Hello fellow LOTR fans. The following story is my riff on the relationship between Eowyn and Faramir that is barely hinted at in The Return of the King. If you hold Tolkien's work and characters to be sacrosanct - STOP READING RIGHT NOW! - try something else. This story involves "non-consensual" sex. However, if you persevere to the end I think you'll enjoy my little tale.
The Fog Of Battle
Eowyn walked slowly through dark swirling mists. A cold fire burned within her, though it was no longer the fire of battle. Her legs and arms were cold and leaden; they seemed empty of their strength. Somewhere, somehow she had lost her helm, her sword and her shield. Her heavy armor, designed for fighting on horseback, made every movement an effort.
Around her, unseen, the sounds of battle continued. Yet no matter which direction she walked the battle came no nearer. She encountered only the countless bodies of the slain. Stepping over the dead she searched in vain for a working weapon or unbroken shield.
Her memory was as foggy as the battlefield she traversed. She had killed the Nazgul, the foul beast had threatened her uncle, King Theoden. The next part she was less sure of - the fate of the Witch King himself- she had killed him too, hadn't she? Had he not collapsed before her in a pile of rags and broken armor? Certainly, she'd heard his horrific cry of defeat and death; she was sure of that - wasn't she?
Eowyn stopped and stood still for a moment. Or had she been the one killed? Was she wandering in some glory-less hell of the vanquished? Had she committed some great warrior sin in riding to battle unbidden? Even though she had fought to save and defend King and country? A cold blackness fell upon her and she felt so very alone.
Alone, lost, and empty; as empty and useless as a battered helm.
Empty in her life - empty in her heart - empty in the very core of her womanliness. For far too long she had known this emptiness, it was her constant companion. The emptiness had been filled briefly, upon meeting Lord Aragorn, a man worthy of her love and a man to be loved by in return. She had felt, truly for the first time in her life, a deep yearning to share herself with a man.
On the eve of battle, alone in her tent, Eowyn had let her fingers trail down between her legs. As her fingers explored the hot, wet folds of her need, she had let her mind explore the possibility of being Lord Aragorn's woman - even if just for this night. Her fingers teased her cunt into a swirling cauldron of passion. Slowly she had climbed toward her pleasure. Then at the peak, about to soar in release, she felt the emptiness within her. Her forearm muffled her scream of frustration and she knew her way - her need. She went in search of him.
She found him, by his horse, and the intensity of her desire overrode all thoughts of shyness and proper behavior. She told him that she wanted to be possessed by him, filled by him, loved by him - even if just for this one night. She took his hand and pulled it to her wet heat. She offered him everything that was hers.
Eowyn's mind reeled in anguish at the memory.
He said no. Aragorn had declined her, dismissed her, speaking of his promise to another far away. And then he turned from her. Eowyn saw that he was preparing to leave, to ride away on the eve of the battle. How could this be? How could he leave at this hour of greatest need?
Eowyn was left with nothing.
She had returned to her empty tent. Lain in her empty bed; all too cognizant of her empty cunt. She cried bitterly until empty of tears.
She looked at the darkness and the emptiness around her. She realized that it was a pale shadow of the darkness and emptiness within her. Into the shadowy nothingness she barked out a harsh laugh.
She accepted the dark fellness of death to come, gratefully embracing the nothingness that filled her, the nothingness that surrounded her. A great battle was coming, a battle that would be known for it's staggering loss of life, of future, of love. Eowyn felt her heart steel itself, her mind become adamant, she would ride to battle - she had nothing to lose.
Eowyn looked around and saw nothing to look forward to. She listened and heard no one calling out to her. There was no one and no thing for her. Eowyn was alone.
Eowyn Shield Maiden of Rowan wept a bitterness such as she could barely stand and collapsed to the ground.
The Houses Of Healing
The newness of peace, since the Great Victory, was encumbered by the many wounded and the some yet to die. It was not simply the physical wounds of battle and war; there were many who could heal those wounds. A greater healing, a deeper healing was needed for the many shattered minds and hearts.
Faramir, the young Captain of Gondor, moved lowly among the wounded, carefully administering the healing tonic in the manner that Gandalf the White, the great wizard, had instructed him. As a student of Gandalf's, Faramir had studied herbology and healing and many other things, both elfish and wizardly and the time was come for this knowledge to be applied.
Faramir's father Denother, the late Steward of Gondor, had thought less of him for that study. That a warrior and a leader of men indulge in the healing arts seemed unmanly to Denother. But his father was dead, and the responsibilities of being a leader to his people buoyed Faramir's work. It was exacting work; it wasn't just a matter of sprinkling a few herbaceous materials in some hot water. Proportions had to be precise; timing was often literally 'of the essence.' And above all, the healer's heart and mind had to be in harmony with the intended effect.
