Bleeding Well

Posted: April 2004
Title: Bleeding Well
Author: Claire
Fandom: Tolkien
Genre: FCS
Characters: Eomer/Aragorn (Aragorn/Legolas)
Rating: NC-17
WARNING: Some non con, bit angsty.
Beta: None, anyone care to offer their services?
Disclaimer: None of them are mine, not for profit, no harm meant.
Summary: A story inspired by the brand on Aragorn's face at the end of ROTK.

*****

Eomer was probably the only one present glad that Aragorn was not fighting on the Pelennor Fields alongside him, well he and one hundred thousand orcs and their brethren he amended swiftly as he galloped past another orc which fell at his hands and, holding his mount steady with his thighs, turned in the saddle, bow aloft, and fired several arrows in quick succession behind him, blond hair of head and helm gleaming in the smoke hazed sun. With nothing more than the twist of a smile on his face he acknowledged the fall of his enemies and continued with the task in hand. It appeared to be never ending, though he considered that this, finally, could be the ending of him. In fact much of his heart willed that it would be so. It wasn't that he wanted the battle lost, though in truth he cared little for the fate of Minas Tirith, but he desired only to be free of the spell that had been cast upon him.

That belief that he were at the mercy of a curse which would excuse his desires and instilled the hope of a cure comforted him and had done since the tortured days after Helm's Deep. Gandalf had indeed confirmed Saruman had been abroad in Fangorn Forest and Eomer found it easy to believe he, or one of his spies, had cast a spell on him from afar. It was easy to conjure up thoughts of wizardry after the unexpected appearance of the three travelers behind them on the plains, and the elusive hobbits who had escaped the wrath of the riders, and though it was preferable to blame the lady of the golden wood, there was something far more sinister in the spell which had cursed him than he believed she capable of, which left only the wizard or his spies to blame.

He remembered when he had first caught sight of the three friends, the insolence of the dwarf, the cold appraising stare of the elf, and then the welcoming, open gaze of the man who would be King. The innocuous breeze had carried the curse on its very wings, and infected Eomer within moments of their meeting. He loved this man, nay desired him in some primal way more suited to the urgent couplings of beasts, needed to break him into the smallest of shards and rebuild him as a mirror of his own soul that only he could look upon. The ferocity of feeling unleashed within him, and the wanton, carnal inferences screaming naught but evil in his veins made him short, abrupt, in his dealings with them there. Later, when riding into the battle at the Deeping Gate it seemed ironic to him that Gandalf had chosen to illustrate the King rather than the man standing alone below. Not that Eomer would not have ridden to his King, but he could not have been prevented in riding to the man.

In the celebrations that followed at Edoras, prompted by the absurd notion of Theoden that Eowyn would wed Aragorn, Eomer got very drunk. It was in the clarity that such inebriation affords that Eomer was finally able to admit to himself that there was no curse, no spell, no one and nothing to blame for his desires but himself, and the weakness that ran in his veins. He got drunker still. And later caught a glimpse of Legolas and Aragorn in their own private celebrations, the gentle touch of skin on skin, that which was luminous in its deceptive frailty and the other darkened with toil and war. The gasp of an intaken breath, and then; pleading voice, soothing sounds, the sight of hands clutching sheets, shedding clothes, the back of rough hands drawn over silken cheeks, hearing words of love, of comfort, sounds of slick, sweat stained flesh rising to meet burning desire. He drank yet more.

When the man had seen the beacons alight and run into the great halls to ask for Gondor's aid, Eomer had grown hard at the sound of desperation, of need, in the man's voice. He wished that Theoden had been away, even dead, so that Aragorn would have been forced to ask him and he could have given his assent only when he had been satisfied. He imagined the form his satisfaction might take. He would banish all company and seat himself on the golden throne and bid the man in front of him to remove his clothing and crawl before him while he took Eomer's cock deep in his throat until he came. And then he would shackle the man's hands either side of the great chair, his chest pressed tight against the seat and his knees spread on the cold floor, and Eomer would take him thus, each thrust a spear into the very core of the man below him, heeding naught for pain nor pleasure other than his own, for he liked the pain of the unprepared channel which would clench itself around him like hard steel, and the pleasure that would come as he fought the resistance and ploughed ceaselessly until his whore was reduced to nothing more that a writhing, whimpering wraith beneath him. Gods yes, he would break this man apart, leaving less behind than even the one ring might dare.

He was pleased when riding to Dunharrow that the man followed in his wake, at least at the head of the Rohirrim he could be proud and for a time escape the need within his veins. For a time. Not time enough, a common enough lament in latter days. For it was in encampment that evening that Eomer had gone to him. The man had been sleeping though plagued by nightmares if the violence of restlessness which confronted him was clear. At least Eomer had thought his movements violent, though he knew for sure that they were when he left him. Left him bleeding, clawing at the sheets and crying something in elvish that Eomer could not comprehend. He'd thrust a hand across the man's mouth, fragrant with the herbs used to quieten the horses when they were lame, and watched him relax into the sheets. For a while. Not wasting time removing the man's clothes he'd settled for lifting the woollen hose and laying his cheek against the warm skin beneath. The scent, then the taste had driven him wild with need. He cared not for the teeth marks he left in the flesh before him, though he took a care to be gentle with the man's need, and he licked and sucked and caressed, creating a maelstrom of pleasure that penetrated the man's clouded mind and he called out softly. Eomer stopped his caresses and whispered his name over and over in the man's ear, beginning again, and stopping every time the man cried out, repeated his whisperings, touched, tasted the man below him yet again, stopping at his cries, whispering in his ear again, repeating the teasing cycle for time out of mind until finally, finally he heard it.

