Galinda is glad that Éowyn's back is turned to her, and the other woman can't see how she flounders. No one has bothered to tell her exactly what the men were supposed to do, nor why they came back early - although the reason for that is certainly sitting in the bath in front of her. Her mother had kept all the information of Éowyn's condition away from her, and of course her father would not trouble himself to speak to his daughter of the war he intends to wage and place her in front of.
"I am sure you know better than I," she says instead, feeling it to be a rather weak and feeble excuse - a feeling that only intensifies as Éowyn starts to cry, curling into herself and trembling with the effort of the sobs.
No one has ever cried in front of her before, not like this. Her mother did not cry when her younger siblings failed to thrive; her father's granite expression had not changed. Her ladies have cried from time to time over some especially sad poem recited by a visiting minstrel, and the younger ones have cried with disappointment or regret when a love affair went wrong. But this is something new, something elemental and terrifying, and Galinda has no idea how to handle it.
She settles for resting her hand gently on Éowyn's back and rubbing her shoulder, very lightly, the soap bobbing forgotten in the bath. What else is there to do? Galinda feels instinctively that any efforts to reassure the other woman will be counterproductive at best - and besides, she has no idea what she would even try to reassure her about.
"You will be well cared for here, I give you my word," is what eventually comes out, a little wobbly, and Galinda squeezes the other woman's shoulder gently. The only thing she can do, apart from sit uselessly, is to take up the soap again and return to her task of cleansing Éowyn's hair - which she does, having run out of other ways of comforting.
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sforzinda
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Date: 2025-06-17 08:44 am (UTC)"I am sure you know better than I," she says instead, feeling it to be a rather weak and feeble excuse - a feeling that only intensifies as Éowyn starts to cry, curling into herself and trembling with the effort of the sobs.
No one has ever cried in front of her before, not like this. Her mother did not cry when her younger siblings failed to thrive; her father's granite expression had not changed. Her ladies have cried from time to time over some especially sad poem recited by a visiting minstrel, and the younger ones have cried with disappointment or regret when a love affair went wrong. But this is something new, something elemental and terrifying, and Galinda has no idea how to handle it.
She settles for resting her hand gently on Éowyn's back and rubbing her shoulder, very lightly, the soap bobbing forgotten in the bath. What else is there to do? Galinda feels instinctively that any efforts to reassure the other woman will be counterproductive at best - and besides, she has no idea what she would even try to reassure her about.
"You will be well cared for here, I give you my word," is what eventually comes out, a little wobbly, and Galinda squeezes the other woman's shoulder gently. The only thing she can do, apart from sit uselessly, is to take up the soap again and return to her task of cleansing Éowyn's hair - which she does, having run out of other ways of comforting.