” He rubs his arm and grins at me. “Well, isn’t it, acushla?”

“Yes, he’s staying the night,” I tell Dorcas and Cyndi-with-an-I. Cyndi looks disapproving but Dorcas looks downright scared. Shit, she’s not scared of HIM, is she? Like he’d even want to sneak into her bedroom when he’s got me to keep him occupied.

“And tomorrow night?” she asks.

Legolas’ eyebrows go up; the light dawns for me too.


So that’s what’s got her so fucking nervous all of a sudden. Fuck. Wish we’d had time to talk about this before they showed up.


Damn, damn, damn. What ARE we doing? I don’t even know! Shit. He’s getting me a lawyer, buying me a farm, um . . . . but what about right NOW?


I see that look on your face, acushla. Told you I’d take care of you, didn’t I? And I bloody well mean to.


Damn, damn, damn, oh Legolas, now what? Have you even thought that far ahead? What are we doing? What are we DOING?


Time to play the turkey-cock again. Fuck, I’m such an oik. But may as well let the little ones know where to get off.


I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know, I don’t even know if I’m going to work tomorrow, oh shit oh shit oh shit

But then I look at him, he looks at me. His eyes, his cerulean aquamarine azure eyes meet mine and the panic starts to fade. It can never stay as long as he’s with me.

Stay with me, please stay with me.


Hold hard, acushla. Got it all in hand. Thought it out, believe me or not; let’s see how you bloody well like it.

“Be honest with you, Ducks, Poppet,” I say, turning to them. “It’s like this. Éowyn’s soppy tosser ex nobbled her ackers when they split, but being the nice little kife she is none of us knew a fucking thing about it.” Momentary confusion there, until Ducky’s face clears and she looks over at Éowyn.

“Oh yeah, your ex took your dough,” she says, and now Poppet understands too.

“Right. Well, we’re not about to let the berk have off with it without a fist in the mug, so I’m planting me ronson right here till I can sort things out a bit. Going to call up some friends, have a meeting, see; we’ll work out what we can do for her.”

“How long is this likely to take?” asks Poppet. Obviously got her friend’s welfare in mind. Good for you, luv. Slag me if you like, let me know when I’ve bished it.

“Dunno,” I admit. I reach over, take Éowyn’s hand. It’s cold, she grips me hard, looks at me with those frightened eyes. I’ll take care of you, acushla. I told you I would and I will. Trust me, you have to fucking trust me. I am NOT like fucking Faramir, I won’t leave, I can’t. I can’t, don’t you understand? It’s not in me, I couldn’t even if I wanted to, I’ll never want to, it’s the way I’m made.


I want to believe you, I want to believe you, oh please please please help me believe you, you don’t know what it’s like being left like this, I want to believe you so bad oh please


“Gonna send off an email after tea, let everyone know I’ve hooked up with her and we’ll go from there,” I say to them, but I’m talking to her. Listen, acushla, got it all sussed out, nothing to get browned off over, don’t go spare on me because I’ve got too fucking much to do. Got to get this squared away, get it fixed up before the Valar take a hand because when they do, oh my sainted aunt acushla, you have no idea how fucking shirty they get. “Fer right now, pets, Éowyn and I are going to do the washing up, have a nice long chin-wag IN PRIVATE – “ I give them my best don’t-fuck-with-me look and it works, can see them back off in a heartbeat “ – work on how to fix this bloody cock-up, and get to bed. Tomorrow, acushla – “ I turn to her; the look on her face is scared, gobsmacked, hopeful all at once. Oh fuck it hurts to see you look like that. “Tomorrow you’ll give notice at yer office and put in the rest of yer time – what is it here, two weeks?”


Does he think he can pull this off in two weeks? He’s a miracle worker but is he THAT good?

“Two weeks,” I say. Not that giving up the job is a great sacrifice on my part; I HATE office work, the closed-in-air-conditioned-fluorescent-lighted-gossipy-cover-your-ass stuff was never my league anyway. And who in their right mind would WANT to work auto insurance? Two weeks; two weeks of LIVING HELL and then, and then . . . are you promising me heaven? Or at least purgatory; can you talk to someone and get me into purgatory? Anything would be an improvement.

“I’ll do me marketing, call a few berks and get these fucking greasers up here. Got to get Longshanks and Whitey in on this, they’ll break fucking Fairy-Meer’s chops for you.”

