She cannot help it: she sags as soon as the door is closed, and the mask cracks from her face, the fullness of her weariness shining through. She should hold up the façade, should maintain a queen's composure - as she has somehow managed to do in countless audiences and feasts, when so much rides upon her performance, her ability to stand behind a man she loathes and hold her tongue and pour the wine, and not throw it in his face. She should call upon that desperate determination now, and be still and steady and silent, and not let Galinda see her falter.
But it is more difficult, somehow, to be looked upon with kindness, to be waited upon by someone who genuinely seems to want to please her. She leans back against the doorframe, covering her face with her hands, trying to hold back the tears and master herself again.
"It will do." Her voice is muffled, thick and unclear: this, it seems to her, is her true voice now, not the steady command of a proud queen. "It will more than do. It is a surfeit." It is a trap. It is a dream, or it is a snare, or it is some more evil thing. How long has it been, since she bathed without hurry or fear? How long since there was someone to attend her with a soft hand, not a mail-fist? She lowers her hands at last, and looks at the bath for a long moment with an expression trembling between fear and hate and hope. How long since she took a bath to wash the dirt of travel away, and not to prepare herself for some further humiliation?
She will not weep, she tells herself. If she did not weep when those things were done to her, why should she weep now? Things are not over. They never end. There is no place to collapse and weep and scream, only to put one foot in front of the other and stagger on, towards the next trial. She steadies her expression, although it is not altogether as convincing, and straightens her back, pressing her lips together against the lump in her throat. It is easier to manage if she thinks of the task immediately before her, and does not look up at Galinda or let herself dwell on anything but kneeling to unfasten the laces of her borrowed boots.
Her feet are bare, inside them, and red with blisters from ill-fitting boots on a long ride. She looks down at them as though the pain belongs to someone else, and stands again. Her hands are steadier now, as she lifts them to the fastenings of her dress; this is more routine than anything.
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sforzinda
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Date: 2025-06-15 01:59 pm (UTC)But it is more difficult, somehow, to be looked upon with kindness, to be waited upon by someone who genuinely seems to want to please her. She leans back against the doorframe, covering her face with her hands, trying to hold back the tears and master herself again.
"It will do." Her voice is muffled, thick and unclear: this, it seems to her, is her true voice now, not the steady command of a proud queen. "It will more than do. It is a surfeit." It is a trap. It is a dream, or it is a snare, or it is some more evil thing. How long has it been, since she bathed without hurry or fear? How long since there was someone to attend her with a soft hand, not a mail-fist? She lowers her hands at last, and looks at the bath for a long moment with an expression trembling between fear and hate and hope. How long since she took a bath to wash the dirt of travel away, and not to prepare herself for some further humiliation?
She will not weep, she tells herself. If she did not weep when those things were done to her, why should she weep now? Things are not over. They never end. There is no place to collapse and weep and scream, only to put one foot in front of the other and stagger on, towards the next trial. She steadies her expression, although it is not altogether as convincing, and straightens her back, pressing her lips together against the lump in her throat. It is easier to manage if she thinks of the task immediately before her, and does not look up at Galinda or let herself dwell on anything but kneeling to unfasten the laces of her borrowed boots.
Her feet are bare, inside them, and red with blisters from ill-fitting boots on a long ride. She looks down at them as though the pain belongs to someone else, and stands again. Her hands are steadier now, as she lifts them to the fastenings of her dress; this is more routine than anything.