Eowyn: The Cage - Ch. 03

[Setting the scene: the events of this chapter take place before the arrival of Gandalf, Aragorn, and Gimli. Reference is made to Boromir's passage through Rohan on his way to Rivendell.]

21 February 3019 (Third Age), Edoras

"Please stop. We should not. I cannot...."

"Peace, my beautiful Lady. We have this time and no other. Let us not waste it in idle protest."

His lips drove into hers, strong hands gripping the muscular firmness of her rear through the thin film of her nightdress. He pulled, he pressed, and she again felt the impossible hardness of his staff against her churning stomach. The heat of it branded her...though she knew it was mostly her imagination, given the many layers of clothing he still wore...and her blood raced and rose in sympathetic temperature, coalescing in her overheated loins.

She moaned as his tongue continued its battle with hers, and her hand gripped his tousled hair. His own hands squeezed harder, lifting her and spreading her legs wider as he did. She did not, as he obviously desired, wrap them about his waist, but his shaft was nestled against the yearning throb of her sex. His hands began to roam, purposefully stimulating her most sensitive places. Soon she would be powerless to do other than yield unless she summoned the last of her waning resistance.

His groan matched, then overpowered hers.

Without warning, he released her to the ground, and she trembled with the effort required to remain standing. His hands traced her form, moving swiftly upward — the backs of his fingers brushing the tips of her breasts like passing lightning — and reached for the clasp of his cloak. His jacket was already unbuttoned by the time the cloak pooled at his feet, his vest open before the jacket joined the cloak, his shirt violently tossed aside.

Éowyn stood, quivering and biting her lip. I should stop this. Oh, I want nothing so much as to be taken by him, firmly and perhaps even roughly, and then to return his aggression long into the morning. I want...I want to see his cock. To touch it. To fall to my knees and....

No. No, I can't. Though the aching need deep inside cries out in protest, though I cannot tear my eyes from the furious work of his fingers as they're about to reveal the object of my lust, I have to regain control. Of the situation. Of him. Of myself.

"Boromir," she said, resting her hands against his formidably muscled chest. That was a bad idea. "We have to stop. I can't. I admit that I desire you, and I'm moved by the evidence of your need for me, but this is not the right moment. Later, perhaps...."

"Later? Later! Lady Éowyn, I came straight from the horror of battle with the evil King of the Nazgûl, and will leave this very morn to seek legends in the wilderness. There may never be a 'later.' A warrior knows this. We have...."

She interrupted him, wincing at the casual slight. The same as ever. "I understand what a 'warrior' knows, Captain." She deliberately employed the military rather than his noble designation.

His face softened. "I accept your remonstrance. I feel your warrior's spirit, whether you are allowed battle or not. Though I suspect you are not, and therein lies the purpose of your rebuke." She looked down, still annoyed. "But Lady Éowyn, we...." He placed a gentle hand on her cheek, lifting her face to his. "We who are warriors know that every moment may be our last, and so we must take that which is offered, when it is offered, lest there be no morrow. I am offering myself to you. And I do not believe I am mistaken that you would fain offer yourself to me."

Her indecision manifested itself in contrasts: the impulsive removal of her hands from his chest, but also the simultaneous flow of lubrication from her sex. Curse my thrice-damned obviousness, she bemoaned, as moistness appeared and spread right where his cock had pressed her nightshirt against her wet center. But her will retained the mastery. Barely.

"You see only the evidence of my body, Lord Boromir," she replied, now employing a more flattering, albeit incorrect, honorific, "and while I don't deny that it may already have surrendered itself to you, I'm more than just my body."

His eyes glinted with unexpected ferocity. Thus far he'd been passionate, even insistent, but she worried that if she didn't handle this correctly, she might experience his frustration, or even his anger. She knew him to be noble, but she also knew what uncontrollable lust could do to one's restraint.

"You are more than just a body, indeed. Though that body...." He moved his hand down her neck to rest on the sideswell of her breast; she neither stopped him nor removed his hand. "...is one of surpassing appeal, about which minstrels might compose lusty paeans yet still fail to capture in its perfection. But yours is not the only will here and now." His thumb began circling her nipple, sending shocks of pleasure to her sex and warnings of danger racing through her head. "Know that I have a will, too. A warrior's will, to take what I desire."

