Faramir Fiction Archive

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

Written by E. Batagur

03 July 2009 | 15042 words

Part 7 – The Lord of the Sunrise

He could not sleep. His sister’s words brought no peace to his heart. Therefore, he went down to the stables for a time. The horses were quiet, either sleeping or meditating on the coming of a new day. The cavernous stable, lit only enough for the stable hands not to bang their toes against stall posts, was silent, except for the occasional stamp or low whicker.

Firefoot, however, opened his eyes as Éomer approached. Over the long years of trouble and war, the stallion had been Éomer’s only confidant. Firefoot’s was the one safe ear that Éomer could whispers his woes. Firefoot seemed to understand, and he offered comfort as only a loyal companion and fellow warrior could. He listened. He did not judge, but he would not let Éomer sulk if there was work to be done. Firefoot would move on to the next challenge, carrying his rider in the honorable service of the Riddermark.

The horse leaned his head forward and nuzzled Éomer’s neck and cheek.

“Yes, I am troubled,” Éomer said softly to his friend. “And here I am, disturbing your well-earned rest.”

The horse neighed softly and rested his chin on Éomer’s shoulder.

“Éowyn doesn’t want the Steward of Gondor… this Prince of Ithilien,” Éomer said. He rested his head against the long nose of his stallion. “You saw the man. He is beautiful.”

Firefoot gave a small snort.

“And my heart wishes to fall. I would be a fool to let that happen.”

Firefoot lifted his head and snorted once more, stamping a foot and shaking his mane.

“You think me a fool for not listening to my heart?” Éomer asked, looking over his friend. The stallion nuzzled his face gently.

“Would there be a chance for me?” Éomer asked. “She said that he preferred the company of men, but what of this man?” he said, pointing to his own chest. “I have faced death a hundred times and more. I have seen the darkness of treachery and the hopelessness of evil left unchecked. I have fought on the front lines with the warriors of the Mark as we clawed our way through armies of Orcs and other monsters of wickedness. I have had my strength, skill, and resolve all tested. But now, I face one man, one gentle man at peace, and I am rendered defenseless and fearful like a babe in the woods.”

He continued to rest his head against Firefoot as the horse gently nuzzled his shoulder and neck as if to ease his worry with his soft horse-kisses. Éomer sighed. Firefoot raised his head and gave a slightly stronger whinny.

“Yes, you are convinced I am a fool,” Éomer said as he stroked Firefoot’s neck.

The horse shook his mane again and stamped his foot.

“Then it is a challenge? I should move on this man? Is that what you are telling me?”

Firefoot was still and Éomer looked into his eyes. “Of course,” he said. “All of life is a challenge. Every day is a new surprise. It is a gift that we are given to use for honor, glory, and love. These were the lessons my father tried to teach me. I had forgotten…. Éowyn did not.”

Éomer stayed a little longer with Firefoot, drawing strength from the horse’s steadying presence. It was good to be able to speak so freely to at least one being. Éowyn was right. They were no longer children. They could no longer speak as children. Their words carried too much weight. Their opinions were sought after. Every word they uttered now carried value and therefore had to be expressed with great care.

The Golden Hall was quiet and Éomer walked the wide colonnade beyond the entrance plaza. The honored guest slept in a grand chamber with pallets and bedding enough for all. The Hall’s hospitality was humble compared to some, but no one seemed discontent. Éomer knew if he turned at the east-facing arch and took but five steps, he would be at the door of the chamber where Faramir slept. In that suite he would also see the hobbits, Merry and Pippin, master dwarf Gimli, and Gandalf. Merry had told him once that Gandalf slept always with his eyes wide open, which to Éomer seemed uncanny and alarming. He was certain that he would be tempted to wake the man to make him stop. It made him shudder to consider it. He was certain he would possibly feel a worse compulsion to taking Gandalf’s head from his shoulders to end the affliction once and for all.