A side-effect of this particular healing tonic was a deep binding between the healer and the healed. Those of other lands and races were kept separate and ministered to by their own kind and races - men to mankind, elf to elfkind, Gondorian to Gondorian and so on. That bond of deep brotherhood between those healed and the healers would be needed in the long days of rebuilding ahead.
Faramir was enjoying a brief moments rest when a great light and warmth filled the room. Turning slowly as he stood, he bowed deeply to the elf-princess Arwen. Her unspoken voice asked him to follow her and he did.
Arwen daughter of Elrond was to be wed to Aragorn, the newly crowned King of Gondor. Faramir knew the story of Arwen. Her love for Aragorn had led her to forsake the immortal life of her kind to fully experience mortal love. Faramir found that whenever he looked upon her, his own heart seemed to fill with a yearning to be loved by someone as deeply as Arwen loved Aragorn.
Arwen led him up into the tallest tower of the Houses of Healing. At the highest level, they stepped into an airy chamber where two familiar figures greeted him. Faramir knelt on one knee and bowed low to Gandalf and Lord Aragorn, his King. Aragorn advanced and lifted Faramir into his embrace.
"Faramir, there is no need for that with me when we are in private. I would call you my brother, if you would do the same with me. It is not my intention to overthrow those that served the office of the Steward of Gondor when I take my place as King. Stand and embrace me as one embraces a dear family member returned from a long absence."
Faramir stood and threw his arms around Aragorn. "Brother." His embrace was returned in kind and a great peace filled them both. Even as Aragorn's arms released him, the warmth and peace continued to fill him. "Is that why I was called here? How may I assist you, brother?" Aragorn nodded towards Gandalf and the old wizard stepped forward.
"It is I who need your help Faramir. You have shown great facility in the healing houses. Many are saved who would have been lost. I need you to... save another."
"I will not deny a single citizen of Gondor, be he a great Captain or the lowest sewer cleaner. But why ask for my help when any of you is a greater healer then I?" Faramir stopped as he noted the grave expression that all three held. "Is there a problem? Is there a reason that none of you has healed this fallen hero?"
Arwen stepped forward. "There is Faramir. This warrior killed Angmar, the Witch King, but was struck down by his dying exhalation, the Black Breath of Death. Unfortunately, she went into battle seeking nothing but death. She saw her King fall. Her mind and heart are overthrown. Bringing her back will be - difficult and dangerous."
"She? A woman killed the Witch King? I thought it was an elf, or Gandalf, or... who is she?"
Aragorn spoke quietly. "She is Eowyn, niece of Theoden the fallen King of Rohan, brother of Eomer, the Rightful King. Neither Gandalf nor Arwen are of her kind."
"But brother, you are a man; you have knowledge of healing that greatly surpasses mine own. How is it possible that I might heal her and you cannot?"
Gandalf nodded at Arwen and Aragorn and the pair left the room. He motioned Faramir to the window and bade him sit. Gandalf explained that Eowyn had fallen in love with Aragorn. She had realized the futility on her love and had thought Aragorn lost to her. If Aragorn administered the healing, Eowyn would be heart bound to him for the rest of her life. She would live in the constant pain of yearning unmet, of desire unfulfilled, of love unattainable.
Gandalf rose and slowly opened the door to the inner chamber. Faramir walked forward and entered the room. In the center, a large bed stood, surrounded by light. On the bed lay a woman of great beauty, cloaked in the still coldness of death. Her hair, the color of ripening wheat, framed her pale features like the setting of the sun. Beside the bed, sat a man that Faramir recognized as Eomer. Eomer turned and looked up. He rose slowly and advanced to Faramir and Gandalf. The intensity in Eomer's eyes was breath-taking to behold. The eyes soften as Eomer spoke of his sister, of her honor, her duty, her bravery and of his deep love for her. A brief silence passed between them and then Eomer quietly left the room.
Gandalf walked to the bed and slowly removed the covering blanket. There was a soft white light, like morning fog around her body. Through the luminous mist Faramir saw broad shoulders sweeping down to full breasts with pink-capped nipples. Her stomach was flat and muscled. The flair of her hips was becoming and a pale triangle marked her womanliness. Long legs marked her as a woman of uncommon height.
Gandalf passed his hand through the mist and held it over her heart. He sighed deeply. "Eowyn, shield-maiden of Rohan. We have kept her in this state hoping for some sign of recovery from her, none has come. We cannot keep her like this any longer. She must be healed now or she is lost."
Faramir looked at the beauty before him. "I will do this thing, Gandalf. For I would see her returned to life. I would see her cheeks rosy like the dawn, her lips wet, breasts rising and falling with her breath." His eyes swept up and down her form and he smiled.
