Chapter Text
‘Why do you always have to drive me insane?!’
Éowyn slams her chair against the table, sending the plates and goblets clattering against the polished oak, toppling one of them over. Opposite of her stands Éomer, clutching the back of his chair, brows furrowed, nostrils flared and breath heavy. His piercing eyes bore into her, their sting colder even than that of the sharpest dagger in all of Rohan. Between them, an exasperated King Théoden has long ceased to feast upon his meal, far too exhausted to handle the bickering of his niece and nephew. His cutlery lies next to his half-eaten plate, the glimmer of hot meat fat lingering on the tips of the fork and along the knife’s blade. The monarch, worn out by days of negotiating treaties with a Gondorian diplomat, keeps his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. He wishes that Théodred could return from his duty; somehow, he knows how to calm them down better than anyone.
Their argument has lasted long enough for him to forget what triggered it. Something about one always receiving more than the other. Something about one being the oldest of the two. Incessant mockeries turning into unrestrained anger.
‘Why do you have to blow things out of proportions every single time?’ Éomer retorts. ‘It is impossible to speak normally with you!’
‘Oh!’ his sister gasps, clutching her chest. ‘You are one to talk! Who kept pestering me and calling me names last time I dared eat more bread than I usually do?’
‘You are always gorging on the stuff! Not even Théodred could take a piece!’
‘I did it once. ONCE! And Edelmer said there was more in the oven!’
‘Still no reason to hog it!’
‘Cry me a river. When you are agonising, that you bleed for days on end, and that your emotions are all over the place, then we will speak. In the meantime, shut it.’
‘Ew. You are disgusting.’
‘You are, you still have sauce all over your beard! What I go through is natural. Nothing natural about the way you look!’
Théoden sighs. There is no use in intervening. Things could only escalate from here. Their tones are heated enough as they are. His gaze meets the old chamberlain’s, who cannot contain a stifled laugh muffled by the back of his hand and disguised as a cough. It was not his first time witnessing such fights between the siblings; he saw them being born, nothing could surprise him any longer.
‘The way I look?! That is grand, coming from you. You are the ugliest of all mutts in Edoras. We only adopted you out of pity!’
‘At least I do not drool on every bedsheet we own.’
‘Oh, does uncle now allow you out of your kennel at night?’
‘Of course, I am much cleaner than the drunkard who pissed himself before bed.’
Éomer rolls his eyes, throwing his hands up in the air.
‘It was my waterskin. The seam ripped.’
‘Sure.’
As one of the maidservants brings a platter of colourful and glazed fruit tarts, Éowyn crosses her arms, defiantly staring at her brother. Without examining and measuring each piece, the largest one stands out. Both siblings notice it at once. When the maid steps away with a bow, her eyes averted from them, they leap forward, startling their disgruntled uncle. The cutlery rattles against plate and table, Éomer’s goblet spills its content onto his embroidered napkin, which at least soaks up parts of the damage. Their knuckles collide above the silver platter as they grope for the largest pastry; one finger cracks audibly. They both shake their hands away even though they are not sure whose bones produced this sound. Yet, soon enough, they are digging their fingertips into the pie, fighting for dominance over dessert.
‘Go… away!’ Éowyn hisses between gritted teeth, straining against her brother’s hold as he grabs her wrists to pry them away from his prize.
‘Heel, mutt, heel!’
‘Call me a dog one more time, and I will bite.’
Under their fingernails, the tart is unrecognisable. It has been gutted, clawed at, and torn apart into crushed pieces of strawberry. This time, despite his forceful defence, Éowyn has the advantage over the portion. Before he can claim it, she devours the shreds as fast as she can, smearing red juice all around her lips.
‘That is unfair!’ Éomer gasps, trying to claim his own portion of the pastry. ‘See? You always get the larger pieces!’
‘Only because I fought for it! You always get the larger plates, you eat — and look — like a troll, while I always become peckish near midnight.’
‘You are such a filthy liar. Please ignore anybody who advises you to be yourself. Even Morgoth would find you evil.’
‘I am surprised that you even remember something from history! Be careful while thinking, though. It would be regrettable to have you run out of the only thought and a half inside your head.’
Éomer abandons his struggle as Éowyn takes advantage of his distraction to snatch the rest of the strawberry pie. As she taunts him with a smirk and by licking her fingers, Théoden slaps his palms on the table and rises, the gesture enough to interrupt them.
‘Now that is quite enough! I am exhausted by your antics! Can you two get along while you are in the same room, for once in your lives?!’
‘Apologies, uncle,’ they mumble simultaneously.
‘Out of my sight. The both of you. No pastries.’
With an embarrassed bow, the siblings part ways and leave Théoden to the much-welcomed stillness of the Golden Hall. Éomer storms out to his chambers, while Éowyn exits the palace to catch some fresh air outside. Perhaps it is not yet so late that she has missed the sunset.
Much to her relief, she is well in advance for it. She comes to sit atop the cliff to watch the colours paint the sky for about an hour and a half. She takes deep breaths, trying to keep her anger under control. She tucks her chin between her folded knees, watching the landscape while grumbling about her brother and how he always receives bigger portions of food than she ever does.
The sun has almost disappeared when the wooden doors of the palace creak open. She does not turn around; guards are likely overtaking the duties from the previous ones, whose constant standing must have tired their legs and backs. But a familiar perfume pervades her nostrils, causing her to roll her eyes.
‘What do you want, you orc?’
‘Always agreeable, you rabid hound,’ Éomer groans.
He paces off the palace’s steps to venture towards the rocks forming the capital’s hill.
‘You smell like an unwashed dog in summer,’ he adds, still seeking a reaction from her.
‘And you reek like a carcass on the roadside.’
He sits beside her, admiring the view in turn. Éowyn inches closer and rests her head on his shoulder. His clean fingers comb through her hair, careful not to tug too harshly.
‘Do you want to play cards in my chambers tonight?’ he asks, all animosity vanished from his tone. ‘I still have some chocolates from the previous equinox celebrations.’
‘Mh… Sure. Only if I eat a little bit more than half of them.’
Éomer snorts.
‘You wish.’