"They will do something but admire me." The bodies, twisting slowly in the wind. The look in Háma's gaze at the last, meeting hers from the gallows. Ceolfrith's wife, and the hate in her eyes. "They will die. They will die in my name, because my own arm was not strong enough."
Her fingers flex against the surface of the water, and she presses her lips together tightly and moves to do as she is bidden. Standing aches worse than settling, her worn thighs aching and trembling under the strain. She steadies herself against the sides of the tub, teeth gritting as she stands. A part of her is aware, dimly, that she is being unfair: that this is not a just way to respond to someone who is trying to comfort her. Galinda does not seem hardened, the way Éowyn has become; she seems kind and genuine and soft, and she does not need to know the worst of it, nor be made to feel guilty for not speaking to it.
But it is difficult, now, not to let herself be honest. For once, she is almost safe, and there is so much that has so long gone unsaid. She turns where she stands, meeting Glinda's eyes.
"I know that everyone says it. I know that in the eyes of the world, I am his wife and he is my husband, and so even in my absence he is King; and if there is one relief it is that he is not man enough to have gotten a child on me, so that he will never rest easy in his ownership. And he will be my husband by that accounting until I prove otherwise, and he will claim so until I cleave his head from his shoulders, and even then, there will be those who say that I allowed him mastery over me, that I sold the Mark to preserve my own skin and turned against him only to sell it to another lord. I cannot make it otherwise. I can fight all my life, with an army or with my own bare hands, and I can rend him limb from limb and cry out all that he has done to me; but the histories that are told, even if they sing my deeds and acclaim a victory, will make me his wife." There is a gleam of tears in her eyes again, but there is a sharper glint there too, a ferocity that cries out for an outlet. "And I will not fight history. If he were my husband, then I divorce him utterly, and if I were his wife, still I would be the one to see him choking on his blood. But I would have you know it, Lady Glinda; I would have it clear between us, if nowhere else. He is not my husband, not my kinsman or my King, and he never was."
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sforzinda
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Date: 2025-07-04 05:46 pm (UTC)Her fingers flex against the surface of the water, and she presses her lips together tightly and moves to do as she is bidden. Standing aches worse than settling, her worn thighs aching and trembling under the strain. She steadies herself against the sides of the tub, teeth gritting as she stands. A part of her is aware, dimly, that she is being unfair: that this is not a just way to respond to someone who is trying to comfort her. Galinda does not seem hardened, the way Éowyn has become; she seems kind and genuine and soft, and she does not need to know the worst of it, nor be made to feel guilty for not speaking to it.
But it is difficult, now, not to let herself be honest. For once, she is almost safe, and there is so much that has so long gone unsaid. She turns where she stands, meeting Glinda's eyes.
"I know that everyone says it. I know that in the eyes of the world, I am his wife and he is my husband, and so even in my absence he is King; and if there is one relief it is that he is not man enough to have gotten a child on me, so that he will never rest easy in his ownership. And he will be my husband by that accounting until I prove otherwise, and he will claim so until I cleave his head from his shoulders, and even then, there will be those who say that I allowed him mastery over me, that I sold the Mark to preserve my own skin and turned against him only to sell it to another lord. I cannot make it otherwise. I can fight all my life, with an army or with my own bare hands, and I can rend him limb from limb and cry out all that he has done to me; but the histories that are told, even if they sing my deeds and acclaim a victory, will make me his wife." There is a gleam of tears in her eyes again, but there is a sharper glint there too, a ferocity that cries out for an outlet. "And I will not fight history. If he were my husband, then I divorce him utterly, and if I were his wife, still I would be the one to see him choking on his blood. But I would have you know it, Lady Glinda; I would have it clear between us, if nowhere else. He is not my husband, not my kinsman or my King, and he never was."