Posted: February 2004
Title: Heliotrope
Author: Haleth
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Legolas/Eomer, mention of Legolas/Aragorn, Gimli/other
Warning: Explicit interspecies slash, mention of interspecies het.
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: Lemur, Elvelethril and Cayce P.
Notes: Movieverse, with book back up. What happened after the coronation. An attempt to explain why a certain King, Elf and Dwarf were utterly ignored at the end of the movie… winner of the Library of Moria ROTK challenge. (Newly revised version.)

Summary: It's an old story. Boy meet 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.

*****

Atop the rebuilt city of Minas Tirith, amid the crowds gathered to witness the coronation of Elessar of the line of Valandil, Legolas's face held a smile both secretive and full of promise. Mischievous Elven eyes glinted in the sunlight from under dark lashes. The newly-crowned king was mesmerised by the Elf, radiant in white, an elegant silver circlet 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, heart brimming with gladness, for he would witness Aragorn realise 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 in his heart, that any dalliance between them served to merely quell Aragorn's painful longing for the Evenstar.

It did not bother Legolas that he had been little more than a substitute. He was pleased to have been of aid, and he even felt the stirrings of what might have been his first blush in many lives of men, when Aragorn thanked him so discreetly.

He loved Aragorn as a friend, and found him pleasurable as a lover, but had never wanted more from him. The Dúnadan 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 warrior.

Legolas dropped gracefully to one knee in honour of the brave Hobbits. Their miraculous survival was another cause for joy. In addition to that, Legolas had kept Isildur's heir alive throughout the quest, acquitted himself admirably in combat and, in his estimation, represented his race well. All should have been 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 his own benefit - for he had at last found what was missing.

And thus it was that Éomer, the new King of Rohan, found himself standing in middle of a large, well-appointed bedroom, gazing out to the balcony at a somewhat drunken Elf draped over the stone balustrade, an Elf who presented 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 displayed every muscle, straining beneath his thin silken undershirt and snug leggings, as he stretched sumptuously.

Éomer was dismayed by the desire churning within him. He tried to reason that the beauty of the Elf would stir any living, breathing, conscious being, but he knew the roiling heat deep inside went beyond aesthetic appreciation. Still, he stood rooted to the floor, unwilling to respond. The suggestive display could have been meant as an invitation, but it just as easily could have been a by-product of the copious amounts of fruit liqueur Legolas had been quaffing all evening.

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

He had always made a point of staying aware of what lurked behind Legolas's eyes, even though he could not always identify it. Since their first meeting, with a Lórien arrow aimed squarely at Éomer's forehead, he'd understood the volatility of the Elf. In the interim, they'd learned to trust each other in battle and in council. Though Éomer liked to think they were friends, he was always alert for the emergence of that ferocity, that intensity, which could appear in an instant and change the Elf from placid to agitated, from restrained to fiery, almost instantly.

Éomer 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. Éomer was made wary, although not wary enough to withdraw. For Legolas's words were true.

We are both alone. Éomer was alone. His king was gone. His beloved sister, his only living family, was engrossed with her future husband. Most of his men had returned to their land, and those who remained, even though they were comrades of many years, treated him with a new deference unsought. Éomer imagined he could understand the isolation Legolas must have endured for all those months, during his travels with the Fellowship.

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

That was true as well. The new King of the Mark was not comfortable in the fine halls of Minas Tirith, adorned 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 Éomer, a 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 Éomer assumed. Legolas would know the restrictions of royal status, of royal birth, an accident one could not control. Legolas sat with him at dinner, stood beside him in the hall as the festivities wore on, and indeed was a comfort. Éomer felt his heart lighten as he watched Legolas shed a layer of decorum to join in the dancing, whirling with golden hair flying and limbs arcing gracefully.

Elven laughter. Éomer had never heard it before. It was enchanting, and unnerving, and Éomer 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 Éomer's side, shoulder pressed close, a hand on Éomer's arm or, once, resting lightly at the small of his back. Even when Legolas talked with Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, or danced with the Prince's beautiful daughter, he seemed to be watching Éomer.

Or perhaps it was Éomer who sought the attention of the Elf? It mattered not who was watching whom. Éomer found the archer from Mirkwood far more fascinating than even the lovely Lady from beside the sea.

Éomer refused more ale once he recognised his responses to the Legolas's charms as inappropriate. It was unseemly to feel himself grow hotter under the gaze or touch of another man, however dazzling the Elf might be. Nevertheless, when Legolas returned to his side at the end of the evening, flushed and mildly dishevelled from dance, to hand him a mug, Éomer 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 that he arrived safely.

