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shieldofrohanThe war is over. They have won. It is hard to entirely take it on board, Éowyn finds; after years of a shadow overhead, it is lifted, and even her grief at her uncle's death does not quite mar the knowledge of victory. He did not die in vain. She can tell herself that, if nothing else, and try to silence the part of her that whispers that if she had only been faster, if she had come to his aid sooner, he need not have died at all.
Still, it is done. He has joined his forefathers in the rows of barrow-mounds, and the world turns onward into a new age. She stays for a time in Minas Tirith, restlessly lingering in the Houses of Healing, while the mangled mess of her arm and ribs begin to heal, the darkness in her own heart beginning to lift. When at last she sets out for Edoras, riding with the last few men of Rohan who have stayed with her in Gondor, she can move the arm again, and even begin to forget the knot of scar tissue marring her chest and arm.
It has been three months now since the war was won. Three months since the Ring was destroyed, the hordes of Mordor scattered. Three months since she stood on the battlefield, cold terror and colder anger warring in her heart, and slew the Witch-King. She rides back through the heat of summer, an older and more weary shieldmaiden than the one who rode out in a man's disguise.
Edoras, when she arrives, is all athrong with the lords and ladies of Rohan, enough to fill the great feasting hall and spill out beyond. When first she arrives, she ignores them, making haste to the lord she has longed most to see - her brother, who now is King, but who greets her with the same warm embrace and gentle ease as when they were children. She cries when she sees him, and is not ashamed by it, and the first day of her return she spends with him. They talk, and mourn, and celebrate, and it lifts her heart more than she could have expected.
He has not yet been crowned. Rohan is a large kingdom, and its people scattered and displaced by the fighting; there is rebuilding to be done yet, and Edoras itself is in no fit state for a coronation, the city scarred by fighting. He is King, and all know he is King, but there is still that one step to be taken. To that end, all his lords have been called to Meduseld, the great hall that stands above Edoras, to gather and witness his investment. Many, Éowyn knows - she has lived most of her life at court, at her uncle's side, and has spoken with a great number of the nobles of the land. Others, she does not. But she is the King's sister, and famed now for her battle with the Witch-King as well as for her beauty and steadfast loyalty to Théoden King, and it is her place now to reach out to them, to circulate among the guests and offer them a welcome, a smile, a polite conversation.
It is tiring. She is still not entirely recovered from her long convalescence, and it is very tiring. By evening, she can bear it no longer; she makes her excuses and escapes out into the twilit air, the light summer wind tugging at her long golden hair and the white and green skirts of her gown. There is a small courtyard she has often frequented, a grassy space with a low stone wall. She rests against that wall, looking out over the plains of Rohan, towards the mountains, and breathes deep. It does not occur to her for some time that she may have company.
Still, it is done. He has joined his forefathers in the rows of barrow-mounds, and the world turns onward into a new age. She stays for a time in Minas Tirith, restlessly lingering in the Houses of Healing, while the mangled mess of her arm and ribs begin to heal, the darkness in her own heart beginning to lift. When at last she sets out for Edoras, riding with the last few men of Rohan who have stayed with her in Gondor, she can move the arm again, and even begin to forget the knot of scar tissue marring her chest and arm.
It has been three months now since the war was won. Three months since the Ring was destroyed, the hordes of Mordor scattered. Three months since she stood on the battlefield, cold terror and colder anger warring in her heart, and slew the Witch-King. She rides back through the heat of summer, an older and more weary shieldmaiden than the one who rode out in a man's disguise.
Edoras, when she arrives, is all athrong with the lords and ladies of Rohan, enough to fill the great feasting hall and spill out beyond. When first she arrives, she ignores them, making haste to the lord she has longed most to see - her brother, who now is King, but who greets her with the same warm embrace and gentle ease as when they were children. She cries when she sees him, and is not ashamed by it, and the first day of her return she spends with him. They talk, and mourn, and celebrate, and it lifts her heart more than she could have expected.
He has not yet been crowned. Rohan is a large kingdom, and its people scattered and displaced by the fighting; there is rebuilding to be done yet, and Edoras itself is in no fit state for a coronation, the city scarred by fighting. He is King, and all know he is King, but there is still that one step to be taken. To that end, all his lords have been called to Meduseld, the great hall that stands above Edoras, to gather and witness his investment. Many, Éowyn knows - she has lived most of her life at court, at her uncle's side, and has spoken with a great number of the nobles of the land. Others, she does not. But she is the King's sister, and famed now for her battle with the Witch-King as well as for her beauty and steadfast loyalty to Théoden King, and it is her place now to reach out to them, to circulate among the guests and offer them a welcome, a smile, a polite conversation.
It is tiring. She is still not entirely recovered from her long convalescence, and it is very tiring. By evening, she can bear it no longer; she makes her excuses and escapes out into the twilit air, the light summer wind tugging at her long golden hair and the white and green skirts of her gown. There is a small courtyard she has often frequented, a grassy space with a low stone wall. She rests against that wall, looking out over the plains of Rohan, towards the mountains, and breathes deep. It does not occur to her for some time that she may have company.
