Riding Lessons

Pairing: Legolas/Éomer
Rating: PG-13
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 is intended.
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 IV. An Unexpected Proposition

An hour and a half later, two stallions thundered down the road awrom rom the Elven palace. It had been no mean feat escaping the city, for an ‘escape’ was the only way Éomer could characterize their covert departure. After agreeing to the Elf’s challenge, they had returned to their separate quarters to change into more appropriate attire. Legolas had instructed Éomer to wear his most inconspicuous riding clothes and to meet him behind the royal stables. There the Elven King gave him a forest green cloak bearing the insignia of the special royal envoy. They would not be stopped, Legolas explained, for a page had already informed the guards at the gate that an important envoy wobe dbe dispatched that very afternoon, and on no account should that envoy be delayed.

The Horse Lord shook his head in amusement as he slipped on his green cloak. He had to give the Elf credit. Legolas had planned everything in advance, making the Man wonder if he had also set his sights on a particular riding partner. The King of Rohan brushed this thought aside. Things were very different in the light of day without any Elven wine to distort his sensibilities. He would keep his head about him.

The two Kings ventured into the woods behind the stables and called for their mounts. Déor, the Chief of the Mearas, had been prepared an extra spacious stall in the royal stables, but like his Elven counterpart, preferred the freedom of the outdoors and merely came whenever his master called. Déor would take a bridle and saddle if need be, but Éomer often chose to ride him bareback without bit or bridle as Legolas had noticed in the past. It made the Elven King smile to know that the Horse Lord had such an Elvish style of riding without his knowledge.

The two stallions appeared at almost the same time from opposite directions. Déor’s rich chestnut coat was highlighted by the bright afternoon sunshine. He was the greatest of all the horses of the Rohirrim and he carried himself as befitted the mount of a King. It was clear that the two stallions had not encountered each other before and their competitive nature charged the air. Echuir pawed the ground restlessly and Legolas whispered a few words to him before mounting the steed in one smooth motion, while Déor eyed the black stallion suspiciously. He did not like the look of him. This horse did not give him the same respect that the other Mearas did. A different breed. He snorted to make his dislike known. Éomer mounted his horse, taking note of Déor’s attitude towards the Elven stallion. It appeared that this little race would be even more competitive than he had anticipated.

Legolas led the way into the complex tunnel structure from an entrance that Éomer had not seen before. Déor did not like following the Elven stallion and Éomer had to continually keep him in check as Legolas navigated the numerous torch-lit passageways. They traveled at a brisk trot until the Horse Lord recognized the cavernous mouth that would take them outside the Elven city. He pulled his cloak tighter around him as they drew nearer to the magical gates. As instructed, the guards on duty did not stop them, standing aside to let the two hooded riders pass.

Once across the wide bridge, the horses broke into a canter, eager to be able to stretch their legs at last. The canter quickly turned into a gallop along the smooth woodland road and the two stallions were well matched. The Horse Lord cast a furtive glance to his right. The wind had whipped Legolas’ hood from his face and the Man could easily see the Elf’s profile. His companion’s blonde mane blew freely behind him, a stark contrast to the precision of his royal braids during the coronation. This was the Legolas he knew, a kindred free spirit. Just as Déor was beginning to pull away, showing his superior speed and stamina, Legolas abruptly veered off the road and into the woods. Éomer cursed under his breath and called a command to Déor to follow. The Chief of the Mearas was also not amused by the little trick and strove forward to draw alongside the black stallion.

On the woodland terrain, the Elven steed showed his true prowess. Echuir was nimble and agile. While Déor could outrun him on a straight flat track, the Elven stallion weaved effortlessly in and out of the trees, not once slowing his stride. When they came across a large fallen oak tree, Echuir flew over it as though it were only two feet high instead of six. The Horse Lord was impressed and he urged his mount to follow suit though Déor did not care for jumping. On this occasion, Déor was more than willing to comply. He was not about to be bested by an arrogant Elven mount.

