Faramir Fiction Archive

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

Written by E. Batagur

03 July 2009 | 15042 words

Narsilion: In the Age of Men
Author: E. Batagur
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Pairing: Faramir/Éomer
Rating: Overall NC-17
A/N: Many thanks to the brave and fabulous [info]splix who consented to the most death-defying task of beta for this monster. This is an AU closer to Peter Jackson’s final product than Mr Tolkien’s books.

The Narsilion, in the lore of Middle Earth, is the ancient song of the Sun and the Moon.

Summary: At the camp before the battle at Pelennor Field, Théoden told Éowyn that the rule of Rohan was to be hers. Therefore, Éowyn is crowned Queen of the Rohirrim. Her brother, Éomer, stands as her Chancellor and Marshal. Faramir, Prince of Ithilien and Steward of Gondor stands at her coronation, representing the King Elessar. Éowyn formally introduced her brother to the man who became her best friend in Gondor.

---

Part 1 – The Coronation of a Queen

Bright and cold, like the metal of the Rohirrim’s beaten copper armor, the spring day was clear and beautiful, but the wind held a sharp chill that shook out the banners and touched the skin of the gathered, raising a blush to fair cheeks. Faramir had never been to the northern plains of Rohan before, but he had listened eagerly when Boromir had told him once of the golden hall of Edoras.

The hall stood proud and alone on the crest of the rocky hill. The city was defensible only by virtue of standing on high ground, but the lonely range about where beast grazed was open. One could see an enemy advance for leagues. Nevertheless, the kings of Rohan never brought battle to Edoras. They always sought the strength of their mountain refuge during evil times. Faramir would have liked to seen Helm’s Deep, the mighty shelter and fortress carved from the rock of the massive White Mountains. It, like the White City, stood wounded from battle, but Éowyn had vowed to heal the ancient keep.

Faramir had met the White Lady and Shield Maiden of Rohan as she recovered in the House of Healing in Minas Tirith. Even within the shielded quarter of the citadel, the profound damage of war was palatable in the dust and smoke laden air. The Lady Éowyn was consumed with grief after the loss of her good uncle, the king. The deep melancholy had threatened her very health, and the healers had been confounded in what to do for her.

Gandalf had stepped briefly away from Aragorn’s council to speak with Faramir on the subject.

“You understand the pain of grief, Faramir. She will respond to one who knows the profound darkness of raw sorrow.”

“Yes,” Faramir had said. “But it is still too fresh for me. My heart is still broken and my will lies upon the cold stone floor. I have no words for others that would lift such a burden.”

“No one can lift such a burden for another, but a burden can be shared. In this way is the load lightened,” Gandalf had said kindly. “Go to her. Her need is great, and with it, the need of all Rohan. Théoden’s wish was for the people to follow her rule.”

Faramir had been mildly surprised by this announcement. “Not her lord brother?”

Gandalf had smiled as he recognized Faramir’s surprise. So few had understood the wisdom of Théoden’s choice. “The lady is Théoden’s pronounced heir. She is the elder of Éomund’s children by a year. And she is wiser and stronger than anyone lays credit. She will rule and defend the lands of the Horse Lords with courage and intelligence.”

Faramir had accepted Gandalf’s approval of her, and had gone to see the lady as Gandalf had asked of him. From there, a great friendship was born. Yes, Éowyn grieved. She grieved for the loss of her uncle and the loss of her dreams. She also feared. She knew her uncle’s will and stood in doubt of her own worth. To be the ruler of all the Riddermark was a daunting thing for most. But any who would stand completely without a single doubt in his or her heart would not be the right one for the throne. Sometimes the humbling of doubt and caution was a strength all its own.

Faramir stood that clear day next to the knight of Gondor and grandson of the Shire Thane, Peregrin Took. The young Hobbit was all smiles, as he had been since the coronation in Minas Tirith. The chill in the air did little to daunt the spirits of those gathered today, for Gandalf was to place a crown on the head of another monarch in the realm of men. Today Rohan would receive Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, as Queen. The procession of the queen rounded the streets of Edoras on horseback. At her side rode a strikingly fierce warrior that Faramir could only assume was her brother, Éomer. Behind them, first in the line of noblemen and knights rode Meriadoc Brandybuck, Squire of Rohan.

Pippin grinned up at Faramir as they caught first sight of them.

“Look at him!” Pippin declared. “All puffed and stiff on his pony, like he was a real horseman of Rohan!”

“He is,” Faramir replied mildly. His smile to his small companion was kind.

They waited at the top of the long stair to the plaza of the golden hall. At its graven door, Gandalf the White stood, holding the gold and bronze crown that had last graced Théoden’s brow.

“Do remember, Sir Took, Squire Brandybuck is a favored nobleman of the queen since they fought side-by-side in the battle for Gondor.”

“It’s hard to think of Merry as a nobleman,” Pippin admitted. “Before we set out from the Shire, no one would have said that there was anything noble about either of us.”

Faramir smiled, but his attention was called back to the procession as they cantered past.

Éowyn was radiant in white and gold. Over her silk and velvet gown she wore a gold breastplate. Her sword rested at her side. Her sun kissed-golden hair flowed behind her, weighted by a simple band of woven gold mail with interlocking loops. By her side rode the broad-shouldered horse lord who would be her brother, his face stern beneath his golden helm.

His posture and seat on his charger was more than perfect. It was outstanding. The man rode at Éowyn’s side like a force of nature, as breathtaking as he was lethal. Beneath his helm flowed honey-blond hair, just a shade darker than his sister’s, but almost as long. He was the younger of the two siblings, coming almost eleven months after his sister’s birth. There was a saying in Gondor about such siblings. They were called Rohirrim twins, and the sentiment behind the saying was not meant to be kind.

