Title: Warriors Laid to Rest Author: Raederle Author e-mail: ashton5x5@cs.com Pairing: Boromir/Éomer, A/B, A/E Rating: R Summary: An expansion of my drabble, "A Worthy Man." Disclaimer: Don't own ‘em, not for profit Warnings: Abuse of horse metaphors Beta: Liars Dance Notes: Begins before Éomer was given charge of the east marches. Was supposed to be Boromir/Éomer PWP only, but Aragorn won't stay out of Boromir's pants, (or anyone else's) so he shows up, too. And then a story showed up. Dark hills at evening in the west, Where sunset hovers like a sound Of golden horns that sang to rest Old bones of warriors under ground, Far now from all the bannered ways Where flash the legions of the sun, You fade – as if the last of days Were fading, and all wars were done. "The Dark Hills" by Edward Arlington Robinson Éomer walked into the Golden Hall and saw his cousin talking to a stranger dressed in rich clothing. He passed over to the pair, his curiosity aroused. "Éomer, greet our guest," Théodred said. "He is Boromir, the Steward's son of Gondor. Boromir, this is my cousin, Éomer, son of Éomund." The tall, blond man turned around and Éomer nearly gasped aloud as his eyes met the twinkling green ones of the Steward's son. Those eyes were doing peculiar things to his breathing. Finally, he pulled his scattered wits together and bowed, "I am pleased to meet you." "My pleasure," Boromir purred, and Éomer shivered as the voice raised the hair on the back of his neck and brought his cock to attention. Théodred was looking at him knowingly, "Take him to his room and see to his needs." Éomer fought a losing battle against the blush that was trying to form on his cheeks, but he did not miss the wink that Boromir threw to Théodred as he turned to follow his guide. The young Rohirrim led the Steward's son out of the Golden Hall toward the guest quarters reserved for diplomats. He felt the Gondorian's eyes on him as they walked, and felt a mixture of pride at his interest and irritation with the lordly man. Boromir of Gondor was fair to see and Éomer was still trying to control the lust for the man that had washed through him when Théodred introduced them. Boromir apparently felt the same, if the searing looks currently aimed at his back were any indication, but Éomer was young enough to be annoyed at Boromir's easy assumption of their bedding each other. They finally reached the room, and Éomer entered and began lighting the torches. Boromir followed him inside. The maids had been in already, freshening the bed linens and laying out dried meats, bread, and ale. "I've not seen you before, Éomund's son," Boromir said. Éomer took the statement for the question it was intended. "I have but lately begun to ride out with my cousin on his patrols." He winced at the youthful earnestness in his voice and feared he sounded an unsophisticated rustic to the magnificent Gondorian. Boromir merely smiled reminiscently, "It is a great thing when a man is given responsibility for his people." Boromir's words were meant to be kind, but Éomer's prickly pride reared up and he snapped, "The men of the Mark mature quickly, and we take our responsibilities seriously." "Easy, young stallion, I intended no offense," Boromir said soothingly. But Éomer was thoroughly ruffled, torn between his admiration for the Steward's son and his desire to wipe the arrogance out of his manner. He stepped forward and growled, "I am not your stallion!" "No? But I still mean to ride you," Boromir smirked lazily. "And from the looks you have been sending me, I would venture that you would not object." Éomer moved even closer. The Gondorian was no small man, but Éomer found that he still topped him by a few inches, and he decided to use his advantage of height. "Perhaps you shall be the one who is the steed tonight," he rumbled softly, as he pushed Boromir against the door with his larger frame. "You may try," Boromir whispered, and then he grabbed the front of Éomer's tunic and spun the Rider around, switching their places. Boromir ground his erection into Éomer, who momentarily lost his purpose as a wave of desire rippled through his belly. He recovered however, and thrust the Gondorian away. Boromir did not release his hold on Éomer's tunic lacings and they ripped. Boromir stared at the muscular chest revealed to him. It was covered with light brown hair, far thicker than Boromir's. "Very nice, my stallion," he taunted, correctly gauging the effect of his words on Éomer. The Rider lunged at him, and grabbing the edges of his coat, ripped it open, pieces of buckles flying across the room. Éomer was entranced. Boromir's chest was well developed and the hair was very blond and trailed into the waistband of his leggings. He jerked the ruined garment the rest of the way off of Boromir's shoulders. Boromir reached up and wrapped a thick hank of Éomer's hair around his fist, pulling the Rider's head back. The Steward's son fastened his lips on the exposed