Unrepentant, Unforgiven: 2. 2

Reader Toolbox   Log in for more tools

2. 2

Éowyn waited until all was silent in the rooms around her before she got out of bed. She was clad only in a thin white shift, and she was cold, but she was very reluctant to put any other clothing on. She sat down by the fire and with a strong poker pried a brick loose from the edge of the hearth; it slid out, revealing a small cache-hole, in which was an old, battered book. She removed it and opened it, leafing through the brittle pages carefully until she came upon the passage she wanted. Slowly she read it again, though she had gone over it so many times in the past few hours she was certain she had it memorized.

The application of pressure, either by touching or stroking, upon the points
of the ears, elicits a strong response, irresistible to the recipient; in addition,
when the potion of honey and powdered leaves of oak is administered,
such a powerful reaction is obtained that opposition to sexual activity is futile,
and the Elf is rendered powerless to resist its baser instincts, resulting in
copulation of an intense and prolonged type, which is characteristic of this

She shuddered deeply, not certain whether she was excited or afraid. A little of both, she supposed; her mind, once made up, was not easily changed, but even for a maiden as brave as Éowyn of Rohan the upcoming task was intimidating. She made to put the book back in its cache, then changed her mind and put it back on her lap. Carefully she tore the page from the book, hesitated, then with an abrupt movement flung it on the fire. She watched it moodily as its edges curled and smoked; then when it flared into flame she gave another shudder.

Why does he not want me? she asked herself for the fiftieth time that day. Time and again she had caught Lord Aragorn’s eye; he had smiled at her, she was certain, and spoke to her intelligently and with interest; yet when she had approached him in the hallways leading to the guest chambers, she had detected no following glint in his eye, no indication he desired her. And his companions were likewise disinterested; the Dwarf, comical and a little frightening, was unreadable; the Grey Pilgrim from another world, and the Elf –

Éowyn paused to consider the Elf. Legolas, she thought; it must mean something in his own language, but what? What was his land like, his lord; what were his people like? Were they like he was, lithe and long-limbed and fair? She knew but little of the Fair Folk; topic of legend they were, and she had long since discarded fairy tales for the more robust, masculine accounts of warfare and political intrigue. Only those few lines in an old book long forgotten held any practical information on the Eldar. For herself, he did not inspire much ardor in her; his beautiful and hairless face and long, pale hair bespoke more of a woman’s graces than a man’s to her mind; she greatly preferred her men dark and bearded, as was Aragorn. But the respect in his eyes and voice when he spoke to and of his friend was vilification enough for Éowyn. He would do, lacking the preferred party, when others would not. Not Éothain, certainly; he was eager, perhaps too eager; Éowyn desired to instigate, not to be lead.

She slid the book back into its hiding place and put the brick back over it, then rose and picked up two small earthenware jars with tight lids that had been set to warm on the hearth. She started towards the door, but paused, looking down at herself; the white linen was too thin, and anyone she would happen upon would be able to see parts of her never before seen outside her own bedchamber, and certainly not by any men save her father, long departed. Quickly she took up a long blue robe and tied it about herself, then taking up the pots again she quietly slipped out of her chambers.

It was very simple to tread the passageways unmarked. Her training in the arts of warfare and espionage was put to good use, and she traversed the hallways without meeting a soul. Once, at the turning to the guests’ quarters stairwell, she happened upon some guards, but she had only to wait until they had paced out of sight before creeping silently up the dark passageway to the next landing. Heart in stomach, she paused on the landing, looking at the door on her right – the one she knew housed Aragorn son of Arathorn. She stepped up to it and pressed her ear against it, listening. She heard a light snoring sound, the slightest rumbling, and sighed. He was asleep, and had rebuffed her advances before; there was no sense trying to travel that trail again. She stepped back, looked at the doors that hid Gandalf and the Dwarf from her, and turned back to the Elf’s room. His door was locked, but that posed no problem for her; as lady of Edoras she had keys to every room in Meduseld. She turned the key with a steady hand and pushed the door open, stepping into the dark room.

