They had been lolling on the grass bank, watching Eomer work the young horse. Just now the colt, released from his lessons, had leapt up shaking his head, freed from the halter, before he spun away, bucking and squealing, his hooves drumming into the distance in a swirl of chestnut mane and tail.
That one was all fire and fight and it had taken Eomer many weeks of patient work before he would lie motionless in the long grass, his master flat out beside him, hands cupped loosely over his nostrils, whilst the ‘searchers’ trampled nearby, beat the long grass with sticks, and rode with jingling harness closer and ever closer to their grassy hiding place.
From their vantage point, Boromir marvelled at the skill that taught the horse to trust, whilst his every instinct was to be up and running. At first they could see the anxiety shiver across the colt’s hide, could see its ears flick back-and-forth incessantly. Time and again the colt had half-risen as the searchers moved around them, but Eomer would bring him down to the earth again, quietly whispering to him, letting the colt lick the salt from his skin and at last he grew still…but Boromir knew, felt the colt’s boiling blood seep across his skin, that the need to run was held in check by the most fragile of threads.
Eomer watched the colt’s retreating form, then turned towards where they sat and lifted a hand in greeting.
“Every moment was an act of faith,” Aragorn said, reaching down to pull Boromir to his feet, and as they brushed shoulders, watching Eomer begin to trudge up the hill towards them, he added softly, “could you lie so still under my hands?”
“I’ll have him lie down without a rope some day,” laughed Eomer, grinning as he climbed the last few feet to their vantage point, “it’s a game with that one.”
The good King of Rohan never knew what his companions took from that afternoon on the rolling grasslands around Edoras.
A game perhaps, but a challenge each man to himself to lie still, no rope nor binding to strain against when every sinew thrilled and the urge to move was all but unbearable. Months of endeavour it took for one man to conquer his flesh and rules there certainly were…
No tickling…absolutely no tickling…not any tickling at all…certainly not when the King’s nose was within reach of the Lord Steward’s sharp elbows.
No blindfold…it was too hard not to flinch and Boromir found that the sight of his man’s mouth, fingers, tongue dipping towards his flesh laid open to Aragorn’s usage, made his heart beat fast enough.
No anchor to clutch on to like a drowning man, no planking to brace his feet against.
If he did well, held out long enough before he moved, he got to lick the salt from Aragorn's skin.
And came the day when he found he could sink into the feeling, let it rise up within his body and not fear to let it carry him away on the torrent, the peace was sweeter than any he could remember for an age.
Turnabout lit a fire that raged between them and it became a game that they would have played on the plains of Rohan as being empty enough to swallow up Aragorn’s cries.
They had been no silent lovers, had relished their shared litany of years, but Boromir found he could bring his King to a wild, still, ecstasy that stole the breath from them both and finally, the tear that slid to salt his lips, tracking the silvered scar on his face, held no sorrow but gladness for the stars that shone in his love’s eyes.
And all the while Eomer of Rohan never knew.
Summary: A colt bends to Eomer’s will and Aragorn has a challenge in mind.
Rated: R
Categories: LOTR FPS Pairing: None
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: No
Word count: 648 Read: 827
Published: 17 Feb 2010 Updated: 17 Feb 2010
Story Notes:
DISCLAIMER: "These characters originate with their copyright holders. I borrow them for entertainment, not profit."