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“You did what?!”
“Oh, come on, little brother! Try to have some fun for once!”
“I should have known that would be the only reason you’d set your foot in the library for, I really should have.”
It is a rather small book, really: the binding is well-worn, corners are covered with distinct rat bites all over them, pages, filled with half-faded illustrations and very thorough descriptions to each one, have long since yellowed and creased—someone who wrote it surely lacked any sort of fantasy and seemed to have little understanding of what they were doing. The plain leather cover bears neither title nor author’s name. Faramir finds it entirely intentional.
“Eomer will love it,” Boromir grins, confidence practically reeking off him.
“Eomer will love any book that has pictures in it.” Anyone would, had they gone through most of their life completely illiterate, Faramir thinks to himself. “If this one is so great, why wouldn’t you take it instead? Aragorn will love it,” he fires back, amused. Boromir’s mouth closes shut.
“I’m going to miss you,” he mutters after a couple of heartbeats, not looking up from the poor thing in his hands, as if seeing it for the first time. Faramir cannot hold back a smile. To the point as ever, his brother is.
“So you decided a book about ‘the art of lovemaking’ would make a great parting gift?”
“It’s not that you would find anything new in there, anyway.”
Faramir chokes on air.
They are riding off for Edoras the day after tomorrow, Aragorn, Boromir, and him; that will mark exactly a week until the most important day of his life. Although, Faramir isn’t very sure whether he should count the day of the end of the War as one instead; he still finds it incredibly hard, unnatural to put his own needs and desires above anyone else’s—yet he knows he has bled and quite literally burned enough to earn as much. Burned for the kingdom he is now going to leave, albeit not forever. He doesn’t think of it often—transfer of power into the hands of the new King and various troubles with repairing the City have been taking most of his spare time and mind, so much that sometimes he is barely able to scrape a moment to respond to Eomer’s letters (who has found himself in a somewhat similar situation, preparing for two grand celebrations in less than a month’s time). Their most recent letters were full with nothing but passages after passages about how gravely they both have missed and longed for each other, which sometimes resulted in describing what exactly they were planning to do when they were alone together again, in great detail and colour.
And Boromir needs to know nothing about such things.
“I am not in the mood to speak with you of my private life, brother,” Faramir manages to find his tongue to respond, cheeks red as a rose.
“It was worth a try, even if only to see you in this sort of state,” Boromir entangles his fingers in Faramir’s neatly brushed hair and ruffles it; and suddenly, they are not at all seasoned soldiers, war heroes scarred beyond count, but careless tweens, still, the very same ones that used to play chase in these long, cold hallways. “One last time.”
Faramir rolls his eyes so far back it starts to hurt, but doesn’t step away, soaking in every touch, every glance of his brother’s while both of them are still here. Happy, truly happy moments that will keep him warm during rare, yet particularly dark nights in the king’s rooms of Meduseld. “First of all, you are coming with me. Then, the celebrations are going to last for the whole week after the wedding, but you will stay for at least two—yes, I’ve seen Aragorn signing the scroll for uncle Imrahil. And finally, Edoras is just three days ride away, and I’m going to write to you every week. You know I cannot stay, brother. I cannot, but more importantly—I do not want to.”
Boromir squeezes him in a bear hug before he has a chance to blink. “You have become so wise, little brother. I wonder, who are you taking after?”
“You, without a doubt,” Faramir breathes into his neck contentedly. “Be happy for me, Boromir, and I shall be well.”
“You know I am.”
On his way to his chambers, Faramir almost convinces himself that the long-suffering book isn’t burning a hole into the pocket of his robe.
***
“Eomer. My love.”
Faramir frowns at the paper in front of him. He could have started with saying that grass is green and the sun rises on the East if he wished to state the obvious; hardly a one man could be found in the whole of Arda who has not yet heard of what feeling has united the hearts of Faramir the Brave and Eomer King. From the quill, frozen in midair, an ink drop falls onto love, spreading further quickly, taking an ugly shape. Faramir curses under his breath and reaches for a new sheet, yet his fingertips seem to have stuck to the curvy edges of the stain, caressing them absentmindedly. Concealing, hiding.
It has been too long.
Boromir always knew, of course. Knew before Faramir himself did, even; when he was not neck deep in the pants of some particular prince of the Mark, which did not happen often. Knew to whom Faramir dedicated his first clumsy poems, who was the reason his little brother stumbled his horse during slow evening rides. Knew whose name was written in reddish teeth marks on his wrists. Boromir knew and never uttered a single word. Faramir was enraged when he found out, the icy feeling of betrayal by the one he considered the closest screamed louder than any voice of reason—how dared he keep his silence when what Faramir needed, craved the most was to know he were not alone? The brothers have not spoken for two months after they had come home that time, managed not to cross paths neither in narrow hallways nor on the training grounds. Young and hotheaded, too wrapped up in their duties, both acted as if nothing had happened, until one gloomy afternoon they collided, nose to nose, in the stables and froze unable to tear their eyes off each other. Faramir still thinks he figured more about his brother in that moment than he had ever had before.
“Eomer. My love”, he wrote that night on a tiny piece of parchment, the letters blurred and uneven, glistening in the moonlight—to light a candle meant to draw unnecessary attention. Three short, simple words, nothing more. He had to cry himself to sleep.
