Logs:Choices
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| RL Date: 14 February, 2014 |
| Who: H'kon, Madilla |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: An argument that has probably been a long time coming. |
| Where: Madilla's Quarters, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 1, Month 1, Turn 34 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Dilan/Mentions, Lilabet/Mentions, Raija/Mentions, Y'rel/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Every time you spot a wing name, take a shot! (Look, it's not my fault.) |
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| It's been a long day. None of the children, not even Lilabet, were permitted to stay up until midnight to ring in the new turn, but yesterday was full of excitement all the same - and today, of course, a complete come-down. Dilan and Lilabet have escaped to Delinda's after Raija became too much for their grumpy moods; now, as shadows lengthen into full night, the toddler is sleeping at last. It leaves Madilla alone, sitting at the table in the living room with her sewing out, though she hasn't so much as threaded a needle. Y'rel is much too much a man of the people to force wing drills the day after Turnover; but there are still sweeps, still a wingleader's meeting. And H'kon had decided it wise, at one point, to involve himself in both. Otherwise, it was his regular rider's duties that have kept him away, away from cranky children, and exhausted healers. Until now. Now, he enters, opening the door a crack and waiting the time that would suggest a knock, then coming in fully. Madilla does not get a greeting, not yet. His boots, it seems, are a top priority. Madilla doesn't stir immediately at the sound of the door, nor even for that suggestive pause. The glows are low in this room - far too low for the sewing the healer is ostensibly attempting - and cast shadows upon her face. Shadows that, as she turns her head, finally, make it still difficult to see the expression on her face. It's not in her nature to be passive aggressive as a general rule, but H'kon's priority nonetheless has her sighing. "Is it still snowing?" she wants to know, aiming at (and missing) a casual remark. Okay, she's grumpy. When two socked feet hit the floor, the brownrider lets out a quiet sigh, holding his position a moment to allow his muscles to adjust. "It is," is confirmed just before he turns to offer her a quick glance. "This morning, we could scarce see over some parts of Nabol. Though it's stayed icy here." Finally, he moves inward, taking in her sewing, as best he can. Still looking at her (intended) work: "Have you not been out?" "No," is probably sharper and harder than it needs to be, and sounds utterly exhausted. Madilla lifts her chin to regard H'kon, pushing aside her untouched sewing as she does so. "Raija screamed whenever she saw any face but mine. I didn't think it appropriate to inflict that on anyone." Anyone but, apparently, H'kon himself. If only he'd been here when she needed him. With the sewing moved aside, H'kon's eyes find Madilla's hand instead. The news of Raija brings a press of his lips together, a bit of a grunt in the back of his throat, and, as finally he pulls a chair out for himself and gets his eyes up to the woman's face, "Well that can hardly come as a surprise." What tones of sympathy might have been meant for it are perhaps lost in the hoarseness that tends to settle in a man's throat when he's been out and airborne most of the day. Or maybe it was the beer with Y'rel. Madilla's hands struggle, without anything to do - if there's any truly obvious hint to her agitation, it's there, plain as day. She ought to know well that hoarseness and excuse it (though the beer is less likely to appease her, it's true), but it's been such a long, awful day, and that really is beyond the pale. "No," she agrees, sharply, anger lurking more obviously, now, just beneath the surface. "No surprise. No more than the fact that-- oh, forget it." Her hands clench. And H'kon, H'kon who has played the dragonrider all day, played the role with intensity, as one making up lost time, sits straighter in his chair, posture changing to one more challenging, more proud, and the look turned to Madilla growing cooler, harder. One eyebrow twitches when he gives, almost a permissive command issued to one of his wingrider's, but with so much more of an emotional charge behind it, "Speak." Only almost a permissive command, but Madilla bridles under it, nonetheless. It says something of how comfortable she's become with him over the past few turns that she'll even allow herself to be upset to his face... for better or for worse. "I'm tired," she says, and certainly, she sounds it. "I'm very, very tired." And it's all his fault. A fault invisible to H'kon, who lifts his chin, more precisely now looking her over, than simply watching her. "You might have gone to bed." That is the final straw. Madilla pushes her chair back from the table with a scrape of wood upon stone, and turns to storm across the room. She doesn't seem to have a destination in mind; she paces. "Because of course I don't want some adult company," she says, without looking at him. "Why would I, when I can stay trapped in here all day while you--" It's the scrape that makes his jaw clench. That's the only sudden movement from the man, who watches her, gaze cold now, steely. H'kon does not push his own chair back. He does lay one arm, very carefully, on the edge of the table, pressing his fingertips into the wood. "Speak," is much lower this time, daring to press toward an edge, if not having leapt over it. Not yet. "I'm not one of your wingriders," Madilla reminds H'kon, sharply, turning around on her heel to look at him again as she does so. It's so rare for her to talk like this: even when the children do something wrong, she's rarely inclined to actually yell. Now, however, she's beginning to go pink in the face. "We need you too," is what she says, in the end. "If you were here more often, maybe she wouldn't be afraid of you." "You are not," has as much edge to it as Madilla's words, and in it, also, some hint of censure, logical or not. Now he stands, a deliberate thing. H'kon doesn't yell. "Perhaps I should come here every night, and leave my dragon to his own, no better than some watchwher, that I might try to heal the broken child whom you tore from all she knew." He doesn't yell; he baits. Madilla blanches, staring at H'kon as though he's just grown a second head, and probably a few extra hands, too. Abruptly reminded of the sleeping presence of said child, she answers in a hissed, furious whisper: "Oh, I should have just left here there, should I? Unloved and unwanted. I thought you had more heart." That, there? That could be a tear in the corner of her right eye. "Would you be this uncaring if she were yours?" "And I'd have thought yours tempered enough that before taking her you might have at least let her come to you of her own will." Those last two words come with all the abrupt force of projectiles, for all their flight is scarce a whistle of air between H'kon and Madilla. "Perhaps if she did at least have my look, my say might have had some effect on your decisions." His eyes have gone wider now, flashing in that frustrated anger, while he's taken a firm hold of the table's edge, the muscles flexed hard, unmoving now. No longer white, Madilla is now red: some of H'kon's barbs have clearly struck home, and it's equally clearly not a comfortable sensation. She wraps her arms around herself, fingers digging into the heavy weave of her shawl. "How would I know what you think? You don't say. A child Dilan's age can work out when you disapprove of something, but anything more than that? I don't have time to work every feeling out of you, drop by drop." H'kon must see that discomfort; as Madilla closes in on herself, his teeth touch, bared just faintly through parted lips. "I see. Perhaps it is my fault, then, for spending what is clearly too much of my time with my dragon. Unfair, certainly. I should not wonder you've been so unable to select a firm place where you'd have me in your life." Maybe that's why he's moving now, around the table, toward the door. "So you'll just... walk out," says Madilla, whose voice has dropped to just above a whisper: strained, and showing every indication of a flurry of tears that are just waiting to escape. "Just like that." H'kon, nearly to his boots, turns smartly, his face at least now quite readable, livid, still caught up in his own avalanche of emotion, either a barrier to hers, or fuelled by them. "And what good do you see in having me stay?" Madilla doesn't have an answer - or, at least, not a verbal one. She sinks to the floor, instead, all that frustration and anger mixed up with heartrending emotion; emotional sleet. H'kon can only stay disconnected from her and lost in his own flurry of feeling for so long. When Madilla offers no response, when there is nothing for him to rail against, the brownrider begins to calm, enough that he can take in the situation, enough that he can experience that moment of culpability. The next step backward step toward his boots is slow, uncertain. Softly spoken, now, is, "I should go." "Please don't," breathes out Madilla, the words almost too muffled to be audible. She sounds pained - like she's taken an icicle to the heart, or been buried in a snowdrift, or beneath the inexorable forward motion of a glacier. Her tears are quieter, now. "I don't want you to go." That she's sorry is probably pretty well evident in her tone, though her sobs are silent ones. The equinox, where frustration and sympathy are equally balanced, passes; the former slips away, the latter takes a stronger hold, and as even the crackling aurora at the back of the rider's mind eases to an occasionally flaring glow, all that mass of the iceberg hidden beneath the water begins to change. It's a long moment before he takes that first step, forward, toward Madilla. "Then I'll not leave