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Date: 2020-05-14 07:11 pm (UTC)All of that in the past, though, and he still feels shadows on his heart. They've always been there, though, since he was old enough to understand pain. They're smaller shadows, personal and even petty, nothing world-ending or magical.
As old as they are, he's quite adept at hiding them, which he does well from the moment he rides into Edoras. He easily becomes the life of the party, greeting every man with brotherly affection and every woman with a charming smile. He makes it look easy, as if he has never known a single care in the world. When the King's sister stops to welcome him, he feels time stop around them. There is a beauty in her he's never seen in anything else. Not just her renowned features or her fame, but some deep inner strength in the setting of her shoulders and the light in her eyes. When he compliments her, it is genuine, not that anyone knows to tell the difference with him. He doesn't keep her, though, knowing she has plethora of social duties ahead of her, and he doesn't envy her that.
Evening comes and even the extrovert finds himself growing tired. Wearing a mask is an exhausting thing, and it's harder to to around all the unfamiliar faces here than it is at home. He finds himself rather homesick, actually, and asks if there is a place in the hall where he may have a good view of the mountains.
As luck would have it, he's pointed in the direction of the same courtyard where Éowyn is making her escape. He sees her, but doesn't bother her right away. He came here for the fresh air and the view, after all. He stays some distance away at first, breathing deep the cool air, his black and red formalwear feeling stifling, even away from the crowd. Eventually he can take it no longer and he approaches her, making his presence known with a soft clearing of his throat.
"I apologize for intruding, but I was told I could see a wonderful view across the plains from here."
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Date: 2020-05-16 11:59 pm (UTC)But none of that is a reason to be rude, or excuse enough to turn him away. She nods, stepping away from the wall a little, and gestures for him to draw closer, to take her place.
"You were told correctly. You may see best from here - on a clearer day, from this spot, you might even see the Hornburg, though not Helm's Deep." She hesitates, and there is a great weariness in her face for a moment, before she settles her features back to polite neutrality. "You fought there, did you not? With Aragorn, with my uncle?"
The one is now wedded, the other dead. Both forever beyond her reach - though she finds that the former no longer pains her. She longed for Aragorn for a time, but her longing was for glory and for renown, and that desire has withered in her. She no longer wishes to be a queen.
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Date: 2020-11-08 06:31 am (UTC)He does feel a small pang of regret at startling her, and his face is earnestly contrite for a moment following. She is guarded toward him, which is nothing he can judge or even really be offended by. He could tell she was keen at first glance. Too clever to fall for his easy charm. That's probably why he already feels so drawn to her. Hopeless.
At her gesture, he steps forward into the spot, face turned toward the wind and the horizon. His red hair whips backwards against his ears and he pushes some of it away from his forehead. Just the sight of the familiar peaks has him smiling, looking more relaxed. That doesn't last, though, as he turns with a curiosity at her question. He nods. "I did." It is a mixed feeling he has, about the events that happened there. So much despair, followed by so much hope.
"They brought hope back to life. I think they could have done anything, with their strength combined." It is still bittersweet to remember. So many lost their lives that day, many of them so young. There's a dark, deep sadness in Sylvain's eyes that he hides behind a smile that doesn't reach them.
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Date: 2020-11-29 11:16 pm (UTC)She reaches up, pushing her hair out of her eyes, and looks past him at the mountains.
"I wish I had been there," she says, at last. Her hand drops to the top of her arm, probing gently at the knotted scarring she knows is underneath. It is a bitter reminder of how she fought, and how she did not fight hard enough. How for all her strength, she could not save her uncle. She sighs. "I would fain have seen hope reborn. I have wondered about it often."
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Date: 2020-12-16 08:09 am (UTC)He does not begrudge her the solemn expression. For all of his less savory habits, he would never expect a warmaiden to smile for anyone else's benefit. Funny that he doesn't hold himself to the same standards, eagerly attempting to hide any negative emotions, lest he upset anyone else around him and become a burden.
It's a relief, when she looks away from him back to the mountains. It means he can lose the fake expression. His gaze lingers on her a moment, taking in her proud posture, her sadness, her beauty, but with the same amount of respect he would turn toward an elaborate tapestry, before he turns to look at the mountains he calls home himself.
"I should think you would have deserved to see it, and I might have felt more at ease on the walls with another skilled sword to stand beside." He winces slightly, thinking of all the untrained boys he stood beside instead. "I could describe it to you, best of my ability, if you'd like, but I know that doesn't really compare."
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Date: 2021-01-19 03:34 pm (UTC)Once, she would have thrilled to it. One day in the future, she may thrill to it again. But the tales of slaughter which once enthralled and inspired her now strike too close to home. The battles she once longed to be part of, which she saw in the golden light of song and story, now only linger with a smell of blood and shit. She can still wish to have been there, to have stood on those ramparts and done her part to defend her people; she would still choose to stand there, if the time were to come again. She can still recognise the glory and the hope. But she no longer wants to hear of it, or to force anyone else to remember the fear and fury that can only look elegant in hindsight.
"It is enough that it happened," she decides at last, "and that you live yet, and are with us."
