For many, it's a time of uncertainty and reckless hope. Joran adds to that privately a time of irony. Ironic that he'd survive the siege of Cair Andros, one of a handful of defenders who trickled back to Minas Tirith with their tails between their legs but a semblance of head up pride, still useful, still willing to stand against the rising tide of darkness and defend the heart of Gondor, only to fall not to orc sword, axe, or arrow, but a piece of the very walls he sought to defend, so he was told. Ironic that he recalls more of his first two brushes with death than this third. He awakens frequently on his pallet with a start, sweat soaked and with the throbbing sense memory of his thigh shattering, agony that follows him into the waking world. He didn't see it coming, too focused on the flying horror that yet stalks his deeper dreams. He eschews all but the barest sips of the draughts brewed to numb and bring dreamless slumber for reasons he refuses to speak to the increasingly frustrated healers.
"Stubborn," they call him and, "Foolish," and he takes the words without taking them to heart or claiming them for himself. He understands where they come from. No doubt in their place, he'd think the same.
They do as they can and encourage him to careful movement. If he loses condition, his recovery will take all the longer, if he's to recover at all. Whether it's truth or his own suspicious nature, he sees doubt in their eyes when they regard him, and it's their doubts more than their advice or admonition that have him struggling to rise and make use of the crutches. Any weight on the leg is still out of the question. He tests it daily, finds it lacking, and doggedly wanders out-of-the-way places close enough for him to return without the embarrassment of needing aid.
His thoughts are with the forces gone to Mordor. Whether any of his cohort from the island garrison yet live he doesn't know. He has seen none of them in the House of Healing nor the immediate surround. There's a strange hush no one seems willing to breach, a liminal quality to the time spent in recovery. Perhaps it's because many fear it's short-lived or futile, that the fallen struggling to put themselves back together again are doing so only to meet a worse fate. No one has bothered to ask his opinion. He's unsure he'd offer it if they did.
It's with his mind at the Black Gates that he finds himself further than advisable from his pallet and therefore struggling to sink to a bench before he's aware he's not alone. The cold chills the sweat at his brow and cheeks, leaving curls clinging to his forehead. He believes he has seen her once, no, twice before in passing, once in profile, once from behind. Both times he was on the verge of troubled sleep and therefore not fully trusting of his own senses. Were he not already trembling from exertion, he'd rise again and leave her to her vigil. As it is, he sits with the crutches under both gripping hands propped before him, head slightly hanging while he quietly masters his breath once more.
It's her movement that draws his gaze, a gaze that flicks to the side at the sight of tears. Who in this place wishes their rawness witnessed, even if the same dark shards lodge in every heart? The tone has him focusing on her once more, the same instinct that answers the healers' doubts with action. "Not yet long enough by my estimation," he says with the faintest touch of dryness. "I take it too long by yours." It's not really a question.
no subject
"Stubborn," they call him and, "Foolish," and he takes the words without taking them to heart or claiming them for himself. He understands where they come from. No doubt in their place, he'd think the same.
They do as they can and encourage him to careful movement. If he loses condition, his recovery will take all the longer, if he's to recover at all. Whether it's truth or his own suspicious nature, he sees doubt in their eyes when they regard him, and it's their doubts more than their advice or admonition that have him struggling to rise and make use of the crutches. Any weight on the leg is still out of the question. He tests it daily, finds it lacking, and doggedly wanders out-of-the-way places close enough for him to return without the embarrassment of needing aid.
His thoughts are with the forces gone to Mordor. Whether any of his cohort from the island garrison yet live he doesn't know. He has seen none of them in the House of Healing nor the immediate surround. There's a strange hush no one seems willing to breach, a liminal quality to the time spent in recovery. Perhaps it's because many fear it's short-lived or futile, that the fallen struggling to put themselves back together again are doing so only to meet a worse fate. No one has bothered to ask his opinion. He's unsure he'd offer it if they did.
It's with his mind at the Black Gates that he finds himself further than advisable from his pallet and therefore struggling to sink to a bench before he's aware he's not alone. The cold chills the sweat at his brow and cheeks, leaving curls clinging to his forehead. He believes he has seen her once, no, twice before in passing, once in profile, once from behind. Both times he was on the verge of troubled sleep and therefore not fully trusting of his own senses. Were he not already trembling from exertion, he'd rise again and leave her to her vigil. As it is, he sits with the crutches under both gripping hands propped before him, head slightly hanging while he quietly masters his breath once more.
It's her movement that draws his gaze, a gaze that flicks to the side at the sight of tears. Who in this place wishes their rawness witnessed, even if the same dark shards lodge in every heart? The tone has him focusing on her once more, the same instinct that answers the healers' doubts with action. "Not yet long enough by my estimation," he says with the faintest touch of dryness. "I take it too long by yours." It's not really a question.