For The Sake Of Peace
by ne'ichan

Éomer had met but one elf in person before the warriors came to Helm's Deep. And that one had been Prince Legolas Greenleaf, though he had not had any idea about the title when they first met on the plain. When Legolas had put knocked bow to his cheek andÊaimed it in his direction and threatened him if he would offer harm to a dwarf.

Legolas was tall and slender, an inch or so above the horselord's height, yet so slim as to appear smaller, slight and graceful, almost feminine in his pale beauty. For all his good looks, he had never turned Éomer's head. Éomer tended to find softer, curvier flesh more to his taste.

So, at the Helm's Deep when he met the elven archers and warriors, he had not expected their sheer size, or the difference in their demeanors. Their serious mien. At the time he had not known of the division between the elves of Mirkwood and Lothlorien, and that one treated with Men and the other did not. That one was so out-sized, while the other was not. That he himself would be dwarfed by the elves of Lothlorien, well out sized, out muscled, nearly out skilled as a warrior. Though he sat and rode his mount with a skill no elf could match, he had no gift with bow, elven or other.

The leader of the ranks of elves who came to Helm's Deep, the one they called the Marchwarden, Haldir of Lothlorien, he was taller than Éomer by at least a head, and though his height made him seem less so, he was heavily muscled, a thing seen when he washed, by choice often, in the bathing rooms. Muscle so wonderfully, exquisitely formed, and so much of it. He turned sideways to enter the narrow door of the taverns, else his shoulders would brush the sides of the doorway. The presence of the haughty, beautiful man was stunning. His beauty, for he was beautiful, was pure masculine perfection. Regal. Éomer was captivated, though he strove to hide it, and must have succeeded, as none commented on it to him. Not even his most observant kinswoman, Éowyn.

Éomer, a lover of many women, was overwhelmed by a male for the first time. He could not draw his eyes away from the elf for long. No matter what distracted him, talk of ruling matters, or discussions of war and strategy, or even the care and breeding of Rohan's fine steeds, he found his attention drawn back to Haldir when he'd solved the many crises, and answered the hundred requisite questions.

It was later, not at Helm's Deep, but back in the Mark, when Éomer's life was altered, taking a direction he had never anticipated or could have imagined. It began in the month after the last, most horribly costly victory, when Sauron's forces fell in the final, desperate battle and the world of Middle Earth struggled to cope with peace. Peace, it seemed, was as difficult to master as was war.

Théoden, his king, called him into the Council's Chambers. The look in his eyes was sad, and his face, oddly set. Éomer felt his hackles rising, as if a dog scenting trouble. He put a hand to his belt, next to his knife, by pure instinct. He waited near to his uncle's chair, waiting to learn the thing that gave his king the look he wore. It was not long coming. Then, childishly, he wished for his ignorance to return.

"You must do a thing for Rohan." Théoden said at last, as if choosing his words with deliberate, painful care. "You must give up the position as heir to the throne, and let your sister's husband rule here. There is a task that I must require of you, if you can bear it. I would not see you die of it, or be filled with hate and resentment for me, yet, it is necessary and urgent that it be done for the sake of this fragile peace. I must ask, will you let your self be bound to an elf?"

Éomer thought on that. To give up future kingship. Not so hard to do. To leave the Mark...that brought pain to his heart. The open plains, the horses, the riders, his companions since he was a child. The kindly king, his uncle. The sweet, fierceness of his dear sister, to give all this up? To what purpose? To bind to an elf? If he must. With great sorrow would he obey. And go into the woods and forests the elves preferred.

Éomer blanched. And answered his king, trying to keep his tone light, not to visit his loss on this man already bent with the weight of his many responsibilities. "I...I will do what I may to save Rohan suffering, for she has suffered much. But, I do not understand what is this that makes you beg my forgiveness. To marry an elf maiden is not to suffer too greatly, for their beauty is legend. Though to leave Rohan, not knowing when or if I might return, would pain me all my remaining days for I love this land, and her people."

"To bind for a treaty, my dearest Éomer, they do not offer a maid. They offer the strong arm of the Marchwarden of Lothorien, Haldir. He whom you have met. Who fought by our side at Helm's Deep, whose elven warriors helped turn the tide. They offer warrior to bind, not maid. Thus, my fear and sadness for you. It is their custom, to marry male to male for such as this. I tried to change that one requirement, but their traditions are older even than ours. They offer Lord Haldir. And they agree to bind him with you in the interest of peace between our people. If you are agreed. Or the treaty is not enjoined, and we have no agreement of peace with them."

"I would not deny Rohan peace, to cushion my own pride, weaknesses and fears. I accept the bargain of the elves of Lothlorien, bitter though it is on my tongue." Éomer raised his head high, his dark eyes intent, his mouth in a grim line. "I will do this for my heart, which is Rohan."

"You agree to surrender to your bonded husband?" Théoden pressed, his lined face old with the pain of the asking. "If it must be so," Éomer flushed brick red, fury warring with humiliation and embarrassment, of what that implied. It was not done, to arrange a marriage like this. Male to male. Not in Rohan. And all would know, when the Lord Haldir was seen, who submitted to whom. All in Lothlorien would know. All in Rohan would suspect, then know. "I agree, my king. My body and my freedom for Rohan's peace."

The ceremony was held in the Elvish tongue, in the woods of Lorien, not twelve days later. No translator was given to him. Éomer understood none of it, only the recitation of his name and the name of his husband. A long name, with many titles if he was not mistaken. Far longer than his own. And he stood in a group, three elves around him, all of them so similar. As if they were brothers. And all of them unsmiling when they looked at him. Their eyes dark with unvoiced thoughts he could only guess at. As if they blamed him for this custom of theirs.

He was not kissed. The ceremony ended with a thin chain of gold being placed around his neck, three tiny, finely wrought bits of gold dangling from it. He peered at them. They were runes, ones he did not know. Had never seen, elven runes, not the words of Man. Alien to his eye, yet, beautifully carved. Then he was led out of the hall and into a bedroom.

He was alone save for an old woman. He stared at her when she began to undress him, pushing her hands away. He had not had another do such for him since he was a boy. He could manage on his own. She eyed him with clear interest, and bowed her old head, pointing to the filmy robes left on the great bed's edge for him to don. And the pan of warm, perfumed water that he was to use first.

They came in, not one elf but three, and he knew in a flash of insight, what he had not realized before. It made no sense to him, but he was sure all of them, brothers, were his husbands. All of them, not only one. He did not know why, but he knew it was so. And for the sake of Rohan he could not object.

"Will you submit?" The tallest of the three, Haldir, asked him, in a language at last that he could understand.

"Yes." Éomer answered without qualifiers. He would submit. He was his people's sacrifice.

"We do not wed as women and men, one to one. We are not concerned over the parenting and seed from which a child springs. No child of yours will rise to our throne. Only for the king is the mother of the child sequestered from all other lovers." The second elf explained. "I am Rumil. Will you submit to me, as your treaty husband?"

"Yes." Éomer told this elf as well. And the last of them stepped near.

"I am Orophin," He said, his tone quiet, carrying, lighter than the other's voices. "Will you submit your body to me, husband?"

"Yes." Éomer said, his fisted hand hidden in his light, flowing robes. He raised his eyes, looking from face to face, to all of them, all taller than he, all larger, all unsmiling. All to bed him, to remove his innocence in this one remaining way. "I will submit." For Rohan.

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