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Date: 2021-02-01 01:05 am (UTC)He does not miss the way her fingers dig into the sleeve of her dress, the story it tells by mixing with the look of pained remembering on her face. His own expression takes on something more complex than his usual practiced smile, softened by her compassion. He has told the tale many times to those who have asked, who were not there or were not chosen to fight. Her choice is a refreshing change.
"I would say the same of you, brave shieldmaiden." It is meant as a compliment, but there's something a little playful in his tone as well. "After battling that kind of evil directly and to still have such life and strength... I find you quite inspiring." The last part is said very softly, and would resemble the sort of line he seems to feed to all the women he speaks to, if not for the genuine reverence that hides in the undercurrent, and the way he says it to the mountains and not to her face.
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Date: 2021-02-08 11:38 pm (UTC)Part of her suspects mockery, for she has felt herself lacking both life and strength since that day three months ago, as though the Witch-King's gauntleted hand reached into her with his dying moments and clutched tight on her heart. But she sees no mockery in him, and he does not look at her. The wind from the plains ruffles his red hair, and the evening light casts fingers of gold over his skin, and she thinks No. No, he means it.
"Seek your inspiration elsewhere," she says at last. It comes out more harshly than intended, and she regrets it at once, flinching from the bitterness in her own tone. "I mean... I mean only that there are others you can look to. People more equipped to offer hope."
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Date: 2021-03-18 10:12 pm (UTC)There's that keen look in her eyes again, peeling away at his layers until he feels like a naked heart beating in the open air. He's too cowardly to look directly at her when she searches him that way and he wonders how that affects her judgement of him.
Her response is no true surprise, in content or in tone, though the harshness of it does startle him into looking to her. His light brown eyes look like warm honey in the dying light.
"Forgive me if I placed unfair expectations on you." He means that, too. Mockery is nowhere to be found. "I did not mean to place you on a pedestal you don't want." She's surely had more than enough of that in her lifetime.
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Date: 2021-04-09 05:14 pm (UTC)That he cannot meet her eyes for that moment, that his tone is so sincere, is as out of keeping with that view of him as anything else he has said or done. Éowyn finds herself looking at him more closely yet, her grey eyes searching the brown depths of his. A sorrowful man, she corrects herself. A lost one. A trapped beast forcing a smile. She ought to know that when she sees it, she thinks wryly; has she not so often seen it in her own reflection?
She sighs. "I would have wanted it, once," she says, at last, and turns away to look back out over the plains. The wind catches her skirts, tugs at the long golden waves of her hair. "Now it feels like another duty, and one I am not strong enough for. But I should not have snapped at you."
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Date: 2021-05-20 06:49 am (UTC)This time he does not let cowardice take over. He holds her gaze, though his own drifts slightly to her hair, and the way it turns red gold in the light of the sunset, or to her dress when the breeze ruffles at the sleeves and skirts. Always he turns back to meet her stormy eyes, much as it frightens him. He feels as if it owes it to her, the respect of it. The honesty, though he thinks he might regret that part of it come the morning.
Her surprise amuses and frightens him at once. It means he's challenged her expectations of him... but also she has once again seen into him, seen more of him than most. He has known at first glance that she would be the kind of woman who could cut right through to the heart of him. What will she do with that knowledge, he wonders?
He breathes through his nose, something close to a laugh. "I understand the feeling." He still chases that pedestal, himself. It's easier to be an object to people in that way, to meet certain expectations in order to hide the truth. "In contrast, I am not strong enough to step down off of it." He shakes his head at himself, but smiles warmly at her. It reaches his eyes. "I have endured worse and deserved it less. No offense is taken."
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Date: 2021-05-25 01:04 am (UTC)But right now, in this moment, she does not feel duty so heavily on her shoulders. She looks at him, at the dying sunlight reflected in his smiling eyes, and she realises that she is grateful for his presence, weary as she is. There is an honesty there - and perhaps she is only dreaming, but she feels, too, a kind of understanding.
She smiles back: a true smile, if a weary one. Her eyes are still coldly sad, but there is a hint of warmth behind them now. Raising her good hand to brush her hair back behind her ear, she clears her throat.
"Still, I would as soon cause you to endure only what you deserved." This time, she is the one to look away, closing her eyes as the wind brushes cool against her face. "And you did not deserve my anger. In truth, I think perhaps you deserve my thanks."
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Date: 2021-08-30 05:37 am (UTC)She takes her time in responding and that is fine. There is a lot on both of their minds, that much is clear, and Sylvain is in no kind of hurry out here. He wants to absorb the mountains and the sunset and the company of someone who understands the burden of duty well enough to not expect him to wear it in her presence.
When she does respond, it surprises him. His amber eyes blink at her, his head tilted slightly as if the answer might pour into his ear. "Not that I am ever one to demure a compliment from a lovely woman, but I don't know what you could be thanking me for. I interrupted your moment of rest and accidentally insulted you."
And there is another hint of that sadness, that loneliness, that weighs on him. The willingness to blame himself and allow himself to be the villain. It's so easy to be honest with her. Too easy, really. It frightens him, and once again he briefly considers leaping over the wall and running away.