patch of skin where neck met shoulders. Éomer bucked at the heat from that mouth and clenched his own hands in Boromir's hair to tilt his head back. The Rider smashed their lips together, while Boromir grappled with the lacings to his leggings. The ties came undone and Boromir twisted out of Éomer's grasp. The Rider tried to pursue him, but his pants puddled at his ankles and he tripped. As he fell, he lunged into Boromir, who crashed into the laden table. The two men fell to the floor amidst the ruins of Boromir's dinner. The Steward's son landed heavily, but rolled free of the broken crockery. Éomer kicked his feet free of his leggings and dove for the lacings of Boromir's garments. Boromir dodged and pulled off his own pants. The two men stood for a moment staring at each other. The firelight gilded their bodies, setting their skin aglow. Éomer was darker than the Gondorian from his days in the saddle, but Boromir was golden from head to foot. "You are a comely captain, Boromir of Gondor," Éomer said. Boromir circled the younger man, but Éomer moved with him, unwilling to grant any advantage. Boromir lunged forward suddenly and they grappled, their bodies writhing, and their cocks knocking into each other. Éomer was panting from the exertion and his body was flushed from desire. Neither man could gain the advantage in their erotic duel; Éomer was taller and heavier, but Boromir had the advantage of years more experience. The Gondorian suddenly dropped to the floor and swept Éomer's legs out from under him. The Rider had not been expecting the move and he landed face down on the rug. Boromir was on him in an instant. "Do you yield?" Boromir straddled Éomer, but the young Rohirrim hunched his back and lunged backwards. He landed heavily on the Gondorian and Boromir's breath whooshed out. Éomer sprang to his feet, grabbed the other man's arm and hurled him face down on to the bed. The Rider pounced on the blond man, covering his body, shoving his legs apart and pinning his shoulders down. "I will never yield, do you?" Éomer growled. Boromir squirmed, but the Rohirrim had him thoroughly corralled and he could not shift the larger man. Éomer's heavy cock was resting in his cleft and he had started to undulate his hips. Boromir moaned. "I yield. Do it." Éomer gritted his teeth at the words, trying not to plunge roughly into the sweet flesh below him. "I have nothing to ease the entry, save spit." The blond man made no reply but thrust back against the Rider. Éomer groaned and quickly gathered what moisture he could, spreading it around the tip of his member. He pulled Boromir to his hands and knees, and slowly pushed his way inside the tight heat. Boromir had his head down and was panting fiercely at the invasion, struggling to relax into the harsh penetration. Éomer paused when he was fully mounted in the strong body of Gondor's Captain. "Ride me!" Boromir demanded. "Show me your paces, my stallion." The young Rohirrim needed no further encouragement and soon found a pounding rhythm. His hips crashed into Boromir's with every stroke and Boromir grasped the headboard to keep his balance. Éomer was quickly losing control and he reached around, fisting Boromir's heavy cock, as he emptied himself into the older man. Boromir came a moment later. Éomer collapsed on top of Boromir, his youthful energy momentarily drained by the force of his orgasm. After he had regained his breath, he nuzzled Boromir's neck. "Well fought, Gondorian. But truly you do not seem like one of the grave men of Gondor to me, more like one of the swift sons of Eorl I deem you." "Then we are well mated," Boromir laughed. "But you are no light load, Éomund's son!" And he bucked his hips and Éomer allowed himself to be rolled to the side. After a time, Éomer shifted as if to leave, but stopped when Boromir placed a hand on his arm. "Stay, please. I wish to wake to find your honey mane spread out on my pillow and your golden body adorning my sheets." Éomer blushed at the praise, but hesitated, somehow knowing that Boromir was asking for far more than a simple night together. However, such was the allure of Gondor's Captain, that he could not refuse and so he agreed, not sure what bargain he had made with the older man. They met many times over the next few years, and when Éomer was made the Third Marshal of the Mark and given his father's charges of the Eastmark, Boromir showed up and celebrated with him all night. After each meeting, Éomer felt his heart slip a little more out of his grip and into the keeping of the Captain of Gondor. But the pace of the ever-simmering war increased and Éomer began to see a bleak despair in the eyes of the Steward's son. It was never so obvious as the day that Boromir arrived at Edoras, with a lame horse, on an errand from his father to the secret valley of the Elves. ***** Éomer rode northeast with his éored and other Riders who remained loyal to him and to Rohan. His scouts had reported an