7. Despair
The next days were, if possible, even busier than before, for now Lothíriel had the extra tasks of studying the texts she had been given and learning the arts of apothecary from Ioreth. This was in addition to caring for patients and learning surgical skills from Aerandir. She slept very little, and when she did sleep, her dreams were riddled with memories of the Pelennor and its aftermath. There were times she found herself purposefully avoiding her own bed until she could no longer keep her eyes open. A part of her knew this practice was unreasonable, and that rest was essential, but at the same time she found a pleasing sort of satisfaction in her rigorous schedule. She had little time for her family, or for more than a passing word to Éomer when she saw him, which was less frequently than before.
Lothíriel found that she both mourned his distance and was relieved by it. This way she could put her mind fully to healing, and attempt to forget the passion that he had awoken within her, and the fierce longing in her flesh for his touch.
There had been one conversation that had been longer, for the day after Éomer had spoken to Muinor, Lothíriel had noticed a slight change in the boy. He had eaten, at least, and looked at her when she spoke to him.
"What did you say to the boy?" Lothíriel had asked Éomer, when she found him, "It seems that your words sparked a change."
"Some of it is between him and me," the young King had murmured after a moment, "And I would not betray his confidence, even for you. But I will say that I tried to give him hope. He feels that there is no future for him, and that he will be dependent on the kindness of others and be a burden to his family. I told him that he might learn a trade with which to do with his hands. And I said that I have, once or twice, seen a man who has lost a leg learn to sit upon a horse and ride with some adaptations to the saddle and special training of the mount. Who knows, Lothíriel, what might be? I feel for the lad."
"Could he really sit astride a horse?" Lothíriel had queried in wonder.
"I believe so," was Éomer's reply, "It would take dedicated strength and balance in his body, and of course there is more risk to it. But it might bring him some freedom… even an escape. To the Rohirrim, horses are a way of life… to be unable to ride them seems a worse fate for many a man than death… to a determined rider, much may be possible. He is young, and strong. If he can find the will, he will be able to lead a good life. It is up to him, in the end, and I told him so."
"I daresay that there are many like him who need to be cared for and given a way ahead," Lothíriel had mused thoughtfully, "Men of Rohan and Gondor alike."
At that, Éomer had smiled. "You are right. And for my part, I will do what I can for my wounded men, although at present I do not quite know how best to begin. Perhaps you, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, might be able to find a way forward for us both." He then had laughed at her expression, which was of doubt.
"You place strange faith in my abilities," Lothíriel had remarked, only to be laughed at again.
"I only wonder that you yourself do not," was all he said, and Lothíriel would reflect upon this later, when he had gone. Perhaps Éomer was right. Perhaps there was a way to help not only Muinor, but all those like him whose lives had been altered with the mutilation of their bodies. But there seemed to her little time for such an effort, when she could barely catch her breath between work and study.
Her father and Elphir returned to Dol Amroth, leaving Amrothos and Erchirion behind in Minas Tirith with Lothíriel. All would reunite at the beginning of summer for Elessar's coronation. Lothíriel breathed a sigh of relief that her father had relented enough to allow her to continue her work and did not see the need for her to go with him to Dol Amroth. She knew it was a matter of time, and that his threat of calling her home following the coronation was in earnest. But this gave her time, and she prayed that when her father returned he would see that she was more committed to her work than ever and that it was not some passing fancy. At least, he might see fit to let her remain there throughout the summer. She was more hopeful now that he would see reason, in time.
The Lady Éowyn grew stronger, and had taken to walking the gardens daily with Lord Faramir, and Lothíriel suspected that in a short time there would be news of a betrothal, although she said nothing on the subject to either her cousin or the lady. She herself did not want prying eyes and could sense how tenuous and fragile that other growing bond might be. So she let it alone, but smiled widely to herself when she saw the two of them together, and the look on her cousin's face. Happiness was a gift long overdue her fair and pure-hearted cousin.
As for Éomer, Lothíriel did her best to put him out of her head. It was mostly easy, for her hands were ever busy and her thoughts ever full to the brim with bones and veins and muscles, and the names of herbs for this and that. But in quieter moments, he was there in the shadows of her mind, watching her, brushing back her hair, calling her lass. He was steadying her, kneeling before her patiently as she fought for air. She returned to thoughts of their bodies joining only sparingly, for it was too sweet and awoke a fierce longing within her that made it impossible to put her mind towards her tasks. She allowed herself, however, to linger on his words and his tender embrace, especially at darker moments when memories and hopeless thoughts crept into the corners of her mind. It calmed her to turn her thoughts to him in these moments, and she clung to those memories of him.
