Subject: She Follows (LotR:TTT, Aragorn/Legolas/Eowyn) Date: Monday, January 20, 2003 10:23 PM Title: She Follows Author: Victoria P. [firstname.lastname@example.org] Summary: Eowyn understands that she has no place in the reunion between Aragorn and Legolas. But still she follows. Rating: Hard R Fandom: Lord of the Rings (The Two Towers) Spoilers: vague ones for TTT Disclaimer: So not mine. Can't you hear Prof. Tolkien spinning in his grave? Archive: Lists, Muse's Fool. Feedback: of all kinds is most gratefully accepted Notes: As always, thanks to Jen, Dot, Meg and Pete'n'Melissa. Special thanks to Peggy and Pete for turning the beta around so quickly, and to Patricia for the salve. I blame Voleuse.
Eowyn's heart sings with joy at Aragorn's safe return. Her feet move of their own volition to welcome him, only to be stopped at the sight of Legolas returning the lady's jewel to him.
She turns away, tears burning in her eyes. Aragorn's heart is given; she respects that. But he is all she's dreamed of for so long -- kind, kingly, brave and skilled in the arts of war.
When he and Legolas leave the main hall together, she follows discreetly, for reasons even she cannot explain. She is drawn to him, like iron to a lodestone. She knows she's not the only one -- and she wouldn't be his chosen one -- but she follows nonetheless.
She understands about the bonds between men at war together. She's lived long enough amongst the men of the Rohirrim to know that fighting side-by-side creates its own intimacy, one that women will never be able to match, even inside the bonds of marriage. When she was younger, she had often been jealous of Eomer's men, who had become even closer to him than she, the closest of bloodkin, born of the same womb.
So yes, Eowyn understands that she has no place in the reunion between Aragorn and Legolas. But still she follows.
Aragorn's voice is a little louder than normal as he speaks, his words tumbling over each other as he tells Legolas of the army of Uruk-hai heading for the keep. Legolas mumurs low, soothing words, places a hand on Aragorn's back, but Aragorn will not be soothed.
Eowyn can sense his tension, his desperation. He is Isildur's heir, their leader against the dark hordes of Isengard, their beacon of hope against the Evil in the East.
And he is afraid, and he needs to take action, but all they can do for now is wait.
She longs to reassure him -- the will of her people is strong, and the keep has never been taken while the Rohirrim defend it.
She follows them to a small, unused chamber, and Legolas tends to Aragorn's injuries. The Ranger removes his shirt, and Legolas runs gentle hands over his body, rubbing sweet-smelling salve into Aragorn's wounds. And then Aragorn catches Legolas' hand and brings it to his lips. They speak softly, in Elvish, and she cannot understand the words, but the tone makes her quiver.
Legolas presses himself into Aragorn, shimmering golden in the torchlight, limning both men in a radiance that almost blinds her. They are beautiful, dark and blond heads together, lips meeting in urgent kisses that make her stomach flutter as if she's consumed a flight of moths.
They turn. Aragorn uses his greater height to swing Legolas against the wall, his mouth pressed to the hollow of the Elf's neck, and Legolas sees her.
She feels her face flame; while women of the Rohirrim understand the bonds between men, they must never speak of them, or behave as if they know. She has been caught, and while she knows she's wrong to have intruded, she straightens. She is a princess of her people, a shieldmaiden of Rohan, and she will not be shamed.
The Man and the Elf share a glance, and Aragorn holds out a hand to her. "There is only this," he says softly. "We ride to war, and must take comfort when it is offered, Eowyn, shieldmaiden of Rohan."
She puts her hand in his, and he draws her into their embrace. Legolas is tentative, his lips on her neck warm and soft, his hand at her waist gentle.
Aragorn takes her mouth with his, and fire consumes her.
She has kissed and been kissed before, though not often. Her sword-arm is rightly feared, and even if it were not, Eomer is not a man any of the Rohirrim would cross.
This is nothing like her past experiences. Her hands, as of their own will, tangle in Aragorn's hair, her body molds itself to his, and a whimper escapes her throat. She feels the chain of his lady's jewel around his neck, and forces herself to ignore it. There is nothing but this moment, she tells herself. The world has gone away. Aragorn's mouth over hers has made it disappear, and she is glad.
He releases her and leans forward, capturing Legolas' lips again, and she feels the hard planes of the Elf's body behind her. Elves mate as Men do, she knows, though her knowledge of them is vague.
