Riding Lessons

Pairing: Legolas/Éomer
Rating: G
Feedback: Always welcome at c_rhodora@hotmail.com
Setting: Post-RotK, AU
Summary: Thranduil and his family have sailed West, leaving Legolas as the new King of Greenwood. Legolas decides that a horse trade with the King of Rohan is in order.
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Tolkien and New Line Cinema. No infringement or offence itendtended.
Author’s Notes: This fic was written for the excellent Waters of Cuivienen fest challenge. Many thanks and praises to my beta readers, Zasjah and Panthera. This is dedicated to Dodger for putting up with me.

Part III. An Elvish Conspiracy

The following morning the King of Rohan rose at his customary hour despite not having slept a wink. He went through his morning routine: bathing, changing and having a light brast ast with the other guests before the coronation scheduled for later that morn. Éomer was the same, but he felt strangely different. He was present, but living in a waking dream that had not yet ended. Or had it only begun? He could not tell.

The Horse Lord found amusement in the smallest of things and all who encountered him remarked on his good humor. He longed to scream to all present that he felt alive and that foolish thought ultimately made him smile. He was still smiling when he encountered a more sober Steward of Gondor in the hallway. Poor Faramir was indeed feeling the effects of his late-night revelry.

“How fare you this morning?” Éomer asked, trying to appear sympathetic but failing miserably.

“The sun is too bright, the birds sing too loudly and there are too many people rushing about,” Faramir answered grumpily.

“The coronation is in a little over an hour,” Éomer explained.

“Thank goodness,” Faramir breathed. “Perhaps I can crawl into bed afterwards and get some sleep.”

“And miss the feast that is to follow? I’m sure Legolas will appreciate that,” Éomer joked.

The Steward of Gondor regarded the King of Rohan suspiciously. “How is it that you fare so well this morning?” he asked curiously. “Your night ended as late as mine and I’ll wager that you drank just as much wine. Do not think that I did not notice the number of bottles stacked at your table by the time you left. Though Gimli would be loath to admit it, I understand that Legolas can drink him under the table.”

Éomer shrugged. “Elven wine appears to agree with me,” he commented.

Faramir looked doubtful but remained silent.

“Did you know,” Éomer continued hurriedly, “that Elves sleep with their eyes open? Perhaps you can discover the secret of that art and apply it during the coronation.”

Faramir looked at his dear friend oddly. “I believe I was mistaken,” he said at last. “You undoubtedly drank more wine than I did last night and it has clearly affected your mind.”

The remark made Éomer laugh heartily and he clapped the other Man on the back. “No more so than usual,” he grinned.

Faramir winced as the laugh rung too loudly in his ears. He was feeling much too sensitive this morning. “Very well, Éomer,” he agreed. “Perhaps later you shall tell me the secret to overcoming Elven wine.”

“The trick,” Éomer whispered enigmatically, “is not to let the dream end.”

With these words the Horse Lord went on his way, leaving an increasingly puzzled Steward behind him.

Éomer came across other friends and acquaintances that morning such as his sister, who happened to be looking for her husband.

“I would check your bedchambers again,” he suggested helpfully. “Faramir mentioned something about wanting to sleep.”

“It’s the wine,” Éowyn sighed. “Legolas always serves the most potent vintage for friends. Gimli suspects that he puts a secret ingredient in it that Elves are immune to but affects other races. It’s the only explanation he can give for being beaten by the Prince at a drinking competition.” She paused as she noticed her brother’s extremely happy disposition. “It’s good to know that you were more responsible with your drinking last night,” she commented.

“Responsible,” Éomer echoed. He felt giddy but amazingly managed to rein in another laugh.

Éowyn fixed him with a hard stare before finally nodding. She could always sense when there was something afoot with her brother. “Well,” she said, “try not to get into too much trouble before the coronation.” Then she turned in the direction of her bedchambers once again.

Trouble did not find the King of Rohan the rest of the morning, but the Prince of Dol Amroth certainly did. They conversed amiably and it was agreed that Éomer would make his first formal appearance with Lothíriel during the coronation. It seemed the perfect occasion to begin their courtship and the Horse Lord had to agree, even though his thoughts did not dwell on Lothíriel. On the contrary, an unfamiliar air of anticipation surrounded the possibility of seeing Legolas again. The Elf had been occupied all morning, but that was to be expected.

