Chapter 1: Chair

[ 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. ]

20 February 3019 (Third Age), Edoras

The door slammed closed with a heavy thud, catching a corner of the fabric that flowed in her furious wake. The wearer didn’t even notice the sharp tug as she departed, wreathed as she was in righteous fury, and a richly embroidered but dust-sullied piece of fabric was clutched, stretched, then released with a sharp, quick tear. Over her angry footsteps she heard no sound. In her thundercloud mood she felt nothing. A few torn silver and white threads waved in the departing swirl of air, the rest pressed tightly between door and frame. Cornered. Trapped.

Naught broke her stride until her hands slammed into the heavy shutters that darkened the only window in her private chambers. Knocking them outward with a furious heave, a latch splintering under the impact, she was finally arrested in her forward motion by the carved sill, tightly grasped by her slender hands, their knuckles white and tense. She leaned forward into the cold morning wind, long blonde hair lashing her face, and looked down, hissing in unchecked anger. She felt as if she might be sick.

Gradually, the nausea subsided, leaving her trembling with frustrated, pointless rage. It was very nearly all she felt these days. Between duty, honor, and expectation she could see no escape. She was caught. Cornered. Trapped.

She’d tried. Oh, how she’d tried. Tried to shake the King loose from his incomprehensible self-imposed shackles. Tried to set him... anyone ... in motion. To no avail. He was so distant, living as one who meekly clocks the surrendering hours until death. On the rare occasions he was emotionally present enough to respond to her directly, all her suggestions were casually dismissed. At other times they were ignored, or perhaps not even heard. Today he’d abruptly sent her away with a cold word, right in the middle of her most passionate entreaty yet. Stunned, she’d had no choice but to turn and stalk angrily away to anywhere. She couldn’t rage against the King, nor would she cry in front of him or anyone else. She had far too much strength and pride for that.

Her brother, so often afield fighting the ever-escalating skirmishes of these dark days, sympathized with her frustration. And he had his own difficulties, given that his battles were increasingly conducted to the active displeasure of the King. At least he’s not ignored, she thought, bitterly. But despite his sympathy, he offered neither help nor more than token comfort. “I share your frustration, my beloved sister, but while the King remains irresolute, your place is at his side.”

Ah, yes. My place. Involuntarily she cackled, her brittle laughter shattering like ice. The sharpness of it startled a passing stablehand, who stumbled, paused, and glanced up in the direction of her window.

My place. No, she corrected herself, therein lies the root of it, for the emphasis is on the wrong word. It isn’t the place that’s the problem, it’s me. Or rather, what doesn’t dangle between my legs. That’s what they really mean. It was rarely said with as much honesty as she’d received from her sibling, but rather laid upon her by euphemism and dismissal. Her uncle the King, all his counselors and coterie, even her own brother, otherwise so often of one mind with her; none could quite see her as anything other than a woman. Of royal lineage she was, and moreover every sinew a warrior to match or surpass any other in the Mark. (She’d tested it often enough, but always in private sparring, as no man would submit to the potential for public humiliation at the blade of a woman ... which fact only added to her surety. For though her prowess was no secret, it was often treated as if its mere acknowledgment was somehow shameful or emasculating.)

But with a weapon at least I can control my immediate destiny. Lest I momentarily forget the limitations imposed upon me by my gender, all it takes is the temerity to raise my voice at a Council meeting...

She slammed the sill with a closed fist, sending her still-gaping onlooker scampering away, and turned away from the window.

It’s not as if I can forget I’m a woman, and one full-grown. Though few were so bold as to openly stare — except him, she thought with a shudder — she could both see and feel the furtive glances and, when it was thought she wasn’t paying attention, yearning, even lustful gazes. “Ripe,” she’d overheard one half-drunken guard murmur as she’d dismounted a horse, glowing with sweat from a late-evening ride over the grasslands. His humiliation at the flat of her sword had been vehement and quite public, though once again she’d been met with subtle but clear disapproval from the King, and others, with much patronizing nonsense about “the dignity of her position.” On that occasion, at least, her brother had forcefully taken her side. Though she was grateful, she was annoyed at the paternalism that informed his support, for his words indicated that he viewed her virtue as a precious commodity in need of external ... and masculine ... defense.

