She gasps and chokes for air as the grip on her throat is suddenly gone, and somehow that first uninterrupted gulp of air aches worse than his throttling hand had done. For a moment, just a moment, her hands are free. If she were a true warrior, if the blood of kings ran as true in her as she has always held, would she not use them? Would she not wrap them around his neck in turn, squeezing the life from him, wrestle him off her and cast him lifeless from the ramparts? If she were a true warrior, would she not fight?
The cool, polished wood of the tabletop is ground against her cheek, her head pinned down like that of a calf brought to slaughter, and the moment is lost. Perhaps there never was a moment; perhaps there was never a warrior in her to meet it. One arm is trapped under her, twisted at an awkward angle beneath the unwelcome weight of her own body. The other claws blindly, raking her nails at the hand in her hair - anything to make him let go, to free herself from this defeat he has too easily thrust on her. The air is cool on the bare skin of her thighs as he drags up the skirts of her queenly gown, and she is bare now below the waist; and even when she twists and bucks against his grip, still fiercely trying to break loose or at least disentangle her other arm from her bodice, the whorishness of her predicament makes even this feel cheap and false. Her face feels hot, most of all where his hand caught her; the tears still burn in the back of her throat, unshed.
"My brother would kill you where you stood," she snarls, her voice muffled against the wood; and it is only then that it strikes her that this is true, and that at all costs it must be avoided. There would be a weight to killing him now, when he has undeniably cast off all remnants of guest-right; but if he is successful, if she cannot sunder herself from him...
Éomer must never know. If someone must pay for her blind hope and her hasty mistakes, then it must be her and her alone. If it should come to it, there is a weight her brother must never carry, a knowledge her uncle should never bear. If he succeeds...
She cannot think on it. She cannot afford to. She can only focus on what little there is to be done, which is to wrestle with all her might to keep her legs closed, clenching well-honed muscle against the raking, bruising pressure of his grip. She can only remember that if he succeeds in this, then all is lost; then they are married against all better judgement, and against all challenge to that union. Her thighs are well-muscled and strong, and they strain for what feels like an eternity against his depredations; but she is poorly-placed, and she must choose between fighting him and catching her balance, such as it is, and his thin fingers dig into her inner thigh, scrape bloody rills against her scalp, and she cannot breathe; and she knows she has lost an instant before her hold gives way, and then it is all at once: her legs torn apart, sharply enough that something clicks in her hip, and her cunt bared and spread beneath the tangle of her wedding dress, and he forces himself against her, his lean weight crushing her hips painfully into the edge of the table, and a low cry escapes her, and she has lost. She has lost.
"I will kill you." It is choked, not shouted. There is a dull, hard hatred in her voice. It is all she has left, her voice, raw and throaty from his attack as it may be. Empty threat is all she has. "If you do this, I will kill you, though I be cursed. Let me go!"
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sforzinda
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Date: 2022-01-31 11:55 pm (UTC)The cool, polished wood of the tabletop is ground against her cheek, her head pinned down like that of a calf brought to slaughter, and the moment is lost. Perhaps there never was a moment; perhaps there was never a warrior in her to meet it. One arm is trapped under her, twisted at an awkward angle beneath the unwelcome weight of her own body. The other claws blindly, raking her nails at the hand in her hair - anything to make him let go, to free herself from this defeat he has too easily thrust on her. The air is cool on the bare skin of her thighs as he drags up the skirts of her queenly gown, and she is bare now below the waist; and even when she twists and bucks against his grip, still fiercely trying to break loose or at least disentangle her other arm from her bodice, the whorishness of her predicament makes even this feel cheap and false. Her face feels hot, most of all where his hand caught her; the tears still burn in the back of her throat, unshed.
"My brother would kill you where you stood," she snarls, her voice muffled against the wood; and it is only then that it strikes her that this is true, and that at all costs it must be avoided. There would be a weight to killing him now, when he has undeniably cast off all remnants of guest-right; but if he is successful, if she cannot sunder herself from him...
Éomer must never know. If someone must pay for her blind hope and her hasty mistakes, then it must be her and her alone. If it should come to it, there is a weight her brother must never carry, a knowledge her uncle should never bear. If he succeeds...
She cannot think on it. She cannot afford to. She can only focus on what little there is to be done, which is to wrestle with all her might to keep her legs closed, clenching well-honed muscle against the raking, bruising pressure of his grip. She can only remember that if he succeeds in this, then all is lost; then they are married against all better judgement, and against all challenge to that union. Her thighs are well-muscled and strong, and they strain for what feels like an eternity against his depredations; but she is poorly-placed, and she must choose between fighting him and catching her balance, such as it is, and his thin fingers dig into her inner thigh, scrape bloody rills against her scalp, and she cannot breathe; and she knows she has lost an instant before her hold gives way, and then it is all at once: her legs torn apart, sharply enough that something clicks in her hip, and her cunt bared and spread beneath the tangle of her wedding dress, and he forces himself against her, his lean weight crushing her hips painfully into the edge of the table, and a low cry escapes her, and she has lost. She has lost.
"I will kill you." It is choked, not shouted. There is a dull, hard hatred in her voice. It is all she has left, her voice, raw and throaty from his attack as it may be. Empty threat is all she has. "If you do this, I will kill you, though I be cursed. Let me go!"