He stands at the garden's edge, shadowed from the harsh sun of King's Landing by one of the archways that cloisters the patch of greenery.
"You do."
The reply is flat and sure, underpinned by a blunt decisiveness that seems completely undented by the attempt to deflect. It's a simple statement of fact ... one that does carry a certain air of menace, but it's difficult to tell whether that aura is born of an attempt to sound threatening, or if it's a side-effect of the low, bassy growl of his voice and the impassive scowl he wears on his face.
It is less any menace in his voice that makes her hackles rise, and more the offhandedness with which he brushes past her comment - much as he brushed off her attacks, in fact. Menace would be preferable. She has always preferred hatred to disregard.
She tilts her chin up, drawing herself to her full height (or as near as the sling will allow, since she can hardly put her shoulders back as she would like), and fixes him with the full force of her stare.
"Yours is a loose view of knowing," she remarks, after a moment, her words very carefully clipped. She is not about to deny what he is implying: she will dissemble, where it is needed, but she will not outright lie about this. Least of all when to do so would be thoroughly futile. "We have not been introduced, then, let me say."
All the while, her eyes remain on him, challenging, scrutinising. Trying to read that stony, scornful look, and coming up short.
Perhaps she will be pleased when he concedes the point to her by way of a nod. Then again, perhaps not -- neither the venom in her retort nor the withering glare she's fixed him with provokes much of a response.
He takes a step forward, out of the shade and into the light.
"Aleifr," He puts a hand to his chest, offering a slight incline of his head, "son of Lord Mors Umber."
'Umber'. Perhaps she's heard the name, perhaps she hasn't. His House is prominent enough in the North, though little that occurs above the Neck is worth discussing by the views of the southron lords.
She has heard it, in passing - enough to know that he is far from home, if not quite so far as she is. Not enough to have much stronger association with the name than that.
He steps out of the shadow, and she looks up at him - farther up, in truth, than she is used to looking at anyone; this is the kind of craning she associates exclusively with dealing with men on horseback - with that same assessing, hostile stare. After a moment, though, she inclines her head a little in turn.
"Éowyn. Daughter of Éomund, who was Chief Marshal of the Mark." The use of surnames in these realms is another thing she still has difficulty adapting to; there are no such Houses in Rohan, after all. The nearest thing they have is kennings, and while she might have introduced herself as the Lady of the Shield-Arm once or twice when she first arrived, she has quickly decided that it isn't worth it. Unfortunately, that puts her in the position of having to decide, with each introduction, how much of her lineage to say aloud, when it is entirely unrecognised here.
This does not improve her mood.
She shakes her hair back from her face, wincing only a little at how it disturbs her swollen shoulder, and lets out a low sigh. She approached him, she reminds herself. Despite the impulse to bridle at his seeming scorn, it does her no good to be less than polite.
"...You fought well. Far better than I would have expected, in such an empty game."
She'll see a shift in his expression at last -- two, no less.
First, as she winces, his eyes flick down to her shoulder. There's a flicker of something there -- concern, he leaves unvoiced. Perhaps he wishes not to condescend, perhaps he suspects that it would not be warmly received. When she mentions the tourney itself ... his brow creases slightly, the growl in his voice deepens, the corner of his mouth curls in disdain.
"Empty contest or not, you don't fight by half."
Looks like he shares her contempt for tourneys and all their nonsensical pageantry and pointless bluster, though the outward show of that distaste smooths over quickly and his expression reverts to the stony countenance that seems to be his default.
"Though you clearly know that better than most of these southron knights."
His distaste, at least when it is directed at something other than her, has the unexpected effect of making her less ill-disposed to him - not only because she agrees with it, but because, for a moment, she sees emotion register on his face, and with that begins to realise that it is not scorn that was written on his features before, but nothing at all.
The realisation, along with his comment - compliment? - surprises a small huff of laughter out of her, dry and subdued.
"I was told that there were warriors in this realm. It is a welcome surprise to finally meet one."
No ambiguity at all. No ambiguity, either, in the smile it surprises out of her. She has not always been so responsive to compliments - but then, they have not always been in such short supply as they are here, where it is really only Elia who compliments her genuinely without ulterior motive.
