Echoes

ECHOES

by Capella

This story fits into the same arc as all Capella's other LotR-based tales, which can be found on this site. It also works as a stand-alone piece.

Beta: Elfscribe, to whom many thanks are due.

The characters, as we know, belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien. No profit is made by borrowing them in this way.

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ECHOES
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Éomer rode into the camp, hot, exhausted, yet with every nerve singing. At his side, Legolas brought Arod to a halt with a word or two, and smiled across at the man.“A g“A good day’s work, my friend,” the elf said. “We shall eat heartily and sleep well tonight.”

“Aye, that we shall.” Éomer had no doubts about the former, at least.

They had risen early to lead the small group of Rohirrim charged with tracking down enemy stragglers to the East. It had been an exhilarating ride and a highly successful mission. A group of some forty prisoners was on the march to the makeshift camp by the road where the team under Gimli’s supervision had already started repairs. Only three days had passed since Sauron’s downfall, but the world was changing fast.

Legolas, for all he loved his dwarven friend, had clearly relished the opportunity to ride unencumbered under the wide sky and bright sun. Éomer himself could have been happy spending the day in a windowless cell, as long as the elf was beside him.

Once past the guards, the two dismounted and left their steeds in the care of the grooms. Éomer smiled to see Legolas whispering in Arod’s ear for some moments before turning away. Only with difficulty did he resist the urge to ask for details of the conversation.

Their path took them first to Éomer’s tent. His squire must have heard word of their return for he was waiting outside with a jug of cooled ale. Éomer clapped the youth on the shoulder, thanked him, and promptly sent him away to take his meal. He had become used to serving himself these last few months, and it was rare enough for him to have time alone with Legolas.

The young king took up the pitcher and gestured with it towards the elf. “Will you take a cup?”

“Yes, indeed.” The elf sat down beside him, took the tankard and raised it to his lips. Éomer noticed that he did not sip delicately, as might be expected. He gulped the ale down as one satisfying a powerful thirst, yet not a drop did he spill. Somehow, the sight only served to make matters worse.

“Ah, it is good,” the elf sighed, holding the mug out to be refilled. “I thank you for your hospitality.”

“When all this is behind us and you come to Rohan with Master Gimli, I will show you the true hospitality of my people,” said Éomer suddenly. “Do not think that we know only of horses and ale; in happier days you will hear such music in our halls as will stir your soul within your breast, and tales to set your heart aflame. You must stay with us for a season and enjoy the riding on the wide plains. Our court would be greatly enhanced by your presence.” His tongue was running away with him and he knew it, but he was beyond caring.

Legolas inclined his head slightly. “You are generous,” he said quietly. As the elf raised his eyes Éomer tht het he saw a faint hint of amusement there. It was enough. Fearless in battle, he would not allow himself to be reduced to a blathering fool by another in this way. It was time to ignore his overly loud heart and speak his thoughts outright.

“I would offer you more,” he said abruptly, “if I were certain that custom or circumstance did not prevent you from accepting my proposal.”

The elegant brows arched upwards slightly as Legolas regarded him in silence. His gaze was unreadable yet Éomer had to force himself not to look away.

“I have offended you,” the man said at last.

“Nay, Éomer Éadig, I am offended neither by the substance nor the manner of your suggestion.” The elf spoke gravely. “Rather say that I am flattered. I admire your honesty, so let me be as frank in return. Not only by your blood are you a king amongst men; you are brave, noble and comely in your person. Were I in the position to seek a companion, I doubt that I would turn you away.”

Astonished by Legolas’s directness, Éomer contemplated this statement for a moment. A rebuff was no more than he had expected; how typical of the elf that he should deliver it with such grace.

His own response was lost as heavy footsteps and the jangle of mail announced Gimli’s arrival.

“Master Elf, King Éomer!” the dwarf called. “Will you not come to the table? There’s a whole pig on the spit, but at the rate it’s going there’ll be naught but the bones for you. There are men here who could teach even the hobbits a thing or two!”

Legolas laughed and sprang to his feet. He turned to Éomer with a genuine smile. “Come, my friend. I would hear more tales of your homeland while we eat, if you will do me the honour.”