you," is quiet, and with that nascent warmth to start chasing off the frostbite of colder words. Tears continue to trickle down Madilla's face, but her expression is hopeful, now: perhaps she won't be lost on the boreal woods, alone in the taiga, the alpine slopes. She swallows, the sound audible in the otherwise quiet room, and takes in a ragged, awful breath. "I'm sorry," she says. "I didn't mean..." "Hm," is dubious rather than acceptance of that half-formed sentence. H'kon has nothing of his own, not now that those dense clouds which brought on such a hailstorm of words are changing to wispy cirrus. But he's not all lost; he plots a straight course to Madilla, as sure as a sailor following the polaris star on a clear night, and drops to a knee beside her, silent. Now, it's just Madilla: watching H'kon with those so-wide eyes, swallowing back more tears as he moves towards her. When he drops to that knee beside her, she reaches out, aiming to take his hand in hers. She's hesitant, though, opening her mouth without following the motion with any words. Perhaps she hopes her expression, as earnest as it is, will do the talking for her. H'kon watches her hand as it moves, takes it perhaps by force of habit, but squeezes it with intent. His eyes are still downcast when he manages so much as, "I should not have let my anger..." The man simply keeps hold of her hand, tries again with a carefully controlled, "I apologise." "I started it," Madilla points out, watching their conjoined hands, now, rather than H'kon. Her cheeks go warm again, the blood rushing to the surface. "I made you angry. I wanted to. And now..." Abruptly, she looks back up at him, blinking back tears. "It wasn't fair, and I'm sorry. I know you have responsibilities, and I know..." She swallows. "I don't want to fight with you." There's hesitation, tension, from neck, to shoulder, to arm, to his hand, pressing hers. And then H'kon shakes his head. "It was not just this," is pushed out. "And I should not have gone after you- a better man would not." Again, Madilla swallows. Her answer is very, very quiet: "You're still the best man I know." H'kon's brow knits, thoughtful, stays that way when he looks up to the woman from their hands. It's a slow and careful reach of his other fingers for her cheek, hesitating just before contact, as if looking to pick which tear he might trace. "Who is responsible for this," comes a bit wry. Madilla holds her breath, as H'kon lifts his hand so, watching him. And then, abruptly, she smiles. It's just a tentative little thing, barely there. "Let's not argue about that," she suggests, as she leans forward, pushing past that hand, and towards the brownrider's face. She'll kiss him, if he'll let her. He'll let her. He'll kiss her back, not lustily, or even overtly passionate; a simple kiss, and then, he rubs brushes his fingers against her cheek, quite deliberately, the other hand squeezing at hers once more. "It is not just responsibility, Madilla," is equally deliberate. "I know," she says, quietly but with a certain amount of emphasis. Her voice is surer, now, and there are finally no more tears coming to join the ones now being wiped away. "I do know. Even when I... I know Arekoth comes first. I do understand." "No, Madilla-" H'kon's voice comes stronger in turn, though this time, there's no challenge or confrontation in it. "He is in my mind, but our best moments are not when we speak, but when we... are. And I choose each night, whether to be with him or be here with you. All of you." He shifts back, to look more squarely at her. "I cannot be all here." This is not new information, for Madilla, surely, and yet it gives her pause anyway. She's slow in answering, although that seems, superficially, to be because she's attempting to put words together coherently, and struggling with it. She licks her lips, shoulders squaring as, finally, she gives a little nod. "Yes, of course," she murmurs. "You can't be. I know that." H'kon gives a nod in return, an echo of hers. "I do not enjoy that moment of choosing," is heavy, serious. "And we've-" he rubs his thumb against hers instead, changes his approach to, "And that is how it must be, now. I know also that it is more than him and me." Madilla's breath catches in immediate answer to that first admission. "I'm sorry," she whispers, an answer that does not seem to be about one thing he's said over another. And, "I do know that you know. I know. I don't doubt you. And... I'm so grateful, H'kon. As much as you can give us. That's all. Nothing more." H'kon nods again, and leans forward to touch, again, at her cheek, if she'll not move away from him. "It must not always be gratitude, Madilla. I must try to care for you all. And I try to benefit the weakest over the strongest, but..." a moment, only a moment, before he follows, "beyond these walls is an entire Weyr to which Arekoth and I are connected. And the number there must also count for something." It's a thing he's tried (tried) to explain to her son, in similar