Faramir Fiction Archive

Narsilion: The Rise of Osgiliath (NC-17)

Written by E. Batagur

15 July 2009 | 10405 words

Part 3

Two Moons and a Fortnight Later

He missed polado. It was only a simple farmer’s dish of spiced meats baked in bread with peas, yoghurt and potatoes, but it was a taste of home. Relaxed evenings on the high plains with his men and honey mead and the sound of the wind through the tall grass as their only music, these things had been blissful.

Osgiliath stank of Orc.

Éomer wore the leather armor of a ranger now. His green cloak was hooded as were all the cloaks of the rangers. And like the other rangers, a quiver of arrows was strapped to his back and he carried a bow across his shoulder. Éomer would have preferred a pike, but pikes are not easily concealed.

The horses were uneasy within the city and had to be kept just beyond the city wall. Firefoot was not so easily spooked, however, and Éomer rode his charger through the ruined streets, around crumbling walls, broken stones and decay. The rats were abundant and brave, running the streets in daylight and attacking any living creature that did not move for more than a minute. They had long since gnawed away the dead from the battles, leaving little more than armor, and scraps of bones.

It was a dead city, less than a ghost. And he wanted to hate it. His long blond hair was shorter now, just touching his shoulders. His first night, he had fallen asleep and awoke to find rats nibbling away his hair. Now he slept like the other rangers, with his hood up and closed about his face.

He wanted to hate Osgiliath from its shattered domes and collapsed arches, to its stinking waterfront and crumbling bridges. It was an unburied body left to decompose in the sun. Nevertheless, Éomer could not hate the city. When he looked on its broken bones all he saw was sorrow. He saw what it had once been in the skeleton of what was left.

He would rebuild it, and he would do it for love. It was a colossal task, and many had said it would be easier to forget the old city and just rebuild a mile south down the Anduin, closer to Emyn Arnen. But what was the challenge in that? No, Éomer would return Osgiliath to a living city, and it would shine as a monument to a love so strong and bright that his heart was forever eclipsed and held in the sweet-silver brightness of his lord prince.

He had Firefoot leading a cart of refuge out of the city. Hardly a noble task for a mearas, but when all of the other beasts had no courage to walk the ugly streets, he and his friend did what they must. Firefoot did not balk at the job, especially when he saw his master working by the side of the laborers who moved the debris and rubble from the streets.

This was the last load for the day. Storm clouds gathered in the eastern sky. There would be rain tonight. Éomer was glad. With every down pour, the city smelled less and less.

“My lord Éomer?”

Éomer looked to the young man who approached. He was one of the workers from the lands just northwest of Pelennor. Many of the people in that area had been displaced by war.

“Get this cart unloaded quickly. I want none to be caught in the storm that is coming. “

“Yes, my lord,” the man said, he then sprinted back to a small group of workers to muster their assistance.

None of the rangers had ever said a discouraging or demeaning word to Éomer. At the least, they had been respectful. At the most, they had been friendly and welcoming. He knew that Faramir and his lieutenants had had their concerns. Nevertheless, the crude and disrespectful behavior never came from the rangers or the men of the White Guard. The laborers from Minas Tirith and the lands beyond, however, were a different story.

He had overheard them on a few occasions. They were especially cruel every time Éomer made some unpopular decision. They called him a northern prairie bumpkin and a horse clod. They alluded to his parentage and the possibility that he was the result of incest because “everyone knows those horse clods are inbred.”

Éomer ignored them. None of them were warriors, just simple farmers turned to hard labor in difficult times. They were hardly worth his notice.

“Quickly,” Éomer called as the men came closer. There was a soft peal of thunder in the distance and the wind smelled of the rain soon to come. He stepped up to open the cart, taking the first load himself. He moved it to the heap.

Faramir was in Minas Tirith and he had been for many days. There was much for the Steward of Gondor to do and Éomer knew he could not begrudge him his duty. Éomer would have done no different in his place.

He missed Faramir dearly. The emptiness of his longing was hard to take; so he filled his days with hard work to keep his mind and body occupied. At the end of the day, exhaustion left little energy for yearning. He had Firefoot to keep him company, and there were the new friendships he had formed with Anborn and Benvor, an older ranger from beyond Emyn Arnen.

After the cart was emptied, Éomer had Firefoot lead it back into the city proper, parking it beneath the stable portion of a bazaar’s covered arcade. He then walked with Firefoot up to the higher city, away from the river valley and towards the ruins of the Rond Giliath. Their quarters were in a set of buildings that retained most of their walls, if not all of their roofs.

Thunder cracked louder after lightening lit a darkening sky. The first fat raindrops fell just as Éomer led Firefoot through the archway into their home.

The roof leaked, but that was to be expected. It was cold when it rained. Even Firefoot shivered. Éomer dropped a blanket over his shoulders and back.

“And Faramir asked if I would be comfortable in Henneth Annûn,” Éomer said with a lighthearted smile as he stroked Firefoot’s mane. “This place makes our quarters in Henneth Annûn seem like the finest suite in the king’s citadel.”

