Work Text:
A Chance Encounter
Characters: Eomer, Theodred, Elladan and Elrohir
Prompts: Accident. Arranged marriage
Nb: Firefoot is the horse Eomer rides on LOTR, Firefly is his grandsire.
Elladan and Elrohir are reputed to have fought alongside Eorl in the early days of the Riddermark.
She did not mind, Eomer told Theodred as they left Edoras with the wind behind them and the grasslands of Rohan stretching ahead of them. In fact, she would be relieved if it was Theodred, whom she loved anyway. Not as a lover, Eomer had assured himself, but as a brother….As she loved Eomer. And it would grow, he was sure, once they were wed. She was fourteen although other girls were wed by then and some had children of their own by sixteen. Theodred sixteen years and untried as a colt himself but there was no rush now that the agreements had been made
Eomer cast his gaze back over his shoulder to Meduseld with its green pennant, a white horse running, streaming in the wind. They were old enough to be messengers but not warriors, not in this time of peace. Old enough to be betrothed, said Theodred grumpily, but not fight. Eowyn had watched them go, with perhaps a little bit of envy for even more than they, she resented being made to stay when they took off, she railed against the freedom they had compared with her own. Not this time, Theoden had said indulgently. This time you stay and make your wedding gown.
And she had. Resentfully threading needles clumsily and stabbing her fingers with the needle so she got blood on the good cloth. No one made any jokes about blood on white. Her fierce little face forbade them. And she thrust the ruined cloth at Grima, one of the new men arrived from the mountains near Isengard, and told him to get rid of it. He took it from her with reverence, like it was some great treasure and she huffed in exasperation and flounced off.
Eomer turned back in the saddle and took a deep breath of the air that filled the open grasslands, the skies, the emptiness that he loved. He gave a shout of exhilaration and kicked Firefly so he suddenly took off across the grasslands. He heard Theodred give a cry of …what? Irritation? Delight? And then Flaurun, Theodred’s own horse, was right behind him.
They fled over the dusty track that was the North-South Road, from Gondor to the old kingdom of Arthedain. On one hand were the mountains of Ered Nimrais and ahead of them the Misty Mountains. They made for Helm’s Deep where Erkenbrand kept watch over the Ford of the Isen, and kept the way clear between Edoras and Isengard.
At this time of the year the streams that ran from the Ered Nimrais into the Entwash were swollen with melt water and they waded through the cold water and up onto the farther banks. They pulled up, flanks heaving, breathless and laughing. Theodred’s sandy hair was tousled by the wind and his cheeks flushed, his lips parted.
Eomer could not help but stare. He had always thought his cousin a handsome man. But recently something had changed for Eomer; he felt uncomfortable in the presence of one he had been closest too - yet he could not say why and so ignored it and Theodred seemed unaware of the heavy atmosphere that lay between them.
‘I believe Flaurun beat your slow old plodder yet again,’ Theodred turned his elegant bay stallion in a tight circle. The horse shook its head and snorted. ‘Perhaps you should turn yours to the plough!’
‘Hah! Firefly has stamina where your beast is flighty,’ Eomer retorted but he knew it was weak. He turned Firefly's head west and they rode more steadily.
‘How far?’ he asked and Theodred shaded his eyes with his hand.
‘About thirty miles. We should be there by tomorrow if you can keep up.’ He threw an easy smile to Eomer.
They made good progress and made camp near a wide fast flowing stream that came down from the mountains. The water was cold and clear and pooled deeply between the granite rocks under a copse of oak trees. Firefly and Flaurun wandered off to eat grass and Theodred shot a rabbit which he skinned quickly and efficiently whilst Eomer made a small fire which they roasted it over.
The pools were deep. Cold water over rocks worn smooth by meltwater and the stream. Theodred quickly unbuckled his belt and cast it on the lush grass, shrugged out of his tunic and pulled his fine shirt over his head and let it drop beside his belt. He toed off his boots and pushed his breeches down over his hips.
Eomer found himself staring; Theodred’s lean and muscular body gleamed in the sunlight, his skin warm and smooth and lightly furred with a golden down and curling luxuriously at his chest and groin. He was less hairy than Eomer himself and his build more lithe, less heavily muscled but strong and lean. Suddenly Theodred’s eyes came up and caught Eomer staring. He laughed easily and said without rancour or suspicion, ‘Are you jealous, cousin? More maids look at me than you I think.’
Eomer laughed self-consciously. ‘They look at that smooth skin and wish theirs was as milky and soft,’ he retorted but it was half hearted. A strange fluttering was in his belly and he felt his cock swell. But Theodred turned away, unaware and unconcerned.
‘I will be Eowyn’s soon and they will not look at me at all for fear she might skewer them with a needle!’ He splashed into the cold water, shouting with mock outrage at its bite and Eomer eased in after him.
Once they were immersed, Eomer felt more confident and splashed Theodred as they had as children, swam deeply and pulled his legs from under him, tried not to feel a shiver as his hand brushed his cousin’s flaccid cock, shrivelled in the cold.
He pulled himself out of the water, kept his back to Theodred whilst he dressed and then turned to see his cousin was still immersed. His hair dark and sleek over his head. His body was pale and shimmering in the water, almost luminous. He stood up and the water came to his hips, lean and a thin line of hair from his navel disappearing into the water. He smoothed his hands over his head and his eyes were bright and blue, laughing at Eomer, he emerged slowly, almost teasingly. The water slipped from his belly, hips, thighs and his cock nestled against the hair at his groin.
Eomer forced himself to look away.
As the stars came out, pricking the darkness one by one, the air became cooler. Eomer stretched his feet out and leaned against a smooth granite boulder where the moss made a soft cushion around it. He let his head fall back against the boulder and gazed up at the sky.
‘Are you truly happy that I wed your sister?’ Theodred said suddenly.
Eomer looked at him. ‘Of course. I could not wish her a better man. You are friends already and I know you will be good to her.’
Theodred looked away into the vastness of the plains and said nothing.
‘Are you happy?’ Eomer asked suddenly concerned. ‘Have you met someone else? I know that Theoden wants this marriage. He has done much to arrange it to everyone’ satisfaction…’ He paused and then asked more carefully. ‘Is it not to yours?’
Theodred did not speak for a while and Eomer grew anxious. If Theodred desired another maid, it would not break Eowyn’s heart, but it would mean she was still unwed and there were so few suitable men around that he worried she would be a maid always. And he liked Theodred…He felt a familiar surge of emotion in his chest and put it down to loyalty, admiration for his courage, liking for the nobility of the young man sitting nearby, the firelight stroking his hair and skin, warming it, reflecting in his eyes…
‘I love her as much as I love anyone,’ Theodred said slowly. He settle his head more comfortably on his arm and flicked his eyes to Eomer and away. He looked for a moment like he would say more but he kept his silence instead.
Eomer licked his lips. He felt suddenly hot and a bit uncomfortable. He stood suddenly. ‘I need a piss.’
