[There is a storm coming. The sky is dark overhead, blotting out the sun, and the Golden Hall does not shine as it might, its thatch made dull in the overcast grey light. Even this close to the mountains, the weather does not usually change quite so fast. Something has changed, to bring this on.]
[Perhaps because of that, she cannot find it in herself to be altogether surprised when she is told there is a stranger approaching. Edoras is well-guarded, and she is well-informed; Háma trusts her more than he trusts most people, these days, and when he has doubts, he comes to the king's ward before the king. If she thinks about it, that is horrific. She tries not to think about it.]
[All of which to say, when Chris is met outside the city walls by an armoured spearman on horseback, it is not as hostile as it sounds. He is asked for his name and his business, but it is only his name that is needed for the soldier to nod satisfaction and lead him up through the back streets to the King's hall.]
[Éowyn is waiting for him outside, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, a bowl in her hand. Without further introduction, she holds it out to him: a hunk of bread, a handful of salt.]
Break the bread, dip it in the salt, and eat. And come inside, before the rain starts.
This is Háma, who keeps the doors. If you have any weapons, now would be the time to give them to him.
[It is very brisk, matter-of-fact, and it brooks no argument. If Chris is here, in the city, she is keen to seal his guest-right there as soon as possible; it is the best protection she has to offer.]
[ Having met both Éowyn and her horse, the rider with a spear in hand isn't altogether alarming; certainly Chris wouldn't want to instigate anything with him in particular, but he's not half-convinced he's going to get gored any second. (He might be about five percent convinced, but those are odds he's comfortable working with.)
Walking through the great wooden gates of the city, he can't help but look around curiously. It's astounding, the details he sees everywhere. Chris has visited dozens of new planets, made contact with just as many civilizations, each one unique and wondrous because of it. He can't help but feel that same effervescent excitement now, even with all the wary faces looking at him as he trudges along behind the rider who greeted him down below.
All in all, it doesn't take that long to get up to the main attraction, the building on the top of the hill that must be where the king lives and therefore, by extension, where Éowyn lives as well.
In fact, she's waiting for him at the top of a long flight of stairs. Chris is dimly grateful for the physical fitness requirements of serving in Starfleet and his almost religious dedication to keeping his bone and muscle density as stable as possible. It would be the height of embarrassment if he was huffing and puffing by the time he stood in front of her. As it is, he barely has a chance to say a word before she's speaking to him, holding out a bowl in which sits a piece of bread and some flaky salt.
He's doing as he's told before she even finishes speaking, though he can't help the way he watches her instead of the bread. She looks the same, which makes sense, considering he saw her just a few hours ago. But she also looks different. She's still as pretty as ever, but there's something harder about her face now, something distant and grim. It feels like some of the color has been leeched out of her, like he's looking at her through a pane of glass.
The bread is pretty good, actually, if quite a bit coarser than he's used to, and the salt has an almost herbaceous taste that has the chef in him perking up, wondering just where it's harvested and how that might affect the flavor. Obviously, that's a concern he immediately brushes away, because there's much more important things to focus on, things like Éowyn ordering he gives away his weapons.
He's not an idiot. He's well aware this is a ritual of some kind, probably one to establish that he's friend and not foe, that he'll be afforded some level of protection while he's here. He doubts the princess offers bread to just anyone that washes up on these rocky shores, so this is significant. As is the eye contact he makes after her instruction, Chris searching her face for a long moment before slowly reaching his hand towards his pocket. He has a phaser with him, tucked away because he had assumed he didn't need it. Chances are these people wouldn't recognize it as a weapon, probably wouldn't even know how to discharge it, but he can't forget that little girl in New Eden who, in her curiosity, had set off the detonate function when his back was turned talking to her village elders. He'd only barely had enough time to shove her away from the literal bomb in her hands and throw himself on top of it to stop the blast. He'd earned himself one hell of a dressing-down from Kahn and Burnham, and 24 hours in the med bay with Doctor Proctor and the osteo-regenerator for his trouble.
It's highly unlikely they have one of those here.
Thankfully, Starfleet actually learned a lesson from that whole fiasco — he conveniently left out the part where he broke General Order One in that village too in his subsequent mission report — and now the phasers have a setting where they can be keyed to their user's DNA sequence. He flicks that setting on, feeling it hum under his touch, and only when it has fully powered down and looks like nothing more than a strange hunk of metal does he pull it out and hand it over to Háma who has been watching him with the same grim expression seen on Éowyn's face.
He turns back to the woman he knows, his eyebrow quirking slightly. ] Well. Hi to you too.
[Háma, of course, does not have even the little grounding in such things that Éowyn does. He looks at the object he is handed with clear confusion and not a little mistrust, and only when Éowyn gives him a small, almost imperceptible nod does he take it.]
