Faramir Fiction Archive

On the Battlement (R)

Written by Dellastar

15 April 2004 | 3500 words

Title: On the Battlement
Author Dellastar (dellastarr@aol.com)
Pairing: Éomer/Faramir
Rating: R
Summary: Éomer in the Houses of Healing and afterwards
Disclaimer: No disrespect is meant to Tolkien. A fabrication of my mind.
Notes: Been wanting to write an FPS and my apologies to the readers who know the canon better than I. Tried to stay in check with the canon rather than the film... but forgive the crossovers. Thank you to Trianne for beta and B for getting me to cry in the film every time Éomer or Faramir are on screen. Too bad they are not on screen much together.

---

Éomer cradled the lifeless body of the King in his arms; his grief could not be measured. The face of the King already turning ashen. Life was gone from his cheek. There would be no sudden breath or labored last look. Éomer had been fighting elsewhere on the battlefield when this fall had happened. The ground was soaked with blood. The reminders of the fallen surrounding him.

Not far from him Merry the Halfling lay motionless upon the ground. The brave hobbit had found his way to the battle in the end. Éomer would not release the King to the tender care of the hobbit. Others would have to do that.

Éomer closed his eyes, fighting back tears and wailing. The bitterness of this sorrow could not be silenced when he saw that it was his sister, Éowyn, who had slain the terrible Witch King. His sister, and the halfling slew this mighty foe! He had doubted her courage, her skill to wield a sword. And now she too, lay dead on this ground. He had not been nearby to save his King, nor his sister. Death surrounded him.

---

The Houses of Healing within the great walled city of Minas Tirith lay in a quiet alcove, high above the battlements. Éomer attended to the needs of many, but no duty as dire as that of bearing the body of the King to rest inside the city walls among Gondorian, not Rohirrim, stewards. He would have to make arrangements for the body to be carried back to Rohan.

Éomer believed in Aragorn. Believed that Aragorn would give the men hope. Hope to fight. All Éomer wished was that one of the Rohirrim would survive to carry the task forward, should he fall.

Éomer now put his trust in Aragorn. Aragorn put his trust in the Ringbearer to succeed in the quest. When the riders had set out from Rohan, it had been only to defend their borders. The ride across Gondor gave Éomer time to think. With all that had happened, Éomer’s fate now seemed clear. The remaining task was to revenge the death of the King.

The death of the King... and his sister. Of other things pressing in on him, his duty now to Rohan, his claim to the throne, he wished neither to dwell or linger.

---

The sun was setting in its dark sphere. Sauron’s veil darkened the sky. Éomer sat at the base of the stone altar. The King’s body had been prepared. He lay cold and still upon the stone bed. Fresh flowers had been lain upon his chest. The fragile reminder of life angered Éomer. He snatched the bundle, meaning to cast it away. Instead he clutched their frail stems. He drew out his own sword and laid it down on the stone tiles.

He stood to look on the face of the King. They had painted the flesh with a false blush. The King’s mighty sword sheathed at his side. Éomer drew out the sword and placed it beneath Théoden’s folded hands. More befitting of the King of Rohan.

Retrieving his own sword, he spoke words only the dead could hear, “My King, I shall avenge this, with my last breath. I shall endeavor to see this quest succeed.”

Éomer wept.

Aragorn had been standing in the shadows. He laid his hand on Éomer’s shoulder. Éomer did not abate his weeping.

“I have come with news.” Aragorn said. “Your sister is alive. They have carried her to the Houses of Healing.”

“Alive!”

Éomer sheathed his sword and followed Aragorn from the vault.

---

Mornings are quiet here. The sweep of wind and the stir of birds the only sounds. The window looked out over the Fields. Not a reminder Éomer wanted. He sat with his back to the vista; Éowyn sleeping uneasily in her bed. On the Fields, he’d thought she was dead, but Lord Aragorn assured him that she would recover.

Éomer had not left her side since Aragorn had escorted him to these Houses. Nearby the halflings sat huddled. Pippin never leaving Merry’s side. First he would talk in whispered tones, not waiting for Merry to answer. Éomer was sure the Hobbit sang as well. For Merry, sleep came unbidden, though he could not find peace in the calm of sleep.

Éomer felt ashamed that he had doubted Merry’s resolve, but now, he would never make that mistake again. Master Meriadoc had proved his valor. Merry had been there when he could not. The fortunes of fate had not seen fit to deter the Hobbit from his sense of loyalty and duty to Rohan and Théoden, to his friends. This devotion touched Éomer. He was sure it had helped to save Éowyn’s life, though she was far from strength. She would live and that was all that filled Éomer’s thoughts. She would go on.

