A/N: This was inspired by Rhianna's 'Unfaithful'.

Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings.


Every night she fought. Every night she gave in.

When he made love to her, every gentle move would make her heart ache. Every caress made her long to weep. She hated to look into his pleading eyes, so she closed them and feigned pleasure. She intertwined her fingers in his hair and whispered… Faramir…

Then, as they lay side by side, every night she would fight with herself to stay, to let go of the past, to let go of the man who had rejected her love… more than everything, to stop hurting the man who loved her so much.

She would lose every night.

Brushing her lord's cheek with trembling lips, she would say she was going to get a drink of water. He would nod numbly, his eyes glazed with pain, like one being burnt at the stake. You know I'm lying. Why won't you stop me?

Guilt and self-loathing numbed by need, she would walk with stumbling feet to the washing chamber and close the door. Her head leans against the door as her knees sink weakly to the ground. Surrendering to desire, her hands would run over her body and in that moment, only he existed.

In her head, he would make love not to his beautiful Elven queen, but to her, Eowyn, the woman who craved him beyond all sense on time, distance and propriety. As her fingers slipped deep inside her, she would see him; his hauntingly handsome face, chiseled strong arms, lean body and eyes like grey storm clouds sparking wit lightning. He would whisper her name, moving inside her, faster and faster…

As the exquisite heat gave way to an explosion of white hot pleasure, she would moan …Aragorn… Aragorn… She waited, gasping as the last of the tremors went away.

Then comes the moment she dreaded. The feelings that had been kept at bay would wash over her like a shower of icy shards. Guilt, gut-wrenching guilt would engulf her, for she knew that the man on the other side of the door was dying… and it was her hand that drove the dagger deeper and deeper into his heart each day, killing him slowly.

Wishing each step was a whiplash at her feet, she would walk back to their bed, and he would always seem to be asleep; yet a sleeping man's jaw wouldn't be tightened, his fists shouldn't be clenched under the sheets… As she slipped into bed, she would silently beg him to open his eyes, to hurl bitter words at her, to take out his pain on her. But he never did.

She would watch him for a long time, her tear-filled eyes on his sculpted, noble and tortured face. And one of them would them would fall asleep, then the other, each lost in their world of despair.

Every night Eowyn fought. Every night she gave in.


AN 2 : Do leave a review. It doesn't take a lot of time, but it means the world to a writer.