[ His eyes fly open at that. When he speaks, his voice is fierce. ]
No. This isn't a game, or playacting the rogue, or some - Men in my family hurt women. [ And men. Women in his family hurt women and men. It's all just so fucking - ] Not in a romantic way, or a sensual way. They kill women. That's what's in my blood.
[ Maybe there is something wrong in her. Something broken, that she is not afraid.
When she had first seen Loki, it had been watching him kill with the elegance of a predator, and she had shuddered that night under his hands that carried death in them, waiting to be called. But even at the height of his rage, she had never been afraid he would call it for her. He belonged to her, the same way she belonged to him, their dark parts as much entwined as their bright.
But this doesn't belong here. The dark parts, they don't belong here. These are not things Byerly should know; Byerly who thinks she is something brighter, who makes her want to be something brighter. It's wrong, wrong, the way all this makes her want to do is make whatever madness lives in his blood submit because she is fiercer. Because, like the falcon towers over her tiercel, she is stronger.
But they should be laughter and stars and soft looks and held hands and sunshine mornings. It is not supposed to be like this between them. If it is, he will know, and he is supposed to believe she is better than she is so that she can believe it too. ]
And what of it. What will you do.
[ She is fierce now to match, her hand fisting tighter in his shirt. ]
You will push me away to save me? You will think wanting me like this will make you hurt me and think me foolish because I am not afraid of you? You will be wroth with me because I will not run from you?
[ For a few seconds she holds, and then the tense defensive fury that had risen in her breaks. It runs out of her body like water, leaves room for her to see better what was under the swell of it.
So ready. She is always so ready to believe she will be set aside. To know. And for the first time she thinks that this, this constant terror, is why it is she wants so badly to be wanted past control into something dangerous. He could not leave her, then.
And if it is not that, why would he stay?
She turns her face into his shoulder to hide it and her thoughts, and her shame, and then after a moment of quiet nods meekly. ]
[ She can do this, yes? Pull herself from the grip of her old fear to care for him in the grip of his own, when he needs kinder arms?
Discipline.
Slow, but steady, the wrap of her arms across his shoulders. The turn of her face to lightly kiss the side of his neck, corner of his jaw, cheek. The rest of her forehead against his temple.
She knows what it is she would want to hear, want to have from him. But while sometimes they are the same, more often they are so different.
[ But that's not true, is it? Not in the least. Because he needs quite a lot from her. He needs - ]
Vigilance. Perhaps. Mistrust. [ A breath out, and he confesses: ] It's all so tangled up between us, isn't it, that even when we love each other there's still some measure of hate as well. There always will be. And that's where cruelty creeps in, and madness. So I think I need to know that you'll not take any of it from me. That you won't endure it.
[ She wants to tell him she doesn’t have that measure of hate, but she does. For all that she feels she deserves whatever enmity he carries, for all that she feels she doesn’t deserve to hold any for him, she does.
I spurned him, says the part that wants his cruelty. Abandoned him.
But under it there is a small cry of her own, too. He left me. If he loved me as much as he says he did, why didn’t he come to me. Why didn’t he demand to know why.
She thinks perhaps it was because he never thought she was real. That he is as ready, as expectant, as she is to be thrown aside. It doesn’t matter to the little ghost, who is young and only cares that she is alone. ]
It will be hard for me, for I think that I deserve it.
[ She shakes her head a little. ]
More than that. Sometimes I wish for it, because I know how to be hated for what I have done. I do not know how to have done it and still be loved.
[ He says that passionately. But then, less passionately, more restrained, he admits: ]
I think that - I don't really know how to love. There's the love I've seen in fairy tales, all sweet and innocent, but we both learned the hard way that that love can't live long. And then there's easy love, where you flirt and laugh and screw, where it's all safe because neither of you tries to be all that romantic. [ What he has with Bastien. ] But to be earnest, and passionate - [ He shakes his head. ] I've never seen any version of that that doesn't turn cruel.
[ His family. All of his family. Even his parents - When his mother was still alert and engaged, and his father still gave a damn, he saw the way they cut at each other. A thousand tiny slices every day.
And then, a breath out through his nose: ]
Which makes me approximately the worst person for you to be in love with, doesn't it?
[ She breathes out through her nose too, although hers are the little puffs of air that are her silent chuckle. ]
Perhaps. Mais la vie est étrange, et les coeurs plus étrangers, so perhaps not.
Perhaps I will learn that there are other ways I can love besides losing myself, that it is not lesser to not push everything I have into another's hands.
[ She kisses his cheek again, and then pulls back so she can look at him and smile softly. ]
But I think you are wrong. I think you know how to love, if you will let yourself learn instead of thinking it must look like this, or it must look like that. I think there are as many kinds of love as there are lovers, and ours will be our own. We are the only two in the world with our story, yes?
[ There's the sound of a delicate chain moving, a quiet click as she takes up the locket again. ]
[ He's not quite ready to let it go yet. His hand comes out to cover her fingers. ]
But many types of love are cruel or destructive. There is love that tears its object to shreds. I - do not wish to love you in a way that hurts you. If it must be temporary, what's between us, then at least I want you to come out the other side better for it.
