Eowyn: The Cage - Ch. 09a

The look of the room had changed as well, with the trainees stripped to cloth undershirts...or less, for some — including her two favorites — bared themselves to the waist, muscles satiny with the dull gloss of dried sweat. Gréor wasn't quite so uncovered, but his well-worn sark hid little. Despite his earlier self-deprecation — for he did carry a bit of extra weight around the middle — his was still a remarkably imposing form.

This left Éowyn the most covered, and to this she'd already given thought. Blithely shedding her outerwear might prove counterproductive, for too many would be overly focused on the fact that she was removing her clothes, and she'd lose precious time getting them back under control. She eventually needed to match their state of dress for what she had planned, but she decided that it needed to be part of the lesson, not a prelude to it

She tucked her hands under her mail shirt, waiting until she had their full attention.

"I...we...have shown you how to see and then exploit your advantages. We've taught you how to be where others want to be before they are, but also how to press forward into space you've created for yourself. We've taught you how to block, to defend, to preserve your person while you wait for opportunity. But now it's time for a third and more difficult lesson: how to yield. How to submit. How to exploit your disadvantage. How to achieve victory by giving in."

As she spoke, she smoothly removed the top half of her mail. Under it she wore a thin shirt identical to that worn by the men...except, of course, that she was not one of the men. It clung to her body, patches of sweat highlighting the outlines of her slender curves. Though she was careful to ensure that it remained on her person, the bottom hitched up just enough that the wiry and rippling muscles of her stomach were visible.

Well, I certainly have their attention. The trap is baited.

"You." Éowyn pointed at the man having the most trouble keeping his eyes above her neck. She was slightly disappointed, as he was the most promising of the group, but he'd soon learn that his error went well beyond staring at her chest. She handed him a wooden rod about the length of a sword, round and blunt but entirely capable of bruising an unwary foe. "Attack me. Don't strike for the kill, but for the wound."

He gaped, the rod hanging limp from his hand. He didn't move.

"We've sparred already, have we not? Why hesitate? Are you afraid? Prove your manhood." He grimaced at her challenge as the others chuckled. That was far too easy. He stared at her for a moment, pupils dilating as he again ran his eyes over her body, half in study and half in salacious appreciation. Every intention obvious long before he moved, he halfheartedly lunged at her stomach.

In a blur of motion she sent him tumbling across the room and into a wall. Gréor, who hadn't left his seat, leaned over to pick up the wooden rod that flew from his hand and skittered across the floor, snorting in disapproval. Éowyn, despite her quick defensive throw, hadn't even moved her feet.

The young man rose from the floor, clearly embarrassed and breathing heavily. His chest flexed with every breath, and despite her concentration she didn't fail to notice. He looked aggrieved and spoke with petulance. "Lady Éowyn, you still wear mail. My options were constrained."

Gréor snorted again.

"You didn't end up in a pile on the floor because you were afraid to strike me below the waist. But come: this time I'll give you all the options you could possibly want." She unclasped the lower half of her armor and tossed it aside. Underneath she wore woven tights that ended just below her knees; clothing that adhered to every detail of her form even more closely than her shirt. None could restrain a downward glance, even Gréor. With a raised eyebrow of approval he handed the rod back to the trainee.

"Attack me again."

Nostrils flaring, eager to regain his wounded pride, he charged from the other direction. This time he feinted, switching hands as he dove and slashed at her knees from below. Clever boy, she thought as she leapt aside, twisting to grasp his wrist and somersaulting herself over his chest. Along the way her knee plunged into his stomach, and not gently. As he rolled to his back in pain, she snatched the wooden rod from his hand and laid it across his neck. There was fear upon his face as she pressed it against his vulnerable windpipe. This position she held, eye to eye, for a time before standing and releasing him. As soon as she did he closed his eyes and coughed, clutching his stomach and rubbing his neck.

"Do you want to try again?"

He was slower to rise this time, his pain and embarrassment palpable. When he spoke, his words were sullen. "Not right away, my Lady. Perhaps I don't understand the lesson."

