Riding Lessons

Pairing: Legolas/Éomer
Rating: PG
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 I. An After-Dinner Party

Éomer closed the door to his chamber behind him and stepped onto the silent hallway. He was still unfamiliar with the layout of the Greenwood palace, but was certain that he would be able to find his way to the southwest wing where he had been instructed to go. It was the night before Legolas’ coronation as the new King of Eryn Lasgalen, and the Prince was throwing a private party as his “farewell to the carefree life” as Haldir had called it earlier that eve, teasing his dear friend mercilessly about assuming the responsibilities of a ruler. Responsibilities that the Prince thought he would never have to bear; responsibilities that Éomer had learnt well during his ten-year reign.

With a look in either direction, the Horse Lord finally turned right and proceeded down the hallway. Moonlight streamed through the open archways easily lighting his path, and the Man marveled at the architecture of the Elven palace. He had been shocked to discover that the Elven city was constructed in the earth. From the little he understood of the race, he had gleaned that Elves did not like dark places; needing to be surrounded by light, air and nature. However, the Silvan Elves loved their great forest so much that their city remained well concealed upon the ground. Indeed, Éomer and his entourage had crossed a wide bridge built over a strong, swift flowing river in order to enter the Greenwood palace. At the far end of the bridge were gates to the mouth of a huge cave that ran into the side of a steep slope covered with beech trees that came straight down to the bank, until their roots were lost in the dark water.

Éomer had regarded the cavernous entrance skeptically as he approached the magical gates. He did not think that their horses would be too keen to enter its torch-lit darkness, but their steeds remained unperturbed and strode forward confidently. Instead of feeling apprehension, the animals felt the welcoming presence of Elvish peace and the guards on duty soothed the steeds as they passed. The party followed a mounted Elven guard through the winding passages, which intersected with numerous other paths. To his surprise, the air was fresh and clear in the passageways indicating to the Rohan King that they were not very deep in the earth. After what seemed like a long time to the party, they emerged into daylight and bustling city life. Éomer then realized that the Elven city was multi-layered in structure, not unlike Minas Tirith. Some inhabitants lived and worked in the various underground levels, where the dungeons were no doubt kept in the deepest folds of the earth. The numerous passageways that they had encountered could lead to any part of the Elven kingdom, if only one knew the way. However, the majority of the inhabitants lived in the shallow levels of the city or above ground, carefully shielded from strangers and enemies by the steep slope of the mountainside. Éomer was in awe of the size and scope of the city, and he looked about him in admiration as he dismounted in the palace courtyard.

The Horse Lord’s admiration continued to grow with each passing day. His delegation had arrived three days prior to Legolas’ official coronation, to enjoy and acquaint themselves with Elvish culture and festivities. It had been a wise decision and Éomer quickly found himself falling in love with the beauty and tranquility that permeated all that surrounded him. He ruefully wished that he could have come earlier as he walked down the empty hallway, but affairs of state had kept him occupied until the last moment. The clicking of his boots sounded loud to his ears as he turned right and he self-consciously ran his hand down his garments, wondering if he had overdressed. Or perhaps underdressed? Legolas had told them that the party was to be a casual affair, but judging by the finery and embroidery that Éomer saw in the simplest of Elven clothes gave the Horse Lord pause. What exactly was simple and casual defined in Elvish terms?

It did not matter, he decided as he caught sight of the light peeping under the large double doors at the end of the hallway. He was wearing his oldest, most comfortable pair of riding boots. They were hardly appropriate for a formal dinner, but were quite at home at an informal affair. He smiled to himself as he pushed open one of the oak doors and was immediately greeted by the sound of laughter and conversation. Even if he was overdressed, the boots told another story.

