when the worm is slain
May. 25th, 2024 02:55 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shieldofrohanEdoras has no dungeons to speak of. The justice of the Mark is not one which calls for long imprisonment; it is, in the main, swift and permanent. But there are rooms strong enough to hold a prisoner for a time, and it is to one of these rooms - one of the few stone buildings in the city, near the walls - that she goes. There is blood still on her gown, drying to black, but she holds herself as tall and as proud as ever, and her bearing does not permit anyone to comment on her dishevelment or the fact that her eyes are red with weeping.
The tears that she has shed were not, of course, for the man who lies bloody and dead in the high hall: for that, she rejoices. But no joy, no freedom, comes without cost. It is no small thing, after all, to kill an advisor trusted of the King; it is a graver crime still to do so in the King's own hall. There is no question of the penalty.
There is also no question that she cannot allow it. A part of her is certain that it is her doing that the visitor killed Gríma at all, that it is at her urging, whether she had calculated on it or no; that she has brought him to this pass, and now must either save him or perish with him as a co-conspirator.
But a greater drive still is the simpler, more certain one: whether it was by her behest or not, he has done her and her people a great service. She cannot claim, with any honesty, that she has not considered it herself. She cannot lie to herself, say that she has not felt her hands itch for a blade, that at times she has not withdrawn from Gríma's presence for the simple reason that she did not trust herself to keep her hands from his throat. His death is a blessing - to her, to the Mark, to Théoden King, though he may not yet fully understand it. She is indebted to his killer, and she will not shirk it. She cannot let him die.
Her defence was impulsive, and ill-considered. She does not think, not for a moment, that Théoden believed her - if he had, would he have pleaded so for her to change her story, pleaded and wept and shouted? But she has her own advantages, and chief among them is that her uncle, too, is sensible of his debts; and that he loves her, and will not call her a liar before all the court. No matter whether she is one.
It is for that which she has wept, knowing how she has hurt him at the last - that the very thing which she has so long sought to avoid, the very fear that kept her from killing Gríma herself, has come to pass. He is King, and no matter how he may have been enfeebled in body or in mind, he knows his duty. He cannot be seen to spare justice against his kinsmen. He cannot be seen to waive the law - but neither, in the end, can he waive kin-right. And as she would not budge, will not budge, cannot budge...
None of them have a choice, now. There is only one way forward, and it is the way that leads to the room where the prisoner is kept. She does not have the keys to the door; she has none of the keys which, until lately, were always at her belt. She must wait, her face a mask, for one of the four spearmen at the door to open it. She steps inside, and the door is closed behind her, and the darkness - lit only by the small slits of windows - falls. As her eyes adjust, she can see Aleifr only as a darker shadow among the shadows, cannot find his eyes when she searches for them - but she searches for them, all the same.
"Are you hurt?" It is easier to think of such simple, ordinary things than the enormity of what has happened.
The tears that she has shed were not, of course, for the man who lies bloody and dead in the high hall: for that, she rejoices. But no joy, no freedom, comes without cost. It is no small thing, after all, to kill an advisor trusted of the King; it is a graver crime still to do so in the King's own hall. There is no question of the penalty.
There is also no question that she cannot allow it. A part of her is certain that it is her doing that the visitor killed Gríma at all, that it is at her urging, whether she had calculated on it or no; that she has brought him to this pass, and now must either save him or perish with him as a co-conspirator.
But a greater drive still is the simpler, more certain one: whether it was by her behest or not, he has done her and her people a great service. She cannot claim, with any honesty, that she has not considered it herself. She cannot lie to herself, say that she has not felt her hands itch for a blade, that at times she has not withdrawn from Gríma's presence for the simple reason that she did not trust herself to keep her hands from his throat. His death is a blessing - to her, to the Mark, to Théoden King, though he may not yet fully understand it. She is indebted to his killer, and she will not shirk it. She cannot let him die.