“Excuse me,” says Dorcas deprecatingly, giving him a nervous look. Don’t blame you, with a face like his you wouldn’t think his language would be so foul, almost makes it worse that way. “But how, um, is Éowyn – are you – going to pay for the house if you, um, quit?”
A very good question. How? More specifically, why? But Legolas is on it, he’s smiling, even gently; he can be oh so gentle when he wants to be. He knows Dorcas is tense, knows she’s wondering what will happen to HER. And here I’ve been, oh you stupid selfish self-centered Shieldmaiden bitch you, thinking about yourself again, no consideration for others – damn, damn, damn, why can’t we just push a button and have everything magically right itself?

Doesn’t work that way, I know, I know. And what did Arwen tell me, about a thousand years ago I think, that we only appreciate those acts that cost us something? Oh, to hell with that; I’m so tired of paying for someone else’s sins.

And BMWs, and student loans, and credit card bills.



Not to worry, pet, got you in hand. “S’all right, Ducky,” I say, make my voice soothing, like talking to a scared horse. “I’ve got this bloody house all taken care of. I’ll get on the phone to me banker in Lunnon and square it away. We won’t bung you out, will we, acushla?” We most certainly fucking will NOT, there’s nothing in my agreement that says I take care of Éowyn at the expense of others.

Except myself, of course. Always seems to fucking work out that way.

“And you need a garden service,” I add, looking at Éowyn. Looks a bit spare, the poor little bit; doesn’t bloody well know how to handle Efficient Legolas. Well, not to worry, acushla; I hide it well, no need to try to pretend you understand me; no one does except maybe for Whitey and Grim. Fucking used to it, I am. “And a maid, to take care of the inside. No sense making Ducky here do all the work, and you’ll be gone as soon as I can fucking get you out of here.”

She looks at me, startled; yes, acushla, that bleeding fast. No time to waste, wasted too much fucking time already.

“Where?” Poppet sounds surprised, startled. Don’t bloody blame her.

“Dunno yet, have to look into it. Lots of real estate on the market in east California, or maybe we can go north, up to Montana. And you, my little acushla – “ I bring her fingers to my lips, look up through my lashes at her. She blushes, the sweet little bit, flinches back when my tongue touches her fingers, I can taste lime and salt. Don’t need anything except you and tequila, oh my acushla, just lick you after I take a shot. “You start mugging up the stud books, find us some animals. Wasted too much fucking time on your ex; time to waste time faffing about on a farm where you belong.”

“Farm?” Ducky sounds offended. “You’re going to make Winnie – Éowyn – live on a FARM?”

We both look at her. Fuck off, you manky little scrubber, do you think I don’t fucking know what Éowyn needs? It’s not as though I’m bloody well working this out on my own, you know, you stupid little kife; I’ve got fucking Manwë up here giving me the go-ahead.


Farm. Horses. Fences, the crunch of dry grass under boots, hot sun on the bandana around my neck, sweat under the band of the hat shading my eyes. The smell of horses, good honest sweat, dust and sweet timothy hay and alfalfa. High white peaks, green grass stretching for acres and acres and acres.

Oh, shit. How I miss it.


That’s right, acushla, see how you relax when you think of it? I’ve got you, I’ve got you. I told you, I’ll take care of it. Give over and let me, just fucking LET me already. You let me knob you and you won’t let me fucking take care of you?

Patience, Greenleaf. The Edan has been hurt and frightened. Give her time.

Rather give her fucking Fairy-Meer’s knacks on a platter.

This desire for revenge does not become you, Greenleaf. You can do nothing to him that will reach the depths of his perfidy. Leave the matter to us. We have given you the Edan to comfort. Obey us and you will be suitably rewarded.

I know what I fucking want, already. Let me keep it! Seventeen fucking thousand years of saying “Yes Sir” to every fucking one of your fucking commands; don’t I bloody well deserve it already?

Are you certain this is the reward you desire?

That gives me pause. Fuck, is it? I look over at her. She’s looking back, puzzled; she sees that I’m having another conversation elsewhere. Sorry, acushla, have to get used to it if you’re going to keep me around.

Is this it? Is it? Am I ready to get off the spinning carousel of millennia, watch the stars slow in their courses, reject the hum and buzz of the years as they pass?