The party appeared to be in full swing and Éomer’s entrance went unnoticed, exactly how the King of Rohan preferred it to be. Goblets were full and wine flowed freely, and in the center of the large room a long table had been decked out with more sumptuous Elvish fare. As if they had not been sufficiently fed at the banquet earlier that eve, the Man thought with amusement, pouring himself a goblet of wine and observing those in attendance. It came as no surprise that most of those present were Elves, the Greenwood folk easily mixing with their Lórien kin. Éomer recognized some faces: Gwaidor, one of Thranduil’s senior advisors was speaking with Lindfir, the Elven noble whom Éomer suspected that Legolas would send to Ithilien to replace him. A merry burst of laughter drew the Man’s attention to a small group at the far end of the hall, where Haldir was recounting some tale that held all around him in thrall. With the Guardian were his brothers, Rúmil and Orophin. The only competition the Lórien Elves received were from the Dwarves of the Glittering Caves, who did not appear to be able to attend any function without starting some sort of drinking competition. Gimli raised a hand in greeting and Éomer reciprocated the gesture with his goblet.

As the Horse Lord continued to survey the guests, it dawned upon him that there was not a single female present. He spotted the Prince of Dol Amroth, who acknowledged Éomer’s presence with a smile and a nod of his heImraImrahil had been accompanied on this visit by his fair daughter, Lothíriel. It was no great secret that she was to be paired with the King of Rohan and while Éomer had not formally begun the courtship, he found himself amenable to the match. Lothíriel did not stir any great passion within him, but she was intelligent and kind and would no doubt make a good wife and a strong queen. Moreover, such a union would strengthen the ties between Gondor and Rohan, an already valuable alliance. But most importantly, he believed that Lothíriel would be a gentle and loving mother, and that issue was the driving force behind his courtship, for the King of Rohan had long felt the pressure of producing an heir.

A tap on his shoulder made the Horse Lord turn around and he was brought face-to-face with a smiling Steward of Gondor.

“Good of you to join us, Éomer,” Faramir said jovially.

“It’s good to be here,” Éomer replied. “And I can see,” he added, appraising the Steward’s slightly tipsy state, “that you have been here longer than me.”

Faramir merely laughed in response. “Legolas is a generous host who serves excellent wine,” he explained. “But he is also a good friend,” he added more seriously, “and I shall greatly miss him in Ithilien.”

“Speaking of our host,” Éomer continued with another glance around, “where is Legolas?”

“I saw him with Aragorn last,” Faramir said. “They were engrossed in conversation and wandered off somewhere. I’m sure they’ll be back soon.”

No sooner had Faramir said these words than the double doors opened and the Elf and the Man came in. Unlike Éomer’s entrance a few moments before, there was the briefest pause in activity to acknowledge their return and the slightest nod from Legolas immediately resumed the festivities. Not breaking their discussion, the two friends headed straight to where Faramir and Éomer stood by the banquet table. The Horse Lord watched them as they approached, noting how at ease they were with one another. They share a long history, Éomer thought, and a bond of the deepest friendship. Éomer believed that no one, aside from the King’s own wife, could bring down Aragorn’s defenses so easily. He suspected that even after ten years of rule, Aragorn still felt more in touch with his Elvish heritage.

As the two friends drew er, er, Éomer easily caught the tail end of their conversation.

“Call it what you may,” Aragorn was saying, “but this is what we humans would call a bachelor party if I ever saw one.”

“I disagree,” Legolas countered with a shake of his head.

“Really?” The Man stopped no more than two feet from where Éomer stood and said with a sweep of his hand, “Tell me, Legolas. How many females do you see present in this room?”

The Elf paused and looked around with a sigh, already knowing the answer. “I hardly think that is the point,” he said at last.

Aragorn laughed in such a carefree manner that it brought a smile to Éomer’s face. The King of Gondor clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder, leaning forward slightly as he said, “Yes, Legolas. That is precisely the point.”

A devious smile began to curve around the corners of the Elf’s mouth as he covered the Man’s hand with his own and gently squeezed it. A strangely intimate gesture, Éomer thought, suddenly feeling like an intruder but remaining compelled to watch all the same. Legolas also leaned forward slightly and lowered his voice so that Éomer hardly caught his words above the noise of the crowd.

