9. Chapter 9:Eomer and Legolas
Warning: VERY AU.
M rating just in case although it only gets as far as snogging (For our US friends, 'snog' is a UK English slang word meaning intense and passionate kissing! It's a lovely fun word) but the high rating is because some people are offended by m/m and I don't want any ambiguity here. If anything like m/m offends you, you should look away now (because Legolas' blood is up and it's the aftermath of battle. Is no-one safe??!!! )
Thank you to Anarithilien for betaing this and suggesting lovely sensitive ways of improving things.
Chapter 9: Eomer and Legolas
Eowyn's face was dirty, smudged with blood that was not all hers and soot from Orthanc fire. There was a bloody scar on one flushed cheek that was not from remaining with women archers or tending the injured and she felt the pricking of tears in her eyes. She clenched her fists, I will not cry. I will not cry, she thought.
She made her way though the throngs of exhausted warriors, searching faces and smiling as she recognised those she knew. They reached out to her as she passed, their White Lady. But the ones most dear she knew were safe and she had fallen upon them with desperate relief. Both Théoden and Eomer were even now with Gandalf, who had returned unlooked for and although Aragorn had told the gathered Rohirrim at Edoras that Gandalf would bring help, few had believed it. Aragorn. Even now she saw in her mind's eye, his noble face, steady eyes and careful manner. But she looked yet for another.
And then she saw the tall, slim figure of the elf, and the shorter, muscled dwarf. 'Oh!' she gasped. 'You are both all right. I have been looking for you.' She laughed then. 'My brother and Lord Aragorn are within. And now you are here also.' She looked up at the elf then and said a little impudently. 'You are tired.' Her eyes sparkled with mischief, 'You make mistakes when you are tired.'
The tall elf narrowed his eyes and for a moment, she thought he would scold her again. But then he sighed and smiled instead. Lifting his hand to the bloody scar on her cheek he touched it lightly. She opened her eyes wide and although she felt the tears sting, she did not wince or move away.
Legolas murmured something in his own tongue and she did not understand. And with the sudden relief from the horror and the fear, her energy leaked away. She sobbed once and fell against the elf, who held her close and stroked her hair as he had done only days ago… was it only days? His hands were gentle, and he hummed a tune like an old lullaby.
Gradually her tears faded and she realised the dwarf had quietly taken a seat on a boulder, ripped from the Wall by the blast that had left her deaf and ears ringing for hours. He had lit a pipe and watched her quietly, puffing rhythmically, and that too was soothing.
She gently pulled back a little, to see better the beautiful strong face above her. Parched, scorched by all she had seen and felt he was like rainfall, as he had been on that day which seemed so long ago when he had come to her in the night. He had not scorned her then. He had allowed her to go with him to release Théoden, and he had freed her from Wormtongue's horrid grasp.
'You are far from home,' she reached up tentatively and stroked away stray hairs that blew across his face. 'Are you lonely?' Her breasts brushed against him. Her thumb stroked across his lips. Slowly, he caught her hand in his and stopped her.
'Lonely? I have this dwarf that shadows my every move,' and although he stopped her, still he held her hand in his. She looked up at his parted lips, his strange green eyes half veiled. She was suddenly reminded that he was of the woods and wondered if he had something to do with the forest that edged the battle field and stood a silent vigil over the slain. Then he blinked and the spell was broken. He shook his head imperceptibly. 'He dogs my footsteps and will not let me fall.'
Gimli watched them shrewdly. He was quite sure Legolas had no dishonourable intentions toward the girl but the dwarf had become fond of their warrior maid and the besotted look in her eyes made him wary. He removed his pipe from his mouth and knocked it out against the stone, watching as the elf gently untangled his fingers from hers. The dwarf did not miss that the elf stroked her palm as he released her, and it was with reluctance that he moved away. But in all honesty, how could the dwarf blame him; her burnished hair fell over her shoulders, her lips parted and her beautiful eyes gazed up at the elf.
