Éowyn pauses with her hands on the strings of her nightgown, and there is a terrible look upon her face for a moment, unnoticed and so unhidden. She has been struck all at once by memory: by what for so long she had thought the worst of a woman's fate. By standing at the walls, when the end had not yet come, watching first her cousin and then her brother ride away, knowing that she could not spend all her life watching the horizon, knowing that her mind's eye would always be turned there. How long the nights, how dark the days, how restless the hours, when those you care for are in their hour of peril, and you cannot move to aid them; how endless the waiting, and how terrible the fear.
More immediate horrors have consumed her in the past years, but it turns out that she can still remember the duller, no less crushing horror of waiting.
She stands abruptly, seizing Galinda's hand, and her eyes blaze with sudden intensity, her expression one of pity and grief more than anything. "Do not wait," she says, and her own voice is not altogether steady, either. "Do not. It is the last thing I would condemn you to, Glinda, to that dark unknowing. Come with me, if you will; or else turn for home, and I will send word as often as I can; but do not wait here in the darkness for what evil or triumph may come. I cannot bear to think of it. I know it too well." And then, as it strikes her what she has said, and how deeply it is meant, she lowers her voice a little, and says it less passionately and more seriously: "Come with me, if you will - and only if you will, for it will not be safe nor comfortable. But I have found strength in you, where I thought it was lost, and I cannot bear to keep you prisoner to my uncertainties. You need bear no sword, nor come in sight of battle; you need not linger if you are afraid; but come with me, if you do not want to stay, and I will do all that I can to protect you."
And saying it, she is aware of the horror of what she suggests, and the guilt. She has always known what becomes of women in war, and now it is all the reality she has left of herself, and will she condemn her friend to it, too?
But it should be Galinda's choice. It is not a much lesser doom to wait than to suffer; it is not less fearful to be helpless one way than the other. It should be her choice, and it cannot be her choice unless it is offered.
She looses her grip on Galinda's hand, and leans in to kiss the other woman on the cheek, softer than she would have thought herself capable of. "Only if you will. I will be as grateful to you either way, for you have been all my comfort since I fled."
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sforzinda
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Date: 2025-07-23 04:02 pm (UTC)More immediate horrors have consumed her in the past years, but it turns out that she can still remember the duller, no less crushing horror of waiting.
She stands abruptly, seizing Galinda's hand, and her eyes blaze with sudden intensity, her expression one of pity and grief more than anything. "Do not wait," she says, and her own voice is not altogether steady, either. "Do not. It is the last thing I would condemn you to, Glinda, to that dark unknowing. Come with me, if you will; or else turn for home, and I will send word as often as I can; but do not wait here in the darkness for what evil or triumph may come. I cannot bear to think of it. I know it too well." And then, as it strikes her what she has said, and how deeply it is meant, she lowers her voice a little, and says it less passionately and more seriously: "Come with me, if you will - and only if you will, for it will not be safe nor comfortable. But I have found strength in you, where I thought it was lost, and I cannot bear to keep you prisoner to my uncertainties. You need bear no sword, nor come in sight of battle; you need not linger if you are afraid; but come with me, if you do not want to stay, and I will do all that I can to protect you."
And saying it, she is aware of the horror of what she suggests, and the guilt. She has always known what becomes of women in war, and now it is all the reality she has left of herself, and will she condemn her friend to it, too?
But it should be Galinda's choice. It is not a much lesser doom to wait than to suffer; it is not less fearful to be helpless one way than the other. It should be her choice, and it cannot be her choice unless it is offered.
She looses her grip on Galinda's hand, and leans in to kiss the other woman on the cheek, softer than she would have thought herself capable of. "Only if you will. I will be as grateful to you either way, for you have been all my comfort since I fled."