Juliette Coulombe (clearyourmind) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-09-06 17:38:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, juliette coulombe, pyr min |
Who: Juliette & Pyr
What: A progression
Where: Around!
When: Starting right after the battle on 7/20, continuing until today
Rating: PG-ish
Status: Complete
She sits with her legs hanging off the edge of the cot as the apprentice mage fusses with her shoulder, which under the application of magicks has gone from red to black to purple to sickly yellow-green in the course of the last half hour. The young man holds his tongue between his teeth as he carefully casts, and Juliette tries not to watch him, lest her scrutiny cause mistakes that will lead to decreased range of motion. Instead, she looks across to the next cot, upon which Pyr is lying. His healer has come and gone, and he has bandages peeking out from under his shirt and wrapped around his head, but he seems no worse for wear. The apprentice sighs in relief and steps back. “You just need to rest it now.” Juliette is simultaneously relieved and distressed when he steps away, drawing the curtain around her cot half shut. Pyr isn’t asleep (it’s good, isn’t it, that he’s conscious?) but he’s also not looking at her. She feels strange looking at him and tilts her head up to examine the uninteresting ceiling instead. Moments tick by. It is quiet outside. She strains her ears for a moment before asking, “Do you think… it’s over now?” He glances at her (the last in a series of stolen looks to reassure himself that she suffered no serious injuries during the fight) then looks up at the ceiling once more. Now that the healers are out of the room, the quiet feels oddly intimate, and he can't quite bring himself to look at Juliette. "I don't know," he says after a moment. "Over for now, I guess. But there will probably be another attack at some point." “It seems likely,” she says. In Emillion, such things are practically par for the course. Another torturously uncomfortable pause. She tries not to think of the panic she felt when he darted in front of her attack. It’s stupid; she’s injured him dozens of times. But… “I am glad Sky is all right,” she blurts out, which isn’t what she’s thinking about at all, but has the benefit of being safe. “It is good that… Sir Monaco,” she doesn’t know what else to call him, “was there.” It takes a moment to register that Sir Monaco means Jareth, and when it does, Pyr can't help the briefest of smiles. Of course, Juliette barely knows Jareth at all, and even if she were close with him, she would probably still use his title. But where her stubborn formality used to seem stifling to Pyr, there is now something endearing about it. He turns his head to look at her, and the sight of her bandages takes away the amusement. "I wish it was still crabs," he muses. "I could take on crabs, now. Then you wouldn't have been injured at all." But it is too revealing; he quickly adds, "Or Sky, or Ridley." The memory of that first attack on the docks is so vivid still: the monsters, the tidal wave, Cy trying to shield him from the water's fury. He tried to protect her too, but he was nowhere near strong enough. Sometimes he can't stop thinking about that impotence to keep others and himself safe, and he knows he cannot let it happen again. Some things are too important to lose. He turns his gaze to the ceiling once more. "I'm going to get a lot stronger, for everyone." “I’m fine.” The response is immediate, meant not so much as comfort as a statement of fact. Then, “I was reckless. My injury is my own fault.” She has to improve, too. From where she is standing, although he is a squire and she is not, she is the one who has further to grow. Pyr is painfully honest and she is… It’s easier to smile faintly and say, “I remember those crabs. I was bound to my bed for nearly a week, after.” "They were really mean crabs." It isn't a fond memory, but he can't help a smile. Perhaps it is the confidence that he could take them on now, if they were to return, or perhaps even the slightest of smiles on Juliette's face is contagious. He is looking at her again, which he tells himself would never be construed as anything other than good manners (they are having a conversation, after all); but for a moment he no longer wants anything he does or says around her to be construed as anything other than what it really means, and in the grip of that madness he opens his mouth to speak, and the healer comes back into the room with a big smile, and Pyr's courage vanishes as though it had never been. As for Juliette, she is relieved by the new arrival; she gives the healer her full attention as they are given care instructions for their injuries and finally discharged (there are, it seems, quite a few individuals in need of beds today -- again). At the door, she suddenly decides, “I’m going to find Ridley.” Because looking for one friend (who will no doubt be assisting if she is mobile -- something Juliette herself can also do) will be a distraction from how very strange she suddenly feels around the other. (She is a bit ashamed of what appears to be cowardice, but for the moment, flight still appears to be her best option.) Just a year ago, Pyr would have been glad for any excuse to get away from the guildhalls and explore the city instead. An injury like the one he's still recovering from is certainly that — but he finds himself heading into the training grounds in the morning anyway. Sky's new boss isn't an improvement on the old one, which means that he's busy until the evening, and Pyr doesn't feel like exploring on his own. He takes to watching other people train, instead: squires, monks, knights, anyone who doesn't seem to mind his presence. At first, it's a way to keep himself entertained, but soon he starts to see where it could be