His hand cracks hard against her face, hard enough to whip her head sharply to the side and make her stumble, her ear ringing from the blow. For a moment, she is too shocked to move, to breathe, to think. It is not the pain that robs her of her sense: he hit her hard, but she has taken heavier blows, falling from horseback or wrestling with her brother in the courtyard, and she has never let pain rule her. It is, rather, the fact that he hit her at all.
Not since she was a little girl has a hand been raised against her in such a way: for who would dare strike the ward of the King? Not since Éomer grew old enough to find shame has anyone struck her in anger. Even Gríma, who at times has looked upon her as though he believes it might do her some good, has not raised a hand to her. She is a daughter of kings, a noblewoman whose blood is twice over that of Eorl's line; she is the Lady of Edoras, and she holds so iron a grip on her nobility that many here would quail before her anger.
He hit her. Slapped her, like a wayward child. Here, on her wedding night, beneath her own roof.
To her own surprise, when the shock begins to fade, what rushes in to fill the void is not hot, righteous fury, but a sudden and crushing grief. Grief for what she has allowed herself to do, in innocent self-delusion; grief for how that innocence itself, that last flicker of hope, is crushed before the understanding of her foolishness. Grief for her uncle, whose sickness and ailing mind are so clear that even a fool can see them; grief for her brother and her cousin, who should have been here to prevent this stupidity on her part; grief for the Mark, which she has condemned. Grief, most of all, for the dream lost; for the thunderous understanding that there is no waiting throne, no glory, no songs of her valour. If they sing of her, it will be of the fool who tied herself to a madman, who put aside reason and nobility for the sake of a children's story. She will not be Queen. She will not even be the White Lady. Only a broken, stupid child, who blinded herself to what she would not see.
She will not weep. The tears sting at her eyes, burn at the back of her throat. She will not weep. She defies it; swallows hard, draws armour around herself as she straightens, her hand coming up to her stinging cheek. He will not have her tears. He will not have her screaming fury. He will have nothing.
"You will not." Her traitorous voice trembles a little, tight with emotion; and now the fury comes, cold and bitter. "This hall has stood as long as your iron throne, my lord, and we are as proud a people as yours. It displeases you. Very well; have no more of it." She lets her hand fall from her face; grabs instead at his wrist, with the same gentleness he has shown her, to try and yank his hand from her arm. "Find yourself another queen; find a bride who will simper and cower and flatter your blind arrogance. Take back your magister's gifts and the letters you wrote, and begone back to Pentos, and do not touch me." Her voice has risen, despite herself, her face hard and her eyes glinting in the torchlight. "Go and sleep in the kennels, for all I care; it is a better place for you! But we will not be wedded this night or any other; no, not though I should die a maid. Do not touch me!"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sforzinda
no subject
Date: 2022-01-29 01:52 am (UTC)Not since she was a little girl has a hand been raised against her in such a way: for who would dare strike the ward of the King? Not since Éomer grew old enough to find shame has anyone struck her in anger. Even Gríma, who at times has looked upon her as though he believes it might do her some good, has not raised a hand to her. She is a daughter of kings, a noblewoman whose blood is twice over that of Eorl's line; she is the Lady of Edoras, and she holds so iron a grip on her nobility that many here would quail before her anger.
He hit her. Slapped her, like a wayward child. Here, on her wedding night, beneath her own roof.
To her own surprise, when the shock begins to fade, what rushes in to fill the void is not hot, righteous fury, but a sudden and crushing grief. Grief for what she has allowed herself to do, in innocent self-delusion; grief for how that innocence itself, that last flicker of hope, is crushed before the understanding of her foolishness. Grief for her uncle, whose sickness and ailing mind are so clear that even a fool can see them; grief for her brother and her cousin, who should have been here to prevent this stupidity on her part; grief for the Mark, which she has condemned. Grief, most of all, for the dream lost; for the thunderous understanding that there is no waiting throne, no glory, no songs of her valour. If they sing of her, it will be of the fool who tied herself to a madman, who put aside reason and nobility for the sake of a children's story. She will not be Queen. She will not even be the White Lady. Only a broken, stupid child, who blinded herself to what she would not see.
She will not weep. The tears sting at her eyes, burn at the back of her throat. She will not weep. She defies it; swallows hard, draws armour around herself as she straightens, her hand coming up to her stinging cheek. He will not have her tears. He will not have her screaming fury. He will have nothing.
"You will not." Her traitorous voice trembles a little, tight with emotion; and now the fury comes, cold and bitter. "This hall has stood as long as your iron throne, my lord, and we are as proud a people as yours. It displeases you. Very well; have no more of it." She lets her hand fall from her face; grabs instead at his wrist, with the same gentleness he has shown her, to try and yank his hand from her arm. "Find yourself another queen; find a bride who will simper and cower and flatter your blind arrogance. Take back your magister's gifts and the letters you wrote, and begone back to Pentos, and do not touch me." Her voice has risen, despite herself, her face hard and her eyes glinting in the torchlight. "Go and sleep in the kennels, for all I care; it is a better place for you! But we will not be wedded this night or any other; no, not though I should die a maid. Do not touch me!"