Faramir Fiction Archive

Narsilion: In the Age of Men (NC-17)

Written by E. Batagur

03 July 2009 | 15042 words

Part 2 – In the Days of Celebration

The First Lord Marshal of the Riddermark was not demeaned by taking on the task of a servant before his lady sister. He felt honored to serve, as always. Nevertheless, he was shamed by his departure from the festivities in the hall, for he knew it as a cowardly retreat. Feeling such attraction for the man that his sister was falling in love with had shaken Éomer to his core. It had been so long since his heart had stirred.

Éomer watched as the lines of folk from the lower town waited patiently before the tables set at the base on the stair to the Golden Hall. Women and men, all pleasant and patient, carrying baskets, awaited their turn to receive bread, meat, eggs and wine from the tenders. It was Éowyn’s wish that this day be a feast day to all the people and that they honor the name of Théoden King as they sat at their tables.

“My lord Éomer,” a young guard addressed him. Éomer turned to look at him, his stern expression deepening reflexively. The man stood straighter under his intense scrutiny.

“The storehouse has been emptied of milk and eggs, and the tenders say none will be available until the morrow.”

“Give what we can,” Éomer replied with a soft sigh. “We cannot make milk or eggs from air. The cattle will give and the hens will lay on the morrow. If we should run out, then give them the meat and wine promised and tell them to thank the Valar we have our share of this good land’s bounty.”

“Aye, my lord,” the man said with a formal bow. He moved off to follow his orders.

Éomer sighed once more. The years had been harsh while his uncle lay besieged by Saurman’s spell, but fortunately the harvest had been full. A drought or blight to the herds coupled with a weakened king would have sealed Rohan’s doom. The scars of war, the raids in the northwest and towards the frontier had done much damage, but it could have been so much worse.

Those evil days were all behind them now, and there was no reason for the melancholy that plagued his heart. No reason save his own foolishness. This was Éowyn’s day, and with friends surrounding, she should shine in the glow of peace and prosperity. The battle was won, now were the days of the Queen of the Rohirrim. This fair prince from Gondor was obviously her heart’s desire, and he looked upon her with loving eyes as well. Who was he, Éomer, son of Éomund, to stand in the way of bright future joys simply because his heart troubled him with an attraction that was unrequited?

Éomer turned sharply on his heels and returned to the hall. He moved inside unnoticed and observed his sister talking now with the master dwarf, Gimli, son of Glóin. Her face was bright and merry. Her laughter reached his ears and for a small moment, Éomer felt the joy he knew he should feel. He smiled despite himself.

But then his eye roved the crowded hall once more until it fell on the shining ginger hair of the Prince of Ithilien. He stood off to the right of the Queen, still speaking with Gandalf, and now joined by the halflings Merry and Pippin. They all looked to the man with great affection.

And to himself, Éomer’s heart did whisper: How will your eyes fall upon this man if he becomes your brother by marriage? Will you still feel this stirring? This need to know his touch? Éomer frowned again. He had only just meant the man. His knowledge of him was very little and based mostly upon his sister’s affidavit. What did it mean to him that the Gondorian’s eyes looked as kind and gentle as Éowyn claimed his heart truly was?

“Lord Éomer!”

A hand clasped him on his shoulder as the voice of Gamling boomed in his ears. Éomer turned, finding his smile once more as the lord pushed a fresh mug of ale in his grasp. He allowed himself to be swept back into the merriment of the Golden Hall.

In the hours before midday, Faramir walked the wide colonnade that surrounded the Golden Hall. He walked by the side of the queen, as the bright, clear day, the first new day of her reign, proved to be as sweet a spring day as could be. The wind that charged from the east carried the sharp, fresh scent of earth as the fields were being turned to accept the seeds of wheat and rye.

“I fear your brother may have a poor opinion of me,” Faramir confessed as they looked to the north, past the long plains and towards the forest lands that stretched on towards the misty mountains. They were no more than a smudge of green on the distant horizon.

