Chapter 20: Delivery

[ Setting the scene: In the aftermath of the defeat of Saruman, Rohan and the Dunlendings have agreed to a wary truce. Forgoil (“Strawheads”) is the Dunlending name for the Rohirrim.]

3 July 3019 (Third Age), Edoras

Hastily smoothing her skirts down her legs, Éowyn shuffled uncomfortably towards the door. Several more loud knocks sounded before she managed to reach it.

“Yes?” she called, shouting loudly enough to be heard through the heavy wood. Thank goodness it’s otherwise soundproof.

“Lady Éowyn, the King wishes audience.”

Now? Why does it have to be now?

Composing herself to the best of her ability, she opened the door. On the other side stood both her guards, three of the King’s guards, and her brother. All these men for me? This could turn out to be a much more interesting afternoon than I’d hoped. She put down the impossibly salacious thought and concentrated on King Éomer, whose attention was directed at the large and travel-worn parcel borne by two of his guards.

“I come bearing a most interesting conundrum. May we enter, sister?”

“Of course.” Though I’d really rather you didn’t.

“It’s for me?”

“‘My instructions are to give this to Éowyn of the Forgoil and no one else.’ Those were his exact words.” With a wry grin, Éomer added, “not only did he insult our hair, he failed to address you as Lady.”

She laughed, though confusion continued to reign. “I shouldn’t think a Dunlending would! Or maybe he’s met me and knows the truth.” Éomer’s cough helped cover his reflexive wince; he found words difficult whenever Éowyn teased him in this fashion, for he would never be able to contemplate his sister as a fully sexual being without discomfort. “But he was here? At Edoras?”

“At our very gates. Needless to say, I wouldn’t let him see you, and it didn’t take too much to convince him that I would deliver it in his stead. Frankly, I think he was happy to leave. He kept sniffing and wiping his nose, as if we smelled foul.”

Éowyn fixed him with a stern look. “Dear brother, do you now join the ranks of those who judge me a helpless female in need of coddling?”

“He wouldn’t tell us anything other than that he was to give this package to you; neither his name nor how he passed through our lands unchallenged. Though he appeared unarmed he refused to let us search him for weapons. Without knowing more, should I have made another choice?”

“Yet you talked to him in person.”

“With a hand on my sword and accompanied by many well-armed guards.”

“That’s not the point, for I can gather guards and accomplices as easily as you, and I’ve no less competence with a blade. Éomer, listen to me: I do not need overprotection of this nature. I appreciate your concern and I know your motive is genuine, but I’m capable of taking care of myself and making my own decisions regarding who I will and won’t see. When you were my brother you understood this. Please don’t fall into antiquated ways of thinking now that you’re both brother and King.”

Éomer looked as if he was about to object, then sighed and raised his hands in defeat. “You’re right. It was an overabundance of caution and I accept your rebuke. Nonetheless, I hope you’ll forgive me when I advise that you don’t open it.”

“Why not? Do you believe it dangerous?”

“There’s no way to know. But I can’t fathom what innocent purpose the Dunlendings would have for sending you anything. We’re no longer at open war, but we’re certainly far from friends. My suspicions aren’t unwarranted. And there’s also this: I wouldn’t have thought your identity or location to be generally known in that land, yet it was obvious he expected to find you here.”

“I promise to exercise all due caution. But now, if I may ask: while you know I delight in your company, does the King of Rohan truly have no duties more pressing than mail delivery?”

“Indeed I do,” he sighed, standing. “Will I see you at dinner?”

“Perhaps. It depends on just how many winged dragons are contained in this box, and whether or not I can dispatch them before they devour me.”

He shook his head as he opened the door, unable to look her in the eye. “Éowyn, if whatever is contained within that package is not the death of you, then surely the dragon fire that flows from your tongue shall be the death of me.”

If you only knew, dearest brother.

The moment the door closed behind him she groaned, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. Lifting her skirts to the waist, she readjusted the shiny metal object currently occupying her ass. This is far more distracting than I guessed it would be, but the absence of an alternative has become no less distracting. Teasing her clitoris with a fingertip, she sighed as she recommenced what she hoped would be a languorous session of self-pleasure, doing her best to ignore the mysterious package.

