[FICLET] Binary
[ OOC: This is for faramirofgondor and duskdancer, or rather for their respective muns. My Eomer is currently stretched thin between a game and a semi-retirement. This is the resolution I've reached for sanity's sake. If you haven't been following this plotline or you don't like serious stuff, skip it. Really. Go on. Shoo. ]
He'd known for days now. Known everything. His death...what had come after...and what lay before it. He remembered friends: Halbarad, Gorlim, Karl, Firiel and her family, Hanild and hers; and his own kin, Theoden and Eowyn and Theodred. And more. Many more. All of them.
And yet none of that was enough to bring him back. Death was death. It was a clean break; it was perspective. You die but life goes on, good or bad. You can't be everything. You can't save everyone. Faramir was right.
But most of all he remembered Luthien and Alcawyn and Niphredil and Drefan. Wife and daughters and son. Soulbond and blood, strength that called to strength and small laughing helplessness that could not be abandoned. They needed him. He had to return to them. Beren would not be parted from his love by death...now that love was his, and he could do no less.
Nothing should be stronger than that.
And he was here. Not there. Not with them.
Eomer dropped another rock into the moonlit stream. He was crouched on the stony bank, flicking things into his reflection. Thinking. It was no mystery: he loved his wife, his children, his country, his people...but he also loved Faramir. It seemed a simple choice. A year ago he might have made that choice with nothing more than a few sincere words and a kiss. Faramir would understand. Faramir was cut from royal cloth, too. Faramir would let him go.
And that was the problem. He didn't want to go. Quite honestly, he wasn't sure he'd be able to come back. Oh, he could, in his dreams, as before, but...after all this, to just leave, to abandon the man who'd healed him without a second thought... It was wrong. It was callous, and selfish, and it was monumentally unfair to Faramir.
Not to mention the shudder that ran down his spine whever he thought of leaving Faramir alone here, truly alone, in a place that faded to a grey timeless nothing when there was no one here but the wraith of a ranger and the faint fleeting remnants of an elf...
His heart twisted painfully in his chest. He couldn't do it. But he couldn't abandon his family, either. He DID love Luthien. She was his soulmate, the mother of his children, the most beautiful woman he'd ever met, and he wasn't referring to her admittedly lovely face and form. He'd loved her the same when he'd been blind. It wasn't the way she looked, it was just...her. She deserved the best. And for her, he had to be the best. He had to return.
And doing so would rip his soul in half.
To return to his former life as if it were a burden, every breath an obligation...was that fair to her? Was that what she wanted? She'd know. She'd find out. And while she would not hate him for it -- she knew how he felt about Faramir, and accepted it -- to abandon Faramir would tear a bleeding wound in his heart that would never heal. She would suffer as well. He couldn't do that to either of them.
Which left him with two choices. One was to simply return to the void. Embrace the Gift, and be lost forever. Let the worlds go on without him. He flinched at the thought but it had to be considered; and, grimly, he did so, dropping another stone in the the water and watching the moon reform in the stilling ripples. It would be easy enough to arrange a more final death, perhaps via Ungoliant...
However, though unhappy, he wasn't feeling suicidal. Was that technically suicide? Was he even technically alive right now? Eomer thoughtfully rubbed the healing gash where Adunaphel had driven a knife into his heart, before the very steps of his own throne. He had died. This was a between place; the rules were different here. Perhaps if he tried to return to Arda he would simply fade to dust in the light of day...
There was, perhaps, another choice. Torn in two... He couldn't live like that. But what if he chose that path deliberately? The rules were different in a between-place. This strange mirror-Ithilien was born of the same borderland mists that once gave birth to Subreality. In his walkabouts between shards, seeking Karl or trying to get home from one of Gabrielle's early parties, he'd been there. The rules were different. What you wanted, what you needed...could be.
And with that, just like that, his decision was made. It was surprisingly simple, once his mind was made up. He needed, and it was. Two reflections in the stream; one in simple borrowed tunic, leggings, and boots, all humble earth-tones; the other clad proudly in the armor of a once-king of Rohan, a braided cord of black locks tied around his arm.
"Andúnë?"
An acknowledging nod and a name in return. "Dægræd."
"She needs you," Eomer said quietly.
"I know." The other rose, the sigils of Gondor picked out in silver across his chest. "I've been away too long. I...I can't stay here."
"I know. That's the point, isn't it?"
"It is." An offered hand across the stream was immediately met in a firm warm grip. Grey eyes met hazel, the only difference in otherwise identical visages; the darker gaze broke away first, watching downstream, hand clenching on the pommel of his sword. Impatience written in every line, and just the swiftest hint of regret. "You'll take care of him, of course?"
"Of course. As you'll care for her. Fare thee well, Maltiro."
The only answer he received was a quick sincere nod, and he couldn't blame the other for being so eager to rush off. He knew who "she" was, and and he knew now that he would be there for her. Both halves of him a whole -- one here, one there, and both completely devoted. Andúnë, the setting sun, determined to serve his family and his land in its dying days. The other...himself...