Memories, however, were somehow easier than the reality of him. She did not seek him out, and it seemed to her now that he had chosen to keep his distance. A part of her wondered naggingly if he had lost interest. He had ceased to linger much in the Halls of Healing - and where he spent his days she did not know. She knew he would have much to see too, and wondered how long he would stay in Gondor.
—-
Although the nights were still cool, the city had grown hot in the late Spring sun, and Summer seemed to linger upon the horizon, showing her face just slightly, but always just out of reach. Inside the wards of the Healing Houses, even the breeze that swept in was warm this afternoon.
Lothíriel was not in the best of sorts. Her dreams the night before, when at last she had found her bed, had been riddled with haunting images, such as she could not bear to recall in her waking. But labor continued, and she went to it gladly, setting aside her weariness in favor of the work she found so compelling.
She was changing the bandages on a wound that had recently festered and been treated when Lothíriel's ears filled with a strange sound, almost like the rushing, pulsing echo one heard when listening to a shell plucked from the sea. Her patient was talking to her, but she could not focus on his words. Fingers fumbling to secure the new bandages, she finished her task. "Excuse me," she managed, and fled to the corridor.
Once there, she put her hand out, finding the wall to steady herself. Her mind had gone strangely blank, and a sharp metal taste filled her mouth. Her ears still felt muffled, as if she was underwater. She fought to speak, to move, even to breathe. She was not even sure she was breathing. Her tongue was like cotton behind her teeth. Sweat dripped down her neck.
Beneath her hands she still felt flesh, hot and wet with running blood. Yet when she looked down there was nothing there.
She shook her head to clear it, and the sensation at last seemed to pass, replaced by an sensation of overwhelming, consuming fatigue. She needed to sit down, to rest. No other thought filled her mind but rest, and to hide. She looked around. No one had seemed to notice her, and she was grateful. Quietly, she set her basket down and slipped out of the ward, walking quickly down the hallway, as quick as she could muster without drawing attention.
It was a broom closet that she found, slipping inside and collapsing against the wall. With a sob, she slid down it to the cold stone floor.
What had come to pass? she wondered as she sat there, recovering her wits. It was not a vision she had had - there had been no image at all - but it was as if she was there in the Pelennor. She recognized that taste in her mouth - it was the taste of blood and bile, the scent of which had flooded the air that day and some which had come from her own stomach and from the clenching of her teeth on her tongue.
"It is a blessing to have a ready supply of clean bandages and a well-stocked supply of medicines," Ioreth remarked a few days later with a pleased sigh. She and Lothíriel were in the apothecary room, Ioreth assessing inventory while Lothíriel ground mustard seed into powder that could be worked into salves or given by mouth for pain. "When I think to the chaos after the Pelennor, it sends a shiver down my spine."
Lothíriel nodded in agreement. "When we ran out of herbs for the pain, it was a very dark time for our patients, and for us." She bit her lip and glanced at Ioreth, considering. She had kept her episodes to herself, and yet now felt compelled to speak to this woman she so admired and trusted. "Do you… do you find yourself reliving it, at all?" she asked, tentatively.
"Reliving what?" Ioreth asked absent-mindedly, as she pored over the inventory list, a stray lock of silver-streaked hair escaping her veil and falling over her face. Lothíriel paused, not sure how to answer, and Ioreth looked back up at Lothíriel in curiosity, and then realization as she understood the question. "The Pelennor?"
Lothíriel nodded. "Yes."
Ioreth straightened and sighed. "Well, Lothíriel, I… I do not know what you mean by reliving, exactly."
"I have dreams, often, bad ones," Lothíriel said, lowering her eyes. "And there are moments - during the day - when something reminds me of the aftermath, I suppose - that I find myself back there. As if I am truly there. There is a bitter metallic taste in my mouth, like that of blood, and then it is as if I am in the streets of Minas Tirith trying to tend the wounded, as I did when I first arrived. I hear them, sometimes I see them. But mostly I feel them under my hands. But I cannot help them. Sometimes it takes… quite a while… for me to come back to the present."