Éomer looked around at the hall. Many men were housed in here. The women of the city attending to their needs; their tenderness and kindnesses not yet realized.

Earlier that morning, he’d seen Aragorn coming from the Houses of Healing. Aragorn had visited the Houses in search of the Hobbit. The halls were a-buzz with the whispers of his visit. “The hands of the King will be the hands of a Healer.” They were all murmuring forgotten prophesy, suspicion and hopes.

“He has the gift.”

“What?” Éomer answered, startled. An old woman with a pitcher and basin came up from behind him.

“Lord Aragorn. He has the gift. He has seen many, helped many.”

“My sister?”

“Yes, she will mend. Shall I bring you something, sir?”

“No, nothing. I’d just like to wait.”

“Of course.”

She left to attend to another.

The women clustered about to see to the needs of the Steward’s son, Faramir. He was not yet conscious, still struggling to wake from these terrors. Éomer heard the moaning. At first he thought Faramir’s wounds needed something to ease their pain. But upon further inquiry, he found that the youth’s wounds were invisible to the eye, harder to heal.

Rumors were stirring about this as well. Rumors of how his father, the Lord Denethor had been driven to madness. Rumors that the Lord had tried to burn the two of them alive. Rumors that the father had wanted the death of this son.

Aragorn had mentioned Boromir, the brother, but this family’s accord was strained to be sure.

His own parents were but a dim memory. The only father in his life, Théoden, was now... dead. Éomer refused to let grief keep him from his anger. The anger he would need to face what lay ahead in the near future. Éomer had lost another father. He would have to deal with that grief later, if at all. Perhaps this Faramir felt the same grief at the loss of his father. Perhaps the rumors were just rumors.

The following morning Faramir was sitting up in his bed. There was a dazed detachment hanging over his face. Éomer passed another day next to Éowyn. The ward was quiet throughout the day.

By evening, the hobbits sat eating a meal together. Their whispered conversation tugging at Éomer’s hearing.

The women of the ward had set out candles, giving the hall a warm glow. Another candle was set on the window ledge. The flame burned with the black moonless curtain of night behind.

The longer Aragorn delayed, the stronger the dread growing inside Éomer’s heart. The threat from Sauron still shrouded the world. The evil hand veiling the heavens from starlight, from hope.

Éomer knew that soon Aragorn would gather them together to leave for the final battle, however hopeless. His allegiance now lay with the Men of the West, with Aragorn. He owed that to Gandalf, to Théoden. He would raise his sword to the end, until the last of his blood was spent into the ground.

These stolen hours might be the last he’d spend with his sister. He would ride into the fray of battle with the abiding confidence that she would go home to Rohan. He wanted her to open her eyes and speak but a word to him before he left.

Pippin was again humming softly to Merry. Pippin had crawled into bed next to Merry and cradled him in his arms, telling him of their homeland, no doubt. Éomer could not hear the stories, but could see Merry smile. Pippin would hold him all night. Merry would sleep peacefully.

Faramir spoke not a word to anyone. He would drift from sleep to waking and then to sleep again. He was not eating much, neither refusing the food they bid him eat. There was something sorrowful in his young life. He had known too much grief. And now, he had no family remaining.

A sudden chill spilled into the room from the window. Éowyn squeezed his hand. It startled him. He looked down at her to see her looking back at him.

“Éowyn, Éowyn!”

“Is that you?” she muttered.

“Yes, I am here.” Éomer kissed her hand.

“Where...? Where...”

“You are in the Houses of Healing in the White City. You’ve been here since...” Éomer did not finish.

“Where is Merry?”

“He is here.”

“Éomer, ahhh...my shoulder burns.”

“Do you want me to find a Healer?”

“I woke and saw Lord Aragorn. He bent down and laid a cool leaf on my shoulder. The fire ceased. Do you think, brother, that I dreamed that?”

“No. He did come to see you.”

She closed her eyes and turned her face from him. “... what of Merry? Is he...” her voice muffled against the pillow.

“He is in this hall,” he reassured, “down there,” pointing towards the sleeping hobbits.

“Merry?” Éowyn craned to see, but flushed and fell back against the linens.

“How is he?”

“With more strength than you. One hand is withered, but Pippin told me that Aragorn has seen to that as well. He is eating, which is what you must do.” Éomer could feel his paternal nature creeping up. “You rest and regain your strength. It will be up to you to...” Éomer faltered, “... to return the King to the barrows.”