They rode like this for quite a while. Éomer lost track of time, so exhilarated was he by the wind, the race, the feeling of complete freedom that he derived from these rides and the joy of finally being able to share this passion with someone else. The horses could have run for hours but theernoernoon light was starting to wane and the King of Rohan regretfully knew that they would have to return to the palace soon. Yet Legolas rode on, headed for some destination unknown to the Man.

“Where are we going?” Éomer called out at last, curiosity getting the best of him.

“We are almost there!” Legolas called back. A tyA typical Elvish answer, the Man reflected, implying that it was no answer at all.

It was not long before Legolas slowed his pace, bringing Echuir into a trot and Éomer followed suit. They were approaching a break in the trees and as they passed through it, the Horse Lord saw a wide lake stretched before them. Éomer smiled appreciatively. It was an ideal place to rest and water the horses before returning to the city. He looked to his right and saw that Legolas had already dismounted. The Elf said a few words to Echuir who promptly ran off, following the trail around the edge of the lake. Then, to the Man’s great surprise, the Elf began to undress.

“What are you doing?” Éomer asked, unable to hide his alarm.

Legolas turned to face him, wearing only hlacklack leggings.

“You did not think that I would return to the palace without bathing?” the Elf replied, as though the mere suggestion offended him. Then he proceeded to peel off his remaining item of clothing.

“It appears Gimli is right,” the Horse Lord stammered, attempting to conceal his flustered state, his eyes nevertheless riveted by the sight before him.

“About what?” Legolas inquired, completely unselfconscious about his nudity.

“You are addicted to bathing.”

Éomer’s breath caught in his throat as his eyes momentarily locked with the Elf’s. Then Legolas smiled and let out one of those crystal laughs that the Man had heard so often the night before. Turning around and heading towards the lake, the Elf called over his shoulder, “That is one of the few things Gimli is right about!”

The Horse Lord watched as the Elf waded into the water. He had never been attracted to another male before, but there was no denying what he felt for Legolas at that moment. *And why not?* the Man asked himself. Surely all who look upon him must desire him in some way, whether they are aware of it or not. Legolas was beautiful. A masculine beauty, the Horse Lord reminded himself. Éomer had never looked closely upon the male form before, preferring the tapering of a woman’s waist and full hips, but now it was presented to him in its purest form. The Elf was standing almost waist deep in water, his back to the Man and Éomer watched as Legolas bathed. Each motion appeared sensual, each handful of water ran down the Elf’s flawless skin. Éomer marked the broad back, the flexing of a shoulder blade, the strong arms. The scene before him made his chest tighten.

Déor shifted restlessly, reminding the Man that he was yet to dismount. The Chief of the Mearas was eager to be off, somewhat annoyed that the Elven stallion was already frolicking on the other side of the lake. He also deserved a break and he made his dissatisfactknowknown by pawing the ground.

“Very well,” his master muttered as he dismounted. “Be good,” the Man ordered, fixing his mount with a hard stare. The stallion stared back, finally nodding his head in a non-committal way, as though to say he would try but could not promise anything.

Éomer shook his head as Déor tore off in the direction that Echuir had headed. Two high-strung, competitive stallions. The lake would not be big enough for the both of them. As his attention was drawn back to the bathing Elf, he realized that the lake was probably not big enough for the two of them either. The Horse Lord felt somewhat foolish standing by the side of the lake while his companion bathed. Looking about for somewhere to sit, his eyes settled upon a low flat rock. That would do, he decided, walking towards it, but the voice of the Elven King stopped him.

“Will you not join me?”

Éomer froze, his mind whirling with the implications of the question. He turned around slowly to face the Elf.

“We have ridden in a great sweeping arc,” Legolas explained, “and are only fifteen minutes away from the city. It would not do to be late for my own banquet,” he added with an impish smile. “I thought you might like to bathe and relax those tense muscles. It will save you the trouble of bathing later on.”

