how to live when all is lost | for sent_to_try_us

[shieldofrohan]

She had been prepared for the end. She had been ready to die with sword in hand, to watch Edoras burn and bring her down with it, while the Shadow covered the land and all that they clung to was swept away. She had done all that she could, and even doing it, she had known it would not be enough. She had been ready.

She had not been ready to survive it. Every day since, she has wished with all her heart that she did not.

He had tried to woo her, at first. If it had not been so terrible to see, it would almost have been funny: the sheer clumsy stupidity of it, to think that power was enough, that a grief-stricken captive would flee to the architect of her misery. He had brought her flowers, and tried to make himself a confidant. She had spat in his face, and bidden him to kill her too, or else she would kill him.

Even Gríma's foolishness had its limits, but his covetousness did not. He would have her, he told her, and she would be his wife and kneel for him, and she would know her place. At the time, she had laughed openly, certain that nothing he could do would break her will, knowing that she had resigned herself to pain and death, believing that there was nothing left for him to turn against her. Éomer was dead. Théodred was dead. The only leverage he had over her was Théoden, who lingered half-conscious and no longer himself; and he needed the King more than he needed his desires met.

She had been so innocent, back then. Even in what had seemed to her the darkest possible hour, with everything lost and all that she loved ripped from her, she had still been so naïve.

The first time he had tried to bed her, she had clawed her nails across his face, snarling and spitting like a wildcat; and Gríma would not have overcome her alone, being both smaller and weaker than his unwilling bride, but he was not alone. She had been held down by his new guard, muscular men of Dunlending stock, and her maidenhead was lost to her most loathed enemy beneath the eyes and hands of three uncaring strangers, and she had wept as bitterly as ever a woman wept - not for her lost virginity, nor even for its circumstances, but because that was the moment at which she understood fully how utterly helpless she had become.

She tried to rally. She tried to find some strength, some pride to carry her forward. At every turn, it was ripped from her.

She had not given way easily. She had made him fight for every inch: made him drag her by her hair sooner than go where she was told; met his demands with stony, proud silence; watched for any weakness. She had left her mark on him more than once, biting and scratching and kicking and punching, and in time, it seemed, he had changed his aim. If he had once seemed to hope that she would love him, he soon sought only to see her broken, like a horse to the bridle; if he had once intended to make her his wife, now he was content to make her his whore. Anything, it seemed, to make her crawl.

She tried to escape, more than once. She knew the King's hall better than anyone still living, and they could not guard her all the time. Her second attempt, in hindsight, had come close to success - would have been successful, in all likelihood, if she had simply fled. But she could not bear to flee and leave him living, and she had managed to come so close, had had the knife almost to his throat, when the men he hired had heard his screams and dragged her off. That she had been soundly beaten did nothing to dissuade her; that thereafter she was locked away for over a week without light or food only hardened her resolve. But then there had been the prisoners.

Gríma needed the King alive. He needed Éowyn alive. The other Men of Rohan, those who had survived his takeover... he needed them far less. He had brought her out of her captivity, weak with hunger and grief, to see the ends of the men who had tried to help her. Háma, Ceolfrith, Harbeorn, and the rest, all men she had known since her childhood, bloodied and beaten and trying to remain strong; he had made her stand there as they were hanged, and their bodies thrown onto the dungheap, and all she could do for them was to give them the honour of not looking away.

And then he had turned to her, and said in a tone low enough for her, Their wives, their children. And when the guards released her arms, and Gríma told her to kneel, she had knelt.

That was a year ago. She has rebelled since, in smaller ways; twice more she attempted escape, alone in her planning, but that made no difference to the deaths that came from it. The second time she came close to killing him, wrapping her hands around his throat so that he could not call for help, was the last time he was alone with her. He was still alive, and she was still a slave, and all that she had accomplished was that her humiliations were more public.

Little by little, he broke her down. She rarely spoke, rarely moved without being ordered to. For a time, she tried to kill herself: refused food and water, until they forced it down her throat anyway; sought any weapon to end things, without success; tried to break her skull against the walls of her room, until they bound her helpless to a bed. In the end, with even that escape blocked to her, she surrendered. She hated herself for surrendering. She hated Théoden, in his sickness and his weakness, for surrendering them. She hated everything, with a ferocity that was the only thing she could still feel, and she had no recourse.

When he told her to kneel, now, she knelt. When he told her to stand, she stood. When he told her to open her legs, or her mouth, or any other part of her, she did. She stood behind his seat, beside the empty throne, and she was a shell: she said not one word, nor shed one tear, nor moved a muscle unless she was told. She had spoken against him perhaps a dozen times since the winter, never for her own sake: to denounce some political cruelty, to refuse him some right that was not his to claim, to say aloud You are not King. Each time, she had been made to pay. Each time, her people had been made to pay. She would never allow herself to close her eyes, as the bodies were brought before her. She would never give their lives lightly, and so she surrendered, over and over again, and hated herself more every moment.

And then, the King died.