Even the kindest love hurts a little sometimes, if there is anything in us that might be hurt, living as it does in the most vulnerable parts of ourselves. Especially if those parts have been injured before, and especially if they have not healed.
[ She lifts her thumb so she can press some small part of his hand between it and her fingers. ]
I imagine there are people for whom love does not hurt, and I wish them all joy. I am not one of them. You must not think the fullness of my agonies are made by you because sometimes I will scream when you touch me. The gentlest touch on raw flesh sears, does it not?
[ A pause while she makes a tiny stroking motion with her thumb, and then she leans in again to set her cheek lightly against his. ]
Perhaps the time we will have together is not forever, but whilst I live I will love you, and I am already the better for it.
[ He presses, and his breath tickles a little. It is the tiniest movement, and she can feel it because she is still. So still, with a heart like the glass of early morning water. She lets her eyes close, finds with her mind all the places they touch, the little warmth there, and she loves him.
It is all in her voice as much as her extremity was. ]
It pained me so much to love again. So incredibly much. But I am kinder for it; a woman again instead of a creature. A blade.
It pains me to hurt you, and slowly I become better because I do not want to.
[ She breathes long, through her nose. Wonders vaguely if he can feel it. ]
It hurts to take an arrow in the shoulder, and it hurts to take it out. I believe us more surgeons to each other than archers. [ A puff of mirth. ] A pity that an unsure surgeon does more damage than an unsure archer, but... we learn, yes?
[ It's not a bad metaphor. She always was a better poet than him, though. Those few times he'd tried - Thank the Maker he'd burned them instead of showing them to her. ]
It certainly doesn't mean that pain should be our usual way of doing things, though. I fear we spend rather too long with knife in hand. And I only really want one surgeon operating on me, frankly.
[ He has a steadier hand than she does, surely. Bastien. Fair, to say so, but surely he wouldn't so blithely. Yes, Byerly stumbles sometimes into hurting her without meaning to as she does him, but surely not like that. Not here when they are like this.
How little it takes to calm her, how little to fright.
What else could—
She relaxes, head curving down to his shoulder. A startled flock returning to its pond. ]
[ He gives a faint cutting gesture with his hand. His brows are still drawn down. ]
Who did you think I meant? - It was intended as a jest. Because surgeons. We certainly aren't having an affair, if you fear that. [ Can you have an affair with your own wife? ]
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No. This isn't a game, or playacting the rogue, or some - Men in my family hurt women. [ And men. Women in his family hurt women and men. It's all just so fucking - ] Not in a romantic way, or a sensual way. They kill women. That's what's in my blood.
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When she had first seen Loki, it had been watching him kill with the elegance of a predator, and she had shuddered that night under his hands that carried death in them, waiting to be called. But even at the height of his rage, she had never been afraid he would call it for her. He belonged to her, the same way she belonged to him, their dark parts as much entwined as their bright.
But this doesn't belong here. The dark parts, they don't belong here. These are not things Byerly should know; Byerly who thinks she is something brighter, who makes her want to be something brighter. It's wrong, wrong, the way all this makes her want to do is make whatever madness lives in his blood submit because she is fiercer. Because, like the falcon towers over her tiercel, she is stronger.
But they should be laughter and stars and soft looks and held hands and sunshine mornings. It is not supposed to be like this between them. If it is, he will know, and he is supposed to believe she is better than she is so that she can believe it too. ]
And what of it. What will you do.
[ She is fierce now to match, her hand fisting tighter in his shirt. ]
You will push me away to save me? You will think wanting me like this will make you hurt me and think me foolish because I am not afraid of you? You will be wroth with me because I will not run from you?
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No. I -
[ His hand rests atop hers, fingertips digging into her skin. Not hard. Not enough to cause any pain. Even now, he's cautious and gentle. ]
What I'll do is discipline it. Discipline myself. Root out any madness if it reveals itself. I must be cautious - do you see?
[ Do you see why I cannot be the wild, passionate creature you want me to be? Why I must shrink from all that fire you put in me? ]
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So ready. She is always so ready to believe she will be set aside. To know. And for the first time she thinks that this, this constant terror, is why it is she wants so badly to be wanted past control into something dangerous. He could not leave her, then.
And if it is not that, why would he stay?
She turns her face into his shoulder to hide it and her thoughts, and her shame, and then after a moment of quiet nods meekly. ]
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[ He feels like there are embers in his chest, scorching him, like there's a beast ripping and tearing at his viscera. ]
Please don't feel ashamed, or chastised - This fault is mine, not yours. Please. Please don't.
[ Maker, why does she always talk too much when he's overwhelmed, and say nothing at all when he needs some sign? ]
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Discipline.
Slow, but steady, the wrap of her arms across his shoulders. The turn of her face to lightly kiss the side of his neck, corner of his jaw, cheek. The rest of her forehead against his temple.