The Elf was seated on the bed, upright, his knees pulled up to his chin and his arms wrapped around his calves. His form was dark against the starry window, but his eyes glittered and reflected back the light as a cat’s. Éowyn suppressed a shiver when he looked at her. Repulsive and attractive all at once; it was difficult to know what to think of him.

“What do you want?” he whispered. Éowyn could hear the agitation in his voice.

“To see if you are well,” she answered, closing the door behind her and turning her key surreptitiously in the lock. She wanted no surprise visitors. “I heard from my brother that you had been sick, and thought you would like some warm soup to eat, before retiring for bed.” She took a step forward, holding up the larger pot. The smaller one she had secreted behind herself on one of the tables as she’d entered. She wasn’t sure how good the Elf’s eyes were and whether he had noticed; she hoped if he had that he would attribute it to the strangeness of her race.

“I am not hungry,” said the Elf, and dropped his head back down to his knees.

“I did not say you would be,” said Éowyn, trying to keep her voice from sounding patronizing. “But from what I heard, your stomach is completely empty, and that is not good; you need something soothing on it so that you can rest well.” She walked up to the bed and sat upon it; he did not move nor look at her. “This is a good, solid soup,” she said, “made of beef-shin and cream, with sweet basil and ginger root. It will relieve any discomfort you feel, and aid in your seeking sleep.”

The Elf raised his head to look at her, though he glanced quickly away again. His voice was strained. “I do not mean to seem unfriendly or ungrateful,” he said, “but I do not want any soup. Please, I beg you, my lady, let me alone.”

“So speak all who suffer the pangs of stomach ailments!” sighed Éowyn. She eased the lid off the earthenware jar and held it out to him. “Come, friend Elf; I seek only your comfort; but drink the soup I bring you, and I shall go.” She waited, arms outstretched, and after a moment he turned back to her and said,

“I have but to drink the soup, and you will leave me?”

“Yes,” said Éowyn. “It grieves me to know my presence is so unwelcome to you, but if it will aid me in convincing you to drink this soup, then so be it. My only desire is for your well-being.”

The Elf took a deep, shuddering breath, and unwound his limbs. He was clad only in a light shirt, and his arms and legs seemed long and thin, like a spider’s, though white and luminous. He reached his slim hands out to hers to take the jar, touching her fingers, and shook so hard he threatened to spill it; Éowyn steadied his hands and guided the edge of the jar to his lips, which glistened wetly in the starlight. She tilted it slightly and he drank a few draughts, pushing it away after a moment, but retaining his hold on it so that her hands dropped into her lap.

“I do not know the customs of your race,” she said slowly, rising to her feet, “but I perceive my closeness to you is making you uncomfortable. I will stand over here, then, while you drink.”

“Thank you,” he said hesitantly; Éowyn noticed his voice was rougher than it had been when she’d listened to him speak in the Great Hall. She moved over to the fireplace, seeing that the fire had died down; she took up a few faggots and laid them on the embers, crouching down to blow on them. They caught and started to burn, and the room became lighter and warmer. When she stood up and turned back to him, he was watching her keenly, his glass-grey eyes intent, but as soon as he saw she had turned to him he looked down into the jar and took another deep draught. Heart thrumming in her fingertips, she said, “Ah, that is better; this room is far too cold. I am going to put more wood in the fire. I do not want you to catch a chill.” So speaking, she piled more wood on until the fire roared and crackled, and filled the icy room with heat and warm yellow light. By this time he had all but finished the soup, and in the homelier light of flame did not look so alien and cold to her. The firelight glinted upon his smooth, porcelain skin, and turned his ashen hair to a sheet of living gold. She looked at his hands as they turned the jar round about, feeling the horse-head carvings on it, and saw the archer’s calluses upon the slim fingers, and the strong tendons beneath the white skin. His bare legs were smoothly muscled and firm, moving restlessly upon the bed; even his feet were long and narrow and white. She felt a trickle of perspiration snake its way between her breasts and said, a little breathlessly: “Now I have made your room too warm!” And she untied the robe from around her waist and let it slip from her shoulders.