Faramir would have banished the fool who would lay such a belittlement before the feet of this noble pair. Only weeks before, just as they returned to their home, did they lay their most loved uncle in his tomb, covered in simple white flowers the horse men called simbelmynë. Now he lay at peace next to his son, his bequeathing of reign placed on his niece. So shall it be.

The party of the heir and her nobles dismounted within the plaza and proceeded to the double doors of the Golden Hall on foot. All eyes watched as the horse mistress and shield maiden of Rohan accepted the hand of her brother to lead her up to where Gandalf awaited.

At The formal reception of the Queen, Éowyn raised a toast to the honored dead, mentioning her Uncle, felled in the battle for Minas Tirith, and, to Faramir’s surprise, Boromir, who had been lost at the beginning of the quest of the ring bearer. The horse lords boomed their hail to the lost heroes, lifting their tankards high. Faramir joined them in the toast with a thought to his older brother who had always loved him, even though Boromir often found it hard to understand him. Nevertheless, Boromir at least made the attempt. No one else had ever come closer.

Faramir smiled faintly as he watched a memory in his mind’s eye: his brother teaching him the proper way to shoot from a long bow. Boromir had been a patient teacher. Faramir had not been surprised to hear Pippin tell that it was Boromir who took up the task of teaching him and the other Halflings of the expedition sword-play. The loss of his brother still stung. And the madness and death of his father was a wound that he thought would never heal well. Gandalf had been right. Denethor had remembered a use for his youngest son in the end.

“For I, Faramir, son of Denethor, whose uses are few, make good kindling,” Faramir murmured into his cup.

“What’s that, my lord?” Pippin asked, looking up from his own drink.

“Nothing, my friend,” Faramir said softly. He had Pippin to thank for his life. And he knew that he should not have such thoughts of his father now. Gandalf had told him that it had only been the madness and despair caused by tampering with the Palantír that had kept his father so cold. However, Faramir had never known a time when his father’s favor had fallen warmly upon him. Denethor’s further antipathy had seemed only a natural progression of their already ill relationship.
Faramir pushed these disheartening thoughts away. The time for mourning the dead and the lost was past. This was a celebration, and it was only just beginning.

The Queen laughed out loud at something a nobleman told her as they stood in conversation close to the dais. Merry had come down from the places of honor to speak with Pippin. Faramir moved away, looking about the hall for a friendly face to make small conversation with. He thought to go to Éowyn and give his regards, but she seemed so taken with the conversation she currently shared that Faramir felt awkward to step in. He held back to quietly wait for his time, sipping his ale.

The Rohirrim’s ale was strong, but sweet, and Faramir knew he could easily grow accustomed to its taste. The stouts of Ithilien were bitter and thick. Some folk even mixed them with water to make them more palatable. But the men of the White Guard of Osgiliath drank their stout straight from the aging barrel. Boromir had laughed at him the first time he pulled his little brother a pint. Boromir had laughed as Faramir sputtered about the taste.

“It’ll grow hair on you, little brother!” he had laughed and embraced Faramir lightly with one arm. He had turned Faramir to face the other men, Boromir’s face glowing with pride. “He killed his first Orc and he had his first stout!” The men had laughed and cheered with Boromir.

“It is hard to set the heaviness of grief aside,” Gandalf said at Faramir’s shoulder. Faramir had not seen the wizard approach. He looked at Gandalf in understanding.

“You caught me with my thoughts,” Faramir replied.

“It was not hard to tell,” Gandalf reassured. “She did mention your brother’s sacrifice.”

“I had no knowledge of the details until Pippin spoke to me of it,” Faramir said. He looked at Gandalf. “But I had a dream…”

Gandalf nodded. “This is not the first time you have had dreams of things that are and things that are yet to come.”

Faramir looked down at his hands. “After we found his horn, I dreamt that I stood in the fords of the Morgulduin. A boat floated towards me, and I went to it. Within was Boromir, slain.” Faramir said no more.

“Forgive me, my young friend,” Gandalf said gently, resting a hand on Faramir’s shoulder. “I did not mean to stir what is still difficult sorrow.”

Faramir looked up at the wizard and smiled a smile he had practiced all his life. It was the smile he used to reassure his brother when he became over protective. It was a smile he used to appease his father when his demands became too difficult. “I heal,” he said to Gandalf.

Gandalf looked at him with a piercing gaze, but Faramir was able to maintain his facade. He knew he had Denethor to thank for that as well.

“I see two men that I respect and admire holding grave council on a day that is to be a celebration?” Éowyn swept up to them, her face still a glow from the strong salutations of her people.

“Our council is not so grave,” Faramir said to her, holding his smile for her benefit. “And I was only biding my time until I could give you my fondest regards.”

“You need never wait,” she said, taking Faramir’s arm. “You shall ever be first among my friends, Faramir.”

“Then I am greatly honored.”

“And I am greatly unnecessary,” Gandalf said lightly with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

Éowyn laughed again. “Oh you great faker!” she teased. “But truly,” she added more seriously. “I am honored that the White Wizard whose hand crowned the high King of Gondor chose to honor my coronation here in Rohan.”

“It was your uncle’s choice and wish,” Gandalf replied. “And it was the right one. Long may you defend Edoras and the lands of your fathers.”

Éowyn glowed under Gandalf’s regard. She turned her radiant smile to Faramir, who could not help but feel the warmth of joy throughout his being, moving into the dark places where the grief still held strong.

“Oh! But I wished to make you acquainted with my brother!” Éowyn said suddenly. She turned her head, scanning the crowds of nobles and horse lords until her eyes rested on her mark. Her smile grew even more radiant than Faramir thought possible as she gestured forth to the crowd.

“Do come, Éomer!” she called.

