She tries to imagine lying beside him, tracing her fingers over the scars as he names them. Under other circumstances, the thought might come with a frisson of excitement, but she has none of that in her now - only a studious, intent look as she mentally marks the places he indicates, the names he says. Helka, Fjalla, Bjorn, Freja. She offers no condolences for his brother's loss, nor curiosity over the stories he hints at, for there is no time for it now. Arvid, Einar, Tyra. So many names, and so few of them familiar, and perhaps she will remember them, and perhaps not - but perhaps it does not matter, after all, because who else here will know if they are wrong?
It matters, all the same. It is parts of himself offered up, if only for expediency. She does not want to spurn them - now least of all.
"I will remember," she tells him, but still hesitates a moment. Before she can doubt the impulse, before she can let pride overwhelm emotion, she reaches out to grip his arm, and kisses him on the cheek. Her tears are threatening to overflow, and they are not for him, not over him, but she cannot hold them back any more. "Whatever comes of this, if we have no chance to speak till it is over... know that I am grateful. Even for all this, I am grateful. You do not know what you have done for me."
And then she does turn, and flees with less grace than she had hoped, wiping her eyes as soon as her back is turned (as though he cannot see quite clearly that she is doing so; as though she does not know he sees. Some things need at least a pretence of privacy.) and hurrying to knock on the door, to be let out.
When the door opens again, it is almost dark, and she is lit on either side by the torches of the men beside her. She has washed her face, and changed her bloodied dress for another, and she looks more herself: pale still, and drawn, and with dark circles under her eyes, but no longer weeping. Her hair is pulled back from her face, and her hands are clasped in front of her.
"We are called to the King's judgement," she says, and nothing more. She has gained her composure back again, and she holds herself as straight and tall as ever, and she does not speak again as they are escorted through the city, the crowds hanging back as though ashamed to watch, to the King's hall.
There is a kind of mummery to the scene, although it is deadly serious. It is clear that all three of them, at least, know the nature of things, and how it will end; but it must be done, and the script is carried through. There are questions, asked more of Éowyn than of Aleifr, and even when Théoden addresses the foreigner directly, his eyes remain on her. There is a chance to recant, and another, and another, and all met with implacable stone; and it is only at the last, when the truth of things cannot be denied even in this play-act, that Théoden's mask falls, and he begins to weep. He raises her from her knees, and clasps her shoulders, and kissed her cheeks, and then she is crying too, Aleifr all but forgotten - but love is no impediment to law, and when the King steps away, it is to pronounce his judgement.
There are horses in the courtyard, saddled and ready, with bags packed. The moon is bright overhead. They ride through the city in silence, and Éowyn's back is ramrod-straight, and she does not look at Aleifr or at anything else; her eyes, unblinking and blank, stare straight ahead. Her jaw is clenched tight, her knuckles white on the reins. It is done. She rides ahead of him, out of the city walls, never to return.
She does not talk to Aleifr as they ride. Once they are past the barrows, she puts her heels to Windfola's sides, and hunches low in the saddle, and rides as fast as she can, assuming he will follow. In truth, in the moment she hardly cares. She just needs to move, to lose herself in the thunder of hooves and the rush of wind, and not to think.
It is much later, when the fire is lit and they have set up camp, that she finally brings herself to look at him. She looks at him for a long time, and then says, quietly, in a voice that threatens tears but does not contain them: "May I have my father's sword back, please?"
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sforzinda
same hat!!
Date: 2025-01-06 02:38 am (UTC)It matters, all the same. It is parts of himself offered up, if only for expediency. She does not want to spurn them - now least of all.
"I will remember," she tells him, but still hesitates a moment. Before she can doubt the impulse, before she can let pride overwhelm emotion, she reaches out to grip his arm, and kisses him on the cheek. Her tears are threatening to overflow, and they are not for him, not over him, but she cannot hold them back any more. "Whatever comes of this, if we have no chance to speak till it is over... know that I am grateful. Even for all this, I am grateful. You do not know what you have done for me."
And then she does turn, and flees with less grace than she had hoped, wiping her eyes as soon as her back is turned (as though he cannot see quite clearly that she is doing so; as though she does not know he sees. Some things need at least a pretence of privacy.) and hurrying to knock on the door, to be let out.
When the door opens again, it is almost dark, and she is lit on either side by the torches of the men beside her. She has washed her face, and changed her bloodied dress for another, and she looks more herself: pale still, and drawn, and with dark circles under her eyes, but no longer weeping. Her hair is pulled back from her face, and her hands are clasped in front of her.
"We are called to the King's judgement," she says, and nothing more. She has gained her composure back again, and she holds herself as straight and tall as ever, and she does not speak again as they are escorted through the city, the crowds hanging back as though ashamed to watch, to the King's hall.
There is a kind of mummery to the scene, although it is deadly serious. It is clear that all three of them, at least, know the nature of things, and how it will end; but it must be done, and the script is carried through. There are questions, asked more of Éowyn than of Aleifr, and even when Théoden addresses the foreigner directly, his eyes remain on her. There is a chance to recant, and another, and another, and all met with implacable stone; and it is only at the last, when the truth of things cannot be denied even in this play-act, that Théoden's mask falls, and he begins to weep. He raises her from her knees, and clasps her shoulders, and kissed her cheeks, and then she is crying too, Aleifr all but forgotten - but love is no impediment to law, and when the King steps away, it is to pronounce his judgement.
There are horses in the courtyard, saddled and ready, with bags packed. The moon is bright overhead. They ride through the city in silence, and Éowyn's back is ramrod-straight, and she does not look at Aleifr or at anything else; her eyes, unblinking and blank, stare straight ahead. Her jaw is clenched tight, her knuckles white on the reins. It is done. She rides ahead of him, out of the city walls, never to return.
She does not talk to Aleifr as they ride. Once they are past the barrows, she puts her heels to Windfola's sides, and hunches low in the saddle, and rides as fast as she can, assuming he will follow. In truth, in the moment she hardly cares. She just needs to move, to lose herself in the thunder of hooves and the rush of wind, and not to think.
It is much later, when the fire is lit and they have set up camp, that she finally brings herself to look at him. She looks at him for a long time, and then says, quietly, in a voice that threatens tears but does not contain them: "May I have my father's sword back, please?"