The war is over and they won, but there is a lot they'd lost, too. The world is a poorer place for the loss of Tony's ingenuity and brilliance, but more importantly, a little girl will have to grow up without her father, knowing he'd sacrificed himself to save them. Natasha might not have had any family beyond the little band of heroes that she'd gathered around her, but her absence is keenly felt among the ranks. Steve had trusted her, even loved her in a way after all they'd gone through together. She deserved a better end than the one she'd met.
In the aftermath of everything that happened, Steve is the one who is ultimately tasked with returning the infinity stones to their proper places. It's a heavy responsibility, but one he's willing to assume for the good of their timeline and all the others that had been created when the stones were removed from their proper places. To do that, he would have to venture back into the past again.
Now, Steve isn't an idiot, but the complex quantum physics required to understand the mechanics of time travel make his brain hurt a little bit. The first few go off without a hitch, though coming face to face with Red Skull again after so long is an unpleasant shock. The final stop is meant to be Asgard, not only for the Aether but for Mjölnir as well. Discovering he was able to use the mighty hammer was thrilling, though he hadn't been thinking so much of his own worthiness at the time as of the driving need to defeat Thanos. Now he has to put it back for Thor to use it in the past as he's meant to.
One element of time travel that the team hadn't discussed when they were coming up with their plan was the deeply interconnected nature of space and time, that the two aren't separate but parts of a larger whole. They didn't talk about the nature of parallel universes, or how thin the skin between realities could really be. Another thing they hadn't really prepared him for was what to do if something went wrong.
When Steve materializes, he's not on Asgard as far as he can tell. Thor had described it to him, and the wide grassy plane has none of the soaring, golden architecture he'd been told to expect, and quite a few more orcs. He guesses at them being orcs, honestly, he isn't entirely sure. But, they look like the creatures from The Lord of the Rings and one immediately tries to stab him, so he responds in kind by knocking it back with the hammer in his hand. There are riders on horses also fighting the grimy creatures, and with Steve's sudden addition to their number, the orcs are routed in short order.
Predictably, he's the next one surrounded with spears and arrows pointed at his face, so he drops Mjölnir and removes his helmet, holding up a hand to show he means them no harm. "My name is Steve Rogers," he says. "I'm..." Definitely in the wrong place. Can he rightly call himself a friend or ally to people he doesn't know? There's something very familiar about the whole thing and it settles uncomfortably in his brain as he tries to work it out. "I'm not here to fight you," he settles on.
Lately, the days and nights have become almost monotonous. Each dusk brings a new threat of yet more orcs, each dawn another razed village or burnt field. Éomer spends so much time in the saddle that she starts to wonder if it is possible to fuse with her horse, if she and Firefoot would ever manage to become one being through some strange twist of magic. She wouldn't be surprised, honestly, and it might be more comfortable for them both. The poor beast wouldn't have to bear the weight of a saddle on his back, at least, and she would be able to stretch her legs more. As it stands, the few times she gets to stretch her legs are during battle, when she stands in the saddle and leans precariously one way or the other, or when they break to make camp. All other parts of her day blur into one long ride, punctuated by brief moments of bloodshed and violence.
One surprising thing that truly does break up the monotony that has overtaken her life is that one day, a perfectly normal day like any others she's had recently, a man suddenly appears out of thin air in the middle of a skirmish, clad in blue and red with an enormous shining shield on his back, the colors painted on it a stark and almost jarring contrast to the mud and dust she's grown so used to.
All movement stops for a moment as everyone involved looks at each other in surprise, and then one of the orcs tries to stab the man, who swings the hammer in his hand at him with enough force to send the foul beast literally flying. As if waiting for some cue, the fight resumes in earnest, but with the man and his hammer in play as well, it is a short-lived battle, and soon enough whatever orcs that have survived flee for their lives. Normally, she would send riders off to pursue them and kill them before they escaped completely, but at the moment, they have other things to worry about. Like this strange soldier who appeared in their midst, dressed so strangely but so very competent with his even stranger weapons.
Once surrounded, the man quite sensibly (in her mind) puts his hammer down and even goes so far as to take off his helmet, display baby-smooth cheeks and golden hair cropped close to his head. He introduces himself, which is another good sign, but his name is just as strange as his clothing, and she has spent too much of her life at war to trust anyone so quickly.
She urges Firefoot a few steps closer and peers down at the man, her hand steady on her spear as she eyes him speculatively. In full armor, and certainly in the midst of battle, it is easy to mistake Éomer for a man like the rest of her riders. She is uncommonly tall, taller even than most men of her acquaintance, and her armor broadens her shoulders and flattens her curves to such an extent that she looks as male as anyone else. With her helm obscuring half her face, and splashed with dirt and blood, the only thing that gives away her femininity is the lack of beard on her chin. And, of course, her voice.
"What business have you in our lands, Steve Rogers?" she asks, her voice low for a woman, but still obviously higher than a man's, pitched to carry regardless. "Whence do you hail?"
"It's a long story and you probably wouldn't believe most of it," Steve answers honestly, squinting up at the rider against the bright sun. "This isn't Asgard, by any chance?" He has to ask, just to be sure, the armor these people are wearing looks nothing like Thor's, so he's still assuming it's not and he's lost somehow.
"I'm from Earth. Midgard. The United States of America, specifically," he adds, to blank looks all around. Not good. "Listen, I'll be on my way in just a moment." As he says this, he pushes the button on his hand that's meant to return him to the quantum realm, allowing him to travel to Asgard as was intended.
Nothing happens.
Steve's expression changes, shifting from his beleaguered but calm look to something far more concerned. He pushes the button again to no effect, and his stomach drops into his feet. This can't be happening. There's too much riding on his mission--countless lives hang in the balance, but the tech won't work. Cursing under his breath, he turns his attention fully to the device, inspecting it for damage and finding none. He'd made quick work of the orcs and none of them had landed a hit of any significance, not on his hand. So why isn't it working? Surely quantum physics didn't just stop being a thing when he arrived here. Maybe it's a glitch that will sort itself out, or maybe he can fix it somehow; he can replace the things that were taken at any time and it will all turn out the same, so that's what he'll do. No other outcome is acceptable.