She did not weep, finding Théoden cold and stiff in his bed when she came to bring his breakfast. She felt no sorrow, only a dull ache where her feelings had once been. She thought, without the horror she should feel: I would that you had died two years sooner, and spared us all this end. She closed his eyes, and settled his withered hands upon his counterpane, and, despite it all, she kissed his brow.

If he was dead, then Gríma was King. He was King by her hand, by her claim. He was King because he had married the Queen, and so long as she surrendered to him, who was to dispute it? And in time, she knew, his attempts would bear fruit, and she would fall pregnant with his son, and then the line of Eorl would be reduced to a whore's get, and what remained of Rohan would mean less than the dirt.

They had ceased to watch her so closely, now. It had been months since she had made any attempt at escape or rebellion. She had no contact with her own people, those who were loyal to the line of Eorl; she had no weapon and no horse. She had only one thing to aid her: the last scraps of Éowyn, Éomund's daughter, who had once sworn that she would never bend.

She would die, she swore, there in the dead man's room. She would die, before she lived a day as King Wormtongue's queen.

And she hurled herself at the guardsman, and as he stumbled back, taken by surprise, she scrabbled the eating-knife from his belt, and drove it into his eye, and then his throat, and she ran. There were few windows in the living-quarters of the hall, and fewer still large enough to climb through; she ran for the nearest door, a headlong and desperate dash which had no chance of success, no hope of escape...

And out into the summer sunlight, so dazzlingly bright after months almost entirely spend inside. She staggered at the heat of it like a hammer-blow, and tried to catch herself, looking back into the shadows of the hall and out into a city that was no longer hers, and wondered why they were not yet upon her; but there was no virtue in wondering, or in pause. She held the knife white-knuckled, turning toward the stables. It would do nothing to defend her, if armoured men came to reclaim her. It would not save her from capture - but it could save her from once again surviving it.

They did not come.

She did not discover why until she was outside the city. She had taken, of all among them, the King's own horse: Snowmane knew her well, and he had almost smashed down the door of his stall when she called to him. He charged through the street and down the Barrow-Road, and she clung bareback to his mane, almost flat against his back, the bloody knife still in her hand; and as the gates were closed to bar her leaving, the guards at last moving to prevent her, she dug her heels into the stallion's flanks and urged him on, with all the swiftness that only Rohan's horses could claim, and the guards were Men of Rohan, and they hesitated a split second to recognise the King's horse, and then he was upon them, and bursting out onto the open hillside, and he did not stop until the strength left him, and then he settled from a gallop to a trot, his white flanks heaving and dark with sweat.

And it was then, and only then, that she found she was not alone.

That was two weeks ago. Now, she and her strange rescuers are far from Edoras, outside the borders of the Mark, farther than she has ever been. She has spoken to them, by now: enough to know that they were sent to retrieve her, that their rulers seek an alliance, and that they will see her returned to the throne. It should be a hopeful thing, but it fills her with a terrible dread to think of it. Will she be Queen, who has already betrayed her people a thousand times, and surrendered them and herself to the man who would destroy them? Will she take up their cause, only to fail them anew?

She should have died, she thinks. She should have died in the escape. She should have died in the imprisonment. She should have died a year and a half ago, when she saw her people fall. But she is alive, and she cannot pretend that she has no duty to them, and even in the direst moments of her imprisonment, she has never been so afraid.

They brought clothing and supplies, and at last she is permitted some of the things she has been denied: she is given a knife to eat with, and a belt, and riding-gear. She looks, as they ride into the courtyard, almost the woman she was before the war: she is tall and fair and she sits upright in the saddle of a milk-white warhorse, her chin raised and her long golden hair fluttering in the August breeze. But there is an emptiness behind the grey eyes that fix themselves on some imagined point, and her hand clutches tightly to the horn of her saddle, the mark of a shackle half-visible on her wrist, and, inside, she is nothing the same.

She does not dismount when they draw to a halt. She barely seems to have realised that they have stopped at all. It is with the slowness of one moving through a dream that at last she turns her head, looking uncomprehendingly at the small party who have left the palace to meet them.

"They will follow me here, as like as not." Her voice feels rusty, alien on her tongue. It is the voice of the old Éowyn, who had never knelt with her head bowed and called herself whore and slave. It is the voice of a woman who expects to be taken seriously, coming from the mouth of one who has grown to expect mocking laughter. It is the voice of a Queen, and she is not Queen; she is not sure she is even human any more.

She wants to scream. She wants to say: Kill me or leave me to the wolves, but do not ask me to be Éomund's daughter now. She is dead, the Lady Éowyn is dead, and all is lost. Do not look at me as though I carry hope; I have none even for myself. She wants to say: I cannot offer you alliance, I cannot offer you help, I can offer you nothing at all. But there is no other Lady Éowyn, and she is needed, all the same.

"They will follow me," she repeats, and her hand winds tighter in the reins, her nails digging into her palm. They are longer nails than she would choose. It has been a long time since she has been trusted with either work to keep them short for, or with scissors. "Are you ready, if they come?"

