Stone Walls
Chapter 1
Eomer's breath was coming in ragged shudders. They had won. Against everything, against evil, against fate; they had won. And yet the victory was so close to defeat that is left a bitter taste on his tongue.
The smell of blood was too heavy in the air. He was a hardened warrior, familiar with the ways and consequences of combat and no man would have called him cowardly, but even his soul shuddered at the sight of so much death.
There was, however, much rejoicing among the people of Rohan. He stood beside his faithful, sweat-soaked and blood-flecked steed, absently massaging its huge muscles whilst he waited for his own aching body to cool. The women and children were pouring forth from the caves, embracing their sons, brothers, fathers and husbands. King Theoden stood on high atop the Deeping Wall, surveying all with a grand smile, only vaguely tinged with sadness. Eomer had much to desire to talk with his uncle, but he wished the stresses of battle to ease from his muscles first.
He was not given much of a chance to calm his mind, however, since Rohirrm, soldiers, townsfolk and all manner of survivors of the terrible battle were bestowing upon him such a crescendo of praise and thanks that he was barely given a second between them.
"Lord Eomer - " A familiar voice.
Eomer turned. "Aragorn," he inclined his head in respect. "I have come to understand that it is you we have to thank for the survival of so many."
Aragorn studied the younger man with eyes that were impossibly deep and wise for a mortal. "'Twas nothing more than you would have done yourself, Prince Eomer."
"Possibly not," said Eomer, keeping his expression guarded. "But nonetheless…"
There was a longish pause when their gazes were locked. Eomer did not understand what to make of this man. He seemed to exude a quiet confidence and an unquestionable authority that demanded respect and yet the same time, something in the set of his lips and the tilt of his brow communicated the human compassion and receptiveness that one finds in the closest of comrades.
"We must thank each other then," Aragorn said quietly.
It was strange that Aragorn looked like a king despite the layer of mud and blood that matted his hair, smudged his face and rimed his clothes. "Yes we must," Eomer replied, removing his helmet and aware of a lightening in the tone of their conversation. He held out his hand. "Friend."
Aragorn took a firm grip on the hand. "You will forever find a comrade in me, Prince of Rohan."
"And you in I, you need only to call for the horse and the rider. The Rohirrm will always answer you. We owe you much."
Aragorn inclined his head. He said nothing, but the look in his eyes was enough to tell Eomer that a trust and a friendship had been a established, the kind of which it would take much to break.
Aragorn left and disappeared into the exhausted crowds of people that were milling, embracing and lamenting.
"Would there would be much time before we must witness such a massacre again," Eomer said to his horse as he relieved it of its tack. The horse gave a grateful shake of its hide. "Go, brave one," he said, patting its side. "Go, find grass. We have a little time to spare, for now." The horse trotted away and Eomer did not glance after it.
He could see Gandalf the White, like a star shining in the shadowy valley, sharing a discourse with the ever-sombre Aragorn. Many incredible people had aided in the victory of Helm's Deep. And yet even this collection of wizards and kings had not been enough to destroy the enemy. He knew that they had merely had a taste of what the future might hold.
Tired of such morbid thoughts, he looked around, seeking a sanctuary of silence. But there were people everywhere. Too much desperate relief and desperate despair. He wanted to get away.
"The Hornburg…" He thought. No one would be atop the Hornburg tower. He slipped up the causeway and in through the gate, avoiding all, at least for now.
He was correct. The amount of people thinned considerably as he drew to the steps of the Hornburg. The sound of his boots upon the stone steps was like the hollow tapping of a hammer against his soul.
He emerged at the top as though emerging into the sky. So high up, the noise from the battlefield barely filtered up to him. He breathed deep the clean air and shut his eyes, allowing the luxury of nothingness to penetrate his mind for the briefest of moments.
It took a lot to startle Eomer, son of Eomund, but that tiniest scrape of a booted foot against the stone of the tower top had his spine quivering and his heart leaping into his throat.
