Not a match for the Mark's horses, no, but Èowyn does not shun them, happy to take a moment to greet her mare with scratches and a few murmured words in Rohirric, for it immediately puts her more at ease to be around the familiar beasts. She wonders what become of her own horse, desperately hoping Windfola escaped the tumult of battle and was looking out for herself, out there. Pushing such potentially dour musings from her mind, Èowyn takes to the saddle with the ease of a horsewoman despite her healing arm and long skirts. Thankfully hers is not a ridiculous sidesaddle like she'd been concerned it might-- Èowyn cannot for the life of her imagine how Gondorian ladies deal with those.
Their ride is leisurely, though she longs to snap the reins and gallop; of course that isn't possible on the streets of the city, but the urge burns in her breast nonetheless. That does not mean she enjoys the journey any less, listening closely to the information Faramir so graciously provides her about the city and its sights. Of which there are many; she thinks she has not seen so many statues anywhere before. It is a lofty place indeed, this grand stone city of ancient line of kings. With fortune, it would see a King returned to its throne again soon.
It does not escape Èowyn's notice the citizens look upon Faramir with such interest, for he cuts a fine figure indeed; but more than that, she sees respect and love on their faces. She had not been lying to Faramir when she'd told him he had both of those from his people. But some cry out her name, too-- or the title borne of her deeds at the battlefield. She thinks back to Faramir's own words to her, on what a difference she had made with her triumph, and smiles graciously. To think that some time ago, she had imagined lofty treatment like this, albeit as Aragorn's queen. She had wanted to share in his power and be elevated by it, but had she not now found power of her own, for all that the future is otherwise uncertain? As she glances askance at Faramir by her side, reconciling Aragorn's noble but grim visage next to Faramir's is difficult. Desires of being Aragorn's queen slip further and further every day; she begins to see it clearly now, her own folly of thinking admiration coupled with her desperation was love. How bitterly foolish, and embarrassing!
Thankfully they reach their destination before she can dwell too much on that, the highest summit of the city. The fabled White Tree looks lonely and shriveled out on the courtyard, showing still no sign of the approach of the return of the king. But the entrance to the Citadel is lofty indeed, far beyond anything Edoras has, and Èowyn can't help but gape a little when she has finally dismounted.
have some more teel deer in honor of saturday
Their ride is leisurely, though she longs to snap the reins and gallop; of course that isn't possible on the streets of the city, but the urge burns in her breast nonetheless. That does not mean she enjoys the journey any less, listening closely to the information Faramir so graciously provides her about the city and its sights. Of which there are many; she thinks she has not seen so many statues anywhere before. It is a lofty place indeed, this grand stone city of ancient line of kings. With fortune, it would see a King returned to its throne again soon.
It does not escape Èowyn's notice the citizens look upon Faramir with such interest, for he cuts a fine figure indeed; but more than that, she sees respect and love on their faces. She had not been lying to Faramir when she'd told him he had both of those from his people. But some cry out her name, too-- or the title borne of her deeds at the battlefield. She thinks back to Faramir's own words to her, on what a difference she had made with her triumph, and smiles graciously. To think that some time ago, she had imagined lofty treatment like this, albeit as Aragorn's queen. She had wanted to share in his power and be elevated by it, but had she not now found power of her own, for all that the future is otherwise uncertain? As she glances askance at Faramir by her side, reconciling Aragorn's noble but grim visage next to Faramir's is difficult. Desires of being Aragorn's queen slip further and further every day; she begins to see it clearly now, her own folly of thinking admiration coupled with her desperation was love. How bitterly foolish, and embarrassing!
Thankfully they reach their destination before she can dwell too much on that, the highest summit of the city. The fabled White Tree looks lonely and shriveled out on the courtyard, showing still no sign of the approach of the return of the king. But the entrance to the Citadel is lofty indeed, far beyond anything Edoras has, and Èowyn can't help but gape a little when she has finally dismounted.