Title: Náhwær

Genre: Drama

Rating: T

Characters: Aragorn, Éomer/Lothíriel

Disclaimer: The Lord of The Rings is the property of J. R. R. Tolkien and his estate. This is a work of fanfiction, written for the enjoyment of myself and others. No finanfical profit is made by writing this.

Summary: Warrior, Marshal and King, Éomer of Rohan is all the things he should not love. But how does one heal the heart when it has been burned? Heavy, heavy is the burden of an unrequited love.

Author'sNote: I don't even know.

I don't know how and why this even exists, given that I firmly believe Aragorn is quite content in loving Arwen and has no romantic feelings whatsoever towards any male or Éomer for that matter. I can't even tell if it is a good idea to publish this here – maybe I'll take this down if I start to regret putting this here. I suppose this is just a really weird experiment and a what if scenario. Well, things have been kinda weird lately for me and I guess this is just outlet for it and the stressful things I've had to deal with...

This piece follows the film as far as the canon goes, though there's some things inspired by book canon. I believe there will at most be one or two more chapters; I originally intended to write just one large chapter but around 7000 words I started to feel that a split was needed.

Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy!


But of all pains, the greatest pain
It is to love, but love in vain.

– Abraham Cowley


The windy plains of the Riddermark is where he first sees the Lion.

He comes riding from west, tall and proud and glorious like the rising sun. For a split second, Strider thinks this is how the dawn would look like, if it were to take the form of man. Yet the rider is stern, even grim of look. The flame of his anger burns him, twists his face, robs his features of their fairness.

But the important thing is that he burns. His spirit is aflame, wild and free and momentarily it catches Strider's breath.

He has never seen anyone before who lives each moment with such passion. And in the deepest shadows of his heart, he wonders how it would be like, to share that flame, and live in the light of it. The Lion's voice, sharp and deep strong, commands his attention, and he wonders if the others see inside him now – know what he is thinking, feeling. Surely, it must be obvious on his face?

Truly, he has forgotten how the Rohirrim are – how they are so alive.

Éomer, son of Éomund, the Third Marshal of the Riddermark. A moment of foresight catches Strider unawares as the name of the Lion is spoken, and It seems to ring with tones of fate. He'd expect nothing less from a man so fierce.

And though Éomer the Marshal rides to north, to exile and expecting a life of banishment, Strider knows they will meet again.


It is sunrise when Strider's premonition comes to pass.

Up on a hill, above Helm's Deep, side by side with Gandalf the White there is a tall rider. Sun bathes him in gold as he regards the devastation of war in the deep. One foolish moment, he thinks of how the Marshal must be here because of him. But he quickly understands the error of his thought. Éomer has come, but not for him. Loyal and faithful, he has ridden from exile, defying his doom just to save his king and uncle.

Éomer has come, and with him, the strength of the Mark rides.

Then, at his order, the Rohirrim ride and flood the deep. Strider has seen many a sight of surpassing beauty, things that mortal men cannot imagine, but the Third Marshal charging is a vision of wild magnificence. As he rides down to fight for his King, Éomer of Rohan is like the embodiment of all the virtues of Men.

He rides into the battle, and it is confirmed what Strider suspected before. A great warrior he is, this Marshal, and the uruk-hai falls down around him like straw. One would not expect such speed from a man so large and heavily armoured, yet he pushes forward and proves expectations wrong... like the fire of his spirit also lend him a power of arms such that one rarely sees.

They meet at the battle, and the dark eyes pass Strider's only briefly, and then he gathers his men again and charges. On that moment when they are faced in the chaos of the combat, Strider stares hard at the Lion, and he thinks: See me.

But he never does.


Night falls in the fortress of Hornburg. It is the evening of a very long day, but Aragorn is not quite ready to go and seek rest. Instead, he climbs up to the battlements, where he is already standing.

Though the work to clear the deep of the bodies of the fallen has already begun, the ruin and death is still there: corpses of men and uruk-hai, the abandoned war machines, great pieces of rock from the wall... and yet the skies are clear and the moon shines ever silver, and no mangling touch of battles can ever reach the high beauty of night sky.

The Lion is there, watching not the deep but staring at the stars in melancholy. He is not armoured now, but instead wears plain clothes of a man who pays little attention to his appearance. Even without his fighting gear, he is broad of shoulder and tall of stature; though he stands still and quiet, his presence is not silent. He is one of those people who rule their surroundings just by being there. And Strider is drawn, like a moth to a flame.

