for perforo | rohan road trip
Sep. 18th, 2021 04:58 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shieldofrohanIt has been a long voyage, across the sea, along the north of Essos, and at last to the Isenmouth and upstream to the Westfold, and she is restless. She is not made for the sea, she has found, and she has been on this boat now for what seems like a lifetime, and she is beginning to wonder whether this might not have been an indulgence not worth the trouble.
But then they are on the river, and the mountains are in view, and she leans from the rail of the ship, and feels her heart rise in her chest. Two years now, she has been married, and it has been closer to three since she saw her own kingdom, and it may be longer still until she sees it again, but already it seems to her a lifetime. She had not realised, until this moment, just how deep the homesickness ran - how, as the land to the west of the river levels out into the beginnings of grassy plains, as the jagged peaks of the Ered Nimrais rise in the horizon, some part of her sings out in recollection; how even the air seems clearer, and the light more true. They pass through the mountains; alight at the ruined plain of Isengard, which is quickly giving way to forest; and it is hard not to put her heels to the flanks of her horse at once, to ride hard and fast the remaining miles to the place that, no matter how the shadows have lingered there and no matter how many years she spends at Casterley Rock, will always be home.
They must be more sedate, though, for there are goods to be unloaded and attendants to join in the riding, and in any case (as she has told him before, although he will never believe it), Jaime's horse will not keep pace with hers over such a distance. So it is at no more than a trot that they pass through the broad and green-carpeted valley of the Westfold, the miles moving with a slowness that would be tortuous, if being here - even still so far from Edoras - did not lift her spirits so much. As it is, she rides with a smile, her head held high and the cold mountain wind rippling through her hair, and feels the return of a part of herself she had not known was missing.
At last, there is a gleam of gold in the distance, the fabled Golden Hall of Meduseld, perched upon the pinnacle of its hill; and the dim flutter of green and white banners in the breeze; and she can hold herself back no longer; cries out in unbridled delight and sets her heels to her steed, spurring him to a gallop, her golden hair and red cloak streaming in the wind of her passage.
She is, it seems, seen in turn; for she has not made it beyond the first of the kings' barrows when she is greeted, and she leaps from her saddle and rushes to her brother's arms, with an unselfconscious enthusiasm that she did not often show before their parting. A bow would be more proper, an act of lealty to the King of Rohan - but he is, before he is King, her brother, and she has missed him more than she had known she could miss anyone. She pulls him into a tight hug, and kisses both his cheeks, and she is aware that he is weeping before she is aware that she is.
By the time Jaime can catch up, brother and sister have parted in their embrace, but the tears they have shed are still on both of their cheeks, and neither has regained their saddle. The two white horses graze delicately around the flowers that blossom on the grave-mounds; and their riders speak eagerly to one another in their own tongue, still choked with emotion, for the siblings were ever dear to one another, and time and distance have not changed that.
Éomer is, at a glance, recognisable as his sister's relation; he is taller than she is, and broader in the shoulder, but with the same storm-grey eyes, the same straight nose and high cheekbones. His hair is long, worn past his shoulders, and unbound but for the golden circlet that sits (now slightly askew) above his temples; his beard is neatly-trimmed and combed. He is not armoured, but there is a sword at his hip, well-worn by use, and clear kin to the one his sister wears at her own belt (for, as she told Jaime, it seemed churlish not to bear the sword that Éomer had given her for her own wedding - and besides, the Eastfold is not, she has heard, entirely free of foes), and there is a certain readiness in his bearing that says that he is no idle diplomat. In this moment, though, he does not play the warrior; he is smiling and at ease, and Éowyn, too, is smiling as brightly as ever she does.
But then they are on the river, and the mountains are in view, and she leans from the rail of the ship, and feels her heart rise in her chest. Two years now, she has been married, and it has been closer to three since she saw her own kingdom, and it may be longer still until she sees it again, but already it seems to her a lifetime. She had not realised, until this moment, just how deep the homesickness ran - how, as the land to the west of the river levels out into the beginnings of grassy plains, as the jagged peaks of the Ered Nimrais rise in the horizon, some part of her sings out in recollection; how even the air seems clearer, and the light more true. They pass through the mountains; alight at the ruined plain of Isengard, which is quickly giving way to forest; and it is hard not to put her heels to the flanks of her horse at once, to ride hard and fast the remaining miles to the place that, no matter how the shadows have lingered there and no matter how many years she spends at Casterley Rock, will always be home.