Gimli harrumphed loudly enough to catch their attention and said gruffly, 'This is the fever of battle that makes folk act without foresight, without caution.' He put his pipe back in his mouth and searched his pockets for pipeweed, then shook his head in irritation.
'No pipeweed for love nor money in this Aule-forsaken place,' he muttered, but not loud enough for the girl to hear him. He determined to find Aragorn to see if he had had more luck. He rose stiffly from the boulder and looked up at the girl.
'He needs a dwarf to keep him in order, lass.' Gimli took her hand firmly from the elf and turned her away. 'These elves are very flighty you know.' He flashed his teeth at her, and put on the manners that had charmed an elven queen. 'Here today, gone tomorrow,' he confided.
As he turned her deliberately away from Legolas and walked her towards the Keep, he looked over his shoulder, and jabbed the stem of his pipe pointedly towards the elf's groin. 'Don't you be wasting your breath asking him if he wants for anything. And if he does, be sure not to give it to him! They live on air and in the trees, lass. They are not for us mortal folk.'
He ignored the splutter behind them from the elf and gave his attention back to Eowyn. 'Now what you need,' he said looking at her with his earth-brown eyes, 'is a good steady dwarf!'
Legolas laughed then too, and the dwarf knew he was not offended. He would know Gimli was right and the besotted look in the girl's eyes warned him of the danger. She was young and vulnerable, ready to give her heart to any who she felt deserved it; she would confuse that lust for life and relief at surviving with love. And she yearned for love.
But just in case, Gimli resolved to have a firm talk with the elf once he had deposited the girl with someone reliable, and scruffy and unattractive, thought the dwarf, like Aragorn.
It was well into the evening but there was no feast. Instead the injured had been treated and the dead recovered and laid out in the lower halls. Eomer had spent time with the bereaved, and wept himself at the sight of those he knew and loved. Now, in the aftermath, he needed to make peace with the living. That is what he told himself anyway.
Eomer sought the elf determinedly. He walked purposefully through the halls and passageways, opening doors and peering into alcoves. Eomer remembered the intimacy of the cell and the merry banter even when all seemed lost to him. He remembered the thrumming of his blood. He wanted that again. Just to be alive at the end of this dreadful slaughter, to remind himself that he had survived and so had those closest to him.
Briefly he peered in the hall, where Eowyn was talking with Aragorn. He paused to watch them and smiled. He could not be happier if his sister wed such a man. And that seemed likely now surely. What better alliance could there be for Rohan and Gondor to unite? It was politic but more than that, he wanted his sister to be happy. He did not linger, feeling the unfinished business with Legolas drive him onwards. Where would an elf be? he wondered, exasperated.
Stepping carefully between the rubble and the abandoned weaponry of orc and man alike, he searched the empty rooms and walls of Helm's Deep. It was not just a case of wanting to thank the elf for his help, Eomer decided, he also wanted to end this… this… whatever it was between them. Remembering the blood on Legolas' shoulder he went towards the Healing Rooms. He peered about the quiet chambers, pungent with herbs and unguents, masking the blood and pus and dying.
Eomer felt he had searched everywhere, all over Helm's Deep – he suddenly had a thought- ah! The caves, he had not yet searched in there- perhaps elves liked caves. He had heard that the Elvenking of Mirkwood lived in caves.
Making his way out of the door and into the light, the man intended to make his way along the Deeping Wall –or what was left of it. He decided he liked the elf, he liked his company, knew his prowess in battle- had been astounded even. Never had he seen weapons wielded with such precision and economy, seeking to slice not hack.
Thoughtfully, he paused to look over the Wall, remembering how the orcs had gathered about his brightness, and how the elf had seemingly cut a swathe through the orc army to meet with Gandalf and Erkenbrand.
