Faramir Fiction Archive

Hungry Eyes and a Blade of Steel (NC-17)

Written by December

16 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.

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‘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.

Chapter 2.

So she had been correct in her suspicions after all. Her cousin thrice-removed she had brought to Ithilien as a maid of honour – the little witch got what she wanted at last. Éowyn should have put a stop to it long ago, had she not noticed all those looks Éolinda had been giving the man of the house? Faramir had only chuckled at her outraged concerns, assuring her he was not interested in the slightest and that the lass was wasting her best years trying to charm a married man.

He would never burn for another woman, he had said.

Éowyn gritted her teeth.

She knew what had to be done.

Her duty had always been first and foremost – to herself.

Husband or not, she was not obliged to put up with this – if anything, she was obliged to actively not put up with it.

She was, from now on, on her own, and there was a strange, almost comforting familiarity in the feeling. It had once seemed that the fight in her had become a thing of the past, a distant tale to remember cosied up by the hearth while the night gales howled outside. It was reassuring to see her spirit had not gone to seed so easily. Perhaps she had known all along, deep down, that it would come to this, that good things were not meant to last.

She would show them.

Quietly Éowyn slipped back to the lower floor to retrieve her trusty old sword, left to rest in the small ammunition room. She always took it along when riding alone, just in case, but never had she thought it would come in handy in her own home. Oh, well. She would lament later, now there was fixing to get done.

First, she decided, she would hack off that whore’s arrogantly long hair. Hack it off at the very scalp, so that everyone would see Eolinda’s disgrace for years to come. And then –

What exactly could she do then, though?

She had used to believe, as a thing self-evident, that the rules of conventionality did not apply to them: what they had was special, and with him she would never have to soil her feet in the dirt through which ordinary people waded on a daily basis.

But if he would do this to her, who was to know what else to expect?

Marriage consisted for a great part of rights and responsibilities: the rights were mostly his, the responsibilities hers. A wife was effectively her husband’s property – it did not work the other way around so much.

Adultery was a female word. A woman was an adulteress, a traitor, a slut, loose and worthless, whom her husband could indeed punish according to his design, until his thirst for justice was slaked.

Whereas a man… They could not help themselves, could they? It was the mistress’s fault, the bewitching seductress ruining perfectly good marriages out of sheer wickedness. Or it was the wife’s fault. Had she been attentive enough? Had she been quick to please, shown sufficient deference?

And a man… A man simply played around. Of course, officially it was disapproved of and shaken heads at, but the unspoken law had it that so long as he put bread on the table and raised the children in his good name, he could do pretty much as he pleased. The wives of such men would only sigh and dismiss it with a shrug: well, what do you want, they are all like that, no use smashing your best porcelain set over it.

Éowyn had once looked down upon such women and pitied them, even more so those who were not even aware of being betrayed. It would never happen to her, of course.

Faramir was different.

Faramir loved her.

She swallowed down the sudden knot in her throat, and felt herself go cold: to think of it, she had nothing on him. He would likely claim he still loved her, and this here was just a thing of the flesh – she had heard this was a popular line. And she would not even be able to call him an oath-breaker, for as she dazedly recalled now, their troth had included no words on not sharing their bodies with another but the sworn spouse. She had not given it much thought then, assuming it was too obvious to even be mentioned.

So she had been wed to him, put her name next to his for all time – being on her own was not, actually, a realistic option. More than that, she was far from the one in charge. He was ever the one to take care of things, which she had welcomed as a blessed change from her previous life. She had, by her own free choosing, come to reside in his land, on his estate, speak his tongue, wear Gondorian clothes, and live by Gondorian law, under a Gondorian king.

She was no longer the Lady of Rohan, she was the Steward’s wife.

While she did get away with all her cheek, bossiness and general stubbornness, that was because – and only because – Faramir found all of it amusing, endearing, and even arousing. And thus allowed it. Allowed, no doubt, so long as it was done within reasonable limits – she sensed he would put her jolly well back in her place should she forget herself. Speaking of which, little doubt a woman coming upon her husband with a drawn sword would be seen as something perhaps a little over the line.

To think of it, what a sight she must be! Lacy underwear, wet hair and armed for battle, with a mad fire in her eyes. Éolinda might fall off the bed laughing.

She leant forth, for suddenly there was not enough breath in her chest, and the tangled threads of her damp mane hung in front of her face like some slovenly rag. Stinging tears of shamed, impotent anger clouded her vision – but she blinked them back, and pulled herself up straight, and squared her shoulders.

She would not come to him disheveled. She would face it with dignity, if dignity was all she had.

She may be trapped. She would be expected to deal with it, grin and bear. Women always did – what choice did they have? There was no power by which to unbind the bond that had tied them to their husbands. A marriage is forever.

Well, forever just might end tonight, she thought as her hand pulled the blade forth from the scabbard. She did not know what she was going to do – but she did know that as soon as her heart came to a decision – whatever it be – she would not restrain herself.

Lying on a hospital cot long ago, alone and forgotten amid a throng of battle-soiled, mutilated, dying soldiers, Éowyn had sworn to herself that never again would she allow a man to humiliate her. The hour had come to make good on that oath.

Chapter 3.

Éowyn approached the adjoining corridor once again and blew the candle out, lest the door on Faramir’s side should be open and they see her light. She needed to have the full surprise effect – she had to get at least some enjoyment out of this.

No wild cat was she, and no ranger, but she could walk quietly enough when she wanted to, and judging by the sounds coming from the other side, they would be too engrossed to hear even an Orc patrol. As she crept closer, she saw the door was indeed left ajar, the bedroom lit by the blaze of the hearth. She was well concealed and could choose her moment.

She realised then that she wanted to see first. To see what this brazen slut had to offer that the rightful wife did not have.

Biting her lip, Éowyn leant in to bring her eye to the door crack – only to shudder and look away.

She had seen enough.

The bed stood opposite the door, and the pair were square in the middle of the sheets, he on top. So she got slapped in the face with all his nakedness, his back, his arse, his legs, all of it bare for someone else. He was leaning low over his lover, moving slowly and thoroughly – rolling forth with his hips, each forward motion accompanied by a low heavy moan. The only part visible of the other party were the legs wrapped snugly around his waist.

So we like it deep: wide open and intimate. How nice. A dangerous quickening of her pulse sent even more blood to her temples.

She adjusted her grip on the sword, raised the blade level to her face, eyed the door considering whether to ram it with the back of her shoulder or kick it down.

And yet –

Something at the back of her head stalled and bucked, distracting her like a bothersome fly buzzing just out of reach. Something was off, and she leant in for a second look.

By all the horses of the Mark, those legs around his back.

Long, muscular shins dusted with a down of dark hairs. Strong tendons around the bony ankle. And no lady’s shoe would ever fit those feet.

Éowyn nearly dropped her sword.

That was another man in his bed.

And she had thought she knew him.

Even as the floor swayed under her bare feet, Éowyn suddenly felt like laughing out. She closed her eyes and rested her temple against the smooth wood, trying to digest this new truth. Her husband was still sleeping with someone else, that did not change. And yet… Somehow the ground had gone out from under her outrage, as though it were a little silly to be murderously jealous over horse-play with some soldier or servant-lad.

It was said men had any number of strange urges, and this was no doubt different from the passion he had with her, not something he could find in her arms, and maybe…

“Ah… yea… Ah… ra… gorn…”

For a blank moment, her mind refused to put the syllables together.

Ah, so. So much for a servant-lad. The back she had seen was not Faramir’s.

She stared in front of herself, unseeing, the previous urge to laugh now dead upon her lips.

How could anyone be so slow. She should have known from the start. He truly had no shame. Neither of them had any shame.

Did they not both know how she… that it… that she still, sometimes…

Éowyn squeezed her eyes shut against the unbidden recollection of just this morning. Turning a corner on her way to the hall, she had all but walked into Aragorn (she got used to addressing him and referring to him as Lord Aragorn, His Royal Majesty, and King Elessar, but in her thought he was always just Aragorn). His warmth, his scent, his presence had crashed into her like a tidal wave, and washed over her, and left her embarrassed and breathless, and she had hurried past. He had instinctively raised a hand to alleviate the collision, and for a long time afterwards she had felt where the pads of his fingers had brushed against her flank.

