The Greenwater

The Rohirrim were going to war.

Hundreds of men, both veterans and new hopefuls, had spent the last days gathering their supplies, packing saddle rolls and bags, honing their weapons, and sharpening their skills. The number of men and horses was unbelievable, and Théalyn found herself watching the sea of beast and man flow along the ground from her vantage at Meduselad.

In her hands she held new leather thongs and her fingers worked quickly, braiding them tightly to form a new handgrip for her short dagger. There was an energy flowing through Edoras, a feeling of nervous excitement, and Théalyn’s heartbeat would quicken every now and then at the thought of riding once more into battle. Helm’s Deep had been but a taste of what she craved so much. And now that she would be riding into battle with the Rohirrim, with Éomer…

The vision of her dream came floating slowly back and it stuck in her throat, leaving a bitter taste her mouth. She frowned at the image and shook her head, trying to rid herself of it. It would be all right, Théoden had said, all men going into battle had the same bloody images. But this one had been so vivid. She had felt the weight of the bolts as they lodged in her chest, felt the burning of the poison as it seeped into her body, and she had smelled the horses and the blood and heard Éomer’s cries… She huffed and stilled her hands, closing her eyes and concentrating on the sounds around her.

The winds still carried on gently, and they brought the sounds of speech, of soldiers speaking with their marshals, of children laughing lightheartedly…that sound was something she had not heard in years. Children. She had not laughed as she had when she was a child for ages, it seemed. She smiled to herself as she thought of her childhood, of her times in Edoras, of running the Seven Circles of Minas Tirith with Faramir and…Boromir.

Boromir, she sighed to herself. Oh Boromir, why you? Your father could be swayed by one voice, by one man, and that man was you. I wish you were here now. Slowly, a vision of a tow-headed boy formed in her mind, at least a head taller than her, but still younger. And his constant companion, his shadow of a brother, with red gold hair and fierce blue eyes. Faramir. Faramir, the spitting image of Findulais, the memory of Denethor’s late wife. It was not the boy’s fault that he took after his mother. His father could not fault him for that. But it was something deeper, and Théalyn knew this as well as she knew her own face. Denethor, she had discovered, was troubled by deeper things than the constant memory of his wife in his son’s face.

Suddenly, she opened her eyes, feeling a loss that she had never wanted to feel again. The empty choking hold that the news of Boromir’s death had brought her was suddenly back, threatening to grip her once more.

He’s my brother, Théalyn.

She whipped her head to the side at the sound of Boromir’s voice, half expecting to see the Captain of Gondor sitting there on the thatched rooftop beside her, polishing his sword or perhaps downing a cup of mead. She wished he was; she wished she could still see his smile.

He’ll need your help.

The voice seemed to carry on the wind and Théalyn noticed, with a shiver, that the breeze had in fact changed direction and was now coming from the east, in the direction of Minas Tirith. Her gut knotted and she felt the urge to bolt from her perch, to seek her horse and cloak and to ride like the wind.

As she quickly finished wrapping her dagger and stowed it back in its sheath, there was a rustle of commotion at the doors of Meduselad, and a company of green-cloaked officers streamed out, forming a line along the stairs. They were followed by Éomer and Gamling, Aragorn and finally Théoden. Gamling called for silence and the crowd stilled, all eyes now on the men that stood at the Golden Hall.

Théoden was first to speak. “I wish to thank you, each and every man and woman and child, for showing compassion and respect in the wake of my son’s death.” At these last few words, the king’s voice wavered and he paused, catching his breath. “Théodred was the First Marshall of the mark, his cousin Éomer the Third. It is with great honor and pride today that I bestow the title of First Marshall to Éomer Eadig, my sister-son.” There was a murmur that spread through the crowd and the gathered Rohirrim thumped their swords and spears against their shields in a mighty heartbeat felt by everyone present.

Éomer stepped forward. “As you all know, the decision has been made to aid Gondor in this final battle.” He paused and waited as a wave of roaring cheers rolled among the crowd. He raised his hands, asking for silence, and when he received it he continued. “We shall ride for Dunharrow in one hour’s time. Take only what you need. We shall ride swiftly and will not rest until we have reached the mountain pass.” He waited another dramatic beat and his voice took on a thoughtful quality.