"Good." She didn't offer him a smile. "You were more skillful before our break, and that was when we were using real swords that could cut and maim. Even if you'd succeeded in your plan just now, you would've missed my leg by several inches, whereas I would've decapitated you long before you stopped sliding. What do you think happened?"

"My Lady, without the intervention of the mail, I was afraid...."

"Just a moment ago you said it was the mail that was at fault. Which is it?"

"I...." He stopped. Whatever he was thinking, he was unwilling to say it out loud.

"I can tell you." She drew closer, pressing the end of the rod into his chest. To his credit, he looked her in the eye without flinching. "Before, when I was protected by armor and wielded a blade, you saw me as a warrior. Now, you see me as a woman. You're afraid of hurting me."

"Not afraid, my Lady, just...." He looked confused.

"Do you really not understand the lesson, even now?"

The other most promising trainee spoke up. "You made yourself look vulnerable. When you took off your armor, you shed your power. But it was only the appearance of power."

Éowyn nodded, pleased with his answer. "Exactly right." She looked into the sullen trainee's eyes. "The armor isn't the power. Nor, for that matter," she pushed the wooden rod harder into his chest, "is the weapon. I am the power. As are you, but only if you learn this lesson."

He took on a defensive tone, blurting out, "but it wasn't just that! I was distracted!" He looked as if he regretted the words the moment he said them.

She raised an eyebrow. I knew he was thinking it, but I didn't expect him to say it out loud. This will be even more fun. "What distraction?" Taking a slow, deep breath, she expanded her chest against the thin material that covered it. She knew her breasts strained against the shirt, and noted that every eye in the room bore evidence of a struggle against open leering. A test most of them failed.

As the trainee's eyes fell in turn, he stuttered, "it...I...the...."

"Eloquently said. I can't imagine how any woman could resist your silver-tongued charms." The others murmured in amusement. Though she continued to press the rod into his chest, her grip loosened and the end started to slip downward.

His eyes snapped back to hers. He looked like he was trying and failing to construct an angry retort.

Disappointed, she shrugged and moved away, delivering the fatal blow with her back turned. "What a shame you weren't able to distract me."

There was open laughter now. Even Gréor was roaring. The young man looked humiliated and defeated. She let the moment simmer, waiting for his anger to recede and resignation to take its place. For better or worse, I've internalized Wormtongue's insistence that I can use sexual power to my advantage. But I'm not evil. It's time to lead him back from the abyss.

"That, by the way, was the same lesson. Three times I've made myself appear vulnerable. Three times you fell for it, mistaking the façade for true vulnerability." She watched him search for meaning in her words, but it was clear he wasn't finding it. "Gréor!"

"Yes, my Lady?

"What should he have done?"

"Thinking with the larger of his heads might've helped." There were more chuckles, but as he spoke Gréor glanced a warning at her, urging caution. Almost imperceptibly she nodded her thanks, and he turned to the target of the lesson.

"During the sparring you didn't stand a chance unless she offered you one. I'd wager that if I handed every one of you sorry excuses the very best swords of the realm and left her with that wooden stick and a leftover shoe, she'd still wipe the floor with the lot of you." She repressed her urge to swell with pride or demur with humility as they looked upon her with new eyes...some admiring, some doubting. "It very might well be that there's none more skilled with a blade in all of Rohan. But you don't know that, do you? And I think you all know why you don't know that." Again their regard moved over her body, and she felt a strange thrill under their study. Pride...and something else. Something I'm here to ignore.

"And while we're all confirming the reason...lad, we all saw you staring at her, and it wasn't in the eyes." The target of his rebuke had the courage to blush, while a few others nervously tittered. "It was an even more obvious mistake than your foolish underestimation of her skills, just because she'd shed a few pieces of metal. A conversation is as much of a duel as one fought with swords. You chose to take up the wrong weapon and expose your weakness. That's how she skewered you and left you for dead. Both with the rod and with a few well-placed words."

The young man looked back and forth at his instructors, trying to puzzle it out. "But what was I supposed to do?"