To think how conflicted, how guilty she used to feel. When Faramir returned from his rangering trips with the king in the woods, oh how fey and wild her passion would run. How she would fall to the bed pulling him on top of herself, hiking up her skirts and undoing his breeches before he could take off his shirt, so she could shut her eyes and smell the bitter smoke of Aragorn’s pipe-weed in the fabric of his collar as he entered her.

How she would shame herself for being curious for more, for having the obstinacy to desire the impossible, when she already had the best man in all the land. Yet such inebriant sweetness lay in this pointless, stupid fantasising. Lightheaded, skin-tingling sweetness that she had prayed would not show in the blush on her cheeks when she felt Faramir look upon her as she looked upon Aragorn.

All of that agonising – for this.

Why could they not have chosen someone else of all the possible options, were there not enough men in Gondor?

She should indeed storm in with her sword raised, if only to scare the living daylights out of the two of them and ruin their little picnic – they deserved that much at least.

Yes, she was going to do just that, right this very second.

She is going to kick the door open, and leap forth, and brandish her sword at their naked behinds, and make some very evil noise.

Any minute now.

The minute lapsed, but for some reason she still found herself where she was. Carefully hiding in the corridor, both feet firmly on the floor with no intention of kicking or leaping detectable in them.

Alright. This was fine. She was just not ready.

Éowyn made herself take a slow breath, then lower her tensed up shoulders. It was alright, there was no rush, they were not going anywhere.

She could find a better way to make them pay.

Éowyn considered returning to her room – what was the use of standing here like a twit? Except to leave was akin to acknowledging defeat. So she only moved to lean back against the stone cladding of the dark passage, wiping the cool sweat from her brow with her forearm.

Calm down and think, and try not to listen.

Aragorn had been surprised the previous time he had found her entirely not where everyone had expected her to be. She grinned, visualising his surprise tomorrow, when she would descend early for breakfast and to their puzzled questions reply that no, she had not arrived at six in the morning. She would smile pleasantly and inform them that, in fact, she had been home from late the previous evening. She would be all courtesy and politeness (she would even wear a flowery dress), and they would go pale in the face, and stealthily exchange glances, wondering if it was possible she had not heard anything.

She would torment them mercilessly, make ambiguous remarks in a perfectly innocent voice. If later tonight she saw Aragorn take out his pipe, tomorrow at breakfast she would get up to come and snake her arms around Faramir’s neck as though in a spontaneous expression of affection – but would draw back and look at him with teasing reproach, and tell him his hair smelled of pipe-weed – was he smoking secretly from her? Then she would glance at Aragorn with as much playfulness as the position of his steward’s wife allowed, and tell him he was corrupting her husband with his Northern ways.

But what if two could play this game? What if Aragorn would merely look at her with his twinkling eyes and say, “Ah, my lady, but your husband does so enjoy being corrupted, what am I to do?” Faramir, perhaps, would turn crimson to the hairline, and drop his toast on his lap and get butter and jam all over his tunic – but that was not the point.

She would feel like a complete idiot, not only cheated on, but ridiculed.

Or maybe her husband would not do food comedy. Maybe he would turn grave, and take her by the hand, and declare he had long since utterly and completely loved the King. It was in the stars, it was destiny, and nothing to do about it.

Then Aragorn would look upon her not with twinkling eyes at all, but with that awkward pity she had seen once before, when he knew that he was breaking her heart and chose to do nothing about it.

Éowyn breathed out heavily. She was in no state for coming up with clever strategies of revenge, this much was clear. With all of Faramir’s moaning, her mind was not at its sharpest – and as for the rest of her body…

However those two may be asking for a good whipping – the part of her from waist down could not fail to react in its own fashion, strangely spurred on by each evocative groan.

If she were to be honest with herself, there was something to the very concept – almost like a certain kind of… beauty? In their particular case at least. The only two men she had ever wanted – together…

Heat licked at the inside of her thighs as the images of all the things that the lords of Gondor might do to each other rushed before her inner vision in a parade of self-indulgent indecency. Suddenly she remembered she was still wearing that fine-spun joke of an attire and, more importantly, the reason she had put it on in the first place.

So that is what was bothering her to think clearly. Unsated lust.

How cumbersome. Well, she would have to get rid of the lust then.

Which was exactly why she had been going to see Faramir.

But Faramir was currently a little preoccupied.

Which meant…

Éowyn raised her brow.

She did like to think of herself as reasonably uninhibited, but…

She drummed the fingers of her free hand over her bare thigh.

The last time she went and let herself get all worked up because of Aragorn, it nearly got her killed – and left her feeling stupid for quite some time afterwards. She ought to do whatever it took to not make a spectacle of herself again.

It was such a mad night already, what with this horrible rain, and her running around with a sword in a huff, and the King bedding her man – and obviously doing it quite well, too… Why should she not add to it a little madness of her own? Not that this chance was likely to present itself again.

She lowered her sword and brought her face to the strip of light once more.

Now that she looked on not to feed her outrage, but to try and relate to this attraction between them, to explore the tension, to let it work on her – now that she looked on to enjoy the sight, she decided that it all was indeed rather an interesting proposition.

Power had always fascinated her – the power of strength and even, in a certain sense, brutality. With strength came freedom and a ruthless sort of honesty – I do what I want, however I please and with whomever I please. There was no pretense in strength, no need for subtlety and self-restraint.

All this healing stuff, dried flowers and tree bark – it sure did make for a more wholesome everyday life, certainly for a longer life – but it did not exactly match up when it came to creating thrilling fantasies. Understandable, that, given her upbringing. Sweetness, patience, gentleness – that was not what happened in her daydreams featuring Aragorn. What, indeed, could be a better epitome of everything that moved her than not one, but two handsomely made, mighty lords – locked in each other’s embrace?

As she watched, Aragorn’s unfaltering rhythm began to hypnotise her just as much as it must Faramir, and for a moment it seemed to her she might be content to merely observe their play. Someone else, in her place, perhaps would have been more than content indeed. Except Éowyn recognised a familiar pang – envy and resentment, the exact same combination she had so often experienced in the past, when the men of the Mark (and on one occasion a certain man of the North) would gather to go and do some big, important, manly thing, and tell her to stay home and mind the chickens.

She was not the sort to tolerate exclusion well – and this time least of all. On her own territory, in her own house, by her very own man – he should have known better. May as it be a little deprived to be looking for pleasure in spying on her unfaithful husband, so be it, you make do with what you’ve got. As though of its own accord, her palm began to thoughtfully caress her belly below the navel.

Indeed. Why not?

If she were to benefit from their little enjoyment, she ought to make haste, for the two of them were picking up speed, and Faramir’s moans acquired a note of urgency.

Aragorn raised himself up, no doubt to be able to increase the amplitude of his thrusts. This let her see his strong lean shoulders – every muscle in them working – and the back of his straining neck, the man’s long dark hair parting at the nape. His head was bowed low, and she wondered about the expression on his face. And then Faramir… oh, just to see into his face now. What did it feel like, to be had by Aragorn?

Clearly, it felt good enough to fight for even more. He threw his arms over Aragorn’s back, digging his fingers into the older man’s shoulders for better leverage to push back at the King’s pounding hips. She could see the frustrated hunger in his grip, and was not altogether surprised when he gave up to instead grab his royal lover right on the backside and push down with all his strength.

She would not make it like this, not with the head start they had had on her. Drop all preambles and get to the point. That whole day, what she had seen at the village, and all her riding, and thinking of Faramir had prepared her well. Now this unplanned little show – she must be ready for the final dash.

Normally, it was nice to delay the sweetest part, to have him start with light caresses on the lower abdomen and upper thighs. To wait for her flesh to fill with deep heat, to burn for touch, to prepare for a profound release. Not this time – she had to hurry.

She set to it with determination, not averting her gaze from the men for a moment as she stuck her left hand down the waist-band of her bloomers. At once her index finger sought out the very point of her pleasure, right at the top of her feminine entrance. This area had to be treated with care, gently stroked to blood-swollen fullness, tickled and teased at the base and the sides, where the sensations were so very diverse. She had no time for all that – she could hear Faramir practically weeping by now, his grip bound to leave bruises on the King’s buttocks. So she placed the pad of her finger on the very tip, this tiny spot that was always responsive, even when she was simply washing herself in the morning.