useful: slowly, he is getting better at catching other people's mistakes, anticipating counter-attacks and identifying patterns. He's itching to get well enough to spar again, but for the moment, he has to live vicariously through the other occupants of the guildhall. On one such afternoon, he is watching Rolan lose horribly against a squire Pyr's age, another monk aspirant (much better-versed in hand-to-hand than Rolan, whose Knight training leaves him little time for hand-to-hand) when he sees Juliette standing not far away, watching two senior guild members sparring near the squires. He shakes off a moment's hesitation — it's stupid, they've been friends forever — and walks over to her. "Hi," he greets, in a tone lower than usual to avoid disturbing the fighters. He jabs his thumb in the direction he came. "I was watching Rolan, but he sucks. Who's winning here?" It is a testament to how thoroughly he confuses her lately that she all but jumps at the sound of his voice. She tries to play it of -- for all anyone knows, she was simply that intent on the spar before her -- but her cheeks burn a bit, anyway. “I,” she says, “that is --” Ajora, what is wrong with her? -- “I believe,” she finally manages, “that Oghren has the advantage.” She had come in hopes of observing Sir Uppsala, but the former member of the Kingsguard does not appear to be here today. Instead, she has gotten rather caught up in a match between a berserker and a monk -- and the berserker, she has to admit, is at a considerable advantage, though the monk is one she has lost to on several occasions. “He is in particularly… fierce form, today,” she finally decides on. There, that’s a proper description of matters, isn’t it, as he roars and hacks and slashes with a blunted ax? It is not the first time they have discussed a match like this, but something seems off today. Pyr wants to think he's getting better at hiding his awkwardness, that she can't possibly know — but it's been only recently that he's become able to act almost normal around her, hasn't it? He pushes that thought out of his mind and returns his attention back to the match, where the monk is barely holding out against the berserker's onslaught. "Oghren looks almost sober today," Pyr muses. This seems as much a foregone conclusion as the other match, but watching with Juliette is much more enjoyable than watching alone, his worries aside. When he sees Rolan fall flat on his back out of the corner of his eye, he cannot stop the dread that comes over him — because Rolan knows he's there, and he will no doubt make his way over as soon as he's done thanking his opponent, and possibly ruin everything again. He rolls his eyes, as though it makes no difference to him. "That didn't take long." “What didn’t — oh,” she says, finally turning away from the match before her to behold Rolan… walking towards them. Well of course he is. It is with a poor attempt at nonchalance that she returns her eyes to the field — unfortunately, that match, too, seems to have ended. Pyr seems right on the mark about the berserker’s sobriety (Juliette has to wonder just how strong the man would be if he stopped drinking at all). “That was… educational,” she says, attempting to carry on the conversation as though Rolan weren’t approaching with a grin on his face that spells trouble for her. If anything is about to be educational — and not in a way Pyr thinks he's going to enjoy — it is surely the words about to come out of Rolan's mouth. After the incident at the icecream parlor, Pyr's hope was that Rolan may have done enough teasing to last him a few months, but there is that glint in his eye again that says he's dying to comment on the situation. He braces for the emotional impact just as Rolan says, "Shame on you, Pyr Min, forsaking your comrade to his luck to go sit with your girlfriend." "She's not my girlfriend," Pyr replies at once, making a show of rolling his eyes at Rolan in hopes of diverting attention from the blush he has no doubt is spreading across his face. "And you need more than luck, comrade. Your form's still full of openings." "Feels weird to fight without a sword." Rolan shrugs (in that moment Pyr envies him the ease with which he lets other people's words just slide off his back). Then, turning to Juliette: "And how fare you on this fine day, Juli the not-girlfriend?" In Pyr’s defense, Juliette is redder than he is. “My name is Juliette,” she says rather forcefully. “And your form is terrible.” Which is hardly polite, but at this point, she isn’t so much concerned with politeness as changing the subject. But Rolan only grins wider as he leans against the low fence between them and says, “Sharing opinions and teaming up against your poor, defenseless guildmates — sure must be nice, you two.” “Perhaps you had best work on your defense, then you will not be defenseless,” Juliette says, and there is definitely an edge in her voice. The fact that she and Pyr could possibly — potentially — maybe — be somehow more than friends at some point (Faram, with Councilor Liu it was easy to write it off as a silly daydream but here actual possibility exists and the idea is fairly terrifying) is a thought that is confusing enough without Rolan mucking it up more. “The rest is really none of your concern.” And that, she realizes too late, sounds an awful lot like a confirmation. “I’m late,” she announces, turning away as her cheeks heat further. “I need to get back to Ashwyrm Hall.” As he watches her stand up and scatter as though a horde of monsters are on her tail, Pyr has to make a conscious effort not to gape — to avoid giving Rolan the satisfaction, if anything, though the other squire seems quite pleased with himself anyway. "You can thank me for that later," Rolan says, smug. "A couple of those riceballs your sister makes will suffice. Maybe cookies. Double