“I will not whore for you!” Though the words were whispered through clenched teeth, they were shouted all the same, Legolas’s blue eyes blazing as only an Elf’s could. “I will be your friend,” he continued, his voice softening, “your lover, and your comrade-in-arms. But I will not be bartered about like a common whore.”
“That’s not what this is about,” Aragorn tried to explain, feeling the power of the Elf’s emotions like a slap in the face. He kept his voice low, not wanting to be overheard any more than Legolas did. Though they were alone, voices carried in the high ceilinged hall. “It is the custom here,” he said calmly, “for a guest to be offered the company of the host’s wife or daughter....”
“Or sister.”
“...or sister for the night. And,” he went on, ignoring the Elf’s interruption, “the guest’s wife sleeps with the host.”
“I am not your wife,” Legolas stated simply.
“Of course not,” Aragorn stepped closed to Legolas and raised a hand to his green-clad shoulder, but the Elf shrugged and moved to the open window. Staring at the back of the blond’s head, the Man continued. “But while I will be entertained by the Lady Éowyn tonight....”
“You would give me to Éomer,” Legolas finished for him.
“It is expected.”
Legolas did not move away from the window, but maintained his unseeing stare across the rolling plains of Rohan from their vantage point high on the hill of Edoras. “I did not object in Lothlórien when you offered my favors to Haldir,” he said. He turned back into the room. “The March Warden and I are old friends. But I do not know this Éomer.”
“I’m not even sure he desires you,” Aragorn offered.
“Did you not see the way he looked at me?”
“You see too much sometimes,” Aragorn teased. “At least he hides his lust better than his sister does.” They both laughed, and Aragorn opened his arms to Legolas.
Once in the Ranger’s embrace, the Elf sighed. “I will do what you wish, Estel,” he said in Elvish before lifting his face to Aragorn to collect a conciliatory kiss.
The evening meal was rushed, eaten amidst the preparations for the Rohirrim’s ride to Gondor. Aragorn had made known his intent to travel along other paths, and would leave before the Host of Rohan could be mustered. The Rangers and Elves who’d ridden from the North were camped below the hill and would accompany Isildur’s heir no matter where he led them.
When Aragorn rose from the table to retire, Éowyn silently stood as well, and followed him from the hall, leaving Éomer with Legolas and Gimli. With a snort, the Dwarf hopped down from his chair and sauntered to the door. He turned and bowed to Éomer, then disappeared into the night with no explanation of his plans.
“They have left us alone, I see,” Éomer said. He rose from his seat at the right hand of the king’s empty chair, and refilled the wine goblet at the Elf’s place setting.
Legolas inclined his head in silent thanks and sipped the wine. It was strong and hearty, fortified with herbs and warmed. After filling his own goblet, Éomer offered an arm to the Elf.
“Let us retire, then, Legolas,” he said, “and enjoy the night before us.”
Théoden’s heir was no taller then the Elf, but stockier, his years on horseback and training with bow, sword, and lance gracing him with a powerful build. He had dressed for the hall instead of the saddle, and wore long embroidered robes instead of the leather riding breeches and armor he seemed to live in. He had washed the grime and blood from his long hair, held away from his face with his cousin’s circlet, marking him as the next king of Rohan.
Not having the luxury of a large wardrobe, or even a change of clothes to choose from, the Prince of Mirkwood had put aside his battle-soiled jerkin, and wore only the silvery-grey tunic over his leggings. Though he, too, was a prince of the blood, he bore no badge of his office save his bearing and the intricate braids that adorned his flaxen hair.
Éomer led the Elf to a large chamber with a rug of cow hides covering much of the stone-flagged floor. A high, canopied bed stood against one wall, opposite the narrow, shuttered windows. He turned to secure the door behind them and Legolas stood stiffly in the center of the room.
Even in the dim light of the two smoking torches, the Elf could make out the shapes of chests against the wall, a tall wardrobe and a desk piled with maps and reports. He heard Éomer approach him from behind, and so was not startled to feel the Man’s hands on his shoulders and breath in his ear.
A deep, slow breath inhaled, held, then exhaled calmed him, centered him, and he relaxed against the Man’s chest. He felt the scratch of whiskers along his neck, then the gentle touch of soft, warm lips.
The surge of energy that pulsed through his body surprised him, as he hadn’t thought to be aroused by this Horse Lord. As Éomer continued his caressing kiss, Legolas felt his leggings tighten as his flesh betrayed him, swelling of its own accord.
He turned in the Man’s embrace, and their eyes met for a moment. Éomer’s eyes were the darkest brown Legolas had ever seen, so dark the pupils were undistinguishable. A deep breath told the Elf of another difference between the Horse Lord and the Ranger: there was not the familiar aroma of pipeweed clinging to his hair and clothing. He accepted the soft, lingering kiss, feeling his blood heat as the embrace strengthened, and his own arms encircled Éomer’s well-muscled form.
