After fifteen sickening minutes he appeared to have stopped, and leaned heavily upon the settee beside him, his face in his hands, shivering. There was another pregnant pause, longer than the first, and Éowyn began to get uncomfortable; she could think of no parting words for him, so she decided to simply leave. But when she moved to swing her legs over the edge of his bed, he lurched forward across the floor, faster than she herself could have moved but still sluggish in his drugged state. His hand clutched the haft of his knife where it lay on the floor, streaked with blood, and he rolled onto his side, holding it in front of him and staring up at her with hatred in his light eyes. Éowyn could see the tenseness in his muscles, bunched and ready to strike, and she knew that even though he still felt the effects of the philter she would be no match for him, unarmed as she was.
“Let me out,” she said firmly.
“No,” angrily answered the Elf. “You will stay here until I fetch your uncle and brother. Then we shall see how much trust they put in you to watch over your people!”
“I’ll scream,” she threatened, taking a deep breath. She saw him stiffen, realizing that at the moment she still had the advantage over him. She continued triumphantly, “I’ll scream and say you raped me. I’ll show them how you’ve taken my maidenhood from me. And even if your friends don’t believe me, the men of Edoras will, and you will be struck down before you even leave Meduseld.”
He regarded her for a moment, a myriad of emotions flitting across his tear-stained face; at last he bit his lip in frustration and lowered the knife. He sat up and brushed his hair back from his face with tremulous hands, turning away from her as he did so. Éowyn got out of the bed and walked stiffly over to where her blue robe still lay, spread out on the floor in front of the hearth. She bent over slowly to pick it up, and shrugged it on with a groan. As she was tying it around her waist, he spoke from directly behind her, though she hadn’t heard him move.
“Why did you do this to me?” he asked harshly.
She turned to him wearily, running her fingers through the snarls in her hair. He was still pale from his vomiting, and his limbs were quivering as though he had palsy. “Because I didn’t want to die a virgin,” she said, her voice cold and uncaring, “and I decided to experiment on you, since your friend Aragorn was unresponsive to my advances.”
“Of course he was unresponsive,” said the Elf hotly, flushing. “He is betrothed to another.”
Éowyn felt her heart turn to ice, and she flinched as though the Elf had slapped her. “Who is she?” she asked flatly.
“Arwen Undómiel, the daughter of Elrond; an Elf woman,” said the Elf. He turned away from her and went to the basin beside the fireplace. He took out a cloth, wrung the water from it, and started to dab at his neck, wincing a little. Éowyn noticed he had put the knife down, but she didn’t know where; it made her a little nervous, as though there were a viper in a woodpile she couldn’t see but knew was there. “You have no chance,” he said, looking her over unkindly; “Aragorn would never choose a mere mortal over the love of a beautiful Elf. I don’t blame him; I wouldn’t, either.” He rinsed out the cloth in the basin and started to wash the blood from his shoulder.
Éowyn couldn’t speak. There was a dull roaring sound in her ears, and she felt as though her head was heavy and stuffed with cotton wadding. Her vision tunneled a little and she wavered on her feet, hoping against hope she wouldn’t faint. She clutched the mantelpiece with one hand and said weakly, “She is beautiful?”
“Yes,” said the Elf, glancing with malice at her; “beautiful and gentle and wise; the loveliest Elf-maiden in Arda. Her hair is dark as midnight, her skin like the moon glowing on alabaster, and her voice soft and melodious. All who see her love her. Aragorn chose well.”
Éowyn looked over at the Elf; she saw that although he was putting on a show of indifference to her his hands were quivering as he wrung out the bloody cloth. She was stung by his comments, and said, to salvage her ego: “You shouldn’t be so angry with me, friend Elf; you’ve just been given something many men in this kingdom have greatly desired but been denied.”
He turned to her then, his pallid hair swinging about his shoulders. He was white-lipped and shaking, an angry fire in his bright eyes. His hands balled into fists at his sides. “You did not give it to me, Lady Éowyn,” he spat, chin trembling. “You forced me to take that which I would never have wanted – not even if all the Elf-women of Middle Earth sailed to Valinor, and I was the only Firstborn left.”
Smarting from this retort, Éowyn drew back in rage, eyes flashing. She clutched her robe about herself and turned to the door, preparing to storm out, and planning on slamming the door in his face so hard the entire passageway would shake. But faster than she could blink he had come up behind her, one arm wrapped about her waist, the other clutching her shoulders fiercely and pressing them up to his chest, his hand over her mouth so she could not cry out. She thrashed about, desperately trying to evade his grasp, but the philter was starting to wear off and his strength was returning. Yet he still had some of the potion in his veins; Éowyn could feel he was rock-hard, pushing up against her buttocks.
She was expecting him to take her again, and was just debating whether to give in to him or to start screaming, thus sealing his death, when the hand around her waist shifted until it was over her pudenda. His long fingers gripped her tightly, and in her ear she could hear and feel him breathing out words in his own tongue. She couldn’t understand them, but they sounded like a chant.
Suddenly Éowyn’s raw and bleeding passage began to grow warm, and she felt an inexorable tightness deep within her. A soft, soothing wave washed over her entire pelvis, and Éowyn realized it was not so much a feeling of pleasure, but the sudden absence of pain and discomfort. The stinging and burning vanished, and the dull ache of her torn and battered hymen faded away entirely.
The Elf fell silent, and moved his hand back to her stomach. Éowyn stirred experimentally; even the rubbing, stinging, aching feeling was gone. He lowered his head once more to her ear and said hoarsely:
“There – I have healed your maidenhead; you are a virgin once more.” Then, pushing her roughly across the room, he drew a key out of the desk drawer, unlocked the door and opened it; taking Éowyn by the hair he flung her over the doorstop into the hallway, slamming the door closed behind her and locking it.
Éowyn rolled to her feet, glanced quickly about to make sure no one was watching, and then gathered the skirt of her robe up in her hands and fled down the hallway.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.