Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

The Last Wood Elf	By : Mel99Moe Category: +Third Age > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 4551 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters or places. No money is being made from this story.

Chapter List
- 20
- 21
- 22
Chapter 21 - The Blacksmith

Grima sat alone in his room, his thumb absentmindedly stroking the horse ring that he wore on his right index finger. For years now, he had been slowly and methodically poisoning King Théoden, waiting for this very day, the day when he would begin to take over Rohan. He had sent one of his henchmen to retrieve a letter from the White Wizard Saruman. He was expecting the man to return today, if all had gone well.

With the poisoning, Théoden had become lethargic and clueless to anything happening in his kingdom. When his attention was needed, Grima consulted the King, telling the old man what he wanted him to know, twisting truths and bending the will of the elderly King towards Grima’s own black thoughts. No order went out without Grima first deciding what to do. Then he would whisper his ideas into Théoden’s ear, making the King think these were his own choices. Now Grima waited patiently for word from Saruman, and then he would execute his next plan.

Finally, at midday the messenger arrived, knocking on Grima’s door. “Come!” he called, and a lanky dark haired young man came into the room. He wore the usual messenger’s attire, brown leathers, long white tunic and a leather vest with the emblem of Rohan embroidered upon the chest. He did not fit the common robust look of a Rohir, but that was because he was from the west most edges of the Riddermark. He had come from a poor farming family, and with the recent droughts, they were in fear of losing their land. He moved to Edoras to find work, and send the money home. In his desperate need, he was easily persuaded into joining Grima who promised him there was plenty of money to be made so long as he kept his mouth shut, and did whatever he was told, no questions asked.

The young man approached Grima, and handed him the sealed parchment, which he had kept safely tucked inside his vest. Grima studied the yellowed paper, and then sniffed it just to be sure. Yes, it was from Orthanc. There was no mistaking the musty smell of the wizard’s quarters, and the scent of incense he kept burning as a ritual to help ward off offending spirits. Grima ran a bony finger over the wax seal, the sign of Saruman … a hand embossed in white wax. He started to open it, forgetting about his present company. The young man still stood in the doorway, waiting for payment for a job well done. Grima rolled his eyes and reached into a black velvet pouch that lay on his desk. He took out two silver coins and tossed them to the messenger. The boy looked at them carefully, flipping them over in the palm of his hand. It was a decent amount for such an easy task, but not enough to keep his family from losing their home. He started to leave and turned to Grima. “Is there nothing else you require of me?” he asked tentatively.

Grima glared at the young man. He was ready to yell at him, and order him to leave before he changed his mind and took the money back, but then he thought that there might be one more errand for the messenger to run. Grima gestured to the coins in the young man’s hand, “Is that not enough? It is what you were promised.”

“Oh, it will help, sir,” the young man answered, “But if you require anything more, I would gladly do it.”

Grima walked towards him, circled around like a vulture investigating a possible meal, and stopped in front of him. “What is it that you need this money for, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“It’s for my family, sir. They need it for their farm. The drought … you know.”

Fool, Grima thought to himself. If they only knew what was in store for the future of Rohan, they would not care about saving their land. It was likely that they would all be slaughtered by orcs or by Wildsmen. Still, Grima could not divulge any information, and the boy was eager to work. It seemed such a waste of coin to give it to the youth, but Grima needed his help.

Grima raised an eyebrow, “Actually, there is something else I might have you do for me, depending on the contents of this letter. First, go fetch the three door guards and bring them here.”

The young man bowed his head, and quickly left the room. When Grima was finally alone, he broke the wax seal and unfolded the letter. It was indeed from Saruman himself. It was blank except for five words; five very important words that Grima knew meant everything planned was underway. Upon the stiff yellow paper, written in black ink in a neat manuscript, it said, “Take care of the elf.” Then beneath that was a larger letter ‘S’. Grima smiled, and his crooked yellow teeth gleamed wickedly in the small bit of sunlight coming from a split in the thick curtains drawn across his windows. The day was finally here, to rid himself and Rohan of this pest.

Grima had wanted to send Legolas away ever since first seeing the elf. The man hated the elves, and did not trust any of them, but none more than Legolas, and especially since the elf had remained in Edoras instead of patrolling the borders. Grima knew Théodred and Eomer must have been involved in this decision. The one thing the eccentric man had to count on was the elf’s need to fight. With Legolas out of the city, it guaranteed that Grima could move freely, as well as his followers. Now that Legolas remained behind, Grima felt somewhat on edge. The elf followed him, and his eyes were always watching every move the advisor made. The old worm had to plan his moves carefully, always looking over his shoulder, and feeling quite paranoid.

Most of all, Legolas watched over Eowyn like one of the great Eagles watching over its offspring. Grima hardly had a chance to speak with her. He knew if he could spend any amount of time with her, he could sway her with his words. Grima remembered doing the same thing to Lúta. The feeling was overwhelming. The power he held over her was intoxicating. The girl believed anything he had told her, and then those dark thoughts lay hidden just beneath her conscious mind. Grima imagined how good it would feel to have that effect on Eowyn, and bend her mind and will towards his black heart.

Grima had been about to give in to his deviant daydreaming, but the elf never left him alone, even now. Legolas was the only thing that stood between Grima and his final plans to control Théoden, Edoras and eventually Eowyn. With the elf gone, he could move about more easily, and not be constantly looking over his shoulder.

