Dúnhere, who is well aware of what bid had been made, starts forward at that, a whisper of steel as he half-draws his sword. "You will hold your tongue," he begins to say; but she raises a hand, gesturing calm.
"Peace, my lord Dúnhere. He shames himself, not me. Or should I be shamed by the howl of wind between the stones, as well, which is as empty?" She turns away from the captive, then, looks more fully at Dúnhere, and one hand comes up to touch the older man's shoulder as he sheathes his sword again. "Efthweorf restan Meduseld, Dúnhere. Edwyrpe þu, edcwica þu. Ic mundiġe selv min ar."
"Ac, hlǣfdīġe..."
"Go," she says, softly, and shakes her head. "Shall I fear a man bound and unarmed, with no weapon but words to turn against me? You have suffered his prattle long enough, I do not doubt, my lord. You need not linger."
There is a gleam in her eyes - one not of amusement or of pleasure but of a deeply-held anger, the embers of a fire that is tamped down hard - as she turns back to the bound man. Her chin is lifted again again, her face hardening anew, and one might almost miss the slight hint of colour in her cheeks. How weary she is of such regard! How tired of those who would look upon her and see only a woman! She half-wonders, then, if she might leave too; for she has other work to do, and she owes this man nothing at all, and he does not want her help.
But he is a mystery, and now, of all times, mysteries cannot be countenanced. There are too many known dangers; the unknown cannot be allowed to linger. She presses her lips more tightly together, and her tone is sharp.
"I will forgive you your uncouthness," she decides, "and grant your ignorance, which may not be helped. Éowyn, I am called, sister-daughter to King Théoden, and lady of these halls. The King is... indisposed." Her hesitation is barely a split second, but it is there. Indisposed. He is asleep, as he often is these days, under the influence of the drugs that take his pain and the fatigue that plagues him; his golden hair has gone to grey and his eyes have dulled; and he is not himself. The tendons in her neck tense for a moment, her fingers curling against the apron of her gown. She cannot dwell on her uncle's ailments, not when there are other matters at hand. She cannot show weakness. "You may deal, then, with me; or, as I said, you may await my uncle's counsel, who does not prefer to face troubles when they come, but to bury them. Perhaps you would sooner be buried?"
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sforzinda
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Date: 2021-09-11 06:04 pm (UTC)"Peace, my lord Dúnhere. He shames himself, not me. Or should I be shamed by the howl of wind between the stones, as well, which is as empty?" She turns away from the captive, then, looks more fully at Dúnhere, and one hand comes up to touch the older man's shoulder as he sheathes his sword again. "Efthweorf restan Meduseld, Dúnhere. Edwyrpe þu, edcwica þu. Ic mundiġe selv min ar."
"Ac, hlǣfdīġe..."
"Go," she says, softly, and shakes her head. "Shall I fear a man bound and unarmed, with no weapon but words to turn against me? You have suffered his prattle long enough, I do not doubt, my lord. You need not linger."
There is a gleam in her eyes - one not of amusement or of pleasure but of a deeply-held anger, the embers of a fire that is tamped down hard - as she turns back to the bound man. Her chin is lifted again again, her face hardening anew, and one might almost miss the slight hint of colour in her cheeks. How weary she is of such regard! How tired of those who would look upon her and see only a woman! She half-wonders, then, if she might leave too; for she has other work to do, and she owes this man nothing at all, and he does not want her help.
But he is a mystery, and now, of all times, mysteries cannot be countenanced. There are too many known dangers; the unknown cannot be allowed to linger. She presses her lips more tightly together, and her tone is sharp.
"I will forgive you your uncouthness," she decides, "and grant your ignorance, which may not be helped. Éowyn, I am called, sister-daughter to King Théoden, and lady of these halls. The King is... indisposed." Her hesitation is barely a split second, but it is there. Indisposed. He is asleep, as he often is these days, under the influence of the drugs that take his pain and the fatigue that plagues him; his golden hair has gone to grey and his eyes have dulled; and he is not himself. The tendons in her neck tense for a moment, her fingers curling against the apron of her gown. She cannot dwell on her uncle's ailments, not when there are other matters at hand. She cannot show weakness. "You may deal, then, with me; or, as I said, you may await my uncle's counsel, who does not prefer to face troubles when they come, but to bury them. Perhaps you would sooner be buried?"