It would be easier, she thinks, if he were cruel. If he were harsh and sharp, if he accepted her guilt, then she could loathe herself for all that has passed, all that she has given up for him - and loathe him, too, and be angry instead of empty. Or then, if he were gentle, if he were softly yielding and pitying, then she could harden herself in answer, and prove herself beyond pity.
But it is neither pity nor curtness that he offers her. It is only sense, and she has no defence against it. She clutches the sword tighter against herself, but her hand has found the hilt again, the worn grip where her father's hand once found its place. She heaves a long, shaking sob, and then, with trembling hands, moves to buckle the blade to her hip.
"I wished to meet the end squarely." Her voice is still quiet, but no longer angry - only sad. "If they would not let me in the van, then to hold the rear; if not the rear, then to keep the walls. I wished to die with spear in hand, shield raised beside my brothers, as he did. When the end comes, I will not see it." She sniffs, pushing her hair back from her face. "Where do we head, come morning?"
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sforzinda
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Date: 2025-02-20 01:13 am (UTC)But it is neither pity nor curtness that he offers her. It is only sense, and she has no defence against it. She clutches the sword tighter against herself, but her hand has found the hilt again, the worn grip where her father's hand once found its place. She heaves a long, shaking sob, and then, with trembling hands, moves to buckle the blade to her hip.
"I wished to meet the end squarely." Her voice is still quiet, but no longer angry - only sad. "If they would not let me in the van, then to hold the rear; if not the rear, then to keep the walls. I wished to die with spear in hand, shield raised beside my brothers, as he did. When the end comes, I will not see it." She sniffs, pushing her hair back from her face. "Where do we head, come morning?"