Tainted Meadows II: Redeemer
by Napra

And off they rode to another war. And was it truly a just war? Hadn't the Battle at Helm's Deep proven to be the greatest bloodshed the Riddermark had witnessed in an age? There was no rider who's thoughts were not ridden with these doubts as their steeds carried them toward the Fords of Isen.

In most minds these thoughts duelled with the avidity for revenge, especially in Éomer's, who's enmity with the tower of the Cunning Mind had a much deeper source. Not only had Saruman's forces triggered the events that had led to his beloved cousin Théodred's death, but also had Orthanc's emissary Gríma Wormtongue imprisoned his uncle Théoden, Lord of the Mark, behind the bars of a wizened form and heavy-lidded, blurred eyes. The tragedy that saddened Éomer was that his uncle had lain years of his life-time in the enemy's hands and thus had wasted them. And when that one member of the foreign company who had come to Théoden's aid and had assisted him bravely in terrible warfare rode past, dark hair whipping his collar, and then turned to meet Éomer's eye, he knew there could be a lot of time to waste between them. Resolutely Éomer rode on to prevent that. Aragorn...

Light eyes pierced the heir of the Mark deeply into the marrow of his bones. A regal, but not supercilious posture on his horse Hasufel carried the grace that was his face. Yes, a steed of the Mark, and it had been Éomer's to give, for it was left without master—a welcoming present into the soon-to-be liberated Riddermark from an outlaw to a stranger. Éomer imagined Elendil's heir to be too dazzlingly beautiful for men to look upon, so he would wear his features rugged and bearded, and in spite of an Elven healer's skill he would not let his own scars heal. Otherwise Éomer, he was certain of it, would have been the first to fall under Aragorn's spell and lose his eyesight.

It was a difficult stage in their journey to Isengard. With the Gap of Rohan in the west, more and more Rohirrim barrows passed their sight. Éomer was weighed down by death and destruction and forced himself to look ahead. Not many words were exchanged between the two vanguard riders. Yet Éomer felt a power radiate from his comrade. Aragorn was the Forger of the Broken Sword, and now so much more. He held the pieces of the Marksman's ruptured soul together.

As the company had crossed the River Isen and the moon had vanished behind the Misty Mountains, the riders decided to camp in a dark vale near the riverbank, hidden by the hills. Éomer dismounted and scanned the sombre shapes for Aragorn. Before he had a chance to turn, his leather- clad wrist had been caught. He heard a slightly voiced whisper.

"Tonight..."

The voice sent a jolt through his whole body, but especially a place he would not name.

Before the king laid down to rest, Aragorn approached him.

"My Lord, in addition to our watchmen I shall follow the Isen upriver on foot, in case of threatening reinforcements from Orthanc. Éomer will accompany me."

"On foot?" Théoden asked. "Even Éomer?"

Aragorn's wry smile was well hidden in the dark. "Yes, my Lord."

And he strode off past the settled men and further upriver. He found Éomer crouching alone by less wild waters, lowering his flat palm onto the surface. The Marksman did not look up as he felt Aragorn's presence beside him.

"I dare not touch it, for it is to me a river of blood," he sighed, clenching and unclenching his fist.

Aragorn felt deep sorrow well up inside him, for the man's helplessness moved him deeply. Gently he reached out. His fingers combed back Éomer's untamed hair.

They looked at each other searching for familiar features in the creeping gloom.

Éomer thought he had seen the heir of Isildur's forehead glow, having caught perhaps a glimpse of an invisible crown. Then he blinked and it was over. Just Aragorn's keen eyes and the reflection of starlight in the river were a source of light.

Something was changing. Slowly all scales of earlier restraint seemed to fall off Aragorn's eyes to reveal what Éomer once before had uncovered on Hornburg's pinnacle—disarming, close to injuring desire.

Their eyes never lost touch as they helped each other off the shingled ground, yet Aragorn's were half-closed

They kissed once, chastely. And Aragorn's voice rumbled, "I need you now."