[Once that is managed, Éowyn seems to relax a little. Not much - she is still sharp-edged and wary, still far too conscious of being in view - but a little. She takes the bowl back, and her tone has softened a little, too.]
I did not think to see you again so soon.
[The question is clear enough, lurking half-visible under the politeness. What are you doing here? Nothing he had said suggested he intended to travel here. She is not exactly unhappy to see him, but neither is she uncomplicatedly glad of it. It is one thing to talk of friendship and support when one is miles from home, and unwitnessed. It is another thing to find herself responsible for a friend's safety in her own home, when she has felt so unequal to the task of protecting those already under her care.]
[She glances at Háma, and then back to Chris, her brow furrowing just a little.]
The King is sleeping. But he will not be pleased if there are guests in his hall without his knowing; when he wakes, if you are here still, you must be introduced to him. [There is something between the words there, too: a warning and a choice. If he wishes to be subtle about his visit, he must also be brief.] Until then, come: walk with me a little pace, and tell me what has changed your plans so.
[ Háma's reaction lends credence to the thought that he could have lied and claimed to have no weaponry on him, but he's heard enough about the climate here in Edoras and he's lived a long enough life to know better than to tempt fate. It would be just his luck to claim to be unarmed and then have someone go through his things behind his back, to blow off their own hand or shoot down a servant by accident, and then he'd have caused a huge incident that nobody would be able to save him from.
Not with those clouds lingering overhead. ]
Yeah, I had a, uh, change of plans. [ He jerks his chin towards the darkening sky, hoping she can at least deduce that maybe the Enterprise wouldn't be able to reach him through it.
Thanking Háma, he lets himself be ushered away by Éowyn, waiting until they're a little more out of the way to try speaking again. He's sure the doorwarden is a perfectly nice man and undoubtedly loyal to the king — he wouldn't have the job he does if he wasn't — but he doesn't need to know all the details of Chris' situation. Not right now, at least. ]
I would have tried to message you, but something's blocking communications. I couldn't hail my ship. I'm hoping when the clouds blow off I'll have better luck, but until then... [ He doesn't say that he wasn't sure he could find shelter from the brewing storm out on the plains, that was pretty obvious. And if those clouds aren't just a natural weather phenomena, if there's something more sinister happening here like she said there was, well. Then it would surely be a better idea to be around others. There's safety in numbers, after all. ] Hopefully I won't have to bother your uncle at all.
[ It would probably be easier for her if he didn't. ]
[She nods at his explanation, agreement without surprise.]
This storm came on too swiftly. And from the north-east, against the wind.
[From Isengard, she means. She does not note the provenance of every wind and cloud, but she knows enough to note when they are wrong. Perhaps it is not so surprising that the Wise would know to watch the skies; that Saruman will not suffer interference at this late a juncture. She does not wish to worry Chris further, so she does not voice the thought that follows that one: that, if it is the ship that has caught the White Wizard's notice, there is no guarantee that it will still be there when the storm clears. However it sails, surely a ship among the stars must be every bit as vulnerable to mishap as one on the sea - and while Saruman's power may not be infinite, it is more than enough to nudge wind and weather.]
[She clears her throat, tossing her hair back, and leads him inside the Golden Hall, through a side entrance that will take them towards quieter parts of the building.]
I should think we have until morning, now. He sleeps... far too much, these days.
Though I fear your arrival will already have been marked. Little is secret, within these walls.
[ Being affected by beings with powers outside the scope of human understanding is, unfortunately, not entirely outside the norm in Chris' experience. More than once he's found himself captaining a ship that was being held fast by an unknown entity, or bombarded by space rays, or overrun by mischievous trickster godlings who threw tantrums when they didn't get their way. If she voiced her concern that Saruman was interfering with the Enterprise, he'd probably agree with her.
As it stands, he just thinks about it, his expression also turning a touch contemplative, though he still seems to believe that this is all temporary.
He's choosing to believe it's temporary. His crew have gotten him out of tough scrapes before. He has every faith they'll do it again this time. ]
Well, I'll cross that bridge when I come to it, I guess. [ He doesn't comment on her uncle's health; she already shared her concerns with him earlier, and leaning on that right now feels both in bad taste but also like a very bad idea. He's well aware that these walls could have ears, like she said, and more than just the plain fact of his presence could be passed along. He'd never forgive himself if he was careless with his words and got her in trouble. Him just being here is trouble enough. ] Did you get back okay? Nothing happened in your absence?
[In other words: things weren't great when she got back, but they weren't worse. She was, despite her delay, only gone for a few hours - there is a limit to what damage can be done in an absence so short, with others to keep watch.]
[Besides, she's not at all confident that she's doing as much to hold it at bay with her presence as she would like.]
Besides the storm-clouds, in any case. But those I did not see until they were well-gathered, for I was inside.