Looking back up at the menacing rider, he clears his throat.
The man, this Steven Rogers, lists names that she assumes are supposed to be locations, but she has never heard of a single one of them. Though she could never have been accused of being a studious child, one lesson that Éomer had always loved was geography. The idea that lands in some far-flung corner of the world were just out there, waiting for her to explore them, had always inflamed her curiosity and imagination, and she had spent countless hours as she grew older poring over old maps, wherever she could. She feels fairly confident she could draw the entire map of Arda with her eyes closed, if pressed, and nowhere on its surface is any place named Asgard or America.
She narrows her eyes at him, taking in every detail of his appearance now that she is not distracted by fighting. What an odd man.
Passing her spear off to Éothain beside her, she swings one leg over Firefoot's neck and slides easily off his back to land on her feet in one smooth, practiced motion, and then takes a few steps closer to the man, reaching up to lift off her helmet as she does. It is easier to speak to someone without it, and part of her wants to see his face when he realizes he is speaking to a woman.
"And where do you propose to do that?" she asks, making no move to hide the fact that they are nearly of a height and she can still look down her nose at him. "These are dark times, and succor is not an easy thing to find."
To his credit, Steve's expression doesn't change even when the rider reveals herself to be a tall, striking woman. Should it surprise him that women can be warriors? Some of the most terrifyingly skilled fighters he's ever known have been women, though he can't let himself dwell on that thought because even now, Natasha's loss is fresh in his mind. Regardless of her sex, he won't back down, instead responding almost instinctively by straightening his spine and setting his broad shoulders.
"Any place I can find shelter would suit me just fine, ma'am," he replies, doing some mental calculations of how long his supplies will last if he's unable to find provisions here... wherever here is. "Though, if I'm not mistaken, I answered your questions, but you didn't answer mine. Where exactly am I?"
She has to admit, she is surprised when the stranger's expression barely flickers once she reveals herself to be female. Most men cannot help at least a raised eyebrow, and some even go so far as to scoff at her or demand to speak to her husband. Even in the Riddermark, shieldmaidens are so rare as to be considered mere myths, a relic of a bygone era that no self-respecting woman would attempt to emulate in these more modern times.
He straightens in response to her looming, his broad shoulders squaring and his chin lifting, and Éomer allows herself a moment to admire the figure he cuts. Even with his odd short hair and frankly strange shaved face, he is a very handsome specimen of humanity, and she cannot be blamed for noticing what is so pleasing to look at.
Bypassing the fact that she doesn't know what a ma'am is, she cocks her head to one side and gives him a slightly incredulous look. "This is the Riddermark, Steve Rogers." She extends a hand off to the side, as if displaying the grassy plains beneath their feet in a market for a customer to admire. The horses shift behind her. "The Eastfold, to be exact."
When she names her land, Steve's expression does change. "The Riddermark," he repeats with noticeable incredulity, his earlier musing about the orcs coming back to mind. This has to be a mistake, right? Surely he can't have passed from his own reality into an actual work of fiction.
He turns to look around, first left and then right, muttering an 'oh, come on' under his breath. "So... this is Rohan," he says, stating it in a still-disbelieving tone. "Is that right? Is this Middle-earth?" Am I going crazy? is the follow-up question he doesn't ask, but he damn sure is thinking it.
He's given up on shaving at this point, and no, it isn't because the men heckled him for having a smooth baby face for the first few weeks of his residence in Edoras. The addition of facial hair makes him stand out less, but only marginally so. He's still obviously an outsider to their community, though he thinks he's winning them over in little ways as time passes. Maybe the better way of looking at it is that the majority of them seem to mistrust him less now, which he supposes isn't quite the same, but it's close enough for the time being.
He's gotten the hang of horseback riding at this point--not a master but not a novice either--and he's a decent hand with a sword and a spear. He's even practiced fighting with the shield in one hand and a sword in the other. Mjolnir isn't always with him but he trusts it isn't going to wander off. Everything else he arrived with is kept hidden, squirreled away where they shouldn't be found. He's tried using the Pym particles a few times, but nothing has come of it. He's well and truly stuck.
It doesn't feel as bad as he thought it would. To Steve, it's almost like being frozen again, but this time in reverse. Time passes around him but he knows that nothing has changed back home. His friends are still waiting for him, or for whatever version of him will eventually make it back home. For now, Rohan isn't the worst place to get stuck. The food is good, and the people are welcoming enough. A few girls have even tried to seduce him, and while he isn't immune to their charms, he also isn't exactly ready to roll in the hay with anyone either, and especially not in a casual way.
There's a woman eyeing him now, in fact, peeking in at him through the open stable doors as he curries the horse he's been loaned. Steve smiles in return, but prefers listening to the various conversations going on around him as he brushes the large bay gelding. He's learned a few words of Rohirric, but not enough to understand a full conversation between the riders when they chat and joke among themselves. He's learned enough to guess when he's the subject of discussion, which isn't an uncommon thing.
Her riders gossip like fishwives, and there's nothing Éomer can do to stop them.
Honestly, she doesn't even try, at this point, and it's definitely not because she secretly loves to gossip just as much as they do, she just tries to hide it better.
Steven, of course, is a favorite topic of gossip, both because he is so clearly an outsider and out of his depth when it comes to their life here on the plains, but also because he has so clearly caught the eye of so many of the local girls. Her riders seem torn between amusement and resentment both, though thankfully she does not think any of them are reaching a point where they are considering trying to convince him to leave through whatever means necessary. It helps, she thinks, that women are generally allowed to choose whichever partner they wish, and the menfolk know that there is nothing much they can do about it.
Éomer finds the fact that so many of the local girls have set their cap at Steven to be mostly amusing. It does, however, get somewhat irritating as they are constantly underfoot, making doe eyes at him and practicing their halting Westron while they dole out compliments and try to give him an unimpeded view of their cleavage.
"Hilde," she snaps, striding into the stables and breezing past the latest girl trying to catch Steven's eye. Hilde guiltily straightens and slinks back off to Meduseld to continue her duties when Éomer gives her a warning glare, a glare that softens to a somewhat chiding smirk as she turns to face her new friend.
