Post by Mirielle Bellamont on Jun 1, 2009 13:08:34 GMT -5
I missed him.
I missed him, with every ache, with every fiber of my body. I was beginning to come through it better, distracted by the lessening of the nausea, but even that was losing its grip on my sorrow. This morning I was attempting to distract myself by sitting in the gardens, taking up the low-energy self entertainment of embroidering a scene upon a handkerchief. I'd been doing it for the better part of two hours, my mind drifting as I sewed, when a miscalculation ended with the point of the slender needle sticking out from my index finger. Gasping, I pulled my hand away, the pain ebbing through my finger enough to break the wall of tears that I mercilessly built.
"My lady! My lady, are you alright?" I could hear a scurry of feet, hear the quickened breath of one of my servants as he kneeled by me. His concern was almost tangible - I could nearly taste its acridness upon the air.
"I'm fine, I'm fine," I assured him, though my voice sounded thick even to my own ears. I'd squeezed my hand into a little fist, and gently I could feel him touching it, trying to open my hand to look at the wound.
"Please my lady," I heard him, almost begging. I couldn't really blame him; last week it'd been the small pair of sharp scissors I kept in my kit, not the needle. I'd nearly needed stitches for my mistake. My cheeks flared in color as I struggled to control myself, and I shook my head, denying him to look at it even as I opened my hand to allow him to do so. "It was just the needle.. I don't even know why I'm crying. I'm sorry."
It was the concern more than anything else that kept my eyes on his when I finally looked at him. There was no evidence of exhasperation, no trace of pity. He was worried only for me, likely, too, for the babe that was already beginning to swell my abdomen. Gently he held my hand, cool fingers against my hot palm, and I nearly flinched.
"My lady," he said softly. "If I may speak frankly...?" I nodded, the tears ebbed to naught but salt stains upon my cheeks, and he continued. "I understand how much it must hurt... When I lost my Sophie to the plague, I thought my life over, that I couldn't go on. Even now, it hurts. But it does get better," he hurried on, no doubt taking note of the fresh tears that rose in my eyes. "Eventually, it does, and then you'll see. When you birth your baby, you'll see Prince August in it, and that'll help heal you, too. But, my Lady, you need to be strong for that babe in your belly. It needs you to be," he added, and I dropped my eyes, abashed.
"But it's so hard," I whispered, struggling against the urge to cry again. "Every time I turn, I see something that reminds me of him. I need him so badly, Pierre... He was more than just my lover. He was my best friend... the only family I ever wanted for my own."
I had no siblings, no close cousins. Damien was a distant cousin, and even at times I felt as if things between us were.. different, for him, than they were for me. I shivered, and felt Pierres hands closing in a little tighter around mine. "I know, my Lady," he said sadly, and I knew that he was thinking of his Sophie then. "But you need to be as strong as you can, to help the one that's growing inside you. Prince August will always be with you, watching out for you as he always has been. He loved you very much, my Lady. Even I could tell that. And he wouldn't want you to be so sad over him."
Tentatively, he reached, awkwardly half petting, half patting my hair. I leaned just slightly into it - this was the only real comfort I'd experienced, having pushed everyone else away til now, too wrapped up in my own mourning. I felt a piece of me break with it, and, oddly, a piece of me heal.
"You're right," I whispered, straightening after the brief contact. "You're right..." I looked up, attempting at a smile, though I was sure it looked horrid mingled with the drying rivers of salt on my cheeks. "I'm sure your Sophie is watching you too, Pierre. Thank you."
He didn't say another word, merely smiled at me, and I could see a certain rising level of moisture in his own eyes. Giving my hand one last squeeze, he stood again and took up his gardening shears once more, returning to his normal duties.
My eyes fell to my lap, and I stared at the scene I'd been sewing, seeing it for the first true time: A small group of fallow deer, the buck, the doe, and in the grass, the glimpse of a fawn.
I missed him, with every ache, with every fiber of my body. I was beginning to come through it better, distracted by the lessening of the nausea, but even that was losing its grip on my sorrow. This morning I was attempting to distract myself by sitting in the gardens, taking up the low-energy self entertainment of embroidering a scene upon a handkerchief. I'd been doing it for the better part of two hours, my mind drifting as I sewed, when a miscalculation ended with the point of the slender needle sticking out from my index finger. Gasping, I pulled my hand away, the pain ebbing through my finger enough to break the wall of tears that I mercilessly built.
"My lady! My lady, are you alright?" I could hear a scurry of feet, hear the quickened breath of one of my servants as he kneeled by me. His concern was almost tangible - I could nearly taste its acridness upon the air.
"I'm fine, I'm fine," I assured him, though my voice sounded thick even to my own ears. I'd squeezed my hand into a little fist, and gently I could feel him touching it, trying to open my hand to look at the wound.
"Please my lady," I heard him, almost begging. I couldn't really blame him; last week it'd been the small pair of sharp scissors I kept in my kit, not the needle. I'd nearly needed stitches for my mistake. My cheeks flared in color as I struggled to control myself, and I shook my head, denying him to look at it even as I opened my hand to allow him to do so. "It was just the needle.. I don't even know why I'm crying. I'm sorry."
It was the concern more than anything else that kept my eyes on his when I finally looked at him. There was no evidence of exhasperation, no trace of pity. He was worried only for me, likely, too, for the babe that was already beginning to swell my abdomen. Gently he held my hand, cool fingers against my hot palm, and I nearly flinched.
"My lady," he said softly. "If I may speak frankly...?" I nodded, the tears ebbed to naught but salt stains upon my cheeks, and he continued. "I understand how much it must hurt... When I lost my Sophie to the plague, I thought my life over, that I couldn't go on. Even now, it hurts. But it does get better," he hurried on, no doubt taking note of the fresh tears that rose in my eyes. "Eventually, it does, and then you'll see. When you birth your baby, you'll see Prince August in it, and that'll help heal you, too. But, my Lady, you need to be strong for that babe in your belly. It needs you to be," he added, and I dropped my eyes, abashed.
"But it's so hard," I whispered, struggling against the urge to cry again. "Every time I turn, I see something that reminds me of him. I need him so badly, Pierre... He was more than just my lover. He was my best friend... the only family I ever wanted for my own."
I had no siblings, no close cousins. Damien was a distant cousin, and even at times I felt as if things between us were.. different, for him, than they were for me. I shivered, and felt Pierres hands closing in a little tighter around mine. "I know, my Lady," he said sadly, and I knew that he was thinking of his Sophie then. "But you need to be as strong as you can, to help the one that's growing inside you. Prince August will always be with you, watching out for you as he always has been. He loved you very much, my Lady. Even I could tell that. And he wouldn't want you to be so sad over him."
Tentatively, he reached, awkwardly half petting, half patting my hair. I leaned just slightly into it - this was the only real comfort I'd experienced, having pushed everyone else away til now, too wrapped up in my own mourning. I felt a piece of me break with it, and, oddly, a piece of me heal.
"You're right," I whispered, straightening after the brief contact. "You're right..." I looked up, attempting at a smile, though I was sure it looked horrid mingled with the drying rivers of salt on my cheeks. "I'm sure your Sophie is watching you too, Pierre. Thank you."
He didn't say another word, merely smiled at me, and I could see a certain rising level of moisture in his own eyes. Giving my hand one last squeeze, he stood again and took up his gardening shears once more, returning to his normal duties.
My eyes fell to my lap, and I stared at the scene I'd been sewing, seeing it for the first true time: A small group of fallow deer, the buck, the doe, and in the grass, the glimpse of a fawn.