For Ashfae

[shieldofrohan]

There is a sadness to being married, a sadness that has hung around all things since the war - a sadness that comes from faces that are not present, spaces that are not filled. Neither of them have parents, and she feels the void at Faramir's side, the shape of a brother she will now never know. She feels Theodred's absence likewise, and Theoden - how he would have loved to see her wed!

But for all that, she is happy. A new day has dawned on her, like spring from a hard frost. The scars on her arm and side have begun to fade, and some of the grief is lifting from her eyes. And now, as she steps inside the Steward's chambers - their chambers - there is only joy in her.

Joy, and a little nervousness. They have kissed, of course, and there is passion there she had only dreamed of ere he came into her life, but they have done little more than kiss. She has her honour, after all, and though she may trust him more deeply than she would ever have imagined, she will do this rightly, or not at all. So she has kept herself chaste, and though she knows not what experience he has - and will not ask - she knows she has none. Nor is she certain of how he will react to the scars she now bears - he knows that she has them, but has not seen more than the edges of the knots of pink-white scars that mar her fair skin.

No. She will not be nervous. She is the Lady of the Shield-Arm, she is the hero of Rohan, the killer of the Witch-King... yet when she turns to face him, she is only a young woman, her cheeks pink and her eyes shyly lowered, her stronger right hand anxiously smoothing the green and white silk of her wedding gown.

"So, my lord husband..." She smiles, worrying faintly at her lip. Husband has such a pleasing ring to it, in this moment. "It seems you have tamed yourself a maid of Rohan."

It feels she has been waiting for this moment for an age. And yet, now it is here, she is unsure what she can say that has not already been said, what she can do that will not overstep the bounds of this unfamiliar new relationship. He has ever been the one of them who can find the better words.

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[whattheydefend]

It has not been an age, but it has been a year they have waited--far longer than Faramir wished. He is a patient man, but that patience has rarely been so sorely tested as in this. If they had been nearer each other during all that time it would have been easier for him. But duty kept him in Gondor while his betrothed returned to her home in Rohan, to lay her uncle to rest and see her brother crowned and a host of other things.

Including preparing for this day--and this night.

He has been so focused on the day itself, and all the days that will follow, that he has taken little thought to the wedding night. In part that was deliberate, to keep from being overly concerned or impatient or frankly adolescent with longing. But now he wishes he had been better prepared, for all that he knows not what he might have done to prepare.

And in truth nothing could have prepared him for the reality of this sight: Éowyn, White Lady of Rohan, in all her bridal finery, her pale skin flushed and her hair as golden as the sunrise, smiling and calling him husband. It steals his breath, how beautiful she is.

But he laughs at her sally, hearing the echo of the words she used when she accepted his proposal, when she all but challenged him to change his mind. He reaches for her hands and brings them to his lips, kissing her fingers. "Not tamed, my wild shieldmaiden of the North," he answers. He turns her hands in his and kisses her palms, smiling at her as he does so. "Or I hope not, for I love your fierce spirit. Perhaps it is I who has been tamed."

[shieldofrohan]

His touch is gentle, intimate; it sends shivers through her, makes the hairs prickle along her arms. She raises her eyes to meet his, and there is a hunger in her look that is hard to miss.

Deliberately, she steps in closer, closing the already small space between them, until she is close enough to feel his breathing. Her fingertips trace the rough skin of his jaw, tender and wondering, and she leans up on her toes, kissing him on the mouth. Her lips are closed, but it is not a chaste kiss by any means, and she thrills in the warmth of his mouth, in the momentary press of her body against his - not new experiences, but ones born anew by the change that has overcome them.

Pulling away, she smiles up at him, and shakes her head. "Be not tame, man of Gondor." Her tongue darts out, wets her lips, and she lets her fingertips trail along the edge of his neck. "You have shown me gentleness, Faramir, and restraint. Tameness enough, for now. Now..." She bites her lip, presses close against him again, her heart thudding against her ribs. "Now I would have thee show me passion."

[whattheydefend]

He accepts the kiss readily, the same hunger he sees in her eyes alight in his chest. It is a simple kiss for all its heat, only a press of mouth to mouth, and her body pressed against his likewise. There is a promise in all of it.

No, not a promise, as she makes clear when she pulls just far enough away to look at him and speaks again: a demand. The light of hunger he feels flares at the words, at her expression, the mix of earnest desire and the nervousness she tries to hide. He will need to be restrained still, whatever she wishes; Faramir knows she is a maid, and knows as well how she might be hurt if he does not take care. And yet--

Yet he is still a man, and one mightily in love with the woman before him, and some temptations cannot be resisted. Particularly not when they are so brazenly declared. Still gripping her hands he bends his head again, and this time his mouth opens against hers and his tongue seeks entrance, sliding between her lips, hot breath mingling as they explore each other. It is not the first time they have kissed thus, either. But now they are wed, and there is more to follow.

