His wife's accent is thick, but her brother's is thicker, as of something hewn directly from a mountainside, rich and deep. He is too engaged in taking the measure of the man to notice the glance that flicks from sister to brother, or to notice that he has spoken erringly at all. There is a smile at the man's lips, a hint of what could be humor, and he is relieved to recognize it beyond a doubt when that proud voice speaks in full.
There is no frazzled wiping of a gruff hand across high cheeks, no trouble taken to hide the trails of tears. Dearest kin, he hears, and dearest treasure, and there is an anvil in his chest to be made to smile in turn at this welcome of his own wife. Yet is this not how he would declare his affections for his sister, had he been the one standing among the barrows of his own forebears, in the shadow of his own keep (far humbler, he decides, than the Rock), professing the devotion of his blood? He would, he knows; but the knowing does not dispel the jealousy that bleeds into the river of his courtesy, to have his own treasure spoken of this way, as if he has just been made, unwittingly, to give some piece of her back. He has already decided he will have her all.
Éowyn, the steel of his emerald-cast eyes finds, does vanquish her tears. She speaks, too, words he does not know, the strange lilt of her voice carrying most naturally here, among these hills and vales, and he is not without the snake of a smirk, knowing as well as she does that mischief has befallen her rather frequently since the night they were wed.
He is jarred from the temptation of that thought by a heavy hand clapping his shoulder, and he straightens beneath the vigor of the greeting, blinking back to the present, no matter how displaced he might feel from all he has for so long taken for granted.
"Be sure, my brother, that I have not brought her back." How can he allow her to so effortlessly be swept away from him? It is not a challenge he has meant to make in turn, but he is also not so valiant as to make of it anything less. It is tempered with a smile, if nothing else, the winning, rakish smile he wears before all strangers, to prove how little he thinks of prospective contenders.
Love, he hears, and it is beneath his armor that he will work to lay his hackles flat, discarding the word as civility, ceremony, and nothing more. These are a lyric-besotted people, given their tears. It is easier to think of them so. He glances at his stallion, the least of the three horses, and he does try not to draw in too heavy a breath. Weary?
"The ride through your meadows was as pleasing as any picnic, my lord. I shall look forward to your wine, even so. I am sure there are many more of your people waiting to weep at the sight of my wife, and I will no doubt find myself needing to pass the time until she is returned to me."
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sforzinda
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Date: 2021-09-20 05:49 am (UTC)There is no frazzled wiping of a gruff hand across high cheeks, no trouble taken to hide the trails of tears. Dearest kin, he hears, and dearest treasure, and there is an anvil in his chest to be made to smile in turn at this welcome of his own wife. Yet is this not how he would declare his affections for his sister, had he been the one standing among the barrows of his own forebears, in the shadow of his own keep (far humbler, he decides, than the Rock), professing the devotion of his blood? He would, he knows; but the knowing does not dispel the jealousy that bleeds into the river of his courtesy, to have his own treasure spoken of this way, as if he has just been made, unwittingly, to give some piece of her back. He has already decided he will have her all.
Éowyn, the steel of his emerald-cast eyes finds, does vanquish her tears. She speaks, too, words he does not know, the strange lilt of her voice carrying most naturally here, among these hills and vales, and he is not without the snake of a smirk, knowing as well as she does that mischief has befallen her rather frequently since the night they were wed.
He is jarred from the temptation of that thought by a heavy hand clapping his shoulder, and he straightens beneath the vigor of the greeting, blinking back to the present, no matter how displaced he might feel from all he has for so long taken for granted.
"Be sure, my brother, that I have not brought her back." How can he allow her to so effortlessly be swept away from him? It is not a challenge he has meant to make in turn, but he is also not so valiant as to make of it anything less. It is tempered with a smile, if nothing else, the winning, rakish smile he wears before all strangers, to prove how little he thinks of prospective contenders.
Love, he hears, and it is beneath his armor that he will work to lay his hackles flat, discarding the word as civility, ceremony, and nothing more. These are a lyric-besotted people, given their tears. It is easier to think of them so. He glances at his stallion, the least of the three horses, and he does try not to draw in too heavy a breath. Weary?
"The ride through your meadows was as pleasing as any picnic, my lord. I shall look forward to your wine, even so. I am sure there are many more of your people waiting to weep at the sight of my wife, and I will no doubt find myself needing to pass the time until she is returned to me."