Éowyn wishes, as soon as Elia answers, that she had not asked. She thinks bleakly of how painful it has been, each time her kinsmen ride out into danger, the bitter uncertainty of waiting and not knowing - and they are men, warriors, not children. She can hardly imagine how hard it would be, to be parted from someone no less loved and far more vulnerable, the fear that she must have reminded Elia of.
Her hand still on Elia's, she shakes her head. "I am sorry."
What else, after all, is there to say? There is no soothing those fears, for they are justified; there is no claiming that she understands, for she knows that she does not. She could say that it will end soon, for that she does believe: but she does not believe that the end will be any improvement. But she knows that she is sorry - sorry to have left Elia to find herself at so bitter a pass, sorry for the grief that life has brought upon her, sorry that she can offer nothing more than sorry.
She swallows, and, loosing Elia's hand with another squeeze, begins the difficult process of rearranging herself and the covers so that she can lie down. Now she is no longer exerting herself, now that the sweat on her skin has cooled, she is shivering.
"We cannot change the past," she repeats, more to herself than to Elia, and sighs. "Would that we could. Would that I never left your side."
Except that knowing all that would come, all that it would cost, would have changed nothing. Her duty would have remained the same.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sforzinda
no subject
Date: 2023-11-19 03:16 am (UTC)Her hand still on Elia's, she shakes her head. "I am sorry."
What else, after all, is there to say? There is no soothing those fears, for they are justified; there is no claiming that she understands, for she knows that she does not. She could say that it will end soon, for that she does believe: but she does not believe that the end will be any improvement. But she knows that she is sorry - sorry to have left Elia to find herself at so bitter a pass, sorry for the grief that life has brought upon her, sorry that she can offer nothing more than sorry.
She swallows, and, loosing Elia's hand with another squeeze, begins the difficult process of rearranging herself and the covers so that she can lie down. Now she is no longer exerting herself, now that the sweat on her skin has cooled, she is shivering.
"We cannot change the past," she repeats, more to herself than to Elia, and sighs. "Would that we could. Would that I never left your side."
Except that knowing all that would come, all that it would cost, would have changed nothing. Her duty would have remained the same.