Fallen shield

BY : Ruiniel
Category: -Fourth Age to Modern times and beyond > AU - Alternate Universe
Dragon prints: 247
Disclaimer: DISCLAIMER: This fan fiction is intended for personal, non-commercial use only. No copyright infringement is intended. I do not own LotR and make no profit from this work.

I received this prompt:

- Include this statement in the content: "Á, i tyalie i quendi tyalir" - "Oh, the games Elves play" (source: realelvish dot net)

- Genre: erotica

- Pairing: Legolas/Éowyn *slaps knee*

This is the result. So, here we go, Legolas and Éowyn...


Emyn Arnen, Year 9 of the Fourth Age

The night was cold, so she went to shut the windows against the wind. A harsh winter had struck Emyn Arnen, and the fire in the hearth burned bright, the flames haloing her slight figure in glowing red. Éowyn of Rohan looked to the falling evening, where the hills ahead lay dormant under heavy snows. The frost came early this year, but then it had never been terribly warm in this region either way. She crossed her arms at her chest. For a brief moment, Edoras came to mind, with its dry, hot days and rich fields of yellow wheat, brushing her bare arms. Herself, fallen amid tall grasslands under the sun, free and unknowing. The sounds of insects rising in the quiet heat. Such memories were sparse, but she held on to them, as precious tokens of the past. Then followed a time in which the daughter of Rohan wanted to do more, to be more, to lead. She had much to prove then. The War changed many lives.

"When will he return?" a voice broke the silence, startling her, soft though it was.

Her eyes closed, and a sad smile was on her face. On any other day, she would be the sole presence in the room. Éowyn stood still and tense, barely feeling her fingers shiver at her sides. She brought them before her and clasped them together. "I am never sure lately," she offered. Her voice was weak, a contrast to her imposing presence during official court matters. "Minas Tirith is awfully busy this time of year, or so he says. The King plans another incursion into the East."

Faramir, Prince of Ithilien had many responsibilities, none could deny it. Some he maintained more than others. There had been moments in the past when the choice of wedding him proved wise and good to Éowyn. She was strong and so was he, and their thought was one at times. And even today, Éowyn could not deny the wisdom of it. And was it not wisdom to move forward with one's life, to try and forget?

She turned from the window, her eyes meeting storm-grey ones.

Yes, to try and forget.

The Elf was leaning with his shoulder against a stone pillar in the room. He was garbed in the manner of his people, and a green cloak lay abandoned on a settee, together with a grey outer tunic. He faced her in a long, white shirt reaching to his knees and grey trousers. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and his feet were bare. Éowyn remembered his kind did not feel the cold as Men did.

His hair fell down one shoulder as the Elf tilted his head, and the light of the hearth danced in his eyes. His dark eyebrows were drawn together, his lips pressed shut, and pulled into half a smile.

Éowyn was reminded of another time, and another chamber. He looked the very same then, propped against an obliging pillar in the choking full Meduseld. Drunken merriment roamed about him, and he appeared so out of place then, so still and as cold as the gold gilding the Halls. He watched her then much as he did now, his eyes reluctantly finding the corners of her smile, roaming over the fullness of her tresses. And now, here, he again seemed out of place.

Éowyn flinched when he lazily righted himself from the pillar and walked towards her, closing the space between them. Her chest rose and fell with trepidation. She kept telling herself it was she who called him here under official pretense. Just as she had been the one tending to him years past, upon the battlements of Helm's Deep. Just as she kissed him that one desperate night, riding outside of Edoras. He had followed her, soothed her dismay. And then he had refused her.

And now?

"Are you certain you wish this, my lady Éowyn?" his voice was sure, his eyes hooded. She saw his hand spasming at his side.

Éowyn smiled. In public meetings and social context, he would always address her using those precise words, in that precise order. My lady Éowyn. But now there was no mischief there. He was searching for meaning, for her face to give him enough reason to refuse again, perhaps. As she looked up at him, Éowyn recalled just how much taller he was than everyone she knew. His otherness was only enhanced by the dim light and the shadows it cast about them.