“Watching,” hissed Grima to himself, “Always watching me, he is. I can hardly do anything without his eye on me. He thinks he is collecting information for those two unworthy brats, thinks they will all come down on me and destroy my plans. I have my own plans though, and my lord has just given me permission to carry them out,” he laughed evilly, “First, I’ll get rid of the elf. Saruman has plans for the King’s son. When the time is right, he will strike. The White Wizard’s reach knows no bounds. Eomer will be all that’s left … easy to do away with by then. With Théoden under my control, the elf gone, and the city in mourning for their prince, Edoras will fall right into my hands.”

There was a knock on the door, which was still slightly ajar, and the messenger returned with the door guards. They were Grima’s men, stationed at the main entrance to Meduseld where they could keep a watchful eye on all who entered. Now, they stood to the side and awaited instructions.

Grima reached into his pouch and took out two more silver coins. The boy’s face lit up, but fell slightly when he only received one of the coins. Grima put a cold hand on his shoulder and drew him to the door. “You’ll get one now for bringing the guards, and one more if you complete another task.”

“Yes, of course sir. What shall you have me do?” the young man asked anxiously.

“Do you know of the blacksmith called Róta?” he asked and the boy nodded. “Give a message for me and make sure no one sees you. Just tell her that the meal is ready.”

“Do you not have written correspondence to send?” the young man asked. Up until now, Grima had never requested an oral message, and he found this odd.

“Nothing in writing this time,” Grima answered, “I will not risk anyone seeing a note, and I expect you not to relay this to anyone but Róta.”

The messenger gave Grima a strange look, but he knew better than to ask questions and he desperately needed the silver. He nodded and quickly left the Golden Hall to carry out his odd request, but perhaps he would not ask for any more assignments. The air felt much too heavy inside Grima’s quarters and the boy couldn’t help think that he was involved in something much too sinister. He decided that after this errand, he would find work somewhere else within the city and earn his pay honestly.

* * *

Legolas had been home for a couple months now, waiting, watching, and making Grima’s life more miserable than it already must be. The elf had spoken to him briefly only a few times. Grima recoiled from him each time. Legolas had to admit that he rather enjoyed this power, though he did not understand why Grima felt such animosity. Someone had filled his head with lies about elves, made him frightened of them, but not so much that Legolas felt safe. Although he kept watch over Grima as often as he could spare, Legolas also felt several pairs of eyes watching. Grima’s followers, he thought. They were scattered throughout Edoras. This did not keep Legolas from daily activities though. He had promised Théodred that he would keep his eyes and ears trained, and promised Eomer to keep Eowyn safe. This became his main goal, along with the promise he made to her … to train her to fight.

Eowyn had become used to taking care of her uncle’s house while he was ill. Legolas thought he had never seen Meduseld look so organized. Despite Grima’s presence, she spent time with her uncle, always telling him how much she missed him, and wished he would get well. She would remind him of stories her mother had told her or reminisce about Eomer and her growing up under Théoden’s care. Anything that she thought would renew his memory. Legolas’ heart went out to her, for every day Théoden would not even acknowledge her presence. Legolas could see how this affected her, the idea that her uncle did not remember her or her brother.

The rest of the city was suffering as well. Businesses deteriorated without supplies. Farms stopped producing crops due to a drought. Grima had intercepted Théodred’s orders to send the blacksmiths back to Edoras, and what few remained had no orders and no paying customers. Trade with the East Fold and West Fold had almost completely halted, and without supplies, no one could move forward. Yet, the people endured as best they could, and stayed out of love and concern for their King. Their loyalty showed no bounds, and neither did Legolas’.

While walking back from a practice session with Eowyn, Legolas fell silent as his thoughts took him. Eowyn could tell his mind was elsewhere, and she bumped her shoulder against his as they walked, “Care to share your thoughts?”

Legolas regarded her with a warm smile, “I was just thinking about your people and their devotion to Rohan.” He pointed towards a small house and it’s dry empty field next to it, “For some, there is nothing here, but they stay.”

“Wouldn’t the elves do the same?” she asked. Eowyn was sure they would, but she merely wanted to point out the obvious. “When times are burdensome, all we have are each other.”

Legolas laughed with slight embarrassment, “You are often times right, my lady. I did not mean to insinuate anything. I was just noticing.”

Eowyn looked out at the empty field and sighed, “As sure as I am of our devotion, I myself still wonder from time to time why some stay, but I know that it is hope that keeps them here … hope for better times. There will be better times.” Eowyn whispered this last part, as if she was trying to convince herself.

As they walked along, they noticed smoke coming from the chimney of one of the abandoned blacksmith shops. They stopped and watched the black smoke puff away, and the sound of a hammer pounding metal.

“Did Théoden call the blacksmiths back?” Legolas asked.

“Not that I know of, but I did hear of a rider approaching the city a few days ago. I overheard a pair of gate guards talking about the mysterious visitor. Whoever it is had a letter from the courts, requesting their services,” Eowyn said as she narrowed her eyes and tried to see into the shop at a distance. “It is not an uncommon request, and I thought nothing of it.”

Legolas crossed his arms as he stared at the building, “And now there is a new blacksmith.”

