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Hungry Eyes and a Blade of Steel (NC-17)
Written by December16 June 2018 | 18315 words | Work in Progress
Chapter 8.
Éowyn had only had time to wipe her wet hand on the back of her bloomers, straighten up and assume a dignified look, before the door was flung open.
The High King of all Gondor stared at her in uttermost disbelief, as though he would have expected anything – a fire-spitting Dragon perhaps – anything at all to be there but her.
Head held high, Éowyn stood tall and proud, all bare skin and skimpy frills.
On any other occasion, to be caught in this disrobed, messy-haired manner by a man other than her husband would have seen no end of embarrassment. How strangely, painfully sweet it was to be freed of that shame, to glare at Aragorn like at a misbehaving stable boy. If one of them ought to be mortified, tonight it was he, and he well knew it. Among other things, he had on nothing at all and was pointing at her in a rather indecent fashion.
“My lady,” he uttered at last.
“Good evening, sire,” she replied with sarcastic politeness, not bothering to even imitate the customary curtsy.
Still disoriented, he nodded back out of sheer habit – then a hint of a grin touched his lips.
“Were you planning to murder me with this?” Aragorn asked, with his eyes indicating the blade lying between them.
“If I were, I could have already done so, for I see you carrying no weapon to defend yourself with, my lord. Unless you were to use that,” she gave his upright quavering cock a meaningful glance. A damn good cock it was, she could not help but note yet again. Curse the bloody thing.
“I… had not thought of that,” Aragorn admitted. He did not, however, make any futile attempts at covering his loins, for he must have already gathered she had just witnessed things far worse.
She said nothing – she was not going to spare him any discomfiture. Let him struggle searching for words. The unreleased fire brewed mischievously in her veins, and she was ready for action, ready to laugh adversity in the face. Not that he could, in all seriousness, accuse her of discourtesy, standing as he was naked in her husband’s bedroom and with his cock staring unblinking in her face, as though in silent accusation that she was ignoring its royal splendour.
Aragorn sighed. “Won’t you come in, lady?” he stepped aside, making a vague inviting gesture with his hand. “I believe some explanations are in order.”
“Oh, quite to the contrary, sire, it all seems rather self-explanatory to me.”
“Yes, yes, I… suppose it does. All the more, you must be at least expecting an apology.”
“Expecting? You do not reckon I might be entitled to one? For that matter – to two, one from each of my noble lords.”
“Of course. I am, indeed, truly sorry you have come to learn of it like so.”
“So, merely that? That is the sole cause of your remorse?”
Aragorn frowned, hesitation readable in his face.
“Such matters,” he said finally, “ought not to be discussed over a threshold. Please, do come in.”
As she did, Faramir, his face pale and set, came over and stopped before them – at equal distance from both. Not so close to Aragorn as to make a point of intimacy, yet not far enough to suggest that in the presence of the rightful spouse he was now renouncing his adulterous passion. He was looking at her, yet something in the angle of his body, in the way he stood, undeniably included Aragorn in the equation. From this little detail alone Éowyn, who after all knew him a bit, read clearer than if he had put in words, that he meant to reassure her and Aragorn both that he did not put one above the other in his heart.
So that he got to have everything he wanted, including Aragorn in his bed.
He nodded to her in greeting.
“My lady,” he said, heavily and seriously.
That was it, that was all he said.
Always gallant with a dame, his gaze did not stray a notch below her face, but Éowyn knew her suggestive attire could not have escaped his attention. Certainly he knew what it meant, with what purpose she had initially headed for his chambers, the insult it added to her injury.
Nothing in his face betrayed this realisation, or any other, and he stood before her quiet and grave – as one on a trial, or before an execution.
As the pause lengthened, Aragorn shifted his weight warily – but said nothing.
So, her husband was not going to fall to his knees and sue for pardon.
Éowyn had precious little respect for men who in his place did just that, their whiny excuses, pleas or, worse still, attempts to convince their wives that things were not what they seemed. This calm defiance of his had an oddly pleasing edge. Why did he have to remind her, even in a moment like this, that she had done well in choosing him.
What was to be done with this now, though? Even had she been inclined, unfathomably, to forgive them on the spot, it would be far too desperate to offer it unprompted.
Despite the room being so much better heated than her hiding spot, a chill crawled up her skin and she had to resist the urge to wrap her arms around her shoulders.
Éowyn looked away. Why could she not have stayed at the village overnight? This had been going on for quite some time now, and everyone had been perfectly happy.
She could make a concession. Let her know – but would that he did not. She could have lived with the knowledge; she would have fumed, and agonised, and whatnot, but she would have come around, grown indifferent to it.
Why had she needed to stay around and wait to be discovered?
Perfect husbands were creatures of myth – not that she herself was the embodiment of all existing wifely virtues – and there was little benefit in establishing what exactly the catch was with hers. To know that he vented out his strange passions on another man, and perhaps cared for him too, was more than enough.
As he would not have cared to be informed that sometimes she closed her eyes and told herself that the strong knowing hand between her legs was Aragorn’s. That as the hand was replaced with those deep kisses of infinite, selfless patience, she would think that the mouth, too, was Aragorn’s.
She loved her steward – once in a while she fantasised about their king – but her love did not grow any less for it. If anything, she wanted him all the more. It was a balance that worked (for her), it made sense. To Faramir it could never make sense, and she had long since accepted that this was something about her that only she would know about herself. But flip the tables – and oh no, she had just had to understand what it was like for him, had to match him, had to get her fair share.
It would not, could not work out now, for technically he was the one at fault, he had to yield – and she saw that he would not.
He would not yield in the only way that adulterers must: denounce his affair. Was their marriage doomed to be left ever disfigured, hobbling along with this unhealing wound?
He had taught her to believe in happy endings.
There must be another way. They will have to do what they never had done – but what many others do all the time. They will argue, and they will fight, and somehow something will come up, and they will fight their way out. Battlefields made a rich soil for flowers to grow on. Even in the royal quarters, it was no secret, every now and again cut-glass flew at walls and such Elven-words were exchanged in raised voices that no self-respecting dictionary would provide a translation for.
She will only have to draw him out.
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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!)