(Flower of the Field)
For most of her life, Éowyn had been the only woman living in Meduseld. Théodwyn, Éowyn's and Éomer's mother, like all Théoden's sisters had surrendered their apartments in the Golden Hall in favor of a quiet, working life and quiet, working husbands. But when her husband died, Théodwyn, four months gone with child, brought herself and her small son back to live in the royal house. Shortly after Éowyn's birth, she and her brother were orphaned. Their uncle, Théoden, took them for his own.
Since then, nurses, maids, and a few cooks had been the only other women in the house. These women had shown Éowyn what it meant to be a woman of Rohan. These women did not stand idly by as their fates unfolded. They watched the skies, the stars, the change of the seasons. They used what they had at hand to turn adversity to their advantage. And their lessons had not escaped her. Éowyn had, however, been raised largely by men; as a boy, in many ways. Not in every way.
As a girl, she had followed Éomer about incessantly. He tolerated her devotion, but saw her, mainly, as a nuisance. But even as Éowyn admired her brother, her cousin, she adored. Théodred, less the victim of prepubescent angst found the little girl amusing. Despite her uncle's misgivings as to the wisdom of traveling with such a young child and a girl at that, when Éomer was old enough to ride alone with the Rohirrim as they made their patrol, Éowyn rode too. She traveled well. She would bounce along in front of her cousin for hours without complaint. In the evening, Éomer would gather fuel for the fire. When the fire was lit and the riders were cooking their supper, Éowyn would help. Afterward, she would sing with them the songs of the field. Then, she would sing and dance and caper about the fire, much to the delight of the men. She would sleep under the stars, on hard ground, next to Théodred and awake with the sun, pleasant as if she had slept on a feather bed in the warmth of her chamber. Théodred called her Sunshine.
As Éowyn grew taller, more boyish, and more stubborn about it, her cousin never scolded her for her unladylike behavior as Éomer and, sometimes, Théoden did. On the contrary, Théodred insisted that she learn to handle a blade and ride a horse as a boy would.
At fourteen, breasts came as something of a surprise to Éowyn. To her they were little more than an inconvenience. It did not, however, escape her notice that their appearance had a staggering effect on the way others related to her. Though he loved her very much, Éomer's admonitions of her masculine behavior redoubled.
"We shall have some new dresses made for you, Éowyn," said Théoden one evening when Éowyn came in from the stable, straw in her hair, wearing a young man's riding habit. His meaning was clear. She was rapidly becoming a woman and her uncle had declared that it was time she began to dress as one. His command was not punitive, though. The dresses proved tolerable. They were soft, fairly unrestrictive, and had deep pockets. Their addition to her appearance, though, seemed somehow to make permanent the change to womanhood.
Almost immediately, men's eyes for her had changed, but not Théodred's. He still took her to ride with him every morning. He sparred with her out in the yard. She no longer rode with the Rohirrim. Their eyes made her uneasy.
Gríma Wormtongue's eyes were the worst. His gaze was unsettling enough to anyone. But when he looked at Éowyn, his silver-blue eyes gleamed with a hungry light. In dreams, those eyes haunted her. Gríma also thought of her in the night. Saruman had promised.
Some months before, it had been abominably dry and Théoden sent Gríma to ask the wizard for rain. The man was terrified, but Saruman obliged. In return, he wanted no golden token, no horses. He, instead, requested Wormtongue's service. Saruman promised the man he would reward him richly.
"Is there any prize you desire, my friend?" asked Saruman, his fascinating voice compelling an answer.
"I cannot ask for what I desire," answered the man. One of the wizard's dark eyebrows rose curiously.
"And why is that?"
"It is not yours to give," Gríma cowered. To his surprise, Saruman laughed richly.
"Ask," he commanded again.
"I dare not."
"I will not ask again," said the wizard sternly. Gríma cringed further and whispered almost too softly to be heard,
"Éowyn. Théoden's niece. I want her. But she is so young. Already, I am an old man to her."
"She is old enough," answered Saruman, amused at the hunched man's guilty desire for the young girl. So simple, he thought. "You shall have her when I have Rohan," he said finally, "You have my word."
Gríma thought of the wizard's promise as he lay in his bed, imagining how the girl's blushing flesh would feel beneath him. He imagined creeping into her room and watching her sleep for a while before slipping silently into her bed. He imagined how her eyes would widen and roll with surprise and fear when he covered her mouth, pinned her down, and made her his. To sully her virtue with his depravity, to deface her beauty with his ugliness, to spoil her, to take both her maidenhead and her innocence; that was what he wanted.