Dignity! Virtue! She snorted. My life is nothing but dignity. A dignity that had, to her mind, become unendurable indignity. She who yearned to ride and fight, who craved any opportunity for action, wasted her days as a passive white-clad statue behind the decaying, useless relic that had once been King Théoden, watching her fearless, as yet-untamed people fall into sloth, paranoia, and fear. She, as bold as any warrior but shamed and silenced, was admonished to remain within her gilded and increasingly narrow cage.

She was even denied the cold humiliation of being offered up as some sort of ambassadorial gift, as she’d more than occasionally feared she might. Not that such was an oft-exercised tradition among the Rohirrim. But with the King lacking a daughter and both his son and her brother perpetually absent for battles that promised no end, it seemed only a matter of time before some craven counselor broached the subject. Yet not even in that degrading fashion was she considered worthy of notice.

In any case, to whom might I be offered? With Gondor there’s already the most steadfast possible alliance, and there’s no need to invite some stranger betwixt my legs to solidify that relationship. She recalled Boromir, the Steward’s eldest son, with a frisson of excitement. He was so handsome, so bold, so strong and forceful. There was a man who would take what he desired, though the world stood in his way. To this trait she was (she acknowledged within the private confines of her own heart) profoundly attracted, though she was self-aware enough to realize that this might be no more than a reaction to her own King’s agonizing indecision. Well, it hardly matters. No such “alliance” is on offer, or even available.

So if not Gondor, then who else? None of the truculent savages of Dunland, surely. No other kingdom of Men lay near enough, or rose to sufficient importance, to be worthy of consideration. There were Princes and Lords in the subsidiary realms of Gondor, she knew, but of them no more than rumor came to Edoras. And what use would they have for a wild warrior-woman of Rohan, anyway? Less, even, than their use for Rohan itself ... to my thinking, the most frustratingly useless of realms.

The truth, however, was that she would have refused any such match, no matter how appealing the proposal or the partner. I’m no trinket to be bartered at the whim of a patriarch, beloved or otherwise. Sometimes, in her blacker moods, she desired the cold amusement of toying with an overmatched potential mate, one to be led to his own conclusion — by word, deed, and (if necessary) sword-point — that further pursuit of union was both unwise and unwelcome.

The consequences of that amusement would, she was sure, be severe. Still, in a desperate hour it might be necessary. A voluntary union, though...

She sighed in frustration.

By Eorl the Young, I would welcome the least dalliance, or the most insignificant assignation! For she was, despite everything imposed upon her, woman indeed. Neither position nor duty deprived her of entirely natural interests, desires, needs, and cravings.

Yet those she was denied as well. On this subject there was, from others, much unwelcome talk of virtue (again), dignity (again!), and her “position.” Once, angered by this smothering by a respected but hopelessly conservative matron of the house, emboldened by a tankard or two, she’d snapped, “at this point, I would be satisfied by just about any position!” The King had been patient in his remonstrance, but no less firm for it, while her brother had looked upon her with dismay for days thereafter. But they were just voices from outside. It was, she admitted, her own head and heart that were her true restraint on her behavior. Her head ... because she knew that her trammels would never be shed should she embarrass the King or her family with some form of tawdriness. And her heart ... because, though it pained her to admit it, she felt no man worthy. Save, perhaps, her brother.

Ah, Éomer. For an moment she lost herself in indulgent reverie...

It had been no more than the innocent play of children. “Horse and Rider” the young of the Mark called the game (in whispers, of course), and though few avoided its temptations, even fewer admitted to it. They’d been young, curious, and fumbling, and inevitably nothing of actual consequence had happened. It started with some bewildered-then-fascinated staring at their undeveloped bodies. A few kisses, more confused and uncomfortable than exciting. Much later, there had been some furtive, guilty, and thoroughly incompetent touching. Then Éomer began to mature, she followed quickly thereafter, and the play ended and was never spoken of again. Nor was she tempted to do so. For though she occasionally heard of others for whom something more involved was the case, her only attraction to her brother was unbridled familial admiration. She loved him more than anyone — save, at times, the King himself — but she didn’t love him in that way.

