Comfort
After the battle is won, she finds Aragorn amidst the revelers. She wraps her arms around him for the sheer joy of it, her every fiber thrilling at his touch.
Within his embrace, Eowyn feels his elven pendant pressing sharply against her collar. She startles, pulls away. Ignoring the question in his eyes, she excuses herself, and claims that a friend beckons.
The celebration winds through the remains of the keep, rejoicing mingled with leechcraft and death. She flees, running from the celebration until she no longer recognizes the passageways she crosses. She is alone, and whispers against the silence.
"He loves her."
She catches a flicker of color in the corner of her eye, whirls around, and Legolas is there. "My lord, I--"
He shakes his head, silencing her with the concern in his eyes. "He loves another. Anything else would be simple..." He hesitates.
"Comfort?"
He smiles in response, and with a mad flicker of understanding, she draws near to him, brushes her fingers against his chest. She knows nothing of elves or their craft, and she wonders what the silken fabric of his tunic is called in their tongue.
She would like to hear Legolas say the word, any words in his language, as she has often heard him murmur to Aragorn with rain in his voice.
She would like to hear him gasp, suddenly, and snakes her arms around his neck in a sinuous embrace.
Legolas wears no trinket about his neck, and when they press together, she feels only the ivory coolness of his body, and the warm slide of his mouth against hers. They lean heavily against the corridor's wall, and when he edges his leg between hers, she whimpers and bites his lower lip.
There is a burn akin to pain in her chest, and she cannot breathe as they, together, pull her skirts aside, untie the fastenings of his breeches. When he eases into her, she catches the gasp she craved and, she tells herself, she isn't thinking of Aragorn at all.
The elf's brow presses to hers, and his breath lies sweet against her mouth. Their bodies grind together like honey, and Eowyn could stay like this for ever, her thighs grasped in his smooth, broad palms, idling daylight away.
"Legolas?"
The call strikes through the passageway like an arrow, and Legolas draws back, slightly, to meet her eyes. There is no panic in his expression, but his whisper is urgent. "Aragorn." He does not stop, but he slows. "My lady?"
She tightens the bow of her legs, and the decision is taken from her. The echo of footsteps already rings closer, and Eowyn blinks, once, slowly.
When she opens her eyes, Aragorn is there, arms hanging limply at his sides, face blank.
It occurs to her, as he approaches and Legolas quickens his pace, that she should feel shame. She should voice some defense, but she cannot do anything but grit her teeth in pleasure.
Aragorn, finally, stands beside them, and slips one arm low on the elf's waist. The other he braces on the wall next to her, and she is suddenly aware of the unyielding stone against her back.
He gazes at the place where their bodies join, and her body quivers at the intensity of it. When he diverts his eyes, it is to graze his mouth against the elf's still-clothed shoulder, his pristine neck, his golden temple.
"She needs more," Aragorn mutters against the elf's skin, and her body arches as Legolas twists his hips, roughly thrusts into her. Under Aragorn's eyes, they couple fiercely, and Eowyn bites back a scream.
As fire surges through her, she thinks that Legolas turns, that Aragorn slants lips against his, but she is overwhelmed. She cries her climax with a shuddering moan, and night falls against her eyes.
Once the world is righted, she finds Aragorn gone, her feet on the ground, and Legolas softly pressing her to the wall, breathless.
He gently kisses her brow, her hair, and together, they pull their clothes back into place. Eowyn does not meet his eyes, but she brushes her fingers against his chest.
"My lady?"
She shakes her head, and he nods, understanding.
The celebration continues, but she chooses not to return to it.