“I know this is no bachelor party,” the Elf began quietly, “for if it were, there would be a present waiting for me in my chambers when I return. A gift, Aragorn,” Legolas paused, his melodic voice laced with an emotion that Éomer could not place, “that you can no longer return.”

Aragorn’s eyes grew soft and his jesting manner faded. Éomer half-expected him to reach out and brush the Elf’s cheek with his other hand, but he did not.

“It is a gift I have long cherished,” the Man answered, “and will never forget.”

Legolas beamed. It was a smile so warm and dazzling that it made Éomer wonder if his words or actions could ever affect another one so. The Horse Lord understood that he was privy to something special, a side to their friendship never before neither seen nor hinted at. If Éomer were to try and make sense of this exchange, it might have lead to the startling conclusion that perhaps they had once been . . .

The moment passed. Éomer not not even see the Elf release the Man’s hand, nor Aragorn loosen his grip on Legolas’ shoulder. The two friends were speakinge age again in their light-hearted manner, causing Éomer to doubt the implications of the scene he had just witnessed. He turned to his right to see if Faramir had taken note of anything, but Lindfir, who had joined their small group, had already drawn the Steward into conversation.

“I suppose I could always find a substitute,” Legolas remarked as they bed ted the remaining distance to where the threesome stood.

“Do you concede then that this is a bachelor party?” Aragorn persisted.

“I concede nothing of the sort,” Legolas retorted just as they reached the group. “For a bachelor party,” he continued, “would imply that I am getting married in the morn. Which I am not,” he added with a tilt of his head, catching the Horse Lord’s eye as he did so.

Legolas held Éomer’s gaze, a slight smile on his lips. Did the Elf suspect thhe hhe he had been listening in on their conversation? It made the Man feel slightly uncomfortable to think so and he took a sip of his wine, trying to remain cool and collected under the Elf’s discreet scrutiny.

“What say you, Faramir?” Aragorn asked his Steward, drawing the others into the discussion. “Would you consider this ‘gathering’ to be a bachelor party?”

Lindfir raised an amused eyebrow, waiting to see what the Steward would say, while Éomer cocked his head, still acutely aware of the Elf’s eyes on him.

“I would say,” Faramir began diplomatically, “that while this gathering bears the characteristics of a ‘bachelor party’ it does not qualify as such because no wedding ceremony shall follow it.”

Legolas’ smile grew wider as he replied, “This is why the Prince of Ithilien is your most valuable emissary,” he praised. “Faramir,” he said, raising his glass in a congratulatory salute, “ever the diplomat.”

“My thanks, Legolas,” he answered. “But you are none too shoddy in this area yourself as I have seen during your time in Ithilien.”

“You will find, Far,” r,” Legolas answered, “that Lindfir is just as adept.”

“Elven diplomacy,” Lindfir commented, “is somewhat different from its Dwarven counterpart. Would you agree with that statement, Éomer?”

“I have found that under the right circumstances,” the Horse Lord said, “the brandishing of an axe is a most effective form of diplomacy.”

“As long as the axe is not brandished at you or your people!” Legolas added with a mischievous grin.

The group laughed good-naturedly.

“Speaking of which,” Aragorn said to his Steward when taughaughter faded away, “there is an issue I need to discuss with you. Lindfir, it would be good if you joined us.” The King of Gondor turned to his long-time friend and said, “Legolas, would you excuse us?”

“Only if you promise *not* to discuss affairs of state at my party,” the Elf replied, arching a golden eyebrow.

“We shall do our best,” Lindfir answered in the King’s stead.

“Flexing those diplomatic skills, I see,” Aragorn commented lightly to the Elven noble as the group went their own way.

Éomer watched them leave, a half-smile on his face. He was aware of the Elf’s eyes on him once again and when he turned to his left, he was greeted by another one of Legolas’ unreadable expressions. *How did Aragorn ever come to know this being so well?* the Horse Lord wondered.

