Faramir Fiction Archive

Change of Heart (NC-17)

Written by Larien Elengasse

01 November 2005 | 9236 words

Title: Change of Heart
Author: Larien Elengasse
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters; they are the property of Tolkien.
Special Warnings: This story contains male slash pairings and explicit sexual content. If you find this offensive, or you are under-age, I strongly suggest you stop now.
Beta: Larian Elensar
Cast: Éomer/Faramir
Archive: Elves and Men, Rhovanion, all others please ask
Spoilers: Some if you haven’t read ROTK
Summary: Éomer befriends Faramir and finds he has feelings he doesn’t understand.
Notes: This story is part of a trade on Loremaster’s Vault, it was written for Pink Tamsin in exchange for my website, Rhovanion.

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Éomer entered the Houses of Healing. He was battered, bruised, and covered in the blood of orcs and men. He grabbed one of the healers and clutched his robes in his fists. “Where is she?” he growled.

The stunned healer tried to calm him. “My Lord, you are injured, let me attend to you.”

Éomer hauled the man up to him. “I asked for the whereabouts of my sister! Where is she?”

“Peace, Éomer. I have attended to her, she will survive her wounds.” Aragorn stood in the doorway, battered and covered in blood himself, but still standing tall and proud.

Éomer released the healer and strode across the room to his new friend. His tone was a bit calmer, his fears somewhat put to rest knowing that the Dúnadan had treated her. “Where is she, Aragorn? Where is Éowyn?”

“Come, friend. Come with me.” Aragorn put an arm around the Marshall’s shoulders and led him through the rooms of the Houses of Healing to see his beloved sister.

Éowyn lay upon her side, staring at the pale form that lay on the cot next to hers. His chestnut hair was matted and stuck to his pale face, his ivory skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat, his lithe body marred with wounds and burns. Somehow, he was beautiful in his tortured state; he looked as if he bore the weight of the world upon his slender shoulders. She had not seem him before, but had heard those who came to visit him call him Captain Faramir. She surmised he was the second son of Denethor II, younger brother to Boromir, and a warrior for Gondor. Aragorn had worked as diligently to cure Faramir as he had worked to help her, and that in itself spoke volumes of Faramir’s character.

The pale form shuddered and he moaned, whispering, “No… please… I am sorry, Father. Boromir!”

His slender arm fell from the cot and she could see his hand trembling. She reached out and clasped it, holding it firmly, trying to offer some comfort to his tortured soul. She spoke softly, “Ssshh… There is nothing to fear, no one can hurt you now, my Lord. I will protect you.”

His moaning quieted and he became still again, his heavy rasping breaths mixing with the moans of the wounded in the rooms next to theirs.

“Éowyn!” Éomer rushed to her side and fell to his knees beside her bed.

She released Faramir’s hand and smiled at her brother wearily. “Hello, brother.” She reached up and caressed his face. “You look terrible.”

Éomer laughed as he leaned down, resting his head upon her shoulder and hugging her as best he could. “Gods, Éowyn, I thought I had lost you. I do not know what I would do if anything were to happen to you.”

Éowyn’s smile began to fade. “Éomer… Uncle is… he…”

Éomer caressed his sister’s face. “Sssh, sister, I know. But you felled the beast who took his life, he was avenged.”

Tears began to fall from Éowyn’s fair eyes and her brother held her in his arms as she wept. Aragorn turned his attention to Faramir as the siblings embraced. The fever the young Captain suffered from was stubborn, it seemed nothing he did would break its hold on Faramir’s weak body. He had called for Elladan and Elrohir, hoping they could help him. What I would not give to see Lord Elrond now… he thought. He was determined not to lose the young Steward. Faramir’s service would be sorely needed, and Aragorn could not bear to see such a fine man fall at the hands of Sauron’s minions, or the hands of his own father. Denethor had been engulfed with madness, Sauron’s wickedness tainting his reason through use of the palantír. Denethor had tried to burn himself and his wounded son alive. Gandalf had been the one to rescue Faramir from the flames, but was unable to save Denethor. Aragorn thought it was just as well perhaps; Denethor was mad, and there was no curing that.

After some time Aragorn finally coaxed Éomer away from his sister and convinced the warrior to allow him to treat his wounds. They left Éowyn alone with Faramir to get some rest.

The battle at the Black Gates had been hard fought, but in the end, they were victorious. The Hobbits succeeded in destroying the One Ring, therefore destroying Sauron. Éomer returned to the Houses of Healing to visit his sister, to find the she was almost completely recovered. She and Faramir had become close friends, and had taken to walking the grounds of the healing houses in the afternoon. Éowyn was charmed by Faramir’s gentle and kind nature, and had to admit he was strikingly handsome. She had noticed the subtle, sideways glances her new friend gave the new King of Rohan, and would take it upon herself to see that the two men became friends.

Éomer entered the room his sister shared with the new Steward of Gondor and found her away from her bed. He looked at Faramir, who was propped up on pillows against the wall, reading. He was wearing a thin cotton nightshirt and the blankets were pulled to his midsection. He looked up at Éomer; his skin appeared to flush slightly and he quickly looked back down at his book. “Good afternoon, my Lord.” He said in a quiet voice.

“Good afternoon, Faramir. How are you feeling this day?” Éomer sat down on his sister’s cot to wait for her, and looked at the young Steward.

“Better, thank you for asking, my Lord.” Faramir seemed reluctant to look him in the eye, and if Éomer did not know better, he would have been suspicious as to why. However, he knew the Steward to be an honorable and kind man, and he had to admit he was handsome. Éomer had noted how close Faramir had become with his sister, and he found himself thinking they would make a good match. “Would you know where my sister is, Faramir?”

