Lord of the Rings - Teeth!
In Rohan, there was a piece of wisdom passed from mother to daughter out of the elder days in the East: If you wed with a wolf, you bed with his teeth.
Eowyn wed with a gentle man who loved gentleness. For all his strength of arm, he touched her reverently, like she was the first tender leaves of Spring unfurling after a hard frost.
She was teaching him the songs of Rohan for him to eagerly record. They were all full of sunlight and brotherhood, hoofbeats and the sound of spears and the wind and the rolling green. Singing them made her sad, sometimes, though she couldn’t quite say why.
She sat quietly in the garden, looking at her bed of chamomile, yarrow, kingsfoil, ginger.
Farmir draped her starry mantle around her and sat beside her for a long time in silence. At last he asked her, “Do you miss home?”
“No,” she answered honestly. She loved Ithilien. She loved the cliffs and the white rocks and the windy highlands. She loved being the mistress of her own estate. She loved that Faramir sat silently and allowed her to gather her thoughts, that he never pressed or prodded or would that she give him anything but of her own will. “I miss…” she missed the smell of blood and sword oil and the bright flash of metal. She missed the righteous burn in her body when it obeyed her commands. She missed the bulk of her armor. “I miss sword-work. May I come and watch you at the practice fields tomorrow?”
“Of course,” he said, surprised but open.
Faramir drilled cleanly and well, moving over the white, packed-down earth with delicate control. Even from the fence, Eowyn could see the in-turned look on his face, his steady hands, and knew that his sword would not falter for a moment. He was beautiful. She wanted him…she wanted…she wanted…
There were swords and helms and spare pieces of armor in the shed beside the practice field. Dernhelm found a sword that was a good span for his height and well-balanced. He buckled on a breastplate, feeling the comforting weight of it settle over his chest and smooth out the curves there. He walked out onto the field, and his bright sword bit into the morning.
Faramir looked at him for a moment, then nodded, falling back and waiting for Dernhelm to make the first move.
Dernhelm lunged at him. Faramir met him neatly. Sword sang against sword, and Dernhelm’s body sang of sunlight and brotherhood, of hoofbeats and the sound of spears and the wind and the rolling green.
He led the dance until Faramir faltered, stepping back onto the wrong foot, then he forced him down onto one knee.
Faramir looked up at him, the wind pushing locks of his hair all wild, his mouth slightly open and his grey eyes like stars.
Dernhelm stood over him, breathing hard, his blade pointed straight at his heart. “If you wed with a wolf…” he said.
Faramir smiled reverently. “Come, my white wolf. Let me taste your teeth.”
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