Éomer could not help but smile back at the elf. Having finally made his approach, for all it had been rejected, he wondered if what he felt was relief. “Only a churlish fool would deny himself the pleasure of your company,” he said softly, as they made their way between the tents to the gathering space where the others waited.


********************


The camp was slumbering under a fading moon by the time Éomer sought his bed. He had stayed up talking and singing with his men long after Aragorn, Imrahil and the others had retired. Even Gimli had declared himself sated a good hour before and stumped off to his tent, humming under his breath.

Despite the fact that he had matched his men drink for drink, Éomer’s head was quite clear. Unfortunately so. He sank down to the pallet with the certain knowledge that sleep would be a long time coming, unless he took matters into his own hands. Perhaps he should have sought some assistance from one of the younger riders; there would be none who would refuse him. He snorted in derision at the very idea as he bent to pull off his boots. Hlothlothes followed, flung to the side without ceremony.

By the time his head hit the meagre pillow and his hand strayed down over his belly, Éomer was more than half hard, and his breathing was faster than normal. His senses were still full of the elf. The sight of him lithe on horseback, taut muscles gripping the animal’s flanks as he rode without saddle or reins; the musical lilt of his voice as he spoke with wise, gentle humour; the way his throat moved as he drank the ale down… everything about Legolas fascinated him.

Shifting on the bed and allowing his hand to move lower still, Éomer sighed.r alr all his good intentions, there was only one war hir him to find peace tonight.


********************


Éomer has no pretty story to explain how the encounter comes about. Being a man of vigorous action and plain speech, he needs no preamble. All he knows is that in this world there is no Gimli, no Aragorn, nobody to stand between them. Only himself and Legolas, alone in the armoury at Edoras.

“What do you want from me, Éomer of Rohan?” the elf challenges him. “You seek me out once again; I would know your mind.”

This is not the gently serious friend with whom he rode the eastern plains through the long hot afternoon. Before him stands the glorious warrior, his eyes blazing defiance as they did on that first day, as they have done in the man’s dreams every night since.

Éomer takes a step forward and grins, filled with a ferocious desire that will accept no obstacle. “I would have you, Master Elf,” he growls. “Will you say me nay?”

The elf tosses his head and pale hair glints in a shaft of sun from the high windows. “I yield to no mortal man,” he says coldly.

Éomer laughs aloud. Intuitive horseman that he is, he needs no words to hear the truth of another’s thoughts. He knows that Legolas wants him, yet will force him to prove his worth. With even greater certainty, he knows he is up to the task. Still smiling, he turns to the weapons rack.

He selects two swords and throws one to Legolas. The elf reaches out an arm for the hilt without taking his eyes off Éomer. His face is grim.

“Then I challenge you, honoured comrade, and we shall see who yields,” says Éomer. “If I lose, you may punish me in whatever manner you see fit for my impertinence. If I win, I shall have my way with you. But I tell you now, by the end of it I shall take from you only that which you are eager to give.”

Legolas raises his sword and allows a haughty smile to cross his face. “You will take nothing from me,” he says simply. He nods once, and they begin.

It is a measure of his infatuation that Éomer, in reality ever the dominant partner, has allowed himself to lose this fight on more than one occasion. He has accepted his punishment with a racing heart and has suffered both exquisite pain and shattering pleasure at the elf’s masterful hands. He has known since early this afternoon, however, that tonight’s engagement will follow the more familiar pattern.

Legolas fights with uncanny speed and agility, his sword flashing before Éomer as he twists and leaps, advances and parries. No mere human should be able to match him, and yet he is doomed to lose the contest. For Éomer, with the lust of combat upon him, is invincible. The elf can do his worst, but Rohan’s king will have him in the end, and have him screaming for more.

On this night Éomer is not in the mood to delay his pleasure. It is not long before the chamber rings to the sound of metal on stone as the elf’s sword drops to the floor, knocked from his hand by the last in a series of rapid strokes with the king’s full weight behind them.

Even backed against the wall with the man’s blade to his throat, Legolas is undaunted. His eyes are still full of rebellious fire.

“Do you yield now?” asks Éomer, relishing the moment.

“Do you doubt my honour?” the elf retorts swiftly.