Why did you come here, Chris? [It's not an accusation, but a genuine question.] I am mistress of this hall, but not its lord. There is only so much I can do for you.
[ He hums softly in acknowledgement of her reply, a commiserating sound. It's not good, nor is it bad, it just is, and what it is is more or less expected.
Glancing around, he doesn't see anyone lingering in their vicinity. Everyone he's seen so far has looked humanoid, and from his conversation with her earlier and the barman he bought their wine from, he can safely assume that their hearing is about on par with the humans he's used to. He's fairly certain they aren't being eavesdropped on, so he allows himself to be truthful. ]
I couldn't hail my ship. [ She knows that part already. ] That's not just a storm. Rainclouds do nothing to block messages between me and my crew. Something else is going on, and I didn't want to be exposed to the elements if anything came to a head. I didn't come here hoping you'd protect me, as such, I just...
[ He shrugs. ] It seemed like the better option than staying out in the open.
[She cannot help a smile, and a low exhale that might almost be a laugh.]
No; but no less so than is usual. And you did rightly, I think, to come here; only I do not wish to promise you more than I can give.
You have taken bread and salt, and given up your weapons. No-one can say you are here illicitly, unless the King wakes and we do not tell him of your coming. But we must be clear on who you are, and whence you come, or suspicion will linger long after you do.
[ He gives her a commiserating nod as they smile grimly at each other. ]
I'm glad you brought that up, actually. I'm definitely going to need your help coming up with something that is both reasonable and plausible. I didn't exactly plan to stick around when I beamed down.
[ Even on Kiley 279, when he was embarking on an explicit rescue mission wherein he'd have to interact with the locals, he hadn't come up with anything more concrete than "local scientist." Which, in hindsight, could have been a reason the whole mission went tits-up, but it resulted in another planet joining the Federation, so all's well.
If this place winds up doing the same, he's going to laugh. Or cry. Or both. ]
What do you think would be the least suspicious? [ He runs a hand through his hair, the silvering strands shifting beneath his fingers and then springing right back into their gravity-defying quiff. If her reaction when they met on the plains wasn't clue enough, looking around at all the men here makes it very clear he's wildly out of style when it comes to that, but there's nothing he can really do about it. ]
[She may as well be honest about that, to begin with. Rohan has few enough visitors these days, and none who look like him.]
And we of the Mark abhor falsehood, and many here are better than you may suppose at spotting it. It is best, I think, to keep to the truth where we can.
That you are a traveller from distant lands, who knew not where he came; and have been separated from your men - do not say ship, there is no sea within two hundred miles - and sought out some knowledge of the place.
If they press you, say that you came from the West. It is the direction which would have brought you farthest from our enemies' strongholds - and besides, in the immediate, it is true. They may think you one of the Dúnedain, if you are fortunate, albeit a strangely well-washed one.
[She considers a moment, and her brow furrows.]
...Do you know what language you are speaking? Can you change it?
[ He knows her well enough to know that Éowyn is a straight-shooter, which is why he asked. Chris has learned long ago that sometimes the truth can be inconvenient, a little insulting, maybe awkward and uncomfortable. It's still the truth, though.
He really wishes he'd made them change the pattern buffer in the tranporters to edit his hair, too. Having long hair would make him easier to fit in, no matter how much his vanity protests at the idea. Oh well.
He files away the word Dúnedain for further consideration — probably he's going to have to ask her to explain it to him, since he's not sure how else he's going to learn about them without raising even more suspicions. Her question has him tipping his head back and forth in a little wobble. ]
I speak a few languages, not fluently, but well enough. Right now I'm using Federation Standard. [ He switches to Vulcan, glad that neither Michael nor Spock are here to hear him butcher the pronunciation. He's been practicing, but he's busy lately and it's hard to carve out dedicated study time. ] Nash nam-tor Vuhlkansu. Ken-tor nash-veh?
Right now, so far as I am concerned, you are speaking Westron.
[Another time, she might be curious about the other language he speaks, or why the translation does not seem to work on it. But for now, it is more urgent to find the bounds of what they are working with.]
[Frowning, she switches her own speech from Westron to Rohirric:] Can you still understand me? Does this sound different to you?
[ He frowns at her as well, though his expression is more contemplative than dismayed. ]
That sounds... well, it sounds vaguely familiar. Almost like I should know it, but I can't quite wrap my head around it.
[ If they were up on board the Enterprise then it would only take a few minutes for the Universal Translator to compensate for them speaking different languages, and he'd be able to understand her perfectly no matter what tongue she used. ]
Is it better or worse if I don't speak your language?
[She nods, as though this has confirmed something to her, and switches smoothly back to Westron.]
Better, perhaps, for our purposes. Few outside the Mark do.