She is awash in sensation, and she does not protest when they sink to the floor, all three entwined. Legolas has his back against the wall; Eowyn reclines against him, and Aragorn lies between their parted thighs.
Legolas slides his hands down into her bodice, warm, strong, assured. She lets her head fall back; she fits perfectly against him. He touches her breasts lightly, quickly, sending lightning bolts of desire through her. Aragorn is in front of her, kissing her, kissing Legolas, as his hands slide up her legs.
She's unsure of how this is going to work, and they can feel her anxiety. Legolas begins to whisper in her ear. She can't understand him -- he speaks in Elvish -- but the tone is familiar, like one uses to gentle a spooked horse.
She closes her eyes and gives herself over to them with a sigh. Aragorn's hands push her thighs apart; his fingers dip into her sex as Legolas thumbs her nipples. She arches, thrusting her breasts into Legolas' hands, her body knowing what to do even if she doesn't.
When Legolas moves his hands, she misses their warmth on her skin. She whimpers and he touches her again, his fingers joining Aragorn's under her skirts, grasping her hips.
By feel alone she is able to untie Aragorn's breeches; she strokes him, and he groans.
Aragorn brushes against her wet folds, and she gasps. Slowly, he sheathes himself in her, and she can't concentrate -- all her attention focuses on the slippery, wet heat between her legs. Legolas' hands slide around her body; he caresses her bottom, and she stiffens as he deftly works what feels like a finger into her from behind. Aragorn's mouth against her temple and Legolas' lips on her throat urge her to relax, and she does, trusting them utterly. Legolas works patiently, and she focuses on the sensation of Aragorn inside her; she runs her hands along his body, learning the feel and shape of him, and he growls in approval.
Legolas oh so slowly pushes into her from behind, slick and cool, and she tenses again, because this time, it's not his fingers. She fears for a moment that she will be split in half, that she cannot hold them both, but their hands on her hips and their soft words in her ears reassure her.
Her body is filled with them -- Legolas and Aragorn -- and they start to move. She unclenches her muscles and the discomfort begins to fade. She moves with them, tentatively at first, unsure, but her body takes over, and she knows no shame.
They speak softly to each other, the Man and the Elf, and she knows that this is not their first time together. They know each other's bodies, and they are sharing their secret, their gift with her.
She is a leaf caught in their tempest, swirling in the wind; she rides the rhythm they've begun, and delicious tension spirals up inside her.
Their hands everywhere -- on her breasts, her hips, between her legs -- and kisses follow, hot, open-mouthed kisses as they all gasp for breath, straining to grasp the bliss she knows is just beyond her reach.
Aragorn's hips jerk against her; they are all out of rhythm now and she knows he has found his release. He spills himself inside her and groans her name. Legolas' hands are on her hips, and she shudders as Aragorn slides his thumb against her mound. Pleasure swells and breaks and she cries out, only to have her cries swallowed by Aragorn's mouth.
Legolas is last, the famed endurance of the Elves extending even into the marital arts. "Aragorn," he whispers, "idril."
She is still floating on languorous waves of joy, uncaring of the mess between her thighs, or what the night will bring. She feels alive, loved. Safe. She is cradled between two of the most powerful men she has ever known, and two of the gentlest. She feels herself drifting off into a contented sleep, their arms surrounding her, when Legolas tenses.
"Someone approaches," he says.
And contentment flees, replaced by embarrassment, fear, loneliness. She must go back to the women. Though she would rather stand and fight with her king, her lovers (and she finds it all too easy to think of them that way, though she knows they will never be hers for more than this fleeting moment), she has a duty to her people.
They scramble upright; Aragorn looks away and hastily pulls on his shirt, while Legolas -- who looks as fresh and unruffled as he did when he entered Edoras the day before -- kneels before her and begins to clean the residue of their loving from her body with a handkerchief produced from under his tunic.
She puts a hand on his shoulder to steady herself and bites her lip. There are too many things she wishes to say, wishes she could say, but she knows she never will.
Legolas rises gracefully, kisses her hand.
Aragorn turns to her, and she can see his worry in the lines of his forehead. He cannot meet her eyes at first, and she knows he will apologize. He takes her hand in both of his, and she steels herself for the hurtful words.
"Eowyn," Aragorn begins, but she stills him with a finger to his lips. She refuses to let him regret this, because she refuses to regret it herself.
"It is enough," she says. "It must be."
She chose to follow him, she would follow him still, if he would let her. But she will drink the bitter draught of loneliness, of lost love, and she will keep a brave face.
She is a shieldmaiden of Rohan, and she knows her duty.
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