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.
"It won't. Not this. It's a part of me now, forever." He tries to think of a way to explain to her how it works, but their understanding of the world is different on so many levels that it's hard to frame.
"From before we're born, there are instructions inside of us that determine how we grow and develop. We get those instructions from our parents; that's why families resemble each other. What was done to me, it changed those instructions fundamentally."
One eyebrow lifts and she hums skeptically, resisting the urge to shake her head at him, but only barely.
"Blood magic is a serious matter, Steven." What he must have sacrificed to be given this new body doesn't bear thinking about. She cannot imagine how dire her life must get before she would be tempted to strike such a bargain with someone who could change the entire course of her life so fundamentally. "It always has consequences."
"Blood magic?" Why is he surprised? Fine, it's magic. He won't be able to convince anyone otherwise, so there's no further point in disputing it. But his smile tightens a little bit at her mention of consequences. She doesn't know the half of what he's given to get where he is now.
"If there are consequences, then I've paid them," he says, his tone taking a dark edge before he finishes his mead. "But this is who I am now, for better or worse."
This time, as she watches him, her expression gentles and she reaches out to settle her hard hand on his wrist for a moment.
"My apologies." Secretly, she thinks it is a good thing that he has already paid the consequences of his actions, because surely it will prevent him from doing something so stupid as to make a blood pact with a witch again. A scientist, as he said. Still, she is not so callous as to be oblivious to the fact that it was difficult for him, and surely remembering the pain he has suffered is not something he wants to do. She can relate. "I did not intend to upset you."
To change the subject, she reaches out and snags a bread roll off the platter down the table, depositing it on Steven's plate before taking one for herself as well. "My riders tell me you are not very capable in the saddle." The words may be chastising, but her tone is playful. "Is that true?"
"Don't worry about it," he says. He knows how different their understanding of the world is, really, having met Stephen Strange, he knows that magic is real even in his own universe. The apology seems to settle him, and when she drops a roll on his plate, he picks it up with a wry grin.
"Oh, is that what they're saying?" he asks, using a knife to slice the roll open. "I'll have you know I thought I did pretty well for a guy who's never ridden a horse before," he remarks, filling the roll with bits of meat and cheese before taking a bite. A girl comes by to refill his ale, and he thanks her with a nod.
“Never?” She cannot fathom such a thing. To the Rohirrim, life without leaning to ride is simply not feasible. So much of their lives and their culture revolves around their horse herds. Éomer had learned to ride the same time she learned to walk, or so it seemed. “How did you travel, if you have never ridden before?” Her eyes narrow abruptly, playfully suspicious. “Tell me you have not spent your whole life riding in carriages like some sort of Gondorian dandy.”
Her own cup is likewise refilled, and she spares the serving girl enough attention to give her a little wink before she turns back to her companion. “Well. I suppose you will have to learn. Luckily for you, I am well used to teaching recalcintent youths how to care for their horses.”
"Not once in my life," he confirms with a grin. "But I've also never ridden in a carriage--not like the ones you're familiar with, anyway. There are vehicles like carriages, but they don't need to be pulled by horses because they can move on their own." Her incredulity is amusing, but he shakes his head. "Mostly I used to walk places. Sometimes I fly places. Just depends on how far I have to go."
Her offer to teach him to ride is one met with arched brows and a lopsided smile. "Lucky me," he says. "I suppose lessons begin at dawn?"
Though she tries not to look too stunned, Éomer finds herself mouthing the word “fly” incredulously, though she tells herself she will ask for more details another time. Right now, she just grins at him.
“Indeed they do.”
That is, assuming that she won’t be sent off on another patrol come dawn, but for now, she can promise to teach him with full intent on following through. He will not be smiling so much by the time they are through; Éomer is an exacting instructor and does not go easy on anyone no matter who they might be. It is why the riders under her command are so skilled. She will not tolerate anything less.
Dawn the next morning finds Steve astride Arroch once more, looking fresh as a daisy even after a long night of drinking. Éomer is thorough in putting her men through their paces, but Steve takes direction well and he learns quickly without voicing even the slightest complaint.
When they break for water, he hops down from the saddle and takes the shield off his back so he can have a proper stretch. "What's next?" he asks when she approaches, rolling his shoulders.
Steven's lesson began with the care and keeping of his horse. Éomer showed him how to bridle him, how to saddle him, how to check his hooves for debris, how to groom him, how to speak to him, and the basic commands every rider learns to communicate with their horse.