He rose early the next morning. The sun was about to peer over the peaks of the northernmost White Mountains. Gríma pulled a heavy black robe across his bony shoulders and closed it over his pallid chest. Yards of fabric hung on his gaunt frame like an ill-fitting second skin.
He closed the door quietly behind him as he exited into dim hall. Ordinarily, he would have proceeded directly to his audience with Théoden, but the vividness of his fantasy the previous night induced him to take a risk that he seldom allowed himself. He swept down the corridor, his black robe billowing behind him like an evil wind, careful to make no sound lest he attract curious eyes. Unobserved, he arrived at Éowyn's door. He knelt. The dark of the windowless hallway allowed him to lurk in the deep shadows, unseen by passersby. He checked the main corridor beadily before turning his gaze to the keyhole in the heavy door. His timing, it seemed, was impeccable. As he watched, the large pile of blankets in the center of the bed began to stir. A head of tousled golden hair emerged from the mass of bedclothes. She rose slowly and stretched, yawning. His breath caught as she stepped toward the window, the newly risen sun silhouetting her blossoming figure against the translucent cloth of her long nightshirt. His breath grew heavier as he watched her loosen the lacing of her shift and let it fall to the floor.
A hand, heavy on his shoulder, abruptly shattered his lecherous reverie. Fear flooded him. Gríma was a coward in his heart, and when he discovered that the hand belonged to Théodred, what had been a sort of a dull fear was instantly honed to razor sharp terror. Softly and deliberately, Théoden's heir spoke.
"If, ever, I find you here again, I will kill you," he said calmly, with the air of one commenting on the weather. The effect was sinister. A defiant sneer played across Wormtongue's face, but he managed to keep it in check. Théodred continued, "She is yet a child. And she is not for you." At these words, Gríma arched an appraising eyebrow. Wormtongue met the steady eyes of Rohan's heir with new confidence, changing tact deftly.
"Of course," he simpered. "Such a perfect blossom must be plucked by a worthy hand," he finished. A mean smirk twisted his haggard face. Théodred scowled. Without further threat, he grabbed the smaller man where he knelt by his oily, lank hair and slammed his head against the door three times, hard. Gríma yelped in pain with each impact. Théodred released him and, at once, he staggered away whimpering, blood running freely down his forehead from his split scalp.
Éowyn, hearing the commotion outside her door, slipped quickly back into her gown.
"Who's there?" she called tentatively.
"Only me," was her cousin's answer as he opened the door slowly. The sight that greeted him was unexpected. Éowyn stood before him, eyes wide and innocent. Pale dawn light backlit the girl, illuminating her voluptuous figure. He saw her face only dimly. She smiled warmly at him.
"Is everything alright?" she asked. Théodred did not hear her. The pause protracted. She watched him expectantly. He did not answer. And even as she awaited his reply she watched his eyes change, just as other men's eyes had changed. Rather than frightening her, as other men did, Théodred's glassy, lustful gaze sent a ripple of excitement through her body. She made no move to cover herself. Instead, she let the hand that clutched her nightshirt closed at the neck drop to her side. "Cous…?" she began.
"A rat," he interrupted. He gestured vaguely behind him, toward the half open door. "There was a rat in the hall," he said, a bit embarrassed by the realization that he'd been staring. "But it is gone now," he finished lamely.
"Are you alright?" she asked, smiling inwardly as Théodred averted his eyes. "Is the sun too bright?"
"Yes to both," he smiled, grateful for the escape.
"Have you only come to visit," she asked brightly, "or did you…want something?" she purred the final two words, letting him know that his fierce green eyes had betrayed him.
When she had first become a woman, the oft-overlooked women of the household, the cooks and domestics, had taken it upon themselves to begin the girl's education concerning her changing place in the world. They had answered her questions and given her wonderful and frightening new information about her own body, about men, and about sex. She had always been an eager student and she was terribly curious, if a little nervous about beginning to explore this strange new realm.
But now, Théodred's again-lingering eyes sent a second exhilarating jolt through her strong body. He seemed, again, unable to find his voice. He was amazed to see not fear, but the fire of keen willingness sparkling in her eyes. She was still a child in his eyes, but Gríma's words rang in his ears once more. She was, indeed, a perfect blossom, ripe and fresh. She could, he thought, be only dimly aware of what awaited her in the warmth of a common bed. Her boldness impressed him the more for it.
"Are we going to ride this morning?" she prompted
"Riding, yes," he said distractedly, awkwardly making eye contact. He smiled broadly, if a little uncomfortably before adding, "Hurry and get dressed and meet me at the stables," and without waiting for an answer, Théodred swept from the room.