They must be more sedate, though, for there are goods to be unloaded and attendants to join in the riding, and in any case (as she has told him before, although he will never believe it), Jaime's horse will not keep pace with hers over such a distance. So it is at no more than a trot that they pass through the broad and green-carpeted valley of the Westfold, the miles moving with a slowness that would be tortuous, if being here - even still so far from Edoras - did not lift her spirits so much. As it is, she rides with a smile, her head held high and the cold mountain wind rippling through her hair, and feels the return of a part of herself she had not known was missing.
At last, there is a gleam of gold in the distance, the fabled Golden Hall of Meduseld, perched upon the pinnacle of its hill; and the dim flutter of green and white banners in the breeze; and she can hold herself back no longer; cries out in unbridled delight and sets her heels to her steed, spurring him to a gallop, her golden hair and red cloak streaming in the wind of her passage.
She is, it seems, seen in turn; for she has not made it beyond the first of the kings' barrows when she is greeted, and she leaps from her saddle and rushes to her brother's arms, with an unselfconscious enthusiasm that she did not often show before their parting. A bow would be more proper, an act of lealty to the King of Rohan - but he is, before he is King, her brother, and she has missed him more than she had known she could miss anyone. She pulls him into a tight hug, and kisses both his cheeks, and she is aware that he is weeping before she is aware that she is.
By the time Jaime can catch up, brother and sister have parted in their embrace, but the tears they have shed are still on both of their cheeks, and neither has regained their saddle. The two white horses graze delicately around the flowers that blossom on the grave-mounds; and their riders speak eagerly to one another in their own tongue, still choked with emotion, for the siblings were ever dear to one another, and time and distance have not changed that.
Éomer is, at a glance, recognisable as his sister's relation; he is taller than she is, and broader in the shoulder, but with the same storm-grey eyes, the same straight nose and high cheekbones. His hair is long, worn past his shoulders, and unbound but for the golden circlet that sits (now slightly askew) above his temples; his beard is neatly-trimmed and combed. He is not armoured, but there is a sword at his hip, well-worn by use, and clear kin to the one his sister wears at her own belt (for, as she told Jaime, it seemed churlish not to bear the sword that Éomer had given her for her own wedding - and besides, the Eastfold is not, she has heard, entirely free of foes), and there is a certain readiness in his bearing that says that he is no idle diplomat. In this moment, though, he does not play the warrior; he is smiling and at ease, and Éowyn, too, is smiling as brightly as ever she does.
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Date: 2021-09-18 08:30 pm (UTC)Yet it is not a landscape of common supposing that they are turned loose upon. The hills are bountiful and green, that is so, and there are on the horizon the bladed peaks he had suspected might ring this place, and there is a proud valley and the blue of the sky overhead is so mightily encompassing that he thinks there may be some truth behind that old fable that all the known world is kept within the blue eye of a giant. He is glad to be rid of the ship - not because he suffers any sickness at sea and not because he failed to leap to the occasion of making himself a legend among their crew. (They would agree, wouldn't they? He'd volunteered himself without hesitation for the chores of scaling masts, clambering up the rigging, and engaging any sailor who matched him in wits in a good-natured spar.)
Is the splendor of this country a symptom, then, of how long they'd been at sea, for how long the pacing of their steps had been largely limited from one end of the ship to the other? Or does it strike him such vivid colors because he knows this is the honorable land from which his honorable wife hails? These are the hills responsible for breeding her stock; these are the mountains which had stood protective vigil until she'd been sent to a marriage she did not ask for but did not wailingly refuse, either. For how he reveres her, he cannot help but revere the plains she had once called home.
