Title: Alone In Lórien
Author: Lady of the Sea; murkymop@yahoo.com
Pairing: Legolas/Éomer
Rating: NC-17
Summary: An acquaintance formed after the battle for Helm’s deep
Disclaimer: The characters do not belong to me, but to the Professor/New 
Line etc. I’m making no profit, but encouraging pleasure from the readers. 
(though God knows what would happen if I did own these two!!!)
Author note: Had to juggle slightly between book and film canon. 
Comments welcome, but be gentle…it’s my first piece.
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Lothlórien. The golden trees never shed their leaves, but divide and reflect 
the sun’s light into rays that dance upon the uneven ground among the 
moss-covered roots. The world is old here, more ancient that any that walk 
among the flaxen shafts of light.  Only the Elves could have a true 
knowledge of all that has passed here. Legolas Greenleaf waltzes beneath 
the boughs in wonder, taking pleasure in the sheer age of the place; in 
tranquillity hence unknown; engrossed in memories never to leave his 
plagued soul. Straying through one of the rays of light, his eyes glisten as 
he recalls the last time he was here: many years ago, not alone, but with 
one he held so dear, now departed for the duty placed upon him; a man of 
such honour he was bound by his uncle’s dying wish, however much it 
ravaged his very being to be parted from what he loved best in all Middle 
Earth. Now, in such solitude, the young elf suffers the feelings of 
emptiness and desertion. The silence emanating from his surroundings is 
deafening. Giving himself over to his emotions, he slumps, weeps for his 
loss and remembers.

-----------*-------------

“A red sun rises. Blood has been spilt this night.” Legolas announced to 
no one in particular. The sound of horses came to their ears. Aragorn was 
quick to respond, encouraging the group of three to take refuge behind 
some boulders. A band of Rohirrim appeared, galloping with their banners 
windswept by the ferocity of their speed. As they pass Aragorn emerged, 
followed by Legolas and Gimli.

“Riders of Rohan! What news from the Mark?”

 What need had Aragorn to attain the riders’ attention? With his ranger 
skills he could no doubt have tracked their quarry through the dark, even 
into the very fires of Sauron with no man’s help; or that of a dwarf or elf 
for that matter.  The Uruks could not outwit the descendant of Isildur, heir 
to the throne of Gondor. Sure enough, the Rohirrim wheeled their horses 
as one and bore down on the man who had spoken. He and his friends 
found themselves surrounded by an ever-closing ring of horses and the 
sharp spears of their masters. 

“What business does an elf, a man, and a dwarf have in the Riddermark? 
Speak quickly!” the apparent leader demanded.

“Give me your name, horse-master, and I shall give you mine! And more 
besides…” Gimli hastily retorted. 

At this the man of Rohan disdainfully dismounted and Legolas could not 
help notice the ease and grace with which the movement was completed. 
Enthralled by the newcomer, the elf regarded him with carefully disguised 
awe and admiration, although still affronted by his brisk and ill manners.

“I would cut off your head, dwarf, if it stood but a little higher from the 
ground!”

Rashly Legolas leapt to his friend’s defence without the flicker of an 
eyelid, but the cocking of an arrow with the speed of lightning. “You 
would die before your stroke fell!” 

“As for the dwarf’s announcement, the stranger should declare himself 
first. However, I am Éomer, son of Éomund, and am Third Marshal of the 
Riddermark.” 

The Son of Gondor eased the palpable tension in the air with an 
introduction, “I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn. This is Gimli, son of Glóin, 
and Legolas, from the Woodland realm. We are friends of Rohan and of 
Théoden, your King.”

The horse-master was taken aback, but ordered the spears withdrawn. 
“Théoden no longer recognizes friend from foe… Not even his own kin.” 
As he removed his helmet, once again the elf was struck by the rugged 
beauty of the man stood before him; Beauty such as could never be 
possessed by any elf, a ranger perhaps. “Saruman has poisoned the mind 
of the king and claimed lordship over this land. My company are those 
loyal to Rohan. And for that, we are banished. The White Wizard is 
cunning. He walks here and there they say, as an old man, hooded and 
cloaked. And everywhere his spies slip past our nets.”

