"You are not my captive," she corrects him, sharply. It is made sharper still by that smile, by all that it holds and all that his words import. There is at least one man here who would give her that, and she would sooner strip off her own skin than endure his company; alas, then, that he is the very man whose arrival they await. "You are in the halls of Théoden King, of whom I am but an emissary; and you are his captive, not mine; and it is his pleasure you await." And so she must, for all its bitterness, stomach the presence of his advisor, when he comes. She will not be made traitorous for the sake of his pride - or her own.
And yet, the thought lingers, another echo of those late nights and whispered doubts. Why spend any time with this Grim Gríma at all? Why, indeed? Why linger on his pleasure, when she knows that it is no more true to her uncle's will than anything she herself could say? Why wait, and agonise in the waiting, and bow to the falsely-gained power of a vile and crawling man?
She presses her lips together, and it is her own brow now which creases with thought. For a moment, her grey eyes meet green ones, and they are intent and searching.
"And what would you do, in my place?" she demands, at last - but there is a genuine question there, not merely a stubborn refutation. "It is not, I think, a custom in your lands or any other for a court at war to rearm trespassers and send them on their way with a hearty go-ye-well. What, then, did you hope for, when you came? How would you treat a man in your place?"
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sforzinda
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Date: 2021-10-03 12:06 am (UTC)And yet, the thought lingers, another echo of those late nights and whispered doubts. Why spend any time with this Grim Gríma at all? Why, indeed? Why linger on his pleasure, when she knows that it is no more true to her uncle's will than anything she herself could say? Why wait, and agonise in the waiting, and bow to the falsely-gained power of a vile and crawling man?
She presses her lips together, and it is her own brow now which creases with thought. For a moment, her grey eyes meet green ones, and they are intent and searching.
"And what would you do, in my place?" she demands, at last - but there is a genuine question there, not merely a stubborn refutation. "It is not, I think, a custom in your lands or any other for a court at war to rearm trespassers and send them on their way with a hearty go-ye-well. What, then, did you hope for, when you came? How would you treat a man in your place?"