Eowyn The Cage Ch 07

[

Setting the scene:

the events of this chapter — a series of displaced interludes — take place just after the arrival of Gandalf, Aragorn, and Gimli. Éowyn's two encounters with Aragorn (as described in the book) are referred to in their immediate aftermaths. Over the course of this chapter, Gandalf unmasks Wormtongue and heals King Théoden, the ride to Helm's Deep begins, and Éowyn is ordered (against her will) to lead the rest of their people to the refuge of Dunharrow.]

2 March 3019 (Third Age), Edoras

Flushed. Sweaty. Clumsy. Short of breath.

Éowyn reeled through the corridors of the Golden Hall. She needed to be alone, and haste ruled her steps. Her rooms were too remote; by the time she reached them and achieved her goal, she'd be dangerously late for her next task. A more immediate solution was required.

There's an alcove near the King's antechamber. And a recess within that alcove.

Some speculated that it was a mistake, a "what do we do with this extra space?" error by Meduseld's long-forgotten builders that was never after mended. Others joked that it was more likely left in place for the very purpose to which she was about to put it. It was a small, empty room unconnected to anything around it, but shadowed and difficult to notice or access behind its protective trio of rough-hewn support pillars. And then, within, yet another empty space hidden behind the double-bend of a short wall, wide enough to accommodate only a single body...or two, were they of a mind to keep exceedingly close quarters. It was little more than a closet with neither door nor contents, sized to accommodate a most furtive and time-sensitive rendezvous.

It will have to do.

With a feverish glance back the way she'd came, assuring herself that she'd not been followed, Éowyn slipped into the darkness, hoisted her pale white robe to her waist and, without further preliminary, buried several fingers in her drenched and throbbing pussy. She could already feel her climax approaching, and didn't expect to need more than a minute or two to achieve it.

She should have been wroth with herself for so easily giving into base lust. But she wasn't. One quick glance on the porch had grown into a meaningful stare, and in an instant her lips —

both sets of lips, actually

— swelled, internal juices flowing and nipples commencing their inexorable rise. King Théoden's abrupt dismissal had turned to her fortune, though she'd resented it in the moment, for standing there any longer might have caused her intense embarrassment. She doubted her current state of arousal could be hidden from anyone.

The raw masculinity of him! The majesty and lineage of his bearing!

She wasn't even entirely sure who he was, save what she'd gleaned from the partially understood speech of the Grey Wizard, but history and power surrounded him like an aura. They'd spoken no words, but none were necessary for her to

feel

his presence in her mind, in her heart, and in her loins.

Questioning the undeniable immediacy of her attraction seemed unimportant. She accelerated her frenetic manipulations, wondering if she'd have the courage — or the ability — to pursue him. The seduction of someone she actually wished to be with was something she'd never attempted, and her pathetic attempt at the mimicry of one had gone rather horrifically awry.

Her excitement escalated at the recollection...one that, in other contexts, usually numbed her with self-loathing. Since her final encounter with Wormtongue and his memory-altering powder, he'd become a pathetic, wheedling nonentity in the eyes of most of the Rohirrim. He retained full control of the King — which was, to her mind, proof that what bewitched King Théoden was sustained by something beyond Wormtongue's usual tricks of voice — but slowly lost his grip on most everyone else. And then came his groveling capitulation to the Wizard. She felt a rush of immense satisfaction at

that

, yet so much else remained unresolved and dangerous. Not just within the kingdom, but within

her

.

She'd been mulling her marginally improved situation though long days of tedious malaise and even longer nights of misery. The latter, at least, were now regularly punctuated by a restless exploration of her erogenous zones, each a brief respite from the frustration of inaction and the shackles that restrained her will. She knew she needed to find a way to accept the intensity of her sexual experiences, to claim her urges as her own (rather than as imposed by the loathsome serpent who'd inflicted them upon her), but though she'd internalized Wormtongue's lesson regarding the power of her sexuality, a method or opportunity for expressing it eluded her. She wondered if she remained unable to do so because she was far from free of the corollary shame.

I associate sex with despair, with darkness, and with a struggle for and against control. Is that the truth of it? Did my childish romantic notions err all along?