It is good to be astride his steed again, and he has tried to cajole her into giving their horses their heads and charging ahead to the limits of those equine hearts, which he haughtily presumes still to be of equal tenacity. She keeps them at a trot, a caution he does not deem necessary, but she rides with such thoughtless grace here, with such contented and trusting ease, that he does not oppose her for long. There is something to be said of this chastened pace, after all - while she is bathed in the cool winds, smiling as if she has shed the weight of so much smothering plate, he beholds her in turn. He must wonder again that she had ever come to him unwed; how blind must the valiant men of Rohan be to have never looked upon her and felt their hearts harpooned, irretrievably lost? This wonder grows tangled beside his greed, and he swells with pride to look upon her here and know she is his, just as he swelled with pride to spot her in the stands of any tournament and know she was his, just as he ached with pride in night's most hallowed hours, gasping her name against the side of her throat, to know she was his.
What is he to make of it, then, when she flies ahead at the sight of a gilded hall and billowing banners? They are the same green and white which she had worn when they'd stood before one another in the sept; the green against which the white steed of her maiden's cloak had reared. Now they are the colors of these pennants which claim the wind, and she proves in one heedless rush that his aggravated stallion cannot keep pace with her fleeter horse. Beyond the barrows she goes, leaving him with the vanishing glimmer of her hair and her crimson cloak, and that joyous cry which precedes her can only mean she has spotted some waiting kin. He must follow, and not swiftly enough to arrive at her side.
What he does arrive upon is the scene of a recently broken embrace, if he is to judge by the way the horses have been left unmounted, the two human faces resolving themselves into a riot of mirth and tears. Both cheeks gleam, his wife's and this man who has come to receive her. Her brother, Jaime is meant to understand, if the similarity of their looks could have failed to assure him. A man tall, taller than his sister, and of the same golden hair and the same unshaken composure. The gray eyes are ponderous clouds of the same storm. That golden hair is long, and kept only by a golden circlet, and not a scrap of armor is to be had. There is a sword, the length of which Jaime's sharp eyes take the measure of against his own, pleased to know his blade must be longer, heavier. Brighter, without a doubt; like his wife, this man seems to wear plainest steel.
He dismounts from his own horse, lathered upon chest and flank with sweat, and leaves the beast to graze among the others. Like his stallion, he feels that once he is upon his feet, he is similar but not entirely the same, and not arguably more: his own hair is golden, and he is tall and broad, but could it be that this man is even more so? His approach is marked for an audience with, if not royalty, then at least a person of some repute: he notes the crown and dips his head, one hand coming to sit at the pommel of his sword. He will not be slavish in his greeting, even if it is a king he greets.
And he has not mastered his wife's tongue (or, perhaps more truly, he has not mastered her language; he has spent a great deal of time learning the dance of her tongue sliding against his own), and so it is with no polite show of effort made that he first speaks her brother's name.
"Lord Elmer, it is an honor." He will not name it a pleasure, not when his wife is so clearly delighting in company not his own. But this does seem to be a man who has carried himself as a warrior, and for that he cannot be entirely without an assessing sort of curiosity. And even so, are those not tears upon the warrior's cheeks?
"Why do you weep, to have your sister before you well and unharmed?"
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Date: 2021-09-18 09:46 pm (UTC)She need not be concerned, it seems. Éomer's mouth twitches a little, in what could equally be amusement or distaste, but is in any case not greatly consequential; and he inclines his own head in turn, and smiles politely at the question.
"Should a man not weep, when his dearest kin is returned?" There is only a small sting of challenge in his words, and it is easily lost - at least, knowing her husband and brother both, Éowyn can hope it is easily lost - beneath an accent thicker than her own. "We did not gladly part with our Lady of the Shield-Arm, my lord Jaime, nor without worry. You took from us our dearest treasure. Shall I not be relieved, then, to know you have brought her back to the Mark hale and whole, and no mischief has befallen her?"
Éowyn shifts a little at that, clearly discomfited, her eyes flickering between Jaime and Éomer. "Ne áhisce, Éomer," she mutters, and wipes at her cheeks, finding that under Jaime's eyes her tears do feel a great deal more like weakness. "Ic béo selvgeborgen."
At that, Éomer laughs, a clear and carrying sound, and shakes his head. "Hvaet áhiscende? I have missed my sister, and the Mark its highest lady. And I have missed, too, any chance to meet my brother of these two years." He moves at last away from Éowyn, reaches out to clap Jaime on one armoured shoulder. "You are most welcome here, my friend. Set aside lordship and honour; may we be brothers indeed, bound as we are by love of the White Lady. Come, let us see your horses stabled, and wine poured, for you must be weary."
