A/N My thanks to everyone who reviewed the first chapter. You know who you
are. I don't know whether more is coming, continued viewings of the film
are complicating things instead of feeding the plot bunnies.
Disclaimer: Not mine. It's better that way.
I examine the marks he has left on me. On my wrists, my neck, my back. Lively purple on my yellowish skin. I trace them with my fingers. I want to see them renewed. I want to have anything proud Eomer would be willing to give me.
I wait and before the marks have faded completely, he comes to me. A shadow outlined faintly by the weak light from the hallway. Breathing heavily. Hesitating.
"You're letting escape what little warmth is in this room," I mock him.
He closes the door behind him and stays there, leaning against the strong wood. I pity him, in a way.
I push aside my covers. It is so cold I can see my breath, grey wisps in front of me. There is a fireplace in my room but only a few burning coals remain, hardly enough to chase the bitter cold of this night.
Eomer was outside. I can smell the snow on him, wet clothes, wet man. He is trembling as I approach him and not from the cold, I think.
Layers of wet clothing cover his skin. He sits still as I slowly remove them. Obediently raises his arms when I ask him to, says nothing.
I am well aware of the ugliness of my grey nightshirt and the even greater ugliness it hides. I do not remove it. Unlike me, he is hot inside, hot under my palms as I run them over his naked chest. He draws in a sharp breath and tries to take a step back from me. The heels of his boots make a dry sound against the closed door.
I smell drink in the white cloud of his breath. He has lowered his head, his limp hair hiding his features. My cold hands move lower, to his lightly furred stomach. He warms me up from the inside like the finest ale. My hands roam lower and he is hot there, burning hot even through his breeches. I push them down slowly and he sags against the door. Beautiful. Exposed. Mine.
I want to laugh in triumph but I cannot breathe. Not while I'm staring at what little of him I can see. The moon is almost full tonight, generously offering some of its silvery light to my bedchamber.
I close my eyes and sink to my knees in front of him. I let his smell take over, his taste. He gives out a small cry when I take him in my mouth and his hands fist in my hair.
It has been a while since last I have done this but my mouth remembers. He is insistent, pressing my head down. Choking me. It is not wise, my mouth is still equipped with fairly sharp teeth but I do not remind him of that fact. I take the punishing pain against the back of my throat, the thrill of near suffocation. He does not let me faint and I pull back, breathing through my nose. My respite is short-lived. He pulls on my hair again, brutal in his need.
Incoherent cries leave his lips, half-formed words. I taste power. I taste him and that final cry as he fills my mouth undoes me completely. I reach and take myself in hand and a few strokes are enough. I sob my release against his thighs, overwhelmed, holding on to him as though he were a tree bark. I think his hand is still in my hair, gentle now, stroking, and my sobs continue, the saltiness of tears in my mouth mingled with his bitter essence.
It is a reaction that horrifies me but I cannot control it. I do not know how long we stay like that. I start to shiver, now that the heat of passion is gone and so does he. He untangles me from him, and pushes me back, not unkindly.
I do not want his kindness. I do not! I'm still knelt on the floor, breathing deeply to regain my composure, a snivelling, sticky heap of grey. He prods me with his foot. I raise my head to face him, my eyes finally dry even though my cheeks are still wet.
He turns from me, quickly dressing, his fingers trembling, fumbling with his many laces and buttons.
He leaves me there, all the spiteful, goading words I had for him, locked in my throat. I can still feel the ghost of his touch in my greasy hair.
In the morning, I try to dismiss it all as a dream. I need to. Even though I see the bruises on my knees and feel my nightshirt stiff with my dried release. I try and nearly succeed until I see him. And in his eyes there is not his usual disdain but something. something else. Close to compassion, perhaps shame. His nocturnal activities must not be giving him much cause to be proud either. He avoids my gaze as he turns to his sister and makes some comment. Her clear laughter echoes in the dining hall. I am surprised to see mirth in my King's normally dull gaze. And suddenly it occurs to me that what has become habit for me, enriching every one of Theoden's meals with Saruman's brew, slipped my mind this morning.
Poison. A coward's weapon of choice. It was easy, was it not? Saruman provided it, all I had to do was administer it and my King was meek as a lamb. Listening to everything I said, letting me run his Kingdom. And if I stop? Will the wizard understand I had a sudden attack of conscience and decided to disobey him? Against whose wrath would I have a better chance?
I want to laugh but I do not, afraid that I may scream instead, scream until my throat is raw and I cannot make any sound anymore. I meet Eomer's brown gaze again and I read this kindness which hurts like a knife in my chest.
I should tell him what I did to his sister, how I drugged her and touched her against her will. I should embellish the tale of my pitiful failure as a rapist, speak of her white skin under my hands, her tender lips locked with mine. Would Eomer dare to look at me with compassion then? Would he dare pet my hair as I wept?
Anger paints red my bloodless cheeks, hopeless rage that I know will not change anything. I will let my King laugh today and drug him again tomorrow. I will not give Eomer reason to tear me from limb to limb, for his sake as much as mine. Saruman would probably object to losing his convenient little traitor.
I leave quickly while they still laugh. My plan remains. They are all dead but do not know it. The King is close, I'll send Theodred to his death one of these days, as for Eomer, I'll find a way to dispose of him as well. I will then take Eowyn as my wife and govern Rohan. I was foolish enough to believe Saruman when he promised me all that, why not continue?
I do laugh now. Dry choking sounds that leave me breathless. I cannot stop. A young servant, who had been sent to my room to fetch me, flees in terror. I do not blame him. I too would flee from me if I could.
