There is a hand at her arm, and it is warm and gentle; and there is a curious, fresh grief that stabs at her breast, to find gentleness now of all times. In Daenerys' face, she sees her own contrition echoed, the same raw horror at understanding. It does not satisfy her, does not offer any bitter reprisal, to see tears welling in another's eyes.
"He is your brother still." She moves another step, to safer ground. Red pain aches in the pit of her belly, clawing at her thighs. She wonders what she would do, if she thought Éomer capable of such brutality: if his fury on the battlefield were turned against those in the corridors of peace, what would she do, and would he not be her brother still? Would she turn against him, if he turned against honour? She wants to believe that she would, that the needs of her people would outweigh those of her heart; but does she not still keep her loyalty to Théoden, even as his honour falters? Would she not always remember her mother's tears, her father's blood and split-wide skull, the pain that binds them as sister and brother? Would she have written?
"He is your brother," she says again, and her hand comes up to touch the other woman's, and her smile is pained, her eyes tearing up afresh; and she makes of the thought something else, which is less sharp against the bone; "and so you are my sister, and I am not your lady. Please. I am so tired of the White Lady, and all her ways; I am so tired of a lady's duty. If there is one kindness you would do for me, then let me be Éowyn, and nothing more."
She will bear herself as the White Lady, she thinks with bitter understanding, against all the travails this wedding has doomed her to. She must. She will be noble and forbearing, and she will hide her pain and stifle her pride where she must, and she will keep her people always in mind, and she will be in all things a lady. It is what her blood demands; it is what her people need. She must, then, step down from the parapet this night and every night thereafter. She must hide the bruises, and wash away the blood and stains, and swallow the pain of memory; she must be his wife, as long as it is demanded, and where she can, as she has done with Gríma all this time, she must move in small and womanly ways to counter the harm he will do. The White Lady will be married to the beggar king, and she will be stone in the face of his fury, and she will do what a lady must.
But not here, and not now. She does not have the strength. She cannot find the courage. Slowly, painfully, wincing at each movement, she sinks down to sit uncomfortably at the edge of the stone, her head in her hands.
"It was not your duty to warn me," she says, after a moment longer. Her voice has thickened again, tears building in her throat. "It was not your duty to kill hope. It was my duty that I failed, to need no such warning; to temper my own hope with sense. I built my own road here."
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sforzinda
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Date: 2022-02-06 03:33 am (UTC)"He is your brother still." She moves another step, to safer ground. Red pain aches in the pit of her belly, clawing at her thighs. She wonders what she would do, if she thought Éomer capable of such brutality: if his fury on the battlefield were turned against those in the corridors of peace, what would she do, and would he not be her brother still? Would she turn against him, if he turned against honour? She wants to believe that she would, that the needs of her people would outweigh those of her heart; but does she not still keep her loyalty to Théoden, even as his honour falters? Would she not always remember her mother's tears, her father's blood and split-wide skull, the pain that binds them as sister and brother? Would she have written?
"He is your brother," she says again, and her hand comes up to touch the other woman's, and her smile is pained, her eyes tearing up afresh; and she makes of the thought something else, which is less sharp against the bone; "and so you are my sister, and I am not your lady. Please. I am so tired of the White Lady, and all her ways; I am so tired of a lady's duty. If there is one kindness you would do for me, then let me be Éowyn, and nothing more."
She will bear herself as the White Lady, she thinks with bitter understanding, against all the travails this wedding has doomed her to. She must. She will be noble and forbearing, and she will hide her pain and stifle her pride where she must, and she will keep her people always in mind, and she will be in all things a lady. It is what her blood demands; it is what her people need. She must, then, step down from the parapet this night and every night thereafter. She must hide the bruises, and wash away the blood and stains, and swallow the pain of memory; she must be his wife, as long as it is demanded, and where she can, as she has done with Gríma all this time, she must move in small and womanly ways to counter the harm he will do. The White Lady will be married to the beggar king, and she will be stone in the face of his fury, and she will do what a lady must.
But not here, and not now. She does not have the strength. She cannot find the courage. Slowly, painfully, wincing at each movement, she sinks down to sit uncomfortably at the edge of the stone, her head in her hands.
"It was not your duty to warn me," she says, after a moment longer. Her voice has thickened again, tears building in her throat. "It was not your duty to kill hope. It was my duty that I failed, to need no such warning; to temper my own hope with sense. I built my own road here."