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07 December 2011 | 20269 words | Work in Progress
Title: Hungry Eyes and a Blade of Steel
With: Aragorn, Éowyn
Summary: Returning home unexpected on a rainy night, Éowyn gets an eyeful of the one thing she would have never imagined. Jealousy, hurt, curiosity or something else — which will have the top say in her?
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!
Everything (except the obvious) is based on Book canon.
Er, the original challenge spoke of a PWP kind of thing… Now, I would not go as far as to claim this story actually has a Plot, but it is certainly turning out a little longer than a work entirely devoid of one would be expected to. In any case, I very dearly hope you enjoy.
And, of course, feedback is tremendously appreciated (man, this is my first go at het, and it was tough…), and will be answered!
‘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.’
Éowyn never minded getting a bit dirty.
And now, dripping wet, boots squelching in the mud pooling all over the rutted narrow forest path as she led her equally soaked mare by the bridle, she was in exceptionally high spirits. The grime merely made her look forward to the comforts of their Ithilien estate, namely a good bath, a plate of warm food and… well, some other things afterwards.
She could have, of course, stayed for the night at the village. That was what everyone must have expected of her, given the horrible chilly downpour and an almost complete lack of visibility. Nay, she wanted to be home tonight, and if it came as a little surprise for a certain someone, all the better.
It was well past eleven by the time the two of them finally made it. The whole household was already asleep, at least judging by the dark windows on the side of the building adjacent to the stables.
Given what an early riser Faramir was, he would probably have long since gone to bed as well. What a shame though, she would have definitely liked to have him awake now—or at least to have a certain part of him awake. A long day of riding always did that to her. She was unreasonably fit for a lady of court, and no amount of hours in the saddle could tire her out, only succeeding at filling all her muscles (and especially those in her lower body) with a pleasant awareness. Besides, having felt a strong hot animal between her thighs all day, she would not have minded feeling another kind of strength and heat there as well.
Oh well, if he was asleep, maybe she could wait till morning, she was a sweet obedient wife, after all. Well, most of the time she was… Sometimes. On certain rare occasions. Whatever.
All the more, she ought not to wake him.
Éowyn unsaddled her mate, wiped her down, checked the horse had everything for a comfortable rest, and wished her good night—then finally entered her home, intent on grabbing a morsel in the kitchens, taking a quick shower and heading straight for her own bed. If she did not get to have the one thing she really wanted, she could do without the foamy bath as well.
But as she rubbed her back with the rough washcloth, scrubbing all the horse smell out of her skin, suddenly she remembered what she had witnessed earlier that day. In line with her interest in healing, she 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 as well. Life brutally forcing itself through the woman’s body, spreading and splitting her flesh, making her pant, and scream, and growl—how horrifying it had looked, how beastly it had sounded… Yet there had also been a staggering, grim beauty to it, a merciless, primeval splendour.
As Éowyn passed the midwife yet more towels, the aged woman had winked at her. “And men think they know what gore is, huh, yer ladyship?”
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—to reduce her to her animal essence, make her suffer, so that in the end there could be glory and new meaning to everything.
And she knew she wanted it to begin this very night, to have her husband set this irreversible, unstoppable force in motion.
Yes, this night would be perfect. Éowyn grinned mischievously, for their royal visitor’s guest bedroom was only two doors down the corridor from Faramir’s, and perhaps, if she took the trouble to scream loud enough, he would hear.
No, she was definitely in no mood for being a nice unassuming wife.
Éowyn wrung the water from her waist-long tresses and arranged them into a towel-wrap on her head—a habit Faramir found endearingly silly, though he always prudently refrained from telling her as much. She went to the upper floor where all the bedrooms were, and first headed for her wardrobe. Yes, the Shieldmaiden of Rohan had a whole room for a wardrobe now…
Fishing in one of the drawers, she smiled. If after all she was going to rob her unsuspecting spouse of sleep, she may as well do it in style.
She took out a matching set of powder-blue silk camisole and short bloomers. At the beginning of their marriage, she had felt a little foolish wearing all such satins and laces, but seeing the effect it had on Faramir had made her change her mind. He had a thing for lingerie, her husband did. Although the way he usually treated said lingerie resulted in it having become a rather tangible expense for their household.
