Can I get there by Candlelight?
by Tathren

Part 4

By the time they got home, Emmett didn't think he had ever been so exhausted in his life. He was fast learning his two guests' personalities, and dinner had taught him much, for the way that each one approached unknown foods was symbolic of how they approached other new things.

For his part, Éomer seemed guardedly willing to try whatever was presented to him. He raised his eyebrows incredulously at the incongruous notion of "chicken fingers," sniffed at them cautiously, but ate them nonetheless.

Rumil was the polar opposite. He looked in abject horror at anything fried, mistrustfully eyeballed the little cups of salad dressing, and barely even picked at any item set before him. Éomer at last managed to get him to eat the croutons off his salad and a bit of tortilla peeled from the cheese quesadillas but only after Emmett had described in detail what each was and Éomer had tested their safety for him. Even the taste of the water seemed to sadden him.

Despite these difficulties though, Emmett could not deny a feeling of enchantment with the fine willowy blond, with both of them really, and apparently he was not the only one. When Debbie had brought their drinks, she'd set her hands on her hips and sucked her teeth crossly as Rumil gaped in horror at the bright pink strawberry milkshake, a beverage which, to him, looked frighteningly as though it were made from the ground-up pelt of Emmett's coat. "Well good grief, sugar, what's the matter?"

He looked at her with those big innocent emerald eyes. "What are those things growing out of your head?" he asked simply.

And with that Deb was defeated. She changed her tune pretty quickly then. In fact, when the question arose of where Éomer and Rumil were to sleep that night, she was the first to insist that Emmett bring them home with him. And if he didn't, she declared, she was gonna do so herself!

The diner had cleared out almost completely by that point. Justin's shift was over, but he'd stayed while they discussed the circumstances surrounding their arrival, guessed at possible explanations, and tried to think of how they might get back again. Unsurprisingly, they didn't come up with much, and as there was clearly nought to be done for it tonight, they could only go home and try to get some sleep.

There was just one small matter left of paying the check, and therein one more surprise. It started off quite innocently—Éomer, deftly interpreting the gestures which indicated they were to pay for their food, was quick to offer to do so himself. It was only right, he reasoned, given the kindness that Emmett was showing them. "Here, let me," the man's hands pulled free his money pouch, opening it casually to draw out a palmful of gold. He never imagined the reaction he'd get.

"Oh my god."

"Is that real?"

"Put that away!" this from Justin whose hands covered the man's, shielding the treasure from view.

"Jeezus," Debbie murmured a little stunned.

"I do not understand. What is wrong?" The man glanced over at his elven friend as though Rumil might have an answer.

"You're carrying around a pouch full of gold!"

"It is the currency of my homeland, that which I knew would be accepted in the lands of my travel," the man seemed unshaken. "I see it is valued here as well."

Debbie snorted a laugh. "Leave it to Emmett; they're not just beautiful, they're rich to boot."

"Look, don't show anyone you have that, ok? It is valuable, too valuable to use paying for little things."

Emmett made a mental note as he paid the bill, that the monetary system was something he'd have to explain as well...in the morning.

For now, finally, they were standing just within the open door in Emmett's foyer and surveying their surroundings. The idea of an apartment—a small suite of rooms, in a building where many lived—was well enough, but how could there be no lord of the house, no relation between neighbors? The reality though seemed to present less of a challenge. Emmett gave a brief tour: living room, kitchen, bathroom, bedrooms. "That one used to be Michael's—the guy dressed in the blue and yellow tights at the club—but he moved out a few weeks ago to go live with his boyfriend, and the place has been getting kind of lonely anyway...so make yourselves at home."

Éomer answered this with a curt nod which spoke for them both. He had a knack for stripping speech down to its fundamentals and was not one to bandy words: this was Emmett's home and they were welcome here.