Faramir replied shyly, “They took her to the baths, she should return in a short while.”

Éomer smiled at the shy young Steward. “Well, then I suppose I will have to speak with you instead. Would that be alright, Faramir?”

Faramir set down his book and nervously straightened the covers. “Yes, my Lord. I… I would like that very much.”

Éomer chuckled quietly. “I would prefer it if you would call me by my first name, Faramir, rather than my Lord, you are my elder.”

Faramir smiled and looked up at the new King of Rohan. “That is true, but you are my superior, Sire.”

Éomer smiled and leaned forward. “I am not used to this new role of mine, I have lived most of my life as a simple soldier. I would feel much more at ease if you simply called me by my name.”

Faramir smiled shyly. “Aye, it appears I am to succeed my father as Steward, and that is not something I anticipated ever being; I understand how you feel. If you insist, I will call you by your name, Éomer.”

As Éomer chatted with the shy young man, he noted that there was sadness in his voice. He was aware of how Faramir came to be in the Houses of Healing and surmised that was the cause of the Steward’s sorrow. Denethor had been a hard and unforgiving father, and Faramir had endured the most of his anger; things had only gotten worse after Denethor’s beloved Boromir died. They spoke of their upbringing, Éomer talked of his departed cousin and uncle, and Faramir reminisced about his beloved, departed brother. Despite the differences in temperament, they shared common experiences, and had both lost ones dear to them. Éomer was able to pierce the veil of shyness that seemed to engulf the young Steward, and actually made him laugh a time or two before Éowyn returned.

Upon his sister’s return, he focused his attention on her, but still drew Faramir into conversation as he could see that his sister’s presence set the Steward at ease. Upon leaving Éowyn and Faramir to rest, he cast a glance over his shoulder toward them and smiled when he saw how happy they were in one another’s company.

Over the course of several weeks, Éomer and Faramir became close friends, and when Faramir was discharged, they continued to seek one another’s company for walks through the palace gardens and talks of politics now that the war was over. Éomer was impressed with Faramir’s sense of humor and subtle wit, as well as his kind and gentle nature. There was something endearing about the self-effacing young Steward, it was as if he did not realize the extent of his own intelligence and worth.

Faramir however, found himself thinking of Éomer in ways he was not sure the new King of Rohan would approve. One cool spring evening the Steward lay in his bed beneath the soft velvet and silk bedcovers, staring at the ceiling. He had returned from a festive dinner thrown by Aragorn and his friends, and had perhaps partaken of a little too much wine. As he stared at the ceiling he thought of his brother. Boromir had always been his rock, his comfort, and his protector from his father’s rage. Now he was without family, left alone, and he felt lost and rudderless.

His thoughts drifted from Boromir to his new friend, Éomer. The new King had been in a jovial mood that evening, laughing and talking with him and Aragorn, and bestowing tokens of affection on his sister. He recalled his bright laughter, the way his dark eyes sparkled, his golden mane and soft chestnut beard. He imagined the feel of that soft beard against his skin, tickling his neck, caressing his chest as Éomer’s soft, full lips made their way down his torso. His warm tongue probing his navel, drawing circles around it before trailing further down. He shuddered as his own hand trailed down his abdomen and he gathered his nightshirt in his fingers, sliding it up past his burgeoning arousal; the feel of the soft cotton sliding against his heated flesh causing a sigh to escape his lips.

He took his hardened length in his hand, slowly stroking it, squeezing it, and encircling the tip with his thumb. He dreamed that his hand was the King of Rohan’s mouth, imagining warm, wet, swirling suction traveling his length. He began to rock his hips, slowly thrusting into his hand, his free hand traveling to his chest, taking a pebbled nipple between finger and thumb and pinching it ever so slightly. He imagined what Éomer’s battle-hardened hands would feel like upon his skin. He thrust his hips upward, arching his back and moaning Éomer’s name as he found his release. His satiated body sank back into the thick bedding, and he slowly rolled to his side, rising from the bed to clean the evidence of his desire from his stomach. As he returned to the bed, he pulled the covers up around his shoulders and hugged a pillow tight to his chest, closing his eyes and dreaming of the handsome King of Rohan.

One crisp afternoon, Faramir walked with his good friend through the grounds of the palace. As they turned a corner, they came upon the crypt where his father’s ashes lay. All color drained from Faramir’s face and Éomer placed a supportive arm around the Steward, he had not intended on walking in this direction. Visions of his father’s final, desperate act of madness flashed in Faramir’s mind. The smell of burning flesh and the searing heat of the fire all haunted his thoughts. His hands flew to his face to conceal the tears of pain and horror that fell from his eyes and Éomer turned Faramir to face him.

“Faramir, it is over. He can no longer hurt you, my friend.” Éomer frowned as he watched his friend’s shoulders begin to shudder and heard the quiet gasps that issued from behind his trembling hands. He could not imagine the horror of those last moments in his father’s presence. He could not begin to understand how it would feel to know your own father wanted you dead. He took Faramir in his embrace, wrapping his powerful arms around the Steward’s lithe form, stroking his hair and whispering words of comfort in his ears. “Faramir, you must let this go, you must find away to forget what has passed and go on with your life. You deserve happiness my friend.” He stiffened slightly as he felt Faramir’s fingers creep up his back and tangle themselves in his cloak. “Denethor can no longer do you harm, you are safe now.” He shivered as he felt the Steward’s face snuggle against his neck; he was unaccustomed to such a display from another male.

