For drinkupmehearties

[shieldofrohan]

The door to Jack's cell opens just before dawn. Éowyn stands there, dressed for riding - breeches under her gown, her hair braided back close to her scalp - and looks at him for a moment, hand on hip, before beckoning for his things to be brought. His sword will be given back to him: his gun will not. She knows, after all, that if it comes to a fight with swords, she is a more than equal match for him, but her experiences in the Capitol have let her know just how dangerous a gun can be in the wrong hands.

Outside, the horses are waiting. She has chosen a mare for him, docile and easy to ride, with a high saddle that should be easy to stay in. Even with their experience in the Arena, she's loath to trust his riding. There's a big difference between staying in the saddle for an hour or so with adrenaline pumping through your veins, and staying in the saddle for the long day's ride that lies ahead of them.

Her own horse, of course, gives her no such worries. The grey stallion has borne her well since the Pelennor Fields, and she's more comfortable in his saddle than she could ever be with both feet on the ground. As they head out into the courtyard, he raises his head and whickers at her, making her smile.

Faramir stands beside the horses, though he is not dressed for travel. As she approaches, he goes to meet her, ignoring Jack for the moment as he ducks his head to kiss her. "You are sure of this?"

"I am sure," she answers, with a fond smile, and leans up to kiss him in return. "Do not linger here too long, love. Emyn Arnen is not nearly so fair without you in it."

He laughs, low in his throat, and traces his fingertips over her cheek. "How can it be made fairer by my presence, when you are already there to illuminate it?" Straightening up with a kiss to her forehead, he smiles. "I will be a few days, no more. Travel well, my lady. And for my sake, if you should see an enemy, ride away, and not towards them."

Éowyn smiles, shaking her head, and pulls away. "Jack, do you need help mounting, or can you manage?"

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[shieldofrohan]

Éowyn moves the wine flagon to make space for the map, realising as she does so just how light it's become. They've drunk more than she thought. Putting it aside, she leans in to look at the map, fascinated. She's never seen a map like that before - and that doesn't only mean the circular shape, the rotating rings. She's never seen a map with so much sea. It takes her a moment to figure out, even knowing that he's a sailor, that the bigger part of the map is water, not land.

And then there are the words. She squints inelegantly at them, her brow furrowing, for a long time. At last, she says slowly: "...It is the same script they used in Panem, is it not? Yet I cannot read it. Almost it forms words to me, and yet it does not."

The language chip, after all, is gone. Tengwar, she can read. English, particularly English scribbled in so crabbed a hand? Not a chance.

[drinkupmehearties]

It hadn't yet crossed his mind that those language barriers that Panem had erased -- the same ones that wouldn't let him speak or write anything but English to anyone -- would have returned in force now that they were gone from the place. His brow furrows a brief moment, mulling that over, then Jack nods. "Aye, I think so."

He traces a finger across a passage that drones on about how fleeting life is and says, "This is English." Then to 'La Florida', "Spanish." And then over 'Aqua de Vida', "Latin."

He draws his finger back to the passage in English, tapping with a thoughtful pause. "English. I wonder what that'd mean, that it'd be the language the Capitol used." He'd never really taken a good look at a map in the Capitol, never realized that Panem had sprawled out over what had originally been the United States in the past (for them) -- particularly because the States were supposed to be just distant British colonies to him.

[shieldofrohan]

"Perhaps nothing." Éowyn tilts her head, squinting at the letters. "Perhaps they did not, after all. This is from your world. Perhaps if it was from theirs, you could no more read it than I."

It's a possibility, even if it doesn't seem the most likely even to her. They have to at least consider it, right? That the script isn't the same, that it just seems the same because they're looking at it wrong?

"Faramir would be better-suited to this question," she muses, not realising she's spoken aloud. It's true, though - he's the scholar, and languages are his passion. She only reads Westron and Rohirric - if this script were to appear elsewhere in their own world, she might never even know. But Faramir would know. If it weren't so awkward, she would suggest giving him the map when he returns and seeing what he makes of it.