Unstrapping his sword and laying it aside, he turned his attention to his armor, and Rumil, shedding his bow and quiver, assisted wordlessly, deftly negotiating buckles and straps with casual familiarity. One by one the hardened leather plates were piled in a heap on the floor while Emmett looked on in awe.

Beneath the plates was a chain hauberk that reached half way down his thighs. Éomer tied his hair up casually to keep it out of the way, bent forward at the waist, arms extended to the floor and, with the elf's help, let the heavy garment slide off in a clatter onto the hardwood. Underneath that, there was a skirt of scale mail, split up the center and buckled at the waist and a heavily quilted shirt which he untied and shed, until finally he stood in leggings and a loose simple tunic, a long vest of soft brown leather on top.

Rumil laid the chain shirt and the scale armor over the back of the sofa as though they were as common an article as an everyday pair of running shoes, and suddenly Emmett was keenly aware of just how different the lives of these two men must be from anything he could understand or even imagine. These men, for whom arms and armor were a way of life, had probably seen more death than Emmett ever wanted to imagine witnessing in all his days. The thought made him wonder if Éomer had ever killed a man, for he realized he could imagine him doing it, and it frightened him a little. Even if he tried, though, he could not imagine Rumil taking a life.

Caught in his reflections, Emmett did not realize that he was staring until the Rohirrim's voice jarred him from his reverie. "I am sorry. Is it unseemly for me to appear thus before you? I am just weary, my apologies."

"Oh, no no, really, its fine," Emmett assured hastily trying to compose himself. "Why don't you have a seat; make yourselves at home. I'm just going to go slip into something a little more comfortable," and so saying he darted off into his room seeking a few moments to collect his thoughts.

Left alone, Éomer and Rumil seated themselves on the couch. Rumil rested his head on the man's shoulder, and Éomer shifted to draw the elf more fully into his arms. Neither spoke, but a deep sigh escaped the man's lips as he felt himself finally relax holding his lover, and he felt the elf's tired muscles echoing the sentiments of his own.

By the time Emmett emerged from his room once more, now clad in plaid flannel pants and Queens College t-shirt, devoid of make-up and wig, Rumil had fallen into a light gentle sleep in Éomer's arms. The Rohirrim, though, was still very much awake, and his lips parted, clearly taken aback by the sight of the man who stepped from the adjoining room. "...Emmett?" he asked a little hesitantly, his frown deepening as his eyes traveled the man's form with an almost palpable scrutiny.

"Yeah?" Emmett asked a little startled, caught up in his own appraisal of the way Rumil was nestled in Éomer's arms. In the intervening minutes he'd let his mind get caught up in the notion that the big man was some brutal bloodthirsty warrior, and now the sight that met his eyes surprised him. Rumil shifted slightly as the man drew him closer, the protectiveness so reflexive that Éomer must not even notice he'd done so. It seemed to Emmett that Rumil must be unwell, for his eyes hung half closed, glazed strangely over. Emmett was about to ask about it, but Éomer spoke first.

"What happened to your hair?"

"Huh?...Oh! It was a wig. Part of the..."

"Costume. Right," Éomer finished with a tired looking nod as though drained by the exertion of understanding. He paused and sighed before asking, "Have you servants who might draw me a bath?"

Emmett puzzled. He'd been considering how the man suddenly looked somehow older than before and it took him a moment to refocus on the words. The request seemed so anachronistic he had a hard time processing it. "S-servants? Honey, nobody has servants now...'cept maybe some big ol' leather daddy with a troupe of twink subs and an overactive appetite for control. But we can run a bath. Come on, I'll show you." A moment of silence and then Emmett's offer was rewarded with a gentle smile, and he thought absently that it was a shame Éomer did not smile more. He gestured towards the bathroom.

"A moment, please." The man had turned his attention to Rumil again and gathering the elf into his arms, he carried him into the bedroom and laid him atop the covers. Emmett shifted his position to peer at a distance through the door, his curiosity getting the best of him, though even as he did so he knew he shouldn't be watching. 'But then,' he rationalized, 'Éomer hadn't actually closed the door behind him...'

