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.
