contact part deux

[bouchonne]

if this were modern times byerly would probably make you listen to total eclipse of the heart before you were able to leave a message

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[coquettish_trees]

[ It makes her want to pinch him viciously, and so she does.

In her mind.

Truly, the only reproof is a light squeeze of his hand. ]

You may say so all the rest of the day, but when the sun sets your love for yourself will still little determine mine.

[ The first she ponders a moment, and then sighs through her nose. ]

If you tell me I should not blame myself, then... I will believe you and try not to. If it is such that I should, why do I deserve to be protected from the guilt that is rightly mine?

[bouchonne]

Because it's not rightly yours. It's - You'll assign yourself too much of it.

[ But - All right. All right, then. He presses his eyes closed, and rests his forehead against her a moment, and takes a breath. ]

I was - I ended up killing her husband. Because of what she talked me into. A man who was no saint, but who didn't deserve that fate, either.

[coquettish_trees]

[ It is such a quick shift that for a moment she is lost, left holding onto the thread and balance of her side of a conversation that of a sudden has ceased.

Antiva. We are in Antiva. He is young, and he has killed a man.

She draws the hand she holds to her lips for a moment, then shifts in his lap so she can curl herself closer. Can wind an arm up over his shoulder and cradle his head against hers. ]

Ah, mon coeur.

[ A soft sorrow, yes, but not of her guilt. It is for him, and a life forever changed. ]

She left you to bear it alone?

[bouchonne]

[ A short, bleak laugh. ]

She was the one who called for the guard.

[ Then, a shake of his head - ]

It was my own fault for being a fool. [ Again, he barely stops himself from adding. ]

[coquettish_trees]

No.

[ Those years ago she would call herself so—and worse—in bitterly blaming herself for her own shame, and he would never let her. She will not let him do it now. ]

It was hers, for using and betraying you.

[bouchonne]

[ He shakes his head. ]

I thought I was being some defender. A proper chevalier. Any little fop who thinks himself that grand is comical indeed.

[ Well. ]

Not that I forgive her. Monster that she is. But as the saying goes, you can't cheat an honest man.

[coquettish_trees]

You would not let me say such things of myself.

[bouchonne]

You would have no cause to say them.

[coquettish_trees]

I let myself believe that I, a Comte’s fifth daughter, was the grand heroine of a tale.

I was a fool to want so much to be such a one, to be loved as one, and for the crime of my foolishness I deserved my betrayal; he was a monster, yes, but were I honest, it should not have happened so.

[ She doesn’t believe it anymore, but even now that disbelief is so fragile that for a brief flash of a moment, in saying it, part of her does. ]

[bouchonne]

[ He goes tense under her. It's palpable where his skin meets hers. ]

Don't say any of that. Not even to prove a point.

[coquettish_trees]

[ She is quiet. Then a nod of acquiescence, small, against him. ]

I will not.

But I will not let you drink that poison any more than you will let me.

[bouchonne]

[ He's quiet a moment. But then: ]

A man died for my mistake, Lexie. I - [ He takes a breath. ] Died by my hand.

[coquettish_trees]

Do not think death and ruin did not follow me because of what he did.

[ She shakes her head a little. ]

I will not say it is the same, and I will not absolve you of that blood. But neither will I let you say believing her lies was your fault.

[ A pause. She curls her fingers into his hair. ]

Would you have done it, had you not thought you were protecting a woman you loved who needed you?

[bouchonne]

[ A pause. Softly: ]

No.

[ But he closes his eyes. ]

But since then, I've killed more men with less justification. It was my first, but not my last.

[coquettish_trees]

[ A little nod.

A long breath. ]

Do you think less of me, that I will hear these things and still love you?

[bouchonne]

I - don't think less of you. I think less of myself, I suppose.

[coquettish_trees]

[ Her head tilts unconsciously in her surprise.

Loki had been scathing when she’d finally seen what he had never wanted her to see; when she had known what he most loathed of himself and had the audacity to love him still. It had nearly ruined them.

She did not expect that, from Byerly. But she did not expect this either. ]

Why?

[bouchonne]

Because I feel like I've trapped you.

[ He leans his head against her. Inhales the scent of her hair. ]

Deceived you. If you love me, then - I've misled you in some way, twisted you all around. A wicked thing to do.