It would be enough to make her suspicious, from most. From him... something about his attitude does give it the ring of truth. He does not strike her as a man who is particularly prone to politics.
"What time it took you." She gestures to her bandaged arm. She is proud, but not so proud that she will deny the obvious. "Did I land any blow at all?"
She coaxes another brief glimmer of a smile out of him with that, and he nods, placing a hand on the right side of his torso.
"Not enough time or space to put your weight behind the stroke, but still enough that I felt it through my armor."
Quite the feat, given the thick mail and boiled leather that he had been wearing, but not surprising ... the way she carried herself in the melee, it was clear that she had been trained -- well, at that. And now, without layers of obscuring armor, he could see the lines of her. The lean muscle where her dress hugged her frame.
Again, his eye turns back to her shoulder. "Not troubling you too much, I hope?"
"I have taken worse before." She reaches up, almost meditatively, and touches the swollen joint, wincing only very slightly. There is a hint of something like challenge in her eyes, when she looks up at him again - or, perhaps, humour. "If I had not, you might not have won so easily."
There is bravado to it, but there is truth, as well. She could not have beaten him before, not without immense luck on her side; but she could have taken the blows he landed on her shield, and left with only bruises and contusions. The fact that her shoulder came fully out of joint, she will continue to blame on another blow entirely.
But also: it is easier to find bravado than it has been for some time. There is a giddying relief in being recognised, if not as the hero of the Pelennor Field, then at least as a warrior worth fighting. It almost makes up for the fact that she will not be able to lift a shield again at all for months.
Some men would have taken offense at that, but Aleifr does not. It's a fact. He'd seen the way she recoiled after absorbing a blow against her shield, the way that she'd favored her shoulder in the moments afterward.
He was strong. Very strong. But not so strong as to completely ruin a man's shoulder with a hit that had been caught by a shield -- not unless the shoulder was wounded to begin with. Nonetheless, the shoulder gave him a target, one he hit without hesitation -- using the beard of his axe to roughly wrench the shield down before thudding a mail fist into the injured joint.
Some had jeered from the stands - showering boos on something that they perceived as dishonorable, but Aleifr was unbothered by it. Only a fool fights by half, and only a fool ignores a path to a quick and decisive victory when risking injury or death. Éowyn would have done the same, he imagines, if the positions had been reversed.
It had not been the most honourable move, but he is right to guess that she would have done much the same. Hidebound by nobility she may be in other ways, but she learned to fight for life and limb, not for a trophy. It seems she is not the only one.
At his question, her smile fades, a shadow passing across her face. She has spoken little of the Witch-King, since coming here - indeed, that was part of the reason that Éomer sent her here, knowing that the constant reminders did her no good. A foreign land, which neither knew nor cared what passed in Gondor, allows her to tell what she will, and hold back what she will; but the truth is, in any case, that nobody has asked. Nobody but Elia has had cause to, since she hardly shows off her scars.
Nor does she think that many here would believe her, if she spoke of true darkness and nameless evils, and the thing that she slew. Dragons, yes: they might believe her if she spoke of the winged beast that circled over that battlefield, even if no-one who was not there would know the darkness its shadow brought. But they would not believe in the nature of its rider. Nor, for that matter, in a woman on the battlefield.
Her right hand drifts unconsciously from her shoulder lower down her arm, to where fresh bruises overlay older scars, and she presses her lips together. Now that she has been asked, it is hard to know what to say.
"Bad enough to break an iron-bound shield," is what she decides upon, at last, "and the bones beneath." Simple truth, which he may choose to take as much or as little at face value as he wishes. She swallows, trying to remember without remembering, to grasp the facts without the pain. "Bad enough that when the fight was done, they found me and thought me dead. I should have been killed by it."
Should is a useful word; used thus, without a trace of a lie, she still cannot quite be accused of wishing it.
Aleifr watches the unpleasant memory darken her face. He sees her hand shift down to worry at a specific spot on her arm, and watches her mouth draw into a tight, thin line.
His curiosity isn't sated. What little she says raises far more questions than it settles, but it's clear that speaking of it -- whatever 'it' may be -- is not an easy thing. He does not know what she has suffered, but he knows that feeling well ... the dull ache of an old scar that hasn't managed to heal.