Faramir clung to Éomer as a drowning man clings to a piece of driftwood. He took comfort in his powerful body, his strong arms, and deep voice. Gods, he smells so good, like leather and the musky scent of his horse… He tilted his head ever so slightly, pressing his lips against the warm flesh of the King’s neck. “You have been ever kind to me, Éomer, I value and cherish your friendship.” He whispered against his friend’s neck.

Éomer’s emotions warred inside him, he wanted to give his friend comfort, he wanted Faramir to find strength in his friendship, but this… this was more than he felt he could give. He grasped Faramir’s shoulders in his strong hands and gently pried him away from his chest. He swallowed as he tried to control the tremor in his voice upon speaking to him. “Faramir, I… I am afraid you have mistaken my friendship and support for something other than it is.”

Faramir pulled from Éomer’s grasp, turning his face away from him. He stammered, “I… I am sorry, my Lord. I did not intend to…” He found he could no longer look upon him; he was ashamed and embarrassed. He turned and fled, leaving Éomer standing in front of the sealed tomb.

Éomer knocked upon his sister’s chamber door, hoping he would find the young Steward there. Éowyn opened the door, smiling broadly upon seeing her brother. “Greetings, brother. How are you this fine day?”

Éomer looked at the floor and spoke very softly. “Éowyn, I fear I have hurt Faramir, and it was not my intention to do so.”

Éowyn took her brother by the arm and pulled him inside her chamber, closing the door behind him. “What has happened, brother? Why do you think this?”

Éomer took a seat in a large chair by the window, resting his elbows upon his powerful thighs and placing his head in his hands. “Gods, Éowyn. All I wanted to do was give him comfort; he has been through so much. Instead I have made him feel worse, I have made him feel ashamed.”

Éowyn sank to her knees by her brother’s feet. “Tell me what has happened, tell it all to me.”

Éomer relayed the story of his conversation with Faramir in front of Denethor’s tomb, including Faramir’s display of emotion, and the embarrassed way the Steward had fled from his presence.

Éowyn listened intently, her hands folded across Éomer’s knee and her chin resting on top of it. She smiled wisely and looked at her handsome brother. She had not known him to show so much affection to another male other than Théodred. “Brother…” she began quietly, “have you thought upon your own feelings toward our friend?”

Éomer frowned and placed his hands upon the armrests of the chair. “What do you mean, exactly?” he questioned.

She smiled gently, “I mean, how exactly do you see Faramir? Is he an acquaintance?”

Éomer continued to frown, not sure where this line of questioning was leading. “No, Éowyn, he is more than an acquaintance, he is a dear friend, you know this.”

Éowyn rose to her feet. “How dear?”

Éomer frowned and rose from his chair, “Very dear, I would do anything for him. I would protect him, with my life if need be. When I think of the abuse he suffered at the hands of that madman, I…” He cleared his throat and continued. “I am not sure I like where this is going, sister.”

Éowyn waived her hand, “Patience, brother. We both know that it is not unheard of for two males to find companionship with one another. Would you not agree?”

Éomer grumbled under his breath and continued, “Éowyn, you are speaking of something that, while not unheard of, is not commonly accepted. It is something I have never done. I prefer the company of ladies, you know this.”

Éowyn smiled and nodded, moving to sit upon her bed. “While I do know this of you, brother, I have also seen a change in you as of late. You have become… more gentle, more thoughtful, less concerned with luring females to your bed. Several times I have seen you forgo the company of ladies, preferring to take one of your walks with Faramir.”

Éomer’s eyes widened. “Éowyn! Are you suggesting that I have in someway misled Faramir? That I have… that I might…”

Éowyn laughed softly, “Oh Éomer, my blustering, warrior brother. It is not weak to love. On the contrary, it takes great strength of character and heart to give so much to another. Why should you be ashamed of your feelings?”

“Éowyn, I am the King of Rohan, I am expected to marry, I am expected to father an heir to the kingdom. Even if I felt as you think I do toward Faramir, it would be impossible.”

Éowyn took her brother’s hands in her own, “We love who we love, Éomer, there is no logic to it. I love one I can never have, one who will never love me as I do him. It is pointless for me to deny it; I must live with it and go on. But you, you could have what you want, if you are brave enough to take it. I have seen the kindness and love with which you treat our Faramir; I have never seen you treat another that way. Stop lying to yourself, Éomer, let your heart be free to love who it will.”

Éomer pried his hands from his sister’s and turned away. “I am the King of Rohan, I am a warrior, and I can not afford such frivolities, such… preferences.” He swallowed, “He is a man, Éowyn, as am I, this can not be.” He turned and left his sister in her chamber.

As the weeks passed, the relationship between Éomer and Faramir was strained at best. Éomer tried to talk to him, but the Steward was too humiliated and succeeded in avoiding him. Finally, just a week before Aragorn’s coronation, Faramir knocked upon Éomer’s door. As he entered, he found the King of Rohan pouring over troop rosters and stores inventories at his desk. He approached him, eyes cast down, and spoke quietly.

“May I have a moment of your time, my Lord?”

Éomer steeled himself and looked up from his paperwork. “Of course, Faramir. What is it that I can help you with?”

Faramir shifted his weight to the opposite foot and cleared his throat. “I would like for your permission to ask for Éowyn’s hand in marriage.”

Éomer dropped the quill he was writing with and looked up at the Steward. “What?”

Faramir took a deep breath and repeated his request, a bit louder, continuing to look at the surface of the desk.

Éomer rose from his chair and rounded the desk, crossing his arms about his chest. “I would have you look me in the eye when you make such a request, Steward, or I may doubt its sincerity.”

