The silence is louder than anything that has come before. All things still, and the moonlit night seems to rush back into the space left by that terrible scream. For a moment, the balance hangs steady, and to move seems a blasphemy, to stir that endless moment.
Then a horse, lying on the stony ground with a broken leg, begins to thrash anew; and its rider screams in pain, his own leg caught beneath his mount; and reality reasserts itself, sharply and suddenly. The Riders look away from their saviour, exchanging uncertain looks among one another, uncertain of what comes next.
Éowyn, still dazed and feeling herself in a strange dream, clings to the back of the man who lifted her into the saddle. There are, for once, no thoughts of her pride, of the embarrassment of sitting pillion like a child; it is all she can do to remain seated at all, and not collapse. But for the first time in an uncountably long while, she feels something other than fury and despair: not hope, perhaps, but wonder; a sense that what they have witnessed is a scene from some other age, from some song worthy of singing. She leans in a little toward the scene, and almost falls in the process, her vision blurring as she grasps for any purchase.
The Rider whose horse she shares snatches her arm, pulling her upright. Under his helmet, his eyes are wide with concern, his voice low. "Hold fast, lady. Hold a while longer."
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sforzinda
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Date: 2025-06-13 12:03 pm (UTC)Then a horse, lying on the stony ground with a broken leg, begins to thrash anew; and its rider screams in pain, his own leg caught beneath his mount; and reality reasserts itself, sharply and suddenly. The Riders look away from their saviour, exchanging uncertain looks among one another, uncertain of what comes next.
Éowyn, still dazed and feeling herself in a strange dream, clings to the back of the man who lifted her into the saddle. There are, for once, no thoughts of her pride, of the embarrassment of sitting pillion like a child; it is all she can do to remain seated at all, and not collapse. But for the first time in an uncountably long while, she feels something other than fury and despair: not hope, perhaps, but wonder; a sense that what they have witnessed is a scene from some other age, from some song worthy of singing. She leans in a little toward the scene, and almost falls in the process, her vision blurring as she grasps for any purchase.
The Rider whose horse she shares snatches her arm, pulling her upright. Under his helmet, his eyes are wide with concern, his voice low. "Hold fast, lady. Hold a while longer."