But it is awkward, no matter how much she tells herself to move past it. So she just clears her throat, reaching for her wine. "And where is it you are from? Is it on this map?"

[drinkupmehearties]

"That could very well be, aye." Maybe such a thing ultimately meant nothing. Who knew, really, with how much formidable power that the Capitol had in its possession. Perhaps this was just another trick of theirs, a fading remnant of the hold they'd had over them both.

Jack shakes his head, takes a drink from his wine. When she mentions Faramir, however, his gaze flits up from the map to her. He doesn't quite answer -- even if that wasn't a thorny issue in itself, he's ridiculously possessive of this map -- but instead glances back down to it when she asks where he's from.

"You could say as much, I suppose." He shifts the rings on the map, sliding the parchment around until the sketch of South America is neatly visible. "I was born on a ship, while Cap'n Teague -- " an awkward hesitation, " -- while me old man, me father, was navigating a typhoon." Of all the ridiculous, exaggerated stories that Jack tells, this one was, surprisingly, actually true. He traces a finger northeast of South America -- there's no visible land or islands drawn on the map, but he knows that there should be. "Spent most me young life on Shipwreck Island, in Shipwreck Cove. Was a place for good-for-nothin' ne'er-do-well scoundrels like meself and me father. If it weren't for the Pearl, I'd call it home."

[shieldofrohan]

The story may be true, but the arch of Éowyn's eyebrows suggests she doesn't quite believe it. "An auspicious birth indeed," she comments dryly, and squints at where he's pointing, trying to make out whether or not there's actually an island there. "As for good-for-nothing..." There's a faint, sarcastic smile at the corner of her mouth, and her eyes flick up to him. "Well, remember that you said it, and not I." This time, at least.

For a moment, with that teasing comment, she's aware of the warmth between them again - the friendship, and the shared adventures, and, yes, the sex as well. For a moment, which she quickly blames on the alcohol, she considers leaning over and touching his arm, or even kissing him. It's a brief, irrational moment, and it passes almost at once, but it unnerves her, and she straightens her back sharply, pulling away a little from him.

"They must be readying dinner," she says, a little too quickly. "We ought to think of moving to the hall."

[drinkupmehearties]

He catches the skepticism that flits onto her face, and that pulls an amused half-smile into the corner of his mouth. "Auspicious, aye. And incredibly, incredibly perilous." Jack raises a finger, leans forward a touch, lifts his brow, "But all o' it, completely, utterly true. Amazing, innit."

Her other comment, however, turns that smile into a full grin and Jack laughs a bit, warmly. "I'll warrant that, luv. Though, all told, I'd wager I'm good for, at the very least, cleanin' out the muck from horses' hooves eh?" His humored words hang in the air for a couple beats, light, and Jack hesitates. He can sense that same warmth, feel that sense of comfort, the need to reach out across the table and bring her closer. He wants to, gods. But that bothersome sense of self-preservation nags at him in the back of his head; it makes him pause.

And the moment passes. Abruptly, she pulls away.

"I would imagine so." His voice is more even this time, tone steadier. "An' that's a good idea, most like. Howbeit, would you care to show me to me quarters, first? So I've an idea where to go, once dinner's finished."

[shieldofrohan]

Éowyn's smile is a little forced, in sharp contrast to her earlier ease. She nods, putting her beaker down on the tray with the wine flagon, and gets to her feet. "Wise," she agrees, beckoning him with her. "I forget my manners a little, I fear. That, or I forget that you do not know this place. Come, it is this way."

She leads him out of the room and down the hallway, around a corner and up a short flight of steps. It isn't far, though, before she indicates a heavy wooden door. "Here," she tells him, reaching out to unlock the door and hold it open.

