[ She cannot understand anything now— or, at least, nothing of society's 'why's— there is only hurt and betrayal and the memory of turning to someone she trusted for help and receiving it in the form of what was right for the Game and ruin for both her and Byerly.
No, it had been success for her.
No.
Alexandrie shakes her head behind her hands with a violence she is unaware of. ]
Do not, [ she says, reverting to Orlesian. ] Do not say it was right. Do not tell me a pretty dream and then tell me I should not crush it and then tell me she was right to.
[ Another shake of her head, smaller this time, and she lets her hands fall so she can look at him; her eyes begging for some unclear thing. ]
What do you want, Byerly. What do you want now, not in some time that is gone. I cannot do anything about the past, and it hurts to remember. I cannot make anything make sense.
[ He answers in unsteady Orlesian - unsteady only because of his emotions, for Orlesian is his mother tongue, and he speaks it perhaps more fluently even than he speaks Trade. ]
[ With no physical anchor, time is blending for her; too much she’d pushed down or left unrecognized years ago suddenly clamours for her attention now that its resting place has been disturbed, and all of it belongs to another self, another time, another place. All of them feel real at once and none of them feel safe. ]
I want to be here, now, with you, and I cannot keep from sliding away on my own.
[ His brows knit, uncertain of her meaning. Even so, though, even with his lack of understanding, he reaches out to her, wrapping his arms around her, answering her desire. This, at least, he's good at. ]
[ An odd kind of shudder runs through her when his arms enclose her, as if something in her body that had shaken loose falls into place and settles there. She rests her hands flat against his chest, the side of her face above them, and she takes in a long breath that drains some of the tension from her on its exhale.
It is two more such breaths before she answers. It is in Trade again, the edge of hysteria gone from her voice when she speaks. ]
I cannot tell when I am, sometimes. If my heart is feeling what belongs to the present or the past.
Sometimes when I am most afraid that you are leaving, I can feel silk velvet balled up in my hands. It is not of the moment we are in. Perhaps even the fear is not. If I do not have something of now, someone to keep me here, it is so easy to slip away to somewhere else where it is worse and bring all of what is there back with me.
[ He supposes that he understands that. He doesn't struggle with things like...knowing when he is, nothing of that sort - he is always firmly in this moment - but he does sometimes, at times, find the past to be a heavy burden. He does, at times - rather frequently, truly - look at Alexandrie and wonder if there's a greater plan to all this. If this is all just the second, more elaborate plan to destroy him utterly, or (less self-importantly) if it's all born of some Bardly calculation that has made her want to get close to a Division Head, or or or. And that's not mistrust that's fair to her. It's a ghost of the past. That's all. But Maker, the fear is powerful.
So maybe it's not really like what she's going through. Maybe it's just being self-indulgent. But it might be something similar, he thinks. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
No, it had been success for her.
No.
Alexandrie shakes her head behind her hands with a violence she is unaware of. ]
Do not, [ she says, reverting to Orlesian. ] Do not say it was right. Do not tell me a pretty dream and then tell me I should not crush it and then tell me she was right to.
[ Another shake of her head, smaller this time, and she lets her hands fall so she can look at him; her eyes begging for some unclear thing. ]
What do you want, Byerly. What do you want now, not in some time that is gone. I cannot do anything about the past, and it hurts to remember. I cannot make anything make sense.
no subject
[ He answers in unsteady Orlesian - unsteady only because of his emotions, for Orlesian is his mother tongue, and he speaks it perhaps more fluently even than he speaks Trade. ]
To make you happy.
no subject
[ With no physical anchor, time is blending for her; too much she’d pushed down or left unrecognized years ago suddenly clamours for her attention now that its resting place has been disturbed, and all of it belongs to another self, another time, another place. All of them feel real at once and none of them feel safe. ]
I want to be here, now, with you, and I cannot keep from sliding away on my own.
no subject
[ His brows knit, uncertain of her meaning. Even so, though, even with his lack of understanding, he reaches out to her, wrapping his arms around her, answering her desire. This, at least, he's good at. ]
no subject
It is two more such breaths before she answers. It is in Trade again, the edge of hysteria gone from her voice when she speaks. ]
I cannot tell when I am, sometimes. If my heart is feeling what belongs to the present or the past.
Sometimes when I am most afraid that you are leaving, I can feel silk velvet balled up in my hands. It is not of the moment we are in. Perhaps even the fear is not. If I do not have something of now, someone to keep me here, it is so easy to slip away to somewhere else where it is worse and bring all of what is there back with me.
no subject
So maybe it's not really like what she's going through. Maybe it's just being self-indulgent. But it might be something similar, he thinks. ]
I'm sorry.
[ His voice is rough. ]
I - This sort of thing helps?