Éomer inhaled sharply at the words and at the burning itch of lightest fingertips dancing across his over-sensitised palms.

He leant into Aragorn's bristly cheek, took in the scent of his skin. They let their lips caress each other's faces, but never did their mouths touch, nor their hands clasp, only fingers unfurling long-suppressed passions.

"Thou art a legend come to life," Éomer moaned, his cheek pressed against Aragorn's, hands wandering. As if Éomer had scathed the man's skin, Aragorn's abdomen shrunk away at a searching caress. A shy smile played between them. Soon Éomer found the naked flesh he was looking for.

"And now I am to disrobe and spend the night with thee," he went on and hissed at Aragorn's grip on his inner thigh. It grew stronger and unclenched, only to find its way further up the suede leather chaps, Éomer's kindling lust captured by a palm of a hand. "Again, how shall a man judge what to do in such times of marvel. Merely the taste of thy lips could bind him to a pledge."

With that they burst into a hastened kiss, more often broken than indulged, that left them breathless and clutching at one another's garments as they moved towards the skirt of trees. Only their smouldering desire for what was yet to come kept their lips a touch apart for the while of undressing. Even the sounds of leather slapping, metal clanking and linen rustling raked the embers of their imagination.

Aragorn sunk onto the soft moss, now completely unclad and desperately missing the other man's warmth.

"Come lie with me, my horselord," he said and added, "Or does the adage 'Men of the Mark never lie' exclude such an exercise?"

Éomer snarled enticingly and sank to the ground. He moved over only to loom over Aragorn's frame. Once, twice he let his chest graze the other man's, feeling the hairs, testing the heat. And then his muscular arms held him up again. The gap of air between them was charged.

Aragorn found his upper body somewhat trapped between Éomer's hands, his lower body by his toned thighs and his face enclosed in a curtain of sweet smelling locks of hair.

Both men gasped when their phalluses hardly but touched.

Fixing his gaze on the enraptured face below him Éomer whispered, "It is like the harps of Meduseld, their golden wires plucked, and chords echoing between the plated columns..." he groaned when the alerted Aragorn had taken hold of his hips.

"You are trying my patience, young Marshal, though I am tempted to submerge in your poetry," a wry voice said shoving their groins together. The two warriors cried out.

Wrapped up in each other's arms they rolled hither and thither on the padded earth, sweat and dew coating their skin in cool moisture. Their breathing grew harsh and that traction in the core of each man's body increased and drew them nearer to the precipice. But Aragorn had something else in mind.

The knight landed face down in the moss. He gasped at how the heat had shifted from front to back as Aragorn's weight pressed down on him. Trying to prop himself up he turned his head. But harsh lips and a glowing hardness further downwards, where he now knew it had to be, enfeebled his attempt. A groan of reluctance ensued and Éomer submitted to his own yearning for completion. "Take me, my redeemer," he whispered raggedly. "Let us find release not in death, but in each other."

And as the bleak black night closed in on them, the two princes of peoples of old—thrust upon each other not only by fate, but also by congruence of craving—rushed faster and faster towards that peek they were seeking, secluded from all odds, from the certainty of war that was overtaking the uncertainty of aftermath.

For a moment Aragorn had to avert his sight—the vision became to powerful to bear. Éomer, the proud Rider of Rohan, was lying face-down beneath him, arms splayed out at his sides as were his sweat-drenched locks, fingers gripping rock and fern in abandon, the visible eye once squeezed shut, once wide open in time with the deep, harsh thrusts of Aragorn's hips. It became the image that made the light come, when Éomer reared arching his virile back, crying out into the night.