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[sent_to_try_us]

It is such a small thing to be worried about, whether she has had a drink recently or not, that Glinda cannot help but laugh. She tilts her head up to steal another kiss before - very reluctantly - stepping back. Even then it seems too much to take more than one step, and she reaches to take Éowyn's hand and wind their fingers together.

"If you will join me," she says, still light, as though she hasn't seen how sharp Éowyn's cheekbones are, how fragile the older woman felt in her arms. "For a meal is much better shared, don't you think?" Which is both true and an excuse, for Glinda is trying to persuade herself that hunger is the most pressing desire. She is hungry, yes, and thirsty too, but she is also very certain that both of them could easily be forgotten if Éowyn were to kiss her again. The only difficulty is that even if Glinda could go without a meal, Éowyn has clearly gone without far too many recently; she cannot take advantage of the other woman for her own wants. There will be time - if not tonight, then the next, or the next. Glinda does not especially like to be patient, but she does know how to wait if she must.

She sits, drawing Éowyn down to sit beside her, unwilling to let her friend go. The meal is simple, but the bread looks very fine, the fruits are plentiful, and the cheese is creamy. Rohan's kings and queens are well served, it seems, and she makes a note to find out who is in charge of running the household and see they receive a reward. Her mother has always been very firm on the matter of ensuring good servants are well recompensed, and her mother never receives anything less than the best.

"What shall you start with?" she asks Éowyn, reluctantly withdrawing her hand so that she can pour them both cups of wine. "For I hardly know where to begin."

[shieldofrohan]

Éowyn looks down at where their hands are joined, as though she has never seen such a sight before. There is an almost careless intimacy in how easily their fingers intertwine, as though they were made to fit together, and it strikes her like a knife to the heart. It should not be possible, to feel happy at so small a thing: it is a trap, must be a trap, and yet she cannot draw away.

She does not want to draw away. For the moment, she is alive again: even finds some of the appetite that she has struggled to keep of late. Enough, at least, that at Glinda's scarcely-subtle prompting, she puts out a hand to take a roll. It is a day old by now, and has not been warmed, but it breaks readily enough between her hands, and she sets down half of it, giving Glinda a small smile.

"My father always said it was best to begin with bread, when you have it; and your belly knows sooner when it is full."

[sent_to_try_us]

It does not take long for the two of them to demolish their small feast. Glinda keeps up a chatter throughout, telling Éowyn all the petty problems of her little court: the noble lady mooning over the lowliest of her husband's grooms; the fight that broke out over who was to carry a headboard to a cart; the maids who quarrelled for weeks over one of the serving boys and were then caught kissing in the scullery late at night. She does her best to make it entertaining and light, to get Éowyn to smile or even laugh at the antics of the court in motion. Compared to what the young queen has faced, these scandals and disagreements are nothing, but that is the point: if she can take Éowyn's mind away from her troubles, Glinda intends to do just that.

Once they are finished, and Glinda is warm and fed and comfortable, she leans against Éowyn and takes the other woman's hand in her own, lifting it to her lips to kiss Éowyn's knuckles. And then she cannot quite bear to let it go; instead she measures their hands against each other, traces the lines of Éowyn's fingers, the curve of her palm. There is something enchanting about it, this play of their hands together, the softness of her own skin against the calluses Éowyn has won from training. It is hard to believe that she can finally do this, that her head rests on Éowyn's shoulder, that Éowyn's hand is in her lap, that all she need do is speak in order to hear the other woman's voice.

"I missed you terribly," she says - for the fourth or fifth time, perhaps, but the quiet need in her voice has not yet diminished. "I had always thought the lovers in the minstrels' songs were being perhaps a little unreasonable, but I see I have misjudged them all along."

[shieldofrohan]

She has never had much time for gossip, but it is different when it is Glinda telling it. It is precisely because they are nothing, because they are petty things that seem a thousand miles away from war and rule (although, to be truthful, she is well aware that equally petty dramas are playing out within these very walls, as they were in the war-camp outside them until a few days ago). She does not much laugh, or even smile, but she does relax visibly, listening as intently as though these are every part as important as the audience she held earlier that day.

And it is easy to be intent upon Glinda, whatever she says - especially when Glinda leans against her side, warm and soft and solid, her hand gently tracing Éowyn's, her skin soft and her touch gentle. She leans into Glinda in turn, her eyes half-closing, relaxing into the caress to her hand.

At that last comment, she starts, and looks up at Glinda for a long moment, her eyes searching the other woman's face.

"Is that what we are?" Her voice is low, wondering - almost childlike in that wonder, as though she needs an assurance that she has not misunderstood. "Lovers?"

[sent_to_try_us]

The question is one she had not expected, does not know how to answer. Glinda sits upright, her fingers tightening briefly on Éowyn's hand, gaze searching the other woman's eyes.