"Apologies my Lady, but...damn it all to hell, lad! You were already looking her up and down, and in fact she was inviting you to look. But you crawled inside your empty skull and hid there, gaping at a woman like you've never seen one before, and so the warrior that she actually is inside her skin casually sliced open your innards."

"If she came at you with the point of her sword, what would you do? You'd parry, you'd thrust, you'd fight for your life, and you wouldn't waste time worrying about the tender bits of the person trying to kill you. The lesson's the same, whether your weapon's your tongue or your sword: fight the battle you're given, or be clever enough to change the fight to your terms, but don't get distracted by appearances."

Silence stretched as he absorbed the lesson. "So...you mean I should have said something back to her?" Suddenly, he flushed and studied his feet.

"Probably. But we're not flirting here, youngster, we're teaching a lesson about turning disadvantage into triumph. This isn't a first date, it's a fight. She unsettled you. You needed to unsettle her. She could've thrown you around all afternoon without breaking much of a sweat, and if you think that's unfair it doesn't make it less true. But at the end, when you were talking, she was giving you a fair chance. One you wasted."

"What chance?"

Gréor just stared at him.

"Well, graybeard?" he challenged. "What would you have done?"

Éowyn turned to Gréor with raised eyebrows. This should be interesting.

"It's easy to point to the right road when the ride's over, lad. But I'd take that rod back — you didn't notice because you were too busy drooling, but it's not like she was trying very hard to keep it from you — and point it at her chest. Or somewhere even more interesting, if it suits your fancy. If you've wits enough for a proper riposte, that's your opportunity. Then wait to see what she does next. Thrust and parry for real, whatever your inappropriate delusions and untimely fantasies."

Every mouth opened in shock. Even Éowyn's, because she'd thrown her head back to roar with mirth. She couldn't hide the light flush suffusing her skin, and Gréor took a sudden but extreme interest in an invisible feature of a distant wall.

Finally, she clapped her hands, regaining everyone's attention. "Okay, well, that is enough flirting from the graybeard." Many joined in her laughter, and even as Gréor dipped his head with feigned embarrassment she saw his private smirk. "Though his advice is wise. Think on it as we continue the lesson."

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

Paired off, they drilled under her patient tutelage, Gréor calling out suggestions and corrections from his position on the bench. Occasionally she asked one of them to apply what they'd learned and attack her in some fashion...sometimes with the wooden rod, sometimes hand-to-hand, sometimes unarmed and trying to avoid or secure a weapon she alone held.

There were accidents along the way: one badly bruised hand, several grazing blows to the head, a swollen shin. And, in a particularly unfortunate moment, two simultaneous but badly aimed swings that caught both trainees right in their most sensitive area. Even Éowyn cringed in sympathetic pain, though she was sure it was nothing compared to what the young men were feeling. One by one she sent the injured and the exhausted away, until finally her class was reduced to herself, Gréor, and the two she'd long believed were the most promising recruits. The first had recovered from his earlier humiliation and was now responding with impressive skill and focus. The other had yet to disappoint her. She pressed their instruction harder.

They continued to improve, but a new concern gnawed. Their one-to-one sparring was a contest of equal against relative equal, and they obviously believed that physical superiority was the clearest path victory. But even though they were both quite strong, when Éowyn personally demonstrated a concept it appeared that neither of them believed they had a chance, and they acted accordingly. Perhaps they learned my earlier lesson too well. They need to understand that there's more than one path to victory.

After a brief consultation with Gréor, she ordered the pair to take up specific positions. "Grab him from behind. One hand just above his waist, your other arm wrapped around his neck as if you've already got him in a chokehold. Yes, like that. Now, you: try to escape." A furious, generally pointless grapple ensued, breaking at Éowyn's sharp command when the younger of the two seemed in danger of asphyxiation. She let them recover, then made them reverse roles. This time, an even longer wrestling match ended with them rolling around the floor, more or less locked in stalemate, the elder refusing to acknowledge that he was turning blue from lack of air.

