"I would count it no fault," she repeats, stubbornly, not knowing what else to say. She is coming to the end of her composure, and the look on his face - that softness, that grief, so much the mirror of what she saw in her uncle's face not an hour ago - is almost enough to undo her.
She cannot allow herself to come undone. She cannot take it back now. It is too late; the path is set. The horrible certainty that it has somehow been a mistake settles, corpse-heavy, in her gut - but what other road was there? What other way? To let him die was unthinkable. To break him loose against the King's word would end in the same doom. Even in Théoden's rheumy eyes, she thought she had seen the tearful glimmer of that understanding.
She swallows, hard, and her back is still straight, her face still stony and set; but she crosses the remaining space between them, reaching up to touch his face, just below where a bruise purples his cheek. His captors have not been unduly cruel - it is not their habit - but she imagines they did not dare hold back, either, given his size and strength. She wonders how badly they were hurt in turn. She should know, but she does not. Her eyes find his in the darkness, and there is something gentler in her tone.
"And I could do no less, for someone who has done this for me. You owe me nothing; there is no debt between us, when this is done. That is all I mean." She lets her hand fall back to her side. It is not all she means; but the rest of it is wordless and formless and almost a scream, and she does not think it would help to say If you are all I have left myself, then I cannot have you suffering my presence against your will, or I am afraid, I am so afraid, let me pretend that I am not afraid. Or, for that matter, I am sorry.
"I should go. Two hours is a short time, to set in order all that must be done; and it is late, too, and all the city is in chaos." Of course it is - and she wonders, guiltily, how long it will take for word to leave the city and spread farther afield; how long before Éomer hears of it, and what story he will hear. She bites down on the inside of her cheek, smoothing her bloodstained skirts. "I will come back before we are summoned, and we will go together. Only remember that we are man and wife, and have been so for some days, and if it is asked of you-" She is blushing, despite herself, but she cannot turn back now, cannot risk missing anything. Understanding she had seen in Théoden's eyes, yes, and no desire to hurt her further; but that will not prevent him from trying to undo what she has done. She speaks rapidly, as though trying to outpace her own words. "If proof is asked of you, then there is a small scar on my knee, where I fell hard as a child; and a smaller mole low enough on my hip that you certainly could not see it unless I allowed it. And we were wedded in secret, and we will not say by whom, for fear that he suffer for it; but it has been a week and a day since it was done, and it was done outside the city, among the barrows, so that my forefathers might bear witness; and it was all at my demand, not yours, and you had not so much as kissed me until that night, though I had kissed you. And there were no rings, but I gave you my father's sword, which they will have found by now among your things." Another deception; one far less justified. But she could not ride to exile without a sword to carry, could she? Not when she has said, in so many words, that he has every right to leave her.
The words finally seem to have stopped their restless tumble from her tongue. She takes a long, shaky breath, and - "Whatever else you say to make it more real, whatever you must say, it will be both our truths, at least until the night is done. Hold fast. I will return in two hours."
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sforzinda
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Date: 2024-07-26 12:41 am (UTC)She cannot allow herself to come undone. She cannot take it back now. It is too late; the path is set. The horrible certainty that it has somehow been a mistake settles, corpse-heavy, in her gut - but what other road was there? What other way? To let him die was unthinkable. To break him loose against the King's word would end in the same doom. Even in Théoden's rheumy eyes, she thought she had seen the tearful glimmer of that understanding.
She swallows, hard, and her back is still straight, her face still stony and set; but she crosses the remaining space between them, reaching up to touch his face, just below where a bruise purples his cheek. His captors have not been unduly cruel - it is not their habit - but she imagines they did not dare hold back, either, given his size and strength. She wonders how badly they were hurt in turn. She should know, but she does not. Her eyes find his in the darkness, and there is something gentler in her tone.
"And I could do no less, for someone who has done this for me. You owe me nothing; there is no debt between us, when this is done. That is all I mean." She lets her hand fall back to her side. It is not all she means; but the rest of it is wordless and formless and almost a scream, and she does not think it would help to say If you are all I have left myself, then I cannot have you suffering my presence against your will, or I am afraid, I am so afraid, let me pretend that I am not afraid. Or, for that matter, I am sorry.
"I should go. Two hours is a short time, to set in order all that must be done; and it is late, too, and all the city is in chaos." Of course it is - and she wonders, guiltily, how long it will take for word to leave the city and spread farther afield; how long before Éomer hears of it, and what story he will hear. She bites down on the inside of her cheek, smoothing her bloodstained skirts. "I will come back before we are summoned, and we will go together. Only remember that we are man and wife, and have been so for some days, and if it is asked of you-" She is blushing, despite herself, but she cannot turn back now, cannot risk missing anything. Understanding she had seen in Théoden's eyes, yes, and no desire to hurt her further; but that will not prevent him from trying to undo what she has done. She speaks rapidly, as though trying to outpace her own words. "If proof is asked of you, then there is a small scar on my knee, where I fell hard as a child; and a smaller mole low enough on my hip that you certainly could not see it unless I allowed it. And we were wedded in secret, and we will not say by whom, for fear that he suffer for it; but it has been a week and a day since it was done, and it was done outside the city, among the barrows, so that my forefathers might bear witness; and it was all at my demand, not yours, and you had not so much as kissed me until that night, though I had kissed you. And there were no rings, but I gave you my father's sword, which they will have found by now among your things." Another deception; one far less justified. But she could not ride to exile without a sword to carry, could she? Not when she has said, in so many words, that he has every right to leave her.
The words finally seem to have stopped their restless tumble from her tongue. She takes a long, shaky breath, and - "Whatever else you say to make it more real, whatever you must say, it will be both our truths, at least until the night is done. Hold fast. I will return in two hours."