Eowyn: The Cage - Ch. 02

Her form was refined and, at casual glance, womanly. But hers was a tall, slender, and (at points) hard arabesque, and attention to detail — not that any but she ever had the opportunity — soon revealed much that differed from expectation. Her breasts were restrained in size but prominent, resting firm atop her chest. Firm, but not high, with a subtle inward parabola at the top and a tight curve in the opposite direction below. Her nipples were pink and, as a rule, shy of public notice, surrounded by delicate-to-the-point-of-invisibility areolæ. But it was as the gaze drifted in any direction away from her breasts that the power in her otherwise feminine frame was revealed: well-muscled arms, slightly broad shoulders, a firm abdomen neither smooth nor overtly muscular when she stood still, but with definition that grew rippling and prominent in tension or struggle. Below, her hips widened — not too much — to beautifully sculpted thighs, themselves capable of smoothness or striation depending on her activity. Her legs narrowed, then widened again to calves that seemed soft enough until flexed, at which point a tangle of muscular vines showed through. Her back was a flawless arc, the muscles of her shoulders a statuesque crown of strength, and the tight curve of her rear bore no flaw. It was her favorite feature, save perhaps her eyes, and when circumstances allowed she chose clothing to modestly accentuate it.

Between her thighs lay a trim, narrow scattering of pale hair. Once, after a long ride through a rainstorm caused what eventually became an intolerable chafing, she sequestered herself with a sharp blade and, recalling the earnest instruction of a more experienced companion, sculpted herself into efficiency and vastly greater comfort...a comfort she was careful to maintain. What remained was nearly transparent, and served only as accent to tightly closed lips that, at the moment, bore a faint sheen of arousal.

Éowyn was neither unaware of nor immune to her beauty, but she saw little value in it. It was of no relevance to a warrior, and often more of a distraction than a help, which was why she did much to conceal it while practicing swordcraft. Moreover, it led to little except pointless frustration otherwise. She'd never knowingly used it to entice — despite the incident in the tavern, which remained mysterious to her memory — and as a rule only admired her body by the standards of a warrior's grace. Not that she had much opportunity for anything else. Still, there were times....

She didn't remember when she'd first touched herself with the intent to seek pleasure. It certainly wasn't during her games with Éomer; she wasn't sure they'd ever really connected their fumbling with sexual arousal, only with curiosity. It wasn't until years later that she realized what they'd have been able to do, had they been less ignorant (or frightened). But she knew now what simple touch could do. And she knew why, as well. Not just to bring herself to ecstasy, but to — for a few blissful moments — flee her cage. She couldn't be with a man, wasn't even sure she wanted to be with any she'd yet encountered, but she could at least peel away the protective layers of her need and expose something that was truly her own.

Of accessories that might help salve her loneliness she had little knowledge, though again due to the whispers of others she was vaguely aware of them. Still, my own fingers are the only things I've ever allowed to penetrate my sex. Is that not appropriate, given my preferred identity as a warrior? As an expert wielder of the pointed blade, master of the hard spear, even somewhat adept at the piercing arrow, should I not also be skilled at the delicate art of self-pleasure?

Her heat increased at the thought. Not by accident were the metaphors of the warrior's craft so easily sexualized. Unfortunately, her anger had also resurrected itself, and was now shredding the last of her inhibitions with increasingly aggressive mental talons. Should I not release my caution to the cold breeze? What shield does my modesty provide, other than yet another prison? She turned and strode with purpose and brazen resolve back to the window, resting her hands — trembling not with anger, but with barely repressed excitement and the thrill of imminent danger — on the sill. She looked over the vast grasslands and distant mountains of her wide country, took deep lung of the bracing air, then leaned forward until her breasts were revealed to any who would see. Steeling herself, she looked down.

The street was empty. The people were taking their midday meal, and her moment of crazed exhibitionism had been for naught.

With a sigh, she retreated back to the safety of her room and leaned against a cabinet, suddenly aghast at her attempted exposure. What was I thinking?