"I don't know," she says, uncertain, "I don't - how do you tell? I have not written you a poem, or anything like that..." For poems are usually a staple of the courtly romances, with a lover wooing his mistress, although deciding which of them is the mistress is another puzzle. "I do not think either of us are supposed to have a lover," Glinda adds, very reluctantly. "But I am not supposed to have kissed you, either, and I did." And will again, she thinks - or will as long as Éowyn wants to be kissed again, as long as she can do it without ruining both their chances for a good marriage. That is the main problem: marriage, which is inevitable for a queen, for a princess. And while Éowyn may choose her suitors, Glinda knows she may not.

[shieldofrohan]

"I do not think any of this is supposed to be as it is," Éowyn says quietly. She should not be Queen: Théodred should be here in her stead, or Éomer, and they would not falter as she does. She should not be ruined as she is, with her dignity and her maidenhood both shredded, unmarried and too much married all at once. She should not jump at shadows, or long for oblivion; she should not fear to pass judgement on the greatest treason the Mark has seen in three hundred years. She should not bind the Mark to another kingdom, split their loyalties against the Oath of Eorl, make herself beholden to another lord. She should not have kissed Glinda, and she should not take a lover, but these are so slight in the great avalanche of things that are not as they should be, it is hard to see their wrongness at all any more.

She looks at Glinda: her hair and skin cast gold in candlelight, her blue eyes wide, earnest and unsure. She looks at her for a long time, and it seems to her that the light does not come from the candles at all, but from Glinda, shining in the darkness that has overwhelmed the world. Glinda, who has been the first person in two years to make Éowyn feel safe, who has ridden through the night to find her, for whose sake Éowyn has half a hundred times picked herself up from despair and resentment to drag herself back into life and towards the throne. Glinda, whose shining eyes seem to be filled to the brim with the belief that Éowyn is more than she is, that there is hope to be found here.

Her hands tighten in Glinda's. She pulls the other woman closer, and she kisses her again.

"Be my lover," she says, and it is both a plea and a command. "I can give you nothing but myself, and I am a poor prize these days. I can offer you no power and no position, I can write you no poems, I can promise you nothing and I cannot even give my life to you; but be my lover, all the same, and stay with me."

[sent_to_try_us]

For a long moment, all she can do is look into Éowyn's eyes, so clear and so troubled, and try to think past her immediate, instinctive response of yes. It is not a good offer: she knows it, and Éowyn does too. If she is to gamble her reputation, it ought to be for benefit either for herself or for her family. Rohan is close to a client kingdom, if her father has his way; Éowyn can give her nothing. But Glinda is having a very hard time making herself care.

There is no one at this court she might be expected to marry; there is no one who will carry tales back to her father and be believed, especially not if those tales are rumours of an unwarranted closeness with the young queen of Rohan. She is, after all, here specifically to be close with the queen. She is here to be the Uplands in person, the proxy of her father the king. No doubt he would be pleased to think that Éowyn will have no suitor, will take no lover, without Glinda being able to tell him at once about it.

"I will be called back to my father's court," she says, slowly, gently. "Some day. And I do not know when; and I will have to go, and to marry whoever he chooses for me. I will have to be a maiden on my wedding night, and I do not know - I have not - I would rely on your honour to keep me safe." Éowyn has laid her terms out clearly; Glinda feels she can do no less, even as she bites her lip, wishing she did not have to. "But if you will have me, even so, I will be yours and gladly. And - and I will stay, no matter what you choose, for so long as you do not send me away and my father does not call me."

[shieldofrohan]

"I would not take that from you." Not when it has been taken from her. Éowyn will never be a maiden on her wedding night, and if she should marry - when she should marry, for it will not be put off forever, and she is all that remains of the Line of Eorl - it will be nothing like she had hoped. She is not sure she will be able to bear it, when it comes: that she will ever have a man move inside her and not feel the ghost of rough hands holding her down. But she was a maiden once, and she knows what it means, and it seems more precious somehow in hindsight. "I would not keep you, Glinda; I would not send you away, and I would not seek to hold you back. But I would have you, all the same, for you are the first light I have seen in all this while, and the dearest comfort, and I am selfish."

More selfish than she can bring herself to admit. She knows, when Glinda speaks of her father - she knows that there will come a time when they are no longer friends. She is not blind to what he wants, a subject nation indebted to his aid, and she is not blind to the future. She cannot give him that dominion. She will not sell her people from one tyrant to another, only because he is more distant. There will come a time when this alliance crumbles, and perhaps even turns to emnity, and when it comes, Glinda will be caught in the press. She should say so.

She cannot bear to say so.

Instead, she leans in again, kissing Glinda long and deeply. It is easier to act than to speak, and it is easiest of all to melt into her friend's - her lover's - mouth, letting her eyes slip closed and her hands draw Glinda's into her lap. All the same, she draws back after a time, her eyes open and sincere, her expression clouded.

"If you ever want me to stop, you must say so." There is something more than a mere request in the words: there is a command behind it, weighted with the kind of regal certainty that her men have followed. It brooks no question, no disobedience. "If you would have me slow, if you would have us part, if you want to be alone... swear to me that you will say so, and not hold back. I will not be..."