From the crowd, the striking warrior that Faramir had seen riding at Éowyn’s side in the procession broke away from whatever conversation he had been participating in with a small knot of bronze armored horse lords. His head, free from his helm, was topped with the finest honey blond mane of hair Faramir had ever seen. His face was stern and grave, but youthful, and Faramir guessed that without his whiskers and his well worn scowl, he would have had too young a face to be taken for a deadly warrior. Éowyn took the man’s arm as he drew close and she held him to herself with much affection.

“Éomer, I told you I would make you acquainted with the man who saved me from my despair while I convalesced in Minas Tirith.” She turned her joyful gaze back to Faramir. “This is Faramir, Son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien. And Lord Faramir, this is my brother Éomer, Son of Éomund, First Marshal of the Riddermark.”

“Lord Faramir,” the Rohirrim said in a solemn tone. “I am grateful for your aid to my sister’s failing spirits as she stayed among the healers. I was told that her melancholy was impeding her healing and wellbeing. I feared leaving the city on the further march that the Elessar suggested with Éowyn so ill of heart and body. But then I was told that you had begun to speak with her and her sorrow was lessened just enough that her whole healing could begin. I knew I would owe you a great debt for saving one who is dear to me.”

“There is no debt,” Faramir replied. “Indeed, my lord, for the lady’s company was an ease to my own grief as well. In that, I stand grateful to her.”

The horse lord’s eyes softened as he gazed upon Faramir’s face, and Faramir noted the very depth of those eyes.

“Be at ease,” Éowyn said, addressing them both. “It is all our great fortunes that we found each other.”

Faramir looked from brother to sister, noting the brilliance of affection that shone on Éowyn’s face. But as he looked to Éomer, he noticed that the man’s eyes had not yet left his own face. Those intense, dark eyes examined him as if trying to read his very soul. It left Faramir feeling a little off-balance for a moment. Faramir wondered what he could have done to merit such an intense stare. Was there suspicion behind that gaze, and if so, suspicion of what? Was it Éowyn’s obvious deeply felt friendship towards him? Was her brother seeing a suitor to be carefully scrutinized?

“I would desire to talk more with you sometime, Lord Prince,” Éomer said politely. “But forgive me, and you my lady sister and liege, I must step away to see that the bounty you set for all of the city below the Golden Hall is being attended to as you wished. We have no steward to see to such things these days.”

Éowyn frowned, her face souring as if she tasted something foul.

“Put Wormtongue from your mind, Éowyn Queen,” Gandalf said with gentle cheer. “He shall trouble no one on these lands. Banished to the tall tower of Isengard, he will waste the years of his life in the company of Saruman.”

“You are assured that neither he nor his master can escape?” Éowyn asked.

“Saruman has no power, my lady queen. It was washed away with the river Isen. He and his servant are guarded by the Ents, the forest giants. They should trouble you no more.”

“That is well,” Éomer said. “He has only himself and his master to poison now.” He touched Éowyn’s hand where it rested on his arm. “I take my leave, sister. I shall not be long.”

With that, Éomer gave a brief, polite bow to the company and then stalked away. Éowyn sighed.

“I would have hoped for more joy from my brother.”

“Surely he is not troubled by your ascension to the throne,” Faramir said, incredulous.

“No, my dear friend,” she chuckled softly.

“Honorable a man and hardened a warrior as he may be,” Gandalf added, “Éomer son of Éomund never expected that he should ascend to the throne of Rohan. In fact, it was said that he breathed a mighty sigh of relief when he heard that his uncle’s mantle fell on the shoulders of his elder sister.”

“He would have worn this mantle well if it had passed to him,” Éowyn defended. “But, yes, he had never anticipated he should have such a care. Théodred was strong and good. He was young, but he had been a warrior coming well into his own. He would have been a mighty king…” Éowyn faltered, and her eyes grew bright with unshed tears.

“Forgive me,” Faramir said gently. “My questions have led you away from the joy of this day.”

Éowyn’s smile renewed but was tinged with sadness. “It is only right that I should remember my beloved kinsman Théodred on this day of all days. I walk the path that should have been his.”

“Dear Éowyn,” Gandalf said gently. “Look upon your life and see how this path has been brought to you. This fate is by no small chance, shield maiden of Rohan. You were born to lead, and your uncle knew this. Your people have followed you without question long before this crown rested on your brow. Your strength has been a beacon in times of great darkness, and the Rohirrim will sing praises of your valor for generations to come. Already bards have been set the task to sing of your victory over the Witch King of Angmar.”

“Then I hope they remember Merry in their warblings,” Éowyn said with mischief. “I would not have been victorious with out his help.”

Gandalf laughed with her and Faramir found their humor infectious. His smile grew.

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.”

Part 3 – That Which the White Wizard Knew

Long before he was sent to train with the rangers of Ithilien, Faramir knew he had been the less favored of his father’s sons. Denethor could not grasp his younger child’s bookish, mild, and soft-spoken temperament, and he certainly could not fathom the boy’s hero-worship of the conjuror/troublemaker Gandalf the Gray. He thought the boy wasted his time following the wizard around, speaking of legend and lore that would bring no one any good.

Faramir had been thoughtful while his brother, Boromir, had been a man of action. Nevertheless, Boromir had understood his little brother better and he had loved him. He had disliked his father’s treatment of Faramir and had often protested the belittlement.

Faramir remembered the last time Boromir had broached the subject with Denethor. It had been just before he had left for Rivendell. Faramir had listened secretly behind a closed door.

“You do him injury to say such to his very face,” Boromir had told his father.

“I have never lied to either of you and I shall not start now to spare his weakness.”

“Faramir is stronger than you know!”

“Your brother was made up of all that is soft and useless of our lineage. He has no head for decisions and ponders when action needs to be applied. And to add to his worthlessness, he is not even viable to wed for an alliance. A lover of men will never produce an heir.”