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Date: 2021-09-20 05:49 am (UTC)There is no frazzled wiping of a gruff hand across high cheeks, no trouble taken to hide the trails of tears. Dearest kin, he hears, and dearest treasure, and there is an anvil in his chest to be made to smile in turn at this welcome of his own wife. Yet is this not how he would declare his affections for his sister, had he been the one standing among the barrows of his own forebears, in the shadow of his own keep (far humbler, he decides, than the Rock), professing the devotion of his blood? He would, he knows; but the knowing does not dispel the jealousy that bleeds into the river of his courtesy, to have his own treasure spoken of this way, as if he has just been made, unwittingly, to give some piece of her back. He has already decided he will have her all.
Éowyn, the steel of his emerald-cast eyes finds, does vanquish her tears. She speaks, too, words he does not know, the strange lilt of her voice carrying most naturally here, among these hills and vales, and he is not without the snake of a smirk, knowing as well as she does that mischief has befallen her rather frequently since the night they were wed.
He is jarred from the temptation of that thought by a heavy hand clapping his shoulder, and he straightens beneath the vigor of the greeting, blinking back to the present, no matter how displaced he might feel from all he has for so long taken for granted.
"Be sure, my brother, that I have not brought her back." How can he allow her to so effortlessly be swept away from him? It is not a challenge he has meant to make in turn, but he is also not so valiant as to make of it anything less. It is tempered with a smile, if nothing else, the winning, rakish smile he wears before all strangers, to prove how little he thinks of prospective contenders.
Love, he hears, and it is beneath his armor that he will work to lay his hackles flat, discarding the word as civility, ceremony, and nothing more. These are a lyric-besotted people, given their tears. It is easier to think of them so. He glances at his stallion, the least of the three horses, and he does try not to draw in too heavy a breath. Weary?
"The ride through your meadows was as pleasing as any picnic, my lord. I shall look forward to your wine, even so. I am sure there are many more of your people waiting to weep at the sight of my wife, and I will no doubt find myself needing to pass the time until she is returned to me."
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Date: 2021-09-21 12:56 am (UTC)"Many of our people," he agrees, "though many are eager to meet you too, Jaime Ofergyld, and I do not think you will lack for friends."
"My lord Éomer!" Éowyn sounds, if not scandalised, then at the very least annoyed. It is, in truth, a level of unvarnished humanity that she rarely allows in company; but then, they are not in company, there are here only the two men who know her best, and Jaime was not supposed to know that nickname. She had forgotten some of the similarity between them. She had forgotten that, grim as he is and lordly as he is, there was ever a mischief in Éomer too.
"Daþ waere alswá ne áhiscende." His tone is sober, but there is laughter still behind it. "There are many who would gladly hear stories of one so far-travelled and no doubt renowned. Not least myself and the good lady Lothlíriel, who is excited to meet you both."
"She has met me," Éowyn corrects him, "though she may not remember it. At the coronation, we passed words, you may recall? She spoke highly of you then; I am glad to see it come to fruition." She seems almost physically to settle herself, and not without a certain cost of effort. She had not thought, in her excitement to get here, how easily brother and husband might clash; nor had she expected Jaime to be so sharp in his attitude. It is beginning to dull the shine of this homecoming. Her eyes flick, again, between the two of them. If I must suffer both of you taking jabs at each other all this while...
Turning away, she whistles between her teeth, spurring the horses to raise their heads, and goes to gather her own mount's reins, and Jaime's too. "I am weary, Jaime, even if you are not. And if there is to be weeping, then I would fain have it done with. Come, let us not linger here among the dead, Éomer; your bride has too often seen me grim, and never merry."
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Date: 2021-09-22 04:58 am (UTC)But this word lures his curiosity because it is spoken in the wake of his own name, which means it must be an epithet of sorts, a title won which his wife has not shared with him, and his brows raise in happy expectation. Is this a name she has knighted him with, spoken in a smitten pride that she is too coy to speak aloud? Had he taken into consideration the fact that he has never known her to be coy, nor to refrain from speaking her mind when it came to her perceptions of his person or his behavior, he might have ruled this out quickly enough.