If I could be just as alive...

He hears the ranger approaching and turns to look at him, nodding his head as a greeting.

"Evening, my lord. I did not think I would see you up and about at this hour, not after the savage fight you endured", says the Marshal, and Strider smiles wearily.

"My body longs for rest, but my thoughts will not allow it, not quite yet", he answers softly. "And please, call not me your lord. After all, I believe I owe my life to your arrival."

His words bring out a low chuckle that rumbles deep in the Lion's chest.

"If anyone is deserving of gratitude, it is Gandalf. He is the one who sought us and brought us here", he says, resting his large warrior's hands on the railing of the battlement.

"But you were exiled and had no obligation to return", Aragorn notes; the look on the Marshal's face becomes grave.

"Quite the contrary. I have every obligation", he says quietly and turns his eyes away, and suddenly there is something very sad about his face. Quietly, he murmurs, "If only I had arrived sooner..."

"You came as fast as you could", says the ranger gently.

"Aye", sighs Éomer son of Éomund. He looks at Aragorn, "I thank you for being here with my uncle, and fighting with him. It is good to see him surrounded by such great men once again."

Strider smiles.

"It was an honour as ever. I would not hesitate to give my life in the name of the House of Eorl", he says.

"But let us hope you need not do that. I would rather you live, Aragorn", comments the Lion. A tired little smile comes to his face and he touches the ranger's arm. "Let us go inside. I believe we have seen enough of death and silence today."

Aragorn nods and they turn, making their way inside. Perhaps there is bit of peace there, if just for tonight.

I will follow you.


There is irony to it, Strider supposes as he considers the White Lady. That she should see him, while her brother does not. Oh, it is not lost to him, those looks that she will give when she believes he does not see. And he finds he does not know how to answer.

It is not that she is not fair. No, she's quite likely one of the fairest maidens among the daughters of Men. She is his sister, after all. She has the unbending spirit as well, the tall stature, and the grace. But while she is just as fierce as her brother the Marshal, her fire is of not the kind that Éomer has.

Hers is a cold fire, while his burns like the sun.

And Strider has been burned, beyond all soothing that cold could bring.


The night of celebration is one of the lighter nights of Strider's life... but it is also one the worse ones.

He has seen some Rohirric feasting before, and he has not forgotten the light abandon of it, the kind that even makes him forget about his cares. For a night, he can let go. In the rich Rohirric ale, in the music of this fell people, in the singing of the Halflings...

On the morrow, he knows the shadows of the world will return, and once again he will have to continue the endless fight.

But not tonight.

Standing by the King, the Third Marshal is a vision. Though he dresses plainly, in the manner of all Rohirric riders, he stands out – he always does. His tall and broad figure commands his surroundings, and he looks about, and sees everything, except for Strider. In the light of fire, his hair shines golden, almost making it look like he glows. Though he never quite smiles, there is serenity about him tonight. Strider keeps glancing at him, for he feels as though each glance might be the last. And never before has he so desperately wanted to touch him than he does now, if only to see whether one can feel the fire of his spirit burning on his skin too.

Knowing it will just get harder if he stays close to the Marshal, Strider turns away and seeks the company of those who do not have quite the same effect on him. For a while, he can even forget about his thoughts and the Lion.

For a while, he can laugh and smile, especially when Éomer conducts a drinking game between Legolas and Gimli. Then Théoden approaches him and engages him in a conversation about the time he spent as Thorongil and served under Thengel King. When they finish, Strider wishes for some fresh air, and he ventures out. The sounds of the feast follow him as he steps into the cool night. He lifts up his face, enjoys the breeze, and breathes.

Oh, to be free, like the wind...

It is moments later that he becomes aware that he is not alone, and he turns. At one shadowy corner, he sees the shapes of a man and a woman, locked in an embrace as they kiss.

Even if the man were not so imposingly tall, Strider would know it was him, for he would recognise Éomer of Rohan among a thousand faceless men.

He knows he has been burned. But never before this moment has he understood what it truly means. The realisation of it is hard and cold and he can just barely bear the knowledge of it. The worst part is, he is in so much pain, yet the Marshal notices not. Lost in his kiss and his passion, he knows nothing of the agony that it is causing.