Pushing his way through the ferns and stepping over round granite boulders, he fought with himself, shoved away the lust that had caught him. This is just frustration, he told himself. He had not taken himself in hand for a while. Perhaps that would relieve him. But it would take too long and Theodred would wonder what kept him so he merely pissed and then returned.
Theodred had wrapped himself in his blanket and lay on the ground near the fire. His eyes were closed and his breath rhythmic.
‘Weakling that such a short ride has worn you out,’ Eomer said teasingly, thinking that perhaps he merely pretended and would launch himself at Eomer unsuspectingly and tussle by the fire…As they used to. Until recently. Until they had found each other one evening much like this, with Theodred astride Eomer and Eomer hard and needy. They had stared at each other in shock at first - and then pulled apart and never spoke of it. Pretended it had not happened.
But Eomer had thought about it a lot. Every time he had gone to pleasure himself, it was not some creamy-skinned maid he thought of but found himself remembering the feel of Theodred astride his thighs. And so he did not dare to touch himself. He did not dare to imagine…but his dreams were not under his control and he did dream. Oh, he did. And he awoke with such a need, an aching desire that to touch himself once and think upon his cousin would be all it took.
He sat and threw sticks into the fire moodily and stared at his sleeping cousin, looked his fill as he could not at any other time. Theodred’s hair was that dark flaxen colour of wheat when it had been flattened by the rain. Not the flax with copper that Eomer shared with his sister. It was finer. Like silk in the palm of his hand. And straight. Long, straight, flaxen silk. And his eyes were hazel - green and flecked with brown that in a certain light, looked gold…and his smile was generous, kindly. Noble.
Eomer sighed and threw the remains of his ale into the fire. He sounded like a love-sick maid, he told himself irritably. And tried to think instead of a maid, with big breasts and round hips. But it was no good at all. He wrapped himself in his own cloak and stared into the fire.
Night wheeled overhead. The stars were bright and there were the quiet sounds of the horses wakening occasionally and shifting their feet, munching on grass and then sleeping again. Small creatures crept about in the grass and a fish quietly surfaced in the pool.
At midnight, he woke Theodred and rolled over and went straight to sleep. He dreamed.
0o0o
It was some hours later in the darkness of dawn, when the earth slept and all was still and very cold, that he felt a hand upon his shoulder.
‘Orcs.’ Theodred mouthed. His bright sword, its edge sharp with newness and lack of use, was in his hand.
Eomer was instantly awake. Orcs? This close to Meduseld? Surely not? Neither he nor Theodred had ever fought Orcs, had never fought anything. They were just messenger boys after all. Barely sixteen.
Still, he threw off his cloak and as quietly as possible, rose to his feet. He laid a hand over Firefly’s muzzle to quiet him and the horse turned bright, intelligent eyes upon him.
Theodred pointed silently to the right and sure enough, under the starlight, he could see an Orc lifting its muzzle to the sky and sniffing.
‘You are right, snaga,’ came a gruff voice. ‘Men. Horse too I think. Quietly now boys. We’ll sneak upon and then and have a rare old feast.’ There was a ragged edge of laughter, quiet. Cunning.
‘But we’ll have some fun first. Stick ‘em first and eat ‘em after.’ There was lewd laughter.
Theodred pulled Eomer quietly back into the copse and pointed back up to where the stream tumbled over rocks and boulders. He jabbed finger first at Eomer, then to the two silent horses. Then he pointed upstream.
How many? he mouthed. Theodred held up all three fingers and then flashed both hands up.
Thirteen.
Shit.
Eomer grasped Theodred’s arm and shook his head, then pointed to the edge of the wood and ahead, where the Orcs were gathering.
We, he pointed at himself first and then Theodred, should rush them, he mouthed, and then run like the dogs of Béma are on our trail.
Theodred stared at him, and then looked towards the Orcs.
Shwoosh. Shwoosh. Shwoosh.
Arrows suddenly zipped through the air and three Orcs fell dead. Hooves thundered and there was a flash of silver. Two riders swerved, pivoted and slashed down; three, four more Orcs fell and the others fled. One of the riders flashed his sword so the blood slid from the blade. The other urged his horse after the Orcs and disappeared into the darkness.
The remaining rider slid down from his horse and leaned over one injured Orc. It thrashed and gurgled horribly and the rider swiftly drew a knife across its throat. It twitched once and then was still. He straightened and turned his head, looking towards the copse. He stood beside his tall horse, stood absolutely still and Eomer and Theodred held their breath. Dared not breathe. Dared not move. Firefly’s head was up and nostrils flared. Eomer quickly stifled the nicker that almost burst forth.
The Moon suddenly came out from behind the clouds and shone down upon the rider. He was clad all in black leather that fit him like a second skin. His long black hair was pulled back in a high tail that streamed down his back and a bright white sword gleamed in his hand. The runes swirled and slid along the blade like molten silver.
Elves.
Eomer almost staggered back, grabbing at Theodred, who steadied him and glared at him. They looked at each other in horror. Elves from the Witch of the Golden Wood. Worse than Orcs.
Just then the other rider returned, dragging behind him an Orc that was bound and tied by the hands and stumbled along behind the black horse. The first elf warrior called out in a strange tongue that sounded liquid and mellifluous. Theodred and Eomer both covered their ears so they would not be bewitched. But they could not drown out the howl of the Orc that the second rider dragged with him.
The second rider turned and spoke to the Orc in its own black tongue so Eomer knew it was true that Elves were evil. The Orc gibbered and howled and struggled and then the second rider leapt from his horse and the two riders bent over the Orc. Eomer could no longer see what they did.
But then the screaming began.
It split the silence of the night, pierced the quiet of the wilderness. And it was terrible.
The two Elves struggled with the Orc and Eomer could not see what they did until they seemed to heave it upright and then stepped away.
At first, Eomer thought the Orc was standing upright but Theodred clutched his arm and held his hand to his mouth in horror.
The Orc was impaled upon an Orcish spear and it was still alive. It gurgled and howled and thrashed weakly.
The two riders mounted their horses and circled the Orc, looking down from their steeds. The horses where very tall, eighteen hands thought Eomer, and black; surely they were of the Mearas? Their tails high and manes long. Moonlight gleamed on the silver bits and stirrups and the runes on their swords, the sheaths seemed to pour like molten silver. One of the riders spoke then in Westron.
‘Know that the Sons of Thunder have been here.’ He raised his head and looked directly towards the copse and Eomer and Theodred gripped each other in terror. But the riders wheeled their steeds then and galloped off into the night, the hoofbeats faded - but the Orc still wept and cried aloud.
Theodred still gripped Eomer’s arm. ‘Béma. That is the most savage thing I have ever seen…’ He was staring at the Orc. Slowly he let go and took a step forwards. ‘We cannot leave it like that.’
‘Yes. Yes we can. And will. Or they might come back,’ Eomer insisted. ‘Come. Let us go while we still can.’
He pulled Theodred away and shoved him in front of him, pushing him along the little river towards the glade and the horses followed behind. ‘If those Orcs had found us, they would have done that to us,’ he said roughly for he too was shocked. And afraid. ‘If those Elves find us, they might well do the same to us.’