"Are you afraid?" Éowyn goaded as happened when she felt cornered, swallowing her own doubt.

His frown deepened as a long, roughened finger reached to touch her cheek. He watched his own motion with wonder, as though it were someone else. He looked back into her eyes. "Of you?" a dry smile changed his face, the loftiness of immortals.

Éowyn scowled. Even back in Meduseld, years ago, he had always been so aloof. Observing them all with that respectful disdain only his kind appeared to possess. The first Elf she had seen whom Éowyn thought a cold, foreign creature of the past, and now his chest was warm against hers, and strands of his hair feathered across her face as he placed a shivering kiss to her cheek. His scent, too, was different from that of a Man. It was lighter, sweeter, it enveloped instead of overwhelming her. Éowyn felt the shudder of his hands when they eased on her waist, as if to steady them. Then, looking her in the eye one last time, he hesitated.

To withdraw now would be the greatest lie, though the urgency in his bearing and the trembling of his fingers surprised her a little. But she had never been afraid. Suddenly she was turned around in a vice hold, shieldmaiden and all, and held against his torso as the Elf brought his face into her tumbling hair.

Éowyn took a wispy intake of air when he said something into her, but it was not Westron. "What-..." Éowyn wanted to ask, but then her shift was falling off her shoulders, and she was spun around again and brought none too gently to his chest. Breathing shakily at the sudden pressure of his arms, she looked him in the eyes. The greys in them had long turned black, and he was watching her with a lost, eerie expression. She reached and ran two fingers through a strand of his hair. "You've left it unbraided." He knew she liked it this way. It was always small, meaningful gestures with him.

"Yes," he said shortly. His hands, long and slim and deceptively fine, were heavy against her lower back. Then to her unease and delight, he was leading them to the bed, one hand revealing the rest of her while the other still held the woman to him.

She was pressed into the mattress, and Éowyn looked up at him briefly. A few threads of silken hair caught on his parted lips. She reached and smoothed them out of his face as his arm reached beneath her, trapping her slight ribcage and lifting her to him. Éowyn felt his life beat against her chest. Her hand, small and curious, was touching his ageless face, tentative along his left ear. The shape had always intrigued her. She had only touched him there once, and as before his eyes closed in a helpless shudder.

Éowyn took this reprieve to run her hands down his tense back, and she roughly pulled his shirt over his head.

He rose and swiftly divested himself of the material, and Éowyn watched with dazed eyes, her mouth slack, how the red light in the room outlined the hard planes of him, dancing over his skin, licking across his middle. When he moved, the tautness beneath charged with tension and strength. Éowyn rose up to him as well, trailing the side of his neck with her fingers. She watched his spectral gaze with frightened fascination as she was led down again, and a small sigh left her throat when her bare breasts came crushed against his chest.

His hair fell over her face, mingling with her own. "You do know what this means?" he whispered, running his mouth up and down her ear.

Of course, she knew. This was merely a reminder. "Will it matter? It may not," she snapped, regretting it immediately. Éowyn began feeling rather cold at the notion.

"Don't speak like that." His words were soft. Musical. "You cannot wed twice. And this is... this is different for me." But he looked at her hungrily, his fingers catching a bright curl.

Her bare legs tightened around him. "Well. Is there someone else?"

He blinked. His sharp features twisted into an expression of both need and intense annoyance. "How can you think that? I told you what you are to me."

"Will there ever... be someone else?" Éowyn continued. It was laughable how she tried to alleviate his worries when her own thrashed for purchase towards the surface.

The Elf had risen on his forearms, caging her beneath him. Éowyn felt him hardening against her. He watched her, swallowing. "No."

She had wanted this for longer than she remembered, and he knew it. First, there was the War. Her uncle dying. Faramir. Meduseld after the War. Then, Emyn Arnen... a choice hardly made at the time. Éowyn took his face between her hands. "Lie with me."

His resistance faltered. For one moment he forgot about it all, her living at a stone's throw from him yet so out of reach, her husband in his ivory tower, and the longing still alive and well in them both, ever since he had seen her that first time in the patched Halls of Edoras.