chocolate chip." "I'll stuff the crumbs down your shirt," Pyr replies, ignoring the sudden flutter in his chest that feels a lot like hope. The Shieldwyrm barracks are a much better idea in theory than in practice. She has never quite realized just how spoiled she has been until she spends her first night in a room with fifteen (predominantly male) strangers, some of whom appear to have chosen not to bathe after their evening training, and two of whom snore. She wakes at dawn with the rest, bleary-eyed, cross, and headachy from the tears she surreptitiously shed into her pillow (the headache is banished with a Cure; the rest is simply her burden to bear). She doesn’t realize the need to sprint to the showers, and thus ends up waiting her turn, and her stomach is uncomfortably empty by the time she is washed, dried, clothed, and dressed. She tries to learn from her earlier miscalculation and sets her pace at a light jog as she heads for the kitchen, hoping only that someone has cooked (or that there are ingredients about for her to cook before she works out what to do next now that her life seems to have fallen to shambles around her). Her hopes come true, if perhaps not in the way that she had expected. There is someone at the stove: not an experienced cook, but Pyr. He has of late learned a hard lesson about cuisine, namely that amusing himself by trying to cook rice through periodical application of a lighter version of his Fire spell to the pot of boiling water is a temerity that more often than not results in the water overflowing or the rice sticking to the bottom of the pan. He has returned to the tried and tested method of using one of the two rice cookers available in the kitchen, and is staring at the machine impatiently when Juliette comes in. The machine beeps just as he notices it's her, which gives him an excuse to turn away after a quick greeting to tend to the rice. He cannot recall having seen her in the kitchens here before — usually she is at Bahamut — so his brain flits about for the probable reason as a way to distract itself from, well, her. "Are you here for the Advanced Hand to Hand seminar later? I heard the instructor is this badass old lady." But an instant after the question has left his mouth and he turns around, rice bowl in hand, he gets a gut feeling that he's off base. If she were here for a seminar, she would look excited, or determined (to his eyes, at least; he has become good over the past year at guessing at her moods from what little she lets on). But if anything, she looks lost. "What's up?" he asks, quieter. “Ah… no,” she says, suddenly at a loss, feeling inexplicably guilty, as though she doesn’t have every right to be here. “I had forgotten about the seminar.” And now that she remembers, she knows it is a bad idea; she has been vacillating between despair and fury and the last thing she needs is any experienced monk watching her struggle. “I’m only here for… breakfast. Are there eggs?” One step at a time: rice and an omelette will fuel a run. A run (alone, without Boris; her heart constricts) will fill her morning. After that, she can… find a sparring partner. Then lunch. Step by step, the day will pass. Tomorrow is supposed to be easier. (She doesn’t really believe it.) It is a struggle to avoid staring at her (though he wonders if she'd notice if he did). He's never seen her acting the way she is now, and though he wants to ask her what's wrong he feels as though the kitchens is not the best place to prod at whatever's going through her head. So instead, he says, "There should be some in the pantry, I guess. I'll go get them." It doesn't take him long to do just that, and when he comes out into the kitchen again Juliette is still standing in the same spot. There is something awfully wrong, but he can't figure out how to fix it, so he says, "Why don't you sit down? I'll make breakfast." Before she reacts, he fills another bowl with rice and pushes it into her hands, trying not to let his concern show on his face, and goes to turn on the stove. He can probably manage eggs sunny side up — if not, he can always give part of his lunchbox to the cause. “I can —” But she’s a bit slow in all things this morning, it seems, as he is already at the stove. She considers sitting down, then wanders over to the sink. It is full of dishes — thank Faram for small mercies. Maybe doing something with her hands will help her maintain some illusion of normalcy. She spends a short while digging around for a pair of gloves (surely she is not the only person in this hall concerned about the state of her hands) and then begins to wash. “Thank you,” she says (it has been too long for politeness since his offer, but it’s that slowness again). “For breakfast. You will have to tell me later how the seminar went. I did not realize that I would be… otherwise engaged today.” And hopefully, he will not pry. He is trying to pretend like he doesn't notice how weird she's acting, and he thinks it should be a credit to his willpower that he's held out this long, but he can no longer help himself. Counting on the sound of running water and the clatter of dishes to mask the conversation from the other occupants of the kitchen (who, at any rate, have their own conversations going and little interest in eavesdropping on two teenagers), he says, "Never mind the seminar, Juli, of course I'll tell you. Is everything okay?" “Why wouldn’t it be?” She is ashamed, suddenly — she is lying by omission — but she cannot bear to crack open the flimsy walls she has built around the hurt (it would not do to fall sobbing to the floor here; neither would it do to smash every dish she can get her hands on until she can breathe again). “I am simply hungry.” She tries to conceal the shock when she reaches for the next dish and realizes she has washed them all in what appears