The blood drying on her cheek from the arterial splatter of the last orc she slew is itching, but Éomer makes no move to wipe it away. All she would do is smear even more blood on herself, most likely, as her gloves have a fair amount soaked into the leather, as does the rest of her armor. She is not in the habit of being laughed at, especially not when dressed in full armor, with a sword hung at her hip and her horse snorting angrily over her shoulder.
Steve Rogers quickly shifts from mirthful skepticism to something much more conciliatory, but Éomer's hackles are slow to settle, and she does not stop frowning distrustfully at him. The Rohirrim do not lie, and are skilled at sensing deception in others; he seems sincere, both in his apology and his subsequent explanation, but she has a reputation to maintain and an image to uphold in front of her men, and she has had a difficult week.
"How did you come here, Steve Rogers?" she asks, instead of accepting his apology or acknowledging his flattery. "What magic do you wield to appear as if from the air itself?"
"It isn't magic, even though it looks that way." He's not sure how much to say here, how to explain his appearance or if he even should. If he's stuck here, then the simple fact of the matter is he needs to make allies, and the Rohirrim aren't a bad bunch to have on his side. As surreal as the situation is, he has to find a way to explain it that will be as believable as possible.
Deciding on a half truth, he holds up his hand to show her the device wrapped around his palm. "I come from the future," he says, completely deadpan, "and I've traveled here using this. It's a machine made by people a lot smarter than me, and it brought me to a time so far-removed from mine that the stories of this place have become myths." It's true, after a fashion, which he hopes is good enough to appease her, even as far-fetched as it sounds.
"And," he adds, "you can call me Steve. Rogers is my family's name. I'm just Steve."
"The future," she echoes flatly, not uncrossing her arms.
A few of the riders behind her shift, trying to get a better look at the thing in his palm, and she can hear some of them murmuring to their neighbors as a translation is passed through the ranks. Magic, they can all understand. They know a little of its cost and have seen its effects in their world. But such a magic as to send someone through the mists of time... "That is a fanciful tale indeed." However, she is used to the idea of tales from the path becoming myths and legends, so that part, at least, she does not question. She still does not understand how he came to be here, though, but Éomer does not trust magic even in the best of times, and this is definitely not one of those times. It is not surprising that his magic malfunctioned and sent him where he did not belong.
"I am Éomer, daughter of Éomund, Third Marshal of the Riddermark. I suppose it falls to me to welcome you to our lands, Steve, son of Roger." Finally, her arms fall back to her sides, and some of the tension in the air lifts.
Again, his brain skips a beat, but this time he's wise enough to hold his tongue. Éomer he knows. He was the big guy played by Karl Urban, banished from his home, fought at Helm's Deep and the battles at the Pelennor and the Black Gate.
This is... different, but he takes that tidbit and just rolls with it. If he can accept he's stuck in a fantasy movie, then accepting that the characters might be different genders isn't that much of a leap.
"Sarah and Joseph," is what he says instead of anything sensible. "Steven, son of Sarah and Joseph. It's good to meet you, Éomer, daughter of Éomund." He extends a hand to her in friendship, his face as earnest as can be.
She cannot help lifting one eyebrow at him as he corrects her over his name, telling her yet another one that he goes by. In and of itself, that is not so uncommon, but this entire thing is getting more and more complicated the longer it goes on, and she cannot help but be both skeptical and oddly amused by it all.
This is not how she envisioned her day going.
Steve, or perhaps Steven, son of Sarah and Joseph and also potentially Roger, extends a hand to her and gives her an expression she is certain he has used to get himself out of trouble more than once. He looks like the sort of man who'd be trouble in all the best ways.
While there is a part of her that wants to interrogate him for longer, a part that has grown distrustful and wary as the years have grown darker, the rest of her has decided that he is not a threat to them, and that he is telling as much of the truth that he can or that he thinks they will understand. So, her posture relaxing, she extends her hand to him as well and clasps her fingers tightly around his forearm, pulling him a little closer to her accidentally so she can look into his pretty blue eyes as she smiles. "Well met, Steven."
Relaxing at last, he smiles back at her as his warm hand clasps her forearm in return. "Well met, Éomer." He knows it's a lot to take in, that his story is so far beyond belief that it's managed to loop back around into the realm of plausibility if the label is changed from 'science' to 'magic.' He's frankly amazed that no one has tried to spear him yet for one reason or another, but it seems like he's out of the woods now.
When he releases her hand, he stoops to pick up Mjölnir and slips his wrist through the loop of leather at the end of the handle while he considers what comes next. If this is Rohan, that means that they're either headed to or away from Edoras, depending on how far along in the story he's managed to land himself. Best to let her divulge that information rather than pointedly asking for it.
"Where is home for you? I remember the capital is... Edoras, right?" If she's been banished already then it's only a matter of time before Gandalf shows up to redirect them back to Helm's Deep. Otherwise, they'll be going to Edoras, and whole host of characters there.
She cannot help but eye the hammer attached to his wrist when he lifts it off the ground again, intrigued by such a strange weapon. If anything, it looks like something wrought by the dwarves in the Misty Mountains, huge and intricately carved and, to her mind, wholly impractical for battle. And yet she had seen him wield it quite expertly in the middle of that skirmish, and she cannot deny that it was very effective.
"I was born Aldburg, so perhaps that would be considered my home, but we are returning to Edoras shortly. Where are you headed? There are maps in Meduseld, if you are well and truly lost."
