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Title: You've Got Some Explaining To Do
Author: heartofslash
Fandom/Pairing: LOTR, Aragorn/Arwen, Arwen/Gandalf, Legolas/Gimli, Legolas/Gimli/Gandalf, Eomer/Faramir, Boromir/Faramir, Faramir/Eowyn, Eomer/Gandlaf...did I miss anyone?
Rating: R
Warning: Comedy bordering on the ridiculous. Yet more decidedly un-Tolkienish use of word “buns”, and several other non-canonical forms of speech, but this is taking place in the rough part of town…
Disclaimer: Err. uhhhh... not what tolkien specifically had in mind..
Summary:During the drinking game in Edoras, Gimli discovered that ale has a very interesting effect on Legolas. Legolas told Gimli about the wild orgies all the Elves would have after drinking ale, as witnessed by Aragorn. Gimli also discovered what Legolas had been hiding in his leggings all those months. And got a hint that wizards are lovely. In his quest to discover why wizards are lovely, he attracted the attention of Éomer and Faramir, who got a tad randy watching Gandalf demonstrate his prowess on Legolas while Gimli finally got to find out what it really means to be pierced by an Elven arrow. Éowyn discovered her brother and lover in a rather compromising position, and blabbed to Arwen, who now is having some cravings of her own…
You've Got Some Explaining To Do
Éomer of Rohan, First King of the Third Line, eighteenth King of the Riddermark, and certainly the most famed living horse lord in the land, slouched in his chair in hopes of avoiding notice, or at least recognition. This decrepit tavern, a literal hole in the wall in the sleaziest corner of Minas Tirith, might be the only place left he could have a quiet drink without having to endure pointed fingers and even more pointed sniggers.
It was Arwen’s doing.
He felt bad about his uncharitable thoughts toward the Evenstar, particularly after the heartfelt declaration of her superior beauty he’d earlier made to Gimli the Dwarf.
Now that he thought of it, he also blamed Gimli for his predicament.
After all, it was Gimli’s curiosity about the loveliness of wizards that had put events in motions that had lead to the current embarrassing state of affairs.
For all intents and purposes, Éomer was persona non grata in the Gondorian court, a situation directly responsible for his presence on the crooked stool in the dark corner of the dank tavern.
That very morning he had been taken unawares, slammed against the wall of his quarters, and threatened with the loss of his private parts, a threat more than adequately backed up by the pressure of a distressingly sharp dagger in the vicinity of the aforementioned private parts.
“You have some explaining to do,” Aragorn had snarled at him.
Éomer had vehemently proclaimed his innocence, ignorant though he was of the nature of the specific charges.
“If you had not followed them…”
So Éomer was being blamed for drawing Faramir’s attention, which had drawn Éowyn’s attention, and lead to the two of them, Éomer and Faramir that is, being discovered in a compromising position, while watching Gimli, Gandalf and Legolas in an even more compromising position, by Éowyn, who had told Arwen of her shocking discovery, which had led to Arwen’s current condition.
In short, the Queen of Gondor was pining for a wizard.
The King of Gondor was not amused.
Éomer was certainly guilty of following the trio. He blamed it on the intoxicating sight of a Wood Elf under the influence of several tankards of ale. There was something about the sway of Legolas’s hips when he’d been drinking that had brought forth memories of Legolas when he’d been drinking ale at Edoras and in camp. Éomer had been sure more of the same was about to occur, and Aragorn could surely understand Éomer’s desire to see more, could he not? If Aragorn had only seen…
But Aragorn clearly had seen, because his eyes were glazed over and he was softly whispering something about "Elves and ale and avoiding spiders’ legs” and “incredibly tight buns” over and over.
Éomer clapped his hands loudly and Aragorn snapped out of it.
Éomer explained he’d not intended to draw the attention of his soon-to-be-brother-in-law. And he had certainly not intended to become so caught up in the moment that he and Faramir would be discovered like a couple of romping teenagers. And he had absolutely not intended that his sister would tell Arwen about what she’d seen, thus he could not be held responsible for inducing Arwen’s desires.
“Besides, I haven’t even spoken to Arwen since the receiving line at your wedding!” he concluded.
“That is not the only problem,” Aragorn said, waving the dagger in all sorts of dangerous vicinities. “Éowyn’s lavish description of your behind has Arwen suggesting I give up walking long distances in favour of riding even longer distances. ‘To build up the buttocks,’ she says. She wants a wizard, but she also wants something Éowyn evidently refers to as ‘delicious thighs’ and a ‘lusciously meaty butt’. Let me see your butt!”
“No way!” Éomer shielded his backside from scrutiny with the breakfast tray and apologised profusely for both his lusciousness and his meatiness.
“And Éowyn keeps interrupting meetings and dragging Faramir off for re-enactments” Aragorn pouted.
“Re-en… what?”