Éowyn squeezed his arm gently. “Éomer is not an easy man. Nor is he an easy man to read,” she said. “Few know his heart. Théodred and I were perhaps the only two who knew the whole of him. Behind the scowl and the armor is a gentle heart. I highly doubt that my brother’s opinion of you is as dire as you think.”

“I certainly hope that it isn’t,” Faramir confessed. “I had heard so much of his valor and deeds from you and from others; I had hoped to be a friend.”

Éowyn smiled up to him, her eyes squeezing in the brightness of the day, but her pale beauty glowed in the fresh sunlight. “I am certain you will be.”

They walked on, going widdershins until they looked out upon the pass that led to Helm’s Deep. Éowyn spoke again.

“Éomer keeps his heart hidden. Behind the angry bluster of the warrior is a shy man. He has no special sweetheart. He prefers the company of men. His heart is his own, but that was not always true.”

“You speak as if he now hides his heart and seeks to protect it after a great hurt,” Faramir guessed.

“Yes,” Éowyn replied. “We were both very young when our parents died. Éomer took our mother’s death the hardest.” She paused, looking out to the lonely ranges before the low foot hills. “Uncle was in his decline, and Théodred was a child still learning upon a pony and a blunted sword. Éomer was a young but tested warrior, newly made captain of an order of the Mark. He was fresh faced and jolly in those times. Our cares were few. Darkness brewed in the east, but it seemed a million leagues away from us. We were too young to have a care. We felt immortal, and that life would always be thus.

“A young elf lord, the son of a strong house, came to the Golden Hall from the Mirkwood. He had been charged by his father to bring back two fine blood mares for his brood stock. He was beautiful, as the elves always are. His hair was straight and the color of honey. His eyes were the brightest blue. Éomer’s heart was lost within moments.

“I guess we were all a little smitten with him, even little Théodred. His name was Galndor son of Galen. Never had I know my brother to be so very in love. It seemed as if the sun rose in heart when Galndor was near him. He was Éomer’s first lover. He was Éomer’s only love.

“Galndor cared deeply for my brother and swore he would return once his task was completed.” Éowyn’s eyes grew sad and she looked down to the cold stone at her feet. “He never even made it back to the Mirkwood. His party was fell upon by a large group of Uruk-hai. They were slaughtered to a man. Even the horses, the mares they had purchased, were killed and dismembered. The patrol that found them on the edge of our northern frontier said that the Uruk-hai may have mutilated them for food.” She looked up into Faramir’s eyes. “It was the true beginning of our troubled times… and the end of my brother’s heart. He swore he would never love again.”

“So tragic,” Faramir whispered.

“I have seen him drink and make merry with his men. I have even seen him take another to his bed for a time. But I have yet to see him take someone into his heart ever again.” Éowyn said.

Faramir put a hand over hers where it rested in the crook of his arm and he led her onward. He spoke only after a long pause.

“Is that what you wish of me?”

Éowyn looked up at him with eyes round in surprise. “Am I so transparent?”

Faramir smiled down to her. “I have a gift. My father had it as well, but I think he despised me more because I was the one to inherit it. He found me weak and beyond his use. For him to realize that I would be the one gifted with his perception and foresight was like salt in a wound.”

“Denethor was a thrice-damned fool,” Éowyn declared.

“Such ungracious speech from a queen!” Faramir teased.

“From a shield maiden and warrior queen of Rohan! I speak my mind and I dare any man to deny me my say!”

Faramir chuckled. “Far be it from me, my lady, to defy your right to be heard plainly. I do not disagree with you on the condition of Denethor. He was foolish to meddle with powers he could not control. It cost him dearly. But I wonder, all the same, if his displeasure in me was truly a product of his insanity, or merely exacerbated by it.”

“All fathers love their sons,” Éowyn said gently to him.

“If only that were true, Éowyn Queen.”

NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]

Enjoyed this story? Then be sure to let the author know by posting a comment at https://www.faramirfiction.com/fiction/narsilion-in-the-age-of-men. Positive feedback is what keeps authors writing more stories!