She looked up at him in surprise. Those words.... They stirred something familiar within her, as if she'd heard them before. She felt herself falling under his spell, losing her ability to resist. And there was a look in his eyes that was...different. Boromir as she'd known him, yet not. Her worry deepened. But still she did not stop him. Not yet.

It seemed, for a moment, that she might not have to. He suddenly pulled away, still partially clothed, and his eyes bore through hers. But then she felt the air turn chillier, and looked down in shock. Where did my nightshift go? I didn't remove it, nor did he. "Magnificent," he proclaimed, appraising her body with greedy eyes while she fidgeted, wanting to cover her nakedness, yet secretly eager to have him study it in just this fashion. She felt sluggish in mind and limb, even though every point of pleasure was burning with an unquenchable fire. Wetness coursed down her thighs. She yearned to see his cock, which still strained against the front of his breeches, but even more she yearned for him to touch her. Somewhere. Anywhere.

But he didn't. He continued to stand where he was, looking at her. Up and down. Down and up. Stopping to admire her features, then continuing on. She had the impression he was speaking to her, but her ears heard nothing, nor did his lips move. Her shivering became an uncontrollable seizure of pleasure. She moaned, and the pitch and volume of that moan elevated until it became a scream. Thrusting her hips forward against the empty air, she came. Hard. She pumped her hips like she was taking his cock deep inside her soaked channel, but he wasn't touching her in any fashion whatsoever. Her orgasm rolled away and returned, plundering her consciousness, until — too weak to stand — she collapsed forward into Boromir's waiting arms.

And missed. And continued to fall....

...and awoke drenched in sweat, tightly wrapped in sheets that had long since adhered to and twisted around her. She was on the floor, one hand between her legs and several fingers deeply embedded in her sex. In her essentially mummified state she was unable to remove them, and the attempt to do so began an enticing wiggling that reignited her ardor. This is no time for an encore, she scolded herself, embarrassed by her condition even though she was alone.

My jaw hurts. It must have struck the floor in my fall. It doesn't feel all that severe, but I should make sure it didn't bruise. With a frustrated grunt, she rolled away from the bed to which the sheets clung until she was freed. Then she extracted her fingers from her slippery pussy, which ached like it had been the object of long attention. Just how long was I touching herself during that dream? Judging by the quantity and consistency of the liquid that clung to her fingers, she'd been self-pleasuring a long time.

What's wrong with me?

She stood, sore in places unlike those with which she was familiar from the training floor. If I ever have sex, is this what I'm going to feel like in the aftermath?

Surveying herself for additional damage, she found none on her person. The sheets were another story: sodden, stretched, and — where she'd rolled across the floor — stained with dust. I'll have to be nimble in my explanations to the washing-woman, lest there be unwanted rumors by the afternoon.

She walked to the shutter, loosely closed with a makeshift wrap of cord in place of the latch she'd shattered, undid the tie, and peered outside. Dawn was approaching. I'm unlikely to be able to return to worthwhile sleep, and I'm not going to use those sheets again. I might as well start my day. Shrugging, she took a robe from a nearby hook and made her way towards her bath.

<<<<<<<>>>>>>>

Once again drenched in sweat, though for a far more acceptable reason than before, Éowyn wiped a hand on her jerkin. Her training session had been unusually violent; so much so that the Weaponmaster yielded before their usual time, noting that she was unlikely to learn anything while venting fury at her unseen and unnamed foe, and cautioning that she was in danger of hurting one or both of them. To this she had no answer, but after he left she returned to her practice, mimicking stabbing, whirling motions with a spear. In attempt to execute a flashy reversal that might impale an unexpected enemy to her rear, she nicked her forearm with the bladed tip. The bleeding stopped fairly quickly, and no wrap would be required, but the brief sight of blood temporarily quelled the unfocused fury that consumed her.