to be record time. Distress is apparently good for something. She is far too caught up in her thoughts to even notice his approach; when she turns abruptly she nearly collides with the skillet of eggs he is holding. “Do you want to go for a run with me?” The words explode out — perhaps she is trying to reach out in the only way she knows how, or perhaps she hopes that they will be too breathless for more talking if he takes her up on it. “Once we’ve eaten. Let’s race. You’ll be back in time for the seminar.” (She knows she cannot outrun her problems, but it would be nice to at least keep pace with them for a brief while.) He decides it is better not to push, and tries not to feel the slightest bit hurt that she's putting so much effort into avoiding the issue with him. "Sounds good," he agrees, and sits down to eat. They finish their food in silence, because Pyr can't think of a good topic to distract Juliette from whatever's bothering her and she has too much on her mind to try for conversation. They leave their dishes in the sink (perhaps someone else looking for something to do with their hands will come by and wash them) and then Pyr puts on a mischievous smile and tells her, "Let's go, then. You're going down. Running is all I ever do all day." “We’ll see,” she says, though her attempt to smile back as they exit the kitchen is likely an embarrassing failure. He may run all day, but she is so determined not to think, that the running — like the washing — will become her sole focus. She has lost enough in the last twenty-four hours that suddenly winning this one thing can overtake her mind completely; his advantage is not as certain as he thinks. “To the crystal at the edge of the Theatre District and back,” she says, naming a distance less suited for sprinting and more for endurance; she wants to run long enough to burn everything from her mind, or try. “Ready?” He counts them in and they are off. Over the next few days, Pyr learns not to be surprised to see Juliette in Shieldwyrm all the time. She is no longer at Bahamut, which he still frequents (the classes he takes are, unfortunately, spread out over several different guildhalls), though he attributes it to a change in her schedule or training partners. It is not until another squire in one of his hand-to-hand classes brings up the subject after a spar that he finds out what's really been going on. After that, he debates whether he should approach Juliette about it. On one hand, it is not as though he is betraying her by having found out; everybody knows everybody who lives in the guildhalls, and few secrets survive in that environment. On the other, he never wants her to know that he found out because someone in a bunk near hers overheard her sobbing into her pillow at night. He has less than a day to ponder before he runs into her again. After leaving the EKP headquarters at Shieldwyrm (the Knights of the Peace seem to be short-staffed lately, and Pyr has acquired a kind of mechanic efficiency at sorting folders) he sees her on the training grounds, sparring a young Berserker Pyr's seen around a few times. As Monk, Juliette should be the calm counterpoint to the Berserker's wild anger, but Juliette's opponent does not seem to be the only one taking out her temper. For the briefest of moments, Pyr considers leaving and avoiding a conversation entirely. But instead, he sits down nearby to watch, and wait, until the match ends in Juliette's favor and the Berserker leaves. Then, he stands up and waves at his friend. She does not seem to see him there until he approaches to stand almost in front of her. "Hey," he says, offering her a small smile. "You're really into it today. Congratulations on the win." It is an improvement that this time, she doesn’t jump. She has been hoarding these small victories, as though once she has gathered enough of them, she will be herself again. And in that moment, she does feel better than usual -- perhaps it is wrong of her to channel her fury, even supposedly counterproductive, but she feels better having had a brief outlet for it. She has traded sadness for anger, lately; it is easier (barely) to rein in her temper than to keep from wallowing in depression. So this time, her smile is a bit better than when she saw him last, and she says, “Thank you.” She removes her practice claws and wipes the sweat from her forehead, brushing back stray hairs that have come loose from her tight bun (perhaps it is another small sign of improvement that she is self-conscious around him again, though it doesn’t feel like much of one). “Were you there long?” Pyr shrugs. "Not that long. I only saw the end of the bout." He does not know what to say after that; even if he had made his mind up to ask her about her recent living arrangements, he would not know where to begin. So instead, he says, "Want to spar? If you've got time." She’s worn down — this will be her third spar of the afternoon — but she says immediately, “I have time.” She has nothing but time. No one is awaiting her home for dinner and — those are thoughts that need to be tossed aside. She stretches her arms over her head and hops from one foot to the other, searching for a new spurt of energy. “Hand to hand?” she offers. They can use claws, of course but… well, maybe it’s nostalgia (or maybe she recognizes that her wrists will thank her). Fortunately, he does not seem to mind. Perhaps this is why she remembers, suddenly the very first time she faced him in a practice yard. It’s a strange thought to be having now (it feels like they are different people) but maybe it is the fact that lately she feels again like he is an unknown, despite the fact that she is unlikely now to fall for his cheap tricks — and she is not entirely averse to the idea of using one or two of her own. They come into position and bow and then the fight begins, and fortunately that is enough to focus on for now. She’s caught her second wind, and though she has vented the majority of her temper, she still attacks with a ferocity not entirely suited to her usual methodical style of fighting. Perhaps that is why, once he’s past the initial shock, Pyr can answer her blow for blow. He’s stronger than he was the last time they fought (again), and perhaps now she can no longer claim an edge in this — nor, really, in technique when she’s fighting without thought. It is not her best fight of the day. It is not, really, her best fight against him of any day, but they are still more or less evenly matched (every time she pulls ahead, he seems to catch her with enviable ease), and that means the match will not end in a quick upset. They exchange blows up and down the training grounds, both unwilling to surrender the advantage, but eventually, she falters exactly enough for him to emerge victorious and she finds herself flat on her back in the dirt, staring dazedly at the sky as she attempts to catch her breath. Pyr blocks that sight when he approaches to hold out his hand. Even the knowledge that she was probably worn down already by her previous match and he had the advantage does not keep him from grinning at his victory. He wins against most of his usual sparring partners with relative ease these days, but defeating Juliette is always a special mark of honor. "Thanks for the spar," he says. “Thank you,” she responds, automatic but also honest; by now she feels almost entirely hollowed out, and that is better than the alternative. She takes his hand and allows him to pull her up, but it is not long (a moment of sudden discomfort) before she pulls back, brushing dirt from her very dusty tunic and trying not to wonder how efficient the laundry here is (she is almost out of clean clothing, and going back to the estate is out of the question). “I think I may be done for today.” A bit of sadness sneaks into the words despite her best efforts; at least while she is fighting she is not quite so lost. Then, “I hope I have not made you late for... anything.” It is still summer, but sunset is not so far, and most will be sitting down to dinner soon. She hadn’t truly expected this fight to take this long. He shakes his head. "It's okay. It's just me and Sky for dinner today." His own words remind him of his dilemma; he wonders if it was the wrong thing to say to her now, if she will be having dinner by herself in the guildhall kitchens, and blurts out, "Why don't you come over? We always have extra food at home. And our housekeeper's cooking is really good." “Oh,” she says, utterly taken aback (whatever she was expecting to hear, it isn’t this), “I --” And really why doesn’t she? She has nowhere to be. She is close to agreeing out of sheer loneliness before the discomfort settles in to stay. They meet for lunch sometimes, certainly, but… their encounters otherwise seem to be at social functions open to various strata of society, and no doubt he’s simply being polite, in any case. And she’s supposed to be pretending nothing is wrong (however well that’s working out for her) and certainly she would be expected home for dinner on any normal day, and -- “I…. would rather not impose,” she says, and looks down. It’s for the best in any case; her current state is not the best for new social situations. "It's not an imposition," Pyr says. A crease of confusion appears between his eyebrows. "Why would it be? You're a friend. You're never an imposition." There is absolutely no polite way to explain that he doesn’t have to consider her an imposition for her to feel like one, so she simply says, “Perhaps another time,” and assumes he will simply never ask again. He tries not to feel too dejected, tells himself it's probably for the better (there is no way he can keep Sky from teasing even once throughout the whole evening, because he would probably do the same). "Okay. You have to come some other time, then." After a moment, he asks, "Do you want me to walk you back?" It is probably a silly offer, considering she lives in Shieldwyrm now (though she probably doesn't know that he knows). But he thinks, if it were him in her shoes, he might accept just to delay the moment of having to spend the rest of the day alone. And there it is -- yet another opportunity to lie. This time, she settles on a version of the truth: “It is unnecessary. I intend to use the showers here, so please do not feel obligated.” And never mind that she almost wishes he would stay -- his family hasn’t imploded, so he should probably go and be with them instead of here with her. The thought is depressing and she tries to shove it out of the way before it burrows in to stay. He feels hurt that she is shutting him out, and in that moment he feels almost brave enough to tell her he already knows and she doesn't need to pretend in front of him, but she has the same look she did in the kitchens a few days back: utterly lost. The last thing she needs now is a possible fight. "Okay," he says, giving her a small smile. "I'll see you soon, Juli." He will need to talk to her about it at some point, but that can wait. For the moment he can allow her her secret, and her peace of mind, and act the way he always does. The practice dummy has not done anything to offend, but one would not know it from the way Juliette attacks it with all of her pent-up frustration. In her mind, the dummy’s blank straw head wears the face of one of her wonderful bunkmates. As Ceres Uppsala so aptly put it, “Sir” Jenningson is, indeed, slime. She cannot voice protest to the way he behaves without getting herself embroiled with his cronies, all of whom are considerably stronger than herself. And she will not go to the quartermaster and complain, or Faram forbid tell her sometimes-neighbor speed night of the