Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

Only One
By : HollyHobbit13
Category: Lord of the Rings Movies > Crossovers
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Chapter List
- 12
- 13
- 14
Parting with the Dwarf and the Elf, Jordan stopped by the House of Healing. After a quick visit with Læurenthail, whose knowing looks Jordan doggedly ignored, the Immortal went to assist Ciërce, the remaining Apprentice, who was busy extracting essential oils from a pile of fresh herbs. Pausing in the doorway, Jordan inhaled deeply, enjoying the soothing scents; her weariness faded as she entered the room. Carefully setting her weapons down on a small table, the Immortal pulled up a stool and joined the Apprentice at the worktable. Jordan watched, fascinated, as the Elf performed the painstaking process. The Apprentice smiled at her, his clear, grey eyes followed her gaze.
“What’s that?” Jordan asked, looking dubiously at a weed the Elf set aside.
“Asëa aranion; also known as Kingsfoil, or Athelas.” Ciërce answered as he continued working.
“What will you do with this?” Jordan inquired, curious. She picked up the discarded plant; cautiously sniffing its long leaves, her eyes widened—it smelled surprisingly sweet; the nondescript weed’s crushed leaves were the source of the pungent, refreshing fragrance.
“Mmmmmm . . . May I have this?” she asked the Elf. Ciërce smiled at the Immortal; her face wore such an eager, hopeful expression, he couldn’t refuse her simple request.
“Of course. And what will you do with it?” the Apprentice asked, wondering what use she had in mind for the unassuming plant. The Elf paused in his task, watching as Jordan slid off the high stool.
“Oh, I think I’ll put it under my pillow . . . maybe it’ll bring pleasant dreams.”   Jordan said, with a twinkle in her eye.
Of Legolas
Cradling the crushed plant, Jordan rummaged in a woven basket for a square of linen; soaking it in cold water, the Immortal wrung out the excess before gently tucking her prize into the linen and placed it next to her weapons.
“In that case, you’re welcome to take another one.” Ciërce said, smiling at Jordan’s surprise.
“Oh, thank you! You’re a doll!” the Immortal said, pleased. The figure of speech was lost on the Elf, but he took it to mean a positive thing.
This daughter of Man is easy to please! Ciërce thought to himself; he watched the woman carefully pore over the remaining plants before selecting one to her liking. Holding it tenderly, Jordan placed it with its crushed companion.
“This one I’m going to keep in my room; hopefully I can get it to grow roots . . . I’m going to take it home with me.” The Immortal said quietly. The Elf nodded; he understood. Looking at the remaining pile of Athelas, Ciërce continued with his explanation.
“Aside from it’s healing properties, Athelas’ virtue is multifold: to clear the mind, invigorate the disposition and lighten the heart of not only the one afflicted, but all present. After the essence is removed, the plant will be dried; it may then be used as a tea, or steeped in an infusion—alone or with other herbs—or it may also be ground and put into a poultice; some even cook with it, though it is not one of its more common uses; most Men do not consider it a useful plant, but there are a few who know of it’s virtues.” the Apprentice explained.
“What a great way to use everything. Nothing goes to waste—I like that!” Jordan said.
“Is that not how healing is practiced in your . . . land?” Ciërce asked, puzzled. Jordan thought carefully before answering.
“Well,” she began slowly, “Its not the standard anymore. Before, the bulk of our medicines were derived from natural plant resources; now we’re turning more and more to bioengineering as our original sources become depleted.”
“Your land sounds strange.” Ciërce said while continuing his task.
“Trust me, it can be strange.” Jordan said with a laugh.
The Immortal worked alongside the Apprentice, until—after two hours had passed, the Elf insisted that Jordan retire for the night. Ciërce watched her leave, his puzzlement growing with each passing moment; the woman was a sight, indeed; usually neatly groomed, tonight Jordan’s long raven hair was mussed, the ends tangled, looking as if she’d been caught in a wind storm; one sleeve was missing a ribbon, and there were several dark, oily spots on her gown. Shaking his head, Ciërce chuckled quietly to himself as he watched her disappear into the shadows. Jordan looked forward to a quiet evening alone as she slowly trudged back to her quarters, at least until a servant met her on the pathway and informed the Immortal she was expected to dine with Lord Elrond and the rest of the hunting party.