Aragorn quickly relieved him of the idea that they should be spies of 
Saruman and explained their quest that had led them this deeply into the 
Riddermark.

After the tale, the horse-master bequeathed them two horses to aid them in 
the search of their friends. “Hasufel! Arod! May these horses bear you to 
better fortune than their former masters. Farewell, and may you find what 
you seek! Return with what speed you may, and let our swords hereafter 
shine together!” With this Éomer ordered his éodred to ride north, but not 
without first witnessing in wonder the elvish way with horses, as Legolas 
asked that saddle and bridle be removed from Arod, “For I need them 
not.”

--------------------*------------------------

At Helm’s Deep Legolas was pining for the return of Mithrandir, for he 
knew that, if his travels had been successful, he would come with the 
Third Marshal of the Mark. Since their first encounter, although far from 
gracious, the elf’s thoughts had remained fixed on him. He could not 
discount his features from his mind’s eye, ever rising unbidden in 
moments of silence. In dreams the rider’s face appeared to him and such 
dreams they were! In waking, he often thought he glimpsed the horse-
master’s mount on the distant horizon; but when scanning it more 
carefully with trained elvish eyes he found this to be an empty mockery.

In the light of the dawn after the battle for Helm’s Deep, the elf stood 
upon the Deeping wall, scouring the hills for his heart’s desire. He had 
long since admitted to himself that Éomer was indeed what his spirit was 
sick for; and, much to his own astonishment, he did not feel unclean for 
his yearning. 

In the distance a figure suddenly appeared over a ridge. “Mithrandir”, he 
mouthed unto himself. For a split second he was fearful that the wizard 
had come alone, but no longer. What could only be an éodred flowed over 
the ridge with Shadowfax and the White Rider. Even at this distance 
Legolas recognised their leader. “Éomer.” With relief, he exhaled the 
breath he had not noticed holding for the past few seconds. Such joy 
struck the elf’s young heart as only the sight of his beloved could bring. 
But what of now? Was he truly to approach him freely and without 
restraint? What of the man’s feelings towards him, an elf – granted, a 
prince among his own kind, but merely another immortal in the eyes of 
men? For the first time, doubt emerged along with Legolas’ thoughts of 
esteem.

That evening what revelry there was to be found among the men of 
Rohan! They made music and celebrated, although much more raucously 
than the elves of Imladris or Mirkwood would ever consider. Legolas’ 
horizons were being broadened more and more by the minute by bearing 
witness. All the party were joyous, the thrill of victory flowing in their 
veins. The battle brought a kinship to all; there were no strangers here. 
There was however one face Legolas was loath to lay eyes upon, lest they 
betray his feelings to its owner. He felt not only doubt, but shame at his 
initial arrogance. How could he have fallen for someone with no regard to 
his return of the sentiment?! It was almost insupportable. When he deemed 
he had lingered and mingled long enough, the elf thought to retire to his 
quarters he shared with Gimli, sure that the dwarf would partake of the 
revelries until dawn and leave him to his solitude. But as he turned, he 
almost walked into someone who had been approaching him from behind. 
Looking up from the floor, his gaze found a new target, the chestnut 
brown eyes he had seen so often in his dreams. He blinked to assure his 
wakefulness and, sure enough, when he reopened his eyes, his beloved 
still stood before him, inches from his face.

“Well, Master Elf! Would you desert so quickly?”

The pointy-eared princeling was speechless. The Third Marshal of the 
Mark desired his company! “I will remain if you require it of me”, he said, 
unsure of what else to do.

