The laugh that escapes her is a ragged, bitter thing; there is no joy in it, and no true amusement either. You have spoken too freely, he accuses her; and if she could, she would snarl at him that she has been muzzled all her life, that the reins of duty have never given her her head; that never in her life has she spoken freely. That all this stupidity, all this madness, has come from that very restraint. Perhaps, had she spoken more freely, her desperation might not have grown so vast. Perhaps she might have avoided this pass. Perhaps to be exiled, as Éomer has been, for speaking freely might not have been so bad.
But she cannot find her voice now. She dares not speak; if she does, her voice will be shrill and unsteady with fury, and he will laugh at her womanish hysteria, and any who hear her will know that she has lost command of herself. She will not lose command of herself. He will not have that satisfaction so easily; he will not unman her with a slap and a sharp word. She bites down on the inside of her cheek until she tastes salt, and digs in her heels, and holds her head high.
There is a strength she had not wholly anticipated in his gaunt and bony frame. His grip is steel, and she cannot budge his hand from her arm, only succeeds in deepening the bruises that she is now sure will rise by morning. For all his braggart and immoderate talk, there is a fervent, crazed strength; and she finds herself dragged along with him, and all of a sudden it comes to her what should have come to her long before: he is mad. He is mad, and it is the madness of a beast driven to bay, and it has left him no man at all.
And then, amid the grief and the fury and the righteous scorn: fear.
She is not given to fear. Not of the immediate, not for herself. Her fears are slower-moving things: stagnation and darkness, and the slow eternity of the forgotten. She is a shieldmaiden of Rohan, and she fears neither pain nor death; she fears no battle; she fears no man.
He is no man. He is a rabid beast, he is something she does not understand, and he will give no regard to the ways of men, he knows no honour and no law and he respects no limits, and he hauls her bodily into the room where by day the women weave their cloth, and his sneer is an animal's snarl, and she is afraid. She can feel her pulse hammering against the thin skin of her throat, her breath catching in her chest. Give me armour! she pleads against a world that will give her nothing at all. Give me a sword, a shield, a spear! Give me battle, and let me stand my ground!
There is no armour here, and there are no weapons in the king's hall, and she is no warrior. Her gown tangles around her legs, makes her ungainly in her shock and her uncertainty, and she is a maid, and he will not offer her death. She understands that, with a sick horror. He will give her no such respect, offer her no such neatness in her end.
If she screams, they will come. She believes this, at least. If she screams for help, if she raises her voice to the men who love her, they will come; the guards of Edoras will drag him from her, and tear his hand from her arm, and cast him from the city. And they will look upon her ever after with pity, and half-shrouded scorn, for this is a beast she has invited into her own home, and a doom she has laid upon herself, and she has failed in her duty.
She does not scream. She looses her grip on his wrist, ceases trying to pull herself free from the snare; instead, with as much speed and strength as he brought to bear against her, she flashes out her arm to backhand him across the face.
"You will have all that you are owed, worm." Her voice shakes. It cannot be helped. "And if you do not take your hands off me, I will cut them off."
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sforzinda
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Date: 2022-01-29 06:53 pm (UTC)But she cannot find her voice now. She dares not speak; if she does, her voice will be shrill and unsteady with fury, and he will laugh at her womanish hysteria, and any who hear her will know that she has lost command of herself. She will not lose command of herself. He will not have that satisfaction so easily; he will not unman her with a slap and a sharp word. She bites down on the inside of her cheek until she tastes salt, and digs in her heels, and holds her head high.
There is a strength she had not wholly anticipated in his gaunt and bony frame. His grip is steel, and she cannot budge his hand from her arm, only succeeds in deepening the bruises that she is now sure will rise by morning. For all his braggart and immoderate talk, there is a fervent, crazed strength; and she finds herself dragged along with him, and all of a sudden it comes to her what should have come to her long before: he is mad. He is mad, and it is the madness of a beast driven to bay, and it has left him no man at all.
And then, amid the grief and the fury and the righteous scorn: fear.
She is not given to fear. Not of the immediate, not for herself. Her fears are slower-moving things: stagnation and darkness, and the slow eternity of the forgotten. She is a shieldmaiden of Rohan, and she fears neither pain nor death; she fears no battle; she fears no man.
He is no man. He is a rabid beast, he is something she does not understand, and he will give no regard to the ways of men, he knows no honour and no law and he respects no limits, and he hauls her bodily into the room where by day the women weave their cloth, and his sneer is an animal's snarl, and she is afraid. She can feel her pulse hammering against the thin skin of her throat, her breath catching in her chest. Give me armour! she pleads against a world that will give her nothing at all. Give me a sword, a shield, a spear! Give me battle, and let me stand my ground!
There is no armour here, and there are no weapons in the king's hall, and she is no warrior. Her gown tangles around her legs, makes her ungainly in her shock and her uncertainty, and she is a maid, and he will not offer her death. She understands that, with a sick horror. He will give her no such respect, offer her no such neatness in her end.
If she screams, they will come. She believes this, at least. If she screams for help, if she raises her voice to the men who love her, they will come; the guards of Edoras will drag him from her, and tear his hand from her arm, and cast him from the city. And they will look upon her ever after with pity, and half-shrouded scorn, for this is a beast she has invited into her own home, and a doom she has laid upon herself, and she has failed in her duty.
She does not scream. She looses her grip on his wrist, ceases trying to pull herself free from the snare; instead, with as much speed and strength as he brought to bear against her, she flashes out her arm to backhand him across the face.
"You will have all that you are owed, worm." Her voice shakes. It cannot be helped. "And if you do not take your hands off me, I will cut them off."