Title: The Promise
Characters: Éomer, OCs
Rating: T
Summary: Éomer struggles to keep a promise despite his own failings and tries to become a healer of his people.
Disclaimer: Perfunctory as always. I do not own Lord of the Rings, though that would be nice.
The Promise
In the heat of the moment, he imagines it is an unbreakable vow: the man's lifeblood gushing in great rivers out of him, his frantic eyes, his grip on Éomer's forearms. My son.
He meant well, truly, for Éomer Éomund's son is a man who keeps his promises, and when all the other men have gone off to their revelry he hesitates a moment, telling Éothain, "I will meet you there," and when his friend might have protested he motions for him to go.
Léofa's eyes are blank, his hands clenching and unclenching on his knees. It is the shock of the battle, the numbness, the horror- Éomer remembers it well; it is precisely why he plans to drink himself into a stupor tonight.
"Come with us," he says, clasping his hand around the younger man's forearm. "Drinks on me."
The boy shakes his head. He is barely seventeen years old, or so Éomer thinks, but then he barely knows the him- small and slim for his age, with long, curling eyelashes like a girl's. It is a bard's face, not a warrior's, but already there are new shadows that hover beneath his eyes, in the set of the jaw, in the nervous motion of his hands.
The boy relents, finally, and Éomer thinks he will be fine, or at least he convinces himself that he will be fine, for he knows the horror of war is not a mere ghost to be wiped away by a few drinks, but he tries all the same, and by the end of the night there is not a one of them able to stand upright without swaying very dangerously.
And then, well, the next year is complicated, to say the least: taxes, laws, rebuilding the Westfold, refugees, his sister's marriage, Dunlandings- in short, a busy year, and he forgets, setting aside his promise for the time being. He never meant to neglect the boy, not exactly, but he feels vaguely uncomfortable, for Éomer is a man who likes solid ground, the realms of the tangible and he tells himself that any ailment of the mind, any shadow of the war, can be cured by a good drink and a tavern wench and of course, time, and so he sets aside all vague stirrings of guilt.
"The boy will be fine," he assures himself.
The boy's mother comes to see him that winter, her eyes edging into panic. Wilflaed is not an old woman, but at somewhere between thirty and forty she has the eyes of one much older; her hair is streaked with grey, her face sagging and weary. She is a colorless woman, blanched pale by the passage of the years, and he has always thought her dull and lifeless, but in her devotion to her son she is surprisingly fierce and determined.
"Please, lord," she says to him, "I do not know what to do- he-," And she begins to weep and somewhat awkwardly he steadies her, for Éomer does not know how to comfort a woman. "Please."
He sees the bruises on her throat that she has tried so hard to conceal, mottled purple and yellow.
"Léofa," he says, "if you ever need a friend, come to me."
The boy's face is turned away; there is a new sullenness to it, a new measure of awareness, as if there is no returning to boyhood dreams. Éomer thinks to the vague memories he has of this boy; they are far and few, but he remembers that as a child he had struggled to learn Sindarin and his voice had been clear and high as he sang the old songs at the feasts where everyone gathered.
But there is a kingdom to be run, a peace to be made with the Harad, a princess to wed, and he loses himself in the never-ending responsibilities of a king and his visits to Léofa are short and perfunctory, consisting of little more than small talk and a vague promise of friendship.
It is Wulfric his squire who comes to him with the news, his small face pale, freckles dark against the white of his skin, saying, "Your Majesty, it is- Léofa-,"
He is not surprised, but he thinks that he might have spared this boy such a life, but his hands are ungentle. He is a warrior, not a healer, and yet he is expected to hold this realm together, to guide his people, to heal the hurts that stem from years of torment. What sort of king can he be?
Léofa's body sways gentle, his beautiful, delicate face darkened to purple in death; the tree bough creaks under his weight, and Wiflaed weeps in a sudden, violent rush of emotion, unstoppable as the river when the dam is cast aside.
And Éomer is unable to find words. There are no promises left to him now, only sudden, acute bitterness and something that tastes of fear. What sort of king is he to be?
A/N: Reviews would be lovely. I'm curious what you think of the characters, namely Éomer; I hope I've kept him in character.
Best!
claire