Faramir smiles. That piece he burned first thing in the morning, his ever-poetic mind not quieting down about how his heart was destined to meet the same fate before anything had a chance to start, buried in the fire brought by the darkening storm from the East. By some cruel coincidence, father ordered to prepare another convoy to Rohan shortly after; and again, Eomer’s eyes did not leave Faramir whenever he happened to be in sight. Faramir once caught a glimpse of his brother, running off freely, hand in hand with his lover, and silently screamed. The first thunder of an unusually cold summer cracked the peaceful sky open.
“I may be known for my eloquence, but I could never compare to you. You rarely say much, yet each word that falls from your lips strikes as deadly as each perfect blow of your sword. Still, I would try this one time.”
Truth be told, Eomer’s reticence could have costed them both dearly once. Throughout their first stay in Edoras, Faramir tried to convince himself that he had done nothing to earn such a disfavor from the king’s nephew, that his glances from the other side of the hall were filled not with unhidden spite but something inherently Rohirric, something Faramir could not yet name nor identify. And he was captivated by this unknown, by the hazel of its eyes and the depth of its voice, and he had read enough books to know of why. And when one morning he found himself on a horseback with Eomer just a couple of steps ahead, strolling through vast sunlit plains, Faramir realized—nothing needed to be said after all, for the horse lord’s face shone not with detest, but with unmistakable understanding. They spent the night under the stars, waking up at sunrise with their bodies entangled so close together it was impossible to get up without disturbing the other. Eomer only muttered something about a stone stuck in a horseshoe and averted looking at him for the whole ride back. Faramir lived for their quiet rides since then, and his heart broke a little every time the unspoken words remained so between them at the end of each day, carried away by the wind.
“You are leaving,” Eomer stormed into his room the night before the brothers’ last departure to Minas Tirith, his voice a low growl, and Faramir bit down a hopeful smile as he rose from the desk to greet him.
“Aye, I am. Father has sent a message, we are urgently needed in the City. No further explanation, though.” He sighed; father never explained anything. Their current visit managed to stretch into two whole weeks, the previous one had lasted for barely three, and that was more than a year ago; and no one could tell when the next opportunity would occur, if at all. “I’m sure Theodred and Boromir are trying to make up for the lost time right now,” he wrinkled his nose at the mental image.
“You are leaving,” Eomer repeated, more softly this time. Faramir nodded. “I do not want you to.”
Most of the time Faramir could easily ignore or even completely forget about the difference of eight years of age between them, yet it was so painfully evident to him in that moment in Eomer’s very breathing. His heart ached; so little he would not give for things to be that simple.
They shared their first kiss that night, and Eomer tasted dizzyingly familiar and inherently like himself, and his large hand came up to rest on the back of Faramir’s neck to hold him closer, trying to mold their eager bodies into one so they could stay in that small room forever.
“I do not want to, either,” Faramir whispered as he threw the last glance at the city of his heart left behind. He licked his dry lips in the hope of tracing the remnants of the last night’s sweetness, but found only salt.
Faramir shakes the memory away, surfacing back to the present. Reminiscing about the past while writing his wedding vows may not be the most efficient strategy, especially when in a few days he is going to ride into Edoras to stay.
His wedding vows. Who could have thought.
Eomer, apparently.
“Ever since the first day we met, I have forbidden myself to think of what I had thought could never be, I have forbidden myself to wonder, I have been terrified to dream. Yet there you were, always, with a single glance turning all my doubts and fears to dust, never letting us lose any more of our limited precious time together. You were, are and, I have no doubt, will always be my one true constant in this rapidly changing world.”
They met a couple of months before the battle for Osgiliath, both leading their respective patrols along the border; an unexpected, but the most welcome surprise in the middle of what felt like a never-ending chain of death and destruction. Faramir barely had time to dismount from his horse before he was crushed into a bone-shuttering embrace, followed by a kiss so desperate yet so tender that it made his knees buckle quite embarrassingly for someone of his rank. The moment died out shortly, however, when someone wolf-whistled from where the Rohirrim had gathered, and Faramir recoiled, suddenly reminded of their audience. He did not dare turn to look at his rangers, who stood in what appeared to be stunned silence compared to heartfelt laughs and applause from their northern neighbors.
A heavy arm snaked around his shoulders, snapping Faramir out of his head and into a heated discussion, and before he knew it a joined camp was set up and he was seated in the back of it, quietly observing, mug of tea in hand and bowl of untouched stew at his feet. The true joy was to see their people share food and conversation so freely—a much needed reminder that not all good had been lost and forgotten between Rohan and Gondor.
“Not hungry?” Eomer sat beside him on a log. He was smiling; Faramir had never really gotten a chance to get used to the sight.
“Did you talk to your men?” he asked in response. Nobody was paying them any attention, shielded from prying eyes by the darkness of a moonless night, yet Faramir could not shake off the sticky feeling of being constantly watched that accompanied him every time one certain Marshal of the Mark was around.
Eomer shrugged, “What about?”
“What about?! Do not play games with me, Eomer,” Faramir hissed and hoped his face showed everything he would rather not speak aloud.