It would be better still if you spoke Sindarin, for then you would surely be taken for a Dúnedan; but it will cost us nothing that you do not.
[And, apparently remembering belatedly how little he knows, she seems to realise that she should explain who the Dúnedain are:] They are ancient allies, if distant ones; and it is not unheard-of for the Dúnedain of the North to find their way here. And though you do not quite seem of their sort, they are rare enough visitors that it would not be unbelievable; and few would dare to set themselves against that people, for we have been helped by them in the past.
[ He seems vaguely discomforted at her statement that he should assume the identity of one of the Dúnedain; it's a good plan, a great plan, even, but he can't help be a little uneasy about it. Somehow it feels like more of a lie than anything else, and that doesn't sit easy with him. ]
Do you have monasteries here? Before I enlisted, I had considered becoming a priest. [ More like his father had tried to push him into it, and very nearly succeeded, but in the end the stars won out. Chris likes to think God understands. ] Might explain why I'm a bit...odd, by your standards.
[It's probably clear before she says it, from the deep frown and look of total confusion, but:] I... am not sure what that means.
[Quite literally. Priest has been translated to something nearer to worshipper, and the translator stalls entirely at finding a word for monastery in a culture that has no monks and a much less mediated relationship with its higher beings.]
[ She's right: she doesn't have to say much of anything for the no to come through, and Chris is so distracted by that that he almost forgets their plotting for an alibi. ]
Really. [ He looks her over with a bright spark of academic curiosity in his eyes. ] What are your religious rites like? Do you have an...elder, or a leader, who guides you through prayers and rituals?
[ He remembers her discussion from before about the song of the world, although some of the details of her tale were lost to the halfway decent wine they'd been drinking. She hadn't talked about omniscient gods. Perhaps they don't have any. It's not that unusual, he's aware of societies that prefer to focus their favor on other beings — Vulcan and the teachings of their philosophers like Surak come to mind — but even they have monasteries and the worshipers who live and work there. ]
Here we save our veneration for Béma, who delights in the hunt; and we need no one man to remember to sing battle-hymns or know that a part of the quarry must be set aside if you wish to succeed again. But the King leads his people in prayer, when times are hard.
[As times are now, and yet the prayers are short. She shifts, and looks over her shoulder in the general direction of the King's chambers, her lips thinning slightly.]
[ It's clear he wants to ask more questions — there's nothing Chris loves more than delving into the particulars of new societies and civilizations — but he nods at her question and runs a hand over his hair. ]
No, no, you're right. I'll pick your brain another time.
[ Hopefully. If she'll indulge his curiosity and let him annoy her with his questions. If he's even here long enough to indulge in the impulse.
The name Béma gets filed away beside Dúnedain, a small dictionary forming in his mind, and he schools his expression away from his academic curiosity and into something more appropriately serious. ]
You have scholars, though. Right? Those who learn and those who teach? Where I come from they have a reputation for sequestering themselves away in their towers and libraries, which can make them come across as odd or eccentric to those who do not know them well.
[There is a sour look on her face for a moment, because that describes one scholar in particular, to her mind: the one who has sent the storm.]
[But not all scholars are Wizards. She knows that much, at least. She clears her throat, and settles her features.]
Not in the Mark. Here, we learn and teach among ourselves, and keep knowledge through song and story and through the work of our hands.
But then, you are not from here. If you say you are such a scholar, you may well be believed - though it may seem strange to some that you speak no Sindarin.
[ That grimace of hers is unusual enough that Chris can't help the way his eyebrows lift, surprised by the depth of feeling on display. He's come to know that Éowyn is very firm in her convictions, and does not shy away from expressing herself, but he's also come to know that she's usually better at schooling her face than that. ]
Hm. Maybe I'm just overcomplicating things.
[ If the rest of her people feel similarly about scholars as she does, claiming to be of their numbers might not be a good idea, no matter how well the shoe might fit.
He hasn't actively been in a studying environment for years, anyhow. And certainly he hasn't taught much more than a seminar for decades. Maybe he should stick closer to the truth. ]
Your story is probably the most believable. What's the largest city I could conceivably be from west of here? Preferably far enough away that most people around won't have visited recently.
[She is quiet a moment, and if her expression were not so carefully-schooled, she might look embarrassed.]
In truth, I do not know.
We trade little beyond the west of the Mark: that way lie Dunland and Isengard, and travellers from the Mark would find no safety there. Of old there was Tharbad on the Greyflood, but for a century and more it has been abandoned... beyond, I do not know. Old Eriador, where we have never roamed.
But if you name any place - name your Mohave, if you will - then most will believe it. Not the White Wizard, but he is not here. Only his lieutenant.