Nonetheless, Éomer remained her ideal; the standard to which other men must aspire, and no less so despite her lack of familiarity with the alternatives. Though he might not be, she sighed, not for the first time, were the King the man he once was. As a girl, she’d had an entirely typical crush on her uncle. This had flown from her head long ago, but the man he’d been was her real benchmark for masculinity, and almost all others were found wanting and insufficient. To her landscape of frustration was added a private self-loathing, for she couldn’t decide whether the root of her difficulty was the men themselves or her own unwillingness to compromise. Though she also couldn’t decide if she cared.

There had been suitors. Easily rejected, in most cases. Intriguing but quickly shunted aside, in others. In less serious (and less sober) moments there’d even been cautious flirting with an especially virile and confident Rider newly returned from battle. It was, she acknowledged, most likely her lust for the latter that drew her to the former, in taverns and allegedly secretive celebrations in lofts and stables far from the Golden Hall. That lust — plus a healthy measure of ale — had, on occasion, led to cautious declarations of interest. In even rarer moments of abandon, she allowed someone to steal the briefest of kisses or above-the-clothing caresses in a private corner. But never, ever more than that. Certainly not since the night Háma caught her...

At her side he appeared, out of nowhere despite her theoretical concealment in a dark corner, and she steeled herself for harsh words regarding her behavior. Her companion, suddenly fearful of both the Doorward and what it would mean for a man of his station to be seen with a woman of hers, quickly disappeared into the shadows. (His cowardice immediately obliterated any passing attraction she felt for him.) But Háma hadn’t come to argue, but to warn: her brother was on his way to join the revelry. She stiffened in alarm, and watched Háma’s glance fall, involuntarily or otherwise, to her partially opened bodice. Did those few buttons come undone by themselves, or did I slip them open at some point during my reckless experimentation? It was unlikely that she’d let her companion take such liberties, but it bothered her that she couldn’t remember for sure. There was nothing revealed, aside from a small expanse of pristine skin glistening with the faint glow of perspiration, but at his look she felt a sudden flush of shame ... and, then, a flash of something else. Something unfamiliar. Something that urged her towards unexpected boldness. Háma snapped his gaze back to her face, turned red, and fled without further word. She escaped through an upstairs window and hurried back to Meduseld, tingling with the fear of discovery. And, perhaps, something more...

Not since that night had she possessed the courage to be seen in taverns or lofts. Nor had she been kissed. Or touched.

With a wry grimace, she realized that she’d just told herself a falsehood. She had been touched. She was being touched right now.

Touching myself doesn’t count. Or, at the least, it shouldn’t.

When had she dropped her dress to the floor? For there it lay, in a decorative but unkempt pile just to the side of the open window. When had she undone the buttons of her corset? When had she slipped her hand into the tightly constrained space between the material and her skin? When had she begun this slow, contemplative stroking of her breast? When had she started caressing her hip with her other hand? Had she started at the side and drifted slowly inward, or moved boldly toward her center from the first? And what was the trigger? The memory of her childish games with Éomer? Her secretive, but neither dangerous nor particularly passionate, encounters with anonymous Riders? The memory of a quickly masked lustful glance from Háma?

No, she whispered to herself, I couldn’t have gotten this far that quickly. I started doing this a while ago. She stopped her motions in surprise. Was it the young stablehand?

He wasn’t really that young, she rationalized. She didn’t know who he was, or remember whether or not he was attractive. In her rage, she’d barely registered more than his simple existence. The realm’s apprentice Riders work the upper stables, so despite his appearance he’s certainly already passed into the early stages of manhood. At least my imagination wasn’t committing an offense against nature, though decency may be a different matter. But why should the brief sight of him cause me to start flinging my clothes around like a common harlot, to begin the preliminaries for what I know will end in...