matter. All she can really do is fantasize about punching him in the jaw, which she does, with relish, as she beats the stuffing out of the dummy. It isn't as though Pyr has never felt sorry for a dummy she's using — but this time the onslaught is so ruthless he can do nothing but watch in fascinated terror (and be glad, maybe more than a little, that she's never unleashed this kind of rage on him in a spar). The dummy doesn't stand a chance. After it is thoroughly beaten, to the point where it may take some work to repair it for another's use, Juliette looks as though she might still keep attacking, but she stands glaring at it, breathing heavy. He doesn't mean to say anything, but the words slip out anyway. "I think the dummy's very sorry for whatever it did. Are you okay?" “I’m fine,” Juliette says; then, still in the grip of her irritation, “If only he were actually sorry, perhaps being in close quarters with him would not be so… so… insufferable.” It takes a moment for her to realize what she has said and she flushes scarlet, looking at the ground. “My apologies. My mind was on… someone else.” Maybe he will let it lie. She gives the dummy a look over and adds, “I think perhaps I ought not have been quite so… thorough.” "Wait, wait," Pyr says, waving away her apologies in favor of the more important question, "who is this person you're talking about? Is anyone in the barracks giving you trouble?" “In the --” She stares at him, trying to find a way to say he is being ridiculous, but what comes out instead is, “How do you know about that?” He was intending to tell her at some point he could be fully prepared for the conversation (or so he has been telling himself), but this is that choice taken out of his hands, because he can think of no way to take back his blunder. "Uh, well, I've known for a while." It's harsh to say everybody knows, even if that is the reality of it. "I heard from another squire who lives at Shieldwyrm too. It's not like I meant to find out or something. I talk to people," he finishes apologetically. “I see.” The shame hits her hard, and once again she is staring at the dirt, only this time she is trying to control her roiling emotions. “I was hoping that as I am not staying in the squires’ dorms…” Well. She has kept to herself, but people will talk. She seems to be a popular topic, though she can’t imagine why. “There’s no trouble,” she manages at last. “Just some… differences of opinion… on what is proper and what is not.” "That sounds like trouble, though," Pyr protests, brow furrowing. "If someone's bothering you." “He isn’t. He’s rude. That’s all.” She really wishes he would leave this alone. “It isn’t as though I have much of a —” she stops before she can say choice; that is not something that needs to be said. She made her choice, after all, didn’t she? She chose this. Occasional regret doesn’t mean a thing. She sounds like she wants to drop the issue, but now he's started he knows he has to get it out before he loses his nerve. "Why are you living at the barracks, Juli? I don't understand. Is something wrong at home?" “It isn’t —” any of your business, she ought to say, but instead, she chokes out, “home.” Just the thought of it has her emotions roiling all over again — she’d thought she could have a home, a family, some sort of happy life, not this. “I can’t go back there.” Why is she saying this? She doesn’t even know. But she has had no one to talk to for too long and she’s forgotten just how terrible loneliness can be — he is the first person who has even asked. “I had nowhere else to go, so I came here.” She rarely discusses the situation at home, but Pyr can only think of one thing that could have made her leave the estate. "Did you fight with your sister?" he asks quietly. “I couldn’t even call it a — she didn’t want me there to begin with.” It is like a floodgate has opened, and she is saying things she has kept close and gnawing at her for weeks. “She just wanted the money. She lied about everything. I can’t —” She doesn’t know how to finish the sentence, because there are so many things she can’t seem to do right now, chief among them control her tongue or her emotions. A tear slips out, then two, and before they can become a flood, she attempts to disengage: “I should — I need to — go.” At least all that running can be put to good use as she sprints out of the practice yard, though she has no idea where to go (the barracks are an impossibility, and there’s nowhere with any remote privacy available, but there are few things more horrifying to her mind than standing in the middle of the practice yard and sobbing, and she is only moments away from that). Her escape is so sudden Pyr has no time to react. By the time he thinks to go after her, she is already disappearing from sight. He might be able to catch her — but why would she be running if she didn't want to be alone? Once she's gone, he turns to look at the abused dummy and picks it up. Repairing it is the least he can do, and if the repetitiveness of the task helps him make sense of the things Juliette has said, all the better. His plan is carefully planned and carried out in a brief window of opportunity. The day after the massacre of the dummy, he sees Juliette sparring with the same Berserker she defeated a few days ago, and trusting in her concentration on the bout, makes his way over to her bag and plants the package in his pocket inside it. It contains two white chocolate muffins, baked with a lot of help from Peony, and a note. “Thank you.” Two days later, the muffins long since eaten, she has finally found the courage to mention them. Since their last meeting, she has wondered whether it might not be easier to begin avoiding him again, except she’s also utterly miserable and completely alone, and he is the only person who seems to have any concern for her