[ Her pause, as blank as it is, is almost as surprising as her earlier grimace. Chris would have assumed, being a princess, that Éowyn would have a strong grasp of geography, expected to marry for geo-political reasons as she no doubt must be.
But then again, he needs to stop imposing his own world's historical trends on this one. Who knows how such things are treated, here? Maybe she will get to marry for love, one day.
He hopes so. ]
Well. Honestly, that's probably for the best. I'll come up with something.
[ So the White Wizard definitely is a person, then, and not a mountain. He was pretty sure that was the case, but it's good to have it confirmed. ] So who's this lieutenant? That Wormtongue fella you were talking about before?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sforzinda
no subject
Date: 2025-09-08 06:50 pm (UTC)[Perhaps because of that, she cannot find it in herself to be altogether surprised when she is told there is a stranger approaching. Edoras is well-guarded, and she is well-informed; Háma trusts her more than he trusts most people, these days, and when he has doubts, he comes to the king's ward before the king. If she thinks about it, that is horrific. She tries not to think about it.]
[All of which to say, when Chris is met outside the city walls by an armoured spearman on horseback, it is not as hostile as it sounds. He is asked for his name and his business, but it is only his name that is needed for the soldier to nod satisfaction and lead him up through the back streets to the King's hall.]
[Éowyn is waiting for him outside, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, a bowl in her hand. Without further introduction, she holds it out to him: a hunk of bread, a handful of salt.]
Break the bread, dip it in the salt, and eat. And come inside, before the rain starts.
This is Háma, who keeps the doors. If you have any weapons, now would be the time to give them to him.
[It is very brisk, matter-of-fact, and it brooks no argument. If Chris is here, in the city, she is keen to seal his guest-right there as soon as possible; it is the best protection she has to offer.]
no subject
Date: 2025-09-08 07:12 pm (UTC)Walking through the great wooden gates of the city, he can't help but look around curiously. It's astounding, the details he sees everywhere. Chris has visited dozens of new planets, made contact with just as many civilizations, each one unique and wondrous because of it. He can't help but feel that same effervescent excitement now, even with all the wary faces looking at him as he trudges along behind the rider who greeted him down below.
All in all, it doesn't take that long to get up to the main attraction, the building on the top of the hill that must be where the king lives and therefore, by extension, where Éowyn lives as well.
In fact, she's waiting for him at the top of a long flight of stairs. Chris is dimly grateful for the physical fitness requirements of serving in Starfleet and his almost religious dedication to keeping his bone and muscle density as stable as possible. It would be the height of embarrassment if he was huffing and puffing by the time he stood in front of her. As it is, he barely has a chance to say a word before she's speaking to him, holding out a bowl in which sits a piece of bread and some flaky salt.
He's doing as he's told before she even finishes speaking, though he can't help the way he watches her instead of the bread. She looks the same, which makes sense, considering he saw her just a few hours ago. But she also looks different. She's still as pretty as ever, but there's something harder about her face now, something distant and grim. It feels like some of the color has been leeched out of her, like he's looking at her through a pane of glass.
The bread is pretty good, actually, if quite a bit coarser than he's used to, and the salt has an almost herbaceous taste that has the chef in him perking up, wondering just where it's harvested and how that might affect the flavor. Obviously, that's a concern he immediately brushes away, because there's much more important things to focus on, things like Éowyn ordering he gives away his weapons.
He's not an idiot. He's well aware this is a ritual of some kind, probably one to establish that he's friend and not foe, that he'll be afforded some level of protection while he's here. He doubts the princess offers bread to just anyone that washes up on these rocky shores, so this is significant. As is the eye contact he makes after her instruction, Chris searching her face for a long moment before slowly reaching his hand towards his pocket. He has a phaser with him, tucked away because he had assumed he didn't need it. Chances are these people wouldn't recognize it as a weapon, probably wouldn't even know how to discharge it, but he can't forget that little girl in New Eden who, in her curiosity, had set off the detonate function when his back was turned talking to her village elders. He'd only barely had enough time to shove her away from the literal bomb in her hands and throw himself on top of it to stop the blast. He'd earned himself one hell of a dressing-down from Kahn and Burnham, and 24 hours in the med bay with Doctor Proctor and the osteo-regenerator for his trouble.
It's highly unlikely they have one of those here.
Thankfully, Starfleet actually learned a lesson from that whole fiasco — he conveniently left out the part where he broke General Order One in that village too in his subsequent mission report — and now the phasers have a setting where they can be keyed to their user's DNA sequence. He flicks that setting on, feeling it hum under his touch, and only when it has fully powered down and looks like nothing more than a strange hunk of metal does he pull it out and hand it over to Háma who has been watching him with the same grim expression seen on Éowyn's face.