“Indeed not. But I would not have it said that I forced you unwilling.”

There is a long moment in which each attempts to intimidate the other with his stare alone, then at last the elf speaks. “Do what you will,” he says, feigning indifference.

Éomer laughs once more as he casts his own sword aside and steps forward to press himself against Legolas. He is the broader of the two and perhaps slightly taller, but Legolas does not feel insubstantial against him. He moves to bring as much of his body into contact with the elf’s as he can, and brings both hands up to hold the golden head steady as he claims his first kiss.

At first Legolas resists him, closed-lipped, unmoving. But when Éomer insinuates his leg between the lean thighs and rocks his weight into the touch, he is unsurpriso feo feel the evidence of the elf’s arousal hard against his groin. He maintains the contact while continuing the kiss. Before long the sweet lips open and as he plunges his tongue into the elf’s mouth he feels the long body shudder against his.

“Now you yield.” Éomer cannot resist pulling back to look Legolas in the eye.

“Never!” The voice is fierce, but the fair face is no longer cold.

Éomer shifts to the side, allowing one hand under the elf’s clothes to tug at the front of his leggings. He makes short work of the tied leather laces and pushes the garment down. His other hand yanks at the clasps and buttons of the elf’s tunic and shirt, rapidly baring the finely muscled torso to his scrutiny. His gaze travels slowly over smooth pale flesh to the sizeable erection resting against his palm.

“Lovely,” he says, and now it is he who speaks fiercely.

Legolas pushes his hands back against the wall and closes his eyes as Éomer begins to work his cock, none too gently. The elf is no longer making any pretence of dismay.

“I have heard,” says Éomer, slowing his pace a little, “that an elf may come twice, thrice or even four times without pause, before he must take time to recover. Is it the truth?”

“There are many things said of my kind, Horsemaster,” Legolas replies. “Not all of them are fallacies.”

Éomer chuckles deep in his throat. “Perhaps I shall test the rumour for myself,” he says, bringing his other hand to brush across the elf’s nipples as he tightens his hold and adds a slight twisting to the motion that makes Legolas gasp. “At the very least I shall watch you spend yourself in my hand before I take you.”

The blue eyes open wide and gaze at him then, and the elf starts to move, undulating against the wall with every long, hard stroke.

“Ai!”

If Éomer could hear such a sound every day of his life, he would die a happy man.

Legolas cries out once more and arches his back as he comes, hot and pulsing in the man’s calloused grip. Éomer sweeps his other hand down in time to catch the viscous liquid.

His climax subsiding, Legolas leans against the wall, eyes shut, breathing hard, as Éomer fumbles one-handed with his own breeches.

“Look at me,” the man says.

The scene often comes to an abruptly pleasurable end at this point, as he smoothes the elf’s semen over his own sturdy cock, aware of the intense stare upon him. But this time he will see it through; his self control will .
.

“You want to feel it, do you not.” There is no hint of a question in his voice.

“You talk too much,” the elf replies curtly.

Yet again Éomer laughs delightedly. “Then turn around and put your hands on the wall,” he commands, “and soon you shall be the one unable to rein in his voice.”

Legolas casts him a baleful stare before doing as the man says. In spite of his show of unwillingness, he steps back and bends over from the hip, leaning with his weight on outstretched arms. The sight he presents to Éomer is unthinkably erotic, all the more so once the man has shoved various layers of clothes out of the way.

It would be so easy to push inside and take the elf with all speed. No doubt it is what Legolas expects of the rough-handed king. But Éomer, with deliberate restraint, takes his time, holding the firm buttocks apart as he teases the tight opening with the very tip of his cock. He does not have to wait for long.

“Éomer!” the elf groans.

“Mmm?” The man shifts his feet apart slightly to place himself at a more convenient height.

“If you intend to take me, do it now, and do it well; or by the light of the Two Trees I shall make you pay for your cruelty.”

Éomer grins as he pushes forward with such force that Legolas is almost driven into the wall.

“I would not wish to disappoint you, eloquent one,” he says.