The Lórien Elves were not as occupied and Éomer passed by some of their group in the palace courtyard. The Man automatically gave Haldir a friendly wave when the Guardian caught his eye. If Haldir was surprised by the unusually open gesture, for he was not particularly close to the Horse Lord, he did not show it. Instead, he raised his hand in a more sedate greeting, but his gray eyes continued to follow the Man until he was out of sight, all the while wondering what sort of devious plan his long-time lover had in store.

~*~*~*~

The coronation was a magnificent affair as all those in attendance had expected it to be. The ceremony itself was relatively short and took place in the grandest hall of the Greenwood palace, now decked in the greens and golds of the Silvan Elves. Upon his head, the new King of Eryn Lasgalen wore a crown of white and gold woodland flowers woven into a finely crafted mirthril circlet; in his right hand, he held a staf oaf oak with the likeness of a delicate bird’s head carved at the tip.

Each guest was presented before the newly crowned King, all of them bearing gifts and praises from their lands. Legolas showed the utmost patience by attending them personally and sha a f a few words. While this considerably drew out the presentation process, none in the great hall minded for it instantly showed the difference between father and son. Where Thranduil had been rigid and formal, following the rules of etiquette to the letter; Legolas was open and approachable, immediately setting those around him at ease.

When Éomer’s name was called, he did not notice how the Herald included Lothíriel’s name in the announcement and the quiet murmur that went through the audience present, so intent was he to finally greet the new King. Legolas stood at the top of a long dais, his hands clasped before him, wearing the ceremonial robes of deep forest green embroidered with gold. Éomer held Lothíriel’s hand as they mounted the few short steps that lead to the dais. The Princess curtseyed before the Elven King, while the Man deferentially bowed his head.

“My friends,” Legolas greeted them. “It is good to see the both of you *together*,” he added with a twinkle in his eye.

A blush colored the Princess’ cheeks at the approving remark and her smile was radiant. She had long fancied the Elf, ever since Legolas had first visited Dol Amroth but Lothíriel was a practical young woman. She knew there was no future for her with Legolas beyond her own childish dreams. On the contrary, she counted herself fortunate to be courted by a man as noble and brave as KingKing of Rohan, although the prospect of leaving her home by the sea in exchange for the endless plains of the Riddermark saddened her heart. Marriage would open new doors and give her more responsibilities, but they would also clip the wings of her once carefree youth.

Éomer stood and watched as Legolas and Lothíriel exchanged short pleasantries. Etiquette demanded that he offer his best wishes, but the King of Rohan was content to nod in agreement with whatever was being said. The Horse Lord was more interested in studying his companions’ profiles, and what a marked contrast they presented. Lothíriel was slender and comely; her raven tresses fell in soft waves against her lavender gown. When she turned to look at him, he noticed that the hue of her dress highlighted the violet flecks in her gray eyes, which were framed by long dark lashes. She was beautiful. She would be his future wife.

Legolas was no less beautiful, but his beauty was of an entirely different nature and Éomer wondered why he had never paid particular attention to the Elf before. Perhaps it was because he considered Elves to be the fairer race, ageless and eternal. They seemed otherworldly to him and he had never desired one before. It felt almost sacrilegious to think, much less act on any impure thoughts. Such generalizations were foolish. He knew that now. Legolas was as real as he. The same blood flowed through their veins, the same ambitions and the same desire. Legolas represented possibility, the unknown, and it was somewhat frightening.

Now the Elven King stood before the King of Rohan, the Elf’s flowing blonde mane woven with the intricate knots of royalty. The plaits looked constricting in their precision. Did Legolas feel the weight of their responsibility? Éomer’s eyes focused on the carved bird’s head at the tip of the oak staff. He had never seen such likeness carved into wood before. But this bird would never fly nor greet anyone with song. It remained in its own cage though no bars surrounded it. With this realization the King of Rohan’s vision cleared. Taking Lothíriel’s hand to descend the steps of the dais, he could hear the snf a f a lock in his mind and he knew that the dream had ended.

~*~*~*~

Legolas could not help but breathe a sigh of relief when the presentations were done. He had stolen away onto a little balcony for some fresh air and a moment of peace. The day was glorious – perfect for a ride in the woods or a refreshing swim – but there were still many obligations to attend to. The guests now milled about the great hall as the final preparations for the midday feast were being made. The Elven King cringed when he thought of the formal banquet that he would have to endure later that evening.

This is what my days will be like, Legolas reflected, filled with guests and appointments, treaties and trade negotiations. He had already been approached by a trade councilor from the Dale who wished to re-negotiate the terms of the trade agreement that was scheduled for renewal in a few months time. Legolas had politely but firmly informed him that a meeting would be arranged within the next few days so that the new proposals may be thoroughly examined, indicating to the councilor that while the son may be more approachable than the father, he was no less a hard bargainer.