"Forgive me, Prince Eomer," the voice was smooth and ageless, devoid of and yet loaded with emotion. "I had no intention of startling you."
Eomer blinked and calmed his racing pulse. "No forgiveness is necessary, good Elf," he replied. "If there is any fault, it is mine. I was not expecting anyone else to be up here."
There was silence for a moment. He fixed his eyes upon the battlefield below, unwilling and slightly afraid to meet the eyes of this strange being. His heart was buzzing in the oddest manner. It was indeed an exciting and daunting experience to be so close to one of the fair folk. He has seen few and spoke to less in his time. All he had were tales of magic, wonder, trickery and heartbreak. The prospect of meeting one in such close quarters had Eomer ambivalent to the extent of which he was considering fleeing. But no. He did not run from a hoard of orcs, he could overcome fear and conquer this experience also. He had come up here to escape his fears for the time being and escape he would do.
And yet…
Eomer glanced at the elf from the corner of his eye. The elf seemed to have already forgotten he was there. Languid blue eyes gazed off into the distance as though seeing and absorbing everything up to the horizon. A slight breeze tugged reverently at golden tresses and such a stillness stole over him that he looked carved from the purest marble.
"Your intervention saved all our lives, Rider of the Mark." His voice was far from loud but the silence had been so complete that his speech made Eomer's heart skip once again.
"The fate of my people is a cause worthy enough to die for," Eomer intoned, not looking at the elf. "I had expected to die today. But the battle is won and now we must all live to face the future."
"You have regrets?" There was no judgement in the tone.
"None. Only fears."
"Tis a fearful time for all, Eomer, King Sister-Son."
Eomer regarded the elf carefully. He was sat on the tower wall as solidly and balanced as though he was not aware of the height from which even he would surly be killed if he fell. His eyes had not moved from their wandering scrutiny of the horizon. He seemed so separate, his years and knowledge detaching him as though he existed on another plane of existence.
"Fears even for you, Sir Elf?"
"Indeed fears for me." He brought his eyes to Eomer's face and Eomer felt his breath catch as he had the first time he had lain eyes upon him upon the fields of Rohan, though he was as careful to conceal it now as then. So beautiful, thought Eomer and yet the elf was beyond such concepts as beauty. He seemed to be an embodiment of the intangible essence of all the misty dreams, fog-wreathed forests and subtlest scents of the wildest flowers.
Elves were fickle creatures in myth a tale, enchanting but traitorous and cold. However, Eomer received no such impressions at that moment, just an almost overwhelming sense of insignificance. What was a man to a being such as this? A man's life was emotional, hot, hungry, exhausting and ever so brief. He felt he could never possibly understand what it must mean to exist compared to such a creature as this.
Legolas got to his feet in such a lithe, fluid motion it was almost eerie. "Fear blackens the heart of most people of Middle Earth, Prince Eomer. But there is hope too. With warriors such as yourself ready to fight for freedom, that fear may become less solid and the hope brighter."
"I fear it will take more than what we can ever hope for to defeat the armies of Sauron," Eomer said bitterly.
"So morbid, Rider of Rohan?"
"What are our struggles to the elves at any rate?" He regretted the outburst immediately. But Legolas did not seem offended. Then again, Eomer found it impossible to discern his expression.
"You think us so different to yourselves?" Those impossible eyes…
"Are you not?"
Legolas stepped forward suddenly and clasped Eomer's hand in both his own. Eomer was startled and slightly frightened since he could feel the strength in those hands and yet still nothing from the eyes. Legolas held their hands against Eomer's chest and for a while they just stood there, Eomer trying to retrieve any sort of clue from the Elf's face.
"You feel your heartbeat do you not?" the elf whispered at last.
Eomer nodded.
"As do I. Do you believe that were I to press our hands thus against my own breast, that you would feel naught?"