He looked up as the eastern sky lightened above the half-land, this un-place. And he smiled. Dægræd. Dawn.
ONGOING:
Sunset
Sunrise
He'd known for days now. Known everything. His death...what had come after...and what lay before it. He remembered friends: Halbarad, Gorlim, Karl, Firiel and her family, Hanild and hers; and his own kin, Theoden and Eowyn and Theodred. And more. Many more. All of them.
And yet none of that was enough to bring him back. Death was death. It was a clean break; it was perspective. You die but life goes on, good or bad. You can't be everything. You can't save everyone. Faramir was right.
But most of all he remembered Luthien and Alcawyn and Niphredil and Drefan. Wife and daughters and son. Soulbond and blood, strength that called to strength and small laughing helplessness that could not be abandoned. They needed him. He had to return to them. Beren would not be parted from his love by death...now that love was his, and he could do no less.
Nothing should be stronger than that.
And he was here. Not there. Not with them.
Eomer dropped another rock into the moonlit stream. He was crouched on the stony bank, flicking things into his reflection. Thinking. It was no mystery: he loved his wife, his children, his country, his people...but he also loved Faramir. It seemed a simple choice. A year ago he might have made that choice with nothing more than a few sincere words and a kiss. Faramir would understand. Faramir was cut from royal cloth, too. Faramir would let him go.
And that was the problem. He didn't want to go. Quite honestly, he wasn't sure he'd be able to come back. Oh, he could, in his dreams, as before, but...after all this, to just leave, to abandon the man who'd healed him without a second thought... It was wrong. It was callous, and selfish, and it was monumentally unfair to Faramir.
Not to mention the shudder that ran down his spine whever he thought of leaving Faramir alone here, truly alone, in a place that faded to a grey timeless nothing when there was no one here but the wraith of a ranger and the faint fleeting remnants of an elf...
His heart twisted painfully in his chest. He couldn't do it. But he couldn't abandon his family, either. He DID love Luthien. She was his soulmate, the mother of his children, the most beautiful woman he'd ever met, and he wasn't referring to her admittedly lovely face and form. He'd loved her the same when he'd been blind. It wasn't the way she looked, it was just...her. She deserved the best. And for her, he had to be the best. He had to return.
And doing so would rip his soul in half.
To return to his former life as if it were a burden, every breath an obligation...was that fair to her? Was that what she wanted? She'd know. She'd find out. And while she would not hate him for it -- she knew how he felt about Faramir, and accepted it -- to abandon Faramir would tear a bleeding wound in his heart that would never heal. She would suffer as well. He couldn't do that to either of them.
Which left him with two choices. One was to simply return to the void. Embrace the Gift, and be lost forever. Let the worlds go on without him. He flinched at the thought but it had to be considered; and, grimly, he did so, dropping another stone in the the water and watching the moon reform in the stilling ripples. It would be easy enough to arrange a more final death, perhaps via Ungoliant...
However, though unhappy, he wasn't feeling suicidal. Was that technically suicide? Was he even technically alive right now? Eomer thoughtfully rubbed the healing gash where Adunaphel had driven a knife into his heart, before the very steps of his own throne. He had died. This was a between place; the rules were different here. Perhaps if he tried to return to Arda he would simply fade to dust in the light of day...
There was, perhaps, another choice. Torn in two... He couldn't live like that. But what if he chose that path deliberately? The rules were different in a between-place. This strange mirror-Ithilien was born of the same borderland mists that once gave birth to Subreality. In his walkabouts between shards, seeking Karl or trying to get home from one of Gabrielle's early parties, he'd been there. The rules were different. What you wanted, what you needed...could be.
And with that, just like that, his decision was made. It was surprisingly simple, once his mind was made up. He needed, and it was. Two reflections in the stream; one in simple borrowed tunic, leggings, and boots, all humble earth-tones; the other clad proudly in the armor of a once-king of Rohan, a braided cord of black locks tied around his arm.
"Andúnë?"
An acknowledging nod and a name in return. "Dægræd."
"She needs you," Eomer said quietly.
"I know." The other rose, the sigils of Gondor picked out in silver across his chest. "I've been away too long. I...I can't stay here."
"I know. That's the point, isn't it?"
"It is." An offered hand across the stream was immediately met in a firm warm grip. Grey eyes met hazel, the only difference in otherwise identical visages; the darker gaze broke away first, watching downstream, hand clenching on the pommel of his sword. Impatience written in every line, and just the swiftest hint of regret. "You'll take care of him, of course?"
"Of course. As you'll care for her. Fare thee well, Maltiro."
The only answer he received was a quick sincere nod, and he couldn't blame the other for being so eager to rush off. He knew who "she" was, and and he knew now that he would be there for her. Both halves of him a whole -- one here, one there, and both completely devoted. Andúnë, the setting sun, determined to serve his family and his land in its dying days. The other...himself...
He looked up as the eastern sky lightened above the half-land, this un-place. And he smiled. Dægræd. Dawn.
ONGOING: