FIC: Skytten (LotR)
Title: Skytten
Author: Galadriel (caras_galadhon)
Fandom: LotR
Characters/Pairing: Éomer (Éomer/Lothíriel, Éomer/Aragorn)
Rating: PG-13
Archive: Lothlorien.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: I have a vivid fantasy life, but I do not pretend to be JRR Tolkien, nor do I pretend to own his characters.
Summary: Strange Northerners have come to Rohan, but what changes they bring with them are even stranger.
Notes: empy has the most cracked-out ideas, I swear to god. So this fic was written for her while she both egged me on and provided invaluable language and cultural consultation. I'd tag this story as (belated) birthday fic for makamu and afra_schatz, but I suspect they'd both disown me on the spot. Notes expanding on all embedded linguistic/cultural references are available at the end of the story.
ETA (02/22/2008): empy has gifted me with a wonderful accompanying illustration! (Thank you so much! ♥) You can view "Horse-lord" at the end of the story, or in empy's post here. Do take a moment to let her know how wonderful she is, please. ^_^
Skytten
By Galadriel
The night had passed in a blur of mead, meat and merels, the small group of Lossoth surprisingly adept players, even in the depths of their cups.
The wind had blown tidings of their approach to the Rohirrim days ago; scouts were sent out from Meduseld to keep careful watch on the slow progress of these foot soldiers, clad as they were in raiments better worn in the depths of winter, fur shielding their faces, fingerless gloves fully covering their hands. While their garments were strange, what was truly worthy of note -- and what most intrigued the new Lord of the Mark -- was the lack of horses or any pack animals at all. Instead of ass or steed, hounds pulled makeshift sleds with runnels rather than wheels, each contraption bumping and sliding awkwardly over hoof-flattened grasses. Unlike his own hunting hounds, sleek and silent in their pursuit of game, these shaggy beasts barked and whined as they yanked at their yokes, jerking each sled a small space ahead in a jolting, shuddering movement; yet the threat of destruction seemed not at all distressing to any man who walked beside.
The scouts had recounted each detail accurately, but reports were no replacement for seeing with his own eyes, so once it was determined that the curious company held little threat, Éomer gathered together a small party and set out to meet them on the plains.
It had been awkward at first, Éomer having made the mistake of dismounting to greet a young, strong man at the head of the pack, taking him as leader only to watch his eyes sparkle as he stepped aside, allowing an old woman to pass, each line on her face betraying both the wisdom of her years and the endurance in her bones. She bowed, straightened, and as she pushed the hood from off her head, a mane of grey settled about her shoulders, glittering in the sunlight almost as radiantly as the smile with which she gifted Éomer.
Somewhat abashed, Éomer met her bow with one even lower, asking for her forgiveness and silently relieved that Éowyn was in far off Ithilien, for she would geld him when she heard of his presumptuous fault, and he would rather have some lead time to secure his escape.
The Lossoth, as they introduced themselves, had a halting handle on Westron, made more slippery by the quirks and eccentricities of speech well-steeped in ice and snow, a barrier to the ears and tongues of the children of wind and plains. Their hospitality, however, was not at all dampened by such matters, and King and Riders were at once invited to sup. Upon acceptance and agreement, the Riders set to helping the Lossoth make camp, and Éomer was surprised and pleased to see their temporary dwellings -- hide stretched across birch, lashed into place with rawhide, the ground inside and beneath scattered with furs -- were very much like the Rohirrim's own tents used on long campaigns.
The party was no more than a dozen men and women, but they were well-outfitted with food and drink, the latter which loosened tongues and made unfamiliar words over into shared sounds. As night closed in and their fires burned higher, Éomer managed to puzzle out some manner of their purpose. The elder woman, now known to Éomer as Skade, spoke of carrying a message, but when he inquired, she could neither explain for whom nor to where they travelled.
As a few of her people set out small boards and pieces, engaging the Riders in a slight variation on the game of merel they knew at home, Éomer and Skade's conversation turned to the heavens above.