He turns back to the woman he knows, his eyebrow quirking slightly. ] Well. Hi to you too.
no subject
Date: 2025-09-12 12:54 am (UTC)[Once that is managed, Éowyn seems to relax a little. Not much - she is still sharp-edged and wary, still far too conscious of being in view - but a little. She takes the bowl back, and her tone has softened a little, too.]
I did not think to see you again so soon.
[The question is clear enough, lurking half-visible under the politeness. What are you doing here? Nothing he had said suggested he intended to travel here. She is not exactly unhappy to see him, but neither is she uncomplicatedly glad of it. It is one thing to talk of friendship and support when one is miles from home, and unwitnessed. It is another thing to find herself responsible for a friend's safety in her own home, when she has felt so unequal to the task of protecting those already under her care.]
[She glances at Háma, and then back to Chris, her brow furrowing just a little.]
The King is sleeping. But he will not be pleased if there are guests in his hall without his knowing; when he wakes, if you are here still, you must be introduced to him. [There is something between the words there, too: a warning and a choice. If he wishes to be subtle about his visit, he must also be brief.] Until then, come: walk with me a little pace, and tell me what has changed your plans so.
no subject
Date: 2025-09-12 01:03 am (UTC)Not with those clouds lingering overhead. ]
Yeah, I had a, uh, change of plans. [ He jerks his chin towards the darkening sky, hoping she can at least deduce that maybe the Enterprise wouldn't be able to reach him through it.
Thanking Háma, he lets himself be ushered away by Éowyn, waiting until they're a little more out of the way to try speaking again. He's sure the doorwarden is a perfectly nice man and undoubtedly loyal to the king — he wouldn't have the job he does if he wasn't — but he doesn't need to know all the details of Chris' situation. Not right now, at least. ]
I would have tried to message you, but something's blocking communications. I couldn't hail my ship. I'm hoping when the clouds blow off I'll have better luck, but until then... [ He doesn't say that he wasn't sure he could find shelter from the brewing storm out on the plains, that was pretty obvious. And if those clouds aren't just a natural weather phenomena, if there's something more sinister happening here like she said there was, well. Then it would surely be a better idea to be around others. There's safety in numbers, after all. ] Hopefully I won't have to bother your uncle at all.
[ It would probably be easier for her if he didn't. ]
no subject
Date: 2025-09-12 01:22 am (UTC)This storm came on too swiftly. And from the north-east, against the wind.
[From Isengard, she means. She does not note the provenance of every wind and cloud, but she knows enough to note when they are wrong. Perhaps it is not so surprising that the Wise would know to watch the skies; that Saruman will not suffer interference at this late a juncture. She does not wish to worry Chris further, so she does not voice the thought that follows that one: that, if it is the ship that has caught the White Wizard's notice, there is no guarantee that it will still be there when the storm clears. However it sails, surely a ship among the stars must be every bit as vulnerable to mishap as one on the sea - and while Saruman's power may not be infinite, it is more than enough to nudge wind and weather.]
[She clears her throat, tossing her hair back, and leads him inside the Golden Hall, through a side entrance that will take them towards quieter parts of the building.]
I should think we have until morning, now. He sleeps... far too much, these days.
Though I fear your arrival will already have been marked. Little is secret, within these walls.
no subject
Date: 2025-09-12 01:47 am (UTC)As it stands, he just thinks about it, his expression also turning a touch contemplative, though he still seems to believe that this is all temporary.
He's choosing to believe it's temporary. His crew have gotten him out of tough scrapes before. He has every faith they'll do it again this time. ]
Well, I'll cross that bridge when I come to it, I guess. [ He doesn't comment on her uncle's health; she already shared her concerns with him earlier, and leaning on that right now feels both in bad taste but also like a very bad idea. He's well aware that these walls could have ears, like she said, and more than just the plain fact of his presence could be passed along. He'd never forgive himself if he was careless with his words and got her in trouble. Him just being here is trouble enough. ] Did you get back okay? Nothing happened in your absence?
no subject
Date: 2025-09-13 11:54 am (UTC)[In other words: things weren't great when she got back, but they weren't worse. She was, despite her delay, only gone for a few hours - there is a limit to what damage can be done in an absence so short, with others to keep watch.]
[Besides, she's not at all confident that she's doing as much to hold it at bay with her presence as she would like.]
Besides the storm-clouds, in any case. But those I did not see until they were well-gathered, for I was inside.
Why did you come here, Chris? [It's not an accusation, but a genuine question.] I am mistress of this hall, but not its lord. There is only so much I can do for you.
no subject
Date: 2025-09-13 12:40 pm (UTC)Glancing around, he doesn't see anyone lingering in their vicinity. Everyone he's seen so far has looked humanoid, and from his conversation with her earlier and the barman he bought their wine from, he can safely assume that their hearing is about on par with the humans he's used to. He's fairly certain they aren't being eavesdropped on, so he allows himself to be truthful. ]
I couldn't hail my ship. [ She knows that part already. ] That's not just a storm. Rainclouds do nothing to block messages between me and my crew. Something else is going on, and I didn't want to be exposed to the elements if anything came to a head. I didn't come here hoping you'd protect me, as such, I just...
