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Hungry Eyes and a Blade of Steel (NC-17)
Written by December16 June 2018 | 18315 words | Work in Progress
With: Aragorn, Éowyn
Rating: NC-17
Written for the 6th Anniversary Challenge: Éowyn by iris.
Warnings: het content, very explicit action, some obscene talk.
Disclaimer: Not mine (although I’m not entirely certain the rightful owners would want to have any dealings with the characters of this work either, given the state said characters get themselves into as the story unfolds…).
Notes: Thanks to Chloé for the beta on chapters 1-3!
Everything (except the obvious) is based on Book canon.
‘Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever,
One foot in sea, and one on shore,
To one thing constant never.
Then sigh not so, but let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into hey nonny nonny.’William Shakespeare
Chapter 1.
Éowyn had never minded getting a tad dirty.
Wet to the bone, boots squelching in the mud that pooled over the rutted forest footpath, she led her equally soaked mare by the bridle, and was in exceptionally high spirits. The grime did nothing but make her look forward to the comforts of their Ithilien estate: a good bath, a plate of warm food and… well, some other things afterwards.
She could have, of course, stayed the night at the village.
What with the horrible, chilly downpour and an almost complete lack of visibility, the men must expect her to have done just that. Who would think it would occur to her to try and take a shortcut through the woods, at this hour and in this weather? Except that she wanted to be home tonight, and if it came as a little surprise for a certain someone, all the better.
All the better, she thought emerging at last from beneath the dark, glittering canopy that swayed, and bowed, and in place of goodbye pelleted the horse and its mistress with yet another cascading curtain of liquid ice. All the better, she thought shielding her face with her elbow as they waded through the slick grasses of the open meadow, the wind throwing itself at them with the plaintive relentlessness of a denied lover. The ground had grown marshy, and even the smallest hill saw them sliding back and slipping in their step, but she pressed on, giving herself a teeth-clenched grin as she dug her feet sideways into the buttery slope, encouraging her four-legged companion along.
It was well past eleven when the woman and the mare treaded onto the paved road that lead to the stalls and barn.
Éowyn moved her shoulders under the dead weight of the sodden cloak and lazily wiped a flat strand of plastered hair from her forehead as she stood surveying, not without some hard earned pride, the building that loomed through the rain-mist ahead. White from porch till rooftop, for he could not understand how a house could be anything but white, it now seemed hardly a shade lighter than the weeping skies that served as its backdrop. Together with the colour, the night hid from view the airy balconies and elegant carven facades wrought with mythical beasts and leaf and flower of unearthly trees, and it stood sturdy and monolith, her new home.
Their home.
What a life they had built together. At times, she could still not quite believe it.
She would never weary of the sight, and was glad to have made the journey. The household, however, was fast asleep, if the dark windows overlooking the stables were anything to go by.
Faramir was an early riser, something about old habits, and he would have long since gone to bed along with the others. What a shame, that, she would have far from minded finding him awake now – or at least finding a certain aspect of him awake. A long day of riding always worked to that effect. Unreasonably fit for a lady of court, no amount of hours on horseback could tire her out, succeeding only at filling all her muscles, and especially those in the saddle region, with a pleasant awareness. Having felt a strong warm animal between her thighs all day, she would not be loath to experience a strength and heat of another kind as well. Not that she was ever loath, with him.
Even so, if he was asleep, maybe she could wait till morning. She was a sweet obedient wife, after all. That is, most of the time she was… Sometimes. On certain rare occasions. Well…
All the more, she ought not to wake him.
Éowyn unsaddled her mate, wiped her down, covered her with a long blanket, combed through her tangled mane and tail, checked the horse had everything for a comfortable rest, and wished her good night. Then finally she entered the people’s quarters, intent on grabbing a morsel in the kitchens, peeling off her soppy clothes, and heading straight for her own bed after a quick wash over a bucket. If she did not get to have the one thing that refused to leave her imagination, she could do without the foamy bath as well.
As she scoured her back with the rough washcloth, scrubbing out of her skin the smell of sweat, both animal and human, suddenly she remembered what she had witnessed earlier that day. In line with her interest in healing, Éowyn often went to the village to help the ailing, but this time it had not been exactly an illness. She shuddered lightly as she recalled the thick, heavy redolence of blood – the smell she had come to associate with death, but which could be a herald of life, too. Life brutally forcing itself through the woman’s body, spreading and splitting her flesh, making her pant, and groan, and growl. How horrifying it had looked, how beastly it had sounded – what a staggering, grim beauty. Merciless, primeval splendour.