“When and where?” she asked the Elf.
“Within the hour in the main hall, Lady Waters.” The servant said. Jordan nodded her acceptance, resigned to the fact that her quiet evening was no more.
“Thank you. I’ll be there.” The woman said. The servant nodded once before melting silently into the shadows.
Jordan continued towards her quarters.   After filling a golden chalice with cool water, Jordan gently placed the Athelas in it; burying her nose in the plant’s long leaves, inhaling its calming fragrance, Jordan grabbed her toiletries and robe on her way to the bathing chamber. After a thorough wash, the Immortal stood before the mirror—dried, dressed and ready.
“You can do this!” The Immortal told her reflection.
Giving her tresses a final stroke with the hairbrush, Jordan tossed her hair back and squared her shoulders. Walking at a sedate pace, Jordan arrived in time to be seated with the rest of the attendants; she was led to the empty seat next to Gimli. The Dwarf sat on her immediate left, three seats away from the Lord of Rivendell; given the Dwarf’s proximity to Lord Elrond, it was considered a high honor for the Elf-friend. Jordan understood friendships between Dwarves and Elves were extremely rare –especially the unusual friendship that was as deep and lasting as that shared by Legolas and Gimli.
Gimli looked up at the Immortal, greeting Jordan with a grunt before turning back to his tankard of ale. She smiled, knowing that nothing, or for that matter, no one—with their senses intact, comes between a Dwarf and his drink. Jordan looked up, only to meet Legolas’ gaze; she offered him a brief smile before tearing her gaze away to accept a goblet of Miruvor from a servant. The cordial possessed wonderful qualities that Jordan was only just beginning to appreciate.
When Jordan looked back, the golden Archer was conversing with the Elf to his right. It was difficult to not notice the fair Prince among the gathering of darker haired Elves; not only was his pale hair a beacon of light among the brunettes, but there was . . . something about the son of Thranduil that set him apart from the other Elves; something indescribable, but tangible nonetheless. As she pondered Legolas’ effortless ability to dominate her thoughts, Jordan’s eyes happened to rest on the Dwarf’s hand; she noticed Gimli’s finger had been freshly bandaged.
“How’s the finger, Gimli?” the Immortal whispered.
“This wee scratch? Phagh!” the Dwarf whispered loudly back. Despite his bluster, Jordan saw Gimli was careful to not use his injured finger unnecessarily.
In a lower tone the Dwarf confessed, “It pains me a bit. The Apprentice said you’d just departed when he changed the bandage. He wasn’t as fine to look at. I was glad to be done with it.” Gimli said, nodding sagely as if it were the wisest thing he’d ever done.
Jordan laughed at that; fully aware that the Elves’ beauty, even the males, surpassed those of the other races, the Immortal was pleased by the Dwarf’s compliment. Discretely studying her dinner companions, Jordan again thought it a shame the varied interpretations of Elves back home were hideous caricatures in comparison to the reality. The best way to hide in plain sight was to keep still and silent; Jordan did her best to not fidget in her chair. Her singular female presence, other than that of servants, caused more than a few curious—and many blatantly disapproving glances to be cast in her direction, all of which Jordan stoically ignored. Jordan watched as servants bore great platters of foods, deftly arranging them on the table before leaving to fetch more, until at last the table was laden with a bountiful spread. As the woman suspected, it was a working dinner. The conversation among the present company focused mainly on their weapons and strategies.
Unfamiliar with Rivendell and its outlying area’s topographical layout, the discussion didn’t hold much interest for the Immortal. Because of the seating arrangement, Jordan enjoyed an unobstructed view of Legolas, who sat across the table and two seats away to her left, closer to Lord Elrond, as befitted his royal status. Occasionally, she would look up to find Legolas’ eyes upon her, an unreadable expression on his face. Coloring slightly, Jordan lowered her head, pretending to eat; the Elf was much too distracting for her to concentrate on her meal. Looking down at her plate, Jordan pushed the food around, her appetite diminished. The musical chatter of the Elves faded to the back of Jordan’s mind as her thoughts turned inward.
