roselightfairy (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
roselightfairy) wrote2022-01-22 10:50 pm
roselightfairy) wrote2022-01-22 10:50 pm
A ficlet
I was feeling anxious that I would never write again and nothing would help me but to try, because what to do late at night but project anxiety onto my favorite OCs? So have some totally unedited Mirkwood wives and PTSD, sorry if it’s awful.
Siril comes awake all at once, the shadows of the room sharpening around her as she blinks from dream to waking world, the leaves fading from before her eyes to the leaf-shaped sconces on the walls. She cannot think what woke her, what disturbance drew her from her sleep – the room is silent around her, the wind still, and the bed empty beside her.
But – but no, that is not right.
She has slept alone in her bed for so long now that the empty bed is expected – but the space beside her is warm, not cool, the bedclothes folded back rather than neatly tucked in over its absent inhabitant. And the final haze of sleep falls away as Siril remembers that no, she is not alone in bed any longer; her wife has returned from – from –
Ah.
A strange unease curls in her belly at the thought. Laerwen’s sleep has been restless since her homecoming, since her first waking after sleeping off the weariness of travel; it seems Siril drifts off before her every night and wakes in the morning to find Laerwen already wakeful beside her. Is this her wont, of late? Has she been rising from bed in the middle of the night since she returned, unable to rest with Siril beside her?
Wakeful now, casting her gaze around the room, Siril can make her out: a shadowed figure at the window, slim and upright, so rigid she might almost be a statue. This rigidity too is new – the wife she remembers was ever in motion, a leaping flame, eager to dazzle the world. Now she stands still and watchful as any of the sconces on the wall – as though she would rather contain the flame than dance with it.
An ache at that thought throbs upwards into Siril’s throat, hard and sharp; painfully, she swallows it back down. An old urge twinges at her, familiar as dream – the instinct to lie still, lie silent, to swallow her words along with the pain and make no noise, make no disturbance, for fear she will be unwanted. It is too familiar, the feeling of lying alone and abandoned, too reminiscent of –
No. No, she will not let her wife’s silence push her away before she can speak. Laerwen has never made her feel unwanted before – and whatever this strangeness in her, whatever the horrors that might haunt her sleep, Siril will not let her own fears build a wall between them before Laerwen has the chance to herself.
She pushes away the covers and the urge at the same time – stirs loudly and deliberately in bed. Laerwen has been known to jump at small noises these days, to fall into a defensive pose at the sound of rustling leaves, and Siril will not let herself become another shadow to fear. “Laerwen?” she murmurs.
“Here.” The glow of the moon catches on Laerwen’s hair as she turns her head; her face is unreadable – but she is not a statue. Not motionless.
Siril sits up, swings her legs over the edge of the bed. Pads – slow, loud – across the room. “Ill dreams?”
“No dreams,” Laerwen says. She looks out the window again as Siril comes to stand beside her, gazing into the dark of the forest. Her hands are knotted in her lap, knuckles standing out sharp beneath the skin. “Only memory.”
Siril stands beside her now, a sliver of space and breath between them, but she cannot feel the heat of Laerwen’s skin: her body, like her soul, seems far away – still in another land. “And you could not sleep?”
“I thought I might find rest upright,” Laerwen says. “That if I could see outside, if I could feel vigilant, I might” – Her shoulders jerk in a stiff, helpless shrug; a sharp exhale explodes out of her, and then silence again.
Vigilant. Always she is vigilant these days – all of them are, all who returned, but Siril knows her wife best, most intimately. Or, she once did – though these days there is so much hidden from her, obscured behind the walls in Laerwen’s eyes and her heart. The ache throbs in her throat again, and again she pushes it down. This moment is not for her pain.
She wonders if Laerwen can feel it at all, or if her walls are thick enough to obscure it.
“Would it help you to tell me your memories?” she ventures.
Laerwen shudders – sharp and sudden, and still the smoothest motion Siril has seen from her yet tonight. “No,” she whispers – a harsh, sudden rasp. “No, not tonight – it is still too near – I cannot dare” –
“You needn’t!” says Siril hurriedly. “I will not make you think on them, if you wish to avoid them.” Avoid, avoid – there is so much Laerwen is avoiding these days, it seems, her wife not least of all. But is not pointing that out too much cruelty for a sleepless night, for a soldier returned from war? “But I – is there anything I can do to ease the pain for you?”