words. Likely, that's reason for the beginnings of a smile that come after it. Madilla does not move, not even to offer the nod that does seem to be lurking in readiness. "Of course," she murmurs. "Just as I must care for all my patients, even when it takes me away from-- today was just a bad day. Tomorrow will be better. I don't mean to pressure you." She's not smiling, yet, but there's a subtle shift in the way she sits, as though she's relieved to see even the beginnings of one, in H'kon. "The last few months have been awful. But it is getting better. Most days." "I'd not have you think you are forcing me into something I do not want," comes barely as a whisper. "Since well before we'd even-" Where the changes in her were more subtle, his are less so, a forward press to find her lips, clasped hands now drawn in toward his chest, with unspoken words left to hang a little longer. Madilla answers, such as it is, in that kiss, pressing emphasis via her mouth. It's afterwards, after a kiss that is more intense than that previous one, that she finally murmurs, "I know." Her hand squeezes his, pressed against his chest. This, too, is an answer, in its own way. "I hope you do," he answers, a whisper, still in close, and with at least so much intensity as the kiss preceding it. "I do not mean to speak it as apology." He leans until his forehead can rest against hers, holds that closeness a moment... and then, bringing his second hand in to hers now, to brace against his chest, slowly starts to rise. Again: "I know." Madilla's eyes are closed: closed while their foreheads meet, and closed still as he begins to rise. Perhaps she senses the movement, though, even before she feels it; certainly, there is no awkwardness in the way she begins to rise alongside him. By the time she's standing, her eyes are open again, and she's watching him: here, now, is definitely the smile that was missing before. H'kon meets her gaze, slowly moving one hand from hers, to search out instead a hold at her waist. The other stays with fingers locked, as its so often done. Even when he presses closer. Even when he raises his head for another kiss, this one with clear intent. Madilla's free hand - her free arm - lifts to wind its way around H'kon's neck as she steps in to his embrace. Her gaze is sure, and her answer to that kiss very much an affirmative to its intent. This kiss could go on for quite a bit longer, as though all of that earlier angst is now being channelled into it; much more satisfying. If not so satisfying as what will follow. He knows it, and begins to move them as best he can, while maintaining that kiss, or ones very much like it. Hopefully Raija really is still asleep, and not watching out the door; it's not often H'kon will begin undressing his lover before they've hit the bedroom. One kiss sort of blends into another, by that point. It's not often that Madilla will forget propriety enough to allow such 'public' undressing, or even kisses. But the older children aren't here, and Raija... it's entirely possible that, just this once, she's forgotten Raija in favour of the far more immediate pleasures at hand. At least the door to the bedroom is open, and at least neither of them is wearing shoes: small mercies. Small mercies, that allow that wave of passion to go unbroken, and find those clothes not left in the short hallway flung haphazardly about the room, that find H'kon and Madilla entwined in her bed. That same intensity has carried over too, all the energies from before roused up again, in H'kon's thrusts, in the arm that tries to keep her close, the scrub of stubble against skin. Lovemaking and everything unspoken, all in one. No wonder he's exhausted when it's over. Madilla has risen to meet each thrust, and flung her arms around H'kon throughout; she's sweat-drenched and boneless, in the aftermath, tangled up in brownrider and in sheets, her hair having loosed itself from pins to hang about her face and over her eyes. Already tired from this longest of long days (despite the shortness of these winter days, of course), it goes without saying that she's equally exhausted, now; still, one hand plays lightly against his hip, and eyes, struggling to stay open, seek to meet his. She smiles. The arm that had snugged about her is loosening with each normalising breath, but H'kon does meet her gaze, watching her as best he can in the dark, and with that coming drowsy haze. If there's some bit of smile from him, it's small enough to be lost. But he does offer, words slow now, "Even if I'd have left... I'd not have left." A few more beats before he lets his eyes closed. A few more still, before the afterthought addition of, "And she is mine." How many times has it been said tonight? Madilla's still got room for one more: "I know." Her own eyes are closing; she's on the edge of dropping off, just barely holding on to wakefulness long enough to answer. "I know." Of course, that's easy to know now... but it's enough. |
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