Éomer listened more than he spoke, yearning to hear the meaning behind each exotic, lilting syllable, and as the stars spun above, each familiar pinpoint of light gained a new name. Helluin was reborn as a hound, firmly-fixed in the hearts of the Lossoth, ever-winking over their lands, keeping watch against hunters and thieves. Those constellations Éomer kept close -- seeking out each night he spent in the open -- were redrawn, one horse becoming another, one sprouting wings and bearing a foal, another shifting, reshaping into half a man.
Drowsing under the spell of myth and mead, Éomer accepted a pinch of something like pipeweed offered by one of Skade's female companions. He watched through a haze of smoke and sleepiness and did as each of his fellows, inhaling it through his nose, blinking against his suddenly watering eyes. The stars blurred, blazing brighter, and Éomer was certain he heard Skade name the half-man "Skytten" a moment before speaking his name, and a scant breath before he succumbed to sleep.
***
It was the warmth of the sun on his face that woke Éomer, its heat far too strong to signal anything before late morning. He blinked against the light, faintly irritated that none of his Riders had seen fit to wake their King when there were preparations to be made to properly welcome their visitors to the Hall. As his eyes adjusted, he struggled to take stock of his surroundings. There were his Riders, sleeping in the long grass as if they were carefree colts, heedless of the need to keep watch, even in this time of peace.
He craned his neck, looking around, but there was no sign of the Lossoth past the tracks of their sleds in the dirt. No tents, no hounds, not so much as a whisper of laughter; but for the tracks, it would be as if they had melted away with the dawn. Éomer rose, struggling to get his legs under him, frustrated at how slowly they responded, how awkward he felt. He stood, stumbled, wobbling forward, cursing the imbibed mead, tracing the path the Lossoth took: not towards Meduseld as he imagined, but instead turning sharply from camp, away towards Isengard.
Éomer frowned; he had hoped to meet their hospitality in kind, learn more from them, yet their leaving robbed him of such pleasures. He trotted over to check on the Riders' steeds, let to roam, trusted to not wander far as in old, and was rewarded with a soft whicker and nudge from his white mare. He smiled as he patted her flank, wholly focussed on the sheen of her coat, the smooth glide of her muscles, so much so that he barely flinched as a fly settled on his own back, a simple flick and swish taking care of the offending insect. He would need to wake the men, get them up and moving, but for now he was content to enjoy the gentle touch of hide on hide, the way the grass felt under his hooves, the soft fall of the mare's mane as she bent her head towards him.
He felt a stirring in his loins he most often associated with his morning routine, and was just admiring the curve of his mare's neck, wistfully recalling the round firmness of Lothíriel's breasts beneath his fingers, idly contemplating the contrasting roughness of Aragorn's beard between his thighs when a gasp startled him out of his reverie.
"Lord?"
Éomer swung around, gently bumping against the mare, shuffling until they were pressed flank to flank.
The horrified look on Elfhelm's face gave way to a growing confusion as he regarded his King. "Lord Éomer, you are... you have changed."
Éomer whickered; the notion that he was anything other than himself was a preposterous one. After all, here he stood, head on shoulders, arms at his sides, all four feet on the ground--
He looked down. There beneath him were his traitorous legs, honey-gold and tapering to fine, shining hooves, unshod and untouched by blacksmith or groom. He glanced behind him, taking in the long stretch of back, the swishing grey tail, and as his heart began to hammer in his chest, he widened his stance, shifting until he caught a satisfactory glimpse beneath himself.
Thank Ilúvatar for small favours. Éowyn would be able to unman him still. But, he thought with no small smugness, it would be quite the undertaking indeed.
As he glanced up, he realized Elfhelm was still standing before him, mouth hanging open, and it dawned on him that some response on his part was needed. He cast about, searching for the right words, and came up with, "Well. This is unexpected."
Elfhelm nodded mutely, and at a word from Éomer went to rouse the other Riders, fill them in on this new development. Once they had absorbed this strange change, they would be able to proceed back to the Hall, and perhaps, once there, Éomer could have the peace he needed to chew over the visit from the Lossoth, for it could be none other behind his present state. At least their tracks were clear as day to even the youngest and most inexperienced Rohirrim, so it would not be long until they could be found and brought back to right what had gone wrong.
Aragorn would be called as well, for Éomer could think of no one better to take the present matter in hand if he himself could not; and straining an arm backward and between, it became distressingly clear that Éomer most definitely could not.
