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Title: Vigilant
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Rating: PG
Genre: Angst/Fluff
Pairings: Eomer/Theodred
Warnings: AU: Fix-it, cousin incest
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Théodred, prince of Rohan, lies dying. Éomer swears he will do everything in his power to prevent that – even if it means leaving him, and letting Éowyn guard his lover-cousin in his stead.
Author's Notes: This was written for this year's M/M Rares fest. I'm...actually, I'm pretty sure that the person it was written for hated it. I did enjoy writing this, though I struggled a bit, and that's why it's getting a repost rather than a deletion XDThat and I love the fest and want to participate again.
The fic itself is based somewhat on a fan theory that I stumbled over traces of when I was doing a bit of research. Since it stuck with me and fit the requester's prompt, I used it.
Théodred is shivering. He’s rapidly weakening, but his fingers still find the edge of Éomer’s bracer and dig bruises into his forearm.
“I – I kept the – the Fords for you, my cousin,” he says. His voice is so quiet and his teeth chattering so loudly that Éomer has to lean in close enough to kiss just to hear him – and the words he hears break his heart. He closes his eyes to keep back tears. He can smell death, this close, not just the rancid stench of infection. Théodred’s words and his actions may have been noble, but his chances now are slim.
“You did well,” he says. “So very well.”
Théodred’s smile is trembling and doesn’t reach his eyes, and Éomer feels his chest contract. Théodred knows that he is dying.
Éomer… All Éomer knows is that he will do everything in his power to prevent it.
…
Éowyn glances at the wound in their cousin’s belly. She can’t quite hide her gasp or the flinch that accompanies it, and Éomer shifts instinctively closer to Théodred’s body as if to protect him from her horror. His actions, well-meant, have no purpose. Théodred is unconscious – he has been since the Ford – and though his dreams are wild with fever, he does not move. He has barely moved since Éomer delivered him to his bedchamber and, at this point, there is doubt he will ever move again.
The wound reeks. It is fire-red and swollen and it is flooding Théodred’s body with an Orcish poison that is slowly taking his life. What good their medicines will do against it, Éomer cannot tell. It seems hopeless.
He bows his head over Théodred’s clammy fingers, and closes his eyes. He has no desire to look upon his cousin’s face with its greenish cast; Théodred is meant for golden radiance. He is meant for laughter and for summer sunlight, and for stolen moments in dusty haylofts.
He is not - cannot be – meant for slow and painful death.
Éowyn’s fingers curve over his own. She is trembling, but her grip is strong and he takes what comfort she offers.
“You must tell the king,” she whispers. In her voice, Éomer can hear the tears he cannot allow himself to shed lest he never stop, and he forces himself to look up at her.
She’s almost as pale as Théodred. Her grief and rage are etched on her face, and it is a stark reminder that she loves their cousin too.
“He must know,” she says. “Éomer, my brother, you must make him understand.”
“How?” he asks her. “He is in thrall, and you know it as well as I do. The Orcs that attacked all bore the white hand upon their armour, aye, but it is Saruman’s poison that Wormtongue whispers.”
Théodred moans and stirs, ever so slightly. His lips part and his lashes flutter, and Éomer feels his heart clench. Théodred’s movements, weak and feverish though they are, are faintly reminiscent of those he makes in the throes of pleasure, and Éomer cannot help but feel guilty for his own desires.
He cannot help but be guilty.
His riders had not arrived soon enough to aide Théodred in battle. By the time they had arrived, Théodred’s men had been slaughtered in their defence of the Ford. Even now, with Théodred returned to the halls of his fathers, he can still feel his skin prickle with the fear his felt while searching for him.
“You must not leave his side,” he says. He cuts off any protest. “Sister, listen to me – I will go to the king and tell him of Théodred’s fate, but there is no hope in my heart that he will hear me. And with that slime lurking in the shadows…”
Éowyn’s fair features twist into a grimace. “You think he may do Théodred harm,” she says. “The king’s only son!”
“What better way than to cripple the kingdom, sister, and bring it under his – and Saruman’s! – control?”
He watches Éowyn’s face as realisation dawns. He sees her pretty face twist. She understands him – and more, he understands her reaction completely. Of them all, it is she who likes Wormtongue the least. For all his determination to undermine Théodred’s kingdom – and now, possibly, his life – and to slowly strip Éomer of what powers and positions he has, the wretch does not haunt their steps. And while he knows in his heart that his love for Théodred has not gone unnoticed, it is not worthy enough of news for Wormtongue to be interested. They are breaking no laws.
