Chapter 16: Home

[ Setting the scene: Éowyn returns to her homeland. The Drúedain are sometimes referred to as The Woses in Rohan.]

2 June 3019 (Third Age), Edoras

The heavy wooden lid banged into the back of her closet, rattling the chest’s contents.

One of these days I’m going to break something if I can’t be a little more patient.

But she was in a state of extreme agitation, neither to be denied nor delayed. Digging through a disorganized collection of obscene implements, she quickly located the object of her search. It was about six inches long, roughly cylindrical, and thick, with unusual asymmetrical ridges that resembled a network of veins intertwined with something more sinister.

Slamming the lid shut she stalked to her bed, efficiently shedding her riding pants and their accompanying undergarments. She was already dripping with arousal, and it took no effort at all to forcefully drive the entirety of the fake phallus into her drenched sex. Closing her eyes, she summoned the image of the man who catalyzed her driving need. The man whose cock inspired the shaft with which she was already impaling herself. The man whose name she now moaned out loud, even though there was no one to hear.

“Gréor...”

28 April - 1 June 3019 (Third Age), Gondor & Rohan

Éowyn’s waning days with Faramir passed in a desperate frenzy of sexual abandon. Their final farewell, just inside the threshold of his quarters (they judged anything more public to be unseemly given his position), was a deluge of weeping accompanied by sore organs, exhausted limbs, and tired eyes. Had she not been a lifelong master of horses, her many aches and pains coupled with an utterly overwhelming fatigue might have toppled from her steed before the gates of Minas Tirith were out of sight. In any case, her first day’s journey was still extremely uncomfortable due to the relentless pounding she’d eagerly taken both fore and aft in the prelude to that farewell.

The ride home (though how much longer it would be her home remained to be seen) was both a geographic reversal of her descent into sexual madness and a gradual unraveling of the emotional damage whence that madness was born. Bivouacking near the Drúadan Forest turned sleep into an uncomfortable struggle; there was a sharp yearning in her anal passage as she remembered both Elfhelm and the Woses plundering her bowels, and a quick flash back to consciousness every time she heard (or imagined) the faint echo of drums deep in the woods. The urge to sneak away from camp and investigate was annoyingly persistent despite the obvious insanity of the idea. Instead she stared at the wheeling stars, drawing restoration — if not rest — from their eternal and infinite light.

As for Elfhelm: while she’d managed to put aside memories of their time together — both the erotic and the traumatic — while entwined with Faramir, as she passed the sites of their first encounters she was finally able to begin forgiving herself, a process for which she’d not been ready until departing Minas Tirith. A measure of personal absolution at last seemed possible ... not just for using him for sexual distraction, but for the wrenching yet entirely necessary solution to a problem of her own creation. Whatever her motivations, they’d come together in a time of great uncertainty to seek comfort in a predictable and time-honored fashion. With the benefit of perspective she realized that no matter how unfortunate their timing, no matter how divergent their intentions and hopes, sex-for-comfort should never have been quite so deformative for the Marshal as it ended up being. Nor was he blameless for the dark jealousy that eventually arose within him. While she was certainly guilty of seducing him for her own purposes, and more so for continuing to take sexual advantage of his availability long after there was naught but dissolution and damage in their coupling, he bore responsibility for his own inability to walk away when it was clear that there was nothing but friction between them.

For a while she worried that these and other memories of people or places would fire her arousal and inspire her to unwise acts along the way, but the desperation and dissipation accompanying those recollections quelled her desire. Days and nights passed with no more than fleeting urges insufficient to require furtive pleasuring.

When they arrived at familiar tussocked plains nearer to Edoras her memories spooled backward and inward for more introspective inquiries. She’d fled her homeland what seemed a lifetime ago, though in reality it was only a half-dozen weeks in the past. At the time she’d felt trapped by suffocating tradition and burdened beyond redemption by her accumulating failures, yearning for the still-mysterious Aragorn to rescue her from her fetters and then blindly seeking death when he rejected her advances. Now she returned as one of the great heroes of the age, unfettered by any yokes save self-imposed, desirous of life, happiness, and love.

