Love and War - For Tallulah Red
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lotr_sesaTitle: Love and War - for Tallulah Red
Author: Ignoblebard
Pairing: Imrahil/Eomer
Rating: PG13
The first time Imrahil saw Éomer, really saw him, was in the heat of battle, felling Orcs and Southrons upon the Pelennor Fields even as he and his men rode to their aid. Fell and fierce was he, his golden hair shining like a nimbus in the sun. He and his horsemen were besieged, but he stood upon a hill rallying the men to his banner, laughing in the face of certain defeat. As Imrahil led his men into the fray he feared not for the King of Rohan, for he was looking upon a man no mere enemy could slay, not even the armies hosts of Mûmakil and Haradrim arrayed against him.
After that, Imrahil knew only the battle fury in his own breast for many hours, pushing through the forces of Mordor until the remainder of the enemy was slain or fled. Weary but triumphant, he and his men left the field as the sun blazed its last light behind them. He saw Aragorn and Éomer riding from the field and joined them. They exchanged wordless nods and rode toward the city gates, each lost in his thoughts. Aragorn refused to enter the city but Imrahil and Éomer passed through the broken gates. Their sense of victory was brief and tinged with sorrow when they received the news of Faramir and Merry, lying near death in the Houses of Healing. The only thing that mitigated their grief was Éomer’s joy upon being told Éowyn yet lived.
Imrahil departed and left Aragorn and Éomer to tend to the business of the city, for Aragorn had named him Steward until Faramir was healed or until Aragorn himself was ready to take on the mantle of kingship. He worked long into the night on the business of the city, finally retiring to his rooms just before dawn. As he sat by the fire, taking off his boots a soft knock came upon the door. He answered it, surprised to see Éomer standing there.
“May I come in?” he asked.
Imrahil stepped aside so he could enter. “Of course. What can I do for you?”
Éomer entered and Imrahil marveled at his golden hair, now caught back in a rough pony tail. Imrahil could smell the scent of leather and musk as he swept past. The King of the Mark still wore his mail though his vambraces, gloves and helm were gone.
“You have already done a great service for me and I have come to thank you,” Éomer said.
“What service?” Imrahil asked, puzzled.
“I am told it was you who discovered my sister yet lived and got her the help she needed. I am most grateful.”
“Ah, well, I just happened upon the litter of your sister and Théoden King and noticed she was still breathing. How does she fare?”
“Her spirit is still wounded but Aragorn has healed her body and brought her out of the dark dreams caused by the Black Breath. I myself am wounded that I never saw the frost upon her soul. Our realm suffered greatly at the hands of Saruman. Much was hidden from our eyes even as our ears were deceived by poisonous counsel.”
“I am sorry to hear it. These are indeed evil times. While I am glad Aragorn was able to lead Faramir and Éowyn out of the darkness, I fear today’s victory was but a single step in the long road ahead.”
“Indeed,” Éomer said, “I am also grateful to you and your knights for your aid on the field today. Without you both my sister and I would be lost. It is a debt I intend to repay when all this is over.”
“You owe me no debt. Your strength and courage was an inspiration. I must tell you I was quite astounded when I saw you upon the hillock today, sword raised in defiance. I knew then you were a man of great strength and nobility. Rohan will not suffer defeat under one such as you.”
“You flatter me,” Éomer said, but Imrahil could see he was not offended by it.
“Would you like a drink?” Imrahil asked.
Éomer accepted and they talked until the early morning, a natural admiration and affability rising between them. At last Éomer rose to leave. “I am sorry to have kept you. As weary as I am you must be equally weary and ready for your bed.”
“I long for the comfort of my bed but your visit has refreshed me. You may stay if you wish.”
“Thank you but I must go and see to my sister then try to get a little sleep before the council meets today. Gandalf must surely have a new task for us.”
“He does always seem to know what must be done,” Imrahil said with a chuckle. “Farewell, then, Éomer King, until I see you at the council.”
When Éomer departed, Imrahil removed his heavy clothing and allowed himself the luxury of a few hours sleep.
The council decided that the armies of Gondor and Rohan must make a final push toward the Black Gate in order to distract Sauron from Frodo’s quest, and so it was done. The road was long and victory far from certain but that did not dampen Imrahil’s mood. He was proud to be riding into battle with the new Kings of Gondor and Rohan.