His sister, however. Wormtongue is forever lurking in her shadow, watching her every move. Éomer has seen his eyes trace the lines of her bodice as she dines in the hall; he has caught him lingering outside of her chambers in the dead of night. There are hints and whispers amongst those who truly serve the king’s line: whispers of things going missing from his sister’s possessions.
That Éowyn has not said anything to confirm such rumours does not mean that they are not true. Éomer has seen their truth in the tight lines of her brow and her mouth, and in the occasional flurry of confusion in earlier years.
“I will be vigilant,” she says, and her body straightens as she draws her strength from that seemingly endless well she carries within her. “I am a shield maiden of Rohan. It is my duty to protect my king and kindred, no matter what the cost to myself.”
His cold, beautiful, wonderful sister. He untangles their fingers so that he might cup her cheek and pull her close to rest their brows together.
“Thank you,” he whispers into the air between them. “For being here when I may soon be banished.”
Her next indrawn breath is more of a sob, but he does not mention it. Éowyn has not wept in front of him for years and he will allow her to keep that dignity.
“How could I not?” she asks. “Théodred is the very heart of you, Éomer. He is my dearest friend. He may be our prince as well as our cousin, but he is also the very best of us. I shall stay by his side – I will sleep here if I must, and will tend to him alone if that is our hope of saving him. But brother…” She draws back, and her tears are glistening. She looks so young, and so afraid, that he wants nothing more than to take her and Théodred far, far away from the Golden Halls and never return.
“Hurry back to us,” she says.
He swears, then and there, not to deny her.
…
He finds his sister in the Great Hall at Helm’s Deep. She looks nothing like a fine lady – her face is pale and there are lines around her eyes that were not there when he last saw her. But her smile at his return is wide and triumphant, and her embrace is strong.
Fair Éowyn, she has survived.
Éomer only manages to tear himself away when a hand lands on his shoulder, and he looks up into the strong, handsome face that has haunted his nightmares these last weeks.
Théodred is no longer greenish-pale. He is tired, yes, and no doubt weak, but he is also standing. He is breathing. He is smiling that wide, impish smile that Éomer has spent his entire life trying to elicit, and he is – miraculously – real.
“Théodred,” he breathes.
And he cares not at all about his king or the wizard that stands by his side. He cares not for the gathered soldiers or the Orc-hunting trio of Man, Elf and Dwarf. He cares for nothing but Théodred – the heart his sister has guarded in his stead – and the feel of that smile against his lips as he draws him down into a kiss.
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Rating: PG
Genre: Angst/Fluff
Pairings: Eomer/Theodred
Warnings: AU: Fix-it, cousin incest
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Théodred, prince of Rohan, lies dying. Éomer swears he will do everything in his power to prevent that – even if it means leaving him, and letting Éowyn guard his lover-cousin in his stead.
Author's Notes: This was written for this year's M/M Rares fest. I'm...actually, I'm pretty sure that the person it was written for hated it. I did enjoy writing this, though I struggled a bit, and that's why it's getting a repost rather than a deletion XD
The fic itself is based somewhat on a fan theory that I stumbled over traces of when I was doing a bit of research. Since it stuck with me and fit the requester's prompt, I used it.
Théodred is shivering. He’s rapidly weakening, but his fingers still find the edge of Éomer’s bracer and dig bruises into his forearm.
“I – I kept the – the Fords for you, my cousin,” he says. His voice is so quiet and his teeth chattering so loudly that Éomer has to lean in close enough to kiss just to hear him – and the words he hears break his heart. He closes his eyes to keep back tears. He can smell death, this close, not just the rancid stench of infection. Théodred’s words and his actions may have been noble, but his chances now are slim.
“You did well,” he says. “So very well.”
Théodred’s smile is trembling and doesn’t reach his eyes, and Éomer feels his chest contract. Théodred knows that he is dying.
Éomer… All Éomer knows is that he will do everything in his power to prevent it.
…
Éowyn glances at the wound in their cousin’s belly. She can’t quite hide her gasp or the flinch that accompanies it, and Éomer shifts instinctively closer to Théodred’s body as if to protect him from her horror. His actions, well-meant, have no purpose. Théodred is unconscious – he has been since the Ford – and though his dreams are wild with fever, he does not move. He has barely moved since Éomer delivered him to his bedchamber and, at this point, there is doubt he will ever move again.
The wound reeks. It is fire-red and swollen and it is flooding Théodred’s body with an Orcish poison that is slowly taking his life. What good their medicines will do against it, Éomer cannot tell. It seems hopeless.
He bows his head over Théodred’s clammy fingers, and closes his eyes. He has no desire to look upon his cousin’s face with its greenish cast; Théodred is meant for golden radiance. He is meant for laughter and for summer sunlight, and for stolen moments in dusty haylofts.
