He does not believe that. There is no ledger to be balanced, no promise unfulfilled, but there is a debt between them ... one he suspects neither of them will ever see as paid in full, if she feels as he does.
Deeds have weight. Acts done freely and without expectation carry meaning still -- often all the more.
He knows that she has done him good, and suffered for it in turn. He knows what she has given him, what he has been spared, and what she has paid for that. She had done nothing to deserve the cruelty of being cast from her home -- especially now, when the shadow that had poisoned it's warmth had been banished from the halls of Meduseld. That she is denied it now, for what she has done on his account, only makes the knowledge more bitter.
Even if she believes she is owed anything for that, he feels the weight.
If he is all that she has, he will try to be enough, and to help her find what he cannot be himself.
He owes her, but what he does, he will do so because he wants to. Because fair Éowyn had endured enough long before they ever met, and because he had no hardness in his heart for her even before she cast aside her life to save his, and because he could not stand the thought of leaving a light such as her to gutter in the dark.
He does her best to commit the details she hurriedly lays out before him to memory.
Where and when they were wed.
The scar.
The mole.
The sword surprises him. Not a ruse he expected, though given their present circumstances, perhaps he should have. In any case, he sees the practicality of it, and accepts it along with the rest.
"Before you go," He says once she has finished, raising a hand and tracing a line across the right side of his torso with a finger, "the scar here, beneath my ribs, is from a skirmish last year, when my people drove a band of goblins from the lands near our aett.."
He indicates a scar on his forearm with the opposite hand. This one is faded, partially obscured by a word written in runic script, one of several inked into the skin between his elbow and wrist. "This one, I got as a child. From my sister, Helka, as I learned to use an axe. That's her name written across it."
He points to another tattoo, up at the top of the column, nearest his elbow. His finger moves to each in turn, working its way down his forearm. "This is my mother, Fjalla. My father, Bjorn. My other older sister, Freja."
He switches now, to the other arm. "My older brother, Arvid, who died three years past, fighting the same troll that scarred my left side. My younger brother, Einar. And my youngest sister, Tyra."
It was best to be prepared. If they'd lain together, she'd have seen his scars, too. If they had wedded, he'd have told her of his family.
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sforzinda
thread necromancy as my tag drive slowly returns
Date: 2025-01-06 01:17 am (UTC)He does not believe that. There is no ledger to be balanced, no promise unfulfilled, but there is a debt between them ... one he suspects neither of them will ever see as paid in full, if she feels as he does.
Deeds have weight. Acts done freely and without expectation carry meaning still -- often all the more.
He knows that she has done him good, and suffered for it in turn. He knows what she has given him, what he has been spared, and what she has paid for that. She had done nothing to deserve the cruelty of being cast from her home -- especially now, when the shadow that had poisoned it's warmth had been banished from the halls of Meduseld. That she is denied it now, for what she has done on his account, only makes the knowledge more bitter.
Even if she believes she is owed anything for that, he feels the weight.
If he is all that she has, he will try to be enough, and to help her find what he cannot be himself.
He owes her, but what he does, he will do so because he wants to. Because fair Éowyn had endured enough long before they ever met, and because he had no hardness in his heart for her even before she cast aside her life to save his, and because he could not stand the thought of leaving a light such as her to gutter in the dark.
He does her best to commit the details she hurriedly lays out before him to memory.
Where and when they were wed.
The scar.
The mole.
The sword surprises him. Not a ruse he expected, though given their present circumstances, perhaps he should have. In any case, he sees the practicality of it, and accepts it along with the rest.
"Before you go," He says once she has finished, raising a hand and tracing a line across the right side of his torso with a finger, "the scar here, beneath my ribs, is from a skirmish last year, when my people drove a band of goblins from the lands near our aett.."
He indicates a scar on his forearm with the opposite hand. This one is faded, partially obscured by a word written in runic script, one of several inked into the skin between his elbow and wrist. "This one, I got as a child. From my sister, Helka, as I learned to use an axe. That's her name written across it."
He points to another tattoo, up at the top of the column, nearest his elbow. His finger moves to each in turn, working its way down his forearm. "This is my mother, Fjalla. My father, Bjorn. My other older sister, Freja."
He switches now, to the other arm. "My older brother, Arvid, who died three years past, fighting the same troll that scarred my left side. My younger brother, Einar. And my youngest sister, Tyra."
It was best to be prepared. If they'd lain together, she'd have seen his scars, too. If they had wedded, he'd have told her of his family.