Ioreth was quiet. Lothíriel bent her head over her task and pretended to work at it, but inside her heart was pounding. She did not know what had prompted her to speak of this. To speak of it meant to acknowledge it, and to acknowledge it meant - what? To face her brokenness?
A hand on her shoulder, and then Ioreth spoke. "I do not claim to experience that, no, Lothíriel. But I do have dreams of late. Quite vivid ones, and they do haunt me in the night, and more often than not, I do find myself avoiding my bed."
Lothíriel let out a breath. "I wonder that they should happen to us," she said, glancing upwards at the older matron. "I know that soldiers often dream, and some face terrors when awake, we have seen it, but you and I are not soldiers. We are healers. We have not known battle."
Ioreth nodded. "Perhaps this is so, but I will say that I had never seen such carnage as that day and I will not soon forget it. Nor, I think, will anyone who was there. Your dreams are perhaps to be expected, and may go on for some time, as I daresay will mine."
Lothíriel nodded, taking this in. "And the other thing?" she asked, referring to her spells.
Ioreth sighed. "That, too," she said, "It should pass, in time. You are young, and have much to live for. Try not to despair."
"How do you cope?" Lothíriel asked then, "When it comes to your dreaming."
Ioreth smiled a bit wryly. "I work."
At that, Lothíriel returned her smile and chuckled softly, the heaviness lifted somewhat. It was good to know that she was not alone in her nightmares. As for the other thing, she told herself, it would surely ease in time. Ioreth spoke with much reason.
She would try not to despair.
It was the next day, a day that had been grey and damp with much needed spring rain, that Lothíriel received a message, bound in green ribbon. It was addressed in an unfamiliar hand. She opened it, and read, in the Common Tongue:
Lothíriel,
I wish very much to speak with you this evening, alone. There is a ruined watchtower on the far Northern side of the fifth level. I will be waiting there when the bell tolls eight. Please come.
Éomer
Lothíriel took a shaky breath and folded the letter carefully, slipping it into her pocket. So they would speak, at last, after days, no, weeks, of near silence…
Her heart leapt at the thought of seeing him again. She could not deny it. She would go, and see what it was he had to say.
When she had finishing her tasks, she returned to her little chamber. After careful consideration, she changed from her healer's habit for once into the only gown she had in her possession, purchased at the bequest of her father so that she might have something suitable for those occasions she was pulled away from her work. As such she had won it only once. It was a rather simple garment, intentionally so, a muted rose, unassuming, but which fit her station, elegant enough to pass muster under her father's gaze. Once dressed, she sighed at her reflection in the little mirror. She looked tired, her face pale and drawn. She patted and pinched at her cheeks to enliven them - perhaps the walk would draw some color into her face - and then laughed at herself in the mirror. What more could she do? It was not as if Éomer did not know what she looked like.
She pinned her cloak about her shoulders, for she could sense the air outside was damp from the earlier rain and the cool of the evening fast approaching, and made her way to the aforementioned ruin to meet the man who complicated her thoughts.
It was a rather long walk from the Healing Houses, which sat on the sixth level. The watchtower on the fifth sat away from other buildings, towards the north. She understood why he had chosen it, for its seclusion. When she arrived, at the base of the ruins, she found white stone steps that led into what had been the tower. They appeared sound enough, and with hesitancy, she followed them up to a level that lay mostly open, surrounded only by a partially destroyed wall. Éomer stood there, his back to her, gazing outwards. A small lantern sat at his feet, providing a little more light, as the sun had set behind the mountains and night was fast approaching. He did not appear to have heard her approach, which surprised her. She cleared her throat.
"Well met, Éomer."
He turned to face her and looked her over with warmth. "Hello, Lothíriel."
She assessed him in return. He was dressed simply, no sign of his standing as King of Rohan. He might have been a common rider. Still, his bearing and glorious mane of golden hair made him regal in spite of himself.
He was still staring at her. She flushed red under his gaze, as shy as when he had first taken her hand in his and led her down the corridor. A lifetime ago.
"Are you well?" she asked awkwardly.
"I am now," he murmured, "And yourself?"
She nodded and folded her arms about herself, shivering slightly, as the breeze, still damp from the rain, swept through her garments. She drew her cloak tighter. "It is chilly," she said to fill the gap in the conversation.
