A warrior's lot was to die in battle. Above all else, that is why Eowyn had ridden out. To fight, to kill if it would aid their cause, but most of all, to die.
Perhaps it was no surprise, then, that the Witch-King had denied her that. It was known that foul beings of sorcery could see the minds of men -- better, sometimes, than they saw themselves -- and as their weapons had clashed she had felt the wraith clawing at the edges of her mind, sifting through her resolve and rage to peer into her deepest secrets.
She'd struck his ghastly mount dead with a single blow of her sword, but her victory had been short lived. The creature's blood, in death, had rained down upon her, drenched her face and body, and though its breath was poison its blood was a poison fiercer still. In a few heartbeats it had rendered her insensible; even now, after an unknown time unconscious, she could still smell the rotted scent of it clinging to her.
When she came to, she found herself lying on her back upon a black stone slab like one arrayed for burial. Her armor and sword were gone, her hair unbound, and she was dressed in a simple shift of pure white. Not only had she been taken captive instead of killed as was her rightful due as a warrior, someone had stripped her while she was asleep. Her skin crawled, imagining what foul slave of the Eye had laid its hands on her. Groaning, she pushed herself upright on the slab, her body aching in protest at the movement. Everything hurt, her exhausted muscles ravaged by poison, but the physical pain was a distant thing that barely concerned her compared to the hot sting of humiliation in her heart.
She was a shieldmaiden of Rohan, daughter of kings, who had ridden out to fight and die in glory...but now, little more than a prisoner of some cold crypt, for what purpose she could not guess.
One thing she was certain of -- the carrion-lord would not leave her here to die forgotten, at least. There had been too much fire in his threats for that. She had no sword, but she still possessed a warrior's ungentle hands; with the razor-sharp certainty possessed only by those who wished above all to die, Eowyn sat composed upon the edge of her burial slab and waited for her captor to show himself. Then she would fight him tooth and nail until one of them slumped to the floor dead.
The witch-king's presence was betrayed long before he entered Eowyn's burial chamber. Upon the battlefield his arrival had been heralded by a cold wind, a smell of rot, and an unnatural hush that had fallen upon the raging din of war; here in the very heart of the nazgul's citadel it was always silent and cold and foul, so she heard him coming in the sudden skittering of carrion insects and a bone-chilling breeze that filled her nose with the scent of fresh blood. She met him standing as he appeared before her, clad in tattered black, and before he could even utter a word she flung herself towards him, hands out as though to throttle the unlife from him.
She struck against something solid, something unyielding as bone beneath the cowl, but her clawing hands closed on only empty cloth. Desperately she tore at the witch-king's shroud, hoping to find something to hurt, but Eowyn may as well have been fighting with the stagnant itself.
Beneath the cowl and the crown, there was simply nothing. The whole of the witch-king's being was contained in his terrible malice alone.
Even though it seemed as though Eowyn could not touch the empty being that stood before her, he could certainly touch her -- she felt the air around her shift as though the nothingness had moved, and icy cold claws closed around her throat.
Desperately, she clawed at the air in front of her, but struck nothing. The claws tightened, and she choked, her vision swimming.
Eowyn's back struck the black stone slab before she registered that she was being thrown. The black cowl was over her now, the invisible eyes of the witch-king boring into her; a freezing hand locked her wrists above her head in a grip of ice. She could feel his breath upon her cheek -- a breath that was not living, but lapped in despair and exhaled corruption. For a long moment, the rageful pounding of her own heart was all she heard.
And then, he spoke.
"No living man may ever strike me down," he hissed, his voice barely more than a whisper but still more powerful than any living warrior's. "I have had ages to contemplate these words. Did you truly think I did not imagine that some day a maid might try her hand against me?" She wrenched around in his grip, struggled, but he was stronger by far, with the fearful strength of the grave. He let her go, and her arms fell useless to her sides. Some fell magic had taken hold of her, sapped the will from her limbs. Roughly, he shoved the fabric of her shift up to her waist, sliding up beneath the garment to trail sharp metal claws along the plane of her stomach, as though daring her to breathe and test their sharpness.
"Kill me," she spat, and then her tongue went still. She comforted herself with the knowledge that, when faced with a strength pinning her to the stone that she could not so much as touch, she had forced the witch-king to subdue her with sorcery instead.