At the reminder of the King’s fall, Éowyn started to cry. “We will go together, brother.”

“Ay, if the Fates prevail.”

He did not tell her that he would be riding with Aragorn soon to march on the Black Gate.

The hobbits slept. The ward was quiet once again, Éomer being the only one awake.

Éomer stole a look at Faramir. Faramir lay motionless; his eyes closed, his breathing shallow. Éomer gaze was frozen. Faramir’s chest rising and falling; the countenance of his face slack and calm. His skin shimmering the pale moonlight silver. He must still have a fever.

Éomer took up a piece of linen and dipped it in the water basin. He rung the excess out, straightening the cloth between his fingers. He stood at the end of Faramir’s bed. Sleep offered no solace; his eyes twitched at the sight of some terror in a dream.

Éomer knelt beside the bed. His fingertips aching to reach out, offer whatever comfort he could afford. A fool’s thought, indeed. Instead he laid the cool cloth on Faramir’s forehead, smoothing it down before pulling his hands back. Faramir’s body was hot. Éomer could feel the fever. The sweat matted Faramir’s hair and soaked through his nightshirt.

He should go find help. Perhaps Aragorn could bestow medicines that these healers did not know.

The candle flame sputtered and was snuffed with a stray puff of wind. The waning light gave Faramir’s face an odd greenish cast. Éomer instinctively laid a hand over Faramir’s which lay limp against the damp linen. The hand seemed delicate and small beneath his palm. Éomer wrapped his fingers about it protectively.

“water...” the voice so frail and small that Éomer wondered if he had heard the voice in his thoughts.

The eyes were open. Éomer fumbled for water to give to Faramir. He held the cup to his lips and steadied Faramir’s head with his other hand.

“thank you,” he whispered.

Éomer nodded. He leaned back to rise and leave, but Faramir murmured, “stay.” So he did. He stayed until the sky lightened ever so slightly at the break of day.

Faramir didn’t wake again, but slept through the night. Éomer kept watch, dipping the cloth in the cool water throughout the hours.

At dawn he let go of Faramir’s hand and returned to his sister’s side. The hobbits had spent the night in the other’s embrace. He passed by, smiling at their tenderness.

“How is Faramir?” Pippin asked.

“Faramir? Um, his fever broke in the night, I think.” Éomer answered.

“Good.” Pippin’s voice sounded relieved. Pippin pulled back from Merry.

He left with a silent kiss, so as to neither stir nor wake Merry. “Are you going with Lord Aragorn?”

Éomer who had not realized that he had been watching the hobbits so intently, answered, “yes.”

“We ride today.” Pippin gathered his clothes and left to finish dressing in the light.

Éomer stood in the lingering shadows, taking a last look at Merry, Éowyn, and Faramir before following the Hobbit to the stables.

The eve of battle calls men early. Around the city many must be saying goodbye. Lovers stealing a final kiss or a last embrace. Farewells spoken and unspoken left to mingle in the raw morning air.

---

At last... Peace.

Whatever comfort can be secured in sleep, Éomer attempted. After waking a dozen times during the night, he gave in and stayed up. It was still early and the sky was lightening. Stars were blinking back, a sight he’d not seen in a long while. The Shadow was finally banished, but the cost had been great. His thoughts turned to the Hobbits and the Ringbearer who had paid the ultimate cost. Éomer feared that the soul of that halfling had been damaged, a scar that wouldn’t heal with time.

His sensibilities were attuned to that. He understood loss now in a way he had never known before. The fact that they had been victorious gave the ending a sense of justice. There was still the dead to bury, wounds to heal, hearts to mend.

Éomer felt sure he was the only one awake. He left his quarters and stepped out into the open air. He walked the pavement stones and looked out over the battlement onto a new world. Images still fresh and painful in his memory, but there was peace also beneath.

“Can’t sleep?”

Éomer turned to find Faramir sitting in the shadows.

“This is a good place to look out over the Fields. I used to come here with my brother. We would talk through the night and watch the sun come up.”

Éomer didn’t speak.

“I wanted to thank you for your kindness.” Faramir went on.

That night when Éomer sat with Faramir in the Houses seemed a world away now.

“I know it was you who stayed with me that night.”

“I was only trying to help, Lord Faramir.” Éomer replied in reverence.

“It did help, in its way. Perhaps I can return the kindness.”

“There’s no need.”

“You lost many men on the Field and before the Black Gate? I’ve heard of your valor at the Gate. The Halfling told me.”

“The Halfling?”

“Yes, Pippin.” Faramir smiled at the mention of the Hobbit’s name.

“Pippin.” Éomer repeated in a half whisper. “He fought valiantly beside the other Men of the West, a worthy comrade.”

“The Halflings have many things to offer this new age. Their valor, their loyalty runs deep. They have a great bond between them.”

Éomer suspected that Faramir was envious of that “bond.” Faramir stood next to him looking out at the ruined town beyond.

“Osgiliath. It will need to be rebuilt.” Faramir’s voice sounded cold and distant.

“Much will be renewed in the new age. The King will see to that.” Éomer spoke of the upcoming coronation of Gondor’s King, Aragorn, forgetting that Faramir was the Steward’s son. He regretted bringing that bitter reminder to Faramir’s hearing.

“Aragorn is the rightful heir to the throne and will heal all our lands. He will unite our world in peace.”

“You are pleased with this?” Éomer hadn’t meant to sound surprised.

“Yes.” Faramir smiled. “I never sought the throne. It was not...” Faramir broke off and Éomer thought his voice had started to shake.

“I lost many men in my foolish struggle to appease my father.” Faramir continued.

Éomer didn’t probe to dispel nor confirm rumors.

“The Shadow no longer hangs over our land. And yet, the price we all have paid... I feel nothing inside, Éomer. There is nothing but ash in my heart.”

Éomer could see but the outline of Faramir’s features. In the half light, a hand touched his elbow. The surprise lasted only a moment.

Éomer leaned forward taking Faramir into his arms. The embrace that he had wanted since that first day in the Houses did not feel awkward or strained. He’d expected Faramir to pull away, not to tighten his grasp. Arms that steadied, now pulled him closer. Their lips pausing before hungrily seeking. The faint taste of wine still clung to Faramir’s lips. Perhaps he had been steeling his nerve towards this moment as well.

The wall braced their insistent need to get at each other. Laces and ties pulled apart, legs and bodies widening for the other. The aching of skin to touch skin. There was enough morning to make out the definitions in Faramir’s neck, the sheen of his chest. Éomer’s fingers ran leisurely over the geography of ribs, nipple, abdomen, a rapid rising and falling beneath Éomer’s touch. He took one nib to his lips, further exploring with his tongue. Faramir raised a shoulder before collapsing to his knees.

Éomer bent to again face Faramir, taking the fair face into his hands and pulling his mouth to his, crushing Faramir against the battlement. Éomer’s hands encircled Faramir’s body, pulling him closer still.

He wanted Faramir naked against his body. He gently removed what remained of their clothing, laying them on the rough stones. A shirt, breeches, the last layers of undergarments until Faramir lay quite beautifully naked beneath him. The morning blushes giving the steward’s son a radiance that Éomer knew rivaled any Elven beauty. The scars and reminders of battle on this fair young body nearly brought Éomer to tears. So much pain, seen, hidden, lost, forgotten, forgiven. And, offered, at Éomer’s bidding.

Faramir was hard. Éomer could feel the cock beneath him. Éomer settled down onto Faramir, kissing, licking, and stroking his way the length of Faramir’s body. His fingers slipping beneath Faramir and hitching his hips up onto Éomer ‘s thighs; his body bracing this lover against him. Éomer wanted Faramir’s legs to rest on his shoulders. He wanted his own body between, closer, he wanted to be closer. He wanted to fill Faramir’s body, wanted Faramir’s hands on his cock, wanted Faramir’s mouth on his, wanted Faramir’s body between his legs. But that would not happen tonight. Tonight Éomer was the offering. Tonight Éomer was the giver. Éomer would have the first touches. This body was his to discover. To kiss. To hold. To fuck. To comfort.

Éomer took Faramir into his mouth. The taste of him as he sucked, set his own body burning. Every touch seemed to set Faramir’s body into shudders. The fingers he used to probe, the tongue with which he teased, the teeth that scraped across the cock in his mouth. Faramir bucked as Éomer pulled back. Éomer steadied Faramir before taking him again into his mouth.

“É...o.. mer!”

The sound of his name calmed that hard core that darkened his own heart. He sucked and brought his lover to climax. The final taste swallowed as Faramir went limp underneath him.

Éomer relaxed his grip on Faramir’s hips and positioned himself to lay his head on Faramir’s abdomen. It was warm and glistening in early morning light.

Faramir’s fingers were in his hair, tightening, then easing. Éomer closed his eyes.

Long had it been that he was happy. A transitory thing to be sure, but here on this makeshift stony bed, he knew that they would both greet the day with a renewed gladness to be alive again.

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