I barely even recognize the person I was then, heedlessly careening from trauma to error. And yet those very same chains loom, never far from mind. For who am I, really? Since awakening from my nightmare I’ve been sheltered by the care of many: Aragorn, Gandalf, the Warden, and most of all my beloved Faramir. But though I ride ever nearer to family and friends I can’t allow any of them to know my deepest fears, for none would understand. I must learn how to bear my burdens alone and come to terms with my true self. Do I possess the strength? I still don’t know.

Not for the first time she wondered how the days would pass for her. Éomer said little on the road, lost to his thoughts and the pressing demands of the kingship that awaited. His ear was sympathetic whenever she ventured a word, but out of respect for his own doubts she mostly kept silent. To what do I return? The only home I’ve ever known and the comfort of the familiar, I suppose. And also to friends I’ve missed or abandoned, some long before my departure ... for in those days I lived in ever-escalating fear of others, exercising tight control over my emotions to survive King Théoden’s dotage and Wormtongue’s machinations. I’ll have damage to undo in that realm, I’m sure.

Out of the blue she recalled her pledge to Faramir, one she’d started to question even before the White City was out of sight. What was the absurd love-addled twaddle that dribbled from my tongue? “I will be a healer, and love all things that grow and are not barren?” It’s a worthy goal — to a point — and one I’ll endeavor to pursue, but... She stifled a grimace. In any case, “loving all things that grow and are not barren” seems like a dangerously sexual promise, and I’m determined to avoid those at all costs.

So what will I do? How will I pass my days? I’ll be the King’s sister, a position that bears neither title nor responsibility beyond a few basic functions of court ... though he has neither wife nor children, which (she realized with a measure of bitterness) means I’m still the designated serving wench at formal dinners.

On the other hand, I assume he’ll ask me to join his Council. I’ve forsworn the active pursuit of battle, for I no longer desire escape nor the renown of glorious deeds, but no matter what I said to my beloved I am not putting down my sword. At least not in study or defense, for who knows what skills the future shall render necessary? Not that I think Faramir really expects me to, anyway. Though if I need to take it up again, where would I point it? The poison that infected the realm has been rooted out. Neither Saruman nor Mordor threaten us as they did, though there are certainly enemies to face: Dunlendings, roving bands of orcs — especially the deadly Uruk-hai — and other disorganized remnants of the armies of Isengard. But with peace now flowing over all realms I’m sure those conflicts will be easily handled by my brother. Even if I wished to fight there’s little chance of me challenging a society that still resists the idea of a female warrior. Not now. Not yet. To that change I’m still vehemently committed, but I’m resigned to the surety that it will take time.

Worst of all: there’s no Faramir, nor will there be for many weeks. Perhaps even months.

It was her greatest worry. Self-pleasure would, she was sure, be a constant companion, but she was all too aware of her weakness in the face of the raging tide of her desires. I begged him to come to Edoras as soon as possible, but King Elessar asked him to remain in wait for some sort of sign ... though what the sign is or what it portends the King didn’t say and Faramir wasn’t able to guess. She assumed she’d depart for Ithilien after Théoden was finally laid to rest, but that date remained equally elusive, for it too was contingent on King Elessar’s arrival. Thus, there was no day to which she could count down in hope. There was only waiting. And patience.

I was right: patience is no virtue. But while I’m also denied satisfaction...

The distant glint of gold in the noontime sun shattered her reverie, and all shared the sudden eagerness of her gaze.

Meduseld! Edoras!

They were the triumphant Rohirrim, victors in the West and conquerers of Fate, and they’d come home.

Unfortunately, her troubled personal history staged a one-sided confrontation long before she entered the Golden Hall: a mounted honor guard arrayed across their path with Marshal Elfhelm at its head. He’d stood at her side during Aragorn’s coronation, but the majesty of that moment arrested all attention. They’d spoken few words and exchanged only the briefest of glances, for on that great day all eyes and ears were upon the King.