“My friend, I would welcome your stay. Our weapons have shone in the 
same battle. Now let us drink together!” Éomer announced, placing a 
delicate but strong hand on the elf’s shoulder. Legolas welcomed the touch 
and gesture but was as yet uncertain of the motives of its owner. This was 
about to change, however. Éomer leaned in slightly and quietly added, 
“We should go somewhere more peaceful, for we have much to talk about 
and that is clearly not possible here…” With this he steered the young elf 
out of the banqueting hall with the firm hand still placed on his shoulder 
and led him to an empty chamber, which was revealed as his own by study 
of the armour in the corner. On one wall there was a neat little fireplace 
with glowing embers, casting a soft radiance on the room. Éomer strode to 
place more logs on the fire, encouraging the small flames as they licked 
around the wood. On the round oak table, placed close to the blaze, there 
was a full barrel of fine wine and two silver goblets with intricate designs 
wreathed into their stems. For some strange reason, Legolas was reminded 
of the halls of Tharandúil, his father, and could but stare at the goblets. 
Éomer noticed the elf’s gaze and smiled.

“They should indeed appear familiar, Master Elf! My father was presented 
them by one of your brothers I believe after doing the realm of Mirkwood 
a great service.” He paused. “Take a seat, my friend, we need not stand on 
ceremony here.”

Legolas was still dazed by the fact that he was in his beloved’s chamber, 
with a little piece of home almost spying on him. He was being ridiculous 
of course, he admonished himself silently. Not wishing to offend he seated 
himself on one of the down filled cushioned chairs, intrigued by the high 
backing of the furniture. In his father’s realm, these chairs were reserved 
for kings and people of the highest station. Éomer sat across from him and 
studied his features. 

“You were not so quiet and timid last time we met, my friend. As I recall, 
you had an arrow aimed at me within the blink of an eye – something I 
dared not do at the time. Does something make you uneasy?” 

“It’s nothing”, Legolas lied. The untruth quite clearly showed on his face. 
Telling lies is something no elf can do; half-truths certainly, but no overt 
falsehood.

“Please, Legolas, as brothers in arms we need have no secrets from each 
other.” It was the first time Éomer had ever used his name. He spoke it 
with such concern and warmth that the emotions Legolas had tried to 
suppress rose to the surface. Unbidden, so did something else, enclosed in 
his leggings. At this moment the elf was extremely glad there was a table 
to hide his growing arousal. He did not trust himself to speak, nor look 
into the man’s eyes for fear of discovery and the repulsion he would find 
as a consequence. Instead he studied the grooves in the wood of the table 
in silence. The air between the two of them became so charged, a mere 
spark from the chimney would set both of them in flames. Sensing his 
unease and despair, Éomer laid his hand upon the elf’s slight arm in 
comfort, but said nothing. In surprise Legolas looked up and, by the lady, 
what he found in Éomer’s eyes astounded him to say the very least. Need.

Now Éomer spoke. “As I said, there need be no secrets between us. Our 
mutual passion has brought us to this moment. Ever since I saw you mount 
Arod with a kind of grace mere mortals could never hope to achieve, I 
have thought on you. Your features struck me then with their beauty and 
have been present in my dreams since. You have not been forgotten, my 
friend.” He raised his hand to rest on Legolas’ perfectly formed cheek. 
The elf could do nothing but lean into this gesture.

“You have been in my dreams also, my friend; even when I was waking. 
Ever there when I needed hope, which otherwise had all but deserted me.”

Éomer rose and walked around the small, round table to where the elf was 
seated. Legolas regarded his every step, the flow of his body. He couldn’t 
help notice the rider’s bow-legged limbs as he approached, something that 
had so far escaped his notice. Cupping his hand beneath the elf’s soft chin, 
Éomer raised him to his feet and brought him to within inches of his own 
lips. He paused to study Legolas’ shining cornflower blue eyes, in which 
he found the same as the elf had found in his: need.

He drew the young prince into his embrace and kissed him soundly on 
those perfectly wrought lips. 

As the man pulled away slightly, Legolas tightened his hold around his 
waist. He gazed into Éomer’s eyes until the latter felt he was looking into 
his very soul. The elf leaned in once more and kissed him, this time with 
more urgency, his velvet tongue probing at the rider’s lips, soon gaining 
access to the warm recesses of his mouth. For both man and elf, the world 
around them ceased to exist. There was nothing beyond their touch, this 
kiss. Wishing it could last forever, they both submerged themselves into 
this newfound world; not part of Middle Earth, not part of the Rohirrim or 
elves, just the two of them locked in this eternal embrace.