Gandalf gripped Faramir's arm. "Understand this Faramir; this will not be like the others. She was felled by the last dying breath of Angmar, the Witch King of the Black Riders. That alone would have killed most men. When the healing draught is given she will begin to awaken - slowly. It will take the entire passing of the night, from sunset to sunrise. As life returns to her body, so too will memories return to her mind and heart. In this dreadful fever she will feel the darkness that cloaked her as she rode to battle. She will feel the anguish of the loss of her uncle, King Theoden. She will experience the awful rage of hate for him that slew her uncle. And she will expend all of her effort to kill him again."
"Then I will stay and protect her from harming herself. I would count myself fortunate to help her in this way." Faramir gazed down at the still form.
"Do count your fortune too quickly Faramir. The awakening rage will also restore her sight, only in the lingering darkness of the Black Breath she will she the Witch King before her as clearly as you see me. She will see you as that foul villain and try to kill you Faramir. And it is at that precise moment that you must do it."
"Do what Gandalf? What must I do? I am much larger and stronger then she. She is weaponless, I think I will be able to survive her assault while the cure takes hold." Faramir tried not to smile too much. He found the thought of this beautiful woman struggling against him and assailing him, strangely arousing. "Tell me what I must do Gandalf. Surely it cannot be too hard?"
Gandalf looked at Faramir. "You had better hope it is hard. Hard and ready. As hard and straight as my staff you must be. Only then can the cure be completed."
"You're speaking like a wizard."
"When Eowyn awakens and attacks you. You must take her. As a man takes a woman for his pleasure, and his pleasure only. You must conquer her until she submits willingly to pleasuring you."
Faramir gasped and staggered backward in horror. "Take her? Am I hearing you correctly? You said that she would be trying to kill me. You said that she would see me as the Witch King. She'll think I'm dishonoring her. Her hatred will be magnified beyond..."
Gandalf drew close to Faramir and in a fierce whisper, "It is the only way - or she is lost. Yes, she will believe that the Witch King is claiming her as his prize, his whore. You must take her as many times as necessary until she submits completely. Her anguished cry of pleasure in surrender will complete the cure. Only then will she fully awaken from the Black Sleep she dwells in."
Faramir staggered back out of Gandalf's grasp. "And what of me Gandalf? How will she see me - afterwards?" Faramir sat in the chair beside the bed and gazed at the warrior beauty before him. Just a few moments earlier he had entertained thoughts of a future with this woman. But now...
"That will depend upon you Faramir. After you have truly conquered her, she will sleep briefly. In the light of the new day if she awakens alone, she will be as she was before battle - alive, but alone in the world. Her heart will be closed to all men. She will live the rest of her life as a solitary woman."
Gandalf looked past Faramir to Eowyn, and sighed deeply. "If she awakens in your arms, you will become the fulfillment of her heart's yearning. She will be yours to the end of her days. Her brother is aware of what must take place here. He has accepted it as the only way to save his sister. He trusts you, but the choice is yours alone Faramir."
Faramir gazed down at the pale beauty before him. "I will do this Gandalf."
"Good. Good. Go now - eat and then rest. I will need time to prepare the potion. Return to this room at sunset tomorrow and I will give you final instructions."
The Rape Of Eowyn
Eowyn walked dully forward. Having shed her horseman's armor, a simple cotton shift was all that clothed her. The mists seemed to be lifting and she realized that she no longer trod the field of battle; she was crossing a grassy meadow. Her spirits began to lift and she cried out in joy as she came upon a quiet stream. She glanced quickly around and pulled her shift over her head. She stepped into the refreshing waters and bathed thoroughly and contentedly.
Returning to the stream bank she spread her shift on the bank and lay back, letting the warm sun dry her. The warmth of the sun moved within her and she smiled as her hand trailed across her hip into her soft hair. A glowing ember of delight seemed to pull her finger inside her. She parted her legs to give her fingers freer reign.
But it was simply not enough. Often she'd heard the women talk of that pleasure that only a man can provide. Women's tales of solid flesh filling them again and again until waves of indescribable ecstasy swept them away. Eowyn wanted such a man; she needed a man inside her. She rode her need until it crested and she felt her body open and her heart sigh. She drifted into a warm sleep.
Something was wrong. Eowyn struggled to wakefulness. A dark shadow swept over her and she rolled quickly aside. Springing to her feet in a fighting stance, she gasped in horror as the tall blackness of the Witch King stood before her. His long broad sword pointed directly at her.
"I killed you! But if I must, I will kill you again." Eowyn was aware that she was naked and weaponless. She also knew the weakness that dwelled in all men, and this foul apparition before her, had at one time been just a man. She straightened up out of her fighting crouch and stood tall in her glorious nakedness. She felt his hot gaze upon her. She cupped her breasts and teased her nipples to hardness. One hand slid down to slip between her legs. She heard a gasp and saw the long sword waver and drop.