The battle was as fierce as any Imrahil had ever known. He and his knights fought like men possessed, but still the enemy kept coming in waves. Forced to give ground, he fought back to back with Aragorn and the sons of Elrond until, just as suddenly as the fighting had begun, it ceased. The orcs and trolls who had been slaughtering his knights simply dropped their weapons and ran. A shattering roar filled the landscape as the mighty fortress of Barad-dûr crashed to the ground, shaking them where they stood in amazement and relief.
Easterlings and Southron men, desperate and wild, still assailed them but they fought their way to victory over this enemy as well. They tended their wounded and buried their dead, then marched to the field of Cormallen where they took their rest and raised brightly colored pavilions in the springtime sun.
Imrahil was heartened to see that so many of his men had survived, but grieved for the losses amongst the Dúnedain and the men of Rohan. He visited the makeshift hospital to speak with the wounded and there he saw Éomer talking to a group of his injured soldiers. One of the men said something and Éomer laughed, his white teeth flashing against his tanned skin, his blond hair shining like spun gold in the lamplight. Imrahil’s heart skipped a beat. He finished speaking with his men then went for a walk in the sunshine to clear his head.
The greenery of spring abounded from every tree and bush, the sun shone in a brilliant blue sky, and Imrahil felt a burst of joy which was only heightened when Éomer appeared beside him.
“I have seen you little since the council,” he said. “I was hoping we might have the chance to talk again.”
“So was I,” Imrahil replied. “I very much enjoyed our last conversation. Perhaps tonight after the feast you could come to my tent.”
“Or you to mine,” Éomer said with a twinkle in his eye.
“That would be agreeable as well,” Imrahil smiled.
He did not know why he was so nervous that evening as he prepared to go to Éomer’s tent but he found his stomach fluttering in a way it never had before a battle. He decided it was because some battles were easier to fight than others.
When he had worked up sufficient courage, he went to Eomer’s pavilion and had himself announced. The king of Rohan received him graciously, dismissing his servants and pouring him a glass of wine.
Imrahil accepted it and took a sip, discovering it to be hearty and much stronger than the wine he was used to in Dol Amroth.
“I found this in my uncle’s stores. He had brought it with us hoping to toast our victory together, but alas. . .” Éomer said sadly.
“It is very good. I have never tasted anything like it,” Imrahil said.
“It is from Dorwinion. He received it as a gift years ago and had always saved it for a special occasion. I can’t think of an occasion more special than the defeat of an enemy we have been fighting for a very long time.”
“I have heard the wines of Dorwinion give one strange dreams,” Imrahil said.
“We shall see,” Éomer said. “To victory!” He touched his glass to Imrahil’s and both drank.
After the second glass Imrahil began to feel his inhibitions fall away. There was no nervousness when he stood and sat next to Éomer. No nervousness or hesitation when he leaned in for a kiss and Éomer did the same. Nothing but fortitude and firm resolve when he pulled Eomer’s tunic over his head and touched a hungry tongue to his nipples.
To his delight, Éomer responded without hesitation and double his own eagerness. They fell upon the soft pelts covering the pavilion floor and made love, two bold, daring captains of men seeking conquest of a different kind. The night was cool and no fire had been lit but they generated and reveled in their own heat. Imrahil was fascinated with Éomer’s hair, telling him how beautiful it was, and receiving an affectionate chuckle in return as he clutched generous handfuls of it in the throes of passion. With a final choking cry of joy, Imrahil found his release, the intensity of the moment rendering him senseless.
Imrahil awoke, groggy, at first light, lying naked on his camp bed, covered in a fresh linen sheet. He rose on his elbows and looked around, startled to find he was alone. The events of the previous night came back to him slowly until he remembered what Éomer had said about the wine. ‘Strange dreams,’ he thought to himself, a sharp stab of disappointment digging into his heart. Then he relaxed back on his pillows and smiled at the memory. Strange but good. Very good indeed.
With a sigh, he raised his hand to rub his nose and as he did, a single golden hair fell upon his chest. He looked at it in wonder, breaking into a huge smile.
A very good dream indeed.
Author: Ignoblebard
Pairing: Imrahil/Eomer
Rating: PG13
The first time Imrahil saw Éomer, really saw him, was in the heat of battle, felling Orcs and Southrons upon the Pelennor Fields even as he and his men rode to their aid. Fell and fierce was he, his golden hair shining like a nimbus in the sun. He and his horsemen were besieged, but he stood upon a hill rallying the men to his banner, laughing in the face of certain defeat. As Imrahil led his men into the fray he feared not for the King of Rohan, for he was looking upon a man no mere enemy could slay, not even the armies hosts of Mûmakil and Haradrim arrayed against him.
