Fic: The Orc (NC-17) for Savageseraph
Title: The Orc
Author: alex_quine
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Aragorn/Eomer
Summary: Eomer meets with grief and doubt and Theoden gives him an unexpected gift.
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: The originals of these characters belong to their copyright holders. I borrow them for amusement not profit.
Prompt: This is written for savageseraphwho asked for a fic that included these characters and potentially dealt with transfers of power.
A herald, encrusted in gold thread, is beginning what he knows will be a lengthy introduction. There is a history here that needs to be spoken aloud, acknowledged by the crowd come to witness the ceremony as their story for yesteryear, for this day and for tomorrow into the far horizon. It will have them standing in heavy ceremonial robes for an age, and this is his life now.
The day has begun chill, he can just see the puffs of frosted air from the herald’s mouth, but he is prepared with boots lined with shearling lamb, a heavy cloak and leather gauntlets whose wide cuffs overlap the sleeves of his tunic. Quietly, he lets two fingers drift into the cuff of the other gauntlet to where the chain is hidden. He can feel it press between thumb and first finger, feel its fine links through the leather.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………….
They are too many! All around him his men are losing ground, felling their opponents but falling back before the onslaught, the yells and screams and the smell of blood is dizzying.
Eomer can feel his heart thudding in his chest as he struggles to his feet ducking away from a slashing blow, jumping sideways and lunging forward to cut the orc at the back of its knee, to sever the tendons. The creature snarls at him as it staggers and sinks and Eomer only just blocks another thunderous strike to his damaged shield. The blow shivers a lancing pain down his arm, the shield cracks bringing him to his knees and as the orc raises its hammer to finish him, Eomer hurls himself forward below the blow, wielding the jagged remnant like a scythe.
The creature’s skull splits apart spraying him with blood and bone as he slithers on the grass, slippery with foul stuff. He is scrambling to rise again when a huge orc looms over him and raising a curved blade, it grins at him, jerks forward and Eomer has barely time to see the arrow protruding between its stained teeth before it is crashing down and in trying to roll away the orc armour catches him on the side of his head and everything fades grey…
“You must learn to sleep in your helm on patrol, horse lord,” says a quiet voice, somewhere beyond his eyelids, in a place of light and pain.
Eomer takes in a shaky breath then opens his eyes, to a dizzying, blinding, fire in his head and immediately rolls onto his side to heave up a mouthful of bile that burns his throat in its passing. He closes his eyes again, spits out the last of the stuff and lets his head hang until the ground beneath him seems to stop moving.
This time, he opens his eyes and sees only earth, brown earth trodden flat, perhaps a beaten earth floor. His head aches and his feet are cold, but he can feel them, can move his toes in his boots and his arms support his weight.
“My men?” he says hoarsely, trusting that the quiet voice beside him will answer.
A small horn beaker is placed beneath his gaze.
“They died well, horse lord, now drink.”
Eomer stares at the liquid, still in the cup. His throat is closed tight on a cry, choking on tears that he would weep and cannot.
He closes his eyes and begins to sink but suddenly a hand grasps his hair, his head is pulled roughly back and as he opens his mouth to protest the contents of the little beaker is poured in. He half gags and swallows and a fiery spirit is making him cough, making his eyes water.
Blindly he lashes out and his blow is blocked, his wrist gripped tightly by the figure kneeling beside him and the quiet voice says,
“Easy, youngling!”
He is mocked! This man to whom he owes his life knows his failure, has seen men pay for his inexperience with their lives!
His rage and grief gives him strength and he pulls the man towards him, barely seeing a lean, dark, face as he swings with his other hand and this time his fist connects, a glancing blow, before he is enveloped in a bear hug of rough cloth and old leather, his legs clamped between strong thighs, and the men are rolling over on the floor.
They have fetched up against a boulder and now he is held close, so close, so tight, so still that the sob that has been choking him begins to tear its way upward in his throat and his clenched fists would beat against the man’s chest but Eomer is held so close, so still, that the tears come on and make him shudder in this embrace.
It is not for himself that he weeps; each comrade’s face passes before his mind’s eye and they are smiling at him, expectant, trusting. He is so taken up by their passing that he is hardly aware that the arms about him have softened, until he is set free as the man rolls away from him.
Suddenly weary, Eomer pulls himself to sit upright against the rock and scrubs his hand across his face. For the first time he would look clearly about him at the small cave and at his companion, who is unpacking a bedroll. Eomer thinks he might be a Ranger from the North by his dress. There is a long-sword at his hip and a bow and quiver lie not far away, beside a small metal
flask.
The Ranger sees him looking and nods towards the flask.
“Help yourself.”
“No, sir,” Eomer replies gruffly and sees a flicker of curiosity cross the man’s face, “I was looking at the bow. Did you fell the great orc?”
The Ranger pauses and sits back on his haunches.
“I did.”
“I owe you my life,” Eomer says.
“I regret I did not reach you sooner,” the man says and his voice deepens, softens, so that Eomer knows that he honours the fallen in his remembrance. Then he looks keenly at Eomer and it seems to the young man that it is an eagle’s eye that has him skewered in its gaze.
“Did you ever see such an orc before?” the man asks softly.
“Never,” says Eomer and he conjures-up again the grinning figure looming over him. “It could not be, but for a moment it seemed that it knew me.”
“It could not be,” agrees the man, “and yet it did more than any yrch I have ever seen and with some purpose.”
He is still for a moment, then remembers that Eomer is there and looks at him gravely.
“I do not believe that any patrol could have withstood this enemy backed by its minions. Yes,” he continues slowly, “it commanded and in the midst of battle it calculated…”
“…but did not plan for a good Ranger bow!” finishes Eomer.
He scrambles to his feet and the Ranger rises slowly and so they face one another. Eomer offers his sword-hand palm upward and the Ranger clasps him warrior fashion.
“I am Eomer of the Mark, son of Eomund, nephew of Theoden King,” Eomer says and sees the man’s eyes crinkle as at some gentle memory.
“Eomer, greetings,” replies the man, “in Meduseld I was called Thorongil,” and as he sees the young man’s eyes widen, adds “and it is many snows since I rode beside your grandsire.”
Returning to the stricken camp, they had laid the fallen Rohirrim beside one another and piled rocks above them to keep off the scavengers until a party could be sent from the Aldburg to bury them cleanly. Eomer was heart-sick that there was not water to wash the blood from beloved faces, but they had rounded up their straying mounts and Eomer had pulled hairs from their manes and plaited the thin cord to place about each man’s wrist.
The Ranger had busied himself in piling the orc into a bonfire. He had handed Eomer a lighted brand and then had turned away to tighten his saddle girth, so that the young horseman could say his farewells in private and light the bonfire that would finally destroy their enemy.
They had driven the group of riderless horses ahead of them, Eomer swinging his long whip. From time-to-time he would glance across to where the Ranger rode the other flank, watching the man sitting quietly, guiding his horse with his knees. He seemed a man not long in middle age, weathered by an outdoor life but with not a grey hair to be seen.