Am I?

I look at her. Glass-gray eyes rimmed with thick black lashes, arched over with thin curving brows; high white forehead, topaz hair curling and coiling around her sweet round ears. The bend of her cheekbones, arching down to the little pointed chin, the dip in the soft velvety skin beneath her nose that leads to that wide curving red-lipped mouth, charming, delightful, lovable.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Have I got it bad.

Well, what will it be, you fucking gobshite? A return to the endless spiral of dappled darkness, speckled with the brief touches of mortal lives against my skin? Or the sinking into living flesh, the halt of seasons, the smell of citrus and the satiny feel of her hands?

Gimli, please forgive me, never meant to bottle out on you like this, you poor sod. Doomed, I’m fucking doomed.

Well, my Lord Manwë, while we’re at it, yes, I’d like to have this, please.

Well, then, my Greenleaf, since you asked so nicely, release your soul from thoughts of vengeance and absorb yourself instead with the task appointed to you. Your reward will come to you.

WILL come to me? Isn’t she already here?

Patience, Greenleaf.



Oh no, oh shit, there he goes again – I can hardly stand to look into his eyes when he goes off like that. Fortunately I don’t think Dorcas and Cyndi-with-an-I have noticed, they probably just think we’re doing the staring-into-each-other’s-eyes thing that new lovers do.

I wonder what the Valar think of all this?

I wonder why they’ve taken so long sending someone to fix it? Why didn’t they send Legolas right away, right after Faramir “came out”? What the hell have they been waiting for, anyway? It’s just gotten worse and worse and worse. Why did they fucking WAIT so long?

The sweet pink lips open, his tongue flicks out to wet them.

There goes that lurch in my stomach again.

“They know when the time is right. Have patience.”

Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit, no one told me he could READ MY MIND for Pete’s sake! I can’t pull my fingers out of his hand either, it’s tightened against me, those weird, those bizarre, those beautiful turquoise eyes have pinned me down and I feel like a bug stuck on a board, whammo, the needle went right through me. Shit shit shit, I will NEVER get used to this!

“What?” Dorcas is confused. Don’t blame her.

Legolas blinks, suddenly he’s back. He turns to her, gives her a grin. What a grin, too; I can’t help it, I’m crushing on his DIMPLES for crying out loud; am I pathetic or what!


“Poor little Ducky,” I chuckle. “Don’t know Éowyn’s background, do yer? Now, what were you doing, acushla, first time I saw you?” I look at her; she’s still got a touch of the abdabs from my Listening. Sorry, I’m so fucking sorry, Éowyn, it’s only me after all, it’s just fucking Legolas, the world’s worst bloody conversationalist; how the fuck can I talk when the Valar keep fucking interrupting? Oh fuck, you’re lovely, oh Manwë, THIS is my reward dammit, give me THIS! “Horsewoman, that’s what you were. Can ride pretty well meself but my little acushla here’s a Pukka horsewoman, can make a zebra follow her round like it was a Welsh Corgi.”

“Really?” Ducky and Poppet look at Éowyn with new respect in those bloody vacant eyes. Fucking ankle-biters, probably the last time they were on a bleeding horse was the pony-ride at the local midway.

“It’s been so long . . . “ Éowyn’s voice is distant, sad. Oh no, acushla, don’t go spare now; I squeeze her fingers and she looks at me. Big eyes, dark sparkly eyes, wistful eyes, oh the pathos and hurt and sorrow in those eyes. Fucking Faramir –

No, no, no no no no no. Remember what Manwë said. No slagging Faramir. Stupid Faramir, left behind this gorgeous little bit of all right, don’t cock it up now Legs, breathe out breathe out breathe out, it’s fucking pathetic you’ve got your plonker so absofuckinglutely gobsmacked you catch your breath when you look at her, talk about FANCYING someone I am DOOMED DOOMED DOOMED breathe OUT dammit! Ow ow ow, hellfuckshit stupid fucking leather trousers!


Well, if I can remember how wonderful it was to sail, if I can remember what a batten pocket is, if I can remember the difference between a genoa and a forestay, if I can remember how to work the mainsheet, I sure the hell can remember how to train a horse.