They stayed still for a while, Éomer now fully hauled onto Aragorn's lap and a strong arm strapping him to the body behind him. Their gasps were in unison, yet Aragorn's more voiced than Éomer's hence not having let go so explosively but more gradually drifting. This last ultimate closeness between two warriors would diminish soon, but they barely moved, only to hold onto it. What had been an invasion to Éomer before, felt like the sole liberation for his tormented soul. The hot chest heaving and pounding against his back as they shivered on the outsides would have to maintain the memory as Aragorn slipped out of Éomer's body.

Reluctantly Aragorn then braced himself on the ground and lowered their weights onto gravel and mud. Éomer slowly turned on the bed of his lover's frame and rested his elbows on the ground, both at the sides of Aragorn's head. His hands framed Aragorn's features. Éomer faced him for a wink of an eye, seeing him more beautiful than ever, bleary-eyed and utterly spent. A finger dragged down the crevice under Aragorn's cheekbone till he leaned down and let his tongue enter slightly parted lips a few times before indulging into languid swirls and strokes inside his mouth.

A hand, once so tense, now limp from exertion, slipped from Éomer's loins up the length of his torso, leaving a trail of semen on its path. Aragorn reached exposed armpits and slid downwards again through the deepening of their kiss. Throaty, gasping sounds escaped their open- mouthed kiss as they revelled in their residue. Aragorn wavered between pressing into Éomer's head of hair and kneading his shoulders and buttocks in not hapless indecision.

Eventually Aragorn rolled off Éomer with a sigh, his head bedded on his hand. The other he absently stroked across Éomer's torso. The knuckles were rough against the marksman's skin, even more so from catching earth and gravel on their way.

Éomer turned his head to look at his lover. Aragorn's eyes were fixed on the stars above. He looked a lot older now, Éomer mused. And surely he counted more than twice the knight's age, a Dúnadan that he was.

Éomer's chest heaved as he spoke, "I shall take a dip in the bay waters. Will you join me, my Man of the North?"

"No." Aragorn replied.

Éomer's smirk faded rapidly. And so it grew on Aragorn's rejuvenated features.

"I prefer to linger in your scent a little longer and do not intend to wash you off me just yet," Aragorn said. "Do not care to wait for me."

With that Éomer pushed himself off the ground, dusted his hands off and walked towards the shore. Aragorn sat up a bit to watch his receding form. Éomer noticed the gravel and carefully set foot on the ground. His head fell forward as he dipped his first foot in the water, then he threw it back and hissed. When the water was knee level he stopped and stood inhaling sharply, enjoying the cool night air. Shadow and light shifted on his skin. Aragorn felt a pang in his stomach as he saw Éomer's buttocks and thighs quiver from the increasing cold. He even bent forward to scoop some water up to cool his body. Drops and rivulets dripped from the man's skin and Aragorn caught a glimpse of Éomer's profile as he turned his head to one side and let his red mane caress his shoulders. Wild beauty...

The rider started panting, the more depth the water gained. Aragorn's hand wandered to his own sweltering loins, only to grip his thighs. He heard an animalistic cry and Éomer splashed into the river, dove under and drove himself far out into the stream. When he came up again, face first with a gasp, he found himself adrift. He had underestimated the current and had to struggle a little to get back to the shore. Aragorn got up and walked towards the river, but stopped when he saw Éomer rapidly approaching. He found foot quickly and threw his head back, a cascade of hair cutting through the air, harsh drops splashing Aragorn.

"A little bit more of you on me," he moaned. Deliciously Aragorn rubbed in the wetness, warming it.

Éomer was now very close to the bank where Aragorn was standing. He combed back a few wet strands of hair and clasped his hands behind his head. Eyes of a predator scanned the shifting muscles, the renewed stirring of lust in Éomer's body. The air was cool between them.

Then Éomer charged out of the water and seized Aragorn by the shoulders who gasped at the freezing, wet skin and instinctively shrunk away. But Aragorn's arms knew better and encircled Éomer's waist. Pressed against each other, breathing hard, eye to eye, they waited.

"I must have got carried away," Éomer whispered.

Then Aragorn kissed him.

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