“I would not take you from your bed,” Laerwen protests – still in that pained whisper, as though she dare not raise her voice, though they are alone here. “Those who can sleep ought to take rest where they can find it.”
“The bed alone is not what eases my rest,” Siril says, then bites her lip. “I mean – if it will not wound you further, I would rather rest by your side. Would it aid you to have me beside you, so you might not feel unprotected?”
“I” – Laerwen jerks her head around to stare at Siril, and for the barest sliver of a moment, Siril can make out a flicker of pure, unguarded agony in her eyes. “I – but you are” –
“I am?” Oh, but she cannot hold back the hurt in those words. She would be insufficient protection, yes, but does Laerwen not feel safe with her? “I mean – I know I am no soldier, but I” –
“No, no, that is not what I” – Another huff of breath; in the flash of the moonlight, Siril swears she can make out the glitter of tears in Laerwen’s eyes. “I do not mean – Siril, I am sorry” –
“I know.” She does not know, not truly, but she does know that Laerwen would never hurt her. That this moment is not for that pain. “I only mean – I would love to stand guard over your rest, if you will allow me.”
“I . . .” The pause is long, too long – almost longer than Siril can bear. But Laerwen swallows, and Siril can hear the tears in her voice when she speaks. “Yes – yes, I think that would bring me comfort.”
And that is all she needs. The ache is sweeter this time, a pulse of relief that almost leaves her shaky – to know that still she can bring Laerwen comfort, that she is not beyond that yet. “Will you come to lie down again, then, or will you stay here?”
“I would stay here, if you will stay with me.” The raw pleading in Laerwen’s voice is enough to undo her. “That I know no part of me – of us – will be undefended.”
Of us. It hits her, of a sudden – Laerwen is not only defending herself, here: she is protecting Siril, too – or thinks she is. She does not know, then, does not understand, how her protection slices Siril to the nerves, leaves her raw and bare and throbbing.
Is this what war does? Does it leave wounds so deep they slice through the wounded to hurt those they love? Is Siril bound always to hurt where Laerwen hurts, to ache in a way her wife does not even see?
It does not matter. It will matter tomorrow, maybe – will matter someday, for they cannot go on like this forever – but now it is dark and it is late and Laerwen is an open wound before her, her soul bleeding in the light of the moon, and if this is what she needs, Siril will give it to her. For now, for tonight.
“Of course,” she says, and she swallows down the pain again and settles in at her wife’s side. “Of course I will stay.”
Siril comes awake all at once, the shadows of the room sharpening around her as she blinks from dream to waking world, the leaves fading from before her eyes to the leaf-shaped sconces on the walls. She cannot think what woke her, what disturbance drew her from her sleep – the room is silent around her, the wind still, and the bed empty beside her.
But – but no, that is not right.
She has slept alone in her bed for so long now that the empty bed is expected – but the space beside her is warm, not cool, the bedclothes folded back rather than neatly tucked in over its absent inhabitant. And the final haze of sleep falls away as Siril remembers that no, she is not alone in bed any longer; her wife has returned from – from –
Ah.
A strange unease curls in her belly at the thought. Laerwen’s sleep has been restless since her homecoming, since her first waking after sleeping off the weariness of travel; it seems Siril drifts off before her every night and wakes in the morning to find Laerwen already wakeful beside her. Is this her wont, of late? Has she been rising from bed in the middle of the night since she returned, unable to rest with Siril beside her?
Wakeful now, casting her gaze around the room, Siril can make her out: a shadowed figure at the window, slim and upright, so rigid she might almost be a statue. This rigidity too is new – the wife she remembers was ever in motion, a leaping flame, eager to dazzle the world. Now she stands still and watchful as any of the sconces on the wall – as though she would rather contain the flame than dance with it.
An ache at that thought throbs upwards into Siril’s throat, hard and sharp; painfully, she swallows it back down. An old urge twinges at her, familiar as dream – the instinct to lie still, lie silent, to swallow her words along with the pain and make no noise, make no disturbance, for fear she will be unwanted. It is too familiar, the feeling of lying alone and abandoned, too reminiscent of –
No. No, she will not let her wife’s silence push her away before she can speak. Laerwen has never made her feel unwanted before – and whatever this strangeness in her, whatever the horrors that might haunt her sleep, Siril will not let her own fears build a wall between them before Laerwen has the chance to herself.