“He is good and he is loyal,” Boromir had argued fruitlessly. “…and he loves and serves you.”

“Do not be so certain,” Denethor had replied in a soft but heated tone. “He serves me to serve you. I know where his loyalties lie. They lie in the brother that he uses like a mother; someone to hide behind when the storm becomes too dark and wild. He will have to learn to stand on his own to prove his worth to me.”

“And he will, my lord,” Boromir had replied with confidence.

It had not been enough. No words or deeds would have ever been enough.

“I find you yet again within your own thoughts,” Gandalf said as he walked up to Faramir.

The day had proved mild, and it was Éowyn’s wish that it be reserved for leisure. Tomorrow the festivities would continue with a great tournament. There were to be horse races and sparring. There was even to be a poetry contest in which the horse lords would compose many a strong and florid verse about life, war, service and freedom. It promised to be a spectacle.

“I fear I cannot escape them,” Faramir replied as he looked to the white wizard.

Gandalf stood by his side. Together they looked down at the lower town of Edoras and beyond.

“Éowyn was wise to grant this day of ease,” Gandalf said. “Often men are too eager to rush into the celebration. They forget why they have come. A moment of peace, a day of thought is good to refresh the memory of ills well cured.”

“Yes,” Faramir agreed. Gandalf was correct. This peace, this silence was hard fought and won. This day when men could sleep with fewer cares, napping in the sunshine of the new day of a good Queen, was fine. Tomorrow they would kick up their heels again and celebrate with refreshed vigor.

“She spoke with you this morn?” Gandalf asked.

“Yes,”

“Hm,” was Gandalf’s reply.

“I do believe that the Queen of Rohan would see me make company with her brother,” Faramir said lightly.

“Éomer is not an easy man,” Gandalf said.

“Those words have been said to me before,” Faramir replied.

“No doubt by Éowyn herself,” Gandalf said as he smiled.

“I know little about the man. He avoids my company.”

“Éomer can make himself scarce when manners allow, but he is not a coward. I’m sure that if you approach him, he will surely renew his acquaintance.”

“I had hoped that he would find me,” Faramir admitted.

“Someone must make a move,” Gandalf said in an amused tone.

“I feel like I’m being matched,” Faramir replied in a shrewd but amused voice.

Gandalf turned his face back out to the bright day and the pleasant town below. “Perhaps you are, Prince of Ithilien.”

“As always, you know more than you are willing to yield.”

Gandalf chuckled.

The following day of tournament and sport ended with a feast, and the long-awaited verse of the warriors. The Rohirrim prided themselves on the majestic tongues of their warrior poets. Creating beauty was valued among the fierce horse lords as much as valor and being battle hardened practitioners of warfare.

The food was served and the drinks flowed in the Golden Hall as each honored horse lord stood and offered his verse for his valiant queen. Some spoke of bright victory and the fall of the dark lord Sauron. Some spoke of prosperity renewed to the Riddermark. Most included a line to praise their queen either in the battle of Pelennor Fields, or her glorious beauty as she sat enthroned.

Faramir found their poetry succinct and moving. It used decisive words that wasted no time in painting a picture for the mind’s eye. Each man spoke in a clear and sincere voice and Faramir found himself enjoying the experience.

“Normally, I’d not have the attention to spare to poetry,” Pippin had admitted to him as they sat and listened. “But this isn’t so bad.”

“Isn’t so bad as Treebeard’s ever-long and rambling poems with treeish grunts and groans,” Merry added with a mischievous smile.

Pippin agreed, lifting his mug of ale to salute his kinsman who sat to the other side of Faramir.

Then it was Éomer’s turn, and Faramir found his interest piqued. He wondered what verse would he would make and what was the nature of the muse that would stir such a complex heart. After all that he had been told of the man, Faramir expected an angry or somber poem full of weighty and dark images.

“His honor fills the Golden Hall still where his footsteps last struck upon the stones of this floor. His heart is free from darkened dreams and he rode the mighty mearas to lift his head before his fathers at Béma’s holy door.” With a fist to his chest, Éomer bowed to his queen after the final line of his poem.

“He speaks of Théoden,” Faramir whispered. “A fine verse it was.”

“Aye,” Merry agreed sadly.

Éowyn came down from her throne to throw her arms about her brother. Éomer held her for a moment as they were quiet and remembered their beloved uncle. The other horse lords pounded the tables in appreciation of Éomer’s verse.

Part 4 – The Prince of the Night Sky

“You should go and speak with him, dear brother,” Éowyn prompted. “He is our honored guest and the representative of Gondor. You have already mentioned that you would share more words with him than the ones you have meagerly spared.”

“I’ve had no reason to disturb his enjoyment of your company, sister,” Éomer replied. He then stole a quick glance over to where Faramir, son of Denethor, sat in the company of the Halflings, Merry and Pippin. They drank and chatted pleasantly.

Clearly Éomer could understand his sister’s enthusiasm. She wanted her only kinsman to make himself acquainted with the man she hoped would ask for her hand. It was only natural. Éomer chided himself for his cowardly and foolish behavior. He was the son of kings and a warrior of the Mark. Certainly, he had more fortitude than to run from simple conversation.

“However, as you desire, dear heart,” Éomer sighed. “You are right, as you often are. I have been remiss in my manners, and it is unbecoming of the queen’s own kinsman.”

Éowyn smiled fondly and touched his face. “I never meant for you to be so hard on yourself.”

Éomer took her hand. “It is my nature,” he replied with a convincingly jovial twinkle in his eyes.

Éowyn laughed as Éomer tenderly squeezed her long fingers. His sister was beautiful and wise. It was his duty to her to get to know this man she wanted, and he would not fail her.

