He means to bait her, to prod her to anger. She knows this; knows, too, that she must not be so weak, so petty, as to give him that satisfaction; knows that nothing he says should matter in the slightest, for he has given her no reason to think his opinions worthwhile. All this she knows, and yet she feels her teeth grind, her fingers curling briefly into fists as the dry tinder of her frustration and fury sparks to flame.
"You overstate your own fairness and ability both. Not for anything would I lie with you, passionately or otherwise." She manages, at least, to keep her voice level, though anger thrums behind it - anger aimed not entirely at him, but at everything. At his disregard, and his scorn for her honour, and the trouble he has made for her. At every man who would sooner fuck her than think her worthy of equal regard; at her own helplessness; at the shadows that are cast in these halls, at Gríma Wormtongue and how he has captured her uncle's ear, at her uncle himself for how he ails and leaves her to this fate; at Éomer and Théodred, for being gone, and at the mockery of chance that means she cannot go with them. There is so much fuel to that fire, once it is lit. It is all she can do to hold herself in check; and her fingernails bite against her palms, her grey eyes flashing with rage, before she draws herself back from the brink.
Stone. She must be stone, and iron, and cold and unyielding steel. But even those things may crack, at times; and she is so very tired.
She takes a deep breath in. Holds it a moment. Lets it slowly out. Will you be bested by a bound fool? When she speaks again, her voice is once again cold, matter-of-fact, though the anger has not receded more than a little way.
"If you believe combat is what you are owed, then you shall have it. And if you win, then you shall be accompanied to the borders of our lands, and there set loose, to trouble some other court; and I shall ask no further questions of you. Is that just?"
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sforzinda
no subject
Date: 2021-10-12 10:53 pm (UTC)"You overstate your own fairness and ability both. Not for anything would I lie with you, passionately or otherwise." She manages, at least, to keep her voice level, though anger thrums behind it - anger aimed not entirely at him, but at everything. At his disregard, and his scorn for her honour, and the trouble he has made for her. At every man who would sooner fuck her than think her worthy of equal regard; at her own helplessness; at the shadows that are cast in these halls, at Gríma Wormtongue and how he has captured her uncle's ear, at her uncle himself for how he ails and leaves her to this fate; at Éomer and Théodred, for being gone, and at the mockery of chance that means she cannot go with them. There is so much fuel to that fire, once it is lit. It is all she can do to hold herself in check; and her fingernails bite against her palms, her grey eyes flashing with rage, before she draws herself back from the brink.
Stone. She must be stone, and iron, and cold and unyielding steel. But even those things may crack, at times; and she is so very tired.
She takes a deep breath in. Holds it a moment. Lets it slowly out. Will you be bested by a bound fool? When she speaks again, her voice is once again cold, matter-of-fact, though the anger has not receded more than a little way.
"If you believe combat is what you are owed, then you shall have it. And if you win, then you shall be accompanied to the borders of our lands, and there set loose, to trouble some other court; and I shall ask no further questions of you. Is that just?"