"Of course not," said Eomer, bemused beyond belief. "I don't claim to be over endowed in knowledge of elves but I believe I have enough to know that one that lives has a heart that beats."
"Indeed." Legolas did not remove his hands. They felt cool and smooth, with the merest hint of strength, although they were satin sewn tenderly around iron. "Though I would be the first to say our peoples differ in manner and looks, our hearts beat alike."
"I don't understand."
Legolas tilted his head on one side. A delicate braid shift amidst its bed of golden silk and the eyelashes that framed his oceanic eyes fluttered to give them almost and expression of curiosity.
"Men seem to take much comfort in separation, in suffering on their own. I have met many men and all seem too enamoured, enchanted overwhelmed or even fearful to try and involve my kind. Would that both or people simply took a little time to listen to each other, we would both discover much that is now mystery. It is only through union we can ever hope to survive."
"I do not wish to suffer alone," said Eomer, voice shivering slightly from the contact.
Legolas did not seem to notice the quaver. "Nor does anyone, willingly. A distance between oneself and what is strange or different is instinct, and yet it is what plants the seeds for fear and distrust. But if this is overcome…we triumph."
Legolas released his hand. Eomer's hand felt cold from the loss of contact. "I understand many of your people died here with us today," Eomer said quietly. "I believed the unions you speak of may have been achieved on this very wall yester eve."
"And it was a beauty to see. Would that so much horror had not followed…"
"Do you still hold us at a distance, elf?" Eomer asked, absently massaging his hand and shamefully wishing he could touch that skin again. "Have you overcome this distrust of which you speak? I believe so, since I do not believe elves offer up physical contact lightly…"
Legolas's eyes seemed the slightest bit sharp as they returned to him. Eomer feared he may have caused offence, but said nothing, still wanting an answer to his question.
"I believe I rid myself of my barriers sometime ago. Not many have been on such an undertaking as I…the Fellowship was its namesake and distance was impossible. Men, Elf dwarf and halflings bonded strongly for perhaps the first time in history. I have come to understand the errors of the past."
But despite these words, Eomer found it impossible to imagine that such a being as this had travelled, slept and ate with men and dwarves. It seemed almost perverse. He found it impossible, though he longed for it so, to bring this elegant and mystical and so old being closer to him. He realised all at once how utterly naive he was, despite his years of blood and pain.
"Do you take offence at distance?" Eomer asked. There was another silence, not entirely comfortable.
"You still think me separate?"
Eomer said nothing.
"We are not so different, you and I. Not so different as you would think. Age is of little consequence, physical presence, less so." Legolas turned his gaze to the battleground where the blood was drying below him. "Surely it is the colours of your heart that matter? My heart is black at this time. Black with grief and black with fear…is yours not so?"
"It is." Eomer dared a step closer. The heady scent that was laden in the elf's hair was all that convinced him that this was not some heavenly vision. And yet, as the words penetrated, it was as though the elf were slowly coming into focus. Perhaps he was just flesh and blood…
"I came up here to clear my mind, to ease the ache and to look…just to look at the landscape. Eomer, you did not come up here for the view of me. Look at the land."
Eomer blushed profusely, but did as the elf said. The view from here of hills, fields, mountains skies and clouds was refreshing and cooled his mind as well as his body.
"After such a battle, to understand what it means to be alive is what is important," said Eomer slowly, speaking more to himself.
"Life is precious, Son of Eomund. You understand that. Be it long or short, it is all we have. Everlasting or mortal, it all matters. Do you not see then, how similar we are?"
They were so close now that Eomer fancied he could feel the warmth of his skin. Legolas was suddenly solid before him, beautiful and impossible, but real. He understood the elf's words. Distance was deadly. Union was triumph. If he could just convince himself completely this elf was real…
He reached out a hand…so slowly it was almost painful. The anticipation more than he could bare. His fingers, so crude and ruddy looking in comparison, were now but an inch from the skin of the elf's cheek. The stormy eyes did not flicker.