It brought the result in barely a minute, like it sometimes did.

A quick spasm grasped her thighs and pelvis, and her breath caught as a spark of pleasure skipped through her.

One spark.

That was it.

She had ruined it, merely skimmed the cream, achieved nothing but breaking off the tip of her desire. This release, if it could even be called such, had done nothing to slake her need. The passion had retreated deeper into her body to build up for something truly rewarding.

Something truly rewarding would require far more than a bit of hasty fondling.

In a last ditch effort she tried to keep going, but it was no use. The extreme sensitivity of her flesh was gone, and would have to be patiently coaxed back to the surface. Which would take time.

Time that she did not have.

They were going for the prize. The ever self-possessed Aragorn grew frantic and desperate, and his breathing likewise, whereas Faramir did not seem able to stop moaning long enough to take a breath at all.

A feral growl, this one from the king, and Aragorn slammed into his steward with such savage force as though with this last stab he actually wanted to pierce the man through – and Faramir echoed the King’s release with his own cry of rapture.

They slumped down, with Faramir’s legs keeping a limp embrace around Aragorn’s back.

Éowyn all but cursed aloud. They had left her out after all.

Now that she had nowhere to hurry, she withdrew her hand from between her legs and steadied her breath. Knowing her husband, once he was at it, there was no stopping him till the small hours.

She would only have to wait.

Chapter 4.

For what seemed like eternity, Faramir and Aragorn lay on their sides, wrapped in a lazy sated embrace. Caressing each other with habitual fondness, murmuring in low voices some gentle words Éowyn could not discern. So cosy and at ease, so accustomed to each other. She began to seethe all over again, despite all her resolve to the contrary.

She had done right to bide her time and learn more – for example, how ingrained this little practice clearly was. Not that she was made happier for the knowledge, yet having been raised among men of war, the few recent years of peace had not made her forget that blissful ignorance was the most dangerous position of all.

So she watched closer yet. Interestingly enough, even now that their passion had subsided, she could detect not one hint of contrition or a disquiet consciousness between them. Both men appeared entirely aware of and at peace with what they were doing. But if that were so, and yet Faramir had never told her, never alluded in any way – why? Did he, perhaps not altogether unreasonably, not trust her to not go on a slaying rampage – or was it simply that he considered this his private life, more private even than his bond with her?

These were unhelpful thoughts. Inaction was not good for her, it led to overthinking, to winding herself up. For now, she should focus on getting her dividends – as soon as the men would oblige.

The heaviness of her long sword was getting increasingly bothersome. Éowyn was loathe to take it back to her room, strangely certain this time they would hear her as much as make a step. Leaning the blade against the wall was not an option either, lest it should slip and fall with a clang – not to mention the illogical reassurance she found in holding the sharpened steel. So eventually Éowyn only dared lower its point to the floor, to both relieve her muscles and rest her own weight on the weapon.

There was another unignorable source of irritation, one she could do nothing to alleviate.

The last month of spring had already begun, and by day, especially out in the sun, it felt almost like summer. Nighttime in a bare stone corridor was a different story. All the more so for someone unshod and attired in naught but impractical, husband-pleasing undergarments. The air coming through the door crack told Éowyn the men had a mellow warmth to bask in – yet little of it passed into her dark corner.

Her hair was still damp, her nipples had contracted so much it hurt, and she was beginning to shiver.

She forced another long, slow breath. Steady. To allow her anger work itself up would bring no benefit, only the opposite. If she wanted to enjoy herself, she had to be in the appropriate mood. The lashing icy rain she had recently endured had hardly bothered her, so why mind a little chill now?

She knew why, of course: the weather, she had chosen to face. This discomfort she had to put up with now was no inconvenience of her own doing. Had it not been for the King in her man’s bed, it was she who would have now been snuggling to Faramir, his strong arms around her, his fingers idly twirling her loose tresses. She would have been without a care in the world.

Here she stood instead, outmatched and pathetic in her eagerness to watch another make love to her husband – and, on top of it, she was cold. As though Aragorn himself had come and shoved her out of Faramir’s warm bed.

Ah, finally.

Even from her hiding place, she sensed a tangible change in the air. The men were still holding each other peacefully, but she could tell their kiss was no longer leisured. Then Faramir slung his leg over Aragorn’s hip, and with a chuckle the King rolled them over to reassume his position atop the Steward.

Éowyn allowed herself a smile. A pleasant reprieve from all her brooding had arrived at last, and she would make the most of it. She would not cut corners this time, and the payback would be tenfold.

As Éowyn softly caressed herself through the thin silk, she observed with a grin how Faramir ventured to once more knead Aragorn’s rump – this time, it seemed, quite… well, disrespectfully. Aragorn apparently thought as much, for, although with a good-natured laugh, he reached behind himself and swatted at the younger man’s hands. The King then murmured something she could not quite make out, although the pointedly provocative note in his voice made his intentions clear enough. Faramir, obediently removing his palms to his lover’s upper back, replied with a delighted laugh – followed by a deep, open-mouthed kiss.

For some time they lay pressing their bodies together, sighing and arching into each other’s touch – and Éowyn stood stroking with diligent slowness, firmly resisting the temptation to speed things up. Her thighs, yearning in vain to part for a man’s narrow hips and cradle them with all her rider’s strength, were beginning to strain against each other, the muscles in her legs and buttocks flexing to a rhythm. Want was gradually building up in her body, and Éowyn nodded with satisfaction. Yes, just like this: she would not lag behind nor rush ahead, she would pace the race.

“Let me prepare you,” Faramir said, his voice unnervingly casual. Éowyn frowned. Prepare for what, were they not already…?

Aragorn had no trouble understanding. Swiftly he sat up, reached for something on the bedside table and, when he passed the object to Faramir, Éowyn saw it to be a clear glass bottle with a pale transparent liquid inside. Before she could wonder what that was all about, her attention was demanded elsewhere. As Aragorn had turned to the younger man, Éowyn finally got a view of what the King so successfully used to bring his lucky lover bodily joy.

Chapter 5.

Éowyn had never thought about whether Faramir was made better than other men, having had naught to compare with – and he had given her no reason to wish he was endowed otherwise.

Once the strange novelty of a man’s nakedness had worn off, she had even grown to find a certain degree of aesthetical harmony in the whimsical make of his sex. She forgot how grotesque it had first seemed, and had altogether become so used to it that she could no longer truly see it. The change in its moods never failed to stir the counterpart reaction in her own body, yet she had long since stopped paying attention to the actual way it looked. Much as she had long since let go of the worry as to what met Faramir’s eyes when she opened her legs before his face.

The sight of Aragorn in his natural state, unclothed and fully aroused, was swift to remind her. How sweetly bewildering it could be, to uncover all the private details of a man’s physique that previously were the realm of fantasy alone.

Aragorn’s manhood was not necessarily superior to what she knew as the benchmark – but it certainly was different, and in that difference it was astounding.

For want of evidence to the contrary, Éowyn had assumed that men would be made much alike in the loins, except what she had heard regarding the often regrettable variation in length. People had different noses, eyes, hair – so that other people could tell them apart. The sex, being nothing but a functional thing like a lung or a liver, had no need for the same degree of variety.

Even after sharing her bed with a man for many moons, how little she still knew.

Aragorn was not only gorgeous – he was gorgeous in his own unique way that demanded to be contemplated and appreciated. The lines of his chest, his abdomen, his hip bones, and yes, his cock, they all made so much sense. It was as though it had all been fashioned with the exclusive purpose to match his personality – was that how Illuvatar’s design worked?

She would have fain liked to get a closer look – keen as her sight was, the hearth did only so much to illuminate the room, let alone the sheer distance. Whereas Faramir had that treasure within the reach of his hand, and wasted little time coming to make use of the proximity. While she had been staring at the King’s cock, he opened the bottle, poured the oil into his palm, and now went on to rub it over the exact focus of her fascination. His touch light and loose, the main purpose was apparently not so much bringing pleasure as covering the length in this substance. All the same, the look of his hand, this hand she knew so well, fisting with easy familiarity another man’s cock – Aragorn’s cock… It was enough for blood to rush to Éowyn’s cheeks, and some other places as well, so that her busy fingers felt moisture seep through the thin material of her bloomers.