Nor, at least to a casual observer, did he offer her any special notice on this occasion. But with her privileged insight she indeed saw a brief flash of attraction as he looked at and then past her. As he spoke words of welcome and honor to both the departed and the future King she was beset by disturbingly tactile memories of their time together. She could feel his questing tongue as she trapped him between her thighs in a dark glade, taste his semen as it scalded her mouth, hear the creaking of her small bed in the Houses of Healing as he plowed her eager sex...

Even more tangible was the hole he’d left in her heart. Not from an absence of love, akin to that she felt since parting with Faramir, but from the sacrifice she’d made to reject his. It was the only time she’d used Wormtongue’s vial with theoretically honorable intent, and she hoped the fact that she still felt guilty despite her conviction that it was the right choice was a sign that she’d acted correctly.

Is this how it shall be from now on, with me wavering between arousal and recrimination every time I see him? He’s a Marshal, a great warrior and hero of our people in his own right, and high in Éomer’s counsels and confidence. He’ll be a near-constant presence in our lives; avoiding him would be both impossible and inexplicable. So will our every meeting be thus, for me? A struggle between the regret I hold secret and the moisture that, even now, gathers between my thighs?

With a start, she realized that Elfhelm was in the midst of a formal greeting to her, and she stiffened with anxiety. Should I smile? How warmly? I don’t want him to think his interest is returned, but then again he has no notion how much of his interest I comprehend. Surely he believes his desires well-masked. Yet I mustn’t be cold or distant, for he’s a brave and good man whose support and counsel we need. I’ll have to settle for politesse with the mildest infusion of warmth. Oh, but I’m no actress...

“I greet you in return, Marshal Elfhelm, and I expand upon the praise I extended in Gondor: I thank and honor you for your bravery in battle, and also for your swift return to the defense and rebuilding of our realm. I look forward to your wisdom in Council.”

He bowed his head, a slight blush coloring his cheeks. Éowyn noticed immediately, but out of the corner of her eye caught something else: Éomer’s subtle smirk.

He either already knows of Elfhelm’s interest in me or he sees the evidence of it just as I do! Her anxiety increased. Éomer may not believe my union with Faramir inevitable. Will he encourage Elfhelm’s courtship? Or anyone else’s? I must speak with him at the earliest opportunity and dissuade him from such thoughts.

Suddenly, she realized that Éomer was looking directly at her. As others’ attention drifted elsewhere, he granted her a quick, entirely bemused wink.

Damn him! He will pay a price for such teasing!

After settling back into her familiar, distressingly quiet rooms — in her absence the broken window had finally been repaired, but all else remained as she’d left it — she indeed sought her brother. Éomer arrested her carefully rehearsed objection before she even completed its introduction.

“Nay sister, don’t mistake me. I’ve been aware of Elfhelm’s not-so-surreptitious admiration for a very long while. Nor is he the only one who looks your way with interest and hope for the future. It mattered little when it was all I could do to keep that snake Wormtongue away from you.” It took terrible effort to suppress her reflexive cringe, for the truth was a revelation he could never countenance. “Back then I would have encouraged the attentions of any worthy man, titled or common, if it would have helped insulate you from his vile lusts.”

Éowyn’s heart ached with shame and regret, but as she struggled mightily against the intensity of both he continued without apparent notice.

“But don’t fear. Faramir is a noble man, worthy of you and your love. Still, I caution you that there will be suitors, for few here know of your relationship and even fewer of its seriousness, and with me as King your eligibility is only enhanced in certain eyes. Further, and though as your brother I perhaps say it as shouldn’t, your disquieting beauty — which you don’t suppress like you used to — will draw even more attention than before.” He paused, resisting the urge to ask something inappropriately personal, before continuing. “Sister, there’s something different about you. It radiates without obvious cause, and while I would credit your Steward in truth I noticed it even before we left for Gondor. I warn you to be careful, for even from the best-intentioned there can follow unwanted approaches based a mistaken conclusion or a misunderstood kindness. Not all men are equally honorable, but even among those with no ill intent perception can fail in the face of desire.”

