Lobelia has always known what's right and proper. There aren't any two ways about anything, just what's there and what's not. Most of the time, Primula thinks, she's mistaking one for the other. She's still beautiful to Primula. She can't be called that in any conventional way; with the lines of anger instead of laughter on her face most people would find her more off-putting than attractive, but Primula knows the sorrow behind each line, the love and fear behind each burst of hate.
"...We would be better off if none of your queer, unnatural kind ever crossed the river again! Leaving him would be the best thing you could do - save him from tainting the good name of Baggins with your Brandybuck blood - I ought to have talked Drogo out of it..."
Each word stabs into her chest, but she reaches out, touches one hand to Lobelia's shoulder, and one to her cheek. The skin is hot with anger. Lobelia trembles, mouth curling in disgust, but falls silent.
"There's no need for that, anymore," Primula says softly. "I'm Drogo's wife now. We won't have to see each other. And I'll never tell."
Lobelia sucks her breath in, and for the one and only time, the pain flashes across her face. She slaps Primula's hand away, and turns, stomping out of the hall and out of the hole. Primula falls on a chair and curls in on herself, sobs suddenly tearing out of her. She's not crying for herself; she's the one who is going to be happy.
But because Lobelia can't cry.
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Lobelia Can't Cry by Hyel
Story notes: I wrote this for Janette La Fey, although I think she would have preferred fluff... I actually think this pairing has good potential for angst stories.