"Over-gild?" he repeats, hoping to prompt his wife to an explanation, the possibilities still so tantalizing that he does not hear in his own blundering speech the propensity for insult. Her reaction is only befitting of a revealed secret, which means he must hound his way to the root of it, and he wonders what else she has told her brother of him, of which famous exploits and travels, and whether he will indeed be imposed upon to tell of his more fanciful victories.
There will be praising, too, of her brother's own triumphs, and there is a surly twist in the meat of his chest to know he will not be the sole captor of her attention. He will be a stranger, paling beside the notoriety of her brother the king, and his wife whom he knows not at all, and the people who have come to wish them well, who know not his name. This would never be so, he thinks, in Westeros.
He steps to take his horse's reins from his wife, shifting a measuring glance once more between her and her brother. He is not so well-manned as to dissuade himself from all manner of measuring. "And grim you are, my lady, to hurry your admirers through their tears."
Hauling himself back up into the saddle, he flashes her an impish grin. "Alas, it is a shame you are so weary, for the surest way I know to bring you cheer is also the most rigorous. To your noble home, then, where wine and weariness await."
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Date: 2021-09-24 03:23 am (UTC)Her brother, for his part, looks equally unamused, and takes the moment of Jaime's back being turned to exchange a look with her, as if to say: Tell me he will not be so coarse all this while. Or perhaps she only reads that into his look because it is what is going through her own mind. Either way, she feels a sharp urge to apologise, for she had not entirely thought through how bringing her uncouth husband to a king's hall might spoil the manners of the whole place.
But still, she reminds herself, it is worth it; for they are here, and she is home, and no matter how jealously Jaime may feel the need to remind them all that it is a temporary visit, still it is a weight from her heart to be here at all. It is worth it, then, to shepherd Jaime through the intricacies of what comes so easily to her; and she must remember, too, that she made her own mistakes as a stranger in his land, and he cannot be blamed if he makes some, too. (The fact that she has tried a great deal harder than he appears to, while it is unavoidable, is not something she will let herself linger on. She will not be sour, will not seek trouble with him; this is a joyous occasion, and she must let it be so.)
"Grim I am," she agrees, rather than credit his other comments with response, "but glad, too, for I have long wished to show you my noble home. And before any such admiration comes, we will stop at the King's stables; and you may see then why I am so unforgiving of Westerosi horseflesh, when you see a full compliment of horses whose Mearas blood runs true." She turns her head to look at her brother, as he climbs into his own saddle and urges his horse into a walk. "It is a shame we did not see Shadowfax on our way, Éomer, for he would have made even my lord Jaime admit to the nobility of your stables at once. Does he still roam here?"
"When Gandalf has no need of him. You may yet find him, I believe; he runs as wild as ever, these past few months." The king seems distracted, looking between the two of them as his horse draws up beside them, beginning back towards the city. "Tell me, Lord Jaime, should I speak Westron alone? I thought to aid you in managing the Rohirric tongue, but if you would sooner I did not..."
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Date: 2021-09-25 06:35 pm (UTC)There will be little enough opportunity there for japes against the horses she has, from the start, touted as flawless emblems of the equine craft, and he is coming to doubt that her brother would indulge a great many lighthearted insults against the treasures housed in his barns. He contents himself, then, to lift his brows as if he is as of yet unconvinced of the wonder she has long spoken of regarding the horses that prance upon the Rohirric plains, holding his stallion close beside her own mount. He will, he supposes, profess his admiration for the royal steeds so proudly kept, and he will profess his appreciation for the nobility of her home when it is presented to him. This is a kindness easier vowed in silence than enacted aloud, when he is thinking loftily of the peace he might bring his wife, when it is, for the nonce, not in chipper competition against the delicious prospect of provoking her to dramatics.
She asks her brother of Shadowfax, a horse she has spoken of before, and he turns his head to allow his assessing gaze to roam just as freely as that supposed steed. Over that rich sea of green which swells with hills, which had bred for centuries, he is meant to believe, a variety of men whose honor and valor are paralleled nowhere else. He spies no mythical silver stallion, and he holds still to his condescension that all he has been told of this place has been steeped generously in fable and legend.