She pushes away the covers and the urge at the same time – stirs loudly and deliberately in bed. Laerwen has been known to jump at small noises these days, to fall into a defensive pose at the sound of rustling leaves, and Siril will not let herself become another shadow to fear. “Laerwen?” she murmurs.
“Here.” The glow of the moon catches on Laerwen’s hair as she turns her head; her face is unreadable – but she is not a statue. Not motionless.
Siril sits up, swings her legs over the edge of the bed. Pads – slow, loud – across the room. “Ill dreams?”
“No dreams,” Laerwen says. She looks out the window again as Siril comes to stand beside her, gazing into the dark of the forest. Her hands are knotted in her lap, knuckles standing out sharp beneath the skin. “Only memory.”
Siril stands beside her now, a sliver of space and breath between them, but she cannot feel the heat of Laerwen’s skin: her body, like her soul, seems far away – still in another land. “And you could not sleep?”
“I thought I might find rest upright,” Laerwen says. “That if I could see outside, if I could feel vigilant, I might” – Her shoulders jerk in a stiff, helpless shrug; a sharp exhale explodes out of her, and then silence again.
Vigilant. Always she is vigilant these days – all of them are, all who returned, but Siril knows her wife best, most intimately. Or, she once did – though these days there is so much hidden from her, obscured behind the walls in Laerwen’s eyes and her heart. The ache throbs in her throat again, and again she pushes it down. This moment is not for her pain.
She wonders if Laerwen can feel it at all, or if her walls are thick enough to obscure it.
“Would it help you to tell me your memories?” she ventures.
Laerwen shudders – sharp and sudden, and still the smoothest motion Siril has seen from her yet tonight. “No,” she whispers – a harsh, sudden rasp. “No, not tonight – it is still too near – I cannot dare” –
“You needn’t!” says Siril hurriedly. “I will not make you think on them, if you wish to avoid them.” Avoid, avoid – there is so much Laerwen is avoiding these days, it seems, her wife not least of all. But is not pointing that out too much cruelty for a sleepless night, for a soldier returned from war? “But I – is there anything I can do to ease the pain for you?”
“I would not take you from your bed,” Laerwen protests – still in that pained whisper, as though she dare not raise her voice, though they are alone here. “Those who can sleep ought to take rest where they can find it.”
“The bed alone is not what eases my rest,” Siril says, then bites her lip. “I mean – if it will not wound you further, I would rather rest by your side. Would it aid you to have me beside you, so you might not feel unprotected?”
“I” – Laerwen jerks her head around to stare at Siril, and for the barest sliver of a moment, Siril can make out a flicker of pure, unguarded agony in her eyes. “I – but you are” –
“I am?” Oh, but she cannot hold back the hurt in those words. She would be insufficient protection, yes, but does Laerwen not feel safe with her? “I mean – I know I am no soldier, but I” –
“No, no, that is not what I” – Another huff of breath; in the flash of the moonlight, Siril swears she can make out the glitter of tears in Laerwen’s eyes. “I do not mean – Siril, I am sorry” –
“I know.” She does not know, not truly, but she does know that Laerwen would never hurt her. That this moment is not for that pain. “I only mean – I would love to stand guard over your rest, if you will allow me.”
“I . . .” The pause is long, too long – almost longer than Siril can bear. But Laerwen swallows, and Siril can hear the tears in her voice when she speaks. “Yes – yes, I think that would bring me comfort.”
And that is all she needs. The ache is sweeter this time, a pulse of relief that almost leaves her shaky – to know that still she can bring Laerwen comfort, that she is not beyond that yet. “Will you come to lie down again, then, or will you stay here?”
“I would stay here, if you will stay with me.” The raw pleading in Laerwen’s voice is enough to undo her. “That I know no part of me – of us – will be undefended.”
Of us. It hits her, of a sudden – Laerwen is not only defending herself, here: she is protecting Siril, too – or thinks she is. She does not know, then, does not understand, how her protection slices Siril to the nerves, leaves her raw and bare and throbbing.
Is this what war does? Does it leave wounds so deep they slice through the wounded to hurt those they love? Is Siril bound always to hurt where Laerwen hurts, to ache in a way her wife does not even see?
It does not matter. It will matter tomorrow, maybe – will matter someday, for they cannot go on like this forever – but now it is dark and it is late and Laerwen is an open wound before her, her soul bleeding in the light of the moon, and if this is what she needs, Siril will give it to her. For now, for tonight.
“Of course,” she says, and she swallows down the pain again and settles in at her wife’s side. “Of course I will stay.”