She cannot quite bring herself to say like him.

[sent_to_try_us]

Éowyn kisses her again, gently drawing Glinda's hands into her lap, and Glinda finds she has to tilt her head up a little to meet the kiss - and there is something about that small kind of surrender that makes her breath catch, sends sparks through her. When Éowyn draws away, Glinda does not quite manage to hold back a soft, needy sound, a wordless plea for more. Still, though, she listens; she is no fool, and Éowyn's gaze is saying this is important.

"You are not," she manages, a little breathless. "I promise, of course I promise, but Éowyn, you would never - " What exactly Éowyn would never doesn't come out; they both understand without them. And perhaps she has only really known Éowyn for a few days, perhaps she is leaping from the edge of a cliff without bothering to look how far below the ground is, but Glinda cannot imagine the young queen ever doing any of the things the Wormtongue has done. Even if she has had to reason out most of it, unwilling to ask Éowyn questions that so clearly hurt her, there was evidence enough on Éowyn's body to speak of just how cruel he had been.

And then there are no more words, only Éowyn sitting so very close and yet not close enough. Glinda reaches up to curl one hand around the other woman's neck, fingers tangling in her hair, as she tugs Éowyn forward and leans in to kiss her. She is still a little clumsy, and perhaps ought to be embarrassed, but Glinda does not care. She has learned enough: how to tilt her head, how to let her lips part just slightly in invitation, how to run her tongue along Éowyn's bottom lip - and how to draw back, eyes hazy with desire, and offer Éowyn a sweet, wicked smile.

[shieldofrohan]

There it is again, as it was all those months ago: that hunger, stirring in her loins, a reassurance that she did not misremember or imagine their parting. She sees the same hunger in Glinda's eyes, and it takes her breath away, to be looked at like that - to be invited, pleaded, wanted, not demanded. It is a stab to the heart, and to somewhere lower.

"I dreamed of you," she says again, without entirely meaning to say anything at all. She feels hypnotised by that look, by Glinda's parted lips kiss-bruised and wanting more, by the warmth of her hands and the closeness of her body. And that smile. That smile alone could destroy her. "I dreamed of you, and I remembered what it was to want." She bites her lip, lifting her free hand to her lover's cheek, tracing the soft line of her jaw. Her eyes fix on Glinda's, soft and heavy with desire. "Tell me what you want."

[sent_to_try_us]

They are both entranced, the two of them; Glinda finds herself studying everything about Éowyn, from the wisps of fair hair escaping around her face to the way the fabric of her nightgown clings to her knee. She leans into the other woman's touch, turning her head to press a kiss to the palm of Éowyn's hand, wanting abruptly to kiss every inch of her lover's body - and if that takes forever, so be it; she will happily dwell in this moment where Éowyn gazes at her as if she is the most beautiful thing in the world.

"You," she answers, her voice as soft as Éowyn's. "I want you, only I don't know - " What to do. Where to start. Anything, really; the minstrels' songs have not been especially informative, and courtly novels of romance tend to skip right over the wedding night (or, perhaps more frequently, the night when the distant lady finally lets down her guard for her enamoured suitor).

In her dreams, Éowyn had reached for her, pushed her down, kissed her again and again. There had been something frightening and wonderful in the sensation of being captured, being unable to get away but not wanting to even if she could. She cannot explain it to Éowyn, could not possibly say it out loud - but the dreams began with safer, tamer territory, and perhaps she too can start there. Very daring, and not entirely sure of herself, Glinda reaches up to take hold of Éowyn's wrist, guiding her lover's hand slowly down her neck; the light touch makes her shiver and bite at her lip, head tilting back a little almost instinctively. But she is not done: she draws Éowyn's hand a little lower, along the neckline of her gown, before letting go as the other woman's knuckles graze against her breast.

[shieldofrohan]

Éowyn can feel the dim beat of a pulse distantly under her fingertips, as they glide down the pale column of Glinda's neck. The skin there is so soft, so fine, that it seems to her almost unbearable in its intimacy, and her own pulse stutters at it. And still she is drawn down, to the collar of Glinda's gown, the slight arch of her clavicle, the swell of a breast beneath.

She has experience with women by now, too: Gríma would never have shared her with another man, but his jealousy did not extend to women, and on a few occasions once he was satisfied of her surrender, he had paired her with a maid or a whore, to amuse him with their coupling. She is not innocent, as she once was. But like all her experience of sex, it has been cold and hateful, a performance undertaken through gritted teeth. This is different. Now, she wants to let her hand move down, to explore and be explored. Now the layers of clothing between them feel like a prison, not a shield; now there is a boiling urge in her to rip them all off, to tear off Glinda's gown and her own nightdress, and crash into one another like a storm against a mountainside, kissing and touching and loving.