“Wormtongue?” Eowyn asked curiously.

“That’s my first thought.” Legolas turned to Eowyn, “Shall we go introduce ourselves to our newest resident?”

Eowyn looked down at her clothes. She still wore her protective leathers for training, and smiled, “Not exactly how the Lady of Rohan should make acquaintances, but it surely makes a statement.”

Legolas and Eowyn approached the blacksmith shop. It had once belonged to a man named Folthain, but he had departed along with the others to Helm’s Deep. This place had been his business as well as his home. The front of the building was his shop, while the back half was made into a small one room home.

Legolas gave a quick thought to Lúta and her family, who had been among those blacksmiths sent to the Hornburg. He allowed himself the briefest hope that she had returned, but this was not the kind of place that could support a family. Legolas quickly dismissed his ghosts, not wanting to remember her.

Whoever was here now, was busy at work. Legolas could see the glow of steel and hear the puff of bellows, “Wait here a moment,” he said to Eowyn, who gave him a sharp glare. Legolas ignored her and went inside.

The blacksmith saw the visitor and ceased working immediately. Legolas let his eyes adjust to the dark room, and was shocked by what he found. The blacksmith was very tall, almost as tall as he was, very well built, and very much a woman. She stopped hammering and turned, feeling the elf’s gaze, amber eyes meeting bright blue.

“I don’t believe we have met,” Legolas started with coolness to his tone. The corner of his mouth curled into a wary smile.

She laid her tools down and pushed a stray hair from her face. Then she looked at Legolas from head to toe and back again, “We have not met, for I would have remembered meeting an elf.”

Legolas noticed the unusual accent, very exotic as it rolled of her tongue. He was immediately intrigued, “Allow me to introduce myself. I am—”

“Legolas,” she interrupted, “Yes, it’s quite obvious who you are since you’re the only elf in Rohan. My name is Róta.” Her words were sharp, and her eyes, which never left Legolas, were hungry.

“From where do you hail, Róta?” he asked curiously.

“The Eastemnet was my home. It is all but deserted now,” she answered.

Legolas hadn’t been there, but he remembered Eomer telling him about the people who occupied those vast grasslands. They had no permanent homes, but rather lived out of tents, and moved around as they saw necessary. Now, with Rohan on the verge of war, and orcs roaming across the lands, most inhabitants of the Eastemnet had taken refuge at the Hornburg. Still, Róta did not look or sound Rohirrim, and he was skeptical of her story.

She must have seen his questioning in his eyes, for she smiled at him and continued with her answer, “As you seem to have already guessed, I am not Rohirrim. I am an Easterling, though I defected from my country many years ago, and found refuge amongst the people of the Eastemnet.”

“It is unusual to see a woman blacksmith,” said Eowyn from the doorway. Legolas had heard her approach, but made no notice. “Actually, I don’t believe I’ve ever have,” she continued with an accusatory tone.

“It is a man’s business to say the least, but I have made my mark by becoming one of the best,” answered Róta, her eyes still trained on Legolas.

At a closer look, Legolas noticed that Róta was every bit as tall as he was. She had a unique voluptuous body, straight shoulders, ample bosom, an appetizing curve to her shapely hips and long legs. She wore a tight fitting brown suede vest with no shirt beneath, leaving her sculpted arms bare. A pair of tight tan leggings showed her other assets, and black leather mid-calf boots finished her outfit. Legolas did not mean to examine her so closely, but he’d never seen a woman like this before, with her dark brown hair and amber eyes that watched him seductively.

He must have stared too long, for Róta crossed her arms and cocked her head to the side, “Do you have a problem with a female blacksmith?”

He realized he was gawking and quickly regained his composure, “Not at all. As a matter of fact, I’m thinking there should be more women blacksmiths.”

That remark was echoed by a venomous huff from the doorway. Eowyn was not at all pleased by Legolas’ reaction.

Róta ignored Eowyn, and gave Legolas a half smile, “And I am thinking that there should be more Rohirric elves.” She took a few seductive steps towards Legolas, eyeing him as she went, “Seems we are both somewhat of an enigma.” She reached for his ear, wanting to know what it felt like.

Legolas grabbed her wrist before she could touch him, and brought her hand to his lips, a delicate kiss lingering across her knuckles. Róta did not falter in the least, and eyed Eowyn over Legolas’ shoulder.

Eowyn gave Róta a cold glare, and let her hand come to rest on her sword, which was sheathed at her side. She narrowed her eyes, as if to warn Róta to keep away from Legolas, but Róta smiled arrogantly, ready to accept the challenge.

Legolas lowered Róta’s hand, bowed his head, and took a step back, “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Róta. Perhaps we shall meet again, when you are not working.”

“I look forward to it,” she purred.

Legolas and Eowyn left the blacksmith shop, and when they were far enough away, Eowyn rounded on him, “What in Mordor was that about, Legolas?”

“What?” he said defensively.

She flailed her hands in the air, annoyed with him, and then mocked his voice, “I’m thinking there should be more women blacksmiths.”

Legolas knew better than to laugh, but he couldn’t help it, and let out a chuckle as he smiled behind his hand covering his mouth. Eowyn punched him in the arm, “What was I supposed to do? I was merely trying to make her feel welcome.”

