She is still, sprawled there like a dead thing, until the door closes behind him; for a moment thereafter she is still, and there is a part of her that wonders if she will ever move again. In the distance, in the echoing silence he has left, she can hear the rising sounds of merriment, the feasting and wine beginning to overtake her people's dour grief, the sounds of singing and shouting and the momentary joy they have all so long needed.
Then it is that the tears come; then the dam breaks, and she weeps openly, her whole body wracked with the force of sobs, her hands pressing down over her mouth to muffle the howls that want to escape. At some point, she slides from the sullied surface of the weaving table, finds herself kneeling on the cold stone floor, curled in on herself and shaking from head to toe. There is blood on the flagstones. There is a sticky, clinging filth on her belly and breast. Pain claws like a starving beast inside her, scrabbles over her skin. In the feasting hall, muffled through wooden walls, people are laughing.
At some point, too, she stands. She is still weeping then, but it has ebbed a little, and although she still trembles, her legs will hold her. She stands, and with unsteady hands she pulls her ruined dress back around herself, wincing as it presses against welts and rising bruises; and she fastens it as best she can, and pushes her tangled and sweat-dark hair back from her face, and heaves a deep, shuddering breath.
And now?
She must ask it again, if not aloud. The world will not stop for her. It never has before, and it never will, no matter how she might dream of such power. There is blood on the flagstones, and sweat smeared on the waxed wood of the table, and her bruises ache, and the world still turns. And no matter what he may say or think, she is still the lady of this hall; she is still Théoden's sister-daughter, and the people of the Mark will look to her still when the sun rises on another day. Maiden or not, she is a shield still to her people; and it must be all the more so now, against an enemy she herself brought into the fold.
There is, as always, a tinderbox on the hearth of this room; there are lanterns for the women who weave into the night. She has never struggled so much to steady her hands, to spark a flame. The dress will serve for a cleaning rag, for all its finery; there is no saving it. She cannot go to the well for water, not when she will surely be seen; but in the shuttered window casement is a vase of wildflowers, set there to cheer the room: emptying the flowers into the hearth, she heaves another raw and shaking breath, pours out a little of the water onto the table, and sets about undoing what mess can still be undone.
The world will not stop for her. The sun, dim and dark as it is, will rise. The thought fills her with a cold and familiar horror, sharper now than it has ever been. She cleans mechanically, by candlelight. Blood drips thick and cloying down the inside of her bruised thigh. Her breath still rasps in her aching throat. It is hard to move, around that burning knot of pain. She moves anyway, because there is no choice.
There are, she reflects, some small blessings. That the floor is stone, and the blood on it is only a little. That she is alone. That, with the feasting in full swing, there are ways that she can go where she will not be seen.
The place that she goes, the high point on the eastern ramparts of the hill-fort, is one such way. She limps out into the courtyard: a white and ghostly figure in the growing darkness, moving awkwardly in her torn, dark-stained gown. Across by the stables, where the horses whicker and snort in their sleep. Up onto the walls, where she has so often come before. The mountains rise like jagged teeth on the horizon, and a cold wind catches her tangled hair, brushes against the aching skin of her face. She looks out to the east. Somewhere in that direction, she thinks with a pang of grief, her brother rides; he does not know what she has done. Behind her, the hall glows with torchlight; and therein is her uncle, and he does not yet know, either, that she has betrayed them all in her naiveté. And if they know? When they know?
She has stood here before, on the high rampart above the scree of steep hillside, and thought of how it would be to jump. She has wondered whether it might not be best to see an end to all her restless grief. This is the first time, in all these years, that she has climbed up onto the stones of the wall itself, where there is nothing between her and the void. It is a clumsy movement, with none of her usual grace. Her legs will not obey her; the pain squatting ugly between her hips claws afresh with every step and strain. She sways a little as she stands, and the wind chills the hot tears as they run down her face.
They will find her, she thinks, in the morning; and they will weep, and then they will wonder; they will see in her broken body the marks of hands at her throat and the torn state of her gown; and though Viserys cannot rightly be slain, still he may be cast out. If the king's nephew can be banished, then her widower can be likewise driven away in shame. And he will have no armies of Rohan, and he will take no throne, and in her absence, the whole dire mistake may be forgotten. They will sing no songs of her. Very well; they will sing no songs of him, either. There is only so long left, in any case, for songs that are not dirges; she looks to the East, and sees the teeth of Mordor's jaws, and it is not as though there is so very much to save.
They will find her in the morning, at the bottom of the hill, and the barrows of her forefathers will not hold her broken corpse; and Théoden will weep, who loves her as his daughter. Théoden, who ails still under her care; and whose son is so lately lost; and who without her will be alone and left to only the poisonous words of his advisor. Grief sits on him like a cloak, these days; and for a moment, as she swore herself away, she thought she saw him smile. Will he survive her death, she wonders, sick as he is? And if Éomer, hearing of it, rides back in a fury, will his banishment be broken, or will it doom him, too? In her absence, who will speak sense to the King's ear, so poisoned by Gríma? Will she leave Edoras to two serpents, to let them battle for the poison that will kill the Mark?