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Date: 2021-09-02 01:34 am (UTC)She opens her eyes, but does not turn to look at him; instead lifts her chin and looks out over the plains. Her brow is furrowed, her eyes distant, facing outward but looking inwards. She does not want, in truth, to see his face in this moment.
"There is no rest," she says, at last, so quietly that the wind almost whips it away entirely. "The Shadow has lifted from the world, but not from my heart, and I am an empty and darkened thing. I am weary of company, and of light, and of duty, and so solitude and shadow call me." Now, at last, she turns to him again, and a small, sad smile curls her lips. "You did not insult me. You saw what I would fain be, if I were not hollow. But I am hollow, and it means more that you saw me at all."
It is more honest than she entirely meant to be, and she can feel the colour rising on her cheeks as she realises what she has just said to a stranger. But it is said now, and there is no taking it back.
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Date: 2021-09-25 02:08 am (UTC)Once again, she surprises him. Sylvain isn't sure which hits him harder- the fact that she's being so open or the thought that she thinks of herself such a way. That such a lovely thing, a symbol to her people and a true hero, could feel the same way he does.
Then again, maybe it isn't so surprising. "Of course you know yourself best, but I still don't quite believe that is true." He hums thoughtfully. "Perhaps the emptiness will fill, with time." He has to believe that's possible, for his own sense of hope, at least.
He shrugs a single shoulder. "Then again I always did prefer to see the pretty lies rather than the ugly truth." He flashes her a crooked smile, dimpling one side of his face and clearly far more honest than his usual expressions. It's gone a moment later, but his eyes still dance with private laughter.
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Date: 2021-09-27 12:45 am (UTC)Hope is not a thing she much allows herself, nor ever has. It is evident in her dry tone, and in the distance in her eyes; most of all, it is evident in the sorrow that still lingers on her, even when she smiles.
"You have surprised me," she admits, after a moment more, "and in truth, I am glad of it. Will you accompany me back inside?"
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Date: 2021-09-30 05:33 pm (UTC)His smile softens a little as he nods his understanding. Knowing oneself is complicated and difficult, especially when it's something you often go out of your way to avoid, like Sylvain does. He breathes out of his nose something that dreamed of being a laugh, and combs hair away from his face with his fingers.
"I've lied to myself for worse reasons," he admits, the self-effacement clearly meant in humor. He's been poor at allowing himself hope before, as well. Seeing the same sense of near given-up in her that he's felt in himself makes him all the more determined to grasp onto hope. Funny, how it's always been others who motivated the best (and the worst) out of him.
"Been a long time since I've surprised someone in a positive way. I could get used to the feeling." He winks, this time in a conspiratorial way rather than an empty flirt. "It would be my pleasure," he agrees, offering his elbow like a gentleman, but fully prepared to be turned down.
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Date: 2021-10-02 02:38 am (UTC)She wonders, for a moment, whether it is also true.
But she does not know him well enough to begin to guess. For the moment, she meets his wink with a slightly more honest smile, and takes his proffered arm, her touch light. "Thank you." For the gesture, of course: for the conversation, too, and even for his more foolish flirting before. She hesitates a moment, and then leans in, brushing a feather-light kiss to his cheek. "In this, at least, I feel myself less alone."
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Date: 2021-11-05 06:50 am (UTC)Most of what he says most of his life rings hollow. There is something special about her, about this night, that has made him honest. Too honest, really. He takes some comfort in knowing that she doesn't know him well enough yet to be certain of his sincerity. That she might someday pick up on it is a thrill that terrifies him. He thinks he should probably let her have her distance after this, head home to his margravate in the mountains and let this moment be all there is of their mutual compassion.
He knows that he will not, when she smiles at him like that and kisses his cheek. His eyes wrinkle at the corners. "Then I have done one good thing on my visit here and can leave contented with the outcome." He starts to lead her back inside, toward the crowd and the noise. He stops before the archway and lifts his opposite hand to lightly touch her fingers with his own. "I plan to go for a ride tomorrow late morning. I would be delighted to have your company."
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Date: 2021-11-07 04:26 am (UTC)"I would be delighted to give it," she finds her mouth saying, and only as she says it does she think of her other duties, of all else that must be done. And then she thinks of how long duty chained her to these very halls, of how this home became a prison, and she finds that she does not care if other duties call. She will be forgiven if, in this one case, she allows herself to be a fool. She will be forgiven if, this once, she puts her own desire first.
She reaches up with her other hand, briefly covering his own, and her eyes flicker to his. "Find me in the stables, when you mean to ride. I will await you there."
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Date: 2021-12-20 11:08 pm (UTC)If she does blush, he does not see it. Either for the low light of the evening, the odd colors that come from fires inside, or because of his own personal blindness to such things is it isn't clear. He briefly presses his fingers firmly against hers. His eyes dance with a boyish joy.
"I will look forward to it." Wrinkles form around the corners of his eyes again, and he glances back toward the party. "Good luck," and leads her in.
i'm just assuming we timeskip here?
