Chapter 7: Touched

[ 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?