Another empty laugh arrived alongside the answer. It was my childhood. Or rather, the childhood I didn’t have. It wasn’t actual youth that she’d been denied, despite her parents’ early death. But she’d been forced to grow up all too quickly, and as a consequence she’d never enjoyed the freedom that childhood was supposed to entail: to act unencumbered by fear of consequence, to learn by action and failure rather than by admonishment and control. Instead she’d been a Lady — and the King’s niece — from birth. For her, such wayward paths to learning had been constrained, discouraged, or eliminated. Amidst all her fetters, external and internal, she often yearned for an innocence she’d never been granted. A freedom that, as she came into her maturity, she’d unfortunately grown accustomed to refusing herself.

And now, she laughed, efficiently tugging with both hands at her remaining buttons and ties, I’m horny.

Could a warrior give in to lust? That answer, at least, she knew. She’d overheard enough talk in stables, taverns, and in the aftermath of battle. Whether as a reunion between longterm partners or slaking one’s needs with whoever might be available and willing, sex was an inevitable companion to the warrior’s life. No, not just sex; a warrior’s version of sex. Taking. Conquering. Never yielding. Or never just yielding, unless the more fully to later conquer. To be a warrior was, whether on the fields of war or while coupled, akin to masterfully wielding the point of a spear atop a swiftly galloping steed.

But I won’t allow myself a steed. And I don’t have a spear. Her corset — the last of her upper defenses — had edged down her body, but caught before it cleared the gentle upper swell of her breasts. I have a shield. She grasped the fabric and pulled until it too collapsed to the floor.

The Shieldmaiden of Rohan, they call me. A name spoken both in admiration and in mockery, or so it sounded to her ears. Well, at least they have the “maiden” part right.

It was true that she was no “maiden” in the strictest physical sense. A childhood filled with aggressive play, endless sparring, and many years of hard riding had taken care of that, and whatever man was fortunate enough to be the first to lay with her would find no barrier to his entry. But she remained pure, or at least inviolate; scarcely touched (by others) anywhere other than her face, except in courtesy, since she’d become a woman. Her melancholy quickly turned to annoyance. If I cannot be heard nor even respected in the King’s Council, if I’m not allowed to go to war, if I can’t act as I would — neither man nor woman entire — can’t I at least unburden myself of my desperately unwanted virginity? Will my only companion ever be she who stares back from the mirror?

She stood irresolute, her posture martial, fists clenched at her sides. Then, with renewed anger, she began unwinding the belted and woven ties of her underskirt. There’s one cage from which I may yet escape. They can hold me back, stay my sword, ignore my counsel, but they cannot keep me from the desires that are a woman’s own, I am both warrior and Lady born, and it is my right and privilege to take that which I crave, subject to the will of no one. I shall have who and what I want. A man who ... who ... who... damn this troll-woven imprisonment of a skirt! Flailing and tearing at an impossible knot, she grasped the edge of the cloth and, in one violent motion, ripped the recalcitrant fabric from her body. She was, suddenly, repelled by the performative purity of its whiteness. Not that I own anything that’s not white. I am the White Lady, after all. And, she sighed, I suppose I do look particularly appealing in white.

She breathed heavily, regretting her momentary and now-spent fury. Tiny droplets of sweat glistened in the hollows of her body. As she straightened, the most exposed of them shifted and joined, forming thin rivulets in search of deeper indentations. One flowed from the nape of her neck, bridging along a bone before gathering companions and turning downward. It reached the first gentle upslope of her breast, paused, then changed direction towards the dense liquid constellation between her swells. And there, stifled in its downward motion by a knotted impasse of tightly coiled muscle, it rested.