Disclaimer: Not mine. It's better that way.
I examine the marks he has left on me. On my wrists, my neck, my back. Lively purple on my yellowish skin. I trace them with my fingers. I want to see them renewed. I want to have anything proud Eomer would be willing to give me.
I wait and before the marks have faded completely, he comes to me. A shadow outlined faintly by the weak light from the hallway. Breathing heavily. Hesitating.
"You're letting escape what little warmth is in this room," I mock him.
He closes the door behind him and stays there, leaning against the strong wood. I pity him, in a way.
I push aside my covers. It is so cold I can see my breath, grey wisps in front of me. There is a fireplace in my room but only a few burning coals remain, hardly enough to chase the bitter cold of this night.
Eomer was outside. I can smell the snow on him, wet clothes, wet man. He is trembling as I approach him and not from the cold, I think.
Layers of wet clothing cover his skin. He sits still as I slowly remove them. Obediently raises his arms when I ask him to, says nothing.
I am well aware of the ugliness of my grey nightshirt and the even greater ugliness it hides. I do not remove it. Unlike me, he is hot inside, hot under my palms as I run them over his naked chest. He draws in a sharp breath and tries to take a step back from me. The heels of his boots make a dry sound against the closed door.
I smell drink in the white cloud of his breath. He has lowered his head, his limp hair hiding his features. My cold hands move lower, to his lightly furred stomach. He warms me up from the inside like the finest ale. My hands roam lower and he is hot there, burning hot even through his breeches. I push them down slowly and he sags against the door. Beautiful. Exposed. Mine.
I want to laugh in triumph but I cannot breathe. Not while I'm staring at what little of him I can see. The moon is almost full tonight, generously offering some of its silvery light to my bedchamber.
I close my eyes and sink to my knees in front of him. I let his smell take over, his taste. He gives out a small cry when I take him in my mouth and his hands fist in my hair.
It has been a while since last I have done this but my mouth remembers. He is insistent, pressing my head down. Choking me. It is not wise, my mouth is still equipped with fairly sharp teeth but I do not remind him of that fact. I take the punishing pain against the back of my throat, the thrill of near suffocation. He does not let me faint and I pull back, breathing through my nose. My respite is short-lived. He pulls on my hair again, brutal in his need.
Incoherent cries leave his lips, half-formed words. I taste power. I taste him and that final cry as he fills my mouth undoes me completely. I reach and take myself in hand and a few strokes are enough. I sob my release against his thighs, overwhelmed, holding on to him as though he were a tree bark. I think his hand is still in my hair, gentle now, stroking, and my sobs continue, the saltiness of tears in my mouth mingled with his bitter essence.
It is a reaction that horrifies me but I cannot control it. I do not know how long we stay like that. I start to shiver, now that the heat of passion is gone and so does he. He untangles me from him, and pushes me back, not unkindly.
I do not want his kindness. I do not! I'm still knelt on the floor, breathing deeply to regain my composure, a snivelling, sticky heap of grey. He prods me with his foot. I raise my head to face him, my eyes finally dry even though my cheeks are still wet.
He turns from me, quickly dressing, his fingers trembling, fumbling with his many laces and buttons.
He leaves me there, all the spiteful, goading words I had for him, locked in my throat. I can still feel the ghost of his touch in my greasy hair.
In the morning, I try to dismiss it all as a dream. I need to. Even though I see the bruises on my knees and feel my nightshirt stiff with my dried release. I try and nearly succeed until I see him. And in his eyes there is not his usual disdain but something. something else. Close to compassion, perhaps shame. His nocturnal activities must not be giving him much cause to be proud either. He avoids my gaze as he turns to his sister and makes some comment. Her clear laughter echoes in the dining hall. I am surprised to see mirth in my King's normally dull gaze. And suddenly it occurs to me that what has become habit for me, enriching every one of Theoden's meals with Saruman's brew, slipped my mind this morning.
Poison. A coward's weapon of choice. It was easy, was it not? Saruman provided it, all I had to do was administer it and my King was meek as a lamb. Listening to everything I said, letting me run his Kingdom. And if I stop? Will the wizard understand I had a sudden attack of conscience and decided to disobey him? Against whose wrath would I have a better chance?
I want to laugh but I do not, afraid that I may scream instead, scream until my throat is raw and I cannot make any sound anymore. I meet Eomer's brown gaze again and I read this kindness which hurts like a knife in my chest.
I should tell him what I did to his sister, how I drugged her and touched her against her will. I should embellish the tale of my pitiful failure as a rapist, speak of her white skin under my hands, her tender lips locked with mine. Would Eomer dare to look at me with compassion then? Would he dare pet my hair as I wept?
Anger paints red my bloodless cheeks, hopeless rage that I know will not change anything. I will let my King laugh today and drug him again tomorrow. I will not give Eomer reason to tear me from limb to limb, for his sake as much as mine. Saruman would probably object to losing his convenient little traitor.
I leave quickly while they still laugh. My plan remains. They are all dead but do not know it. The King is close, I'll send Theodred to his death one of these days, as for Eomer, I'll find a way to dispose of him as well. I will then take Eowyn as my wife and govern Rohan. I was foolish enough to believe Saruman when he promised me all that, why not continue?
I do laugh now. Dry choking sounds that leave me breathless. I cannot stop. A young servant, who had been sent to my room to fetch me, flees in terror. I do not blame him. I too would flee from me if I could.