"You still think me made of stone?" Legolas asked, as the hand paused.
"I am afraid of shattering a beautiful illusion."
"Shatter it, Eomer. For it is but an illusion!" There was such a degree of emotion in the voice that it startled Eomer. Confusion suddenly ran rampant in his brain. It was not within his rights to touch such a creature…he had no right to destroy all the magic and surrealilty that had been built up around him. And yet that was what the elf had been saying, was it not? There was no magic, there should be no distance, for distance between allies is dangerous. Allies? Union is triumph. They both wanted triumph. Perhaps they weren't so different.
Eomer touched Legolas's face. It was with mild awe and a touch of amazement that he ran the sensitive pad of his thumb along the line of a high cheek bone, the velvety and hairless skin utterly smooth, but real, beneath his touch. Something brightened in Legolas's eyes and it was a joy to behold.
But it was still so utterly perfect. Should he be touching this face? He let his hand drop. The spark disappeared from the elf's eyes. He appeared suddenly slightly wounded and slightly angry.
"Am I not allowed to be real, Eomer?" he pleaded. "Am I not allowed to exist for men? Must I always be a foreigner, or a ghost?"
His face in animation was all at once quite disturbing and utterly captivating.
"You must understand, Legolas," Eomer finally raised his voice to the elf. "You cannot expect me to touch you without this doubt and this awe. I am but human! In the face of you, how have you come to expect men to treat you with anything less than reverence? I fear you understand little of the hearts of men."
Legolas turned his back and went to the wall and looked down. There was frustration in the line of his back and the hard set of his shoulders. "I know it is not impossible. One has taught me I am not unattainable. One once told me that I could be loved and not worshipped. Though his love for another is stronger…"
Eomer felt the tiniest spark of jealousy as he followed Legolas's gaze to Aragorn, standing on the Deeping Wall some distance away. Even at this distance, there was a presence and authority that exuded from the man like an aura. He was truly a king among men…
"Not all humans are so exceptional as Aragorn," Eomer stated, his voice flat but sincere. "He is more than human."
"I don't believe so. He just understands beyond what most humans fear of understanding." Legolas looked up again. "He understands that I feel pain, fear, joy and passion as much as men. Some seem to think of us as lifeless as the bark of our trees - "
"Passion?" Eomer interrupted despite himself. "Do elves feel passion?"
Legolas seemed angered by this comment. "Of course we feel passion," he turned on Eomer with such fire in his eyes that he instantly believed the statement and was overwhelmed by it. "Life is passion, death is passion! We have our share of both, despite - "
"Peace, legolas," Eomer stepped close to him again and this time had no hesitation on placing a hand on his lips to still his distress. "Peace. I can see passion in your eyes, though I must confess have been blind to it before. Blinded by…" no words were necessary. The path of his callused fingers along the tender jaw line and around a pointed ear and the look in his eye encapsulated the inescapable awe that he still felt, despite everything, for such perfection.
It was a joy when he felt the elvish hand rub along his own, unshaven cheek. The look in Legolas's eye was one he would have died five times over for. "I must confess I have been a hypocrite." Legolas's voice was a whisper. "Beauty can be daunting. Yours is."
"Mine?" utterly bewildered, Eomer blinked.
Legolas nodded. "Men have their own beauty. So much emotion and so much power they possess…with such a soul as yours…"
"You barely know me."
"I know enough," Emoer was hypnotised by the look in his eyes. "Your hair, your eyes…your scars and your blood. All show you in your honest, passionate beauty, Eomer. They tell stories, they tell of your soul." The elven fingertips left a sweet taste on his lips.
"Ah then, but what of yours, Legolas?" Eomer said in a throaty whisper. He put a hand in the golden hair and the other under the slight chin, tipping the face upwards with the utmost reverence. "As a perfect a part of the earth as frost on leaves, and yet with the living, pulsing beauty of a petal on a flower."
TBC
Author note: Thank you so much! The relevant corrections have been made!