Legolas smiled then and moved to pour himself a goblet of wine. Éomer unabashedly followed the Elf’s actions, carefully taking note of the delicate wrists, the graceful manner in which Legolas poured the wine from the carafe, the slender fingers enclosed around the bronze goblet. Would the Elf’s hands be smooth like a woman of noble birth or were they worn with calluses from centuries of sword fighting and archery? The King of Rohan was startled by this last thought and did not have the faintest idea what to make of it.

“How are you enjoying your stay?” Legolas asked suddenly, easing the tension that had started to fill Éomer’s mind.

“I am enjoying it immensely,” the Man replied. “Your city is magnificent, Legolas.”

The Elf smiled and acknowledged the compliment, gesturing that the two of them should sit down at a table. Lightly grasping Éomer by the arm, Legolas led them through the crowd to a small corner table at the opposite end of the room, passing by Haldir’s group along the way. Éomer continued the conversation as they walked, talking animatedly about his experiences in Eryn Lasgalen, not giving any sign as to how distracted he was by the gentle pressure of the Elf’s hand on his arm, nor the way Legolas smiled and tilted his head to nod in agreement.

“My only regret,” the Horse Lord concluded as they took their seats opposite one another, “ is that I could not arrive sooner.”

“Is all well in Rohan?” Legolas inquired.

“Very well,” Éomer answered, “but also very busy. Preparations are already underway for the Rhovanion in three months time.”

The Elf’s eyes lit up. “Of course!” he exclaimed. “I remember the last competition clearly. It is held every five years, is it not?”

“Yes,” Éomer confirmed. “The Rhovanion is the most renown horse race in all of Middle-Earth; the ultimate test of skill, stamina and courage for man beasbeast. It is the highest honor among the Rohirrim to be crowned the champion of this race.”

“Do you already have a rider and a mount to represent your house?”

“That decision will be made at a later date,” Éomer admitted. “It is difficult to find the perfect match of horse and rider.”

“Indeed,” Legolas agreed thoughtfully.

The topic of conversation shifted and Éomer found himself easily drawn into the Elf’s company. Despite their decade-long friendship, the Horse Lord had never come to know the Elven Prince as well as he would have liked. Legolas had always been warm yet distant, friendly but detached. This was the first time, Éomer realized with some surprise, that they had truly sat down together for an extended period of time and discussed more than trivial superficialities. They spoke about their families, their experiences, the responsibilities placed upon them at an early age, the expectations of their elders, the burden of leader leadership and the need to produce an heir – a newly acquired obligation on behalf of the Elf that Legolas, before his impending coronation, had apparently never given any thought to before.

Much time had passed and several bottles of wine had been consumed before they reached this particular subject. Guests flitted by to bid their host a good night and best wishes for the coronation the following morn. Éomer thought that he ought to perhaps feel a bit guilty for monopolizing Legolas’ time in this way, but the Elf did not seem to mind and the Horse Lord had consumed far too much wine to truly care.

“Lothíriel,” Legolas said unexpectedly when they were alone again, a cheeky glimmer in his eye as he refilled the Man’s goblet.

“Yes?” Éomer replied, feigning ignorance.

“She is attending the celebration with Imrahil,” the Elf continued, watching the Man’s reaction carefully. “Will you begin your formal courtship here?”

Éomer choked on his wine, a rather unkingly gesture. “I thought your race was subtle,” he commented.

“I thought your race was blunt,” Legolas answered with an amused smile.

The Horse Lord met the Elf’s smile with a wry grin, taking another sip of his wine. “How did you know about Lothíriel?”

“The correct question is, ‘*Who* does not know about Lothíriel?’” Legolas mused. “It is a poorly kept secret.”

For some reason, this remark gave Éomer pause. He hesitated and the Elf noticed.

“My apologies, Éomer,” Legolas said gently. “I did not mean to offend you. It is none of my concern.”

“No,” Éomer quickly replied. “You have not offended me. I was merely surprised. It is a poorly kept secret,” he agreed, but the indecision remained in his voice.

