Epilogue

The afternoon sky was filled with snow but inside their bed chamber, lit by a log fire and a few bright candles, all was warm and cosy.

“Surely,” said Legolas, nuzzling Eowyn’s neck, “you want to fly again, melmenya? I thought you enjoyed it.”

“Mmm...” Eowyn tilted her head, exposing more of her tender flesh. “It was fun,” she murmured, “for the hour or so that we—ah—that we were not facing certain death.”

Legolas lifted himself up on his hands and pulled out of her, gradually; then, smiling down at her, he suddenly thrust deep. “He,” he gasped, “assures me that—with modifications, The White Lady—”

“White Lady?” hissed Eowyn.

“That is what—what we have decided—to call the new ship.”

“Ah.”

“The White Lady,”—he breathed the name against her skin, grinding his hips with each syllable—“will use—use hot air—to work a great—great paddle—”

“Oh.”

“Yes—oh Valar—yes.” He slid his hands beneath her and, exerting his elven strength, he shifted their position, lifting her up on top of him.

“You,” said Eowyn, riding him slowly, “are far too hopeful—my darling. But I,”—she leaned back, bearing down hard upon him, and Legolas felt her body tighten around him—“I do not want—you to change, Lassui. Do not ever—ever—grow old—and wise...”

…

Later

“I am old and wise,” said Legolas, suddenly.

Eowyn kissed his hands, laughing.

THE END

Until, that is, they go to rescue the Djinn...