Real. It is a strange word: so filled with meaning and possibility, and yet so impossible to grasp. Nothing has seemed real since she awoke, feeling one nightmare lift and another settle in its place.
"You should not be." Here, that is. It is no place to be, this battered city, this bastion against a falling shadow. This is a place that seems, in its own way, as heavy with waiting as Edoras ever was; this is a place of darkness and grief. She cannot shake the knowledge that, somewhere in this city, her uncle's body still lies in state, awaiting a homecoming that may never come; that the men she rode with lie beside him; that she should have lain there, too. She cannot forget that it is not over.
No, Elia should not be here. Elia should be in Dorne, in the bright sunshine, with the light reflecting off the water and shining in her dark eyes. Safe, as nothing here is safe. Happy, as Éowyn has forgotten how to be happy.
"Still," she continues, her voice hoarse; and this time, when she fumbles for Elia's hand, it is not to support herself, only to touch her: "I am happy to see you."
Selfishly so, foolishly so, but it is so, all the same. She sniffs, clearing her throat. Meriadoc will wait; she cannot hold much conversation with him in her current state, in any case, and his friend is no doubt with him, as she has been told he so often is. What strength she has is gone, and she needs to turn back to her own quarters, to her bed, to rest and recover. Her own weakness horrifies her.
"Will you stay with me a while?" Knowing, as she says it, that she has no right to ask: knowing, in her heart, that it has been too long, that their lives are too separate now. Elia was not here alone, or for nothing; even knowing no more than that, it is enough to know that things have changed, and her duty is not to a long-lost friend. And yet, there is a plea in Éowyn's voice, all the same. Do not leave me alone, not now. I am afraid you will disappear. "My room is nearby." Then, with more than a hint of bitterness: "I could not walk here if it were not."
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sforzinda
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Date: 2023-11-06 09:19 pm (UTC)"You should not be." Here, that is. It is no place to be, this battered city, this bastion against a falling shadow. This is a place that seems, in its own way, as heavy with waiting as Edoras ever was; this is a place of darkness and grief. She cannot shake the knowledge that, somewhere in this city, her uncle's body still lies in state, awaiting a homecoming that may never come; that the men she rode with lie beside him; that she should have lain there, too. She cannot forget that it is not over.
No, Elia should not be here. Elia should be in Dorne, in the bright sunshine, with the light reflecting off the water and shining in her dark eyes. Safe, as nothing here is safe. Happy, as Éowyn has forgotten how to be happy.
"Still," she continues, her voice hoarse; and this time, when she fumbles for Elia's hand, it is not to support herself, only to touch her: "I am happy to see you."
Selfishly so, foolishly so, but it is so, all the same. She sniffs, clearing her throat. Meriadoc will wait; she cannot hold much conversation with him in her current state, in any case, and his friend is no doubt with him, as she has been told he so often is. What strength she has is gone, and she needs to turn back to her own quarters, to her bed, to rest and recover. Her own weakness horrifies her.
"Will you stay with me a while?" Knowing, as she says it, that she has no right to ask: knowing, in her heart, that it has been too long, that their lives are too separate now. Elia was not here alone, or for nothing; even knowing no more than that, it is enough to know that things have changed, and her duty is not to a long-lost friend. And yet, there is a plea in Éowyn's voice, all the same. Do not leave me alone, not now. I am afraid you will disappear. "My room is nearby." Then, with more than a hint of bitterness: "I could not walk here if it were not."