“She plays your part.”
Oh, dear, Éomer thought. That would explain some of Aragorn’s irritation. He needed his steward by his side. After all, Faramir was chair of the Reconstruction Committee.
“Whatever possessed you to do that? Where you could get caught?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, I can understand wanting to grope Faramir. After all, Boromir used to talk about it all the time.”
“He did?”
“… in his sleep,” Aragorn conceded. “But discretion is nine tenths of being the reigning king. You’ll have to learn that if you’re to succeed as a ruler.”
Éomer wondered if this was some strange way of Aragorn imparting his wisdom as a leader of men. Or maybe Aragorn was so overwrought he was merely babbling.
“My marriage is still new and she pines for another,” the King of Gondor wailed.
That would seem to indicate the ‘overwrought’ option.
“It is no use blaming me. I’m not the one she pines for,” Éomer pointed out, quite reasonably.
“True. She only pines for your ass.”
“Which,” Éomer further pointed out, “makes no sense at all since the superior buttocks clearly belong to the Elf.”
“Tightest buns in all Middle Earth,” Aragorn agreed ruefully.
Oh, yeah, Aragorn must have seen them at some point.
Éomer continued his arguments in favour of his innocence, and his line of reasoning eventually won out. Aragorn let him go with a warning, which included an additional warning to stay away from Faramir, who had been somewhat scatterbrained of late and had taken to hanging around the secret stairway to Legolas’s room.
They also decided Éomer would wear his longer tunic for the duration of his stay in Minas Tirith. It would not do to have the Queen ogling his behind. Indeed, Éomer did not want that any more than he wanted his own sister to ogle it.
Of course, no warning was necessary to keep him away from the rest of the court. The gossip was flying fast and furious, and Éomer was off limits to all. Through the course of the day Éomer had endured far more personal scrutiny than he’d ever desired, and learned far more than he wanted to know.
According to the more salacious gossip, the queen had demanded that her husband adopt certain wizardly traits in order to better serve her in the bedchambers. That would certainly explain Aragorn’s ire. No newlywed wants to be asked to act more like another.
The king already had a beard. Being asked to grow it longer would certainly be no hardship, since that was the custom among Numenorean kings of old anyway. His hair, also, would remain unshorn according to tradition. And Éomer did not think that adapting a looser, more accessible style of clothing was at issue. No, the real problem was much more serious than that.
It lay in the nether regions.
Wizards, it seems, are uniquely designed to please Elves of both the male and female persuasion. It was, as Éomer had seen this with his own eyes, a matter of size and shape.
He had no idea, nor did he wish to have one, of Aragorn’s size. He thought it best to assume that the size of a man of such stature and nobility and, well, manliness would be at the very least adequate. At least he’d heard no tittering gossip to the contrary, and at this court news of a sexual nature spread faster than weather reports, so surely he would have heard of any shortcomings.
It was a matter of shape, or rather gnarliness.
What really upset Aragorn were Arwen’s suggestions as to how Aragorn might go about achieving the correct lumps and bumps, the desired gnarled shape, most of which involved the use of mildly toxic stinging insects.
Éomer fingered the raw mark on his neck where Aragorn had attempted strangulation while ranting about “knobby bloody Istari.”
Well. Éomer could understand the violent outburst. He would be similarly miffed if his wife had suggested sticking his most personal sword in a bee hive.
Trouble was, Éomer didn’t have a wife. Nor did he have a betrothed, or a lover, or a girlfriend or even a bit of fancy on the side. In fact, he might never get laid again! No one would speak to him for fear of attracting negative attention from the king, whose truce with Éomer was obviously as thin as the wings of a moth.
And speaking of moths, that bloody wizard who spoke to moths all the time had entered the tavern, the very tavern in which Éomer was seeking refuge.
Really, this was all Gandalf’s fault. All of it. The whole incident with Gimli and Legolas, his and Faramir’s reaction to it all, Éowyn’s blabbing, Arwen’s desire. All of it.
And just how did Arwen know about wizards anyway?
Gandalf sat on the rickety stool next to Éomer and smiled that benign, mysterious, wizardly smile of his, and read his thoughts. “You needn’t glare at me like that, my friend. It’s not my fault Arwen is hung up on wizards. It was that wretched Radagast. He was only supposed to deliver a message to Elrond but nooooo, the damn fool had to meddle with the Evenstar. She’s been wanting it again ever since, and that was over 700 years ago.”
Éomer downed his ale.
“Another round!” Gandalf waved at the barmaid. “The rumour was she didn’t put out because she was frigid, but really it was because she was pining for Istari. Well, Elrond learned his lesson. Never trust a brown wizard!”
“Look, Gandalf,” Éomer said, remembering Aragorn's threats, “I don’t think I want to be seen with you.” Éomer had no desire to lose his private parts over something as mundane as having a pint with the Grey Pilgrim.
