for perforo | rohan road trip

[shieldofrohan]

It 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.

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[perforo]

They take again, the two of them, to that tongue he does not know - a tongue he might have become passably fluent in, he is chagrined to think, if only he had sequestered himself for a time in the maester's study and made himself tractable - but there is no place for chagrin among these hills and plains, no one to whom he must explain his dearth of knowledge. He has not been humbled away from the idea that he might simply learn, in one long afternoon, if he cares to. For the nonce, he wears Ofergyld as if he were a stallion, and that word his proudest barding. He carries himself with a pride he has not here earned, gleaming plate and disheveled gold of hair, chin lifted.

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."

[shieldofrohan]

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."