Look but don’t touch, Jordie.
From his great chair on the raised dais, Elrond Half Elven addressed the company at large; Jordan gazed at Legolas’ profile, feasting her eyes on him.   Sensing her close scrutiny, Legolas turned; his eyes met hers, his gaze steady; she pretended to look at a point just beyond the Elf; Jordan hoped Legolas would believe the ruse, yet the woman hadn’t counted on the heightened color in her cheeks giving her away. Picking at her food, eating little, and sipping her Miruvor, Jordan went thru the motions of enjoying herself. Listening to the snatches of conversation surrounding her, occasionally, when asked, the Immortal would comment quietly. After putting in what she hoped was an acceptable amount of face time, Jordan intended to salvage part of her plan for some quiet time to herself. When the opportunity arose, she excused herself.
Bidding goodnight to her host and those seated close to her, the Immortal insisted Legolas stay when he stood to escort her back to the room. On sudden impulse, Jordan gave the Dwarf an affectionate kiss on the cheek and a squeeze on the shoulder before she left; Gimli turned red, but sat straighter in his chair, a pleased expression softening his ruddy features. Legolas watched her leave until she was out of sight, his eyes drawn to the unconsciously provocative sway of her hips. Between the remaining meal courses, the golden Elf stood and took the seat recently vacated by Jordan. Legolas turned to the Dwarf, clearly troubled. Every fiber in his being warned him she should not accompany them, but he also knew it was useless to dissuade her.
“Gimli, Amin dele ten' he (I’m worried about her); I do not think it wise that she come with us.” Legolas said. The concern on the Elf’s face was plain.
“N’dela (don’t worry) Lad, ye know she can take care of herself. Remember, when we found her, she was holding her own.”
“It’s not the Orcs that worries me; it’s the Uruk-hai. She has not fought one.” The Elf said, keeping his voice low.
“Well, ‘tis good that she’ll have us looking after her then. And there are more Elves to help.
Legolas, tula, vasa ar' yulna eni'mereth (Come, eat and drink of the feast), for soon, we hunt.” The Dwarf said, trying to allay his friend’s fears.
Reluctantly, the Elf lifted his goblet in a toast with the Dwarf, but did not drink. Biding his time, Legolas waited until everyone was freely drinking of the miruvor and ale before excusing himself. Gripping the Dwarf’s shoulder, no words needed to be said as he took his leave.
“Ye canna change her mind, Lad.” Gimli declared; despite his gruff words, understanding shone in the Dwarf’s eyes. The Elf stood to leave.
“I must try, Mellonamin (my friend).” Legolas said before walking away.
“Quel marth (good luck).” The Dwarf muttered with a snort; lifting his tankard in a salute, he watched the retreating figure disappear into the shadows.
>>>======== >
>>> ======== >
Seacouver, Washington
2 weeks later
Yet another day was spent searching for clues and leads; despite MacLeod’s attempts, as usual, they came up empty handed.
“We’re going nowhere real fast.” Methos said to himself.
Still, he had to admire the Highlander’s tenacity. He would get far in the Game; whatever cause Duncan would champion, he certainly put forth nothing less than his best effort. The late afternoon found the two Immortals outside Jordan’s apartment. Methos leaned against the wall, waiting for the big Scot to open the door with his key.
“Having problems MacLeod?” the elder Immortal inquired. Duncan grunted, jiggling the key in the lock.
“It always sticks. I’ve told her repeatedly to get this damn lock changed. ” The Highlander growled.
“Don’t force it—you might break the key in the lock.” Methos advised.
Duncan stopped long enough to give his friend a malevolent look; Methos threw his hands up in surrender. Extracting the key from the lock, Duncan held it up to the light, examining it closely. The Highlander took a deep breath before reinserting the key.   Keeping his sigh to himself, the Ancient One nodded politely to the sexy red head that was devouring him with her blue eyes, as she waited for the elevator.
“Do I need to call security?” She asked; her voice was pitched low, yet it carried.