“Brother,” she answered, a lilt in her voice, “do you really think me incapable of brushing aside the unwelcome attentions of a suitor? Or,” she challenged, saucily raising an eyebrow, “perhaps your true concern is that I won’t?”

His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, and then he burst into laughter. “You indeed remain my sister as I’ve always known her, for only she would answer me with such insouciance. Nay ... whatever path you choose never speak to me of such matters, for I most certainly don’t wish to know. You are your own person, and while I may worry or advise I promise I’ll never direct. Just know this: if there is aught I can do in support or comfort you only ever need ask. But in your ability to make your own best decisions I have the utmost confidence.”

She suppressed a derisive snort. If only that confidence was justified.

Lovingly, he embraced her, an envelopment she returned with equal affection. “Éowyn, beloved sister, you have always been the light of my world and it fills me with joy to see you returned to it. I know our time together is limited and that there is one monumentally sad task left to accomplish before it ends. But until then I will value your company as much as your wisdom. There’s much to set in order, and despite what I deem to be a necessary public show of confidence, to be honest I’m quite overwhelmed. Will you help me?”

“Of course. Meanwhile, can you encourage curious eyes to wander elsewhere?”

Éomer shrugged and shook his head. “I could try, but it would be of little use. Even I have long heard what men say of you, incautious as such murmurings would seem in my presence, and many more tales have come to my ears via other avenues; words that would cause me to raise my hand in anger save that I’d have to spend more hours doing so than the day grants. Yet I deem it will be worse now. Neither as King nor as overprotective brother could I possibly shield you from all pursuit, unless you wish to lock yourself in your room for the duration of your stay ... and perhaps not even then. For, dearest Éowyn, from the generations that preceded us you’ve received every bit of the beauty that I did not, and since you’ve not seen fit to degrade that beauty with physical, mental, or emotional insufficiency but have instead chosen to become one of the most renowned figures of our time, you will simply have to deal with the consequences of that inheritance and the attention that results.”

She had the courtesy to blush, though it was a mighty compliment and, coming from him, pleased her greatly.

“Meanwhile, I have a related yet somewhat less obvious problem that may help distract you from those eyes for a time. It’s a menial and degrading task, and in truth far beneath you, but as I hope you’ll agree there’s no one else from whom I can beg assistance.”

“Then I promise to help, as I would and will no matter where in Middle-earth I might reside. What may I do, beloved brother?”

“Even as you are — and will be — beset by interest, so I have attracted relatively little.” She snorted, but he pressed on undeterred. “Until now, that is. I suspect this will change now that I’m King, but I reject attention offered for the wrong reasons. Would you help me discover who, among my potential suitors, is genuine? Or,” he stammered, “if you might, uh ... might know of someone eligible, interesting, and not too unattractive...” He turned a deep shade of crimson as she laughed with delight.

“Éomer, for shame! You are as handsome as any in our realm, despite your foolish self-deprecation ... and even as you’ve overheard careless tales of desire, so have I. The only reason you’ve lacked approaches is that it’s been far too long since you’ve dismounted your steed and unhanded your spear,” she teased while his jaw fell open at the obvious innuendo, “so unless you intend your interests to remain forever equine, I can only imagine how many eager maidens have lain fallow and bereft of your masculinity whilst you galloped about the realms.” He could only bow his head in defeat as she brought her relentless needling to its climax. “For what it’s worth, I’m already well aware of several sources of interest that I believe to be genuine, and most of them are indeed quite attractive. But I shall also seek for others should their number prove insufficient to your kingly appetites. Do not fear, brother. I will make it my mission, while I’m still here, to get you la...”

He clamped a hand over her mouth while she shrieked in protest, embarrassment burning his cheeks. “As I cannot bring myself to think of you in this way, neither can I bear you speaking so, even in japery that I’m sure I earned with my silent commentary on you and Elfhelm. I claim the privilege of your silence as an oafish but protective and loving older brother ... and, if that’s not enough, one who just happens to be King. I could have you muzzled, you know, and I’m entirely committed to doing so if it becomes necessary.”