Strider hardens himself, turns, and returns inside. Mithrandir gives him a look but he cannot tell if the wizard knows... it wouldn't surprise him, though.

Some time later, Éomer comes back to the hall. Strider sees, for the Lion's very presence draws him in. And he knows what is that flush on the tall man's face, what it means.

He can never be mine.


There are couple precious days before the beast of war moves forward. Couple days of light on those plains of green and gold, and in the halls of Théoden King.

They meet in the training grounds, and for the first time, try each other's measure. Strider has looked forward to this, and he is pleased when it is Éomer himself who asks for it. Though the younger man is ever friendly, Strider is always careful, for he fears he might reveal himself if he is not.

But whatever the Lion asks for, that he will give.

Needless to say, Strider is the more experienced one, but even he cannot compete with the Marshal's strength. He is skilled sword-fighter, Strider can see, but more used to fighting in the saddle. There is a concentrated look on the face of the Marshal, and he looks so intense, as if this fight was something more than just friends sparring. Strider must concentrate hard as well, to keep up with his partner and not lose himself in staring at that focused face... and the way droplets of sweat slowly roll down his forehead...

That almost summons imaginations Strider has only ever allowed himself on darkest hours of night, and it nearly ends the combat with his defeat. He can just barely escape the blow of the Lion's practice sword, and the fight continues.

In the end, it is his superior experience and his agility that win the contest: he disarms the Marshal. But unlike some men who would feel their prides wounded and march away in anger, Éomer just grins and congratulates Strider for his win.

It is the first time he sees such an expression on the face of the Marshal, and he knows he will not forget it.


On that night, they share drinking horns and talk away into night. They speak of many things, and Strider asks questions about the Lion's life and family. In quiet tones, Éomer speaks of his parents, the pain their deaths caused, the struggles of war, and the darkening of years. He talks of Éowyn too; momentarily, Strider believes he even sees a hopeful look on the Marshal's face, and understands the thought behind it. Éomer is hoping she might catch Strider's eye, and the two of them be wedded.

For a little while, Strider even considers it. Wedding her, after all, would make him a brother to the Marshal... and be forever united with him by family. And yet... that idea makes him feel like a traitor when he remembers the dark hair and the grey Elven eyes.

But this golden rider hold such power over him that he would even betray her, and it scares him. Yet he cannot help his thoughts and his desire.

After the Lion has gone, Strider stays awake for many hours, for his imagination is running wild.

Once, he rode and served under Thengel and fought for the Mark. With Théodred gone, it is clear how the future will go. When Théoden sleeps under the mound of Simbelmynë, it is Éomer who will sit the throne in Meduseld. He will be the King, and the King must always have his guard...

Yes. Thorongil could return and ride with the king once again, and never leave the plains of the Mark. And once that thought pierces his mind, he can see it: an entire life here in Rohan, basking in the light of that fire that burns inside Éomer. He could be the King's sword and shield.

I could watch over you...

But he is Isildur's Heir, and he is already starting to understand that his fate will not leave him on these sunny plains that he has grown to love. His is not the hand to defend and fight for King Éomer, and it breaks his heart.

On the morrow, a call for aid comes from Gondor.


"What will you do, once the war is over?" asks Éomer in the camp of Dunharrow. They are sitting by a camp fire, taking these last moments of rest and calm before the plunge down to the unknown.

"You believe there is a future for the Men beyond this war?" Strider asks back.

"Aye. I would like to think so", answers the Lion, scratching his short dark beard absent-mindedly. It seems to the older man that a small smile passes on that solemn face; each smile from this man is a treasure. Éomer continues, "For the first time in years, I feel like there is hope. I have watched the shadow grow darker for such a long time, but now it seems like it is dissolving. I cannot believe these events of late could only mean the victory of the shadow. You, my friend, along with the White Wizard, have brought hope to these lands."

Strider turns sharply to look at the Lion, and for one insane moment he thinks he might see his thoughts reflected in the dark eyes of the Marshal. But it is only friendship that he sees there.

He smiles, nevertheless.

"Do not underestimate your own value, Éomer of Rohan. That we could have such victory over Isengard is in no small part because of your vigilant watch and your return from the exile", he says, and it brings a brief smile on the Marshal's face.

"I am honoured to hear you think so highly of me, Aragorn", he says quietly.

Oh, if you only knew...