“I have fought many years at the side of Théoden King, as I am sure many of you have. This battle is not only for Rohan, but for the world of men. If Sauron’s forces defeat us, all is lost. For king and country, men! To war we ride!”

****
“I missed you after the morning meal.”

Théalyn glanced over her shoulder to watch as Éomer scrambled onto the roof of Meduselad and took a seat next to her on the thatch. He watched as she smiled and bent her head back to her work. She was putting the last knots on the thong of her new handgrip and it was a crucial point. If she made a wrong pass, the grip would loosen and unwind, making the weapon very hard to wield in combat.

The Horse Lord watched in silence for a few moments and then spoke again, glancing out onto the plains. “My Uncle came to me before we announced the route we would take. He says that you would like to ask me something.”

At this, Théalyn’s blonde head whipped up and she fixed Éomer with her gray eyes. “Aye,” she answered before turning to her work once more. “I did. I do. Want to ask you something. And I want you to answer me as the First Marshall of the mark, not as the man I am to marry.”

Éomer grinned at the last phrase. Married. He could not wait – if he had it his way, he would have already married her. But things were done in a certain way in Rohan and to join a celebration before a war such as the one they were about to embark upon was not the best plan. Too much was at stake – in war, and in marriage. It was important that those involved entered each with clear thoughts.

“All right,” Éomer said after a moment. “Ask me.”

“I wish to ride with you,” Théalyn spoke, not caring to dally on meaningless words. “Into battle, I mean.”

Éomer nodded and rubbed his beard, his eyes searching Théalyn’s face. “And why do you wish to ride?”

Her eyes widened, almost comically, and Éomer had to hold back from laughing at her obvious disbelief. He shrugged. “It is a standard question, one that is asked of all youth who wish to ride with the Rohirrim.”

“Because I am a strong fighter. A strong rider. I have fought in more battles than many of the young men that are going along. I wish to ride because this is my world too.” She paused and took a deep breath, and her next words were soft. “And I wish to ride with you, Éomer, at your shield side. I cannot imagine any other place I would be.”

“You are anxious to ride,” Éomer observed. Her words were true enough, but she seemed distracted, as if something else lingered in her thoughts. “What news has befallen you?”

“News?” Théalyn asked with a shake of her head. “I know not of what you speak.”

Éomer nodded. “But you do. Something has happened between breakfast and now, something deeper is demanding that you ride.” He studied her face for a moment before it dawned on him. “It’s Faramir, isn’t it?”

She held his gaze for a moment and felt her cheeks burn. Looking away she shook her head, but only half-heartedly. She said nothing.

“I heard of Boromir’s death from Aragorn, after Helm’s Deep. And I know that Denethor has compromised Faramir’s safety by sending him to defend Ithilien.” He reached out and cupped Théalyn’s chin, forcing her to look at him. “I’m not stupid, Théalyn, nor am I forgetful. I know what the Captain of Gondor meant to you. I know what his brother still means to you.” He let go of her chin and dropped his hands to his lap. Studying them for a moment, he heaved a sigh. “Do you wish to ride for him as well? A chance to save him?” Try as he might, he could not hide the pang of jealousy in his voice. He knew that he was not Théalyn’s first and only, but he could not stand the thought of her ever being with Boromir.

“We were children, Éomer,” Théalyn gently reminded him, knowing his exact thoughts. “Those times are past. But you cannot expect me to forget them. Would I forget the girls you bedded in the stables all those years?”

“I…” He yelped, trying to protest, but Théalyn’s glare cut him off. He turned red and pouted, crossing his arms over his chest.

Théalyn laughed then, hearty and loud, causing many heads below to turn and try to locate where the sound came from. She stifled it the best she could, giggling, her body shaking with mirth. Éomer grumbled and pounced, easily tackling her and pinning her to the rooftop, his knees on either side of her.

“Wench,” he growled through his grin.

“Wench-lover,” Théalyn countered through another chuckle. She sobered somewhat. “I want to be able to help him, Éomer. But Gandalf is there. He would not let his favorite student perish, I think. I will ride with you. If you’ll let me.”