"You know," she says mildly, stepping into the stall beside him so she can stroke her hand down Arroch's flank in an assessing manner, "you are quite bad for the general productivity of Edoras. All the local girls are neglecting their duties so they can flutter their eyelashes at you."
That comment earns her a little chuckle. Steve shakes his head and shoots a glance at her, still methodically running the brush over the horse's flank. "There was a gal I knew back home who made it her job to try and set me up with someone. It was kind of funny, really. Even when we were on missions she'd still throw suggestions at me and call it multitasking. I'll tell you what I told her. I'm looking for someone with a little more common life experience."
Talking about Natasha makes him physically ache a bit, his shoulders hunching slightly as if in pain. He's made a point not to think much about her and her sacrifice, trying to focus on fitting in, so mentioning her now feels like tearing a bandaid off a gouge that wasn't properly cleaned or cared for.
"You'd have liked her," he finds himself saying. "Natasha. She was smart, funny... one of the most skilled fighters I've ever seen. We went through hell together. She sacrificed herself to save everyone else and I think I'm still a little mad at her for it." He doesn't know why he's telling Éomer this; until now, he's been fairly tight-lipped about many things. He's spoken in vague terms about the war he fought in, about the battles with the Avengers, about a few of his colleagues, but much of his life is a mystery to the people who have taken him in.
He clears his throat and smiles again. "Sorry. You have enough problems without me unloading mine on you, too."
Éomer has always been better at listening than at talking. She is a woman of few words, typically, but being one of the few people who can communicate with Steven easily has meant that she often winds up playing translator for him; she feels like she's spoken more around him than she has around anyone else in her life for years.
All that is to say, it is not a hardship to shut her mouth and let him be the one to speak for a while.
To make it easier on him, and to give herself something to do, she picks up a set of combs herself and sets to helping him care for his horse in companionable silence, glancing at him and giving him an encouraging smile as he starts to actually open up about the people he knew back from where he came.
"It is not unreasonable to be angry with her for her sacrifice," she says eventually, filing away the knowledge that shieldmaidens are apparently common enough to him that he hasn't felt the need to bring them up before, "while still appreciating its necessity. I would gladly lay down my life for my men, for my family, but I know they would be furious with me if I did so."
She bumps her shoulder against his, paying careful attention to her task to make it easier to be honest about her feelings. "I am sure Natasha would not begrudge you your anger at her. At least you are alive to be angry."
It's almost ironic, really; perhaps part of the reason he's angry is that he wasn't there for them to sacrifice himself. It's not that she stole his thunder, but Steve had a proven track record of being the one to lay himself down if it was necessary. It's why he'd put the Valkyrie in the ice--why he'd told Hill to blow the helicarrier even while he was still aboard. Steve had joined the army because he wanted to save people, and his teammates suffering and dying only served to make him feel like he wasn't strong enough, or not working hard enough to protect them.
More than his own personal failings, he's angry because his friend--one of the few people he'd truly grown close to in the twenty-first century--is gone forever. Just like the Commandos, just like Peggy, even like Bucky, who he might never see again. He's alive to be angry, sure, but he feels more alone now than he ever has.
If his arm swipes over his face, it's only because he wants to wipe sweat from his brow. There are no tears stinging his eyes.
"There was a point where I didn't entirely trust her," Steve admits, breezing right along. "She actually was a spy before she joined my team, and she liked to keep things close to the chest. Then we ended up on the run together when everyone wanted to kill us, and... that can change your perspective on things."
Steve looks over at Éomer and smiles in that endearingly earnest way of his.
Tears are nothing to feel shame about, in the Mark, and so Éomer does not stare when Steven swipes the linen of his shirt over his face as he stares intently at Arroch's flank as if concentrating very hard. A part of her wonders if she should offer him a handkerchief with which to wipe his eyes so he does not rub horse hair into them, but the only handkerchief she has in her possession is one embroidered by her sister, and while Éowyn is many lovely things, skilled at needlecraft is not one of them.
Still, Éomer carries that little square of supple, exotic cotton imported from Dol Amroth and beyond with her everywhere, even though the stitches that decorate it are lopsided and snarled at times. She loves Éowyn more than life itself, though they are often at odds, and having a token of her held close to her heart soothes some of the worries Éomer cannot help but feel every single day.
"Losing people is the easiest thing in the world," she counters, her voice steady, even though her eyes are sad as she meets Steven's gaze and gives him a wry smile of her own. "It is learning how to live without them that is difficult."
As it turned out, it took some time for Éomer to return. But it was just as well, for the damage to the witcher's body was extensive and took longer than he expected to heal. Fresh scars twisted across his arm and thigh. He did all he could to keep the injuries from stiffening and in doing so made sure to make himself useful.
Many did not trust the witcher still, did not like having a wolf among them, even if he slept in the little cottage, wore the local clothing, even learned a little of the local language. But one could not deny that there were certain perks to having Eskel around. He was known to be extraordinarily helpful, and extraordinarily strong once his chest and arm had healed. He made sure to earn every ounce of charity the people had extended to him.
When Éomer returned, had come to include working in the fields, since every able bodied person was needed for such a task. When he sees the column of horses on the narrow road, he paused, searching for the fair woman who had saved his life among their number, scythe slung across his shoulders.
Enduring her fair share of ribbing from a fair number of her riders, Éomer nonetheless turned her éored around as quickly as she could to make their way back through Hjaroarholt one more time on their patrol, not bothering to give an explanation to anyone as to why she might want such a thing. Many of her riders already knew her reasoning; the fact that she slipped away from the éored to spend the majority of their first night in the village sitting at the bedside of an injured witcher did not go unnoticed, nor the way she stopped in at his cottage to speak with him before they rode out at dawn on the third day.
It's alright. She doesn't mind a little teasing. It gives most of her men something entertaining to think about during dark days, when many of them are separated from their wives and children. Teasing her about a flirtation with an exotic stranger takes their minds off their own miseries.