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

The vessel was fairly large, wide and round at the bottom, tapering to a narrow neck, and flaring again to a smaller bulb just below the spout. Initially, Éomer 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 was but half the volume as when it had appeared - and this was the second bottle of the evening. Éomer had no idea how much an Elf could safely consume, having only seen Legolas indulge in the odd glass of wine in the past. Éomer could only judge the impressive 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 an extension of his arm, much like his bow or knives in battle. Éomer began to suspect that the bulb at the top of the neck was not meant for measurement purposes at all, but designed to prevent the bottle from flying out of 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 carved stone and surveyed the dimming lights of the city below.

Éomer found himself unable to avert 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?" Éomer said, with his voice strangely muted. He had to clear his throat to continue. "You appear much like them in form and manner."

"Do I?" Legolas looked back over his shoulder, and Éomer was startled by the hungry gleam in his eyes. "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, it is my manner that 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 Éomer's, for all the Horse Lord could perceive was a thick blackness between lights of Minas Tirith and the vague glow of Osgiliath. Or perhaps Legolas was not looking at anything.

"I delight in battle far too much. They deem it ‘unseemly'."

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

"All great warriors draw pleasure from combat," he averred.

"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."

Éomer approached the balcony with caution. Drunken confessions were rarely flattering to the teller. He did not wish any harm or embarrassment on his companion. "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 deftly 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 to the edge of the stone rail, then turned toward the open door and let go. Éomer watched smooth silver sail through the air and come to rest on table at his side.

"That is purely ceremonial. I am awarded the honour by my father, by virtue of my service to Middle Earth, not by my birthright. For I am something considered worse than merely illegitimate in the world of Elves, Éomer 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 Éomer not to reach out and touch his finger to 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 the heat in Éomer grew. He wished some way to stop this slide of the earth under his feet that threatened to tip him over.

"Legolas, I think you have had enough of that." Éomer said, although he was the one who felt dizzy. He took a few long strides and reached for the bottle, but Legolas swung his arm out over the railing. Éomer stumbled forward and found they were chest to chest. The sweet fruit and vanilla smell of the liqueur, combined with the clean, fresh scent of the Elf, knocked the breath from him.

"Never!" Legolas let out a puff of warm air, enough to refill Éomer's lungs. "Éomer, I wish to make my confession. I bid you listen careful and grant me my peace."

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

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

"That is mine!" Legolas lunged forward and discovered that not only was Éomer taller than him, always a welcome attribute as far as the Elf was concerned, but was possessed of a longer reach as well. This did not overly concern Legolas, as the manner in which he was now plastered against Éomer, 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 it was Éomer who 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. Éomer found it increasingly difficult to restrain himself, especially since the hand that was not reaching for the bottle had found its way to Éomer's waist, where long fingers pressed and heated him, and a hot palm had found the edge of his leggings in spite despite thick layers of linen tunic and suede jerkin.

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

"I have watched you guzzle this all night," Éomer protested, surprised by the harsh pitch of his own voice.

"I do not guzzle, my dear King." Narrow hips twisted against Éomer, the unmistakable bulge brushing against Éomer's hardening length. Legolas smiled when he heard a sharp intake of breath. He let that distract Éomer for the second it took for a movement too quick for mortal eyes to follow; he snatched back the bottle and stepped away, 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."

Éomer studied 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, heavy in the air around them.

Legolas nodded and reclined against the stone. "Yes, I believe you might call it heliotrope."

Heliotrope. That was the colour Éomer had been trying to think of, the flower he'd seen so often in the lea, with pale, reddish-purple flowers that grew in the direction of the sun. Éomer leaned in the direction of the Elf, as if to bask in his warmth. 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 of the Elf reclining against a finely woven blanket of the same colour, clad in considerably less.

Legolas lounged against the balustrade, long legs stretched out in front of him. The line of his outer thigh was exquisite, so much more elegant than Éomer's, or so Éomer thought. Legolas was drinking again, and Éomer wanted to raise his hand to feel his muscles coax down the fluid. 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 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 thing I could be persuaded by spirits to say or do something I might regret? Nay, dear, Éomer, I know my mind." He looked pointedly down at the conspicuous bulge lifting Éomer's heavy jerkin away from his body. "Distract me no more, and allow me to lighten it."

"Very well," Éomer 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 this unexpected familiarity. 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."

Éomer could not believe what he was hearing. This glowing, unfathomably 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; however, that excuse will no longer hold. I am more than mature, yet still behave like an Elfling. You have, no doubt, taken note of 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…"

Éomer 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, as of yet, seriously considered pursuing it.