Truth be told, she could probably tell him exactly where to go if he but told her his destination, since she has studied so many maps so intently for so long, but she cannot deny that she almost wants to see what the reactions of the rest of her family would be upon seeing such a man, and she must also admit that she thinks him handsome enough to invite him to her bed, which would be difficult if he were to leave so soon. Also, they are all exhausted after so long on patrol, and she is in sore need of a good bath. It would be better for her to bed this handsome stranger after she has washed all the blood out of her hair.
So they are going back to Edoras. That could mean a lot of things, but it helps him get some bearing on when he's landed and what he might expect. It occurs to him that he could change things, save lives, but he knows he probably should hold his tongue in those matters. This isn't his story to change and shape as he likes, and he's never been one to feel comfortable playing god. Still... if he could save people, doesn't he have an obligation to do so? But what if doing so only changed a good ending to a bad one?
The moral quandary makes his head hurt, so he tries to stow those questions in favor of focusing on the present moment. "I'm not traveling anywhere in Middle-earth," he admits. "I'm going to a place called Asgard. I need to return this to its rightful owner." He hefts Mjölnir to allow her to get a better look at it. "It belongs to my friend and he'll be needing it back."
Having spent almost her entire life squinting across the plains, Éomer considers herself quite skilled at reading fine detail, and so when Steven lifts the hammer for her to see it better, it only takes her a few seconds to take in the carving decorating its side, as well as the text written there.
Whosoever holds this hammer, if he be worthy, shall possess the power of Thor.
Apart from the shape itself, it reminds her of her own sword, passed down to her from her father. Perhaps she will show it to him another time. At the moment, she has other things on her mind, the first of which is: "Who is Thor?"
And then, after giving him another speculative look, she hums quietly and tries another tactic. "You do not seem to have much in the way of provisions, Steven."
"Thor is... he's one of those people you meet who's larger than life. He's noble, strong. You'd like him." Talking about Thor twists a little knot of anxiety in Steve's gut, but he reassures himself that the hammer will be returned soon, and the Aether along with it.
For now, he smiles at Éomer and nods. "I didn't think I'd need much, and I don't want to impose, but if you're offering I'd gladly accept." With his metabolism being what it is, he can't go too long without a decent meal. The plan was for him to be gone a few days, maybe, so he has a little bit of food, but not enough to hold out for long.
That brings them to how exactly he's going to get back to Edoras. He's a big guy and he can hardly imagine any of these riders being willing to double up with him. His expression becomes sheepish. "I don't suppose you have a spare horse? I don't mind walking but if we're very far..."
Despite just saying that finding succor is difficult in this day and age, Éomer doesn't seem to have any qualms offering Steven any, and gives him an approving nod when he agrees to accompany them to Edoras.
"Good. We are not too far from Edoras even now; if we do not dawdle, we might just arrive before nightfall." And then they can all be fed. Éomer's stomach thinks about rumbling, but thankfully, it does not embarrass her in front of him, and she takes the opportunity to turn her head and whistle sharply, calling for a horse to be brought forward.
A bridle is placed in her hand and she extends it to Steven, never once thinking that he might not know how to ride. Everyone knows how to ride. How else are they to get around? "Arroch will bear you."
Steve's face goes blank for a moment as he takes the horse's bridle. It's a massive dun stallion, nostrils flaring as it sniffs him curiously. This was what he expected and yet he's not sure he's prepared, having never once ridden a horse in the entirety of his life. "Nice to meet you, Arroch," he says gamely, patting the horse's neck. It whickers and he moves resolutely to climb up into the saddle.
Thankfully, he manages that much with ease. It's like climbing onto a very tall motorcycle. It's lucky for him, too, that the horse knows where to go on its own, because his knowledge of how to ride is limited and he's mostly operating on instinct. He cuts quite a figure mounted on horseback, but his furrowed brow betrays him.
Oh well. As long as he can manage to stay with the group, that's what matters.
Éomer dons her helmet once more and swings easily up into Firefoot's saddle, pushing her way to the front of the éored without thought, the entirety of her riders falling in behind her in a smooth, practiced formation. Luckily for Steven, his horse is well-used to being part of a herd that behaves in such a manner, and goes along easily with his brethren. Most of the ride passes without her spending too much time looking after their new companion, as she is busy looking out for the entirety of the éored, but every now and then, she will maneuver her charger to ride alongside his, and she will ask him whatever question pops into her mind at the time. Otherwise, she leaves him to his own devices, and instead he is peppered with questions by the men under her command, some of them fluent in Westron, the others doing their best to be understood despite not knowing much more than how to order another ale in a tavern.
They reach Edoras just as the sun is passing below the horizon, and the bright golden rays of the setting sun light up the roof of Meduseld, turning it into burnished gold. She cannot help letting out a heavy sigh of relief at the sight, and at seeing the banners of her uncle flapping smartly in the breeze. All is still well, then, or rather, well enough that not much has changed.
Disembarking is always a loud, chaotic affair, and today is no different. The horses have to be cared for, and the soldiers have to be billeted; Éomer passes Firefoot off to her squire and then determinedly goes to find Steven, instructing him to follow her with the same sort of easy command that she uses with her riders, completely sure that he will follow her orders as if the thought he might not hadn't even occurred to her. She brings him to the great hall and before her uncle, glossing over the more fanciful aspects of her tale as she introduces him, all-too aware of the cold, beady eyes of her uncle's advisor trained on her with ill-disguised malcontent. She does not trust Gríma as far as she could throw him, and she does not doubt that any hint of magic or anything else strange about Steven's story will be seized and used as some sort of weapon against both her and him, should the opportunity present itself.
