There is no veil in her eyes now; the fury that sparks in them is like lightning on the mountainside, and beneath the harsh grip of his fingers, her arm has tensed, too. There is no justification she can draw for such words, no kind excuses to be made for such disrespect. He stands in the hall of the King of Rohan, and names himself more highly; he stands before Théoden's sister-daughter and bids her forsake her kinsman and her people.
If he were not her husband, she would strike him. It comes to her in an instant. If she had not been fool enough to fall for pretty words and dreams; if she had seen him with clear eyes from the first; if she had not been stupid enough to marry him, then she would strike him down where he stands, and cast him from the halls of Edoras, and she would be justified. Not only for her uncle's sake, either: for the sake of Théodred, who was Marshal of the Westfold when he fell, and for Éomer, who commands a good portion of the kingdom's men, and for her own father, perished in this unending fight; for all the men of Rohan who have fought to protect their land and their people since before she or this exile-king were born. If he were not her husband, she would raise her hand and strike him down, and let him wonder at his limits from his backside.
He is her husband. She must remember it. She does not raise her hand to him; but she does draw herself taller still, and fixes him with a steady glare, unflinching. Her tone is sharp and taut, and there is in her breast a sudden tightening of fury, a too-familiar frustration at needing to settle with words what might so easily be settled at a warrior's hand.
"In the King's hall, my lord, will I name Théoden King; for king has he been these six-and-thirty years, and king he will remain long after the simbelmynë covers his tomb; and wedded or not, you are a guest beneath his roof. Perhaps had others spoken to you of limits first, you might not embarrass yourself and me this way."
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sforzinda
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Date: 2022-01-28 01:52 am (UTC)If he were not her husband, she would strike him. It comes to her in an instant. If she had not been fool enough to fall for pretty words and dreams; if she had seen him with clear eyes from the first; if she had not been stupid enough to marry him, then she would strike him down where he stands, and cast him from the halls of Edoras, and she would be justified. Not only for her uncle's sake, either: for the sake of Théodred, who was Marshal of the Westfold when he fell, and for Éomer, who commands a good portion of the kingdom's men, and for her own father, perished in this unending fight; for all the men of Rohan who have fought to protect their land and their people since before she or this exile-king were born. If he were not her husband, she would raise her hand and strike him down, and let him wonder at his limits from his backside.
He is her husband. She must remember it. She does not raise her hand to him; but she does draw herself taller still, and fixes him with a steady glare, unflinching. Her tone is sharp and taut, and there is in her breast a sudden tightening of fury, a too-familiar frustration at needing to settle with words what might so easily be settled at a warrior's hand.
"In the King's hall, my lord, will I name Théoden King; for king has he been these six-and-thirty years, and king he will remain long after the simbelmynë covers his tomb; and wedded or not, you are a guest beneath his roof. Perhaps had others spoken to you of limits first, you might not embarrass yourself and me this way."