for perforo

[shieldofrohan]

In the long grass, they found him: a host of Rohirric riders, the éored of the Fenmark, tall and martial men who carry spear and shield and sword, and whose steeds are fleet and quick to answer to their rider's calls. They rode him down, then, with ease; and in battle, he was overcome.

Their questions are curt, and they show no interest nor amusement in his quips. They are not cruel, but neither are they gentle; the stranger is bound and stripped of his armour, and (at length, when it is clear that he does not take well to quiet) gagged with a strip of torn cloth from a green cloak, but he is not ill-treated beyond that. His wounds are washed and wrapped, if none too gently; he is settled under guard with two spears at his throat; and then they begin to discuss what is to be done with him.

He is not an Orc, that much is clear - and to his benefit, for they are not in the habit of treating Orcs with such restrained decency. Nor is he one of the Dunlendings, the wild men of the North; he is as blonde as the children of Eorl, and his armour more like that of Gondor. But he is not of Gondor, they are quickly assured; nor Southron, nor Easterling, nor any other of the peoples who assail or ally with the Riddermark. He is a stranger, and he comes with blade bared, armed against a nation already so much harried, and he will not tell them why.

To Edoras, then. It is Dúnhere, the captain of the host, who decides it, and who orders the prisoner onto horseback, wrists bound. To Edoras, to an audience with the King, and let Théoden King decide what will be done with this new threat.

The mountains rise behind them, and the long cut of the valley opens green and amber. For half a day they ride, before the hill of Edoras comes clear in the distance, and atop it the gleam of gold in the autumn sunlight: the great hall of Meduseld, shining as though cast of gold itself. It is only as the éothed rides closer, through the rows of ancient barrows, that it is clear that the gleam is more simple in its origin: carved wooden walls, and golden thatch, catching the sun. Still, the hall is a breathtaking sight.

He is not taken there. He is taken, instead, inside the walls of the city-fort; taken to a stone building some distance from the royal halls, and bound to its standing-post, where at last he is freed of his gag. It is there, at last, that he is visited by someone who does not point a spear at him, and who bears no sword or shield.

She is tall, and stately, and her face is hard and grave, with a shadow in her eyes and a grimness in her jaw that belies her youth. She wears a simple gown of white and blue, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, scissors and keys hanging at her woven belt; her hair is braided back from her face, but falls in a golden cascade down her back. She comes almost alone; is accompanied only by Dúnhere, who at her word falls back to the doorway, between the two guards stationed there.

For a moment, she looks down at the prisoner, her grey eyes distant, giving away nothing. She is troubled, deeply so, by his presence here. Already, the problems that face this court have mounted beyond all managing: her uncle's sickness, her brother's half-exile, her cousin far away and hard-pressed in the fighting. Gríma counsels inaction in all things, drips his poison in the king's ear, feeds every hesitation and doubt. They are set upon from east, from north, from within. Must they now reckon with other foes again?

"We have perhaps an hour," she tells him, her voice sharp and her Westron lightly accented, "before Háma can no longer keep Gríma distracted. I will tell you now what Gríma's judgement will be; that we should kill you, and think no more on the questions of your presence. If you value your life, then, I would counsel that you deal rather with me, that you convince me that I should petition the King on your behalf." Whether such a petition will be enough, she cannot say; and it eats at her that her power is so limited, that she must humble herself to compromise with Gríma Wormtongue's ill-counsel. But he need not know that, need not know that she is more helpless than her stern and unyielding words suggest. "Who are you, and why did you come here?"

Comments

[shieldofrohan]

"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?"

[perforo]

There is more he craves than company, to be sure; that whimsical, heartfelt desire for affable companionship is blindsided by needs much more compelling: glory, renown, fear and praise. He does not worry that he will ever find himself wanting for company; he is too revered a hero in his own lands, to respected a knight and a man. He will never be without admirers, though if by some farce he did find himself robbed of that far-flung retinue, he would be well-surrounded by detractors. If he should not have the company of men who wish to be him, he would still have the company of men who wished to kill him, and in its way, to be the target of that focus is just as satisfying, if not more so. He did not require a squadron of riders at his back to make him feel a worthy conqueror, and he did not need to engage her men to feel himself a capable warrior. He had not needed, clearly, the benefit of copious forethought on any point of his jaunt.

