Edoras, Rohan: 3001 of the Third Age.
Háma looked over the line of new Riders and shook his head doubtfully. The men his company had lost in their recent battle with the ever-more ferocious orcs could never be replaced. Five of the double score had perished, including his own shield brother, Durst Hengist’s son. The fortnight of grieving had passed, and now one of these youngsters, all of them recently come of age, would take his companion’s place at his side on patrol, at his back in battle, and in his bed in the barracks.
Walking down the line, he looked into each pair of eyes. The Rohirrim were an isolated people; with the rare exception of a dark-haired bride from Gondor they all sprang from the same stock — fair-haired, blue-eyed, tall men, bred to ride, trained to fight. The last of the men in line was half a head shorter than the others, but strongly built for his age. Háma smiled when he recognized him — Gamling Turgil’s son had served after him as Théoden King’s squire when Háma, the elder by five years, had come of age and taken his place as a Rider of Rohan.
Háma stood before the young man and searched his eyes. He saw there the same intelligence and compassion he remembered from six years earlier when he turned over the care of their king to the youth with barely fifteen winters under his belt. No longer a child, he was not yet full-grown, his cheeks still smooth and unbearded. Gamling returned his gaze, and as one they raised their right hands to grasp each other’s left shoulders. Proposed and accepted, they were now shield brothers in a company of bonded warriors.
“Where’s your gear?” Háma asked, knowing the former squire would have been well outfitted by Théoden King at his coming of age.
Gamling hefted a pack to his shoulder and grasped a lumpy sack in his free hand. He whistled through his teeth, and his horse separated herself from the others and trotted to his side. The bay mare butted his shoulder and whuffled. “This is Freyda,” he said. His voice was deeper than Háma remembered, but he was still a tenor to Háma’s baritone.
The mare raised her head at the mention of her name, her deep brown eyes trained on Háma. There was a chunk of carrot in his pocket, and he offered it to the horse. She snuffled at his extended hand and accepted the gift carefully, her broad teeth skimming over his calloused palm.
“She likes you.” The horse followed as they walked toward the barracks. Gamling dropped his gear outside the long, wooden building and they led Freyda to the adjacent stable. The well-trained mare quickly settled into the new stall, and once they stowed her tack, they moved the younger man’s things into the room they would share between sorties and patrols.
Durst’s family had collected his belongings, and the room seemed cold and empty to Háma, accustomed as he was to his shield brother’s collection of mugs and goblets from taverns all across the Mark covering every spare spot in the sparsely furnished room. The wardrobe stood open, its half-empty interior so much like the void Háma felt his life had become. They had left behind Durst’s stout campaign chest, empty now of his bedroll and kit, but had taken all his weapons, leaving Háma’s sword and lances looking woefully inadequate in the racks intended for twice their number.
The evening mess was quiet, the company still grieving for their lost numbers, but welcoming the replacements into their midst. Each of the youngsters was paired with an older Rider, just as Háma had been paired with Durst. He now took his place as the senior of the pair, which was the basic unit of the company. Five pairs made a band; four bands in the company, three companies to an éored. They lived together in the barracks, alternating with another company to patrol their assigned region of the Mark. Háma’s company rode in the éored of éomund, Marshall of the Mark, Théoden King’s younger brother.
The men toasted their slain comrades, then invested each of the replacements with the badge of their company, a stylized design of the simbelynë flower that bloomed on the barrows of Rohan’s past kings. Háma pinned the patch to the shoulder of Gamling’s tunic and they embraced before the company, as did the other four newly formed pairs.
“It will be weeks before I learn everyone’s name,” Gamling lamented. Sconces on the walls held oil lamps that lit the room with a warm glow, and a single candle flickered on the chest beside the bed. The single window was shuttered against the night’s chill. While Háma latched the door, Gamling fed kindling to the small brazier, urging the smoldering coals into a warming blaze. As always, a kettle of water sat atop the stove, handy to the washstand with its pewter basin.
“Don’t worry. I still can’t tell Fengel from Hengel,” Háma confided. “But their own mother cannot tell them apart.”
“They are the twins?”
“More like two halves of the same whole.” Háma moved to stand behind Gamling, hands on his shoulders. “Relax, Gamling.” He turned the younger man to face him. He drew his fingers along the beardless cheek, his touch lingering under the chin. Slowly he leaned forward and brushed his lips across Gamling’s. The light kiss crushed the last barriers between them, and they kissed again more forcefully, their tongues tangling as they tasted each other for the first time.
They didn’t speak as they removed their clothing, their soldiers’ discipline vanishing as they dropped their garments to floor and let them lie. Háma extinguished the lamps, leaving only the flickering candlelight, and led Gamling to the bed. He threw back the coverlet, revealing snowy sheets. The linens were not as fine as those on the bed of Théoden King, but neither were they rough against their fair skin. Riders lived well in the barracks, compensating for the privations they endured patrolling the Mark. Gamling slid to the far side of the large bed, leaving space for Háma to lie on his side, his head and shoulders raised on his elbow.
Háma pushed the long hair away from Gamling’s face, looping the honey-colored strands behind the ear, then slid his hand to the back of the younger man’s neck and brought their lips together again.
Gamling’s arms snaked around Háma’s well-muscled chest as their lips met, stroking from shoulder to the base of the spine. He cupped his hands on the rounded globes of Háma’s rump, the light touch tickling the older man.
Roughly Háma pulled Gamling’s body to his own, trapping the stiffening flesh of their erections between them. He moved his hips, rubbing his arousal against Gamling’s, and was rewarded with a gasp as fingers clutched at his backside.
Hands roamed over fair skin, learning textures and contours, seeking those secret places that brought shudders and gasps. Háma kissed and nipped his way along the tender skin on Gamling’s neck and throat, then lapped at the dark circles of his nipples, pulling the soft nubs to hardened peaks. He snaked his hand between their bodies to find their erections, both of them steel hard and leaking. Wrapping his fist around both columns of flesh, he stroked in the same rhythm that he moved his hips against the younger man.
“Touch me,” he commanded, and Gamling’s hand joined his, then reached to cup the heavy orbs in their soft sac. Háma moaned as waves of pleasure washed over him, and he thrust faster, the motion of his hips rubbing the two erections between them, bringing both of them to shouting, gasping climax.
When the last of their spasms faded, Háma brought his semen-covered hand to his lips, tasting their mingled seed. Gamling too shared in this communion, licking Háma’s fingers. “We are truly bonded now,” Háma said, as had once been said to him.
“I will fight for you,” he recited “I will die for you,” he went on. “For we are one mind, one heart, one flesh.”
Gamling repeated the vow, and they kissed again, sealing it. He rolled away from Háma, rising to pour warmed water into the washstand’s basin. He soaked cloths and wrung the drips from them, then returned to the bed and cleaned both Háma and himself.
Háma smiled at the younger man’s attentions, remembering his own service to Théoden King, learning the private ways of the shield-bonded Riders of Rohan. These were the stages of life for a Rider — childhood in his mother’s house, youth serving as squire to an elder, then the hard life of a Mark Rider before taking a wife and raising a family. When his children were grown he in his turn would become an elder, and complete the circle teaching the next generation.
He watched as Gamling hung the damp towels to dry, the younger man moving around the room unselfconsciously in his nudity. There were still traces of youth to be seen in his form; his hips were narrow, unbroadened by time in the saddle, and the long muscles in his thighs moved sinuously under the fair skin. His belly was flat, and golden hair sprouted sparsely across his chest. But Gamling was definitely a man grown, if the thick hair at his groin and the heavy organs hanging between his legs were any indication.
Welcoming Gamling back into their bed, Háma wrapped the younger man in his arms, and they settled together, Gamling’s head tucked under Háma’s chin, pillowed on the older man’s shoulder. Just as they pulled the coverlet over themselves the candle guttered out, leaving only the glow from the brazier.
“I’m glad you chose me,” Gamling admitted quietly, brushing his lips against Háma’s chest.
“We chose each other,” Háma responded. “We are brothers now...” He paused, pressing a kiss to the broad forehead. “...we belong together.”
At dawn the men of Háma and Gamling’s company rose and readied themselves and their horses for a fortnight on patrol. They rode with little more than bedrolls and a day’s rations lashed to their saddles, depending on the scattered homesteads and abundant game for their continued provisioning.