The seasons are changing, summer shifting inexorably into fall, and so when they pass through Hjaroarholt, the haymaking season is in full swing. Every man, woman, and child who is capable is out in the fields, cutting and collecting the tall grasses that grow so that they can be laid out and dried in time for winter. They pass a few dozen peasants on their way to the village, all of whom raise their hands in welcome. Éomer doesn't do much more than nod at them as they pass, though, not until she spies a rather broad form standing not too far from the road, a scythe balanced on his shoulders, wrists hooked over the shaft. His dark hair would be enough to make him immediately recognizable, even if she wasn't already well-acquainted with the sight of his naked torso.
The witcher is looking much better than the last time she saw him, even if he is just as sweaty. The fact that it's from exertion and not pain makes all the difference.
Ignoring the snickering that crops up behind her, Éomer half-stands in her stirrups and lifts her hand in a wave.
"Westu Eskel hál," she calls out, not bothering to dampen her smile.
"Welcome back." He says, boots crunching on the stubs of grass as he approaches the road. There's an easiness to his walk now, not quite a swagger, but the grace and power of the witcher's form has returned to him. "Told you I'd still be here. And look at me! Fit enough that they turned me into the fields like a plough-horse."
One of the young men in the field titters something about ploughing something, but Eskel ignores him.
"I'd walk my lady back to town but I must earn my keep, regrettably. Where will I find you, when we're done for the evening?"
A ripple of laughter works it way through the éored, but Éomer largely ignores it too, deciding there's no point in chastising her men for jokes made at her expense when all it will really do is just fan the flames.
"You're certainly looking much fitter." The fresh scar twisting across his skin is red and angry-looking, but it doesn't appear to be too badly knotted, and it's obviously not hindering any of his movements. Éomer is well pleased to see it, having been worried that Eskel might lose his profession if he did not heal properly. She's never heard of a witcher retiring. What would he even do, if he did?
Perhaps he could be a farmer. He seems to be doing a good enough job of it here in Hjaroarholt.
"It's a small village," she says in the end. "I'm sure you'll find me eventually."
With that, and a wink thrown in for good measure, she sets her heels to Firefoot's flanks and urges him towards the center of town.
He returns to the fields, which is all well and good except it's fairly mindless work and it gives him time to think. What the hell was he thinking? What the devil was he going to go looking for her for? What was the foolish promise he had made, to be waiting for her as a maid waits for her beloved? What was he going to do when he found her? The thought of her sword-calloused hands on his body at once makes him feel nauseated and thrilled. It makes his scars ache.
The youth titters again and makes some crass joke and Eskel knocks him on his ass with a restrained casting of Aard.
At sunset, by the time he finds Éomer, he's shrugged on a shirt, but there's chaff in his hair and he smells like sunshine and hay and he loiters self-consciously in the doorway.
Once they're billeted again, and the horses have been cared for, Éomer turns her men out into the fields to lend a hand, and the rest of the harvest goes fairly quickly. Many of her riders are the sons of farmers, even if they themselves earn their living by the sword, and so they all know how to wield a scythe and how to collect the grass to dry it into hay.
Éomer likewise rolls up her sleeves and lends a hand, consciously putting herself in a field away from Eskel to keep the flirting and distractions to a minimum. She doesn't mind being known as a woman who goes after what she wants, but she is not the type to shirk her duties to do so.
By the time the day's work is done, she's sweaty and exhausted in a way she's grown unused to, and the offer of a bath is very welcome indeed. She's just redressed in a simple linen shift lent to her by the innkeeper's wife — all her clothing will need to be washed, covered in sweat and dirt and horsehair as it is, and it's been collected along with everyone else's to be taken down to the wash house to be dealt with there — with a pale blue kirtle belted overtop it, her hair is spread loose and damp across her shoulders, when Eskel comes to find her.
"Ah, just the man I was looking for," she says, despite the fact that she obviously wasn't doing any looking right at that moment. "Come with me. I have something to show you."
Is it possible for one person to age a decade or more in the span of a single year?
Surely it must be, because Éomer feels like an old crone now, bent over beneath the weight of her new responsibilities, burdened with grief and a selfish desire to scream about how unfair her life has become.
Her cousin, slaughtered. Her beloved uncle, the man who raised her as one of his own daughters, crushed beneath his horse in battle. Her sister, the single reason she was able to survive the death of their parents, lying in a sickbed in a foreign kingdom, wasting away from a sickness Éomer could do nothing to prevent. All of her skills are physical ones, and they were of no help to Théodred, or Théoden, both of whom died without her there to protect them despite the fact that she was sworn to do so.
Sitting on her uncle's throne, the heavy gold torque of the House of Eorl encircling her neck, Éomer feels a little like she is in a dream. The very same men who had clapped her on the back and challenged her to a drinking game not six months ago now bow to her and hesitate to meet her eyes, children who used to run screaming through her legs are shushed by their parents whenever she is near, and even the servants who have been in residence since she was brought to Edoras at age eleven show her the kind of deference she has never, not once in her life, expected.
Heavy is the head that wears the crown, indeed.
Heavier still when burdened with sums and ledgers, when she is trying to figure out how to feed her people through the upcoming winter now that the planting and the growing season both have been lost, now that the majority of their grazing lands have been razed, now that their fields have been salted. Rohan emerged victorious from the war that ravaged it, but she does not know if it will survive the aftermath. There is not enough grain stored to feed her people, let alone their livestock. They will be reduced to eating horseflesh before the year is out.
A knock on her study door pulls her from the fog of numbers she has lost herself in, and if her responding "what?" is sharper than it should be, well. She is Queen, now. Nobody will say anything to her about it.
Up north, the witchers had watched and listened to the nightmare looming to the south. It was decided they would not go to war-- it was not their way (or wasn't supposed to be)-- but they would go forth and clean up where they could on the aftermath. Eskel listened restlessly to the stories of destruction from that vast kingdom where he had spent several months recovering from a terrible wound.
Every time he brushed his horse-- now a young, swift and willfull mare-- he remembered the woman he had slept with-- for the first time in so many years-- and wondered if she had ridden to war against the dark. He was certain she must have.