Faramir may have chosen to appear unaffected, yet surely it was nothing but a game of superficial pretense, for she knew how it took the breath away, each and every time. The joyful trepidation of the relentless intrusion. The dizzy anticipation, despite all the previous experience firmly assuring there would be no harm, no pain. The tangible, burning yearning to accept his might, to open up to it easily, eagerly, to give oneself over. The inebriating power that came with it – power over a tall, willful, fearless man. Power by some strange logic derived precisely from her inborn ability to submit to his dominance, to bestow upon him what he so direly needed.

It had never registered with her that men had their own version of this ability, let alone that they might choose to make use of it – and especially that someone like Faramir would. Even having witnessed him let Aragorn master him earlier, there had been too much going on for her to consider the technical specifics of how the men’s bodies had to fit together. Now with Aragorn’s erection in Faramir’s grasp, things clicked into place and she saw what exactly it was her husband was permitting another man to do to him.

Although permission was hardly where it stopped.

He craved this, invited it. Just to think of it.

Breath hitching, she squeezed her hand with her thighs.

Their way of mating, how sumptuously, unapologetically depraved.

Yet another wave of arousal rolled through her, leaving a lasting residue of ache between her legs.

Not all of it made sense at the moment, but did it need to?

No divine revelation was required to understand why Aragorn would want this. Men liked to fit themselves wherever it felt good for them. Although it had not occurred to her that this particular part of the body could be entered for such purposes, when it came to taking and taming a man like Faramir – a tall and strong man, one of high pedigree and even higher authority – of course it had to be done in such a harsh, pitiless way. Nothing else would suffice.

As for Faramir… How did he manage? How did Faramir, as a man, manage to submit with such complete lack of concern, why would he even want to?

True enough, when spending the night in her bed, he was very accommodating and happy for her to take the initiative when she wished. None of it was of any significance, however, for it never touched the fundamental allocation of roles between him and her. He took, and she gave – what did it matter who was on top of whom.

When both are of the same make, how does it work? Was it because Aragorn was king, because he was older, more experienced? Not that she could easily imagine Aragorn in the reversed role – but then again, she could not have imagined her own husband in it before tonight either, what did she know.

What Faramir held in his hand, what he wanted so much was such a good, sweet thing – could she truly begrudge him this perfectly relatable desire? Would it not be more than a little sanctimonious to scorn him for being subject to her selfsame hunger?

Éowyn slipped her hand into her panties. Down below her fingers were met with a slick, slippery heat and an expectant fullness. Much better than earlier in the night, this she could work with. Briefly, she slid into herself to then spread some of her inner moisture over the upper part of her sex. She would withhold from trying to actually pleasure herself on the inside. Not only would her current position render it uncomfortable to the point of exasperation, what worse, it would only serve to remind her she had to make do with a feeble substitute.

Meanwhile, Faramir had applied two more handfuls of oil, not stopping until Aragorn’s straining member was glossy and wet to the tip, all but dripping. They exchanged a knowing smile and, visibly careful not to smear the coating, Aragorn leant in to cup Faramir on the cheek and give him a quick teasing kiss.

It was then, when he drew away still holding the younger man’s gaze, in this last quiet moment before the ride, that everything went irreparably wrong.

Surely it must be a mistake, a trick of the light, it had no place here. But the serious, meaningful tenderness in their eyes was impossible to deny or misinterpret even from Éowyn’s position.

“O how I love you,” Aragorn said, and shook his head as if in wonder.

Faramir said nothing, for it was clear that nothing needed saying.

He only closed his eyes and leant his face into Aragorn’s palm, and his own hand came up over Aragorn’s and he laced their fingers together. She saw then the strangest expression alight upon her husband’s features – sweetness and peace but also, somehow coexisting, a great longing and great sadness.

She had stood unprepared, her guard down, and it pierced her right through. Unbeknown to herself, Éowyn drew her hand away from her intimate places.

Her king and his steward may have teased each other along the way, may have been rough, and hasty, and facetious, and for a while it had concealed from her the full nature of this connection. She had wanted to know the workings of this passion, why they could not have picked someone else. There was no need to wonder anymore.

It now seemed altogether shameful to be there, watching, intruding on something so intimate. This secret gentleness between two high lords, this trust beyond what even brothers in arms could share – the strange beauty of this unlikely bond made all the starker by its obvious hopelessness.

Except why should this be her problem?

When she had taken risks for hopeless love, what had been her reward?

Éowyn scowled. If this affair was so hard, how about just not have the affair then.

What in the world was wrong with her, see a sparkle of tenderness between two lying bastards and go all soppy at once. Poor Faramir, poor Aragorn. Eorl’s balls. Next thing she would be wishing Faramir had allowed a woman to seduce him instead, that would be by far less taxing on his precious feelings. And this monarch of theirs, it was not enough for him to have an immortal beauty for a wife, he had to come for the finest of the men as well.

Oh, Faramir had trained her well in his ways. Here was her husband, getting for himself the one man who would not have her – and she was standing there getting distracted by pity of all things.

She had meant to entertain herself a little the better to think it through with a clear mind, and ought not to forget that her enjoyment was not the reason the men got together on this stormy night. Let her intrude on their privacy if she had to. They, after all, were showing little remorse for walking all over her life.

No more of this sympathetic nonsense.

When Éowyn looked back with this new resolution, she saw that the tenderness that had unsettled her so, was gone without a trace.

Chapter 6.

Curiosity hitched anew her intimidated arousal, and Éowyn smiled. As she narrowed her eyes studying the unfamiliar disposition, her left hand slowly resumed its playful quest.

Faramir had shifted to the edge of the bed where he now lay on his side with knees bent, so that his thighs were on the mattress while his shins hung off. This position made his hind quarters perfectly accessible to Aragorn who stood before him on the floor, but Faramir seemed as though oblivious of his precarious state.

For a long moment the King remained straight and still, only gazing down upon his lover, as though to preserve the image in his mind. Éowyn may have grown used to the sight of Faramir in his nakedness, but for Aragorn it may have been otherwise – the men’s official schedule could not have possibly allowed them much time alone. Or else he was simply enjoying the anticipation game, which Éowyn, much to Faramir’s gentle amusement, had never quite mastered.

She thus had an undisturbed sideways view of Aragorn, complete with his desire proudly rising forth from his tough lean body. His expression stern and keen, he looked raw and unpolished, regal in some ancient, undistilled way, more like a chieftain of a proud war-like tribe than a magnanimous Elven-raised monarch. He stood unguarded in his unchecked ruthless nature, and this was exactly how she always preferred him in her thought, as the Dúnedain Ranger, the lone weathered warrior she had once known.

How strangely his energy counterpointed with Faramir’s. The Steward was made of much the same dough as his king, yet the obvious might and agility of Faramir’s stalwart physique only underscored the surrender of his pose, the curve of his pale backside so invitingly vulnerable, his seeming serenity so unwary in the face of the upcoming onslaught.

Between two men, or at least these two men, it was somehow different. Grit did not contradict pliancy, nor did similarity of make prevent a power-play. Which was fruitful soil for her fantasy, but perhaps too fruitful, as it was proving difficult to not look too deep into it, which could in turn be distracting. She should simply watch, as one does a foreign marvel. Let it speak to her on a more basal level, as one can be moved by a song without knowing the language.

Her own sensations were what ought to concern her the most. As to which, after the unplanned little break her intimate places responded to touch with doubled hunger. This provided little reassurance, for without the customary tools to quench it, and having never before embarked upon this task single-handedly, she was not fully certain how long it would take her in this limited manner.

Aragorn, unlike herself with double the tools at his disposal, clearly saw no need to over-exert himself. He slowly, as though unaware of himself, only raised his hand and gave his manhood a light unhurried stroke.

Éowyn could not see Faramir’s face, but he must have been watching intently, for at this he laughed.

“What’s keeping you, my lord?” His voice was like velvet – and he arched his back, as one basking in lazy dalliance after an undisturbed sleep, or a cat lying stretched out in a spot of sunlight. “Do come and claim your own. I may swear I shan’t lie idle.”

“I would indeed be surprised if you did,” Aragorn replied in like manner, but his eyes remained hard and unwavering. Nor did he hurry to fulfil Faramir’s request, and instead only brushed another stroke over his length. It was clear he was testing his own patience, for the muscles in his legs and buttocks visibly tensed in response to his own touch – but Aragorn, apparently, preferred to wait for the good things.