Despite it being considered somewhat gauche, Éomer also makes a point to inquire whether or not Steven will be granted guest rights during his stay in a voice loud enough to carry, a question that has a low murmur passing through the people gathered in the hall, a question her uncle almost hesitates to answer in the affirmative. It brings her great relief to hear it, however, and she kisses her uncle's knuckles gratefully as she takes her leave of him, shooting Steven a smile as she walks past him and leaves him in the care of one of the servants. She has to get ready for dinner.
Eventually, after having bathed and had her skin and hair scrubbed until she felt utterly brand-new, she returns to the great hall clad in a kirtle of deep green over a linen shift, golden knotwork embellishing the neckline and hem alike, a golden belt slung low around her hips. The kirtle's sleeves are tight around her biceps, — tighter perhaps than they are supposed to be, but then again, Éomer's measurements are different than those of a normal woman, and she does not wear her formal attire often enough to warrant an entirely new wardrobe of dresses being made for her no matter how muscular she may be — but the shift has the long, flowing sleeves that are so popular among the fairer sex, sleeves that she finds damnably irritating. Her hair, still slightly damp, has been washed and brushed and lies loose about her shoulders, fairly glowing in the torchlight as she enters the hall and makes a beeline for the table at which her cousin and her sister sit, bending down to speak to them both in low tones, oblivious to how her dress and unbound hair alters her appearance.
Even though his time with the army was relatively short, Steve is plenty used to falling in with the ranks and following orders, and Éomer's orders are easy enough to follow. He wishes he could speak their native tongue (he'll have to learn it quickly if he's going to be staying for any length of time), and he does his best to answer any question that's presented to him as truthfully as possible. He remembers how the Rohirrim are supposed to be good at detecting lies, and he doesn't want to give them any further reason to distrust him when his position among them is a tenuous one at best.
The ride is long, and while he's used to motorcycles enough to be spared from the worst of the discomfort he could be feeling, he's still a little sore all over by the time they arrive. Someone comes to lead Arroch away once he hops down out of the saddle, and he follows Éomer up to the mead hall, well aware of all the curious and wary looks being thrown his way. His shield is a beacon drawing all eyes to him, so he squares his shoulders and holds his head high as they climb the stairs. He stands at attention once they're inside the hall, taking everything in with a critical eye for details. Gríma is just as repugnant in real life as he was on film, and Steve levels a knowing look at him before he's granted guest rights and ushered away to his own room.
By the time dinner rolls around, he too has been washed and outfitted in garments more fitting for a man of Rohan. His shield and Mjölnir are both beside him, the Aether hidden carefully away. The clothes are comfortable even if the tunic is a bit too large, and he's looked after solicitously by several of the servant girls hovering around him. He's been seated a few tables down from the royal family, all of whom he recognized instantly, and now he sits listening to the conversations around him while still fielding as many questions as he can reasonably answer.
He meets Éomer's eyes when she enters the hall, but there are too many people vying for his attention to break away from them just yet.
Steven looks different, dressed as a man of Rohan, but he still sticks out like a sore thumb among the throng of men with long hair and full beards. She cannot understand why he shaves his face so closely, surely it is an inconvenience to have to bother with such an ablution every single morning? Her uncle sometimes shaves part of his beard, and she remembers sitting near him as a small child, watching him drag the blade over his face, fascinated and confused.
After conferring with her family, and enlisting their help in shielding their new visitor from too much scrutiny at the hands of the Worm, she straightens to her full height and walks down the tables towards where Steven is sat. As niece of the king, she is afforded a place at the table with the rest of her family, but more often than not, Éomer chooses to sit with the rest of her éored, as she considers herself a soldier first and royalty second.
Clapping Steven on the back as she reaches him, she says something to the men on either side and one of them moves down the bench so she can gather up her irritating skirts and sit down.
"I see you've made yourself right at home," she says with a laugh as she pushes up her trailing sleeves, exposing the scrolling knotwork of ink that has been etched under her skin marking her as a warrior, so she can reach across the table and serve herself some food.
He grins up at her good-naturedly when she comes around to sit beside him, assuming this is going to be a fresh round of questioning over their dinner, so he starts by volunteering information. "I used to be in the army, back home. We moved around a lot, so you had to learn to get comfortable wherever you found yourself. It made things easier. Plus, everyone's been nice so far, which helps."
There's a brief pause before he nods subtly towards Gríma, his expression still pleasant enough. "Except that guy." Steve has to bite his tongue to keep from saying more, but there's no mistaking that the skulking man has been unwelcoming and suspicious. He's the one pulling the strings in the court, but exposing him as a collaborator with Saruman and traitor to the throne would change the way other things played out. Seeing Théodred sitting there, eating and talking with his family and very much alive, Steve knows he'll have to decide soon.
For the moment he just smiles at Éomer. She seems to have forgiven him for his earlier blunders, and he hopes that sticks. In the low, warm lighting of the hall, in that dress, with her hair long and loose, he can't deny she's a beautiful woman. He wonders what her life has been like--how different it has been from the version where she's a man. His thought is interrupted by a serving girl filling his cup with mead, and he doesn't move to stop her. Nothing they have could get him drunk, so he isn't worried about it.
