Eomer paced from one end of his room to the other, feeling as trapped as an unbroken colt in a corral. Outside, the storm equaled the fury in his soul as he struggled with his inner demons. Everything that Imrahil said to him was true. There was no denying it, but he did not wish to let go of what he had with Theodred. He simply could not think of being with any one else. To do so seemed a betrayal. Eomer stopped his pacing and stared out the window for a long moment. Is that what he was doing? Betraying Theodred? Was allowing Imrahil to comfort him wrong because it betrayed the memory of the one he professed to love above all others? Or, was there something else?
The reflection in the glass seemed to mock Eomer as he stood there. I am alive and you are not. I have what should have been yours. Even now, as I stand here, I think of betraying you, Theodred. Was it betrayal? Will you sit at the base of his mound—like a bent old man—and mourn him until you have mourned yourself into an adjacent grave? Is that what you would have asked of me, Theodred? Is that what you whisper to me in my dreams at night?
So much death and pain. There was not one person in Rohan who could claim to be spared such grief. They moved forward, burying the dead, remembering the love and laughter, but not dwelling on what was no more. So why couldn't he? Why did allow his guilt to weigh his heart? Why did he wallow in self-pity? Was his own love so selfish?
How could Imrahil, who had only just met him, love him? His mind countered. How do you fall in love with someone at a glance? He and Theodred grew up together, grew into manhood from childhood with each other as companions. Theirs was a love born of years. Imrahil's was a lust born of the battlefield.
And who was he to disparage what Imrahil felt? Never once had the prince professed love. He'd offered to clothe him in kisses and hand him his heart. Eomer smiled. When Imrahil had spoken those words, he'd instantly dismissed them, not wishing to dwell on what Imrahil offered. Now, while the need for self-contemplation was upon him, he recalled them and his reaction.
How had they made him feel? Warm, he admitted. He was also shocked that the prince would find him attractive. He was rough, plain spoken, quick to temper. His hands were scarred and calloused. He turned up his palms and stared at them. Theodred had loved the way his hands felt as they stroked heated flesh. He'd loved Eomer's heavy beard as it tickled him in intimate places. Eomer dropped his hands to his side. Who was he trying to deceive? The only man who'd ever touched him had been Theodred. And he was afraid of loving another.
Was he gods-cursed for having loved his cousin more than was seemly? Imrahil said no. But Eomer's heart wondered. Then why am I here? Why were we both not struck down? Why am I alive and Theodred gone? The questions circled inside Eomer's head until a dull ache started behind his eyes.
Pressing his palms against his temples, Eomer went to the bed a lay upon it. He stared at the canopy ceiling, his tired eyes tracing the fine needlework pattern of leaves and columns. His life felt like the embroidery, disconnected images that formed a complicated and barely discernable, repetitious pattern.
How long had it been since he felt another's hands upon him? How long had he lain in the darkness longing for a lover's caress and finding no comfort? Too long was the answer.
/I would clothe you in kisses/
Was he wrong to need that? Would Imrahil understand if that was all that he wanted? Needed?
/Place my heart in your hands to toss aside or treasure, as you would/
Was he wrong to yearn for the love of another?
*~*
Imrahil dressed in dark black tunic and breeches, as befitted his dark mood. He knew the severe colors accentuated his features in a less than flattering light, turned his skin sallow and highlighted the gray streaks in his hair. At the moment, he did not care. He cursed himself ten times over as he made his way to his study. He couldn't believe he'd twice allowed Eomer of Rohan make him such a fool. Imrahil paused in his mental tirade. Eomer had not made him a fool. He, Imrahil, had simply allowed his tongue to run away with his brain. He was entranced by Eomer's broad shoulders and soulful eyes and he longed to smooth away that permanent scowl. That was what turned him into a fool. He felt for a man half his age, so, he supposed, that made him an old fool, as well.
He closed his study door and seated himself behind his massive desk. His father's desk. Long had it sat exactly in the same spot, bore upon its shiny surface the same documents, the same ledgers. No more would anything ever be the same. An age was ending. Dol Amroth was forever bound to Gondor. The time of the Numenor was fading. HIS time was fading, for in his veins also flowed the ancient blood. He fought a wave of depression as he tried to concentrate on his work. Regardless of his age or how old he suddenly felt, he had a city to run. His sons, one day, would take his place and it would be their problem, but in the meantime, he couldn't allow his emotions to stand in his way.
A soft knock disrupted his thoughts and he growled enter without glancing up from the documents he wasn't reading.
"If I have come at a bad time, I can return when it is more convenient," said Eomer from the doorway.
Imrahil looked up with dismay shining in his eyes. Of all the people he desired to see at that moment, Eomer was so far down on the list that he practically ranked with the Nazgul in popularity. "Not at all," the prince lied. "Do come in."
Eomer shut the door behind him and stood for a moment, studying the prince. His features were stormy, as though he wrestled with his own inner turmoil. This made Eomer wonder. Had he injured the prince with his harsh words? Dared he try to explain them? Would it matter if he did? Without realizing it, his face darkened with a frown and Imrahil sighed at the sight.
"Well?"
Eomer came out of his musings and moved towards the desk with an animal grace that reminded Imrahil of another, long ago lover. He shook his head to clear his mind of what was no more. He tried to live by his own advice, and most days, he succeeded.
"My words were harsh and uncalled for," Eomer stood beside the same chair he'd sat in the day before. He traced his fingers nervously over the arm and wondered where or how to begin.
"My behavior was inappropriate. Think nothing more of it." Imrahil waved his hand, wishing he could wave Eomer away as easily as he waved away the apology. He found it ironic that he'd longed for the man's company, and now that he had it, he only wanted Eomer to go away and leave him with his dark, uneasy peace.
A flash of lightening cut through the sky, followed by a loud thunderclap that rattled the windowpanes.
Eomer bit his bottom lip and stared down at his feet. "It is not so simple as that, my lord. I have been thinking over all that you have said in these last weeks. Your advice has been kind, though I resented it. Your reasoning is also sound, though I have resented that, as well."
Now, thought Imrahil, tell me something I do not know. He placed his hands on his desk and waited to hear whatever Eomer had to say.
Eomer sat down opposite of Imrahil and struggled to find the words he needed. He was never talkative and words did not come easily for him under the best of circumstances. Theodred said he was too impatient, too prone to wear his emotions for all to see. These days, it seemed, all he ever showed anyone was his anger. Theodred would be ashamed of him. He was ashamed of himself. "I am not good with words," Eomer admitted with self-mocking grin that displayed his dimples.
"On the contrary, my lord," Imrahil answered drolly. "I find you quite expressive."
Eomer ducked his head. "You have shown me kindness and I have shown you anger for your pains. This once, my lord, I would show you Eomer. But I will have to reveal him to you in my own way. Can you dredge your soul and find just a bit more patience for me?"
Imrahil leaned back in his chair with undisguised curiosity written all over his features. "Forgive me, my lord, for I did not mean to sound flippant. By all means, I am most attentive to whatever it is you wish to say.
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