When it was deemed time to do so he took his mare and made straight for the Riddermark. Oh, he stopped now and again to take a contract but he stuck to the long river that led to Rohan.
He searched for the pretty and headstrong soldier and was directed by some baffled and frightened folk to some of the riders. He asked if they knew where he might find the commander Éomer. Some of the riders looked amongst themselves and one burst into nervous laughter.
"Oh, Éomer rides no more, witcher. She sits on her throne now, though I don't envy her with all this mess." And so, still reeling at the notion, he had ridden for Edoras. He supposed, bemused, that this solved the trouble of chasing her around the entire kingdom, though now he knew not what would happen when he did.
He asked around a bit until he found one of the men who had served in her éored. The man seemed vaguely amused by the witcher's return but not so much so he didn't agree to take Eskel to her long after the hour of public audiences has passed...and far from prying eyes who might wonder why a wolf had wondered into their midst in these troubled time.
"Éo-- Majesty, I have a visitor." The rider calls out. "One I think should not...linger in the hall."
Rising from her chair — her uncle's chair, a heavy wooden thing carved with intricate designs she remembers being fascinated by as a child — Éomer settles her skirts around her legs and adjusts the torque at her neck, glad in some corner of her mind for a lifetime's training bearing heavy armor on her back: the weight of the gold around her neck is a paltry thing compared to a full set of plate armor in the midst of battle, though the emotional weight of it feels much harder to bear.
Still. She has entertained envoys from other lands while still reeling with grief and mildly concussed, she can handle one late-night visitor even if she doesn't know who it might be.
Yanking the door open, she peers out into the dimly-lit hallway to see just who has imposed themselves upon her, her attention drawn first to Éothain standing in front of the door, his sandy beard doing a very poor job of concealing the twitching grin that's making itself known on his face.
"Sir witcher," he says, his amusement all the more obvious when he speaks, even with his heavily-accented speech. "May I present to you Éomer Queen, last of the House of Eorl. My lady, your...friend has returned."
Fighting the urge to sigh, she cuts her Marshal a quelling glance. "That's enough, Éothain, thank you." It's a little hard to properly chastise a man who helped train her to ride a horse without using her hands, but she does her best. It helps that she is taller than him now that she's grown. "You may go."
She waits until he does so, ignoring him until the sound of his boots on the cobblestones fades down the corridor, and only then does she turn to the only witcher that could possibly have come so far to see her, feeling a little bit like she has been punched at the sight of him.
"Éomer..." He says, carefully as he takes her in. She looks so like herself and very much not. She looks...beautiful, proud and strong and brave, but almost comically out of place in a dress, in a palace. "I uh...I came to bring you the coin for the horse. Sorry it took a while, there was...uh. The war and whatnot." He removes a heavy purse from his belt and sets it on her desk. "And here I find you..." He gestures up and down. "I had no idea you were..."
She had almost forgotten the barley-colored mare she had given him all those long months ago. Forgotten as well was his promise to return to her, to give her fair payment for such a gift.
"Oh." She stares at the purse he places on the desk, thrown by seeing Eskel in this place that seemed so divorced from him more than by the fact that he came to fulfill his obligation to her. She didn't doubt he would at least try, when he did not return the following spring, or even that summer, she had thought perhaps he could not, not that he did not want to.
She glances down at her gown, a beautiful thing made of lush green velvet, cut for her body and sewn so cleverly it makes her look like a beautiful paragon of womanhood and not just a soldier in a dress. At the edge of her vision, the horse head finials of the torque around her neck glimmer golden in the torchlight, their emerald eyes winking at her.
"Everyone else is dead," she says in the end, sounding very tired. "I am all that is left."
"I'm sorry." He says, quietly. He approaches her with caution. He's not sure of the protocol. He's not sure he would comfort any woman, nevermind a queen. And yet he feels... compelled to, somehow. His rough hand reaches to touch her arm. "When I was coming south, I had heard that the old king was dead. I did not think that you were..." He gestures to her regal personage.
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In the aftermath of everything that happened, Steve is the one who is ultimately tasked with returning the infinity stones to their proper places. It's a heavy responsibility, but one he's willing to assume for the good of their timeline and all the others that had been created when the stones were removed from their proper places. To do that, he would have to venture back into the past again.
Now, Steve isn't an idiot, but the complex quantum physics required to understand the mechanics of time travel make his brain hurt a little bit. The first few go off without a hitch, though coming face to face with Red Skull again after so long is an unpleasant shock. The final stop is meant to be Asgard, not only for the Aether but for Mjölnir as well. Discovering he was able to use the mighty hammer was thrilling, though he hadn't been thinking so much of his own worthiness at the time as of the driving need to defeat Thanos. Now he has to put it back for Thor to use it in the past as he's meant to.
One element of time travel that the team hadn't discussed when they were coming up with their plan was the deeply interconnected nature of space and time, that the two aren't separate but parts of a larger whole. They didn't talk about the nature of parallel universes, or how thin the skin between realities could really be. Another thing they hadn't really prepared him for was what to do if something went wrong.
When Steve materializes, he's not on Asgard as far as he can tell. Thor had described it to him, and the wide grassy plane has none of the soaring, golden architecture he'd been told to expect, and quite a few more orcs. He guesses at them being orcs, honestly, he isn't entirely sure. But, they look like the creatures from The Lord of the Rings and one immediately tries to stab him, so he responds in kind by knocking it back with the hammer in his hand. There are riders on horses also fighting the grimy creatures, and with Steve's sudden addition to their number, the orcs are routed in short order.
Predictably, he's the next one surrounded with spears and arrows pointed at his face, so he drops Mjölnir and removes his helmet, holding up a hand to show he means them no harm. "My name is Steve Rogers," he says. "I'm..." Definitely in the wrong place. Can he rightly call himself a friend or ally to people he doesn't know? There's something very familiar about the whole thing and it settles uncomfortably in his brain as he tries to work it out. "I'm not here to fight you," he settles on.