"Good that it didn't."
While he still wonders just what it was that could strike with such force as to ruin an iron-bound shield and the arm carrying it, the answer isn't a pressing matter. She can choose to share or not in her own time.
However careful she might be with her words, the dry twist of her smile gives away how she feels about that.
"I suspect," she says wryly, at last, "that there are a few men in this realm who might disagree with you on that."
Again, she is thoroughly aware of her own unpopularity in King's Landing - aware enough to bear it as something of a badge of honour, even if it also stings. But he does not strike her, at least, as a man who is likely to agree with their reasons - and she will confess that there is something pleasant about talking to someone who seems to be sympathetic to her own beliefs and understanding. Someone other than the woman she is carrying on a dishonourable affair with, in any case.
"Do you mean to stay here long, or only for the tourney?"
He disagrees with a great many men about a great many things. He doesn't tend to lose sleep over it. Certainly not when the men doing the talking say so little worth the breath it took to speak -- something infuriatingly common in King's Landing. It's one of the reasons he detests this place so much, and why her question draws another scowl to his face.
It is strange - particularly when she began this conversation wondering whether she should leave before he saw her - to find that there is a degree of relief in him saying that, even and especially with the scowl that accompanies it. Even if they do not speak at all again, there is something comforting in the thought that there might be one sane man in this city who did not sail here with her.
Having said which...
"So will I, I do not doubt." She will not think too hard about why; easier to blame it on weather and tide, or on the diplomatic duty she came to do and which is so clearly in vain. But it is true, all the same; she has said as much to her men. "When this is healed, perhaps you might show me a little of your parries under less showy circumstances? My people do not much lend themselves towards axes; but you clearly know well how to make the most of them."
Which is not at all a transparent ploy to spend more time with a man who has, by virtue of being less than entirely unpleasant, just become one of the most interesting Westerosis she has met thus far.
Aleifr gives her a sympathetic look at that. He doesn't know where her home is - the 'Rohan' he had heard mention of, or 'The Mark' that she had mentioned directly - but he knows that it is far from here, and he knows what a miserable thing it is to leave home far behind you to come to this place. The North is not without its faults, but it is not a nest of vipers, and judging from their shared disdain for King's Landing, he'd wager that neither is this Rohan.
The request that follows ... Aleifr's scowl lifts and an eyebrow arches, intrigued. Without hesitation, he offers an affirmative nod.
"It'll be nice," he grunts, "sparring against someone worthwhile."
He had no shortage of prospective partners, but few that draw his interest. He has the retainers who followed him south, but they offer little that he has not seen before, even if they are capable fighters. Young knights are an even mix - those who see a massive man and see an obstacle to make a name for themselves overcoming, and those who recognize that such a contest would reflect poorly on them if they tried anything of that sort. The latter sorts itself out, the former is rarely worth his time because their confidence eclipses their skill and he has nothing to gain from slapping them aside besides a mesaure of personal satisfaction. The more seasoned southron lords and knights, those who've seen an actual fight, are less eager to measure themselves in such pointless contests.
Éowyn is capable and they've crossed steel only once.
What's more ... he knows little of her, but from what he sees, he suspects he'll come to enjoy her company. She seems a kindred spirit, and one who talks sense ... both of which are rare here. Time will tell if there's a side to her that will prove those assumptions wrong, but Aleifr isn't typically taken by surprise with such things.
Watch people closely enough, they tell you who they are.
That gains a smile - the rare kind which actually touches her eyes. For a moment, under the bruising, there is a different kind of beauty to her: most often, she is coldly fair, like snow on the mountains, but for a moment, she looks fully present and alive, her intensity softened by momentary warmth.
In this kind of place, when she has felt so alone and so scorned, it comes as a welcome surprise to not only be taken seriously enough to accept her offer, but - based on the speed of his response - to accept it with a degree of enthusiasm. It makes her think, uncomfortably, of the joy and relief that she felt when the Fellowship came to Edoras; how desperately needed a small light can be in greater darkness.
(Which leads, inevitably, to remembering how lights can gutter and die out. Perhaps that is why the smile is so brief.)