Éomer turned away, looking out over the night sky. The moon shone over the south-east, the way to Ithilien. What had Lord Faramir called the moon? The Silver Flower of the night? Then Faramir was the Prince over the lands of the Silver Flower. And that was strangely fitting for the man. He seemed to move fluidly like night shadows. His blue eyes were touched with the unearthly light of the stars.

Éomer sat on the cold stone of the colonnade as he continued to contemplate the bright stars in their dance. He had never considered them before, even when he had been Galndor’s lover. The elves revered the stars and followed their movements in the sky to tell the fortunes of those on earth. Galndor had been no different. Éomer could remember him saying such things as: “Surely Eksiqilta’s light guided my footsteps to you!” Éomer smiled as he remembered. However, too soon, the memory of his first love’s mutilated remains came to the front of his recollections. Éomer shut his eyes and turned his thoughts away from those painful images.

Years had passed and still it haunted him. There had been little he could have done to have prevented the tragedy. Nevertheless the guilt of living, while Galndor, one who had been so bright and so beautiful, had died, continued to sting his heart.

“Will I ever be free?” he asked the moon.

It was a question he knew no one but himself could answer. He had to let it go.

Éomer sat with his thoughts until the sky brightened in the east. The sun was rising. Something about the promise of a new day lightened Éomer’s heart a little. The sun would banish the shadows and light the answers to his questions. In the sunlight was where he belonged.

In the deepest caverns, a ranger knew when morning had come. He could feel the very change from night to dawn on his skin. He could smell the sunrise in the air, as the new light touched the dew-covered grass. Even in the deepest places of Henneth Annûn, Faramir always knew when the sun was on the rise.

Faramir awoke gently from a dreamless sleep feeling well rested. About him in the large sleeping chamber, the other guests continued to sleep. The dwarf Gimli snored and grumbled to himself. The hobbits slept with peaceful and pleasant expressions. Gandalf’s eyes were wide open, but Faramir knew that the wizard was still sleeping. He was accustomed to Gandalf’s ways.

Faramir slipped from the blankets of his bed, his bare feet touching cool stone. It was actually a comforting sensation to Faramir. It reminded him of the cooler air of the deep glens about Henneth Annûn, where the moss grew so thick that one’s feet sank in like the finest rugs in the grandest halls of men and kings. He wondered when his duties would allow him to know such simple pleasures again.

Faramir stretched, reaching for the vaulted ceiling. All of the Golden Hall was made on a grand scale. No room was small; no passage was narrow. It was open with breeze-ways that led to the wide colonnade that surrounded. One could never grow stifled in this place. Faramir headed out, seeking the sun’s first light.

What he found was a man, sitting on the flat stones of the walkway, his long blond hair unbound and his arms about his knees as he faced the daybreak. The sun brought forth the beauty of the warrior of the Mark. It touched Éomer skin and hair, bring a luster so intense and perfect that Faramir was captivated. Éomer seemed to be made from the golden light of dawn. Faramir felt a longing to touch sweep over him, tingling at his finger tips.

Faramir moved cautiously forward. Éomer turned his head. His eyes, the color of dark honey, looked directly into Faramir’s.

“Good morning, my lord,” Éomer said in a rumbling-sweet tone. “I trust your sleep was refreshing?”

Faramir bowed his head respectfully. “It was very refreshing. Thank you. I hope your sleep was the same.”

“I took none,” Éomer admitted. He turned his head to look back out across the sun-kissed landscape.

Faramir came closer, compelled by his concern. Éomer’s troubled expression, traced in the lines of his brow and the frown on his lips, made him only lovelier to Faramir.

“I’m sorry, Lord Éomer,” Faramir said. “May I sit with you?”

Éomer looked to the spot next to himself and granted permission with a barely perceptible nod. Faramir sat down, folding his legs comfortably. He noticed Éomer looking at his bare feet.

Faramir chuckled. “My feet are not as bad as my brother’s. I called Boromir ‘froggy-foot’ when we were children. His toes were so long!”

