Summary: A series of vignettes concerning Eowyn and Grima
Warnings: None that I can think of.
Archives/Etc: Please ask.
The darkness speaks when she sits alone at night, half afraid of sleep that will not come. It tells her of what will be and what has been. She sees the graceful arcs of wood that have woven themselves about her, holding her so that she cannot move. And she knows that he would take her from that cage, if she would let him. But even he would not let her run, he would only hold her in his hands, as bound as before, only now by flesh.
She is trapped within thick tangles of briars, and all she wishes for is open prairie, so she may let her long legs match her to the wind.
Sometimes it seems to him that somewhere he took one careless step on a shale bank and went skidding down the slope, tumbling and shaking and biting his lip against the wordless gasp. And now the only thing he can see is her, and he must make his way back to her. But the only way back up is to go further down, treading a path too dusky to see.
She shines like the dawning morning, and he wants to be walking beside her, able to touch that brittle strength.
III. Once Upon a Time
He used to smile. He would smile and laugh, and his eyes were so full they spilled over, running into her and making her giddy. He used to dance, holding her hands as he showed her the dances he'd learned long ago, when he was young and home. And she would laugh and toss her long hair so that it floated around them both.
She misses his eyes.
She stood in the snow this morning, the white crystals hiding themselves in the waving strands of her hair. Her face was tilted to the sky, snowflakes resting on it and quickly melting. It almost looked as if she was crying. Perhaps she was.
He stood watching her, and longed to go and draw her back inside to the warmth, kissing the water from her cheeks.
At night the wind streams through the streets of Edoras and rustles through the long grass outside on the plain. It catches at windows and doors, seeking entrance and keening like the mother of a slaughtered child. Sorrow, weeping for her children, some call it. It twists around and about, seeking always seeking.
Last night it flung her window open and rushed into her room. Half caught in dreams, she thought it his fingers on her cheek, and in her hair, and wept.
He loves to watch her practice. Her sword catches the light, becoming part of her as she slips like molten gold through each step of the sword dance. Step, swing, parry, spinning and whirling, almost too bright to look upon.
He wishes that he could fit with her like that.
She dreamt once that she was bound to him with cords of silver, tied so close that their lips touched. They shared each other's breath. He almost became her, and she him.
She never did understand why she felt such loss when she woke.
His breath comes high and fast and he flounders, falling. And he sees her and knows just how quickly he is falling and he is frightened. And he knows that if he could just touch her he wouldn't be falling anymore so he reaches out and then he is himself again. And he is holding her arm, gently, but the look in her eyes is caught and frantic, so he lets go and steps back.
He lets her go, but he clings to the memory of touching her warmth, wrapping it up in protective cloths of knowing to keep it safe.