[ He shrugs. ] It seemed like the better option than staying out in the open.
Also, I wanted to make sure you were okay.
no subject
Date: 2025-09-15 02:18 am (UTC)[She cannot help a smile, and a low exhale that might almost be a laugh.]
No; but no less so than is usual. And you did rightly, I think, to come here; only I do not wish to promise you more than I can give.
You have taken bread and salt, and given up your weapons. No-one can say you are here illicitly, unless the King wakes and we do not tell him of your coming. But we must be clear on who you are, and whence you come, or suspicion will linger long after you do.
no subject
Date: 2025-09-15 02:28 am (UTC)[ He gives her a commiserating nod as they smile grimly at each other. ]
I'm glad you brought that up, actually. I'm definitely going to need your help coming up with something that is both reasonable and plausible. I didn't exactly plan to stick around when I beamed down.
[ Even on Kiley 279, when he was embarking on an explicit rescue mission wherein he'd have to interact with the locals, he hadn't come up with anything more concrete than "local scientist." Which, in hindsight, could have been a reason the whole mission went tits-up, but it resulted in another planet joining the Federation, so all's well.
If this place winds up doing the same, he's going to laugh. Or cry. Or both. ]
What do you think would be the least suspicious? [ He runs a hand through his hair, the silvering strands shifting beneath his fingers and then springing right back into their gravity-defying quiff. If her reaction when they met on the plains wasn't clue enough, looking around at all the men here makes it very clear he's wildly out of style when it comes to that, but there's nothing he can really do about it. ]
no subject
Date: 2025-09-18 01:46 am (UTC)[She may as well be honest about that, to begin with. Rohan has few enough visitors these days, and none who look like him.]
And we of the Mark abhor falsehood, and many here are better than you may suppose at spotting it. It is best, I think, to keep to the truth where we can.
That you are a traveller from distant lands, who knew not where he came; and have been separated from your men - do not say ship, there is no sea within two hundred miles - and sought out some knowledge of the place.
If they press you, say that you came from the West. It is the direction which would have brought you farthest from our enemies' strongholds - and besides, in the immediate, it is true. They may think you one of the Dúnedain, if you are fortunate, albeit a strangely well-washed one.
[She considers a moment, and her brow furrows.]
...Do you know what language you are speaking? Can you change it?
no subject
Date: 2025-09-18 01:54 am (UTC)[ He knows her well enough to know that Éowyn is a straight-shooter, which is why he asked. Chris has learned long ago that sometimes the truth can be inconvenient, a little insulting, maybe awkward and uncomfortable. It's still the truth, though.
He really wishes he'd made them change the pattern buffer in the tranporters to edit his hair, too. Having long hair would make him easier to fit in, no matter how much his vanity protests at the idea. Oh well.
He files away the word Dúnedain for further consideration — probably he's going to have to ask her to explain it to him, since he's not sure how else he's going to learn about them without raising even more suspicions. Her question has him tipping his head back and forth in a little wobble. ]
I speak a few languages, not fluently, but well enough. Right now I'm using Federation Standard. [ He switches to Vulcan, glad that neither Michael nor Spock are here to hear him butcher the pronunciation. He's been practicing, but he's busy lately and it's hard to carve out dedicated study time. ] Nash nam-tor Vuhlkansu. Ken-tor nash-veh?
no subject
Date: 2025-09-18 02:09 am (UTC)Right now, so far as I am concerned, you are speaking Westron.
[Another time, she might be curious about the other language he speaks, or why the translation does not seem to work on it. But for now, it is more urgent to find the bounds of what they are working with.]
[Frowning, she switches her own speech from Westron to Rohirric:] Can you still understand me? Does this sound different to you?
no subject
Date: 2025-09-18 02:29 am (UTC)That sounds... well, it sounds vaguely familiar. Almost like I should know it, but I can't quite wrap my head around it.
[ If they were up on board the Enterprise then it would only take a few minutes for the Universal Translator to compensate for them speaking different languages, and he'd be able to understand her perfectly no matter what tongue she used. ]
Is it better or worse if I don't speak your language?
no subject
Date: 2025-09-18 03:04 am (UTC)Better, perhaps, for our purposes. Few outside the Mark do.
It would be better still if you spoke Sindarin, for then you would surely be taken for a Dúnedan; but it will cost us nothing that you do not.
