These Characters are the property of the Estate of J. R. R Tolkien and New Line Cinema. This story has been written for pleasure and no profit has or will be made from it.

We sit in the mud ... and reach for the stars - Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev (1818–1883)

His handsome features contorted with fury, the King of Rohan stormed awkwardly into the bathing chamber. He then froze, somewhat taken aback at the strange sight that greeted him.

“Where is my sister?” he demanded. “I was told she came in here.”

“Éowyn is with the Queen, Éomer. Now will you please leave my bathing chamber! It is hardly good manners come in like this!” Aragorn was as commanding as one could be when submerged up the neck in mud.

How he wished now that he had locked the door, but he had trusted the guards to keep out unwelcome visitors. He could hardly blame them though, understanding they would be too respectful of Éomer’s rank to deny him access to his brother King

Éomer ignored his command. “So this is how you spend your time, Aragorn,” he snarled. “Wallowing in the mud enjoying yourself while plotting to involve my sister in orgies with her perfidious husband!” I loved and admired you once, Wingfoot, but how low you have fallen since the glorious days when we rode together in battle! You spend your nights in my sister’s room and drag her off on hunting expeditions when she is about to give birth. And all with the connivance of that scoundrel she wed! Where have you hidden Éowyn? I will not have her used as your plaything!”

“I am treating my Steward for his scars, some of which you inflicted upon him,” Aragorn replied in a tone of icy calm. “I have told you, Éomer, your sister is with the Queen and caring for her child. You should know better than to listen to servants’ gossip. Faramir respects Éowyn’s honour and that of every other woman he encounters, as do I!”

“Éowyn was out riding because I…” Faramir began.

“No! This is neither the time nor place for explanations,” Aragorn told his Steward firmly; afraid that his obsession with telling the truth would only make matters worse.

“The way you pamper him beggars belief!” Éomer raged. “He dishonoured my sister, wounded me so badly that I am stranded here, unable to go home to rule my Kingdom and pleasure my bride! I fought beside you ere you met this cur, whose scratches you are so concerned over!”

Aragorn wondered whether to call the guards. Although Éomer in his weakened condition hardly posed a threat, he was at a considerable disadvantage being covered in thick sticky mud.

He decided to wait, knowing that he and Faramir would be the subject of barrack room jokes for weeks to come, if they were seen in such undignified circumstances.

“You have never been neglected,” Aragorn said coldly. “I treated your hurts before Faramir’s, who almost died, because I could not reach him sooner. I then left you with the finest Healers that could be found and tended you myself as often as I could. Faramir was so close to death, though; I was often unable to leave him. Then later, when I tried to keep you company, you ranted at me, which I will not tolerate in my own house! Gladly I would have continued to tend your hurts. As for your brother in law’s scratches, I fear they are far more than that! I would gladly have given you the same Elvish treatments but you refused.”

“Battle scars are honourable, I would not lose mine,” Éomer raged, “I need no wizardry!”

“Wizardry?” Faramir sounded baffled.

“I saw what Wormtongue did to my uncle! You men of Gondor are just as bad as that spy of Sauraman’s with your libraries filled with scrolls of sorcery! I will have my revenge on you for turning both Aragorn and my sister against me!”

“Peace, brother!” Faramir pleaded. “Can we not apologise to each other and live in amity?” He could hardly follow the thread of what Éomer was saying and was beginning to fear that his brother in law had lost his wits.

Éomer’s handsome features contorted with rage. “Apologise to you, never! I will teach you a lesson that you won’t forget for a long time, which obviously I failed to do so before! Come out of there and face me!” he roared.

“No, I will not lift my hand against you in anger again,” Faramir said firmly, not at all happy at the thought of venturing out of the tub in front of Éomer, not that his weak ankle would allow him to, even if he were so minded.

“Get out or do I have to come in and get you!” Éomer demanded. “I order you as King!”

“You are not King of Gondor and I command you to leave my bathing chamber!” Aragorn rarely spoke so forcefully. However, when he did, he expected and usually received instant obedience. He was becoming increasingly anxious about the situation, especially with regard to Faramir’s health. The Steward needed this treatment in peace, especially as the unpleasant part was yet to come. Faramir was still frail in body and mind and could yet suffer a relapse.

Éomer’s only reply was to tear off his clothing with his good arm. Unlike Aragorn, Faramir, and indeed most Gondorians, he was completely devoid of any inhibitions about baring his body.

Although stockier than either Aragorn or Faramir, he was well built, handsome and muscular, despite his many battle scars. He possessed something of a leonine air about him.

The Steward found himself staring at the still livid mark on his brother in law’s chest, inflicted by his own hand.

“Get out of there; I want to see what you are made of!” Éomer demanded

“Get dressed, Éomer, and we will talk later.” Aragorn ordered sternly, gazing fixedly at the angry features framed by the mane of golden hair, so like his sister’s “You are not yourself!”

“I am not your subject to be ordered. It is time you were both taught a lesson!” Éomer strode towards the steps and Faramir tried to get up.

“Stay there, Faramir!” Aragorn ordered. ”You need to remain here until the mud is about to congeal, otherwise the treatment will not work. It takes too long to prepare just to waste!”

Éomer was by now standing on the last step leading into the tub. He leaned forwards and tried to grab hold of Faramir’s hair to drag him towards him.

“Éomer, get out!” Lunging towards him, Aragorn grabbed the King of Rohan’s ankle, which was all he could reach. Éomer lost his balance and slid down into the mud. He thrashed helplessly, letting out a cry, as the salts permeated his still healing wounds.

“I warned you to get out of my bath!” Aragorn raged, “But now you are here, you had better remain and have your own wounds treated!”

“I carry my scars with pride!” Éomer huffed, now the initial shock was abating, ”Unlike that coward who married my sister!” He started to slide across the bath towards Faramir.

“Keep still or I will call my guards to restrain you if I have to!” Aragorn roared.

“Peace, brother!” Faramir pleaded, “I would rather we were in agreement for your sister’s sake if nothing else. She is saddened you have not yet been to see our child. She is your own niece after all!”

“How you I even know who fathered the brat?” Éomer snarled, “The way you treat my sister, it is most likely his!” He gestured towards Aragorn.

“How dare you insult both my wife and my King?” Faramir was incensed.

Aragorn’s simmering fury finally boiled over. He struck Éomer a glancing blow across the face. “No man speaks thus of me!” he roared.

“I am King of Rohan, you do not strike me like a naughty child!” Éomer retorted, scrambling out of the bath. “I know what you get up to with my sister when you go to her room in the middle of the night to take your pleasure of her!”

Too furious to even remember, he was clad in nothing but mud, Aragorn climbed out of the bath after him.

Hampered both by his frailty and injured ankle, Faramir could only sit helplessly and watch as his King and his brother in law grappled furiously with each other, each unable to land a proper blow and slipping from each other’s grasp because of the mud.

He found himself forced to watch in horrified fascination. Had the situation not been so fraught, it would appear hilarious to a casual bystander.

Aragorn had the advantage of knowing the properties of the mud and managed to wipe one hand on the heap of discarded clothing, while fending Éomer off with the other. He caught Éomer a glancing blow on the jaw, which sent the King of Rohan flying. As he fell, he struck his head a glancing blow on the tiles.

“Éomer!” Aragorn gasped in horror, knowing another blow to the head could prove fatal to the young king. His anger quickly forgotten, he hastened to his side. “Are you hurt?”

Éomer did not reply. Stars dazzled him.