At least,

she thought with relief,

whatever mental or physical block arrested my ability to bring myself to climax has disappeared.

In fact, she felt more sensitive and responsive than ever. She was on the very edge of explosion when....

Voices! And I know them: Háma, and...is that my brother? He's no longer imprisoned!

Dropping her robe in a panic, she hastily considered her options. There were none, save hiding and hope. She was unlikely to slip past them unobserved, and should they see or hear her escape from the alcove there would be no defense against the plainly obvious conclusion. She pressed a hand to her mouth to mask her heavy breathing, and was immediately assaulted by the lurid scent of her arousal.

I reek of sex.

The thought itself was enough to keep her on the brink of release.

To her relief, their voices receded down the hall. But her hand — and now her mouth — were a mess. Needing to rid herself of this powerful perfume and seeing no easily available alternative, she suckled her fingers, not once pausing to question how appealing she found the taste.

Better than staining my dress, which in any case would just take up the aroma.

Nor she could deny a frisson of pleasure at the delicious perversity of the act.

Despite the foul end to my final encounter with Wormtongue, I've often wondered about the taste of a man's essence. Never before have I considered a woman in this way, yet my own flavor is unexpectedly enticing.

Her lust burned unfulfilled, but it would have to remain so.

If Éomer is free, I need to be at his side. My horniness can wait. And perhaps I'll see

him

again....

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

The breadth and duration of her dissolute union with Wormtongue had temporarily numbed Éowyn's desire for new experiences. But not since the afternoon he'd made her orgasm merely by speaking words had she felt something as disruptive and mind-warping as Aragorn's touch. She nearly dropped the cup she held as her body seized with something she could only identify as a small climax.

Certainly I'm wet enough to have experienced one.

The telltale tickle of liquid crawling down her thighs was the final evidence, and it excited her even while she fretted over the potential humiliation.

I hope he didn't notice, yet the change in his expression....

Her desperate need for true release — whether by her own hand or someone else's — set her aflame, and she wanted to scream from frustration over her unmet need. But she couldn't, for unexpected duty stood in the way. The King had asked her to rule in his absence.

It was only her love for her uncle that stayed her reflexive and strident objections. She wished to ride to battle and glory, but instead had been asked to lead a retreat. To her, the realm she'd order seemed no more free of the craven counsels of Wormtongue than she'd been at his hands.

And his tongue. And his....

She shook her head, angrily dismissing the memory.

Will it be ever thus? Left behind, bound by honor, forced by circumstance and femininity to accept rather than act?

Rohan was, in victory or defeat, finally taking control of its destiny. But her personal prospects seemed just as constrained than ever.

Hours later the Riders galloped away, and from the wind-chilled steps of the house she watched, trying to espy

his

form in their dusty midst. But aside from the lightning-illuminated glow of Shadowfax's white flanks and the banners of the King's guard she could discern no individual form. As the blurred thunder of hooves receded into the distance, she turned away and issued the necessary orders. The retreat to Dunharrow would begin just before dawn. She had the night to herself.

A short night, perhaps, but at least it's mine alone. Even if I wish it were otherwise....

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

A tangle of golden hair. The rise and fall of rose-tipped breasts. Ripples of muscle striating a slender stomach. Long, sinewy legs splayed wide. The wet noise of three fingers plunging in and out of a sodden center.

Eyes closed, she pictured him. Dark hair. Muscles ripe with use and scarred by time. Gentle hands that belied immense power. The mysterious depths behind his eyes, full of wisdom, hope, and suffering for the hurts of the world.

With a soft cry, she finally reached her long-denied peak. Liquid poured forth, soaking her sheets. Her hips thrust upward with greed and desire, met by her questing fingers, searching for something harder and more substantial, and she pumped herself straight through it, searching for a coda. It was long in coming...and, in the end, so was she.

With fingers still buried in her overheated channel, as if the mere presence of something inside her sex was a comfort she could no longer deny herself, Éowyn drifted into repose.

I'll need all my strength tomorrow. There's no more arduous or unpleasant task for a warrior than to run away.

But I won't run forever,

she resolved as sleep overtook her. A bright emerald star crowned the night sky of her dreams.