He is not - cannot be – meant for slow and painful death.
Éowyn’s fingers curve over his own. She is trembling, but her grip is strong and he takes what comfort she offers.
“You must tell the king,” she whispers. In her voice, Éomer can hear the tears he cannot allow himself to shed lest he never stop, and he forces himself to look up at her.
She’s almost as pale as Théodred. Her grief and rage are etched on her face, and it is a stark reminder that she loves their cousin too.
“He must know,” she says. “Éomer, my brother, you must make him understand.”
“How?” he asks her. “He is in thrall, and you know it as well as I do. The Orcs that attacked all bore the white hand upon their armour, aye, but it is Saruman’s poison that Wormtongue whispers.”
Théodred moans and stirs, ever so slightly. His lips part and his lashes flutter, and Éomer feels his heart clench. Théodred’s movements, weak and feverish though they are, are faintly reminiscent of those he makes in the throes of pleasure, and Éomer cannot help but feel guilty for his own desires.
He cannot help but be guilty.
His riders had not arrived soon enough to aide Théodred in battle. By the time they had arrived, Théodred’s men had been slaughtered in their defence of the Ford. Even now, with Théodred returned to the halls of his fathers, he can still feel his skin prickle with the fear his felt while searching for him.
“You must not leave his side,” he says. He cuts off any protest. “Sister, listen to me – I will go to the king and tell him of Théodred’s fate, but there is no hope in my heart that he will hear me. And with that slime lurking in the shadows…”
Éowyn’s fair features twist into a grimace. “You think he may do Théodred harm,” she says. “The king’s only son!”
“What better way than to cripple the kingdom, sister, and bring it under his – and Saruman’s! – control?”
He watches Éowyn’s face as realisation dawns. He sees her pretty face twist. She understands him – and more, he understands her reaction completely. Of them all, it is she who likes Wormtongue the least. For all his determination to undermine Théodred’s kingdom – and now, possibly, his life – and to slowly strip Éomer of what powers and positions he has, the wretch does not haunt their steps. And while he knows in his heart that his love for Théodred has not gone unnoticed, it is not worthy enough of news for Wormtongue to be interested. They are breaking no laws.
His sister, however. Wormtongue is forever lurking in her shadow, watching her every move. Éomer has seen his eyes trace the lines of her bodice as she dines in the hall; he has caught him lingering outside of her chambers in the dead of night. There are hints and whispers amongst those who truly serve the king’s line: whispers of things going missing from his sister’s possessions.
That Éowyn has not said anything to confirm such rumours does not mean that they are not true. Éomer has seen their truth in the tight lines of her brow and her mouth, and in the occasional flurry of confusion in earlier years.
“I will be vigilant,” she says, and her body straightens as she draws her strength from that seemingly endless well she carries within her. “I am a shield maiden of Rohan. It is my duty to protect my king and kindred, no matter what the cost to myself.”
His cold, beautiful, wonderful sister. He untangles their fingers so that he might cup her cheek and pull her close to rest their brows together.
“Thank you,” he whispers into the air between them. “For being here when I may soon be banished.”
Her next indrawn breath is more of a sob, but he does not mention it. Éowyn has not wept in front of him for years and he will allow her to keep that dignity.
“How could I not?” she asks. “Théodred is the very heart of you, Éomer. He is my dearest friend. He may be our prince as well as our cousin, but he is also the very best of us. I shall stay by his side – I will sleep here if I must, and will tend to him alone if that is our hope of saving him. But brother…” She draws back, and her tears are glistening. She looks so young, and so afraid, that he wants nothing more than to take her and Théodred far, far away from the Golden Halls and never return.
“Hurry back to us,” she says.
He swears, then and there, not to deny her.
…
He finds his sister in the Great Hall at Helm’s Deep. She looks nothing like a fine lady – her face is pale and there are lines around her eyes that were not there when he last saw her. But her smile at his return is wide and triumphant, and her embrace is strong.
Fair Éowyn, she has survived.
Éomer only manages to tear himself away when a hand lands on his shoulder, and he looks up into the strong, handsome face that has haunted his nightmares these last weeks.
Théodred is no longer greenish-pale. He is tired, yes, and no doubt weak, but he is also standing. He is breathing. He is smiling that wide, impish smile that Éomer has spent his entire life trying to elicit, and he is – miraculously – real.
“Théodred,” he breathes.
And he cares not at all about his king or the wizard that stands by his side. He cares not for the gathered soldiers or the Orc-hunting trio of Man, Elf and Dwarf. He cares for nothing but Théodred – the heart his sister has guarded in his stead – and the feel of that smile against his lips as he draws him down into a kiss.
