The melancholia had its way of engulfing her like an autumnal fog, obscuring all that she knew, or thought she should know, with a haze of unfamiliarity, robbing her of whatever it was that mankind had decided fit the present definition of sense and sanity. There were times Ellen embraced the sorrow with open arms like an old friend, for it was a friend of sorts, having been with her far longer than anyone else, a constant companion. Other times it frightened her terribly, an onslaught of a misery that she could not name but was burdened with all the same. Neither brought her anything in the way of relief, nor did it soothe the ache in her chest where her heart was slowly calcifying even as it still dared to beat out its rhythmless song that fell on deaf ears.
The night had grown long, as they seemed to have a terrible habit of doing when the blissful nothingness of sleep eluded her. Not that sleep had brought her anything that even remotely resembled bliss, her sleeping hours haunted anew even as her waking hours offered little more relief.
But there had been a time where her sorrows had been alleviated. A thorn in her palm where once there had been a blade.
But now Thomas was gone, the distraction his presence offered her gone with him. He had left and in his absence, the pain had tricked in again to fill the gap he had left. Perhaps it was the fault of her own willingness to escape the pain that it's return at full force hurt as it did, but that felt like a terrible, insincere explanation and she had been given far too many of those over her life already to accept them from herself too. There was something bad carried on the wind, and somehow it seemed she was the only one that was not oblivious to the truth. Why on earth was it that even though they all saw, everyone was blind?
The door to the guest bedroom of the Harding's home that she had been so kindly been permitted to stay (because, apparently, she was not of a state where she could survive without somebody there to keep an eye on her. Though it was nice that the somebody happened to be a very dear friend of hers, but that did not make the arrangement or the need for it any more pleasant) creaked open. Soft candlelight spilled in like thick honey, smothering the gloom that might as well have been bleeding out from the woman herself. Her languid gaze dragged sluggishly from the world outside the window to greet whichever strange manifestation of the nighttime had crawled its way out of the darkness to meet with her there.
But, of course, it was not the looming face of death that greeted her around the doorframe, but instead the just as familiar face, framed with gentle gold curls and aflush with life, of her dear Anna.
"I had feared to find you still awake," Anna offered her gentle greeting to her friend, "Does Thomas still trouble you so, dear heart?"
"I hope that I did not wake you?" Ellen from her perch by the window questioned, not quite managing to reach the same level of gentleness, "And you were quite right. Another day has come and gone and still I've yet to hear from him. I fear for him."
"I'm sure that it is truly nothing so terrible," came the reply, the ray of sunshine of a woman drifting to what she hoped came off as a comforting closeness, "I can only imagine that, come the morning, the postman will come with news of some wonderful adventure," she paused, slumber-heavy brain trying to find as many words of reassurance that she could, "And if not, perhaps he had hoped to bundle his letters and give them to you upon his return so that you might share it together. It sounds all very dramatic, of course, but you know how men can be."
While it did not ease her mind in the way that Anna's attempts had aimed for, Ellen did still attempt a small smile to show that she did still appreciate the effort all the same. Unfortunately, however, she had pondered the notion of having to name herself a widow before she had even been given the opportunity to get accustomed to calling herself a wife. It was the terrible sort of thought that festered well at the late hours of the night where the light of day dared not approach.
"Most, certainly, but Thomas would not. He had given me his word that he would write to me each day but I've yet to hear a word," came the reply, "There has been a darkness cast over his whole journey, I could feel it all along and I warned him, but he did not listen. Why would he do that? Why would he not listen when I knew he was in danger if he left?"
It was a little surprise, at least for Anna, to note that when Ellen, voice heavy with her pleading, her eyes were dry. Had it been herself plagued with such horrible thoughts, she had no doubt she would have been beside herself. But then again, Ellen was better acquainted with pain than she ever could imagine.
"Such is the way of menfolk and their business, is it not? There are times where I wonder if they care of little else, but that does not mean us and our wellbeing is not in their mind as they do so." Even to Anna, herself, her reply sounded flat to her own ear, so she doubted that it meant all that much to either of them, so she pressed on, "Would it settle your heart to pray for him?"
The sound that this won from the tormented woman was, to say the least, a peculiar one. Not altogether dissimilar to the laughter uttered by the mad at the very heart of their afflictions. A harsh wheeze that carried more emotion than her frail body should have been capable of. Thrice she attempted to collect herself, and thrice she failed, each attempt more unsuccessful than the last as she shook with the nameless sensation that flooded her with such intensity.
"Pray, Anna?" she uttered when she found a steadiness to her voice that her words would not be wholly consumed, "What use would it be to offer a prayer to a god who was incapable of even turning its gaze to where Thomas dared walk? To the barren, nameless hellscape where your god turned away in fear? Your god cannot save him now."
"You should not speak in such a way," the other woman, blissfully unaware of just how her friend's words rang true, "In his-"
Whatever attempt at protestation that the blond attempted was swiftly lost to her friend's harsh cackle of a sobbing laugh. It came with a heightened intensity, and as a result it took her several moments more to drag herself back, not quite containing herself but nonetheless settling herself enough to then set her gaze, suddenly alarmingly blank when mere moments ago she was blazing with an improbable intensity.
"I've upset you," said she, unable to quite bring enough strength to sound apologetic, "But I am right, he has gone now beyond the protection of divinity. If you must pray, pray not to your lord but to the strength of mankind to endure the unimaginable."
An odd night-silence filled the room, as if the very world itself was holding its breath. Heavy like a winter coat drawn too tight in a stuffy drawing room a little too early in the year. There was an unspoken challenge hanging over the two women, the steadfastness of one's faith pressed by the unknown, the unfathomed and unchallenged. Truth and madness dancing hand in hand to the rhythm of their beating hearts, the fluttering of their breath.
It was to much relief to Anna that she was given an escape before she was forced to try and find the words to speak into the silence to break its spell over them. The wailing of her children cut through the nothingness with the deftness of the seamstress' scissors. With an apologetic glance, she excused herself to leave.
"And now you must leave me too." a quiet Ellen remarked, her voice soft, not quite childish but likewise not all too fitting for the years she had lived though.
"I must," came the apology, "But only for a moment. Wait for me, I shall return if you need me to."
Ellen watched her friend leave, her big dark eyes giving very little away. Oh, how her life seemed to be shaped around the waiting for those she cared for to return to her, while they seemed to hold her at arm's distance to leave her to walk through her loneliness even with them by her side. But wait she would, time healing nothing as her pain picked at old wounds, her gaze wandering to the sky once more, registering very little.
For all the ludicracy she saw in praying for Thomas' wellbeing, she nonetheless offered a plea for him to be left alone, to know not the pain she felt firsthand, to be returned to him just as he was.
And she knew that, unlike Anna's, her prayers would be heard.