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vulgarweed (vulgarweed) wrote in porn_battle,

Crossover, Chronicles of Narnia/Lord of the Rings, Aravis Tarkheena/Eowyn, horsewomen
Nothing is what it seems in this copse full of corpses, a quiet place on the edge of the battlefield where some had managed to crawl away to die.

There is a terrible silence around them now, but in the throb of her wounds Aravis at least knows herself to be alive, and that is enough. It was more than she had hoped for.

She sits up suddenly, with more fear than pain, when a pale face blots her sunlight.

"Pardon me," says the voice. "I watched you ride in the battle. You...did not seat your horse like an Easterling. I was struck with watching you and I hoped you had survived. I am glad to see it."

Aravis winces at the mention of her horse more than her wounds. "Hwin," she says, fightening tears.

"I saw your mare run when you were thrown. Like a fair wind through the grass she was. Like one of the horses of my country. Methinks we shall find her well when all this is done."

"I am not...an Easterling, unless that's what you call my people. You are fair like a Narnian..."

"I know not where that country lies. I am Dernhelm of Rohan."

Carefully Dernhelm lifts away Aravis's dented helmet, and gasps at what he sees. "You are no lad!"

Aravis's eyes narrow, cannily. "Nor are you, Dernhelm, if that is really your name."

Hard to say how she knew. Scent, perhaps. Lightness of touch. Way of moving upon life, small hands in big gloves, a lighter burden than a warhorses expects.

"Now I know why I watched thee so," breathes the girl whose long streaming hair, now freed, is pale golden. "I am Eowyn, and I rejoice with..."

Fierce kiss with light taste of bruises and blood. Slim thighs strongly muscled, built for gripping and directing; stiff gloves removed and small nimble fingers gone playing beneath stained leather and jingling mail. Wounds licked, sweat tasted, entangled loins in a slow ride, building to a panting gallop on the warming ground.

In another life, they would have worn silks, done this upon a perfumed bower. There is a joyful neighing sound in the chilly wind, not so far away.