Archive of Our Own ^beta

Éomer looked around, trying once again to convince his eyes the trees he saw were not real and that the leaves were, in fact, made of the thinnest stone. With a glass of wine held casually in his hand, he stood in a corner in order not to hinder any of those brave enough to venture out onto the dancefloor. Éomer possessed many kinds of bravery, but dancing had never been a skill he’d mastered successfully and amidst the impossible gracefulness of the Elves he was sure to stick out like a sore thumb.

The Elves were another thing he had to get accustomed to. Not that he had never seen any before; he had, after all, been present at King Elessar’s coronation and wedding and had kissed the hand of Queen Arwen multiple times, but on those occasions had held still primarily Human guests. Here, in the impressive Halls of King Thranduil of Mirkwood, the small Human entourage was lost between the multitude of strange, beautiful faces.

He took another rather large sip of his wine. It burned down his throat in a way not unlike the stronger beverages he’d tried hen he was younger. Despite being King, he felt lost among the many Elves. He knew only a few of them: King Thranduil, whom he’d met some days earlier when he arrived in the kingdom of Eryn Lasgalen (Éomer hoped he’d remembered the official name of the forest correctly), his last stop on this diplomatic journey. As the official talks began, he’d met King Thranduil’s two chief advisers whose names Éomer had trouble pronouncing, and a handful of others. The hosting monarch was now at the center of the dance, escorting an Elven lady. His stern face had broken down into a loving smile and Éomer did not wish to disturb him with his own discomfort. Searching through the great Hall, he did not see any other familiar faces. At the start of the celebration he’d given his own staff leave to enjoy themselves, but now he’d lost sight of them. Alone and just the slightest bit uncomfortable in the Elven Halls Eómer saw no other option but to take another swig of the excellent wine.

If there were only someone he could talk to, to pass the time, it would make him feel much less awkward. Éomer sighed, the sound barely audible above the music. He contended himself with watching the intricate dance, studying the movements and noticed that to his eye, they looked a lot like private little battles being fought. Focusing on the other King, it was not hard at all to imagine Thranduil with two blades in his hands, crossing them with his partner. As the music changed, Éomer took another sip and watched as the dance changed with it. A couple came close to him and a tight turn had him stepping back. He stumbled a little and seeked the support of the wall. Leaning against a tree that upon contact proved to be hard and cold as marble, Éomer found the wine impacted him a little bit more than he’d previously suspected.

He raised the glass, made of crystal and still half full, until it was at the height of his eyes. He was positive this was only his second glass and Éomer could not understand how much it affected him already.

“I could make a remark about looking too deep into the glass,” a voice behind him remarked merrily, “but that would be rude.” Éomer spun around, surprised someone had noticed him in his corner and even more surprised that it was a voice he recognized. There stood Legolas, clad in an elaborately embroidered robe done in shades of green and silver. The clothing was so different from what Éomer was used to him wearing - a brown and dark green warrior tenue - that it took a moment to connect the familiar voice to the unfamiliar clothing. Almost automatically his eyes scanned around, for where Legolas was, Gimli inevitable was close. Reading his gaze, Legolas laughed. “Nay, friend Gimli is not here, I am afraid. He is with family, inside the Lonely Mountain. His poor father practically demanded he came home.” Something unreadable flashed inside Legolas’ eyes, but it was gone just as quickly as it came.

“I heard the King of Rohan had arrived, but I did not expect him to hide in a corner when we celebrate in his honor?” The ascending pitch at the end of the sentence turned the statement into a question. Éomer let out a little laugh that sounded a bit more boisterous than he wanted. He blamed the wine.

“I can’t dance,” he said simply, then watched in amazement as Legolas’ face took on an expression of uttermost disbelief. “You cannot… dance?” he repeated as if it was the most absurd thing he’d ever heard.

“Well,” Éomer hastened to explain, for some reason not wanting to look incompetent, “I did have lessons and I know a few basic Human dances, but nothing like this.” At the final word he waved his hand in the direction of the dancefloor, somehow encompassing everything that happened there.

A moment longer Legolas just stared at him, bright green eyes wide and mouth slightly open, displaying two rows of perfectly white teeth. Éomer saw the exact moment the idea occurred to his friend. “No, certainly not!” he exclaimed but couldn’t stop a few decidedly unwanted giggles at the thought of Legolas teaching him, here and now and amidst what seemed to be the entire population of Mirkwood. “Why not?” Legolas asked. “There is no better time for dancing lessons than at a dance, is there?”

“I,” Éomer stated in a grave voice, “am too drunk to participate in anything that requires coordinated footwork.” Legolas glanced at the wine. “How many glasses?” he asked. Éomer mumbled a number. “I did not hear, Éomer King,” Legolas mocked gently. “I said,” Éomer repeated, louder this time, “two.”