“I have never kissed an Elf,” Éomer admitted, pulling back slightly to breathe, then resuming the kiss more forcefully, teasing the Elf’s mouth with his tongue, seeking entrance and gaining it. His moan was almost a growl as his tongue explored, learning the tastes and textures of his new lover.
Legolas learned as well, stroking the invading tongue with his own, encouraging Éomer by melting in his embrace, drawing his kiss even deeper.
Large, rein-roughened hands cupped the Elf’s smooth face, the thumbs tracing the high cheekbones. Fingers trailed along his neck and throat to the collar of his tunic, then fumbled with the fastenings. The tender touch on his chest inflamed the Elf all the more and his resolve to stay aloof vanished. He shuddered as Éomer’s lips closed around the bud of one nipple, leaned his head back, and sighed. Unerringly, his hands found the closures of Éomer’s heavy robe, loosened them, and pushed it over his shoulders to the floor.
Beneath the heavy robes Éomer was nude. He was broad through the chest and shoulders, with a trim waist and narrow hips. There was hardly an inch of him that was not covered in fine, honey-colored hair, from a light dusting over his shoulders to a thick thatch surrounding the root of his manhood. The stiff column of flesh stood tall, the pale shaft swelling into a rosy crown. A dozen white scars criss-crossed his legs, arms, and torso, and his left shoulder bore a fading bruise.
“I would see you, Legolas,” Éomer said, his voice thick with desire. “Stand before me as I stand before you.”
In the space of a few heartbeats, Legolas loosened the lacings of his leggings and pushed them to the floor, then pulled his feet from both boots and leggings at once. Standing back to his full height, he flipped his hair behind his shoulders with toss of his head. The Elf’s golden skin was smooth and unmarked, though he had often been injured in battle.
The two warriors regarded each other in the flickering torchlight, then embraced again, their lips meeting without hesitation, their bodies pressing together unimpeded. A heat grew between them, beginning where their two erect members slid against each other, reaching to their extremities until they were both totally infused with a shared passion neither of them had expected.
“I feared you would be cold to me,” Éomer said, his breath hot in the Elf’s ear. “Our customs must seem barbaric to you.”
“No,” Legolas whispered. His breathing had quickened, and his heart beat fast and powerfully in his chest. He stretched his head back as Éomer kissed the column of his throat, licking and nipping at the tender skin. Each touch sent another wave of tingling energy surging through the Elf’s body. “I find I can not deny you,” he admitted. “You have kindled a fire in me I did not expect.”
“Thoughts of you have burned in me since I first saw you on the plains,” he said. “Come to my bed, Elf-prince.” His words were more plea than order. “I would show you the passions of the Rohirrim are for more than horses.”
“And I will show you Elves can be as hot-blooded as your stallions.”
They climbed atop the bed, the man kneeling over the reclining Elf, running his large hands over the smooth-skinned flanks and legs, then back to cup the sac with its throbbing jewels. A gentle squeeze brought a gasp from Legolas, then another when Éomer took the Elf’s hardness deep within his mouth. He swallowed to create a strong suction, his continued fondling forcing Legolas to squirm and writhe beneath him.
The wet heat of Éomer’s mouth, the pressure of his lips and tongue on the Elf’s pulsing organ was nearly too much for Legolas to bear. It was too soon to spill his seed; as reticent as he had been at first, he now wanted this night’s pleasure to last, for both of them. He threaded his fingers in the Man’s hair, stilling his movements. “Slowly,” he cautioned. “We have all night, do we not?”
Éomer lifted his head to lock eyes with Legolas. His breath was ragged and gasping, his face flushed with arousal. “Yes,” he answered, “...but...”
Gently the Elf stroked the Man’s long hair, stopping his weak protest. It was coarser than his own hair, even coarser than Aragorn’s, long enough for the ends to tickle where they draped across his sensitive flesh. With only a hint of pressure from his hands, Legolas guided Éomer to lie alongside him, again bringing their lips together.
It was the Elf’s turn now to explore and plunder the Man’s mouth, running his tongue across the hard edge of the even teeth, stroking the roof of his mouth until the Horse Lord writhed and moaned beneath him. Slowly they caressed each other, learning the differences between them, the similarities they shared. Raising his knee, Legolas ran his toes along the outside of Éomer’s leg, then hooked behind his hip to pull them even closer together.
Grasping the Elf’s smooth backside, Éomer rolled onto his back, pulling Legolas atop him. The large, blunt fingers stroked along the Elf’s cleft, finding the sensitive pucker at the entrance.
The intimate touch brought a gasp from Legolas, and he shifted his hips to allow Éomer’s member between his legs. “Take me, Horse master,” he begged, his voice throaty and low. “Let me ride upon your steed.” He felt the hot, leaking tip of the Man’s sex against him, wriggling to maximize the contact.
Éomer’s hips bucked under the Elf’s touch and he cried out in wordless pleasure.
Leaning forward to whisper in the Man’s ear, Legolas first swiped his tongue along the rounded edge, then said, “Do you have oil? Some cream?” His teeth grazed across the dampened shell.