The Weaponmaster was right: my mind is elsewhere. Shaking the aftereffects of her unexpected sexual dream was proving more difficult than she'd imagined. Though she'd fantasized about Boromir often enough since his brief visit to Rohan, this time the presence in her dream wasn't really Borormir. Suppressing a shudder, she tried to evade her guess at who'd gradually taken his place, for it was a realization that made her feel sick.

She crouched down in disgust, holding her head between her hands. Gríma — Wormtongue — had done something to her yesterday. Something lasting, even beyond what she'd felt while it was happening. It was beyond her understanding, and she'd gained no answers since.

In the aftermath of his intrusion, she struggled her way through lunch — sitting as far away from him as possible, though the King appeared to take no notice — and then spent the balance of the afternoon childishly spreading whispers, making sure his new name reached every receptive year. To her delight, it stuck like a pony to its dam. Confidants reported his perceptible and growing annoyance, even though no one had yet dared to speak the name to his face. But it was a petty, hollow revenge, and she knew it.

She needed information. She needed to know how someone so contemptible could know every single answer despite never having heard her questions. She needed to know why she'd wantonly shed her carefully nurtured inhibitions in the presence of someone she loathed. She needed to know how he could drive her to orgasm with his voice alone. Most of all, she needed to understand the source of his power. It was achieved through words, certainly, but how? Was it devilry, as a few suspected? Or was it something else?

One way or another, she would know. She had to. For the sake of the King, for her people, and for herself.

<<<<<<<>>>>>>>

Éowyn drew a steel pin from her hair, releasing a few long strands that spilled about her shoulders. She was not, even on formal occasions, fond of devices and frippery in her hair; when necessary, braids of various designs sufficed for all but the most exceptional circumstances. As a result, she hoped that few saw her employing them now, when there seemed little reason to be doing so. Some indeed gave her an odd look as they passed in the hall, but she pretended to ignore them...for though she desired stealth in her current endeavor, "Lady Éowyn is wearing hair accessories!" was a rumor her dignity could withstand.

Piercing the heavy lock with the pin's sharp tip, she edged it forward and back, levering and twisting at intervals. This was an unlikely skill for a King's niece to possess, it was true, but a semi-drunken evening with a somewhat disreputable trader had supplied it. It occurred to her, as she worked, that the exchange had been entirely chaste. Did he expect something in return? Recalling the look in his eyes as she thanked him and slipped away, she supposed that he did after all. She wondered if he thought of her later that night as he sought relief, and realized that the idea excited her.

With a sharp click the lock released, and she removed it and placed it on the bed. She looked around, listening carefully, but she remained alone.

Sneaking into Wormtongue's quarters had been no easy task. They were isolated enough that the hallway wasn't heavily trafficked, but there were others in the vicinity, and loitering until the entrance became entirely unmarked was, in itself, potentially suspicious. She passed by a dozen times before she found sufficient privacy to pick that lock and slip inside. Her peril only increased once past the threshold, for she quickly discovered that there were no other egresses, not even a window; it was the door or nothing. The lack of any window at all was a strangeness at which she wondered, for Meduseld's somewhat depressing warren of living quarters, set behind and below the Golden Hall, was dark and dreary even in the best of circumstances, and to her knowledge no other resident willingly chose interior rooms for their apartment. Well, I'm not here to assess his personality, as I already know it's utterly repellent. I'm here to expose his secrets.

A quick search through drawer, cabinet, and closet revealed nothing suspicious, and of hidden chambers in the walls, floor, or ceiling she could find no sign. Which left only the sturdy chest and its heavy lock.

Carefully, she opened the lid, fearing some sort of trap. Inside were orderly piles of objects both familiar and strange. She gently rummaged through them, fearing undue noise, but found nothing more incriminating than strange books of lore, odd-looking weapons, and moldering pieces of fabric that apparently held sentimental value. Sentiment! Who would have guessed? Her frustration grew alongside her fear of discovery, for she couldn't stay much longer, but there was nothing that....

In the back corner of the chest, near the bottom, her fingers touched a cold metal cylinder snugly nestled behind a heavy iron box. Curious, she brought it into the light for closer study. If there was more to it than met the eye, it wasn't immediately obvious, and cautious prodding and twisting brought her no more insight.

