Too many months have passed since Éowyn last lay with her husband. Finally, the healers affirmed that she has fully healed from the birth of their son. And tonight, on Faramir's return from a week's tour of the outlying farms, she hopes to welcome him home to her arms as well as her heart.
And yet, as she tells him the news, and Faramir smiles his joy and lifts her up in his arms, Éowyn feels new doubt. Her body, once the slim and straight form of a shieldmaiden, has changed. Her breasts are heavy with milk, her hips carry more flesh. Will he still find her fair? She has been the vessel of their son, carrying him proudly, delivering him painfully, and now nourishing him…constantly. It is hard to recall the touch of her baby's father on the breasts that feed his son. What if she has forgotten the ways of pleasure, and cannot remember what to do, when to do it, their own secret language, now that her body is no longer her own? Then there is the baby, who she had just nursed and placed in his cradle under her maid's watchful eye. Please, my Elboron, stay sleeping, give us time before you hunger once more, she prayed silently.
They have reached the bed. Faramir seems to sense her concerns, and withdraws his hands from the lacings of her robe to bring her head to his. He kisses her gently, then more deeply as she leans into him, letting their tongues touch just barely before breaking away. He asks a question with his eyes. She yearns to shout Yes, but does not wish to break the silence. Then her hands unlace the front of his tunic, pulling at his shirt, and he tears her robe from her. They hastily peel off their remaining garments until they lie naked together, and he is stroking her, and she is wanting him.
He parts her legs and claims her mouth again hungrily. She is breathing more rapidly now. Suddenly, milk spurts forth from her taut nipples and Éowyn feels her cheeks burn with misery. Surely he must now think her a fat, graceless cow!
But Faramir laughs softly, surprised but not displeased. He strokes her breasts lightly, then more forcefully, as if discovering them anew. And clearly he likes what he finds! She feels his body tighten. He is ready and they come together as if they had never been parted.
Afterward, she lies quietly in his arms. He traces the perimeter of her breasts with clever, long-fingered hands. "You have truly ripened" he remarks. "A bit more curve, it is lovely. I think we should have another child, so you can keep these most fair, bountiful…"
Éowyn presses a fist against her husband's mouth. "Ripened? Husband, I think I have heard enough from you. Do I look like some soft, over-ripe fruit?"
Faramir playfully bites her fist. She removes it from his mouth, and he kisses her wrist.
"Succulent, not over-ripe" he says with a smirk, barely containing his merriment. She knows he intended no unkindness, but she will not be called "ripened", no matter how he means the word. Éowyn twists and quickly slides atop Faramir's lean, hard-muscled body. She stops his laughter with a kiss. She will show him how soft and ripe she is!
Faramir meets her challenge with fierce kisses, hands kindling sparks within her. He finally pulls her down to meet his rising need. Éowyn seizes hold, and they strive until she masters the rhythm he sets. She takes him in stride, enfolding his power and driving strength. Her fire matches his force; both are inflamed…At last, she gives it all back in a wondrous release.
Newly sated and aglow, Éowyn rests her head on Faramir's chest; while he caresses her hair and back. As she drowses, savoring their shared pleasure, she smiles with a new, slightly wanton thought: It really is like riding a horse. Once you've learned, you don't forget how, even if it has been awhile since you mounted. And when you're astride, it all comes back…
"Good night, min stéda" she murmurs. Faramir chuckles softly. They are both well pleased.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: min stéda means my stallion in Rohirric, or at least Old English, courtesy of Branwyn; who could surely aspire to become a scribe of the Mark.