As the night wore on and the ale lifted spirits and loosened tongues, it was again their good fortune to be gifted with a jolly song from the Hobbits. It was during this uproarious time that Éomer found himself close to the Stewart from Gondor. The man smiled and clapped his hands in time as he watched the proceedings. By his side, Gandalf laughed heartily at the Hobbits’ antics.

“They know many of these fine ale house songs,” Éomer said as he drew closer.

Faramir turned sparkling blue eyes to him, and, for a moment, Éomer was dazzled by the purity of their color and beauty. However, he quickly remembered his vow to serve his sister’s interests.

“They have sang to this hall before?” the Steward-Prince asked in a voice that strangely gentle and yet strong like the sound of a summer rain.

“Yes,” Éomer replied.

“Merry and Pippin were here after the defeat of Saurman in his tower at Isengard,” Gandalf added. “We drank to the victorious dead of the battle for Helm’s Deep.”

“It was the beginning of hope,” Éomer stated.

“Hope never left the world,” Gandalf said then. “It just lay waiting for the hearts of men to pick it up once more.”

Faramir looked down into his cup of ale, his eyes thoughtful. Éomer remembered being told of his hopeless charge to take back Osgiliath. Was it true? Had the man’s father valued him so little?

Éomer had heard that Denethor had been insane at the end of his life. He had heard the rumors that he had tried to burn himself and Faramir alive, but had only succeeded in killing himself.

“Hope is nebulous when the enemy surrounds and outflanks at every turn,” Éomer said kindly. “What little we hold can turn to ash within a heartbeat. That we live to tell the tale is often enough.”

Faramir looked into Éomer’s eyes as Éomer spoke. It was as if he understood that Éomer’s words were meant as a comfort to a man so long bereft of a father’s love.

“You have much to discuss,” Gandalf said kindly to them both. “I take my leave.” The white wizard walked away into the crowds that sang and cheered, watching the two Hobbits frolic upon the tables.

Éomer looked at the man who was Gondor’s representative in the Golden Hall. So many things he had been told about Faramir, son of Denethor: that he was a fine warrior and a skilled archer, that he was a wise battle tactician, and that he was a loyal man of fine quality. It was also said that his mother had the blood of the Dunedain in her lineage. There were so many things to know of him.

“My lord?” Faramir said, prompting Éomer from his musing.

Éomer shook his head. “This celebration is too boisterous and I would wish to hear your answers to many questions. Would you walk with me?”

“Of course,” Faramir replied graciously.

Éomer’s heart beat just a little faster in his chest as Faramir allowed himself to be led to the colonnade that surrounded the Golden Hall. The city below was lit with the torches and fires of a merry springtime evening. The stars swirled in their dance above the high ranges. Faramir looked to the south.

The noise of the feast was only a murmur of laughter and music behind them. Yet Éomer felt as if they were the only two beings alive in that moment as they drank in the sweet night air.

“I miss Ithilien,” Faramir said softly. “The cool forest and green glens were always more a home to me than any citadel or hall.”

“The freedom of the open ranges have always been my joy,” Éomer said, commiserating.

Faramir turned to look at Éomer. The Prince of Ithilien’s eyes took on silvery glow that rivaled the shine of the stars in the evening sky. His expression was kind and gentle, and it threatened to take Éomer’s breath away. His heart contracted painfully, telling him that this man was his sole desire.

“Do you know the stars?” Faramir asked.

“No, my lord Prince,” Éomer replied. He knew that the Rangers of Ithilien were known for being able to read the patterns of the stars through the days and seasons.

Faramir pointed to a bright point high in the southern sky. “That is Eärendil’s Star. She walks low in the sky until summer is full upon the woods. They say she is the holder of love’s enchantment and is the reason why many courtships begin in the springtime.”

Like a dousing of cold water, Faramir’s words brought Éomer back to his initial purpose with a breath-halting shock. He was Éowyn’s brother. It was his job to see to her happiness with the man she has chosen to offer her heart too. Éomer shuttered his wounded heart as best he could, remembering that this was no fault of Faramir’s. It was his own foolish heart that chose to become so easily smitten with a man he barely knew.

“Ithilien is the province of the Ithil, the Silver Flower of the night,” Faramir continued, looking longingly back towards the southern sky.

“Éowyn would enjoy this,” Éomer said softly.

“I have spoken to her of star lore,” Faramir replied. “She was polite, but after a while, I could tell that I tired her with all my old stories of the scholars and their search for the Narsilion.”

“You know of the ancient tales? The sagas of old?” Éomer now asked, his curiosity engaged. “Do you know the story of the song of Sun and the Moon? I thought only sages and wizards knew such.”

Faramir looked back upon Éomer with a gentle smile. “I spent my time as a child following sages and wizards, seeking the ancient knowledge.”

“Minas Tirith is a place of great learning. The archives of old are still there? They have not been destroyed by war?”

“They were placed within the depths of the citadel, deep in the walls of the old city, to keep them safe from fire, flood, and war,” Faramir said.

A gentle nighttime breeze stirred tendrils of his ginger hair about his face. In that moment, he seemed like an enchanted Prince from some long-forgotten tale.

Éomer turned away from Faramir’s gaze, fearing his own expressed too much. Again, he reminded himself of his task and his duty to Éowyn.

“Surely these things entertained my sister. She was always the one who paid closer attention to the lore and legends that were presented in the hall on a winter’s evening.”

“Apparently you did as well,” Faramir said lightly. “Not many know that the Narsilion is the epic of the sun and moon.”

Caught off guard, Éomer frowned and straightened. “A mere chance of a memory…”

“Sincerely?” Faramir’s voice sounded amused.

“I was a child when the court scholar told us of the epic. He had no knowledge of its actual verses. He told us very few men did,” Éomer replied.