Freedom, she reminded herself. I was seeking the unbound.

She sighed again, resigned, but her immediate need was far from resolved. Perhaps I can, at least, play with the notion of abandon, the better to fuel my fantasies. Grasping the backless chair she typically used for dressing and other utilitarian activities, she set it near (and facing) the still-open window and sat. Her nipples crinkled and stabbed in the chill air, as prominent and firm as steel. There would be no one to join nor even witness her pleasure, but mayhap someone might hear and wonder. That much indulgence, and its concomitant thrill, would she allow herself.

The uncharacteristic naughtiness of the situation filled her with excitement, for such insignificant rebellions were all that she could manage. She raised a long finger to her lips, wet it with her tongue, and trailed it down her neck while another replaced it in her mouth. Closer both came to her nipples, which quivered with anticipation. Or cold. Perhaps both. Her fingers retreated, circled, and approached once again. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, feeling the onset of quickening breath, anticipating even more pleasant sensations yet to come.

"Lady Éowyn, your presence at table has been requested. Though one might reasonably question whether or not you can be expected immediately."

Lost in foolishness, she'd heard nothing of his approach. Some warrior, she chastised herself in brutal remonstrance. Meanwhile, with lighting-fast reaction long honed, her hand lunged for her sword. It was a futile gesture, given that she was naked and the nearest weapon was resting on a table far across the room. Well, the chair itself can serve as a weapon, if necessary. She spread her legs and braced her feet against the floor, readying herself for sudden action. As her right hand grasped in vain for a blade, her left arm tightly barred her breasts, firm nipples boring into her forearm. All of this took only a moment of furious instinct, and then her head whirled, long hair whipping about her face as she stabbed him with livid eyes.

"What are you doing here? How dare you?!? I will have your...."

"Reserve your threats for those who cower before them, Lady Éowyn. I'm here under orders from the King, and his words are in my mouth. But should your sense of duty to your liege fail to suffice, know that you will find the King's ear less willing to your interpretation of your disobedience than to mine. Unless you intend to tell him the truth...."

His voice, as it always did, flowed like oil. She hated it. She knew it to be hostile, as did her brother — it was, in part, this knowledge that so often drove him to dangerous deeds in the field rather than remaining in Meduseld to be tempted by reactionary violence in Council — but the basis of this knowledge was an intangible thing. He was never found to be wrong, and both his counsels and his predictions came to unremitting fruition...which was, by itself, suspicious. No one can be right all the time, can they?

She loathed Gríma. She'd loathed him since he'd come from nowhere — certainly not from one of the nobler families — to dominate the King's Council. Worse, she feared him. She, who feared no human foe. It wasn't the active fear of the sharp sword or the savage bite, but a deeper unease that the actual source of her fear remained elusive. There was a power in him not to be understood given his unimpressive and wizened frame. His bearing seemed to be craven and, at times, almost slovenly, yet he bore himself with quiet confidence and remained strangely unchallenged in all that he did. Little in Rohan proceeded save by his imprimatur. Some he had cajoled into open support, most others he had not, but among nearly all there was grudging respect for, or at least acknowledgment of, his seemingly effortless mastery of the Council. And, of late, his mastery over the King.

But though she lacked any clear reason, she knew that he bore only danger...to the realm, and especially to her person...and to any request of his she would never willingly submit. "I don't mean to threaten you with empty words, Gríma. I intend my arguments to be more pointed."

His only response was a patient smile.

How can he smile? He presents less of a physical threat than the frightened animals our folk hunt for sustenance. Even if he knows how to use a blade — he's been seen armed, but the weapon never leaves its sheath — he's certainly aware that I could dispatch him with ease should our conflict ever escalate to blows.

As if he'd read her mind, he sighed and offered his hands: empty, open, and with palms turned upward. "Lady Éowyn, while we both know you could best me in a duel of steel, have you in all this time managed to solve even one of your problems by stabbing, poking, or probing with pointy things? Even when," he added with a casual leer and a downward glance, "what you're stabbing, poking, and probing is yourself?"