Despite her twinge of arousal at the idea of being muzzled, she bowed and kissed his hand, delicately curtseying in a manner that managed to be thoroughly insincere. “As you wish, my liege. I will see you tomorrow at Council with an éored of eligible and horny women in tow. Do try to satisfy all of them by lunch, will you?” She turned and practically danced from the room, grinning at her final volley and his sputtering reaction.

For his part, Éomer felt compelled to examine her retreat more closely than usual. I couldn’t say this to her directly, but verily: she glows with sexuality. Though I’ve never harbored such thoughts for my sister, even I can’t fail to notice that she exudes a powerful enticement. It must be overwhelming to anyone with sincere interest, like Elfhelm. I’m certain that she’s no longer a ... well, I shan’t pursue that thought. But trouble will come, I’m sure, and perchance from multiple directions. Despite her resistance I’ll have to keep an eye on her ... or rather on those whose eyes fall upon her most often.

From Éomer’s perspective trouble was long in coming, if indeed it came at all. Councils came and went without incident, and Éowyn seemed to settle back into the rhythms of Meduseld with even more ease than him.

For her, matters were somewhat different. Elfhelm’s attraction grew more obvious with each passing day, though he never expressed it except through furtive glances and longing stares that she occasionally intercepted but always pretended to ignore. Nor was he alone. Wormtongue once warned that she’d be shocked at the breadth and intensity of sexual curiosity directed at her, but despite his then-unwanted caution she was indeed unprepared for it; she sometimes felt as if she was being stripped naked by more than half the eyes in any given room ... though she also knew that the explicitness of this sensation was, at least in part, the creation of her own fertile erotic imagination. As long as the interest remained polite and chivalrous — which it thus far had — she had no legitimate avenue for complaint. However, the cumulative effect wasn’t just growing public discomfort but a slow-kindling sexual fire, unquenchable by any within reach yet flickering in the background of every encounter.

Éowyn attempted to calm her breathing, taking a brief break from what had become a nightly ritual of release. Never quite sure just how many orgasms would be enough to achieve sufficient satisfaction for sleep, she feared she was becoming desensitized to rote self-stimulation.

Also, she thought grimly, rubbing her wrist and stretching her fingers, my poor hands will never survive this ordeal.

Not only were her climaxes increasingly insufficient to her needs unless great in number, they felt more and more like the warmup for a concerto of pleasure that never arrived. Every part of her body that could be stimulated was fully engaged ... both the usual erogenous zones and places she’d never though to caress in a sexual way ... and the baths that sometimes followed her nocturnal explorations were as much venue as aftermath. But then, one night, inspiration arrived from a most unexpected source: her harrowing mental ordeal on the Pelennor.

Since Faramir is unavailable and it’s clear that I’m of less and less utility all by myself, I’m going to require another kind of assistance. Thanks to my nightmare, I know what manner of device I need. But who could I possibly ask for such a thing? How can I escape prying questions and the scandal sure to follow when... ?

She glanced at her closet.

Of course!

As a disguise it was constrained by its design, one the old Éowyn would never have considered employing save for the desperation that led to its creation. Since her sexual awakening, however, her previous reluctance seemed ludicrous, for its potential was obvious.

It began with a wig fashioned of long, curly auburn tresses and continued with rather dramatic makeup around the eyes and lips; women in Rohan so rarely wore any makeup at all that Éowyn scarcely even recognized herself. The centerpiece was a form-fitting sheath of a satin-like weave in swirling autumnal hues. The dress was more erotically promising than virtually anything else she owned, falling infinitesimally short of brazen, and she knew that wearing it would draw a great deal more of a specific sort of of attention than usual. Still, the attention would be both situationally appropriate and perhaps even diverting, given her plans.

