[ She wants to acknowledge it, the little piece of offered truth, the way the thread of a little sister appears in the embroidery pattern of what she knows about Bastien and fills in some of the spaces, changes Athessa's context, shifts the meaning of this disappearance to something more than a teacher's fear for a student or a fear for a friend. And so she makes herself still, and presses his shoulder with her fingers for a time in silence.
Then, looking out at the horizon again— ]
Is it more lonely, do you think, to have no-one to love or to love and not know where they are?
[ A question, and also another more present answer to his question. ]
[ Bastien inhales slowly, as sure as he wants to be. It isn't his place to tell Byerly; it would be a betrayal to tell Yseult. But, for varying mixtures of personal and professional reasons, he tries not to lie to either of them. So better to only suspect, however strongly. Better to be able to say she hasn't said anything to me, which is slightly different from she hasn't told me. ]
I think— [ His arm tightens when the wind picks up again, like she might need his help not to flutter away. ] I think it is lonelier not to have anyone. But I think it might hurt less. You know how you stop noticing, after a time, if you are very hungry or very cold? It will kill you eventually, but it doesn't hurt anymore.
[ Maybe she doesn't know. In Val Royeaux, before, he would have been certain she didn't. Now it seems possible. ]
When you can smell the food or feel a bit of warmth, but you can't have it, that is when it hurts again. When you start to shake. I think it is like that.
[ The tightened arm around her shoulders to secure her, the way he offers his understanding in the palm of his hand with eyes averted so as to not put the wildness of her to flight— these things would make Alexandrie break into tears if she could, but she cannot. She has strayed close enough to asking him to guard a secret he has no stake in as it is, and she is afraid that if she begins to weep she will never stop.
And so the howls stay in her chest— the he is not here and he has not been here in so long packed neatly next to I do not know where he is and I do not know if he lives, all arrayed above I am alone, alone, alone, and no-one can know— and she remains upright, as if her world still contains the axis on which it turns, using only the memory of what it had felt like to be held with such certainty that there was no room for fear. Still, her nod is slow and careful as if moving too fast will make her spill whatever she holds. ]
It is left to us to trust, I think. In what she knows, in her cleverness and ingenuity.
[ Athessa, although Loki is in the shadow of the words. ]
We must believe she will come back when she is finished with whatever it is she does, and with a fine story for us.
[ He tries believing it, by force of will. An opportunity to protect the world, or perhaps only a grand adventure, appearing out of the alleys in Val Royeaux, too great to turn from, and Athessa is on horseback in one of the ancient forests where she felt more at home, full of purpose and singing to the trees.
For a moment he wonders what they thought, his brothers and sisters. If they imagined him walking away into something bright, if they imagined him devoured by the city. (It was both; a sunlit gullet.) Or if they didn't imagine anything. If he slipped out of their sight and minds at the same time, like dozens of others after them—like Alexandrie and Byerly, once—and maybe like Athessa now.
But he would rather be forgettable than her be hurt. So until he knows better, she is in the forest.
He slips loose of feeling sorry for himself. Thinks instead through a handful of unsatisfactory explanations for a husband failing to write to his wife for long enough to make Alexandrie so still. ]
We were waylaid by bandits once—Athessa and I. I was still pretending, you know, not to know one end of a dagger from the other, but she handled them all herself, like it was nothing.
[ Loki is in the shadow of that, too. Bastien never saw him fight, but he's made three different people recount the Grand Tourney for him. ]
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no subject
Then, looking out at the horizon again— ]
Is it more lonely, do you think, to have no-one to love or to love and not know where they are?
[ A question, and also another more present answer to his question. ]
no subject
I think— [ His arm tightens when the wind picks up again, like she might need his help not to flutter away. ] I think it is lonelier not to have anyone. But I think it might hurt less. You know how you stop noticing, after a time, if you are very hungry or very cold? It will kill you eventually, but it doesn't hurt anymore.
[ Maybe she doesn't know. In Val Royeaux, before, he would have been certain she didn't. Now it seems possible. ]
When you can smell the food or feel a bit of warmth, but you can't have it, that is when it hurts again. When you start to shake. I think it is like that.
no subject
And so the howls stay in her chest— the he is not here and he has not been here in so long packed neatly next to I do not know where he is and I do not know if he lives, all arrayed above I am alone, alone, alone, and no-one can know— and she remains upright, as if her world still contains the axis on which it turns, using only the memory of what it had felt like to be held with such certainty that there was no room for fear. Still, her nod is slow and careful as if moving too fast will make her spill whatever she holds. ]
It is left to us to trust, I think. In what she knows, in her cleverness and ingenuity.
[ Athessa, although Loki is in the shadow of the words. ]
We must believe she will come back when she is finished with whatever it is she does, and with a fine story for us.
no subject
[ He tries believing it, by force of will. An opportunity to protect the world, or perhaps only a grand adventure, appearing out of the alleys in Val Royeaux, too great to turn from, and Athessa is on horseback in one of the ancient forests where she felt more at home, full of purpose and singing to the trees.
For a moment he wonders what they thought, his brothers and sisters. If they imagined him walking away into something bright, if they imagined him devoured by the city. (It was both; a sunlit gullet.) Or if they didn't imagine anything. If he slipped out of their sight and minds at the same time, like dozens of others after them—like Alexandrie and Byerly, once—and maybe like Athessa now.
But he would rather be forgettable than her be hurt. So until he knows better, she is in the forest.
He slips loose of feeling sorry for himself. Thinks instead through a handful of unsatisfactory explanations for a husband failing to write to his wife for long enough to make Alexandrie so still. ]
We were waylaid by bandits once—Athessa and I. I was still pretending, you know, not to know one end of a dagger from the other, but she handled them all herself, like it was nothing.
[ Loki is in the shadow of that, too. Bastien never saw him fight, but he's made three different people recount the Grand Tourney for him. ]