"And for me, to learn more of how men fight this side of the Sea." With the exception of the tourney, she has had little chance to see Westerosi fighting - only enough to know that it is decidedly different to that of either Rohan or Gondor. If nothing else, they seem to lend themselves more to heavy armour here.
There, again, is a hint of another Éowyn in her eyes; a small gleam of humour which is less guarded than it often is. "So long as they can spar more gently as well; for I do not fear pain, but I should like to have both arms for some of my sojourn here."
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sforzinda
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Date: 2023-11-21 01:48 am (UTC)"You do."
The reply is flat and sure, underpinned by a blunt decisiveness that seems completely undented by the attempt to deflect. It's a simple statement of fact ... one that does carry a certain air of menace, but it's difficult to tell whether that aura is born of an attempt to sound threatening, or if it's a side-effect of the low, bassy growl of his voice and the impassive scowl he wears on his face.
"And I know you."
no subject
Date: 2023-11-21 02:04 am (UTC)She tilts her chin up, drawing herself to her full height (or as near as the sling will allow, since she can hardly put her shoulders back as she would like), and fixes him with the full force of her stare.
"Yours is a loose view of knowing," she remarks, after a moment, her words very carefully clipped. She is not about to deny what he is implying: she will dissemble, where it is needed, but she will not outright lie about this. Least of all when to do so would be thoroughly futile. "We have not been introduced, then, let me say."
All the while, her eyes remain on him, challenging, scrutinising. Trying to read that stony, scornful look, and coming up short.
no subject
Date: 2023-11-21 02:30 am (UTC)He takes a step forward, out of the shade and into the light.
"Aleifr," He puts a hand to his chest, offering a slight incline of his head, "son of Lord Mors Umber."
'Umber'. Perhaps she's heard the name, perhaps she hasn't. His House is prominent enough in the North, though little that occurs above the Neck is worth discussing by the views of the southron lords.
no subject
Date: 2023-11-21 02:47 am (UTC)He steps out of the shadow, and she looks up at him - farther up, in truth, than she is used to looking at anyone; this is the kind of craning she associates exclusively with dealing with men on horseback - with that same assessing, hostile stare. After a moment, though, she inclines her head a little in turn.
"Éowyn. Daughter of Éomund, who was Chief Marshal of the Mark." The use of surnames in these realms is another thing she still has difficulty adapting to; there are no such Houses in Rohan, after all. The nearest thing they have is kennings, and while she might have introduced herself as the Lady of the Shield-Arm once or twice when she first arrived, she has quickly decided that it isn't worth it. Unfortunately, that puts her in the position of having to decide, with each introduction, how much of her lineage to say aloud, when it is entirely unrecognised here.
This does not improve her mood.
She shakes her hair back from her face, wincing only a little at how it disturbs her swollen shoulder, and lets out a low sigh. She approached him, she reminds herself. Despite the impulse to bridle at his seeming scorn, it does her no good to be less than polite.
"...You fought well. Far better than I would have expected, in such an empty game."
no subject
Date: 2023-11-21 03:53 am (UTC)First, as she winces, his eyes flick down to her shoulder. There's a flicker of something there -- concern, he leaves unvoiced. Perhaps he wishes not to condescend, perhaps he suspects that it would not be warmly received. When she mentions the tourney itself ... his brow creases slightly, the growl in his voice deepens, the corner of his mouth curls in disdain.
"Empty contest or not, you don't fight by half."
Looks like he shares her contempt for tourneys and all their nonsensical pageantry and pointless bluster, though the outward show of that distaste smooths over quickly and his expression reverts to the stony countenance that seems to be his default.
"Though you clearly know that better than most of these southron knights."
no subject
Date: 2023-11-21 04:03 am (UTC)The realisation, along with his comment - compliment? - surprises a small huff of laughter out of her, dry and subdued.
"I was told that there were warriors in this realm. It is a welcome surprise to finally meet one."
no subject
Date: 2023-11-22 03:00 am (UTC)With that said ... the corner of his mouth turns upward. A smile, however slight.
"Wasn't expecting to face someone worth my time either."