Date: 2022-01-09 06:01 pm (UTC)But at times throughout the night, though she does not speak to him again, she finds her eyes searching the crowd, lighting as though by accident on red hair; and she will not dwell too long on it, but there is a certain wonder that will not be quashed, a sense that something has shifted. A sense that for a moment, among all of the eyes turned upon her, she was finally seen. It is bittersweet, and a little frightening, and it will not be entirely put aside.
At last, she excuses herself, and withdraws from the feasting hall which still rings with music and song and cheer. It is still early in the night, but there is only so much duty can demand from someone still so clearly unwell, and it is her brother himself who takes her by the arm and murmurs to her that she should rest. Who is she to gainsay Rohan's king? So she slips away, and she finds her bed, and she is lost to a sleep whose nightmares are forgotten on waking.
But she has not forgotten the chance meeting of the night before, and it is with a strange sense of transgression that she rises and makes for the stables, unsure whether he will be there - unsure whether she wants him to be. He is, in the end, still what she had first thought him: a flirt, a rogue, and a distraction from the hard work still ahead. He offers nothing but a vulnerability that a king's sister should not allow herself, and even that was offered by accident and chance, in a weak moment. She should, perhaps, hope that he has forgotten it, that their conversation was born of wine and the melancholy of night, and that she will see no more of him. She should, perhaps, stay far from the stables.
Yet here she is, come the morning; dressed now for riding, in breeches and a long tunic, and with her long hair braided into a knot at the nape of her neck. She is busy, even if she is waiting; her weak arm is bound up in a sling, but with the other she brushes the already shining flanks of her white horse, murmuring to him softly as she does so, and trying her very best not to look to see whether anyone is coming.
yes!
Date: 2022-01-22 10:56 am (UTC)Though he does his best to leave her be, Sylvain finds himself acutely aware of her presence for the rest of the night. He knows where she is- tracks how she moves through the guests- even when he is trying not to. He was already seen leading her in from a quiet moment outdoors, he doesn't need to press his presence onto her any more than that. He doesn't want to risk any of his reputation rubbing off on her and filling eager ears with gossip. She has enough to deal with without all of that. The joy of her company is not worth burdening her.
Still he catches himself looking for her, even just from the corner of his eye, and their eyes meet once or twice. Knowing that she has looked for him is just the encouragement he needs to not stop, to choose not to shake off the mantle of fluttering joy. He's like a giddy preteen, he thinks to himself with a shake of the head.
He stays about longer than she does, and sleeps in later the next morning. He breaks his fast in a daze, waking slowly because of wine and sluggishness. He considers keeping away of the stables, pretending he doesn't remember the offer or something similar. It makes him a little ill to consider it. Besides, if she decided he was best avoided, it would be easy enough for her to choose not to come, or to claim duty and chores kept her from showing.
So he dresses and combs his hair and approaches the stables, pockets full of morsels for his horse. He hears the sounds of brushing and the soft murmuring before he sees her, and when he does he feels his heart twang like a bowstring. His face pulls into a crooked smile. She's even more radiant than she was the night before, dressed in practical riding clothes, her hair bound up in a twisted braid.
"Is this one yours, then?" He asks, his voice gentle as he looks over the horse.
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Date: 2022-01-23 11:48 pm (UTC)It is not so; and she is not at all comfortable with the smile that creeps onto her own lips in answer to his, or with the warmth of a blush that tries to rise to her cheeks. She is not a silly child, to be so easily won by a simple talk with an attractive man; she is the Lady of Rohan, and she is made of sterner stuff. Or, at least, she should be.
"Windfola." She nods in answer to his question, but looks at him only from the corner of her eyes, as though to shield her expression until she is sure she has it under control. The horse, unaffected by the strange turmoil she feels, whickers and noses against her shoulder. "Is he not a handsome beast?"
The horse. Obviously, she's talking about the horse. What else would she be thinking of?
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Date: 2022-03-10 03:00 am (UTC)He avoids directly meeting her gaze as much as she does him. He keeps his eyes mostly on the magnificent horse she's fussing over. He is a handsome beast, all regal lines and he holds himself like he knows he is kingly. It makes Sylvain smile all the more to see the ego in him. Horses are truly such goofy creatures at their core, it charms him to see them acting dignified. Of course most true war horses do, and he doesn't doubt that a shieldmaiden's mount was trained for battle.
"He is, and I think he knows it too. May I?" He asks as he approaches from Windfola's other side, perfectly within the horse's line of sight. He's a man clearly used to being around horses, almost as if he was raised in the heart of Rohan itself and not from a village far into the mountains, where fewer are born into the saddle. He offers a hand for scenting, the other moving to rest gently against the stallion's neck. "Hello, there," he mutters soothingly to the horse, his eyes bright with affection, though he avoids direct eye contact with Windfola, so he doesn't pose a threat or a challenge.
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Date: 2022-03-12 01:30 am (UTC)Windfola lifts his head to snuffle at the outstretched hand, ears flicking curiously, and then, after a moment's apparent thought, stretches out his head to, with grave elegance, nose at the stranger's pockets in hopes of treats. Proud warhorse or no, he has the same priorities as any other horse, when peace reigns.
