"My heart beats with you,
Love runs red throughout my veins,
Making me alive."
― Eric Overby
Éomer had mixed feelings when it came to love. Not the kind of love that existed within families or between age-old friends, but the kind of love poets waxed eloquent about, depicting love as a powerful force instead of what it really was: a shared delusion. He was old enough to know that he could generate more force with his fists than with love. He considered himself well beyond such things, cemented in the belief that romantic love was a novelty designed for young women and little girls, something that belonged in books because it made reality easier to contend with. He didn't doubt the possibility of love as a force; he simply doubted the extent of its reach. He was a soldier first and foremost. His attempts at love had been reduced to brief encounters at outposts or taverns, beginning with the reckless abandon that only alcohol could inspire, and ending with the painful clarity that only a hangover could deliver. The women in his life existed to serve a singular need of his, and once that need had been met, he would move on from them, setting his sights onward and upward. It was an endless cycle, one that he had grown used to in his line of work, and one that he wasn't keen on giving up. His responsibilities demanded his attention and consumed his time, and love required more attention and time than he was willing to sacrifice. As far as he was concerned, he was content with his life. It was predictable, it was fulfilling for the most part, and it was comfortable. That was all he really needed.
Éomer lifted his mug to his lips in resignation, downing the last of his ale. His head throbbed painfully, amplifying every sound in his vicinity to the point of discomfort, skewing his perception of the tavern until everything inside of it blended together disjointedly. His hangover remedy had failed. There was nothing he could do to alleviate his symptoms in lieu of such a failure, and he knew for certain that it was something only time could fix. He sighed woefully, giving the mug between his hands a look of disgust that only sobriety could bring, regretting the decisions he had made the night before. They were as commonplace as the moles scattered across his face or the streaks of gold that glittered within his hair. These lapses in judgement had become habitual over the span of several years, and no amount of self pity could disguise them for what they were. He would have continued to wallow if it weren't for Théodred's inconvenient arrival, and it was an arrival he had been dreading since he had opened his eyes that very morning. Éomer cursed under his breath, staring down into his empty mug as though it were an escape route of some kind, one that he could vanish into. It only served to emphasize his presence in the tavern, placing him under direct scrutiny. He felt exposed, surrounded on all fronts, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
"You are far too predictable," Théodred said, sliding a pitcher of water across the surface of the table. "You'll have to prove me wrong one of these days."
"And risk disappointing you? I think not."
"Come on, Éomer. You can't do this forever."
"I am young at heart, dear cousin," he replied in good humour, reaching for the pitcher of water. "It is no fault of mine that you have been graced with the disposition of an old man."
"An old man!"
"Don't sound so dismayed! Your temperament is fitting for a crown prince," Éomer replied, filling his mug so that he could drink from it.
Théodred opened his mouth to protest, but he was quickly silenced. The tavern grew quiet. Everyone watched as Éomer's conquest drifted down the stairs, readjusting her bodice so that the swell of her bosom was front and centre, forcing all of her admirers to avert their eyes in a sudden panic. Her smile of amusement was quickly hidden, obscured by a yawn that was far from authentic, but it hadn't gone unnoticed. It only served to heighten her appeal, tormenting the men in her vicinity one by one. They all shared the same fantasy, but Éomer was the only person she had shared her bed with. He could still taste her on his lips, recalling the way her legs had parted for him the night before, inviting him to explore her body without trepidation, obligation, or promise of commitment. She waved at Éomer as she walked by, flashing him a look reserved solely for him, a look he'd grown familiar with in the early hours of the morning. It was enough to dull the ache in his head, allowing him to forget just how horrible he felt in that exact moment.
"How can I possibly give her up?" he asked, struggling to take his eyes off of her.
"As lovely as she is, I am certain she is one in a long line of many."
"Illuminate me, cousin. I am eager to be educated about my nocturnal habits."
"Cheap ale doesn't last very long, nor does the company you keep," he said, pulling the pitcher from Éomer's hand. "I may be old at heart, but I know that to be true."
"Old and wise! They'll be sure to sing your praises the day you become King."
Théodred gave Éomer a look that wasn't as pleasant as the one he'd just received. His words had been said in jest, but he couldn't deny the truth that resonated within them. He was certain that Théodred would make an excellent king, and it wasn't an exaggeration on his part to say that his ascension would be well received among the Rohirrim. He was a good and honest man, conscientious to a fault, and if his praises were to be sung, Éomer's voice would be the loudest among them all.
"This is my life, Théodred. It is as good a life as any, and I will make the most of it. I can promise you that."
"Oh, please. Spare me. If I am fortunate enough to watch someone sweep you off of your feet in the near future, I will gladly call myself an old man. For now, I am simply your cousin. You should welcome my constructive criticism." Théodred said smugly, lifting his mug in the air.
"I regret to inform you that you will be waiting a very long time for that day to pass," Éomer interjected, slowly lifting his mug in return. "Besides, I have always done the sweeping. My feet are rooted firmly to the ground."
"For the time being. You are not yet a man."
"I think Rhoswen would beg to differ."
Théodred laughed, eyeing Éomer thoughtfully over the rim of his mug. "We'll see if her opinion stands the test of time."