He decides that she will not understand this, and also that she would not care to hear it, for how she peers back over her shoulder, how she sighs, tiring of this circular charade she has found herself in. It is no matter to him - he would sooner pester her with philosophical chatterings and jabs at her morose bearing than be hurried along to his decisive fate. She is quiet for a time - thinking of ways she herself might like to see him silenced for good, perhaps? - and he wonders why she does not rejoice in her right to simply hand him off to someone who would not entertain his jesting. Someone who would see him promptly dealt with, someone surly enough not to regret the riches lost in such a wasteful death.

She grants him nothing illuminating, choosing instead to maintain her trust in her noble Lord Done Here, impressing upon him the generosity he presently enjoys when he could have been captured by any other lurking hill-fiend. An Orc? A Dingledun? His eyes travel the lines of her face, the weary way her fingers slip across the bridge of her nose, the miserable air that seems to weigh upon her like a rain-drenched shawl of wool. She looks like she could have lived a half dozen lifetimes already, and found in none of them even an accidental brush of joy.

"It would seem I owe you a debt, then. I thank you kindly for sparing me the atrocities of your Orcs and Dungledongs, though I can scarce imagine their sullen faces to be more frightening than what I have found here." Maybe they would have been kind enough to at least pit him in some sort of honest combat rather than leave him bound. Maybe they would have returned his banter, or at least struck him for it, rather than glare down sanctimoniously. He would have preferred the outright danger.

"You would have made a most effective septa, I think." This is not a compliment, and his eyes do not make it one as they crawl down and then back up her stiff body, returning after a moment to her incessant questioning. "I came because I wished to see. I came because I wanted to know for myself what sort of friend or foe we might find here. I came because I was hungry for a fight, or, if I found none, then I had hoped to find something which would make me feel my blood. I came without asking myself why. If you haven't looked into a mirror lately, I would advise that you cautiously take a glance so that you will know what berating yourself with too many questions will do to a body."

[shieldofrohan]

She does not know, in truth, what a septa is; it is enough to know from his tone that it is an insult. It is enough to feel how his eyes creep over her, with less intent hunger than certain other eyes, but uncomfortably searching nonetheless. It is enough that he has, truthfully or otherwise, finally given her an answer.

"I know well enough," she tells him, her tone curt, "but we cannot all have the luxury of following where the stir of our blood leads us." Or else she would not be here; would be a hundred miles hence, with her breasts bound and her face disguised, to ride with sword bared and shield raised against the foes that harry her people; would be feeling the wind in her face and the cry of a warrior's rage boiling from her throat; would not still suffer herself to be caught among these dark shadows and hungry eyes. But she has duty, and she has love, and both are chains that bind her here; and she envies him, in all his stupidity, almost as much as she envies her brother or her cousin. "As for you, if you had thought to ask why, then you might not now be bound and fearful of my sullen face, and I might not have to spend more time with Lord Gríma to settle this matter. Berating yourself a little more, then, might have spared us both a good deal of trouble."

Her tone is cold, but her blood is not, and there is a faint flush of anger on her cheeks. What right, after all, does he have to judge her? What right to speak of the weight of questions, when she feels that weight day and night? Will he hold himself in any way lovelier for his recklessness than she is in her crushing honour? And will he keep wandering in his gaze, worse in judgement than in hunger, until she feels herself almost naked before him?

[perforo]

Bound and fearful, she declares, and his laughter is a condescending bark. Upon no page in the history of his life will it ever be written that he was bound and fearful. It is an annoyance that he has been captured, indeed, and his tale would have been unacceptably short if her people had proven to be as cruel as they were dull. As it is, it would seem that they are only dull. No one has overtly threatened him, no one has challenged him on his merit as a knight or a soldier. They would sooner hold him bound, assault him with drear demands upon the direction and purpose of his ride, and hesitate to see him beheaded for his trespass. They will evidently hesitate, too, before reaching greedily for the ransom they might have. He does not sit in fear of her sullen face, and he had not ridden in fear when her loyal lord had delivered him to her.