The Elf jerked his face away from her, bringing one pallid hand up to shield her from his sight; she laughed lightly and said, “You are passing strange, Master Elf! I had not heard the Firstborn were so squeamish.” She tossed her hair behind one shoulder and crossed the room to the table where he had laid his effects.

“We are not,” said the Elf shortly, watching her between his fingers. “But although I am used to the company of my own kind, yet the company of a daughter of Men is to me just as strange as you find me, perhaps.”

“Perhaps not so strange,” murmured Éowyn, taking up his knife and scabbard. “This is your knife, is it not, friend Elf? It is of marvelous workmanship; the haft is beautiful, and the scabbard so richly decorated it seems to me it would more adorn a king’s belt than an archer’s. May I unsheathe it?”

“Feel free,” said the Elf. He was watching her now with hooded eyes, the earthenware jar resting on his knee. Éowyn smiled.

“Have you finished your soup?” she asked. “If so, I will leave you, should you wish it.”

The Elf looked down into the bowl. “I am almost done,” he said, and brought the jar to his lips again, watching her over the rim. Éowyn turned back to the knife and drew it from its scabbard. It slid out in a smooth, silent motion; the blade was white and sharp, and worked over with gleaming runes and signs. She turned it over, then swung it from side to side.

“Nice balance,” she said appreciatively, smiling at him, holding the knife almost negligently in her hand, though her body was tense and wary. “You are skilled at it, I suppose.”

“As well as most,” he answered, but his voice sounded sluggish. Éowyn looked carefully at him. His head had drooped, the flaxen hair swinging over his thighs, and his thumbs traced the edges of the jar absently. The muscles of his forearms and legs were relaxed, pliable. She took an experimental step towards the bed.

“I am sure you are a formidable enemy,” she crooned, reaching with her free hand for the other, smaller jar and unscrewing the cap while cradling the knife with her other hand. “You are fierce and deadly, a worthy comrade in arms for the noble Lord Aragorn.”

“Aragorn,” murmured the Elf, turning the jar over in his hands.

Éowyn took up the opened jar and the knife and crept carefully toward the bed. “Your foes fall before you,” she said softly. “Mighty is your arm, and all fell creatures flee from you, fearing to face your wrath.”

“My wrath,” he repeated in a thick, warm voice. The jar tumbled from his hands between his thighs, and a droplet of soup dribbled out of it onto the bed. Éowyn looked at the white cream on the sheets and trembled.

“Maidens swoon when they see your face,” she said, her voice shaking. “They hear your voice and give all their love to you.”

“Love – “ the Elf said, then his head swung up unsteadily, and he stared at her in horror, his pupils so swollen his eyes appeared black. But Éowyn had seen his muscles tense, and was ready for him. In an instant she was upon him, straddling him on the bed and holding the knife to his throat firmly enough to cut through the marble skin. She heard him gasp, but the potion in him was too strong, making his responses lethargic.

“Be quiet and still!” she said, smiling down at him. “Do as I say, and no harm will come to you.”

“What are you doing?” he whispered. She could feel him shaking beneath her, and his hands were twitching; she wondered whether he wanted to kill her or take her. She would take no chances, though; that was why she’d brought the other jar.

“Quiet!” she ordered again, sitting up a little and setting the jar on the bedside table, though she kept her eye on him and the knife at his throat. She slipped her index finger into the jar, feeling the glutinous liquid adhere to it, then drew it out and set it to his lips.

His tongue flicked out when he felt it, but as soon as he realized what it was he pressed his lips together, suddenly angry. He tried to struggle up against her, but she pressed the knife in more deeply, piercing the skin. A trickle of blood ran down the ivory pillar of his throat onto the sheets, where it soaked in and spread out. He stilled instantly, and she laughed softly, mirthlessly. “Yes, that’s right,” she said, and even though she was not exactly sure what she was doing she pressed down harder against his stomach. She could feel a hard, male lump at her buttocks, and so foreign and frightening was it to her she almost leapt up and ran, but remembering her courage she strengthened her resolve and pressed back upon it. He tried to squirm aside, but she jabbed the knifepoint into his neck again, and more blood trickled out, and he was still again.