It is that awareness that makes him break away at last, resting his forehead against hers as they catch their breath a little. Their hands are still clasped, fingers entwined. "Be careful what you wish for, lady," he says, his voice is low and uneven. "For you are like to get it. But I would not overwhelm you, nor have this night be one you fear to remember."

[shieldofrohan]

Eowyn gladly submits to the demanding kiss he presses to her mouth, lets her lips part and her tongue wind against his, her eyes fluttering closed. His mouth is hot against hers, and she can taste the lingering remnants of wine from their wedding feast, on his tongue. It is intoxicating, makes her heart thunder like an army in full gallop, her breathing catch and shake. When he pulls away, she is panting a little, flushed and dark-eyed.

At his words, it is her turn to laugh, and though it is a little unsteady, still it is a proud laugh, as one might meet a challenge.

"I fear nothing," she tells him, and in her voice is the ghost of the woman she was, the lady high and terrible who had stood unhelmed on the battlefield. That same bravado is in her voice, though now it rings with humour and not grief, as she looks up at him with a challenge in her eyes. He said he loves her spirit, and here it is, laid bare in her expression: her stubbornness and pride, her hot-blooded wildness, and most of all, her desire. "I know what it is I wish for, Faramir. I wish to be your wife, and to know you in all ways. And if you overwhelm me..."

She is a maid, but she is not an innocent. There is a gleam in her eye both challenging and knowing, a teasing angle to the curl of her lips. She tosses her head, shaking her hair back, and turns her face up to his.

"...Well, then, so much the better."

[whattheydefend]

His laugh is a shout of joy shot through with something like triumph as he picks her up and swings her around, kissing her all the while, unable to contain his delight in her. Of course she fears nothing, not his Eowyn, who stood on the battlefield before Fear itself and laughed, daring it to do its worst. There is no woman in the world like her, and now she is his wife.

He only spins them two or three times before stopping and lowering her back to the ground, still kissing her, still laughing. "In that case, I will strive to be as fearless as you, and as passionate." He lifts his hands to her face, cradling it as he kisses her yet again, overcome with happiness.

[shieldofrohan]

She is laughing, too, as he sets her down. How can she not? His joy is infectious, his delight bubbling up inside her as well, and the love she sees in his eyes is enough to make her drunk with it. Her arms have come up around his neck, and she looks up at him, her grey eyes dancing and her colour high, as his hands cup her cheeks.

"I love thee," she tells him, muffled against his mouth, because that love has lanced her abruptly, stronger than ever, and she cannot help but speak it. Laughing again, she lets her fingers wind through his hair, and gives way to his kiss, her teeth nipping lightly at his lip. Oh, to stay forever so entangled!

[whattheydefend]

"Eowyn, Eowyn..." Delicately, between kisses, he unpins the small, intricate braids crowning her head, placing the jeweled pins on some surface nearby. He does not care what it is, and if the decorations roll away and are never seen again he will not miss them.

It takes some time but kissing her is the only diversion he needs, and then at last all her hair is shaken loose and he can bury his hands in it as she has done with his. "Beautiful, valiant, golden Eowyn, I love thee." He says it in the Rohirric fashion, matching her, but that's not enough, and he repeats it in every language he knows, between kisses that only grow more heated. Even then it's not enough. All the languages of the world would not be enough.

It will need to be deeds, then, and he breaks away with another laugh, his skin flushed. "Come, help me with these." He finds her hands and encourages her to undo the buttons and laces on his wedding finery. His eyes shine as he smiles at her. "So you might see what manner of husband you've bought, this day."

[shieldofrohan]

She needs little encouragement, in truth. His kisses have only fed the flame of her desire, and when he breaks away from them, she is flushed and panting, her heart racing. It is all a woman could want of her wedding night, she thinks, to be lavished with such passion and such sweet words that any trepidation seems a thing of the past. Even her uncertainty thrills her, another facet to this moment.

Her hands move deftly, swiftly, to unlace his jerkin and tunic. It is not the first time she has undressed a man - she has tended to the wounded and the sick, of course - but it is the first time that it has filled her with such breathless anticipation. Folding aside the collar of his tunic, she leans in on impulse to press a kiss against his throat, even as she continues in her work.

At last, pulling off his shirt and folding it over her arm, she steps back a little way to see what she has uncovered. Her eyes trace the lines of his chest, her mouth curling into a smile.