For as long as Eomer could remember, Thorongil’s had been a name from legend, the dark warrior who had fought beside Rohan, whose lean frame had caught the eye of many a shield-maiden and Eomer also remembered a whispered conversation with his cousin when Theodred had insisted that the man from Arnor had taken a horselord as a lover. Eomer smiled wryly to himself, thinking back to that afternoon in the hayloft and how little he had really understood of what Theodred was saying.
They camped beside a stream that night and felt themselves close enough to home to light a fire, had un-tacked all the horses and put a wall of saddles around them to break the night breeze. Then they shared what food they had and Eomer found himself at the Ranger’s prompting talking about his fallen comrades, something about each man and a little about how the patrol had come to grief.
Thorongil had listened to him gravely, had approved the disposition of sentries that he had made to no avail, but here was another mystery. It was rare to find orc able to ambush well-guarded positions and usually horses would pick up the scent of the enemy before they were in bowshot.
The Ranger had taken the first watch and Eomer had laid himself down beside the fire. If he concentrated he could just smell the pipeweed that the Ranger was smoking. Eomer closed his eyes and heard Thorongil add more wood to the blaze where it crackled and snapped.
When he was woken to stand his watch, he was just able to make out the shape of the resting man in the last glowing embers of the fire, Then as dawn broke he found himself dividing his time between scanning the empty horizon and watching Thorongil sleep.
The Ranger had his sword laid beside him and one hand, long fingers curled, rested by his bearded mouth.
Their welcome home to Edoras was muted. Sentries had seen the little herd from afar and sent out riders to bring them in. Eomer strove to hold his head high, remembering what Thorongil had said, but he could not help but hear the stifled grief of families who saw the empty saddles of their husbands and sons and those cries cut through him. He was also aware that there were murmurings at the sight of his companion. Thorongil had put back his hood as they passed under the main gate and some of the older folk turned to one another in wonder.
The word had gone ahead to Meduseld, so that his uncle and cousin were waiting for them at the top of the steps. Theoden had said naught but had caught Eomer up in a crushing hug, one hand stroking his hair as he’d done to him as a child and Eomer knew without it being said that Theoden was thinking of his sister and her lord, gone too soon and how close he had come to joining them.
Then the King had released him and Theodred had put an arm about his shoulders, full of questions about the patrol that he would not voice, not where others could see them. In the doorway Eomer could see his sister shrugging off her maids to come to him and steeled himself for more questions, but he was dimly aware that behind him, his uncle was greeting Thorongil warmly.
Once they had washed the dirt from hands and faces and had eaten something, there had been a full accounting of the fight before the King and his council, sat around the great fire. Eomer had insisted that the families of his men be represented and two of the fathers had come to hear what had befallen their sons. It was now that the Ranger’s voice sounded clearly, giving weight to the young man’s account.
The patrol had been trailing a theft of stock from an outlying holding. The goodman had been both indignant that his best mares had been stolen in the night by some villains who had killed his dogs before they had the chance to give tongue and grateful for Eomer’s offer to track them down.
The trail was plain enough, half a dozen riders driving stock before them, and when they had made camp, the patrol had looked to catch up with the raiders the following day. He had set their sentries and the attack at dawn had caught the patrol unawares; at no point had there been any suggestion of a party of orc close by.
Now Thorongil laid down his tankard and added his part of the tale. He was travelling Gondor’s eastern flank, had heard garbled tales of raids of livestock, seemingly coming from Rohan and presuming on his former service had crossed the border. The goodman at the holding had told his tale again, this time cheered by the thought that he would soon have his mares returned to him and it was in following the route that the patrol had taken that Thorongil had begun to be uneasy.
He had heard the noise of battle even as he was riding past the bodies of the luckless sentries. They had been placed well but seemingly to no avail. The hall fell silent as the Ranger described the scene that had met his eyes as he came upon the remnants of the patrol gathered around their leader in a last stand. They had fought bravely, each man, but the numbers were too great.
“So how did you succeed in rescuing our beloved young lord in such a desperate case?” The councillor who had asked this, a pale man, half hidden behind Theoden’s chair, was amazed.
Many faces looked on Thorongil questioningly and it seemed to Eomer that they somehow doubted his account.
Eomer was suddenly sickened by these old men who were not there, had not seen his friends fall!
“He killed the great orc!” he growled, and when his uncle’s councillors looked blankly at him, Eomer strode to where he’d seen Thorongil leave a sacking bundle behind a pillar and returned, unwrapping the head as he came. It thudded heavily on the tiled floor as he dropped it at their feet.
“This creature was their leader,” Thorongil said quietly, “more than an orc blade, no common yrch but a warrior that knew strategy. Without its commands those left alive, fled. I have not seen such a one before, my lords, but our enemies would seem to have a new ally. It is too much to hope that this was the only one of its kind.”
There was silence, apart from Grima, whose breath hissed between his teeth!
“Terrible! Terrible!”
A Marshal from the Eastfold, pushed the head away with the toe of his boot and grunted that the thing was smiling at him.
“Were the stolen horses black?” he asked Eomer, who nodded in assent.
“Well we know where they are bound,” said the Marshal grimly. “We’ve been losing black beasts all season, one or two cut out of a herd. The perfect mounts for night raiders!”
As the company murmured uneasily, Theoden beckoned over a squire and told him to get rid of the head.
“Take it somewhere well away from either good grass or sweet water and burn it,” he said, “and bury the ashes.”
At the edge of the group, the two men who’d come to hear the fate of their sons, stirred.
“We’ll deal with it, Sire,” they said, and taking the sack from Eomer’s hands, they bundled it up and strode from the hall.
Theoden would have begun to speak further about the raiding but Thorongil was not done and there was great disquiet when he told them plainly that he believed that it was Eomer himself who had been the target of the attack.
As the Ranger spoke Eomer felt the breath leave him, as though the orc hammer had landed another blow.
“Consider, Theoden King,” he said, “Whoever took the stock seemed simple horse thieves, no threat except to the dogs. They were careful enough not to rouse the holding, yet they were careless too; there was a patrol nearby, they left a clear trail and they left someone alive to carry the tale to the patrol.”
“But the attack,” said Grima, bewildered, “Orc cannot handle horses. Surely it was by chance they came upon the patrol?”
“The patrol was led into an ambush. Why did their horses not scent orc, councillor?” asked Thorongil and answered himself, “because they were already downwind of the patrol and were waiting for them to camp for the night in the best spot around.”
“It knew me,” Eomer said grimly and saw Thorongil meet his eyes and nod.
At this Theoden arose amidst the clamour and began to pace before the fire.
The company was seeming to split into factions. Some argued that their young captains, the Lord Theodred and his cousin, were too precious to Rohan and perhaps too inexperienced to be risked riding Rohan’s borders on their own, whilst the young men protested that they must take their chances, they had good shield men and how would they gain experience and how should Rohan be guarded else?
In this they found an unexpected ally, for Councillor Grima praised their training and courage and pointed out that in these perilous times Rohan had need of every good blade and good friend, with a humble bow to the Ranger, that she could muster.