With a ferocious cry, Eowyn kicked with all her might at the hand holding the sword. A cry of pain was heard and the black form bent over. Eowyn leapt upon her hulking nemesis. She wrapped her arm around his neck and squeezed with all her strength. They rolled back and forth across the meadow, locked in mortal combat.
Eowyn was surprised as her arms were slowly pried from his neck. With a flick of his shoulder, she was thrown to the ground. She spun around and returned to her fighter's crouch. He was ready for her and the combatants circled slowly, looking for an opening, looking of a sign of weakness.
Eowyn felt a surge of hate well up inside her as she recalled the death of her uncle. This black foulness before her had been the agent of his death. Eowyn rode that wave of hate and let it carry her into battle again. Weaponless, naked, she clawed and kicked with unparalleled savagery.
Eowyn fought, with valor, with bravery, with tenacity and with faith. But all together and much too soon, she began to tire and her offensive attack slowly became defensive resistance. She was weakening.
She broke away from her nemesis. Her breath was harsh and labored. She gathered her strength and lunged again only to be thrown onto her back; her forearms pined above her head. She was suddenly conscious of the feeling of hot skin pressing down upon her. The unwanted stimulation caused her to kick with all her might in an attempt to throw his black bulk off of her.
Her attempt failed left her legs spread wide. She felt the crushing weight of the Witch King settle between her thighs. But it wasn't just his hips between her thighs. There was something else. Something hard and hot was pressing itself against the wet crease of her cunt. A terror undreamt of welled up within her - no, not that, not him, not this way. "Kill me and be done with it!"
All too late Eowyn realized that he had no intention of killing her - at least not yet. The Witch King meant to dishonor her; to take from her that which she had given to no man. He was claiming her as his prize, his to use and toss away when finished. Eowyn felt him straining to enter her. She called upon all of her strength to resist him. The labored breath of the Witch King roared in her ear as he strove to enter her very core. She tucked her chin and bringing her mouth to his chest and bit down as hard as she could.
The Witch King's howl of pain was music to her ears and she savored her victory. But the pain she inflicted came at too great a cost to her. Eowyn's effort took strength best devoted to protecting her womb. The rearing up of the Witch King's head as he cried out leveraged his hips forward. In her brief flash of victory, Eowyn felt her pelvic muscles give way and she felt the soul-searing heat of the Witch King's cock plunge deep within her. Her cry of anguished defeat was heart-wrenching.
And as horrific as it was, worse was yet to come - much worse.
To her own revulsion, a small part of her rejoiced at her filling. Such that, as the Witch King pulled his cock out of her, she felt a real disappointment. Worse yet, was when he plunged into her again - she almost welcomed it. A fear-filled conflict rose up within her as the Witch King thrust into her again and again. She hated him for what he was doing to her. Yet, she could not deny that something deep within her was responding, even welcoming his horrible invasion.
Eowyn struggled in futility. Her arms pinned above her head, her legs flailing uselessly, she kicked at him with her heels. With each thrust she felt her body adapt to him, easing his entry. She felt her own heat and wetness facilitate his taking of her. Her body's response was a bitter betrayal of her warrior's training and discipline.
The black beasts movements quicken and lost rhythm. Eowyn fought to push him off, and was shocked to find her efforts seemed only to magnify the pleasure of the movement of her hips and his. The Witch King roared mightily and she felt him pulsed within her.
It was done. Slowly his great weight settled onto her. Crushing her.
She felt wetness. Oh that he wounded her that she might bleed to death? No - this was not like the bite of steel on flesh with it's sharpness and pulsing ooze, this was different. Would the totality of her defeat and humiliation never cease? His seed was leaking out of her. It actually got worse as he pulled out of her. She felt a flood issue forth from her. And that was when the most horrific thought of all struck home.
Did he intend for her to carry his child? - his demon spawn? Was that the reason he did not kill her?
New strength filled her and she writhed within his grasp. The Witch King seemed to be laughing. Was he toying with her? Did he think he could play with her as a cat plays with a mouse? She was not his little mouse. She was a daughter of kings. She was a warrior, a shield-maiden of Rohan. With great effort she wrested her arms from his hands and rolled away from beneath him.
She was up and running across the meadow now, heading for the stream. A newfound joy filled her she was free of him. She felt his slickness oozing down her thighs. If she could just reach the stream she could wash herself clean of his filth.
"UFFFFFFFF!" Eowyn was tackled from behind and pulled to the ground. Her arms spread wide at her shoulders, his grip tight upon her once again. Her legs were splayed apart, bent at the hips and knees. His hips were on hers again and she felt him maneuvering around to enter her again.
She resisted as best she could but the advantage was all his. His hot staff pushed inside her once again. Eowyn no longer had the strength to resist and surrendered her body to his in abject defeat.