Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

WEST WIND OVER EDORAS	By : Silverfrost Category: Lord of the Rings Movies > Het - Male/Female Views: 17715 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings book series and movie series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 8
- 9
- 10
Disclaimer: The characters and places here are not mine, all but a few are Tolkein's genius. If it's in LOTR, Silmarillion, Hobbit or Unfinished tales it Tolkien' s. If not it's mine.
No profit in this but the fun of writing and getting to play in Middle earth for a while.

A/N This chapter follows the movie version of events. This is one of the instances where I thought Peter Jackson did a better job than Tolkein, so dramatic. I just loved the battle with the Wargs and having Legolas grieve and then Brego bring Aragorn back to the Hornburg. I thought the battle here was spectacular too and I liked the elves coming to help. Shame that Eomer wasn�t fighting alongside Aragorn but the dawn charge made up for that change.

Also I like Legolas in the movie showing his attachment to his companions. This is one of most important things for me about Legolas�s character both in the movie and the book. That he forms such attachments to mortals, to other races, hobbits, Gimli the dwarf and Aragorn especially, at cost to himself. He is still pure Elf, but more open and accepting and warm, more willing to give than others of his race who keep some reserve, some superiority.
Chapter Nine:

AWAY WITH SORROW

LEGOLAS:

It is good to have the action of battle again. My mind tunes itself to a perfect awareness, reaching all around to perceive each threat, each movement and to launch my attack. No opportunity to slay an enemy can be missed and my body charges into high intensity. My arrows wing speedily, one following the other without pause to their chosen target. The hearts of Orc.

The fighting rages around us, the swords of the Rohirrim flash mightily. Spears thrust into black flesh. Many arrows of mine stand, feathers quivering embedded in the matted fur of Warg carcasses. I spin Arod around on his heels as yet another of these vile beasts charges toward Gimli, its yellow fangs dripping. A swift arrow to the head and it is felled mid leap. Aragorn thunders by, weapon outstretched and an orc head separated skilfully from its shoulders arcs through the air, spraying its foul black blood before landing with a thud.

The Rohirrim can fight. They are strong and brave and their horses well schooled for battle. It is not long before all Warg and Orc are despatched to where they belong. I walk over the battlefield, retrieving arrows, piercing a merciful cold knife to the heart of those still twitching in their mortal throes.

After the tumult of warfare it is strangely quiet. Only the blowing of the horse�s breath and the footfalls of the Rohirrim as they search for fallen comrades can be heard.
I lift my head to see Gimli making his way toward me. I scan my eyes over the littered field for the Ranger.

�Aragorn?� I call loudly.

There is no answer. I spy Hasufel, wandering loose, reins dangling. With Gimli I start to run, eyes scanning the bodies. Gimli calls his name again. A rasping chuckle rises from beneath our feet. An evil smelling orc with breath bubbling in his throat looks up at us with a knowing gleam in his eyes.

�He�s dead.� He coughs out with a strangled laugh. �Took a little tumble off the cliff.�

I stare towards the edge, horror seizes my soul.

�You lie.� I hiss back at him, and seize him in my grasp.

He gurgles and dies and his fist uncurls. There, wrapped in his fingers, lies the Evenstar. The shock of seeing it here instead of its rightful place around Aragorn�s neck pierces my heart. I clutch the precious talisman in my hand and walk to the precipice. Down below, black rocks. In the gully a river flows swiftly. Halfway down the body of a Warg is sprawled on a stone. Of Aragorn there is no sign.

I cannot take this in. Disbelief is hammering at my mind. I lower my head, almost unable to see for the pain and shock. My breath is ragged in my throat. It cannot be. I am dimly aware of Gimli standing beside me concern on his face. King Theoden approaches, shouting to his men as he walks.

�Get the wounded on horses. The wolves of Isengard will return. Leave the dead.�

Leave the dead! He cannot be dead. He is the leader. He is the heir. He is Estel. He is hope. He is my heart�s friend. I gaze down into the river searching for a sign, there is none. I raise my head and my horror filled eyes meet the King�s own. He grips my shoulders and stares his sympathy at me for a moment.

�Legolas, come.� He says.

What choice do I have? I force my body to function and with Gimli I find Arod and ride with the remaining company, leading a riderless Hasufel in our wake. My mind is an empty space. I cannot conceive of any continuance to this quest. Gimli aside, I am amongst near strangers and very far from home. My only source of comfort is Rowannen. With her may I find some healing. Yet, even here, my mind strays to the future. Such sickness of heart and mind I now feel at the loss of a friend. How will I bear it when I lose her also, when her mortal years are at an end? Aragorn was right; such a pledge will not be borne lightly.

