Her touch is warm, and firm, and real. It does not dissolve into smoke and dreaming. There is no cold, lifeless laughter, no shadow falling upon Éowyn; there is only a woman's hand in hers, and the warm press of support at the small of her back, palpable through her shift; and she wants to weep all over again, in relief that is so sharp it is worse than pain.
Though there is pain, in abundance. Her head spins with it, and it lances through her, making her grunt as though struck, when she moves to stand. It had seemed so much more manageable on the battlefield, when adrenaline pushed it into the background, when all she had needed to focus on was one movement, one last rally. When she had been certain that it would be her last, and so all that mattered was one instant.
It means that she must put more of her weight on Elia than she would wish, especially as she has only one hand to steady herself. It has struck her often, since she awoke, how strangely the loss of an arm can echo out into everything - into walking, and standing, and sitting, and every movement. Everything is out of balance.
(Though, perhaps, that is not because of the arm.)
Standing is a labour, and one that takes almost a full minute to accomplish. For the first time since waking, too, she is fully aware of how she must look: her hair a tangled cloak around her, her face shiny with sweat and tears, her shift clinging to her everywhere that the bandages do not wick the sweat. Her feet are bare. She cannot think why that should seem to matter, but it does. It is a particular cruelty, to see again the only lover she has ever known - the only true friend - and, when she would most wish to be beautiful, to be as ugly as she has ever been.
She wheezes, catching her breath, and looses Elia's hand to steady herself against the wall. The wall, at least, will not struggle under her weight.
"I did not think," she says at last, her voice thin and strained, "that I would ever see you again." It is all that she can think to say, in the moment, and it is as much as she can say, before she has to pause to catch her breath again. "Are you certain you are not a dream?"
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sforzinda
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Date: 2023-10-26 12:19 am (UTC)Though there is pain, in abundance. Her head spins with it, and it lances through her, making her grunt as though struck, when she moves to stand. It had seemed so much more manageable on the battlefield, when adrenaline pushed it into the background, when all she had needed to focus on was one movement, one last rally. When she had been certain that it would be her last, and so all that mattered was one instant.
It means that she must put more of her weight on Elia than she would wish, especially as she has only one hand to steady herself. It has struck her often, since she awoke, how strangely the loss of an arm can echo out into everything - into walking, and standing, and sitting, and every movement. Everything is out of balance.
(Though, perhaps, that is not because of the arm.)
Standing is a labour, and one that takes almost a full minute to accomplish. For the first time since waking, too, she is fully aware of how she must look: her hair a tangled cloak around her, her face shiny with sweat and tears, her shift clinging to her everywhere that the bandages do not wick the sweat. Her feet are bare. She cannot think why that should seem to matter, but it does. It is a particular cruelty, to see again the only lover she has ever known - the only true friend - and, when she would most wish to be beautiful, to be as ugly as she has ever been.
She wheezes, catching her breath, and looses Elia's hand to steady herself against the wall. The wall, at least, will not struggle under her weight.
"I did not think," she says at last, her voice thin and strained, "that I would ever see you again." It is all that she can think to say, in the moment, and it is as much as she can say, before she has to pause to catch her breath again. "Are you certain you are not a dream?"