He walked quickly to his father's chambers. Théoden raised a curious eyebrow at his son's flustered entrance. The younger man was still catching his breath when he began to speak.
"Éowyn…," he began, "she is…," he did not know the words to continue. Théoden smiled knowingly.
"She is," the father said, nodding. "Do you want her?" Théodred blinked a few times, not at all sure of what his sire asked him.
"Do I…?"
"Do you want her? She is of age. She is beautiful. She loves you. And, one day, you will need an heir," Théoden said. His son was silent a moment longer. His thoughts were scattered. He had come to tell his father about Gríma's skulking, but he found himself nodding in assent.
"Yes. Yes, I want her," he said.
"Then she is yours."
"May I make one more request, father?"
"Of course."
"Banish that snake, Gríma, from your service. I do not trust him," said the son earnestly. Théoden sighed.
"He has not had occasion to earn your trust, my son. I will not discharge him."
"But father, this morning…," he began.
"I will not discharge him," the king interrupted. It was final. Théodred pursued the matter no further.
By the time that he reached the stables, Éowyn had already tacked her horse and waited for him. Her cousin was relieved to see her dress was much less distracting. Quickly, he groomed and tacked his own horse. They talked a little, but Théodred's mind was not on the conversation. She was his. His father had approved the match. He could have her whenever he wished. And because of it, he saw her in a new light. Still, he wanted her to be happy. Never would he take her forcibly. Her earlier behavior suggested that such crude means would be unnecessary.
Together they rode out. They galloped together in silence a while. They did not follow their usual route. Instead, Théodred led her into the foothills of the White Mountains. They walked their horses side by side through the rocky terrain. The great beasts enjoyed a slack rein and a leisurely pace. At last, they found a favorite grassy enclave amongst the craggy hills and dismounted. They removed several parcels from their saddlebags and unwrapped their lunch. As their riders talked and ate, the horses grazed on the sparse, but lush foliage, staying close. As he talked, Théodred eyed his new acquisition discreetly. She was so beautiful to him; more so, now that she was his. He tried to think of a way to tell her. He realized she might be apprehensive, fearful even of what he had planned for the next few hours. He was still trying to come up with a good segue when her words demanded his full attention.
"This morning, your eyes changed. What does that mean, Théodred?" asked the girl. He was struck, suddenly and hard, by her youth. Her body was that of a woman, but the innocence of the question shook him. In fact, she had a very good idea of what it meant, but she wanted to hear it from him. He shifted a little uncomfortably. He hadn't expected her to be so direct.
"I…um…this morning…," he paused. He decided that only honesty would do. She had been direct with him, and he would return that courtesy. "This morning I found Gríma Wormtongue outside your door, looking in the keyhole," he continued as a look of horror and revulsion twisting her face, "I will not let him harm you, Éowyn." She relaxed a little. "But what he said…and when I saw you...you are so lovely," he touched her cheek. "I want you, Éowyn, as a woman. Do you know what that means?" He looked into her bright eyes searchingly. Slowly, she nodded. He waited for her to speak. At last, she said,
"Already, you have taught me so much about being a man. I can think of no one better to teach me about being a woman." Her answer was a kiss. He had kissed her sometimes before, but never like this. His lips were hungry, demanding, frightening, but exhilarating too. She kissed him back, opening her mouth slightly to admit his gently probing tongue. He took her hand and guided it to his leather-clad thigh. Not only did she not recoil, but moved adventurously upward.
Then, Gríma was in his head, his pouchy, pallid face, grinning evilly. Am I no better? Théodred wondered. He was finally sure that she was amenable, but now that he was sure, he questioned it. She had slept with him as a little girl. As a child, his had been the bed that nightmares had driven her to. How recently that had been. And now, he held that little girl in his arms. Now he meant to take her for his own. He meant her, one day, to bear his children. She is but a child herself, he thought. Her hand had crept higher still as he thought. She was but a moment from the growing heat in his loins when he stopped her. He drew back and surveyed her a moment. Again, he was surprised to see bold desire in her eyes. How better to protect her, than to take her for my own? he thought. And he pulled her too him hard, pressing her delicate hand against his yearning flesh. Her eyes widened, but she smiled, too. Then, it was she who kissed him as she melted into his arms. He lay back with her on the soft grass. And slowly, sweetly, they made love.
AN: I didn't know if it would be too weird to go into sweaty detail with the little-girl-with-the-much-older-man-thing and him being her cousin to boot. But if you want to hear it, and if I get enough ahem encouragement…I think I could be persuaded to write it. Thanks for reading, anyway. Leave me one! DR