Thy rode in a double column through the broad streets of Edoras, then down the twisting path that led from the hilltop fortress to the plains of Rohan. Once mustered at the base of the hill, they rode in a group across the trackless grasslands to the eastern border they shared with Gondor.
It was not so much orcs that threatened the eastern borders, but the Wildmen who lived in the hills. It had been generations since Gondor had actively patrolled the region and over the course of years the wildmen grew more and more bold.
This was Gamling’s first sortie as a full-fledged Rider of Rohan, and through he looked forward to proving himself in battle, he was apprehensive about what they might face. The young man, born in the Westfold and grown in Edoras, had encountered neither orcs nor wildmen before. He’d heard tales told around the fire of their ferociousness, and though he knew men often exaggerated in such stories, his blood ran cold at the thought of combat.
He looked to his left, to Háma, his shield brother, and breathed easier. Háma faced forward, his eyes alert to the terrain. He must have sensed Gamling’s gaze, for he turned to face him, and smiled.
“There is naught to worry about here,” he assured Gamling. “The countryside is open and clear.” They rode on, their horses matched stride for stride.
“It will be two days before we must keep watch — when we ride near woods and hillocks that give cover to the intruders.”
At midday they reached the banks of a stream, one of many that meandered across the plains. The company dismounted, each of them first seeing to his mount — feeding and watering the horses, checking their hooves for stones and thrown shoes. Only then did any of the men sit or sprawl upon the grassy sward and eat his own meal. Each of them carried smoked meat and bread, a handful of raisins and a skin of cool water.
They bivouacked in the open, the horses tethered to a picket line, the forty men arrayed around two fires kept blazing by the sentries. Nights on the plains of Rohan could be very cold, even after a sunny day late in the spring.
Háma and Gamling settled into their blankets before the last of the late night storytellers faded completely. They lay down fully dressed but for their helmets and armor, their lances and swords near to hand. With their heads pillowed on their folded cloaks, Háma spooned behind his shield brother, one arm protectively around the younger man’s middle, and Gamling nestled into the embrace. It had been a long day in the saddle, and soon the whole company save the sentinels slept soundly.
The following night found them sleeping under a roof, at least, as the company quartered in the communal barn of one of the easternmost settlements. The comfort was short lived though, as they were rousted out of their beds before dawn.
“There is word of a band of Wildmen on the move,” their captain told them. They immediately shook off all remnants of sleep and saddled the horses. Just as the sun peeked over the horizon they were off at a gallop.
A column of black smoke led them to the marauding band. Thatched roof cottages and barns were in flames when the Rohirrim arrived. Men, farmers mostly, had been put to the sword, and the Wildmen were harrying the women, threatening to kill them on the spot or take them back as slaves.
The thunder of hooves grabbed the attention of the intruders, and they scattered, fleeing in all directions from the Riders. The women and children stayed in a tight knot, keeping out of the way of swinging swords and flying arrows.
In just minutes they brought down the last of the Wildmen, dragging the corpses and herding the survivors back to the hamlet. Lest more fires spread to the grasslands and fields, the remaining Wildmen were ordered to dig a common grave for the slain. The point of a sword against their ribs convinced the grumbling invaders to follow instructions.
“You now have a choice,” the captain told the survivors, once the pit had been dug and half filled with already stinking carcasses. “Join your fellows,” he said, “or wear a collar of servitude to pay for the lives you took and the homes you burned.”
“How long?” the boldest of the Wildmen growled.
“Five years you will serve these people,” was the answer. “Then you will be free to return to whatever homes you have.”
Given that the alternative was death, it was not surprising that he Wildmen chose servitude. The farrier fitted each of the captives with an iron collar, and before the band of Rohirrim rode on, they watched each of the Wildmen swear obedience to the village elders.
Gamling cringed when he dropped from his horse at their camp that night.
“What is it?” Háma asked, coming to his shield brother’s side.
“A scratch, that’s all,” Gamling lied. He pulled the saddle from Freyda’s back and staggered under its weight. He took a step away from the horses and his left leg buckled under him.
Before he hit the ground, Háma’s strong arms caught him and lifted him back to his feet. “Let me see that leg,” he ordered. He took the saddle and handed it with its heavy pack to another of their band, then shoved his shoulder under Gamling’s arm, supporting the wounded Rider. They made their way to an open, clean bit of grass, and Háma gently lowered Gamling to the ground. His saddle was propped behind him, and Gamling lay back and extended his injured leg.