Large hands squeezed his upper arms in a steel grip, and when the horse lord spoke, there was gentleness to his words Faramir had not noticed in there before. “It saddens me somewhat that you feel the need for it to be given voice, but if it worries you so, then so be it.” He moved one hand to Faramir’s cheek, locking their gazes together. “When this war is over, I strongly hope to take you as mine and wed you, Faramir of Gondor.”
And for the second time that day Faramir found himself completely astounded. “I was not aware we were courting,” he murmured after a lengthy pause, more of a question than a statement, every single moment of their shared past flashing rapidly before his eyes.
Eomer visibly held back a sigh, as if preparing to explain the obvious to a small child. “I thought our previous encounter has made that quite clear.”
“Are you referring to our parting kiss? Do the Rohirrim share customs with the elves now?”
“You know well what I wished to say,” Eomer frowned, not amused by the remark.
Faramir nodded, still at a loss for words. Never in a thousand lifetimes could he have imagined himself being proposed to by the love of his life in such a blunt way. Eomer must have sensed that, too, for he groaned and brought their mouths together once again; and Faramir couldn’t help smiling into the kiss at the sudden strike of familiarity in the way they already fit and moved in almost perfect sync. “Promise me to say something the next time and not just stare when you think I am not looking,” he whispered as they parted and rather uncaptainly bit his lip.
Eomer looked him in the eyes, and Faramir shivered as the years of pent-up longing washed all over him anew. “What say you, now?”
Faramir chuckles, rubbing a small, barely noticeable scar on his left elbow. They fell off the log they were sitting on as the question was thoroughly answered without a single word, much like any other conversation between them, important or otherwise. And long, long months later, when both of them slowly rocked together on a narrow, creaking bed in the Houses of Healing, the question was asked once more and answered in the very same manner; and to this day Faramir has not tasted anything as divine as were the lips of his betrothed on that peaceful night, the first of many, and the ever-watchful moon basked their weary bodies in her gentle light.
Well, that would make a great vow, Faramir thinks as he rereads his little speech. Satisfied, he carefully rips off the piece from the scroll and puts it in the inside pocket of his cloak to give it more thought while they are on the road.
As for right now, he has a lot of packing to do.
***
The plains and mountains, hills, forests, rivers and streams of his domain lay out in front of Eomer’s view—everything he could ever dream of and more. He snorts at his own thoughts; there is definitely not a single forest in sight from where he stands at the doors of Meduseld.
He loves it this way. Forest is no good place for a horse.
“Faramir would love it, though,” Eomer breathes out unconsciously. No matter how well-accustomed to the life of court he has grown to be, at heart Faramir always craves freedom and a space to breathe; something he was deprived of for most of his life and what Eomer has spent days arranging for him here, in the Golden Hall.
“Why do you sound like he is long gone,” something unexpectedly heavy wraps itself around Eomer like a cloak, and he jumps as Eowyn’s cheerful voice fills the crisp morning air.
“I am not, and cease sneaking up on me like that. And—what is this?” he turns his head this way and that, trying to take a better look at what his sister decided to drape him in. “Is it the banner that hangs from the wall behind the throne?” In an attempt to take it off, Eomer roughly grabs the green cloth with one hand, unwrapping himself; and a swarm of dust clouds his vision at once, catching the siblings up in a sneezing fit.
Rubbing her eyes and reddened nose, Eowyn takes the banner from her brother, careful not to shake it too much. “Now you see why it needed to be taken out, ‘Mer?” She sneezes one last time and wipes her face with a sleeve.
Eomer lets out a watery chuckle, “Aye. Meduseld has never been as magnificent as it’s going to be on the day of the ceremony.” He nods approvingly. “Our guests from Gondor will be pleased, I am sure.”
“It is time you stop thinking of the man you are about to wed as a guest,” Eowyn says, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
“Can you believe it, ‘Wyn?” Eomer suddenly asks, reaching out and touching her arm to make her look at him. His sister’s eyes are warm, seeing right through his very soul as they always do, and she smiles.
“With all my heart, ‘Mer, with all my heart. You will make a great king, and I know Uncle and Theodred would have been so proud of you,” she returns the touch. “And Faramir couldn’t possibly have dreamed of a better husband.” The siblings share a laugh, Eomer feeling his own heart grow bigger with each of his sister’s words. “Are you uncertain, still?”
“Not uncertain, no. Excited, perhaps. Terrified, no doubt.” Eomer squints at the sun already having peaked from behind the mountains. With a heavy heart he is going to take the crown, but with newfound hope also. “A new Age is upon us, ‘Wyn, and we shall welcome it with open arms.”
Eowyn smirks knowingly, “Oh, I know someone who you shall welcome with open arms, and he is going to be there soon.” Eomer’s face instantly brightens at the thought, and she playfully nudges him off. “Go, brother mine, hurry, everything needs to be perfect if you wish to make a good impression on your dearest betrothed and his family! And don’t forget to give a pat to Firefoot for me!”
