Title: Heliotrope
Author: Haleth
Author contact: halethhaladin02@yahoo.com
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Legolas/Eomer, mention of Legolas/Aragorn, Gimli/other
Warning: Mention of het proclivities, but not explicit
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters or settings, but I like to play 
with them without gaining any profit at all other than a deep personal 
satisfaction.
Beta: The lovely and talented Lemur, to whom I would trust not only my 
words but even my sanity and perhaps my life should circumstances, Valar 
forbid, demand it.

Notes: Movieverse, with book back-up. What happened after the 
coronation, with mentions of previous scenes. An attempt to explain why a 
certain King, Elf and Dwarf were utterly ignored at the end of the movie…

Summary: It’s an old story, boy meets Elf, drinks are consumed, a 
confession is uttered, an invitation extended, an invitation accepted. 
Legolas is not quite a prince. Eomer is not quite unhappy about that. 

Heliotrope

Atop the rebuilt city of Mina Tirith, amid of the crowds gathered to 
witness the coronation of Elessar of the line of Valandil, Legolas’s face 
held a smile secretive at the same time it was full of promise. Mischievous 
Elven eyes glinted in the sunlight from under dark lashes. The newly-
crowned King could not at first tear his eyes from his old friend, radiant in 
white, with an elegant silver circlet perfectly complimenting his fair hair 
and face, more than merely beautiful. Legolas’s azure eyes shifted to one 
side. Aragorn followed their path, wondering what his old friend had in 
store for him. 

Legolas stepped back with his heart filled with gladness, for he would 
witness Aragorn realize his fondest desire, his Arwen. Legolas had known 
of this desire since he first met the ragged Ranger on the borders of 
Mirkwood. Now the same man stood before him as a resplendent King. 
Legolas knew well, had always known, that any dalliance between the two 
of them served merely to quell Aragorn’s painful longing for the Evenstar. 

It had never bothered Legolas to be a substitute. He was pleased to help, 
and he even felt the stirrings of what might have been his first blush in 
many lives of men, when Aragorn thanked him so discretely. 

He loved Aragorn as a friend, and found him pleasurable, but had never 
wanted more from him. The Dunedan held the firstborn above all others. 
He not only aspired to bond with the most radiant of Elves, but to become 
as like to Elfkind as possible. He was too gentle, too serene in his 
lovemaking for the tastes of the Mirkwood Elf. 

Legolas dropped gracefully to one knee to honour the brave Hobbits. Their 
miraculous survival was yet another cause for joy. Legolas had kept 
Isildur’s heir alive throughout the quest, acquitted himself admirably in 
combat and, in his estimation, represented his race well. Yet he remained 
unsettled, as if some key piece of a puzzle eluded him.

He looked over his shoulder and noticed one head that rose higher than 
those around it, although it too was bowed in respect. Legolas smiled 
again, this time for himself. For he had found what was missing.

And thus it was that Eomer, the new King of Rohan, found himself 
standing in the middle of a large, well-appointed bedroom, gazing at a 
somewhat drunken Elf draped over the stone balustrade, presenting his 
altogether too inviting backside in a most lascivious manner. Stripped of 
his heavy embroidered tunic, and having left his white kid boots crumpled 
in a heap by the door, Legolas sumptuously stretched his body. Every 
muscle strained visibly against the thin silken undershirt and snug 
leggings. 

Eomer felt some dismay at the desire churning within him. He tried to 
reason that any living, breathing, conscious being would be stirred by the 
beauty of the Elf, but he knew the roiling heat deep in his belly went 
beyond aesthetic appreciation. Yet he stood rooted to the floor, unwilling 
to respond. The suggestive display might have been an invitation, or just 
as easily a by-product of the copious amounts of fruit liqueur Legolas had 
been quaffing all night.

‘We are both alone,’ was how Legolas had approached him before the 
banquet. The Elf’s eyes danced in the light of a hundreds of twinkling 
candelabras. In the soft glow his white garments seemed to reflect the 
hundreds of rich colours adorning the milling guests. Legolas wore the 
serene, blissful look of his kin on this joyous occasion, but Eomer could 
detect something stirring beneath the façade. 

He made a point of being aware of what lurked behind Legolas’s eyes. 
Since their first meeting, with a Lorien arrow aimed squarely at Eomer’s 
forehead, he’d known the volatility of the Elf. In the interim they had 
learned to trust each other, in battle and council. Though Eomer liked to 
think they were even friends, he made a habit of watching for that ferocity, 
that intensity, which could appear in an instant and change the Elf from 
placid to agitated, from restrained to fiery. 

Eomer could see it there, in Legolas’s eyes, even as the Elf smiled mildly 
at him and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Not by all the 
composure in Middle Earth could it be disguised. Eomer was made wary, 
but not wary enough to withdraw. For Legolas’s words were true.

‘We are both alone.’ And Eomer was alone. His king was gone. His 
beloved sister was more than occupied with her future husband. Most of 
his men had returned to their land, and those who remained, though 
comrades of many years, treated him with a new deference unsought. 
Eomer imagined he could understand the isolation Legolas must have 
endured, all those months, during his travels with the Fellowship. 


When Legolas spoke next it seemed so friendly, so warm and 
companionable; Eomer was embarrassed by his earlier suspicions. War 
had made him needlessly apprehensive. The Elf was offering comfort to a 
respected comrade, nothing more. For Legolas said, “You should not stand 
alone. Some company, perhaps, would ease the discomfort written so 
plainly on your face.” 

That was true as well. The new King of Rohan was not comfortable in the 
fine halls Minas Tirith, filled with carved stone and crystal and courtly 
manners. He preferred splendour of a simpler sort. He belonged astride his 
horse, or in the Golden Hall of Meduseld, where sturdy oak tables held 
pewter goblets meant for soldier, peasant and king alike. He missed the 
wood and earth and wind of his home.

But now, as King Eomer, a strangely dull ache in his heart told him, he 
would sit at those tables with soldier and peasant and still find himself 
apart. For kings are different, and often alone.

Legolas understood this, or so it seemed. Eomer assumed this was because 
Legolas knew well the restrictions of royal birth. Legolas sat with him at 
dinner and stood beside him in the hall as the festivities wore on, and 
indeed was a comfort. Eomer felt his heart lighten as he watched as 
Legolas shed a layer of decorum and join in the dancing, whirling with 
golden hair flying and limbs arcing gracefully.