situation at all. It is probably a weakness to seek his company, but it is balanced out by the bravery of talking to him at all after completely losing her composure in his presence the way she did. “For the muffins,” she clarifies, though it is probably unnecessary. “They were good.” Most of the merit for the baking isn't his, but he suddenly feels embarrassed to admit that they're homemade rather than bought from the store, so he says, "I'm glad. I thought you'd like them." She seems a bit better today, though knowing how she tends to bottle things up, perhaps that is not much of an indicator of anything. He wants to ask, but doesn't dare to do so straight out, so he settles for a smile and, "How are you today?" “I am…” well, she almost says, but it is a lie, and she is tired of lying. Actually, she is tired in general… but that was not the response, either. “Improved,” she says at last. A truth, of sorts. “My… apologies for earlier this week.” She wants to add, I was overwrought or it was an unfortunate moment but the truth is it has been a long time in coming. Although she still doesn’t want to talk about it. “I hope you are well?” she asks. Pyr nods. "I'm okay! I think I almost caught Jareth smiling this morning at training." (A flash of a smile gone fast enough anyone else might have doubted it ever happened, but Pyr knows.) "Listen, I don't mind about the other day. That's what friends are for," he tells her after a pause. The last thing he wants is more awkwardness over any kind of belief that she shouldn't express her troubles like that — as far as he is concerned, nothing happened that she needs to apologize for. “All right.” He doesn’t mind, but she does -- but that seems to be her problem, not his, now doesn’t it? “That is good news. About your mentor.” She is so stilted that even she feels it. “Do you want to spar?” she asks. “If you have time.” So much easier to simply fight and not talk. He hesitates for a moment, where normally he would accept at once. The offer feels like an evasion, again — and how many more will follow? He's fairly sure she isn't talking to anybody else about whatever happened with Audrey, just intending to bottle it up forever or take it out on practice dummies. "I have time," he says. "Do you want to talk about whatever happened? I'll listen." She would prefer to ignore it altogether, but she owes him an explanation, doesn’t she, after her spectacular meltdown? “I don’t really know what else I would say,” she says. “I found out that everything she told me was a lie. Her reason for coming to get me was a lie. Her reason for getting married was a lie. Her husband…” She has already been questioned by the EKP — the shame of it all — and though she has told them that she had absolutely no idea, she thinks Alys might have known, and that thought makes her stomach clench in something that is almost pain. She finally finishes, “Well, her husband was a lie, and a liar, though I cannot place that at her door entirely. I seem to be the only one who didn’t know any of these things.” She doesn’t want to go into the rest of it, because it will involve discussing Lord and Lady Demiel and Alys’ false claims of faulty memory… “She wanted the money and the house, and she has them; I was a means to that end, and I won’t go back, and that’s all.” Her jaw is clenched as she finishes this statement; she is even more certain of it now than she was when she first ran off in a temper. “So if you have time,” a complete nonsequitur, but maybe he’ll forgive it this time, “I would far rather spar.” The story makes his head spin — did Audrey really fake her accident? Was she really the sort of person who would care more about an inheritance than a sister? He made sure to find out what had happened to the Coulombes, after Juliette told him they were rebuilding the estate, some months ago, and he cannot imagine anyone who wouldn't be happy to find out their sibling had survived such a thing, for more reasons than any amount of money. But while he cannot quite wrap his head around all the implications of what she has just said, he knows she has already revealed more than she is probably comfortable with, and providing her with a distraction is the best he can do for the time being. "Okay," he says. "Let's go spar." “Thank you.” She says it with sincerity, and the thanks are for more than just the spar. In a way, she is thanking him for not asking, not prodding, not making a terrible situation that much worse. Not another word is said as she turns and aims herself in the direction of the training yard. Curiously, she feels a little better, instead of worse. Life has settled into a holding pattern of sorts. Juliette does not miss the barracks, but she does occasionally miss company; the new guesthouse seems very big suddenly with her its sole occupant, and those few possessions she has carried with her do not fill up the empty spaces. But it is pleasant not to have to look over her shoulder for one particularly rude knight, and to have a kitchen to herself, and a large tree under which to meditate in the mornings (after several days of discomfort and watching to ensure the Countess does not visit this particular corner of her grounds at sunrise). She steers clear of Ashwyrm Hall, however, and takes the long way around to Shieldwyrm, just to ensure that she does not pass her sister’s estate. Today, she has claimed a corner of the practice yard for katas, slow and methodical. She focuses on the movement and on her breathing, attempting to reclaim some of the cool precision which has always served her well, until she lost sight of it recently. It feels like an uphill battle, but she is not angry today, which is a refreshing change of pace; at the very least, she is no longer regressing. Though he is not far from her, Pyr can only spare her a glance when she arrives, the