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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: 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."