“You keep your knife nice and sharp,” she congratulated him, rubbing her honeyed finger against his lips. “I advise you to remember that, friend Elf, before you fight me again. I have the advantage over you tonight.” She pushed her finger against his mouth and said, more firmly, “Taste it!”

He shook his head, eyes burning, even though the knifepoint pierced more deeply at the motion. Angrily Éowyn reached up to the pink tip of his pointed ear and squeezed hard.

He bucked up against her and cried out, and although she almost lost her balance she thrust her finger between his lips, which closed around it. She could feel his tongue and teeth and the warm moistness of his mouth, and then his tongue sought to push her finger out. She moved the knife to his Adam’s apple and snarled, “Eat it!” The Elf opened his eyes, which were becoming glazed with tears, though whether they were tears of pain or anger Éowyn neither knew nor cared. Reluctantly he made a light sucking movement with his tongue, and the honey was in his mouth. Éowyn had to cover his mouth with her palm and pinch his nostrils shut with her fingers before he would consent to swallow it. She pressed down on the knife again, holding his eyes with her own, and once again coated her finger with the philter. He squeezed his lips together, shaking his head desperately, until Éowyn grasped the tip of his ear and pulled unmercifully and he cried out again. This time when he arched up against her, she could feel the unmistakable outline of his male organ on her inner thigh; she put her finger in his mouth and said, “Swallow!”

Tears ran down the sides of the Elf’s temples, but he didn’t suckle and swallow until she removed the knife and, with the other hand, brutally pinched the tip of his other ear. Crying aloud and twisting in agony beneath her, he swallowed reflexively, and his body gave a great shudder. He pressed his eyes shut and bit his lip. Éowyn reached for the jar again, the flat of the knife lying athwart his great vein and leaving a paper-thin line of blood under his jaw; she paused as he whispered desperately:

“Please, my lady – please – don’t do this – don’t do this to me.”

In reply Éowyn tightened the grip she had about his thighs and twisted the tip of his ear so hard he gave a great choking gasp and bowed his slim body up into hers. He drew in his breath in a shuddering sob and begged, “Please – please, my lady – “ But Éowyn turned a deaf ear to his entreaties and, growing impatient with the protracted efficacy of the potion, took up a great glob of it in her hand and clapped it over his mouth.

“Eat it!” she commanded, forcing the knife further into his skin. Moaning in pain and frustration the Elf opened his lips and Éowyn forced the handful of honey into him, pushing deeply in so he couldn’t spit it out; he gagged on it, but she gave his ear another vicious twist and he swallowed convulsively.

He had eaten half the jar; Éowyn waited a moment, moving the knife across his throat teasingly and watching his face, looking for some sign the philter was taking effect. The Elf gave another great shudder, squeezing his eyes tight, and gave a guttural wheeze; Éowyn was pleased to note his skin was flushed, and the hard lump tucked between the soft folds of flesh at her thighs was twitching and quivering. His arms were flaccid, though they shook spasmodically, and his breath was coming in notched gasps. After a moment he moved his arms a little on the bed; Éowyn tightened her grip on the knife and pressed it harder against his throat. The Elf opened his eyes. He was weeping freely now.

“Please, do not do this,” he grated, but Éowyn only smiled and grasped his ear roughly. He tried to pull away, but she pinched it hard, feeling him jump and kick against her; horsewoman that she was she kept her seat and gripped him all the tighter with her legs. His strength was waning, she could feel it; weak as he had been when she’d entered the room, consuming half the philter, as well as the bit she’d secreted in the soup, was having its effect, and he struggled feebly, his rebellious body straining to push up against her while his will fought to pull away. She pinched his ear again, twisting it violently, and this time when he cried out it was half in pain, half in pleasure, and his eyes when they opened were clouded with desire. Still holding the knife to his throat, she untied the laces at the front of her shift and opened it, exposing herself to him, then she took up the jar and poured the rest of the potion upon her breasts. She felt the thick warm liquid slide down her skin over her nipples, and watched the Elf as he with his eyes tracked the honey on its journey. She shifted his knife in her hand, holding the point under his earlobe, and leaned over him, bringing her breasts up to his mouth.

