Alexandrie is not often at the apartments anymore, save to gather canvas and easel and paint when the day is fine. A bright quickly moving thing, all smiles and laughter and jests and kisses when her comings and goings intersect with Colin's.
Today, however, she is sitting on the balcony when Colin comes home; back straight and tall, still but for the tugging of the sea breeze at the few ringlets hanging free from the careful upsweep of her hair.
It's peculiar for Lexie to be here when Colin gets home, and setting down his things, he walks straight to her, brow furrowed. Gently, he touches her shoulder.
She startles when he touches her, head turning swiftly to look at him wide-eyed and unrecognizing. The intake of breath that accompanies it is half vocalized, its edges sharp and defined; her shoulder tightens under his hand, and there is the soft sound of grasped paper from where hers rest in her lap.
She is like this, sometimes, when she is trying to hold something too big to fit inside her.
But she will not let go of the folded paper in the hand that grasps it, and her other is as responsive to Colin's hold as a statue's. It is another breath before her eyes say she knows him, and that knowing is accompanied by a tremble of her lip and a single swift-formed tear that will not wait for her to blink before it escapes down her cheek.
But the silence and the tight stillness of her body remain.
That moves her to action, her gaze full of a sudden wild fear as her hand jerks back, "Faut pas!" snapped desperately at too loud a volume for the small distance between them. The paper crinkles, gripped harder, and Alexandrie draws a shuddering breath that she will hold for too long.
But there is something about that repetition that makes it worse. You are loved, each time, winding something tighter in her until it snaps and she curls in on herself with a wretched sob, clutching the thing she is so intent upon holding to her chest.
Every now and again, the difference in their social status suddenly reminds him how wide it is. This is one of those times. She's alone? He's been here the entire time. No kindness in love? Maybe they're not romantic, but Colin would have liked to think their bond was just as great as any romantic love.
"So you...miss your husband." Colin glances away, looking rather like he's been struck.
She looks at him with a sort of blank incomprehension. Were Alexandrie less in the grips of her own private desolation perhaps she could have recognized the hurt in him, but as it is she can barely hold the weight of her own heart let alone another's.
"Miss?" It's incredulous; as one might react to someone gesturing to the Waking Sea and calling it a puddle. "You cannot possibly—"
"—I was born to this! Raised to this! Wished for this, more than anything! Yearned so deeply that I ran into the arms of a man who said he loved me and would have me to wife and let him break my life in two!" She shakes her head, violently enough that she will pull a section of her hair loose against Colin's hand on her cheek, "He is everything, and he is gone, and Byerly—" Again, at the end, Byerly. Again snapped off raggedly, as if there are no words for whatever comes after.
The sound of paper gripped harder in her hand is almost lost.
"He will not have me," it is moaned, low and heavy with misery, "and he cannot let me go, and I cannot let him go, and we will live and die as ghosts to each other dancing in a ruined hall and I cannot bear it." Her breath is drawn like she is ripping it from the air. "I cannot bear it!"
The idea of movement—of having to coordinate her steps, move into a different room where the light is different and the movement of the air is different and the sounds are different and there are different objects and no sea to look into—is overwhelming. And there is a still place in her now that she has emptied that is big enough, barely, to hold on to.
"No," she repeats, although it is softer. Clearer. More level. Not made of brittle grating shards. She raises her face to look at him, apology mixed in with the pain. "I cannot manage moving," she sniffs and shakes her head, more slowly this time, a bit ginger as the headache from her weeping begins to settle in, "but I will sit with you if you bring it."
Colin nods, leaning in to peck her on the cheek before going into the kitchen. He returns in a few minutes with the mug and sets it on a little table beside her before sitting down himself. He makes no sound after that, just waits for her to speak.
She sits and watches the sea for a little longer before she picks up the mug, holds it for a little longer before she raises it and lets the steam from the herbs soothe some of the ache in her eyes, waits a little longer there before she sips it. When she finally speaks, it is subdued.
"I am not sure what else there is to say, mon cher." Where she had been bursting with passion a moment ago, there is only flat exhaustion. "We long for one another, and now know this, and do nothing to ease it." Alexandrie smiles into the cup, wan and rueful. "I cannot tell if it is better or worse than when I did not know."
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action; after That Byerly Business
Today, however, she is sitting on the balcony when Colin comes home; back straight and tall, still but for the tugging of the sea breeze at the few ringlets hanging free from the careful upsweep of her hair.
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"Everything all right?"
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She is like this, sometimes, when she is trying to hold something too big to fit inside her.
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He reaches for those hands to grip them in his own.
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But the silence and the tight stillness of her body remain.
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"Lexie, listen to me. I don't know what happened to you, but you are safe. It's 9:46, you are home, you are safe, you are loved."
He begins to repeat the latter sentence in a soothing murmur, waiting for her to come back to him.
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"I am alone." A wail, bereft.
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"Is it Loki?" Colin asks breathlessly, cupping her face in his hands. "What happened to him?"
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"Why should I have had a heart at all! There is no kindness in love!"
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"So you...miss your husband." Colin glances away, looking rather like he's been struck.
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"Miss?" It's incredulous; as one might react to someone gesturing to the Waking Sea and calling it a puddle. "You cannot possibly—"
"—I was born to this! Raised to this! Wished for this, more than anything! Yearned so deeply that I ran into the arms of a man who said he loved me and would have me to wife and let him break my life in two!" She shakes her head, violently enough that she will pull a section of her hair loose against Colin's hand on her cheek, "He is everything, and he is gone, and Byerly—" Again, at the end, Byerly. Again snapped off raggedly, as if there are no words for whatever comes after.
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He knows a lesser degree of it, unrequited. Maybe one day.
"What happened with Byerly?"
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Happy words. She sobs them like a death knell.
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She had not said it yet, not to anyone but the man it belongs to; the words see the light of day for the first time as a lamentation.
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The sound of paper gripped harder in her hand is almost lost.
"He will not have me," it is moaned, low and heavy with misery, "and he cannot let me go, and I cannot let him go, and we will live and die as ghosts to each other dancing in a ruined hall and I cannot bear it." Her breath is drawn like she is ripping it from the air. "I cannot bear it!"
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He takes her hands again. "Come inside. I'm going to make you a cup of chamomile tea and we'll sit together and you can tell me everything."
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"Come on," he says, moving into position to get her to her feet and brooking no argument.
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"No," she repeats, although it is softer. Clearer. More level. Not made of brittle grating shards. She raises her face to look at him, apology mixed in with the pain. "I cannot manage moving," she sniffs and shakes her head, more slowly this time, a bit ginger as the headache from her weeping begins to settle in, "but I will sit with you if you bring it."
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"I am not sure what else there is to say, mon cher." Where she had been bursting with passion a moment ago, there is only flat exhaustion. "We long for one another, and now know this, and do nothing to ease it." Alexandrie smiles into the cup, wan and rueful. "I cannot tell if it is better or worse than when I did not know."
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