She knows what it is she would want to hear, want to have from him. But while sometimes they are the same, more often they are so different.
Soft and gentle when she speaks: ]
Tell me what you need from me.
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[ But that's not true, is it? Not in the least. Because he needs quite a lot from her. He needs - ]
Vigilance. Perhaps. Mistrust. [ A breath out, and he confesses: ] It's all so tangled up between us, isn't it, that even when we love each other there's still some measure of hate as well. There always will be. And that's where cruelty creeps in, and madness. So I think I need to know that you'll not take any of it from me. That you won't endure it.
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I spurned him, says the part that wants his cruelty. Abandoned him.
But under it there is a small cry of her own, too. He left me. If he loved me as much as he says he did, why didn’t he come to me. Why didn’t he demand to know why.
She thinks perhaps it was because he never thought she was real. That he is as ready, as expectant, as she is to be thrown aside. It doesn’t matter to the little ghost, who is young and only cares that she is alone. ]
It will be hard for me, for I think that I deserve it.
[ She shakes her head a little. ]
More than that. Sometimes I wish for it, because I know how to be hated for what I have done. I do not know how to have done it and still be loved.
[ A pause for an unsteady breath, and then: ]
I want so much to still be loved.
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[ He says that passionately. But then, less passionately, more restrained, he admits: ]
I think that - I don't really know how to love. There's the love I've seen in fairy tales, all sweet and innocent, but we both learned the hard way that that love can't live long. And then there's easy love, where you flirt and laugh and screw, where it's all safe because neither of you tries to be all that romantic. [ What he has with Bastien. ] But to be earnest, and passionate - [ He shakes his head. ] I've never seen any version of that that doesn't turn cruel.
[ His family. All of his family. Even his parents - When his mother was still alert and engaged, and his father still gave a damn, he saw the way they cut at each other. A thousand tiny slices every day.
And then, a breath out through his nose: ]
Which makes me approximately the worst person for you to be in love with, doesn't it?
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Perhaps. Mais la vie est étrange, et les coeurs plus étrangers, so perhaps not.
Perhaps I will learn that there are other ways I can love besides losing myself, that it is not lesser to not push everything I have into another's hands.
[ She kisses his cheek again, and then pulls back so she can look at him and smile softly. ]
But I think you are wrong. I think you know how to love, if you will let yourself learn instead of thinking it must look like this, or it must look like that. I think there are as many kinds of love as there are lovers, and ours will be our own. We are the only two in the world with our story, yes?
[ There's the sound of a delicate chain moving, a quiet click as she takes up the locket again. ]
Just as they are the only two with theirs.
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But many types of love are cruel or destructive. There is love that tears its object to shreds. I - do not wish to love you in a way that hurts you. If it must be temporary, what's between us, then at least I want you to come out the other side better for it.
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[ She lifts her thumb so she can press some small part of his hand between it and her fingers. ]
I imagine there are people for whom love does not hurt, and I wish them all joy. I am not one of them. You must not think the fullness of my agonies are made by you because sometimes I will scream when you touch me. The gentlest touch on raw flesh sears, does it not?
[ A pause while she makes a tiny stroking motion with her thumb, and then she leans in again to set her cheek lightly against his. ]
Perhaps the time we will have together is not forever, but whilst I live I will love you, and I am already the better for it.
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I suppose that I've simply...never known anyone to become better or kinder due to pain. Pain only debases.
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It is all in her voice as much as her extremity was. ]
It pained me so much to love again. So incredibly much. But I am kinder for it; a woman again instead of a creature. A blade.
It pains me to hurt you, and slowly I become better because I do not want to.
[ She breathes long, through her nose. Wonders vaguely if he can feel it. ]
It hurts to take an arrow in the shoulder, and it hurts to take it out. I believe us more surgeons to each other than archers. [ A puff of mirth. ] A pity that an unsure surgeon does more damage than an unsure archer, but... we learn, yes?
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[ It's not a bad metaphor. She always was a better poet than him, though. Those few times he'd tried - Thank the Maker he'd burned them instead of showing them to her. ]
It certainly doesn't mean that pain should be our usual way of doing things, though. I fear we spend rather too long with knife in hand. And I only really want one surgeon operating on me, frankly.
[ His wife, of course. ]
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What?
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How little it takes to calm her, how little to fright.
What else could—
She relaxes, head curving down to his shoulder. A startled flock returning to its pond. ]
Lady Rutyer, you mean.
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[ He gives a faint cutting gesture with his hand. His brows are still drawn down. ]
Who did you think I meant? - It was intended as a jest. Because surgeons. We certainly aren't having an affair, if you fear that. [ Can you have an affair with your own wife? ]
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[ She breathes. Then, softly: ]
I know he has gentler hands than I do.
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Who? Bastien?
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[ Byerly lets out an uncomfortable breath. ]
He's just different.
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[ She shakes her head a little against his shoulder. ]
I have been gone for six weeks and I missed you, and right now I want to be with you and I want you to be with me.
Please.
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I simply do not know how to reassure you.
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