He does not sit in fear of any man she names - he can, he is quite certain, best any of them who might rally the bravery to confront him in the combat of justice - and he is not quaking in the shadow of so many unfathomable atrocities that might befall him within the walls of this place. He is beginning to think there is not a soul here that would have the stomach to see it done. This is bewildering; he would have known what to do with a blundering, violent adversary. He has little experience in negotiating with those who are so unfamiliar with his face and his name that they would rather waste these hours of holding him hostage with such miserable, doubtful questioning. They do not provoke him, do not esteem him; they give him nothing which he might have fashioned into a weapon. There is only her sullen face, and the threat of what he assumes will be another sullen face to come.

"Begging your pardon, my lady, but I do not fear you, and I do not fear anyone above you." Who would it be? Men more likely to see him maimed or returned or at least tossed into a pit to prove his mettle? He cocks his head as he studies her, a twitch of thought at his lips, and a gleam in the liquid motion of his feline eyes. If he had feared the possibility of trouble, he would never have ridden.

He reaches again with his tongue for another dab of the blood that seems to have beaded along a cut at his cheek, considering, and cannot stop himself from sallying blindly on even now, without horse or armor or sword. But there is nothing of him that is cold or reflecting or careful.

"Why spend any time with this Grim Gríma at all? I am your captive, to do with as you please. It is for you to decide if I am beaten or turned loose or given contest against any man of your choosing." Then, with a dashing smile that bares his teeth, "Or a moonlight ride, if that is more to your liking, as I am not convinced any man here would give you that."

[shieldofrohan]

"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?"

[perforo]

He laughs, for it cannot be helped; whose captive is he, if not the woman who stands so resolutely before him, holding his life in her hands, if she would only take it? Oh, yes, it was her lord - her grunting guard, her brooding knight who would sooner be Done Here? - who had captured him, and they must answer, the both of them, to a man higher still. There is a king, that much is obvious; yet it is to the advisor of this erstwhile king that she must defer? Such tangled webs the customs of court demand. How much simpler all would be if justice were served by the blade, as it was always meant to be.

He rolls his eyes, made to face, once again, the futility of striking her like a flint, hoping she will catch an unwise spark. She is devoted to her honor, to cold nobility. Perhaps she is a relation of the Starks. "A fine bitch you must make in your master's kennels," he concedes with all the charm he figures a lord of his own caliber ought to muster, dipping his head as if in sincere recognition. The smirk at his lips is still curdled.

But is that her brow etched in thought, her grim lips pressed in reluctant appreciation for what he has said? Do her gray eyes not meet his own in something like negotiation?

Her question rings with a note of curiosity which is not churlish, which is not accusatory and readily dismissing. He tilts his head, paying back the thought the question is owed, weighing what he might indeed have done if he had captured a man such as himself, a captive to display or to punish or to entertain as he pleased. There is much to consider, and he filters none of it for propriety's sake.

"That depends, my lady. Were I you, a fair and able woman, who had captured me, a fair and able man, why, I might have thrown me down and demanded that we flaunt wars and gods all and made passionate love among the sweeping flowers of your lovely moors. I have no doubt that I would have consented most enthusiastically." A rakish smile to punctuate this opportunity lost before he continues, finding his stride in fantasy.

"Were I a knight capturing another knight, I would have killed him outright for his unending impudence, or else I would have invited him to my table to lighten the dour spirits of the men whose company I am made to suffer. Then, once he had been properly fed, I would challenge him to the combat he is owed, to determine his worth for myself. If he won back his freedom justly, he would be welcome to it, of course. And should he prove an inept fool, well, no one would need ever endure his japes again."

Coming at last to the question nestled within the other, he makes his answer one which bites, giving it a flash of teeth. "I had hoped to find warriors of spirit still in the world, and not only fishermen who know not what to do with the handsome specimens they catch."

[shieldofrohan]

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?"