Éowyn surprises herself by laughing, patting the horse's shoulder briefly before she turns away to tidy up the tack she has been using. "Well," she remarks, "you have his approval, in any case." A good sign, and one she did not realise until now she had been nervous of. She, like so many of her people, puts a great deal of stock in the instincts of her mount; and if Windfola had balked at him, she is not quite sure what she would have done with that knowledge. Certainly, it would be harder to trust him.
It is a surprise to find just how dearly she wishes to trust him.
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Date: 2022-03-12 06:34 am (UTC)Even without looking at her directly, he can tell she's smiling. That special smile that a lady reserves only for her beloved animal companion. Ladies and Sylvain, that is. He smiles the same way at his own mare.
He chuckles fondly, rubbing at Windfola's forehead. "Ah, yes, I have something here for you." He gently pushes the nose away, producing a crunchy little oat cookie from his pocket. He shows it to Éowyn. "A recipe invented by a friend of mine," and offers it to the begging horse.
"The only creature I truly need to win over to call this journey a success." He laughs, a bright and boyish thing. His laughter grows all the harder at the sound of a hoof hitting a door and an impudent whinny.
"Híril darling I didn't forget you." He slips out of Windfola's stall to approach his grumpy mare. She's larger than the plains horses, and more covered with fur down her strong legs, a small beard growing under her chin. Her long ears swivel backward. "She's very jealous," he explains, turning to look at Éowyn over his shoulder. An oat cookie for Híril placates her, and she turns to lipping at Sylvain's shoulder. "There's my girl."
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Date: 2022-03-13 09:56 pm (UTC)And yet, there it is, that sly and coiling bitterness. Perhaps, she thinks with a certain wryness, Híril is not the only jealous creature in this stable.
"She is beautiful." Her smile has faded, her tone cooled a little, but she does mean what she says. The horse has little in common with the Mearas-bred beasts of the plains, but that does not make her any less of a worthy creature; only different. Clicking her tongue, she unloops Windfola's reins from the bar and leads him out of the stall. "And I would ill take you from her - though I think Windfola has her scent, a little. He may yet try to take her from you."
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Date: 2022-03-19 07:35 am (UTC)It's a lucky thing that his attention is so drawn by the horses, or he would have picked up on her shift in mood more easily and wondered at it. It would confuse him, and he is a little confused when he turns to her, sensing a little bit of ice in her tone that was not there before. Did he say something wrong? Did he insult the politics she lives to fulfill? No, that doesn't seem right.
His eyebrows frown slightly at her back as she leads the horse out. "I certainly think so, and so does she," his tone is still light as he rubs at the mare's neck. She's already been groomed, but he goes over her long winter-ready coat again for his own peace of mind before saddling her up with a soldier's practiced efficiency.
He laughs at that. "Are you eager to be courted, love?" He asks his horse. "A crossing of the breeds would make for an interesting foal." Híril paws at the shavings and swishes her tail, seeming to dismiss the notion. "She's turned away a few suitors in her time."
There's a tinge of bitterness in his smile as he leads her out, and Híril's ears briefly lower down when she catches sight of the stallion.
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Date: 2022-03-20 01:08 am (UTC)"He has weathered a few rejections in his time, as well." The ice is gone from her voice, at least; her smile is rueful. She leads her mount out into the open air of the courtyard, glancing back at Sylvain over her shoulder as she vaults smoothly into the saddle. "It is the prerogative of any living thing to turn away unwanted suit, after all." Then, wrapping the reins around her pommel as she nudges Windfola towards the gate, "I thought we might ride down to the river. It is quiet there, this time of year."
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Date: 2022-04-06 05:27 pm (UTC)It is ironic that Sylvain is oblivious to her turmoil. Normally, he would be looking for such adolescent responses in his female companions. Attempting to find it even when it was not there to be found. Because he has already chosen to see the better in her, and in so doing deny himself the fancy that she might be susceptible to his charm in the slightest, he does not see it.
That, and he's distracted by his horse. "I'd believe he takes them with better grace than most men," he returns her rueful smile. He's teasing himself as well as his gender, heedless of the true implications she might be imagining in the conversation. He's such a blind fool when it comes to those he truly wants the approval of.
He mounts up gracefully, settling down slowly as Híril tosses her mane. "That sounds lovely. I'll follow your lead." He doesn't know the lay of the land here, after all. He clicks his tongue and his mare takes up an easy trot to catch Windfola, though Sylvain gives the stallion a respectful amount of space.
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Date: 2022-04-10 09:14 pm (UTC)"It is hard to take rejection with grace." This, like a great deal that passed between them the night before, is something that she ought not to say aloud; but it is also something that, for whatever reason, she does trust he will not spread mockery of too widely. "For any creature, and most of all for one with the pride of Men."
Prideful as she is, graceless as she has sometimes been, she should know. And it is a kind of apology, too - an apology for a conversation they have not been having, and gracelessness more thought than acted upon.