Chapter 1
Eomer's breath was coming in ragged shudders. They had won. Against everything, against evil, against fate; they had won. And yet the victory was so close to defeat that is left a bitter taste on his tongue.
The smell of blood was too heavy in the air. He was a hardened warrior, familiar with the ways and consequences of combat and no man would have called him cowardly, but even his soul shuddered at the sight of so much death.
There was, however, much rejoicing among the people of Rohan. He stood beside his faithful, sweat-soaked and blood-flecked steed, absently massaging its huge muscles whilst he waited for his own aching body to cool. The women and children were pouring forth from the caves, embracing their sons, brothers, fathers and husbands. King Theoden stood on high atop the Deeping Wall, surveying all with a grand smile, only vaguely tinged with sadness. Eomer had much to desire to talk with his uncle, but he wished the stresses of battle to ease from his muscles first.
He was not given much of a chance to calm his mind, however, since Rohirrm, soldiers, townsfolk and all manner of survivors of the terrible battle were bestowing upon him such a crescendo of praise and thanks that he was barely given a second between them.
"Lord Eomer - " A familiar voice.
Eomer turned. "Aragorn," he inclined his head in respect. "I have come to understand that it is you we have to thank for the survival of so many."
Aragorn studied the younger man with eyes that were impossibly deep and wise for a mortal. "'Twas nothing more than you would have done yourself, Prince Eomer."
"Possibly not," said Eomer, keeping his expression guarded. "But nonetheless…"
There was a longish pause when their gazes were locked. Eomer did not understand what to make of this man. He seemed to exude a quiet confidence and an unquestionable authority that demanded respect and yet the same time, something in the set of his lips and the tilt of his brow communicated the human compassion and receptiveness that one finds in the closest of comrades.
"We must thank each other then," Aragorn said quietly.
It was strange that Aragorn looked like a king despite the layer of mud and blood that matted his hair, smudged his face and rimed his clothes. "Yes we must," Eomer replied, removing his helmet and aware of a lightening in the tone of their conversation. He held out his hand. "Friend."
Aragorn took a firm grip on the hand. "You will forever find a comrade in me, Prince of Rohan."
"And you in I, you need only to call for the horse and the rider. The Rohirrm will always answer you. We owe you much."
Aragorn inclined his head. He said nothing, but the look in his eyes was enough to tell Eomer that a trust and a friendship had been a established, the kind of which it would take much to break.
Aragorn left and disappeared into the exhausted crowds of people that were milling, embracing and lamenting.
"Would there would be much time before we must witness such a massacre again," Eomer said to his horse as he relieved it of its tack. The horse gave a grateful shake of its hide. "Go, brave one," he said, patting its side. "Go, find grass. We have a little time to spare, for now." The horse trotted away and Eomer did not glance after it.
He could see Gandalf the White, like a star shining in the shadowy valley, sharing a discourse with the ever-sombre Aragorn. Many incredible people had aided in the victory of Helm's Deep. And yet even this collection of wizards and kings had not been enough to destroy the enemy. He knew that they had merely had a taste of what the future might hold.
Tired of such morbid thoughts, he looked around, seeking a sanctuary of silence. But there were people everywhere. Too much desperate relief and desperate despair. He wanted to get away.
"The Hornburg…" He thought. No one would be atop the Hornburg tower. He slipped up the causeway and in through the gate, avoiding all, at least for now.
He was correct. The amount of people thinned considerably as he drew to the steps of the Hornburg. The sound of his boots upon the stone steps was like the hollow tapping of a hammer against his soul.
He emerged at the top as though emerging into the sky. So high up, the noise from the battlefield barely filtered up to him. He breathed deep the clean air and shut his eyes, allowing the luxury of nothingness to penetrate his mind for the briefest of moments.
It took a lot to startle Eomer, son of Eomund, but that tiniest scrape of a booted foot against the stone of the tower top had his spine quivering and his heart leaping into his throat.