When Theoden threw up his hand there was silence, but passions hung heavy in the air and once the company was dismissed Theodred had caught Eomer by the shoulder and hustled him into a side-chamber, where he and Eowyn could question Eomer in private.
If there had been any left to see, they would have observed Theoden offer his left hand to the Ranger, who had taken it and pressed the palm against his heart.
“Will you take on the burden?” Theoden was asking.
“You know it is no burden,” the Ranger had replied.
In the morning, awaiting the King’s decision, the young men were primed to protest any coddling with arguments a-plenty, but at the same time it seemed to Eomer that when the moment came, he was being churlish.
His uncle had announced that he would travel with Thorongil to pick up the trail of the fleeing orc and perhaps trace them back to their lair.
Eomer had protested that he was well able to do this alone, whereupon Thorongil had said quietly that he might be journeying outward in company, but Eomer must find his way home on his own account for both Gondor and Rohan should know of this new threat.
Eomer’s cheeks began to burn, but Councillor Grima’s loud insistence that Isengard should receive word too distracted his uncle and Eomer had never been more grateful to the strange little man, so he stared hard at the floor until his uncle called on him to bid farewell to his sister and Eomer was able to raise his gaze. He was happy to find that the Ranger was turned away in conversation with an elderly man who seemed to know him of old.
It was as he waited in the doorway of the stables for the Ranger to make his last farewells to Meduseld that his uncle came to stand beside him. Side-by-side, the men stood watching the Ranger bow his dark head before young Eowyn. A breeze had sprung up and her hair blew about her face, sent her maids’ aprons flapping. The Ranger stooped low over her hand and as he turned away and she did likewise, the little councillor drifted out of the shadow of a pillar and ducked his head as she passed.
Watching Thorongil begin to descend the steps, Eomer became aware that his uncle was speaking to him and he turned to see Theoden unwinding a thin silver chain from his left wrist. Eomer did not think that he had ever seen it before, but then, he thought, this was not his uncle’s sword hand so there was no cause to note it.
Theoden had unwound the chain and now he gestured to Eomer who, without thinking, put forward his own left wrist and watched as his uncle wound the chain about and fastened it with a pin that slipped into a looped link.
“This you will return to me someday, if not to me to whomsoever you deem fit.” Thorongil had reached the bottom of the steps and was bearing down on them. “It has another fastening, but if you close that you will never be able to remove it, boy, for it is a mithril chain.”
Eomer would have thought himself amazed that his most practical uncle should gift him such a trinket, but just then his Ranger had walked into the stables and now they were checking their gear and mounting and walking smartly out and down the winding path until they were able to pass under the main gate, Thorongil clapped his heels to his horse’s sides and they were on their way.
Their first day had taken them back towards the holding on the border. Crossing a sea of grass, up ahead they could make out a small group coming towards them. It was the goodman, with the rest of his stock and his family in a cart. They were abandoning the place of soft grass and sweet water that had been their pride to live with family closer to Edoras. There were tears in the man’s eyes as he spoke of the loss of so many.
“…and for three black mares,” he said brokenly.
“These were not only seeking good stock,” Eomer said urgently.
“They were hunting men,” Thorongil said firmly and chirruped to his mount to go on. Eomer hurried after him.
When they camped that evening it was beside a shallow stream that ran over a pebble and shingle bed and Eomer had begun by doing as he was wont, caring for his horse and searching for fuel. In this part of Rohan trees were scarce, but it was always possible to find dried horse dung around watering places and he soon had a store collected and a fire built.
The Ranger had tethered his mount so that it could graze alongside Eomer’s and then had wandered off downstream for a ways.
By the time that Eomer had the fire snapping, he was returned with four small brown trout and they had eaten well.
As they picked the soft flesh from the fish, Thorongil had questioned him about what he had seen that day and Eomer realized that although he knew this land well, he was learning much about how to travel across country, how to track and to avoid being tracked.
Once the meal was done the Ranger had stood and walking towards the stream had drawn his blade and laid it down on the bank. Then he began to shed his clothing, layer by layer. Broad, muscled, shoulders and a furred chest rose above his waist and then he sat down to pull off his boots and peel off his breeches. Pale skin over corded muscle and Eomer suddenly thought of a fine chestnut colt with four white socks, for Thorongil was pale beneath his pelt of dark hair, but with tanned hands and arms to over his wrists and down his neck to a v-shape below his collarbone. He himself had much the same markings, but his yellow hair made his skin take up summer colour easily and just now he was golden to his waist.
“We are safe here, Eomer, come and bathe,” his Ranger said and Eomer stood to do as he was bid, except that a corner of his skin itched with the vague feeling that it was a command that he had been given. Shrugging off the idea he walked down to where Thorongil’s gear lay and setting his own blade to hand, Eomer began by shedding his jerkin and shirt.
It was as he went to unwind the silver chain from about his wrist that Thorongil said,
“Wait,” and there was steel in his tone that Eomer had never heard before. The man before him was stood, naked and knee-deep in a stream but Eomer thought he had never seen a man so at ease with command, not heard a voice so clear, so direct.
“I would not lose this in the stream, sir,” Eomer said hastily and then felt that once again he had rushed into speech when he should have listened. The man before him bent down, scooped up water in both hands and let it trickle through his fingers and over his chest. He repeated the gesture and once more and all the while Eomer was entranced by the curving pattern of damp hair that sculpted his breast, and the droplets of water that ran down the line of hair that marked his stomach and was beginning to soak the curls at his fork.
Eomer realized that he was rubbing the links of the mithril chain between finger and thumb and as Thorongil held his gaze he stopped abruptly.
“Theoden gifted you this for a reason, Eomer,” Thorongil said softly, “he has given you a choice, to be free to remove the chain or to clasp it about your wrist forever, as I give you a choice, to follow its song for so long as we travel together or to lay it aside.”
There were small white flowers, floating on the surface of the stream and Eomer watched them become caught in the eddy around the man’s knees and then float off downstream again. Eomer swallowed. It seemed to him that he was suddenly adrift in a dream in which he was carried along by some power over which he had no control.
“What is the song?” he asked hoarsely.
Thorongil regarded him gravely for a moment and then he spoke.
“It is in a hundred small tasks that bind those who choose it together in strength. It is simple and values truth between those who choose it. It tests strength and resolve and teaches trust and to wield power. Sometimes it will test the bond to breaking point but true silver cannot be broken.”
Eomer suddenly thought back to the night that his uncle had given his father’s sword over to his keeping. There had been flickering torches and harps playing in the Golden Hall and yet at this moment, this cold stream was as strange and powerful a place.
Carefully and deliberately he shed his breeches and boots and with the chain still wrapped about his wrist, he stepped into the water, shivering a little at the shock of the cold.
Slowly he waded across to where Thorongil stood waiting for him. Once more he thought of his uncle; Theoden’s love for him and for Eowyn he knew was deep and heartfelt. He would trust in Theoden’s judgement and as the water swirled about his knees, it came to him who Thorongil’s lover had been all those years ago.
