These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

Perfect friendship is the friendship of men who are good, and alike in excellence; for these wish well alike to each other qua good, and they are good in themselves.

Aristotle (384–323 B.C.).

With  grateful thanks to Raksha

When Aragorn left Fontos, he was delighted to find Éomer waiting for him outside the detention room. He was surprised just how keenly he had missed the joys of an uncomplicated friendship; such as he shared with the young King of the Mark.

He and Éomer, had little in common save the bond that comes from fighting side by side on the battlefield, yet a deep affection had existed between them almost since the day they had first met, which had grown stronger over the years. Éomer benefited from Aragorn’s experience and wisdom, whereas Aragorn found the society of one still full of youthful energy and enthusiasm, not yet jaded by the passing years, very refreshing.

A shadow had briefly fallen between them, when the King of Rohan had mistakenly believed Faramir has mistreated Éowyn and fought with him on the steps on the Counsel Chamber. However, once Éomer had recovered from the head injury he suffered, he had been most contrite over his conduct. Aragorn had had gladly forgiven him, hoping that the incident would serve to grant him greater wisdom and maturity.

Sometimes of late, he had wondered if Éomer had been correct in his accusations at that time that he favoured Faramir. Maybe, he and his Steward were too alike, which had, perhaps, led Faramir to covet what could have been his, but was now Aragorn’s by right.

“Come, brother, I have something to show you!” Éomer firmly grasped his friend’s arm, inadvertently causing Aragorn to flinch. However, he allowed himself to be led towards the stables. A contingent of Imrahil’s Guards trailed behind them, keeping a respectful distance He paused to speak to the grooms who were busying themselves grooming Roheryn and Zachus. With barely concealed impatience, Éomer led him to a stall at the far end. A familiar dark grey head looked over the stall and whinnied in pleasure.

“Hasufel!” Aragorn exclaimed delightedly, reaching out to caress the stallion’s neck. “It is good to see you again!”

“I brought him to walk in your funeral procession,” Éomer explained. “He had the honour of bearing a King in his saddle and I believe has not forgotten it. I should like you now to keep him, as a mark of my joy that you still live!”

“He is indeed a generous gift. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.” Aragorn kissed Éomer warmly on the brow, and then busied himself stroking the horse’s velvety nose, hoping his friend would not notice the tears that recently seemed to have come to him far too easily and often.

They lingered awhile and then walked back together towards the Royal Apartments where Éomer made to leave for the guest quarters. The walls suddenly seemed to close in around Aragorn. He realised he had not been alone for more than a few moments since Faramir had rescued him from Dervorin’s cellar, and the prospect was frightening to him. What had become of him? He was a King, a warrior, and a Ranger who had spent years alone in the wilds. Yet, now he was like a child afraid of the dark.

“Éomer,” he asked impulsively, “ Could you stay with me tonight? I miss Arwen’s presence. I have much too, that I would tell you.”

Éomer looked slightly puzzled. However, he immediately nodded his agreement. “Of course, my friend, I just need to speak with my men and then groom Firefoot. When his usual groom is not present, I like to tend him myself. I will return soon.”

Aragorn found that his room was almost exactly as he had left it. The servants had obviously been in to clean and tidy it, and a cheerful fire burned in the grate. His healing supplies were still there untouched. The same colourful tapestries adorned the walls, embroideries Arwen had brought from Rivendell, depicting the great deeds of their ancestors. His clothes were still hanging in their places as were Faramir’s.

The Steward’s possessions were dotted around the room, his comb, a small portrait of Éowyn and another of Boromir, and a book of Quenya poetry. Aragorn remembered him sitting here reading it, shortly before he was captured. How could a man who had been so close to, have treated him so cruelly? Yet, it seemed that Faramir had remained here in the King’s chamber, as if trying to emphasise the status he would have, if there were no King.

He would ask the servants to return Faramir’s possessions to his own rooms, but that would have to wait. He was weary now, though it was only early evening.

He decided to have a bath in the hope it would ease his aching body and then share a light supper with Éomer before retiring to bed.

He went out into the corridor, noting that two guards stood outside the door, one of the Tower Guard and one of Éomer’s men. He was glad of their reassuring presence, something he never would have felt in the past. Aragorn called to a passing servant and ordered them to prepare a hot bath for him.

He laid out his nightshirt, robe, and clean underwear on the bed. He then sat for a while looking through Faramir’s book of poetry waiting for the bath to be prepared. The poems all seemed to be about loyalty, honour and courage: qualities, which until recently, he would have wholeheartedly associated with the book’s owner.

He lingered over a ballad describing the rescue of Maedros by Fingon, lingering over the part where Fingon had severed Maedros’ hand in order to free him. Was Faramir’s act of branding him a similar gesture? Or was it done solely to please those he appeared to have thrown in his lot with?

A servant interrupted his musings to inform him that his bath was now ready. Searching through his healing supplies, he selected some salves and oils, and then entered the bathing chamber. He added a few drops of lavender and rosehip oils to the water, undressed, and climbed into the sunken bath.