She does not know how long she has been standing here, on legs that shake, at the edge of a choice. The wind is cold. Her fingers, still marked with his blood beneath the nails, are numb. She did not think she would die this way.
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sforzinda
no subject
Date: 2022-02-03 07:50 pm (UTC)Then it is that the tears come; then the dam breaks, and she weeps openly, her whole body wracked with the force of sobs, her hands pressing down over her mouth to muffle the howls that want to escape. At some point, she slides from the sullied surface of the weaving table, finds herself kneeling on the cold stone floor, curled in on herself and shaking from head to toe. There is blood on the flagstones. There is a sticky, clinging filth on her belly and breast. Pain claws like a starving beast inside her, scrabbles over her skin. In the feasting hall, muffled through wooden walls, people are laughing.
At some point, too, she stands. She is still weeping then, but it has ebbed a little, and although she still trembles, her legs will hold her. She stands, and with unsteady hands she pulls her ruined dress back around herself, wincing as it presses against welts and rising bruises; and she fastens it as best she can, and pushes her tangled and sweat-dark hair back from her face, and heaves a deep, shuddering breath.
And now?
She must ask it again, if not aloud. The world will not stop for her. It never has before, and it never will, no matter how she might dream of such power. There is blood on the flagstones, and sweat smeared on the waxed wood of the table, and her bruises ache, and the world still turns. And no matter what he may say or think, she is still the lady of this hall; she is still Théoden's sister-daughter, and the people of the Mark will look to her still when the sun rises on another day. Maiden or not, she is a shield still to her people; and it must be all the more so now, against an enemy she herself brought into the fold.
There is, as always, a tinderbox on the hearth of this room; there are lanterns for the women who weave into the night. She has never struggled so much to steady her hands, to spark a flame. The dress will serve for a cleaning rag, for all its finery; there is no saving it. She cannot go to the well for water, not when she will surely be seen; but in the shuttered window casement is a vase of wildflowers, set there to cheer the room: emptying the flowers into the hearth, she heaves another raw and shaking breath, pours out a little of the water onto the table, and sets about undoing what mess can still be undone.
The world will not stop for her. The sun, dim and dark as it is, will rise. The thought fills her with a cold and familiar horror, sharper now than it has ever been. She cleans mechanically, by candlelight. Blood drips thick and cloying down the inside of her bruised thigh. Her breath still rasps in her aching throat. It is hard to move, around that burning knot of pain. She moves anyway, because there is no choice.
There are, she reflects, some small blessings. That the floor is stone, and the blood on it is only a little. That she is alone. That, with the feasting in full swing, there are ways that she can go where she will not be seen.
The place that she goes, the high point on the eastern ramparts of the hill-fort, is one such way. She limps out into the courtyard: a white and ghostly figure in the growing darkness, moving awkwardly in her torn, dark-stained gown. Across by the stables, where the horses whicker and snort in their sleep. Up onto the walls, where she has so often come before. The mountains rise like jagged teeth on the horizon, and a cold wind catches her tangled hair, brushes against the aching skin of her face. She looks out to the east. Somewhere in that direction, she thinks with a pang of grief, her brother rides; he does not know what she has done. Behind her, the hall glows with torchlight; and therein is her uncle, and he does not yet know, either, that she has betrayed them all in her naiveté. And if they know? When they know?
She has stood here before, on the high rampart above the scree of steep hillside, and thought of how it would be to jump. She has wondered whether it might not be best to see an end to all her restless grief. This is the first time, in all these years, that she has climbed up onto the stones of the wall itself, where there is nothing between her and the void. It is a clumsy movement, with none of her usual grace. Her legs will not obey her; the pain squatting ugly between her hips claws afresh with every step and strain. She sways a little as she stands, and the wind chills the hot tears as they run down her face.
They will find her, she thinks, in the morning; and they will weep, and then they will wonder; they will see in her broken body the marks of hands at her throat and the torn state of her gown; and though Viserys cannot rightly be slain, still he may be cast out. If the king's nephew can be banished, then her widower can be likewise driven away in shame. And he will have no armies of Rohan, and he will take no throne, and in her absence, the whole dire mistake may be forgotten. They will sing no songs of her. Very well; they will sing no songs of him, either. There is only so long left, in any case, for songs that are not dirges; she looks to the East, and sees the teeth of Mordor's jaws, and it is not as though there is so very much to save.
They will find her in the morning, at the bottom of the hill, and the barrows of her forefathers will not hold her broken corpse; and Théoden will weep, who loves her as his daughter. Théoden, who ails still under her care; and whose son is so lately lost; and who without her will be alone and left to only the poisonous words of his advisor. Grief sits on him like a cloak, these days; and for a moment, as she swore herself away, she thought she saw him smile. Will he survive her death, she wonders, sick as he is? And if Éomer, hearing of it, rides back in a fury, will his banishment be broken, or will it doom him, too? In her absence, who will speak sense to the King's ear, so poisoned by Gríma? Will she leave Edoras to two serpents, to let them battle for the poison that will kill the Mark?
She does not know how long she has been standing here, on legs that shake, at the edge of a choice. The wind is cold. Her fingers, still marked with his blood beneath the nails, are numb. She did not think she would die this way.