He was honest enough with himself to know that for many hours he had been curious to feel the Ranger’s hands on him but he had never thought that he would be at another’s command and so he stood obedient but wary in the stream and awaited his fate.
When Thorongil had told him to wash himself, he had hesitated for a moment, expecting some other command, but the Ranger had waited calmly until the young man began to stoop and then very deliberately he scooped up some water and let it trickle across his breast. Eomer took in a breath and copied him and so it began, the young horseman trying to mirror the Ranger’s every movement.
Thorongil had him wash himself thoroughly, at one point leaving Eomer standing in the stream whilst he fetched slivers of some pale soap from his pack and Eomer was struck by how he was suddenly cold, left alone until Thorongil returned.
They had finished by soaping up their hair and plunging beneath the surface of the stream. Eomer surfaced gasping and flung his head about to rid his long hair of the weight of the water. A few feet away, Thorongil stood still, dark hair dripping like an otter’s pelt and a slow smile and a nod of encouragement passed over his face.
“Enough,” he said and waded away from Eomer, turning as he reached the bank and saying, “come along, boy.”
Eomer’s chin came up at that; his uncle might call him ‘boy’ but this did not feel the same. The Ranger’s smile disappeared and once again he was still, waiting for Eomer’s jaw to soften, for me to accept the bit, Eomer thought wryly.
“I could call you ‘colt’,” Thorongil said, “if you would prefer.”
Eomer considered for a moment, then he said, “What should I call you?”
“You could call me, Sir, as you do now, or you may call me ‘Gil.”
“This is my land.”
Thorongil stretched out his left hand to Eomer, the first time since he stepped into the water that they had touched, who placed his hand in the Ranger’s and Eomer felt his thumb rub gently against the chain.
“This is for us two only, boy. To the world we are as we appear.”
Then he hauled Eomer out of the stream and as the men began to rub themselves down, he said cheerfully, “I know of a people, small in stature but great in heart, who have a good, honest tradition and I think on this occasion we should have a second supper.”
Over the next few weeks as they journeyed through Rohan, Eomer would think back on that first evening and wonder at what he had imagined might happen.
Whenever possible, they camped close to water and after several days of bathing separately, Gil had hand him the soap and asked him to wash him and then to stand still whilst he was washed. Eomer had thought that his hands might tremble the first time that he touched Gil’s body, but he had steeled himself and worked his hands strongly over the planes and curves. When his turn had come he had begun holding his breath, but Gil had half sung to him, a murmur of some language that soothed and quieted him and even when the Ranger’s strong hands drifted along his cleft, gently held his balls whilst he was cleaned there, there was no fear, nor no invasion of his calm.
The trail of the fleeing orc had been plain enough in cold campfires and raided holdings where the indignant owners would emerge from their barricaded homes to tell the Lord Eomer their tales. The orc were not waiting to kill men where they could get an easy meal and move on and one or two families had put up a stiff resistance, picking off any stragglers they could reach; however, Eomer was well aware that Gil’s true quarry was not the retreating yrch but rather the cold trail of the band who had first come into Rohan in search of him. Thus he was learning something of Ranger lore, watching Gil examine a scattering of bones and dung around an old fire and being able to judge whether the orc were on their outward or homeward journeys. Once or twice he wondered what orc thought of as home; was it simply safety and full bellies?
At the end of each day’s journey, Gil would come to him and Eomer would offer his enchained wrist for the clasping that signaled the beginning of their other song. His heart had jumped in his mouth, the night that Gil had bid him watch as he pleasured himself, knelt, bathed in the firelight before Eomer’s gaze. Eomer guessed that his turn would come and this display in its honesty was so far removed from the youthful trials shared with his cousin and friends in the long grass that he thrilled at the courage of it. He would dare to let Gil see his passion, trusting in the man to value the gift aright.
For three nights Gil had him watch and all the while the anticipation grew until Eomer’s flesh shivered at the thought. At the next fireside when Gil sat quietly before him and asked Eomer what he wanted, Eomer spoke boldly saying that he wanted Gil to see him come by his own hand beneath the stars.
He had planned for this and gloried in a careful reveal of muscle and naked flesh, knowing that the firelight gilded his skin and his hair was a golden halo. He had watched Gil carefully and began with a mirrored drift of nails across his breast, coaxing his nipples to taut little nubs, but his body was still his own and he showed the silent figure sat before him what gave him pleasure, the twist of his wrist at the top of the stroke and the lazy thumb that spread the leaking drops around and over the purpled head.
His breath was beginning to come short and he was fighting to keep his eyes open when suddenly Gil’s steely voice said, “Hold!”
Gasping, his hand hovered over his aching cock and he looked at Gil with amazement, who said very quietly, “You will not come this night.” Eomer could not contain the choked cry that burst from him, but just then the firelight caught the mithril chain around his wrist, making it glow as with a clear fire and he threw himself backwards, digging his fingers into handfuls of turf, in an agony of denial.
Gil had sat with him, talking softly of power and restraint, until his body had quietened and that night had gathered the young man into his embrace to sleep, Eomer’s forehead resting against Gil’s breast.
Eomer had calculated that once he could display the right control, taking himself to the brink time-and-time again only to let his will overtop his desire, that Gil would let him come, but instead the man had sought to gift him pleasure. The first time that Gil had put his mouth on Eomer, he had all but wept as he came apart under the Ranger’s skillful hands.
They were riding along the border now and had gleaned some knowledge of their enemy that they hoped might profit all. Back-tracking the raiding party, they could identify the footprints, count the long stride-patterns of the Great Orc and Thorongil thought he had found hair caught on branches and dung that would allow trackers to know when one of these was about.
Eomer knew that they would part soon and he asked Gil humbly if he would let him close the clasp on the mithril chain, but Gil would not allow this, saying that this was not the time. Instead he asked Eomer once more what he wanted and this time Eomer had gazed at his lover and told him that he wanted whatever it was that Gil wished to show him.
At this Gil had clasped his boy tightly in his arms, kissed the top of his head and then grinned widely at him with what Eomer thought was a measure of mischief about him. Thus it was that he found himself naked, set before Gil on the back of his bay as it walked calmly through hock-deep grass. The bay’s hide was warm and itched at the tender skin on his thighs and at his taint. Gil had an arm about his waist as Eomer lay back on him, whilst his other hand teased at his breast. Eomer was breathless, one fist twisted in the bay’s mane, whilst with the other he was working his cock hard and fast. He was close, so close to falling and it was now that Gil’s soft voice murmured in his ear,
“Come for me, boy.”
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
So long and so far away, Eomer thought as he walked with Elessar through the lines of soldiers and horsemen. The Oath of Eorl was re-made, the Gift of Cirion confirmed but none but they knew that as the Kings, swathed in their ceremonial robes, had clasped them one to another amidst the cheering crowds, Eomer had caught his Ranger by the hand, slipped the mithril chain about his wrist and closed the last catch…for good.
