She has not, it suddenly strikes her, spoken to many people at all since her arrival. To Meriadoc, yes - she sought him out first of all, as soon as she could rise from her bed - and to Aragorn when he was here, and Éomer. But since they have gone, and since Meriadoc seems best-served left to his own devices and friendship, she has been largely silent, except to answer the Healers' questions.
It has not been a choice, that silence. It has simply been... how it has been. What, after all, has there been to say? She will not complain of the pain, for she is a shieldmaiden of Eorl's line, and she does not fear pain. She will not speak of the dreams that still plague her, of the darkness she saw beneath the Witch-King's helm; she will not speak of her fears and of the dread that still holds her heart in a cold grasp; she will not speak of any such things, for there is darkness enough already, without going out of her way to give it form. And all the rest is grief, and what is her grief, that it should bear mention where it is surrounded by others?
So she has said little at all, and while she has done what she can to get up and keep herself moving, she has done so alone, wherever possible. She is used to wrapping herself in loneliness, holding herself apart, as a lady must when it is demanded of her. It has chafed in the past, but it is easier, all the same.
All this passes through her mind in a moment, and a small frown creases her brow as she looks the stranger up and down, with a sudden curiosity. It is clear that he is in pain, too; that he is weary, too. There is a strange comfort in that. Why it should be comforting, she could not say, but there it is. Perhaps because it is something she understands, when everything else seems to wheel out of control.
She shakes her head, and at once regrets doing so, because she has been struggling enough with her exhaustion already, and the movement only makes her vision swim and her stomach twist. "I did not mean..."
She did mean it. Too long, by her estimation. It was unreasonable and it was unkind, but she means it still: leave me alone, let me be unseen. She has wanted for so long to be renowned and known and witnessed, and now finds that all she wants is to be invisible again, alone with her thoughts.
It would be best to leave, to turn and stride back to the seclusion of her own room, since he is clearly unable. If she were fit enough, she would already be gone. (If she were fit enough, she would not be here in the first place. There is little value in if.)
As it is, though, she feels her knees trying to buckle underneath her, and to her own annoyance, has no choice but to stay. It is either collapse onto the bench beside him, or collapse into a heap on the stone-paved walkway, and she has her pride still. She stumbles over to him, and sits heavily as far from him as the bench will allow, her breath catching in her chest and then escaping in a ragged sigh.
"Everything," she says at last, her voice drawn thin by breathlessness, "is too long by mine. Do not think it a slight on you."
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It has not been a choice, that silence. It has simply been... how it has been. What, after all, has there been to say? She will not complain of the pain, for she is a shieldmaiden of Eorl's line, and she does not fear pain. She will not speak of the dreams that still plague her, of the darkness she saw beneath the Witch-King's helm; she will not speak of her fears and of the dread that still holds her heart in a cold grasp; she will not speak of any such things, for there is darkness enough already, without going out of her way to give it form. And all the rest is grief, and what is her grief, that it should bear mention where it is surrounded by others?
So she has said little at all, and while she has done what she can to get up and keep herself moving, she has done so alone, wherever possible. She is used to wrapping herself in loneliness, holding herself apart, as a lady must when it is demanded of her. It has chafed in the past, but it is easier, all the same.
All this passes through her mind in a moment, and a small frown creases her brow as she looks the stranger up and down, with a sudden curiosity. It is clear that he is in pain, too; that he is weary, too. There is a strange comfort in that. Why it should be comforting, she could not say, but there it is. Perhaps because it is something she understands, when everything else seems to wheel out of control.
She shakes her head, and at once regrets doing so, because she has been struggling enough with her exhaustion already, and the movement only makes her vision swim and her stomach twist. "I did not mean..."
She did mean it. Too long, by her estimation. It was unreasonable and it was unkind, but she means it still: leave me alone, let me be unseen. She has wanted for so long to be renowned and known and witnessed, and now finds that all she wants is to be invisible again, alone with her thoughts.
It would be best to leave, to turn and stride back to the seclusion of her own room, since he is clearly unable. If she were fit enough, she would already be gone. (If she were fit enough, she would not be here in the first place. There is little value in if.)
As it is, though, she feels her knees trying to buckle underneath her, and to her own annoyance, has no choice but to stay. It is either collapse onto the bench beside him, or collapse into a heap on the stone-paved walkway, and she has her pride still. She stumbles over to him, and sits heavily as far from him as the bench will allow, her breath catching in her chest and then escaping in a ragged sigh.
"Everything," she says at last, her voice drawn thin by breathlessness, "is too long by mine. Do not think it a slight on you."