A pleasant shiver of anticipation ran through Éowyn’s body as she imagined the exquisite fabric mercilessly ripped off her…
Nay, there was no way she would leave him in peace now.
And it did not bother her that her damp hair had instantly wetted the silk on her back, for soon, very soon she would be relieved of her attire anyway. Faramir was a warrior—it never took him long to wake.
Leaving her wardrobe, she walked through her drawing room and then her bedroom to the small corridor adjoining to his chamber. It was usually he who visited her, and she looked forward to doing it in his room for a change—so different from her plushly decorated boudoir where, as she knew he liked it, she kept everything aromatised with floral sachets. No, there would be no lilacs or roses in his room, only manly scents, above all his own intoxicating fragrance…
But before she entered the connecting corridor, she paused.
What’s this now?
Narrowing her eyes and tilting her head to the side, she held her breath to hear better. But there was no need for that, as this time the sound came much louder.
Éowyn’s nostrils flared.
There was no mistaking that moan.
Her husband was being pleasured by someone—whom he would obviously bone later, if he had not already.
Éowyn’s hand holding the candle clenched so hard it nearly made the stick snap. Oh, would have she not liked to snap his lecherous cock in the same way…
So she had been right in her suspicions after all. That bitch Éolinda, her cousin thrice-removed she had brought to Ithilien as a maid of honour—she had got what she wanted at last. Éowyn should have put a stop to it long ago, had she not noticed all those looks the girl had been giving her man? But Faramir had only laughed at her heated concerns, assuring her he was not interested in the slightest and that Éolinda was simply wasting her best years trying to charm a married man. He would never burn for another woman, he had said.
She gritted her teeth. What an idiot she had been. A gullible, blind idiot.
‘Certainly, my love, go have a jolly good time, take as long as you like. Oh, of course I shall miss you, but don’t I know how you enjoy those riding trips of yours.’
Ooh, she would show them.
Swiftly but quietly she returned to the lower floor to retrieve her sword she had left 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…
First, she decided, she would hack off that whore’s ridiculously long hair, hack it off at the very scalp, so that everyone would see Éolinda’s disgrace for months to come. And then—
What exactly could she do then, really?
She forbade herself to think of it, for to do so would only immerse her in anger at her own powerlessness. Marriage consisted for a great part of rights and responsibilities: the rights were mostly his, the responsibilities hers. A woman was effectively her husband’s property—it did not work the other way around, though. Adultery was a female word. A woman was an adulteress, a loose worthless slut, one whom her husband could indeed punish according to his design, until his thirst for justice was slaked.
But 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 as long as he put bread on the table, he could do pretty much whatever he pleased. And the wives of such men would only sigh and then 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 used to look down upon such women and pity them, and even more those who were actually unaware of being cheated on. It would never happen to her, of course—Faramir was different. Faramir loved her.
She swallowed hard, and suddenly went cold: to think of it, she had nothing on him, really. 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 recalled now, their troth had included no words on not sharing their bodies with another but the rightful spouse. She had not given it much thought then, assuming it was too obvious to even be mentioned.
And she knew who wore the pants in the house. Yes, she got away with all her cheek, bossiness and general stubbornness—because he found all of it amusing, endearing and even somewhat arousing, and thus allowed it. Allowed it as long as it was done within reasonable limits—she sensed he would put her jolly well back in her place should she forget herself. And, little doubt, a woman coming to her husband brandishing a sword would be seen as something entirely over the line…
To think of it, what a sight she must be! Lacy underwear, wet hair and an unsheathed blade in her hand. Scorching tears of shame and anger clouded her vision, but she blinked them back. She would not come to him all weepy. She would face it with dignity, if dignity was all she had left.
Yes, she was trapped. She would be expected to just deal with it, grin and bear it. 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 grimly, her hands trembling faintly as she ran her fingers over the weapon. She did not know what she was going to do—but she knew that as soon as her heart came to a decision—whatever it be—she would not restrain herself.
She had sworn to herself that never would she allow a man to humiliate her again.
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