"Of course I do, my friend", says Strider, and then continues, "but to answer your question... I must say, I have not dared to dream of a future beyond the war and battles. And my heart tells me that if we should be so triumphant, I must go and fulfil the fate of my line."

But in the depth of his soul, he understands and fears what it would mean, and where that road would take him... looking at those dark eyes that always move his very core, he does not want to take that path.

Let me stay.

Éomer does not know of that painful thought, but he is aware of Strider's ancestry. He says, "And the Children of Men would be all the happier if such a thing would come to pass. The realms of west have been without King long enough."

"There is a king", says Strider quietly, "and he has his heir. I too would be honoured to follow either of them."

The Lion blinks and looks abashed. He lets out a small, embarrassed chuckle.

"They are but horselords, not to be compared with a king of the blood of old Númenor", he points out.

"Yet their hearts are just as noble and valiant. Believe in yourself, Éomer, like I believe in you", Strider says. The golden-haired man looks away, as if he didn't quite know how to take the ranger's words. But then he smiles again.

"You are starting to sound like my uncle, Aragorn", he says. The way it sounds, the syllables of his name rolling on the Lion's tongue, briefly stuns him. He feels like he cannot breathe, and each beat of his heart is an agony. Perhaps there is something strange about his expression too, for the Lion frowns, "Is all well?"

"Of course. Forgive me", answers Strider, and he gets up quickly, feeling clumsier than ever since the green days of his boyhood. But all is not well, and it gets worse each moment he has to hold back himself. Yet if he would just let go, there is no telling how it should turn out. And he fears he might die if he should see the warmth in the dark eyes turn into loathing.

If I cannot have your love, then at least allow me your friendship.

Later that night, their ways are parted. For the ragged Ranger has received the sword of a king, and Strider has to be put aside; he must fulfil the promise of his birth. Yet it is a choice that mingles the bitter and the sweet, as he knows what it will mean. He will have to leave the wide plains of Rohan, the sun and the ever-present wind... and the crown of the king will only take him further away from the golden son of Éomund.

He approaches Aragorn when the would-be king prepares his horse for a ride into the darkness. Strangely, seeing him has two urges fighting in the older man: one tells him to stay and ride beside Théoden King and his heir, but the other finds strength and hope in the Marshal.

"Have you come to tell me that I will get myself killed?" asks Aragorn, which makes the Lion smile.

"Not at all. I have faith in you, my friend", Éomer answers. "Though I must say, it is truly abominable behaviour to try and sneak away like this without a farewell."

"My apologies. I thought maybe you would attempt to prevent me from going", says Aragorn.

"You must follow your own path, like I follow mine. If this is where it leads you, then I wish you the best luck.. and hopefully, our roads will come to meet again", says the Rohir, his eyes serious as he rests a hand on Aragorn's shoulder.

Aye. I will find you again.

"Thank you, Éomer", says Aragorn softly, and moment of silence falls between them.

As he looks at the younger man then, he understands this could very well be the last time they meet in the lands of the living. Should he now turn and go, and keep his silence as he wanders into that strange shadowy path fate has prepared for him? If either of them should die, should it happen without the Lion knowing the truth?

That he would never know how much this ragged ranger cared?

That I should go, and perhaps part with you for ever, without even holding you close for one time?

The Marshal must see something in his face for his brow knits in curiosity.

"What is it, my friend?" he asks, and it is this endless moment of uncertainty that grants Aragorn the courage he has not had before now, and he seeks for his voice.

"Éomer, I must-" he begins, but then Éothain, Éomer's second in command, arrives.

"My lord Éomer, your uncle the King asks for your presence", Éothain says, robbing this one moment of honesty, and Aragorn doubts if it will ever come again.

"I fear I must go and see my uncle", says the Lion, and he does not seem to understand what has just been lost. He nods at Aragorn, and smiles, "Farewell, friend. I will see you in Mundburg."

He turns then and leaves, and for one last and painful instance, Aragorn watches him go.

"Westu Éomer hal."


The next time they meet is in the middle of the Battle of the Pelennor fields. Later, Aragorn will hear many stories of the ride of the Rohirrim, and he knows these events will pass into song and legend – but perhaps none so much than the deeds of Éomund's children.

He can imagine it with such vividness, and a part of him regrets not being there: the young king of Rohan, rousing his men against all hope, and laughing at the face of death. It must have been terrible and magnificent, like Oromë himself had come to battle.

