Éomer cradled the lifeless body of the King in his
arms; his grief could not be measured. The face of the King already
turning ashen. Life was gone from his cheek. There would be no sudden
breath or labored last look. Éomer had been fighting elsewhere
on the battlefield when this fall had happened. The ground was soaked
with blood. The reminders of the fallen surrounding him.
Not far from him Merry the Halfling lay motionless upon the
ground. The brave hobbit had found his way to the battle in the end.
Éomer would not release the King to the tender care of the hobbit.
Others would have to do that.
Éomer closed his eyes, fighting back tears and wailing.
The bitterness of this sorrow could not be silenced when he saw that
it was his sister, Éowyn, who had slain the terrible Witch King.
His sister, and the halfling slew this mighty foe! He had doubted her
courage, her skill to wield a sword. And now she too, lay dead on this
ground. He had not been nearby to save his King, nor his sister. Death
surrounded him.
The Houses of Healing within the great walled city of Minas
Tirith lay in a quiet alcove, high above the battlements. Éomer
attended to the needs of many, but no duty as dire as that of bearing
the body of the King to rest inside the city walls among Gondorian,
not Rohirrim, stewards. He would have to make arrangements for the body
to be carried back to Rohan.
Éomer believed in Aragorn. Believed that Aragorn would
give the men hope. Hope to fight. All Éomer wished was that one
of the Rohirrim would survive to carry the task forward, should he fall.
Éomer now put his trust in Aragorn. Aragorn put his
trust in the Ringbearer to succeed in the quest. When the riders had
set out from Rohan, it had been only to defend their borders. The ride
across Gondor gave Éomer time to think. With all that had happened,
Éomer’s fate now seemed clear. The remaining task was to
revenge the death of the King.
The death of the King... and his sister. Of other things
pressing in on him, his duty now to Rohan, his claim to the throne,
he wished neither to dwell or linger.
The sun was setting in its dark sphere. Sauron’s veil
darkened the sky. Éomer sat at the base of the stone altar. The
King’s body had been prepared. He lay cold and still upon the
stone bed. Fresh flowers had been lain upon his chest. The fragile reminder
of life angered Éomer. He snatched the bundle, meaning to cast
it away. Instead he clutched their frail stems. He drew out his own
sword and laid it down on the stone tiles.
He stood to look on the face of the King. They had painted
the flesh with a false blush. The King’s mighty sword sheathed
at his side. Éomer drew out the sword and placed it beneath Théoden’s
folded hands. More befitting of the King of Rohan.
Retrieving his own sword, he spoke words only the dead could
hear, “My King, I shall avenge this, with my last breath. I shall
endeavor to see this quest succeed.”
Éomer wept.
Aragorn had been standing in the shadows. He laid his hand
on Éomer’s shoulder. Éomer did not abate his weeping.
“I have come with news.” Aragorn said. “Your
sister is alive. They have carried her to the Houses of Healing.”
“Alive!”
Éomer sheathed his sword and followed Aragorn from
the vault.
Mornings are quiet here. The sweep of wind and the stir of
birds the only sounds. The window looked out over the Fields. Not a
reminder Éomer wanted. He sat with his back to the vista; Éowyn
sleeping uneasily in her bed. On the Fields, he’d thought she
was dead, but Lord Aragorn assured him that she would recover.
Éomer had not left her side since Aragorn had escorted
him to these Houses. Nearby the halflings sat huddled. Pippin never
leaving Merry’s side. First he would talk in whispered tones,
not waiting for Merry to answer. Éomer was sure the Hobbit sang
as well. For Merry, sleep came unbidden, though he could not find peace
in the calm of sleep.
Éomer felt ashamed that he had doubted Merry’s
resolve, but now, he would never make that mistake again. Master Meriadoc
had proved his valor. Merry had been there when he could not. The fortunes
of fate had not seen fit to deter the Hobbit from his sense of loyalty
and duty to Rohan and Théoden, to his friends. This devotion touched
Éomer. He was sure it had helped to save Éowyn’s
life, though she was far from strength. She would live and that was
all that filled Éomer’s thoughts. She would go on.
Éomer looked around at the hall. Many men were housed
in here. The women of the city attending to their needs; their tenderness
and kindnesses not yet realized.
Earlier that morning, he’d seen Aragorn coming from
the Houses of Healing. Aragorn had visited the Houses in search of the
Hobbit. The halls were a-buzz with the whispers of his visit. “The
hands of the King will be the hands of a Healer.” They were all
murmuring forgotten prophesy, suspicion and hopes.
