She hesitates, then slowly rises so she can move to him and sit on his knee. So she can touch the side of his face. ]
Distant need not mean lost.
I will not stop loving you, and there are boats in the world and any number of reasons I might use to take them south.
[ She lets her hand fall into her lap. Looks down at it, then back at Byerly. ]
There was a time I could have told you yes; I will be safe, well taken care of. Loved beyond measure. A mother, perhaps, with two little boys.
[ But they are gone, too, if her husband is. Dreams only. A ward perhaps, someday— war makes as many orphans as it does widows— but Alexandrie will have no children of her own. She will not bear for one she does not love, and the men she loves who live will not— or cannot— be sires.
Her nostrils flare slightly, breath fluttering from them as her eyes shine wetly. ]
I forget sometimes when I speak. That it is not him. It is so easy to forget. I remember over and over and—
[ Alexandrie was not built to hold this any more than she was built to hold the brutality of court. For all her skill at complexities, in her heart she is a simple thing: she loves and wants to be loved, holds and wants to be held. She likes the sun and the water, birds and wind, stories and flowers and stars, and everything she feels fills her body to the brim where it overflows in laughter, kisses, tears.
Tears, now. Slow and quiet. ]
And so I do not know, any longer. I know only that I am tired of war and I would like to paint the trees.
no subject
So he does think of her, a little, as his.
She hesitates, then slowly rises so she can move to him and sit on his knee. So she can touch the side of his face. ]
Distant need not mean lost.
I will not stop loving you, and there are boats in the world and any number of reasons I might use to take them south.
[ She lets her hand fall into her lap. Looks down at it, then back at Byerly. ]
There was a time I could have told you yes; I will be safe, well taken care of. Loved beyond measure. A mother, perhaps, with two little boys.
[ But they are gone, too, if her husband is. Dreams only. A ward perhaps, someday— war makes as many orphans as it does widows— but Alexandrie will have no children of her own. She will not bear for one she does not love, and the men she loves who live will not— or cannot— be sires.
Her nostrils flare slightly, breath fluttering from them as her eyes shine wetly. ]
I forget sometimes when I speak. That it is not him. It is so easy to forget. I remember over and over and—
[ Alexandrie was not built to hold this any more than she was built to hold the brutality of court. For all her skill at complexities, in her heart she is a simple thing: she loves and wants to be loved, holds and wants to be held. She likes the sun and the water, birds and wind, stories and flowers and stars, and everything she feels fills her body to the brim where it overflows in laughter, kisses, tears.
Tears, now. Slow and quiet. ]
And so I do not know, any longer. I know only that I am tired of war and I would like to paint the trees.
And that I love you.