Many weary miles later at last we are at the fortress. The gates swing wide to give us entry. We ride into the Hornburg, people scatter from our path. Voices shout, hooves clatter on the stone pathways. We make the square and standing in the open space, tall and graceful, eyes expectant with hope; thank Eru� she is there.
I slide down from Arod and she comes flying to my arms.

ROWANNEN:

I have found fresh clothing for Crirawen, wraps for the baby and cleansed the chamber as best I can. The baby, Fram, so tiny but clinging to his new life, alternately suckles and sleeps. Crirawen alternately sobs for Hama and smiles at her new love. I leave them and go to meet with Eowyn in the square before the great gates.

My heart is sore but I will not weep now. Mayhap tears will come in future times, but I have found some of Eowyn�s steel and resolve in my own spirit this day. How strange, that in only the space of few sunrises, I should have gained such strength within me.
I do not feel so young and helpless anymore.

Eowyn is yet again overseeing the movement of supplies. She lifts her head and gives me a wry smile.

�Always duty it would seem is my life�s task.� She says. �How fares it with your brother wife?�

�Crirawen has a new son. Eowyn. She names him Fram. Despite his early arrival it would seem all is well.� I smile back.

She nods at the news and turns as a commotion of movement, of shouts, of hooves, comes clattering around the corner.

Theoden broaches the turning, Snowmane wheeling on the cobbles. His face is grave and urgent. Amongst the following Rohirrim is Arod, Legolas and Gimli astride. The beautiful lines of Legolas�s face are sketched tight; his eyes as they search the square are dark and troubled. I have not seen his countenance thus before. He sees me and relief courses across his features. He slides from his steed and I am already running to his waiting arms.

His body stands tall and proud as ever as he enfolds me in his embrace, but there is a tension in his limbs. My unbounded joy at our reunion, although it finds some answer from him, also meets with a deep sense of sorrow.

�Legolas, what is wrong?� I ask, my mind at a loss, searching for a possible cause.

As he takes a breath to speak, Eowyn comes running also. Her eyes search the assembled company.
�So few.� She whispers, and then looking to her uncle she cries her question.

�Lord Aragorn, where is he?�

Theoden is reluctant to speak. Gimli steps forward.

�My lady�. He fell.� He says, his voice choked.

Eowyn is so visibly shaken, I am surprised she does not fall. I see her eyes well with tears. King Theoden dismounts and with an arm around her for support he leads her away. I am torn for an instant between the need to assist my stricken friend and to be with Legolas. Now I know the reason for his sadness, and as I turn back to meet his eyes and see the grief held there I know he needs me even more. There is no time for grief of my own. Now is no longer the time for him to give me comfort. Now is the time for me to bring it to him.

�Legolas, come with me.� I say softly. �You are in sore need of rest and refreshment to revive you from this last battle.�

We pass women piling blankets together, vegetables, wraps of dried meats, hard bread, loaded onto handcarts to be taken to the deep caves. I take a handful of fruit and a flagon of wine from a collection of stores and make my way to the large bathing chamber.

He follows me through the narrow passageways, unfastening his cloak as he walks and shaking the dust and dried mud from its folds. His steps are light as ever but I sense an unwelcomed heaviness in his spirit.

We enter the chamber and I push closed the heavy oak door behind us and turn the huge key in the lock. The room is dim, for no light penetrates the space here. I walk around the curving walls, turning up the many lamps so that the flames flare. Light dances around us leaping and falling, casting shadows across his face. He hardly looks around, just lifts the quiver and bow from his back and places them carefully down with his cloak.

The bathing chamber is a large circular room hewn into the walls of the rock. From a fissure high in the wall issues a small spring. The water running from deep inside the forgotten recesses of the mountain, through hidden caverns, is said to contain precious minerals with healing properties. Although Legolas carries no physical wound, I think he is in need of all it can give him. In the chamber�s centre lies an oval pool, deep enough to immerse a body and large enough to contain several persons at once. The edges have been chiselled and shaped by hand to provide smooth curved rests for arms and heads.