Faramir set his jaw and looked into Éomer’s eyes. “I would like to request your permission to ask for Éowyn’s hand in marriage.”

Éomer frowned and leaned forward. “Do you love my sister, Faramir?”

Faramir swallowed and continued, “Yes, my Lord.”

Éomer leaned a bit closer. “Above all others? Can I trust you to remain faithful to her, taking no other to your bed for as long as you live?”

Faramir took a deep breath and answered, “Aye, my Lord. I will take no other to my bed.”

Éomer placed his hands upon his hips and frowned. “You did not answer my first question, Faramir. Do you love her above all others?”

Faramir felt tears begin to prick the back of his eyes and he answered softly. “I do not wish to lie to you, my Lord. I will love Éowyn and remain faithful to her; I will be a kind and faithful husband. Please leave it at that.”

Éomer slowly shook his head. “This is my sister, Faramir, the dearest person to me in all the world. I cannot leave it at that, if there is another that you love, then…”

Faramir’s voice broke as he answered, “I cannot have the one I hold most dear, nor can she. We love one another; we can provide companionship to one another, we can make one another happy. In the absence of true love, is that not enough?”

Éomer looked upon the sorrowful form of his dear friend, noting his auburn hair that looked like silk, his liquid gray-blue eyes, his ivory skin. He found himself thinking that Faramir possessed a tortured beauty that he had not seen the likes of before. He was overcome by the urge to hold him and protect him, to try to wipe away all the pain he had experienced in his life. His own voice seemed to come from outside his body as he replied, “No, Faramir, it is not enough.” He saw his own actions as if he were watching a play, as if it were not really he that was committing them. He reached out and grasped the back of the Steward’s head, tangling his fingers in that silken hair, pulling him close, crushing him against his chest as he claimed his soft mouth.

Faramir moaned into the kiss, melting into Éomer’s embrace. He opened his lips against the urgent probing of the King’s tongue and allowed him to thrust it inside his mouth, tangling his fingers in Éomer’s flaxen mane, arching his back and pressing the length of his body into that of the King’s. It was everything he had dreamed and imagined it would be, powerful, sensual, and virile. He could taste the King of Rohan everyday for the rest of his life and never tire of him.

Faramir was softer than Éomer ever imagined. He had never kissed a male before and could not imagine kissing another; but kissing Faramir could easily become addictive. The young Steward’s moans and sighs and his gentle yielding were intoxicating. He deepened the kiss, crushing Faramir’s lithe body against his own larger one. His hand made its way down Faramir’s back, clasping his buttocks, earning him a soft whimpering cry. He felt the Steward’s arousal pressing into his thigh and he rolled his hips forward, wanting to feel more of it.

As they broke the kiss, Éomer’s lips consumed Faramir’s neck and the Steward inclined his head giving the King better access. “I have dreamed of this for so long, Éomer. I have wanted you for so long…” he whispered breathlessly.

Éomer stopped, pulling back and looking at Faramir. Gods the way he says my name… His ivory skin was flushed with passion, his hair tossed, his lips swollen. This is a man I hold in my arms, a man I count as a friend. he thought. He swallowed and spoke softly, “Faramir, I… I do not know what this means, I do not know how I feel… I have never…”

Faramir caressed his face and smiled, his fingertips lingering on Éomer’s full lips. “I will not ask more than you can give, my Lord. I will happily take whatever you offer.”

A sharp rap upon the door caused them to break their embrace. Faramir hurriedly straightened his tunic and smoothed his hair, as Éomer stepped back and around behind the desk. “Come.” His deep voice answered, and one of his captains stepped inside.

Faramir smiled politely at the young captain and turned to the King. “I will speak with you later, my Lord, if that is permissible.”

Éomer nodded. “Yes, that will be fine. Thank you, Faramir.”

The Steward bowed and placed his hand over his heart before departing the room. As the door closed behind him, his head was swimming, his heart was racing and his hands trembled. He pressed his fingertips to his lips and smiled, walking swiftly down the hall toward his chamber.

A soft knock upon his door broke him from his reverie. He sat in a wide chair near the window, gazing out upon the courtyard. He looked up and toward the door and softly called for his guest to enter. He smiled when he saw Éowyn walk through the door, and she crossed the room to sit upon the windowsill beside him.

“How does my good friend this day?” She asked sweetly.

Faramir blushed slightly and smiled. “Better than in many months, sweet Éowyn.”

She smiled broadly. “Would this have anything to do with your visit to my brother?”

He looked down at his lap and smiled. “Aye, it would. I went to him, as you suggested, and asked his permission to propose marriage to you. He took it as you suspected he would.”

Éowyn looked out the window and smiled. “I do know my brother well. There is a problem that will be difficult to resolve.”

The smile faded somewhat from Faramir’s face and he nodded. “The King of Rohan must take a wife and provide an heir, as must I…”

Éowyn knelt at her friend’s feet. “You will be a good husband to me, Faramir, I trust you. I will provide you with an heir and be a good wife, you will always have a link to Éomer through me.”

Faramir caressed her face. “How can you offer this to me, Éowyn? How can you be willing to live with me as my wife, and allow me to be your brother’s lover?”

Éowyn smiled gently. “I care very deeply for you, Faramir, you have been a good and kind friend. While this is a marriage of convenience, it will not be a marriage devoid of love.” She took his hand and pressed a soft kiss to his palm.

He gently guided her up from the floor, pulling her to his lap and wrapping his arms around her. She placed her arms around his neck and gently kissed his cheek, and rested her head upon his shoulder. He spoke very softly, “I am sorry you can not have the one your heart truly desires, dear Éowyn. I would very much like to see you happy.”