Firefoot whickered in response. Éomer saw that he was comfortable with a quick rubdown, hot mash and fresh water. He then left Firefoot to sleep.

Firefoot was the lucky one, Éomer reflected as he entered his own rooms. Water streamed in from several leaks. With a sigh, Éomer lit a candle in the room and then gathered up the bowls and vessels he used to catch the rain water. He placed them in their usual locations. He gave a small thanks to which ever god was watching over him. There were no new leaks.

Tonight’s supper would be stew, as it had been the night before, and the night before that. It was simple and filling. He stirred the smoldering embers in the fire place, bringing back to life the fire he had carefully banked that morning. He added fuel.

At last, the fire burned brightly and the left-over stew from the previous nights was warming over it. The rain was steady, and the plunking sound of the water in several bowls and pitchers was almost hypnotic. Éomer took off his leather jerkin and padding and sat at his small table. He had ale if he wished, but he drank water. The day had been long and hot and he was bone tired. In seventy-five days, they had accomplished so little. But Éomer was determined. If needs be, he would move every stone in the city himself for love of Faramir.

Lightning flashed beyond the window shutters and thunder boomed, shaking the dilapidated walls. Dust fell and Éomer sighed again, wondering if their lodging would stand against the pounding thunder in the night. And he missed Faramir. It did not matter to him if he was in peril or paradise as long as his prince was by his side. He closed his eyes and dreamed of silver blue eyes gazing into his own.

The sound of Firefoot’s soft restive whinny shook him from his reverie. He stood from the table. Turning to the door, he pulled his dagger reflexively.

“Vasa?”

Hearing his voice just beyond his door was enough to make Éomer heart quiver as joy over took him. He dropped his dagger and threw open the door. His dream made reality came in. His hood still up, Faramir was dripping wet.

“You picked a poor day to travel, my prince pollywog.”

Faramir laughed as he pulled back his hood and shook the rain out of his hair.

“Whoa!” Éomer laughed as he threw up his hands to block the flying spray from Faramir’s hair.

“But I am here now,” Faramir said as he approached Éomer, reaching for him.

“And you are drenched,” Éomer laughed. He moved to the curtain that divided the small room. “Change out of those wet things and come sit by the fire.”

“Can I not embrace my sweet Vasa first?” Faramir asked with a small pout.

Éomer laughed harder. “Silly pollywog!” He went to Faramir and pulled him into an iron embrace. “How I missed you!” He then released him and pulled him by the arm to the curtain.

“Now get dressed, you wet frog!” Éomer pushed him into the partition.

Faramir laughed as he stumbled through the curtain. Éomer listened as he heard sodden clothing and the metal of weapons drop to the floor. Soon enough, Faramir was out in only a tunic and breeches. He sat at the table and shared Éomer’s stew.

“This is terrible,” Faramir confessed after the first bite.

“Shut your fly-hole. It’s hot.” Éomer took another bite. “Be glad you were never tortured with my lovely sister’s cooking. It is well that she is queen. No one will let her near a cook-fire ever again.”

“Is it so bad?” Faramir laughed.

“Bad enough to turn an Orc’s stomach,” Éomer replied. “What news from the White City?”

Faramir took a drink of water to clear his mouth. “Wounds heal. There is rebirth and renewal. From the west, new alliances spring from the lands in Arnor. The treaty of Éorl has been renewed between the Elessar and your good sister. There has been much happening. And the reconstruction from the damage continues. The task looks daunting, but the laborer need only remember the task that you have sworn yourself to in order to understand that they know not true pain.”

“Mine is a labor of love,” Éomer said with a smug smile.

Faramir laughed again. “Yours is a job no one would wish upon even their most hated rival.”

“Then it is a testimony to Aragorn’s faith in me.”

Faramir eyed him with amusement, but Éomer only straightened his posture and looked satisfied.

“You are a clown!” Faramir exclaimed.

“I am your fool, my love,” Éomer replied. “So tell me more news. There must be more.”

“Ah yes, there is more. From Rohan, it is said your sister’s court fills with suitors.”

“That I could be there to see to her best interest,” Éomer said as he looked into the fire with a troubled frown.

“Éowyn is wise,” Faramir said kindly. “None are allowed so close to her. It is also said that Master Dwarf Gimli is among their ranks.”

Éomer looked up in surprise.

“His pursuit is not cold, I am told,” Faramir added. “He makes Éowyn laugh. Éowyn values laughter.”

“Promise me, Faramir,” Éomer said in a much more sober tone. “You are her dear friend, promise me you will go to her and give her counsel.”

“I will go as my duties allow, Vasa,” he replied. “But I see your concern is great. I shall request the time immediately if this will ease your troubles.”

“She is precious to me.”

“I will do what I can in your stead.”

Éomer picked up one of Faramir’s hands from the table. Tenderly, he laid a kiss upon his knuckles. “I have so many words I wish to say to you,” he whispered against Faramir’s hand. “They crowd my mind and tie my tongue. But, more than this, I have so much love I wish to make with you.”

“Then hush, Vasa. We are together now. Words are not enough for our hearts. Our lips are better employed through kisses.”

Faramir laid a hand behind Éomer’s neck to pull him close. Their lips met in a sweet kiss.