When Faramir spoke, she could tell he was grinning. “Ever so modest – always have to be asked twice.”

“You know that is not the point,” Aragorn replied with another stroke.

“Indeed. Ah, and why did I even bother oiling you up? For I see you are going to rub all of it off yourself.”

“Certainly not all of it.”

“Perhaps I should help then,” the seriousness in Faramir’s tone was threatening to burst at the seams. Without changing his pose, he only stretched out his top leg and with the sole of his foot ran a light caress over Aragorn’s hip and partway down his thigh.

Leaning into the touch Aragorn sighed, his eyelids lowering. Then the King’s lips parted and a lightest of shivers ran through him as with the next stroke Faramir brushed the man’s cock with the inner side of his foot.

“Faramir.”

“Yes?”

“You are asking for trouble.”

“Oh. Am I?”

Aragorn made a vague sound in the back of his throat as the move was repeated with greater pressure.

“You remember how this ended last time.”

“I could not sit down for three days – yes, I remember.”

“A week.”

“You flatter yourself. But regardless – I found it quite worth it.”

“Did you, now?”

“Most certainly.” Without breaking contact with the King’s manhood, Faramir turned onto his back and stretched out his other leg, his own erection thus coming into view as well. Éowyn could not see his face for the way he kept his arms bent, but she knew his expression spoke outright mischief as he caught Aragorn’s cock between the arches of his feet.

Aragorn tilted his head back, his fingers curling into his palm as Faramir slowly moved back and forth over him. The older man began to rock in rhythm with him, obviously trying to bring in contact with Faramir’s skin not only the sides, but the more sensitive underneath of his manhood. But each time Faramir swiftly avoided it, readjusting his hold if only a little.

Aragorn’s hand twitched, then twitched again – and suddenly he grasped Faramir by the ankle. The younger man snorted and pulled away.

“Oh no. Are you forgetting? No touching.”

“That’s a stupid rule.”

“Well, otherwise it wouldn’t be fun,” Faramir reasoned, with his toes painting a thoughtful line down the King’s hip.

“It would – for me.”

“That may be – but you are not the only one here.”

Aragorn shook his head. “Ah, the things I let you get away with. Were you not such a good lay, I would have long since had you flogged for all your impudence, I swear.”

“Promises, promises.” Faramir tilted his foot sideways, carefully massaging Aragorn’s balls with his heel. “Although, hm, perhaps you should, for sometimes it feels you’ve cockered all shame out of me.”

This time it was Aragorn who snorted. “Not that you had that much to begin with.”

To this Faramir only hummed noncommittally, then said, “Oh, but look – just like I said, the oil is all but gone.”

“If you are so worried, why don’t we slicken you up instead?”

Aragorn then knelt before the bed. Gripping Faramir by the thighs, he pushed the younger man’s knees up to his chest, which Faramir met with yet another delighted laugh. How much he laughed in bed with Aragorn – she could not remember him displaying all this mirth when lying with her. The laugh, however, changed into a strangled moan midway through, for Aragorn –

Éowyn stared.

Chapter 7.

Her first impulse was to wince, and her hand halted in uncertainty.

This one was a challenge all right.

She frowned and tossed her head. A challenge was not something to shy away from. Perhaps she needed to rub a little harder, work up the appetite to be able to stomach this particular flavour.

She willed herself to keep looking. Go ahead, do your worst, why don’t you. They could try and not let her forget that this was a private club, that the tricks of this passion were a men-only thing. She would withstand, she would prove them wrong, at every turn.

By the hungry movement of Aragorn’s jaw, and even more so from the way Faramir writhed and gasped for breath, she knew that Aragorn’s kiss on him went as deep as it could. So what of it. She may have expected the King to put his cock in there rather than his tongue – but there was no keeping count of the things that had already gone against her expectation.

Given Faramir’s ecstatic response to this treatment, soon it did not even seem that much revolting. The concept itself, viewed in theory, taken out of context – she would have shuddered to think of it, would have struggled to believe anyone would willingly do this. Yet here it was, in plain sight. Aragorn humming as he licked, eyes shut with enjoyment, turning his face this way and that for a better angle – how sweet must it be to have no reservations whatsoever.

As she kept watching this scandalous little indulgence between the two men she knew so well and yet not at all – the barrier in her mind dissolved, and she was veritably leaking, her breath difficult and hot. To make love with the mouth had always seemed rather illicit, this particular iteration being especially unspeakable – and her and forbidden desires went way back.

What also went way back was no one asking her what she wanted, for just as she had settled into the mood, Aragorn drew away. Éowyn was ready to stomp her foot. Not only did she have to tolerate a fixed angle of observation, hold her sword and keep absolutely quiet, the latter of which was no small feat – their manner of jumping from one thing to another was wearing her nerves thin. A little bit of this, a little bit of that – how was a woman supposed to get anywhere at this rate?

As a small consolation, Faramir was with her on this.

“Aragorn, more…”

“Nah,” replied the King with a lazy grin. “That’s plenty enough for you,” and he gave his lover’s upturned behind a slap.

Faramir seemed to know better than to waste breath on arguing further, raised himself up and turned over. Éowyn lifted an eyebrow: was he going to stay like this, on all fours? Surely this horse-breeding position was not for human loveplay – but what other way to interpret him standing there with his rump arched up in invitation?

Good Valar, her husband wanted to be done like an animal – and she had deemed him too prim even for a word of coarse language in bed.

Aragorn was obviously under no such illusions as to Faramir’s excess genteelness.

The King stood up and put one foot up on the mattress, clearly preparing for stronger leverage. In no apparent hurry, he shifted his weight about, ensuring the balance of his stance. The open angle of his legs showed her the inner side of his thigh, where fair skin had never seen the sun and hair grew richer towards the crotch. These personal little details, both sensual and at once strangely innocent, just the make of his body, would be so intimately known to Faramir. The silver scar across his hipbone, the exact way the lines of muscle in his long legs changed as he shifted his weight. The taut curve of the king’s backside, the way his balls hung heavy and full beneath the upward arch of his cock.

Aragorn planted his hand on Faramir’s hip, took his manhood into his other and proceeded to rub the blunt edge up and down between the younger man’s parted buttocks.

Immediately Faramir pushed back at him, already imploring mercy. The King did not seem much moved by his enthusiasm, and he kept teasing the Steward until his pleas turned to curses. Yet another observation, her Faramir did swear in bed. Who knew.

If only she could see into his face, his eyes, to know what it was like – if only Faramir would move away his raven tresses that hid his face from view. Just a glimpse would do as at last their lord ever so slowly, ever so lazily slid all the way into him, as though there was nothing to it, just slicing butter with a hot knife.

Faramir gasped, all his back tensing up, his feet flexing.

Aragorn pulled out, completely. This would have been an opportunity for Faramir to exhale, lower his head, breathe out that tension – but he did nothing of the sort, only crying out for the fullness to return.

The King obliged, entering him anew with the same plunging precision.

Faramir sank in the waist to an uncomfortable looking degree, but his moan left no doubt that the relief was well worth the strain.

How good submission looked on him, and how easily it came. Even she, as a woman, had battled through it at first – on some level, battled still. To reconcile what she knew about her own strength and spirit, what she had done to prove her worth in this world of kings and men at arms – with this strange urge to give herself over for the taking to yet another man, to revel in his strength, his size, his weight. Even with a man she both wanted and loved, it had been no easy feat.

As irony would have it, it was he who had helped her make peace with herself, who had perceived the dilemma in her and offered empathy and patient acceptance. She did not have to overthink it, he had said, sometimes it was the strongest people who wanted to be roughhoused in bed the most, and if anything, it took some courage to trust another to take you and have you.

If she had known how appealing, how intriguing this trust would look on him. In this moment of Faramir’s pliancy she could more than ever relate to the way Aragorn desired him, from a position of control. She liked the feeling: being a lady in laces and silks was nice, but it would never be all that she was, there would always be something that yearned for the other side.

Another slow push from Aragorn, another shuddering sigh from Faramir. The King paused, as though in gentleness, reaching over lightly and tracing his fingertips down the Steward’s spine in a feathery caress. His hips mirrored the touch, leaning back gently, a smooth motion letting him all but slip out.