"Do not look so alarmed, dear Éomer; I am not so bloodthirsty between the sheets!" The laugh had a bitter undercurrent, as if he might be, 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 Éomer's eyes. "You need not look so shocked, either. I doubt you are innocent of sensual experience."

The certainty that this was a revelation of a sexual nature was undeniable, and this was both unnerved and almost painfully stimulated the listener. The two stood staring at each other for a moment, until Éomer 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 especially so with the Elves you have met here in Minas Tirith, my more distant kin from Rivendell and Lóthlorien. 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.

Éomer frowned to see such a beautiful face grow 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 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 an exhibit to Éomer. "The unfortunate product of that union," he pronounced.

Éomer struggled to comprehend 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 manner. To a Man, I look like an Elf. To an Elf, I must seem positively… Orc-ish." He finished this 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 Éomer feel the Orc-ish one.

"To you," Legolas replied in a deceptively light tone. "Perhaps to you, dear King Éomer." He touched, with a single finger, the sleeve of Éomer'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 feigned 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."

Éomer looked at the slender but strong form as it turned back once more to face the darkened city. Legolas favoured males. Male Elves, Éomer assumed. Men of Gondor, or the North, perhaps. He found his thoughts drifting, without warning, to the Dwarf Gimli.

A low chuckle came from behind the veil of golden hair. "I can read your thoughts from here, my friend, but 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 casually into the night air, as if it were a rhetorical question and not directed toward the Man at his side.

Éomer 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 male in this way before, but would admit that Legolas had always intrigued him. This revelation of Legolas's preference for males shed new light on the Elf's behaviour this evening.

He also found the question confusing. Was Legolas referring to the practice of Elves consorting with Men, or that of males consorting with males? Éomer 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 want another warrior? The desire for… a certain intensity…"

"I have never experienced it." Éomer approached slowly. "The act, I mean."

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

Legolas straightened and drew away from the abyss, backing toward the tall, broad body behind him. "What of the desire?"

Éomer stepped forward, pressed his chest against the erect back, and brought his 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 wrought by hundreds of years of battle.

"What of your people?" Éomer whispered.

The recently trimmed hairs of his moustache tickled the very tip of Legolas's ear. The sensation summoned memories, 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 been 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 love in many different ways. But they find the sexual 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 Éomer courage. "I myself have never shied from anything dirty. I would entertain the thought of such an act, for although I have…" he hesitated, "‘experimented', I have never found true fulfilment 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 fear 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 Éomer's hazel eyes. "I think you would find an Elf unbreakable."

"I do not doubt it." Éomer held his arms out, not touching the Elf but encircling him.

Legolas pressed his lean torso up into Éomer's wider bulk, pleased to find that the king did not yield, but pressed back. Strong. "However, if you merely seek an unbreakable woman, you will find disappointment. I may satisfy you with my fairness, but I am decidedly male."

Éomer reached down to cup the firm bulge straining against white leggings. "That will not pose a problem, 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 truly had never considered such an act his life. This Elf though, this Elf all but demanded such action. Éomer did not pause to overly question. The way Legolas moved under his hand, so sinuous as he pressed himself into Éomer's fingers, was reason enough to continue.

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

Éomer trailed his fingers along a silk-encased, bow-strengthened arm. He paused for 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 placed 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.

Heated muscle and grasping hands pressed Legolas back against the railing. The glimmer of a torch on the ramparts, several levels below, caught Éomer's eye, but he paid it no more than a moment's heed. The night had grown so dark he could barely see Legolas anymore, so he doubted anyone would witness this indiscretion in the shadows of the little, recessed balcony. Once Legolas nipped at his lower lip and then filled his mouth with the syrupy sweet taste of the wine, he found he no longer cared if they did.

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

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 Éomer'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 Éomer's thigh to rest on his hip. This brought their cocks into perfect alignment, and caused Éomer to respond with an undignified, yet most satisfying, grunt. It was difficult to comprehend, this burning desire coupled with 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 waist, and sucked the sweet-flavoured tongue into his mouth.

Legolas perched on the top of the balustrade, but there was no danger of his falling. One arm wrapped tightly around Éomer's broad shoulders; the other slid down to grip a firm bicep. And he was, it seemed, firmly attached to Éomer at the lips. He was going nowhere; Éomer would have it no other way.

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

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

Éomer grimaced. "This bed…"

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

Éomer's eyes followed and lit up when they found the rug. He scrambled backwards, then hesitated. He looked down at the Elf, whose hair and limbs, spread around him. The fine silk shirt gaped open, revealing a sculpted pale chest. By the light of the fire Legolas had built when they entered, Éomer could see wide dark nipples crinkling under his gaze. Widespread legs accentuated the size of the bulge hidden by an intricately laced panel, and Éomer was seized by the sudden desire, need even, to uncover what the ties obscured.