As their embrace tightened, their mutual arousal became evident to each 
other as their aching manhoods strained the fabric of their clothing, 
brushing lightly, then more fiercely against one another.

“Is this enough, meleth?” Legolas breathed, retreating fleetingly from the 
fervent kiss. He studied the Rider of Rohan’s striking face, then looking 
into his eyes, felt himself sinking into the chestnut pools they portrayed. 
His gaze was broken when the son of Éomund took his hand and led him 
to the bed, smiling in near content. He signalled for the elf to lie down and 
relax. Éomer then proceeded to gingerly unlace the elf’s shirt, marvelling 
at the soft alabaster skin he found concealed beneath the garment, the very 
light of Eärendil caught beneath its surface. Propping himself over 
Legolas, he kissed him on the lips, then continued to trail his tongue over 
the small dimple in the princeling’s chin, down his neck to his nipple, 
which he soon had standing to attention. From here he traced further down 
still with his tongue, hearing a groan from his lover. The elf’s manhood 
was all but ripping the fabric of his tight leggings, something Éomer 
observed with amusement. To tease him further, the rider gently traced his 
teeth over the protruding bulge between his thighs.

“Please Éomer!” Legolas begged.

With delight, Éomer quickly removed the offending leggings and with one 
smooth, hungry move took the elf’s cock in his mouth. Legolas 
whimpered in ecstasy. The man traced circles on the elf’s abdomen with 
his hands, while still fully servicing his aching need, running his tongue 
over his entire length to the head and returning again. Soon Legolas’ 
breathing began to quicken and became not quiet breaths but gasps. Éomer 
could feel the muscles of his lover’s abdomen tensing as he was bringing 
him so close to climax. Within a few moments of further attention, 
Legolas came, emptying his seed into the man’s silken mouth, who 
swallowed it without restraint, but with desire. Legolas cradled his lover’s 
skull in both hands, his fingers entwined in Éomer’s flaxen locks, as he 
gently pulled him to his level so as to kiss him. Éomer wondered briefly at 
the elf’s stamina, but soon berated himself for being so unsuspecting, as 
this was not a man, but an elf. Being drawn into his embrace, Éomer let go 
his tension and collapsed next to Legolas, content with lying next to him, 
shielded in his slight yet surprisingly strong arms.

“May the Lady grant I lie here in your embrace till the end of my days.”

Legolas’ only reply was to tighten his arms around his lover to give him 
the security he desperately craved. Holding him thus, the elf keenly felt 
the swelling of Éomer’s manhood against his thigh. To his slight 
annoyance, he moreover noticed the man was still fully clothed; a 
circumstance in great need of change. Legolas quickly amended the 
situation, hungrily removing the man’s garments, not caring if they 
became torn in the process. 

In no time at all both were lying as bare as the day they had been born 
next to each other, crowned by the delicately carved oaken headboard. The 
elf turned and pushed himself up onto one elbow; a vantage point offering 
the most perfect view of his lover, a sight he drank in longingly. He could 
not help notice Éomer’s cock standing to attention, almost in curiosity to 
the elf’s scrutiny. The princeling’s free hand ghosted over the rider’s well-
formed torso, lightly tracing the scars of previous skirmishes and battles; 
carefully, mischievously even, avoiding his lover’s most prominent target. 
The man so captivated, took a deep in breath, raising his perfect hipbones 
slightly towards his lover. “Patience, meleth…” Smiling, Legolas kneeled 
now; sliding effortlessly down the silken sheets; brushing his fingers 
lightly over every inch of his lover’s body, enquiring every now and then 
what had caused this scar, that mark. Finally gazing once again into 
Éomer’s liquid brown eyes, he mouthed, “Now I know you, Éomer, Son of 
Éomund.” And passionately kissed him. 