Aragorn storms the fields with Legolas and Gimli by his side, and the army of the dead on his heels. The fury of combat takes him over and Andúril sings its lethal song as it cuts through orcish steel and bone. He rushes forward, and it is in the chaos of the fight that he comes across the Lion, bellowing orders for his men as he gathers the remaining riders. He stops only very briefly when he sees Aragorn, and he smiles – it is a crazed kind of smile, in the middle of all this blood and fire and death, but it sets the ranger's heart aflame. He very nearly leaps to meet the younger man, but the moment passes then and the riders of Rohan charge once more.

After the battle, stillness settles over the ruin of war, and only the moans and cries of the wounded break the silence. The day is won, but the cost is devastating, and too many are the brave men who will not return to the land of the horselords.

Quietly, the Lion wanders this scene of devastation, and Aragorn watches. He is covered in blood and grime, and he walks with his helmet in one hand and his sword in the other, as if he were still expecting the fight to continue. Somehow, he seems lost as he wanders there... and there is such grief on his face as he passes the bodies of the fallen and recognises a friend who will not ride home with him. Théoden lays there among them.

Hail, Éomer King!

It is all Aragorn can do from not approaching him, and doing his utmost to chase away the haunted look on the younger man's face. But that is not his place, and so he turns away.

But then a cry pierces the still air, and in a way it is a sound more horrifying than all the noise of battle and dying men. It is the sound of such complete anguish that it has Aragorn trembling... he turns and sees Éomer running, throwing away his helmet and sword. Quickly, the ranger understands the reason for it: the Lion falls on his knees beside the unmoving body of his sister. His cry becomes a howl of agony as he cradles Éowyn against his chest.

She does not wake up.

Only with great effort is Aragorn able to convince the young king let go of her, and she is carried back to the city and to the Houses of Healing. Her brother walks beside her, head bowed and shoulders slumping; a great man strangely diminished. And there by her side he stays, even as they lay her down for the healers to look after her, and the look of pain will not leave his face.

The only thing Aragorn knows is that he needs to see that expression gone.

Life to the dying, in the king's hand lying! if I cannot be Thorongil for you, then I will give him up for the life of your sister.

When Éowyn awakens and her brother sees the life returning to her, he lets out a muffled sob and buries his face in her shoulder. He speaks quietly in Rohirric, and Aragorn pulls back to give the two siblings this moment of relief.

He is about to go when a hand grabs at his arm. When he turns, the King of Rohan is standing there, and his face glistens with his relieved tears. He smiles and when he speaks, his voice is weak with his emotion.

"I cannot tell you how grateful I am, Aragorn. In saving the life of my sister you have given a gift so great that I do not know if I can ever repay you", he says quietly.

Aragorn answers the smile with one of his own.

"And you will never have to, for it is a gift I give gladly", he tells his friend. His smile widens, "I would tell you to go and rest, but I do not suppose you are going to leave your sister's side any time soon."

"Aye. I will not leave her now", says Éomer. "We will talk later, my friend."

We will... but not of the things I would so wish to tell you.


Isildur's Heir is never truly safe, not as long as the Dark Lord sits on his throne and seeks to end the line of Elendil. Thus Aragorn's road has often lead him to places of shadow and death, and sometimes he has escaped demise only by chance. He has given some thought to how he will die, but just assumed it would be in some distant land, far from the realms his forefathers ruled.

Certainly he would never have thought that death would come to him at the Black Gate of dark land of Sauron... or that it would be side by side with a man who is king among men. Armoured and tall, Lord of the Mark stands proud and unfearing, as if no darkness could make him lose his courage. With him there, Aragorn feels curiously calm.

Dying by your side is a fate I can accept.

But first, they must fight, and they charge. And the battle, the one to give one last hope when they have none themselves, is began. Aragorn feels no fury, no fear when he faces all the armies of Mordor; the horsetail helmet is always near, and the two kings push forward.

And if a miracle should happen and they should survive this day to see a victory of west, he knows this instance when they fight and bleed together and save each other's lives, is bound to make brothers of them. For fighting side by side sometimes forges bonds that endure longer than life itself.

We are brothers in arms. And I would gladly die for you.

At some point, he finds they are surrounded, and the mayhem around them swarms. As if they were of one thought, the Lion turns around, and they fight back against back... guarding each other for a little while more before they are overthrown. The form of the King of Rohan is solid and unrelenting, and over the noise of clashing steel, Aragorn can hear him singing.