She does not quite go that far. But she does move with a decisive swiftness, half-standing and closing what little space is still between them, until she is almost straddling Glinda's lap as her hand presses under the neck of Glinda's gown, finding her breast and pressing her palm to it, as much as the confines of clothing will allow. Her mouth finds Glinda's in the same moment, tangling their tongues together, her breath ragged and raw, her other hand steadying her against the back of Glinda's chair.

[sent_to_try_us]

Éowyn surges towards her and Glinda reaches out, her hands finding the other woman's hips as if they were meant to be there. It is so easy to let Éowyn lean into her, so easy to tilt her head up and let herself drown in the pleasure of kissing her lover again and again and again. Éowyn's fingers graze the curve of her breast, Éowyn's palm presses against her nipple, and Glinda gasps into the kiss. Her body seems to know what to do, even though she doesn't; her back arches, pressing closer to Éowyn, and she finds herself reaching up to wind her fingers through the other woman's hair. That long golden braid will be a mess, and Glinda does not care - more than that, she finds she likes the idea of seeing Éowyn dishevelled and heedless with pleasure.

When she breaks the kiss to catch her breath, Éowyn is almost on her lap, limned with gold in the light of the fire and the candles. Her lover's nightgown, tied loosely at the neck with a ribbon, is temptingly close; daring, Glinda reaches to tug at it until the ribbon comes undone and the linen parts smoothly. Her fingers trace the soft skin beneath, and then she is leaning in to press kisses against Éowyn's collarbone, down her chest, turning her head to find and follow the curve of her lover's breast with her mouth.

[shieldofrohan]

It feels easy. It has never felt easy, before. She bites her lip, her thumb running against Glinda's nipple as she presses her hand deeper into the other woman's dress, not caring how the neckline cuts into her arm at this awkward angle. There is no simple ribbon to pull on that gown, and she will eventually, she realises, have to disentangle herself to get Glinda undressed - but right now, she cannot bear to pull away. Especially not with Glinda's mouth drifting lower, pressing heated kisses to the pale skin of her chest, the small rise of her breast.

It feels so easy, in fact, that she feels horribly sure it is a dream, that she will awake in her tent outside the walls or some worse place. It cannot be that they have simply found one another, come across one another, and now they love one another. That is something that might happen in dreams, in songs and stories and childish imaginings, but it is not something that happens in truth. Except that Glinda's breast truly shifts against her hand, rising and falling with each breath; and Glinda's breath truly whispers against her skin, warm and soft; and there is a crick starting in her wrist and wetness starting between her thighs, and her skirt is pulled taut against her legs where she stands, and it is easy, and it is real.

"Bed," she murmurs, and there is an urgency in her tone, a plea. "Come to bed with me."

[sent_to_try_us]

[⚠️ Suspicious Content] There is something in Éowyn's voice that Glinda has never heard before, something that makes her breath stutter and her thighs press together, that makes desire pool inside her. Éowyn's skin is smooth and warm against her lips, her scent irresistible, and Glinda is not sure how she can possibly stop kissing her lover for even a moment.

"I will," she murmurs, the words blurred against Éowyn's breast. "I will, only we must both stand up first - " There is laughter in her voice, because neither of them are making any move towards actually doing that; it takes a real effort to draw back, even a little, and look up at the young queen. This time when Glinda bites at her lip, it is not from embarrassment: Éowyn is flushed and almost unbearably pretty, her eyes dark, her breath coming quickly. It is hard to believe any of this is real instead of just another dream. But in a dream her legs would not be pressed uncomfortably against the chair; in a dream she would simply need to blink in order to be in a bed.

Besides, her dreams have ended very quickly after being in a bed, and the idea that this might not end abruptly is both thrilling and terrifying.

She follows Éowyn to stand, already reaching for the other woman even before she's quite out of the chair, her hands going back to Éowyn's hips to tug her nightgown up. They have done this before, Glinda is practised at getting the young queen out of her clothing - but this is different. Before, she had been careful to keep her gaze modest, to concentrate on what she was doing rather than on Éowyn's body, and besides Éowyn had been covered with scrapes and bruises that aroused concern rather than desire. This time -

"Oh, but you are beautiful," Glinda says softly, and means it with all her heart.

[shieldofrohan]

Not all the marks are gone, and there are new ones to replace those that have: a healing welt on her forearm where chain-mail has been harshly knocked into skin, an arrow-wound in her calf, a mostly-faded bruise on her shoulder. She minds them less than the old wounds: they were honestly come by. And besides, when Glinda looks at her that way, it is hard to feel scarred at all. There is only the sense that she is beautiful, that she must be beautiful, for so beautiful a woman to look at her that way.

"Come here." Her voice is low, barely more than a whisper, throaty and inviting. She reaches out with open hands, reaching for Glinda's dress. "Let me see you, too."

Glinda has seen her naked many times. It is not mutual: she has hardly been called upon to help her lady-in-waiting in and out of clothing, and perhaps she could have stolen a glance while Glinda was changing, but she is not so callous. Now she finds herself overwhelmed by curiosity as well as desire, wanting desperately to know whether Glinda can be as fair, as perfect, as softly sweet beneath her gown as she has been in Éowyn's imaginings.