“Only if you’ve a problem I can’t help you with. Do you require any . . . assistance?” Methos asked as he sauntered towards the woman.
Leaning against the wall, he studied the willowy redhead, liking what he saw. Apparently the feeling was mutual, for she tossed her flame red hair back, her well-endowed bosom jutting out with the movement. With a quick glance over his shoulder, Methos saw Duncan gained entry and disappeared into the apartment.
“That depends. What ’assistance’ do you offer?” Red asked. The Ancient One chuckled. He decided to see what she knew.“Do you know my . . . friend, Miss---?” Methos asked the redhead.
“Call me Kimberly, handsome. And yes, I know Jordan. She hasn’t been home for almost two weeks now. I believe she is on holiday.” She said. The elevator doors slid open. Waiting for the passengers to exit, Jordan’s neighbor ran a finger down Methos’ overcoat lapel.
“You can call me Adam.” Methos said, enjoying this unexpected diversion. Running the tip of her tongue over her even, white teeth, Kimberly gave the Immortal a thorough once-over before stepping into the lift.
“If she’s with you, then she’s a lucky girl.” Kimberly let the question hang in the air, fishing for information, Methos merely smiled.
“Apartment 42. Drop by anytime . . . Adam.” Kimberly purred as the doors slid shut. With a grin, Methos went to join the Highlander.
Standing in the modest living room of Jordan’s apartment, Methos stood still, getting a feel for the place. You could learn a lot about a person by what they surrounded themselves with. Duncan had disappeared into what the elder Immortal presumed was her bedroom; reluctant to follow the Highlander, Methos wandered into the remarkably large second bedroom of Jordan’s apartment; it was filled with mementos of her travels: a dozen fragile lace fans, a Japanese kimono, complete with obi and geta sandals, Chinese porcelain vases, seashells and dried sea sponges and coral. Several large, carved mahogany chests were scattered about the room. Lifting the lid to a medium sized chest, it was filled with colorful, traditional Chinese women’s dresses, the material gleaming as only pure silk can; Methos smiled, remembering . . .
::::            Paris, France
            The Britannique
            After introducing himself to the young Immortal who called herself Jordan Waters, Methos hadn’t planned on pursuing the acquaintance. Chalk it up to boredom, or a sense of curiosity; after a year of self-imposed exile with the twin demons grief and anger, the Ancient One realized that he was ready for a change. Perhaps it was his desire for company—any company--that prompted him to ask Jordan out to dinner. Sharing a meal with a lovely Immortal seemed like a much better alternative than another evening alone.
Methos couldn’t tell what surprised him more—when the words left his mouth, or when Jordan cautiously accepted. After agreeing upon the time and place, Methos found himself standing in the lounge of the decidedly British hotel nestled in the heart of Paris. Glancing at his wristwatch, Miss Waters’ tardiness didn’t bother him; the reservations he made guaranteed their seats. The Immortal sat in the common lounge awaiting his dinner date. The older Immortal had just settled himself on the overstuffed horsehair sofa when the Buzz grew stronger, announcing the arrival of the lady of the evening. Jordan was dressed in the palest of jade green; the shimmering cheongsam material of the Qi Pao styled dress stopped just shy of her ankles; below the Mandarin collar, delicate pink blossoms anchored by golden vines sprawled across the elegant front of her bodice and trailed down mid-knee. As she walked, the high side slits revealed tantalizing glimpses of smooth, bare skin.   The Ancient One couldn’t help but wonder where she hid her sword as his eyes traveled up. Bangs and wispy tendrils of hair famed her pretty face, and her eyes . . . green eyes on a woman was nothing new to Methos, but on Jordan, it was startling—more so when he discovered it was her natural eye color—and not achieved by colored contact lenses; Jordan’s long, black hair was drawn up and back in a thick bun secured by two long ivory chopsticks.   Smiling nervously, Jordan flicked an imaginary speck of dust from her skirt. Methos rose to his feet.
“You look very nice.” He murmured with an appreciative gleam in his eye.
“Thank you. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.” She said, looking slightly worried.