-oo0oo-
Author: alex_quine
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Aragorn/Eomer
Summary: Eomer meets with grief and doubt and Theoden gives him an unexpected gift.
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: The originals of these characters belong to their copyright holders. I borrow them for amusement not profit.
Prompt: This is written for savageseraphwho asked for a fic that included these characters and potentially dealt with transfers of power.
A herald, encrusted in gold thread, is beginning what he knows will be a lengthy introduction. There is a history here that needs to be spoken aloud, acknowledged by the crowd come to witness the ceremony as their story for yesteryear, for this day and for tomorrow into the far horizon. It will have them standing in heavy ceremonial robes for an age, and this is his life now.
The day has begun chill, he can just see the puffs of frosted air from the herald’s mouth, but he is prepared with boots lined with shearling lamb, a heavy cloak and leather gauntlets whose wide cuffs overlap the sleeves of his tunic. Quietly, he lets two fingers drift into the cuff of the other gauntlet to where the chain is hidden. He can feel it press between thumb and first finger, feel its fine links through the leather.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………….
They are too many! All around him his men are losing ground, felling their opponents but falling back before the onslaught, the yells and screams and the smell of blood is dizzying.
Eomer can feel his heart thudding in his chest as he struggles to his feet ducking away from a slashing blow, jumping sideways and lunging forward to cut the orc at the back of its knee, to sever the tendons. The creature snarls at him as it staggers and sinks and Eomer only just blocks another thunderous strike to his damaged shield. The blow shivers a lancing pain down his arm, the shield cracks bringing him to his knees and as the orc raises its hammer to finish him, Eomer hurls himself forward below the blow, wielding the jagged remnant like a scythe.
The creature’s skull splits apart spraying him with blood and bone as he slithers on the grass, slippery with foul stuff. He is scrambling to rise again when a huge orc looms over him and raising a curved blade, it grins at him, jerks forward and Eomer has barely time to see the arrow protruding between its stained teeth before it is crashing down and in trying to roll away the orc armour catches him on the side of his head and everything fades grey…
“You must learn to sleep in your helm on patrol, horse lord,” says a quiet voice, somewhere beyond his eyelids, in a place of light and pain.
Eomer takes in a shaky breath then opens his eyes, to a dizzying, blinding, fire in his head and immediately rolls onto his side to heave up a mouthful of bile that burns his throat in its passing. He closes his eyes again, spits out the last of the stuff and lets his head hang until the ground beneath him seems to stop moving.
This time, he opens his eyes and sees only earth, brown earth trodden flat, perhaps a beaten earth floor. His head aches and his feet are cold, but he can feel them, can move his toes in his boots and his arms support his weight.
“My men?” he says hoarsely, trusting that the quiet voice beside him will answer.
A small horn beaker is placed beneath his gaze.
“They died well, horse lord, now drink.”
Eomer stares at the liquid, still in the cup. His throat is closed tight on a cry, choking on tears that he would weep and cannot.
He closes his eyes and begins to sink but suddenly a hand grasps his hair, his head is pulled roughly back and as he opens his mouth to protest the contents of the little beaker is poured in. He half gags and swallows and a fiery spirit is making him cough, making his eyes water.
Blindly he lashes out and his blow is blocked, his wrist gripped tightly by the figure kneeling beside him and the quiet voice says,
“Easy, youngling!”
He is mocked! This man to whom he owes his life knows his failure, has seen men pay for his inexperience with their lives!
His rage and grief gives him strength and he pulls the man towards him, barely seeing a lean, dark, face as he swings with his other hand and this time his fist connects, a glancing blow, before he is enveloped in a bear hug of rough cloth and old leather, his legs clamped between strong thighs, and the men are rolling over on the floor.
They have fetched up against a boulder and now he is held close, so close, so tight, so still that the sob that has been choking him begins to tear its way upward in his throat and his clenched fists would beat against the man’s chest but Eomer is held so close, so still, that the tears come on and make him shudder in this embrace.
It is not for himself that he weeps; each comrade’s face passes before his mind’s eye and they are smiling at him, expectant, trusting. He is so taken up by their passing that he is hardly aware that the arms about him have softened, until he is set free as the man rolls away from him.
Suddenly weary, Eomer pulls himself to sit upright against the rock and scrubs his hand across his face. For the first time he would look clearly about him at the small cave and at his companion, who is unpacking a bedroll. Eomer thinks he might be a Ranger from the North by his dress. There is a long-sword at his hip and a bow and quiver lie not far away, beside a small metal
flask.
The Ranger sees him looking and nods towards the flask.
“Help yourself.”
“No, sir,” Eomer replies gruffly and sees a flicker of curiosity cross the man’s face, “I was looking at the bow. Did you fell the great orc?”
The Ranger pauses and sits back on his haunches.
“I did.”
“I owe you my life,” Eomer says.
“I regret I did not reach you sooner,” the man says and his voice deepens, softens, so that Eomer knows that he honours the fallen in his remembrance. Then he looks keenly at Eomer and it seems to the young man that it is an eagle’s eye that has him skewered in its gaze.
“Did you ever see such an orc before?” the man asks softly.
“Never,” says Eomer and he conjures-up again the grinning figure looming over him. “It could not be, but for a moment it seemed that it knew me.”
“It could not be,” agrees the man, “and yet it did more than any yrch I have ever seen and with some purpose.”
He is still for a moment, then remembers that Eomer is there and looks at him gravely.
“I do not believe that any patrol could have withstood this enemy backed by its minions. Yes,” he continues slowly, “it commanded and in the midst of battle it calculated…”
“…but did not plan for a good Ranger bow!” finishes Eomer.
He scrambles to his feet and the Ranger rises slowly and so they face one another. Eomer offers his sword-hand palm upward and the Ranger clasps him warrior fashion.
“I am Eomer of the Mark, son of Eomund, nephew of Theoden King,” Eomer says and sees the man’s eyes crinkle as at some gentle memory.
“Eomer, greetings,” replies the man, “in Meduseld I was called Thorongil,” and as he sees the young man’s eyes widen, adds “and it is many snows since I rode beside your grandsire.”
Returning to the stricken camp, they had laid the fallen Rohirrim beside one another and piled rocks above them to keep off the scavengers until a party could be sent from the Aldburg to bury them cleanly. Eomer was heart-sick that there was not water to wash the blood from beloved faces, but they had rounded up their straying mounts and Eomer had pulled hairs from their manes and plaited the thin cord to place about each man’s wrist.
The Ranger had busied himself in piling the orc into a bonfire. He had handed Eomer a lighted brand and then had turned away to tighten his saddle girth, so that the young horseman could say his farewells in private and light the bonfire that would finally destroy their enemy.
They had driven the group of riderless horses ahead of them, Eomer swinging his long whip. From time-to-time he would glance across to where the Ranger rode the other flank, watching the man sitting quietly, guiding his horse with his knees. He seemed a man not long in middle age, weathered by an outdoor life but with not a grey hair to be seen.