After that, Imrahil knew only the battle fury in his own breast for many hours, pushing through the forces of Mordor until the remainder of the enemy was slain or fled. Weary but triumphant, he and his men left the field as the sun blazed its last light behind them. He saw Aragorn and Éomer riding from the field and joined them. They exchanged wordless nods and rode toward the city gates, each lost in his thoughts. Aragorn refused to enter the city but Imrahil and Éomer passed through the broken gates. Their sense of victory was brief and tinged with sorrow when they received the news of Faramir and Merry, lying near death in the Houses of Healing. The only thing that mitigated their grief was Éomer’s joy upon being told Éowyn yet lived.
Imrahil departed and left Aragorn and Éomer to tend to the business of the city, for Aragorn had named him Steward until Faramir was healed or until Aragorn himself was ready to take on the mantle of kingship. He worked long into the night on the business of the city, finally retiring to his rooms just before dawn. As he sat by the fire, taking off his boots a soft knock came upon the door. He answered it, surprised to see Éomer standing there.
“May I come in?” he asked.
Imrahil stepped aside so he could enter. “Of course. What can I do for you?”
Éomer entered and Imrahil marveled at his golden hair, now caught back in a rough pony tail. Imrahil could smell the scent of leather and musk as he swept past. The King of the Mark still wore his mail though his vambraces, gloves and helm were gone.
“You have already done a great service for me and I have come to thank you,” Éomer said.
“What service?” Imrahil asked, puzzled.
“I am told it was you who discovered my sister yet lived and got her the help she needed. I am most grateful.”
“Ah, well, I just happened upon the litter of your sister and Théoden King and noticed she was still breathing. How does she fare?”
“Her spirit is still wounded but Aragorn has healed her body and brought her out of the dark dreams caused by the Black Breath. I myself am wounded that I never saw the frost upon her soul. Our realm suffered greatly at the hands of Saruman. Much was hidden from our eyes even as our ears were deceived by poisonous counsel.”
“I am sorry to hear it. These are indeed evil times. While I am glad Aragorn was able to lead Faramir and Éowyn out of the darkness, I fear today’s victory was but a single step in the long road ahead.”
“Indeed,” Éomer said, “I am also grateful to you and your knights for your aid on the field today. Without you both my sister and I would be lost. It is a debt I intend to repay when all this is over.”
“You owe me no debt. Your strength and courage was an inspiration. I must tell you I was quite astounded when I saw you upon the hillock today, sword raised in defiance. I knew then you were a man of great strength and nobility. Rohan will not suffer defeat under one such as you.”
“You flatter me,” Éomer said, but Imrahil could see he was not offended by it.
“Would you like a drink?” Imrahil asked.
Éomer accepted and they talked until the early morning, a natural admiration and affability rising between them. At last Éomer rose to leave. “I am sorry to have kept you. As weary as I am you must be equally weary and ready for your bed.”
“I long for the comfort of my bed but your visit has refreshed me. You may stay if you wish.”
“Thank you but I must go and see to my sister then try to get a little sleep before the council meets today. Gandalf must surely have a new task for us.”
“He does always seem to know what must be done,” Imrahil said with a chuckle. “Farewell, then, Éomer King, until I see you at the council.”
When Éomer departed, Imrahil removed his heavy clothing and allowed himself the luxury of a few hours sleep.
The council decided that the armies of Gondor and Rohan must make a final push toward the Black Gate in order to distract Sauron from Frodo’s quest, and so it was done. The road was long and victory far from certain but that did not dampen Imrahil’s mood. He was proud to be riding into battle with the new Kings of Gondor and Rohan.
The battle was as fierce as any Imrahil had ever known. He and his knights fought like men possessed, but still the enemy kept coming in waves. Forced to give ground, he fought back to back with Aragorn and the sons of Elrond until, just as suddenly as the fighting had begun, it ceased. The orcs and trolls who had been slaughtering his knights simply dropped their weapons and ran. A shattering roar filled the landscape as the mighty fortress of Barad-dûr crashed to the ground, shaking them where they stood in amazement and relief.