"Forgive me, Prince Eomer," the voice was smooth and ageless, devoid of and yet loaded with emotion. "I had no intention of startling you."
Eomer blinked and calmed his racing pulse. "No forgiveness is necessary, good Elf," he replied. "If there is any fault, it is mine. I was not expecting anyone else to be up here."
There was silence for a moment. He fixed his eyes upon the battlefield below, unwilling and slightly afraid to meet the eyes of this strange being. His heart was buzzing in the oddest manner. It was indeed an exciting and daunting experience to be so close to one of the fair folk. He has seen few and spoke to less in his time. All he had were tales of magic, wonder, trickery and heartbreak. The prospect of meeting one in such close quarters had Eomer ambivalent to the extent of which he was considering fleeing. But no. He did not run from a hoard of orcs, he could overcome fear and conquer this experience also. He had come up here to escape his fears for the time being and escape he would do.
And yet…
Eomer glanced at the elf from the corner of his eye. The elf seemed to have already forgotten he was there. Languid blue eyes gazed off into the distance as though seeing and absorbing everything up to the horizon. A slight breeze tugged reverently at golden tresses and such a stillness stole over him that he looked carved from the purest marble.
"Your intervention saved all our lives, Rider of the Mark." His voice was far from loud but the silence had been so complete that his speech made Eomer's heart skip once again.
"The fate of my people is a cause worthy enough to die for," Eomer intoned, not looking at the elf. "I had expected to die today. But the battle is won and now we must all live to face the future."
"You have regrets?" There was no judgement in the tone.
"None. Only fears."
"Tis a fearful time for all, Eomer, King Sister-Son."
Eomer regarded the elf carefully. He was sat on the tower wall as solidly and balanced as though he was not aware of the height from which even he would surly be killed if he fell. His eyes had not moved from their wandering scrutiny of the horizon. He seemed so separate, his years and knowledge detaching him as though he existed on another plane of existence.
"Fears even for you, Sir Elf?"
"Indeed fears for me." He brought his eyes to Eomer's face and Eomer felt his breath catch as he had the first time he had lain eyes upon him upon the fields of Rohan, though he was as careful to conceal it now as then. So beautiful, thought Eomer and yet the elf was beyond such concepts as beauty. He seemed to be an embodiment of the intangible essence of all the misty dreams, fog-wreathed forests and subtlest scents of the wildest flowers.
Elves were fickle creatures in myth a tale, enchanting but traitorous and cold. However, Eomer received no such impressions at that moment, just an almost overwhelming sense of insignificance. What was a man to a being such as this? A man's life was emotional, hot, hungry, exhausting and ever so brief. He felt he could never possibly understand what it must mean to exist compared to such a creature as this.
Legolas got to his feet in such a lithe, fluid motion it was almost eerie. "Fear blackens the heart of most people of Middle Earth, Prince Eomer. But there is hope too. With warriors such as yourself ready to fight for freedom, that fear may become less solid and the hope brighter."
"I fear it will take more than what we can ever hope for to defeat the armies of Sauron," Eomer said bitterly.
"So morbid, Rider of Rohan?"
"What are our struggles to the elves at any rate?" He regretted the outburst immediately. But Legolas did not seem offended. Then again, Eomer found it impossible to discern his expression.
"You think us so different to yourselves?" Those impossible eyes…
"Are you not?"
Legolas stepped forward suddenly and clasped Eomer's hand in both his own. Eomer was startled and slightly frightened since he could feel the strength in those hands and yet still nothing from the eyes. Legolas held their hands against Eomer's chest and for a while they just stood there, Eomer trying to retrieve any sort of clue from the Elf's face.
"You feel your heartbeat do you not?" the elf whispered at last.
Eomer nodded.
"As do I. Do you believe that were I to press our hands thus against my own breast, that you would feel naught?"
"Of course not," said Eomer, bemused beyond belief. "I don't claim to be over endowed in knowledge of elves but I believe I have enough to know that one that lives has a heart that beats."