For as long as Eomer could remember, Thorongil’s had been a name from legend, the dark warrior who had fought beside Rohan, whose lean frame had caught the eye of many a shield-maiden and Eomer also remembered a whispered conversation with his cousin when Theodred had insisted that the man from Arnor had taken a horselord as a lover. Eomer smiled wryly to himself, thinking back to that afternoon in the hayloft and how little he had really understood of what Theodred was saying.
They camped beside a stream that night and felt themselves close enough to home to light a fire, had un-tacked all the horses and put a wall of saddles around them to break the night breeze. Then they shared what food they had and Eomer found himself at the Ranger’s prompting talking about his fallen comrades, something about each man and a little about how the patrol had come to grief.
Thorongil had listened to him gravely, had approved the disposition of sentries that he had made to no avail, but here was another mystery. It was rare to find orc able to ambush well-guarded positions and usually horses would pick up the scent of the enemy before they were in bowshot.
The Ranger had taken the first watch and Eomer had laid himself down beside the fire. If he concentrated he could just smell the pipeweed that the Ranger was smoking. Eomer closed his eyes and heard Thorongil add more wood to the blaze where it crackled and snapped.
When he was woken to stand his watch, he was just able to make out the shape of the resting man in the last glowing embers of the fire, Then as dawn broke he found himself dividing his time between scanning the empty horizon and watching Thorongil sleep.
The Ranger had his sword laid beside him and one hand, long fingers curled, rested by his bearded mouth.
Their welcome home to Edoras was muted. Sentries had seen the little herd from afar and sent out riders to bring them in. Eomer strove to hold his head high, remembering what Thorongil had said, but he could not help but hear the stifled grief of families who saw the empty saddles of their husbands and sons and those cries cut through him. He was also aware that there were murmurings at the sight of his companion. Thorongil had put back his hood as they passed under the main gate and some of the older folk turned to one another in wonder.
The word had gone ahead to Meduseld, so that his uncle and cousin were waiting for them at the top of the steps. Theoden had said naught but had caught Eomer up in a crushing hug, one hand stroking his hair as he’d done to him as a child and Eomer knew without it being said that Theoden was thinking of his sister and her lord, gone too soon and how close he had come to joining them.
Then the King had released him and Theodred had put an arm about his shoulders, full of questions about the patrol that he would not voice, not where others could see them. In the doorway Eomer could see his sister shrugging off her maids to come to him and steeled himself for more questions, but he was dimly aware that behind him, his uncle was greeting Thorongil warmly.
Once they had washed the dirt from hands and faces and had eaten something, there had been a full accounting of the fight before the King and his council, sat around the great fire. Eomer had insisted that the families of his men be represented and two of the fathers had come to hear what had befallen their sons. It was now that the Ranger’s voice sounded clearly, giving weight to the young man’s account.
The patrol had been trailing a theft of stock from an outlying holding. The goodman had been both indignant that his best mares had been stolen in the night by some villains who had killed his dogs before they had the chance to give tongue and grateful for Eomer’s offer to track them down.
The trail was plain enough, half a dozen riders driving stock before them, and when they had made camp, the patrol had looked to catch up with the raiders the following day. He had set their sentries and the attack at dawn had caught the patrol unawares; at no point had there been any suggestion of a party of orc close by.
Now Thorongil laid down his tankard and added his part of the tale. He was travelling Gondor’s eastern flank, had heard garbled tales of raids of livestock, seemingly coming from Rohan and presuming on his former service had crossed the border. The goodman at the holding had told his tale again, this time cheered by the thought that he would soon have his mares returned to him and it was in following the route that the patrol had taken that Thorongil had begun to be uneasy.
He had heard the noise of battle even as he was riding past the bodies of the luckless sentries. They had been placed well but seemingly to no avail. The hall fell silent as the Ranger described the scene that had met his eyes as he came upon the remnants of the patrol gathered around their leader in a last stand. They had fought bravely, each man, but the numbers were too great.
“So how did you succeed in rescuing our beloved young lord in such a desperate case?” The councillor who had asked this, a pale man, half hidden behind Theoden’s chair, was amazed.
Many faces looked on Thorongil questioningly and it seemed to Eomer that they somehow doubted his account.
Eomer was suddenly sickened by these old men who were not there, had not seen his friends fall!
“He killed the great orc!” he growled, and when his uncle’s councillors looked blankly at him, Eomer strode to where he’d seen Thorongil leave a sacking bundle behind a pillar and returned, unwrapping the head as he came. It thudded heavily on the tiled floor as he dropped it at their feet.
“This creature was their leader,” Thorongil said quietly, “more than an orc blade, no common yrch but a warrior that knew strategy. Without its commands those left alive, fled. I have not seen such a one before, my lords, but our enemies would seem to have a new ally. It is too much to hope that this was the only one of its kind.”
There was silence, apart from Grima, whose breath hissed between his teeth!
“Terrible! Terrible!”
A Marshal from the Eastfold, pushed the head away with the toe of his boot and grunted that the thing was smiling at him.
“Were the stolen horses black?” he asked Eomer, who nodded in assent.
“Well we know where they are bound,” said the Marshal grimly. “We’ve been losing black beasts all season, one or two cut out of a herd. The perfect mounts for night raiders!”
As the company murmured uneasily, Theoden beckoned over a squire and told him to get rid of the head.
“Take it somewhere well away from either good grass or sweet water and burn it,” he said, “and bury the ashes.”
At the edge of the group, the two men who’d come to hear the fate of their sons, stirred.
“We’ll deal with it, Sire,” they said, and taking the sack from Eomer’s hands, they bundled it up and strode from the hall.
Theoden would have begun to speak further about the raiding but Thorongil was not done and there was great disquiet when he told them plainly that he believed that it was Eomer himself who had been the target of the attack.
As the Ranger spoke Eomer felt the breath leave him, as though the orc hammer had landed another blow.
“Consider, Theoden King,” he said, “Whoever took the stock seemed simple horse thieves, no threat except to the dogs. They were careful enough not to rouse the holding, yet they were careless too; there was a patrol nearby, they left a clear trail and they left someone alive to carry the tale to the patrol.”
“But the attack,” said Grima, bewildered, “Orc cannot handle horses. Surely it was by chance they came upon the patrol?”
“The patrol was led into an ambush. Why did their horses not scent orc, councillor?” asked Thorongil and answered himself, “because they were already downwind of the patrol and were waiting for them to camp for the night in the best spot around.”
“It knew me,” Eomer said grimly and saw Thorongil meet his eyes and nod.
At this Theoden arose amidst the clamour and began to pace before the fire.
The company was seeming to split into factions. Some argued that their young captains, the Lord Theodred and his cousin, were too precious to Rohan and perhaps too inexperienced to be risked riding Rohan’s borders on their own, whilst the young men protested that they must take their chances, they had good shield men and how would they gain experience and how should Rohan be guarded else?
In this they found an unexpected ally, for Councillor Grima praised their training and courage and pointed out that in these perilous times Rohan had need of every good blade and good friend, with a humble bow to the Ranger, that she could muster.