“Not a problem; the boat doesn’t leave until 7:00 p.m.”   Methos took the matching cape from her hands, draping it over her shoulders; it settled into place with a whisper.
“Boat?” Jordan echoed uncertainly.
“The boat.” Methos said, smiling at the apprehension in her voice. She smelled of sandalwood and strawberries. The Ancient One gently turned her around so she was facing him. His dark eyes searched her face.
            “I hope you like French food.” He said softly.
            “I guess I’ll find out. I was hoping for Chinese—I brought my own utensils.” Jordan answered with a smile. Methos laughed, enjoying her odd sense of humor.
“In that case—shall we go?” Holding his arm out to her, Jordan took it with a smile. ::::
Methos gently lowered the lid of the mahogany chest. Jordan had been impressed, and that night was the beginning of many nights and days together. Shaking himself out of the reverie, the Immortal continued his prowl around the room, inspecting its contents. On a curio cabinet shelf was a wooden blowgun measuring three feet in length; picking it up, the Ancient One’s fingers traced the fine details; carved to resemble a dragon’s head, he noted a dart was loaded and ready for use. Its removable tail was painstakingly carved as well, and looked like an arrowhead.    Detaching the chamber that hung beneath the dragon’s belly, Methos peered inside. From what he could see, it contained more of the mean-looking darts.
Carefully replacing the weapon, the Old Man continued his walk around the room, his eyes drawn to the wall; there hung a black and white photograph of Jordan and Duncan; in it, Jordan was laughing, her head thrown back, the Highlander was dressed in a traditional men’s kimono, his dark hair long and tied back as he smiled indulgently down at her; they were surrounded by falling cherry blossoms. Taking a closer look at the photograph, Methos saw Jordan was dressed in the same kimono displayed in the shadow box; next to the shadow box, on a shelf, was a snow globe of the Eiffel tower. Methos turned it upside down, the glittery storm swirling around the tower.
“I can’t believe you kept it.” He said softly. Turning it over, on the bottom, the slightly faded but still legible writing:
To J.W. from A.P. 1998
Hearing Duncan’s footsteps approach, Methos replaced the snow globe on the shelf.   Duncan appeared in the doorway.
“Let’s go.” The Highlander said tersely.
“Find what you’re looking for?” Methos asked, not bothered by the younger Immortal’s bad mood.
“For now.” Duncan replied. Methos gave the room one last look before following the big Scot out the front door.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Wide-awake, Methos sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the object he held in his hand. Closing his fist tightly, the Immortal squeezed until the cold edges of the gold circlet cut into his palm.   The balmy night air had given way to the cool breath of morning; with a quick glance, the alarm clock informed him it was early—three a.m. in the morning; next to it lay his mobile phone. Reaching for it, Methos hesitated before hitting a number on speed dial, counting four rings before someone answered.
            “Spencer Manor.” A crisp, accented voice answered.
            “Mr. Spencer, please.” The Immortal requested.
            “Whom shall I say is calling?”
            “Please tell him Adam Pierson needs to speak with him.” Methos said.
            “Very good, sir; please wait."
>>>======== >
                                                                        >>> ======== >
            A fire burned merrily in the hearth; hypnotized by the dancing orange flames, Jordan stood clad in her sleep shift; her hand automatically pulling the brush through her locks.   Placing the brush on the mantle, her mind replayed the afternoon’s events and conversations with the Dwarf and Elf, as she mentally prepared herself for the upcoming hunt.
“You have a fortnight to consider your choice.” Lord Elrond’s words echoed in her mind.
“I can’t believe it’s been two weeks already.” Jordan said aloud, her feet carrying her to the bed; she was about to climb in when the Buzz grew stronger. Hurriedly wrapping a robe around her, the Immortal went to the door and pulled it open. Legolas stood in the hallway, his hand poised to knock. The surprised expression on his handsome face almost made her laugh out loud.
            “Hi.” Jordan said, a curious look on her face as she leaned against the open door.
            “Hi.” The Elf echoed automatically, surprised. Jordan’s robe was open, and his bright gaze was drawn to the leaf resting in shadowy depths at her neckline. Though she was clothed, she may as well have been naked; behind her, light spilled into the hallway. The flimsy shift barely hid what the light of the fire and candle revealed to him. His pulse quickened; the Elf’s groin twitched, his member starting to swell as he took in her present state of undress.   Shaking himself, Legolas focused on what she was saying.
            “Legolas? Legolas! Are you allright?” Jordan was waving her hand before his eyes, a concerned expression on her face.
“Er—yes. Jordan, please, I must speak with you.” Legolas said. Jordan sighed, knowing he would try one last time to talk her out of going. Stepping aside, Jordan held the door wide open.
“Come in, please.” The Elf entered, his astute eyes swept the room, taking in the neat, ordered quarters. Legolas stood before the fire, leaning against the mantle, his sharp ears tracking her movements behind him. Poking her head in the hallway, Jordan looked in both directions. It was empty. Closing the door softly, Jordan leaned against it as she faced him.
            “What brings you by?” She asked, already knowing the answer. The Elf swung around, taking a step towards her, before he came to a halt, not wanting to put her on the defensive so soon.
            “Two things. I cannot impress upon you how dangerous the hunt will be. I beg you to please reconsider.” Legolas said.
            Jordan was deeply touched this noble Prince would plead with her to stay where she’d be safe; a wasted effort, but appreciated all the same. Jordan smiled, despite the gravity of the conversation. Legolas’ quiet voice filled the room; was it her imagination or did his blue eyes seem a little brighter? As he spoke, Jordan watched his mouth, fascinated with the way his sensual lips moved.   He was here, they were alone -- and all she could think about was the big bed that dominated the room. Blinking several times, Jordan forced herself to concentrate on his words. Pushing herself away from the door, she walked towards him, her tone placating as she came to a stop before him.
            “Legolas, please—we’ve already had this conversation. Lord Elrond agreed to my going; my mind is made up; I’m going. End of story.” She said, her tone gentle yet firm.
            “Why? Why do you insist on going?” he asked, trying to make her see reason.
“Utang ng loob.” Jordan murmured softly, more to herself.
“I do not know what you speak of. Your place is not on the battlefield—“ Jordan cut him off, her ire roused.
            “My ‘place’ isn’t on the battlefield?! And why not?” she asked, trying to remain calm.
            “You could get hurt.” Legolas said.
            “So could you. So could anyone else going—even Gimli.” Jordan countered. She watched as Legolas turned back towards the fireplace. When he looked at her, the flickering firelight bathed his face in shadow and light, making him look like an elemental demi-god
            “This is not a game. I cannot be by your side at all times.” He said quietly, his blue eyes intense.
            “I don’t expect you to protect me, Legolas, nor do I need for you to; I know this is serious. I’m not a stranger to bloodshed and violence; I’ve seen war before and I can handle myself; believe me, I hope everyone who leaves here returns in one piece.” Jordan said.
Especially you.
“Don’t go. Please . . . stay.” Legolas said quietly.
“I can’t, Legolas. I have to go. ” Jordan’s heart did a somersault in her chest; for a brief second, she wondered if they were talking about the same thing before dismissing the thought.
Wishful thinking.
“It is folly, Jordan!” The Elf insisted, trying to make her see reason.
“I beg to differ. You asked why --let me tell you why, Legolas—‘Utang ng loob’ in Tagalog it means ‘a debt from within’. I’m here in Middle Earth for who knows how long. Not only am I here, but I’m basically at the mercy of Lord Elrond. From the food I eat to the clothes on my back, to my freedom to roam around, I’m in his debt. I’ve been working at the House of Healing with Læurenthail—and the Apprentices -- every moment I can, trying to pull my weight around this place; I keep my room neat and try not to be too much of a bother, but guess what?! It’s not enough. And I don’t think Lord Elrond—or whoever handles the coffers, treasury, purse strings or whatever else you call it around here accepts Visa or MasterCard -- and I do have both, thank you very much.” The Immortal said, her nostrils flaring as she warmed to her cause.
            “And as for my ‘place’—I may be a stranger in a strange land, but if Lord Elrond doesn’t have a problem with it, then neither do I!” Jordan’s voice was dangerously low, her eyes spitting green fire.