She smiled and snuggled close. “I will be, though it will be happiness born of a different kind of love. I do love you, Faramir.”

He gave her waist a gentle squeeze, “And I love you, brave and gentle Éowyn.”

Éomer stood staring out the window of his chamber, his arms crossed over his bare chest. He was still reeling from his encounter with Faramir that afternoon, still confused by his own feelings. He tried to imagine what it would be like, holding him, kissing him, sleeping next to him, and found he could not. He looked over his shoulder to the satiated female in his bed, disappointed in himself for bringing her there. He had done it to prove to himself that he was still normal man, one that still wanted women. Even though he had indeed lain with the supine female that now slept, his thoughts still lingered on the Steward, on that searing, earth-shattering kiss. He found he now questioned everything he ever thought he knew about himself and about love. He pulled his cloak around his shoulders and slid his bare feet into his shoes. He left the woman in his bed and continued down the hall toward Faramir’s room.

Upon arriving at the Steward’s door, he knocked softly upon it. His heart raced in his chest, his mind swam with questions and uncertainties. One thing he knew for sure was that he could not leave things as they were, he either needed to tell Faramir he could not return his feelings, or… He gasped quietly when Faramir opened the door. The Steward was dressed in a thin velvet robe, tied loosely at the waist. His hair was damp and his skin was flushed, he looked as if he had just emerged from the bath. Faramir smiled kindly and stepped aside, inviting Éomer in.

The King looked about Faramir’s room, it was comfortable and homey, much like his own room in Meduseld. The water from his bath still steamed, and a fire warmed the room. Faramir pushed his wet hair back from his face and smiled. “What can I do for you, my friend?”

Éomer turned and looked at him, his voice a barely audible whisper as he replied, “I do not know, I do not know why I am here.”

Faramir cocked his head and softly replied, “You do not? I was hoping that after what happened this afternoon…” He turned away, hiding his flushed cheeks.

Éomer placed his hand upon Faramir’s shoulder, turning him to face him. “Faramir, I am not… I do not… I have never… Oh, what is the use? I have never been good at diplomacy.” He placed his hands upon his hips and shook his head. “I like women, Faramir, I have always liked women. I am a soldier, a warrior, a King, I cannot be seen as weak or…”

Faramir looked into his eyes, feeling tears pricking his eyelids. “Soft? Deviant? A weakling? A failure?”

Éomer took Faramir’s arms in his hands. “Those are your father’s words, Faramir, not mine. I do not see you as any of those things, I am not him.”

“Who are you then, my Lord? Are you my friend, my future brother-in-law, or could you be…?” He looked at the floor wiping at his eyes with his sleeve. “I am sorry, Éomer, I am not a man such as you are. I… I cannot help who I love, or who I am.”

Éomer drew him into his arms, he felt his heart splitting in two for his good friend, his brother in arms… He pulled Faramir’s head to his chest and cradled it there. “You are as strong, as brave, as noble a man as I have ever known, Faramir. I only wish I were as strong and brave as you.”

Faramir pulled away from him and stared into his eyes. “I do not need your pity, Éomer, nor do I need false praise.” He placed his hand upon the King’s bare chest; he felt his powerful heart beat beneath his hand, his warm skin, and the soft hair that grew upon his chest. A tear fell from his eye and he whispered, “What I need is your love.”

Éomer trembled beneath Faramir’s touch; he felt a spark deep inside him that was growing each passing minute. Each minute that he spent with the Steward caused that flame to burn brighter and hotter. I am not this kind of man… he thought as he covered Faramir’s hand with his own. I do not lay with men, I do not… his body was betraying his mind as he allowed Faramir’s hand to drift down his chest. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore what he knew, what deep down he knew he wanted. He gasped as he felt Faramir’s soft lips touch his chest and his arms encircle his waist.

“I love you, Éomer, more than any other, more than I should.” Faramir whispered as his mouth slowly, tentatively made its way to one golden nipple. He could smell the scent of a woman upon his body and ignored it; this was his only chance to prove to his friend how much he loved him. His heart leapt in his chest as he took that nipple in his mouth, gently suckling it, hearing the heartbreaking moan that escaped Éomer’s lips. He tasted her upon him, the sweet perfume of a Gondorian courtesan. He released the pebbled nipple, sighing at the whimper of protest that issued from his love. He whispered, “I would love you more than any other could. I would do anything for you, my love, anything you desire.” He inclined his head and brushed his lips against the King’s, whispering, “You may do what you want with me, my Lord, use me as you wish. I can be soft, I can be whatever you want me to be.”

Éomer was now achingly hard, aroused beyond all reason. His hands slid down Faramir’s back, grasping his buttocks and pulling him closer. “Gods, Faramir, you are driving me mad…” he whispered hoarsely. He leaned his head back and groaned as he felt Faramir’s hand dance over the rise in his leggings, his fingertips teasing the heated flesh encased in suede.

“What do you want me to do, my Lord?” He slowly increased the pressure of his hand, feeling his love’s arousal respond to his touch. “I would make such love to you as you have never experienced, I would let you do things that no other would. I am desperate for you, Éomer, please, I am begging you, do not turn me away.”

Éomer opened his eyes and gazed into the liquid gray-blue pools of Faramir’s. “Gods help me, Faramir. You have bewitched me, you have made me love you against my will.” He gently caressed his friend’s face. “I have never done this before, I have never…”

Faramir smiled gently, closing his eyes and pressing his face into Éomer’s hand. “I will guide you, my love, I place my heart and my body in your keeping.” He drew Éomer toward the bed, bidding him sit as he knelt before him. He removed the King’s shoes and began to unlace his leggings when Éomer stopped his hand.