“You sound like Théo and Eomer just now. Do you know that? I would expect that from them, but not from you,” she reprimanded, “Aren’t you the least bit curious about who she is and why she is here?”

Actually, Legolas was extremely curious about the seductive woman, but he kept that thought to himself, “If we come off as abrasive towards her, we’ll never find out what she’s about. What’s that saying Théo always used to recite? You catch more flies with—”

“. . . with honey rather than vinegar,” she finished for him, “Yes, I guess you’re right, but I don’t like her in the least … the disrespectful bitch.” The last part Eowyn said under her breath.

Legolas took Eowyn’s arm in his and led her towards home, “She may be a blacksmith, but she’d be madder than a warg to take on a shield maiden.”

* * *

A few days had gone by, and Legolas was sitting in his favorite place, the mead hall, enjoying a mug of ale, when the sound of woman’s laughter caught his attention. Off towards the back of the hall was a group of Rohirric men talking and joking, and at the center of it was Róta. He watched how she behaved with them, not flirting but rather an equal. The men spoke to her as if she were one of them. If anyone made some sort of innuendo, she added her own crude remark, and the table would explode into a roar of laughter. She seemed comfortable with the men and them with her. Legolas was quite surprised to see her in the mead hall. At this time of night, the only women were the bar maids, and they were too busy with their patrons to notice any of the men.

Róta was different, and he wondered where and how she learned her trade as a blacksmith. He also wondered why she was here. It was true enough that the remaining residents of the Eastemnet had fled their grassland homes—her story seemed accurate in that sense—but he was puzzled by her occupation. There were no blacksmiths in the open plains.

One of the men asked her something and she smiled deviously, looking at each man with a cock of her eyebrow. She pulled something out of her belt, and Legolas could see it was a dagger, shiny and new. The men were in awe of its brilliance. Legolas was quite impressed too. The blade was not straight, but wavy, the handle a deep red shade like mahogany, and the silver cross guard was shaped like two horse heads. Róta handled it with such care as she might give a lover, and laid it gently on the table for the men to look at. While they observed its resplendency, Róta looked up through her long lashes, her eyes falling on Legolas. The corner of her mouth curled into a seductive smile. It disappeared as soon as one of the men started asking her how she made the weapon and whom it was for.

“The King asked for it specifically. He wanted something that no one else possessed,” she answered, “Each of the weapons I make is one of a kind. No two are alike.”

One of the men picked it up and held it, touching the edge of the blade and flinching. “It’s very sharp,” he commented as he sucked the blood from his cut finger.

“It could cut the wings from a fly and it would hardly notice,” she said, her eyes darting across the hall and finding Legolas once more. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and ran her tongue along her upper lip. Legolas felt a twitch in his loins as she did. Then she took the dagger back and safely sheathed it at her side again, “Consider yourselves lucky to have had a glimpse of it before I deliver it to the King.” She looked around at her present company, “If you’ll excuse me gentlemen.” Róta walked away from the group of men. They watched as she went to Legolas, and joined him at his table. The men seemed protective of her, making sure she was not bothered, but it had been her choice to make acquaintance with the elf. Still, their eyes kept watch over her.

“Hello Legolas,” she purred.

“I did not expect to see you here in the mead hall, but it seems you have no problem making friends,” he said with his smooth elvish voice.

Róta glanced over her shoulder, “They are harmless and they watch out for me, though I can take care of myself. I don’t think they like me talking to you though, but it’s none of their business.”

“I’m glad you feel that way.” Legolas motioned to a barmaid who nodded, and went off to retrieve two mugs of ale. “I suppose if you acquaint yourself with the men, then you drink like them too?” he asked.

She turned her head to the side, and regarded him questioningly, “Are you challenging me to a contest?”

Legolas eyed her, allowing himself a brief glance at her bosom, “I was asking you to join me for a mug, but now that you mention it . . .”

Róta raised her fingers to her lips and blew, whistling loudly and drawing the attention of the barmaid. “Make those tall mugs, if you please,” she shouted over the crowd.

“Tall mugs?” he asked surprised.

“You want to know what I’m made of, so let’s give it a go then. First one to finish wins.”

“Wins what?”

Róta touched her finger to the top of his chest where he had unbuttoned his shirt, and exposed his smooth skin, “I know what I want if I win,” she said in a sultry foreign voice.

“You don’t waste much time do you?” His eyes trained on hers, solidly capturing her for the first time. Up until now, this had been Róta’s game, but Legolas was ready to take the lead for a bit.

She was surprised that he held her entranced like this. Róta was the type who was always in charge, and she fought against his prurient stare, “I see what I want and I take it, but in your case I will make an exception and play your game. So what do you want if you win?”

Legolas’ eyes slowly traveled down her body and came to rest at her waist, “I want to know more about that dagger … why the King ordered it and what he wants it for. I know Théoden quite well and a weapon like this seems a little … ornate for his tastes.”

Róta narrowed her eyes, “Are you questioning my ability as a blacksmith or the artistry of my work?”

Legolas sat back, and allowed his eyes to roam over her, “Neither, my lady. You seem uniquely talented and the dagger seems more of a collective piece. I’m just curious, since I’ve never known King Théoden to be a collector.”

