Éowyn (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
shieldofrohan) wrote2022-05-20 08:41 pm
shieldofrohan) wrote2022-05-20 08:41 pm
Entry tags:
for dilly | the fruits of a marriage
She is not regular in her courses. She never has been, and the daily stress and violence of life has taken a further toll on the matter.
She tells herself, must tell herself, that this is why she has waited; that she did not know, could not know, whether it meant anything at all. But this is a lie: she knows. She has known for some time. She merely wishes she did not.
There has been a kind of stability found between them, a ground that is, if not solid, at least predictable. It is not pleasant, and it does not allow her to relax or to catch her breath, but the horrors of the life she has spun for herself have, over the past few months, settled into something more akin to grinding, bitter routine. She has learned, little by little, to walk that fine line of managing her husband's madness; not in private, perhaps, where he is brutal and she still frequently snaps to defiance, but in political matters at least. The country has not fallen, which is, alas, the most she can hope for. She has found ways to make time for her own duties, not just the ones he would have of her. And it is not all bitter, either: in the past couple of months, she has found time with her sister-in-law, as well.
If it were her child, I would not mind it. The thought has come to her too many times, since before she forced herself to admit that there might be a child at all. It is a whimsy, but an alluring one. And yet, of course, it cannot be so; and it is not Daenerys to whom she is wedded; and it is not Daenerys who she should tell now, but the man who has brought her to this pass.
She cannot tell him. She dares not. She is too uncertain, too afraid, too weak in the face of what has come upon her. There is joy, true and honest: joy at the thought of a son, of a child of her own, an innocent in this world where innocence is so fleeting. There is excitement, and the ordinary fear that she does not doubt must attend all expecting mothers: there are so many things that can go wrong, so many mistakes that might be made, and what if she is wrong?
And all of this floats atop the surface of feelings far more numerous and dark, and she does not want to face those thoughts, or what they say about her state. She does not want to admit her joy, lest she in so doing admit how it is fettered by horror, by disgust, by the deep and abiding grief that bears no name. The final binding of their marriage, inescapable in its permanence; the bringing into the world of another victim of this hell; the knowledge that when a son is born, her purpose fulfilled, she will lose what little leverage she may have. And if it is a boy, this new life even now building itself, then what of the other men in her line? Éomer, who stands alone between this hypothetical son and the throne of Rohan when Théoden at last passes; Théoden himself, who suffers enough by the splitting of her care when there is no child; the people of Rohan, bound forever to the dragons of Valyria?
She has held this in as long as she can bear, as long as she can pretend that she does not know. But the weeks and months have passed, and her blood does not come, and the sickness has come and gone with no clear sign of illness in anyone around her, and she finds her hand drifting too often towards her belly, and she knows, as she has known for weeks. The secret weighs on her like a millstone, and at last, she yields to it: and it is with her heart in her throat (for a wholly different reason than the nervousness that so often attends Daenerys' presence) that she stands for a moment before her sister-in-law's door, then raises her fist and knocks softly.
"Sweostor mín?" Half-hoping, as she calls it, that Daenerys will not answer.
She tells herself, must tell herself, that this is why she has waited; that she did not know, could not know, whether it meant anything at all. But this is a lie: she knows. She has known for some time. She merely wishes she did not.
There has been a kind of stability found between them, a ground that is, if not solid, at least predictable. It is not pleasant, and it does not allow her to relax or to catch her breath, but the horrors of the life she has spun for herself have, over the past few months, settled into something more akin to grinding, bitter routine. She has learned, little by little, to walk that fine line of managing her husband's madness; not in private, perhaps, where he is brutal and she still frequently snaps to defiance, but in political matters at least. The country has not fallen, which is, alas, the most she can hope for. She has found ways to make time for her own duties, not just the ones he would have of her. And it is not all bitter, either: in the past couple of months, she has found time with her sister-in-law, as well.
If it were her child, I would not mind it. The thought has come to her too many times, since before she forced herself to admit that there might be a child at all. It is a whimsy, but an alluring one. And yet, of course, it cannot be so; and it is not Daenerys to whom she is wedded; and it is not Daenerys who she should tell now, but the man who has brought her to this pass.
She cannot tell him. She dares not. She is too uncertain, too afraid, too weak in the face of what has come upon her. There is joy, true and honest: joy at the thought of a son, of a child of her own, an innocent in this world where innocence is so fleeting. There is excitement, and the ordinary fear that she does not doubt must attend all expecting mothers: there are so many things that can go wrong, so many mistakes that might be made, and what if she is wrong?
And all of this floats atop the surface of feelings far more numerous and dark, and she does not want to face those thoughts, or what they say about her state. She does not want to admit her joy, lest she in so doing admit how it is fettered by horror, by disgust, by the deep and abiding grief that bears no name. The final binding of their marriage, inescapable in its permanence; the bringing into the world of another victim of this hell; the knowledge that when a son is born, her purpose fulfilled, she will lose what little leverage she may have. And if it is a boy, this new life even now building itself, then what of the other men in her line? Éomer, who stands alone between this hypothetical son and the throne of Rohan when Théoden at last passes; Théoden himself, who suffers enough by the splitting of her care when there is no child; the people of Rohan, bound forever to the dragons of Valyria?
She has held this in as long as she can bear, as long as she can pretend that she does not know. But the weeks and months have passed, and her blood does not come, and the sickness has come and gone with no clear sign of illness in anyone around her, and she finds her hand drifting too often towards her belly, and she knows, as she has known for weeks. The secret weighs on her like a millstone, and at last, she yields to it: and it is with her heart in her throat (for a wholly different reason than the nervousness that so often attends Daenerys' presence) that she stands for a moment before her sister-in-law's door, then raises her fist and knocks softly.
"Sweostor mín?" Half-hoping, as she calls it, that Daenerys will not answer.