Elven laughter; Eomer had never heard it before. It was enchanting, and 
unnerving, and Eomer could not suppress the conceit that it was intended 
for his ears alone. Legolas’s eyes seemed ever on him as the ladies of the 
court fought for their turns on the dance floor. When Legolas politely 
declined to dance he stood at Eomer’s side, shoulder pressed close, a hand 
on Eomer’s arm or, once, resting lightly at the small of his back. Even 
when Legolas talked with Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, and danced with 
the Prince’s beautiful daughter, he seemed to be watching Eomer. Or 
perhaps it was Eomer seeking out the attention of the Elf? It mattered not 
who was watching whom. Eomer found the archer from Mirkwood far 
more attractive than even the lovely Lady from beside the sea.

Eomer refused more ale once he felt himself begin to respond to the 
charms of the Elf in what he considered to be an inappropriate manner. It 
was unseemly to feel himself grow hotter under the gaze or touch of 
another man, however dazzling the Elf might be. But when Legolas 
returned to his side at the end of the night, flushed and mildly dishevelled 
from dance, to hand him a mug, Eomer drank. He drank because this 
otherworldly creature at his side laughed and teased him about not being 
able to hold his ale. He drank because perhaps it was more ale that was 
required, not less, to dull this shameful desire. 

He followed Legolas to his room out of some sense of duty, or so he told 
himself. He wished to be certain he arrived safely. 

Legolas held a carafe in his hand, filled with a rich red liqueur. The milky 
blue glass turned the liquid a peculiar shade of mauve, which Eomer could 
not quite name. Eomer stared as the swirling liquid clung briefly to the 
smooth glass when the bottle was tilted to the side, thick and smooth. He 
wished he could think of the name of the colour, if only to prove to 
himself he was still lucid.

The vessel was fairly large, wide and round at the bottom, tapering to a 
narrow neck, flaring again to a smaller bulb just below the spout. Eomer 
assumed this was for the measuring of safe portions, but the Elf paid no 
heed to recommended dosages. He drank again and again until the carafe 
held but half the volume as when it had appeared. And this was the second 
bottle of the night. Eomer had no idea how much an Elf could safely 
consume, having only seen Legolas indulge in the odd glass of wine. 
Eomer judged the sheer volume ingested on this evening a cause for 
concern.

Legolas waved his hands and greeted passers-by as they made their way 
through the streets and corridors of the city, gesturing as if the bottle were 
now an extension of his arm, like his bow or knives in battle. Eomer began 
to suspect that the bulb at the top of the neck was not, indeed, for 
measurement purposes, but designed to keep the bottle from flying from 
inebriated Elven fingers, for it remained in Legolas’s fist easily, and 
dangled now over the edge of the railing.

“I am not like the other Elves.” Legolas said, as he leaned over the stone 
railing and surveyed the dimming lights of the city below.

Eomer found himself unable to tear his gaze from the long legs of his 
Elven companion. Finely muscled under the snug white velvet, calves 
flexed as Legolas rose up on his bare toes, arched his back and stretched. 
His hair, now loosed from its single ceremonial braid, flowed like 
moonlight almost to his narrow waist.

“How so?” Eomer said, with his voice strangely muted. He had to clear his 
throat. “You appear much like them in form and manner.” 

“Do I?” Legolas looked back over his shoulder and Eomer was startled by 
the gleam in his eyes. It was hungry. “The High Elves would disagree. I 
do not dispute that I share their form. Fair, most would think it. But even 
among my own people, the allegedly simpler Silvan folk, my manner is 
found lacking.” 

Legolas looked back out over the city and the dark plain beyond. Elven 
eyes must have been able to pierce the darkness far better than Eomer’s, 
for all the Man could perceive was a thick blackness between lights of 
Minas Tirith and the soft glow of Osgiliath. Perhaps Legolas was not 
looking at anything.

“I delight in battle far too much. They deem it unseemly.”

Eomer considered this. Legolas in battle was magnificent indeed. He was 
powerful, agile, and, yes, gleeful at times. He remembered glimpsing the 
Elf atop a mumak on the Field of Pelennor. He moved with deadly 
accuracy, and even through the din of his own skirmish Eomer could hear 
him shout the tally of his kill. He and the Dwarf alike drew something 
beyond satisfaction from it. They treated it as more sport than battle. It 
was not, by Rohirric standards, so much unseemly as exuberant.  

“All great warriors draw pleasure from combat.”  

“It is more than pleasure. It is gratification. I do not possess the Elven 
detachment so admired by my people. It is the fault of my birth.”

Eomer approached the balcony with caution. Drunken confessions were 
rarely flattering to the teller. He did not wish on his companion any harm 
or embarrassment. “Take care, Prince of Mirkwood. I would not have you 
reveal what you might regret anon.”

“You think me a prince?” Legolas flicked the silver circlet off his forehead 
and balanced it nimbly on the end of one outstretched finger. “Son of a 
king, yes. Member of the court, perhaps. But I am no prince. The mother 
of the true heirs to the throne of Greenwood the Great sailed long before 
my birth. I am less than legitimate.” He spun the diadem around his finger, 
perilously close the edge of the stone rail, then turned toward the open 
door and let go. Eomer watched smooth silver sail through the air and 
come to rest in the centre of a table at his side. 

“That is ceremonial. I am awarded the honour by my father because of my 
service to Middle Earth, not by my birthright. For I am something 
considered worse than merely illegitimate in the world of elves, Eomer 
King. I am an accident.” 

Legolas tilted his head back and let more of the viscous liquid slide down 
his throat.  A crimson bead clung to the corner of his mouth, and it took all 
his self-discipline as a battle-hardened warrior for Eomer not to reach out 
and touch it. Instead he waited with breath stilled until a pink tongue 
flitted out to catch the errant drop.

With every word and action the Elf’s inhibitions appeared to lessen, and 
Eomer wished for some way to stop this slide of the earth under his feet 
that threatened to tip him over. 

“Legolas, I think you may have had enough of that.” Eomer took a few 
long strides and reached for the bottle, but Legolas swung his arm out over 
the railing. Eomer stumbled forward and found himself chest to chest with 
the Elf. The sweet fruit and vanilla smell of the liqueur, combined with the 
clean, fresh scent of the Elf, knocked the breath from his lungs. 

“Never!” Legolas smiled. “Eomer, I wish to make a confession. I bid you 
listen carefully and grant me my peace.”

Eomer pulled himself up to his full height and looked down on the Elf, 
who now bent sideways over the railing, creating a maddening curve to his 
flank, and giving every indication of being oblivious to the effects his 
posture might have on Eomer. 