He had never really liked Erkenbrand, he mused, leaning his chin in his hand and resting his elbow on the crumbled rampart. The marshal had always seemed to him arrogant and insincere, but on this day he had never been more pleased to see someone in all his life, except Gandalf. His coming was a revelation. And he had seen the reaction of Legolas when the wizard had arrived, the breathless relief, the parted lips and closed eyes. It had made him stop to stare.
He realised his thoughts were circling round and round, and that gradually he was coming closer to what he really wanted to think about, what was really bothering him.
He felt again the smile against his mouth and warm lips closed over his, and the hand cupping the back of his head and bringing him close.
Before Eomer quite had time to really understand this, to digest it and to ponder any consequences, he found him.
Legolas sat cross legged on the thin crumbling ledge, with his chin resting on his arms and gazing into the far distance. His head was tilted slightly on one side as if listening.
Eomer coughed politely. He hoped the elf would turn … and wondered what he should say to him, then panicked a little as he realised he had no idea what to say, what to do... Should he apologise? Or thank him? Maybe congratulate him on their shared victory? It seemed easier to let the elf do the talking instead. So he coughed again, a little more loudly, and was annoyed at how nervous it made him sound.
Legolas was utterly still, his head turned away and gazing away across to the tree line. Almost, he seemed a carven image, had there not been the lightest breath of air to flutter his hair like a bright pennant.
Eomer stared. Then he shifted.
'My lord?' he began. And at that, Legolas slowly turned, his eyes focusing and sharpened. Then he moved his hands and stood, or rather, unfurled.
The elf slightly dipped his head and regarded the man intently. 'Please. Not Lord. Are we not friends? Battle brothers? Just Legolas.' He smiled and Eomer felt his mouth drop open. He quickly closed it, feeling foolish.
Very well …. Legolas.' He licked his lips, Beama, he was nervous! Ridiculous, like some sweaty adolescent! It had been so much simpler before… well, before he had realised … He felt heat suffuse his neck and blurted out 'I wanted to thank you.'
The elf did not shift his gaze, his face inscrutable and strangely impassive.
'To thank you,' Eomer blundered on, 'for what you have done… you know… awakening Théoden and er…' He pulled nervously at the neck of his jerkin, 'fighting alongside us…' The elf continued to stand there, still and silent, but Eomer thought there was an upward twitch of his lips. He tried not to think about lips, warm lips on his mouth, he was really trying not to think about that. Instead, he was suddenly more self conscious than he had ever been. He was aware of the bead of sweat on his upper lip, of the wave of hair that fell over his shoulder, of the coarseness of the material he wore next to his skin. The contrast to the elf, his utter stillness, his alien masculinity, his power and his total self control made Eomer feel utterly stupid.
And then, suddenly, Legolas was very close, he felt the warmth of his skin and the breath on his cheek.
'You have nothing to thank me for, Eomer of the Mark,' Legolas said in a voice so quiet that only Eomer would hear. He smelt of … hay, thought the man with surprise, and leaves perhaps. And leather. And something else that was indefinable, strange.
He leaned in a little more, as the elf said. 'I would do more for you if I could'.
It was an offer.
Eomer caught at his hand quickly, his blood pumping, surging. If he did not take it now, then when? So he grasped the back of the other's neck and pulled him towards him, feeling the elf smile against his mouth, like last time. But Eomer kissed him slowly this time, gently licking against his lips and pushing against his tongue.
'No, I should repay you,' he whispered in what he hoped was a seductive manner.
'What I had more in mind,' murmured the elf, 'was riding with the Eored to Minas Tirith.'
And as usual, Eomer felt like the elf had pulled the floor away from under his feet. The offer was to ride with him, not…oh Beama, what a fool. He squirmed inwardly and pulled back. 'Ah. Forgive me my lord, I…'
'Shhhh.' Legolas held a long finger to the man's lips. 'No more lords, or kings or titles…. Just you…. And me.' The elf leaned in suddenly, his hand on the other's shoulder.
Eomer held his breath.