He pushed the shirt up and tugged at the silk cords. Legolas did not help or hinder his movement, but lay still and stared up at the face of his friend. So wild, Éomer looked. Legolas had seen him serious in council, fierce in battle, angry and sad and joyful, but this passion was something Legolas had only sensed before, beneath the surface, and hoped he might someday see unleashed. He moved abruptly to pull the shirt over his head.

Éomer 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 Éomer pulled the supple fabric down to find… not what he expected.

The willowy form of the Elf had led Éomer 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 only, 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. Éomer 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, Éomer," he hissed.

Éomer 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 the ripples of muscle under smooth pale skin as Legolas curled up off the bed and plucked at the fastenings of his jerkin with brisk movements. Once the heavy garment was removed, Éomer 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 atop the Man.

"Why my sweet, ethereal, serene Elf - you weigh more than you look," Éomer grunted. "And I see now how your kin might think you rash."

Legolas growled and ripped the front of Éomer's tunic up the middle, letting the fasteners fly. Éomer would have protested the harsh treatment of his clothing, had the feel of steely fingers proven unworthy of the price of a new dress tunic. As it was, he would have been happy to outfit the entire Gondorian court with new finery in exchange for the feel of those hands on his chest.

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

"And enough complaints," Legolas breathed in his ear, pushing his hands away and shedding the leggings as quickly as he'd snatched the bottle earlier. He mounted Éomer again, kneeling on the thick rug. "I believe you promised absolution." He twisted his hips and made their cocks press together 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," Éomer rumbled, "but I 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 Éomer's coarse beard with a moan. He craved the rough texture, the feel of fur against his hairless skin. To his delight, a copper-tinged thatch covered Éomer's chest, which rasped across his smooth torso and set the Elf to writhing frenetically.

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

Éomer loosened his hold to reach between them and capture both cocks with one wide hand. Legolas signalled his approval with a hot huff of air across Éomer's cheek and a swipe of his tongue from chin to temple. Éomer 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 Éomer'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 Éomer's mouth quickly stilled his limbs, and he stretched back on the thick fur rug, content to revel in this pleasure for the moment.

Éomer lapped at the thick cock. Sweeter than the syrupy liqueur, and far 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, Éomer, I would not have you undo me this way!"

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

Éomer 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 Éomer'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 Éomer 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 Éomer. He drew his legs up under himself, so he knelt above the man as before, and sat back on brawny thighs. He kept one hand on Éomer's chest, fondling the crisp hair, while the other gripped Éomer'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 grown from the man beneath him. "What say you, Éomer King? Will you test if you are breakable?"

Éomer 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 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 Éomer 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 Éomer, 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 purred. He swivelled his hips to encourage Éomer to explore further. "But my greater experience puts me at an advantage." He withdrew his hand, giving a short, gasping laugh when Éomer whimpered and raised his hips as if to follow. Legolas made a lascivious show of sucking the fingers into his mouth, murmuring his approval of the taste and slicking them with his saliva. The Legolas reached behind himself, and felt between Éomer's spread legs.

The wetness eased the way considerably, and Éomer felt his cock leap in Legolas's other hand when a finger slid into his body. He missed the brush of silky hair against his face, but Legolas's arched back left him far more accessible to Éomer's sight and touch. The trade off was most agreeable. He pressed up with his fingers, but pulled away when he met with resistance. Éomer lifted them to his mouth, his eyes never once leaving the heavy-lidded blue orbs gazing down at him. He was at once overwhelmed by the taste. He wanted more of it, but Legolas slipped a second finger inside, and Éomer decided that mutuality was the best course. He forced his legs wider, fully opening Legolas to his questing fingers.

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

Éomer emulated Legolas's actions, adding a third finger, turning his hand, curling his fingers. Éomer shouted; Legolas bore down harder on Éomer's hand.

Éomer'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. Éomer realised the cock pressed against his inner leg was heavy and rigid.

He drew his legs up, 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," Éomer 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 Éomer could change his mind, before he had the chance to think about how it would feel to have that thick, demanding cock inside.

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

Éomer reared back, so 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 straw-coloured hair and pulled Éomer's head back until his throat was drawn tight. "Is this enough intensity for you, or shall I up the stakes?" He reached around with his other hand, relieved to find Éomer's cock hardening anew; he had not been wrong about how to go about this at all. He lowered his mouth to Éomer's shoulder and sank his teeth into the skin.

Éomer roared and pushed his ass back to slam into Legolas's hips. It would have thought it 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. Then it struck something inside that made Éomer go mad for an instant.