“He has the gift.”
“What?” Éomer answered, startled. An old
woman with a pitcher and basin came up from behind him.
“Lord Aragorn. He has the gift. He has seen many, helped
many.”
“My sister?”
“Yes, she will mend. Shall I bring you something, sir?”
“No, nothing. I’d just like to wait.”
“Of course.”
She left to attend to another.
The women clustered about to see to the needs of the Steward’s
son, Faramir. He was not yet conscious, still struggling to wake from
these terrors. Éomer heard the moaning. At first he thought Faramir’s
wounds needed something to ease their pain. But upon further inquiry,
he found that the youth’s wounds were invisible to the eye, harder
to heal.
Rumors were stirring about this as well. Rumors of how his
father, the Lord Denethor had been driven to madness. Rumors that the
Lord had tried to burn the two of them alive. Rumors that the father
had wanted the death of this son.
Aragorn had mentioned Boromir, the brother, but this family’s
accord was strained to be sure.
His own parents were but a dim memory. The only father in
his life, Théoden, was now... dead. Éomer refused to let grief
keep him from his anger. The anger he would need to face what lay ahead
in the near future. Éomer had lost another father. He would have
to deal with that grief later, if at all. Perhaps this Faramir felt
the same grief at the loss of his father. Perhaps the rumors were just
rumors.
The following morning Faramir was sitting up in his bed.
There was a dazed detachment hanging over his face. Éomer passed
another day next to Éowyn. The ward was quiet throughout the
day.
By evening, the hobbits sat eating a meal together. Their
whispered conversation tugging at Éomer’s hearing.
The women of the ward had set out candles, giving the hall
a warm glow. Another candle was set on the window ledge. The flame burned
with the black moonless curtain of night behind.
The longer Aragorn delayed, the stronger the dread growing
inside Éomer’s heart. The threat from Sauron still shrouded
the world. The evil hand veiling the heavens from starlight, from hope.
Éomer knew that soon Aragorn would gather them together
to leave for the final battle, however hopeless. His allegiance now
lay with the Men of the West, with Aragorn. He owed that to Gandalf,
to Théoden. He would raise his sword to the end, until the last of his
blood was spent into the ground.
These stolen hours might be the last he’d spend with
his sister. He would ride into the fray of battle with the abiding confidence
that she would go home to Rohan. He wanted her to open her eyes and
speak but a word to him before he left.
Pippin was again humming softly to Merry. Pippin had crawled
into bed next to Merry and cradled him in his arms, telling him of their
homeland, no doubt. Éomer could not hear the stories, but could
see Merry smile. Pippin would hold him all night. Merry would sleep
peacefully.
Faramir spoke not a word to anyone. He would drift from sleep
to waking and then to sleep again. He was not eating much, neither refusing
the food they bid him eat. There was something sorrowful in his young
life. He had known too much grief. And now, he had no family remaining.
A sudden chill spilled into the room from the window. Éowyn
squeezed his hand. It startled him. He looked down at her to see her
looking back at him.
“Éowyn, Éowyn!”
“Is that you?” she muttered.
“Yes, I am here.” Éomer kissed her hand.
“Where...? Where...”
“You are in the Houses of Healing in the White City.
You’ve been here since...” Éomer did not finish.
“Where is Merry?”
“He is here.”
“Éomer, ahhh...my shoulder burns.”
“Do you want me to find a Healer?”
“I woke and saw Lord Aragorn. He bent down and laid
a cool leaf on my shoulder. The fire ceased. Do you think, brother,
that I dreamed that?”
“No. He did come to see you.”
She closed her eyes and turned her face from him. “...
what of Merry? Is he...” her voice muffled against the pillow.
“He is in this hall,” he reassured, “down
there,” pointing towards the sleeping hobbits.
“Merry?” Éowyn craned to see, but flushed
and fell back against the linens.
“How is he?”
“With more strength than you. One hand is withered,
but Pippin told me that Aragorn has seen to that as well. He is eating,
which is what you must do.” Éomer could feel his paternal
nature creeping up. “You rest and regain your strength. It will
be up to you to...” Éomer faltered, “... to return
the King to the barrows.”
At the reminder of the King’s fall, Éowyn started
to cry. “We will go together, brother.”
“Ay, if the Fates prevail.”
He did not tell her that he would be riding with Aragorn
soon to march on the Black Gate.
The hobbits slept. The ward was quiet once again, Éomer
being the only one awake.
