At long last, another in the Éowyn/Faramir drabble set

Attribute it to an evening at home and a completely different take on the scene. I've been trying to write this one for weeks and each attempt grew more dismal. There's no Faramir, but hey- you'll get his POV next.

Day Four: Sores

Éowyn plaited long stalks of grass, binding together even as Merry's actions methodically rent apart. Her motions were awkward due to her sling, but Éowyn needed a repetitive activity for her body while her mind railed and roiled, as trapped in its labyrinthine thoughts as she was in this stone ship of Minas Tirith. She could look from its now-grey prow, and often did, yet no ocean ever appeared below, only a lake of smouldering ash and death.

"Ioreth is fortunate indeed to have conscripted someone of your diligence," Éowyn said, turning just far enough on the nearby bench to catch Merry's eye.

"There are healers in my mother's line," Merry replied, continuing to rip down the warp of the linen. He added another thin strip to his ever-growing pile of bandages, soon to be taken to the Houses of Healing. "I need something to do," he said determinedly. "Pip's out there, and Frodo and Sam, and Strider…" his voice trailed off. "Gandalf, too."

He looked at Éowyn with such an expression of frustration that her eyes grew wide. "And we're here."

The disgust in his outburst nestled, shadowlike and familiar, in Éowyn's heart.

"We're here," she echoed.

Éowyn felt the next rip of fabric as surely as though it were she who had just been torn to shreds.