It is in that moment - when he will not look her in the eye, when his gaze slides sheepishly away from hers and his smile takes on a less cocky edge - that Éowyn realises, with an abruptness that startles her, that she has misread the matter. That look, those words, are not those of a man who means to reject her; and once she sees that, she sees, too, just how foolish she was to jump to that thought, and how strangely childish a thing it was to think of at all; and she looks away herself, feeling the colour mount back into her cheeks. Once, she is sure, she was not so easily flustered. Once, she was ice and steel, and she should be so still; but it feels as though some small crack in her armour, struck through in those last hectic days of the war, has begun somehow to spread, and she is powerless to stop it.
Her shoulder aches, as though the pain were summoned by the thought, and she grimaces, letting go of the reins to rub absently at the sore, scarred flesh of her upper arm. Powerless. Always, it feels as though it comes back to that: powerless, in the face of whatever doom sweeps her along. And alive, nonetheless, when she should not be; and freed, through grief and loss, from the chains that bound her here. She does not know how to feel about it - about any of it. It is all wrong.
"Do you fear that I would not give you the former?" Her armour is cracked, but her tone is steady, and her cheeks only a little flushed when she looks back at him. "I would, if I meant to give it at all; if you would do me the same service. Can we agree on that: that there should be honesty between us? I am sick of the whispered and the unspoken."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sforzinda
no subject
Date: 2022-04-19 11:08 pm (UTC)Her shoulder aches, as though the pain were summoned by the thought, and she grimaces, letting go of the reins to rub absently at the sore, scarred flesh of her upper arm. Powerless. Always, it feels as though it comes back to that: powerless, in the face of whatever doom sweeps her along. And alive, nonetheless, when she should not be; and freed, through grief and loss, from the chains that bound her here. She does not know how to feel about it - about any of it. It is all wrong.
"Do you fear that I would not give you the former?" Her armour is cracked, but her tone is steady, and her cheeks only a little flushed when she looks back at him. "I would, if I meant to give it at all; if you would do me the same service. Can we agree on that: that there should be honesty between us? I am sick of the whispered and the unspoken."