Her defence was impulsive, and ill-considered. She does not think, not for a moment, that Théoden believed her - if he had, would he have pleaded so for her to change her story, pleaded and wept and shouted? But she has her own advantages, and chief among them is that her uncle, too, is sensible of his debts; and that he loves her, and will not call her a liar before all the court. No matter whether she is one.
It is for that which she has wept, knowing how she has hurt him at the last - that the very thing which she has so long sought to avoid, the very fear that kept her from killing Gríma herself, has come to pass. He is King, and no matter how he may have been enfeebled in body or in mind, he knows his duty. He cannot be seen to spare justice against his kinsmen. He cannot be seen to waive the law - but neither, in the end, can he waive kin-right. And as she would not budge, will not budge, cannot budge...
None of them have a choice, now. There is only one way forward, and it is the way that leads to the room where the prisoner is kept. She does not have the keys to the door; she has none of the keys which, until lately, were always at her belt. She must wait, her face a mask, for one of the four spearmen at the door to open it. She steps inside, and the door is closed behind her, and the darkness - lit only by the small slits of windows - falls. As her eyes adjust, she can see Aleifr only as a darker shadow among the shadows, cannot find his eyes when she searches for them - but she searches for them, all the same.
"Are you hurt?" It is easier to think of such simple, ordinary things than the enormity of what has happened.
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Date: 2025-11-06 02:50 am (UTC)It can only be a few seconds, because he does not hesitate in reaching for his trouser-fastenings, and it is at that point that the spell lifts a little - that she regains just enough presence of mind to move off his lap and sit back on her heels, and not much more. Her mouth is dry with an anticipation that thrills just on the edge of fear. Here, again, is that sense of a cliff-edge: a moment which, once passed, can never be returned from. Here, again, is the certainty that she has already leapt.
Her tongue darts out, wetting parted lips. It comes to her, with the clarity of a dream, that there is an order to this: that it is in some way wrong that he should be naked and she still clothed. Her eyes do not leave him, even for a moment, as she loosens her own shirt; she looks away only for the split second it takes to pull the tunic over her head and send it after his. Look at me, she wills him, and yet does not know whether he does, because her own eyes are not at that moment lingering as high as his face. Look at me as I look at you.
The fire, behind her, is almost uncomfortably hot against bare skin. All the same, her nipples are pulled taut and hard, as if it were cold; her skin prickles with gooseflesh, a pink flush rising at the hollow of her throat. She is conscious of how her skin lacks the stories his tells: how it is white as unused parchment, without the rough terrain of a life lived meaningfully.
She pushes back her hair, to more fully bare herself to him, and watches him with that same hungry, intent look, as though she could consume all of him and know something deeper by it. After a moment, she moves towards him again, crawling like a beast on all fours now, one hand outstretched to trace her fingertips along the arch of his collarbone and down the valley of his sternum; and at last her eyes move upwards to his face again, her gaze finding his.
"One day," she murmurs, "I should like to hear the story of these marks."
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Date: 2025-11-18 05:44 am (UTC)Meager as it was, it was more than enough. He looked at her as though she was something to eat -- a look that lost none of its intensity as she crawled towards him on her hands and knees, looking at him as though every desire she'd ever had were mapped onto him in this moment.
He loved it. He basked in it like the warmth of the fire as he felt her hands ghost down the centre line of his torso.
"You can." He replies, lifting a hand to caress her cheek. "Along with whatever other stories you'd want to know."
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Date: 2025-11-19 10:17 pm (UTC)Now, her mouth finds his again, with more confidence than before, her tongue darting out to press against his lips. The cool night air prickles at her skin, and yet she is not cold, with the fire at her back and the heat of him before her. She presses into him, small breasts giving only a little against the firm muscle of his chest. It is nothing that a noble lady should do, she thinks, to hunger so deeply and chase pleasure so wantonly, when matters are so dire.
She feels mad. She feels free.