“I have missed that the very most,” Éomer whispered.

“Then come and get your fill,” Faramir replied with a smile.

Éomer took his invitation, and their lips met again in kiss after kiss. The storm settled to a steady rain as they held each other close and shared the gentle caresses of lips and tongues.

Éomer led his prince behind the room’s partition and to his bed. There he again rode his lover like a wild stallion. Éomer forgot his cares. He forgot the broken city outside the walls of his room. He forgot the ignorant, idle tongues of his laborers. He forgot the rain, the cold and the rats. For that night, there was only his beautiful Faramir and all the joy that he brought to Éomer’s heart.

In the morning, Faramir inspected the work done so far in the name of the king, and then he was gone, back to Minas Tirith.

Four Years Later

“Little brother, why are you sad?”

Faramir looked about himself in his dreamscape. The woodland glens before Henneth Annûn merged with the pass beyond the White Mountains, the way to Edoras. The river that ran between the two was neither the Anduin nor the Entwash.

Faramir wore his leather doublet of a southern ranger; his quiver and bow on his back. Across the river, on the far bank stood Boromir.

“I do not know,” Faramir replied, and although the width of a mighty river separated them, he knew that Boromir heard him as clearly as if he had been standing by his side.

“You do know,” Boromir replied, giving Faramir a hard stare. He never allowed Faramir to hide away his sorrow.

“I miss him,” Faramir said simply, and he knew that Boromir understood. Duty kept him from his love, his Vasa. Meantime, reports came from Osgiliath of progress. The city was cleared to the river. Homes were being rebuilt. Great halls were being repaired, and the Rond Giliath was in wood scaffolds. Daily, its great doom was being restored. Soon it would be polished in blue marble, the jewel of the city, once more.

Faramir’s days were spent in Minas Tirith, attending the needs of his king. As Steward of Gondor, he was needed. The realm was growing, stretching its borders towards the old domains.

“Go to him,” Boromir said simply.

Faramir looked at his brother incredulously. “I cannot. Ambassadors come from the northern tribes; my king needs me here. Our queen rests uneasy with her first child soon to come. Aragorn is alone!”

“Never, little brother,” Boromir said gently, “is Aragorn alone.” He then smiled. “Go to him… or one would think you have left the governance of all Ithilien to your consort.”

Faramir knew that the words were meant as both a joke and rebuke. They stung him deeply.

“How long since you last stepped on the soil of your domain?”

Faramir thought about this. It had been at least eighteen months and more since he had last been in Ithilien. Messages came to him from Éomer almost daily, keeping him apprised of progress and sending his sweetest love in words.

“Go to him.”

Boromir was gone from the river bank and Faramir’s heart broke. He searched the mist for his beloved brother, but he was gone. Old grief rekindled and awoke him from his dream.

“Go to him.” The message lingered in Faramir’s mind.

It was one thing to hear of the progress in Osgiliath. It was another to see it. Aragorn had wanted to come, but he dare not leave Arwen alone as she drew closer to labor. Faramir went only with a small escort of the White Guard.

The great arch that led into the main city had been restored. Men worked about its stone lintels, carving the very story of the city into the rock. Faramir noticed among the carvings, the profiles of heroes. Boromir’s face was among these.

His party rode through the great arch, past the tall carved portal. The city was alive again. Many of the laborers had taken up residence. Merchants had followed to serve their needs. Trade houses asked daily to be granted land contracts for developing the riverside. Osgiliath now threatened to eclipse Emyn Arnen as a port city on the Anduin.

He found Éomer just beyond the city center, towards the great bridge, surrounded by engineers and architects. Firefoot was not far from his master, as Faramir expected. Éomer did little in Osgiliath without his trusted companion.

The sun shone on Éomer’s long blond hair, tied back from his face as it often was in work or in battle. He frowned as some large plan or diagram lay before him on a wood table. Men pointed here and there on the parchment, all the while speaking to the Earl of Osgiliath. Éomer looked up and their eyes met. The scowl on his face dissipated quickly, like the sun coming out from behind the clouds.

When Faramir got him alone at last, he could not keep his lips from Éomer’s. He drank him like wine, holding him in an iron embrace. He then threw him to the bed and took him. A short time after, they lay out of breath, content and sated when, at last, Éomer spoke.

“I knew you would take me like a conqueror someday.”

“I had promised you,” Faramir chuckled.

“You have kept that promise… very nicely. Yes, nicely done, my prince pollywog.” Éomer laughed.

Faramir climbed over on top of Éomer, lying full upon his hard body. “Would you wish me to prove my rule over your beautiful body again?”

Éomer laughed more as Faramir applied kisses to his throat, shoulders and collarbone.

“I missed you, Vasa,” he whispered.

“Can you stay?” Éomer asked. “Or will you be gone with the morrow?”

“I’m staying… at least for a while.” Faramir lifted his head and looked down into Éomer’s honey eyes. “I need you.”

“And I you,” Éomer replied.

Three days later, messengers came to herald the news of a son born to the Elessar and his queen. Faramir rode out that same day to attend to his king’s needs during this hectic time.

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