[sent_to_try_us]

Until now, Glinda had been rather inclined to resent the number of ladies who had been sent with her - she had understood it, yes, but had not been pleased about it. But that same lack of assistants had informed the clothing she brought, the dress she is even now wearing, and it means that they will not spend more than a few minutes in undoing the laces. Beneath the pretty dress (which gets draped across a chest, with somewhat less care than normal) her shift is made of the same fine linen as Éowyn's, embroidered with delicate white stitchwork - one of the prettier ones she owns, and Glinda is pleased to have chosen it.

For some reason the idea of taking it off herself seems far too immodest, even though the thought of her lover taking it off ought to be no better. She reaches for Éowyn's hands, steps in close as she sets the other woman's hands on her hips - an invitation as well as a request - and tilts her head up to steal yet another kiss.

[shieldofrohan]

That doubt is trying to steal in again - that sense that she is overreaching, that she is wronging Glinda by drawing her into this, that her lust is no nobler than Gríma's - but it is difficult to feel that she is overreaching when her reach is being guided farther. For the moment, she can forget all that is behind her, and all that is before them; and she leans in and gladly meets Glinda's soft lips, slowly drawing the light linen up over Glinda's thighs.

She could kiss her forever, she thinks, rather dazedly. It is like water to the thirsty, like air to the buried. Her teeth graze lightly against Glinda's lip, her tongue following after, and she pulls away only long enough and far enough to draw Glinda's nightgown off over her head.

Or that is her intent, at least. In the moment, she is so caught by the sight that she freezes, the nightgown still in her hands, her eyes tracing the soft curves and gentle lines of Glinda's naked body. She is exactly as Éowyn had pictured her, fair and soft and beautiful, and yet it seems a shock to actually see her fully, to find her unmarked and unmarred and delicate, as beautiful as in dreams. Éowyn's breath catches a little, and if Glinda's look was worshipful, hers is no less so, wondering at the woman before her as one might wonder at a sunrise after an endless night.

[sent_to_try_us]

It should not be this that makes her blush - but it is; Éowyn's gaze is so intense, the expression on her face so sweet, that Glinda feels heat rise through her body and burn in her cheeks. She looks away, trying not to smile too much - steps in to kiss Éowyn again, as if that somehow will make her less conscious of the way her lover looks at her.

Two thin layers of linen ought not to make the difference that they do. Éowyn's body is so warm against hers, and Glinda's breath catches as she presses closer to the other woman, her arms coming up to wind around Éowyn's neck. The sensations are overwhelming - the softness of Éowyn's breasts against her own, the strength of her shoulders where Glinda's arms rest on them, the sharp jut of her hip. It is impossible to hold back a soft, pleased sound; impossible too to stop herself from mimicking Éowyn and biting lightly at the other woman's lip.

[shieldofrohan]

Glinda is soft where Éowyn is sharp: her skin smooth and unmarred, her breasts full and high, her curves far more pronounced and the angles of her form less harsh. She is warm and gentle and clinging, and there is nothing in her that threatens violence, and Éowyn exhales so shakily it is almost a sob as they come together. Even the graze of teeth is gentle, an affectionate intimacy rather than an attack.

She wraps her arms around Glinda, holding her close, feeling the warmth of skin on skin. Her hands do not seem able to stay still, roaming up and down Glinda's back as if of their own volition: now tracing the angle of Glinda's shoulderblade, now the curve of her backside.

"You," she murmurs, between kisses, "are a wonder." And she means it wholly: she can hardly imagine such a woman exists, in a world that has fallen so deeply into evil and cold shadow. Someone who is kind, who is gentle, who - against all odds - is innocent. Her mouth trails along Glinda's cheek, down her neck, as she steps backwards and draws Glinda with her towards the bed.

[sent_to_try_us]

It must be Éowyn who steps away, for Glinda cannot - not when Éowyn's hands are on her body, making her shiver with pleasure and desire; not when Éowyn's mouth is on her neck, and Glinda's head tips back, wanting more. She needs no prompting to follow the other woman's lead, so eager to keep touching that her hands cannot quite seem to move away from her lover's arms, her shoulders, her back, and in the end it is Glinda who is first to climb onto the bed and reach out for Éowyn to join her.

She has no idea what to do, and it matters terribly while at the same time not mattering at all. The world has become nothing more than the two of them, and the firelight, and the bed, the darkness outside the windows and the quiet of the sleeping city wrapping them close. Éowyn is golden in the firelight, and there is a long moment when Glinda can do nothing but gaze at her, drinking her in.

She ought to be afraid. Those of her ladies who are married do not tend to speak fondly of the bedchamber; at first there is pain, and then merely a chore to be tolerated at best. But none of them have ever said anything about how the touch of someone's hand might send sparks flying, or how it seems impossible to stop kissing once started.