Legolas gave a low laugh. The sound was enough to renew Eomer’s 
resolve. He had to stop this now, before something scandalous was 
allowed to happen. Leaning his hip against the cold stone, he reached out 
and snatched the bottle from Legolas’s grasp.

“That is mine!” Legolas lunged forward and discovered that Eomer was 
not only taller than him, always a welcome attribute as far as the Elf was 
concerned, but was possessed of a longer reach as well. However this did 
not did not overly concern Legolas, as the manner in which he was now 
plastered against Eomer in his effort to recover the bottle was a reward of 
its own kind. 

“I would not have you reveal anything to me because you are drunk, Elf.”

“Drunk? I am most decidedly not drunk, Man!” 

Now Eomer held the bottle out to his side over the edge of the rail. The 
heat of the hard, slim body against him would not be tolerable for long. He 
was torn between the desire for more substantial contact and the need for 
at least one of them to remain in possession of his faculties. Eomer was 
finding it increasingly difficult to restrain himself, especially since the 
hand that was not reaching for the bottle had found its way to Eomer’s 
waist, where long fingers pressed and heated him, and had found the top 
edge of his leggings in spite of the layers of linen tunic and suede jerkin 
between. 

Eomer inched backward. The carvings of the ornate balusters caught on 
the edge of his jerkin.  Legolas followed his clumsy movements with 
grace and a disturbing amount of resolve.

“I have watched you guzzle this all night,” Eomer protested, his voice a 
harsh pitch. 

“I do not guzzle, my dear King.” Narrow hips twisted against Eomer, the 
unmistakeable bulge brushing against his hardening length. Legolas 
smiled when he heard a sharp intake of breath. He let that distract Eomer 
for a second only, and then, with a movement too quick for mortal eyes to 
follow, he leaned out and snatched the bottle back. He raised the spout to 
his lips and took a delicate sip. “And this is quite harmless. It is naught but 
Elven Sweet Wine, made of pomegranates, pears and honey...” He licked 
his pink-stained tongue across his lips, “and scented with the blossoms of 
vanilla borage.” 

Eomer watched Legolas’s lips intently. The smile at the corners seemed 
self-satisfied, almost triumphant. “Vanilla borage,” he repeated dumbly, 
and took a deep breath to savour the scent, which was heavy in the air 
around them. 

Legolas nodded, reclining against the stone. “Yes, I believe it is called 
heliotrope.”

Heliotrope. That was the colour Eomer had been trying to think of, the 
flower he’d seen so often in the lea. Pale reddish purple flowers that grew 
in the direction of the sun. Eomer leaned toward the Elf as if to bask in his 
light. The thought entered his mind of Legolas dressed in robes of soft 
heliotrope velvet, the colour complimenting his pale skin and the sun-like 
gold of his hair. Or reclining against a woven blanket of the same colour, 
clad in considerably less. 

Legolas lounged against the balustrade, long legs stretched out in front of 
him. The curve of his outer thigh was exquisite, so much more elegant 
than Eomer’s, Eomer thought. Legolas was drinking again, and Eomer 
wanted to raise a hand to feel the muscles coax the fluid down. The wine 
glowed through the blue glass, next to the pale skin of Legolas’s throat.

“We give it to the young ones at banquets and celebrations,” Legolas 
continued, holding up the bottle to watch the light of the dancing in the 
fireplace shine through the glass. “It merely renders them sleepy. For a 
mature Elf there is not enough in an entire barrel of this to cause 
intoxica…” he paused and looked into the intense eyes of the Man. “Do 
you honestly think I could be persuaded by spirits to do say or do 
something I might regret? Nay, dear Eomer, I know my mind.” He looked 
pointedly down at the conspicuous bulge pushing Eomer’s heavy jerkin 
away from his body. “Distract me no more, and allow me to lighten it.” 

“Very well,” Eomer agreed reluctantly. He’d hoped talk of the wine might 
cause the Elf to forget his promise of a confession. He was not yet 
convinced that some degree of drunkenness was not responsible for it all. 
Nonetheless, he would listen. “I shall hear you out, but do not look to me 
for absolution.”

Legolas smiled in an alarmingly bright manner. “I seek no such relief. I 
only wish to explain my behaviour. I am such a disappointment to Elves, 
you see.”

Eomer could not believe what he was hearing. This glowing, maddeningly 
elegant creature could disappoint no one. “Surely, you exaggerate.”

“Not at all. Until a few hundred years ago my faults could be explained 
away by youthful excess or ignorance. But that excuse will no longer hold. 
I am more than mature; yet still I behave like an Elfling. You have, no 
doubt, noticed the reserved behaviour of my kind. We are serene. Ethereal. 
I can approximate this when need be, but my true nature is revealed on the 
battlefield and in the bedchamber. You’ve witnessed the one…” 

Eomer stepped back suddenly. Was this an offer being made? As strong as 
his desire was, and in spite of, or perhaps because of, the manner in which 
it had crept up on him unbidden, he had not of yet seriously considered 
pursuing it.

“Do not look so alarmed, dear Eomer; I am not so bloodthirsty between 
the sheets.” The laugh had a bitter undercurrent, as if perhaps he was after 
all. “But you must understand, my kind is expected to settle down after a 
period of… we shall call it experimentation. I never passed out of that 
phase, and my choices for even the briefest of affairs have been less than 
acceptable to my people.” He smirked at the widening of Eomer’s eyes. 
“You need not look so shocked. I doubt you are innocent of sexual 
experience.” 

That this might be a revelation of a sexual nature was both unnerving and 
painfully stimulating. The two stood staring at each other for a moment, 
until Eomer gathered his scattered wits and nodded. “I am not,” he said in 
a hoarse whisper, “shocked. I am listening.”

“Elves are fastidious,” Legolas continued. “It is even more so with the 
Elves you’ve met here in Minas Tirith, my more distant kin from 
Rivendell and Lothlorien. The tendency is for Elves to behave as if above 
all others. We revel in nature, yet retain strict control. Even our 
lovemaking is judiciously planned, as is our procreation.” Legolas sighed, 
smiles gone.

Eomer frowned to see the fair face suddenly melancholy.

“When his wife sailed, my father spent some time mourning before 
embarking upon a discreet period of promiscuity. It is not unheard of, as it 
helps to stave off the grieving. But my mother, an unimportant member of 
the court, although certainly no commoner, committed the ultimate 
offence. An affront to Elven nature; she conceived.” Legolas spread his 
lithe arms, as if to present himself to Eomer. “The unfortunate product of 
that union,” he pronounced. 