"And yet you still think I fear you enough that I would grant your wish. I have looked into your mind, warrior maid, and I see that you long for the grave." Eowyn shuddered as the hand groping beneath her shift moved to encircle her breast, stroking there like a lover might. It occurred to her that she was naked beneath the shift -- naked to the waist, now, before the lord of all foul things. "Are you not pleased, then, that I prepared this crypt for you? Are you not delighted to offer your maidenhead to he who rules over all things that are dead and yet die not?" Eowyn was helpless against him as the witch-king forced her knees apart. Without thought she tried to move to cover herself, but her limbs were still as unresponsive as a corpse's. Humiliation burned in her cheeks as she felt the witch-king's eyes on her, studying the smooth expanse of her thighs and the cleft between her legs. The witch king would be the first man to ever lay eyes upon her naked, and the thought made bile rise in the back of her throat.
The Witch-King's hands gripped her waist -- their size was such that they could encircle it wholly. His fingers pressed hard enough to bruise, denting the skin where he clutched her, but the fingers themselves remained incorporeal, invisible. Paralyzed with the monster's magic, she could only watch as he dragged her hips to the edge of the slab, her flesh contorting beneath his unseen fingers as though it were denting and reddening of its own accord. The sight was gruesome, but she could scarcely look away.
"You are no man," he sneered at her, his voice feeling as close by her ear as someone whispering a secret. "So you proudly boasted to me. And I have taken you at your word. Instead of riding into battle like a man, I shall see you used on your back like a woman." Another rough jerk brought her hips up, her thighs spread painfully up and back, her buttocks half hanging over the side of the slab so the edge dug into the small of her back.
Despite all this talk of bridal crypts and maidenheads, Eowyn had never imagined that the lord of the nazgul possessed something so worldly, so mortal, as a cock like a living man might. And yet, the sudden sting of cold against her inner thigh, the sensation of ice jabbing at her labia, was unmistakable. She was a virgin, but not so innocent that she could not imagine the feel of a man's member against her -- yet knowing what was about to come did not make his first stroke any less agonizing. She could not see the cock that buried itself inside her in one vicious stroke, but she could feel it splitting her open -- it felt too wide for her virgin cunt, forcing her open in every direction. Eowyn felt as though she had been impaled upon a spear of pure ice, cold as death and unyielding as iron. He stayed like that for a long moment, letting her feel the icy tip of his cock buried impossibly deep inside her. Her muscles ached beneath the numbing cold; words of protest, of defiance, crawled up the back of her throat but her tongue would not move to spit them out.
The Witch-King dragged himself out of her halfway, then thrust in again, and again, with enough force that her back bent against the hard marble edge. Breath was forced from her lungs, but she could not speak or cry out or even gasp. The pain was as relentless as the nazgul lord himself -- the deep chill that burned as surely as any fire all along the inside of her cunt, the dull throb of flesh forced wide, the sharp sting of split skin. He thrust in time with Eowyn's choking breath, his hands leaving her waist to knead at both her breasts beneath the ruined shift and caress the hollow of her throat in a mocking imitation of compassion, every touch trailing a searing icy line down her skin.
He had cast away his cowl, so she could not see his groping hands or the massive shaft that penetrated her or even the body she could feel her legs braced against. It was as if she was alone in this tomb with the darkness and the chill of decay, ravaged insensible by nothingness itself. As suddenly as he had begun, he stopped fully buried inside her. The witch-king's clawed hands tightened painfully on her thighs, and she could feel his cock twitching deep in her belly. After a long moment, he withdrew from her with a hard jerk of his hips, and Eowyn found to her shock that she could move -- or at least, she could gasp in pain as she felt the nazgul's cock leave her torn and aching cunt. Something cold was still inside of her; with her heart in her throat, she realized it must be the monster's seed. Weakly, she reached down to clean herself, but found her wrists seized again.
"What's left for you now, shieldmaiden? You've been stripped of your shield, and of your maidenhood," the nazgul hissed. With all the strength of the dead, he forced her hands into iron manacles, twisted them tight until she swore she felt her bones creak beneath them. "You're nothing now, until I come for you again." He vanished then like mist before the morning sun, leaving her lying there chained and filled. Exhausted, Eowyn laid back on her matted hair and fell almost at once into a shallow, unrestful sleep.
He was as good as his word, her wraithly groom.
In the endless darkness of Minas Morgul she could not mark time by the passing of day and night, but he came back to her again and again, each time with some new torment in mind. He would ravage her upon the marble slab, forcing his cock into her throat until she choked; he would drag her by the hair this way and that before he threw her to the stone floor to take her as she lay face-down in the filth below; he would pry her open with two, three, as many massive iron-clad fingers as she could be forced to take, twisting up her insides while she gritted her teeth against the pain. And each time, he spent inside of her again and left her like that, leashed and naked and befouled with his seed.
After the second time, the creeping cold of his violation refused to warm. She could not reach between her legs with her arms shackled as they were, but it felt as though the blood in her thighs and belly was beginning to turn sluggish, like a river clogged with ice in winter. There were no windows to let in the moon and the stars, if such things even existed for her now, but in the corpse-light of Minas Morgul Eowyn could see her skin turning pallid as the rags that had once been her shroud, and trace the veins that ran along her wrists and thighs as they blackened from the inside.
