Faramir Fiction Archive

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

Written by E. Batagur

03 July 2009 | 15042 words

Part 6 – A Sister’s Gentle Push

He spent the rest of the morning in the company of the Steward of Gondor. There were others there as well. They were joined by the Halflings, Merry and Pippin, and a few of the captains of the Mark who wanted to see a true Ithilien ranger at archery. Their skill was said to rival that of elves.

Faramir excused himself at first by stating that he was still recovering from injuries he received in that fateful charge across Pelennor Fields to Osgiliath. He then went on to hit the center mark on every draw. Éomer was pleased to show this prince of Ithilien that men of the Riddermark had skills as well, and took him on in a friendly competition. They sent many a flight of arrows into the distant targets. Those targets were drawn back more and more lengths on every round. At last, Faramir claimed fatigue, and it was clear that he was on the cusp of victory. Nevertheless, the man withdrew, claiming his wounds grew sore with the effort.

Éomer was secretly amused by this show of diplomacy. Faramir knew that he was obviously going to win this challenge, and after speaking of his handicap, did not want to add insult to his host’s defeat with a presumed slight. Faramir’s victory after his claim of injury could be easily seen as arrogance. Rather than risk such an offense, the Gondorian prince abandoned the competition.

Nevertheless, it gave Éomer opportunity to draw Faramir away to show him that which the men of the Riddermark prided themselves on the most. He took him the large stables and ranges for the horses. He toured him through the grand stables that held over two hundred horses. Éomer made Faramir acquainted with his own charger, Firefoot.

“A magnificent steed,” Faramir declared as he looked over the blue-roan stallion.

“He is of the direct lineage from Felaróf. Lightfoot was his sire.”

Éomer watched as Faramir approached Firefoot. Faramir purposefully made his posture gentled and non-threatening. He put a hand to the horse’s muzzle to let him smell. Firefoot gave Faramir a quick sniff, and then shook his mane in a manner that Éomer often took for amusement. The horse extended his muzzle into Faramir’s touch, accepting the caresses. Faramir spoke softly to the stallion in a language Éomer did not immediately recognize.

“What were those words you spoke?” Éomer asked.

Faramir did not take his eyes from Firefoot. He continued to stroke the swirled hairs of Firefoot’s coat just between his eyes. “It’s a form of Sindarin spoken by the Rangers of the South. I told him that it was a great honor to meet a valiant mearas and illustrious war hero.”

“You will only encourage his vanity,” Éomer said lightly.

Faramir laughed softly as he continued to stroke Firefoot’s nose. “If he is arrogant, he has good cause. Never have I seen his equal.”

“My uncle’s mount, Snowmane was his half brother. That stallion was a mearas of great distinction.” Éomer then stroked Firefoot’s neck. “Firefoot is my loyal friend,” he said fondly. “He knows how much I appreciate his presence in my life.”

“It is good to have such a friend,” said Faramir.

That evening, Éomer sat at his sister’s side in the parlor before her bower. She seemed relaxed and happy, which should have made Éomer happy as well. But his heart was heavy with guilt and shame. The day he spent with Faramir, son of Denethor was one of the finest days of his life. Never before had he remembered his heart feeling so light. At times it felt as if he was flying, his feet just an inch or so removed from the ground. Looking into silver-blue eyes that held the beauty of the very moon, Éomer had lost himself in the joy of just being, breathing, and feeling life and light while in the presence of such a beautiful man.

Now his heart was whispering his treason to his sister’s interest.

When he was a young child, Éomer would often sit still and patient and let his sister brush his long blond hair. When he grew older, he put a stop to this little habit. However, every now and again, especially when he felt his sister was troubled, or he himself was heavy hearted, he would let her lift her brush to his hair. She would stroke his hair slowly and calmly as they talked out their woes.

Today she glowed with contentment, but she still came to sit next to her brother holding her silver brush. Éomer sat still as she undid the small leather strip that held his hair back from his eyes. She then took a section of his hair in her hands and began to brush it out with gentle strokes.

“So, brother, you spent the day with Lord Faramir?”