In collaboration with her seamstress Fréolaf she’d assembled the ensemble during a darkening but not yet hopeless time, when temporary flight from Gríma’s eager clutches seemed achievable merely by slipping away unnoticed. After the final fitting it remained buried deep in her closet, awaiting the day it would become necessary. But her entanglement in Wormtongue’s schemes quickly evolved beyond something solvable by clothing or escape, nor could she justify abandoning the increasingly vulnerable and rapidly decaying King for very long. So it was with an adventurous thrill that Éowyn finally donned the transformative accoutrements, looking forward to stepping away from both roles and rules for a little while.

I’m an entirely different person dressed thus, she mused, appraising herself from all angles in a full-length glass, and mayhap more accurately attired than in my usual white. If only it were this simple the rest of the time, and easy transformations from one state to another were possible without the aid of frippery and illusion.

Silently exiting her rooms (she’d dismissed her guards before changing), she escaped Meduseld and descended through the city, unknown yet far from unnoticed.

I’ve certainly contributed greatly to the economic health of the realm on this day. Though I suppose I can’t exactly boast to my brother about it.

Stonemasons, blacksmiths, and woodworkers all received purposeful (for her) and discomfiting (for them) visits. She played her mysteriously sultry persona to the hilt — perhaps I am an actress after all? — and the distraction undoubtedly helped her cause. Should it bother me that they’re likely to have sexual fantasies featuring me, given what I’ve asked for? The answer was as surprising as it was instantaneous. Not only doesn’t it bother me, it’s actually exciting to think about. And thanks to Wormtongue, of all people, no one will be able to connect their work with my true identity.

Near the end of the counselor’s slow self-destruction, shortly after their final encounter but before the arrival of Aragorn and his companions, she took advantage of her sudden freedom from his active pursuit to discover as many of his secrets as she could. Eventually she found an address to which had undoubtedly been sent many things not meant for the eyes of uncorrupted messengers. There’d been neither opportunity nor reason to tell anyone about it before the headlong retreat to Dunharrow, and so it remained both operative and a secret known only to her. Anything I need can be delivered there, and all I have to do is don this disguise to retrieve it.

Just a few days later she was flush (and flushed) with the first fruits of success. Several extremely interesting objects were secured within her satchel, and more were on the way. Invigorated by her clandestine freedom and the exciting prospect of testing her newest acquisitions, she whimsically decided to stop at a tavern for a celebratory ale ... a pleasure that Éowyn undisguised could no longer enjoy without prearranged companions or excessive attention.

One ale led to another, and then another, and before long she was bantering with an admiring cluster of Riders enraptured by the exotic visitor from a distant and mysterious land none of them had quite heard of. Éowyn reveled in her anonymity, in the elaborate backstory she improvised from whole cloth, and in the uncomplicated solicitations she attracted in this form ... for those who clearly lusted after the Lady Éowyn dared not appraise or approach her in so bold a manner. Banter eventually turned to flirting, and soon she was joyously deflecting propositions both subtle and blatant, laughing at the Riders’ escalating desperation while secretly growing aroused at the erotic specificity of their suggestions.

One especially confident Rider boldly gripped her thigh while making his most fervent appeal, and after a moment’s hesitation she decided to let it linger, enjoying the rare moment of physical contact with a rugged stranger. As he talked he unsubtly slid has hand upward, and though she waited until the very last moment before it would make contact with her eager sex she finally brushed it aside. While he seemed surprised to be abruptly denied so near his goal, he accepted her refusal with good grace and continued to press his case with bawdy words alone.

Were I available for such appeals he’s the only one of this lot with whom I’d consider dallying, for he understands both the arena and its boundaries.

But her tolerance was now teetering on the edge of inebriation and all the dangers that portended, and so she stood, thanking the Riders for their hospitality — she’d not paid for a single drink — and shamelessly hinting at the possibility of a return visit before turning and disappearing into the shadows.

“Aye, but that’s a lovely woman, the likes of which I’ve never seen.”

“Indeed? Wasn’t it your clumsy fondling that scared her away?”

“Fondling that none of the rest you were brave enough to attempt. But she was obviously going to leave all along. Did she offer a single one of us her name? Have any of you even heard of the place she claims she’s from? She’d one foot out the door before we joined her. I just gave her what she craved before she moved the other one.”