Eomer struggled to understand what he was being told. Unplanned 
children were common among his people; they were the reason for at least 
half of all marriages. There was no shame in it.

“Here I stand, Legolas the not-prince son of a king, known for his ferocity 
instead of his tranquillity, shamefully not promised to a lovely Elf-maiden 
at my ripe old age, friend to a Dwarf, of all races, and not settled in any 
way. To a man I look like an Elf. To an Elf I must seem positively… Orc-
ish.” He finished his dramatic proclamation with a healthy swig from the 
bottle, however ineffective it might prove. 

“You judge yourself too harshly, my friend. You have all the grace of your 
kin, and more, I would wager, of their beauty. You are no Orc.” 

Legolas laughed. The delightful, delicate Elvish laughter made Eomer feel 
the Orc-ish one. 

“To you,” Legolas replied lightly. “Perhaps to you, dear King Eomer.” He 
touched, with a single finger, the sleeve of Eomer’s heavy tunic, tracing 
embroidered gold against dark burgundy. “And I am sure I could use my 
fairness to make up for my many shortcomings. I could take a proper mate 
and resign myself to a life of contemplation and pretended ethereal bliss. 
But, to be frank, I would be bored. I require more of a challenge. I yearn 
for excitement.”

“And you should have it.”

“I want passion.”

“As do we all.”

“I prefer males.”

“Oh.” 

Eomer looked at the slender but strong form as it turned back once more to 
face the now-darkened city. Legolas favoured men. Males. Male Elves, he 
assumed. Men of Gondor or the North, perhaps. He found his thoughts 
drifting, unbidden, to the Dwarf, Gimli. 

A low chuckle came from behind the curtain of golden hair. “I can read 
your thoughts from here, my friend, and no, Gimli’s desires lie elsewhere. 
But men I have had, and prefer them to any sort of Elf. Is this behaviour 
known among your people?” He said this into the night air as if it were a 
rhetorical question, and not directed toward the Man at his side.

Eomer had to think carefully about the question, in part because he was 
finding it difficult to concentrate with the lovely backside of the Elf 
presented to him once more. He could not recall ever being attracted to a 
man in this way before, but he would admit Legolas had always intrigued 
him. This revelation of Legolas’s preference for males shed new light on 
the Elf’s behaviour this evening. 

But he also found the question confusing. Was Legolas referring to the 
practice of Elves consorting with Men, or males consorting with males? 
He decided the latter was the more likely. “It is heard of, particularly 
among warriors. At times it lingers beyond the battlefield and makes its 
way into the city, where it is politely ignored. Some would condemn it, 
and do so openly.” 

Legolas sighed into the dark and leaned heavily on his outstretched arms. 
“And what do you think of it?” he whispered. “Are you disgusted by the 
very thought of it, or do you understand why one might wish another 
warrior? The desire for…a certain intensity…”

“I have never experienced it.” Eomer approached slowly. “ The act, I 
mean.”  

Eomer was close, very close. And filled with heat and tension.

Legolas straightened and drew away from the abyss, backing into the tall, 
broad form behind him. “What of the desire?”

Eomer stepped forward, pressed his chest against the erect back, and 
brought two large hands around the Elf’s chest, so that his palms were 
centred by two small, very hard nipples. “I can understand the desire.” He 
let his hands rest on the alien, flat chest. Not so flat, he discovered when 
he curved his fingers slightly to explore the tone and shape of hundreds of 
years of battle.

“What of your people?” Eomer whispered. 

The recently trimmed hairs of his moustache tickled the very tip of 
Legolas’s ear. The sensation brought memories to Legolas’s mind, 
memories of stolen nights. Of the forest, of the mountains, of the tiny, 
dank back room of a smithy in Dale, where his first male lover had 
worked as an apprentice all those centuries before. 

Legolas did not threaten to crack and fade when his first love passed, as 
would be suitably Elvish. He had mourned and grieved, and it pained him 
deeply still, but to fade was not his way. He did not share his kindred’s 
fear of involvement with mortals, and that was something to be thankful 
for indeed, because the mortal at his back was giving off the heady scent 
of desire, mixed with just enough trepidation to make Legolas feel young 
again. “Elves do not oppose it on principle. Two males may love and 
express that love in many different ways. But they find the act itself 
unseemly, much as they find me. It is never discussed openly. They deem 
it too base, too crude, too – ”  

“Dirty?” Hot breath washed over a sensitive Elven ear, and the ensuing 
shudder gave Eomer courage. “I myself have never shied from anything. I 
would entertain the thought of such an act. For although I,” he hesitated, 
“have ‘experimented’, I have never found true fulfillment with a woman.”

“Then I am not the only one with something to confess,” Legolas 
murmured.

“I find their pretty faces and slender limbs alluring, but find myself 
frightened that if I were to take what I really wanted a woman would break 
in my hands.”

Legolas spun abruptly to face the Man, bright burning cobalt meeting 
Eomer’s eyes. “I think you would find an Elf unbreakable.”

“I do not doubt it.” Eomer held his arms out, not touching the Elf but 
encircling him

Legolas pressed his slender torso up into Eomer’s wider bulk, pleased to 
find that the Rohan King did not yield, but pressed back, strong. 
“However, if you merely seek an unbreakable woman, you will find 
disappointment. I may satisfy you in my fairness, but I am decidedly 
male.” 

Eomer reached down to cup the firm bulge straining against white 
leggings. “That will not pose a problem at all, I assure you.” He flexed his 
fingers, and the movement caused heat to spread throughout his hand and 
up his arm. He was shocked by how much he enjoyed the feeling.

He had never considered such an act in his life. This Elf though, this Elf 
all but demanded such action. Eomer did not pause to overly question. The 
way Legolas moved under his hand, so sinuous as he pressed himself into 
Eomer’s fingers, was enough reason to continue.

“And my hands are not the delicate hands of a maiden. Would you bear 
them upon you?”

Eomer trailed his fingers along a silk-encased, bow-strengthened arm. He 
paused for only a moment at the sturdy wrist before taking the hand in his 
and raising it to his mouth. It was almost as big as his own, and capable of 
an iron grip. He laid a tender kiss on each knuckle. “I have,” he whispered 
against the battle-toughened skin, “ever found women’s hands too gentle 
for my taste. But I must warn you, my fair warrior, were we to go any 
further, this may be the last gentle kiss from me for some time.”

Legolas nodded, breathless. “Agreed,” he all but purred. 