He felt the pain and soreness gradually leave his damaged body while he bathed, luxuriating in the bliss of being able to enjoy some privacy and comfortably spread out his long limbs in the spacious tub.

He planned to treat himself with the mud bath the next day, as he was eager to be free of the painful and unsightly scars, which disfigured much of his body.

Reluctantly, deciding he had lingered long enough in the bath, he rather gingerly eased himself out and reaching for his towel, began to carefully dry himself and then apply healing salves to keep the scarred skin supple.

He prepared to don his night attire, only to realise that he had left it in the bedchamber. Clad only in a tightly wrapped towel, Aragorn padded barefoot from the bathing chamber, intending to don his nightshirt before the King of Rohan joined him.

He was rather taken aback to see Éomer already there. Reticent at the best of times, Aragorn was acutely aware of the shameful scars currently disfiguring much of his upper body. He could have covered most of them by crossing his arms, but to do so would risk losing his towel and with it, his last shred of dignity.  He had grown accustomed, by necessity, to having his wife, as well as Faramir and Éowyn, see the scars.  But Aragorn had no wish for anyone else to behold the marks of torture.  These were not honorable battle scars; they were remnants of indignity and captivity, unfit to mar the body of a king.

“I am glad that you are here, Éomer,” he said, trying not to appear as nervous and exposed as he felt. Turning his back, he swiftly donned his drawers, then reached for the nightshirt and started to pull it over his head, but it was too late. Éomer was gazing at him with a look of sheer horror on his face.

“Aragorn!” he exclaimed,” Whatever has been done to you?”

“I was put to torment while I was held captive,” Aragorn said tersely, his voice muffled by the material.

“Let me see, my brother!” Gently but firmly, the nightshirt was pulled from Aragorn’s grasp, Éomer easily resisting his somewhat clumsy attempts to cover himself.

Aragorn sighed. Resisting his urge to pick up his towel and clutch it around himself, he resigned himself to the indignity of permitting his friend to see his marred upper body. It was not the first time that Éomer had seen him injured. However, on that occasion, Aragorn had been wounded in battle.  Now he bore the degrading signs of torture, from the marks left by manacles to the wheals on his back and the knife wounds on his arms, chest and belly.

Éomer drew his breath in sharply, an expression of deepening dismay on his face as looked Aragorn up and down and took in his friend’s many injuries.

“These cuts are deep.  Who hurt you?” Éomer asked tracing a surprisingly gentle finger across the deepest scar.

“Fosco of Lamedon, Dervorin of Ringlo Vale and their accomplices,” Aragorn said grimly, trying to appear unperturbed by his friend’s intense scrutiny. He could not bring himself yet to mention Faramir’s name. He trembled slightly while Éomer circled him, studying the scars. “Why did they inflict wounds such as these?” Éomer asked, studying the places where the skin had been removed and had grown back, red and tender.

“They sought to cause me pain without killing me by skinning me by inches,” Aragorn told him grimly, shuddering at the memory of that agony.

“Could men of Gondor be so cruel? And this, it is an outrage!” Éomer  ’s eyes were now fixed on his friend's disfigured shoulder. "And how could anyone brand you, and not even like a cow, but as a bullock?”

“What do you mean?” Aragorn asked, unable to face the young king's sympathetic eyes.  Stars, would there be no end to his humiliation?

“When I was a lad, I spent a few weeks on a farm near Ringlo Vale,” Éomer explained. “Elfhelm, long before he became a Marshal, traveled to deliver some horses to its lord and my uncle sent me with him, so I would learn something of our allies in Gondor.  It was the season when they branded the cattle, and the herdsman showed me the different brands that they used to quickly distinguish between cows, bulls and bullocks. Trampling by wild horses would be too good for the devil-spawn fiend who did this to you! You should curse them as Isildur cursed the oath breakers! ”

“I will punish them as they deserve,” Aragorn said quietly; loth to reveal just who had so disfigured him.

“I am so sorry, my friend. Would that I had known, and could have come to your aid!” Éomer averted his gaze at last, swallowing hard. “Let me summon a Healer!”

Finally able to don his nightshirt, Aragorn swiftly pulled it down. “There is no need,” he said firmly, “Éowyn has tended me well.”

“You might need someone to testify at the trial what those brutes did to you,” Éomer insisted.

Though, he would much prefer the full extent of his injuries not to be revealed, Aragorn conceded the wisdom of his reasoning. “I will sent for Aedred tomorrow,” he promised,” I shall no doubt need a Healer to assist me with my mud treatment. Anxious to change the subject, he pulled on his robe and tied it firmly round the waist. Will you ask a servant to bring supper, please, Éomer?” he said, “I will tell you my story while we eat.”

TBC

A/N Éomer tended the wounded Aragorn in my first story, “The Hidden days of Healing” also on this site. Éomer fought with Faramir in “Burden of Guilt, the prequel to this story