Eomer is still chuckling when he enters the stables. The horses pay him no mind, just having returned from their morning stroll, and appear to manage well enough on their own, so Eomer makes a beeline to his own proud stallion, who is resting in his spacious paddock in the back of the barn. At the sound of his master’s footsteps, Firefoot lifts up his head and whines, tail swishing with joy. “Easy, easy, boy,” Eomer coos, tangling his fingers in his dear friend’s soft mane. “I’m glad to see you, too. And you know who is also coming today? Well, of course you do, do you not? Good boy…”
“I cannot believe it—I leave you alone for a month and you trade me for a horse.”
“Faramir.”
Eomer turns around so fast his head starts to spin, and falls right into the arms of his long-awaited lover. “How is it that you’re here, we did not expect your arrival until midday,” he wonders yet immediately cuts himself mid-sentence to assault Faramir’s deliciously parted lips, caring not about why exactly he is here so early when what matters is that he is actually, truly here, blood and flesh and wits, and he is not going anywhere anytime soon—if ever—as Eowyn said, not a guest but a husband-to-be, all for Eomer to savor and love.
“I wanted to surprise you,” Faramir grins after a while of messy kissing, slightly breathless. “Had to leave Minas Tirith before dawn to do that, though. Boromir gave me such a hard time for it, so now I demand a reward for my sufferings.” His hands have already started to wander under Eomer’s loose tunic, making the horse lord shiver with suddenly overwhelming desire.
“I recall something about me taking you from behind on a bed of fresh straw, from one of those letters you sent me,” Eomer growls in Faramir’s ear, teeth grazing on the earlobe ever so lightly. Faramir poorly stifles a moan. “You’d better be quiet, my love, or we will disturb the horses.” He throws a quick glance at Firefoot, but the stallion does not even look in their direction, more interested in his after-breakfast nap.
“They say spouses do tend to think along the same lines,” Faramir snickers as he produces a small vial from the pocket of his riding breeches and hands it to Eomer, earning himself a kiss that sets his insides aflame.
Faramir’s cloak gets swiftly spread out on top of the straw, their tunics following shortly after. Usually, Eomer loves to take his time undressing his beloved, mapping each opening piece of silky skin with lips and teeth and tongue, devouring him like a feast he is; yet this time they have to be quick—the stables in Rohan are never left unattended for long. “Turn around,” Eomer orders with a smirk, steady fingers working on the laces of his pants.
“I am not facing your horse while we fuck, Eomer,” Faramir deadpans, one foot stuck in his underpants, and for a brief moment he looks genuinely offended; Eomer laughs, his head tilted back and a hand ghosting over Faramir’s crotch. “Forget what I wrote in that damned letter. I just want you. Now.”
And with a smile never leaving his lips, Eomer rearranges them so Faramir is lying on his back, gloriously naked, hair scattered and tangled with strands of straw so similar in color. They kiss again; and it was not the longest time they have ever been apart, but the last, Eomer silently promises them both as he twines their tongues just the right way; and the thought makes him giddy and hungry and aching with need, and suddenly he knows it is going to end all too soon. Faramir seems to sense his lover’s urges and bucks his hips up, and they drink in each other’s moans as their cocks finally touch. “Oil,” Eomer mutters, releasing Faramir’s lips reluctantly to nod somewhere to the side.
“I care not, this will do. We have a whole life ahead of us, remember?” Faramir pulls him back in, wrapping his dry, calloused fingers around both of them, stroking roughly and without rhythm. “If I knew I’d have such a warm welcome I’d have come two days earlier, if only Aragorn had gotten his affairs sorted out faster—” his voice breaks when Eomer adds his huge palm to his own, propping himself up with a fist dug in straw near Faramir’s head.
“And you have accused me of infidelity just mere moments ago, yet the other man’s name occupies your lips now of all times?” he grins and peppers the beet red face of his lover with sloppy kisses which do little to help keep Faramir’s impatient whines at bay. Their movements become too abrupt, having lost any remnants of a pattern, and they simply breathe into each other’s mouths, not able to kiss or speak any longer. A couple more strokes, and Faramir comes with a muffled cry, staining his stomach and their joined hands; Eomer quickly follows, biting his pleasure into his lover’s bare shoulder.
Between their not-so-successful attempts at catching some breath, a strange sound occurs, neither rustle nor whisper. Eomer lifts his head and blinks away sweat; as his gaze falls on Firefoot, his brow creases. “Did you, by any chance, bring any food in your cloak pockets?” he asks Faramir, who is already dozing off, worn out by the journey and the most intense release he has had in weeks.
“Mm-hmm, what? Food, no, why?”
“Firefoot is eating it right now.”
Faramir, intrigued, forces himself up, and Eomer sits back on his heels to give him space. Now both stare at the horse, who does not pay any attention to two naked people in his paddock and continues to enthusiastically chew on… paper? Not the most unexpected thing for Faramir to have in his pockets. “Firefoot, no!” Faramir jumps up, not caring even to shake the straw off his hair or clean up the soiled hand, and steps towards the horse, yet the paper is already long lost inside the indifferent mouth. Faramir groans loudly and sits down on the cloak again. “Must have fallen out when you threw the cloak on the ground,” he murmurs, face darkening with distress.
Eomer reaches out to start slowly untangling straw from his betrothed’s locks. “Was it something of importance to trouble you so?”
“You are going to laugh at me,” Faramir tries to brush the matter off.