The new Rider winced in pain as his boot was removed. Just above the protection of the leather shank, his breeches were sliced open, the edges of the fabric stained with blood.
The wound was not deep, but long, extending from the top of the shin at the front of the knee around to the back of the calf. The edges of the wound were red and angry, and blood still oozed the length of it.
“When did this happen?” Háma asked under his breath, not expecting an answer. He called to the leader of their band, and asked for warm water and clean cloths to tend the wound. While waiting for the first aid supplies, he threw a blanket over Gamling’s legs. “Take off your breeches.”
He dug into his saddle bag for the packet of herbs he carried. When the heated water was brought to him, he first dipped a cupful out of the bowl. Into the cup he crumbled a piece of willow bark and set it aside. Selecting other herbs, he added them to the remaining water, then wrung out a cloth to bathe the wound.
The slice was deepest at the front of the knee, and luckily no nerves or tendons were injured. Háma carefully cleaned the wound, squeezing the edges lightly to keep it from festering. He covered the wound with a poultice of the dampened herbs and bound the wound with a clean cloth. Before he would let Gamling arise, he gave him the willow tea to drink. “All of it, my friend,” he said when Gamling grimaced at the bitter taste. “Then prop your leg up on a saddle.”
Háma looked after both their horses, then brought supper to Gamling. He hushed the younger man’s protests at being treated thusly. “You’d do the same if I had been injured,” he commented as he laid out their bedrolls. “Besides, you’ll heal faster if you rest tonight.”
Still clad in only his shirt and a blanket, Gamling moved to the bed Háma had made for them, and let his leg be supported again on his saddle. While there was still enough light to see by, Háma set to repairing the sliced breeches. He worked deftly with needle and thread, taking small stitches that brought the raw edges together. “There,” he said, breaking the thread with his teeth. “That will hold.” He tossed the garment to Gamling.
“My mother is a seamstress,” he explained to Gamling’s questioning look. “Don’t let the others know,” he whispered with a smile, “or I’ll be up to my elbows in mending.”
The remainder of the patrol was uneventful save for a broken arm suffered by one of the other new members of the company. His injury was seen to by his shield brother, and there was every indication that the simple fracture would heal well. They rode into Edoras near to midnight, saddle weary and looking forward to their furlough.
It was good to be clean again, after a fortnight in the saddle. The shield brothers scrubbed the dirt and grime from each other until their skin was pink and raw, and the water in the tub cooled. Wrapped in towels they made their way back to their quarters, the room already warmed by the blazing brazier in the corner. Food and drink had been laid out for them, their arrival hours after the usual evening mess. They picked at the cold meat and bread, so much like trail rations, but the flagons of ale were fresh and cool, and they downed them in long draughts.
“There,” Háma said. “That’s what I needed.”
“A bath, a beer, and a bed,” Gamling listed. Once the fire was banked so it would keep them warm all night, they slipped under the sheets of the inviting bed.
They had grown accustomed to sleeping in each other’s arms for warmth, and settled in the center of the bed with Gamling’s head on Háma’s shoulder, his hair tickling the older man’s chin. Idly Háma stroked Gamling’s back, his hand skimming over the warm, smooth skin. With each stroke from shoulder to hip, his hand reached lower, until he cupped the rounded mound.
“Ah,” Gamling sighed and snuggled closer to his shield brother, looping one of his legs over Háma’s. He slid his hand across Háma’s chest, teasing the sensitive nipple to a crinkled nub.
The older man pressed a kiss to his partner’s forehead and pulled Gamling’s hips closer to his own, feeling the stiffening manhood against his thigh. He shifted position, rolling slightly to his side, bringing his own growing erection to meet Gamling’s. At the same time he traced the cleft of Gamling’s buttocks with his fingertips, once, and then again more boldly, sliding his fingers more deeply between the twin globes.
Gamling gasped sharply as Háma approached his entrance. Bivouacking in the open with the others of their band did not lend itself to their continuing to learn of each other, though their bond had grown as they rode and fought together on patrol. Now, back in the barracks, in the privacy of their own quarters, they could explore and experiment with each other.