He eyes the king as he rides alongside them, as they begin toward his wife's first home. It cannot be prouder than the Rock; it cannot be bedecked in the same gold, in the same fearsome history, reigning over cliffs as terrible and beautiful and sheer. The horses of this place have only been eloquently embellished, and he has not woefully incapacitated himself by shirking his honorable duty of learning his wife's language. He holds himself tall where he sits, lifting an unbothered shoulder as if it does not matter to him one way or the other whether this king speaks a language he does not know.
"I'm sure we both find Westron to be the more efficient and sensible of the two, brother Elmer, but if you would rather hill and hall rang with the sounds of your own tongue, I trust that you will find my handling of it to be most promising." Why should he admit to being so thoroughly disarmed of a functioning knowledge of the language here? It cannot, he thinks, be so complex that he is unable to pick up the most rudimentary stones of it, to cobble together a rendition that would deal his wife no great embarrassment.
"Perhaps we shall see which language the horses prefer. Maybe your noble Shadowfax has only been waiting to be called properly."
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Date: 2021-09-27 12:12 am (UTC)At that, tense though she clearly is, Éowyn musters a smile. "A far cry, then, from how things were! It is a balm to me, to know that in my absence, still the silence is scoured from these halls, and they may ring again with both the poetic and the efficient." A small barb, there, at her husband; one she cannot resist, for how often can she ever claim his side to be the efficient and sensible one? It does seem to bring her a little back to herself; she sits a little easier, and while her smile is not quite as carelessly bright as before, it is true enough. "As for Shadowfax, dear husband, it is not your tongue or mine to which he answers best; and I cannot think that you have in all your busy days time enough to train yourself to the tongues of the Elves and Maia. Some things are beyond even your taming."
Éomer chuckles at that, and says something under his breath which wins him a glare from her - one which he shrugs off easily, with a smile, as they begin their ascent from the fields of barrows, up the hillside to the walled fort above. "Some things," he remarks, mildly enough, "are beyond the taming of any man. Better must my sister know this than most." He lets that hang just enough to make his point, before continuing, "for she was the one who bound my wounds when I made my own foolhardy attempt. Such a beast will have no rider but the one he chooses, and we cannot all have the fortitude of Eorl, to make ourselves be chosen."
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Date: 2021-10-02 10:12 pm (UTC)His summer-green gaze meanders its way back to his wife, touching, as they go, undulating hill and bowing grass, the way an impertinent lover would take to his undressing lady. He will leave none of this place untouched. Her voice is pointed still to nick him, he is not so dull as to miss, but his mood is not so easily humbled, and he lifts his chin in haughty dismissal of her doubt where the feared and fabled horse is concerned. What horse of truly fearsome prowess would be won by the tongues of Elves and Maia? All things can be tamed with a sure enough hand and a confidence which does not falter. Tongues are secondary, and only filigree upon the serving steel.
"A study in tongues would serve this pursuit no better than it would any other equine undertaking, my sweet, dour wife," he corrects jauntily, always pleased to usurp study with plain, terrible strength. "Should we come upon him, you shall behold the wordless language that all great beasts and their masters speak." This arrogance finds its kindling in his certainty that they will not, in fact, cross paths with the legendary horse.
They begin to climb the hill which rises to the fort, protected by hardy enough walls, and he lifts both brows and looks again to the king when he hears what seems to him an acknowledging compliment. What man would ever submit himself to the accusation of having been tamed, after all? He would not, he will never have it be said of him that he was broken, by sword or by a woman's will. A satisfied smirk tilts at his lips, imagining the stalwart king tossed upon his rump by an unruly mount, and he collects his own horse, spurs him to carry himself with a bit more preening flair.
"We cannot all have it, no, but some of us exceed the expectations made of us, and rival even our creators in their glory." It was to the gods that common men and lords alike appealed to, and thus it is among their rank that he strives to count himself. If the Warrior is revered as a god, and he himself is the finest of warriors, why should he not call upon the same otherworldly ferocity? "We do not wait to be chosen, but prove that there is no one better."
