Her good hand rises, briefly, to touch the sling that holds her damaged arm against her chest. It is her shield arm, at least, and not her sword arm: there are things she can still do, when she regains her strength. She has tried to remind herself of this many times over the past few days. Even if she is right in her assessment, that she will never have use of the arm again - even then, it is not her strong hand. She can still ride, can still hold a knife or a pen, still care for herself and others.
It is a thin reassurance, especially when the dread is still so heavy upon her that there will be no future for such things.
"I am fortunate to be alive at all, so they tell me. I should say that an arm is a small price to pay." Should say; but it is clear from her tone that she does not believe it. The sense that she has been shortchanged, that she was robbed of an ending, still lingers painfully. Her life was a small price to pay: her arm, somehow, a steeper one.
She closes her eyes, tipping her head back, the air cold on her face. He asked her a question, and she can hear the question beneath it, or thinks she can: Is Rohan so desperate that it must send its women to fight? Perhaps he does not mean it that way, but she has always heard that lurking under the surface, in how such things are spoken of - where they are spoken of at all. It has been a long time since women rode openly with the éoreds of the Mark - many lifetimes since women were expected on the battlefield - and she cannot help but feel defensive of her place, as though she has not proven it.
Just as she cannot help but feel an obscure guilt that, having proven it, battle lacks the glory that she had always imagined. That, now that the moment of adrenaline and vitality has passed, she finds herself wondering whether it was worth it, whether she is the warrior she thought herself after all. What she remembers is not the song of steel and the thrum of hooves, not the glorious apotheosis she had hoped for: it is blood and shit and death, and mud churned by the thrashing of dying men and horses, and the terrible, cold fear in the Witch-King's shadow.
She has been silent too long. She swallows, opening her eyes, not to look at him but up at the wide, cold sky, and sighs. "Why should I not have been? When the full host of Rohan is mustered, should I remain to tend the hearth and weep, watching the horizon for their return, finding only darkness and death? Sooner would I die as my father did, with sword in hand and shield raised, defending the realms of Men." It is clear in her tone that this is a well-rehearsed thought, more often considered than spoken; equally clear that it is not aimed at him, so much as at the world more largely. But all that anger fades as swiftly as it came, and she sags a little where she sits, wincing. "Yes. I was in the battle, though I rode disguised. And, as you can see, I did not die."
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It is a thin reassurance, especially when the dread is still so heavy upon her that there will be no future for such things.
"I am fortunate to be alive at all, so they tell me. I should say that an arm is a small price to pay." Should say; but it is clear from her tone that she does not believe it. The sense that she has been shortchanged, that she was robbed of an ending, still lingers painfully. Her life was a small price to pay: her arm, somehow, a steeper one.
She closes her eyes, tipping her head back, the air cold on her face. He asked her a question, and she can hear the question beneath it, or thinks she can: Is Rohan so desperate that it must send its women to fight? Perhaps he does not mean it that way, but she has always heard that lurking under the surface, in how such things are spoken of - where they are spoken of at all. It has been a long time since women rode openly with the éoreds of the Mark - many lifetimes since women were expected on the battlefield - and she cannot help but feel defensive of her place, as though she has not proven it.
Just as she cannot help but feel an obscure guilt that, having proven it, battle lacks the glory that she had always imagined. That, now that the moment of adrenaline and vitality has passed, she finds herself wondering whether it was worth it, whether she is the warrior she thought herself after all. What she remembers is not the song of steel and the thrum of hooves, not the glorious apotheosis she had hoped for: it is blood and shit and death, and mud churned by the thrashing of dying men and horses, and the terrible, cold fear in the Witch-King's shadow.
She has been silent too long. She swallows, opening her eyes, not to look at him but up at the wide, cold sky, and sighs. "Why should I not have been? When the full host of Rohan is mustered, should I remain to tend the hearth and weep, watching the horizon for their return, finding only darkness and death? Sooner would I die as my father did, with sword in hand and shield raised, defending the realms of Men." It is clear in her tone that this is a well-rehearsed thought, more often considered than spoken; equally clear that it is not aimed at him, so much as at the world more largely. But all that anger fades as swiftly as it came, and she sags a little where she sits, wincing. "Yes. I was in the battle, though I rode disguised. And, as you can see, I did not die."