The barmaid arrived, and set two very tall pewter mugs in the center of their table. She smiled at Legolas, but gave Róta a threatening stare, in which the blacksmith laughed off. She was used to women being jealous of her. She was very tall and well-built capturing the attention of men and women, but she couldn’t help who she was, and if her sex appeal helped move her along in this world, then so be it.

They each picked up a mug, and stared at the other. Then Róta spoke first, “On the count of three. Ready? One . . .”

“Two . . .” Legolas continued.

“Three . . .” Róta finished counting, and they both started to guzzle down their ale. They watched each other, and saw that they were about even, drinking without stopping. Legolas was surprised to see her drink like the best of the Rohirric men, not wasting a drop as the mug continued to tilt back. He started to pick up speed after realizing that this really was a contest, and not just a tease. Their mugs continued to go bottom up at the same level, but she started to slow. Seeing his opportunity, Legolas drank faster, feeling that he finally had the upper hand. Suddenly, something was snaking its way up his inner thigh, coming to rest between his legs. Róta’s bare toes were fondling him beneath the table. The suddenness took Legolas by surprised, and he nearly choked as he swallowed. It was just enough of a stumble to let Róta gain the lead, and before he knew it, she was slamming her empty mug on the table only a few seconds before Legolas finished his mug. They were both out of breath, chests heaving, as they wiped white foam and ale from their mouths. Róta gave a genuine smile, as though she actually enjoyed herself, and licked her lips.

“You put up quite a challenge, Legolas. Most men are shocked that I even try such a stunt, but you kept up with me,” she complimented.

“And you cheated,” he said, “But considering the prize you ask for, I can’t say that I’m disappointed by the loss.”

She bit her bottom lip, and gazed at him with cat-like eyes. “No more games. Do you want me, Legolas?” She seemed to squirm in her chair.

He stood up and went to where she sat, towering above her. His hand reached for her chin, tilting her head up, and he captured her again with ice blue eyes. “Let’s go … now,” he demanded.

As Róta got up from her chair, she looked over her shoulder to make sure the group of Rohirric men she had been with were watching. They were. Good, she thought. Witnesses, she would need them later.

* * *

Róta took Legolas to her shop where she resided in a small room in the back. It was quiet here, and no one would come calling upon a blacksmith at this hour. As soon as the door closed behind them, Legolas grabbed her by the waist and pulled her to him, grinding his hips against her. Then he kissed her hard, tongue pushing past her lips uninvited, but well received just the same. She writhed in his arms, her breasts pushing against his chest, but as he reached to grab a handful of soft flesh, she pushed him away.

“Are you in a hurry?” she asked with rapid breath.

“Only to get the first time out of the way, and then I’m going to savor you for the rest of the night,” he replied. Legolas had many questions to ask her, but first things first. They were both willing and wanting, and when she was spent and relaxed, he would get to his questioning.

Róta teasingly undid the top two buttons of her tight fitting shirt, exposing her cleavage, and let her finger trace a path between her breasts. Legolas’ eyes were drawn to her as he waited with anticipation for her to finish taking off the shirt. She stopped though, and turned to a shelf behind her where she picked up a glass decanter holding a dark liquid. She held it up for him to see, “The King’s brandy, half of my payment for the dagger,” she said.

Legolas looked at it curiously, as his suspicions surfaced again, “Théoden does not part easily with his prized stock.”

Róta ignored his insinuations, “I suppose you’ve tasted it before. Tell me, how is it you came to live in Rohan?”

“Are you really interested, or are you only making small talk?” he asked, and kissed the back of her neck while she was turned from him.

Róta shrugged him off, “Not so fast. Don’t forget who won tonight. You are my prize, and we will go at my pace.” Róta waved a hand towards a small woodstove, “Light us a fire, and while you do, tell me your story.” She waited for Legolas to walk away. When he was distracted with the stove, and a brief description of his story, she turned back to the shelf, and slipped a small packet out of her shirt. Inside was a white powder, a drug that would make the elf fall unconscious.

Róta paused before she poured the powder into Legolas’ glass. She could hear him scraping a flint, trying to light some tender. It gave her a moment to think of what it would be like to have an elf in her bed. Legolas was a rarity. What a waste it would be to come this close to having an elvish lover and not—

Róta looked at the packet in her hand, and tucked it back into a secret pocket inside her shirt. This was not the first time she had been paid to seduce and render someone unconscious, but it was the first time that she wanted to actually bed the victim. Not many women could say they slept with an elf, and he was devastatingly handsome with his long platinum hair and muscular build. Just the thought of sucking on one of his pointed ears was enough to make her moist with need. Smiling to herself she thought, “I am going to take my joy with this one first. No need to waist a perfectly willing subject, especially an elf.”

Legolas lit a fire in the stove, but he did not talk about himself. He was not sure of Róta’s game just yet, and he would not say more than he needed. As far as he knew, she was hired for her unique talent for metalwork. The fact that she was a vixen and took an interest in him was just an added benefit. Still, he did not trust her. Maybe it was because he’d never met a woman like her before, but he wanted her, and felt he could control the evening. Besides, he had his own seductive talents, and Róta was not immune to them. He had felt her draw to him when he captured her in his stare. Legolas was confident that he could take charge without being obvious. It would be a challenge, but he was willing.