Faramir seemed to let Éomer’s explanation rest. They were quiet for a time, looking out across the Edoras evening. All the questions Éomer had intended to ask suddenly felt brusque and rude in this peaceful moment. He did not know how to broach the subject of the man’s intentions with his sister without being blunt and cold. Nevertheless, Éomer felt neither distant nor proud in the company of this man. Never before had it ever been a problem for Éomer to speak plainly to another man.

No, he thought. That was not true. There had been another.

At last, Faramir spoke again, turning to look at Éomer once more. “The hour grows late and I would make my regards to your good sister before I retire. It was good speaking with you, Lord Éomer, son of Éomund.”

“We may speak again upon the morrow,” Éomer replied. “The tournaments and sports shall continue. Perhaps you will favor the court with a demonstration of the famed prowess of ranger archery.”

Faramir smiled slightly, looking humble. “If the lady Queen wishes… and her noble brother, I would be honored to perform.”

With a sweeping bow and another gentle smile, Faramir stepped away, heading back to the revelries in the Golden Hall.

Part 5 – The Unexpected Victories

Faramir had spent an amount of time in the presence of Éomer, son of Éomund, the night before and he felt no closer to understanding how the man regarded him. Never before had his perception of another failed him so miserably. The man remained a mystery.

Éomer had spoken only briefly, and when he spoke, he brought up Éowyn in their conversation as if he were pressing the subject to assess Faramir’s intentions. Perhaps that was as it should be. Nevertheless, as dear a friend as Éowyn was, Faramir had no intentions towards her, and he knew that she knew this. Éowyn had guessed his inclinations long ago. Furthermore, it may have been that her brother similar inclinations that made her more in tune and sympathetic to the nature of Faramir’s heart.

The prior evening’s conversation behind him, Faramir ventured forth the next day, seeking only the recreation and entertainment promised to the Rohan court on the fourth day of the reign of Éowyn Queen. Beyond the large stables and paddocks that held only the finest horses of Edoras, was the sparring field where men at arms applied themselves to practice of sword-play. There he found Merry and Pippin among a large number of the Rohirrim, wearing padded armor.

Pippin looked bewildered, but Merry was clearly vexed. The crowd of men laughed at some comment Faramir did not catch, and Merry’s frown deepened dangerously.

“What happens here?” Faramir asked as he strode in among the men.

One of the men (familiar to Faramir as a man of some rank) gestured at the hobbits with a smile. “The Halflings wish to play with the big boys,” he said with a hearty chuckle. “They wish to join in the spar.”

Faramir kept his expression mild. “Yes, they are Halflings, but they are not children. Why do you treat them as such?”

“No offense, my lord,” another man added much more respectfully. “It was all in jest. We only wish not to bring any harm to our lady queen’s honored guest.”

“Harm?” Merry spat back. “Don’t take us so lightly, horseman. My sword is as sharp as yours and it has worn blood before.”

“Peace, Squire Brandybuck,” Faramir said soothingly.

Before he could say more, Éomer walked into their midst, tall and severe, frowning at every face in the small crowd. He stood in his padded armor, prepared for a morning spar. The other Rohirrim seemed to diminish in his presence, and his presence was so very overwhelming that it did not take much. His long flaxen mane caught the morning sunlight and glowed like the blessings of golden springtime.

Faramir thought to himself: there is beauty. He could not deny Éomer’s pure majesty when the morning sun touched him.

“I will not see these good hobbits maligned by you or any man of the Mark!” Éomer growled to his men.

“We meant no harm,” the man of rank spoke again, cowed in the face of the First Marshal’s obvious wrath. “But it is as you once said, I do not doubt their courage; only the reach of their arms.”

“Perhaps it would ease you to know that they were taught sword-play by my brother, Boromir of Gondor,” Faramir volunteered. All the men looked at him incredulously. Merry stood up straighter, crossing his arms over his chest and placing what was obviously the mightiest expression he could muster on his face.

“Surely, Gamling, you would not bring insult to a pupil of such a noteworthy teacher?” Éomer too crossed his arms over his broad chest and smiled at the nobleman with what appeared to be challenge in his eyes.

The horse lord, Gamling looked as uncomfortable as could be under the circumstances. And Faramir could not help but smile as well. The other men chuckled lightly when they realized how easily Gamling had been maneuvered into a spot.

Gamling gave Éomer a soured expression before sobering his features. He bowed to the hobbits.

“Forgive my hasty words, master hobbit,” he said.

“And like that, you’ll not give me the satisfaction?” Merry said angrily. “You’ll not fight me?”

“Never would a lord of the Riddermark be so rude,” Éomer said with a broad smile. “Bring the practice swords and clear the spar circle. Master Squire Brandybuck is about to teach the Second Marshal a lesson!”

Gamling looked just slightly startled but, to his benefit, he kept his mouth closed and accepted the blunted sword offered him. Merry took his sword with determination in his eyes. He gave it a few hard swings to feel its balance.

For a brief moment, Faramir wondered if all this had been wise, and perhaps some hobbit would get hurt. However, as he watched Merry walking towards the spar circle with a proud posture and a smiling Pippin at his side, Faramir knew that the hurt feelings would have been deeper and more painful than any bruises the young hobbit would receive that day.

It had been short and brutal with Merry attacking, using his small stature to slip under his opponent’s guard. A punch to the groin had taken the horse lord down unexpectedly. When the large nobleman next looked up, he had a blade to his throat and a smiling hobbit looking down at him. Pippin had cheered Merry’s name while Faramir had joined in the uproarious laughter of all the Rohirrim present to see the take-down of a so acclaimed warrior.

“I must tell the truth,” Merry said with a cocky grin. “I learned that move from Gimli.”