[And, apparently remembering belatedly how little he knows, she seems to realise that she should explain who the Dúnedain are:] They are ancient allies, if distant ones; and it is not unheard-of for the Dúnedain of the North to find their way here. And though you do not quite seem of their sort, they are rare enough visitors that it would not be unbelievable; and few would dare to set themselves against that people, for we have been helped by them in the past.
no subject
Date: 2025-09-18 03:11 am (UTC)[ He seems vaguely discomforted at her statement that he should assume the identity of one of the Dúnedain; it's a good plan, a great plan, even, but he can't help be a little uneasy about it. Somehow it feels like more of a lie than anything else, and that doesn't sit easy with him. ]
Do you have monasteries here? Before I enlisted, I had considered becoming a priest. [ More like his father had tried to push him into it, and very nearly succeeded, but in the end the stars won out. Chris likes to think God understands. ] Might explain why I'm a bit...odd, by your standards.
no subject
Date: 2025-09-20 02:26 am (UTC)[Quite literally. Priest has been translated to something nearer to worshipper, and the translator stalls entirely at finding a word for monastery in a culture that has no monks and a much less mediated relationship with its higher beings.]
no subject
Date: 2025-09-21 02:21 am (UTC)Really. [ He looks her over with a bright spark of academic curiosity in his eyes. ] What are your religious rites like? Do you have an...elder, or a leader, who guides you through prayers and rituals?
[ He remembers her discussion from before about the song of the world, although some of the details of her tale were lost to the halfway decent wine they'd been drinking. She hadn't talked about omniscient gods. Perhaps they don't have any. It's not that unusual, he's aware of societies that prefer to focus their favor on other beings — Vulcan and the teachings of their philosophers like Surak come to mind — but even they have monasteries and the worshipers who live and work there. ]
WHAT'S THAT AN EXCUSE TO EXTEMPORISE ON MIDDLE-EARTH RELIGION? IT'S NOT EVEN MY BIRTHDAY!
Date: 2025-09-21 11:15 am (UTC)[As times are now, and yet the prayers are short. She shifts, and looks over her shoulder in the general direction of the King's chambers, her lips thinning slightly.]
Is now really the time to talk of rituals?
HAPPY EARLY BIRTHDAY
Date: 2025-09-24 05:51 pm (UTC)No, no, you're right. I'll pick your brain another time.
[ Hopefully. If she'll indulge his curiosity and let him annoy her with his questions. If he's even here long enough to indulge in the impulse.
The name Béma gets filed away beside Dúnedain, a small dictionary forming in his mind, and he schools his expression away from his academic curiosity and into something more appropriately serious. ]
You have scholars, though. Right? Those who learn and those who teach? Where I come from they have a reputation for sequestering themselves away in their towers and libraries, which can make them come across as odd or eccentric to those who do not know them well.
no subject
Date: 2025-09-25 12:48 am (UTC)[But not all scholars are Wizards. She knows that much, at least. She clears her throat, and settles her features.]
Not in the Mark. Here, we learn and teach among ourselves, and keep knowledge through song and story and through the work of our hands.
But then, you are not from here. If you say you are such a scholar, you may well be believed - though it may seem strange to some that you speak no Sindarin.
no subject
Date: 2025-09-25 12:55 am (UTC)Hm. Maybe I'm just overcomplicating things.
[ If the rest of her people feel similarly about scholars as she does, claiming to be of their numbers might not be a good idea, no matter how well the shoe might fit.
He hasn't actively been in a studying environment for years, anyhow. And certainly he hasn't taught much more than a seminar for decades. Maybe he should stick closer to the truth. ]
Your story is probably the most believable. What's the largest city I could conceivably be from west of here? Preferably far enough away that most people around won't have visited recently.
no subject
Date: 2025-09-25 04:40 pm (UTC)In truth, I do not know.
We trade little beyond the west of the Mark: that way lie Dunland and Isengard, and travellers from the Mark would find no safety there. Of old there was Tharbad on the Greyflood, but for a century and more it has been abandoned... beyond, I do not know. Old Eriador, where we have never roamed.
But if you name any place - name your Mohave, if you will - then most will believe it. Not the White Wizard, but he is not here. Only his lieutenant.
no subject
Date: 2025-09-25 04:51 pm (UTC)But then again, he needs to stop imposing his own world's historical trends on this one. Who knows how such things are treated, here? Maybe she will get to marry for love, one day.
He hopes so. ]
Well. Honestly, that's probably for the best. I'll come up with something.
[ So the White Wizard definitely is a person, then, and not a mountain. He was pretty sure that was the case, but it's good to have it confirmed. ] So who's this lieutenant? That Wormtongue fella you were talking about before?
no subject
Date: 2025-09-25 06:45 pm (UTC)[She nods, though, a small nod that could not be seen too clearly from a distance. Just in case.]
And I hope you will not meet him - but I do not expect it. He has his eyes and ears in more of this hall than I would like.
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From: