Fifty themes, one sentence each!

Theme set Gamma

“Were you ever tempted by the ring?” asked Eowyn.

The couple had dined with Faramir and—as so often happened when the three of them were together, late in the evening, sitting beside a cheerful fire—their thoughts had turned to Boromir. “In the end,” Faramir had told them, “he defeated it, and died a hero.”

Now, lying in Legolas’ arms, Eowyn was wakeful, and inclined to talk.

“It spoke to me once,” the elf admitted, at last, clearly unsettled by the memory. “At the Council of Elrond, I heard its whisper. It knew us,”—he drew her closer—“better than we knew ourselves—and found the hope and the fears inside each one of us. It tempted Boromir with stories of victory, and of lasting renown, and with its promises overwhelmed his noble spirit. I watched him fall, melmenya, though it was not until we reached Lorien that I fully understood what I had seen.”

“What did it say to you, Lassui,” asked Eowyn, softly, “what lies did it tell you? No, wait!” Suddenly needing to see him more clearly, she lit the candle on her bedside table. “What did the foul thing promise you?”

“The world,” he said, smiling up at her.

“But that was no temptation at all,” she said, frowning, “for power has never interested you.”

“Not power, melmenya,” he corrected, his eyes fever-bright, “but love. It offered me you—right there, in the Council, I seemed to enter your body. And it was so real, so intense, I almost—I could not breathe.”

Eowyn shivered, though not from cold. “But we had never met Lassui—the thing was tempting you with some unknown woman.”

“I know that it was you, melmenya,” he said, pulling her back into his arms, “for my spirit had long ago begun its search for you, and you were already in my heart.”

“Oh, Legolas,”—she snuggled against his chest, closing her eyes to hold back the tears—“I had forgotten just how—how different—how instinctive, you elves are. But you still had the strength to resist the ring.”

She heard him laugh, softly. “I was well protected,” he said, “by the power of Lord Elrond, and by Mithrandir’s black speech, slicing through my mind like a shard of ice. His words dispelled the dream of you,”—he pressed his lips to her forehead—“and I was released.”

“Did you ever hear it again—later, on the journey?” She lifted a lock of his hair, and let its silky length slip through her fingers.

“No, after that there was nothing but silence,”—he sighed. “Now, meleth nín, it is well past midnight, and you should be sleeping.”

“But I am not tired,” she grumbled, pushing back the embroidered bed cover, “and, besides, I am enjoying our talk.”

“Then we will talk,” said Legolas, “but I shall ask Míriel to fetch you a warm drink; or would you prefer…?” Gently extricating himself from her embrace, he took a box from the nightstand, removed the lid, and held it out to her.

Smiling, Eowyn selected a cherry red sweetmeat. “When I faced the Witch King,” she said, nibbling it, thoughtfully, “I, too, seemed to hear a voice—not his voice—but someone else’s, smooth as silk—telling me to kneel before him. Then I plunged my sword through his mask, and he howled like the wind. It was terrible, Lassui—as though a hurricane were swirling inside his armour, tearing him limb from limb.”

“And yet it never occurred to you to run away?” asked Legolas, wrapping a protective arm around her shoulders.

“Of course not,”—she popped the last of the sweetmeat into his mouth—“I had a sacred duty to protect my uncle—and I really thought that I could save him.”

“You did save him, melmenya,” said Legolas, squeezing her gently, “and now he dwells with his ancestors, forever noble, and at peace.”

“Yes—that is what he told me,”—she smiled, sadly—“as we said our farewells: ‘I go to my fathers, in whose mighty company I shall not now feel ashamed,’ he said—and it eases my heart, now, to remember it—but how could you know what he said?”

“Well—I am an extraordinary elf,” he replied, kissing her forehead, her nose, and her mouth with a mixture of playfulness and tender concern, “and,”—his gaze fell upon her soft lips, reddened by the sweetmeat, and lingered—“and perspicacity is not my only talent.”

“No,” said Eowyn, “there is music—you sing like a bird.”

“And I can dance, too.”

“Oh, dance,” she said, suddenly catching his change of mood, and smiling, “and what would your favourite measure be—a formal sarabande?”

“A long, slow, relentless march, performed with all the appropriate gravity,” he murmured, punctuating his words with the motion of his hips.

“You describe it well,” said Eowyn, raising her eyes to view his face, transformed by desire, “but now I need you to show me, Lassui.”

…

He laid her on her back, and raised her nightgown, and kissed her until she was ready; then he entered her—and, with each deep, deep thrust, her arms thrown wide like eagle’s wings, Eowyn felt her spirit soar higher and higher. Then the moment came; and light, rushing out from where his body filled hers, seemed to flood her arms and her legs and her head, and blind her eyes with stars enough to eclipse the early morning sun.

And when, at last, she came back to herself, and her beloved elf was still lying within her, she blessed the Valar for sending him, to journey on life’s highway beside her.