The time for worry about decorum and consent was over. Eomer’s body 
thrummed with desire for the Elf, and it was more than he could remember 
wanting anyone or anything before.

Heated muscle and grasping hands pressed Legolas back against the 
railing. The glimmer of a torch on the ramparts, several levels below, 
caught Eomer’s eye, but he paid it no great heed. It had grown so dark he 
could barely see Legolas anymore, so he doubted anyone would witness 
this indiscretion in the shadow of the little, recessed balcony. And once 
Legolas nipped at his lower lip and filled his mouth with the syrupy sweet 
taste of the wine, he found he no longer cared.

The arching of Legolas back over the railing brought to Eomer’s mind the 
image of a supple tree bending in the wind. But when Eomer spread his 
wide hands under the gracefully bowed back he thought of sprung steel. 
The solidity of the muscles there, as alien as the flatness of his chest, 
stirred something very deep in Eomer. 

The moustache and beard, although still sharp from recent grooming, did 
not scrape Legolas’s face so much as kindle it. And the taste of ale in 
Eomer’s mouth was mixed with something earthy and rare. Legolas 
wound thick, flaxen hair around the fingers of one hand, and reached the 
other out to the side, to rest the carafe on the stone rail.

One long leg snaked up around Eomer’s thigh to rest on his hip. This 
brought their lengths into perfect alignment, and caused Eomer to respond 
with an undignified yet most satisfying grunt. It was difficult to 
comprehend, this burning desire coupled with the hardness and strength 
and maleness. Undeniable maleness. For the strangeness of it did not 
frighten him, or cause him any unease. It felt natural. He pulled the other 
lean leg up around his hip, and sucked the sweet-flavoured tongue into his 
mouth. 

Legolas was all but perched on the top of the rail, but there was no danger 
of his falling. One arm wrapped tightly around Eomer’s broad shoulders, 
the other slid down to grip a firm bicep. And he was, it seemed, attached 
to Eomer at the lips. He was going nowhere without Eomer. And Eomer 
would have it no other way.

Eomer turned away from the railing, the darkness of the quiet city and the 
world outside. With long, Elven legs around his waist and insistent hands 
now tugging at his unnecessarily complicated clothing, Eomer staggered 
into Legolas’s room. Loath to disengage himself from any of the places 
they pressed together, he walked in the general direction of what he 
remembered was a rather large bed. The solid blow of the heavy, carved 
bedpost on his elbow confirmed his miraculous sense of direction. He fell 
roughly onto the mattress with Legolas sprawled beneath him.

Legolas tightened the grip his legs had on Eomer’s torso, pulling his hips 
up, which only succeeded in sinking his shoulders into the thick mattress, 
pulling him away rather than closer. Eomer spread his legs and felt his 
knees sink into the padding of the bed. When Legolas bucked his hips 
upwards, they both rocked to one side. The elf unwrapped his legs from 
Eomer’s hips and dropped his feet to the mattress, pressing his hips up. 
There was contact, but the friction was somehow lacking. 

Eomer grimaced. “This bed…”

“…was not made for what we have in mind,” Legolas finished. “It is 
intended for long nights of tender caresses, not two hungry warriors.” His 
eyes flicked across the room to the fur throw before the fireplace.

Eomer’s eyes followed and lit up when they rested on the rug. He 
scrambled backwards, then paused to look down at the Elf, his hair, his 
limbs, all spread out around him. The fine silk shirt gaped open, revealing 
a sculpted pale chest. In the light of the fire Legolas had built when they 
came in, Eomer could see wide dark nipples hardening under his gaze. 
Widespread legs accentuated the size of the bulge hidden by an intricately 
laced panel, and Eomer was seized by the sudden desire, need even, to 
uncover what the ties hid. 

He pushed the shirt up and tugged at the silk cords. Legolas did not help or 
hinder his movements, but lay still and stared up at the face of his friend 
for a time. So wild, Eomer looked. Legolas had seen him serious in 
counsel, fierce in battle, angry and sad and joyful, but this passion was 
something Legolas only sensed before, beneath the surface, and hoped he 
might someday see. He pulled his shirt over his head. 

Eomer fumbled with the elaborate lacings. “Legolas, you must come to the 
aid of my clumsy fingers. I am not adept at… thank you!” Swift pale 
fingers had solved the puzzle in an instant, and Eomer pulled the supple 
fabric down to find not what he expected. 

The willowy form of the Elf had led him to the belief that Legolas would 
display a similar delicacy in all places, hard and lean and pale, ethereal 
and exquisite. He was correct on the first and last counts alone, for the 
cock that sprang forth proved to be larger, and duskier, and on the whole 
earthier, than anything he could have imagined. It rose from a nest of pale, 
swirling gold and it, along with the heavy balls beneath, was many shades 
darker than the rest of the Elf. Eomer could only gape at it in wonderment. 

Legolas writhed on the soft mattress. “I fear we have lingered too long. 
The time for gazing is long past, Eomer,” he hissed. 

Eomer nodded, but was reluctant to look away. He’d seen men before, 
while bathing, while changing, in the healing tent. But he’d never seen 
anything like that, up close. He watched, awed by ripples of muscles under 
smooth, pale skin as Legolas curled up off the bed and plucked at the 
fastenings of his jerkin with brisk fingers. Once the heavy garment was 
removed, Eomer backed away from the bed, pulling the half-clad Elf with 
him. It took far too long to traverse the cool stone floor to the warm 
hearth. They tumbled to the floor with Legolas on top of the Man.

“Why my sweet, ethereal, serene Elf; you weigh more than you look,” 
Eomer grunted, “And I see now how your kin might think you rash.” 

Legolas growled and ripped the front of Eomer’s tunic up the middle, 
letting the fasteners fly. Eomer would have protested the harsh treatment 
of his clothing, had the feel of steely fingers on his chest proven unworthy 
of the price of a new dress tunic.

Legolas rolled a thick nipple between his thumb and forefinger, until 
Eomer bucked under him like a restless stallion. He yanked the soft, oiled 
leather of Eomer’s leggings down, and beamed at the sight of Eomer’s 
thoroughly aroused cock, thick and dark between muscular thighs. He 
quickly pulled the leggings over hirsute legs and was confounded by boots 
for a few short moments, before stripping the fine leather away 
completely. Eomer shrugged out of the remains of his tunic, then reached 
for the white velvet bunched at Legolas’s hips. “Far too many clothes,” he 
groused.