She could see Faramir shiver. He knew what this meant.

No more games.

Without warning, Aragorn slammed back in to the hilt.

His expression turned hard, almost unkind, and as he punctuated each thrust with an upward jerk of his chin, he seemed to be making a point of being ungentle.

Faramir hardly complained. As Aragorn beat into him, he only bowed his head, as though obediently accepting his lot, and uttered only small, strangled sounds through clenched teeth. These little noise, so helpless, so strained and yet so full of pleasure…

The King shifted to put both feet firmly on the floor, bent forward, gripped his lover on the thighs – and yanked them up and towards himself. Faramir cried out as his legs went up in the air and he was left supporting his weight on his hands only.

Faramir’s whole body rocked violently with each thrust, the propulsion of Aragorn’s hips going undeterred through all of him. His arms visibly strained to keep him from collapsing onto the messed up sheets, and he was practically shouting, with what sounded almost like pain.

This was not something she could ever give him.

“Harder!” he growled, bucking backwards against Aragorn. “Harder, damn you! Are you King or what?”

This degree of uninhibitedness in him frightened her. He wanted to be treated with far less respect than he unfailingly displayed towards her. With Aragorn he smoothly and naturally allowed the game to descend far into the depths that with her he did not even begin to tap into.

Never had he asked of her what Aragorn asked of him, and what he was so willing to give.

His dedication seemed to know no limits, and as he grew delirious and overwhelmed, he let go and slumped face-down onto the mattress, abdicating the last vestiges of any physical control over his body. His back looked almost unnaturally bent at the waist as Aragorn still held him up at the hips, and the motion dragged him mercilessly back and forth along the bed.

There was no slow build-up of pleasure here, and his sudden cry of release was high-pitched and desperate.

Éowyn was not too far from desperation herself. Aragorn was sure to soon follow into bliss – but she? This was great, but distracting also, and she was not quite there yet. Keeping up with someone else’s passion in real time was proving hard work. First, they were too tender, then too strange, and now too rough – what next?

Faramir had promised to not lie idle. He was often the one to finish first – and was in habit of making up for it straight away.

Aragorn brought himself to a halt, and the younger man took only one long ragged breath to collect himself, and then slid off the King’s desire, which stuck up in the air still hot and demanding.

Aragorn stepped back a pace to let the younger man move down to kneel on the floor, turn around and –

Éowyn ran her tongue over her suddenly parched upper lip. Nay, he would not take it in his mouth, surely not, not after it had just been right up his –

Visibly rapturous with gratitude, with great zeal and obviously with some practiced skill too, in a single gulp Faramir swallowed up all of it. As though that was not quite enough, he gripped the King on the buttocks and pulled him forth, so that not half an inch of the regal length would be left out of the loving heat of his mouth.

He kept his eyes closed at first, too concentrated on the process. Once they had a rhythm in place, he looked up at Aragorn and held the older man’s gaze, confirming his willingness to do anything for his liege, to bring him pleasure in whatever way Aragorn chose to take it.

She saw Aragorn grin, and the King’s hands snaked into her husband’s dishevelled hair and snugly cradled the back of his head. She thought she saw Faramir shiver again – and indeed Aragorn pulled away, only to swing forth and slap into him to the hilt. Then again. And again.

This, too, was hard on Faramir, but he endured patiently – savoured it, welcomed each thrust as a most generous of all royal gifts. In a way, so it must be, for it was no mystery as to exactly what sort of gift he would be receiving shortly in reward for his loyalty.

Her face was burning.

Come on, she mouthed soundlessly, come on, come on, come on. Each escalation of pleasure made her wince and stifle the treacherous high-pitched whines in her throat. She was too used to indulging herself in this department, and, if anything, she usually moaned even louder than was strictly necessary – for Faramir’s benefit. When she was atop him, riding like she would a fresh vigorous steed, he would often grip her hips and urge her to give him her battle cry. She would always gladly oblige.

Not now.

Éowyn bit back a gasp, stifled a moan, swallowed a whimper.

She would make it. She would, she just had to.

Just a bit more, oh, just a little bit…

Éowyn twisted her hand, the thumb remaining on the outside, the next two fingers going in – then hunched over a little to be also able to rub her nipple against the inside of her upper arm. Another gasp, another little shudder, almost there…

Breathing heavily through her nose, nostrils flaring, teeth gritted, she no longer needed to watch and allowed her eyelids flutter down. Maybe she ought to try and fit the blade’s handle in after all – a lusty warrior secretly making love to her trusted sword, utterly self-sufficient, no bastard of a man required…

This proved a fruitful fantasy, hold on to it, keep it in her mind’s eye. The rounded knob, the ribbed textured shaft of the hilt. So thick, so solid, sliding into the swollen, ravenous wetness between her legs, parting open the deceptively narrow slit…

The edges of reality softened around her, began to melt. Imagine if while she was doing that, with the sword – imagine that Aragorn were there with her. He would kneel behind her, and part the cheeks of her arse with his hands, and do that thing that he had done to Faramir, work the wetness of his hot tongue right into…

One last convulsion, and the familiar tidal warmth rose and began to unfold in her thighs. Finally. Oh, thank the blessed heavens, she made it.

Another second, and she would lose her grip on this wretched reality –

Ker-KLANG!

Éowyn jolted back on sheer reflex – and froze. With a sinking heart she realised her other hand was empty, sweat-slickened fingers grasping vainly at thin air.

Her sword.

The bloody thing.

She had lost grip all right – on it.

There the blade lay at her feet, glinting dully in the light that seeped through the door crack, behind which all sound had ceased.

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.

Chapter 9.

“I am all ears,” Éowyn said icily, preparing to showcase her full arsenal of verbal weaponry. The lords of Gondor were about to find out the daughters of the Mark could wield outrage and contempt with no less gumption than sword and shield.

Faramir and her had both had enough bitterness earlier in life, and theirs had always been a marriage where people went out of their way to be patient and kind to each other. Tactful even when frank, and more often than not happy to accommodate rather than to speak their mind.

Perhaps they had overdone it a little, perhaps it was time for a change.

“So I was told you were dying to explain something to me,” she prompted, pointedly ignoring Aragorn as though he had spontaneously vanished into thin air together with his stubborn cock. She was going to deal with them one by one, she would not let them outnumber her.

Faramir took a deep breath. “With all due respect to our lord, I believe there is rather little space left for explanation.”

“Yes, quite. When one takes to sleeping around, the deeds tend to speak for themselves loud enough.”

This was a good one. Faramir’s eyes flashed, and his face went a shade paler. She had never seen him like this, and it strangely excited her. Let it be new, let her put a different side of herself forth, let them go beyond the known territories.

Yet he withheld himself, and spoke sternly but without heat. “While this does not lessen my fault before you in any measure, still I would have you know that I am not sleeping around. I have not known another woman since I met you, Éowyn – and I have never known another man but Aragorn.” She almost flinched at how casually he referred to the King in this intimate way – just Aragorn, just as she did in thought. “Nor have I wanted to,” Faramir added – and this, too, was a good one. Although in themselves his words should have reassured her, they held a seed of accusation. Perhaps it was not even there, perhaps it was only her own guilt whispering over her shoulder: he may not have wanted to touch other women, but she… she had dreamt of another man, willingly and often.

Of the two of them, which one was truly more at fault before the other?

Éowyn scowled. Whatever she may have done in thought – she had never wronged him in deed. Although, to be honest, had it been she whom the King had directed his advances at, would have her resolve withstood? Except he had never deigned to look at the Steward’s wife the way he did at the Steward.

She felt bitterness curl the corners of her mouth, and did not trust herself to speak in just that moment, lest her voice betray the whirling mess behind her exterior bravado.

So in way of reply she only made a dismissive face and crossed her arms, as though Faramir’s comment did not deserve a word of response.

Faramir sighed as if he had not held much hope for a different outcome.

“Of course,” he said, “we should have never come to discuss this in such circumstances, and that too is fully my fault. I had delayed speaking with you, hoping – foolishly, it seems now – that a time might come when you would not be ailed so much by the knowledge.”

“Ah, how noble of you to go out of your way to protect my feelings.” It was so tempting to finish off with a sarcastic huff, but no, oh no, she was not going to huff, or scream, or make suffering gestures with her hands. These men had seen her fall to pieces before, and she would not honour them with a repeat performance. Never had she desired anyone’s pity – least of all that of her husband and his lover.

