There is no law in Westeros that would not name you so, she says, and he feels that anger bubbling up inside him again, that frustration that led him to snap at his erstwhile host. No, there is no such law in Westeros; but I am not Westerosi, and a Steward has never been a King. Even knowing - or, perhaps, merely hoping he knows - what she means by it, that irritation will not be entirely quelled. His jaw tightens, his lips pressing taut. He wants to be sympathetic to her plight, to a fear that he does not doubt is genuine in the face of a threat that has haunted her all this time - and yet, she questions all that he has fought for, all that he has held dear, the dawn that followed a darkness she did not see, and she does not even seem to know she does it.
Then again, how could she know? He has not talked overmuch - except perhaps in feverish dream - of the war; he has prayed, always, that she may be forever innocent of the darkness and despair of those days. He could not have expressed to her, even if he wished to, how hope for Gondor's survival had become enmeshed with the return of the King; how it was only in that moment where he returned the rod of office and all claim to rule that he felt, for the first time in his life, that fate had restored its proper course. He cannot say - to her, to her father, perhaps not even to himself - how dearly he needs to trust in that truth, or how questioning it twists a knife that he has often forgotten is still seated in his breast. And for all this talk of witches and prophecy, of dire fate that twists them in its web, there are some things he cannot set aside.
He swallows hard, and tries his best; and there is an answering ferocity in his grip when he clasps her hand in both of his, meeting her gaze with eyes that burn with a cold fire.
"Why would it be so plain?" he echoes her, and there is force in his tone, too, quiet as it is. "You will question crown and king and word; you will question all but that which hurts you deepest. Yet you have not asked, in all of this, why your brother will come to wish you harm, nor what doom will see our children shrouded; you have not asked, either, what this witch meant in answering a child's questions with such bleak prophecy, or what such a prophecy would serve. For it is said that even true prophecy can be twisted by the giver, that sly words can wrap truth into lies; and men have gone mad in such contemplation, and women too." He sighs then, heavily, and closes his eyes; and there is a great weariness that crosses his face. "Ai! that Mithrandir still came to the White City so often as he did in my youth; for he might give wiser counsel."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2022-01-23 01:17 am (UTC)Then again, how could she know? He has not talked overmuch - except perhaps in feverish dream - of the war; he has prayed, always, that she may be forever innocent of the darkness and despair of those days. He could not have expressed to her, even if he wished to, how hope for Gondor's survival had become enmeshed with the return of the King; how it was only in that moment where he returned the rod of office and all claim to rule that he felt, for the first time in his life, that fate had restored its proper course. He cannot say - to her, to her father, perhaps not even to himself - how dearly he needs to trust in that truth, or how questioning it twists a knife that he has often forgotten is still seated in his breast. And for all this talk of witches and prophecy, of dire fate that twists them in its web, there are some things he cannot set aside.
He swallows hard, and tries his best; and there is an answering ferocity in his grip when he clasps her hand in both of his, meeting her gaze with eyes that burn with a cold fire.
"Why would it be so plain?" he echoes her, and there is force in his tone, too, quiet as it is. "You will question crown and king and word; you will question all but that which hurts you deepest. Yet you have not asked, in all of this, why your brother will come to wish you harm, nor what doom will see our children shrouded; you have not asked, either, what this witch meant in answering a child's questions with such bleak prophecy, or what such a prophecy would serve. For it is said that even true prophecy can be twisted by the giver, that sly words can wrap truth into lies; and men have gone mad in such contemplation, and women too." He sighs then, heavily, and closes his eyes; and there is a great weariness that crosses his face. "Ai! that Mithrandir still came to the White City so often as he did in my youth; for he might give wiser counsel."