They stumbled along the stream’s banks, trying to be as quiet as they could but knowing they were anything but silent and when finally they had reached the edge of the wood and looked out, there was no sign of the Elves, Eomer could have wept with relief.
0o0o
They spent the rest of the night listening to the howls of the Orc until it finally ceased.
‘Do you think it is dead yet?’ Theodred asked quietly.
Eomer listened. ‘I have not heard anything for a while. If it is not yet, it will not be long.’
There was a pause. ‘I hope it is dead. I would not see anything in such agony as that.’
Eomer did not say anything. He had seen the devastation wrought by Orcs in the Northern Marches. Theodred had not.
Daybreak showed a pale crack in the sky above the far horizon. They saddled up and mounted, wanting to leave as quickly as they dared.
‘We make for the Deep and then head back to Meduseld as quickly as possible.’ Theodred glanced over his shoulder at Eomer. All the joy and excitement of riding together had fled in the danger of the night. They rode swiftly.
o0o0o
Erkendbrand was not at Helm’s Deep. He had ridden out in pursuit of Orcs that had come down from the Mountains and raided a homestead on the high hills. But the few warriors who occupied the Deep were happy to see them, to take the messages from the King for Erkenbrand and receive the messages from their own kin. Theodred relayed the words given him faithfully enough but some of the plainer messages were made more kindly through his recitation, which was rich and though he gave them the exact words, he embellished it with pauses and sighs so that the lonely soldiers felt their loved ones did at least miss them, even if they did not.The warriors were concerned about the Orcs but even more worried about the Elves.
‘Sons of Thunder you say?’ said one grizzled warrior, the captain in Erkenbrand’s absence. ‘Surely that cannot be?’ he asked wonderingly. ‘It is said that once there were Good Folk, such as these Sons of Thunder, and they came to the aid of Eorl the Young and fought the Orcs long ago.
‘Aye, but if that was ever more than a story put about by the Witch of the Golden Wood, the Sons of Thunder have long gone,’ said another.
‘Beware and do not look into their eyes,’ cautioned the grizzled captain. ‘The Witch has sent these warriors to trap unwary souls and take them back to her Wood. She ensnares men, it is said, and then devours their souls. They are never seen again.’
‘Their eyes are silver,’ said another. ‘And their faces eldritch fair. They will hunt you, trap you like a deer. To look upon them is to be bewitched. Once they have your soul, you are trapped forever.’
There was a mutter of agreement from the men and Eomer dreamt that night of terrifying black riders on great black horses that snorted smoke and rode out of the mist. He dreamed that the riders were tall and black-haired and fair of face, and in spite of the terrifying horses, he was utterly bewitched.
o0o0
When they rode back along the dusty road to Edoras, they spied two riders on black horses far away on the higher road, the wind fluttering the long manes and tails of the horses, and the hair of the riders streamed out as they rode. Eomer grasped Theodred’s arm and murmured to him not to show that they had seen them and they kept their eyes ahead and kept their pace regular and brisk. Eomer knew they had been seen for the Elves turned their heads towards them and kept pace for a while. But then the Elves’ road disappeared between the hills and they did not reappear. Theodred and Eomer kept watch warily and hoped they did not meet.
They passed the Orc. It was dead, its eyes had been picked out and its tongue hung out black and engorged and pecked. They did not pause and quickly made their way towards the ford.
It was at the ford that the remaining Orcs that had fled from the Elves, were waiting.
They did not see the Orcs for they were concealed amongst the alders and willows, the slender silver birches. This time there was no warning until a cross bow bolt thudded into a tree and Theodred dragged Eomer from Firefly and shoved him behind a tree. The horses, well trained by the Eorlingas horsemasters, galloped in the other direction, hooves flying, crashing away and through the woods so the Orcs were confused and sent in two directions. Theodred fired with his short bow and Eomer drew his sword. They had had training enough but they counted ten Orcs this time. There was no chance of escape this time but they crashed in anyway shouting for the Mark.
Eomer had never seen Orcs up so close before and found his heart pounding in his chest. He swung his sword recklessly, left, right, slashed down and thrust wildly. He could see Theodred out of the corner of his eye, wielding his sword as wildly as he. Black blood spattered and an Orc fell. He felt a surge of hope and ferocious joy and turned and slashed again. Another Orc fell but there was another and another and another and he could not defeat them all. There was a cry and he saw Theodred stumble and there was a horrible gibbering baying, a howl of delight.
They had surrounded Theodred and Eomer saw that they lifted his cousin’s head and a wicked black blade, crude and thick like a saw, was at his throat.
‘Put up your sword, little horseboy, or we gut him like a pig.’ There was a raucous laughter and the Orc shook Theodred until his teeth clattered.
‘Run Eomer!’ Theodred shouted and one of the Orcs struck him hard with the haft of an axe. Theodred reeled and collapsed against the Orc that held him and they laughed and jeered. A seam of blood appeared on his skin where the knife bit and his head lolled back, eyes closed. Eomer hoped he was unconscious. Not dead. No. He could not bear it if Theodred was dead.
Eomer dropped his sword instantly, held up his hands and the Orcs surged forwards and seized Eomer with rough hands, rough voices. He was bound with ropes and his hands forced behind his back, and shoved face down into the dirt. A heavy iron shod foot crushed his head and there was an explosion of pain behind his eyes. But he did not cry out though he had never felt anything like it before except once when he fell from his father’s horse and cracked his head. Theodred was thrown down alongside him and Eomer heard a little gasp so he knew Theodred was alive. He closed his eyes then for there was the sound of ripping cloth and cursing from the Orcs that crowded above them, jeering. He felt his cloak pulled and then jerking movements and tearing; they were cutting his cloak, ripping it from him. The neck of his tunic was grabbed and he felt the fabric pull against his throat. He struggled then. Kicked out with his feet and wriggled trying to turn over so he could kick them harder.
‘We got a live one ‘ere lads!’
‘Stick ‘im ‘ard and make him squeal!’ Harsh laughter surrounded him.
Eomer surged upwards, almost onto his knees in desperation. He rammed his head back and butted it against the hard head of an Orc. For a moment he saw stars before he felt a punch to his gut and he was thrown down again, hard, the breath knocked out of him. An Orc put his foot on Eomer’s neck and stepped down. His windpipe was slowly squeezed until there was no breath and he thought he would die.
Suddenly there was shouting and the Orcs seemed to freeze for a moment. He felt the pressure ease from his neck and the Orc that had been standing on him moved and turned about to face the river. Metal clashed as blades were drawn. Around him Orcs milled and shouted indiscriminately and with no regard for their prisoners. One Orc stumbled over Eomer and kicked him cursing and there were heavy, clumsy feet between him and Theodred and suddenly he could no longer see his cousin. Panicked he wriggled around and tried to shuffle himself to kneeling but got a punch in the gut and a fist in the face for his trouble. He tasted the coppery blood but still could not see Theodred.
