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15-03-02: Annotated Heartache
Sometimes it's loving a person that brings the most heartache. When G'wain's reaction to Xendrenth catching Llysereth was less than suitable, things spiralled out of control -- now, both sides attempt to reconvene, and trust again.

This log refers to events not played on camera, all of which were the result of Llysereth's third flight, won by Xendrenth. Basically, when L'rien was leaving Lydiere's weyr the following morning, G'wain was there - drunk - and attempted to attack the brownrider; failing miserably, he disappeared, and didn't return for four days. Lydiere, in the meantime, was left with the guilt of having slept with another, even if it was flight-related, as well as not knowing where G'wain was, or how to deal with him, when he returned. Thus, this scene plays out what happens when he returns, and is annotated from my perspective to give insights into why Lydiere acts as she does.

G'wain is a sight to behold - Llysereth might have given warning as G'wain came through, but not even that could prepare for the reality of what he looks like. You haven't seen him in about four days, and he looks like he's been gone far longer than that. Four days worth of stubble creates a layer on his face, and his clothes havn't been changed - they're severly rumpled, and in some places, there are tears. From the single twig through his hair that he missed, he's been spending his days in the forest, and the stains - dirt - on his clothes show that he's been sleeping there, too. Lucky J'ey found him. Eyes downcast, he stands in the doorway, waiting, ashamed.

It's been a long four days - a long, exhausting four days, during which Lydiere has apparently flung herself into all the work she's bemoaned for so long. Her hides, surrounding her at the table, where she sits, are in perfect piles, ordered and precise. Deep in conversation with Keidire, recently returned from his father's, until G'wain's entrance, she looks up. "Keidire, go home." He complies, wordlessly, as she turns, standing, to face G'wain, her gaze narrowed. She says nothing. Well - except for, "Well."

[She wants to be firm. She doesn't know how to be firm. She's caught, between two emotions.]

He can't meet that gaze yet. He just can't. As Keidere brushes past, G'wain doesn't even lift a hand to wave at the lad, nor follow his exit with his eyes. He just stands there. Closing his eyes, his hand finally moves to massage his temple, gathering courage, or something before he raises his eyes to meet Lydiere's. There's a glazed, red look to them, as if he'd been crying. Not recent - it's not that kind of puffiness - more prolonged. He knows that her mood, and reaction is his fault, and that he has to change that. "I..." It's just so hard to know what to say.

"Screwed up? Made /me/ look bad? Overreacted over something that didn't have a damn thing to do with choice, even though we'd talked about it?" Lydiere could go on for a long time, at this rate, and meets G'wain's eyes only briefly before turning away, her shoulders hunching. "And worse, didn't even have the balls to come home and try and make things right for four bloody days." She worried; it's obvious on her face, and in her words, although she's angry - honestly angry - and can't admit it.

G'wain leans against the door. He's emotionally exhausted, not to mention that the physical has taken something of a beating, the past few days. Who knew that finding food could be so hard? He didn't want to come back to the Weyr. Since she's supplying all the answers, he defers, not speaking until she's quite finished. "I know." Letting out the words in conjunction with a sigh, he is repentant and sorry; his manner and stance has suggested that this is so from the beginning. He doesn't say anything more than that... give him time to work out what he's going to say... what he wants to say, as well as what she wants to hear, or rather, what he thinks she does.

Lydiere lets out a deep breath. "Of course you do. Which is why you did it all, anyway." She's grasped hold of the edge of the chair she was sitting in, clasping it tight - and tigher still - as she tries to control her anger. "I thought you were an adult, for shard's sake. I thought you could deal with things in a responsible, mature way." She glares at the wall, focusing her attention on that, so that she doesn't have to get even a glimpse of G'wain; bets would be that she'd probably burst into tears, or otherwise collapse, and that she's trying to avoid.