Éomer stole a look at Faramir. Faramir lay motionless;
his eyes closed, his breathing shallow. Éomer gaze was frozen.
Faramir’s chest rising and falling; the countenance of his face
slack and calm. His skin shimmering the pale moonlight silver. He must
still have a fever.
Éomer took up a piece of linen and dipped it in the
water basin. He rung the excess out, straightening the cloth between
his fingers. He stood at the end of Faramir’s bed. Sleep offered
no solace; his eyes twitched at the sight of some terror in a dream.
Éomer knelt beside the bed. His fingertips aching
to reach out, offer whatever comfort he could afford. A fool’s
thought, indeed. Instead he laid the cool cloth on Faramir’s forehead,
smoothing it down before pulling his hands back. Faramir’s body
was hot. Éomer could feel the fever. The sweat matted Faramir’s
hair and soaked through his nightshirt.
He should go find help. Perhaps Aragorn could bestow medicines
that these healers did not know.
The candle flame sputtered and was snuffed with a stray puff
of wind. The waning light gave Faramir’s face an odd greenish
cast. Éomer instinctively laid a hand over Faramir’s which
lay limp against the damp linen. The hand seemed delicate and small
beneath his palm. Éomer wrapped his fingers about it protectively.
“water...” the voice so frail and small that
Éomer wondered if he had heard the voice in his thoughts.
The eyes were open. Éomer fumbled for water to give
to Faramir. He held the cup to his lips and steadied Faramir’s
head with his other hand.
“thank you,” he whispered.
Éomer nodded. He leaned back to rise and leave, but
Faramir murmured, “stay.” So he did. He stayed until the
sky lightened ever so slightly at the break of day.
Faramir didn’t wake again, but slept through the night.
Éomer kept watch, dipping the cloth in the cool water throughout
the hours.
At dawn he let go of Faramir’s hand and returned to
his sister’s side. The hobbits had spent the night in the other’s
embrace. He passed by, smiling at their tenderness.
“How is Faramir?” Pippin asked.
“Faramir? Um, his fever broke in the night, I think.”
Éomer answered.
“Good.” Pippin’s voice sounded relieved.
Pippin pulled back from Merry.
He left with a silent kiss, so as to neither stir nor wake
Merry. “Are you going with Lord Aragorn?”
Éomer who had not realized that he had been watching
the hobbits so intently, answered, “yes.”
“We ride today.” Pippin gathered his clothes
and left to finish dressing in the light.
Éomer stood in the lingering shadows, taking a last
look at Merry, Éowyn, and Faramir before following the Hobbit
to the stables.
The eve of battle calls men early. Around the city many must
be saying goodbye. Lovers stealing a final kiss or a last embrace. Farewells
spoken and unspoken left to mingle in the raw morning air.
At last... Peace.
Whatever comfort can be secured in sleep, Éomer attempted.
After waking a dozen times during the night, he gave in and stayed up.
It was still early and the sky was lightening. Stars were blinking back,
a sight he’d not seen in a long while. The Shadow was finally
banished, but the cost had been great. His thoughts turned to the Hobbits
and the Ringbearer who had paid the ultimate cost. Éomer feared
that the soul of that halfling had been damaged, a scar that wouldn’t
heal with time.
His sensibilities were attuned to that. He understood loss
now in a way he had never known before. The fact that they had been
victorious gave the ending a sense of justice. There was still the dead
to bury, wounds to heal, hearts to mend.
Éomer felt sure he was the only one awake. He left
his quarters and stepped out into the open air. He walked the pavement
stones and looked out over the battlement onto a new world. Images still
fresh and painful in his memory, but there was peace also beneath.
“Can’t sleep?”
Éomer turned to find Faramir sitting in the shadows.
“This is a good place to look out over the Fields.
I used to come here with my brother. We would talk through the night
and watch the sun come up.”
Éomer didn’t speak.
“I wanted to thank you for your kindness.” Faramir
went on.
That night when Éomer sat with Faramir in the Houses
seemed a world away now.
“I know it was you who stayed with me that night.”
“I was only trying to help, Lord Faramir.” Éomer
replied in reverence.
“It did help, in its way. Perhaps I can return the
kindness.”
“There’s no need.”
“You lost many men on the Field and before the Black
Gate? I’ve heard of your valor at the Gate. The Halfling told
me.”
“The Halfling?”
“Yes, Pippin.” Faramir smiled at the mention
of the Hobbit’s name.
“Pippin.” Éomer repeated in a half whisper.
“He fought valiantly beside the other Men of the West, a worthy
comrade.”
