Work Text:
Now that the Lord of the Rings is defeated and all things are falling into wholesome place and recovering from his benighted presence in Middle Earth, Aragorn and his friends and allies find their minds turning to less fraught affairs. Chief amongst these is the Dunedain chieftain’s long awaited marriage to the Evenstar.
Three very important men wrest a snatch of free time for themselves, sitting on high steps carved into the mountain backing Minas Tirith, where they watch the setting sun over cups of sweet wine.
“You cannot simply walk into marriage, my Lord. Not without preparation.” says the one with the mildest face and voice.
“Call me Aragorn, Faramir. My Lord is for formal occasions.” says Aragorn, dark haired and shrewd eyed. He sits in the middle place, his fair haired companions to either side of him.
“Faramir speaks true. There are rituals.” growls Eomer, who is drinking mead rather than wine, and still squinting suspiciously at it.
The king swirls his drink. “I have already had several books worth of prayers in every tongue recited over me, pertaining to every aspect of life and rulership imaginable.”
“Not wizard or elf rituals. Man's rituals. Peasant rituals. Good old earthy affairs.”
“Such as?”
Faramir and Eomer share a weighted glance, the sun casting their manly features in bronze.
☀️🌞☀️
Riding to Rohan is in itself a ritual. Men having their packs filled with good, nutritious victuals by their womenfolk, men cinching the last buckle on their saddles with their own hands, men travelling with their close friends through rugged land, sharing jokes and tales around a campfire. It binds hearts together as tightly as epoch shaping wars do.
“So, when are you going to ask our fair shieldmaiden if she'll do you the honour, Faramir?” asks Aragorn around a pipe as crickets sing in the bushes behind him, and the fire casts a warm glow over his handsome face. At his words, Faramir turns as red as the fire, despite sitting a little further back from it, on a log. Beside him, Eomer’s eyes slide sideways, darting at the noble man with more bite than any Elvish or Easterling arrow.
“When the opportune moment presents itself, my Lord. I want it to be perfect. I have to come up with the words.”
Aragorn puffs on his pipe, smiling both like an older brother and a father figure, leaving space for Eomer to leap in with his usual abruptness.
“Every moment is opportune when it comes to my sister's feelings for you, Prince. You could ask her mid battle or while covered in manure, it matters not. And the words will come.” He says, shifting his weight and resettling himself to stare into the dark.
Aragorn cocks his head, returning briefly to Strider days. “Hahaha. It's true. She believes you to be a Maiar, at the very least.”
The glow in Faramir’s eyes cannot be outdone by the fire.
☀️🌞☀️
“You are going to be king of this land.’
“Thank you, Prince. I was unaware.”
The three men have come into the wide flaxen plains of Rohan, an occasion that has compelled Faramir to point out the obvious to Eomer.
Sitting on the best and also most understated horse, Aragorn looks far across the land towards Edoras. “Meanwhile, I am already king. Now explain further about this ritual.”
The other two share conspiratorial glances once again. “It is called a Stag Night, and it involves horses. And also ale. Or mead. Or wine. Whichever you prefer.”
“The ‘stag’ night involves horses.”
“Yes. We are in Rohan, my lord.”
Specifically it involves ‘breaking’ horses, a manly, equalizing venture liable to have the participants exhausted and covered in mud by the end.
“This is not how I want my reign to end.” says Aragorn, laughing as he enters a muddy pen, making for a roan stallion blessed with a savage stare. He's going to climb aboard and attempt to stay on its back for as long as possible while the animal does its best to buck him off. He's done this many times in his youth, but never as a form of relaxation or social ritual.
“If you like, you can stand aside and observe a master at work.” Eomer warms up, windmilling his arms.
“I shall pass, Captain. But thank you.”
Assisting to save the world must have put Aragorn out of practice when it comes to regular pursuits, as the fifth buck sends him flying off the young horse, throwing him face first into the mud.
“Oooh!” says his companions, at the same moment and with the same expression. Sounds and expressions they continue to make for a good long while.
“Ooh!”
“Aah!”
“Thirteen! That's a new record!”
“Ooooh!”
Tossed again, Aragorn tumbles off the back of the horse, landing back first in the muck, a wild guffaw exploding out of him.