She’d returned to Edoras far less settled than before her aimless ride. While she managed to avoid any more sexual encounters (or even temptations, save those satisfiable from within her satchel) on the journey home, her guilt was intense and her dreams were unrelentingly accusatory. It was for Éothir that she spared the most angst, for she knew that even though they’d misbehaved far less than she could have, her interest in him went well beyond the purely physical. She didn’t know how she could harbor such intense feelings for someone she barely knew, especially as she was certain her love for Faramir remained undiminished.

To that guilt was added a significant measure of shame and doubt over her dalliance with the Rangers. Admitting to herself that she’d consciously, even deliberately enticed them was hard enough. But she also wondered at how eagerly she’d fallen into a submissive role she’d thought limited to her most tortured dreams ... dreams in which her submission had always been compelled or forced by another. Though the limited physical damage she’d taken was soon healed, her buttocks stung for days at the memory of Celedur’s belt, and never more so than while astride her horse. And though she knew it was largely psychological, the tender flesh of her throat still felt sore from its relentless ravaging.

At least I didn’t have to offer sexual favors to the innkeeper. Scowling disapproval from his wife while she delivered breakfast and bathwater was its own form of humiliation — it’s clear she thought I really was a whore, and I guess I’ll never be able to visit that inn again — but it could have been so much worse.

For all her regret over how she’d acted, both to stimulate and to reject, in one realm the Rangers were right: while it might never be a regular staple of her sexual diet, she knew that she was all too capable of enjoying pain and sex intermingled, and moreover that she relished the idea of giving up control. Not always, perhaps not even often, nor to just anyone, and certainly not outside the bedroom ... but within it, to the right person and in the right circumstances. One day she’d see such play through to its inevitable conclusion. While she would forever wish it could be with Faramir, it was already clear that it never would be.

So it will be with someone else. And I will have two cocks inside me at the same time. Someday. Somehow.

Here was the worst of all her realizations: she knew she was going to stray. Again. She knew it in her heart and she knew it in her bones. Any hope for fidelity seemed quixotic, if indeed that hope had ever been anything other than a fantasy even more unrealistic than her depraved erotic dreams. Some nights she wept for sleepless hours, torn asunder by desperation and indecision, for she truly didn’t know what do to. Should I confide everything to Faramir — past, present, and all-too-certain future — and await his judgment? Should I set him free, judging myself inherently unworthy of his devotion? Should I go back to deceiving myself that I can be the person he deserves, failing that trust time and time again until I’m utterly consumed by guilt? Or should I continue to act secretly and shamefully in his despite, and live with that guilt instead? All choices seemed fraught, dissolute, even evil ... for the fealty that seemed most honorable and maintained her bond with Faramir was obviously beyond her abilities.

One other change had been catalyzed by her trip, though whether it was good or bad she couldn’t yet say. Celedur’s transparent obsession with her ass had rekindled her own unquenchable desire to have something penetrating it as often as possible. She’d unwittingly anticipated this need weeks ago, calling up memories from her long dungeon nightmare and ordering a collection of devices mimicking some that Khamûl and his band of imaginary sadists had used on her. There were a half-dozen in total, ascending in size from dainty to absurdly large, each bearing an ovular terminus attached to a short rod with a discreet exterior handle that fit flush against her body and was impossible to see through clothing unless profoundly diaphanous (of which she owned none) or extremely-tight fitting (of which she owned little). Once inserted, the bulb assured that her tight anal ring prevented expulsion until forcibly removed. At first she also attempted to use them for play, but she found the longer hooked versions vastly more convenient for that purpose. In any case, her acquisitions had a different goal: by wearing the plug-shaped variants while she went about her day, she hoped to divert her sexual energies inward; a secret stimulation that would help limit external temptation.