Until then, Éomer had a warm stall to look forward to, all the meadowsweet he could eat, and after a brisk rubdown and a visit from Lothíriel, perchance he might have a few quiet moments alone with his mare; such a noble, loyal, attractive steed deserved some special attention, after all.
END
(February 19, 2008)
Horse-lord by empy.
(Click illustration for larger; leave feedback for empy here.)
Linguistic Notes:
Merels: Also known as "Merreles," "Mills," or "Nine Men's Morris" (among other variations), merels is a two-person strategy game dating back to the Roman Empire. It requires a specially-marked board and two sets of (usually) nine playing pieces, each set a different colour. The game appears in a variety of cultures, the height of its popularity occurring during the medieval period in England.
Lossoth: As of the Third Age, the last remaining descendants of the Forodwaith, an ancient Northern people. The Lossoth primarily lived along the Cape of Forochel, the northernmost part of the Icebay of the same name. They were highly acclimatised to the harsh conditions they lived in, constructing houses out of snow, and using sleds and skates as transportation. Although few of the other cultures of Middle-earth were familiar with them, these "snow-men" travelled widely within their own lands. In TA 1194, they gave shelter to Arvedui, the last King of Arthedain (successors to the Kings of Arnor) and father of the first Chieftain of the Dúnedain. Arvedui gave the Ring of Barahir into the Lossoth's keeping shortly before he perished.
Skade: A Swedish variant on "Skadi" (the "Snowshoe Goddess"), a giantess in Nordic mythology. She was the daughter of the giant Thjazi, the wife of Njord (God of Wind and Sea), and later of Ulr (God of Skis), and it was through her quest to avenge her father's death that Thjazi's eyes were set in the sky as stars.
Helluin: The brightest star in Middle-earth skies, equivalent to Sirius, the Dog Star. "Helluin" appears to mean "ice blue."
Skytten: The Swedish word for the constellation known in English as Sagittarius, or The Archer. Sagittarius is a centaur, a mythological creature that is half-horse and half-man.Crossposted to meduseld, athelingas.
Author: Galadriel (caras_galadhon)
Fandom: LotR
Characters/Pairing: Éomer (Éomer/Lothíriel, Éomer/Aragorn)
Rating: PG-13
Archive: Lothlorien.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: I have a vivid fantasy life, but I do not pretend to be JRR Tolkien, nor do I pretend to own his characters.
Summary: Strange Northerners have come to Rohan, but what changes they bring with them are even stranger.
Notes: empy has the most cracked-out ideas, I swear to god. So this fic was written for her while she both egged me on and provided invaluable language and cultural consultation. I'd tag this story as (belated) birthday fic for makamu and afra_schatz, but I suspect they'd both disown me on the spot. Notes expanding on all embedded linguistic/cultural references are available at the end of the story.
ETA (02/22/2008): empy has gifted me with a wonderful accompanying illustration! (Thank you so much! ♥) You can view "Horse-lord" at the end of the story, or in empy's post here. Do take a moment to let her know how wonderful she is, please. ^_^
Skytten
By Galadriel
The night had passed in a blur of mead, meat and merels, the small group of Lossoth surprisingly adept players, even in the depths of their cups.
The wind had blown tidings of their approach to the Rohirrim days ago; scouts were sent out from Meduseld to keep careful watch on the slow progress of these foot soldiers, clad as they were in raiments better worn in the depths of winter, fur shielding their faces, fingerless gloves fully covering their hands. While their garments were strange, what was truly worthy of note -- and what most intrigued the new Lord of the Mark -- was the lack of horses or any pack animals at all. Instead of ass or steed, hounds pulled makeshift sleds with runnels rather than wheels, each contraption bumping and sliding awkwardly over hoof-flattened grasses. Unlike his own hunting hounds, sleek and silent in their pursuit of game, these shaggy beasts barked and whined as they yanked at their yokes, jerking each sled a small space ahead in a jolting, shuddering movement; yet the threat of destruction seemed not at all distressing to any man who walked beside.
The scouts had recounted each detail accurately, but reports were no replacement for seeing with his own eyes, so once it was determined that the curious company held little threat, Éomer gathered together a small party and set out to meet them on the plains.