Taking a drink from his cup, he points to the tattoos on her arms, hoping this isn't another social faux pas. "What do those mean?"
Immediately, her welcoming expression slides off her face and her eyes narrow suspiciously. “What has he said to you?” she asks, her head swiveling so she can glare across the hall at the dark shadow that is her uncle’s advisor. If she were better at politics, or had a better grasp on her temper, or perhaps even both, she wouldn’t be so blatant about her dislike of the man, especially in front of a stranger who still might turn out to be foe, not friend.
But Éomer’s temper is legendary and she has never had the patience for politics, so she doesn’t even attempt to mask her contempt for the man lurking in the shadows.
She doesn’t stop glaring as her cup is likewise filled, but then she visibly wrenches her attention away and settles it back on her companion.
Steven asks her about her tattoos and her eyebrows lift slightly. “You do not have any?” The urge to hook her finger under his cuff to see his arm is strong, and she doesn’t fight it, tugging his sleeve up a little to, indeed, show unblemished skin. Murmuring in surprise under her breath, she lets him go and settles her arm on the table, shoving her sleeve up again to show off the skin up to her elbow, coiled in black ink with more than a few scars lifting raised gashes between the tattoos. “They are a mark of my profession, among other things. All the riders have them. This one here,” she points at the one right above her wrist, the edges skirting the hard bones beneath her skin and then crawling higher up her forearm, “shows that I am the eldest girl child in my family. This one,” a much larger design, dominating the space of her arm and so stark and detailed it demands attention first, “marks that I am a shield maiden and have forsaken the right to a husband and children.”
Steve immediately regrets saying anything when Eomer's head whips around to glare at Gríma. "He hasn't said anything," he assures her in a low voice. They don't need to draw the man's attention any more than they have already. "Just glared. But it's like I said... there are stories where--when--I come from, and he seems like someone who would be bad news. Just a feeling."
He's relieved when she turns back to him, even when his question prompts her to pull his sleeve up and expose his strong forearm. He rolls the other one up for her so he can display them for her. "I don't have any, no, but I knew guys who did back in the army. There was a guy in basic training who had an eagle right here," he says, touching the center of his chest, "with its wingtips going out to his shoulders. It was carrying an American flag in one claw and a sword in the other. He was so proud of that thing, he'd show it off every chance he got."
When she begins to explain her tattoos to him, he leans in slightly and looks them over with interest. The part about shield maidens giving up the right to a family catches him off guard, but he decides not to pry. She might seem comfortable talking about it but he knows that's one of the subjects you tend to let lie until you're better acquainted. "Are any of them purely decorative or do they all have meanings?"
His story about not trusting Gríma because of a gut feeling is both suspiciously vague but also rings true to her own experiences, and so she doesn’t pry too much into just what he means. Perhaps she will have a word with her cousin, who will be better suited to prying details out of someone without it being obvious what he’s doing. Théodred has always had more of a mind for statecraft than she has and is far more subtle than she has ever managed to be, which is a good thing in the long run, as he is destined to be king and she isn’t.
It isn’t much of a hardship to turn her attention to Steven when he touches his chest. She doesn’t know what an American flag looks like, but she does know what an eagle looks like, and what a sword looks like, and she spends a few enjoyable moments imagining it carved into the planes of his chest. Based on how well his armor had fit him when they met, and how well he fills out his borrowed tunic, she is sure the end result would be a pleasing picture indeed.
She shakes her head. “No, there has to be meaning behind the tattoo, otherwise it cannot be given to you. In times gone by, they were how we distinguished one tribe from another. Now, they are mostly tradition, but some rules have been clung to even after all this time.” She nods up to the head of the hall, where Théodred sits beside her uncle. “My cousin and my uncle bear the marks of royalty over their hearts. The rest of us only decorate our arms.”
“People where I’m from get them for all kinds of reasons, and for no reason at all. I’ve seen tattoos of everything you could imagine: quotes from some and poems, pictures of their pets or kids, animals, symbols... you name it.” He isn’t going to tell her that he’s even seen tattoos of his image and of his shield on people’s skin. He doesn’t like to brag, and maybe it’s best if his status as an actual superhero isn’t known.
Taking a last bite of food from his plate, he reaches for another serving. He doesn’t want to make a show of eating too much, but he knows he’ll regret it later if he doesn’t fill up now. Steve is used to being noticed, being a public figure, but here he’s an oddity—an anachronism. It's like he’s just woken up from the ice again, adjusting to an entirely new set of circumstances and social norms. At least he has experience making that kind of transition.
Nodding at Éomer, he asks, “I guess you always wanted to be a warrior? How old were you when you became a shield maiden?”
She can't help but frown speculatively as Steven explains the tattooing traditions from where — or when, she's going to have to sit him down at some point and get a proper explanation from him about this, instead of just taking his word for it as she did before — he is from. It sounds to her like those sorts of markings lose their meaning if you can have literally anything you like carved into your skin, especially a representation of a pet, but what does she know? She had been so proud the day she got her warrior's ink, but maybe she would have been equally proud had she chosen to get a line of a ballad etched into her arm instead.
She takes a drink of her tankard, shifting to brush her hair off her shoulders so that it won't get in her way as she sets to eating the food placed in front of her.
"Fourteen," she replies. "I did not see real fighting until two years after that, however."
There's something a little heart-wrenching about a fourteen-year old girl being inducted into a country's military. What had her life been like, he wonders. Why had she chosen that path? Perhaps, like him, she'd seen her nation's need and decided to give up everything to protect it, regardless of risk or adversity. He respects her resolve. It couldn't have been easy.