"And now this rider, this Rohirric rider
Who wandered far away and soldiered far away
Sees leaves are falling and death is calling
And he will fade away in that far land!"

There would indeed be death, save for the courage and strength of a Halfling. For the darkness is ended and the One Ring undone: in wonder Aragorn watches the Dark Tower crumble down and the servants of the enemy flee in terror. All that they hoped for has come true.

But as the high peak of Mount Doom erupts, he understands what it means. Two more had to die for the sake of free men of Middle-earth.

Frodo.

Sam.

Tired to the bone, Aragorn falls down on his knees, and Andúril very nearly slips from his hand. He feels weak and a part of him just wishes to lay down there, and sleep until all of this has passed.

But then, as he feels such complete exhaustion, there is the weight of a heavy, armoured arm on his shoulders, and the Lion is there beside him. Éomer does not look at him, but rather watches the scene of ruin before them, and still the weight of his arm is all the comfort that Aragorn could hope to have. And he allows himself one moment of weakness and rests his head against the young king's shoulder, and despite all, he knows an inch of peace.


Light flickers through the trees.

It is a very early morning, but two days after the last battle before the gates of Mordor. Much has passed since then – too much, in a way. Aragorn finds himself restless and though he knows his body could use the sleep, he cannot grasp that calm to rest properly. So he wakes up before most of the camp at the fields of Cormallen does, and goes to seek peace from the forest.

The morning is beautiful and warm, as though the world is celebrating the fall of Sauron. Lost in his thoughts, Aragorn wanders and walks forward, though he is not sure where he is going and what he seeks. For now, he just enjoys the peace and quiet of the forest... these days, such thing is a rare occurrence.

But what troubled thoughts he may have disappear as soon as he sees him through the trees, bathing in the waters of Anduin.

With strong strokes, he swims – his movements are smooth and effortless as he crosses the waters with lazy relaxation. Briefly he disappears under the surface. Then he reappears again and wipes hair from his face; even in doing something so simple, he is a vision. He starts for the riverbank and rises from the water, and Aragorn's breath is caught by what he sees. Naked as the day he was born and dripping wet, the Lion of Rohan moves with the grace of a great cat uncommon for a man of his size. How should one watch such a sight and not wish to touch it – to possess it?

Perhaps Aragorn makes some noise or the young king senses someone is watching him, for suddenly his sharp eyes scan the forest and his body tenses, as if he were preparing for a battle. Thinking it better to make his presence known now, Aragorn steps forward.

"Have peace. It is just me", he alerts the younger man.

"Good morning, my friend. I was already wondering if some band of orcs was stalking me", says the Lion; he does not seem to think anything of the fact that he wears no clothing at the moment.

"Indeed. Is it wise for the King of Rohan to venture alone into the woods?" asks Aragorn and tries not to stare the magnificent sight that is the Lord of the Mark.

Éomer snorts and turns to the pile of clothes, which lay on the riverbank.

"In case you did not notice, you are just as alone as myself... and I am quite capable of guarding myself, friend. One is met with quite enough of fussy guards that every now and then solitude is a blessing", he says nonchalantly as he begins to dress

"You do not seem to understand how precious you are to the Rohirrim." And to me.

"I am just one man", says Éomer, an awkward note in his voice.

"You're the last scion of House of Eorl. You're not just one man, my friend – far from it, to be honest. Should you fall, I fear what would happen to Rohan then", Aragorn tells him and a shiver passes through him. It is stuff of nightmares, to imagine this young man dead.

One day he will be gone, for his is not the life of Númenorians. And though he is young still, Aragorn fears that day of parting may come sooner than any of them would wish.

A world where your fire burns not...

Éomer sighs, looks irritable.

"Perhaps I should take my horse and ride somewhere far where none of this can find me", he says quietly and stares down. He has stopped with the task of dressing and stands there only half-clad. "I do not think I will make a good king."

"It is for that very reason that I know you will do well. And should you ever need help, you need only call for me", says the older man ever so softly.

The Lion casts a look at Aragorn over his shoulder, and there is a brief smile on his face; that one look pierces the heart of Isildur's Heir.

Why must you look at me like that?

"You have such faith in me, friend. I wish I can live up to it", says Éomer.

"And I know you will."