When Theoden threw up his hand there was silence, but passions hung heavy in the air and once the company was dismissed Theodred had caught Eomer by the shoulder and hustled him into a side-chamber, where he and Eowyn could question Eomer in private.
If there had been any left to see, they would have observed Theoden offer his left hand to the Ranger, who had taken it and pressed the palm against his heart.
“Will you take on the burden?” Theoden was asking.
“You know it is no burden,” the Ranger had replied.
In the morning, awaiting the King’s decision, the young men were primed to protest any coddling with arguments a-plenty, but at the same time it seemed to Eomer that when the moment came, he was being churlish.
His uncle had announced that he would travel with Thorongil to pick up the trail of the fleeing orc and perhaps trace them back to their lair.
Eomer had protested that he was well able to do this alone, whereupon Thorongil had said quietly that he might be journeying outward in company, but Eomer must find his way home on his own account for both Gondor and Rohan should know of this new threat.
Eomer’s cheeks began to burn, but Councillor Grima’s loud insistence that Isengard should receive word too distracted his uncle and Eomer had never been more grateful to the strange little man, so he stared hard at the floor until his uncle called on him to bid farewell to his sister and Eomer was able to raise his gaze. He was happy to find that the Ranger was turned away in conversation with an elderly man who seemed to know him of old.
It was as he waited in the doorway of the stables for the Ranger to make his last farewells to Meduseld that his uncle came to stand beside him. Side-by-side, the men stood watching the Ranger bow his dark head before young Eowyn. A breeze had sprung up and her hair blew about her face, sent her maids’ aprons flapping. The Ranger stooped low over her hand and as he turned away and she did likewise, the little councillor drifted out of the shadow of a pillar and ducked his head as she passed.
Watching Thorongil begin to descend the steps, Eomer became aware that his uncle was speaking to him and he turned to see Theoden unwinding a thin silver chain from his left wrist. Eomer did not think that he had ever seen it before, but then, he thought, this was not his uncle’s sword hand so there was no cause to note it.
Theoden had unwound the chain and now he gestured to Eomer who, without thinking, put forward his own left wrist and watched as his uncle wound the chain about and fastened it with a pin that slipped into a looped link.
“This you will return to me someday, if not to me to whomsoever you deem fit.” Thorongil had reached the bottom of the steps and was bearing down on them. “It has another fastening, but if you close that you will never be able to remove it, boy, for it is a mithril chain.”
Eomer would have thought himself amazed that his most practical uncle should gift him such a trinket, but just then his Ranger had walked into the stables and now they were checking their gear and mounting and walking smartly out and down the winding path until they were able to pass under the main gate, Thorongil clapped his heels to his horse’s sides and they were on their way.
Their first day had taken them back towards the holding on the border. Crossing a sea of grass, up ahead they could make out a small group coming towards them. It was the goodman, with the rest of his stock and his family in a cart. They were abandoning the place of soft grass and sweet water that had been their pride to live with family closer to Edoras. There were tears in the man’s eyes as he spoke of the loss of so many.
“…and for three black mares,” he said brokenly.
“These were not only seeking good stock,” Eomer said urgently.
“They were hunting men,” Thorongil said firmly and chirruped to his mount to go on. Eomer hurried after him.
When they camped that evening it was beside a shallow stream that ran over a pebble and shingle bed and Eomer had begun by doing as he was wont, caring for his horse and searching for fuel. In this part of Rohan trees were scarce, but it was always possible to find dried horse dung around watering places and he soon had a store collected and a fire built.
The Ranger had tethered his mount so that it could graze alongside Eomer’s and then had wandered off downstream for a ways.
By the time that Eomer had the fire snapping, he was returned with four small brown trout and they had eaten well.
As they picked the soft flesh from the fish, Thorongil had questioned him about what he had seen that day and Eomer realized that although he knew this land well, he was learning much about how to travel across country, how to track and to avoid being tracked.
Once the meal was done the Ranger had stood and walking towards the stream had drawn his blade and laid it down on the bank. Then he began to shed his clothing, layer by layer. Broad, muscled, shoulders and a furred chest rose above his waist and then he sat down to pull off his boots and peel off his breeches. Pale skin over corded muscle and Eomer suddenly thought of a fine chestnut colt with four white socks, for Thorongil was pale beneath his pelt of dark hair, but with tanned hands and arms to over his wrists and down his neck to a v-shape below his collarbone. He himself had much the same markings, but his yellow hair made his skin take up summer colour easily and just now he was golden to his waist.
“We are safe here, Eomer, come and bathe,” his Ranger said and Eomer stood to do as he was bid, except that a corner of his skin itched with the vague feeling that it was a command that he had been given. Shrugging off the idea he walked down to where Thorongil’s gear lay and setting his own blade to hand, Eomer began by shedding his jerkin and shirt.
It was as he went to unwind the silver chain from about his wrist that Thorongil said,
“Wait,” and there was steel in his tone that Eomer had never heard before. The man before him was stood, naked and knee-deep in a stream but Eomer thought he had never seen a man so at ease with command, not heard a voice so clear, so direct.
“I would not lose this in the stream, sir,” Eomer said hastily and then felt that once again he had rushed into speech when he should have listened. The man before him bent down, scooped up water in both hands and let it trickle through his fingers and over his chest. He repeated the gesture and once more and all the while Eomer was entranced by the curving pattern of damp hair that sculpted his breast, and the droplets of water that ran down the line of hair that marked his stomach and was beginning to soak the curls at his fork.
Eomer realized that he was rubbing the links of the mithril chain between finger and thumb and as Thorongil held his gaze he stopped abruptly.
“Theoden gifted you this for a reason, Eomer,” Thorongil said softly, “he has given you a choice, to be free to remove the chain or to clasp it about your wrist forever, as I give you a choice, to follow its song for so long as we travel together or to lay it aside.”
There were small white flowers, floating on the surface of the stream and Eomer watched them become caught in the eddy around the man’s knees and then float off downstream again. Eomer swallowed. It seemed to him that he was suddenly adrift in a dream in which he was carried along by some power over which he had no control.
“What is the song?” he asked hoarsely.
Thorongil regarded him gravely for a moment and then he spoke.
“It is in a hundred small tasks that bind those who choose it together in strength. It is simple and values truth between those who choose it. It tests strength and resolve and teaches trust and to wield power. Sometimes it will test the bond to breaking point but true silver cannot be broken.”
Eomer suddenly thought back to the night that his uncle had given his father’s sword over to his keeping. There had been flickering torches and harps playing in the Golden Hall and yet at this moment, this cold stream was as strange and powerful a place.
Carefully and deliberately he shed his breeches and boots and with the chain still wrapped about his wrist, he stepped into the water, shivering a little at the shock of the cold.
Slowly he waded across to where Thorongil stood waiting for him. Once more he thought of his uncle; Theoden’s love for him and for Eowyn he knew was deep and heartfelt. He would trust in Theoden’s judgement and as the water swirled about his knees, it came to him who Thorongil’s lover had been all those years ago.