“And enough words,” Legolas breathed in his ear, pushing his hands away 
and shedding the leggings as quickly as he had snatched the bottle earlier. 
He mounted Eomer again, kneeling on the thick rug. “I believe you 
promised absolution.” He twisted his hips, and made their cocks press 
together, almost painfully, but only enough to intensify their mutual 
passion. “At the very least, I assure you, I shall demand relief.”

“I promised no such absolution,” Eomer rumbled, “But I will freely grant 
what relief I can.” With that he ground his hips upward and was satisfied 
by the low moan he received for his efforts. 

The Elf gripped thick, long hair with both hands and rubbed his face over 
Eomer’s coarse beard with a moan. He craved the rough texture, the feel 
of fur against his hairless skin. To his delight, Eomer’s chest was covered 
in a copper-tinged thatch, which rasped across his smooth chest and set the 
Elf to writhing frenetically. 

Eomer gripped Legolas’s hips firmly to keep him from wriggling away. 
He pressed his fingers into sleek flesh, which only served to enflame the 
Elf more. It was as much wrestling as it was lovemaking, and the 
roughness of it added a new dimension Eomer had never before 
experienced. He squeezed Legolas against his chest tightly, enough to 
cause a whimper from any previous lover he’d had. Legolas responded by 
gripping Eomer tighter between his thighs, and nipping at the sensitive 
skin at his throat.

Eomer loosened his hold and reached between them to capture both cocks 
with one wide hand. Legolas signalled his approval with a hot huff of air 
across Eomer’s cheek, and a swipe of his wet tongue from chin to temple. 
Eomer fervently hoped he suited Legolas’s taste. 

Taste occupied his mind, so when slick fluid leaked from the Elf over his 
fingers, the desire to sample the elixir was too strong to deny. He flipped 
Legolas over onto his back and pulled the treasure to his mouth. 

At the suddenness of Eomer’s movements, Legolas moved reflexively to 
defend himself. His fists clenched and he tensed, ready to throw off his 
attacker. It had not been so long since his last battle that his body could be 
caught off guard. But the wet heat of Eomer’s mouth quickly stilled his 
limbs, and he stretched back on the thick fur rug, content to revel in this 
pleasure for the moment. 

Eomer lapped at the thick cock. Sweeter than the syrupy liqueur, he 
thought, and much more intoxicating. The further he took the unbending 
flesh into his mouth, the better it tasted, and the higher Legolas’s melodic 
moans rose. His hands roamed over splayed arms and legs, and the soft 
skin of a torso that looked as though carved of cold marble, but was hot to 
the touch. He kept at it until Legolas curled his body around him, clawing 
at his hair and keening musically. “Stop, please, Eomer, I would not have 
you undo me this way!”

Eomer drew his lips up the shaft with just a hint of teeth. He may not have 
had experience another male, but he knew what he liked. Legolas 
convulsed beneath him. “Eomer!” 

Eomer crawled up the prone Elf and let his weight rest on the lean body. 
Legolas’s eyes fluttered shut. His lips, turned a more vivid pink from hard 
kisses, parted to take in Eomer’s eager tongue. Like this they stayed for 
some time, while Legolas explored every muscle and bone above him, ran 
his fingers through every bit of hair he could reach and rubbed his 
sensitive skin against all he could not. 

The rippling power and sinew under him drove Eomer to a fevered pitch. 
“I would take you, Elf, as I’ve never been able to take any woman.”

Legolas gave a sudden push to upend Eomer. He drew his legs up under 
him, so he knelt above the Man as before, and sat back on brawny thighs. 
He kept one hand on Eomer’s chest, the other gripped Eomer’s cock. As 
thick as his own, he noted with bliss, and just as hard. “Are you sure of 
that, Man? Perhaps the reason you have not found satisfaction with a 
woman is that you wish to be taken as one yourself?” Eyes now darkened 
to indigo, Legolas twisted his wrist and pulled a frantic groan from the 
Man beneath him. “What say you, Eomer King? Will you test if you are 
breakable?”

Eomer closed his eyes. The hand on his cock was firm and sure. The legs 
pressed against him were as tough as steel, the arms as strong, if not 
stronger. He wrapped his fingers around Legolas’s cock in answer. He had 
never desired to be taken, but the way the slender hips kept moving on 
him, unable to remain still for long, the way fingers left his chest and 
trailed over stomach, through coarse darker hair, slipped down around his 
heavy balls and further, probing him, testing him, convinced him to push 
his thighs out, forcing Legolas’s legs wider as well. The first touch of an 
Elven finger at his opening made Eomer shudder. 

He could not go a moment longer without knowing more of this act so 
reviled by both their peoples. He slid his own fingers past Legolas’s hand, 
under the lightly furred sac and further back, to caress the hot opening 
behind them. Legolas dropped his head forward with a gasp, and for 
Eomer, for a moment, the whole world was swaying golden hair and the 
soft tips of locks caressing his face, the hard tips of fingers pressing into 
him, and the subtle give of flesh under his own fingers until they slipped 
inside the hot channel. 

“Hmm, that is a most satisfactory compromise,” Legolas whispered. He 
swivelled his hips to encourage Eomer to explore further. “But my greater 
experience puts me at an advantage.” He withdrew his hand and gave a 
short, gasping laugh when Eomer whimpered and raised his hips as if to 
follow. Legolas made a great show of sucking the fingers into his mouth, 
murmuring his approval of the taste and slicking them with his tongue. 
Then Legolas reached behind himself, and felt between Eomer’s spread 
legs.

The wetness eased the way considerably, and Eomer felt his cock leap in 
Legolas’s other hand when a finger slid into his body.  He missed the silky 
hair on his face, but Legolas’s arched back left him far more accessible to 
Eomer. He pressed up with his fingers but pulled them away when he met 
with resistance. Eomer slid them into his mouth, his eyes never once 
leaving the blue orbs blazing down at him. He was at once overwhelmed 
by the taste. He wanted more of it, but Legolas slipped a second finger 
inside, and Eomer decided that mutuality was the best course. He spread 
his legs further, pushing Legolas’s thighs as well, and opening him fully to 
Eomer’s questing fingers.

Legolas pressed down around the two wet fingers that penetrated him. 
“Yes, that…” he muttered and twisted his hand suddenly, almost violently 
around Eomer’s cock when Eomer’s other hand closed on his hot length. 
Legolas had to strain to reach behind himself and between Eomer’s tense 
thighs to slide yet another digit inside. The guardian muscle tightened 
around his fingers as Eomer grew wary, but the sight of the Elf with his 
hips thrust forward, his cock purpling in Eomer’s fist, overcame any 
misgivings. 