There was no need to glance down, nor to seek a glass for reconfirmation of what she looked like. She knew her body. Alas that no one else does. Long golden hair that, since her teens, seemed to glisten with mysterious silver and white highlights, adorned her head. At times it was tied, at others set in waves or gentle curls, depending on the occasion, but at the moment it was as it usually was: straight, the better to quickly restrain with an efficiency befitting a warrior. Little good that’s done, either. Her face was slightly elongated; her features narrow and with a tendency toward stony reserve in public, but softening to elegance in her infrequent moments of relaxation; her eyes a piercing, sky-toned grey that could, in the right light, glint icy blue. She was beautiful, and (had she known it) none the lesser when counted among all that walked upon Middle-earth, but she carried herself like a sculpture: beyond flaw, but also cold beyond reach. So often were her emotions deliberately and harshly restrained that the chill of her visage became a nearly permanent mask, falling away only in the privacy of her quarters or on the exceedingly rare occasion she was with someone she trusted without reservation. Which means only Éomer, these days, and perhaps not even him. Not always...

Her form was refined and, at casual glance, womanly. But hers was a tall, slender, and (at points) hard arabesque, and attention to detail — not that any but she ever had the opportunity — soon revealed much that differed from expectation. Her breasts were restrained in size but prominent, resting firm atop her chest. Firm, but not high, with a subtle inward parabola at the top and a tight curve in the opposite direction below. Her nipples were pink and, as a rule, shy of public notice, surrounded by delicate-to-the-point-of-invisibility areolæ. But it was as the gaze drifted in any direction away from her breasts that the power in her otherwise feminine frame was revealed: well-muscled arms, slightly broad shoulders, a firm abdomen neither smooth nor overtly muscular when she stood still, but with definition that grew rippling and prominent in tension or struggle. Below, her hips widened — not too much — to beautifully sculpted thighs, themselves capable of smoothness or striation depending on her activity. Her legs narrowed, then widened again to calves that seemed soft enough until flexed, at which point a tangle of muscular vines showed through. Her back was a flawless arc, the muscles of her shoulders a statuesque crown of strength, and the tight curve of her rear bore no flaw. It was her favorite feature, save perhaps her eyes, and when circumstances allowed she chose clothing to modestly accentuate it.

Between her thighs lay a trim, narrow scattering of pale hair. Once, after a long ride through a rainstorm caused what eventually became an intolerable chafing, she sequestered herself with a sharp blade and, recalling the earnest instruction of a more experienced companion, sculpted herself into efficiency and vastly greater comfort ... a comfort she was careful to maintain. What remained was nearly transparent, and served only as accent to tightly closed lips that, at the moment, bore a faint sheen of arousal.

Éowyn was neither unaware of nor immune to her beauty, but she saw little value in it. It was of no relevance to a warrior, and often more of a distraction than a help, which was why she did much to conceal it while practicing swordcraft. Moreover, it led to little except pointless frustration otherwise. She’d never knowingly used it to entice — despite the incident in the tavern, which remained mysterious to her memory — and as a rule only admired her body by the standards of a warrior’s grace. Not that she had much opportunity for anything else. Still, there were times...

She didn’t remember when she’d first touched herself with the intent to seek pleasure. It certainly wasn’t during her games with Éomer; she wasn’t sure they’d ever really connected their fumbling with sexual arousal, only with curiosity. It wasn’t until years later that she realized what they’d have been able to do, had they been less ignorant (or frightened). But she knew now what simple touch could do. And she knew why, as well. Not just to bring herself to ecstasy, but to — for a few blissful moments — flee her cage. She couldn’t be with a man, wasn’t even sure she wanted to be with any she’d yet encountered, but she could at least peel away the protective layers of her need and expose something that was truly her own.

Of accessories that might help salve her loneliness she had little knowledge, though again due to the whispers of others she was vaguely aware of them. Still, my own fingers are the only things I’ve ever allowed to penetrate my sex. Is that not appropriate, given my preferred identity as a warrior? As an expert wielder of the pointed blade, master of the hard spear, even somewhat adept at the piercing arrow, should I not also be skilled at the delicate art of self-pleasure?