It had been awkward at first, Éomer having made the mistake of dismounting to greet a young, strong man at the head of the pack, taking him as leader only to watch his eyes sparkle as he stepped aside, allowing an old woman to pass, each line on her face betraying both the wisdom of her years and the endurance in her bones. She bowed, straightened, and as she pushed the hood from off her head, a mane of grey settled about her shoulders, glittering in the sunlight almost as radiantly as the smile with which she gifted Éomer.
Somewhat abashed, Éomer met her bow with one even lower, asking for her forgiveness and silently relieved that Éowyn was in far off Ithilien, for she would geld him when she heard of his presumptuous fault, and he would rather have some lead time to secure his escape.
The Lossoth, as they introduced themselves, had a halting handle on Westron, made more slippery by the quirks and eccentricities of speech well-steeped in ice and snow, a barrier to the ears and tongues of the children of wind and plains. Their hospitality, however, was not at all dampened by such matters, and King and Riders were at once invited to sup. Upon acceptance and agreement, the Riders set to helping the Lossoth make camp, and Éomer was surprised and pleased to see their temporary dwellings -- hide stretched across birch, lashed into place with rawhide, the ground inside and beneath scattered with furs -- were very much like the Rohirrim's own tents used on long campaigns.
The party was no more than a dozen men and women, but they were well-outfitted with food and drink, the latter which loosened tongues and made unfamiliar words over into shared sounds. As night closed in and their fires burned higher, Éomer managed to puzzle out some manner of their purpose. The elder woman, now known to Éomer as Skade, spoke of carrying a message, but when he inquired, she could neither explain for whom nor to where they travelled.
As a few of her people set out small boards and pieces, engaging the Riders in a slight variation on the game of merel they knew at home, Éomer and Skade's conversation turned to the heavens above.
Éomer listened more than he spoke, yearning to hear the meaning behind each exotic, lilting syllable, and as the stars spun above, each familiar pinpoint of light gained a new name. Helluin was reborn as a hound, firmly-fixed in the hearts of the Lossoth, ever-winking over their lands, keeping watch against hunters and thieves. Those constellations Éomer kept close -- seeking out each night he spent in the open -- were redrawn, one horse becoming another, one sprouting wings and bearing a foal, another shifting, reshaping into half a man.
Drowsing under the spell of myth and mead, Éomer accepted a pinch of something like pipeweed offered by one of Skade's female companions. He watched through a haze of smoke and sleepiness and did as each of his fellows, inhaling it through his nose, blinking against his suddenly watering eyes. The stars blurred, blazing brighter, and Éomer was certain he heard Skade name the half-man "Skytten" a moment before speaking his name, and a scant breath before he succumbed to sleep.
***
It was the warmth of the sun on his face that woke Éomer, its heat far too strong to signal anything before late morning. He blinked against the light, faintly irritated that none of his Riders had seen fit to wake their King when there were preparations to be made to properly welcome their visitors to the Hall. As his eyes adjusted, he struggled to take stock of his surroundings. There were his Riders, sleeping in the long grass as if they were carefree colts, heedless of the need to keep watch, even in this time of peace.
He craned his neck, looking around, but there was no sign of the Lossoth past the tracks of their sleds in the dirt. No tents, no hounds, not so much as a whisper of laughter; but for the tracks, it would be as if they had melted away with the dawn. Éomer rose, struggling to get his legs under him, frustrated at how slowly they responded, how awkward he felt. He stood, stumbled, wobbling forward, cursing the imbibed mead, tracing the path the Lossoth took: not towards Meduseld as he imagined, but instead turning sharply from camp, away towards Isengard.
Éomer frowned; he had hoped to meet their hospitality in kind, learn more from them, yet their leaving robbed him of such pleasures. He trotted over to check on the Riders' steeds, let to roam, trusted to not wander far as in old, and was rewarded with a soft whicker and nudge from his white mare. He smiled as he patted her flank, wholly focussed on the sheen of her coat, the smooth glide of her muscles, so much so that he barely flinched as a fly settled on his own back, a simple flick and swish taking care of the offending insect. He would need to wake the men, get them up and moving, but for now he was content to enjoy the gentle touch of hide on hide, the way the grass felt under his hooves, the soft fall of the mare's mane as she bent her head towards him.