“I promise not to,” Eomer says and leans in for a deep reassuring kiss. Faramir instantly melts into it, tongue meeting tongue halfway, and for a time they allow themselves to get lost in the taste of the other, minds at long last not clouded with weeks of neglected need.
“My vows,” he says when they pull away, “I thought it would be a good idea to rehearse them while I had some spare time on the road. You know, to be sure I would not suddenly forget anything I want to tell you.”
Eomer feels his heart swell, overflowing with love for the man that sits opposite him, naked in body and soul alike. He takes Faramir’s hand—the other one—in both of his and kisses the knuckles. “I know of importance the ceremony has to you and am certain everything will go well. But I would have you know that no matter what your vows to me are going to be, if anything at all, really—I love you and in four days will take you as my rightful husband, and there is nothing you could possibly do to change that.”
Faramir’s face breaks into a tentative smile. “It’s your custom to speak without words, not mine.”
“Are you two done in there? Please, let the answer be yes, because I’m starving, and they would not serve us breakfast until the king is present!”
“Blessed be the day Gondor got a hobbit for her Prince.” Faramir shakes his head, amused, and shouts back, “In a moment!” Eomer watches as he stands up to collect their clothes, scattered all around the paddock in the heat of the moment, and cannot believe his luck.
Everything he could ever dream of and more, indeed.
***
Faramir snores. Honestly and loudly, so much that he wakes himself up in the middle of the night and blindly searches for his blade until the reality of where and when kicks in, and wrapped in the warm embrace of his love, he falls into slumber again. Sometimes he talks, unconscious—in Elvish more often than not—and is never able to recall his dreams in the morning. On some nights, the darker ones, Eomer is the one to jolt awake with a scream stuck in his throat and Eowyn’s lifeless body frozen before his eyes. And yet usually, dread surrenders to passion, the soft rustling of bedsheets and lips upon lips, flesh meeting flesh, and whispered confessions.
Their shared sleep is full of sounds of every kind.
But bell-ringing is certainly not one of them.
“’Mir, what…” Eomer reluctantly opens his eyes and sees Faramir’s lean back as he sits on the edge of the bed, turned to the window. Sunrays paint his skin with pale gold, signaling the time is drawing close to midday. “When did you wake up?”
“Just now. Listen!” The ringing resumes, this time louder, and Eomer frowns, confused—he remembers having none of bells of such kind here in Edoras. And they did not drink as much last night to start hearing things.
“Faramir, what is this sound?” he asks carefully, sitting up, and tries to shake his head a little just to make sure. The ringing does not subside.
Faramir beams at him and leans in for the first morning kiss, his stubble tickling Eomer’s cheeks. “A Gondorian tradition. For three days the betrothed couple should wake up with the ringing of bells, and on the forth they can be wed. It is believed to bring good luck, peace and prosperity into the couple’s life.” Eomer arches a brow in question. “And since Edoras lacks any bells—don’t you dare call things you have at your flag posts that, I am talking about actual bells—we had to bring one with us. Perks of having the King of Gondor as your brother-in-law, I suppose,” Faramir shrugs as if it is the most ordinary thing to deliver a bell from one kingdom to the other. “Oh, and good morning.” He fails to keep his balance, and the next kiss lands on Eomer’s jaw.
“You will never cease to amaze me, will you?” Eomer grins, pulling him closer to cuddle some more while they still have time to spare solely for the two of them. Faramir readily snuggles into his chest, burying his nose in Eomer’s neck, sniffling quietly. The music, if it could be called so (how can anyone play off-key on something that only has one note?), quietens soon after that, leaving the room filled with breathing and muffled voices from the outside world. Eomer draws invisible circles on the small of Faramir’s back, tracing them up to his shoulders and further onto his arms and palms. Faramir does not stir, and Eomer smiles, thinking him asleep. He just starts to get warm and comfortable again, when Faramir untangles himself from their embrace in what looks like an urgent rush, and a few moments later bags are being mercilessly rustled.
Then, something cheerfully rings right next to Eomer’s ear.
“Open your eyes,” Faramir asks.
The bell he holds in front of them is about twice the size of a saddle chime and has a wooden handle on top of it. Eomer outstretches a hand, taking the bell with a light ding. An intricate ornament vines around the wood, sprouts further into the silver and blooms with dozens of tiny hearts, swords, and horse’s heads, some remarkably detailed and some engraved by a clearly less experienced hand.
A lovespoon turned into a bell, Eomer thinks in awe.
“It is beautiful,” he says softly and lifts his gaze up at Faramir, who hungrily catches every little emotion to cross his beloved’s face. “You made it yourself?”
“Gimli was of great help. The tradition says, the newlyweds should ring it together at the end of their ceremony. Will you keep it safe until then and for all the days to come after?” Faramir asks as blush creeps up his neck and onto his cheeks, the way it usually does when his romantic nature gets the better of him. He rests a hand on top of Eomer’s that holds the bell-handle, and together, they shake it.
“We are definitely better at this than whoever was in charge of the big one just now,” Eomer notes, and the thought of being woken up by that horrendous cacophony however more times makes his heart sing with anticipation.