[coquettish_trees]

[ It's so small. How can her heart jump at something so small as the press of his nose in her hair? But it does, and she pulls his hand to bring his arm tighter around her waist. ]

You will not speak offhand affection to me when I go so far as to demand it of you, my Byerly. Nor do you take more of what I would so readily offer you than you can hold.

I do not think you could allow yourself to weave pretty twisting falsehoods to trap me, and if I left, I think you would too easily let me go.

[ The soft stir of his breath like this draws so much of her attention that she could not tell him where they were, if he were to ask her now. ]

I am no limed bird, because you can see no other reason I should choose to stay.

[bouchonne]

But I'm afraid that I do.

[ His voice is low and rough. ]

I want you - so powerfully, Lexie. The thought of not being near you is agony. The knowledge that that's how it will be someday - Maker forgive me, but it makes me want to lose this fucking war, sabotage our every effort so that this will go on forever.

[ He swallows unsteadily. ]

If I would do that to Riftwatch, to the South, what would I do to you?

[coquettish_trees]

[ Oh.

It hits her low, that roughness. Would have made her breath shudder without words like those, but with them—

Sometimes it is warm, when she wants him, and she is coy, or sweet, or playful. Sometimes it feels vast, and deep, and bigger than her body and she has to be careful how she looks at him lest it be too much. And then sometimes it is like this: a flashfire through the dry brush of her, the sudden heat of it sucking the air from her lungs.

In the time before they were lovers again she would grit her teeth and tense herself around it, trying to starve it until it burnt itself out and left her to repair the char. Now that she is allowed to touch him, her speed is such that her wings streak the air when she flies, hands darting from their places to turn and hold his face. It is not elegant, when she surges to kiss him— her nose is pushed too close against his, her fingers grip rather than caress. Both kiss and the sound she makes before she smothers it against him are things of raw passion. The kind of feeling that would make her wonder how much of herself she truly owns, if she could wonder anything at all. ]

[bouchonne]

[ He's taken aback by that. By her clear passion. Maker, it's - It's not something good, it's not something romantic, it's - It is awful. It is a confession that for all his protestations that all he wants is her happiness, he'd willingly throw it aside for his own. That he would hurt her for his own benefit, like his great-great-granduncle, Iohann Rutyer, who'd fucking immured his wife when she'd threatened to leave him. Within him is that blood, that evil, that taints love into something evil...

He kisses her back. How could he not? When she's so passionate, so rough, so raw. He can't resist it. No sane man could. But after a moment, he breaks off, turns his face away, breathing hard, panting - ]

You should be turning away from me.

[coquettish_trees]

[ For once, there is no sound of protest when he breaks from her like this. No further grasping demand, no cut-string collapse of despair. Instead, her breath like his, she lets one hand fall from his face so she can lean her forehead against his cheek and the press of her other hand turns gentle.

It was not a thing of romance or goodness, but it was true. It was true, and finally she knows they match. That she is not alone in the sometime violence of her want of him that has made her helpless and despairing. It makes the scream that lives in her fall silent. ]

Why. Because there is a beast in you that starves?

[ She breathes there against him, listens to it slowly even. ]

When I asked you for your story I wanted to listen. To think only of you, to help hold the things you carry that still wound, to be kind, and instead when you spoke of the woman who betrayed you I wanted to kill her with bare hands so I could feel it. Not because she had betrayed you, but because she had touched you.

I would not do it. I would not do it any more than you would work to lose this war. But there is blood in the way I want you, and I have been so ashamed.

[bouchonne]

But I -

[ He struggles a moment, pressing his eyes shut. What does he want? For her to be afraid? Because she says there's blood in the way I want you, but he's seen what her viciousness looks like. She can be cruel, and can be evil; yes. But she doesn't do true violence by her hand. Even in that dream, where she was at her worst, she sent an assassin who failed in her task. That was, he expects, hardly an accident.

He, on the other hand. ]

There's madness in my blood. My sole legacy. Indulgence is - not safe.

[coquettish_trees]

[ She is very still. The breath she draws through her nose is a long one. It shudders in the middle. ]

Indulgence in what.

[ For all her even and carefully enunciated clarity, she has the sound of a string that one more cadenza risks snapping. ]