"A well-made manner of husband, I should say." Her tone is almost teasing.

[whattheydefend]

His eyelids flutter shut when her lips touch his throat; it leaves him momentarily breathless, stirs the heat rising within him further as he thinks of all the other places where she might repeat the gesture, and thinks too of returning the favour. His hands, resting on her shoulders, clench slightly.

Even so, he releases her when she removes his shirt and steps back, standing tall before her. His body is lean for a soldier's, but strong; a year of living in relative peace has not softened him. His skin is marred here and there by the marks of old injuries, and there is more than one scar. But he stands quietly under her gaze, still smiling, for she looks approving and he cares for nothing else. "That is well," he teases in return, reaching for her again. "Since I am entirely yours."

[shieldofrohan]

She laughs, setting his shirt aside and letting herself be drawn against him. Her face turns up, and she presses another kiss to his jaw. "What a fine prince I have bought," she murmurs, tracing one hand down the curve of his clavicle, over his chest, and looks at him with sly amusement. "I pray he thinks as well of the bargain."

From her tone, she doesn't particularly doubt it. Yes, there is still lingering doubt about her scars, about the marks of the battle that broke them both - but she knows she is fair, and she knows that he loves her. No woman, she thinks, could look at the light in his eyes and the smile on his lips and doubt that he is happy with his bride. No woman could feel the lightness of her own heart and doubt that their joy in each other is well-founded.

Emboldened, she reaches up to loosen her own laces, meeting his eyes all the while. The gown she wears is heavy and elaborate, as befits a King's sister on her wedding day; when she lets it fall around her ankles and stands there in her fine, clinging shift, it is as if she has shed a too-tight skin. She feels she can breathe easier, even as her eyes scan his face to see his reaction - to the toned lines of her body, slender but not soft; to the press of her breasts against the thin fabric; and most of all, to the ugly knot of scar tissue that runs from below her elbow almost to her shoulder, fading now but still prominent.

[whattheydefend]

Holding and kissing Eowyn while only half-dressed is already a more potent experience than while clothed, especially as she is so willing to explore the skin she has revealed. Faramir sighs his contentment as her hand wanders over the planes of his chest, the lines of bone. If he had any doubts as to whether she would be pleased with what she saw, they are dismissed by the look in her eyes as she takes him in.

Then she pulls away to remove her gown, and his breath catches and his hands fist by his sides as each lace is undone and the heavy cloth slides off her shoulders and falls to the floor. She tries to hold his gaze but his eyes dart from hers to every inch of pale skin that reveals itself, to her flushed chest and back to her kiss-swollen lips, and the light in his eyes burns with desire as much as love. When she is clad only in her shift he moves forward again, placing his hands on her shoulders and sliding them down her bare arms, including the scar, taking all of her in. Instead of speaking he kisses her again, but instead of the hungry, laughing kisses of earlier, this one is slow, deep and scorching.

[shieldofrohan]

She is about to make another light, teasing comment - perhaps to ask him if he finds her fair, if she meets with his approval - but the heat of his kiss robs her of breath, and of her laughter. There is no room for joking in that kiss: levity would only scorch into banality in the light of that fierce desire.

Not only his desire, but hers, which is every bit as clear in her answering kiss. She lets her hands come to rest on his waist, and her eyes flutter almost closed; she sees him as a blur, from under her lashes. She can smell him, taste him, feel the heat of his mouth and of his skin... ai, is there anything sweeter?

Without breaking the kiss, she steps out of the pool of her gown, kicking it to one side. Normally, she would show greater care for an expensive garment, but now it, like everything outside of their embrace, is unimportant. Her hands shift on his waist, tracing back to his spine as she wraps her arms around him and shifts closer still; her body presses to his, and the touch of his skin on hers makes her tremble.

[whattheydefend]

She is not the only one who trembles, who has forgotten the world outside of their embrace. His arms wrap around her, gathering her in as close as he may. The fall of her hair brushes over his arms, and the thin cloth of her shift does little to hide the warmth of her. One hand slides up to cradle her head, the other drifts over her back, her side, her hip.

In one swift moment he stoops and lifts her, never once breaking the kiss they still share. She is not a small woman, but he still carries her easily, crossing the few steps to the bed and placing her gently on it, then joining her there, laying his body alongside hers, leaning a little above her.

Only then does he pull away, and only far enough to look into her eyes, his own features wondering and amazed. Gently he kisses her eyelids, her forehead, her cheek, the curve of her jaw and the slope of her neck, murmuring quietly in the Elven-tongue. No other could do her justice.