He felt a stirring in his loins he most often associated with his morning routine, and was just admiring the curve of his mare's neck, wistfully recalling the round firmness of Lothíriel's breasts beneath his fingers, idly contemplating the contrasting roughness of Aragorn's beard between his thighs when a gasp startled him out of his reverie.
"Lord?"
Éomer swung around, gently bumping against the mare, shuffling until they were pressed flank to flank.
The horrified look on Elfhelm's face gave way to a growing confusion as he regarded his King. "Lord Éomer, you are... you have changed."
Éomer whickered; the notion that he was anything other than himself was a preposterous one. After all, here he stood, head on shoulders, arms at his sides, all four feet on the ground--
He looked down. There beneath him were his traitorous legs, honey-gold and tapering to fine, shining hooves, unshod and untouched by blacksmith or groom. He glanced behind him, taking in the long stretch of back, the swishing grey tail, and as his heart began to hammer in his chest, he widened his stance, shifting until he caught a satisfactory glimpse beneath himself.
Thank Ilúvatar for small favours. Éowyn would be able to unman him still. But, he thought with no small smugness, it would be quite the undertaking indeed.
As he glanced up, he realized Elfhelm was still standing before him, mouth hanging open, and it dawned on him that some response on his part was needed. He cast about, searching for the right words, and came up with, "Well. This is unexpected."
Elfhelm nodded mutely, and at a word from Éomer went to rouse the other Riders, fill them in on this new development. Once they had absorbed this strange change, they would be able to proceed back to the Hall, and perhaps, once there, Éomer could have the peace he needed to chew over the visit from the Lossoth, for it could be none other behind his present state. At least their tracks were clear as day to even the youngest and most inexperienced Rohirrim, so it would not be long until they could be found and brought back to right what had gone wrong.
Aragorn would be called as well, for Éomer could think of no one better to take the present matter in hand if he himself could not; and straining an arm backward and between, it became distressingly clear that Éomer most definitely could not.
Until then, Éomer had a warm stall to look forward to, all the meadowsweet he could eat, and after a brisk rubdown and a visit from Lothíriel, perchance he might have a few quiet moments alone with his mare; such a noble, loyal, attractive steed deserved some special attention, after all.
END
(February 19, 2008)
Horse-lord by empy.
(Click illustration for larger; leave feedback for empy here.)
Linguistic Notes:
Merels: Also known as "Merreles," "Mills," or "Nine Men's Morris" (among other variations), merels is a two-person strategy game dating back to the Roman Empire. It requires a specially-marked board and two sets of (usually) nine playing pieces, each set a different colour. The game appears in a variety of cultures, the height of its popularity occurring during the medieval period in England.
Lossoth: As of the Third Age, the last remaining descendants of the Forodwaith, an ancient Northern people. The Lossoth primarily lived along the Cape of Forochel, the northernmost part of the Icebay of the same name. They were highly acclimatised to the harsh conditions they lived in, constructing houses out of snow, and using sleds and skates as transportation. Although few of the other cultures of Middle-earth were familiar with them, these "snow-men" travelled widely within their own lands. In TA 1194, they gave shelter to Arvedui, the last King of Arthedain (successors to the Kings of Arnor) and father of the first Chieftain of the Dúnedain. Arvedui gave the Ring of Barahir into the Lossoth's keeping shortly before he perished.
Skade: A Swedish variant on "Skadi" (the "Snowshoe Goddess"), a giantess in Nordic mythology. She was the daughter of the giant Thjazi, the wife of Njord (God of Wind and Sea), and later of Ulr (God of Skis), and it was through her quest to avenge her father's death that Thjazi's eyes were set in the sky as stars.
Helluin: The brightest star in Middle-earth skies, equivalent to Sirius, the Dog Star. "Helluin" appears to mean "ice blue."
Skytten: The Swedish word for the constellation known in English as Sagittarius, or The Archer. Sagittarius is a centaur, a mythological creature that is half-horse and half-man.Crossposted to meduseld, athelingas.