When the nazgul defiled her mouth, it tasted of rot and stung the back of her throat. The witch-king had struck her across the face, leaving a shallow cut from his iron gauntlets, and the blood that seeped from her wound was thin and flecked with black like swamp-water. It was certainly some fell sickness that had taken hold of her. No torture could be more terrible than the knowledge that her own flesh was slowly being conquered from the inside out, but death was beyond her reach and vengeance even further still.
In the crypts of Minas Morgul, because she could do little else, Eowyn waited and endured.
When the witch-king finally unlocked her shackles, it was not to set her free. Instead, Eowyn found herself dragged -- fully naked, now, her cunt and thighs raw and abused and her body marked by blight and bruises -- to the top of the wraith's tower. The height was dizzying; a child of the plains, Eowyn had never seen anything so high, and when he bent her over the battlement for the first time in her captivity she nearly begged for mercy.
She was bent at the waist, the edge of the battlement digging painfully into her belly, and far enough upon the edge that her breasts hung over the abyss, the rough stonework dragging against still-sensitive skin. Desperately she clutched at the wall to steady herself as the lord of the nazgul moved behind her.
"Perhaps the Lidless Eye will favor us with a glance" the witch-king hissed in her ear, bending over her. He took a handful of her hair and twisted it around his fingers as he slid his cock along the cleft between her legs. "He would be pleased indeed to see a proud Rohirrim rider remade thus as my blighted plaything. Perhaps in his delight he shall grant you one of his great gifts." Her cunt was already dripping, arousal beginning to heat the perpetual corpse-like cold of her sickened body -- so it had been the past few times the witch-king had taken her. Whatever morgul-poison he had infected her with, it turned her own flesh against her now -- made her body willing as a wife when the nazgul lord touched her, though her mind still recoiled in revulsion.
The wraith seemed delighted at her humiliating arousal, taking his time stroking her sex, bringing her closer to a peak but never as far as that. With a disgusted, snarling whine she jerked her hips towards him, half frustration and half a struggle. He did not keep her still with magic or chains this time -- fear of the fatal drop below her did its work to keep her pinned.
He slid inside her, easily enough. He no longer felt cold -- she too had taken on the chill of the grave in her illness -- but he was still thick and unrelenting, almost more a weapon than a member. She hissed in pain, and the witch-king laughed coldly. "Perhaps you tire of my company," he whispered to her. "Perhaps I shall grant you leave to entertain my soldiers, then. A mountain troll's cock is as long as your arm, plaything, and wider across than your clenched fist. Ten score orcs await my command below, to ravage what I please." Eowyn screwed her eyes shut as the witch-king began to pound into her; in the darkness behind her eyes she saw a skeletal form, with eyes of tainted flame that burned with fierce cruelty. "A pity you slew my beast. No female of its kind has been seen in Middle-Earth since the sun was young -- it would find you a suitable enough mate for a time, I am certain." The apparition wore a crown of iron and a cowl of black cloth.
A crown of iron, with its points keen as swords.
The witch-king finished with her sooner than her traitorous body wanted, and pulled away leaving her dripping and aching. He stood back to admire her splayed over the battlement, her flesh ravaged by by fell sorcery and physical torment both, disarmed and broken. It was in that moment that the last dying embers of her heart flared in her, and she turned to fling herself with all her failing strength at the lord of the nazgul.
She fell against him and he did not move -- she might have been a spring breeze, and he a mountain, for all she would overpower him. Eowyn felt the witch-king looking down on her in bemusement -- beholding the final death throes of her warrior heart before the blight took her fully -- but she did not intend to overpower him. Instead, she flung her arms upwards, around his head -- and could feel the withered skull of the corpse-king beneath her fingers now, she realized -- and tore the iron crown from him.
The witch-king's screech of anger was bestial, as though the throat that made it had never been human. With her eyes closed, Eowyn sprang forward and drove the points of the crown into the ghostly hollow that had once held his heart.
The Lidless Eye, indeed, heard his servant's death-cry of disbelief and despair, and turned its fiery gaze upon Minas Morgul. There, upon the tallest tower stood a figure clothed only in streaks of filth and blood, her eyes black and her lips corpse-blue. The bones of the tower's dead shook in their graves as Eowyn placed the witch-king's crown upon her head.
She had ridden out to meet her death, and in the foul fortress of Angmar, farther from life and light than she had ever been, death itself had knelt down.
The witch-king was dead, by the hand of no living man, and an iron maiden sat upon his empty throne.