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."
He lets that sink in for a moment, and he knows she's right. How many people has he lost, now? His father first, then his mother. Bucky--though he found him again, eventually, the loss had taken its toll. The Howling Commandos. Peggy, twice now, and he's sure there's a part of him he'll never recover, lost to her forever. Coulson, back in the first attack on New York when Loki had brought an army through a hole in the sky. Natasha, this time, and Tony not long after. Probably all the other Avengers, too, because how is he ever getting back from this?
Everyone he's ever known or cared about is gone, for one reason or another, and he's here in this land straight from the pages of a fantasy book. Somehow, it's still not the strangest turn his life has ever taken, but in the moment it's the most unexpected. Yet again he's being forced to reevaluate his understanding of the nature of reality; just when he thought he'd been close to figuring things out, the rug has been pulled out from under him again.
Looking over at Éomer, he nods. "You're right. I guess that's what I meant when I said it's hard. Not the losing part, but what comes after. There's a theory about grief, where I come from, that it has stages you go through. Shock and anger. Denial. Depression, resentment. Guilt. They say you're supposed to reach acceptance at some point, but I don't think I'm there yet. I don't know if I ever will be, for some of them. Dunno if that's normal, but I guess all you can do is muddle through."
He pats Arroch's neck and the horse wickers softly.
"But enough of that. What's on the docket for today? Training exercises? Are you going to try and see how many times I can fall off a horse before I cry uncle?"
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no subject
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
Everyone he's ever known or cared about is gone, for one reason or another, and he's here in this land straight from the pages of a fantasy book. Somehow, it's still not the strangest turn his life has ever taken, but in the moment it's the most unexpected. Yet again he's being forced to reevaluate his understanding of the nature of reality; just when he thought he'd been close to figuring things out, the rug has been pulled out from under him again.
Looking over at Éomer, he nods. "You're right. I guess that's what I meant when I said it's hard. Not the losing part, but what comes after. There's a theory about grief, where I come from, that it has stages you go through. Shock and anger. Denial. Depression, resentment. Guilt. They say you're supposed to reach acceptance at some point, but I don't think I'm there yet. I don't know if I ever will be, for some of them. Dunno if that's normal, but I guess all you can do is muddle through."
He pats Arroch's neck and the horse wickers softly.
"But enough of that. What's on the docket for today? Training exercises? Are you going to try and see how many times I can fall off a horse before I cry uncle?"