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."
A gentle nod. "I'm sorry." He hesitates. "But he...deserves to be someone's first choice, doesn't he? And you deserve to be happy. I've never known you to walk away from him happy."
A flinch, as if he'd blooded her, and then the quiet again. She hasn't the energy to be hurt.
"You have only known us suffering," she says. "Eleven years ago in Val Royeaux we burned so bright the stars were jealous of our shining." Alexandrie smiles the same smile again and murmurs: "Too bright for me." She sips the tea and shakes her head, her wonder as dull as the rest of her.
"Do you all think this way in Ferelden? 'Firsts' and 'seconds'? A ranked peerage of the heart?"
"My lord husband knows well what Byerly has been to me, and what there is in my heart that has remained." She tilts her head, huffs a tiny laugh through her nose. "I cannot say he is fond of him; he is, on the whole, rather exasperated, but my lord knows himself irreplaceable to me, knows my love for him to be unwavering, and has been incredulous of my worries of his jealousy."
Murmured to the tea, again: "But it would not make Byerly happy, to live the life that would make me happy. Even if it would, he is not free to pursue it. If hearts and duties are to be ranked, he has made a first choice as well. We cannot have forever, he will not take now, and so we have nothing."
It takes Colin a moment to process that. His eyes widen slightly at her words, but nothing else about his expression changes.
"That's incredibly..." He veers around the insulting word and tries again. "All we have is now. I sort of wonder if it's not the permanence that bothers him, so much as the happiness."
"He is cruel to himself and it makes him believe he would be cruel to me," she says softly, closing her eyes in the steam again, breathing it in slowly.
"I wonder sometimes how much it was I taught him. About what he can expect of happiness."
"We all hold onto the wrong things," Colin murmurs. "Lexie, Byerly is cruel to you. That's not a hypothetical, it's a self-fulfilling prophecy. I couldn't even get a response from you just now. That's not normal."
She lifts a shoulder slightly. "It is not normal to spend eight years with a wound you bury and refuse to name, learn again to name it just as it again appears in your life, yearn for it for two more years whilst believing if you touched it as you wished to the world would break, learn this is not so, and it also yearns for you—" Her breath falters slightly again. "—Hold it once in your arms, and—" It catches. "—and be told you cannot do so again."
A moment again, with the tea, until she has calmed enough to speak levelly again.
"But yes. This is cruel too. I to him, he to me, ourselves to ourselves. It seems we cannot but hurt one another." Softer, then: "Perhaps I should leave, for a time."
There's a pause of several moments. Colin shifts forward, sets his elbows on his knees, thinks. Of course he wants to beg her to stay, but that's an old habit born of fear of abandonment. His best friend is miserable and asking for his advice. He takes a deep breath in through his nose, closes his eyes, and nods.
"You should. Especially if you can be with your husband for that time."
But she shakes her head. "To Antiva, to connect with a contact, I—" and Alexandrie bites her lip, breathes out.
"Colin, I do not know where he is," she says, soft and urgent. Her hands shift against each other; Loki's nervous habit, now hers. "His last letter came from near Marnas Pell, but that was two weeks ago and when he flies as the raven does it is as the raven." She thins her lips worriedly, then breathes slowly out as if she could remove her thoughts through it. "I trust that whatever it is he gets into he is well able to retrieve himself from. Perhaps I shall get a letter tomorrow. Perhaps he shall arrive tomorrow and pull me into his arms and chuckle fondly at my worries and kiss me until I laugh too." For that, an adoring smile. Which fades.
"But today I have a love somewhere who would hold me if he could, and one here who can and will not.
"And so I," she looks up and manages another real smile— small and warm because it is for Colin— "shall ask if I might go to Antiva and drink wine with a nervous man until he is no longer nervous, and write you fond letters and bring you whatever it is you wish."
A soft smile. Two years ago, he would already be bracing himself to lose her. That's what would have happened in the Circle, he supposes. This isn't the Circle, and Lexie will never find him easy to discard.
"I wish I could go with you. I've only seen Antiva in passing, when I was a ship's purser. My mother talked about it all the time."
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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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"You have only known us suffering," she says. "Eleven years ago in Val Royeaux we burned so bright the stars were jealous of our shining." Alexandrie smiles the same smile again and murmurs: "Too bright for me." She sips the tea and shakes her head, her wonder as dull as the rest of her.
"Do you all think this way in Ferelden? 'Firsts' and 'seconds'? A ranked peerage of the heart?"
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Murmured to the tea, again:
"But it would not make Byerly happy, to live the life that would make me happy. Even if it would, he is not free to pursue it. If hearts and duties are to be ranked, he has made a first choice as well. We cannot have forever, he will not take now, and so we have nothing."
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Wow.
It takes Colin a moment to process that. His eyes widen slightly at her words, but nothing else about his expression changes.
"That's incredibly..." He veers around the insulting word and tries again. "All we have is now. I sort of wonder if it's not the permanence that bothers him, so much as the happiness."
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"I wonder sometimes how much it was I taught him. About what he can expect of happiness."
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A moment again, with the tea, until she has calmed enough to speak levelly again.
"But yes. This is cruel too. I to him, he to me, ourselves to ourselves. It seems we cannot but hurt one another." Softer, then: "Perhaps I should leave, for a time."
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"You should. Especially if you can be with your husband for that time."
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"Colin, I do not know where he is," she says, soft and urgent. Her hands shift against each other; Loki's nervous habit, now hers. "His last letter came from near Marnas Pell, but that was two weeks ago and when he flies as the raven does it is as the raven." She thins her lips worriedly, then breathes slowly out as if she could remove her thoughts through it. "I trust that whatever it is he gets into he is well able to retrieve himself from. Perhaps I shall get a letter tomorrow. Perhaps he shall arrive tomorrow and pull me into his arms and chuckle fondly at my worries and kiss me until I laugh too." For that, an adoring smile. Which fades.
"But today I have a love somewhere who would hold me if he could, and one here who can and will not.
"And so I," she looks up and manages another real smile— small and warm because it is for Colin— "shall ask if I might go to Antiva and drink wine with a nervous man until he is no longer nervous, and write you fond letters and bring you whatever it is you wish."
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"I wish I could go with you. I've only seen Antiva in passing, when I was a ship's purser. My mother talked about it all the time."
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