Éomer’s arousal had increased throughout the intimate appraisal of his 
body, leaving him now almost breathless in anticipation and yearning.  At 
last, the ‘cruel’ elf submitted to the unspoken plea, taking the man’s 
aching shaft into his hand, letting his fingers successively run its entire 
length from root to tip. Unwilling to release Éomer’s cock, Legolas merely 
stretched his free hand to the floor, rummaging amidst the discarded 
garments; his search swiftly bore fruit, or more precisely, a small phial, 
seemingly shimmering with the light of the very stars. Éomer had taken 
interest in his lover’s fumbling, his expression one of puzzlement on 
seeing the phial. 

“What new marvel does my elf bring to me now?”

“Oil from the bark of the mellyrn of Lothlórien; the truest of blessings of 
our union, should you desire it…”

Wonder shone in the rider’s eyes, watching the elf carefully remove the 
crystal stopper and pour some of the glowing fluid into his cupped hand. 
Now it was up to the man to continue, as the young prince delicately lay 
back on the pillows; although still refusing to relinquish his grasp, his 
index finger gently massaged the root of Éomer’s manhood, bringing the 
man ever closer to orgasm. Éomer groaned in elation, simultaneously 
dipping one finger into the shimmering liquid and running it down the 
midline of the elf’s chest, passing his navel and, drawing slightly to the 
side, reaching the soft skin of his buttocks. Having left a radiant trace, he 
passed his still well oiled finger between the two delicate cheeks and into 
the velvety channel. A brief air of pain flitted across the young prince’s 
features, only to be supplanted by the contentment of sheer pleasure. Thus 
encouraged, Éomer removed the digit, to a whimper of anguish from his 
beloved, dipped three fingertips into the palm of his other hand and 
gingerly probing the princeling’s entrance, softly knocked at the gates of 
intimacy. Legolas let go Éomer’s manhood to join his hand with that 
holding the oil of the mellyrn, soon replacing it, tenderly coating the 
man’s length from root to head. With a pleading look he conveyed his 
thoughts, “Now…?”

Repositioning himself, Éomer manoeuvred his aching cock against 
Legolas’ tight entrance, ever so slightly pressing to gain admittance. With 
such ease as never before, he slid into the orifice in a single silky 
movement, conscious of the sheer delight reflected in his lover’s face. 
There was no pain. The smooth movements soon became more vigorous 
thrusts, ever more charging the nerves of both man and elf. Joined in body, 
mind and soul the two lovers climaxed violently together, each clasping 
the other until there was no more seed to be spilt. In the way of men, the 
rider collapsed in exhaustion. The elf, on the other hand, looked down and 
could only smile in satisfaction, as he serenely mused “Now indeed have 
our swords shone together, my brother in arms…and still do…”

Éomer chuckled, remembering back to the day they had met, when those 
words had been his hope; although if perhaps not in the same context.

-----------------*--------------------

Éomer and Legolas spent more time together when they met again in 
Minas Tirith, before venturing to the Black Gates of Mordor. But even 
now the air was tainted by grief, by the knowledge that Théoden had 
placed the burden of rule over the Rohirrim on Éomer’s shoulders. As his 
uncle’s dying wish, the son of Éomund could not disregard it. Before 
journeying back to Edoras, however, he accompanied his beloved to the 
eternal forests of Lothlórien, where they shared many a happy day and 
night, alone. On one clear night, they were lying side by side in a clearing 
beneath the golden bough of the mellyrn, gazing up at the stars in the 
heavens. 

Legolas simply said, “Amin ten'oio lle…”

Éomer looked over, his eyes questioning.

Understanding the unspoken, the elf replied “I am forever yours, my 
meleth. Though the crown of Rohan and the sea of the West may part us, 
remember you will always be in my heart.”

--------------------*----------------------

Weeping under the timeless boughs of Lórien, Legolas spoke his last 
words this side of Grey Havens “Amin ten’oio lle, meleth Éomer.” His 
farewells said, he followed the remainder of his kindred into the West.

And all will turn  
To silver glass 
A light on the water 
Grey ships pass  
Into the West
	- Annie Lennox. ROTK