Háma had oiled his hand before he got into bed, meaning to teach Gamling of additional pleasures they could share. Gently he brushed his fingertip across the entrance over and over, teasing it, readying it for the next step in their intimacy. With Gamling’s breath hot against his chest, a nudge of his chin brought their lips together. Simultaneously he thrust his tongue into Gamling’s welcoming mouth and his fingertip into the tightly guarded entrance. The double assault drove Gamling’s hips forward, bucking against Háma’s body, and a moan sounded deep in his chest.
Háma clutched his partner more tightly, moving his hips to rub their erections together between them, and still plundering Gamling’s mouth, he twisted and rubbed with his fingertip, never entering farther than the first joint. Soon Gamling was writhing and moaning loudly, and he reached between them to grasp his leaking sex. He fisted both shafts, using his own essence as lubricant. Háma released him from the deep kiss, and he stretched his head back, his eyes glazed and rolling back as the spasms of his climax overcame him.
Years of arising at dawn had trained Háma well; he awoke as soon as the slightest light crept through the shuttered windows. Gamling lay in his arms, sill asleep, and Háma gently stroked his hair, easing the strands back from the broad forehead. Another ten years or so of service as a Rider lay before him, and with luck, he thought, he would share them with Gamling. In the younger man he had found more than just a shield brother, he’d found a soul he could trust with his life and his heart.
Háma and Gamling rode side by side as they had for a decade when in the prime of their lives, past the Elf who had come with Gandalf. The horses became uncharacteristically skittish as they rode along the base of a sheer cliff. “What is it, Háma?” Gamling asked, just as he heard an ominous growl to his left, atop the escarpment. Looking upward, he saw the warg leap from the cliff straight at Háma, knocking him from his horse. Drawing his sword, he rushed to his shield brother’s aid, but the ferocious warg grabbed the downed man in his jaws and tossed him a full five yards away, then turned on Gamling.
The rest of the battle was a blur. He swung his sword blindly, hacking at orc and warg alike. When finally there were no more of the hideous creatures to kill, he found himself near Théoden King, who stood with the Elf at the edge of a cliff. When they turned, the King called out, “Get the wounded on horses. The wolves of Isengard will return. Leave the dead.”
Never had Gamling seen such a despondent look as from the Elf. Without a word to the King, he rejoined his Dwarf companion, and Gamling turned away to find Háma.
For ten years Háma and Gamling had been inseparable, shield brothers of the Rohirrim. When Háma was mustered out to take a wife, Gamling had reluctantly taken a new shield brother, training the youngster as Háma had trained him. Gamling and his new partner had never reached the depth of the bond he had shared with Háma, and still did. Now that they were both retired from the Riders, Háma to be the Door Warden of Meduseld and Gamling to be Théoden King’s herald, they were still the closest and best of friends. Having married sisters, they enjoyed an additional bond, but nothing surpassed what had been forged between them as Riders. Middle age had been kind to them, bringing them sons and daughters both, as well as position at court, while leaving them healthy and hale, though perhaps not as fleet of foot as in their youth.
Gamling found Háma just where he had last seen him at the base of the escarpment. His shield brother was pinned beneath a dead horse, his body ripped open by the warg’s terrible teeth. Gently Gamling cradled Háma’s head in his lap, surprised to find the older man still lived, even with half his intestines scattered over the battlefield.
“The battle is ours?” the dying man asked, his voice barely audible.
“Yes,” Gamling answered, smoothing the greying hair back from Háma’s face. “The King is safe.”
“Good,” Háma sighed. His eyes drooped closed, and he tried to take a deep breath, only to cough up blood.
Gamling closed his eyes lest he cry before his shield brother. “Rest now, Háma,” he said. “You have fought your last battle.”
“I know.” Weakly he raised his hand to touch Gamling’s face. The younger man grasped limp fingers and pressed a kiss to them. “You will have to see to the King by yourself now,” he went on. He tugged on Gamling’s hand, bringing their joined fists to his lips.
Gamling felt Háma’s last breath against his hand, the warmth fading from the familiar lips. The blue eyes stared sightlessly until a gentle touch closed them, and a soft, final kiss was pressed to his forehead.
“Rest, my brother, and I will go on for us both.”