She does not take the man's hand at once, but looks at it with something like panic behind her veiled expression. Touch has not, of late, been a gentle or pleasing thing. She is not sure which she fears more: that his grip will turn and twist into something cruel, or that there is some curse in her, that her wretched fate is somehow contagious. The men who have taken her hand without casting her down, these past months, have not fared well from it.
But he is waiting, and a feeling she had not known she could still feel rises up inside her: embarrassment. She takes his hand, and lets herself be helped down. Her boots do not fit her - she fled barefoot, and is wearing a pair borrowed from one of the soldiers - and they batter against her feet as she lands on the stone, a dully solid pain. Her stomach feels leaden with the resigned dread that has become so familiar, that says this will not end happily, if it ends at all.
"I do not fear harm befalling me." There is no more they can do to me sits between the words, to be picked up by anyone in the mind to hear it. She sighs, and there is merit in Galinda's fears, because there is a part of Éowyn that even now thinks: put the sword in my hand. Give me spear and shield. Let me be myself again. But that part of her is dulled by time, even as the fury behind it has hardened into a diamond edge, and for now, the only thing she can offer her people is to deny Gríma her recapture.
She takes the arm she is offered, and only Galinda will be able to feel how she trembles with the effort of it. Her other hand remains on Snowmane's reins, and a part of her wonders if she will ever be able to release them. The old warhorse is, it seems to her, all that gives her even this much strength: he is a kingly mount, a mirror of the white horse on Rohan's banner, and more importantly, he is something from before. He knows her of old, when she might have believed in the tone of her own voice and the safety these strangers offer, when she would have known what to do. She is afraid, when they take him to be stabled and rested, she will break again, and weep.
"My uncle is dead," she says, to Galinda and to anyone else who might be listening. The men who rode with her must know, of course. The others will know soon enough, if they do not already, without her telling them. But it feels important to say, all the same. "The King. Is dead."
She grips more tightly to the arm of the woman beside her, and only now does she look at her fully. There cannot be much difference in age between them, but the Lady Galinda looks so young, and Éowyn cannot help wondering how she seems in turn. She feels as though she must look ancient, winnowed and gaunt; but she has seen herself in a looking-glass not so long ago, and she knows that for all that has happened, she looks much as she always did, if perhaps a little thinner and paler.
But Galinda... Galinda seems to her almost to shine with earnestness, and with a clarity in her blue eyes that has not been dulled by grief. She seems to Éowyn an impossibility, a creature of a bygone world - a world that was lost even before Éomer fell, before the gates of Edoras opened to its new masters.
If you will come with me? she said, and it has been some moments since she said it; and Éowyn lets out a long, unsteady breath, and at last answers with a nod. "Please, Lady Galinda." It sits odd on her tongue, that name, comes out nearer to Glinda. "Lead the way."
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sforzinda
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Date: 2025-06-14 11:05 pm (UTC)But he is waiting, and a feeling she had not known she could still feel rises up inside her: embarrassment. She takes his hand, and lets herself be helped down. Her boots do not fit her - she fled barefoot, and is wearing a pair borrowed from one of the soldiers - and they batter against her feet as she lands on the stone, a dully solid pain. Her stomach feels leaden with the resigned dread that has become so familiar, that says this will not end happily, if it ends at all.
"I do not fear harm befalling me." There is no more they can do to me sits between the words, to be picked up by anyone in the mind to hear it. She sighs, and there is merit in Galinda's fears, because there is a part of Éowyn that even now thinks: put the sword in my hand. Give me spear and shield. Let me be myself again. But that part of her is dulled by time, even as the fury behind it has hardened into a diamond edge, and for now, the only thing she can offer her people is to deny Gríma her recapture.
She takes the arm she is offered, and only Galinda will be able to feel how she trembles with the effort of it. Her other hand remains on Snowmane's reins, and a part of her wonders if she will ever be able to release them. The old warhorse is, it seems to her, all that gives her even this much strength: he is a kingly mount, a mirror of the white horse on Rohan's banner, and more importantly, he is something from before. He knows her of old, when she might have believed in the tone of her own voice and the safety these strangers offer, when she would have known what to do. She is afraid, when they take him to be stabled and rested, she will break again, and weep.
"My uncle is dead," she says, to Galinda and to anyone else who might be listening. The men who rode with her must know, of course. The others will know soon enough, if they do not already, without her telling them. But it feels important to say, all the same. "The King. Is dead."
She grips more tightly to the arm of the woman beside her, and only now does she look at her fully. There cannot be much difference in age between them, but the Lady Galinda looks so young, and Éowyn cannot help wondering how she seems in turn. She feels as though she must look ancient, winnowed and gaunt; but she has seen herself in a looking-glass not so long ago, and she knows that for all that has happened, she looks much as she always did, if perhaps a little thinner and paler.
But Galinda... Galinda seems to her almost to shine with earnestness, and with a clarity in her blue eyes that has not been dulled by grief. She seems to Éowyn an impossibility, a creature of a bygone world - a world that was lost even before Éomer fell, before the gates of Edoras opened to its new masters.
If you will come with me? she said, and it has been some moments since she said it; and Éowyn lets out a long, unsteady breath, and at last answers with a nod. "Please, Lady Galinda." It sits odd on her tongue, that name, comes out nearer to Glinda. "Lead the way."