“Suckle them,” she commanded him, and when he hesitated, mouth clamped shut, she pressed the knife under the ear while giving the other ear a vicious pinch. He sobbed out something in his own tongue, and then, to Éowyn’s consternation, his hands were upon the points of her pelvic bone, fingers grasping her firmly, though they still trembled. Realizing he had moved unconsciously, and that perhaps he had had enough of the potion to be finally tractable, she eased up on the pressure of the knife, and with the other hand began to massage the point of his ear.

He gave a great groan then, eyes shut and brows drawn together; then he opened his eyes and looked at her, and the fear and anger in them made her pull hard on his ear until he cried aloud again. Tears coursed down the sides of his face and he started to sob again in Elvish. Éowyn hardened her heart and pressed the nipple of one breast up to his mouth. “Suckle on it!” she ordered again.

Very slowly, and without opening his eyes, the Elf parted his lips, letting the nipple slide softly between them. Éowyn’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment; it did not feel as she had thought it would. His mouth was hot, engulfing the areola, and she felt his velvet tongue circle it lightly. Then there was a pulling sensation, and he swallowed, and Éowyn realized he had taken the philter himself, without her forcing him to. His fingers on her hips relaxed a little, then the hands trailed down the outsides of her thighs and back up to her hips, around back to her buttocks, and squeezed lightly as his mouth opened around her breast. Éowyn choked back a gasp when he scraped his teeth across her tender skin, cleaning off the honey, and again he swallowed, and his hands moved, this time up her back. She was suddenly aware of her own hands, that had up until now been strongly and insistently grasping his knife and the tip of his ear; suddenly they seemed too heavy, and the joints felt thick; it was with a great effort she tightened her grip on the haft of his white knife and pressed down upon the sharp point of his ear.

He moaned deep in his throat, and the vibration of his tongue upon her other nipple made her huff a little; suspecting deception she moved the knife to the side of his face. He opened his eyes, and her heart started to pound even harder; gone was the look of horrified submission; his pale eyes were black and clouded with thoughtless desire; Éowyn was not even certain he knew who she was, nor cared any more. With a negligent twitch of his head he pushed the knife away from his cheek, leaving a thin bloody line, then his strong hands moved up her ribcage, pressing her body down upon his own, and he began licking and scraping the potion off her breasts with tongue and teeth, sometimes biting down so hard upon her nipples she gave a little cry, and twisted his ear until he stopped. But now he didn’t pull back or weep with pain and humiliation; he ignored the knife, devouring her breasts until the honey had been consumed and letting his hands roam over her body, from her thighs to her buttocks to her shoulders.

Éowyn began to get a little concerned; he was supposed to be submitting to her, not overwhelming her, and although it felt good to have his hands and mouth upon her he was not gentle or loving. His fingers grasped and pulled, his teeth nipped and bit at her tender skin, and worst of all he disdained the pressure of the knife on his throat and curled his body upwards to her, taking her torso within the overpowering circle of his pallid arms and writhing his stiff member against her. Deciding she had had enough, and that he ought to return to his previous passive position, she said, “Lie still!” and tried to lay the edge of the blade against his throat.