The room beyond - or rather, rooms, for there's another two doors connecting from the bedroom - is smallish, but well-furnished, with a carved wooden bed and tapestries on the walls. It's certainly a step up from a prison cell - these rooms are obviously meant for visiting nobles, or at least well-respected guests. There's a fire built in the grate, a ewer and basin on the table, fresh linen on the bed.

Éowyn stands in the doorway, considering for a moment, then looks at him. "You can bolt the door, if you will," she says at last, "but I mean to take the key. You may as well know that."

[drinkupmehearties]

"Not a worry, luv." Jack pulls himself to his feet as well, glancing at her, quite aware of the distinct shift in mood between them. Setting aside the beaker in his hand, he reaches forward take the map and roll it up, tucking it neatly back into his coat pocket, then follows behind her down the hallway.

Once they've made it to the room, Jack lingers at the doorway with her and takes stock -- it's certainly leagues better than a cramped little cell with a cot, and he's thankful for that at least. He meets her gaze as she speaks, then answers after a beat, "You do what you need to." No argument from him on that point; he knows that even with the friendly banter exchanged between them, he's still being held prisoner here.

He takes a step into the room, drawing his coat off and pulling the hat from his head, draping both onto an empty chair. He nods towards the doors, "What's beyond the doors?"

[shieldofrohan]

"The privy, there." She points to one of the doors, with a shrug that seems almost apologetic, as though she wishes she could show him something less prosaic. "The other is a study, though I doubt you'll have much use for it. It has a table, though, if you'd sooner eat here than with us." With me, she almost says, but that sounds either cold or too warm, too personal for that feeling that just passed between them. Us is definitely safer.

She clears her throat, uncomfortable again. She's used to dealing with guests, and she's dealt with prisoners before - but even without the history between them, dealing with someone who's somewhere between the two is unfamiliar ground. It was easier when they were talking, when she could think of him as neither but only as an old comrade. Now, that's not an option.

Normally, she'd move smoothly into telling her guest where to find her in the night, should they need her. But that, too, isn't really an option. For one thing, it sounds awfully like an invitation. That thought raises gooseflesh on her arms, and she's not particularly keen to examine why, so she quickly reassures herself it's a matter of practicality: he can't come to find her even if he does need her, since he'll be locked in. She also can't move into introducing the servants who'll wait on him, because she decided on her way here not to assign him any. And she can't gracefully withdraw to give him privacy, because, well, she can't.

So there's an awkward, pregnant pause before she finally says, a little stiffly, "Is there aught else you'd know, or shall we go down?"

[drinkupmehearties]

He's taken to wandering a little around the room as she talks, fingering the bottom of a tapestry with idle interest, listening intently to her in the meanwhile. Then Jack glances up at Eowyn, a faint smile pulling at his mouth. "Eatin’ by meself sounds rather lonely, to be honest. I’d prefer the company if you wouldn’t mind it." If he can sense her disquiet, the stiffness in her tone and body language, he’s not showing it. In fact Jack seems maddeningly at ease, himself.

Eventually, though, he comes to lean himself against the open doorway, finished with his short exploration of the room. "Aye, perhaps one last thing -- I’d fancy a book or two for the night, if you’d the mind to lend me one." If he’s going to be locked up in a room, he’d rather be able to entertain himself. Besides which, if he was going to be stuck in this land, too, he’d like to know more about it.

He gestures out towards the hallway, "Other than that, lead the way."

[shieldofrohan]

She nods, leading him out into the hallway and waiting for him to close the door before heading down the corridor. "I'll see what I can find in Faramir's study," she says. "Though with how my eyes will not settle on your map, I fear you may have scant fortune in reading them. I'll try to find you something with pictures."

Down the hallway she strides, moving with long, purposeful steps to convince herself she's in control. Down the stairwell, and into the small dining hall, which offsets the banqueting hall near the door. It's still a largish room, and the table at its centre (laden with meat and bread and a fresh flagon of wine) looks as though it could easily seat twenty men.

"Sit wherever you like," she invites him, already making her way to her accustomed seat at the head of the table.