He turned to find Róta with a glass in each hand. She strolled over to him, and handed him his glass. Legolas’ eyes caught hers, and they stared at each other. Finally, Róta let out a huffed laugh and raised her glass to him.

“Here’s to drinking contests,” she said and they drank.

The dark amber liquid warmed Legolas’ body as it traveled down to his stomach. Other parts began to warm too, and a fire lit deep within his core.

When their glasses were nearly empty, Róta took them and placed them on a table. Then she strolled towards Legolas, hunger for his flesh in her eyes, “There is no need to play anymore games. I want you and you want me.” She circled around him where he stood, his eyes watching her every move. When she came back around to face him, she smiled wickedly, “Do you like to play rough?”

No woman had ever asked him that before, and he wasn’t sure what she meant by it, “I can play any way you want. Just how rough do you like it?” he answered.

“You are a wood elf, no? I have heard many stories about your kind. You can be quite dangerous when provoked. I want you to take me to the edge of that danger.” She cupped her breasts, enticing him, “I want you to ravish me, but I must warn you; I like to put up a fight.”

Legolas liked the thought of a warrior woman, and wondered just how much she knew about fighting. “Something tells me you are more than just a blacksmith,” he said.

“Let’s just say I know a lot about men, and something tells me that you are not much different than they are.” Her exotic accent caressed his ears as she spoke, the words flowing together provokingly.

Legolas’ hands rested against her face as he kissed her. Then they slid down her neck and beneath the fabric of her shirt. He grabbed the edges and ripped it open, buttons flying through the room. He grasped her wrists and raised her hands above her head while shoving her against the wall. One hand held her wrists while the other reached to fondle her ample breasts. He was not sure what she meant by rough, but he knew they would not need the bed, and he rather liked having sex while standing.

Róta moaned and pushed her chest into his hand, “Harder,” she commanded.

He obliged and tightened his hold on her breasts. Then he bent his head, and bit her pebbled nipples with his teeth. She sucked in a tortured breath, slipped a hand free, and shoved him away unexpectedly, “I said harder. I want pain. I want you to mark me.”

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d left his mark on a woman. He remembered Audwyn, and the purple mark left upon her neck. Róta did not seem the type to display such evidence. Instead of her neck, he bit the side of her breast, and sucked the flesh into his mouth.

Róta laughed wildly, “Yes, now you see.” Her hands went to the laces of his leggings, and quickly untied them. She slipped her hands inside and released his well-endowed member, pushing his pants to the floor, “I can hardly wait to get you inside me,” she panted.

Legolas’ hands began untying the laces of her leather breeches. He found it odd to do this for a woman, and had only ever done this for himself, but at the same time, it was quite erotic. Soon he had the straps undone and peeled the pants from her body down to the floor. She stepped out of them as she shucked her shirt from her shoulders. It fluttered to the floor, adding to the pile of clothes they had made.

Legolas left his shirt on the pile as well, and made his way back up her body. She stopped him by resting her thigh on his shoulder. He looked up to see Róta smiling deviously and watching him. Legolas kissed the inside on her thigh, and sucked the flesh until it welted, drawing blood to the surface. There was a trail of love bites traveling towards her center. Finally, he devoured her with his tongue, his lips, and then his mouth. He brought his hand around to her backside, and squeezed hard, pulling her further to him. He buried his face, and licked her fully until he felt himself pulled away. Róta had a handful of his flaxen hair twisted between her fingers. At first, it was very arousing, but soon it turned painful as he thought she might rip his hair from his scalp. Legolas stopped pleasuring her and looked up. He was suddenly feeling his control over her slip away.

Róta, however, was in complete control of her actions and reactions. Legolas was very good and knew a woman’s body, but she was not ready to let him have his way. She released his hair, and curled her index finger, calling him to stand, “Tonight you are mine, don’t forget.”

Legolas got to his feet, pushed her against the wall again, and kissed her hard enough to bruise her lips, “If it is a wood elf you want, then you must relinquish some of your control,” he said, and his hand slid between her thighs. She made a small grunt of surprise, but held her composure well.

Her leg instantly came up and wrapped around his naked hip, “Take me here, like this,” she demanded.

Legolas’ hands went to her arse, and he lifted her from the ground. Róta’s other leg wrapped around him as she offered her body, and he slid completely into her warmth. He gave her no time to adjust, and pressed into her body with deep hard thrusts.

Róta moaned loudly as her fingernails clenched his shoulders. Legolas hissed, but ignored the pain. His desire was fed by his need for control. He wanted to hear her moan again, to yell out with pleasure, but she had become silent. Róta was fighting for her own control, and suddenly they were at war.

Legolas proved his strength when he moved one of his hands to the wall, anchoring himself for better support. That was when he noticed the rough sawn wood of the walls. It would be rough on her back, enough that it would leave scratches, so long as he kept forcing her into it with every thrust. He slowed his movements, “Your back … am I hurting—”

“What are you doing?” she asked angrily, “Don’t stop now. Harder,” she demanded, as control was hers again.

Legolas was becoming a little uncomfortable with her pleas for pain, “Are you sure you are not hurt?”

Sensing his reserve, she forced a smile, “I am sure. It doesn’t hurt. Please don’t stop.” She kissed him, and then caressed the tip of his ear as she sucked on the lobe.