Faramir nods, “That would be Aragorn.” Of course, who else could that be. “Although, I am sure my brother will find a way to persuade him to be granted the honor of ringing it tomorrow. And then Eowyn could do it on the third day, of course. She was so excited when we told her about the tradition, she could barely contain her delight at dinner! You should have noticed that, surely.”
Eowyn threw her whole self into the preparations for the ceremony, first to distract herself from the freshly burning memories of the barely ended war, yet in what seemed like a blink of an eye she found herself directing the entire thing almost singlehandedly. “She thinks of this ceremony as of her own creation, and it is no surprise to me that she welcomes such an unusual addition to it so warmly. In all honesty, I am intrigued to see how she would fit your Gondorian bells into the action.” Eomer puffs up with pride. “’Wyn has done marvelous job with the arrangements. Due to her efforts, Meduseld shines as never before. Which brings me to one more point. As we are exchanging early wedding gifts, that is,” he winks conspiratorially and stands up to take his turn in rummaging through his own belongings. He does not need to search for long; the present has been waiting for its time ever since the Rohirrim came home after the grand feast in honor of the King Elessar’s coronation had ended.
Faramir’s eyes spark with interest as Eomer turns to face him, a massive key in his hands. “It has not been used for decades, and it is more of a symbol than an actual key, but this is the only one I can offer you.”
“The key to Meduseld,” Faramir guesses.
“For the main doors, indeed. When a Rohirrim decides to marry, he gifts his beloved the key to his house to show that it is hers now as well, that they share a house just as they share a life from that moment on. Our mother loved telling the story of how our father, trying to make an impression, threw the key into the river Anduin to then gracefully emerge from the water and present it to her, and was almost swept off by the current. Thank Bema, he managed to grab onto a rock and surface soon enough to not get hurt. He never found that key, though, and mother kept a pebble that had stuck in his clothes in its stead. Eowyn played with it all through her childhood years and I’m fairly certain she still keeps it somewhere close to her heart.”
Faramir walks up to him, the bell still in hand, and smiles so blindingly that the sun itself, having already reached its peak in the spotless sky, for a moment shamefully leaves their window. “Thank you. I will treasure it always.”
They reflect in their gifts, both think—Faramir, sonorous and brilliant, entwined with magic and wisdom and kindness that know no end as if they were the most delicate of patterns; and Eomer, rough at the edges but caring and loyal to fault, the one who continues to show Faramir the life at its fullest. Who gifted Faramir the true home where he could openly be himself and never, ever feel afraid again.
The throne room meets them with not at all surprisingly shirtless Boromir and a bit too pleased wolfish grin of Aragorn’s, and Eomer groans at the sight, already planning to go check the big bell before letting Eowyn anywhere near the thing. “I see, you have decided not to wait until the wedding, little brother,” Boromir nods at Eomer who is holding onto the bell-handle for dear life, wielding it like he would a sword. As Faramir finishes retelling the morning’s events, Eowyn comes, and the five of them go out on the porch to try out the key.
“For how long has it not been used, you say?” Faramir grunts as he struggles to clear out the key hole from bits of rotten wood, dust and only Eru knows what else. Eomer can only offer a sheepish shrug in response; he isn’t sure even Theoden bothered to check if the key was working before his own wedding.
A significant amount of time and effort later, they manage to turn the key in the door (wide open just in case) and celebrate the victory with a good, joyous ringing of the silver bell; and faces of Eowyn and Boromir shine suspiciously bright under the late afternoon sun.
***
Faramir's ceremonial robes are a perfect fit—and that is a relief; that means he is no longer a sack of bones he most certainly was right after leaving the Houses of Healing for good. His arms are almost as strong as they were when sword and bow rarely left his hands, his chest and stomach hard and lean, ribs no longer creepily sticking out, and even some softness has started to show just below the navel. Silver and wine red, like tears and blood and something more intimate, will be a bright contrast to the deep green of Eomer’s own attire, which has absorbed not only the colors of the lands of the Riddermark but Ithilien forests as well. Loose hair brushes his shoulders freely, already shining with yet unseen beauty of the future Prince’s crown.
The thought still makes him break into the most radiant of smiles that grows even bigger when he catches the sight of Boromir in the mirror.
“It is time.”
The brothers enter the throne hall hand in hand; and although Meduseld can accommodate significantly less people than the square before the White Tower in Minas Tirith, Faramir feels as exposed as he has ever been. He throws a quick glance at the other side of the hall where Aragorn, Eomer and Eowyn stand, and it is all it takes to settle down a fluttering bird in a ribcage that is his heart. Faramir nods to himself and holds Boromir’s hand a little tighter.
As they briefly stop at the doors, his brother turns them to face each other and with a warm kiss to the forehead whispers, “I really wanted to repeat myself and tell you to remember this day, but that would have been too silly even for me.” They share an understanding chuckle, and that alone speaks volumes about how far they’ve both come in the past few months. Boromir grips his shoulders tightly. “I am so proud of you, little brother. Proud and happy.”
