More angst. Deal.
The large desk in the royal chambers was littered with papers, most of them blank. The ones under Lúthien's hand were covered with delicately written tengwar and musical notes. Candles illuminated the room, while outside it was dark, inky blackness courtesy of Ungoliant.
That's what the music was for. A spell, a perfect song written specifically to counteract the unnatural night. But it was slow going. She had collected her children from the cottage where she'd left them for safe keeping, and they also required her attention.
And then there was the constant weight in her heart. Éomer had been gone for two months, more or less. She tried not to think about it, because surely if she didn't think about it then it wouldn't be a problem, or make her wake up at night feeling like she was torn inside.
Then again, there were times when she felt twinges of closeness, feather-light hints of movement. It was at those times that she almost expected him to come through the door, laughing and carrying one child on his shoulders and another in his arms, with straw tangled in his hair. She expected him to come through the door looking tired after a day of doing paperwork. She expected him to come through the door and wrap her in his arms, telling her how much he loved her.
But no, she would think. Why, if he was coming back, wasn't he here already? She feared that the Doom of Man had taken him.
And with that thought, she would again blink back the tears and straighten her back and move forward.
It was all she could do.
That's what the music was for. A spell, a perfect song written specifically to counteract the unnatural night. But it was slow going. She had collected her children from the cottage where she'd left them for safe keeping, and they also required her attention.
And then there was the constant weight in her heart. Éomer had been gone for two months, more or less. She tried not to think about it, because surely if she didn't think about it then it wouldn't be a problem, or make her wake up at night feeling like she was torn inside.
Then again, there were times when she felt twinges of closeness, feather-light hints of movement. It was at those times that she almost expected him to come through the door, laughing and carrying one child on his shoulders and another in his arms, with straw tangled in his hair. She expected him to come through the door looking tired after a day of doing paperwork. She expected him to come through the door and wrap her in his arms, telling her how much he loved her.
But no, she would think. Why, if he was coming back, wasn't he here already? She feared that the Doom of Man had taken him.
And with that thought, she would again blink back the tears and straighten her back and move forward.
It was all she could do.