"I was twenty when I joined the military. They almost didn't let me. I was... kind of sickly, as a kid." To put it mildly. "But I wanted to join so badly. We were at war, then. World War Two, they call it. The fighting was terrible. We had weapons you couldn't even imagine. I was out of commission for a while, but we won all the same." He shakes his head, thinking back to that time. The entire trajectory of his life changed in an instant time and time again.
"A lot's happened since then, though," he adds, taking another drink.
Éomer had always been a large child, taking after her mother's side in that respect, growing tall early and staying tall her whole life, but starting to train as a shield maiden in early adolescence has left her with a strong build that is very unlike most of the other women he might see in the hall. She has large, calloused hands, and strong, muscled arms, and her shoulders are nearly as broad as a man's might be. Still, there are some things even a lifetime of manual labor cannot strip from her, and although she is broad and muscular in a very unfashionable way, she is also endowed with all the pleasing curves a woman should have, much to her continued irritation. Binding her breasts as flat as she can so she can fight without them in the way is painful and annoying, but wearing dresses that emphasize her better qualities feels restrictive and pointless. It seems she cannot win either way.
And to think, this entire life of hers might have been forestalled had her mother not starved herself after her father's passing, had their love been just a little bit weaker so that she could convince herself to live for her daughters' sake, if nothing else. Without parents, and left all-too aware of how quickly a life can be stolen, Éomer had decided on a trajectory that few other women would even entertain choosing.
If he were to pay attention, Steve would quickly come to realize that she is the only shield maiden in all of Edoras.
"You seem to have overcome your weakness well enough," she points out mildly, glancing at his biceps as they strain against the cloth enclosing them.
His expression becomes some mixture of nostalgia and sadness. There's a gentleness to him in spite of his size, void of the bravado that often marks warriors of great stature or renown. Steve, instead, is a humble man who's had to become accustomed to living in the limelight. He doesn't like to brag, and his own history is one he's happy not to have to recount. Ever since he became Captain America, he's never had to; everyone knew about Steve Rogers, whether from the history books or his exploits with the Avengers.
It's different here, though. Even though he still stands out, it's not because of his notoriety. "That's kind of a long story," he allows hesitantly. "But... I could tell you, if you want to hear it." With her assent, he begins with a gusty sigh, his voice low enough to keep his story mostly between the two of them.
"I was a sickly kid, like I said. Scrawny. Bad lungs, bad heart, bad feet, bad stomach. Everything. My mom was a nurse, so she took care of me, but it was hard on her. I needed a lot of looking after, especially because I got into a lot of fights. She and dad both died during the first World War, and after that--" He pauses for a moment, unsure of what to say. "Well, the second World War rolled around and I decided to enlist. People were fighting, dying, giving everything for the sake of freedom. They denied me four times." He lowers his head and gives a self-effacing laugh. "But then there was a scientist who saw me, and he thought I had potential. Drafted me for a program he was involved in called Project Rebirth. Nobody thought I'd make the cut, but he chose me as the first test subject. It would seem like magic to you, I guess, but I underwent a procedure that made me into what I am now. He said it would amplify what was already inside of me. Maybe that is a little bit magical, I don't know."
She cannot lie, there are many words Steven says which have no meaning for her. Still, just because she cannot understand all he says doesn't mean she cannot sympathize with him, and she pauses in her eating to listen to him speak, giving him her full attention. It is difficult to imagine him as a small, sick child, especially when she has only known him less than a day and he has been exactly as he is the whole time. Still, she has some experience with magic, enough to lend his tale a grain of believability, though it also alarms her somewhat.
"What will you do when the magic is broken?" she asks, frowning.
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Date: 2019-05-13 04:41 am (UTC)Steve Rogers quickly shifts from mirthful skepticism to something much more conciliatory, but Éomer's hackles are slow to settle, and she does not stop frowning distrustfully at him. The Rohirrim do not lie, and are skilled at sensing deception in others; he seems sincere, both in his apology and his subsequent explanation, but she has a reputation to maintain and an image to uphold in front of her men, and she has had a difficult week.
"How did you come here, Steve Rogers?" she asks, instead of accepting his apology or acknowledging his flattery. "What magic do you wield to appear as if from the air itself?"
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Date: 2019-05-13 04:53 am (UTC)Deciding on a half truth, he holds up his hand to show her the device wrapped around his palm. "I come from the future," he says, completely deadpan, "and I've traveled here using this. It's a machine made by people a lot smarter than me, and it brought me to a time so far-removed from mine that the stories of this place have become myths." It's true, after a fashion, which he hopes is good enough to appease her, even as far-fetched as it sounds.
"And," he adds, "you can call me Steve. Rogers is my family's name. I'm just Steve."
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Date: 2019-05-13 05:02 am (UTC)A few of the riders behind her shift, trying to get a better look at the thing in his palm, and she can hear some of them murmuring to their neighbors as a translation is passed through the ranks. Magic, they can all understand. They know a little of its cost and have seen its effects in their world. But such a magic as to send someone through the mists of time... "That is a fanciful tale indeed." However, she is used to the idea of tales from the path becoming myths and legends, so that part, at least, she does not question. She still does not understand how he came to be here, though, but Éomer does not trust magic even in the best of times, and this is definitely not one of those times. It is not surprising that his magic malfunctioned and sent him where he did not belong.
