Part 11

Eowyn clasped her hands together, and smiled.

For a moment, she had felt Legolas’ presence!

He had told her that he loved her, and had assured her that he was coming to find her. And, although he had been gone a split-second later, that contact had been enough to reassure her that her husband was safe.

It had given her hope.

She settled down beside her heated rock and, ignoring the dragon’s snores, she tried to work out a plan.

She did not believe that the beast meant her any harm—it seemed to think of her as a pet—but that might easily change if she tried to sneak away, which—in turn—meant that, in order to escape, she might have to kill it, and she no longer thought she could bring herself to do that.

Besides, she thought, I already knew that my sword—which was lying somewhere out of reach—is no match for the dragon’s scales.

And then there was the small matter of the mountain.

She could see no way to get safely down to the plain, And no way, she thought, for an elf to get safely up. Which means that my only option is to persuade the dragon to let me go.

She lay on her back, trying to think of a convincing argument but, as the sky turned dark and the stars began to shine, she grew more and more tired and, eventually, she drifted off to sleep...

...

“Good morning...”

Eowyn opened her eyes. The pale winter sun was shining through the windows, lighting Legolas’ golden hair as he leaned over her.

She sighed. “Morning, Lassui.” Then, “It must be late...”

“I let you sleep in at little, melmenya, since escaping from a dragon takes it out of a woman.”

“What have you been doing?” she asked, for he was fully dressed.

“I have been in your garden.” He brought his hand from behind his back with a flourish, and opened his fingers. Lying in his palm was a tiny flower of the deepest red, laced with delicate frost. “I found it lying on the ground,” he said. “The hûnlass shed it just for you.”

The hûnlass... Eowyn remembered the little plant that Legolas had given her, one Sweetheart’s Day, years before the Valar had brought them together, and how he had told her that the men of South Ithilien believed that its flowers brought joy to all who saw them. “It may have been for someone else,” she said, holding out her hand and letting Legolas drop the flower onto it. Her garden belonged to another now.

She brought the flower to her nose, and inhaled its delicate scent, looking up at her husband. “How do you know that it was intended for me?”

Legolas smiled his most beautiful smile.

“You are a very conceited elf,” she said, laughing, and she reached over to the nightstand, and gently tipped the flower from her hand.

Then she turned back to Legolas and slid her arms around his neck.

Legolas lowered her onto her pillows and, as he kissed her mouth, gently but thoroughly, she felt his hands move down to her hips and pull at her nightgown.

Eowyn considered undressing him, but quickly decided that that would take too long, so she brought her hands down to his waist and, reaching inside his jerkin and tunic, she unlaced his leggings.

Legolas’ hand, meanwhile, had found its way between her legs.

“Oh,” she moaned against his mouth. She had curled her own hand around his hard, thick warmth just as his fingers had begun to tease her flesh, and her back arched with the sheer, unbearable joy of it.“Oh. Oh—”

...

Eowyn awoke with a start.

...

The Flower, written for Valentine’s Day, 2007