The man takes a moment to accustom himself to the glorious sensation of hot, tight flesh around his cock. As Legolas lets out a long hissing sigh, Éomer rolls his hips slightly to let the elf feel the full bulk of him inside. Legolas groans once more, and Éomer decides he has had enough of moderation. He starts a slow, powerful movement back and forth that has the sweat beading on his brow in an instant and the pleasure building steadily in his loins.

As Éomer quickens his pace, Legolas cries out his approval and presses back against him with astonishing strength. It seems that no matter how hard the man works, Legolas wants more. Before long they are moving to a furious rhythm that threatens to burst Éomer’s heart, or at the very least to render him delirious with bliss. He throws himself forward and clutches at a green-clad shoulder with one hand, while the other reaches round to grasp the elf’s cock.

Thrusting with all his might, Éomer waits for the words.

“Yes! Ai! Yes… yes, Éomer!” The elf’s cries echo around the stone walls as Éomer feels the colossal wave of pleasure overtake him. A guttural shout bursts forth from his own throat as he comes long and hard, a month’s worth of suppressed desire erupting from his throbbing cock and finding its mark at last.


********************


Éomer slumped back onto the hard mattress and wiped the perspiration out of his eyes with the back of his wrist. The fantasy had been quite shockingly vivid tonight, almost real enough to be disturbing. The elf’s voice was still reverberating in his head, as the last warm tremors of pleasure rippled through his body.

After a few deep breaths to calm himself, he rolled up onto an elbow and fumbled at the side of the bed for a cloth to clean up the mess. This task accomplished, he sank back down and reflected on his situation.

The fact of having attended to his own body’s needs was no cause for shame. He might be king, but he was also a young and lusty man, and his hand would have to suffice on a good many nights yet. The guilt Éomer was trying to ignore came rather from the nature of his vision, inappropriate as it was to its subject. This time the picture in his head had been too clear, the whole experience too tangible for him to dismiss it as a harmless distraction.

Through a month of shadow and despair his dreams of the elf had sustained him, had offered a secret comfort in the hours of dark when hope so often fails. Now that peace was upon them, surely it was time to let those dreams go. Noble, pure-hearted Legolas deserved so much better than this. It could not be right to indulge in such furtive carnal activity at his expense.

No doubt the elven prince was walking now in the forest, refreshing his spirit in the moonlight, as he had so delightfully described it. His absence from the camp could only be a good thing. He would never know of Éomer’s base lust for him, and that was how it should be. At least this afternoon’s offer had been made and rejected with dignity. It was something to be thankful for.

Éomer turned onto his side, and tried to relax his muscles. Perhaps he should be more worried about whether his shouts had woken Gimli, or even Aragorn, in their tents nearby. The thought made him grin ruefully, and he let out a grunt of self-deprecating mirth.

There was no point in worrying about it. He could keep his feelings to himself for a little longer, with no harm done. When they returned to the city he would find himself a good woman and take her to bed for a week. With luck that would cure him of his obsession, once and for all.

Even as he formulated the thought, Éomer saw again the elf’s face contorted in ecstasy, and felt a last spasm of pleasure in his groin. Cure him, indeed. The world would be a different place if matters were as simple as that.

With a sigh, the young king of Rohan closed his eyes and waited for sleep to claim him.


*******************


Aragorn woke with a start as a sharp pain made itself known in his left shoulder. Emerging from the deep sleep of utter exhaustion, even with his ranger’s senses, he needed a moment to understand what was happening.

Legolas was lying at Aragorn’s side, his face buried in the man’s armpit. In spite of his restlessness, Aragorn was certain tha was was asleep. The elf had flung one leg across his lover’s thighs and was digging his fingernails into the opposite shoulder as he muttered and shifted. The movement was rubbing his erection against Aragorn’s hip in a manner that left no room for interpretation. An astonished smile formed on the man’s face as his own blood began to pound in response. How many years had he lived amongst elves, only to believe that dreams such as this one were the exclusive province of men?

When Legolas’s mutterings grew louder and turned to soft groans, Aragorn knew it was time to wake him. Delightful as it would be to watch this unexpected event through to its conclusion, he could not risk others hearing such noises from the king’s tent. He ran a gentle hand across the elf’s cheek and whispered softly, “Legolas, my love, wake up.”

