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.
It is difficult to cross her arms over her chest while dressed in full armor, but Éomer manages it anyway, her expression darkening as she watches the man practically laugh when she answers his question.
"So you are familiar," she replies, her eyebrows furrowed suspiciously. She has never had someone scoff so incredulously at her when she told them anything, especially when she states a simply fact like the name of the land upon which they stand.
Behind her, Gárulf calls out a question to her in their native tongue and she answers him without looking over her shoulder, translating what is happening for him and the others who do not speak the Common Tongue so well. The mood of the assembled riders behind her, slowly thawing the longer their Marshal spoke with the stranger, cools abruptly, although at least no spears are leveled in his direction again.
Realizing his mistake a little late, Steve's expression sobers in an instant. This isn't a joke or a game, and even if he is losing his mind, he's got to take this seriously or those spears might be aimed at him again. As before, he holds up a hand, this time in an attempt to placate the unimpressed woman.
"I'm sorry, my lady," he says, adjusting his terminology to match the setting, and his voice is as earnest and honest as any man of the Mark. "I am familiar, that's true. I just... I couldn't believe it for a moment. I've heard of Rohan, but only in stories. I know her people are as brave as they are honorable, and how fierce in combat."
His hands drop to his sides, and his posture eases. "Please accept my apology. I didn't mean to offend or disrespect you. I'm on a mission of great importance and I'm very far from where I need to be--farther than I thought I could ever go."
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?"
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Date: 2019-05-12 05:35 pm (UTC)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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Date: 2019-05-13 02:27 am (UTC)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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Date: 2019-05-13 03:03 am (UTC)"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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Date: 2019-05-13 03:12 am (UTC)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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Date: 2019-05-13 03:23 am (UTC)"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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Date: 2019-05-13 03:40 am (UTC)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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Date: 2019-05-13 04:00 am (UTC)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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Date: 2019-05-13 04:11 am (UTC)"So you are familiar," she replies, her eyebrows furrowed suspiciously. She has never had someone scoff so incredulously at her when she told them anything, especially when she states a simply fact like the name of the land upon which they stand.
Behind her, Gárulf calls out a question to her in their native tongue and she answers him without looking over her shoulder, translating what is happening for him and the others who do not speak the Common Tongue so well. The mood of the assembled riders behind her, slowly thawing the longer their Marshal spoke with the stranger, cools abruptly, although at least no spears are leveled in his direction again.
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Date: 2019-05-13 04:28 am (UTC)"I'm sorry, my lady," he says, adjusting his terminology to match the setting, and his voice is as earnest and honest as any man of the Mark. "I am familiar, that's true. I just... I couldn't believe it for a moment. I've heard of Rohan, but only in stories. I know her people are as brave as they are honorable, and how fierce in combat."
His hands drop to his sides, and his posture eases. "Please accept my apology. I didn't mean to offend or disrespect you. I'm on a mission of great importance and I'm very far from where I need to be--farther than I thought I could ever go."
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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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