“Éowyn, please –”

Her next line had already come to her, and she could not be stayed. This was bound to breach his infuriating composure, surely it did not require a big man with a big cock to do that.

“If you were so keen on not upsetting me, perhaps you should have refrained from spreading your legs behind my back.”

She was pleased to hear the sharp ring of provocation as the words rolled off her tongue.

Only as her quick-baked remark landed, as a slap across his face, did she realise how low it hit.

Faramir took it as someone well used to being slapped, caught unawares not by the strike itself but only that it should come from her hand.

How in the world to take it back. She glared at him with her lips parted, willing him to understand, directly from her mind to his, that she did not mean it as how it came out. It was an unfortunate turn of phrase and nothing else, not at all aimed to ridicule him for the vulnerable role he as a man chose to perform in bed with another.

Helpless she watched as his gaze dulled and turned inwards, as his whole face froze over and shut off from her. She had seen a distant shadow of that expression before, when in their conversations he had to touch on some painful memories of his upbringing. To now be the cause and recipient of this look stung with such acute shame that she almost thought to call the whole thing off.

In spite of herself, she even glanced to Aragorn – but he only raised his brows and looked away. It seemed she caught a glimpse of disappointment in his eyes. Well, then speak, do something, don’t just stand there.

Useless, as usual.

She opened her mouth, not even knowing yet what to say, but Faramir either did not notice or chose not to, and spoke over her as though to spare her the need to say more, as though she had already said everything that needed saying.

“A better man may have indeed done as you say – or at the very least would have found a way to tell you sooner. Yet even now it is still hidden from me how it could have been done, for I did not deem it anything but hypocrisy to come asking beforehand if you would mind that I loved the King, to assign you part of the responsibility by thereby asking. Then once it was done, for I did not have it in me to stay myself – once it was done, I tarried, for I saw no way out, yet believed there must be one. None would blame you if you took it as insult that I thought such a thing, but in fact I had been quite successful at convincing myself that you might…”

It seemed to her he was going to say ‘understand’, but he paused and in his eyes she saw that to him, she was about as anatomically capable of understanding as a horse of climbing a tree. He shook his head, and waved the end of his sentence away.

She narrowed her eyes, wondering where this was going. There had to be a hitch of some sort, for Faramir had still not sued for pardon as such, and the longer he spoke, the less likely it seemed that he was going to.

She felt a hunger in her palms then to have her sword back, the reassurance of the cold hilt in her grasp – to ward off the mounting unease. This was not the fight she had gone in for. She did not even need to spar with him, he was beating himself well enough all on his own. Then why did it feel that she was the one losing? She could sense the threat, but could neither see nor name it.

Éowyn raised her chin another notch, and said nothing to oppose his words, unwilling to speak before it was clear to her what was coming.

Strangely, it seemed as though Faramir smiled at her. “Nevertheless, and I hope you forgive my boldness, I’d still allow myself to ask for one last favour from you.”

She studied him warily, but his face betrayed nothing, and so she said slowly, “Pray say, what would that favour be?”

“That we do not part in bitterness.”

“What?”

Faramir spread his arms. “However much you may detest me now, Éowyn, I shall still tell you that I have, always, loved you – to the best of my limited ability – and respected you, and never have intended to cause you sorrow or humiliation, directly or incidentally. Aside from the wasted time, I do believe that indeed not much harm has come to you in the short term of our union.”

She shook her head to get rid of the surreal fuzziness in the air. “What are you even talking about?”

“I am saying,” Faramir replied slowly, ever patient, “that I recognise the hurt that I have caused you, and I intend to do justice by you to every extent of my power, for which I hope you might one day find some respect for me again. The very least I can do is clear you of all blame the unkind tongues might try to place on a lady in your position – I assure you ’tis in my power to prevent your virtue and merit from being questioned. All shall know the separation has come through no fault on your behalf, and there shall be no encumbrance to your finding happiness in a new marriage.”

Only then in the course of the whole bizarre night did it occur to Éowyn to wonder is she was, in fact, asleep and having a nightmare.

“You… you are letting me go?”

Chapter 10.

Éowyn gazed upon Faramir, and saw him as though anew, as though the patina of habit and familiarity had been polished clean off him in a single swipe. He was again how he had been before he became hers – at that point in time when it had still been possible that he would never come to be hers. It had been up to her then, to accept or deny him. She had made that choice, once and for all, as the people of the Mark ever did.

White and gold to black and silver – how fitting it had always felt, how complementary.

A hotheaded woman of the wild North, uncompromising, forthright – she knew some called her that, and all that she may be, but she was no fool. Not being a fool meant she had well learnt that however tempting, the immediate reward of catering to hurt pride seldom served as a rosy long-term strategy. She had picked this man, perfect as he had once seemed, or somewhat flawed as it had eventually turned out, and she was not inclined to throw him away on a whim – much less inclined to watch him throw himself away.

Wronged as she was, naturally it would have been agreeable to see him pay for it – within reason. Pay with shame, and remorse, even with fear that he had stupidly lost her – but her gleeful desire to figuratively whip him for his misdeeds had not actually gone beyond that rather tame scope.

How could he take it this far?

Then again, being the sort of man that she knew him to be, having had the history that he did – how could he possibly take it any other way?

Indeed, to her puzzled question Faramir only shrugged, as though he had voiced not merely a self-evident but, in fact, the only possible solution.

“By the custom of my people, as a husband I am entitled to certain rights to you, my lady, that is true, but I do not own you in your entirety. You know well enough I never keep even a servant against their will – much less would I a wife.”

She chose her words carefully. “A servant you may dismiss, my lord, very true. For such is the oath your servants pledge to you that you may give them leave. But much as your intent is very noble, the bond that tied me to you is inseverable.”

“You mean the law?” he grinned softly. “That can be arranged. However few, there have been precedents – back in the age of the Kings, but if anything, that makes it only the more relevant today. As I’ve said, I owe you this much, Éowyn.”

He could not have possibly known how much she had seen and learned, let alone what she had been so busy doing during said learning. How could have she gotten herself cornered, led him to disarm her so accidentally?

The defeat tasted uncomfortably familiar – heavy, acute bitterness. A timely reminder that promising visions were misleading, that good things did not last, that she never saw the full picture until it was too late. That fate ever bestowed upon others what she could never earn at any cost to herself. As of late she had come to think fate was kinder than it seemed – so much for that.

All breath went out of her, and a sudden heat washed in her face, and without warning it burst forth, the rage she had so looked forward to unleashing before. The one thing she had always feared had finally befallen her – she was caged. By one man who knew no better, who could see no better – and another one who did not even care.

“You… You!” She could not begin to find the words – perhaps she would have to reconsider her earlier resolution about not screaming. Perhaps she would have to punch someone in the face, with a fist, to get it across.

“I shall not allow it.”

They both turned to stare at the King.

Chapter 11.

---

Author’s Note

If you had started reading this story prior to June 2018, please note that the earlier chapters have been edited. This does not change the plot in any significant way, but you may want to start on the previous chapter to give you context.

Faramir sighed.

“Aragorn, please, I know you mean well and I thank you, but this will not solve anything.”

“Really, Fara? Is that so? And what you’re doing, how well is that working?”

“You call him Fara?” She had tried that once, on the spur of the moment, but Faramir had looked at her so strangely that she never did it again.

“Yes, I… call him a number of things, my lady.”

“Aragorn, we must do what is right.”

“So we must, my darling, but your definition of right might not necessarily be aligned with the prevailing sentiment in the room.”

“That arithmetic only works if you count your own opinion as three.”

“I do not believe it need be three, but technically I could – one for me, one for the royal plural, and one for this poor fellow down he–”

“For Valar’s sake! Not in front of my wife. Is it not bad enough that you are… that we are…” Faramir gestured with exasperated hands at their shared nakedness.

“I beg to differ on that, too. You are jumping to conclusions. In the time that you two were busy being grave and dire, I could not fail but note a thing or two. You do not see the full picture, and neither does the lady, and a decision such as this cannot be made in the dark.”

“Will you two stop speaking of me in front of me as though I am furniture! What else is it that I do not know, and how dare you assign opinions to me.”