“Faramir, I… I have… lain with a woman before I came to you, I would not have you…”

Faramir smiled and rose to his feet, pulling his love with him. “Come, then I will bathe you and you shall be clean before we touch again.” Éomer stood beside the tub, trembling as Faramir unlaced his leggings, gently sliding them past his hips and to the floor. He stared at the King’s body in awe; he was the most beautiful man he had ever seen.

Éomer felt his cheeks flush as his body was exposed to Faramir’s eyes. He had been naked in front of men many times before, but never in front of one who looked at him as Faramir did. He stepped into the warm water and sat down in the tub. His breath caught in his throat when he heard Faramir’s robe fall to the floor, and felt him climb in behind him. Faramir’s hands slid around his shoulders, gently pulling him back to rest upon his chest. He had to fight the urge to run when he felt the Steward’s arousal press into his lower back and he took a deep breath, willing himself to relax.

Faramir stroked Éomer’s chest with his hands, and whispered into his ear. “What do you want from me, my Lord? You have but to ask.”

Éomer moaned quietly as the Steward’s hands kneaded his muscles, gently stroking his skin, his nimble fingers combing through the hair on his chest. He wavered between wanting Faramir badly and feeling the urge to flee his chamber and never go back. He loved his friend dearly, he trusted him, and now it seemed he would be his lover. He knew Faramir would sooner die than betray his trust, and he felt the same. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and saying the three words that would change his life forever, “Touch me, Faramir.”

Faramir placed his lips against the King’s ear and whispered, “I have been dying to do so, my love.”

Éomer moaned quietly as he felt the Steward’s hands travel down his torso, gently, tentatively taking hold of his throbbing arousal. He arched his back and groaned as Faramir began stroking it, squeezing it, sliding his hand along his heated length, rubbing his thumb over his heavily weeping tip. He knew he was lost, any ideas he had about love and sensuality forever changed by the Steward’s skillful touch. He began thrusting slowly into Faramir’s grasp, rolling his hips upward as he gripped the Steward’s thighs in his hands. Gods, this was better than any woman he had lain with… he was overcome with lust and desire, visions of thrusting into Faramir’s sweet mouth, into his willing heat crowding his mind. Faramir’s soft, deep voice floated into his ears, “I love you, Éomer, my beautiful, golden King.” He felt Faramir’s lips upon his neck, his tongue sliding across the sensitive skin behind his ear. His eyes fluttered shut as he felt his release come, and he arched his back and moaned as he spilled himself in the warm water of the bath. He collapsed back against his good friend, feeling strangely comforted and safe in his arms.

After several moments, he rolled over in Faramir’s arms, grasping the edge of the tub and placing his hands on each side of his head. He stared down into that open and gentle face, barely understanding what was in his own heart. In a quiet and tentative voice he whispered, “I love you, Faramir.” He watched his friend’s face light up with joy and tears of love well in his eyes.

“I do not deserve your love, Éomer, but I am most grateful for it.” He whispered. He reached for his lover with his mouth and smiled inwardly when he did not seek to escape. Instead, Éomer claimed his mouth with his own, kissing him passionately, hungrily, possessively. He wanted to be possessed by Éomer, owned and loved and protected by the King of Rohan. Were it possible he would gladly live out his life as Éomer’s courtesan, making the warming of his bed his sole purpose in life.

Éomer rose from the bath and pulled Faramir with him. As the Steward rose, Éomer pulled him into his arms, crushing him against his chest. He studied Faramir’s face intently, his auburn hair that was soft as the finest silk, his chestnut beard that was nearly as soft, his large gray-blue eyes and soft pink lips. He was as beautiful as a man could be without looking like a woman. He shifted, feeling the Steward’s arousal shift against his belly and he trembled at the strange, new sensation. Faramir gazed back at him, wanton desire burning in his eyes, urgent need written on his face. “I do not know how to please you, Faramir. I am afraid I will disappoint you.”

Faramir reached up and caressed Éomer’s face. “You could never disappoint me, my Lord, you have already given me more than I ever expected or dreamed I would receive.”

Éomer guided him from the bath and wrapped him in a towel, gently drying his skin before attending to himself. He then drew Faramir to the bed and gently pressed him to his back. Faramir trembled under Éomer’s piercing gaze, and sighed as the King’s lips caressed his neck and chest. Éomer took his time exploring his new lover’s body; he dipped his tongue into the hollow of his collarbone, tasting the Steward’s warm flesh. He took his mouth to Faramir’s chest, kneading the muscle as he lapped at a pebbled nipple.

Faramir moaned and arched his back, pressing his chest to the King’s mouth. He felt as if he would explode, Éomer tormented him so very slowly, drawing urgent moans and pleading whimpers from his soft lips. His mouth left the hard nipple, causing the Steward to groan in protest, and he continued further down, into the valley of his stomach, dipping his tongue into his navel and feeling his stomach flinch away. He rose and looked at Faramir’s lithe, firm body, studying his narrow waist, the small yet defined muscles in his abdomen, the scars that marred his ivory skin. He could not quite bring himself to take his lover in his mouth; it was still too foreign to him.

Faramir smiled and guided his lover’s lips back to his own. “You need not do this if you are not ready, my love. I am content to give you pleasure without receiving it from you.”