"Forgive me for bringing you out into the damp," Éomer said quickly, "But I wanted to see you where we might be alone. It has been some time since we —"
"Yes," said Lothíriel quickly. Éomer's amused reaction - a deepening of the corners of his mouth - made her smile sheepishly at herself. She cleared her throat. "I'm sorry. Go on."
"I am returning to Rohan," Éomer said, clasping his hands behind his back. "My sister and I and my company will leave at first light."
"So soon," uttered Lothíriel without thinking.
Éomer looked at her with a curious expression. "Soon? Perhaps. To me it seems a long time since I had been home."
She flushed and bit the inside of her cheek, cowed. "Of course. I was not thinking, only —"
He smiled broadly then, and crossed the respectful distance between them, cupping her face in his hands and looking down at her with a playful light in his eyes. "Will you miss me, then?"
She smiled sheepishly and broke away, turning from him, for she felt suddenly very exposed. In truth they had spent so little time together, and yet somehow the knowledge of his presence near her, somewhere in Minas Tirith, had warmed and steadied her always.
"Yes," she managed to admit, looking out across the horizon, maintaining her best attempt at composure.
"It warms my heart to hear it," Éomer said, "For it pained me also to think of riding away from this place, not knowing —" his voice caught slightly on the words, " — Not knowing what I left behind."
She turned back to him, feeling uncertain. "Éomer, I —" she began, not knowing what she wished to say. If this was to be a proposal then she would have him say it.
He shook his head, and took her hand, guiding her back to him, and put his fingers to her lips. "Hush, lass," he murmured kindly, "It is enough to know that you will think of me, when I go. I do not ask for more than that. Not now, not like this. There is too much left to say and do." Though he looked at her with tenderness, there was a guardedness to him in that moment that she wondered at. He was always so open with her that this new layer seemed a bit forced.
"I will think of you, and often, I warrant," she replied quickly, and her hands came up to rest upon his chest, his strong and warm and intoxicating chest. It was this chest to which she fixed her gaze rather than his eyes, confused now that he broached no subject of the future, but also strangely relieved. What did she expect of him? To go down upon his knees and beg for her hand? No, she had given him no indication that this was her wish, and yet — was this a final goodbye? Had he taken her silence and her devotion to healing as an indication that she wished to leave their dalliance behind in the aftermath of the battle? She would not blame him, if he had. A part of her certainly did, for would it not be easier? But the thought of confining him only to memory made her heart twist and cry out in protest. And no - he would not have asked her to meet him like this, not merely to release her from his affections.
"I shall return," he said, as if reading her thoughts, "In time for Aragorn's coronation. And after that we will bear my uncle's body hence, so that he may be given proper burial rites, with the great lords of this land in attendance. To do it now would mean a hasty burial without the honor he deserves, and I do not wish that to be my first act as King."
She nodded in relief, for this was not goodbye, only farewell for a time, and raised her eyes to meet his. He covered her hands with his own, pressing them more tightly and protectively to his chest. "Your eyes are rimmed with shadows," he said then, searching her face, "I know you have been hard at work, and I commend you for it, but I urge you to take better care. I fear you will exhaust yourself and fall ill."
"You need not worry for me," she said, prickling a bit, "It is only natural, for I keep long hours, but I am well. You yourself surely must understand long hours, and will certainly come to know them, as King."
He grinned at her rebuke. "Very well, lass."
He was so near to her now that their bodies were nearly flush with one another, the heat radiating between them, and she felt her belly constrict and twitch with desire. Her lips parted unconsciously and she leaned up for his kiss wantonly. He did not bend down to her immediately, and in the end it was she who kissed him first, and then he yielded to her mouth, his arms encircling her and holding her to him, as she clung tightly to his neck.
Their bodies had not forgotten one another, and it was all too soon that he broke the kiss with a groan of reluctance, and she too let out a regretful moan in protest at the separation. "Your mouth is as sweet as first I tasted it," he said, tracing her bottom lip with his thumb. "It is hard to give it up."
"Then don't," she breathed, "You needn't stop." Her entire body pulsed with wanting and she could feel how readily she would receive him, right then and there, on the cold stone beneath them.
"Yes, I must," he replied regretfully, leaning his forehead against hers, "As much as it pains me to do so, I must."
"I would take you again to my bed," she whispered in haste, "If I am wanton, I do not care. I long for it."