“I know you are,” Faramir whispers back, and with that they cross the hall as the traditional Rohirric song comes on, and stand beside Aragorn a little off to the side. Meanwhile, Eowyn holds a ceremonial cup of wine for her brother to drink and Eomer says the king’s vows, and only then does Aragorn step forward. Many arguments were had on the matter of whether one king could officiate the wedding of another; all were resolved with a letter from Gandalf (the all-knowing wizard, as usual)—as Eomer had restored the Oath of the Earl and therefore the antient agreement between the two kingdoms, Aragorn now held the right to perform such rituals if there were no other suitable options. The King of Gondor spent the most of the week prior to the ceremony collecting and memorizing every available detail of the Rohirric wedding, which quite expectedly became a cause for foul moods of one particular Gondorian Prince.
When a thin golden circlet finds its rightful place on Eomer’s fair brow, the hall quietens for a brief moment only to erupt in deafening cheer in the honor of the new King. The man’s face, however, bears neither smile nor mirth, shadows of grievous responsibility having found home under his eyes, yet his gaze is steady and determined; and when he looks around his people, Faramir is content. He knows the power of those eyes best of all.
To take a step to stand in front of Eomer is the easiest thing Faramir has ever done, save probably for agreeing to wed him in the first place. They take each other’s hands and turn to Aragorn.
“My friends,” Aragorn begins softly but solemnly, yet his act is ruined as he makes a horrified face at Eomer and mouths ‘I don’t remember the words’, which takes all of Faramir’s strength to keep himself from laughing aloud. Eomer plays along and whispers back so that everyone could hear him actually reciting a drinking song he favors, earning a roaring hearty laugh from all the guests. Faramir and Eowyn share a quick glance—they should have anticipated this.
When the cheer quietens and all gazes return to Aragorn, he is smiling, still. “My friends,” he starts again, “people of Rohan. Today, we celebrate the union of two beautiful hearts. Two men, who have carried their love through time, distance, and war, and made it endure. Two men I am honored to call my brothers.” Aragorn bows his head, and Faramir should not at this point, but still feels a sting of surprise by how easily such a Man as the King of Gondor and Arnor shows his humble respect to another and how profoundly the gesture seems to affects those around him.
“Faramir, son of Denethor,” Aragorn continues after a pause, and Faramir stands taller as Eomer squeezes his hands a little tighter. Gray meets hazel.
Yes. The vows.
“Eomer,” he begins. The words, so meticulously composed back in the White City, stand before his inner eye as if he was reading them from that unlucky piece of paper, and his voice would not quaver; and yet, Firefoot is a very smart horse. “From the moment you gave me the first stare to the day you gave me the key to your home, I have loved you. And love you I shall, as long of both of us shall live, for there cannot be one without the other, in this world and the next. I fear naught, as long as I am with you.”
His last words hang in the air thick with heat and anticipation, and all Faramir can hear is his own heart pumping in his ears. Eomer looks at him with mouth slightly open, lips curved in a smile that’s almost hesitant, waiting for more to come. Faramir chuckles inwardly—Eomer did manage to take a glance at the paper back in the stables and surely saw a bigger speech than this. Faramir is known for his eloquence, true, but he is a diligent pupil also and he learns from the best.
Aragorn’s steady voice cuts the silence, “Eomer, son of Eomund.”
Eomer starts at the sound of his name, causing a not at all subtle wave of laughter to roll through the crowd, but quickly composes himself, any inexistent uncertainty leaving his features at once. “First of all, let me say I am glad that you’re still so fond of my stares.” Faramir feels heat creeping up his neck, so conveniently hidden with silks of the same color. “Ever since I lay my eyes upon you for the first time, I knew you and I were destined to be one. Was that the boldness of the youth or some higher power, it matters little. What does matter is this,” Eomer takes a step forward, cupping Faramir’s face in his palms. “I am never letting you go again. This is my vow to you, Faramir, Prince of the Mark.”
And with that, Eomer kisses him.
On the back of his mind, Faramir hears the roar of applause, registers his own hands finding their favorite home in the softness of Eomer’s fair locks, and there is definitely something wet on his cheeks; and the world around him is oh so incredibly sweet, and his world is Eomer’s gentle mouth.
“Gentlemen.”
They jump apart like a pair of caught tweens, breathless and flushed, lips swollen and still tingling with the aftermath of sudden passion. The look on Aragorn’s face is nothing but smug; an outraging hypocrisy, especially knowing that he was no better at his own wedding, Faramir thinks with a smirk.
“The gifts,” comes a shushed whisper from behind him.
“The gifts,” Aragorn nods, and the hall falls silent again, “are the symbols of your devotion to one another, your ability to protect and provide. Exchange them, and may they serve you well in the years to come.”
Such practical people, the Rohirrim—care little for jewelry and tremendously for horses; so much, in fact, they altered otherwise familiar ritual to accommodate. Faramir unconsciously touches the hilt of the sword at his hip. The vows, after all, can vary; and no matter how many times Eomer has assured him it would be a perfectly accepted substitute, Faramir could not help feeling uneasy. You do not come to a fellow hobbit’s hole with your own set of rules, or so Pippin said once, right before turning the Citadel upside down in mischief and celebration.
A whine comes from the doors, and everyone turns to take a look at one of the most gorgeous stallions Faramir has ever seen. Dapple gray coat glistening in the light, mane dark and waving with each graceful tilt of the heavy head, he appears a stunning reflection of Eomer’s beloved Firefoot.