Reaching with one well-muscled arm toward the near-by chest of drawers, Éomer turned his head away from Legolas, but the Elf continued to lick and kiss at the exposed ear. “Salve,” he gasped, grabbed at a small, cork-sealed bottle.
“That’s fine.” Legolas took the bottle from him and pulled the cork with his teeth, spitting it aside. He sat up on his knees, still astride Éomer’s loins. His own organ ached for attention, leaking pearly fluid onto the Man’s hair-covered belly, but he ignored his own needs and quickly spread the oily lotion around his entrance, then the length of Éomer’s hard, throbbing member. With a deep breath Legolas relaxed and eased two fingers into himself, scissoring them to open and grease the passage.
He rose up on his knees and grasped Éomer’s flesh, then slowly pressed himself down on the turgid shaft. As the tight entrance was broached, the Elf sighed, his head thrown back, but without warning, rough hands grabbed his hips, and pulling him down, Éomer pushed up into him.
They found a rhythm together, Éomer’s tight grip on the Elf’s hips steadying him, Legolas not caring that the powerful fingers were already bruising his delicate skin. As he slid up and down, deliciously impaled on the Horse Lord, Legolas took his own throbbing member in his slickened hand, stroking and pulling on it in time with Éomer’s thrusts until the pleasure overwhelmed him. As his seed spurted from him, he clenched around the thick shaft deep inside him, and with a shout Éomer bucked once more, pouring his essence deep inside the Elf prince.
They continued moving together as they slid from the precipice of their passion, until Éomer’s spent flesh slipped from the tight sheath and Legolas lay his head on Éomer’s shoulder, nuzzling the Man’s throat. The bedchamber was silent but for the sounds of their breathing, both of them still gasping as their bodies calmed. Dipping two fingers into the pool of congealing semen on his belly, Éomer raised his fingers to his mouth and tasted the Elf’s seed. Blue eyes followed the movement of his hand, and the Elf raised an eyebrow in question.
“What do I taste like?” he teased.
“Like the first sweet grass of spring,” the Man replied, licking his fingers clean. He repeated the collection and offered his fingers to Legolas.
Delicately Legolas licked the Man’s fingers. His own taste was familiar to him, but the flavor of Éomer’s skin beneath it was new. It was a flavor like mushrooms, woody and fresh, and he pulled the strong fingers into his mouth, sucking them clean before releasing them. He raised his head to find Éomer’s lips waiting for his kiss, and he happily accommodated him. Lazily they kissed, still cuddling until sleep overcame Éomer.
Understanding the Man’s need for sleep, Legolas smiled and settled in the still-tight embrace for his own rest. There would be more later, he promised himself. Before the cocks crowed at dawn, he vowed, he would know the Horse master.
Gimli breakfasted alone.
Merry served his newly-pledged liege, and Balin knew where his other companions were. The Dwarf had turned a deaf ear when the talk had turned to the bedding customs of these Horse Lords, and slept soundly by himself, having discovered a small cask of ale had been left in his room.
The breakfast board was heavily laden, smoked meats and sweet breads, porridge with honey and cream, and a delicious, if bitter, hot, black beverage that left him wide awake and ready for anything. He had eaten his fill and was enjoying his first pipe of the day along with a third cup of the invigorating brew when Aragorn finally appeared.
Quietly the Ranger filled a plate and took a seat across the table from the Dwarf. He tore into a honeyed roll before polishing off a bowl of porridge and several slices of ham, all before speaking a word.
“Are you ready for what is before us?” Aragorn’s voice was soft and low, reminding Gimli of the many mornings and nights on their journey from Rivendell.
“How can I be prepared when I know not where we go but to Gondor?” he asked, his pipe still in his teeth. “I have sworn to follow where you lead, Aragorn. It matters not where you go.”
Smiling, Aragorn continued with his meal. “I see you’ve discovered the Rohirrim’s secret,” he remarked. “Kafe is indeed a brew for warriors.”
Gimli sat back, enjoying his pipe, and watched Aragorn eat. The day had begun fine, bright and sunny, with the promise of spring-time warmth still in late winter. The Ranger ate heartily, but was nearly finished when they were joined by the blond Elf-prince. While Legolas gathered his meal, a serving wench came to clear away the empty plates from before Gimli. “Tell me,” the gregarious Dwarf asked of the girl, “why have we not seen Lady Éowyn this morning?” He knew ThÉoden had forbidden the shield maiden from riding with the Host, and expected her to be overseeing the provisioning of the riders.
The wench, a fair-haired maiden barely past childhood, blushed. “The lady sent word,” she answered, “that she is — er — indisposed.” Her eyes flitted between Gimli and Aragorn as she collected the plates and cups, and curtsied as she turned away.
Aragorn stared into his mug of kafe, a sly smile on his face.
“Harrumph,” Gimli grunted.
Legolas set his plate on the table an sat down, a frown crossing his face as he shifted position.
“And what of you, Master Elf?”
“What, Master Dwarf?”
“You seem — a bit out of sorts this fine day.”
“Oh,” the Elf replied as he spread butter on a crust of bread. “I’m just a bit — saddle sore.”