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Author Topic: subverting dysphoria  (Read 88 times)


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subverting dysphoria
« on: June 02, 2020, 10:03:01 AM »
timeline. Autumn, T.A. 3010.
notes. For Theoden. Eowyn is about 15.


She hated it.

That was the long and short of it, and there wasn't a shred of eloquence to be had. As it was, Eowyn wasn't particularly gifted with poetic license anyway; she had no mind for sitting about all day composing songs, and had never quite lost the child-like bluntness that was communicating just how ridiculous she found the notion when their people already had a multitude of songs in their legendarium to be sung, in myth and learning. Thank heavens, then, she was Rohirric and no other people, or such directness might have been an issue long ago.

But it was also the fact that what she hated was such a...non-complex, ambiguous issue to hate. And also ridiculous, she thought fiercely, as she swung her sword yet again at the battered training post.

'Why in all of Middle Earth has the appearance of breasts changed what I can and can't do?'

But they had. In the same way all things seemed to be happening with her body lately, they'd appeared overnight seemingly...and everything had become downright frustrating, even unpleasant. And coming from her, with no recourse as to how to deal with it, that was quite something to say.

And yet here she was. Hacking a training post to death, because suddenly it seemed, none of the lads wanted to spar with her. Looked downright nervous when they did, in fact, and Eowyn had the waspish notion that it was nothing to do with how fierce, terrifying, quick or otherwise fearsome she was as a fellow warrior. Eomer no longer seemed to want to spare time for...well, them, either-- had even had the temerity to lecture her once or twice on what needed to be done about Meduseld. Git. As if she wasn't painfully aware of the growing sense of what needed to be done about the golden halls, and her own role in those things.

Even Theodred seemed reluctant to train with her, or even Still showed more affection than most in the open, but the elbow to her chest that had alerted the world, it seemed, to her budding, if late, womanhood, had been the apparent last of their training together for a while. Prat.

She knew she was being unfair, in a way. All of them-- save Theodred, who had long been mature these past summers, were growing up, if they hadn't been grown up in their ways already (as if you couldn't not grow up after seeing a father and a mother die, though Eowyn swallowed ruthlessly the urge to sniff at that with a parry at an invisible strike), and with that came responsibilities. Especially for Theodred.

But still.

She'd have preferred one of them to have been around this morning, when Grima's hand had lingered on her shoulder a little too long for it to remain comfortable, or comforting. Though still too young to truly delve deeply into the motives of another (in the way she tragically would grow to in the future, constantly), there had been something about it she had twitched at that didn't seem to have much to do with the impropriety of manhandling one of the House of Eorl. Even thinking that made her feel bad, because she didn't think she was a snob...and yet she hadn't felt comfortable regardless.

'Step back, step to the side-- this is rotten without a partner that actually moves-- swing up--'

The training post splintered and groaned with the force of feeling behind that last attack, it's death knell seemingly done in slow motion as what remained attached slowly fell to the side, Eowyn staring incredulously all the while.

It might have been a victory of strength at any other time.

But all she felt was frustration, and it bubbled in her throat until her entire morning's worth of thoughts and frustrations erupted into an incoherent yell, the young Lady of Meduseld kicking out angrily at the opponent that was neither moving nor really there.

'i've learned that strength is something you choose'


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Re: subverting dysphoria
« Reply #1 on: June 02, 2020, 02:30:34 PM »
It had been eight years since his niece and nephew had come into his charge – eight beautiful years, though, there had been a bittersweet feeling to it all. The death of his sister had not come lightly, nor had the death of her husband. He was not unaccustomed to being a single parent, but a single parent of three had certainly changed the way things worked in his household. Gríma, though initially just his advisor, seemed to have taken it upon himself to help – though Éowyn had taken her disliking to him. Still, Théoden had determined this was because he was not, by blood, a part of the family, and so she did not accept him.

How wrong could he be?

Recently, however, Théoden had found he was having good days and bad days – though, the cause of this was unclear. It was often the case that he could walk his halls with no issue at all, but sometimes, he would walk into a room and often forget how he got there. He would snap at unsuspecting servants or find himself in a generally unpleasant mood to all around. On the odd occasion, he’d find it hard to do anything at all – whether it was wandering his halls, or thinking straight, and those were the days that worried him.

Today, however, he was somewhere between a clear day and one that had some clouds. He had been sat in his chair for what seemed like an eternity – taking requests from the people of Rohan or listening to their stories. On one side he had Gríma, who had been late without good reason, would often whisper this and that in his ear, and on the other was Théodred, who has said nothing since the meetings began. Leaning on his hand, his fingers positioned as if he was thinking, he looked to the woman that was standing before him, speaking of the Underharrow and how livestock had been going missing recently without a trace.

One of the serving women had come to fill cups with various liquid, and Théoden leaned to her and spoke in hushed tones. “Frumhild, send for Éomer. Bring him to this chamber.” The woman nodded, and as quickly and quietly as the order had been given, she left. He sat up in his throne, fingers now gripping the arms of the seat ready to leave before offering an answer. “I will send some of my riders down to Underharrow. We’ll find out what has happened to your livestock.” With those words he waved for her to leave before calling to the doorward. “My halls for requests are closed for today, Háma.” Turning to Gríma he gave his commands. “Once Éomer arrives, he and Théodred are to train in here, then you may retire until I return.” He needed to breathe. His head had begun to turn cloudy, and perhaps the clear air would do him the world of good.

Discarding his long coat upon his throne, he set off through his halls, hand on the hilt of his sword. Perhaps if he spent some time letting off steam, he would find clearer thoughts for the betterment of his day. The cool morning air hit his face like a welcomed cloth-wash. He took a moment to appreciate the sounds of his city bustling around him, his hand lightly gripped around the handle of his sword.

Training rooms, he thought, no one should be there, and it will allow time to think.

With more conviction than before, he set off in the direction of the room in question. Then he heard it. The distinct sound of sword splintering wood – and this caused Théoden to slow his steps, almost creeping towards the room and peering inside.

Éowyn. So much like my mother at such a young age.

The thought made him smile as he watched her for a few moments more, allowing her this moment to do as she pleased. She seemed content in fighting – and though she was supposed to be the Lady of Meduseld, he would allow her these moments, as the older she got, the less they would be. He watched as her frustrations bubbled and slipped inside the door as the distraction presented itself.

“The Lady of Meduseld’s battle cry. A sound to behold for miles around!” He called, his face stern and hands folded behind his back as he looked to her. “Perhaps I have grown tired in my age, my eyes must deceive me for I am sure the Lady Éowyn had duties to attend to…” His eyes stayed stern, but his lips betrayed him as a small smile began to curl in their corners. He could not be angry at his niece – she reminded him too much of his mother to be cross at her wish to fight.

He permitted her time to speak, holding his tongue, his features unfaltering, but the small smile in the corner of his mouth remained. “The training post has seen better days." He began, taking in a deep breath as he looked at his niece - the fiercest fifteen year old girl he knew. “It is not wise to take up swords in anger - battle or otherwise." He walked towards the training post, plucking any precarious splinters from their place and dropping them to the floor beneath them. “There is a difference in fighting with purpose, and fighting out of anger. Warriors fight with purpose. Fools, with anger."

Tags: théoden t.a. 3010 

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