“I do not recall your coronation being this tedious,” the Elven King suddenly said aloud.

“It is different when you are the one being crowned,” came the reply from a figure that stepped out from behind the curtains shielding the balcony from the rest of the hall.

“So it is,” the Elf agreed, turning around to greet his old friend.

“You will no longer be able to avoid your courtly duties,” Aragorn commented, lighting leaning against the balcony’s curved stone arch.

“I have not avoided ourtourtly duties since I was an Elfling,” Legolas replied.

“Is that so?” The Man’s tone was amused as he smiled at the Elf. “Then what would you call our little meetings in the woods of your father’s realm?” he inquired.

Legolas looked him squarely in the eye as he said, “Guard duty.”

Aragorn laughed. He always enjoyed the quick repartee of the Elf. Legolas was as cunning and skillful of mind as he was deft and precise with his bow.

“You will make a good king,” he said in the peaceful silence that followed.

The remark seemed to startle the Elf although he hid it well. Only the slight widening of his irises gave him away.

“Someone has told you that before?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Legolas admitted thoughtfully, but did not say whom. Instead he motioned to his companion that they should return to the main hall. “I expect we are being missed,” he explained, “and the feast is no doubt prepared.”

As the two friends went back inside, the remark remained in Aragorn’s thoughts and the King of Gondor was left wondering what little secret his old friend was keeping from him.

~*~*~*~

The King of Rohan was subdued during the midday feast as though the effects of some drug he had taken had worn off. Faramir jokingly commented that they had exchanged places. The Steward was in high spirits after drinking some Elven potion to cure his hangover that was given to him by his wife, who in turn had received it from the Lady Arwen.

“It’s an Elvish conspiracy!” Gimli declared upon hearing about Faramir’s encounter with Elven wine and medicine. “It is no wonder that the fair folk are such crafty negotiators. They invite their prey to a feast, fill their cups, sign a deal and then cure them in the morning!”

Most of the guests laughed at the jest, but not all the Elves at the High Table were amused.

“You must pardon my friend,” Legolas announced to ease the slight tension at the table. “Gimli son of Glóin is in a bit of a predicament. You see,” the Elven King explained, “he cannot admit to himself that he was beaten by an Elf at his own drinking game.”

“Come to my realm, old friend,” the Lord of the Glittering Caves said with a sly wink, “and I shall show you a *real* drinking game.”

“I accept your kind offer,” Legolas replied graciously, “but first you must have more wine and then we can work out a trade agreement.”

By bringing the Dwarf’s joke full circle, the guests were able to laugh merrily without causing offence. Éomer could only manage a small smile. He did not find the joke particularly funny, especially after reflecting upon the events of the previous eve. Why had Gimli used the word ‘prey’? Had Éomer been, in his own way, a participant in a different kind of Elvish conspiracy? His brow furrowed at the thought of his uninhibited actions, and the Man did not realize that a pair of clear blue eyes watched him at the table.

~*~*~*~

After the meal, Éomer excused himself from Lothíriel’s company, claiming that he had some business to attend to. This could not have been further from the truth, but it would not do to tell his future wife that he would rather go for a ride than spend some time with her. Besides, the Man reasoned, he would be spending a great deal of time with her in the weeks to come. Just as the Horse Lord rounded the corner that would lead to his chambers, he caught sight of another person he was hoping not to see. Legolas was giving instructions to a young page and when he was done, the page bowed respectfully before scampering off. The Horse Lord slowed his steps, determined to be polite but not to get drawn into another one of the Elf’s ploys.

“Escaping already?” Legolas asked in a jesting manner.

“It has been an eventful day,” Éomer answered, “for you, most of all. I feel like I could do with a rest before tonight’s banquet.”

The Elf appraised the Man.

“How unusual,” he said at last. “I would have thought that you would prefer to go for a ride. I am inclined to do so myself. It is a wonderful day.”

“A ride?” the Man repeated disbelievingly. “On the day of your coronation? Do you not think you will be missed?”

Legolas stepped forward conspiratorially, his smile infectious. “My alibi is being taken care of as we speak,” he explained, motioning in the direction of the page that had disappeared down the hallway. “What say you, Éomer? Will you join me for a ride? Or can the Lord of the Mearas not compete with an Elven stallion?”

The bold challenge lit the fire in the Horse Lord’s eyes. A voice warned him that any kind of contest would result in an ill outcome, but his passion for riding and his love of horses enflamed him. What possible harm could come from a little race?

tbc…