She started to rise from the chair, realized that this would reveal her naked form, concluded that this was in fact the desired result of his jibe, and sat back down. But amidst her rage she struggled to find a proper riposte. The leer he now wore had been a near-permanent fixture since the day they'd met. While no other in Rohan dared openly declare their lust for her, Gríma had worn that desire with neither shame nor restraint. There had, at times, been less than casual innuendo dropped into the middle of seemingly unrelated conversations, or during Council meetings. Never was there something so clear that she could call him out before others, but his intent was obvious. And then there were the penetrating, eager stares that followed her everywhere. At times she felt as if her clothing, and even her flesh, were being stripped away by the sheer intensity of his gaze.

But what could she do? He was, to her dismay and despair, King Théoden's most trusted adviser. Against him her word would never stand. Warrior or not, she could not best him with speech.

I'll need to be devious, then, and appear to yield. She doubted she could convince anyone (least of all Gríma) that she'd stopped loathing him, but she could probably manage a feigned truce. Eventually, he'd reveal a moment of weakness — the warrior in her knew he must have one — and in that moment she would strike. She required only sufficient patience to endure until then.

With a deep breath, she calmed her anger. Her hand no longer scrabbled for her blade, her arm no longer squeezed quite so forcefully into her chest (though it didn't move away, either). She narrowed the space between her legs, relaxed the tension in her back, and eased the pressure between foot and floor. Her voice she attempted to soften, though she lacked his effortless skill in this regard.

"You know that's never been, and never will be, your business. But whatever the plausibility of your counsels, I suggest that you'd find it impossible to defend entering my room without permission."

Gríma's smile broadened, and somehow it seemed even more dangerous than his earlier leer. "Good. Good! So you do understand that a warrior can't always rely on the proximity of a weapon. Sometimes, one does more efficient and more incisive damage with words, which are never beyond reach. You are correct, and I have no defense. Should you choose to accuse me before the King and the Council, I shall be entirely at your mercy...."

He paused, watching her muscles tense and release. She's wondering if it would really be that easy. She fears a trap, and it's a well-founded fear. But a pointless one, for I shall win either way.

She's so very exquisite. And she will be mine. She has no idea, of course, and would deny and fight to her last if she did, but she will. Though I might need to betray an entire kingdom, even allow my own people to be enslaved or eradicated, I will have her.

Left to his own devices, this might have been no more than a distant hope around which coalesced lonely plotting...as it had been so many years ago, when he'd first gazed upon her blossoming form and decided that she must someday open her legs to him. But he was not left to his own devices. Not anymore. Powerful promises had been made. And in service of his aims, other powers were at his disposal. Real powers.

"...but I don't think you will."

Her jaw hardened, and she turned to look directly at his face. She couldn't twist that far without consequence, however; a thin sliver of her breast and a long expanse of one pure white thigh rotated into view. She crossed her legs, but while this prevented accidental revelation of her sex, it revealed a fair portion of the taut crescent of her ass. His cock began to rise at the sight, though it was well-hidden beneath layers of ceremonial robes and wouldn't visibly interfere with his plan.

"You may soon learn how wrong you are."

Gríma began to pace to his left. She turned her body away from him, wary, her eyes following every motion. He then reversed course, and her rotation followed in suit. It was an absurd dance. Though quite erotic, he thought to himself, wondering how long he should make her follow his lead. Deciding that he'd already had enough and that it was time to change the tune, he stopped pacing and took an abrupt step towards her. She gripped the seat of the chair with hand and thigh, every muscle tense and prepared for immediate action. But she didn't uncross her legs, nor uncover her breasts.