Orcs pushed and shoved past him or they simply trod upon him, stumbling over him. A tremulous whinny pierced the air. Eomer tried to roll onto his side to see but he could not for he was tumbled and shoved by the Orcs that jostled around him. He hoped, how he hoped that the horse that had whinnied was with an Eored that had happened to come upon them.
An Orc fell half over him and black blood spurted over Eomer’s face. He jerked his head away.
Mud and heavy feet obscured his view as the gang of Orcs shuffled and pounded into some sort of rudimentary formation, but even the Orcs knew they were doomed. Eomer could hear the unease of their breath, the thump of their hearts and could almost smell their fear.
One Orc shifted and suddenly he was on his side and could see the river.
Wading through the ford were two tall black horses. Their manes were very long and their tails floated behind them as they splashed through the water. One pawed at the water, sending up a spray of silver drops as the horse shook its head. Their riders were clad all in black and wore sable cloaks, very fine. In their hands were long swords, one frost-bright and one a dark blade, a metal Eomer had never seen before. It made his skin crawl.
The Sons of Thunder. That was what the Elven warriors had called into the night as they had dragged the wounded Orc back and it had struggled in terror, howling. Eomer’s heart pounded in his chest and he knew then he was doomed for the tales they told of the Elves of the Golden Wood were terrible indeed. Almost he begged the Orcs for a sword to defend himself, to defend his soul, but he lay still as if dead, and watched as the first horse almost casually, pulled itself out of the water that streamed off its glossy black coat. There was a shuffling, anxious murmur amongst the terrified Orcs and then the other horse emerged from the river. They were indeed like the Mearas, shaking their long manes and swishing their tails. The horses broke into a slow canter, their riders almost lazily swiped the air with their swords, as if this were a mere practice.
When they slew the fleeing Orcs, they barely seemed to draw breath. And this time they did not drag an Orc back and behead it for they killed every single one brutally. Coldly. Blood soaked the ground. Saturated it so the earth was black with blood and gore.
Eomer lay absolutely still with his eyes tightly shut, on his side and pressed against the earth and listened to the thud of hooves, to Theodred’s breath, to the hiss of steel and the whimper and gurgle of the Orcs as they died.
When there were none left standing, the riders slowed to a walk and then circled the huddle of bodies. The horses circled in opposite directions and the riders did not speak. At one point, there was a hiss and blood spattered over Eomer’s cheek but he did not flinch or move. He opened his eyes the slightest slit and peered through his eyelashes. He could see the riders looking down at the pile of corpses, their faces impassive and still.
One stopped.
The horse flicked its tail at a fly and then shifted its feet so it rested one hoof. The rider merely sat, looking and did not move or speak. It was then that Eomer realised he was staring down at Theodred.
The Elf turned his head then and spoke, their tongue was fluid, lilting. And the other rider halted somewhere behind Eomer and Eomer dared not turn his head to see where he was. There was a thud and then a soft clink of armour and steel. Briefly the Elf loomed above him and Eomer squeezed his eyes shut, hardly daring to breathe.
Then the Elf sank on one knee beside Theodred and looked down at him.
Eomer bit his lip and tensed; the Elf was going to reach out and take Theodred’s soul! He drew in a slow breath, ready to launch himself at the Elf, he would suddenly roll over kicking and biting, he planned and clenched his fists.
Cold cold steel was pricking at his own neck before he could even move. The blade was made of some black metal Eomer had never seen before, and the sword seemed to curl against him almost, hissed at him in delight at the smell of his blood, the bang of his pulse.
‘You are not an Orc.’ The Elf spoke, his voice was rich, fluid, smooth and Eomer smothered the instinct to listen, to lean in and let it soak into him.
Instead he snapped open his eyes. ‘And you are not Men of the Riddermark! You are in Rohan and unless you are enemies of the Mark, you will declare yourselves.’
The Elf said nothing. But he tilted his head slightly and raised an eyebrow. His face was beautiful, thought Eomer, fell and fair. He avoided looking into the Elf’s eyes for he would be bewitched and his soul devoured. But nor could he bear to lose his cousin to sorcery and devilment.
A cool smile slid over the perfect features of the Elf and then spoke in their own tongue to the other Elf. The words were quick and fluid. Like molten silver, like the runes that had poured and slid over their sword that was still at his neck.
He tasted salty, copper blood. Like it was on his tongue though he did not bleed. Bema! He drew back in horror. They wanted his blood.
‘Aícanaro has drunk enough this day,’ said the Elf on the horse.
‘And yet he thirsts,’ said the other, still staring at Eomer down the blade of the dark sword.
Eomer closed his eyes. He took a breath and said, ‘Take me if you have to, but spare my cousin. Take my soul, drink my blood but leave him.’
And suddenly the sword was taken from his throat and with a scrape of steel, the sword was sheathed. 'Get up,' said the Elf. He shook his head almost as if in exasperation and said something to his companion.
Eomer rolled onto his knees. ‘Please!’ he cried and shuffled forward to Theodred's side as best he could given that he was still bound. ‘Do not harm him! I will be your sacrifice if you wish it.’
The Elf cast a disparaging look at Eomer which left him baffled and then ignored him completely shoving his quiver back from his shoulder and shifting the sword scabbard out of his way, he knelt beside Theodred, put his hand on the unconscious man’s forehead. The Elf spoke again in his own tongue to his companion.
It was then that the second Elf moved his horse forwards slowly and slid his gaze over Eomer’s face. Silver-grey eyes. Molten, like the runes on their blades, like their language. Eomer could not forget though, how they had dragged the Orc back howling and shoved the spear into its body so it wailed and writhed and slowly, slowly died. They were implacable. He realised his lips had parted and he was staring into the mounted Elf’s eyes. Eomer knew he was breathing hard and swallowed for the Elf was…perfect. Impossibly masculine. Impossibly beautiful.
The Elf looked down at Eomer unsmilingly, his lovely face impassive and still and then he reached for a knife at his belt. He drew it, looked at it appraisingly and then tossed it down at Eomer’s feet.
‘Do not try to hurt my brother,’ he said. ‘He will kill you before you can.’
Eomer stared; he had no doubt that what he said was true. Then he scooped up the knife and cradled it in his bound hands. The knife was strange, made of the lightest steel he had ever felt and it rested in his hand like had been made for him. An M rune curled lovingly about the hilt and it was warm against his palm. He flipped the knife between his fingers so it touched his bonds. Instantly the ropes parted as if they could not bear the touch of elven steel. His hands were free and he rubbed his wrists for a moment, feeling the prickling in the fingers as blood surged into the once again.
The Elf held out his hand and Eomer stumbled to his feet and placed the knife, hilt first, into his outstretched hand. His fingers brushed the Elf's and he felt a charge pass through his skin, a shocking lightning bolt and pulled his hand back, staring.
Behind him, the first Elf rose smoothly to his feet and his sable cloak fell around his shoulders. He strode away from both Theodred and Eomer and caught the reins in one hand, put his foot in the stirrup. He swung lightly into the saddle and wheeled his horse around.