price of which is the pain of his sparring partner's kick connecting with his side. He returns his full attention to the bout after that and pushes Juliette out of his head, but once the match is done (a very close victory for Pyr) and his partner takes off, she is still kicking and punching the air in her corner. He thinks of waiting until she is done, then decides to settle in beside her to practice his own katas, making sure to leave some space between them to avoid bothering her. She notices his arrival some time later -- her concentration is clearly improved -- and nearly falls out of the unexpected calm she has at last managed to summon. Fortunately, she is following an inner rhythm and doesn’t think it’s a noticeable pause. She completes the final motion, remaining still for a moment before she turns to her unexpected companion, who seems to have completed his practice almost eerily in sync with hers (she cannot help feeling equal parts pleased and uncomfortable to realize he is obviously waiting for her). She offers a small smile -- they come a bit more easily now -- and says, “Good afternoon.” He is dusty and rumpled, but not swaying on his feet, so she can only assume that he has not been training with his mentor but rather sparring. “Did you win?” Pyr grins. "Yup. It was pretty close, though. I glanced away when you came in and Conny got me good that time." As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he feels embarrassed at the admission and pushes past it before he can start feeling awkward. "How are things at the guesthouse?" If she notices the slip (she does), she doesn’t comment. Now that the madness that her life has become is abating somewhat, this strange shift that is occurring between them is at the forefront of her mind, but she has expended almost all of her emotional energy recently and she cannot cope with this, too. So instead of dwelling on what he said, she simply replies, “I am settling in. So far, I do not find the decision… regrettable.” It is a better answer than lonely. "Well, it might take some getting used to after the barracks. No more lines for the shower, or people walking down the hallways wearing only a towel because they forgot their clothes." He laughs — he has always found that entertaining, but he can imagine the appalled surprise of someone who's grown up in noble estates. "I'm sure you'll be okay, Juli." “I am already doing… quite well.” Okay is relative, and she doubts her current state fits his definition of the term, but… “It is pleasant to have my own kitchen,” she says after a moment, settling on something less distressing than wet men (almost always men) wandering around in naught but towels. “I had become accustomed to people eating any leftovers I might be foolish enough to leave in the refrigerator.” Pyr feels a moment of repentance — he has on more than one occasion been guilty of pillaging other people's leftovers — but it is fleeting and leaves no lasting scar on his stance regarding food in the shared refrigerators. "The vultures are always circling," he says with a shrug. The subject of food, however, reminds him of the offer she refused not so long ago, and he decides to extend it again. "Listen, if you're not having dinner with the Countess this evening, do you want to come over? My sister's cooking tonight." (It is probably not too late to contact Peony and ask her to plan for one more, and he feels as though she will be understanding if he tells her who the guest is.) “I actually never have dinner with the…” Juliette trails off, realizing she is once again revealing too much (how can she be simultaneously uncomfortable and at ease with the same person?) and finishes with, “that is… isn’t it short notice?” It’s an easy reason to say no. Certainly it’s an inconvenience, but… Well, why not go? It’s a bit of a revolutionary thought for her, but she’s done so little to please herself lately, and yet another evening alone sounds miserable. More miserable, perhaps, than enduring Sky’s knowing looks (she doesn’t know what he apparently thinks he knows, though she is beginning to suspect). “If not… perhaps I will… accept.” For all his thoughts of letting Peony know and making sure Sky doesn't tease too much, he didn't expect her to accept so readily. When she does, he breaks into a grin. "It's no trouble! Friends are always welcome." His mind is racing. He will have to go buy more ingredients just in case, talk to Peony, get everything ready. "Is 7 okay? I can go get you if you wait by the crystal in Commoners', it's not too far from there. And dinner won't be meat, so don't worry about that!" “If your… siblings are also certain it is no trouble,” she feels the need to repeat. “You will verify?” She only hopes she will not arrive and be a surprise dinner guest, Faram forbid, maybe she was too hasty in saying yes… Well, it is done now. No way to go but forward. “Seven,” she confirms. “Please do not request that the menu be modified on my account.” It is a bit of a shock to her that he’s noticed how she eats at all; she has no recollection of ever mentioning it. Though she supposes over the course of many impromptu lunches, he may have been observant (she certainly has been; she knows he is a proponent of double or triple portions, partial to anything sweet, and has slightly improved table manners from when she first met him). That she seems surprised at the observation feels like a small victory. That, however many times he's slipped up when talking, however much Rolan might tease whenever he sees them together, he has at least been able to somehow keep this balance between them, even as he sometimes feels like it is beginning to shift, changing into something he doesn't have a name for yet. They will learn it, in due time, but for today, the smile she gives him when they part ways is enough. |