Éomer flinched within, but his outward demeanor remained unmoving and calm. He answered mildly. “We made company for a time today.”

Éowyn laughed softly, “Do not mumble at me, dear brother. I heard you had him at the targets and later took him through the stables.”

“I was only being courteous to our honored guest. I wouldn’t want him to think that the queen’s brother is a rude, barbaric bastard.”

“No one would ever mistake you for thus after such a fine poem you gave the other evening.”

Éomer looked down at his hands which sat folded on his lap. He took a moment to feel the nature of the love that was placed into each caressing stroke of the brush on his hair. After every stroke, Éowyn ran her hand down the length of his hair from scalp to end. It was a gentle pet from his beloved sister.

“What do you think of him?” Éowyn asked. “What are your thoughts on our noble guest, Lord Faramir?”

Éomer did his best not to start under his sister’s touch as she spoke her questions. A chill of guilt spiked his stomach and threatened to pull his spine straight, but he held his body in check.

“He is a good man,” Éomer said in an easy tone. “He is an extraordinary archer. He seems very learned and wise. He has been nothing but courteous and princely in my presence.”

He fell silent as he felt Éowyn continue with her brush. Each stroke was long, slow and loving. He heard her sigh, but her hands did not pause.

“I would certainly not be displeased if he chose to court you,” Éomer added cautiously. “Surely, it would be an excellent match.”

Now Éowyn’s hands paused in their actions. Éomer turned his head to see his sister’s expression. She was smiling at him in that manner she had when she found something he said to be a little peculiar.

“Lord Faramir has no interest in courting me,” she said with a small chuckle.

“Why should you say this?” Éomer asked, frowning. What dimwitted man would not want the beautiful White Queen of Rohan! If there was such a dunderhead, Éomer was certain that he could lay about his head with a solid fist until the fool saw differently.

Éowyn laughed and shrugged. “I am not what he wants in a lover,” she replied brightly. “And he is not what I should want in a lover as well.”

“But the time you spend in each other’s company….”

Éowyn placed a soft hand to her brother’s mouth to hush him. “He is a friend, dear Éomer. Only a friend.” She then moved her hand to his chin to guide his head back around so that she could continue on his hair.

“We speak on so many things,” she said as she continued to brush. “It has been so long since I had someone so close. There was always you, but duty pulled you away so often that I felt…”

“Abandoned?” Éomer supplied.

Éowyn stopped her brushing again, and Éomer turned in his seat to face her.

“It was never my intention…”

“No, it was not,” Éowyn replied. “There is no fault or blame. We lived through difficult times.”

Éomer took his sister’s hands into his own. “Those times are over. I shall ever serve you; not because you are my queen, but because you are my sister, and I love you.”

Éowyn smiled warmly at him. “That I knew I could rely upon. Speak no more of this. I’m sorry to have worried your heart.”

“But I would make amends for my absences and my silence.”

“When we were children,” Éowyn said kindly, “we spoke as children do, never understanding the complications and the cares of our elders. Then we grew up and were drawn into that adult world. We do not speak as children any more, no matter how much we would wish that we could.”

“You were once the one person on this whole Middle-Earth who knew my heart best,” Éomer said sincerely. He frowned deeply and looked away from her face.

“He knew your heart better,” she said kindly. Éomer knew she spoke of Galndor, but out of kindness, did not speak the elf’s name to his face.

“I was a fool to give it so eagerly.” Éomer frown grew more intense as he stood. “It is late and I’m keeping you from sleep, sister.”

Éowyn looked up at him with a softly sad expression. “You said it well, Éomer. Those times are over. Can’t you now allow your heart to be free?”

Éomer thought on her words for a long moment. Was there freedom in this new world of men? So much was nebulous and filled with unforeseen chance.

“I will enjoy the contentment of my friends and kin, and hold no hopes for myself. It is perhaps for the best of all. My heart would not remember how to be so free again.” He walked to the door, his hand reaching for the latch. Éowyn’s voice halted his steps.

“Faramir prefers the company of men,” she said.

Éomer left the room quickly with those words still ringing in his ears.

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