‘Wait!’ Eomer cried. ‘Wait,’ he said more quietly, more breathily and stumbled on his unsteady feet, shakily and stood swaying slightly. He looked up into the face of the second Elf, who was still and unearthly, completely terrifying. ‘Help me,’ Eomer pleaded, for they had not harmed either Theodred or him and perhaps they were not enemies. ‘Help him.’ He looked towards Theodred who lay still, his eyes closed and his face bloody from where the Orcs had beaten him.
The first Elf, now mounted upon his own tall black horse, spoke from behind Eomer. ‘Your friend will not die.’ He looked towards his brother. ‘Come Elladan. We must away. There was another band up on the mountains. If we wish to find them we must reach the Isen by nightfall.’
But Eomer clasped the stirrup of the second Elf, that his brother had called Elladan. There was a moment of stillness and then Elladan spoke in his own tongue to his brother. His brother replied, a note of irritation in his voice and turned his horse’s head away towards the Isen.
‘And yet we will stop for while nevertheless, gwador,’ said Elladan looking down upon Eomer.
The nameless brother glared at Eomer and the weight of his gaze, his displeasure simmered. And in spite of Elladan’s words, he turned his horse’s head and clucked to his horse, and trotted away towards the Isen as he had planned.
Eomer did not know whether he was blessed that Elladan merely stayed when his brother departed, or whether he was in mortal danger.
Elladan glanced at him obliquely and then dismounted. The horse immediately dropped his nose to the grass and pulled at the thick grass. Dropping to one knee as had his brother, Elladan looked at Theoden.
‘He will live,’ he said as had his brother. ‘But we are too exposed out here and there are Orcs still about. We were hunting a band of about thirty, pursued them from the Mountains,’ he said as he pulled thin leather gloves from his hands and shoved them into his belt. From his tunic he pulled a cloth. It was very fine, looked like silk and this he bound over Theodred’s wound to staunch the blood. ‘They spilt once they crossed the Isen and we have yet only accounted for twenty or so.’
He rose to his feet and clucked to his horse. Immediately the horse lifted its head and walked over to the Elf. Its intelligent brown eyes gazed at Eomer for a moment and then dipped its muzzle and snuffed at his hair. It was such an ordinary and familiar gesture that Eomer laughed and reached up to rest his hand on the stallion’s forehead.
‘His name is Barathea,’ said Elladan and smiled. He took the luxurious sable cloak from his own shoulders and draped it over one arm. Then he put his foot in the stirrup and swung up into the saddle. Eomer cried out in dismay. Surely Elladan was not also leaving him.
‘Hand him to me.’
It was such a relief that Eomer almost stumbled but he managed to lift Theodred’s inert body and give him to Elladan, who pulled him up easily and held Theodred before him with care. The Elf pulled his own cloak around Theodred’s shoulders and settled the Man against his own chest.
‘Hold onto the stirrup,’ Elladan said. ‘You are too faint to ride and hold him too and even my stalwart Barathea cannot carry three of us. But we do not have to go far. There is a small cave nearby that my brother and I have used before. I will settle you there where you will have cover and be safe. At least for a while whilst your friend recovers.’ He looked down and Eomer thought that his face was kind where before he had thought the Elf impassive. His face was smooth and youthful without being young, not a line on his skin or thread of silver in his hair and yet Eomer was absolutely certain that he was long lived and had seen very much. Nevertheless, he touched the stirrup like it would bite and held onto it only because he would fall if he did not.
0o0o
On the other side of the river there were caves sunk conveniently into the shallow limestone cliffs that lined the river a little downstream, and beautifully camouflaged by the silver birches and alders that lined the banks of the river. Eomer thought he knew this region quite well and yet he had never known there were caves.
He stole a look up at his companion. The Elf, Elladan, was broad shouldered like a swordsman, and he held Theodred’s dead weight in his arms as if it were no trouble at all, and still had his round buckler and sword, quiver and bow strapped to his back. His hips were lean and narrow and his long, long hair was black as a raven’s wing, pulled back from his face in a high horsetail and it streamed down his back like silk. There were blue lights in it so black it was.
He was staring up at Elladan’s hair when he realised that the Elf had noticed and was looking down at him obliquely. Eomer felt his skin heat under the scrutiny and quickly looked away.
‘I have never seen an Elf before,’ he muttered. A weak excuse. For it was not that that had made him stare, but the strength of the Elf, the power of him, and Eomer found himself wondering how he looked without that leather jerkin. He shook his head at himself and bit his lip to give himself something else to think about.
At last the Elf cast him a look. ‘It is here,’ he said and Barathea came to a halt.
Carefully, Elladan let Theodred slide into Eomer’s arms and dismounted himself. But he took Theodred back from Eomer as soon as he was on his own feet and Eomer noticed how tall he was. A good two hands taller than Eomer himself.
The cave was half hidden amongst ferns and bracken. Inside it was dry and the floor was sandy not mud. The stone held the heat of the day too and it was not as cold as he expected, and he could still hear the river rushing by.
They settled Theodred near the back, wrapped in the Elf’s sable cloak.
‘My name is Eomer, I am the son of the Third Marshal of the Riddermark,’ he said, thinking that it was time to introduce himself properly for clearly he was not in danger; at least, not his soul.
The Elf merely nodded and having divested himself of his buckler, and quiver and bow, and his herself its saddle and bridle, knelt at Theodore's side.
‘You are Elladan…?’ Eomer left the question hanging but Elladan merely nodded and carefully lifted the hasty bandage he had tied over Theodred’s wound. Clearly Elladan had no intention of giving Eomer more of his name that he already had.
‘The man you are helping is called Theodred,’ Eomer said a little irritably.
Elladan nodded again. ‘Son of the King of Rohan. And you are his nephew.’ He lifted first one eyelid of Theodred and then the other, peered into each eye while Eomer gaped like a fish in surprise. ‘We heard you half way across the Fenmarsh,’ Elladan explained. ‘You hailed each other as you were galloping.’ Elladan smiled again. His smile, thought Eomer, was beautiful. It lit up his face.
As if he knew what Eomer was thinking, Elladan lifted one perfect eyebrow. Eomer swallowed; what if the Elves really could read his thoughts? Oh Béma, he thought.
‘I had forgotten how stupid were the Orcs this side of the Mountains,’ came a second voice then and Eomer turned quickly. It was Elladan’s brother, his twin, he corrected himself. So he had not left after all. Behind him, from the mouth of the cave came a low and welcoming nicker; Firefly. And behind Eomer’s own stallion was Flaurun. Elladan’s brother came into the cave and threw his own cloak down. Something heavy rolled out over the sandy ground and Eomer could not see what it was in the dimness of the cave. But it stank.
Flaurun put his muzzle into the Elf’s arm as he stood calmly, silently looking down and to the side so that Flaurun stepped a little closer again and was now leaning against the Elf as if he were the most trusted friend. And then Firefly stepped closer too and was snuffling at the Elf’s hand.