As Éowyn passed the midwife yet more towels, the aged woman had winked at her. “And mens think they seen gore, eh, yer leddyship?”
She had smiled in return, and it was then that for the first time she consciously knew she wanted this to happen to her, too. To let nature work its course on her, have its way with her, fill and stretch her body beyond belief. Reduce her to her animal essence, make her suffer, so that in the end there could be glory and new meaning – to everything.
It was time. She knew she wanted it to begin this very night, to have the man in her life set this irreversible, unstoppable force in motion.
Éowyn threw the washcloth into the bucket, straightened up and looked down upon herself. Placing a palm on her lower belly, between the navel and the tuft of dark-blonde hair, she pressed thoughtfully.
This is where it would be, where it would lie, curled up, where it would sleep inside her, and grow. She felt firm to her palm, flat. All her youth, this flatness had brought comfort, for it bespoke strength, and in strength there was freedom and safety. But what she had now was better than complete freedom, and safety was altogether a given, so the flatness had turned into emptiness. A promising emptiness, a space that could be filled.
Weighing her bosom in her hands, she pictured it changing, too.
She had helped the exhausted mother ease open the front of her dampened shirt and pop out a breast for the wrinkle-faced newborn. It had taken her aback at first, how swollen, blown-up it was, the veins thick under the taut milk-white skin, the teat an intense purplish brown.
Pensively, Éowyn ran her thumb over her own nipple. The very thought of sharing her body with another human person, someone other than Faramir… A new connection, so deep, so natural.
Yes, this night would be perfect. She indulged herself in a mischievous smile. Their royal visitor’s guest bedroom was nigh across the corridor from Faramir’s and hers, and she liked to play around with the thought that if she took the trouble to scream loud enough, her husband might not be the only man to hear.
No, she was by all means in no mood for that nice unassuming wife nonsense.
Éowyn wrung the water from her tresses, arranged them into a towel-wrap on her head, went up to the upper floor where all the living quarters were, and headed for her wardrobe. It still amused her that she of all people, the Shieldmaiden of Rohan, had found it rather enjoyable, to have a whole room for a wardrobe.
Fishing in one of the drawers, she smiled again. If after all she was going to rob her unsuspecting spouse of sleep, she may as well do so in style.
She took out a matching set of powder-blue silk camisole and short bloomers. At the beginning of their marriage, it had felt more than a tad foolish wearing all such satins and laces, like a saddle on a cow. Seeing the effect it produced upon Faramir had quickly convinced her to reconsider. He had a thing for lingerie, her husband did, although the way he had of treating said lingerie resulted in it having become a rather tangible expense for their estate.
A pleasant shiver ran down Éowyn’s spine as she took a moment to envisage the exquisite fabric unceremoniously ripped off her, a breath of air caressing naked skin before he would cover her with himself, with his weight, with the hot strength of his body…
Nay, his fate was sealed, there was no way she could leave him in peace now, not a chance.
It did not bother her that her hair had instantly wetted the fabric on her back, the material sticking to her waist in a frigid grip. Soon, very soon she would be relieved of her attire. Faramir was a warrior – it never took him long to wake.
She walked back through her drawing room and bedroom to the small corridor adjoining to his chamber. It was usually he who visited her, and it was a thrill to take things to his corner of the house for a change – so different from her plushly decorated boudoir. As she knew he liked it, she kept the linens aromatised with floral sachets, lit sweet incenses before the night. There would be no lilacs or roses in his room, only manly scents, above all her favourite, his own. He would be so warm from his sleep, he would spread that warmth through her chilled body, bring sweat to her brow all over again…
Just as she was about to enter the connecting passageway, Éowyn staggered, jolted out of her reverie in a rather ungracious fashion.
What’s this now?
Narrowing her eyes and tilting her head to the side, she held her breath. Perhaps just the wind, trapped somewhere in the masonry – but the sound returned, longer and louder, unequivocal.
Éowyn’s nostrils flared.
A man moaning.
Faramir moaning. Very obviously not from anything remotely unpleasant.
She like no one knew what exactly would elicit that sound.
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This is simply fantastic! I really do have a soft sport for Eowyn and you’ve written her wonderfully, I love how she goes from anger to disbelief to curiosity right through to arousal!
— Eora Monday 13 September 2010, 19:35 #This was very hot ;), and beautifully written, and I can’t wait for this to continue (I want to know what happens when Faramir and Aragorn realise they were being watched!)