His meaning is not subtle, but neither can she deny it, however much she might wish to. Éowyn colours, almost as aggravated by her own blushing bashfulness as she is by the raising of such a subject, for now there can be no denying that she knows exactly what he means, or the truth of it. It is not the first time he has mentioned such crude topics in front of those who have no right to know how he can bring her to revel in defeat; it is not the first time, or even close, that he has in company brought to mind the image of nights (and not always nights) spent in arching and shameless surrender beneath him. She has begun to grow almost used to it, to even throw back barbs in turn sometimes; remind him, in veiled language, that he has not always been the victor even in those lists, and that he has spoken her name, if poorly, in as much desperation as she has his.
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."
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sforzinda
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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."