The Elf looked across to where Elladan had taken out a small flask and was holding it carefully against Theodred’ lips. His brother said a word in his own tongue. Elladan looked up briefly and then at the heavy object that had come to rest against Elladan’s own saddle where he had taken it off his horse and propped it up against the wall. He made a face and retorted irritably and his brother shrugged, leaned down and lifted the thing off the ground, swung it from its…hair.
It was the head of an Orc.
‘Forgive my brother,’ said Elladan but he said no more but busied himself with Theodred. Eomer did not know what to do or say but stared at the grisly trophy with a sort of sick horror.
Elladan turned and glanced at Eomer, perhaps critically, and said, ‘You might build a fire perhaps. I will need boiling water soon to clean these bandages.'
So Eomer found himself dismissed and outside in the cold. He foraged for dry kindling and sticks, and filled his water canteen from the stream. He took a moment to look about. Frost already lay over the twigs and branches and the breath smoked from his mouth. The sky was heavy and threatening snow. He trudged back to the cave.
When he returned, it was already cosy; a fire crackled though there was no smoke and he wondered how they had managed that. A pot steamed over the fire and the air was filled with a fragrance he did not know, that refreshed and revived him, made him feel a weight of worry lift from his shoulders. He was safe. He was with two Elves and they had not attacked or bewitched him; quite the contrary. They had rescued Theodred and him, they had looked after Theodred, they were in a cave and there was food. The smell of roasting meat made his mouth water and he came in, dropped the kindling and looked wryly at both his companions who turned their beautiful, eldritch, identical faces towards him dispassionately. One had a piece of wood and was whittling. The other simply sat in still and silent grace. He could not tell which was Elladan and which was not. The Orc's head had gone. He hoped it was not what was roasting.
‘Kindling and water,’ he said. A little grumpily because he had wasted his time. And felt they had merely kept him busy. And sent him out of the cave….
Suddenly he looked over at Theodred. He was still but his chest rose and fell naturally and his breathing was deep and regular.
‘He sleeps.’ The one who was whittling, shaved a long piece from the wood and threw it into the fire.
The other smiled and quirked an eyebrow. ‘We have bewitched him of course,’ he said with a hint of mischief. ‘And now he sleeps forever until he is awoken by the kiss of his true love.’
Eomer felt his skin heat.
The Elf laughed once and said something in their fluid tongue and the one whittling, glanced at Eomer and then said humourlessly, ‘My brother teases both of us. Forgive his bad manners.’
Eomer inclined his head as graciously as he could, but feeling a fool. Had the Elves known? It was true that the Witch in the Golden Wood was reputed to, but could all Elves read the thoughts of Men? He realised his mouth was slightly open and shut it quickly.
The one whittling gave him a cool look and Eomer thought he was beautiful. Bewitching. Impassive. He glanced at the other who was sitting opposite. The firelight cast a warmth to this Elf’s face. Just as beautiful. He was very still, his hands draped over his knees but his gaze lingered upon Eomer. The Elf whittling spoke again in his fluid tongue and the other glanced first at his brother and then at Eomer, a slight smile on his lips.
This one was Elladan, Eomer guessed. For the Elf whittling was doing so with an intensity that was more in keeping with the fiercer, colder brother whose name he did not know.
Elladan spoke and the other replied but there was a slight sharpness in his tone and Elladan laughed. The look he gave Eomer now was openly speculative.
Elladan flashed a smile at Eomer. ’This is my brother, Elrohir. He is the ugly, miserable one.’
Elrohir said something back and slid a quick, unsettling gaze towards Eomer. Then he bent his head and went back to his task. A horse’s head emerged from the wood, its tiny ears pricked and nostrils flared. Artful work.
Elladan held out a silver flask. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Drink this. Sip it though.’
Eomer stood uncomfortably, feeling that he had not been invited to sit and so could not. He felt young, foolish, unsure of himself. But Elladan still held up the flask towards him and he took that as a reason to inch away from Elrohir, for he did not feel safe with Elrohir, like he might explode into violence at any moment. Elladan gave him the silver flask and Eomer carefully avoided touching his hand as he took it. He looked at the flask hesitantly. It was beautifully made, of course. An elegant shape with scrolled and delicate patterns etched upon it.
Elrohir said something and Elladan laughed, his eyes were quicksilver and full of light and Eomer found himself staring. ‘My brother says that you think you will be bound here forever if you eat or drink anything we give you.’
Eomer flicked a guilty look at Elrohir but the Elf was looking down at the wood and carving elegantly, a long sliver shaved from the pale wood like an apple peel. When Eomer looked up again, Elladan was closer and a smile played about his lips. He was amused, entertained and knowing. Eomer looked again at the silver flask and because he almost no longer cared and because perhaps little bit of him wanted to be bewitched, he put the flask to his lips, closed his eyes and tipped his head back.
A taste of apples in Spring, of fresh cut grass, of the high open steppe with the sky bright and blue above him, the long grass whispering against his legs.
His eyes snapped open and he looked about himself startled. Everything seemed sharper, clearer, more intense. He felt as if he could run and jump and climb great heights, spread his arms and leap into space…He laughed giddily and handed the flask back, careless where he had been careful so his fingers brushed the Elf’s, stayed there, resting against Elladan’s hand.
Elladan rose to his feet, pushing the stopper back into the flask. He flipped open the saddle bag and dropped the flask into it. Then he returned to the fire but he did not sit this time, but stood next to Eomer. Taller than Eomer, and his grey eyes reflected the firelight so for a moment he looked predatory, wild.
There was a long suffering sigh and Elrohir pushed himself to his feet, disapproval pulled at the corner of his mouth. ‘I will scout,’ he said heavily and disappeared into the darkness so that Eomer was left staring after him, his mouth open again. Elladan watched for a moment and then crouched down and reached for the whittling. He stayed crouched by the fire for a moment and cut a chunk from the smooth wood and changed its shape completely so the strong back of the little horse emerged now, and its quarters. Then he carefully laid it to one side and stood up again. He was closer to Eomer now.
Eomer stared into the fire, self consciously and tried not to shift his feet and move a step away from the Elf. He wondered why Elladan did not sit back down, wondered if he should now that Elrohir had gone. Elladan stood too close for it to be entirely comfortable and the hairs on Eomer’s arm nearest Elladan stood on end but he did not know if it was from fear or excitement. Elladan threw a stick on the fire and turned to face Eomer. His eyes were silver-grey, thought Eomer, and they were fixed upon him with unmistakable intent.
The Elf leaned towards Eomer and his breath drifted over Eomer’s cheek.
He licked his lips and Elladan watched his tongue touch his lips. The Elf’s eyes were steady upon his.
Steady. Looking into him. Stroking over his skin.
His chest felt tight and there was a nervous flutter in his belly. Excitement.
Lust.
Eomer felt himself stiffen, and desire surge through his veins and blood. The Elf was tall and straight, his hair sleek and thick, his face smooth and utterly beautiful, wide shouldered, lean-hipped. Masculine. Like a stallion was beautiful.
