Chapter 20: Pursuit

[ Setting the scene: the events of this chapter take place as the Rohirrim ride to Gondor. Éowyn has defied King Théoden’s orders twice: first by disguising herself as a man named Dernhelm in order to join the ride, and second by inviting Meriadoc to come with her. Only Marshal Elfhelm is aware of both Dernhelm’s true identity and the order to leave Merry behind. Holbytla is the Rohirric word for Hobbit.]

11 March 3019 (Third Age), Eastfold

That’s it. I regret bringing the Halfling.

Hands stilled, clothes tugged back into place, she attempted to keep peevishness from her voice as she answered, “there was nothing yestereve and there’s nothing now, Master Meriadoc! Just the faintest of breezes and your own unease. Moreover, sentries patrol our perimeter, and even if they miss something in this foreboding, impenetrable darkness, their horses will not.”

“But Lord Dernhelm...”

A cough covered her rasp. “I am no Lord.”

“But I swear to you that I heard something last night, and it’s the same sound tonight. I ... I don’t want to boast, but Hobbit hearing is usually considered ... well, I mean to say that...”

“Your... ability is indeed becoming known to me,” she sighed. “Very well, I will investigate. Again. But you must promise that if I find nothing this is the last night you’ll ask.” Begrudgingly grasping sword and cloak she trudged up the hill, making for the tangled oak forest under which they camped. Merry, blanketed by the mists that crept towards those eaves, was soon lost to her sight.

Another day with him bouncing and oscillating against my increasingly sensitive sex. Another day of stimulation without fulfillment. Another night’s pleasure interrupted by his thrice-damned hearing.

She paused.

I must be more cautious than yestereve. Where’s Elfhelm’s bedroll? She scanned the dim outlines of the camp. He’d be with the other Marshals, over there. Purposefully, she turned and moved in the opposite direction, eager to avoid pursuit. Tonight I wish only for quick release and the succor of sleep.

Under the cover of a secluded bower of oaks, Éowyn efficiently unfastened her breeches and took immediate advantage of her arousal, thrusting her fingers deep and hard without delay. Her soft sighs were felled by the humid air, and her much-needed climax was soon on its way.

At least my rise to the rank of Marshal with its frustrating politics and endless strategy meetings didn’t deprive me of my woodcraft, mused Elfhelm. Unlike most of the Rohirrim he’d grown up surrounded by forests rather than open plains, and though he was a quick study once astride a horse, he’d never lost the skills of one raised amidst trees and their infinite secrets.

He guessed she’d slip into the woods again this evening ... and that when she did, she’d attempt to avoid him. Under the pretext of inspecting their bivouac’s readiness for an ambush, he left his bedroll and secreted himself amidst the horses that idly grazed near her side of camp. When she indeed passed swiftly into the forest’s darkness, he was entirely unsurprised.

He wondered about the sword slung around her waist. No one would seriously question a rider’s wish to slip into the woods for a few moments’ relief, but to go armed invited curiosity, or even mockery. I’ll have to find a way to warn her about that, sooner or later.

Well, why not now?

Despite the impulse, Elfhelm remained in place for a moment, considering his options. His reputation for practicality was hard-earned, for he knew himself to be all too easily ruled by his passions. It was, he often guessed, the awareness of that tension that had allowed him to rise in rank while retaining the respect of his comrades, but it was also his greatest vulnerability. You know “why not now,” he admonished himself, for you know exactly why it is you wish to follow her.

Given her position (and, he admitted, her outrageous display of flesh ... against which he was no more inured than any other) he’d had little choice but to accede to her demand to join the ride to Gondor. That said, he most certainly did not understand it, and her stated reasons made less and less sense the more he considered them. A protest against the exclusion of women from their ranks he could at least grasp in theory, despite the (to him) questionable wisdom of such disturbances to traditional order, but even though she’d made her feelings on that issue clear enough in the past, on this occasion she’d barely mentioned it. Instead, she’d spun a vague, aspirational appeal to individual destiny, insisting on the impossibility of hope without the total commitment of all with sufficient courage to defend their ideals. The details blurred in the aftermath, and in any case he’d been a little too distracted to follow her argument. He’d found himself capitulating before his more rational side could muster a sensible counterargument.

Now, however, he was overborne by second thoughts and growing anxiety regarding her behavior. Her skills as a warrior were (at least to him) beyond question, and he was certain that should it come to the test she’d acquit herself at least as well as any in their company. Still, a clear-eyed analysis of their task suggested that they were riding to almost certain defeat and death, and even though he’d stutteringly managed to raise that objection, she’d blithely dismissed it as unimportant. Nor had her subsequent behavior disabused him of the suspicion that there was something very, very strange going on with her. First the surprise addition of the Holbytla. And then last night...

The act in which she’d been engaged before — and after — his interruption he understood well enough. He’d chanced upon Riders engaging in such diversions from time to time, and as long as it remained discreet it was politely ignored by all parties. Rides were long and difficult, and in these times of escalating violence often devoid of opportunities for chance (or serious) companionship. But she’s no ordinary Rider. And if she’s caught...