The look in his eyes was strange, riddled with a sadness that felt entirely out of place, and it succeeded in making Éomer uneasy. As far as he was concerned, Théodred's unhappiness was unjustified. He was older and more experienced when it came to life's ebb and flow, and while it could be difficult to navigate at times, it wasn't enough to explain the emotion saturating his stare. It was similar to grief, heavy and consuming, eating away at him like a disease. Éomer couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to change, and although change was necessary, the very idea of it was enough to make his stomach turn. He had faced his own trials and tribulations in the course of his young life. The resulting upheaval had tested his strength and sanity, short-lived, heavy-handed, and all-consuming in the worst way possible, flipping his perception of the world right on its head. It had taken him years to regain some sense of normalcy, especially after the loss of his parents, and a part of him wanted things to stay that way. He couldn't imagine a time when Théodred would fail to show face, leaving him to wallow in drunken misery without a word to the wise. He loved his cousin the same way he loved Éowyn. He was like an older brother to him, and his gentle guidance had made his life better rather than worse.
"I'll make you proud, cousin," Éomer said, surprised by his sudden change in tone. "I can say that for certain."
The years had been unkind. A lot had changed, but Éomer's stance on love had not. He had grown more guarded over the years, building a wall around his heart in an attempt to protect it from prying eyes and greedy fingers, dedicating every moment to the security of his realm. He had given up on love entirely, abandoning his youthful pursuits in exchange for the responsibilities that came with war, forced to lead when all he wanted to do was run. Théodred was dead. There was no one left to sing his praises now, and Éomer desperately wished that things had turned out differently. The burden of ruling Rohan had fallen to him in the end, bearing down on him until he thought he'd collapse from the weight of it. He wore it like a badge of honour, terrified of what it meant, yet determined to uphold his family's legacy in the aftermath of so much loss. There had been no time to even entertain the thought of love. Many women had tried, but none of them had succeeded. He remained aloof, willing to spend the night with them, but never willing to stay, giving Rohan his complete and undivided attention. They had been temporary. Nothing more. He was positive that he was considered heartless among them, but that was hardly the case. If they were looking for love, he knew that he couldn't give it to them, and he wasn't cruel enough to give them hope when there was none to be had.
The war had come to an end, but the war within his head raged on. He looked out into the crowd that had begun to amass for Aragorn's coronation, taking solace in the fact that so many people were happy, free from the constraints of sorrow, misfortune, and strife. Éowyn stuck out to him like a sore thumb, dressed in a yellow gown that complimented her sunny disposition, shining in the courtyard as brightly as a ray of sunlight. The look on her face succeeded in lifting his spirits. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen her smile, but it had been before Rohan's relationship with Isengard had taken a turn for the worse. His responsibilities had kept him away from Edoras, and in turn, he had been kept away from her.
Wormtongue's sole objective had been the destruction of his family. Théodred had been killed, Théoden had nearly succumbed to Saruman's influence, and Éowyn had been driven to the brink of hopelessness, convinced that only death could bring her peace. She had been left in Meduseld with only Wormtongue for company, and no amount of respite could eradicate the guilt that lived in Éomer's heart. He regretted his lack of foresight, failing to comprehend how little she cared for her own life in the days leading up to the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. It continued to torment him. She remained blissfully unaware, aglow with the same happiness that had pervaded the rest of the crowd. Éomer couldn't help but notice Faramir's fingers intertwined with her own.
If love was a shared delusion, it appeared to be a pleasant one. There was no way he could deny that fact. It was a passing thought, striking the fortifications around his heart as if someone had decided to test them out on purpose, evaluating the quality of his craftsmanship in addition to the strength of his convictions. He nearly laughed at the very idea of it, but it continued to linger, spilling into the forefront of his mind until he could think of little else. The world around him became a blur of colour, movement, and sound, and the subsequent vertigo was enough to incapacitate him for a moment or two. He decided to focus on his breathing, counting every breath of air that passed through his lips, taking note of his surroundings in an attempt to alleviate the ringing in his ears.
The White Tree of Gondor was in bloom, the grass beneath it was a verdant shade of green, and a young woman stood on top of it, eyeing the tree with a look on her face that could only be described as reverence. Her hair was as dark as the night sky, piled atop of her head in a series of complicated braids, unveiling the gentle slope of her neck, the curve of her cheek, and the emotion within her eyes. They were a dark grey in colour, reminiscent of thunderheads in the height of a summer storm. She smiled in the wake of some unknown thought, drifting away from the tree and into the crowd, swallowed by a throng of people that had become mere obstacles to Éomer, obscuring her from his line of sight. The blue of her dress and the shine of her hair was quickly lost to him. The vertigo returned in full force, and it stole the strength from his legs.
Théodred's voice rang within his head like a bell, breaching the confines of time and space to haunt him the way it had that day at the tavern. The ringing in his ears was replaced by a blazing heat, travelling through him as efficiently as a forest fire, scouring his fortifications, warming his heart, and weakening his resolve. On the outside, he appeared to be perfectly fine. He was reserved, stoic, and calm, embodying the very image of civility, but to the trained eye, he was panicking. He didn't know who that woman was, but for the first time in his life, he desperately wanted to find out. He thought of Éowyn and Faramir standing side by side, holding hands without fear of judgement. He thought of Théodred's piercing stare, old enough to understand that it had come from a place of understanding rather than condescension. He thought of love most of all. That woman had been beautiful, and he wanted her desperately. Not for a night, not for the wrong reasons, and not to satiate a need of his. He intended to make that woman his wife. That much was clear, and if Théodred had lived, he would have called himself an old man. Éomer had been swept right off of his feet.