for perforo
Nov. 16th, 2022 01:40 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shieldofrohanWindfola is waiting, and a swifter steed - even weary - than any of the rebels'. Jaime's horse is less fleet of foot, but still of better stock than most in the camp, and being used to bearing him in full armour, can be pushed harder than perhaps it might otherwise bear. It is a close thing, but they are away, they are alive, and they are within sight of town and safety when she reins in her horse and slips out of the saddle, onto the hard-packed road.
She is still bloody from the fighting, her hair half-untied around her face, her cheeks flushed. Windfola, for his part, stops gladly and stands with his head hanging low, sweat-dark flanks heaving with exertion; even steeds of Mearas stock have their limits, and he has galloped farther and faster than most horses could survive already.
Éowyn, for her part, looks a very different kind of exhausted. She is steady on her feet, at least, but there is a grimness to the set of her jaw, at odds with the triumph she should feel at her successful sortie; her hand grips the reins white-knuckled, and she does not look her husband in the eye.
"I do not mean to drive poor Windfola until he falls." She strokes the horse's neck, closing her eyes a moment. There is a grief in her expression, as there has so often been in these past weeks and months, a look of sorrow for something lost. I do not mean to face your scorn, either, now that you are safe and the work is done. I am too tired. But to say that out loud would be an invitation to such scorn, and she will not open that door. "Nor steal the joy of your return. I will camp here a while; and you go ahead, and home, for you are sorely missed."
She is still bloody from the fighting, her hair half-untied around her face, her cheeks flushed. Windfola, for his part, stops gladly and stands with his head hanging low, sweat-dark flanks heaving with exertion; even steeds of Mearas stock have their limits, and he has galloped farther and faster than most horses could survive already.
Éowyn, for her part, looks a very different kind of exhausted. She is steady on her feet, at least, but there is a grimness to the set of her jaw, at odds with the triumph she should feel at her successful sortie; her hand grips the reins white-knuckled, and she does not look her husband in the eye.
"I do not mean to drive poor Windfola until he falls." She strokes the horse's neck, closing her eyes a moment. There is a grief in her expression, as there has so often been in these past weeks and months, a look of sorrow for something lost. I do not mean to face your scorn, either, now that you are safe and the work is done. I am too tired. But to say that out loud would be an invitation to such scorn, and she will not open that door. "Nor steal the joy of your return. I will camp here a while; and you go ahead, and home, for you are sorely missed."