"I am Éomer, daughter of Éomund, Third Marshal of the Riddermark. I suppose it falls to me to welcome you to our lands, Steve, son of Roger." Finally, her arms fall back to her sides, and some of the tension in the air lifts.
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Date: 2019-05-13 05:13 am (UTC)This is... different, but he takes that tidbit and just rolls with it. If he can accept he's stuck in a fantasy movie, then accepting that the characters might be different genders isn't that much of a leap.
"Sarah and Joseph," is what he says instead of anything sensible. "Steven, son of Sarah and Joseph. It's good to meet you, Éomer, daughter of Éomund." He extends a hand to her in friendship, his face as earnest as can be.
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Date: 2019-05-13 05:22 am (UTC)This is not how she envisioned her day going.
Steve, or perhaps Steven, son of Sarah and Joseph and also potentially Roger, extends a hand to her and gives her an expression she is certain he has used to get himself out of trouble more than once. He looks like the sort of man who'd be trouble in all the best ways.
While there is a part of her that wants to interrogate him for longer, a part that has grown distrustful and wary as the years have grown darker, the rest of her has decided that he is not a threat to them, and that he is telling as much of the truth that he can or that he thinks they will understand. So, her posture relaxing, she extends her hand to him as well and clasps her fingers tightly around his forearm, pulling him a little closer to her accidentally so she can look into his pretty blue eyes as she smiles. "Well met, Steven."
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Date: 2019-05-13 05:41 am (UTC)When he releases her hand, he stoops to pick up Mjölnir and slips his wrist through the loop of leather at the end of the handle while he considers what comes next. If this is Rohan, that means that they're either headed to or away from Edoras, depending on how far along in the story he's managed to land himself. Best to let her divulge that information rather than pointedly asking for it.
"Where is home for you? I remember the capital is... Edoras, right?" If she's been banished already then it's only a matter of time before Gandalf shows up to redirect them back to Helm's Deep. Otherwise, they'll be going to Edoras, and whole host of characters there.
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Date: 2019-05-13 05:49 am (UTC)"I was born Aldburg, so perhaps that would be considered my home, but we are returning to Edoras shortly. Where are you headed? There are maps in Meduseld, if you are well and truly lost."
Truth be told, she could probably tell him exactly where to go if he but told her his destination, since she has studied so many maps so intently for so long, but she cannot deny that she almost wants to see what the reactions of the rest of her family would be upon seeing such a man, and she must also admit that she thinks him handsome enough to invite him to her bed, which would be difficult if he were to leave so soon. Also, they are all exhausted after so long on patrol, and she is in sore need of a good bath. It would be better for her to bed this handsome stranger after she has washed all the blood out of her hair.
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Date: 2019-05-13 06:05 am (UTC)The moral quandary makes his head hurt, so he tries to stow those questions in favor of focusing on the present moment. "I'm not traveling anywhere in Middle-earth," he admits. "I'm going to a place called Asgard. I need to return this to its rightful owner." He hefts Mjölnir to allow her to get a better look at it. "It belongs to my friend and he'll be needing it back."
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Date: 2019-05-13 06:16 am (UTC)Whosoever holds this hammer, if he be worthy, shall possess the power of Thor.
Apart from the shape itself, it reminds her of her own sword, passed down to her from her father. Perhaps she will show it to him another time. At the moment, she has other things on her mind, the first of which is: "Who is Thor?"
And then, after giving him another speculative look, she hums quietly and tries another tactic. "You do not seem to have much in the way of provisions, Steven."
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Date: 2019-05-13 06:37 am (UTC)For now, he smiles at Éomer and nods. "I didn't think I'd need much, and I don't want to impose, but if you're offering I'd gladly accept." With his metabolism being what it is, he can't go too long without a decent meal. The plan was for him to be gone a few days, maybe, so he has a little bit of food, but not enough to hold out for long.
That brings them to how exactly he's going to get back to Edoras. He's a big guy and he can hardly imagine any of these riders being willing to double up with him. His expression becomes sheepish. "I don't suppose you have a spare horse? I don't mind walking but if we're very far..."
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Date: 2019-05-13 06:46 am (UTC)"Good. We are not too far from Edoras even now; if we do not dawdle, we might just arrive before nightfall." And then they can all be fed. Éomer's stomach thinks about rumbling, but thankfully, it does not embarrass her in front of him, and she takes the opportunity to turn her head and whistle sharply, calling for a horse to be brought forward.
A bridle is placed in her hand and she extends it to Steven, never once thinking that he might not know how to ride. Everyone knows how to ride. How else are they to get around? "Arroch will bear you."
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Date: 2019-05-13 06:59 am (UTC)Thankfully, he manages that much with ease. It's like climbing onto a very tall motorcycle. It's lucky for him, too, that the horse knows where to go on its own, because his knowledge of how to ride is limited and he's mostly operating on instinct. He cuts quite a figure mounted on horseback, but his furrowed brow betrays him.
Oh well. As long as he can manage to stay with the group, that's what matters.
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Date: 2019-05-13 08:32 am (UTC)They reach Edoras just as the sun is passing below the horizon, and the bright golden rays of the setting sun light up the roof of Meduseld, turning it into burnished gold. She cannot help letting out a heavy sigh of relief at the sight, and at seeing the banners of her uncle flapping smartly in the breeze. All is still well, then, or rather, well enough that not much has changed.