But it didn't actually matter, for she had her answer. The evidence with which to save herself...and the King, and Rohan...was there in plain sight. For set into the cylinder's opaque black curvature was a shining ivory inlay, shimmering and shifting in the light.

A hand. A white hand.

She put the cylinder back where she'd found it, closed the chest, and replaced the lock. Slipping the pin into her sleeve rather than taking the time to rearrange her hair, she undertook the riskiest part of her venture and pressed her ear to the door. There was no sound from the hall. Pulling it open just the barest crack, she peered out. No one! Hastily, she slipped out and away, letting the thick door close behind her with an echoing thunk that seemed deafening to her retreating ears. But she was already far down the hall, eagerly anticipating her triumph.

<<<<<<<>>>>>>>

From the shadows of a half-obscured alcove, Gríma stepped forward and frowned at the chest. Even had I not entered via my hidden door, even had I not heard the noise of someone hurriedly departing my quarters, I'd still know of the intrusion and its author, for I can smell her telltale scent. And she was somewhat careless, leaving the wrinkled depression the lock left on my bedding unsmoothed, and — even more damning — replacing the lock backwards. He was a man of certain obsessions, and one was the careful alignment of things that could, if tampered with, warn him of an impending threat.

Well, she'll understand the power of threats soon enough.

<<<<<<<>>>>>>>

The door slammed closed with a heavy thud, displacing the air roiling in her furious wake. Over her angry footsteps she heard no sound. In her thundercloud mood she felt nothing. She flung herself against the bed, falling to her knees and sobbing into the coverlet. Cornered. Trapped.

She'd waited until Théoden was alone, and though he seemed puzzled at her eagerness for a private conversation, he didn't peremptorily dismiss her, as he sometimes did. She told him of her discovery of the cylinder, and of the ominous white hand, hoping for an immediate explosion of outrage.

She received the opposite.

The King sat, unmoving and silent, for a long while. Finally, he leaned close and spoke with a voice more authoritative and stern than she'd heard him use in months.

"My beloved but impetuous sister-daughter, was it a black cylinder? About a foot in length?"

"Yes, my Lord. But the white hand...."

Théoden reached for an object on a nearby shelf. As soon as he revealed it, she felt her heart seize, wither, and die.

"Did it look like this?" The white hand on its surface was no more than a pale glimmer in the smoky gloom of the Golden Hall; an absence of light that seemed to be Théoden's preference in these dark days.

"Yes, my Lord."

"It is but a message. Despite certain unpleasantries, we are not yet at open war with Isengard, and both sides continue to talk in the hope of preserving our once-valued alliance. Negotiations have been ongoing for many weeks, for we all hope to avoid unnecessary violence that might bring an unfortunate end to Rohan and all that we hold dear. Gríma himself has been the conduit for these messages. I'm certain that what you found is simply a communication he hasn't yet had time to show me. He's very busy, you know, for I demand much from him."

The lecture continued, but she stopped listening. I failed. All will be lost. Perhaps starting with me.

The final insult was Théoden's concluding warning: she was not, under the threat of an unnamed sanction (though she was sure it would be severe), to enter Wormtongue's rooms, nor to spy on his activities, nor to level false accusations against him or any other member of his Council again. She longed to tell him of Wormtongue's intrusion into her own quarters. But the counselor was right: she couldn't. For if the King asked what transpired....

After a while her sobbing eased, and she lifted her head and stared out the window at the deepening, threatening grey. A storm was coming. The wind was already rising, and she could hear the commotion of people hurriedly bringing goods and beasts to shelter. The people of Edoras were going about their business, minding only their own. It was a thing she could not do.

The trouble wasn't that the King was lying, for she was sure that he spoke the truth as he saw it. The problem was that his "truth" was an artificial construct created for him by Wormtongue, who was no doubt pursuing his own devious plans. She was certain that whatever message the hidden cylinder held, it was never meant for Théoden's eyes. But without surety, she had no way prove his guilt.