“Asterfel is his name. Gentle, smart, affectionate yet stubborn when he wants to be. Just like someone else I know.” Eomer motions to the horse to come closer, threading fingers into the soft short fur when he does.
“Asterfel,” Faramir repeats, mesmerized. “It is an honor to meet you, my friend. I promise to take good care of you,” he tells him, and the mount nods slightly as if returning the sentiment.
Horses were never Faramir’s close friends; he has never actually had one he could truly call his own until today. Albeit always treated with thought and respect, they did not seem to like him very much and would often misbehave—something the Captain of Gondor could not afford to happen in front of his people yet what would do so more often than he has dignity to admit. Now, as he gives Asterfel the first pat, Faramir wonders if Eomer, who witnessed his disgrace on more than one occasion in the past, has chosen his gift with that in mind.
Well, of course he has, he corrects himself at once. He did say they were so alike.
“I wish I could match a gift so magnificent,” Faramir says, smiling. “Yet no horse I could bring that would have satisfied you. In Gondor, we protect and provide with these.” He unsheathes the sword; much like the little bell, its blade is covered with markings, the silhouette from the Rohirrim banner rests proudly in the middle. Eomer reaches out, and the hilt slips into his hand as if it were its extension. “May it serve you well in the years to come,” Faramir repeats the antient words, and a tug at his heart reminds him that it definitely will; if not today, then tomorrow. Asterfel nudges him in the arm right then, the clever bastard he already appears to be.
“Do you accept your gift, Faramir, son of Denethor?” Aragorn asks with a barely contained grin.
“I do.”
“Do you accept you gift, Eomer, son of Eomund?”
“I do.”
“Then I pronounce you one, and one you shall be.”
Faramir swears he hears a sob from somewhere behind him. He is too busy kissing his husband to pay it much mind.
It takes some time, but eventually they are forced to separate. As the cheering subsides, Eomer returns the sword to him for until after the ceremony and swiftly pecks him on the cheek before taking Aragorn’s place, and Eowyn comes to stand beside him, the cup once more in her hands. Silently, Faramir drops to one knee yet does not bow his head.
“I, Faramir of Gondor,” and Eomer catches his gaze as he begins to recite the vow for the last ritual, “swear my loyalty to you, Eomer King and all peoples of Rohan. I swear to dedicate my life to the service of you, I swear to put the needs of my king and all peoples of Rohan above my own at all times, be it peace or war. I swear to protect my king and all peoples of Rohan until my king releases me or death takes me or the world ends. So say I, Faramir, son of Denethor.”
“And this do I hear, Eomer Eadig, and I will not forget it. Rise, Faramir, Prince of the Mark, and receive your due.” Faramir obeys, and when Eowyn offers him the cup, takes a generous sip. A light circlet, simple yet elegant, silver to Eomer’s gold, takes its rightful place on his brow a short moment after. Faramir bites down a smile; he recognizes the work.
Hand in hand, the King and the Prince descend the steps and mount patiently waiting Asterfel to their guests’ delight. Eomer wraps his arms tightly around Faramir in the front, securing them both in the saddle that seems to be made for two. “Is that a bell in your pocket or you’re just so happy to hold me?” Faramir asks in a low voice.
Eomer’s heartfelt laugh is his answer. “As a matter of fact, it is!” And true to his word as ever, the hall is soon filled with the melodic, happy ringing that does not drown in the sound of crowd but soars above it and above the Golden Hall itself, up and up into the summer sky. They laugh; below, Boromir pulls Aragorn into a hard kiss, probably, too, reminded of his own wedding.
The ceremony, at last, is over.
***
“The stars are beautiful tonight.”
Faramir hums in agreement as Eomer joins him at the window of their bedchambers. Warmth of day gave way to that of a different kind of nighttime, and anticipation stirs in his stomach at the sound of the beloved voice. “Aye, they are.”
A firm body presses against his back, and Faramir reacts immediately, exposing the softest skin of his neck. “And you know what else is beautiful tonight, my love?” Eomer whispers hotly, teeth moving to nibble at the earlobe.
“The moon?” Faramir tries in between whimpers, hands sliding blindly down to cup his husband’s perfect ass. They have all the time in the world now, yet he is not in the mood for much teasing. At least, for the first round.
“Guess again,” comes a growled reply which quickly turns to a moan when Faramir leans back harder only to be turned around the next moment, losing most of the precious contact.
“What?” Faramir frowns briefly and leans in for a kiss which Eomer denies. “Is that a riddle of some kind?”
Eomer grins, his breath tickling Faramir’s face. “And what if it is? Will my Prince not be able to solve such a simple thing?”
“So you’d rather we play riddles than consummate our marriage tonight, is that it?”
Perhaps it is the pout so clearly evident in Faramir’s voice or the confusion in his eyes that makes Eomer surrender his game. Lips find lips, equal in their hunger, and the air grows warmer with every flick of skilled tongues. “The stars are beautiful tonight,” Eomer murmurs after what feels to be hours, “but what else is beautiful, outshines them, even, if I may say so, is… you.”
The night fills with the loudest groan.
“I will kill Boromir and his damned book!”