Saving Eowyn

by juanwildone

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including NonConsensual, Fiction, .

Desc: Sex Story: Eowyn must be saved. A hero must be found to rescue her from the creeping tide of death. But can she survive the cure?

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.

.... There is more of this story ...

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Story tagged with:
NonConsensual / Fiction /