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Date: 2022-04-18 02:08 am (UTC)As expected of a lady of Rohan, she settles into the saddle with a an even greater grace than she had on her own two feet. There's a tension in her that's gone as she rides, more natural on a horse than in her own simple skin. Sylvain can relate, and seeing her move as one with her mount brings another of his small, warm smiles to his face that are too genuine.
He still wears it when she turns to respond, and his cheeks warm slightly. He wonders if she means more implications behind it. Surely she must, a clever lady of the court would know how to speak in layers, but perhaps she's merely teasing him. Either for simple sport, or because of his reputation.
"You have the right of it." She often does. His smile turns to something sheepish, and he suddenly struggles to meet her gaze. "Though in my experience, a thorough rejection stings far more than a partial one." He's being a bit blunt about it, but he wants his intentions to be clear. He expects nothing, here, but he does hope at least for a friendship. Or a relationship that passes for one, in the moment.
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Date: 2022-04-19 11:08 pm (UTC)Her shoulder aches, as though the pain were summoned by the thought, and she grimaces, letting go of the reins to rub absently at the sore, scarred flesh of her upper arm. Powerless. Always, it feels as though it comes back to that: powerless, in the face of whatever doom sweeps her along. And alive, nonetheless, when she should not be; and freed, through grief and loss, from the chains that bound her here. She does not know how to feel about it - about any of it. It is all wrong.
"Do you fear that I would not give you the former?" Her armour is cracked, but her tone is steady, and her cheeks only a little flushed when she looks back at him. "I would, if I meant to give it at all; if you would do me the same service. Can we agree on that: that there should be honesty between us? I am sick of the whispered and the unspoken."
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Date: 2022-06-13 01:48 am (UTC)Just as he was thinking he had been too blunt, she takes his honesty and raises the stakes higher. He blinks wide brown eyes, made nearly yellow in the coloring of the sunrise. Híril tosses her mane slightly, disapproving of his sudden stiffness, and he soothes her with a hand, his eyes still locked on nothing.
"I see I've underestimated you. I apologize, again, for my blundering." His fingers tangle in his horse's mane, gripping on for a moment in a way that clearly doesn't bother the mare, but seems to ground the man somewhat.
"I fear many things, my lady." He has that same soft spoken tone he had when he was being too honest the night before, and his eyes still trained between Híril's ears and not at her give him away all the more. "Unfortunately, honesty is one of those things, no matter how much the other person deserves it. You have every right to be sick of such things, of course." He is not the reprieve she should be seeking. He isn't the company she should be seeking, and they both know this, and yet he allowed himself to invite her, and she showed up, and she continues to suffer him.
He wishes with wild masochism that she would give him the former, right this moment, and spare them both the trouble.
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Date: 2022-06-17 08:56 pm (UTC)"At least," she decides, "you are honest in your dishonesty. Better that than nothing at all." And there is a hint of something in her tone that might almost be gentle mockery, although whether she is mocking him or herself, she cannot tell. "Let us have no more honesty, then; no words at all. It is too early to burrow deeply into sickness and fear, and we came to ride, not to talk of dark things." She tosses her head back, then, and looks up towards the rising dawn, over the walls of the hill-fort; and the smile that touches her lips then is less queenly, less sorrowful, and more human. There is an echo in that smile of a younger Éowyn, before duty drove the mischief and the wildness into retreat. "I will race you beyond the barrows. Let your Híril show her mettle."
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Date: 2023-01-15 01:40 am (UTC)He can see her looking at him, from the corner of his eye. It is an intense gaze that drives him to want to fidget, to brace himself. For sharp words, or a rejection, for something that makes sense.
An out, a measure of understanding, is not at all what he expected. It inspires a dangerous amount of affection in him. Sure, she mocks him, but she should not tease and smile like that. Should not play games. She should get far, far away from him. "You are right, once again."
In spite of himself, he smiles as well. A warm, boyish thing that dimples one cheek and crinkles at his eyes. Éowyn tosses her hair like a mare herself, her smile so achingly human and free. He could deny her nothing she requested, he realizes, and he would be horrified by that if he had any surprise in him for it. Perhaps part of him foolishly thinks this could be a safe infatuation, a courtly thing that Éowyn in her wisdom would never let become anything more. Even as he thinks it, is partly convinced of it by his own self-deprecation, he thinks of the double-speak and knows that it isn't quite true.
"I never turn a fair challenge. On your mark, my lady."
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Date: 2023-01-16 12:42 am (UTC)She reins in Windfola a little, to ensure that the two horses are neck-to-neck as much as possible (though, given the difference in their breeds, this places them a long way from haunch-to-haunch, and sets Éowyn herself a little behind Sylvain), and looks over at him, head tilted slightly, still with the echo of that thoughtful look.
"On my mark, then." She looks away, forward past the rippled barrows where her ancestors lie, where the simbelmyne grows white as snow on their graves, to the plains beyond; and she settles herself a little lower in the saddle, and she shifts her grip on the reins, and raises one hand slowly, lets it fall sharp as an axe. "Hai!"