The water from the spring is collected in a large stone basin and is then channelled through copper pipe to pass through a fire, ever smouldering in the fire pit, fuelled by peat cut on the moor land. Stacks of this sweet smelling fuel are layered nearby and I add more to the pit and work the horse skin bellows to fan the glow. This water then runs down a stone groove into the pool. Warmed to a pleasant heat it swirls deeply and then trickles away through a sinkhole to exit the chamber. So is it fashioned that ever clear, warm waters can wash away the grime of battle.

I move towards my love and touch his face, tracing the play of shadows there. He brings his hand to mine but still does not speak. I then remove the fastenings from his tangled hair and begin to untwist his braids. He raises his hands to help me but I catch his long fingers with my own.

�No, Legolas, rest easy. Let me do this for you.�

His hands drop to his sides, he breathes deeply as my fingertips travel through the windings of his locks, my nails flicking the weavings free and the mithril and gold is untwined. I run my fingers through the snags. ((This will not do)) I think to myself as I touch the beautiful fall of elven tresses.

He stoops to remove his boots and I walk to the many niches in the rock, taking a lamp with me to search their contents. Here I find what I need. A bristle brush of strength yet softness, a pot of herbs, a jar of oil, a vial of sweet smelling soap infused with the fragrance of lime flowers and sandalwood from the southern lands.

Coming back to him I sprinkle the herbs and leaves into the pool. Thyme for refreshment and Sage for relaxation. Bergamot for sweet dreams, Linden Leaves to calm a troubled mind. I place the vial of soap by the lip and carry the oil and the brush over to the resting pallet by the north wall.

�Legolas, come.� I entreat him.

He moves to sit upon the soft woollen blanket spread upon the pallet, removing his tunics as he does so. I hand him the wine and he drinks deeply. I stand beside him and run my fingers over the taut muscles of his chest and arms. He is still so tense from the aftermath of battle and grief. Then I gently sweep his hair in a great fall behind his back and begin to brush. Starting carefully at his scalp and running the brush strokes downward, on and on. Taking the tangles and releasing them, the black speckles of dried orc blood crumble away and fall into nothingness as I draw the bristles down.
My fingers at last hold a smooth, silvered river of hair.

I reach for a clasp from my pocket and wind my own hair into a spiral and fasten it to the top of my head. Legolas watches me silently; his eyes are drinking me in. I slip off my dress and clad only in my gauzy undershift, I gesture for him to finish undressing and enter the pool.

He slides the leggings from his body, steps over the lip and lowers himself into the water. It ripples around him as his frame sinks deeper and the leaves eddy on the surface, the pungent scent of herbs rises into the warm air.

I reach for the empty wine flagon and dip it into the pool then pour it through his hair. It darkens to the colour of ripe wheat as the water soaks the strands and they cling wetly to his back and shoulders and float around his body where they meet the surface of the water. I kneel by the pool and rinse his hair again and again until all the dust and memory of battle is rinsed away. He sighs as the warm rivulets course down his cheeks, his arms, and the fragrance of leaves soothes him.

I find the vial of soap and pouring it into my hands I lean over the water. I take first one hand and arm, and spread its perfumed silk though his fingers up his arm around his shoulder, then repeat with the other. My fingers describing circles as they wash. I move his hair aside and work my way down his back, across wide shoulder blades, down under the water, past his narrowed waist to firm buttocks pressed to the bottom of the pool.

My hands encourage him to lie back and rinse away the soap and then filling my palms again from the vial; I stroke across his collar bones, his chest, under his arms, dip below the surface to ripple over the ribs. There is no spare flesh upon him; all is tight and honed to perfection. My fingers move firmly down onto his stomach, muscles hard under my hand, flicker in his navel and slide down to caress his Elfhood, semi erect and moving with the motion of the water. He moans softly and as I raise my eyes to his he manages a slight smile.

I bend over the pool and press my lips to his. Even though the circumstance of grief, here yet again assails us both, the magic still kindles there, sparkles, intensifies, takes us to another place. His hands lift from the water and stroke up the length of my bared neck. He hardens in my hand. It is long before we part.

I move my hands down and wash across his curving thighs, down to his calves, his feet. Then I reach for his hand and standing I pull. He rises from the water and stepping out, stands before me. Rivulets of fragrant water cascade down his body, his wet hair snakes around him like a mane. ((Like Ganlerain come from the sea, he needs but a necklace of shells about his neck.)) I think.

He holds me to his body. His arousal pressing against me. The wetness of his skin dampens my shift and it becomes transparent and clings to my curves. He reaches to unclip my hair, but I stop him. He loves my hair. I can tell by the way his fingers play through its length, by the way he buries his face in its clouds, by the way he breathes in its scent; but I have something else in mind for his comfort first.