She seems to be avoiding it quite well. And making him feel so much worse in the meantime. Perhaps it is time for him to talk. "Lydiere..." He starts, his voice soft, a sharp contrast to her anger. "I... left because no matter how much we can talk about things, the experience is an entirely different thing. It... hurt, Lydiere, to think that... I couldn't change anything. That L'rien..." That name is like ice from his mouth, "Was in here, with you... doing things to you..." It's almost a violation, to G'wain, even if Lydiere was in accord at the time. "I couldn't stand it... and I'd been drinking... and that's why I tried to..." Well, you know. Kill him. Or rather, maim him so that he couldn't do that again. "And then, you..." He sighs. "And I left. I couldn't... and we were trying for a child, and he..." It's all so magnified. Talking about it is detached... He's living it. "If he could, or did... and I couldn't... I just... love you too much." If that's a crime.

Lydiere does her best to turn her head away entirely, so that G'wain can't see her face, but it's impossible to hide the fact that there are tears running down her face, collecting to make great wet patches upon her shirt. "But we--" Somehow, the words don't come out; she's choaking on them, and on her tears, no matter how hard she tries to swallow them back, banish them. "Of course it hurt. Of course it bloody well hurts. That's the way life is. The way things may be. Fardles, G'wain," at this point, she should probably turn and face him, but she can't, and doesn't, "The same thing could happen once a turn, for the rest of Llysereth's rising turns. Are we going to have a repeat of /that/, every time?" More quietly, slowly, "If there /was/ a child, it's gone, now."

G'wain is glad for the doorway, without it he might crumple to the floor. He's had enough of crying - he's exhausted his tear ducts with the act - or something akin to that, mentally. He doesn't move towards Lydiere... He hasn't been accepted back... or has he? Unsure, he still stand in the doorway. "I know it could. And maybe it will become easier, with time." He doesn't think so, but he's not going to say that. He'll just have to train Ahreluth. Or something. He's also becoming a little more coherent, and less 'jumpy' with his words. What she insinuates with her last words floors him, however, his knees buckling somewhat. "What do you mean, Lydiere...?" He asks slowly, carefully.

A peculiar scene; G'wain at the door, Lydiere turned the other way, her muted comments nonetheless crystal clear through the echoing expanse of the cavern. "'Maybe'. Does that mean that next time, if you were here," she swallows, an audible pause, "Such a display would occur again?" The 'brave face' has been dropped: Lydiere's tears are finally coming in earnest, after four days of nothing. "I mean what I said. If there was a child, I aborted it. L'rien's, yours, no-one's, anyone's."

[Her hurt and upset, these past four days, has been hidden - she's struggled to be her normal self, banishing the emotions - but it's not that easy to hide them, really. It's been obvious. ]

What is unsaid is often more easily recognisable than the undercurrents to words themselves, and here, there is no exception. Taking a tentative step into the weyr - he is no longer on the threshold, but now inside - he addresses a part of her query. "I will be here... as long as you have me here. I can't just stop loving you, Lydiere." He's gotten used to actually saying that, now. Taking anohter step forward, closer, he stands there, numbed. "You... did?" Ok, shock. Mixed with a strange twinge of both elation and worry. "A...are you alright?" He'd move closer, but he's still worried about being hit, or being rejected... anything other than what he wants. And not even he knows that.

Lydiere's hand lifts, wiping the racetrack of her tears, their saltiness drying out her mouth, still making wet patches down cheek--down shirt. She's threatening to break, emotions battling emotions; he's passed the threshold, but the battlements are high - will they crumble? "What use is love, when it causes such hurt?" she asks, leaving his statements to silence for minutes - long, silent minutes - before she can respond. "I'm fine." She's not. She's pale, with dark shadows beneath her eyes; whether that's due to a potential baby-that-was, or four sleepless days, it's impossible to know.

[She wasn't pregnant. But she didn't just abort between: she used a healer's remedy, and that which would rid her of a baby is hardly easy upon the body.]

G'wain takes another step forward, his eyes fixed on Lydiere. "Not just hurt..." He says, the beginning of something that might seem philosophical. "Love is... a double-edged sword. It can hurt... I know that. Too well. But... it can also be the best thing in your life. A reason for existence. And it can create... a child. Not just the physical 'kid', but a kid the grows up in a loving home, with loving parents who /love/ him just as much as they /love/ each other. It can create a wonderful person... And we..." He takes the last step, until he's close enough to touch, though he refrains. "I /love/ you."