Disembarking is always a loud, chaotic affair, and today is no different. The horses have to be cared for, and the soldiers have to be billeted; Éomer passes Firefoot off to her squire and then determinedly goes to find Steven, instructing him to follow her with the same sort of easy command that she uses with her riders, completely sure that he will follow her orders as if the thought he might not hadn't even occurred to her. She brings him to the great hall and before her uncle, glossing over the more fanciful aspects of her tale as she introduces him, all-too aware of the cold, beady eyes of her uncle's advisor trained on her with ill-disguised malcontent. She does not trust Gríma as far as she could throw him, and she does not doubt that any hint of magic or anything else strange about Steven's story will be seized and used as some sort of weapon against both her and him, should the opportunity present itself.
Despite it being considered somewhat gauche, Éomer also makes a point to inquire whether or not Steven will be granted guest rights during his stay in a voice loud enough to carry, a question that has a low murmur passing through the people gathered in the hall, a question her uncle almost hesitates to answer in the affirmative. It brings her great relief to hear it, however, and she kisses her uncle's knuckles gratefully as she takes her leave of him, shooting Steven a smile as she walks past him and leaves him in the care of one of the servants. She has to get ready for dinner.
Eventually, after having bathed and had her skin and hair scrubbed until she felt utterly brand-new, she returns to the great hall clad in a kirtle of deep green over a linen shift, golden knotwork embellishing the neckline and hem alike, a golden belt slung low around her hips. The kirtle's sleeves are tight around her biceps, — tighter perhaps than they are supposed to be, but then again, Éomer's measurements are different than those of a normal woman, and she does not wear her formal attire often enough to warrant an entirely new wardrobe of dresses being made for her no matter how muscular she may be — but the shift has the long, flowing sleeves that are so popular among the fairer sex, sleeves that she finds damnably irritating. Her hair, still slightly damp, has been washed and brushed and lies loose about her shoulders, fairly glowing in the torchlight as she enters the hall and makes a beeline for the table at which her cousin and her sister sit, bending down to speak to them both in low tones, oblivious to how her dress and unbound hair alters her appearance.
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Date: 2019-05-13 01:03 pm (UTC)The ride is long, and while he's used to motorcycles enough to be spared from the worst of the discomfort he could be feeling, he's still a little sore all over by the time they arrive. Someone comes to lead Arroch away once he hops down out of the saddle, and he follows Éomer up to the mead hall, well aware of all the curious and wary looks being thrown his way. His shield is a beacon drawing all eyes to him, so he squares his shoulders and holds his head high as they climb the stairs. He stands at attention once they're inside the hall, taking everything in with a critical eye for details. Gríma is just as repugnant in real life as he was on film, and Steve levels a knowing look at him before he's granted guest rights and ushered away to his own room.
By the time dinner rolls around, he too has been washed and outfitted in garments more fitting for a man of Rohan. His shield and Mjölnir are both beside him, the Aether hidden carefully away. The clothes are comfortable even if the tunic is a bit too large, and he's looked after solicitously by several of the servant girls hovering around him. He's been seated a few tables down from the royal family, all of whom he recognized instantly, and now he sits listening to the conversations around him while still fielding as many questions as he can reasonably answer.
He meets Éomer's eyes when she enters the hall, but there are too many people vying for his attention to break away from them just yet.
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Date: 2019-05-13 10:05 pm (UTC)After conferring with her family, and enlisting their help in shielding their new visitor from too much scrutiny at the hands of the Worm, she straightens to her full height and walks down the tables towards where Steven is sat. As niece of the king, she is afforded a place at the table with the rest of her family, but more often than not, Éomer chooses to sit with the rest of her éored, as she considers herself a soldier first and royalty second.
Clapping Steven on the back as she reaches him, she says something to the men on either side and one of them moves down the bench so she can gather up her irritating skirts and sit down.
"I see you've made yourself right at home," she says with a laugh as she pushes up her trailing sleeves, exposing the scrolling knotwork of ink that has been etched under her skin marking her as a warrior, so she can reach across the table and serve herself some food.
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Date: 2019-05-14 01:39 am (UTC)There's a brief pause before he nods subtly towards Gríma, his expression still pleasant enough. "Except that guy." Steve has to bite his tongue to keep from saying more, but there's no mistaking that the skulking man has been unwelcoming and suspicious. He's the one pulling the strings in the court, but exposing him as a collaborator with Saruman and traitor to the throne would change the way other things played out. Seeing Théodred sitting there, eating and talking with his family and very much alive, Steve knows he'll have to decide soon.
For the moment he just smiles at Éomer. She seems to have forgiven him for his earlier blunders, and he hopes that sticks. In the low, warm lighting of the hall, in that dress, with her hair long and loose, he can't deny she's a beautiful woman. He wonders what her life has been like--how different it has been from the version where she's a man. His thought is interrupted by a serving girl filling his cup with mead, and he doesn't move to stop her. Nothing they have could get him drunk, so he isn't worried about it.
Taking a drink from his cup, he points to the tattoos on her arms, hoping this isn't another social faux pas. "What do those mean?"
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Date: 2019-05-14 02:13 am (UTC)But Éomer’s temper is legendary and she has never had the patience for politics, so she doesn’t even attempt to mask her contempt for the man lurking in the shadows.
She doesn’t stop glaring as her cup is likewise filled, but then she visibly wrenches her attention away and settles it back on her companion.