[shieldofrohan]

She gasps in surprise but lets herself be lifted, aids him in it by bringing one arm around his neck, her long and well-muscled legs coming up around his hips. She can feel his muscles shift under her as he carries her; can feel, too, the heat and press of his arousal. As he lays her down, she moans softly against his mouth, unwinding her legs from him with little care for how her shift has rucked up to the hips, barely covering her.

His kisses, his look of wonder, the words he speaks that she does not know... it feels like a dream, from which she never wants to wake. But the feel of the bedclothes under her and his body against hers, that is real. This is real. She smiles, wondering at the splendour of the moment, and arches her neck as he kisses it, her fingers trailing lightly across his shoulders and the nape of his neck.

[whattheydefend]

The little moan she utters fires through him like a burning arrow, and his thoughts focus to one aim: to make her sound like that again, and again, and more so. He scrapes his teeth lightly against the delicate skin of her throat, nips slightly where neck meets shoulder, pushes the glorious fall of her hair away from her ear and explores there, nuzzling and nibbling and kissing.

His free hand moves over all the bare skin he can find, her chin and neck, shoulder and arm, sliding down her side to her hip and back--and then, daring further, over her shift, as he runs his palms over the swell of her breasts. His own breath draws in sharply at the feel of those curves.

He pauses at that, leans up and looks at her. "You will tell me, will you not, if I do aught you dislike?"

He trusts she will; Eowyn has ever been forthright, never one to refrain from speaking her mind. It is one of the things he most loves about her. But this situation is new for both of them, and he wishes to be certain.

[shieldofrohan]

She laughs, but it is not like her earlier laughs: this is throatier, deeper, as she takes the opportunity to steal another kiss from his lips. It does not linger, but there is still passion in it, a fire that only rises by the moment. Turning onto her side as she kisses him, she runs one foot up the side of his leg, and smiles.

"I will tell thee," she promises, and runs a fingernail lightly down his spine. Her other hand comes up to cover his, pressing it a little more firmly against her breast. Again she laughs, her breath whispering warmly against his cheek. "And I dislike that you have stopped, husband. Since you ask."

She draws back a little, biting her lip, her eyes meeting his. Her pale skin is flushed and her chest heaves against his hand, heat all but baking off her.

[whattheydefend]

He draws in his breath sharply as she uses her nails on him, his eyes darkening, and his answering chuckle is low and amused. "I pray you will forgive me, my lady wife," he murmurs, moving his attentions to the other side of her neck for a few moments. It is more awkward from this position, so he does not linger, but when something is pleasing on one side it's always wise to repeat it on the other. "Let me make amends."

She's made her wishes clear and he's quick to obey, stroking her breast with more firmness, rubbing his thumb over the nipple and then pinching it slightly, ever attentive to how she moves under him, how her breathing changes, any signs of what pleases her. It is the sweetest research he has ever done.

And then hands are not enough and he moves his mouth down her chest, lips brushing against her collarbone, and looks up at her with something like mischief in his eyes before covering her still-clothed breast with his mouth, sucking until the cloth is soaked, so that when he switches to the other is clings to the nipple. He replaces mouth with hand once more, then abruptly raises himself up so that he might tug the shift upwards. "Let me see you. All of you."

[shieldofrohan]

She needs little encouragement. Arching up off the bed, she helps him to tug her shift up and off, shivering as the wet fabric peels away from her taut nipples. Tossing it aside, to lie in a pool of fine linen by the bed, she lies back as naked as the day she was born, looking up at him from under her lashes.

Her body is not as toned as it once was; she's recovered most of her strength, but not all the years of hard work. Still, the muscle is clear under her skin, her thighs hard and belly flat. The scarring mars her ribs all down one side, a patchwork of damage that puckers the skin of her breast on that side, all radiating outwards from the still-dented spot where the Witch-King's mace struck.

But she is no longer thinking about that. She is thinking, rather, about the look in Faramir's eyes, and how she longs for him to suck on her like that again, now without the restriction of cloth between them. Her hand comes up to trace his cheek, and she smiles, moving her legs together in a way more meant to draw attention to the coarse-haired mound between them than to hide it.

"Now you see me, my lord." She traces her thumb over his lip, meeting his eyes. "Does it please thee?"

As if she really needs to ask.

[whattheydefend]

His mouth is dry as he stares at her, the look in his eyes equal parts love, desire, and something like worship. When she cups his cheek he covers her hand with his, turns his head to kiss her palm, as he tries to find words for a sight that leaves him wordless. "In all my life, in all the places I have ever been and all the books I have ever read, I have never seen nor even imagined anything so beautiful as you."