How could he explain to the Elf that what he felt for Lothíriel was affection? Affection, he hoped, when carefully nurtured would turn into love. Lothíriel was the choice of his advisors and he could find no fault in her save this niggling feeling that he wanted more, that there was something missing in his life before he settled down. Yet even he could not put his finger on it. He looked up to see the Elf scrutinizing him for the second time that night, the depths of those blue eyes revealing that perhaps Legolas knew something about him that he himself did not yet know. The thought disturbed him and he looked away, his attention drawn to a nearby chaise longue of forest green velvet where Rúmil had settled with another blonde Elf. They were sitting extremely close together, Rúmil’s hand leisurely stroking the other Elf’s thigh. It struck Éomer as an erotic gesture, but he banished the thought as the effect of too much wine. Therefore, the Horse Lord was unprepared when Rúmil leaned over and captured the other Elf’s lips in a kiss. Éomer expected the Elf to push the March Warden away, but instead he returned the kiss fervently, wrapping ivory fingers in the Lórien Elf’s hair to draw him closer. Éomer could not help but watch as the kiss deepened. Two golden Elves, long-limbed and graceful. He was mesmerized by the sight of them. Passion. Lust. Desire. He wanted to share in that but a part of him held back. His moral center warned him that something was amiss.

Curiously, the Horse Lord’s companion followed the direction of the Man’s gaze. Legolas smiled to himself when his eyes rested on the two Elves, oblivious to their surroundings as hands continued to explore each other’s bodies. Rúmil had been chasing Lossenha for the better part of a week, a long time by the Lórien Elf’s standards, but Legolas had never doubted Rúmil’s success in the end. He turned back to face the Man, who was drinking deeply from his goblet.

“Do they shock you?” he asked.

“No,” Éomer answered a little too quickly. “We are not as prudish as you may think,” he added. “It’s just that . . .” he trailed off, clearly embarrassed about what he almost said next.

“They are both male?” Legolas questioned.

The Man coughed. “A warrior’s comfort is not uncommon in the field,” he explained, “but aside from that . . .”

“It is generally not accepted.” Legolas finished his sentence again.

For some inexplicable reason, the Elf’s attitude was beginning to irk the Man. Was Legolas mocking him? “These sort of relationships are known about,” he said defensively. “They are merely treated with more . . .” Éomer desperately tried to think of the right word before Legolas could say anything.

“Discretion?”

The Elf arched a challenging eyebrow and the Man was at a loss for words. When had this tension arisen between them?

The charged atmosphere was broken by the appearance of an old friend.

“It has been terribly inconsiderate of you, Lord of the Riddermark,” the Guardian of the Golden Wood chastised, “for monopolizing our host’s time in this way. I wonder,” he continued with a pointed look in the Prince’s direction, “what could have held our host in such thrall?”

“Haldir of Lórien,” Legolas said demurely, “have you come to bid me a good night?”

“Alas,” the golden Elf replied theatrically, “it is time I retired.”

“By yourself?”

The March Warden ignored the innuendo and said instead, “The hour is late. Should you not also be retiring soon?”

Legolas glanced at Éomer who was watching their exchange intently. The Man seemed to be seeing new dimensions to Legolas’ relationships this night and the Elf wished to test the waters of the Horse Lord’s open-mindedness.

“There is something I want to do before I retire,” the Prince replied enigmatically. “Will I see you later?”

“You know where to find me,” Haldir whispered, placing a not quite so chaste kiss on the Prince’s lips. Straightening up, he turned to the King of Rohan and said, “A good night to you, Lord Éomer.”

“There is no need for such formality,” the Man said. “A good night to you as well, Haldir.”

The Guardian nodded and casting his friend one last mysterious look, he left the room, passing by his brother as he did so. Rúmil and Lossenha left a few moments later, finally deeming it time to continue their activities elsewhere.

“Éomer,” Legolas said, leaning across the small table and placing his hand over the Man’s. “There is something I wish to show you, if you are not too tired.”

tbc…