Only after he could manage those to her satisfaction, did she allow him to actually ride the great beast. Thankfully, for Steven's ego, he is a fast learner, impressing her though she did not voice it, and it feels like it doesn't take long at all before he is carefully cantering through the training course. Leaving him and Arroch to their own devices, Éomer turns her attention to the rest of her riders, putting them a much more intensive training regimen without any hint of mercy for their pounding heads. They should know better than to drink so heavily at all, especially in times like these.
As the éored trains together, Éomer watches Steven approach, that large shield of his finally sliding off his back as he twists to stretch the muscles in his back. She tries not to be too obvious about her staring, but she can't help herself. He is a fine specimen of a man, after all.
"I want to see how you fight without that hammer or that shield," she confesses. It has little to do with real training, and certainly none to do with his horse, but still. She's curious.
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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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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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Date: 2019-05-15 02:09 am (UTC)"From before we're born, there are instructions inside of us that determine how we grow and develop. We get those instructions from our parents; that's why families resemble each other. What was done to me, it changed those instructions fundamentally."
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Date: 2019-05-15 02:18 am (UTC)"Blood magic is a serious matter, Steven." What he must have sacrificed to be given this new body doesn't bear thinking about. She cannot imagine how dire her life must get before she would be tempted to strike such a bargain with someone who could change the entire course of her life so fundamentally. "It always has consequences."
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Date: 2019-05-15 02:35 am (UTC)"If there are consequences, then I've paid them," he says, his tone taking a dark edge before he finishes his mead. "But this is who I am now, for better or worse."
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Date: 2019-05-15 02:50 am (UTC)"My apologies." Secretly, she thinks it is a good thing that he has already paid the consequences of his actions, because surely it will prevent him from doing something so stupid as to make a blood pact with a witch again. A scientist, as he said. Still, she is not so callous as to be oblivious to the fact that it was difficult for him, and surely remembering the pain he has suffered is not something he wants to do. She can relate. "I did not intend to upset you."
To change the subject, she reaches out and snags a bread roll off the platter down the table, depositing it on Steven's plate before taking one for herself as well. "My riders tell me you are not very capable in the saddle." The words may be chastising, but her tone is playful. "Is that true?"
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Date: 2019-05-15 02:58 am (UTC)"Oh, is that what they're saying?" he asks, using a knife to slice the roll open. "I'll have you know I thought I did pretty well for a guy who's never ridden a horse before," he remarks, filling the roll with bits of meat and cheese before taking a bite. A girl comes by to refill his ale, and he thanks her with a nod.
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Date: 2019-05-15 03:06 am (UTC)“Never?” She cannot fathom such a thing. To the Rohirrim, life without leaning to ride is simply not feasible. So much of their lives and their culture revolves around their horse herds. Éomer had learned to ride the same time she learned to walk, or so it seemed. “How did you travel, if you have never ridden before?” Her eyes narrow abruptly, playfully suspicious. “Tell me you have not spent your whole life riding in carriages like some sort of Gondorian dandy.”
Her own cup is likewise refilled, and she spares the serving girl enough attention to give her a little wink before she turns back to her companion. “Well. I suppose you will have to learn. Luckily for you, I am well used to teaching recalcintent youths how to care for their horses.”
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Date: 2019-05-15 03:14 am (UTC)Her offer to teach him to ride is one met with arched brows and a lopsided smile. "Lucky me," he says. "I suppose lessons begin at dawn?"
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Date: 2019-05-15 03:27 am (UTC)“Indeed they do.”
That is, assuming that she won’t be sent off on another patrol come dawn, but for now, she can promise to teach him with full intent on following through. He will not be smiling so much by the time they are through; Éomer is an exacting instructor and does not go easy on anyone no matter who they might be. It is why the riders under her command are so skilled. She will not tolerate anything less.
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Date: 2019-05-15 03:45 am (UTC)When they break for water, he hops down from the saddle and takes the shield off his back so he can have a proper stretch. "What's next?" he asks when she approaches, rolling his shoulders.
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Date: 2019-05-15 04:19 am (UTC)Only after he could manage those to her satisfaction, did she allow him to actually ride the great beast. Thankfully, for Steven's ego, he is a fast learner, impressing her though she did not voice it, and it feels like it doesn't take long at all before he is carefully cantering through the training course. Leaving him and Arroch to their own devices, Éomer turns her attention to the rest of her riders, putting them a much more intensive training regimen without any hint of mercy for their pounding heads. They should know better than to drink so heavily at all, especially in times like these.
As the éored trains together, Éomer watches Steven approach, that large shield of his finally sliding off his back as he twists to stretch the muscles in his back. She tries not to be too obvious about her staring, but she can't help herself. He is a fine specimen of a man, after all.
"I want to see how you fight without that hammer or that shield," she confesses. It has little to do with real training, and certainly none to do with his horse, but still. She's curious.
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