He kisses her palm again fervently, then moves his mouth down and kisses her wrist, before letting her hand go in order to bend over her and take her mouth again. He wraps an arm around her waist to pull her against him so they can lie barechested together, body heat mingling. It also means she can feel plainly the hard length straining almost painfully against his breeches, further evidence of how much he longs for her.

[shieldofrohan]

She laughs, but it comes out low and thick, strangled by her own wonder at the look in his eyes and the warmth in his voice. All her life she has been called fair, but never has she felt it as she does now, with the heat of his body against her and the heat of his mouth on her skin.

And then that mouth covers hers again, and she arches against him, thoughts of her own beauty forgotten in her enjoyment of his, of the hard muscle that shifts under her palm as she runs her hand down his back, and the soft fall of hair that tickles her throat. Her hand runs flat and warm down the curve of his spine, onto his backside, and she leans gladly into his kiss, her tongue pressing into his mouth.

[whattheydefend]

He groans into the kiss, helpless to hold it back and truthfully not making the attempt, for her tongue is a heated brand in his mouth, and she is pressed so close against him, her hand leaving fire in its wake as it skims down his back. He had not realized, when poets wrote of lovers burning together, that they spoke so truly.

He uses the arm wrapped around her to pull her on top of him, rolling onto his back, delighting in the feel of her weight on top of him, of her warm and willing in his arms. His hands wander over the curves of her, hips and thighs, then settle on her ass, cupping her buttocks firmly. He can't help but roll his pelvis up against hers, and the friction combined with the echo of the act to follow makes him groan again, and he must break off the kiss in order to catch his breath for a moment.

Looking into her eyes, he strokes one hand back up along her spine, then brushes a finger wonderingly against her face, part of him still amazed that he is able to do so, that she permits it, welcomes it. That any of this is real rather than a fever dream.

[shieldofrohan]

When he rolls his hips against hers, the press of his erection hard against her, Éowyn cries out, low and wondering. She shifts on top of him, instinctively, to kneel as she straddles him, her body curving up against his, breasts pressing soft and taut against his bare chest.

She gives him a scarce moment to catch his breath, to trace the line of her jaw - then quickly finds his mouth again, kissing him hard and passionately, with all the thirst of a woman lost for an age in the desert. One hand comes up to touch the hand against her face, to caress the soft skin inside his wrist, and then she slides it down between them, slowly but with purpose, towards the place where his cock strains against the cloth that binds it. To kiss, to embrace... these things are good, but they have waited so long already for this night, that now it is hard not to long for the wild and immediate.

[whattheydefend]

One hand stays on her face, cradling it gently, as though she were the most precious creation in all of Arda--as he would swear she is. His other hand explores, stroking the curve of her hip, the flat plane of her back, her shoulderblades. He threads fingers through her hair before pushing it to the side that he might scrape his nails lightly down her spine, seeing how she reacts to this sharper touch.

But her own hand is wandering, and blessed Valar, that is a sweet distraction. He pauses his own attentions as she draws nearer to his waist, breaking their kiss and raising an eyebrow at her. "We are unequally armored, lady." His voice is hoarse, stretched taut with anticipation. "Would you have me amend that, or do you wish to tend to it yourself?" He reaches down to join his hand to hers in thumbing at his waistband, eager to remove the last obstacles between them.

[shieldofrohan]

She arches and shudders at the scrape of his nails, her breath catching, and smiles at him. There is a teasing kind of coyness in that smile, in the glitter in her eyes.

"Is it not a wife's duty to attend her lord?" Her voice is light, but there is a throatiness behind it too, a thrum of desire that is not overwon by humour. Her fingers work their way to the fastenings of his leggings, fumbling blindly until she feels them loose. Then - not without some regret, for his warmth and the touch of his skin is a sweet and potent drug to her - she pulls away a little, shifting onto her knees to better undress him. Her eyes flick up to his face, and she smiles, then pulls his leggings off, not hurrying, enjoying this moment of revealing between them.

[whattheydefend]

Faramir had thought his patience tested by the past year of waiting. It is tested again now, more viscerally, as he watches her undo the laces and remove the last of his clothing, willing himself not to help or rush her. There is an anticipation to it, to all of this, but anticipation is beginning to pall compared to the reality. Already his hands miss her, already his skin misses her warmth and the weight of her, even though they have been separated for bare moments.

Even so he lies back, lifting his hips when needed, helping her work the leggings over his knees and ankles, his mouth quirking with amusement at the glint in her eyes and smile. She will have seen unclothed men before, he knows, in her healing work, but he does not know if she has ever seen one in...his present state. Dutiful indeed.

And then it is done, and there are no more barriers. Faramir leans up on his elbows, giving her an eloquent look. "Is it well?"