"That's enough. Get up." They struggled to their feet, slick with sweat and gasping for breath. She studied them for a moment, noting how their....

No! I'm here to distract myself from such thoughts, not to entertain them.

"I could make you do that all day, and unless one of you tires before the other the outcome will be the until you stop thinking that this is a test of physical prowess. You've lost track of the lesson. You, come here." She pointed to the younger and quieter of the two. "Hold me the same way."

There was a moment of hesitation, but when he finally pressed his hand against her bare stomach it was firm and confident. The arm around her neck was more tentative, but that didn't matter much. She could feel him trembling with nervousness. Or maybe not just nervousness? Well, I'll soon give him something else to worry about.

"Gréor, at your command."

"Go!"

His grip around her throat tightened, and the hand on her midriff became an arm encircling her waist. This was exactly how the men started both their bouts, and were this a purely physical struggle he'd have a fir chance of victory, for despite his youth and inexperience he was stronger than her. I'll show him the flaw in such limited thinking.

Éowyn flexed her knees and leapt backward, straight into her opponent. He'd been pressing forward and downward, expecting her to struggle to pull away, so when she moved in the opposite direction his balance failed and his grip began to loosen. They hit the floor as one, and as she landed on top of him and momentarily forced the breath from his lungs, his strength and concentration wavered. It was more than enough for her to extract herself from his grasp, twist, and straddle his chest, knees pinning his arms to the floor and fingers gripping his neck. Mere seconds later, it was over. He again struggled for breath, while she tried to ignore how much she was enjoying the muscular chest rising and falling between her thighs.

"When you fought each other, you thought to force your opponent to bend to your will. That's not a bad strategy against a dull-witted opponent, but it's far from the only one, and won't work against someone more clever or experienced then you. I chose to bend first, and thus use your will to my advantage. Remember that the best path to your goal isn't always forward."

His breathing grew more regular, and judging by the tension on his face it seemed that he too struggled with the reality of Éowyn's legs straddling his naked torso. She let him up, but as he gingerly shuffled away she heard him mutter to his companion, "now that was distracting."

Gréor chuckled, but Éowyn needed to retain the upper hand. "I hadn't noticed." She glanced at the other, but instead of grinning in response he was again studying her, this time with a calculating look in his eyes. This is going to be more challenging, she thought, clearing her mind of distractions as he got into position. She immediately noticed the difference in how he held her; rather than a hand flush against her skin, his fingers pressed into the seams between her abdominal muscles with gentle force. For its part, his arm around her neck felt more like an embrace than a trap.

Nice try, she mused as Gréor shouted a second time. She'd seen the hungry look in his eyes and the way he puffed out his chest as he approached. He's trying to be the distraction this time. In a sense she was flattered, for he was an attractive young man. Very attractive indeed. But she couldn't allow herself to lose focus, especially under these circumstances.

The arm at her neck squeezed, bending her head back and up. She felt the harsh exhalation of his breath at her ear. At the same time, the hand at her waist slipped lower. He wouldn't dare! But he didn't. Instead, he hooked his fingers through the loop of her waistband, using it as a handle to lift her from the ground, preventing her from launching them backward. She felt him shifting and rebalancing his weight, and intuited his intention to turn and drop himself on top of her face-first, pinning her to the ground as she had his companion. It's a good strategy, taking advantage of his superior weight and strength.

Though her mind braced for what would likely be a most painful impact, her body was already acting on well-honed instinct. She was exceptionally strong for a woman of her slender build, but she was flexible as well. Using his tight grip on her neck as a pivot, she bent at the knees and then flung her legs upward, initiating a backflip. Her feet flew over his head, and the rest of her followed. Fatally unbalanced, he reeled and toppled backward. She heard something tear as his hold on her waist failed, but the arm around her neck held firm.

His pelvic bone struck the ground hard, and as he grunted in pain she sprung from her feet the moment they hit the floor, reversing her flip and to land — hard — directly atop his body. Ignoring both pain and his lack of breath he braced, unable to anticipate her next move but sure it would be both unexpected and violent.