Legolas’ hips involuntarily started thrusting again, and now Róta moved with him, “That’s it, my elvish lover, push harder. By the gods, Legolas, you are magnificent,” she encouraged.

Again, Róta’s nails dug into his back as she hung on to him, but he did not flinch. He thought he had control again, thought he was pleasuring her, but he felt her body relax a bit. Then she stopped him and gave a venomous look, “Why are you holding back? You’re not doing as you’re told. I said harder. Now fuck me into this wall. I want to feel the splinters in my back,” she said luring him further on to do her dirty work.

No one had ever spoken to him as Róta had, but no woman had ever been so demanding of him, at least not for deliberate injury. It felt so wrong, but she was reacting salaciously to his actions. The more he hurt her the more excited she got. He did as she wanted and shoved her hard against the wall. Every thrust into her body made her back slide against the rough wood, and she moaned with a combination of pleasure and pain. She gave him pain also, as her fingernails were biting deep into his flesh and sliding from his shoulders and down his back. Then her teeth sunk into the flesh on his shoulder. He could smell the slight tinge of blood, and knew she had broken the skin. She fucked as ferociously as a wild animal, cornered and clawing its way to escape … and he liked it. It made his blood heat and race.

But it was wrong to feel pleasure by giving another pain. He knew this. Elves did not enjoy giving torture, but Róta was reacting insatiably to his conflict. He knew he should stop, but he couldn’t, and he kept pounding her into the wall, knowing full well that he was bloodying her back with the rough wood.

Sweat streamed down his body, making them both slick where their skin touched. The heady smell of sex rose around them in the small warm room. A fire built in his belly, spreading lower and making his cock pulsate within her heated depths. As he was close to climax, he put his conflicting thoughts aside, and gave Róta what she wanted.

Róta must have felt his pulsing need, and deliberately dug her nails deep into his back, tearing at his flesh as bits of blood and skin collected beneath her nails. Legolas cried out with a growl, and sucked the flesh of her shoulder in between his teeth, biting her as she did him, marking her and taking his revenge for the marks she was leaving on his back.

Róta laughed wildly, “Ha! How do you like it, Legolas? It feels good, no? Pain and pleasure, there is not much difference when you’re fucking, is there?”

He did not want to admit it, but she was right. There was something euphoric about the way she opened his flesh while he opened her legs. It was a very fine line, but one he found he was able to balance upon, so long as he did not let himself fall too far to the side of pain. He was still in control, as well as Róta.

Legolas would hardly be able to hold back much longer. “I’m ready, Róta,” he said breathlessly, “Come with me.”

“Not yet,” she answered, and she pushed away from him to look into his face. Very seriously, she said, “Hit me!”

Lost in the midst of passion and pain, he thought he misunderstood her. “What?” he asked.

“I’m ready to come, but … I need … you to hit me.”

He stopped thrusting and focused on her face, his brows knitted in confusion. This was becoming too much. He was already crossing a line by giving in to her pleas for pain, but he would not … could not possibly do what she was asking, “I can’t hit you. I’ve never hit any woman.”

“But I want you to.” She started writhing against him, encouraging him to do the same, “I need you to do this.”

Legolas shook his head, “No, this had gone too far. I can’t. I won’t,” he said firmly.

“You are the best fuck I’ve ever had, and I want to come with you, but I need you to do this. I demand you do it.” She dug her nails into his back tearing open his existing wounds, “I am giving you my permission.” Her hips gyrated against him.

“Róta, stop,” he yelled. He could not possibly hit her, but his cock was retaliating by pulsing as he seed built and his balls hardened. The friction from her body caused him to start thrusting into her again. His conscience to do what was right gave over to his lust, and he pounded her senseless into the wall, “Is this what you want?” he said with anger.

She laughed, “Yes, Legolas, now hit me!”

“No!” he yelled as he pounded deep. Her inner muscles were beginning to squeeze him, and he realized that for the first time, he was no longer in control. Róta was using his body and his mind, but he would not hit her. She would just have to come without it.

“Do it!” she screamed, and as he was about to protest again, she released one hand from his back, and raised it in the air. It came down in one fair swoop, scratching him long and deep from his cheekbone to his jaw.

Legolas’ mind was racing with lust and rage, the combination making him fall into her lascivious trap. “You bitch!” he shouted and slapped her hard across the face. Time seemed to slow and he could feel his palm connect with the soft flesh of her cheek, felt it flatten as bone rose to the surface. The sound of the smack reverberated through his hand and up his arm. He knew this was wrong, but seeing her smile, hearing her wicked laugh, and feeling her body writhe against him did nothing to stop himself from fucking her in this deranged uncontrollable state. He thrust hard, not caring anymore, and spilled violently into her body, “Fuck!” he yelled as he came, a combination of anger towards Róta, pleasure from the most inflaming yet sickening reason to climax, and shame for allowing himself to give in to her perverseness.

Róta was moaning as her body shuddered with passion and she came, “By the gods, yes!”

They hung on the edge of their orgasm until it finally began to subside. Legolas was disgusted, but he could not move yet. He came so hard that his muscles felt like they froze, and he leaned against her for a moment as he tried to catch his breath. Then he looked at her, and was horrified by what he saw. The left side of her face was bright red, and beginning to swell around her eye. He could see the outline of his hand and fingers where he had hit her. He didn’t think he hit her that hard, “Why did you make me do this? It is pure absurdity,” he said angrily.