There is celebration that night in the camp, and those that have survived these great battles gather together for a feast. In the pavilion of Isildur's Heir all the living members of the Fellowship of the Ring come to celebrate, along with Rohirric and Gondorian nobility. It is light and pleasant, and laughter rises and falls in abandon.

Aragorn too feels the joy: he is able to forget about all things that await him when he is to return to Minas Tirith and ascend the throne... and even that ever-present ache of an unrequited emotion.

They continue until before sunset, sharing stories of war and adventure. At some point, Éomer arrives to excuse himself, for he will go and see how his men are faring on this night. Very nearly, Aragorn asks him to stay, but he holds back the words, lets him go. The King of Rohan nods and ventures out.

The night is falling when the four Halflings go their way, to share their pains and victories together; it is not lost to Aragorn how each of them miss for their home far in the lands of Eriador. Mithrandir is content in the company of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, and Gimli suggests a tour through the camp. Legolas agrees readily and so does Aragorn, and the Three Hunters go to see how the host is faring on this night of celebration.

Eventually, they come to the Rohirric part of the camp, and it is quite possibly the noisiest and merriest part of all the encampment. Night air is full of sounds of laughing, talking and singing. There is music in the air, and tall blond riders are crowding everywhere.

They hear his laughter before they see him. He is with his own men, sitting by a camp fire, drinking ale and jesting. The sound of his laugh stirs Aragorn's heart; it is a deep, rich sound, and far too rare. When the three approach the King, he turns and smiles – Aragorn has never seen him looking so happy and carefree. The smile smooths his features and brings out a younger man, and he is fair to look upon. He is so alive, it makes him glow.

Why must you be like this? Why does everything about you call to me so?

"My lords! Come and join us, have some ale!" he invites the man, the elf, and the dwarf. "Though if you will, I must warn you. My men appear to be on the mood to make myself and each other drink ourselves silly!"

"That I find agreeable! Let us see how the King's men hold their ale!" bellows Gimli, and silently Aragorn is grateful for the dwarf for accepting this invitation that he wouldn't have dared himself.

The Lion makes room and against his better judgement Aragorn takes the place beside him: I should not be so close to you. But then he is given a drinking horn and he tastes the rich liquid, and decides he will not let sadness or despair take his heart tonight.

He loves every minute of it. The laughter, the singing, the light banter between the King and his riders. Sometimes, Aragorn takes a brief moment to look at the man sitting beside him; one moment, he even imagines what would happen if he should pull him into a kiss right here and now. But as much as he yearns, this feast has taken away the weight of it. No, tonight he cannot feel care or longing.

It is late that he places a hand on the King's shoulder and suggests perhaps it is time for rest. At that point his men have well and truly achieved their intention of drunkenness, and the only battle their leader is fit for is the one of getting to bed.

Fortunately he agrees this is true, and with some effort Aragorn is able to help him on his feet.

The way they make for the tent belonging to the King of Rohan is slow, and the Lion leans heavily on Aragorn as he struggles not to fall. His weight is everything except for light but the older man carries it gladly. Somehow, they make it to the tent; the guards ask if their help is needed but Aragorn affirms he'll take care of all. And so they stumble into the back side of the tent, where the cot waits for the young king.

Éomer laughs as he falls down on the cushions, rolls around to rest on his back, and in mirth he stammers: "That I should see this day, when you lead me by hand like I were a child. Then again, compared to your age and experience, I am a child."

"You did not drink like one, brother", says Aragorn with a smile as he struggles to remove the Lion's boots.

"Heh. It is Master Gimli's fault. I believe I might murder him tomorrow", Éomer sniggers into his pillow and it makes Aragorn laugh too. It is good to see the solemn young man so merry.

"Oh, I believe you alone are to be blamed, for thinking you would have the resistance such as Legolas", he notes lightly.

"It is not fair, brother. Why are the elves better drinkers than us men?" whines the drunken Rohir as Aragorn pulls of his remaining boot.

"Probably so that they can annoy the Rohirrim", says the heir of Gondor. His words have the Lion laughing again, until his chuckles fade away, and he looks like he is about to pass out any moment now.

It is then that Aragorn sits beside him and places a hand on his shoulder. Éomer blinks his eyes, like in an attempt to stay awake.

"I never had the chance of telling you something important", Aragorn speaks before thinking – he wants to believe it is because of the ale he has drunk tonight.

