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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: 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."