Easterlings and Southron men, desperate and wild, still assailed them but they fought their way to victory over this enemy as well. They tended their wounded and buried their dead, then marched to the field of Cormallen where they took their rest and raised brightly colored pavilions in the springtime sun.
Imrahil was heartened to see that so many of his men had survived, but grieved for the losses amongst the Dúnedain and the men of Rohan. He visited the makeshift hospital to speak with the wounded and there he saw Éomer talking to a group of his injured soldiers. One of the men said something and Éomer laughed, his white teeth flashing against his tanned skin, his blond hair shining like spun gold in the lamplight. Imrahil’s heart skipped a beat. He finished speaking with his men then went for a walk in the sunshine to clear his head.
The greenery of spring abounded from every tree and bush, the sun shone in a brilliant blue sky, and Imrahil felt a burst of joy which was only heightened when Éomer appeared beside him.
“I have seen you little since the council,” he said. “I was hoping we might have the chance to talk again.”
“So was I,” Imrahil replied. “I very much enjoyed our last conversation. Perhaps tonight after the feast you could come to my tent.”
“Or you to mine,” Éomer said with a twinkle in his eye.
“That would be agreeable as well,” Imrahil smiled.
He did not know why he was so nervous that evening as he prepared to go to Éomer’s tent but he found his stomach fluttering in a way it never had before a battle. He decided it was because some battles were easier to fight than others.
When he had worked up sufficient courage, he went to Eomer’s pavilion and had himself announced. The king of Rohan received him graciously, dismissing his servants and pouring him a glass of wine.
Imrahil accepted it and took a sip, discovering it to be hearty and much stronger than the wine he was used to in Dol Amroth.
“I found this in my uncle’s stores. He had brought it with us hoping to toast our victory together, but alas. . .” Éomer said sadly.
“It is very good. I have never tasted anything like it,” Imrahil said.
“It is from Dorwinion. He received it as a gift years ago and had always saved it for a special occasion. I can’t think of an occasion more special than the defeat of an enemy we have been fighting for a very long time.”
“I have heard the wines of Dorwinion give one strange dreams,” Imrahil said.
“We shall see,” Éomer said. “To victory!” He touched his glass to Imrahil’s and both drank.
After the second glass Imrahil began to feel his inhibitions fall away. There was no nervousness when he stood and sat next to Éomer. No nervousness or hesitation when he leaned in for a kiss and Éomer did the same. Nothing but fortitude and firm resolve when he pulled Eomer’s tunic over his head and touched a hungry tongue to his nipples.
To his delight, Éomer responded without hesitation and double his own eagerness. They fell upon the soft pelts covering the pavilion floor and made love, two bold, daring captains of men seeking conquest of a different kind. The night was cool and no fire had been lit but they generated and reveled in their own heat. Imrahil was fascinated with Éomer’s hair, telling him how beautiful it was, and receiving an affectionate chuckle in return as he clutched generous handfuls of it in the throes of passion. With a final choking cry of joy, Imrahil found his release, the intensity of the moment rendering him senseless.
Imrahil awoke, groggy, at first light, lying naked on his camp bed, covered in a fresh linen sheet. He rose on his elbows and looked around, startled to find he was alone. The events of the previous night came back to him slowly until he remembered what Éomer had said about the wine. ‘Strange dreams,’ he thought to himself, a sharp stab of disappointment digging into his heart. Then he relaxed back on his pillows and smiled at the memory. Strange but good. Very good indeed.
With a sigh, he raised his hand to rub his nose and as he did, a single golden hair fell upon his chest. He looked at it in wonder, breaking into a huge smile.
A very good dream indeed.
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no subject
Date: 2014-12-25 05:44 pm (UTC)I especially loved the way you had it ending. :D I'm betting Imrahil will have to drink more of that wine to further 'test' the dreams.
I love how bold and uncomplicated they are, two grown men, brothers in arms, finding a bit of rest and joy in the middle of it all.
Thank you so much, again, and have a merry Christmas!
no subject
Date: 2014-12-27 04:28 am (UTC)I hope you had a merry Christmas as well.
no subject
Date: 2014-12-29 06:09 am (UTC)I have to go back to sleep. I read this in the middle of the night! So please excuse the curtailed comment.
no subject
Date: 2014-12-29 03:04 pm (UTC)I'm glad you like this one. It definitely needs some tweaking. Thank you so much for your review. *hugs*