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The Oft Unbidden Guest
(proves the best company)
I
As Gimli and Eomer sat side by side, taking shelter in the Glittering Caves behind Helm’s Deep; the dwarf was acutely aware of three things.
Firstly, his fellow dwarves were fools for never having found and settled these caves behind the Deep. The very walls glowed like fire and moonlight. Prisms floating in the air, as if they sat within a diamond. Veins of opal in the wall black as night with galaxies trapped within. By the Maker, these caves were wondrous, truly and purely.
Secondly, it was imperative that they found their way out, towards the keep. The battle was still raging outside and he knew no man of indeed dwarf could be spared.
And thirdly, Eomer was kissing him.
Whether this was the Man’s reaction to near death in the fire of the battle, or that he had become rather fond of Gimli since their first (and ill-tempered) meeting – was still to be discovered. But oh, this son of Eomund, arrogantly tall and fair of face (his short beard so very sweet) had his now ungloved hand on Gimli’s face; holding him in place as he kissed him. The Horsemaster’s kiss was made of fire and fury, and a desperate wildness that the Dwarflord had not expected.
He had also not expected to be kissing him back with such enthusiasm; biting back at weather-chapped lips and parting for his comrade’s tongue. All rough, like the clash of beard against beard, heavy breathing and grasping, groping hands.
Gimli could hear his own heartbeat drumming in his chest, now flushed red, luminous as the cave walls around them – threading his gloved hands in the Rohirrim’s golden hair, so soft and full of wonder, the dwarf pulled him down, and closer to him with the dull clunk of mud covered armour. The thrumming blood in his veins and behind his ears was drowning out thought and sense and was verging on roaring now, and all he could focus on was this wonderful golden warrior, orc-blood on his cheek and hunger in his hot breath. They could spare a few more moments before they were needed. Just a few more.
Eomer smiled against the dwarf’s mouth, pushing blood-soaked hair off his companions face. That cut would need tending soon. “I told you I would thank you for saving my life, Master Gimli.”
II
After they had left the darkness of the caves; re-adjusting chainmail, lacing trews. Back to where they were needed – neither warrior could spare much time dwelling on what had happened between them. So they went about their tasks; reuniting with elf and King, passing only fleeting glances and lingering smiles. They would not meet again until the White Rider came again.
They do not have the chance to talk much, for the wheels of war are turning. The Princeling elf notices the heated, furtive glances and smiled to himself at the folly of mortals.
In the calm after Isengard when the Dunedain Rangers arrived, Eomer unpacked his horse-bags to find a small box tucked into a lower pocket. Inside sat a hairclasp made of opaline stone, like the ones he had seen within the Glittering Caves, stone with starlight in it. Intricate knot work carven upon it. A gift.
The next day, when the Captain of the Mark removed his helm, Gimli saw that he wore it in his hair.
As they were packing provisions and weapons for the long journey east, Gimli looked up from a whetstone to see Eomer standing over him, a hefty bundle in his arms. Without a word (but with a strange sort of apprehension in his eyes), he passed it to the dwarf before him and left – leaving the son of Gloin staring after him, bemused. Opening the over-large bundle, he found within it a saddle, altered to fit behind Legolas as they rode on Arod. The stirrups short in length and wide. The Man’s practicality was marvellous. Rather like his face.
Eomer had come to him again the night before he left for the Path of the Dead, for the Captain of the Mark knows that they may not see each other again. Bittersweet is the calm before the storm and more bittersweet still was their parting in the grey light of dawn.
III
He does not write – his people, they do not write – but sing. Songs of battles and kings of old and fair maidens on horseback. He wants to sing, but finds no song fit and none comes to his lips. He makes do (in this time of darkness) with jests and challenges and there is a fire in his belly when they are answered with a broad smile and a booming laugh. But gone was the fine, grim dwarf-lord now, lost to the Path of the Dead, and Eomer rode on by the side of his king.
As they rode to answer Gondor’s call, the Rohirrim kept their minds off the impending battle by trying to figure out why their captain was softly singing love ditties under his breath.
IV
“Oh my friend, I am truly sorry.”
Gimli placed his hands on Eomer’s shoulders as he watched over his pale and tormented sister. There had been no ceremony in his reunion with the new-crowned king; the dwarf had simply held him as he wept by the broken body of his uncle. Exhausted and grief stricken – clouds of darkness loomed in his thoughts – his reign would be short and the Golden Hall would soon be burning. Little comfort Gimli could give but a dwarvish one; the soft pressing of his forehead to that of the kneeling and bowed King of the Mark. No words of Dwarves or Men could soothe and cure the hurt, but Eomer found some peace as he was held, the two watching Aragorn tend to the cold, snow faced Shield maiden– and that was enough for a king in these dark days.
V
Through battles and bloodshed, the fate of the West was decided – and the fair young King of Rohan was crowned. For now with braids and golden beads plucked from his lover’s own hair, until the parting of ways and the fields of Rohan gave him a true crown and title.
Their evening had begun in celebration and jest.
“Gimli, Gloin’s son. Have you your axe ready?”
“Nay, lord,” said Gimli, “but I can speedily fetch it, if there be need.”
So they settled their old and first score, that of the Lady of the Woods. And whilst Gimli proclaimed her fairest (and Eomer, the Lady of the Evening); he saw only later, in the grey of dawn, that his lover was more beautiful yet in the light of the Morning.
The King of the Mark was awoken so early by a fervent kiss, and this time there was no battle raging beyond the stone walls, no Great Enemy sundering the very skies above them, no more threat of fading tomorrows and last kisses; great last frantic gasps of life. There was only peace, and the best of company.
VI
After the brightness of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond, they had become fumbling lovers in dark corners.
They met on bad terms; harsh words were given and apologised for later. Not a particularly auspicious first meeting, but a better understanding of each other and the heat of battle created fire-forged friends. Just like it had with the elf.
She had said that his hands would overflow with gold, but to be perfectly honest this wasn’t what he had expected. Not what he had expected at all.
And oh so very tall was his lover. Tall with golden hair streaming over shoulders like waves in the sunrise. Gimli realised later that the Durin love of gold had indeed passed to lesser branches of the family tree, and he was a sucker for a tall blonde.