Éomer lowered his body to his new lover and felt Faramir tremble slightly beneath him. “I would not leave you so wanting, but I am afraid I am not ready to…” He hid his face in the Steward’s hair, unable to even say the words.

Faramir reached up and caressed Éomer’s hair, pressing his lips to the side of his head. “It is all right, my Lord, I understand.” He moaned quietly into Éomer’s ear as he felt the King’s hand slide down his abdomen, his strong fingers grasping his arousal and slowly stroking it. He whimpered in delight, arching his back and wrapping one leg around his lover as he nibbled upon the King’s ear.

Éomer smiled against Faramir’s neck as he worked his arousal in his hand. “This is one thing I do know how to do, my love.”

Faramir moaned as he felt his release building and felt his lover’s reawakening arousal press into his thigh. Faramir dug his fingers into Éomer’s muscled back and moaned his name as his climax took him, spilling himself over the King’s hand and his own stomach. His chest heaved as he panted against his lover, trembling with aftershocks of his spent desire. Éomer stroked his arms and chest, placing soft kisses upon his forehead and face, whispering endearments to his new lover. Faramir snuggled against the King’s chest, brushing his lips through his soft hair, his tongue darting out to tease his nipple to hardness again.

Faramir whispered huskily, “I long to taste you, my Lord. I hunger for your heated flesh in my mouth.”

Éomer groaned, his lover’s husky, honey coated voice and erotic speech coaxing his desire to life once again. “Gods, Faramir, you are insatiable, my love.”

Faramir purred against his chest, “I am when it comes to you, Éomer, I could live off the taste of you.” His mouth worked its way lower, continuing down the King’s muscled chest, his tongue dipping into the valleys that lay between hills of muscle. He whispered between wet caresses, “You taste so good, my Lord, you feel so good.”

Éomer moaned and began arching his back, feeling his lover’s lithe body slide against his own, creating a delicious friction between them. Even after all the women he had lain with in his life, all the Courtesans, all the whores, Faramir outdid them all. He was sensual, soft, strong, and virile, yet so gentle, so loving that the slightest touch threatened to undo the King.

His legs fell apart as Faramir continued his sweet torture, the long slow burn of desire flaring hot between his legs. He gasped and arched again as Faramir’s tongue caressed his throbbing arousal, tracing the vein that ran underneath before encircling the tip and lapping at the seed that ebbed from him. He wadded the bedcovers in his fists as the Steward teased him, brushing his lips along his length, before lapping at the soft pouch of skin that lay beneath his arousal. No woman had ever been this good, this seductive, or this hungry for him; it was intoxicating. His hands traveled from the bed to his lover’s hair as he tangled his fingers in it and began rolling his hips forward; desperate to thrust into that warm, wet mouth.

He moaned, “Please, my love, do not torment me so. I burn for you, Faramir.”

Faramir sighed, his lover’s words causing his heart to feel as though it would burst. He took his lover’s arousal in his mouth, feeling his throbbing length slide between his lips. He opened wider, taking him in as the King began to thrust into his mouth. Éomer moaned, he was near incoherent with want and need; each thrust into that wet embrace drove him on toward his climax. Again and again, he drove inside that sweet mouth, soft moans coming from Faramir causing him to cry out softly, the vibrating sensation along his length driving him mad. He held Faramir’s head firmly as he drove inside his mouth, faster, deeper until he cried out, spilling himself down the Steward’s throat. Faramir nearly choked with the force of the King’s release, but regained his composure as he swallowed the King’s essence. He lovingly cleaned Éomer with his tongue, lapping up each drop as it ebbed from his softening arousal. He slid back up his lover’s spent form, curling against his side, softly stroking his chest as he reveled in his warmth.

Éomer gathered him into his arms and held him tight, caressing his hair as he whispered, “My beloved Faramir.”

They slept in one another’s arms for a short while, enjoying one another’s warmth before rising for dinner.

Dinner was uncomfortable at best. Surrounded by Aragorn, Arwen, and his sister, not to mention the elves that were present for the coronation, he was more than a bit self-conscious. He was convinced that they all knew what he had done, and watched Faramir with a sense of wonder as the Steward sat beside his new King and his future bride, idly chatting, seemingly unaffected by the whole affair. How Faramir was able to go on as if nothing had changed was beyond him.

“Is everything all right, my brother?” Éowyn asked softly.

Éomer turned his gaze to her and tried to smile, knowing she saw through his façade as she always did. “Of course, Éowyn, everything is fine.” He knew she did not believe him, but he also knew of elves’ hearing and was determined not to give any indication that anything might be amiss.

After dinner they danced and Faramir doted upon his sister, as a suitor should, dancing with her and caring for her throughout the evening. He was sure that Éowyn knew what had passed between them and was certain that it was her intention that he lay with the Steward. What was to become of this strange triangle involving the three of them he did not know, and, for the moment, he was relieved to see she had someone to distract her from Aragorn.

“He is gentle with her and treats her with the highest regard.”

Éomer turned to see Legolas standing just behind him, leaning forward as he spoke softly in his ear. While Éomer was uncomfortable around the elves to say the least, he and Legolas had fought side by side, and the King respected the magical creature as a fierce warrior. “Aye, they will make a good match.” He replied, trying to hide the small tremor in his voice.

Legolas smiled, he had known what lay in the two men’s hearts. He mused that humans wore so much of their heart on their sleeves. “Fate is a strange animal,” he whispered, “it changes color like the chameleon, one never knows where one may be led by it.”

Éomer frowned and turned, looking at the elf. “What do you mean, Legolas?”