Steven asks her about her tattoos and her eyebrows lift slightly. “You do not have any?” The urge to hook her finger under his cuff to see his arm is strong, and she doesn’t fight it, tugging his sleeve up a little to, indeed, show unblemished skin. Murmuring in surprise under her breath, she lets him go and settles her arm on the table, shoving her sleeve up again to show off the skin up to her elbow, coiled in black ink with more than a few scars lifting raised gashes between the tattoos. “They are a mark of my profession, among other things. All the riders have them. This one here,” she points at the one right above her wrist, the edges skirting the hard bones beneath her skin and then crawling higher up her forearm, “shows that I am the eldest girl child in my family. This one,” a much larger design, dominating the space of her arm and so stark and detailed it demands attention first, “marks that I am a shield maiden and have forsaken the right to a husband and children.”
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Date: 2019-05-14 03:29 am (UTC)He's relieved when she turns back to him, even when his question prompts her to pull his sleeve up and expose his strong forearm. He rolls the other one up for her so he can display them for her. "I don't have any, no, but I knew guys who did back in the army. There was a guy in basic training who had an eagle right here," he says, touching the center of his chest, "with its wingtips going out to his shoulders. It was carrying an American flag in one claw and a sword in the other. He was so proud of that thing, he'd show it off every chance he got."
When she begins to explain her tattoos to him, he leans in slightly and looks them over with interest. The part about shield maidens giving up the right to a family catches him off guard, but he decides not to pry. She might seem comfortable talking about it but he knows that's one of the subjects you tend to let lie until you're better acquainted. "Are any of them purely decorative or do they all have meanings?"
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Date: 2019-05-14 03:57 am (UTC)It isn’t much of a hardship to turn her attention to Steven when he touches his chest. She doesn’t know what an American flag looks like, but she does know what an eagle looks like, and what a sword looks like, and she spends a few enjoyable moments imagining it carved into the planes of his chest. Based on how well his armor had fit him when they met, and how well he fills out his borrowed tunic, she is sure the end result would be a pleasing picture indeed.
She shakes her head. “No, there has to be meaning behind the tattoo, otherwise it cannot be given to you. In times gone by, they were how we distinguished one tribe from another. Now, they are mostly tradition, but some rules have been clung to even after all this time.” She nods up to the head of the hall, where Théodred sits beside her uncle. “My cousin and my uncle bear the marks of royalty over their hearts. The rest of us only decorate our arms.”
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Date: 2019-05-14 07:22 pm (UTC)Taking a last bite of food from his plate, he reaches for another serving. He doesn’t want to make a show of eating too much, but he knows he’ll regret it later if he doesn’t fill up now. Steve is used to being noticed, being a public figure, but here he’s an oddity—an anachronism. It's like he’s just woken up from the ice again, adjusting to an entirely new set of circumstances and social norms. At least he has experience making that kind of transition.
Nodding at Éomer, he asks, “I guess you always wanted to be a warrior? How old were you when you became a shield maiden?”
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Date: 2019-05-14 11:30 pm (UTC)She takes a drink of her tankard, shifting to brush her hair off her shoulders so that it won't get in her way as she sets to eating the food placed in front of her.
"Fourteen," she replies. "I did not see real fighting until two years after that, however."
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Date: 2019-05-15 12:04 am (UTC)"I was twenty when I joined the military. They almost didn't let me. I was... kind of sickly, as a kid." To put it mildly. "But I wanted to join so badly. We were at war, then. World War Two, they call it. The fighting was terrible. We had weapons you couldn't even imagine. I was out of commission for a while, but we won all the same." He shakes his head, thinking back to that time. The entire trajectory of his life changed in an instant time and time again.
"A lot's happened since then, though," he adds, taking another drink.
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Date: 2019-05-15 12:29 am (UTC)And to think, this entire life of hers might have been forestalled had her mother not starved herself after her father's passing, had their love been just a little bit weaker so that she could convince herself to live for her daughters' sake, if nothing else. Without parents, and left all-too aware of how quickly a life can be stolen, Éomer had decided on a trajectory that few other women would even entertain choosing.
If he were to pay attention, Steve would quickly come to realize that she is the only shield maiden in all of Edoras.
"You seem to have overcome your weakness well enough," she points out mildly, glancing at his biceps as they strain against the cloth enclosing them.
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Date: 2019-05-15 01:24 am (UTC)It's different here, though. Even though he still stands out, it's not because of his notoriety. "That's kind of a long story," he allows hesitantly. "But... I could tell you, if you want to hear it." With her assent, he begins with a gusty sigh, his voice low enough to keep his story mostly between the two of them.
"I was a sickly kid, like I said. Scrawny. Bad lungs, bad heart, bad feet, bad stomach. Everything. My mom was a nurse, so she took care of me, but it was hard on her. I needed a lot of looking after, especially because I got into a lot of fights. She and dad both died during the first World War, and after that--" He pauses for a moment, unsure of what to say. "Well, the second World War rolled around and I decided to enlist. People were fighting, dying, giving everything for the sake of freedom. They denied me four times." He lowers his head and gives a self-effacing laugh. "But then there was a scientist who saw me, and he thought I had potential. Drafted me for a program he was involved in called Project Rebirth. Nobody thought I'd make the cut, but he chose me as the first test subject. It would seem like magic to you, I guess, but I underwent a procedure that made me into what I am now. He said it would amplify what was already inside of me. Maybe that is a little bit magical, I don't know."
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Date: 2019-05-15 01:48 am (UTC)"What will you do when the magic is broken?" she asks, frowning.
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