“The Halflings have many things to offer this new age.
Their valor, their loyalty runs deep. They have a great bond between
them.”
Éomer suspected that Faramir was envious of that “bond.”
Faramir stood next to him looking out at the ruined town beyond.
“Osgiliath. It will need to be rebuilt.” Faramir’s
voice sounded cold and distant.
“Much will be renewed in the new age. The King will
see to that.” Éomer spoke of the upcoming coronation of
Gondor’s King, Aragorn, forgetting that Faramir was the Steward’s
son. He regretted bringing that bitter reminder to Faramir’s hearing.
“Aragorn is the rightful heir to the throne and will
heal all our lands. He will unite our world in peace.”
“You are pleased with this?” Éomer hadn’t
meant to sound surprised.
“Yes.” Faramir smiled. “I never sought
the throne. It was not...” Faramir broke off and Éomer
thought his voice had started to shake.
“I lost many men in my foolish struggle to appease
my father.” Faramir continued.
Éomer didn’t probe to dispel nor confirm rumors.
“The Shadow no longer hangs over our land. And yet,
the price we all have paid... I feel nothing inside, Éomer. There
is nothing but ash in my heart.”
Éomer could see but the outline of Faramir’s
features. In the half light, a hand touched his elbow. The surprise
lasted only a moment.
Éomer leaned forward taking Faramir into his arms.
The embrace that he had wanted since that first day in the Houses did
not feel awkward or strained. He’d expected Faramir to pull away,
not to tighten his grasp. Arms that steadied, now pulled him closer.
Their lips pausing before hungrily seeking. The faint taste of wine
still clung to Faramir’s lips. Perhaps he had been steeling his
nerve towards this moment as well.
The wall braced their insistent need to get at each other.
Laces and ties pulled apart, legs and bodies widening for the other.
The aching of skin to touch skin. There was enough morning to make out
the definitions in Faramir’s neck, the sheen of his chest. Éomer’s
fingers ran leisurely over the geography of ribs, nipple, abdomen, a
rapid rising and falling beneath Éomer’s touch. He took
one nib to his lips, further exploring with his tongue. Faramir raised
a shoulder before collapsing to his knees.
Éomer bent to again face Faramir, taking the fair
face into his hands and pulling his mouth to his, crushing Faramir against
the battlement. Éomer’s hands encircled Faramir’s
body, pulling him closer still.
He wanted Faramir naked against his body. He gently removed
what remained of their clothing, laying them on the rough stones. A
shirt, breeches, the last layers of undergarments until Faramir lay
quite beautifully naked beneath him. The morning blushes giving the
steward’s son a radiance that Éomer knew rivaled any Elven
beauty. The scars and reminders of battle on this fair young body nearly
brought Éomer to tears. So much pain, seen, hidden, lost, forgotten,
forgiven. And, offered, at Éomer’s bidding.
Faramir was hard. Éomer could feel the cock beneath
him. Éomer settled down onto Faramir, kissing, licking, and stroking
his way the length of Faramir’s body. His fingers slipping beneath
Faramir and hitching his hips up onto Éomer ‘s thighs;
his body bracing this lover against him. Éomer wanted Faramir’s
legs to rest on his shoulders. He wanted his own body between, closer,
he wanted to be closer. He wanted to fill Faramir’s body, wanted
Faramir’s hands on his cock, wanted Faramir’s mouth on his,
wanted Faramir’s body between his legs. But that would not happen
tonight. Tonight Éomer was the offering. Tonight Éomer
was the giver. Éomer would have the first touches. This body
was his to discover. To kiss. To hold. To fuck. To comfort.
Éomer took Faramir into his mouth. The taste of him
as he sucked, set his own body burning. Every touch seemed to set Faramir’s
body into shudders. The fingers he used to probe, the tongue with which
he teased, the teeth that scraped across the cock in his mouth. Faramir
bucked as Éomer pulled back. Éomer steadied Faramir before
taking him again into his mouth.
“É...o.. mer!”
The sound of his name calmed that hard core that darkened
his own heart. He sucked and brought his lover to climax. The final
taste swallowed as Faramir went limp underneath him.
Éomer relaxed his grip on Faramir’s hips and
positioned himself to lay his head on Faramir’s abdomen. It was
warm and glistening in early morning light.
Faramir’s fingers were in his hair, tightening, then
easing. Éomer closed his eyes.
Long had it been that he was happy. A transitory thing to
be sure, but here on this makeshift stony bed, he knew that they would
both greet the day with a renewed gladness to be alive again.