Faramir looked about in time to see coins change hands among the warriors. Apparently others had had more faith than even he had shown. He saw his momentary doubt now as a little shameful.

Éomer walked up to his side holding a heavy purse. He was smiling once more, but not in challenge or sarcasm. His smile was like the sunshine of the day, bright and warm. Faramir knew he could easily bask forever in that radiance.

“You knew he would defeat Gamling,” Faramir said.

“I’ve seen the hobbit fight,” Éomer admitted. “And I’ve seen Gamling fight. The pick was easy.”

“You put less faith in a tried and trusted captain?”

“Not at all, my lord prince,” Éomer laughed. “Gamling would move gingerly about master Merry, not wanting to harm him upon some misfortunate step. However, master Merry would go for first blood if he could.”

Faramir joined in with Éomer’s laughter, watching as a gentle morning breeze stirred tendrils of Éomer’s long blond hair that caught the light of the sun. Éomer was like sunshine; strong like the sunrise in the east, and bright, touching all about him with his undeniable fire. It occurred to Faramir how very different they were from each other. Faramir was a cooler light that thrived on the nighttime sky and the secret dance of the stars. The moon, the Silver Flower, was his guide.

Together he and Éomer could be the retelling of the Narsilion. He would call Éomer his Vasa. Perhaps Éomer would call him Rana. The Heart of Fire and the Wayward Child could find peace at long last.

“This is a good day,” Éomer declared suddenly. “The winds are mild and the sun is good. Will you not accompany me to the target range? I would be most honored if you would display your ranger skills with the long bow.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Faramir replied with a smile. Perhaps, at long last, he would get closer to this man.

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.

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.

Part 8 – The Narsilion

“This is as it should be,” said Gandalf.

Éowyn smiled, and Gandalf escorted her from her throne. It was the last day of the revelries. In the early evening, the Hall was bright with light and smiles. The sunset was a golden glow in the west while the moon rose early in the southeastern sky to share the dusk. All were present at the celebration, except for two.

“The story retells it self in every age, Éowyn Queen,” Gandalf said. “This is the age of men; so it has chosen to reveal itself through men.

“Throughout the ages, scholars have searched for the ancient song, but its verses were not written to be uttered by the tongues of men or elves. The song is sung by love and love alone. Vasa and Rana take up again the endless dance over Middle-earth.”

In the chamber that belonged to Lord Éomer, the candlelight glowed on his blond hair that was unbound and fell about his shoulders. Éomer wore a simple linen tunic, embroidered with saffron thread. He wore dark breeches but no boots or stockings. It was the first time Faramir saw his bare feet.

They were not like Boromir’s feet or his own. Éomer’s toes were not so pronounced and long, but they were chubby and endearing. Faramir could not help but smile at them.

Éomer approached him, holding a cup in both hands. Without a word, he offered the cup to Faramir. Faramir knew this ritual of the Rohirrim, the symbolism of the offered cup was meant to seal friendship or an even deeper bond of love. Faramir took the cup that was filled with the sweet ale of Rohan. He took a deep drink. He then offered it back to Éomer, looking into his eyes.

Éomer took back the cup. “A lifetime would not be enough to know all of your love,” he said.

“I offer you my lifetime, and beyond,” Faramir replied. He touched Éomer’s face tenderly, cupping it in both hands. He brought their foreheads together once more. For a moment, they shared breath as they rested in the sweetness of peace and love. They were alone and their hearts were beating in time. This was how love was meant to be.

Éomer leaned his head in for a sweet kiss. Faramir learned in that moment that the poets of the ages were correct in their claims that when true love touched, time stood still.

Faramir wrapped his arms about his love’s waist and pulled him closer. There bodies met in their first true embrace. Made of hard muscle and soft skin, Éomer was warm and solid and a delight to hold. His free hand cupped the back of Faramir’s neck as their kiss deepened naturally.

To kiss this man was as easy as breathing. Faramir moved them closer to the lone table of the room that stood next to the horse lord’s bed. Éomer set the cup of ale down.

They both looked to the table. Next to the cup sat a small earthenware pot with a lid.

“So I may be made ready for my lover,” Éomer explained in a whisper.

Faramir took in a long, deep breath. Yes, he wanted that. He wanted Éomer, body and soul. He wanted to make himself complete inside of him. He wanted to be in the very depths of Éomer. Perhaps some part of himself would stay, and forevermore, Éomer would carry a piece of his lover wherever he went. In peace and in war, the First Marshal of the Riddermark would hold some minuscule quantity of the Prince of Ithilien in his core. In that manner, they would never be apart.

Éomer pulled himself from Faramir’s arms. He reached for the lacing of Faramir’s tunic, undoing it swiftly. His hands slid down Faramir’s chest, slipping beneath the hem of his tunic. Éomer’s hands were warm as they smoothed over the skin of his belly. Faramir trembled slightly beneath the touch.

Éomer pushed the tunic up, smoothing his hands over Faramir’s chest. Faramir gasped as he felt his hand gently finger a nipple to hardness. Éomer pushed the tunic up and further out of the way as he bent to apply his tongue to the excited flesh. His long blond hair fell forward, brushing lightly against Faramir’s belly, tickling and causing the muscles to contract involuntarily. Faramir moaned his lover’s name softly.

Éomer continued to pull Faramir free from the tunic as his tongue danced over first one nipple and then the other. His teeth gently nipped at them, and his lips closed about them in sucking kisses. Faramir allowed himself to be stripped. But he grasped Éomer’s face and pulled him to his lips once more for a more urgent kiss.

It was during this kiss that Faramir heard Éomer’s breeches drop to his ankles. The sound startled Faramir into breaking the kiss and he looked down to catch his first glimpse of Éomer’s beautiful body. Éomer took the opportunity to pull his own tunic off and throw it aside.