“Two?” Legolas had a note of disbelief in his voice, that he nonetheless hid well. “When I was a child, my father always gave me a little bit to drink during the evening meal,” Legolas told him after a few seconds. “I’ve built up some tolerance.” As if to demonstrate he raised his own glass to his lips. Éomer watched in tipsy fascination as the dark red liquid entered Legolas’ mouth. The stray thought was unprecedented and Éomer took a few moments to study it. There was something intriguing about the movements of those Elven lips, seductive almost. Legolas sighed in appreciation of the wine. “Dorwinion is my father’s favorite,” he explained. “It is an acquired and expensive taste, to be sure, but it has become my favorite as well.” He eyed Éomer’s glass. “And I don’t doubt you’ll grow to like it too.” Éomer nodded. Then a crazy idea welled up in him, and it must have been the Dorwinion that made him go through with it. Still, he took another gulp, reasoning a little extra courage wouldn’t hurt.

“Would you teach me to dance somewhere private?” Legolas raised an eyebrow and Éomer elaborated quickly. “It would not be beneficial to my reputation if it was known I needed dance lessons, not to speak of my inevitable blunders due to this excellent wine…” He trailed off and an embarrassed blush crept over his face. It seemed Legolas took pity on him, for after a few seconds he relented and grabbed Éomer’s wrist, pulling the King with him. Éomer was surprised at the strength behind the lithe hand, then chastised himself for not realizing strength was required if one fought with the ferocity he had seen Legolas fight with.

In the meantime they had removed themselves far from the great hall, but not so far that he couldn’t faintly hear the music anymore. It was a soft sound, a perfect background melody to Legolas’ instructions as he placed his hands over Éomer’s to guide them to the right position. Éomer was acutely aware of the soft skin, interrupted with calloused patches. The fingertips left warm spots that he could feel through his clothing and that sent a shiver running over his skin. Éomer wasn’t sure anymore if it was only the wine that caused these reactions. Legolas had now positioned him in what he told Éomer to be a beginner’s dance. Laughing, he added, “To not confuse your feet anymore than they already are.” Reluctantly Éomer admitted that might be for the best, because though his mind was still relatively clear, his body was already befuddled by the drink. Unmoving as to not lose his position (left leg before the right, with his left hand describing an elegant circle to the right while his right hand was stretched back) Éomer watched as Legolas assumed his own stance. It was in fact a mirror of his own; slowly Legolas moved his feet and gestured for Éomer to do the same. He tried, but ended up stumbling across the pattern Legolas had made look so easy. Legolas too had been watching his mistake and clicked with his tongue. “Again,” he ordered and Éomer thought he sensed something of an army commander in his tone. As he thought this, he realized how little he actually knew about the Elf before him, who was currently trying to explain what it was exactly that Éomer did wrong.

Éomer tried again and again there was that frown that indicated he’d messed up. He stumbled over towards the wall where he’d put his wineglass on teh ground and emptied it in his mouth. “Now I’m officially too drunk to do this successfully.” He put the glass back down with a thud. “Are you?” Legolas asked, but Éomer could see the smile that ghosted around his lips. Again Éomer found himself studying the soft pads. Unconsciously he took a step closer to Legolas and stretched out his hand. With his fingertips he brushed against Legolas’ lips, and there was a small part of his mind that told him this was not a good idea, but that part was quickly overridden. However, Legolas did not move away, but rather studied Éomer’s face intently, as if he wasn’t quite sure what was going on.

This encouraged Éomer’s intoxicated mind and he moved his hand to cup Legolas’ cheek while he pressed a soft kiss to his mouth. “What,” Legolas whispered, “are you doing?” Éomer smiled. “I haven’t got a single clue.”

“Truly?” It was Legolas who leaned in this time and Éomer could smell the Dorwinion in his breath too. “Truly,” Éomer responded. “Well then,” Legolas breathed, “I believe there are places we should rather be than here in an often-used corridor.” At this point Éomer didn’t say anything anymore and simply followed where Legolas led. The music from the celebration slowly faded away as he went deeper and deeper inside the maze that was Mirkwood’s Royal Palace.

The next morning a great search was conducted because the King of Rohan was not in his allocated chambers. His staff was in panic and King Thranduil feared a political scandal, until around noon when King Éomer appeared dressed in his official robes and simply stated that he’d slept well as an apology for the frantic events from that morning.

An hour later Legolas finally deigned to leave his bedroom, immaculately clothed and with new braids in his hair. King Thranduil gave his son a once-over before his sighed and turned away. “Try to refrain during future events,” was all that he told his heir. Legolas grinned at his father’s exasperated expression.