for perforo
Sep. 10th, 2021 09:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shieldofrohanIn 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?"
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?"
no subject
Date: 2021-10-11 03:57 am (UTC)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."
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?"