Eomer emulated Legolas’s movements, adding a third finger, turning his 
hand, and curling his fingers. Eomer shouted; Legolas bore down harder 
on Eomer’s hand. 

Eomer’s head reeled and he could not breathe again until he found his 
explosive release, and then his stomach and chest, almost to his throat, 
were bathed in sticky cream. Legolas slithered backward and nestled 
between his legs, lapping at the seed like a hungry cat, his entire body 
vibrating with tension. Eomer realized the cock pressed against his inner 
leg was heavy and hard.

He spread his thighs yet wider, beckoning. Legolas looked up at him, with 
his red lips glistening in the firelight. “You would have me take you?” A 
dark, delicate eyebrow arched upward, taut like a bow. Taunting.

“I will not break,” Eomer growled. 

Legolas was on him at once, turning him onto his hands and knees, hands 
spread over a firm backside made strong by years of riding. He kneaded 
the meaty flesh, spat on his fingers to lubricate the stretched opening 
further, spread his own leaking essence over himself and mounted quickly, 
before Eomer could change his mind, before he could even contemplate 
how it would feel to have that thick, demanding cock inside. 

It was for the best; any hesitation on his part would have delayed the sheer 
bliss of it.

Eomer reared back so that Legolas had to grab a broad shoulder to stay 
seated. 

“A stallion,” Legolas snarled. “You wish me to tame you?” He took a 
handful of thick, straw-coloured hair and pulled Eomer’s head back. “Is 
this enough intensity for you, or must I up the stakes?” He reached around 
with his other hand, relieved to find Eomer’s cock hardening anew; he had 
not been wrong about this at all. He lowered his head to Eomer’s shoulder 
and sank his teeth into the skin. 

Eomer roared and pushed his ass back to slam into Legolas’s hips. It was 
impossible to be so hard so soon, but he alternated between thrusting his 
cock forward into the Elf’s fist and his ass back to receive the thick cock 
again and again. It struck something inside that made Eomer go mad for 
an instant.

Legolas was shocked to find himself pushed back, onto his knees, with 
Eomer sitting on his lap.

 Eomer threw his head back against Legolas’s shoulder. It did not give. 
Legolas kept one hand on Eomer’s length and the other on his broad chest. 
“Yes, my wild King, bury me deep inside you…” He bit at the exposed 
neck and shoulder, tasting sweat and leather and the open air and traces of 
Eomer’s previous release. 

The weight and the awkwardness of the position made it difficult for 
Legolas to thrust far, but Eomer more than made up for it by fucking 
himself on Legolas’s cock. As his powerfully built thighs spread on either 
side of the Elf’s bent legs, flexing and straining to keep some control over 
his erratic movements, his internal muscles rippled up and down Legolas’s 
cock. 

Legolas took an ear between his teeth and hissed, “Now!” Or it might have 
been a question.

“Yes.” Eomer responded as much to the animal growl of it as to the word.

Eomer was so tight and hot, quivering in his arms. Legolas pumped his 
hips frantically and keened when he erupted inside his new lover. Eomer 
clenched around him, prolonging his pleasure almost painfully. The 
second flood of semen from Eomer was not as copious as the first, but it 
tasted as sweet when Legolas lifted it to his avid mouth. Eomer turned his 
head and kissed Legolas around the Elf’s sticky fingers. 

“Elbereth, you are like something I have dreamed of…” Legolas gasped 
when Eomer’s swollen lips left his. 

“And you as well, but I fear my legs cannot withstand this particular 
dream much longer.”

Legolas laughed and slithered out from under him. Eomer groaned when 
the spent cock slipped from him, and he slumped to the floor, half on top 
of the other. He had never lain on top of a lover before for fear of crushing 
her. Legolas did not complain, but rather drew his arms around Eomer’s 
shoulder and pulled him yet closer, and laid a tender kiss on the top of his 
head. “Not breakable, indeed,” he teased gently. 

Eomer twisted in his arms to face him. “Not at all, and glad of it. I had no 
idea. I wish you did not feel the need to veil this passion behind Elven 
serenity. I would see more of it, and often.”

“Oh, you shall, dear Eomer. Whenever you desire.”

Eomer’s face clouded. “That is not possible.” 

“Shh, I will not have the world out there intrude on this moment.” Legolas 
pressed soothing kisses all over Eomer’s face. “Think not on it, for I 
would enjoy you like this as long as possible. Undone,” he whispered, 
“and so very beautiful.” 

Eomer had not the inclination to feel embarrassed by this unexpected 
compliment. He would have protested that he was positively Orc-ish next 
to the radiant Elf, but it was easier to melt into Legolas’s firm embrace. 
They lay together for some time, breaking apart only long enough for 
Eomer to feed the fire, and for Legolas to glide effortlessly out to the 
balcony to fetch the carafe and settle back next to him. 

“I have always found the taste of Sweet Wine to compliment the finest 
meals,” he teased and licked across Eomer’s shoulder. “But then, I have 
always had immature tastes.” He tilted the bottle and watched the thick 
liquid pour between Eomer’s open lips. “My new favourite,” he 
murmured, “Elven Sweet Wine and Rohan warrior-king.” He placed the 
bottle on the floor beside the rug, leaving both hands free to weave into 
Eomer’s hair as his tongue delved into his mouth.

Eomer sucked the sweet tongue and moaned. His entire body was tingling, 
wanting more, never wanting this to end. He searched for some way to 
express this, but his words were interrupted by a heavy tread at the door, 
then the opening of the door. 

“Oh, so you finally found what you were seeking then, eh?” The loud 
bootsteps approached, and had to step over the long legs of the Elf en 
route to the over-stuffed armchair by the fire. The Dwarf seemed to be 
trying to take as little notice as possible of Eomer’s scandalously naked 
body curled against that of his friend. 

Eomer froze, and was shocked to see Legolas nodding happily. “Oh, yes, 
friend Gimli. You were absolutely right. He is perfect.”

Eomer pulled away, stunned by both the sudden appearance of the Dwarf 
and the intimation that he’d had something to do with the events of the 
evening. He was stopped by the strong legs of the Elf coiled around his 
thighs, pinning him to the ground. At least, he thought to himself, his cock 
was hidden that way. 

Legolas reassured him with a gentle kiss and whispered against his lips, 
“He overestimates his involvement. He merely suggested that I approach 
you.”

“I think it was a bit more than that,” Gimli snorted. “But never mind about 
the whys and wherefores of the matter.  Maybe now you’ll stop whinging 
about being lonely and never finding real fulfilment. There is nothing 
more annoying that a whiny Elf.”

