No surprises there. After the hammering she took at the melee, the real wonder is that she is still able to get up at all. She had been prepared for some injury - it is the nature of fighting, after all, even the toothless playfighting they practice here in King's Landing, and while she may be proud of her own prowess, she has enough sense to know that she is hardly the only warrior with any skill. Besides, it was the first taste of battle she has had since the Pelennor Field, and it is not as though her arm or her shoulder have ever fully healed. She was prepared to take some injury, particularly on her shield side, and to risk pain and embarrassment for the sake of feeling, for a moment, that she could act. Being in King's Landing, even with Elia's company, has begun to feel as stifling as Meduseld in the darkest days of the war; except that at least in Meduseld, people heard her when she spoke. She is weary to the bone of biting her tongue, trying to respond with grace and gentle politic to the indignities heaped on her. If it were not for the princess, she would have left with the last fair wind, and never looked back.
But she remains, and will remain a while yet; and so, yes, she had been prepared to risk Elia's displeasure and greater scorn from the people of King's Landing, as well as bruises and blood, for the sake of even a momentary catharsis.
She had not been prepared to fight a giant.
She held her own as long as she could, and far longer than many of the other competitors; and by the end, she had no longer been on the tourney field. The pain, the sinking hopelessness of defeat, was too familiar; for a time, she had lost all sense of where and when she was, found herself again standing before a nameless shadow, the last defence of a fallen King; she had not been playing any sort of game then, but fighting in deadly earnest, all other foes forgotten, staggering and swaying, and refusing to fall.
Except that she fell on the field before Minas Tirith, and she fell on the tourney field, too. There is only so much even the strongest-willed warrior can take, especially when her weakened shoulder was driven - far too easily - out of joint, her shield falling. At least she did not fully lose consciousness, was still helmed when she was carried from the field.
Now it is two days later, and she can remain out of sight no more. Her arm is once again in a sling, as it was following the battle; to her surprise and disgust, she has faced remarkably little questioning of the idea that she somehow fell hard enough to account for both that and the bruises littering her face and arms. (The rest of her body, too, of course - but only Elia has seen those. A blessing of keeping her own manner of dress, even if it is too warm for the weather, is that high collars and long sleeves cover a multitude of sins.)
She suspects that the lords of Westeros know better, and that they are well aware that she was beaten: further suspects that they are glad of it, for none of them have been all that subtle in their belief that she is too proud and too cold. But none of them even seem to have thought to question where she was beaten. It makes her wonder what would have happened, in the end, if she had unmasked herself at the tourney. It makes her angry.
At least anger is a feeling. These days, while Elia has thawed some of the ice in her, Éowyn so often feels numb. Pain is better; anger is better; even frustration is better than nothing at all. Perhaps that was part of it, too. Why she fought, and why she kept getting back up.
These are the thoughts that follow her out into the gardens, where the uncomfortably warm air is at least cooler and fresher than inside. Not for the first time, she wonders why she stays; she could leave with the next tide, back to her own home and her own people, away from stifling silences and warm air and cold stone. She could leave, and all she would leave behind would be...
She is not alone.
He is hard to miss, tall as he is; hard to forget, too, particularly with her arm still aching to remind her. Briefly, Éowyn considers turning and walking as fast as she can (which is not all that fast; she is quite stiff still) in the opposite direction, but her pride balks at that. Instead, she turns, and while the bruises on her face make it a little less convincing, offers him a coolly polite smile, as demure as a lady can be while sporting a black eye.
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sforzinda
for aleifr
Date: 2023-11-21 12:48 am (UTC)No surprises there. After the hammering she took at the melee, the real wonder is that she is still able to get up at all. She had been prepared for some injury - it is the nature of fighting, after all, even the toothless playfighting they practice here in King's Landing, and while she may be proud of her own prowess, she has enough sense to know that she is hardly the only warrior with any skill. Besides, it was the first taste of battle she has had since the Pelennor Field, and it is not as though her arm or her shoulder have ever fully healed. She was prepared to take some injury, particularly on her shield side, and to risk pain and embarrassment for the sake of feeling, for a moment, that she could act. Being in King's Landing, even with Elia's company, has begun to feel as stifling as Meduseld in the darkest days of the war; except that at least in Meduseld, people heard her when she spoke. She is weary to the bone of biting her tongue, trying to respond with grace and gentle politic to the indignities heaped on her. If it were not for the princess, she would have left with the last fair wind, and never looked back.
But she remains, and will remain a while yet; and so, yes, she had been prepared to risk Elia's displeasure and greater scorn from the people of King's Landing, as well as bruises and blood, for the sake of even a momentary catharsis.
She had not been prepared to fight a giant.
She held her own as long as she could, and far longer than many of the other competitors; and by the end, she had no longer been on the tourney field. The pain, the sinking hopelessness of defeat, was too familiar; for a time, she had lost all sense of where and when she was, found herself again standing before a nameless shadow, the last defence of a fallen King; she had not been playing any sort of game then, but fighting in deadly earnest, all other foes forgotten, staggering and swaying, and refusing to fall.
Except that she fell on the field before Minas Tirith, and she fell on the tourney field, too. There is only so much even the strongest-willed warrior can take, especially when her weakened shoulder was driven - far too easily - out of joint, her shield falling. At least she did not fully lose consciousness, was still helmed when she was carried from the field.
Now it is two days later, and she can remain out of sight no more. Her arm is once again in a sling, as it was following the battle; to her surprise and disgust, she has faced remarkably little questioning of the idea that she somehow fell hard enough to account for both that and the bruises littering her face and arms. (The rest of her body, too, of course - but only Elia has seen those. A blessing of keeping her own manner of dress, even if it is too warm for the weather, is that high collars and long sleeves cover a multitude of sins.)
She suspects that the lords of Westeros know better, and that they are well aware that she was beaten: further suspects that they are glad of it, for none of them have been all that subtle in their belief that she is too proud and too cold. But none of them even seem to have thought to question where she was beaten. It makes her wonder what would have happened, in the end, if she had unmasked herself at the tourney. It makes her angry.
At least anger is a feeling. These days, while Elia has thawed some of the ice in her, Éowyn so often feels numb. Pain is better; anger is better; even frustration is better than nothing at all. Perhaps that was part of it, too. Why she fought, and why she kept getting back up.
These are the thoughts that follow her out into the gardens, where the uncomfortably warm air is at least cooler and fresher than inside. Not for the first time, she wonders why she stays; she could leave with the next tide, back to her own home and her own people, away from stifling silences and warm air and cold stone. She could leave, and all she would leave behind would be...
She is not alone.
He is hard to miss, tall as he is; hard to forget, too, particularly with her arm still aching to remind her. Briefly, Éowyn considers turning and walking as fast as she can (which is not all that fast; she is quite stiff still) in the opposite direction, but her pride balks at that. Instead, she turns, and while the bruises on her face make it a little less convincing, offers him a coolly polite smile, as demure as a lady can be while sporting a black eye.
"I do not know you, do I, my lord?"