If there are words to respond to such a statement, Lydiere doesn't have them. The sob, threatening to escape for so long, breaks free - the walls of her enclosure tumbling down, the tears finally falling faster, further - fluid, no longer hindered. She turns her head, lifting eyes - finally - to meet G'wain's, a second, wretching sob escaping, her face turning puffy and red in the wake of her tears. Beneath her outward strength, her armour against the world, there's this lost creature - gazing upwards, unable, somehow, to say a word, no matter how much the words, truthful words, want to escape. "I--" Love you, too. But it's silence, instead.

And that's G'wain's signal, something that he can follow, and that can guide his actions. As she finally looks, his dirty, unshaven form moves forward to just hold Lydiere, to enfold her in a tight hug that he doesn't want to end. He knows. He does. And he understands. He always will. Squeezing her, he lets tears held escape... relief. He's not out of the deep end, or out of the dark, by far... but this is a start.

Lydiere's head automatically goes down upon his shoulder, her arms limp against her sides as she's enveloped, enfolded, embraced, within his hug. The tears keep coming, the sobs causing her whole body to shake with each paroxysm, gaining in momentum as she clings, body to body. Still - no words; and yet, no words are needed. Her relief, and yet, at the same time, her /anguish/, are ever clear.

G'wain presses Lydiere to himself, his eyes closing as he supresses the pain that he felt as it wells up again. When he's alone, he'll relive that. Also witheld is the shame for the pain that he's put Lydiere through... Though a saying comes to mind, a soft mutter into Lydiere's ear, "Time heals all wounds." And then, an explanation. "It'll take time... I know... I'm sorry for leaving. J'ey... brought me to my senses." Releasing Lydiere slowly, he realises he doesn't want to release her, and brings her back into the embrace, if she doens't resist.

"But I /can't/ wait." Murmured, muttered; almost lost, to the warm shoulder against which she rests her head, true meaning ambiguous: can she not stand to have been wounded, to bear that scar - or is it something else? Release, and then recapture; both of these she accepts without word, although the latter is met with a more comfortable limpness - perhaps a relaxation of sorts? More words, and again, these are muttered and lost, heard, perhaps, by shoulder, but more difficult for ear: "I won't--I can't--do this again."

[She won't, or can't, handle G'wain's reaction like that, again. By inference, she doesn't want another to win, either, but it's the response she can't cope with.]

Difficult, but not impossible - in the silence of the weyr, he hears. "Then we won't let it. Perhaps... we could go away when Llysereth becomes proddy... somewhere with no people, and then when she rises... he'll be the only one to catch her." It might not work quite like that, but it certainly does sound like it might be able to. "I don't want this to happen again..." He holds Lydiere to keep himself from crumpling, as well as to comfort and be comforted. "I'm sorry I put you through this."

Was it her intention to say it, for him not to hear? Just to have said it? But no--her shoulders collapse further, the weight sliding away until there's nothing left but Lydiere: clinging, holding. "We can try," says she, uncertain, but willing--wanting. There's an edge to her voice, added by the tears, which have stilled to a halt, shuddering breaths calming to the occasional gasp, coming to nothing. "It's done. Don't." Don't apologise? Don't distract, too--now's time for reconciliation, not guilt.

G'wain takes a breath and nods his head against Lydiere. "Things can't be the way they were... What's happened has happened. But... we can get through this." He seems to be convincing himself of this, not only saying the words. "We will. What doesn't kill, makes us stronger." He's so full of the old aunties' saying, today, but... they seem - at least to him, to fit. "I love you, and that's what matters, right?" He's gotten so confident with those words, still heartfelt.

Lydiere lifts her head from shoulder, nodding with slow certainty, eyes still wet - but increasingly less so - with tears. "We can, and we will. We have to." The recurring theme, signposted within her face: can't live with him, if such a thing occurs again, but can't, ever, live without. "I love you, too. That won't change, no matter what." And, at last, she lifts her arms up, drawing them away from herself so that she can wrap them about G'wain in turn, holding tight. "I promise."

[Where do they go from here? Issues linger - it's not all over, yet, but they've reached some kind of acceptance; a willingness, perhaps, to work through the issues, sort through the problems. It's a matter of time, now.]