Eomer awakened before dawn gasping for breath. His heart pounded in his chest, echoing the rolling thunder that shook the windows.. He blinked in the darkness, trying to get his bearings. The wide bed was curtained with heavily embroidered silk and the sheets smelled of lavender and his own sweat. The dream had been terrible. During the last few months, it had become his frequent bed partner.
In it, Theodred lay dying, surrounded by orcs. Eomer ran to him but could never reach him as the foul creatures hacked at his body. Always, he cried out for Eomer and always, just as the orcs raised his cousin's severed head aloft, he, Eomer, awoke.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, Eomer lay in
the darkness, listening to the storm break over the castle. The crash of the
waves sounded loud, even against the thunder. When his heart rate finally
returned to normal, he pushed the covers off his body and rose from the bed.
He found a light set of trousers by feel and donned them. He tossed a light
robe over his shoulders and tiptoed from the room. He needed some air and
some water, for his throat was dry and his head was guilt laden.
"Did the storm wake you?"
Eomer turned to see Imrahil outlined in the jagged streaks of lightening that illuminated the boiling sky through the windows. How was it that Imrahil never ceased to catch him unawares? "Not really," he answered. "Do you always rise so early?"
"The storm," Imrahil inclined his head towards the windows. "As a child, I was frightened of them. I never outgrew my fear. I was on my way to the kitchens to see if I could bribe the cook into brewing me a cup of tea. Would you join me?"
Knowing that refusal would be churlish, Eomer tugged his robe closed over his chest. "Thank you, that sounds good."
Together they made their way down back stairs
to the ground floor and then they dashed across a short span of lawn to the
separate kitchen behind the castle. Inside, the air was stifling as great
ovens baked the daily bread. Enormous spits held various meats that would
be served throughout the day and in the center of what appeared to be battle-proportion
chaos stood a woman with arms the size of Eomer's and a voice that would have
carried to Sauron himself had she stood at the Black Gate. Imrahil braved
her waving fists and, after a hurried conversation, returned to Eomer's side.
"There are fresh buns to be had, if you don't mind waiting a moment."
In answer, Eomer's stomach growled and he grinned ruefully. "My stomach doesn't mind at all."
Minutes later, Eomer clutched a small basket containing hot buns lightly dusted with sugar and a small crock of butter while Imrahil balanced a teapot and two cups on a tray. Together, they dashed over the open ground and into the castle proper. Both men were soaked and laughing as they closed the door behind them.
"Come, let us to the solar. It will be empty this time of day. Besides, we can enjoy the view of the storm there."
"I thought you were afraid of storms?"
"Only when I am trying to sleep. I think the noise disturbs me. When I am awake, I find them fascinating." Imrahil led the way towards the solar, leaving Eomer to trail along behind.
Once in the solar, Imrahil placed his tray on
an inlaid table and motioned for Eomer to deposit his burden by the tea. "Shall
I pour?"
Eomer paused, with the basket still clutched to his chest, and stared at Imrahil
for a moment. The prince wore only a thin, silk robe and in the light from
the windows, his lithe body was outlined in its masculine glory.
"Or would you just prefer to have all the buns for yourself?"
Eomer blushed and reached forward to set the
basket down. He pulled the cloth napkins off their breakfast and the smell
of baked yeast and warm sugar wafted through the room.
Taking up the knife from inside the basket, Eomer indicated the butter crock.
"Do you want butter on yours?"
"Please, yes, lots. Sugar? Milk?"
Soon, they were seated on cross-stitched cushions, enjoying the sweet, sticky buns and hot tea while watching the storm rage through the sky. They spoke of uninteresting and unimportant matters as they ate. Eomer began to relax and found himself laughing at Imrahil's jests. The prince's tales were bawdy and full of anecdotes about life in Gondor and Dol Amroth before Denethor came into power. He studied Imrahil more closely after that, noting the gray hair at his narrow temples and the fine lines around his eyes gray eyes. He grew easier around Imrahil, no longer fearing to reveal his secrets, for he now understood that Imrahil knew them, guessed them and he no longer feared retribution from the prince.
They grew silent at last, but their silence was comfortable. They lounged back on the pillows as dawn struggled with the storm. Lulled by the warm tea and a full belly, Eomer began drifting off to sleep. He found himself in a peculiar dream, one where he knew he was asleep and dreaming, yet the dream felt real. His head lay on Theodred's lap, as it often had when they were alone together, and his cousin traced over the heavy bones of his cheeks with calloused forefinger. The light caress tickled and Eomer scrunched his face and chuckled.
"Does it tickle?" A voice whispered softly in his ear.
Eomer squirmed. "You know that it does."
"Shall I stop?"
"Nay, Theodred, I have missed this."
Suddenly the hand caressing him disappeared and Eomer awoke. Turning his head, he stared into Imrahil's eyes. He watched the man's face closely, seeing the flush creep up his throat and along his cheekbones. Imrahil ducked his head so that his hair hung over his face, but still Eomer could see. "I wasn't dreaming."
"You were, my lord." Imrahil toyed with his empty teacup.
"I dreamed of Theodred, but it was you who caressed my face."
"Even in your sleep you frown." Imrahil looked at Eomer, meeting his gaze. "Shall I tell you what I told to my nephew?" Imrahil continued without waiting for an answer. "I told Faramir to release him, to set free the lover who could no longer hold him."
"His lover was not—"
"Nay, he was not. The love is all the same, my lord. Whether or not the gods will it or frown upon it. 'Tis not for punishment that Theodred is no longer at your side. It is simply is. Would he want you to grieve forever? Was his love so selfish?"
"And did you say these things to your nephew so that he flew from my sister into Aragorn's arms?" Eomer's anger was back, his refuge, his defense.
"I could not force Faramir to do something that was against his heart. Is that why you are so angry with me? Do you feel that my meddling has slighted your lovely sister?"
Eomer turned his head on the pillow, staring at the table legs. "Nay, Imrahil, I hate you for you remind me constantly of what I cannot have."
Taken aback, Imrahil struggled for an answer. "I am sorry," he said at last. "I did not mean to cause you pain. I—"
Eomer shook his head and a fresh wave of grief welled inside him. “I do not know.” He rose shakily to his feet. “I should return to my room. Thank you for breakfast.”
Imrahil watched him go without saying a word. His gray eyes took in the lines of grief and the way the proud shoulders fought not to stoop beneath their burden. Time was what Eomer needed most and he hated himself for not giving the younger man what he needed. Still, his own need for Eomer outweighed his judgment. Slowly, however, as the door closed behind the retreating warrior, Imrahil’s anger began to simmer
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