"What is it?" Éomer asks, his words just barely recognisable stutter.

It is not in words that the son of Arathorn answers. Instead, he leans down, as though some outside force was moving him... and he finds those lips he has sometimes considered with longing. They are soft, just like he thought they would be... soft and supple, even though they do not move or answer. And then they part, though he can't tell if it is to protest or moan or if it is because of shock, but he is beyond caring now.

The Lion tastes of ale, of life, of fire. The answer comes at last, and when it does, it is the sweetest moment of Aragorn's life, though brief... for one endless instance he has him, and the yearning inside him is extinguished, if only for a little while. There he rests his heart, and he folds this moment gently inside himself, knowing already it must end.

And end it does, for then the King's eyes roll around and he passes into the land of dreams. But Aragorn lingers, leaning his forehead against that of his dear Rohir, and thinks of laying himself beside the sleeping man. Oh, how sweet would it be, to fall asleep here in the warm shine of the light that is Éomer of Rohan.

Still, he knows he must go, even if it tears him apart.

But there will always be this one kiss.


Aragorn has little sleep on that night, for he is busy wondering what will happen on the morrow.

Will he remember what happened? Perhaps it would be for the better if he didn't... if the kiss remained a secret, locked deep in the heart of Gondor's king. But then it will always be just half real, like a passing dream.

But if he does remember... what then? Will he look at the man he called brother with loathing in his eyes?

Or what if... what if he doesn't mind? What if he welcomes it?

Yet when Aragorn thinks of it, he does not believe the Lion would welcome it. No. He has never given any sign that he might share this emotion.

Why must you make me feel so, when you will never feel the same for me?

And so he is fearful as he waits for the morning and the inevitable instance when they will see each other. All night, he asks himself if he has destroyed a treasured friendship just for the sake of one moment of bliss.

A new day does come and the camp awakens. When the King of Rohan comes striding, he looks tired and slightly suffering, like is to be expected after the amount of ale he consumed... but nothing he says or does that day ever suggests he has any recollection of last night's kiss. There is no disgust or apprehension in his eyes – he merely thanks Aragorn for helping him into bed.

The older man manages a smile, says it is nothing. Inside, he feels a curious mixture of disappointment and relief.


For the rest of their stay in the fields of Cormallen, Aragorn keeps himself under control. He cannot afford another slip like that, no matter how much he wishes he could live it again. It is especially painful at nights when the memory of what happened in the tent haunts him. There are times when he can still taste the kiss on his lips.

Their time in this place draws to end, until the day comes that the host starts for Minas Tirith. It is time for Isildur's Heir to return to the city of kings and claim his throne, even though there is a part in him that would like to ride north... to that green and fertile land where this strange affection and yearning was born. But he knows what is his road and he must follow it, however bitter it might be.

On that morning as he stands in his tent and prepares for that day, Éomer King arrives; he is already prepared for the travel.

"Good morning, brother. Are you already considering an escape?" he asks, smiling as he speaks. Aragorn notes the young king is smiling more often these days.

"Oh, you would not believe all the escape plans I have thought of so far", he answers, attempting for a light tone.

"I can lend you a horse, in case you need one for your flight", says the King in jest.

"Do not tempt me, brother", Aragorn laughs weakly.

His friend takes a proper look at him then. He knows he must look very different, with his hair neatly combed and dressed in a garb fit for a king.

"If it comforts you at all, you do look like a king", says Éomer. "Quite a change to that ragged ranger I first saw on the plains of the Mark."

"I would wish that same man does live inside this finery", Aragorn answers. Something bittersweet comes to him as he looks at his fellow king. "Look at what has come of us. War heroes, with crowns on our heads."

"It has been quite a journey", agrees the Lion. "Though perhaps the real adventure is only just beginning."

"Aye. I have a feeling we have quite a road ahead of us yet... and I am glad in knowing that you will share it with me", says the heir of Gondor.

Soon after, they start for the White City... and Aragorn, son of Arathorn, goes to claim his throne.


A/N: The song Éomer sings in the Battle of the Morannon is in truth song called "Scottish Soldier" by Barry Taylor, only with slight modifications to the lyrics. I considered translating it to Old English as I imagine he'd be singing in Rohirric, but that would have been quite arduous and I have a feeling Aragorn might even understand Rohirric, so he would also know what Éomer sings.


Náhwær = Never