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"Patience now, sister," Éomer says, and the tip of his sword flashes as he gives the long blade a twitch – a slight motion, and the point brushes against cloth, catching, peeling it back. "Now brother – " Éowyn says, her voice low, escaping in a gasp. A slight tremor, color high in her cheeks, and she is there, quiet and still, standing her ground. Her sword is cast aside, her hands numb and hanging limp. But her hands are curled into loose fists. The sword point dips and catches in the lacing of her tunic. A twist and then it parts, threads of cut leather hanging wide. The shirt underneath is off-white and he watches the rise and fall of her chest. Her heart is beating, here, and the sword point traces the swell of one breast. Quiet and still, yes, and Éowyn closes her eyes. Her legs, parted, planted firm against the ground, the stable ground, and there is dirt and grit and hay at Éowyn's feet. Push and tug and push again and a smile curls on Éomer's lip as Éowyn's shoulder is bared, her clavicle a soft spot of flesh that shines in the dull lantern light. Her breath is like the flutter of a trapped bird and her breath is caught, because he can't remember the sound of her having exhaled. Maybe, and maybe not, and Éowyn's eyes are wide and shining bright, the flicker of lantern light and some other something, too. A breath, then, a loud gasp, and Éomer realizes that she is watching him, watching him still, and there is a breath between the point of his sword and the soft skin of her arm. He licks his lips, watching her, parted lips and parted legs, and the pounding of his heart is a dull roar in his ears. His sword is heavy and the point falls towards the earth, waiting, and a grin tugs at his lips as she snaps out of that moment – tugging at the fallen sleeve, unable to retie it, the laces cut in two. "You'll need to get that mended," he says, sheathing his sword. "I'll do it myself." |