�Wait Legolas.� I entreat him. �Come and lie down for a while. I would ease your body with my hands first.�

He lies face down on the pallet as I pour oil over my fingers. I remember the night of Theodred�s funeral, of my own nerves stretched to endurance, of how he gave me peace and rest. I touch first his toes, long and tapered, running my fingertips between them, gently gripping the joints and applying pressure to each one in turn. Then my hands cup his feet and my thumbs press into the soles, rubbing, caressing, kneading as they go.
He moans softly and speaks to me for the first time since our reunion.

�That is good, Meleth Nin.�

I move my hands up his legs, stroking across the calves, rounded and hard, thumbs circling, fingers caressing, onwards up his thighs. I use more oil, my fingers slick, sliding into his flesh, pressing and releasing. I find places that make him sigh and shake beneath my touch as the taut muscles begin to release and relax. My hands reach his buttocks and stroke in wide circles, then grip and squeeze. A deep groan escapes his lips. I release and squeeze again and release, my oiled fingers slip between and travel down the crack, pausing at the puckered entrance to his body and back up again. He sighs in satisfaction and writhes beneath my touch. I feel him press his body against the blanket.

Onward, round his hips my fingers stroke, upward kneading his back. He begins to relax, to give himself over to the sensation. I press against the firm muscles, fingers applying pressure, thumbs rubbing in symmetry. Now and then a sigh escapes his lips.
I reach his shoulder blades, such a perfect sweep of bone. I move his damp hair away from his skin and caress his shoulders and grip gently, kneading my fingers there, in slow and sure patterns. His body now moulds gently under my touch, yielding, compliant.

�Turn over, Legolas.� I whisper in his ear.

He does as I request and his body is laid before me, his face gazes at my own. He is so utterly beautiful. I have to remind myself to breathe. His skin, dry now, still shines, not with water but with a gleam reminiscent of moonlight. The lamplight flickers across it creating planes and shadows. Memories of our nights together come flooding into my mind.

Again I start at his feet, stroking gently over his toes, the arch of bone. Faintly trace the hard skin of his heel and then I grip his ankles and rotate my thumbs around them. I feel his body squirm under my touch. I move up his legs, curving my palms around his calves. A very faint, golden dust of hair graces his long straight legs. It is the first time I have had such opportunity to study his body in detail. The first night we spent together, he gave for my pleasure, and I was so enraptured, my eyes were dimmed. Under the stars, we were loving unseen in the darkness, sensation was all. Here I have him stretched naked before me, lamplight playing on his form and it is an exquisite gift.

I bend over him and lightly brush his lips with my own. His skin is perfect. He watches me as I gaze down upon him.

�You have no scars, Legolas.� I say wonderingly. �Have you never been harmed in battle?�

His mind returns to me at last, leaves his sorrow behind. Speaks to me in answer.

�Many times A'maelamin, I have suffered the slash of sword in training and in battle, the pain of arrows in the arm. Indeed, my first wounds were caused by falling from trees when I was but a child.� He smiles at me. �Physical scars are not our heritage. Elves have great power of healing, both in an outer form with herbs and potions and in an inner capacity. As a race we have the finest power of renewal here in Arda. The body is ever joined to the soul, and both need healing in harmony.�

I look deep into his eyes, loving everything I see there. Longing for his healing.

�Then do that now, my Greenleaf, with my help. I would see you whole again.�

I begin to move my hands, stroking his thighs with firm strokes. Up against his hips I work my fingers against the bone, alternately gently, then hard. Deliberately avoiding his Elfhood, I stroke the muscles of his stomach. He tries to jerk against my hands in his need and I see juice leak from the tip of him, like a pearl.

As I stroke across his chest I play over the soft pale brown nipples. They harden
slightly under my touch and he begins to groan almost uncontrollably.

�Rowannen, I need you. I need you.� He begs.

I smile down at him and pour more oil into my palms. Then I grasp his erection with one hand. My fingers, slick and warm begin to stroke up and down. With the other hand I cup his twin globes, resting in the sac below. The first time I have touched him here. I remember the feel of them from our night under the stars, pressing tightly against my body. They were the proof that he could reach no further inside me. They were the messengers of the fulfilment of his desire, for as he swelled inside me before his release, I felt them tighten, twitch, spring for joy into that leap into utter abandon, as he gave me his all.