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Date: 2021-10-03 01:32 am (UTC)"And yet, you sought to turn them aside from me, likewise." Now it is upon her brother that Éowyn turns the sharper edge of her voice, and the cool judgement of her gaze. She will have none of this, she thinks, with more than a hint of bitterness; she will not have her joy so spoiled by the two of them posturing and jibing at one another. Already, it sours her pleasure in homecoming, and it has been so little time: if this is how it will be throughout their stay, then she will run mad. "But here, there is nothing to be proved. Both of you have made such proofs in your time, and need not strive in peaceful halls to boast of glory."
At this, Éomer does laugh, a clear and ringing sound. "So you may well say, sister, knowing that these halls already ring often with your own glory!" He looks at Jaime, now, as though to share a joke in turn: "She will hold us both hostage to her better name, knowing that her own deeds are of such renown, and leave us poor men with no recourse but wonder or braggart's boasts."
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Date: 2021-10-15 04:13 am (UTC)The bone of banter that his wife snaps at her brother over brings a smirk to his face; when in her life could she have been turned aside? Even if for the sake of nobility and chastity she deferred, he can imagine quite easily her flight through wit and deception to have, all the same, what she decided she would have. A man's valor and a man's victories; a man's pride, though he does not know her to gloat. Not outside of their bedchamber, at the least, an unspoken jest for which he laughs alone. Never let it be said that when he is not an accomplice in conversation, or if he in fact knows nothing of the language, that he cannot look to be having a grand time even so.
A drier laugh for his wife's verdict: when are abundant proofs ever proof enough for any warrior? What proud hall does not wait to be dressed with gilded talk of peerless glories, each more virile than the last? He shares a glance with her brother, though he is not so quick to acknowledge the advantage she may hold, in her own hall or any other. "Nay, my lord, for too often has she been held hostage to another's name. Bested in riding and lancing, left with no recourse but a prayerful desperation."
The look he turns on his wife will, of course, assure her that he speaks of those times when it is his own name breathless on her lips, moments when she is resolutely held beneath him, pleading for more.
And just as swiftly do his thoughts turn to matters nearly as pertinent, fiery green gaze squinting toward the fastness toward which they ride. "Will there be no tournament to mark the homecoming of so cherished a lady? I would be most honored to cross sword or lance with so renowned a hero as yourself, Lord Elmer."
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Date: 2021-10-24 03:17 am (UTC)But that is before strangers, men whose opinions matter only as much as their standing. This is her brother, and in his company, it is no longer a teasing game of crude flirtation; the embarrassment coils hotly in her belly, and all she can do is hope that Éomer does not catch Jaime's meaning - nor come to her defence, for she can all too readily imagine how he might. You will kill one another, she thinks, grimly, her cheeks still pink as she looks between the two of them. Her brother is, in his way, as jealous as her husband: jealous not of her body or her attentions but of her honour and her happiness, which he has always felt his duty to guard. And she is horrified to find that, if they do come to blows, she is not at all sure who would win; horrified to know that neither of them is likely to back down if it should turn to a challenge. And does she imagine, she wonders, the tension in Éomer's mouth, beneath his beard? Is that not a gleam of anger in his eye? We should not have come.
When he speaks, though, Éomer's voice is level and calm, if more solemn than before. "Too much of sword and lance have our people seen already, and with direr stakes than pride. We do not love tourneys as I am told your people do, nor will I risk the spilling of blood before a wedding. It is ill-luck." And there is, undeniably, an undertone there: a glance between his sister and her husband that suggests very clearly that he sees ill-luck indeed. It is enough to make Éowyn shift uncomfortably in her saddle, putting her hand unconsciously to her unmarred cheek where, long ago, her own sword cut.
But Éomer's face clears quickly enough, and he offers a smile. "We will feast, and sing, and tell one another tales of all that has passed; and if wine and merriment are not celebration enough for you, then truthfully I would say to you that I would sooner have your sword or lance join my own when next we ride out. Brothers should fight side by side, and not face to face."
"But you will not ride out for some weeks yet, surely?" Éowyn at last finds her voice. "You are to be wedded, Éomer. Do not tell me that you mean to leave Lothlíriel lingering in worry here ere you have been married a month."
"I do not mean to," Éomer says, and laughs. "Yet it seems to me that Ser Jaime must sally forth somewhere, if he is to find this Lord Elmer. Never have I known a man by that name."