Her eyes follow Elia's, that glancing look, the sleeping man. She will not acknowledge the pang of jealousy, any more than she will ask the question that has been nagging at her for several minutes: Who is he? Who is he to you? She will not ask it, because she can guess the answer, and so long as she does not confirm it, she is free to pretend.
Instead, she pulls her gaze back to Elia, and her smile, if wan, is real. "I have missed you, too. You cannot know how much."
How lonely she was, all that time, with Théodred and Éomer gone, with the sickness heavy in the air and Théoden ailing more by the day. How cold her bed had been, in the dark watches of the night, when fear and grief were nearest and loving warmth felt farthest. How, under the heavy weight of a city rotting from its heart, she had thought more than once to the princess of Sunspear, and wondered how much easier it might be to bear if she were there. Dorne is so far away, and that has been its magic - but, with Elia here now, it is clear that her magic was not only in memory and distance. She is still, even in her sorrow, so beautiful.
Éowyn clears her throat, wincing at the jarring of her ribs, and looses Elia's hand so that she can start the long, long journey of a few dozen paces to her chamber. The effort of that, for the time being, robs her of thought, and of any chance of conversation; and perhaps that is no bad thing.
The room is much the same as Faramir's, as all the private rooms here; save that the bedclothes are in far worse disarray, because getting up was a terrible trial and not a neat one. The other difference is that, where Faramir came dressed for his own funeral, Éowyn was still armoured, and there is no place else for it to go: the chair against the wall is laden with a battered and bloody suit of mail, and, beside it, her sword and shield. Not that there is much left of her shield: the white horse that once ran on the painted green wood has been thoroughly decapitated, and all that remains is a fragment of splintered wood and leather straps around a deeply-dented boss. That, no doubt, explains the sling.
Éowyn sinks down onto the bed, flushed and sweating, her breath rasping heavily, and looks up at Elia. It is a moment before she can find breath enough to say, in a low tone, "Will you tell me how the Lady of Sunspear comes to Gondor? Or is it better left unsaid?"
Hoping against hope that there is some answer, however unlikely, that does not include the man in the bed.
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sforzinda
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Date: 2023-11-11 12:46 am (UTC)Instead, she pulls her gaze back to Elia, and her smile, if wan, is real. "I have missed you, too. You cannot know how much."
How lonely she was, all that time, with Théodred and Éomer gone, with the sickness heavy in the air and Théoden ailing more by the day. How cold her bed had been, in the dark watches of the night, when fear and grief were nearest and loving warmth felt farthest. How, under the heavy weight of a city rotting from its heart, she had thought more than once to the princess of Sunspear, and wondered how much easier it might be to bear if she were there. Dorne is so far away, and that has been its magic - but, with Elia here now, it is clear that her magic was not only in memory and distance. She is still, even in her sorrow, so beautiful.
Éowyn clears her throat, wincing at the jarring of her ribs, and looses Elia's hand so that she can start the long, long journey of a few dozen paces to her chamber. The effort of that, for the time being, robs her of thought, and of any chance of conversation; and perhaps that is no bad thing.
The room is much the same as Faramir's, as all the private rooms here; save that the bedclothes are in far worse disarray, because getting up was a terrible trial and not a neat one. The other difference is that, where Faramir came dressed for his own funeral, Éowyn was still armoured, and there is no place else for it to go: the chair against the wall is laden with a battered and bloody suit of mail, and, beside it, her sword and shield. Not that there is much left of her shield: the white horse that once ran on the painted green wood has been thoroughly decapitated, and all that remains is a fragment of splintered wood and leather straps around a deeply-dented boss. That, no doubt, explains the sling.
Éowyn sinks down onto the bed, flushed and sweating, her breath rasping heavily, and looks up at Elia. It is a moment before she can find breath enough to say, in a low tone, "Will you tell me how the Lady of Sunspear comes to Gondor? Or is it better left unsaid?"
Hoping against hope that there is some answer, however unlikely, that does not include the man in the bed.