She kissed him again, and he received her mouth readily, but let out a soft groan of longing, drawing away from her as if he could barely manage it. Even in the dimming light, she could tell his face was aflame with desire and conflict. "Me as well, believe me, Lothíriel, but we must not."
"I care not for my honor," she said recklessly, "It was gone long ago, and I cast it aside with relief."
He sighed heavily, and set her away from him gently but firmly. "We both stand with much at stake. What would happen, if you were to fall with child? My reign begun with the mark of a bastard child, and you forced to wed with me for duty's sake? No, Lothíriel. We did not think of a future, but it must not be this way, as much as I long to come back to your bed - yes, lass. I have thought of it often, I have yearned for it. Were I free to do so I would take you here and now— but it is already risky enough to be discovered with you, even talking like this. "
"Do you regret bedding me?" she asked then, wondering for the first time if he too had doubts about what had occurred between them.
He looked at her with frank honesty in his eyes. "Nay, Lothíriel, I do not regret it. How could I regret such sweetness? But had I thought more clearly and given a thought to my country instead of only myself, perhaps then I would not have done it, at least not twice. Not after…" he shook his head, and sighed. "Would you have done it, if you had hope of the battle going our way?"
She pressed her lips together. Would she have done it? She looked up at him with lost eyes and shrugged. "I know not."
"Do you regret it?" he asked in turn, and at this she shook her head.
"I do not," she said with certainty, for this was a question she could answer him. She had given it much thought. "I do not regret it, for you freed me from a life of restraint and denial of my womanhood, a cage of chastity. And — you brought me comfort when there was naught but pain and despair, comfort that my mind returned to when all was darkness and I thought I might end it all."
She sighed, sensing that her cheeks were very pink at this torrent of confession.
He looked down at her in sorrowful tenderness. "Ah, Lothíriel," he whispered, taking her face in his palms again, stroking her cheek with his thumb. After searching her face a moment, he kissed her brow, then her eyelids, which had fluttered shut. "It is a gift for me to know that, for indeed, you brought me the same comfort. We have known a similar darkness, you and I."
"Can we not pretend - for one more night - " she whispered longingly, hopelessly lost in desire for him. His touch on her skin and his tender kisses made her wanted to melt into him and disappear, for the memory of despair was not so distant now, and the comfort of his body and passion would surely ease it. And oh, how she ached with lust. She pressed her cheek against his chest and felt his heart pound beneath her ear. Their pelvises had melded again, and she slid her arms around him with a sigh of longing.
He chuckled then. "No, lass. I do not think we can pretend any longer. And I do not think that it would be wise to even try. Certainly we might take precautions, but I fear that in the heat of the moment all restraint would be forgotten."
"I — " she sighed and pulled away from him, composed herself, laughing in embarrassment at how forward she had been and at his frank declaration. She understood what he meant. "You are right. Forgive me."
"There is nothing to forgive," he said, laughing too, and it was a raw and shaky laugh. "I would move mountains to lie with you tonight but alas… I can no sooner move mountains than make the sun rise any sooner, although that I would also do, if only it might hasten my leaving and therefore my return to you."
She flushed beet red, thrilled at the sweetness of his words and the glimmer of humor in his eyes. His words always surprised her. He spoke with such assurance, and with the heart of a poet. There was a grace and an eloquence to his speech one might not know to look for in such a warrior as he. How was he so open with his feelings towards her? She had never known a man to speak his heart so readily. Had he been a lesser man, without honor, she would have thought him to be playing with her feelings, speaking pretty words to make her fall for him - but no, she knew him enough. He spoke only what he meant.
She wished she could be as open to him regarding the deepest questions of her heart as he was to her. Words failed her, and she feared that if he saw what was truly in her heart he would no longer want her. And she feared too, that if she herself looked too deeply inside herself, the truth would not be one she wanted to face.
"What is it?" he asked, reading her hesitation.
"You seem so certain," she managed to say, "Certain of your regard for me. Certain in your —" she stopped, unable to continue and speak the word.
He smiled knowingly. "In my what?"
Her heart skipped a beat. "In everything."
He shook his head and shrugged a bit. "Not in everything, Lothíriel. But perhaps I do know my own heart when it comes to you. And yes, I believe it is love I bear towards you. I cannot, and will not attempt to deny it."