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One surprising thing that truly does break up the monotony that has overtaken her life is that one day, a perfectly normal day like any others she's had recently, a man suddenly appears out of thin air in the middle of a skirmish, clad in blue and red with an enormous shining shield on his back, the colors painted on it a stark and almost jarring contrast to the mud and dust she's grown so used to.
All movement stops for a moment as everyone involved looks at each other in surprise, and then one of the orcs tries to stab the man, who swings the hammer in his hand at him with enough force to send the foul beast literally flying. As if waiting for some cue, the fight resumes in earnest, but with the man and his hammer in play as well, it is a short-lived battle, and soon enough whatever orcs that have survived flee for their lives. Normally, she would send riders off to pursue them and kill them before they escaped completely, but at the moment, they have other things to worry about. Like this strange soldier who appeared in their midst, dressed so strangely but so very competent with his even stranger weapons.
Once surrounded, the man quite sensibly (in her mind) puts his hammer down and even goes so far as to take off his helmet, display baby-smooth cheeks and golden hair cropped close to his head. He introduces himself, which is another good sign, but his name is just as strange as his clothing, and she has spent too much of her life at war to trust anyone so quickly.
She urges Firefoot a few steps closer and peers down at the man, her hand steady on her spear as she eyes him speculatively. In full armor, and certainly in the midst of battle, it is easy to mistake Éomer for a man like the rest of her riders. She is uncommonly tall, taller even than most men of her acquaintance, and her armor broadens her shoulders and flattens her curves to such an extent that she looks as male as anyone else. With her helm obscuring half her face, and splashed with dirt and blood, the only thing that gives away her femininity is the lack of beard on her chin. And, of course, her voice.
"What business have you in our lands, Steve Rogers?" she asks, her voice low for a woman, but still obviously higher than a man's, pitched to carry regardless. "Whence do you hail?"
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"I'm from Earth. Midgard. The United States of America, specifically," he adds, to blank looks all around. Not good. "Listen, I'll be on my way in just a moment." As he says this, he pushes the button on his hand that's meant to return him to the quantum realm, allowing him to travel to Asgard as was intended.
Nothing happens.
Steve's expression changes, shifting from his beleaguered but calm look to something far more concerned. He pushes the button again to no effect, and his stomach drops into his feet. This can't be happening. There's too much riding on his mission--countless lives hang in the balance, but the tech won't work. Cursing under his breath, he turns his attention fully to the device, inspecting it for damage and finding none. He'd made quick work of the orcs and none of them had landed a hit of any significance, not on his hand. So why isn't it working? Surely quantum physics didn't just stop being a thing when he arrived here. Maybe it's a glitch that will sort itself out, or maybe he can fix it somehow; he can replace the things that were taken at any time and it will all turn out the same, so that's what he'll do. No other outcome is acceptable.
Looking back up at the menacing rider, he clears his throat.
"Or I might need to extend my stay."
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She narrows her eyes at him, taking in every detail of his appearance now that she is not distracted by fighting. What an odd man.
Passing her spear off to Éothain beside her, she swings one leg over Firefoot's neck and slides easily off his back to land on her feet in one smooth, practiced motion, and then takes a few steps closer to the man, reaching up to lift off her helmet as she does. It is easier to speak to someone without it, and part of her wants to see his face when he realizes he is speaking to a woman.
"And where do you propose to do that?" she asks, making no move to hide the fact that they are nearly of a height and she can still look down her nose at him. "These are dark times, and succor is not an easy thing to find."
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"Any place I can find shelter would suit me just fine, ma'am," he replies, doing some mental calculations of how long his supplies will last if he's unable to find provisions here... wherever here is. "Though, if I'm not mistaken, I answered your questions, but you didn't answer mine. Where exactly am I?"
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He straightens in response to her looming, his broad shoulders squaring and his chin lifting, and Éomer allows herself a moment to admire the figure he cuts. Even with his odd short hair and frankly strange shaved face, he is a very handsome specimen of humanity, and she cannot be blamed for noticing what is so pleasing to look at.
Bypassing the fact that she doesn't know what a ma'am is, she cocks her head to one side and gives him a slightly incredulous look. "This is the Riddermark, Steve Rogers." She extends a hand off to the side, as if displaying the grassy plains beneath their feet in a market for a customer to admire. The horses shift behind her. "The Eastfold, to be exact."
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He turns to look around, first left and then right, muttering an 'oh, come on' under his breath. "So... this is Rohan," he says, stating it in a still-disbelieving tone. "Is that right? Is this Middle-earth?" Am I going crazy? is the follow-up question he doesn't ask, but he damn sure is thinking it.
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He's gotten the hang of horseback riding at this point--not a master but not a novice either--and he's a decent hand with a sword and a spear. He's even practiced fighting with the shield in one hand and a sword in the other. Mjolnir isn't always with him but he trusts it isn't going to wander off. Everything else he arrived with is kept hidden, squirreled away where they shouldn't be found. He's tried using the Pym particles a few times, but nothing has come of it. He's well and truly stuck.
It doesn't feel as bad as he thought it would. To Steve, it's almost like being frozen again, but this time in reverse. Time passes around him but he knows that nothing has changed back home. His friends are still waiting for him, or for whatever version of him will eventually make it back home. For now, Rohan isn't the worst place to get stuck. The food is good, and the people are welcoming enough. A few girls have even tried to seduce him, and while he isn't immune to their charms, he also isn't exactly ready to roll in the hay with anyone either, and especially not in a casual way.
There's a woman eyeing him now, in fact, peeking in at him through the open stable doors as he curries the horse he's been loaned. Steve smiles in return, but prefers listening to the various conversations going on around him as he brushes the large bay gelding. He's learned a few words of Rohirric, but not enough to understand a full conversation between the riders when they chat and joke among themselves. He's learned enough to guess when he's the subject of discussion, which isn't an uncommon thing.
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Honestly, she doesn't even try, at this point, and it's definitely not because she secretly loves to gossip just as much as they do, she just tries to hide it better.