Inside the room, the man was pulling free his companion's boots and brushing a light kiss against his brow. He moved as though handling blown glass, as though Rumil was the center of his whole world which was not far from true, while from his vantage point, Emmett was wondering what it must be like to have someone look at you like that; he wondered about how they'd met, about the past they'd shared; he wondered whether this was the look of true love. In fact he was so distracted by his musings that he only barely managed to draw his gaze away before Éomer turned from the bed and very nearly caught him watching.

The man looked at him queerly, and Emmett had to wonder whether perhaps he suspected. He shifted self-consciously, gestured with one delicately pointed forefinger, and led his guest into the bathroom. "Justin explained what all these things are and how they work, right?"

"Aye," the man eyed the bathroom apparatus with a mistrustful caution, "but it seems strange to me still."

Emmett explained the workings of each nob, lever, and switch once more, while Éomer seemed likely to lose himself in the fascination of flicking the lights on and off over and over again. "How does it work?" he asked in awe.

"Electricity. Something to do with current and wattage and...things like that." By the look he received, Emmett realized he might just as well have said the thing worked by magic. "Here, look," he ran the tap in the bathtub. "This one's the hot water, this one's cold. You can make it as warm as you like." He switched on the shower and Éomer jumped, staring at it with wide eyes. "Easy," Emmett lay a hand on his arm as he adjusted the shower curtain. "There are towels there, and soap and shampoo in the shower—everything you need."

There was a strange moment of silence as the two looked at each other and then Éomer nodded, a tense formal nod, and Emmett withdrew, pulling the bathroom door closed behind him.

"Éomer?"

Emmett peered through the crack in the door which hadn't fully latched in his wake. He repeated his quiet inquiry and knocked, the pressure swinging the door more widely ajar and he swallowed hard his eyes falling on the newly-revealed sight. The man was standing by the sink toweling dry his hair and he turned when he heard the movement behind him.

Emmett's mouth felt instantly dry—dry like the Sahara. No modesty here, he noted. Not that Éomer had anything to be modest about. Certainly not that pale copper skin, that broad sculpted chest, those dark pebble-brown nipples, that flat muscled stomach—I could scrub my laundry on those abs. Not that perfect nest of dark gold curls, or his cock (uncut, Emmett noted), which hung long and soft on the generous pillow of his scrotum nestled between those well-muscled thighs. Even the notable scars he bore—dark rosy pink on his flank, his shoulder, one across his chest—even these did not mar the beauty of his naked form.

A droplet of water fell from his hair and rolled languidly down his chest and across the plane of his belly—Oh to be that water drop.The door was fully open now and Emmett stood inside it, not certain how he'd gotten there. Something in Éomer's eyes made Emmett's legs tremble and he wondered, if he dropped down on his knees, said not a word, would Éomer let him suck him off? Blood pounded in his ears and the world spun round on its axis.

"Emmett...?"

"I...I brought you some clothes. They might fit you. They're...too big for me." He held out a neatly folded pair of flannel pajama pants and tried to still the shaking in his hand.

"Thank you." Éomer turned slightly, hiding the prize of his sex from Emmett's view, and slipped the pants on. They were a little snug on his thighs and they hugged his backside splendidly—Emmett quite approved. That done, he knew that he should withdraw and leave the man in privacy, but he was reluctant to do so, not least because he knew he'd never get to sleep now even if he tried. But he couldn't just stand there gaping like a fish either.

His mind searched for something to speak of and managed to light on the man asleep in the other room. "So..uh...how long have you two been together?"

He hadn't expected the inquiry to bring Éomer's head whipping so sharply around or that hard expression in his eyes. He didn't know that, what for him was a casual matter, was for Éomer and Rumil something very private and yet undisplayed before the eyes of Men.

The big man's appraising gaze, though, uncovered no duplicity or accusation. Emmett's inquiry was innocent, genuinely interested, and while the Rohirrim would likely not have spoken on the matter to most, he found himself answering, with softening eyes, "Five years."