Éomer eased off of Théalyn and made his way to the edge of the roof. “Come down a moment.” He could change the subject quickly, it was one of his talents. He swung his frame from the roof and peered over the edge at Théalyn. “Well, come on!” He urged. “We leave in less than an hour. I have something to show you in the stables.”

****
“Someone is going to see us,” Théalyn whispered against Éomer’s mouth as he pushed against her for another kiss.

“Then they see us,” he mumbled, his hands digging into her hips as he pulled her pelvis to his. “I want you,” he stated plainly as he looked down into her eyes.

“Aye, but wouldn’t you be more comfortable in our bed?”

He chuckled and shook his head. “Most of the furs have been packed away. And our gear has been packed as well and stowed for us in Firefoot’s stall.” He grinned and nipped her lip before licking away the sting.

“So that would be why we’re subjecting poor Faron to this display?” But she still reached between them and loosened his belt before tugging on the laces to his breeches.

“He doesn’t care,” Éomer assured her, glancing back over his shoulder to the stallion. He did not expect, however, that the horse would be watching eagerly with curious, unblinking brown eyes. He whickered suddenly and took a small step forward.

“He does not care,” Théalyn gasped as Éomer found the sensitive spot behind her ear with his lips, “for his mistress to be put in harm’s way. If he hears me scream…”

“Then perhaps you should be quiet. It will draw less attention.” His fingers had been fumbling with the ties to her breeches and he swore as he created yet another knot. He broke away from her for a moment and shook his head. “I have no idea how women get these things off. They’re almost impossible.”

“It’s different when you do it for someone else,” Théalyn muttered, easily slipping the knots apart and tugging the leather down her legs. “I would be concerned if you knew how to take off men’s clothing that were not your own. Although I suppose Gamling could have taught you.” A streak of mischief flashed in her gray eyes.

“I’m going to forget you said that,” Éomer grunted. He ran his gaze down the tanned planes of Théalyn’s thighs and his hands came up to grip them hard and pry them apart. “Now shut up and let me do my work.” He silenced any protest she might have made with a searing kiss that wound their tongues together.

She moaned and tugged at his hair, making his head tilt back so that she follow the line of his chin and his jaw with her tongue. He growled deep in his chest and tugged his own breeches down past his hips before lifting Théalyn against the wall and holding her there. Instinctively she reached down and took a hold of his cock, stroking him in a strong fist before holding him steady at the apex of her thighs. Gently, and bit by bit, he lowered her down the wall, making her slide effortlessly onto him. His green eyes widened in awe and he could not help but smile as he brushed her hair from her forehead.

“How is it,” he began hotly, “that you are always ready for me?”

“Sometimes,” she gasped as he gently rocked his hips and brushed deep inside of her, “it only takes your voice saying my name. Sometimes, it is the way you look when you are in thought.” He drew back and thrust again, this time a little harder. “And sometimes – oh! – sometimes, it takes only seeing your face, smelling your skin, feeling your hands on me…” He wasn’t moving where she wanted him to and she pouted before thumping her fist on his shoulder. “Stop torturing me and get on with it!”

He chuckled smoothly and dipped his head in a bow fit for a formal hall. “My Lady,” he rumbled, drawing his hips back once more. He set a rhythm, not punishing, but not languid either. It was steady, and it built the way water laps on the shore of a lake-slow, then quicker and quicker and finally crashing, only to slow down and lapse and start all over again. In mere moments he had her panting and keening, and her hips bucked against his restlessly.

“Éomer,” she hissed, trying to reach some sort of completion.

But Éomer had stopped thrusting and his head swiveled in the direction of Theron’s stable door.

Théalyn whined again but he glanced back at her with a look that told her to be quiet. His palm slid over her mouth. Théalyn held her breath and waited.

“…not seen him for over an hour. We’re almost ready to ride and the First Marshall is nowhere to be seen!”

Théalyn choked on her breath at the sound of Gamling’s voice and she wriggled against Éomer, trying to dislodge him. He merely glared at her, at the audacity of trying to end what he clearly had not finished, and when the corner of his mouth curled up evilly, Théalyn shook her head wildly. Éomer’s hand tightened over her mouth and he brought his lips to her ear. “Now hush,” he muttered barely above a whisper. He pulled his hips back and pushed slowly forward, but sank deeper than he had been before.