“No, Legolas,” she protested as he tried to release her. “It was the best orgasm I’ve ever had. Gods, you are so hard, even now.” Legolas managed to push her from him, and she looked down to see his fully erect cock, red and pulsing as if he was not through.

He left her leaning against the wall and walked away, turning from her, “Your face … for Valinor’s sake, what have I done?” Legolas turned back to her, enraged by what had happened, “You forced me to go against everything I stand for. An elf should never give pain and take pleasure in doing so.”

“Don’t play coy with me. I felt your response, and I know you enjoyed it,” Róta accused, “It the power, isn’t it? All of that power over someone … you know what I speak of. I felt it in the way you looked at me. You can’t say this is the first time you have fucked for power and not pleasure. Pain just increases that power.”

Legolas understood what she was saying, and he hated what he was feeling, “Power is a dangerous thing. It is not something to use so freely.”

Róta started to walk towards him, but Legolas put a hand up and stopped her, “You are insane. I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but I’m through here.” He was completely repelled by her freakish need for pain, and by his own lust to see it done. She had taunted and teased him to the point that he did not recognize himself any longer, and though it felt intensely satisfying for one split moment, he was now regretting his actions. He turned from her and grabbed his clothes, hurriedly trying to put his pants back on.

Róta started to panic, though she remained calm on the outside. She could not let him leave. She had a task to complete, and that required rendering the elf unconscious. She had to keep her end of the bargain, “Please stay for just one drink. We can talk about this. Don’t leave feeling this way.” She picked up her shirt and fumbled for the packet in the hidden pocket.

While his back was still turned, she went to the shelf, poured him a glass of burgundy, and emptied the packet’s contents into it. Then she picked up the empty crystal pitcher, and held it behind her back as she spun around. Legolas was struggling to tie up his laces. “Please, a peace offering, if you will,” she said sweetly.

She sounded sincere, and he had an overwhelming need to treat her wounds, but he knew he could not stay another moment. Róta was dangerous, and he was not sure what else she might have planned for him. He shook his head in disgust, “No more … I’m leaving.”

Legolas started to turn away from her when he saw a flash in his peripheral vision. His eyes moved to the corners as he tried to see what it was, and then a shocking pain landed on the side of his head. He felt the back of his ear split open. Everything went black as pitch, and tiny bursts of light flashed in the darkness. Next, his hearing started to fade, and then his body went limp. Everything was fading now as he felt himself collapse to the floor. The last thing he heard before he lost consciousness was Róta’s muffled voice somewhere close to his head. “What a waste,” she said calmly, “He was the best fuck I ever had.”

“You bitch,” he thought, “You set me up, but for what.”

With Legolas lying unconscious on the floor, Róta started ransacking the small room, tearing the sheets from her bed, upsetting a small table, and knocking over a few other items in the room. She dressed haphazardly in her pants and torn shirt, pulled a few tendrils of hair from the leather strap and rubbed some dirt from the floor on her skin. Satisfied, she checked on Legolas. He was out cold, a lump beginning to rise on his head. His ear was bleeding where the skin broke, and it trickled down the side of his neck. His face was already swelling around the scratch and bleeding. Everything seemed in orderly disorder. Lastly, she emptied the tainted drink from the glass, and threw it against the wall, where it shattered.

Róta took a heavy breath and released it, “Time for the show,” she muttered to herself. Clutching her ripped shirt over her breasts, she opened the door and stumbled out, just in case someone saw her leaving. Right away, she noticed a pair of guards off in the distance, and she started calling to them, hunched over and barely walking, “Help me! Please help me. I was attacked.”

The guards heard her and came running over. Their eyes went wide when they saw the deplorable condition she was in. Róta forced herself to begin crying as she collapsed in the arms of one of the guards.

“Who did this to you?” the man ordered.

Róta pointed to her home, “It was the elf. I … I hit him in the head and he fell unconscious. He’s still inside. Please help me,” she cried.

The guards looked at each other in disbelief, but seeing the injuries to the woman, they knew something had happened. “Go and check,” called the guard holding Róta.

The second man cautiously entered her home and disappeared inside. When he came out, his face looked distraught and he nodded, “It is him, though I can hardly believe it.”

Róta lifted her face from the guard’s chest, and looked at the second man, “We met in the mead hall earlier this evening. He challenged me to a drinking game. I thought it was harmless. Then he asked to walk me home. The drink … it … it crazed him with lust. I told him no, but he wouldn’t listen and he … he . . .” She started crying again.

“It’s alright my lady. You are safe now,” said the guard holding her. He looked to his partner. “Take her to the healer, and send two more guards to help me get him to the cells. We’ll sort this out when he comes to.”

The second guard nodded, and took Róta’s arm to steady her. As he led her away, the first guard entered the house for the first time and looked around. He shook his head when he saw the unconscious elf lying on the floor. Then he rolled Legolas onto his side and took a bit of rope that he kept with him, tying the elf’s wrists tightly, in case he started to wake before help arrived. They would take Legolas to the cells, and report their findings to King Théoden. If indeed this was rape, the elf would be hung. Rohan would not tolerate such a savage act.
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The Last Wood Elf