"Am I?" He moved no closer. "You'll say I entered without leave, and I'll admit to this rudeness, excusing myself by recalling the urgency of the King's request and how enthusiastically I follow his orders, pointing out that my endless preoccupation with weighty matters of State led me to enter with understandable haste. Feigning embarrassment, I'll then reveal that if I'd known what you were doing, I never would have entered without permission. This, of course, will lead everyone within earshot to wonder what you were doing, and someone will certainly ask. At that point, you'll have three choices. You can fail to answer, leaving everyone to their imagination while you turn a most exquisite shade of crimson and thus confirm their worst guesses; you can answer truthfully, though we both know you won't; or you can remain silent and let me answer as I wish. With distress upon my face at the unseemliness of the subject, I'll begin a public debate over the urgent need to see you properly mated before you embarrass your family with some impulsive act, and I think you can guess who I'll offer as the most logical candidate."

As she glared at him, all her loathing, disgust, and tension coalesced. It was a merging that felt somehow counter to her will, for she wished every possible distance between them, yet her mind was forcing him into ever-greater focus. She was, for the first time, seeing him as more than an looming but impersonal enemy; he had, in these last few moments, been elevated to the status of a personal adversary. Which made their current parrying a duel, of sorts, and they would do battle until someone submitted or was destroyed. There could be no other outcome. That she'd unwittingly raised him to an importance she would've scorned just moments earlier no longer gave her pause. On this her mind was clear, though about all else it remained troubled.

At the moment, though, I lack an effective weapon...while his is his voice, which he's never without. Worse, I'm naked. Naked and unarmed, while he's neither; this is a fight it'll be hard to win.

Despite her halfhearted attempts at covering herself, in truth her nudity was of no real consequence. She was usually forced to be proper, but she'd never been demure. If revealing some part of myself to his loathsome gaze is the necessary price of victory, then I'll gladly pay it. Any warrior would, at need. But he won't win that skirmish so easily.

Gríma looked into her eyes and knew that it was working. It always did. "It" was the manipulative, irresistible power of voice that Saruman had given him. Taught to me, I might reveal to someone sufficiently trustworthy. But there's also wizardry involved, and that I wouldn't so readily admit. He knew was a mere novice compared to his master, but even as a beginner he could utilize rhetoric with a skill that impressed the terrifying old Wizard. Here, in Rohan, he was the master...including over a few matters about which even Saruman didn't know. He'd been patiently laying the groundwork for this moment from the very beginning; words, hints, and suggestions patiently lodged in her subconscious despite all her resistance, slowly constructing a web of instinct and response that would remain invisible until, like a spider, he tugged on the threads and captured his prey. He summoned up the entirety of his technique and pressed his advantage.

"Éowyn, you don't really wish to confront me. For I can help free you from this prison." Her eyelid twitched, and her body grew measurably more tense. "Your cage is illusory. You close and lock its door yourself. You have a power with which you can escape both, yet you either don't see it or choose not to use it. But you are not trapped."

Though she didn't honor him with a gasp of surprise, she couldn't hide the quick dilation of her pupils and the simultaneous narrowing of suspicious eyes. How could he so easily voice her darkest fears, her deepest wishes, when they were secrets she told to no one? In her most desperate moments, or on the edge of sleep, her mind dallied with fantastical notions of breaking her shackles and abandoning even her most beloved for a life of unlimited freedom. She'd never developed this thought even partway to fruition, much less action. And yet, she realized with quiet shock, didn't I almost do so a few minutes ago, when I strode to the window naked? Was my purpose no more than private rebellion, or did I intend to seduce — even to exert power over — whoever might see? When did I start to associate seduction with power? She couldn't recall ever having done so before, and her turmoil accelerated.

"I know your innermost thoughts, Éowyn. You try to mask them, believing them unworthy of your position and your breeding, but I can see them. I know them. I know you." He was toying with her like a cat with a wounded mouse, composing the prelude to a long, slow, satisfying kill.

She felt their dangerous imbalance already. It was a form of capitulation, though she would never call it that, and it started when she elevated him from indistinct danger to sworn blood foe. Why did I do that? She tried to clear her thoughts, to shake them free from their churning confusion, but the reason remained stubbornly obscure. All she knew for sure was that she had given him that measure of personal importance. It was against her will, against everything she knew to be right, and yet she'd done so anyway. Why? Do I not still hate and fear him? I do...more than ever. But then why?