The elf's eyes searched his intently and he felt the gaze pierce him keen as pain. It seemed endless. Tentatively, he stared back, and saw things he had not realised before; straight dark brows drawn together in concentration, defined cheekbones and strong masculine jaw and mouth. He let his gaze travel down, strong shoulders, used to a heavier bow than he himself, everything about the elf spoke of agile strength and power. He raised his eyes back up to the elf's face and saw him smiling; for a fleeting moment he imagined it almost predatory, but then saw again the strength and beauty of this warrior and a surge of lust throbbed low in his body and he moaned.
This time it was unambiguous. He grabbed the elf and pulled him into a deep lustful kiss. His hands grasped the soft suede tunic, crushing it in his hand and he pulled him deeper. Nerves tingled with sensation. Long hair tangled in his fingers, muscles bunched under his hands, against his stomach and thigh; he thought the elf would pull away and grasped him harder, he would not let go this time.
Instead, he was pushed back against the stone wall of the keep, and suddenly he was the one being kissed –deeply, passionately, another tongue filling his mouth and devouring him with need.
A raw desperate heated passion coursed through him from that hot mouth on his. Long fingers expertly unclipped, unstrung and undid fastenings and suddenly his skin was bare to the night air and hands skimmed across his chest, paused briefly at his navel before plunging lower and cupping his sex. Eomer gasped and his eyes widened. Everything stopped.
Legolas paused. He looked down at the man before him, spread against the wall, stripped to his waist, hair tumbling tangled and mussed, lips parted and eyes suddenly wide. He had forgotten. In the man's exotic heavy muscle and flesh, the musk of arousal, he had simply forgotten…This man was so young and fated perhaps to be king one day. Men were not elves, not like elves. He looked at the soft curls that furred his body.
Then he stepped back. And sighed. He looked downwards for a moment. He spread his hands in appeasement. 'I am sorry,' he said, looking away, 'I forgot myself… who I am. And who you are.'
Eomer opened his mouth outraged. 'I can NOT believe you are doing this AGAIN!!' he roared.
Legolas took a step back.
'Every time. Every time… you do this.' The man panted. He shook his head, closing his eyes, clenching fists. 'You entice me, and tease and tease. And then walk off or …or... back off… and leave me in such need!' He took a step towards the elf, eyes blazing with passion and furious with his pent up frustration. 'If you were anyone else, I would …fight you.' he said, struggling to control himself.
And then quite suddenly, he punched Legolas hard, as hard as he could, full in the face. And Legolas was so unprepared for the attack, he did not move, and there was a horrid wet thud. The elf's head whipped back and hair and blood spattered and flew everywhere. Legolas landed heavily on his back, and the man stood above him, breathing hard and fire in his eyes.
There was a moment of absolute stillness. Neither could quite believe what had happened.
Then the elf sat up and rubbed his jaw gingerly. 'Well. That hurt.' His hand came away bloody.
'Good.' said Eomer aggressively.
The elf laughed wryly. 'I do not know how I deserved that,' he said, 'but you obviously think I did.'
At the sound, all the anger fled Eomer's body and he felt utter remorse.
Legolas held up his hand and Eomer took it, pulling him to help him up, but as soon as skin met skin, the fire leaped and burned once more and Eomer did not know whether to punch him again or kiss him. He decided to alternate to see if that had the desired effect. He pulled Legolas hard and wrapped his arms around him, straining to control the bunched muscles and sinews that he expected to fight him but did not. Instead, long hair swept across his arms and the searching eyes closed and warm lips met his.
'I am not a child.' Eomer said before he kissed him.
Legolas bowed his head ashamed. 'No. It is difficult. You are so young. And this is only what it is. No more. Is that enough?'
Eomer laughed and nodded. 'It is what it is and no more.' he said, and he met the hungry lips. 'And no less either.' he murmured.
Ah- so there you have it. Boy gets boy. And girl… well dear reader, that's another story.
So many thanks to Anarithilien again for her betaing.
Next chapter: The road to Isengard of course!
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.