He was honest enough with himself to know that for many hours he had been curious to feel the Ranger’s hands on him but he had never thought that he would be at another’s command and so he stood obedient but wary in the stream and awaited his fate.
When Thorongil had told him to wash himself, he had hesitated for a moment, expecting some other command, but the Ranger had waited calmly until the young man began to stoop and then very deliberately he scooped up some water and let it trickle across his breast. Eomer took in a breath and copied him and so it began, the young horseman trying to mirror the Ranger’s every movement.
Thorongil had him wash himself thoroughly, at one point leaving Eomer standing in the stream whilst he fetched slivers of some pale soap from his pack and Eomer was struck by how he was suddenly cold, left alone until Thorongil returned.
They had finished by soaping up their hair and plunging beneath the surface of the stream. Eomer surfaced gasping and flung his head about to rid his long hair of the weight of the water. A few feet away, Thorongil stood still, dark hair dripping like an otter’s pelt and a slow smile and a nod of encouragement passed over his face.
“Enough,” he said and waded away from Eomer, turning as he reached the bank and saying, “come along, boy.”
Eomer’s chin came up at that; his uncle might call him ‘boy’ but this did not feel the same. The Ranger’s smile disappeared and once again he was still, waiting for Eomer’s jaw to soften, for me to accept the bit, Eomer thought wryly.
“I could call you ‘colt’,” Thorongil said, “if you would prefer.”
Eomer considered for a moment, then he said, “What should I call you?”
“You could call me, Sir, as you do now, or you may call me ‘Gil.”
“This is my land.”
Thorongil stretched out his left hand to Eomer, the first time since he stepped into the water that they had touched, who placed his hand in the Ranger’s and Eomer felt his thumb rub gently against the chain.
“This is for us two only, boy. To the world we are as we appear.”
Then he hauled Eomer out of the stream and as the men began to rub themselves down, he said cheerfully, “I know of a people, small in stature but great in heart, who have a good, honest tradition and I think on this occasion we should have a second supper.”
Over the next few weeks as they journeyed through Rohan, Eomer would think back on that first evening and wonder at what he had imagined might happen.
Whenever possible, they camped close to water and after several days of bathing separately, Gil had hand him the soap and asked him to wash him and then to stand still whilst he was washed. Eomer had thought that his hands might tremble the first time that he touched Gil’s body, but he had steeled himself and worked his hands strongly over the planes and curves. When his turn had come he had begun holding his breath, but Gil had half sung to him, a murmur of some language that soothed and quieted him and even when the Ranger’s strong hands drifted along his cleft, gently held his balls whilst he was cleaned there, there was no fear, nor no invasion of his calm.
The trail of the fleeing orc had been plain enough in cold campfires and raided holdings where the indignant owners would emerge from their barricaded homes to tell the Lord Eomer their tales. The orc were not waiting to kill men where they could get an easy meal and move on and one or two families had put up a stiff resistance, picking off any stragglers they could reach; however, Eomer was well aware that Gil’s true quarry was not the retreating yrch but rather the cold trail of the band who had first come into Rohan in search of him. Thus he was learning something of Ranger lore, watching Gil examine a scattering of bones and dung around an old fire and being able to judge whether the orc were on their outward or homeward journeys. Once or twice he wondered what orc thought of as home; was it simply safety and full bellies?
At the end of each day’s journey, Gil would come to him and Eomer would offer his enchained wrist for the clasping that signaled the beginning of their other song. His heart had jumped in his mouth, the night that Gil had bid him watch as he pleasured himself, knelt, bathed in the firelight before Eomer’s gaze. Eomer guessed that his turn would come and this display in its honesty was so far removed from the youthful trials shared with his cousin and friends in the long grass that he thrilled at the courage of it. He would dare to let Gil see his passion, trusting in the man to value the gift aright.
For three nights Gil had him watch and all the while the anticipation grew until Eomer’s flesh shivered at the thought. At the next fireside when Gil sat quietly before him and asked Eomer what he wanted, Eomer spoke boldly saying that he wanted Gil to see him come by his own hand beneath the stars.
He had planned for this and gloried in a careful reveal of muscle and naked flesh, knowing that the firelight gilded his skin and his hair was a golden halo. He had watched Gil carefully and began with a mirrored drift of nails across his breast, coaxing his nipples to taut little nubs, but his body was still his own and he showed the silent figure sat before him what gave him pleasure, the twist of his wrist at the top of the stroke and the lazy thumb that spread the leaking drops around and over the purpled head.
His breath was beginning to come short and he was fighting to keep his eyes open when suddenly Gil’s steely voice said, “Hold!”
Gasping, his hand hovered over his aching cock and he looked at Gil with amazement, who said very quietly, “You will not come this night.” Eomer could not contain the choked cry that burst from him, but just then the firelight caught the mithril chain around his wrist, making it glow as with a clear fire and he threw himself backwards, digging his fingers into handfuls of turf, in an agony of denial.
Gil had sat with him, talking softly of power and restraint, until his body had quietened and that night had gathered the young man into his embrace to sleep, Eomer’s forehead resting against Gil’s breast.
Eomer had calculated that once he could display the right control, taking himself to the brink time-and-time again only to let his will overtop his desire, that Gil would let him come, but instead the man had sought to gift him pleasure. The first time that Gil had put his mouth on Eomer, he had all but wept as he came apart under the Ranger’s skillful hands.
They were riding along the border now and had gleaned some knowledge of their enemy that they hoped might profit all. Back-tracking the raiding party, they could identify the footprints, count the long stride-patterns of the Great Orc and Thorongil thought he had found hair caught on branches and dung that would allow trackers to know when one of these was about.
Eomer knew that they would part soon and he asked Gil humbly if he would let him close the clasp on the mithril chain, but Gil would not allow this, saying that this was not the time. Instead he asked Eomer once more what he wanted and this time Eomer had gazed at his lover and told him that he wanted whatever it was that Gil wished to show him.
At this Gil had clasped his boy tightly in his arms, kissed the top of his head and then grinned widely at him with what Eomer thought was a measure of mischief about him. Thus it was that he found himself naked, set before Gil on the back of his bay as it walked calmly through hock-deep grass. The bay’s hide was warm and itched at the tender skin on his thighs and at his taint. Gil had an arm about his waist as Eomer lay back on him, whilst his other hand teased at his breast. Eomer was breathless, one fist twisted in the bay’s mane, whilst with the other he was working his cock hard and fast. He was close, so close to falling and it was now that Gil’s soft voice murmured in his ear,
“Come for me, boy.”
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
So long and so far away, Eomer thought as he walked with Elessar through the lines of soldiers and horsemen. The Oath of Eorl was re-made, the Gift of Cirion confirmed but none but they knew that as the Kings, swathed in their ceremonial robes, had clasped them one to another amidst the cheering crowds, Eomer had caught his Ranger by the hand, slipped the mithril chain about his wrist and closed the last catch…for good.
-oo0oo-