Legolas smiled knowingly. “For instance, when I was your age I was riding horses and practicing my bow in Mirkwood. Had anyone told me I would be here,” he motioned around the room, “watching Isildur’s heir crowned King, after so long and hard fought a battle, I would not have believed them. I could not see the path before me when I was young, I was blinded by what I perceived were unchangeable truths. Now that I am older, I understand, the one thing that does not change is that things do exactly that. It is the wise man,” he smiled, “or elf, that understands this and learns to accept it.” He patted his friend on the shoulder, “Time waits for no man, Éomer, do not waste what you have.” He slowly walked away, leaving the King of Rohan to ponder his words.

Later that evening after the festivities had ended, Éomer returned to his lover’s room. He knocked softly upon the door and smiled broadly when Faramir opened it. The Steward invited the King inside and laughed softly as Éomer gathered him in his arms, lifting him and carrying him to the bed.

“I could not take my eyes off you tonight, lover.” The King whispered huskily. Faramir grunted playfully as Éomer fell upon him, caressing his face and placing soft, silken kisses upon his eyelids and lips. His tone grew serious as he whispered, “I love you, Faramir. But, I do not know what is to become of us. If you truly wish to marry Éowyn, I will grant my permission. However, I will not remain your lover without her knowledge and consent. No matter what my feelings for you may be, I cannot hurt her, she is too precious to me.”

Faramir smiled gently and caressed his lover’s face. “I understand, my love, as does she. She wants us to be happy, but knows that we cannot live as lovers openly, not in the world in which we live. I will take our secret to my grave and I will care for your beloved sister for as long as I live; this I swear.”

Éomer smiled and kissed his lover, slowly tasting of him, savoring him. As he pulled back, he whispered against his lips. “I want to be a good lover to you, Faramir. But, I know not how to please you and…” he took a breath, “I am afraid.”

Faramir wrapped his arms around his lover; tears of love fell from his eyes. “Oh my beautiful King, you have said words that I have longed to hear. You please me more than you know. I will teach these new ways of loving to you, if you are willing.”

“Aye, I am.” Came the King’s soft reply.

Faramir rolled on top of the King, slowly removing his heavy cloak and ceremonial tunic. He lapped at his lips before moving to his neck, brushing his lips through the King’s soft beard. Éomer sat up as Faramir removed his tunic, running his hands over the Steward’s back, tangling his hand in Faramir’s chestnut hair. The King hungrily claimed his lover’s mouth, tasting of him and reveling in the soft moans that drifted into his ears. His hands made their way to Faramir’s robe, pulling it open and caressing his smooth chest. They fell upon each other with frenzied passion, desperate to touch, taste, and feel one another’s flesh.

Faramir pulled away long enough to retrieve a vial of oil he kept in the drawer beside his bed. He opened it, pouring a small amount into the palm of his hand, applying it to his lover’s arousal as the King groaned.

Éomer dropped his head back as his lover’s skilled hands worked the oil into his heated flesh, feeling it grow harder by the moment. The Steward knelt before him, brushing his lips against his own, whispering, “Take me, my Lord. Claim me and make me yours.” The King felt his arousal respond to his lover’s words and he crushed Faramir to his chest, hungrily plundering his mouth.

The Steward pulled away and knelt on all fours before him, knees spread wide as he offered himself to the King of Rohan, to his love. Éomer had some experience with this as he had lain with women who offered themselves to him thusly. He placed his hands upon Faramir’s hips, spreading his buttocks with his large hands and positioning himself at the Steward’s entrance.

“You will have to push hard, my love. ‘Tis different than entering a woman.” Faramir whispered huskily.

Éomer nodded and slowly and forcefully pushed into his lover’s willing heat, sliding past the ring of muscle that endeavored to keep him out, sheathing himself in tight, velvet luxury. He groaned loudly as he buried himself in Faramir’s body, his mind reeling with sensation. He heard his lover whimper and he began to move, thrusting in and withdrawing, deeper and deeper each time, angling for the spot his love told him about, when Faramir cried out and bucked back against him. He smiled in satisfaction having given his lover so much pleasure, and reached around him, taking his arousal in hand and pumping it with his thrusts. He leaned his head upon the Steward’s shoulder, driving inside him, stroking him; until he felt his body tighten and heard him mewl his release. He groaned as he spilled himself inside his lover’s body and buried his face in Faramir’s chestnut hair.

“I love you, Faramir.” He whispered.

“I love you, beautiful Éomer.” The Steward whispered in return.

They lay in one another’s arms and strangely enough, Éomer felt as if he had belonged there all along. He silently vowed to love the Steward until the end of his days and closed his eyes, drifting into a peaceful rest.

Faramir escorted Éowyn to the Coronation and shortly thereafter, their plan to marry was announced. Faramir was crowned Prince of Itihilien, he and Éowyn moved to Osgiliath to see the city restored to its former beauty. After his sister’s wedding, Éomer left his sister and his lover and returned to Edoras to escort the body of his beloved Uncle home to rest.

In time, Éomer also took a wife, Lothíriel, daughter of Prince Dol Amroth. She provided him with a son and heir, Elfwinë, who became King of Rohan upon his father’s death.

For the remainder of his life, Éomer Eadig was a kind and generous lover to Prince Faramir of Itihilien, and upon his visits to Gondor he cherished his time with his kind lover. Éowyn provided her husband with a son and heir as well, and the two cousins grew to be close friends. She guarded Faramir and Éomer’s secret until her passing and neither Lothíriel nor the children ever learned of the King’s relationship with Faramir.

The love between the two rulers influenced relations between the two realms for ages to come, Gondor and Rohan were close allies long after the lovers passed.

Finis

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