The sensation caused Théalyn’s mind to swim and she felt hot and dizzy and cold and weightless all at once. Éomer liked what he saw and moved again, pushing deep and slow and hard, and holding onto Théalyn’s thigh, drawing her down to meet him. Her fingers dug into his shoulders and her eyes were wide with the fear of being caught.

“He’ll show up,” a second voice chimed in. No doubt it was Hreidmar, one of the junior officers who made it his duty to follow Gamling everywhere.

Éomer saw the distress in Théalyn’s eyes but it only spurred him to continue with his torture and he bucked his hips hard. She wanted to scream but instead she bit into the hand that silenced her and Éomer swore between clenched teeth.

“You’ll pay for that,” he whispered. The hand that held her thigh slid between their bodies and his fingertips dipped into her slick heat, finding the bundle of nerves and stroking it relentlessly. Théalyn groaned in her throat and her head fell back, solidly connecting with the wooden beam she was held against.

“Did you ask Éowyn?” Gamling’s voice was louder, his footsteps trailing closer through the straw on the stable floors.

“…talking to that Ranger from the North…his name? Aragorn?” Hreidmar piped up.

Éomer growled at the mention of his sister’s name with Aragorn and he broke his rhythm, scowling. Théalyn squeezed her internal muscles around Éomer’s length and moaned, urging him to continue. Éomer shuddered at the sensation and was brought back to the task at hand. His hips bucked harder now, his fingertips rubbing fast, small circles on Théalyn’s aching flesh. Her nostrils flared and she exhaled loudly against the edge of Éomer’s hand which still clamped her mouth closed. He bit his lip. He pushed again and his thighs shook. Théalyn knew he was close, so she joined the effort, raising her hips as best she could, trying to do some of the work herself.

Green eyes widened with awe and then narrowed and Éomer butted his hips up under Théalyn’s as he drove them both to their end. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his upper lip and where he gripped his lover’s hip, there would definitely be bruises by the morrow. The telltale tingling had started in the base of his spine and he felt Théalyn jerk against him before squeezing down his length with all of her might. Her hands gripped his shoulders, dug into the tender muscle and flesh there, but Éomer was too caught up in his own release to care. Only when the blinding white-heat and the numbing pleasure started to ebb away did he focus again. He blinked, finding Théalyn’s eyes drowsy. Satisfied that she wasn’t going to make anymore noise, he let go of her mouth and softly kissed her.

Théalyn made a contented sound low in her throat and she broke the kiss to heave in a great breath, trying to steady her pounding heart. The thudding in her ears grew softer and it was replaced by the grunted ramblings of Éomer’s second in command.

Almost comically the two pushed away from each other and raced to straighten their clothes, to run fingers through mussed hair and fasten sword belts and vests. Éomer winked and approached Théalyn for another kiss, but at the last second she shoved him hard, away from her and sent him reeling into Faron’s flank. The stallion whickered loudly and nipped at Éomer’s shoulder, causing the Horse Lord to swear out loud.

“Éomer, is that you?” A familiar russet head suddenly came into view, grey eyes narrowing as they caught sight of Théalyn. He frowned at her and then looked back to his Marshall.

“Ah, good. We’ve not much time to waste. Hreidmar here has seen to it that the orders were dispatched. Aran and Tallak are leading the left wing and Tividar is bringing up the right with Kasi. I’ve been looking for you – the Rohirrim are waiting for their leader.” He glanced at Théalyn again and pulled Éomer closer, speaking in a low voice.

“And it is not my place to say, My Lord, but it is unknown how the men will react with Théalyn riding amongst us.”

Éomer nodded but did not care to hear his second’s advice. “She rides better than most of the men here. No, Théalyn will ride with us.” He glanced back to her, smiling.

She smiled back, having her question answered. “My Lord,” she bowed her head. “I shall not disappoint.” She made to move towards Theron but Éomer waited expectantly for some sort of physical thanks. Théalyn bristled and brushed past him. “I am sure that you do not Gamling to kiss you in thanks. If I am to be your equal, you will treat me like one.” Still, she let her hip brush Éomer’s and her fingertips grazed the back of his hand. “But I shall visit you later, perhaps, once at Dunharrow?” She murmured, her eyes on her horse. “Maybe then I will thank you.”

****
TBC