Road to the Black Gate   —  A birthday drabble for Gwynnyd

The reaction of new Lord of the Mark to his confidences lightened the air of even this grim place. Aragorn waited patiently for the inevitable response, watching the palate of emotions — disbelief; incredulity; horror, to name but a few – cross Éomer’s features. 

Saying nothing for a moment, Éomer took a sip from the cup he had been cradling and stared at the Heir of Elendil from over the rim, fixing intense blue eyes on him. “So, you are telling me, Aragorn, that we are camped in this hellhole, preparing to act as stool-pigeons to lure the Dark Lord from his lair, all for the for love of a woman?”

Aragorn’s lips twitched. “Not exactly. It is for her father that I have to regain the Crown of Gondor. Arwen’s heart, I already hold in troth.”

Éomer put his lips to the cup a second time, his brow furrowing in thought. “It seems a great deal of effort to go to. I hope she is worth it.”

“Oh yes,” Aragorn nodded as clouds of soft, black hair and the glow of luminous, grey eyes kidnapped his thoughts. “She is worth it.”

Éomer frowned, but did not answer and Aragorn reached over to refill his cup, “Do I gather, my young friend that making any exertion to secure a woman is something out of the ordinary to you?”

The lazy, characteristic smile that lit up the Rohir’s face warmed Aragorn more than any blaze could do in that desolate spot. He grinned, as Éomer raised one mobile eyebrow and held up his little finger, twisting it around to make dancing shadows in the firelight.

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