The Elven King paused and looked at the Horse Lord expectantly, blue eyes dancing with his challenge. Éomer’s legs harnedrned into lead and he was rooted to the spot. He had bathed with other men before. But those times had been instances of necessity or for the sake of efficiency, a far cry from his current situation. It made sense to bathe now, he tried to rationalize to himself. *I told you!* another part of him chastised. Any race with this fey creature would end in an ill outcome. An ill outcome is a matter of perspective, the rational voice said. What is so terrible about a bath?

Once the decision had been made to bathe, the Horse Lord was faced with another problem – the matter of undressing. While Legolas had been perfectly comfortable to strip in the Man’s company, Éomer did not share his feelings. You will come across as a prude, one part of him said. You are being modest, another side retorted. Favoring the course of modesty, the Horse Lord coughed slightly as he began to untie the laces of his tunic.

Sensing that a minor victory had been won, Legolas turned around to give the Man some privacy. He could hear a small sigh of relief as Éomer continued to undress and he smiled at the thought of the Man’s shyness. Shy was a word he had never associated with the King of Rohan before. A splash of water told him that the Horse Lord had joined him in the lake. He turned around to see Éomer a few feet away, splashing his face with water and rubbing his arms clean. Éomer was trying to bathe as quickly as possible. Legolas almost laughed. The Man was so charming when he was flustered. Well, the Elven King thought, I’ll just have to put him at ease.

Silently, the Elf moved behind the Man who was too preoccupied to notice. He reached out and placed his hand on the Man’s shoulder. Startled, Éomer instinctively tried to turn around but Legolas held him still, gently rubbing the Man’s tense shoulder muscles.

“Let me wash your back,” the Elf offered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Éomer tried to calm his rising panic by taking a few deep breaths. He was acutely aware of their nakedness and their proximity to one another. He concentrated on the feel of Legolas’ hands on his shoulders. They were working their particular magic, and despite himself, the Horse Lord began to relax, allowing the Elf to continue his ministrations, silencing the voice that told him events would surely degenerate from here. Satisfied that the Man was more comfortable with his situation, Legolas turned his attention to the Horse Lord’s upper back, smiling to himself as he rubbed the firm muscles on the broad back. Éomer was a strong man. The Elf had no doubt that the King of Rohan would be a challenging lover. For his part, Éomer was attuned to every motion of the Elf’s hands, every tenderly kneaded muscle and he realized with some surprise, that this did not feel wrong.

“I have been thinking about the Rhovanion,” Legolas suddenly said.

“Oh?” Éomer answered. He had closed his eyes and was content to let Legolas work his magic.

“I have heard that the Chief of the Mearas may not be ridden in the competition. Is this true?”

“Yes,” Éomer replied. “It is commonly known that the Chief of the Mearas is the finest of all the horses of the Rohirrim. None can surpass Déor’s speed and stamina. It would not be a fair race if Déor were allowed to enter.”

“Then,” Legolas continued, “aside from this exception, any mount may be entered?”

“Any mount,” the Horse Lord repeated, only half-conscious of his words.

“Tell me more about the race,” the Elf encouraged, his attentions moving ever lower on the Man’s back, unintentionally making it more difficult for Éomer to think. Now Legolas was doing some extraordinary work on his spine, applying varying amounts of pressure with his fingertips along the discs of his spinal cord. It had the effect of completely relaxing him and Éomer felt as though he were drifting into a dream-like state.

“A dream,” the Man whispered. Being with Legolas was a beautiful Elvish dream.

“Yes, Éomer?”

The Elf’s melodious voice snapped him back to reality and he turned his head slightly to look at the Elf, no longer embarrassed about their nudity.

“You are very good with your hands,” he remarked.

“I have had centuries of practice,” Legolas replied and then added mischievously, “and have perfected other skills.”