Éowyn leveled him with a hard stare but was surprised to find herself moaning into his mouth as he began kissing her. He felt so fresh, and she was parched.

"Á, i tyalie i quendi tyalir…" the Elf whispered to no one, his breath soft against her ear as they felt each other to the point of painfulness.

"What... what is that?" Éowyn asked, turning her head, breathless against his cheek.

"It means- Oh-," he gasped when she reached and took him in hand, her grip unexpectedly pleasing and vivid.

Éowyn grinned. He was warm and pulsing, and the tips of her fingers barely met around him.

With unreal grace the Elf removed her hand from between them, pinning her wrist down above her head. She was staring into pitch-black eyes. He brought one of her legs higher around him, she grasped his shoulder. He found her and slipped slowly inside, his hand seizing a strand of gold, and holding tightly. "It means, 'the games that... Elves play'..." he went deeper, his last word dying on her lips.

She pushed up against him despite the tumult of her blood, her temper the winner. "I am a game to you?"

But her indignance was smothered again, and she could not put a single word in. It never should have been so good, nor felt so right.

A brief thought of Faramir crossed her mind then, and she strained against him.

"Éowyn ..." the Elf hissed, resting his forehead to hers. "We are binding, I can sense your fretting," but his pace became faster as though chasing away her thoughts, and he was gratified to feel her unwind again. And she was so soft and pliant, so very his at that moment, the Elven Lord of Ithilien felt even home to be a distant memory, if she were not in it.

"Forgive me," Éowyn murmured just as he rose and flipped her easily on her belly, pressing down along the length of her body.

She felt his hands reaching beneath her, one of them easily gliding between her thighs. His fingers were just as deft as the rest of him, and Éowyn squirmed in a way she would normally frown at, were she to hear it from somewhere else.

"You are forgiven," it was a mere whisper, she more felt than heard it. Éowyn began to panic at this novel sensation of something fusing within her, and she began to struggle as he drove into her.

He paid her no heed, moving against her until she unwinded again, his chest pressed to her back, one hand still in her rich mane, the other holding her by the chin. One of his fingers had slid between her parted lips. He was whispering things she failed to understand, but their meaning still breached through her mind. He was relentless with her, driving her to the edge many times before stopping again, playing with her senses.

"Wait, wait," Éowyn hissed, a hand to his hip.

Legolas slowed his movement and watched her expectantly as she turned, a sheen on his features. It came in fine contrast with his hair, which now stuck like long silk to his temples, neck, and shoulders. He was-

Éowyn employed some of the skills gained in combat, and placing a hand to his shoulder forced him over on his back so she was atop him. He appeared startled, but that soon changed into a sly smile. She saw his muscles tensing in harmony as he reached for her, and began kneading the flesh of her thighs as she straddled him. His length was between them, straight and glistening.

Panting, she ran her palms over him, following the pale, winding scars etched into his skin. More reminders. She wanted to kiss them. "I lead, now," she placed her hands on either side of his head, rolling her hips against him. He bucked against her, but she held him fast by the shoulders. His eyes rolled back as she kept moving over his length and looking down, Éowyn saw clear drops shimmering on the head. Suddenly he was controlling her movement again, forcing her to slide back and forth over him, his hips tilting up to feel more pressure. When he tried entering her Éowyn only laughed and shifted her lower body sideways, foiling his attempt.

"Don't play so much," he ordered then, slapping her gently on the rear, every bit the prince he could be. His eyes were narrowed on her despite his smile, his voice hoarse and impatient.

Duly disgruntled, Éowyn leaned closer to his face. Hers was fierce, flushed from the heat. "I said, I lead." Éowyn felt him quiver beneath her, and it tugged at her heart. She lowered her hips down, taking him in her, her hand now on his hipbone keeping him still.

He hissed between his teeth and his grip tightened on her thighs, but the Elf said nothing. His hips strained up to meet her, his eyes on her face, his hands now cupping her breasts.

A sharp smile. "Lead, then."



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