"Galinda." She hears it, the burring of the name, too soft on her tongue; and she smiles a little apologetically. "Ga-linda. I am sorry, it sits strangely on my tongue. I will grasp it soon enough."
She takes it as an offer, as it is given, though she is not sure what the offer is. She does not dare to think it is friendship, but perhaps it is something of the kind: perhaps it is merely that, if she is Éowyn and her host is Galinda, they need be nothing more. That it need not be a disaster how she has crumbled, so long as she is only Éowyn and it is only Galinda who sees. It is a fragile thought, but it is something.
And then she loses the thought at once, because Galinda's thumbs working against her muscles do hurt, whatever she might have said - but it is, for once, a good hurt, the ache of something misplaced and weary resettling. She lets out a low groan, surprised by the relief it brings. For two years at least now, she has never allowed herself to relax or hold her head less than high, keeping herself as much as possible straight and steady against a world increasingly pushing to make her bend. Even in kneeling, she has always tried to stand tall - and her back, under the bruising and the raised whip-scars, is a solid wall of muscle knots.
She lets out a quiet grunt, pressing back into Galinda's touch, a wordless encouragement to press harder. Something is unwinding inside her, a tension kept so tight that it almost snaps. Part of her is afraid of what will come of loosening the muscles that keep her head up and her shoulders back - if it will all come undone, and cannot be restored - but it feels good. And so she does not ask, as she has not asked until this point, the question that still hovers in the forefront of her mind and must eventually be voiced: Why am I here?
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sforzinda
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Date: 2025-06-22 02:04 am (UTC)She takes it as an offer, as it is given, though she is not sure what the offer is. She does not dare to think it is friendship, but perhaps it is something of the kind: perhaps it is merely that, if she is Éowyn and her host is Galinda, they need be nothing more. That it need not be a disaster how she has crumbled, so long as she is only Éowyn and it is only Galinda who sees. It is a fragile thought, but it is something.
And then she loses the thought at once, because Galinda's thumbs working against her muscles do hurt, whatever she might have said - but it is, for once, a good hurt, the ache of something misplaced and weary resettling. She lets out a low groan, surprised by the relief it brings. For two years at least now, she has never allowed herself to relax or hold her head less than high, keeping herself as much as possible straight and steady against a world increasingly pushing to make her bend. Even in kneeling, she has always tried to stand tall - and her back, under the bruising and the raised whip-scars, is a solid wall of muscle knots.
She lets out a quiet grunt, pressing back into Galinda's touch, a wordless encouragement to press harder. Something is unwinding inside her, a tension kept so tight that it almost snaps. Part of her is afraid of what will come of loosening the muscles that keep her head up and her shoulders back - if it will all come undone, and cannot be restored - but it feels good. And so she does not ask, as she has not asked until this point, the question that still hovers in the forefront of her mind and must eventually be voiced: Why am I here?