As Faramir had hoped, the severity of Éomer expression lessened as he considered his companion’s comment.

“I did not mean to stare,” he said.

“It is quite all right. You were not prepared to see my bare toes.” Faramir leaned back, putting his hands behind him to brace himself. He took in the warmth of the new sunlight.

“I am sorry that the night brought you no rest, and I hope that your mind is not so troubled as to rob you of all sleep.”

“My troubles are of my own making, my lord,” Éomer replied.

“Would you care to share?” Faramir asked, using the kindest tone he could muster. “My ear is ready and my heart carries no judgment. I would be honored if you thought of me as such a friend.”

Éomer looked into his eyes again. His frown seemed made of worry and uncertainty. “I would be the one so honored,” he said, “to have a friend such as you.”

“Then consider me thus.”

Éomer turned his face away and spoke softly. “I was in love once. I had been too young to handle it well. Sometimes it seems to me that my love had been more like hero worship. It had been like a magic spell I had been placed under. It took my heart.

“This night past, as I spoke with my sister, I remembered that love. It is something I try not to dwell on. It pains me still; perhaps more than it should.

“When my lover died, I thought my heart had died as well.”

“I am sad with you,” Faramir said.

“I would have wished not to trouble you also, but to know you care does help,” Éomer said. “Is this what you did for my sister in the House of Healing?”

“We spoke of our losses,” Faramir explained. “When I lost Boromir, I lost my hero as well. He was always so much more magnificent and bright than I. He was strong and noble and true to all he pledged himself to, family and friends. He was a dear brother whose love was unconditional. That was something deeply needed by a boy who thought he killed his mother with his birth and who saw his father’s love was lacking.”

“It must have hurt sorely to have lost him,” Éomer said softly.

“It gouged a hole in my soul,” Faramir replied.

“Now it is I who am sad with you,” Éomer said.

“And I am comforted.” Faramir looked over at Éomer to find him looking into his eyes. For a long, breathless moment, Faramir was greatly tempted kiss the horse lord’s soft lips but his courage wavered. It was only the movement of Éomer’s eyes down to Faramir’s own mouth that finally pushed his indecision away.

Faramir leaned forward, tilting his head. His lips brushed Éomer’s softly and a pure tingle, like the rush of woodland magic, raced over him. The kiss was tender and chasted, but it held so much meaning that it rendered Faramir nearly breathless. He pulled back from Éomer’s yielding mouth and opened his eyes.

Éomer’s lips trembled and he took in a breath. “I thought my heart dead… until now,” he whispered.

Faramir could not resist. He leaned into a new kiss that burned like the sun’s heart of fire. Éomer’s mouth opened and Faramir fell into the deepening passion, tasting the sweet heat of the golden warrior who granted him access. His tongue touched the gentled tongue of a man ready to love again.

Then the kiss ended gently and Éomer looked into Faramir’s eyes once more, his gaze troubled again. He seemed uncertain.

Faramir reached for him with a single hand, touching his cheek and cupping his chin. “Do not be afraid,” he whispered.

“Of all the things on this earth to fear, I fear neither death nor pain, but I fear this,” Éomer whispered back. “If I should fall….”

“Then let me catch you,” Faramir said. He then kissed Éomer once more. His lips were tender on Éomer’s. He touched him with gentle care and loving caresses. Éomer had seen to much pain and death. It was time that they both knew sweet tenderness and care.

The kiss ended once more and they stayed together, foreheads touching as they looked into each other’s eyes. Faramir’s mind was crowded with thoughts and dreams of sweet joy and passion. He could love this beautiful man. If he could, he would honor him with every touch. This was not blind lust. This was not the brief burn of a body in need of release. He knew, as sometimes the elves knew, that this was his mate for life.

He whispered in the Sindarin of the Southern Rangers, “How I love you, sweet Vasa!”

They only moved apart once they became aware of noises from the Golden Hall coming to wakefulness.

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