Even now they contract with my touch, pulling up into ecstasy under my fingers. I slow my movement and bring my head down. In utter reverence I kiss the tip of him, the juice spreading on my lips.

�Oh Eru..� He moans.

Gently I lick around the tip and he starts to writhe beneath me. He grasps me and attempts to lift me.

�I want you.� He cries. �I want to be within you!�

I want it too, how I want it. Yet something stays me.

�Wait Legolas, there is time for all.� I say.

I lift my mouth from him and gaze down upon him. His eyes are darker still with need for completion. He throbs under my hand.

I raise my body and lean back, gazing into his eyes. I want to see this. I want to watch his release. This orgasm that I have only felt within me as the greatest gift I have ever known�.. I want to watch with my eyes, so I can visualise his pleasure.

His muscles that were tense and then relaxed, tense again for a different reason. My hand strokes, playing up and down his long erection. I bend my head again to kiss the silken, pointed tip and then withdraw. He tastes delightful, of rain and of the sea. I want to keep my mouth there forever, but I need a better view. He is groaning and moving under my body uncontrollably now. He thrusts himself into my fingers.

�Do not stop, by Eru, Do not stop!� he entreats.

His body starts to lift from the bed, his spine arches, just like he would draw his bow and string it tight. He hangs there poised, groaning, as my fingers slow their ministrations. Heat is pulsing through his flesh. His eyes cannot focus. Then I move again. My fingers grip, they tighten. They sweep downward and then up. In total abandon his body leaps, his cries of ecstasy shower from his lips as his seed showers from his body. It is silken and silver and sparkling as it gushes from him in a flood and rains down over my fingers. Hot, secret, enchanting, it spills over my hand and onto his body.

So beautiful, I am enraptured by the sight. I know not whether I would wish more to feel this within my body, to watch him as I have just done, or taste him in my mouth. He shudders in the aftermath, then his arms are about me. His eyes meet mine, thanks and desire still mingled there. He stands on shaking legs, and lifting the wet shift up over my shoulders, he bares my body and leads me back to the pool. Carefully he steps over the edge, bringing me with him and lowers us into the warmth.

The slick silver of his orgasm drifts away from his skin into the water. The oils on his skin float across the surface, touching my own skin and giving it a satin sheen. He pulls my body nearer and reaches his head forward. I can feel his flesh is hardening again. I marvel at his capacity for love.

His eyes no longer azure, have with his renewed need, turned to the shade of a stormy sky at dusk. His mouth meets my breast. His tongue licks at the creamy flesh and then draws the nipple in. He flickers there gently for a moment and then begins to suck, needfully, hungrily. My own desire is rising, but still this is for him. More and more insistent he becomes. His mouth moves to my other nipple and I can hear low moans in his throat. He tries to lift me, to bring my body onto his under the water, but this will not be enough for him, here and now, I somehow know.

I rise out of the pool and draw him with me. This time he does pull the clasp from my hair and it tumbles around me. Like myself in the throes of passion, I think he cannot speak. I can see his mind trying to articulate thoughts of love, but his voice is failing. I read surprise there in his face but more so great love. Laying my body down on the blanket-covered pallet, my body opens for him; my eyes give him all he needs. He silently lowers himself to enter me with a smile.

This time it is not for my pleasure alone. It is for his, and I am glad. Fully hard again, he at first gently and then forcefully drives ever into my body. I can feel him taking comfort, taking pleasure there. Insistent but not violent, he describes a steady rhythm. His need cries out to me with each thrust, each moan. His fingers clutch my hair; his mouth closes around my ear, tongue flickering, lips voicing elvish phrases of love, which I have yet to learn.

The feel of him so deep inside is ecstasy. I love him so. I would give to him anything he desired. My arms reach around his back, my fingers grip his flesh. He smells so good, of the leaves, the herbs, the sandalwood, and his own musky desire. With the movement of his body and his need, which excites me so, this is enough to bring me to ecstasy. Gentler though, than our previous couplings my body convulses around him. Telling his flesh of my love, my commitment, my inner muscles spasm, and I hold him close as I pulse uncontrollably.

His own body tightens again, thrusts ever deeper, brings my face to look into his eyes, and then he comes in a great rush within me.

Much later we are awakened by a banging on the door.

Meleth nin= my love. More informal version = melamin

A'maelamin= my beloved
- 8
- 9
- 10
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

WEST WIND OVER EDORAS