‘Eomer…….Eomer'

And he continued feasting on the flesh below him and took Aragorn deep in his throat, bruising the bones beneath his hands as the man spilt his seed inside his mouth.

Wormtongue. The thought came unbidden in his mind. He was as bad as the crooked counselor who had whispered his lies in Theoden's ears for so many years. He choked back the thought, a cry escaping his throat, tears forming at the inside corners of his eyes. Which fell on the hard, taught skin of Aragorn's back as Eomer tried to annihilate his need inside the man. Tried and failed. The familiar sensation of sated flesh did nothing to ease the burning of his blood for the future King. Wiping the tears from his eyes, stumbling blindly under the heavy cloth at the rear of the tent, he sat outside for many minutes hearing the creaking of the bed as the man upon it tossed and turned until he heard Aragorn awake with a cry and draw his knife as a rider informed him the King was waiting for him.

There was only one place for Eomer to go, a place where he might be freed of this evil that had befallen him, freed by death. After all, evil is drawn to evil, as Mithrandir had often told him. He made his way to the entrance to the mountain which had been made by the dead. He thought of Eowyn, of Theoden and of warm days on the plains of Rohan when he had rode with the sun in his hair and a smile on his face. He thought maybe he might be granted peace with Theodred in the halls beyond and they could ride as they had as brethren and as children. It seemed unlikely though. And as he hesitated at the broken feet of the mountain Aragorn, the dwarf and, of course, the elf had ridden past him. And is damnable pride had prevented him from following.

So he found himself in the fields before the white city grateful that Aragorn was not there, his scorn at his desertion on the eve of battle assailing the guilt he bore. Well, almost assailing the guilt anyhow. Even with battle at hand, disgust ran deep within, mingling with the desire and need, each only heightening the other. He thought maybe he was damned, and likely to die at the hands of one of these Oiliphants or whatever the hell they were. The fleeting vision of Theodred welcoming him home dissolved before his eyes as he saw ghosts of the dead riding over the battlefield, coming for him. He was indeed damned.

He only realised later, when mourning his Uncle and his Sister; though everyone told him she would live, that death would have been a mercy. He stood next to the elf whose name he could not bring himself to acknowledge while Aragorn prepared the diversion he thought might buy Frodo a chance and preyed to the Gods above for death before the Black Gate.

It galled him to ride out behind Aragorn. With every step closer they took to Mordor his guilt diminished and his desire rose again. He could not look at the man afore him, the way the hair had been braided and fell beneath the collar of his shirt against his neck. He cursed the man for not wearing a helm that would cover the sight from view. He followed the man unbidden and unaware when he rode forwards to call out his challenge before the shuttered gate, and fell back on command thinking that if only their foes would loose arrows at their retreating backs, which was not beyond orcish warfare, it would all be over. Alas, it was not to be. And battle raged around him once again, but this time Eomer was aware of Aragorn fighting alongside him, muttering something about them drawing swords together which only served to fuel his rage. The blood lust took over as the tempo of death accelerated, and his sword was invincible in his hand, parry, thrust, whirl, swing, sting, plunge. Again. Again. Again.

Parry. A troll was bearing down on Aragorn.

Thrust. The man as yet unaware he was in the line of it's vicious intent.

Whirl. A look of horror on his face as he saw the charge.

Swing. Aragorn now prostrate on the ground.

Sting. Eomer grabbing an orc axe, heating it's dull edge in an abandoned torch and branding the face of the man he loved, despised, desired above all things while screaming the only thing that mattered to him

‘You're mine!'

Plunge. Awareness of Legolas fighting his way to where their stood and pushing Eomer to the floor.

Confusion. Explosion. Celebration.

Eomer on his knees on the battlefield, tears streaming down his face, blade sharp on the ground below awaiting him. He could hear those he had killed calling him from hell.

And then.

He felt the blood in his veins, blood calling to him, pure and clean as he had forgotten it had ever been. He looked about him, saw Aragorn embracing Legolas, and found himself smiling as he stood, took a step, joy overflowing in his heart until he saw the raw mark on the man's skin from cheek to brow. He stumbled, hit the ground, forgotten blade piercing his collarbone but far enough from the heart for it to mean only pain, and Eomer sat, letting the blood flow over his cold hands.

It was the Elf that came to him and bade him stand. The evil of the ring effected all men in some way he whispered in his ear after looking the man over, searching Eomer's eyes with his own and finding nothing but regret. Eomer broke loose his hold and made toward Aragorn but the Elf stopped him with unflinching strength

‘Do you think it is of any consequence now?' he asked

And though Eomer agreed it would not be, silently he added that he would be happy to follow Aragorn from that day hence, wherever that may lead, forgetting not what evil can make men do, until he was worthy of the halls of his forebears, where Theodred and Theoden now dwelt, where one day he would not feel ashamed.

*****

THE END

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