“Unless it is a grumpy Dwarf!”

“I shall be much less grumpy now that my fair friend is not pining over the 
handsome King of the Mark!” Gimli reached toward the bed and tossed a 
blanket on the all too naked display. “Cover up, you two, I have no desire 
to be feasting my eyes on a banquet of such overly muscled and 
excessively male flesh.” He tamped down some leaf in the bowl of his 
pipe with a grin. 

Legolas kept his legs wrapped tightly around his lover. The presence of 
Gimli would not spoil his night. “I would not say I was pining so much 
as…” He ran a hand over the wide curve of Eomer’s chest, distracted by 
the shape and texture. “That is to say, there was a desire I myself did not 
recognize at first, but Gimli saw it as plain as day. He’s very perceptive 
for a Dwarf, you know.”

This earned the Elf a loud ‘harumph’ from the direction of the armchair.

Legolas twirled a finger in a lock of straw-coloured hair and kept his eyes 
locked with Eomer’s, but directed his voice toward the Dwarf. “So from 
your cheerful mood, am I to assume that you also found what you sought, 
my friend?”

Eomer was busy spreading the blanket to cover the greatest area and most 
sensitive parts of his body, but not too busy to hear Gimli’s bawdy reply. 

“Ah, well, not an Elf lady per se, but with enough Elf blood in her line to 
fully satisfy my desires. I left her in her chambers, and quite contented, I 
might add. Do not look for her a breakfast this morn. She is quite well 
done!” 

Legolas laughed, and so close to Eomer’s ear the sound made the hairs on 
his neck stand up. Clear and bright, so unlike the husky growls of earlier. 

“I daresay I am greatly looking forward to my next rendezvous with the 
Lady Lothiriel.”

Eomer sat up abruptly, tearing himself from the Elf’s embrace. “Lady 
Lothiriel! Of Dol Amroth? But she and I are…I mean, Prince Imrahil 
approached me about her and…” He stopped when he saw the crestfallen 
look on Legolas’s face. “We are not! Not yet. It is a political match, 
nothing more. I swear it to you, Legolas.” 

“I am pleased for you, my friend,” Gimli chuckled, “that after but one 
night you have a lover willing to swear oaths.” He leaned forward to light 
his pipe at the fire. 

Legolas seemed to blush, but it could have been a trick of the light. Eomer 
placed a hand on the cheek and felt warmth there. He would indeed swear 
an oath to Legolas, and probably would have been willing to do so for 
some time, if he’d only known it was his to give. Since their first fiery 
meeting the Elf had been in his mind, he only now realized. But Prince 
Imrahil had approached him some time ago, and the Lady Lothiriel would 
be much more acceptable to his people, even though his heart and his body 
found Legolas so very much more attractive. He scowled at the unfairness 
of the situation, and attempted to explain himself. “I have a kingdom to 
rebuild. The people expect a good match for me, and heirs to continue my 
line.” 

Legolas stroked the swell of Eomer’s shoulder sadly. He was a foolish Elf, 
for thinking he could expect more than one night with one such as this. Of 
course the King of Rohan had to think of his people before he could think 
his lover, particularly if his lover was male. And a male of a different race.  
He would be left with bittersweetness and nothing more, for the memory 
of the elation he’d felt earlier would be forever tempered by 
disappointment and even grief.

“Aye, and a good match it will be, too,” the Dwarf continued. “For I’m 
sure the Lady will agree to produce heirs with you, if I ask it of her.” 

“If you ask? How dare you presume…” Eomer could not express his 
indignation adequately, so he settled for clenched fists and a fierce scowl.

Gimli sucked hard on his pipe. “There is a thing you don’t understand 
about us Dwarves, laddie. We are possessive, it’s true, but we are practical 
as well. I am willing to share, for the sake of politics. Speak up, Legolas; 
will you share Eomer with Lothiriel for the sake of appearances? After all, 
Ithilien is not so far from Edoras. I’m sure many satisfactory visits can be 
arranged.” 

Legolas brightened considerably and clutched Eomer’s hand to his chest. 
He should have trusted his clever friend to find a solution all along, for the 
practicality of Dwarves was surpassed only by their cunning. He gazed at 
the flustered king with hope shining from his eyes. “Will you agree to this, 
Eomer?”

Eomer was keenly aware of the Elf’s nakedness against him. He wanted to 
taste more of Legolas, to taste every inch of him, and much more. But his 
desire warred with his sense of responsibility. “It is impossible. If anyone 
were to know of it, my people… your people… and it would be unfair to 
the Lady.” 

Gimli guffawed. “Nonsense, you are plenty fetching enough for her to 
spend time with, as long as you keep the beard, and a decent fellow, I’ll 
warrant. It won’t be the same as having me in her bed every night, but 
frankly, Elf blood or no Elf blood, I don’t think she would have the 
stamina to take me on every night. I think this arrangement will suit 
everyone quite well.”

Eomer looked from the hopeful Elf to the self-satisfied Dwarf. It was a 
mad plan. There was no way they could keep such relationships secret for 
long, and he said so.

“What of it?” Legolas dared to smile at Eomer. “Let them judge us, I need 
not their approval. But in the meantime, while I would prefer to have you 
as my own in the eyes of all, I could accept you as my own behind closed 
doors.”

“If it were any others it might work, but I am a king, and you are two of 
the Nine Walkers. Your stories will be told throughout the ages, and if 
they include something like this,” he gestured at the three of them, but 
then the gesture changed and indicated only him and Legolas, and their 
state of undress. 

Eomer shook his head, about to reject the foolhardy scheme, until his 
thoughts turned back to the pale glow of the Elf’s skin, the taste of his 
kisses, the strength of his embrace, the intensity of it all. 

He looked to his left, where the Sweet Wine sat glowing pale purple in the 
light of the fire. The image of that single, red drop on his lover’s lip 
crystallized in his mind. “And yet a thing can be one thing, and seem 
another if viewed through tinted glass,” he murmured. 

Legolas followed his gaze to the blue bottle and nodded. “I believe we can 
seem to be whatever we want, as long as we have some time to be what 
we are.”

Eomer opened his arms to welcome his lover. “And if the Dwarf’s devious 
plan does not work?”

Legolas and Gimli laughed at the same moment. “A little disgrace will not 
harm us,” the Elf said with twinkling eyes as he melted deeper into 
Eomer’s embrace. “If people disapprove of the truth so much, I care not. 
Let them leave us out of the history books.”

And so it was.

End