The King of Rohan quickly looked away, but not before the Elf saw the faint blush creep up his cheeks. Éomer cleared his throat before speaking again.

“The Rhovanion,” he said, returning to the subject at hand. “What else do you wish to know?”

“Who may enter the competition?”

The Horse Lord thought for a moment before saying, “I suppose anyone may enter the competition. Naturally, most of the competitors are from the Rohirrim. Each noble house is represented by a horse and rider. But other races and people from neighboring realms may e. It. It is not uncommon for a Captain of Gondor to do so.”

“Must a participant be of noble blood?”

“No,” Éomer replied. “That law was abolished during the reign of King Folcwine, when after many hard winters, the Rohirrim were at last able to regain their strength. Now a common stable boy may enter, especially if he is requested to do so by his Lord. Conversely, an independent rider may enter bearing no title save for his name and his distant land.”

“And women?” the Elf prodded. “May women enter the competition?”

The Man could hear the playful lilt in the Elf’s voice and he gave his companion a sidelong glance. Legolas had now reached the region of his lower back and was drawing soothing circles with his thumbs on the slight indentations just above his buttocks, threatening to move lower but keeping his hands on the Man’s hips. Éomer found the action terribly arousing and he let out a short, nervous laugh.

“There is no regulation preventing women from entering the Rhovanion,” he said, tension lacing his voice. “Éowyn would have my head if there was,” he continued, “but thus far, no woman has participated in the competition.”

Legolas could hear the nervousness creep into Éomer’s voice and felt the slight stiffening of the Man’s body. He stopped his actions immediately, lightly resting his hands on the Man’s hips. This was followed by an imperceptible sigh, tinged with a hint of regret. The two companions stood in silence, listening to the sounds of the horses splashing and chasing one another at the far end of the lake. Slowly, Legolas wrapped his arms around the Man’s waist, pulling the Horse Lord against his body.

Éomer did not resist. He let the Elf hold him, relaxing against the strong embrace. He felt secure, and without realizing it, he had covered the Elf’s hands with his own, holding the Elven King in place. With another sigh, he let his head rest on Legolas’ shoulder, exposing his neck to the Elf’s attention. Legolas placed a trail of light kisses on the Horse Lord’s neck, finally resting his chin on Éomer’s shoulder. He liked the feel of the Man’s body against his. They fit so well together.

After a while, the King of Rohan broke the silence.

“Why did you ask me those questions about the Rhovanion?”

Legolas lifted his head. “Yes, the Rhovanion,” he repeated, as though he’d already forgotten the topic. He loosened his grip around the Man’s waist, much to the Horse Lord’s dismay. “I have a proposition for you.”

“Oh?”

“Since you cannot enter your own mount in the competition, I thought you would like to enter mine.”

The proposition confused the Man for a moment, but when its meaning became clear, he spun around in surprise, forcing the Elf to take a step back.

“Your mount?” he said in disbelief. “You mean Echuir?”

“Yes.”

Éomer shook his head. “No,” he answered. “In order to be entered into the competition, the stallion must belong to my family. I cannot imagine that you would wish to part with him in such a way and nor could I accept such a gift.”

“Then think of it as a trade.”

The Rohan King looked into the Elven King’s clear blue eyes, trying to decipher what sort of game the Elf was playing, but Legolas looked deadly serious. The Man remained silent.

“Echuir is very valuable to me,” Legolas admitted, “but I also know that he desires a challenge and what better way to challenge him than to run him in the Rhovanion, the greatest horse race in all of Middle-Earth?”

“Even if that were so,” Éomer said thoughtfully, “we would have to find a rider for him. I do not know much about Elven steeds, but I imagine that they would be just as finicky as the Mearas when it comes to choosing a rider. This would be doubly true for a stallion as magnificent as Echuir. Unless,” he paused, a sudden thought entering his mind, “you mean to enter him yourself as an independent rider. An independent rider representing Greenwood? That would be perfectly acceptable.”