And her heels dig into her horse's flanks, and the white horse springs forward, fleet as any in the King's stables, and the wind catches her hair and makes of it a golden banner, and - as so often before - doubt and fear and darkness fall away for the moment, drowned in the thunder of hooves. Even the memory of that doomed charge on the darkness does not taint the freedom beneath it; it feels as it has felt since she was a child, since she and her brother raced through the pathways of a place that was not yet home.
It is not a fair challenge. If Sylvain were the best horseman in the world, still it would not change that she is riding a horse a full hand higher than his, and one of Mearas-stock, closer to an Elven horse than to his hill pony. But victory is not the point; the point is to give the horses their head, and ride careless at full gallop, and pay no heed to hesitation.
When she reins Windfola in beyond the graves, turning to meet her rival, she is flushed and panting a little, her eyes bright and her hair touseled. The wind has brought tears to her eyes, but they are not the shameful kind; she wipes them away readily on her sleeve, smiling, her heart thudding with the echoes of hoofbeats.
"A valiant ride. She sits well, your Hiril."
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Date: 2023-03-29 03:28 am (UTC)He easily reins in his mare, though she twitches her hide at the closeness of Windfola. He is amused by the contrast between the interactions of the horses and of their riders, and he continues to smile that innocent smile, first at Éowyn, then out toward the barrows as he follows her gaze out. The sight of the burials turns his joy into a softness. Not sadness, really, but a slight awe and a love for one's land and people. His eyelashes lower to shield from the wind, and he breathes in deep the scent of the growing things.
He sees her hand drop out of the corner of his eye, and he is ready. All the readiness and swift response in the world would not make him a victory, though. He knows it isn't a fair challenge, though he said so. He will sing his mare's virtues all his days but he knows she is no kingly elven steed. She is strong and surefooted, fast enough for jousting and lancework, tall enough for a big man in armor like himself, but she is still a mountain pony racing a Mearas bred king of a horse.
Her feet thunder, and he stands out of the saddle, so she knows to cut loose. The flat ground here is a treat for her, and she tosses her hand with a little spring in her step before she hits top speed. Sylvain laughs, feeling her start to frolic, and he is laughing still as they finally catch up to a halted Éowyn.
Híril slows steadily, ending at a prancing trot, tail swishing behind her. Sylvain looks with his own wind-burned face to see the shine on Éowyn's. Like the sun glows from within her skin. It's lucky that his cheeks were already pink from the wind and the thrill, but that doesn't cover the way his eyes shine all the more when he looks at her.
"She has earned her pride," he agrees, as the horse in question snorts, finally showing some relaxation in front of the stallion. It doesn't need to be said how the lady of Rohan and her horse are the wind itself, freedom itself, when they gallop. It shouldn't be said how much of her hair has come loose from the speed, and now floats around her face the way thin clouds crown a sunset. So closes his teeth and he says nothing else.
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Date: 2023-04-01 12:39 am (UTC)That thought of how he looks, and the fact of how he looks at her, all too quickly returns her to the conversation they were having before their race, to honesties and the fear of them. She clears her throat, and looks away first, sweeping stray hair out of her face with one hand. Her heart is still pounding, and her blood is high, and it makes it too easy to be carried away; and she has earned her pride, too, and she cannot give it away easily. She cannot admit that, for a moment, her weariness has lifted, lest in doing so she admit that he has some power over her, dishonest as he is. She cannot admit that she does not care whether he is dishonest, when he plays so well a part she did not know she was lacking.
"Where did you think to ride to?" she asks abruptly, after a moment, realising that she is not sure of where they are heading; that, beyond giving their horses their head, she had not considered what his intentions are. "Come; take the lead, I will follow."
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Date: 2023-04-04 10:21 am (UTC)She looks away first, and he looks away as well, out of respect for her need for... what, privacy? He isn't sure. He pats his mount and puts his legs gently to her, making her prance in place and at a slight diagonal, her steady footing making it an easy little show of her skill. After, she drops her head down to take a bite of grass, lest their company think that Sylvain has her perfectly under hand.
"Naughty," he scolds her, but does nothing about the snacking. Shaking his head, he smooths his own ruffled hair away from his face and gazes out at the land before them.
"I didn't really have a plan," he admits. "I don't know the lay of the land, I just wanted time in the saddle, away from the court." He turns to her, slightly bashful, as if she would judge him for that, after their moment the night before. "I only thought to find a path and let it lead us somewhere."
He looks for such a thing, and he sees one; not a footpath by any means, but clearly horse-trodden. He clicks his tongue and Híril makes for it at a marching walk.
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Date: 2023-04-06 09:35 pm (UTC)She smiles at the thought, a little sadly - but, to her own surprise, a little hopefully, too. If this is how things are to be, then perhaps there are worse things. The sun is shining, and there is a cool wind brushing her face, and she is not alone. Whatever might come, whatever path she might find, perhaps there is somewhere for it to lead her, after all - somewhere far from the shadows of Gríma and the Witch-King and the losses she could not prevent.
Settling a little taller in the saddle, she clears her throat and lifts her chin, shaking her hair back out of her face. "Well enough," she decides, and nudges her heels against Windfola's flanks, urging him to follow Sylvain and Híril. "I suppose, sometimes, that is enough."