There is so much fighting to be true in her at once, songs playing over each other until she cannot sort them into anything but noise.
No-one had known what to do with her. Without Emile she knows would have wasted slowly, month on month, until one day she simply did not wake. She had been cared for, loved, of that she had no doubt— beyond dressing her, beyond attending to her every need, Emile had been at her side for over a decade of patient tutelage, quiet holding, drying of her tears when she had healed enough to cry, reassuring her that if she learned and practiced what she was taught she could be something that could not ever ever be hurt again. Emile had been everything; a mother, a sister, a teacher, a friend.
But how much of that had been by her design? Alexandrie had felt abandoned, withdrawn from by everyone but Emile, even Geneviève. How much of that distance had the kindly woman made? She was a Bard, a good one. How simple it would have been to slowly pull a young and shattered woman away from everyone who might have seen the cold and vicious blade she was being shaped into and tried to stop the forging and make it seem as if they were the ones who pulled away?
And how could love, real love, have watched the joy in life bloom back into her with the way Byerly had doted on her— had been gentle, wanted to be by her side, and wished only for her happiness, to be the one who could make her happy again— and calmly, kindly, tell her that in order to be safe she had to cut that flower down. ]
Yes.
[ It is spoken in near whisper, slow in the way of word and realization coming at once, and if it is anger it looks nothing like any anger of hers that he has ever seen. Not cold and sharp, not hot and wild; it is numb and diffuse, a thing that has not found a way to coalesce yet. She speaks it again, is trying to make it real. ]
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2021-09-03 04:52 pm (UTC)There is so much fighting to be true in her at once, songs playing over each other until she cannot sort them into anything but noise.
No-one had known what to do with her. Without Emile she knows would have wasted slowly, month on month, until one day she simply did not wake. She had been cared for, loved, of that she had no doubt— beyond dressing her, beyond attending to her every need, Emile had been at her side for over a decade of patient tutelage, quiet holding, drying of her tears when she had healed enough to cry, reassuring her that if she learned and practiced what she was taught she could be something that could not ever ever be hurt again. Emile had been everything; a mother, a sister, a teacher, a friend.
But how much of that had been by her design? Alexandrie had felt abandoned, withdrawn from by everyone but Emile, even Geneviève. How much of that distance had the kindly woman made? She was a Bard, a good one. How simple it would have been to slowly pull a young and shattered woman away from everyone who might have seen the cold and vicious blade she was being shaped into and tried to stop the forging and make it seem as if they were the ones who pulled away?
And how could love, real love, have watched the joy in life bloom back into her with the way Byerly had doted on her— had been gentle, wanted to be by her side, and wished only for her happiness, to be the one who could make her happy again— and calmly, kindly, tell her that in order to be safe she had to cut that flower down. ]
Yes.
[ It is spoken in near whisper, slow in the way of word and realization coming at once, and if it is anger it looks nothing like any anger of hers that he has ever seen. Not cold and sharp, not hot and wild; it is numb and diffuse, a thing that has not found a way to coalesce yet. She speaks it again, is trying to make it real. ]
Yes.