"Wow, that's a really long time."

Éomer almost laughed at that, "I suppose that depends on who you ask."

Silence stretched between them, but Emmett was not willing to let the spark of conversation die. "Well, how did you meet?"

Éomer turned and leaned back against the sink, resting his hands on the counter as he regarded Emmett for a long quiet moment. "I was nineteen years old, on a diplomatic mission to Lothlorien with my cousin. Rumil was one of three brothers assigned to escort our party through their lands." His voice was soft with something like reverence for the memories, "I fell in love the first time I saw him. He, of course, wanted nothing to do with me.

"I told myself it was a passing fancy. My cousin kept saying I would meet a girl in Rohan, that I would feel better come the spring. But winter came and went, and the fancy did not pass. So I returned, determined to find him and to win his heart...and I did."

"That is so beautiful...How? What did you say?" Emmett, who was hopelessly romantic to begin with, was already helplessly caught in the story.

Éomer shook his head a little and smiled at the other man's enthusiasm, but he'd had no magic words of elf-charming by which to win his partner's heart. "Rumil had never known a Man before me. In fact I doubt he'd ever even seen Men before my cousin and I came to Lorien with our Riders. He had to learn that I was not what he expected—not what he'd been taught to expect."

Emmett's carefree mental jaunt through endlessly romantic daisy fields hit a snag, brought him crashing headfirst into an anthill. Rumil wasn't...? He checked the halls of his memory and found that Éomer most certainly had been using masculine pronouns to refer to his lover...Was Rumil trans? Possible, perhaps, but then still—he'd never seen men? How could he never have seen men?! The whole idea made no sense whatsoever. One delicately pointed finger waggled back towards the spare bedroom, "You mean he's...ummm...he's...not...a man?"

Éomer stared frowning as though he might be speaking to a madman, "He is an elf."

Eyebrows raised. Too surreal, Emmett decided, this whole night was by far too surreal. "And here you had me thinking he was a Vulcan." Not really the case, true; he'd fallen back on sarcasm, but as its effect seemed lost on the man, and the jest hadn't gained him any ground.

"A what?"

"Vulcan," Emmett held up his hand with fingers parted in a central 'v' á la Mr. Spock, "you know, 'live long and prosper'?"

Quite obviously, Éomer did not know. "Umm, no."

"And here I'd always figured elves would be shorter." Emmett held out his hand around hip-height, as though suggesting the appropriate stature.

"There are no elves in these lands then?" the Rohirrim's frown deepened, puzzled.

"Honey, there are no elves in this world. " Emmett turned back towards the living room and Éomer followed in his wake with growing irritation.

The the big man's eyes flared, a dangerous edge to his voice, "What?"

Emmett was bending down searching the shelves of a bookcase, his back to the other, "They're made up from children's stories, nobody really believes in them. They're not real."

Éomer frowned so deeply his eyebrows knit together, and he was shaking his head in denial. The idea was totally insane—of course elves were real. What in the name of Udun was Emmett talking about? "What is he then?" he challenged. He could feel the situation careening fast out of control and it angered him.

"I don't know. I would have thought he was a man... When people here think of elves, they think of little men with pointy-toed shoes making toys in Santa's workshop. Here look," Emmett had retrieved the volume he was looking for, a thin gold-bound children's book with colorful illustrations and large print, the title on the cover: 'The Night Before Christmas.' He flipped open to a page that pictured the workshop, elves and all.

Éomer looked at their comical faces, their short rotund bodies, graceless and big-bellied, their humorous clothing, and his eyes grew sad and worried. "Rumil's people are all of stature like him—tall, slender, and strong, but their elegance, their grace is far greater than what can be summoned by any Man. They are known for their great wisdom, and Men have claimed that they are creatures of magic, for the secrets of their ways are so wondrous, but they themselves do not understand what is meant by the term. Whatever magic they have, it is simply in their nature, just as breathing and talking are in ours." He flipped the pages of the book, quickly taking in the tale, though its timelessness meant nothing to him. "You mustn't show him this," he said simply, as he passed the book back to Emmett and looked away.