Orc raiding party coming east from the River, and he was determined to stop them, no matter what Théoden's slimy advisor said. His cousin was dying, his uncle had exiled him, and his sister faced an uncertain future. Éomer had never felt so bereft. A lump of loneliness rose in his throat and he wished he could keep going north, following Boromir's trail, until he found his lover. The riderless horse worried him, and he finally admitted it, that he loved the Steward's son, that their's was not just a casual liaison. And he missed Boromir's open-hearted common sense, now. The Captain of Gondor would know what to do about the disaster slowly overtaking Rohan. The Riders found the Orcs and slaughtered them all. Éomer rejoiced in the bloodshed, payment to Saruman for the massacre at the Fords of Isen. And it kept his men happy, gave them a purpose for their exile. The éored resumed their ride north, looking for any Orc stragglers. A voice from nowhere suddenly hailed them, "What news, Riders of Rohan?" The troop spun around quickly and the strangers were soon surrounded. Éomer hid his surprise, for never had he heard of a Dwarf, an Elf and a Man hunting together. The Dwarf was insolent and Éomer had come to the end of his patience with everything. The situation had deteriorated to the point where Éomer was staring at an Elven arrow in his face, when the Man finally intervened. "My name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. We seek our companions who were waylaid by an Orc band. Have you seen them?" "We caught the Orcs yesterday at twilight. We left none living." Aragorn replied, "Our friends were small, they would appear as children to you. They are Halflings." Éomer started, "Halflings? Long has it been since Boromir the brave set out in search of the answer to that riddle. The horse we gave him came back riderless. What news have you of him?" But Aragorn turned away, and finally the Elf, Legolas, spoke, "He fell to the Orc band we pursued and you destroyed. We gave him to the River of Gondor." Grief wrapped itself around Éomer's heart and he felt dizzy. He bowed his head, trying to regain his calm. He sensed an answering sorrow in one of the strangers and he looked up to find anguished blue eyes staring at him. "You loved him, too," Aragorn said. Éomer nodded and then found his voice again, "He was a worthy man and he will be missed as a mighty Captain. But I loved him. And may it comfort you in your own grief for him, but know that he is avenged!" The Rider saw something that looked like triumph flare in Aragorn's eyes, and suddenly he wanted to help this man who had evidently been found worthy by Boromir. He whistled for their spare horses. "Take these mounts; I give them to you freely. But do not expect any aid from the King of this land, he no longer knows even his kin." "We thank you," Aragorn said. "And I hope with your assistance, we may recover our friends." "Do not look for hope," Éomer replied. "It has deserted this domain." He swung onto Firefoot, and pumped his fist to his Riders. "We ride north!" ****** The celebration had begun by the time Éomer returned to the Hall. He had been glad to see his own rooms again and had tarried there for a time, alone with his memories of the golden Captain of Gondor. When he entered the Hall, he remained on the outskirts of the party, watching his uncle and Aragorn. "Hail the victorious dead!" Théoden proclaimed. The Riders roared their approval and drank. But Éomer was looking at Aragorn and he saw the Ranger's hesitation before he raised the cup to his lips. Éowyn approached with a stirrup cup and Éomer would have left the field clear to his sister if the dark man had shown any interest, but Aragorn turned away from her after drinking. Then Éomer knew that the man who haunted his dreams troubled Aragorn as well. Éomer stood in front of the Ranger. "Some griefs are too strong for celebration. I see such a sorrow in your eyes. Will you come with me?" Aragorn raised his weary blue eyes to those of the Third Marshal and nodded. Éomer led the way back to his rooms. He latched the door behind them and lit a single candle. "Tell me," he urged the Dúnedain. The man remained silent for a moment and then began to talk in a low, drawling voice that Éomer had to move closer to hear. Aragorn spoke of their journey and the loss of Gandalf and when his tale reached the ambush by the Uruk-Hai, Éomer wrapped his arms around the sorrowing man, offering his strength. "He fought until he could no longer stand and then he died in my arms, with his sword in his hand," Aragorn finished. "I would expect no less of him," Éomer said softly. They sat quietly, lost in their memories of Boromir, and then Éomer gently stroked the Ranger's face and turned it toward him. "This grief will never fully leave me, but it has been some few days since I learned of it. The lance of pain has lost a little of its sting and I find that I would seek solace in your