“That is your decision, then. You will not reconsider.” Legolas said flatly. Exasperated, Jordan put her hands on her hips, looking up at the Elf, her robe parting wider with the gesture.
“Yes, Legolas, that’s my final answer. For better or for worse, I’m going.” Her words rang with a finality that was unmistakable. Cocking her head to the side, Jordan crossed her arms under her breasts in defiance as she looked up at him, daring him to present another argument. She was starting to enjoy this; it felt oddly liberating to direct her frustration with and desire for the Elf into the safe channel of an argument.   Legolas sighed, recognizing the determined set of her shoulders. It was no use. Gimli was right—Jordan would not be swayed from her decision. Perhaps he could try a different approach.
His eyes traveled from her flushed face down the rest of the way; Legolas wondered if she knew how desirable she was. Clothed in her sheer night shift, despite her filmy robe, his keen eyes traced every curve of her body. The warmth of the fire and her passionate defense of her decision made her roses and cream complexion more pronounced. That, in combination with her hair loose about her shoulders, was almost his undoing
They stared at each other for long minutes; Jordan wasn’t sure when and how, but sure as she lived and breathed, the mood definitely changed. She suddenly became very aware of how close they were and the intimacy of the situation. If she wanted to, she could reach out and touch his handsome face. Not trusting herself, the Immortal kept her arms crossed as Legolas’ face neared. Jordan’s mouth suddenly went dry; clearing her throat, she tried to keep the conversation on track.
“Y-you said there were two reasons you were here . . .?” Her voice trailed off as Legolas drew closer.
“I wish to know if I have affronted you; are you angry with me?” Legolas murmured, his blue eyes skewered her in place. Not trusting herself, Jordan took a step back, then another as the Elf slowly but steadily continued to close the distance between them.
“Angry? No, I - I’m busy doing stuff.” Jordan stammered as she continued to back away from him, stopping only when she felt her back against the door. Legolas could see the pounding pulse at the base of her throat as she looked up at him, wide eyed. Jordan desperately wished for a cup of cool water to drink. Pressing his advantage, he lowered her face to hers, until it was mere inches apart.
“I’ve missed your . . . company, Lirimaer (lovely one).” He murmured softly, looking into her eyes. Jordan couldn’t tear her eyes from his if her life depended on it.
“Ummmm . . . ” She couldn’t come up with a coherent response when he was so close to her. If someone hadn’t snuck in and poured gasoline on the fire, then the Elf alone was responsible for making her temperature rage simply by being near her. The desire in his eyes didn’t help, either.
“I feel you do not wish to be near me.” He said, lowering his face to hers.
“It’s not that . . . ” Jordan said weakly; her body was quivering with anticipation.
“Then what is it?” Legolas said, his nearness almost too much for her to bear.
“I need to know if you truly do not desire my company.” He whispered into her ear; his warm breath stirred the strands above her ear, sending goose bumps down her shoulder and arm.
Trying to edge away from the Elf, Legolas placed his left palm flat against the wall by her head, effectively trapping her.
“Wh-why would you think that?” Jordan asked, closing her eyes. Her voice sounded faint and breathless to her own ears.
“Because you do not let me do this.” Legolas said as he caressed her cheek. Jordan stiffened for a second before leaning into his warm hand; he gently angled her face up.
“Nae saian luume' (it has been too long) since I’ve done this . . . ” the Elf murmured before pressing his lips to hers in a soft yet insistent kiss.
Jordan’s head fell back, resting against the door as Legolas’ tongue traced her lips; from her scalp to her toes, her entire body tingled from his touch. Her senses seemed heightened and her skin highly sensitized as his lips brushed hers.
            “Do you find me repulsive?” He asked as he nibbled her lips; his hand went to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair as he massaged her scalp.
            “Nooooo….” Jordan breathed; in his arms she felt like putty.