There's no ambiguity as to whether or not that was a compliment.
no subject
Date: 2023-11-22 03:36 am (UTC)It would be enough to make her suspicious, from most. From him... something about his attitude does give it the ring of truth. He does not strike her as a man who is particularly prone to politics.
"What time it took you." She gestures to her bandaged arm. She is proud, but not so proud that she will deny the obvious. "Did I land any blow at all?"
no subject
Date: 2023-11-22 03:44 am (UTC)"Not enough time or space to put your weight behind the stroke, but still enough that I felt it through my armor."
Quite the feat, given the thick mail and boiled leather that he had been wearing, but not surprising ... the way she carried herself in the melee, it was clear that she had been trained -- well, at that. And now, without layers of obscuring armor, he could see the lines of her. The lean muscle where her dress hugged her frame.
Again, his eye turns back to her shoulder. "Not troubling you too much, I hope?"
no subject
Date: 2023-11-22 03:59 am (UTC)There is bravado to it, but there is truth, as well. She could not have beaten him before, not without immense luck on her side; but she could have taken the blows he landed on her shield, and left with only bruises and contusions. The fact that her shoulder came fully out of joint, she will continue to blame on another blow entirely.
But also: it is easier to find bravado than it has been for some time. There is a giddying relief in being recognised, if not as the hero of the Pelennor Field, then at least as a warrior worth fighting. It almost makes up for the fact that she will not be able to lift a shield again at all for months.
no subject
Date: 2023-11-22 05:10 am (UTC)Some men would have taken offense at that, but Aleifr does not. It's a fact. He'd seen the way she recoiled after absorbing a blow against her shield, the way that she'd favored her shoulder in the moments afterward.
He was strong. Very strong. But not so strong as to completely ruin a man's shoulder with a hit that had been caught by a shield -- not unless the shoulder was wounded to begin with. Nonetheless, the shoulder gave him a target, one he hit without hesitation -- using the beard of his axe to roughly wrench the shield down before thudding a mail fist into the injured joint.
Some had jeered from the stands - showering boos on something that they perceived as dishonorable, but Aleifr was unbothered by it. Only a fool fights by half, and only a fool ignores a path to a quick and decisive victory when risking injury or death. Éowyn would have done the same, he imagines, if the positions had been reversed.
"Though I'd ask what qualifies as 'worse.'"
What gave her the wound, in as many words.
no subject
Date: 2023-11-22 11:51 pm (UTC)At his question, her smile fades, a shadow passing across her face. She has spoken little of the Witch-King, since coming here - indeed, that was part of the reason that Éomer sent her here, knowing that the constant reminders did her no good. A foreign land, which neither knew nor cared what passed in Gondor, allows her to tell what she will, and hold back what she will; but the truth is, in any case, that nobody has asked. Nobody but Elia has had cause to, since she hardly shows off her scars.
Nor does she think that many here would believe her, if she spoke of true darkness and nameless evils, and the thing that she slew. Dragons, yes: they might believe her if she spoke of the winged beast that circled over that battlefield, even if no-one who was not there would know the darkness its shadow brought. But they would not believe in the nature of its rider. Nor, for that matter, in a woman on the battlefield.
Her right hand drifts unconsciously from her shoulder lower down her arm, to where fresh bruises overlay older scars, and she presses her lips together. Now that she has been asked, it is hard to know what to say.
"Bad enough to break an iron-bound shield," is what she decides upon, at last, "and the bones beneath." Simple truth, which he may choose to take as much or as little at face value as he wishes. She swallows, trying to remember without remembering, to grasp the facts without the pain. "Bad enough that when the fight was done, they found me and thought me dead. I should have been killed by it."
Should is a useful word; used thus, without a trace of a lie, she still cannot quite be accused of wishing it.
no subject
Date: 2023-11-24 07:33 pm (UTC)His curiosity isn't sated. What little she says raises far more questions than it settles, but it's clear that speaking of it -- whatever 'it' may be -- is not an easy thing. He does not know what she has suffered, but he knows that feeling well ... the dull ache of an old scar that hasn't managed to heal.
"Good that it didn't."