Legolas, usually so quick and alert, took a while to regain consciousness. He pulled his head back to focus on Aragorn, and his brows drew together in a puzzled frown, just visible to the man in the half light of pre-dawn. Moving his hand to the bearded face, the elf pressed himself deliberately against his lover and whispered in return, “Aragorn, ai, yes…” He turned his face into the man’s shoulder again and began to nuzzle the flesh there as his movements grew faster and more urgent.

Through the hazy connection that always hung between them, Aragorn knew that the elf was troubled, and his lust seemed to be verging on desperation. The healer in him was concerned, and thought to ask what was wrong. The man in him, however, had other priorities.

When Legolas rolled over onto his back, pulling Aragorn’s arm roughly with him, the man did not need to be told what was wanted. He turned quickly and covered his lover’s body with his own, grunting with pleasure as Legolas opened his legs to let him settle between them. He kissed the elf firmly, feeling their cocks hard against each other and the elf’s hands clutching at his waist and hips.

As Aragorn drew away to take breath, Legolas moved to speak close to his ear. “Aragorn. Take me. Now,” he whispered.

Aragorn shuddered and made as if to extricate himself from his lover’s embrace. He could hardly deny such a request, but there were certain necessities…

“No, now!” Legolas held him with strong arms and reached to bite his neck.

“I will hurt you. I need to get -”

“I care not. Do it now!” the elf hissed. “Or by the light of the Two Trees…” his voice tailed away and his head tossed against the pillow.

“I love you,” Aragorn said softly, needing to regain his balance. There was definitely something strange about this.

Legolas simply gazed at him and moved his hips, rolling them upwards as his legs reached to wrap around Aragorn’s waist. The plea in the elf’s eyes was impossible to resist. Putting aside his concerns, Aragorn pushed up on his knees and elbows, brought one hand to his mouth and spat in it rapidly. The moisture would have to serve.

Spurred on by the elf’s feet pressing against his buttocks, Aragorn entered his lover quickly and was rewarded with a deep sigh of relief from Legolas, and a myriad of wonderful sensations in his own body. There was hardly a moment’s pause, however, before the elf began to rock against him, setting a relentless pace which the man had to work to maintain. It was not long before he stopped worrying about the cause of this frenzy and gave himself over to pure enjoyment.

As their thrusts grew faster and more powerful still, Legolas reached between them to stroke his own cock. Almost immediately Aragorn felt the tingling in his mind that signalled the start of the elf’s orgasm, and he let himself be carried along with it. The rush of feeling flooded through him: the enormous physical joy of their coupling, the elf’s love for him, the pain of their imminent parting, the sea longing… and somewhere amongst it all the faintest echo of another’s name. Before he could wonder what this strange intrusion might mean, he tasted blood in his mouth as he bit his lip, trying to stop himself from shouting as he fell headlong into the mindless bliss of his climax.

“I am sorry,” the elf whispered a little later.

“Sorry? For waking me to such pleasure that I drew blood in my effort to keep quiet? I hardly think you need to apologise.” Aragorn wiped his hand across his mouth.

Legolas rolled them over to their sides and looked searchingly into Aragorn’s eyes. It seemed he was about to speak, then changed his mind.

“What is it, my love?”

The elf sighed. “I will not sleep here again. It is too… there are too many of them close and their emotions run high. I cannot shut it out. Not now, when I am… not so strong.”

“You will not sleep here again?” Was Legolas telling him that this was the end of it? Aragorn’s blood turned to ice.

“I can lie with you, but I will watch over you at night and take my rest later, in the forest. It is better that way.”

“Ah, yes.” Aragorn moved closer to Legolas and initiated a kiss, suddenly unwilling to hear any more. He realised that he had no wish to know what had caused Legolas’s strange behaviour. Within the month they would leave this place and the reality of Aragorn’s future would tear them apart for ever. It was small wonder that the elf was overwrought; questioning him about it would hardly help matters.

“I love you, Aragorn, my king.” Legolas returned the kiss tenderly. Aragorn could see that his lashes were glistening with tears. “It will always be so.”

“As I love you.” Aragorn pulled the elf into his arms and held him tightly. And it will always be so, he added silently, staring with unseeing eyes at the first rays of dawn illuminating the white wall of the tent.