Legolas was momentarily shocked too find himself pushed all the way back, onto his knees, with Éomer sitting in his lap.

Éomer threw his head back against Legolas's shoulder. It did not give.

Legolas kept one hand on Éomer's length, the other on his broad chest. "Yes, my wild King, bury me deep inside you…" He bit at the exposed neck and shoulders, tasting sweat and leather and traces of Éomer's previous release.

The weight and awkwardness of the position made it difficult for Legolas to thrust far, but Éomer more than made up for it by fucking himself on Legolas's sturdy 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." Éomer responded as much to the animal growl of it as to the word.

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

"Elbereth, you are like something I have dreamt of…" Legolas gasped when Éomer's swollen lips left his.

"As are you, but I fear my legs cannot withstand this particular dream much longer."

Legolas laughed and rolled his hips back. Éomer groaned when the spent cock slipped from him, trailing thick slime on his thigh. He slumped to the floor, half on top of the other male. 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 Éomer's shoulders and pulled him even closer, laying a tender kiss on the top of his head. "Not breakable indeed," Legolas teased gently.

Éomer twisted in his arms to face him. "Not at all, and glad of it. I had no idea of this. 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 Éomer, whenever you desire."

Éomer's face clouded. "That is not possible."

"Shh, I will not have your responsibilities or mine intrude on this moment." Legolas pressed soothing kisses all over Éomer's face. "Think not on it, for I would enjoy you like this for as long as possible. Undone," he whispered, "and so very beautiful."

Éomer 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 dissolve into Legolas's firm embrace. They lay together for some time, breaking apart only long enough for Éomer to feed the fire, and for Legolas to glide effortlessly out to the balcony to retrieve 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 Éomer's shoulder. "But then, I have always had immature tastes." He tilted the bottle and watched the thick liquid pour between Éomer's parted lips. "My new favourite," he murmured, "Elven Sweet Wine and sweet Rohan warrior-king." He placed the bottle down on the floor beside he rug, leaving both hands free to weave into Éomer's hair as his tongue delved into the king's mouth.

Éomer sucked the sweet tongue and moaned. His entire body was tingling, singing, 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, eh?" The loud boots 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 Éomer's scandalously naked body curled against that of his friend.

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

Éomer 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 night. 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 tonight would be the ideal time to approach you."

"I believe it was a bit more than that," Gimli snorted. "But never mind 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 than 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 blanked 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, grinning.

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 Éomer's chest, distracted by the shape and texture. "That is to say, there was a desire I myself did not recognise at first, but Gimli saw it as plain as day. He is quite perceptive for a Dwarf, you know."

This earned the Elf a loud ‘harrumph' from the direction of the armchair.

Legolas twirled one finger in a strand of yellow hair and kept his eyes locked with Éomer'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?"

"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, quite contented, I might add. Do not look for her at breakfast this morn. She is quite well done!"

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

"I dare say, I am greatly looking forward to my next tryst with the Lady Lothíriel."

Éomer sat up abruptly, tearing himself from the Elf's embrace. "Lady Lothíriel? Of Dol Amroth? But she and I are… I mean, Prince Imrahil approached me about her and…" He stopped when he saw the crestfallen expression of Legolas's face. "We have not! We are not. Not yet. It is a political match, nothing more. I swear 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. Éomer 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, had he only known it was his to give. Since their first fiery meeting, the Elf had been in his mind; he only now realised it for the truth it was. But Prince Imrahil had approached him some time ago, and the Lady Lothíriel 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 Éomer's shoulder sadly. He was such 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 of his lover, particularly if he lover was a male. And a male of a different race. He would be left with bittersweetness and nothing more, for the memory of the elation he had been feeling earlier would be forever tempered by disappointment, and even grief.

"Aye, and a good match it will be, too," the Dwarf said blithely. "I'm sure the lady will produce heirs for you, if I ask it of her."

"If you ask? How dare you presume…" Éomer 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. Well, speak up, Legolas; will you share Éomer with Lothíriel 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 Éomer'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, Éomer?"

Éomer 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. However, 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 you're 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."

Éomer looked from the hopeful Elf to the self-satisfied Dwarf and back again. 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 Éomer. "Let them judge us; I need not their approval. Until then, while I would prefer to have you as my own in the eyes of all, I could accept you as mine only behind closed doors."

"If it were any others it might work, but I am a king, and you are two of the Nine Walkers. Our 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, Legolas, and their state of undress.

Éomer 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 lips crystallised 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 enjoy what we are."

Éomer 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 Éomer'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.

*****

THE END

Go to the next story in the series: What Gamling Discovered

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