She found herself thrown aside, one arm grasped and twisted behind her; the knife shot sideways out of her grip and clattered across the floor, spraying tiny spatters of blood where it struck. It had slid across the Elf’s shoulder in the struggle, cutting him deeply, but he didn’t even seem to notice; he had her flipped over onto her back and pinned beneath him, his slim hips wriggling across her body, seeking something with a trembling desperation, his knees between her own, forcing her legs apart. One hand held her arm above her head, the other was on the side of her face, holding her still while his mouth, still sticky and sweet from the philter, greedily consumed her own; she could feel his long fingers shakily tracing the pattern of the outside of her ear, as though they sought a familiar shape. His tongue forced her lips apart, and though up until that moment no man had ever kissed the mouth of the White Lady of Rohan, she discovered how wild and untamed a kiss could be beneath the frenetic ministrations of lips and teeth and tongue as they danced inside of her.

His other hand slid down her arm to her breasts, squeezing them and pinching the nipples, then continued on down her side to the edge of her shift, which was bunched up around her hips; he grasped it and heaved it upwards, exposing her nakedness to his hands. She had never felt men’s fingers upon her in those regions and she started to become frightened by how rough they were with her. And still the hard, hot bulge under his nightshirt rasped and scraped over the swell beneath her navel; she could feel the warm linen start to ride up with the movement, and then to her horror it was touching her – first her thigh, then the curly hairs between her thighs, thrusting and pushing, then his hips drew back and his hands held her down and she felt something moving between the soft folds of flesh that guarded her; she tried to close her thighs, to keep it from happening, for now that it came to it she was not quite certain she wanted to lose her maidenhood in this fashion, but it was too late – the Elf clove her, lunging forward hungrily, tearing her and abrading her deep inside, and swallowing her cry of pain with his mouth. Then he drew out and plunged in again, arching his back, his arms trembling and his eyes squeezed shut, and to Éowyn’s amazement it hurt even more the second time, and the third, and the fourth, and the – by that point she started to lose count; he was battering her unmercifully, falling upon her with a frenzied hunger, biting her and clawing her with such ferocity he drew blood. He had become a wild thing, uncontrolled and unrestrained, bucking and driving against her so viciously she could scarcely breathe for his weight upon her. And when he cried out in abandon, releasing his seed within her, she was not even then given reprieve; still he continued to violate her, pounding her into the bed like a mallet, and when she felt liquid oozing out between her legs and down the crack in her backside she wasn’t sure whether it was his seed or her blood, or both. When she tried to squirm out from underneath him he turned her over again, pressing her face into the bed sheets to stifle her cries, forcing her legs apart with his knees and entering her again, and again, and again, taking her with an intensity she had not foreseen. And still he sank his teeth into her, biting and sucking on her skin, reaching around to her breasts and squeezing them unmercifully, drawing her up against his rising torso so that she faced the climbing moon out of the window, his arms wrapped around her, still taking her from behind as she sat on his lap. His long hair, bleached white in the pale light, was wound and twisted about her throat and arms; she could see it laying against her breasts and could feel it tickling her stomach. He pressed his face into her neck and started to groan in time with his thrusts; then the thrusts slowed, and the groans became sobs. His arms weakened and let her go, and he slid out of her and crumpled upon the bed, his face hidden in the covers and his body curled in upon itself.

Éowyn collapsed beside him, fighting for breath, moving her hips with difficulty through the pain. Her head was spinning and she felt two steps away from breaking into hysterical weeping. But upon the bed stand, fully illuminated by the moon and mocking her with its presence, was the earthenware jar into which she had poured clover honey and stirred dried, crushed oak leaves. She had known what she had been doing. Everything had gone according to plan.

This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.

Story Information

Author: Le Rouret

Status: General

Completion: Complete

Era: 3rd Age - Ring War

Genre: Drama

Rating: Adult

Last Updated: 01/17/12

Original Post: 04/19/04

Go to Unrepentant, Unforgiven overview


No one has commented on this story yet. Be the first to comment!

Comments are hidden to prevent spoilers.
Click header to view comments

Talk to Le Rouret

If you are a HASA member, you must login to submit a comment.

We're sorry. Only HASA members may post comments. If you would like to speak with the author, please use the "Email Author" button in the Reader Toolbox. If you would like to join HASA, click here. Membership is free.

Reader Toolbox   Log in for more tools