Remember the feel of the muscles bunching and shifting between your legs. Remember the cut of the reins and the slimy, slippery bit. Remember the words, the orders, the overwhelming sensation of power when you get a twelve hundred pound dumb animal to obey you simply by moving your feet.

Remember the way your mind could float away from the turmoil of the bedroom. Remember the abstraction, the concentration. It was like a drug, it pushed out the unhappy thoughts and memories. Remember remember remember.


Ah, what’s this then, acushla? The straightened-up spine, squared off shoulders, set jaw. That’s more fucking like it! That’s the Shieldmaiden I knew. My sainted aunt, but you are lovely lovely lovely, and I’m a fucking manky git to even consider making you put up with a bloody greaser for all of eternity.


Push that thought forward, think this through. He wants to get me out of here, cast off those damn pantyhose forever, get me a farm, get me some horses. Best yet this is LEGOLAS we’re talking about, Faramir always hated horses but not my Elf – he was the only person who could keep up with me on the trail. Always made us ride point, got annoying but it was fun – that light, happy, clear and sparkling voice, singing and laughing beside me, the lean springy figure, long shining hair. Always so cheerful, always so considerate, always so funny.

He and Faramir never really did get along well, did they? Faramir didn’t approve of him – fuck that; like it was up to Faramir to give his stamp of approval on anyone – thought he was too wild, too frivolous, too silly, too deadly. Didn’t like his casual way with me and Arwen – said he wasn’t “chivalrous.” Well, if that means he didn’t consider us complete incompetents because we were female, I’d rather a little less chivalry, thankyouverymuch. Faramir was always, “No, Éowyn, I’ll do that for you.” “No, Éowyn, let me take care of that for you.” “No, Éowyn, don’t bother, you wouldn’t understand it anyway, let me do it.”

He took care of it all right, didn’t he? Haven’t seen a penny since.

Legolas was never like that. Always full of questions, always wanting to know, to do, to learn. What have I been doing? What books have I read, what music have I listened to, what languages have I learned? Where have I been, what did I accomplish there, who did I meet? But he would have to ask me when Faramir wasn’t around, because Faramir’s response was always the same: “Now, now, Legolas, don’t bother her head with all of that. She’s quite busy enough without having to worry about such things.”

Condescending asshole.


Flicker of anger there in those starry mirrored eyes; are you thinking of him, acushla? Thinking of him and what he did to you, the fucker? Starved you, smothered you, squashed the fucking spirit right out of you. You’re stunted, acushla, like that poor rosebush by your post box; never fed, never watered, never given the right kind of attention or affection or consideration.

Fuck fuck fuck, how I’d love to bullock that shirtlifting prat.

Better yet, how I’d love to get you the fuck out of here, get you back to where you ought to be. Sunshine and fresh air, my acushla; the murmur of the voices of trees and the chuckling of a clear dark stream. The nicker and whicker of horses, soft fuzzy whiskery muzzles against your cheek, shuffling heavy hooves, the surge of speed, the bunch and stretch of muscles between your legs.

Funny – I’d almost forgotten. Yes.

You see, Greenleaf? Rewards come in many shapes.

Yes, I see. Here’s one for you: California or Montana?

Why not Colorado or Utah?

Hmm . . . why the hell not? Better get my ronson in front of a computer and suss this out.



All three of them look at me in surprise. I can’t blame them, really; when was the last time I spoke with such decision? But I mean it – yes yes yes. I will. Enough of this, enough whining and bitching and feeling sorry for myself. I look at Legolas. God, I love to look at him; that smooth perfect angelic face, those eyes like the hearts of sapphires, the adorable curve of his columbine lips, the alabaster pillar of his throat, the curl of his pectoral muscles under his nipples –

Whoa, better stop looking, starting to get a little distracted here


Fuck, I saw THAT, saw her eyes light up


“I want to get out of here. I’m sick of my life. I want a new one.”

He smiles, a delectable inverted arc of pink; the shadows of desire cloud his eyes.


“I’m the pikey for you then, luv.”

I raise her fingers to my lips.


Oooh, there goes that tongue again –


Why don’t we leave the washing up to Ducky and Poppet here, then? Have a little surprise for you, acushla . . .

This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.

Story Information

Author: Le Rouret

Status: General

Completion: Complete

Era: Other

Genre: Humor

Rating: Adult

Last Updated: 09/30/04

Original Post: 04/19/04

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