“Relax, Éomer. Do you honestly think anyone in this hole gives a toss about the two blokes having a beer in the corner?”
“Aren’t Aragorn’s spies everywhere?”
“I think not, dear boy. And if they were, they would have more important things to worry about. For instance, the fact that in spite of the demise of the dark Lord, Sauron’s spies are still everywhere. Take that gentleman in by the fireside, the one with the wart on his nose and the matted hair. Spy of Sauron if I ever saw one. I believe it would be a good idea to duck at this point, Éomer.”
Éomer did as he was told. He ducked just as a bolt of blue lightning shot forth from the tip of Gandalf’s staff, sailed across the room, nailing the unsavoury character in the middle of his forehead.
Greenish-blue smoke billowed up to the soot-stained rafters and the unfortunate spy shrieked and shrivelled to the size of a toad. In fact, he was turned into a toad.
“Definitely unnatural,” Gandalf cackled.
The toad croaked and hopped off its chair.
“Holy Hammer of Helm!” Éomer exclaimed. “I didn’t know you could do that!”
Gandalf curbed his snickering and assumed a mysterious countenance. “The ways of wizards are wondrous indeed, young horse lord,” he intoned. “There is much you do not know or understand. I could… show you more.”
Éomer watched the toad disappear through a crack in the wall. “I think not. Now I really don’t want to be seen with you.”
“And you won’t be, I assure you. Look around. Not a soul in here knows nor cares about your identity or mine. They didn’t notice that gentleman becoming a toad. They don’t even remember they’re in Minas Tirith. They all think they are travelling spice merchants from Harad out for a drink on the second evening of a sales convention in Dol Amroth.”
“What?”
Gandalf positively preened. “Just a little spell I cooked up. Clever of me, don’t you think?”
Éomer looked around the tavern. Indeed, no one paid any attention to them, except for the barmaid, who slammed down two tankards of ale and scooped up the coins Gandalf tossed on the table. The two brutish characters to his left were deep in a civilised debate about the relative merits of the Maranca bean and the loccia leaf, two exotic spices Éomer had barely heard of but never had the opportunity to sample in his entire life, and he doubted men of their limited means would have ever come in contact with them either.
“That’s quite a spell,” he whistled.
“Rather tame, compared to the toad thing,” Gandalf mused. “But it does the trick.”
Éomer was struck by the sudden realisation that the man next to him was not, in fact, a man at all, but a potentially dangerous and possibly unbalanced individual possessed of unpredictable magical ability. He was also struck by a bout of severe indignation. “I thought you wizards were above that sort of thing. I thought you didn’t do cheap tricks and gimmicks!”
“Not so anyone would notice,” Gandalf agreed. “One must be discreet. If word of our abilities got out, everyone would want us for their parties.”
“Well, I’ll be hog-tied.”
“If you wish,” Gandalf offered with a leer.
“I do not wish!”
“Then what do you want, Éomer?”
Éomer thought for a moment. He wanted a wench, that’s what he wanted. But none would have him, at least not in this town. The idea of a girl sleeping with him because she didn’t know who he was due to one of Gandalf’s spells felt slimey.
He wanted Faramir again, preferably with all his clothes off , but that would really make Éowyn angry.
He wanted Legolas, but he suspected everyone wanted Legolas, and he did not relish the idea of a confrontation with Gimli’s axe.
“Hey,” Éomer said suddenly. “How come you’re not with Legolas and Gimli tonight?”
Gandalf sighed dramatically. “Dwarves… they’re very possessive creatures.” He drank deeply from his tankard.
“Can’t really blame Gimli, can you?”
Gandalf shook his head sadly. “Not at all. It was, alas, a one time only thing. Pity. Ah, well, I’m free as a bird. As are you, I notice.”
Surely he could not be suggesting…
Bushy grey eyebrows waggled suggestively.
He was suggesting!
“Drink your ale,” Gandalf said.
Éomer did. And another. And another. Until his inhibitions were sufficiently worn down to accept an invitation to a seedy room above the tavern.
There he discovered, much to Gandalf’s delight, that wizards are not only designed to please Elves.
Wizards, or at least Gandalf, had the exact right size and shape to do some pretty marvellous things to a human male as well.
Pinned to the bed by the strong hands, back caressed by a flowing beard and white locks, legs spread wide, and filled to the brim with gnarly wizard, Éomer let out a loud shout:
“Oh, for the love of Helm, wizards are fucking lovely!”
Down on the street, outside the tavern, Legolas held out his hand and waited for Gimli to pay up. “I told you we would get the horse lord laid by the end of the night.”
Gimli grumbled and handed over the coins. “There, you’ve got cash now. Your turn to buy the drinks.”
“Really,” Legolas smiled. “I wonder if the ale at this tavern is any good…”
The End.
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