The Elf took a step closer and smiled.

“That is a very tempting idea,” he began, “but I am quite serious about a trade.”

Legolas paused for a moment, his eyes drawn to the sculpted chest before him and the patches of blonde hair covering it. He reached out and ran his fingers through it. Bodily hair had always fascinated him.

“It has been brought to my attention that my people are in need of more horses, fresh young blood,” the Elven King continued. “You are correct in saying that I would not give Echuir to anyone, but if he were to have another owner, only the King of Rohan would do.”

Legolas paused again, taking a handful of water in his right hand and pouring it on the Man’s chest. He leisurely began to bathe Éomer’s chest and torso with one hand, his othend ond once again lightly resting on the Man’s hip. He could feel Éomer’s heartbeat quicken and he took another step closer, bringing their bodies into contact.

“In exchange for Echuir,” the Elf went on, “I request twenty-fives horses of my choice and five of your finest horses every year for the next five years.”

Éomer’s mind flew into a frenzy. He was alarmed that his body was responding so readily to the Elf’s actions, the all too familiar feeling of heat pooling is grs groin. It would not be long before Legolas would feel the evidence of his desire. He tried to steady his breathing and struggled to concentrate on the Elf’s proposal. Twenty-five horses plus five horses per year for the next five years. It was a high price.

“Fifty of the Rohirrim’s best steeds in exchange for one Elven stallion,” the King of Rohan managed to say aloud.

“Echuir is no ordinary Elven stallion,” Legolas countered, firmly sliding his arm around the Man’s waist, effectively locking their bodies together. Being around Éomer was intoxicating. Surely the Man could feel the charged atmosphere. “He is worth the price,” the Elf added, his right hand pressed in between their bodies, resting on the Man’s firm stomach. He was sorely tempted to travel lower.

“Yes, he is,” Éomer agreed, trying to gain some control over his body’s responses. “But there is still the matter of a rider. If you are serious about wishing to enter him in the Rhovanion, we must find aer fer for him, one that he will accept.”

“That will be no easy task,” the Elf admitted, giving in to temptation and moving his hand lower. There was no part of the Man’s body that was not firm. He stopped again when he reached the coarse pubic hair, allowing his fingers to tangle in the rough curls. Éomer’s breath hitched.

“But I am certain,” Legolas continued, eyes locked with the Horse Lord’s, “that with my help, we will be able to find a rider that Echuir will accept, and there is still time before the race for them to become accustomed to each other.”

The Elf cocked his head to the right, wondering what the Man would feel like in his hand. Remarkable self-control, the Elf thought, waiting for a telltale hardness to press against him. Legolas also possessed remarkable self-control, his body and breathing betraying none of the burning desire that he felt.

“What say you, Éomer?” he whispered, fingers moving deeper through the thick curls. “Do we have an agreement?”

“You are a hard bargainer,” the Horse Lord murmured, unconsciously shifting in the Elf’s embrace and still, Legolas did not touch him.

“Just like my father,” Legolas replied softly, bending down to place a kiss on the Man’s collarbone.

Éomer sighed, inhaling the scent of the Elf’s hair as Legolas bent over him.

“Yes,” he said, overwhelmed by the myriad emotions flowing through him. “We have an agreement.”

“Good.”

Finality marked the Elf’s tone and once the trade was sealed, Legolas released the Horse Lord. Éomer watched dumbfounded as the Elf waded towards the bank, picked up his discarded cloak and began to dry himself.

“We must get back to the palace,” Legolas explained as though nothing had passed between them. “The hour is late.”

“I see,” Éomer replied, still bewildered by the situation. He had clearly misunderstood. It was for the best, he decided. “There is something I must do first,” the Man added hastily and before the Elf could reply, the King of Rohan dove into the water to cool his overheated senses.

tbc…