Her heat increased at the thought. Not by accident were the metaphors of the warrior’s craft so easily sexualized. Unfortunately, her anger had also resurrected itself, and was now shredding the last of her inhibitions with increasingly aggressive mental talons. Should I not release my caution to the cold breeze? What shield does my modesty provide, other than yet another prison? She turned and strode with purpose and brazen resolve back to the window, resting her hands — trembling not with anger, but with barely repressed excitement and the thrill of imminent danger — on the sill. She looked over the vast grasslands and distant mountains of her wide country, took deep lung of the bracing air, then leaned forward until her breasts were revealed to any who would see. Steeling herself, she looked down.

The street was empty. The people were taking their midday meal, and her moment of crazed exhibitionism had been for naught.

With a sigh, she retreated back to the safety of her room and leaned against a cabinet, suddenly aghast at her attempted exposure. What was I thinking?

Freedom, she reminded herself. I was seeking the unbound.

She sighed again, resigned, but her immediate need was far from resolved. Perhaps I can, at least, play with the notion of abandon, the better to fuel my fantasies. Grasping the backless chair she typically used for dressing and other utilitarian activities, she set it near (and facing) the still-open window and sat. Her nipples crinkled and stabbed in the chill air, as prominent and firm as steel. There would be no one to join nor even witness her pleasure, but mayhap someone might hear and wonder. That much indulgence, and its concomitant thrill, would she allow herself.

The uncharacteristic naughtiness of the situation filled her with excitement, for such insignificant rebellions were all that she could manage. She raised a long finger to her lips, wet it with her tongue, and trailed it down her neck while another replaced it in her mouth. Closer both came to her nipples, which quivered with anticipation. Or cold. Perhaps both. Her fingers retreated, circled, and approached once again. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, feeling the onset of quickening breath, anticipating even more pleasant sensations yet to come.

“Lady Éowyn, your presence at table has been requested. Though one might reasonably question whether or not you can be expected immediately.”

Lost in foolishness, she’d heard nothing of his approach. Some warrior, she chastised herself in brutal remonstrance. Meanwhile, with lighting-fast reaction long honed, her hand lunged for her sword. It was a futile gesture, given that she was naked and the nearest weapon was resting on a table far across the room. Well, the chair itself can serve as a weapon, if necessary. She spread her legs and braced her feet against the floor, readying herself for sudden action. As her right hand grasped in vain for a blade, her left arm tightly barred her breasts, firm nipples boring into her forearm. All of this took only a moment of furious instinct, and then her head whirled, long hair whipping about her face as she stabbed him with livid eyes.

“What are you doing here? How dare you?!? I will have your...”

“Reserve your threats for those who cower before them, Lady Éowyn. I’m here under orders from the King, and his words are in my mouth. But should your sense of duty to your liege fail to suffice, know that you will find the King’s ear less willing to your interpretation of your disobedience than to mine. Unless you intend to tell him the truth...”

His voice, as it always did, flowed like oil. She hated it. She knew it to be hostile, as did her brother — it was, in part, this knowledge that so often drove him to dangerous deeds in the field rather than remaining in Meduseld to be tempted by reactionary violence in Council — but the basis of this knowledge was an intangible thing. He was never found to be wrong, and both his counsels and his predictions came to unremitting fruition ... which was, by itself, suspicious. No one can be right all the time, can they?

She loathed Gríma. She’d loathed him since he’d come from nowhere — certainly not from one of the nobler families — to dominate the King’s Council. Worse, she feared him. She, who feared no human foe. It wasn’t the active fear of the sharp sword or the savage bite, but a deeper unease that the actual source of her fear remained elusive. There was a power in him not to be understood given his unimpressive and wizened frame. His bearing seemed to be craven and, at times, almost slovenly, yet he bore himself with quiet confidence and remained strangely unchallenged in all that he did. Little in Rohan proceeded save by his imprimatur. Some he had cajoled into open support, most others he had not, but among nearly all there was grudging respect for, or at least acknowledgment of, his seemingly effortless mastery of the Council. And, of late, his mastery over the King.