Daenerys' voice is soft, but it still makes Éowyn start, lost as she is in bitter thought. In truth, this is probably the closest she has come to death; her balance falters with her surprise, and the wind whips her torn skirt around legs that are already shaking, and she stumbles just a little. But she has always been blessed with balance, in and out of the saddle; and she does not fall, but struggles to straighten her spine as the shame rises up to choke her.
If anyone is to see her this way, she supposes, this may be the best she could have hoped for. Daenerys, at least, is still a stranger here; is not a subject of the Mark, does not need so sorely to see the house of Eorl stand strong. She is also, so Éowyn hopes, unlikely to gossip, having nobody of the city to gossip to. If anyone is to see how the Lady of Edoras has fallen into shame, then at least it is not one of her people.
Still, the shame is sharper than the pain, a twisting, writhing thing that coils around her heart and crushes her lungs. She is all too aware of how pathetic she must seem. Her cheeks are tearstained, her eyes swollen with crying; her knees shake beneath her weight, under the stained skirt, and her hair was a bird's-nest even before the wind dragged at it. Does she smell? She supposes that she must: that the dried seed on her skin must leave its musky proof, that the sweat and the blood must hang on the wind. Never, in all her life, has she looked so little like a lady. Never has she looked - or felt - so weak.
"What other place is there?" Her voice does not sound like her own. It is hoarse and strained, both from crying and from the ache in her throat, and her tongue catches against a split and swollen lip. But for all her bleak question implies, she cannot believe it; and that is no comfort. There is no other place, no bed to crawl into where she can weep unseen, no infirmary where she will not have to face the pity and the grief of her people, nowhere that is better; but Daenerys is right, too. This is no place for her. Duty, that heavy chain, will not allow it.
Slowly, painfully, she turns; looks at her sister-in-law for the first time since this new life began; steps back, just a half-pace, from the edge. What other place is there? It does not matter; it is not this one.
"He will never be king. You must know that." She does not know what she will say until she has said it; but it is true, and it is said with truth behind it, for all its hoarseness. And she should guard her words more closely, here with the woman most likely to share them with her enemy, but she cannot guard herself. Not now. "Not if his blood were ten times more noble; not if he were a greater warrior than Beren or Fram. He will never have what he desires. And he knows it."
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sforzinda
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Date: 2022-02-03 10:05 pm (UTC)If anyone is to see her this way, she supposes, this may be the best she could have hoped for. Daenerys, at least, is still a stranger here; is not a subject of the Mark, does not need so sorely to see the house of Eorl stand strong. She is also, so Éowyn hopes, unlikely to gossip, having nobody of the city to gossip to. If anyone is to see how the Lady of Edoras has fallen into shame, then at least it is not one of her people.
Still, the shame is sharper than the pain, a twisting, writhing thing that coils around her heart and crushes her lungs. She is all too aware of how pathetic she must seem. Her cheeks are tearstained, her eyes swollen with crying; her knees shake beneath her weight, under the stained skirt, and her hair was a bird's-nest even before the wind dragged at it. Does she smell? She supposes that she must: that the dried seed on her skin must leave its musky proof, that the sweat and the blood must hang on the wind. Never, in all her life, has she looked so little like a lady. Never has she looked - or felt - so weak.
"What other place is there?" Her voice does not sound like her own. It is hoarse and strained, both from crying and from the ache in her throat, and her tongue catches against a split and swollen lip. But for all her bleak question implies, she cannot believe it; and that is no comfort. There is no other place, no bed to crawl into where she can weep unseen, no infirmary where she will not have to face the pity and the grief of her people, nowhere that is better; but Daenerys is right, too. This is no place for her. Duty, that heavy chain, will not allow it.
Slowly, painfully, she turns; looks at her sister-in-law for the first time since this new life began; steps back, just a half-pace, from the edge. What other place is there? It does not matter; it is not this one.
"He will never be king. You must know that." She does not know what she will say until she has said it; but it is true, and it is said with truth behind it, for all its hoarseness. And she should guard her words more closely, here with the woman most likely to share them with her enemy, but she cannot guard herself. Not now. "Not if his blood were ten times more noble; not if he were a greater warrior than Beren or Fram. He will never have what he desires. And he knows it."