Unfortunately, in practice it didn’t quite work that way. The plugs were stimulating, and never more so than when she walked or moved while impaled. (She wondered what it might feel like to ride a horse with one inserted, and vowed to experiment at the earliest possible opportunity.) But they sometimes made her distractingly horny at inappropriate times. During an otherwise innocuous hallway conversation with Elfhelm, she’d grown so feverish ... she could, after all, clearly remember him buried in her ass ... that as soon as they parted she fled to her rooms, hiked up her dress, and brought herself to a screeching orgasm with only a few seconds of furious clitoral abrasion. Even more embarrassing was the afternoon that a different Marshal — one for whom she’d once harbored a secret attraction — grew rather obviously erect while listening to her in Council. While she doubted anyone else noticed (everyone else was looking at her), she could barely tear her eyes away, and as soon as she was finished speaking and reseated, she gently rotated her buttocks against her chair until she reached a small, silent orgasm. Éomer noticed the sudden bloom of sweat on her brow and enquired as to her health, forcing her to stutteringly dissemble. Thankfully, such private wickedness seemed to be sufficiently thrilling for the nonce, and had indeed kept her from seeking out further unwise assignations in streams, taverns, or elsewhere.

Éomer’s most recent unexpected visit came right on the heels of an especially difficult experiment, for she’d been trying to work the second largest of her new toys into her anus for the first time. A significant quantity of the oil she now kept in regular store was expended in the attempt, accompanied by a dangerously exciting stimulation that led to more than a few orgasmic interludes before her goal was successfully achieved. When the plug finally popped through her protesting sphincter and lodged in her rectum she was overwhelmed by the sensation of fullness, and eager to give into the urgent desires that threatened to overheat her flesh. She was just beginning to finger her drenched sex in earnest when the first knock came.

But now, despite her arousal, the orgasm she craved stubbornly refused to arrive. I’m too distracted by that damned parcel. Frustrated, she dropped her skirts and absentmindedly licked her fingers clean while considering her next move. The thick plug still impaled her rear hole, but at the moment she was more consumed by curiosity than by lust.

She studied the battered and weather-stained wooden box. It bore neither mark nor name. Despite her earlier japery she was indeed wary of both content and purpose, and carefully cut its binding twine, holding her breath as she pried open the heavy cover and peered inside. Inside was another box, this one so pristine that she regarded it with suspicion for a time, searching for some sort of trick or unseen danger. It took a while to summon the courage to free it from its worn exterior, unsure if the sudden tingling in her fingertips was real or imagined.

The second box — itself quite large and heavy — bore a simple metal latch. Biting her lip, she opened it. Inside was yet another box, this one made of a finely polished wood that glistened in the light. Heavy objects within thudded back and forth as she turned and examined its surface, but she could perceive neither hardware nor seam, nor were there any moving parts.

Is it some sort of puzzle? For no apparent reason she shuddered, suddenly overcome by a strange foreboding. I begin to agree with my brother’s caution regarding this riddle.

She glanced down at the second box, and with a start realized that she hadn’t yet retrieved all its contents.

There’s a letter.

With trembling fingers, beset by an inexplicable anxiety, she lifted the paper. A hasty, unkempt scrawl on stained parchment, it had obviously been written in circumstances other than ideal. Taking a deep breath, she began to read.

Lady Éowyn,

This gift — one of the last possessions I could truly call my own — I convey to your care with great difficulty and in unprecedented secrecy. You cannot imagine the measures necessary to secure its departure from my person. Nor need you. Know only that their revelation would cost me everything ... and still may, though that price would be much diminished from once-lofty heights. Nonetheless, I offer it as a token of memories long-shadowed. For don’t we all have secrets that can only be shared with the darkness?

The box you’re puzzling over possesses special properties of closure and concealment. One may reasonably call them magical, though the truth is somewhat more complicated. The important thing is that the box can be attuned to you, and if so will only open for anyone other than you under very specific ritualistic conditions. As long as it remains in your possession and reasonably well-hidden, it’s extremely unlikely that anyone will have the necessary time or opportunity to discern the proper course of action. It will also repel a reasonable amount of brute force. Thus, anything you place within this vessel will remain inviolate and known only to you. As you’ve no doubt realized I’ve taken the liberty of supplying something I believe appropriate, but of course you may populate it as you wish.