"You ride alone, and seek to flee our men, and will not make parley. And yet, there is nothing you want more than company, ne rihte?" There creeps into her tone a hint of sardonicism. She is not sure, in this moment, how much of what he says is mockery. It all feels mocking to her, for how neatly it cuts to the darkness that haunts her, how with such unnerving ease he has looked through her façade of steel and stone to catch out the nightmares locked beneath the skin. Alone, ignoble, and forgotten; is it so obvious what she fears?
She sighs, and glances over her shoulder, out of the doorway. This is no use, she thinks. There is nothing to be gained from him but foolish jokes and pointed jibes, and any moment now, in any case, word will reach Gríma that he has not been told of this prisoner, and then there will be another problem to solve. And she does not much relish the idea of remaining here when he comes, to be caught between the prisoner's jovial insincerity and the advisor's hungry eyes and silvered tongue. She should leave, now that she has gained what little there is to gain, and put her mind to what will be done next, how she can come to Théoden with convincing enough words to counter his advisor's.
She does not leave. And it is, she will grant - if only to herself, and if only grudgingly - for the worst of reasons; he is right. She craves company, craves anything that is not the dull and grinding shadows of the Golden Hall, craves someone whom she can openly disdain. What is freedom without company? he asks, and she could almost laugh at it. Freedom is nothing at all. She has been a prisoner of her own duty too long to remember the open air.
"You are lucky that it was we who found you," she tells him, aware that her silence has been a little too long. "You might as easily have been set upon by Orcs, or by the Dunlendings, and neither would have treated you as kindly as Lord Dúnhere. If anything would be an insult, it would be to suppose that you were fool enough to ride unbacked into territory where the Riders of the Mark are the least of the dangers." She sighs, and rubs the bridge of her nose; and for a moment, her weariness is apparent, making her look a good deal older than three-and-twenty. "If we were to set you loose now, you might well find as much, for between here and where you were found are many dangers. None of which, it seems, you were prepared to meet. So I will ask once more: if you did not come for war, and you did not come to parley, and you did not even come knowing what terrain you might face, why did you come?"
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sforzinda
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Date: 2021-09-21 10:37 pm (UTC)She sighs, and glances over her shoulder, out of the doorway. This is no use, she thinks. There is nothing to be gained from him but foolish jokes and pointed jibes, and any moment now, in any case, word will reach Gríma that he has not been told of this prisoner, and then there will be another problem to solve. And she does not much relish the idea of remaining here when he comes, to be caught between the prisoner's jovial insincerity and the advisor's hungry eyes and silvered tongue. She should leave, now that she has gained what little there is to gain, and put her mind to what will be done next, how she can come to Théoden with convincing enough words to counter his advisor's.
She does not leave. And it is, she will grant - if only to herself, and if only grudgingly - for the worst of reasons; he is right. She craves company, craves anything that is not the dull and grinding shadows of the Golden Hall, craves someone whom she can openly disdain. What is freedom without company? he asks, and she could almost laugh at it. Freedom is nothing at all. She has been a prisoner of her own duty too long to remember the open air.
"You are lucky that it was we who found you," she tells him, aware that her silence has been a little too long. "You might as easily have been set upon by Orcs, or by the Dunlendings, and neither would have treated you as kindly as Lord Dúnhere. If anything would be an insult, it would be to suppose that you were fool enough to ride unbacked into territory where the Riders of the Mark are the least of the dangers." She sighs, and rubs the bridge of her nose; and for a moment, her weariness is apparent, making her look a good deal older than three-and-twenty. "If we were to set you loose now, you might well find as much, for between here and where you were found are many dangers. None of which, it seems, you were prepared to meet. So I will ask once more: if you did not come for war, and you did not come to parley, and you did not even come knowing what terrain you might face, why did you come?"