Faramir sighed again. “Forgive me, Éowyn, I meant no disrespect. It had seemed to me beyond question where you stood on this, basing on… well, on your reaction to… how you found us.”

“My reaction? Oh, so that is what the problem is, my reaction? What in the hell did you expect of me? To knock on the door and say, excuse me my lords, I can see you are a little bit busy and it’s nice that you are keeping each other company in my absence, but I was going to come lie in this bed, so mind if I do?”

The men exchanged glances.

“Don’t you dare,” Faramir said under his breath.

Aragorn’s face lit up with mischief and he laughed. “Well, actually –”
Faramir widened his eyes at him.

“Oh, Fara, come now. We talked about this. If ever there was going to be a fitting time, one would think it is now.”

“None of that has any bearing on the situation.”

“But of course it does.”

“Stop speaking in riddles, both of you! What is going on, what do I need to know?”

Faramir turned to her. “Very well, but not in front of Aragorn.”

“Is that so? Anything you have to say to me, do it in front of him.”

Faramir looked from one to the other, then away. “Forget it. It does not matter,” he said quietly.

Aragorn raised his eyes to the heavens. “Lord Steward, I have said this before, and I shall suffer to repeat myself. Sometimes, you have more backbone than is good for you. But so be it, do not say it. I shall tell what I see instead.”

He turned to Éowyn, and held her gaze unwavering as he spoke. “Your wife has ridden through miles of pouring rain that no cape would protect from – and yet her hair is dry. Only time indoors could do that – how do you think she had spent it? She would have found us right away, so why not make herself known for so long? Do you know what that noise was – the lady had come with a sword, which she dropped, but I do not think that out of astonishment at seeing me in your bed. Forgive me the discourtesy of pointing this out, but the silk of her undergarments tells a different story. It is rather dark between the legs.”

Éowyn curled her lips, realising then that the source of her shivers was indeed a wet patch of fabric clinging coldly to her inner thigh.
There did not seem much left to lose.

“So these are the cues that a Ranger looks at whose arousal has not been sated,” she said. “I dispute none of what you say, it is true. I had headed to my husband’s bedroom looking for enjoyment, and saw no reason to miss out just because he was unavailable to receive me.” She could feel with her skin the intensity of Faramir’s eyes upon her, but would not meet his gaze. “This, however, addresses only what he did not know – what is the rest? What do I not?”

“That he will need to tell you himself, my lady. And indeed you would like it better if I were not here for it.”

“I would definitely like it better if you had not been here at all – but we don’t always get what we want. You are only making me all the more curious, what could it be such that would embarrass you so much more than you already should be?”

“It is not for his benefit that we ask it of you, Éowyn – nor is it for mine,” Faramir said. “But you have made your position clear, and I shall insist no more.”

She swallowed against the sudden dryness in her throat. “Go on then.”

Faramir smiled.

“I know, Éowyn.”

“Oh.” The way he said it, there was no need to ask what he meant. Her face burned so much it stung. Was Aragorn looking at her? She searched for something to reply. “How long?”

“I must have always known,” Faramir said quietly, “but it had been easy to write off your feelings on youthful infatuation when he was far away and I was beside you every day in the Houses of Healing. When he had returned, and with the crown of Elendil upon his brow he rose up before us on the Pelennor fields in his full glory such as had not been seen before, did something not stir in you still, Éowyn?”

She blinked, and her lips parted as though to answer, but nothing came forth.

“Did it not?” he went on. “For I looked upon you in that moment – not to check, it had not occurred to me to check – but to share in the wonder of his glory.”

She remembered that moment well, the coronation day outside Minas Tirith. There stood Faramir whom she knew and loved, whereas Aragorn beside him was but a vision of what had once moved her – and yet did something not stir, still?

“And what… what did you see?”

“That you were not looking at me in return. An expression was upon your features that I do not think even you knew you had. Your face had lit up, as a sky kissed by sunrise, and I saw that your breath was caught high in your chest. I knew then that while you may have come to love me, I would never be the only one, and that although it was me you had chosen, in some ways what you had for Aragorn would be the greater, even if only because he was greater than me.”

“And you… you still went ahead with it, to be with me.”

“I did. Had there been a chance that he might yet be available to you, I would not have gotten in the way, but that did not seem the case.”

“That’s not what I mean. You wanted to wed me even though I looked at another with desire, and was not honest with you.”

“I suppose I did not see it quite that way. Yes, you looked at him with desire – which you had warned me about when I first courted you, and these things have a way of lingering.”

“And you never spoke to me of it.”

“I thought you deserved your privacy.”

She grinned without mirth. “Just that?”

“Nay, not just that. I hoped that perhaps with time, through intimacy and a shared life with me, you would grow closer to me and the longing would leave you in peace. As I hoped that it would leave me in peace also, for had I not fallen for him myself, in a way that no man should for another.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works, with the peace.”

“Indeed not, for in the time that followed, my longing grew only greater, such that I could neither think nor sleep. And so at last I went to the King, and begged once again to surrender my office – not because the king had returned, but because I was unfit to be steward. Only he looked upon me then as no man had done before or since, and under his gaze the blood in my veins turned to fire, and he took me in his arms, and I remembered no more until the morning came. And after that… after that there was no going back. So who am I to hold it against you that you try to catch his scent on me when I return from riding with him in the woods.”

She looked away.

“What do you say to this, Éowyn?”

“I… do not know.” She could sense Aragorn’s presence beside her, but would not look up at him. She was not sure she could bear what his eyes might show, but trying to look at him without looking in his face would only lead to staring at his erection instead. So he had known of this, too – did he scorn her? Was it a burden, a nuisance for him to catch her wistful glances on him? To pretend that he was not aware of them?

“I am sorry, Éowyn, I see that this distresses you. As I said, I would have preferred to deliver it alone, if at all. And please know, I said none of it with the intention to somehow mitigate what I have done, it –”

“But no,” she raised her head at last. “It does. Your fault and mine are not the same. It would be – had I lusted after a woman, one of my own make who would not be a rival to you.”

“Aragorn is not a rival to me,” he said quietly. “I do not resent what you feel for him, and even had you wanted to share your bed – or our bed – with him, I would not stand in the way of that.”

Éowyn tilted her head to the side.

“What do you mean – if I wanted to?”

Faramir seemed confused in turn.

“Well, simply that you had not done it, so I presume you had decided not to.”

She stared at him. When he did not flinch, she stared at Aragorn too, to see if he was also keeping a straight face. He was.

Éowyn narrowed her eyes.

“Are you… are you two mocking me?”

“Éowyn, I don’t…” Faramir spread his arms helplessly. “I do not understand…”

“Oh, for… You make it as though it is by the grace of my virtue that nothing has happened between him and I! Are we to ignore the fact that our king here prefers your arse to this,” she gestured at her frilled breasts and down along her body. “I never had a chance to be unfaithful to you, you don’t know what might have happened if I did!”

Aragorn snorted. “My lady, I have given you plenty of chances. It is not my fault that you have chosen not to see them.”

“I… I really am at a loss what you are talking about.”

He raised his hands as though to placate her. “I will be the first to admit it was never overt, nothing in poor taste. But had you been looking for it, you would have noticed. Just earlier today, in fact, I had you walk into me in the corridor.”

“You ‘had me’ walk into you?”

“I may be King now, but I have not lost my hearing, my lady. I do not collide with people who are coming around a corner unless I choose to.”

“But you… you had touched me then – on purpose?”

He glanced apologetically to Faramir. “For the record, it was a very light touch. Just here, on the ribs. Nothing happened, she pretty much ran away, would not even look at me.”

“Why are you explaining yourself to him?”

“Because he did not fully approve of me trying to bring you in. But as he refused to broach the subject himself, and you were too loyal or too convinced of my disinterest in you as a woman, I felt that someone must do something – before things escalate and we find ourselves in a situation such as this.”

She raised her fingers to her temples, shut her eyes for a long moment.

“So… let me get this straight. You are effectively saying that rather than use your royal authority to grant myself and my husband a separation on the grounds of his infidelity, you are instead inviting me to…” she searched for the word with her hands.

Faramir smiled tentatively.

“To join us, Éowyn. If you wish it.” He exchanged another glance with Aragorn. “In whichever way you may wish it.”

To Be Continued

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