The ghost of a smile touches her lips for a moment, pale and wry. If his smile is only in his eyes, hers is everywhere but; her grey gaze is still more sorrowing than anything.
"All walls chafe," she corrects him, quietly - an echo of the same sentiment again, perhaps. All presence, all moments, all walls. Nothing personal, neither to him nor his country: only the pressing weight of everything. For a moment, she had felt that weight raise: felt Aragorn call her back to the light, and felt, for a moment, that there was something more than duty - but that moment had passed, as all else passed, and now there is only the weight again, and the high walls that will not let her breathe.
Though, she must remind herself, he has no way to know how many walls there have been, or how long they have held her. He does not know her, cannot possibly know how long she has lingered in a prison of her own creation - and he is a man, and that means he would not wholly understand it, even if he knew it.
At the same time, there is a surprising freedom in the thought that he does not know her. She has never had that luxury of being anonymous; she has never sought it, never thought she desired it, but there is a comfort in it, all the same. It means, at least for the moment, that she need not be the Lady of Edoras, the sister of the King, perhaps the last of Eorl's line if Éomer does not return. She can be, at least briefly, Éowyn alone.
Perhaps that is why, when she looks at him again, her gaze is a little less hard and a little less hostile. "My people were not made to linger behind stone walls. Nor to linger at all." She nods down at her crushed arm, and lets out a low, bitter huff of laughter. "And yet, one battle, and here I find myself again, lingering. And what else shall I ever do but linger behind walls, when I cannot raise a shield or hold a halter rein? That chafes."
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sforzinda
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Date: 2023-11-07 07:14 pm (UTC)"All walls chafe," she corrects him, quietly - an echo of the same sentiment again, perhaps. All presence, all moments, all walls. Nothing personal, neither to him nor his country: only the pressing weight of everything. For a moment, she had felt that weight raise: felt Aragorn call her back to the light, and felt, for a moment, that there was something more than duty - but that moment had passed, as all else passed, and now there is only the weight again, and the high walls that will not let her breathe.
Though, she must remind herself, he has no way to know how many walls there have been, or how long they have held her. He does not know her, cannot possibly know how long she has lingered in a prison of her own creation - and he is a man, and that means he would not wholly understand it, even if he knew it.
At the same time, there is a surprising freedom in the thought that he does not know her. She has never had that luxury of being anonymous; she has never sought it, never thought she desired it, but there is a comfort in it, all the same. It means, at least for the moment, that she need not be the Lady of Edoras, the sister of the King, perhaps the last of Eorl's line if Éomer does not return. She can be, at least briefly, Éowyn alone.
Perhaps that is why, when she looks at him again, her gaze is a little less hard and a little less hostile. "My people were not made to linger behind stone walls. Nor to linger at all." She nods down at her crushed arm, and lets out a low, bitter huff of laughter. "And yet, one battle, and here I find myself again, lingering. And what else shall I ever do but linger behind walls, when I cannot raise a shield or hold a halter rein? That chafes."