Steven, of course, is a favorite topic of gossip, both because he is so clearly an outsider and out of his depth when it comes to their life here on the plains, but also because he has so clearly caught the eye of so many of the local girls. Her riders seem torn between amusement and resentment both, though thankfully she does not think any of them are reaching a point where they are considering trying to convince him to leave through whatever means necessary. It helps, she thinks, that women are generally allowed to choose whichever partner they wish, and the menfolk know that there is nothing much they can do about it.
Éomer finds the fact that so many of the local girls have set their cap at Steven to be mostly amusing. It does, however, get somewhat irritating as they are constantly underfoot, making doe eyes at him and practicing their halting Westron while they dole out compliments and try to give him an unimpeded view of their cleavage.
"Hilde," she snaps, striding into the stables and breezing past the latest girl trying to catch Steven's eye. Hilde guiltily straightens and slinks back off to Meduseld to continue her duties when Éomer gives her a warning glare, a glare that softens to a somewhat chiding smirk as she turns to face her new friend.
"You know," she says mildly, stepping into the stall beside him so she can stroke her hand down Arroch's flank in an assessing manner, "you are quite bad for the general productivity of Edoras. All the local girls are neglecting their duties so they can flutter their eyelashes at you."
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Talking about Natasha makes him physically ache a bit, his shoulders hunching slightly as if in pain. He's made a point not to think much about her and her sacrifice, trying to focus on fitting in, so mentioning her now feels like tearing a bandaid off a gouge that wasn't properly cleaned or cared for.
"You'd have liked her," he finds himself saying. "Natasha. She was smart, funny... one of the most skilled fighters I've ever seen. We went through hell together. She sacrificed herself to save everyone else and I think I'm still a little mad at her for it." He doesn't know why he's telling Éomer this; until now, he's been fairly tight-lipped about many things. He's spoken in vague terms about the war he fought in, about the battles with the Avengers, about a few of his colleagues, but much of his life is a mystery to the people who have taken him in.
He clears his throat and smiles again. "Sorry. You have enough problems without me unloading mine on you, too."
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All that is to say, it is not a hardship to shut her mouth and let him be the one to speak for a while.
To make it easier on him, and to give herself something to do, she picks up a set of combs herself and sets to helping him care for his horse in companionable silence, glancing at him and giving him an encouraging smile as he starts to actually open up about the people he knew back from where he came.
"It is not unreasonable to be angry with her for her sacrifice," she says eventually, filing away the knowledge that shieldmaidens are apparently common enough to him that he hasn't felt the need to bring them up before, "while still appreciating its necessity. I would gladly lay down my life for my men, for my family, but I know they would be furious with me if I did so."
She bumps her shoulder against his, paying careful attention to her task to make it easier to be honest about her feelings. "I am sure Natasha would not begrudge you your anger at her. At least you are alive to be angry."
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More than his own personal failings, he's angry because his friend--one of the few people he'd truly grown close to in the twenty-first century--is gone forever. Just like the Commandos, just like Peggy, even like Bucky, who he might never see again. He's alive to be angry, sure, but he feels more alone now than he ever has.
If his arm swipes over his face, it's only because he wants to wipe sweat from his brow. There are no tears stinging his eyes.
"There was a point where I didn't entirely trust her," Steve admits, breezing right along. "She actually was a spy before she joined my team, and she liked to keep things close to the chest. Then we ended up on the run together when everyone wanted to kill us, and... that can change your perspective on things."
Steve looks over at Éomer and smiles in that endearingly earnest way of his.
"I know you've lost people too. It's never easy."
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Still, Éomer carries that little square of supple, exotic cotton imported from Dol Amroth and beyond with her everywhere, even though the stitches that decorate it are lopsided and snarled at times. She loves Éowyn more than life itself, though they are often at odds, and having a token of her held close to her heart soothes some of the worries Éomer cannot help but feel every single day.
"Losing people is the easiest thing in the world," she counters, her voice steady, even though her eyes are sad as she meets Steven's gaze and gives him a wry smile of her own. "It is learning how to live without them that is difficult."
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Many did not trust the witcher still, did not like having a wolf among them, even if he slept in the little cottage, wore the local clothing, even learned a little of the local language. But one could not deny that there were certain perks to having Eskel around. He was known to be extraordinarily helpful, and extraordinarily strong once his chest and arm had healed. He made sure to earn every ounce of charity the people had extended to him.
When Éomer returned, had come to include working in the fields, since every able bodied person was needed for such a task. When he sees the column of horses on the narrow road, he paused, searching for the fair woman who had saved his life among their number, scythe slung across his shoulders.
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It's alright. She doesn't mind a little teasing. It gives most of her men something entertaining to think about during dark days, when many of them are separated from their wives and children. Teasing her about a flirtation with an exotic stranger takes their minds off their own miseries.
The seasons are changing, summer shifting inexorably into fall, and so when they pass through Hjaroarholt, the haymaking season is in full swing. Every man, woman, and child who is capable is out in the fields, cutting and collecting the tall grasses that grow so that they can be laid out and dried in time for winter. They pass a few dozen peasants on their way to the village, all of whom raise their hands in welcome. Éomer doesn't do much more than nod at them as they pass, though, not until she spies a rather broad form standing not too far from the road, a scythe balanced on his shoulders, wrists hooked over the shaft. His dark hair would be enough to make him immediately recognizable, even if she wasn't already well-acquainted with the sight of his naked torso.
The witcher is looking much better than the last time she saw him, even if he is just as sweaty. The fact that it's from exertion and not pain makes all the difference.
Ignoring the snickering that crops up behind her, Éomer half-stands in her stirrups and lifts her hand in a wave.
"Westu Eskel hál," she calls out, not bothering to dampen her smile.
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One of the young men in the field titters something about ploughing something, but Eskel ignores him.
"I'd walk my lady back to town but I must earn my keep, regrettably. Where will I find you, when we're done for the evening?"
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"You're certainly looking much fitter." The fresh scar twisting across his skin is red and angry-looking, but it doesn't appear to be too badly knotted, and it's obviously not hindering any of his movements. Éomer is well pleased to see it, having been worried that Eskel might lose his profession if he did not heal properly. She's never heard of a witcher retiring. What would he even do, if he did?