Her arms encircled his neck of their own accord as they kissed; the Elf’s lips trailed along her jaw and down to her neck. Opening her robe, Legolas slid it over her shoulders where it landed at her feet. Jordan’s fingers fumbled clumsily with his tunic clasps before succeeding in undoing them; her fingers splayed out against his firm chest through the thin fabric of his inner tunic; she could feel his muscles flex and move beneath her finger tips. Enfolding her in his arms, Legolas slowly turned her around, moving them closer to the bed as their tongues danced together.
“Why do you deny what is between us?” Legolas asked between mind numbing kisses.
“What exactly is between us, Legolas?” Jordan murmured against his smooth yet strong jaw; against her better judgment, she decided to play the Elf’s game and see where it led.
“We belong together.” He said, his hands were much too distracting, as they traveled down her neck and down her arm.
“It’d never work out . . . ” Jordan breathed as she pulled his head down towards hers. The back of her knees hit the bed; holding onto Legolas’ shoulders, Jordan continued to kiss the Elf. Drawing back from the woman, Legolas touched his forehead to hers.
“Mankoi (why)?” the simple question was like a douse of cold water on Jordan’s ardor.
Looking at the Elf with her heart in her eyes, Jordan remained silent as Legolas waited for her reply; instead, she kissed him deeply, putting into it all her feeling, fear and desire for him. In answer, Legolas held her tight against him, the unmistakable bulge of his arousal hard and hot pressed against her. After a moment he held her away from him.
“Your heart calls to mine, Melamin (my love). Why do you resist?” The flame of desire and something akin to anger burned in his bright gaze, mesmerizing her.
“I don’t belong here, Legolas. It’s only a matter of time before I go home. Maybe tomorrow, maybe a few weeks, maybe months. I know it-- I’ll go home. Then what? Where does that leave us?” Jordan said.
“Middle Earth or Rivendell could be your home if you choose. You have attempted to return, yet failed. Surely that proves you belong here.” Legolas said.
Jordan remained silent. Seeing the uncertainty in her eyes was enough for Legolas; satisfied that he’d accomplished at least one of his goals, the Elf didn’t press the woman for an answer; instead, he kissed her again, breaking it off as he disengaged her arms from round his neck. Lifting her hands to his lips, he tenderly kissed the tips before releasing them. Jordan stared in disbelief as he turned to leave. Reaching the door, he stooped to pick up her discarded robe, and carefully laid it on a low stool nearby. His hand reached for the decorative door pull.
“Quel kaima (sleep well), Jordan.” Legolas said quietly over his shoulder, before slipping outside; the Elf closed the door softly behind him. Jordan stood, stunned with the turn of events. Hot and bothered, she almost called him back to finish what they started.
“Oooooo!!” Instead, Jordan snatched a pillow off the bed and hurled it at the door with all her might. Despite the fire, the Immortal felt cold and bereft without his presence; it was as if the warmth left with the fair Elf. Frustrated in more ways than one, the Jordan sat down hard on the bed; staring at the door, she shook her head, before climbing between the sheets.
Outside her door, Legolas refastened the clasps of his tunic, his fingers shaking. Walking gingerly, the Elf needed several minutes to bring his body under control; it was very . . . uncomfortable having his member fully engorged and straining for release--which seemed to happen a lot when Jordan was around, or even with the mere thought of her. Rounding the corner that led back to the main hall-loud and clear—his keen sense of hearing registered Jordan’s frustration and the thud of the pillow as it struck the door. Legolas smiled to himself as he stepped out into the night.
>>>======== >
>>> ======== >
Northern England
Spencer Manor
                        “Adam, it’s been, what—years?” A man’s soft, accented voice spoke.
                        “I’ve lost track; time flies, does it not?” Methos said.
                        “You could say that.” The disembodied voice answered.
“How’s your wife?”
“Lovely as ever. To what do I owe this pleasure?” The curiosity was undisguised.
                        “I need a favor. Face time in fifteen minutes.”   Methos said, before ending the call.
            The Ancient Immortal tapped his mobile phone lightly against his forehead then tossed it back onto the bedside table. Swiping his hands across his eyes, Methos stretched before quietly making his way to Duncan’s office.
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Only One	By : HollyHobbit13 Category: Lord of the Rings Movies > Crossovers Views: 4468 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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Only One