He was golden of skin all over as Faramir had imagined in his fantasies. His strong, rounded shoulders were touched with freckles that Faramir found delectable. He wanted to taste that flesh dearly. Éomer’s chest was deep and solid, his nipples peaked. His belly was flat and firm. A line of dark hair led down to the rise of his proud member, flushed and beautiful. Heavy bollocks hung beneath the aroused cock, framed between the hard thighs of a horseman.

Faramir only hoped that what Éomer beheld before him was at least pleasing if not as majestic as the sight Faramir was granted.

“You are so very beautiful,” Éomer whispered sincerely, his voice quavering on the words. “So long of limb and strong… Why would you want me?”

“I want you,” Faramir replied, coming to take him into his arms again. “How I want you!” he whispered before he captured Éomer’s lips once more in a fierce kiss. Their naked bodies touched for the first time and the fire threatened to consume Faramir’s senses. Éomer’s hot member touched his own and Faramir felt the sweet sparks of passion course through his body, making him want to thrust against Éomer.

Éomer pulled away, taking Faramir’s hands. He brought Faramir to his bed, inviting him to lay back. Éomer ran a tender hand from Faramir’s throat, down his chest, over his belly and to his erection.

“So beautiful,” Éomer said again. His hand stroked Faramir’s cock with slow reverence. “I cannot wait to have you inside me.”

“My love,” said Faramir. “Your words are the sweetest torture!”

Éomer took up the pot that sat on the table and opened its lid. Faramir could smell the oil that lightly scented with sweet spices. Éomer poured a small amount onto the palm of his hand.

“If you think my words are torture, then watch me, lover,” he said, looking into Faramir’s eyes with a sultry smile. “Watch me as I prepare my body for you.”

Those words alone stole Faramir’s breath, and it did not come back as he watched Éomer kneel before him on the bed. He lifted a knee, placing his foot flat on the bed to spread his thighs. Éomer dipped two fingers into the oil on his palm, taking up a good amount. He reached between his legs, past his bollocks and applied the oil, all the while still looking Faramir in the eyes.

Faramir knew the moment Éomer’s fingers sunk into his tight entrance when his nostrils flared and he gave a small gasp. Faramir watched, mesmerized as Éomer fucked himself slowly on his own digits.

“I’m almost ready for you,” he whispered. “I will ride you like a mearas!”

Éomer added more oil and more fingers and more words to his inhumane, sweet torture. Faramir found himself writhing with want, panting Éomer’s name over and over. However, every time Faramir reached for his own aching member, Éomer growled dangerously. That was his warning not to spend himself before Éomer had his way.

“Now, lover!” Éomer declared, pouring more oil to his palm. He applied it to Faramir’s straining cock. “Now,” he whispered again as he came to straddle Faramir’s hips. Taking Faramir’s solid member in his grasp, he guided it to his entrance. Then slowly, ever so heartbreakingly slowly, he sunk down on the length, taking it within himself.

Faramir’s head fell back on the bedding and he moaned desperately as he felt his cock surrounded by Éomer’s tight heat. He was undone! The pleasure of this joining threatened to steal his soul and sanity. But Éomer looked down into his eyes once more, and Faramir was braced and anchored by love.

With a small growl, Éomer began to move. Then he really was riding Faramir like a wild stallion. He tossed back his hair and gripped Faramir with his thighs as he rose and sunk on Faramir’s erection. Éomer’s nostrils flared again as he moved with abandon.

“Give me your seed!” he ground out as he pushed his hips down on Faramir.

Éomer was mastering him, as he would have mastered a wild mearas. A hand reached down to tweak a nipple if Faramir was not moving in ways he preferred. His thighs gripped with unbreakable strength. Faramir found himself quickly “broken” to his rider and responding to his every unvoiced desire.

Éomer’s hand stroked his own erection with increasing speed. “I will have you! I will have all of you forever!”

Éomer tossed back his hair once more and cried out as his cock spilled across Faramir’s belly. His muscles contracted in pulses about Faramir’s member. This and the beautiful sight Éomer in the grips of pure ecstasy prompted Faramir’s own climax. Éomer’s body milked the seed from him.

With a shudder and a sigh, Éomer fell forward against Faramir’s chest. Out of breath, Éomer lay against him.

“My sweet prince of the night sky,” Éomer breathed out.

After a while, Éomer carefully climbed off Faramir and lay down by his side. Faramir turned to pull Éomer into his embrace. They curled about each other. At last, they caught their breath.

“That went too fast,” Éomer said as a soft, sleepy complaint as his finger tips resumed a slow and tender tease of one of Faramir’s nipples.

Faramir laughed. “You would ride me to my grave and still not be sated, would you?”

“Never, my love. How could any one be sated of you?” Éomer replied with a warm chuckle.

Faramir traced a loving finger across Éomer’s lips. He looked into Éomer’s eyes and was overcome by joy and wonder.

“Come with me back to Ithilien. Live with me as my consort and lover. Together, we will live free in Henneth Annûn. We will rebuild the city of Osgiliath. We will serve the king and rule the lands of the southern Rangers.”

The troubled frown returned to Éomer’s face.

“He will come to you,” Gandalf said to Éowyn. “He will come to you with a uneasy heart. He will want to remain in his duty to you, but his heart will long to go with the man who must be his mate.”

Éowyn looked thoughtful. “He told me that he shall ever serve me not because I am his queen, but because I am his sister, and he loves me. I shall tell him as his sister and his queen that he must go with Lord Faramir. It will be his duty to serve me by being happy in Ithilien. He will best serve the Riddermark by representing us with distinction in an important province of Gondor.

“And I will tell him that his sister loves him too.”

Gandalf bowed reverently before the Queen of Rohan.

End.

On to Narsilion: The Rise of Osgiliath

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!