Perhaps he could be a farmer. He seems to be doing a good enough job of it here in Hjaroarholt.
"It's a small village," she says in the end. "I'm sure you'll find me eventually."
With that, and a wink thrown in for good measure, she sets her heels to Firefoot's flanks and urges him towards the center of town.
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The youth titters again and makes some crass joke and Eskel knocks him on his ass with a restrained casting of Aard.
At sunset, by the time he finds Éomer, he's shrugged on a shirt, but there's chaff in his hair and he smells like sunshine and hay and he loiters self-consciously in the doorway.
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Éomer likewise rolls up her sleeves and lends a hand, consciously putting herself in a field away from Eskel to keep the flirting and distractions to a minimum. She doesn't mind being known as a woman who goes after what she wants, but she is not the type to shirk her duties to do so.
By the time the day's work is done, she's sweaty and exhausted in a way she's grown unused to, and the offer of a bath is very welcome indeed. She's just redressed in a simple linen shift lent to her by the innkeeper's wife — all her clothing will need to be washed, covered in sweat and dirt and horsehair as it is, and it's been collected along with everyone else's to be taken down to the wash house to be dealt with there — with a pale blue kirtle belted overtop it, her hair is spread loose and damp across her shoulders, when Eskel comes to find her.
"Ah, just the man I was looking for," she says, despite the fact that she obviously wasn't doing any looking right at that moment. "Come with me. I have something to show you."
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what an honor. what an injustice.
Surely it must be, because Éomer feels like an old crone now, bent over beneath the weight of her new responsibilities, burdened with grief and a selfish desire to scream about how unfair her life has become.
Her cousin, slaughtered. Her beloved uncle, the man who raised her as one of his own daughters, crushed beneath his horse in battle. Her sister, the single reason she was able to survive the death of their parents, lying in a sickbed in a foreign kingdom, wasting away from a sickness Éomer could do nothing to prevent. All of her skills are physical ones, and they were of no help to Théodred, or Théoden, both of whom died without her there to protect them despite the fact that she was sworn to do so.
Sitting on her uncle's throne, the heavy gold torque of the House of Eorl encircling her neck, Éomer feels a little like she is in a dream. The very same men who had clapped her on the back and challenged her to a drinking game not six months ago now bow to her and hesitate to meet her eyes, children who used to run screaming through her legs are shushed by their parents whenever she is near, and even the servants who have been in residence since she was brought to Edoras at age eleven show her the kind of deference she has never, not once in her life, expected.
Heavy is the head that wears the crown, indeed.
Heavier still when burdened with sums and ledgers, when she is trying to figure out how to feed her people through the upcoming winter now that the planting and the growing season both have been lost, now that the majority of their grazing lands have been razed, now that their fields have been salted. Rohan emerged victorious from the war that ravaged it, but she does not know if it will survive the aftermath. There is not enough grain stored to feed her people, let alone their livestock. They will be reduced to eating horseflesh before the year is out.
A knock on her study door pulls her from the fog of numbers she has lost herself in, and if her responding "what?" is sharper than it should be, well. She is Queen, now. Nobody will say anything to her about it.
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Every time he brushed his horse-- now a young, swift and willfull mare-- he remembered the woman he had slept with-- for the first time in so many years-- and wondered if she had ridden to war against the dark. He was certain she must have.
When it was deemed time to do so he took his mare and made straight for the Riddermark. Oh, he stopped now and again to take a contract but he stuck to the long river that led to Rohan.
He searched for the pretty and headstrong soldier and was directed by some baffled and frightened folk to some of the riders. He asked if they knew where he might find the commander Éomer. Some of the riders looked amongst themselves and one burst into nervous laughter.
"Oh, Éomer rides no more, witcher. She sits on her throne now, though I don't envy her with all this mess." And so, still reeling at the notion, he had ridden for Edoras. He supposed, bemused, that this solved the trouble of chasing her around the entire kingdom, though now he knew not what would happen when he did.
He asked around a bit until he found one of the men who had served in her éored. The man seemed vaguely amused by the witcher's return but not so much so he didn't agree to take Eskel to her long after the hour of public audiences has passed...and far from prying eyes who might wonder why a wolf had wondered into their midst in these troubled time.
"Éo-- Majesty, I have a visitor." The rider calls out. "One I think should not...linger in the hall."
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Still. She has entertained envoys from other lands while still reeling with grief and mildly concussed, she can handle one late-night visitor even if she doesn't know who it might be.
Yanking the door open, she peers out into the dimly-lit hallway to see just who has imposed themselves upon her, her attention drawn first to Éothain standing in front of the door, his sandy beard doing a very poor job of concealing the twitching grin that's making itself known on his face.
"Sir witcher," he says, his amusement all the more obvious when he speaks, even with his heavily-accented speech. "May I present to you Éomer Queen, last of the House of Eorl. My lady, your...friend has returned."
Fighting the urge to sigh, she cuts her Marshal a quelling glance. "That's enough, Éothain, thank you." It's a little hard to properly chastise a man who helped train her to ride a horse without using her hands, but she does her best. It helps that she is taller than him now that she's grown. "You may go."
She waits until he does so, ignoring him until the sound of his boots on the cobblestones fades down the corridor, and only then does she turn to the only witcher that could possibly have come so far to see her, feeling a little bit like she has been punched at the sight of him.
"Eskel."
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She had almost forgotten the barley-colored mare she had given him all those long months ago. Forgotten as well was his promise to return to her, to give her fair payment for such a gift.
"Oh." She stares at the purse he places on the desk, thrown by seeing Eskel in this place that seemed so divorced from him more than by the fact that he came to fulfill his obligation to her. She didn't doubt he would at least try, when he did not return the following spring, or even that summer, she had thought perhaps he could not, not that he did not want to.
She glances down at her gown, a beautiful thing made of lush green velvet, cut for her body and sewn so cleverly it makes her look like a beautiful paragon of womanhood and not just a soldier in a dress. At the edge of her vision, the horse head finials of the torque around her neck glimmer golden in the torchlight, their emerald eyes winking at her.
"Everyone else is dead," she says in the end, sounding very tired. "I am all that is left."
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