When Elladan tilted his head slightly, his long hair slid over one shoulder and Eomer marvelled at the texture, the smooth heaviness, the thickness like silk. He wanted run his hand through it, like silk threads through his fingers but he dared not. And then Elladan lifted one elegant hand that Eomer knew was stronger than any Man’s, and caressed Eomer’s cheek. Eomer almost leapt away but he forced himself to stay and then Elladan turned his hand over and rubbed his knuckles against Eomer’s beard, smiling.
‘I have always liked the furriness of a Man’s face,’ he said. Eomer was frozen to the spot- so he had mistaken Elladan’s intention, he thought. He was merely intrigued. Relief mixed with disappointment.
‘I have always liked the way it feels against my skin,’ Elladan said but this time it was more intimate, and with unmistakable intent. And then he leaned down towards Eomer and pressed his own mouth onto Eomer’s.
Eomer’s lips tingled with excitement, and felt his own mouth open under the Elf’s teasing pressure. The Elf followed and gently pressed him against the wall of the cave, leaning his own weight against Eomer so he thought this must how it felt to be a woman; but he had never wanted a woman like this, not like he wanted Elladan, now.
Eomer’s hands went around Elladan’s neck and pulled him closer, he forced his tongue into Elladan’s mouth and pushed against the Elf’s, strained to push in deeper and deeper and felt his cock fill and surge and his balls churning. His hands clasped Elladan’s buttocks and Eomer felt the Elf’s cock strain against his breeches, rub against his own. Elladan murmured something in his own tongue and the words sounded soft, mellifluous in Eomer’s ears and he pulled the Elf closer, shoved his hands between the belt and waistband of his breeches and felt warm skin.
The palm of his hand tingled with sensation and he delved, Elladan’s breath hot against his own ear, he licked the Elf’s throat, but Elladan seized the tip of Eomer’s ear lightly between his teeth and Eomer felt a jolt of lust spike from his ear through his belly to his balls and his cock thrust instinctively and he pressed hard against Elladan’s thigh.
He did not, could not stop to think what he was doing; how forbidden this was, how wrong. How terrifying. All he could think was that his skin was tingling, his cock throbbing and he wanted this, oh Béma, how he wanted this. He tugged the buckle of his belt open with one hand and toed one boot off at the same time. Elladan dragged the belt from his waist before Eomer had even pulled the tongue through the buckle and threw it over his shoulder where it curled like a discarded snakeskin, he pulled Eomer’s shirt over his head and cast it on the ground. Eomer kicked his other boot off and stood in only his breeches, breathing hard, his cock straining against the leather.
Elladan smiled and pressed the palm of his hand against Eomer’s chest, bent his fingers so the curled hair of Eomer’s chest was pulled tight, little spikes of pleasure-pain pricked his chest and he let his head tip back, eyes half closed when Elladan moved one hand down over his flat belly and pushed his breeches down over his hips and thighs and let them fall. Eomer’s cock thrust forwards and Elladan caught it in his warm hand.
And paused. He stood for a moment looking down, the firelight reflecting warmly on his beautiful face, casting the shadow of his eyelashes onto his cheek. He sighed and Eomer was devastated: was Elladan not going to continue? Was he regretting already how far they had gone?
Eomer seized the Elf’s hand and clasped it to his chest, and Elladan looked up and met his gaze with eyes gone silver-mithril-grey. ‘Do not stop,’ Eomer pleaded. ‘Do not regret this.’
Elladan paused. ‘Is this what you truly desire? ‘
‘Béma, yes,’ Eomer breathed. ‘Yes. I desire you. I want you.’
Slowly Elladan stepped back, shrugging his own tunic from his shoulders and swiftly tugged his shirt over his head and stood looking at Eomer appreciatively as Eomer looked at him.
The Elf’s chest was smooth and pale, his hair like the threads of silk that his mother had used to weave into the smooth fabric. It fell straight down his back. Ink-black. He was so beautiful. Like a stag. And Eomer wanted him like he had never wanted any one, anything before. He took a step forwards and reached his hand to the Elf’s smooth chest, traced a finger over his nipple, dark and erect. And then Elladan took a step towards him and their mouths met. Their teeth clashed clumsily at first and then…then Eomer felt his blood heat and a wave of throbbing lust surged through him and left him weak kneed and melting. He slipped his hands between the Elf’s waistband and his skin and slid his breeches from his lean hips. A warm scent enveloped him, musk and salt and something else… clean, like the water of a forest stream. He breathed in deeply and heard a soft laugh.
When he looked up, Elladan’s eyes were amused but soft too and he smiled back.
‘Have you done this before?’
Eomer ducked his head and looked away but he felt a warm hand palm his cheek and gently guide his eyes back to the Elf’s face and this time it was kind. “I will show you,’ Elladan said, ‘so that you can love your own beloved well.’ And he slid an oblique look in Theodred’s direction so that Eomer gasped. Ellladan smiled again. ‘I can see how you love him. Is he not your beloved?’
Eomer’s mouth was dry and he could not speak.
‘Forgive me,’ Elladan clasped his hand then and looked truly penitent. ‘Did you not know how he looks at you when you are near? Do you not know how his Song soars when you are with him?’
Eomer glanced across to where Theodred lay, eyes closed and pale.
‘It is in his heart,’ Elladan placed his hand over Eomer’s own heart and caught Eomer’s gaze, held it so his heart pounded. ‘But for the horse lords I have heard it is forbidden for a man to lie with a man. So I will teach you and you can teach him so that you can be complete.’
He pulled Eomer down with him onto the sable cloak and Eomer’s skin thrilled to the softness of the fur, to the smoothness of the man who touched him and trailed his fingers down his belly and reached for his cock, circling it with skilful fingers, flicked the end so it thrummed with desire. Eomer could not speak but simply gave himself over to the clever fingers and tongue until every sense was exploding and his nervous, excited lust was a liquid pooling in his belly. He let his head fall back against the soft warmth of fur, felt its luxurious sensuousness against his skin and looked down at Elladan’s dark head as it rested against his own belly. Then a long lick left a trail of delight from his belly to his cock and he felt his hips shift upwards and then suddenly he was flipped onto his front and strong arm around his waist pulled him back against Elladan and he felt the strength and girth of the Elf’s own cock pressing against him.
Suddenly fear gripped him as strongly as the Elf and he wriggled. Instantly Elladan let him go and sat back on his heels, hands spread appeasingly before him.
‘Tell me what you want?’ Elladan invited. Then when he saw Eomer had relaxed, he scooted forwards and smiled, let his head tilt slightly as he regarded the Man kindly. ‘You said you have not done this before. I will be very gentle.’
Eomer felt himself blush and shook his head. He looked down and shoved his fingers through the rich fur, embarrassed. There was a moment of silence and then he felt a hand brush his cheek lightly.
‘Forgive me. I was too eager.’
He glanced up to see that Elladan’s grey eyes were upon him, a rueful smile on his full lips. Eomer wanted to kiss him.
‘Perhaps we should just do…this.’
A firm grasp on his cock brought him sitting upright and thrusting into Elladan’s hand and crying out. Elladan smiled and moved his hand faster and in no time, Eomer felt that churning in his balls and a surge started deep within him. His mouth opened and he clutched at the hand that held him and thrust helplessly. A spurt of hot liquid shot out over Elladan’s hand and Eomer slowly opened his eyes to see the Elf leaning over him tenderly. He wiped his hand on the sand of the floor of the cave and his eyes were heavy lidded and suddenly the kindly Elf had gone and the grey eyes glittered dangerously.
‘Like for like.’ He breathed over Eomer’s neck and bent and nuzzled at the collarbone. He seized Eomer’s hand and bent the fingers around his own cock. Eomer had never so much as touched another and was surprised at the silken skin that moved so easily, that the Elf’s manhood…elfhood, he wondered, was heavier, and the dense curls at his groin were as black as the hair on his head though there was only a light down over the rest of him where Eomer was thickly furred. His own flesh felt heavier, denser, more corporeal somehow. He stared and then Elladan covered his hand with his own and started moving it.
The Elf came as quickly as Eomer had himself and it looked, smelt the same. Eomer opened his hand and stared at the sticky mess on the palm of his hand. Then he too wiped it on the sand and then Elladan lobbed him a water bottle. He washed his hands, feeling it was somehow insulting, as though he had been repelled by it… when he was not.
‘Did that help?’ asked Elladan, but Eomer saw that the Elf’s cock still bobbed erect and lustful. As was his own.
‘Not completely,’ he said bravely.
Elladan smiled slowly. ‘Then perhaps this will,’ he said and gently pushed Eomer back down against the fur, pushed his legs apart and delved between them.
0o0o
It was some time later that Elrohir reappeared. Eomer had been dozing lightly, in sweet satiation of all his unfulfilled lust and secret desire when he heard the light steps approach. But when Eomer twitched and struggled quickly to extricate himself, Elladan tightened his hold upon the Man and held him still, nuzzled his hair and kissed him quickly, affectionately.
Elrohir dropped a couple of trout already gutted and scaled upon the stones circling the fire and threw a quick look at his brother where he sprawled beneath his fur cloak, unconcerned with his arm curled around Eomer’s neck. Elrohir quirked an eyebrow but he said nothing. Picking through the kindling, he selected a couple of slender sticks and skewered the fish, setting them to roast over the fire. He shoved something else between the stones and then went to look at Theodred.
Eomer, hot and red-faced with embarrassment, seized the opportunity to grab his breeches and pulled them on. Quickly he tugged his shirt over his head and got his head stuck in an armhole, struggling clumsily.
Elladan laughed softly and Elrohir glanced back over his shoulder, ignoring Eomer as if he were not even there. He said something in his own tongue and Elladan said, ‘No. He has not awoken or moved but I think he sleeps now. Rests.’
Elrohir stood looking down at his brother for a moment, his face impassive and smooth but his eyes were not; his eyes were full of fire, thought Eomer anxiously. But Elladan still lay upon his sable cloak that was draped loosely over his hips. He bent his arm and let his head rest upon the crook of his elbow and looked up at his brother unconcerned. In the firelight, his skin gleamed and his chest smooth, flat belly, finely muscled. His long black hair spread under him. Eomer found himself hard again and wanting but Elrohir’s presence unnerved him and where he had filled with pleasurable desire at the sight of Elladan, he found himself wilting under Elrohir’s intense gaze.
Elrohir sat opposite his brother and carefully turned the roasting trout.
‘There is an Eored some distance from here,’ he said casually, pushing at the skin of the fish with his finger, testing if it was cooked. ‘They are ten leagues away more or less.’ He watched as Eomer scrambled around for his boots and belt. ‘They will not be anywhere near here for some hours yet,’ he said.
‘But they may not even come this way,’ Eomer said, losing all fear for the Elf in his anxiety to meet the Eored and get help for his cousin.
‘They will.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
Elrohir simply looked at him. Flames reflected in his eyes and suddenly all the warnings of Eomer’s folk clamoured at once. Soul-Eater, Dead-Walkers, sorcerers and warlocks. These Elves had bewitched him. He had drunk their strange and potent wine, he had eaten their bread and loved their flesh…Eomer fought the panic that struggled out of him, forced it down for Elladan was looking at him fondly he was sure and though Elrohir was cold and fierce, even he looked a little amused.
‘I just am,’ he said. And then as if he relented, he added, ‘I left tokens for them to find to bring them this way.’
Eomer shuddered at the thought of what those tokens might be.
And then it seemed that Elrohir reached into the very flames and drew something out from between the stones. He juggled it between his hands and Eomer almost laughed at how ordinary he seemed then. It was some root that he had baked between the hot stones and they ate that with the fish. There was some delicious flavour that Eomer did not recognise and he ate hungrily and could have eaten more. Elrohir had set a tin cup at the edge of the fire and it was filled with water. It was hot now and he drew a pouch from his tunic and opened it. From it he took some dried leaves and crumbled them into the hot water.
‘Sleep now,’ Elrohir said to him and rose to his feet once more, taking the tin cup with him. ‘They will find you. You have my word.’ He went over to Theodred and knelt beside him, raised his head slightly and held the cup to Theodred’s lips. There was that strange fragrance again, apples in Spring, fresh cut grass, the high open steppe with the sky bright and blue above him, the long grass whispering against his legs.
He found himself looking at Elladan with his eyes wide open and his senses, perceptions so very clear.
‘You will leave while I sleep,’ he said and Elladan looked into the middle distance and did not speak. He looked down and Eomer knew that it was true. He grasped at Elladan’s hand, gazing into those silver-grey eyes that would not meet his. ‘Give me something to remember you by,’ he said softly. ‘I know we will not meet again and I will think in my dotage, that this was merely some passing dream.’
Elladan smiled and sighed. ‘It saddens me to think of you with old flesh and creaking bones,’ he said. He took from his cloak a brooch, a leaf, mithril.
‘Not idly do the leaves of Lorien fall,’ he said smiling. His grey eyes glazed and he stared into the fire unseeing. ‘One day you will have need of me. I will come. We will ride into a great battle, side by side you and I.’
He turned his head and blinked once. His beautiful face was eldritch and strange. Utterly different. Eomer’s body remembered the heaviness of that body upon him, the skilful hands, the full lips and tongue that was demanding, urgent.
‘I will not forget you,’ he said. ‘Ever.’
When the sun rose, Eomer was deep in sleep and it was only the sound of horses and men’s voices that roused him. It was Erkenbrand, for it was his Eored that Elrohir had spied. But the Elves had gone and Theodred and he slept alone in the cave. Of the Sons of Thunder there was no sign and Eomer would have wondered if it was but a dream had it not been for the mithril brooch pinned to his cloak.
It was many many years later that Eomer did indeed have need of the Sons of Thunder, and they rode to the very gates of the Morannon and there threw down the Dark Lord and freed all Middle Earth from his tyranny. It was there in the shadowed lands that Eomer found again the freedom to love as he wanted, as he truly wished, and the memory of those days sustained him through his long life and to the very end he wore a silver brooch in the style of a leaf and bequeathed it to none of his many children but it was buried with him, pinned over his heart.
The End