She has little appetite, and less when she looks at Galinda - when she sees the way Galinda bites at her lip, the falsity of her smile, the grief behind it. There is no joy in the thought of leaving, even if it is for the fulfilment of vengeance. Even if it is to reclaim what has been lost.
I may never see her again, she thinks, and it is a stab to the heart. She still longs, in so many ways, for this to end in her death - end in blood and glory, end in justice, end with her locked in mortal combat with her foe, but most of all, to end. But looking at Galinda, she feels for the first time that her death would come at a cost, that it would truly grieve someone who has not already been long-submerged in grief. Galinda, she thinks, would weep at the news, would be harrowed by it as bitterly as any: and it is not right that it should be so, for they have known each other so short a time, but she knows it is so, all the same. I may never see her again, and a part of her cries out against the injustice of it, to have found someone new whose loss would be a grief, and to lose her again at once.
She sits up slowly, swinging her feet off the bed. The marks of the blisters remain, but they are no longer tender, and she has properly-fitted boots now: just as well, for it will be a long time before she can rest like this again. The bruises are gone, or else faded to an unpleasant but less-lurid yellow against her pale skin. She is not herself again, but she can dress up as herself, and try to pretend.
She does not want to. She can hardly bear to stand, to go and collect her breeches and tunic (for she may be a queen, but she must be a warrior first; there is no place for gowns on this journey) and return to settle on the edge of the bed.
"What will you do, when I am gone?" she asks quietly, beginning to pull on her breeches. "Will you return home, where it is safer? I would not like to think of you lingering here, waiting for news."
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sforzinda
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Date: 2025-07-23 02:03 pm (UTC)I may never see her again, she thinks, and it is a stab to the heart. She still longs, in so many ways, for this to end in her death - end in blood and glory, end in justice, end with her locked in mortal combat with her foe, but most of all, to end. But looking at Galinda, she feels for the first time that her death would come at a cost, that it would truly grieve someone who has not already been long-submerged in grief. Galinda, she thinks, would weep at the news, would be harrowed by it as bitterly as any: and it is not right that it should be so, for they have known each other so short a time, but she knows it is so, all the same. I may never see her again, and a part of her cries out against the injustice of it, to have found someone new whose loss would be a grief, and to lose her again at once.
She sits up slowly, swinging her feet off the bed. The marks of the blisters remain, but they are no longer tender, and she has properly-fitted boots now: just as well, for it will be a long time before she can rest like this again. The bruises are gone, or else faded to an unpleasant but less-lurid yellow against her pale skin. She is not herself again, but she can dress up as herself, and try to pretend.
She does not want to. She can hardly bear to stand, to go and collect her breeches and tunic (for she may be a queen, but she must be a warrior first; there is no place for gowns on this journey) and return to settle on the edge of the bed.
"What will you do, when I am gone?" she asks quietly, beginning to pull on her breeches. "Will you return home, where it is safer? I would not like to think of you lingering here, waiting for news."