Rating: PG
Pairing: Frodo/Eomer Summary: Eomer observes a hobbit game.
Disclaimer: Frodo and all recognisable characters are the property of the Estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. No offence is intended, nor profit made.

It was a childish Hobbit game. Eomer sat in the garden and watched as the Hobbits, Merry and Pippin, played the game. One was as still as a statue, while one tried to get the other to move. They laughed, obviously drunk, taking advantage of the feeling of intoxication to throw off inhibitions. Their attempts to remain still were haphazardly abandoned as they each wrestled the other to the ground. They rolled around in the grass, their playfulness turning quickly to love-making.

Eomer watched, jealous of their reckless ability to find joy again. Yet, many in Minas Tirith were rejoicing. King Aragorn had been crowned sovereign. Aragorn on the throne, the defeat of the Sauron, peace was the law of the land. It was a time to put the past behind and look to tomorrow. But Eomer couldn't. Too much had happened. Too much still lay trapped in his heart. He couldn't release the pain; so instead, he kept it close, like a fire one huddles near for warm on a cool autumn night. It's those early nights, when you haven't braced yourself for the cold, when your body isn't ready to withstand the winter that you shiver. You prepare yourself and indulge in your need for the fire. That is the way it is with grief. At first, it is your only solace. You need it before you can move past it. Later it will be your strength. But now, it is your burden and your trial.

The people of Rohan had suffered much. Yet, there were Rohirrim celebrating. Eomer took his grief and retreated to the solitude of the garden. He thought he'd be alone. But alas, he wasn't. Hobbits. Hobbits fucking. Yes, that was what he expected to find, he thought sarcastically. Yet he couldn't turn away. He watched them wrangling away until they finished.

Merry and Pippin hastily dressed and went off in search of more ale, Eomer presumed. Strong drink, maybe that was the ticket. Drink away this pain, bury it, let it lie with the dead. King Theoden, King... Eomer hung his head and stared at the new green shoots of grass beneath his feet. He was King now, the ruling monarch of Rohan. He didn't feel guilt or remorse or anger. The life of a soldier is one which accepts death as part of the struggle. But he could grieve. He could grieve the loss of his King, his uncle, his mentor, the one who was father more than his own. And now, he must carry on.

A tiny cluster of violet crocuses popped their heads out, the little yellow trumpet proclaiming the arrival of Spring, regardless of the efforts to bring all of this to an end. Daisies and wildflowers scattered the garden. Trees were budding. Nothing could stop Nature from continuing on. Spring was returning, without the deterrent of countless armies treading upon that ground, the earth rallied. The rain came. The seeds swelled. The earth bloomed. Amidst that smell that signals rebirth, the reminder that life goes on, that palette of color dotting the fields with renewal that heralds that Spring has arrived in all its fragile, temporal beauty.

It was when he removed his leather tunic that he noticed he was still not alone in the garden as he supposed. Another Hobbit sat on a stone bench, still as a waxen statue. It was Frodo, the Ring Bearer. The Dark Lord had exacted his share of that spirit. Eomer could see the shadow that still hung overhead. He knew instinctively that the Hobbit's pain was deeper than the end of that accursed ring.

Eomer crept up from behind. He stood behind the Hobbit wanting to reach out and stroke the hair, put his hand on his shoulder, say something that would offer the smallest bit of understanding. Instead he stood, as if sentry to the Halfling. He knelt down, inches behind the Hobbit and stretched out a hand. He rubbed the Hobbit's back, as gently as a lover would comfort. Though, as if playing the game, Frodo stayed still, not answering, not flinching, but accepting the silent touch.

Eomer inched forward until he held the Hobbit in his arms, kissing his neck and pulling him closer. Neither spoke a word. Eomer wanted to see the crystal blue of the Hobbit's eyes, though he was relieved to see that Frodo's eyes were closed. Somehow, Eomer feared that the sight of those eyes would bring him to tears. And that wouldn't do. He had sidled up behind him, his hand traveling down the Hobbit's thin body. Eomer was shaking. His hand timidly ventured beneath the Halfling's breeches. No resistance. No sound, no noise. Eomer's hand brought the Hobbit to arousal and then Frodo leaned back his head to rest on Eomer's shoulder. Frodo breathed a sigh of relief.

He turned his head slightly and their kiss, salty with tears and bitterness and regret, reminded them both of the first days of Spring. Thunderstorms that bluster and wail, offer rain in return for the tantrum.

That afternoon, while Minas Tirith celebrated, Eomer and Frodo found a way to lay off their burdens, to rage and storm and finally to lie tenderly in each other's arms.

Yes, Spring had arrived to give hope to the weary.

The End