"Kiss me again?" But she is already reaching out to wind her arms around Éowyn's neck, already tilting her head up, overbalancing slightly on the mattress as she leans into the other woman, and not even trying to hide her desire.

[shieldofrohan]

She cannot think of this as sex; she cannot bear to think of this in the same terms as what was done to her, only a few rooms from here. If she does, her nerve will break. But it is helped by how different it feels, how readily her body moves to meet Glinda's and how pleasant it is to find her heart racing. For so long now, whenever she has been touched, she has let herself leave herself, withdraw to some inner holdfast and watch at a distance. Now, to her wonder and her terror, she finds she wants more than anything to feel every touch and kiss, to linger in every warm moment.

She does not need to be asked twice. She climbs onto the bed after Glinda, made clumsy by desire, and her arm winds around Glinda's waist as their lips meet again. She climbs onto Glinda, too, straddling her lap and pressing her gently back against the bed, ready to withdraw at the slightest hint of discomfort. Her tongue twines with Glinda's, their breath finding a natural harmony, and she feels all of it: the warmth and softness of skin on skin, the thunder of both their hearts, the pleading closeness of Glinda's embrace. Her free hand cups Glinda's cheek, then trails down the side of her neck, down to her breast and belly, mapping the contours of a body that is not her own, and that has never been hurt.

[sent_to_try_us]

For all her thinness, all her edges, Éowyn is strong. She makes each step seem so easy, so obvious: her arm around Glinda's waist; the smooth, gentle pressure that tips Glinda onto her back; her legs on each side of Glinda's thighs - and Glinda can do nothing but wind her fingers into Éowyn's hair, dishevelling her careful braid even more, and arch her body as if she can somehow find a way to get closer still.

Without thinking about it, she draws one knee up until there is the soft rub of delicate curls against her skin, and then slickness and a sudden heat. Her breath catches then, stuttering in her chest, as Glinda makes sense of it - realizes, as she does, that the same slickness is between her own thighs, and that even the slightest movements of their bodies feel remarkably intense if they make her legs press together.

It is then that Éowyn's hand makes its way down her body, thumb brushing over her nipple, fingers caressing her side, and Glinda says oh as her lover's hand seems to send little jolts of pleasure through her that ground themselves between her thighs. The sound is swallowed in their kiss - which is lucky, for she has forgotten that she ought to be silent - and Glinda's hips rock up towards Éowyn's, trying to find a way to ask for more.

[shieldofrohan]

Éowyn is wet. She realises how wet only at the friction of Glinda's skin against her cunt; only then does she fully recognise the cool brush of air on slick, aching flesh; only then does she realise that she is not only enjoying this but truly moved by it.

How long has it been since she was so readily aroused, before even being touched? She knows there was a time, when sex was a vague fantasy and lust a private thing, that she found it overtaking her, that she touched herself for no sake but her own; but it was another woman who experienced that, a long time ago. This feels like a first, like something has been made new. Like everything has been made new.

"I want to touch you." Some of that wonder is in her voice, low and throaty from where she trails her mouth down Glinda's throat, laying small kisses along the soft line of Glinda's shoulder. There is a hint of fear in her voice, too, incongruous among their mutual desire. It is fear that drives her, more than desire: the fear that she is mistaken, that she may destroy what she touches, that all this is only another way to break. That she will break Glinda, as she herself has been broken.

But Glinda moves against her, an urging movement that cannot be ignored, and Éowyn's body yearns towards that yearning, and she has never been able to altogether flee what she fears.

"I want to touch you," she says again, barely a whisper, and her fingers still at the edge of Glinda's mound, her heart pounding in her ears. She pulls herself up enough to meet Glinda's eyes, the look in her own eyes a curious mixture of hunger and doubt. "I... May I?"

[sent_to_try_us]

Éowyn's mouth is on her neck, sending shivers through Glinda's body, and for a moment she thinks to hold the other woman there - reaches up, even, before she hears the slightest quiver in Éowyn's voice, and then her hand comes instead to rest on her lover's back. It is almost impossible to think when her body is sending such insistent messages of desire, but Glinda does her best, takes a deep breath in and looks down into Éowyn's eyes just as the other woman looks up.

And oh, the expression on her face - how clearly she is torn, how obvious the war of emotions. Glinda's fingers tighten against Éowyn's back, as if by holding her just a little closer she might shield her lover from fear. The warrior queen vulnerable melts her heart just as she did crying in the bath all those months (those few short weeks) ago, and Glinda's hand slides up into Éowyn's hair to pull her head down and kiss her.

She does not hold back. Clumsy, yes, she is still clumsy, and Éowyn's teeth bump against her lip before Glinda tilts her head properly again - but she pours her desire into the kiss, all the aching hours reading and rereading Éowyn's letters, wanting to be able to kiss her again and again until they are both sated. Without quite realizing it, she has pushed herself up on one elbow, her entire body inclining towards her lover's.

"Yes," she manages eventually, between kisses. "Yes, Éowyn, please - anything - only do not stop."