"Indeed." Legolas did not remove his hands. They felt cool and smooth, with the merest hint of strength, although they were satin sewn tenderly around iron. "Though I would be the first to say our peoples differ in manner and looks, our hearts beat alike."
"I don't understand."
Legolas tilted his head on one side. A delicate braid shift amidst its bed of golden silk and the eyelashes that framed his oceanic eyes fluttered to give them almost and expression of curiosity.
"Men seem to take much comfort in separation, in suffering on their own. I have met many men and all seem too enamoured, enchanted overwhelmed or even fearful to try and involve my kind. Would that both or people simply took a little time to listen to each other, we would both discover much that is now mystery. It is only through union we can ever hope to survive."
"I do not wish to suffer alone," said Eomer, voice shivering slightly from the contact.
Legolas did not seem to notice the quaver. "Nor does anyone, willingly. A distance between oneself and what is strange or different is instinct, and yet it is what plants the seeds for fear and distrust. But if this is overcome…we triumph."
Legolas released his hand. Eomer's hand felt cold from the loss of contact. "I understand many of your people died here with us today," Eomer said quietly. "I believed the unions you speak of may have been achieved on this very wall yester eve."
"And it was a beauty to see. Would that so much horror had not followed…"
"Do you still hold us at a distance, elf?" Eomer asked, absently massaging his hand and shamefully wishing he could touch that skin again. "Have you overcome this distrust of which you speak? I believe so, since I do not believe elves offer up physical contact lightly…"
Legolas's eyes seemed the slightest bit sharp as they returned to him. Eomer feared he may have caused offence, but said nothing, still wanting an answer to his question.
"I believe I rid myself of my barriers sometime ago. Not many have been on such an undertaking as I…the Fellowship was its namesake and distance was impossible. Men, Elf dwarf and halflings bonded strongly for perhaps the first time in history. I have come to understand the errors of the past."
But despite these words, Eomer found it impossible to imagine that such a being as this had travelled, slept and ate with men and dwarves. It seemed almost perverse. He found it impossible, though he longed for it so, to bring this elegant and mystical and so old being closer to him. He realised all at once how utterly naive he was, despite his years of blood and pain.
"Do you take offence at distance?" Eomer asked. There was another silence, not entirely comfortable.
"You still think me separate?"
Eomer said nothing.
"We are not so different, you and I. Not so different as you would think. Age is of little consequence, physical presence, less so." Legolas turned his gaze to the battleground where the blood was drying below him. "Surely it is the colours of your heart that matter? My heart is black at this time. Black with grief and black with fear…is yours not so?"
"It is." Eomer dared a step closer. The heady scent that was laden in the elf's hair was all that convinced him that this was not some heavenly vision. And yet, as the words penetrated, it was as though the elf were slowly coming into focus. Perhaps he was just flesh and blood…
"I came up here to clear my mind, to ease the ache and to look…just to look at the landscape. Eomer, you did not come up here for the view of me. Look at the land."
Eomer blushed profusely, but did as the elf said. The view from here of hills, fields, mountains skies and clouds was refreshing and cooled his mind as well as his body.
"After such a battle, to understand what it means to be alive is what is important," said Eomer slowly, speaking more to himself.
"Life is precious, Son of Eomund. You understand that. Be it long or short, it is all we have. Everlasting or mortal, it all matters. Do you not see then, how similar we are?"
They were so close now that Eomer fancied he could feel the warmth of his skin. Legolas was suddenly solid before him, beautiful and impossible, but real. He understood the elf's words. Distance was deadly. Union was triumph. If he could just convince himself completely this elf was real…
He reached out a hand…so slowly it was almost painful. The anticipation more than he could bare. His fingers, so crude and ruddy looking in comparison, were now but an inch from the skin of the elf's cheek. The stormy eyes did not flicker.