Lothíriel felt a swell of joy within her that made her eyes grow quite teary, for his words thrilled her and warmed her. And yet at the same time, she felt a strange fear at the unspoken meaning of those very words.
His smile wavered at her silence. "That was what you were going to say, before you stopped, yes? That I am certain in my love for you?"
She nodded. "Yes." They had drifted close to one another once more, inches between them, and Lothíriel melted into him yet again.
He held her close, a smile in his voice. "And do you welcome this love, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth? I would know your heart."
"I am honored by it," she stammered.
"Ah," he said into her hair, "You are not certain that you welcome it, I think. You are still - well, I will not press you. I said I was content with knowing you would miss me a little, and here I have gone after for answers I swore I would not ask, not yet. I meant to give you more time."
Lothíriel pulled away with difficulty. "Éomer, I am sorry that I cannot — I wish it were so simple."
He was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his tone was careful. "You have much to reflect on, still, and I hope that you will find the time to do so in my absence. Perhaps your true desires will become clearer, while I am gone. I too will think on it. And when I return… perhaps, you might…be more certain."
She nodded, understanding what he did not say. He wanted an answer, and rightly so. "Of course."
He sighed after a moment, and cleared his throat. "It is growing late. You and I should part ways and seek our beds - for I leave at first light, and you have your labors."
"You have reason," she said reluctantly, for as strained as the moment had become, she could not muster the will to leave him.
He cleared his throat and picked up the lantern, blowing it out. "It may not be safe for you to return alone. I will walk with you as far as the sixth," he said, "Put your hood up, that you may pass unnoticed in the darkness. I fear I am likely to draw some attention, but so be it.
She complied with his suggestion, and he took her hand and escorted her down the steps. They walked back in near silence, sticking to the shadows as much as possible. Éomer held her hand firmly until they reached a more populated part of the city, then let go as to avoid two many curious eyes. She mourn the lack of his touch, but pretty soon their fingers brushed, and they went like that from then on, little fingers brushing, but not interlacing - just close enough.
The young woman that still lived deep inside of her was very much taken by how thrilling it was to walk as lovers of a lower station might do, walking in comfortable closeness as they did now, meeting in secret, stealing kisses whenever they could. She knew in her heart that she might never do such a thing again, with Éomer or any other man. This was not the way of courtship or marriage, or even of love, when it was lucky enough to happen, when it came to those of her birth. But Éomer had given her all of it. They had done things backwards, perhaps, strangers to bed, and then the sharing of deep thoughts such as might two close friends, and now a secret meeting like young lovebirds. But it was the closet thing to a love affair she might ever have. It was true what she had told him. He had given her a chance to live life as a woman, just a woman, nothing more.
They arrived all too quickly at the sixth level, near enough to the Healing Houses and Lothíriel's adjacent quarters that Éomer seemed satisfied she could continue unmolested.
She was about to turn to go, when he caught her arm and pulled her back to him, leading her into the shadow of a doorway, pressing his lips to the inside of her palm, then taking her in his arms and kissing her so thoroughly that when the kiss was finally broken, both of them were breathless. "Goodnight, Lothíriel," he said, stroking her cheek, "Farewell, until we meet again."
It was he who left her there, standing with her fingers on her lips. Oh, Éomer of Rohan. What a man had captured her heart. He had laid his own heart at her feet. And how foolish was she, that she could not give all of herself to him in return?
[A/N: Hi, yes, it's been too long, I know. I'm sorry. This is all a labor of love, and in the end, it's hard for me to sometimes find the time and will and focus to devote to it. I do love to write and I have learned so much writing and reading fanfiction in this community over the past... 15+ years? I love coming up with these relationships and dialogues and my partner pointed out to me that with my love and talent, I should try to pour some of this energy of storytelling into avenues that may actually lead to some financial gain, so I am considering a where I would publish some original works... anyway, I am not abandoning this story. I have big plans for these two, actually. It's just a matter of finding time and inspiration amidst my other artistic and strictly financial pursuits.
Anyway, I HOPE you are still with me. I hope you are not too frustrated with Lothíriel. In the end, there is so much more that fuels her heart than her love for a man, and her desire to be more than the life set out for her from birth. I relate to her in that she is pulled in many directions. And of course, the trauma of the events of the war further complicates matters.
More to come, thanks for reading, thank you for your support, your reviews, everything.
Be well!
~Girlbird]