embrace." Aragorn said nothing, but he did not pull away when Éomer softly brought their lips together. The Ranger allowed the Rider's tongue entrance into his mouth and he gently twined it with his own. Éomer finally relaxed when he felt Aragorn's hands seeking the openings to his clothes. They broke the kiss and slowly removed their garments. Éomer was fully aroused, but he felt no urgency, content with the unhurried rhythm of their ancient dance. When at last they were both bare, Aragorn held the young Rohirrim in his deep blue gaze for a moment. Éomer stood proudly, inflating his chest and arching his neck, knowing he was showing off, but wanting to please this enigmatic man. Aragorn reached forward and lightly laced his fingers in the honey colored hair and pulled Éomer into another languid kiss. The Rider gently urged Aragorn down onto the bed, and they lay facing each other on their sides, their lips caressing as their hands slowly glided over supple muscles and scarred skin. This was no fierce clash of warriors as it had been with Boromir, but rather the mellow loving of two men who have lost too much and look for strength to continue to fight. Éomer felt his grief loosen as his passion rose and he began to thrust his thick manhood against Aragorn's. The man returned the action and they stayed there, slowly grinding against each other as irresistible pressure built within them. Éomer finally came and his spasms seemed to go on forever, and then he felt an answering spurt of warmth covering him as Aragorn joined him in rapture. Aragorn sighed deeply and wrapped his legs around Éomer. Both men slid into exhausted sleep. ***** Days later, in the encampment where the Riders were mustering, Aragorn sought entrance to Théoden's tent. Éomer was there, along with Elfhelm and Grimbold. "I must leave you now, Théoden King," Aragorn said. "For me the time for stealth has passed and I will dare yonder mountain and the Paths of the Dead," he pointed to the Dimholt. "The Paths of the Dead! You do as you will, Aragorn. I think it is your doom to dare ways that others do not," Théoden declared. Aragorn turned to leave and Éomer followed him out. "Alas! Aragorn, my friend, I had hoped that we would ride to war together. But if you seek this path, then our parting has come and my grief shall grow. We will meet no more under the Sun." The Ranger stopped and pulled the Rider into his embrace. "I say to you, Éomer, that we will meet again, though all the hosts of Mordor stand between us." Five days later, Éomer had lost everyone that he loved, but he lifted his sword and shouted his defiance to the sky. He urged his horse to the black ships, determined that the Corsairs should not prevail. His wrath turned to joy when he saw the banner of the lead ship catch the wind. There on the field of black were the tokens of Elendil and his heart nearly burst with triumph when he realized that there was one whom he loved who still lived. And so at length, Éomer and Aragorn met in the midst of battle, and they leaned on their swords and they looked at each other with gladness in their hearts. "Did I not say to you that we would meet again?" Aragorn asked. "I doubted you, for I did not know then that you were a man foresighted. Never was a meeting of friends more joyful." And they clasped arm in arm. "But grievous are our losses this day." "Then let us avenge them!" Aragorn lifted his sword and returned to the battle with the new King of Rohan by his side. ***** When at last the coronation was over, and Elessar had dispensed such justice as was in his power and had granted such boons as he was able, then he met privately with the King of Rohan. "Between us there can be no words of giving and taking, nor of reward, for we are brothers. Happy was the hour that Eorl rode from the North. You have been a blessing to me when I thought my heart was lost." And Éomer answered, "Since the day you rose before me out of the long green grass of the downs, I have loved you, and that love shall not fail. I am ever yours to command." Aragorn embraced Éomer and their passions mounted, and afterwards they lay together and remembered the man who had drawn them together. "We have saved the things that he loved, let us hope that he sleeps in peace," Aragorn murmured. "And we will never forget him," Éomer added. The next day, Elessar renewed to Éomer the gift of Cirion, and Éomer took again the Oath of Eorl. Thus Rohan was ever a free kingdom in league with Gondor and Arnor. The hatreds which Sauron bred were slow to die, and often was Éomer called upon to fulfill his oath, and whenever King Elessar went to war, King Éomer went also and the green horse banner flew in many winds beside the sable banner of the Tree. And the thunder of cavalry of the Mark and the horns of the Rohirrim were heard in distant lands until Éomer grew old. And when at last he died, a new line of mounds was started, and Éomer Éadig was laid to rest among the simbelmynë.