"You still think me made of stone?" Legolas asked, as the hand paused.
"I am afraid of shattering a beautiful illusion."
"Shatter it, Eomer. For it is but an illusion!" There was such a degree of emotion in the voice that it startled Eomer. Confusion suddenly ran rampant in his brain. It was not within his rights to touch such a creature…he had no right to destroy all the magic and surrealilty that had been built up around him. And yet that was what the elf had been saying, was it not? There was no magic, there should be no distance, for distance between allies is dangerous. Allies? Union is triumph. They both wanted triumph. Perhaps they weren't so different.
Eomer touched Legolas's face. It was with mild awe and a touch of amazement that he ran the sensitive pad of his thumb along the line of a high cheek bone, the velvety and hairless skin utterly smooth, but real, beneath his touch. Something brightened in Legolas's eyes and it was a joy to behold.
But it was still so utterly perfect. Should he be touching this face? He let his hand drop. The spark disappeared from the elf's eyes. He appeared suddenly slightly wounded and slightly angry.
"Am I not allowed to be real, Eomer?" he pleaded. "Am I not allowed to exist for men? Must I always be a foreigner, or a ghost?"
His face in animation was all at once quite disturbing and utterly captivating.
"You must understand, Legolas," Eomer finally raised his voice to the elf. "You cannot expect me to touch you without this doubt and this awe. I am but human! In the face of you, how have you come to expect men to treat you with anything less than reverence? I fear you understand little of the hearts of men."
Legolas turned his back and went to the wall and looked down. There was frustration in the line of his back and the hard set of his shoulders. "I know it is not impossible. One has taught me I am not unattainable. One once told me that I could be loved and not worshipped. Though his love for another is stronger…"
Eomer felt the tiniest spark of jealousy as he followed Legolas's gaze to Aragorn, standing on the Deeping Wall some distance away. Even at this distance, there was a presence and authority that exuded from the man like an aura. He was truly a king among men…
"Not all humans are so exceptional as Aragorn," Eomer stated, his voice flat but sincere. "He is more than human."
"I don't believe so. He just understands beyond what most humans fear of understanding." Legolas looked up again. "He understands that I feel pain, fear, joy and passion as much as men. Some seem to think of us as lifeless as the bark of our trees - "
"Passion?" Eomer interrupted despite himself. "Do elves feel passion?"
Legolas seemed angered by this comment. "Of course we feel passion," he turned on Eomer with such fire in his eyes that he instantly believed the statement and was overwhelmed by it. "Life is passion, death is passion! We have our share of both, despite - "
"Peace, legolas," Eomer stepped close to him again and this time had no hesitation on placing a hand on his lips to still his distress. "Peace. I can see passion in your eyes, though I must confess have been blind to it before. Blinded by…" no words were necessary. The path of his callused fingers along the tender jaw line and around a pointed ear and the look in his eye encapsulated the inescapable awe that he still felt, despite everything, for such perfection.
It was a joy when he felt the elvish hand rub along his own, unshaven cheek. The look in Legolas's eye was one he would have died five times over for. "I must confess I have been a hypocrite." Legolas's voice was a whisper. "Beauty can be daunting. Yours is."
"Mine?" utterly bewildered, Eomer blinked.
Legolas nodded. "Men have their own beauty. So much emotion and so much power they possess…with such a soul as yours…"
"You barely know me."
"I know enough," Emoer was hypnotised by the look in his eyes. "Your hair, your eyes…your scars and your blood. All show you in your honest, passionate beauty, Eomer. They tell stories, they tell of your soul." The elven fingertips left a sweet taste on his lips.
"Ah then, but what of yours, Legolas?" Eomer said in a throaty whisper. He put a hand in the golden hair and the other under the slight chin, tipping the face upwards with the utmost reverence. "As a perfect a part of the earth as frost on leaves, and yet with the living, pulsing beauty of a petal on a flower."
TBC
Author note: Thank you so much! The relevant corrections have been made!