While he still wonders just what it was that could strike with such force as to ruin an iron-bound shield and the arm carrying it, the answer isn't a pressing matter. She can choose to share or not in her own time.
no subject
Date: 2023-11-24 11:40 pm (UTC)"I suspect," she says wryly, at last, "that there are a few men in this realm who might disagree with you on that."
Again, she is thoroughly aware of her own unpopularity in King's Landing - aware enough to bear it as something of a badge of honour, even if it also stings. But he does not strike her, at least, as a man who is likely to agree with their reasons - and she will confess that there is something pleasant about talking to someone who seems to be sympathetic to her own beliefs and understanding. Someone other than the woman she is carrying on a dishonourable affair with, in any case.
"Do you mean to stay here long, or only for the tourney?"
no subject
Date: 2023-12-04 10:12 pm (UTC)"Probably."
He disagrees with a great many men about a great many things. He doesn't tend to lose sleep over it. Certainly not when the men doing the talking say so little worth the breath it took to speak -- something infuriatingly common in King's Landing. It's one of the reasons he detests this place so much, and why her question draws another scowl to his face.
"I'll be here for some time."
no subject
Date: 2023-12-05 12:25 am (UTC)Having said which...
"So will I, I do not doubt." She will not think too hard about why; easier to blame it on weather and tide, or on the diplomatic duty she came to do and which is so clearly in vain. But it is true, all the same; she has said as much to her men. "When this is healed, perhaps you might show me a little of your parries under less showy circumstances? My people do not much lend themselves towards axes; but you clearly know well how to make the most of them."
Which is not at all a transparent ploy to spend more time with a man who has, by virtue of being less than entirely unpleasant, just become one of the most interesting Westerosis she has met thus far.
no subject
Date: 2023-12-05 04:05 am (UTC)Aleifr gives her a sympathetic look at that. He doesn't know where her home is - the 'Rohan' he had heard mention of, or 'The Mark' that she had mentioned directly - but he knows that it is far from here, and he knows what a miserable thing it is to leave home far behind you to come to this place. The North is not without its faults, but it is not a nest of vipers, and judging from their shared disdain for King's Landing, he'd wager that neither is this Rohan.
The request that follows ... Aleifr's scowl lifts and an eyebrow arches, intrigued. Without hesitation, he offers an affirmative nod.
"It'll be nice," he grunts, "sparring against someone worthwhile."
He had no shortage of prospective partners, but few that draw his interest. He has the retainers who followed him south, but they offer little that he has not seen before, even if they are capable fighters. Young knights are an even mix - those who see a massive man and see an obstacle to make a name for themselves overcoming, and those who recognize that such a contest would reflect poorly on them if they tried anything of that sort. The latter sorts itself out, the former is rarely worth his time because their confidence eclipses their skill and he has nothing to gain from slapping them aside besides a mesaure of personal satisfaction. The more seasoned southron lords and knights, those who've seen an actual fight, are less eager to measure themselves in such pointless contests.
Éowyn is capable and they've crossed steel only once.
What's more ... he knows little of her, but from what he sees, he suspects he'll come to enjoy her company. She seems a kindred spirit, and one who talks sense ... both of which are rare here. Time will tell if there's a side to her that will prove those assumptions wrong, but Aleifr isn't typically taken by surprise with such things.
Watch people closely enough, they tell you who they are.
no subject
Date: 2023-12-05 10:34 pm (UTC)In this kind of place, when she has felt so alone and so scorned, it comes as a welcome surprise to not only be taken seriously enough to accept her offer, but - based on the speed of his response - to accept it with a degree of enthusiasm. It makes her think, uncomfortably, of the joy and relief that she felt when the Fellowship came to Edoras; how desperately needed a small light can be in greater darkness.
(Which leads, inevitably, to remembering how lights can gutter and die out. Perhaps that is why the smile is so brief.)
"And for me, to learn more of how men fight this side of the Sea." With the exception of the tourney, she has had little chance to see Westerosi fighting - only enough to know that it is decidedly different to that of either Rohan or Gondor. If nothing else, they seem to lend themselves more to heavy armour here.
There, again, is a hint of another Éowyn in her eyes; a small gleam of humour which is less guarded than it often is. "So long as they can spar more gently as well; for I do not fear pain, but I should like to have both arms for some of my sojourn here."