"You really love him, don't you?"

The sudden inquiry brought Éomer's eyes up sharply and he seemed quite shocked—of course he loved the elf, but he hadn't thought he'd made himself so obvious. He said nothing and the silence stretched until Emmett recalled what they'd been speaking of, "I don't think I've seen anyone like him before ever...at least not while I was awake. You're really lucky."

Éomer answered with a weak smile, though there was a tired sadness in his eyes.

"He's really lucky too," Emmett actually blushed as he paid the compliment, thinking how fabulous it must be to have a man like Éomer—so strong, so impassioned, so gorgeous —in love with you.

But the Rohirrim only sighed, looking away and Emmett saw how sad he seemed. "What's wrong?"

"I wish that were so, that he were lucky," Éomer said softly, surprised with himself for speaking. There was something about Emmett's manner, something utterly without duplicity, that made him want to say things he'd otherwise keep to himself. "By winning his love, I fear I have doomed him. If only I knew then, perhaps I would not have gone back."

"I don't understand."

"Rumil has given me his heart—for this he will die."

"W-why?"

"Because I am a Man."

Images of gay-bashing lynch mobs flashed through Emmett's mind only to be almost instantly dismissed: by 'Man' Éomer didn't mean 'man,' he meant 'not an elf.' Still this was a far cry from explaining Rumil's imminent demise. If these elves were so all-fired wise, certainly they couldn't be so prejudiced as to condemn one of their own people for falling in love...but he knew he'd heard the words, and what else could they mean? "Oh my god, that's...that's terrible! ...But there's got to be somewhere you can go!...Like here! Oh...oh!! That's why you're here! I mean not everyone in this world exactly loves gays, but most people aren't out to kill us, I mean not around here at least..."

The words were pouring out in a torrent far faster than Emmett could consider them, and Éomer, who'd begun simply by looking stunned, was now trying to stem the gushing tide of near-hysterics. "Emmett. Emmett...Emmett!"

"What?"

"What are you talking about?"

"A...a place you can go where no one will try to kill Rumil..."

The stunned expression persisted.

"...for falling in love with you..."

"No one is trying to kill him."

"But you said..." Emmett's mind raced, stumbled, careened, and came crashing down on an even more horrifying possibility. "Oh god..." He crossed the short space between them and laid a steady reassuring hand on Éomer's shoulder. "Are you positive?" he asked, his concern deep.

Éomer was nonplused, "Umm, yes, I'm quite certain."

"No, I mean...do you have it ?"

"Have what?"

Apparently not. He shook his head, "Never mind. Umm, why is Rumil going to die?"

"Because he has given his love to a mortal."

"Sorry?"

"He loves a mortal man."

"Yeah, so you said..." puzzle pieces fell into place like dominoes. Emmett's jaw hung open. "A-are you telling me that he is not mortal?!"

"The elven folk do not age. The eldest among them have lived for many thousands of years and yet they look no older than Rumil does now. Seldom do those of elven blood give their love to Men. Those who have, have died. They say it comes from the pain of a broken heart when their mortal companion passes—it is the one thing that they cannot endure."

Emmett gaped in astonishment, trying to get his head around the words. He didn't know if he should believe the man, but he did know he wanted to—he wanted so badly for this story and these people to be real that he felt his very being depended on it.

"That, I fear, is the fate to which I doomed Rumil when I won him. Would that I had understood it sooner; by the time I did it was too late." The Rohirrim's voice trailed off in a sigh, heavy with the weight of his words and he looked towards his bedroom door, "It is late, we should be abed."

Thus they bid each other good night. But even as they did, each man knew that he'd manage no sleep, and both of them were right in their presumption.

Part 5

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